ON THE Death of Mr Calamy, Not known to the Author of a long time after. ANd must our Deaths be silenced too! I guess 'Tis some dumb Devil hath possessed the Press; Calamy dead without a Publication! 'Tis great injustice to our English Nation: For had this Prophet's Funeral been known, It must have had an Universal Groan; Afflicted London would then have been found In the same year to be both burned and drowned; And those who found no Tears their flames to quench, Would yet have wept a Shower, his Hearse to drench. Methinks the Man who stuffs the Weekly Sheet, With fine New-Nothings, what hard Names did meet. The Emp'ress, how her Petticoat was laced, And how her Lackeys Liveries were faced; What's her chief Woman's Name; what Dons do bring Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King: Is much concerned if the Pope's Toe but aches, When he breaks Wind, and when a Purge he takes; He who can gravely advertise, and tell Where Lockier and Rowland Pippin dwell; Where a Black-Box or Green-Bag was lost; And who was Knighted, though not what it cost: Methinks he might have thought it worth the while, Though not to tell us who the State beguile, Or what new Conquest England hath acquired; Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired; Though not how Popery exaits its head, And Priests and Jesuits their poison spread; Yet in swollen Characters he might let fly, The Presbyterians have lost an Eye. Had Crack— 's Fiddle been in tune, (but he Is now a Silenced Man as well as We) He had struck up loud Music, and had played A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid; He would have told how many Coaches went; How many Lords and Ladies did lament; What Handkerchiefs were sent, and in them Gold To wipe the Widow's eyes, he would have told; All had come out, and we beholden all To him, for the overflowing of his gall. But why do I thus Rant without a cause? Is not Concealment Policy? whose Laws My silly peevish Muse doth ill t' oppose For public Losses no Man should disclose; And such was this, a greater loss by far, One Man of God than twenty Men of War; It was a King, who when a Prophet died, Wept over him, and Father, Father cried. O if thy Life and Ministry be done My Chariots and Horsemen, strength is gone. I must speak sober words, for well I know If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below, A lie, though in his Praise, would make him frown, And chide me when with jesus he comes down To judge the World.— This little little He, This silly, sickly, silenced Calamy, Aldermanbury's Curate, and no more, Though he a mighty Mitre might have wore, Could have vied Interest in God or Man, With the most pompous Metropolitan: How have we known him captivate a throng, And made a Sermon twenty thousand strong; And though black-mouths his Loyalty did charge, How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge, To hale it home, great GEORGE can well attest, Then when poor Prelacy lay dead in its nest; For if a Collect could not fetch him home, Charles must stay out, that Interest was mum. Nor did Ambition of a Mitre, make Him serve the Crown, it was for Conscience sake. Unbribed Loyalty! his highest reach Was to be Master Calamy, and preach. He blessed the King, who Bishop him did name, And I bless him who did refuse the same. O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free To serve their Prince without Reward, as he, They might have had less Wealth with greater love: Envy, like Winds, endangers things above; Worth, not Advancement, doth beget esteem. The highest Weathercock the least doth seem. If you would know of what disease he died, His grief was Chronical it is replied. For had he opened been by Surgeon's art, They had found London burning in his heart; How many Messengers of death did he Receive with Christian Magnanimity! The Stone, Gout, Dropsy, Ills, which did arise From Griefs and Studies, not from Luxuries; The Megrim too which still strikes at the Head, These He stood under, and scarce staggered▪ Might he but work, though loaded with these Chains, He Prayed and Preached, and sung away his pains; Then by a fatal Bill he was struck dead, And though that blow he ne'er recovered, (For he remained speechless to his close) Yet did he breath, and breath out Prayers for those From whom he had that wound: he lived to hear An Hundred thousand buried in one year In his Dear City, over which he wept, And many Fasts to keep off Judgements, kept; Yet, yet he lived, stout heart he lived, to be Deprived, driven out, kept out, lived to see Wars, Blazing-Stars, Torches which Heaven ne'er burns, But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns. He lived to see the Glory of our Isle, London consumed in its Funeral pile. He lived to see that lesser day of Doom, London, the Priest's Burnt-sacrifice to Rome; That blow he could not stand, but with that fire As with a Burning Fever did expire. Thus died this Saint, of whom it must be said, He died a Martyr, though he died in's bed. So Father Ely in the Sacred page Sat quivering with fear as much as age, Longing to know, yet loath to ask the News How it fared with the Army of the jews. Israel flies, that struck his Palsie-head, The next blow stunned him, Your Sons are dead; But when the third stroke came, The Ark is lost, His heart was wounded, and his life it cost. Thus fell this Father, and we well do know He feared our Ark was going long ago. The EPITAPH. HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie, Who did INDEED a Bishopric deny. When his Lord comes, then, then, the World shall see Such humble Ones, the rising-Men shall be: How many Saints whom he had sent before, Shouted to see him enter Heaven's door: There his blessed Soul beholds the face of God, While we below groan out our Ichabod: Under his burned-Church his Body lies, But shall itself a glorious Temple rise; May his kind flock when a new Church they make, Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake. London, Printed in the Year 1667.