A POEM Occasioned by the Sudden Death OF THE REVEREND Dr. WILLIAM BATS.  
Humbly Offered to His Memory.  
LONDON: Printed, and Sold by A. Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 13. Januar. 1700. / 699   

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THE following Verses (which were Written an Agony of Just Sorrow for so Great a Dea●●●●ve been ever since delayed, in Expectation of a Be●●●●●●rformance on the Subject.   

A POEM On the Reverend Dr. William Bates.  

OFT does the Afflicted Muse attempt to Sing  
Great Bates thy Death, but flags th' endeavouring Wing:  
She knows not how to manage her Surprise,  
Or let my Tongue take notice of my Eyes,  
But Artless Tears descend in Briny Showers,  
And quench Her Vital Fire, and drown Her Powers.  
Grief, heavy Grief, sits on my labouring Breast,  
And will not let me Speak, nor let me Rest.   

O that with Sorrow equal to his Worth,  
I could dilate the Tidings round the Earth!  
Albion should hear, and every distant State,  
Within the Universal Bill of Fate,  
Should know that Bats, th' Immortal Bates, is flown  
All on a sudden! In a Moment gone!   

Some mighty Business wanted him in Heaven,  
Something wherein his Judgement must be given,  
How to Exalt their Maker's endless Praise,  
And from his Attributes new Wonder raise.  

Oft had the listening Angels heard him Teach  
These Things on Earth in their Seraphic Speech,  
And now to Heaven their Voted Member fetch.   

His ripened Virtues could no longer stay,  
But in Elijah's Chariot haste away,  
Without the Grievance of a slow Decay.    

But who, Ah! who can follow in his Steps?  
Who can renew the Go●d for which he weeps?  
I fear his 
† 2 King. 2.14.  Mantle is not to be found,  
To stop the rapid Streams in which we're drowned:  
This is our lasting Argument of Grief,  
That Sorrow now must be its own Relief:  
And even our Tears, Great Man, fall short of thee,  
We want thy Self to write thy Elegy:  
Thy tuneful Accents, and thy flowing Sense,  
Majestic Style, prevailing Eloquence;  

Those Thousand Beauties which for Ever shine  
Throughout thy Works, and prove them to be thine,  
(That is) which prove them to be all Divine,   
Those Gifts we want, but those with thee retired,  
And we are by a Gloomy Power inspired;  
A Mournful Genius revels in our Thought,  
And our swollen Lungs with blackest Sighs are fraught:  
For thee we struggle with perpetual Sighs,  
Storms in our Hearts, and Floods upon our Eyes,  
And not a Muse can regulate our Woe,  
Or lend assistance to one painful Throw.   

Far off methinks I see the drooping Nine,  
In sad Consult about the Great Design;  
Each taking to herself her several Part,  
In order to reduce tumultuous Woe to Art;  
But all in vain, their Vehicle is Dead;  
And their Conceived Thoughts, are Thoughts that can't be said.   
FINIS.