Death's Triumph Dashed: or, an Elegy On that Faithful Servant of God Master JAMES JANEWAY, Minister of the Gospel, who Resting from his most Zealous and Profitable Labours, fell asleep in the Lord the 12th of this Instant, March 1673/4. HOw! JANEWAY Dead! spare, Lord! oh spare thy Rod, 'Twill else too soon complete our Icabod; If thus thou snatch the Pastors, who shall keep From Romish Wolves thy precious trembling Sheep? If Night be coming, whither may they stray, When such sure Watchmen are removed away? We lost, alas! one JANEWAY before, Oh! when shall we have Two such JANEWAYS more? Men, whom Heaven framed, and sent on purpose hither, To win, and bring whole Crowds of Converts thither! Death's now grown Rigid, and intendsed should seem, To make our Teachers all Conform to him. we can dry our Big-swelled eyes for one, Tidings surprise us, That Another's Gone. Hush then Elegiacks! 'Tis in vain you come, Slight Sorrows Roar, but mighty Griefs are Dumb. Behold! our troubled Hemisphere has lost Another Star, whose brightness might almost Vie Lustre with the Sun, whose Heaven-bred Rays Shot forth such Flames at Darkness, that our days Unsoiled with shades, might hope to overthrow Hell's Gates, and make another Heaven below. But now our Sky is darkened, this bright Star Being Ravished hence, our fainting Israel's Carr Hath lost its nimblest Wheels; we change our Light For gloomy Clouds, and lose our Day in Night. That Star's removed, whose clear enlightened Head Gilt every Eye with Flame, and often led The wand'ring Wisemen of the world, to see The Sacred object of a bended Knee. For by his zealous conduct we addressed To view a CHRIST New born in every Breast. This was both his employment and delight, Oh! how (like Son of Thunder) would he fright A stubborn Sinner! and an Earthquake raise In guilty minds, reflecting on their ways. But then (not for to break the Bruised Reed) Like Son of Consolation, he'd proceed With Sovereign Remedies of Gospel-Balm To heal the wounds, and such Soul-Tempests calm. — Thus, would he woe, and plead for God, and then Prove no less Orator to him for men; As in the early morn a sprightly Lark Springs from some Turf, making the heavens her mark, Shoots up herself through Clouds, higher and higher, As if she'd bear a part i'th' Angels Choir: So would he rise in Prayer, till in a trice His Soul became a Bird of Paradise. If our dull faint Devotions, prayers be, We must acknowledge his an Ecstasy. Knowledge (the depth of whose unbounded main, Hath been the wrack of many a curious brain, And from her yet unreconciled School, Hath filled us with so many Learned Fools) Had Tutored him with rules that could not err, And taught him how to know himself and her. Furnishing his large soul in height of measure, Like a rich Storehouse of divinest Treasure, From whence, as from a Sacred Spring did flow Fresh Oracles, to let his Hearers know A way to Glory, and to let them see That way to Glory, was to walk, as He; — Thus labouring as heavens Agent here below For others good; His wasted Spirits flow: His Mortal Life he freely spent, that we Might gain a Life of Immortality. Still Preaching, Writing, every way he tries To Court the World from endless miseries. Admonishes the Old, instructs the Young, And teaches Children to speak Zions Tongue. But now his painful labours all are o'er, Methinks I see him welcomed at Heaven's door, By Crowds of Saints, sent there by him before. — Hush then you Sighs! forbear you flowing Tears, You storms and showers of Nature, stop your Ears. Let us no more with broken groveling numbers Disturb his Rest, now rocked in sacred slumbers. Complaints are vain, subscribe to Heaven's will, When God speaks, 'tis Man's duty to be still. He's Dead! let's imitate his Life, that we Dying like him may Live Eternally. And Glorify that God, whose dying Breath, Made Man, whom Death had Conquered, Conquer Death. The Grave's our Common, and our truest Home, A House of Clay best fits a Guest of Loam. Death's but the good man's sleep, for as our eyes We close each night at Bed, in hope to Rise; So should we Die, for when the Trump doth blow, We shall as easily awake we know. And as we after sleep, our Bodies find More fresh in strength, and cheerfully inclined; So after Death, our Flesh scattered and dried, Shall rise Immortal and more purified. This is our Port, this is Sins perfect Cure, Till Lodged within a Grave, there's none secure. AN EPITAPH. ASk you why so many a Tear Bursts forth? I'll tell you in your Ear, Compel me not to speak aloud, Death would then grow too too proud; Eyes that cannot vent a Tear, Forbear to ask, you may not hear. Gentle Hearts that overflow, Have only Privilege to know. In these Sacred Ashes than Know, Reader! that a man of men Lies covered, and Eternal Glory Makes dear mention of his story. Nature when she gave him birth, Opened her Treasures to the Earth: Put forth the quintessence of merit, Quickened with a higher spirit. Rare was his Life, his latest breath Saw, and scorned, and Conquered Death. Thankless Reader! never more Urge a why thus tears runs o'er; When you saw so high a Tide, You might have known JANEWAY died. LONDON, Printed in the Year 1674.