AN ELEGY On the Learned and Zealous Minister of the Gospel, Mr. Christopher Fowler, Who departed this Life on Monday the 15th of January, 1676/7.  

Art thou gone too, great and courageous mind!  
And must we fear even those are left behind?  
Lord, stay thy hand and cause thy wrath to cease,  
And call not home so fast our Sons of Peace.  
If Heaven do call so fast for Saints to come,  
Who will be left on Earth t' supply their room?  
The Reverend zealous FOWLER's dead; alas,  
What sadder news to us could come to pass!  
Shall I then weep alone? come every eye,  
Pity such dust as his should e'er lie dry:  
Come every eye with tears his Coffin wet;  
It is not what is given, but a debt.  

When Vice grows rampant, and Socinians say  
They hope to triumph in a blessed day,  
To have our second Luther snatched away:   
How did he tease the Quaker by the Word,  
And with his reas'ning pierced him as a Sword?  
Socinus 'Cause he levelled to the ground;  
And Popery the same fate from him found.  
Now where's thy Judgement, Memory and Tongue,  
That durst speak Truth when Scoffers came in throng!  
And was not plagued with an inglorious sloth  
To hug thyself, but dared to come forth  
Into the open field, whilst crafty Fox  
Lurked in the Bushes to devour the Flock.  
Where's thy rich fancy, man? to who beneath  
Didst thou thy rich and Gospel-strain bequeath?  
Tell us for thy own sake, for none but he  
That hath thy Wit can write thy Elegy:  
Those flattering Arts which Poets use to save  
Decaying-Reputations in the Grave,  
Are here but vain, for no Hyperbole  
Can tell the World how great thy Merits be;  
And History itself can say no more  
Than what thy Learning told the World before:  
Thy Gospel-Sermons did declare thy worth:  
Thy Expositions set thy Learning forth.  
And whilst we here lament thy being gone,  
Angels with Anthems welcome thee at home:  
Fowler! whose conversation free from ill,  
Can't be expressed, but by an Angel's Quill;  
To those that mocked and scoffed at him, I'll say,  
He's safely lodged in Heaven out o' their way.  
He'd not delight in sinner's way to stand,  
But as the Angel with drawn Sword in's hand,  
That so their ruin might prevented be,  
By him who was God's Seer, and did see.  
He loved his God, his King, his Country's Cause,  
And was not led or tempted by Applause.  
Now let the worst of men snarl at his flight,  
And bark as Curs do at the Morning-light;  
By them who'e're writes truth of him, will be  
Slandered with bias, or with flattery.  
But flattery can never reach his state,  
We only praise to make men imitate;  

And so must speak in sober terms, for know,  
If Saints in Heaven can hear things here below  
They'll no man thank that flatteries bestow.   
he's dead, let's imitate his Life, that we  
Dying like him, may live eternally.    

EPITAPH.  

REader stand off, and thy due distance keep,  
For in this Grave a Friend of Christ doth sleep;  
The Reverend FOWLER's dust lies in this bed,  
His Soul, that Bird of Paradise is fled  
Tothth' Heavenly Mansions, there to sit and sing,  
Glory and praises to his heavenly King.  
Stay but a while, his Lord will come again,  
And take his very Dust that doth remain.    

London, Printed in the Year 1677.