AN ELEGY On the much-lamented Death of that late Reverend and most Learned Divine, Dr. WILLIAM BATS, Minister of the Gospel at Hackney, who departed this Life on Friday the 14th of July, 1699. in the Seventy Third Year of his Age.  

Floods follow Floods, Waves after Waves arise:  
Scarce had I drained the Fountain of mine Eyes,  
But here's a sadder Stroke calls for a Sea  
Of flowing Tears: Rivers too few will be.  
Had I an Ocean, every drop I'd spend,  
And weep until that Ocean had an end.  
But is he dead, Great BATS of famed Renown?  
The Nonconformist's (nay, all England's) Crown,  
Who Loved and was Beloved by all, but those  
Who are God's, and his Servants, bitter Foes:  
That Hellish Crew, that hate most them that wear  
God's Liv'ry, and his Sacred Image bear.  
Great Loss indeed! Sad Struck that may portend,  
(I fear,) some sorer Judgement in the end.  
For oftentimes the Sin-revenging God  
Takes his best Saints, that he may use his Rod  
The more severe. The Loss who can express?  
Or what Tongue tell the consequent Distress?  
Sure that House must be weak, whose chiefest stay,  
Whose prop, whose only Basis sinks away:  
That Ship must certainly be dashed at last,  
Whose trusty Anchor's gone, and whose Mainmast  
Is beaten down. Not but some Pillars still  
Are left; and as it is Jehovah's will,  
There are some Anchors that are yet behind,  
To keep the Ship, tho' tossed with the wind.  
But now they go so fast, I fear e'er long;  
(If God does not prevent) they'll all be gone.  
God has removed a Pillar, 'twas too good;  
Such fine-wrought curious Marble too long stood  
In this Thatched Cottage, this poor House of Clay,  
The Heavenly Builder took him hence away,  
That he might place him in his Palace; here  
He did but polish him to fix him there.  
He's there, now seen by those discerning eyes  
That know his inward Worth alone to prise.  
How they rejoice to see him mount the wing!  
Th' Angelic Chorus meet him, and they sing  
For joy, whilst they attend him through the Sky,  
And mounts his Soul far above Galaxy;  
Through first and second Heavens, till they place  
Him in the third, before Jehovah's Face.  
Where his loved God, Dear Jesus, Holy Ghost,  
Cherubs, and Seraphs, all the Heavenly Host  
Of Blessed Angels, and those Saints which be  
Clad with the Glory of Eternity  
Do welcome him unto their Blessed throng,  
And now begin to teach him the Lamb's Song  

Of life. His Soul crowned now with Heavenly Bays  
Invested with its bright transplendant Rays  
Falls in with them to sing his Saviour's praise.    

And here his ravished Soul (which adds yet more)  
Meets with those Blessed Saints that went before.  
That laboured with him in God's Holy Word,  
And prayed, and suffered with him for their Lord.  
Such as great BAXTER, whose exceeding worth  
(Now BATS is dead,) no tongue can e'er set forth  
O how do they each other now embrace!  
Rejoicing there to see each other's Face.  
And Holy ROSEWELL too, whose lasting Name  
Is carried far above the Wings of Fame;  
That Heavenborn Soul a bright and splendid Star,  
That's shining now in Heaven's Bright Hemisphere.  
Whose Love unto his God, and for his sake  
The Sufferings that he underwent, did make  
Him dear to pious BATS, and to all those  
That Love their God, and Hate his wicked Foes.  

O how do they rejoice to meet and see  
Each other safe, at Peace, and Ease, and free  
From Bodily Pains, and from the Treachery   
Of wicked Men.  
Then Holy ANNESLEY, VINCENT, and the rest,  
Whose Worth and Learning cannot be expressed.  

Oh how do they each other there embrace!  
Rejoicing there to see each other's Face,  
And all safe landed in the Heavenly Place.    

It's there he's gone, and therefore 'tis not he  
That has the Loss; No, no! 'Tis only we.  
He's only gone to that Celestial Choir,  
Which filled his Prayers, his Heart, his whole Desire.  

He's only gone where all his Pains do end,  
The Stone, the Gout, the Colic, which did rend  
His Body here. Our Souls have lost a Friend.   
O Hackney, London, England, all bemoan,  
It is a Loss concerns us every one.  
A Soul-Physician's gone that could secure  
The Health of Souls, that could and would make sure  
Eternal Life to those that would but hear,  
And to his sweet Entreaties lend an Ear.  
How powerfully did he the Word Dispense?  
With what Divine and Charming Eloquence?  
With how great Love, how tender did he speak?  
Enough to make the Sinners Heart to break.  
Methinks I hear him still, uttering that Voice  
That made the Sinner fear, the Saint rejoice.   


And Oh his Written Works, they'll praise him still,  
Present admire them, Future Ages will;  
'Tis Rhetoric Divine, which does them fill.   
For he our English CICERO was, who dare  
With him for Sacred Rhetoric compare?  
PERFECT in that he surely was most fit,  
To show PERFECTION as in SCRIPTURE writ.  
Which when he finished, God did him translate,  
And make him PERFECT in a PERFECT State.  
Where now experimentally he knows  
The PERFECTNESS of all that SCRIPTURE shows.    

The EPITAPH.  

STay, Reader, stand, and spend a Tear;  
But haste, lest thou shouldst make  
(By too much pondering who lies here)  
Thy very Heart to break.   

Here lies great BATS most Eloquent,  
A CICERO and a PAUL;  
A Preacher too most prevalent,  
One that had in him all.   

Most Learned, Wise, and of such Worth,  
There is not left behind  
A Tongue that's fit to set it forth.  
His Equal who can find?   

If he could die; who then can save,  
Who can presume to keep  
The most accompliished from the Grave,  
Where all Mankind must sleep?   
FINIS.   

London: Printed, and Sold by A. Baldwin, 1699.