AN ELEGY On that Faithful and Laborious Minister of Christ, Mr FRANCIS BAMPFIELD, Who Died in Newgate on the Sabbath Day, vulg. Februar. 16th. 1683/4. Being in the 70th. Year of His Age. 5. March. 1684/5  

Wrapped in her mourning Weed, my grieved Muse,  
To tune such heavy Notes, at first refused;  
Rather desiring to effund her Tears  
In secret, where no man nor sees, nor hears:  
Till second Thoughts, Thoughts on so Worthy a Name,  
With greater Energy and Power came,  
And made her Tears in slow-paced Numbers fall.  
To Sprinkle the Lugubrious Funeral.  

Come skilful Mourners with sad Harmony  
Embalm a Saints thrice Blessed Memory  
With sighing Songs and mournful Melody;   
In doleful Lines your pressing grief make known  
Lines, stopped with sighs, and accented with groans,  
Your watery eyes to streaming rivulets turn,  
And bathe with pious Tears his silent Urn;  
That being impregnate with such Fertile showers,  
It may at length produce some fragrant flowers,  
Which may with Nature's Tapestry clothe his Tomb,  
And to all generations yet to come,  
Convey an odoriferous Perfume,  
While Brass and Marble Monuments consume.  
Those Lips that Milk and Honey did distil,  
And with sweet Balm our wounded Souls did fill,  
Whence purest Eloquence did flow; Behold  
How wan they are, appalled with stupid Cold.  

Those suppliant Palms that Faith did elevate  
So oft to reach th'Eternal Mercy-Seat;  
And oft returned with bounteous Grace ,   
Are now of Sense and Motion quite bereft,  
And nothing but their languid Form is left:  
Those Eyes wherein we saw Graces Divine  
With Reverend Gravity so lively shine,  
That oft did steep our Sins with precious Rain,  
Are now with sable clouds of Death bestained;  
That lovely Countenance, that gracious Face,  
Which Nature with sweet Lineaments did grace,  
And Grace refined; which to Beholders preached,  
And did with charming aspects Virtue teach,  
Lo now what see we there, but Death alone,  
Sitting in Triumph on his Pallid Throne!  
Help LORD, thou hast imposed a weighty Cross;  
Save us, a Faithful Watchman we have lost:  
A careful Shepherd thou hast taken away;  
Keep thou thy Lambs, or else they go astray:  
Why dost withdraw thy precious Stars of Light;  
And lead us in the dismal Shades of Night?  
Shall we Physicians want to cure our Souls?  
Whilst festering Sins wound us without control;  
And shall we pine for want of Living Bread?  
Or shall our hungry Souls with Husks be fed?  
O heavens forbidden it! Give us not Dross for Gold;  
Let younger Prophets still succeed the Old:  
When Fathers die, let Children still inherit  
Their Father's Virtues and Pastoral Spirit,  
When our Elijah's are assumed to Heaven,  
Let young Elisha's evermore be given:  

If thus, O LORD, thou cut our Fir-Trees down  
And layest our pleasant Cedars on the ground,  
Where shall a Shelter for the Shrubs be found?   
But since we have our Fate so long bewailed,  
Let Sobs be curbed, and serious Thoughts recalled;  
Whilst rapt in holy Visions we descry  
The Place where Tears are wiped from every Eye,  
With Faith's Perspective we may spy the Shore,  
Wither our Faithful Guide is gone before;  
We may on Nebo's Mount a Prospect gain,  
To view the stately Hills, and goodly Plains  

Of the Celestial Canaan; there we see  
In Blessed Mansions Saints and Martyrs free  
From servile Chains, keeping their Jubilee.   
Lo! Christ his Servant's home gins to call  
In Anger, maugre all the Bars and Walls;  
As if his Glorious Majesty disdained  
That Mortals should his Messengers enchain.  
Sleep then (Dear Saint) in Peace and softly Rest.  
Till Christ resuscitate thy Quiet Dust,  
To  it with immortal Beams of Light;  
That with its Bright'ned Soul it may unite:  
Mean while thy Soul doth learn to tune the Lays  
Which Angels utter in their Hymns of Praise.    

An EPITAPH.  
Whilst I in Pilgrimage did Sojourn here,  
Reproach and Captive Bonds did still attend me;  
I spent in Prison more than twice five years,  
A full seventh part of th' time my God did lend me:  
But now being free of th' New Jerusalem,  
I've changed my Prison for a Diadem.  The Second Part By J. S.  

London, Printed for J. Laurence at the Angel in Cornhill, 1684 Where Mr. Bampfields' Works may be had.