Concio jam melior "Celeftia gaudia prenfo,
"His modo cum Domino perpete pace fruor.
"Cur ita legendum? plamam fero, morte fepulta,
"Lætor apud fuperos, mollitor offa cubant."
At non te flemus fuperis, CUTHBERTE, receptum,
Ploramus noflram te removente vicem.
Arma facræ quo nunc ædis victricia vecta,
Jam domitam, Dominus ni juvet ipfe, dumum?
[ 8 ]
En! BOSTON celebris, fimul HOGG venerabilis, infons,
Terrea nunc fuperant, cælica tecta colunt:
Infuper amotæ præcoci morte calumnæ
Signant quam fubito fit peritura domus.
Omnibus tantis percellimur haud fine caufa
Hinc timidi mæftos orbis addeffe dies.
Stirpe priore, gemens Ecclefia Scotiqua lanquet,
Vi CUTHBERTINA proh! fpoliata fua.
Ex Barathro (quid nunc obftat ?) vis hoftica furum
Surgit, et infidias hic et ubique ftruit.'
[ 9 ]
Invidus enque hoftis laqueos, incendia, cruces
Aptat, et innocuo valnera mille gregi.
Sola poteft tam patientia vincere cladem.
Nec nifi de fuperis fedibus illa venit.
Verus amor puro ex credentis pectore manans
Per mala tot, CHRISTO Principe victor erit.
Vivida vis mentis, geniique potentis acumen
Nunc tua, CUTHBERTE, belica tela defunt.
Mors claufit placido languentia lumina fomno,
Gaudia cum fuperis mens fine fine bibit.
[ 10 ]
Quo tua vaferunt dictamina nectare plena,
Mens generofa volat, labraque lætifica?
Quæ potuit cautes Hebetes animare loquendo
Hei! modo fub tenebris, lingua diferte filet.
Quam procul hic fugit tua prompta facundia fandi,
Candor et integritat, inviolata fides?
Solers tam fapiens non quovis nafcitur anno,
Ofque virile vibrans cum pietate pari.
Vivis in hac ima, præclarro nomine, terra;
Spiritus in fummo vivit ovatque polo.
FUNERAL POEM,
On the much lamented DEATH of that pious Perfon,
THE REV. MR. PATRICK PLENDERLIETH,
Minifter of the Gofpel at SALINE:
Who died Anno 1715. Written at the Defire of fome
of his Friends.
DISSOLVE in tears, ye bright feraphic fires,
If forrow can have place in heav'nly quires;
Mens eyes unable are enough to fhed;
A jufter wound the world hath feldom bred:
Behold a gracious plant, for fruit, for flow'r;
A noble faint for zeal, for truth, for pow'r;
A peerless gem for virtue, proof, and price;
On earth a friend to truth, a foe to vice:
And, lo! alas! this piece of heav'n doth die;
The cafe might make the very stones to cry.
O death! why tyrannifeft in thy might?
Why fo fevere, to ftrike fo choice a wight?
Why let't out of the ark a Noah's dove,
While many hearts were arks unto his love?
Hath death a pow'r to break affection's lock,
And steal the darling of the little flock?
Nay, fure; what's lov'd to-day, can die to-morrow;
What's dead to love is ftill alive to forrow.
This man of God ftill lives, and lodging hath
In grateful memories, in fpite of death,
He lives not only now above the skies,
But lives on earth in tears of many eyes.
Zeal, mildnefs, grace gave air unto his breath:
And hence his favour liveth after death.
His walk, his worship were of divine stamp ;
His doctrine, practice, all a burning lamp.
His life all light and heat, fed from above;
His lips all fervour, and his heart all love :
His time all holy-days; for of the seven
Each day was Sabbath, and each Sabbath Heav'n.
His home was fecret places of the stairs;
His title known to be a man of pray'rs.
No grove, no river-fide frequented he,
But there the place of pray'r was wont to be,
Bethel, where-e'er he went, was his abode;
For fill he reared altars to his God.
His converfe heav'nly, and his carriage mild;
His foul fublime, his confcience undefil'd..
His frame feraphic in devotion's mount;
His holy arder feldom waxing blunt:
Floods of celeftial aid did elevate
Th' ark of his foul to heav'nly Ararat.
Full gales, heart-rending throbs, heav'n-reaching cries,
Did waft his ardent pray'rs above the fkies.
For church, for ftate, for all he pray'd with not;
No cafe, no place, no friend, no foe forgot.
He trode the milky-way, by faith and pray'rs,
Was cloth'd with gravity, without grey hairs.
Was mafter of his paflions all within;
Glad without lightness, angry without fin.
His language correfponding with his faith;
No vain nor idle word defil'd his breath.
His lips unfeign'd, his actions undifguis'd;
Moft modeft when carre'd, meek when defpis'd.
A map of innocent humility;
A peerless paragon of fympathy.
A miror great of love to great and fmall;
A compound of compaffion towards all.
By love he conquer'd fome of high degree;
And kill'd the meaneft with his courtefy.
His kindness with fincerity appear'd:
To rich, to poor, to ev'ry fort endear'd.
With care he mark'd all providential ways,
Ev'n the minuteft, to his Maker's praife.
His active fpirit oil'd with Hermon dew
Did fwiftly after endless blifs purfue:
He was a mighty hunter, and the chafe,
The God of glory in the field of grace.
Alas! the race was very fhort indeed;
But lack in fpace, was well made up in fpeed.
His public fpirit was of fuch a pitch,
That few in zeal for God were found fo rich.
So vaft the treasure in this earthen cup;
Zeal for his Matter's houfe did eat him up.
To whatfoever place he did repair,
His converfe was a conftant preaching there.
In houfe or field, this antipode of floath
For gaining fouls, fpent foul and body both:
For, like his LORD, whofe fervice was his food,
He went about for ever doing good.
Still at his Mafter's work, ftill at his motion;
A conftant miracle of clofe devotion.
Mounting the pulpit from his fecret bow'r,
He pray'd with divine pith, and preach'd with pow'r..
Faithful to all men, in their feveral places,
He neither fpar'd their faults, nor fear'd their faces.
This minifterial grace to him was given.
To leave on many hearts a feal of heaven.
Yet fill his humble mind fhun'd airy fame;
Purfu'd the merit, but refus'd the name:
His felf-drain'd foul despis'd opinion's blaze;
He fought the virtue but difclaim'd the praife:
He all the glory to his Gon did yield,
And crown'd fair Grace the emprefs of the field.
Ah! here is but the name of that fair faint;
We have his image, but himfelf we want.
He hath the crown indeed, but we the cross:
He finds the gain; but we, alas! the lofs.
Death broke the cage to let the fparrow fly,
Which now hath found a houfe, a neft on high,
Even God's own altars to eternity.
Our Sodom now may fear the storm anon,
When Lot is to his wifhed Zoar gone.
Gop doth fometimes firft crop the fweeteft flow'r,
And leaves the weeds till tempefts them devour.
So ripe is vice, fo green is virtue's bud,
The world doth wax in ill, but wain in good,
And Noah's to his ark: we fear a flood.
This happy foul is now above the ftorm,
Fixt on his rock, with faints of higheft form;
For while his veffel paft the troubled ocean,
He fail'd from ftrength to ftrength with fwifteft motion,
Till on Immanuel's land he came a-fhore,
The place to which he fent his heart before.
Such was his holy life, as now refolv'd,
Which by a happy death was thus diffolv'd.
As lumps of fugar lofe themfelves and twine
Their fouple eflence in the fp'rit of wine:
So he in death did fweetly melt away,
As doth the dawn into the rifing day :
Aurora fair muft vail her rofy face
When brighter Phoebus occupies her place :
So he; when glory rofe in room of grace.
His death not differ'd from this life of his,
Nor the conclufion form the premises.
His death-bed prov'd a little paradife,
And ufber'd in with halellujahs thrice.
He, (in his fweeming over Jordan river,)
Began to fing as now he fhall for ever;
For there he fang before he went a-fhore,
A triple victory for evermore :
Dull earth could fcarce endure his holy noife,
While he did antidate his future joys.
Some faw his happy exit, unto whom
He told of Cherubs fent to guard him home:
And thus his better part was wafted o'er
With prelibations of his endlefs glore.
Could we now hear this bleffed harper play
His hallelujahs; fweetly might he fay,
Rue not my death, rejoice at my repose,
The bud was op'ned to let forth the rofe.
It was no death to me, but to my wo,
The chain was loos'd to let the captive go.
From crofs to crown, from thrall to throne I went,
And now I reign; I fing with full content,
Lo! here I reft; and here I love to be,
Where I enjoy more than my faith could fee.
I preach'd the glory which I now behold;
But, lo! the thousandth part was never told.
I got a tafte below, but now above,
I forage in the verdant fields of love.
On earth, my faith ftole down a diftant kifs;
But now my love cleaves to the cheek of blifs.
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