AN ELEGY ON MR. THOMAS GOUGE.

To Mr. ARTHUR SHALLET, Merchant.

Worthy Sir,

HE fubject of the following elegy was high in

THE

your esteem, and enjoyed a large share of your affections. Scarce doth his memory need the affistance of the Muse to make it perpetual; but when she can at once pay her honours to the venerable dead, and by this address acknowledge the favours fhe has received from the living, it is a double pleasure to,

Who died Jan. 8th, 1699-1700.

YE virgin fouls, whofe sweet complaint

Could teach Euphrates * not to flow,

Could Sion's ruin fo divinely paint,

Array'd in beauty and in woe :

Awake, ye virgin fouls, to mourn,

And with your tuneful forrows dress a prophet's urn.

*Pfal. 137. Lament, i. 2, 3.

O could

O could my lips or flowing eyes But imitate fuch charming grief, I'd teach the feas, and teach the skies, Wailings, and fobs, and fympathies, Nor fhould the ftones or rocks be deaf; Rocks fhall have eyes, and ftones have ears, While Gouge's death is mourn'd in melody and tears.

Heaven was impatient of our crimes,

And fent his minifter of death

To fcourge the bold rebellion of the times,
And to demand our prophet's breath;
He came commiffion'd for the Fates
Of awful Mead, and charming Bates;
There he effay'd the vengeance first,

Then took a difmal aim, and brought great Gouge to duft.

Great Gouge to duft! how doleful is the found!
How vaft the ftroke is! and how wide the wound!
Oh painful stroke! diftreffing death!
A wound unmeasurably wide

No vulgar mortal dy'd

When he refign'd his breath.

The Mufe that mourns a nation's fall, Should wait at Gouge's funeral, Should mingle majesty and groans, Such as the fings to finking thrones, And in deep founding numbers tell, How Sion trembled, when this pillar fell,

Sion grows weak, and England poor,
Nature herself, with all her store,
Can furnish such a pomp for death no more.

The reverend man let all things mourn;
Sure he was fome æthereal mind,
Fated in flesh to be confin'd,

And order'd to be born.

His foul was of th' angelic frame,

The fame ingredients, and the mould the fame,
When the Creator makes a minister of flame,
He was all form'd of heavenly things,
Mortals, believe what my Urania fings,
For fhe has feen him rise upon his flamy wings.

How would he mount, how would he fly
Up through the ocean of the sky,

Tow'rd the celestial coaft!

With what amazing swiftness foar

Till earth's dark ball was feen no more,

And all its mountains loft!

Scarce could the Mufe purfue him with her fight:

But, angels, you can tell,

For oft you meet his wonderous flight,

And knew the ftranger well;

Say, how he past the radiant fpheres.

And vifited your happy feats,

And trac'd the well-known turnings of the golden ftreets,

And walk'd among the stars.

Tell

Tell how he climb'd the everlasting hills

Surveying all the realms above,

Borne on a ftrong-wing'd faith, and on the fiery wheels Of an immortal love.

'Twas there he took a glorious fight Of the inheritance of faints in light,

And read their title in their Saviour's right.
How oft the humble fcholar came,
And to your fongs he rais'd his ears
To learn th' unutterable name,
To view th' eternal bafe that bears,

The new creation's frame.
The countenance of God he saw,
Full of mercy: full of awe,

The glories of his power, and glories of his grace:
There he beheld the wondrous fprings

Of thofe celeftial facred things,
The peaceful gofpel, and the fiery law

In that majeftic face.

That face did all his gazing powers employ,

With most profound abasement and exalted joy,
The rolls of fate were half unfeal'd,

He ftood adoring by;

The volume open'd to his eye,

And fweet intelligence he held

With all his fhining kindred of the sky.

Ye feraphs that furround the throne,

Tell how his name was through the palace known,
How warm his zeal was, and how like your own :

Speak

Speak it aloud, let half the nation hear,
And bold blafphemers fhrink and fear*:
Impudent tongues! to blast a prophet's name!
The poifon fure was fetch'd from hell.

Where the old blafphemers dwell,

To taint the purest dust, and blot the whitest fame!
Impudent tongues! You fhould be darted through,
Nail'd to your own black mouths, and lie
Ufelefs and dead till flander die,

Till flander die with you.

“We saw him, said th' ethereal throng, "We faw his warm devotions rife, "We heard the fervour of his cries, ❝ And mix'd his praises with our fong: "We knew the fecret flights of his retiring hours, 'Nightly he wak'd his inward powers,

Young Ifrael rofe to wrestle with his God,

"And with unconquer'd force fcal'd the celestial towers, "To reach the bleffing down for thofe that fought his "blood.

"Oft we beheld the thunderer's hand

"Rais'd high to crush the factious foe; "As oft we faw the rolling vengeance stand "Doubtful t' obey the dread command, "While his afcending prayer upheld the falling blow."

Draw the paft fcenes of thy delight,

My Mufe, and bring the wondrous man to fight.

*Though he was fo great and good a man, he did not escape cenfure.

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