Saints memorials, or, Words fitly spoken, like apples of gold in pictures of silver being a collection of divine sentences / written and delivered by those late reverend and eminent ministers of the gospel, Mr. Edmund Calamy, Mr. Joseph Caryl, Mr. Ralph Venning, Mr. James Janeway.

DEATHS Triumph Dash'd: OR, An ELEGIE On that Faithful Servant of God Mr. IAMES IANEWAY, Minister of the Gospel, VVho Resting from his most ZEALOUS and PROFITABLE Labours, fell asleep in the LORD The 12^th of this Instant March, 1673/4.

How! Janeway dead! spare, Lord! Oh spare thy Rod, 'Twill else too soon compleat our Icabod; If thus thou snatch the Pastors, who shall keep From Romish Wolves thy pretious trembling sheep? If Night be coming, whither may they stray, When such sure Watchmen are remov'd away? We lost, alas! one Janeway before, Oh! when shall we have two such Janeways more? Men, whom Heav'n fram'd, and sent on purpose hither, To win, and bring whole crouds of Converts thither!

Death's now grown Rigid, and intends 'tshould seem, To make our Teachers all conform to him. E're we can dry our big-swell'd eyes for one, Tidings surprize us, that another's gone. Hush then Elegiacks! 'Tis in vain you come, Slight Sorrows Roar, but mighty Griefs are Dumb. Behold! our troubled Hemispere has lost Another Star, whose brightness might almost Vie Lustre with the Sun, whose Heav'n-bred Rays Shot forth such Flames at Darkness, that our days Vnsoil'd with shades, might hope to overthrow Hells Gates, and make another Heav'n below. But now our Skie is darkned, this bright Star Being Ravisht hence, our fainting Israels Car Hath lost its nimblest Wheels; we change our Light For gloomy Clouds, and loose our day in night. That Star's remov'd whose clear enlightned Head Gilt every Eye with Flame, and often led The wandring Wise men of the world, to see The Sacred Object of a bended Knee. For by his zealous conduct we addrest To view a CHRIST new born in every Breast.

This was both his imployment and delight, Oh! how (like Son of Thunder) would he fright A stubborn sinner! and an Earth-quake raise In guilty minds, reflecting on their ways. But then (not for to break the bruised Reed) Like Son of Consolation, he'd proceed With Soveraign Remedies of Gospel-Balm To heal the wounds, and such Soul-Tempests calm. — Thus, would he wooe, and plead for God, and then Prove no less Orator to him for men. As in the early morn a sprightly Lark Springs from some Turf, making the Heav'ns her mark, Shoots up her self through Clouds, higher and higher, As if she'd bear a part ith' Angels Quire: So would he rise in Pray'r, till in a trice His Soul became a Bird of Paradise. If our dull faint Devotions, Prayers be, We must acknowledge his an Extasie. Knowledge (the depth of whose unbounded main, Hath been the wrack of many a curious brain, And from her yet unreconciled Schools, Hath fill'd us with so many Learned Fools) Had tutor'd him with rules that could not erre, And taught him how to know himself & her.

Furnishing his large Soul in height of mea∣sure, Like a rich Store-house of Divinest Treasure, From whence, as from a Sacred Spring did flow Fresh Oracles, to let his Hearers know A way to Glory, and to let them see That way to Glory, was to walk as he. —Thus lab'ring as Heav'ns Agent here below For others good, his wasted Spirits flow: His Mortal Life be freely spent, that we Might gain a Life of Immortality. Still Preaching, Writing, every way he tryes To court the World from endless miseries. Admonishes the Old, instructs the Young, And teaches Children to speak Sions Tongue. But now his painful labours all are o're, Methinks I see him welcom'd at Heaven's door, By crouds of Saints, sent there by him be∣fore. —Hush then you Sighs! forbear you flowing Tears, You storms and showrs of nature, stop your ears. Let us no more with broken grov'ling numbers Disturb his Rest, now rock'd in sacred slum∣bers. Complaints are vain, subscribe to Heaven's will, When God speaks, 'tis mans duty to be still.

He's Dead! let's imitate his Life, that we Dying like him, may live Eternally; And Glorifie that God, whose dying Breath Made Man, whom Death had Conquer'd, Conquer Death. The Grave's our Common, and our truest Home; A house of Clay best fits a Guest of Loam. Death's but the good mans sleep: for as our eyes We close each night at Bed, in hope to rise; So should we dye, for when the Trump doth blow, We shall as easily awake we know. And as we after sleep, our Bodies finde More fresh in strength, and chearfully in∣clin'd; So after death, our Flesh scatter'd and dry'd, Shall rise Immortal, and more purify'd. This is our Port, this is Sins perfect Cure: Till lodg'd within a Grave, there's none secure.