A burning and a shining light a sermon preached at the funeral of the late reverend Mr. James Wrexham, minister at Haversham in the county of Bucks / by John Hammat.

Upon the Death of that Pious and Profound Divine, Mr. James Wrexham.

(I.)

BLEST with the Sight of Artificial Men Rank'd in a Gallery, thus did I deem, Are these their own Survivors in this room? Or are th'Graves Prisoners loose, and hither come? I mus'd upon the matter once agen, And second Thoughts corrected my Esteem. Then I confest, These man are sprung from Brains and Heart, The Progeny of Love and Art. Then a new thought my mind possest, This is a teeming and improving Age, I'll Paint a Soul. A Soul as dear as fair, O, 'twill be rare! When 'tis invested in its lively hue Our Conversation we'll renew. I hasted to my work, rapt with a pleasant rage.

(II.)

I got such Colours as I judg'd most fit, The Flame colour, I thought would do, Together with the heavenly Blue, My Knowledge was th' enlight'ned Air; My Heart, the Chair In which the Darling of my Thoughts did sit. I took my Pensil and began to draw, I scarce had drawn a Line, But, lo! I saw An Heaven-born Muse, the gravest of the Nine.

Said she, What mean those Colours there? I answer'd readily, A Soul is in my Eye, A splendid Soul. I'll paint it on this Table here. The Flame will shew its quick Ascent, The Blue will shew its Element. O how I pleas'd my self, that my account was fair!

(III.)

But pleasant Errours are but Childrens Playes, She with a gentle smile reply'd, The blue and the bright-flowered Curtains hide What shines un-envy'd on the other side. But these To Mortals do forbid the glorious Raies. Moreover, Thou'lt draw a Shine, but can'st thou paint the heat, The Vitals of his Soul, and how his Heart did beat? Can'st thou discover His quick and mighty Zeal? Pure Zeal that issu'd from above, Compos'd of Prudence and of Love. Can'st paint the Pleasures which into his Soul did steal? Tow'ring Eagles, winged Boyes, Are but faint Emblems of Devotional Joyes. A golden Mouth doth fall within thy bounds, But can'st thou paint his heavenly sounds? She further said, His depths of Learning cannot be pourtray'd By your poor Pensil—He has done it with his Quill.

(IV.)

He was the Jonah of the Age; Buried alive: In horrors Gulf involv'd, Yet undissolv'd. The Artist was too wise t' engage To draw sad Agamemnon's Face, When he his Iphigenia did bewail, But overcast it with a Vail, And left it to Spectators to spell out the Case. Tremble, weak Hand, none of thy strokes can show How he did conflict with the Fiends below. He went into the deeps to learn; And O, the pious Myst'ries he did there discern!

(V.)

But, lo! our Jonah comes a shore, And the Leviathan never touch'd him more. Then chearfully he went, Whither he was most wonderfully sent, He preach'd unto his Ninevites, Repent. His Words were light'ning, of an heavenly rise, Which spar'd the Person, but consum'd the Vice. O how his Hearers were to him enchain'd, Whilst he the Sacred Text explain'd! He sick'ned there, In Moses Chair. And he with Moses on the Mount did dye, With Canaan in his Eye. But can your Colours tell The Glories of an heavenly Throne? O whither, whither is he gone! This said; she left me all alone. I stood amaz'd— And down my Pensil fell.