But, alas! not many days (not to say weeks) had I been there, ere we were almost overwhelmed with sorrow for the unexpected loss of Edward Burrough, who was justly very dear to us all.
This not only good, but great good man, by a long and close confinement in Newgate through the cruel malice and malicious cruelty of Richard Brown, was taken away by hasty death, to the unutterable grief of very many, and unspeakable loss to the Church of Christ in general.
The particular obligation I had to him as the immediate instrument of my convincement, and high affection for him resulting therefrom, did so deeply affect my mind that it was some pretty time before my passion could prevail to express itself in words, so true I found those of the tragedian:
_Curæ leves loquuntur_, _Ingentes stupent_.
Light griefs break forth, and easily get vent, Great ones are through amazement closely pent.
At length, my muse, not bearing to be any longer mute, broke forth in the following
WHICH SHE CALLED A PATHETIC ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THAT DEAR AND FAITHFUL SERVANT OF GOD,
_Who died the 14th of the Twelfth Month_, 1662.
How long shall Grief lie smother’d? ah! how long Shall Sorrow’s signet seal my silent tongue? How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make My lips to quiver and my heart to ache? How long shall I with pain suppress my cries, And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes? Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed, Pour forth my grief into another’s breast? If that be true which once was said by one, That “He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:” { 180} Then may I truly say, my grief is true, Since it hath yet been known to very few. Nor is it now mine aim to make it known To those to whom these verses may be shown; But to assuage my sorrow-swollen heart, Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart. This is my end, that so I may prevent The vessel’s bursting by a timely vent.
_Quis talia fando_ _Temperet a lacrymis_!
Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears, His grave to water with a flood of tears?
E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places, L et tears and paleness cover all men’s faces. L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air, W hile I the cause of my just grief declare, O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile O ’erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground, S o might’st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found.