At night, the assembly being dismissed with prayer, Mr. Wilson did (being desired by them so to do), in a solemn manner, bless the elders, making a short prayer, saying, “I am not like long to be with you; the Lord pardon us, and heal us, and make us more heavenly, and take us off from the world, and make us burning and shining lights, by our heavenly doctrine and example. And I beseech the Lord, with all my heart, to bless you, and to bless his churches, and to bless all his people, and to bless all your families, and to bless your wives, and to bless all your children, and your children’s children; and make us all more and more meet for our inheritance, and bring us all to it in his good time,” etc. These words, with some few other, he spake with great affection, and with tears; and all the ministers wept with him, and they took their leave of him, even as children of their father, who having blessed them, was about to die.

Upon the death of that reverend, aged, ever honoured, and gracious servant of Christ, Mr. John Wilson, pastor of a church in Boston. Interred August 8, 1667.

Ah! now there’s none who does not know,
   That this day in our Israel,
Is fall’n a great and good man too,
   A Prince, I might have said as well:
A man of princely power with God,
   For faith and love of princely spirit;
Our Israel’s chariots, horsemen good,
   By faith and prayer, though not by merit.
Renown’d for practick piety
   In Englands both, from youth to age;
In Cambridge, Inns-Court, Sudbury,
   And each place of his pilgrimage.
As humble as a little child,
   When yet in real worth high-grown:
Himself a nothing still he stil’d,
   When God so much had for him done
In love, a none-such; as the sand,
   With largest heart God did him fill;
A bounteous mind, an open hand,
   Affection sweet, all sweet’ning still.
Love was his life; he dy’d in love;
   Love doth embalm his memory;
Love is his bliss and joy, above
   With God now who is love for ay:
A comprehending charity
   To all, where ought appear’d of good;
And yet in zeal was none more high
   Against th’ apparent serpent’s brood.
To truth he ever constant was,
   In judgment wond’rous orthodox;
In truth’s cause never fearing face,
   As if he were another Knox.
The prelates and their impositions
   Did never him conformist make,
But to avoid those superstitions,
   Great worldly hopes did he forsake.
When in New England, error’s wind
   From sundry other quarters blew;
No one could him conforming find,
   Nought from the line of truth him drew.
Firm stood he ’gainst the familist,
   And Antinomian spirit strong;
He never lov’d the Sep’ratist,
   Nor yet the Anabaptist’s throng.
Neither the tolerator’s strain,
   Nor Quaker’s spirit could he brook;
Nor bow’d to the Morellian train,
   Nor children’s right did overlook.
Nor did he slight our liberties,
   In civil and in church concerns,
But precious were they in his eyes,
   Who stood among their fixed friends.
Grave saint in England twice did give
   This farewell word to him; While you
Shall in that place (New England) live,
   No hurt shall happen thereunto.
Strange word, and strangely verify’d !
   He this day goes to’s grave in peace.
What changes sad shall us betide,
   Now he is gone, we cannot guess !
What evil are we hast’ning to !
   Lord, spare thy people, but awaken,
When such away do from us go,
   That yet we may not be forsaken !
He a first corner-stone was laid
   In poor New England’s Boston’s wall:
Death pulls this out, the breach is wide:
   Oh, let it not now tumble all !
He’s now at rest and reigns in bliss;
   In conflicts we are left behind,
In fears and straits; how shall we miss
   His faith, prayer, zeal, and peaceful mind.
Lord, pour a double portion
   Of his sweet, gracious, pious spirit,
On poor survivors; let each one
   Somewhat thereof at least inherit !
Gaius, our host, ah now is gone !
   Can we e’er look for such another ?
But yet there is a mansion,
   Where we may all turn in together.
No moving inn, but resting-place,
   Where his blest soul is gathered;
Where good men going are a pace
   Into the bosom of their Head.
Ay, thither let us haste away,
   Sure heaven will the sweeter be,
(If there we ever come to stay)
   For him, and others such as he.

—J. M.

Upon the death of that most reverend man of God, Mr. John Wilson, pastor of the first church in Boston, in New England; whose decease was August 7, 1667.

John Wilson,


John Wilson.

Oh change it not ! No sweeter name or thing,
Throughout the world, within our ears shall ring.
Whoso of Abr’am, Moses, Samuel reads,
Or of Elijah, or Elisha’s deeds,
Would surely say their spirit and power was

  By PanEris using Melati.

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