And mayst be still more dear than formerlie
If to his voice thou wilt incline thine ear:

Consider wel & wisely what the rod

Wherewith thou art from yeer to yeer chastized
Instructeth thee; repent & turn to God,

Who wil not have his nurture be despized.

Thou still hast in thee many praying saints,

Of great account and precious with the Lord,
Who dayly powre out unto him their plaints,

And strive to please him both in deed & word.

Cheer on, sweet souls; my heart is with you all,
And shall be with you, maugre Sathan's might;
And whereso'ere this body be a Thrall,
Still in New-England shall be my delight.

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1662.

1871

NEW ENGLAND ELEGIES

- FROM

UPON THE TOMB OF THE MOST REVEREND MR. JOHN COTTON

LATE TEACHER OF THE CHURCH OF BOSTON IN NEW-ENGLAND

(BY B. W.)

A living breathing Bible: Tables where

Both Covenants at large engraven were;

Gospel and Law in 's Heart had each its Colume,

His Head an Index to the Sacred Volume;

His very Name a Title Page; and next,
His Life a Commentary on the Text.
O what a Monument of glorious worth,
When in a New Edition he comes forth
Without Errata's, may we think hee 'll be
In Leaves and Covers of Eternitie!

A man of Might at heavenly Eloquence

To fix the Ear and charm the Conscience,

As if Apollos were reviv'd in him
Or he had learned of a Seraphim.

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ΤΟ

1652?

Spake many Tongues in one: one Voice and Sense
Wrought Joy and Sorrow, Fear and Confidence.
Rocks rent before him, Blinde receiv'd their sight,
Souls levell'd to the dunghil stood upright;
Infernal Furies burst with rage to see
Their Pris'ners captiv'd into Libertie.
A Star that in our Eastern England rose,
Thence hurry'd by the Blast of stupid foes,
Whose foggy Darkness and benummed Senses
Brook'd not his daz'ling fervent Influences.
Thus did he move on Earth from East to West;
There he went down, and up to Heaven for Rest.

1669.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF DEATH

(BY THOMAS DUDLEY)

Dim Eyes, deaf Ears, cold stomack shew

My dissolution is in view.

Eleven times seven near liv'd have I,

And, now God calls, I willing die.
My Shuttle's shot, my race is run,
My Sun is set, my Deed is done,
My Span is measur'd, Tale is told,
My Flower is faded and grown old,

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To poyson all with Heresie and Vice.

If men be left and otherwise combine, My Epitaph's, I dy'd no Libertine. 16537

20

1669.

UPON OUR CHURCHES SECOND DARK ECLIPSE, HAPPENING JULY 20, 1663,

BY DEATHS INTERPOSITION BETWEEN US AND THAT GREAT LIGHT AND

DIVINE PLAN[E]T, MR. SAMUEL STONE, LATE OF HARTFORD IN NEW

ENGLAND

(BY E. B.)

A Stone more then the Eben-ezer fam'd;
Stone splendent Diamond, right Orient nam'd;
A Cordiall Stone, that often cheared hearts
With pleasant Wit, with Gospel rich imparts;
Whet-Stone, that Edgefi'd th' obtusest Minde;
Load-Stone, that drew the Iron Heart unkinde;
A Ponderous Stone, that would the Bottom sound
Of Scripture-depths, and bring out Arcan's found;
A Stone for Kingly David's use so fit

As would not fail Goliah's Front to hit;

A Stone an Antidote, that brake the course

Of Gangrene Errour by Convincing force;
A Stone Acute, fit to divide and square;

5

ΤΟ

1663?

A Squared Stone became Christ's Building rare;
A Peter's Living lively Stone (so Reared),
As, 'live was Hartfords life, dead, death is feared.

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1669.

FROM

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE
REVEREND MR. THOMAS SHEPARD
(BY URIAN OAKES)

Oh that I were a Poet now in grain!

How would I invocate the Muses all

To deign their presence, lend their flowing Vein,

And help to grace dear Shepard's Funeral!

How would I paint our griefs, and succours borrow
From Art and Fancy to limn out our sorrow!

5

Now could I wish (if wishing would obtain)
The sprightli'est Efforts of Poetick Rage,
To vent my Griefs, make others feel my pain,
For this loss of the Glory of our Age.

Here is a subject for the loftiest Verse
That ever waited on the bravest Hearse.

And could my Pen ingeniously distill
The purest Spirits of a sparkling wit
In rare conceits, the quintessence of skill
In Elegiack Strains, none like to it,

I should think all too little to condole
The fatal loss (to us) of such a Soul.

Could I take highest Flights of Fancy, soar

Aloft, If Wits Monopoly were mine,

All would be much too low, too light, too poor,

To pay due tribute to this great Divine.

Ah, Wit avails not when th' Heart's like to break;
Great griefs are Tongue-ti'ed when the lesser
speak. . . .

His Look commanded Reverence and Awe,
Though Mild and Amiable, not Austere:

Well Humour'd was He (as I ever saw),

And rul'd by Love and Wisdome more than Fear.
The Muses and the Graces too conspir'd

To set forth this Rare Piece to be admir'd.

He govern'd well the Tongue (that busie thing,
Unruly, Lawless and Pragmatical):

Gravely Reserv'd, in Speech not lavishing,

Neither too sparing nor too liberal;

His Words were few, well season'd, wisely weigh'd,

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And in his Tongue the Law of kindness sway'd.

Learned he was beyond the common Size;

Befriended much by Nature in his Wit

And Temper (Sweet, Sedate, Ingenious, Wise);
And (which crown'd all) he was Heav'ens Favourite,
On whom the God of all Grace did command
And show'r down Blessings with a lib'eral hand.

Wise He, not wily, was; Grave, not Morose;
Not stiffe but steady; Seri'ous but not Sowre;
Concern'd for all, as if he had no Foes

(Strange if he had!); and would not wast an Hour; Thoughtful and Active for the common good, And yet his own place wisely understood.

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See where our Sister Charlstown sits and Moans!
Poor Widowed Charlstown, all in Dust, in Tears!
Mark how she wrings her hands! hear how she groans!
See how she weeps! what sorrow like to hers!

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Charlstown, that might for joy compare of late
With all about her, now looks desolate.

As you have seen some Pale, Wan, Ghastly look,
When grisly Death, that will not be said nay,
Hath seiz'd all for it self, Possession took,
And turn'd the Soul out of its house of Clay,

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So Visag'd is poor Charlstown at this day;
Shepard, her very Soul, is torn away.

Cambridge groans under this so heavy cross,
And Sympathizes with her Sister dear;

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