STRUCK with huge love, of what to be possest,
I much despond, good reader, in the quest;
Yet help me, if at length it may be said,
Who first the chambers of the south display'd?
Inform me, whence the tawny people came?
Who was their father-Japhet, Shem, or Cham?
And how they straddled to the Antipodes,
To look another world beyond the seas?

And when, and why, and where they last broke ground,
What risks they ran, where they first anchoring found?
Tell me their patriarchs, prophets, priests, and kings?
Religion, manners, monumental things:
What charters had they?—what immunities?
What altars, temples, cities, colonies,

Did they erect? Who were their public spirits?
Where may we find the records of their merits?
What instances, what glorious displayes
Of Heaven's high hand commenced in their dayes?
These things in black oblivion covered o'er,
(As they'd ne'er been) lye with a thousand more,
A vexing thought, that makes me scarce forbear
To stamp, and wring my hands, and pluck my hair,
To think, what blessed ignorance hath done,
What fine threads learning's enemies have spun,
How well books, schools, and colledge may be spar'd,
So men with beasts may fitly be compar'd!
Yes, how tradition leaves us in the lurch,
And who nor stay at home, nor go to church:
The light-within-enthusiasts, who let fly
Against our pen and ink divinity;

Who boldly do pretend (but who'll believe it?)
If Genesis were lost, they could retrieve it;
Yea, all the sacred writ; pray let them try
On the New World their gift of prophecy.
For all of them, the new world's antiquities,
Smother'd in everlasting silence lies;
And its first sachims mention'd are no more
Than they that Agamemnon liv'd before.
The poor Americans are under blame,
Like them of old, that from Tel-melah came,
Conjectur'd once to be of Israel's seed,
But no record appear'd to prove the deed:
And like Habajah's sons, that were put by
The priesthood, holy things to come not nigh,
For having lost their genealogy.

Who can past things to memory command,
Till one with Aaron's breastplate up shall stand?
Mischiefs remediless such sloth ensue;
God and their parents lose their honour due,
And children's children suffer on that score,
Like bastards cast forlorn at any door;
And they and others put to seek their father,
For want of such a scribe as COTTON MATHER;
Whose piety, whose pains, and peerless pen,
Revives New-England's nigh-lost origin.

Heads of our tribes, whose corps are under ground,
Their names and fames in chronicles renown'd,
Begemm'd on golden ouches he hath set,
Past envy's teeth and time's corroding fret:
Of Death and malice, he has brush'd off the dust,
And made a resurrection of the just:

And clear'd the land's religion of the gloss,
And copper-cuts of Alexander Ross.
He hath related academic things,

And paid their first fruits to the King of kings;
And done his Alma Mater that just favour,
To shew sal gentium* hath not lost its savour.
He writes like an historian and divine,
Of Churches, Synods, Faith, and Discipline.
Illustrious Providences are display'd,
Mercies and judgments are in colours laid;
Salvations wonderful by sea and land,
Themselves are saved by his pious hand.
The Churches' wars, and various enemies,
Wild salvages, and wilder sectaries,
Are notify'd for them that after rise.

This well-instructed Scribe brings new and old,
And from his mines digs richer things than gold;
Yet freely gives, as fountains do their streams,
Nor more than they, himself, by giving, drains.
He's all design, and by his craftier wiles
Locks fast his reader, and the time beguiles:
Whilst wit and learning move themselves aright,
Thro' ev'ry line, and colour in our sight,

So interweaving profit with delight;

And curiously inlaying both together,

That he must needs find both, who looks for either.
His preaching, writing, and his pastoral care,
Are very much, to fall to one man's share.
This added to the rest, is admirable,
And proves the author indefatigable.
Play is his toyl, and work his recreation,
And his inventions next to inspiration.
His pen was taken from some bird of light,
Addicted to a swift and lofty flight.
Dearly it loves art, air, and eloquence,
And hates confinement, save to truth and sense.
Allow what's known; they who write histories,
Write many things they see with others' eyes:
'Tis fair, where nought is feign'd, nor undigested,
Nor ought but what is credibly attested.
The risk is his; and seeing others do,
Why may not I speak mine opinion too?

The stuff is true, the trimming neat and spruce,
The workman's good, the work of publick use;
Most piously design'd, a publick store,
And well deserves the public thanks, and more.

NICHOLAS NOYES,
Teacher of the Church at Salem.
The salt of the world.

Is this hard age, when men such slackness show, To pay Love's debts, and what to Truth we owe, You to step forth, and such example shew, In paying what's to God and country due, Deserves our thanks: mine I do freely give; Tis fit that with the raised ones you live.

Great your attempt, no doubt some sacred spy,
That Leiger in your sacred cell did lie;

Nursed your first thoughts, with gentle beams of light,
And taught your hand things past to bring to sight:
Thus taught by secret sweetest influence,
You make return to God's good providence:
Recording how that mighty hand was nigh,
To trace out paths not known to mortal eye,
To those brave men, that to this land came o'er,
And plac'd them safe on the Atlantick shore;
And how the same hand did them after save,
And say, Return, oft on the brink o' th' grave;

And gave them room to spread, and bless'd their root,
Whence, hung with fruit, now, many branches shoot.
Such were these heroes, and their labours such,
In their just praise, sir, who can say too much?
Let the remotest parts of earth behold,
New-England's crowns excelling Spanish gold.
Here be rare lessons set for us to read,
That offsprings are of such a goodly breed.
The dead ones here, so much alive are made,
We think them speaking from bless'd Eden's shade;
Hark! how they check the madness of this age,
The growth of pride, fierce lust, and worldly rage.
They tell, we shall to clam-banks come again,
If Heaven still doth scourge us all in vain.
But, sir, upon your merits heap'd will be,
The blessings of all those that here shall see
Vertue embalm'd; this hand seems to put on
The lawrel on your brow, so justly won.

TIMOTHY WOODBRIDGE, Minister of Hartford.

THE wondrous works of God and Christ abound,
Wherever nature reigns or man is found.
Some, known to few, have been revealed before,
Beyond the Indies and the Afric shore.

But what God here hath wrought, in this our age,
All shall behold, emblazoned on thy page.

Strange is thy dwelling-place. Thy home is where 'Twas thought no creature breathed the vital air. Yet there a mighty future is begun,

And men and things a race of empire run.
Strabo! thy many marvels tell no more,

No proud discovery known in ancient lore

Can match that wondrous waif Vesputio found,

A WORLD-NEW WORLD-at ocean's farthest bound.
Let Grotius fancy whence, in ancient time,
Came the first people of this Western clime,
Whence their religion and ancestral line:-
MATHER! a deeper, loftier theme is thine.

The savage race, who once were masters here,
Nor law nor God inspired with wholesome fear:
They no Lycurgus, Numa, Solon knew,
To frame their code, and fix its sanctions too.
Self-will alone was law: but now we see
Our royal charters sent across the sea,
To teach our wills their loyal bond to own
To England's statutes and our sovereign's throne.
Look at our courts-our rulers, small and great-
Our civil order and compacted State;

See these where once the lawless savage ranged,
And then, like old Æneas, say, "How changed!"

'Tis well. But not enough are laws and kings
To raise our souls to Heaven and heavenly things.
We must know GOD, and in his ways be taught;
Without such knowledge, men and states are nought.
The LORD is GOD! The ancient poets feign
Their Pantheon of pagan gods in vain.
In vain the unconverted Indians raise
Their forest altars in Manitou's praise;
For light shines out of darkness: the Unknown
And dreadful God the Indian calls his own.
The Indian has his Christian psalms and prayer,
His Christian temple, and his pastor there;
God speaks the Indian's language, rude and wild,
To teach His mercy to the forest-child.

And more!--though Science older climes befits,
And Europe swarms with academic wits,
Yet see scholastic shades these wilds adorn,
Such as the Old World may not wisely scorn.
That world we left; but Science has made known,
Out of the world, a new world of our own:
A hemisphere, imperial yet to rise-
In Arts proficient, and in Learning wise.
We have a Cambridge; where to rich and poor
Young HARVARD opes a hospitable door;

DATED AT NEW-YORK, 16 October, 1697.

Its liberal tests no ban of ignorance fix
On Indians or converted heretics.

For Wisdom's halls we need not cross the seas;
HERE Wisdom dwells, and here confers degrees;
Since Wisdom ever honours toil and pains,
And high degrees true merit always gains,
Perchance Philosophy and Science here
Will find new secrets and a broader sphere.

I will not, need not tell our marvels o'er;
Many exceed belief, and many more
Might teach mankind how noble is the pace
In human progress of our exile-race.

I need not speak of witchcraft: go! despise
The devil's arts-his agents and his lies.
Here is the standard of the Cross unfurl'd,
And JESUS' MIGHTY WORKS" astound the world.
Scorn of the goblin horde to be afraid-
Shapes without substance, shadows of a shade.
How rare is peace! War thunders its alarms;
The Age is Iron-with the ring of arms!
War sacks great cities; mars, with sounds of strife,
All social arts and every joy of life.

Europe is drench'd in blood: War's iron heel
And fiery scourge her writhing millions feel.
The blood of Frenchmen, Dutch and Germans slain,
Imbrues the soil of Italy and Spain;

While banded kings the sword of slaughter wield,
And humbler thrones afford a battle-field.

Then in the Old World see how sects uphold
A war of dogmas in the Christian fold:
Lo! Rome stands first; Fanaticism next,
And then Arminius with polemic text;
Then Anabaptist Menno, leading on
Spinoza, with his law-automaton.

Who shall of sects the true meridian learn?-
Their latitude and longitude discern?
We of the Western World cannot succeed
In conjuring up such difference of creed,
Or to uncovenanted grace assign
So many heretics in things divine.

Beloved of God! whose ministry hath bless'd
Our Boston and the Churches of the West;
Who, without seeming toil, hast nobly wrought
Within thy breast exhaustless mines of thought,
And here recordest, as by God's commands,
"The Mighty Works of Christ in Western Lands;"
Say, dost thou not THYSELF deserve a place
Among those "Mighty Works" of Sovereign Grace?
Immortal MATHER! 'tis thy page alone

To Old World minds makes New World wonders known;
And while the solid Earth shall firm remain,
New World and Old World shall thy praise retain.
HENRY SELJINS,
Pastor of a Dutch Reformed Church at New-York.