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,

My Dream is vanish'd, Shadow 's fled,
My Soul with Christ, my Body dead.
Farewel, dear Wife, Children, and Friends:

Hate Heresie, make blessed ends,

Bear Poverty, live with good men;

So shall we meet with joy agen.

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20

25

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10

Let men of God in Courts and Churches watch

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O're such as do a Toleration hatch,

Lest that ill Egg bring forth a Cockatrice

To poyson all with Heresie and Vice.

If men be left and otherwise combine, My Epitaph's, I dy'd no Libertine. 1653?

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;

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ΙΟ

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.

1663?

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!

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ΙΟ

15

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

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;

30

His Words were few, well season'd, wisely weigh'd,
And in his Tongue the Law of kindness sway'd.

35

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.

....

40

45

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!

50

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,

55

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;

60

Renews her Griefs afresh for her old loss

Of her own Shepard, and drops many a Tear.

Cambridge and Charlstown now joint Mourners are,
And this tremendous loss between them share.

65

Must Learnings Friend (Ah, worth us all) go thus,
That Great Support to Harvards Nursery?

Our Fellow (that no Fellow had with us)
Is gone to Heave'ns great University:

70

Our's now indeed 's a lifeless Corporation;
The Soul is fled that gave it Animation!

Farewel, Dear Shepard! Thou art gone before,

Made free of Heaven, where thou shalt sing loud Hymns
Of High triumphant Praises evermore,

75

In the sweet Quire of Saints and Seraphims.

Lord, look on us here, clogg'd with sin and clay,

And we, through Grace, shall be as happy as they.

My Dearest, Inmost, Bosome-Friend is Gone!
Gone is my sweet Companion, Soul's delight!

80

Now in an Huddling Croud I'm all alone,
And almost could bid all the World Goodnight.

Blest be my Rock! God lives: Oh let him be,
As He is All, so All in All to me.

1677.

1677.

FROM

A POEM DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF
THE REVEREND AND EXCELLENT
MR. URIAN OAKES

(BY N. R.)

Well, Reader, Wipe thine Eyes! & see the Man
(Almost too small a word!) which Cambridge can

Say, "I have lost." In Name a Drusius,

And Nature, too; yea, a compendious
Both Magazine of worth and Follower
Of all that ever great and famose were.
A great Soul in a little Body. (Add,
In a small Nutshell Graces Iliad.)

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