American Poems (1625-1892)

But soon again returned in fierce and furious mood,
Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud;
For, as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell
Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well;

And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay,
To see whether the rebels would have another fray;

But, they no more returning, they made off towards their home,
And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.

Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four,
And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore:

And sixteen of our English did safely home return;
The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn.

Our worthy Captain LOVEWELL among them there did die;
They killed Lieut. ROBBINS, and wounded good young FRYE,
Who was our English Chaplain: he many Indians slew,
And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.

Young FULLAM, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well-
Endeavouring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell.

But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,
But still they kept their motion, and WYMAN 's captain made,

Who shot the old chief PAUGUS, which did the foe defeat;
Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;
And, braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
They safe arriv'd at Dunstable the thirteenth day of May.

1824.

About 1725.

MATHER BYLES

FROM

AN ELEGY ADDRESS'D TO HIS EXCELLENCY
GOVERNOUR BELCHER

ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW, THE HONOURABLE
DANIEL OLIVER, ESQ.

Mindless of Grandieur, from the Crowd he fled,
Sought green Retirements and the silent Shade.
Ye bow'ry Trees which round his Mansion bloom,
Oft ye conceal'd him in your hallow'd Gloom:

Oft he enjoy'd, in your sublime Abode,

His Books, his Innocence, his Friend, his GOD.
Now sad, I wander o'er the lofty Seat
And trace the Mazes of the soft Retreat,
View the fair Prospects, round the Gardens rove,
Bend up the Hill and search the lonely Grove.
But ah, no more his Voice salutes my Ear,
Nor in his Hands the blushing Fruits appear;
Yet is his Image in each Scene convey'd,
And busy Fancy forms his gliding Shade:
I seem to meet him in the flow'ry Walks,
And thro' the Boughs his whispering Spirit talks;
Eager I call, the dear Delusion flies,

Grief seals my Lips and Tears suffuse my Eyes.

O far, far off, above the Ken of these,
The rising Mountain and th' aspiring Trees,
In the gay Bow'rs that crown th' Eternal Hills
His spotless Soul in deathless Pleasure dwells;
Tuneful replies while Choral Seraphs play,
And in bright Visions smiles the Hours away.
He visits now no more this dull Abode,
But talks with Angels, and beholds his GOD.

17277

ΤΟ

1732.

JOSEPH GREEN

THE POET'S LAMENTATION FOR THE LOSS
OF HIS CAT

WHICH HE USED TO CALL HIS MUSE

Oppress'd with grief, in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? what numbers shall I chuse ?
For in my fav'rite cat I've lost my muse.
No more I feel my mind with raptures fir'd,
I want those airs that Puss so oft inspir'd:
No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill.
Yet shall my verse deplore her cruel fate,
And celebrate the virtues of my cat.

She never thirsted for the chickens' blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food.
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching and unused to bites,
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings sat.
Whene'er I felt my tow'ring fancy fail,

I stroked her head, her ears, her back, and tail,
And, as I stroked, improv'd my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue:
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purr'd in metre and she mew'd in rhyme.
But when my dulness has too stubborn prov'd,
Nor could by Puss's music be remov'd,
Oft to the well-known volumes have I gone,
And stole a line from Pope or Addison.

Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat,
She, leaping on my knee, has took her seat,

There saw the throes that rock'd my lab'ring brain,

And lick'd and claw'd me to myself again.

Then, friends, indulge my grief and let me mourn.

My cat is gone, ah, never to return!

Now in my study, all the tedious night,

Alone I sit and unassisted write;

Look often round (O greatest cause of pain!),

And view the num'rous labors of my brain;
Those quires of words array'd in pompous rhyme,

Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended and unwatch'd by cats,
Are doom'd a victim to the teeth of rats.

1733.

ANONYMOUS

COMMENCEMENT

I sing the day, bright with peculiar charms,
Whose rising radiance ev'ry bosom warms;
The day when Cambridge empties all the towns,
And youths commencing take their laurel crowns;
When smiling joys and gay delights appear,

And shine distinguish'd in the rolling year.
While the glad theme I labour to rehearse
In flowing numbers and melodious verse,
Descend, immortal nine, my soul inspire,
Amid my bosom lavish all your fire,

While smiling Phabus owns the heavenly layes
And shades the poet with surrounding bayes!
But chief, ye blooming nymphs of heavenly frame
Who make the day with double glory flame,
In whose fair persons art and nature vie,
On the young muse cast an auspicious eye:
Secure of fame then shall the goddess sing,
And rise triumphant with a tow'ring wing;
Her tuneful notes wide-spreading all around,
The hills shall echo and the vales resound.

Soon as the morn, in crimson robes array'd,
With chearful beams dispels the flying shade,
While fragrant odours waft the air along,

And birds melodious chant their heavenly song,
And all the waste of heav'n, with glory spread,
Wakes up the world in sleep's embraces dead,

Then those whose dreams were on th' approaching day
Prepare in splendid garbs to make their way
To that admir'd solemnity whose date
Tho' late begun will last as long as fate.
And now the sprightly Fair approach the glass
To heighten every feature of the face:

They view the roses flush their glowing checks,
The snowy lillies twining round their necks;
Their rustling manteaus, huddled on in haste,
They clasp with shining girdles round their waist.
Nor less the speed and care of every beau
To shine in dress and swell the solemn show.

Thus clad, in careless order mixt by chance,

In haste they both along the streets advance,
'Till near the brink of Charles's beauteous stream
They stop, and think the lingring boat to blame.
Soon as the empty skiff salutes the shore

In with impetuous haste they clustering pour;
The men the head, the stern the ladies grace,
And neighing horses fill the middle space.

Sunk deep, the boat floats slow the waves along,
And scarce contains the thickly crowded throng;
A gen'ral horror seizes on the fair,

While white-look'd cowards only not despair;

"Till, row'd with care, they reach th' opposing side,
Leap on the shore and leave the threat'ning tide,
While to receive the pay the boat-man stands,
And chinking pennys jingle in his hands.

Eager the sparks assault the waiting cars,
Fops meet with fops and clash in civil wars:
Off fly the wigs as mount their kicking heels;
The rudely bouncing head with anguish swells;
A crimson torrent gushes from the nose
Adown the cheeks, and wanders o'er the cloaths.
Vaunting, the victor's strait the chariots leap,
While the poor batter'd beau's for madness weep.
Now in calashes shine the blooming maids,
Bright'ning the day which blazes o'er their heads;
The seats with nimble steps they swift ascend,

And moving on the crowd their waste of beauties spend:

So, bearing thro' the boundless breadth of heav'n,
The twinkling lamps of light are graceful driv'n,
While on the world they shed their glorious rays,
And set the face of nature in a blaze.

Now smoak the burning wheels along the ground,
While rapid hoofs of flying steeds resound;
The drivers, by no vulgar flame inspir'd,
But with the sparks of love and glory fir'd,
With furious swiftness sweep along the way,
And from the foremost chariot snatch the day.
So at olympick games when heros strove
In rapid cars to gain the goal of love,

If on her fav'rite youth the goddess shone

He left his rival and the winds out-run.

And now thy town, O Cambridge, strikes the sight

Of the beholders with confus'd delight;

Thy green campaigns wide open to the view,

And buildings where bright youth their fame pursue.
Blest village, on whose plains united glows

A vast, confus'd magnificence of shows,

Where num'rous crowds of different colours blend,

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