Think you the Lord not angry is for this?
Or do you think that ye his stroak shall miss ?
O consider and be astonished

That you so wretchedly are hardened.
Let this be writ for the succeeding age,
To see their folly and abhor their rage;

That they may know the dreadful works of God,
And say at last, "These justly felt his rod."
Blessed are they that in their hearts have room
For Christ to raign, before his anger come;
For dreadful time of wrath is sure at hand.
O faithless ones, when will you understand?
Now let this be imprinted in your mind:
In time repent, whilst you a time yet find;
Fear the Lord God, cease from iniquity,

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And love Christs Light; else in your sins you die.

Death, why soe crewill? what, no other way
To manifest thy splleene but thus to slay
Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,

Which through thy tyrany with him must fall
To its late Caoss? Had thy riged force

Griefe had bin silent.

Now wee must complaine,

Since thou in him hast more then thousand slane,
Whose lives and safetys did so much depend
On him there lif, with him there lives must end.

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IO

If 't be a sin to thinke Death brib'd can bee,

Wee must be guilty, say twas bribery
Guided the fatall shaft. Verginias foes,
To whom for secrit crimes just vengance owes
Disarved plagues, dreding their just disart,
Corrupted Death by Parasscellcian art

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Him to destroy, whose well tride curage such
There heartless harts nor arms nor strength could touch.

Who now must heale those wounds or stop that blood
The Heathen made and drew into a flood?

Who i'st must pleade our Cause? nor Trump nor Drum
Nor Deputations; these alass are dumb,

And Cannot speake. Our Arms (though nere so strong)
Will want the aide of his Commanding tongue,

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Which Conquer'd more than Ceaser: He orethrew
Onely the outward frame; this Could subdue
The ruged workes of nature. Soules repleate

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With dull Child could he 'd annemate with heate

Drawne forth of reasons Lymbick. In a word

Marss and Minerva both in him Concurd

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For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike,

As Catos did, may admireation strike

In to his foes, while they confess with all

It was there guilt stil'd him a Criminall.
Onely this differance doth from truth proceed:
They in the guilt, he in the name, must bleed;
While none shall dare his Obseques to sing

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In disarv'd measures, untill time shall bring

Truth, Crown'd with freedom and from danger free,
To sound his praises to posterity.

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Here let him rest: while wee this truth report,
Hee's gon from hence unto a higher Court
To pleade his Cause, where he by this doth know
WHETHER TO CEASER HEE WAS FRIEND OR FOE.
About 1676.

1814.

NICHOLAS NOYES

FROM

A PRÆFATORY POEM

TO THE LITTLE BOOK ENTITULED CHRISTIANUS PER IGNEM

The thoughts are like a swarm of Bees,

That fly both when and where they please;

Those little folks both work and play

About a thousand flow'rs a day,

Yet in their lawless range contrive
To bring in Honey to their Hive:
Who look for method in their march

At Honey making are not arch.

The Sally's of our Authors Soul

So fly about without controul:
Sometimes they clamber Heavens steep,
And sometimes into Hell do peep;
Good meditation both improve,
For both to Godly living move.
Methinks I see him climb the Sky,
Viewing the Flaming Fires on High,
And how the will of God they do,
That we on Earth may do so too;
And then to Hell he doth descend,
To know the Sinners woful end:
He stands aloof, and hears the cry
Of Guilty worms that cannot die
But live in Lakes of flaming Fire
That never! Never! shall Expire;
Then, fir'd with zeal, like Lion bold

Roars out and tells what can't be told,
Warns men to fly from Wrath to come
Before the Judge pronounce their doom.
So snatching brands from Fire and Death,
He may his Fingers burn therewith;
Yet better so than burn our Souls
By vexing God and pleasing fools.

1702.

FROM

1702.

A CONSOLATORY POEM

DEDICATED UNTO MR. COTTON MATHER, SOON AFTER THE DECEASE OF HIS EXCELLENT AND VERTUOUS WIFE, MRS. ABIGAIL MATHER.

Sir, after you have wip'd the eyes

Of thousands in their miseries,

1703

And oft condoled the heavy Fates

Of those that have surviv'd their mates,

It's come at length to your own turn

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To be one half within an Urn.

1703.

(Your Christ would have it so be done.)
Your other self 's torn off and gone.
Gone! said I? Yes, and that's the worst:
Your Wife 's but gone to Heaven first.
And who would live that God makes fit
To die and then gives a permit?
And who would choose a world of fears,
Ready to fall about their ears,
That might get up above the spheres
And leave the region of dread thunder
To them that love the world that 's under,
Where canker'd breasts with envy broil,
And smooth tongues are but dipt in oil,
And Cain's club only doth lie by
For want of opportunity?

Yea, who would live among catarrhs,
Contagions, pains, and strifes, and wars,
That might go up above the stars,
And live in health and peace and bliss,

Had in that world but wish'd in this? . . . .

This phoenix built her nest of spice,

Like to the Birds of Paradise;

Which when a fever set on fire,

Her soul took wing and soared higher,
But left choice ashes here behind,

Christ will for resurrection find.

ΙΟ

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A Herd of Planters on the ground,

O'er-whelm'd with Punch, dead drunk, we found;
Others were fighting and contending;

Some burnt their Cloaths to save the mending.

A few, whose Heads by frequent use
Could better bare the potent Juice,

Gravely debated State Affairs,

Whilst I most nimbly trip'd up Stairs,

Leaving my Friend discoursing oddly
And mixing things Prophane and Godly,
Just then beginning to be Drunk

As from the Company I slunk.
To every Room and Nook I crept,

In hopes I might have somewhere slept;
But all the bedding was possest
By one or other drunken Guest.
But after looking long about
I found an antient Corn-loft out,
Glad that I might in quiet sleep
And there my bones unfractur'd keep.
I lay'd me down, secure from Fray,
And soundly snoar'd till break of Day;
When, waking fresh, I sat upright,

And found my Shoes were vanish'd quite-
Hat, Wig, and Stockings, all were fled

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