O happy Flood, quoth I, that holdst thy race
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

Nor is 't enough, that thou alone may'st slide,
But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet,
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet:
Thou Emblem true, of what I count the best,
O could I lead my Rivulets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season, have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,
Then to the colder bottome straight they dive,
Eftsoon to Neptune's glassie Hall repair

To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forrage o'er the spacious sea-green field,
And take the trembling prey before it yield,

Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.

While musing thus with contemplation fed,

And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head,

And chanted forth a most melodious strain

Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,

I judg'd my hearing better than my sight,

And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares,

That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,

Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm;
Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,

Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,*
Setts hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,

So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

*i. e. Anticipate.

And warbling out the old, begins anew,

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better Region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,
In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak:
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break:
From some of these he never finds cessation,
But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st Relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow:
Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation,
In weight, in frequency and long duration

Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,
Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure,
Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns bower.
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here's neither honor, wealth, nor safety;
Only above is found all with security.

O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion's curtains over kings,

Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a Record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust,
Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust;
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone
Shali last and shine when all of these are gone.

The sister of Mrs Bradstreet, Mrs Woodbridge, the wife of John Woodbridge, minister at Andover and

Newbury, was likewise an adventurer in verse. An epistle which she addressed to her sister upon the subject of her volume, is still extant. The poetry is respectable, but has no striking passages.

Governor Dudley, the father of Mrs Bradstreet, was a versifier. He wrote an epitaph on himself which was found in his pocket after his death; it is hardly worth quoting, and we know not whether any other of his rhymes have been preserved. William Bradford, the second Governor of Plymouth Colony, who came over in the first ship in 1620, figured also as a poet. He died in 1657. His Descriptive and Historical Account of New England in verse, containing about three hundred lines, may be found in the Historical Collections. He is commended by the author of the Magnalia for his great learning and particularly for his skill in various languages. His verses however have little to recommend them.

JOHN COTTON, the minister of Boston, must be recorded among those who attempted poetry. Some of his verses upon the death of two of his children have been preserved, written in Greek letters upon the blank leaves of his Almanack. His elegy upon the death of Thomas Hooker, the first minister of Hartford, Connecticut, who died in 1647, has been commended as sensible and correct. We give a short extract.

Twas of Geneva's worthies said with wonder,

(Those worthies three) Farel was wont to thunder;
Viret like rain on tender grass to shower,

But Calvin, lively oracles to pour.

All these in Hooker's spirit did remain,
A son of thunder and a shower of rain;
A pourer forth of lively oracles,

In saving soul the summ of miracles.

EZEKIEL ROGERS the minister of Rowley, who gave that town its name, and died in 1660, also embalmed' the memory of Hooker in the following epitaph, every

line of which, in the judgment of Cotton Mather, deserved a reward equal to that which Virgil received for his verses upon Marcellus in the Æneid.

America, although she do not boast

Of all the gold and silver from that coast,
Lent to her sister Europe's need and pride;
(For that repaid her with much gain beside,
In one rich pearl which heaven did thence afford,
As pious Herbert gave his honest word;}
Yet thinks she in the catalogue may come
With Europe, Africk, Asia, for one tomb.

The same event was lamented in an elegy by Peter Bulkly, the first minister of Concord, whose latin verses written at the age of seventy-six, are preserved in the Magnalia, along with the latin poetry of Elijah Corlet of Cambridge upon the character of Hooker.

The death of any noted divine in those days seems to have been very certain to arouse the muse of our ancestors. Scarcely one of any eminence closed his mortal career without drawing forth a profusion of elegiac strains. When John Cotton died in 1652, the event afforded a theme to BENJAMIN Woodbridge for a poem which contains a somewhat remarkable passage, as it has been conjectured that it suggested to Franklin the hint for his celebrated epitaph upon himself. Benjamin Woodbridge was educated partly at Oxford in England, and coming to this country finished his studies at Harvard College, of which he had the honor of being the first graduate. He afterwards returned to England and became one of the chaplains of Charles II. The passage referred to is this.

A living breathing bible; tables where
Both covenants at large engraven were;
Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column,
His head an index to the Sacred volume,
His very name a title-page, and next

His life a commentary on the text.
C**

VOL. I.

O what a monument of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth,
Without erratas, may we think he'll be,
In leaves and covers of eternity!

JOSEPH CAPEN, minister of Topsfield, wrote some lines upon the death of Mr John Foster, a mathematician and printer, which have a still more remarkable similarity to the epitaph of Franklin.

THY body which no activeness did lack,
Now 's laid aside like an old almanack;
But for the present only 's out of date,
"T will have at length a far more active state:
Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see
A fair edition, and of matchless worth,
Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth;
Tis but a word from God the great Creator,
It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur.

John Norton also commemorated the death of Cotton by an elegy; his verses in praise of Mrs Bradstreet have already been mentioned. Nathaniel Ward, the Simple Cobler of Agawam, wrote poetry in his facetious way. Edward Johnson the author of the Wonder Working Providence, interspersed his history with a multitude of verses, laudatory of the several worthy and eminent men of whom he had occasion to speak. His poetry is to be found in the records of Woburn, the town where he passed the latter part of his life.

ROGER WILLIAMS wrote verses among his other works during his banishment; some of them have been preserved in his Key to the Indian Languages. We offer a short specimen.

YEERES thousands since God gave command,
As we in scripture find,

That earth and trees and shrubs should bring

Forth fruits each in his kind.

The wilderness remembers this;

The wild and howling land