Answers the toiling labour of
The wildest Indian's hand.

But man forgets his maker who
Fram'd him in righteousnesse
A Paradise in Paradise now worse
Than Indian wildernesse.

JONATHAN MITCHEL, Pastor of the church in Cambridge, deserves some notice for his attempts at poetry. Upon the death of Henry Dunster, one of the translators of the Bay Psalm Book, who was dismissed from his office as President of Harvard College for his heterodox opinions upon the subject of baptism, Mitchel wrote an elegy, some stanzas of which deserve transcribing for the strain of liberal sentiment which they breathe on the subject of the President's religious notions.

WHERE faith in Jesus is sincere,
That soul, he saving, pardoneth;
What wants or errors else be there,
That may and do consist therewith.

And though we be imperfect here,
And in one mind can't often meet,
Who know in part, in part may err,
Though faith be one, all do not see 't.

Yet may we once the rest obtain,
In everlasting bliss above,

Where Christ with perfect Saints doth reign,
In perfect light and perfect love.

Then shall we all like-minded be,
Faith's unity is there full grown;
There one truth all both love and see,
And thence are perfect made in one.

There Luther both and Zuinglius,
Ridley and Hooper there agree

There all the truly righteous

Sans feud live to eternity.

John Wilson, the Paul of New England, who is celebrated by Cotton Mather as the greatest "anagrammatizer"* since the days of Lycophron, and who even uttered anagrams by improvisation, has also left specimens of his verse behind him; they may be found in the Magnalia. Thomas Shepard of Charlestown, who died in 1677, has left similar relics. He is better known by the Elegy which URIAN OAKES, the President of Harvard College wrote upon his death. President Oakes was styled the Lactantius of New England; his fame as a scholar was widely extended, and his character pre-eminent for piety and benevolence. His elegy on Shepard's death was printed in 1677; a good authority has pronounced it a highly meritorious performance. We give a few stanzas taken from different parts of the

poem.

ART, nature, grace in him were all combined
To show the world a matchless paragon,
In whom of radiant virtues no less shined
Than a whole constellation, but hee 's gone!
Hee's gone, alas! down in the dust must ly
As much of this rare person as could die!

To be descended well, doth that commend?
Can sons their fathers' glory call their own?
Our Shepard justly might to this pretend,

(His blessed father was of high renown:
Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,)
But his own personal worth's a better claim.

His look commanded reverence and awe,
Though mild and amiable, not austere :
Well humour'd was he as I ever saw,

And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear.

*The rage for anagrams appears to have been universal in the country at that time. The biographer of Wilson cites the criticisms of the Jews upon the Old Testament in defence of the practice, and declares that much devout instruction was realized from this play upon names. He complains that there were not a greater number of anagrams made upon the name of Wilson, and insinuates that the muses looked very dissatisfied when they beheld the inscription on his tomb without this customary appendage.

The muses and the graces too conspired
To set forth this rare piece to be admired.

He breathed love and pursued peace in his day,
As if his soul were made of harmony.
Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay
In such a piece of frail mortality.

Sure Father Wilson's genuine son was he,
New England's Paul had such a Timothy.

The successor of President Oakes at Harvard was JOHN ROGERS. He came in his youth to New England and was educated at the College over which he was called to preside. Before he was chosen to the presidency he had been first a preacher and then a physician. He died suddenly in 1684, having been President but two years. His verses addressed to Mrs Bradstreet merit an insertion here. They have more correctness and elegance than are to be found in any we have yet noticed except those of the writer to whom they are addressed.

MADAM, twice through the Muses' grove I walkt,
Under your blissfull bowres, I shrowding there,
It seem'd with Nymphs of Helicon I talkt,
For there those sweet-lip'd sisters sporting were.
Apollo with his sacred lute sate by,

On high they made their heavenly sonnets flye,
Posies around they strow'd, of sweetest poesie.

Twice have I drunk the nectar of your lines,
Which high sublim'd my mean born phantasie,
Flusht with these streams of your Maronean wines
Above myself rapt to an extasie:

Methought I was upon mount Hybla's top,

There where I might those fragrant flowers lop,

Whence did sweet odors flow, and honey spangles drop.

To Venus' shrine no altars raised are,

Nor venom'd shafts from painted quiver fly:

Nor wanton Doves of Aphrodite's carr,
Or fluttering there, nor here forlornly lie:
Lorne paramours, not chatting birds tell news,

How sage Apollo Daphne hot pursues,

Or stately Jove himself is wont to haunt the stews.

Nor barking Satyrs breathe, nor dreary clouds
Exhaled from Styx, their dismal drops distil
Within these fairy, flowry fields, nor shrouds
The screeching night raven, with his shady quill :
But lyrick strings.here Orpheus nimbly hitts,
Arion on his sadled dolphin sits,

Chanting as every humour, age and season fits.

Here silver swans, with nightingales set spells,
Which sweetly charm the traveller, and raise
Earth's earthed monarchs, from their hidden cells,
And to appearance summon lapsed dayes,
Their heav'nly air becalms the swelling frayes,
And fury fell of elements allayes,

By paying every one due tribute of his praise.

This seem'd the scite of all those verdant vales,
And purled springs, whereat the Nymphs do play :
With lofty hills, where Poets rear their tales,
To heavenly vaults, which heav'nly sound repay
By echo's sweet rebound: here ladye's kiss,
Circling nor songs, nor dance's circle miss;

But whilst those Syrens sung, I sunk in sea of bliss.

Thus weltring in delight, my virgin mind
Admits a rape; truth still lyes undescri'd,
Its singular that plural seem'd

I find

'T was fancie's glass alone that multipli'd; Nature with art so closely did combine,

I thought I saw the Muses treble trine,

Which prov'd your lonely Muse superiour to the Nine.

Your only hand those poesies did compose :

Your head the source, whence all those springs did flow :
Your voice, whence changes sweetest notes arose :
Your feet that kept the dance alone, I trow:

Then vail your bonnets, Poetasters all,

Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly fall,

And deem yourselves advanc'd to be her pedestal.

Should all with lowly congees laurels bring,
Waste Flora's magazine to find a wreathe,
Or Pineus' banks, 'twere too mean offering;
Your Muse a fairer garland doth bequeath
To guard your fairer front; here 't is your name
Shall stand immarbled; this your little frame
Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal fame.

PETER FOLGER, who settled at Nantucket, where he kept a school, was the author of a poetical work entitled "A Looking Glass for the Times." This was published in 1675 or 1676. Folger's daughter was the mother of Benjamin Franklin, and Franklin in his own life has given a description of the poem. We have not been able to obtain a sight of this performance. The only copy we have yet heard of, was in the possession of a friend a year or two since but is now lost. A few extracts have been published in one of our literary journals. We will quote the words of Franklin in describing the poem. "The author addresses himself to the governors for the time being; speaks for liberty of conscience, and in favor of the Anabaptist Quakers, and other sectaries who had suffered persecution. To this persecution he attributes the war with the natives and other calamities which afflicted the country, regarding them as the judgments of God in punishment of so odious an offence; and he exhorts the government to the repeal of laws so contrary to charity. The poem appeared to be written with a manly freedom and a pleasing simplicity." Folger's book we understand is accurately described in the above paragraph, and a short extract which we have at hand will give an idea of the poetry.

THE rulers in the country I

do own them in the Lord!
And such as are for government,
with them I do accord.
But that which I intend hereby

is that they would keep bound,