[ 39 ]

I fay no more: let them that can declare
His rich and rare endowments, paint this Sun,
With all its dazling Rayes: But I despair,
Hopeless by any hand to fee it done.

They that can Shepards goodness well display,
Must be as good as he: But who are they?

[ 40 ]

groans!

See where our Sifter Charltown fits and Moans !
Poor Widowed Charlstown! all in Dust, in Tears!
Mark how she wrings her hands! hear how she
See how the weeps! what forrow like to hers!
Charlstown, that might for joy compare of late
With all about her, now looks defolate.

[ 41 ]

As you have seen fome Pale, Wan, Ghaftly look,
When grifly Death, that will not be faid nay,
Hath seiz'd all for it felf, Poffeffion took,
And turn'd the Soul out of its house of Clay:
So vifag'd is poor Charlstown at this day;
Shepard, her very Soul, is torn away.

[ 42 ]

Cambridge groans under this fo heavy cross,
And Sympathizes with her Sister dear;
Renews her Griefs afresh for her old lofs

Of her own Shepard, and drops many a Tear.

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

Muft 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.

Our's now indeed's a lifelefs Corporation,

The Soul is fled, that

gave it Animation!

[ 44 ]

Poor Harvard's Sons are in their Mourning Dress,

Their fure Friend's gone! their Hearts have put on Mour [ning,] Within their Walls are Sighs, Tears, Pensiveness;

Their new Foundations dread an overturning.

Harvard! where's such a fast Friend left to [thee]
Unless thy great Friend, LEVERET, it [be.]

[ 45 ]

We must not with our greatest Soveraign strive

Who dare find fault with him that is moft Hig[h]

That hath an abfolute Prerogative,

And doth his pleasure: none may ask him, why

We're Clay-lumps, Dust-heaps, nothings in his fig[ht]
The Judge of all the Earth doth always right.

[ 46 ]

Ah! could not Prayers and Tears prevail with God
Was there no warding off that dreadful Blow!
And was there no averting of that Rod!

Muft Shepard dy! and that good Angel go!

Alas! our heinous fins (more than our hairs)

It seems, were louder, and out-crie'd our Prayers.

See

NOTE. Letters at ends of the lines [enclosed] are written in an old hand, with ink now faded, to supply those not impressed by the type.

[ 47 ]

See what our fins have done | what Ruines wrought
And how they have pluck'd out our very eyes!
Our fins have flain our Shepard! we have bought,
And dearly paid for, our Enormities.

An Curfed fins! that strike at God, and kill
His Servants, and the Blood of Prophets spill.

[ 48 ]

As you would loath the Sword that's warm and red,
As you would hate the hands that are embru'd

I' th' Hearts-blood of your dearest Friends: fo dread,
And hate your fins; Oh! let them be purfu'd;
Revenges take on bloody fins: for there's
No Refuge-City for thefe Murtherers.

[ 49 ]

In vain we build the Prophets Sepulchers,

In vain bedew their Tombs with Tears, when Dead;

In vain bewail the Deaths of Ministers,

Whileft Prophet-killing fins are harboured.

Those that these Murth'erous Traitors favour, hide;
And with the blood of Prophets deeply di'ed

[50]

New-England! know thy Heart-plague: feel this blow;
A blow that forely wounds both Head and Heart,
A blow that reaches All, both high and low,

A blow that may be felt in every part.

Mourn that this Great Man's faln in Ifrael:
Left it be faid, with him New-England fell!

Farewel

[51]

Farewel, Dear Shepard! Thou art gone before,
Made free of Heaven, where thou fhalt fing loud Hymns
Of High triumphant Praises evermore,

In the sweet Quire of Saints and Seraphims.

Lord! look on us here, clogg'd with fin and clay,
And we, through Grace, fhall be as happy as they.

[ 52 ]

My Deareft, Inmoft, Bofome-Friend is Gone!
Gone is my fweet Companion, Soul's delight!
Now in an Huddling Croud I'm all alone,
And almost could bid all the World Goodnight:
Bleft be my Rock! God lives: Oh let him be,
As He is All, to All in All to me.

The Bereaved, Sorrowful

Urian Oakes

ELEGY

JOHN WILSON

1695