The Poems of Edward Taylor :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye Flippering Soule,
Why dost between the Nippers dwell?
Not stay, nor goe. Not yea, nor yet Controle.
Doth this doe well?
Rise journy'ng when the skies fall weeping Showers.
Not o're nor under th'Clouds and Cloudy Powers.

Not yea, nor noe:
On tiptoes thus? Why sit on thorns?
Resolve the matter: Stay thyselfe or goe.
Be n't both wayes born.
Wager thyselfe against thy surplice, see,
And win thy Coate: or let thy Coate Win thee.

Is this th'Effect,
To leaven thus my Spirits all?
To make my heart a Crabtree Cask direct?
A Verjuicte Hall?
As Bottle Ale, whose Spirits prisond nurst
When jog'd, the bung with Violence doth burst?

Shall I be made
A sparkling Wildfire Shop
Where my dull Spirits at the Fireball trade
Do frisk and hop?
And while the Hammer doth the Anvill pay,
The fireball matter sparkles ery way.

One sorry fret,
An anvill Sparke, rose higher
And in thy Temple falling almost set
The house on fire.
Such fireballs droping in the Temple Flame
Burns up the building: Lord forbid the same.

464

2. Upon a Spider Catching a Fly.

Thou sorrow, venom Elfe.
Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyselfe
To Catch a Fly?
For Why?

I saw a pettish wasp
Fall foule therein.
Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp
Lest he should fling
His sting.

But as affraid, remote
Didst stand hereat
And with thy little fingers stroke
And gently tap
His back.

Thus gently him didst treate
Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish, waspish heate
Should greatly fret
Thy net.

Whereas the silly Fly,
Caught by its leg
Thou by the throate tookst hastily
And 'hinde the head
Bite Dead.

This goes to pot, that not
Nature doth call.

465

Strive not above what strength hath got
Lest in the brawle
Thou fall.

This Frey seems thus to us.
Hells Spider gets
His intrails spun to whip Cords thus
And wove to nets
And sets.

To tangle Adams race
In's stratigems
To their Destructions, spoil'd, made base
By venom things
Damn'd Sins.

But mighty, Gracious Lord
Communicate
Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford
Us Glorys Gate
And State.

We'l Nightingaile sing like
When pearcht on high
In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright,
And thankfully,
For joy.

3. Upon a Wasp Child with Cold.

The Bare that breaths the Northern blast
Did numb, Torpedo like, a Wasp
Whose stiffend limbs encrampt, lay bathing
In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving,

466

Which with her hands she chafes and stands
Rubbing her Legs, Shanks, Thighs, and hands.
Her petty toes, and fingers ends
Nipt with this breath, she out extends
Unto the Sun, in greate desire
To warm her digits at that fire.
Doth hold her Temples in this state
Where pulse doth beate, and head doth ake.
Doth turn, and stretch her body small,
Doth Comb her velvet Capitall.
As if her little brain pan were
A Volume of Choice precepts cleare.
As if her sattin jacket hot
Contained Apothecaries Shop
Of Natures recepts, that prevails
To remedy all her sad ailes,
As if her velvet helmet high
Did turret rationality.
She fans her wing up to the Winde
As if her Pettycoate were lin'de,
With reasons fleece, and hoises sails
And hu'ming flies in thankfull gails
Unto her dun Curld palace Hall
Her warm thanks offering for all.

Lord cleare my misted sight that I
May hence view thy Divinity.
Some sparkes whereof thou up dost hasp
Within this little downy Wasp
In whose small Corporation wee
A school and a schoolmaster see
Where we may learn, and easily finde
A nimble Spirit bravely minde
Her worke in e'ry limb: and lace
It up neate with a vitall grace,
Acting each part though ne'er so small

467

Here of this Fustian animall.
Till I enravisht Climb into
The Godhead on this Lather doe.
Where all my pipes inspir'de upraise
An Heavenly musick furrd with praise.

4. Huswifery.

Make me, O Lord, thy Spining Wheele compleate.
Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee.
Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate
And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.
My Conversation make to be thy Reele
And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.

Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine:
And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills:
Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine.
Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills.
Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice,
All pinkt with Varnisht Flowers of Paradise.

Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will,
Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory
My Words, and Actions, that their shine may fill
My wayes with glory and thee glorify.
Then mine apparell shall display before yee
That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.

468

5. Another upon the Same.

[Make me thy Spinning Wheele of use for thee]

Make me thy Spinning Wheele of use for thee,
Thy Grace my Distaffe, and my heart thy Spoole.
Turn thou the wheele: let mine Affections bee
The flyers filling with thy yarne my soule.
Then weave the web of Grace in mee, thy Loome
And Cloath my soule therewith, its Glories bloome.

Make mee thy Loome: thy Grace the warfe therein,
My duties Woofe, and let thy word winde Quills.
The shuttle shoot. Cut off the ends my sins.
Thy Ordinances make my fulling mills,
My Life thy Web: and cloath me all my dayes
With this Gold-web of Glory to thy praise.

6. Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children.

A Curious Knot God made in Paradise,
And drew it out inamled neatly Fresh.
It was the True-Love Knot, more sweet than spice
And set with all the flowres of Graces dress.
Its Weddens Knot, that ne're can be unti'de.
No Alexanders Sword can it divide.

The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow:
Unless an Hellish breath do sindge their Plumes.
Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, Lilies blow
With Violets and Pinkes that voide perfumes.

469

Whose beautious leaves ore laid with Hony Dew.
And Chanting birds Cherp out sweet Musick true.

When in this Knot I planted was, my Stock
Soon knotted, and a manly flower out brake.
And after it my branch again did knot
Brought out another Flowre its sweet breathd mate.
One knot gave one tother the tothers place.
Whence Checkling smiles fought in each others face.

But oh! a glorious hand from glory came
Guarded with Angells, soon did Crop this flowre
Which almost tore the root up of the same
At that unlookt for, Dolesome, darksome houre.
In Pray're to Christ perfum'de it did ascend,
And Angells bright did it to heaven tend.

But pausing on't, this sweet perfum'd my thought,
Christ would in Glory have a Flowre, Choice, Prime,
And having Choice, chose this my branch forth brought.
Lord take't. I thanke thee, thou takst ought of mine,
It is my pledg in glory, part of mee
Is now in it, Lord, glorifi'de with thee.

But praying ore my branch, my branch did sprout
And bore another manly flower, and gay
And after that another, sweet brake out,
The which the former hand soon got away.
But oh! the tortures, Vomit, screechings, groans,
And six weeks Fever would pierce hearts like stones.

Griefe o're doth flow: and nature fault would finde
Were not thy Will, my Spell Charm, Joy, and Gem:

470

That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're thine.
I piecemeale pass to Glory bright in them.
I joy, may I sweet Flowers for Glory breed,
Whether thou getst them green, or lets them seed.

7. The Ebb and Flow.

When first thou on me Lord wrought'st thy Sweet Print,
My heart was made thy tinder box.
My 'ffections were thy tinder in't.
Where fell thy Sparkes by drops.
Those holy Sparks of Heavenly Fire that came
Did ever catch and often out would flame.

But now my Heart is made thy Censar trim,
Full of thy golden Altars fire,
To offer up Sweet Incense in
Unto thyselfe intire:
I finde my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel
That drop out from thy Holy flint and Steel.

Hence doubts out bud for feare thy fire in mee
'S a mocking Ignis Fatuus
Or lest thine Altars fire out bee,
Its hid in ashes thus.
Yet when the bellows of thy Spirit blow
Away mine ashes, then thy fire doth glow.

471

8. Upon the Sweeping Flood Aug: 13. 14. 1683.

Dated as above.

Oh! that Id had a tear to've quencht that flame
Which did dissolve the Heavens above
Into those liquid drops that Came
To drown our Carnall love.
Our cheeks were dry and eyes refusde to weep.
Tears bursting out ran down the skies darke Cheek.

Were th'Heavens sick? must wee their Doctors bee
And physick them with pills, our sin?
To make them purg and Vomit, see,
And Excrements out fling?
We've griev'd them by such Physick that they shed
Their Excrements upon our lofty heads.

A Funerall Poem Upon the Death of my ever Endeared, and Tender Wife Mrs. Elizabeth Taylor, Who fell asleep in Christ the 7th day of July at night about two hours after Sun setting 1689 and in the 39 yeare of her Life.

1. PART. 1.

My Gracious Lord, I Licence of thee Crave,
Not to repine but drop upon the Grave
Of my Deare Wife a Teare, or two: or wash

472

Thy Milk White hand in tears that downward pass.
Thou summond hast her Noble part away:
And in Salt Tears I would Embalm her Clay.
Some deem Death doth the True Love Knot unty:
But I do finde it harder tide thereby.
My heart is in't and will be squeez'd therefore
To pieces if thou draw the Ends much more.
Oh strange Untying! it ti'th harder: What?
Can anything unty a True Love Knot?
Five Babes thou tookst from me before this Stroake.
Thine arrows then into my bowells broake,
But now they pierce into my bosom smart,
Do strike and stob me in the very heart.
I'de then my bosom Friend a Comfort, and
To Comfort: Yet my Lord, I kiss thy hand.
I Her resign'd, thou tookst her into thine,
Out of my bosom, yet she dwells in mine:
And though her Precious Soule now swims in bliss,
Yet while grim Death, that Dismall Sergeant is,
Between the Parts Essentiall now remote,
And hath this stately Tabernacle broke
My Harp is turnd to mourning: Organ sweet
Is turn'de into the Voice of them that weep.
Griefe swelling girds the Heart Strings where its purst,
Unless it Vent the Vessell sure will burst.
My Gracious Lord, grant that my bitter Griefe
Breath through this little Vent hole for reliefe.

2. PART. 2.

My Dear, Deare Love, reflect thou no such thing,
Will Griefe permit you at my Grave to sing?
Oh! Black Black Theme! The Girths of Griefe alone
Do gird my heart till Gust of Sorrows groan
And dash a mournfull Song to pieces on

473

The Dolefull Face of thy Sepulcher Stone.
My Onely DOVE, though Harp and Harrow, loe,
Better agree than Songs and Sorrows doe,
Yet spare me thus to drop a blubber'd Verse
Out of my Weeping Eyes Upon thy Herse.
What shall my Preface to our True Love Knot
Frisk in Acrostick Rhimes? And may I not
Now at our parting, with Poetick knocks
Break a salt teare to pieces as it drops?
Did Davids bitter Sorrow at the Dusts
Of Jonathan raise such Poetick gusts?
Do Emperours interr'd in Verses lie?
And mayn't such Feet run from my Weeping Eye?
Nay, Dutie lies upon mee much; and shall
I in thy Coffin naile thy Vertues all?
How shall thy Babes, and theirs, thy Vertuous shine
Know, or Persue unless I them define?
Thy Grace will Grace unto a Poem bee
Although a Poem be no grace to thee.
Impute it not a Crime then if I weep
A Weeping Poem on thy Winding Sheet.
Maybe some Angell may my Poem sing
To thee in Glory, or relate the thing,
Which if he do, my mournfull Poem may
Advance thy Joy, and my Deep Sorrow lay.

3. PART. 3.

Your Ears, Bright Saints, and Angells: them I Choose
To stough her Praises in: I'le not abuse.
Her Modesty would blush should you profess,
I in Hyperboles her praises dress.
Wherefore as Cramping Griefe permitts to stut
Them forth accept of such as here I put.

Her Husbands Joy, Her Childrens Chiefe Content.
Her Servants Eyes, Her Houses Ornament.
Her Shine as Child, as Neighbour, flies abroad
As Mistress, Mother, Wife, her Walke With God.

474

As Child she was a Tender, Pious Bud
Of Pious Parents, sprang of Pious Blood
Two Grandsires, Gran'ams: one or two, she had
A Father too and Mother, that englad
The Gracious heart to thinke upon, they were
Bright Pillars in Gods Temple shining cleare.
Her Father, and her Mothers Father fix
As shining Stars in Golden Candlesticks.
She did Obedient, Tender, Meek Child prove
The Object of her Fathers Eye, and Love.
Her Mother being Dead, her heart would melt
When she her Fathers looks not pleasant felt.
His smile Would her enliven, Frown, down pull
Hence she became his Child most Dutifull.

As Neighbour, she was full of Neighbourhood
Not Proud, or Strang; Grave, Courteous, ever good.
Compassionate: but unto none was Soure.
Her Fingers dropt with Myrrh, oft, to her power.

As Mistress she order'd her Family
With all Discretion, and most prudently
In all things prompt: Dutie in this respect
Would to the meanest in it not neglect.
Ripe at her Fingers Ends, Would nothing flinch.
She was a neate good Huswife every inch.
Although her weakenesse made her let alone
Things so to go, as made her fetch a groan.
Remiss was not, nor yet severe unto
Her Servants: but i'th' golden mean did goe.

As Mother, Oh! What tender Mother She?
Her bowells Boiled ore to them that bee
Bits of her tender Bowells. She a share
Of her affections ever made them ware.
Yet never chose to trick them, nor herselfe
In antick garbs; or Lavishness of Wealth.
But was a Lover much of Comeliness:
And with her Needle work would make their Dress.

475

The Law of Life within her Lips she would
Be dropping forth upon them as shee should.
Foolishly fond she was not but would give
Correction wisely, that their Soules might Live.

As Wife, a Tender, Tender, Loving, Meet,
Meeke, Patient, Humble, Modest, Faithfull, Sweet
Endearing Help she was: Whose Chiefest Treasure
Of Earthly things she held her Husbands pleasure.
But if she spi'de displeasure in his face,
Sorrow would spoile her own, and marr its grace.
Dear Heart! She would his Joy, Peace, Honour, Name,
Even as her very Life, seeke to mentain.
And if an hasty word by chance dropt in:
She would in secret sigh it or'e with him.
She was not wedded unto him alone
But had his joy, and sorrow as her own.
She, where he chanc'd to miss, a Cover would lay
Yet would in Secret fore him all Display
In meekness of sweet wisdom, and by Art,
As Certainly would winde into the heart.
She laid her neck unto the Yoake he draws:
And was his Faithfull Yoake Mate, in Christ's Cause.

As to her walk with God, she did inherit
The very Spirits of her Parents Spirit.
She was no gaudy Christian, or gilt Weed:
But was a Reall, Israelite indeed.
When in her Fathers house God toucht her Heart,
That Trembling Frame of Spirit, and that Smart,
She then was under very, few did know:
Whereof she somewhat to the Church did show.
Repentance now's her Work: Sin poyson is:
Faith, carries her to Christ as one of his.
Fear Temples in her heart; Love flowers apace
To God, Christ, Grace Saints, and the Means of Grace.
She's much in Reading, Pray're, Selfe-Application
Holds humbly up, a pious Conversation

476

In which she makes profession [OMITTED]
Which unto Westfield Church she did disclose.
Holy in Health; Patient in Sickness long.
And very great. Yet gracious Speech doth throng:
She oft had up, An Alwise God Doth this.
And in a filiall way the Rod would kiss.
When Pains were Sore, Justice can do no wrong,
Nor Mercy Cruell be; became her Song.
The Doomsday Verses much perfum'de her Breath,
Much in her thoughts, and yet she fear'd not Death.

An Elegy upon the Death of that Holy and Reverend Man of God, Mr. Samuel Hooker, .

Pastor of the Church of Christ at Farmington, (and Son to the Famous Mr. Thomas Hooker, who was a Pastor of, and began with the Church of Christ at Hartford on Connecticut in New England) who slept in Christ, the 6th day of November, about one a Clock in the morning in the 64 year of his age entered upon. Annoque Domini 1697

1. [PART. 1.]

Griefe sometimes is a duty yet when Greate
And geteth vent, it Non-Sense sobs, doth speake

477

Cutting off Sentences by Enterjections
Made by the force of hard beset Affections.
Should I in mine pass through this Hemisphere
And beg of ev'ry Eye a Trickling teare
To wash thy Tombe, Deare Hooker, bright therein,
All would not Drown the Griefe that thence doth spring.
Shall thy Choice Name here not embalmed ly
In those Sweet Spices whose perfumes do fly
From thy greate Excellence? It surely would
Be Sacraledge thy Worth back to withhold.
Lord spare the Flock. Shall brave brave Jon'than dy?
And David's place be empty? Sling ly by?
Before their heads those Almond Trees are white
And ere they're mellow'd by old age's weight?
When Birds new Hatcht ware, as in nest they ly,
Presbytick Down, Pinfeatherd Prelacy
(Young Cockerills, whose Combs soare up like Spires
That force their Dams: and Crow against their Sires?)
Dost thou withdraw? and now? Where are thy Spurs
Then to be had? Whose sight would work demurrs.
Where hast thou left thy Strenth, and Potency?
And Congregationall Artillery?
We need the Same, and need it more and more.
For Babels Canons 'gainst our Bulworks roare.

2. [PART.] 2. TO NEW ENGLAND.

Alas! alas! New England go weep.
Thy loss is greate in him: For he did keep
Within thine Orb as a bright shining Sun
To give thee Light, but now his race is run.
And though his Epicycle was but small
His shining Beams did fly to lighten all.
He was in Person neat, of lesser Sise,
With Ruddy Looks, and with quick rowling eyes.
His Head a Magazeen of Wisdom rich,
With Spirits fand from foggy Vapors which
Do Reason cloud: a Fine spun Fancy, Quick,

478

Producing Notions brave, and Rhetorick.
A Son of such a Father, whose name Flew
Like sweet Perfume o're Englands Old, and New.
A Son, though youngest, yet that did inherit,
A noble portion of his Fathers Spirit,
Wise, Pious, Prudent, had a Strong, Cleare Head,
That entertaind the Strength of what he red.
Grave, not Morose, Courteous; yet did Command
A Distance due: and by a gentle hand.
Not Verbous, yet, his lips would oft distill
Brave Apophthegms: Facete Wit, and Skill.
In Councill Choice, deliberate, and full.
In Disputation, Acute. Home, not Dull
Meek as a Lamb, yet as a Lion, hee
Could put on Majesty, if't needs must bee.
Keen in Rebukes yet Candid, Corrosive
Where Cases calld, would to the bottom rive.
A True Peace-Maker, Farmington may say,
Offt in the fire and Flame of others fray
Calazy-Gem like quencht it. And as fring'd
With Salamanders Woole, he was not sindg'd.
He steady was: Not on, and Off. His Minde
John Baptist like's no Reed shook with the Winde.
Concocted not, though neatly minced Slops,
A mess of Windmills, or of Weather-Cocks.
Not Esau like selling his choice Free Sockage
Then left his Birthright for a bowl of Pottage.
He, and the best of Queens, we thus describe'm
Agreeing in one Motto Semper idem.
A Box of Jewells, string of Pearls bright, High.
Of Heavenly Graces a sweet Spicery.
Humble, and full of selfe abasement, though
Such Excellency did in him e're flow.

479

A Rich Divine: a Pastour very choice
Dispensing Grace, with a sweet piercing voice
(Like to the still small Voice Elijah heard)
That rended Rocks, and Satans Intrest marr'd.
In Prayre sweet, the musick of which String
Celestiall Wealth unto the Earth would bring
Like little Paul in Person, Voice, and Grace
Advancing Christ and sinfull things out race.
The Sacred Writ with joy he did attend.
And Scriptures dropt even at his fingers end.
A Weighty Preacher: never notion Sick:
An Angel in a Golden Candlestick.
He had the knack of Preaching: and did dart
Christs fiery Shafts into the flinty heart;
Till it was broken: Then the smarting wound
Would dress with Gilliads Balm to make it sound.
The Gospell Bow and balsom well he knew—
Barjona was; and Boanerges true.
Great Gregry, its said, did Peters Coffin Wrest
Wide ope, and found his Keyes in't. (Ah! well Blesst)
But Hooker bravely handed Aaron Rod
Christ's own Choice Keyes, and gently, and for God.

A Loving Husband; tender Father, who
In sweet affections oft would overflow
With Pious, Rich Discourse, that was well spic'd
With Gospell Grace, to bring them up to Christ.
And holy Counsill on them he would shoure
With Death Bed Charges till his dying hour.
But seing Death Creep on his Fingers ends,
And on his Hands, and Arms, bespake his Friends
Thus, saying, They are Dead, you see, and I

480

Have done with them: warm cloaths thereto apply,
But Death admits no check mate. Out he poures
His Soul on Christ. On him they weep in showers.

But art thou gone, Brave Hooker, hence? and Why?
What, wast thou weary of thy Ministry?
Or weari'd out by thy fed flock? Alas!
Or did the Countrey's Sins it bring to pass?
He was a Samuel in his place, and breath.
Let Israel do him honour at his Death.

Mourn, mourn, New England, alas! alas!
To see thy Freckled Face in Gospell Glass:
To feele thy Pulse, and finde thy Spleen's not well:
Whose Vapors cause thy Pericordium t'swell:
Do suffocat, and Cramp thee, and grow worse
By Hypochondrik Passions of the purse,
Affect thy Brains toucht with the Turn, till thou
Halfe sick of Preachers false, and Gospell Plow.
Such Symptoms say, if nothing else will ease,
Thy Sickness soon will cure thy sad Disease.
For when such Studs, as stop, and scotch the Way
Of thy Declensions are remoov'd thy bay,
Apostasy wherewith thou art thus driven
Unto the tents of Presbyterianism
(Which is refined Prelacy at best)
Will not stay long here in her tents, and rest,
But o're this Bridge will carry thee apace
Into the Realm of Prelates arch, the place
Where open Sinners vile unmaskt indeed
Are Welcom Guests (if they can say the Creed)
Unto Christs Table, While they can their Sins
Atone in Courts by offering Silverlings.
Watch, Watch thou then: Reform thy life: Refine
Thyselfe from thy Declentions. Tend thy line.

481

Steeples ware Weathercocks: but Turrits gain
An Happiness under a Faithfull Vane.
And weep thy Sins away, lest woe be nigh.
For Angells with thy Lots away do high.

3. PART. 3. TO CONNECTICUT.

Mourn, mourn, Connecticut; thou'st lost a Gem;
A Carbuncle, (and thou hast few of them)
Is fallen from thy Crown, a Sun full bright
Is set, bidding thine Horizon good night.
Mourn Hartford, mourn; a bud of thine is gone:
A Gem that grew on thy Foundation Stone
(Not Stone's, but Hooker's who did in thee Shine
In Light, Life, Line, and Gospell Discipline)
Who griev'd to see thee warpe from thy foundation
And leave thy first Love thus, and Education.
Of all thy Sons thou hast not such another
To stay thy Head, and heart from ill recover.

4. PART. 4.

Alas poor Farmington, of all the rest
Most Happy, and Unhappy, Blesst unblesst:
Most Happy having such an Happiness:
And most unhappy losing of no less.
Oh! mourn, and weep, remember thou the Call
Thy Prophet gave thee to't before his fall.
Oh Daughter of my people, (that last text)
Gird thee with Sackcloth, Wallow thee perplext
In ashes. Mourn thou lamentably
As for an onely Son: weep bitterly,
For lo, the Spoiler suddenly shall come
Upon us. And his Sermon being done
The motive to the Call, the Prophesy

482

Had an accomplishment before your eye.
For he much spent desired you to sing
A Psalm while he refresht and rested him,
Which done he prayed over you intent,
Dismist you with a blessing briefe, and bent
Under the Spoiler down that suddenly
Assaulted him. And gave discharg thereby
Unto his pulpit from all right of Claim
For ever after in this man of Fame.
He bowing goes unto a neighbours, whence
After a while he rideth home from thence
Betook him to his dying Bed perfum'd
With prayers to God, and Charges he assum'd
And laid his friends and Wife and Children under
While five dayes run, and Illiak pains did thunder.
That Hooker now by this sharp tyranny
Forcing things back that should go on, should dy
Lord grant it be n't an Omen of our Fate
Foreshewing our apostate following State.
Then mourn poore Church, thy Prophets race is run
As for a Father, or an onely Son.
After three tens, and seven years were past
Under thy rocky hill by him, at last
He thus doth leave thee. Search into thy Sin,
Repent, and grieve that ere thou grievedst him,
Or rather God in him, lest suddenly
The Spoiler still should on thee come and stroy.
Lord, art thou angry with the Flock, that thou
Dost slay their Shephard? Or dost disallow
The Fold, and lay it Common that thou smite
Down dost the shory that upheld it right?
Shall angling cease? And no more fish be took
That thou callst home thy Hooker with his Hook?
Lord, spare the flock: uphold the fold from falling.
Send out another Hooker of this Calling.

483

5. PART. 5. TO THE FAMILY RELICT.

Thou mourning Family, what shall I say?
Shall Passion, or compassion o're me sway?
It is a day of Griefe: Tears are a Dress
Becoming us, come they not to excess.
Then keep due measure. Should you too much bring,
Your too much is too little far for him.

Thou mourning Widdow! oh! how sad? how sharp?
Poor bleeding Soule! how turned is thy Harp
Into the Voice of mourning? Organ sweet
Into the bitter Voice of them that weep.
But yet cheere up: New England layes her head
To thine, to weep with thee over thy Dead.
Thou may'st therefore spend fewer tears of Sorrow
Out of thine own, thou dost so many borrow.
Christs Napkin take, Graces green Taffity
And wipe therewith, thy Weeping, watry eye
And thou shalt see thy Hooker all ore gay
With Christ in bliss, adorn'd with Glories Ray,
And putting out his shining hand to thee
Saying, My Honey, mourn no more for mee.
That Love wrongs both, that wills mee with thee hence.
But joy to see my Joy, and Glory mence.
In Faith, Obedience, Patience, walk awhile
And thou shalt soon leape ore the parting Stile,
And come to God, Christ, Angells, Saints, and Mee.
So wee in Bliss together e're shall bee.
When we did wed, we each a mortall took.
And ever from that day for this did look
Wherein we parted are; and one should have
Griefe, I o're thy, or thou over my grave.
The Lot is cast on thee. I first must go
And leave thee weeping o're my Grave in woe.
But stay thy Sorrow: bless my Babes. Obey.
And soon thou shall with mee enjoy good day.

484

And as for you his Buds, and Blossoms blown,
Stems of his Root, his very Flesh and Bone,
You needs must have great droopings, now the Tree
Is fallen down the boughs whereof you bee.
You have a Father lost, and Choice one too.
Weeping for him is honour due from you.
Yet let your Sorrows run in godly wise
As if his Spirits tears fell from your eyes.
Strive for his Spirit: rather Christ's, than His
To dwell, and act his Flesh, yourselves, to bliss.
Its pitty these in him conjoyn'd, up grew
Together, should be parted here in you.
Plants of a Noble Vine, a Right, Right Seed.
Oh! turn not to a Strange Wild vine or Weed.
Your Grand sire were a Chiefe Foundation Stone
In this Blesst Building: Father was well known
To be a Chiefe Good Builder in the Same
And with his might did ever it mentain.
Your Grandsire's Spirit through your Father breathd
In Life, on you, and as his Life he leav'd,
Striving to breath into your hearts his Spirit
As out of him it passed, to inherit.
Be n't like such babes as parents brains out pull
To make a Wassill Bowle then of the Skull.
That Pick their Parents eyes out, and the holes
Stuff up with folly, as if no braind Souls.
You are of better form than this sad guise
Yet beare this Caution: Some apostatise.
And strive your Sires, and Grandsires Life and Line
Through you their Flesh and blood may brightly shine.
Imminde your Father's Death bed Charge and aime.
You are his Very Flesh, and Blood, and Name.
The name of hooker precious in our story

485

Make you more precious, adding to its Glory,
At the Bright flaming Sun of Righteousness,
With a Celestiall Light, e're burning fresh.
A Cabbinet of Vertue, ever brave.
A Magazeen of Counsill, Weighty, Grave.
A Treasury of Grace, th'Imbroideries
Of th'Holy Ghost in Heart, and Life here lies.
A Temple bright of Piety in print,
To glorify that God that dwelled in't.
A Stage of War, Whereon the Spirits Sword
Hew'd down the Hellish foes that did disturb.
A Cage whose bird of Paradise therein
Did sing sweete Musick forth to glories King.
A Silver Trumpet of the Temple bright
Blown by an Angell of Celestiall light
A Temple deckt, and with all graces spic'de
For God the Father, Spirit, and for Christ.
A Golden Pulpit Where an Angell Choice
Preacht Zions Grace with Sinai's thundering voice.
An Oratore of Prayre, which, rapt up, hopt
Up Souls to Heaven, Heaven down to Souls oft knockt.
Were there a Metempsychosis, we say
Greate Hookers Soule, sure, once possest this Clay.
Elijah's Mantle: and the dust that fell
Of th'Charriot, and the Horse of Israel,
Scarce ever dust more glorious made for bliss
With glorious Grace, or better usd than this,
That here now stript of all that Wealth, and Station
Doth lie, yet firmly holds its high Relation.
And here we leave it, till the last Dayes Shoute
Breaking its Coffin brings it glorious out.
And wipe those drops wrung from thy Winding Sheet
Brave Sir, off from our Eyes, that weeping keep,
With thy White Lawn thou wearst in Glory Gay,
Charming our Griefe therewith, Amen we say.

486

HIS EPITAPH.

A turffe of Glory, Rich Celestiall Dust,
A Bit of Christ here in Death's Cradle husht.
An Orb of Heavenly Sunshine: a bright Star
That never glimmerd: ever shining faire,
A Paradise bespangled all with Grace:
A Curious Web o'relaid with holy lace
A Magazeen of Prudence: Golden Pot
Of Gracious Flowers never to be forgot
Farmingtons Glory, and its Pulpits Grace
Lies here a Chrystallizing till the trace
Of Time is at an end and all out run.
Then shall arise and quite outshine the Sun.

A Fig for thee Oh! Death.

Thou King of Terrours with thy Gastly Eyes
With Butter teeth, bare bones Grim looks likewise.
And Grizzly Hide, and clawing Tallons, fell,
Opning to Sinners Vile, Trap Door of Hell,
That on in Sin impenitently trip
The Downfall art of the infernall Pit,
Thou struckst thy teeth deep in my Lord's blest Side:
Who dasht it out, and all its venom 'stroyde
That now thy Poundrill shall onely dash
My Flesh and bones to bits, and Cask shall clash.
Thou'rt not so frightfull now to me, thy knocks
Do crack my shell. Its Heavenly kernells box
Abides most safe. Thy blows do break its shell,
Thy Teeth its Nut. Cracks are that on it fell.

487

Thence out its kirnell fair and nut, by worms
Once Viciated out, new formd forth turns
And on the wings of some bright Angell flies
Out to bright glory of Gods blissfull joyes.
Hence thou to mee with all thy Gastly face
Art not so dreadfull unto mee through Grace.
I am resolvde to fight thee, and ne'er yield,
Blood up to th'Ears; and in the battle field
Chasing thee hence: But not for this my flesh,
My Body, my vile harlot, its thy Mess,
Labouring to drown me into Sin, disguise
By Eating and by drinking such evill joyes
Though Grace preserv'd mee that I nere have
Surprised been nor tumbled in such grave.
Hence for my strumpet I'le ne'er draw my Sword
Nor thee restrain at all by Iron Curb
Nor for her safty will I 'gainst thee strive
But let thy frozen gripes take her Captive
And her imprison in thy dungeon Cave
And grinde to powder in thy Mill the grave,
Which powder in thy Van thou'st safely keep
Till she hath slept out quite her fatall Sleep.
When the last Cock shall Crow the last day in
And the Arch Angells Trumpets sound shall ring
Then th'Eye Omniscient seek shall all there round
Each dust death's mill had very finely ground,
Which in death's smoky furnace well refinde
And Each to'ts fellow hath exactly joyn't,
Is raised up anew and made all bright
And Christalized; all top full of delight.
And entertains its Soule again in bliss
And Holy Angells waiting all on this,
The Soule and Body now, as two true Lovers
Ery night how do they hug and kiss each other.
And going hand in hand thus through the skies

488

Up to Eternall glory glorious rise.
Is this the Worst thy terrours then canst, why
Then should this grimace at me terrify?
Why camst thou then so slowly? Mend thy pace.
Thy Slowness me detains from Christ's bright face.
Although thy terrours rise to th'highst degree,
I still am where I was, a Fig for thee.