The Poems of Edward Taylor Edited by Donald E. Standford ... With a foreword by Louis L. Martz |
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| 2. | [PART.] 2. TO NEW ENGLAND. |
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 | The Poems of Edward Taylor |  |
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,
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
An Happiness under a Faithfull Vane.
And weep thy Sins away, lest woe be nigh.
For Angells with thy Lots away do high.
| The Poems of Edward Taylor | |