[Poems by Tompson in] Benjamin Tompson : Colonial Bard ::

MIght Aarons Rod (such Funerals mayn't be Dry)
But broach the Rock, t'would gush pure Elegy,
To round the Wilderness with purling Layes,
And tell the World, the Great Saint WILSONS Praise.

Here's ONE, (Pearls are not in great clusters found)
Here's ONE, the Skill of Tongues and Arts had Crown'd;
Here's ONE (by frequent Martyrdome t'was Try'd)
That could forego Skill, Pelf, and Life beside,
For CHRIST: Both ENGLANDS Darling, whom in Swarms
They Press'd to See, and Hear, and felt his Charms.

Tis ONE, (when will it Rise to Number Two?)
The World at once can but ONE Phoenix Show:)
For Truth, a PAUL; CEPHAS, for Zeal; for Love,
A JOHN; inspir'd by the Celestial Dove.
ABRA'MS true Son for Faith; and in his Tent
Angels oft had their Table and Content.

So Humble, that alike on's Charity,
Wrought Extract Gent: with Extract Rudi.
Pardon this Fault; his Great Excess lay there,
He'd Trade for Heaven, with all he came anear;
His Meat, Clothes, Cash, heed still for Ventures send,
Consign'd, Per Brother Lazarus, his Friend.

Mighty in Prayer; his Hands Uplifted reach'd
Mercies High Throne, and thence strange Bounties fetch'd,
Once and again, and oft: So felt by all,
Who Weep his Death, as a Departing Paul.
All; Yea, Baptis'd with Tears, Lo, Children come,
(Their Baptism he maintain'd!) unto his Tomb.

'Twixt an Apostle, and Evangelist,
Let stand his Order in the Heavenly List.

187

Had we the Costly Alabaster Box,
What's Left, wee'd spend on this New-English KNOX;
True Knox, fill'd with that Great Reformers Grace,
In Truths Just cause, fearing no Mortals Face.

Christ's Word, it was his Life, Christs Church, his Care;
And so Great with him his Least Brethren were,
Not Heat, nor Cold, not Rain, or Frost, or Snow
Could hinder, but he'd to their Sermons go:
Aarons Bells chim'd from far, he'd Run, and then
His Ravish'd Soul Echo'd, AMEN, AMEN!

He traverst oft the fierce Atlantic Sea,
But, Patmos of Confessors, t'was for THEE.
This Voyage Lands him on the Wished shore,
From Whence this Father will return no more,
To fit the Moderator of thy Sages.
But, Tell his Zeal for thee, to After-Ages,
His Care to Guide his Flock, and feed his Lambs,
By Words, Works, Prayers, Psalms, Alms, and ANAGRAMS:
Those Anagrams, in which he made to Start
Out of meer Nothings, by Creating Art,
Whole Worlds of Counsil; did to Motes Unfold
Names, till they Lessons gave Richer than Gold,
And Every Angle so Exactly say,
It should out-shine the brightest Solar Ray.

Sacred his Verse, Writ with a Cherubs Quill;
But those Wing'd Choristers of Zion-Hill,
Pleas'd with the Notes, call'd him a part to bear,
With Them, where he his Anagram did hear,
I Pray Come in, Heartily Welcome; Sir.

University of Virginia Library

Some OFFERS To Embalm the MEMORY of the Truly Reverend and Renowned, JOHN WILSON;

The First Pastor of Boston, in New England; Interr'd (and a Great Part of his Countries Glory with him) August. 11. 1667. Aged, 79.