American Puritan & Colonial

Poem Dedicated to Urian Oaks

Cotton Mather (1663-1728) · 3,788 words · 17 min

The source for this document is https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A50154.0001.001

Project Note

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The source of this document is the Early English Books Online (EEBO-TCP) website. Those books were transcribed in a character for character manner and can be very cumbersome to read since there was no standard spelling during that time. Many spelling variations such as "unlesse", "vnlesse", and "vnles" regularly appear.

This project was conceived to clean up those books as much as possible and make them more accessible to the interested reader, leading to the creation of a massive list of variant spellings and their corrections. This was used to clean up the text, but is of course only as complete as the list itself. Because of the nature of the original transcription, some words have missing characters or places where the original language (e.g., Greek) was not transcribed. This effort does not change that. Be aware that the original transcription can also be faulty and in some cases entire sentences may be missing.

Although this is no substitute for a properly compared, proofed, and scholarly edition, I believe that the result is a document which is far more accessible, particularly for searching for terms using standard spelling. The document has been cleaned and presented in what I hope is a pleasing and useful format for the vast majority of Christian brothers and sisters who just want access to read these spiritually nourishing works.

However, a word of warning: The Puritans were a very diverse group of people and their age was characterized with godliness, but also much upheaval, disputation and strife. They disagreed on many doctrines and some of these works contain less orthodox or Scriptural views than others. The reader is strongly advised to read with discernment, particularly if it is unknown whether author is trustworthy.

This project took a huge amount of time and skill to bring to fruition. I would particularly like to thank David Jonescue for the initial list of Puritans he found on EEBO and the concept behind this project as well as the continuous, unceasing efforts toward seeing this complete. Without his labor, this would not be available. Alex Sarrouf was invaluable in providing the initial list of over 7,000 spelling variations he had identified and corrected, as well as continuing to review more than 16,000 additions to that list for any typos.

Logan West
(with David Jonescue and Alex Sarrouf)
www.puritansearch.org

A POEM Dedicated to the Memory OF The Reverend and Excellent Mr. VRIAN OAKES the late Pastor to Christ's Flock, and Praesident of Harvard-College, in Cambridge▪

Who was gathered to his People on 25 ^d 5 ^mo 16 •• In the fifty'th Year of his Age.

1 Sam. 25. 1.

And SAMUEL died, an • the Israelites were gathered together, and Lame •••• him.

Scindentur Vestes, Gemmae frangentur, et Aurum

Carmina quam tribuunt Fama perennis erit.

O 〈…〉

Magna dabit qui magna potest; mihi parva potent •

Parva{que} poscenti, parva dedisse sat est.

〈…〉

BOSTON IN NEW-ENGLAND, Printed for John Ratcliff. 1682.

TO THE READER

        WOrthies
        
         to
        
        Praise
        
         is a
        
        Praise-worthy thing
       
        Christ
        
         did it; and will do it! And to Sing▪
        
         The
        
        Elogyes
        
         of Saints departed in
        
         The
        
        Rhythm
        
         of
        
        Elegyes,
        
         has always been
        
         Esteemed
        
        Reason! David
        
         bids me
        
        go
       
         My Christian Reader! and like him
        
        do so.

         Cotton
        
        Embalms great
        
         Hooker; Norton
        
        Him▪
       
        And
        
         Norton
        
        's Herse do's
        
         Poet-Wilson
        
        trim
       
        With Verses:
        
         Mitchel
        
        writes a Poem on
       
        The Death of
        
         Wilson;
        
        And when
        
         Mitchel
        
        's gone▪
       
         Shepherd
        
        with fun'ral Lamentations gives
       
        Honor to Him: and at his Death receives
       
        The like from the
        
         [like-Maro]
        
        Lofty Strain
       
        Of admirable
        
         Oaks!
        
        I should be vain
       
        To thrust into that gallant
        
         Chorus:
        
        Pride
       
        Ne'er made me such an
        
         Icharus:
        
        I cried
       
        Of
        
         good Exemples [Ahimaaz
        
        his Thought]
       
         How if I should run after them?
        
        And brought
       
        These as a
        
         Pattern,
        
        and a
        
         Plea
        
        for what
       
        I do; that my cross Reader blame me not.

        But why so
        
         late?
        
        my
        
         Naenia's
        
        some will deem
       
        Both out of
        
         Time,
        
        and
        
         Tune!
        
        To some I seem
       
         Grief
        
        's
        
         Resurrection
        
        to essay; and be
       
        Just like the
        
         Trojans
        
        who came late to see
       
        And sorrow with
        
         Tiberius!
        
        —Only this
       
        Shall be Reply'd! The fond
        
         Bookseller
        
        is
       
        Now guilty of this Paper's
        
         ravishment
        
        When long suppressed: Give him thy Discontent!
       
        Since
        
         Oaks
        
        (as
        
         Homer)
        
        has all Places
        
         Claim▪
        
        Let
        
         Boston
        
        too forget its
        
         Anagram!

Memoirs of the Life and Worth▪ Lamentations for the Death, and Loss of the every way admirable Mr. VRIAN OAKES.

        WEep with me, Reader! Never
        
         Poet
        
        had
       
        His Quill employed upon a
        
         Theme
        
        so sa
        
         •
        
        As what just Providence (Grief
        
         grumble
        
        not)
       
        Do's with black
        
         Warrant Press
        
        me to! O what?
       
        This!
        
         OAKES is dead!
        
        One of the bittrest
        
         Pil
         
          •
         
        (Compounded of
        
         three Monosyllables)
        
        That could have been dispensed!
        
         Absalom
        
        Sure felt not more
        
         Distress, Death, Danger,
        
        come
       
        With the
        
         three Darts
        
        of
        
         Joab!
        
        —
       
        Blest
        
         Shade!
        
        an
        
         Universal Tax
        
        of Sorrow
       
        Thy Country owes thee! Ah! we need not borrow
       
        The
        
         Praefica's:
        
        Say,
        
         Oaks is dead!
        
        and there!
       
        There is enough to squeese a briny Tear
       
        From the most flinty
        
         Flint:
        
        Once at the
        
         Blow
        
        Of
        
         Moses,
        
        from a
        
         Rock
        
        a
        
         Stream
        
        did flow;
       
        But look! th'
        
         Almightye
        
        's
        
         Rod
        
        now smites us home
       
        Oh! what
        
         Man
        
        would not a
        
         Mourner
        
        now become?
       
        Dear Saint! I cannot but thy Herse bedew
       
        With dropping of some
        
         Fun'ral Tears!
        
        I Rue
       
        Thy Death! I must,
        
         My Father! Father!
        
        say,
       
        Our Chariots and our Horsemen where are they?
       
        I the
        
         dumb Son
        
        of
        
         Croesus
        
        'fore mine Eyes
       
        Have set, and will
        
         cry
        
        when my
        
         Father
        
        dies.
       
        Oh! but a
        
         Verse
        
        to wait upon thy Grave,
       
        A
        
         Verse
        
        our
        
         Custom,
        
        and thy
        
         Friends
        
        will have:
       
        And must I
        
         brue
        
        my Tears? ah! shall I
        
         fetter
        
        My Grief, by studying for to
        
         mourn
        
        in
        
         Metre?
        
        Must too my
        
         cloudy
        
        Sorrows
        
         rain
        
        in
        
         Tune,
        
        Distilling like the softly Showrs of
        
         June?
        
        Alas! My
        
         Ephialtes
        
        takes me! Seeit!
       
        I strive to
        
         run,
        
        but then I want my
        
         feet.
        
        What shall I do? Shall I go invocate
       
        The
        
         Muses
        
        to mine aid? No▪ That I hate!
       
        The sweet
        
         New-England-Poet
        
        rightly said,
       
        It is a most Vnchristian Use and Trade
       
        Of some that Christians would be thought.
        
         If I
        
        Call'd Help, the
        
         Muses
        
        mother
        
         Memory
        
        Would be enough: He that
        
         Remembers
        
        well
       
        The
        
         Use
        
        and
        
         Loss
        
        of
        
         Oaks,
        
        will grieve his fill.
       
        Ih'd
        
         rather
        
        pray, that He, in whose just
        
         Eyes
        
         The Death
        
        of his dear
        
         Saints
        
        most
        
         preciose is,
        
        And He who helped
        
         David
        
        to bewail
       
        His
        
         Ion'than,
        
        would not my Endeavors fail.
       
        A sprightly
        
         Effort
        
        of
        
         Poetic Fire
        
        Would even Transport me to a mad Desire:
       
        How could I wish, Oh! that the nimble
        
         Sun
        
        Of thy short Life before thy Day was done
       
        Might
        
         backward Ten Degrees
        
        have moved! or
       
        Oh! that thy
        
         Corps
        
        might but have chanced for
       
        To have been buried near
        
         Elisha
        
        's
        
         bones!
        
        Oh! that the Hand which raised the
        
         Widows Sons
        
        Would give thee to thy Friends again! But, Fy!
       
        That Passion's vain! To sob,
        
         Why didst thou dy?
        
        Is but an
        
         Irish Note:
        
        Death would not Restore
       
        His
        
         Stolen Goods
        
        till Time shall be no more.
       
        Shall I take what a
        
         Prologue Homer
        
        hath
       
        Lett me Relate the Heavenly Powers Wrath?
       
        Or shall I rather join with
        
         Jeremiah,
        
        And over our great and good
        
         Josiah
        
        sigh,
       
        O that my Head were waters, and mine Eyes
       
        A fountain were, that Hadadrimmon's Cries
       
        Might bubble from me! O that Day and Night
       
        For the Slain of my People weep I might!
       
        Ah! why delay I? Reader, step with me,
       
        And what is for thee on
        
         Grief
        
        's
        
         Table
        
        see
       
        Memoria Praeteritorum
        
         is
        
        The
        
         Dish
        
        I call thee to: Come taste of this.
       
         Oaks was!
        
        Ah! miserable word! But what
       
         He was,
        
        Let Never, Never be forgot.
       
        Believe me once, It were a worthy thing
       
        Of's
        
         Life
        
        and
        
         Worth
        
        a large Account to bring
       
        To public
        
         View,
        
        for general
        
         Benefit.
        
        I would essay (with Leave, Good Reader) it,
       
        So far as
        
         feet
        
        will carry me▪ but know it
       
        From first to last,
        
         Grief never made good Poet.
        
        He that
        
         lashed
        
        with a
        
         Rod
        
        could
        
         versify,
        
        Attain'd, and could pretend far more than I!
       
         Short
        
        was thy
        
         Life!
        
        Sweet Saint! & quickly run
       
        Thy
        
         Race!
        
        Thy Work was, oh! how quickly done!
       
        Thy
        
         Days
        
        were
        
         (David
        
        's
        
         measure)
        
        but a
        
         Span;
        
         Five Tens
        
        of Years rolled since thy Life began.
       
        Thus I remember a
        
         Greek Poet
        
        Rhimes,
       
        They whom God Loves are wont to dy betimes.
       
        Thus
        
         Whit
         
          •
         
         ker, Perkins, Preston,
        
        Men of Note,
       
        Ay! many such, Never to
        
         fifty
        
        got.
       
        And thus
        
         (Rachel
        
        New-England!) many Seers
       
        Have left us in the
        
         akme
        
        of their Years.
       
        Good Soul! Thy
        
         Jesus
        
        who did for thee
        
         dy,
        
        In Heaven longed for thy
        
         Company.
        
        And let thy
        
         Life
        
        be measured by thy
        
         Deeds,
        
        Not by thy
        
         Years;
        
        Thy
        
         Age
        
        strait nothing needs.
       
        Divert, My Pen! Run through the
        
         Zodiac
        
        Of
        
         Oaks
        
        his
        
         Life:
        
        And cause I knowledge lack
       
        Of most Occurrents, let me now and then
       
        Snatch at a Passage worthy of a Pen.
       
         Our Mother
        
        England,
        
         even a
        
        Village
        
         there
        
        (Fuller,
        
         insert it!) did this
        
        Worthy
        
         bear.
        
         Over the
        
        Ocean
        
         in his
        
        Infancy
       
        His Friends with him into
        
         New-England
        
        fly:
       
         Here, while a lad, almost a
        
        miracle
       
        (As I have heard his Aged Father tell)
       
        Sav'd him from
        
         drowning
        
        in a River: He
       
         Would (guess) a
        
        Miracle
        
         and
        
        Moses
        
         be.
        
         Now did
        
        Sweet Nature
        
         in him so appear
        
         A
        
        Gentlewoman
        
         once cried out,
        
        If ere
       
        Good Nature could bring unto Heaven, then
       
        Those wings would thither carry Vrian.
       
         Prompt
        
        Parts,
        
         and early
        
        Pitty now made
       
        Men say of him, what once observers said
       
         Of great
        
        John the Baptist,
        
         and of
        
        Ambrose
        
         too,
        
        To what an one will this strange Infant grow?
       
         Her
        
        Light
        
         and
        
        Cup
        
         did happy
        
        Harvard
        
         give
        
        Unto him; and from her he did receive
       
         His
        
        Two Degrees: (
        
         A
        
        double Honor
        
         to
        
         Thee
        
        (Harvard! Own it!)
        
         did by this accrue!)
        
        So being furnished with due burnisht
        
         Tools
        
         The
        
        Armor
        
         and the
        
        Treasure
        
         of the
        
        Schools,
       
         To
        
        Temple-work
        
         he goes: I need not tell
        
         How he an
        
        Hiram,
        
         or
        
        Bezaleel
       
        Did there approve himself; I will only add
       
        Roxbury
        
         his
        
        first-fruits (first Sermon)
        
         had▪

        Some things invite: He back to
        
         England
        
        goes;
       
        With God and Man he there in favor grows;
       
        But whilst he lives in that Land,
        
         Tichfield cries
        
         Come over, Sir, and help us!
        
        He complyes:
       
        The
        
         Starr
        
        moves thither! There the
        
         Orator
        
        Continu'd charming sinful mortals for
       
        To close with a sweet Jesus: Oh! he wooed,
       
        He Thundred: Oh! for their eternal good
       
        How did he bring the
        
         Promises,
        
        and how
       
        Did he discharge flashes of
        
         Ebal?
        
        Now
       
        He held Love's
        
         golden Scepter
        
        out before
       
        The Humble Soul; Now made the
        
         Trumpet
        
        roar
       
        Fire, Death, and Hell against Impenitent
       
        Desp'rates, until he made their hearts relent.
       
        There did he merit
        
         Sibs
        
        's Motto,
        
         I
        
        Just like a Lamp, with lighting others dy.
       
        Ah! like a
        
         Silk-worm,
        
        his own
        
         bowels
        
        went
       
        To serve his Hearers, while he soundly spent
       
        His
        
         Spirits
        
        in his Labors. O but there
       
        He must not dy (except
        
         Death Civil)
        
        Here
       
        (Why maynit we Sigh it! here dark
        
         Bartholomew
        
        This gallant and heroic
        
         Witness
        
        slew.
       
         Silencit
        
        he was! not
        
         buried
        
        out of sight!
       
        A worthy
        
         Gentleman
        
        do's him invite
       
        Unto him; and like
        
         Obadiah,
        
        hide
       
        Him, dear to them with whom he did reside,
       
        Finding his
        
         Prayers
        
        and
        
         Presence
        
        to produce
       
        An
        
         Obed-Edom
        
        's blessing on the House.
       
        A
        
         Spirit of great Life from God
        
        do's enter
       
        Within a while into him: He do's venture
       
        To
        
         stand upon
        
        his
        
         feet:
        
        He prophesy's;
       
        And to a
        
         Congregation Preacher
        
        is,
       
        Join'd with a loving
        
         Colleague;
        
        who will not
       
        Be buried, till
        
         Symmons
        
        be forgot.

        But our
        
         New-England Cambridge
        
        wants him, and
       
        Sighs, "
        
         Of my Sons
        
        none takes me by the hand,
       
        "Now
        
         Mitchel
        
        's gone! Oh! where's his parallel?
       
        "Call my Child
        
         Vrian!
        
        Friendly Strangers tell
       
        "An
        
         OAKE
        
        of my own breed in
        
         England
        
        is,
       
        "That will support me Pillar-like; and this
       
        "Must be resolved; I will
        
         Pray
        
        and
        
         Send!
        
        Agreed!
       
        Messengers go! and calling
        
         Council,
        
        speed!
       
        The good
        
         Stork
        
        over the
        
         Atlantic
        
        came
       
        To nourish and cherish his Aged
        
         Dam.

        Welcome! great Prophet! to
        
         New-England
        
        shore!
       
        Thy
        
         feet
        
        are
        
         beautiful!
        
        A number more
       
        Of Men like thee with us would make us say,
       
        The
        
         Moral
        
        of
        
         More
        
        's famed
        
         Vtopia
        
        Is in
        
         New-England!
        
        yea, (far greater!) we
       
        Should think we
        
         Twisse
        
        's
        
         guess
        
        accomplisht see,
       
        When New Jerusalem comes down, the Seat
       
        Of it, the wast
        
         America
        
        will beeit.
       
         Cambridge!
        
        thy Neighbors must congratulate
       
        Thy Fate! Oh! where can thy
        
         Triumvirate
        
        Meet with its Mate? A
        
         Shepherd! Mitchel!
        
        then
       
        An
        
         Oaks!
        
        These
        
         Chrysostom's,
        
        these
        
         golden Men,
        
        Have made thy
        
         golden Age!
        
        That fate is thine
       
        (To be blest with the Sun's perpetual Shine)
       
        What
        
         Sylvius
        
        sais of
        
         Rhodes.
        
        Sure thou mayst call
       
        Thy Name
        
         Capernaum!
        
        But oh! the
        
         fall
        
        Of that enlightened Place we'l humbly pray
       
        Dear Lord! Keep
        
         Cambridge
        
        from it!—
       
        But Quill! where fly'st thou? Let the Reader know
       
         Cambridge
        
        some years could this brite
        
         Jewel
        
        show,
       
        Yet here a
        
         Quartane Ague
        
        does arrest
       
        The Churches Comfort, & the Countries Rest.
       
        But this (Praise Mercy) found some
        
         Ague-frighter,
        
        He mends, and his Infirmity grows lighter,
       
        Even that his dear
        
         Orestes
        
        smiled,
        
         So small
        
        Your Illness, you would as good have none at all.
       
        Well! the poor College faints!
        
         Harvard
        
        almost
       
        (An
        
         Amnesty
        
        cries'
        
         st!)
        
        gives up the ghost!
       
        The
        
         branches
        
        dwindle! But an
        
         OAK
        
        so near
       
        May cherish them! 'T was done! The gloomy fear
       
        Of a
        
         lost College
        
        was dispel'd! The Place,
       
        The Learning, the Discretion, and the Grace
       
        Of that
        
         great Charles,
        
        who long since slept & died
       
        Lov'd, and Lamented, worthy
        
         Oaks
        
        supplied.
       
        His
        
         Nurse
        
        he
        
         suckles;
        
        and the
        
         Ocean
        
        now
       
        Refunds what th'
        
         Earth
        
        in
        
         Rivers
        
        did bestow.
       
         Pro Tempore
        
        (a sad
        
         Prolepsiis)
        
        was
       
        For a long time his
        
         Title;
        
        but just as
       
        We had obtained a longed for Alteration,
       
        And fixed him in the
        
         Praesident
        
        's firm Station,
       
        The wrath of the Eternal wields a blow
       
        At which my Pen is gastred!—
       
        But Up!—Lord! we're undone!—Nay! Up! and Try!
       
        Heart! Vent thy
        
         grief!
        
        Ease
        
         Sorrow
        
        with a
        
         Sigh!
        
        Lett's hear the matter! Write
        
         de Tristibus!
        
        Alas! Enough!—
        
         Death hath bereaved us!
        
        The
        
         Earth
        
        was parchit with horrid
        
         heat:
        
        We fea'rd
       
        The
        
         blasts
        
        of a Vast
        
         Comet's flaming Beard.
        
        The dreadful
        
         Fire
        
        of Heaven inflames the
        
         blood
        
        Of our
        
         Elijah
        
        carrying him to God.
       
        Innumerable
        
         Sudden Deaths
        
        abound!
       
        Our
        
         OAKES
        
        a
        
         Sudden blow
        
        laid on the ground,
       
        And gives him blessed
        
         Capel
        
        's wish, which the
       
        Litany
        
         prayesagainst,
        
        To dy Suddenlie.
       
        The Saints hope to have the
        
         Lord's Table
        
        spread;
       
        But with astonishment they find him
        
         dead
        
        That used to
        
         break
        
        the
        
         Bread of Life:
        
        O we
       
        Deprived of our
        
         Ministers
        
        often be
       
        At such a
        
         Season.
        
        Lord, thy Manna low
       
        In our blind Eyes we fear is wont to go!
       
        The
        
         Man of God
        
        at the first
        
         Touch
        
        do's feel
       
        [With a
        
         Praesage]
        
        his Call to Heavens weal;
       
        He sits himself for his
        
         last Conflict;
        
        Saw
       
        The ghastly
        
         King of Terrors
        
        Icy claw;
       
        Ready to grapple with him; then he gives
       
        A Look to him who
        
         died and ever lives;
        
        The great
        
         Redeemer
        
        do's
        
         disarm
        
        the
        
         Snake;
        
        And by the Hand his faithful
        
         Servant
        
        take,
       
        Leading him thorough
        
         Death's black Valley,
        
        till
       
        He brings him in his arms to
        
         Zion's Hill.
        
        Fall'n Pillar of the Church! This
        
         Thy
        
        Translation
       
        Has turned our Joyes into this
        
         Lamentation!
        
        Sweet Soul! Disdaining anymore to
        
         trade
        
        With
        
         fleshly Organs,
        
        that a
        
         Prison
        
        made,
       
        Thou'rt flown into the
        
         World of Souls,
        
        and we
       
        Poor, stupid Mortals lose thy Company.
       
        Thou join'st in Consort with the Happy
        
         gone,
        
        Who (happ'er than
        
         Servants of Solomon)
        
        Are standing round the Lamb's illustrious Throne
       
        Conversing with great
        
         Israel's-Holy-One.
        
        Now could I with good old
        
         Grynaeus
        
        * say
       
        "Oh! that will be a bright and glorious Day,
       
        "When I to that Assembly come; and am
       
        "Gone from a world of guilt, filth, sorrow, shame!
       
        I read how Swan-like
        
         Cotton
        
        joy'd in Thought,
       
        That unto
        
         Dod,
        
        and such he should be brought.
       
        How
        
         Bullinger
        
        deaths grim looks could not fright
       
        Because twould bring him to the
        
         Patriarchs
        
        Sight.
       
        (Well might it be so!
        
         Heathen Socrates
        
        In hopes of
        
         Homer,
        
        Death undaunted sees.)
       
        Who knows but the Third Heaven may sweeter be
       
        Thou
        
         Citizen
        
        of it! (dear
        
         Oaks!)
        
        for thee?
       
        Sure what of
        
         Calvin Beza
        
        said; and what
       
        Of thy forerunner
        
         Mitchel, Mather
        
        wrote,
       
        I will truly add,
        
         Now
        
        Oaks
        
         is dead, to me
        
        Life will less sweet, and Death less bitter be.
       
        Lord! Lett us follow!—

        Nay! Then, Good Reader! Thou and I must try
       
        To
        
         Tread
        
        his
        
         Steps!
        
        He walkit
        
         Exemplar'lie!
        
         Plato
        
        would have none to be praised, but those
       
        Whose
        
         Praises profitable
        
        we suppose:
       
        Oh! that I had a
        
         ready Writer's Pen,
        
        (If not
        
         Briareus hundred Hands!)
        
        and then
       
        I might limn forth a
        
         Pattern.
        
        Ah! his own
       
        Fine
        
         Tongue
        
        can his
        
         own worth Describe
        
        alone
       
        That's it I want; and poor I! Shanit I show
       
        Like the man, whom
        
         an Hero hired to
        
        Forbear his Verses on him!
        
         Yet a
        
        lame
       
         Mephibosheth
        
        will scape a
        
         David
        
        's blame.

        Well! Reader! Wipe thine Eyes! & see the
        
         Man
        
        (Almost too
        
         small
        
        a word!) which
        
         Cambridge
        
        can
       
        Say, I have lost! In
        
         Name
        
        a
        
         Drusius,
        
        And
        
         Nature
        
        too! yea a compendious
       
        Both
        
         Magazine of worth,
        
        and Follower
       
        Of all that ever great and famose were.
       
        A
        
         great Soul
        
        in a
        
         little Body.
        
        (Add!
       
        In a small
        
         Nutshell
        
        Graces
        
         Iliad.)
        
        How many
        
         Angels
        
        on a Needle's point
       
        Can stand, is thought, perhaps, a
        
         needless Point▪
        
         Oaks
        
        Virtues too I am at a loss to tell:
       
        In short,
        
         He was New-England
        
        's
        
         SAMUEL;
        
        And had as many gallant Propertyes
       
        As ere an
        
         Oak
        
        had
        
         Leaves;
        
        or
        
         Argus Eyes.
        
        A better
        
         Christian
        
        would a
        
         miracle
        
        Be thought! From most he bore away the
        
         Bell
        
        !
       
         Grace
        
        and
        
         good Nature
        
        were so purely met
       
        In him, we saw in
        
         Gold a Jewel
        
        set.
       
        His very
        
         Name
        
        spake
        
         Heavenly;
        
        and He
       
         Vir sui Nominis
        
        would always be.
       
        For a Converse with God; and holy frame,
       
        A
        
         Noah,
        
        and an
        
         Enoch
        
        he became.
       
         Vrian
        
        and
        
         George
        
        are Names equivalent;
       
        We had
        
         Saint George,
        
        though other Places have not.
       
        Should I say more, like him that would extol
       
        Huge
        
         Hercules,
        
        my Reader'l on me fall
       
        With such a check;
        
         Who does dispraise him?
        
        I
       
        Shall say enough, if his
        
         Humility
        
        Might be described. Witty
        
         Austin
        
        meant
       
        This the
        
         First, Second,
        
        and
        
         Third
        
        Ornament,
       
        Of a Right Soul, should be esteemed. And so
       
        Our
        
         Second Moses,
        
        * Humble
        
         Dod,
        
        cried,
        
         Know,
        
        Just as Humility men's Grace will be,
       
        And so much Grace so much Humility.
       
        Ah!
        
         graciose Oaks,
        
        we saw thee
        
         stoop;
        
        we saw
       
        In thee the
        
         Moral
        
        of good
        
         Nature
        
        's
        
         Law,
        
        That the
        
         full Ears
        
        of
        
         Corn
        
        should
        
         bend,
        
        and grow
       
        Down to the ground:
        
         Worth would sit always low.
        
        And for a
        
         Gospel Minister,
        
        we had
       
        In him a
        
         Pattern
        
        for our
        
         Tyro's;
        
        sad!
       
         Their Head is gone:
        
        Who ever knew a greater
       
         Student
        
        and
        
         Scholar?
        
        or beheld a better
       
         Preacher
        
        and
        
         Praesident?
        
        We looked on him
       
        As
        
         Jerome
        
        in our (Hungry)
        
         Bethlechem;
        
        A perfect
        
         Critic
        
        in
        
         Philology;
        
        And in
        
         Theology
        
        a
        
         Canaan's Spy.
        
        His
        
         Gen'ral Learning
        
        had no fewer
        
         Parts
        
        Than the
        
         Encyclopaedia of Arts:
        
        The old Say,
        
         He that something is in
        
        all,
       
         Nothing's in
        
        any; Now goes to the wall.
       
        But when the
        
         Pulpit
        
        had him! there he spent
       
        Himself as in his only
        
         Element:
        
        And there he was an
        
         Orpheus:
        
        He'd even draw
       
        The
        
         Stones,
        
        and
        
         Trees: Austin
        
        cries,
        
         If I saw
        
        Paul in the Pulpit, of my Three Desires
       
        None of the least (to which my Soul aspires)
       
         Would gratify'd and granted be.
        
        He might
       
        Have come and seenit, when
        
         OAKES
        
        gave
        
         Cambridge
        
        Light.
       
         Oaks
        
        an
        
         Vncomfortable Preacher
        
        was
       
        I must confess! He made us cry,
        
         Alas!
        
        In sad
        
         Despair!
        
        Of what? Of
        
         ever seeing
        
        A better Preacher while we have a being.
       
         He!
        
        oh!
        
         He
        
        was, in
        
         Doctrine, Life,
        
        and all
       
        Angelical,
        
         and
        
        Evangelical.
       
        A
        
         Benedict
        
        and
        
         Boniface
        
        to boot,
       
        Commending of the
        
         Tree
        
        by noble
        
         Fruit.
        
        All said, Our
        
         Oaks
        
        the
        
         Double Power
        
        has
       
        Of
        
         Boanerges,
        
        and of
        
         Barnabas:
        
        He is a
        
         Christian Nestor!
        
        Oh! that we
       
        Might him among us for
        
         three Ages
        
        see!
       
        But ah! He's gone to
        
         Sinus Abrahae.
        
        What shall I say? Never did any spitt
       
         Gall
        
        at this
        
         Gall-less, Guile-less Dove;
        
        nor yet
       
        Did any
        
         Envy
        
        with a cankered breath
       
        Blast him: It was I am sure the gen'ral Faith,
       
         Lett
        
        Oaks
        
         Be, Say,
        
        or
        
         Do
        
        what e're he would,
       
        If it were
        
         OAKES,
        
        it must be
        
         wise, true, good
        
        Except the
        
         Sect'ryes Hammer
        
        might a blow
       
        Or two, receive from
        
         Anabaptists,
        
        who
       
        Never loved any Man, that wrote a Line
       
        Their naught, Church-rending Cause to undermine.
       
        Yett after my
        
         Encomiastick Ink
        
        Is all run out, I must conclude (I think)
       
        With a
        
         Dicebam,
        
        not a
        
         Dixi!
        
        Yea,
       
        Such a course will exceeding proper be:
       
        The
        
         Jews,
        
        whene're they build an
        
         House,
        
        do leave
       
        Some
        
         part Imperfect,
        
        as a call to
        
         grieve
        
        For their
        
         destroyed Ierus'lem!
        
        I will do so!
       
        I doit!—

        And now let
        
         sable Cambridge
        
        broach her Tears!
       
        (They
        
         forfeit
        
        their own
        
         Eyes
        
        that donit; for here's
       
        Occasion sad enough!) Your
        
         Sons
        
        pray call
       
        All
        
         Ichabod;
        
        and
        
         Daughters, Marah!
        
        Fall
       
        Down into Sack-cloth, Dust, and Ashes! (To
       
        Be senseless Now, Friends, Now! will be to show
       
        A
        
         CRIME
        
        &
        
         BADG
        
        of
        
         Sin
        
        and
        
         Folly!) Try
        
        Your
        
         fruitfulness
        
        under the Ministry
       
        Of that kind
        
         Pelican,
        
        who spent his
        
         Blood
        
        The feed you! Dear
        
         Saints!
        
        Have ye got the Good
       
        You might? And let a
        
         Verse
        
        too
        
         find
        
        the Men
       
        Who
        
         fly'd a Sermon!
        
        Oh! Remember when
       
        Sirs! your
        
         Ezekiel
        
        was like unto
       
        A
        
         lovely Song of
        
        (Beenit
        
         deaf Adders
        
        you)
       
        One with a pleasant Voice! and that could play
       
         Well on an Instrument!
        
        And i'nit the Day,
       
         •
        
        he glorious Day, to dawn (ah! yet!) wherein
       
        You are drawn from the
        
         Egypt-graves
        
        of
        
         Sin
        
        Compelled
        
         to come in?
        
        For shame come in!
       
        Nay! Join you all!
        
         Strive
        
        with a
        
         noble Strife,
        
        To
        
         publish
        
        both in
        
         Print
        
        (as well as
        
         Life)
        
        Your preciose Pastor's
        
         Works!
        
        Bring them to view
       
        That we may
        
         Honey
        
        taste, as well as you.
       
        But, Lord! What has thy
        
         Vineyard
        
        done, that thou
       
        Command'st the
        
         Clouds
        
        to rain no more? O show
       
        Thy favor to thy
        
         Candlestick!
        
        Thy
        
         Rod
        
        Hath almost broke it: Lett a
        
         Gift of God,
        
        Or a sincerely Heaven-touched
        
         Israelite
        
        Become a
        
         Teacher
        
        in thy Peoples sight

        At last I with
        
         License Poetical
        
        (Reader! and thy good leave) address to all
       
        The children of thy People! Oh! the
        
         Name
        
        Of
        
         Vrian Oaks,
        
        New-England! does proclaim
       
         SVRE I AN OAK
        
        was to thee! Feel thy Loss!
       
        Cry,
        
         (Why forsaken, Lord!)
        
        Under the Cross!
       
        Learn for to
        
         prize Survivers! Kings destroy
        
        The People that
        
         Ambassadors
        
        annoy.
       
        The Council of God's
        
         Herald,
        
        and thy
        
         Friend,
        
        [Be wise! Consider well thy latter End!]
       
        O lay to heart! Pray to the heavenly
        
         Lord
        
         Of th' Harvest,
        
        that (according to his Word)
       
        He would
        
         thrust forth his Laborers:
        
        For why
       
        Should all thy
        
         Glory
        
        go, and
        
         Beauty
        
        dy
       
        Through thy default?—
       
        —Lord! from thy lofty Throne
       
        Look down upon thy
        
         Heritage!
        
        Lett none
       
        Of all our
        
         Breaches
        
        be unhealed! Lett
       
        This dear, poor Land be our
        
         Immanuel
        
        's yett!
       
        Lett's be a
        
         Goshen
        
        still! Restrain the
        
         Boar
        
        That makes
        
         Incursions!
        
        Give us daily more
       
        Of thy All-curing
        
         Spirit
        
        from on High!
       
        Lett all thy
        
         Churches
        
        flourish! And supply
       
        The almost
        
         Twenty Ones,
        
        that thy Just Ire
       
        Has left
        
         without Help
        
        that their Needs require!
       
        Lett not the
        
         College
        
        droop, and dy! O Lett
       
        The Fountain run! A
        
         Doctor
        
        give to it!
       
         Moses
        
        's are to th'
        
         upper Canaan
        
        gone!
       
        Lett
        
         Joshua
        
        's Succeed them! goes when one room!
       
         Elijah,
        
        raise
        
         Elisha's! Paul's
        
        become
       
         Dissolv'd!
        
        with Christ! Send
        
         Tim'thees
        
        in their
       
        Avert the
        
         Omen,
        
        that when
        
         Teeth
        
        apace
       
        Fall out, No
        
         new ones
        
        should supply their place!

        Lord! Lett us
        
         Peace
        
        on this our
        
         Israel
        
        see!
       
        And still both
        
         Hephsibah,
        
        and
        
         Beulah
        
        be!
       
        Then will thy People
        
         Grace!
        
        and
        
         Glory!
        
        Sing,
       
        And every Wood with
        
         Hallelujah's
        
        ring.

N. R.

Vixêre fortes ante Agamemnona

Multi; sed illachrymabiles

Vrgentur ignoti{que} longà

Nocte; carent quia Vate sacro.

Hor.

Non ego cuncta meis amplecti Versibus opto.

Virg.

—Ingens laudato Poema:

• legito!—

Call.

• ui legis ista, tuam reprehendo, si mea laudes

Omnia, Stultitiam: Si nihil, Invidiam.

Owen.

Non possunt, Lector, multae emendare Liturae

Versus hos nostros: Vna Litura potest.

Martial.

Advertisement.

THere is to be sold by John Browning, at the Corner of the Prison-Lane next the Town-House, a Sermon of the late Reverend Mr. VRIAN OAKES, preached from Eccl. 9. 11. Showing that Fortune and Chance are infallibly determined by God: By which alone, it might appear that the Elogyes of him are not a vain Hyperbole; but as it were, the Echo of those Words which his Works speak concerning Him.