These to the world his merits could make known,
So needs no Teftimonial from his own;
But now or never I must pay my Sum;
While others tell his worth, I'le not be dumb:
One of thy Founders, him New-England know, [218]
Who ftaid thy feeble fides when thou waft low,
Who spent his ftate, his ftrength, & years with care
That After-comers in them might have share.
True Patriot of this little Commonweal,
Who is't can tax thee ought, but for thy zeal?
Truths friend thou wert, to errors ftill a foe,
Which caus'd Apoftates to maligne so.
Thy love to true Religion e're shall shine,
My Fathers God, be God of me and mine.
Upon the earth he did not build his nest,
But as a Pilgrim, what he had, possest.
High thoughts he gave no harbour in his heart,
Nor honours pufft him up, when he had part:
Thofe titles loath'd, which fome too much do love
For truly his ambition lay above.
His humble mind fo lov'd humility,
He left it to his race for Legacy:
And oft and oft, with speeches mild and wise,
Gave his in charge, that Jewel rich to prize.
No oftentation feen in all his wayes,
As in the mean ones, of our foolish dayes,
Which all they have, and more still set to view,
Their greatnefs may be judg'd by what they fhew.
His thoughts were more fublime, his actions wife,
Such vanityes he juftly did despise.
Nor wonder 'twas, low things ne'r much did move
For he a Mansion had, prepar'd above,
For which he figh'd and pray'd & long'd full fore
He might be cloath'd upon, for evermore.
Oft spake of death, and with a smiling chear,
He did exult his end was drawing near,
Now fully ripe, as shock of wheat that's grown,
Death as a Sickle hath him timely mown,
And in celeftial Barn hath hous'd him high,
Where storms, nor showrs, nor ought can damnifie.
His Generation ferv'd, his labours ceafe;
And to his Fathers gathered is in peace.
Ah happy Soul, 'mongst Saints and Angels bleft,
VVho after all his toyle, is now at rest:
His hoary head in righteousness was found:
As joy in heaven on earth let praise resound.
Forgotten never be his memory,
His bleffing rest on his posterity:
His pious Footsteps followed by his race,
At laft will bring us to that happy place
Where we with joy each others face fhall fee,
And parted more by death fhall never be.
Within this Tomb a Patriot lyes
That was both pious, juft and wife,
To Truth a fhield, to right a Wall,
To Sectaryes a whip and Maul,
A Magazine of Hiftory,
A Prizer of good Company
In manners pleafant and fevere
The Good him lov'd, the bad did fear,
And when his time with years was spent
If fome rejoyc'd, more did lament.
On my dear and ever honoured Mother
Mrs. Dorothy Dudley,
who deceafed Decemb. 27. 1643. and of her age, 61:
A Worthy Matron of unspotted life,
A loving Mother and obedient wife,
A friendly Neighbor, pitiful to poor,
Whom oft fhe fed, and clothed with her store;
To Servants wifely aweful, but yet kind,
And as they did, fo they reward did find:
A true Inftructer of her Family,
The which he ordered with dexterity.
The publick meetings ever did frequent,
And in her Clofet conftant hours fhe Spent;
Religious in all her words and wayes,
Preparing ftill for death, till end of dayes:
Of all her Children, Children, liv'd to fee,
Then dying, left a bleffed memory.
Ome time now paft in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phabus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Where gilded o're by his rich golden head.
Their leaves & fruits feem'd painted, but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,
Rapt were my fences at this delectable view.
I wift not what to wifh, yet fure thought I,
If fo much excellence abide below;
How excellent is he that dwells on high?
Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
Sure he is goodness, wifdome, glory, light,
That hath this under world fo richly dight:
More Heaven then Earth was here no winter & no
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