Some doe for anguish weep, for anger I

That Ignorance fhould live, and Art fhould die.
Black, fatal, dismal, inauspicious day,

Unbleft for ever by Sol's precious Ray,
Be it the firft of Miferies to all;

Or laft of Life, defam'd for Funeral.

When this day yearly comes, let every one,

[254]

Caft in their urne, the black and dismal ftone.
Succeeding years as they their circuit goe,
Leap o're this day, as a fad time of woe.
Farewell my Mufe, fince thou haft left thy fhrine,
I am unbleft in one, but bleft in nine.

Fair Thespian Ladyes, light your torches all,
Attend your glory to its Funeral,

To court her afhes with a learned tear,

A briny facrifice, let not a smile appear.
Grave Matron, whofo feeks to blazon thee,
Needs not make use of witts falfe Heraldry;
Whofo fhould give thee all thy worth would fwell
So high, as 'twould turn the world infidel.
Had he great Maro's Mufe, or Tully's tongue,
Or raping numbers like the Thracian Song,
In crowning of her merits he would be
fumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole.
To write is eafie; but to write on thee,
Truth would be thought to forfeit modefty.
He'l feem a Poet that shall speak but true;
Hyperbole's in others, are thy due.

Like a moft fervile flatterer he will show

Though he write truth, and make the fubject, You.
Virtue ne're dies, time will a Poet raise

Born under better Starrs, fhall fing thy praise.

Praise her who lift, yet he shall be a debtor
For Art ne're feign'd, nor Nature fram'd a better.
Her virtues were fo great, that they do raise

A work to trouble fame, aftonish praise.

When as her Name doth but falute the ear, [255]
Men think that they perfections abstract hear.
Her breast was a brave Pallace, a Broad-street,
Where all heroick ample thoughts did meet,
Where nature fuch a Tenement had tane,
That others fouls, to hers, dwelt in a lane.
Beneath her feet, pale envy bites her chain,
And poifon Malice, whetts her sting in vain.
Let every Laurel, every Myrtel bough

Be ftript for leaves t' adorn and load her brow.
Victorious wreathes, which 'cause they never fade
Wife elder times for Kings and Poets made.

Let not her happy memory e're lack

Its worth in Fames eternal Almanack,

Which none fhall read, but ftraight their lofs deplore,
And blame their Fates they were not born before.
Do not old men rejoyce their Fates did last,
And infants too, that theirs did make fuch haft,
In fuch a welcome time to bring them forth,
That they might be a witness to her worth.

Who undertakes this fubject to commend
Shall nothing find fo hard as how to end.

Finis & non. John Norton.*

Omnia Romanæ fileant Miracula Gentis.

* This clergyman was a nephew of the Rev. John Norton, of the First Church in Boston. He graduated at Harvard College in 1671, and was ordained pastor of the First Church in Hingham, Nov. 27, 1678, as successor of the Rev. Peter Hobart. He died Oct. 3, 1716, in the 66th year of his age, after a ministry of nearly thirty-eight years.- -"LINCOLN's History of Hingham," pp. 24-25.

It has been suggested that he edited the second edition of Mrs. Bradstreet's" Poems."-N. E. HIST. GEN. REGISTER, vol. ix. p. 113, note ‡‡.

INDEX.