1
Away loose rein'd Careers of Poetry,
The celebrated Sisters may be gone;
We need no Mourning Womens Elegy,
No forc'd, affected, artificial Tone.
Great and good Shepard's Dead! Ah! this alone
Will set our eyes abroach, dissolve a stone.
Poetick Raptures are of no esteem,
Daring Hyperboles have here no place,
Luxuriant wits on such a copious Theme,
Would shame themselves, and blush to shew their face
Here's worth enough to overmatch the skill
Of the most stately Poet Laureat's Quill
Exube'rant Fancies useless here I deem,
Transcendent vertue scorns feign'd Elogies:
He that gives Shepard half his due, may seem,
If Strangers hear it, to Hyperbolize.
Let him that can, tell what his vertues were,
And say, this Star mov'd in no common Sphere.
Here need no Spices, Odours, curious Arts,
No skill of Egypt , to embalm the Name
Of such a Worthy: let men speak their hearts,
They'l say, He merits an Immortal Fame,
When Shepard is forgot, all must conclude,
This is prodigious ingratitude.
But live he shall in many a gratefull Breast,
Where he hath rear'd himself a Monument,
A Monument more stately than the best,
On which Immensest Treasures have been spent.
Could you but into th' Hearts of thousands peep,
There would you read his Name engraven deep.
Oh! that my head were Waters, and mine Eyes
A flowing Spring of Tears, still issuing forth
In Streams of bitterness, to solemnize
The Obits of this Man of matchless worth!
Next to the Tears our sins do need and crave,
I would bestow my Tears on Shepards Grave.
We must not with our greatest Soveraign strive,
Who dare find fault with him that is most High?
That hath an absolute Prerogative,
And doth his pleasure: none may ask him, why?
We're Clay-lumps, Dust-heaps, nothings in his sight:
The Judge of all the Earth doth always right.
Ah! could not Prayers and Tears prevail with God!
Was there no warding off that dreadful Blow!
And was there no averting of that Rod!
Must Shepard dy! and that good Angel go!
Alas! our heinous sins (more than our hairs)
It seems, were louder, and out-crie'd our Prayers.
See what our sins have done! what Ruines wrought
And how they have pluck'd out our very eyes!
Our sins have slain our Shepard! we have bought,
And dearly paid for, our Enormities.
Ah Cursed sins! that strike at God, and kill
His Servants , and the Blood of Prophets spill.
As you would loath the Sword that's warm and red,
As you would hate the hands that are embru'd
I' th' Hearts-blood of your dearest Friends: so dread,
And hate your sins; Oh! let them be pursu'd:
Revenges take on bloody sins: for there's
No Refuge-City for these Murtherers.
In vain we build the Prophets Sepulchers,
In vain bedew their Tombs with Tears, when Dead:
In vain bewail the Deaths of Ministers,
Whilst Prophet-killing sins are harboured.
Those that these Murth'erous Traitors favour, hide;
And with the blood of Prophets deeply di'ed.
New England! know thy Heart-plague: feel this blow;
A blow that sorely wounds both Head and Heart,
A blow that reaches All, both high and low,
A blow that may be felt in every part.
Mourn that this Great Man's faln in Israel:
Lest it be said, with him New-England fell!
Away loose rein'd Careers of Poetry,
The celebrated Sisters may be gone;
We need no Mourning Womens Elegy,
No forc'd, affected, artificial Tone.
Great and good Shepard's Dead! Ah! this alone
Will set our eyes abroach, dissolve a stone.
Poetick Raptures are of no esteem,
Daring Hyperboles have here no place,
Luxuriant wits on such a copious Theme,
Would shame themselves, and blush to shew their face
Here's worth enough to overmatch the skill
Of the most stately Poet Laureat's Quill
Exube'rant Fancies useless here I deem,
Transcendent vertue scorns feign'd Elogies:
He that gives Shepard half his due, may seem,
If Strangers hear it, to Hyperbolize.
Let him that can, tell what his vertues were,
And say, this Star mov'd in no common Sphere.
Here need no Spices, Odours, curious Arts,
No skill of Egypt , to embalm the Name
Of such a Worthy: let men speak their hearts,
They'l say, He merits an Immortal Fame,
When Shepard is forgot, all must conclude,
This is prodigious ingratitude.
But live he shall in many a gratefull Breast,
Where he hath rear'd himself a Monument,
A Monument more stately than the best,
On which Immensest Treasures have been spent.
Could you but into th' Hearts of thousands peep,
There would you read his Name engraven deep.
Oh! that my head were Waters, and mine Eyes
A flowing Spring of Tears, still issuing forth
In Streams of bitterness, to solemnize
The Obits of this Man of matchless worth!
Next to the Tears our sins do need and crave,
I would bestow my Tears on Shepards Grave.
We must not with our greatest Soveraign strive,
Who dare find fault with him that is most High?
That hath an absolute Prerogative,
And doth his pleasure: none may ask him, why?
We're Clay-lumps, Dust-heaps, nothings in his sight:
The Judge of all the Earth doth always right.
Ah! could not Prayers and Tears prevail with God!
Was there no warding off that dreadful Blow!
And was there no averting of that Rod!
Must Shepard dy! and that good Angel go!
Alas! our heinous sins (more than our hairs)
It seems, were louder, and out-crie'd our Prayers.
See what our sins have done! what Ruines wrought
And how they have pluck'd out our very eyes!
Our sins have slain our Shepard! we have bought,
And dearly paid for, our Enormities.
Ah Cursed sins! that strike at God, and kill
His Servants , and the Blood of Prophets spill.
As you would loath the Sword that's warm and red,
As you would hate the hands that are embru'd
I' th' Hearts-blood of your dearest Friends: so dread,
And hate your sins; Oh! let them be pursu'd:
Revenges take on bloody sins: for there's
No Refuge-City for these Murtherers.
In vain we build the Prophets Sepulchers,
In vain bedew their Tombs with Tears, when Dead:
In vain bewail the Deaths of Ministers,
Whilst Prophet-killing sins are harboured.
Those that these Murth'erous Traitors favour, hide;
And with the blood of Prophets deeply di'ed.
New England! know thy Heart-plague: feel this blow;
A blow that sorely wounds both Head and Heart,
A blow that reaches All, both high and low,
A blow that may be felt in every part.
Mourn that this Great Man's faln in Israel:
Lest it be said, with him New-England fell!