Struck with huge Love , of what to be possest,
I much despond, good Reader, in the quest;
Yet help me, if at length it may be said,
Who first the Chambers of the South display'd?
Inform me, Whence the Tawny People came?
Who was their Father, Japhet, Shem , or Cham ?
And how they straddled to th' Antipodes ,
To look another World beyond the Seas?
And when, and why, and where they last broke ground,
What Risks they ran, where they first Anchoring found?
Tell me their Patriarchs, Prophets, Priests and Kings,
Religion, Manners, Monumental things:
What Charters had they? What Immunities?
What Altars, Temples, Cities, Colonies,
Did they erect? Who were their publick Spirits?
Where may we find the Records of their Merits?
What Instances, what glorious Displayes
Of Heav'ns high Hand, commenced in their dayes?
These things in Black Oblivion covered o'er,
(As they'd ne'er been) lye, with a thousand more.
A vexing Thought, that makes me scarce forbear
To stamp, and wring my Hands, and pluck my Hair,
To think, what Blessed Ignorance hath done,
What fine Threads Learnings Enemies have spun,
How well Books, Schools, and Colledge may be spar'd,
So Men with Beasts may fitly be compar'd!
Yea, how Tradition leaves us in the lurch,
And who, nor stay at home, nor go to Church:
The Light-within-Enthusiasts , who let fly
Against our Pen and Ink Divinity;
Who boldly do pretend (but who'll believe it?)
If Genesis were lost, they could retrieve it;
Yea, all the Sacred Writ; Pray let them try
On the New World , their Gift of Prophecy .
For all them, the New Worlds Antiquities ,
Smother'd in everlasting Silence lies;
And its First Sachims mention'd are no more,
Than they that Agamemnon liv'd before.
The poor Americans are under blame,
Like them of old, that from Tel-melah came,
Conjectur'd once to be of Israel's Seed,
But no Record appear'd to prove the Deed:
And like Habajah's Sons, that were put by
The Priesthood , Holy things to come not nigh,
For having lost their Genealogy .
Who can past things to memory command,
Till one with Aaron's Breast-plate up shall stand?
Mischiefs Remediless such Sloth ensue;
God and their Parents lose their Honour due,
And Childrens Children suffer on that Score,
Like Bastards cast forlorn at any Door;
And they and others put to seek their Father,
For want of such a Scribe as COTTON MATHER:
Whose Piety, whose Pains, and peerless Pen,
Revives New-England's nigh-lost Origin.
Heads of our Tribes , whose Corps are under ground,
Their Names and Fames in Chronicles renown'd,
Begemm'd on Golden Ouches he hath set,
Past Envy's Teeth, and Times corroding Fret:
Of Death and Malice , he has brush'd off the Dust,
And made a Resurrection of the Just:
And clear'd the Lands Religion of the Gloss,
And Copper-Cuts of Alexander Ross .
He hath related Academic things,
And paid their First-Fruits to the King of Kings;
And done his Alma Mater that just Favour,
To shew Sal Gentium hath not lost its Savour.
He writes like an Historian , and Divine ,
Of Churches, Synods, Faith , and Discipline .
Illustrious Providences are display'd,
Mercies and Judgments are in colours laid;
Salvations wonderful by Sea and Land,
Themselves are Saved by his Pious Hand.
The Churches Wars , and various Enemies ,
Wild Salvages , and wilder Sectaries ,
Are notify'd for them that after rise.
This well-instructed Scribe brings New and Old ,
And from his Mines digs richer things than Gold;
Yet freely gives, as Fountains do their Streams,
Nor more than they, Himself, by giving, drains.
He's all Design , and by his Craftier Wiles
Locks fast his Reader, and the Time beguiles:
Whilst Wit and Learning moves themselves aright,
Thro' ev'ry line, and Colour in our sight,
So interweaving Profit with Delight;
And curiously inlaying both together,
That he must needs find Both, who looks for either.
His Preaching, Writing , and his Pastoral Care,
Are very much, to fall to one Man's share.
This added to the rest, is admirable,
And proves the Author Indefatigable .
Play is his Toyl, and Work his Recreation,
And his Inventions next to Inspiration.
His Pen was taken from some Bird of Light ,
Addicted to a swift and lofty Flight.
Dearly it loves Art, Air , and Eloquence ,
And hates Confinement , save to Truth and Sense .
Allow what's known; they who write Histories,
Write many things they see with others Eyes;
'Tis fair, where nought is feign'd, nor undigested,
Nor ought, but what is credibly attested.
The Risk is his; and seeing others do,
Why may not I speak mine Opinion too?
The Stuff is true, the Trimming neat and spruce,
The Workman's good, the Work of publick use;
Most piously design'd, a publick Store,
And well deserves the publick Thanks, and more.

Nicholas Noyes , Teacher of the Church at Salem .