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A FUNERAL ELEGIE (Written many years since) On the Death of the Memorable and truly Honourable John Winthrope Esq: Governour of the Massachusets Colony in N-England. For the space of 19 years, who died in the 63d. Year of his Age. March 26. 1649
YOu English
Mattachusians all
Forbear sometime from sleeping,
Let every one both great and small
Prepare themselves for weeping.
For he is gone that was our freind,
This Tyrant Death hath wrought his end.
Who was the very Chief among
The chiefest of our Peers
Who hath in peace maintain'd us long
The space of nineteen years,
And now hee's breathless, lifeless, dead,
Cold earth is now become his bed.
The Jews did for their
Moses weep
Who was their Gubernator,
Let us for
Winthrope do the like,
Who was our Conservator
With Lines of gold in Marble stone
With pens of steel engrave his name
O let the Muses every one
In prose and Verse extol his Fame,
Exceeding far those ancient Sages
That ruled
Greeks in former Ages.
O spightfull Death and also cruel
Thou hast quite slain
New-Englands Jewel:
Shew us vile
Tyrant if thou can
Tel where to find out such a man?
Methinks I hear a spirit breathe
Non est inventus here beneath.
He was (we surely may say this)
Rara avis in terris,
Therefore let us give him his due,
To him is due this stile,
He was an
Israelite full true
Without all fraud or guile.
Let
Winthrops name still famous be,
With us and our Posterity.
What goods he had he did not spare,
The Church and Commonwealth
Had of his Goods the greatest share,
Kept nothing for himself.
My tongue, my pen, my rustick art
Cannot express his true desert.
The nature of the Pelican
Read storyes what they say,
To her I would compare this man
If lawfully I may.
To
Moses meek, to
Abraham,
To
Joseph and to
Jonathan.
He was
New-Englands Pelican
New-Englands Gubernator
He was
New-Englands Solomon
New-Englands Conservator.
Time and Experience the best tryal,
These two admit of no denial:
Let nineteen yeares then witness be
Of
Wintrops true sincerity.
Such gifts of grace from God had he,
That more than man he seem'd to be.
But now hee's gone and clad in clay,
Grim Death hath taken him away.
Death like a murth'ring Jesuite
Hath rob'd us of our hearts delight.
Let's shew our love to him by weeping
That car'd for us when we say sleeping.
O that our dry eyes fountains were,
Our heads a living spring,
O that our sighs the clouds could tear,
And make an eccho ring:
Let us sit down in sorrow fel,
And now with tears ring out his knel.
Bright shining
Phoebus hide thy face
Let misty clouds make dark thy sky,
Fair
Cynthia count it no disgrace
To aid us with thy weeping eye.
O weep with us for
Joshua
The Loadstone of
America.
My sences they are all too weak
His praises due to write or speak
Now I must leave it to their skill
Who can endite and write at will.
New-England thou hast cause to mourn,
For that thy special friend is gone.
Yet see you mourn with moderation,
No cause you have of Desparation,
They yet survive who may renew
Decay'd and dying hopes in you
With honour due let us respect them,
No cause we have for to reject them,
They are to us as true Directors
And under God our chief Protectors.
Here you have
Lowells loyalty,
Pend with his slender skill
And with it no good poetry,
Yet certainly good will.
Read these few verses willingly,
And view them not with
Momus eye,
Friendly correct what is amiss,
Accept his love that did write this.