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Remarks on the bright and the dark side of that American pillar, the Reverend Mr William Thompson; Pastor of the Church at Braintree. Who triumphed on Dec. 10, 1666.
BUT may a rural pen try to set forth | |
| Such a great Father’s ancient grace and worth? | |
| I undertake a no less arduous theme, | |
| Than the old sages found the Chaldee dream. | |
| ’Tis more than tythes of a profound respect, | 5 |
| That must be paid such a Melchizedeck. | |
| Oxford this light, with tongues and arts doth trim; | |
| And then his northern town doth challenge him. | |
| His time and strength he center’d there in this; | |
| To do good works, and be what now he is. | 10 |
| His fulgent virtues there, and learned strains, | |
| Tall, comely presence, life unsoil’d with stains, | |
| Things most on worthies, in their stories writ, | |
| Did him to moves in orbs of service fit. | |
| Things more peculiar yet, my muse, intend, | 15 |
| Say stranger things than these; so weep and end. | |
| When he forsook first his Oxonian cell, | |
| Some scores at once from popish darkness fell; | |
| So this reformer studied! rare first fruits! | |
| Shaking a crab-tree thus by hot disputes, | 20 |
| The acid juice by miracle turn’d wine, | |
| And rais’d the spirits of our young divine. | |
| Hearers, like doves, flock’d with contentious wing, | |
| Who should be first, feed most, most homeward bring. | |
| Laden with honey, like Hyblæan bees, | 25 |
| They kneed it into combs upon their knees. | |
| Why he from Europe’s pleasant garden fled, | |
| In the next age, will be with horror said. | |
| Braintree was of this jewel then possess’d, | |
| Until himself, he labor’d into rest. | 30 |
| His inventory then, with John’s, was took; | |
| A rough coat, girdle with the sacred Book. | |
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| When reverend Knowles and he sail’d hand in hand, | |
| To Christ espousing the Virginian land, | |
| Upon a ledge of craggy rocks near stav’d, | 35 |
| His Bible in his bosom thrusting sav’d; | |
| The Bible, the best of cordial of his heart, | |
| “Come floods, come flames, (cried he) we ’ll never part.” | |
| A constellation of great converts there, | |
| Shone round him, and his heavenly glory were. | 40 |
| Gookins was one of these; by Thompson’s pains, | |
| Christ and New England, a dear Gookins gains. | |
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| With a rare skill in hearts, this doctor could | |
| Steal into them words that should do them good. | |
| His balsams, from the tree of life distill’d, | 45 |
| Hearts cleans’d and heal’d, and with rich comforts fill’d. | |
| But here ’s the wo! balsams which others cur’d. | |
| Would in his own turn hardly be endur’d. | |
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| Apollyon owing him a cursed spleen | |
| Who an Apollos in the church had been, | 50 |
| Dreading his traffic here would be undone | |
| By num’rous proselytes he daily won, | |
| Accus’d him of imaginary faults, | |
| And push’d him down so into dismal vaults: | |
| Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief, | 55 |
| Till heaven alarmed sent him a relief. | |
| Then was a Daniel in the lion’s den, | |
| A man, oh, how belov’d of God and men! | |
| By his bed side an Hebrew sword there lay, | |
| With which at last he drove the devil away. | 60 |
| Quakers too durst not bear his keen replies, | |
| But fearing it half drawn the trembler flies, | |
| Like Lazarus, new rais’d from death, appears | |
| The saint that had been dead for many years. | |
| Our Nehemiah said, “shall such as I | 65 |
| Desert my flock, and like a coward fly!” | |
| Long had the churches begg’d the saint’s release; | |
| Releas’d at last, he dies in glorious peace. | |
| The night is not so long, but Phosphor’s ray | |
| Approaching glories doth on high display. | 70 |
| Faith’s eye in him discern’d the morning star, | |
| His heart leap’d; sure the sun cannot be far. | |
| In extacies of joy, he ravish’d cries, | |
| “Love, love the Lamb, the Lamb!” In whom he dies. | |
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EPITAPHIUM. | 75 |
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STA viator; thesaurus hic jacet, | |
THOMAS COBBETUS; | |
Cujus, | |
Nosti preces potentissimas, ac mores probatissimos, | |
Si es Nov-Anglus. | 80 |
Mirare, si pietatem colas; | |
Sequere, si felicitatem optes. | |
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