A poem dedicated to the memory of the Reverend and excellent Mr. Urian Oakes, the late pastor to Christ's flock and præsident of Harvard Colledge in Cambridge ...

Memoirs of the Life and Worth▪ Lamentations for the Death, and Loss of the every way admirable Mr. VRIAN OAKES. WEep with me, Reader! Never Poet had His Quill employ'd upon a Theme so sa • As what just Providence (Grief grumble not) Do's with black Warrant Press mee to! O what? This! OAKES is dead! One of the bittrest Pil • (Compounded of three Monosyllables) That could have been dispensed! Absalom Sure felt not more Distress, Death, Danger, come With the three Darts of Ioab!— Blest Shade! an Vniversal Tax of Sorrow Thy Country ows thee! Ah! we need not borrow The Praefica's: Say, Oakes is dead! and there! There is enough to squeese a briny Tear From the most flinty Flint: Once at the Blow Of Moses, from a Rock a Stream did flow; But look! th' Almightye's Rod now smites us home Oh! what Man won't a Mourner now become? Dear Saint! I cannot but thy Herse bedew With dropping of some Fun'ral Tears! I Rue Thy Death! I must, My Father! Father! say, Our Chariots and our Horsemen where are they? I the dumb Son of Craesus 'fore mine Eyes Have sett, and will cry when my Father dyes. Oh! but a Verse to wait upon thy Grave, A Verse our Custome, and thy Friends will have: And must I brue my Tears? ah! shall I fetter My Grief, by studying for to mourn in Metre? Must too my cloudy Sorrows rain in Tune, Distilling like the softly Showrs of Iune? Alas! My Ephialtes takes me! See't! I strive to run, but then I want my feet. What shall I do? Shall I go invocate The Muses to mine aid? No▪ That I hate! The sweet New-England-Poet rightly said, It is a most Vnchristian Vse and Trade Of some that Christians would be thought. If I Call'd Help, the Muses mother Memory Would be enough: He that Remembers well The Vse and Loss of Oakes, will grieve his fill. Ih'd rather pray, that Hee, in whose just Eyes The Death of his dear Saints most preciose is, And Hee who helped David to bewail His Ion'than, would not my Endeavours fail. A sprightly Effort of Poetick Fire Would e'en Transport mee to a mad Desire: How could I wish, Oh! that the nimble Sun Of thy short Life before thy Day was done Might backward Ten Degrees have moved! or Oh! that thy Corps might but have chanced for To have been buried near Elisha's bones! Oh! that the Hand which rais'd the Widows Sons Would give thee to thy Friends again! But, Fy! That Passion's vain! To sob, Why didst thou dy? Is but an Irish Note: Death won't Restore His Stolen Goods till Time shall be no more. Shall I take what a Prologue Homer hath Lett mee Relate the Heavenly Powers Wrath? Or shall I rather join with Ieremie, And o're our great and good Iosiah sigh, O that my Head were waters, and mine Eyes A fountain were, that Hadadrimmon's Cryes Might bubble from mee! O that Day and Night For the Slain of my People weep I might! Ah! why delay I? Reader, step with mee, And what is for thee on Grief's Table see Memoria Praeteritorum is The Dish I call thee to: Come taste of this. Oakes vvas! Ah! miserable word! But what Hee vvas, Let Never, Never be forgot. Beleeve mee once, It were a worthy thing Of's Life and Worth a large Account to bring To publick Vievv, for general Benefit. I would essay (with Leave, Good Reader) it, So far as feet will carry mee▪ but know it From first to last, Grief never made good Poet. Hee that lasht with a Rod could versify, Attain'd, and could pretend far more than I! Short was thy Life! Sweet Saint! & quickly run Thy Race! Thy Work was, oh! how quickly done! Thy Dayes were (David's measure) but a Span; Five Tens of Years roll'd since thy Life began. Thus I remember a Greek Poet Rhimes, They whom God Loves are wont to dy betimes. Thus Whit • ker, Perkins, Preston, Men of Note, Ay! many such, Never to fifty got. And thus (Rachel New-England!) many Seers Have left us in the akme of their Years. Good Soul! Thy Iesus who did for thee dy, In Heaven longed for thy Company. And let thy Life be measur'd by thy Deeds, Not by thy Years; Thy Age strait nothing needs. Divert, My Pen! Run through the Zodiac Of Oakes his Life: And cause I knowledge lack Of most Occurrents, let mee now and then Snatch at a Passage worthy of a Pen. Our Mother England, ev'n a Village there (Fuller, insert it!) did this Worthy bear. Over the Ocean in his Infancy His Friends with him into New-England fly: Here, while a lad, almost a miracle (As I have heard his Aged Father tell) Sav'd him from drowning in a River: Hee Would (guess) a Miracle and Moses bee. Now did Sweet Nature in him so appear A Gentlewoman once cry'd out, If ere Good Nature could bring unto Heaven, then Those wings would thither carry Vrian. Prompt Parts, and early Pitty now made Men say of him, what once observers said Of great Iohn Baptist, and of Ambrose too, To what an one will this strange Infant grow? Her Light and Cup did happy Harvard give Unto him; and from her he did receive His Two Degrees: (A double Honour to Thee (Harvard! Own it!) did by this accrue!) So being furnisht with due burnisht Tools The Armour and the Treasure of the Schools, To Temple-work he goes: I need not tell How he an Hiram, or Bezaleel Did there approve himself; I'le only add Roxbury his first-fruits (first Sermon) had▪ Some things invite: Hee back to England goes; With God and Man hee there in favour growes; But whilst he lives in that Land, Tichfield cryes Come over, Sir, and help us! He complyes: The Starr moves thither! There the Orator Continu'd charming sinful mortals for To close with a sweet Jesus: Oh! he woo'd, He Thundred: Oh! for their eternal good How did he bring the Promises, and how Did he discharge flashes of Ebal? Now Hee held Love's golden Scepter out before The Humble Soul; Now made the Trumpet roar Fire, Death, and Hell against Impenitent Desp'rates, untill hee made their hearts relent. There did hee merit Sibs's Motto, I Iust like a Lamp, with lighting others dy. Ah! like a Silk-worm, his own bowels went To serve his Hearers, while he soundly spent His Spirits in his Labours. O but there He must not dy (except Death Civil) Here (Why mayn't we Sigh it! here dark Bartholmew This gallant and heroic Witness slew. Silenc't he was! not buried out of sight! A worthy Gentleman do's him invite Unto him; and like Obadiah, hide Him, dear to them with whom he did reside, Finding his Prayers and Presence to produce An Obed-Edom's blessing on the House. A Spirit of great Life from God do's enter Within a while into him: Hee do's venture To stand upon his feet: Hee prophesy's; And to a Congregation Preacher is, Join'd with a loving Collegue; who will not Be buried, till Symmons be forgot. But our New-England Cambridge wants him, and Sighs, "Of my Sons none takes me by the hand, "Now Mitchel's gone! Oh! where's his parallel? "Call my Child Vrian! Friendly Strangers tell "An OAKE of my own breed in England is, "That will support mee Pillar-like; and this "Must be resolv'd; I'le Pray and Send! Agreed! Messengers go! and calling Council, speed! The good Stork over the Atlantic came To nourish and cherish his Aged Dam. Welcome! great Prophet! to New-England shore! Thy feet are beautiful! A number more Of Men like thee with us would make us say, The Moral of More's fam'd Vtopia Is in New-England! yea, (far greater!) wee Should think wee Twisse's guess accomplisht see, When New Ierusalem comes down, the Seat Of it, the wast America will bee't. Cambridge! thy Neighbours must congratulate Thy Fate! Oh! where can thy Triumvirate Meet with its Mate? A Shepard! Mitchel! then An Oakes! These Chrysostoms, these golden Men, Have made thy golden Age! That fate is thine (To bee blest with the Sun's perpetual Shine) What Sylvius sais of Rhodes. Sure thou mayst call Thy Name Capernaum! But oh! the fall Of that enlightened Place wee'l humbly pray Dear Lord! Keep Cambridge from it!— But Quill! where fly'st thou? Let the Reader know Cambridge some years could this brite Iewel show, Yet here a Quartane Ague does arrest The Churches Comfort, & the Countryes Rest. But this (Praise Mercy) found some Ague-frighter, Hee mends, and his Infirmity grows lighter, Ev'n that his dear Orestes smil'd, So small Your Illness, you'd as good have none at all. Well! the poor Colledge faints! Harvard almost (An Amnesty cryes'st!) gives up the ghost! The branches dwindle! But an OAK so near May cherish them! 'T was done! The gloomy fear Of a lost Colledge was dispell'd! The Place, The Learning, the Discretion, and the Grace Of that great Charles, who long since slept & dy'd Lov'd, and Lamented, worthy Oakes supply'd. His Nurse he suckles; and the Ocean now Refunds what th' Earth in Rivers did bestow. Pro Tempore (a sad Prolepsiis) was For a long time his Title; but just as Wee had obtain'd a long'd for Alteration, And fixt him in the Praesident's firm Station, The wrath of the Eternal wields a blow At which my Pen is gastred!— But Up!—Lord! wee're undone!—Nay! Up! and Try! Heart! Vent thy grief! Ease Sorrow with a Sigh! Lett's hear the matter! Write de Tristibus! Alas! Enough!—Death hath bereaved us! The Earth was parch't with horrid heat: We fea'rd The blasts of a Vast Comet's flaming Beard. The dreadful Fire of Heaven inflames the blood Of our Elijah carrying him to God. Innumerable Sudden Deaths abound! Our OAKES a Sudden blow laid on the ground, And gives him blessed Capel's wish, which the Letany prayes'gainst, To dy Suddenlie. The Saints hope to have the Lord's Table spread; But with astonishment they find him dead That us'd to break the Bread of Life: O wee Deprived of our Ministers often bee At such a Season. Lord, thy Manna low In our blind Eyes we fear is wont to go! The Man of God at the first Touch do's feel [With a Praesage] his Call to Heavens weal; Hee sits himself for his last Conflict; Saw The ghastly King of Terrors Icy claw; Ready to grapple with him; then he gives A Look to him who dy'd and ever lives; The great Redeemer do's disarm the Snake; And by the Hand his faithful Servant take, Leading him thorow Death's black Valley, till Hee brings him in his arms to Zion's Hill. Fall'n Pillar of the Church! This Thy Translation Has turn'd our Joyes into this Lamentation! Sweet Soul! Disdaining any more to trade With fleshly Organs, that a Prison made, Thou'rt flown into the World of Souls, and wee Poor, stupid Mortals lose thy Companie. Thou join'st in Consort with the Happy gone, Who (happ'er than Servants of Solomon) Are standing round the Lamb's illustrious Throne Conversing with great Isr'el's-Holy-One. Now could I with good old Grynaeus * say "Oh! that will be a bright and gloriose Day, "When I to that Assembly come; and am "Gone from a world of guilt, filth, sorrow, shame! I read how Swan-like Cotton joy'd in Thought, That unto Dod, and such he should be brought. How Bullinger deaths grim looks could not fright Because twould bring him to the Patriarchs Sight. (Well might it be so! Heathen Socrates In hopes of Homer, Death undaunted sees.) Who knows but the Third Heaven may sweeter be Thou Citizen of it! (dear Oakes!) for thee? Sure what of Calvin Beza said; and what Of thy forerunner Mitchel, Mather wrote, I'le truly add, Now Oakes is dead, to mee Life will less sweet, and Death less bitter bee. Lord! Lett us follow!— Nay! Then, Good Reader! Thou and I must try To Tread his Steps! Hee walk't Exemplar'ly! Plato would have none to be prais'd, but those Whose Praises profitable wee suppose: Oh! that I had a ready Writer's Pen, (If not Briareus hundred Hands!) and then I might limn forth a Pattern. Ah! his own Fine Tongue can his own worth Describe alone That's it I want; and poor I! Shan't I show Like the man, whom an Hero hired to Forbear his Verses on him! Yet a lame Mephibosheth will scape a David's blame. Well! Reader! Wipe thine Eyes! & see the Man (Almost too small a word!) which Cambridge can Say, I have lost! In Name a Drusius, And Nature too! yea a compendious Both Magazine of worth, and Follower Of all that ever great and famose were. A great Soul in a little Body. (Add! In a small Nutshell Graces Iliad.) How many Angels on a Needle's point Can stand, is thought, perhaps, a needless Point▪ Oakes Vertues too I'me at a loss to tell: In short, Hee was New-England's t 〈…〉 SAMUEL; And had as many gallant Propertyes As ere an Oak had Leaves; or Argus Eyes. A better Christian would a miracle Be thought! From most he bore away the Bell! Grace and good Nature were so purely mett In him, wee saw in Gold a Iewel sett. His very Name spake Heavenly; and Hee Vir sui Nominis would alwayes bee. For a Converse with God; and holy frame, A Noah, and an Enoch hee became. Vrian and George are Names aequivalent; Wee had Saint George, though other Places han't. Should I say more, like him that would extol Huge Hercules, my Reader'l on me fall With such a check; Who does dispraise him? I Shall say enough, if his Humility Might be described. Witty Austin meant This the First, Second, and Third Ornament, Of a Right Soul, should be esteem'd. And so Our Second Moses, * Humble Dod, cry'd, Know, Iust as Humility mens Grace will bee, And so much Grace so much Humilitie. Ah! graciose Oakes, wee saw thee stoop; wee saw In thee the Moral of good Nature's Law, That the full Ears of Corn should bend, and grow Down to the ground: Worth would sit alwayes low. And for a Gospel Minister, wee had In him a Pattern for our Tyro's; sad! Their Head is gone: Who ever knew a greater Student and Scholar? or beheld a better Preacher and Praesident? Wee look't on him As Ierom in our (Hungry) Bethlechem; A perfect Critic in Philology; And in Theology a Canaan's Spy. His Gen'ral Learning had no fewer Parts Than the Encyclopaedia of Arts: The old Say, Hee that something is in all, Nothing's in any; Now goes to the wall. But when the Pulpit had him! there hee spent Himself as in his onely Element: And there hee was an Orpheus: Hee'd e'en draw The Stones, and Trees: Austin cryes, If I saw Paul in the Pulpit, of my Three Desires None of the least (to which my Soul aspires) Would gratify'd and granted bee. Hee might Have come and seen't, when OAKES gave Cambridge Light. Oakes an Vncomfortable Preacher was I must confess! Hee made us cry, Alass! In sad Despair! Of what? Of ever seeing A better Preacher while wee have a beeing. Hee! oh! Hee was, in Doctrine, Life, and all Angelical, and Evangelical. A Benedict and Boniface to boot, Commending of the Tree by noble Fruit. All said, Our Oakes the Double Power has Of Boanerges, and of Barnabas: Hee is a Christian Nestor! Oh! that wee Might him among us for three Ages see! But ah! Hee's gone to Sinus Abrahae. What shall I say? Never did any spitt Gall at this Gall-less, Guile-less Dove; nor yet Did any Envy with a cankred breath Blast him: It was I'me sure the gen'ral Faith, Lett Oakes Bee, Say, or Do what e're he wou'd, If it were OAKES, it must be wise, true, good Except the Sect'ryes Hammer might a blow Or two, receive from Anabaptists, who Never lov'd any Man, that wrote a Line Their naught, Church-rending Cause to undermine. Yett after my Encomiastick Ink Is all run out, I must conclude (I think) With a Dicebam, not a Dixi! Yea, Such a course will exceeding proper bee: The Iews, whene're they build an House, do leave Some part Imperfect, as a call to grieve For their destroy'd Ierus'lem! I'le do so! I do't!— And now let sable Cambridge broach her Tears! (They forfeit their own Eyes that don't; for here's Occasion sad enough!) Your Sons pray call All Ichabod; and Daughters, Marah! Fall Dovvn into Sack-cloth, Dust, and Ashes! (To Bee senseless Now, Friends, Now! will be to show A CRIME & BADG of Sin and Folly!) Try Your fruitfulness under the Ministry Of that kind Pelican, vvho spent his Blood The feed you! Dear Saints! Have ye got the Good You might? And let a Verse too find the Men Who fly'd a Sermon! Oh! Remember vvhen Sirs! your Ezekiel was like unto A lovely Song of (Been't deaf Adders you) One with a pleasant Voice! and that could play Well on an Instrument! And i'n't the Day, • he gloriose Day, to dawn (ah! yet!) wherein You are drawn from the Egypt-graves of Sin Compelled to come in? For shame come in! Nay! Join you all! Strive with a noble Strife, To publish both in Print (as vvell as Life) Your preciose Pastor's Works! Bring them to view That vvee may Honey tast, as vvell as you. But, Lord! What has thy Vineyard done, that thou Command'st the Clouds to rain no more? O shevv Thy favour to thy Candlestick! Thy Rod Hath almost broke it: Lett a Gift of God, Or a sincerely Heaven-touch't Israelite Become a Teacher in thy Peoples sight At last I vvith License Poetical (Reader! and thy good leave) address to all The children of thy People! Oh! the Name Of Vrian Oakes, Nevv-England! does proclame SVRE I AN OAK was to thee! Feel thy Loss! Cry, (Why forsaken, Lord!) Under the Cross! Learn for to prize Survivers! Kings destroy The People that Embassadors annoy. The Counsil of God's Herald, and thy Friend, [Bee wise! Consider well thy latter End!] O lay to heart! Pray to the heavenly Lord Of th' Harvest, that (according to his Word) Hee vvould thrust forth his Labourers: For vvhy Should all thy Glory go, and Beauty dy Through thy default?— —Lord! from thy lofty Throne Look dovvn upon thy Heritage! Lett none Of all our Breaches bee unhealed! Lett This dear, poor Land be our Immanuel's yett! Lett's bee a Goshen still! Restrain the Boar That makes Incursions! Give us daily more Of thy All-curing Spirit from on High! Lett all thy Churches flourish! And supply The almost Twenty Ones, that thy Just Ire Has left without Help that their Needs require! Lett not the Colledge droop, and dy! O Lett The Fountain run! A Doctor give to it! Moses's are to th' upper Canaan gone! Lett Ioshua's Succeed them! goes vvhen one room! Elijah, raise Elisha's! Pauls become Dissolv'd! vvith Christ! Send Tim'thees in their Avert the Omen, that vvhen Teeth apace Fall out, No new ones should supply their place! Lord! Lett us Peace on this our Israel see! And still both Hephsibah, and Beulah bee! Then vvill thy People Grace! and Glory! Sing, And every Wood vvith Hallelujah's ring. N. R. Vixêre fortes ante Agamemnona Multi; sed illachrymabiles Vrgentur ignoti que longà Nocte; carent quia Vate sacro. Hor. Non ego cuncta meis amplecti Versibus opto. Virg. —Ingens laudato Poema: • legito!— Call. • ui legis ista, tuam reprehendo, si mea laudes Omnia, Stultitiam: Si nihil, Invidiam. Owen. Non possunt, Lector, multae emendare Liturae Versus hos nostros: Vna Litura potest. Martial.