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A50154 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 ... Mather, Cotton, 1663-1728. 1682 (1682) Wing M1142; ESTC R31243 7,562 22

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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 t would 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