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Some offers to Embalm the Memory of the truly reverend and renowned JOHN WILSON; the first Pastor of Boston, in New England; Interr’d (and a great part of his Country’s Glory with him) August 11, 1667. Aged 79.
MIGHT Aaron’s rod (such funerals mayn’t be dry) | |
| But broach the rock, ’twould gush pure elegy, | |
| To round the wilderness with purling lays, | |
| And tell the world, the great Saint Wilson’s praise. | |
| Here ’s one (pearls are not in great clusters found) | 5 |
| Here ’s one, the skill of tongues and arts had crown’d; | |
| Here ’s one (by frequent martyrdom was tried) | |
| That could forego skill, pelf, and life beside, | |
| For Christ: both Englands’ darling, whom in swarms | |
| They press’d to see, and hear, and felt his charms. | 10 |
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| ’Tis one (when will it rise to number two? | |
| The world at once can but one phœnix show:) | |
| For truth a Paul, Cephas for zeal, for love | |
| A John, inspir d by the celestial dove. | |
| Abram’s true Son for faith; and in his tent | 15 |
| Angels oft had their table and content. | |
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| So humble, that alike on’s charity, | |
| Wrought Extract gent. with Extract rudii. | |
| Pardon this fault; his great excess lay there, | |
| He ’d trade for Heaven with all he came anear; | 20 |
| His meat, clothes, cash, he ’d still for ventures send | |
| Consign’d, per brother Lazarus, his friend. | |
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| Mighty in prayer, his hands uplifted reach’d | |
| Mercy’s high Throne, and thence strange bounties fetch’d, | |
| Once and again, and oft: so felt by all, | 25 |
| Who weep his death, as a departing Paul. | |
| All, yea, baptiz’d with tears, lo children come, | |
| (Their baptism he maintain’d!) unto his tomb. | |
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| ’Twixt an Apostle, and Evangelist, | |
| Let stand his order in the heavenly list. | 30 |
| Had we the costly alabaster box, | |
| What ’s left, we ’d spend on this New-English Knox; | |
| True Knox, fill’d with that great reformer’s grace, | |
| In truth’s just cause, fearing no mortal’s face. | |
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| Christ’s word, it was his life, Christ’s church, his care; | 35 |
| And so great with him his least brethren were, | |
| Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, or frost, or snow, | |
| Could hinder, but he ’d to their sermons go: | |
| Aaron’s bells chim’d from far, he ’d run, and then | |
| His ravish’d soul echo’d amen, amen! | 40 |
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| He travers’d oft the fierce Atlantic sea, | |
| But, Patmos of confessors, ’twas for thee. | |
| This voyage lands him on the wished shore, | |
| From whence this Father will return no more, | |
| To sit the moderator of thy sages. | 45 |
| But tell his zeal for thee to after ages, | |
| His care to guide his flock, and feed his lambs, | |
| By words, works, prayers, psalms, alms, and anagrams: | |
| Those anagrams, in which he made no start | |
| Out of mere nothings, by creating art, | 50 |
| Whole words of counsel; did to motes unfold | |
| Names, till they lessons gave richer than gold, | |
| And every angle so exactly fay, | |
| It should outshine the brightest solar ray. | |
| Sacred his verse, writ with a cherub’s quill; | 55 |
| But those wing’d choristers of Zion’s hill, | |
| Pleas’d with the notes, call’d him a part to bear | |
| With them, where he his anagram did hear, | |
| “I pray come in, heartily welcome sir.” 1 | |
