MANY hot welcomes from the natives' arms
Hid in their sculking holes, many alarms
Our brethren had, and many weary trants:
Sometimes in melting heat and pinching wants.
Sometimes the clouds with sympathizing tears
Ready to burst, discharged about their ears.
Sometimes on craggy hills, anon in bogs,
And miry swamps, better befitting hogs;
And after tedious marches, little boast
Is to be heard of stew'd, or bakt, or roast.
Their beds are hurdles, open house they keep,
Through shady boughs the stars upon them peep:
Their chrystal drink drawn from the mother's breast,
Disposes not to mirth, but sleep and rest.

Thus many dayes and weeks some months run out,
To find and quell the vagabonding rout,
Who like enchanted castles fair appear,
But all is vanisht if you come but near.
Just so we might the pagan archers track,
With towns and merchandize upon their back:
And thousands in the South who settled down,
To all the points and winds are quickly blown.
At many meetings of their fleeting crew,
From whom like haile, arrows and bullets flew,
The English courage with whole swarms dispute,
Hundreds they hack in pieces in pursuit:

Sed haud impuné, English sides do feel
As well as tawny skins, the lead and steel;
And some such gallant sparks by bullets fell
As might have curst the powder back to hell.
Had only swords these skirmishes decided,
All pagan sculls had been long since divided.

The ling'ring war outlives the summer sun,
Who hence departs hoping it might be done
Ere his return at spring; but ah! hee 'l find
The sword still drawn, men of unchanged mind.
Cold winter now nibbles at hands and toes,
And shrewdly pinches both our friends and foes.
Fierce Boreas whips the pagan tribe together,
Advising them to fit for foes and weather.

The axe which late had tasted christian bloud,
Now sets its steely teeth to feast on wood,
The forests suffer now, by waight constrain'd
To kiss the earth with soldiers lately brain'd.
The lofty oakes and ashe doe wagge the head
To see so many of their neighbours dead.
Their fallen carcases are carried thence
To stand our enemies in their defence.
Their Myrmidons inclosed with clefts of trees,
And busie like the ants or nimble bees.
And first they limber poles fix in the ground,
In figure of the heavens convex: all round
They draw their arras-matts and skins of beasts,
And under these the elves do make their nests.
Rome took more time to grow than twice six hours,
But half that time will serve for indian bowers;
A citty shall be rear'd in one daye's space,
As shall an hundred Englishmen out face.
Canonicus' precints these swarmes unite,
Rather to keep a winter guard than fight.

A dern* and dismal swamp some scout had found,
Whose bosom was a spot of rising ground
Hedg'd up with mighty oakes, maples and ashes,
Nurst up

with springs, quick boggs and miery plashes; A place which nature coyn'd on very nonce,

For tygers, not for men to be a sconce;

Twas here these monsters shapt and fac'd like men

Took up their Rendezvouz and brumal den,

On the whole, Tompson must be allowed considerable praise; he is exceeded by none of his contemporaries for correct and smooth versification.

NICHOLAS NOYES is another native poet; he was the nephew of James Noyes, the first minister of Newbury, and was born in that town December 22d, 1647. He was graduated at Cambridge in 1667, and settled in the ministry at Salem. His poem on the death of the Rev. Joseph Green, of Salem village, we have not seen. He

*Lonely.

wrote a prefatory poem to the Magnalia, from which we take the following lines complimentary of the author.

HEADS of our tribes whose corps are under ground, Their names and fames in chronicles renown'd, Begemm'd on golden ouches he hath set

Past envy's teeth and time's corroding fret.

Of death and malice he 's brush'd off the dust,
And made a resurrection of the just.

*

*

*

*

*

This well instructed scribe brings new and old,
And from his mines digs richer things than gold;
Yet freely gives, as fountains do their streams,
Nor more than they, himself, by giving, drains.
He's all design, and by his craftier wiles
Locks fast his reader, and the time beguiles;
Whilst wit and learning move themselves aright,
Through every line and colour in our sight,
So interweaving profit with delight,

And curiously inlaying both together

That he must needs find both who looks for either.
His preaching, writing, and his pastoral care
Are very much to fall to one man's share.

This added to the rest is admirable,

And proves the author indefatigable.
Play is his toyl, and work his recreation,
And his inventions next to inspiration.
His pen was taken from some bird of light,
Addicted to a swift and lofty flight.

Dearly it loves art, air, and eloquence,

And hates confinement, save to truth and sense.

The stuff is true, the trimming neat and spruce, The workman's good, the work of public use ; Most piously design'd, a Public Store,

And well deserves the public thanks and more.

TIMOTHY WOODBRIDGE, minister of Hartford, brother of Benjamin Woodbridge, already quoted, also complimented Mather and his book in a poetical address.

Whether he was a native of this country or England we
We extract a few lines from his poem.

know not.

LET the remotest parts of earth behold
New England's crowns excelling Spanish gold.
Here be rare lessons set for us to read,
That offsprings are of such a goodly breed.
The dead ones here so much alive are made,
We think them speaking from blest Eden's shade.
Hark how they check the madness of this age,
The growth of pride, fierce lust and worldly rage;
They tell we shall to clam-banks come again,
If heaven still doth scourge us all in vain.

But Sir, upon your merits heap'd will be
The blessings of all those that here shall see
Virtue embalm'd: this hand seems to put on
The laurel on your brow, so justly won.

The death of Urian Oakes in 1681 was lamented in an Elegy by DANIEL GOOKIN, jr. son of Daniel Gookin who made the valuable Historical Collections respecting the Indians of New England. Daniel Gookin, jr. was born, as we have reason to think, at Cambridge. He was ordained as a minister there, and was afterwards a missionary among the Indians. We have never met with any mention of him as a poet. The elegy abovementioned exists only in a single manuscript, the autograph perhaps of the author. We have a quotation of two stanzas at hand.

THIS turns our dance to halting, lames our mirth,
Untunes our harps, our hearts doth wound;
No music 's now in any sound:

Our hopes are cover'd o'er with clods of earth:
"T is this that kills the springing joys we had;
Not heads but hearts are now in mourning clad.

The time doth signalize this fatal turn:

'T was when the Father of the Day
In haste was posting on his way
To bury Summer in th' autumnal urn.

'T was when, as loath to see the dismal sight, Phoebus had coffin'd up himself in night.

We know not whether JOHN HAWKINS, of Boston, has left any other specimen of his metre behind him, but we will introduce here his

EPIGRAM ON PROVIDENCE.

LORD are not ravens daily fed by thee?
And wilt thou clothe the lilies and not me ?
Begone distrust, I shall have clothes and bread
While lilies flourish and the birds are fed.

SAMUEL SEWALL, who came to America in his youth, was educated at Harvard College and afterwards became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, was also a poet. His Hymn for the New Year, written Jan. 1st, 1701, "a little before break a day, at Boston of the Massachusetts," we will cite as the earliest specimen we have of that sort of occasional composition.

ONCE more our God vouchsafe to shine,
Tame thou the rigour of our clime;
Make haste with thy impatient light
And terminate this long dark night.

Let the translated English vine
Spread further still, still call it thine.
Prune it with skill, for yield it can
More fruit to thee the husbandman.

Give the poor Indians eyes to see
The light of life, and set them free;
That they religion may profess,
Denying all ungodliness.

From hardened Jews the veil remove,
Let them their martyr'd Jesus love:
And homage unto him afford,
Because he is their rightful Lord.