Under thatch'd hutts, without the cry of rent,
And the best sawce to every dish, content.
When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats,
And men as well as birds had chirping notes;
When Cimnels were accounted noble blood,
Among the tribes of common herbage food,
Of Ceres' bounty form'd was many a knack,
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack.
These golden times (too fortunate to hold)
Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold.
'Twas then among the bushes, not the street,
If one in place did an inferior meet,

"Good morrow, brother! is there aught you want? Take freely of me, what I have you ha'n't."

Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now,
As ever since "Your Servant, Sir!" and bow.
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes,
Which now would render men like upright apes,
Were comelier wear, our wiser fathers thought,
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'Twas in those dayes an honest grace would hold
Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold,
And men had better stomachs at religion,
Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon;
When honest sisters met to pray, not prate,
About their own and not their neighbour's state.
During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud
Of the ancient planters' race before the flood,
Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush
For other fare than Ionakin and Mush.
Although men far'd and lodged very hard,
Yet innocence was better than a guard.

'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn
Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne
New England's beautyes, which stil. seem'd to me
Illustrious in their own simplicity.

'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin Land had broke
The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak.
'Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in,

Which but to use was counted next to sin.
"Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight.
Ere wines from France, and Moscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsly doe;
From western isles ere fruits and delicacies
Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.

No bugbear comets in the chrystal air
Did drive our christian planters to despair.
No sooner pagan malice peeped forth

But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth,
Who by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like;
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.
Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales
Were covered up in most contentious souls:
Freeness in judgment, union in affection,

Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection.
Then were the times in which our councells sate,
These gave prognosticks of our future fate.
If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase,
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.
But if New England's love die in its youth,
The grave will open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;
No power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about,
Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirror of the christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by:
Thus the proud ship after a little turn,
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne:
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.

Notable, if only as a poetic vagary, in accord with the grim humour of the period, is the Day of Doom-a poetical description of the Great and Last Judgment, with a short discourse about Eternity-by the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, B.A. of Harvard (born 1631, died 1707), a compendious version, in the manner of Sternhold and Hopkins, of all the Scripture texts relative to the final judgment of man, in

224 stanzas of eight lines each, which went through at least seven editions in America, and was also reprinted in England. Room must be spared to give some notion of its peculiar merits. The Poem begins—

Still was the night, serene and bright,
When all men sleeping lay;

Calm was the season, and carnal reason
Thought so 'twould last for aye.
Soul! take thine ease, let sorrow cease,
Much good thou hast in store:

This was their song, their cups among,
The evening before.

During the Day of Doom the souls argue with the Judge, who does not always get much the better of them in the argument. The colloquies are given at some length. Among those to be judged

to the bar all they drew near

Who died in infancy,

And never had or good or bad
Effected personally.

They remonstrate, complaining of hard measure, and are finally told that through Adam

You sinners are, and such a share
As sinners may expect

Such you shall have; for I do save
None but my own elect.
Yet to compare your sin with their
Who liv'd a longer time,
I do confess yours is much less,
Though every sin's a crime.

A crime it is, therefore in bliss
You may not hope to dwell,
But unto you I shall allow
The easiest room in hell.

The glorious King thus answering,
They cease and plead no longer :

Their consciences must needs confess

His reasons are the stronger.

Thus all men's pleas the judge with ease

Doth answer and confute,

Until that all, both great and small,
Are silenced and mute.

Vain hopes are crop'd, all mouths are stop'd,
Sinners have nought to say,

But that 'tis just and equal most

66

They should be damn'd for aye.

We may pass the Muse of Wolcott, Governor of Connecticut, guilty of fifteen hundred lines in heroic couplets,a Brief Account of the Agency of the Honourable John Winthorp Esquire in the Court of King Charles the Second, Anno Dom: 1662, when he obtained a Charter for the Colony of Connecticut published at New London, Conn:, in 1725. In 1761 we make acquaintance with Nathaniel Evans, of Philadelphia, cut off" (says Kettell) "at an age when few have sufficiently developed their powers to execute any work of great and permanent excellence. Yet from what he has left behind him, his poetical talent may be estimated highly. His taste was excellent and his imagination vivid. The Ode on the Prospect of Peace is decidedly the most finished and elegant production which the literature of our country could exhibit at that date." Beginning

When elemental conflicts rage,

And heaven is wrapp'd in tempests dire,
When storms with storms dread combats wage,
And thunders roll ethereal fire;-
Returning Zephyr's odorous race,

And radiant Sol's all-cheering face,
The trembling mortals most desire.

When Eurus, charged with livid clouds,
Scours o'er old ocean's wild domain,
And Boreas rends the vessel's shrouds,
And o'er her swells the raging main;
If lighter breezes should succeed,

And Iris sweet, of varied hue,
Lift o'er the main her beamy head,
What raptures fill the marine crew!

Thus when Bellona (ruthless maid!)

Her empire through the world has spread,

And death his flag has proud display'd

O'er legions that in battle bled;

If peace, bedeck'd with olive robe,

(Resplendent nymph, sweet guest of heaven)
Transfuse her balm around the globe,
A theme of joy to man is given.

Then wake, O muse! thy sweetest lays-
Returning peace demands thy praise;

And while the notes in varied cader.ce sound,

Eye thou the Theban swan that soars o'er heav'nly ground. The remainder is in the same strain. Our quotation not unfairly represents the tasteful productions of the Evans period, when turgid declamation was supposed to be eloquence, and even critics mistook tumidity for grandeur.

“Mrs. Bleecker's poetry" (our Kettell again) "is not of that high order which would sustain itself under any very bold attempt; but the events of her life (she died in 1783, at the age of 31) "confer a degree of interest upon the few productions which she has left behind her. A female cultivating the elegant arts of refined society at the ultima Thule of civilized life, in regions of savage wildness" (the northern part of the State of New York), " and among scenes of alarm, desolation, and bloodshed, is a spectacle too striking not to fix our attention." In regions of savage wildness the lady writes

Come, my Susan! quit your chamber,

Greet the opening bloom of May;
Let us up yon hillock clamber,

And around the scene survey.

Timothy Dwight, President of Yale College and a man of learning and great ability, wrote the Conquest of Canaan in eleven books, and various other poems, satires, and psalms. We refrain from quotation.

John Trumbull, though not more of a poet than Dwight, requires some further notice. His two great works are the Progress of Dullness, a satire, in Hudibrastic verse, on the literature and manners of his time, and his better known political Poem, MFingal, the first part of which was written in 1775, at the request of some members of the American Congress, with a view to affect public opinion in favour of the war then beginning against the mother country. The completed poem was published at Hartford, Conn:, in 1782, had immense popularity and ran through numerous editions. The story is not much. M'Fingal is a Scotchman, a justice of the peace in a town near Boston,