New England's Crisis  
Or a Brief Narrative, Of NEW-ENGLANDS Lamentable Estate at present, compared with the former (but few) year of Prosperity.  
Occasioned by many unheard of Cruel ties practised upon the Persons and Estates of its united Colonies, without respect of Sex, Age or Quality of Persons, by the Barbarous Heathen thereof.  
Poetically Described.  
By a Well wisher to his Country.  
BOSTON, Printed and sold by John Foster, over against the Sign of the Dove. 1676.   

TO THE READER.  
Courteous Reader,  
I never thought this Babe of my weak Fantasy worthy of an Imprimatur; but being an Abortive, it was begged in these perplexing Times to be cherished by the Charity of others. If its Lineaments please not the Reader better than the Writer, I shall be glad to see it pressed to death: but if it displ ace not many and satisfy any, it's to me a glorious Rewa d, who am more willing than able to any Service to my Country and Friend,  
Farewell   

New England's Crisis  

THE PROLOGUE.  

THe times wherein old Pompey was a Saint,  
When men fared hardly yet without complaint  
On vilest Cates; the dainty Indian Maize  
Was eat with Clamp-shells out of wooden Treys  
Under thatched Huts without the cry of Rent,  
And the best Sauce to every Dish, Content.  
When Flesh was food, & 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 formed was many a knack  
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanac.  
These golden times (too fortunate to hold)  
Were quickly sinned 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 ought you want?  
Take freely of me, what I have you han't.  
Plain Tom and Dick would pass as currant now,  
As ever since Your Servant Sir and bow.  
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes  
Which now would render men like upright Apes,  
Was comelier wear our wiser Fathers thought  
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.  
'twas in those days an honest Grace would hold  
Till an hot puddin grew at heart a cold.  
And men had better stomaches to religion  
Than I to capon, turkeycock or pigeon.  
When honest Sisters met to pray not prate  
About their own and not their neighbour's state.  
During Plain Deal Reign, that worthy Stud  
Of th'ancient planters race before the flood  
These times were good, Merchants cared not a rush  
For other fare than Jonakin and Much.  
Although men fared and lodged very hard  
Yet Innocence was better than a Guard.  
'twas long before spiders & worms had drawn  
Their dungy webs or hid with cheating Lawn  
New England's beauties, which still seemed to me  
Illustrious in their own simplicity.  
'twas ere the neighbouring Virgin-land had broke:  
The Hogsheads of her worse than hellish smock.  
'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 freight  
As Chocholatte, dust-gold and bits of eight.  
Ere wines from France and Moscovadoe too  
Without the which the drink will scarcely do,  
From western Isles, ere fruits and dilicacies,  
Did rot maids teeth & 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 crystal air  
To drive our christian Planters to despair.  
No sooner pagan malice peeped forth  
But Valour snibed 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 Church's rest, as yet the coals  
Were covered up in most contentious souls.  
Freeness in Judgement, union in affection,  
Dear love, sound truth they were our grand protection  
These were the twins which in our Counsels sat,  
These gave prognostics of our future fate,  
If these be longer lived our hopes increase,  
These wars will usher in a longer peace:  
But if New-englands' love die in its youth  
The grave will open next for blessed Truth.  
This Theanke is out of date, the peaceful hours  
When Castles needed not but pleasant bowers.  
Not ink, but blood and tears now serve the turn  
To draw the figure of New-englands' Urn.  
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 far upon their fruits of sinnings:  
So that the mirror of the Christian world  
I yes burnt to heaps in part, her Streamers furled  
Grief reigns, joys flee and dismal fears surprise,  
Not dastard spirits only but the wise.  
Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye  
Of the big swollen Expectant standing by.  
Thus the proud Ship after a little turn  
Sinks into Neptune's arm's to find its Urn.  
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.    

New England's Crisis.  

IN seventy five the Critic of our years  
Commenced our war with Philip and his peers.  
Wither the sun in Leo had inspired  
A feverish heat, and Pagan spirits fired?  
Wither some Romish Agent hatched the plot?  
Or whither they themselves? appeareth not.  
Wither our infant thrivings did invite?  
Or whither to our lands pretended right?  
Is hard to say; but Indian spirits need  
No grounds but lust to make a Christian bleed.   

And here methinks I see this greasy Lout  
with all his pagan slaves coiled round about,  
Assuming all the majesty his throne  
Of rotten stump, or of the rugged stone  
Can yield; casting some bacon-rine-like looks,  
Enough to fright a Student from his books,  
Thus treat his peers, & next to them his Commons,  
Kenneled together all without a summons.  
My friends, our Fathers were not half so wise  
As we ourselves who see with younger eyes.  
They sell our land to english man who teach  
Our nation all so fast to pray and preach:  
Of all our country they enjoy the best,  
And quickly they intent to have the rest.  
This no wunnegin, so big matchit law,  
Which our old father's fathers never saw.  
These english make and we must keep them too,  
Which is too hard for them or us to do,  
We drink we so big whipped, but english they  
Go sneep, no more, or else a little pay.  
Me meddle Squaw me hanged, our fathers kept  
What Sqaws they would whither they waked or slept.  
Now if you'll fight I'll get you english coats,  
And wine to drink out of their Captain's throats.  
The richest merchants houses shall be ours,  
we'll lie no more on mats or dwell in bowers  
we'll have their silken wives take they our Squaws,  
They shall be whipped by virtue of our laws.  
If ere we strike 'tis now before they swell  
To greater swarms than we know how to quell.  
This my resolve, let neighbouring Sachems know,  
And every one that hath club, gun or bow.  
This was assented to, and for a close  
He stroked his smutty beard and cursed his foes.  
This counsel lightning like their tribes invade,  
And something like a muster's quickly made,  
A ragged regiment, a naked swarm,  
Whom hopes of booty doth with courage arm,  
Set forthwith bloody hearts, the first they meet  
Of men or beasts they butcher at their feet.  
They round our skirts, they pair, they fleece they kill,  
And to our bordering towns do what they will.  
Poor Hovills (better far than Caesar's court  
In the experience of the meaner sort)  
Receive from them their doom next execution,  
By flames reduced to horror and confusion:  
Here might be seen the smoking funeral piles  
Of wildred towns pitched distant many miles.  
Here might be seen the infant from the breast  
Snatched by a pagin hand to lasting rest:  
The mother Rachel-like shrieks out my child  
She wrings her hands and raves as she were wild.  
The brutish wolves suppress her anxious moan  
By crueltyes more deadly of her own.  
Will she or nill the chastest turtle must  
Taste of the pangs of their unbridled lust.  
From farms to farms, from towns to towns they post,  
They strip, they bind, they ravish, flea and roast.  
The beasts which want their master's crib to know,  
Over the ashes of their shelters low.  
What the inexorable flames do spare  
More cruel Heathen lug away for fare.  
These tidings ebbing from the outward parts  
Makes tradesmen cast aside their wont Arts  
And study arms: the craving merchants plot  
Not to augment but keep what they have got.  
And every soul which hath but common sense  
Thinks it the time to make a just defence.  
Alarms every where resound in streets,  
From west sad tidings with the Eastern meets.  
Our common fathers in their Counsels close  
A martial treaty with the pagan foes,  
All answers centre here that fire and sword  
Must make their Sachem universal Lord.  
This arms the english with a resolution  
To give the vaporing Scab a retribution.  
heavens they consult by prayer, the best design  
A furious foe to quell or undermine.  
RESOLVED that from the Massachusets bands  
Be pressed on service some Herculean hands  
And certainly he well deserved a jerk  
That slipped the Collar from so good a work.  
Some Volunteers, some by compulsion go  
To range the hideous forest for a foe.  
The tender Mother now's all bowels grown,  
Clings to her son as if they'd melt in one.  
Wives clasp about their husbands as the vine  
Hugs the fair elm, while tears burst out like wine.  
The new-sprung love in many a virgin heart  
Swells to a mountain when the lover's part.  
Nephews and kindred turn all springs of tears,  
Their hearts are so surprised with panic fears.  
But doleful shricks of captives summon forth  
Our walking castles, men of noted worth,  
Made all of life, each Captain was a Mars,  
His name too strong to stand on waterish verse:  
Due praise I leave to some poetic hand  
Whose pen and wits are better at command.  
Methinks I see the Trojan-horse burst ,  
And such rush forth as might with giants cope:  
These first the natives treachery felt, too fierce  
For any but eye-witness to rehearse.  
Yet sundry times in places where they came  
Upon the Indian skins they carved their name.  
The trees stood Sentinels and bullets flew  
From every bush (a shelter for their crew)  
Hence came our wounds and deaths from every side  
While skulking enemies squat undiscried,  
That every stump shot like a musketeer,  
And bows with arrows every tree did bear  
The swamps were Courts of Guard, thither retired  
The straggling blue-coats when their guns were fired,  
In dark Meanders, and these winding groves,  
Where Bears & panthers with their Monarch moves  
These far more cruel slily hidden lay,  
Expecting english men to move that way.  
One party lets them ip, the other greets  
Them with the next thing to their winding-sheets;  
Most fall, the rest thus startled back return,  
And from their by past foes receive an urn.  
Here fell a Captain, to be named with tears,  
Who for his Courage left not many peers,  
With many more who scarce a number left  
To tell how treacherously they were bereft.  
This flushed the pagan courage, now they think  
The victory theirs, not lacking meat or drink.  
The ranging wolves find here and there a prey,  
And having filled their paunch they run away  
By their Hosts light, the thanks which they return  
Is to lead Captives and their taverns burn.  
Many whose thrift had stored for after use  
Sustain their wicked plunder and abuse.  
Poor people spying an unwonted light,  
Fearing a Martyrdom, in sudden fright  
Leap to the door to fly, but all in vain,  
They are surrounded with a pagan train;  
Their first salute is death, which if they eat  
Some are condemned the Gauntelet to run;  
Death would a mercy prove to such as those  
Who feel the rigour of such hellish foes.  
Posts daily on their Pegasean Steeds  
Bring sad reports of worse than Nero's deeds,  
Such brutish Murders as would paper slain  
Not to be heard in a Domitian's Reign.  
The field which nature hid is common laid,  
And Mother's bodies ripped for lack of aid.  
The secret Cabinets which nature meant  
To hid her master piece is open rent,  
The half formed Infant there receives a death  
Before it sees the light or draws its breath,  
Many hot welcomes from the natives arms  
Hid in their skulking holes many alarms  
Our brethren had, and weary weary trants,  
Sometimes in melting heats and pinching wants:  
Sometimes the clouds with sympathising 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 he heard of stewed or baked or roast,  
Their beds are hurdles, open house they keep  
Through shady boughs the stars upon them peep,  
Their crystal drink drawn from the mother's breast  
Disposes not to mirth but sleep and rest.  
Thus many days and weeks, some months run out  
To find and quell the vagabonding rout,  
Who like enchanted Castles fair appear,  
But all is vanished if you come but near,  
Just so we might the Pagan Archers tract  
With towns and merchandise 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 hail arrows and bullets flew:  
The English courage with whole swarms dispute,  
Hundreds they hack in pieces in pursuit.  
Sed haud impunè, English sides do feel  
As well as tawny skins the lead and steel  
And some such gallant Sparks by bullets fell,  
As might have cursed the powder back to Hell:  
Had only Swords these skirmishes decided  
All Pagan Sculls had been long since divided.  
The lingering war outlives the Summer sun,  
Who hence departs hoping it might be done,  
Ere his return at Spring but ah he'll 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 blood  
Now sets its steely teeth to feast on wood.  
The forests suffer now, by weight constrained  
To kiss the earth with soldiers lately brained.  
The lofty oaks and ash do wag the head  
To see so many of their neighbours dead;  
Their fallen carcases are carried thence  
To stand our enemies in their defence.  
Their Myrmydons enclosed with clefts of trees  
Are busy like the aunts or nimble bees:  
And first they Innber 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 then twice fix hours  
But half that time will serve for indian bowers.  
A City shall be reared in one day's space  
As shall an hundred english men outface.  
Canonicus precincts there swarms unite,  
Rather to keep a winter guard then fight.  
A darn and dismal swamp some Scout had found  
Whose bosom was a spot of rising ground  
Hedged up with mighty oaks, maples and ashes,  
Nursed up with springs, quick bogs & miry plashes  
A place which nature coined on very nonce  
For tigers not for men to be a sconce.  
'twas here these Monsters shaped and faced like men  
Took up there Rendezvouz and bro●●al den,  
Deeming the depth of snow, hail, frost and ice  
Would make our Infantry more tame and wise  
Then by by forsaking beds and loving wives,  
Merely for indian skin's to hazard lives:  
These hopes had something calmed the boiling passion  
Of this incorrigible warlike nation.  
During this short Parenthesis of peace  
Our forces found, but left him not at ease.  
Here english valour most illustrious shone,  
Finding their numbers ten times ten to one.  
A shower of leaden had our captains feel  
Which made the bravest blades among us reel.  
Like to some anthill nearly spurned abroad,  
Where each takes heels and bears away his load:  
Instead of place and jewels, indian-trayes  
With baskets up they snatch and rust their ways.  
Sundry the flames arrest and some the blade,  
By bullets heaps on heaps of Indians laid.  
The Flames like lightning in their narrow streets  
Dart in the face of every one it meets.  
Here might be heard an hideous indian cry,  
Of wounded ones who in the Wigwams fry.  
Had we been Cannibals here might we feast  
On brave Westphalia gammons ready dressed.  
The tawny live is Ethiopick made  
Of such on whom Vulcan his clutches laid.  
There fate was sudden, our advantage great  
To give them once for all a grand defeat;  
But tedious travel had so cramped our toes  
It was too hard a task to chase the foes.  
Distinctness in the numbers of the slain,  
Or the account of Pagans which remain  
Are both uncertain, losses of our own  
Are too too sadly felt, too sadly known.  
War digs a common grave for friends and foes,  
Captains in with the common soldier throws.  
Six of our Leaders in the first assault  
Crave readmission to their Mother's Vault  
Who had they fell in ancient Homer's days  
Had been enrolled with Hecatembs of praise.  
As clouds dispersed, the natives troops divide,  
And like the streams along the thickets glide.  
Some breathing time we had, & short God knows  
But new alarms from recruited foes  
Bounce at our ears, the mounting clouds of smoke  
From martyred towns the heavens for aid invoke:  
Churches, barns, houses with most ponderous things  
Made volatile fly o'er the land with wings.  
Hundreds of cattle now they sacrifice  
For alery spirits up to gourmandise;  
And to the Molech of their hellish guts,  
Which craves the flesh in gross, their ale in butts.  
Lancaster, Medfield. Mendon wildred Groton,  
With many Villages by me not thought on  
Die in their youth by fire that useful foe,  
Which this grand cheer the world will over flow.  
The wand'ring Priest to every one he meets  
Preaches his Church funeral in the streets.  
Sheep from their fold are frighted, Keepers too  
Put to their trumps not knowing what to do.  
This monster War hath hatched a beauteous dove  
In dogged hearts, of most unfeigned love,  
Fraternal love the I very of a Saint  
Being come in fashion though by sad constraint,  
Which if it thrive and prosper with us long  
Will make New-England forty thousand strong.  
But off the Table hand, let this suffice  
As the abridgement of our miseries.  
If Mildew, Famine Sword, and fired Towns,  
If Slaughter, Captivating, Deaths and wounds,  
If daily whip once reform our ways,  
These all will issue in our Father's Praise;  
If otherwise, the sword must never rest  
Till all New-englands' Glory it divest.     

A Supplement.  

WHat means this silence of Harvardine quills  
While Mars triumphant thunders on our hills.  
Have pagan priests their Eloquence confined  
To no man's use but the mysterious mind?  
Have Pawaws charmed that art which was so rife  
To crouch to every Don that lost his life?  
But now whole towns and Church's fire and die  
Without the pity of an Elegy.  
Nay rather should my quills were they all swords  
Wear to the hilts in some lamenting words.  
I dare not style them poetry but truth.  
The dwingling products of my crazy youth.  
If these essays shall raise some quainter pens  
'twil to the Writer make a rich amends.   

Marlburyes Fate  
When London's fatal bills were blown abroad  
And few but Spectres travelled on the road,  
Not towns but men in the black bill enrolled  
Were in Gazettes by Typographers sold:  
But our Gazettes without Erratas must  
Report the plague of towns reduct to dust:  
And fevers formerly to tenants sent  
Arrest the timbers of the tenement.  
Ere the late ruins of old Groton's cold,  
Of Marlbury's peracute disease we're told.  
The feet of such who neighbouring dwellings urned  
Unto her ashes, not her doors returned.  
And what remained of tears as yet unspent  
Are to its final gasps a tribute lent.  
If painter overtrack my pen let him  
An olive colour mix these elves to trim;  
Of such an hue let many thousand thiefs  
Be drawn like Scare-crows clad with oaken leaves,  
Exhausted of their verdant life and blown  
From place to place without an home to own.  
Draw Devils like themselves, upon their checks  
The banks for grease and mud, a place for leeks.  
Whose locks Medusa's snakes, do ropes resemble,  
And ghostly looks would make Achilles tremble.  
Limm them besmeared with Christian Blood & oiled  
With fat out of white humane bodies boiled.  
Draw them with clubs like maules & full of stains,  
Like Vulcan's anvilling New-englands' brains.  
Let round be gloomy forests with craged rocks  
Where like to castles they may hid their flocks,  
Till opportunity their cautious friend  
Shall jog them fiery worship to attend.  
Show them like serpents in an avious path  
Seeking to sow the firebrands of their wrath.  
Most like Aeneas in his cloak of mist,  
Who undiscovered move where ere they list  
Cupid they tell us hath too lorts of darts.  
One sharp and one obtuse, one causing wounds,  
One piercing deep the other dull rebounds,  
But we feel none but such as drill our hearts.  
From Indian sheaves which to their shoulders cling,  
Upon the word they quickly feel the string.  
Let earth be made a screen to hid our woe  
From Heaven's Monarch and his Ladies too;  
And lest our Jealousy think they partake,  
For the red stage with clouds a curtain make.  
Let dogs be gauged and every quickening sound  
Be charmed to silence, here and there all round  
The town to suffer, from a thousand holes  
Let crawl these fiends with brands and fired poles,  
Paint here the house & there there the barn on fire,  
with holocausts ascending in a spire.  
Here granaries, yonder the Church's smoke  
which vengeance on the actors doth invoke.  
Let Morphcus with his leaden keys have bound  
In featherbeds some, some upon the ground,  
That none may burst his drowfie shackles till  
The brutish pagans have obtained their will,  
And Vulcan files them off then Zeuxis paint  
The frenzy glances of of the sinking saint.  
Draw there the Pastor for his bible crying,  
The soldier for his sword, The Glutton frying  
With streams of glory-fat, the thin-jawed Miser  
Oh had I given this I had been wiser.  
Let here the Mother seem a statue turned  
At the sad object of her bowels burned.  
Let the unstable weakling in belief  
Be mounting Ashurs' horses for relief.  
Let the half Convert seem suspended twixt  
The dens of darkness, and the Planets sixth,  
Ready to quit his hold, and yet hold fast  
By the great Atlas of the Heavens vast.  
Paint Papists muttering o'er their apish beads  
Whom the blind follow while the blind man leads,  
Let Ataxy be mounted on a throne  
Imposing her Commands on every one,  
A many-headed monster without eyes  
To see the ways which want to make men wise.  
Give her a thousands tongues with wings and hands  
To be ubiquitary in Commands,  
But let the concave of her skull appear  
Clean washed and empty quite of all but fear,  
One she bids flee, another stay, a third  
She bids betake him to his rusty sword,  
This to his treasure, th'other to his knees,  
Some counsels she to fry and some to freeze,  
These to the garrison, those to the road,  
Some to run empty, some to take their load:  
Thus while confusion most men's hearts divide  
Fire doth their small exchequer soon decide.  
Thus all things seeming  or secret foes,  
An Infant may grow old before a close,  
But yet my hopes abide in perfect strength.   

The Town called Providence Its Fate.  
Why must we thus to see the wheels run cross  
Since Providence itself sustains a loss:  
And yet should Providence forget to watch  
I fear the enemy would all dispatch;  
Celestial lights would soon forget their line,  
The wandering planets would forget to shine,  
The stars run all our of their common spheres,  
And quickly fall together by the ears:  
Kingdoms would jostles out their Kings and set  
The poor Mechanic up whom next they met,  
Or rather would whole kingdoms with the world  
Into a Chaos their first egg be hurled.  
there's none this Providence of the Most High  
Who can survive and write its Elegy:  
But of a solitary town I writ,  
A place of darkness yet receiving light  
From pagan hands, a miscellanious nest  
Of errors Hector's, where they sought a rest  
Out of the reach of Laws but not of God,  
Since they have felt the smart of common rod.  
'twas much I thought they did escape so long,  
Who Gospel truth so manifestly wrong:  
For one Lot's sake perhaps, or else I think  
Justice did at greatest offenders wink  
But now the short is paid, I hope the dross  
Will be cashiered in this common loss.  
Houses with substance feel uplifting wings,  
The earth remains, the last of humane things:  
But know the dismal day draws near wherein  
The fire shall earth itself dissolve and sin.   

Seaconk Plain Engagement.  
On our Pharsalian Plains, comprising space  
For Caesar's host brave Pompey to outface,  
An handful of our men are walled round  
With Indian swarms; anon their pieces sound  
A Madrigal like heaven's artillery  
Lightning and thunder bolts their bullets fly.  
Her's hosts to handfuls, of a few they leave  
Fewer to tell how many they bereave.  
Foolhardy fortitude it had been sure  
Fierce storms of shot and arrows to endure  
Without all hopes of some requital to  
So numerous and pestilent a foe.  
Some musing a retreat and thence to run,  
Have in an instant all their business done,  
They sink and all their sorrows ponderous weight  
Down at their feet they cast and tumble strait.  
Such who outlived the fate of others fly  
Into the Irish bogs of misery.  
Such who might die like men like beasts do range  
Uncertain whither for a better change,  
These Natives hunt and chase with currish mind,  
And plague with crueltyes such as they find.  
When shall this shower of Blood be over? When?  
Quickly we pray oh Lord! say thou Amen.   

Seaconk or Rehobeths' Fate.  
I once conjectured that those tiger's hard  
To reverend newman's bones would have regard,  
But were all SAINTS they met 'ttwere all one case,  
They have no reverence to an Angel's face:  
But where they fix their griping lions paws  
They rend without remorse or heed to laws.  
Rehobeth here in common english, Rest  
They ransack, newman's Relics to molest.  
Here all the town is made a public stage  
Whereon these Nimrods' act their monstrous rage.  
All crueltyes which paper stained before  
Are acted to the life here over and over.   

Chelmsfords' Fate.  
Ere famous Winthrops bones are laid to rest  
The pagans Chelmsford with sad flames arrest,  
Making an artificial day of night  
By that plantations for midable light.  
Here's midnight shrieks and Soul amazing moans,  
Enough to melt the very marble stones:  
Fire brands and bullets, darts and deaths and wounds  
Confusive outcries every where resounds:  
The natives shooting with the mixed cries,  
With all the crueltyes the foes devise  
Might fill a volume, but I leave a space  
For mercies still successive in there place  
Not doubting but the foes have done their worst,  
And shall by heaven suddenly be cursed.   

Let this dear Lord the sad Conclusion be  
Of poor New-englands' dismal tragedy.  
Let not the glory of thy former work  
Blasphemed he by pagan Jew or Turk:  
But in its funeral ashes write thy Name  
So fair all Nations may expound the same:  
Out of her ashes let a Phoenix rise  
That may outshine the first and be more wise.   
B. Tompson.   

ON A FORTIFICATION At Boston begun by Women.  Dux Foemina Facti. 

A Grand attempt some Amazonian Dames  
Contrive whereby to glorify their names,  
A Ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turf,  
Reaching from side to side from surfe to surfe,  
Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pies,  
Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.  
The wheel at home counts it an holiday,  
Since while the Mistress worketh it may play.  
A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts  
Forsake at home their pasty-crust and tarts  
To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,  
Their undulating silks they closely furl.  
The pickax one as a Commandress holds,  
While t'other at her awkness gently scolds.  
One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why  
Cant you promove your work so fast as I?  
Some dig, some delve, and others hands do feel  
The little wagons weight with single wheel.  
And lest some fainting fits the weak surprise,  
They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.  
These brave essays draw forth Male stronger hands  
More like to Dawbers then to Martial bands:  
These do the work, and sturdy bulwarks raise,  
But the beginners well deserve the praise.    
FINIS.