New-englands' Tears FOR HER Present Miseries: OR, A Late and True RELATION of the CALAMITIES of NEW-ENGLAND Since APRIL last passed.  
With an Account of the Battle between the English and Indians upon Seaconk Plain:  
And of the Indians Burning and Destroying of Marlbury, Rehoboth, Chelmsford, Sudbury, and Providence.  
With the Death of Antononies the Grand Indian Sachem; And a RELATION of a Fortification begun by Women upon Boston Neck. Together with an Elegy on the Death of John Winthrop Esq late Governor of Connecticott, and Fellow of the Royal Society.  
Written by an Inhabitant of Boston in New England to his Friend in London. With Allowance.  
LONDON Printed for N. S. 1676.   

A NARRATIVE OF New England's PRESENT CALAMITIES.  
15 April 1676.  
WHAT means this silence of Harvardine Quills  
Whilst 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 Churches 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 dwindling products of my crazy youth;  
If these Essays shall rouse some quainter Pens  
'Twill to the Author make a rich amends.  

Marlburies' Fate.  

WHen London's fatal Bills were blown abroad,  
And few but Spectres travelled on the Road,  
Not Towns, but Men in the black page enrolled  
Were in Gazettes by Typographers sold;  
But our Gazettes without Erratas Must  
Report the Plague of Towns reduced to Dust:  
And Favours, but ere while to Tenants sent  
Arrest the Timbers of the Tenement.   

Ere the late ruins of poor Groton's cold,  
Of Marlburies' peracute Disease we're told;  
The feet of such, who neighbouring dwellings urned  
Unto its ashes not its doors returned.  
So what remained of Tears as yet unspent  
Are to its final gasps a Tribute lent.   

If Painter ever tract my Pen, let him  
An Olive colour mix, these Elves to trim;  
Of such an hue, let many hundred Thiefs  
Be drawn like Scarecrows clad with Oaken leaves,  
Exhausted of their Verdant Life, and blown  
From place to place without a home to own:  
Draw Devils like themselves, upon their cheeks  
Those B●nks of Grease and Mud a plat for Leeks;  
Whose dangling Locks Medusa's Snakes resemble,  
With grizly looks would make Achilles tremble.  
Limn them besmeared with Christian blood, and oiled  
With fat out of white humane Bodies boiled.  
Draw them with Clubs like Mauls, all full of stains;  
Like Vulcan's anvelling New England's brains:  
Let round be gloomy Forests, and thick Rocks;  
Where like to Castles they may hid their Flocks:  
Till opportunity their constant friend,  
Shall jog them Vulcan's Worship to attend.  
Show them like Serpents in an avious path,  
Waiting to sow the Fire-balls of their wrath.  
Much like Aeneas, in his cloak of mist,  
Who undiscovered, move where ere they list.  
Cupid some tell us, had two sorts of Darts,  
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.  
Hid first the Sun beneath the Earth and quench  
In Thetis boul the Stars; the Lunar Wench  
So mutable in fashions, make her hap  
To lie a slumbering in Apollo's lap.  
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 gagged, and every quickening sound,  
Be charmed to silence: here and there all round,  
The Town, to suffer. From a thousand holes  
Let crawl those Fiends with brands and firing Poles.  
Paint here an House and there a Barn on fire,  
With Holocausts ascending in a spire.  
Here Granaries, yonder the Church's smoke,  
Which Vengeance on the Actors did invoke.  
Let Morpheus with his Leaden Keys have bound  
In Feather beds some, some upon the Ground,  
That none may burst his drowsy Shackles till  
The Brutish Pagans have obtained their will,  
And Vulcan files them off. Then Zeuxis paint  
The frenzy glances 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,  
Ah 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 Ashur's Horses for relief.  
Let the half Convert seem suspended 'twixt  
The Dens of Darkness and the Planets fixed.  
Ready to quit his hold and yet hold fast  
By the great Atlas of the Heavens vast.  
Paint Papists muttering over apish Beads,  
Whom the Blind follow while the Blindman leads.  
Let ATTAXIE 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 Thousand Tongues with Wings and Hands  
To be Ubiquitary in commands:  
But let the Concave of her Soul appear,  
Washed Clean and Empty quite of all but fear.  
One she bids run, another stay, a third  
She bids betake him to his rusty Sword;  
This to his treasure, t'other to his Knees,  
Some Counsels she to fry, and some to freeze:  
These to the Garrisons, those to the Load;  
Some to run empty, some to take the Load.  
Thus while Confusion, most men's hearts divide,  
Fire doth the small Exchequer soon decide.  
Thus all things seeming  or secret foes,  
An Infant may grow grey before a close.  
But yet my hopes remain in perfect strength,  
New England will be prosperous once at length.    

Providences Fate.  
Why muse we thus, to see the Wheels run cross,  
Since Providence itself, sustains a loss:  
Should Providence, but one day miss its watch,  
I fear the Enemy would all dispatch.  
Resplendent Phoebus would forget to shine,  
The wand'ring Planets, to forget their Line.  
The Stars run all out of their proper spheres,  
And quickly fall together by the ears;  
The Ocean would forget to ebb and flow,  
The Mother cease the tender babe to know.  
Kingdom's would jostle out their Kings and set,  
The Vile Mechanic up who next they met:  
Or rather Kings, and Kingdoms, with the World,  
Would into Chaos its first rise be turned:  
This sacred Providence of the Most High,  
None can outlive and write its Elegy.  
But of a solitary Town I writ,  
A place of darkness, yet receiving light  
From Pagan's hands; a miscellaneous nest  
Of Errors, Hectors, where they sought a rest  
Out of the reach of Laws, but not of God;  
Since they have smarted by the common Rod.  
'Twas much I thought it did escape so long,  
Which sacred truth did manifestly wrong;  
For one Lots sake perhaps, or else I think,  
Justice did long at great offenders wink.  
'Tis happy for them, if their filth and dross,  
Be cleansed off, though by a common loss.   

Seaconk Plain Engagement.  
ON our Pharsalian Plain, containing space  
For Caesar's Armies, Pompey's to outface,  
An handful of our men are walled round,  
With Tawny Bands, anon their pieces sound  
A Madrigal; like Hail the Bullets fly,  
An Emblem of Heaven's Artillery.  
Here▪ s Hosts to Handfuls, of a few they leave  
Fewer to tell how many they bereave.  
Fool hardy Fortitude, it had been sure,  
Thousands of Shot, and Arrows to endure:  
Without all hopes of some requital too,  
So numerous and pestilent a foe.  
Most Fought like Dragons; through this Indian mist,  
The Beams of Valour break where e'er they list.  
Who died ('tis thought) sold lives at such a rate,  
As doth the fury of the foes abate.  
Some musing a Retreat, and thence to run,  
Have in an instant. all their business done.  
They Sink, and Die, their wont sorrows weight,  
They Tumble at their Feet, and follow straight.  
Here Captious ones, without their Queries lie,  
The Quaker here, the Presbiterian by.  
The Scruple dormant lies of thee and thou,  
And most as one to Death's dominion bow.  
Such who outlive the fate of others fly,  
Into the Neighbouring Swamps of misery.  
Those who might die like men, like beasts must range,  
Uncertain whither for a better change.  
Such Natives hunt and chase with Tiger's mind,  
And plague with Cruelties such as they find.  
When shall this shower of Blood be over? when?  
Quickly we pray (good Lord) say thou Amen.   

Rehoboth's Fate.  
I Once conjectured that these Figures hard,  
To reverend Newman's Bones would have regard.  
But were all Saints they met, it were all one case,  
They own no Reverence to an Angel's Face.  
But where they fix their Monstrous Lion Paw's,  
They Rend without remorse or heed to Laws  
Rehoboth here in our plain English Rest,  
They ransack, NEWMAN's Relics they molest.  
Here all the Town is made a public stage,  
Whereon these Nimrods' act their Monstrous rage;  
And Cruelties which Paper stained before,  
Are acted to the life here over and over.  
Let this, dear Lord, the sad Conclusion be  
Of poor New-englands' fatal Tragedy.  
Let not the Glory of thy former work,  
Blasphemed lie by Pagan, Jew, or Turk.  
But in New-englands' Ashes writ thy Name,  
So fair all Nations may expound the same.  
Out of these Ruins, let a Phoenix rise,  
That may outshine the first, and be more wise.  
Another black Parenthesis of woe,  
The Printer wills that all the world should know.   

Upon the setting of that Occidental Star John Winthrop Esq Governor of Connecticott Colony, Member of the Royal Society; who deceased in his countries' Service 6 April 1676.  
NIne Muses, get you all but one to sleep,  
But spare Melpomene, with me to weep.  
From you whose bleared Eyes have Lectures read,  
Of many of our English Heroe's dead.  
I beg a glance from Spectacles of Woe,  
(Quotidian Gazettes) Brave Winthrop to.  
Whose death Terrestrial Comets did portend,  
To every one who was his Country's friend.  
The Blaze of Towns was up like Torch's light,  
To guide him to his Grave, who was so fit  
To rule, or to obey, to live or die:  
(A special Favourite of the Most High)  
Monarch of Nature's Secrets, who did hold,  
It's grand Elixir named the Star of GOLD.  
Or else the World mistakes, and by his deeds,  
Of Daily Charity's Expense he needs.  
But had he it, he wiser was than so,  
That every Ape of Artists should it know.  
He had the System of the Universe,  
Too Glorious for any to Rehearse.  
As Moses took the Law in Clouds and Fire,  
Which Vulgars' barred at distance much admire.  
Thus was he taught the precious Art of healing,  
(Judge we but by success) at Gods revealing.  
He mounted up the Stairs of Sciences,  
Unto the place of Visions which did please.  
Where on the Pinnacle of worldly skill,  
On Kingdoms of all Arts, he gazed his fill.  
Into his Thoughts Alembick we may think,  
He crowded Stars to make a Diet Drink.  
(I mean) Terrestrial Stars which in the Earth,  
Receive their vitals and a Mineral Birth:  
That Proteus, Mercury, he could compel,  
Most soberly well fixed at home to dwell.  
Of Salt (which Cooks do use for Eggs and Fishes)  
He made a Balsam better than all Riches;  
And Sulphur too provided for men's woe,  
He made an Antidote Diseases to.  
This Terrene three, were made by Fire his friends,  
To bring about his ARCHIATRICK ends.  
He saw the World, which first had only shade,  
And after rich Embroideries on it laid,  
Of Glorious Light; how the Homogeneal spark,  
Did first Rebel against the Central dark.  
He saw the Jemms how first they budded, and  
The Birth of Minerals, which put to stand  
Nature's grand Courtiers. He knew the Womb  
From whom the Various Tribes of Herbs did come.  
He had been round the Philosophic sea,  
And knew the Tincture if there any be:  
But all his Art must lie, there's no Disease  
Predominant, where he doth take his Ease:  
Outliving theophra, he showed thereby  
Himself Hermetick, more surpassing high  
TRISMEGESTOS I'll style him; first in Grace,  
Thrice great in ART, the next deserving place;  
Thrice High in humble Carriage, and who,  
Would not to Highest Meekness ready bow?  
England and Holland did great Winthrop woe;  
Both had experienced Wonders he could do.  
But poor New-England stole his humble Heart,  
From whose deep Wounds he never would departed:  
His Council Balsam like, he poured in,  
And plastered up its Breaches made by sin.  
Natives themselves, in parleys would confess,  
Brave Winthrops Charity and Holiness.  
The Time he ruled, War never touched his bound,  
When Fire, and Sword, and Death, raged all round.  
Above whose reach he reigns in Glories Rays,  
Singing with all the Saints his Maker's praise.  

EPITAPHIUM  
GReater Renown than Boston could contain,  
Doth underneath this Marblestone remain:  
Which could it feel but half so well as we,  
'Twould melt to Tears and let its Prisoner free.    

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 formidable light.  
Here's midnight shrieks, and soul amazing groans,  
Enough to melt the very Marble-stones:  
Firebrands, and Bullets, Darts, and Deaths, and Wounds,  
Confusive Noises every where resounds:  
The Natives shouting, with the English cries:  
With all the Cruelties the Foes devise,  
Might fill a Volume: but I leave a space,  
For mercies yet successive in their place:  
Not doubting but the foes have done their worst,  
And shall by Heaven, suddenly be cursed.   

Sudburies' Fate.  
ONce more run Lackey Muse the Council tell,  
What sad Defeat our hopeful Band befell:  
Since Fifty odd of Valour's choicest Sons,  
Sink into Death's retiring Room at once.  
The Natives Scouts, like living baits were trailed,  
With Umbrages of mighty Rocks and Holes;  
(Fit Palaces for such perfidious souls.  
Some to our Linx-eyed Sentinels appear,  
And quickly run as if possessed with fear:  
Ours chase, they halt; We gain, they lightly fly,  
As if some Gad be stung upon the Thigh  
One while they linger, falsely to give hope,  
While to trapan, is their disguized scope;  
Into a Labyrinth) or a natural maze,  
Of hideous thickets and unbeaten ways;  
Ours close pursue them, and as close heir fate,  
Smelling their Treachery when 'twas too late,  
A Race of Natives, as if newly hatched,  
Starts from their Dens, and soon our friends dispatch,  
Here was of Indians too a plenteous Fair,  
The Chapmen Devils, hover in the Air:  
But ah with Tears I may the Reader tell,  
A little Host of English down there fell:  
Two hardy Captains, many manly hearts,  
Then felt the Bullets with the venomed darts.  
The Parent's Vesture with the purple stained  
Of his Ascanius by him newly brained.  
Eurylaus his Soul reaks through the wound,  
Of Nisus gasping by upon the ground;  
While the Rutilian like enraged bears,  
The Garments; with men's Skins, asunder tears:  
One seeks his Head, scrambling for breathing room,  
By Lethal pangs; a second reads his doom  
In Vellome Rolls, flayed off his right hand man:  
Which they send home for Sagamores to tan;  
With Scalps, according to whose number they,  
Receive brave Titles and some rich Array:  
Our numerous Scars, like stars in bodies shone,  
Who have for each a glorious Trophy won:  
From this Aceldama they post away,  
To the Grand General for their ready pay:  
While fellow Soudiers who escape the dint,  
Bounce our Exchecquers, but find little in't.   

CELEUSMA MILITARE.  
BUt know stout hearts that Diadems and Crowns,  
Will pour down from Heaven after your wounds;  
And you shall find in Honour's Lists a place,  
Where Dastard Spirits dare not show their Face.   

About this time Died Major Willard Esq who had continued one of our Senators many years, and Head of the Massachuset Bands. In 23 April 1676.  
EPITAPHIUM.  
GReat, Good, and Just, Valiant, and Wise,  
New-englands' common Sacrifice:  
The Prince of War, the Bond of Love,  
A True Herorick Martial Dove:  
Pardon I crowd his Parts so close,  
Which all the World in measure knows.  
We envy Death, and well we may,  
Who keeps him under Lock and Key.  
His Praises will, or are more largely celebrated; but let this be accepted according to the Nature of my Writings, which are but Brief and General.   

The Indians threaten to Dine at Boston on our Election.  

THe hungry Dogs, scenting the bay good Cheer,  
Give out Bravadoes that they will be here.  
But hopes we have of an Election day,  
Although their Votes and Proxies keep away.  
We think they will our Ammunition smell,  
Which from our friends beyond Sea us befell.    

M. J. Antonomies the Grand Sachems' Death.  

A Breathing time of silence had my Pen,  
But finds a scribbling matter once again.  
In Narraganset Land near Paquetuck.  
The English with the Natives try a pluck:  
Here in an Isthmus pitched the foes their tents,  
Here quartered their naked Regiments:  
Some grope for Lobsters, some to 〈◊〉 banks run,  
And some lie beautifying in the Sun:  
Some sit in Council, others treating squaws;  
Some grinding parched Corn with the Querns their Jaws.  
Some sing their Captain's dooms, others are losing.  
Some pawawing, some wenching, and some drousing.  
And herein ANTONOMIE among the rest,  
All up in Wampum Belts, most richly dressed:  
Sat as the Dagon of their motley crew,  
Not thinking that his downfall would ensue:  
Whose Pedigree should I presume to write,  
To Hesiods Theognis run I might.  
Our Chequered Bands of Whites and Tawnies joined,  
These in their close Retirements quickly find;  
Down to the Earth our Martial gallants fall,  
And like to infects on the Natives crawl.  
Old VNCUS tribe who ever had been true,  
Upon the moving Forest nimbly flew.  
The English them as they are flying meet,  
And multitudes they tumble at their feet.  
Some captived, others wounded, many slain,  
Like Hydra's Heads, yet ne'er the less remain.  
And here that Lucifer receives defeat,  
Who scorns with any less than Princes treat.  
What Necklace could New-England better please,  
Then Heads strung thick upon a thread of these,  
Him they dispatch, and hundreds more are hurled,  
Him to attend upon in th' other world:  
Whose hunting bouts will heavily go on,  
His Legs must stay until the Head come on.  
That fancy which so stiffly they maintain,  
That such on hunting go who hence are slain:  
I hope ere long will quite convinced be,  
By many Heads chopped off as fine as he:  
His (a brave present) kissed the grateful Hand,  
Of Dons who in our Southern Tract command.   

Lest such Moecaenas' beyond Sea should,  
Restrain their yearly showers of Goods and Gold,  
Be pleased to know there is an hopeful race,  
Who as you oft have been informed have grace.  
These are confined under Christian Wings,  
And hopes we have never to feel their stings.  
A natural Prison walled with Sea and Isles,  
From our Metropolis not many miles,  
Contains their swarms: hither upon advice,  
Some Grandees venturing powerful and wise;  
In a small Vessel on a time did tend.  
Three Dons with their great Apostolic friend:  
Ere they arrive a Barge runs down their Boat,  
Meanwhile these Worthies three must sink or float.   

Their Loaves for comfort round about them swum,  
And from their Bottles Neptune drinks a dram,  
He gaped for men and all, but as God pleased  
By sturdy tackles of that care he's eased.  
With like observance to November's day,  
Keep the remembrance of this passage pray.    

On the Fortifications began by Women upon Boston Neck.  
A Grand attempt the Amazonian dames,  
Contrive, whereby to glorify their names.  
A Ruff for Bostons' 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.  
Their Wheels at home count it an Holiday  
While Mistresses are working they may play.  
A tribe of Petticoats with manly hearts,  
Forsake at home their Pasticrust and Tarts:  
To knead the dirt, their Samplets down they hurl,  
Their undulating Silks they closely furl.  
The Pickaxe one as a Commandress holds,  
Another at her awkness gently scolds.  
One holds her side, while Hypochondric fumes,  
Do tympanize her Pericardian rooms  
This puffs and sweats, the other grumbles why  
Can't you promote your work so fast as I.  
Some dig and delve, while others hands do feel,  
The little Wagons weight with single wheel:  
And lest some fainting fit, the weak surprise,  
They want not Sack and Cakes; they are more wise.  
These brave Essays drew forth men's nervous hands,  
More like to Daubers than to Martial Bands.  
These do the work and sturdy Bulwarks raise,  
But those who first began deserve the praise.   
FINIS.