Page:Anne Bradstreet and her time.djvu/288

272 To the Memory of my dear and ever honoured Father, Thomas Dudley Esq. Who deceased July 31, 1633, and of his Age, 77.

By duty bound, and not by custome led To celebrate the praises of the dead, My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse Presents my Lamentations at his Herse, Who was my Father, Guide, Instructor too, To whom I ought whatever I could doe: Nor is 't Relation near my hand shall tye; For who more cause to boast his worth than I? Who heard or saw, observed or knew him better? Or who alive then I, a greater debtor? Let malice bite, and envy knaw its fill, He was my Father, and Ile praise him still. Nor was his name, or life lead so obscure That pitty might some Trumpeters procure. Who after death might make him falsly seen Such as in life, no man could justly deem. Well known and lov'd where ere he liv'd, by most Both in his native, and in foreign coast, These to the world his merits could make known, So needs no Testimonial from his own; But now or never I must pay my Sum; While others tell his worth, Ile not be dumb; One of thy Founders, him New England know, Who staid thy feeble sides when thou wast low, Who spent his state, his strength & years with care That After-comers in them might have a share, True Patriot of this little Commonweal, Who is 't can tax thee ought, but for thy zeal? Truths friend thou wert, to errors still a foe, Which caus'd Apostates to maligne so. Thy love to true Religion e're shall shine, My Fathers God, be God of me and mine, Upon the earth he did not build his nest, But as a Pilgrim, what he had, possest, High thoughts he gave no harbour in his heart, Not honours pufft him up, when he had part; Those titles loathed, which some do too much love