New+England's+Crisis+(poem)

Benjamin Tompson, New England's Crisis, 1676.

The time wherein Old Pompion was a saint, When men fared hardly, yet without complaint, On vilest cates; the dainty Indian maize Was eat with clamshells out of wooden trays, Under thatched huts, without the cry of rent, And the best sauce to every dish, content. When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats, And men as well as birds had chirping notes. When simnels 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 Almanack//. 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 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, puritanic 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 a hot pudding grew at heart a cold, And men had better stomachs to religion, Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon; When honest sisters met to pray, not prate, About their own and not their neighbor's state. During Plain Dealing's 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 mush. Although men fared and lodg'ed very hard, Yet innocence was better than a guard. 'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawn New England's beauties, which still seemed to me Illustrious in their own simplicity. 'Twas ere Virginia's neighboring land had broke The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoke. 'Twas ere the islands sent their presents in, Which but to use counted next to sin. 'Twas ere a barge had made so rich a freight As chocolate, 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 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 remov'ed far. No bugbear comets in the crystal air To drive our Christian planters to despair. No sooner pagan malice peep'ed forth But valor snibbed 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 coals Were covered up in most contentious souls. Freeness in judgment, union in affection, Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection: These were the twins which in our councils 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 England's love die in its youth, The grave will open next for blessed truth. … This is the //Prologue// to thy future woe; The //Epilogue// no mortal yet can know.