’Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of fierce rhymes,
Shivering their names and fames to all succeeding times.
XXXI.
And our own Mather’s fire-and-fagot tale
Of Conquest, with her “garments rolled in blood,”
And banners blackening, like a pirate’s sail,
The Mayflower’s memories of the brave and good,
Though but a brain-born dream of rain and hail,
And in his epic but an episode,
Proves mournfully the strange and sad admission
Of much sour grape-juice in his disposition.
XXXII.
O Genius! powerful with thy praise or blame,
When art thou feigning? when art thou sincere?
Mather, who banned his living friends with shame,
In funeral-sermons blessed them on their bier,
And made their death-beds beautiful with fame—
Fame true and gracious as a widow’s tear
To her departed darling husband given;
Him whom she scolded up from earth to heaven.
XXXIII.
Thanks for his funeral-sermons; they recall
The sunshine smiling through his folio’s leaves,
That makes his readers’ hours in bower or hall
Joyous as plighted hearts on bridal eves;
