New-England's MISERY

Behold, and see how deeply we do feel divine Displeasure; Our Land before has never bore of Wrath so great a Measure: Distress and War, both near and far, Home, and Abroad Vexation; Our Enemies, against us rise for to cut off our Nation. Our frontier Towns, the Land around, are miserably wasted; Of Cruelty, large Measure we most certainly have tasted. The French combine, the Indians join their antichristian Powers, For to destroy both low and high from off this Land of our's. Alas! from Peace we now must cease, to go where Cannon rattle; Our Ploughs forsake, and Weapons take, from Husbandry to Battle:— Our tender Wives commit our Lives unto divine Protection, Not thinking we'll each other see until the Resurrection; Parting with Sighs, and wat'ry Eyes, our Leaders we must follow Unto the Field, our Swords to wield, and in our Blood to wallow: We meet our Foes, and them oppose with Drums and Cannon sounding;— Hark! hear our Voice, confused Noise from Hill to Hill rebounding: The Field all o'er with purple Gore is stain'd, while Men lay dying; Some with a Groan their Case bemoan, others for Mercy crying; With aking Hearts, each one exerts the utmost of his Power, Still lohging the Event to see, each Minute seems an Hour:— Some Battles they have won the Day, and Forts, and Men destroyed; Sometimes again, our Countrymen has them as much annoyed. The Mob of Hell, whose savage Yell, with Visage grim and painted;— Would surely make a Heart to quake, that's with them unacquainted; Whilst wer'e at Work, these lay and lurk about our Fields and Pastures, Then suddenly upon us fly, and so of us get Masters: When any Man falls in their Hands, they're Cruel and Insulting; But most acute, these human Brutes, at Killing are, and Scalping:— Likewise again, our Land within, we greatly are distressed; Our Taxes lie both hard and high, wherewith we are oppressed; Yielding Supports for building Forts, and for maintaining Soldiers; It makes us Cry, where this doth lie, and gaul our peeled Shoulders. Our Fishing-Trade is much decay'd: likewise our foreign Traders Much Misery do suffer by our insolent Invaders: Whole Houses stroy'd, and render'd void, hath been the Destination Of many a one, who out upon our Frontiers had his Station: These Judgments we both feel, and see, and with them are perplexed, And many more I might tell o'er, wherewith our Land is vexed; But every Man's Experience may be his own Informer; (In every Town the Country round.— I dwell but in a Corner.—) But whence came these our Miseries? from Casualty or Fortune, Or be the Fates with our Estates and Lives, themselves a sporting? Such Seasons we did never see in any Generation This Land within, since it has been possessed by our Nation: Each sober one, who thinks thereon, will sure make this Reflection, This is the Rod and Hand of God, and this is His Correction.