ROGER WILLIAMS POEMS FROM KEY TO LANGUAGE

Here are a selection of poems by Roger Williams from A Key into the Language of America or An help to the Language of the Natives in that part of America called New England while sailing to England in 1643.  Between the translations of Narragansett and short paragraphs about cultural items, Roger writes a poem.  Here are some of them with their themes.  The last poem will not line up on the left even though it is there in editing,  Sorry

Family / House
How busie are the sonnes of men?
How full their heads and hands?
What noyse and tumults in our owne,
And eke in Pagan lands?

Yet I have found lesse noyse, more peace
In wilde America,
Where women quickly build the house,
And quickly move away.

English and Indians busie are,
In parts of their abode:
Yet both stand idle, till God’s call
Set them to worke for God. ​{ Mat. 20.7.
Parts of the Body
Boast not proud English, of thy birth & blood,
Thy brother Indian is by birth as Good.
Of one blood God made Him, and Thee & All,
As wise, as faire, as strong, as personall.

By nature wrath’s his portiõ, thine no more
Till Grace his soule and thine in Christ restore,
Make sure thy second birth, else thou shalt see,
Heaven ope to Indians wild, but shut to thee.
Discourse / News
Mans restlesse soule hath restlesse eyes and eares
Wanders in change of sorrows, cares and feares.
Faine would it (Bee-like) suck by the ears, by the eye                                                                                   Something that might his hunger satisfie:

The Gospel, or Glad tidings onely can,
Make glad the English, and the Indian.
Time
The Indians find the Sun so sweet,
He is a God they say;
Giving them Light, and Heat, and Fruit,
And Guidance all the day.

They have no helpe of Clock or Watch,
And Sunne they overprize.
Having those artificiall helps, the Sun,
We unthankfully despise,

God is a Sunne and Shield,
A thousand times more bright
Indians, or English, though they see,
Yet how few prise his Light?
Seasons
The Sun and Moone and Stars doe preach,
The Dayes and Nights found out:
Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter eke
Each Moneth and Yeere about.

So that the wildest sonnes of men
Without excuse shall say,
God’s righteous sentence past on us,
(In dreadfull Judgement day.)

If so, what doome is theirs that see,
Not onely Natures light;
But Sun of Rightousnesse, yet chose
To live in darkest Night?
Travel
God makes a Path, provides a Guide,
And feeds in Wildernesse! His glorious
Name while breath remaines,
O that I may confesse.

Lost many a time, I have had no Guide,
No House, but hollow Tree! In stormy
Winter night no Fire,
No Food, no Company:

In him I have found a
House, a Bed, A Table, Company:
No Cup so bitter, but’s made sweet,
When God shall Sweet’ning be.
The Heavens
When Sun doth rise the Starres doe set,
Yet there’s no need of Light,
God shines a Sunne most glorious,
When Creatures all are Night.

The very Indian Boyes can give,
To many Starres their name, And know their Course and therein doe,
Excell the English tame.

English and Indians none enquire,
Whose hand these Candles hold;
Who gives these Stars their Names himself. {Job. 35. More bright ten thousand fold.
Weather
English and Indians spie a Storme,
And seeke a hiding place:
O hearts of stone that thinke and dreame,
Th’ everlasting stormes t’out-face.

Proud filthy Sodome saw the Sunne,
Shine or’e her head most bright.
The very day that turn’d she was
To stincking heaps, ’fore night.

How many millions now alive,
Within few yeeres shall rot?
O blest that Soule, whose portion is,
That Rocke that changeth not.
Wind
English and Indian both observe,
The various blasts of wind:
And both I have heard in dreadfull stormes
Cry out aloud, I have sinn’d.

But when the stormes are turn’d to calmes,
And seas grow smooth and still:
Both turne (like Swine) to wallow in,
The filth of former will.

’Tis not a storme on sea, or shore,
’Tis not the Word that can;
But ’tis the Spirit or Breath of God
That must renew the man.
Eating / Entertainment
Course bread and water’s most their fare;
O Englands diet fine;
Thy cup runs ore with plenteous store
Of wholesome beare and wine.

Sometimes God gives them Fish or Flesh,
Yet they’re content without;
And what comes in, they part to friends                                                                                                               And strangers round about.

Gods providence is rich to his,
Let none distrustfull be;
In wildernesse, in great distresse,
These Ravens have fed me.
Money:
The Indians prize not English gold,
Nor English Indians shell:
Each in his place will passe for ought,
What ere men buy or sell.

English and Indians all passe hence,
To an eternall place,
Where shels nor finest gold’s worth ought,
Where nought’s worth ought but Grace.

This Coyne the Indians know not of,
Who knowes how soone they may?
The English knowing, prize it not,
But fling’t like drosse away.

God makes a path, provides a guide,
                                                                                                                  And feeds in wilderness                                                                                                               
His glorious name, while breath remains,                                                                                
O that I may confess.
Lost many a time, I had no guide,                                                                                                                          
No house but hollow tree;                                                                                                                                          
In stormy winter night, no fire,
                                                                                                     No food, no company.
In Him I found a house, a bed,
                                                                                                                                    A table, company;                                                                                                                                                      
No cup so bitter but made sweet,
                                                                                                                    Where God shall sweetening be.

A little key may open a Box, where lies a bunch of keys

Roger Williams