ted them to medical researches, and the needy found him as ready in imparting his skill for the benefit of the wasted frame, as he had been in affording relief to the mind oppressed with grief or cast down by disappointment. When the weakness of his lungs disqualified him for preaching, he would strive, with his pen, to render truth attractive by investing her with the garb of poesy. Let not the modern reader turn with disgust from the perusal of his moral sentiments. Repugnant as they may be to our tastes, and grotesque as they appear in an age of refinement, they contributed nevertheless, mainly to the formation of that character for unbending integrity, and firmness of resolve, for which we almost venerate the old men who laid the foundations of our republic. Neither let the lover of the sacred nine despise the muse of our author. Homely and coarse of speech as she is, her voice probably sunk into the hearts of those who listened to her rude melody, leaving there an impression, deeper than any which the numbers of a Byron, a Southey, or a Moore may ever produce. "The Day of Doom," is the title of Mr Wigglesworth's largest poem. It went through six editions in this country, and was republished in London. It comprises a version, after the manner of Sternhold and Hopkins, of all the scripture texts relative to the final judgment of man, and contains two hundred and twentyfour stanzas of eight lines each. Our selections from his writings are principally from this curious specimen of the antique. Mr Wigglesworth died in 1705, at the age of seventyfour years. Cotton Mather wrote his funeral sermon and epitaph.* *We copy this epitaph from the sixth edition of Wigglesworth's poems, printed in 1707. EPITAPH The excellent Wigglesworth remembered by some good tokens. His pen did once meat from the eater fetch; From hence, he 's to unbodied spirits flown. Once his rare skill did all diseases heal; He to his paradise is joyful come; And waits with joy to see his Day of Doom. VANITY OF VANITIES. VAIN, frail, short-liv'd, and miserable man, A wind, a flower, a vapor and a bubble, A wheel that stands not still, a trembling reed, Learn what deceitful toys, and empty things, For what is beauty, but a fading flower? And what are friends, but mortal men, as we, And what are riches to be doted on? And when most needed, take them to their wings. Ah foolish man! that sets his heart upon As in a dropsy, drinking draughts begets, His wealth's increase, increaseth his desires. Oh happy man, whose portion is above, Where floods, where flames, where foes cannot bereave him Most wretched man that fixed hath his love Upon this world, that surely will deceive him. For what is honor? What is sovereignty, The ear of man with hearing is not fill'd; All earthly things man's cravings answer not, The eastern conqueror was said to weep, Who would that man in his enjoyment bless, Such is the wonted and the common guise Moreover they, of all the sons of men, For as the sun doth blind the gazer's eyes, Great are their dangers, manifold their cares, Through which, whilst others sleep, they scarcely nap, And yet are oft surprised unawares, And fall unwilling into envy's trap. The mean mechanic finds his kindly rest, Could strength or valor men immortalize, But neither can such things themselves endure, If beauty could the beautiful defend If wealth or sceptres could immortal make Where are the Scipios' thunder bolts of war? Stout Hannibal, Rome's terror known so far? If gifts and bribes death's favor might but win, If power, if force, or threat'nings might it fray, All these, and more had still surviving been: But all are gone, for death will have no nay. Such is this world with all her pomp and glory; Go boast thyself of what thy heart enjoys, Omnia prætereunt præter amare Deum. THE DAY OF DOOM. STILL was the night, serene and bright, Calm was the season, and carnal reason Wallowing in all kind of sin, Like as of gold, when men grow bold But took their course, without remorse, In a tempestuous shower. They put away the evil day, And drown'd their care and fears, Till drown'd were they, and swept away By vengeance unawares : So at the last, whilst men sleep fast In their security, Surpris'd they are in such a snare As cometh suddenly. For at midnight break forth a light, Did all the world dismay. Sinners awake, their hearts do ache, Trembling their loins surpriseth; Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear, Each one of them ariseth. |