To see his men drawn up and martialed:
Which being done, they wheel the ranks,
And kneeling down, to Heaven all gave thanks.
By this Aurora doth with gold adorn
The ever beauteous eyelids of the morn;
And burning Titan his exhaustless rays,
Bright in the eastern horizon displays;
Then soon appearing in majestic awe,
Makes all the starry deities withdraw;
Veiling their faces in deep reverence,
Before the throne of his magnificence.
And now the English their red cross display,
And under it march bravely toward the sea;
There hoping in this needful hour to meet
Ample provisions coming with the fleet.
Meantime came tidings to Sasacus' ears,
That Mistick town was taken unawares.
Three hundred of his able men he sent,
With utmost haste its ruin to prevent:
But if for that they chance to come too late,
Like harms on us they should retaliate.
These, with loud outcries, met us coming down
The hill, about three furlongs from the town;
Gave us a skirmish, and then turn'd to gaze
Upon the ruin'd city yet on blaze.
But when they saw this doleful tragedy,
The sorrow of their hearts did close their eye:
Silent and mute they stand, yet breathe out groans;
Nor Gorgon's head like this transforms to stones.
Here lay the numerous bodies of the dead;
Some frying, others almost calcined:
All dolefully imprison'd underneath
The dark and adamantine bars of death.
But mighty sorrows never are content,
Long to be kept in close imprisonment;
When once grew desperate, will not keep under,
But break all bands of their restraint asunder.
And now with shrieks the echoing air they wound,
And stamp'd and tore and curst the suffering ground.
Some with their hands tore off their guiltless hair,
And throw up dust and cinders in the air.
Thus with strange actions and horrendous cries,
They celebrate these doleful obsequies.
At length revenge so vehemently doth burn,
As caused all other passions to adjourn.
Alecto raves and rates them in the ear,
'O sensless cowards, to stand blubbering here!
Will tears revive these bodies of the slain,
Or bring their ashes back to life again?
Will tears appease their mighty ghosts, that are
Hoping to be revenged, hovering here?
Surely expecting you will sacrifice
To them the lives of those their enemies:
And will you baffle them thus by delay,
Until the enemy be gone away?
O cursed negligence!' And then she strips,
And jirks and stings them with her scorpion whips;
Until with anger and revenge they yell,
As if the very fiends had broke up hell.
That we shall die, they all outrageous swear,
And vomit imprecations in the air:
Then, full speed! with ejulations loud,
They follow us like an impetuous cloud.
Mason, to stop their violent career,
Rallies his company anew to war;
Who finding them within a little space,
Let fly his blunderbusses in their face.
Thick sulphurous smoke makes the sky look black,
And heaven's high galleries thunder with the crack.
Earth groans and trembles, and from underneath,
Deep vaulted caverns horrid echoes breathe.
The volley that our men first made,
Struck down their stout file leaders dead.
To see them fall, a stupifying fear
Surpris'd and stop'd their soldiers in the rear:
The numerous natives stop'd, and fac'd about;
Whereat the conquering English gave a shout.
At which they start, and through the forest scour,
Like trembling hinds that hear the lions roar.
Back to great Sasacus they now return again;
And of their loss they thus aloud complain,
'Sir, 'tis in vain to fight: The fates engage
Themselves for those with whom this war we wage.
We Mistick burning saw, and 'twas an awful sight;
As dreadful are our enemies in fight:
And the loud thunderings that their arms did make,
Made us, the earth, yea heaven itself, to shake.'
Very unwelcome to Sasacus' ears
Were these misfortunes, and his subject's fears:
Yet to his men, the English he contemns,
And threats to ruin us with stratagems.
And now his thoughts ten thousand ways divide,
And swift through all imaginations glide.
Endless projections in his head he lays,
Deep policies and stratagems he weighs,
Sometimes he thinks, he'll thus the war maintain,
Reviews the scheme, and throws it by again:
Now thus, or thus, concludes 'tis best to do;
But neither thus, nor thus, on the review.
And thus his mind on endless projects wanders,
Till he is lost in intricate meanders.
At last gives up the case as desperate,
And sinks, bewailing his forlorn estate.
He and his people quite discouraged,
Now leave their seats, and towards Monhattons fled.
But in his way the English sword o'ertakes
His camp, and in it sad massacres makes.
Yet he escap'd, and to the Mohawks goes,
Where he to them keeps reckoning up his woes:
And they to cure the passions of his breast,
Cut off his head, and all his cares released.
MR WIGGLESWORTH was educated at Harvard College, from which institution he received his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1651, soon after entering upon the twentieth year of his age. Having completed his theological studies, he was ordained minister of the church in Malden, Massachusetts. Respected in the pulpit for his modest, though lucid and energetic exposition of the scriptures; esteemed in the social circle for the suavity of his manners, and beloved by very many to whom, in their youth, he had been the faithful friend and counsellor, it was with deep regret that he yielded to the necessity which demanded his temporary separation from the people who had committed themselves to his spiritual guidance and direction, and with whom he was linked by ties of the most tender affection. The hand of disease was upon him, and its blighting influence could be successfully resisted only under a milder sky than that of his own New England. A partial restoration to health enabled him to resume his station at Malden, though, ever after, he was frequently obliged to desist, for weeks in succession, from the active duties of his profession. But these intervals were not mispent. He devo
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
The excellent Wigglesworth remembered by some good tokens.
His pen did once meat from the eater fetch;
And now he's gone beyond the eater's reach.
His body once so thin, was next to none;
From hence, he 's to unbodied spirits flown.
Once his rare skill did all diseases heal;
And he does nothing now uneasy feel.
He to his paradise is joyful come;
And waits with joy to see his Day of Doom.
VAIN, frail, short-liv'd, and miserable man,
Learn what thou art when thy estate is best:
A restless wave o' the troubled ocean,
A dream, a lifeless picture finely dress'd.
A wind, a flower, a vapor and a bubble,
A wheel that stands not still, a trembling reed,
A trolling stone, dry dust, light chaff and stubble,
A shadow of something but truly nought indeed.
Learn what deceitful toys, and empty things,
This world, and all its best enjoyments be:
Out of the earth no true contentment springs,
But all things here are vexing vanity.
For what is beauty, but a fading flower?
Or what is pleasure, but the devil's bait,
Whereby he catcheth whom he would devour,
And multitudes of souls doth ruinate.
And what are friends, but mortal men, as we,
Whom death from us may quickly separate;
Or else their hearts may quite estranged be,
And all their love be turned into hate.
And what are riches to be doted on?
Uncertain, fickle, and ensnaring things;
They draw men's souls into perdition,
And when most needed, take them to their wings.
Ah foolish man! that sets his heart upon
Such empty shadows, such wild fowl as these,
That being gotten will be quickly gone,
And whilst they stay increase but his disease.
As in a dropsy, drinking draughts begets,
The more he drinks, the more he still requires;
So on this world, whoso affection sets,
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.
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