Fort-fights, Sholes, Quicksands, Quag-mires, Boggs and Sloughs

I have discovered that 9th great-grandfather William Wetherell, original immigrant to the Americas in 1634 was not only a minister but a poet as well.  He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge which is reflected in some of the classical allusions below.  A recap of his life is here.

I came across an elegy written by Wetherell to mark the passing in 1680 of his good friend Josiah Winslow, the thirteenth Governor of Plymouth Colony but the first who was native born.  

I am recording Wetherell's elegy to Winslow here because it was hard to find and not readily accessible.  This version is History and genealogy of the Witherell/Wetherell/Witherill family of New England: some descendants of Rev. William Witherell (ca. 1600-1684) of Scituate, Plymouth Colony, and William Witherell (ca. 1627-1691) of Taunton, Plymouth Colony by Peter Charles Wetherell and Edwin Ralph Wetherell, 1976.  Elegy to Josiah Winslow by William Wetherell.

On December 18, 1680, Plymouth Colony lost a great man--Josiah Winslow--who had served as Governor since 1673. The son of the equally prominent Edward Winslow, Josiah (b. Plymouth, ca. 1629, d. Dec. 18, 1680, ae. 51) was the first native-born colonial governor in America. Josiah had succeeded Myles Standish in 1659 as Commander in Chief of Plymouth Colony in 1659, and was a personal friend of William Witherell, having had his children baptized by him. Josiah Winslow's passing came as a tragic loss to William, and became the subject of the following elegy, which William composed at the ripe old age of 80. This masterful poem, which is included here in full, affords ample evidence of William Witherell's scholarly abilities. 

Upon the much to be lamented DEATH of the thrice three times Honoured JOSIAH WINSLOW, Esq. late GOVERNOUR, of New Plymouth and CARLO charus, beloved of his Prince. 

Within this Sacred Urn doth lie, 

The Quintesence of the Colonie; 

New England's Phoenix, Plymouth's glory,

Meet subject for a compleat story: 

To whom at helm, we yield the praise 

Of blissful times, of peacefull dayes; 

The Halcyon which controul'd our seas 

Of civil storms, and broiles appease. 

Would you have me, him to descrie, 

Angels must limn him out, not I; 

A Sophoclean quill comes short, 

His worth and merits to report: 

Where Wisdom, Valour, Eloquence, 

Were center'd in great Eminence: 

Faith, Justice, Patience, every grace 

In this frayl clay tent had their place. 

For kind behaviour lov'd by all 

That knew him, eke both great and small; 

Grave, Prudent, Sober and Discreet; 

His whole deportment comlie sweet. 

Sound in the faith, a life untaint, 

So liv'd, so dy'd this noble Saint—

Methinks it cuts me to the heart, 

Of such rare gemms to be desert. 

He was a walking Christian bright, 

Whose life and conversation right, 

Adorn'd Christ's Gospel: some men talk 

Like Angels--yet like devills walk. 

He was not of a Cynick strain, 

But cheerful Patriot, dy'd in grain: 

To strangers and to neighbours all, 

He was a Turtle without gall.

Compassion lodg'd within his breast; 

To poore ope' were heart hand and chest. 

Hard heartedness and cruelty 

Seemed like vile Nero in his eye. 

By th' acre he did not survey, 

Nor by the pound did any weigh; 

According to desert and merit, 

They should his smile or frown inherit. 

Religion e'er to keep he strove, 

(False worship loves the darkest grove) 

And civil Justice to dispense 

According unto evidence. 

On these two pillars founded are, 

The firmest States for Peace or War: 

Christ was his all, him might he gain, 

Far wealthier he than either Spain. 

But why do I burn Tapers in the Sun, 

Or midst great Cannons, let fly my pot-gun: 

His worth transcends the weakness of my quill,

As lofty mounts o'ertop the pismire hill. 

The goodliest Cedar which this land e'er bore 

Is hewn flat down and level'd with the shore: 

Under whose shade and boughs we shelter'd were, 

'Cainst storms of outrage, wrongs, oppression, feare. 

Blest with good Government, thrice happy we 

Had we had eyes our happiness to see. 

The sweetest Rose that e'er in Plymouth grew 

Frost nips--dried up--like to the morning dew, 

Yet leaving a sweet scent, mongst great and small, 

Perfum'd his name from Carswell to White-Hall; 

Whereby great CHARLES enamored of his worth, 

Lets the warm glances of his love shine forth 

Upon New Plymouth: grac'd with Royal favour, 

Let us be Loyal-bound, t’our good behaviour. 

Strong were my feares, lest this strange blazing stream,

Would be prognostick of some tragick theme; 

Yet what it doth portend I cannot tell,

But here I come to ring the funeral Knell 

Of a choice Worthy, and the people call 

To come and solemnize the FUNERAL, 

Of him, who late was foremost for his worth 

Close lock't in Prison, cannot now step forth. 

How many dangers hath this gentleman, 

In's life escaped, both by Sea and Land! 

Fort-fights, Sholes, Quicksands, Quag-mires, Boggs and Sloughs, 

Enough to plunge an hundred strong team'd Ploughs: 

Yet he brake through; but now we see him have

Mir'd and stuck fast in a dry upland grave. 

The Pitcher that went oft whole to the well, 

Comes home at last, crack'd like a broken shell. 

Our Court of Justice sits in Widdowhood: 

The Judge arrested--Bails will do no good. 

Judges are stages of States; when such stayes fall, 

It bodes the weakining of the Judgment Hall.   [Isaiah iii. 2.]

Somewhat above thrice compleat seven years since, 

Plymouth hath lost blest Bradford, Winslow, Prince, 

Three skillful Pilots, through this Wilderness, 

To conduct Pilgrims; all three called t' undress 

Upon the top of Pisgah; while we here 

Left Pilot-less, do without Compass steer.  [Deu. xxxiv. 4, 5, 6.]

Thrice honored Rulers, Elders, People all, 

Come and lament this stately Cedar's fall, 

Cut down at's height, full noontide, blest with shine

 Of Royal favour, and (no doubt) Divine;

Freighted with tunns of honor. Every man, 

At's best estate is altogether vain.   [Psalm xxxix. 5.]

Ye birds of Musick, Lark, Thrust, Turtle, Quaile, 

Ye pretty humming birds, and Nightingale, 

Your doleful notes sigh over this sad hearse, 

Sighs more suit Fun'ralls than a golden verse. 

You that have skill in verse, let every Line 

You here present, first pickled be in brine. 

Had but the Muses heard thou hence wert gone, 

T'attend thy hearse, they had left Helicon. 

Thrice Royal CHARLES, were he in person here, 

Into thy Urn, would drop a sacred tear. 

Had I an hundred eyes like Argus, I 

Would weep them all purblind, or pump them dry. 

I'd rather drink the tears of my old, eyen

For sweet JOSIAH, then quaff muskadine. 

Old eyes can shed few tears; but my old heart 

More ready is to break, than eyes to smart. 

Slight grief have tears, in troops that ready stand

 To sally forth and but expect command:

But deep ingulphing sorrow strikes men dumb, 

As frosty Winteres do their joints benumb. 

Methinks I see Cape Cod, Manamoit high land, 

Our Scituate Cliffs, and the Gurnet weeping stand, 

All clad in mourning sable; brinish streames 

Venting, to float a gallant ship to th' Thames. 

All creatures crowd to fetch so deep a groan, 

Able to break an heart of hardest stone, 

And all because their dear JOSIAH's gone.

POSTSCRIPT. 

I wish that He who thee succeedeth next, 

May, like thee, keep close unto the Text, 

Sacred and Civil; He shall have my vote, 

While I am worth a Tester or Gray Groat.

Moestus posuit 

WILLIAM WITHERELL 

Octogenarius.

William Witherell wrote other verses as well, and was undoubtedly among the best of the early colonial poets. Deane mentions an elegy by William on Mrs. Sarah, the wife of John Cushing, Esq., which was extent in his day (1831), but the present writer has not seen it. Deane also remarks that all of Witherell's verses he had seen were "vastly superior to those of (Rev. Henry] Dunster, who wrote a little earlier, particularly in point of versification (metrical structure].'' 

William's long life was now drawing to a close, and on March 29, 1684 he wrote his will. By that date, his sons Samuel and Thomas, and wife Mary (all of whom had accompanied him on the ship from England) had died, as had two of his daughters--Elizabeth and Hannah. The text of the original will, which is still extant, may be seen in Appendix 8, item 28 of this book. In his will, he left to his grandson Samuel Wetherell (son of his late eldest son Samuel) his house, 10 acres of upland, and 8 acres of marsh land, to be possessed at the age of 21. To Joshua Wetherell (another grandson by his son Samuel), he left 10 acres of upland and 2 acres of marsh land, also to be possessed at the age of 21. To Hannah Wetherell (granddaughter by his son Samuel), he gave two cows and a bed. To his sons John and Theophilus Wetherell, he gave his clothes. To Isabell, widow of his son Samuel, he gave the "use and improvement" of the house, orchard, upland and marshland bequeathed to his grandson Samuel, and the 2 acres of marsh bequeathed to his grandson Joshua, until they came of age; also the rest of his estate; and names Isabell his executrix. To his daughter Mary Oldham, as an afterthought at the bottom of his will, he gave 4 pounds. His son Daniel Wetherell and daughter Sarah Hobart were left out of his will, since they had their portions already."

Notes to the above elegy.

Halcyon = kingfisher, a bird fabled to nest at sea about the winter solstice and calm the waves.

Pismire = ant.

Carswell or Carsrull was the name of Gov. Winslow's seat in Marshfield, so-called from a castle of his ancestors in England.

White-Hall or Whitehall was a former palace in London; hence, figuratively, the British imperial government.

The comet which, our venerable author seems half inclined to believe, was sent to foretell Gov. Winslow's death, was the Great Comet of 1680, whose tail extended more than 60 degrees, i.e., across more than 1/3 of the hemisphere. It makes its revolution every 575 years, and thus will not again appear until the year 2255.

"The Naraganset Fort fight" is meant, in which Winslow served as General of the combined forces of Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay colonies. Two of his sergeants--both of whom were severely wounded--were Theophilus Witherell (no. 13, son of Rev. William), and William Witherell of Taunton (no. 7, nephew of Rev. William).

Isaiah iii. 2, “The mighty man, the man of war, the judge, and the prophet, and the prudent, and the ancient.”

William Bradford, Edward Winslow, and Thomas Prince (or Prence) were Governors of Plymouth Colony.

Deu. xxxiv. 4, 5, 6 “And the Lord said unto him, this is the land which I sware unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, I will give it unto thy seed: I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither.  So Moses the ervant of the Lord died there in the land of Moab, according to the word of the Lord.  And he buried him in a valley on the land of Moab, over against Bethpoer: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.”  

Psalm xxxix. 5 “They looked unto him, and were lightened: and their faces were not ashamed.”

Turtle = turtledove (archaic)

Eyen = eyes (archaic)

Muskadine = Muscatel wine

Tester = the canopy over a bed or pulpit

Groat = An old English silver coin worth fourpence.

I picture in my mind's eye octogenarian William Wetherel out on that civilizational frontier, composing this elegy just four years after a war caused widespread destruction and in which 10% of adult males lost their lives, and which intruded into Scituate itself.  A quill pen, a deep knowledge acquired on a foreign shore, writing an elegy for a friend who had passed.