Anarchiad : a New England poem, 1786-1787 / Humphreys, Barlow, Trumbull and Hopkins [electronic text]

AN ELEGY ON A PATRIOT.

Occasioned by the awful and untimely Death of the Honorable WILLIAM WIMBLE, who, by the coroner's inquest, was found to have come to his end by suffocation.

"Hic cinis, ubique fama."

I.

IN yonder dark and narrow lodging, There rests a patriot's body, Which, after many a slip and dodging, Death took in safe custody.

II.

What though to earth his corse consign'd Must moulder and be rotten; His name, while it is kept in mind, Will never be forgotten.

III.

O'er him the muse a tomb shall raise, (Or she's an idle strumpet,) And fame (if she wo 'nt sound his praise) May throw away her trumpet.

IV.

Mine be the task to celebrate This hero sly and nimble; Whose praise shall last, in spite of fate— Who knows not WILLIAM WIMBLE?

V.

To fellow creatures he was kind, To brethren, staunch and hearty; He help'd the weak, and led the blind, Whene'er he led his party.

VI.

Nor is it true, what some have said, His kindness did not stop here— The mean in spirit, oft he fed, To wit, himself and Copper.

VII.

Though he was lib'ral, wise, and gallant, As warmest friends could wish one; 'Twas own'd by all, his chiefest talent Lay most in composition.

VIII.

No one could equal him for style, For art and elocution;

For dismal periods of a mile, The genius of confusion.

IX.

His race of ancestors was long— Indeed, it was pretended His race was young—but that was wrong; From Gimblet he descended.

X.

The heralds prov'd his ancient blood, By race of sire and madam, Had crept through scoundrels from the flood, And reach'd almost to Adam.

XI.

Two pillars rampant were his arms— A beam, with slender cable, (I think I've got the herald's terms,) A cart and coffin sable.

XII.

Should man from ills be free, t' were strange, 'Twould be on earth a rarity; So our good hero had the mange, The itch of popularity.

XIII.

He was so courteous and so bland, Throughout the whole dominion; He shook each lubber by the hand, And stole his good opinion.

XIV.

He shone in many an office fair, By honorable seeking; The Army, Church, and State, his care,— A Delegate and Deacon.

XV.

Adman, of Congress, asked, thus: "How comes it, Poet Timbrel! "Your State doth send a fool to us, "Whose name is WILLIAM WIMBLE?"

XVI.

The poet did this speech relate— "From honest views, we sent him; "The fools are many in our State— "He goes to represent 'em."

XVII.

And yet, though wicked wits kept sneering, 'Tis plain as nose in face is; 'Twas only by electioneering, He got and held his places.

XVIII.

So once, upon the Ides of May, When great men quit their spouses, To Hartford come, in best array, And sit in both the Houses:

XIX.

To take a seat, then, WIMBLE came, As every man supposes; But soon 't was found he'd lost the same, When they had counted noses.

XX.

How strangely does dame fortune frown, How strangely do times alter! What long ago would buy a crown, Will purchase now a halter.

XXI.

Then straightway evils came apace: By sheriff being cited, And judges taking each his place, He stood of crimes indicted:

XXII.

Then he, among the goose-cap tribes, With one Joe Copper,* 1.1 leaguing,

Bought votes, and sold the geese for bribes, With other vile intriguing.

XXIII.

Then, forc'd against his will, to stand Before twelve sturdy fellows; And only holding up his hand, They all turn'd fortune tellers.

XXIV.

Who said, (ah, wonderful to tell!) By what they could discover, Though now the man was sound and well, His days would soon be over.

XXIV.

And so it did this wight betide, Just like to Tyburn's fashion, Sublime, on two-wheel'd car, to ride, And make a fine oration.

XXVI.

But sad and mournful was his part; He scarce had made an end on 't, When off they drove the two-wheel'd cart, And left the speaker pendent.

XXVII.

Still, as great men to death draw higher, They rise, and prove they're true wits;

So his last day he mounted higher, Like Haman, fifty cubits.

XXVIII.

Ye statesmen all, so blithe and gay, In life's delusive morning, Here learn each dog must have his day, And from this fate take warning:

XXIX.

No further seek his faults to learn, No further search his glory— Our fame, how short! and, mortal man, Good lack! how transitory!

XXX.

Yet shall the foolish folks, for aye, Whose brains would fill a thimble, Striking their pensive bosoms, say, "Here lies poor WILLIAM WIMBLE."

N. B.—A few copies of the last words of WILLIAM WIMBLE, accurately compiled, and now first printed in a handbill at large, may be had at the Huron Printing Office. Price, one Copper.

Notes

• * 1.1

  JOSEPH HOPKINS, Esq., of Waterbury, a gentleman who had derived an unenviable notoriety from having participated in the emoluments arising from a private coinage of "coppers."