American Poems (1625-1892)

And, warbling out the old, begin anew;

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

Then follow thee into a better Region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion."

Man at the best a creature frail and vain,

195

In knowledg ignorant, in strength but weak,
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break;

200

From some of these he never finds cessation,

But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st
Relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow;
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,
In weight, in frequency and long duration,

205

Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

210

The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide
Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;

But suddenly a storm spoiles all the sport,

215

And makes him long for a more quiet port,

Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

220

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns bower.
But sad affliction comes & makes him see

Their names without a Record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp 's all laid in th' dust,

Nor wit nor gold nor buildings scape times rust:

230

But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

1678.

A LETTER TO HER HUSBAND

Phœbus, make haste: the day's too long; be gone;
The silent night's the fittest time for moan.

But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere;
And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd
The woful accents of my doleful sound,

If in thy swift Carrier thou canst make stay,
I crave this boon, this Errand by the way:

Commend me to the man more lov'd then life;

Shew him the sorrows of his widdowed wife,

ΙΟ

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brakish tears,
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears;

And if he love, how can he there abide ?

My Interest's more then all the world beside.

He that can tell the starrs or Ocean sand,

Or all the grass that in the Meads do stand,

The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a corn-field number every grain,

Or every mote that in the sun-shine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace
That once a day thy Spouse thou mayst imbrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rayes afar salute her from the south.

But for one moneth I see no day, poor soul,

Like those far scituate under the pole,

Which day by day long wait for thy arise:

O how they joy when thou dost light the skyes.
O Phœbus, hadst thou but thus long from thine
Restrain'd the beams of thy beloved shine,
At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst,
Behold a Chaos blacker then the first.

Tell him here 's worse then a confused matter-
His little world's a fathom under water;
Nought but the fervor of his ardent beams
Hath power to dry the torrent of these streams.
Tell him I would say more, but cannot well:

Oppressed minds abruptest tales do tell.

Now post with double speed, mark what I say;
By all our loves conjure him not to stay.

LONGING FOR HEAVEN

As weary pilgrim now at rest
Hugs with delight his silent nest,
His wasted limbes now lye full soft
That myrie steps have troden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon

1678.