The Second Anniversary
The Harbinger to the Progress
Wherein, by occasion of the religious death of Mistress Elizabeth Drury, the incommodities of the soul in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated.
Two souls move here, and mine, a third, must move
Paces of admiration and of love.
Thy soul, dear virgin, whose this tribute is,
Moved from this mortal sphere to lively bliss
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
The world’s last day, thy glory’s full degree,
Like as those stars which thou o’erlookest far,
Are in their place, and yet still movèd are.
No soul—whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is—Scan follow thee halfway;
Or see thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgo
So fast, as now the lightning moves but slow.
But now thou art as high in heaven flown
As heavens from us, what soul besides thine own
Can tell thy joys, or say he can relate
Thy glorious journals in that blessed state?
I envy thee, rich soul, I envy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see.
And thou, great spirit, which hers followed hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So far, as none can follow thine so far
—And if this flesh did not the passage bar,
Hadst caught her—let me wonder at thy flight,
Which long agone hadst lost the vulgar sight,
And now makest proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee lessened in thine airy way.
So while thou makest her soul by progress known,
Thou makest a noble progress of thine own,
From this world’s carcase having mounted high
To that pure life of immortality;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselves so raise
That more may not beseem a creature’s praise,
Yet still thou vow’st her more, and every year
Makest a new progress, while thou wanderest here,
Still upward mount; and let thy Maker’s praise
Honour thy Laura, and adorn thy lays.
And since thy Muse her head in heaven shrouds,
Oh, let her never stoop below the clouds;
And if those glorious sainted souls may know
Or what we do, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best
Which praise those awful Powers that make them blest.
Of the Progress of the Soul
The Second Anniversary
Nothing could make me sooner to confess
That this world had an everlastingness,
Than to consider, that a year is run,
Since both this lower world’s, and the sun’s sun,
The lustre and the vigour of this all
Did set; ’twere blasphemy to say, did fall.
But as a ship, which hath struck sail, doth run
By force of that force which before it won;
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,
Though at those two Red Seas, which freely ran,
One from the trunk, another from the head,
His soul be sail’d to her eternal bed,
His eyes will twinkle, and his tongue will roll,
As though he beckon’d and call’d back his soul:
He grasps his hands, and he pulls up his feet,
And seems to reach, and to step forth to meet
His soul; when all these motions which we saw,
Are but as ice, which crackles at a thaw,
Or as a lute, which in moist weather rings
Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings.
So struggles this dead world, now she is gone;
For there is motion in corruption.
As some days are, at the creation, named
Before the sun, the which framed days, was framed,
So after this sun’s set, some show appears,
And orderly vicissitude of years.
Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,
Hath drown’d us all; all have forgot all good,
Forgetting her, the main reserve of all.
Yet in this deluge, gross and general,
Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall be
To be hereafter praised, for praising thee.
Immortal maid, who though thou wouldst refuse
The name of mother, be unto my Muse
A father, since her chaste ambition is
Yearly to bring forth such a child as this.
These hymns may work on future wits, and so
May great-grandchildren of thy praises grow;
And so, though not revive, embalm and spice
The world, which else would putrify with vice.
For thus man may extend thy progeny,
Until man do but vanish, and not die.
These hymns thy issue may increase so long,
As till God’s great Venite change the song.
Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soul,
And serve thy thirst with God’s safe-sealing bowl;
Be thirsty still, and drink still till thou go
To th’ only health; to be hydroptic so,
Forget this rotten world; and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern’d; study not why nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
The world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass’s last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that’s towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat hearkening how her youthful age
Should be employ’d, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, whate’er this world give,
Because she was the form that made
