_Who died the 14th of the Twelfth Month_, 1662.
And thus she introduceth it:
How long shall Grief lie smother’d? ah! how long
Shall Sorrow’s signet seal my silent tongue?
How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make
My lips to quiver and my heart to ache?
How long shall I with pain suppress my cries,
And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes?
Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed,
Pour forth my grief into another’s breast?
If that be true which once was said by one,
That “He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:” {180}
Then may I truly say, my grief is true,
Since it hath yet been known to very few.
Nor is it now mine aim to make it known
To those to whom these verses may be shown;
But to assuage my sorrow-swollen heart,
Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart.
This is my end, that so I may prevent
The vessel’s bursting by a timely vent.
_Quis talia fando_
_Temperet a lacrymis_!
Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears,
His grave to water with a flood of tears?
E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places,
L et tears and paleness cover all men’s faces.
L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air,
W hile I the cause of my just grief declare,
O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile
O ’erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile
D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground,
S o might’st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found.
L ament, my soul, lament; thy loss is deep,
A nd all that Sion love sit down and weep,
M ourn, oh ye virgins, and let sorrow be
E ach damsel’s dowry, and (alas, for me!)
N e’er let my sobs and sighings have an end
T ill I again embrace my ascended friend;
A nd till I feel the virtue of his life
T o consolate me, and repress my grief:
I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness
O nce more, and by its strength remove that sadness
N ow pressing down my spirit, and restore
F ully that joy I had in him before;
O f whom a word I fain would stammer forth,
R ather to ease my heart than show his worth:
H is worth, my grief, which words too shallow are
I n demonstration fully to declare,
S ighs, sobs, my best interpreters now are.
E nvy begone; black Momus quit the place;
N e’er more, Zoilus, show thy wrinkled face,
D raw near, ye bleeding hearts, whose sorrows are
E qual with mine; in him ye had like share.
A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see
R emainder will be nought but woe is me.
E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone,
D o know full well his name—it is your own.
E ternitized be that right worthy name;
D eath hath but kill’d his body, not his fame,
W hich in its brightness shall for ever dwell,
A nd like a box of ointment sweetly smell.
R ighteousness was his robe; bright majesty
D ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.
B old was he in his Master’s quarrel, and
U ndaunted; faithful to his Lord’s command.
R equiting good for ill; directing all
R ight in the way that leads out of the fall.
O pen and free to ev’ry thirsty lamb;
U nspotted, pure, clean, holy, without blame.
G lory, light, splendour, lustre, was his crown,
H appy his change to him: the loss our own.
Unica post cineres virtus veneranda beatos
Efficit.
_Virtue alone_, _which reverence ought to have_,
_Doth make men happy_, _e’en beyond the grave_.
While I had thus been breathing forth my grief,
In hopes thereby to get me some relief,
I heard, methought, his voice say, “Cease to mourn:
I live; and though the veil of flesh once worn
Be now stript off, dissolved, and laid aside,
My spirit’s with thee, and shall so abide.”
This satisfied me; down I shrew my quill,
Willing to be resigned to God’s pure will.
Having discharged this duty to the memory of my deceased friend, I went
on in my new province, instructing my little pupils in the rudiments of
the Latin tongue, to the mutual satisfaction of both their parents and
myself. As soon as I had gotten a little money in my pocket, which as a
premium without compact I received from them, I took the first
opportunity to return to my friend William Penington the money which he
had so kindly furnished me with in my need, at the time of my
imprisonment in Bridewell, with a due acknowledgment of my obligation to
him for it. He was not at all forward to receive it, so that I was fain
to press it upon him.
While thus I remained in this family various suspicions arose in the
minds of some concerning me with respect to Mary Penington’s fair
daughter Guli; for she having now arrived at a marriageable age, and
being in all respects a very desirable woman—whether regard was had to
her outward person, which wanted nothing to render her completely comely;
or to the endowments of her mind, which were every way extraordinary and
highly obliging; or to her outward fortune, which was fair, and which
with some hath not the last nor the least place in consideration—she was
openly and secretly sought and solicited by many, and some of them almost
of every rank and condition, good and bad, rich and poor, friend and foe.
To whom, in their respective turns, till he at length came for whom she
was reserved, she carried herself with so much evenness of temper, such
courteous freedom, guarded with the strictest modesty, that as it gave
encouragement or ground of hopes to none, so neither did it administer
any matter of offence or just cause of complaint to any.
But such as were thus either engaged for themselves or desirous to make
themselves advocates for others, could not, I observed, but look upon me
with an eye of jealousy and fear, that I would improve the opportunities
I had by frequent and familiar conversation with her, to my own
advantage, in working myself into her good opinion and favour, to the
ruin of their pretences.
According therefore to the several kinds and degrees of their fears of
me, they suggested to her parents their ill surmises against me.
Some stuck not to question the sincerity of my intentions in coming at
first among the Quakers, urging with a why may it not be so, that the
desire and hopes of obtaining by that means so fair a fortune might be
the prime and chief inducement to me to thrust myself amongst that
people? But this surmise could find no place with those worthy friends
of mine, her father-in-law and her mother, who, besides the clear sense
and sound judgment they had in themselves, knew very well upon what terms
I came among them, how strait and hard the passage was to me, how
contrary to all worldly interest, which lay fair another way, how much I
had suffered from my father for it, and how regardless I had been of
attempting or seeking anything of that nature in these three or four
years that I had been amongst them.
Some others, measuring me by the propensity of their own inclinations,
concluded I would steal her, run away with her, and marry her; which they
thought I might be the more easily induced to do, from the advantageous
opportunities I frequently had of riding and walking abroad with her, by
night as well as by day, without any other company than her maid. For so
great indeed was the confidence that her mother had in me, that she
thought her daughter safe if I was with her, even from the plots and
designs that others had upon her; and so honourable were the thoughts she
entertained concerning me, as would not suffer her to admit a suspicion
that I could be capable of so much baseness as to betray the trust she
with so great freedom reposed in me.
I was not ignorant of the various fears which filled the jealous heads of
some concerning me, neither was I so stupid nor so divested of all
humanity as not to be sensible of the real and innate worth and virtue
which adorned that excellent dame, and attracted the eyes and hearts of
so many with the greatest importunity to seek and solicit her. But the
force of truth and sense of honour suppressed whatever would have risen
beyond the bounds of fair and virtuous friendship; for I easily foresaw
that if I should have attempted anything in a dishonourable way by force
or fraud upon her, I should have thereby brought a wound upon my own
soul, a foul scandal upon my religious profession, and an infamous stain
upon mine honour; either of which was far more dear unto me than my life.
Wherefore, having observed how some others had befooled themselves by
misconstruing her common kindness, expressed in an innocent, open, free,
and familiar conversation, springing from the abundant affability,
courtesy, and sweetness of her natural temper, to be the effect of a
singular regard and peculiar affection to them, I resolved to shun the
rock on which I had seen so many run and split; and remembering that
saying of the poet,
_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum_,
Happy’s he
Whom others’ dangers wary make to be,
I governed myself in a free yet respectful carriage towards her, that I
thereby both preserved a fair reputation with my friends and enjoyed as
much of her favour and kindness in a virtuous and firm friendship as was
fit for her to show or for me to seek.
Thus leading a quiet and contented life, I had leisure sometimes to write
a copy of verses on one occasion or another, as the poetic vein naturally
opened, without taking pains to polish them. Such was this which
follows, occasioned by the sudden death of some lusty people in their
full strength: