Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A CONSOLATORY POEM DEDICATED TO MR. COTTON MATHER, by NICHOLAS NOYES


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A CONSOLATORY POEM DEDICATED TO MR. COTTON MATHER, by                    
First Line: Sir, after you have wip'd the eyes
Last Line: Heav'n, heav'n will make amends for all!
Subject(s): Mather, Cotton (1663-1728)


Sir, After you have wip'd the Eyes
Of Thousands in their Miseries,
And oft condol'd the heavy Fates
Of those that have Surviv'd their Mates,
Its come at length to your own Turn
To be One half within an Urn.
(Your Christ would have it so be done!)
Your other Self's torn off, and Gone.
Gone! Said I. Yes, and that's the worst:
Your Wife's but gone to Heaven first.
You do run fast, but she out run,
Hath Made her self, not you Undone;
Pray, let her Wear what she hath Won!
Grudge not her Happiness above;
You Live by Faith, and she by Love.
To live is Christ, to Dy is Gain;
Betwixt you both, you have the Twain.
She was prepar'd for her Release;
And so prepar'd Departs in Peace.
And who would Live, that God makes fitt
To Dy, and then gives a Permitt?
And who would choose a World of Fears,
Ready to fall about their Ears,
That might get up above the Spheres?
And leave the Region of dread Thunder
To them that Love the World that's under:
Where Canker'd Breasts with Envy broyle,
And Smooth Tongues are but dipt in Oyle;
And Cain's Club only doth ly by,
For want of Opportunity.
Yea, who would Live among Catarrhes,
Contagions, Pains, and Strifes, and Wars?
That might go up above the Stars;
And live in Health, and Peace, and Bliss,
Had in that World; but Wish'd in this?
Disturb not then her precious Dust,
With Threnodies that are unjust.
Let not cross'd Nature now repine;
Sir, Grace hath taught you to resign
To Christ, what Nature called, Mine!
To call for Mourners I came not;
There are too many on the Spott.
Already all the Neighbourhood
Have Wept as much as Weepings good,
Nor to Embalm her Memory;
She did That, e're she came to dy;
'Tis done to long Eternity!
This Phoenix built her Nest of Spice,
Like to the Birds of Paradise;
Which when a [Feaver] sett on Fire,
Her Soul took Wing, and soared higher;
But left choice Ashes here behind,
Christ will for Resurrection find.
My Muse, pass by her Out Side Grace;
Say nothing of a Comely Face;
Nor what most Lovely pleasancies
Dwelt Chastly on her Charming Eyes.
These and such Lilly-Glories fade,
Absconded all in Deaths dark shade.
Yet these again shall Rise and Shine,
Ten Thousand times more bright and fine;
Say little of her Inside Grace;
For this World is a Spiteful place;
And takes it self for Injured
If Saints are Prais'd, Alive or Dead;
And they for Witts are in Esteem,
That Heavens Dwellers do blaspheme.
I hate their Humour, I profess,
It Smells of such rank Wickedness.
Yet this Saint shall not go her wayes,
Without a Sprig or two of Bayes;
Who well deserv'd far greater Praise.
Her Maiden Vertues rendred her,
A Meet-Help for a Minister.
For the best Women, the just Jewes
(You know) this proper phrase would use;
A Woman worthy for to be
Wife to a Priest: And such was She.
Good; Studying that her Husband too
Nothing but Good might always do.
How Frugal, yet how Generous!
How Modest, yet how Courteous!
How Silent, yet how Affable!
How Wise, how Pure, how Peacable.
As Child, her Parents Joy; as Wife,
Her Husbands Crown, and Heart, and Life.
As Mother She, a Fruitful Vine,
Her Offspring of an Holy Line,
By Holy Nurture made them Shine.
More might be said: But lest I vex
And stir the Envy of her Sex,
I'le not proceed in Commendation,
But leave her to their Imitation;
Who having her bright vertue kept
In Lustre; Thus at length She slept.
A Sickness full of Mysteries,
With Violence did on her Sieze.
She Thirty Weeks felt Deaths Attack,
But Fervent Pray'r still kept her back.
Her Faith and Patience t'was to Try,
And Learn Us how to Live and Dy.
At Last, all Thoughts of Life were null'd;
For Earth by Heaven was out-pull'd
And She straight way must thither go,
Whether her good Friends would or no.
So with the Wings of Faith and Love,
And Feathers of an Holy Dove,
She bid this Wretched World adieu,
And Swiftly up to Heaven flew.
Yet as She flew, let this World fall,
Heav'n, Heav'n will make amends for all!






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