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Poem by Anne Bradstreet
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As weary pilgrim, now at rest, Hugs with delight his silent nest His wasted limbes, now lye full soft That myrie steps, haue troden oft Blesses himself, to think vpon his dangers past, and travailes done The burning sun no more shall heat Nor stormy raines, on him shall beat. The bryars and thornes no more shall scratch nor hungry wolues at him shall catch He erring pathes no more shall tread nor wild fruits eate, in stead of bread, for waters cold he doth not long for thirst no more shall parch his tongue No rugged stones his feet shall gaule nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall All cares and feares, he bids farwell and meanes in safity now to dwell. A pilgrim I, on earth, perplext wth sinns wth cares and sorrows vext By age and paines brought to decay and my Clay house mouldring away Oh how I long to be at rest and soare on high among the blest. This body shall in silence sleep Mine eyes no more shall ever weep No fainting fits shall me assaile nor grinding paines my body fraile Wth cares and fears ne'r cumbred be Nor losses know, nor sorrowes see What tho my flesh shall there consume it is the bed Christ did perfume And when a few yeares shall be gone this mortall shall be cloth'd vpon A Corrupt Carcasse downe it lyes a glorious body it shall rise In weaknes and dishonour sowne in power 'tis rais'd by Christ alone Then soule and body shall vnite and of their maker haue the sight Such lasting ioyes shall there behold as eare ne'r heard nor tongue e'er told Lord make me ready for that day then Come deare bridgrome Come away.
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