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Our critic on the Puritan poets, Francis Murphy, notes that one would go too far to say that the Puritans, in their otherworldliness, eschewed entirely the wonders of nature, but that they did clearly give it second place at best to their dreams of heaven. Murphy aptly demonstrates this point with Anne Bradstreet’s “The Flesh and the Spirit” (1612-1672), and we will quote more generously from that poem.
_ _ _
The poem is a sort of dialogue or debate between the flesh and the spirit, and it may be appreciated as an internal debate - angel on the right shoulder versus devil on the left shoulder, so to speak. Flesh starts off with her seductions:
Sister, quoth Flesh, what liv’st thou on,
Nothing but meditation?
Doth contemplation feed thee so
Regardlessly to let earth go?
Can speculation satisfy
Notion without reality?
Dost dream of things beyond the moon,
And dost thou hope to dwell there soon?
Hast Treasures laid up in store
That all in th’ world thou count’st but poor?
…
Flesh continues:
Come, come, I’ll show unto thy sense,
Industry hath its recompense.
What canst desire, but thou may’st see
True substance in variety?
Dost honour like? Acquire the same,
As some to their immortal fame,
And trophies to thy name erect
Which wearing time shall ne’er deject.
For riches doth thou long full sore?
Behold enough of precious store.
Earth hath more silver, pearls, and gold,
Than eyes can see or hands can hold.
Affect’s thou pleasure? Take thy fill,
Earth hath enough of what you will.
Now we will take up Spirit’s answer, and we will delightfully note how Mrs. Bradstreet was not beyond temptation, and indeed it is reported that she had her hard struggles maintaining the faith, as I suppose all believers do.
Be still thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my unsettled heart,
For I have vowed (and so will do)
Thee as a foe still to pursue.
And combat with thee will and must,
Until I see thee laid in th’ dust.
Sisters we are, yea, twins we be,
Yet deadly feud ‘twixt thee and me;
For from one father we are not,
Thou by old Adam wast begot,
But my arise is from above,
Whence my dear Father I do love.
Thou speak’st me fair, but hat’st me sore,
Thy flatt’ring shows I’ll trust no more.
How oft thy slave, hast thou me made,
When I believed what thou hast said,
And never had more cause of woe
Than when I did what thou bad’st do.
I’ll stop mine ears at these thy charms,
And count them for my deadly harms.
…
Spirit continues, laying out what she has:
How I do live, thou need’st not scoff,
For I have meat thou know’st not of;
The hidden manna I do eat,
The word of life it is my meat.
My thoughts do yield me more content
Than can thy hours in pleasure spent.
[...]
Mine eye doth pierce the heavens and see
What is invisible to thee.
My garments are not silk nor gold,
Nor such like trash which earth doth hold,
But royal robes I shall have on,
More glorious than the glist’ring sun;
My crown not diamonds, pearls, and gold,
But such as angels heads enfold.
The city where I hope to dwell,
There’s none on earth can parallel;
The stately walls both high and strong,
Are made of precious jasper stone;
The gates of pearl both rich and clear,
And angels are for porters there;
The streets thereof transparent gold,
Such as no eye did e’er behold;
A crystal river there doth run,
Which doth proceed from the Lamb’s throne.
[…]
From sickness and infirmity
For evermore they shall be free;
Nor withering age shall e’er come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear;
This city pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there shall not be.
If I of heaven may have my fill,
Take thou the world and all that will.
Ah, say what you will, even if all this is moonshine and empty lore, I could use a faith like that, being so poor in the ways of the world and of love. Literature is great and makes the day worth living, but it is not happiness.
_ _ _
The poem is a sort of dialogue or debate between the flesh and the spirit, and it may be appreciated as an internal debate - angel on the right shoulder versus devil on the left shoulder, so to speak. Flesh starts off with her seductions:
Sister, quoth Flesh, what liv’st thou on,
Nothing but meditation?
Doth contemplation feed thee so
Regardlessly to let earth go?
Can speculation satisfy
Notion without reality?
Dost dream of things beyond the moon,
And dost thou hope to dwell there soon?
Hast Treasures laid up in store
That all in th’ world thou count’st but poor?
…
Flesh continues:
Come, come, I’ll show unto thy sense,
Industry hath its recompense.
What canst desire, but thou may’st see
True substance in variety?
Dost honour like? Acquire the same,
As some to their immortal fame,
And trophies to thy name erect
Which wearing time shall ne’er deject.
For riches doth thou long full sore?
Behold enough of precious store.
Earth hath more silver, pearls, and gold,
Than eyes can see or hands can hold.
Affect’s thou pleasure? Take thy fill,
Earth hath enough of what you will.
Now we will take up Spirit’s answer, and we will delightfully note how Mrs. Bradstreet was not beyond temptation, and indeed it is reported that she had her hard struggles maintaining the faith, as I suppose all believers do.
Be still thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my unsettled heart,
For I have vowed (and so will do)
Thee as a foe still to pursue.
And combat with thee will and must,
Until I see thee laid in th’ dust.
Sisters we are, yea, twins we be,
Yet deadly feud ‘twixt thee and me;
For from one father we are not,
Thou by old Adam wast begot,
But my arise is from above,
Whence my dear Father I do love.
Thou speak’st me fair, but hat’st me sore,
Thy flatt’ring shows I’ll trust no more.
How oft thy slave, hast thou me made,
When I believed what thou hast said,
And never had more cause of woe
Than when I did what thou bad’st do.
I’ll stop mine ears at these thy charms,
And count them for my deadly harms.
…
Spirit continues, laying out what she has:
How I do live, thou need’st not scoff,
For I have meat thou know’st not of;
The hidden manna I do eat,
The word of life it is my meat.
My thoughts do yield me more content
Than can thy hours in pleasure spent.
[...]
Mine eye doth pierce the heavens and see
What is invisible to thee.
My garments are not silk nor gold,
Nor such like trash which earth doth hold,
But royal robes I shall have on,
More glorious than the glist’ring sun;
My crown not diamonds, pearls, and gold,
But such as angels heads enfold.
The city where I hope to dwell,
There’s none on earth can parallel;
The stately walls both high and strong,
Are made of precious jasper stone;
The gates of pearl both rich and clear,
And angels are for porters there;
The streets thereof transparent gold,
Such as no eye did e’er behold;
A crystal river there doth run,
Which doth proceed from the Lamb’s throne.
[…]
From sickness and infirmity
For evermore they shall be free;
Nor withering age shall e’er come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear;
This city pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there shall not be.
If I of heaven may have my fill,
Take thou the world and all that will.
Ah, say what you will, even if all this is moonshine and empty lore, I could use a faith like that, being so poor in the ways of the world and of love. Literature is great and makes the day worth living, but it is not happiness.
