Verses on the burning of her house, by Anne Bradstreet

Some of you may know that I am a member of the Order of the Daughters of the King. One of my sisters at Truro escaped with her family in the wee hours of Thursday morning after she saw smoke coming through the floorboards of her bedroom. The house burned down. Immediately the DOK community, the Truro community, and her own neighborhood community began to do whatever they could to help her and her family since all they had were the pjs they were left standing in. But her response was great concern for others, and she was greatly concerned about fulfilling her responsibilities as the logistics coordinator for the DOK Diocesan Assembly this month. She was in charge of organizing registrations and food choices and all of her computer files were lost in the fire. Among the things she was very concerned about was whether those attending the Assembly would have the lunches they had requested. Even as she lost everything, her concern was for others and I was personally blown away by her witness. How could she be standing there looking at the ruins of her home and be concerned about what we are all having for lunch? Her thoughts went to others and not to herself, even in tragedy.

With the crisis now deepening in The Episcopal Church, some on the progressive side have called orthodox Anglicans "puritans." It is not meant to be a kind remark. I think I know what they mean (they mean puritanical), but the reality of who the Puritans were is quite different from the publicity they continue to get in these modern times. Case in point - one of my heroes, Anne Bradstreet. I mentioned her in my posting on one of the progressive blogs recently and thought perhaps it might be a good time to go back and revisit her poetry.

In light of my DOK sister, of the crisis that looms for us in the Church, and for the sake of great poetry, here is one of Puritan Anne Bradstreet's greatest poems, written after the burning of her house when she lost her personal library of 800 books.

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken'd was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.
He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.
No pleasant tale shall 'ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All's vanity.
Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.
Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho' this bee fled.
It's purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.
A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther's wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above.

By Anne Bradstreet, from Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 18th, 1666