As weary pilgrim now at rest, Hugs with delight his silent nest His wasted limbes now lye full soft That myrie steps have trodden oft. Blesses himself to think upon his dangers past, and travails 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 wolves at him shall catch He erring pathes no more shall tread nor wilde fruits eate, instead 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 farewell and meanes in safity now to dwell. A pilgrim I, on earth, perplext, Wth sinns wth cares and sorrovys 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 blesst. 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 n'er cumbred be Nor losses know, nor sorrows 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 upon A corrupt Carcasse ddwne it lyes A glorious body it shall rise In weakness and dishonour sowne in power 'tis rais'd by Christ alone When soule and body shall unite and of their maker have the sight Such lasting joyes shall there behold as care ne'r heard nor tongue e'er told Lord make me ready for that day then Come dear bridegrome, Come away.
The long waiting ended at last, and her son, Simon Bradstreet, wrote in his diary:
"Sept. 16, 1672. My ever honoured & most clear Mother was translated to Heaven. Her death was occasioned by a consumption being wasted to skin & bone & she had an issue made in her arm bee: she was much troubled with rheum, & one of ye women yt tended herr dressing her arm, s'd shee never saw such an arm in her Life, I, s'd my most dear Mother but yt shall bee a Glorious Arm.
"I being absent fro her lost the opportunity of committing to memory her pious & memorable xpressions uttered in her sicknesse. O yt the good Lord would give unto me and mine a heart to walk in her steps, considering what the end of her Conversation was, yt so wee might one day have a happy & glorious greeting."
Dorothy, the wife of Seaborn Cotton and the namesake of her grandmother, had died in February of the same year, making the first break in the family circle, which had been a singularly united one, the remainder all living to advanced years. Grief at the loss had been softened by the certainty that separation could not last long, and in spite of the terror with which her creed filled even the thought of death, suffering had made at last a welcome one. No other touch could bring healing or rest to the racked and weary body, and deeply as Simon Bradstreet mourned her loss, a weight rolled away, when the long suffering had ended.
That the country-side thronged to the funeral of the woman whose name was honored in every New England settlement, we may know, but no record remains of ceremony, or sermon, or even of burial place. The old graveyard at Andover holds no stone that may perhaps have been hers, and it is believed that her father's tomb at Roxbury may have received the remains, that possibly she herself desired should lie by those of her mother. Sermons were preached in all the principal churches, and funeral elegies, that dearest form of the Puritan muse, poured in, that by John Norton being the best illustration of manner and method.
A FUNERAL ELOGY,
Upon that Pattern and Patron of Virtue, the truely pious, peerless matchless Gentlewoman
MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET,
right Panaretes,