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The Pulter Project
pulterproject.northwestern.edu
Poem 41

The Invocation of the Elements the
Longest Night1
in the Year 1655

Edited by Whitney Sperrazza

What is an elegy and how do we know when we’re reading one? The standard definition of an elegy is a lament for the dead, stemming from the Greek word elegos, or “song of mourning.” Pulter’s “Invocation of the Elements” does not explicitly call attention to itself as an elegy; in fact, it reads much more like a philosophical investigation. Like many of Pulter’s poems, it grapples with a range of themes surrounding mortality: nature, cosmology, redemption, and the relationship between body and soul. The poem opens with the poet pleading for death as her soul “rowl[s]” in darkness. The poet then invokes and addresses each of the four elements in turn—water, air, fire, and earth—as she explores the different ways her body and soul could be consumed.

But by line 8, when the poet references her “sad heart,” we glimpse the grief and despair that pervade this poem. Pulter invokes the elements and pleads for death as an antidote to the overwhelming trauma of losing seven children—“seven lovely buds” that have been “drawn dry” (line 21). That trauma and Pulter’s resulting grief drive the poem, which consequently explores how grief can inform and be informed by natural philosophy (a precursor to our modern understanding of science and its various fields of inquiry). Simultaneously lamentation for the dead and philosophical investigation, this poem offers an unusual example of an early modern elegy and a particularly complex aesthetic-scientific object.

In this edition of the poem, I explore several interrelated questions. First, how does Pulter both describe and perform grief throughout the poem? In other words, how does she invite the reader, through language and form, to feel her grief over her children’s deaths? This performance of grief extends to the manuscript’s material features. The ample blank spaces between the poem’s stanzas invite us to consider what roles absence and silence can play in poetic representations of grief. Pulter’s manuscript includes more explicit elegies (Upon the Death of my Dear and Lovely Daughter, Jane Pulter10), and other poems that function more like “Invocation of the Elements”—we might call them elegy-hybrids (see, for instance, On those Two Unparalleled Friends, Sir George Lisle and Sir Charles Lucas, Who Were Shot to Death at Colchester7). How does “Invocation of the Elements” work alongside those others and invite us to extend our understanding of what an elegy is and the kind of work it does? As Frances E. Dolan notes about Pulter’s poem on Lisle and Lucas, “this poem is an anguished lament, but about what exactly?” (see Curation, Commemorating the Dead).

Second, my annotations consider the poem’s intersecting “modes of knowing”—Valerie Traub’s useful phrase for the methods by which things come to be known.1 In this poem, Pulter draws on many different modes of knowing that we would now separate into discrete fields, or disciplines: philosophy (“For what is death but cold and night, / Life being only heat and light?”); chemistry (“I into tears am rarified”); and physiology (“Then will my heart forget to beat / And trepidate within my breast”). The poem is also deeply informed by Pulter’s experience as a mother. How are these different modes of knowing displayed and how do they interact throughout the poem? How does this poem’s network of knowledges continue to enhance our understanding of Pulter as both poet and thinker?

The poem’s central conceit—the four elements—provides an important example of how different modes of knowing converge. The elements had philosophical, medical, and spiritual resonances in the early modern period, and we see all of these at work in Pulter’s poem. Inherited from Greek philosophy, early moderns used the four elements to explain nature and the different kinds of matter that exist in nature. Medically, the four elements were linked to the humoral theory of the body. Through the seventeenth-century, the dominant physiological theory was that the human body is made up of fluids. The essential fluids, or humors, corresponded to the four elements and to four distinct stages of life: blood (warm/moist physical qualities linked to air and infancy); yellow bile (warm/dry physical qualities linked to fire and youth); black bile (cold/dry physical qualities linked to earth and adulthood); and phlegm (cold/moist physical qualities linked to water and old age). Spiritually (or, perhaps, cosmologically), the four elements were also an important part of the microcosm-macrocosm understanding of the world—a way to explain humanity’s place in the universe. As Pulter interacts with each element in turn, where and how do we see these different modes of knowing intersect?

  • 1. Traub, “The Nature of Norms in Early Modern England: Anatomy, Cartography, King Lear,” South Central Review 26:1/2 (2009): 42-81.
Compare Editions
i
1
Have patience, my afflicted soul;
2
Thou shalt not long in darkness
rowl2
.
3
I will the
Elements3
implore.
4
Then shall I need to beg no more
5
to come unto
my last, best feast4
.
Water
6
The
limpid5
lady’s my first guest.
7
Cool crystal Water, take thy part:
8
First,
that which circles my sad heart6
.
9
Or, if my tears will satisfy,
10
To tears I’ll quickly
rarefy7
11
Number them
not. Count8
sand or
star—9
12
You’ll
sooner number them by far10
.
13
Oh11
that they had been shed for sin12
,
14
Then they in heaven had bottled been.
15
Why were they shed?
Oh ask not why13
.
16
If I repeat my woes,
I die14
17
A double death. Oh ask no more,
18
Let me alone my loss
deplore15
.
19
Fair nymph, thou’st oft quenched thirst in me.
20
Retaliate and drink up me.
21
Seven lovely buds thou hast drawn dry.
22
Oh spare the rest, or else I die
23
A
treble16
death. Oh hear me speak!
24
Let not my heart so often break
25
But let death strike me once for all—
26
A little blow will make me fall.
27
Thou didst a whole world once
involve17
.
28
Then let me into thee
dissolve18
.
Air
29
Sweet Air, refresher of mankind,
30
Let me at last thy favor find.
31
Do but
exhaust19
a little vapor20
,
32
Thou’lt quickly blow out my life’s
taper21
.
33
’Twill be my last request to thee;
34
Thou’rt free to all, be so to me.
35
I oft have made thee such a feast22
36
That all the odors of the East
37
Could not with their sweet breath compare,
38
Blossoms so lovely, young, and rare:
39
The
woodbine23
, ere Aurora doth arise,
40
The
July-flower24
before the shadow flies,
41
The dewy
violet25
, or the
half-blown rose26
—
42
O say no more! My grief o’erflows.
43
I into tears am rarified27
,
44
And thou thy part will be denied.
45
Oh take this sigh28
, then, for thy part,
46
For such another breaks my
heart29
.
Fire
47
Most noble and illustrious fire,
48
Whom (though I know not) I admire,
49
If30
such an Element there be,
50
My strange petition is to thee.
51
O hearken to my last desire
52
And help my sad soul to expire.
53
Contract31
thy vigor, hold thy heat,
54
Then will
my heart forget to beat32
55
And
trepidate33
within my breast.
56
O then how sweet will be
my rest34
;
57
What a sweet slumber shall I take
58
When my sad dreams do me forsake
59
And cease my afflicted soul t’afright.
60
Welcome, O welcome, that blessed night35
.
61
Then do but my short breath exhale,
62
My structure straight to dust will fall.
63
Welcome, O welcome, that blessed night,
64
Which ushers in eternal light.
65
For what is death but cold and night36
,
66
Life being only heat and light?
67
Then all my heat to thee I’ll give,
68
And though I die, in thee I live.
Dust, or Earth
69
Dear
Dust37
, from thee I drew my birth.
70
Then come, and ‘tis but
Earth to Earth38
.
71
My lovely children thou hast taken.
72
Shall their sad mother be forsaken?
73
Aye me,
thou took’st them young and fair39
,
74
And leav’st me here with
hoary40
hair.
75
They,
lovely fair with snowy skin41
,
76
Did too, too soon thy favor win.
77
But I, involved with sin and sorrow,
78
Sadly expect thee night and morrow.
79
I ask no pyramid nor stately tomb;
80
Do but involve me in
thy spacious womb42
.
81
To beg this once, dear mother, give me leave:
82
O let thy bowels
yearn43
and me receive.
Macron symbol indicating the end of a poem.

Amplified Edition,

edited by Whitney Sperrazzai

Editorial Note

In my editions of Pulter’s poems, I prioritize accessibility and use my annotations to prompt further exploration. To make the poems accessible to the widest possible audience, I have modernized spelling, punctuation, and capitalization according to American English standards. My editions aim to demonstrate the complexity of Pulter’s thinking, while opening space for the reader’s own analysis and interpretation. I recognize editing as a political act and aim to be as transparent as possible about how I frame Pulter’s poems for the reader. My lengthy annotations are an attempt to reveal my thought processes and make clear the ideological networks that inform my readings.

As an important corollary to Pulter’s conceptual work, I also attend to the material expression of her manuscript object. Her manuscript pages reveal a glimpse of her thinking and writing processes, and I briefly note Pulter’s revisions to the poems in order to foreground her poetic craft. The manuscript features variants and revisions that invite multiple interpretations, and I encourage readers to refer to the manuscript images as they engage with Pulter’s writing. I offer some intertextual references to other early modern texts, but am most interested in drawing out how Pulter’s poems speak to each other as she reflects on clusters of ideas.

Macron symbol indicating the end of a poem.
  • Whitney Sperrazza, Rochester Institute of Technology
  • Longest Night
    Pulter includes a specific time stamp in several of her poems’ titles, such as The Complaint of Thames, 16474 and This Was Written in 1648, When I Lay in, With my Son John45. In this title, Pulter is hyper-specific, noting both year and date of composition. The “longest night” refers to the winter solstice (or midwinter), always mid-December for the Earth’s Northern Hemisphere. Pulter’s specificity here urges us to think about how the poem’s title offers important framing for its content—a meditation on the relationship among darkness, despair, and death. As we’ll see, the poet pleads for death by water, air, fire, and earth as the poem progresses. But even as this time stamp consequently seems the perfect framing for such a poem, the poem’s central themes are also undermined by this title. The winter solstice is a turning point, part of a yearly cycle. The longest night immediately gives way to the gradual lengthening of daylight and nature’s spring awakening. The poem’s title, then, raises some important questions for reading: Within the poem’s prominent themes of darkness, despair, and death, do we glimpse hope? Are there any signs of light in this seemingly dark poem?
  • rowl
    Editors often modernize “rowl” to “roll,” as Leah Knight and Wendy Wall do in their Elemental Edition of the poem. The modernization illuminates several useful connotations for Pulter’s word choice: “roll” can mean revolve, proceed, wander, or be enveloped. Maintaining Pulter’s original spelling, though, reminds us of the term’s important etymological (and aural) connections to the verb “ravel,” particularly its early spellings “rauel” and “rawil.” “Ravel,” in this context, means “to entangle; to confuse, perplex; to render incoherent or muddled” (“ravel, v.1,” OED Online). The feelings of confusion and incoherence evoked by this word are important for some of the later formal features I’ll track in this long poem.
  • Elements

    Pulter capitalizes "Elements" in this opening stanza as she invokes, or summons, the elements for assistance. The capitalization signals the importance of these entities for Pulter, and resonates with early modern understandings of the elements as particularly powerful forces. The four elements—water, air, fire, and earth—were a frequent topic of Renaissance poetry and natural philosophy. See, for instance, John Donne’s “The Dissolution,” which similarly uses the elements to reflect on loss and grief. Another useful comparison is Anne Bradstreet’s “The Four Elements.” Like Pulter, Bradstreet deals with each of the four elements in turn, but imagines the elements competing with each other to determine which is most important to human life. At the time Pulter was writing, the four elements were a familiar part of philosophical and scientific debates about the existence and creation of matter, central to the period’s renewed interest in atomism, for example.

    The term “elements” might also be defined more simply as “the constituent parts of a whole.” This definition is particularly useful in thinking about the structure of Pulter’s poem—four stanzas (four “elements”) that each constitute one part of an aesthetic whole. In early modern religious contexts, “elements” could also refer to the “bread and wine used in the Sacrament of the Eucharist” (“element, n.,” OED Online), which directly relates to the poem’s central conceit: death as the “last, best feast” (line 5).

  • my last, best feast
    Here in the last line of the opening stanza, Pulter introduces the poem’s central conceit: death as the “last, best feast.” The poet is not doing the eating but rather “beg[s]” to be eaten—consumed by death. The poet then invites each of the four elements to be a “guest” at the feast (line 6) and she describes the different ways her body could be consumed by each element.
  • limpid
    clear or pure, most often used in relation to fluids
  • that which circles my sad heart
    Pulter refers here to a common theory espoused in both medical and theological texts of the period: the pericardium—the membrane enclosing the heart—was understood to be a thin sac of water. In Thomas Gibson’s The Anatomy of Humane Bodies Epitomized, a lengthy compendium of anatomical knowledge published in several editions throughout the late-seventeenth and early-eighteenth centuries, Gibson helps his reader understand the fluid inside the pericardium by citing John 19.34: “This is that liquor that is supposed to have flown from the side of our Saviour when the soldier pierced it with a spear, for saith the Text (John 19.34.) There came forth blood and water” (London, 1682, Text Creation Partnership digital edition, Early English Books Online, p. 233). In Lewis Bayly’s The Practice of Piety, a hugely popular devotional manual (over 70 editions published by 1821), Bayly references the same story about “blood and water” flowing from Christ’s pierced side, and includes an explanatory marginal note that strikes a distinctly anatomical tone: “There is about man’s heart a skin called Pericardium containing water which cools and moistens the heart, lest it should be scorched with continual motion. This skin once pierced, man cannot live” (London, 1695, Text Creation Partnership digital edition, Early English Books Online, p. 459).
  • rarefy
    In early modern connotations, “rarefy” most frequently meant “to make thin” or “to make less dense in texture” (“rarefy, v.,” OED Online). Pulter draws on that meaning here as she contemplates how her body might be transformed into tears—the transformation of a solid into a liquid. Pulter explores similar kinds of material transformations in other poems, such as The Revolution16, where she considers how her “tears” might “rarefy / to air” (lines 28-29).
  • not. Count
    The poem’s first of many medial caesuras—a break or pause in the metrical line that splits the line into two equal parts (in this case, four syllables on either side). Given Pulter’s striking, repeated use of the medial caesura in this stanza (lines 11, 15, 17, 18, 22, and 23), we might consider how her use of this formal feature compares to her contemporary poets. John Donne often uses medial caesuras in his devotional poems: “Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? / Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste” (“Thou hast made me,” lines 1-2). Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke offers another useful comparison because her psalm translations were such an important model for early modern poets like Pulter writing at the intersection of devotion and politics. In a psalm about God’s omniscience, Pembroke uses medial caesura to emphasize God’s knowledge of the poet’s movements: “if forth I march, thou goest before; / if back I turn, thou com’st behind” (Psalm 139, lines 15-16).
  • star—
    Pulter revised this line in the manuscript. The original line reads: “Number them not, but count each sand or star.” The revised line emphasizes the medial caesura, adding to the midline stops and starts throughout this stanza (see my note on “not. Count”). And the edit from “each sand” to “sand” is crucial for the questions about quantification Pulter raises in these lines. “Each sand” opens the possibility for counting (a collection of grains of sand that can “each” be counted), but “sand” (like “star”) seems an abstraction, a move away from the thing as countable material and a move toward the thing as uncountable idea.
  • sooner number them by far
    We find this theme of excessive weeping in many of Pulter’s poems, such as The Weeping Wish61 and On the Horrid Murder Of that Incomparable Prince14. In this poem, weeping is not confined, as we might expect, to the “Water” stanza. Pulter revisits this theme again in the “Air” stanza: “my grief o’erflows / I into tears am rarified” (lines 42-43).
  • Oh
    Pulter uses “oh” many times throughout this poem—five times in this stanza alone. Even though she is directly addressing each of the elements, she uses “oh” as an exclamation rather than direct address (or apostrophe), often during moments when she seems overwhelmed by grief. Given the term’s frequent use in apostrophe, though, we might wonder: is this word doing double work throughout the poem?
  • that they had been shed for sin
    With this conditional construction, Pulter draws on a commonplace connection between grief and repentance (she’ll do this again later when she pairs “sin and sorrow” in line 77). If I were weeping in repentance for my sins, the poet reflects, then my tears would be valuable (“in heaven … bottled” [line 14]). Instead, the poet’s tears are shed in grief over the loss of her seven children, first referenced in line 21. This brief nod to repentance, though, raises a useful question about how Pulter links her status as mother to her devotional explorations throughout the manuscript: what kind of relationship does Pulter construct here between the possibility of spiritual redemption and the experience of maternal grief? For more on the connection between grief and repentance, particularly in women’s writing, see Elizabeth Hodgson’s Grief and Women Writers in the English Renaissance (2015), especially pages 8-9.
  • Oh ask not why
    This and the next eight lines read as a dialogue between the poet and Water. The poet imagines Water asking about the reason for her grief (“why were they [her tears] shed?”). In response, the poet resists repeating the traumatic experiences of her children’s deaths (“If I repeat my woes, I die / a double death” [16-17]). The poet’s responses to Water recall one of Pulter’s poems on her daughter Jane’s death, Tell Me No More11. In both poems Pulter contemplates poetry’s role in articulating grief. Rather than give her reader the details of her children’s deaths, how can she use poetry to mark their absence and her grief? The repetition of “tell me no more” in the poem on Jane’s death is here reprised in the repetition of the exclamatory “Oh”; the echoed phrasing “Oh ask not why” (line 15), “Oh ask no more” (line 17), and “O say no more” (line 42); and the pattern “I die / a n death” (lines 16-17; 22-23).
  • I die
    Pulter uses enjambment—the continuation of a sentence or clause through a line break—to emphasize the language of death and dying. “I die” lingers at the end of line 16. Grammatically, the sentence is complete, but Pulter adds the extra weight of “double death” in the next line. How does the formal feature of enjambment contribute to Pulter’s poetic representation of grief throughout the rest of the poem? What effect does it have on the reader, particularly if the poem is read aloud?
  • deplore
    weep for, grieve over, lament
  • treble
    triple
  • involve
    Pulter ends her address to Water with a biblical reference to the Old Testament flood, narrated in the Book of Genesis, chapter 7. “Involve” here means “to envelop or enfold.” As water enveloped the world during the flood, the poet pleads for Water to engulf her. “Involve” is a particularly rich term throughout the manuscript, often connected to the “dissolution” of the poet’s body (here: “involve” in line 27 rhymes with “dissolve” in line 28). For more on this term in Pulter’s poetry, see Liza Blake, “Hester Pulter’s Particle Physics and the Poetics of Involution,” Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies 20.2 (2020): 71-98.
  • dissolve
    In this context, “dissolve” has some particularly grisly connotations: “to destroy the physical integrity; to disintegrate, decompose” and “to melt or reduce into a liquid condition” (“dissolve, v.,” OED Online). Given the highly physical experience of death Pulter evokes in this line, we might consider: how does Pulter’s engagement with death in this poem compare to her representation of death in other poems—The Hope65 or The Circle [3]25, for example?
  • exhaust
    to draw out or expend
  • a little vapor
    This line again emphasizes the fragility of the poet’s corporeal form, recalling the end of the “Water” stanza, where the poet notes, “a little blow will make me fall” (26). “Vapor” is an especially important word choice because it suggests a steamy or moist emission as water transforms into air. In John Swan’s Speculum Mundi, a popular seventeenth-century encyclopedia, he links “vapors” to “clouds”: an “exhalation cold and moist, drawn from the earth out of wet or watery places” (Cambridge, 1635, Text Creation Partnership digital edition, Early English Books Online, p. 143). When Pulter was writing, “vapor” was also a word used in relation to scent. Fragrances were still understood to be emitted as smoke or vapor, which connects to Pulter’s description of the garden in this stanza and her reference to odor as “sweet breath” (lines 36-41).
  • taper
    candlewick, or another word for a wax candle used in devotional or penitential contexts
  • I oft have made thee such a feast
    Another kind of “feast” in the poem—this time a feast of smells and odors—that recalls the “last, best feast” of the opening stanza. The poet goes on to describe briefly the “sweet breath” of her garden’s “blossoms” (lines 38-41), but then cuts herself off, overwhelmed again by grief. Pulter uses garden references and metaphors to do interesting work throughout the manuscript. See, for instance, Invitation to the Country2, which, as Liza Blake shows us in her Amplified Edition, construes the garden as both an instrument of political agency and a space of political retreat. Or we could look at The Snail, The Tulip, and The Bee118, which imagines the garden as a female separatist community. Finally, we might wonder how the manuscript’s most explicit garden poem (The Garden, or The Contention of Flowers12) both informs and is informed by these other representations.
  • woodbine
    honeysuckle flowering plant (lonicera periclymenum), which releases fragrance at night
  • July-flower
    Pulter’s preferred term for “gillyflower,” a common name for several varieties of flowering plants, many of which are heavily scented, including the wallflower (Erysimum genus) and the stock (Matthiola genus).
  • violet
    The violet (Violacea family) was especially noted for its fragrance in early modern contexts. In The Garden12, the violet flower boasts that it “perfume[s] the air with fair Aurora” (line 282). For an excellent account of the violet’s use in perfumes and herbal recipes, see Colleen Kennedy’s post, “Smelling ‘Violet’ in Renaissance Works,” on The Recipes Project.
  • half-blown rose
    Half-bloomed or half-blossomed. Another flower praised for its scent in early modern contexts, the rose was also a primary example of the ephemerality of youth and beauty, here a reminder of Pulter’s children (“seven lovely buds” [line 21]) and the catalyst for her eruption of grief in the subsequent line. For more on the rose’s scent and the political ramifications of its ephemerality, see Holly Dugan’s chapter on roses, rosewater, and English courts in The Ephemeral History of Perfume: Scent and Sense in Early Modern England (2011).
  • I into tears am rarified
    This line directly echoes language from the “Water” stanza and reinforces the poem’s attention to material transformations (see my notes at lines 10 and 31). For another exploration of grief in relation to the material transformation of water and air, see the “sad circle” of sighs and tears in The Circle [1]17.
  • Oh take this sigh
    The “sigh” is Air’s “part,” but Air is denied the rest of the poet’s body, which is again consumed by water (“tears”). Sighs are a constant theme in Pulter’s poetry, signalled in the title pages for the manuscript’s poems and emblems: “Poems Breathed Forth by the Noble Hadassas” and “The Sighs of a Sad Soul Emblematically Breathed Forth by the Noble Hadassah.” But these last two lines of the “Air” stanza show us that the sigh is not just of thematic interest to Pulter; rather, these lines start with a literal exhalation of air—oh. Throughout the poem, but especially here, “oh” is both sigh and breath, a formal marker and performance of feeling.
  • heart
    In the manuscript this stanza is followed by a large blank space that fills the rest of the page before the “Fire” stanza begins on the facing leaf. Are we meant to imagine that the poet’s feeling sigh in line 45 (both sigh and breath; both written “oh” and aural exhalation) gives way to a moment of silence? How does this material feature of the manuscript—the blank page space—enhance the poetic work of the “sigh” at the stanza’s end?
  • If
    Pulter begins this stanza emphasizing her unfamiliarity with fire—"whom (though I know not) I admire” (line 48)—so this invitation to the “last, best feast,” more than the others, is a “strange petition” (line 50). The “if” is significant, an exploratory tool that introduces the rhetoric of scientific inquiry into Pulter’s poem. Fire’s status as an element was increasingly contested in seventeenth-century natural philosophy. John Donne succinctly cites the debate in his “Anatomy of the World”: “and new philosophy calls all in doubt; / the element of fire is quite put out” (lines 205-206). For more on the use of “if” and the rhetoric of scientific hypothesis in early modern texts, see Chapter 3 of Jonathan P. Lamb’s Shakespeare in the Marketplace of Words (Cambridge University Press, 2017).
  • Contract
    to draw in, condense
  • my heart forget to beat
    Pulter’s emphasis on the heart as the body’s life-giving center recalls her lines in the “Water” stanza about the pericardium (see my note at line 8). These lines can seem a bit opaque: how will fire “hold[ing] its heat” result in the poet’s heart stopping? In William Harvey’s foundational work on the circulatory system (1628)—the first detailed account of how blood circulates through the body—Harvey associated heat with the motion of blood: “the blood, therefore, required to have motion, and indeed such a motion that it should return again to the heart … for we see motion generating and keeping up heat and spirits under all circumstances.” Harvey’s explanation helps us understand Pulter’s line: by holding its heat and, thereby, denying heat to the poet’s body, fire would cause the poet’s blood to stop circulating. See Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart, Chapter XV, page 69, cited from The Works of William Harvey, trans. Robert Willis, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989.
  • trepidate
    to tremble with fear
  • my rest
    Here Pulter draws on the familiar trope of sleep as a kind of death. Shakespeare’s Hamlet includes a famous use of this analogy in Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” soliloquy: “to die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream” (Act 3, Scene 1). Pulter threads this trope through the remainder of this stanza with references to “sweet slumber,” “sad dreams,” and “blessed night.” For an entire poem centered on this trope, see Why Art Thou Sad at the Approach of Night47.
  • Welcome, O welcome, that blessed night
    By repeating this line verbatim three lines later, Pulter uses her characteristic doubling to underscore the poet’s desire for death. The enveloped lines between the repetition convey an almost effortless death: the poet will exhale a “short breath” and her “structure” will “fall” to “dust.” Death is not only “welcome,” but easy.
  • For what is death but cold and night
    Pulter’s definition of death as “cold and night” turns us back to the poem’s title where she records its composition on the “longest night in the year.” We might also think about how this question about the definition of death and life connect to Pulter’s use of “if” at the stanza’s opening. The Fire stanza, more than any of the others, seems truly an exploration, first marked by the conditional “if,” then by Pulter’s reflection on the relationship between blood and heat, and finally here by the interrogative mode at the stanza’s end.
  • Dust
    “Dust” is one of Pulter’s frequent preoccupations throughout the manuscript and she often uses this term to refer to the element of Earth. For some other poems that consider “dust,” see Dear God, From Thy High Throne Look Down63 and The Hope65.
  • Earth to Earth

    This stanza’s opening lines introduce the concept of life as a circle, succinctly captured by the phrase “Earth to Earth.” The life/death cycle provides important framing for the stanza’s maternal themes. Even though Pulter draws on her status as mother throughout the rest of the poem, in this stanza she explicitly identifies herself as “mother” (line 72) for the first time and uses that identification as leverage to petition Mother Earth.

    An important context underlying Pulter’s themes in this stanza is the very real fear of death that accompanied childbirth in early modern England. Giving birth was a dangerous process and maternal and infant mortality rates were high. How does the connection between death and motherhood function in this stanza compared to, for instance, This Was Written in 1648, When I Lay in, With my Son John45? For more on Pulter’s status as mother and how she contemplates her mortality through her motherhood, see Amanda Zoch, “Rewriting the Lying-In: Hester Pulter, Katherine Philips, and the Felt Mortality of Pregnancy,” Early Modern Women 15.1 (2020): 3-25, and Lying-In in the Curations for Poem 45.

  • thou took’st them young and fair
    Revised in the manuscript. The original line reads, “Aye me, thou took’st them faire.” It seems that Pulter’s insertion of “young and” is a practical formal revision to ensure the line fits metrically with the next line. But we might also ask, does this revision do conceptual work too, as we saw in Pulter’s revision to line 11?
  • hoary
    grey, white with age
  • lovely fair with snowy skin
    Pulter’s language here echoes her elegies on Jane Pulter’s death, Upon the Death of my Dear and Lovely Daughter, Jane Pulter10 and Tell Me No More [On the Same]11. In “Upon the Death,” for example, Pulter describes how “fever spot[s]” appeared on Jane’s “snowy skin.” Like this poem, both elegies depict a mother consumed with grief over the loss of her child. The echoes between this poem and Pulter’s more traditional elegies bring us back to my question in the poem’s “Headnote”: what is an elegy and how do we know when we’re reading one?
  • thy spacious womb

    Pulter joins many of her contemporary poets in representing Earth as a fertile mother who both gives and takes life. In John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Hell’s demons “rifle[ ] the bowels of their mother Earth” (1.687) and, when Adam bites the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, Milton describes the Earth “trembl[ing] from her entrails, as again / in pangs” (9.1000). Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke, also consistently draws on this metaphor in her psalm translations: “All things in brief, that life in life maintain, / From earth’s old bowels fresh and youngly grows” (Psalm 104, lines 47-48). Both Milton and Pembroke’s uses of this metaphor remind us that this is a common biblical trope, one with which Pulter would have been very familiar. In Pulter’s representation, Earth’s womb is central to the life/death cycle and the Earth’s “bowels” ultimately become the poet’s final desired resting place.

    When I read this final stanza, I think about Pulter’s representation of Earth as a living, maternal organism in contrast to increasingly mechanistic representations of nature in seventeenth-century England. Within several decades of Pulter’s writing, changing attitudes toward science and the study of nature would result in widespread attempts to control, contain, and dominate the natural world. English poet Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1743-1825) confronts this shift in her 1773 poem “The Invitation,” where she describes scientists that “pensive creep” and “hunt” nature “to her elemental forms.” For foundational ecofeminist work to read alongside Pulter’s representation, see Carolyn Merchant, The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution (Harper & Row, 1980).

  • yearn
    The poem ends with the poet voicing her desire to be incorporated back into the earth. The Earth’s “yearn[ing]” here bookends the poet’s yearning in the poem’s opening stanza (how she “implore[s]” the Elements to attend her “last, best feast”). In early modern connotations, “yearn” could mean both “to have a strong desire or longing for” and “to be deeply moved; to feel something (as compassion, sympathy, etc.) intensely” (“yearn, v.1,” OED Online). The second connotation usefully extends the elegiac work of the poem we’ve traced thus far. How does this poem function not only as elegy, but specifically as a call for collective mourning? An invitation for the poem’s readers to mourn and “yearn” alongside the poet? To continue exploring these questions, we might now turn to one of Pulter’s elegies on her daughter’s death, where the poet asks “all…parents” to “lend one tear” to contribute to her lament (Upon the Death of my Dear and Lovely Daughter, Jane Pulter10).
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