PODCAST
POETRY AT THE BOWNE HOUSE
In this podcast episode, Bowne House educators read a poem written by John Bowne in c. 1692, followed by a second poem written by Samuel Bowne Parsons in 1841. They are rare examples of verse composed by Bowne family members, providing us insight into their personal thoughts and sentiments.
Transcript Available Here
POEM 1
The first poem we discuss was written by John Bowne (1627-1695) in c. 1692, to a love interest after the death of his second wife. Interestingly, the recipient of this poem remains unknown. Bowne may have been writing to his future third wife, Mary Cock. Alternatively, it could have been written for (or about) another woman who did not accept his proposal.
The original verse was written in John Bowne’s account book and was later transcribed in the manuscripts of Jacob Titus Bowne (1847-1925).
Dear p: my real friend is gone unto his rest
Unto whom I did unfold the secret of my brest
And he did mee advise to one I’d little known
Who then with mee did sympathys and she became my owne
But she is gone to her eternal rest
And hee alsoe, where they are ever blest
Now wee are left Its soford so to bee
Why thou not become a wife to mee
But hearken yet what I desire of thee
Its what in truth may honorable bee
Plese to give anser in reallatee
that I may know what is thy mynd to mee
I hope I shall In chastetee remain
Till in truth’s order I may thee obtain
Be pleased in tru love thy anser for to send
To him who resteth in true love
Thy honest hearted friend
Source: Jacob Titus Bowne, volume 1, p. 138. The New York Public Library, Archives & Manuscripts Division.
POEM 2
The second poem was written by Samuel Bowne Parsons in 1841, to commemorate the death of one of the Fox Oaks. These two oak trees marked the spot where Quaker founder George Fox gave a sermon in Flushing in 1672. It is not surprising that Samuel Bowne Parsons would write a poem dedicated to these trees, as he was a passionate horticulturist and owner of the Parsons Nursery.
The ancient oak lies prostrate now,
Its limbs embrace the sod,
Where in the Spirit's strength and might,
Our pious fathers trod;
Where, underneath its spreading arms,
And by its shadows broad,
Clad in simplicity and truth,
They met to worship God.
No stately pillars round them rose,
No dome was reared on high;
The oaks their only columns were,
Their roof the arching sky;
No organ's deep-toned notes arose,
Or vocal songs were heard;
Their music was the passing wind,
Or song of forest bird.
And as His Spirit reached their hearts,
By man's lips speaking now,
A holy fire was in their eye,
Pure thought upon their brow;
And, while in silence deep and still,
Their souls all glowing were
With heartfelt peace and joy and love,
They felt that God was there.
Those pure and simple-minded men
Have now all passed away,
And of the scenes in which they moved,
These only relics lay;
And soon the last surviving oak,
In its majestic pride,
Will gather up its failing limbs
And wither at its side.
Then guard with care its last remains,
Now that its race is run;
No sacrilegious hand should touch
The forest's noblest one.
And when the question may be asked,
Why that old trunk is there?
'Tis but the place in olden time
God's holiest altars were.
Poem Source: Bowne House Archives
Text & Video Credits:
Research by Charlotte Jackson, Archival Consultant to the Bowne House
Audio & Transcript by David Silvernail & Emily Vieyra-Haley, Bowne House Educators
Video by Elise Helmers, Executive Director