American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ANNE BRADSTREET.

Biographical Sketch.

ANNE BRADSTREET, wife of Simon Bradstreet, governor of Massachusetts colony, and daughter of Governor Thomas Dudley, was born at Northampton, England, in the year 1612. She was married at the age of sixteen, and the following year came with her husband to this country. She died September 16th, 1672.

Although "merrie old Englande" claims her birth-place, the honour of her poetical fame belongs to America; for we find her recorded as the earliest poet of New England, where she gained much celebrity by the spirit and power of' her writings. Cotton Mather is warm in her praise, and declares that "her poems, divers times printed, have afforded a grateful entertainment unto the ingenious, and a monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marbles." The learned and excellent John Norton, of Ipswich, calls her "the mirror of her age, and the glory of her sex." That she must have been also a bright example to women, worthy of a close imitation, we cannot doubt; for we learn from the preface to the second edition of her poems, that she was as much loved for her gentleness, discretion, and domestic diligence, as she was admired for her genius, wit, and love of learning. The volume is pronounced to be "the work of a woman, honoured and esteemed where she lives, for her gracious demeanour, her eminent

parts, her pious conversation, her courteous disposition, her exact diligence in her place, and discreet managing of her family occasions; and more than so, these poems are the fruit but of some few hours, curtailed from her sleep, and other refreshments." What a sweet and rare description of a woman of genius!

The contents of her book are curious: a Poem upon the Four Elements, the Four Humours in Man's Constitution, the Four Ages of Man, and the Four Seasons of the Year; in these we are presented with personifications of Fire, Air, Earth, and Water; Choler, Blood, Melancholy, and Phlegm; Childhood, Youth, Middle Age, and Old Age; each of whom comes forth with an address in which its peculiar excellencies are depicted. Then follows a versified History of the Four Monarchies of the World; with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems. The subjoined extracts are from a long poem entitled Contemplations, and prove Mrs. Bradstreet to have been a genuine poet. The slow, stately measure she adopted, suits well the solemn majesty of her musing thoughts

FROM "CONTEMPLATIONS."

I WIST not what to wish, yet sure, thought I, If so much excellence abide below, How excellent is He, that dwells on high! Whose power and beauty by his works we know. Sure He is goodness, wisdome, glory, light, That hath this under world so richly dight: More heaven than earth was here, no winter and no night.

Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye, Whose ruffling top the clouds seemed to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine infancy? Thy strength, and stature, more thy years admire. Have hundred winters past since thou wast born? Or thousand since thou brak'st thy shell of horn? If so, all these as nought, eternity doth scorn.

Then higher on the glistering sun I gazed, Whose beams were shaded by the leavie tree,

The more I looked, the more I grew amazed,And softly said, what glory's like to thee?Soul of this world, this Universe's eye, No wonder some made thee a deity; Had I not better known, alas! the same had I.

Thou as a bridegroom from thy chamber rushest, And as a strong man joyes to run a race, The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes, The earth reflects her glances in thy face. Birds, insects, animals with vegetive, Thy heart from death and dulness doth revive, And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.

Art thou so full of glory, that no eye Hath strength thy shining rayes once to behold? And is thy splendid throne erect so high, As to approach it can no earthly mould? How full of glory then must thy Creator be, Who gave this bright light lustre unto thee! Admired, adored for ever, be that Majesty.

Who thinks not oft upon the fathers' ages, Their long descent, how nephew's sons they saw, The starry observations of those sages, And how their precepts to their sons were law; How Adam sighed to see his progeny Clothed all in his black sinful livery, Who neither guilt nor yet the punishment could fly.

Our life compare we with their length of dayes, Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive? And though thus short, we shorten many wayes, Living so little while we are alive; In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight, So unawares comes on perpetual night, And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight.

When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, The stones and trees, insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come, and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made; But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.

By birth more noble than those creatures all, Yet seems by nature and by custome cursed; No sooner born, but grief and care make fall That state obliterate he had at first. Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again, Nor habitations long their names retain, But in oblivion to the final day remain.

Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm,Close sate I by a goodly river's side, Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. I once that loved the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excell, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the longed-for Ocean held its course,I markt nor crooks nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder aught, but still augment its force; O happy Flood, quoth I, that holdst thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

Nor is 't enough that thou alone mayst slide,But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet:

Thou Emblem true of what I count the best, O could I lead my Rivulets to rest, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide, That for each season have your habitation, Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide, To unknown coasts to give a visitation, In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry, So nature taught, and yet you know not why, You watry folk that know not your felicity.

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air, Then to the colder bottome straight they dive, Eftsoon to Neptune's glassie Hall repair To see what trade the great ones there do drive, Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field, And take the trembling prey before it yield, Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.

While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain, Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judged my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight

O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating caresTo gain more good, or shun what might thee harm; Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer, Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent, Setts hundred notes unto thy feathered crew, So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old, begins anew, And thus they pass their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better Region Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak; Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, Each storm his state, his mind, his body break: From some of these he never finds cessation,But day or night, within, without, vexation, Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow. This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain, Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow: Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation, In weight, in frequency and long duration, Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide, And now become great Master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre, That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'n's bower

But sad affliction comes, and makes him see Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety; Only above is found all with security.

O Time! the fatal wrack of mortal things,That draws oblivion's curtain over kings, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their names without a Record are forgot, Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid i' th' dust, Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings 'scape Time's rust; But he whose name is graved in the white stone, Shall last and shine, when all of these are gone.