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The Tenth Muse, Lately Sprung Up in America
In Memory

by Anne Bradstreet

of my dear grand-child Elizabeth Bradstreet,
who deceased August, 1665, being a year and half old.

Farewel dear babe, my hearts too much content, Farewel sweet babe, the plaesure of mine eye, Farewel fair flower that for a space was lent, Then ta'en away unto Eternity. Blest babe why should I once bewail thy fate, Or sigh the dayes so soon were terminate; Sith thou art setled in an Everlasting state. By nautre Trees do rot whey they are grown. And Plumbs and Apples throughly ripe do fall, And Corn and grass are in their season mown, And time brings down what is both strong and tall. But plants new set t be eradicate, And buds new blown, to have so short a date, Is by his hand a lone that guides nature and fate.

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