|With the appearance of the little volume and the passing of the
flutter of interest and excitement it had aroused, the Andover
life subsided into the channel through which, save for one or two
breaks, it was destined to run for many years. Until 1653, nothing
of note had taken place, but this year brought two events, one
full of the proud but quiet satisfaction the Puritan mother felt
in a son who had ended his college course with distinction, and
come home to renew the associations somewhat broken in his four
years absence; the other, a sorrow though hardly an unexpected
one. Samuel Bradstreet, who became a physician, living for many
years in Boston, which he finally left for the West Indies, was
about twenty at the time of his graduation from Harvard, the
success of which was very near Anne Bradstreet's heart and the
pride of his grandfather, Governor Dudley, who barely lived to see
the fruition of his wishes for this first child of his favorite
daughter. His death in July, 1653, softened the feeling that seems
slowly to have arisen against him in the minds of many who had
been his friends, not without reason, though many of them had
showed quite as thorough intolerance as he. With increasing years,
Dudley's spirit had hardened and embittered against all who
ventured to differ from the cast-iron theology his soul loved.
Bradstreet and Winthrop had both been a cross to him with the
toleration which seemed to him the child of Satan himself. His
intense will had often drawn concessions from Winthrop at which
his feelings revolted and he pursued every sort of sectary with a
zeal that never flagged. Hutchinson wrote: "He was zealous beyond
measure against all sorts of heretics," and Roger Williams said
bitterly: "It is known who hindered but never promoted the liberty
of other men's consciences."
Between the "vagaries of many sectaries," the persistent and
irrepressible outbreaks from Roger Williams, the bewildering and
confounding presumption of Anne Hutchinson, who seems to have been
the forerunner of other Boston agitations of like nature, Governor
Dudley's last days were full of astonishments, not the least being
the steady though mild opposition of his son-in-law Bradstreet to
all harsh measures. Toleration came to seem to him at last the
crowning sin of all the ages, and his last recorded written words
are a valiant testimony against it. There was a curious tendency
to rhyme in the gravest of these decorous Fathers; a tendency
carefully concealed by some, as in John Winthrop's case, who
confined his "dropping into poetry" to the margins of his
almanacs. Others were less distrustful, and printed their "painful
verses" on broad sheets, for general circulation and oppression.
Governor Dudley rhymed but once, but in the bald and unequal
lines, found in his pocket after death, condensed his views of all
who had disagreed from him, as well as the honest, sturdy
conviction in which he lived and died. They were written evidently
but a short time before his death, and are in the beginning much
after the order of his daughter's first poem.
Dim Eyes, deaf Ears, cold Stomach, shew
My dissolution is in view,
Eleven times seven near liv'd have I.
And now God calls I willing Die,
My Shuttle's shot, my Race is run,
My Sun is set, my Day is done.
My span is measured, Tale is told,
My Flower is faded and grown old.
My Dream is vanish'd, Shadows fled,
My Soul with Christ, my Body Dead,
Farewel dear Wife, Children and Friends,
Hate Heresie, make Blessed Ends,
Bear Poverty, live with good Men;
So shall we live with Joy agen.
Let men of God in Courts and Churches watch,
O're such as do a Toleration hatch,
Lest that ill Egg bring forth a Cockatrice
To poison all with Heresie and Vice.
If Men be left and otherwise Combine,
My epitaph's I DY'D NO LIBERTINE.
To the old Puritan, scowling to the last at any shade of
difference from the faith to which he would willingly have been a
martyr, a "Libertine" included all blasphemous doubters and
defiers of current beliefs--Quakers, Antinomians and other
pestilent people who had already set the Colony by the ears and
were soon to accomplish much more in this direction. The verses
were at once creed and protest, and are a fair epitome of the
Puritan mind in 1650. Other rhymes from other hands had expressed
equally uncompromising opinions. He had survived the anagramatic
warning sent to him by an unknown hand in 1645, which still stands
on the files of the first Church in Roxbury, and which may have
been written by one of his opponents in the General Court.
Ah! old must dye,
A death's head on your hand you need not weare;
A dying head you on your shoulders bear;
You need not one to mind you you must dye,
You in your name may spell mortalitye.
Young men may dye, but old men, these dye must,
'Twill not be long before you turn to dust.
Before you turn to dust! ah! must! old! dye!
What shall young men doe, when old in dust do lye?
When old in dust lye, what New England doe?
When old in dust do lye it's best dye too.
Death condoned these offences, and left only the memory of his
impartial justice and his deep and earnest piety, and Morton wrote
of him, what expressed the feeling even of his enemies: "His love
to justice appeared at all times, and in special upon the
judgement seat, without respect of persons in judgement, and in
his own particular transactions with all men, he was exact and
exemplary. His zeal to order appeared in contriving good laws and
faithfully executing them upon criminal offenders, heretics and
underminers of true religion. He had a piercing judgement to
discover the wolf, though clothed with a sheepskin. His love to
the people was evident, in serving them in a public capacity many
years at his own cost, and that as a nursing father to the
churches of Christ. He loved the true Christian religion, and the
pure worship of God, and cherished as in his bosom, all godly
ministers and Christians. He was exact in the practice of piety,
in his person and family, all his life. In a word he lived
desired, and died lamented by all good men."
This was stronger language than the majority of his fellow-
colonists would have been inclined to use, his differences with
Governor Winthrop having embittered many of the latter's friends.
Winthrop's persistent gentleness went far toward quieting the
feeling against him, which seems to have taken deep root in
Dudley's breast, but the jealousy of his authority, and
questioning of his judgement, though perhaps natural from the
older man, brought about many uncomfortable complications. All the
towns about Boston had been ordered to send their quota to aid in
finishing the fort built in 1633, but Governor Dudley would not
allow any party from Newtown to be made up, nor would he give the
reason for such course to Governor Winthrop. There was cause, for
Salem and Saugus had failed to pay their share of money, and
Dudley's sense of justice would not allow his constituents to do
their share till all had paid the amount levied. Remonstrated
with, he wrote a most unpleasant letter, a habit of his when
offended, refusing to act till the reluctant Salem had paid. This
letter, brought to Winthrop by Mr. Hooker, he returned to him at
once. The rest of the story may be given in his own words. The
record stands in his journal given in the third person, and as
impartially as if told of another: "The governour told them it
should rest till the court, and withal gave the letter to Mr.
Hooker with this speech: I am not willing to keep such an occasion
of provocation by me. And soon after he wrote to the deputy (who
had before desired to buy a fat hog or two of him, being somewhat
short of provisions) to desire him to send for one, (which he
would have sent him, if he had known when his occasion had been to
have made use of it), and to accept it as a testimony of his good
will; and lest he should make any scruple of it, he made Mr.
Haynes and Mr. Hooker, (who both sojurned in his house) partakers
with him. Upon this the deputy returned this answer: 'Your
overcoming yourself hath overcome me. Mr. Haynes, Mr. Hooker, and
myself, do most kindly accept your good will, but we desire,
without offence, to refuse your offer, and that I may only trade
with you for two hogs;' and so very lovingly concluded."
There was no word, however, of yielding the disputed point, which
was settled for him a few days later. "The court being two days
after, ordered, that Newtown should do their work as others had
done, and then Salem, &c., should pay for three days at eighteen
pence a man."
The records of that time hold instance after instance of the
old man's obstinacy and Winthrop's gentle and most patient
consideration. To Anne, however, who came in contact only with his
milder side, it was an irreparable loss, and she never spoke of
him save with grateful and tender remembrance, her elegy on his
death, though conventional as the time made her, being full of the
sorrow time soothed but never destroyed.
To the Memory of my dear and ever honoured Father,
Thomas Dudley Esq.
Who deceased July 31, 1653, and of his Age, 77.
By duty bound, and not by custome led
To celebrate the praises of the dead,
My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse
Presents my Lamentations at his Herse,
Who was my Father, Guide, Instructor too,
To whom I ought whatever I could doe:
Nor is't Relation near my hand shall tye;
For who more cause to boast his worth than I?
Who heard or saw, observed or knew him better?
Or who alive then I, a greater debtor?
Let malice bite, and envy knaw its fill,
He was my Father, and Ile praise him still.
Nor was his name, or life lead so obscure
That pitty might some Trumpeters procure.
Who after death might make him falsly seen
Such as in life, no man could justly deem.
Well known and lov'd where ere he liv'd, by most
Both in his native, and in foreign coast,
These to the world his merits could make known,
So needs no Testimonial from his own;
But now or never I must pay my Sum;
While others tell his worth, Ile not be dumb:
One of thy Founders, him New England know,
Who staid thy feeble sides when thou wast low,
Who spent his state, his strength & years with care
That After-comers in them might have a share,
True Patriot of this little Commonweal,
Who is't can tax thee ought, but for thy zeal?
Truths friend thou wert, to errors still a foe,
Which caus'd Apostates to maligne so.
Thy love to true Religion e're shall shine,
My Fathers God, be God of me and mine,
Upon the earth he did not build his nest,
But as a Pilgrim. what he had, possest,
High thoughts he gave no harbour in his heart,
Nor honours pufft him up, when he had part;
Those titles loathed, which some do too much love
For truly his ambition lay above.
His humble mind so lov'd humility,
He left it to his race for Legacy;
And oft and oft, with speeches mild and wise,
Gave his in charge, that Jewel rich to prize.
No ostentation seen in all his wayes,
As in the mean ones of our foolish dayes.
Which all they have, and more still set to view,
Their greatness may be judg'd by what they shew.
His thoughts were more sublime, his actions wise,
Such vanityes he justly did despise.
Nor wonder 'twas, low things n'er much did move
For he a Mansion had, prepar'd above,
For which he sigh'd and pray'd & long'd full sore
He might be cloath'd upon, for evermore.
Oft spake of death, and with a smiling chear,
He did exult his end was drawing near,
Now fully ripe, as shock of wheat that's grown,
Death as a Sickle hath him timely mown,
And in celestial Barn hath hous'd him high,
Where storms, nor showrs, nor ought can damnifie.
His Generation serv'd, his labours cease;
And to his Fathers gathered is in peace.
Ah happy Soul, 'mongst Saints and Angels blest,
Who after all his toyle, is now at rest:
His hoary head in righteousness was found;
As joy in heaven on earth let praise resound.
Forgotten never be his memory,
His blessing rest on his posterity:
His pious Footsteps followed by his race,
At last will bring us to that happy place
Where we with joy each other's face shall see,
And parted more by death shall never be.
Within this Tomb a Patriot lyes
That was both pious, just and wise,
To Truth a shield, to right a Wall,
To Sectaryes a whip and Maul,
A Magazine of History,
A Prizer of good Company
In manners pleasant and severe
The Good him lov'd, the bad did fear,
And when his time with years was spent
If some rejoyc'd, more did lament.
Of the nine children, of whom Anne Bradstreet was the most
distinguished, the oldest son of his second wife took most
important part in the colonial life. Joseph Dudley, who was born
in 1647, became "Governor of Massachusetts, Lieutenant-Governor of
the Isle of Wight, and first Chief-Justice of New York. He had
thirteen children, one of whom, Paul, was also a distinguished
man; being Attorney-General and afterward Chief-Justice of
Massachusetts, Fellow of the Royal Society, and founder of the
Dudleian Lectures at Harvard College." His honors came to him
after the sister who prized them most had passed on to the Heaven
for which, even when happiest, she daily longed. None of the sons
possessed the strong characteristics of the father, but sons and
daughters alike seem to have inherited his love of books, as well
as of hospitality, and the name for every descendant has always
held honor, and often, more than fair ability. The preponderance
of ministers in every generation may, also, still gladden the
heart of the argumentative ancestor whose dearest pleasure was a
protracted tussle with the five points, and their infinitely
ramifying branches, aided and encouraged by the good wine and
generous cheer he set, with special relish, before all who could
meet him on his own ground.
It was fortunate for the daughter that many fresh interests were
springing up in her own family, which in 1654, received a new
member. One had already been added, in the person of the youngest
son John, who had been born in 1652, and was still a baby, and now
marriage gave another son, who valued her almost as heartily as
her own. Seaborn Cotton, whose name held always a reminder of the
stormy days on which his eyes opened, had grown into a decorous
youth, a course at Harvard, and an entering of his father's
profession, and though the old record holds no details, it is easy
to read between the lines, the story that told itself alike to
Puritan and Cavalier, and to which Mistress Dorothy listened with
a flutter beneath the gray gown that could not disguise the pretty
girlish outlines of her dainty figure. Dorothy, as well as the
other daughters, had been carefully trained in every housewifely
art, and though part of her mother's store of linen bleached in
Lincolnshire meadows, may have helped to swell her simple outfit,
it is probable that she spun and wove much of it herself. A
fulling mill, where the cloth made at home was finished and
pressed, had been built very early in the history of the town, and
while there were "spinsters" who went from house to house, much of
the work was done by mother and daughters. Seaborn Cotton, who
must often during his courtship have ridden over from Boston,
found Dorothy like the Priscilla she may have known, busy in the
graceful fashion of that older time, and--
... As he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated
beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at
her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with
her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.
Like Priscilla, too, she must have said--
... I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage, For
I was thinking of you as I sat there spinning and singing.
Dorothy had in full her mother's power of quiet devotion, and
became a model mother, as well as minister's wife, for the parish
at Hampton, N. H., where the young pastor began work in 1659, and
where after twenty-eight years of such labor as came to all
pioneers, she passed on, leaving nine children, whose name is
still a familiar one in New England. Though the date of the next
daughter's marriage is not quite as certain, it is given by some
authorities as having taken place in the previous year, and in any
case was within a few months of the same time. Contrary to the
usual Puritan rule, which gave to most men from two to four wives,
Sarah outlived her first husband, and married again, when a
middle-aged but still young-hearted woman.
Marriage inevitably held some suggestion at least of merry-making,
but the ceremony had been shorn of all possible resemblance to its
English form. The Puritans were in terror lest any Prelatical
superstitions or forms should cling to them in faintest degree,
and Bradford wrote of the first marriage which took place in the
Plymouth Colony: "The first marriage in this place, which,
according to the laudable custom of the Low Countries, in which
they had lived, was thought most requisite to be performed by the
magistrate, as being a civil thing, ... and nowhere found in the
Gospel to be laid on the ministers as a part of their office."
Winthrop, three of whose marriages had been in the parish
church of his English home, shared the same feeling, and when
preparations were made for "a great marriage to be solemnized at
Boston," wrote: "The bridegroom being of Hingham, Mr. Hubbard's
church, he was procured to preach, and came to Boston to that end.
But the magistrates hearing of it, sent to him to forbear. We were
not willing to bring in the English custom of ministers performing
the solemnity of marriage, which sermons at such times might
induce; but if any minister were present, and would bestow a word
of exhortation, &c., it was permitted."
Fortunately for Dorothy and Sarah Bradstreet, their father was a
magistrate, and his clear and gentle eyes the only ones they were
obliged to face. Andover couples prefered him to any other and
with reason, for while following the appointed method strictly,
"giving the covenant unto the parties and also making the prayers
proper for the occasion," he had no frowns for innocent enjoyment,
and may even have allowed the dancing which was afterward
In the beginning, as the largest in the township, his house had
probably served as stopping-place for all travellers, where they
were entertained merely as a matter of courtesy, though an
"inholder" or "taverner" had been appointed and liscenced for
Andover in 1648. Only an honored citizen could hold this office,
and marriages were often celebrated in their houses, which
naturally were enlarged at last to meet all necessities. But the
strong liquors of the inn often circulated too freely, and
quarrels and the stocks were at times the end of a day which it
had been planned should hold all the merriment the Puritan temper
would allow. Such misfortunes waited only on the humbler members
of the community, who appear to have been sufficiently quarrelsome
and excitable to furnish more occupiers of both pillory and
stocks, than the religious character of the settlement would seem
to admit, and who came to blows on the least provocation, using
their fists with genuine English ardor, and submitting to
punishment with composure, if only the adversary showed bruises
enough for compensation. Wine and beer flowed freely at both the
marriages, as they did at every entertainment, but Governor
Bradstreet, while having due liking for all good cheer, was
personally so abstinent that none would be likely in his presence
to forget proper bounds. Ministers and laymen alike drank an
amount impossible to these later days, and that if taken now would
set them down as hopeless reprobates; but custom sanctioned it,
though many had already found that the different climate rendered
such indulgence much more hazardous than the less exhilarating one
As the family lessened, the mother seems to have clung even more
closely to those that remained, and to have lost herself in work
for and with them. Whatever may have been written at this time,
appears to have been destroyed, nothing remaining but the poem
"Contemplations," which is more truly poetry than any of its more
labored predecessors, its descriptive passages holding much of the
charm of the lovely landscape through which she moved to the
river, flowing still through the Andover meadows.
Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide
When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride
Where gilded o're by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seemed painted but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow mixed hew,
Rapt were my sences at this delectable view.
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 & 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.
Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born?
Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn,
If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.
Then higher on the glistening Sun I gazed,
Whose beams was 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 Universes Eye
Had I not, better known, (alas) the same had I.
Thou as a bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes
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.
Thy swift Annual and diurnal Course,
Thy daily streight and yearly oblique path.
Thy pleasing fervor and thy scorching force,
All mortals here the feeling knowledg hath.
Thy presence makes it day thy absence night,
Quaternal Seasons caused by thy might;
Hail Creature full of sweetness, beauty and delight.
Art them 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 luster unto thee,
Admir'd, ador'd for ever, be that Majesty.
Silent alone, where none or saw or heard,
In pathless paths I lead my wandering feet;
My humble eyes to lofty Skyes I rear'd,
To sing some song my mazed Muse thought meet.
My great Creator I would magnifie,
That nature had thus decked liberally;
But Ah, and Ah, again my imbecility.
The reader who may be disposed to echo this last line must bear in
mind always, that stilted as much of this may seem, it was in the
day in which it appeared a more purely natural voice than had been
heard at all, and as the poem proceeds it gains both in force and
beauty. As usual she reverts to the past for illustrations and
falls into a meditation aroused by the sights and sounds about
her. The path has led to the meadows not far from the river,
I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad Cricket, bear a second part,
They kept one tune and plaid on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little Art.
Shall Creatures abject, thus their voices raise?
And in their kind resound their makers praise,
Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no higher layes.
* * * * *
When present times look back to Ages past,
And men in being fancy those are dead,
It makes things gone perpetually to last,
And calls back moneths and years that long since fled.
It makes a man more aged in conceit,
Then was Methuselah, or's grandsire great;
While of their persons & their acts his mind doth treat.
* * * * *
Sometimes in Eden fair, he seems to be,
Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all,
Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree,
That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral,
Who like a miscreant's driven from that place,
To get his bread with pain and sweat of face
A penalty impos'd on his backsliding Race.
* * * * *
Here sits our Grandame in retired place,
And in her lap, her bloody Cain new-born,
The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face,
Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn;
His Mother sighs to think of Paradise,
And how she lost her bliss to be more wise,
Beleiving him that was, and is Father of lyes.
* * * * *
Here Cain and Abel came to sacrifice,
Fruits of the Earth and Fallings each do bring,
On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies,
But no such sign on false Cain's offering;
With sullen, hateful looks he goes his wayes;
Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes,
Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise.
* * * * *
There Abel keeps his sheep no ill he thinks,
His brother comes, then acts his fratracide
The Virgin Earth, of blood her first draught drinks,
But since that time she often hath been clay'd;
The wretch with gastly face and dreadful mind,
Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind,
Though none on Earth but kindred near, then could he find.
* * * * *
Who fancyes not his looks now at the Barr,
His face like death, his heart with horror fraught,
Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr,
When deep dispair with wish of life hath fought,
Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes,
A vagabond to Land of Nod he goes;
A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes.
* * * * *
Who thinks not oft upon the Father's ages.
Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw,
The starry observations of those Sages,
And how their precepts to their sons were law,
How Adam sigh'd to see his Progeny,
Cloath'd 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) stil clad in green
The stones and trees insensible of time,
Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;
If winter come and greeness 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 then those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custome curs'd,
No sooner born, but grief and care makes 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.
* * * * *
Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth,
Because their beauty and their strength last longer
Shall I wish there, or never to have had birth,
Because they're bigger & their bodyes stronger?
Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye,
And when unmade, so ever shall they lye,
But man was made for endless immortality.
Here at last she is released from the didactic. She can look at
the sun without feeling it necessary to particularize her
knowledge of its--
"... swift Annual and diurnal Course,
Thy daily streight and yearly oblique path."
Imagination has been weighted by the innumerable details, more and
more essential to the Puritan mind, but now she draws one long
free breath, and rises far beyond the petty limit of her usual
thought, the italicised lines in what follows holding a music one
may seek for in vain in any other verse of the period:
Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm,
Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side,
Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm;
A lonely place with pleasures dignifi'd,
I once that lov'd the shady woods so well,
Now thought the rivers did the trees excel,
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 not crooks, nor rubs that there did lye
Could hinder ought but still augment its force,
O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds 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 may'st 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 Rivolets 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 streight they dive,
Eftsoon to Neptun's glassie Hall repair,
To see what trade they great ones there do drive
Who forrage ore 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 tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain,
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,
I judg'd my hearing better then 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, no cruciating cares
To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm.
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is everywhere,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water deer,
Reminds not what is past nor whats to come dost fear.
* * * * *
The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begin anew,
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better Region,
Where winter's never felt in that sweet airy legion.
* * * * *
Up to this point natural delight in the sights
and sounds of a summer's day has had its way, and
undoubtedly struck her as far too much enjoyment
for any sinful worm of the dust. She proceeds, therefore,
to chasten her too exuberant muse, presenting
for that sorely-tried damsel's inspection, the portrait
of man, as Calvin had taught her to view him.
* * * * *
Man at the best a creature frail and vain,
In knowledg 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
* * * * *
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 vexations
In weight and 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 spoiles 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 even for heav'n's bower.
But sad affliction comes & 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 in th' dust,
Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust;
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.
With this poem, Anne Bradstreet seems to have bidden a final
farewell to any attempt at sustained composition. A sense of
disgust at the poor result of long thought and labor appears to
have filled her, and this mood found expression in a deprecating
little poem in which humor struggles with this oppressive sense of
deficiency and incompleteness, the inclination on the whole,
however, as with most authors, being toward a lenient judgment of
her own inadequate accomplishment.
THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK.
Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise then true
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg)
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print,) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find
In this array, mong'st Vulgars mayst thou roam
In Critick's hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor.
Which caused her thus to turn thee out of door.