AN ANAGRAM.

ANNA BRADSTREET. DEER NEAT AN BARTAS.

So Bartas like thy fine spun Poems been, That Bartas name will prove an Epicene.

ANOTHER.

ANNA BRADSTREET. ARTES BRED NEAT AN.

There follows, what can only be defined as a gushing tribute from John Rogers, also metrical, though this was not included until the second edition.

"Twice I have drunk the nectar of your lines," he informs her, adding that, left "thus weltring in delight," he is scarcely capable of doing justice either to his own feelings, or the work which has excited them, and with this we come at last to the dedication in which Anne herself bears witness to her obligations to her father.

To her most Honoured Father, Thomas Dudley, Esq; these humbly presented,

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white. Of fairer Dames the Sun n'er Saw the face, Though made a pedestal for Adams Race; Their worth so shines in these rich lines you show Their paralels to finde I scarely know To climbe their Climes, I have nor strength nor skill To mount so high requires an Eagle's quill; Yet view thereof did cause my thoughts to soar, My lowly pen might wait upon these four I bring my four times four, now meanly clad To do their homage, unto yours, full glad; Who for their Age, their worth and quality Might seem of yours to claim precedency; But by my humble hand, thus rudely pen'd They are, your bounden handmaids to attend These same are they, from whom we being have These are of all, the Life, the Muse, the Grave; These are the hot, the cold, the moist, the dry, That sink, that swim, that fill, that upwards fly, Of these consists our bodies, Clothes and Food, The World, the useful, hurtful, and the good, Sweet harmony they keep, yet jar oft times Their discord doth appear, by these harsh rimes Yours did contest for wealth, for Arts, for Age, My first do shew their good, and then their rage. My other foures do intermixed tell Each others faults, and where themselves excel; How hot and dry contend with moist and cold, How Air and Earth no correspondence hold, And yet in equal tempers, how they 'gree How divers natures make one Unity Something of all (though mean) I did intend But fear'd you'ld judge Du Bartas was my friend. I honour him, but dare not wear his wealth My goods are true (though poor) I love no stealth But if I did I durst not send them you Who must reward a Thief, but with his due. I shall not need, mine innocence to clear These ragged lines will do 't when they appear; On what they are, your mild aspect I crave Accept my best, my worst vouchsafe a Grave. From her that to your self, more duty owes Then water in the boundess Ocean flows. Anne Bradstreet. March 20, 1642.

The reference in the second line, to "your four Sisters, clothed in black and white," is to a poem which the good governor is said to have written in his later days, "on the Four Parts of the World," but which a happy fate has spared us, the manuscript having been lost or destroyed, after his death. His daughter's verse is often as dreary, but both dedication and prologue admit her obligations to du Bartas, and that her verse was modeled upon his was very plain to Nathaniel Ward, who called her a "right du Bartas girl," with the feeling that such imitation was infinitely more creditable to her than any originality which she herself carefully disclaims in the

PROLOGUE.

1

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, Of cities founded, Commonwealths begun, For my mean pen are too superior things: Or how they all, or each their dates have run Let Poets and Historians set these forth, My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.

2

But when my wondring eyes and envious heart Great Bartas sugared lines, do but read o'er Fool I do grudg the Muses did not part 'Twixt him and me that overfluent store; A Bartas can do what a Bartas will But simple I according to my skill.

3

From school-boyes' tongues no rhet'rick we expect Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings, Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect; My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings And this to mend, alas, no Art is able, 'Cause nature, made it so irreparable.

4

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek, Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain By Art he gladly found what he did seek A full requital of his, striving pain Art can do much, but this maxima's most sure A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

5

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hand a needle better fits, A Poet's pen all Scorn I should thus wrong, For such despite they cast on Female wits; If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'l say it's stolen, or else it was by chance.

6

But sure the Antique Greeks were far more mild Else of our Sexe, why feigned they those Nine And poesy made, Calliope's own child; So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts' Divine, But this weak knot, they will full soon untie, The Greeks did nought, but play the fools & lye.

7

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are Men have precedency and still excel, It is but vain unjustly to wage warre: Men can do best, and women know it well Preheminence in all and each is yours; Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.

8

And oh ye high flown quills that soar the Skies, And ever with your prey still catch your praise, If e're you daigne these lowly lines your eyes Give Thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no bayes, This mean and unrefined ure of mine Will make you glistening gold, but more to shine.

With the most ambitious of the longer poems—"The Four Monarchies"— and one from which her readers of that day probably derived the most satisfaction, we need not feel compelled to linger. To them its charm lay in its usefulness. There were on sinful fancies; no trifling waste of words, but a good, straightforward narrative of things it was well to know, and Tyler's comment upon it will be echoed by every one who turns the apallingly matter-of-fact pages: "Very likely, they gave to her their choicest praise, and called her, for this work, a painful poet; in which compliment every modern reader will most cordially join."

Of much more attractive order is the comparatively short poem, one of the series of quaternions in which she seems to have delighted. "The Four Elements" is a wordy war, in which four personages, Fire, Earth, Air and Water, contend for the precedence, glorifying their own deeds and position and reproaching the others for their shortcomings and general worthlessness with the fluency and fury of seventeenth century theological debate. There are passages, however, of real poetic strength and vividness, and the poem is one of the most favorable specimens of her early work. The four have met and at once begin the controversy.

The Fire, Air, Earth and Water did contest Which was the strongest, noblest and the best, Who was of greatest use and might'est force; In placide Terms they thought now to discourse, That in due order each her turn should speak; But enmity this amity did break All would be chief, and all scorn'd to be under Whence issued winds & rains, lightning & thunder. The quaking earth did groan, the Sky looked black, The Fire, the forced Air, in sunder crack; The sea did threat the heav'ns, the heavn's the earth, All looked like a Chaos or new birth; Fire broyled Earth, & scorched Earth it choaked Both by their darings, water so provoked That roaring in it came, and with its source Soon made the Combatants abate their force; The rumbling, hissing, puffing was so great The worlds confusion, it did seem to threat Till gentle Air, Contention so abated That betwixt hot and cold, she arbitrated The others difference, being less did cease All storms now laid, and they in perfect peace That Fire should first begin, the rest consent, The noblest and most active Element.

Fire rises, with the warmth one would expect, and recounts her services to mankind, ending with the triumphant assurance, that, willing or not, all things must in the end be subject to her power.

What is my worth (both ye) and all men know, In little time I can but little show, But what I am, let learned Grecians say What I can do well skil'd Mechanicks may; The benefit all living by me finde, All sorts of Artists, here declare your mind, What tool was ever fram'd, but by my might? Ye Martilisk, what weapons for your fight To try your valor by, but it must feel My force? Your Sword, & Gun, your Lance of steel Your Cannon's bootless and your powder too Without mine aid, (alas) what can they do; The adverse walls not shak'd, the Mines not blown And in despight the City keeps her own; But I with one Granado or Petard Set ope those gates, that 'fore so strong were bar'd Ye Husband-men, your Coulters made by me Your Hooes your Mattocks, & what ere you see Subdue the Earth, and fit it for your Grain That so it might in time requite your pain; Though strong-limb'd Vulcan forg'd it by his skill I made it flexible unto his will; Ye Cooks, your Kitchen implements I frame Your Spits, Pots, Jacks, what else I need not name Your dayly food I wholsome make, I warm Your shrinking Limbs, which winter's cold doth harm Ye Paracelsians too in vain's your skill In Chymistry, unless I help you Still.

And you Philosophers, if e're you made A transmutation it was through mine aid, Ye silver Smiths, your Ure I do refine What mingled lay with Earth I cause to shine, But let me leave these things, my fame aspires To match on high with the Celestial fires; The Sun an Orb of fire was held of old, Our Sages new another tale have told; But be he what they will, yet his aspect A burning fiery heat we find reflect And of the self same nature is with mine Cold sister Earth, no witness needs but thine; How doth his warmth, refresh thy frozen back And trim thee brave, in green, after thy black. Both man and beast rejoyce at his approach, And birds do sing, to see his glittering Coach And though nought, but Salamanders live in fire And fly Pyrausta call'd, all else expire, Yet men and beasts Astronomers will tell Fixed in heavenly Constellations dwell, My Planets of both Sexes whose degree Poor Heathen judg'd worthy a Diety; There's Orion arm'd attended by his dog; The Theban stout Alcides with his Club; The valiant Persens, who Medusa slew, The horse that kil'd Beleuphon, then flew. My Crab, my Scorpion, fishes you may see The Maid with ballance, twain with horses three, The Ram, the Bull, the Lion, and the Beagle, The Bear, the Goat, the Raven, and the Eagle, The Crown, the Whale, the Archer, Bernice Hare The Hidra, Dolphin, Boys that water bear, Nay more, then these, Rivers 'mongst stars are found Eridanus, where Phaeton was drown'd. Their magnitude, and height, should I recount My Story to a volume would amount; Out of a multitude these few I touch, Your wisdome out of little gather much.

I'le here let pass, my choler, cause of wars And influence of divers of those stars When in Conjunction with the Sun do more Augment his heat, which was too hot before. The Summer ripening season I do claim, And man from thirty unto fifty framed, Of old when Sacrifices were Divine, I of acceptance was the holy Signe, 'Mong all thy wonders which I might recount, There's none more strange then Aetna's Sulphry mount The choaking flames, that from Vesuvius flew The over curious second Pliny flew, And with the Ashes that it sometimes shed Apulia's 'jacent parts were covered. And though I be a servant to each man Yet by my force, master, my masters can. What famous Towns, to Cinders have I turned? What lasting forts my Kindled wrath hath burned? The Stately Seats of mighty Kings by me In confused heaps, of ashes may you see. Where's Ninus great wall'd Town, & Troy of old Carthage, and hundred more in stories told Which when they could not be o'ercome by foes The Army, thro'ugh my help victorious rose And Stately London, our great Britian's glory My raging flame did make a mournful story, But maugre all, that I, or foes could do That Phoenix from her Bed, is risen New. Old sacred Zion, I demolished thee Lo great Diana's Temple was by me, And more than bruitish London, for her lust With neighbouring Towns, I did consume to dust What shall I say of Lightning and of Thunder Which Kings & mighty ones amaze with wonder, Which make a Caesar, (Romes) the world's proud head, Foolish Caligula creep under 's bed. Of Meteors, Ignus fatuus and the rest, But to leave those to th' wise, I judge it best. The rich I oft made poor, the strong I maime, Not sparing Life when I can take the same; And in a word, the world I shall consume And all therein, at that great day of Doom; Not before then, shall cease, my raging ire And then because no matter more for fire Now Sisters pray proceed, each in your Course As I, impart your usefulness and force.

Fully satisfied that nothing remains to be said, Fire takes her place among the sisterhood and waits scornfully for such poor plea as Earth may be able to make, surprised to find what power of braggadocio still remains and hastens to display itself.

The next in place Earth judg'd to be her due, Sister (quoth shee) I come not short of you, In wealth and use I do surpass you all, And mother earth of old men did me call Such is my fruitfulness, an Epithite, Which none ere gave, or you could claim of sight Among my praises this I count not least, I am th' original of man and beast, To tell what Sundry fruits my fat soil yields In Vineyards, Gardens, Orchards & Corn-fields, Their kinds, their tasts, their Colors & their smells Would so pass time I could say nothing else. The rich, the poor, wise, fool, and every sort Of these so common things can make report. To tell you of my countryes and my Regions, Soon would they pass not hundreds but legions; My cities famous, rich and populous, Whose numbers now are grown innumerous, I have not time to think of every part, Yet let me name my Grecia, 'tis my heart. For learning arms and arts I love it well, But chiefly 'cause the Muses there did dwell.

Ile here skip ore my mountains reaching skyes, Whether Pyrenean, or the Alpes, both lyes On either side the country of the Gaules Strong forts, from Spanish and Italian brawles, And huge great Taurus longer then the rest, Dividing great Armenia from the least; And Hemus, whose steep sides none foot upon, But farewell all for dear mount Helicon, And wondrous high Olimpus, of such fame, That heav'n itself was oft call'd by that name. Parnapus sweet, I dote too much on thee, Unless thou prove a better friend to me: But Ile leap ore these hills, not touch a dale, Nor will I stay, no not in Temple Vale, He here let go my Lions of Numedia, My Panthers and my Leopards of Libia, The Behemoth and rare found Unicorn, Poyson's sure antidote lyes in his horn, And my Hiaena (imitates man's voice) Out of great numbers I might pick my choice, Thousands in woods & plains, both wild & tame, But here or there, I list now none to name; No, though the fawning Dog did urge me sore, In his behalf to speak a word the more, Whose trust and valour I might here commend; But times too short and precious so to spend. But hark you wealthy merchants, who for prize Send forth your well man'd ships where sun doth rise, After three years when men and meat is spent, My rich Commodityes pay double rent. Ye Galenists, my Drugs that come from thence, Do cure your Patients, fill your purse with pence; Besides the use of roots, of hearbs, and plants, That with less cost near home supply your wants. But Mariners where got your ships and Sails, And Oars to row, when both my Sisters fails Your Tackling, Anchor, compass too is mine, Which guides when sun, nor moon, nor stars do shine. Ye mighty Kings, who for your lasting fames Built Cities, Monuments, call'd by your names, Were those compiled heaps of massy stones That your ambition laid, ought but my bones? Ye greedy misers, who do dig for gold For gemms, for silver, Treasures which I hold, Will not my goodly face your rage suffice But you will see, what in my bowels lyes? And ye Artificers, all Trades and forts My bounty calls you forth to make reports, If ought you have, to use, to wear, to eat, But what I freely yield, upon your sweat? And Cholerick Sister, thou for all thine ire Well knowst my fuel, must maintain thy fire.

As I ingenuously with thanks confess, My cold thy fruitfull heat doth crave no less; But how my cold dry temper works upon The melancholy Constitution; How the Autumnal season I do sway, And how I force the gray-head to obey, I should here make a short, yet true narration. But that thy method is mine imitation Now must I shew mine adverse quality, And how I oft work man's mortality; He sometimes finds, maugre his toiling pain Thistles and thorns where he expected grain. My sap to plants and trees I must not grant, The vine, the olive, and the fig tree want: The Corn and Hay do fall before the're mown, And buds from fruitfull trees as soon as blown; Then dearth prevails, that nature to suffice The Mother on her tender infant flyes; The husband knows no wife, nor father sons. But to all outrages their hunger runs: Dreadful examples soon I might produce, But to such Auditors 'twere of no use, Again when Delvers dare in hope of gold To ope those veins of Mine, audacious bold; While they thus in mine entrails love to dive, Before they know, they are inter'd alive. Y' affrighted nights appal'd, how do ye shake, When once you feel me your foundation quake? Because in the Abysse of my dark womb Your cities and yourselves I oft intomb: O dreadful Sepulcher! that this is true Dathan and all his company well knew, So did that Roman far more stout than wise Bur'ing himself alive for honours prize. And since fair Italy full sadly knowes What she hath lost by these remed'less woes. Again what veins of poyson in me lye, Some kill outright, and some do stupifye: Nay into herbs and plants it sometimes creeps, In heats & colds & gripes & drowzy sleeps; Thus I occasion death to man and beast When food they seek, & harm mistrust the least, Much might I say of the hot Libian sand Which rise like tumbling Billows on the Land Wherein Cambyses Armie was o'rethrown (but winder Sister, 'twas when you have blown) I'le say no more, but this thing add I must Remember Sons, your mould is of my dust And after death whether interr'd or burn'd As Earth at first so into Earth returned.

Water, in no whit dismayed by pretensions which have left no room for any future claimant, proceeds to prove her right to the championship, by a tirade which shows her powers quite equal to those of her sisters, considering that her work in the floods has evidenced itself quite as potent as anything Fire may claim in the future.

Scarce Earth had done, but th' angry water moved. Sister (quoth she) it had full well behoved Among your boastings to have praised me Cause of your fruitfulness as you shall see: This your neglect shews your ingratitude And how your subtilty, would men delude Not one of us (all knows) that's like to thee Ever in craving from the other three; But thou art bound to me above the rest, Who am thy drink, thy blood, thy Sap, and best:

If I withhold what art thou? dead dry lump Thou bearst nor grass or plant, nor tree nor stump, Thy extream thirst is moistn'ed by my love With springs below, and showres from above Or else thy Sun-burnt face and gaping chops Complain to th' heavens, if I withhold my drops Thy Bear, thy Tiger and thy Lion stout, When I am gone, their fierceness none needs doubt Thy Camel hath no strength, thy Bull no force Nor mettal's found in the courageous Horse Hinds leave their calves, the Elephant the fens The wolves and Savage beasts forsake their Dens The lofty Eagle, and the stork fly low, The Peacock and the Ostrich, share in woe, The Pine, the Cedar, yea, and Daphne's Tree Do cease to nourish in this misery, Man wants his bread and wine, & pleasant fruits He knows, such sweets, lies not in Earth's dry roots Then seeks me out, in river and in well His deadly malady I might expell: If I supply, his heart and veins rejoyce, If not, soon ends his life, as did his voyce; That this is true, Earth thou can'st not deny I call thine Egypt, this to verifie, Which by my falling Nile, doth yield such store That she can spare, when nations round are poor When I run low, and not o'reflow her brinks To meet with want, each woeful man bethinks; And such I am in Rivers, showrs and springs But what's the wealth, that my rich Ocean brings Fishes so numberless, I there do hold If thou should'st buy, it would exhaust thy gold:

There lives the oyly Whale, whom all men know Such wealth but not such like, Earth thou maist show. The Dolphin loving musick, Arians friend The witty Barbel, whose craft doth her commend With thousands more, which now I list not name Thy silence of thy Beasts doth cause the same My pearles that dangle at thy Darling's ears, Not thou, but shel-fish yield, as Pliny clears, Was ever gem so rich found in thy trunk As Egypts wanton, Cleopatra drunk? Or hast thou any colour can come nigh The Roman purple, double Tirian dye? Which Caesar's Consuls, Tribunes all adorn, For it to search my waves they thought no Scorn, Thy gallant rich perfuming Amber greece I lightly cast ashore as frothy fleece: With rowling grains of purest massie gold, Which Spains Americans do gladly hold.

Earth thou hast not moe countrys vales & mounds Then I have fountains, rivers lakes and ponds; My sundry seas, black, white and Adriatique, Ionian, Baltique, and the vast Atlantique, Aegean, Caspian, golden rivers fire, Asphaltis lake, where nought remains alive: But I should go beyond thee in my boasts, If I should name more seas than thou hast Coasts, And be thy mountains ne'er so high and steep, I soon can match them with my seas as deep. To speak of kinds of waters I neglect, My diverse fountains and their strange effect: My wholsome bathes, together with their cures; My water Syrens with their guilefull lures, The uncertain cause of certain ebbs and flows, Which wondring Aristotles wit n'er knows, Nor will I speak of waters made by art, Which can to life restore a fainting heart. Nor fruitfull dews, nor drops distil'd from eyes, Which pitty move, and oft deceive the wise: Nor yet of salt and sugar, sweet and smart, Both when we lift to water we convert. Alas thy ships and oars could do no good Did they but want my Ocean and my flood.

The wary merchant on his weary beast Transfers his goods from south to north and east, Unless I ease his toil, and do transport The wealthy fraight unto his wished port, These be my benefits, which may suffice: I now must shew what ill there in me lies. The flegmy Constitution I uphold, All humours, tumours which are bred of cold: O're childhood and ore winter I bear sway, And Luna for my Regent I obey. As I with showers oft times refresh the earth, So oft in my excess I cause a dearth, And with abundant wet so cool the ground, By adding cold to cold no fruit proves found. The Farmer and the Grasier do complain Of rotten sheep, lean kine, and mildew'd grain. And with my wasting floods and roaring torrent, Their cattel hay and corn I sweep down current. Nay many times my Ocean breaks his bounds, And with astonishment the world confounds, And swallows Countryes up, ne'er seen again, And that an island makes which once was main: Thus Britian fair ('tis thought) was cut from France Scicily from Italy by the like chance, And but one land was Africa and Spain Untill proud Gibraltar did make them twain. Some say I swallow'd up (sure tis a notion) A mighty country in th' Atlantique Ocean. I need not say much of my hail and Snow, My ice and extream cold, which all men know, Whereof the first so ominous I rain'd, That Israel's enemies therewith were brain'd; And of my chilling snows such plenty be, That Caucasus high mounts are seldome free, Mine ice doth glaze Europes great rivers o're, Till sun release, their ships can sail no more, All know that inundations I have made, Wherein not men, but mountains seem'd to wade; As when Achaia all under water stood, That for two hundred years it n'er prov'd good. Deucalions great Deluge with many moe, But these are trifles to the flood of Noe, Then wholly perish'd Earths ignoble race, And to this day impairs her beauteous face, That after times shall never feel like woe, Her confirm'd sons behold my colour'd bow. Much might I say of wracks, but that He spare, And now give place unto our Sister Air.

There is a mild self-complacency, a sunny and contented assertion about "sister Air," that must have proved singularly aggravating to the others, who, however, make no sign as to the final results, the implication being, that she is after all the one absolutely indispensable agent. But to end nowhere, each side fully convinced in its own mind that the point had been carried in its own favor, was so eminently in the spirit of the time, that there be no wonder at the silence as to the real victor, though it is surprising that Mistress Bradstreet let slip so excellent an opportunity for the moral so dear to the Puritan mind.

Content (quoth Air) to speak the last of you, Yet am not ignorant first was my due: I do suppose you'l yield without controul I am the breath of every living soul. Mortals, what one of you that loves not me Abundantly more than my Sisters three? And though you love fire, Earth and Water well Yet Air beyond all these you know t' excell. I ask the man condemn'd that's neer his death, How gladly should his gold purchase his breath, And all the wealth that ever earth did give, How freely should it go so he might live: No earth, thy witching trash were all but vain, If my pure air thy sons did not sustain, The famish'd thirsty man that craves supply, His moving reason is, give least I dye, So both he is to go though nature's spent To bid adieu to his dear Element.

Nay what are words which do reveal the mind, Speak who or what they will they are but wind. Your drums your trumpets & your organs found, What is't but forced air which doth rebound, And such are ecchoes and report of th' gun That tells afar th' exploit which it hath done, Your songs and pleasant tunes they are the same, And so's the notes which Nightingales do frame. Ye forging Smiths, if bellows once were gone Your red hot work more coldly would go on. Ye Mariners, tis I that fill your sails, And speed you to your port with wished gales. When burning heat doth cause you faint, I cool, And when I smile, your ocean's like a pool. I help to ripe the corn, I turn the mill, And with myself I every Vacuum fill. The ruddy sweet sanguine is like to air, And youth and spring, Sages to me compare, My moist hot nature is so purely thin, No place so subtilly made, but I get in. I grow more pure and pure as I mount higher, And when I'm thoroughly varifi'd turn fire: So when I am condens'd, I turn to water, Which may be done by holding down my vapour.

Thus I another body can assume, And in a trice my own nature resume. Some for this cause of late have been so bold Me for no Element longer to hold, Let such suspend their thoughts, and silent be, For all Philosophers make one of me: And what those Sages either spake or writ Is more authentick then our modern wit. Next of my fowles such multitudes there are, Earths beasts and waters fish scarce can compare. Th' Ostrich with her plumes th' Eagle with her eyn The Phoenix too (if any be) are mine, The Stork, the crane, the partridg, and the phesant The Thrush, the wren, the lark a prey to th' pesant, With thousands more which now I may omit Without impeachment to my tale or wit. As my fresh air preserves all things in life, So when corrupt, mortality is rife;

Then Fevers, Pmples, Pox and Pestilence, With divers more, work deadly consequence: Whereof such multitudes have di'd and fled, The living scarce had power to bury the dead; Yea so contagious countryes have we known That birds have not 'Scapt death as they have flown Of murrain, cattle numberless did fall, Men feared destruction epidemical. Then of my tempests felt at sea and land, Which neither ships nor houses could withstand, What wofull wracks I've made may well appear, If nought were known but that before Algere, Where famous Charles the fifth more loss sustained Then in his long hot war which Millain gain'd Again what furious storms and Hurricanoes Know western Isles, as Christophers Barbadoes; Where neither houses, trees nor plants I spare, But some fall down, and some fly up with air. Earthquakes so hurtfull, and so fear'd of all, Imprison'd I, am the original. Then what prodigious sights I sometimes show, As battles pitcht in th' air, as countryes know, Their joyning fighting, forcing and retreat, That earth appears in heaven, O wonder great! Sometimes red flaming swords and blazing stars, Portentous signs of famines, plagues and wars, Which make the Monarchs fear their fates By death or great mutation of their States. I have said less than did my Sisters three, But what's their wrath or force, the fame's in me. To adde to all I've said was my intent, But dare not go beyond my Element.

Here the contest ends, and though the second edition held slight alterations here and there, no further attempt was made to add to or take away from the verses, which are as a whole the best examples of the early work, their composition doubtless beguiling many weary hours of the first years in New England. "The four Humours of Man" follows, but holds only a few passages of any distinctive character, the poem, like her "Four Monarchies," being only a paraphrase of her reading. In "The Four Seasons," there was room for picturesque treatment of the new conditions that surrounded her, but she seems to have been content, merely to touch the conventional side of nature, and to leave her own impressions and feelings quite out of the question. The verses should have held New England as it showed itself to the colonists, with all the capricious charges that moved their wonder in the early days. There was everything, it would have seemed, to excite such poetical power as she possessed, to the utmost, for even the prose of more than one of her contemporaries gives hints of the feeling that stirred within them as they faced the strange conditions of the new home. Even when they were closely massed together, the silent spaces of the great wilderness shut them in, its mystery beguiling yet bewildering them, and the deep woods with their unfamiliar trees, the dark pines on the hill-side, all held the sense of banishment and even terror. There is small token of her own thoughts or feelings, in any lines of hers, till late in life, when she dropped once for all the methods that pleased her early years, and in both prose and poetry spoke her real mind with a force that fills one with regret at the waste of power in the dreary pages of the "Four Monarchies." That she had keen susceptibility to natural beauty this later poem abundantly proves, but in most of them there is hardly a hint of what must have impressed itself upon her, though probably it was the more valued by her readers, for this very reason.



CHAPTER XII.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Though the series of quaternions which form the major part of the poems, have separate titles and were written at various times, they are in fact a single poem, containing sixteen personified characters, all of them giving their views with dreary facility and all of them to the Puritan mind, eminently correct and respectable personalities. The "Four Seasons" won especial commendations from her most critical readers, but for all of them there seems to have been a delighted acceptance of every word this phenomenal woman had thought it good to pen. Even fifty years ago, a woman's work, whether prose or verse, which came before the public, was hailed with an enthusiastic appreciation, it is difficult to-day to comprehend, Mrs. S. C. Hall emphasizing this in a paragraph on Hannah More, who held much the relation to old England that Anne Bradstreet did to the New. "In this age, when female talent is so rife—when, indeed, it is not too much to say women have fully sustained their right to equality with men in reference to all the productions of the mind—it is difficult to comprehend the popularity, almost amounting to adoration, with which a woman writer was regarded little more than half a century ago. Mediocrity was magnified into genius, and to have printed a book, or to have written even a tolerable poem, was a passport into the very highest society."

Even greater veneration was felt in days when many women, even of good birth, could barely write their own names, and if Anne Bradstreet had left behind her nothing but the quaternions, she would long have ranked as a poet deserving of all the elegies and anagrammatic tributes the Puritan divine loved to manufacture. The "Four Seasons," which might have been written in Lincolnshire and holds not one suggestion of the new life and methods the colonists were fast learning, may have been enjoyed because of its reminders of the old home. Certainly the "nightingale and thrush" did not sing under Cambridge windows, nor did the "primrose pale," fill the hands of the children who ran over the New England meadows. It seems to have been her theory that certain well established forms must be preserved, and so she wrote the conventional phrases of the poet of the seventeenth century, only a line or two indicating the real power of observation she failed to exercise.

THE FOUR SEASONS OF THE YEAR.

SPRING.

Another four I've left yet to bring on, Of four times four the last Quarternion, The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring, In season all these Seasons I shall bring; Sweet Spring like man in his Minority, At present claim'd, and had priority. With Smiling face and garments somewhat green, She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been, Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath, Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death. Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share March, April, May of all the rest most fair. Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters, And bids defiance to all tedious winters, Crosseth the Line, and equals night and day, (Stil adds to th' last til after pleasant May) And now makes glad the darkned nothern nights Who for some months have seen but starry lights. Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyle, He might unloose his winter locked soyle; The Seeds-man too, doth lavish out his grain, In hope the more he casts, the more to gain; The Gardener now superfluous branches lops, And poles erect for his young clambring hops. Now digs then sowes his herbs, his flowers & roots And carefully manures his trees of fruits. The Pleiades their influence now give, And all that seemed as dead afresh doth live. The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter kil'd Like birds now chirp, and hop about the field, The Nightingale, the black-bird and the Thrush Now tune their layes, on sprayes of every bush.

The wanton frisking Kid, and soft fleec'd Lambs Do jump and play before their feeding Dams, The tender tops of budding grass they crop, They joy in what they have, but more in hope: For though the frost hath lost his binding power, Yet many a fleece of snow and stormy shower Doth darken Sol's bright eye, makes us remember The pinching North-west wind of cold December. My Second month is April, green and fair, Of longer dayes, and a more temperate Air: The Sun in Taurus keeps his residence, And with his warmer beams glareeth from thence This is the month whose fruitful showers produces All set and sown for all delights and uses: The Pear, the Plum, and Apple-tree now flourish The grass grows long the hungry beast to nourish The Primrose pale, and azure violet Among the virduous grass hath nature set, That when the Sun on's Love (the earth) doth shine These might as lace set out her garments fine. The fearfull bird his little house now builds In trees and walls, in Cities and in fields. The outside strong, the inside warm and neat; A natural Artificer compleat. The clocking hen her chirping chickins leads With wings & beak defends them from the gleads My next and last is fruitfull pleasant May, Wherein the earth is clad in rich aray, The Sun now enters loving Gemini, And heats us with the glances of his eye, Our thicker rayment makes us lay aside Lest by his fervor we be torrified. All flowers the Sun now with his beams discloses, Except the double pinks and matchless Roses. Now swarms the busy, witty, honey-Bee, Whose praise deserves a page from more than me The cleanly Huswife's Dary's now in th' prime, Her shelves and firkins fill'd for winter time. The meads with Cowslips, Honey-suckles dight, One hangs his head, the other stands upright: But both rejoice at th' heaven's clear smiling face, More at her showers, which water them apace. For fruits my Season yields the early Cherry, The hasty Peas, and wholsome cool Strawberry. More solid fruits require a longer time, Each Season hath its fruit, so hath each Clime: Each man his own peculiar excellence, But none in all that hath preheminence. Sweet fragrant Spring, with thy short pittance fly Let some describe thee better than can I. Yet above all this priviledg is thine, Thy dayes still lengthen without least decline:

SUMMER.

When Spring had done, the Summer did begin, With melted tauny face, and garments thin, Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age, As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in 's equipage. Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran, With hair all wet she pussing thus began; Bright June, July and August hot are mine, In th' first Sol doth in crabbed Cancer shine. His progress to the North now's fully done, Then retrograde must be my burning Sun, Who to his Southward Tropick still is bent, Yet doth his parching heat but more augment Though he decline, because his flames so fair, Have throughly dry'd the earth, and heat the air. Like as an Oven that long time hath been heat, Whose vehemency at length doth grow so great, That if you do withdraw her burning store, 'Tis for a time as fervent as before. Now go those foolick Swains, the Shepherd Lads To wash the thick cloth'd flocks with pipes full glad In the cool streams they labour with delight Rubbing their dirty coats till they look white; Whose fleece when finely spun and deeply dy'd With Robes thereof Kings have been dignified, Blest rustick Swains, your pleasant quiet life, Hath envy bred in Kings that were at strife, Careless of worldly wealth you sing and pipe, Whilst they'r imbroyl'd in wars & troubles rife: Wich made great Bajazet cry out in 's woes, Oh happy shepherd which hath not to lose.

Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great, But whist'leth to thy flock in cold and heat. Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night Endimions, Dianaes dear delight, Upon the grass resting your healthy limbs, By purling Brooks looking how fishes swims, If pride within your lowly Cells ere haunt, Of him that was Shepherd then King go vaunt. This moneth the Roses are distil'd in glasses, Whose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpasses The cherry, Gooseberry are now in th' prime, And for all sorts of Pease, this is the time. July my next, the hott'st in all the year, The sun through Leo now takes his Career, Whose flaming breath doth melt us from afar, Increased by the star Ganicular, This month from Julius Ceasar took its name, By Romans celebrated to his fame. Now go the Mowers to their flashing toyle, The Meadowes of their riches to dispoyle, With weary strokes, they take all in their way, Bearing the burning heat of the long day. The forks and Rakes do follow them amain, Wich makes the aged fields look young again, The groaning Carts do bear away their prize, To Stacks and Barns where it for Fodder lyes. My next and last is August fiery hot (For much, the Southward Sun abateth not) This Moneth he keeps with Vigor for a space, The dry'ed Earth is parched with his face. August of great Augustus took its name, Romes second Emperour of lasting fame, With sickles now the bending Reapers goe The rustling tress of terra down to mowe; And bundles up in sheaves, the weighty wheat, Which after Manchet makes for Kings to eat: The Barly, Rye and Pease should first had place, Although their bread have not so white a face. The Carter leads all home with whistling voyce. He plow'd with pain, but reaping doth rejoice, His sweat, his toyle, his careful wakeful nights, His fruitful Crop abundantly requites. Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumb and Apricock, The prince of plumbs, whose stone's as hard as Rock The Summer seems but short, the Autumn hasts To shake his fruits, of most delicious tasts Like good old Age, whose younger juicy Roots Hath still ascended, to bear goodly fruits. Until his head be gray, and strength be gone. Yet then appears the worthy deeds he'th done: To feed his boughs exhausted hath his Sap, Then drops his fruit into the eaters lap.

AUTUMN.

Of Autumn moneths September is the prime, Now day and night are equal in each Clime, The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line, And doth in poizing Libra this month shine. The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest, Whose lively liquor oft is curs'd and blest: For nought so good, but it may be abused, But its a precious juice when well its used. The raisins now in clusters dryed be, The Orange, Lemon dangle on the tree: The Pomegranate, the Fig are ripe also, And Apples now their yellow sides do show. Of Almonds, Quinces, Wardens, and of Peach, The season's now at hand of all and each, Sure at this time, time first of all began, And in this moneth was made apostate man: For then in Eden was not only seen, Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or green, Or withered stocks, which were all dry and dead, But trees with goodly fruits replenished; Which shows nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring Our Grand-Sire was of Paradice made King: Nor could that temp'rate Clime such difference make, If cited as the most Judicious take. October is my next, we hear in this The Northern winter-blasts begin to hip, In Scorpio resideth now the Sun, And his declining heat is almost done. The fruitless trees all withered now do stand, Whose sapless yellow leavs, by winds are fan'd Which notes when youth and strength have passed their prime Decrepit age must also have its time.

The Sap doth slily creep toward the Earth There rests, until the Sun give it a birth. So doth old Age still tend until his grave, Where also he his winter time must have; But when the Sun of righteousness draws nigh, His dead old stock, shall mount again on high. November is my last, for Time doth haste, We now of winters sharpness 'gins to taste This moneth the Sun's in Sagitarius, So farre remote, his glances warm not us. Almost at shortest, is the shorten'd day, The Northern pole beholdeth not one ray, Nor Greenland, Groanland, Finland, Lapland, see No Sun, to lighten their obscurity; Poor wretches that in total darkness lye, With minds more dark then is the dark'ned Sky. Beaf, Brawn, and Pork are now in great request, And solid meats our stomacks can digest. This time warm cloaths, full diet, and good fires, Our pinched flesh, and hungry marres requires; Old cold, dry Age, and Earth Autumn resembles, And Melancholy which most of all dissembles. I must be short, and shorts the short'ned day, What winter hath to tell, now let him say.

WINTER.

Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye In swaddling Clouts, like new born Infancy Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows, And like an Infant, still it taller grows; December is my first, and now the Sun To th' Southward Tropick, his swift race doth run: This moneth he's hous'd in horned Capricorn, From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn, Through Christendome with great Feastivity, Now's held, (but ghest) for blest Nativity, Cold frozen January next comes in, Chilling the blood and shrinking up the skin; In Aquarius now keeps the long wisht Sun, And Northward his unwearied Course doth run: The day much longer then it was before, The cold not lessened, but augmented more. Now Toes and Ears, and Fingers often freeze, And Travellers their noses sometimes leese.

Moist snowie Feburary is my last, I care not how the winter time doth haste, In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine, And Northward still approaches to the Line, The rivers 'gin to ope, the snows to melt, And some warm glances from his face are felt; Which is increased by the lengthen'd day, Until by's heat, he drives all cold away, And thus the year in Circle runneth round: Where first it did begin, in th' end its found.

With the final lines a rush of dissatisfaction came over the writer, and she added certain couplets, addressed to her father, for whom the whole set seems to have been originally written, and who may be responsible in part for the bald and didactic quality of most of her work.

My Subjects bare, my Brain is bad, Or better Lines you should have had; The first fell in so nat'rally, I knew not how to pass it by; The last, though bad I could not mend, Accept therefore of what is pen'd, And all the faults that you shall spy Shall at your feet for pardon cry.

Mr. John Harvard Ellis has taken pains to compare various passages in her "Four Monarchies" with the sources from which her information was derived, showing a similarity as close as the difference between prose and verse would admit. One illustration of this will be sufficient. In the description of the murder of the philosopher Callisthenes by Alexander the Great, which occurs in her account of the Grecian Monarchy, she writes:

The next of worth that suffered after these, Was learned, virtuous, wise Calisthenes, Who loved his Master more than did the rest, As did appear, in flattering him the least; In his esteem a God he could not be, Nor would adore him for a Deity. For this alone and for no other cause, Against his Sovereign, or against his Laws, He on the Rack his Limbs in pieces rent, Thus was he tortur'd till his life was spent Of this unkingly act doth Seneca This censure pass, and not unwisely say, Of Alexander this the eternal crime, Which shall not be obliterate by time. Which virtue's fame can ne're redeem by far, Nor all felicity of his in war.

When e're 'tis said he thousand thousands slew, Yea, and Calisthenes to death he drew. The mighty Persian King he over came, Yea, and he killed Calisthenes of fame. All countreyes, Kingdomes, Provinces he won, From Hellespont, to the farthest Ocean. All this he did, who knows not to be true? But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew. From Nacedon, his English did extend, Unto the utmost bounds o' th' Orient, All this he did, yea, and much more 'tis true, But yet withal, Calisthenes he slew.

The quotation from Raleigh's "History of the World," which follows, will be seen to hold in many lines the identical words.

"Alexander stood behind a partition, and heard all that was spoken, waiting but an opportunity to be revenged on Callisthenes, who being a man of free speech, honest, learned, and a lover of the king's honour, was yet soon after tormented to death, not for that he had betrayed the king to others, but because he never would condescend to betray the king to himself, as all his detestable flatterers did. For in a conspiracy against the king, made by one Hermolaus and others, (which they confessed,) he caused Callisthenes, without confession, accusation or trial, to be torn assunder upon the rack. This deed, unworthy of a king, Seneca thus censureth. [He gives the Latin, and thus translates it.] 'This is the eternal crime of Alexander, which no virtue nor felicity of his in war shall ever be able to redeem. For as often as any man shall say, He slew many thousand Persians, it shall be replied, He did so, and he slew Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He slew Darius, it shall be replied, And Callisthenes; when it shall be said, He won all as far as to the very ocean, thereon also he adventured with unusual navies, and extended his empire from a corner of Thrace, to the utmost bounds of the orient; it shall be said withal, But he killed Callisthenes. Let him have outgone all the ancient examples of captains and kings, none of all his acts makes so much to his glory, as Callisthenes to his reproach'."

The school girl of the present day could furnish such arrangements of her historical knowledge with almost as fluent a pen as that of Mistress Bradstreet, who is, however, altogether innocent of any intention to deceive any of her readers. The unlearned praised her depth of learning, but she knew well that every student into whose hands the book might fall, would recognize the source from which she had drawn, and approve the method of its use. Evidently there was nothing very vital to her in these records of dynasties and wars, for not a line indicates any thrill of feeling at the tales she chronicles. Yet the feeling was there, though reserved for a later day. It is with her own time, or with the "glorious reign of good Queen Bess," that she forgets to be didactic and allows herself here and there, a natural and vigorous expression of thought or feeling. There was capacity for hero-worship, in this woman, who repressed as far as she had power, the feeling and passion that sometimes had their way, though immediately subdued and chastened, and sent back to the durance in which all feeling was held. But her poem on Queen Elizabeth has here and there a quiet sarcasm, and at one point at least rises into a fine scorn of the normal attitude toward women:

She hath wip'd off the aspersion of her Sex, That women wisdome lack to play the Rex.

Through the whole poem runs an evident, almost joyous delight in what a woman has achieved, and as she passes from point to point, gathering force with every period, she turns suddenly upon all detractors with these ringing lines:

Now say, have women worth or have they none? Or had they some, but with our Queen is't gone? Nay, masculines, you have thus taxed us long; But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong. Let such as say our sex is void of reason, Know 'tis a slander now, but once was treason.

Sir Philip Sidney fills her with mixed feeling, her sense that his "Arcadia" was of far too fleshly and soul-beguiling an order of literature, battling with her admiration for his character as a man, and making a diverting conflict between reason and inclination. As with Queen Elizabeth, she compromised by merely hinting her opinion of certain irregularities, and hastened to cover any damaging admission with a mantle of high and even enthusiastic eulogy.

AN ELEGIE

upon that Honourable and renowned Knight Sir Philip Sidney, who was untimely slain at the Siege of Zutphen, Anno, 1586.

When England did enjoy her Halsion dayes, Her noble Sidney wore the Crown of Bayes; As well an honour to our British Land, As she that swayed the Scepter with her hand; Mars and Minerva did in one agree, Of Arms and Arts he should a pattern be, Calliope with Terpsichore did sing, Of poesie, and of musick, he was King; His Rhetorick struck Polimina dead, His Eloquence made Mercury wax red; His Logick from Euterpe won the Crown, More worth was his then Clio could set down. Thalia and Melpomene say truth, Witness Arcadia penned in his youth, Are not his tragick Comedies so acted, As if your ninefold wit had been compacted. To shew the world, they never saw before, That this one Volume should exhaust your store; His wiser dayes condemned his witty works, Who knows the spels that in his Rhetorick lurks, But some infatuate fools soon caught therein, Fond Cupids Dame had never such a gin, Which makes severer eyes but slight that story, And men of morose minds envy his glory: But he's a Beetle-head that can't descry A world of wealth within that rubbish lye, And doth his name, his work, his honour wrong, The brave refiner of our British tongue, That sees not learning, valour and morality, Justice, friendship, and kind hospitality, Yea and Divinity within his book, Such were prejudicate, and did not look. In all Records his name I ever see Put with an Epithite of dignity, Which shows his worth was great, his honour such, The love his Country ought him, was as much. Then let none disallow of these my straines Whilst English blood yet runs within my veins, O brave Achilles, I wish some Homer would Engrave in Marble, with Characters of gold The valiant feats thou didst on Flanders coast, Which at this day fair Belgia may boast. The more I say, the more thy worth I stain, Thy fame and praise is far beyond my strain, O Zutphen, Zutphen that most fatal City Made famous by thy death, much more the pity: Ah! in his blooming prime death pluckt this rose E're he was ripe, his thread cut Atropos. Thus man is born to dye, and dead is he, Brave Hector, by the walls of Troy we see. O who was near thee but did sore repine He rescued not with life that life of thine; But yet impartial Fates this boon did give, Though Sidney di'd his valiant name should live: And live it doth in spight of death through fame, Thus being overcome, he overcame. Where is that envious tongue, but can afford Of this our noble Scipio some good word.

Great Bartas this unto thy praise adds more, In sad sweet verse, thou didst his death deplore. And Phoenix Spencer doth unto his life, His death present in sable to his wife. Stella the fair, whose streams from Conduits fell For the sad loss of her Astrophel. Fain would I show how he fame's paths did tread, But now into such Lab'rinths I am lead, With endless turnes, the way I find not out, How to persist my Muse is more in doubt; Wich makes me now with Silvester confess, But Sidney's Muse can sing his worthiness. The Muses aid I craved, they had no will To give to their Detractor any quill, With high disdain, they said they gave no more, Since Sidney had exhausted all their store. They took from me the Scribling pen I had, I to be eas'd of such a task was glad Then to reveng this wrong, themselves engage, And drove me from Parnassus in a rage.

Then wonder not if I no better sped, Since I the Muses thus have injured. I pensive for my fault, sate down, and then Errata through their leave, threw me my pen, My Poem to conclude, two lines they deign Which writ, she bad return't to them again; So Sidneys fame I leave to Englands Rolls, His bones do lie interr'd in stately Pauls.

HIS EPITAPH.

Here lies in fame under this stone, Philip and Alexander both in one; Heir to the Muses, the Son of Mars in Truth, Learning, Valour, Wisdome, all in virtuous youth, His praise is much, this shall suffice my pen, That Sidney dy'd 'mong most renown'd of men.

With Du Bartas, there is no hesitation or qualification. Steeped in the spirit of his verse, she was unconscious how far he had moulded both thought and expression, yet sufficiently aware of his influence to feel it necessary to assert at many points her freedom from it. But, as we have already seen, he was the Puritan poet, and affected every rhymester of the time, to a degree which it required generations to shake off. In New England, however, even he, in time came to rank as light-minded, and the last shadow of poetry fled before the metrical horrors of the Bay Psalm Book, which must have lent a terror to rhyme, that one could wish might be transferred to the present day. The elegy on Du Bartas is all the proof needed to establish Anne Bradstreet as one of his most loyal followers, and in spite of all protest to the contrary such she was and will remain.

IN HONOUR OF DU BARTAS.

Among the happy wits this age hath shown Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known; My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue, In humble wise have vowed their service long But knowing th' task so great & strength but small, Gave o're the work before begun withal, My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines, Where Art, and more than Art in nature shines, Reflection from their beaming altitude Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude Which rayes darting upon some richer ground Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound, But barren I, my Dasey here do bring, A homely flower in this my latter Spring, If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field, Volleyes of praises could I eccho then, Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen; But wishes can't accomplish my desire, Pardon if I adore, when I admire. O France thou did'st in him more glory gain Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great, Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and sweat, Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold, In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold, Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded slain, Shine the quintessence of an heroick brain. The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows, Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows, Who in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs, Lead'st millions chained by eyes, by ears, by tongues, Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven, In giving one what would have served seven, If e're this golden gift was show'd on any, They shall be consecrated in my Verse, And prostrate offered at great Bartas Herse; My muse unto a child I may compare Who sees the riches of some famous Fair, He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks To comprehend the worth of all those knacks The glittering plate and Jewels he admires, The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies tires, And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish, Some part (at least) of that great wealth was his, But feeling empty wishes nought obtain, At night turnes to his mothers cot again, And tells her tales, (his full heart over glad) Of all the glorious sights his Eyes have had; But finds too soon his want of Eloquence, The silly prattler speaks no word of sense; But feeling utterance fail his great desires Sits down in silence, deeply he admires, Thus weak brained I, reading thy lofty stile, Thy profound learning, viewing other while; Thy Art in natural Philosophy, Thy Saint like mind in grave Divinity; Thy piercing skill in high Astronomy, And curious insight in anatomy; Thy Physick, musick and state policy, Valour in warr, in peace good husbandry, Sure lib'ral Nature did with Art not small, In all the arts make thee most liberal, A thousand thousand times my senseless sences Moveless stand charmed by thy sweet influences; More senseless then the stones to Amphious Luto, Mine eyes are sightless, and my tongue is mute, My full astonish'd heart doth pant to break, Through grief it wants a faculty to speak; Thy double portion would have served many, Unto each man his riches is assign'd Of name, of State, of Body and of mind:

Thou had'st thy part of all, but of the last, O pregnant brain, O comprehension vast; Thy haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wondring at, shall never climb, Thy sacred works are not for imitation, But monuments to future admiration, Thus Bartas fame shall last while starrs do satnd, And whilst there's Air or Fire, or Sea or Land. But least my ignorance shall do thee wrong, To celebrate thy merits in my Song. He leave thy praise to those shall do thee right, Good will, not skill, did cause me bring my mite.

HIS EPITAPH. Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parnassus glory; The World rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death, was sorry, Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity! And Natures Law, had it been revocable To rescue him from death, Art had been able, But Nature vanquish'd Art, so Bartas dy'd; But Fame out-living both, he is reviv'd.

Bare truth as every line surely appeared to the woman who wrote, let us give thanks devoutly that the modern mind holds no capacity for the reproduction of that

"Haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime All ages wond'ring at shall never climb,"

and that more truly than she knew, his

"Sacred works are not for imitation But Monuments to future Admiration."

Not the "future Admiration" she believed his portion, but to the dead reputation which, fortunately for us, can have no resurrection.



CHAPTER XIII.

CHANCES AND CHANGES.

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.

THOMAS DUDLEY.

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.

HIS EPITAPH.

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 forbidden.

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 of England.

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.

CONTEMPLATIONS.

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, where—

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.