Anne Bradstreet

New England. Alas, dear Mother, fairest Queen and best, With honour, wealth, and peace happy and blest,

Ask not why hearts turn Magazines of passions, And why that grief is clad in sev'ral fashions; Why She on progress goes, and doth not borrow

Absent upon Public Employment My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more, My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,

Phoebus make haste, the day's too long, begone, The silent night's the fittest time for moan; But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,

To finish what's begun, was my intent, My thoughts and my endeavours thereto bent; Essays I many made but still gave out,

When England did enjoy her Halsion dayes, Her noble Sidney wore the Crown of Bayes; As well an honour to our British Land,

Here lyes, A worthy Matron of unspotted life, A loving Mother and obedient wife,

As loving hind that (hartless) wants her deer, Scuds through the woods and fern with hark'ning ear, Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry,

All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joys attend; No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

By night when others soundly slept And hath at once both ease and Rest, My waking eyes were open kept

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,

2. Sam. I. 19. Alas slain is the Head of Israel, Illustrious Saul whose beauty did excell,

Worthy art Thou, O Lord, of praise, But ah! It's not in me. My sinking heart I pray Thee raise

In my distress I sought the Lord When naught on earth could comfort give, And when my soul these things abhorred,

Her Mother's Epitaph Here lies A worthy matron of unspotted life,

By night when others soundly slept, And had at once both case and rest, My waking eyes were open kept

Proem. Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie, Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky

Farewel dear babe, my hearts too much content, Farewel sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye, Farewel fair flower that for a space was lent,

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write. The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight. How oft with dissappointment have I met

I had eight birds hatched in one nest, Four cocks there were, and hens the rest. I nursed them up with pain and care,

What shall I render to Thy name Or how Thy praises speak? My thanks how shall I testify?

Among the happy wits this age hath shown Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known; My ravished Eyes and heart with faltering tongue,

A ship that bears much sail, and little ballast, is easily overset; and that man, whose head hath great abilities, and his heart little or no grace, is in danger of foundering. The finest bread has the least bran; the purest honey, the least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self-love. Sweet words are like honey; a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.

[Introduction] Lo now! four other acts upon the stage, Childhood, and Youth, the Manly, and Old-age.

The former four now ending their discourse, Ceasing to vaunt their good, or threat their force, Lo other four step up, crave leave to show

No sooner come, but gone, and fal'n asleep, Acquaintance short, yet parting caus'd us weep. Three flours, two scarcely blown, the last i'th' bud,

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,

In secret place where once I stood Close by the Banks of Lacrim flood, I heard two sisters reason on

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;

When time was young, & World in Infancy, Man did not proudly strive for Soveraignty: But each one thought his petty Rule was high,

Spring. Another four I've left yet to bring on, Of four times four the last Quarternion

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun, For my mean pen are too superior things:

Stout Romulus, Romes founder, and first King, Whom vestal Rhea to the world did bring; His Father was not Mars as some devis'd,

Cyrus Cambyses Son of Persia King, Whom Lady Mandana did to him bring, She daughter unto great Astiages,

Great Alexander was wise Philips son, He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon; The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,

As he said vanity, so vain say I, Oh! vanity, O vain all under Sky; Where is the man can say, lo, I have found

And live I still to see relations gone, And yet survive to sound this wailing tone; Ah, woe is me, to write thy Funeral Song,

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear, If worth in me, or ought I do appear, Who can of right better demand the same?

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white, Of fairer Dames the Sun ne'r saw the face;

By duty bound, and not by custome led To celebrate the praises of the dead, My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse