ANNE BRADSTREET

ANNE BRADSTREET (C. 1612-1672)

Born Anne Dudley in Northampton, England, the first American poet had rheumatic fever as a child and contracted smallpox just before marrying Cambridge graduate Simon Bradstreet. With John Winthrop's fleet in 1630, the couple sailed to America, where both Bradstreet's husband and her father would serve as governors of Massachusetts. Anne Bradstreet became the mother of eight children and the author of a manuscript that her brother-in-law brought back to London and published without her knowledge in 1650 under the title The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America. Six years after her death a second and enlarged edition of her poems appeared in Boston. John Berryman found it expedient to adopt her voice in his long poem Homage to Mistress Bradstreet (1953). "I didn't like her work, but I loved her—I sort of fell in love with her," he explained.

The Prologue

I

To sing of Wars, of Captaines, and of Kings,

Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,

For my mean Pen, are too superiour things,

And how they all, or each, their dates have run:

Let Poets, and Historians set these forth,

My obscure Verse, shal not so dim their worth.

II

But when my wondring eyes, and envious heart,

Great Bartas sugar'd lines doe but read o're;

Foole, / doe grudge, the Muses did not part

'Twixt him and me, that over-fluent store;

A Bartas can, doe what a Bartas wil,

But simple I, according to my skill.

III

From School-boyes tongue, no Rhethorick we expect,

Nor yet a sweet Confort, from broken strings,

Nor perfect beauty, where's a maine defect,

My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings;

And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,

'Cause Nature made it so irreparable.

IV

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet tongu'd Greek

Who lisp'd at first, speake afterwards more plaine.

By Art, he gladly found what he did seeke,

A full requitall of his striving paine:

Art can doe much, but this maxime's most sure,

A weake or wounded braine admits no cure.

V

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue,

Who sayes, my hand a needle better fits,

A Poets Pen, all scorne, I should thus wrong;

For such despight they cast on female wits:

If what I doe prove well, it wo'nt advance,

They'l say its stolne, or else, it was by chance.

VI

But sure the antick Greeks were far more milde,

Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine,

And poesy made, Calliope's owne childe,

So 'mongst the rest, they plac'd the Arts divine:

But this weake knot they will full soone untye,

The Greeks did nought, but play the foole and lye.

VII

Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are,

Men have precedency, and still excell,

It is but vaine, unjustly to wage war,

Men can doe best, and Women know it well;

Preheminence in each, and all is yours,

Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.

VIII

And oh, ye high flown quils, that soare the skies,

And ever with your prey, still catch your praise,

If e're you daigne these lowly lines, your eyes

Give wholsome Parsley wreath, I aske no Bayes:

This meane and unrefined stuffe of mine,

Will make your glistering gold but more to shine.

1650

From Contemplations

When I behold the heavens as in their prime,

And then the earth, though old, still clad in green,

The stones and trees insensible of time,

Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;

If winter come, and greenness then doth fade,

A spring returns, and they're more youthful made.

But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's

By birth more noble than those creatures all,

Yet seems by nature and by custom cursed —

No sooner born but grief and care make fall

That state obliterate he had at first;

Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again,

Nor habitations long their names retain,

But in oblivion to the final day remain.

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 had birth,

Because they're bigger and their bodies stronger?

Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade, and die,

And when unmade so ever shall they lie;

But man was made for endless immortality.

1650

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,

Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run'st more hobling than is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save homespun Cloth i' th' house I find[.]

In this array 'mongst Vulgars may'st thou roam[.]

In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known;

If for thy Father asked, say thou hadst none;

And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

1678

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end,

Adversity doth still our joys attend;

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death's parting blow is sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,

A common thing, yet oh inevitable.

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,

How soon't may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,

We are both ignorant, yet love bids me

These farewell lines to recommend to thee,

That when that knot's untied that made us one,

I may seem thine, who in effect am none.

And if I see not half my dayes that's due,

What nature would, God grant to yours and you;

The many faults that well you know I have

Let be interr'd in my oblivious grave;

If any worth or virtue were in me,

Let that live freshly in thy memory

And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms,

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.

And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains

Look to my little babes[,] my dear remains.

And if thou love thyself, or loved'st me[,]

These o protect from step Dames injury.

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,

With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;

And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,

Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

1678

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me ye women if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay,

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love lets so persever,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

1678

See also: CHRISTIAN POETRY