Nor youth nor strength nor wisdom spring again,
Nor habitations long their names retain,

But in oblivion to the final day remain.

20

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.

21

Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm
Close sat I by a goodly river's side,

Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm;
A lonely place, with pleasures dignified.

I once that loved the shady woods so well,

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145

Now thought the rivers did the trees excel,

And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

22

While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye,
Which to the longed-for ocean held its course,
I marked, nor crooks nor rubs that there did lie
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force:
"O happy flood," quoth I, "that holds thy race
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace!

23

"Nor is't enough that thou alone may'st slide,
But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet;
So hand in hand along with thee they glide

To Thetis's house, where all embrace and greet:
Thou emblem true of what I count the best,
O could I lead my rivulets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest.

24

"Ye fish which in this liquid region bide, That for each season have your habitation,

Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown, coasts to give a visitation,

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155

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165

In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry,

So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watʼry folk that know not your felicity.

4. Neither bends nor obstructions.

5. A Greek divinity who lived in the depths of the sea.

25

"Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,

Then to the colder bottom straight they dive;
Eftsoon to Neptune's glassy hall repair

To see what trade they great ones there do drive,
Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field,

And take the trembling prey before it yield,

Whose armor is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.”

26

While musing thus with contemplation fed,

And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

The sweet-tongued Philomel® perched o'er my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain,

Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,

I judged my hearing better than my sight,

And wished me wings with her a while to take my flight.

27

"O merry bird," said I, "that fears no snares,

That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn,

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Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

185

To gain more good or shun what might thee harm;
Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere,

Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear;

Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come doth fear.

28

“The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,

Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,

So each one tunes his pretty instrument

And warbling out the old, begin anew.

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better region,

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Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion."

29

Man at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak,

Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break;

From some of these he never finds cessation,

But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st relation.

30

And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain,

This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,

6. The nightingale. Here, as often, the allusion is only poetic; the nightingale was not found in the American colonies.

This weather-beaten vessel wracked with pain,
Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow;

Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,

In weight, in frequency and long duration,

Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation.

31

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide
Sings merrily and steers his bark with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great master of the seas;
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

32

So he that faileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sour,
That's full of friends, of honor, and of treasure,

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heaven's bower.
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here's neither honor, wealth, nor safety;

Only above is found all with security.

33

O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion's curtains over kings,

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Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust,

Nor wit nor gold nor buildings 'scape time's rust;

But he whose name is graved in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

1666?

230

1678

A Letter to Her Husband1

gone;

Phoebus, make haste, the day's too long, be
The silent night's the fittest time for moan.
But stay this once, unto my suit give ear,
And tell my griefs in either hemisphere;
And if the whirling of thy wheels don't drown'd
The woful accents of my doleful sound,

9. Revelation ii: 17.

1. First published in the 1678 edition. There it is simply entitled "Another," following a short poem called "A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Publick

5

Employment." These were among the
manuscript poems of an intimate na-
ture which Mrs. Bradstreet had ap-
parently not intended to publish.
2. The sun.

If in thy swift carriers thou canst make stay,

I crave this boon, this errand by the way:
Commend me to the man more loved than life,
Shew him the sorrows of his widowed wife,

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my brakish tears,
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting fears,
And if he love, how can he there abide?
My interest's more than all the world beside.
He that can tell the stars or ocean sand,

Or all the grass that in the meads do stand,
The leaves in the woods, the hail or drops of rain,
Or in a cornfield number every grain,

Or every mote that in the sunshine hops,
May count my sighs and number all my drops.
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace,
That once a day thy spouse thou mayst embrace;
And when thou canst not treat by loving mouth,
Thy rays afar salute her from the south.
But for one month I see no day, poor soul,
Like those far situate under the pole,
Which day by day long wait for thy arise:

O how they joy when thou dost light the skys.
O Phoebus, hadst thou but thus long from thine
Restrained the beams of thy beloved shine,
At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst,
Behold a Chaos blacker than the first.
Tell him here's worse than a confused matter-
His little world's a fathom under water;
Nought but the fervor of his ardent beams
Hath power to dry the torrent of these streams.
Tell him I would say more, but cannot well:
Oppressed minds abruptest tales do tell.
Now post with double speed, mark what I say;
By all our loves conjure him not to stay.

The Author to Her Book1

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,

3. I.e., "career," or "course."

4. This casual poem is one of Anne Bradstreet's most delightful and genuine. It recounts with humor her feelings at seeing her poems in print in 1650 without her authorization or correction, and her subsequent efforts to improve

them. It appears that she intended this to stand last among her poems when she revised them about 1666 for a proposed second edition. Whoever sent the volume to the printer after her death added a subsequent section of thirteen "Posthumous Poems."

1666?

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

Who thee abroad exposed to public view;

Made thee in rags, halting, to the press to trudge,
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 washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save homespun cloth, in the 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 are not known.
If for thy Father asked, say thou had'st none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

SAMUEL SEWALL

(1652-1730)

The New England Puritans were closely united by their common faith, but they produced the varied individualism of Bradford, John Eliot, the Mathers, and Jonathan Edwards, among others. Samuel Sewall represents a distinct type of the second and third generations, in which a more secular spirit gradually defeated the waning theocracy. Devoutly religious in private and public life, Sewall resisted an early religious vocation in favor of wealth, public office, and the pursuit of his hobbies. Shortly after his graduation from Har

vard in 1671, he married Hannah, daughter of John Hull, Master of the Mint and reputed to be the wealthiest person in Massachusetts. His position was soon further strengthened by a small inheritance from his father. Sewall became an early example of the American aristocrat who regards public service as his natural expression. His father, avoiding the consequences of the Restoration of 1660, had brought him at the age of nine to Boston, and he seldom left it afterward. His Diary, for which he is best known, is a social his