by Anne Bradstreet (1678)
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,
Were gilded o’er 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 senses 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, wisdom, glory, light,
That hath this under world so richly dight.
More heaven than earth was here, no winter and 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 glistering Sun I gazed,
Whose beams was shaded by the leafy tree.
The more I look’d, the more I grew amazed
And softly said, “What glory’s like to thee?”
Soul of this world, this universe’s eye,
No wonder some made thee a deity.
Had I not better known, alas, the same had I.
Thou as a bridegroom from thy chamber rushes,
And as a strong man joys 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 vegative,
Thy heat from death and dullness doth revive,
And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.
Thy swift annual and diurnal course,
Thy daily straight and yearly oblique path,
Thy pleasing fervour, and thy scorching force,
All mortals here the feeling knowledge hath.
Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night,
Quaternal seasons causéd by thy might.
Hail creature, full of sweetness, beauty, and delight.
Art thou so full of glory that no eye
Hath strength thy shining rays once to behold?
And is thy splendid throne erect so high,
As to approach it, can no earthly mold?
How full of glory then must thy Creator be,
Who gave this bright light luster unto thee.
Admired, adored for ever be that Majesty!
Silent alone, where none or saw or heard,
In pathless paths I lead my wand’ring feet.
My humble Eyes to lofty Skies I reared
To sing some song my mazéd Muse thought meet.
My great Creator I would magnify
That nature had thus decked liberally;
But Ah and Ah, again, my imbecility!
I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad cricket bear a second part.
They kept one tune and played on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little art.
Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise
And in their kind resound their Maker’s praise
Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays?
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 months and years that long since fled.
It makes a man more aged in conceit
Than was Methuselah, or’s grand-sire great,
While of their persons and their acts his mind doth treat.
Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be,
See glorious Adam there made lord of all,
Fancies the apple, dangle on the tree,
That turned his sovereign to a naked thrall,
Who like a miscreant’s driven from that place,
To get his bread with pain and sweat of face,
A penalty imposed 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,
Believing him that was, and is, father of lies.
Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,
Fruits of the earth and fatlings each do bring.
On Abel’s gift the fire descends from skies,
But no such sign on false Cain’s offering.
With sullen hateful looks he goes his ways,
Hath thousand thoughts to end his brother’s days,
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 fratricide:
The virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks,
But since that time she often hath been cloyed.
The wretch with ghastly 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 fancies not his looks now at the bar,
His face like death, his heart with horror fraught.
Nor malefactor ever felt like war,
When deep despair with wish of life hath fought,
Branded with guilt, and crushed with treble woes,
A vagabond to Land of Nod he goes,
A city builds, that walls might him secure from foes.
Who thinks not oft upon the father’s ages?
Their long descent, how nephew’s sons they saw,
The starry observations of those sages,
And how their precepts to their sons were law,
How Adam sighed to see his progeny,
Clothed all in his black sinful livery,
Who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly.
Our life compare we with their length of days
Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?
And though thus short, we shorten many ways,
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) 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 do fade,
A spring returns, and they more youthful made;
But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he’s laid.
By birth more noble than those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custom cursed,
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 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.
Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm
Close sate 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,
Now thought the rivers did the trees excel,
And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.
While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,
Which to the longed-for Ocean held its course,
I 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,
Nor is’t enough, that thou alone mayst slide,
But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet,
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis’ house, where all embrace and greet.
Thou Emblem true of what I count the best,
O could I lead my rivulets to rest,
So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.”
Ye fish, which in this liquid region ‘bide,
That for each season have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh where you think best to glide
To unknown coasts to g
ive a visitation,
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry;
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You wat’ry folk that know not your felicity.
Look how the wantons frisk to task 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.
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.
“O merry Bird,” said I, “that fears no snares,
That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts nor cruciating cares
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 dost fear.”
“The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begin anew,
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better region,
Where winter’s never felt by that sweet airy legion.”
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.
And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
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.
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 becomes 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.
So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets that never bit of th’ sour,
That’s full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,
Fond fool, he takes this earth ev’n for heav’n’s bower.
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here’s neither honour, wealth, nor safety;
Only above is found all with security.
O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion’s curtains over kings;
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names with 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.