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 mult.i.tudes 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 pa.s.sages 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 ma.s.sed together, the silent s.p.a.ces 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 t.i.tles 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 pa.s.sport 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s grows long the hungry beast to nourish The Primrose pale, and azure violet Among the virduous gra.s.s 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 p.u.s.s.ing 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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.ses, Whose fragrant smel all made perfumes surpa.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 Apric.o.c.k, 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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.