And calls back months and years that long since fled. 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, Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all, Here sits our Grandame in retired place, Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice, Fruits of the earth, and fatlings each do bring; Hath thousand thoughts to end his brother's dayes, There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks, Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find. Who fancyes not his looks now at the barr, His face like death, his heart with horror fraught Nor male-factor ever felt like warr, When deep despair, with wish of life hath sought, A city builds, that wals might him secure from foes. Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages. Clothed all in his black sinfull livery, Who neither guilt, nor yet the punishment could fly. Our Life compare we with their length of dayes, In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight, When I behold the heavens as in their prime, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come, and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made; But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid. By birth more noble than those creatures all, That state obliterate he had at first. Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again, But in oblivion to the final day remain. Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth, Because they're bigger, and their bodyes stronger? But man was made for endless immortality. Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm I once that lov'd the shady woods so well Now thought the rivers did the trees excell, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell. While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye, Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. Nor is't enough, that thou alone may'st slide, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest. Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide, Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide, In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry, Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air Whose armour 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 percht o'er my head, Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg'd my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight. O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm; Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear. The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,* So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old begins anew, And thus they pass their youth in summer season, Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion. *i. e. Anticipate. Man's at the best a creature frail and vain, 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 sinfull creature, frail, and vain, Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation. The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety; O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust It should be remembered that there were no models in English verse at the time Anne Bradstreet wrote. She was not probably acquainted with Shakspeare, as a poet, although he died when she was four years of age; but the puritans could know nothing of the works of a player. When she published her works, Milton had not written, or certainly was not known as an author of distinction. Chaucer and Spencer were the only guides at that time. Perhaps we should except Francis Quarles, who was twenty years senior to Mrs. Bradstreet, and had written and published several works previous to the appearance of her volume. His "Emblems,” and “ Divine Fancies," with all their quaintness, have a good share of poetical merit in them; and from several terms of expression, used by her, there can be no doubt but that she had read them. The phrase, “fond fool," which she used, is often found in Quarles' "Emblems", and is applied in the same sense by both, meaning one enamored with the world, and neglectful of spiritual things. Anne Bradstreet had a sister who was married to a clergyman by the name of Woodbridge, who preached both in Andover, in the county of Essex, in Massachusetts, and also in Newbury, in the same county. She also wrote poetry; but congratulated Mrs. Bradstreet on her publication, as looking up to her as a superior being to herself, and favored by the muses, beyond all females of her time. Mrs. Bradstreet died at the age of sixty, before the country had been agitated with the subject of witch-craft. The proceedings, upon which her honest husband, in his old age, most stoutly opposed, against the opinions of Mather and Phipps, two mighty names in church and state. More than a century passed away before another female poet arose in this country, worthy of being mentioned with Anne Bradstreet, Mercy Warren did not publish her dramas, and other works, until more than a hundred and twenty years after the poems of Anne Bradstreet had been known to the public. The night of darkness has gone, and numerous female votaries of the muses have arisen to delight and enchant the lovers of taste. BLANCHE OF CASTILE, queen of France, was daughter of Alphonso IX., king of Castile, who married her, in 1200, to Louis VIII., king of France. She was the mother of nine sons and two daughters, whom she educated with great care, and in such sentiments of piety, that two of them, Louis IX., and Elizabeth, have been beatified by the church of Rome. If this |