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,

Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of all,
Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree,
That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral.
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 forlorne;
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 lyes.

Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,

Fruits of the earth, and fatlings each do bring;
On Abel's gift the fire decends from skies,
But no such sign on false Cain's offering;
With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes,

Hath thousand thoughts to end his brother's dayes,
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 cloy'd;
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 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,
Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes,
A vagabond to Land of Nod he goes,

A city builds, that wals might him secure from foes.

Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers 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 sinfull livery,

Who neither guilt, nor yet the punishment could fly.

Our Life compare we with their length of dayes,
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 into 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 youthfull 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 custome 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 their, or never to had birth,

Because they're bigger, and their bodyes stronger?
Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye,
And when unmade, soever shall they lye,

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 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,
Which to the long'd-for Ocean held its course,
I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force:
O happy Flood, quoth I, that holdst 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 may'st 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 give a visitation,

In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air
Then to the colder bottome straight they dive,
Eftsoon to Neptune's glassie Hall repair
To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field,
And take the trembling prey before it yield,

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,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain

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;
Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,

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

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,*
Setts hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,

So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

And warbling out the old begins 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.

*i. e. Anticipate.

Man's 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 sinfull creature, frail, and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes 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 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.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure,
Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns 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 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 grav'd in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

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