Anne Bradstreet and Her Time Part 20

_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 pa.s.s their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better Region, Where winter's never felt in that sweet airy legion_.

Up to this point natural delight in the sights and sounds of a summer's day has had its way, and undoubtedly struck her as far too much enjoyment for any sinful worm of the dust. She proceeds, therefore, to chasten her too exuberant muse, presenting for that sorely-tried damsel's inspection, the portrait of man, as Calvin had taught her to view him.

Man at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledg 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 nears't 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 vexations In weight and 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 Barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide, And now become great Master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoiles 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 even for heav'n's bower.

But sad affliction comes & 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 curtain 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 s.h.i.+ne when all of these are gone.

With this poem, Anne Bradstreet seems to have bidden a final farewell to any attempt at sustained composition. A sense of disgust at the poor result of long thought and labor appears to have filled her, and this mood found expression in a deprecating little poem in which humor struggles with this oppressive sense of deficiency and incompleteness, the inclination on the whole, however, as with most authors, being toward a lenient judgment of her own inadequate accomplishment.

THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK.

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till s.n.a.t.c.ht from thence by friends, less wise then true Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg) At thy return my blus.h.i.+ng 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 wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find In this array, mong'st Vulgars mayst thou roam In Critick's hands, beware thou dost not come; And take thy way where yet thou art not known, If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy Mother, she alas is poor.

Which caused her thus to turn thee out of door.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LEGACY.

Though it was only as a poet that Anne Bradstreet was known to her own time, her real strength was in prose, and the "Meditations, Divine and Morall," written at the request of her second son, the Rev. Simon Bradstreet, to whom she dedicated them, March 20, 1664, show that life had taught her much, and in the ripened thought and shrewd observation of men and manners are the best testimony to her real ability. For the reader of to-day they are of incomparably more interest than anything to be found in the poems. There is often the most condensed and telling expression; a swift turn that shows what power of description lay under all the fantastic turns of the style Du Bartas had created for her. That he underrated them was natural. The poems had brought her honor in the old home and the new. The meditations involved no anxious laboring after a rhyme, no straining a metaphor till it cracked.

They were natural thought naturally expressed and therefore worthless for any literary purpose, and as she wrote, the wail of the Preacher repeated itself, and she smiled faintly as the words grew under her pen: "There is no new thing under the sun, there is nothing that can be sayd or done, but either that or something like it hath been done and sayd before."

Many of the paragraphs written in pain and weakness show how keenly she had watched the course of events, and what power of characterization she had to use, three of them especially holding the quiet sarcasm in which she occasionally indulged, though always with a tacit apology for the possession of such a quality.

"Dimne eyes are the concomitants of old age; and short-sightednes in those that are eyes of a Republique, foretells a declineing state."

"Authority without wisdome, is like a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish."

"Ambitious men are like hops that never rest climbing so long as they have anything to stay upon; but take away their props, and they are of all, the most dejected."

The perpetual dissensions, religious and political, which threatened at times the absolute destruction of the Colony, were all familiar to her, and she draws upon them for ill.u.s.trations of many points, others being afforded by her own experience with the eight children to whom she proved so devoted and tender a mother.

Like other mothers, before and since, their differences in temperament and conduct, seem to have been a perpetual surprise, but that she had tact enough to meet each on his or her own ground, or gently draw them toward hers, seems evident at every point. That they loved her tenderly is equally evident, the diary of her second son mentioning her always as "my dear and honored mother," and all of them, though separated by early marriages for most of them, returning as often as practicable to the old roof, under which Thanksgiving Day had taken on the character it has held from that clay to this. The small blank-book which held these "Meditations" was copied carefully by Simon Bradstreet, and there is little doubt that each of the children did the same, considering it as much theirs as the brother's for whom it was originally intended. Whatever Anne Bradstreet did, she had her children always in view, and still another blank-book partially filled with religious reflections, and found among her papers after death, was dedicated, "To my dear children." The father probably kept the originals, but her words were too highly valued, not to have been eagerly desired by all. A special word to her son opens the series of "Meditations."

FOR MY DEARE SONNE SIMON BRADSTREET.

Parents perpetuate their lines in their posterity, and their maners in their imitation. Children do naturally rather follow the failings than the virtues of their predecessors, but I am persuaded better things of you. You once desired me to leave something for you in writing that you might look upon when you should see me no more. I could think of nothing more fit for you, nor of more ease to my selfe, than these short meditations following. Such as they are I bequeath to you: small legacys are accepted by true friends, much more by dutiful children. I have avoyded incroaching upon others conceptions, because I would leave you nothing but myne owne, though in value they fall short of all in this kinde, yet I presume they will be better priz'd by you for the Author's sake. The Lord blesse you with grace heer, and crown you with glory heerafter, that I may meet you with rejoyceing at that great day of appearing, which is the continuall prayer of

Your affectionate mother,

A. B.

March 20, 1664.

MEDITATIONS, DIVINE AND MORALL.

I.

There is no object that we see; no action that we doe; no good that we injoy; no evill that we feele or feare, but we may make some spiritu(a)ll, advantage of all: and he that makes such improvement is wise as well as pious.

II.

Many can speak well, but few can do well. We are better Scholars in the Theory then the practique part, but he is a true Christian that is a proficient in both.

III.

Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending; a negligent youth is usually attended by an ignorant middle age, and both by an empty old age. He that hath nothing to feed on but vanity and lyes must needs lye down in the Bed of Sorrow.

IV.

A s.h.i.+p that beares much saile, and little or no ballast, is easily overset; and that man, whose head hath great abilities, and his heart little or no grace, is in danger of foundering.

V.

It is reported of the peakc.o.c.k that, prideing himself in his gay feathers, he ruffles them up; but, spying his black feet, he soon lets fall his plumes, so he that glorys in his gifts and adornings should look upon his Corruptions, and that will damp his high thoughts.

VI.

The finest bread hath the least bran; the purest hony, the least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self love.

VII.

The hireling that labors all the day, comforts himself that when night comes he shall both take his rest and receive his reward; the painfull Christian that hath wrought hard in G.o.d's vineyard, and hath born the heat and drought of the day, when he perceives his sun apace to decline, and the shadows of his evening to be stretched out, lifts up his head with joy, knowing his refres.h.i.+ng is at hand.

VIII.

Downny beds make drosey persons, but hard lodging keeps the eyes open. A prosperous state makes a secure Christian, but adversity makes him Consider.