Anne Bradstreet and Her Time Part 19

Thy presence makes it day thy absence night, Quaternal Seasons caused by thy might; Hail Creature full of sweetness, beauty and delight.

Art them so full of glory, that no Eye Hath strength, thy s.h.i.+ning Rayes once to behold?

And is thy splendid throne erect so high?

As to approach it can no earthly mould.

How full of glory then must thy Creator be?

Who gave this bright light l.u.s.ter unto thee, Admir'd, ador'd for ever, be that Majesty.

Silent alone, where none or saw or heard, In pathless paths I lead my wandering feet; My humble eyes to lofty Skyes I rear'd, To sing some song my mazed Muse thought meet.

My great Creator I would magnifie, That nature had thus decked liberally; But Ah, and Ah, again my imbecility.

The reader who may be disposed to echo this last line must bear in mind always, that stilted as much of this may seem, it was in the day in which it appeared a more purely natural voice than had been heard at all, and as the poem proceeds it gains both in force and beauty. As usual she reverts to the past for ill.u.s.trations and falls into a meditation aroused by the sights and sounds about her. The path has led to the meadows not far from the river, where--

I heard the merry gra.s.shopper then sing, The black-clad Cricket, bear a second part, They kept one tune and plaid on the same string, Seeming to glory in their little Art.

Shall Creatures abject, thus their voices raise?

And in their kind resound their makers praise, Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no higher layes.

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 moneths and years that long since fled.

It makes a man more aged in conceit, Then was Methuselah, or's grandsire great; While of their persons & 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 impos'd on his backsliding Race.

Here sits our Grandame in retired place, And in her lap, her b.l.o.o.d.y 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, Beleiving him that was, and is Father of lyes.

Here Cain and Abel came to sacrifice, Fruits of the Earth and Fallings each do bring, On Abels gift the fire descends 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 brothers 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 fratracide The Virgin Earth, of blood her first draught drinks, But since that time she often hath been clay'd; The wretch with gastly 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 dispair with wish of life hath fought, 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 Father's ages.

Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw, The starry observations of those Sages, And how their precepts to their sons were law, How Adam sigh'd to see his Progeny, Cloath'd all in his black sinful 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 wayes, 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) stil clad in green The stones and trees insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come and greeness 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 n.o.ble then those creatures all, Yet seems by nature and by custome curs'd, 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 have had birth, Because they're bigger & their bodyes stronger?

Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye, And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, But man was made for endless immortality.

Here at last she is released from the didactic. She can look at the sun without feeling it necessary to particularize her knowledge of its--

"... swift Annual and diurnal Course, Thy daily streight and yearly oblique path."

Imagination has been weighted by the innumerable details, more and more essential to the Puritan mind, but now she draws one long free breath, and rises far beyond the petty limit of her usual thought, the italicised lines in what follows holding a music one may seek for in vain in any other verse of the period:

Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm, Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side, Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place with pleasures dignifi'd, I once that lov'd the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, And if the sun would ever s.h.i.+ne there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the longed-for Ocean held its course, I markt not crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought 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 may'st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer 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 Rivolets 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 streight they dive, Eftsoon to Neptun's gla.s.sie Hall repair, To see what trade they great ones there do drive Who forrage ore the s.p.a.cious, sea-green field, And take the trembling prey before it yield, Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their s.h.i.+eld.

While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet tongu'd Philomel percht ore my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain, Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg'd my hearing better then my sight, And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight.

O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor h.o.a.rds up in thy barn, Feels no sad thoughts, no cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm.

Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is everywhere, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water deer, Reminds not what is past nor whats to come dost fear.