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ANNE BRADSTREET.

[Born in England in 1613, daughter of Thomas Dudley, steward to the Earl of Lincoln; died in New England in 1672. She married in 1629 Simon Bradstreet, who appears at that date to have been the successor to her father as the Earl's steward in the following year all three, with other Nonconformists, settled in New England. As may readily be inferred from the very early age at which she left her native shores, Mrs. Bradstreet, as an authoress, belongs exclusively to America. The first collection of her poems was published at Boston in 1640, with the long title of-Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight, wherein especially is contained a Complete Discourse and Description of the Four Elements, Constitutions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year; together with an Exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies, viz.: the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian, and the Beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the end of their last King; with divers other pleasant and serious Poems. By a Gentlewoman of New England. This volume was reprinted in London in 1650; the lofty title of "The Tenth Muse, lately sprung up in America," being awarded to the authoress. Besides her literary deservings, Mrs. Bradstreet appears to have been a loveable and excellent woman. Both her father and her husband became Gcvernors of Massachusetts. After her death, the latter married again; and, living not much less than a century, was termed "the Nestor of New England." Many of Mrs. Bradstreet's descendants -among them the poet Dana-have been distinguished for ability.]

ELEGY ON A GRANDCHILD.

FAREWELL, dear child, my heart's too much content,

Farewell, sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye;
Farewell, fair flower, that for a space was lent,
Then ta'en away into eternity.

Blest babe, why should I once bewail thy fate,
Or sigh the days so soon were terminate,
Sith thou art settled in an everlasting state?

By Nature trees do rot when they are grown,
And plums and apples throughly ripe do fall,
And corn and grass are in their season mown,
And time brings down what is both strong and tall.
But plants new-set to be eradicate,

And buds new-blown to have so short a date,

Is by His hand alone that Nature guides, and Fate.

TO HER HUSBAND:

WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend,
How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend,
We both are ignorant. Yet love bids me
These farewell lines to recommend to thee,
That, when that knot's untied that made us one,
I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
And, if I see not half my days that's due,
What Nature would God grant to yours and you.
The many faults that well you know I have
Let be interred in my oblivious grave;
If any worth or virtue is in me,

Let that live freshly in my memory.

And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms,
Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms;
And, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains,
Look to my little babes, my dear remains,
And, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me,
These oh protect from stepdame's injury!
And, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse,
With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse;
And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake,
Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take.

[graphic]

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

[Born in 1779, died in 1843. Known principally as a painter. His longest poem is named The Sylphs of the Seasons, published in 1813].

ROSALIE.

"Он pour upon my soul again

That sad, unearthly strain,

That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,

As if some melancholy star

Had mingled with her light her sighs,

And dropped them from the skies.

"No-never came from aught below
This melody of wo,

That makes my heart to overflow
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light-if light it be-
That veils the world I see.

"For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres ;

And something blent of smiles and tears.
Comes from the very air I breathe.
Oh nothing, sure, the stars beneath,
Can mould a sadness like to this-
So like angelic bliss."

So, at that dreamy hour of day
When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play-
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden reverie

First fell the strain of him who stole

In music to her soul.

JOHN PIERPONT.

[Born in 1785, died towards 1865.1 Served as a Unitarian minister from 1819 to 1856. His principal poem is The Airs of Palestine, published in 1816].

FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTENNIAL

CELEBRATION.

Two hundred years! two hundred years!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!

The red man at his horrid rite,

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon;
His bark canoe, its track of light

Left on the wave beneath the moon;

His dance, his yell, his council-fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.

And that pale pilgrim band is gone

That on this shore with trembling trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on

The ark of freedom and of God.

And war-that since o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark-its storm is still.

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,

Has raised, and shown, and swept along.

1 In this and some other cases, where I say "towards" such a year as the date of death, I have reason to infer that the authors were alive in 1863, but have died since then, though the precise year of death is uncertain to me. I name 1865, as an approximation, in each instance.

'Tis like a dream when one awakes,
This vision of the scenes of old;
'Tis like the moon when morning breaks,
'Tis like a tale round watchfires told.

Then what are we? then what are we?

Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.

God of our fathers, in whose sight
The thousand years that sweep away
Man and the traces of his might

Are but the break and close of day

Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children in all time
To share thine own eternity.

THE EXILE AT REST.

HIS falchion flashed along the Nile;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled-and froze.

Here sleeps he now alone: not one

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,

Nor sire nor brother, wife nor son,

Hath ever seen or sought his grave.

Here sleeps he now alone; the star

That led him on from crown to crown

Hath sunk; the nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

He sleeps alone: the mountain cloud

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps his mortal form in death.

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