Showing posts with label Anne Bradstreet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anne Bradstreet. Show all posts

March 20, 2011

Bradstreet: crown you with glory heerafter

On March 20, 1664, Anne Bradstreet wrote the following for her son Simon Bradstreet (named after the boy's father):

Parents perpetuate their liues in their posterity, and their masters in their imitation. Children do natureally rather follow the failings then the vertues of their predecessors, but I am perswaded better things of you. You once desired me to leaue something for you in writeing that you might look vpon when you should see me no more. I could think of nothing more fit for you, nor of more ease to my self, then these short meditations following. Such as they are I bequeath to you: small legacys are accepted by true friends, much more by duty sull children. I haue avoyded incroaching upon others conceptions, because I would leaue you nothing but myne owne, though in value they fall short of all in this kinde, yet I presume they will be better pris'd by you for the Authors 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.

The letter (the image here is a facsimile of the original manuscript in Bradstreet's handwriting) was, in fact, a dedication to her book Meditations Divine and Morall. The book is comprised of a series of short affirmations and religious aphorisms, along with a few more practical recommendations for living. One, for example, is aimed at the mothers of young children (with, of course, the requisite moral):

A prudent mother will not clothe her little child with a long and cumbersome garment; she easily foresees what events it is like to produce—at the best but falls and bruises, or perhaps somewhat worse. Much more will the All-wise God proportion his dispensations according to the stature and strength of the person he bestows them on. Large endowments of honor, wealth, or a healthful body would quite overthrow some weak Christian; therefore God cuts their garments short, to keep them in such a trim that they might run the ways of his commandment.

July 10, 2010

Bradstreet: thundring nois

Anne Bradstreet is generally accepted as the first known poet published in the New World. She lived in what is now Cambridge, Massachusetts for a time, but her house burned down on July 10, 1666. Her poem, "Upon the Burning of Our House," describes the incident:

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken'd was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.

And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.

He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.

Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.

No pleasant tale shall 'ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All's vanity.

Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.

Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho' this bee fled.
It's purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.

A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther's wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above.