To Her Father with Some Verses

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,
If worth in me or ought I do appear,
Who can of right better demand the same
Than may your worthy self from whom it came?
The principal might yield a greater sum,
Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;
My stock's so small I know not how to pay,
My bond remains in force unto this day;
Yet for part payment take this simple mite,
Where nothing's to be had, kings loose their right.
Such is my debt I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I'll pay it while I live;
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,
Yet paying is not paid until I die.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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For the restoration of my dear Husband from a burning Ague, June, 1661.

When feares and sorrowes me besett,
Then did'st thou rid me out;
When heart did faint and spirits quail,
Thou comforts me about.
Thou rais'st him vp I feard to loose,
Regau'st me him again:
Distempers thou didst chase away;
With strenght didst him sustain.
My thankfull heart, with Pen record
The Goodnes of thy God;
Let thy obedience testefye
He taught thee by his rod.
And with his staffe did thee support,
That thou by both may'st learn;
And 'twixt the good and evill way,
At last, thou mig'st discern.
Praises to him who hath not left
My Soul as destitute;
Nor turnd his ear away from me,
But graunted hath my Suit.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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My thankfull heart with glorying Tongue

My thankfull heart with glorying Tongue
Shall celebrate thy Name,
Who hath restor'd, redeem'd, recur'd
From sicknes, death, and Pain.
I cry'd thov seem'st to make some stay,
I sovght more earnestly;
And in due time thou succóur'st me,
And sent'st me help from High.
Lord, whilst my fleeting time shall last,
Thy Goodnes let me Tell.
And new Experience I haue gain'd,
My future Doubts repell.
An humble, faitefull life, O Lord,
For ever let me walk;
Let my obedience testefye,
My Praise lyes not in Talk.
Accept, O Lord, my simple mite,
For more I cannot giue;
What thou bestow'st I shall restore,
For of thine Almes I liue.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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In Memory of My Dear Grandchild Elizabeth Bradstreet, Who Deceased August, 1665 Beaing a Year and a

Farewell dear babe, 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 unto eternity.
Blest babe why should I once bewail thy fate,
Or sigh the days so soon were terminate;
Sith thou art settle 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 guides nature and fate.

poem by Anne Bradstreet (1678)
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Upon my Son Samuel his goeing for England, Novem. 6, 1657.

Thou mighty God of Sea and Land,
I here resigne into thy hand
The Son of Prayers, of vowes, of teares,
The child I stay'd for many yeares.
Thou heard'st me then, and gav'st him me;
Hear me again, I giue him Thee.
He's mine, but more, O Lord, thine own,
For sure thy Grace on him is shown.
No freind I haue like Thee to trust,
For mortall helpes are brittle Dvst.
Preserve, O Lord, from stormes and wrack,
Protect him there, and bring him back;
And if thou shalt spare me a space,
That I again may see his face,
Then shall I celebrate thy Praise,
And Blesse the for't even all my Dayes.
If otherwise I goe to Rest,
Thy Will bee done, for that is best;
Perswade my heart I shall him see
For ever happefy'd with Thee.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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In Thankful Remembrance for My Dear Husband's Safe Arrival Sept 3, 1662

What shall I render to Thy name
Or how Thy praises speak?
My thanks how shall I testify?
O Lord, Thou know'st I'm weak.

I owe so much, so little can
Return unto Thy name,
Confusion seizes on my soul,
And I am filled with shame.

O Thou that hearest prayers, Lord,
To Thee shall come all flesh
Thou hast me heard and answered,
My plaints have had access.

What did I ask for but Thou gav'st?
What could I more desire?
But thankfulness even all my days
I humbly this require.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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What God is like to him I serve

What God is like to him I serve,
What Saviour like to mine?
O, never let me from thee swerue,
For truly I am thine.
My thankfull mouth shall speak thy praise,
My Tongue shall talk of Thee:
On High my heart, O, doe thou raise,
For what thou'st done for me.
Goe, Worldlings, to your Vanities,
And heathen to your Gods;
Let them help in Adversities,
And sanctefye their rods.
My God he is not like to yours,
Your selves shall Judges bee;
I find his Love, I know his Pow'r,
A Succourer of mee.
He is not man that he should lye,
Nor son of man to vnsay;
His word he plighted hath on high,
And I shall liue for aye.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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As spring the winter doth succeed

May 13, 1657.
As spring the winter doth succeed,
And leaues the naked Trees doe dresse,
The earth all black is cloth'd in green;
At svn-shine each their joy expresse.
My Svns returned with healing wings.
My Soul and Body doth rejoice;
My heart exvlts, and praises sings
To him that heard my wailing Voice.
My winters past, my stormes are gone,
And former clowdes seem now all fled;
But, if they mvst eclipse again,
I'le rvn where I was succoured.
I haue a shelter from the storm,
A shadow from the fainting heat;
I haue accesse vnto his Throne,
Who is a God so wondrous great.
O hast thou made my Pilgrimage
Thvs pleasant, fair, and good;
Bless'd me in Youth and elder Age,

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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An Apology

To finish what's begun, was my intent,
My thoughts and my endeavours thereto bent;
Essays I many made but still gave out,
The more I mus'd, the more I was in doubt:
The subject large my mind and body weak,
With many moe discouragements did speak.
All thoughts of further progress laid aside,
Though oft perswaded, I as oft deny'd,
At length resolv'd, when many years had past,
To prosecute my story to the last;
And for the same, I hours not few did spend,
And weary lines (though lanke) I many pen'd:
But 'fore I could accomplish my desire,
My papers fell a prey to th'raging fire.
And thus my pains (with better things) I lost,
Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast.
No more I'le do sith I have suffer'd wrack,
Although my Monarchies their legs do lack:
Nor matter is't this last, the world now sees,
Hath many Ages been upon his knees.

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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For Deliverance from a feaver.

When Sorrowes had begyrt me rovnd,
And Paines within and out,
When in my flesh no part was sovnd,
Then didst thou rid me out.
My burning flesh in sweat did boyle,
My aking head did break;
From side to side for ease I toyle,
So faint I could not speak.
Beclouded was my Soul with fear
Of thy Displeasure sore,
Nor could I read my Evidence
Which oft I read before.
Hide not thy face from me, I cry'd,
From Burnings keep my soul;
Thov know'st my heart, and hast me try'd;
I on thy Mercyes Rowl.
O, heal my Soul, thov know'st I said,
Tho' flesh consume to novght;
What tho' in dust it shall bee lay'd,
To Glory't shall bee brovght.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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