Anne Bradstreet Poems Part 02

Anne Bradstreet Poems Part 02,Although known as one of the first female writers to be published in the North America colonies, Anne Bradstreet was actually born in Northampton, England, in March 1612.

Her father Thomas Dudley and mother, Dorothy Yorke, were able to afford a very good education for Anne and she was well tutored in languages, literature and history. At the age of sixteen she was married to Simon Bradstreet.

 

Anne Bradstreet Poems Part 02

Anne Bradstreet Bio

In 1630 she, her husband and parents emigrated to Massachusetts, USA, with the Winthrop Fleet carrying British Puritans who had rejected the Church of England and the rule of King Charles 1st. Landing initially at the Pioneer Village (Salem) the Puritan group moved south to Charleston before travelling on down the Charles River to establish the city of Boston.

Anne’s father and husband went on to serve as Governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony and were later among those who founded Harvard College in 1636.  There is a gate next to Canaday Hall at Harvard which is dedicated to Anne’s memory.

 

Anne Bradstreet Poems Part 02

 

By Night when Others Soundly Slept

By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow’d his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry Soul he fill’d with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.

What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I’ll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Love him to Eternity.

 

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

Contemplations

Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Ph{oe}bus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o’re by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seem’d painted but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,
Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I,
If so much excellence abide below,
How excellent is he that dwells on high?
Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light,
That hath this under world so richly dight.
More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night.Then on a stately Oak I cast mine Eye,
Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem’d to aspire.
How long since thou wast in thine Infancy?
Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire,
Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born?
Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn?
If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz’d,
Whose beams was shaded by the leafy Tree.
The more I look’d, the more I grew amaz’d
And softly said, what glory’s like to thee?
Soul of this world, this Universe’s Eye,
No wonder some made thee a Deity.
Had I not better known (alas) the same had I.

Thou as a Bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes
And as a strong man joys to run a race.
The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes.
The Earth reflects her glances in thy face.
Birds, insects, Animals with Vegative,
Thy heat from death and dullness doth revive
And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.

Thy swift Annual and diurnal Course,
Thy daily straight and yearly oblique path,
Thy pleasing fervour, and thy scorching force,
All mortals here the feeling knowledge hath.
Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night,
Quaternal seasons caused by thy might.
Hail Creature, full of sweetness, beauty, and delight!

Art thou so full of glory that no Eye
Hath strength thy shining Rays 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 luster 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 wand’ring feet.
My humble Eyes to lofty Skies I rear’d
To sing some Song my mazed Muse thought meet.
My great Creator I would magnify
That nature had thus decked liberally,
But Ah and Ah again, my imbecility!

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black clad Cricket bear a second part.
They kept one tune and played on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little Art.
Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise
And in their kind resound their maker’s praise
Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher lays?

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 months and years that long since fled.
It makes a man more aged in conceit
Than was Methuselah or’s grand-sire great,
While of their persons and their acts his mind doth treat.

Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be,
See glorious Adam there made Lord of all,
Fancies the Apple dangle on the Tree
That turn’d his Sovereign to a naked thrall,
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 Grand-dame in retired place
And in her lap her bloody 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,
Believing him that was and is Father of lies.

Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,
Fruits of the Earth and Fatlings each do bring.
On Abel’s gift the fire descends from Skies,
But no such sign on false Cain’s offering.
With sullen hateful looks he goes his ways,
Hath thousand thoughts to end his brother’s days,
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 fratricide.
The Virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks,
But since that time she often hath been cloy’d.
The wretch with ghastly 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 fancies not his looks now at the Bar,
His face like death, his heart with horror fraught.
Nor Male-factor ever felt like war,
When deep despair 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 walls 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
Cloth’d all in his black, sinful Livery,
Who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly.

Our life compare we with their length of days.
Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?
And though thus short, we shorten many ways,
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) still clad in green,
The stones and trees, insensible of time,
Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen.
If winter come and greenness then do fade,
A Spring returns, and they more youthful made,
But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he’s laid.

By birth more noble than those creatures all,
Yet seems by nature and by custom 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 had birth,
Because they’re bigger and their bodies stronger?
Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and die,
And when unmade, so ever shall they lie.
But man was made for endless immortality.

Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm
Close sate I by a goodly River’s 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 shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,
Which to the long’d-for Ocean held its course,
I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lie
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 clear waves do meet,
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis’ house, where all imbrace 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 task the air,
Then to the colder bottom straight they dive;
Eftsoon to Neptune’s glassy Hall repair
To see what trade they, great ones, there do drive,
Who forrage o’re the spacious sea-green field
And take the trembling prey before it yield,
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.

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

O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares,
That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts nor cruciating cares
To gain more good or shun what might thee harm–
Thy clothes ne’er wear, thy meat is everywhere,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear–
Reminds not what is past, nor what’s to come dost fear.

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 pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better Region,
Where winter’s never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man at the best a creature frail and vain,
In knowledge 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, near’st Relation.

And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow.
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,
In weight, in 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 becomes great Master of the seas,
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which ‘gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that faileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets that never bit of th’ sour,
That’s full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,
Fond fool, he takes this earth ev’n for heav’ns bower,
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here’s neither honour, wealth, or safety.
Only above is found all with security.

O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things
That draws oblivion’s curtains over kings,
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not;
Their names with 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 shine when all of these are gone.

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

Davids Lamentation for Saul and Jonathan.

2. Sam. 1. 19.Alas slain is the Head of Israel,
Illustrious Saul whose beauty did excell,
Upon thy places mountainous and high,
How did the Mighty fall, and falling dye?
In Gath let not this things be spoken on,
Nor published in streets of Askalon,
Lest daughters of the Philistines rejoyce,
Lest the uncircumcis’d lift up their voice.
O Gilbo Mounts, let never pearled dew,
Nor fruitfull showres your barren tops bestrew,
Nor fields of offrings ever on you grow,
Nor any pleasant thing e’re may you show;
For there the Mighty Ones did soon decay,
The shield of Saul was vilely cast away,
There had his dignity so sore a foyle,
As if his head ne’re felt the sacred oyle.
Sometimes from crimson, blood of gastly slain,
The bow of Jonathan ne’re turn’d in vain:
Nor from the fat, and spoils of Mighty men
With bloodless sword did Saul turn back agen.
Pleasant and lovely, were they both in life,
And in their death was found no parting strife.
Swifter then swiftest Eagles so were they,
Stronger then Lions ramping for their prey.
O Israels Dames, o’reflow your beauteous eyes
For valiant Saul who on Mount Gilbo lyes,
Who cloathed you in Cloath of richest Dye,
And choice delights, full of variety,
On your array put ornaments of gold,
Which made you yet more beauteous to behold.
O! how in Battle did the mighty fall
In midst of strength not succoured at all.
O lovely Jonathan! how wast thou slain?
In places high, full low thou didst remain.
Distrest for thee I am, dear Jonathan,
Thy love was wonderfull, surpassing man,
Exceeding all the love that’s Feminine,
So pleasant hast thou been, dear brother mine,
How are the mighty fall’n into decay?
And warlike weapons perished away?

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

Deliverance from a Fit of Fainting

Worthy art Thou, O Lord, of praise,
But ah! It’s not in me.
My sinking heart I pray Thee raise
So shall I give it Thee.

My life as spider’s webb’s cut off,
Thus fainting have I said,
And living man no more shall see
But be in silence laid.

My feeble spirit Thou didst revive,
My doubting Thou didst chide,
And though as dead mad’st me alive,
I here a while might ‘bide.

Why should I live but to Thy praise?
My life is hid with Thee.
O Lord, no longer be my days
Than I may fruitful be.

Deliverance From Another Sore Fit

In my distress I sought the Lord
When naught on earth could comfort give,
And when my soul these things abhorred,
Then, Lord, Thou said’st unto me, “Live.”Thou knowest the sorrows that I felt;
My plaints and groans were heard of Thee,
And how in sweat I seemed to melt
Thou help’st and Thou regardest me.My wasted flesh Thou didst restore,
My feeble loins didst gird with strength,
Yea, when I was most low and poor,
I said I shall praise Thee at length.What shall I render to my God
For all His bounty showed to me?
Even for His mercies in His rod,
Where pity most of all I see.

My heart I wholly give to Thee;
O make it fruitful, faithful Lord.
My life shall dedicated be
To praise in thought, in deed, in word.

Thou know’st no life I did require
Longer than still Thy name to praise,
Nor ought on earth worthy desire,
In drawing out these wretched days.

Thy name and praise to celebrate,
O Lord, for aye is my request.
O grant I do it in this state,
And then with Thee, which is the best.

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

Epitaphs

Her Mother’s Epitaph

Here lies
A worthy matron of unspotted life,
A loving mother and obedient wife,
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor,
Whom oft she fed, and clothed with her store;
To servants wisely aweful, but yet kind,
And as they did, so they reward did find:
A true instructor of her family,
The which she ordered with dexterity,
The public meetings ever did frequent,
And in her closest constant hours she spent;
Religious in all her words and ways,
Preparing still for death, till end of days:
Of all her children, children lived to see,
Then dying, left a blessed memory.

Her Father’s Epitaph

Within this tomb a patriot lies
That was both pious, just and wise,
To truth a shield, to right a wall,
To sectaries a whip and maul,
A magazine of history,
A prizer of good company
In manners pleasant and severe
The good him loved, the bad did fear,
And when his time with years was spent
In some rejoiced, more did lament.
1653, age 77

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

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.
Thou heardst, thy rod thou didst remove,
And spar’d my Body frail,
Thou shew’st to me thy tender Love,
My heart no more might quail.
O, Praises to my mighty God,
Praise to my Lord, I say,
Who hath redeem’d my Soul from pitt:
Praises to him for Aye!
Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

Here Follow Several Occasional Meditations

By night when others soundly slept,
And had at once both case and rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.I sought Him whom my soul did love,
With tears I sought Him earnestly;
He bowed His ear down from above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.My hungry soul He filled with good,
He in His bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washed in His blood,
And banished thence my doubts and fears.What to my Savior shall I give,
Who freely hath done this for me?
I’ll serve Him here whilst I shall live
And love Him to eternity.

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen ELIZABETH

Proem.

Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,

Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky

Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,

And so has vow’d, whilst there is world or time.

So great’s thy glory, and thine excellence,

The sound thereof raps every human sense

That men account it no impiety

To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.

Thousands bring off’rings (though out of date)

Thy world of honours to accumulate.

‘Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,

‘Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.

Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,

T’ accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.

Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much

The acclamations of the poor, as rich,

Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,

Though I resound thy greatness ‘mongst the throng.

The Poem.

No Ph{oe}nix Pen, nor Spenser’s Poetry,

No Speed’s, nor Camden’s learned History;

Eliza’s works, wars, praise, can e’re compact,

The World’s the Theater where she did act.

No memories, nor volumes can contain,

The nine Olymp’ades of her happy reign,

Who was so good, so just, so learn’d, so wise,

From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.

Nor say I more than truly is her due.

Millions will testify that this is true.

She hath wip’d off th’ aspersion of her Sex,

That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.

Spain’s Monarch sa’s not so, not yet his Host:

She taught them better manners to their cost.

The Salic Law had not in force now been,

If France had ever hop’d for such a Queen.

But can you Doctors now this point dispute,

She’s argument enough to make you mute,

Since first the Sun did run, his ne’er runn’d race,

And earth had twice a year, a new old face;

Since time was time, and man unmanly man,

Come shew me such a Ph{oe}nix if you can.

Was ever people better rul’d than hers?

Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?

Did ever wealth in England so abound?

Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?

Ships more invincible than Spain’s, her foe

She rack’t, she sack’d, she sunk his Armadoe.

Her stately Troops advanc’d to Lisbon’s wall,

Don Anthony in’s right for to install.

She frankly help’d Franks’ (brave) distressed King,

The States united now her fame do sing.

She their Protectrix was, they well do know,

Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.

Her Nobles sacrific’d their noble blood,

Nor men, nor coin she shap’d, to do them good.

The rude untamed Irish she did quell,

And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.

Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?

Her self Minerva caus’d them so to be.

Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen,

As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:

Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round,

Terra incognitæ might know her sound.

Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold,

Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.

But time would fail me, so my wit would too,

To tell of half she did, or she could do.

Semiramis to her is but obscure;

More infamy than fame she did procure.

She plac’d her glory but on Babel’s walls,

World’s wonder for a time, but yet it falls.

Fierce Tomris (Cirus’ Heads-man, Sythians’ Queen)

Had put her Harness off, had she but seen

Our Amazon i’ th’ Camp at Tilbury,

(Judging all valour, and all Majesty)

Within that Princess to have residence,

And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.

Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls

(Who living consummates her Funerals),

A great Eliza, but compar’d with ours,

How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.

Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name,

Instead of glory, prov’d her Country’s shame:

Of her what worth in Story’s to be seen,

But that she was a rich Ægyptian Queen.

Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,

And of all these without compare the best

(Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)

Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:

She was a Ph{oe}nix Queen, so shall she be,

Her ashes not reviv’d more Ph{oe}nix she.

Her personal perfections, who would tell,

Must dip his Pen i’ th’ Heliconian Well,

Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire

To read what others write and then admire.

Now say, have women worth, or have they none?

Or had they some, but with our Queen is’t gone?

Nay Masculines, you have thus tax’d us long,

But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.

Let such as say our sex is void of reason

Know ’tis a slander now, but once was treason.

But happy England, which had such a Queen,

O happy, happy, had those days still been,

But happiness lies in a higher sphere.

Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.

Full fraught with honour, riches, and with days,

She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.

No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun,

Until the heaven’s great revolution:

If then new things, their old form must retain,

Eliza shall rule Albian once again.

Her Epitaph.

Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed

O’ th’ Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,

Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,

This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:

On neither tree did grow such Rose before,

The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

Another.

Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:

So blaze it fame, here’s feathers for thy wings.

Here lies the envy’d, yet unparallel’d Prince,

Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).

If many worlds, as that fantastic framed,

In every one, be her great glory famed.

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

In Memory of my Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet, who deceased June 20, 1699, bei

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write.
The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.
How oft with dissappointment have I met
When I on fading things my hopes have set.
Experience might ‘fore this have made me wise
To value things according to their price.
Was ever stable joy yet found below?
Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?
I knew she was but as a withering flower,
That’s here today, perhaps gone in an hour;
Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,
Or like a shadow turning, as it was.
More fool, then, I to look on that was lent
As if mine own, when thus impermanent.
Farewell, dear child; thou ne’er shalt come to me,
But yet a while and I shall go to thee.
Meantime my throbbing heart’s cheered up with this–
Thou with thy Savior art in endless bliss.
Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

In My Solitary Hours in My Dear Husband his Absence

O Lord, Thou hear’st my daily moan
And see’st my dropping tears.
My troubles all are Thee before,
My longings and my fears.Thou hitherto hast been my God;
Thy help my soul hath found.
Though loss and sickness me assailed,
Through Thee I’ve kept my ground.And Thy abode Thou’st made with me;
With Thee my soul can talk;
In secret places Thee I find
Where I do kneel or walk.Though husband dear be from me gone,
Whom I do love so well,
I have a more beloved one
Whose comforts far excel.

O stay my heart on Thee. my God,
Uphold my fainting soul.
And when I know not what to do,
I’ll on Thy mercies roll.

My weakness. Thou dost know full well
Of body and of mind;
I in this world no comfort have,
But what from Thee I find.

Though children Thou has given me,
And friends I have also,
Yet if I see Thee not through them
They are no joy, but woe.

O shine upon me, blessed Lord,
Ev’n for my Saviour’s sake;
In Thee alone is more than all,
And there content I’ll take.

O hear me, Lord, in this request
As Thou before hast done,
Bring back my husband, I beseech,
As Thou didst once my son.

So shall I celebrate Thy praise
Ev’n while my days shall last
And talk to my beloved one
Of all Thy goodness past.

So both of us Thy kindness, Lord,
With praises shall recount
And serve Thee better than before
Whose blessings thus surmount.

But give me, Lord, a better heart,
Then better shall I be,
To pay the vows which I do owe
Forever unto Thee.

Unless Thou help, what can I do
But still my frailty show?
If Thou assist me, Lord,
I shall Return Thee what I owe.

Anne Bradstreet Poems
Anne Bradstreet Poems

 

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