read poems written by anne bradstreet

'The Prologue' and 'Before the Birth of One of Her Children' Poem by Anne Bradstreet

About 'Anne Bradstreet'

Born Anne Dudley in Northampton, England, the first American poet had rheumatic fever as 

a child and contracted smallpox just before marrying Cambridge graduate Simon Bradstreet. 

With John Winthrop's fleet in 1630, the couple sailed to America, where both Bradstreet's hus-

band and her father would serve as governors of Massachusetts. Anne Bradstreet became the 

mother of eight children and the author of a manuscript that her brother-in-law brought back 

to London and published without her knowledge in 1650 under the title The Tenth Muse Lately 

Sprung Up in America. Six years after her death a second and enlarged edition of her poems 

appeared in Boston. John Berryman found it expedient to adopt her voice in his long poem 

Homage to Mistress Bradstreet (1953). "I didn't like her work, but I loved her—I sort of fell in love 

with her," he explained.

The Prologue

I

To sing of Wars, of Captaines, and of Kings, 

Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun, 

For my mean Pen, are too superiour things, 

And how they all, or each, their dates have run: 

Let Poets, and Historians set these forth, 

My obscure Verse, shal not so dim their worth. 

II 

But when my wondring eyes, and envious heart, 

Great Bartas sugar'd lines doe but read o're; 

Foole, / doe grudge, the Muses did not part 

'Twixt him and me, that over-fluent store; 

A Bartas can, doe what a Bartas wil, 

But simple I, according to my skill. 

Ill 

From School-boyes tongue, no Rhethorick we expect, 

Nor yet a sweet Confort, from broken strings, 

Nor perfect beauty, where's a maine defect, 

My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings; 

And this to mend, alas, no Art is able, 

'Cause Nature made it so irreparable. 

IV

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet tongu'd Greek 

W h o lisp'd at first, speake afterwards more plaine. 

By Art, he gladly found what he did seeke, 

A full requitall of his striving paine: 

Art can doe much, but this maxime's most sure, 

A weake or wounded braine admits no cure.

V

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue, 

W h o sayes, my hand a needle better fits, 

A Poets Pen, all scorne, I should thus wrong; 

For such despight they cast on female wits: 

If what I doe prove well, it wo'nt advance, 

They'l say its stolne, or else, it was by chance. 

VI 

But sure the antick Greeks were far more milde, 

Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine, 

And poesy made, Calliope's owne childe, 

So 'mongst the rest, they plac'd the Arts divine: 

But this weake knot they will full soone untye, 

The Greeks did nought, but play the foole and lye. 

VII 

Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are, 

Men have precedency, and still excell, 

It is but vaine, unjustly to wage war, 

Men can doe best, and Women know it well; 

Preheminence in each, and all is yours, 

Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours. 

VIII 

And oh, ye high flown quils, that soare the skies, 

And ever with your prey, still catch your praise, 

If e're you daigne these lowly lines, your eyes 

Give wholsome Parsley wreath, I aske no Bayes: 

This meane and unrefined stuffe of mine, 

Will make your glistering gold but more to shine. 

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end, 

Adversity doth still our joys attend; 

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death's parting blow is sure to meet. 

The sentence past is most irrevocable, 

A common thing, yet oh inevitable. 

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend, 

How soon't may be thy Lot to lose thy friend, 

We are both 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 dayes that's due, 

What nature would, God grant to yours and you; 

The many faults that well you know I have 

Let be interr'd in my oblivious grave; 

If any worth or virtue were in me, 

Let that live freshly in thy 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 love thyself, or loved'st me[,] 

These o protect from step Dames injury. 

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse, 

With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse; 

And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake, 

Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.