Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Contemplations
By Anne Bradstreet (c. 1612–1672)S
When Phœbus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o’er by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seem’d painted, but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue,
Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.
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 underworld so richly dight:
More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night.
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 breakest thy shell of horn?
If so, all these as naught Eternity doth scorn.
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.
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 vegetive,
Thy heart from death and dulness doth revive:
And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.
Thy daily straight, and yearly oblique path,
Thy pleasing fervor, 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.
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 lustre unto thee!
Admir’d, ador’d forever, be that Majesty.
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 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.
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.
O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion’s curtains over kings,
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without 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.