Another company, who had not been

Freed from their earthy burden, there were seen,
To try if prayers could appease the wrath,
Or stay th' inexorable hand of death.

That beauteous crowd conven'd to see the end
Which all must taste; each neighbour, every friend
Stood by, when grim death with her hand took hold
And pull'd away one only hair of gold.
Thus from the world this fairest flower is taen
To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen.
How many moaning plaints, what store of cries
Were utter'd there, when fate shut those fair eyes
For which so oft I sung; whose beauties burn'd
My tortur'd heart so long; whiles others mourn'd
She pleas'd, and quiet did the fruit enjoy
Of her blest life; farewell, without annoy,

True saint on earth, said they; so might she be
Esteem'd, but nothing bates death's cruelty.

Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize,
I know not, nor have art that can suffice
The sad affliction, to relate in verse

Of these fair Dames, that wept about her hearse;
Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost,

What shall become of us? none else can boast

Such high perfection, no more we shall

Hear her wise words, nor the angelical

Sweet music of her voice; whiles thus they cried, The parting spirit doth itself divide

With every virtue from the noble breast,

As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest;

The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
Without a threatening cloud, no adversaire
Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright:
Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
Were ceas'd, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
On that fair face, and by despair became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soul in peace, so lamps are spent,
As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
In sum, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow
Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
Desired rest, as if her lovely sight

Were clos'd with sweetest sleep, after the spright
Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,

Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.

ANNE BRADSTREET.

The tenth Muse, lately sprung up in America, or Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained, &c........ also a Dialogue between Old England and New, concerning the late troubles, with divers other pleasant and serious poems. By a gentlewoman in those parts. London, 12mo, 1650. Is the production of Anne Brad

street.

The writer of the preface informs us, that he has published the volume without her knowledge, being apprehensive that her poems, of which" divers had gotten some scattered papers," might be sent into the world in an imperfect state. He also tells us, "these poems are the fruit but of some hours curtailed from her sleep and other refreshments."

Philips in the Theat. Poet. gives the title of her work, the memory of which, he says, is not yet wholly extinct.

From a Poem called Spring.

Now goes the ploughman to his merry toil,
For to unloose his winter-locked soil;
The seedsman now doth lavish out his grain,
In hope the more he casts, the more to gain;

The gardener now superfluous branches lops,
And poles erects, for his green clambering hops:
Now digs, then sows, his herbs, his flowers, and

roots,

And carefully manures his trees of fruits.
The Pleiades their influence now give,

And all that seem'd as dead afresh do live.
The croaking frogs, whom nipping winter kill'd,
Like birds, now chirp, and hop about the field;
The nightingale, the blackbird, and the thrush,
Now tune their lays, on sprays of every bush:
The wanton frisking kids, and soft-fleeced lambs,
Now jump and play, before their feeding dams,
The tender tops of budding grass they crop,
They joy in what they have, but more in hope;
For tho' the frost hath lost his binding power,
Yet many a fleece of snow, and stormy shower,
Doth darken Sol's bright face, makes us remember
The pinching Nor-west cold of fierce December.
My second month is April, green, and fair,
Of longer days, and a more temperate air;
The Sun now keeps his posting residence
In Taurus' sign, yet hasteth straight from thence;
For tho' in's running progress he doth take
Twelve houses of the oblique Zodiack,

Yet never minute still was known to stand,
But only once at Joshua's strange command;

This is the month whose fruitful showers produces
All plants, and flowers, for all delights and uses; ›
The pear, the plum, and apple-tree, now flourish,
And grass grows long, the tender lambs to nourish;
The primrose pale, and azure violet,

Among the verduous grass hath nature set,
That when the sun (on's love) the earth doth shine,
These might, as lace, set out her garments fine;
The fearful bird his little house now builds,
In trees, and walls, in cities, and in fields;
The outside strong, the inside warm and neat,
A natural artificer complete.

The clocking hen, her chipping brood now leads, With wings, and beak, defends them from the gleads.

My next, and last, is pleasant fruitful May,
Wherein the earth is clad in rich array:
The Sun now enters loving Gemini,
And heats us with the glances of his eye,
Our winter raiment makes us lay aside
Lest by his fervor we be terrified ;

All flowers before the sun-beams now discloses.
Except the double pinks, and matchless roses.
Now swarms the busy, buzzing, honey-bee,
Whose praise deserves a page from more than me.
The cleanly huswives' dairy now's i' th' prime,
Her shelves, and firkins fill'd for winter time.