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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

Upon Mrs. Anne Bradstreet Her Poems

By John Rogers (1630–1684)

MADAM, twice through the Muses’ grove I walked;

Under your blissful bowers, I shrouding there,

It seemed with nymphs of Helicon I talked:

For there those sweet-lipped Sisters sporting were;

Apollo with his sacred lute sate by;

On high they made their heavenly sonnets fly;

Posies around they strewed, of sweetest poesy.

Twice have I drunk the nectar of your lines,

Which high sublimed my mean-born fantasy.

Flushed with the streams of your Maronean wines,

Above myself rapt to an ecstasy,

Methought I was upon Mount Hybla’s top,

There where I might those fragrant flowers lop,

Whence did sweet odors flow, and honey spangles drop.

To Venus’ shrine no altars raised are,

Nor venomed shafts from painted quiver fly,

Nor wanton doves of Aphrodite’s car

Are fluttering there, nor here forlornly lie

Lorn paramours, nor chatting birds tell news

How sage Apollo Daphne hot pursues,

Or stately Jove himself is wont to haunt the stews.

Nor barking Satyr’s breath, nor dreary clouds

Exhaled from Styx, their dismal drops distil

Within these fairy, flowery fields, nor shrouds

The screeching night raven, with his shady quill:

But lyric strings here Orpheus nimbly hits,

Orion on his saddled Dolphin sits,

Chanting as every humor, age, and season fits.

Here silver swans with nightingales set spells,

Which sweetly charm the traveller, and raise

Earth’s earthed monarchs from their hidden cells,

And to appearance summon lapsed days;

There heavenly air becalms the swelling frays,

And fury fell of elements allays

By paying every one due tribute of his praise.

This seemed the site of all those verdant vales

And purled springs, whereat the Nymphs do play,

With lofty hills, where Poets read their tales

To heavenly vaults, which heavenly sounds repay

By echo’s sweet rebound; here Ladies kiss,

Circling, nor songs nor dance’s circle miss;

But whilst those Siren’s sung, I sunk in sea of bliss.

Your only hand those poesies did compose,

Your head the source whence all those springs did flow;

Your voice, whence change’s sweetest notes arose;

Your feet, that kept the dance alone, I trow:

Then vail your bonnets, Poetasters all;

Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly fall,

And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal.

Should all with lowly congies laurels bring,

Waste Flora’s magazine to find a wreath,

Or Pineus’ banks, ’twere too mean offering;

Your Muse a fairer garland doth bequeath

To guard your fairer front; here ’tis your name

Shall stand immarbled; this your little frame

Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal fame.

I’ll please myself, though I myself disgrace,

What errors here be found, are in Errata’s place.