Nonfiction > E.C. Stedman & E.M. Hutchinson, eds. > A Library of American Literature > 1607–1764
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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps.  A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes.  1891.
Vols. I–II: Colonial Literature, 1607–1764
 
Upon Mrs. Anne Bradstreet Her Poems
By John Rogers (1630–1684)
 
[Born in Essex, England. Died at Cambridge, Mass., 1684. Prefixed to the Posthumous Edition of Anne Bradstreet’s Poems. 1678.]

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;        5
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,        10
    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,        15
    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,        20
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:        25
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        30
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.        35
 
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,        40
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;        45
    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,        50
    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        55
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.
 
 
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