And in his law doth meditate
both in the day and night.
He shall be like a planted tree
by water-brooks; which shall
In his due season yield his fruit,
whose leaf shall never fall.

Such was the character of early New England verse; but as yet, with but our one exception given above, we have nothing original. To Mrs. Anne Bradstreet belongs the honour of the first volume of original poetry published in the new country. She was the wife of Simon Bradstreet, Governor of Massachusetts, at the age of sixteen married to him, and came with him the year after, in 1630, to America, where she died in 1672. One of the her volume bears the date of 1632, ætatis suæ 19. poems in Mather, himself a hard striver toward Parnassus, declares that "her poems divers times printed have afforded a grateful entertainment unto the ingenious and a monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marbles;" and the learned and excellent " John Norton of Ipswich calls her "the mirror of her age and glory of her sex," honouring her, after the fashion of the time, with this punning epitaph:

66

Her breast was a brave pallace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet,
Where Nature such a tenement had tane
That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane.

Cotton

A few of the opening stanzas of one of her Contemplation will show her style, and poetic ability at least poems entitled superior to that of her panegyrists.

Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phoebus 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 hew;

Wrapt were my senses at this delectable view.

I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I,

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, wisdome, glory, light,

That hath this under world so richly dight:

More heaven than earth was here no winter and no night.

с

Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye,

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 brak'st thy shell of horn?
If so, all these as nought eternity doth scorn.
Then higher on the glistering sun I gaz'd,
Whose beams were shaded by the leavie 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.

But though MRS. BRADSTREET is indeed the first writer of original poetry in America, the first native American who achieved poetic celebrity was BENJAMIN TOMPSON (Thompson or Thomson) born at Braintree, "within the limits of the present town of Quincy,"* in Massachusetts, in 1640, described on his tombstone at Roxbury (Boston) as "learned schoolmaster and physician and ye renowned poet of New England." He wrote, during the war of the Colonists against Philip the Sachem of the Pequods, in 1675 and '76, a mighty epic intituled New England's Crisis, the Prologue of which we give entire, to whet or to content the appetite of the curious. The epic begins with a lament for the increase of luxury among the people.

The times wherein old Pompion was a saint,
When men fared hardly, yet without complaint,
On vilest cates; the dainty Indian maize

Was eat with clamp-shells out of wooden trayes,

*So Kettell. Griswold says-" born in the town of Dorchester (now Quincy)." But Kettell is right. Dorchester is now incorporated with Boston. Braintree, on the other side of Quincy, still maintains its independency; but a portion of it was some years ago annexed to Quincy,-Quincy itself (I am informed) originally made out of a part of Braintree. It was probably in one of those Quincy parts that Tompson was born. Surely it is worth while to be as correct as is possible as to the birthplace of the American Homer. His epitaph, on his tombstone at Roxbury, another suburb but lately taken into Boston, is as follows:-SUB SPE IMMORTALI YE HERSE OF MR. BENJAMIN THOMSON, LEARNED SCHOOLMASTER AND PHYSICIAN, AND YE RENOWNED POET OF NEW ENGLAND. OBIIT APRILIS 13, ANNO DOMINI 1714, ET ÆTATIS SUE 74. MORTUUS SED IMMORTALIS.

Under thatch'd hutts, without the cry of rent,
And the best sawce to every dish, content.
When flesh was food and hairy skins made coats,
And men as well as birds had chirping notes;
When Cimnels were accounted noble blood,
Among the tribes of common herbage food,
Of Ceres' bounty form'd was many a knack,
Enough to fill poor Robin's Almanack.
These golden times (too fortunate to hold)
Were quickly sin'd away for love of gold.
"Twas then among the bushes, not the street,
If one in place did an inferior meet,

"Good morrow, brother! is there aught you want? Take freely of me, what I have you ha'n't."

Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now,
As ever since "Your Servant, Sir!" and bow.
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanick capes,
Which now would render men like upright apes,
Were comelier wear, our wiser fathers thought,
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'Twas in those dayes an honest grace would hold
Till an hot pudding grew at heart a cold,
And men had better stomachs at religion,
Than I to capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon;
When honest sisters met to pray, not prate,
About their own and not their neighbour's state.
During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud
Of the ancient planters' race before the flood,
Then times were good, merchants cared not a rush
For other fare than Ionakin and Mush.
Although men far'd and lodged very hard,
Yet innocence was better than a guard.

'Twas long before spiders and worms had drawn
Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne
New England's beautyes, which stil seem'd to me
Illustrious in their own simplicity.

'Twas ere the neighbouring Virgin Land had broke
The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoak.
"Twas ere the Islands sent their presents in,
Which but to use was counted next to sin.
"Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight.
Ere wines from France, and Moscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsly doe;
From western isles ere fruits and delicacies
Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.

No bugbear comets in the chrystal air
Did drive our christian planters to despair.
No sooner pagan malice peeped forth

But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth,
Who by their prayers slew thousands, angel-like;
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.
Then had the churches rest; as yet the coales
Were covered up in most contentious souls:
Freeness in judgment, union in affection,

Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection.
Then were the times in which our councells sate,
These gave prognosticks of our future fate.
If these be longer liv'd our hopes increase,
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.
But if New England's love die in its youth,
The grave will open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;
No power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about,
Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirror of the christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furl'd.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceiv'd the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by :
Thus the proud ship after a little turn,
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne:
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Even thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.

Notable, if only as a poetic vagary, in accord with the grim humour of the period, is the Day of Doom-a poetical description of the Great and Last Judgment, with a short discourse about Eternity-by the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, B.A. of Harvard (born 1631, died 1707), a compendious version, in the manner of Sternhold and Hopkins, of all the Scripture texts relative to the final judgment of man, in

224 stanzas of eight lines each, which went through at least seven editions in America, and was also reprinted in England. Room must be spared to give some notion of its peculiar merits. The Poem begins

Still was the night, serene and bright,
When all men sleeping lay;

Calm was the season, and carnal reason
Thought so 'twould last for aye.
Soul! take thine ease, let sorrow cease,
Much good thou hast in store:

This was their song, their cups among,
The evening before.

During the Day of Doom the souls argue with the Judge, who does not always get much the better of them in the argument. The colloquies are given at some length. Among those to be judged

to the bar all they drew near

Who died in infancy,

And never had or good or bad
Effected personally.

They remonstrate, complaining of hard measure, and are finally told that through Adam

You sinners are, and such a share
As sinners may expect

Such you shall have; for I do save
None but my own elect.
Yet to compare your sin with their
Who liv'd a longer time,
I do confess yours is much less,
Though every sin's a crime.

A crime it is, therefore in bliss
You may not hope to dwell,
But unto you I shall allow

The easiest room in hell.

The glorious King thus answering,
They cease and plead no longer :

Their consciences must needs confess

His reasons are the stronger.

Thus all men's pleas the judge with ease

Doth answer and confute,

Until that all, both great and small,
Are şilenced and mute.