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.

The meads with cowslip, honeysuckle 's dight, One hangs his head, the other stands upright, But both rejoice at th' heaven's clear smiling face, More at her showers, which water them a space. For fruits, my season yields, the early cherry, The hasty pease, and wholesome red strawberry.

Epitaph for Queen ELIZABETH.

HERE sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed,
O' th' damask rose, sprung from the white and red,
Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
This Rose is wither'd, once so lovely fair;
On neither tree did grow such rose before,
The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

ANONYMOUS AUTHORESS.

The following extract is made from a small volume in the British Museum, entitled Eliza's Babes, or the Virgin's Offering, being divine poems and meditations—written by a lady, who only desires to advance the glory of God and not her own. London. 12mo. 1652.

To my Husband.

WHEN from the world I shall be taen,
And from earth's necessary pain,

Then let no blacks be worn for me,
Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.
But this bright diamond, let it be
Worn in rememberance of me.
And when it sparkles in your eye,
Think 'tis my shadow passeth by.
For why, more bright you shall me see,
Than that or any gem can be.

Dress not the house with sable weed,
As if there were some dismal deed
Acted to be when I am gone,

There is no cause for me to mourn.