"Wondrous Works"

Wondrous works, that I see, the vast frame of the heaven and the earth, the order of all things, night and day, summer and winter, spring and autumn, the daily providing for this great household upon the earth, the preserving and directing of all to its proper end.

- Anne Bradstreet

It was incredibly difficult for me to pick a single line from her many poems and letter to her children; and then I remembered what she observed and why she wrote what she wrote. I feel akin to her and how she felt about life, God, nature, her husband and her children. She often checked herself against the beliefs that stirred within her and it is reflected in her writing. I especially enjoyed her imagery and how she captured sights and sounds so effortlessly. Each line written with a purpose.

I am reminded of my youth, growing up in Indiana, and of the short time I spent in Utah helping a friend plan her wedding when I read lines from Bradstreet's poem, "Contemplations":

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 seemed painted, but was true,

Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hue;

Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.

While living in Utah I hiked almost every day, mostly in the Timpanogos mountain range. I would be able to hike high enough to see over the autumn canopy to the Utah Valley and would be in awe at how tremendously beautiful it was. The imagery composed in "Contemplations" is expressive, thoughtful, and beautiful. I can see the influence of her faith and her strong abiding love for God and his creations. As a deeply devout Christian, I felt connected to her writings and recognized eternal truths that I have been taught. Stanza 11 expresses the consequences of the fall, caused by partaking of the forbidden fruit and the the labors now required of human beings to preserve ourselves:

Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be,

See glorious Adam there made lord of all,

Fancies the apple, dangle on the tree,

That turned his sovereign to a naked thrall.

Who like a miscreant's driven from that place,

To get his bred with pain and sweat of face,

A penalty imposed on his backsliding race.

Stanza 33 ends this piece with the hope of eternal life and the promise to those who have been faithful:

But he whose name is graved in the white stone

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

She often expresses her feelings as a woman, a mother, and a wife. The pains and the grief alongside the hopes and joys of her life. As a woman, she expresses well the inadequacy felt in working in a man's world. In her time, it was men who were well educated and well written. She expresses her feelings about her work being exposed to the world in her poem "The Author to Her Book." I think that all writers feel that their work is not fit for consumption - as writers we often desire to keep it hidden or to dress it up and make it better. We don't want our work shown to the world until we feel that it has been polished to perfection.

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,

Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.

In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known,

If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

As a mother, she expressed her deep love for her children. Yet she also shared the consequences of conceiving and bringing children into the world. Many women could not survive the riggers of childbirth, leaving the newborn motherless. When I read "Before the Birth of One of Her Children," I was reminded of the Psalm: The Lord is My Shepherd. While I was in the hospital after the birth of my first child, I was given a bookmark with this Psalm. The reality of birth is so closely related to death, and as mothers, we stand on the brink each time we bring a child into the world.

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end,

Adversity doth still our joyes attend;

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death’s parting blow is sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,

A common thing, yet oh inevitable.

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,

How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,

We are both ignorant, yet love bids me

These farewell lines to recommend to thee,

That when that knot’s untied that made us one,

I may seem thine, who in effect am none.

And if I see not half my dayes that’s due,

What nature would, God grant to yours and you;

The many faults that well you know I have

Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave;

If any worth or virtue were in me,

Let that live freshly in thy memory

And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms,

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.

And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains

Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me,

These o protect from step Dames injury.

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,

With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;

And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,

Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

Lastly, Bradstreet and I share the loss of a home. More than twenty years ago, after the passing of my father-in-law, our home burned. Many precious things were lost in that fire. I did not mourn the loss of these material possessions. The fire chief commented that he had not seen someone so strong as me when in the face of so much destruction. My comment to him was that there had not been a loss of life, and everything else can be replaced:

Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666

Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning

of Our house, July 10th. 1666. Copied Out of

a Loose Paper.

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I wakened was with thund’ring noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”

Let no man know is my Desire.

I, starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

To straighten me in my Distress

And not to leave me succourless.

Then, coming out, behold a space

The flame consume my dwelling place.

And when I could no longer look,

I blest His name that gave and took,

That laid my goods now in the dust.

Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.

It was his own, it was not mine,

Far be it that I should repine;

He might of all justly bereft

But yet sufficient for us left.

When by the ruins oft I past

My sorrowing eyes aside did cast

And here and there the places spy

Where oft I sate and long did lie.

Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,

There lay that store I counted best.

My pleasant things in ashes lie

And them behold no more shall I.

Under thy roof no guest shall sit,

Nor at thy Table eat a bit.

No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told

Nor things recounted done of old.

No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee,

Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be.

In silence ever shalt thou lie,

Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.

Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,

And did thy wealth on earth abide?

Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?

The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?

Raise up thy thoughts above the sky

That dunghill mists away may fly.

Thou hast a house on high erect

Frameed by that mighty Architect,

With glory richly furnished,

Stands permanent though this be fled.

It‘s purchased and paid for too

By Him who hath enough to do.

A price so vast as is unknown,

Yet by His gift is made thine own;

There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,

Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.

The world no longer let me love,

My hope and treasure lies above.

References:

Levine, Robert S., et al. The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 1820-1865. 9th ed., vol. 1 2, W.W. Norton & Company, 2017.

The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry (Columbia University Press, 1995)

The Complete Works of Anne Bradstreet (1981)