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MeetChristians.com / Forums / Poetry, Prose, Art and stuff

No. 0     Original Topic:  Anne Bradstreet- first American poet   
By:  Verbatim   Gender: F   Age: 62   on  Oct 12, 2015 at 10:30 AM   Viewed 7605 times     
"A frontier is no friendly place for literary creation; yet within a year after landing with John Winthrop in Massachusetts, America's first English poet was writing, and the fruits of her pen from the next forty odd years remain with us today," according to Jeannine Hensley, the editor of her Works. Hensely goes on to say, "she was not a great poet, but her poetry has endured." It has endured because of the personal intensity and poignancy of her writings, borne out of hard experience and faith.

Anne Bradstreet was born in 1612 to Thomas Dudley and raised in a prosperous, educated home. After marrying Simon Bradstreet, she sailed to New England on the Arbella, exchanging a life of relative comfort and culture for the wilderness of Cambridge. It would appear that she was converted in the midst of her new hardships of building a home, storing food, enduring sickness, and raising eight children. Her poetry is a combination of Sixteenth Century convention, her new-found faith, and her struggle for the survival of her family. She went to be with the Lord in 1672.

My soul, rejoice thou in thy God

My soul, rejoice thou in thy God,
Boast of Him all the day,
Walk in His law, and kiss His rod
Cleave close to Him alway.

What though thy outward man decay,
Thy inward shall wax strong.
Thy body vile it shall be changed,
And glorious made erelong.

With angel's wings thy soul shall mount
To bliss unseen by eye,
And drink at unexhausted fount
Of joy unto eternity.

Thy tears shall all be dried up,
Thy sorrows all shall fly,
Thy sins shall ne'er be summoned up
Nor come in memory.

Then shall I know what Thou hast done
For me, unworthy me,
And praise Thee shall ev'n as I ought
For wonders that I see.

Base world, I trample on thy face,
Thy glory I despise,
No gain I find in ought below,
For God hath made me wise.

Come Jesus quickly, Blessed Lord.
Thy face when shall I see?
O let me count each hour a day
'Till I dissolved be.

from: Puritan Sermons.com