Great Bartas this unto thy praise adds more,
In sad sweet verse, thou didst his death deplore.
And Phoenix Spencer doth unto his life,
His death present in sable to his wife.
Stella the fair, whose streams from Conduits fell
For the sad loss of her Astrophel.
Fain would I show how he fame's paths did tread,
But now into such Lab'rinths I am lead,
With endless turnes, the way I find not out,
How to persist my Muse is more in doubt;
Wich makes me now with Silvester confess,
But Sidney's Muse can sing his worthiness.
The Muses aid I craved, they had no will
To give to their Detractor any quill,
With high disdain, they said they gave no more,
Since Sidney had exhausted all their store.
They took from me the Scribling pen I had,
I to be eas'd of such a task was glad
Then to reveng this wrong, themselves engage,
And drove me from Parnassus in a rage.
Then wonder not if I no better sped,
Since I the Muses thus have injured.
I pensive for my fault, sate down, and then
Errata through their leave, threw me my pen,
My Poem to conclude, two lines they deign
Which writ, she bad return't to them again;
So Sidneys fame I leave to Englands Rolls,
His bones do lie interr'd in stately Pauls.
HIS EPITAPH.
Here lies in fame under this stone,
Philip and Alexander both in one;
Heir to the Muses, the Son of Mars in Truth,
Learning, Valour, Wisdome, all in virtuous youth,
His praise is much, this shall suffice my pen,
That Sidney dy'd 'mong most renown'd of men.
With Du Bartas, there is no hesitation or qualification. Steeped in the spirit of his verse, she was unconscious how far he had moulded both thought and expression, yet sufficiently aware of his influence to feel it necessary to assert at many points her freedom from it. But, as we have already seen, he was the Puritan poet, and affected every rhymester of the time, to a degree which it required generations to shake off. In New England, however, even he, in time came to rank as light-minded, and the last shadow of poetry fled before the metrical horrors of the Bay Psalm Book, which must have lent a terror to rhyme, that one could wish might be transferred to the present day. The elegy on Du Bartas is all the proof needed to establish Anne Bradstreet as one of his most loyal followers, and in spite of all protest to the contrary such she was and will remain.
IN HONOUR OF DU BARTAS.
Among the happy wits this age hath shown
Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known;
My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue,
In humble wise have vowed their service long
But knowing th' task so great & strength but small,
Gave o're the work before begun withal,
My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines,
Where Art, and more than Art in nature shines,
Reflection from their beaming altitude
Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude
Which rayes darting upon some richer ground
Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound,
But barren I, my Dasey here do bring,
A homely flower in this my latter Spring,
If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield
Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field,
Volleyes of praises could I eccho then,
Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen;
But wishes can't accomplish my desire,
Pardon if I adore, when I admire.
O France thou did'st in him more glory gain
Then in St. Lewes, or thy last Henry Great,
Who tam'd his foes in warrs, in bloud and sweat,
Thy fame is spread as far, I dare be bold,
In all the Zones, the temp'rate, hot and cold,
Their Trophies were but heaps of wounded slain,
Shine the quintessence of an heroick brain.
The oaken Garland ought to deck their brows,
Immortal Bayes to thee all men allows,
Who in thy tryumphs never won by wrongs,
Lead'st millions chained by eyes, by ears, by tongues,
Oft have I wondred at the hand of heaven,
In giving one what would have served seven,
If e're this golden gift was show'd on any,
They shall be consecrated in my Verse,
And prostrate offered at great Bartas Herse;
My muse unto a child I may compare
Who sees the riches of some famous Fair,
He feeds his Eyes, but understanding lacks
To comprehend the worth of all those knacks
The glittering plate and Jewels he admires,
The Hats and Fans, the Plumes and Ladies tires,
And thousand times his mazed mind doth wish,
Some part (at least) of that great wealth was his,
But feeling empty wishes nought obtain,
At night turnes to his mothers cot again,
And tells her tales, (his full heart over glad)
Of all the glorious sights his Eyes have had;
But finds too soon his want of Eloquence,
The silly prattler speaks no word of sense;
But feeling utterance fail his great desires
Sits down in silence, deeply he admires,
Thus weak brained I, reading thy lofty stile,
Thy profound learning, viewing other while;
Thy Art in natural Philosophy,
Thy Saint like mind in grave Divinity;
Thy piercing skill in high Astronomy,
And curious insight in anatomy;
Thy Physick, musick and state policy,
Valour in warr, in peace good husbandry,
Sure lib'ral Nature did with Art not small,
In all the arts make thee most liberal,
A thousand thousand times my senseless sences
Moveless stand charmed by thy sweet influences;
More senseless then the stones to Amphious Luto,
Mine eyes are sightless, and my tongue is mute,
My full astonish'd heart doth pant to break,
Through grief it wants a faculty to speak;
Thy double portion would have served many,
Unto each man his riches is assign'd
Of name, of State, of Body and of mind:
Thou had'st thy part of all, but of the last,
O pregnant brain, O comprehension vast;
Thy haughty Stile and rapted wit sublime
All ages wondring at, shall never climb,
Thy sacred works are not for imitation,
But monuments to future admiration,
Thus Bartas fame shall last while starrs do satnd,
And whilst there's Air or Fire, or Sea or Land.
But least my ignorance shall do thee wrong,
To celebrate thy merits in my Song.
He leave thy praise to those shall do thee right,
Good will, not skill, did cause me bring my mite.
HIS EPITAPH.
Here lyes the Pearle of France, Parnassus glory;
The World rejoyc'd at's birth, at's death, was sorry,
Art and Nature joyn'd, by heavens high decree
Naw shew'd what once they ought, Humanity!
And Natures Law, had it been revocable
To rescue him from death, Art had been able,
But Nature vanquish'd Art, so Bartas dy'd;
But Fame out-living both, he is reviv'd.
Bare truth as every line surely appeared to the woman who wrote, let us give thanks devoutly that the modern mind holds no capacity for the reproduction of that