THE earliest specimens of poetry which I have presented in the body of this work are from the writings of PHILIP FRENEAU, one of those worthies who with both lyre and sword aided in the achievement of the independence of the United States. Before his time but little poetry was written in this country, although from the landing of the pilgrims at Plymouth there was at no period a lack of candidates for the poetic laurel. Many of the early colonists were men of erudition, deeply versed in scholastic theology, and familiar with the best ancient literature; but they possessed neither the taste, the fancy, nor the feeling of the poet, and their elaborate metrical compositions are forgotten by all save the antiquary, and by him are regarded as among the least valuable of the relics of the first era of civilization in America.

It is unreasonable to compare the quaint and grotesque absurdities of FOLGER, MATHER, and WIGGLESWORTH With the productions of the first cultivators of the art in older nations; for literature-mental development—had here, in truth, no infancy. The great works of CHAUCER, SPENSER, SHAKSPEARE, and MILTON were as accessible in their time as now, and the living harmonies of DRYDEN and POPE were borne on every breeze that then fanned the cheek of an Englishman. The bar to progress was that spirit of bigotry—at length broken down by the stronger spirit of freedomwhich prevented the cultivation of elegant learning, and regarded as the fruits of profane desire the poet's glowing utterance, strong feeling, delicate fancy, and brilliant imagination. Our fathers were like the labourers of an architect; they planted deep and strong in religious virtue and useful science the foundations of an edifice, not dreaming how great and magnificent it was to be. They did well their part; it was not meet for them to fashion the capitals and adorn the arches of the temple.

The first poem composed in this country was a description of New England, in Latin, by the Reverend WILLIAM MORRELL, who came to Plymouth Colony in 1623, and returned to London in the following year. It has been reprinted, with an English translation made by the author, in the collections of the Massa

3

chusetts Historical Society. The first verses by a colonist were written about the year 1630. The name of the author has been lost:

New England's annoyances, you that would know them,
Pray ponder these verses which briefly do show them.
The place where we live is a wilderness wood,
Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good:
Our mountains and hills and our valleys below
Being commonly cover'd with ice and with snow:
And when the northwest wind with violence blows,
Then every man pulls his cap over his nose:
But if any 's so hardy and will it withstand,
He forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand.

But when the spring opens, we then take the hoe,
And make the ground ready to plant and to sow;
Our corn being planted and seed being sown,
The worms destroy much before it is grown;
And when it is growing some spoil there is made
By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade;
And when it is come to full corn in the ear,
It is often destroy'd by raccoon and by deer.
And now do our garments begin to grow thin,
And wool is much wanted to card and to spin;
If we can get a garment to cover without,
Our other in-garments are clout upon clout:
Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn,
They need to be clouted soon after they're worn;
But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing,
Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothing.
If fresh meat be wanting, to fill up our dish,
We have carrots and pumpkins and turnips and fish:
And is there a mind for a delicate dish,
We repair to the clam banks, and there we catch fish.
Instead of pottage and puddings and custards and pies,
Our pumpkins and parsnips are common supplies;
We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon;
If it was not for pumpkins we should be undone.
If barley be wanting to make into malt,
We must be contented and think it no fault;
For we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut tree chips.

Now while some are going let others be coming,
For while liquor's boiling it must have a scumming;
But I will not blame them, for birds of a feather,
By seeking their fellows, are flocking together.
But you whom the LORD intends hither to bring,
Forsake not the honey for fear of the sting;
But bring both a quiet and contented mind,
And all needful blessings you surely will find.

The first book published in British America was "The Psalms in Metre, faithfully Translated, for the Use, Edification, and Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in New England," printed at Cambridge, in 1640. The version was made by THOMAS WELDE, of Roxbury, RICHARD MATHER, of Dorchester, and JOHN ELIOT, the famous apostle to the Indians. The translators seem

to have been aware that it possessed but little poetical merit. "If," say they, in their preface, the verses are not always so smooth and elegant as some may desire and expect, let them consider that GOD's altar needs not our polishings; for we have respected rather a plain translation, than to smooth our verses with the sweetness of any paraphrase, and so have attended to conscience rather than elegance, and fidelity rather than poetry, in translating Hebrew words into English language, and DAVID's poetry into English metre." COTTON MATHER laments the inelegance of the version, but declares that the Hebrew was most exactly rendered. After a second edition had been printed, President DUNSTER,* of Harvard College, assisted by Mr. RICHARD LYON, a tutor at Cambridge, attempted to improve it, and in their advertisement to the godly reader they state that they "had special eye both to the gravity of the phrase of sacred writ and sweetness of the verse." DUNSTER'S edition was reprinted twenty-three times in America, and several times in Scotland and England, where it was long used in the dissenting congregations. The following specimen is from the second edition:

PSALM CXXXVII.

The rivers on of Babilon,

There when wee did sit downe, Yea, even then, wee mourned when Wee remembered Sion.

Our harp wee did hang it amid,

Upon the willow tree,

Because there they that us away

Led in captivitee

Requir'd of us a song, and thus

Askt mirth us waste who laid,
Sing us among a Sion's song,
Unto us then they said.

The LORD's song sing can wee, being
In stranger's land? then let
Lose her skill my right hand if I
Jerusalem forget.

Let cleave my tongue my pallate on
If mind thee doe not I,

If chiefe joyes o're I prize not more
Jerusalem my joy.

Remember, LORD, Edom's sons' word,
Unto the ground, said they,

It rase, it rase, when as it was
Jerusalem her day.

Blest shall he be that payeth thee,

Daughter of Babilon,

Who must be waste, that which thou hast
Rewarded us upon.

O happie hee shall surely bee

That taketh up, that eke

Thy little ones against the stones
Doth into pieces breake.

Mrs. ANNE BRADSTREET, "the mirror of her

THOMAS DUNSTER was the first president of Harvard College, and was inaugurated on the twenty-seventh of

age, and glory of her sex," as she is styled by JOHN NORTON, of excellent memory, came to America with her husband, SIMON BRADSTREET, governor of the colony, in 1630, when she was but sixteen years of age. She was a daughter of Governor DUDLEY, a miserly, though a "valorous and discreet gentleman," for whom Governor BELCHER Wrote the following epitaph:

"Here lies THOMAS DUDLEY, that trusty old studA bargain's a bargain, and must be made good."

Mrs. BRADSTREET's verses were printed at Cambridge, in 1640. The volume was entitled, "Several Poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a compleat discourse and description of the four Elements, Constitutions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, together with an exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies, viz: the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian; and Roman Commonwealth, from the beginning, to the end of the last King; with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems." NORTON declares her poetry so fine that, were MARO to hear it, he would condemn his own works to the fire; and in a poetical description of her character says

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.

The author of the "Magnalia" speaks of her poems as a "monument for her memory beyond the stateliest marble;" and JOHN ROGERS, one of the presidents of Harvard College, in some verses addressed to her, says

Your only hand those poesies did compose:

Your head the source, whence all those springs did flow:
Your voice, whence change's sweetest notes arose:
Your feet that kept the dance alone, I trow:
Then veil your bonnets, poetasters all,
Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly fall,
And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal.
Should all with lowly congees laurels bring,
Waste Flora's magazine to find a wreath,
Or Pineus' banks, 't were too mean offering;
Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath
To guard your fairer front; here 't is your name
Shall stand immarbled; this your little frame
Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal fame.

She died in September, 1672, and "was greatly mourned." The following stanzas are August, 1640. In 1654 he became unpopular on account of his public advocacy of anti-pædobaptism, and was compelled to resign. When he died, in 1659, he bequeathed legacies to the persons who were most active in causing his separation from the college. In the life of DUNSTER, in the Magnalia, is the following admonition, by a Mr. SHEPHERD, to the authors of the New Psalm Book: You Rerb'ry poets keep clear of the crime Of missing to give to us very good rhyme. And you of Dorchester, your verses lengthen, But with the texts' own words you will them strengthen.

from one of her minor pieces, entitled "Contemplations."

Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm
Close sate 1 by a goodly river's side,

Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ;
A lonely place, with pleasures dignified.

1 once that loved the shady woods so well,
Now thought the rivers did the trees excell,

And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,
Which to the long'd-for ocean held its course,
I markt nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force:
O happy flood, quoth I, that holdst thy race
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.
Nor is 't enough, that thou alone may'st slide,
Bat hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet,
So hand in hand along with thee they glide
To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet:
Thou emblem true, of what I count the best,
O could I lead my rivulets to rest,

So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season, have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

In lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,
So nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You watry folk that know not your felicity.
Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,
Then to the colder bottome straight they dive,
Eftsoon to NEPTUNE'S glassie hall repair

[shield.

To see what trade the great ones there do drive,
Who forrage o'er the spacious sea-green field,
And take the trembling prey before it yield,
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their
While musing thus with contemplation fed,
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,
The sweet-tongued Philomel percht o'er my head,
And chanted forth a most melodious strain
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,
I judged my hearing better than my sight,

And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

O merry bird (said I) that fears no snares,
That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm;
Thy cloaths ne'er wear, thy meat is every where,
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,
Reminds not what is past, nor what's to come dost fear.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,*
Setts hundred notes unto thy feather'd crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begins anew,

And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then follow thee into a better region,

Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak:
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break:
From some of these he never finds cessation,
But day or night, within, without, vexation,
Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st re-

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow:
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation,

• Anticipate.

[lation.

In weight, in frequency, and long duration,
Can make him deeply groan for that divine translation.
The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,
Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great master of the seas;
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heaven's bower.
But sad affliction comes and makes him see
Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety;
Only above is found all with security.

O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion's curtains over kings,
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust;
Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust;
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

WILLIAM BRADFORD, the second governor of Plymouth, who wrote a " "History of the People and Colony from 1602 to 1647," composed also "A Descriptive and Historical Account of New England, in Verse," which is preserved in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

When JOHN COTTON, a minister of Boston, died in 1652, BENJAMIN WOODBRIDGE, the first graduate of Harvard College, and afterward one of the chaplains of CHARLES the Second, wrote an elegiac poem, from a passage in which it is supposed FRANKLIN borrowed the idea of his celebrated epitaph on himself. COTTON, Says WOODBRIDGE, was

A living, breathing Bible; tables where
Both covenants at large engraven were;
Gospel and law in 's heart had each its column,
His head an index to the sacred volume,
His very name a title-page, and next
His life a commentary on the text.

O what a monument of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth,
Without erratas, may we think he'll be,
In leaves and covers of eternity!

The lines of the Reverend JoSEPH CAPEN, on the death of Mr. JOHN FOSTER, an inge nious mathematician and printer, are yet more like the epitaph of FRANKLIN:

Thy body which no activeness did lack,
Now's laid aside like an old almanack;
But for the present only's out of date,

"T will have at length a far more active state:
Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see

A fair edition, and of matchless worth, Free from erratas, new in heaven set forth; 'Tis but a word from GoD the great Creator, It shall be done when he saith Imprimatur. The excellent President URIAN OAKES, styled "the LACTANTIUS of New England," was one of the most distinguished poets of his time. The following verses are from his

Elegy on the death of THOMAS SHEPARD, minister of Charlestown:

Art, nature, grace, in him were all combined
To show the world a matchless paragon;
In whom of radiant virtues no less shined,
Than a whole constellation; but hee's gone!
Hee's gone, alas! down in the dust must ly
As much of this rare person, as could die.
To be descended well, doth that commend?
Can sons their fathers' glory call their own?
Our SHEPARD justly might to this pretend,
(His blessed father was of high renown,

Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,)
But his own personal worth's a better claim.
His look commanded reverence and awe,
Though mild and amiable, not austere :
Well humour'd was he, as I ever saw,

And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear.
The muses and the graces too, conspired,
To set forth this rare piece to be admired.
He breathed love, and pursued peace in his day,
As if his soul were made of harmony:
Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay
In such a piece of frail mortality.

Sure Father WILSON's genuine son was he,
New-England's PAUL had such a TIMOTHY.
My dearest, inmost, bosome friend is gone!
Gone is my sweet companion, soul's delight!
Now in a huddling crowd, I'm all alone,
And almost could bid all the world good-night,

Blest be my rock! GoD lives: O! let him be
As he is all, so all in all to me.

At that period the memory of every eminent person was preserved in an ingenious elegy, epitaph, or anagram. SHEPARD, mourned in the above verses by OAKES, on the death of JOHN WILSON," the Paul of New England," and "the greatest annagrammatizer since the days of LYCOPHRON," wrote

John Wilson, anagr. John Wilson. O, change it not! No sweeter name or thing, Throughout the world, within our ears shall ring. THOMAS WELDE, a poet of some reputation in his day, wrote the following epitaph on SAMUEL DANFORTH, a minister of Roxbury, who died soon after the completion of a new meeting-house:

Our new-built church now suffers too by this, Larger its windows, but its lights are less. PETER FOULGER, a schoolmaster of Nantucket, and the maternal grandfather of Doctor FRANKLIN, in 1676 published a poem entitled "A Looking-glass for the Times," addressed to men in authority, in which he advocates religious liberty, and implores the government to repeal the uncharitable laws against the Quakers and other sects. He says

The rulers in the country I do owne them in the LORD; And such as are for government, with them I do accord. But that which I intend hereby, is that they would keep bound;

And meddle not with GoD's worship, for which they have no ground.

And I am not alone herein, there's many hundreds more, That have for many years ago spoke much more upon that Indeed, I really believe, it's not your business, [score. To meddle with the church of GoD in matters more or less.

Now loving friends and countrymen, I wish we may be wise;

'Tis now a time for every man to see with his own eyes.
'Tis easy to provoke the LORD to send among us war;
'Tis easy to do violence, to envy and to jar;

To show a spirit that is high; to scorn and domineer;
To pride it out as if there were no GOD to make us fear;
To covet what is not our own; to cheat and to oppress;
To live a life that might free us from acts of righteousness;
To swear and lie and to be drunk, to backbite one another;
To carry tales that may do hurt and mischief to our bro-
ther;

To live in such hypocrisy, as men may think us good,
Although our hearts within are full of evil and of blood.
All these, and many evils more, are easy for to do;
But to repent and to reform we have no strength thereto.
The following are the concluding lines:

I am for peace, and not for war, and that's the reason why I write more plain than some men do, that use to daub and lie.

But I shall cease and set my name to what I here insert: Because to be a libeller, I hate it with my heart. [here, From Sherbontown, where now I dwell, my name I do put Without offence, your real friend, it is PETER FOULGER.

Probably the first native bard was he who is described on a tombstone at Roxbury as "BENJAMIN THOMSON, learned schoolmaster and physician, and ye renowned poet of New England." He was born in the town of Dorchester, (now Quincy,) in 1640, and educated at Cambridge where he received a degree in 1662. His incipal work, "New England's Crisis," appears to have been written during the famous wars of PHILIP, Sachem of the Pequods, against the colonists, in 1675 and 1676. The following is the prologue, in which he laments the growth 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,
Under thatch'd huts 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'nt."
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,
Was comlier wear, our wiser fathers thought,
Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'T was 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.

Daring 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 jonakin and mush.
Although men fared and lodged very hard,
Yet innocence was better than a guard.

'T was long before spiders and worms had drawn
Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawne
New England's beautys, which still 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.
'T was ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight.
Ere wines from France and Muscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsely doe.
From western isles ere fruits and delicasies
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.

THOMSON died in April, 1714, aged 74. He wrote besides his "great epic," three shorter poems, neither of which have much merit.

ROGER WILLIAMS, Chief Justice SEWALL, NATHANIEL WARD, of Ipswich, JOHN OSBORN, NATHANIEL PITCHER, and many others were in this period known as poets. The death of PITCHER was celebrated in some verses entitled Pitchero Threnodia," in which he was compared to PINDAR, HORACE, and other great writers of antiquity.

The most celebrated person of his age in America was COTTON MATHER. He was once revered as a saint, and is still regarded as a man of great natural abilities and profound and universal learning. It is true that he had much of what is usually called scholarship: he could read many languages; and his memory was so retentive that he rarely forgot the most trivial circumstance; but he had too little genius to comprehend great truths; and his attainments, curious rather than valuable, made him resemble a complicate machine, which, turned by the water from year to year, produces only bubbles, and spray, and rainbows in the sun. He was industrious, and, beside his three hundred and eighty-two printed works, left many manuscripts, of which the largest is called "Illustrations of the Sacred Scriptures," on which he laboured daily more than thirty years. It is a mere compilation of ideas and facts from multitudinous sources, and embraces nothing original, or valuable to the modern scholar. His minor works are nearly all forgotten, even by antiquaries. The Magnalia Christi Americana" is preserved rather as a curiosity than as an authority; for recent investigations have shown that his statements are not to be relied on where he had any interest in misrepresenting acts or the characters of persons. His style abounds with puerilities, puns, and grotesque conceits. His intellectual character, however, was better than his moral; for he was wholly destitute of any high religious principles, and was ambitious, intriguing, and unscrupulous. He fanned into a flame the terrible superstition in regard to witchcraft, and when the frenzy was over, hypocritically endeavoured to persuade the people that instead of encouraging the proceedings, his influence and exertions had been on the side of forbearance and caution. Failing to convince them of this, he attempted to justify his conduct, by inventing various personal histories, to show that there had been good cause for the atrocious persecutions.

66

COTTON MATHER's verses, scattered through a great number of his works, are not superior to those of many of his contemporaries. The following lines from his "Remarks on the Bright and the Dark Side of that American Pillar, the Reverend Mr. William Thomson," show his customary manner

APOLLYON Owing him a cursed spleen
Who an APOLLOS in the church had been,
Dreading his traffic here would be undone
By num'rous proselytes he daily won,
Accused him of imaginary faults,
And push'd him down so into dismal vaults:
Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief,
Till Heaven alarmed sent him a relief.