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

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 stud— A 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 com pelled 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 Rorb'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 "Con-
*templations."

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

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

To see what trade the great ones the do drive,
Who forrage o'er the spacious sea-g
And take the trembling prey before
[shield.
Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their

en field,
yield,

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 judg'd 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 Massa-
chusetts 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 Gop 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

b