Anne Bradstreet immigrated from England to what was to become the United States in 1630, with her husband and other family and friends. She was reluctant to leave the only home she knew, and their trip was difficult and dangerous. What drove them to make the move was religious persecution and political turmoil in their home country. They were fleeing known dangers and making a leap into the unknown, hoping to make new lives for themselves. They did that, but not without great hardship and loss. Bradstreet wrote about her homesickness (“A Dialogue between Old England and New England,” losing all their possessions (“Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666”), and about her fears, while pregnant, that she wouldn’t live to raise her child (“Before the Birth of One of her Children”). She was the first woman writer in the colonies to be published. Her work resonates over the centuries because it speaks to our shared human hopes and fears. It resonates right now because it speaks to the complexities of the immigrant experience.
from VERSES UPON THE BURNING OF OUR HOUSE, JANUARY 10, 1666
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.
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.