Page:Anne Bradstreet and her time.djvu/376

360 The bosom of the fleeting Air with groans, And wofull Accents, which witness their Moanes. How doe the Goddesses of verse, the learned quire Lament their rival Quill, which all admire? Could Maro's Muse but hear her lively strain, He would condemn his works to fire again, Methinks I hear the Patron of the Spring, The unshorn Deity abruptly sing. Some doe for anguish weep, for anger I That Ignorance should live, and Art should die. Black, fatal, dismal, inauspicious day, Unblest forever by Sol's precious Ray, Be it the first of Miseries to all; Or last of Life, defam'd for Funeral. When this day yearly comes, let every one, Cast in their urne, the black and dismal stone, Succeeding years as they their circuit goe, Leap o'er this day, as a sad time of woe. Farewell my Muse, since thou hast left thy shrine, I am unblest in one, but blest in nine. Fair Thespian Ladyes, light your torches all, Attend your glory to its Funeral, To court her ashes with a learned tear, A briny sacrifice, let not a smile appear.

Grave Matron, whoso seeks to blazon thee Needs not make use of witts false Heraldry; Whoso should give thee all thy worth would swell So high, as 'twould turn the world infidel. Had he great Maro's Muse, or Tully's tongue, Or raping numbers like the Thracian Song, In crowning of her merits he would be Sumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole. To write is easy; but to write on thee, Truth would be thought to forfeit modesty. He'l seem a Poet that shall speak but true; Hyperbole's in others, are thy due. Like a most servile flatterer he will show Virtue ne'er dies, time will a Poet raise Born under better Stars, shall sing thy praise. Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor For Art ne're feigned, nor Nature fram'd a better,