Anne Bradstreet, “A Dialogue between Old England and New; concerning their present Troubles”
course of these other monarchies by getting rid of its king permanently and becoming a Parliamentary republic? Or does the fact that it is a Christian, rather than a pagan nation like those others, change anything? The question is implied, but never answered. It is just the kind of question, though, that an American poet, a Puritan deeply read in Biblical and ancient history like Bradstreet, and one writing at a distance from the conflict back in Europe, might feel free to raise.
Anno, 1642.
New-England.
Alas dear Mother, fairest Queen and best,
What deluge of new woes thus over-whelme
The glories of thy ever famous Realme?
What means this wailing tone, this mournful guise?
Ah, tell thy daughter, she may sympathize.
Old England.
Art ignorant indeed of these my woes?
Or must my forced tongue these griefs disclose?
And thou a Child, a Limbe and dost not feel
My fainting weakned body now to reel?
This Physick purging potion, I have taken,
Will bring consumption, or an Ague quaking,
Unless some Cordial, thou fetch from high,
Which present help may ease my malady.
If I decease, dost think thou shalt survive?
Or by my wasting state dost think to thrive?
Let me lament alone, while thou art glad.
New-England.
And thus (alas) your state you much deplore
In general terms, but will not say wherefore:
What medicine shall I seek to cure this woe,
But you perhaps, would have me guess it out:
What hath some Hengist like that Saxon stout
Or by tempestuous warrs thy fields trod down?
Or hath Canutus, that brave valiant Dane
The Regal peacefull Scepter from thee tane?
Norman, whose victorious hand
With English blood bedews thy conquered land?
Do Maud and Stephen for the crown contend?
Do Barons rise and side against their King,
And call in foraign aid to help the thing?
That from the red white pricking roses sprung?
Must Richmonds aid, the Nobles now implore?
To come and break the Tushes of the Boar,
Pray do you fear Spains bragging Armado?
Doth your Allye, fair France, conspire your wrack,
Or do the Scots play false, behind your back?
Doth Holland quit you ill for all your love?
Whence is the storm from Earth or Heaven above?
Dost feel the smart, or fear the Consequence?
Your humble Child intreats you, shew your grief,
Though Arms, nor Purse she hath for your relief,
Such is her poverty, yet shall be found
A Suppliant for your help, as she is bound.
Old England.
I must confess some of those sores you name,
But forreign foe, nor feigned friend I fear,
For they have work enough (thou knowst) else∣where
Whose proud contention cause this slaughter,
Nor Nobles siding, to make John no King,
No Edward, Richard, to lose rule and life,
Nor no Lancastrians to renew old strife:
No Duke of York, nor Earl of March to soyle
Their hands in kindreds blood whom they did foil
No crafty Tyrant now usurps the Seat.
No need of Tudor, Roses to unite,
Spains braving Fleet a second time is sunk,
France knows how oft my fury she hath drunk:
By Edward third and Henry fifth of fame.
Her Lillies in mine Arms avouch the same.
My Sister Scotland hurts me now no more.
What Holland is I am in some suspence?
But trust not much unto his excellence.
For wants, sure some I feel, but more I fear,
Famine and Plague, two Sisters of the Sword,
Destruction to a Land, doth soon afford:
Unless our tears prevent it speedily.
But yet I Answer not what you demand.
To shew the grievance of my troubled Land?
Which are my sins the breach of sacred Laws,
Idolatry supplanter of a Nation,
With foolish Superstitious Adoration,
The Gospel troden down and hath no right
Church Offices were sold and bought for gain,
That Pope had hope to find, Rome here again,
For Oaths and Blasphemies, did ever Ear.
From Belzebub himself such language hear?
What scorning of the Saints of the most high?
What injuries did daily on them lye?
What false reports, what nick-names did they take
Not for their own, but for their Masters sake?
Thy flying for the truth was made a jest.
For Sabbath-breaking, and for drunkenness,
Did ever land profaness more express?
From crying blood yet cleansed am not I,
Martyres and others, dying causelesly.
How many princely heads on blocks laid down
For nought but title to a fading crown?
Of Edwards youths, and Clarence hapless son,
O Jane why didst thou dye in flowring prime?
Because of royal stem, that was thy crime.
For bribery Adultery and lyes.
With usury, extortion and oppression,
These be the Hydraes of my stout transgression.
These be the bitter fountains, heads and roots,
Of more then thou canst hear or I relate,
That with high hand I still did perpetrate:
For these were threatned the wofull day,
The Sermons yet upon Record do stand
The plague of stubborn incredulity.
Some lost their livings, some in prison pent,
Their silent tongues to heaven did vengeance cry.
And will repay it seven-fold in my lap:
This is fore-runner of my Afterclap.
Nor took I warning by my neighbours falls,
I saw sad Germanyes dismantled walls,
Her fruitfull land, a barren Heath remain.
I saw strong Rochel yielded to her Foe,
Thousands of starved Christians there also.
I saw poor Ireland bleeding out her last,
Mine heart obdurate stood not yet agast.
The bottome dreggs reserved are for me.
New-England.
My guilty hands in part, hold up with you,
But all you say amounts to this effect,
Not what you feel, but what you do expect,
Pray in plain terms, what is your present grief?
Old England.
Which is the chief, the Law, or else the King.
To crush the proud, and right to each man deal.
To help the Church, and stay the Common-weal.
So many Obstacles came in their way,
Old customes, new Prerogatives stood on,
Had they not held Law fast, all had been gone:
Which by their prudence stood them in such stead
They took high Strafford lower by the head.
This done, an act they would have passed fain,
This must be done by Gospel, not by Law.
Next the Militia they urged sore,
York, himself absents,
The writing, printing, posting too and fro,
But now I come to speak of my disaster,
They worded it so long, they fell to blows,
That thousands lay on heaps, here bleeds my woes,
I that no wars so many years have known,
But could the Field alone this strife decide,
One Battel two or three I might abide:
But these may be beginnings of more woe
Who knows, but this may be my overthrow.
Oh pity me in this sad perturbation,
My plundred Towns, my houses devastation,
The seed-times come, but ploughman hath no hope
Because he knows not, who shall inn his Crop:
The poor they want their pay, their children bread,
Their woful Mothers tears unpittied,
If any pity in thy heart remain,
Or any child-like love thou dost retain,
For my relief, do what there lyes in thee,
New-England.
Shake off your dust, chear up, and now arise,
You are my Mother Nurse, and I your flesh,
Your sunken bowels gladly would refresh,
Your griefs I pity, but soon hope to see,
Though now beclouded all with tears and blood:
After dark Popery the day did clear,
Blest be the Nobles of thy noble Land,
Blest be thy Commons, who for common good,
And thy infringed Laws have boldly stood.
Blest be thy Counties, who did aid thee still,
With hearts and States to testifie their will.
Blest be thy Preachers who do chear thee on,
That help thee not with prayers, Arms and purse?
And for my self let miseries abound,
These are the dayes the Churches foes to crush,
Baals vestments forth to make a fire,
Their Mytires, Surplices, and all their Tire,
Copes, Rotchets, Crossiers, and such empty trash,
And let their Names consume, but let the flash
Light Christendome, and all the world to see
We hate Romes whore, with all her trumpery.
Go on brave Essex with a Loyal heart,
But those that hurt his people and his Crown,
As duty binds, expel and tread them down.
And ye brave Nobles chase away all fear,
O Mother can you weep, and have such Peers,
When they are gone, then drown your self in tears
If now you weep so much, that then no more
These, these are they I trust, with Charles our King,
That dazled eyes beholding much shall wonder
At that thy setled peace, thy wealth and splendor.
And discipline erected so I trust,
That nursing Kings shall come and lick thy dust:
Then Justice shall in all thy Courts take place,
Patience and purse of Clients oft to wrong:
Then high Commissions shall fall to decay,
And Pursivants, and Catchpoles want their pay.
So shall thy happy Nation ever flourish,
When thus in peace, thine Armies brave send out,
There let thy Name, thy fame, and glory shine,
As did thine Ancestors in Palestine:
And let her spoyls full pay, with Interest be,
Of all the woes thou canst, let her be sped,
And make his filthy Den so desolate,
Turky goe,
And do to Gog as thou hast done to Rome.
The Scales shall fall from your long blinded eyes,
And him you shall adore who now despise,
Then fulness of the Nations in shall flow,
Whose lot doth fall to live therein is blest:
And holiness on horses bells shall stand.
If this make way thereto, then sigh no more,
Farewel dear Mother, rightest cause prevail,
