Pulter Reads Bradstreet’s Tenth Muse

Pulter’s library probably included a copy of Anne Bradstreet’s Tenth Muse (1650). The title page of the volume singles out Bradstreet’s poem entitled “A Dialogue between Old England and New.” Bradstreet’s benediction, national prophecy, identification of England with New Israel, and female lament on “present troubles” (adapted from Sylvester’s translation of Du Bartas’s “Dialogue upon the Troubles past” in Divine Weekes and Workes [1611]) might have informed Pulter’s composition of Poem 64.

Anne Bradstreet, "A Dialogue between Old England and New"

New England
Dear mother cease complaints, and wipe your eyes,
Shake off your dust, chear up, and now arise,
You are my mother, nurse, I once your flesh,
Your sunken bowels gladly would refresh:
Your griefs I pity much, but should do wrong,
To weep for that we both have pray’d for long,
To see these latter dayes of hop’d for good,
That Right may have its right, though’t be with blood;
After dark Popery the day did clear,
But now the Sun in’s brightnesse shall appear,
Blest be the Nobles of thy Noble Land,
With (ventur’d lives) for truths defence that stand,
Blest be thy Commons which for Common good,
And thine infringed Lawes have boldly stood.
Blest be thy Counties which do aid thee still
With hearts and states, to testifie their will.
Blest be thy Preachers, who do chear thee on,
O cry: the sword of God and Gideon:
And shall I not on those wish Mero’s curse,
That help thee not with prayers, arms, and purse,
And for my self, let miseries abound,
If mindlesse of thy state I e’er be found.
These are the dayes, the Churches foes to crush,
To root out Prelates, head, tail, branch, and rush.
Let’s bring Baals vestments out, to make a fire,
Their Myters, Surplices, and all their tire,
Copes, Rochets, Crossiers, and such 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 trumperie.
Go on brave Essex, shew whose son thou art,
Not false to King, nor Countrey in thy heart,
But those that hurt his people and his Crown,
By force expell, destroy, and tread them down:
Let Gaoles be fill’d with th’ remnant of that pack,
And sturdy Tyburn loaded till it crack,
And yee brave Nobles, chase away all fear,
And to this blessed Cause closely adhere
O mother, can you weep, and have such Peeres.
When they are gone, then drown your self in teares.
If now you weep so much, that then no more,
The briny Ocean will o’rflow your shore,
These, these, are they (I trust) with Charles our King,
Out of all mists, such glorious dayes will bring,
That dazzled eyes beholding much shall wonder
Thy Church and Weal, establish’d in such manner,
That all shall joy that thou display’dst thy banner,
And discipline erected, so I trust,
That nursing Kings, shall come and lick thy dust:
Then Justice shall in all thy Courts take place,
Without respect of persons, or of case,
Then bribes shall cease, and suits shall not stick long,
Patience, and purse of Clients for to wrong:
Then High Commissions shall fall to decay,
And Pursevants and Catchpoles want their pay,
So shall thy happy Nation ever flourish,
When truth and righteousnesse they thus shall nourish.
When thus in Peace: thine Armies brave send out,
To sack proud Rome, and all her vassalls rout:
There let thy name, thy fame, and valour shine,
As did thine Ancestours in Palestine,
And let her spoils, full pay, with int’rest be,
Of what unjustly once she poll’d from thee,
Of all the woes thou canst let her be sped,
Execute to th’ full the vengeance threatened.
Bring forth the beast that rul’d the world with’s beck,
And tear his flesh, and set your feet on’s neck,
And make his filthy den so desolate,
To th’ ’stonishment of all that knew his state.
This done, with brandish’d swords, to Turky go,
(For then what is’t, but English blades dare do)
And lay her wast, for so’s the sacred doom;
And do to Gog, as thou hast done to Rome.
Oh Abrahams seed lift up your heads on high
For sure the day of your redemption’s nigh;
The scales shall fall from your long blinded eyes,
And him you shall adore, who now despise,
Then fulnes of the Nations in shall flow,
And Jew and Gentile, to one worship go,
Then follows dayes of happinesse and rest.
Whose lot doth fall to live therein is blest:
No Canaanite shall then be found ith’ land,
And holinesse, on horses bells shall stand,
If this make way thereto, then sigh no more,
But if at all, thou dist not see’t before.
Farewell dear mother, Parliament, prevail,
And in a while you’l tell another tale.

Anne Bradstreet, “A Dialogue between Old England and New, concerning their present troubles. Anno 1642,” The Tenth Muse lately sprung up in America. Or severall poems, compiled with great variety of wit and learning, full of delight … By a Gentlewoman in those parts (London, 1650), pp. 187–90. Transcribed by Elizabeth Sauer, Brock University; bolded lettering indicates my emphasis.