In Memory of my Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet, who deceased June 20, 1669, being Three Years and Seven Months Old

In Memory of my Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet, who deceased June 20, 1669, being Three Years and Seven Months Old An Electronic Edition Anne Bradstreet1612-1672 Header creation by Ralph Bauer Encoded by Ann Hanlon 4 kb bradstreet_inmemory.xmlMaryland Institute for Technology in the Humanities (MITH)

University of Maryland College Park

April 2, 2003

The Works of Anne Bradstreet in Prose and Verse. Edited by John Harvard Ellis. (Charlestown: A. E. Cutter, 1867)

This text was first published in 1678 in Several Poems.

This electronic text was prepared from and proofed against The Works of Anne Bradstreet in Prose and Verse. Edited by John Harvard Ellis. (Charlestown: A. E. Cutter, 1867). All preliminaries and notes have been omitted except those for which the author is responsible and those in which editorial notes indicate significant textual variations. All editorial notes have been omitted except for those which indicate significant textual variations. Line and paragraph numbers contained in the source text have been retained. In cases where the source text displays no numbers, numbers are automatically generated. In the header, personal names have been regularized according to the Library of Congress authority files as "Last Name, First Name" for the REG attribute and "First Name Last Name" for the element value. Names have not been regularized in the body of the text.

English Poetry Verse Elegy 1650-1700 New_England Death In memory of my dear grand-child Anne Bradstreet. Who deceased June 20. 1669. being three years and seven Moneths old. WIth troubled heart & trembling hand I write, The Heavens have chang'd to sorrow my delight. How oft with disappointment have I met, When I on fading things my hopes have set? Experience might 'fore this have made me wise, To value things according to their price: Was ever stable joy yet found below? Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe. I knew she was but as a withering flour, That's here to day, perhaps gone in an hour; Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass, Or like a shadow turning as it was. More fool then I to look on that was lent, As if mine own, when thus impermanent. Farewel dear child, thou ne're shall come to me, But yet a while, and I shall go to thee; Mean time my throbbing heart's chear'd up with this Thou with thy Savior art in endless bliss.