When you think of early American writers, what comes to mind? Perhaps the writings or sermons of Puritans. Maybe you think of the Mayflower Compact. But did you know that Anne Bradstreet, an ordinary wife and mother of eight children in New England, was the first published poet on American soil? Join Emma, Grace, and Linus as they interview Dr. Francis Bremer, Professor Emeritus of Church History at Millersville University of Pennsylvania, about this interesting (and often surprising) Colonial woman.

Thanks to the generosity of our friends at Reformation Heritage Books, we are excited to offer a bundle of Simonetta Carr’s books to two listeners! The winner will be selected just in time for Christmas. Register here to win this special giveaway!

Show Notes:

Anne Bradstreet: Christian Biographies for Young Readers by Simonetta Carr:

https://reformedresources.org/anne-bradstreet-christian-biographies-for-young-readers-hardcover/

Phillis Wheatley: Christian Biographies for Young Readers by SImonetta Carr:

https://reformedresources.org/phillis-wheatley/

Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666

BY ANNE BRADSTREET

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I wakened was with thund’ring noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”

Let no man know is my Desire.

I, starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

To straighten me in my Distress

And not to leave me succourless.

Then, coming out, behold a space

The flame consume my dwelling place.

And when I could no longer look,

I blest His name that gave and took,

That laid my goods now in the dust.

Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.

It was his own, it was not mine,

Far be it that I should repine;

He might of all justly bereft

But yet sufficient for us left.

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.

Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,

And did thy wealth on earth abide?

Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?

The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?

Raise up thy thoughts above the sky

That dunghill mists away may fly.

Thou hast a house on high erect

Frameed by that mighty Architect,

With glory richly furnished,

Stands permanent though this be fled.

It‘s purchased and paid for too

By Him who hath enough to do.

A price so vast as is unknown,

Yet by His gift is made thine own;

There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,

Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.

The world no longer let me love,

My hope and treasure lies above.