A Dialogue between Old England and New by Anne Bradstreet Audio Recording

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW CONCERNING THEIR PRESENT TROUBLES ANNO 1642 BY ANN BRADSTREET Alas, dear mother, fairest queen and best, With honour, wealth, and peace, happy and blessed! What ails thee, hang thy head and cross thine arms, And sitteth dust to sigh these sad alarms? What deluge of new woes thus overwhelm The glories of thy ever-famous realm? What means this wailing tone, this mournful guise? Ah, tell thy daughter, she may sympathise. Art ignorant indeed of these my woes? Or must my forcèd tongue these griefs disclose? And must myself dissect my tattered state Which mazèd Christendom stands wandering at? And thou, child, limb, and dost not feel My fainting weakened body now to reel? This physic 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? Then weigh our case, if't be not justly sad, Let me lament alone while thou art glad. 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, If the wound so dangerous I may not know? But you, perhaps, would have me guess it out, What hath some Hengist like the Saxon stout? By fraud or force usurped thy flowering crown, Or by tempestuous wars thy fields trod down? Or hath Canatus, that brave valiant dame, The regal peaceful sceptre from thee tame? Or is't a Norman, whose victorious hand With English blood bedews thy conquered land? Or is't intestin wars that thus offend? Do Maud and Stephen for the crown contend? Do barons rise and side against their king, And call in foreign aid to help the thing? Must Edward be deposed? Or is't the hour, that second Richard Must be clapped to the tower? Or is't the fatal jar again begun, That from the red-white pricking roses sprung? Must Richmond's aid the nobles now implore, To come and break the tushes of the boar? If none of these, my mother, what's your woe? Pray, do you fear Spain's bragging armadillo? Doth your ally, fair France, conspire your rack? 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? Is drought, is famine, or is pestilence? Dost feel the smart, or fear the consequence? Your humble child entreats you, show 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. I must confess, some of those swords you name My beauteous body at this present maim. But foreign foe nor feigned friend I fear, For they have work enough thou know'st elsewhere. Nor is Dalcy's son, nor Henry's daughter, Whose proud contention cause this slaughter. Nor noble siding to make John no king, French Louis unjustly to the crown to bring, No Edward Richard to lose rule and life, Nor no Lancastrian to renew old strife, No Duke of York, no Earl of March to soil Their hands in kindred's blood whom they did foil. No crafty tyrant now usurps the seat Who nephews slew that so he might be great. No need of Tudor roses to unite, None knows which is the red or which the white. Spain's braving fleet a second time is sunk, France knows how oft my fury she hath drunk. By Edward III and Henry V of fame Her lilies in mine arms avouch the same. My sister Scotland hurts me now no more, Though she hath been injurious heretofore. What Holland is I am in some suspense, But trust not much unto his excellence. For once sure some I feel, But more I fear, and for the pestilence. Who knows how near? Famine and plague, two sisters of the sword, Destruction to a land doth soon afford. Therefore my punishment ordained on high, Unless our tears prevent it speedily. But yet I answer not what you demand, To show the grievance of my troubled land. Before I tell the fact I'll show the cause, Which are my sins the breach of sacred laws. Idolatry, supplanter of a nation, With foolish superstitious adoration, Are like the countenance by men of might. The gospel trodden down and hath no right. Church offices were sold and bought for gain. The Pope had hoped to find Rome here again, For oaths and blasphemies did ever ear. From Beelzebub himself such language hear. What scorning of the saints of the Most High, What injuries did daily on them lie? What false reports, what nicknames did they take? Not for their own, but for their master's sake. And our poor soul were jeered among the rest, By flying, for the truth was made a jest. For Sabbath-breaking and for drunkenness, Did ever land profaneness more express? Yet crying blood, yet cleansed am not I, Martyrs and others dying carelessly. How many princely heads on blocks laid down, For naught but title to a fading crown? Amongst all the cruelties by great ones done, O Edward's youth and Clarence hapless son! O Jane, why didst thou die in flowering prime, Because of royal stem that was thy crime? For bribery, adultery, and lies, Where is the nation I can't paralyze, With usury, extortion, and oppression? These be the hydras, my stout transgression, These be the bitter fountains, heads, and roots, Whence flowed the source, the sprigs, the boughs, and fruits. Of more than thou canst hear, or I relate, That with high hand I still did perpetrate. For these were threatened, the woeful they, I mocked the preachers, put it far away. The sermons yet upon record do stand, That cried destruction to my wicked land. I then believed not, now I feel and see The plague of stubborn incredulity. Some lost their living, some in prison pent, Some fined from house and friends to exile went. Their silent tongues to heaven did vengeance cry, Who saw their wrongs and hath judged righteously. And will repay it sevenfold in my lap, This is the forerunner of my afterclap. Nor took I warning by my neighbours' falls. I saw said Germany's dismantled walls. I saw her people famished, nobles slain, Her fruitful land a barren heath remain. I saw unmoved her armies foiled and fled, Wives forced, babes tossed, her houses calcined. I saw strong Rochelle yielded to her foe, Thousands of starved Christians there also. I saw poor Ireland bleeding out her last, Such cruelties as all reports have passed. Mine heart obdurate stood not yet aghast. Now sip I of that cup, and just may be The bottom dregs reserved are for me. To all you've said, sad mother, I assent Your fearful sins, great cause there's to lament. My guilty hands in part hold up with you, A sharer in your punishments my due. 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? Then let's join heads and hearts for your relief. Well, to the matter, then, there's groan of late, Twixt king and peers, a question of state. Which is the chief, the law, or else the king? One said it's he, the other no such thing. Tis said my better part in Parliament, To ease my groaning land showed their intent, To crush the proud and right to each man deal, To help the church and stay the commonweal. So many obstacles came in their way, As puts me to a stand what I should say. Old customs, 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 Stratford lower by the head, And to their lord be it spoke, the Heldreth Tower, All England's metropolitan that hour. This done, an act they would have passed fame, No prelate should his bishopric retain. Here tugged they hard indeed, for all men saw, This must be done by gospel, not by law. Next the militia they urged soar. This was denied, I need not say wherefore. The king displeased at York himself absents, They humbly beg return, show their intent. The writing, printing, posting to and fro, Shows all was done, I'll therefore let it go. But now I come to speak of my disaster. Contention grown, twixt subjects and their master. They worded it so long, they fell to blows, That thousands lay on heaps, here bleeds my woes. I that know wars, so many years have known, And now destroyed and slaughtered by mine own. But could the field alone this strife decide, One battle, two or three, I might abide. But these may be beginnings of more woe. Who knows, but this may be my overthrow. O pity me in this sad perturbation, My plundered towns, my house's devastation, My weeping virgins and my young men slain, My wealthy trading fallen, my dearth of grain. The seed-times come, but Plowman hath no hope, Because he knows not who shall in his crop. The poor they want their pay, their children bred, Their woeful mothers' tears unpitied. If any pity in thy heart remain, Or any childlike love thou dost retain, For my relief, what do their lies in thee? And recompense what good I've done to thee? Dear mother, cease complaints and wipe your eyes. Shake off your dust, cheer 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, Out of your troubles much good fruit to be. To see those latter days of hoped-for good, Though now be clouded all with tears and blood. After dark potpourri the day did clear, But now the sun in its brightness shall appear. Blessed be the nobles of thy noble land, With ventured lives for truth's defence that stand. Blessed be thy commons, who for common good, And thy infringed laws have boldly stood. Blessed be thy counties, who did aid thee still, With hearts and states to testify their will. Blessed be thy preachers, who do cheer thee on, O cry the sword of God and Gideon. And shall I not on them wish Mero's curse, That help thee not with prayers, arms, and purse? And for myself let miseries abound, If mindless of thy state I e'er be found. These are the days the church's foes to crush, To root out popling's head, tail, branch, and rush. Let's bring bales, vestments, forth to make fire, Their mitres, surplices, and all their tyre. Cops, ratchets, crosshairs, and such empty trash, And let their names consume, but let the flash, Light Christendom, and all the world to see. We hate Rome's whore with all her trumpery, Go on, brave Essex, with a loyal heart. Not false to king, nor to the better part, 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, And to this hopeful cause closely adhere. O mother, can you weep and have such peers, When they are gone, then drown yourself in tears? If now you weep so much, that then no more, The briny ocean will o'erflow your shore. These, these are they I trust with Charles our king. Out of all myths such glorious days shall bring, That dazzled eyes beholding much shall wonder, At that thy settled peace, thy wealth and splendour, Thy church and wheel established in such manner, That all shall joy that thou displayst 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 person or of case. Then bribes shall cease, and suits shall not stick long, Patients and purse of clients off to wrong. Then high commissions shall fall to decay, And perseverance and catch-pulls want their pay. So shall thy happy nation ever flourish, When truth and righteousness they thus shall nourish. When thus in peace thine armies brave send out, To sack proud Rome and all her vassals rout, There let thy name, thy fame and glory shine, As did thine ancestors in Palestine. And let her spoils full pay with interest be, Of what unjustly once she pulled from thee. Of all the woes thou canst let her be sped, And on her poor the vengeance threatened. Bring forth the beast that ruled the world with his beck, And tear his flesh and set your feet on his neck, And make his filthy den so desolate, To the astonishment of all that knew his state. This done with brandish swords to Turkey go, For then what is but English blades dare do. And lay her waste for so's the sacred doom, And do to Gog as thou hast done to Rome. O Abraham's seed, lift up your heads on high, For sure the day of their redemption's nigh. The scales shall fall from your long-blinded eyes, And him you shall adore who now despise. Then fullness of the nations in shall flow, And Jew and Gentile to one worship go. Then follows days of happiness and rest, Whose lot doth fall to live therein is blessed. No Canaanite shall then be found at the land, And holiness on horses' bells shall stand. If this make way thereto, then sigh no more, But if at all thou didst not see it before. Farewell, dear mother, righteous cause prevail, And in a while you'll tell another tale.