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20 ANNE BRADSTREET.

The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,
Setts hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,
So each one tunes his pretty instrument,
And warbling out the old, begins anew,
And thus they pass their youth in summer season,
Then they follow thee into a better Region
Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion.

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,
In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak;
Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,
Each storm his state, his mind, his body break:
From some of these he never finds cessation,
But day or night, within, without, vexation,
Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near'st relation.

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,
This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow.
This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,
Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow:
Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation,
In weight, in frequency and long duration,
Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,
Sings merrily, and steers his barque with ease,
As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now become great Master of the seas;
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,
And makes him long for a more quiet port,
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,
Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre,
That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure,
Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'n's bower

JANE TURELL. 21

But sad affliction comes, and makes him see
Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety;
Only above is found all with security.

O Time! the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivion's curtain over kings,
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a Record are forgot,
Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid i' th' dust,
Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings 'scape Time's rust;
But he whose name is graved in the white stone,
Shall last and shine, when all of these are gone.


JANE TURELL.

Jane Turell was born in Boston, 1708.  She was the only daughter of Dr. Benjamin Colman, a clergyman distinguished for his learning, eloquence, and poetic taste, whose early life was varied by many stirring and romantic incidents.  After having taken his degree at Harvard College, he embarked for London; the vessel was captured by a French privateer, and he with his companions were imprisoned at Nantz.  At the expiration of two months, an exchange of prisoners took place between the English and French, and Mr. Colman was transported to Portsmouth.  From thence he went to London, and, not very long after, was appointed to take charge of a church in Bath, where he formed an intimate acquaintance with Miss Singer, afterwards the celebrated Mrs. Rowe.  On his return to his native country, he was settled over the Brattle Street Church, Boston; in which station he remained until his death, nearly half a century afterward.
   
His daughter Jane early evinced a fondness for learning, and was encouraged by her father to pursue with indefatigable industry all literary pursuits.  In her nineteenth year she was married to the Rev. Mr. Turell, of Medford, a village near Boston.  She had then read, and

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---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-26 16:18:59