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Full text of "The female poets of America"

THE 

FEMALE POETS 



OF 



AMERICA. 



BY KUFUS WLLMOT GRISWOLD. 



WITH ADDITIONS BY R. H. STODDARD. 



I AM OBNOXIOUS TO EACH CARPING TONGUE 

THAT SAYS MY HAND A NEEDLE BETTER FITS ; 

A POET S PEN ALL SCORN I THUS SHOULD WRONG, 

FOR SUCH DESPITE THEY CAST ON FEMALE WITS. 

* * * BUT SURE THE ANTIQUE GREEKS WERE FAR MORE MILD, 

ELSE OF OUR SEX WHY FEIGNED THEY THOSE NINE, 

AND POESY MADE CALLIOPE S OWN CHILD ? 

SO MONGST THE REST THEY PLACED THE ARTS DIVINE. 

THE FOUR ELKMBNTS: By Anne Bradstreet, Boston, 1640. 



CAREFULLY REVISED, MUCH ENLARGED, AND CONTINUED TO THE PRESENT TIME. 



NEW YORK: 

JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 67 BROADWAY. 

1874 



ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1843, BY CAREY & HART, IN THE OFFICE OF 
THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 

JAMES MILLER, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



LANGE, LITTLE & Co., 

PRINTERS, ELKCTR.OTYPERS AND STEREOTYPERS, 

108 TO 114 WOOSTER STREET, N Y. 



PREFACE. 



IT is less easy to be assured of the genuineness of literary ability in women 
than in men. The moral nature of women, in its finest and richest develop 
ment, partakes of some of the qualities of genius ; it assumes, at least, the simili 
tude of that which in men is the characteristic or accompaniment of the highest 
grade of mental inspiration. We are in danger, therefore, of mistaking for the 
efflorescent energy of creative intelligence, that which is only the exuberance 
of personal " feelings unemployed." We may confound the vivid dreamings of 
an unsatisfied heart, with the aspirations of a mind impatient of the fetters of 
time, and matter, and mortality. That may seem to us the abstract imagining 
of a soul rapt into sympathy with a purer beauty and a higher truth than earth 
and space exhibit, which in fact shall be only the natural craving of affections, 
undefined and wandering. The most exquisite susceptibility of the spirit, and 
the capacity to mirror in dazzling variety the effects which circumstances or 
surrounding minds work upon it, may be accompanied by no power to origi 
nate, nor even, in any proper sense, to reproduce. It does not follow, because 
the most essential genius in men is marked by qualities which we may call 
feminine, that such qualities when found in female writers have any certain or 
just relation to mental superiority. The conditions of a3sthetic ability in the 
two sexes are probably distinct, or even opposite. Among men, we recognise 
his nature as the most thoroughly artist-like, whose most abstract thoughts still 
retain a sensuous cast, whose mind is the most completely transfused and in 
corporated into his feelings. Perhaps the reverse should be considered the 
test of true art in woman, and we should deem her the truest poet, whose emo 
tions are most refined by reason, whose force of passion is most expanded and 
controlled into lofty and impersonal forms of imagination. Coming to the duty 
of criticism, however, with something of this antecedent skepticism, I have 
reviewed the collection of works which my task brought before me, with fre 
quent admiration and surprise ; and leaving to others the less welcome task of 
rejecting pretensions, which must inspire interest, if they can not command 
acquiescence, I content myself with expressing, affirmatively, my own con 
viction, that the writings of Mrs. Maria Brooks, Mrs. Oakes-Smith, Mrs. 



PREFACE. 



Osgood, Mrs. Whitman, and some others here quoted, illustrate as high and 
sustained a range of poetic art, as the female genius of any age or country can 
display. The most striking quality of that civilization which is evolving itself 
in America, is the deference felt for women. As a point in social manners, it 
is so pervading and so peculiar, as to amount to a national characteristic ; and 
it ought to be valued and vaunted as the pride of our freedom, and the brightest 
hope of our history. It indicates a more exalted appreciation of an influence 
that never can be felt too deeply, for it never is exerted but for good. In the 
aosence from us of those great visible and formal institutions by which Europe 
has been educated, it seems as if Nature had designed that resources of her own 
providing should guide us onward to the maturity of civil refinement. The in 
creased degree in which women among us are taking a leading part in literature, 
is one of the circumstances of this augmented distinction and control on their 
part. The proportion of female writers at this moment in America, far exceeds 
that which the present or any other age in England exhibits. It is in the West, 
too, where we look for what is most thoroughly native and essential in American 
character, that we are principally struck with the number of youthful female 
voices that soften and enrich the tumult of enterprise, and action, by the inter- 
blended music of a calmer and loftier sphere. Those who cherish a belief that 
the progress of society in this country is destined to develop a school of art, 
original and special, will perhaps find more decided indications of the infusion 
of our domestic spirit and temper into literature, in the poetry of our female 
authors, than in that of our men. It has been suggested by foreign critics, that 
our citizens are too much devoted to business and politics to feel interest in 
pursuits which adorn but do not profit, and which beautify existence but do not 
consolidate power : feminine genius is perhaps destined to retrieve our public 
character in this respect, and our shores may yet be far resplendent with a 
temple of art which, while it is a glory of our land, may be a monument to the 
honor of the sex. 

The American people have been thought deficient in that warmth and deli 
cacy of taste, without which there can be no genuine poetic sensibility. Were 
it true, it were much to be regretted that we should be wanting in that noble 
capacity to receive pleasure from what is beautiful in nature or exquisite in 
art in that venerating sense that prophetic recognition that quick, intense 
perception, which sees the divine relations of all things that delight the eye or 
kindle the imagination. One endowed with an apprehension like this, becomes 
purer and more elevated, in sentiment and aspiration, after viewing an embodi- 



PREFACE. 



ment of any such conception as that specimen of genius materialized, the Bel- 
videre Apollo, " at the aspect of which," says Winckelmann, "I forget all the 
universe : I involuntarily assume the most noble attribute of my being in order 
to be worthy of its presence." I shall not inquire into the causes of the denial 
that this fine instinct exists among us. The earlier speculations upon the sub 
ject, by Depaw and others, were deemed of sufficient importance to be an 
swered by the two of our presidents who have been most distinguished in 
literature and philosophy : but they have been repeated, in substance, by De 
Tocqueville, who had seen, or might have seen, the works of Dana, Bryant, 
Halleck, Longfellow, and Whittier ; of Irving, Cooper, Kennedy, Hawthorne, 
and Willis ; of Webster, C banning, Prescott, Bancroft, and Legare ; of Allston, 
Leslie, Leutze, Huntington, and Cole ; of Powers, Greenough, Crawford, 
Clevenger, and Brown. Such prejudices, which could not be dispelled by the 
creations of these men, will be little affected by anything that could be offered 
here : yet to an understanding guided by candor, the additional display of a 
body of literature like the present, exhibiting so pervading an aspiration after 
the beautiful under circumstances, in many cases, so little propitious to its 
action and in a sex which in earlier ages has contributed so sparingly to high 
art will come with the weight of cumulative testimony. 

Several persons are mentioned in this volume whose lives have been no 
holydays of leisure : those, indeed, who have not in some way been active in 
practical duties, are exceptions to the common rule. One was a slave one a 
domestic servant one a factory girl: and there are many in the list who had 
no other time to give to the pursuits of literature but such as was stolen from 
a frugal and industrious housewifery, from the exhausting cares of teaching, or 
the fitful repose of sickness. These illustrations of the truth, that the muse is 
no respecter of conditions, are especially interesting in a country where, though 
equality is an axiom, it is not a reality, and where prejudice reverses in the 
application all that theory has affirmed in words. The propriety of bringing 
before the world compositions produced amid humble and laborious occupa 
tions, has been vindicated by Bishop Potter, with so much force and elegance, 
in his introduction to the Poems of Maria James, that I regret that the limits 
of this preface forbid my copying what I should wish every reader of this book 
to be acquainted with. 

When I completed " The Poets and Poetry of America," a work of which 
the public approval has been illustrated in the sale of ten large editions, I 
determined upon the preparation of the present volume, the appearance of 



PREFACE. 



which has been delayed by my interrupted health. I must be permitted, how 
ever, to congratulate with the public, that since my intention was announced 
and known, others have relieved me from the responsibility of singly executing 
that which I had been hardy enough singly to plan and propose. Their merits 
may compensate for my deficiencies. The first volume of this nature which 
appeared in this country, was printed in Philadelphia in 1S44, under the title 
of "Gems from American Female Poets, with brief biographies, by Rufus W. 
Griswold." As Mr. T. B. Read, in his " Female Poets of America," (it is 
Mr. Read s publisher who declares, in the advertisement to this work, that "the 
biographical notices which it contains have been prepared in every instance from 
facts either within his personal knowledge, or communicated to him directly by 
the authors or their friends,") and Miss C. May, in her "American Female 
Poets," (in the preface to which she acknowledges a resort to " printed authori 
ties,") have done me the honor to copy that slight performance with only a too 
faithful closeness, I owe them apologies for having led them into some errors of 
fact. Both of them, transcribing from the " Gems," speak of Mrs. Mowatt as 
the daughter of " the late" Mr. Samuel Gouverneur Ogden : I am happy to con 
tradict the record, by staling that Mr. Ogden still enjoys in health and vigor the 
honors of living excellence. Mr. Read, reproducing my early mistake, has 
given Mrs. Hall the Christian name of Elizabeth, and the birthplace of Boston. 
Nothing but the extraordinary haste with which the trifling volume of 1844 was 
put together, could excuse my ignorance that the name of the authoress of 
"Miriam" was Louisa Jane, and that she was a native of Newburyport. In 
one or the other of these volumes are many more errors, for which I confess 
myself solely responsible: but it would be tedious to point them out, while it 
would be scarcely necessary to do so, as they will undoubtedly be corrected, 
from the present work, should the volumes referred to attain to second editions. 

It is proper to state that a large number of the poems in this volume are now 
for the first time printed. Many authors, with a confidence and kindness which 
are justly appreciated, not only placed at my disposal their entire printed works, 
but gave me permission to examine and make use of their literary M8S. without 
limitation. 

FEW YORK, December, 1848. 



PREFACE TO THIS EDITION. 



twenty-five years have passed since the first publication of " THE 
FEMALE POETS OF AMEKICA," of which a new and enlarged edition is here 
presented to the reader. Many who figured in its pages then have passed 
away, and others who remain have passed out of the remembrance of their 
contemporaries. It might almost be said that a new school of poetry has 
arisen, and a new race of female poets come into existence since this col 
lection was first made. There is little or no similarity between the writers 
whom I have added to it, arid those whom Dr. Griswold delighted to honor, 
and from whose writings he selected so lavishly. If he were alive now I 
have no doubt but that he would prefer the latter to the former, but he 
would hardly be able to bring his readers to his way of thinking. We have 
outgrown such singers of spontaneous verse as Mrs. Hemans and Miss Lan- 
don, and we insist that our songstresses shall outgrow them, too. If they 
must reflect other minds, those minds must be of a larger order than their 
own, or we will none of them at second-hand. There is, if I am not mis 
taken, more force and more originality in other words, more genius in 
the living female poets of America than in all their predecessors, from Mis 
tress Anne Bradstreet down. At any rate there is a wider range of 
thought in their verse, and infinitely more art. 

I have not meddled with Dr. Griswold s selections, which are not in all 
cases, perhaps, such as I should have chosen, and I have, of course, let his 
criticisms stand for what they are worth: they are generally generous, 
never, I believe, severe. I have been obliged, however, to alter his text in 
several instances, either because the ladies to whom it referred have mar 
ried, or died, or both, since it was first written. I have endeavored to 



PREFACE TO THIS EDITION. 



state with accuracy the dates of birth and death, but have not been able to 
do so in a number of instances, owing to the usual sins of omission in 
American biographical works. Dr. Griswold appears to have shrunk from 
fulfilling this part of his task, at least so far as the dates of birth were con 
cerned, for reasons which may be conjectured, as I have myself. If I may 
allude to so delicate a matter as a lady s age, the age of no lady whose poe 
try is included in the additions which I have made will ever be known 
through any indiscretion of mine. I have to thank these ladies for infor 
mation furnished with regard to their poems, as well as their publishers for 
permission to select what I chose from their works ; especially Messrs. J. R. 
Osgood & Co., by whom the greater number are published. 

R. H. STODDAKD. 

NEW YOKE, July 23, 1873. 



CONTENTS. 



IW MWDtTCTrOS PAOB O 

MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET. 

A Contemporary of Spenser and Shakspere 17 

Editions of her Poems published in Boston and London 17 

John Woodbridge s Account of her and her Works 17 

Du Bartas the Fashionable Poet of the Age 18 

Verses to her, and Notices of her, by Nath. Ward, B. Wood- 
bridge, John Norton, Cotton Mather, and President Rogers. IS 

Extracts from her Poems addressed to her Husband 19 

An Elegy upon the Death of her Grandchild 19 

Verses in her old Age upon the Death of her Daughter-in-law. 19 

Her Death, Character, and Descendants 19 

Extract from the Prologue to the Four Elements 19 

Extract from Contemplations 20 

MRS. MERCY WARREN. 

Social Position and Connexion with Public Affairs 21 

Notice of her Satire entitled The Group, with Extracts 21 

Notices of her Tragedies, The Sack of Rome, and The Ladies 

of Castile, with Extracts 22 

Extracts from other Poe.ns 22 

Things necessary to the Life of a Woman 23 

Acquaintance with John Adams and Washington 23 

History of the American Revolution 23 

Character, and Rochefoucault s Opinion of her 23 

MRS. ELIZABETH GRAEME FERGUSON. 

Society in Philadelphia before the Revolution 24 

Mrs. Ferguson s Family Disappo ntment in Love Voyage to 

Europe Acquaintance with Laurence Sterne, &c 24 

Her Marriage, and Relations with the Whigs and Tories 25 

Connexion with Dr. Duche, and Affair of General Reed 25 

Her later Years 25 

Character of her Poems and Translations 25 

Invocation to Wisdom 26 



fri 



Telemachi. 



26 

The Procession of Calypso 2fi 

Apollo with the Flocks of King Admctus 27 

The Invasion of Love 27 

MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 

Early Years, Marriage, and Removal to Tomhanick 28 

Extract from a Poem descriptive of her Home 28 

Extracts from Verses addressed to Mr. Bleecker 28 

Flight from Tomhanick on the Approach of the British Army.. 28 

Lines written on this Event 28 

Visit to New York, last Return to Tomhanick, and Death 29 

MRS. PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 

Purchased while a Child, in the Boston Slave Market 30 

Her early Acquirements and the Interest they excited .30 

Visits London, and is introduced to Lady Huntingdon 30 

Curious Address to the Public respecting her, by the Governor 

of Massach usetts, and Others SO 

Loses her Master, and marries fora Home 30 

The Abbe Gregoire s Account of her 30 

Her Husband a " handsome Man and a Gentleman" 31 

She quarrels with him without good Reason 31 

General Washington s Letter to her 31 

Her inedited MSS. now in Philadelphia 31 

Mr. Jefferson compares her to the Heroes of the Dunriad 31 

Opinions respecting her by Gregoire, Clarkson, and others 31 

On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield 32 

Extract from a Poem On the Imagination 32 

A Farewell to America 32 

MRS. SUSANNAH ROWSON. 

Her Father a British Officer in New England 33 

Her Marriage in London and Literary Life there 33 

Great Sale of her Charlotte Temple 33 

Her Character and Career as an Actress 3:3 

Retires from the Stage, and establishes a School in Boston 33 

Account of her Works - 33 

America, Commerce, and Freedom 34 

Kiss the Brim, and Let it Pass 34 

Thanksgivixg 34 

MRS. MARG/vRETTA V. FAUGERES. 

A Daughter of Mrs. Bleeoker 35 



Unfo 



,ofh 



SB 



Review of her Belisarhtt, a. Tragedy 35 

Extract from her Poem on The Hudson 37 

Vtrtt addressed to the Members of the Cincinnati 37 



MISS ELIZA TOWNSEND. 

Mr. Nicholas Biddle s Opinion of her Prize Ode r*o 38 

She is educated during a Period of singular Excitement 33 

Southey s Ode on Napoleon, written in 1814, like hers of 1809.. 38 

Dr. Cheever s Commendation of one of her Poems 38 

An Occasional Ode, written in June, 1809 39 

Poem To Robert Smtthey, wiitten in 1812 41 

The Incomprehensibility of God 42 

Another " Castle in the Air" 43 

Extract from a Poem On the Death of C has. Brockdcn Brotvti. 43 

MRS. LAVINIA STODDARD. 

Her History and Character 44 

The Sours Dejiance 44 

Sons 44 



MISS HANNAH F. GOULD. 

Her Father 45 

Sprightliness and Individuality of ber Genius 45 

A Name in the Sand 45 

Changes on the Deep 48 

The Scar of Lexington 47 

The Snow Flake 47 

The Winds 48 

The Frost 48 

The Waterfall 43 

The Moon upon the Spire 49 

The Robe 49 

The Consignment 49 

The Winter Burial 60 

The Pebble and the Acorn 60 

The Ship is Ready 50 

The Child on the Beach 51 

The Midnight Mail 61 

MRS. CAROLINE OILMAN. 

Marries Dr. Gilman, and resides in South Carolina 52 

Notices of her Prose Writings and Poems . 52 

Rosalie 52 

The Plantation 54 

Music on the Canal 55 

The Congressional Burying-Ground 65 

To the Ursulines 56 

Return to Massachusetts 66 

Annie in the Graveyard 66 

MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 

Her Marriage and subsequent Literary Studies 57 

Publishes The Genius of Oblivion and other Poems 67 

Character of Northwood and her other Prose Works 67 

Editor of The Ladies 1 Magazine, the Lady s Book, &c 57 

Publishes Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and other Poems.. 57 

Her Ormond Grosrenor, Harry Guy, and other Poems 58 

Extent of her Writings, and their Character 58 

The Mississippi. f>9 

The Ftnir-Leoved Clover 60 

Description of Alice Ray 60 

Iron 61 

The Watcher 61 

I Sing to Him 63 

The Light (if Home 62 

The Two Maidens 64 

MRS. ANNA MARIA WELLS. 

Her Husband an Author 63 

Publication of her Poems, in 1830 63 

*<* 

The Tamed Eagle 63 

The Old Elm-Tree 64 

Anna 64 

The Future 64 

The White Hare & 

The Sea-Bird 65 

MISS MARIA JAMES. 

Her Poems published by Bishop Potter 66 

Her own Account of her Life 66 

Ode for the Fourth of July 67 

The Pilgrims 67 

The Soldier s Grave <* 

Too Singing-Bird 6 

Good Friday - ^ 



10 



CONTENTS. 



MRS. MARIA BROOKS, (Maria del Occidents) 

Her Early Life passed in the Vicinity of Boston PAGE 69 

Changs of Fortune described, in an Extract from Idomen 69 

Publishes Judith, Esther, unit other Poems 69 



:>f this Voli 



TO 



Cvpidtkt Runaway, from the Greek of Moschus 70 

Death of her Husband, Residence in Cuba, and Travels 70 

Mr. Southey superintends the 1 ublication of Zophiel 70 

Verses addressed to him 70 

Review of /.ophiel, with Extracts 71 

Creative Energy. Passion, and Delicacy, exhibited in it 79 

Its Publication in Huston 79 

Opini .us D| it by .Sunthey, Cluirles Lamb, and others, (Note,).. 79 



Mrs. Brookf l Residence at West Point and Fort Columbus... 79 

Prints Id-mien, for Private Circulation 79 

Her Lifeund Character illustrated in tliat Work 80 

Visits her Estate in Cuba 80 

Extru-ts from her Letters 80 

Her Death 80 

Further Extracts from Zop/iiel 8L 

Ode ott Revisiting Cu/ia 83 

Ode to the Depai ted 84 

Hymn 6 

The Moon of Flowers 86 

Tothe River St. Lawrence 87 

To Niagara 88 

Verses Written on Seeing Pharamond 88 

Prayer 88 

Song 89 

Friendt/t ij> 89 

Farewell to Cuba 89 

IRS. JULIA RUSH WARD. 

Marries .Samuel Ward, the Banker 90 

Literary Society in New York at this Period 90 

"Sije te perd, je suis perdu" ^ 9U 

MRS. LYDIA HUNTLEY S1GOURNEY. 

Her Early Life 91 

Publication of her Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse HI 

Marries Mr. Charles Sigourney 91 

Keview of Traits of the Aborigines 91 

Works in Prose and Verse, for Twenty Years 9-2 



SI 



Review of I ocahontas 9-2 

Her Pleasant Memorief of Pleasant Lands, &c 92 



Her P 



.ud Mt 



Mr. Alexander H. Everett s Opinion of her Poems 93 

The Western Emigrant 94 

The Pilgrim Fathers 94 

W*>ie- 95 

Niagara 95 

The Alpme Flowers 95 

Napoleon s Epitaph 96 

The Death if an Infant 96 

M tio,/,, on Mrs. Hemant 97 

The Mother of Washington 97 

The Country Church 98 

Solitude 98 

Sunset on the Allegany 98 

The Indian Girl s Burial 99 

Indian Names 99 

A Butterfly on a Child s Grave 9<j 

Monody on the late Daniel Wadsworth ] 00 

Advertisement of a Lost Day 1 00 

Farewell to a Rural Residence 101 

A Widow at her Daughter s Bridal. - 101 

MRS. KATHARINE A. WARE. 

Edits T/ie fioiver(f Taste 102 

Hesi.lence abroad, and Death, in Paris 102 

Her Power ->f the Passions, and other Poems m-i 

Loss of the First- Born u>2 

Madness 103 

A New Year s Wish c ." 1 0:j 

Ma rks of Time 1 03 

MRS. JANE L. OKAY. 

Her Residence on the Forks of the Delaware 104 

James Montgomery s Opinion of a Poem by her 104 

Two Hundred Years .Igo 104 

SaMialh Reminiscence! J 05 

Morn 10(3 

MRS. SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 

A Daughter of the Jurist and Statesman Ashnr Rohl.ins 107 

Notices of he Works .....107 

Tht Pot: 10? 

Thanksgiving 108 

URS. LYD1A MARIA CHILD 

On"! of our most brilliant Pn.se Writers 110 

Man.ts amid the Ruins of Carthage 110 

Litiri c* hearing a Buy mock the Soundofa Clock no 



MRS. LOUISA J. HALL. 

Educated by Dr. Park, her Father 

Her feeble Constitution 

Circumstances under which Miriam was written.. 

Her Joanna of Naples, and other Works 

Review of Miriam, with Extracts 

Character of the Work 

Justice and Mercy 

A Dramatic Fragment 

MRS. ELIZA L. FOLLEV. 

Death of her Husband, Professor Charles Follen. 

Her Writings 

Sachem , Hill ."I!... "". ..... 

Winter Scene in the Country I". ..... 

Evening 

MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN. 

The Misfortunes of her Father 

She writes a Memoir of Eleanor Elbricige, Ac 

The Mechanic, by her, commended by Mr. Brownsi 

Notice of Nanuntenoo 



P1G1 III 

Ill 

Ill 

Ill 

11J 

117 



..lid 

.. 21 
..111 
..ill 
..123 

..122 



Her Songt of the Winds, and other Poems 
Opinions in Philosophy and Religion 
New England Summer in the Ancient Time 
A Sarragansett Sachem 



Songofthe North Wind 

Song of the East Wind 

Song of Winter 

The Ch ickadee s Song 

The Honey- Bee s Song 

MRS. JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 

A Descendant of Isabella Graham 

Character of her Poems 

The Indian Mother s Lament 

T/te Eagle of the Falls 

Death-Song of Moses 

How Beautiful is Sleep 

MISS CYNTHIA TAGGART. 

H er interesting H istory 

Letter from Dr. John VV. Francis respecting her. 

Merit of her Writings 

Ode to the Poppy 

Invocation to Health.... 



On a Storm 

MRS. FRANCESCA PASCALIS CANF1ELD. 

The Scientific Labors of her Father 

Dr. Mitchill s Valentine to her 

Her Learning ami Accomplishments 

Unfortunate Marriage, and Death 

Verses To Dr. Mitchill 

Edith 

MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. 

Writings under the Signature of " Estelle" 

An Autumn View, from my Window 

Retrospection. 

Forgerf, finest 

He Came too Late 

MRS. MARY E. BROOKS. 

Marriage with James G. 75rooks 

Publishes The Rivals of Ette, and other Poems... 

Death of Mr. Brooks 

The Close of the Year 

A Pledge to the Dying Year 

" Weep not for the Dead" 

Dream of Life 

MRS. MARGARET ST. LEON LOUD. 

Her KesMence in the South 

Mr. Poe s Opinion of her Writings 

A Dream of the Lonely Isle 

The Deserted Homestead 

Pra <ier for an Absent Husband 

Rest in the Grave.... 



..123 
..123 
..123 
.123 
..123 
,.123 
.124 
.124 
.125 
.127 
.128 
.129 
.130 
.130 

.131 
.131 
.131 
.131 

-. 132 
.132 

.133 
.133 
.133 
.133 
.134 
.134 
.134 



..137 
..137 



MR?. EMMA C. EMBURY. 

Publishes Guido and other Poems 

Character of her Tales 

Her Nature s Gems, and other Worns 

Two I ortraitf. from Life 

Tlie Duke of Reichstadt 

Sympathy 

Autumn Evening 



Harp.. 



The .Kolin 

Unrest 

T!ie Old Man s Lame, 
The American River.. 
Tht English River... , 



.139 
.139 
.140 
.140 
.140 

.141 
.141 
.141 
.142 
.14-7 
.14-] 

.143 
.143 
.143 
.143 
.144 
.144 
.144 
.i4S 
.145 
.14.1 
.145 
.145 
.146 



CONTENTS. 



11 



MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, (CONTINUED.) 

BcMa J. 

Cheerfulness 

The Widwft Woo<r 

Madame de Sluel 

Heart Questionings 

Never Forg et 



PAGE 147 

147 

147 

148 

148 

148 



MISS ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. 

A Member of tlie Society of Friends 149 

Removal to Michigan, and Death there 149 

Her Works 149 

The I) e cote d. 149 

T/te Battle- Field 150 

A Revolutionary Soldier s Prayer 150 

The Brandt/wine 151 

MISSES LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Their Genius and Interesting Character 152 

The First Compositions of Lucretia Davidson 152 

Verses on the Grave of Wa>hingion 153 

Visits Canada 1 53 

Lines to her Infant Sister 153 

Writes Amir Khan 153 

Her Death 153 

Memoirs of her by Mr. Morse and Miss Sedgwick 153 

Her Poem addressed to Mrs. Townsend 153 

To a Slur 153 

A Prophecy 1 54 

Auction Extraordinary 154 

Address to her Mother 154 

On the Fear uf Madness lr,5 

Effect ofher Death upon Margaret Davidson 155 

Margaret s Education , , 155 

Verses, " / would Jiy from the City" 155 

Changes of Residence 155 

Her Death 156 

Lenore to the Spirit of Lticretia 156 

Stanzas tn her Mother 156 

The Writings of M rs. Davidson 156 

MRS. MARY E. STEBBINS. 

Poems under the Signature of " lone 1 157 

Publishes Songs of our Land, and other Poems 157 

Character of her Poerns 157 

The Songs of our Land 157 

The Two Voices 158 

The Axe of the Settler 158 

A Thought of the Pilgrims 159 

The City by the Sea 169 

1\e Sunflower to the Sim 160 

The Last Chant of Corinne 160 

Green Places in the City 160 

Cameos 160 

A Yarn 161 

Imitation of Sappho 161 

Love s Pleading 16-2 

The Hearth of Home 162 

The Launch 162 

The Ode of Harold the Valiant 163 

Lay 163 

MRS. SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 

Characteristics of her Works 164 



The Army of the Cross lt,5 

Penitence 1 55 

MRS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 

Descended from a Companion of Roger Williams 166 

The Career and Death of her Husband Ifi6 

Her Acquirements, and Writings in Prose 166 

Her Fairy Tales 166 

Remarkable Merits of her Poems 166 

The Sleeping Beauty 167 

Line* irrilten in November 169 

A Still Day in Autumn 169 

" A Green and Silvery Spot among the Hills" 170 

The Waking of the Heart 170 

A Day of the Indian Summer 171 

Translation of The Lost Church 172 

The Past 172 

A September Day on the Banks of the Moshassitck 173 

Summer s Invitation to the Orphan 173 



Bridal Ring. 



Stt 

"She Blooms no more" 174 

The Maiden s Dream . 174 

Poem before the Rhode Island Hist. Soc., upon Roger Williams.. 176 

"Hoio softly comes the Summer Wind" 175 

A Smis of Spring 176 

On a Statue of David ...176 



MRS. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

Her Descent from the Pilgrims PAG E 177 

Her Marriage 177 

Circumstances under which she has written 177 

Remarks on The Sinless Child, with Extracts 178 

Her D ramas 1 79 

Review of The Roman Tribute, with Extracts 180 

Review of Jam/, Leisler, a Tragedy 18-J 

Scene from Jacob Leisler 183 

Her Prose Works 183 

Writings nnder the Name of" Ernest Helfenstein" 183 

H>r Hank among the Female Poets 183 

Tim Acorn 1^4 

The Drowned Mariner 1 86 

Totlu Hudson i*} 

Sonnets- 1^7 

I- Poesy lift 

II. The Bard 187 

III. An Incident 187 

IV. The Unattained 187 

V. The Wife W7 

VI. Religion 187 

VII. The Dream 1*7 

VIII. Wayfarers ..".I W 

1 X., X. Heloise to Abelard 188 

XI. Despondency )8 

XII. Love 188 

XIII. "Look not behindThee" 188 

XI V. Charity in Despair of Justice 188 

XV. The Great Aim 1 88 

XVI. Midnight 188 

XVII. Jealousy 189 

Ecce Homo 189 

Ode to Sappho 189 

Love Dead 190 

Stanzas 190 

Endurance 190 

Ministering Spirits 19] 

The Recall, or Soul Melody 191 

The Water ;..... 191 

The Brook 191 

The Cou-.ry Maiden 193 

Ttie April Rain 19C 

Atheism >93 

Let Me be a Fantasy 194 

Strength from the Hills 194 

Eros and Anteros 194 

The Poet 19* 

MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 

Account of her Writings 190 

Characterized, by a Correspondent 195 

To the Eagle 195 

Ode : To the Moon 196 

The Spirit of Song 197 

Extract from The Quakeress Bride 197 

Sonnets: 198 

I. Cultivation 198 

II. Encouragement 198 

III. Fading Autumn 198 

I V. A Winter Nighj 198 

V. To the. Greek Slave 11V 

VI. To Arabella 19? 

The Woodman 194 

MRS. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

Hei Domestic Connexions 19S 

Translates Euphemia of Messina 199 

Production of her Teresa Conrarini 199 

Papers in the Reviews 199 

Her Characters of Schiller, Joanna of Sicily, and other Works . . 199 

Characteristics ofher Poems 1W 

Snsqnehannah 200 

Lake Ontario 201 

The Delaware Water-Gap 201 

Insensibility 201 



Love, in Youth and Age 201 

SodusBay 202 

"O er the Wild Waste" 202 

Song 202 

The old Love - 2l )3 

The Sea-Kings 203 

Venice 



Sonnetti 204 

I. Mary Magdalen 204 

II. Tlie* Good Shepherd 204 

III. "Oh, Weary Heart" ** 

" Abide with Us" 2 04 

The Persexaed 20 

A Dirge 2* 

TheBuriil. * 



CONTENTS. 



.MKS. JCI.IA H. SCOTT. 

Her Early Lite and lie.iutif.il Char< ter 
II T M;irri:i-f, Mini Death 
U.-r PotlM pnbtt h.-d by Mis- K i- irti.n 
7V 7Vo <7rai> 

./>/./ c/i,/,/ 

rum in I nflry 
MRS. ANNA I EYKF. MINNIES. 

Mrs. l!:,i,. s AfiCOMrtofhei Marriage 
Sin- writ.-* under tli.- BJflMtttn of " Moin;t" 
Publish.- 7V l l<,ri.il IVar 
If -ddrd Lm-e 



toi 205 

206 

....206 

206 

207 

. . . . 207 



203 
208 



;., /,/,-,< .................................................... 209 

7V 7V r Ballad - : f a H;,Hderrr ............................. 20!) 



MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 

The Spi.it .ind Poj.ulaiity of her Prose Writings .............. 210 

7V 01,1 .-/,)/,/< Tree ....................................... 210 

MRS. V. K ST. .JOHN. 

E\t.-nt of her Productions ................................... 211 

Medusa, fr <m tin .Iniiijne Cameo ............................. 211 

MRS. 3ARAI! I.iiClSA P. SMITH. 

A (iranddauihrerofr.eneral Hull ............................ 212 

I miiel .Jenks Smith .......................... 212 

.-I Etteidmee, :..id Literary ArUvity ................. 212 

II. r Death. and the Character of her Poems ................. 212 

T:,f Ihima .................................................. 212 

White Roses ................................................. 212 

Xl.mz,,* ..................................................... 2J3 

We Fall of 11 anaw ........................................ 213 

MR.-. SOPHIA HKI.K.N OLIVER. 

Herl oem* .................................................. 214 

" / murk the I fours that S/tine" ............................... 21 4 

Tl.e Cloud Ship .............................................. 214 

The Shadows ................................................ 215 

.17. nistrrins Spirits ..................... .................... 215 

MISS MARY E. I.KK. 

H.-r P.alhd-t and other Poems ................................ 216 

The Potts ................................................... 216 

A>i F.asfcrn Lore-Kong ...................................... 216 

The Last Place of Sleep ...................................... 216 

MRS CATHERINE H. ESL1NG. 

r. Come Home" ..................................... 217 

//, KMJ our Puttier s Darling" ............................. 217 

MRS. CAROM NT. M. S A \\ V K II. 

Her Early Education ........................................ 218 

Acquaintance with Foreign Literatures ....................... 218 

Disadvantageous Channels of Publication ..................... 218 

............................................ 218 

Intidr/itii iiinl Religion .. . .................................... 21!) 

The J alley of Pence ......................................... 219 

Tht Boy and hit .hi-^i ...................................... 220 

Tfie Laihi t>f Lurid .......................................... 2-iI 

/- II /:.. >n. itrnnre .................................... 221 

M / .S-,V,y.,,,- Clti/ilrt-n ....................................... ?22 

*l,it,t,j>,ic .............................................. 223 

The ll tirri i- s Dirge ........................................ 224 

Kenyan .......... . ......................................... 224 

I ebblei ..................................................... 224 

MRS- MXKCiARKT L. ItAII.EY. 

Her Editorial Labors ........................................ 2C5 

H. -i Poem .................................................. 225 

.............................................. 225 

Thr J tii ii, r ( lulil s liiirinl, .................................. 225 

MemM-ui .................................................... 226 



.1 i;, , ,! , 1 ........................................... 226 

MKS. I.U K \ M. TUUKSTON. 

1,,-r in Indiana ............................... 227 

Munface, tnd D**tt ........................................ 227 

Vida" ....................... 227 

7V Orttn l/,/ : - if my r,ith,rlnml" ........................ 2:7 

....................... 227 









Miss MARTHA n \V. 

H.-r Utomy R.-ni.,inMiubli>hed by Prof.-sor Kii.--l.-y 2:8 

H;.n - - * 

// 228 

miss -i \I;Y iH H \NMKK DODD. 

Her Litt-rary As>... iitinus 229 

rubll-atiMii f li.-r PoeiiM 2:9 

i,,, t ,tnt 229 

7Vi, M.,i,rn, r 22 

io ., CHdM 2:10 

//,, IH-ramer 2:50 

fVif Dort t I ifit 231 

231 



MKS. ANNE O. BOTTA. 

H.-i Katlier one of the United Irishmen *o 232 

H.-r Ediu-atiori 232 

Literary Soirees 2;5i 

Chara.-teristirs of her Poems 232 

7V Ideal 233 

The Me,il Found 2*1 

Tht Image Uroken 8$J 

Tli, Untile tif Life 234 

Tlfni^ iits In n Lihi ani - 35 

Hngar ** 

To the Memory of Channing 235 

A Thought lui the Seashore 236 

The Jhnnh Creation -236 

The Wounded V,:lture 238 

F.rni 237 

To ,in Obscurity 2;5 7 

To , with Flnwert 2.17 

0,i 1 icture of llarccy Birch 2:57 

Sotmeti: 238 

I. Love + 238 

II. The L,,ke and the Star 238 

III. A Remembrance 238 

I V. The Sun and Storm 238 

V. To 238 

VI. The Honey- Bee 238 

VII. Aspiration 238 

VIII. To the Savior 238 

IX. Faith 2:s9 

Kones in the Desert -~....SW 

Chriil Betrayed 239 

Tlte Wasted Fountain* 240 

I m il I reaching- at Athens 240 

SIRS. EMILY JUDSON. 

Her Wriiiiigs tiuderthe Pseudonym of" Fanny Forester 11 241 

Publication of Alderbrook 241 

Marriage to the Missionary Judson 241 

Goes to India 24-1 

H.T .Ittarogn, the Maid of the Rock, in Four Cantos 242 

The Weaver 242 

Miniitcring Angels 543 

To my Mother 243 

To Spring 244 

Death 244 

L, -his t/nd Shades 244 

to Earth 245 

Aspiring to Heaven 245 

The lluds ,f the Sarimac 245 

My Bird 245 

MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES. 

Contributions to the Periodicals 246 



Cr*mi*fSPr**k 246 

Tlie Death of Pan 247 

Cleopatra 247 

MyMothtr 247 

Sonnett: 248 

1. Milton 24U 

1 1 . Drtiden 248 

III. Addisim 243 

IV. T,io 243 

V., VI. 7V Author of " The Sinless Child" 248 

VII. Tiie I nst 84 8 

VIII. Diem I erdidi 249 

1 X . , X . Ho ,,ks 249 

On the / iftnre of a Departed Peetefs 249 



r 



.9 i .i 



Flairers in n S,ck-R,iom }4S 

MR^. I MKI.I.NK S. SMITH. 

Publication of Tlte Fai -y , Search, and other Poem* 250 

Hymn to the Deity, in the Contemplation of Nature 260 

" We ve h,iti our Xht.re of Bliss, Beloved" 2oC 

MAI:; VIJKT I-TLLKK, MAIUMIIONKSS D OSSOLI. 

Her Rank amonj; the Writ.-rs of her Sex 251 

Governor Everett receiving the Indian C/iiefs, Sic 251 

Thr Sin-red Marriage 253 

Sonnets : 252 

I. Orjiheut 25J 

II. Instrumental Music 253 

III. Beethoven , 253 

IV. Mo-.art 253 

V. T, ll iifhin-ton Alhtim t Picture, " The Bride" 2/%3 

To Kdith, on her Birthday 2,53 

Lin,s it-ritten in Illinois 253 

On Leaving the Wett 2.54 

Ganymede to his Ea git 234 

Life a Temple 255 

Kw.inraeemeiU 256 

GunhiUlu 36J 



CONTENTS. 



13 



MUS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 

Her Early History ................................. Pics 256 

Anecdote of Mrs. Peirson and Thaddeus Stevens ........... 256 

Her Purest Minstrel, and Purest Leaves ...................... 256 

NX Song .................................................... 256 

MH Muse .................................................... 257 

To an &olinn Harp ......................................... 257 

To the Wood Robin .......................................... 258 

The mid mood Home ......................................... 258 

Isabella ..................................................... 258 

Sunset in the Forest .................... . .................... 259 

Tlte last Pale Flowers ....................................... 259 

To t/te Woods ............................................... 259 

MRS. JAXK TAYLOR WORTH1NGTON. 

Her Connexion* in Virginia .................................. 260 

Marriage, Writings, Death ................................... 260 

TvthePeakofQtttr ......................................... MO 

Lines, to One who will wide, stand Them ...................... 260 

Moonlight on the Grave ...................................... 261 

The Child ! Grave ........................................... 261 

The Poor ................................................... 261 

Sleep ........................................................ 262 

To Twilight ................................................. 262 

Tlte Withered Leaves ........................................ 262 

MRS. SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 

Publishes Records of the Heart ............................... 263 

Tfie forsaken, by her, compared with a Poem by Motherwell. .263 
Review .,f her Child of the Sea, with Extracts ................ 264 

Extract from Isabelle, or the Broken Heart .................... 265 

Lament of La I cga, in Captivity ............................ 266 

Una ........................................................ 266 

The Dead ................................................... 266 

MRS. ANNA CORA MO WATT RITCHIE. 

Notice of her Father .................................. ....... 267 

Her IJirth and Education, abroad ............................. 267 

Early Predilection fur the Stage .......... . ................... 267 

Story of her Marriage ....................................... 267 

Publishes Pelayo, or the Cavern ofCoeadonga ................ 267 

Residence in Europe ........................................ 267 

Publishes Evelyn, Fashion, and other Works ................. 267 

Her Theatrical Career ....................................... 267 

Visit to England ............................................. 268 

The Raising of J aims Daughter ............................ 268 

My Life .................................................... 269 

Love ........................................................ 2K9 



269 



Tlty Will be done 

On a Lock of my Mother s Hair 

MRS. MARY NOEL MEIGS, (McDONALD.) 

Publishes TVenwty M.N.M. ................................ 270 

j,, ne ........................................................ 270 

The Spells of Memory ....................................... 271 

lane s Aspirations ........................................... 271 

MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

Literary Abilities in her Family ............................... 272 

Writings under the Signature of" Florence" .................. 272 

Marriage to Mr. O->good the Painter .......................... 272 

____ 272 



Reside 



i in Londc 



Publishes A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England 272 

Her later Works 272 

Her Genius, 273 

Farewell too Happy Day 273 

"Had we but met" 273 

To the Spirit of Poetry 274 

Rejections 274 

Ltnare 274 

The Cocoa -Nut Tree 275 

A Mother s Prayer in Illness 275 

Little Children 276 

A Sermon 276 

To a Child Playing with a Watch 276 

Labor 277 

Garden Gossip 277 

To a Friend 277 

Kurydice 278 

Lady Jane 278 

Ida s Farewell 279 

To a Dear little Truant, n-ho wouldn t come. Home 279 

The Unexpected Declaration 279 

Slan-.a,i for Music -^ 

Tlte F/ovjer Love Letter 280 

A Weed 281 

Tn Sleep 281 

Silent hove - - ^^ 

Beauty s Prayer 281 

Dream-Music, or the Spirit Flute 282 

New En S lanfi Mountain- Child 283 

Ashes of Rosei *** 

Xtng , " Its, lower to the level" 2SS 



MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, (COSTISUED.) 

The Soil s Lament for Home PACK 285 



Song, " She loves Him yet".. . 

No; 



Song, " Should all who throng" 

"Hois Tan Sung, Beaumanoir" 

Caprice 

Song, " I loved an Ideal" 

Aspirations 

MISS LUCY HOOPER. 

Writings und.r the Signature of " L. H." 

Lines written o. visiting Newburyport 

Her Works in Prose 

Lettei upon her Death, from Dr. John W. Francis 

Poem on the same Subject, by J. G. Whittier 

Sonnet to her Memory, by H^ T. Tuckerman 

Publication of her Literary Remains 

The Summons of Death 

Time, Faith, Energy 

Last Hours of a Young Poeteit 

The Turquoise Ring 

" Give me Armnr of Proof " 

The Cavalier s last Hours 

The Daughter of Hcrodias 

Evening Thoughts 

Linen 

The Old Days we Remember 

Lines suggested by a Scene in "Master Humphrey s Clock"... 

Life and Death 

Legends of Flowers 

Osceola 

MRS. SARAH EDGARTON MAYO. 

Her Life arid Writings 

The Supremacy of God 

The last Lay 

The fieggar s Death-Scene 

Types of Heaven 

The Shadow Child 

Udollo 

Crossing the Moor 

MISS SARAH L. JACOBS. 

Ttie Changeless World 

Ilenedelta 

A } csper 

" Ul,i Amor, Ibi Fides" 

MRS. LUELLA J. B. CASE. 

The Indian Relic 

Energy in Adversity 

La Revenante 

A Death- Scene 

Death leading Age to Repose 

MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON. 

Lines suggested l>y an Anecdote of S. F. B. Marie 

TheSpiraof Truth 

Kentucky s Dead 

MISS HANNAH J. WOODMAN. 

The Annunciation 

" When n-i/t tliou love Me?" 

MISS SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 



Compared with Jarne 
Variety of her Abiliti* 



My Sister - 

Tlu: Sea- Shell 

MRS. RKHECCA S. NICHOLS. 

Publishes lin-nice, and other Poems 

To my Boy in Heaven 

My Sixter Ellen 

Farewell of the Soul to the Body 

Lament of the Old Year 

The Isle <f Dreams 

Tlte Shadow 

Little Nell 

The little Flock 



Ml 

.HI 
.SM 

.< ; 



Mu 



.811 

i 7 

111 

H 

.311 

.319 

.. i 

M 

. BQ 



MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE. 

Extract from the Lifeof Schlesinger.byher Brother, Sam. Ward 
The Beauty of her Poems 
The Burial of Schlesinger 
Wordsworth 

To a Beautiful Statue 



Lees from the r.up of Life 

" Sptak, for thy Servant heareth" 

A Mother s Fears. 



11 



CONTENTS. 



MRS AM KM. A I! WKI.IiV. 

\v, i-i,._. no ;, r UK -,_i:unre of " Amelm 

Publi.itj.Mi ,,f her rot-Mi* 

Tli -ir Cli-ini ler 

7V /:,>, 

/ //> r J,,,,,ienre 

On l-:nten,, K tl,e .M,,mm,*h Cave 

Lore 

7V Old .M,,id 



o 325 



326 

:;n 

:;.s 

328 

329 

To a Srn-Shell 329 

7V Laxt Interview 3:50 

My Sifter* 3:50 



TII, I. .n if St,]> Son 
The I moire of Had 



331 
332 



MRS. CATH. VVAHK1KM) ANM) M IIS. ELEANOR T.KE. 

Tlie H .fr ,,/ \. r m, fcc., by " Two <i,ter- of tlie We.st" ....... 333 

The India,, Clta ,/,; and ot/irr J ocmt ....................... 3.53 

Tl ...... Work. . n!i. i<ed ...................................... 333 

Their ..tlier Writings ........................................ 333 

..................................................... 334 

It,, nk ,,n the 1 rairie ........................................ 335 

Lr,,,d of the Italian Chamber ............................... 3:57 

" Sl,e nnuft tii Me" ......................................... 3:59 

"lira/kin Dream, nf 1 octry" ............................... 340 

..................................................... 340 



Tltf lS,rdal H 

The Deserted rloutt..., 
HISS SUSAK IMNDAK. 



The Lady Lcnnorc . 
Laiiralie 



. . . 343 
...343 
...344 



Thmighti tn Sfirins-Time 

MISS CAROLINE MAY. 

H-i Po*m, tc , 

The Sahhath at the Year 

T-i a Student 

Semteut 

1. On a i-arm Nm-emlier l)iy.. 
II. On th, t/ijirani-h of Winter. . 

III. Thought 

IV. ll>i/ie 

V. Memnry 

Lilie* 

Ta Nature.... 



..... 346 
..... 3-46 
..... 346 
..... 347 
_____ 347 
..... 347 
..... 347 
..... 347 



.347 



AI.H K ;. IIAVKX. 

Write* uncl^i Hi-- Si-nature of "Alice G. Lee" 349 

K.IlN Ntafl Saturday Ga-.ette 349 

The llrid, s t unt xxion 340 

Miilniihi ami Dnyhreuk 341) 

Tlie < It itrr/t 3^9 

H" t :ioO 

A M,- in in- ii 35j 

WltS CAROI.INK H. CUANDr.KH. 

Tn mi, Ural her 353 

MISS KM/A I.. S1MIOAT. 

Tlie /V,.,,,,,,- ,- f v.iW 353 

A i en Sinni Xnnlitiim* 353 

. ."-".".". 384 

MIJS. 1IAKKIKT I. IS/.T, (WINSLOW.) 

ll /ii, tins I.,., i 3g 4 

MliS. .MM II T M. I.. CAMIM5KI.L. 

II r I , uly Culture 355 

. 3S-> 

356 

. - / .VI/H r, -e 366 

Ml-- M.I-K .M - I ]\i: ] . \VAKD. 

Horn ..I" :tn Hi-torir:il K:in,ily 3;>7 

II, T NVri i.,--, Mini II.T Alpihli.-H 357 

A I- ,,,,,,;, I Chant / , iltt 01,1 \;,,r :;.- )7 

-i Old 1 inna 3,-,S 

Si " " ""I / """. / 3.r, 8 

Thf .V,,i and the Sovereign 

. :lt .. - )( J 

HISS I.ITY I.\|;<-(1M. 

A K.I -torv (iirl ;it I.owcll O^Q 

K\tr:n I bum .1. (i. \Vhiiti.-r, r,--j,,-, tj,,; i.er .:w 

r .h-l,,, and li,f ttmgti " " 360 

vv /;,-;, /v,,,,,, .....".".".".981 

EDITH M \V." 

She wntc- ini lfr ;i \,n,imr tie J lnme 3f;.-, 

Tlie Clrir.n li-r ol IIIT li -nim 3 

"" 



EDITH MAY," (ros 
// \tnrm at Tn-ili^ht . 



W.) 



Juliette. . 

Summer 

A F u-fft Srs.ne. 
A J oet t Love.. 

A Son _ fin- Ant 



364 
.364 
.366 



A True Story of ,i Fawn ............................. 

MISSES FRANCES A. AND MKTTA V. FULLER. 
Tlieir Writin-s for the " Home Journal" .............. 



.3f>7 
. 367 



The Old Ma,, * Favorite .............................. 

(II.) The I fift/ioy t Sung ................................. 

Midn ight _____ ......................................... 

T)u Silent .Ship ....................................... 

The Spirit of my Song ................................ 

MISSES ALICE AND PHfEBE CAREY. 

Circiinr<trtT)ce.s unfavorable to their Development ...... 

Extract from a Letter by Alice Carey ................. 

Poems of A lice and Phcehf Carey contrasted ........... 

(1.) Ilie Handmaid ...................................... 

llinnn of the New Man .............................. 

Palestine ............................................. 

OldSloriet ............................... ! ........... 

1 irtnre* of Mem,**, .................................. 

The Tiro Msslonat ies ................... 

n*in, of Light ...................... . ................ 

}fe/v,, ................................................ 

The Time to be ....................................... 



..oro 

..370 
-.371 



..372 
. . 372 
. . 372 
. . 372 
..373 
..373 
-.373 
..374 
...374 
. . 374 



A Legend of St. Mary , 

Watching 

An Evening Tale 

George Biirrogh* 

Light, of Geniuf 

Death s Ferryman 

Sailor * Song 

To the Evening Zephyr 

Minings hy Three Grave* 

(II.) The Lorcri; 

Beat-in* Life * Burdens 

Resotrcs 

Light in Darknert 

The Wife of Beitierei . . . .". . . . 

Tfte FoUotem of Christ 

Sympathy "" 

.Son -r a f the Heart 

Tlie 1 isoncr i Last fright 

Mtmin-ie.* .." 

Eijitalto Either Fortune 

Caming /fame "..." 

The Christian Woman 

Death Scene ...". 

Lyre at tlie Grave 

MISS MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 

Lncien IJonapaite .s Opinion oflier Father 

Her English and Scotti.-li Poems 

The lianixhed Lover ." 

Believe it _" 

The Haunted Heart 



-.375 
..375 
..376 
-.376 
-.377 
. . 377 
..378 
..378 
..378 
-.378 
-.379 
..380 
..380 
..381 
-.381 
..381 
..382 
.383 



..383 

.384 
.384 
.384 
.386 



MRS. MARIA I.OWKI.L. 

Ordinal nrid Translated Poems 

J,-sn.i and the Dove 

The Maiden s Hanest . . . . .". . . . " 

Sng, " Oh, /linl, thnu dartett to the Sim" 

Tlie Morning-Glory 

MI .S. SAKA J. LIIM INCOTT. 

Karly Residence in K<x:liester 

Writings under tl.e Signature of " Grace Greenwood""" 

II -r (;.-mn8 

sfriadne 

Dreamt 

The Last ^</(- ....!."".!."!"".""" " 

A l*>rer to his Faithlett Miftret* ".. 

Hen-eii ta Nina 

"Can<t T/,,,1, /,.,,;" .....I.J"""I!!!""* 

Ini-ifinion t" M>ih,r F.artli 

" There wa* a A -wc" " " 

T,,e .V, ,,/ ; ,/ rV Lore , 



.390 
.391 
.392 
.393 
.393 
.394 
.394 
.395 



A Dr.aiit. 

Darkened Hour* . . . . . . .". . . . 

L,>i-r and During 

t W nHHf li.de 

MISS \NNK H. I HILI.IPS. 

Writes nn.ler the N;,,,,e of" Helen Irvj n " 



.900 
.9M 
.397 

-:i9S 
.3M 



Lore a, i,t Fam:. 
Kina to Kieii-.i. . 



CONTENTS. 



15 



MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 

Labi/hood PACK 401 

Going to Sleep 401 

Loft Behind 401 

Endurance 402 

Singing in the Rain 402 

A Spring Love Song 403 

The Amber Rosary 403 

October 403 

AtLast 404 

La*t 404 

Forgotten 404 

In an Attic 405 

October to May 405 

Erening 405 

Prophecy 405 

" My Pearling " 406 

When the Leaves are Turning Broirn 406 

Consolation 406 

A Dream 407 

Answer Me 407 

The Sparrow at Sea 408 

Rock Me to Sleep 408 

MRS. ROLLIN COOKE, "ROSE TERRY." 

Done For 409 

After the Camanches 409 

Doubt 409 

Cain 410 

" Che Sara Sara" 410 

Midnight 410 

At Last 411 

December XXXI . . 411 

New Moon 411 

Indolence 411 

Nemesis 412 

Truths 412 

A Ch HVs Wish 41 2 

The Tu-o Villages 413 

Blue Beard s Closet 413 

The Iconoclast 413 

Semde 414 

Departing 414 

La, Coquette 414 

MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 

The Chimney-Swallow 8 Idyl 415 

Before the Mirror 415 

November .415 

" Hallo, my Fancy , whither wilt thou go?" 416 

On my Bed of a Winter Night 416 

The House Inj the Sea, , 416 

You Left Me 416 

The Poet s Secret 416 

A Summer Night 417 

The House of Youth 417 

The Shadows on the Water Reach 417 

Exile 417 

A Sea-Side Idyl 418 

Unreturning 419 

The Colonel s Shield 419 

Mercedes 419 

The Bull-Fight 420 

El Capitano 420 

On the Campagna 420 

Christmas Comes Again 420 

Last Days 421 

Memory is Immortal 421 

The Message 422 

MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 

Over the Wall 423 

Earth to Earth " 423 

Yesterday and To- Day 424 

Agnes 424 

Under the Palm Trees 424 

The La*t of Six 425 

Waiting for Letters 426 

Coming Home 426 



MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR, (CONTINUED.) 




Hidden Away 


PAGE 427 


Then and Now 


427 


MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 




The Old Psalm Tune 


428 


The Other World 


428 


The Secret 


429 


Think not all is Over 


429 


The Crocus 


429 


" Only a Year " 


429 


Midnight 


430 


Second Hour 


430 


A Day in the Pamfili Doria 


430 


The Gardens of the Vatican 


431 


MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 




Peartsease . 


432 


Miqnonnette 


432 


Winter-green 


433 


Beside the Sea 


433 


A Rhyme of the Rain 


434 


IntlieNiyht 


434 


Song 


435 


The Four-leaved Clover 


436 


Irrewtmlle 


436 


Ashet of Roses 


436 


MISS KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 






437 


Under the Maple 


437 


The Soid s Quest 


438 


Jimmy 


438 


By the Apple Tree 


439 


Marguerite 


439 


Mother MicJx.ud 


439 


In the Set"! 


440 




440 


A Childish Fancy 


441 


Sixteen and Sixty 


441 


Awakened 


441 




442 


Sawdust 




In Clover 


442 


MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 




The Fancy Ball 


^43 


Twelve Hours Apart 


443 


To-Day 


443 


Meeting a Mirror 


443 


Earth in Heaven 


444 


Last Words 


444 


The End of the Rainboip 


444 


Two Blush Roses 


445 


Of a Parting 


445 


A Disenchantment 


445 


Questions of the Hour 


446 


A Walk to my own Grave 


446 


On a Wedding Day 


446 


MRS. LOUI>E CHANDLER MOULTON. 




The Song of a Summer 


447 


To my Hea rt 


447 


The Spring is Late 


447 


A Woman s Waiting 




The Singer 


....44S 


A Weed 


449 


How Long ? ..-. 


449 


A Problem 


449 


May-Flowers 


449 


MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 




Expectation 


450 


The Sandpiper 


450 


The Minute-Guns 


450 


Rock Weeds 


451 


A. Sumnvr Day 


451 


November 


452 


Yellow-Bird 


. ...453 


MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 




Per Tenebras, Lamina 


453 



16 



CONTENTS. 



MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY (CONTINUKD). 

BtMndtkt Mink ............... ................. PAGK453 

................................................ 452 

An, thrust ............................................. 454 

Released ............................................. 4;->4 

};< i uty for Ashfs ..................................... 454 

Th,- Three Light* .................................... 454 

Sunlight nnd Starlight .................................. 455 

Jfenrth-Glow ........................................... 455 

/ ............... ............................... 455 

Up in the Wild ....................................... 456 

/"/ ........... ............................... 456 

The Second Motherhood ................................. 456 

The Last Reality ....................................... 455 

MRS. HELEN HUNT. 

Spinning....^ ....................................... 457 

The Prince is Dead .................................... 457 

" Spoken " ............................. . .............. 457 

Amreetri Wine ......................................... 453 

Coronation ............................................. 453 

Tryst .................................................. 458 

My Strawberry ............................ ........... 459 

" Down to Sleep" ...................................... 459 

............................. 459 



MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 

i ino at Supper ................................... 460 

A ndrea s Mistake ..................................... 460 

Donna Margherita. .................................... 461 

Dorothea s Roses ....................................... 462 

In an Eastern Bazaar .................................. 4g3 

St. Gregory s Supper ............. ................... 463 

The Open Gate .......................................... 454 

God s Patience ......................... 464 

MISS NORA PERRY. 

In June .................................... _^ 465 

That Waltz of Von Weber s ............................ 465 

Riding Down .................................... " " 406 

My Lad .y .............................................. 466 

.1 nnthrr Year .......................................... 457 

After the Ball .......................................... 457 

MISS LAURA C. REDDEN. 

.Disarmed ............................... 463 

Brolcen Off ............................................ 453 

!( / ,< Out ............................................. 4gg 

A Lore. Song of Sorrento ................................ 459 

An Empty Ni*t ....................................... 4(59 

The Fiellt are Gray with Immortelles .. ............. 470 



Xntretfout. 



.470 



MISS HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 

I i i Dolorosa 471 

My Knowledge 47! 

Praying in Sjiirit 471 

Humble Service _ _ 47! 



MISS HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL (CONTINUED). 

My Friend ....................................... PAGE 472 

The Bell in the Tower ................................... 472 

AW* Well ............................................. 472 

TheGue*t ............................................. 472 

MISS EMMA LAZARUS. 

In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport ................... 473 

On a Tuft of Grass ...................................... 473 

Drtams ................................................ 474 

Exultation ............................................. 474 

Sonnet .................................................. 474 

MISS MARIAN DOUGLAS. 

My Winter Friend ..................................... 475 

Politics ............................................... 475 

Wailing .for the May ................................. 475 

tfiimney-Top* .......................................... 476 

The Yellow Cloud ....................................... 476 

The Rope Dancer ....................................... 476 

Ant Hills ............................................... 477 

The Lost Flowers ............ ........................... 477 

One Saturday ........................................... 477 

The Song of the Bee .................................... 478 

The Year a Last Flower ................................ 478 

* Two Pictures ....... .................................... 478 

MRS. LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER. 

Revelry ........................... ................... 479 

The Duel ................................................ 479 

Re-United ............................................. 479 

TheKing sRide ...................................... 480 

At the Ball MaUlle ..................................... 480 

Touch Not ............................................... 480 

MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 

A Lovers Garden 
At Twilight 
Vanity 



481 
481 



Flower Songs ....... .................................... 482 

Peace ..... .......................................... 483 

Music in the Night ..................... ............... 483 

Hereafter .................. .......................... 433 

Daybreak .............................................. 483 

Nocturne ............................................... 484 

Magdalen ............................................. 434 

A Sigh ................................................ 484 

Alive ............ . .................................. 484 

MISS MARY N. PRESCOTT. 

A Lullahy ................................ . ............. 435 

Rock. Little Nest ....................................... 435 

A Tear .......................... .................... 435 

To-Day ................................................ 435 

Song ............. . ..................................... 435 

Two Moods .......................................... 486 

A Song ............................................... 435 

Asleep ................................ .................. 486 

The Brook ............................. ____ 435 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



(Born 1013-Died 1672). 



IN the works of Mrs. ANNE BRADSTREET, 
wife of one and daughter of another of the ear 
ly governors of Massachusetts, we have illus 
trations of a genius suitable to grace a dis 
tant province while the splendid creations 
of Spenser and Shakspere were delighting 
the metropolis. A comparison of the pro 
ductions of this celebrated person with those 
of Lady Juliana Berners, Elizabeth Melvill, 
the Countess of Pembroke, and her other pred 
ecessors or contemporaries, will convince the 
judicious critic that she was superior to any 
poet of her sex who wrote in the English 
language before the close of the seventeenth 
century. 

She was born in 1613, while her father, 
Thomas Dudley who had been educated in 
the family of the Earl of Northampton, and 
had served creditably with the army in Flan 
ders was steward to the Earl of Lincoln, in 
which situation he remained with a brief in 
terruption from twelve to sixteen years, and 
in which he appears to have been succeeded 
by Mr. Simon Bradstreet, of Emanuel Col 
legesubsequently for a short time steward 
to the Countess of Warwick who in 1629 
married the future poetess, then about six 
teen years of age, and in the following year 
came with the Dudley family and other non 
conformists to New England. 

It does not appear that Mrs. Bradstreet 
had written anything, which has been print 
ed, before her arrival in America. Here was 
completed her education, under the care of her 
husband, and his friends among the learned 
men who then presided over the society of 
Cambridge and Boston ; and by her experi 
ence and observation in this country nearly 
all her poems seem to have been suggested. 
The first collection of them was printed at 
Boston, in 1640, under the title of "Several 
Poems, compiled with great variety of Wit 
and Learning, full of delight ; wherein espe 
cially is contained a compleat Discourse and 
Description of the Four Elements, Constitu 
tions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, 
together with an exact Epitome of the Three 
First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, 



and Grecian ; and the beginning of the Roman 
Commonwealth to the end of their last King ; 
with divers other Pleasant and Serious Po 
ems : By a Gentlewoman of New England." 
In 1650 this volume was reprinted in Lon 
don, with the additional title of " The Tenth 
Muse, lately sprung up in America ;" and in 
1678 a second American edition came from 
the press of John Foster, of Boston, " cor 
rected by the author, and enlarged by the 
addition of several other poems found among 
her papers after her death." 

The writer of the preface to the first edi 
tion, who was probably her brother-in-law, 
John Woodbridge, of Andover, says : " Had 
I opportunity but to borrow some of the au 
thor s wit, tis possible I might so trim this 
curious work with sucn quaint expressions 
as that the preface might bespeak thy fur 
ther perusal ; but I fear twill be a shame for 
a man that can speak so little, to be seen in 
the titlepage of this woman s book, lest by 
comparing the one with the other the reader 
should pass his sentence that it is the gift of 
the woman not only to speak most but to 
speak best. I shall have therefore to com 
mend that, which with any ingenious reader 
will too much commend the a\ithor, unless 
men turn more peevish than women and 
envy the inferior sex. I doubt not but the 
reader will quickly find more than I can say, 
and the worst effect of his reading will be un 
belief, which will make him question wheth 
er it can be a woman s work, and ask, Is 
it possible V If any do, take this as an an 
swer, from him that dares avow it : It is the 
work of a woman, honored and esteemed 
where she lives, for her gracious demeanor, 
her eminent parts, her pious conversation, 
her courteous disposition, her exact dili 
gence in her place, and discreet managing 
of her family occasions : and more than so. 
these poems are the fruit but of some few 
hours, curtailed from her sleep and other re 
freshments. . . . This only I shall annex : 1 
fear the displeasure of no person in publish 
ing these poems, but the author, without 
whose knowledge and contrary to %yhoseei 



A.NXE BRADSTREET. 



pectation I have presun-ed to bring to pub 
lic view what she resolved in such a manner 
should never see the sun." 

It is evident, from some lines upon it by 
Mrs. Bradsireet, that Spenser s Faery Queen 
wa> not unknown in Massachusetts, but the 
fashionable poet of that period was Du Bar 
tas,* translations of whose works, in cum- 
bn .n.- quartos and folios, were read by every 
person in the country pretending to taste or 
pie.\ . ill. ii-h they seem to have evinced little 
genm-. and still less religion. Among the 
verses prefixed to Mrs. Bradsireet s volume 
are some by Nathaniel Ward, of Ipswich, 
the witty author of The Simple Cobbler of 
Aga warn, who, puzzled by a comparison of 
his heroine with the recognised model of 
the age, declares that 

Mercury showed Apollo Bartas book, 
Minerva this, and wished him well to look 
And tell uprightly which did which excel : 
Jle viewed and viewed, and vowed he could not tell. 

But .Airs. Bradstreet herself was more mod 
est, and, in the prologue to r-ne of her longer 

piece:-, says 

But when my wondering eyes and envious heart 
(I real Bartas sugared lines do but read o er, 

Tool ! I do grudge the muses did not part 
"J wivt him and me their overfluent store. 

A Bartas can do what a Bartas will 

But simple I, according to my skill. 

The "copies of verses" which are prefixed 
to these poems are curious, not only as indi- 
c.aiing the position of the author and her as 
sociations, but as illustrative of the taste and 
culture of the time in the city which still 
claims to be our literary capital. Benjamin 
Wondbridge, the first graduate of Harvard 
college, exclaims 

Now 1 believe Tradition, which doth call 
The muses, virtues, graces, females all ; 
Only they are not nine, eleven, nor three 
Our authoress proves them but one unity. 

And further on, to his own sex 

In your own arts confess yourselves outdone 

The moon doth totally eclipse the sun : 
Mot with her sable mantle muflling him, 
But her bright silver makes his -old look dim. 

William de_ Salluste dn liartas the mor-f ceiehrated 



F i- nch poet of his a-c. was Lorn n l.M-l. and died in 
.. r >!U>. He was the friend and n 
H -nri IV., and wrote a canticle upoi 



His works were nearly nil. hy vin-ji 
into Kn-lish. HIM one of theni. (in! 



ii, Hebdornas "etc., pas.-ed through 

lions in MX years. The translation which was p rohahiv 

) st kno-n in tins country is that of Sylveate :. published 

in London, in a thick folio, in 



ip.-inirii in arms of 
his victory of Vvri. 
us hands, translated 
elnii Sallu-ti llartas- 
nore than thirty edi- 

iviiicii was probably 
Sylveate :. published 



The learned and pious John Norton, who 
declared this "peerless gentlewoman" to be 
" the mirror of her age and glory of her sex," 
said in a funeral ode that could Virgil hear 
her works he would condemn his own to the 
fire, and that 

Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor, 
For art ne er feigned, nor nature formed, a better . 
Her virtues were so great, that they do raise 
A work to trouble Fame, astonish Praise ; 
When, as her name doth but salute the ear, 
Men think that they Perfection s abstract hear. 
Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street, 
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet; 
Where Nature such a tenement had ta en 
That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane. 
Beneath her feet pale Envy bites the chain, 
And poisoned Malice whets her sting in vain. 
Let every laurel, every myrtle bough, 
Be stripped for leaves t adorn and load her brow 
Victorious wreaths, which, for they never fade, 
Wise elder times for kings and poets made. 
J.et not her happy memory e er lack 
Its worth in Fame s eternal almanac, 
Which none shall read but straight their loss deplore 
And blame their fates they were not born before. 
Do not old men rejoice their dates did last, 
And infants too that theirs did make such haste, 
In such a welcome time to bring them forth 
That they might be a witness to her worth 1 

Dr. Cotton Mather in the Magnalia alludes 
to her works as a "monument to her mem 
ory beyond the stateliest marble ;" and John 
Rogers, one of the presidents of Harvard col 
lege, addressed to her one of the finest poems 
written in this country before the Revolution, 
in which he says: 

Your only hand those poesies did compose ; [flow ; 

Your head, the source whence all those springs did 
Your voice, whence change s sweetest notes arose ; 
^ Your feet, that kept the dance alone, I trow ; 
Then veil your bonnets, poetasters, all : 
Strike lower amain, and at these humbly fall, 
And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal 
Should all with lowly congees laurels bring, 

Waste Flora s magazine to find a wreath, 
Or Pineus banks, twere too mean offering. 

Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath 
To guard your fairer front; here tis your name 

Shall stand im marbled ; this your little frame 

Shall great Colossus be to your eternal fame. 

These praises run into hyperbole, and prove, 
perhaps, that their authors were more gal 
hint than critical ; but we perceive from Mrs. 
Bradstreet s poems that they are not desti 
tute of imagination, and that she was thor 
oughly instructed in the best learning of her 
acre : and from the general and profound re 
gret manifested on the occasion of her death, 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



we may believe she was personally deserv 
ing of unusual respect. 

Her Husband was frequently absent from 
his home, upon official duties, and several 
poems which she addressed to him in these 
periods have the fervor and simplicity of the 
sincerest passion. In one of them she says : 
If ever two were one, then surely we ; 
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee ; 
If ever wife were happy in a man, 
Compare with me, ye women, if ye can. 

In another, apostrophizing the sun : 
Phoebus, make haste the day s too long begone ! 
The silent night s the fittest time for moan. 
But stay, this once unto my suit give ear 
And tell my griefs in either hemisphere: 
If in thy swift career thou canst ma-ke stay, 
I crave this boon, this errand, by the way : 
Commend me to the man, more loved than life : 
Show him the sorrows of his widowed wife ; 
And if he love, how can he there abide ] 
My interest s more than all the world beside. . . . 
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace 
That once a day thy spouse thou mayst embrace, 
And when thou canst not meet by loving mouth, 
Thy rays afar salute her from the south ; 
But for one month, I see no day, poor soul ! 
Like those far situate beneath the pole, 
Which day by day long wait for thy arise 

how they joy when thou dost light the skies ! 
Tell him I would say more, but can not well ; 
Oppress J d minds abruptest tales do tell. 

Now part with double speed, mark what I say, 
By all our loves conjure him not to stay ! 

In the prospect of death : 
How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend, 
How soon t may be thy lot to lose thy friend, 
We both are ignorant ; yet love bids me 
These farewell lines to recommend to thee, 
That when that knot s untied that made us one, 

1 may seem thine, who in effect am none. 
And if I see not half my days that s due, 
What Nature would, God grant to yours and you ; 
The many faults that well you know I have, 

Let be interred in my oblivious grave ; 

If any worth or virtue is in me, 

Let that live freshly in my memory ; 

And when thou feel st no grief, as I no harms, 

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms ; 

And when thy loss shall be repaid, with gains, 

Look to my little babes, my dear remains, 



And if thou lovest thyself or lovest me, 
These oh protect from stepdame s injury ! 
And if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, 
With some sad sighs honor my absent hearse, 
And kiss this paper, for thy love s dear sake. 
Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take. 

Some of her elegies are marked by similar 
beauties as this, upon a grandchild who 
died in 1665: 
Farewell, dear child, my heart s too much content, 

Farewell, sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye, 
Farewell, fair flower, that for a space was lent, 

Then ta en away into eternity. 
Blest babe, why should I once bewail thy fate, 
Or sigh, the days so soon were terminate, 
Sith thou art settled in an everlasting state 1 

By nature, trees do rot when they are grown, 

And plums and apples thoroughly ripe do fall, 
And corn and grass are in their season mown, 

And time brings down what is both strong and tall. 
But plants new set, to be eradicate, 
And buds new blown, to have so short a date, 
Is by His hand alone, that nature guides, and fate. 

And some verges upon the death of a daugh 
ter-in-law, in 1669, from which the follow 
ing is an extract : 
And live I still, to see relations gone, 
And yet survive, to sound this wailing tone t 
Ah, wo is me, to write thy funeral song 
Who might in reason yet have lived so long ! 
I saw the branches lopped, the tree now fall ; 
I stood so nigh, it crushed me down withal ; 
My bruised heart lies sobbing at the root, 
That thou, dear son, hast lost both tree and fruit; 
Thou, then on seas, sailing on foreign coast, 
Wast ignorant what riches thou hadst lost, 
But oh, too soon those heavy tidings fly, 
To strike thee with amazing misery ! 
Mrs. Brads reet died on the 16ih of Septem 
ber, 1672, in the sixtieth year of her age. 
Her husband afterward married a sister of 
Sir George Dunning, and lived to be called 
the Nestor of New England, dying at Salem 
in 1697, when he was nearly a century old. 
Many of Mrs. Bradstreet s descendants 
have been conspicuous for their abilities. 
Among them is the noble poet Dana, Avho 
traces his lineage through one of the signers 
of the Declaration of Independence. 



FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE FOUR 
ELEMENTS. 

I AM obnoxious to each carping tongue 
That says my hand a needle better fits ; 

A poet s pen all scorn I should thus wrong, 
For such despite they cast on female wits ; 



If what I do prove well, it won t advance- - 
They ll say, It s stolen, or else it was by chance 

But sure, the antique Greeks were far more mild , 
Else of our sex why feigned they those Nine, 

And Poesy made Calliop > s own child 
So, mongst the rest, they placed the arts divine. 



20 



ANXE BRAUSTREET. 



But tliis weak knot they will full soon untie 
The (Jp eks diil naught but play the fool and lie. 

Let (J reeks l>e Greeks, and women what they are ; 

Men have precedency, and still excel ; 
t is but vain unjustly to wage war, 

Men can do best, and women know it well; 
Pre-eminence in each and all is yours, 
Vet tyrant some small acknowledgment of ours. 

And oh, ye high-flown quills that soar the skit s, 
And ever with your prey .still catch your praise, 

If e er you deign these lowly lines your eyes, 
(ii\c tiiMiic or parsley wreath: I ask no bays; 

This mean and unrefined ore of mine 

Will make your glistering gold but more to shine. 



EXTRACT FROM CONTKMPL ATIONS. 

TIxitr.it the cooling shadow of a stately elm, 

Close sat I by a goodly river s side, 
Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ; 

A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. 
I, once that loved the shady woods so well, 
.Vow thought the rivers did the trees excel, [dwell. 
And if the sun would ever shine, there would I 

While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye, 
Which to the longed-for ocean held its course, 

I marked nor crooks nor rubs that there did lie, 
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force. 

" O happy flood," quoth I, that holdst thy race 

Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, 

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. 

"Nor is t enough that thou alone may st slide, 
But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet: 

Si; hand in hand along with thee they glide 
To Thetis house, where all embrace and greet. 

Thou emblem true of what I count the best 

() could I leave my rivulets to rest! 

So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest. 

" Ye fish which in this liquid region bide. 

That for each season have your habitation, 
Now salt, now fresh, when you think best to glide, 

To unknown coasts to give a visitation, 
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry : 
So .Nature taught, and yet you know not why 
You wat ry folk that know not your felicity ! 

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air, 

Then to the colder bottom straight they dive, 
Eft soon to .Veptunc s glassy h;dl repair" 
To see what trade the threat ones there do drive, 
Who t oni jv o er the spacious sea-irreen field. 
And take their trembling prey before it yield, 
Whose armor is their scales, their spreading fins 
their shield. 

While musinnr thus with contemplation fed. 
And thousand fancies bu/./.in^ in mv brain, 

r l h sweet toiiLrued Philomel perch :-d o er my head, 
And chanted forth a most melodious strain, 



Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 
I judged my hearing better than my sight, 
And wished me wings with her a while to lake 
my flight. 

" merry bird," said I, " that fears no snares ; 

That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn ; 
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares 

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm : 
Thy clothes ne er wear, thy meat is everywhere, 
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear, [fear 
Reminds not what is past, nor what s to come dost 

" The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent* 

Sets 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 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 relations. 

And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain, 

This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, 
This weather-beaten vessel racked with pain, 
Joys 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 trans 
lation. 

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, 

Sin ITS merrily, and steers his bark with ease, 
As if he had command of wind and tide, 

And were 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 the sour, 

That s full of friends, of honor, and of treasure 

Fond fool ! he takes this earth e en for heaven s 

bower. 

But sad alHiction comes, and makes him see 
Here s neither honor, wealth, nor safety: 
Only above is found all with security. 

O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things, 

That draws Oblivion s curtains over kings 

TJieir sumptuous monuments men know them not, 
Their names without a record are forgot, [dust 
Their parts, their ports, their pomps, all laid i the 
Nor wit, nor -,ro!d, nor l)iiildinirs, scape Time s rust 
But be whose name is graved in the white stone, 
Shall last and shine when all. of these are gone! 



That is, anticipate. 



MERCY WARREN. 



(Born 1728 -Died 1815). 



THIS woman, once so well known as a 
poet, and whose historical writings are still 
consulted as among the most valuable au 
thorities relating to our revolutionary age, 
was a sister of the celebrated James Otis and 
the wife of James Warren, for many years 
honorably conspicuous in public affairs. She 
was born in Barnstable, of a family which 
had been nearly a century in the Plymouth 
colony, on the 25th of September, 1728. Her 
youth was passed in retirement, but in hab 
its and duties suitable for the eldest daugh 
ter of a gentleman of the first rank in the co 
lonial society. Her education was directed 
first by the minister of the parish, and after 
ward by her brother James, who graduated 
at Harvard in 1743, and was a thoroughly 
accomplished scholar. When about twenty- 
six years of age she was married to Mr. War 
ren," then a merchant at Plymouth, and it was 
while residing with him and her children, 
in after years, near that town, at a place to 
which she gave the name of Clifford, that 
she wrote the greater part of her dramatic 
and miscellaneous poems. 

The popular excitement which preceded 
the separation from England, and the rela 
tions sustained by her brother and her hus 
band to the great parties by which the coun 
try was divided, had a quick and powerful 
influence upon her ardent and sympathetic 
spirit, and perhaps nothing would give us a 
more just impression of the feelings of the 
time than her eloquent and terse correspon 
dence with the Adamses, with Jefferson, 
Dickinson, Gerry, Knox, and other leading 
characters, upon the aspects and prospects 
of affairs. Her intercourse with the remark 
able women who seconded so earnestly the 
movements of the fathers of the republic, 
was more intimate, and probably would ad 
mit us yet further into the secrets and pas 
sions of the youthful heart of the nation. 
Her intelligence and patriotism are recog 
nised by Mrs. Adams, who, in a letter to 
her written in 1773, remarks: "You are so 
sincere a lover of your country, and so hearty 
a mourner in all her misfo:tu:ies, that it will 



greatly aggravate your anxiety to hear how 
much she is now oppressed and insulted. 
To you, who have so thoroughly looked 
through the deeds of men, and developed the 
dark designs of a * Rapatio soul, no action, 
however base or sordid, no measure, how 
ever cruel and villanous, will be a matter 
of surprise." By " Rapatio" is meant Gov 
ernor Hutchinson, who is thus designated in 
The Group, a satirical drama, in two acts, 
which Mrs. Warren had published, and to 
which much influence is ascribed in contem 
porary letters. In the first scene of the sec 
ond act, in describing the royal governor, 
she says: 

But mark the traitor ! his high crime glossed o er 
Conceals the tender feelings of the man, 
The social ties that bind the human heart : 
He strikes a bargain with his country s foes, 
And joins to wrap America in flames, 
Yet, with feigned pity and satanic grin, 
As if more deep to fix the keen insult, 
Or make his life a farce still more complete, 
He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic, 
And with a phiz of crococlilean stamp, 
Can weep and writhe, still hoping to deceive. 
He cries, The gathering clouds hang thick about her, 
But laughs within then sobs, Alas, my country ! 

And in another place, alluding to the de 
struction of the tea in Boston harbor : 

India s poisonous weed, 
Long since a sacrifice to Thetis, made 
A rich" resale. Now all the watery dames 
May snuff souchong, and sip, in flowing bowls, 
The higher-flavored choice hysonian stream. 
And leave their nectar to old Homer s gods. 

There is certainly very little poetry in these 
extracts, or in the piece from which they are 
taken ; but as reflexions of the common feel 
ing her satires received the best applause of 
the day. 

Mrs. Warren s residence was changed du 
ring the Revolution to Milton, Watertown, 
and other places ; Washington, Lee, Gates, 
and D Estaing, were among her occasional 
guests ; and many of the leading statesmen 
of New England by her fireside formed plans 
of the execution of which she subsequently 
became the historian. Her tragedies were 
written for amusement, in the solitary hours 



MERCY WARREN. 



in which her friends wen- sihnuid, and the) 
:ire :is deeply imbued wilh tin- general spiri 
as if their characters were acting in thedaili 
i-xpi-rieiice of the country. They have Hull 
drainaiie or poetic merit, but m-my passages 

are smoothly and some vigorously written 

as the fallowing, from The Sack of Rome: 

S f S P I C I O N . 

I tli ink some latent mischief lies concealed 
ISeneath the vi/ard of a fair pretence; 
My In-art ill brooked the errand of the day, 
Yet I obeyed though a strange horror seized 
My Bloomy mind, and shook my frame 
As if the moment murdered all my joys, 
n KM on SK. 

The bird of death that nightly pecks the roof, 
Or shrieks beside the caverns of the dead ; 
Or paler spectres that infest the tombs 
Of guilt and darkness, horror or despair, 
Are far more welcome to a wretch like me 
Than yon bight rays that deck the opening morn. 

FORTUNE. 

The wheel of fortune, rapid in its flight, 
La-* not for man, when on its swift routine; 
Nor does the goddess ponder unresolved: 
She wafts at once and on her lofty car 
Lifts up her puppet mounts him to the skies, 
Or from the pinnacle hurls headlong down 
The steep abyss of disappointed hope. 

AUDKLIA. 

She was, for innocence and truth, 
For elegance, true dignity, and grace, 
The fairest sample of that ancient worth 
Th illustrious matrons boasted to the world 
When Kome was famed for every glorious deed. 

m.CLIXK OF PUBLIC VIUTUK. 

That dignity the gods themselves inspired, 
When Home, inflamed with patriotic zeal, 
Louir taught the world to tremble and admire, 
Lies (hint and languid in the wane of fame, 
And must expire in Luxury s lewd lap 
It not supported by some vigorous arm. 
Or these, from The Ladies of Castile: 

CITIl WAII. 

M.mirst. all the ills that hover o er mankind, 
Unfeigned, or fabled in the poet s pajre. 
The blackest scrawl the sister furies hold, 
For red-e\ed \Vralh or .Malice to (ill up, 
Is incomplete to sum up human wo, 
Till Civil Discord, still a darker fiend. 
Stalks forth unmasked from his infernal den, 
With mad Alecto torch in his right hand. 
TIIK ecu HAM: or VIIITIK. 

^ A soul, inspired by freedom s Denial warmth, 
hxpands, grows firm, and by resistance, strong; 
The most successful prince that offers life, 
\nd 1 iils me live upon ignoble terms, 
Shall learn from me that virtue seldom fears. 
Death kindly opes a tnmisand friendly gates, 

tad Freedom waits to guard her votaries through 



Appended to her tragedies are several 
miscellaneous poems, generally in a flowing 
verse, but frequently marked by bad taste, 
and rarely evincing any real poetical power 
or feeling. The following lines are from the 
beginning of an epistle to a young gentleman 
educated in Europe : 

SUPKHSTIT1OX, 

When ancient Britons piped the rustic lays, 
And tuned to Woden notes of vocal praise, 
The dismal dirges caught the listening throng 
And ruder gestures joined the antique song. 
Then the gray druid s grave, majestic air, 
The frantic priestess, with dishevelled hair 
And flaming torch, spoke Superstition s reign : 
While elfin damsels dancing o er the plain, 
Allured the vulgar by the mystic scene, 
To keep long vigils on the sacred green. 

In A Political Revery, written before the 
commencement of the war, she gives a view 
of the future glory of America, and the pun 
ishment of her oppressors. After a sketch 
of the first history of the country, she says : 

Here a bright form, with soft majestic grace, 
Beckoned me on through vast unmeasured space 
Beside the margin of the vast profound, 
Wild echoes played and cataracts did bound ; 
Beyond the heights of nature s wide expanse, 
\V here moved superb the planetary dance. 
Light burst on light, and suns o er suns displayed 
The system perfect Nature s God had laid. 

And here the fate of nations is revealed to 
her. In The Squabble of the Sea-Nymphs 
is celebrated the destruction of tea in 1774 
The following are the concluding lines: 

The virtuous daughters of the neighb ring mead 
In graceful smiles approved the glorious deed 
(And though the syrens left their coral beds, 
Just o er the surface lifted up their heads, 
And sung soft paeans to the brave and fair, 
Till almost caught in the delusive snare 
To sink securely in a golden dream, 
And taste the sweet, inebriating stream); 
J hey saw delighted from the inland rocks, 
> er the broad deep poured out Pandora s box 
1 hey jomed, and fair Salacia s triumph sun--- 
VV ild echo o er the bounding ocean run" 
Hie sea-nymphs heard, and all the sportive tram 
n shaggy tressefl danced around the main 
rom southern lakes down to the northern rills 
And spread confusion round N hiu s . 

Tin- 1 incs to the Hon. John Winthrop, who 
on the determination in 1774 to suspend all 
trade with England except for the real "ne- 

cessaries of life," requested a list of articles 

|l ladies might comprise under that head 

are in the author s happiest vein of satire 



MERCY WARREN. 



THIXGS NECESSARY TO THE LIFE OF A WOXAX. 

An inventory clear 
Of all she needs, Lamira offers here ; 
Nor does she fear a rigid Cato s frown, 
When she lays by the rich embroidered gown, 
And modestly compounds for just enough 
Perhaps some dozens of mere flighty stuff: 
With lawns and lustrings, blond, and mecklin lace.3, 
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases ; 
Gay cloaks and hats, of every shape and size, 
Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes ; 
With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour, 
Tippets and handkerchiefs at least threescore ; 
With finest muslins that fair India boasts, 
And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts. 
Add feathers, furs, rich satins, and ducapes, 
And head-dresses in pyramidial shapes ; 
Sideboards of plate, and porcelain profuse, 
With fifty dittoes that the ladies use ; 
If my poor, treach rous memory has missed, 

Ingenious T 1 shall complete the list. 

So weak Lamira, and her wants so few, 
Who can refuse 1 they re but the sex s due. 
Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligee, 
And substitutes the careless Polanee, 
Until some fair one from Britannia s court 
Some jaunty dress or newer taste import ; 
This sweet temptation could not be withstood, 
Though for the purchase s paid her father s blood ; 
Though earthquakes rattle, or volcanoes roar, 
Indulge this trifle and she asks no more : 
Can the stern patriot Clara s suit deny 1 
Tis Beauty asks, and Reason must comply. 

John Adams was perhaps a better oiator 
than critic. He writes to Mrs. Warren, up 
on the publication of her poems : " However 
foolishly some European writers may have 
sported with American reputation for genius, 
literature, and science, I know not where 
they will find a female poet of their own to 
prefer to the ingenious author of these com 
positions." 

In the dedication of her poems to Wash 
ington, she says : " Feeling much for the 
distresses of America in the dark days of her 
affliction, a faithful record has been kept of 
the most material transactions, through a 
period that has engaged the attention both 
of the philosopher and the politician ; and, 
if life is spared, a just trait of the most dis 
tinguished characters, either for valor, vir- 
*ue, or patriotism, for perfidy, intrigue, in 



consistency, or ingratitude, shall be faithful 
ly transmitted to posterity." The work thus 
announced was published in three octavo vol 
umes in 1805, under the title of " The His 
tory of the Rise, Progress, and Termination 
of the American Revolution, interspersed 
with Biographical, Political, and Moral Ob 
servations." It will always be consulted as 
one of the most interesting original authori 
ties upon f he revolution. It is written with 
care, an;l in a spirit of independence which 
is illustrated by her notice of the character 
of her friend Mr. Adarns, which was so un 
favorable as to cause a temporary interrup 
tion of the relations between the two fami 
lies ; but Mrs. Adams in this case, as in that 
of her husband s quairel with Mr. Jefferson, 
finally brought about a reconciliation, which 
was sealed with a ring which she sent to the 
historian, containing her own and her hus 
band s hair. 

Mrs. Warren continued to the close of her 
life to feel a lively interest in affairs, and she 
was intelligent and honest enough to be al 
ways a partisan. Though sometimes wrong, 
as she clearly was in her active opposition 
to the federal constitution, it was delightful 
to see even in a woman a contempt for that 
neutrality in regard to public measures which 
under a democratic government is invariably 
the sign of a feeble understanding or of time 
serving wickedness. The duke de Roche- 
foucault, in his entertaining Travels in the 
United States, speaks of her extensive and 
varied reading, and declares that at seventy 
she had "lost neither the activity of her 
mind nor the graces of her person." In her 
old age she was blind, but she bore the mis 
fortune with cheerfulness, and continued her 
intercourse with society. She died in her 
eighty-seventh year, on the 19th of October, 
1814. 

There is a portrait of Mrs. Warren, by 
Copley, in the possession of her family, and 
an excellent life of her is contained in Mrs 
Ellens recently published "Women of the 
Revolution." 



ELIZABETH GRAEME FERGUSON. 



(Born 1739-Died 1801). 



THE most polite and elegant society m this 
country before the Revolution was probably 
that of Philadelphia, with its connexions in 
the southeastern part of the colony, and in 
Delaware and New Jersey. There were " sol 
id men" in Boston, there was much real re 
spectability in New York, and good families 
were scattered through New England and 
along the Old Dominion and the Carolinas : 
but in Philadelphia the distinction of classes 
was more marked, and the coteries of fash 
ion larger and more exclusive, than else 
where in America. Of the first rank here 
were the Grames, of Grame Park, who by 
blood, fortune, abilities, and character, were 
alike entitled to consideration among the pro 
vincial gentry. Dr. Thomas Grame was a 
native of Scotland. He was a physician of 
large acquirements, and the respectability of 
his origin, his popular manners, and success 
in the practice of his profession, made him 
an eligible match for the daughter of Sir 
William Keith; and his alliance with the 
governor led to his appointment to the col- 
lectorship of the customs, which he held for 
many years. 

ELIZABETH GRJEME, the youngest of the 
four children of Thomas Grame and Anne 
Keith, was born in Philadelphia in 1739. 
At an early age she evinced uncommon abil 
ities, and the chief care of her mother was 
to educate her mind and heart so that she 
should illustrate by her intelligence and vir 
tue th.- highest grade of female character. 
Much of her youth was passed at Grceme 
Park, a beautiful country residence, twenty 
miles from the city, where she was frequent 
ly visited by her friends, and where her nat 
urally feeble constitution was so improved, 
that u-hen she appeared in society, at six 
teen, the charms of her person were scarcely 
less distinguished than the u-it and learning 
which made her a particular star in the me^ 
tropolitan society. In her seventeenth year 
she \vas addressed by a young gentleman of 
tne city, and engaged to be married to him 
upon his return from London, whither he 
soon afcer proceeded to complete his educa- 



[ tion in the law. This contract for some rea- 
i son was never fulfilled. To divert ner attea- 
| tion from the disappointment. Miss Grame 
| undertook the translation of Fenelon s Te- 
j lemachus mtc English heroic verse ; and she 
completed the work, in three years. In 
an introduction, written in 1769, she ob 
serves that " she is sensible the translation 
has little merit," but that " it is sufficient 
for her that it amused her in a period that 
would have been pensive and solitary with 
out a pursuit." 

It appears, however, that her health rap 
idly declined ; and it was determined by her 
father,* after conferences upon the subject 
with other physicians, that she should seek 
its restoration by a sea-voyage and a tempo 
rary residence in England. She sailed for 
London under the care of the Rev. Dr. Rich 
ard Peters, a gentleman of polished manners 
and elevated character, whose connexions 
enabled him to secure her introduction to the 
most eminent persons and to the first circles 
in the kingdom. She was particularly no 
ticed by George III. ; she became acquainted 
with Laurence Sterne and other celebrated 
wits and men of letters ; and she formed an 
intimacy with the well-known Dr. Fother- 
gill, which was maintained by correspon 
dence until his death. She remained in 
England a year, during which period she 
kept a journal, in which she described, with 
happy vivacity, manners and persons, and the 
contrasts between English and colonial so 
ciety. 

After her return to Philadelphia she occu 
pied the place of her mother in her father s 
family. Every Saturday evening for several 
years was set apart for the reception of com 
pany, and on these occasions her pleasino- 
manners and brilliant conversation were 
: ises ,.f never-ending admiration to the in- 

* It is ivlatcd that her mother ;iss,-nted to Mf^Trw^Tr 

from hii: LlShtf 0t * Piehcd 10r ** so"s ?o a <; 

24 



ELIZABETH GR.EME FERGUSON. 



telligent society of the city and to the stran 
gers whose positions or abilities secured for 
them a presentation at Dr. Graeme s house. 
At one of these parties she became acquaint 
ed with Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a young 
gentleman who had recently arrived in the 
country from Scotland ; and though he was 
ten years younger, her personal attractions 
and the congeniality of their tastes soon led 
to their marriage. Her father died in a few 
weeks after, and they retired to Gramme Park ; 
but the approach of the Revolution, and the 
adhesion of Mr. Ferguson to the British par 
ty, in 1775, induced a speedy and perpetual 
separation. 

Mrs. Ferguson s position made her an ob 
ject of respectful consideration to individuals 
of both parties during the war. Her domes 
tic relations were principally with the ene 
my, but she was by birth a Pennsylvanian, 
and her old friends, some of whom were 
leading patriots, treated her wiih kindness. 
She appears in the public history of the time 
as the bearer of an extraordinary letter from 
the celebrated Dr. Duche to General Wash 
ington, and as the agent by whom Governor 
Johnstone made those overtures to General 
Joseph Reed which were answered by the 
famous declaration "My influence is but 
small, but were it as great as Governor John- 
stone would insinuate, the king of Great Brit 
ain has nothing in his gift that would tempt 
me."* 

The remainder of Mrs. Ferguson s life was 
passed chiefly at Graeme Park, in the pur 
suits of literature, in domestic avocations, 
and in offices of friendship. Her income was 
greatly reduced, but her charities were never 
interrupted, nor was she ever known to mur 
mur at the changed and comparatively deso 
late condition of her later years. She cher 
ished an unhesitating faith in the Christian 
religion, and was familiar with the masters 
of divinity. It is related that she transcribed 
the whole Bible, to impress its contents more 
deeply in her memory. 

More than twenty years after the comple- 



* Sparks * Washington, v. 95, 476 ; William B. Reed s 
Life of President Reed, i., 381 ; American Remembrancer, 



tion of her translation oi Telemachus, she 
rewrote the four volumes, adding occasional 
notes and observations. In some memoranda 
dated at Graeme Park, May 20, 1788, she 
says of the copy which received her last cor 
rections: "This is meant for a particular 
friend, but if I live I intend to give a more 
correct version, and perhaps, if I meet with 
encouragement, shall have it printed. I am 
now quite undetermined as to all my plans 
in life. I have little reason to think I am 
to remain here long ; but at present I am at 
this place with only my old and fai:hful friend 
Eliza Stedman." "She lived until the 23d of 
February, 1801, but it does not appear that 
she ever again revised the work, and it has 
not yet been printed. 

She endeavored to make the translation as 
literal as the poetical form and the genius of 
our language would permit ; it is, however, 
somewhat diffuse, the twenty-four books ma 
king twenty-nine thousand and six hundred 
lines. I have read Mrs. Ferguson s manu 
script (which has been deposited by her heirs 
in the library of the Philadelphia Libraiy 
Company), and have compared parts of it 
with the original and with other translations. 
She had command of a fine poetical diction, 
and all the learning necessary for the just 
apprehension and successful illustration of 
her author ; and it appears to me that Fene- 
lon has not been presented in a more correct 
or pleasing English dress. 

Some of the minor poems, and a consider 
able number of the letters and other composi 
tions of Mrs. Ferguson, have been published, 
and they all evince a delicate and vigorous 
understanding, and an honorable character. 

A talent for versification was at that pe 
riod not uncommon among the educated wo 
men of the country, but it was principally 
exercised in the expression of private feeling 
or for the amusement of particular circles. 
Some verses by Mrs. Stockton, welcoming 
Washington to New Jersey, have been pre 
served by Marshall, and in the monthly mag 
azines of Philadelphia, New York, and Bos 
ton, appeared many anonymous poems, evi 
dently by female authors, which were emi 
nently creditable to their literary abilities. 



ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 



INVOCATION TO WISDOM. 

PREFIXED TO THK AUTHOR S TRAX-S NATION OF THE 
ADVENTURES OF TELE.MACHUS. 



GRAVE WISDOM, guardian of the modest youth, 
Thou soul of knowledge and thou source of truth, 
Inspire my muse, and animate her lays, 
That she harmonious may chant thy praiso 

O could a spark of that celestial fire, 
Which did thy favored Ft mMon inspire, 
Light on the periods of my fettered theme, 
And dart one radiant, one illumined heam, 
Then struggling Passion might its portrait view. 
And learn from thence its tumults to subdue. 
This was the pious prelate s great design : 
As rays converged to one bright point combine, 
So do the fable and the tale unite 
The path of Truth by Fancy s torch to light ; 
Each to one noble, generous aim aspires, 
And the rich galaxy at once conspires 
To catch the fluttering mind and fix the sense 
The end can justify the fine pretence, 
For youthful spirits abstract reasonings shun, 
And from grave precept void of life they run. 
Though heathen gods are introduced to si gut, 
T is one Great Being radiates every light : 
Seen through the medium of ^ lesser ^uide, 
From one pure fount is each small rill supplied ; 
Then, rigid Christian, be not too severe, 
Nor think groat Cambray in an error here. 

In parable the holy Jesus taught 
Unwound the clue with mystic knowledge fraught. 
He knew the frailties of man s earthly lot, 
That truths important were too soon forgot; 
He screened his purpose in the pleasing tale, 
Then tore aside the heavenly-woven veil, 
Showed his design the perfect, sacred plan - 
And raised to angel what he found but man ; 
By nice gradation in this scale divine 
The glorious meaning did illustrious shine. 
Like his mvat Master, pious Cambray taught, 
And all the good of all mankind he sought: 
Through his Telemachus he points to view 
What youth should fly from and what youth pursue. 
He makes pure. Wisdom leave the realms above 
To screen a mortal from bewitching love, 
To lead him through the thorny ways below, 
And all those arts of false refinement show 
Which end in fleeting joy and lasting wo ; 
lie paints uay Venus in tumultuous rage, 
Yet shows her baflled by the guardian sage, 
Who draws his pupil from Idalian groves, 
From blooming Cyprus and from melting loves. 
Passion and Wisdom hold perpetual strife 

Through the strange mazes of man s chequered life 

Of all the evils our trail nature knows, 

The most acute from Love s emotions flows. 

The utmost ellorts of the brave are seen, 

To ehe-k the transports of the Paphian queen; 

Ylinerva >;i\es an energy of soul 

Which does the tide of Passion s rage control, 

Nor damps that fire which generous youth should 

But only tempers the hi-jh-finished steel: [feel, 

For metal softened, polished, and refined, 

Is like th opening of the ductile mind, 



Moulded by flame, made pliant to the hand, 
Turned in the furnace to each just command : 
This fire is disappointment, grief, and pain, 
Which, if the soul with fortitude sustain, 
The furnace of affliction makes more bright; 
Yet higher burnished in Jehovah s sight, 
And it at last shall joyfully survey 
The tangled path to where perfection lay, 
And bless the briers of life s thorny road 
That led to peace, to happiness, and God ! 



THE PROCESSION OF CALYPSO. 

FKO.M THE FIRST BOOK OF TELEMACHI79 

SHE moved along 

Environed by a beauteous female throng. 
As some tall oak, the wonder of the wood, 
That long the glory of the grove has stood, 
Raises its head superb above the rest, 
Of the green forest stands the pride confest, 
So does Calypso tower in state supreme, 
And darts around her an illumined beam. 
The royal youth doth her soft charms admire, 
And the rich lustre of her gay attire. 
Her purple robes hung negligent behind, 
Her hair in careless ringlets met the wind, 
Her sparkling eyes shone with a vivid fire, 
Yet showed no unsubdued, impure desire. 
With modest silence the young prince pursued 
At awful distance, cautious to intrude ; 
With downcast eyes the reverend sage came last : 
Thus the procession through the green grove past, 

At length they reached the rural goddess grot, 
And as they entered the delightful spot, 
Telemachus was much amazed to find 
How Nature s beauty could allure the mind. 
An elegant simplicity here reigned, 
Which all the rules of studied art disdained : 
No massy gold, no polished silver, glowed, 
No stone that life in all its passions showed, 
No lively tints spread vigor o er a face 
And spoke the picture s animating grace ; 
No Doric pillars, no Corinthian style, 
Rose in the turrets of a lofty pile. 
Scooped from a rock the concave grotto lay, 
Where Nature s touches thousand freaks display ; 
There shells and pebbles the rough sides adorned 
That ruid method and dull order scorned; 
A vine luxuriant round its tendrils flung; 
Beneath its foliage ladoned branches hung. 
This vernal tapestry careless seemed to hide 
The craggy roughness of its rocky side; 
The softest /ephyrs made meridian suns 
Cool as when JSol his morning progress runs; 
Meandering fountains stole along the green. 
And amaranths adorned the sprightly scene; 
The purple violet shed a richness round, 
And strewed its beauties on the chequered ground , 
The flowery rha plots wreath around the lake, 
And in small basins mimic baths they make; 
The (lowers that spring and glowing summer yield, 
In gay profusion ornament the field. 

Not very distant from the grotto stood 
A tufted grove of fragrant vernal wood ; 



ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 



2 s . 



The tempting fruit shone rich like burnished gold, 
A dazzling lustre charming to hchold : 
The blossoms white as pure untrodden snow, 
Their edges shining with the scarlet s glow ; 
They bloom perpetual, and perpetual bear, 
And waft their incense to the yielding air. 
So close their branches, and so near entwined, 
They scarcely trembled to the active wind ; 
No piercing sunbeams could their shades annoy, 
No busy eye their sacred peace destroy ; 
No sounds were heard but sprightly birds that sing, 
And the fleet skylark mounting early wing; 
A tumbling cascade, in which broken falls 
Gushed down in torrents from the rocks sharp walls, 
But softly gliding ere it met the green, 
Smooth as a mirror, painted back the scene. 

Not on the mountain s top the grot was placed, 
Nor yet too lowly at its feet debased ; 
From, all extremes the charming cave was free, 
At a small distance from the briny sea, 
Where oft you viewed it, softened, calm, and clear, 
Like the lulled bosom when no danger s near; 
Sometimes enraged, its angry waves were found 
Dashing the rocks and bursting every bound. 

Your eyes you turn, and from the other side 
You see a river roll its ample tide. 
There scattered islands rose to charm the sight, 
And by the change of novelty delight ; 
Lindens fall, blooming, ladencd flowers sustain, 
And raise their heads in lofty, high disdain ; 
In wanton circles the smooth fountains run, 
And gayly glistered in the midday sun ; 
In rapid motion some their streams unfurled, 
While others gently with ihe zephyrs curled 
By various windings met their former track, 
And slowly murmuring, crept all lazy back. 
Then in a distant view in groups were seen 
Blue, misty mounts, and hills of doubtful green ; 
Their lofty summits lost above the skies, 
And like the clouds deluded wandering eyes, 
As pleasing fancy changed its different mode 
And whim and caprice did each object robe. 

The neighboring mountains were more highly 

graced : 

There liberal Nature clustering vines had placed ; 
In noble branches the grand bunches hung, 
And purple raisins burst beneath the sun ; 
The foliage sought their lovely charge to hide, 
Yet the rich grapes shone through in gorgeous pride. 
Then low beneath, mixed with the golden grain, 
The fig and olive overspread the plain ; 
Its tempting fruit the pomegranate displayed, 
And globes of gold burst through the vernal shade : 
The wkole retreat was a delightful grove, 
A soft recess for friendship s sweets or love. 



APOLLO WITH THE FLOCKS OF KING 
ADMETUS. 

FROM THE SAME. 

BENEATH the shady elms, where fountains played, 
The listening shepherds here his rest invade ; 
Th informing song new polished every soul, 
But be ii^a^i , ir passions in a soft control. . . . 



Swiftly the music and the theme would change 
To vivid meads where sparkling fountains range, 
Whose glittering waters the gay plains adorn, 
And all the rules of art-drawn channels scorn ; 
Winding they sport : the meadows seem to smile, 
Their verdure heightened, and enriched their soil, 
Hence the enraptured swains began to know 
That joys serene from moral pleasures flow ; 
The happy rustic pitied now the king, 
That could not, like the cheerful shepherd, sing ; 
Their lowly roofs began the great to draw 
To view the cottage humbly thatched with straw 
Courtiers too oft are strangers to delight : 
They rise unhappy from the restless night ; 
But here the graces sweetly were arrayed, 
Here lovely females every charm displayed 
Soft Innocence and ever-blooming Health, 
That cheerful triumph o er the slaves of wealth ; 
No torturing envy here the peace invades 
Of the mild shepherd in the greenwood shades ; 
Each day superior shone with new delight, 
And gentle slumbers crowned the sportive wight , 
The fluttering birds put forth their liveliest notes, 
And stretched to music their expanded throats ; 
The fragrant zephyrs undulate the trees, 
And fan to music the enamored breeze ; 
The rills pellucid murmured to the sound, 
And floating harmony rolled all around ; 
The muses band, the sacred virgin train, 
Inspired the numbers of the tuneful swain : 
But not supine they dwell in idle joys; 
An active vigor, too, their limbs employs : 
To run, to wrestle, to obtain the prize, 
And chase the stag as he o er mountains flies, 
Was oft the business of a vacant day, 
As through the green grove they betook their way 
The gods looked down from great Olympus height, 
And almost envied man s supreme delight. 



THE INVASION OF LOVE. 

FROM THE SEVENTH BOOK OF TELEMACHUS. 

CALYPSO dwelt on Cupid s blooming face, 
And clasped him to her in a fond embrace ; 
Though goddess born, she feels love s soft alarms 
As c ose she strains him in her circling arms 

The thoughtless nymphs all felt the subtle flame, 
But for the strange sensation knew no name, 
Yet innate modesty and latent fear 
Whispered some power of wondrous force was near. 
In si ence they the newborn blaze conceded, 
And, b ushing, dreaded it mi?ht be revea ed , 
The spreading fire a latent heat imparts 
And flings its influence o er their tender hearts. ^ 

The princely youth, most careless, too, surveyed 
The jocund sweetness which in Cupid played, 
Saw all his little freaks with fond surprise, 
His thou^ht ess frolics, and his laughing eyes. 
With pleasing transport his fine features trace,!, 
And on his knees the little urchin placed, 
Views a 1 ! the changes in his boyish charm", 
Nor feels suspicion of impending harms. 



ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 



MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER, a daughter 
of Brandt Schuyler, of New York, was born 
in that city in 1752, and when seventeen 
years of age was married to John J. Bleecker 
of New Rochelle. After residing about two 
years in Poughkeepsie, Mr. Bleecker removed 
to Tomhanick, a secluded little village eigh 
teen miles from Albany, where five years 
were passed in uninterrupted happiness. 
Mrs. Bleecker s mother, and her half-sister, 
Miss Ten Eyck, passed much of the time with 
her, and her husband saw the fruition of his 
hopes in the success of plans which had drawn 
him from the more populous parts of the 
colony. It w^as in this period that Mrs. 
Bleecker wrote most of her poems which 
have been preserved. Before her marriage, 
her playful or serious verses had amused or 
charmed the circle in which she moved 
o ie of the most intelligent and accomplished 
then in America and she now found a sol 
ace for the absence of society in the indul 
gence of a taste for literature. The follow 
ing extract from one of her poems not only 
illustrates her style, but gives us a glimpse 
if her situation : 

From yon grove the woodcock rises, 

Mark her progress by her notes ; 
Hi.^li in air her wings she poises, 

Then like lightning down she shoots. 
INow the whip-poor-will beginning / 

Clamorous on a pointed rail, 
Drowns the more melodious singing 

Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail. 
Cast, your eyes beyond this meadow, 

Painted by a hand divine, 
And observe the ample shadow 
Of that solemn ridge of pine. 
Here a trickling rill depending, 

Glitters through the artless bower; 
And the silver dew descending, 
Doubly radiates every flower. 
While I speak, the sun is vanished, 

All the gilded clouds are lied, 
Ah.sie from the groves is banished, 
i\ ox ions vapors round us spread. 
Knnil toil is now suspended. 

Sleep inv;i,l,. s the peasant s eyes, 
Each diurnal task is ended, 

Wlulo soft Luna climbs the skies. 
Some lines addressed to Mr. Bleecker while 
on a voyage down the Hudson, suggest the 



(Born 1752-Died 1783). 

changes of three quarters of a century in the 



~j ,_ j __ 

travel and cuhure a ong the most beautiful 
of rivers. She says: 

Methinks I see the broad, majestic sheet 
Swell to the wind ; the flying shores retreat: 
I see the banks, with varied foliage gay, 
Inhale the misty sun s reluctant ray ; 
The lofty groves, stripped of their verdure, rise 
To the inclemencc of autumnal skies. [wooda 
Rough mountains now appear, while pendant 
Hang o er the gloomy steep and shade the floods ; 
Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound 
The caverned echoes doubly loud rebound. 
It was a custom for the lazy sloops occasion 
ally to rest by the hunting-grounds or in the 
highlands, but she implores her husband not 
to tempt 

Fate, on those stupendous rocks 
Where never shepherd led his timid flocks, 

and dreams that instead of the musket-shot, 
she can hear 

The melting flute s melodious sound, 
Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round ; 
While rocks, in notes responsive, soft complain, 
And think Amphion strikes his lyre again. 
Ah ! tis my Bleecker breathes our mutual loves, 
And sends the trembling airs through vocal groves. 
The approach of the British army under Gen 
eral Burgoyne, in 1777, was the first event 
to disturb this repose. Mr. Bleecker left 
Tomhanick to make arrangements for the re 
moval of his family to Albany ; but while he 
was gone, hearing that the enemy was but 
two miles distant, she hastily started for the 
city, bearing her youngest child in her arms, 
and leading the other, who was but four years 
of age, by the hand. A single domestic ac 
companied her, and they rested at night in 
a garret, after a dreary and most exhausting 
walk through the wilderness. The next 
morning they met Mr. Bleecker coming from 
Albany, and returned with him to the city. 
The youngest of the children died a few days 
after, and within a month Mrs. Bleecker s 
mother expired in her arms, at Redhook. 
The death of her child is commemorated in 
the following lines, which evince genuine 
feeling, and are in a very natural style: 

WR1TTKX OX THE IIKTIIKAT FIIOX BURUOYXE. 

Was it for this, with thee, a pleasing load, 

_ sadly wandered through the hostile wood . 

When I thought Fortune s spite could do no more, 



ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 



To see thee perish on a foreign shore 1 

Oh my loved babe ! my treasures left behind 

Ne er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind; 

Rich in my children, on my arms I bore 

My living treasures from the scalper s power: 

When I sat down to rest, beneath some shade, 

On the soft grass how innocent she played, 

While her sweet sister from the fragrant wild 

Collects the flowers lo please my precious child, 

Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves, 

Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves ! 

Soon as -the spires of Albany appeared, 
With fallacies my rising grief I cheered : 
" Resign^ I bear," said I, < Heaven s just reproof, 
Content to dwell beneath a stranger s roof- 
Content my babes should eat dependent bread, 
Or by the labor of my hands be fed. 
What though my houses, lands, and goods, are gone, 
My babes remain these I can call my own !" 
But soon my loved Abella hung her head 
From her soft cheek the bright carnation fled ; 
Her smooth, transparent skin too plainly showed 
How fierce through every vein tne fever glowed. 
In bitter anguish o er her limbs I hung, 
I wept and sighed, but sorrow chained my tongue ; 
At length her languid eyes closed from the day, 
The idol of my soul was torn away ; 
Her spirit fled and left me ghastly clay ! 

Then then my soul rejected all relief, 
Comfort I wished not, for I loved my grief: 
" Hear, my Abella," cried I, " hear me mourn ! 
For one short moment, oh, my child ! return ; 
Let my complaint detain thee from the skies, 
Though troops of angels urge thee on to rise".... 
My friends press round me with officious care, 
Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear; 
Of resignation talked passions subdued 
Of souls serene, and Christian fortitude 
Bade me be calm, nor murmur at my loss, 
But unrepining bear each heavy cross. 

" Go !" cried I, raging, " stoic bosoms, go ! 
Whose hearts vibrate not to the sound of wo ; 
Go from the sweet society of men, 
Seek some unfeeling tiger s savage den, 
There, calm, alone, of resignation preach 
My Christ s examples better precepts teach." 
Where the cold limbs of gentle Lazarus lay, 
I find him weeping o er the humid clay ; 
His spirit groaned, while the beholders said, 
With gushing eyes, " See how he loved the dead !" 
Yes, tis my boast to harbor in my breast 
The sensibilities by God exprest ; 
Nor shall the mollifying hand of Time, 
Which wipes off common sorrows, cancel mine. 

From this time a pensive melancholy took 
the place of the quiet gayety that had pre 
viously distinguished her manners; but her 
life was not marked by any event of partic 
ular interest until the summer of 1781, when 
her husband was taken prisoner by a party 
of tories, and her sensitive spirit was crushed 
in despair. She fled to Albany, where he re 
joined her at the end of a week ; but his sud 



den restoration produced an excitement even 
deeper than that occasioned by his supposed 
death, and she never regained hei health, no* 
scarcely her composure. She returned to 
Tonihanick, and in the spring of 1783 revis 
ited New York, in the hope that a change 
of scene and the society of her early friends 
would restore something of her strength ar.d 
happiness ; but war had changed the pleas 
ant places she remembered, and her dearest 
friends were dead. She went back with her 
husband to Tonihanick, where she died on 
the 23d of the following .November. Her 
last return to her home is commemorated in 
these pleasing verses: 

Hail, happy shades ! though clad with heavy 
At sight of you with joy my bosom glows ; [snows, 
Ye arching pines that bow with every breeze, 
Ye poplars, elms, all hail, my well-known trees ! 
And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye, 
And now the tinkling rivulet I spy ; 
My little garden, Flora, hast thou keptj 
And watched my pinks and lilies while I wept ? 
Ah me ! that spot with blooms so lately graced, 
W T ith storms and driving snows is now defaced : 
Sharp icicles from every bush depend, 
And frosts all dazzling o er the beds extend ; 
Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene, 
And yellow cowslips gild the level green ; 
My little orchard, sprouting at each bough, 
Fragrant with clustering blossoms deep shall glow : 
Oh ! then t is sweet the tufted grass to tread, 
But sweeter slumb ring in the balmy shade ; 
The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast, 
Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest, 
Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives 
The lab ring bee to her domestic hives ; 
Then shines the lupin bright with morning gems, 
And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems ; 
The humble violet and the dulcet rose, 
The stately lily then, and tulip, blows. . . . 

But when the vernal breezes pass away, 
And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray, 
The spiky corn then rattles all around, 
And dashing cascades give a pleasing sounc 7 ! ; 
Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note, 
The cricket chirps familiar in each cot ; 
The village children, rambling o er yon hill, 
With berries all their painted baskets fill : 
They rob the squirrels little walnut store, 
And climb the half-exhausted tree for more. 
Or else to fields of maize nocturnal hie, 
Where hid, th elusive watermelons lie 
Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, 
And laughing bear the bulky fruit away. 

Mrs. Bleecker possessed considerable beau- 
tv, and she was much admired in society. A 
collection of her posthumous works, in prose 
and verse, was published in 1793, and again 
in 1809, with a notice of her life by her 
daughter, Mrs Marietta V. Faugeres. 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



(Born 1754 Died 1794). 



THIS "daughter of the murky Senega], 
as she is styled by an admiring con:emporar 
critic, we suppose may be considered as a 
Americai , since she was but six years of ag 
when brought to Boston and sold in the slave 
market of that city, in 1761. If not so grea 
a poet as the abbe Gregoire contended, sh 
was certainly a remarkable phenomenon, anc 
her name is entitled to a place in the histo 
ries of her race, of her sex, and of our liter 
alure. 

She was purchased by the wife of Mr 
John Wheatley, a respectable merchant o: 
Boston, Who was anxious to superintend the 
education of a domestic to attend upon her 
person in the approaching period of old age 
This amiable woman on visiting the market 
was attracted by the modest demeanor of a 
little child, in a sort of "fillibeg," who hac 
just arrived, and taking her home, confided 
her instruction in part to a daughter, who, 
pleased with her good behavior and quick 
apprehension, determined to teach her to 
read and write. The readiness with which 
she acquired knowledge surprised as much 
us it pleased her mistress, and it is probable 
that but few of the white children of Boston 
were brought up under circumstances better 
calculated for the full development of their nat 
ural abilities. Her ambition was stimulated : 
she became acquainted with grammar, histo 
ry , ancien t and modern geography, and astron 
omy, and studied Latin so as to read Horace 
with such ease and enjoyment that her French 
biographer supposes the great Roman had 

considerable influence upon her literary tastes 

and the choice of her subjects of composition. 
A general interest was felt in the sooty prodi- 
g\ ; the best libraries were open to her : and 
she had opportunities for conversation with 
ihr most accomplished and distinguished per 
sons in the city. 

Nhe appears to have had but an indifferent 
physical constitution, and when a son of Mr. 
Wheatley visited England, in 1772, it was 

iecided by the advice of the family physician 
that Phillis should accompany him for the 
benefit of i he sea-voyage. In London she 



was treated with nearly as much considera 
tion as more recently has been awarded to 
Mr. Frederick Douglass. She was intro-? 
duced to many of the nobility and gentry, 
and would have been received at court but 
for the absence of (he royal family from the 
metropolis. Her poems were published un 
der the patronage of the Countess of Hun 
tingdon, wi.h a letter from her master, and 
the following curious attestation of their gen 
uineness : 

"To THK PUBLIC. As it has been repeatedly sug 
gested to the publisher, by persons who have seen 
the manuscript, that numbers would be ready to sus 
pect they were not really the writings of Phillis, he 
has procured the following attestation from the most 
respectable characters in Boston, that none might 
have the least ground for disputing their original : 
\Vc, whose names are underwritten, do assure the 
vorld that the poems specified in the following page* 
vere (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a 
ounur negro-girl, who was, but a few years since, 
.mm-lit an uncultivated barbarian from* Africa, and 
las ever since been, and now is, under the disadvan- 
;age of serving as a slave in a family in this town. 
She has been examined by some of the best judges, 
and is thought qualified to write them. 

HU Excellency THOMAS HI-TOTIIHOX, Governor. 
The Hon. A.VDRKW OLIVER Lieut Governor 

The Hon. Thorn;,, Hnl.hard, The Rev. Cha*. Chnumev. ri. D., 
I he Hon. John KrviMg, The Rev. Mather IHl,-. j). 1)., 

7 he Hon.. Ja.ne- I .tts. The Rev. Edvv d I emhertor., I). D., 

1 he Hon. Hanson Giay. The Rev. Andrew Klhot, ]). I)., 
Hon. James Howdoin, The Rev. Samuel Cooper, B. I)., 
Hancock, Ksq., The Rev. Mr. Samuel Mather, 



Jo eph fiicru. K<(j., 
Hi -hard Carry, K-q ., 



The Kev. Mr. John Moorhend 
Mr. John Wheatiey (her tr.asier). 1 



In 1774 the year after the return of Phil 
is to Boston her mistress died ; she soon 
ost her master, and her younger mistress, 

his daughter : and the son having married 
nd settled in England, she was left without 
protector or a home. The events which 
mmediately preceded the Revolution now 
ngrossed the attention of those acquaintan- 
es who in more peaceful and prosperous 
mes would have been her friends: and 
lough she took an apartment and attempt- 

d in some way to support herself, she saw 

vith fears the approach of poverty, and at 
st, in despair, resorted to marriage as the 
ily alternative of destitution. 

, who derived his information 

rom M. Giraud, the French consul at Bos- 
n in 1805, states that her husband, in the 

I^^^".^lowin* imge- Allude to the content 



30 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



31 



superiority of his understanding to that of 
other negroes, was also a kind of phenome 
non ; that he " became a lawyer, under the 
name of Doctor Peters, and plead before the 
tribunals the cause of the blacks ;" and that 
" the reputation he enjoyed procured him a 
fortune."* But a later biographer! of Phil- 
lis declares that Peters " kept a grocery, in 
Court street, and was a man of handsome 
person and manners, wearing a wig, carry 
ing a cane, and quite acting the gentleman ;" 
that " he proved utterly unworthy of the dis 
tinguished woman who honored him with 
her alliance;" that he was unsuccessful in 
business, failing soon after their marriage, 
and " was too proud and too indolent to ap 
ply himself to any occupation below his fan 
cied dignity." Whether Peters practised 
physic and law or not, it appears pretty cer 
tain that he did not make a fortune, and that 
the match was a very unhappy one, though 
we think the author last quoted, who is one 
of the family, shows an undue partiality for 
his maternal ancestor. Peters in his adver 
sity was not very unreasonable in demand 
ing that his wife should attend to domestic 
affairs that she should cook his breakfast 
and darn his stockings ; but she too had cer 
tain notions of "dignity," and regarded as 
altogether beneath her such unpoetical oc 
cupations. During the war they lived at 
Wilmington, in the interior of Massachu 
setts, and in this period Phillis became the 
mother of three children. After the peace, 
they returned to Boston, and continued to 
live there, most of the time i-n wretched pov 
erty, till the death of Phillis, on tne 5th of 
December, 1794. 

Besides the poems included in the editions 
of 1 773 and 1835, she wrote numerous pieces 
which have not been printed, one of which 
is referred to in the following letter from 
Washington : 

"CAMBRIDGE, February 28, 1776. 
"Miss PHILLIS: Your favor of the 26th of October 
did not reach my hands till the middle of December. 
Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer 
ere this. Granted. But a variety of important occur 
rences, continually interposing to distract the mind 



and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologise for 
the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but 
not real neglect. 1 thank you most sincerely for your 
polite notice of me, in the elegant lines you enclosed ; 
and however undeserving I may be of such encomi 
um and panegyric, the style and manner exhibit a 
striking proof of your poetical talents ; in honor of 

which, and as a tr 1 "- "- 1 -- J "~ " " 1J 

have published the 



aULlXiK uruui Ui ^uui JJUCLUJCU LeiirjiiLo , tu nuinji \JL 

-hich, and as a tribute justly due to you, 1 would 
nave published the poem, had I not been apprehen 
sive that, while I only meant to give the world this 



* An Inquiry concerning the Intellectual and Moral Fac 
ulties and Literature of Nesrroes, followed with an Account 
of the Lives and Works of Fifteen Ne-roes and Mulattoes, 
distinguished in Science, Literature, and the Arts : By H. 
Grfigoire, formerly Bishop of Blois. Member ot the Con 
servative Senate, of the Institute of France, <fec., <fcc. Trans 
lated by D. B. Warden, Secretary of Legation, &c. Brook 
lyn, 16 10 

t See memoir prefixed to the edition of her poems pub 
lished by Light & Ilorton. Boston, W35. 



sivt; iimu wniic i Miuj in<_-c*ni/ IA^ ft i *- mv^ 

new instance of your genius, I might have incurred 
the imputation of vanity. This, and nothing else, de 
termined me not to give it place in the public prints 
If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near head 
quarters, 1 shall be happy to see a person so favored 
by the muses, and to whom Nature has been so lib 
eral and beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with 
great respect, your obedient, humble servant, 

"GKOHGE WASHINGTON." 

In a note to the memoir of Phillis pub 
lished by one of her descendants, it is stated 
that after her death, her papers, which had 
been confided to an acquaintance, were de 
manded by Peters, and yielded to his impor 
tunity ; and that Peters subsequently went 
to the south, carrying with him these papers, 
which were never afterward heard of. The 
MSS., however, are still in existence: they 
are owned by an accomplished citizen of 
Philadelphia, whose mother was one of the 
patrons of the author. I learn from this gen 
tleman that Phillis wrote with singular flu 
ency, and that she excelled particularly in 
acrostics and in other equally difficult tricks 
of literary dexterity. 

The intellectual character of Phillis Wheat- 
ley Peters has been much discussed, but chief 
ly by partisans. On one hand, Mr. Jefferson 
declares that " the pieces published under her 
name are below the dignity of criticism," and 
that " the heroes of the Dunciad are to her 
as Hercules to the author of that poem ;" and 
on the other hand, the abbe Gregoire, Mr. 
Clarkson, and many more, see in her works 
the signs of a genuine poetical inspiration. 
They seem to me to be quite equal to much 
of the contemporary verse that is admitted 
to be poetry by Phillis s severest judges ; 
though her odes, elegies, and other compo 
sitions, are but harmonious commonplace, ii 
would be difficult to find in the productions 
of American women, for the hundred and fif 
ty years that had elapsed since the death of 
Mrs. Bradstreet, anything superior in senti 
ment, fancy, or diction. 

In a portrait of Phillis, prefixed to her 
poems and declared to be an extraordinary 
likeness, she is represented as of a rather 
pretty and intelligent appearance. It is from 
a picture painted while she was in Lone 



32 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



ON TIIK DKATH OF THE REV. MR. 

<;KOJ;K \VHITK FIELD. ITTO. 

Hui.. happy saint! on thine immortal throne, 
Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown: 
^ !" " no more the music of thv tongue; 
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. 
Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed, 
And every bosom with devotion glowed; 
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined, 
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind. 
Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore, 
Sj glorious once, but ah ! it shines no more. 
Behold the prophet in his towering flight! 
He leaves the earth for heaven s unmeasured height, 
And worl-ls unknown rece vc him from our sight. 
There Whitefield win-rswith rapid course his way, 
And sails to Zirm through vast seas of day. 
Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries, 
Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies. 
Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light, 
How hi- 1: is wrestled with his God by night. 
He prayel that -race in every heart might dwell ; 
He loiued to see America excel; 
He charged its youth that every grace divine 
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine. 
That Savior, which his soul did first receive, 
The greatest gift that even a God can give, 
He freely olll-red to the numerous throng 
That on his lips with list ning pleasure hung. 

" Take him, ye wretched, for your only good, 
Take him, ye starving sinners, for your food; 
Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream, 
Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme; 
Take hi:n, my dear Americans." he said, 
^Be your c -mplaints ,, his kind bosom laid: 
Take him. ye Africans, he longs for you; 
Impartial Savior, is his title due: 
Washed in the fount. (in of redeeming blood, 
lou shall he sons, and kinns. and priests to God." 

^But though arrested by the hand of death, 
WhitefieW no more exerts his lab rin- breath, 
YtA let us view him in the eternal skies, 
Let every heart to this bright vision rise; 
While the t >mb safe retains its sacred trust, 
Till life divine reanimates his dust 



FANCY. 

FM,M A POEM ON THK IMAGINATION. 

THOUGH Winter frowns, t, Fancy s raptured 
The fields may flourish, an. I -ay scenes arise; [eyes 
The tru/cii derps may burst their iron bands, 
And r|d their waters murmur o er the sands. 
Fair Flor.i m:iy resume her fra-rant rei-n, 
Ar.d with h-.-r flowery riches de--]< the plain; 

Showers ma) descend, and dews their gems disclose, 

And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. . . . 

Fancy mi-lit , 10U - ],,, r s i|| v , >n pinions try 
To rise from ,.;irth. and sweep the expans - on } u Vh ; 
From Tithon s bed now might Aurora rise, 
Her cheeks all plowing with celestial dyi-. 
While a pure stream of li-ht o erflows the skies. 
The mniiar.-h of the day I mLdit heliold. 
And all the mountains tipped with radiant gold, 



But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, 
Which Fancy dresses to delight the muse; 
Winter austere forbids me to aspire. 
And northern tempests damp the rising fire : 

They chill the tides of P ancy s flowing sea 

Onse, then, my song, cease then the unequio l 



A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 

TO MRS. S. W. 

AIIIKU, New England s smiling meads, 

Adieu, the flowery plain ; 
I leave thine opening charms, O Spring 

And tempt the roaring main. 
In vain for me the flow rets rise, 
And boast their gaudy pride, 
While here beneath the northern skies 

I mourn for health denied. 
Celestial maid of rosy hue, 
Oh let me feel thy reign ! 
I languish till thy face I view, 

Thy vanished joys regain. 
Susannah mourns, nor can I bear 

To see the crystal shower, 
Or mark the tender falling teat, 

At sad departure s hour; 
Nor unregarding can I see 

Her soul with grief opprest , 
But let no sighs, no groans for me, 

Steal from its pensive breast. 
In vain the feathered warblers sing, 

In vain the garden blooms, 
And on the bosom of the spring 

Breathes out her sweet perfumes, 
While for Britannia s distant shore 

We sweep the liquid plain, 
And with astonished eyes explore 

The wide-extended main. 
Lo J Health appears, celestial dame ! 

Complacent and serene, 
With Hebe s mantle o er her frame, 

With soul-delighting mien. 
To mark the vale where London lies, 

With i-iisty vapors crowned, 
Which cloud Aurora s thousand dyes, 

And veil her charms around. 
Why, Pluebus, moves thy car so slow 

So slow thy rising ray ? 
Give us the famous town to view, 

Thou glorious king of day ! 
For thee, Britannia, I resign 

New En-land s smiling fields; 
To view narain her charms divine, 
What joy the prospect yields ! 
But thou. Temptation, hence away, 

AVith all thy fatal train, 
Nor once seduce my soul away, 

By thine enchanting strain. 
Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield 

Secures their soul from harms, 
And fell Temptation on the field 
Of all its power disarms 



SUSANNAH ROW SON. 



(Born 1762-Died 1824). 



SCPANNAH HASWELL, a daughter of Lieu 
tenant William Haswell of the British navy, 
was about seven y ears of age when her father, 
then a widower, was sent to the New Eng 
land station, in 1769. After being wrecked 
on Lovell s island, the family, consisting of 
the lieutenant, his daughter, and her nurse, 
were settled at Nantasket, where Haswell 
married a native of the colony, and resided 
at the beginning of the Revolution, when, 
being a half-pay officer, he was considered a 
prisoner of war, and sent into the interior, and 
subsequently, by cartel, to Halifax, whence 
he proceeded to London. His other children 
were two soris, who became officers in the 
American navy, in which they were honor 
ably distinguished. 

Miss Haswell, while a child, in Massa 
chusetts, was often in the company of James 
Otis, and his sister, Mrs. Warren, who were 
pleased with her precocity, and careful edu 
cation, and she won then many encomiums 
from the great orator, which were remem 
bered in after years with more delight than 
all the plaudits of the dress circle or the 
praises of the critics. She arrived in London 
about the year 1784, and in 1786 was married 
there to William Rowson, who was probably 
in some way connected with the theatre. In 
the same year she published her first novel, 
Victoria, which was dedicated to Georgiana, 
Duchess of Devonshire, who became her pa 
troness and introduced her to the Prince of 
Wales, through whom she obtained a pen 
sion for her father. She next edited Mary or 
the Test of Honor, a novel, published in 1785, 
and wrote, in quick succession, A Trip to Par 
nassus, A Critique of Authors and Perform 
ers, The Fille de Chambre, The Inquisitor, 
Mentoria, and Charlotte Temple, the tale by 
which she is now chiefly known, of which 
more than twenty-five thousand copies were 
sold in a few years. 

In 1793 Mrs. Rowson returned to the Uni 
ted States, and was for three years engaged 
as an actress, in the Philadelphia theatre. 
She was pretty and graceful, and was a fa 
vorite in genteel comedy, but while attentive 



to her professional duties, she was still in 
dustrious as an author, and wrote The Trials 
of the Heart, a novel ; Slaves in Algiers, 
an opera; The Female Patriot, a comedy; 
ar.d The Volunteers, a farce relating to the 
whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania. In 
1795, while temporarily in Baltimore, she 
wrote The Standard of Liberty, a poetical 
address to the armies of the United States, 
which was recited from the stage by Mrs. 
Whiilock, one of the most accomplished ac 
tresses of the day, before all the uniformed 
companies of the city, in full dress. In 1796 
she w r as engaged at the Federal-street theatre 
in Boston, where, at the end of a season, she 
closed her histrionic career, by appearing at 
her benefit, in her own comedy of The Amer 
icans in England. 

She now opened a school for young wo 
men, which soon became very popular, so that 
it was thronged from the West Indies, the 
British provinces, and all the states of the 
Union. It was continued at Medford, New 
ton, and Boston, many years, with uniform 
success. But the business of instruction did 
not engross her attention, since she found 
time to compile a Dictionary and several 
other school books, and to write Reuben 
and Rachel, an American novel ; Biblical 
Dialogues, a work evincing considerable re 
search and reflection, and a volume of poems, 
and for two years to sustain a weekly ga 
zette chiefly by her own contributions. She 
died in Boston, on the second of March, 1824, 
in the sixty-second year of her age. 

Mrs. Rowson translated several of the oaes 
of Horace and the tenth Eclogue of Virgil, 
and she wrote many original songs and other 
short pieces, of which the most ambiticUo 
was an irregular poem On the Birth of Ge 
nius, whicn was once much admired. On ly 
a few of her -songs are now remembered, 
and these less for any poetical qualities than 
for a certain social and patriotic spirit. Ilei 
" America, Commerce, and Freedom," is 
one of our few national songs. It would not 
dishonor a Dibdin, but it bears no marks o* 
a feminine genius. 



SUSANNAH ROWSON. 



AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM. 

How blest a life a sailor leads, 

From clime to clime still ranging ; 
For as the calm the storm succeeds, 
The scene delights by changing! 
When tempests howl along the main, 

Some object will remind us, 
And cheer with hopes to meet again 

Those friends we ve left behind us. 
Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale, 

And though landsmen look pale, never heed em ; 
But to-;s oiF a glass to a favorite lass, 
To America, commerce, and freedom ! 

And when arrived in sight of land, 

Or safe in port rejoicing, 
Our ship we moor, our sails we hand, 

Whilst out the boat is hoisting. 
With eager haste the shore we reach, 

Our friends delighted greet us ; 
And, tripping lightly o er the beach, 

The pretty lasses meet us. 
When the full-flowing bowl has enlivened the soul, 

To foot it we merrily lead em, 
And each bonny lass will drink off a glass 
To America, commerce, and freedom ! 

Our cargo sold, the chink we share, 

And gladly we receive it ; 
And if we meet a brother tar 

Who wants, we freely give it. 
No freeborn sailor yet had store, 
But cheerfully would lend it; 
And when tis gone, to sea for more 

We earn it but to spend it. 

Then drink round, my boys, tis the first of our joys 
To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed em : 
Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair 
In this land of commerce and freedom ! 



KISS THE BRIM, AND BID IT PASS. 

WHEX Columbia s shores, receding, 

Lessen to the gazing eye, 
Cape nor island intervening 

Break th expanse of sea and sky ; 
When the evening shades, descending, 

Shed a softness o er the mind, 
When the yearning heart will wander 

To the circle left behind 

Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass, 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 

When, the social board surrounding, 

At the evening s slight repast, 
Often will our bosoms tremble 

As we listen to the blast ; 
( i a/ing on the moon s pale lustre, 

Fervent shall our prayers arise 
For thy peace, thy health, thy safety, 

Unto Him who formed the skies : 
To Friendship oft we ll fill the glass, 
K ff me brim, and bid it pass. 



When in India s sultry climate, 

Mid the burning torrid zone, 
Will not oft thy fancy wander 

From her bowers to thine own 1 
W T hen, her richest fruits partaking, 

Thy unvitiated taste 
Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia, 

And her frugal, neat repast: 

Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass, 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass ! 

When the gentle eastern breezes 

Fill the homebound vessel s sails, 
Undulating soft the ocean, 

Oh, propitious be the gales ! 
Then, when every danger s over, 

Rapture shall each heart expand ; 
Tears of unmixed joy shall bid thee 

Welcome to thy native land : 

To Friendship, then, we ll fill the glass, 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 



THANKSGIVING. 

AuTtTMW, receding, throws aside 

Her robe of many a varied dye, 
And Winter in majestic pride 

Advances in the lowering- sky. 
The laborer in his granary stores 

The golden sheaves all safe from spoil, 
While from her horn gay Plenty pours 

Her treasures to reward his toil. 
To solemn temples let us now repair, 
And bow in grateful adoration there ; 
Bid the full strain in hallelujahs rise, 
To waft the sacred incense to the skies. 

Now the hospitable board 

Groans beneath the rich repast 
All that luxury can afford 

Grateful to the eye or taste ; 
While the orchard s sparkling juice 

And the vintage join their powers; 
All that nature can produce, 

Bounteous Heaven bids be ours. 
Let us give thanks : Yes, yes, be sure, 
Send for the widow and the orphan poor ; 
Give them wherewith to purchase clothes and food 
This the best way to prove our gratitude. 

On the hearth high flames the fire, 
Sparkling tapers lend their light, 
Wit and Genius now aspire 

On Fancy s gay and rapid flight ; 
Now the viol s sprightly lay, 

As the moments light advance, 
Bids us revel, sport, and play, 

Raise the song, or lead the dance. 
Come, sportive Love, and sacred Friendship come, 
Help us to celebrate our harvest home ; 
In vain the year its annual tribute pours, [hours. 
Unless you grace the scene, and lead the laughing 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 

(Born 1771-Died 18)1). 



MARGARETTA V. BLEECKER was a daugh 
ter of Mrs. Anne Eliza Bleecker, of whose 
life and writings a notice has been given in 
the preceding pages.* She was born at Tom- 
hanick in 1771, and was about twelve years 
of age when her mother died. Her educa 
tion, which had thus far been conducted with 
care and judgment, was continued under the 
best teachers of New York, where she made 
her appearance in society, soon after the close 
of the Revolution, as a highly accomplished 
girl, of the best connexions, and a liberal for 
tune. Her home was thronged with suitors, 
but, with a perversity which is often paral 
leled, she preferred the least deserving, one 
Dr. Peter Faugeres, an adventurer who shone 
in drawing rooms in the flimsy and worn-cut 
costume of French infidelity, and him, in op 
position to the wishes of her faiher, she mar 
ried. Mr. Bleecker died in 1795, and Fau- 
geres squandered the estate, and treated his 
wife in a scandalous manner, until 1798, when 
she was relieved of his presence by the yellow 
fever. It seems, from some allusions in her 
poems to the wretch Thomas Pamelas well 
as from her admiration of Faugeres, that she 
had a deeper sympathy with the vulgar skep 
ticism of the time than was possible fora 
woman who united much capacity with vir 
tue ; bu observation of its tendencies had 
perhaps led her to reflection, and she now 
came to believe that an inquiring and trust 
ing spirit is quite as profound as one that 
doubts and despises. She became a teacher 
in an academy at New Brunswick, but her 
constitution was broken and her mind enfee 
bled by her misfortunes, and she died, in the 
twenty-ninth year of her age, in Brooklyn, 
on the ninth of January, 1801. 

Mrs. Faugeres in 1793 edited the posthu 
mous works of her mother, to which she ap 
pended several of her own compositions, in 
prose and verse. In 1795 she published 
Belisarius, a tragedy, in five acts, which is 
spoken of in the preface as her " first dramat 
ic performance," as if she contemplated the 

*Ante, p. 28. 



devotion of her attention to this kind of liter 
ature ; and in the third number of the New 
York Weekly Magazine, for the same year, 
is an extract from a MS. comedy by her, but 
this appears never to have been printed. 

Belisarius* was evidently suggested by the 
fine romance of Marmontel, but Mrs. Fau 
geres combines the tradition of the putting 
out of the eyes of the great Byzantine, with 
that of Theophanes and Malala, that after a 
short imprisonment he was restored to his 
honors. Though unsuited to the stage, this 
tragedy has considerable merit, and is much 
superior to the earlier compositions of the 
author. The style is generally dignified and 
correct, and free from the extravagant decla 
mation into which the subject would have 
seduced a writer of less taste and judgment. 
We have but a glimpse of the private in 
trigues that are revealed in the secret his 
tory by Procopius. Some time after the mar 
riage of Belisarius to Antonina, they are re 
ferred to in conversation between Arsaces, 
a Bulgarian noble, and Julia, the niece of 
Justinian, of whom Belisarius had been a 
lover : 

Arsaces. My darling Julia, drop these vain regrets, 
For B disarms is no longer thine : 
Is he not wedded 1 

Julia. Too sure he is, and therefore I will weep, 
For he was mine, and naught but wicked craft 
E er rent him from my bosom. Oh, my love! 
Oh, my betrothed love ! how are we severed ! 
Cursed be the monsters of iniquity 
Who thus have burst the tenderest bonds asunder 
Affection ever knew ! Thou art betrayed : 
Dungeons, and poverty, and shame, are thine 
And everlasting blindness ; while I, deserted, 

Roam round the world 

In the second act Belisarius appears, accord 
ing to the narrative of Tzetzes, in the char- 

* Of BelisHrius there were probably printed only enough 
copies for subscriber.*, and it is now anioiiu the rarest ot 
American books. While making a collection of nearly 
eteht hundred volumes of pot- try and verses written in 
this country. I never saw it : mid Unnlap, who was a very 
indHStrJnu- collector of plays, alludes to it in his History 
of the American Theatre, as a work which had eluclec 
his research. It is not in any of our public libraries 
which indeed, are amoni. the last places to be examined 
for American literature and the only copy I have een 
the one now before me is from the curious collecr-.a ct 
Henry A. Brady, Esq. 



36 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 



aeter of a beggar, and in wandering through 
the country he is thus introduced to Gelimer, 
the captive king of Carthage, whom he him 
self had long before brought in triumph to 
Byzantium : 

Gehnier, at daybreak, in a gar.lf-n. Enter Amala, Ins wife. 

A mala. T is yet too soon to labor, love ; come, sit. 
This air Mows fresh, and those sweet, bending flow- 
Heavy with dew, shed such a fragrance round, [ers, 
And so melodious sings the early lark, 
T would be a pity not to enjoy the hour. 
Come, sit upon this sod. See, the mom breaks 
In streams of quivering light upon the hills, 
And the loose clouds, in changeful colors gay, 
Now tinged with crimson, and with amber now, 
Sail slow along the brightening horizon. 

Gelimer. Yes, my Amala, t is a lovely morn, 
And might inspire me with these calm ideas, 
But that my thoughts are dwelling on the stranger, 
Who claimed your hospitality, last night. 

You said he was a soldier old, and poor 

And that excites compassion ; for I grieve 
To see a veteran, who has spent his strength 
In the big perils of uncertain war, 
Far from his home, his country, and his friends ; 
Who oft has slept upon the frozen earth, 
And suffered grievous vvant....That he, whose age 
Has made him bald, and chilled his sickly veins, 
And rendered him quite useless to himself, 
Should be turned out upon the world, adrift, 
To seek a scanty sustenance from alms !.... 
T is much to be lamented. 

In the following scene the degraded chiefs 
recognise each other, and Belisarius relates 
the story of his barbarous punishment: 

Bel. When I first heard it my full heart beat slow, 
My wonted fortitude forsook me; and when I thought 
It was Juxtinian. that urged the blow, 
Casting my hopeless eyes to yon bright heaven, 
As twere to take a lasting leave of light, 
lining my hands, and bathed me in my tears. 
The executioner, touched with my sorrows, 
Sank on the ground and cried, You are undone ! 
\\ retched old man. why does your heart not break, 
And Lrivc you a release from such a wo!" 
But it is past, and, tranquil as the flood 
When gently kissed by Twilight s softliest gale, 
My spirit rests, and scarce consents to weep 
When Memory would the piteous tale recall. 

That most striking virtue of Belisarius, 
which appeared to Gibbon "above or below 
the character i.f a man," is happily illustra 
ted, though by incidents that would seem 
very extraordinary were the historians upon 
ibis point less explicit and particular. The 
Prince i.-f Bulgaria en<Wvors to enlist the 
blind old -eneral against the By/aiitinrs, 
and causes his proposals to be accompanied 
with a flourish of martial instruments, to 
enow in him 

the memory of past scenes, 



When his proud steed, champing his golden bit, 
fiore him o er heaps of slaughtered enemies, 
While vanquished thousands at his presence knelt 
And kissed the dust o er which the conqueror rode. 

Belisarius says, declining 

Shall I now 

Sully the glories of a long life s toil, 
And justify the cruelty of my foes 1 

And then 

Music, such as lulls my wayward cares, 
Is often heard within the peasant s hamlet, 
What time gray Twilight veils the eastern sky, 
When the blithe maiden carols rustic songs 
To soothe the infirmities of peevish age, 
Or, when the moon shines on the dew-gemm d plain, 
Attunes her voice to chant some lightsome air 
For those who dance upon the tufted green. 
Such are the strains I love, and such as float 
On the cool gale from a far mountain s side, 
Where some lc:ie shepherd fills his simple pipe, 
Calling the echoes from their dewy beds, 
To chase mute sleep away. Ah ! blessed is he 
If bis choice melody be ne er disturbed 
By the death-breathing trumpet s woful tone. 

Prince. If thou wert ever thus averse to war, 
General, why didst thou fight ] 

Bel. To purchase peace, not to extend dominion. 
Peace was the crown of conquest. 

The heroine of the piece is the empress The- 
odosia, who in the third act inquires of her 
creature Barsames the result of his last ef 
forts to detect a conspiracy : 

Theouosia. Did you see Phsedrus ] 

Barsames. Yes : but he did not know me. 
He sat upon a heap of mouldering bones 
With his shrunk hands, thus, folded on his breast ; 
And his sunk eyes were fixed on the ground 
Half shut, and o er his bosom streamed his beard, 
Hoary and long. I twice accosted him 
Ere he regarded me ; then, looking up, 
He eyed me with a vague and senseless gaze, 
And heaving a most lamentable sigh, 
Dropped his pale face upon his breast again. 

T/teo. I 11 go myself, this moment, and give ordera 
For his removal to some cheerful place, 
Where kind attendance, and my best physician, 

May woo his scattered senses back again 

When Reason rises cloudless in his brain, 
Embracing courteous Hope, then I will go 

And break the vain enchantment 

This will be sweet revenge ! Then let him try 
If tlie bright wit that jeered a woman s foibles 
Will light the dungeon where her fury dwells ! 

After the publication of Belisarius, Mrs. 
Failures was an occasional contributor to 
the New York Monthly Magazine, and some 
other periodicals. She appears to have been 
a favorite among her literary acquaintances, 
and is frequently referred to in their pub 
lished poems in terms of sympathy and ad 
miration. 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 



THE HUDSON. 

FROM A POE.M PUBLISHED IN 1793. 

NILE S beauteous waves and Tiber s swelling tide 

Have been recorded by the hand of Fame, 
A ad various floods, which through earth s channels 
glide, 

From some enraptured bard have gained a name : 
E en Thames and Wye have been the poet s theme, 

And to their charms has many a harp been strung, 
Whilst, oh ! hoar Genius of old Hudson s stream, 

Thy mighty river never has been sung ! 
Say, shall a female string her trembling lyre, 

And to thy praise devote the adventurous song 1 
Fired with the theme, her genius shall aspire, 

And the notes sweeten as they float along 

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green 

The Hudson s sleeping waters winding stray ; 
Now mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, 

Through arching willows now they steal away : 
Now more majestic rolls the ample tide, 

Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, 
And many a stately dome, in ancient pride 

And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head. 
There trace the marks of Culture s sunburnt hand, 

The honeyed buckwheat s clustering blossoms 

view 
Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland, 

The loaded orchard, and the flax-field blue ; 
The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, 

The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, 
The long green valley where the white flocks rove, 

The jutting rock, o erhung with ivy dank : 
The tall pines waving on the mountain s brow, 

Whose lofty spires catch day s last lingering beam ; 

The bending willow weeping o er the stream, 
The brook s soft gurglings, and the garden s glow. 

Low sunk between the Alleganian hills, 

For many a league the sullen waters glide, 

And the deep murmur of the crowded tide 
With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. 
On the green summit of yon lofty clift 

A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, 
Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, 

Tumultuous falls in the white surge below. 
Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, 

Beyond it mountains vast their forests rear, 
And long ere Day hath left her burnished car, 

The dews of night have shed their odors there. 
There hangs a lowering rock across the deep ; 

Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around ; 
Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, 

While Horror startles at the fearful sound. 
The shivering, sails that cut the fluttering breeze, 

Glide through these winding rocks with airy 

sweep, 
Beneath the cooling glooms of waving tre<js, 

And sloping pastures specked with fleecy sheep. 



VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THF MK.M I! F.RS OF THE CT.VCISN \ 1 1 
OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK ON THE 4TH OF JULY 

COME, round Freedom s sacred shrine, 
Flowery garlands let us twine ; 
And while we our tribute bring, 
Grateful paeans let us sing : 
Sons of Freedom, join the lay 
Tis Columbia s natal day ! 

Banish all the plagues of life, 
Fretful Care and restless Strife , 
Let the memory of your woes 
Sink this day in sweet repose ; 
Even let Grief itself be gay 
On Columbia s na:al day. 

Late a despot s cruel hand 
Sent oppression through your land ; 
Piteous plaints and tearful moan 
Found not access to his throne ; 
Or if heard, the poor,. forlorn, 
Met but with reproach and scorn. 

Paine, with eager virtue, then 
Snatched from Truth her diamond pen 
Bade the slaves of tyranny 
Spurn their bonds, and dare be free. 
Glad they burst their chains away : 
Twas Columbia s natal day ! 

Vengeance, who had slept too long, 
Waked to vindicate our wrong ; 
Led her veterans to the field, 
Sworn to perish ere to yield : 
Weeping Memory yet can tell 
How they fought and how they fell ! 

Lured by virtuous Washington 
Liberty s most favored son 
Victory gave your sword a sheath, 
Binding on your brows a wreath 
Which can never know decay 
While you hail this blissful day. 

Ever be its name revered ; 

Let the shouts of joy be heard 

From where Hampshire s bleak winds blow, 

Down to Georgia s fervid glow ; 

Let them all in this agree : 

" Hail the day which made us free !" 

Bond your eyes toward that shore 
Where Bellona s thunders roar : 
There your Gallic brethren see 
Struggling, bleeding to be free ! 
Oh ! unite your prayers that they 
May soon announce their natal day. 

O thou Power ! to whom we owe 
All the blessings that we kuow, 
Strengthen thou our rising youth, 
Teach them wisdom, virtue, truth 
That when we are sunk in clay, 
They may keep this glorious day ! 



ELIZA TOWN SEND. 



(Born 1789-Died 1854). 



ELIZA TOWNSEND, descended from a stock 
that for two centuries lias occupied a distin 
guished and honorable position in American 
society, was the first native poet of her sex 
whose writings commanded the applause of 
judicious critics; the first whose poems 
evinced any real inspiration, or rose from 
the merely mechanical into the domain of 
art. The late Mr. Nicholas Biddle, whose 
judgment in literature was frequently illus 
trated by the most admirable criticisms, once 
mentioned to me that a pri/e ode which Miss 
Towrfsend wrote for the Port Folio while he 
himself was editor of that miscellany, soon 
after the death of Dennie, was in his opinion 
the finest poem of its kind which at that 
time had been written in ihis country, and 
many of her other pieces received the best 
approval of the period, but, as she kept her 
authorship a secret, without securing for her 
any personal reputation. 

She was born in Boston, and her youth 
was passed in the troubled times which suc 
ceeded the Revolution, when our own coun 
try was distracted by the strifes of parties, 
and Europe was convulsed with the tumult 
uous overthrows of governments whose sub 
jects had caught from us the spirit of liberty. 
She sympathized with the feelings which 
weie popular in New England, in regard 
both to our own and to foreign affairs, as is 
shown by her Occasional Ode, written in June, 
1809, in which Napoleon is denounced- with 
a vehemence mid power which remind us of 
the celebrated ode of Soul hey, written nearly 
five years afterward, during the negotiations 
of 181 1. This poem was first printed in the 
seventh volume of the Monthly Anthology, 
and though it hears the marks of hash com 
position, in some minute defects, it is alto- 
gether a line performance. The splendid ge 
nius of Napoleon was not yet revealed in all 
its magnificence even to those who were the 
immediate instruments of his will, but to all 
mankind his name \\ a> a word of division, 
and in this country those whose opinions 
were fruits of anything else th/m passion 
were commonly led by a conser alive spirit 



to distrusl the man and to credit the worst 
views of his actions. This was most true 
in Boston, where, at the beginning of Mr. 
Madison s administration, Miss Townsend s 
ode was probably deemed noi less just than 
poetical. 

Among the pieces which she published 
about this time was Another Castle in the 
Air, suggested by Professor Frisbie s agree 
able poem referred to in its title ; Stanzas 
commemorative of Charles Brockden Brown ; 
Lines on the Burning of the Richmond The 
atre ; and a poem to Southey, upon the ap 
pearance of his Curse of Kehama. At a later 
period she published several poems of a more 
religious cast, by one of which, The Incom 
prehensibility of God, she is best known. Of 
this, the Rev. Dr. Cheever remarks, that " it 
is equal in grandeur to the Thanatopsis of 
Bryant," and that " it will not suffer by com 
parison with the most sublime pieces of 
Wordsworth or of Coleridge." 

Miss Townsend has not written, at least 
for the public, in many years, and there has 
been no collection of the poems with which, 
in the earlier part of this cenlury, she en 
riched The Monthly Anthology, The Port 
Folio, The Unitarian Miscellany, and other 
periodicals which were then supported by the 
contributions of the youthful Adams. Allston. 
Buckminster, Webster, Ticknor, Greenwood, 
Edward Channing, Alexander Everett, and 
others of whose early hopes the fulfilment is 
written in our intellectual history. Such a 
collection would undoubtedly be well re 
ceived. 

There is a religious and poetical dignity, 
with all the evidences of a fine and richly- 
cultivated understanding, in most of the po 
ems of Miss Townsend, which entitle her 
to be ranked among the distinguished liter 
ary women who were her contemporaries, 
and in advance of all who in her own coun 
try preceded her. 

She is still living, in a secluded manner, 
with her sister, also maiden, in the old fam 
ily mansion in Boston. They are the last of 
their race. 

38 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



AN OCCASIONAL ODE. 

WRITTEN IN JUNE, 1809 

FIRST of all created things, 

God s eldest born, oh tell me, Time ! 
E er since within that car of thine, 
Drawn by those steeds, whose speed divine, 
Through every state and every clime, 

Nor pause nor rest has known, 
Mongst all the scenes long since gone by 
Since first thou opedst thy closeless eye, 
Did its scared glances ever rest 
Upon a vision so unblest, 
So fearful, as our own 1 
If thus thou start st in wild affright 
At what thyself hast brought to light, 
Oh yet relent ! nor still unclose 
New volumes vast of human woes. 
Thy bright and bounteous brother, yonder Sun, 
Whose course coeval still with thine doth run, 
Sickening at the sights unholy, 
Frightful crime, and frantic folly, 
By thee, presumptuous ! with delight 
Forced upon his awful sight, 
Abandons half his regal right, 
And yields the hated world to night. 
And even when through the honored day 
He still benignly deigns to sway, 
High o er the horizon prints his burnished tread, 
Oft calls his clouds, 
With sable shrouds, 
To hide his glorious head ! 
And Luna, of yet purer view, 
His sister and his regent too, 
Beneath whose mild and sacred reign 
Thou darest display thy deeds profane, 
Pale and appalled, has frowned her fears, 
Or veiled her brightness in her tears ; 
While all her starry court, attendant near, 
Only glance, and disappear. 
But thou, relentless ! not in thee 
These horrors wake humanity : 
Though sun, and moon, and stars combined, 
Ne er did it change thy fatal mind, 
Nor e er thy wayward steps retrace, 
Nor e er restrain thy coursers race, 
Nor e er efface the blood thou dst shed, 
Nor raise to life the murdered dead. 
Is t not enough, thou spoiler, tell ! 
That, subject to thy stern behest, 

The might of ancient empire fell, 
And sunk to drear and endless rest 7 
Fallen is the Roman eagle s flight, 
The Grecian glory sunk in night, 
And prostrate arts and arms no more withstand : 
Those own thy Vandal flame and these thy conq ring 
Then be Destruction s sable banner furled, [hand. 
Nor wave its shadows o er the modern world ! 
In vain the prayer. Still opens wide, 
Renewed, each former tragic scene 
Of Time s dark drama ; while beside 
Grief and Despair their vigils keep, 
And Memory only lives to weep 

The mouldering dust of what has been. 



How nameless now the once-famed earth, 
That gave to Kosciuszko birth 
The pillared realm that proudly stood, 
Propped by his worth, cemented by his blood! 

As towers the lion of the wood 
O er all surrounding living things, 
So, mid the herd of vulgar kings, 

The dauntless Dalecarlian stood. 
" Pillowed by flint, by damps enclosed," 
Upon the mine s cold lap reposed, 

Yet firm he followed Freedom s plan; 
" Dared with eternal night reside, 
And threw inclemency aside," . 

Conqu ror of nature as of man ! 
And earned by toils unknown before, 
Of Blood and Death, the crown he wore. 
That radiant crown, whose flood of light 
Illumined once a nation s sight 
Spirit of Vasa ! this its doom 1 
Gleams in a dungeon s living tomb ! 

Where er the frightened mind can fly, 
But nearer ruins meet her eye. 

Ah ! not Arcadia s pictured scene 
Could more the poet s dream engage, 

Nor manners more befitting seem 
The vision of a golden age, 
Than where the chamois loved to roam 
Through old Helvetia s rugged home, 
Where Uri s echoes loved to swell 
To kindred rocks the name of Tell, 
And pastoral girls and rustic swains 
Were simple as their native plains. 
Nor mild alone, but bold the mind, 
The soldier and the shepherd joined 
The Roman heraldry restored, 
The crook was quartered with the sword. 
Their seedtime cheerful labor stored, 
Plenty piled their vintage board, 
Peace loved, their daily fold to keep, 
Contentment tranquillized their sleep 
Till through those giant Guards of Stone,* 
Where Freedom fixed her " mountain-throne, 
Battle s bloodhounds forced their way 
And made the human flock their prey ! 

Is it Fact, or Fancy tells, 

That now another mandate s gone ] 
Hark ! even now those fated wheels 

Roll the rapid ruin on ! 
Lo, where the generous and the good, 

The heart to feel, the hand to dare : 
Iberia pours her noblest blood, 

Iberia lifts her holiest prayer ! 
The while from all her rocks and vales 

Her peasant bands by thousands rise . 
Their altar is their native plains, 

Themselves the willing sacrifice. 
While UK, the strangest birth of time, 
Red with gore, arid grim with crime, 
Whose fate more prodigies attend, 
And in whose course mire terrors blend, 
And o er whose birth more portents lowei, 
Than ever crowned, 
In lore renowned, 

* The Alps. 



40 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



The Macedonian s natal hour! 

IS ow here, now there, he takes his stand, 

The rtabiished earth his footsteps jar; 
Goads l> the lii^ht his vassal band, 
M hile ebbs or Hows, at his command, 

The torrent of the war ! 

Could the hard, whose powers suhlime 

Scaled the heights of epic glory, 
\nd rendered in immortal rhyme 

Of Rome s disgrace the hlushing story 
Where, formed of treason and of woes, 
Pharsalia s gory genius rose 
Might he again 
Renew the strain 

That once his truant muse had charmed, 
Each foreign tone 

Unwaked had lain ; 
And patriot Spain 

And Spain, alone 
The Spaniard s patriot heart had warmed ! 

Then had the chords proclaimed no more 
His deeds, his death, renowned of yore ; 
Who,* when each lingering hope was slain, 
And Freedom fought with Fate in vain, 
Lone in the city, and reft of all, 
While Usurpation stormed the wall, 
The tyrant s entrance scorned to see 
But died, with dying Liberty. 

Those chords had raised the local strain ; 
That hard a filial flight had ta en ; 
Forgot all else : The ancient past, 
Thick in Ohlivion s mists o ercast, 
Or past and present both combined 
Within the graspings of his mind ; 
In what now is, viewed what hath been ; 
The dead within the living seen : 
Owned transmigration s strange control, 
In Spaniards owned the Cato soul ; 
And wailed in tones of martial grief 
The valiant band and hero chief, 
Who shared in Saragossa s doom, 
^nd made their Utica their tomb ! 
Bright be the amaranth of their fame ! 
May Palafox a Lucan claim ! 
That bard no more had filled his rhymes 
With Cajsar s greatness. ( a>sar s crimes: 
Another Cajsur waked the string, 
Alike usurper, traitor, king. 
Another ( \vsar ! rashly said ! 
Forgive the falsehood, mighty shade! 
Molest Julius treasons, still we know 
The faithful friend, the generous foe; 
And even enmityt could see 
Some virtues of humanity. 

But thou ! by what, accurs d name 
Shall we denote thy features here? 

In records of infernal fame 

When- shall we find thy black compeer ? 

Then, whose perfidious might of mind 

Nor pity moves nor faith can bind, 

* In 1 younger Cnto. 

" I lis enemies confess 
bw virtues of humanity are Cigar s." AD. CATO. 



Whose friends, whose followers vainly crave 
That trust which should reward the brave; 
Whose foes, mid tenfold war s alarms, 
Dread more thy treachery than thine arms : 
The Ishmaelite, mid deserts bred, 
Who robs at last whom first he fe.l, 
The midnight murderer of the guest 
With whom lie shared the morning s feast 
This Arab wretch, compared with thee, 
Is honor and humanity ! 

And shall that proud, that ancient land, 

In treasure rich, in pageant grand, 

Land of romance, where sprang of old 

Adventures strange, and champions bold, 

Of holy faith, and gallant fight, 

And bannered hall, and armored knight, 

And tournament, and minstrelsy, 

The native land of chivalry ! 

Shall all these " blushing honors" bloom 

For Corsica s detested son ] 

These ancient worthies own his sway 

The upstart fiend of yesterday 1 

Oh, for the kingly sword and shield 

That once the victor monarch sped, 
What time from Pavia s trophied Held 

The royal Frank was captive led ! 
May Charles s laurels, gained for you, 

Ne er, Spaniards, on your brows expire 
Nor the degenerate sons subdue 

The conqu rors of their nobler sire ! 
None higher mid the zodiac line 

Of sovereigns and of saints you claim, 
Than fair Castilia s star could shine, 

And brighten down the sky of fame. 
Wise, magnanimous, refined, 
Accomplished friend of human kind, 
Wlio first the Genoese sail unfurled 
The mighty mother of an infant world, 
Illustrious Isabel ! shall thine, 
Thy children, kneel at Gallia s shrine] 

No ! rise, thou venerated shade, 

In Heaven s own armor bright arrayed, 

Like Pallas to her Grecian band ; 

Nerve every heart and every hand ; 

Pervious or not to mortal sight, 

Still guard thy gallant offspring s right, 

Display thine aegis from afar, 

And lend a thunderbolt to war ! 

God of battles ! from thy throne, 
God of vengeance, aid their cause : 

Make it, conqu ring One, thine own ! 

Tis faith, and liberty, and laws. * 

T is for these they pour their blood 

The cause of man. the cause of God! 

Not now avenge. All-righteous Power, 

Penivia s red and ruined hour: 

Nor man-led Montezuma s head, 

^or Gunfamo/iifs burning bed, 

"Nor uive the guiltless up to fate 

For Cort s crimes, Pizarro s hate! 

Thou, who beholdst, enthroned afar, 

Beyond the vision of the keenest star, 

Far through creation s ample round, 

The universe s utmost bound : 



ELIZA TOWNSENL). 



41 



Where war in other shape appears, 
The destined plague of other spheres, 
Other Napoleons arise 
To stain the earth and cloud the skies ; 
And other realms in martial ranks succeed, 
Fight like Iberians, like Iberians bleed. 
If an end is e er designed 
The dire destroyers of mankind, 
Oh, be some seraphim assigned 
To breathe it to the patriot mind. 
What Brutus bright in arms arrayed, 
What Corde bares the righteous blade ! 
Or, if the vengeance, not our own, 
Be sacred to thine arm alone, 
When shall be signed the blest release 
And wearied worlds refreshed with peace 
Oh, could the muse but dare to rise 
Far o er these low and clouded skies, 
Above the threefold heavens to soar, 
And in thy very sight implore ! 

In vain while angels veil them there, 

While Faith half fears to lift her prayer, 
The glance profane shall Fancy dare 1 
Yet there around, a fearful band, 
Thy ministers of vengeance stand : . 

Lo, at thy bidding stalks the storm ; 
The lightning takes a local form; 
The floods erect their hydra head ; 
The pestilence forsakes his bed ; 
Intolerable light appears to wait, 
And far-off darkness stands in awful state ! 

For thee, O Time ! 

If still thou speedst thy march of crime 
Gainst all that s beauteous or sublime, 
Still provest thyself the sworn ally 
And author of mortality 

Infuriate Earth, too long supine, 
Whilst demon-like thou lovedst to ride, 
Ending every work beside, 

Shall live to see the end of thine 
Her great revenge shall see ! 
By prayer shall move th Almighty power 
To antedate that final hour 
When the Archangel firm shall stand 
Upon the ocean and the land 
His crown a radiant rainbow sphere, 
His echoes seven-fold thunders near 
The last dread fiat to proclaim : 
Shall swear by His tremendous name, 
Who formed the earth, the heavens and sea, 
TIME shall no longer be ! 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

VVHITTEN IN 181-2. 

O THOTT, whom we have known so long, so well, 
Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and framed 
Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song ; 
And in thy later tale of Times of Old, 
Remindest us of our own patriarch fathers, 
The Madocs of their age, who planted here 
The cross of Christ and liberty and peace ! 
Minstrel of other climes, of higher hopes, 
And holier inspirations, who hast ne er 



From her high birth debased the goddess Muse, 

To grovel in the dirt of earthly things ; 

But learned to mingle with her human tones 

Some breathings of the harmonies of heaven ! 

Joyful to meet thee yet again, we hail 

Thy last, thy loftiest lay ; nor chief we thank thee 

For every form of beauty, every light 

Bestowed by brilliancy, and every grace 

That fancy could invent and taste dispose. 

Or that creating, consummating power, 

Pervading fervor, and mysterious finish, 

That something occult, indefinable. 

By mortals genius named ; the parent sun 

W T hence all those rays proceed ; the constant foum 

To feed those streams of mind ; th informing soul 

Whose infl lence all are conscious of, but none 

Could e er describe ; whose fine and subtle nature 

Seems like th aerial forms, which legends say 

Greeted the gifted eye of saint or seer, 

Yet ever mocked the fond inquirer s aim 

To scan their essence ! 

Such alone, we greet not. 
Since genius oft (so oft, the tale is trite) 
Employs its golden art to varnish vice, 
And bleach depravity, till it shall wear 
The whiteness of the robes of Innocence t 
And Fancy s self forsakes her truest trade, 
The lapidary for the scavenger ; 
And Taste, regardful of but half her province, 
Self-sentenced to a partial blindness, turns 
Her notice from the semblance of perfection, 
To fix its hoodwinked gaze on faults alone 
And like the owl, sees only in the night, 
Not like the eagle, soars to meet the day. 

Oblivion to all such ! For thee, we joy 
Thou hast not misapplied the gifts of God, 
Nor yielded up thy powers, illustrious captives, 
To grace the triumph of licentious Wit. 

Once more a female is thy chosen theme ; 
And Kailyal lives a lesson to the sex, 
How more than woman s loveliness may blend 
With all of woman s worth ; with chastened love, 
Magnanimous exertion, patient piety, 
And pure intelligence. Lo ! from thy wand 
Even faith, and hope, and charity, receive 
Something more filial and more feminine. 

Proud praise enough were this ; yet is there more : 
That neath thy splendid Indian canopy, 
By fairy fingers woven, of gorgeous threads, 
And gold and precious stones, thou hast enwrapped 
Stupendous themes that Truth divine revealed, 
And answering Reason owned : naught more sub- 
Beauteous, or useful, e er was charactered [lime, 
On Hermes mystic pillars Egypt s boast, 
And more, Pythagoras lesson, when the ma/e 
Of hieroglyphic meaning awed the world ! 

Could Music s potent charm, as some believed 
Have warmth to animate the slumbering dead, 
And lap them in Elysium," second only 
To that which shall await in other worlds, 
How would the native sons of ancient India 
Unclose on thee that wondering, dubious eye, 
Where admiration wars with incredulity ! 
Sons of the morning ! first-born of creation . 
What w >uld they think of thee thee, one of us 



ELIZA TO vVNSEND. 



Sprung fro :M ;i Liter race, on whom the ends 

Of ihisour world have come, that thou shouldstpen 

What \ aranasi s* venerable towers 

In all their pride and plenitude of power, 

Ere Conquest spread her bloody banner o er them, 

Or Ruin trod upon their hallowed walls, 

Could ne er excel, though stored with ethic wisdom, 

And epic minstrelsy, and sacred lore ! 

For there, Philosophy s Gantamif first 

Taught man to measure mind ; there Valmic hymn d 

The conquering armsof heaven-descended Rama ; 

And Calidasa and Vyasa there, 

At dillerent periods, but with powers the same, 

The Sanscrit song prolonged of Nature s works, 

Of human woes, and sacred Chrishna s ways. 

That it should e er be thine, of Europe born, 

To sing of Asia ! that Hindostan s palms 

Should bloom on Albion s hills, and Brama sVedasJ 

Meet unconverted eyes, yet unprofaned ! 

And those same brows the classic Thames had bath d 

Be laved by holy Ganges ! while the lotus, 

Fig-tree, and cusa, of its healing banks, 

Should, with their derva s vegetable rubies, 

Be painted to the life !. ...Not truer touches, 

On plane-tree arch above, or roseate carpet, 

Spread out beneath, were ever yet employed 

When their own vale of Cashmere was the subject, 

Sketched by its own Abdalh, i ! 

He, || too, of thine own land, who long since found 
A refuge in his final sanctuary, 
From regal bigotry could thy voice reach him, 
His awful shade might greet thee as a brother 
In sentiment and song ; that epic genius, 
From whom the sight of outward things was taken 
By Heaven in mercy that the orb of vision 
Might totally turn inward there concentred 
On objects else perhaps invisible, 
Requiring and exhausting all its rays; 
Who (like Tiresias, of prophetic fame) 
Talked with Futurity ! that patriot poet, 
Poet of paradise, whose daring eve 
Explored "the living throne, the sapphire blaze," 
" But blasted with excess of light," retired, 
And left to thce to compass other heavens 
And other scenes of being ! 

Bard beloved 

Of all who virtue love revered by all 
That genius reverence SOUTHET ! if thou art 
"Gentle as bard beseems," and if thy life 
Be lovely as thy lay, thou wilt not scorn 
This rustic, wreath; albeit twas entwined 
Beyond the western waters, where I sit 
And bid the \\inds that wait upon their surges, 
Bear it across them to thine island-home. 
Thou wilt not. scorn the simple leaves, though culled 
Fiom that traduced, insulted spot of earth, 
Of which thy contumelious brethren oft 
Frame fables, full as monstrous in their kind 
As e er M michausen knew with all his falsehood, 
Guiltless o" all his wit! Not such art thou 
Surely thou art not, if, as Rumor tells, 
Thyself in the high hour of hopeful youth 

* The folK ur of Hcnaivs 

t Supposed iht: earliest founder of a philosophic school 

Sacred books of the Hindoos. || .Milton. 



Had cherished nightly visions of delight, 
And day-dreams of desire, that lured thee on 
To see these sister states, and painted to thee 
Our frowning mountains and our laughing vales 
The countless beauties of our varied lakes, 
The dim recesses of our endless woods, 
Fit haunt for sylvan deities ; and whispered 
How sweet it were in such deep solitude, 
Where human foot ne er trod, to raise thy hut, 
To talk to Nature, but to think of man. 
Then thou, perchance, like Scotia s darling son, 
Hadst sung our Pennsylvanian villages, 
Our bold Oneidas, and our tender Gertrudes, 
And sung, like him, thy listeners into tears. 
Such were thy early musings : other thoughts, 
And happier, doubtless, have concurred to fix thee 
On Britain s venerated shore ; yet still 
Must that young thought be tenderly remembered, 
Even as romantic minds are sometimes said 
To cherish their first love not that twas wisest, 

But that twas earliest If that morning dream 

Still lingers to thy noon of life, remember, 
And for its own dear sake, when thou shalt hear 
(As oft, alas ! thou wilt) those gossip tales, 
By Jazy Ignorance or inventive Spleen, 
Related of the vast, the varied country, 
We proudly call our own oh ! then refute them 
By the just consciousness that still this land 
Has turned no adder s ear toward thy Muse 
That charms so wisely ; that whene er her tones, 
Mellowed by distance, o er the waters come, 
They meet a band of listeners those who hear 
W 7 ith breath-suspending eagerness, and feel 
With feverish interest. Be this their praise, 
And sure they 11 need no other ! Such there are, 
Who, from the centre of an honest heart, 
Bless thee for ministering to the purest pleasure 
That man, whilst breathing earthly atmosphere, 
In this minority of being, knows 
That of contemplating immortal verse, 
In fit communion with immortal Truth ! 



THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. 

WHERE art thou ? THOU ! source and support 
That is or seen or felt ; thyself unseen, [of all 
Unfelt, unknown alas, unknowable ! 
I look abroad among thy works the sky, 
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns 
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main, 
And speaking winds and ask if these are thee! 
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills, 
The restless tide s outgoing and return, 
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air 
Though hailed as gods of old, and only less, 
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not thee! 
I ask thee from the past : if, in the years, 
Since first intelligence could search its source, 
Or in some former unremembered being, 
(If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold 
And next interrogate Futurity, rthee 1 

So fondly tenanted with better things 
Than e er experience owned but both are muto , 
And Past and Future, vocal on all else, 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



48 



So full of memories and phantasies, 
Are deaf and speechless here ! Fatigued, I turn 
From all vain parley with the elements, [ward 
And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn in- 
From each material thing its anxious guest, 
If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, 
He may vouchsafe himself Spirit to spirit ! 
Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, 
Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee 1 
What though the rash request be fraught with fate, 
Nor human eye may look on thine and live 1 
Welcome the penalty ! let that come now, 
Which soon or late must come. For light like this 
Who would not dare to die ] 

Peace, my proud aim, 

And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. 
Await His will, who hath appointed this, 
W ith every other trial. Be that will 
Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, 
And unprepared solicitude to gaze 
On Him the Unrevealed learn hence, instead, 
To temper highest hope with humbleness. 
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts, 
Till rent the veil, no longer separating 
The Holiest of all as erst, disclosing 
A brighter disponsation ; whose results 
Ineffable, interminable, tend 
Even to the perfecting thyself thy kind 
Till meet for that sublime beatitude, 
By the firm promise of a voice from heaven 
Pledged to the pure in heart ! 



ANOTHER "CASTLE IN THE AIR." 

To ME, like Phidias, were it given 
To form from clay the man sublime, 

And, like Prometheus, steal from heaven 
The animating spark divine !" 

Thus once in rhapsody you cried : 
As for complexion, form, and air, 

No matter what, if thought preside, 
And fire and feeling mantle there. 

Deep on the tablets of his mind 

Be learning, science, taste, imprest ; 

Let piety a refuge find 

Within the foldings of his breast. 

Let him have suffered much since we, 
Alas ! are early doomed to know, 

A.11 human virtue we can see 
Is only perfected through wo. 

Purer the ensuing breeze we find 

When whirlwinds first the skies deform , 

And hardier grows the mountain hind 
Bleaching beneath the wintry storm. 

But, above all, may Heaven impart 

That talent which completes the whole 
The finest and the rarest art 

To analyze a woman s soul. 
Woman that happy, wretched being, 

Of causeless smile, of nameless sigh, 
So oft whose joys unbidden spring, 

So oft who weeps, she knows not why ! 



Her piteous griefs, her joys so gay, 
All that afflicts and all that cheers ; 

All her erratic fancy s play, 

Her fluttering hopes, her trembling fears. 

With passions chastened, not subdued, 

Let dull inaction stupid reign ; 
Be his the ardor of the good, 

Their loftier thought and nobler aim. 

Firm as the towering bird of Jove, 
The mightiest shocks of life to beu* ; 

Yet gentle as the captive dove, 
In social suffering to share. 

If such there .be, to such alone 

Would I thy worth, beloved, resign ; 

Secure, each bliss that time hath known 
Would consummate a lot like thine. 

But if this gilded human scheme 
Be but the pageant of the brain. 

Of such slight " stuff" as forms our " dream. 
Which, waking, we must seek in vain. 

Each gift of nature and of art 

Still lives within thyself enshrined ; 

Thine are the blossoms of the heart, 
And thine the scions of the mind ! 

And if the matchless wreath shall blend 
With foliage other than its own, 

Or, destined not its sweets to lend, 
Shall flourish for thyself alone 

Still cultivate the plants with care ; 

From weeds, from thorns, oh keep them free 
Till, ripened for a purer air, 

They bloom in immortality ! 



AMERICAN SCENERY. 

FROM A POEM ON THE DKATH OF CHARLES 
BHOCKDEN BKOWX. 

THOUGH Nature, with unsparing hand, 
Has scattered round thy favored land ^ 
Those gifts that prompt the aspiring aim, 
And fan the latent spark to flame : 
Such awful shade of blackening woods, 
Such roaring voice of giant floods, 
Cliffs, which the dizzied eagles flee, 
Such cataracts, tumbling to the sea, 
That in this lone and wild retreat 
A Collins might have fixed his scat, 
Called Horror from the mountain s brow, 
Or Danger from the depths below 
And then, for those of milder mood, 
Heedless of forest, rock, or flood, 
Gay fields, bedecked with golden grain, 
Rich orchards, bending to the plain, 
Where Sydney s fairy pen had foiled, 
Which Mantuan Maro s muse had hailml 
Yet, midst this luxury of scone, 
These varied charms, this graceful mien 
Canst thou no hearts, no voices, raise, 
Those charms to feel, those charms to praise 



LAVINIA STODDARD. 



(Born 1787-Died 1820). 



LAVIXIA STONE, a daughter of Mr. Elijah 
Stone, was born in Guilford, Connecticut, 
on the twenty-ninth of June, 1787. While 
she was an infant her father removed to Pat- 
erson, in New Jersey, and here she received, 
besides the careful instructions of an intelli 
gent and judicious mother, such education 
in the schools as was at the time common to 
the children of farmers. In 1811 she was 
married to Dr. William Stoddard, a man of 
taste and liberal culture, of Stratford, in 
Connecticut, and in the then flourishing vil 
lage of Troy, on the Hudson, they established 
an academy, which they conducted success 
fully for several years. Mrs. Stoddard was 
attacked with consumption, and about the 
year 1S18 she removed with her family to 
Blakeley, in Alabama, where Dr. Stoddard 
soon after died, leaving her among strangers 



and in poverty. Partially recovering her 
own health, she revisited Troy ; but the se 
verity of the climate induced her to return to 
Blakeley, where she died in 1820. 

Mrs. Stoddard wrote many poems, which 
were printed anonymously in the public jour 
nals, or addressed privately to her acquaint 
ances. She was a woman of piety, benevo 
lence, and an independent temper; and the 
fine poem entitled The Soul s Defiance, her 
brother has informed me, " was interesting 
to her immediate friends for the truthfulness 
with which it portrayed her own experience 
and her indomitable spirit, which never 
quailed under any circumstances." This was 
written in a period of suffering and with a 
sense of injury. It is the last of her compo 
sitions, and perhaps the best. It is worthy 
of George Herbert. 



THE SOUL S DEFIANCE. 

F SAID to Sorrow s awful storm, 

That beat against my b east, 
Ratio on thou mnyst destroy this form, 

And lay it low at rest; 
But still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
Uudaunted on its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to Penury s meagre train, 

Come on your threats I brave ; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave ; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With hitter smile. 

I paid to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

Pass on I heed you not ; 
Yc may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot ; 
Vet still the spirit, which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its highborn smiles. 

I said to Friendship s menaced blow, 
Strike deep my heart shall bear; 

Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
To those already there ; 



Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress, 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 
I said to Death s uplifted dart, 

Aim sure oh, why delay T 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart 

A weak, reluctant prey ; 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away. 

SOXQ. 

ASK not from me the sportive jest, 

The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection , 
These social baubles fly the breast 

That owns the sway of pale Dejection. 
Ask not from me the changing smile, 

Hope s sunny glow, Joy s glittering token, 
It can not now my griefs beguile 

My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 
Wit can not cheat my heart of wo, 

Flattery wakes no exultation, 
And Fancy s flash but serves to show 

The darkness of my desolation. 
By me no more in masking guise 

Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken ; 
My mind a hopeless ruin lies 

My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 
44 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 

(Born 1788-Died 1865). 



Miss GOULD is a native of Lancaster, in 
the southern part of Vermont. Her father 
was one of the small company who fought 
m the first battle of the Revolution, and in 
the face of all the privations and discourage 
ments of that long and of.en hopeless Avar 
remained in the army until it was disbanded. 
In The Scar of Lexington, The Revolution 
ary Soldier s Request, The Veteran and the 
Child, and several other pieces, we suppose 
she has referred to him ; and it is probably 
but a versification of a family incident in 
which an old man, relating the story of his 
weary campaigns, says to a child 
" I carried my musket, as one that must be 
But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free. 
And fearless I lifted my good, trusty sword, 
In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord." 

Miss Gould s history is in a peculiar degree 
and in a most honorable manner identified 
with her father s. In her youth he removed 
to Newburyport, near Boston, and for many 
years before his death, (for the touching 
poem entitled My Lost Father, in the last 
volume of her writings, we presume had 
reference to that went,) she was his house 
keeper, his constant companion, and the 
chief source of his happiness. 

Miss Gould s poems are short, but they 
are frequently nearly perfect in their kind. 
Nearly all of them appeared originally in 
annuals, magazines, and other miscellanies, 
and their popularity has been shown by the 



subsequent sale of several collective editions. 
The first volume she published came out in 
1832, the second in 1835, and the third in 
1841 ; and a new edition, embracing many 
new poems, is now (1848) in preparation. 

Her most distinguishing characteristic is 
sprightliness. Her poetical vein seldom 
rises above the fanciful, but in her vivacity 
there is both wit and cheerfulness. She 
needs apparently but the provocation of a 
wider social inspiration to become very cle 
ver and apt in jcux d esprit and epigrams, 
as a few specimens which have found their 
way into the journals amply indicate. It 
is however in such pieces as Jack Frost, 
The Pebble and the Acorn, and other effu 
sions devoted to graceful details of nature, 
or suggestive incidents in life, that we rec 
ognise the graceful play of her muse. Often 
by a dainty touch, or lively prelude, the gen 
tle raillery of her sex most charmingly re 
veals itself, and in this respect Miss Gould 
manifests a decided individuality of genius. 

Miss Gould seems as fond as JEsop or La 
Fontaine of investing every thing in nature 
with a human intelligence It is surprising 
to see how frequently and how happily the 
birds, the insects, the trees and flowers and 
pebbles are made her colloquists. Her poems 
could be illustrated only by some such in 
genious artists as those who have recently 
amused Paris with Scenes dela ViePubliqiie 
et Privee des Animaux. 



A NAME IN THE SAND. 

ALOXE I walked the ocean strand ; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sanJ 

My name the year the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast- 
A wave came rolling high and fast. 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, twill shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me : 
A wave of dark Oblivion s sea 



Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of Time, and been to be no more, 
Of me my day the name I bore, 

To leave nor track nor trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, 
Of all this mortal part has wrought , 
Ot all this thinking soul has thought . 
A .d from these fleeting moments caugi f 

For glory or for shame. 

45 



4fi 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



CHANGES ON THE DEEP. 

A GALLANT ship ! and trim and tight 
Across the deep she speeds away, 

While mant ed with the golden light 
The sun throws hack at close of day 

And who, that sees that stately ship 

Her haughty stern in ocean dip, 

H:i^ ever seen a prouder one 

Il. umincd hy a setting sun] 

The hreath of summer, sweet and soft, 
Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair, 

And floating from her mast aloft, 
Her flag pi ays off on gent e air. 

And, as her steady prow divides 

The waters to her even sides, 

She passes, like a bird, between 

The peaceful deep and sky serene. 

And now gray twilight s tender veil 

The moon wi h shafts of silver rends; 
And down on billow, deck, and sail, 

Her placid lustre gently sends. 
The stars, as if the arch of blue 
Were pierced to let the glory through, 
From their bright world look out and win 
The thoughts of man to enter in. 

And many a heart that s warm and true 

That noble ship bears on with pride ; 
While, mid the many forms, are two 

Of passing beauty, side by side. 
A fair young mother, standing by 
Her bosom s lord, has fixed her eye, 
With his, upon the blessed star 
That points them to their home afar. 
Their thoughts fly foi th to those, who there 

Are waiting now, with joy to hail 
The moment that shall grant their prayer, 

And heave in sight their coming sail. 
For, many a time the changeful queen 
Of night has vanished, and been seen, 
Since, o er a foreign shore to roam, 
They passed from that dear, native home. 
The lube, that on its father s breast 

Has let its little eyelids close, 
The mother bears below to rest, 

And sinks with it in sweet repose. 
The while a sailor climbs the shroud, 
And in the distance spies a cloud: 
Low, like a swelling seed, it lies, 
From which the towering storm shall rise. 
The powers of air are now about 

To muster from their hidden caves ; 
The winds, unchained, come rushing out, 

And into mountains heap the waves. 
Upon t .io sky tho darkness spreads! 
rin- Tempest on the Ocean treads; 
And yawning caverns are its track 
Amid the waters wild and black. 
Its ,-oice but who shall give the sounds 

Of that dread voice I The ship is dashed 
In roaring depths and now she bounds 

On high, hy foaming surges lashed. 



And how is she the storm to bide ? 
Its sweeping win^s are strong and wide ! 
The hand of man has lost control 
O er her his work is for the soul ! 

She s in a scene of Nature s war : 

The \\ inds and waters are at strife ; 
And both with her contending for 
The brittle thread of human life 
That she contains ; while sail and shroud 
Have yielded, and her head is bowed. 
Then who that slender thread shall keep 
But He whose finger moves the deep ? 

A moment and the angry blast 

Has done its work and hurried on. 
With parted cables, shivered mast 
With riven sides, and anchor gone, 
Behold the ship in ruin lie ; 
While from the waves a piercing cry 
Surmounts the tumult high and wild, 
And shouts to heaven, " My child ! my child !" 

The mother in the whelming surge 

Lifts up her infant o er the sea, 
While lying on the awful verge 

Where time unveils eternity 
And calls to Mercy, from the. skies 
To come and rescue, while she dies, 
The gift that, with her fleeting breath, 
She offers from the gates of death. 

It is a call for Heaven to hear. 

Maternal fondness sends above 
A voice, that in her Father s ear 

Shall enter quick, for God is love. 
In such a moment, hands like these 
Their Maker with their offering sees ; 
And for the faith of such a breast 
He will the blow of death arrest ! 

The moon looks pale from out the cloud, 

While Mercy s angel takes the form 
Of him, who, mounted on the shroud, 

W as first to see the coming storm. 
The sailor has a ready arm 
To bring relief, and cope with harm ; 
Though rough his hand, and nerved with steel, 
His heart is warm and quick to feel. 

And see him, as he braves the frown 
That sky and sea each other give ! 

Behold him where he plunges down, 
That child and mother yet may live, 

And plucks them from a closing grave ! 

They re saved ! they re saved ! the maddened 
wave 

Leaps foaming up, to find its prey 

Snatched from its mouth and borne away. 

They re saved ! they re saved ! but where is he, 
Who lulled his fearless babe to sleep ! 

A floating plank on that wild sea 
Has now his vital spark to keep ! 

But, by the wan, affrighted moon, 

Help comes to him ; and he is soon 

Upon the deck with living men 

To clasp that smiling boy again. 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



47 



And now can He, who only knows 
Each human breast, behold alone 

What pure and grateful incense goes 
From that sad wreck to his high throne. 

The twain, whose hearts are truly one, 

Wi 1 early teach their prattling son 

Upon his little heart to bear 

The sailor to his God, in prayer : 

" O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold 

The winds and waves, that wake or sleep, 
Thy tender arms of mercy fold 

Around the seamen on the deep ! 
And, when their voyage of life is o er, 
May they be welcomed to the shore 
Whose peaceful streets with gold are paved, 
And angels sing, They re saved! they re 
saved ! " 



THE SCAR OF LEXINGTON. 

WITH cherub smile, the prattling boy, 
Who on the veteran s breast reclines, 

Has thrown aside his favorite toy, 
And round his tender finger twines 

Those scattered locks, that, with the flight 

Of fourscore years, are snowy white ; 

And, as a scar arrests his view, 

He cries, " Grandpa, what wounded you 1 ?" 

" My child, t is five-and-fifty years 
This very day, this very hour, 

Since, from a scene of blood and tears, 
Where valor fell by hostile power, 

I saw retire the setting sun 

Behind the hills of Lexington ; 

While pale and lifeless on the plain 

My brothers lay, for freedom slain ! 

" And ere that fight, the first that spoke 
In thunder to our land, was o er, 

Amid the clouds of fire and smoke, 
I felt my garments wet with gore ! 

Tis since that dread and wild affray, 

That trying, dark, eventful day, 

From this calm April eve so far, 

I wear upon my cheek the scar. 

" When thou to manhood shalt be grown, 

And I am gone in dust to sleep, 
May freedom s rights be still thine own, 

And thou and thine in quiet reap 
The unb .ighted product of the toil 
In which my blood bedewed the soil ! 
And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy, 
Bethink thee of this scar, my boy. 

" But, should thy country s voice be heard 

To bid her children fly to arms, 
Gird on thy grandsire s trusty sword : 
And, undismayed by war s alarms, 
Remember, on the battle field, 
I made the hand of GOD my shield: 
And be thou spared, like me, to tell 
What bore thee up, while others fell !" 



THE SNOWFLAKE. 

" Now, if I fall, will it be my lot 

To be cast in some lone and lowly spot, 

To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot ? 

And there will my course be ended 1" 
T was this a feathery Snowflake said, 
As down through measureless space it strayed, 
Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid, 

It seemed in mid air suspended. 

" Oh, no !" said the Earth, " thou shalt not lie 
Neglected and lone on my lap to die, 
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ! 

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. 
But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form 
Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm, 
But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and 
warm, 

And the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! 

" And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be 
Restored in the lily that decks the lea, 
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, 

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness-, 
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead 
With the pearls that the night scatters over the 

mead, 
In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed, 

Regaining thy dazzling brightness. 

"I ll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, 
When Viola s mild blue eye shall weep, 
In a tremulous tear ; or, a diamond, leap 

In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; 
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, 
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, 
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath 

Encircling the brow of the mountain. 

" Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, 
To shine in the Iris I 11 let thee arise, 
And appear in the many and glorious dyes 

A pencil of sunbeams is blending ! 
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, 
I 11 give thee a new and vernal birth, 
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, 

And never regret descending !" 

Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake , 
" But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make 
Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake ; 

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning 
For, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; 
But those that are lent from on high, like me, 
Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, 

To the regions at^ve returning. 

" And if true to thy word and just thou art. 
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart. 
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart, 

And return to my native heaven. 
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow 
From time to time, in thy sight to glow ; 
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow 

By the promise that GOD hath (riven !" 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE WINDS. 

WK come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, 
As we re hastening on in our boundless flight, 
And over the mountains and over the deep 
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep, 
Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free ! 
And ye look on our works, and own tis we; 
Ye call us the Winds: but can ye tell 
Whither we go, or where we dwell 1 

Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, 
And fell the forests, or fan the flower, 
When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, 
When the tower s o erthrown, and the oak is rent 
As we wait the bark o er the slumbering wave, 
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave ; 
And ye say it is we ! but can ye trace 
The wandering winds to their secret place 1 

And, whether our breath be loud or high, 
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh, 
Our tlireatenings fill the soul with fear, 
Or our gent e whisperings woo the ear 
With music aerial, still tis we. 
And ye list and ye look ; but what do ye see ? 
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, 
Or waken one note when our numbers cease ] 

4 ur dwelling is in the Almighty s hand ; 
We come and we go at his command. 
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, 
His will is our guide, and we look not back: 
And if, in our wrath ye would turn us away, 
Or win us in gentle airs to play, 
Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds 
Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds. 



THE FROST. 

THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight: 
So, through the valley, and over the height, 

In silence I ll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain 
Who make s > much bustle and noise in vain; 

But I ll be as busy as they." 

Then he lli-w to the mountain and powder d its crest; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
In diamond heads; and over the breast 

Of the (]uivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over e:ieh pane, like a fairy, crept; 
\Vherev.-r he breathed, wherever he slept, 

By the light of the morn, were seen 
Mos*t beautiful things: there were flowers and trees; 
There weie bevies of birds, and swarms of bees; 
There were cities, with temples and towers and 

All pictured in silver sheen ! [these 



But he did one thing that was hardly fair: 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare 

" Now, just to set them a-thinking, 
I ll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
" This costly pitcher I 11 burst in three ; 
And the glass of water they ve left for me 

Shall tchick ! to tell them I m drinking." 



THE WATERFALL. 

YE mighty waters, that have joined your forces, 
.Roaring and dashing with this awful sound, 

Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources 
Whence ye have issued where shall they be 
found ] 

Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken, 
Ye streams and drops ] who separate you all, 

And find the many places ye ve forsaken, 
To come and rush together down the fall 1 

Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been 
roaming, 

In earth and air, who now each other urge 
To the last point ! and then, so madly foaming, 

Leap down at once from this stupendous verge 

Some in the lowering cloud a while were centred. 

That in the stream beheld its sable face, 
And melted into tears, that, falling, entered 

With sister waters on this sudden race- 
Others, to light that beamed upon the fountain, 

Have from the vitals of the rock been freed, 
In silver threads, that, shining down the mountain, 

Twined off among the verdure of the mead. 

And many a flower that bowed beside the river, 
In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried, 

Stirred by the breeze, has been an early giver 
Of her pure offering to the rolling tide. 

Thus, from the veins, through earth s dark bosom 

pouring, 

Many have flowed in tributary streams ; 
Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, 

Have shone in colors borrowed from his beams. 
But He, who holds the ocean in the hollow 
Of his strong hand, can separate you all ! 
His searching eye the secret way will follow 

Of every drop that hurries to the fall ! 
We are, like you, in mighty torrents mingled, 
_ And speeding downward to one common home ; 
Yet there s an Eye that every drop hath singled, 
And marked the winding ways through which 
we come. 

Those who have here adored the Sun of heaven, 

And shown the world their brightness drawn 

from him, 
Again before him, though their hues be seven, 

Shall blend their beauty, never to grow dim 
We bless the promise, as we thus are tending 

Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise 
Before the Power to whom we now are bending, 

To stand his bow of glory in the skies ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 

THE full orbed moon has reached no higher 
Than yon old church s mossy spire, 
And seems, as gliding up the air, 
She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, 
Would worship, in the tranquil night, 
The Prince of Peace the Source of light, 
Where man for GOD prepared the place, 
And GOD to man unveils his face. 

Her tribute all around is seen ; 
She bends, and worships like a queen ! 
Her robe of light and beaming crown 
In silence she is casting down ; 
And, as a creature of the earth, 
She feels her lowliness of birth 
Her weakness and inconstancy 
Before unchanging purity ! 

Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, 
Tis well thine homage thus to pay; 
To reverence that ancient pile, 
And spread thy silver o er the aisle 
Which many a pious foot has trod, 
That now is dust beneath the sod ; 
Where many a sacred tear was wept 
From eyes that long in death have slept ! 

The temple s builders where are they ] 

The worshippers] a l passed away, 

W T ho came the first, to offer there 

The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! 

Man s generation passes soon ; 

It wanes and changes like the moon. 

He raises the perishable wall, 

But, ere it crumbles, he must fall ! 

And does he sink to rise no more 1 
Has he no part to triumph o er 
The pallid king? no spark, to save 
From darkness, ashes, and the grave 1 
Thou holy place, the answer, wrought 
In thy firm structure, bars the thought ! 
The Spirit that established thee 
Nor death nor darkness e er shall see ! 



THE ROBE. 

T WAS not the robe of state 
Which the high and the haughty wear, 
That my busy hand, as the lamp burned late, 
Was hastening to prepare. 

It had no clasp of gold, 
No diamond s dazzling blaze, 
For the festive board ; nor the graceful fold 
To float in the dance s maze. 

Twas not to wrap the breast 
With gladness light and warm ; 
For the bride s attire for the joyous guest, 
Nor to clothe the sufferer s form. 

Twas not the garb of wo 
We wear o er an aching heart, 
When our eyes with bitter tears o erflow, 
And our dearest ones depart. 
4 



T was what we all must bear 
To the cold, the lonely bed ! 
Twas the spotless uniform they wear 
In the chambers of the dead ! 
I saw the fair young maid 
In the snowy vesture drest ; 
So pure, she looked as one arrayed 
For the mansions of the blest. 

A smile had left its trace 
On her lip at the parting breath, 
And the beauty in that lovely face 
Was fixed with the seal of death ! 



THE CONSIGNMENT. 

FIRE, my hand is on the key, 

And the cabinet must ope ! 
I shall now consign to thee 

Things of grief, of joy, of hope. 
Treasured secrets of the heart 

To thy care I hence intrust : 
Not a word must thou impart, 

But reduce them all to dust. 
This in childhood s rosy morn, 

This was gayly filled and sent. 
Childhood is for ever gone : 

Here, devouring element ! 
This was Friendship s cherished pledsre . 

Friendship took a colder form : 
Creeping on its gilded edge, 

May the blaz e be bright and warm ! 

These the letter and the token, 

Never more shall meet my view ! 
When the faith has once been broken, 

Let the memory perish too ! 
This twas penned while purest joy 

Warmed the heart, and lit the eye . 
Fate that peace did soon destroy, 

And its transcript now will I ! 

This must go ! for, on the seal 

When I broke the solemn yew, 
Keener was the pang than steel ; 

T was a heart string breaking, too I 
Here comes up the blotted leaf, 

Blistered o er by many a tear. 
Hence ! thou waking shade of grief ( 

Go, for ever disappear ! 
This is his, who seemed to be 

High as heaven, and fair as light : 
But the visor rose, and he 

Spare, Memory, spare the sight 
Of the face that frowned beneath 

While I take it, hand and name, 
And entwine it with a wreath 

Of the purifying flame ! 
These the hand is in the grave, 

And the soul is in the skies, 
Whence they came. . Tis pain to savu 

Cold remains of sundered tie? ! 
Go together, all, and burn, 

Once the treasures of my heart ! 
Still, my breast shall be an urn 

To preserve your better part! 



DO 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE WINTER BURIAL. 

THE deep toned bell peals long and low 

On the keen, midwinter air; 
A sorrowing train moves sad and slow 

From the solemn place of prayer. 

The earth is in a winding sheet, 

And nature wrapped in gloom; 
Cold, cold the path which the mourners feet 

Pursue to the waiting tomb. 

They follow one who calmly goes 
From her own loved mansion door, 

Nor shrinks from the way through gathered snows, 
To return to her home no more. 

A sable line, to the drift crowned h :i . 

The narrow pass they wind ; 
And here, where all is drear and chill, 

Their friend they leave behind. 

The silent grave they re bending o er, 

A long farewell to take ; 
One last, last look, and then, no more 

Ti.l the dead shall all awake ! 



THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. 

" I AM a Pebble ! and yield to none !" 
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone 
" Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; 
f am abiding, while ages flee. 
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; 
And the tender dew has sought to melt 
Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
There s none that can tell about my birth, 
For I m as old as the big, round earth. 
The chi dren of men arise, and pass 
Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; 
And many a foot on me has trod, 
That s gone from sight, and under the sod. 
I am a Pebble ! but who art thou, 
Rattling along from the restless bough 1" 

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, 
And lay for a moment abashed and mute; 
She never before had been so near 
This uravelly ball, the mundane sphere; 
And she felt for a time at a loss to know 
How to answer a thing so coarse and low. 
But to ive reproof of a nobler sort 
Than the angry look, or the keen retort, 
At lenirth she s;iid, in a gentle tone, 
" Since it is happened that I am thrown 
Fro n the lighter element whore I grew, 
Down to another so hard and new, 
And hcside a personage so august, 
Abased, I will cover my head with dust, 
And quickly retire from the sight of one 
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, 
Nor Me gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, 
Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" 
And soon in the earth she sank away 
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. 

But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
Bv .h/r peering head of an infant oak! 



And, as it arose, and its branches spread, 

The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, 

" A modest Acorn never to tell 

What was enclosed in its simple shell 

That the pride of the forest was fo ded up 

In the narrow space of its little cup ! 

And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 

Which proves that nothing could hide her worth 

And, oh ! how many will tread on me, 

To come and admire the beautiful tree, 

Whose head is towering toward the sky, 

Above such a worthless thing as I ! 

Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 

I have been idling from year to year. 

But never from this, shall a vaunting woid 

From the humbled Pebble again be heard, 

Till something without me or within 

Shall show the purpose for which I ve been " 

The Pebble its vow could not forget, 

And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 

THE SHIP IS READY. 

FARE thee well ! the ship is ready, 
And the breeze is fresh and steady. 
Hands are fast the anchor weighing; 
High in air the streamer s playing. 
Spread the sails the waves are swelling 
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. 
Fare thee well ! and when at sea, 
Think of those who sigh for thee. 

When from land and home receding, 
And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
Think of those behind, who love thee, 
While the sun is bright above thee ! 
Then, as, down to ocean glancing, 
In the waves his rays are dancing, 
Think how long the night will be 
To the eyes that weep for thee ! 

When the lonely night watch keeping 
All below thee still and sleeping 
As the needle points the quarter 
O er the wide and trackless water, 
Let thy vigils ever find thee 
Mindful of the friends behind thee ! 
Let thy bosom s magnet be 
Turned to those who wake for thee ! 

When, with slow and gentle motion 
Heaves the bosom of the ocean 
While in peace thy bark is riding, 
And the silver moon is gliding 
O er the sky with tranquil splendor, 
Where the shining hosts attend her: 
Let the brightest visions be 
Country, home, and friends, to thee ! 
When the tempest hovers o er thee, 
Danger, wreck, and death, before thee, 
While the sword of fire is gleaming. 
Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, 
Then, a pious ?uppliant bending, 
Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, 
Reach the mercy scat, to be 
Met by prayers that rise for thee ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



51 



THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. 

MAHY, a beautiful, artless child, 

Came down on the beach to me, 
Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled 

By watching the restless sea. 
never had seen her face before, 

And mine was to her unknown ; 
But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore 

The other to meet alone. 
Her cheek was the rose s opening bud, 

Her brow of an ivory white ; 
Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud 

The sky of a cloudless night. 
To reach my side as she gayly sped, 

With the step of a bounding fawn, 
The pebbles scarce moved beneath her tread, 

Ere the little light foot was gone. 
With the love of a holier world than this 

Her innocent heart seemed warm ; 
While the glad young spirit looked out with bliss 

From its shrine in her sylphlike form. 
Her soul seemed spreading the scene to span 

That opened before her view, 
And longing for power to look the plan 

Of the universe fairly through. 
She climbed and stood on the rocky steep, 

Like a bird that would mount and fly 
Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep 

Rolled up to the bending sky. 
She placed her lips to the spiral shell, 

And breathed through every fold ; 
She looked for the depth of its pearly cell, 

As a miser would look for gold. 
Her small, white fingers were spread to toss 

The foam, as it reached the strand : 
She ran them along in the purple moss, 

And over the sparkling sand. 
The green sea egg, by its tenant left, 

And formed to an ocean cup, 
She he .d by its sides, of their spears bereft, 

To fill, as the waves rolled up. 
But the hour went round, and she knew the space 

Her mother s soft word assigned ; 
While she seemed to look with a saddening face 

On all she must leave behind. 
She searched mid the pebbles, and, finding one 

Smooth, clear, and of amber dye, 
She held it up to the morning sun, 

And over her own mild eye. 
Then, " Here," said she, " I will give you this, 

That you may remember me !" 
And she sealed her gift with a parting kiss, 

And fled from beside the sea. 
Mary, thy token is by me yet : 

To me tis a dearer gem 
Than ever was brought from the mine, or set 

In the loftiest diadem. 
It carries me back to the far off deep, 

And places me on the shore, 
Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep 
Her pebble, 1 meet once more. 



And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, 

In a soul that is young, and free 
From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight 

Of sorrow, I find in thee. 
I wonder if ever thy tender heart 

In memory meets me there, 
W T here thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, 

W T as caught by the ocean air. 
Blest one ! over Time s rude shore, on thee 

May an angel guard attend, 
And " a white stone bearing a new name," be 

Thy passport when time shall end ! 



THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 

Tis midnight all is peace profound! 
But, lo ! upon the murmuring ground, 
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound 

Of distant wheels is heard ! 
They come they pause a moment when. 
Their charge resigned, they start, and then 
Are gone, and all is hushed again, 

As not a leaf had stirred. 
Hast thou a parent far away, 
A beauteous child, to be thy stay 
In life s decline or sisters, they 

Who shared thine infant glee ] 
A brother on a foreign shore 1 
Is he whose breast thy token bore, 
Or are thy treasures wandering o er 

A wide, tumultuous seal 
If aught like these, then thou must feel 
The rattling of that reckless wheel, 
That brings the bright or boding seal 

On every trembling thread 
That strings thy heart, till morn appears, 
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, 
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, 

As line on line is read. 
Perhaps thy treasure s in the deep, 
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, 
Thy brother where thou canst not weep 

Upon his distant grave ! 
Thy parent s hoary head no more 
May shed a silver lustre o er 
His children grouped nor death restore 

Thy son from out the wave ! 
Thy prattler s tongue, perhaps, is stilled. 
Thy sister s lip is pale and chilled, 
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled 

Her corner of the tomb. 
May be, the home where all thy sweet 
And tender recollections meet, 
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet 

In midnight s awful gloom ! 
And while, alternate, o er my soul 
Those cold or burning wheels will roll 
Their ohill or heat, beyond control. 

Till morn shall bring relief 
Father in heaven, whate er may be 
The cup which thou hast sent for me, 
I know tis good, prepare! by thee. 

Though filled with joy >r e.ri-A * 



CAROLINE OILMAN. 



(Born 1794). 



CAROLINE HOWARD was born in Boston, in 
1794, and in 1819 was married to the Rev. 
Samuel Oilman, one of the most accom 
plished scholars of the Unitarian church, 
who is known as an author by his very clever 
work entitled Memoirs of a New England 
Yjllage Choir, and by numerous elegant pa 
pers in the reviews. Soon ai er their mar 
riage they removed to Charleston, South Car 
olina, where Dr. Gil man has ever since been 
actively engaged in the duties of his pro 
fession. 

Mrs. Oilman is best known as a writer of 
prose, and her works will long be valued for 
the spirit and fidelity with which she has 
painted rural and domestic life in the north 
ern and in the southern states. Her Recol 
lections of a New England Housekeeper, 
and Recollections of a Southern Matron, are 
equally happy, and both show habits of mi 
nute observation, skill in character-writing, 



and an artist-like power of grouping; they 
are also pervaded by a genial tone, and a love 
of nature, and good sense. Her other works 
are, Love s Progress, a Tale ; The Poetry of 
| Travelling in the United States ; Tales and 
Ballads; Stories and Poems for Children; 
and Verses of a Lifetime. She edited for 
several years, in Charleston, a literary ga 
zette called The Southern Rose ; published a 
collection of the Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, 
a heroine of the Revolution ; and illustrated 
the extent of her reading in poetical liter 
ature, by two ingenious volumes, entitled 
Oracles from the Poets, and The Sybil. 

The poems of Mrs. Oilman are nearly 
all contained in Verses of a Lifetime, just 
issued (at the close of the year 1848) by 
James Munroe & Company, of Boston. They 
abound in expressions of wise, womanly feel 
ing, and are frequently marked by a graceful 
elegance of manner. 



ROSALIE. 

T^is fearful to watch by a dying friend, 

Though luxury glistens null; 
Though the pillow of down be softly spread 

Where the throbbing temples lie 
Though the loom s pure fabric enfold the form, 

^ Though the shadowy curtains flow, 
Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread 

As " lightly as snow on snow" 

Though the perfumed air as a garden teems 

With flowers of healthy bloom, 
And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze 

In the cool and guarded room 

Though the costly cup for the fevered lip 

With grateful cordial flows, 
While the watching eye and the warning hand 

1 reserve the snatched repose. 
Yes, even with these appliances, 
^Fmin wealth s unmeasured store, 
Tii fearful to watch the spirit s flight 

To its dim and distant shore. 
But oh, when the f,,r.n that we love is laid 

On Poverty s chilly bed, 
When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs 

I urough crevice and pane is sped 
Whon the noonday sun comes streaming in 

Un HIP dun or burning eye, 



And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread 
Is heard from the passers by 

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught 

To us in vain upturns, 
And the aching head on a pillow hard 

In restless fever burns 

When night rolls on, and we gaze in wo 

On the candle s lessening ray, 
And grope about in the midnight gloom, 

And long for the breaking day 

Or bless the moon as her silver torch 
Sheds light on our doubtful hand, 

When pouring the drug which a moment wresta 
1 he soul from the spirit-land 

When we know that sickness of soul and heart 

W nich sensitive bosoms feel 
When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze 

Un woes we can not heal : 

This, this is the crown of bitterness ! 

And we pray, as the loved one dies, 
That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, 

And with theirs close our aching eyes. 
My story tells of sweet Rosalie, 

Once a maiden of joy and delight, 
A ray of love, from her girlish days, 

To her parents devoted sight. 
52 



CAROLINE OILMAN. 



The girl was free as the river wave 

That dances to ocean s rest, 
And life looked down like a summer s sun 

On her pure and gentle breast. 

She saw young Arthur their happy hearts 
Like two young streamlets shone, 

That leap along on their mountain path, 
Then mingle their waters as one. 

They parted : he roved to western wilds 

To seek for his bird a nest, 
And Rosalie dwelt in her father s halls, 

And folded her wings to rest. 

But her father died, and a fearful blight 
O er his child and his widow fell 

They sunk from that day in the gloomy abys.? 
Where sorrow and poverty dwell. 

Consumption came, and he whispered low 

To the widow of early death ; 
He hastened the beat of her constant pulse, 

And baffled the coming breath. 

He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek, 
And shrivelled her hand of snow ; 

He checked her step in its easy glide, 
And her eye beamed a restless glow. 

He choked her voice in its morning song, 

And stifled its evening lay, 
And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn 

As she lay on her pillow to pray. 

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light, 

And sat by the midnight oil ; 
But the pittance was fearfully small that came 

By her morning and evening toil. 

T was then in her lodging the night-wind came 
Through crevice and broken pane ; 

Twas there that the early sunbeam burst 
With its glaring and burning train. 

When Rosalie sat by her mother s side, 
She smothered her heart s affright, 

And essayed to smile, though the monster Want 
Stood haggard and wan in her sight. 

She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor, 
And crushed her hands on her heart, 

Or stood like a statue so still and pale, 
Lest a tear or a cry should start. 

Her household goods went one by one 

To purchase their scanty fare; 
And even the little mirror was sold 

Where she parted her glossy hair. 

Then hunger glared in her full blue eye, 
And was heard in her tremulous tone; 

And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats, 
As he sits by the wayside stone. 

The neighbors gave of their scanty store, 
But their jealous children scowled ; 

And the eager dog, that guarded the street, 
Looked on the morsel and howled. 

Then her mother died twas a blessed thing J 
For the last faint embers had gone 

On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out 
As Rosalie watched for the dawn. 



Twas a blessed exchange from thisdark,co .d earth 
To those bright and blossoming bowers, 

Where the spirit roves in its robes of light 
And gathers immortal flowers ! 

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother s breast, 
Though its fluttering breath was o er. 

And eagerly pressed her passive hand. 
Which returned the pressure no more. 

In darkness she closed the fixing eyes, 
And saw not the deathly glare 

Then straightened the warm and flaccid limbs 
With a wild and fearful care. 

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke 
On the night that her mother died, 

Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch, 
In sleep by her mother s side. 

T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see, 
(When they woke from their kindlier rest,) 

The beautiful girl, with her innocent face, 
Asleep on the corpse s breast. 

Her hair flowed about by her mother s side, 
And her hand on the dead hand fell ; 

Yet her breathing was light as the lily s roll, 
When waved by the ripple s swell. 

There was surely a vision of heaven s delight 

Haunting her exquisite rest, 
For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile 

As could only beam out from the blest. 

T was fearful as beautiful : and as they gazed, 
The neighbors stood whispering low, [dead, 

Nor dared they remove her white arm from the 
Where it seemed in its fondness to grow. 

Life is not always a darkling dream : 

God loves our sad waking to bless 
More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade 

That heralds our happiness. 
A stranger stands by that humble door, 

A youth in the flush of life, 
And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance 

Seems with sorrow and care at strife. 
Manly beauty and soul-formed grace 

Stand forth in each movement fair, 
And speak in the turn of his well-timed step, 

And shine in his wavy hair. 
With travel and watchfulness worn was he, 

Yet there beamed on his open brow 
Traces of faith and integrity, 

Where conscience had stamped her vow. 
T was Arthur : he gazed on those two pale forms, 

Soon one was clasped to his heart ; 
In piercing accents he called her name 

That voice made the life-blood start ! 
Not on the dead doth she ope her eves 

Life, love, spread their living wings ; 
And she rests on her lover s breast as a child 

To its nursing mother clings. 
A pure white tomb in the near graveyard 

Betokens the widow s rest, 
But Arthur has gone to his fort-home, 

And shelters his dove in his nebt. 



CAROLINE OILMAN. 



THE PLANTATION. 

FAUKWKLL, awhile, the city s hum, 

Where busy footsteps fall, 
And welcome fo inv \ve:irv eye 

The planter s friendly hall. 

Here let me rise at early dawn, 
And list the mockbird s lay, 

That, warbling ii(>ar our lowland home, 
Sits on the waving spray. 

Then tread the shading avenue 

Beneath tin- cedar s ulooin, 
Or gum tree, with its flickered shade, 

Or chinq uapen s perfume. 

The myrtle tree, the orange wild, 

The cypress flexile bough, 
The holly with its polished leaves, 

Are all before me now. 

There, towering with imperial pride, 

The rich magnolia stands, 
And here, in softer loveliness, 

The white-bloomed bay expands. 

The long gray moss hangs gracefully, 

Idly I twine its wreaths, 
Or stop to catch the fragrant air 

The frequent blossom breathes. 

Life wakes around the red bird darts 
Like flame from tree to tree ; 

The whip-poor-will complains alone, 
The robin whistles free. 

The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
And seeks the thicket nigh ; 

The squirrel climbs the hickory bough, 
Thence peeps with careful eye. 

The hummingbird, with busy wing, 

In rainbow beauty moves, 
Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 

And sips the tube he loves. 

Triumphant to yon withered pine 

The soaring eagle flies, 
There builds her eyrv mid the clouds, 

And man and heaven defies. 
The hunter s bugle echoes near, 

And see his weary train, 
With mingled bowlings, scent the woods 

Or scour the open plain. 

Yon skiff is darting from the cove, 

And list the negro s song 
The theme, his owner and his boat 

While glide the crew along. 

And when the leading voice is lost, 

Receding from the shore, 
His brother boatmen swell the strain, 

In chorus with the oar. 

There stands the dairy on the stream, 
Within the broad oak s shade; 

The white pails glitter in the sun, 
In rustic pomp arrayed. 

ADI! she stands smiling at the door, 
Who "minds" that titilki/ way 



She smooths her apron as I pass, 
And loves the praise I pay. 

Welcome to me her sable hands, 
When in the noontide heat, 

Within the polished calibash, 
She pours the pearly treat. 

The poulterer s feathered, tender charge, 

Feed on the grassy plain ; 
Her Afric brow lights up with smiles, 

Proud of her noisy train. 

Nor does the herdman view his flock 

With unadmiring gaze, 
Significant are all their names, 

Won by their varying ways. 

Forth from the negroes humble huts 
The laborers now have gone ; 

But some remain, diseased and old 
Do they repine alone 1 

Ah, no : the nurse, with practised skill, 
That sometimes shames the wise, 

Prepares the herb of potent power, 
And healing aid applies. 

On sunny banks the children play, 

Or wind the fisher s line, 
Or, with the dexterous fancy braid, 

The willow baskets twine. 

Long ere the sloping sun departs 

The laborers quit the field, 
And, housed within their sheltering huts 

To careless quiet yield. 

But see yon wild and lurid clouds, 

That rush in contact strong, 
And hear the thunder, peal on peal, 

Reverberate along. 
The cattle stand and mutely gaze, 

The birds instinctive fly, 
While forked flashes rend the air, 

And light the troubled sky. 
Behold yon sturdy forest pine, 

Whose green top points to heaven 
A flash ! its firm, encasing bark 

By that red shock is riven. 
But we, the children of the South, 

Shrink not with trembling fears ; 
The storm, familiar to our youth, 

Will spare our ripened years. 
We know its fresh, reviving charm, 

And, like the flower and bird, 
Our looks and voices, in each pause, 

With grateful joy are stirred. 
And now the tender rice upshoots, 

Fresh in its hue of green, 
Spreading its emerald carpet far, 

Beneath the sunny sheen ; 
Though when the softer, ripened hue 

Of autumn s changes rise, 
The rustling spires instinctive lift 

Their gold seeds to the skies. 

There the young cotton-plant unfolds 
Its leaves of sickly hue, 



CAROLINE OILMAN. 



But soon advancing to its growth, 
Looks up with beauty too. 

And, as midsummer suns prevail, 

Upon its blossoms glow 
Commingling hues, like sunset rays 

Then bursts its sheeted snow. 

How shall we fly this lovely spot, 

Where rural joys prevail 
The social board, the eager chase, 

Gay dance, and rnerry tale 1 

Alas ! our youth must leave their sports, 
When spring-time ushers May ; 

Our maidens quit the planted flower, 
Just blushing into day 

Or, all beneath yon rural mound, 
Where rest th ancestral dead, 

By mourning friends, with severed hearts, 
Unconscious w^ill be led. 

Oh, southern summer, false and fair ! 

Why, from thy loaded wing, 
Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare, 

The seeds of sorrow fling 1 



MUSIC ON THE CANAL. 

I WAS weary with the daylight, 

I was weary with the shade, 
And my heart became still sadder 

As the stars their light betrayed ; 
I sickened at the ripple, 

As the lazy boat went on, 
And felt as though a friend was lost, 

When the twilight ray was gone. 

The meadows, in a firefly glow, 
Looked gay to happy eyes : 

To me they beamed but mournfully, 
My heart was cold with sighs. 

They seemed, indeed, like summer friends- 
Alas ! no warmth had they ; 

I turned in sorrow from their glare, 
Impatient turned away. 

And tear-drops gathered in my eyes, 

And rolled upon my cheek, 
And when the voice of mirth was heard, 

I had no heart to speak : 
I longed to press my children 

To my sad and homesick breast, 
And feel the constant hand of love 

Caressing and caressed. 

And slowly went my languid pulse, 

As the slow canal-boat goes, 
And I felt the pain of weariness, 

And sighed for home s repose ; 
And laughter seemed a mockery, 

And joy a fleeting breath, 
And life a dark, volcanic crust, 

That crumbles over death. 

But a strain of sweetest melody 

Arose upon my ear, 
The blessed sound of woman s voice^, 

That angels love to hear ! 



And manly strains of tenderness 
Were mingled with the song 

A father s with his daughter s notes, 
The gentle with the strong. 

And my thoughts began to soften, 

Like snows when waters fall, 
And open as the frost-closed buds, 

When spring s young breezes call ; 
While to my faint and weary soul 

A better hope was given, 
And all once more was bright with faith, 

Twixt heart, and earth, and Heaven. 



THE CONGRESSIONAL BURYIXG-GROUND 

THE pomp of death was there 
The lettered urn, the classic marble rose, 
And coldly, in magnificent repose, 

Stood out the column fair. 

The hand of art was seen 

Throwing the wild flowers from the gravelled walk, 
The sweet wild flowers, that hold their quiet talk 

Upon the uncultured green. 

And now perchance, a bird, 
Hiding amid the trained and scattered trees, 
Sent forth his carol on the scentless breeze 

But they were few I heard. 

Did my heart s pulses beat ] 
And did mine eye o erflow with sudden tears, 
Such as gush up mid memories of years, 

When humbler graves we meet 1 

An humbler grave I met, 
On the Potomac s leafy banks, when May, 
Weaving spring flowers, stood out in colors gay, 

With her young coronet : 

A lonely, nameless grave, 

Stretching its length beneath th o erarching trees, 
Which told a plaintive story, as the breeze 

Came their new buds to wave. 

But the lone turf was green 
As that which gathers o er more honored forms ; 
Nor with more harshness had the wintry stonns 

Swept o er that woodland scene. 

The flower and springing blade 
Looked upward with their young and shining i-yes, 
And met the sunlight of the happy skies, 

And that low turf arrayed. 

And unchecked birds sang out 
The chorus of their spring-time jubilee 
And gentle happiness it was to me, 

To list their music-shout. 

And to that stranger-grave 
The tribute of enkindling thoughts the free 
And unbought power of natural sympathy 

Passing, I sadly gave. 

And a religious spell 

On that lone mound, by man deserted, rose 
A conscious presence from on high, which glows 

Not where the worldly dwell. 



56 



CAROLINE OILMAN. 



TO THE URSUL1NE3. 

OH, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the sky above your quiet bark 

By soft winds blest ! 

Still toil in duty, and commune with Heaven, 

World-weaned and free ; 
God to his humblest creatures room has given 

And space to be. 

Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky 

To plume his wing 
Space for the ringdove by her young to lie, 

And softly sing. 

Space for the sunflower, bright with yellow glow, 

To court the sky 
Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow, 

To live and die. 

Space for the ocean, in its giant might, 

To swell and rave 
Space for the river, tinged with rosy light, 

Where green banks wave. 

Space for the sun to tread his path in might 

And golden pride 
Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light, 

Love to her side. 

Then, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the skies above, and your still bark 

By kind winds blest. 



RETURN TO MASSACHUSETTS. 

THE martin s nest the simple nest ! 

I see it swinging high, 
Just as it stood in distant years, 

Above my gazing eye ; 
But many a bird has plumed its wing, 

And lightly flown away, 
Or drooped his little head in death, 

Since that my youthful day ! 

The woodland stream the pebbly stream ! 

It gayly flows along, 
As once it did when by its side 

I sang my merry sonu:: 
But many a wave has rolled afar, 

Beneath the summer cloud, 
Since by its bank I idly poured 

My childish song aloud. 



The sweet-brier rose the wayside rose, 

Still spreads its fragrant arms, 
Where graciously lo passing eyes 

It gave its simple charms ; 
But many a perfumed breeze has passed, 

And many a blossom fair, 
Since with a careless heart I twined 

Its green wreaths in my hair. 

The barberry bush the poor man s bush ! 

Its yellow blossoms hang, 
As erst, where by the grassy lane 

Along I lightly sprang ; 
But many a flower has come and gone, 

And scarlet berry shone, 
Since I, a school-girl in its path, 

In rustic dance have flown. 



ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. 

SHE bounded o er the graves, 
With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
She bounded o er the graves, 
Where the weeping willow waves, 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her eyes were glittering bright; 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her little hands spread wide, 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 
That registers the dead ; 
She spelt the lettered word, 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 
With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 
Left fluttering on a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet monument of grief, 
That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile 
T was near her sister s mound : 
She culled it with a smile, 
And played with it awhile, 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart, 
Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart 
Oh, bitter drops will start 
Full soon in coming years. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



(Born 17 

SARAH JOSEPHA BCJELL, now Mrs. HALE, | 
was born in 1795 at Newport in New Hamp- | 
shire, whither her parents had removed soon 
after the close of the Revolution, from Say- 
brook in Connecticut. There were then few j 
schools in that part of the country, and per- | 
haps none from which the parents of Miss Bu- 
ell would have sought for her more than the 
most elementary instruction. Her mother, 
however, was a woman of considerable cul 
tivation, and of a fine understanding ; she at 
tended carefully to the education of her chil 
dren, and the studies of our author which she 
could not direct were afterward guided by a 
brother, who graduated at Dartmouth college 
in 1809, and was a good classical and gen 
eral scholar. But the completion t)f her ed 
ucation was deferred until af.er her marriage, 
which took place about the year 1814. Her 
husband, Mr. David Hale, was an accom 
plished lawyer, well read in the best litera 
ture, and anxious for the thorough develop 
ment of her abilities, of which he had formed 
a high estimate. "We commenced, "writes 
Mrs. Hale, " immediately after our marriage, 
a system of study, which we pursued togeth 
er, with few interruptions, and these una 
voidable, during his life. The hours we 
allotted for this purpose were from eight 
o clock in the evening till ten. In this man 
ner we studied French, botany then almost 
a new science in this country, but for which 
my husband had an uncommon taste and 
obtained some knowledge of mineralogy, ge 
ology, &c., besides pursuing a long and in 
structive course of miscellaneous reading." 

Mr. Hale died suddenly in September, 1822, 
having been married about eight years, du 
ring which he had been eminently successful 
in attaining to professional eminence, but 
without having yet secured even the basis 
of a fortune. Mrs. Hale was a Avidow and 
was poor, and after the strongest feelings of 
sorrow had subsided, and the affairs of her de 
ceased husband had been settled, she formed 
plans for tbe support and education of hei 
family, which she subsequently executed 
with an energy and perseverance which 



command admiration, and which with her 
powers could not fail of success. Literature, 
which had hitherto been cultivated for its 
own reward, became now her profession and 
only means of support. 

The first publication of Mrs. Hale was 
The Genius of Oblivion, and other Original 
Poems, printed at Concord in 1823. The 
Genius of Oblivion is a descriptive story in 
about fifteen hundred octosyllabic lines- 
founded upon a tradition of the aboriginal 
settlement of this country. At the close of 
the poem is an intimation of a half-formed 
design to write a sequel to it. She says : 

And hence Columbia s first inhabitants 
The authors of these Monuments of Old : 

And their destruction, I may sing, perchance, 
If haply this, my tale, so featly told, 

Escape Medusan critics withering glance, 
And in my country s favor live enrolled, 

As not unworthy of her smile : but this, 
A hope I may but cherish, or dismiss. 
Her next work, hoAvever, was Northwood, 
a Tale of New England, in two volumes, 
published in Boston in 1827. Her object in 
this novel is to illustrate common life among 
the descendants of the Puritans, and she un 
doubtedly succeeded in sketching with spirit 
and singular fidelity the forms of society with 
which she was acquainted by observation. 
The doctor, the deacon, the family of the 
squire, and other village characters, are most 
natural and truthful delineations-. But North- 
wood evinces little of the constructive fac 
ulty, and only its portraitures that have been 
referred to can be much commended. 

In 1828 Mrs. Hale removed to Boston to 
conduct the American Ladies Magazine, a 
monthly miscellany established at that lime, 
and edited by her for about nine years. IL 
this work were originally published many 
of the prose compositions which were sub 
sequently issued in two separate volumes 
under the titles of Sketches of American 
Character, and Traits of American Life In 
the same period she published Flora s Inter 
preter, The Lady s Wreath, and several srnalJ 
books for children. She remained in Boston 
until 1838, when she removed to Philncl*" 



SARAH J. HALE. 



phia ? where she has since resided, as edito 
of the Lady s Book, one of the most popula. 
and widely-circulated literary periodicals in 
the English language. 

In 1846 Mrs. Hale published a poem more 
remarkable than any other she has written 
for a certain delicacy of fancy and expres 
sion, under the name of Alice Ray ; and in 
1848 appeared her Three Hours, or the Vigii 
of Love, and other Poems, a collection in 
which Alice Ray is included, and upon which 
altogether must rest her best literary repu 
tation. Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, 
is very much in the style of some of the more 
fantastic stories of Winthrop Mack worth 
Praed. The heroine has fled with her lover, 
an escaped slate prisoner, from England to 
Boston, and the interest of the poem arises 
from the effective manner in which, while 
she is waiting his return, in a stormy night, 
her fears are awakened, and by. a vivid rec 
ollection of tales of horror heightened to an 
indescribable dread. 

It was two hundred years ago, 

When moved the world so very slow, 

And when the wide Atlantic sea 

Appeared like an eternity. 

The following scene, from ghostly stories 
she heard in childhood, is among the phan 
tasms by which she is haunted, and it ex 
hibits in a favorable light Mrs. Kale s ca 
pabilities in this line of art: 
Once a holy man was set 
Watching where the witches met. 
Open Bible, naked sword 
And three candles on the board 
There the godly man was set 
Watching whore the witches met ; 
Knowing well his dreadful doom, 
Should they drive him from the room. 

The candles three were burning bright, 
The sword was (lashing back the light, 
As it struck the deep midnight; 
While the holy book he read, 
And all was still as are the dead. 

Suddenly there came a roar 
Like breakers on a rocky shore, 
When the ocean s thundering boom 
Knells the mariner to his tomb. 
The good man felt the struggling strife, 
As the ship went down with its load of life ! 
His seat was shaken by the roar, 
And upward seemed to rise the floor! 
While round and round, as eddies hurl, 
The room and table seemed to whirl ! 
Yet still the holy book read he, 
And /.raved for tnose who sail the sea. 



Then came a shrieking, wild and high, 
As when flames are bursting nigh, 
And their blood has stained the sky ! 
" Fly ! fly ! fly !" in a strangling cry, 
Was hoarsely rattled on his ear 
While the crackling flames came near ! 
And sti.l the holy book read he, 
And prayed for those where fires might be. 

And then appeared a sight of dread: 
The roof was opened above his head ; 
He saw, in the far-off, dusky view, 
A bloody hand and an arm come through ! 
The lady seemed to see them too. 

At the close of the third hour the husband 
is restored, and all these fearful shadows are 
dispelled. The plot is simple and the exe 
cution of the poem generally finished ; but 
its effect is marred by the introduction of 
some needless reflections and by occasional 
changes of the rhythm. 

Among the published works of Mrs. Hale 
is Ormond Grosvenor, a Tragedy, in Five 
Acts, founded upon the celebrated case of 
Colonel Isaac Hayne, the revolutionary mar 
tyr of South Carolina. This Avas printed in 
1838, but it has since heen partly re- written 
and very much improved. In 1848 she gave 
to the public Harry Guy, a Story of the Sea, 
in nearly three thousand lines of most com 
pact versification. Her long and elabora te po 
ems entitled Felicia, and The Rhime of Life, 
appear from some extracts that have been 
printed, to possess more impassioned earnest 
ness than her other compositions, and they 
contain perhaps the clearest expressions of 
ler intellectual and social character. 

Mrs. Hale has a ready command of pure 
.nd idiomatic English, and her style has fre 
quently a masculine strength and energy. 
She has not much creative power, but she 
excels in the aggregation and artistical dis 
position of common and appropriate image- 
y. She has evidently been all her life a 
tudent, and there has been a perceptible 
ind constant improvement in her writings 
:ver since her first appearance as an author. 
Besides her works that have been pub- 
ished in separate volumes, she has written 
very large number of tales, sketches, es- 
ays, criticisms, poems, and other composi- 
ions, which are scattered through the vari- 
us periodicals with which she has been con- 
ected. They are all indicative of sound 
rinciples, and of kindness, knowledge, and 
udgment. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



THE MISSISSIPPI. 

MONAUCH of rivers in the wide domain 
Where Freedom writes her signature in stars, 
And bids her eagle bear the blazing scroll 
To usher in the reign of peace and love, 
Thou mighty Mississippi ! may my song 
Swell with thy power, and though an humble rill, 
Roll, like thy current, through the sea of time, 
Bearing thy name, as tribute from my soul 
Of fervent gratitude and holy praise, 
To Him who poured thy multitude of waves. 

Shadowed beneath these awful piles of stone, 
Where liberty has found a Pisgah height, 
O erlooking all the land she loves to bless, 
The jagged rocks and icy towers her guard, 
Whose splintered summits seize the warring clouds, 
And roll them, broken, like a host o erthrown, 
Adown the mountain s side, scattering their wealth 
Of powdered pearl and liquid diamond drops 
There is thy source, great river of the west ! 

Slowly, like youthful Titan gathering strength 
To war with Heaven and win himself a name, 
The stream moves onward through the dark ravines, 
Rending the roots of over-arching trees, 
To form its narrow channel, where the star, 
That fain would bathe its beauty in the wave, 
Like lover s glance steals trembling through the 
That veil the waters with a vestal s care : [leaves 
And few of human form have ventured there, 
Save the swart savage in his bark canoe. 

But now it deepens, struggles, rushes on; 
Like goaded war-horse, bounding o er the foe, 
It clears the rocks it may not spurn aside, 
Leaping, as Curtius leaped adown the gulf, 
And rising, like Antaeus from the fall, 
Its course majestic through the land pursues, 
And the broad river o er the valley reigns ! 

It reigns alone : the tributary streams 
Are humble vassals, yielding to its sway; 
And when the wild Missouri fain would join 
A rival in the race as Jacob seized 
On his red brother s birthright even so 
The swelling Mississippi grasps that wave, 
And, rebaptizing, makes the waters one. 

It reigns alone and earth the sceptre feels : 
Her ancient trees are bowed beneath the wave, 
Or, rent like reeds before the whirlwind s swoop, 
Toss on the bosom of the maddened flood, 
A floating forest, till the waters, calmed, 
Like slumbering anaconda gorged with prey, 
Open a haven to the moving mass, 
Or form an island in the dark abyss. 

It reigns alone : old Nile would ne er bedew 
The lands it blesses with ils fertile tide. 
Even sacred Ganges, joined with Egypt s flood, 
Would shrink beside this wonder of the west ! 
Ay, gather Europe s royal rivers all 
The snow-swelled Neva, with an empire s weight 
On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued, 
Through shaggy forests and from palace walls, 
To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
The castled Rhine,whose vine-crowned waters flow, 
The fount of fable and t ;e source of song ; 



The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 
The loving sky seems wedded with the wave ; 
The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
A dying miser shrinking neath his gold ; 
And Seine, where Fashion glasses fairest forms ; 
And Thames, that bears the riches of the world : 
Gather their waters in one ocean mass 
Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on, 
Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up, 
Like Aaron s rod, these streams of fame and song ! 

And thus the peoples, from the many lands, 
Where these old streams are household memories, 
Mingle beside our river, and are one 
And join to swell the strength of Freedom s tide, 
That from the fount of Truth is flowing on, 
To sweep earth s thousand tyrannies away. 

How wise, how wonderful the works of God ! 
And, hallowed by his goodness, all are good. 
The creeping glow-worm, the careering sun, 
Are kindled from the effluence of his light ; 
The ocean and the acorn-cup are filled 
By gushings from the fountain of his love. 
He poured the Mississippi s torrent forth, 
And heaved its tide above the trembling land 
Grand type how Freedom lifts the citizen 
Above the subject masses of the world 
And marked the limits it may never pass. 
Trust in his promises, and bless his power, 
Ye dwellers on its banks, and be at peace. 

And ye, whose way is on this warrior wave, 
When the swoln waters heave with ocean s might, 
And storms and darkness close the gate of heaven, 
And the frail bark, fire-driven, bounds quivering on, 
As though it rent the iron shroud of night, 
And struggled with the demons of the flood 
Fear nothing ! He who shields the folded flower, 
W hen tempests rage, is ever present here. 
Lean on " our Father s" breast in faith and prsyer 
And sleep his arm of love is strong to save. 

Great Source of being, beauty, light, and love 
Creator Lord the waters worship thee ! 
Ere thy creative smile had sown the flowers 
Ere the glad hills leaped upward, or the earth, 
W T ith swelling bosom, waited for her child 
Before eternal Love had lit the sun, 
Or Time had traced his dial-plate in stars, 
The joyful anthem of the waters flowed : 
And Chaos like a frightened felon fled, 
While on the deep the Holy Spirit moved. 

And evermore the deep has worshipped God; 
And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres. 
While listening to the music of the floods. 
Oh, could I catch this harmony of sounds, 
As borne on dewy wings they float to heaven, 
And blend their meaning with my closing strain . 

Hark ! as a reed-harp thrilled by whispering winds, 
Or naiad murmurs from a pearl-lipped shell, 
It comes the melody of many waves ! 
And loud, with Freedom s world-awaking note, 
The deep-toned Mississippi leads the choir. 
The pure, sweet fountains chant of heavenly hope 
The chorus of the nfis is household love ; 
The rivers roll their song of social joy ; 
And ocean s organ voice is sounding forth 
The hymn of Universal Brotherhood ! 



fiO 



SARAH J. HALE. 



Till-: FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. 



vigdniu i 



teachings would we heed." 



THKHE knelt beneath the tulip tree 

A maiden fair and young; 
The flowers overhead bloomed gorgeously, 

As though by rainbows flung, 
And all around were daisies bright, 
And pansies with their eyes of light; 
Like gold the sun-kissed crocus shone, 
With Beauty s smiles the earth seemed strown, 
And Love s warm incense filled the air, 
While the fair girl was kneeling there. 

In vain the flowers may woo around 

Their charms she does not see, 
For she a dearer prize has found 

Beneath the tulip tree : 
A little four-leaved clover, green 
As robes that grace the fairy queen, 
And fresh as hopes of early youth, 
When life is love, and love is truth 
A talisman of constant love 
This humble clover sure will prove ! 
And on her heart that gentle maid 
The severed leaves has pressed, 
Which through the coming night s dark shade 
Beneath her cheek will rest : 

Then precious dreams of one will rise, 

Like Love s own star in morning skies, 

So sweetly bright, we would the day 

His glowing chariot might delay. 
What tones of pure and tender thought 

Those simple leaves to her have taught 

Of old the sacred misletoe 
The Druid s altar bound ; 

The Roman hero s haughty brow 
The fadeless laurel crowned. 

Dark superstition s sway is past, 

And war s red star is waning fast, 

Nor misletoe nor laurel hold 

The mystic language breathed of old ; 

For nature s life no power can give, 

To bid the false and selfish live. 

But still the olive-leaf imparts, 
As when, dove-borne, at first, 

It taught heaven s lore to human hearts 

Its hope, and joy, and trust ; 

Nor deem the faith from folly springs, 

Which innocent enjoyment brings; 

Better from earth root every flower, 

Than crush imagination s power, 

fn true and loving minds, to raise 

An Eden for their coming days. 

As on each rock, where plants can cling, 

he sunshine will be shed 

As from the tiniest star-lit spring 

The ocean s depth s are fed 

Thus hopes will rise, if love s clear ray 
Keep warm and bright life s rock-strewn way 
And from small, daily joys, distilled, 
The heart s deep fount of peace is filled : 
Oh, blest when Fancy s ray is given, 
Like the ethereal spark, from Heaven ! 



DESCRIPTION OF ALICE RAY. 

THE birds their love-notes warble 

Among the blossomed trees; 
The flowers are sighing forth their sweeta 

To wooing honeybees ; 
The glad brook o er a pebbly floor 

Goes dancing on its way 
But not a thing is so like spring 

As happy Alice Ray. 

An only child was Alice, 

And, like the blest above, 
The gentle maid had ever breathed 

An atmosphere of love ; 
Her father s smile like sunshine came, 

Like dew her mother s kiss ; 
Their love and goodness made her home, 

Like heaven, the place of bliss. 

Beneath such lender training 

The joyous child had sprung, 
Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower 

And gladness round her flung ; 
And all who met her blessed her, 

And turned again to pray, 
That grief and care might ever spare 

The happy Alice Rray. 

The gift that made her charming 

Was not from Venus caught; 
Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived 

From majesty of thought : 
Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown, 

Her hair without a curl 
But then her eyes were love-lit stars, 

Her teeth as pure as pearl. 

And when in merry laughter 

Her sweet, clear voice was heard, 
It welled from out her happy heart 

Like carol of a bird ; 
And all who heard were moved to smiles, 

As at some mirthful lay, 
And, to the stranger s look, replied, 

" Tis that dear Alice Ray." 

And so she came, like sunbeams 

That bring the April green 
As type of nature s royalty, 

They called her " Woodburn s queen !" 
A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness, 

Like springtime of the year, 
Seemed ever on her steps to wait 

No wonder she was dear. 

Her world was ever joyous 

She thought of grief and pain 
As giants of the olden time, 

That ne er would come again ; 
The seasons all had charms for her, 

She welcomed each with joy 

The charm that in her spirit lived 

No changes could destroy. 
Her love made all things lovely, 

For in the heart must live 
The ^feeling that imparts the charm 

We gain by what we give. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



IRON. 

" Truth shall spring out of the earth." Psalm Ixxxv. 11. 

A.S, in lonely thought, I pondered 

On the marv lous things of earth, 
And, in fancy s dreaming, wondered 

At their beauty, power, and worth, 
Came, like words of prayer, the feeling 

Oh ! that God would make me know, 
Through the spirit s clear revealing, 

What, of all his works below, 
Is to man a boon the greatest, 

Brightening on from age to age, 
Serving truest, earliest, latest, 

Through the world s long pilgrimage. 

Soon vast mountains rose before me, 

Shaggy, desolate, and lone, 
Their scarred heads were threat ning o er me, 

Their dark shadows round me thrown ; 
Then a voice, from out the mountains, 

As an earthquake shook the ground, 
And like frightened fawns the fountains, 

Leaping, fled before the sound ; 
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly, 

Quivering, aspen-like, with fear 
While the deep response came slowly, 

Or it must have crashed mine ear ! 

"Iron! iron! iron!" crashing, 

Like the battle-axe and shield ! 
Or the sword on helmet clashing, 

Through a bloody battle-field : 
" Iron ! iron ! iron !" rolling, 

Like the far-off cannon s boom ; 
Or the death-knell, slowly tolling, 

Through a dungeon s charnel gloom ! 
" Iron ! iron ! iron !" swinging, 

Like the summer winds at play; 
Or as bells of Time were ringing 

In the blest millennial day ! 

Then the clouds of ancient fable 

Cleared away before mine eyes; 
Truth could tread a footing stable 

O er the gulf of mysteries ! 
Words, the prophet-bards had uttered, 

Signs, the oracle foretold, 
Spells, the weird-like sybil muttered, 

Through the twilight days of old, 
Rightly read, beneath the splendor. 

Shining now on history s page, 
All their faithful witness render 

All portend a better age. 

Sisyphus, for ever toiling, 

Was the type of toiling men, 
While the stone of power, recoiling, 

Crushed them back to earth again ! 
Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding, 

Imaged man in mental chain, 
While the vultures, on him feeding, 

Were the passions vengeful reign ; 
Still a ray of mercy tarried 

On the cloud, a white-winged dove, 
For this mystic faith had married 

Vulcan to the queen of love f 



Rugged strength and radiant beauty 

These were one in nature s plan ; 
Humble toil and heavenward duty 

These will form the perfect man ! 
Darkly was this doctrine taught us 

By the gods of heathendom ; 
But the living light was brought us, 

When the gospel morn had come ! 
How the glorious change, expected, 

Could be wrought, was then made free 
Of the earthly, when perfected, 

Rugged iron forms the key ! 

" Truth from out the earth shall flourish," 

This the Word of God makes known 
Thence are harvests men to nourish 

There let iron s power be shown. 
Of the swords, from slaughter gory, 

Ploughshares forge to break the soil ; 
Then will Mind attain its glory, 

Then will Labor reap the spoil 
Error cease the soul to wilder, 

Crime be checked by simple good, 
As the little coral-builder 

Forces back the furious flood. 

While our faith in good grows stronger, 

Means of greater good increase ; 
Iron, slave of war no longer, 

Leads the onward march of peace ; 
Still new modes of service finding, 

Ocean, earth, and air, it moves, 
And the distant nations binding, 

Like the kindred tie it proves ; 
W T ith its Atlas-shoulder sharing 

Loads of human toil and care ; 
On its wing of lightning bearing 

Thought s swift mission through the air 

As the rivers, farthest flowing. 

In the highest hills have birth ; 
As the banyan, broadest growing, 

Oftenest bows its head to earth 
So the noblest minds press onward, 

Channels far of good to trace ; 
So the largest hearts bend downward, 

Circling all the human race ; 
Thus, by iron s aid, pursuing 

Through the earth their plans of love, 
Men our Father s will are doing, 

Here, as angels do above ! 



THE WATCHER. 

THE night was dark and fearful, 

The blast swept wailing by ; 
A watcher, pale and tearful, 

Looked forth with anxious eye : 
POW wistfully she gazes 

No gleam of morn is there ! 
And then her heart upraises 

Its agony of prayer ! 

Within that dwelling lonely, 

Where want and darkness reigu. 

Her precious child, her only, 
Lay moaning in his pain ; 



SARAH J. HALE. 



And death alone can free him 
She feels that this must be: 

" But oh ! for morn to see him 
Smile once again on me !" 

A hundred lights are glancing 

In yonder mansion fair, 
And merry feet are dancing 

They heed not morning there : 
Oh ! young and lovely creatures, 

One lamp, from out your store, 
Would give that poor boy s features 

To her fond gaze once more ! 

The morning sun is shining 

She heedeth not its ray ; 
Beside her dead, reclining, 

That pale, dead mother lay ! 
A smile her lip was wreathing, 

A smile of hope and love, 
As though she still were breathing 

" There s light for us above !" 



I SING TO HIM 



to him ! I dream he hears 

The song he used to love, 
And oft that blessed fancy cheers 

And bears my thoughts above. 
Ye say tis idle thus to dream 

But why believe it so ? 
It is the spirit s meteor gleam 

To soothe the pang of wo. 

Love gives to nature s voice a tone 

That true hearts understand 
The sky, the earth, the forest lone, 

Are peopled by his wand ; 
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill 

While {razing on a flower, 
And from the gently whisp ring rill 

Is heard the words of power. 

I breathe the dear and cherished name, 

And long-lost scenes arise; 
Life s glowing landscape spreads the same ; 

The same hope s kindling skies ; 
The violet-bank, the muss-fringed seat 

Beneath the drooping tree, 
The clock that chimed the hour to meet, 

My buried love, with thee 

0, these are all before me, when 

In fancy s realms I rove ; 
Why urge me to the world again \ 

^ Why say the ties of love, 
That death s cold, cruel grasp has riven, 

Unite no more below 1 
I ll sing to him for though in heaven, 

He surely heed* my wo ! 



THE LIGHT OF HOME. 

Mr son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 

And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
And thou must go ; but never, when there, 

Forget the light of home ! 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 

It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor s flash, twill deepen the night 

When treading thy lonely way: 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 

And pure as vestal fire ; 
Twill burn, twill burn for ever the same, 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed, 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam : 

When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
Then look to the light of home ! 

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, 

Thou shalt see the beacon bright, 
For never, till shining on thy shroud, 

Can be quenched its holy light. 
The sun of fame may gild the name, 

But the heart ne er felt its ray ; 
And fashion s smiles that rich ones claim, 

Are beams of a wintry day : 

How cold and dim those beams would be, 
Should life s poor wanderer come ! 

My son, when the world is dark to thee, 
Then turn to the light of home. 



THE TWO MAIDENS. 

OXE came with light and laughing air, 
And cheek like opening blossom 

Bright gems were twined amid her hair, 
And glittered on her bosom, 

And pearls and costly diamonds deck 

Her round, white arms arid lovely neck. 

Like summer s sky, with stars bcdight, 
The jewelled robe around her, 

And dazzling as the noontide light 
The radiant zone that bound her 

And pride and joy were in her eye, 

And mortals bowed as she passed by. 

Another came : o er her sweet face 
A pensive shade was stealing ; 

Yet there no grief of earth we trace 
But the heaven-hallowed feeling 

Which mourns the heart should ever stray 

From the pure fount of truth away. 

Around her brow, as snowdrop fair, 

The glossy tresses cluster, 
Nor pearl nor ornament was there, 

Save the meek spirit s lustre ; 
And faith and hope beamed in her eye, 
Am angels bowed as she passed bv. 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



(Born 1797). 



MRS. WELLS, formerly Miss FOSTER, was 
Dorn ia Gloucester, Massachusetts. Her fa 
ther died while she was an infant, and her 
mother, in a few years, married Mr. Locke, 
of Boston, the father of Mrs. Osgood. She 
began to write verses when very young, but 
published little until her marriage, in 1829, 
with Mr. Thomas Wells, of the United States 
revenue service, who was also an author of 
considerable merit, as is evident from some 
pieces by him quoted in Mr. KettelPs Speci 
mens of American Poetry. 

In 1830 Mrs. Wells published a small vol 



ume entitled Poems and Juvenile Sketches, 
and she has since been an occasional contri 
butor to several periodicals that have been 
edited by her personal friends. The poems 
of Mrs. Wells are characterized by womanly 
feeling and a tasteful simplicity of diction. 
Her range is limited, and she has the good 
sense to enter only the fields to which she is 
invited by her affections and the natural fan 
cies which are their children. While there 
fore her successes have not been brilliant they 
have been honorable, and she has to regret 
no failures. 



ASCUTNEY. 

IN a low, white-washed cottage, overrun 
With mantling vines, and sheltered from the sun 
By rows of maple trees, that gently moved 
Their graceful limbs to the mild breeze they loved, 
Oft have I lingered idle it might seem, 
But that the heart was busy ; and I deem 
Those minutes not misspent, when silently 
The soul communes with nature, and is free. 

O erlooking this low cottage, stately stood 
The huge Ascutney : there, in thoughtful mood, 
I loved to hold with her gigantic form 
Deep converse not articulate, but warm 
With feeling s noiseless eloquence, and fit 
The soul of nature with man s soul to knit. 

In various aspect, frowning on the day, 
Or touched with morning twilight s silvery gray, 
Or darkly mantled in the dusky night, 
Or by the moonbeams bathed in showers of light 
In each, in all, a glory still was there, 
A spirit of sublimity ; but ne er 
Had such a might of loveliness and power 
The mountain wrapt, as when, at midnight hour, 
I saw the tempest gather rounJ her head : 
It was an hour of joy, yet tinged with dread. 
As the deep thunder rolled from cloud to cloud, 
From all her hidden caves she cried aloud : 
Wood, cliff, and valley, with the echo rung; 
From rock and crag darting, with forked tongue 
The lightning glanced, a moment laying bare 
Her naked brow, then silence darkness there ! 
And straight again the tumult, as if rocks 
Had split, and headlong rolled. But nature mocks 
All language: these are scenes I ne er again 
May look upon but precious thoughts remain 
On memory s page ; and ever in my heart, 
A raid all other claims, that mountain hath a part. 



THE TAMED EAGLE. 

HE sat upon his humble perch, nor flew 

At my approach ; 

But as I nearer drew, 
Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach, 

And sadness too : 
And something still his native pride proclaimed, 

Despite his wo ; 

Which, when I marked ashamed 
To see a noble creature brought so low 

My heart exclaimed : 
Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye, 

Child of the storm, 

When from thy home on high, 
Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form 

Cleaving the sky 1 
" It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed 

Gone out the light 

That in thine eyeball flamed, 
When to the midday sun thy steady flight 

Was proudly aimed ! 
" Like a young dove forsaken, is the look 

Of thy sad eye, 

Who, in some lonely nook, 
Mourns on the willow bough her destiny, 

Beside the brook. 
" Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity, 

Thou monarch bird, 

Gazing with vulgar eye 
Upon thy ruin ; for my heart is stirred 

To hear thy cry. 
" Yet, something sterner in thy downward gaze 

Doth seem to lower, 

And deep disdain betrays, 
As if thou cursed man s poorly-acted power, 

And scorned his praise." 
63 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



THE OLD ELM THEE. 

EACH morning, when my waking eyes first see, 

Through the wreathed lattice, gol len day appear, 

There sits a robin on the old elm tree, 

And with such stirring music liils my ear, 

I iniiiht forget that life had pain or fear, 

And fee! again as I was wont to do, [new. 

When hope was young, and joy and life itself were 

No miser, o er his heaps of hoarded gold, 

Nor monarch, in the plenitude of power, 

Nor lover, f rrr the chaste maid to enfold 

Who ne er hath owned her love till that blest hour, 

Nor poet, couched in rocky nook or bower, 

Knoweth more heartfelt happiness than he, 

That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree. 

From even the poorest of Heaven s creatures, such 

As know no rule but impulse, we may draw 

Lemons of sweet humility, and much 

Of apt instruction in the homely law 

Of nature : and the time hath been, I saw 

Naught, beautiful or mean, but had for me [tree. 

Some charm, even like the warbler of the old elm 

And listening to his joy inspiring lay, 

Some sweet reflections are engendered thence : 

As half in tears, unto myself I say, 

God, who hath given this creature sources whence 

He such delight may gather and dispense, 

Hath in my heart joy s living fountain placed, 

More free to flow, the oftener of its waves I taste. 



ANNA. 

WITH the first ray of morning light 
^ Her face is close to mine her face all smiles : 
She hovers round my pillow like a sprite 
Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. 
All the long day 
She s at some busy play ; 
Or twixt her tiny fingers 
The scissors or the needle speeds ; 
Or some sweet story-book she reads, 

And o er it serious lingers. 
She stops like some glad creature of the air, 

As if she read her fate, and knew it fair 

In truth, for tlite at all she hath no care. 
Yet hath she tears as well as gladness: 

A butterfly in pain 
Will make her weep for sadness, 
But straight she ll smile again. 
And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain 

Sickness hath dimmed her eye, 
And on her tender spirit Iain, 
And brought her near to die. 
But like the flower 
That droops at evening hour, 
And opens gayly in the morning, 
Again her quick eye glows, 
And health s fresh rose 
Her soft cheek is adorning. 
Hushed was her childish lay: 
Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net ; 



And when she broke away, 
And shook her wings in the bright day, 
Her recent capture she did quite forget. 
What joy again to hear her blessed voice ! 
My heart, lie still, but in thy quietness rejoice ! 
Again, along the floor and on the stair, 

Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet ; 
Again her little, simple, earnest prayer, 

Hear her, at bedtime, in low voice repeat. 
Again, at table, and the fire beside, 

Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest ; 
Again her heart and rnind are open wide 

To yield and to receive bless and be blest 
Pliant and teachable, and oft revealing 
Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling. 
Oh, sweet maturity ! the gentle mood 
Raised to the intellectual and the good ; 
The bright, affectionate, and happy child 
The woman, pure, intelligent, and mild ! 
It must be so : they can not waste on air 
A mother s labor and a mother s prayer. 

THE FUTURE. 

THE flowers, the many flowers, 
That all along the smiling valley grew, 

While the sun lay for hours, 
Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew ; 

They, to the summer air 
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield : 

Vainly, to bind her hair, 
The village maiden seeks them in the field. 

The breeze, the gentle breeze, 
That wandered like a frolic child at play, 

Loitering mid blossomed trees, 
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way, 

No more adventuresome, 
Its whispered love is to the violet given ; 

The boisterous North has come, 
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven. 

The brook, the limpid brook, 
That prattled of its coolness, as it went 

Forth from its rocky nook, 
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent 

Its pleasant song is hushed : 
The sun no more looks down upon its play 

Freely, where once it gushed, 
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. 

The hours, the youthful hours, 
When in the cool shade we were wont to lie, 

Idling with fresh culled flowers, 
In dreams that ne er could know reality : 

Fond hours, but half enjoyed, 
Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, 

And dear hopes were destroyed, 
Like buds that die before the noon of day. 

Young life, young turbulent life, 
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, 

Tis lost mid folly s strife 

O erwhelmed at length by passion s curbless force : 

Nor deem youth s buoyant hours 
For idle hopes or useless musings given 

Who dreams away his powers, 
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven. 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



THE WHITE HARE. 

IT was the sabbath eve we went, 
My Geraldine and I, intent 

The twi ight hour to pass, 
Where we might hear the water flow, 
And scent the freighted winds that blow 

Athwart the vernal grass. 

In darker grandeur as the day 
Stole scarce perceptibly away 

The purple mountain stood, 
Wearing the young moon as a crest: 
The sun, half sunk in the far west, 

Seemed mingling with the flood. 

The cooling dews their balm distilled ; 
A holy joy our bosoms thrilled ; 

Our thoughts were free as air ; 
And, by one impulse moved, did we 
Together pour instinctively 

Our songs of gladness there. 

The green wood waved its shade hard by, 
W T hile thus we wove our harmony : 

Lured by the mystic strain, 
A snow-white hare, that long had been 
Peering from forth her covert green, 

Came bounding o er the plain. 

Her beauty, twas a joy to note 
The pureness of her downy coat, 

Her wild yet gentle eye 
The pleasure that, despite her fear, 
Had led the timid thing so near 

To list our minstrelsy. 

All motionless, with head inclined, 
^She stood, as if her heart divined 

The impulses of ours 
Till the last note had died and then 
Turned half reluctantly again, 

Back to her greenwood bowers. 

Once more the magic sounds we tried 
Again the hare was seen to glide 

From out her sylvan shade ; 
Again, as joy had given her wings, 
Fleet as a bird she forward springs 

Along the dewy glade. 

Go, happy thing ! disport at will 
Take thy delight o er vale and hill, 

Or rest in leafy bower : 
The harrier may beset thy way, 
The cruel snare thy feet betray 

Enjoy thy little hour ! 

We know not, and we ne er may know 
The hidden springs of joy and wo, 
That deep within^ do lie : 



The silent workings of thy heart 
Do almost seem to have a part 
With our humanity ! 



THE SEA-BIRD. 

SEA-BTTU> ! haunter of the wave, 

Delighting o er its crest to hover ; 
Half engulfed where yawns the cave 

The billow forms in rolling over; 
Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm ! 

In its shriek thou dost rejoice ; 
Sending from thy bosom warm 

Answer shriller than its voice. 

Bird, of nervous winged flight, 

Flashing silvery to the sun, 
Sporting with the sea-foam white 

When will thy wild course be done * 
Whither tends it 1 Has the shore 

No alluring haunt for thee ] 
Nook, with tangled vines grown o er, 

Scented shrub, or leafy tree 1 

Is the purple seaweed rarer 

Than the violet of the spring 1 
Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer 

Than the apple s blossoming ] 
Shady grove and sunny slope 

Seek but these, and thou shalt meet 
Birds not born with storm to cope, 

Hermits of retirement sweet 

Where no winds too rudely swell, 

But in whispers, as they pass, 
Of the fragrant flow ret tell, 

Hidden in the tender grass. 
There the mockbird sings of love ; 

There the robin builds his nest ; 
There the gentle-hearted dove, 

Brooding, takes her blissful rest. 

Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight : 

Gone ! where dark waves foam and dash. 
Like a lone star on the night 

Far I see his white wing flash. 
He obeyeth God s behest, 

All their destiny fulfil : 
Tempests some are born to breast 

Some to worship and be still. 

If to struggle with the storm 

On life s ever-changing sea, 
Where cold mists enwrap the form, 

My harsh destiny must be 
Sea-bird ! thus may I abide 

Cheerful the allotment given, 
And, rising o er the ruffled tide, 

Escape at last, like thee, to heaven t 



MARIA JAMES. 



(Born 1795). 



IN 1S33, Bishop Potter, then one of the 
professors in Union College, was shown by 
his wife, who had just returned from a visit 
to Rhinebeck on the Hudson, the Ode for the 
Fourth of July which is quoted on the next 
page, and informed that it was the production 
of a young woman at service in the family 
of a friend there, whom he had often noticed 
on account of her retiring and modest man 
ners, and who had been in that capacity more 
than twenty years. When further advised 
that these lines had been thrown off with 
great rapidity and apparent ease, and that 
the writer had been accustomed almost from 
childhood to find pleasure in similar efforts, 
the information awakened a lively interest, 
and led him to examine other pieces from 
the same hand, and finally to introduce them 
to the public notice, in a preface over his 
signature to the volume entitled Wales and 
other Poems, by MARIA JAMES, published in 
1839. 

MARIA JAMES is the daughter of poor but 
pious parents who emigrated to this country 
from Wales, near the beginning of the pres 
ent century, and settled near the slate quar 
ries in the northern part of New York. Her 
remaining history is told in an interesting 
manner in the following extracts from a let 
ter wnich she addressed to Mrs. Potter: 

" Toward the completion of my seventh year, I 
found myself on ship-hoard, surrounded hy men, wo- 
nii-ii ;md children, whose friers \veiv unknown to me. 
Jt wsis here, perhaps, Hint I first began to learn in a 
particular manner from observation soon discovering 
that, thus*- children who were handsome or smartly 
dressed received much more attention than myself) 
wK> had neither of these recommendations: how 
ever, instead of giving way to feehn-s of envy and 
jealousy, my imagination was revelling among 1 the 
fruits and (lowers which I expected to find in the 
land to which we wen; hound. I also had an oppor 
tunity to learn a littl" Kn-lisli during the voyage, as 
Take care, and (Jet out of the way, seemed reit 
erated from land s end to land s end. 

" After our family were settled in some measure, 
1 was sent to school, my father bavin- commenced 
teaching me at home some time previous. I think 
there was no particular aptness to learn about me. 
Aft.T I could read, I rwk much delL-ht in John 
Rogers ! last advice to his children, with all the 
excellent et cameras to he found in the old Kn-rlish 
Primer. I was also fond of reading the common 
liymnhook. The New Testament was my only 
cliool-hook. Tims accomplished, I happened one 



day to hear a young woman read Add icon s inimita 
ble paraphrases of the twenty-third psalm : 1 1 stened 
as to the voice of an angel. Those who know the 
power of good reading or good speaking, need not 
be told that, where there is an ear for sound, the 
manner in which either is done will make every pos 
sible difference. This, probably, was the first time 
that I ever heard a good reader. 

" My parents again removing, I found myself in a 
school where the elder children used the American 
P receptor. I listened in transport as they read 
DwL ht s Columbia, which must have been merely 
fr< m the smoothness of its sound, as 1 could have had 
but very little knowledge of its meaning. 1 was now 
ten years of age, and as an opportunity offered which 
my parents saw fit to embrace, 1 entered the family 
in which I now reside, where, besides learninir many 
useful household occupations, that care and attention 
was paid to my words and actions as is seldom to be 
met with in such situations. I had before me some 
of the best models for good reading and cood speak 
ing; and any child, with a natural ear for the beauti 
ful in language, will notice these thiii-:s, and though 
their conversation may not differ materially from that 
of others in their line of life, they will almost invari 
able think in the style of their admiration. 

" The Bible here, as in my father s house, was the 
book of books, the heads of the family constantly im 
pressing on all, that the fear of the. Lord is the be 
ginning of wisdom, and that to depart from iniquity 
is understanding. There is scarcely anything that 
can affect the mind of young persons like those les 
sons of wisdom which fall from lips they love and re 
spect. 

" Besides frequent opportunities of hearing instruc 
tive books read, 1113 leisure hours were often devoted 
to one or the other of these works : first, the Female 
Mentor, comprising within itself a little epitome of 
elegant literature; two odd volumes of the Adven 
turer; Miss Hannah More s Cheap Repository; and 
Pilgrim s Progress. During a period of nearly seven 
years which I spent in this family, the newspapers 
were more or less filled with the wars and fightings 
of our European neighbors. My imagination took 
fire, and I lent an ear to the whispers of the muse. 
"Twas then that first she pruned the wing; 

Twas then she first essayed to sing. 
But the wing was powerless, and the sonir without 
melody. As I advanced toward womanhood, I shrunk 
from the nickname of poet, which had been awarded 
me : the very idea seemed the height of presump 
tion. In my seventeenth year I left this situation to 
learn dressmaking. I sewed neatly, but too slow to 
insure success. My failure in this was always a sub 
ject of regret. After this, I lived some time in dif 
ferent situations, my employment beiiiLT principally 
in the nursery. In each of these different families I 
had access to those who spoke the purest English, 
also frequent opportunities of hearing correct and 
elegant readers at least I believed them such by 
the effect produced on my feelings; and althougu 
nineteen years have nearly passed away since my 
return to the home of my early life, 1 have not ceased 
to remember with gratitude the kind treatment re 
ceived from different persons at this period, while 
my attachment to their children has not been oblit 
erated by time nor by absence, and is likely to con 
tinue till death 

" With respect to the few poems which you have 
66 



MARIA JAMES. 



67 



been so kind as to overlook, I can hardly say myself 
how they came to be written. I recollect, many 
years ago, of trying something- in this way for the 
amusement of a little boy who was very dear to me; 
except this, with a very few other pieces, long for 
gotten, no attempt of the kind was made until The 
Mother s Lament, and Elijah, with a number of epi 
taphs, which were written previous to those which 
have been produced within the last six years. The 
subject of the Hummingbird, (the oldest of these,) 
was taken captive by my own hand. The Adven 
ture is described just as it happened. Wales is a 

kind of retrospect of the days of childhood Of 

Ambition, permit me, dear madam, to call your at 
tention to the summer of 1832, when yourself) with 
the other ladies of this family, were reading Bourn- 
enne s Life of Napoleon Bonaparte : 1 hud opportu 
nities of hearing a little sometimes, which brought 
forcibly to my mind certain conversations which I 
heard in the* early part of my life respecting this 
wonderful man. The poem was produced the fol 
lowing summer. In the year 1819, The American 
Flag appeared in the New York American, signed 
Croaker & Co. : this kindled up the poetic fires in 
my breast, which, however, did not find utterance 
until fourteen years afterward, in the Ode on the 
Fourth of July, 1833. This appearing in print, some 



who did not know me very well inquired of others, 
Do you suppose she ever wrote it ? Being an 
swered in the affirmative, it was imagined she must 
have had help. These remarks gave rise to the ques 
tion, What is poetry ? The Album was begun and 
carried through without previous arrangement or 
design, laid aside when the mind was weary, and 
taken up again just as the subject happened to pre 
sent itself. Friendship was produced in the same 
way. Many of the pieces are written from impres 
sions received in youth, particularly the Whip-poor- 
will, the Meadow Lark, the Firefly, &c." 

In the Introduction to her poems Bishop 
Potter vindicates in an admirable manner, 
against the sneers of Johnson, the propriety 
of recognising the abilities of the humblest 
classes. It will be seen that the poems of 
Maria James will bear a very favorable com 
parison with the compositions uf any of the 
"uneducated poets" whose names are cele 
brated in Mr. Southey s fine essay upon this 
subject. 



ODE, 

WRITTEN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1833. 

[ SEE that banner proudly wave 

Yes, proudly waving yet ; 
Not a stripe is torn from the broad array, 

Not a single star is set; 
And the eagle, with unruffled plume, 
Is soaring aloft in the welkin dome. 

Not a leaf is plucked from the branch he bears; 

From his grasp not an arrow has flown ; 
The mist that obstructed his vision is past, 

And the murmur of discord is gone : 
For he sees,with a glance over mountain and plain, 
The Union unbroken, from Georgia to Maine. 

Far southward, in that sunny clime, 

Where bright magnolias bloom, 
And the orange with the lime tree vies 

In shedding rich perfume, 
A sound was heard like the ocean s roar, 
As its surges break on the rocky shore. 

Was it the voice of the tempest loud, 

As it felled some lofty tree, 
Or a sudden flash from a passing storm 

Of heaven s artillery 1 
Butjt died away, and the sound of doves 
Is heard again in the scented groves. 

The links are all united still 

That form the golden chain, 
And peace and plenty smile around, 

Throughout the wide domain : 
How feeble is language, how cold is the lay, 
Compared with the joy of this festival day 

To see that banner waving yet 

Ay, waving proud and high 
No rent in all its ample folds, 

No stain of crimson dye : 
And the eagle spreads his pinions fair, 
And mounts aloft in the fields of air. 



THE PILGRIMS. 

TO A LADY. 

WE met as pilgrims meet, 

Who are bound to a distant shrine, 
Who spend the hours in converse sweet 

From noon to the day s decline 
Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears 
And their hopes, as they pass thro the valley of tears. 

And still they commune with delight, 

Of pleasures or toils by the way, 
The winds of the desert that chill them by night, 

Or heat that oppresses by day : 
For one to the faithful is ever at hand, 
As the shade of a rock in a weary land. 
We met as soldiers meet, 

Ere yet the fight is won 
Ere joyful at their captain s feet 

Is laid their armor down : 
Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear, 
In hope of the crown which the victors wear. 

Though daily the strife they renew, 

And their foe his thousands o ercome, 
Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view 

Of safety, protection, and home : [conferred, 
Where they knew that their sovereign such favor 
" As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard." 

We met as seamen meet, 

On ocean s watery plain, 
Where billows rise and tempests beat, 

Ere the destined port they gain : 
But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave, 
Assured that their pilot is mighty to save. 
They dwell on the scenes which have past, 

Of perils they still may endure 
The haven of rest, where they anchor at Ia?\ 

Where bliss is complete and secure 
Till its towers and spires arise from afar, 
(To the eye of faith,^ as some radiant star, 



MARIA JAMES. 



We met as brethren meet, 

Who are cast on a foreign strand, 
Whose hearts arc cheered as they hasten to greet 

And commune of their native land 
Of their Father s house in that world above, 
Of his tender care and his boundless love. 
The city so fair to behold, 

The redeemed in their vestments of white 
In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures un- 

They finally hope to unite : [told, 

Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend 
To God and the Lamb in a world without end. 



THE SOLDIER S GRAVE.* 

IN Gallia s sunny fields, 

Where blooms the eglantine, 

And where luxuriant clusters bend 
The fruitful vine 

The youth to manhood rose, 

( Tis fancy tells the tale :) 
His step was swift as mountain deer 

That skims the vale. 

And his eagle glance, 

Which told perception keen, 
" Of will to do and soul to dare," 

Deep fixed within. 

Perchance a mother s love, 

A father s tender care, 
With every kindly household bond, 

Were his to share. 

Perchance the darling one, 

The best beloved was he, 
Of all that gathered round the hearth 

From infancy. 

How fair life s morn to him ! 

The world was blithe and gay 
Hope, beckoning with an angel s smile, 

Led on the way. 

He left his native plain, 

He bade his home farewell 

And she, the idol of his heart, 
The fair Adele. 

Though sad the parting hour, 

What ardor fixed his breast, 
To view the streams, to iread the soil, 

Far in the West ! 

From where the Huron s wave 

First greets the ruddy light, 
To where Superior, in its glow, 

Lies calm and bright 

Where rose the forest deep, 

Where stretched the giant shore, 
From Del Fuego s utmost bound 
To Labrador. 

* The (jrave here spoken of was pointed out to the wri 
ter us hr tunl resting place ,,f a French officer-a single 
mound, without a stone to murk the spot, in Rutland coun 
ty Vermont. 



How many a gallant ship 

Since then has crossed the sea, 

Deep freighted from the western world 
But where is he ] 

Oh, ne er beside that hearth 
The unbroken ring shall meet, 

To tell th adventurous tale, or join 
In converse sweet ! 

For in that stranger-land 

His lonely grave is seen, 
Where northern mountains lift their heads 

In fadeless green. 



TO A SINGING BIRD. 

HUSH, hush that lay of gladness, 

It fills my heart with pain, 
But touch some note of sadness, 

Some melancholy strain, 
That tells of days departed, 

Of hopes for ever flown 
Some golden dream of other years, 

To riper age unknown. 

The captive, bowed in sadness, 

Impatient to be free, 
Might call that lay of gladness 

The voice of liberty : 
Again the joyous carol, 

Warm gushing, peals along, 
As if thy very latest breath 

Would spend itself in song. 

Oft as I hear those tones of thine 

Will thoughts like these intrude 
"If once compared, thy lot with mine, 

How cold my gratitude ; 
Though gloom 01 sunshine mark the hours, 

Thy bosom, ne ertheless, 
Will pour, as from its inmost fount, 

The tide of thankfulness." 



GOOD FRIDAY. 

THE scene is fresh before us, 

When Jesus drained the cup, 
As new the day comes o er us 

When he was offered up 
The veil in sunder rending, 

The type s and shadows flee, 
W^hile heaven and earth are bending 

Their gaze on Calvary. 

Should mortal dare in numbers, 

Where angels, trembling, stand 
Or wake the harp that slumbers 

In flaming seraph s hand ] 
Then tell the wondrous story 

Where rolls Salvation s wave, 
And give Him all the glory, 

Who came the lost to save. 



MARIA BROOKS. 



(Born 17S5 Died 1845). 



IT may be doubted whether, in the long 
catalogue of those whose works illustrate 
and vindicate the intellectual character and 
position of woman, there are many names 
that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and 
more enduring lustre, than that of MARIA 

DEL OCCIDENTE. 

MARIA GOWEN, afterward Mrs. BROOKS, 
upon whom this title was conferred origin 
ally, I believe, by the poet Southey, was de 
scended from a Welsh family that settled in 
Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before 
the Revolution. A considerable portion of 
the liberal fortune of her grandfather was 
lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and 
he soon afterward removed to Medford, 
across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen 
was born about the year 1795. Her father 
was a man of education, and among his inti 
mate friends were several of the professors 
of Harvard college, whose occasional visits 
varied the pleasures of a rural life. From 
this society she derived, at an early period, 
a taste for letters and learning. Before the 
completion of her ninth year, she had com 
mitted to memory many passages from the 
best poets ; and her conversation excited 
special wonder by its elegance, variety, and 
wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she 
grew in years, and when her father died, a 
bankrupt, before she had attained the age of 
fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant 
of Boston, who undertook the completion of 
her education, and as soon as she quitted the 
school was married to her. Her early wo 
manhood was passed in commercial afflu 
ence ; but the loss of several vessels at sea 
in which her husband was interested was 
followed by other losses on land, and years 
were spent in comparative indigence. In 
that remarkable book, Idomen, or The Vale 
of Yumuri, she says, referring fc this period : 
" Our table had been hospitaule, our doors 
open to many ; but to part with our well- 
garnished dwelling had now become inevit 
able. We retired, with one servant, to a re 
mote house of meaner dimensions, and Avere 



sought no longer by those who had come m 
our wealth. I looked earnestly around me ; 
the present was cheerless, the future daik 
and fearful. My parents were dead, my few 
relatives in distant countries, where they 
thought perhaps but little of my happiness. 
Burleigh I had never loved other than as a 
father and protector ; but he had been the 
benefactor to my fallen family, and to him I 
owed comfort, education, and every ray of 
pleasure that had glanced before me in this 
world. Bat the sun of his energies was set 
ting, and the faults which had balanced his 
virtues increased as his fortune declined. He 
might live through many years of misery, 
and to be devoted to him was my duty while a 
spark of his life remained. I strove to nerve 
my heart for the worst. Still there were mo 
ments when fortitude became faint with en 
durance, and visions of happiness that might 
have been mine came smiling to my ima 
gination. I wept and prayed in agony." 

In this period, poetry was resorted to for 
amusement arid consolation. At nineteen 
she wrote a metrical romance, in seven can 
tos, but it was never published. It was fol 
lowed by many shorter lyrical pieces, which 
were printed anonymously ; and in 1820, 
afcer favorable judgments of it had been ex 
pressed by some literary friends,* she gave 
to the public a small volume entitled Judith, 
Esther, ar,d other Poems, by a Lover of the 
Fine Arts. It contained many fine passages, 
and gave promise of the powers of which 

* One of the friend? here alluded to was the late Dr. 

Kirklaml president of Harvard college On a blank leaf 
of the first copy of the volume that she receive,], she wroto 
the following lines, which have not before been printed. 

Should e er my haK-iled-ed mn.-e at cam the height 

She TieuibJini;- I .ajs. jet (ears- to tempt ii" more, 
Still will she bless, thoiii-h wounded in ber flight, 

Th.- ,-ene.ons hand that gave her stve.n-th to soar. 
I .nt should resistless tempests lierr-l.v meet. 

.,,,( | .,. . vi struggling, " " whelming wave, 
Eve , tl," n one tender, patoBil pulse shall beat 

In her" torn heart, for l.ini who strove to sav 

Writing to me in L842, Mrs. Krooks enclose,) these vor-> 
and observed : M n-call then, after an nuervalo twen y 
ve ir< Thev have meaning and siticen!> m tnem , Ml 

Laving during that time extended my acquaintance with 
muw? and an-els, I can not now bear to see either ol 
m represented with pluma-e rti rheir wings. ><>me 
of Ae most celebrated painters have, however, set tfc. 
example." ,. , 



70 



MARIA BROOKS. 



the maturity is illustrated by Zophiiil. The 
Volume was dedicated to a friend 

who cheered her first faint lays 
With the hope-kindling breath of timely praise, 

in the following verses : 

Lady, I ve woven for thee a wreath 
Though pale the buds that gem it, 

Think of the gloom they grew beneath, 
A or utterly contemn it. 

Scarce in my cradle was I laid, 
Ere Fate relentless bound me, 

Deep in a narrow vale of shade, 

Where prisoning rocks surround me. 

Lady, I ve culled a wreath for you, 

From the lew llowers that grow there. 

Because twas all that I could do 
To lull the sense of wo there. 

Yet, lady, I have known delight 
The heart witli bliss overilowing, 

Endearing forms have blest my sight 
With soul and beauty glowing. 

For Hope came all arrayed in light, 

And pitying stood before me, 
Smiled on each flinty barrier s height, 

And to its summit bore me. 

She showed many a scene divine 
She told me and descended 

Of joys that never must be mine 
And then her power was ended. 

Oh, pleasures dead as soon as born, 

To be forgotten never ! 
Oh, moments fleeting, few, and gone, 

To be regretted ever ! 

A few sweet waves of glowing light 

Upon Time s dreary ocean, 
Light gales that wake the dead, calm night 

To momentary motion ; 

Bright beams that in their beauty bless 

A dark and desert plain, 
To show its fearful loneliness, 

And disappear again. 

Yet oft she hovers o er me now, 

Each soothing effort making : 
So mothers kiss the infant s brow, 

But can not cure its aching. 

Then, lady, oil, accept my wreath, 
Though all besides condemn it ; 

Think of the gloom it grew beneath, 
Nor utterly contemn it. 

In the two principal poems are presented char 
acters entirely different in mind and person, 
but equally entitled to admiration. In Judith 
are exhibited prudence, fortitude, and decis 
ion, softened by a feminine sensibility; in 
listher a soul painfully alive to every tender 
emotion, and a noble elevation of mind strug 
gling with constitutional softness and timid 
ity. Many passages remind us of her ma- 



turest style, as this description of the slayer 
of the Assyrian : 

With even step, in mourning garb arrayed, 

Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air 
Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid, 

Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair. 
And this picture of a boy : 
Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed, 

His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bar* 
And o : er his eyes the light lids gentlv closed, 

As they had feared to hide the brilliance there. 

And this description of the preparations of 

Esther to appear before Ahasuerus: 

" Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away ; 

Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair ; 
A nation s fate impending hangs to-day 

But on my beauty and your duteous care." 

Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave ; 

Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold ; 
Some softly wipe away the limpid wave [rolled. 

That o er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance 

Refreshed and faultless from their hands she came 
Like form celestial clad in raiment bright; 

O er all her garb rich India s treasures flame, 
In mingling beams of rainbow-colored light. 

Graceful she entered the forbidden court, 

Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high ; 

Slow were her steps, and unassured her port, 
While hope just trembled in her azure eye. 

Light on the marble fell her ermine tread, 

And when the king, reclined in musing mood, 

Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head, 
Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood. 

Among the shorter poems are several that 
are marked by fancy and feeling, and a grace 
ful versification, of one of which, an elegy, 
these are the opening verses: 

Lone in the desert, drear and deep, 
Beneath the forest s whispering shade, 

Where brambles twine and mosses creep, 
The lovely Charlotte s grave is made. 

But though no breathing marble there 
Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom, 

The turf that hides her golden hair 

With sweetest desert-flowers shall bloom. 

And while the moon her tender light 
Upon the hallowed scene shall fling, 

The mocking-bird shall sit all night 
Among the dewy leaves, and sing. 

The following clever translation of tne 
Greek of Moschus, from this volume, was 
made in the author s seventeenth year : 

CUPID THE KUXAWAT. 

LTSTKX, listen, softly, clear 
Venus accents woo the ear ! 
" Gentle stranger, hast thou seen," 
Thus begins the beauteous queen : 
" Hast thou seen my Cupid stray, 
Lurking, near the public way 1 



MARIA BROOKS. 



71 



Briii- him back and tlnu slv.ilt sip 
A kiss at least from Venus lip. 
T is a boy of well-known name, 
Thou canst know him by his fame : 
Fair his face, but overspread, 
Cheek and brow, with rosy red ; 
And his eyes of azure bright 
Sparkle with a fiery light. 
Small and snowy are his hands, 
But their tender power commands 
Even Pluto s empire wide; 
Acheron s polluted tide 
Loses at their gentle waving 
Half the terror of its raving. 
At his dimpled shoulders move 
Plumy pinions like a dove, 
And or youth or maiden meeting, 
When among the flowers he s flitting, 
Like a swallow swift he darts, 
Perching on their beating hearts. 
From his back a quiver fair, 
Golden like his curly hair, 
Pendent falls in purple ties, 
Scattering radiance as he flies. 
He the slender dart can throw, 
Singing from his polished bow, 
Far as heaven : nor will he spare 
Even me, his mother, there. 
And whene er a victim bleeds, 
Laughing, glorying in his deeds, 
Still with added fires to scorch, 
He, a little hidden torch, 
Deeming not his mischief done, 
Kindles at the glowing sun. 
If the urchin thou shouldst find, 
Let not pity move thy mind ; 
Suffer not his tears to grieve thee, 
They but trickle to deceive thee. 
If he smile upon thee, haste, 
Heed him not, but bind him fast. 
Should he pout his lips to kiss, 
Oh ! avoid the treacherous bliss ! 
Turn thy head, nor dare to meet 
Of his breath the poison sweet. 
Should he ply his potent charms, 
And presenting thee his arms, 
Graceful kneel, and sweetly say, 
Take my proffered gif s, I pray, 
Do not touch them still disdain 
All are fraught with venorned pain." 

In the summer ol 1823 Mr. Brooks died, 
and a paternal uncle soon afier invited the 
poetess to Cuba, for which island she sailed 
on the 20th of the following O: ober. Here, 
in 1824, she completed the first canto of Zo- 
phiel, or The Bride of Seven, which had been 
planned and nearly written before she left 
Boston, and it was published in that city in 
1825. The second canto was finished in Cu 
ba in the opening of 1827 ; the third, fourth, 
and fifth, in 1828, and the sixth in the be 
ginning of 1829. The uncle of Mrs. Brooks 



was now dead, arid he had left to ner his 
coffee plantation and other property, which 
afforded her a liberal income. She returned 
asrain to the United States, and resided more 
than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth Col 
lege, where her son was pursuing his stud 
ies ; and in. the autumn of 1830, in company 
with her only surviving brother, Mr. Ham 
mond Gowen, of Quebec, she went to Paris, 
where she passed the following winter. The 
curious and learned notes to Zophiel were 
written in various places some in Cuba, 
some in Hanover, some in Canada (which she 
visited during her residence at Hanover), 
some at Paris, and the rest at Keswick, in 
England, the home of Robert Southey, where 
she passed the spring of 1831. When she 
quitted the hospitable home of this much 
honored and much attached friend, she left 
with him the completed work, which he sub 
sequently saw through the press, correcting 
the proofsheets himself, previous to its ap 
pearance in London, in 1833. On leaving 
Keswick, Mrs. Brooks addressed to Southey 
the following poem ; and the subsequent cor 
respondence between the two poets, which I 
have seen, shows that the promise of con 
tinued regard was fulfilled : 

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, T.S 4.. 

On ! laureled bard, how can I part, 
Those cheering smiles no more to see, 

Until my soothed and solaced heart 
Pours forth one grateful lay to thee ? 

Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath, 
And peace and pleasure bless thee now ; 

For love and beauty guard the wreath 
That blooms upon thy manly brow. 

The Indian, leaning on his bow, 

On hostile cliff, in desert drear, 
Cast with less joy his glance below. 

When came some friendly warrior near ; 

The native dove of that warm isle 

Where oft, with flowers, my lyrt, was drest. 
Sees with less joy the sun a while 

When vertic rains have drenched her nest, 
Than I, a stranger, first beheld 

Thine eye s harmonious welcome given 
With gentle word, which, as it swelled, 

Came to my heart benign as heaven. 

Soft be thy sleep as mists that rest 

On Skiddaw s top at summer morn ; 
Smooth be thy days as Derwent s bivnst 

When summer light is almost gone . 
And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer 7 

I deem thy fate is -jiven in trust 
To seraphs, "who by d lily care 

Would prove that Hc:ivcn is not unjust 



MARIA BROOKS. 



And treasured shall thine ima^e be 
In Memory s purest, holiest shrine, 

While truth and honor glow in thee, 
Or life s warm, quivering pulse is mine. 

The materials of Zophiel are universal 
that is, such as may be appropriated by even 
polished nation. In all the most beautifu 
oriental systems of religion, including ou; 
own, may be found such beings as its char 
acters. The early fathers of Christianity no 
only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous 
iblios upon their nature and attributes. It is 
a fact deserving cf notice, that they never 
doubted the existence and the power of the 
Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them 
to be fallen angels, who had caused them 
selves to be worshipped under particular 
forms and for particular characteristics. To 
what an extent and to how very late a period 
this belief has prevailed, may be learned from 
a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,* in 
which that pleasing writer endeavors serious 
ly to disprove that any preternatural power 
was illustrated in the responses of the ancient 
oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil 
angels is too beautiful to be laid aside. Their 
actual and present existence can be disproved 
neither by analogy, philosophy, nor theolo 
gy, nor can it be questioned wi thout casting a 
doubt also upon the whole system of our reli 
gion. This religion, by many a fanciful skep 
tic, has been called barren and gloomy ; but 
setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and 
confining ourselves entirely to the generally 
received Scriptures, there will be found suffi 
cient food for an imagination warm as that of 
Homer, Apelles, or Praxiteles. It is astonish 
ing that such rich materials for poetry should 
for so many centuries have been so little re 
garded, appropriated, or even perceived. 

Tin- story of Zophiel, though accompanied 
by many notes, is simple and easily followed. 
Reduced to prose, and a child, or any person 
of the commonest apprehension, would read 
it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and 
is supposed to occupy the time of nine months: 
iVnin the blooming of roses at Echatana to the 
coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time 
the greater part is supposed to elapse be- 
tvvfcii the second and third cantos, where 
Zophiel thus speaks of Egla to Phraerion: 

^et still she bloomed uninjured, innocent 

Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiel 
watched and wooed. 



* H:t )i-c des Oracles. 



The king of Medea, introduced in the sec 
ond canto, is an ideal personage ; but the his 
tory of that country, near the time of the 
second captivity, is very confused, and more 
than one young prince like Sardius might 
have reigned and died without a record. So 
much of the main story, however, as relates 
to human life is based upon sacred or profane 
history ; and we have sufficient authority for 
the legend of an angel s passion for one of 
the fair daughters of our own world. It was 
a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to 
raise to the rank of demigods, men who were 
distinguished for great abilities, qualities, or 
actions. Above such men the angels who 
are supposed to have visited the earth, were 
but one grade exalted, and they were capable 
of participating in human pains and pleas 
ures. Zophiel is described as one of those 
who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or 
turbulence, but from friendship and excessive 
admiration of the chief disturber of the tran 
quillity of heaven: as he declares, when 
thwarted by his betrayer, in the fourth canto : 
Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell 
The ways of guile ? What marvels I believed 
When cold ambition mimicked love so well 
That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived ! 

During the whole interview in which this 
stanza occurs, the deceiver of men and an 
gels exhibits his alleged power of inflicting 
pain. He says to Zophiel, after arresting his 
course: 

" Sublime Intelligence ! 

Once chosen for my friend and worthy me : 
Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence, 

Had my emprise been crowned with victory. 
When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes 

Sought only mine. But he who every power 
Beside, while hope allured him, could despise, 

Changed and forsook me in misfortune s hour." 

To which Zophiel replies : 

: Changed, and forsook thee ? this from thee to me 1 

Once noble spirit ! Oh ! had not too much 
My o erfond heart adored thy fallacy, 

I had not now been here to bear thy keen reproach ; 

"orsook thee in misfortune ? at thy side 

I closer fought as perils thickened round, 
Watched o er thee fallen : the light of heav n denied, 

But proved my love more fervent and profound. 

rone as thou wert, had I been mortal horn, 

And owned as many lives as leaves there be, 
v rom all Hyrcania by his tempest torn 

I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee 
Oh ! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept, 

Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin; 
Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept, 

Had friendship lingered, hell could nothave been." 



MARIA BROOKS, 



Phraerion, another fallen angel, but of a 
nature gentler than that of Zophiel, is thus 
introduced : 
Harmless Phraorion, formed to dwell on high, 

Retained the looks that had been his above ; 
And his harmonious lip, and sweet blue eye, 

Soothed the fallen seraph s heart, and changed his 
]N o soul creative in this being bom, [scorn to love ; 

Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid ; 
Within the vortex of rebellion drawn, 

He joined the shining ranks as others did. 
Success but little had advanced ; defeat 

He thought so little, scarce to him were worse ; 
And, as he held in heaven inferior seat, 

Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. 
He formed no plans for happiness content 

To curl the tendril, fold the bud ; his pain 
So light, he scarcely felt his banishment. 

Zophiel, perchance, had held him in disdain ; 
But, formed for friendship, from his o erfrauaht soul 

T was such relief his burning thoughts to pour 
In other ears, that oft the strong control [more. 

Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no 
Zophisl was soft, but yet all flame ; by turns 

Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy, 
Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns : 

His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. 

Such are the principal preterhuman char 
acters in the poem. Egla, the heroine, is a 
Hebress, of perfect beauty, who lives with 
her parents not far from the city of Ecbatana, 
and has been saved by stratagem from a gen 
eral massacre of captives under a former king 
of Medea. Being brought before the reign 
ing monarch to answer for the supposed 
murder of Meles, she exclaims : 

Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that day 
When perished all my race, my infant ears 

Were opened first with groans ; and the first ray 
I saw, came dimly through my mother s tears. 

Zophiel is described throughout the poem 
as burning with the admiration of virtue, yet 
frequently betrayed into crime by the pursuit 
of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the 
grove of Egla, he is struck with her beauty, 
and finds consolation in her presence. Hi s first 
appearance to her is beautifully described : 
in the dusky room, where she mourned her 
destiny, is suddenly a light, then something 
like a silvery cloud : 

The form it hid 
Modest emerged, as might a youth beseem ; 

Save a slight scarf, his beauty bare, and white 
As cygnet s bosom on some silver stream; 

Or youno: Narcissus, when to woo the light 
Of iis first morn, that floweret open springs ; 

And near the maid he comes with timid gaze, 
And gently fans her with his full-spread wings, 

Transparent as the cooling gush that plays 



From ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tint 

Still vanishing, returning, blending, changing 
About their tender mystic texture glint, 

Like colors o er the fullblown bubble ranging, 
That pretty urchins launch upon the air, 

And laugh to see it vanish ; yet, sr bright, 
More like and even that were laint compare 

As shaped from some new rainbow. Rosy light, 
Like that which pagans say the dewy car 

Precedes of their Aurora, clipped him round, 
Retiring as he moved ; and evening s star 

Shamed not the diamond coronal that bound 
His curly locks. And still to teach kis face 

Expression dear to her he wooed, he sought ; 
And in his hand he held a little vase 

Of virgin gold, in strange devices wrought. 

He appears however at an unfortunate mo 
ment, for the fair Judean has just yielded to 
the entreaties of her mother and assented to 
proposals offered by Meles, a noble of the 
country ; but Zophiel causes his rival to ex 
pire suddenly on entering the bridal apart 
ment, and his previous life at Babylon, as 
revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was 
not undeserving of his doom. Despite her 
extreme sensibility, Egla has much strength 
of character ; she is conscientious and cau 
tious, and she regards the advances of Zo 
phiel with distrust and apprehension. Meles 
being missed, she is brought to court to an 
swer for his murder. Her sole fear is for her 
parents, who are the only Hebrews in the 
kingdom, and are suffered to live but through 
the clemency of Sardius, a young prince who 
has lately come to the throne, and who, like 
many oriental monarchs, reserves to himself 
the privilege of decreeing death. The king 
is convinced of her innocence, and, struck 
with her extraordinary beauty and character, 
resolves suddenly to make her his queen. 
We know of nothing in its way finer than 
the description which follows, of her intro 
duction, in the simple costume of her coun 
try, to a gorgeous banqueting hall in which 
he sits with his assembled chiefs : 
With unassured yet graceful step advancing, 

The light vermilion of her cheek more warm 
For doubtful modesty ; while all were glancing 

Over the strange attire that well became such form. 
To lend her space the admiring band gave way ; 

The sandals on her silvery feet were blue ; 
Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day 

Spreads softly o er the heavens, and tints the 

trembling dew. 
Light was that robe as mist ; and not a gem 

Or ornament impedes its wavy fold, 
Long and profuse, save that, above its hem, 

Twas broidered with pomegranate wreath, m 
gold. 



71 



MARIA BROOKS. 



And, hv a silken cincture, broad and blue, 

In shapely guise about the waist confined, 

Blent with the .curls that, of a lighter hue, 

Halt floated, waving in their length behind; 

The other halt, in braided tresses twined, 

Was decked \\ iih rows of pearls, and sapphire s az- 
Arranged with curious skill to imitate [ure too. 

The sweet acacia s blossoms ; just as live 
And droop those tender flowers in natural state , 

And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive, 
And pendent, sometimes touch her neck ; and there 

Seemed shrinking from its softness as alive. 
And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair, 

Slight bandelets were twined of colors five, 
Like little rainbows seemly on those arms ; 

None of that court had seen the like before, 
Soft, fragrant, bright so much like heaven her 

It scarce could seem idolatry to adore, [charms, 
He who beheld her hand forgot her face ; 

Yet in that face was all beside forgot; 
And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, 

And locks profuse, had said, " Nay, turn thee not." 
Placed on a banquet couch beside the king, 

Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore ; 
But, like their darts, the warrior princes fling 

Such looks as seemed to pierce, and scan her o er 
Nor met alone the glare of lip and eye [and o er; 

Charms, but not rare : the gazr-r stern and cool, 
Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy ; 

In every limb, joint, vein, the maid was beautiful, 
Save that her lip, like some bud-bursting flower, 

Just scorned the bounds of symmetry, perchance, 
But by its rashness gained an added power, 

Heightening perfection to luxuriance. 
But that was only when she smiled, and when 

Dissolved the intense expression of her eye ; 
And had her spirit love first seen her then, 

He had not doubted her mortality. 

Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime min 
ister, has reflected on the maiden s story, and 
is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sov 
ereign, who consents to some delay and ex 
periment, but will not be dissuaded from his 
design until five inmates of his palace have 
fallen dead in the captive s apartment. The 
last of these is Altheetor, a favorite of the 
king (whose Greek name is intended to ex 
press his qualities), and the circumstances of 
his death, and the consequent grief of Egla 
and despair of Zophiel, are painted with a 
beauty, power, and passion, scarcely sur 
passed : 

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet, 

Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; 
Advanced respectful to the virgin s feet, [there. 

And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance 
Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, 

\nd sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along; 
Mis \\;inu, devoted soul no terror knows, 

And trutn and love lend fervor to his song. 
She hides her face upon her couch, that there 

She nvi? not see him die. No groan she springs 



Frantic between a hope beam and despair, 

And twines her long hair round him as he sings 
Then thus : " Oh ! being, who unseen, but near 

Art hovering now, behold and pity me ! 
For love, hope, beauty, music all that s dear, 

Look, look on me, and spare my agony ! 
Spirit ! in mercy make not me the cause, 

The hateful cause, of this kind being s death ! 
In pity kill me first ! He lives he draws 

Thou wilt not blast! he draws his harmless breath!" 

Still lives Altheetor; still unguarded strays 

One hand o er his fallen "tyre; but all his soul 
Is lost given up. He fain would turn to gaze, 

But can not turn, so twined. Now all that stole 
Through every vein and thrilled each separate nerve, 

Himself could not have told, all wound and clasped 
In her white arms and hair. Ah ! can they serve 

To save him 1 " What a sea of sweets !" he gasped, 
But t was delight, sound, fragrance, all,were breath 
ing. 

Still swell d the transport: "Let me look and thank, 
He sighed, (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing ;) 

" I die but ask no more," he said, and sank 
Still by her arms supported lower lower 

As by soft sleep oppressed ; so calm, so fair, 
He rested on the purple tapestried floor, 

It seemed an angel lay reposing there. 

Ar>d Zophiel exclaims 

" He died of love, of the o erperfect joy 

Of being pitied prayed for pressed by thee ! 
Oh, for the fate of that devoted boy 

I d sell my birthright to eternity. 
I m not the cause of this, thy last distress. 

Nay ! look upon thy spirit ere he flies ! 
Look on me once, and learn to hate me less !" 

He said, and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. 

Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes 
an object of hatred and fear ; for Zophiel be 
ing invisible to others, her story is discred 
ited, and she is suspected of murdering by 
some baleful art all who have died in her 
presence. She is, however, sent safely to 
her home, and lives, as usual, in retirement 
with her parents. The visits of Zophiel are 
now unimpeded. He instructs the young 
Jewess in music and poetry ; his admiration 
and affection grow with the hours ; and he 
exerts his immortal energies to preserve her 
from the least pain or sorrow, but selfishly 
confines her as much as possible to solitude, 
and permits for her only such amusements 
as he himself can minister. Her confidence 
in him increases, and in her gentle society 
he almost fjrgets his fall and banishment. 

But the difference in their natures causes 
him continual anxiety ; knowing her mortali 
ty, he is always in fear that death or sudden 
blight will deprivs him of her ; and he con 
sults with Phrae. ion on the best means of 



MARIA 13 ROOKS. 



/.I 



saving her from the perils of human exist 
ence. One evening, 

Round Phraiirion, nearer drawn, 
One beauteous arm he flung : " First to my love ! 

We 11 see her safe ; then to our task till dawn." 
Well pleased, Phraerion answered that embrace ; 

All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets, 
From thousand dewy flowers. " But to what place," 

He said, " will Zophiel go ] who danger greets 
As if twere peace. The palace of the gnome, 

Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet ; 
But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom, 

The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat ! 
Yet there are fountains which no sunny ray 

E er danced upon, and drops come there at last, 
Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way, 

Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze 

have past. 

These take from mortal beauty every stain, 
And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain, 

With every wondrous efficacy rife ; 
Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught, 
Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed, [life. 

Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering 
Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and 
lives concealed in the bosom of the earth, 
guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir 
of life, bequeathed to him by a father whom 
he is not permitted to see. The visit of Zo 
phiel and Phraerion to this beautiful but un 
happy creature will remind the reader of the 
splendid creations of Dante : 
The soft flower spirit shuddered, looked on high, 

And from his bolder brother would have fled ; 
But then the anger kindling in that eye 

He could not bear. So to fair Egla s bed [dread, 

Followed and looked ; then shuddering all with 

To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led ; 
Continuing long in sunset course his flight, 

Until for flowery Sicily he bent ; 
Then, where Italia smiled upon the night, [scent. 

Between their nearest shores chose midway his de- 
The sea was calm, and the reflected moon 

Still trembled on its surface ; not a breath 
Curled the broad mirror : night had passed her noon ; 

How soft the air ! how cold the depths beneath ! 
The spirits hover o er that surface smooth, 

Zophiel s white arm around PhraSrion s twined, 
In fond caress, his tender cares to soothe, [hind. 

While either s nearer wing the other s crossed be- 
Well pleased, Phraerion half forgot his dread, 

And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf, 
The sleepy surface of the waves essayed ; [grief. 

But then his smile of love gave place to drops of 
How could he for that fluid, dense and chill, 

Change the sweet floods of air they floated on 1 
E en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill ; 

But ardent Zophicl, panting, hurries on, 
And (catching his mild brother s tears, with lip 

That whispered courage twixt each glowing kiss) 

Persuades to plunge : limbs, wings, and locks, they 
dip; 

Whate er the other s pains, the lover felt but bliss. 



Quicklv he draws Phraerion on, his toil 

Even lighter than he hoped ; some power benign 
Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil 

Mid crags and caverns, as of his design 
Respectful. That black, bitter element, 

As if obedient to his wish, gave way ; 
So, comforting Phraerion, on he went, 

And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day, 
Upon the upper world ; and forced them through 

That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar, 
That the bold sprite receded, and would view 

The cave before he ventured to explore. 
Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part 

And not be missed amid such strife and din, 
He strained him closer to his burning heart, 

And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in. 
On, on, for many a weary mile they fare ; 

Till thinner grew the floods, long dark and dense, 
From nearness to earth s core ; and now, a glare 

Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense ; 
As when, above, the sun his genial streams 

Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves 
Whole fathoms down ; while, amorous of his beams, 

Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy 
And now, Phraerion, with a tender cry, [caves. 

Far sweeter than the landlord s note, afar 
Heard through the azure arches of the sky, 

By the long baffled, storm worn mariner : 
" Hold, Zophiol ! rest thec now our task is done, 

Tahathyam s realms alone can give this light ! 
Oh ! though tis not the life awakening sun, 

How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!" 
Clear grew the wave, and thin ; a substance white 

The wide expanding cavern floors and flanks ; 
Could one have looked from high, how fair the sight ! 

Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks, 
Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints, 

While even his shadow on the sands below 
Is seen, as through the wave he glides and glints, 

Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals 
No massive gate impedes ; the wave in vain [grow. 

Might strive against the air to break or fall ; 
And, at the portal of that strange domain, 

A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall. 
The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far 

Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest ; 
The while, on either side, a bower of spar 

Gave invitation for a moment s rest. 
And, deep in either bower, a little throne 

Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know 
If busy Nature fashioned it alone, 

Or found some curious artist bore below. 
Soon spoke Phra-rion : " Come, Tahathyam, come. 

Thou knowest me well I saw theo once, to love, 
And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome 

Who comes full fraught with tidings from above." 
Those gentle tones, nngolicully rlenr, 

Passed from his lips, in m;v/.y depths retreating, 
(As if that bower had been the cavern s ear.) 

Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating, 
As through the perforated rock they pass, 

Echo to echo guiding them ; their tone 
(As just from the sweet spirit s lip) at lat 

Tahathyam heard : where on a glittering throna 
he solitary sat. 



i tj 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Sending through the rock an answering 
strain, to give the spirits welcome, the gnome 
prepares to meet them at his palace door : 

He sat upon a car (and the large pearl, 

Once cradled in it, glimmered now without), 
Bound midway on two serpents backs, that curl 

In silent swiftness as he glides about. 
A shell, twas first in liquid amber wet, 

Thru, ere the fragrant cement hardened round, 
All o er with large and precious stones twas set 

By skilful Tsavaven, or made or found. 
The reins seemed pliant crystal, (but their strength 

Had matched his earthly mother s silken band), 
And. flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length, 

Like sparkles o er Tahathyam s beauteous hand. 
The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew. 

As if from love, like steeds of Araby; 
Like blood of lady s lip their scarlet hue ; [to see. 

Their scales so bright and sleek, twas pleasure but 
With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, [eye 

They raise their heads and arch their necks (with 
As bright as if with meteor fire twere lit) ; 

And dart their barbed tongues twixt fangs of ivory. 
These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw 

Furi their swift wings, and tread with angel grace 
The smooth, fair pavement, check"- 1 their speed in 

And glided far aside as if to give thiMi space, [awe. 

The errand of the angels is made known 
to the sovereign of this interior and resplen 
dent world, and upon conditions the precious 
elixir is promised ; but first Zophiel and Phra- 
cjrion are ushered through sparry portals to a 
banquet : 

High towered the palace, and its massive pile, 

Made dubious if of nature or of art, 
So wild and so uncouth ; yet, all the while, 

Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. 
And proves adorned it, green in hue, and bright, 

As icicles about a laurel tree ; 
And danced about their twigs a wondrous light; 

Whence came that light so far beneath the sea 1 
Zophiel looked up to know, and to his view 

Tlu van t scarce seemed less vast than that of day ; 
No rocky roof was seen ; a tender blue 

Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play : 
And, in the midst, an orb looked as twere meant 

To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well. 
But ah! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent; 

Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell. 
Within, from thousand lamps, the lustre strays, 

Reflected back from gems about the wall ; 
And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays, 

Just in the centre of a spacious hall ; 
But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport, 

Tin-so shapes once lived in suppleness and pride, 
And then, to decorate this wondrous court, 

Were s o en from the waves and petrified ; 
Or, moulded by some imitative gnome, 

And sru ed aU o er with gems, they were but stone, 
Ciistinir their showers and rainbows neath the dome, 

To nun. or auge.i s eye might not be known. 
\o snowy fleece in these sad realms was found, 



Nor si ken ball bv maiden loved so well ; 
But, ranged in lightest garniture around, 

In seemly fo ds, a shining tapestry fell. 
And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire, 

And all with pearls and sparkling gems o erflecked, 
Of that strange court composed the rich attire, 

And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahathyam 
decked. 

Gified with every pleasing endowment, in 
possession of an elixir of which a drop per 
petuates life and youth, surrounded by friends 
of his own choice, who are all axious to please 
and amuse him, the gnome feels himself in 
ferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. 
His sphere is confined, his high powers use 
less, for he is without the " last, best gift of 
God to man," and there is no object on which 
he can exercise his benevolence. The feast 
is described with the terse beauty which 
marks all the canto, and at its close 
The banquet cups, of many a hue and shape, 

Bossed o er with gems, were beautiful to view ; 
But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, 

Their only draught was a pure, limpid dew. 
The spirits while they sat in social guise, 

Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss, 
Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs ; 

And thought death happier than a life like this. 
But they had music : at one ample side 

Of the vast area of that sparkling hall, 
Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied, 

In form of canopy, was seen to fall 
The stony tapestry, over what, at first, 

An altar to some deity appeared ; 
But it had cost full many a year to adjust 

The limpid crystal tubes that neath upreared 
Their different lucid lengths ; and so complete 

Their w r ondrous rangement, that a tuneful gnome 
Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and 
sweet, 

Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome. 
Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft ; at that quick touch 

Such modulation wooed his an<;el ears, 
That Zophiel wondered, started from his couch, 

And thought upon the music of the spheres. 

But Zophiel lingers with ill dissembled 
impatience, and Tahathyam leads the way 
to where the elixir of life is to be surren 
dered: 

Soon through the rock they wind ; the draught di 
vine 

Was hidden by a -veil the king alone might lift. 
Cephroniel s son, with half averted face 

And fe taring band, that curtain drew, and showed, 
Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase; 

And warm within the pure elixir glowed ; 
Bright red, like flame, and blood (could they so meet) 

Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever 
In quick, perpetual movement ; and of heat 
So hiirh, the rock was warm beneath their feet, 

(Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,) 



MARIA BROOKS. 



77 



Even to the entrance of the long arcade 

Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock s hreast 
As far as if the ha t-ange! were afraid 

To know the secret he himse f possessed. 
Tahathyam fi led a s ip of spar, with dread, 

As if stood hy and frowned some power divine ; 
Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiel, said, 

" But for one service sha t thou call it thine ; 
Bring me a wife ; as I have named the way 

(I will not risk destruction save for love !) 
Fair-haired and beauteous, like my mother; say 

P jght me this pact ; so sha t thou bear above, 
For thine own purpose, what has here been kept 

Since b .oomed the second age, to angels dear. 
Bursting from earth s dark womb, the fierce wave 
swept 

Off every form that lived and loved, while here, 
Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept." 

Great pains have evidently been taken to 
have everything throughout the work in 
keeping. Most of the names have been 
selected for their particular meaning. Ta 
hathyam and his retinue appear to have been 
settled in their submarine dominion before 
the great deluge that changed the face of the 
earth, as is intimated in the-lines last quoted ; 
and as the accounts of that judgment and of 
the visits and communications of angels con 
nected with it are chiefly in Hebrew, they 
have names from that language. It would 
have been better perhaps not to have called 
the persons of the third canto gnomes, as at 
this word one is reminded of all the varieties 
of the Rosicrucian system, of which Pope has 
so well availed himself in the Rape of the 
Lock, which sprightly production has been 
said to be derived, though remotely, from 
Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam 
can be called gnome only on account of the 
retreat to which his erring father has con 
signed him. 

The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiel 
exults a moment, as if restored to perfect 
happiness. But there is no way of bearing 
his prize to the earth except through the 
moKt dangerous depths of the sea. 

Zophiel, with toil severe, 
But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night, 

Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear 
He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared 

To breathe for years ; but rougher grew the way ; 
And soft Phraerion, shrinking back and scared [day, 

^t every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and 
Shivered, and pained, and shrieking, as the waves 

Wildly impel them gainst the jutting rocks; 
Not all the care and strength of Zophiel saves 

His tender guide from half the wi dering shocks 
He bore. The calm, which favored their descent, 

And bade them look upon their task as o er, 



W;is past; and now the inmost earth seemed rent 

With such fierce storms as never raged before. 
Of a long mortal life had the whole pain 

Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne, 
Known, and survived, it still would be in vain 

To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites forli rn 
The precious drop closed in its hollow spar, 

Between his lips Zophiel in triumph bore. 
Now, earth and sea seem shaken ! Dashed afar 

He feels it part; tis dropped : the waters roar, 
He sees it in a sable vortex whirling, 

Formed by a cavern vast, that neath the sea 
Sucks the fierce torrent in. 

The furious storm has been raised by the 
power of his betrayer and persecutor, and in 
gloomy desperation Zophiel rises with the 
frail Phraerion to the upper air: 

Black clouds, in mass deform, 
Were frowning ; yet a moment s ca m was there, 

As it had stopped to breathe a while the storm. 
Their white feet press the desert sod ; they shook 

From their bright locks the briny drops ; nor stayed 
Zophiil on ills, present or past, to look. 

But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a 

renewal of the tempest : 

Loud and more loud the blast ; in mingled gyre 

Flew lesves and stones, and with a deafening crash 
Fell the uprooted trees ; heaven seemed on fire 

Not, as tis wont, with intermitting flash, 
But, like an ocean all of liquid flame, 

The who e br.oad arch gave one continuous glare, 
While through the red light from their prowling 
came 

The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a 

lair. 

At length comes a shock, as if the earth 
crashed against some other planet, and they 
are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the 

heath. Zophiel 

in a mood 

Too fierce for fear, uprose ; yet ere for flight 
Served his torn wings, a form before him stood 

In gloomy majesty. Like starless night, 
A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold 

From its stupendous breast ; and as it trod, 
The pale and lurid light at distance rolled 

Before its princely feet, receding on the sod. 

The interview between the bland spirit and 
the prime cause of his guilt is full of the en 
ergy of passion, and the rhetoric of the con 
versation has a masculine beauty of which 
Mrs. Brooks alone of all the poets of her sex 
was capable. 

Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama 
draws to a close, which is painted with con 
jummate art. Egla wanders alone at t\vi 
lighf in th shadowy vistas of a grove, won 
dering and sighing at the continued ansence 
of the enamored angel, who approaches .in 



MARIA BROOKS. 



seen while she sings a strain that he had 
taught her. 

His wings were folded o er his eyes ; severe 

As was the pain he d borne from wave arid wind, 
The dubious warning of that being drear, 

Who met him in the lightning, to his mind 
Was torture worse ; a dark presentiment 

Came o er his soul with paralyzing chill, 
As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent 

To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. 
He searched about the grove with all the care 

Of tremb.ing jealousy, as if to trace 
By track or wounded flower some rival there ; 

And scarcely dared to look upon the face 
Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell 

To make the only hope that soothed him vain : 
He hears her notes in numbers die and swell, 

But a most fears to listen to the strain 
Himse f had taught her, lest some hated name 

Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed, 
While he was far ; she sighed he nearer came 

Oh, transport ! Zophiel was the name she breathed. 
He saw her but 

Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss. 
The joy of a who .e mortal life he felt 

In that one moment. Now, too long unseen, 
He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt, 

But while he still delayed, a mortal rush d between. 

This scene is in the sixth canto. In the 
fifth, which is occupied almost entirely by 
mortals, and bears a closer relation than the 
others to the chief works in narrative and 
dramatic poetry, are related the adventures 
of Zameia, which, with the story of her death, 
following the last extract, would make a fine 
tragedy. Her misfortunes are simply told by 
an aged attendant who had fled with her in 
pursuit of Meles, whom she had seen and 
loved in Babylon. At the feast of Venus 
Mylitta, 

Full in the midst, and taller than the rest, 

Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh 
Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast; 

Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye 
Th.it shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath 

Which in her jetty locks became her well, 
And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, 

The uhi e her haughty lips more beautifully swell 
With consciousness of every charm s excess ; 

^While with becoming scorn she turned her face 
From every eye that darted its caress, 

As if some god a .one might hope for her embrace. 
Ai^ain she is discovered, sleeping, by the 
rvky margin of a river: 
Pa Mid and worn, but beautiful and young, [trace; 

Though marked her charms by wildest passion s 
Her long round arms, over a fragment flung, 
From pillow all too rude protect a face 
Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the 
thought 



To deem what radiance once they towered above 
But all its proudly beauteous outline taught 
That anger there had shared the throne of love. 

It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiel 
and Egla, and that now with quivering lip, 
disordered hair, and eye gleaming with 
phrensy, seized her arm, reproached her with 
the murder of Meles, and attempted to kill 
her. But as her dagger touches the white 
robe of the maiden, her arm is arrested by 
some unseen power, and she falls dead at 
Egla s feet. Reproached by her own hand 
maid and by the aged attendant of the prin 
cess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, 
and, beset with evil influences, she seeks to 
end her own life, but is prevented by the 
timely appearance of Raphael, in the char 
acter of a traveller s guide, leading Helon, a 
young man of her own nation and kindred 
who has been living unknown at Babylon, 
p r otected by the same angel, and destined to 
be her husband ; and to the mere idea of 
whose existence, imparted to her in a mys 
terious and vague manner by Raphael, she 
has remained faithful from her childhood. 

Zophiel, who by the power of Lucifer has 
been detained struggling in the grove, is suf 
fered once more to enter the presence of the 
object of his affection. He sees her support 
ed in the arms of Helon, whom he makes one 
futile effort to destroy, and then is banished 
for ever. The emissaries of his immortal en 
emy pursue the baffled seraph to his place 
of exile, and by their derision endeavor to 
augment his misery : 

And when they fled, he hid him in a cave [there, 
Strewn with the bones of some sad wretch who 

Apart from men, had sought a desert grave, 
And yielded to the demon of despair. 

There beauteous Zophiel, shrinking from the day, 
Envying the wretch that so his life had ended, 

Wailed his eternity ; 

but, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives 
him hopes of restoration to his original rank 
in heaven. 

The concluding canto is entitled The Bridal 
of Helon, and in the following lines it con 
tains much of the author s philosophy of life: 
The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 

Without its ow r n pecu iar mate, to meet 
Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole 

Brnhtplan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete ! 
But thousand evil things there are that hate 

To look on happiness ; these hurt, impede, [fate, 
And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and 

Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, 
and bleed. 



MARIA BROOKS. 



And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, 

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, 

Lights sadly at the desert s bitter stream 
So many a soul, o er life s drear desert faring, 

Love s pure, congenial spring unfound, unquafFed, 
Suffers, recoils then thirsty and despairing 

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
draught. 

On consulting Zophiel, it will readily be 
seen that the passages here extracted have 
not. been chosen for their superior poetical 
merit. It has simply been attempted by quo 
tations and a running commentary to convey 
a just impression of the scope and charactei 
of the work. There is not perhaps in the 
English language a poem containing a greater 
variety of thought, description, and incident, 
and though the author did not possess in an 
eminent degree the constructive faculty, there 
are few narratives that are conducted with 
more regard to unities, or with more sim 
plicity and perspicuity. 

Though characterized by force and even 
freedom of expression, it does not contain an 
impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page 
is full of passion, but passion subdued and 
chas;ened by refinement and delicacy. Sev 
eral of the characters are original and splen 
did creations. Zophiel seems to us the finest 
fallen angel that has come from the hand of 
a poet. Milton s outcasts from heaven are 
u.terly depraved and abraded of their glory; 
bui Zuphiel has traces of his original virtue 
and beauty, and a lingering hope of restora 
tion to the presence of the Divinity. De 
ceived by the specious fallacies of an immor 
tal like himself, and his superior in rank, he 
encounters the blackest perfidy in him for 
whom so much had been forfeited, and the 
blight of every prospect that had lured his 
fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of the 
most important characters in the poem, is 
much less interesting. She is represented as 
heroically cc nsistent, except when given over 
for a moment to the malice of infernal emis 
saries. In her immediate reception of Helon 
as a husband, she is constant to a long cher 
ished idea, and fulfils the design of her guard 
ian spirit, or it would excite some wonder 
that Zophiel was worsted in such competi 
tion. It will be perceived upon a careful 
examination that the work is in admirable 
keeping, and that the entire conduct of its 
several persons bears a just relation to their 
characters and positions. 



Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, 
and her son being now a student in the mil 
itary academy, she took up her residence in 
the vicinity of West Point, where, with oc 
casional intermissions in which she visited 
her plantation in Cuba or travelled in the 
United States, she remained until 1839. Her 
marked individuality, the variety, beauty, and 
occasional splendor of her conversation, made 
her house a favorite resort of the officers of 
the academy, and of the most accomplished 
persons who frequented that romantic neigh 
borhood, by many of whom she will long be 
remembered with mingled affection and ad 
miration. 

In 1834 she caused to be published in Bos 
ton an edition of Zophiel, for the benefit of 
the Polish exiles who were thronging to this 
country after their then recent struggle for 
freedom. There were at that time too few 
readers among us of sufficiently cultivated 
and independent taste to appreciate a work 
of art which time or accident had not com 
mended to the popular applause, and Zophiel 
scarcely anywhere excited any interest or 
attracted any attention. At the end of a 
month but about twenty copies had been sold, 
and, in a moment of disappointment, Mrs. 
Brooks caused the remainder of the impres 
sion to be withdrawn from the market. The 
poem has therefore been little read in this 
country, and even the title of it would have 
remained unknown to the common reader of 
elegant literature but for occasional allusions 
to it by Southey and other foreign critics.* 

In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks 
was residing at Fort Columbus, in the bay of 
New York a military post at which her 
son, Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed 
several years she had printed for private 
circulation the remarkable little work to 
which allusion has already been made, enti 
tled Idomen, or The Vale of the Yumuri. It 
is in the style of a romance, but contains lit 
tle that is fictitious except the names of the 
characters. The account which Idomen gives 
of her own history is literally true, except in 



* Mnria del Occidente is styled in "The Doc-tor &c, 
"the most impassioned and most imnginntive ol (01 ppel 
ees " And without taking into account 9 u*fta*i ardenti 
Scattered here and thrre throughout her smirnh.r poein. 
AerSundoubtedly .round tor the.tirst Han,, am . -th 
the more accurate substitution of "fanciful lor ima r 
Sve" for the whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an ex 
traordinary performance. London Quarterly lieview. 

Which [Zophiel] he [Southey] says ;s by some Yank*- 
woman, as if there ever had been a womau capable o. 
anything so great ! Charles Lamb 



MARIA BROOKS. 



ri-la ion to an excursion to Niagara, which 
occurred in a different period of the author s 
life. It is impossible to read these interest 
ing "confessions" without feeling a profound 
interest in the character which they illus 
trate ; a character of singular strength, dig- 
niiy, and delicacy, subjected to the severest 
tests, and exposed to the most curious and 
easy analyses. " To see the inmost soul of 
one who bore all the impulse and torture of 
self-murder without perishing, is what can 
seldom be done : very few have memories 
strong enough to retain a distinct impression 
of past suffering, and few, though possessed 
of such memories, have the power of so de 
scribing their sensations as to make them ap 
parent to another." Idomen will possess an 
interest and value as a psychological study, 
independent of that which belongs to it as a 
record of the experience of so eminent a poet. 

Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published 
an edition of all her writings, including Ido 
men, before leaving New York, and she au 
thorized me to offer gratuitously her copy 
rights to an eminent publishing house for that 
purpose. In the existing condition of the 
copyright laws, which should have been en 
titled acts for the discouragement of a native 
literature, she was not surprised that the of 
fer was declined, though indignant that the 
reason assigned should have been that they 
were "of too elevated a character to sell." 
Writing to me soon afterward she observed: 
"I do not think anything from my humble 
imagination can be too elevated, or ele 
vated enough, for the public as it really is 

in these North American states In the 

words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a 
short time before his death, in Boston,) I sol 
ace myself by saying, Stupidity ! stupidity! 
the knott-li dge of that alone has saved me 
from misanthropy. " 

In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the 
last time from her native country for the 
island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, 
Hcrmita, she renewed for a while her litera 
ry labors. The small stone building, smooth 
ly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to 
its entrance, in which she wrote some of the 
cantos of Zophiel, is described by a recent 
traveller* as surrounded by alleys of "palms, 
cocoas, and oranges, interspersed with the 
tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe, and 

* The author of " Note* on Cuba." Boston, 1844. 



the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee 
and plantains covering every portion of the 
soil with their luxuriant verdure. I have 
often passed it," he observes, "in the still 
night, when the moon was shining brightly, 
and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threw 
fringe-like shadows on the walls and the floor, 
and the elfin lamps of the cocullos swept 
through the windows and door, casting their 
lurid, mysterious light on every object, while 
the air was laden with mingled perfume from 
the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose and 
night-blooming ceres, and have thought that 
no fitter birthplace could be found for the 
images she has created." 

Her habits of composition were peculiar. 
With an almost unconquerable aversion to 
the use of tjie pen, especially in her later 
years, it was her custom to finish her shorter 
pieces, and entire cantos of longer poems, be 
fore committing a word of them to paper. 
She had long meditated, and had partly com 
posed, an epic under the title of Beatriz, the 
Beloved of Columbus, and when transmit 
ting to me the manuscript of The Departed, 
in August, 1844, she remarked : " When I 
have written out my Vistas del Infierno and 
one other short poem, I hope to begin the 
penning of the epic I have so often spoken 
to you of: but when or whether it will ever 
be finished, Heaven alone can tell." I have 
not learned whether this poem was written, 
but when I heard her repeat passages of it, 
I thought it would be a nobler work than 
Zophiel. 

But little will be said here of the minor po 
ems of Mrs. Brooks. They evince the same 
power and passion the imagination, fancy, 
command of poetical language, and intense 
feeling, which are so apparent in her chief 
work. Many of them were written under the 
pressure of extraordinary circumstances, and 
these breathe of the fresh and deep emotions 
by which they were occasioned. Others are 
in a more eminent degree works of art, com 
posed for the mere love of giving form to the 
lights and shadows, and vague creations, of a 
mind teeming with beauty. One of her latest 
productions is the Ode to the Departed. She 
wrote to me on the seventeenth of August, 
1844, "I send you a poem which may possi 
bly please you, as I remember your appro 
val of a hymn of mine not dissimilar. On 
the seventeenth of last April it was con 
ceived and partly executed in the midst of a 



MARIA BROOKS. 



8! 



dearih such as had not for many years been 
known in the island of Cuba. A late attempt 
at insurrection had been followed by such 
scenes and events as could not fail to call 
forth thoughts and hopes of a future exist 
ence, even if private sorrow had not before 
awakened them." This poem, one written 
about the same time under the title of Con 



Vistas dd ////zerno, another To the Departed, 
one on Revisiting Cuba, one to Painting, and 
an Invocation to Poetry, are all that have 
appeared in this stanza which was invented 
by Mrs. Brooks, and was admirably suited to 
the tone of her la er compositions. 

Mrs. Brooks died at Matanzas, in Cuba, 
on the eleventh of November, 1845. 



EXTRACTS FROM ZOPHIEL. 

MOHXING. 

How beauteous art thou, thou morning sun ! 

The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires 
As much thv beauty, now life s dream is done, 

As when he moved exulting in his fires. 
The infant strains his little arms to catch 

The rays that glance about bis silken hair; 
And L uxury hangs her amber lamps, to match [fair. 

Thv face, when turned away from bower and palace 
Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit ; 

Music and perfumes mingle with the soul ; 
How thrills the kiss, when feeling s voice is mute ! 

And light and beauty s tints enhance the whole. 
Yet each keen sense were dulness but. for tbee : 

Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms ; 
Thou never weariest ; no inconstancy 

But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. 
How many lips have sung thy praise, how long ! 

Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels tbee woo, 
The pleasured bard pours forth another song, 

And finds in tbee, like love, a theme for ever new. 
Thy dark eyed daughters come in beauty forth, 

In thy near realms ; and, like their snowwreaths fair, 
The bright haired youths and maidens of the north 

Smile in thy colors when thou art not there. 
Tis there tbou bidst a deeper ardor glow, 

And higher, purer reveries completes! ; 
As drops that farthest from the ocean flow, 

Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. 
Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night, 

Some wretch, impassioned, from sweet morning s 

breath, 
Turns bis hot btow, and sickens at thy light ; 

But Nature, <;\ r er kind, soon heals or gives him 
death. 

VIRTUE. 

Virtue ! how many as a lowly thing, 

Born of weak folly, scorn thee ! but thy name 
Alone they know ; upon thy soaring wing 

They d fear to mount ; nor could thy sacred flame 
Burn in their baser hearts : the biting thorn, 

The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field ; 
Yet blest is be whose daring bides the scorn 

Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. 
Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay 

To lure the infant : if thy paths, to view, 
Were always pleasant, Crime s worst sons would lay 

Their da-jgers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth. 
pu rsue. 

6 



LOVE. 

What bliss for her who lives her little day, 

In blest obedience, like to those divine, 
Who to her loved, her earthly lord, can say, 

" God is thy law, most just, and thou art min3." 
To every blast she bends in beauty meek : 

Let the storm beat his arms her shelter kind 
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek 
*W r ith thoughts befitting his superior mind. 
Who only sorrows when she sees him pained, 

Then knows to pluck away Pain s keenest dart ; 
Or bid Love catch it ere its goal be gained, 

And steal its venom ere it reach his heart. 
T is the soul s food : the fervid must adore. 

For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought, 
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore, 

And shrines his smiling goddess, marble wrought 
What bliss for her, even in this world of wo, 

Oh, Sire ! who makest yon orbstrewn arch thy 
That sees thee in thy noblest work below [throne ; 

Shine undefaced, adored, and all her own ! 
This I had hoped ; but hope, too dear, too great, 

Go to thy grave ! I feel thee blasted, now. 
Give me Fate s sovereign, well to bear the fate 

Thy pleasure sends : this, my sole prayer, allow ! 



LANGUAGE OF GEMS. 

Look ! here s a ruby ; drinking solar rays, 

I saw it redden on a mountain tip ; 
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze : 

T will blush still deeper to behold thy lip ! 
Here s for thy hair a garland : every flower 

That spreads its blossoms, watered by the tear 
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower, 

Might sec its frail bright hues perpetuate here. 
For morn s light bell, this changeful amethyst 

A sapphire for the violet s tender blue ; 
Large opals, for the queenrose zephyr kist ; 

And here are emeralds of every hue, 
For folded bud and leaflet, dropped with dew 
And here s a diamond, culled from Indian mine, 

To gift a haughty queen : it might not be ; 
I knew a worthier brow, sister divine, 

And brought the gem ; for well I deem for tbee 
The "arch cbymic sun" in earth s dark Inborn 
wrought 

To prison thus a ray, that when dull Night 
Frowns o er her realms, and Nature s all seem* 
naught, 

She whom be grieves to leave may still behold his 
light. 



82 



MARIA BROOKS. 



AMIITTlOy. 

Wo to thce, wild Ambition ! I employ 

Despair s low notes thy dread effects to tell ; 
Born in high hea% en, her peace thou couldst destroy ; 

And, but for thce, there had not been a hell. 
Through the celestial domes thy clarion pealed ; 

Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged, 
And straight were fiends ; hurled from the shrinking 

They waked in agony to wail the change. [field, 
Darting through all her veins the subtle fire, 

Trie world s fair mistress first inhaled thy breath ; 
To lot of higher beings learned to aspire ; 

Dared to attempt, and doomed the world to death. 
The thousand wild desires, that still torment 

The fiercely struggling soul where peace once dwelt, 
But perished ; feverish hope ; drear discontent, 

Impoisoning all possessed oh ! I have felt 
As spirits feel yet not for man we moan : 

Scarce o er the silly bird in state were he, 
That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn s return, 

And sleeps at evening, save by aid of thee. 
Fame ne er had roused, nor Song her records kept ; 

The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life, 
The pencil s colors, all in earth had slept, 

Now see them mark with death his victim s strife. 
Man found thee, Death : but Death and dull Decay, 

Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves ; 
By mighty works he swells his narrow day, 

And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves. 
Yet what the price 1 With stings that never cease 

Thou goadst him on ; and when too keen the smart, 
His highest dole he d barter but for peace 

Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart. 

MELES AXD EGLA CONTRASTED. 

She meekly stood. He fastened round her arms 

Rings of refulgent ore ; low and apart 
Murmuring, "So, beauteous captive, shall thy charms 

For ever thrall and clasp thy captive s heart." 
The air s li<rht touch seemed softer as she moved, 

In languid resignation ; his quick eye 
Spoke in black glances how she was approved, 

Who shrank reluctant from its ardency. 
Twas sweet to look upon the goodly pair 

In their contrasted loveliness : her height 
Might almost vie with his, but heavenly fair, 

Of soil- proportion she, and sunny hair; [night. 
He cast in manliest mould, with ringlets murk as 
And oft. her drooping and resigned blue eye 

She d wistful raise to read his radiant face; 
But then, why shrunk her heart? a secret sigh 

Told her it most required what there it couldnot 
trace. 

EGLA RECLIXTXG. 

Lone in the still retreat, 

Wounding the (lowers to sweetness more intense, 
Sue sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our wo 

Swell till it bursts forth from the o erfraught breast ; 
Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow, 

And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap of Rest. 
Now all the mortal maid lies-indolent 

save one sweet cheek, which the cool velvet turf 
Had touched too rude, though all with blooms be 
sprent. 



One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf 
That foams against the sea rock looked her neck 

By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved, 
That close inclining o er her, seemed to reck 

What t was they canopied ; and quickly heaveii 
Beneath her robe s white folds and azure zone, 

Her heart yet incom posed ; a fillet through 
Peeped softly azure, while with tender moan, 

As if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew 
Sportive : about her neck their gold he twined 

Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm, 
And eyebrow just so dark might well define 

Its flexile arch throne of expression 9 charm. 
As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past, 

And the blue smiling heavens swell o er in peace, 
Shook to the centre by the recent blast, [cease ; 

Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath n^t power to 
So still each little pulse was seen to throb, 

Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest ; 
And ever and anon a piteous sob 

Shook the pure arch expansive o er her breast. 



AX ARCHER. 

Rememberest thou 

When to the altar, by thy father reared, 
As we went forth with sacrifice and vow, 

A victim dove escaped, and there appeared 
A stranger ? Quickly from his shrilly string 

He let an arrow glance ; and to a tree 
Nailed last the little truant, by the wing, 

And brought it. scarcely bleeding, back to thee. 
His voice, his mien, the lustre of his eye, 

And pretty deed he d done, were theme of praise; 
Though blent with fear that stranger should espy 

Thy lonely haunts. When, in the sunny rays 
He turned and went, with black locks clustering 

Around his pillar neck " T is pity he," [bright 
Thou saidst, " in all the comeliness and might 

Of perfect man, tis pity he should be 
But an idolator ! How nobly sweet 

He tempers pride with courtesy ! A flow-er 
Drops honey when he speaks. His sandaled feet 

Are light as antelope s. He stands, a tower." 



EGLA S COURAGE. 

Despite of all, the starting tear, 

The melting tone, the blood suffusive, proved 
The soul that in them spoke could spurn at fear 

Of death or danger ; and had those she loved 
Required it at their need, she could have stood, 

Unmoved, as some fair sculptured statue, while 
The dome that guards it, earth s convulsions rude 

Are shivering, meeting ruin with a smile. 

SIGHIXG FOR THE V X ATTAIXA B Li.. 

Tis as a vine of Galilee should say, 
" Culturer, I reck not thy support, I sigh 

For a young palm tree of Euphrates; nay, 
Or let me him entwine, or in my blossom die." 

LOVE S SURGERY. 

He who would gain 
A fond, full heart in love s soft surgery skilled, 

Should seek it when tis sore ; allay its pain 
With balm by pity prest : tis all his own so healed 



MARIA BROOKS. 



ODE ON REVISITING CUBA. 

ISLE of eternal spring, thou rt desolate 
To me ; thy limpid seas, thy fragrant shores, 
Whither I ve sighed to come 
And make a tranquil home, 

Have lost to me their charm ; my heart deplores, 
Vainly, of two it loved the melancholy doom. 

Well may I weep you, gentle souls, that, while 
On earth, responded to the love of mine, 
Through eyes of heavenly blue, 
More deeply, fondly true, 
Haply, than He, who lent his breath divine, 
May give again on earth to cheer me with their 

smile. 

Mv George, if thcu hadst faults, they only were 
That, thou wert gifted ill for this poor sphere 
Where first he faints who spares 
Earth s selfish, sordid cares ; 
And what might fau ts to baser eyes appear, 
When ta en where angels dwell, must be bright vir 
tues there. 

Men toil, betray, nay, even kill, for gold ; 
But had some wretch pressed by misfortune sore 
Asked thy last piece of thee 
To ease his misery, 

When thou couldst only look to Heaven for more, 
That last piece had been given, and thine own safety 

sold. 

Oft when the noisome streams of pestilence 
Poisoned the air around thee, hast thou stayed 
By friends, while thirsty Death 
Lurked near, to quaff their breath ; 
And soothed and saved while others were afraid, 
And hardier hearts and hands than thine rushed 
wildly thence. 

Oh, could I find thee in some palm leaf cot, 
Still for this earth, with thy sweet brothers too, 
Though scarce our worldly hoard 
Sufficed a frugal board, 

Hope should beguile no more : I d live for you, 
Disclaim all other love and sing, and bless my lot. 

All other love ? what love for me was e er, 
My Edgar, oh, my first born ! like to thine 1 
Too faithful for thy state 
Thou wert too passionate 
Too vehement devoted Powers benign ! 
That thy last pain should pass, and I not by to 

share ! 

Love speaks, tis said, but what eiitones his voice 1 
Avarice, ambition, vanity, or oft 
Sensations such as wake 
Blind mole and mottled snake ; 
Fierce with the cruel, gentle with the soft 
Promiscuous in their aim, indifferent in their 

choice. 

Haply more often but the common wants, 
That man with every mortal creature feels, 
And satisfaction finds 
Tn mantK as it binds 

His neck, when cold ; or in those daily meals 
Sufficing all the life lhat coldness leads or vaunts. 



If one be lost, another serves as well ; 
Another mantle, or another fair, 
As well may be his own 
If one dies his alone 

He sighs not long ; enter his home, and there, 
When past one little year, another fair will dwell. 

Or see yon smiling Creole her b .ack hair 
Braided and glittering, with one lover s gold. 
Ere the quick flower has grown 
O er where he sleeps alone, 
Already to some other lover so d, 
Or given, what both call love, and he s content to 

share. 

Better for those who love this world, to be 
Even as such : a pure, pure flame, intense, 
Edgar, as thine, consumes 
The cheek its light illumes ; [hence, 

And he whose heart enshrines such flame, must 
And join with it, betimes, its own eternity. 
For masculine or feminine gave naught 
Of fuel to the hallowed fire, that burned 
And urged thee on, of life. 
Reckless, amid the strife 

For worldly wealth, that better had been spurned : 
Thy happiness and love, alas ! were all I sought. 
How could I kneel and kiss the hand of Fate, 
Were it but mine to decorate some hall 
Here, where the soil I tread 
Colors my feet with red 
Far down these isles, to hear your voices call, 
Then haste to hear and tell what happ d while sep 
arate ! 

Beautiful isles ! beneath the sunset skies 
Tall si ver shafted palm trees rise between 
Full orange trees that shade 
The living colonnade ; 
Alas ! how sad, how sickening is the scene 
That were ye at my side would be a paradise ! 
E en one of those cool caves which, light and dry, 
In many a leafy hillside, near this spot, 
Seem as by Nature made 
For shelter and for shade 
To such as bear a homeless wanderer s lot, 
Were home enough for me, could those I mourn 

be nigh. 

Pa 1 ace or cave (where neath the blossom and lime 
Winter lies hid with wreaths) alike may be, 
If love and taste unite, 
A dwelling for delight, 

And kings might leave their silken courts, to see 
O er such wild, garnished grot, the grandiflora climb. 
Thus, thus, doth quick eyed Fancy fondly wait 
The pauses of my deep remorse between ; 
Before my anxious eyes 
T is thus her pictures rise ; 

They show what is not, yet what might have been , 
Angels, why came I not ! why have I come too 

late ! 
The coolin b Severage strengthening draught as 

craved 

The needs of both, could but these hands hao 
given ; 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Could I have watched tlie glow 
The pulse, too quick, ( or slow 
My earnest, fond, reiterate prayers to Heaven, 
Some angel might have come, besought, returned, 
and saved. 

To stay was imbecility nay, more [see 

T was crime how yearned my panting heart to 
When, by mere words de ayed, 
Gainst the strong wish, I stayed, 
(Trifling with that which in y spoke to me,) 
And longed, and hoped, and feared, till all I feared 
was o er ! 

Mi d, pitying George, when map e leaves were red 
O er Ladaiianna* in his much loved north, 
Breathed here his last farewell 
And when the tears that fell 
From April, caLed Mohecan sf violets forth, 
Edgar, as following his, thy friend y spirit fled. 

Now, side by side, neath cross and tablet white 
Is laid, sweet brothers, all of you that s left; 
Yet. ail the tropic dew 
Can damp, would seem not you : 
Your finer particles from earth are reft, 
Haply, (and so I il hope,) for lovelier forms of light. 

Myriads of beings, (for the whole that s known 
In all this world s combined philosophy,) 
The eternal will obeyed, 
To finish what was made, [and sea 

When, warm with new breathed life, new earth 
Returned the smile of Him who blessed them from 
his throne. 

Such beings, haply, hovering round us now, 
When flesh or flowers in beauty fade or fall, 
Gather each precious tint 
Once seen to glow and glint, 
With fond economy to gladden all : 
Heaven s hands, howe er profuse, no atom s loss 
allow. 

Yet, brothers, spirits, loiter if ye may 
A little while, and look on all I do 
Oh ! loiter for my sake, 
Ere other tasks ye take, 
Toward all I should do influence my view. 
Then haste, to hear the spheres chime with heaven s 
favorite lay. 

Go, hand in hand, to regions new and fair, 
In shapes and colors for the scene arrayed 
With looks as bland and dear 
As charms, bv glimpses, here. 
Receive divine commissions; follow aid 
Those legions formed in heaven for many a guardian 
care. 

By every sigh, and throb, and painful throe, 
Remembered but to heighten the delight 
That crowns the advancing state 
Of sou s emancipate 
Oh ! as I think of you, at lonely night, 
Say to my heart, ye re blest, and I can bear my wo. 

Island of Cubu-Cafetel Hermitu, May 7, 1S-JO. 



* I.RdRuanna. the aboriginal name of the St. Lawrence. 
1 Mohecan, the aboriginal luune of the Hudson. 



ODE TO THE DEPARTED. 

"Con I ittat del Cic/o." 

THE dearth is sore: the orange leaf is curled, 
There s dust upon the marble o er thy tomb. 
My Edgar, fair and dear ; 
Though the fifth sorrowing year 
Hath past, since first I knew thine early doom, 
I see thee still, though death thy being hence hath 
hurled. 

I could not bear my lot, now thou art gone 
With heart o ersoftened by the many tears 
Remorse and grief have drawn 
Save that a gleam, a dawn, 

\ Haply, of that -which lights thee now,) appears,, 
To unveil a few fair scenes of life s next coming 
morn. 

What where is heaven 1 (earth s sweetest lips ex- 
In all the holiest seers have writ or said, [claim ;) 
Blurred are the pictures given: 
We know not what is heaven, 
Save by those views, mysteriously spread, 
When the soul looks afar by light of her own flame. 

Yet all our spirits, while on earth so faint, 
By glimpses dim, discern, conceive, or know, 
The Eternal Power can mould 
Real as fruits or gold 

Bid the celestial, roseate matter glow, [paint. 
And forms more perfect smile than artists carve or 

To realize every creed, conceived 
In mortal brain, by love and beauty charmed, 
Even like the ivory maid 
Who, as Pygmalion prayed, 
Oped her white arms, to life and feeling warmed, 
Would lightly task the power of life s great Chief 
believed. 

If Grecian Phidias, in stone like this, 
Thy tomb, could do so much, what can not he 
Who from the cold, coarse clod, 
By reckless laborer trod, 
Can call such tints as meeting seraphs see, 
And give them breath and warmth like true love s 
soulfelt kiss 1 

Wild fears of dark annihilation, go ! 
Be warm, ye veins, now blackening with despair ! 
Years o er thee have revolved, 
My firstborn thou rt dissolved 
All every tint save a few ringlets fair 
Still, if thou didst not live, how could I love thee so? 

Quick as the warmth which darts from breast to 
When lovers, from afar, each other see, [breast, 
Haply, thy spirit went, 
Where mine would fain be sent, 
To take a heavenly form, designed to be 
Meet dwelling for the soul thine azure eye exprest 

Thy deep blue eye ! say, can heaven s bliss exceed 
The joy of some brief moments tasted here 1 
Ah ! could I taste again 
Is there a mode of pain 

Which, for such guerdon, could be deemed severe 1 
Be ours the forms of heaven, and let rne bend an-1 
bleed ! 



MARIA BROOKS. 



To be in place, even like some spots on earth, 
in those sweet moments when no ill comes near ; 
Where perfumes round us wreathe, 
And the pure air we breathe 
Nerves and exhilarates ; while all we hear 
60 tells content and love, we sigh and bless our birth. 

To clasp thee, Edgar, in a fragrant shape 
Of fair perfection, after death s sad hour, 
Known as the same 1 ve prest, 
Erst, to this aching breast 
The same but finished by a kind, bland Power, 
Which only stopped thy heart to let thy soul es 
cape 

Oh ! every pain that vexed thy mortal life, 
Nay, even the lives of all who round thee lie : 
Be this one bliss my share, 
The whole condensed I 11 bear 
Bless the benign creative hand and sigh, 
And kneel, to ask again the expiatory strife ! 

Strife, for the hope of making others blest, 
Who trespassed only that they were not brave 
Enough to hear or take 
Pains, even for pity s sake ; 
Strife, for the hope to wake, incite, and save, 
Even those who, dull with crime, know not fair 
honor s zest, 

If, in the pauses of my agony, 
(Be it or flame, stab, scourge, or pestilence,) 
If, fresh and blest, as dear, 
Thou It come in beauty, near 
Speak, and with looks of love charm my keen sense, 
I 11 deem it heaven enough even thus to feel and 

see! 

To feel my hand wrenched, as with mortal rack ; 
Then see it healed, and ta en, and kindly prest ; 
And fair as blossoms white 
Of cerea in the night ; 

While tears, that fall upon thy spotless breast, 
Are sweet as drops from flowers touched in thy 
heavenly track ! 

In form to bear nor stain nor scar designed 
Yes ! let me kneel to agonize again : 
Ask every torment o er 
More poignant than before ; 
Of a whole world the price of a whole pain, 
Were small for such blest gifts of matter and of mind ! 

Comes a cold doubt that still thou art alive, 
Edgar, my heart tells while these numbers thrill. 
Yet of a bliss so dear, 
And as death s portal s near, 
I feel mt- too unworthy : dreary Time 
I fear must bear his part ere Hope her plight fulfil ! 

Time, time was meet (so many a sacred scroll 
Has told and tells) ere light was bid to smile ; 
Ere yet the spheres, revealed, 
Gave music, as they wheeled ; 
Warm, rife, eternal love-*-a time a while 
Brooded and charmed, and ranged till chaos gloomed 

no more. 

As time was needful ere a world could bloom 
With forms of flowers and flesh, haply must wait 



Some spirits ; and lingering still, 
Of deeds both good and ill 

Mark the effect in intermediate state, [tomb. 

And think, and pause, and weep, even over their own 

Be it so : if thin as fragrance, light, or heat, 
Thine essence, floating on the ambient air, 
Can, with freed intellect, 
View every deed s effect, 
Read, even my heart, in all its pantings bare : 
When denser pulses cease, how sweet, even thus, 

to meet ! 

To roam those deep green aisles, crowned with tall 
And weep for all who tire of toil and ill, [palms., 
While moons of winter bring 
Their blossoms fair as spring ; 
To move unseen by all we ve left, and will 
Such influence to their souls as half their pain be 
calms ; 

On deep Mohccan s mounts to view the spot 
Where, as these arms were oped to clasp thee, came 
The tidings, dread and cold, 
I never more might hold 
Thy pulsing form, nor meet the gentle flame 
Of thy lair eyes, till mine for those of earth were not; 

On precipice where the gray citadel 
Hangs over Ladaiianna s billows clear, 
How sweet to pause and view, 
As erst, the far canoe ; 

To glide by friends, who know not we are near, 
And hear them of ourselves in tender memory tell ; 

Or where Niagara with maddening roar 
Shakes the worn cliff, haply to flit, and ken 
Some angel, as he sighs 
With pleasure at the dyes 
Of the wild depth, while to the eyes of men 
Invisible we speak by signs unknown before ; 
Or, far from this wild western world, where dwelt 
That brow whose laurels bore a leaf for mine, 
W hen, strong in sympathy, 
Thy sprite shall roam with me, 
Edgar, mid Derwent s flowers, one soul benign 
May to thy soul impart the joy I there have felt ! 
What though " imprisoned in the viewless winds," 
Mid storms and rocks, like earthly ship, were 
Unsevcred while we re blent, [dashed 

We 11 bear in sweet content 
The shock of falling bolt or forest craohed, 
While thoughts of hope and love nerve well oui 

mystic minds. 

Wafted or wandering thus, souls may be found 
Or ripe for forms of heaven, or for that state 
Of which, when angels think, 
Or saints, they weep and shrink ; 
And oft, to draw, 01 save from such dread f;ite, 
Are fain their beauteous heads to dash gainst blood 
stained ground. 

Freed from their earthly gyves, if spirits laugh 
And shriek with horrid joy, when victims bleeil 
Or suffer, as we view 
Mortals in vileness do, 

The Eternal and his court may keep their meed 
Of joy : far other cups fell thirsty Guilt must quaff 



Qfl 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Oh, Edgar ! spirit, or on earth or air, 
Seen, or impalpable to artist s sketch, 
In essence, or in form, 
In bliss, pain, calm, or storm. 
Let us, wherever met a suffering wretch, 
Task every power to shield and save him from de 
spair ! 

Nature hath secrets mortals ne er suspect : 
At s:nc we glance, while some are sealed in night ; 
The optician, by his skill, 
Even now can show, at will, 
Long absent pheers, in shapes of moving light: 
If man so much can do, what can no- Heaven ef 
fect ! 

Shade, image, manes, all the ancient priest 
Told to his votarists in fraud or zeal, 
May be, and might have been, 
By means and arts we ween 
No more of, in this age : for wo or weal 
Of man, full much foreknown to this late race hath 

ceased. 

That souls may take ambrosial forms in heaven, 
A dawning science half assures the hope: 
These forms may sleep and smile 
Midst heaven s fresh roses, while 
Their spirits, free, roam o er this world s whole scope 
For pleasure and for good, Heaven s full permission 



I have not sung of meeting those we ve loved, 
Or known, and listening to then- accents meek, 
While, pitying all they ve pained 
On earth, while passion reigned, 
To wreak redress upon themselves they seek, 
And bless, for each stern deed, the pain they now 
have proved. 

I have not sung of the first, fairest court, 
Of all those mansions ; of the heavenly home, 
Of which the best hath told 
Who e er trod earthly mould ; 
To courts of earthly kings the fairest come, 
Haply, to show faint types of this supreme resort ! 
Haply, the Sire of sires may take a form 
And give an audience to each set unfurled 
With bands of sympathy, 
Wreathen in mystery,^ 
Round those who ve known each other in this 

world, 
Perfecting all the rest, and breathing beauty warm. 

Kssence. ]i< ht. heat, form, throbbing arteries 

To deem each possible, enough I see ! 
Ed^ar, thou knowest I wait: 
Guard my expectant state 

Console me, as I bend in prayers for thee 

Aid me, even as thou mayst, both Heaven and thee 
to pi. 

This song to thee alone ! though he who shares 
Thy bed of stone, shared well my love with thee ; 
Vet. in bis noble heart 
Another bore a part, 

Whilst thou bailst never other love than me: 
Sprites, brothers, manes, shades, present my tears 

and prayers ! 
IV.riei- isliiml of Cuba, July 24. 1644. 



HYMN. 

SIRK, Maker, Spirit, who alone cans know 

My soul and all the deep remorse that s there 
I ask no mitigation of my wo ; 

Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear ! 
Remorse ? ah ! not for ill designedly done : 

To look on pain, to me is pain severe ; 
Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won, 
Had Love been Wisdom, haply ye were here ! 
Much have I suffered ; yet this form, unscathed, 

Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift : 
With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed ; 

My ills are my desert, my good thy gift. 
Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft 

Hath mourned for two, ta en by the powers on high, 
Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left 

Beneath the marble where their relics He. 
Yet no oblivious veil is o er them cast : 

Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow 
Burns brighter now their mortal lives yre past, 
Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo. 
Oh ! may their spirits, disembodied, come, 

And strong though secret influence dispense 
Pitying the sorrows of an earthly doom, 

And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence. 
Oh ! cover them with forms so made to meet 

The models of their souls, that, when they see, 
They cast themselves in beauty at thy feet, 

In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy. 
Methinks I see them, side by side, in love, 

Like brothers of the zodiac, all around 
Diffusing light and fragrance, as thev move 
Harmonious as the spheric music s sound. 
And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, 

(In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) 
Lie, Wiiilc o er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, 

Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind. 
This fond ideal which my grief relieves, 

Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be : 
For more than all my feeble sense conceives, 

Thy hand can give in blest reality. 
Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that s fair! 
Howe er my poor words be unworthy theo, 
Oh ! be not weary of the imperfect prayer 
Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me ! 

THE MOON OF FLOWERS. 

On, moon of flowers ! sweet moon of flowers !* 

Why dost thou mind me of the hours 

Which flew so softly on that night 

When last I saw and felt thy light 1 

Oh, moon of flowers! thou moon cf flowers! 

Would thou couldst give me back those houra 

Since which a dull, cold year has fled, 

Or show me those with whom they sped ! 

Oh, moon of flowers ! oh, moon of flowers ! 

fn scenes afar were passed those hours, 

Which still with fond regret I see, 

And wish my heart could change like thee ! 

* The ?nva>;38 of the northern part of America some 
times count bj moons. May theycnll the moon of flowers 



MARIA BROOKS. 



TO THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 

THE first time I beheld thee, beauteous stream, 
How pure, how smooth,ho w broad thy bosom heav d ! 

What feelings rushed upon my heart ! a gleam 
As of another life my kindling soul received. 

Fair was the day, and o er the crowded deck 
Joy shone in many a smile ; light clouds, in hue 

As silvery as the new fledged cygnet s neck, 
Cast, as they moved, faint shadows on the blue, 

Soft, deep, and distant, of the mountain chain, 
Wreathing and blending, tint with tint, and traced 

So gently on the smiling sky. In vain 
Time, scene, has changed : t will never be effaced. 

Now o er thy tranquil breast the moonbeams quiver : 
How calm the air, how still the hour how bright ! 

Would thouwert doom d to be my grave, sweet river ! 
How blends my soul with thy pure breath to-night ! 

The dearest hours that soul has ever known 
Have been upon thy brink : would it could wait, 

And, parted, watch thce still ! to stay and moan 
With thee, were better than my promised fate. 

Ladaiianna ! monarch of the north ! 

Father of streams unsung, be sung by me ! 
Receive a lay that flows resistless forth ! 

Oh, quench the fervor that consumes, in thee ! 

I ve seen more beauty on thy banks, more bliss, 

Than I had deemed were ever seen below ; 
Dew falls not on a happier land than this ; 

Fruits spring from desert wilds, and love sits thron d 

on snow; 
Snows that drive warmth to shelter in the heart ; 

Snows that conceal, beneath their moonlit heaps, 
Plenty s rich embryo; fruits and flowers that start 

To meet their full grown Spring, as strong to earth 

he leaps. 
How many grades of life thou view st ! thy wave 

Bears the dark daughter of the woods, as light 
She springs to her canoe, and wildly grave 

Views the Great Spirit mid the fires of night. 

A hardy race, sprung from the Gaul, and gay, 
Frame their wild songs and sing them to the oar ; 

And think to chase the forest fiends away, 
W T here yet no mass bell tink .es from the shore. 

The pensive nun throws back the veil that hides 
Her calm, chaste eyes; straining them long, to mark 

When the mist thickens, if perchance there bides 
The peril, wildering on, some little bark : 

And trims her lamp and hangs it in her tower; 

Not as the priestess did of old ; (she s driven 
To do that deed by no fierce passion s power,) 

But kind y, ca mly, for the love of Heaven. 

Who had been lost, what heart from breaking saved, 
She knows not, thinks not ; guided by her star, 

Some being leaps to shore : twas all she craved ; 
She makes the holy sign, and blesses him from far. 

The plaided so dier, in his mountain pride 
Exulting, as he treads with statelier pace, 

Views his white limbs reflected in thy tide, 
While wave the sable plumes that shade his manly 
face. 



The song of Ossian mingles with thy gale, 
The harp of Carolan s remembered here; 

The bright haired son of Erin tells his tale, 
Dreams of his misty isle, and drops for her a tear 

Thon st seen the trophies of that deathless day, 
Whosename brightglancefromev ry Briton brings, 

When half the world was marshalled in array, 
And fell the great, self nurtured " king of kings. " 

Youthful Columbia, ply thy useful arts; 

Rear the strong nursling that thy mother bore, 
Ca led Liberty. Thy boundless fields, thy marts. 

Enough for thee : tempt these brown rocks no more ; 

Or leave them to that few, who, blind to gold, 
And scorning pleasure, brave with higher zest 

A doubtful path ; mid pain, want, censure, bold 
To pant one fevered hour on Genius breast. 

Nature s best loved, thine own, thy virtuous West 
Chose for his pencil a Canadian sky : 

Bade Death recede, who the fallen victor prest, 
And made perpetuate his latest sigh.* 

Sully, of tender tints transparent, fain 
I would thy skill a while ; for Memory s showing 

To prove thy hand the purest of thy train, 
A native beauty from thy pencil glowing. 

Or he who sketched the Cretan : gone her Greek, 

She, all unconscious that he s false or flying, 
Sleeps, while the light blood revels in her cheek 

So rosy warm, we listen for her sighing.t 
Could he paint beauty, warmth, light, happiness, 

Diffused around like fragrance from a flower 
And melody all that sense can bless, 

Or soul concentrate in one form his power 

I d ask. But Nat\*e, Nature, when thou wilt, 

Thou canst enough to make all art despair; 
Guard well the wondrous model thou hast built, 

Which these, thy nectared waves, reflect and love 

to bear. 
Nature, all powerful Nature, thine are ties 

That seldom break : though the heart beat so cold, 
That Love and Fancy s fairest garland dies 

Though false, though light as air thy bonds may 

hold. 
The mother loves her child ; the brother yet 

Thinks of his sister, though for years unseen ; 
And seldom doth the bridegroom quite forget 

Her who ha%. Ablest him once, though seas may 

roll between. 
But can a friendship, pure and rapture wrought, 

Endure without such bonds ? I ll deem it may. 
And bless the hope it nurtures : beauteous thought 

Howe er fantastic ! dear illusion stay ! 
Oh stream, oh country of my heart, farewell ! 

Say, shall I e er return? shall I once more 
Ere close these eyes that looked to love ah, foil 

Say, shall I tread again thy fertile shore ? 
Else, how endure my weary lot the strife 

To gain content when far the burning sigh*- 
The asking wish the aching void ? Oh, life ! 

Thou art, and hast been, one long sacrifice ! 

* In allu-ion to \\Vst .* celebrated picture. "The PMtb 
of Wolfe." t Vuiderlyn eee his picture of "Ariadne 



MARIA BROOKS. 



TO NIAGARA. 

SPHUT of Homer! thou whose so:rj: has rung 
From thine own Greece to this supreme abode 
Of Nature this great f a nc of Nature s God 

Breathe on my brain ! oh, touch the fervid tongue 
Of a fond votaress kneeling on the sod ! 

Sublime and Beautiful! your chapel s here 
Here, nealh the a/.ure dome of heaven, ye re wed; 
Here, on this rock, which trembles as I tread, 

Your blended sorcery claims both pulse and tear, 
Controls life s source and reigns o er heart and head. 

Terrific, but, oh, beautiful abyss! 

If I should trust my fascinated eye, 

Or hearken to thy maddening melody, [ki?s, 
Sense, form, would spring to meet thy white foam s 

Be lapped in thy soft rainbows once, and die ! 

Color, depth, height, extension all unite 
To chain the spirit by a look intense ! 
The dolphin in his clearest seas, or thence 

Ta en, for some queen, to deck of ivory white, 
Dies not in changeful tints more delicately bright. 

Look, look ! there comes, o er yon pale green ex- 
Bevond the curtain of this altar vast, [panse, 
A glad young swan ; the smiling beams that cast 

Light from her plumes, have lured her soft advance ; 
She nears the fatal brink : her graceful life has past ! 

Look up ! nor her fond, foolish fate disdain : 
An eagle rests upon the wind s sweet breath ; 
Feels he the charm 1 woos he the scene beneath 1 

He eyes the sun; nerves his dark wing again; 
Remembers clouds and storms, yet flies the lovely 
death. 

" Niagara ! wonder of this western world, 
And half the world beside ! hail, beauteous queen 
Of cataracts !" an angel, who had been [furled, 

O er heaven and earth, spoke thus, his bright wings 
And knelt to Nature first, on this wild cliff unseen. 



WRITTEN ON SEEING PHARAMOND. 

HAD the blest fair, who gave thee birth, 

Lived where ^Egean waves are swelling, 
Ere \et calm Reason came to earth, 

Warm Fancy s lovelier reign dispelling, 
Tbe Sire of heaven, she had believed, 

T<> stamp thy form had ta en another,* 
And all who saw had been deceived, 

And given the Delphic god a brother. 
And many a classic page had told 

Ofnymphi and goddesses admiring: 
Altars, libations, harps of gold, 

And milkwhite hecatombs expiring. 
And oh ! perchance there had remained 

Some Pbidian wonder still, still breathing 
Love, life, and charms past, but retained 

And warmth and bliss had still seemed wreathing 
Softly around the heaven touched stone, 

As now a light seems from thee beaming; 
While thought, sense, lost in looks alone, 

Grow dubious if awake or dreaming. 



* In allusion to the fable of Jupiter and Alcmena. 



And must thou pass 1 nor picture show, 

Nor sculpture, what my lyre is telling, 
Too feeble lyre ! as mom s bright glow 

Fades o er the river near thy dwelling ! 
Spirit of Titian ! hear and come, 

If come thou may st, a moment hither ; 
Leave thy loved Italy, thy home 

Oh ! let but one acanthus wither 
Round her loved ruins, while thou stayest ; 

Come to these solitudes, and view them : 
Must Genius ne er their beauties taste, 

Nor tear of rapture ever dew them] 
View the dark rock, the melting blue 

Of mount and sky so soft embracing ; 
The bright, broad stream : But beauty, hue, 

Life, form, are here all else effacing. 
Nature, to mock the forms of bliss 

Which fervid mortals have created, 
From their own souls excess, made this, 

And gazed at her own powers elated. 

Fragrant o er all the western groves 

The tall magnolia towers unshaded, 
But soon no more the gale he loves 

Faints on his ivory flowers ; they re faded. 
The fullblown rose, mid dewy sweets, 

Most perfect dies ; but, soon returning, 
The next born year another greets, 

When summer fires again are burning. 
Another rose may bloom as sweet, 

Other magnolias ope in whiteness 
But who again fair scenes shall meet 

The like of him who lends you brightness 1 
Come, then, my lyre ere yet ajrain 

Fade these fresh fields I shall forsake them ; 
But some fond ear may hear thy strain, 

When all is cold which thus can wake them. 



PRAYER. 

SIRE of the universe and me 

Dost thou reject my midnight prayer ! 
Dost thou withhold me even from thee, 

Thus writhing, struggling gainst despair ! 
Thou knowest the source of feeling s gush, 

Thou knowest the end for which it flows : 
Then, if thou bidst the tempest rush, 

Ah ! heed the fragile bark it throws ! 

Fain would my heaving heart be still 

But Pain and Tumult mock at rest : 
Fain would I meekly meet thy will, 

And kiss the barb that tears my breast 
Weak I am formed, I can no more 

Weary I strive, but find not aid ; 
Prone on thy threshold I deplore, 

But ah ! thy succor is delayed. 

The burning, beauteous orb of day, 

Amid its circling host upborne, 
Smiles, as life quickens in its ray : 

What would it, were thy hand withdrawn !- 
Scorch devastate the teeming whole 

Now glowing with its warmth divine ! 
Spirit, whose powers of peace control 

Great Nature s heart, oh ! pity mine ! 



MARIA BROOKS. 



SONG. 

DAT, in melting purple dying, 
Blossoms, all around me sighing, 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying, 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, 

Ye hut waken my distress ; 

I am sick of loneliness 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thoti rt true, and I ll believe thee; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul s intent 
Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 
All I ask is friendship s pleasure ; 
Let the shining ore lie darkling, 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling : 

Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 

I would only look on thee ! 

Tell to thee the high wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Rapture in participation, 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee ; 

Once, in caution, I could fly thee : 

Now, I nothing could deny thee ; 
In a look if death there be, 
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 



FRIENDSHIP. 

To MEET a friendship such as mine, 
Such feelings must thy soul refine 
As are not oft of mortal birth : 
Tis love without a stain of earth, 
Fratello del mio cor. 

Looks are its food, its nectar sighs, 
Its couch the lips, its throne the eyes, 
The soul its breath : and so possest, 
Heaven s raptures reign in mortal breast, 
Fratello del mio cor. 

Though Friendship be its earthly name, 
Purely from highest heaven it came ; 
T is seldom felt for more than one, 
And scorns to dwell with Venus son, 
Fratello efe/ mio cor. 

Him let it view not, or it dies 
Like tender hues of morning skies, 
Or morn s sweet flower of purple glov , 
When sunny beams too ardent grow, 
Fratello del mio cor. 

A charm o er every object plays ; 
All looks so lovely, while it stays, 



So softly forth in rosier tides 

The vital flood ecstatic glides, 

Fratello del mio cor, 

That, wrung by grief to see it part, 
A very life drop leaves the heart : 
Such drop, I need not tell thee, fell, 
While bidding it, for thee, farewell ! 
^ra. t eih^ del mio cor. 



FAREWELL TO CUBA. 

ADIEU, fair isle ! I love thy bowers, 
I love thy dark eyed daughters there , 

The cool pomegranate s scarlet flowers 
Look brighter in their jetty hair. 

They praised my forehead s stainless white 
And when I thirsted, gave a draught 

From the full clustering cocoa s height, 
And smiling, blessed me as I quaffed. 

Well pleased, the kind return I gave. 

And clasped in their embraces twine, 
Felt the soft breeze, like Lethe s wave, 

Becalm this beating heart of mine. 

Why will my heart so wildly beat ? 

Say, seraphs, is my lot too blest, 
That thus a fitful, feverish heat 

Must rifle me of health and resi 1 

Alas ! I fear my native snows 

A clime too cold, a heart too warm- 
Alternate chills, alternate glows 

Too fiercely threat my flower like form. 

The orange tree has fruit and flowers ; 

The grendilla, in its bloom, 
Hangs o er its high, luxuriant bowers, 

Like fringes from a Tyrian loom. 
When the white coffee blossoms swell, 

The fair moon full, the evening long, 
I love to hear the warbling bell, 

And sunburnt peasant s wayward song- 
Drive gently on, dark muleteer, 

And the light seguidilla frame ; 
Fain would I listen still, to hear 

At every close thy mistress name. 

Adieu, fair isle ! the waving palm 
Is pencilled on thy purest sky ; 

Warm sleeps the bay, the air is balm, 
And, soothed to languor, scarce a sigk 

Escapes for those I love so well, 

For those I ve loved and left so long ; 
On me their fondest musings dwell, 

To them alone my sighs belong. 
On, on, my bark ! blow, southern Dieeze . 

No longer would I lingering stay ; 
T were better far to die with these 

Than live in pleasure far away 



JULIA RUSH WARD. 



(Born 1796 -Died 1824). 



Miss JULIA RUSH CUTLER, the daughter 
of the late Mr. B. C. Cutler, of Boston, was 
born in that city on the fifth of January, 1796. 
Her maternal ancestors were of South Caro- 
li ia, and her grandmother was the only sis- 
t -r of the famous partisan leader, General 
Francis Marion. Miss Cutler was married 
on the ninth of October, 1812, when she was 
;n the seventeenth year of her age, to the late 
Mi. Samuel Ward, of New York, whose name 
was lung conspicuous for his relations with 
the commercial world, and who in private 
I ll- was eminent for all the virtues that 
dignify human nature. Mrs. Ward came to 
.New York to reside at a time when Irving, 
Paulding, Cooper, and others, were making 



their first an.1 most brilliant essays in litera 
ture, and hor fine abilities, improved by the 
best culture, brought into her circle the wits 
and men of genius in the city, who soon 
perceived that she needed but provocation to 
claim rank as a star of mild but pervading 
lustre in their brightest constellations. 

The compositions of Mrs. Ward are of the 
class called occasional poems, written with 
grace and sincerity, with a sort of impromptu 
ease, and from a heart full of truth and a 
mind to which beauty was familiar as the air. 

She died on the ninth of November, 1824, 
leaving the inheritance of her genius to her 
daughter, whose literary character is exhib 
ited in another part of this volume. 



"SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU."* 

THK tempest howls, the waves swell high, 

Upward I cast my anxious eye, 

And fix my gaze, amidst the storm, 

I "poii thy bright and heavenly form. 

Angel of mercy ! beam to save ; 

See. tossing OM the furious wave, 

My litte bark is sorely prest : 

( )!i, guide me to some port of rest; 

Shine on, and all my fears subdue, 

Hi jr. ff perdu, je suis perdu. 

To catch the ray, my aching sight 

Shall pierce the gloomy mists of night; 

But it , amidst the driving storm, 

Dark clouds should hide thy glittering form, 

In vain each swelling wave I breast, 

Which rushes on with foaming crest 

Mid the wild breakers furious roar, 

O envhelmed, I sink to rise no more. 

Shine out to meet my troubled view, 

N/ je te perds, je suis perdu. 

Then if T catch the faintest gleam, 

Onward I ll rush beneath the beam, 

And fast the wingrd waves shall bear 

My form upon the midnight air, 

\or know my breast one anxious fear 

For 1 am safe if thou art near. 

* Written on st-dini the device on a seal, of a man 
piidinir a small boat, with his eye fixed on a star, and 
this uiottc- : t>i je te perds. je suis perdu." 



Lead onward, then, while I pursue, 
Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

50 may the Star of Bethlehem s beam 
With holy lustre mildly gleam, 

To guide my soul with sacred light 
Amidst the gloom of error s night ; 
Its cheering ray shall courage give 
Midst seas of doubt my hope shall live ; 
Though dark and guilty fears may storrn, 
Bright peers above its radiant form : 
Though seen by al 1 , yet sought by few, 

51 je te perds, je suis perdu. 

Within my heart the needle lies, 

That upward points me to the skies : 

The tides may swell, the breakers roar, 

And threaten soon to whelm me o er 

Their wildest fury I defy : 

While on that Star I keep my eye, 

My tremb ing bark shall hold her way, 

Still guided by its sacred ray, 

To whose bright beam is homage due, 

Si je fe perds, je suis perdu. 

Soon to illume those threatening skies, 
The Sun of Righteousness shall rise, 
And on my soul his glories pour: 
Securely then my bark I ll moor 
Within that port where all are blest 
The haven of eternal rest. 
Shine onward, then, and guide me through 
Sije te perds, je suis perdu. 
90 



LYDIA H. S1GOURNEY. 



(Born 1791-Diecl 1865). 



LYDIA HTJNTLEY, now Mrs. SIGOURNEY, 
was born on the first of September, 1791, in 
Norwich, Connecticut, a town of which she 
has furnished an agreeable picture in her 
Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since, 
and of which she says in one of her poems, 

Sweetly wild 

Were the scenes that charmed me when a child : 
Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark, 
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark, 
Torrent voices thundering by 
When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high, 
And quiet roofs like the hanging nest 
Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest. 

Almost from infancy she was remarkable 
for a love of knowledge, and facility in its 
acquisition. She read with fluency when 
but three years of age, and at eight she wrote 
verses which attracted attention among the 
acquaintances of her family. After comple 
ting her education, at a boarding school in 
Hartford, she associated herself with Miss 
Hyde, (of whose literary remains she was 
subsequently the editor,) and opened a school 
for girls at Norwich, which was continued 
successfully two years. At the end of this 
period she removed to Hartford, where she 
also pursued the business of teaching. Some 
of her early contributions to the journals hav 
ing attracted the attention of the late Daniel 
Wadsworth,* a wealthy and intelligent gen 
tleman of that city, he induced her to collect 
and publish them in a volume, which ap 
peared in 1815, under the modest title of 
Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse, which very 
well indicates its general character. None 
of i ts contents are deserving of special com 
mendation, but they are all respectable, and 
the volume procured her an accession of rep 
utation whic. was probably of much indirect 
advantage. 

In 1819 Miss Huntle\ was married to Mr. 
Charles Sigourney, a reputable merchant and 
hanker of Hartford, and she did not appear 



* Mr. Wadsworth, to whose early perception nn 1 libe- 
erai encouragement of the abilities of Miss Huntiey \ve 
me perhaps indebted for their successful devotion to lit 
erature, died at Hartford on the 28th of July, 1848 since 
the above paragraphs were written. The Wadsworth Ath- 
rrittmm and the Wadswortb Tower are pleasing incmori- 
1s to the people of Hartford of his taste and liberality. 



again as an author until 1822, when she pub 
lished in Cambridge her Traits of the Abo 
rigines of America, a descriptive, historical, 
and didactic poem, in five cantos. It is a 
sort of poetical discourse upon the discovery 
and settlement of this continent, and the du 
ties of its present masters toward the abo 
rigines, but it is too discursive to produce 
the deep impression which might have been 
made with such a display of abilities, learn 
ing, and just opinions. Its tone is dignified 
and sustained, and it contains passages of 
considerable power and beauty, though few 
that can be separated from their contexts 
without some injustice to the author. The 
condition of the Indian before the invasion 
of the European is thus forcibly sketched in 
the beginning of the first canto : 

O er the vast regions of that western world, 
Whose lofty mountains hiding in the clouds, 
Concealed their grandeur and their wealth so long 
From European eyes, the Indian roved 
Free and unconquercd. From those frigid plains 
Struck with the torpor of the arctic pole, 
To where Magellan lifts his torch to light 
The meeting of the waters ; from the shore 
Whose smooth green line the broad Atlantic laves, 
To the rude borders of that rocky strait 
Where haughty Asia seems to stand and gaze 
On the new continent, the Indian reigned 
Majestic and alone. Fearless he rose, 
Firm as his mountains ; like his rivers, wild ; 
Bold as those lakes whose wondrous chain controls 
His northern coast. The forest and the wave 
Gave him his food ; the slight constructed hut 
Furnished his shelter, and its doors spread wide 
To every wandering stranger. There his cup, 
His simple meal, his lowly couch of skins. 
Were hospitably shared. Rude were his toils, 
And rash his daring, when he head Ion? rushed 
Down the steep precipice to seize his prey ; 
Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow, 
And keen his arrow. This the bison knew, 
The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear, 
The wolf dark prowling, tin- eye piercing lynx, 
The wild deer bounding through the shadowy glade, 
And the swift eagle, soaring high to make 
His nest among the stars. Clothed in their spoils 
He dared the elements: with eye sedate. 
Breasted the wintry winds ; o er the white heads 
Of angry torrents steered his rapid bark 
Light as their foam ; mounted with tireless speed 
Those slippery dirts, where everlasting snows 
Weave their dense robes ; or laid him down to sl<*^- 

91 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



Whore the dread thunder of the cataract lulled 
His drowsy sense. The dangerous toils of war 
He sought and loved. Traditions, and proud tales 
Of other days, exploits of chieftains bold, 
Dauntless and terrible, the warrior s song, 
The victor s triumph all conspired to raise 

The martial spirit 

Oft the rude, wandering tribes 
Rushed on to battle. Their aspiring chiefs, 
Lofty and iron framed, with native hue 
S rangely disguised in wild and glaring tints, 
Frowned like some Pictish king. The conflict raged 
Fearless and fierce, mid shouts and disarray, 
As the swift lightning urges its dire shafts [blasts 
Through clouds and darkness, when the warring 
Awaken midnight. O er the captive foe 
T nsated vengeance stormed : flame and slow wounds 
Racked the strong bonds of life ; but the firm soul 
Smiled in its fortitude to mock the rage 
Of its tormentors ; when the crisping nerves 
Were broken, still exulting o er its pain, 
To rise unmurmuring to its father s shades, 
Where in delightful bowers the brave and just 

Rest and rejoice 

Yet those untutored tribes 

Bound with their stern resolves and savage deeds 
Some gentle virtues ; as beneath the gloom 
Of overshadowing forests sweet -.- springs 

The unexpected flower Their uncultured hearts 

(ia\e a strong soil for friendship, that bold growth 

Of generous affection, changeless, pure, 

Self sacrificing, counting losses light, 

And yielding life with gladness. By its side, 

Like sister plant, sprang ardent Gratitude, 

Vivid, perennial, braving winter s frost 

And summer s heat ; while nursed by the same dews, 

Unbounded reverence for the form of age 

Struck its deep root spontaneous With pioui awe 

Their eyes up ifted sought the hidden path 
)f the Great Spirit. The loud midnight storm, 
The rush of mighty waters, the deep roll 
Of thunder, gave his voice ; the golden sun, 
The soft einj gence of the purple morn, 
The gentle rain distilling, was his smile, 
Dispensing good to alL.lln various forms arose 
Their superstitious homage. Some with blood 
Of human sacrifices sought to appease 
That aimer which in pestilence, or dearth, 
Or famine, stalked; and their astonished vales, 
Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank 
The Irorrib e libation. Some, with fruits, 
Sweet flowers, and incense of their choicest herbs, 
Sought to propitiate Him whose powerful hand 
Unseen sustained them. Some with mystic, rites, 
The ark, the orison, the paschal feast, 
Through dimmerin^ tradition seemed to bear, 
.As in s,,me broken vase, the smothered coals 
Scattered from Jewish altars. 

Oft hi- nylons which first greeted the Scan 
dinavian discoverer she says: 

There Winter frames 

1 he boldest architecture, rears strong towers 
Of rugged frostwork, and deep laboring throws 
A glas-sv ] v ivement o er rude tossing floods. 



Long near this coast he lingered, half illumed 
By the red gleaming of those fitful flames 
Which wrathful Hecla through her veil of snows 
Darts on the ebon night. Oft he recalled, 
Pensive, his simple home, ere the New World, 
Enwrapped in po ar robes, with frigid eye 
Received him, and in rude winds hoarsely hailed 
Her earliest guest. Thus the stern king of storms, 
Swart Eolus, bade his imprisoned blasts 
Breathe dissonant welcome to the restless queen, 
Consort of Jove, whose unaccustomed step 
Invaded his retreat. The pilgrim band 
Amazed beheld those mountain ramparts float 
Around their coast, where hoary Time had toiled, 
Even from his infancy, to point sublime 
Their pyramids, and strike their awful base 
Deep neath the main. Say, Darwin, Fancy s son ! 
What armor shall he choose who dares complete 
Thine embassy to the dire kings who frown 
Upon those thrones of frost 1 what force compel 
Their abdication of their favored realm 
And rightful royalty ? what pilot s eye, 
Unglazed by death, direct their devious course 
(Tremendous navigation !) to allay 
The fervor of the tropics ] Proudly gleam 
Their sparkling masses, shaming the brief dome 
Which Russia s empress queen bade the chill boor 
Quench life s frail lamp to rear. Now they assume 
The front of old cathedral gray with years; 
Anon their castellated turrets glow 
In high baronial pomp ; then the tall mast 
Of lofty frigate, peering o er the cloud, 
Attracts the eye ; or some fair island spreads 
Towns, towers, and mountains, cradled in a flood 
Of rainbow lustre, changeful as the web 
From fairy loom, and wild as fabled tales 
Of Araby. 

At the close of the poem is a large body of 
curious and entertaining notes, scarcely ne 
cessary for its illustration, but welcome as 
a collection of well written and instructive 
miscellanies upon the various subjects inci 
dentally suggested or referred to in it. 

In 1824 Mrs. Sigourney published in prose 
A Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since ; 
in 1827, Poems by the author of Moral Pieces; 
in 1833, Poetry for Children ; in 1 834, Sketch 
es, a collection of prose tales and essays; in 
1835, Zinzindorf and other Poems; in 1836, 
Letters to Young Ladies : and, in 1838, Let 
ters to Mothers. In the summer of 1840 she 
went to Europe, and after visiting many of 
the most interesting places in England, Scot 
land, and France, and publishing a collection 
of her works in London, she returned in the 
following April to Hartford. 

In 1841 appeared her Select Poems, em 
bracing those which best satisfied her own 
judgment in previous volumes, and in the 
same year, with many other pieces, Poca- 
hontas, the best of her long poems, and much 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNE\. 



the best of the many poetical compositions 
of which the famous daughter of Powhatan 
has been the subject. Pucahontas is in the 
Spenserian measure, which is used with con 
siderable felicity, as will be seen from the 
following description of the heroine in early 
womanhood, while the thoughtful beauty for 
which she is celebrated is ripening to its most 
controlling splendor: 
On sped the seasons, and the forest child 
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 
While o er her features stole, serenely mild, 
The tremb.ing sanctity of woman s truth, 
Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace : 
Yet those who deeper scan the human face, 
Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth, 
Might clearly read, upon its heaven writ scroll, 
That high and firm reso.ve which nerved the Roman 

soul. 

The simple sports th at charm dher childhood s way, 
Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines, 
The curious glance of wild and searching ray, 
Where innocence with ignorance combines, 
Were changed for deeper thought s persuasive air, 
Or that high port a princess well might wear : 
So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 
So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
And on the crimson cloud casts off its mantle gray. 

Though Pocahontas is the most sustained of 
Mrs. Sigourney s poems, the contents of this 
volume do not altogether exhibit any deeper 
thought, or finer fancy, or larger command 
of poetical language, than some of her pro 
ductions that had been many years before the 
public. 

In 1842 she published Pleasant Memories 
of Pleasant Lands, the records, in prose and 
verse, of impressions made during her tour 
in Europe. Two years af.erward this was 
followed by a similar work under the title of 
Scenes in my Native Land; and in 1846, by 
Mvrti*, with other Etchings and Sketchings. 
The most complete and elegant edition of her 
poems was published by Carey and Hart, with 
illustrations by Darley, in 1848. 

Mrs. Sigourney has acquired a wider and 
more pervading reputation than many women 
will receive in this country. The times have 
been favorable for her, and the tone of her 
works such as is most likely to be accepta 
ble in a primitive and pious community. 
Though possessing but little constructive 
power, she has a ready expression, and an 
ear naiurally so sensitive to harmony that it 
lias scarcely been necessary for her to study 
the principles of versification in order to 
produce some of its finest, effects. She sings 



impulsively from an atmosphere of affection 
ate, pious, and elevated sentiment, rather 
than from the consciousness of subjective 
ability. In this respect she is not to be com 
pared with some of our female poets, who 
exhibit an affluence of diction, a soundness 
of understanding, and a strength of imagina 
tion, that justify the belief of their capability 
for the highest attainments in those fields of 
poetical art in which women have yet been 
distinguished. Whether there is in her na 
ture the latent energy and exquisite suscep 
tibility that, under favorable circumstances, 
might have \varmed her sentiment into pas 
sion, and her fancy into imagination ; or 
whether the absence of any deep emotion 
and creative power is to be attributed to a 
quietness of life and satisfaction of desires 
that forbade the development of the full force 
of her being ; or whether benevolence and 
adoration have had the mastery of her life, 
as might seem, and led her other faculties 
in captivity, we know too little of her secret 
experiences to form an opinion : but the abil 
ities displayed in Napoleon s Epitaph and 
some other pieces in her works, suggest that 
it is only because the flower has not been 
crushed that we have not a richer perfume. 
The late Mr. Alexander H. Everett, in a 
reviewal of the works of- Mrs. Sigourney, 
published a short time before his departure 
for China, observes that " they express with 
great purity and evident sincerity the tender 
affections which are so natural to the female 
heart, and the lofty aspirations after a higher 
and better state of being which constitute the 
truly ennoblingtind elevating principle in art 
as well as nature. Love and religion are the 
unvarying elements of her song.. ..If her pow 
ers of expression were equal to the purity and 
elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, 
she would be a female Milton or a Christian 
Pindar. But though she does not inherit 

The force and :xm]ile pinion that the TUeban eagles bear, 
Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air, 

she nevertheless manages language with ease 
and elegance, and often with much of the 
curiosa felicitas, that refined felicity of 
expression, which is, after all, the principal 
charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very 
successful. The poems that she has written 
in this measure have not unfrequently much 
of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be 
nearly or quite as highly relished by his ad 
mirers." 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 

Ax axe rang sharply mid those forest shades 
Which from creation toward the sky had towered 
In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, 
Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side 
His little son, with question and response, 
Bejuiled the toil. " Boy, thou hast never seen 
Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
Fall how the linn earth groans ! Remcrnberest thou 
The miglitv river, on whose breast we sailed 
So many d.iys, on toward the setting sun ] 
Our own Connecticut, compared to that, 
Was but a creeping stream." " Father, the brook 
That by our door went sinking, where I launched 
My tiny boat, with my young playmates round 
Whe.i school was o er, is dearer far to me 
Thau al t .iese bold, broad waters. To my eye 
Tuey are as strangers. And those little trees 
My mother nurtured in the garden bound 
Of our first homo, from whence the fragrant peach 
Hung in its ripening go d, were fairer, sure, 
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 
" What, ho ! my little girl," and with light step 
A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, 
And, setting down the basket that contained 
His noon repast, looked upward to his face 
With sweet, confiding smi e. See, dearest, see, 
That bright winged paroquet, and hear the song 
Of yon gay red bird, echoing through the trees, 
Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, 
In far New England, such a mellow tone?" 
" I had a robin that did take the crumbs 
Each night arid morning, and his chirping voice 
Did make me joyful as I went to tend 
My snowdrops. I was always laughing then 
In that first home. I should be happier now, 
Methinks, if I cou d find among these dells 
The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, 
And round the rude hut of the emigrant 
The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 
Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
And lie, with head declined, sat listening long 
To the swollen waters of the Illinois, 
Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake : 
<< Wife did I see thee brush away a tear] 
T was oven so. Thy heart was with the halls 
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, 
Carpets and sofas, and admiring guests, 
LYlit thee better than these rugged walls 
Of sha;,ele>s logs, and this lone, hermit home." 
No, no. All was so still around, methought 
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
Which mid the church, where erst we paid ourvows, 
So tuneful pea Yd. But tenderly thy voice 
Dissolved the i.Iusion." And the gentle smile 
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed 
Her wakin-r infant, reassured his soul 
That, whoresoe er our best affections dwell, 
And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
But driMms. tho-v wi d magicians, that do play 
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart 
If his own native city roof and spire, 



All glittering bright, in fancy s frostwork ray. 
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed, 
The favorite dog came frisking round his feet 
With shrill and joyous bark; familiar doors 
Flew open ; greeting hands with his were linked 
In friendship s grasp ; he heard the keen debate 
From congregated haunts, where mind with minu 
Doth blend and brighten : and till morning roved 
Mid the loved scenery of his native land. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! 
Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
A toi.ing atom ; then from wave to wave 
Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, or reels [wane, 
Half wrecked thro gulfs profound. Moons wax and 
But still that patient traveller treads the deep. 
I see an icebound coast toward which she steers 
With such a tardy movement, that it seems 
Stern Winter s hand hath turned her keel to stone, 
And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
They land ! they land ! not like the Genoese, 
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye 
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
From their long prison, hardy forms that brave 
The world s unkindness, men of hoary hair, 
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, 
Who hush the wailing infant with a g ance. 
B eak Nature s desolation wraps them round, 
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, 
And savage men, who through the thickets peer 
With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps 
To this drear desert 1 Ask of him who left 
His father s home to roam through Haran s wilds, 
Distrusting not the guide who called him forth, 
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed 
Shou d be as ocean s sands. But yon lone bark 
Hatli spread her parting sail ; they crowd the strand, 
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo 
That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link, 
Binding to man and habitable earth, 
Is severed 1 Can ye tell what pangs were there, 
With keen regrets; what sickness of the heart, 
What yearnings o er their forfeit land of birth, 
Their distant dear ones ] Long, with straining eve, 
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek 
Of anguish, when that bitter lone iness 
Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! they turn 
Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! 
Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life 
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 
A loftiness to face a world in arms, 
To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay 
On Duty s sacred a tar the warm blood 
Of s ain affections, should they rise between 
The soul and GOD. ye, who proudly boast, 
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these, 
Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose 
Their likeness in your sons. Shou d Mammon cling 
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
That bloated luxury which eats the core 
From manly virtue, or the tempting world 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



95 



Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
Turn ye to Plymouth rock, and where they knelt 
Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God. 



WINTER. 

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest 
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, 
The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, 
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man 
Mcthinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. 
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys, 
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, 
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. 
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds, 
And keepeth si ence at her Maker s feet. 
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, 
And from the harvest shouting. Man should rest 
Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale 
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, 
And drink in holy hea th. As the tossed bark 
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay 
To trim its scattered cordage, and restore 
Its riven sai s so should the toilworn mind 
Refit for Time s rough voyage. Man, perchance, 
Soured by the world s sharp commerce, or impaired 
By the wild wanderings of his summer way, 
Turns like a truant scholar to his home, 
And yields his nature to sweet influences 
That purify and save. The ruddy boy [sport, 
Comes with his shouting schoolmates from their 
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star 
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth, 
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, 
Hastes to his mother s side. Her tender hand 
Doth shake the snowflakes from his glossy curls, 
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice 
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart 
Solicits silently the Sire of heaven 
To " b ess the lad." The timid infant learns 
Better to love its sire, and longer sits 
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip 
Prints on his brow such language as the tongue 
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life s feast 
With dove eyed Meekness, and b and Charity, 
And thou shalt find even Winter s rugged blasts 
The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned soul, 
And when the last drop of its cup is drained 
Arising with a song of praise go up 
To the eternal banquet. 



NIAGARA. 

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thv forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternal y bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah ! who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 



Of thy tremendous hymn 1 Even Ocean shrinks 

Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 

Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 

To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 

His wearied billows from their vexing play, 

And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou, 

With everlasting, undecaying tide, 

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, 

When first they sang o er young Creation s birth. 

Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, 

That wait the archangel s signal to dissolve 

This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH S name 

Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, 

That lifts itself within thy wide domain, 

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds 

Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 

Amid thy mist and foam. T is meet for them 

To touch thy garment s hem, and lightly stir 

The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, 

For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, 

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 

Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 

Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 

Famr iarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 

Thy glorious features with our pencil s point, 

Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul 

A wondering witness of thy majesty, 

But as it presses with delirious joy 

To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 

And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 

Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 

In the dread presence of the Invisible, 

As if to answer to its God through thee. 



THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 

MEEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, 
Whence are ye 1 Did some white winged messenger 
On Mercy s missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows 1 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 
Did them with tear drops nurse ye ? 

Tree nor shrub 

Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
Uprears a veteran front ; yet there ye stand, 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o er which the headlong plunge- 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid -loveliness 
Fearless, yet frail and, clasping his chill hand?, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale 
Anl freer dreams of heaven. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



N A V ( ) L K O X S E P I T APR. 



sh .no out, and there we .nw tl.e face of 
in-, eliaracterl**. unintcribttl." 



A vii who shall write thine epitaph, thou man 
Of mystery and might ! Shall orphan hands 
Inscribe it with their father s broken swords ? 
Or the wa m trickling of the widow s tear 
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
As the keen torture of the water drop [ghosts 
Doth wear the sentenced hr.iin 1 Shall countless 
Arise I .-.MII hade-;, and in luri.l flame 
With shad nvy linger trace thine effigy, 
Who s , iit the.rn to their audit unannealed, 
\nd with hut that brief space fir shrift of prayer 
Given at tin- cannon s mouth 1 Thou, who didst sit 
Like eag!e on the apex of the globe, 
And bear the murmur of its conquered tribes, 
As chirp the weak voiced nations of the grass, 
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, 
1 on little speck, which scarce the mariner 
Descries mid ocean s foam 1 Thou, who didst hew 
A pathway for thy host above the cloud, 
Guiding their footsteps o er the frostwork crown 
Ot the throned Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarked, 
Even by such slight memento as the hind 
Carves on his own coarse tombstone 1 Bid the 

throng 

W T ho poured thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
And breathed thy thunders on the battle field, 
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms 
O er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread, 
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, 
Heed n >t thy clarion call. But should they rise, 
As in the vision that the prophet saw, 
And each dry bone its severed fellow find, 
Piling their pillared dust as erst they gave 
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars mightdeem 
A second time the puny pride of man 
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs, 
To dwe l with them. But here unwept thou art, 
Like a dead lion in his thicket lair, 
With neither living man nor spirit condemned 
To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes, 
Who served as playthings in thy desperate game 
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed 
Till meagre Famine on their vitals preved, 
To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free 
Thy life stream t his cup of wine, and saw 
That purple vintage shed over ha f the earth, 
Wn /r the first lint ., if than tmxt blond to spare. 
Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Caesar s tomb, 
And rh-iiit high requiem o er the tyrant hand 
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts 
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence, 
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
Thin* ancient spirit ((nailed, and to the list 
)f mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat 
TVeath A -.jug s table, add the name of Rome. 
- Turn. Austria! iron browed and stern of heart, 
And on his monument, to whom thou gavest 
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride, 
Grave - Auster itz," and fiercely turn away. 
As the reined war h:)rse snulls the trumpet blast, 
Rouse Prussia fijtii hr trance with Jena s name 



And bid her witness to that fame which soars 
O er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
Of Scandinavia s madman. From the shades 
Of lettered ease, oh, Germany ! come forth 
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, 
Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints 
Of deeper character than bold Romance 
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream. 
Or History trusted to her sybil leaves. 
Hail, lotus crowned ! in thy green childhood fed 
By stiff necked Pharaoh and the shepherd kings, 
Hast thou no tale of him who drenched thy sands 
At Jaffa and Aboukir ! when the flight 
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 
To the accusing Spirit ? Glorious isle ! 
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, 
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
Ho ! fur clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, 
Or with thy winter mocking Cossack s lance, 
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, 
And give the last line of our epitaph. 
But there was silence : for no sceptred hand 
Received the challenge. From the misty deep, 
Rise, island spirits ! like those sisters three 
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life 
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. 
Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, 
And cheered his exile with the name of king, 
And spread that curtained couch which none disturb, 
Come, twine some trait of househo d tenderness, 
Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature s tears, 
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rocked 
His cradle at Ajaccio, turned awuy ; 
And tiny E ba in the Tuscan wave 
Threw her slight annal with the haste of feu r; 
And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray 
Neath the Atlantic s smiting, bade the moon, 
With silent finger, point the traveller s gaze 
To an unhonored tomb. Then Earth arose, 
That blind old empress, on her crumb ing throno, 
And to the echoed question, " Who shall write 
NAPOLEOV S epitaph 1" as one who broods 
O er unforgiven injuries, answered, " None ! 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

DEATH found strange beauty on that polished 

brow, 

And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound 
With which the babe would claim its mother s ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
The seal of si .ence. But there beamed a smile, 
So fixed, so holy, from that, cherub brow, 
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
The signet ring of Heaven. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 

N \ T i- u K doth mourn for thec. There comes a voice 
From her far so:itudes, as though the winds 
Murmured low dirges, or the waves complained. 
Even the meek plant, that never sang hefore, 
Save one brief requiem, when its b ossoms fell, 
Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, 
As for a florist dead. The ivy, wreathed 
Round the gray turrets of a buried race, 
And the proud palm trees, that like princes rear 
Their diadems neath Asia s sultry sky, 
Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name. 
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make 
Whate er it touched more holy. The pure shell, 
Pressing its pearly lip to Ocean s floor ; 
The cloistered chambers, where the seagods sleep ; 
And the unfathomed, melancholy Main, 
Lament for thee through all the sounding deeps. 
Hark ! from sky piercing Himmaleh, to where 
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud 
From the scathed pine tree, near the red man s hut, 
To where the everlasting Banian builds 
Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail 
For her who o er the dim cathedral s arch, 
The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall, 
Or the sere desert, poured the lofty chant 
And ritual of the muse : who found the link 
That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, 
And make that link a me ody. The vales 
Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, [hards 
And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian 
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell 
How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climbed 
Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch 
Of thy last s umber in yon verdant isle 
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul 
Which, loved of lavish skies, though banned by fate, 
Seemed as a type of thine own varied lot, 
The crowned of Genius, and the child of Wo. 
For at thy breast the ever pointed thorn 
Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush 
Of such unstained, sublime, impassioned song, 
That angels, poising on some silver c oud, 
Might listen mid the errands of the skies, 
And linger all unblamed. How tenderly 
Dolh Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, 
And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, 
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand 
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits 
Thy wakina, as some cheated mother hangs 
O er the pale babe, whose spirit Death hath stolen, 
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven. 
Said we that thou art dead ! We dare not. No. 
For every mountain, stream, or shady dell, 
Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, 
Their own undying one. To thee was known 
Alike the language of the fragile flower 
And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. 
So, from thy living intercourse with man, 
Thou sha t not pass, until the weary earth 
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. 
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir, 
Whose harmonies thy spirit learned so well 
Through this low, darkened casement, and so long 



Interpreted for us. Why should we say 
Farewell to t .iee, since every unborn age 
Shall mix thee with its household charities ? 
The hoary sire shall bow his deafened ear, 
And greet thy sweet words with his henison 
The mother shrine thee -as a vestal flame 
In the lone temple of her sanctity ; 
And the young child who takes thee by the hand, 
Shall travel with a surer step to heaven. 



THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* 

LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
In her soft ministry around thy bed, 
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet gemmed, 
And pearled with dews. 

She bade bright Summer bring 
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, 
And Autumn cast his reaper s coronet 
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
Stern y of man s neglect. But now we come 
To do thee homage mother of our chief! 
Fit homage such as honoreth him who pays. 

Methinks we see thee as in olden time 
Simple in garb majestic and serene, 
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance in truth 
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal 
Repressing vice and making folly grave. 
Thou didst not deem it woman s part to waste 
Life in inglorious sloth to sport a while 
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave; 
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, 
Building no temple in her children s hearts, 
Save to the vanity and pride of life 
Which she had worshipped. 

For the might that clothed 
The Pater Patrire" for the glorious deeds 
That make Mount Vernon s tomb a Mecca shrine 
For all the earth what thanks to thee are due, 
Who, mid his elements of being, wrought, 
We know not Heaven can tell ! 

Rise, sculptured pile f 
And show a race unborn who rests below, 
And say to mothers what a ho y charge 
Is theirs with what a kingly power their love 
Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. 
Warn thorn to wake at early dawn, and sow 
Good seed before the World hath sown her tares ; 
Nor in their toil decline that angel bands 
May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand, 
With thril ing breast, to view her trophied praise, 
Who nobly reared Virginia s godlike chief 
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, 
What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
A second WASHINGTON, or leave your name 
Wrought out in marble with a nation s tears 
Of deathless gratitude yet may you raise 
A monument above the stars a soul 
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God 

* On laying the comer stone of her monument at Fred- 

i ericksburg, Virginia. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

IT stood among the chestnuts its white spire 
And slender turrets pointing where man s heart 
Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs, 
Abruptly beautiful, ahove its head, 
Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, 
That just beyond, in deep sequestered vale, 
Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs 
And varying sounds of village industry 

Swelled from its margin 

But all around 

The solitary dell, where meekly rose 
That consecrated church, there was no voice 
Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, 
And that unspoken lore with which the dead 

Do commune with the living And methought 

How sweet it were, so near the sacred house 
Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, 
And sabbath after sabbath gathered strength 
To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, 
Close neath the shadow of its peaceful walls ; 
And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up 
Our simple tombstone witness to that faith 
Which can not die. 

Heaven bless thee, lonely church, 
And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band 
From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee, 
And drink the waters of eternal life : 
Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies, 
Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand 
To guide the living and to guard the dead. 



SOLITUDE. 

DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell 
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
Dark background gainst the sky. Thither I went, 
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount. 
For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
And fever of the world. I thought to be 
There without witness : but the violet s eye 
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild rose smiled, 
A nd the young pendent vine flower kissed my cheek. 
There were glad voices too : the garrulous brook, 
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
Its history. Up came the singing breeze, 
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
Responsive, every one. Even busy life 
Woke in that dell : the dexterous spider threw 
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
While, from her. wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
Sang to her nurslings. 

Yet I strangely thought 
To be alone and silent in thy realm, 
Spirit of life and love ! It might not be : 
There is no solitude in thy domains, 
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
He locks his joy, and shuts out others grief. 
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
Without a witness : even the desert place 



Speaketh thy name ; the simple flowers and streams 
Are social and benevolent, and he 
Who holdeth converse in their language pure, 
Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
Shall find, like him who Eden s garden dressed, 
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 



SUNSET ON THE ALLEGANY. 

I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot 
Of the crowned Allegany, when he wrapped 
His purple mantle gloriously around, 
And took the homage of the princely hills, 
And ancient forests, as they bowed them down, 
Each in his order of nobility. 
And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retired 
Behind that solemn shadow : and his train 
Of crimson, and of azure, and of gold, 
Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, 
And ray on ray, till all the concave caught 
His parting benediction. 

But the glow 

Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank 
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood 
In awful state, like dread embassador [severe 
Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frowned 
Upon the world beneath, and lifted up 
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky, 
To witness gainst its sins : and is it meet 
For thee, swoln out in cloud-capped pinnacle, 
To scorn thine own original, the dust 
That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, 
Doth sweep thy base 1 Say, is it meet for thee, 
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach 
This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root 
Draws depth and nutriment ? 

But lo ! a star, 

The first meek herald of advancing night, 
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe 
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence 
Over a giant s shoulder. Hail, lone star ! 
Thou friendly watcher o er an erring world, 
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach 
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes 
Thee light, and man salvation. 

Not to mark 

And treasure up his follies, or recount 
Their secret record in the court of Heaven, 
Thou com st. Methinks thy tenderness would 
With trembling mantle, his infirmities, [shroud 
The purest natures are most pitiful ; 
But they who feel corruption strong within 
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace 
Of their own image, in another s breast. 
So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies 
His own mad visage, furiously destroys 
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! 
Shalt stand a watchman on Creation s walls, 
While race on race their little circles mark, 
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, 
Who through this evening scene may wander on 
And from yon mountain s cold magnificence 
Turn to thy milder beauty point to all, 
The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, 
A silent teacher of its boundless love. 



LYDIA H. 8IGOURNEY. 



99 



THE INDIAN GIRL S BURIAL. 

A VOICE upon the prairies, - 

A cry of woman s wo, 
That mingleth with the autumn blast 

All fitfully and low ; 
It is a mother s wailing : 

Hath earth another tone 
Like that with which a mother mourns 

Her lost, her only one ! 

Pale faces gather round her, 

They marked the storm swell high 
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, 

But their cold, blue eyes are dry. 
Pale faces gaze upon her, 

As the wild winds caught her moan, 
But she was an Indian mother, 

So she wept her tears alone. 

Long o er that wasted idol 

She watched, and toiled, and prayed, 
Though every dreary dawn revealed 

Some ravage death had made, 
Till the fleshless sinews started, 

And hope no opiate gave, 
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, 

An echo from the grave. 

She was a gentle creature, 

Of raven eye and tress ; 
And dovelike were the tones that breathed 

Her bosom s tenderness, 
Save when some quick emotion 

The warm blood strongly sent, 
To revel in her olive cheek, 

So richly eloquent. 

I said Consumption smote her, 

And the healer s art was vain, 
But she was an Indian maiden, 

So none deplored her pain ; 
None, save that widowed mother, 

Who now. by her open tomb, 
Is writhing, like the. smitten wretch 

Whom judgment marks for doom. 

Alas ! that lowly cabin, 

That bed beside the wall, 
That seat beneath the mantling vine, 

They re lone and empty all. 
What hand shall pluck the tall green corn, 

That ripeneth on the plain ] 
Since she for whom the board was spread 

Must ne er return again. 

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, 

Nor let thy murmuring shade 
Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn 

Thy burial rite surveyed ; 
There s many a king whose funeral 

A black robed realm shall see, 
For whom no tear of grief is shed 

Like that which falls for thee. 

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden, 

Beneath thy native tree ! 
The proud may boast their little day, 

Then sink to dust like thee : 



But there s many a one whose funeral 
With nodding plumes may be, 

Whom Nature nor affection mourn 
As here they mourn for thee. 



INDIAN NAMES. 

YE say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, mid the forests where they roamed, 

There rings no hunter s shout: 
But their name is on your waters 

Ye may not wash it out. 

T is where Ontario s billow 

Like Ocean s surge is curled ; 
Where strong Niagara s thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the west ; 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia s breast. 

Ye say their conelike cabins, 

That clustered o er the vale, 
Have disappeared, as withered leaves 

Before the autumn s gale : 
But their memory liveth on your hills, 

Their baptism on your shore, 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid her young renown ; 
Connecticut has wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 

Within its rocky heart, 
And Allegany graves its tone 

Throughout his tofty chart. 
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 

Doth seal the sacred trust : 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 



A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD S GRA\E. 

A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby s grave, 

Where a lily had chanced to grow : 
" Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, 
When she of the blue and sparkling eye 

Must sleep in the churchyard low ?" 
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 

And spoke from its shining track : 
I was a worm till I won my wings, 
And she whom thou mourn st, like a seraph sings 

Wouldst thou call the blest one back 1 " 



100 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



MONODY ON THE LATE DANIEL WADS- 
WORTH. 

Tnor, of a noble name, 
That gave in days of old 
Shepherds to Zion s fold, 
And chiefs of power and fame, 
When Washington in times of peril drew [true 
Forth in their country s cause the valiant and the 
Thou, who so many a lonely home didst cheer, 

Counting thy wealth a sacred trust 
With shuddering heart the knell we hear 
That tells us thou art dust. 

Friend ! we have let thee fall 
Into the grave, and have not gathered all 
The wisdom thou didst love to pour 
From a full mind s exhaustless store: 

Ah, we were slow of heart, 
To reap the rapid moments ere their flight 
Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art 
Heaven s gifts to use aright 

Amid infirmity and pain 

Time s golden sands to save ; 
W T ith upright heart the truth maintain.; 
To frown on wiles the life that stain, 

Making the soul their slave ; 
To joy in all things beautiful, and trace [face. 
The slightest smile, or shade, that mantled Nature s 

Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed 

To see thee still at wintry tide, [beside, 

With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth 
When to thy clearer sight there gleamed 
The beckoning hand, the waiting eye, 
The smile of welcome through the sky, 
Of her who was thine angel here below, [to go. 
And unto whom twas meet that thou shouldst long 

Friend ! thou didst give command 
To him who dealt thy soul its hallowed bread, 
As by thy suffering bed 
He took his faithful stand, 

Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead : 
So, though impulsive promptings came, 
Warm o er his lips like rushing flame, 
He struggled and o ercarne. 

Even when, in sad array, 

From thy lone home, where summer roses twined, 
The funeral weepers held their way 

Thy sahle hearse behind : 
When in the holy house, where thou so long 
Hadst worshipped with the sabbath throng, 

Thy venerated form was laid, 
While mournful dirges rose, and solemn prayers 
were made. 

Oh friend ! thou didst o ermaster well 
The pride of wealth, and multiply 
Good deeds not done for the good word of men, 
But for Heaven s judging pen, 
And clear, omniscient eye; 
And surely where the "just made perfect" dwell, 

Earth s voice of highest eulogy 
Is like the bubble of the far-off sea 

A sigh upon the grave, [wave. 

Scarce moving the frail flowers that o er its surface 



Yet think not, friend revered, 

Oblivion o er thy name shall sweep, 
While the fair domes that thou hast reared 

Their faithful witness keep. 
The fairy cottage in its robe of flowers 
The classic turrets, where the stranger strays 
Amid the pencil s tints and scrolls of other days, 
And yon gray tower on Montevideo s crest, 
Where, mid Elysian haunts and bowers, 
Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest : 

These chronicle thy name 
And ah, in many a darkened cot 
Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame 
That can not be forgot ! 

But were all dumb beside, 
The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou 

didst guide, 

In early youth, with fostering care 
These may not in cold silence bide: 
For were it so, the stones on which we tread 
Would find a tongue to chide 

Ingratitude so dread ! 

No till the fading gleam of memory s fires 
From the warm altar of the heart expires, 
Leave thou the much indebted free 

To speak what truth inspires, 
And fondly mourn for thee. 



ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 

LOST ! lost ! lost ! 

A gem of countless price, 
Cut from the living rock, 

And graved in paradise : 
Set round with three times eight 

Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
And each with sixty smaller ones, 

All changeful as the light. 

Lost where the thoughtless throng 

In Fashion s mazes wind, 
Where trilleth Folly s song, 

Leaving a sting behind : 
Yet to my hand twas given 

A golden harp to buy, 
Such as the white-robed choir attune 

To deathless minstrelsy. 

Lost ! lost ! lost ! 

I feel all search is vain ; 
That gem of countless cost 

Can ne er be mine again : 
I offer no reward 

For till these heart-strings sever, 
I know that Heaven-entrusted gift 

Is reft away for ever. 

But when the sea and land 

Like burning scroll have fled, 
I ll see it in His hand 

Who judgeth quick and dead, 
And when of scathe and loss 

That man can ne er repair, 
The dread inquiry meets my soul, 

What shall it answei there 1 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY 



101 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

How beautiful it stands, 

Behind its elm tree s screen, 
With simple attic cornice crowned, 

All graceful and serene ! 
Most sweet, yet sad, it is 

Upon yon scene to gaze, 
And list its inborn melody, 

The voice of other days : 

For there, as many a year 

Its varied chart unrolled, 
I hid me in those quiet shades, 

And called the joys of old ; 
I called them, and they came 

When vernal buds appeared, 
Or whore the vine clad summer bower 

Its temple roof upreared, 

Or where the o erarching grove 

Spread forth its copses green, 
While eyebright and asclepias reared 

Their untrained stalks between ; 
And the squirrel from the boughs 

His broken nuts let fall, 
And the merry, merry little birds 

Sing at his festival. 

Yon old forsaken nests 

Returning spring shall cheer, 
And thence the unfledged robin breathe 

His greeting wild and clear ; 
And from yon clustering vine, 

That wreathes the casement round, 
The humming-birds unresting wing 

Send forth a whirring sound ; 

And where alternate springs 

The lilach s purple spire 
Fast by its snowy sister s side ; 

Or where, with wing of fire, 
The kingly oriole glancing went 

Amid the foliage rare, 
Shall many a group of children tread, 

But mine will not be there. 

Fain would I know what forms 

The mastery here shall keep, 
What mother in yon nursery fair 

Rock her young babes to sleep : 
Yet blessings on the hallowed spot, 

Though here no more I stray, 
And blessings on the stranger babes 

Who in those halls shall play. 

Heaven bless you, too, my plants, 

And every parent bird 
That here, among the woven boughs, 

Above its young hath stirred. 
I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, 

That often o er my head 
The blossoms of your flowery spring 

In fragrant showers have shed. 



Thou, too, of changeful mood, 

I thank thee, sounding stream. 
That blent thine echo with my thought. 

Or woke my musing dream. 
I kneel upon the verdant turf, 

For sure my thanks are due 
To moss-cup and to clover leaf, 

That gave me draughts of dew. 

To each perennial flower, 

Old tenants of the spot, 
The broad leafed lily of the vale, 

And the meek forget-me-not ; 
To every daisy s dappled brow, 

To every violet blue, 
Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 

Your changeless bloom renew. 

Praise to our Father-God, 

High praise, in solemn lay, 
Alike for what his hand hath given, 

And what it takes away : 
And to some other loving heart 

May all this beauty be 
The dear retreat, the Eden home, 

That it hath been to me ! 



WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER S BRIDAL 

DEAL gently thou, whose hand hath won 

The young bird from its nest away, 
Where careless, neath a vernal sun, 

She gayly carolled, day by day ; 
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, 

From whence her timid wing doth soar, 
They pensive list at hush of eve, 

Yet hear her gushing song no more. 

Deal gently with her ; thou art dear, 

Beyond what vestal lips have told, 
And, like a lamb from fountains clear, 

She turns confiding to thy fold ; 
She, round thy sweet domestic bower 

The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, 
Watch for thy step at vesper hour, 

And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 

Deal gently thou, when, far away, 

Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, 
Nor let thy tender care decay 

The soul of woman lives in love : 
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 

Unconscious, from her eyelids break, 
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 

That man s strong heart may ne er partake, 

A mother yields her gem to thee, 

On thy -true breast to sparkle rare ; 
She places neath thy household tree 

The idol of her fondest care : 
And by thy trust to be forgiven, 

When Judgment wakes in terror wild. 
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, 

Deal gently with the widow s child ! 



KATHERINE A. WARE 



(Born 1797-Died 1813.) 



KATHERINE AUGUSTA RHODES was born in 
J797 at Quincy, in Massachusetts, where her 
father Avas a physician. She was remarkable 
in childhood for a love of reading, and for 
a justness of taste much beyond her years. 
She wrote verses at a very early age, and a 
poem at fifteen, upon the death of her kins 
man, Robert Treat Paine, which possessed 
sufficient merit to be included in the collec 
tion of that author s works. In 1819 she 
was married to Mr. Charles A. Ware, of the 
Navy, and in the next few years she ap 
peared frequently as a writer of odes for 
public occasions and as a contributor to lit 
erary journals. Among her odes was one 
addressed to Lafayette and presented to him 
in the ceremony of his reception in Boston, 
by her eldest child, then five years old ; and 
another, in honor of Governor De Witt Clin 
ton, which was recited at the great Canal 
Celebration in New York. 

In 1828 Mrs. Ware commenced in Boston 
the publication of a literary periodical, enti 
tled The Bower of Taste, which was con 
tinued several years. She subsequently re 
sided in New York, and in 1839 went to Eu 
rope, where she remained until her death, in 
Paris in 1843. 

A few months before she died, Mrs. Ware 
published, in London, a selection from her 
writings, under the title of The Power of the 
Passions and other Poems. The composition 
from which the volume has its principal title 
was originally printed in the Knickerbocker 
Magazine, for April in the same year. This, 
though the longest, is scarcely the best of her 



productions, but it has passages of consider 
able strength and boldness, and some felici 
ties of expression. She describes a public 
dancer, as 

Moving as if her element were air, 
And music was the echo of her step ; 

and there are many other lines noticable for 
a picturesque beauty or a fine cadence. In 
other poems, also, are parts which are much 
superior to their contexts, as if written in 
moments of inspiration, and added to in la 
borious leisure: as the following, from The 
Diamond Island, which refers to a beautiful 
place in Lake George: 

How sweet to stray along thy flowery shore, 
Where crystals sparkle in the sunny ray ; 

While the red boatman plies his silvery oar 
To the wild measure of some rustic lay ! 

and these lines, from an allusion to Athens: 
Views the broad stadium where th e gymnic art 
Nerved the young arm and energized the heart. 

or this apostrophe to sculpture, from Musings 
in St. James s Cemetery : 

Sculpture, oh, what a triumph o er the grave 
Hath thy proud art ! thy powerful hand can save 
From the destroyers grasp the noble form, 
As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling, warm, 
In every line and feature of the face, 
The air majestic, and the simple grace 
Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal, 
All that -the classic chisel would reveal. 

These inequalities are characteristic of the 
larger number of Mrs. Ware s poems, but 
there are in her works some pieces marked 
by a sustained elegance, and deserving of 
praise for their fancy and feeling as well as 
for an artist-like finish. 



LOSS OF THE FIRST BORN. 

I SAW a pale young mother bending o er 

Her first-born hope. Its soft blue eyes wore closed, 
Not in the balmy dream of downy rest : 

In Dentil s embrace the shrouded babe reposed ; 
It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more. 

A low sigh struggled in her heavinir breast. 
But yet she \vept not : hers was the deep grief 

The .icsirt, in its dark desolation, feels; 
Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild, 



But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals; 
A grief which from the world seeks no relief 

A mother s sorrow o er her first-born child. 
She gazed upon it with a steadfast eye, [thee ! ? 

Which seemed to say, " Oh, would I were with 
As if her every earthly hope were fled 

With that departed cherub. Even he [sigh 
Her young heart s choice, who breathed a father s 

Of bitter anguish o er the unconscious dead 
Felt not, while weeping by its funeral bier, 
One pang so deep as hers, who shed no tear. 
102 



KATHERINE A. WARE. 



103 



MADNESS. 

I VK seen the wreck of loveliest things : I ve wept 

O er youthful Beauty in her snowy shroud, 
All cold and pale, as when the moon hath slept 

In the white foldings of a wintry cloud 

I ve seen the wreck of glorious things : I ve sighed 

O er sculptured temples in prostration laid ; 
Towers which the blast of ages had defied, 

Now mouldering beneath the ivy s shade. 
Yet oh ! there is a scene of deeper wo, 

To which the soul can never be resigned : 
Tis Phrensy s triumph, Reason s overthrow 

The ruined structure of the human mind ! 
Yes! tis a sight of paralyzing dread, 

To mark the rolling of the maniac s eye 
From which the spark of intellect hath fled 

The laugh convulsive, and the deep-drawn sigh ; 
To see Ambition, with his moonlight helm, 

Armed with the fancied panoply of war, 
The mimic sovereign of a powerful realm 

His shield a shadow, and his spear a straw ; 
To see pale Beauty raise her dewy eyes. 

Toss her white arms, and beckon things of air, 
As if she held communion with the skies, 

And all she loved and all she sought were there ; 
To list the warring of unearthly sounds, 

Which wildly rise, like Ocean s distant swell, 
Or spirits shrieking o er enchanted grounds, 

Forth rushing from dark Magic s secret cell. 
Oh, never, never may such fate be mine ! 

I d rather dwell in earth s remotest cave, 
So I my spirit calmly might resign 

To Him who Reason s glorious blessing gave. 



A NEW-YEAR WISH. 

TO A CHILD AGED FIVE YEARS. 

DEAR one, while bending o er thy couch of rest, 

I ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping, 
And wished Oh, couldst thou ever be as blest 

As now, when haply all thy cause of weeping 
Is for a truant bird, or faded rose ! 

Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear, 
They cast no shadow o er thy soft repose 

No trace of care or sorrow lingers here. 
With rosy check upon the pillow prest, 

To me thou seem st a cherub pure and fair, 
With thy sweet smile and gently heaving breast, 

And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair. 
What shall I wish thee, little one ? Smile on 

Thro childhood s morn thro life s gay spring 
For oh, too soon will those bright hours be gone ! 

In youth time flies upon a silken wing. 
May thy young mind, beneath the bland control 

Of education, lasting worth acquire; 
May Virtue stamp her signet on thy soul, 

Direct thy steps, and every thought inspire ! 
Thy parents earliest hope be it their care 

To guide thee through youth s path of shade and 

flowers, 
And teach thee to avoid -false pleasure s snare 

Be thine, to smile upon their evening hours. 



MARKS OF TIME. 

AN infant boy was playing among flowers 
Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, 
Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, 
To mark the artless joy and blooming grace 
Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair 
He smiled, and left a rosy dimple there. 

Next Boyhood followed, with his shout of glee, 
Elastic step, and spirit wi d and free 
As the young fawn that scales the mountain height. 
Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight: 
Time cast a glance upon the care ess boy, 
Who frolicked onward with a bound of joy. f eyo 

Then Youth came forward : his bright-glancing 
Seemed a reflection of the cloud ess sky ! 
The dawn of passion, in its purest glow, 
Crimsoned his cheek, and beamed upon his brow, 
Giving expression to his blooming face, 
And to his fragile form a manly grace ; 
His voice was harmony, his speech was truth 
Time lightly laid his hand upon the youth. 

Manhood next followed, in the sunny prime 
Of life s meridian bloom : all the sublime 
And beautiful of nature met his view, 
Brightened by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew 
The rich perspective of a scene as fair 
As that which smiled on Eden s sinless pair ; 
Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway, 
Thri led his warm heart, and with electric ray 
Illumed his eye ; yet still a shade of care, 
Like a li^ht cloud that floats in summer air, 
Would shed at times a transitory gloom, 
But shadowed not one grace of manly bloom. 
Time sighed, as on his polished brow he wrought 
The first impressive lines of care and thought. 

Man in his grave maturity came next : 
A bold review of life, from the broad text 
Of Nature s ample volume ! He had scanned 
Her varied page, and a high course had planned ; 
Humbled ambition, wealth s deceitful smile, 
The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil, 
Had blanched his cheek and dimmed his ardent eye. 
But spared his noble spirit s energy ! 
God s proudest stamp of intellectual grace 
Still shone unclouded on his careworn face ! 
On his high brow still sate the firm resolve 
Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve 
A nation s fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow 
Would oft, like sunbeams o er a mount of snow, 
Upon his cheek their genial influence cast, 
While musing o er the bright or shadowy past : 
Time, as he marked his noblest victim, shed 
The frost of years upon his honored head. 

Last came, with trembling limbs and bending 

form. 

Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm. 
Man, in the closing stage of human life 
Nigh passed his every scene of peace or strife, 
Reason s proud triumph, Passion s wild control. 
No more dispute for mastery, o er his soul , 
As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore, 
The war of rivalry is heard no more ; 
Faith s steady light alone illumes his eye, 
F>r Time is pointing to Eternity ! 



JANE L. GRAY. 



(Born 1800). 



Mus. J. L. GRAY is a daughter of William 
Lewcrs, Esquire, of Castle Clayney, in the 
north of Ireland. She was educated at the 
celebrated Moravian seminary of Gracehill, 
near Belfast, was married at an early age, 
and has resided nearly all her lifetime at Eas- 
ton, in Pennsylvania, where her husband, the 
Rev. John Gray, D. D., is pastor of the First 
Presbyterian Church. In this beautiful, ro 
mantic, and classical spot the veritable 
" Forks of the Delaware, "consecrated by the 
labors of Brainard, and celebrated in poetry 
and romance as in history Mrs. Gray has 
written all her pieces which have been given 
to the public. Her life has been one of re 



tiring, domestic quietude, such as Christian 
women spend in the midst of a numerous 
family to whom they are devoted with ma 
ternal solicitude. Her Sabbath Reminiscen 
ces are descriptive of real scenes and events 
connected with the church of which her fa 
ther was an elder. The poem entitled Morn, 
having been attributed by some review r er to 
Mr. Montgomery, that poet observes, in a 
published letter, that the author of the mis 
take " did him honor." It is certainly a fine 
poem,- though scarcely equal, perhaps, to 
some pieces which Mrs. Gray has written 
from the more independent suggestions of 
her own mind. 



TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

AN OPE, 

Written for the bi-rentennial celebration of the illustrious Wesminster 
\-st-iiiliIv <>i J)iviiie.-<, by whom the standards of the Presbyterian 
Church were formed. 

Two hundred years, two hundred years, our bark 

o er billowy seas 

Has onward kept her steady course, through hur 
ricane and breeze ; 
Her Captain was the Mighty One, she braved the 

stormy foe, 
And still he guides who guided her two hundred 

years ago ! 
Her chart was God s unerring word, by which 

her course to steer ; 
Her helmsman was the risen Lord, a helper ever 

near : 
Though many a beauteous boat has sunk the 

treacherous waves below, 
Yet ours is sound as she was built, two hundred 

years ago! 
The wind that filled her swelling sheet from many 

a point has blown, 
Still urging her unchanging course, through shoals 

and breakers, on 
ITo.r fluttering pennant still the same, whatever 

l,i. r/.e might blow 
It pointed, as it does, to heaven, two hundred 

years ago ! 

\V ben first our gallant ship was launched, although 

her hands were few, 
Yet dauntless was each bosom found, and every 

heart was true ; 
And still, though in her mighty hull unnumbered 

bosoms glow, 



Her crew is faithful as it was two hundred years 
ago! 

True, some have left this noble craft, to sail the 
seas alone, 

And made them, in their hour of pride, a vessel 
of their own ; 

Ah me ! when clouds portentous rise, when threat 
ening tempests blow, 

They 11 wish for that old vessel built two hundred 
years ago ! 

For onward rides our gallant bark, with all her 
canvass set, 

In many a nation still unknown to plant her 
standard yet ; 

Her flag shall float where er the breeze of Free 
dom s breath shall blow, 

And millions bless the boat that sailed two hun 
dred years ago ! 

On Scotia s coast, in days of yore, she lay almost 
a wreck 

Her mainmast gone, her rigging torn, the boarders 
on her deck ! 

There Cameron, Cargill, Cochran, fell ; there Ren- 
wick s blood did flow, 

Defending our good vessel built two hundred years 
ago! 

Ah ! many a martyr s blood was shed we may 
not name them all 

They tore the peasant from his hut, the noble from 
his hall ; 

Then, brave Argyle, thy father s blood for faith did 
freely flow : 

And pure the stream, as was the fount, two hun 
dred years ago ! 

104 



JANE L. GRAY. 



105 



Yet onward still our vessel pressed, and weathered 

out the gale ; 
She cleared the wreck, and spliced the mast, and 

mended every sail, 
And swifter, stancher, mightier far, upon her cruise 

did go 

Strong hands and gallant hearts had she, two hun 
dred years ago ! 
And see her now on her beam ends cast, beneath 

a northwest storm : 
Heave overboard the very bread, to keep the ship 

from harm ! 
She rights ! she rides ! hark ! how they cheer 

All s well, above, below !" 

She s tight as when she left the stocks, two hun 
dred years ago ! 

True to that guiding star which led to Israel s cra 
dled hope, 
Her steady needle pointeth yet to Calvary s bloody 

top! 
Yes, there she floats, that good old ship, from mast 

to keel below, 
Sea-worthy still, as erst she was, two hundred years 

ago! 
Not unto us, not unto us, be praise or glory 

given, 
But unto Him who watch and ward hath kept for 

her in heaven ; 

Who quelled the whirlwind in its wrath, bade tem 
pests cease to blow 
That God who launched our vessel forth, two hun 

dred years ago ! 
Then onward speed thee, brave old bark, speed 

onward in thy pride, 
O er sunny seas and billows dark, Jehovah stil 

thy guide ; 
And sacred be each plank and spar, unchanged by 

friend or foe, 

Just as she left Old Westminster, two hundred 
years ago ! 

SABBATH REMINISCENCES. 

I REMEMBER, I remember, when sabbath mornin 

* OSC S 
We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soile 

week-day clothes ; 
And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewe 

rare, 
Bat hands and faces looking bright, and smoothly 

parted hair. 
T was not the decking of the head, my father use 

to say, 
But careful clothing of the heart, that graced tha 

holy day 
T was not the bonnet nor the dress ; and I believe 

it true : 
But these were very simple times, and I was sim 

pie too. 
I remember, I remember, the parlor where w 

met; 
Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantle blac 

as jet ; 



1 was there we raised our morning hymn, melo 
dious, sweet, and clear, 
nd joined in prayer with that loved voice which 

we no more may hear, 
ur morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house 

of God 
How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully, we 

trod ! 
see e en now its low, thatched roof, its floor of 

trodden clay, 
And our old pastor s timeworn face, an I wig of 

silver gray, 
remember, I remember, how hushed and mute we 

were, 
While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt, 

melting prayer ; 
grace his action or his voice, no studied charm 

was lent : 
Pure, fervent, glowing from the heart, so to the heart 

it went. 
Then came the sermon, long and quaint, but full 

of gospel truth ; 
Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for I was then in 

youth ; 
But I have heard my father say, and well my father 

knew, 
In it was meat for full-grown men, and milk for 

children too. 

I remember, I remember, as twere but yesterday, 
The psalms in Rouse s Version sung, a rude but 

lovely lay ; 
Nor yet though Fashion s hand has tried to train 

my wayward ear, 
Can I find aught in modern verse so holy or so 

dear ! 
And well do I remember, too, our old preceptor s 

face, 
As he read out and sung the line with patriarchal 

Though rudely rustic was the sound, I m sure that 
God was praised 

When David s words to David s tune* five hun 
dred voices raised ! 

I remember, I remember, the morning sermon 
done, . 

An hour of intermission came we wandei 
the sun ; 

How hoary farmers sat them down upon the daisy 

And talked of bounteous Nature s stores, ^nd Na 
ture s bounteous God ; 

And matrons talked, as matrons will, of sickness 
and of health 

Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of poverty 
and wealth ; 

And youths and maidens stole apart, withm It 
shady grove, 

And whispered neath its spreading bough, per 
chance some tale of love ! 

* m David s was one of the few tunes used by the coo 
gregation to which I have allusion. 



206 



JANE L. GRAY. 



I remember, I remember, how in the churchyard 

lone 
I ve stolen away and sat me down beside the rude 

gravestone, 
Or read the names of those who slept beneath the 

clay -cold clod, 
And thought of spirits glittering bright before the 

throne of God ! 

Or where the little rivulets danced sportively and 

bright, 
Receiving on its limpid breast the sun s meridian 

light, 
I ve wandered forth, and thought if hearts were 

pure like this sweet stream, 
How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven s 

uncreated beam ! 

I remember, I remember, the second sermon o er, 
We turned our faces once again to our paternal 

door; 

And round the well-filled, ample board sat no re 
luctant guest, 
For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones shared 

the feast ! 
Then, ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were 

wont to do, 
The catechism s well conned page, we said it 

through and through ; 
And childhood s faltering tongue was heard to lisp 

the holy word, 
And older voices read aloud the message of the 

Lord. 
Away back in those days of yore perhaps the 

fault was mine 
I used to think the sabbath day, dear Lord, was 

wholly thine ; 
When it behooved to keep the heart and bridle 

fast the tongue : 
But these were very simple times, and I was very 

young. 

The world has grown much older since these sun- 
bright sabbath days 
The world has grown much older since, and she 

has changed her ways : 
Some say that she has wiser grown ; ah me ! it 

may be true, 
As wisdom comes by length of years, but so does 

dotage, too. 

Oh ! happy, happy years of truth, how beautiful, 
how fair, 

To Memory s retrospective eye, your trodden path 
ways are ! 

The thorns forgot remembered still the fragrance 
and the flowers 

The loved companions of my youth, and sunny 
sabbath hours ! 

And onward, onward, onward still, successive sab 
baths <*otne, 

As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal 
home ; 

Or like the visioned ladder once to slumbering 
Jacob given, 

From heaven descending to the earth, lead back 
from earth to heaven ! 



MORN. 

IN IMITATION OF "NIGHT," BY JAMES MONTGOMERT 

Mo UN is the time to wake 

The eyelids to unclose 
Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break 

The fetters of repose ; 
Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
And ho!d sweet fellowship with God. 

Morn is the time to pray: 

How lovely and how meet 
To send our earliest thoughts away 

Up to the mercy seat ! 
Ambassadors, for us to claim 
A blessing in our Master s name. 
Morn is the time to sing : 

How charming t is to hear 
The mingling notes of Nature ring 

In the delighted ear ! 
And with that swelling anthem raise 
The soul s fresh matin song of praise ! 
Morn is the time to sow 

The seeds of heavenly truth, 
While balmy breezes softly blow 

Upon the soil of youth ; 
And look to thee, nor look in vain, 
Our God, for sunshine and for rain. 

Morn is the time to love : 

As tendrils of the vine, 
The young affections fondly rove, 

And seek them where to twine. 
Around thyself, in thine embrace, 
Lord, let them find their resting place. 

Morn is the time to shine, 

When skies are clear and blue 
Reflect the rays of light divine 
As morning dewdrops do : 
Like early stars, be early bright, 
And melt away like them in light. 

Morn is the time to weep 

O er morning hours misspent : 
Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep 

On folly madly bent, 
We ve left the strait and narrow road, 
And wandered from our guardian God ! 
Morn is the time to think, 

While thoughts are fresh and free, 
Of life just balanced on the brink 

Of dark eternity ! 

And ask our souls if they are meet 
To stand before the judgment seat. 
Morn is the time to die, 

Just at the dawn of day 
When stars are fading in the sky, 

To fade like them away : 
But lost in light more brilliant far 
Than ever merged the morning star. 
Morn is the time to rise, 

The resurrection morn 
Upspringing to the glorious skies, 

On new-found pinions borne, 
To meet a Savior s smile divine : 
Be sii3h ecstatic rising mine ! 



SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 



(Born 1799). 



MRS. LITTLE was born at Newport, in the 
year 1799. She is the second daughter of the 
late eminent jurist and statesman Asher Rob- 
bins, who for fourteen years was a senator 
of the state of Rhode Island in the national 
Congress. She inherits much of her father s 
genius and love of letters, and she displayed 
from early childhood, under the advantages 
of his judicious culture, the strong imagina 
tion, ready fancy, and chastened taste, which 
in him were united to an uncommon capaci 
ty for analysis and a vigorous and far reach 
ing logic. 

In 1824 she was married to Mr. William 
Little, junior, of Boston, a gentleman of con 
genial tastes, whose principles of criticism, 
more severe and exacting than her own, 
contributed very much to the discipline and 
growth of her poetical abilities. She had 
occasionally written verses for the amuse 
ment of her friends, and had published in the 



journals a few pieces, under the s gnature 
of Ro WEN A, previous to 1828, when her po 
em entitled Thanksgiving appeared in The 
Token, an annual souvenir edited for many 
years by Mr. S. G. Goodrich, Thanksgiving 
is a natural and striking picture of the New 
England autumn festival : it has an odor of 
nationality about it ; and it will live, both 
for its fidelity and its felicity, as one of the 
finest memorials of an institution which in 
later years has lost much of its primitive 
character and attractiveness. 

Besides many shorter poems which have 
appeared in periodicals, Mrs. Little has since 
published : in 1839, The Last Days of Jesus ; 
in 1842, The Annunciation and Birth of Je 
sus, and The Resurrection ; and in 1844, The 
Betrothed, and The Branded Hand. In 1843 
she also published a small work in prose, 
entitled The Pilgrim s Progress in the Last 
Days, in imitation of Bunyan. 



THE POET. 

HE is happy : not that fame 
Givelh him a glorious name ; 
For the world s applause is vain, 
Lost and won with little pain : 
But a sense is in his spirit 
Which no vulgar minds inherit 
A second sight of soul which sees 
Into Nature s mysteries. 

Place him by the ocean s side, 
When the waters dash with pride : 
With their wild and awful roll 
Deep communes his lifted soul. 
Now let the sudden tempest come 
From its cloudy eastern home ; 
Let the thunder s fearful shocks 
Break among the dark, rough rocks, 
And lightning, as the waves aspire, 
Crown him with a wreath of fire ; 
Let the wind with sullen breath 
Seem to breathe a dirge of death : 
Thou mayst feel thy cheek turn pale ; 
But he that looks within the veil, 
The bard, high priest at Nature s shrine, 
Trembles with a warmth divine. 
His heaving breast, his kindling eye, 
His brow s expanded majesty, 



Show that the spirit of his thought 
Hath Nature s inspiration caught. 

Now place him in a gentle scene, 
Neath an autumn sky serene ; 
Let some hamlet skirt his way, 
Gleaming in the fading day ; 
Let him hear the distant low 
Of the herds that homeward go ; 
Let him catch, as o er it floats, 
The music of the robin s notes, 
As softly sinks upon its nest 
He, of birds the kindliest ; 
Let him catch from yonder nook 
The murmur of the minstrel brook ; 
The stones that fain would check its way 
It leapcth o er with purpose gay, 
Or only lingereth for a time, 
To draw from them a merrier chime ; 
E en as a gay and gentle mind, 
Though rough breaks in life it find, 
Passe th by as twere not so, 
Or draws sweet uses out of wo ; 
The scene doth on his soul impress 
Its glory and its loveliness. 

Now place him in some festal hall 
The merry band of minstrels call, 
Banish sorrow, pain, and care, 
Let graceful, sprightly youth be there 



108 



SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 



Beauty, with her jewelled zone 
And sparkling draperv round her thrown , 
Beauty, who surest aims her glance 
When the free motion of the dance 
All her varied charms hath stirred, 
As the plumage of a hird 
Shows brightest when in air he springs, 
Spreading forth his sunny wings. 
Place the bard in scenes like this, 
E en here he knows no common bliss. 
Beauty, mirth, and music, twined, 
Shed b and witchery o er hi.s mind. 
Yet not alone these charm his eyes 
In fancy other sights he spies: 
The ancient feats of chivalry, 
Of war s and beauty s rivalry. 

That hall becomes an open space, 
Where knights contend for ladies grace. 
He sees a creature far more fair 
Than any forms around him are ; 
One love glance of her radiant eyes, 
The boon for which the valiant dies. 
He sees the armored knights advance, 
He hears the shiver of the lance, 
And then the shout when tourney s done 
That greets the conquering champion, 
While, kneeling at his lady s feet, 
The victor s heart doth scarcely beat, 
As, blushing like a newborn rose, 
His chosen queen the prize bestows. 

But would you know the season when 
He triumphs most o er other men, 
See him when heart, pulse, and brain, 
Are bound in Love s mysterious chain. 
Behold him then beside the maid : 
There s not one curl hath thrown its shade 
In vain upon that bosom s swell ; 
All are secrets of the spell 
That holds the visionary boy 
Breathless in his trance of joy. 
And yet no definite desire 
Does that strong sense of bliss inspire ; 
But sweetly vague and undefined 
The feeling that enthralls his mind 
An indistinct, deep dream of heaven, 
Her melting, shadowy eye hath given. 

These the poet s p easures are ; 
These the dull world can not share ; 
These make fame so poor a prize 
[n his heaven enlightened eyes. 
What is poetry but this 
A glimpse of our lost state of bliss; 
A noble reaching of the mind 

For that for which it was designed 

A si^n to lofty spirits given, 

To show them they were born for heaven ; 

Light from above, quenched when it falls 

Whore the gross earth with darkness palls 

The fallen soul content to be 

Wt-<l to its sad degeneracy ; 

But when, like light on crystal streams, 

On a pure mind its effluence beams, 

How brightly in such spirit lins 

An image of the far off sKies ! 



THANKSGIVING. 

IT is thanksgiving morn tis cold and clear; 
The bells for church ring forth a merry sound ; 
The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear, 
Rival the many tinted woods around ; 
The rosy children skip along the ground, 
Save where the matrojj reins their eager pace, 
Pointing to him who with a look profound 
Moves with his people toward the sacred place 
Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of 
grace. 

Of the deep learning in the schools of yore 
The reverend pastor hath a golden stock : 
Yet, with a vain display of useless lore, 
Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock 
The better cravings of his simple flock ; 
But faithfully their humble shepherd guides 
Where streams eternal gush from Calvary s rock ; 
For well he knows, not Learning s purest tides 
Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul 
abides. 

The anthem swells ; the heart s high thanks are 

given : 

Then, mildly, as the dews on Hermon fall, 
Begins the holy minister of heaven. 
And though not his the burning zeal of Paul, 
Yet a persuasive power is in his call : 
So earnest, though so kindly, is his mood, 
So tenderly he longs to save them all, 
No bird more fondly flutters o er her brood 
When the dark vulture screams above their native 
wood. 

" For all His bounties, dearest charge," he cries, 
" Your hearts are the best thanks ; no more refrain ; 
Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice. 
Almighty Lover ! shalt thou love in vain, 
And vainly woo thy wanderers home again ? 
How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads ! 
Behold ! thy harvest loads the ample plain ; 
And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds, 
From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus 
bleeds." 

Much more he spake, with growing ardor fired : 
Oh, that my lay were worthy to record 
The moving eloquence his theme inspired ! 
For like a free and copious stream, outpoured 
His love to man and man s indulgent lord. 
All were subdued; the stoutest, sternest men, 
Heart melted, hung on every precious word : 
And as he uttered forth his full amen, 
A thousand mingling sobs reechoed it again. 

Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn, 
Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen : 
Lo ! now has past the service of the morn ; 
A joyous group are hastening o er the green, 
Led by an aged sire of gracious mien, 
Whose gay descendants are all met to hold 
Their glad thanksgiving in that sylvan scene, 
That once enclosed them in one happy fold, 
Ere waves of time and change had o er them 
rolled. 



SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 



109 



The hospitable doors are open thrown ; 
The bright wooil fire burns cheerly in the hall; 
And, gathering in, a busy hum makes known 
The spirit of free mirth that moves them all. 
There, a youth hears a lovely cousin s call, 
And ilies alertly to unclasp the cloak; 
And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall 
Upon his awkwardness some lively joke, 
Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke. 

And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, 
A gentle brightness o er her features spread : 
Her children s children cluster round her knees, 
Or on her bosorn fondly rest their head. 
Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed 
Their sweet young fragrance o er such ag d tree ! 
How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled, 
Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be, 
When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly ! 

And there the manly farmers scan the news ; 
(Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it 

wears ;) 

Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse, 
They look important from their elbow chairs, 
And gravely ponder on the nation s cares. 
The matrons of the morning sermon speak, 
And each its passing excellence declares; 
While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek, 
Course in soft beauty down the Christian mother s 

cheek. 

Then, just at on-e, the full thanksgiving feast, 
Rich with the bounties of the closing year, 
Is spread ; and, from the greatest to the least, 
All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer. 
The list of dainties will not now appear 
Save one I can not pass unheeded by, 
One dish, already to the muses dear, 
One dish, that wakens Memory s longing sigh 
The genuine far famed Yankee pumpkin pie ! 

Who e er has seen thee in thy flaky crust 
Display the yellow richness of thy breast, 
But, as the si^ht awoke his keenest gust, 
Has owned th.ee of all cates the choicest, best ? 
Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared, 
Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest 
Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, 
With their white, rounded arms above the elbow 
oared ! 

Now to the kitchen come a vacant train, 
The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. 
The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain, 
For his mulled cider and his pleasant fare 
Reclining in that ancient wicker chair. 
A veteran soldier he, of those proud times 
When first our Freedom s banner kissed the air : 
His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes, 
When wakening Memory his ag. d heart sublimes. 

But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known 
Full oft the pelting of the winter storm ? 
Through its fringed hood a strong, wild face is 

shown 
Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldame s 

form : 



There s none of all these youth, with vigor warm, 
"Who dare by slightest word her anger stir. 
So dark the frown that does her face deform, 
That half the frighted villagers aver 
The very de il himself incarnate is in her ! 

Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood ; 
And round her see the anxious, silent band. 
Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood, 
As close she peers in that fair maiden s hand, 
W 7 ho scarce the struggles in her heart can stand ; 
Affection s strength hath made her nature weak 
She of her lo\ 7 ely looks hath lost command : 
The fleckered red and white within her cheek 
Oh, all her love doth there most eloquently speak ! 

Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be, 
And half excused the superstitious art. 
Now, when the sybii s mystic words to thee 
The happier fortunes of thy love impart, 
Thrilling tny soul in its most vital part, 
How does the throb of inward ecstasy 
Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart 
All o er thy varying cheek, like some clear sea 
Where the red morning glow falls full but trem 
blingly ! 

T is evening, and the rural balls begin : 
The fairy call of music all obey ; 
The circles round domestic hearths grow thin ; 
All, at the joyful signal, hie away 
To yonder hall, with lights and garlands gay. 
There, with elastic step, young belles are seen 
Entering, all conscious of their coming sway : 
Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween, 
The spoils and glories of this festal scene. 

New England s daughters need not envy those 
Who in a monarch s court their jewels wear : 
More lovely they, when but a simple rose 
Glows through the golden clusters of their hair. 
Could light of diamonds make her look more fair, 
Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance, 
W ith buoyant feet that seem to skim the air, 
And eyes that speak, in each impassioned glance, 
The poetry of youth, love s sweet and short ro 
mance 1 

He thinks not so, that young enamored boy, 
Who through the whirls her graceful steps doth 

guide, 

While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy. 
Oh, no : by Nature taught, unlearned in pride, 
He sees her in her loveliness arrayed, 
All blushing for the love she can not hide, 
And feels that gaudy Art could only shade 
The brightness Nature gave to his unrivalled 

maid. 

Gay bands, move on ; your draught of pleasure 
I love to listen to your joyous din ; [qiuff; 

The lad s light joke, the maiden s mellow laugh, 
And the brisk music of the violin. 
How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin ! 
Entwining hands, they seem to float along, 
With native rustic grace that well might win 
The happiest praises of a sweeter song, 
From a more gifted lyre than doth to me belong. 



liO 



LYDIA M. CHILD. 



While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, 
Round the home fires their peaceful elders meet. 
A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers ; 
And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are 

sweet : 

Through the cold shadows of the autumn day 
Oft hreaks the sunshine with as genial heat 
As o er the soft and sapphire skies of May, 
Though Nature then be young and exquisitely gay. 

On the white wings of peace their days have flown, 
Nor wholly were they thralled hy earthly cares ; 
Bui from their hearts to Heaven s paternal throne 
Arose the daily incense of their prayers. 
And now, as low the sun of being wears, 



The God to whom their morning vows were paid, 
Each grateful offering in remembrance bears ; 
And cheering beams of mercy are displayed, 
To gild with heavenly hopes their evening s pensive 
shade. 

But now, farewell to thee, Thanksgiving Day ! 
Thou angel of the year ! one bounteous hand 
The horn of deep abundance doth display, 
Raining its rich profusion o er the land ; 
The other arm, outstretched with gesture grand, 
Pointing its upraised finger to the sky, 
Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand 
For him, the Father God, who from on high 
Sheds gleams of purest joy o er man s dark destiny 



LYDIA M. CHILD, 



(Born 1802). 



Miss FRANCIS, now Mrs. DAVID L. CHILD, 
is a native of Massachusetts, and a sister of 
the Rev. Dr. Conyers Francis, of Harvard 
University. She is one of the most able and 
brilliant authors of the country, as is shown 
by her Philothea, Letters from New York, 



and other works, of which an account is 
given in the Prose Writers of America. Most 
of her poems are contained in a small vol 
ume which she published many years ago, 
under the title of The Coronal. She resides 
in New York. 



MARIUS. 

SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY VANDERLYN, OF MA- 
(11 US SKATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 

PILLARS are falling at thy feet, 

Fanes quiver in the air, 
\ prostrate city is thy seat 

And thou alone art there. 

No change comes o er thy noble brow, 

Though ruin is around thee 
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now, 

As when the laurel crowned thee. 

It can not bend thy lofty soul, 
Though friends and fame depart; 

The car of fate may o er thee roll, 
Nor crush thy Roman heart. 

And Genius hath electric power, 

Which earth can never 1 tame ; 
Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower 

Its flash is still the same 

The dreams we loved in early life 

May molt like mist away ; 
rliijh thoughts may seem, mid passion s strife, 

Like Carthage in decay. 

And proud hopes in the human heart 

May be to ruin hurled, 
Like mouldering monuments of art 

lU-api-d on a sleeping world. 

Vet then 1 is something will not die, 

Where life hath once been fair: 
^criM 1 towering thoughts still rear on high, 

S-ime Roman lingers there ! 



LINES, 

ON HEARING A BOY MOCK THE SOUND OF A CLOCK 
IN A CHURCH-STEEPLE, AS IT RUNG AT MIDDAY. 

AY, ring thy shout to the merry hours : 

Well may ye part in glee ; 
From their sunny wings they scatter flowers, 

And, laughing, look on thee. 

Thy thrilling voice has started tears : 

It brings to mind the day 
When I chased butterflies and years 

And both flew fast away. 

Then my glad thoughts were few and free : 

They came but to depart, 
And did not ask where heaven could be 

Twas in my little heart. 

I since have sought the meteor crown, 

Which fame bestows on men : 
How gladly would I throw it down, 

To be so gay again ! 

But youthful joy has gone away : 

In vain tis now pursued ; 
Such rainbow glories only stay 

Around the simple good. 
I know too much, to be as blessed 

As when I was like thee ; 
My spirit, reasoned into rest, 

Has lost its buoyancy. 

Yet still I love the winged hours : 

\Ve often part in glee 
And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers 

Their fart^ell gifts to me. 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



(Born 1802). 



LOUISA JANE PARK, now Mrs. HALL, was 
burn in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the 
seventh of February, 1802. Her father was 
a physician, but when she was about two 
years of age he abandoned his profession to 
remove to Boston, for the purpose of editing 
The Repertory, a leading political journal of 
the Federal party. In a few years he be 
came weary of the conflict, then waged with 
so much violence, and, urged to do so by some 
of the most intelligent citizens, opened a 
school for young women, in which a more 
thorough education might be received than 
was common in that period. His daugh 
ter was then in her tenth year ; he had al 
ready made her familiar with Milton and 
Shakspere ; and it was partly with the view 
of exe uJng his plans for her education that 
he decided to become a public teacher. His 
school was opened in the spring of 1811 , and 
for twenty years was eminently successful. 
His daughter, except when her studies were 
interrupted by ill health, was eight years his 
pupil. She early showed symptoms of a sus 
ceptible constitution, and her experience, of 
a spirit ever prompting action, and a body 
incapable of fulfilling its commands without 
suffering, has been perpetual. 

Her wri tings show that her mind was wise 
ly as well as carefully disciplined, and prob 
ably her habiis of composition were formed 
at an early period. She published nothing, 
however, until she was twenty years of age, 
and then anonymously, in the Literary Ga 
zette, and the newspapers. She wrote Mir 
iam only for amusement, as she did many 
little poems and tales which she destroyed. 
The first half of this drama, written in 1 825, 
was read at a small literary party in Boston. 
The author, not being known, was present, 
and was encouraged by the remarks it occa 
sioned to finish it in the following summer, 
her father forbade her design to burn it ; it 
was read, as completed, in the winter of 1826, 
and the authorship disclosed ; but she had 
not courage to publish it for several years, 
bne saw its defects more distinctly than be 
fore, when it appeared in print, and resolved 



never again to attempt anything so long in 
the form of poetry. Her eyesight failed for 
j four or five years, during which time she was 
almost entirely deprived of the use of books, 
the pen, arid what she says she most regret 
ted, the needle. 

Previously to this, however, in 1831, her 
father had retired to Worcester, carrying with 
him a library of some three thousand volumes, 
containing many valuable works in Latin, 
French, and Italian. During her partial blind 
ness, he read to her several hours every day, 
and assisted her in collecting the materials 
for her tale of Joanna of Naples, and for a 
biographical notice of Elizabeth Carter, the 
English authoress. 

On the first of October, 1 840, she was mar 
ried to the Rev. Edward B. Hall, of Provi 
dence, Rhode Island, where she still resides, 
too much interested in domestic affairs, and 
in the duties which grow out of her relation 
to her husband s society, to bestow much 
further attention upon literature. 

Miriam was published in 1837. It re 
ceived the best approval of contemporary 
criticism, and a second edition, with such 
revision as the condition of the author s eyes 
had previously forbidden, appeared in the 
following year. Mrs. Hall had not proposed 
to herself to write a tragedy, but a dramatic 
poem, and the result was an instance of the 
successful accomplishment of a design, in 
which failure would have been but a repeti 
tion of the experiences of genius. The sub 
ject is one of the finest in the annals of the 
human race, but one which has never been 
treated with a more just appreciation of its 
nature and capacities. It is the first great 
conflict of the Master s kingdom, after its 
full establishment, with the kingdoms of this 
world. It is Christianity struggling with the 
first persecution of power, philosophy, and 
the intei ests of society. Milman had attempt 
ed its illustration in his brilliant and stately 
tragedy of The Martyr of Antioch; Bulwei 
had laid upon it his familiar hands in The 
Last Days of Pompeii ; and since, our coun 
tryman, William Ware, has exhibited it wi;h 

in 



112 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



prnver and splendor in his masterly romance 
t.f The Fall of Rome ; but no one has yet ap 
proached more nearly its just delineation 
and analysis than Mrs. Hall in this beautiful 
poem. 

The plot is single, easily understood, and 
s eadily progressive in interest and in action. 
Thrar-eno, a Christian exile from Judea, 
dwells with his family in Rome. He has 
two children, Euphas, and a daughter of re 
markable beauty and a heart and mind in 
which are blended the highest attributes of 
her sex and her religion. She is seen and 
loved by Paulus, a young nobleman, whose 
father, Piso, had in his youth served in the 
armies in Palestine. The passion is mutu 
al, but secret ; and having failed to win the 
Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden 
resolves to part from him for ever. The 
family are summoned to the funeral of an 
aged friend, but she excuses herself for not 
going, and the agitation of her countenance 
arrests attention and leads to the most af 
fectionate inquiries from Thraseno and Eu 
phas. She replies : 

My father ! I am ill. 
A weight is on my spirits, and I feel 
The fountain of existence drying up, 
Shrinking I know not where, like waters lost 
Amid the desert sands. Nay ! grow riot pale ! 
I have felt thus, and thought each secret spring 
Of life was failing fast within me. Then 
In saddest willingness I could have died. 
There have been hours I would have quitted you, 
And all that life hath dear and beautiful, 
Without one wish to linger in its smiles : 
My summons would have called a weary soul 
Out of a heavy bondage. But this day 
A better hope hath dawned upon my mind. 
A high and pure resolve is nourished there, 
And even now it sheds upon my breast 
That holy peace it hath not known so long. 
This night ay ! in a few brief hours, perchance. 
It will know calm once more (or break at once !) 

[Aside. 

This is unsatisfactory ; their suspicions are 
excited, and they urge her to dispel the mys 
tery that invests her conduct. She says: 

I can not can not yet. 
Have I not told you that a starlike gleam 
Was rising on my darkened mind ] When Hope 
Shall sit upon the tossing waves of thought, 
As broods the halcyon on the troubled deep, 
Then, if my spirit be not blighted, wrecked, 
( rushed, by the storm, I will unfold my griefs. 
But until then and long it will not be ! 
Yet in that brief, brief time my soul must bear 
A fiercer, deadlier struggle still ! Ye dear ones ! 
Look not upon me thus but in your thoughts, 



When ye go forth unto your evening prayers, 
Oh, bear me up to heaven with all my grief: 
Pray that my holy courage may not fail ! 

They renew their entreaties that she should 
go with them to the funeral of their friend ; 
but she will carry no " troubled soul" to the 
"good man s obsequies," and answers to 
Thraseno s inquiry where would she seek 
for peace ? 

Within these mighty walls of sceptred Rome 
A thousand temples rise unto her gods, 
Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, 
Grac d with the proudest pomp of earth ; their shrines 
Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades, 
Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms, 
Instinct with grace and godlike majesty, 
Their ever smoking altars, white robed priests, 
And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. [ascend 
And yet these things are naught. Rome s prayers 
To greet th unconscious skies, in the blue void 
Lost like the floating breath of frankincense, 
And find no hearing or acceptance there. 
And yet there is an Eye that ever marks 
Where its own people pay their simple vows, 
Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness, 
Scourged by a stern and ever watchful foe ! 
There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer 
Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet, 
Although it stir not more the sleeping air 
Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. 
Think st thou, my father, this benignant God 
Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away 
From the poor sinful creature of his hand, 
Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer ? 
Think st thou he will not hear me, should I kneel 
Here in the dust beneath his starry sky, 
And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to him, 
Making an altar of my broken heart 1 

They are at length persuaded to leave her, 
and they are scarcely gone when Paulus en 
ters, with expressions of confidence and love, 
which are quickly checked by the changed 
expression of her countenance: 

Paulus. Never, except in dreams, have I beheld 
Such deep and dreadful meaning in thine eye, 
Such agony upon thy quivering lip ! 
Speak, Miriam! breathe one blessed word of life; 
For in the middle watch of yesternight 
Even thus I saw a dim and shadowy ghost 
Standing beneath the moon s uncertain light, 
So mute so motionless so changed and yet 
So like to thee ! 

Miriam. My Paulus ! 

Paul. T is thy voice! 

Praised be the gods! it never seemed so sweet. 
Say on ! my spirit hangs upon thy words. 
What blight hath stricken thee since last we met! 

1//V. A blight that is contagious, and will fall 
Perchance upon thy fairest, dearest hopes, 
With no less deadly violence than now 
It hath on mine. Paulus ! is there no word 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



113 



These lips can utter, that may make thee wish 
Eternal silence there had stamped her seal! 
Paul. I know not, love ! thou startlest me ! 

no ! none ! 

Unless it be of hatred change or death ! 
And these it can be none of these ! 
Mir. Why not ] 

Paul. Ye gods, my Miriam ! look not on me thus ! 
My blood runs cold. " Why not," saidst thou 1 Be- 
Thou art too young, too good, too beautiful, ["cause 
To die; and as for change or hatred, love, 
Not ti 1 I see yon clear and starry skies 
R lining down fire and pestilence on man, 
Turning the beauteous earth whereon we stand 
Into an arid, scathed, and blackening waste, 
Miriam, will I believe that thou canst change. 

Mir. Oh, thou art right ! the anguish of my soul, 
My spirit s deep and rending agony, 
Tell me that though this heart may surely break, 
There is no change within it! and through life, 
Fondly and wildly though most hopelessly 
With all its strong affections will it cleave 
To him for whom it nearly yielded all 
That makes life precious peace and self esteem, 
Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above ! 
Paul. Mean st thou I know not what. My 

mind grows dark 

Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost. 
There is a wild and dreadful mystery 7 
Even in thy words of love I can not solve. 

Mir. Hear me : for with the holy faith that erst 
Made strong the shuddering patriarch s heart and 

hand, 

When meek below the glittering knife lay stretched 
The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age, 
This night I offer up a sacrifice 
Of life s best hopes to the One Living God ! 
Yes, from this night, my Paulus, never more 
Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears 
Drink in the tones of thy belov. d voice. 

Paul. \ e gods ! ye cruel gods ! let me awake 
A.nd find this but a dream ! 

Mir. Is it then said ] 

God ! the words so fraught with bitterness 
So soon are uttered and thy servant lives ! 
Ay, Paulus ; ever from that hour, when first 
My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost, 
And to its superstitions wedded fast, 
Shrouded in dark-icss, blind to every beam 
Streaming from Zion s hill athwart the night 
That broods in horror o er a heathen world, 
Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld 
A dark and fathom ess abyss yawn wide 
Between us two; and o er it gleamed alone 
One pale, dim twink ing star ! the lingering hope 
That grace descending from the Throne of Light 
Might foil in gent e dews upon that heart, 
And melt it into humlVe piety. 
A 1 as ! that hope hath faded ; and I see 
The fatal gu f of separation still 
Between us, love, and stretching on for aye 
Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon 
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down. 
Union for us is none, in yonder sky : 
Then how on earth ? so in my inmost soul, 



Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes. 

With si ent watchings and incessant prayers, 

A holy resolution- hath ta en root, 

And in its might at last springs proudly up. 

We part, my Paulus ! not in hate, but love, 

Yielding unto a stern necessity. 

And I along my sad, short pilgrimage, 

Will bear the memory of our sinless love 

As mothers wear the image of the babe 

That died upon their bosom ere the world 

Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill, 

Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles, 

Close to the heart s fond core, to be drawr. forth 

Ever in solitude, and bathed in tears. 

But how ! with such unmanly grief struck down, 

Withered, thou Roman knight! 

Paul. My brain is pierced ! 

Mine eyes with blindness smitten ! and mine ear 
Rings faintly with the echo of thy words ! 
Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith 
On woman s love, on woman s constancy ? 
Maiden, look up ! I would but gaze once more 
Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye, 
To read what aspect Perjury may wear, 
What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use. 
To lure the eye of guileless, manly love ! 
Cruel, coM blooded, fickle that thou art, 
Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover s eye 1 
How ! there is light within thy lofty glance, 
A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm 
Upon thy lip and brow ! 

Mir. Ay, even so. 

A light a flush a calm not of this earth ! 
For in this hour of bitterness and wo, 
The grace of God is falling on my soul 
Like dews upon the withering grass which late 
Red scorching flames have seared. Again 
The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, 
Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, 
Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace, 
And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, 
Lights me along the path that duty marks. 
Lover too dearly loved ! a long farewell ! 
The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout 
That bears the victor s name unto the skies 
The laurelled brow be thine 

Before the conclusion of this scene, which is 
full of natural pathos and the illustrations of 
a passionate fancy, they are interrupted by 
Euphas, who suddenly returns to inform his 
sister that the funeral party had been sur 
prised by a band of Roman soldiers, some 
slain, and others, among whom was their 
father, borne to prison. The indignation of 
Euphas is excited by finding Paulus with 
Miriam, and she answers to hi" reproaches 

Stay, stay, rash boy ! Alas ! 
The thickening horrors of this awful nigni 
Have flung, methinks, a spell upon my soul. 
I tell thee, Euphas, thou hast far more cause, 
Proudly to clasp my breaking heart to thine, 
And bless me with a loving brother s praise 
Than thus to stand with sad but angry eye. 



1.14 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a brow 

As sinless *s thine own breaking the reed 

But newly bruised pouring coals of fire 

Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds ! Oh, tell me, 

What hath befallen my father ] Say he lives, 

Or let me lay my head upon thy breast, 

And die at once ! 

Euphas answers harshly, nrd by the aid of a 
body of Christians, armed for the emergency, 
he seizes Paulus as a hostage, and gjes to 
the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of 
Thraseno. Miriam, who had fainted during 
this scene, on her recovery follows him on 
his hopeless errand ; and we are next intro 
duced to the palace, where the young Chris 
tian is urging, on the ground of humanity, 
the release of his father, in a manner finely 
contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness 
of the hardhearted magistrate. Piso is in 
exorable, and Euphas reminds him of his son, 
tells him that he is a hostage, and discloses 
his love for Miriam. The Roman exclaims : 

Knowest thou not 

Thou hast but sealed thy fate 1 His life had been 
More precious to me than the air I breathe ; 
And cheerfully I would have vielded up 
A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens 
To .SIYC one hair upon his head. But now 
A Christian maid ! W ere there none other 1 Gods ! 
Shame and a shameful death be his, and thine ! 

l ]\i i>ft. It is the will of God. My hopes burnt dim 
Even from the first, and are extinguished now. 
The thirst of blood hath rudely choked at last 
The one ailection which thy dark breast knew, 
And thou art man no more. Let me but die 
First of thy victims 

Piso* Would that she among them 

Where is the sorceress ] I fain would see 

The beauty that hath witched Rome s noblest youth. 

J ln/>/i. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. 

JV.vo. I will. On her shall fall my worst revenge; 
And I will know what foul and magic arts 

Here Miriam glides in, and changes the whole 
current of Piso s feelings, by her extraordina 
ry resemblance to a Jewess whom he had 
loved in youth and never ceased to lament. 
He addresses her as the spirit of the object 
of his early passion : 

Beautiful shadow ! in this hour of wrath, 
What dost thou here 1 In life thou wert too meek, 
Too gentle for a lover stern as I. 
And, since 1 saw thee last, my days have been 
I ).<>[> stepped in sill and blood What seekest thou ? 
I have g.mvn old in strife, and hast thou come, 
With thy dark eyes and their soul searching glance, 
To look me into peace? It can not be. 
Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms! 
He wuose young love thou didst reject on earth. 
May tremble at this visitation strange, 
Hut never can know peace or virtue more ! 



Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog 
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause 
To hate and scorn the whole detested race; 
And till I meet that man, whom most of all 
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay ! 
Fade, vanish, shadow bright ! In vain that look, 
That sweet, sad look ! My lot is cast in b!ood ! 

Mir. Oh, say not so ! 

Piso. The voice that won me first! 
Ob, what a tide of recollections rush 
Upon my drowning soul ! my own wild love 
Thy scorn the long, long days of blood and guilt 
That since have left their footprints on my fate i 
The dark, lark nights of fevered agony, 
When, mid the strife and struggling of my dreams. 
The gods sent thee at times to hover round, 
Bringing the memory of those peaceful davs 
When I behe d thee first ! But never yei 
Before my waking eyes hast thou appeared 
Distinct and visible as now. Fair spirit ! 
What wouldst thou have ? 

Mir. Oh, man of guilt and wo . 
Thine own dark fantasies are busy now, 
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing 
Of earth, as thou art. 

Piso. How ! Art thou not she ! 
I know that face ! I never yet beheld 
One like to it among earth s loveliest. 
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art 
A thing of mortal mould 1 Oh. better meet 
The wailing ghosts of those whose b!ood doth clog 
My midnight dreams, than that half pitying eye ! 

Mir. Thou art a wretched man ! and I do feel 
Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought. 
But from the quiet grave I have not come. 
Nor from the shadowy confines of the world 
Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour 
The disembodied should be passionless, 
And wear not eyes that swim in earthborn tears, 
As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience struck ! 

Piso. Off! off! She touched me with her damp 

cold hand, 

But twas a hand of flesh and blood ! Away ! 
Come thou not near me till I study thee. 

Mir. Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild 1 

thy lips 

Convulsed and ghastly white 1 Thine own dark 
Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form [sina, 
Thou darest not look upon I know not why. 
But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse, 
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, 
I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. 

PifO. Who, who hath sent thee here 1 

Mir. The Christian s God, 
The God thou knowest not. 

7V.w. Thou art of earth ! 
I see the rose tint on thy pallid cheek, 
Which was not there at first: it kindles fast! 
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye, 
I hear thee. 

Mir. HK hath given me strength, 
And led me safely through the broad, lone streets 
Even at the midnight hour. My heart sunk not 
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering 
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



Pa e gods and goddesses on either hand, 
Bending their sightless eyes on me ! by founts, 
Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air! 
Through moonlit squares, where, ever and anon, 
Flashed from some dusky nook the red torchlight, 
Flung on my path by passing reveller. 
And HK hath brought me here before thy face ; 
And it was HE who smote thee even now 
With a strange, nameless fear. 

Piso. Girl ! name it not. 

I dee. ned I looked on one whose bright young face 
First glanced on me mid the shining leaves 
Of a green bower in sunny Palestine, 
In my youth s prime. I knew the dust, 
The grave s corroding dust, had soiled 
That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell 
Upon the soul that never yet knew fear. 
But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread ; 
And what the gods did make me, am I now. 
What soekest thou 1 

Euph. Miriam ! go thou hence. 
Why shouldst thou die ] 

Mr. Brother! 

Piso. Ha ! is this so 1 

Now, by the gods ! Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves ! 
If they escape me now Why, this is good ! 
I had not deemed of hap so glorious. 
She that beguiled my son ! his sister ! 

Mir. Peace ! 
Na-ne not, with tongue unhallowed, love like ours. 

Pro. Thou art her image; and the mystery 
Confounds my purposes. Take other form, 
Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee ! 

Mir. I have no other form than this God gave ; 
And he alrcidy hath stretched forth his hand, 
And touched it for the grave. 

Piso. It is most strange. 
Is not the air around her full of spells? 
Give me the son thou hast seduced ! 

M r. Hear, Piso ! 

Th ; sjn hath seen me, loved me, and hath won 
A h?art too prone to worship nob .e things, 
Although of earth; and he, alas! was earth s. 
I strove, I prayed in vain. In a I things else 
I might have stirred his soul s best purposes ; 
But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, 
The:e was no entrance in that iron soul. 
And I amid such hopes, despair arose, 
And laid a withering hand upon my heart. 
I feel it yet ! We parted. Ay, this night 
We met to meet no more. 

E\if)h. Sister ! my tears 
They choke my words else 

Mir. Euphas, thou wert wroth 
When there was litt e cause ; I loved thee more. 
Thy very frowns in such a holy cause 
Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, 
Looking on fancied sin, is noble. 

Pi*u. Maid! 

Hath, then, my son withstood thy witchery, 
And on this ground ye parted ] 

Mr. It is so. 
Alas ! that I rejoice to tell it thee. 

Pffo. IN ay, 
Well thou mayst, foi it hath wrought his pardon. 



That he had loved thee would have been a sin 

Too full of degradation infamy, 

Had not these cold and ag d eyes themselves 

Beheld thee in thy loveliness ! And yet, bold girl ! 

Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell 

That works on one grown old in deeds of blood. 

I have looked calmly on when eyes as bright 

Were drowned in tears of hitter agony, 

When forms as full of grace and pride, perchance, 

Were, writhing in the sharpness of their pain, 

And cheeks as fair were mangled 

Euph. Tyrant ! cease. 

Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these 
Were not for ears like hers ! 

Mir. I tremble not. 

He spake of pardon for his guiltless son, 
And that includeth life for those I love. 
What need I more 1 

Euph. Let us go hence at once. Piso ! 
Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates, 
That shut our friends from light and air. 

Piso. Not yet, 

My haughty boy, for we have much to say 
Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not ! 
Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here 
Till I am satisfied. 

Mir. How ! hast thou changed 

PifO. Nay ; but I must detain ye till I ask 

Mir. Detain us if thou wilt. But look 

Pifo. At what 1 

Mir. There, through yon western arch ! the 

moon sinks low. 

The mists already tinge her orb with blood. - 
Methinks I feel the breeze of morn e en now. 
Knowest thou the hour 1 

Piso. I do ; but one thing more 
I fain would know ; for, after this wild night, 
Let me no more behold you. Why didst thou, 
Bold, dark-haired boy, wear in those pleading eyes, 
When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look 
That fell familiar on my soul 1 And thou, 
The lofty, calm, and oh, most beautiful ! 
Why are not only that soul-searching glance, 
But e en thy features and thy silver voice, 
So like to hers I loved long years ago, 
Beneath Judea s palms ? Whence do ye come ? 
Mir. For me, I bear my own dear mother s brow ; 
Her eye, her form, her very voice, are mine. 
So, in his tears, my father oft hath said. 
We lived beneath Judea s shady palms, 
Until that saintlike mother faded, drooped, 
And died. Then hither came we o er the waves, 
And till this night have worshipped faithfully 
The one, true, living God, in secret peace. 

Piso. Thou art her child ! I could not harm theo 
Oh, wonderful ! that things so long forgot [now. 
A love I thouzht so crushed and trodden down, 
E en by the iron tread of passions wild 
Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge 
Revenue, that hath shed seas of Christian blood ! 
To think this heart was once so waxen soft, 
And then congealed so hard, that naught of ill 
Which hath been since could ever have the powei 
To wear away the image of that girl 
That fair young Christian girl ! T was a wild love 



116 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



But I was young, a soldier in strange lands, 
And she, in very gentleness, said nay 
So timidly, I hoped until, ye gods ! 
She loved another ! Yet I slew him not ! 
I fled. Oh, had I met him since ! 

A ;/////. Come, sister ! 
The hours wear on. 

Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy 
And take with you you prisoners. Send my son, 
Him whom she did not hear home to these arms, 
And gj ye out of Rome with all your train. 
I will shed hlood no more ; for I have known 
What sort of peace deep glutted vengeance brings. 
My son is brave, but of a gentler mind 
Than I have been. His eyes shall never more 
Be grieved with sight of sin ess blood poured forth 
From tortured veins. Go forth, ye gentle two ! 
Children of her who might perhaps have poured 
Her own meek spirit o er my nature stern, 
Since the bare image of her buried charms, 
Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power 
To stir my spirit thus ! But go ye forth ! 
Ye leave an altered and a milder man 
Than* him ye sought. Tell Paulus this, 
To quicken his young steps. 

Mir. Now may the peace 
That follows just and worthy deeds, he thine ! 
And may deep truths be born, mid thy remorse, 
In the recesses of thy soul, to make 
That soul even yet a shrine of holiness. 

Euph. Piso, how shall we passyon steelclad men, 
Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon gate 1 

Piso. Take ye my well known ring and here, 

the list 
Ay, this is it, methinks : show these Great gods ! 

Euph. What is there on yon scroll which shakes 
him thus ] 

Mir. A name, at which he points with stiffening 
And eyeballs full of wrath ! Alas! alas! [hand, 
I guess loo well. My brother, droop thou not. 

Piso. Your father, did ye say ] Was it his life 
Ye came to beg ] 

Mir. His life ; but not alone 
Tlu- life so dear to us; for he hath friends 
Sharing his fetters and his final doom. 

Piso. Little reck I of them. Tell me his name. ! 

[ A pause. 
Speak, boy, or I will tear thee piecemeal ! 

Mir. Stay, 

Stern son of violence ! the name thou askest 
Is is Thraseno ! 

Piso. Well I knew it, girl ! 
Now, by the gods, had I not been entranced, 
I sooner had conjectured this. Foul name ! 
Thus do I tear thee out, and even thus 
Rend with my teeth ! Oh, rage ! she wedded him, 
And ever since that hated name hath been 

The voice of serpents in mine ear ! But now 

Why go ye not? Here is your list: and all, 
Ay, every one whose name is here set down, 
Will my good guards forthwith release you. 

Mir. Piso! 

In mercy mock us not! children of her 
Whom thou didst love 

Piso. Ay, maid, but ye are his 



\ Whom 1 do hate ! That chord is broken now 
Its music hushed. Is she not in her grave, 
And he within my grasp 1 

Mir. Where is thy peace, 
Thy penitence ] 

Pi,so. Fled all a moonbeam brief 
Upon a stormy sea. That magic name 
Hath roused the wild, loud winds again. Begone ! 
Save whom ye may. 

M!.r. Piso ! I go not hence 
Until rny father s name be on this scroll. 

Puo. Take root, then, where thou art ! for by 
I swear [dark Styx 

Mir. Nay, swear thou not, till I am heard. 
Hast thou forgot thy son 1 

Piso. No ! let him die, 
So that I have my long deferred revenge. 
Thy lip grows pale ! Art thou not answered now ? 

Mir. Deep horror falls upon me ! Can it be 
Such demon spirits dwell on earth 1 

Piso. Bold maiden, 

While thou art safe, go hence ; for in his might 
The tiger wakes within me ! 

Mir. Be it so. 

He can but rend me where I stand. And here, 
Living or dying, will I raise my voice 
In a firm hope ! The God that brought me here 
Is round me in the silent air. On me 
Falleth the, influence of an unseen eye ! 
And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer, 
This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame. 
Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul ! 
My father thou mayst slay ! Flames will not fall 
From heaven to scorch and wither thee ! The earth 
Will gape not underneath thy feet ! and peace, 
Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still 
Thy home and hearth ! B ut deep within thy breast 
A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. 
Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams 
To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day 
That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness, 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 
And know that even in death is no repose ! 
And this shall be thy life. Then a dark hour 
Will surely come 

Piso. Maiden, be warned ! All this 
I know. It moves me not. 

Mir. Nay, one thing more 

Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth 
Full as it is of young and gentle hearts 
One man alone that loves a wretch like thee ; 
And he, thou sayest, must die ! All other eyes 
Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look, 
Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine ! 
And he whose loving glance alone spake peace, 
Thou say st must die in youth ! Thou know st not 
The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, [yet 

The throes and uchings of a childless heart, 
Which yet will all be thine ! Thou know st not yet 
What tis to wander mid thy spacious halls, 
And find them desolate ! wildly to start 
From thy deep musings at the distant sound 
Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick 
Ay, sick at heart with dark remembrances ! 
To dream thou seest him as in years fjone by 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



11? 



When in his bright and joyous infancy, 
His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, 
And his soft arms were twined around thy neck, 
And his twin rosebud lips just lisped thy name 
Yet feel in agony tis but a dream ! 
Thou knowest not yet what tis to lead the van 
Of armies hurrying on to victory, 
Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour, 
/Sadly to miss the we .l known snowy plume, 
Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly iixed 
In battle field ! to sit, at midnight deep, 
Alone within thy tent all shuddering 
When, as the curtained door lets in the breeze, 
Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms 
And bright young hero face of him who once 
Had been most welcome there ! and worst of all 

Pi&o. It is enough ! The gift of prophecy 
Is on thee, maid ! A power that is not thine 
Looks out from that dilated, awful form 
Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light 
And stills my soul. My Paulus must not die ! 
And yet to give up thus the boon ! 

Mir. What boon? 

A boon of blood ? To him, the good old man, 
Death is not terrible, but only seems 
A dark, short passage to a land of light, 
Where, mid high ecstasy, he shall behold 
Th unshrouded glories of his Maker s face, 
And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last 
Upon th ascended Prince, and never more 
Know grief or pain, or part from those he loves ! 
Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust, 
And bring deep vengeance on his murderer ! 

Piso. My Paulus must not die! Let me revolve : 
Maiden, thy words have sunk into my soul ; 
Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down 
A purpose cherished in my inmost heart, 
That which hath been my dream by night by day 
My life s sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn, 
Long years ere thou wert born, that should the gods 
E er give him to my rage and yet I pause 1 



Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son, 
And I not crush them into nothingness 1 
Am I so pinioned, vain, and powerless 1 
Work, busy brain ! thy cunning must not fail. 

[Retires. 

The tyrant promises to restore Thraseno to 
his children, and the scene changes to where 
Paulus is awaiting the result. The long so 
liloquy in which he expresses his varying 
moods reminds us somewhat too much of 
the sombre reveries of Manfred, though its 
original conceptions illustrate a power equal 
to its independent composition. 

Piso but keeps the word of his last prom 
ise, for only the dead body of Thraseno is 
restored to Euphas and Miriam. Paulus, in 
horror, renounces his parent and his religion, 
and, while a dirge is sung over the martyr, 
Miriam dies. 

The fine and poetical spirit which pervades 
the poem is sufficiently apparent in these ex 
tracts. There is in parts a slight want of 
keeping, and it may be that the tone is gen 
erally too oratorical, though the incidents 
justify almost throughout the work a certain 
dignity of expression, and the youthful ages 
of the chief characters make appropriate a 
more ornate style than would befit a greater 
maturity of life. 

Among the minor poems of Mrs. Hall per 
haps the best is a Dramatic Sketch, in The 
Token, for 1839. There has been no collec 
tion of her fugitive pieces, and it is probable 
that I have seen too few of them to form an 
intelligent estimate of their character. 



JUSTICE AND MERCY. 

I SAW in my dream a countless throng 
By a mighty whirlwind hurried along, 

Hurried along through boundless space 
W T ith a fearful, onward, rushing sweep, 
Looking like beings roused from sleep, 

Till they met their Maker face to face. 

Then, consciousness waked in each dark eye, 
The mercy seat shone above on high, 

And a timid, wild, but hopeful gaze 
Those wandering spirits upward cast, 
As it they had cause of joy at last, 

When they saw the throne of judgment blaze. 

"Justice!" they cried, with sound so clear, 
The stars of the universe needs must hear ; 

"Justice!" ag:iin, again rang out, 
As of those who felt the hour had come 
\\ hen earth-choked lips should no more be dumb, 

An.l all God s worlds must hear their shout. 



They were the souls of myriad men 

Who had died, and none cared how or when, 

Who had dwelt on earth as slaves as slaves ! 
They were the men by death set free, 

And flocking they came from their million graves, 
They who on earth had scarce dared be, 

Shaking the bonds from their half-crushed souls, 

Uttering a cry that rent the poles, 
For they knew that God would hear them then. 

And afar I beheld a smaller band, 

With hands claspt-d over their downcast eyes, 
For before the blaze they could not stand. 

And away had fallen their robes of lies. 
Naked, affrighted, pierced with light, 

They knew themselves and their deeds at las< 
From their quivering lips to the throne of Right 

A faint low cry of " Mercy !" passed. 

Justice and Mercy ! hear them both 
Bondman and master both are here ; 

Each asketh that he needeth most. 

Now pass from my soul, thou dream of feai i 



H8 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

CHARACTERS. 

KING HENKYTHK SKVK.VTH. 
I.AHV CATUKIUNK. the K i/1- <jf 1 erkia Warheck. 
Cr,AKA, her AlUinlunt. 
SIK FI.OIUAN, n l- r,f,,,l "f 1 ,-rkin Wurheck. 

I Catttt n, t ik, SeaeooM, in Cornwall. 
Ttine. T/tc Autumn of the year 1499. 

r.ADY CATHKKINE and CLARA. 

Lad// C. OPEX that casement toward the sea, 
I gaze in vain along the hilly waste, [my Clara. 
Watching the lone and solitary road 
Until mine eyes are strained. The dull day wanes, 
The sad November day and yet there come 
No ridings from niv lord ! Ay, that is well ! 
Sit thou where I have sat these many hours 
In patience sorrowful ; and summon me 
\Vit!i a most joyous cry, if thy kind watch 
Be more successful. Sea ! for ever tossing, 
Thv very motion is so beautiful, 
So wild and spirit-stirring, as I turn 
From the bleait, changeless moor, a 1 desolate, 
I b ess each wave that breaks against yon cliff. 
Oh, mighty ocean ! thou art free art free ! 
Dash high, thou foamy-crested billow, high ! 
That was a leap, whica sent the snowy spray 
Up to yon overhanging crag, and forth 
The screaming sea-bird sprang rejoicingly. 
Clara, do not forget thy watch. 

Clara. Nay, lady, 

Return not yet ; thou shalt have warning swift, 
If but a lonely traveller tread the heath. 

Ludy C Yes : I will trust thee, and again look 
Upon the glorious sea. In my youth s prime [forth 
Is it not strange I thus should love to gaze 
On a \vi;d ocean-view and frowning skv ] 
Oh, sorrow, fear, and dark suspense, what change 
Ye work in brief brief space on careless hearts ! 
Methinka it was not many months ago 
Childhood was round me with its rainbow dreams; 
Then came the glittering vision of a court, 
Dear Scut aim s court, where on my bridal hour 
A uracious monarch smiled, and silently 
Time stole the wings of love. My husband ! dearest! 
Our happy hours were few. The echoes still 
Rang back the harp s sweet nuptial melody, 
When came a fearful voice, I scarce knew whence 
But terrible, oh terrible it was! 
The dew scarce dry upon the snowy rose 
I wore that morn, when it was wet afresh 
With tears of parting ! T was but for a time, 
He said, and we should meet again. My heart 
(Min ITS to the promise sweet " We meet again ;" 
But when, oh when ] Ye vain remembrances! 
Depart. Let me survey the heath once more. 
The ocean hvc/.r lias fanned the pain away 
From my hot brow, and now it wearies me 
To look upon those restless waves. Their roar 
Comes faintly up from yonder wet. black rocks, 
Monotonous uiul hoarse; the mighty clouds 
Sweep endless o er the heavens ; I am sad, 
And all things saddi-M me. They 1! s,-t him free, 
They sure y will, my Clara! thou hast said it 
Full twenty times this day, and yet again 
I fair, would hear such empty words of cheer. 



What is yon speck upon the dusky neatn? 
Look look ! 

Clara. I have been watching it, dear lady : 
T is but a lonely tree. 

Lady C. No, no, it moves. 
My heart s so.icitude doth give me sight 
Keener than thine : it moves ; it comes this way. 
What may its form and bearing be 1 It nears 
Yon pile of rocks. Clara, such speed denotes 
A horseman fleet. Peace, heart ! throb not so fast 

Clara. The gray rnist settles down and mocka 
It is a peasant, toiling through the furze, [thine eye. 

Lady C. Nay, tis a mounted knight ! yon hil- 
Thou wilt descry him plain. [lock passed, 

Clara. T is so ! he rides 
He rides for life. Is t not the jet-black steed 
Sir Floriari mounts ] 

Lady C. It is my husband s friend ! 
T is he that rushes on with such mad haste. 
Tidings at last oh, Clara, I am faint. [comes 

Clara. Be calm, my much-tried mistress ; joy still 
Close upon apprehension. 

Lady C. Is it so 1 
I can not tell. Would bad news spur him thus 1 

Cl tra. Believe me, no. Be calm. 

Lady C. I will I will. 
Is he not here 1 he s wondrous slow, methinks. 

Clara. The noble charger s spent ; his smoking 
Are flecked with foam, and every gallant leap [sides 
Seems as twould be his last. Why doth his rider 
Cast back such troubled glances o er the moor 1 
Now to the ground he springs; the brave steed drops 
Lady, look up ! Sir Florian is at hand. 



Sir F. Where is the lady Catherine ? Oh, away ! 
Fly for your life ! 

Lady C. Fly 1 and from whom ? or why 1 

Sir F. Question me not : I do conjure you, fly ! 
The danger s imminent; moments are precious; 
Down to the beach : take boat without delay. 
It is your husband s bidding. 

Lady C. Oh, thank Heaven 
For those two words ! Am I to meet him, then 1 

Sir F. No, ladv, no ! but I have been delayed, 
Crossed, intercepted, and well nigh cut off, 
Till on a moment s grace your life depends. 
The king pursues. 

Lady C. The king ! in mercy say, 
Where is my husband ] 

Sir F. London Tower held still 
The princely wanderer, when the rumor came 
That Henry s wrath burnt hot gainst thee, sweet 
A nd that the p ace of thy retreat was known, [lady, 
Fly ! t is thy husband s word. 

Lady C. Imprisoned still ! 
Take rne to London, noble Florian. Nay, 
How can I live but in that same dark Tower, 
Where they have pinioned down my gallant lord, 
My noble, much-wronged lord 1 Not yet set free . 
He hath been pardoned once, if men told true. 

Sir F. Come, fair and most unhappy ! 

Luili/ C. I have heard 
Such fearful tales of bloody murders done 
In the mysterious circuit of those walls ! 
What, didst thou leave him well ? 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



Sir F. In truth I did, 

Though somewhat wan and wasted ; anxious, too, 
For thy most precious life. Come, I conjure thee ! 

Cla. There is a strange and hollow sound abroad. 
T is not the sea ! 

Sir F. No, nor the sweeping wind. 
It is the tramp of steeds fast galloping ! [now 

Cla. They come ! like mounted giants looming 
Through the dim mist. 

Sir F. She s lost ! Why lingered 1 1 [now 

Cla. Quick ! there is time ; our startled menials 
Bar fast the outer doors : yon staircase leads 
Down through a vaulted passage to the shore. 
Sti.l motionless, sweet mistress] 

Lady C. Was he worn 
And pale, saidst thou 1 Truly I do rejoice 
The king draws nigh, for on my bended knees 
Will I entreat to share my husband s cell. 

Cla. She is distraught. 

Sir F. Most gracious lady, list ! 
It is your blood this haughty monarch seeks 
And with a vow against the innocent 
His soul is burdened; do not wildly dream 
That he will pity thee : and for thy lord 

Lady C. Pause not ; I do conjure thee, speak ! 

Sir F. He hath been tried, condemned 

Lady C. And slain ] 

Cla. That shriek 
Doth guide them hither. 

Sir F. Nay, he lives as yet, 
But vainly 

Lady C. Oh, God bless thee for that word ! 
He lives ! Monarch of England, come ! 

Cla. Hark, hark ! 
That crash the doors are burst ! 

Sir F. Her doom is sealed. 

Enter KING HENRY unit Atte.ndtnas. 

K. Hen. We are in time : the bird hath riot es 
caped. 

Those hoof-tracks made me fear some traitor fleet 
Had warned her from the nest. Ha, frowning youth, 
Whence comest thou 1 What may thine errand be, 
That brought thee hither in such furious haste 1 

SirF. Thou well mightst guess: twas from thy 

bloody fangs 

I vainly hoped one victim to withdraw. 
She chose to trust thy clemency alas ! [tongue 

K. Hen. Alas, indeed ! bold heart is thine, and 
As bold. But garb so travel-stained, fair sir, 
Fits not a lady s bower; and thou It not love, 
Perchance, to fix that pity-beaming eye 
Upon my deeds of clemency. Take hence 
This youthful rebel, and let manacles 
Bind those officious hands. 

[Exit SIR F LORI AX with two Officers. 

Now for our work. 

We will survey this far-famed Scottish lily, 

Ere the sharp steel do crop its drooping head. 

Indeed, she s wondrous fair ! Hast thou no voice, 

Pale suppliant 1 Its music must be rich, 

And e en more eloquent than those clasped hands, 

That sweet, imploring face. Speak, for thy moments 

Flit into nothingness, and if thou hast 

One last petition for thy dying hour 

Lady C. My husband, gracious king ! 



K. Hen. What, art thou mad 1 [hence 

Lady C. Let me but see his face ! oh, drag me 
With scorn and vio ence to share his doom, 
And I will bless thy name. 

K. Hen. She hath gone wild 
With sudden terror. He s condemned, sweet lady 
To die a shameful death,- and thou this hour 
This very hour must perish in thy youth. 
So bids my needful policy. Thinkest thou 
Of aught but precious life, with such a fate 
Darkening around thee, fair one ] Now, ask aught 
But life 

Lady C. Life, life, mere breath ! and what is that] 
Take it, my sovereign ! He who gave it me 
Will call my spirit home to heaven and peace, 
When this poor dust lies low. I have no prayer 
To offer for my wretched life, if joy 
Lie dead and buried in my husband s grave. 
Is there no mercy for my gallant lord ] 
Crowned monarch, speak ! what can thy mightiness 
Grant thee beyond the holy power to bless ] 

K. Hen. I must be stern in words as well as deeds. 
I charge thee, if thou hast a last request 
A dying message to the noble house 
Whence thou art sprung 

Lady C. My home forsaken home ! 
It was for him I left the heathy hills 
Of my own Scotland ; there we had not perished 
Thus in life s early bloom. May blessings rest 
On the old quiet castle, and each head 
Its gray roof shelters ! How those ancient halls 
Will ring a wild lament, when comes the tale 
That England s broken faith had widowed me, 
And laid me, all unmourned, in English dust ! 
Thy fame, proud king, thy fame 

K. Hen. Ha ! dost thou dare 
Breathe such reproach 1 Hear, then, unthinking girl, 
Since thou dost stir my wrath. Dost thou not know, 
Daughter of Gordon s stainless house, that thou 
Art to a mean and base impostor linked ? 
Duped and beguiled by crafty words, thy king 
Gave with his own pledged faith thy maiden hand 
To Margaret s lowborn tool ; and he hath lied 
Lied his own life away, and stained his soul 
With foulest perjury to steal the crown 
Of glorious England from her lawful king. 
The fraud is plain ; the forfeit, his mean life, 
And men with eyes amazed shrink back from him 
They followed in a dream. Awake thou, too ; 
Die not in thy delusion. 

Lad i/ C. Now be still, 

My swelling heart ! speak calmly, quivering lips ! 
Man I will call thee monarch now no more, 
While ring thy words of insult in mine ear. 
Thou dost defame the husband I adore, 
And, in mine hour of fear and agony, 
With cruel calumnies dost strive to rend 
The one true heart that loves him yet. Enough . 
Unkingly words were thine ; but I depart 
Where earthly slanders can not reach mine ear. 
Give orders : let me die. 

K. Hen. Nay, it is past ; 
It was a flash of momentary heat, 
For of a fiery race I came. Alas ! I mourn 
That in cold blood, fair lady, I must doom 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



A creature young and innocent as thou 
To an untimely grave. And, if I gaze 
Longer upon that brow ingenuous, 
My purposes will surely melt. Farewell. 

Lady C. Stay, stay! hear but a few brief words 
Not for inyse.f I plead, not of my life, [my king 
My worthless life, would speak ; but fame, his fame 
Dearer than kingdoms to his noble heart, 
Claiais of his wife one burst of warm defence, 
[f royal bio id flow not within the veins 
Of him I loved and wedded, that deceit 
Was never his. The artful may have played 
Upon his open nature, and have lured 
Their victim to the toils for purposes 

They dared not own ; and now they may forsake 

Oh, God of heaven ! /never will desert 

My mocked and much wronged husband, though 

Shrink from him as a serpent. I may die [false men 

A bloody death, but with my last, last breath, 

Will still avow my trusting love, and sue 

For mercy on his innocence. 

K. Hen. Now, lady 

Lady C. Oh, peace unless I read thy restless 

eye aright. 
Wilt thou not look on me 1 

Doth thy heart swell 

With an unwonted fulness 1 Ha ! the vest 
Heaves glittering on thy breast ! thou then art 
And, if tears choke me not, I will dare plead [moved, 
Even for him him whom I may not name. 

K. Hen. Loosen my robe : away ; I will not hear. 

Lady C. Thou must, thou wilt: though slander 
ous tongues do say 

Thy heart is steel, I will believe it not, 
While on that gracious face I gaze. Thou It hear me. 
His trust in flattering tongues for ever cured, 
His wild hopes mock d,his young ambition quench d, 
His wisdom ripened by adversity, 
Forth from his prison will my husband come 
A subject true and faithful to thy sway. 
And I will lead him far away from courts, 
Into the heart of lonely Scottish hills ; 
There by some quiet lake his home shall be, 
So still and happy, that his stormy youth, 
With all its perilous follies, will but seem 
As a dim memory of some former state, 
In some forgotten world. He shall grow old 
Holing my simple vassals with such power 
As a brave hand and gentle heart may use ; 
And never, never ask again, what b ood 
Flows in his veins; nor dream one idle dream 
Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns, 
While these fond lips can whisper winning words, 
And woman s ever-busy love can weave 
Ties strong but viewless round his manly heart. 
Thou It hear it not, but in that blessed home 
How will I murmur in my nightly prayers 
The name of England s kiriLr ! 

He s free he s pardoned ! 
J hat tearful smile all graciously declares 
I am not widowed in my wretched youth ! 
I shall behold his noble face again. 



God bless tl.ee, generous prince, and give thee power 
Through long, longyears, to bind up bleeding hearts, 
And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace ! 
My tears they flowed not when I prayed but now 
The grateful gush declares, when language fails, 
The ecstasy of joy ! 



Enter a .1 /..vwx ;;, w/tn presents a packet ti 
<}>, n, ,ind, <ifur ciiiUii- Itia ,:ije over it, t 



the Kii,. tie breaks 
tr/ts away abruptly. 



C/a. The king is troubled. 

K. Hen. {After a pause.} My sweet petitionei 
look up ! 

Lady C. Alas ! 
I dare not. 

K. Hen. Nay, why now such sudden fear 7 
What sawest thou mirrored in my face ? 

Lady C. A nameless terror robs me of all strength 
That packet ! oh, these quick and dread forebodings ! 
Speak ! it were mercy should thine accents kill. 

K. He?i, Thou hast a noble spirit : rouse it now 
Daughter of Gordon. 

Lady C. King ! say on say all. 

K. Hen. Art thou prepared ] 

Lady C. What matters it ] speak, speak ! 
Prepared ? what, with this dizzy, whirling brain 1 
Comes fortitude amid such fierce suspense ] 
Tell me the worst and show thy pity so. 

K. Hen. Blanched, gasping, but angelic still ! 

What words 
Can sheathe the piercing news 1 Thy suit 
Was all too late, true wife ! He is in heaven. 

[LADY CATHERINE faints 

Pale rose of England !" men have named thee 
well. 

What brought me hither 1 what 1 to murder thee ] 
Oh, purpose horrible ! I can not think 

This bosom ever harbored scheme so fierce. 

)ark, bloody policy ! it is dissolved 

Beneath the gentle light of innocence, 

Melted by woman s true and faithful love, 
Conquered by grief it is not mine to heal. 

e dead may not return but she may live ! 
Quit not the broken-hearted ! weeping maid. 
She hath been true till death. And I will give 
Shelter to sorrow such as these stern eyes 
Ne er saw till now. To my own gentle queen 

Vill I consign the victim of harsh times, [rose ! 

^hou shouldst have bloomed in sunshine, blighted 
And ne er have been transplanted from thy bower 
To waste such fragrant virtues mid the storm. 



j TE ~ In the rel:n of Heni T VI - of Knaland. a pro 
ender to the crown appeared in the person of I erkit. 
Varbeck, a youth who declared himself to be Richard, 
uke of York, second son of Kdward IV. He was sup 
ported l.y Margaret of York, the Duke of Burmindv and 
Other powerful friends; and tin- ytmnz kin- of Scotland 
went so l;,r as to hestow on him the hand of the lady 
Catherine Gordon, nearly allied to the royal family, and 
celebrated tor her beauty. Sh- remained fondly attached 
to him through his reverses, when all England" had for- 
Bdken him : and it is said that the cold hrart of Henry was 
so softened by her loveliness, constancy, and sorrow for 
her hn-hand. that he relented in his bloody purpo-e and 
instead of takin- her life, as he had intended, placed her 
honorably :n his queen s household. Wa^-heck had adopt 
ed the title of the - 1 ale Rose of Kn-1 did ;" hut the people 
tran.-lrnvd it to her. Sec .Maekimo.-Us History of Sag 
land, Philadelphia ed., p. 197. 



ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 



(Born 1797-Died 1859). 



ELIZA LEE CABOT, a native of Boston, was 
married on the fifteenth of September, 1828, 
to the amiable and learned Charles. Pollen, 
J. U. D., of Germany, then of the Divinity 
School at Cambridge, and soon afterward 
professor of the German language and liter 
ature in Harvard College. This union was 
eminently happy, and it continued more than 
eleven years. Dr. Follen perished in the 
conflagration of the steamer Lexington, on 



the night of the thirteenth of January, 1840. 
Mrs. Follen is the author of several works 
in prose, of which the most important are 
Sketches of Married Life, The Skeptic, and 
a Life of Charles Follen, in one volume, pub 
lished in Boston in 1844. She has also ed 
ited the works of her husband, in four vol 
umes. The larger part of her poems are 
contained in a volume published in Boston, 
in 1839. 



SACHEM S HILL. 

HERE, from this little hillock, 

In days long since gone by, 
Glanced over hill and valley 

The sachem s eagle eye : 
His were the pathless forests, 

And his the hills so blue, 
And on the restless ocean 

Danced only his canoe. 

Here stood the aged chieftain, 

Rejoicing in his glory : 
How deep the shade of sadness 

That rests upon his story ! 
For the white man came with power, 

Like brethren here they met 
But the Indian fires went out, 

And the Indian sun has set. 

And the chieftain has departed, 

Gone is his hunting-ground, 
And the twanging of his bowstring 

Is a forgotten sound : 
Where dwelleth yesterday and 

Where is echo s cell 1 
Where has the rainbow vanished ] 

There does the Indian dwell. 

But in the land of spirits 

The Indian has a place, 
And there, midst saints and angels, 

He sees his Maker s face : 
There from all earthly passions 

His heart may be refined, 
And the mists that once enshrouded 

Be lifted from his mind. 

And should his freeborn spirit 

Descend again to earth, 
And here, unseen, revisit 

The spot that gave him birth, 
Would not his altered nature 

Rejoice with rapture high, 



At the changed and glorious prospect 

That now would meet his eye ] 
Where nodded pathless forests, 

There now are stately domes; 
Where hungry wolves were prowling, 

Are quiet, happy homes ; 
Where rose the savage warwhoop, 

Are heard sweet village bells, 
And many a gleaming spire 

Of faith in Jesus tells. 
And he feels his soul is changed 

T is there a vision glows 
Of more surpassing beauty 

Than earthly scenes disclose ; 
For the heart that felt revenge, 

With boundless love is filled, 
And the restless tide of passion 

To a holy calm is stilled. 
Here, to my mental vision, 

The Indian chief appears, 
And all my eager questions 

Fancy believes he hears : 
Oh, speak, thou unseen being, 

And the mighty secrets tell 
Of the land of deathless glories, 

Where the departed dwell ! 
I can not dread a spirit 

For I would gladly see 
The veil uplifted round us, 

And know that such things be : 
The things we see are fleeting, 

Like summer flowers decay 
The things unseen are real, 

And do not pass away. 
The friends we love so dearly 

Smile on us, and are gone, 
And all is silent in their place, 

And we are left alone ; 
But the joy " that passeth show," 

And the love no arm can sever 
And all the treasures of their souls. 

Shall be with us for ever. 
121 



122 



ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 



WINTER SCENES IX THE COUNTRY. 

TIIK short, dull, rainy day drew to a close; 
No gleam hurst forth upon the western hills, 
With smiling promise of a brighter day, 
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light; 
But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round, 
And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on. 
The weaned inmates of the house draw near 
The cheerful (ire; the shutters all are closed; 
A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say, 
INow let the darkness and the rain prevail 
Here all is bright ! How beautiful is the sound 
Of the descending rain ; how soft the wind 
Through the wet branches of the drooping elms: 
But hark ! far oil* beyond the sheltering hills, 
Is heard the gathering tempest s distant swell, 
Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes. 
The stream that glided through its pebbly wav, 
To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on ; 
The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh ; 
The gentle south has ceased; the rude northwest, 
Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth: 
The rain is changed into a driving sleet, 
And when the fitful wind a moment lulls, 
The feathery snow, almost inaudible, 
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still 
As the light brnshings of an angel s wings, 
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts 
Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life. 
The tightened strings of nature s ceaseless harp 
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody, 
As the full swell returns. The night comes on, 
And sleep, upon this little world of ours, 
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings ; and man, 
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth 
The bold interpreter of Nature s voice, 
(Jivinu: a language even to the stars 
Unconscious of the th robbings of his heart, 
Is still : and all unheeded is the storm, 
Save by the wakeful few who love the night 
Those pure and active spirits that are placed 
As guards o er wayward man they who showforth 
God s holy image on the soul impressed 
They listen to the music of the storm, 
And ho d high converse with the unseen world: 
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep. 
The stormy nin lit has passed ; the eastern clouds 
(ilow with the morning s ray: but who shall tell 
The peerless glories of this winter day 1 
Nature has put her jewels on one blaze 
Of sparkling liyht and ever-varying hues 
Bursts on the enraptured sight. 
The smallest twi^ w ith brilliants hangs its head; 
The graceful elm and all the forest trees 
Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem 
All decked and tricked out for a holyday, 
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems. 
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies 
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around, 



And moves in rainbow light where er he goes 
The universe looks glad : hut words are vain 
To paint the wonders of the splendid show. 
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight: 
The glorious pageant slowlv moves away, 
As the sun sinks behind the western hi. Is. 
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day. 
May shed uprm the cold and barren earth 
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues, 
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave 
A cold and dull rea ity behind. 

But see where, in the clear, unclouded sky, 
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke 
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint: 
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills, 
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow 
Upon this world of beauty and of sin, 
That mingle not with that whereon they rest: 
So should immortal spirits dwell below. 
There is a holy influence in the moon, 
And in the countless hosts of silent stars, 
The heart can not resist: its passions sleep, 
And all is still, save that which shall awake 
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps. 



EVENING. 

THE sun is set, the day is o er. 
And labor s voice is heard no more ; 
On high the silver moon is hung ; 
The birds their vesper hvmns have sung, 
Save one, who oft breaks forth anew, 
To chant another sweet adieu 
To all the glories of the day, 
And all its pleasures past away. 
Her twilight robe all nature wears. 
And evening sheds her fragrant tears, 
Which every thirsty plant receives, 
Whi e silence trembles on its leaves: 
From every tree and every bush 
There seems to breathe a soothing hush, 
While every transient sound but shows 
How deep and still is the repose. 
Thus calm and fair may all things be, 
When life s last sun has set with me; 
And may the lamp of memory shine 
As sweetly on my day s decline 
As yon pale crescent, pure and fair, 
That hangs so safelv in the air, 
And pours her mild, reflected light, 
To soothe and bless the weary sight : 
And may my spirit often wake 
Like thine, sweet bird, and, singing, take 
Another farewell of the sun 
Of pleasures past, of labors done. 
See, where the glorious sun has set, 
A line of light is lingering yet : 
Oh, thus may love awhile illume 
The silent darkness of mv tomb! 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



FRANCES HARRIET WHIFFLE, now Mrs. 
GREEN, was born in Smithfield, Rhode Is 
land, and is descended from two or the oldest 
and most honorable families of that state. 
While she was very young, her father, Mr. 
George Whipple, lost by various misfortunes 
his estate, and she was therefore leit to her 
own resources for support and for the culti 
vation of her fine understanding, of which 
some of the earliest fruits were poems print 
ed in the gazettes from 1830 to 1835. Her 
first volume was Memoirs of Eleanor El- 
bridge, a colored woman, of which there 
were sold more than thirty thousand copies. 
In 1841 she published The Mechanic, a book 
addressed to the operatives of the country, 
which was much commended in Mr. Brown- 
son s Boston Quarterly Review. In 1844 she 
gave to the public Might and Right, a histo 
ry of the attempted revolution in Rhode Is 
land, known as the Dorr Insurrection. Dur 
ing a part of the year 1842 she conducted 
The Wampanoag, a journal designed for the 
elevation of the laboring portion of the com 
munity, and she has since been a large con 
tributor to what are called "reform periodi 
cals," pariicularly The Nineteenth Century, 
a quarterly miscellany, and The Univercoe- 
lum and Spiritual Philosopher, a paper " de 
voted to philosophico-theology, and an expo 
sition and inculcation of the principles of 
Nature, in their application to individual and 
social life." In the autumn of 1848 she be 
came editress of The Young People s Journal 
of Science, Literature, and Art, a monthly 
magazine of an attractive character, printed 
in New York. 

One of the best known of Mrs. Green s po 
ems is The Dwarf s Story, a gloomy but pas 
sionate and powerful composition, which ap 
peared in The Rhode Island Book, in 1841. 
The longest and most carefully finished is 
Nanuntenoo, a Legend of the Narragansetts, 
in six cantos, of which the first, second and 
third were published in Philadelphia in 1848. 
This is a work of decided and various merit. 
We have few good poems upon aboriginal 
superstition, tradition, or history. The best 



are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastburn, Mogg 
Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the An- 
dirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, 
by Hosmer, Nemahmin, bv Louis L. Noble, 
and Mrs. Green s Nanuntenoo, with which, 
though it is not yet published may be 
classed Mr. Street s admirable romance of 
Frontenac. In Nanuntenoo are shown de 
scriptive powers scarcely inferior to those 
of Bryant and Carlos Wilcox, who have been 
most successful in painting the grand, beau 
tiful, and peculiar scenery of New England. 
The rhythm is harmonious, and the style gen 
erally elegant and poetically ornate. In the 
delineations of Indian character and adven 
ture, we see fruits of an intelligent study of 
the colonial annals, and a nice apprehension 
of the influences of external nature in psycho 
logical development. It is a production that 
will gratify attention by the richness of its 
fancy, the justness of its reflection, and its 
dramatic interest. 

The minor poems of Mrs. Green are nu 
merous, and they are marked by idiosyncra- 
cies which prove them fruits of a genuine 
inspiration. Her Songs of the Winds, and 
sketches of Indian life, from both of which 
series specimens are given in the following 
pages, are frequently characterized by a mas 
culine energy of expression, and a minute 
observation of nature. Though occasionally 
difluse, and illustrated by epithets or images 
that will not be approved, perhaps, by the 
most fastidious tastes, they have meaning in 
them, and the reader is not often permitted 
to fonjet the presence of the power and deli 
cacy of the poetical faculty. 

31 rs. Green has perhaps entered more 
largely than any of her countrywomen into 
discussions of religion, philosophy, and pol 
itics. Her views are frequently original and 
ingenious, and they are nearly always stated 
with clearness and maintained with force of 
logic and fitlicity of illustration. A consid 
eration of them would be inure appropriate in 
a reviewal of her prose-writings. Their pe 
culiarities are not disclosed in her poems, of 

which the only law is the sense of beauty. 
J 1-23 



121: 



FRANCES H. GREEX. 



NEW ENGLAND SUMMER IN THE AN 
CIENT TIME. 

FROM THE FIRST CANTO OF "NANUNTENOO." 

STILLNESS of summer noontide over hill, 
And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream, 
Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep 
Upon the drooping eyelids of the air. 
No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir 
The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound 
Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird, 
Or else the po islied leaves were turning back 
To their own natural places, whence the wind 
Of the last hour had flung them. From afar 
Came the deep roar of waters, vet subdued 
To a melodious murmur, like the chant 
Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest. 
A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves, 
And from their shivering steins an utterance came, 
So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed 
The soul of music breathed, without a voice. 
The anemone bent low her drooping head, 
Mourning the absence of her truant love, 
Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye, 
To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south, 
Coming to wake her with renewed life. 
The eglantine breathed perfume ; and the rose 
Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light, 
Fair as the vermil on the cheek of Hope. 
Where er in sheltered nook or quiet dell, 
The waters, like enamored lovers, found 
A thousand sweet excuses for delay, 
The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast, 
Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came 
To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves. 

The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing, 
Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence 
Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup, 
As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep. 
The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate; 
Each looked within the other s drowsy eyes, 
Till outward objects melted into dreams. 

The rich vermilion of the tanager, 
Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green, 
Like rubies set in richest emerald. 
On some tall maple sat the oriole, 
In black and orange, by his pendent nest, 
To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs; 
Whilo high amid the loftiest hickory 
Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest 
Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat, 
Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth. 
And higher yet, amid a towering pine, 
Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake, 
His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest, 
As if he sought for plunder in his dreams. 

The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad, 
To revel in the sunshine ; and the hare 
Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect 
Against the soft air-current; then she crept, 
With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns. 
The squirrel stayed his gambols ; and the songs 
Which late through all the forest arches rang, 
Were graduated to a harmony 
Of rudiniiMital music, href .hing low, 
Making the soft wind richer as the notes 



Had been dissolved, and mingled with the air. 
Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves 
Were lulled by their own chanting : breathing low 
With a just-audible murmur, as the soul 
Is stirred in visions with a thought of love, 
He whispered back the whisper tenderly 
Of the fair willows bending over him, 
With a light hush upon their stirring leaves, 
Blest watchers o er his day-dreams. Not a sign 
Of man or his abode met ear or eye, 
But one great wilderness of living wood, 
O er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved, 
An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock 
Which bound and strengthen d all their massive roots 
Stood the great oak and giant sycamore; 
Along the water-courses and the glades 
Rose the fair maple and the hickory; 
And on the loftier heights the towering pine 
Strong guardians of the forest standing there, 
On the old ramparts, sentinels of Time, 
To watch the flight of ages. Indian hordes, 
The patriarchs of Nature, wandered free ; 
W hile every form of being spake to them 
Of the Great Spirit that pervaded all, 
And curbed their fiery nature with a law- 
Written in light upon the shadowy soil 
Bowing their sturdy hearts in reverence 
Before the Great Unseen yet Ever FELT ! 
The very site where villages and towns, 
As if called forth by magic, have uprisen; 
W T here now the anvils echo, hammers clank, 
The hum of voices in the stirring mart, 
And roar of dashing wheels, create a din 
That almost rivals the old cataract 
As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse 
In striving to be heard above the din 
Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild, 
Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake 
A forest aristocracy, scarce feared 
The monarch man, and shared his common lot 
To hunger, plunder from the weak, and slay ; 
To wake a sudden terror ; then lie down, 
To be unnamed unknown for evermore. 



A NARRAGANSETT SACHEM, 

FROM THE SAME. 

A FOOTFALL broke the silence, as along 
Pawtucket s bank an Indian warrior passed. 
Awed by the solemn stillness, he had paused 
In deep, reflecting mood. A nobler brow 
Ne er won allegiance from Roman hosts, 
Than his black plume half shaded ; nor a form 
Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly, 
E er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles. 
The mantle that o er one broad shoulder hung, 
Was broidered with such trophies as are worn 
By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth 
Glistened amid the wampum. On the edge 
A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought, 
Where the soft, glossy brown of white man s hail 
Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh. 
The wampum-be. t, of various hues inwrought, 
Graced well his manly bosom ; and below, 
His taper limbs met the rich moccasin. 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



125 



SASSACUS.* 

THE orient sun was coming pioudly up, 
And looking o er the Atlantic gloriously ; 
Old Ocean s bosom felt the living rays ; 
A rich smile flashed up from his hoary cheek, 
Subduing pride with beauty, as he turned, 
In each clear wave, a mirror to the sky ; 
And Earth was beautifu , as when, of erst, 
In the young freshness of her vestal morn, 
She wore the dew-gems in her bridal crown, 
And met, and won, the exulting lord of Day. 

The beauty-loving Mystic wound a ong 
Throiuh the green meadows, as if led by Taste, 
That knew and sought the purest emerald, 
And had the art of finding fairest flowers; 
While his young brother, Thames, enrobed in light, 
Lingered with sparkling eddies round the shore. 
The sea-bird s snowy wing was tinged with gold, 
And scarcely wafted on the ambient air, 
As, lightly poised, she hung above the deep, 
And looked beneath its crystal. With a scream 
Of wild delight at all the wealth she saw, 
Down like a flake of living snow she plunged ; 
Then, momently upgleaming, like a burst 
Of winged light from the waters, shaking off 
The liquid pearls from all her downy plumes, 
She soared in triumph to her wave-girt nest. 

The spirit of the morning over all 
Went with a quickening presence, fair and free, 
Till every beetling crag, and steri e rock, 
And swamp, and wilderness, and desert ground, 
W 7 ere instinct with her glory. Moss and fern, 
And clinging vine, and all unnumbered trees, 
That make the woods a paradise, were stirred 
By whispering zephyrs, and shook off the dew ; 
While fragrance rose, like incense, to the skies. 
The soft May wind was breathing through the wood, 
Calling the sluggish buds to light and life 
As, stealing softly through the silken bonds, 
It freed the infant leaf, and gently held 
Its trembling greenness in his lambent arms. 
The eagle from his cloud-wreathed eyry sprang, 
Soaring aloft, as he had grown in love, 
Aspiring to the lovely Morning-Star, 
That lately vanished mid the kindling depths 
Of saffron-azure ; and the smaller birds 
Plumed the bright wing with sweetest carolings, 
Instinctive breath of joy, and love, and praise. 

No sound of hostile legions marred the scene ; 
Trumpet and war-cry, sword and battle-axe, 
With all their horrid din, were far away, 
And gentle Peace sat, queenlike Was it so 1 

* On a morning of May, 1637, the English, under Major 
John Mason, attacked the fort of Mystic, one of the strong 
holds of Sassacus. The Indians, believing the enemy afar, 
had sung and danced till midnight ; and the depth of their 
morning slumbers made them an easy prey. " The resist- 
bnce," says Thatcher, was manly and desperate, but the 
work of destruction was completed in little more than an 
hour. 1 And again, "Seventy wigwams were burnt, and 
five or six hundred Pequots killed. Parent and child alike, 
the sanop and squaw, the gray-haired man and the babe, 
were buried in one promiscuous ruin." Sassacus, flushed 
with conquest, with his followers returned just in time to 
witness the expiring flames. After this, the fortunes of 
the sachem rapidly declined ; and when his own hatchets 
were turned against him, he fled with Mononotto to the 
Mohawks, by whom he was treacherously murdered. 



Behold yon smouldering ruin ! Lo. yon height ! 
The Pequot there his simple fortress reared. 
And there he slept in peace but yester-eve, 
And his fair dreams spake not of coming death! 
Where are the hundred dwellers of this spot 
The parents, children, and the household charm;;, 
That woke a soft, familiar magic here 1 
The crackling cinders one chaotic mass 
Of death and ruin utter all the wrong, 
In their deep, voicefu! silence. Fire and sword, 
Sped by the Yengees hate, have only left 
The ashes of the beautiful; or, worse, 
The mangled type of each familiar form, 
Looks grimly through the horrid mask of death ! 

There slumbers all that woke a thrill of love 
In the firm warrior s bosom. Death stole on, 
Swift in the track of Gladness; and young hearts, 
Yet quick with rapture, in the halcyon dreams 
Of youth, and love, and hope, awoke -to die. 
They grappled with the subtile element, 
Then rushed on lance, and spear, and naked sword, 
To quench with their hot blood the torturing flames. 
The few strong warriors had grown desperate ; 
But desperation could not long avail 
And nerveless valor fall beside the weak. 
Mothers and children, aged men and strong, 
Bore the fierce tortures of dissolving life, 
And all consumed together; till, at last, 
The feeble wail of dying infancy 
A muttering curse a groan but half respired 
A prayer for vengeance on the subtle foe 
Were lost amid the wildly-crackling flames : 
Then the mute smoke went upward. All was still, 
Save the sweet harmonies that Nature woke, 
Careless of man s destruction, or his pangs. 

But hark ! the tramp of warriors ! They come ! 
Their loving thoughts, winged heralds, sent before 
To dear ones clustering in their wigwams shade, 
That wooing them from the memory of their toils, 
To watch their soft repose with eyes of love ; 
While sweet anticipation sketches forth 
One sunny hour of joy encircling all 
The rainbow-blessing of their clouded life 
More bright, more heavenly, for the gloom it gilds 

But is there joy in that wildly piercing cry ] 
The agonizing consciousness of wrong, 
Not graduated, but with one fell scath, 
Blasts now, like sudden lightning ; and the fire 
Awakes the latent sulphur of the soul ! 
The horrid truth, in all its length, and breadth, 
And height, and depth, before them lies revealed, 
An utter desolation. They are mad : 
Or more or less than man might not be so. 

Great Sassacus draws nigh. The panther-skin 
Parts from his bosom, and the tomahawk 
Is flung off, with the quiver and the bow. 
No word he utters ; for the marble lip 
May give to sound no passage; but his eye 
Looks forth in horror : all its liquid fires 
Shoot out a crystal gleam, like icicles 
And not a single nerve is stirring now 
In the still features, frozen with their pride , 
But, neath the brawny folding of his arms, 
The seamed and scarry chest is heaving up. 
Like a disturbed volcano. All he loved 



120 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



Sleep in the arms of Ruin. There they lie. 

He knew that he was reverenced as a god 

That ori the roll of heroes, prouder name, 

Or clothed with mightier majesty, was not, 

Than iSassacus the Terrible. That name 

The bronz d cheek of the warrior would blanch ; 

There was a magic in its very sound 

That made the bravest blood tun: pale as milk. 

And curdle in its passage. SASSACUS ! 

When those dire syllables were uttered loud, 

The vulture clapped her wings, and gave a scream. 

By instinct scenting the far field of Death. 

At his fell war-cry down the eagle came, 

To perch upon some overhanging clilf, 

And glory in bis glory. Her response 

Echoed afar the thrilling call to strife, 

As on her lofty battlements she sat, 

Like some wild spirit of a kindred power. 

Such was the fame that burnished his dark crest, 

Such were the signs that marked the chief a god. 

Had UK a weakness that could yield to grief, 

The strong the mighty the invincible! 

May he not rend affection from his heart, 

Or trifle with his passions ! 

On he went 

With half-averted eye as what he sought 
Among those mangled forms he durst not find. 
Sudden there came a shadow o er his brow 
An awful spirit to his flaming eye: 
He stood before his threshold. Stretched across, 
As the last horrid blow had checked her flight, 
Lay his weak, gray-haired mother. Just below, 
A pair of round arms, clinging to her knees, 
Alone were left to tell him of his babe. 
With one long, earnest, agonizing thought, 
He gazed to gather strength for fiercer pangs ; 
Then faltering step sped onward ; but again 
Abruptly pauses, for his form is fixed, 
Like some dark granite statue of Despair. 

The delicate proportions, fair and soft, 
Of his young wife, came suddenly to view 
Unmarred, as if to aggravate the more, 
Save by one cruel wound beneath her hair 
Upon the upturned forehead. Can it be 
The gay young creature he but left at eve, 
So very beautiful, is sleeping thus 
Cold cold in death irrevocably gone ] 
Remeinbereth not that shadowy maze of hair 
How dotingly he wreathed i*. yesterday ] 
Or that fair, ruby lip the tender kiss 
That won him back, when he had turned away, 
With all its tempting sweetness 1 She is dead ; 
And all her garments and her flowing hair 
Are dink and heavy with the waste of blood ! 
Her arms are folded on her marble breast, 
A lovely, but an ineffectual shield; 
The lids are lifted, and the parting lips 
Are curved lieseeehingh , as when they sued 
For meivv from tin- murderer in vain! 

He looked upon her, as if life would burst 
In one long, agonizing, phrensied gaze; 
The Muslin..- sight was madness: then he laughed, 
In utter desperation, utter scorn! 
He knew that Fate herself might never crush 
A soul that could endure such pangs, and live ! 



Why starts he, as some yet-untroubled nerve 
Had quickened for the torture 1 ? Hush ! a wail 
From yonder dying child ! Can that arrest 
A pride that seemed to glory in its pangs? 
! Oh, gracious God ! his first-born, darling child, 
Whom he had nurtured with a chieftain s pride, 
And doated on with all a father s love, 
Lies at his feet though mangled, living still. 
A rapturous pang of momentary joy, 
That this one, dearest treasure, yet might be 
Spared to his bosom, shot through heart and soul 
The struggling hope, in bitter mockery, 
A meteor on the midnight of despair, 
Lived for an instant quivered vanished died- - 
Leaving more utter blackness. Ere he bent 
To lift the little sufferer in his arms, 
The livid type of death was on his brow. 
One look of recognition, full of power 
The agonizing power of love in death 
Sped from the dying. With a piteous moan, 
As if to show how much he had endured, 
He lifted up his little mangled arm, [died : 

And murmuring, " Father !" struggled, gasped, and 
And Sassacus was martyred o er again ! 

He breathed no prayer, he spoke no malison 
But one hand lifted up the mangled boy 
With the firm grasp of madness nerved to steel; 
And in the other his sharp battle-axe 
He swung above him with a dizzening whirl, 
And thundered out the war-cry ! Then they turned 
To the fell work of vengeance and of death. 

Again I marked the warrior. He stood 
Among the scenes of early triumph, where 
His soul first wedded Glory on the spot 
Where, on his high hereditary throne, 
He poised a sceptre that could sway the free : 
Was yonder broken-hearted man a king] 
Forsaken, wretched, desolate, and crushed 
Hunted through all his fair paternal woods 
His own knives turned by Treason to his breast ! 
In the wide earth without a single friend, 
Alone he standeth like the blasted oak, 
Mocked by the greenness that was once his own ; 
A mighty ruin in a pleasant place 
A ruin, storm, or tempest, could not bow, 
And waiting for the earthquake ! It shall come. 

Where are his kindred 1 Yonder ashy mound 
Looks forth at once their tomb and their epitaph. 
His followers ? They are fallen, or fled, or slaves. 
His land ] He has none. And his peaceful home"? 
The mighty outcast is denied a grave ! 
His fathers land his own contains no spot 
Where he of right may lay his body down 
To the long sleep his broken nature craves ! 
The white man s voice is echoing on his hills ; 
The white man s axe is ringing through his woods; 
And he is banished ah ! he recks not where. 

His step hath lost its firm, elastic tone, 
But it hath caught a majesty from wo, 
Such as would crush to atoms meaner hearts ! 
His features are like granite ; but hib brow, 
Like the rude cliff on the volcano s front, 
Is haggard with the conflict written o er 
With the fell history of his burning wrongs. 
The snow is falling ; but he heedeth not 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



127 



[t is not colder than his stricken heart. 

Behold him clinging to that little mound, 

As if the senseless earth, that covers o er 

The ashes of the beautiful, might feel 

The last strong heart-throbs that are beating there 

Against its icy bosom. Doth he weep ? 

A few hot tears, yet freezing as they fall, 

Are mingling with the hail-drops. It is o er 

His first, last weakness. Yonder rigid form 

T is Mononotto beckons him away. 



SONG OF THE NORTH WIND. 

FROX the home of Thor, and the land of Hun, 

Where the valiant frost-king defies the- sun, 

Till he, like a coward, slinks away 

With the spectral glare of his meager day 

And throned in beauty, peerless Night, 

In her robe of snow and her crown of light, 

Sits queenlike on her icy throne, 

With frost-flowers in her pearly zone 

And the fair Aurora floating free, 

Round her form of matchless symmetry 

An iriscd mantle of roseate hue, 

W 7 ith the gold and hyacinth melting through ; 

And from her forehead, beaming far, 

Looks forth her own true polar star. 

From the land we love our native home 

On a mission of wrath we come, we come ! 

Away, away, over earth and sea ! 

Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 

As we fly, our strong wings gather force, 
To rush on our overwhelming course : 
We have swept the mountain and walked the main, 
And now, in our strength, we are here again ; 
To beguile the stay of this wintry hour, 
We are chanting our anthem of pride and power; 
And the listening earth turns deadly pale 
Like a sheeted corse, the silent vale 
Looks forth in its robe of ghastly white, 
As now we rehearse our deeds of might. 
The strongest of God s sons are we 
Unchained, and chainless, ever free ! 

We have looked on Hecla s burning brow, 
And seen the pines of Norland bow 
In cadence to our deafening roar, 
On the craggy steep of the Arctic shore ; [flood, 
We have waltzed with the maelstrom s whirling 
And curdled the current of human blood, 
As nearer, nearer, nearer, drew 
The struggling bark to the boiling blue 
Till, resistless, urged to the cold death-clasp, 
It writhes in the hideous monster s grasp 
A moment and then the fragments go 
Down, down, to the fearful depths below ! 
But away, away, over land and sea 
Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 

We have startled the poising avalanche, 
And seen the cheek of the mountain bianco, 
As down the giant Ruin came, 
With a step of wrath arid an eye of flame 
Hurling destruction, death, and wo, 
On all around and all below, 
Till the piling rocks and the prostrate wood 



Conceal the spot where the village stood ; 
And the choking waters vainly try 
From their strong prison-hold to fly ! 
We haste away, for our breath is rife 
With the groans of expiring human life ! 
Of that hour of horror we only may tell . 
As we chant the dirge and we ring the knell, 
Away, away, over land and sea 
Unchained and chainless WP are free ! 

Full often we catch, as we hurry along, 
The clear-ringing notes of the La^ lander s song, 
As, borne by his reindeer, he dashes away 
Through the night of the North, more refulgent 

than day ! 

W T e have traversed the land where the dark Es 
quimaux 

Looks out on the gloom from his cottage of snow ; 
Where in silence sits brooding the large milk-white 

owl, 
And the sea-monsters roar, and the famished wolves 

howl ; 

And the white polar bear her grim paramour hails, 
As she hies to her tryste through throse crystalline 

vales, 
Where the Ice-Mountain stands, with his feet in 

the deep, 

That around him the petrified waters may sleep; 
And light in a flood of refulgence comes down, 
As the lunar beams glance from his shadowlesa 

crown. 
We have looked in the hut the Kamschatkan hatli 

reared, 

And taken old Behring himself by the beard, 
Where he sits like a giant in gloomy unrest, 
Ever driving asunder the East and the West. 
But we hasten away, over mountain and sea, 
With a wing ever chainless, a thought ever free ! 

From the parent soil we have rent the oak 
His strong arms splintered, his sceptre broke : 
For centuries he has defied our power, 
But we plucked him forth like a fragile flower, 
And to the wondering Earth brought down 
The haughty strength of his hoary crown. 
Away, away, over land and sea 
Unchained and chainless we are free ! 

We have roused the Storm from his pillow of air, 
And driven the Thunder-King forth from his lair; 
We have torn the rock from the dizzoning steep. 
And awakened the wilds from their ancient sleep, 
We have howled o er Russia s desolate plains, 
Where death-cold silence ever reigns, 
Until we come, with our trumpet breath, 
To chant our anthem of fear and death ! 
The strongest of God s sons are we 
Unchained and chainless ever free ! 

We have hurled the glacier from his rest 
Upon Chamouni s treacherous breast; 
And we scatter the product of human pride, 
As forth on the wing of the Storm we ride, 
To visit with tokens of fearful power 
The lofty arch and the beetling tower ; 
And we utter defiance, deep and bud, 
To the taunting voice of the bursting cloud; 
And we laugh with scorn at the ruin we see 
Then away we hasten for we are fre? t 



12S 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



Old Neptune we call from his ocean-caves 
When for pastime we dance on the crested waves ; 
And we heap the struggling billows high 
Against the deep gloom of the sky ; 
Then we plunge in the yawning depths beneath, 
And there on the heaving surges breathe, 
Till they toss the proud ship like a feather, 
And I,i^ht and Hope expire together; 
And the bravest cheek turns deadly pale 
At the cracking mast and the rending sail, 
As down, with headlong furv borne, 
Of ail her strength and honors shorn, 
The good ship struggles to the last 
With the raging waters and howling blast. 
W T e hurry the waves to their final crash, 
And the foaming floods to phrensv lash ; 
Then we pour our requiem on the billow, 
As the dead go down to their ocean pillow 
Down far down to the depths below, 
Where the pearls repose and the sea-gems glow ; 
Mid the coral groves, where the sea-fan waves 
Its palmy wand o er a thousand graves, 
And the insect weaves her stony shroud, 
Alike o er the humble and the proud, 
What can be mightier than we, 
The strong, the chainless, ever free ! 

Now away to our home in the sparkling North, 
For the Spring from her South-land is looking forth. 
Away, away, to our arctic zone, 
Where the Frost-King sits on his flashing throne, 
With his icebergs piled up mountain high, 
A wall of gems against the sky 
vVhere the stars look forth like wells of light, 
And the gleaming snow-crust sparkles bright ! 
We are fainting now for the breath of home ; 
Our journey is finished we come, we come ! 
Away, away, over land and sea 
Unchained and chainless ever free! 



SONG OF THE EAST WIND. 

FROM the border of the Ganges 
Where the gentle Hindoo laves, 

And the sacred cow is grazing 
By the holy Indian waves, 

W e have hastened to enrol us 

In thy royal train, ^Eolus ! 

We have stirred the soul of Brahma, 
Bathed the brow of Juggernaut, 

Filled the self-devoted widow 

With a high and holy thought 

And sweet words of comfort spoken, 

Ere the earth-wrought tie was broken ! 

We have nursed a thousand blossoms 
In that land of light and flowers, 

Till we fainted with the perfume 

That oppressed the slumbering Hours 

Dallied with the vestal tresses 

Which no mortal hand caresses ! 

\\ e have traced the wall of China 

To the farthest orient sea ; 
Ulessed the grave of old Confucius 

With our sweetest minstrelsy ; 



Swelled the bosom of the Lama 
To enact his priestly drama. 

We have hurried off the monsoons 

To far islands of the deep, 
Where, oppressed with richest spices, 

All the native breezes sleep; 
And in Ophir s desert olden 
Stirred the sands all bright and goldei. 

On the brow of Chumularee, 

Loftiest summit of the world, 
We have set a crown of vapor, 

And the radiant snow-wreath furled 
Bid the gem-lit waters flow 
From the mines of Borneo. 
Sighing through the groves of banyan 

W 7 e have blessed the holy shade, 
W T here the sunbeams of the zenith 

To a moonlike lustre fade ; 
There the fearful anaconda 
And the dark chimpanzee wander! 

We have roused the sleeping jackal 
From his stealthy noontide rest ; 

Swelled the volume of deep thunder 
In the lion s tawny breast, 

Till all meaner beasts fled quaking 

At the desert-monarch s waking. 

O er the sacred land of Yemen, 
Where the first apostles trod, 

And the patriarch and prophet 
Stood before the face of God 

Vital with the deepest thought, 

Holy memories we have brought. 

We have bowed the stately cedar 

On the brow of Lebanon, 
And on Sinai s hoary forehead 

Turned the gray moss to the sun ; 
Paused where Horeb s shade reposes, 
Rifled Sharon s crown of roses. 

We have blessed the chosen city 

From the brow of Olivet, 
Where the meek and holy Jesus 

With his tears the cold earth wet 
Conquering all the hosts infernal 
With those blessed drops fraternal. 

We have gathered sacred legends 

From the tide of Galilee ; 
Lingered where the waves of Jordan 

Meet the dark, unconscious sea ; 
Murmured round the Hsemian mountains, 
Stirred Bethulia s placid fountains. 

On thy sod, Gethsemane, 

We have nursed the passion-flower, 
Stained with all the fearful conflict 

Of the Savior s darkest hour ; 
Stirred the shadows dense and deep 
Over Calvary s awful steep. 

We have breathed upon Parnassus, 
Till his softening lip of snow 

Bent to kiss the fair Castalia, 
That lay murmuring below 

Then, mid flowers, went sighing on 

Through the groves of Helicon. 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



129 



We have touched the lone acacia 
With the utterance of a sigh ; 

Tossed the dark, umbrageous palm-crown 
Up against the cloudless sky ; 

And along the sunny slope 

Chased the bright-eyed antelope. 

We have kissed the cheek of Beauty 

In the harem s guarded bowers. 
Where, amid their splendor sighing, 

Droop the love iest human flowers 
And the victim of brute passion 
Languishes the fair Circassian. 

We K*ve summoned from the desert 

Giant messengers of Death, 
Treading with a solemn cadence 

To the purple simoom s breath 
Wearing in their awful ire 
Crown of gold and robe of fire. 

We have traversed mighty ruins 
Where the splendors of the Past, 

In their solitary grandeur, 

Shadows o er the Present cast 

Voiceful with the sculptured story 

Of Egypta s ancient glory. 

We have struck the harp of Memnon 

With melodious unrest, 
When the tuneful sunbeams glancing, 

Warmed the statue s marble breast ; 
And Aurora bent with blessing, 
Her own sacred son caressing. 

Through the stately halls of Carnac, 
Where the mouldering fragments chime 

On the thrilling chords of Ruin, 
To the silent march of Time, 

We have swept the dust away 

From the features of Decay. 

We have sighed a mournful requiem 
Through the cities of the Dead, 

Where, in all the Theban mountains, 
Couches of the tomb are spread ; 

Farmed the Nile ; and roused the tiger 

From his lair beyond the Niger. 

W T e have strayed from ancient Memphis, 
Where the Sphinx, with gentle brow, 

Seems to bind the Past and Future 
Into one eternal Now ; 

But we hear a deep voice calling 

And the Pyramids are falling ! 

Even the wondrous pile of Ghirzeh 

Can not keep its royal dead, 
For the sleep of ages yieldeth 

To the busy plunderer s tread : 
Atom after atom all 
At the feet of Time must fall ! 

Prostrate thus we bend before thee, 

Mighty sovereign of the Air, 
While from all the teeming Orient 

Stories of the past we bear : 
Thou, great sire, wilt ever cherish 
Memories which can not perish ! 
9 



A SONG OF WINTER. 

His gathering mantle of fleecy snow 
The winter-king wrapped around him ; 

And flashing with ice-wrought gems below 
Was the regal zone that bound him : 

He went abroad in his kingly state, 

By the poor man s door by the palace-gato. 

Then his minstrel winds, on either hand, 

The music of frost-days humming, 
Flew fast before him through all the land, 

Crying. " Winter Winter is coming!" 
And they sang a song in their deep, loud voice, 
That made the heart of their king rejoice ; 
For it spake of strength, and it told of power, 

And the mighty will that moved him ; 
Of all the joys of the fireside hour, 

A: d the gentle hearts that loved him; 
Of aiFections sweetly interwrought 
With the play of wit and the flow of thought. 

He has left his home in the starry North, 

On a mission high and holy ; 
And now in his pride he is going forth, 

To strengthen the weak and lowly 
While his vigorous breath is on the breeze, 
And he lifts up Health from wan Disease. 

We bow to his sceptre s supreme behest ; 

He is rough, but never unfeeling; 
And a voice comes up from his icy breast, 

To our kindness ever appealing : 
By the comfortless hut, on the desolate moor, 
He is pleading earnestly for the poor. 
While deep in his bosom the heart lies warm, 

And there the future LIFE he cherisheth ; 
Nor clinging root, nor seedling form, 

Its genial depths embracing, perisheth ; 
But safely and tenderly he will keep 
The delicate flower-gems while they sleep. 

The Mountain heard the sounding blast 
Of the winds from their wild horn blowing, 

And his rough cheek paled as on they passed, 
And the River checked his flowing; 

Then, with ringing laugh and echoing shout, 

The merry schoolboys all came out. 

And see them now, as away they go, 
With the long, bright plane before them, 

In its sparkling girdle of silvery snow, 
And the blue arch bending o er them; 

While every bright cheek brighter grows, 

Blooming with hea th our winter rose ! 

The shrub looked up, and the tree looked down, 
For with ice-gems each was crested ; 

And flashing diamonds lit the crown 
That on the old oak rested ; 

And the forest shone in gorgeous array, 

For the spirits of winter kept holyday. 

So on the joyous skaters fly, 

With no thought of a coming sorrow. 
For never a brightly-beaming eye 

Has dreamed of the tears of to-morrow . 
Be free and be happy, then, while ye may, 
And rejoice in the blessing of to-day. 



130 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



THE CHICKADEE S SONG. 

O?f its downy wing, the snow, 
Hovering, flyeth to and fro 
And the merry schoo boy s shout, 
Rich with joy, is ringing out: 
So we gather, in our glee, 
To the snow-drifts Chickadee ! 

Poets sing in measures bold 
Of the glorious gods of old, 
And the nectar that they quaffed, 
When their jewelled goblets laughed 
But the snow-cups best love we, 
Gemmed with sunbeams Chickadee 

They who choose, abroad may go, 
Where the southern waters flow, 
And the flowers are never sere 
In the garland of the year; 
But we love the breezes free 
Of our north-land Chickadee ! 

To the cottage-yard we fly, 
With its old trees waving high, 
And the little ones peep out, 
Just to know what we re about ; 
For they dearly love to see 
Birds in winter Chickadee ! 

Every little feathered form 
Has a nest of mosses warm ; 
There our heavenly Father s eye 
Looketh on us fiom the sky ; 
And he knoweth where we be 
And he heareth Chickadee! 

There we sit the whole night long, 
Dreaming that a spirit-song 
Whispereth in the silent snow ; 
For it has a voice we know, 
And it weaves our drapery, 
Soft as ermine Chickadee! 

All the strong winds, as they fly, 
Rock us with their lullaby 
Rock us till the shadowy Night 
Spreads her downy wings in flight: 
Then we hasten, fresh and free, 
To the snow-fields Chickadee ! 

Where our harvest sparkles bright 
In the pleasant morning light, 
Every little feathery flake 
Will a choice confection make 
Each globule a nectary be, 
And we ll drain it Chickadee! 

So we never know a fear 
In this season cold and drear ; 
For to us a share will fall 
Of the love that blesseth all : 



And our Father s smile we see 
On the snow-crust Chickadee ! 



THE HONEY-BEE S SONG, 

AWAKE, and up! our own bright star 

In the saffron east is fading, 
And the brimming honey-cups near and faj 

Their sweets are fast unlading ; 
Softly, pleasantly, murmur our song, 
With joyful hearts, as we speed along! 

Off to the bank where the wild thyme blows, 
And the fragrant bazil is growing; 

We ll drink from the heart of the virgin rose 
The nectar that now is flowing ; 

Sing, for the joy of the early dawn ! 

Murmur in praise of the beautiful morn ! 

Away, over orchard and garden fair, 
With the choicest sweets all laden, 

Away ! or before us she will be there, 
Our favorite blue-eyed maiden, 

Winning with Beauty s magic power 

Rich guerdon from the morning hour. 

Her cheek will catch the rose s blush, 
Her eye the sunbeam s brightness; 

Her voice the music of the thrush, 
Her heart the vapor s lightness; 

And the pure, fresh spirit of the whole 

Shall fill her quick, expanding soul. 

Joy, for our queen is forth to-day ! 

Brave hearts rally about her; 
Guard her well on her flowery way, 

For we could not live without her ! 
Now drink to the health of our lady true 
In a crystal beaker of morning dew ! 

She will sit near by in the bending brake, 
So pleasant, and tall, and shady ; 

And the sweetest honey for her we 11 make 
Our own right-royal lady! 

We 11 gather rich stores from th e flowering vine^ 

And the golden horns of the columbine. 

We heed not the nettle-king s bristling spear, 
Though we linger not there the longest ; 

We extract his honey without a fear, 
For Love can disarm the strongest ; 

In the rank cicuta s poison-cell 

We know where the drops of nectar dwell! 

Our Father has planted naught in vain 
Though in some the honey is weaker ; 

Yet a drop in the worst may sti!l be found 
To comfort the earnest seeker. 

Praise Him who giveth our daily food 

And the Love that findeth all lungs good ! 



JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 



JESSIE G. BETHUNE, a granddaughter of the 
celebrated Isabella Graham a daughter of 
DivieBethune, a New York merchant, whose 
life was a series of illustrations of the dignity 
and beauty of human nature and a sister 
of the Rev. Dr. George W. Bethune, so well 
known as one of our most eloquent preach 
ers and accomplished authors was married 
at an early age to the Rev. Dr. McCartee, 



who for many years has been minister of the 
Reformed Dutch Church in Goshen, in the 
county of Orange, on the Hudson. She has 
published a few poems in the religious peri 
odicals, and has written many more, for the 
joy the heavenly art yields to those who wor 
thily cultivate it. All her compositions that 
we have read breathe of beauty, piety, and 
content. 



THE INDIAN MOTHER S LAMENT. 

ALL sad amid the forest wild 

An Indian mother wept, 
And fondly gazed upon her child 

In death who coldly slept. 

She decked its limbs with trembling hand, 

And sang in accents low : 
"Alone, alone, to the spirit-land, 

My darling, thou must go ! 

" I would that I might be thy guide 

To that bright isle of rest 
To bear thee o er the swelling tide, 

Clasped to my loving breast ! 

"I ve wrapped thee with the beaver s skin, 

To shield thee from the storm, 
And placed thy little feet within 

Thy snow-shoes soft and warm. 
" I ve given tbee milk to cheer thy way, 

Mixed with the tears I weep ; 
Thy cradle, too, where thou must lay 

Thy weary head to sleep. 

" I place the paddle near thy hand, 

To guide where waters flow; 
For alone, alone, to the spirit s land, 

My darling, thou must go. 

" There bounding through the forests green, 

Thy fathers chase the deer, 
Or on the crystal lakes are seen 

The sleeping fish to spear. 

" And thou some chieftain s bride may be, 

My loved departing one : 
Say, wilt thou never think of me, 

So desolate and lone 1 
"I ll keep one lock of raven hair 

Cul!ed from thy still, cold brow 
That when I, too, shall travel there, 

My daughter I may know. 

" But go ! to join that happy band ; 

Vain is my fruitless wo ; 
For alone, alone, to the spirit s land, 

My darling, thou must go !" 



THE EAGLE OF THE FALLS 

EMPRESS of the broad Missouri! 

Towering in thy storm-rocked nest, 
Gazing on the wild waves fury - 

Wondrous is thy place of rest. 
Lofty trees thy throne embowering, 

Gloomy gulf around thine isle, 
Mists and spray above thee showering, 

Guard thee from the hunter s wile. 
Walls of snow-white foarn surround it, 

Crowned with rainbows pure and bright. 
While the flinty rocks that bound it 

Guard thy mansion day and night. 
No Alhambra s royal splendor, 

Palaces of G.eece or Rome, 
E er could boast of hues so tender, 

Or of walls of snow-white foam. 
Yet this lofty scene of wonder 

Ne er disturbs thine eagle gaze, 
Nor its mighty voice of thunder 

Tis the music of thy days. 

Of its voice thou art not weary, 

Of its waters dost not tire ; 
Ancient as thine own loved eyry, 

T was the chorus of thy sire. 

Songs of rapture loudly swelling 
Laud the monarch on his throne, 

But the music of thy dwelling 
Chants the praise of God alone 

Let sultanas boast their fountains, 
Gardens decked with costly flowers 

Twas the Hand that buil.t the mountain* 
Formed for thee thy forest bowers. 

Queens may boast their halls of lightness, 
Blazing with the taper s rays 

Crystal lamps of colored brightness, 
Dazzling to their feeble gaze : 

He who made the moon so lovely, 
Called the stars forth every one, 

Spread thine azure dome above thee, 
Radiant with its pet-rless sun ! 

131 



132 



JESSIE G. MtCARTEE. 



Empress eagle ! spread thy pinions, 

Bathe thy hreast in heaven s own light, 

Yet forsake not thy dominions 
God himself has made them bright. 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 

LED by his God, on Pisgah s height 

The pilgrim-prophet stood 
When first fair Canaan blessed his sight, 

And Jordan s crystal flood. 

Behind him lay the desert ground 

His weary feet had trod ; 
While Israel s host encamped around, 

Still guarded by their God. 

With joy the aged Moses smiled 

On all his wanderings past, 
While thus he poured his accents mild 

Upon the mountain-blast : 

" I see them all before me now 

The city and the plain, 
From where bright Jordan s waters flow, 

To yonder boundless main. 

" Oh ! there the lovely promised land 

With milk and honey flows ; 
Now, now my weary, murmuring band 

Shall find their sweet repose. 

" There groves of palm and myrtle spread 

O er valleys fair and wide ; 
The lofty cedar rears its head 

On every mountain-side. 

" For them the rose of Sharon flings 

Her fragrance on the gale ; 
And there the golden lily springs, 

The lily of the vale. 

"Amid the olive s fruitful boughs 

Is heard a song of love, 
For there doth build and breathe her vows 

The gentle turtle-dove. 

" For them shall bloom the clustering vine, 
The fig-tree shed her flowers, 

The citron s golden treasures shine 
From out her greenest bowers. 

" For them, for them, but not for me 

Their fruits I may not eat ; 
Not Jordan s stream, nor yon bright sea, 

Shall lave my pilgrim feet. 

Tis well, tis well, my task is done, 

Since Israel s sons are blest : 
Father, receive thy dying one 

To thine eternal rest !" 

Alone he bade the world farewell, 

To God his spirit fled. 
Now to your tents, O Israel, 

And mourn your prophet dead ! 



HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP! 

How beautiful is sleep ! 
Upon its mother s breast, 
How sweet the infant s rest ! 
And who but she can tell how dear 
Her first-born s breathings tis to hear? 

Gentle babe, prolong thy s! umbers, 

When the moon her light doth shed ; 

Still she rocks thy cradle-bed, 
Singing in melodious numbers, 

Lulling thee with prayer or hymn, 

When all other eyes are dim. 

How beautiful is sleep ! 

Behold the merry boy : 

His dreams are full of joy; 

He breaks the stillness of the night 

With tuneful laugh of wild delight. 
E en in sleep his sports pursuing 
\ Through the woodland s leafy wild, 

Now he roams a happy child, 
Flowrets all his pathway strewing; 

And the morning s balmy air 

Brings to him no toil or care. 

How beautiful is sleep ! 
Where youthful Jacob slept, 
Angels their bright watch kept, 
And visions to his soul were given 
That led him to the gate of heaven. 

Exiled pilgrim, many a morrow, 

When thine earthly schemes were crossed^ 
Mourning o er thy loved and lost, 

Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow 
For that blessed hour of prayer, 
And exclaim, " God met me there !" 

How blessed was that sleep 
The sinless Savior knew ! 
In vain the storm-winds blew, 
Till he awoke to others woes, 
And hushed the billows to repose. 

Why did ye the Master waken ] 

Faithless ones ! there came an hour, 
When, alone in mountain bower, 

By his loved ones all forsaken, 
He was left to pray and weep, 
When ye all were wrapped in sleep. 

How beautiful is sleep 
The sleep that Christians know ! 
Ye mourners, cease your wo, 
While soft upon his Savior s breast 
The righteous sinks to endless rest. 

Let him go : the day is breaking ! 

Watch no more around his bed, 

For his parted soul hath fled. 
Bright will be his heavenly waking, 

And the morn that greets his sight 

Never ends in death or night 



CYNTHIA TAGGART. 



(Born 1801-Died 1849). 



THE painfully in. cresting history of this 
unfortunate woman has been vvritten by the 
Rev. James C. Richmond, in a little work 
entitled The Rhode Island Cottage, and in a 
brief autobiography prefixed to the editions 
of her poems published in 1834 and 1848. 
She is the daughter of a soldier, whose prop 
erty was destroyed during the Revolution, 
and who died in old age and poverty at a 
place near the seashore, about six miles from 
Newport, where he had lived in pious resig 
nation amid trials that would have wrecked 
a less vigorous and trustful nature. Miss 
Taggart s education was very slight, and un 
til sickness deprived her of all other occupa 
tion, about the year 1822, when she was nine 
teen years of age, she appears never to have 
thought of literary composition. My friend 
Dr. John W. Francis writes to me of her : 
"An intimate acquaintance, derived from 
professional observation, has long rendered 
me well informed of the remarkable circum 
stances connected with the severe chronic 
infirmities of CYNTHIA TAGGART. From her 
early infancy, during the period of her ado 
lescence, and indeed through the whole dura 
tion of her life, she has been the victim of 
almost, unrecorded anguish. The annals of 
medical philosophy may be searched in vain 
for a more striking example than the case 
of this lady affords of that distinctive twofold 
state of vitality with which we are endowed, 



the intellectual and the physical being. The 
precarious tenure by which they have con 
tinued so long united in so frail a tenement, 
must remain matter of astonishment to ev 
ery beholder ; and when reflection is sum 
moned to the contemplation of the extraor 
dinary manifestations of thought which un 
der such a state of protracted and incurable 
suffering she often exhibits, psychological 
science encounters a problem of most dif 
ficult solution. Mind seems independent 
of matter, and intellectual triumphs appear 
to be within the reach of efforts unaided by 
the ordinary resources of corporeal organiza 
tion. That this condition must ere long ter 
minate disastrously is certain ; yet the phe 
nomena of mind amid the ruins of the body 
constitute a subject of commanding interest 
to every philanthropist. Churchill has truly 
said, in his epistle to Hogarth: 

With curious art the brain too finely wrought, 
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought. " 

Miss Taggart and a widowed sister, who 
is also an invalid, still live in their paternal 
home by the seashore, and they await with 
pious resignation the only change that can 
free them from suffering. The poems that 
are here quoted have sufficient merit to in 
terest the reader of taste, though he forget 
the extraordinary circumstances under which 
they were produced. Miss Taggart s poems 
have passed through three editions. 



ODE TO THE POPPY. 

THOUGH varied wreaths of myriad hues, 

As beams of mingling light, 
Sparkle replete with pearly dews, 
Waving their tinted leaves profuse, 

To captivate the sight ; 
Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend 

With the soft, balmy air, 
And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide 
Their spicy odors bear ; 
While to the eye, 
Delightingly, 

Each floweret laughing blooms, 
And o er the fields 
Prolific, yields 



Its increase of perfumes; 
Yet one alone o er all the plain, 

With lingering eye, I view ; 
Hasty I pass the brightest bower, 
Heedless of each attractive flower, 

Its brilliance to pursue. 

No odors svveev proclaim the spot 
Where its soft leaves unfold ; 
Nor mingled hues of beauty bright 
Charm and allure the captive sight 
With forms and tints untold. 

One simple hue the plant portrays 
Of glowing radiance rare, 

Fresh as the roseate morn displays, 
And seeming sweet and fair. 
133 



CYNTHIA TAGGART. 



But closer pressed, an odorous breath 

Repels the rover gay ; 
And from her hand witli eager haste 

T is careless thrown away ; 
And thoughtless that in evil hour 
Disease may happiness devour, 
And her fairy form, elastic now, 
To Misery s wand may helpless how. 

Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth 

To seek the lonely flower; 
And blest Experience kindly proves 

Its mitigating power. 

Then its bright hue the sight can trace, 

The brilliance of its bloom; 
Though misery veil the weeping eyes, 
Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs, 

And life deplore its doom. 

This magic flower 
In desperate hour 
A balsam mild shall yield, 

When the sad, sinking heart 
Feels every aid depart, 
And every gate of hope for ever sealed. 

Then still its potent charm 

Each agony disarm, 
And its all-healing power shall respite give : 

The frantic sufferer, then, 

Convulsed and wild with pain, 
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 

The dews of slumber now 

Rest on her aching brow, 
And o er the languid lids balsamic fall; 

While fainting Nature hears, 

With dissipated fears, 
The lowly accents of soft Somnus call. 

Then will Affection twine 
Around this kindly flower; 

And grateful Memory keep 

How, in the arms of Sleep, 
Affliction lost its power. 



INVOCATION TO HEALTH. 

O HEALTH, thy succoring aid extend 
While low with bleeding heart I bend, 
And on thine every means attend, 

And sue with streaming eyes; 
But more remote thou fliest away, 
The humbler I thine influence pray : 

And expectation dies. 
Twice three long years of life have gone, 
Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, 

And I to grief resigned; 
Laid on a couch of lingering pain, 
W r here stern Disease s torturing chain 

Has every limb confined 

Oh bathe my burning temples now, 
And cool the scorching of my brow, 

And light the rayless eye; 
My strength revive with thine own might, 
*nd with thy footsteps firm and light 



Oh bear me to thy radiant height, 

W hcre, soft reposing, lie 
Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, 
And Nature s sweets that never cloy, 
Unmixed with any dire alloy 

Leave me not thus to die ! 



AUTUMN. 

Now Autumn tints the scene 
With sallow hues serene ; 

And o er the sky 

Fast hurrying, fly 
Dark, sombre clouds, that pour 
From far the roaring din ; 
The rattling rain and hail, . 
With the deep-sounding wail 
Of wild and warring melodies, begin. 

The wind flies fitful through the forest-trees 
M ith hollow howlings and in wrathful mood ; 
As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease. 
Tears with convulsive power, 
In horrid Fury s hour, 
His locks dishevelled ; and a chilling moan 
Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread anJ 
dismal tone. 

Thus the impetuous blast 
Doth from the woodlands tear 
The leaves, when Summer s reign is past, 
And sings aloud the requiem of Despair ; 
Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh, 
W T hile past the honors of the forest fly, 
Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die 



ON A STORM. 

THE harsh, terrific howling Storm, 
With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm, 

Turns pale the cheek of Mirth ; 
And low it bows the lofty trees, 
And their tall branches bend with ease 

To kiss their parent Earth. 

The rain and hail in torrents pour ; 
The furious winds impetuous roar 

In hollow murmurs clash. 
The shore adjacent joins the sound, 
And angry surges deep resound, 

And foaming billows dash. 

Yet ocean doth no fear impart, 

But soothes my anguish-swollen heart, 

And calms my feverish brain ; 
It seems a sympathizing friend, 
That doth with mine its troubles blend, 

To mitigate my pain. 

In all the varying shades of wo, 
The night relief did ne er bestow, 

Nor have I respite seen : 
Then welcome, Storm, loud, wild, and rude 
To me thou art more kind and good 

Than aught that is serena. 



FRANCESCA CANFIELD. 



(Born 1803-Died 1823). 



FRANCESCA ANNA PASCALIS, a daughter of 
Dr. FeJix Pascalis, an Italian physician and 
scholar, who had married a native of Phila 
delphia, and resided several years in that city, 
was born in August, 1803. While she was 
a child her parents removed to New York, 
where Dr. Pascalis was conspicuous not only 
for his professional abilities, but for his wri 
tings upon various curious and abstruse sub 
jects in philosophy, and was intimate with 
many eminent persons, among whom was 
Dr. Samuel L. Mitchill, who was so pleased 
with Francesca, that in 1815, when she was 
in the twelfth year of her age, he addressed 
to her the following playful and characteris 
tic Valentine : 

Descending snows the earth o erspread, 
Keen blows the northern blast ; 

Condensing clouds scowl over head, 
The tempest gathers fast. 

But soon the icy mass shall melt, 

The winter end his reign, 
The sun s reviving warmth be felt, 

And nature smile again. 

The plants from torpid sleep shall wake, 
And, nursed by vernal showers, 

Their yearly exhibition make 
Of foliage and of flowers. 

So you an opening bud appear, 
Whose bloom and verdure shoot, 

To load Francesca s growing year 
With intellectual fruit. 

The feathered tribes shall flit along, 

And thicken on the trees, 
Till air shall undulate with song, 

Till music stir the breeze. 

Thus, like a charming bird, your lay 

The listening ear shall greet, 
And render social circles gay, 

Or make retirement sweet. 

Then warblers chirp, and roses ope, 

To entertain my fair, 
Till nobler themes engage her hope, 

And occupy her care. 

In school Miss Pascalis was particularly 
distinguished for the facility with which she 
acquired languages. At an early period she 
translated with ease and elegance from the 
French, Italian, Spanish, and. Portuguese, 
and her instinctive appreciation of the har 



monies of her native tongut was fee delicate 
that her English compositions, in both prose 
and verse, were singularly musical as well 
as expressive and correct. The version of a 
French song, " Quand revcrrai-je en un jour," 
etc. is among the memorials of her fourteenth 
year, and though much less compact than the 
original, it is interesting as an illustration ol 
her own fine and precocious powers. 

While yet at school Miss Pascalis trans 
lated for a friend a volume from Lavater, and 
soon afterward she made a beautiful English 
version of the Roman Nights from Le Notti 
Romane al Sepolcro Dei Scipioni of Ales- 
sandro Verri. She also translated The Soli 
tary and The Vine Dresser from the French, 
and wrote some original poems in Italian 
which were much praised by judicious critics. 
She was a frequent contributor, under vari 
ous signatures, to the literary journals ; and 
among her pieces for this period that are 
preserved in Mr. Knapp s biography, is an 
address to her friend Mitchill, which pur 
ported to be from Le Brun. 

A " marriage of convenience" was arranged 
for Miss Pascalis with Mr. Canfield, a broker, 
who after a few months became a bankrupt, 
and could never retrieve his fortunes. She 
bore her disappointments without complain- 
in o-, and when her husband establi shed a finan 
cial and commercial gazette, she labored in 
dustriously to make it attractive by literature; 
but there was a poor opportunity among ta 
bles of currency and trade fur the display of 
her graceful abilities, and her writings prob 
ably attracted little attention. She was a 
good pianist, and she painted with such skill 
that some of her copies of old masters de 
ceived clever artists. Her accomplishments 
however failed to invest with happiness a 
life of which the ambitious flowers had been 
so early blighted, and yielding to consump 
tion, which can scarcely enter the home of 
a cheerful spirit, she died on the twenty- 
eighth of May, 1823, before completing the 
twentieth year of her age. 

Dr. Pascalis, whose chief hopes wei cen 
tred in his daughter, abandoned his pursuits. 



136 



FRANCESCA CANFIELD. 



and after lingering through ten disconsolate 
years, died in the summer of 1833 ; and the 
death of her husband, in the following au 



tumn, prevented the publication of an edition 
of her works, which he had prepared for thai 
purpose. 



TO DR. M1TCHILL. 

WRITTEN IN HER SEVENTEENTH YEAR. 

MITCHILL, although the envious frown, 

Their idle wrath disdain ! 
Upon thy bright and pure renown, 

They can not cast a stain. 
Ida, the heaven-crowned, feels the storm 
Rave fiercely round her towering form, 

Her brow it can not gain, 
Calm, sonny, in majestic pride, 
It marks the powerless blast subside. 

And didst thou ever hope to stand 

So glorious and so high, 
Receive all honor and command, 

Nor meet a jealous eye ! 
No, thou must expiate thy fame, 
Thy noble, thy exalted name ; 

Yet pass thou proudly by ! 
The torrent may with vagrant force 
Disturb, but can not change thy course. 

Or, shou .dst thou dread the threats to brave 

Of malice, wilful, dire, 
Break thou the sceptre genius gave, 

And quench thy spirit s fire ; 
Down from thy heights of soul descend, 
Thy flaming pinions earthward bend, 

Fulfil thy foe s desire; 
Thy immortality contemn, 
And walk in common ways with them. 
The lighter tasks of wit and mind 

Let fickle Taste adore ; 
But Genius flight is unconfined 

O er prostrate time to soar. 
How glows he, when Ambition tears 
The veil from gone and coming years ; 

While ages past before, 
To him their future being trust, 
Though empires crumble into dust. 

Without this magic, which the crowd 

Nor comprehend, nor feel, 
Cou .d Genius son have ever vowed 

His ductile heart to steel, 
Gainst ail that leads the human breast, 
To turn to Indo ence and rest; 

From Science haunts to steal, 
To beauty, wealth, and ease, and cheer- 
All that delight the senses here 1 
And thus he earns a meed of praise 

From nations yet unborn ; 
Still he, whom present pomp repays, 

His arduous toil may scorn; 
But wiser, sure, than hoard the rose, 
Which low for each way fare! blows, 

And lives a summer morn, 
To climb me rocky mountain way 
And gather the unfading bay. 



Yet wo for him whose mental worth 
Fame s thousand tongues resound ! 
While living, every worm of earth 

Seems privileged to wound. 
His victory not the less secure, 
Let him the strife with nerve endure, 

In death his triumph found ; 
Then worlds shall with each other vie, 
To spread the name that can not die. 



EDITH. 

Bv those blue eyes that shine 
Dovelike and innocent, 
Yet with a lustre to their softness lent 

By the chaste fire of guileless purity, 

And by the rounded temple s symmetry; 

And by the auburn locks, disposed apart, 
(Like Virgin Mary s pictured o er the shrine,) 

In simple negligence of art ; 

By the young smile on lips whose accents fall 

With dulcet music, bland to all, 

Like downward floating blossoms from the trees 

Detached in silver showers by playful breeze ; 

And by thy cheek, ever so purely pale, 

Save when thy heart with livelier kindness glows; 
By its then tender bloom, whose delicate hue, 

Is like the morning s tincture of the rose, 
The snowy veils of the gossamer mist seen through; 

And by the flowing outline s grace, 
Around thy features like a halo thrown, 

Reminding of that noble race [known, 

Beneath a lovelier heaven in .kindlier climates 
Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal, 
Stood at perfection s portal 

And still doth hold a rank surpassing all compare 
By the divinely meek and placid air 
Which witnesseth so well that all the charms 

It lights and warms, 

Though but the finer fashion of the clay 
Deserve to be adored, since they 
Are emanations from a soul allowed 

Thus radiantly to glorify its dwelling 
That goodness like a visible thing avowed, 
May awe and win, and temper and prevail : 

And by all these combined ! 
I call upon thy form ideal, 

So deeply in my memory shrined, 
To rise before my vision, like the real, 

Whenever passion s tides are swelling, 
)r vanity misleads, or discontent 
lages with wishes, vain and impotent. 
Then, while the tumults of my heart increase, 
I call upon thy image then to rise 
n sweet and solemn beauty, like the moon, 
Resplendent in the firmament of June, 
Through the still hours of night to lonely eyes. 

gaie and muse thereon, and tempests cease 

4nd round me falls an atmosphere of peace. 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 



Miss ELIZABETH BOGART, descended from 
a Huguenot family distinguished in the mer- 
camile and social history of New York, and 
a daughter of the late Rev. David S. Bogart, 
one of the most accomplished divines of the 
last generation, was born in the city of New 
York. Her father was shortly afterward set 
tled as a minister of the Presbyterian Church 
at Southampton, on Long Island. In 1813 
his connexion with that congregation was 
dissolved, and he removed to North Hemp- 
stead, where he was installed in the Re 
formed Dutch Church, in which he had been 
educated. In 1826, he removed again to 
New York, where his family have since re 
sided. 

About the year 1825 Miss Bogart began to 
write, under the signature of "Estelle," for 



the New York Mirror, then recently estab 
lished ; and her contributions, in prose and 
verse, to this and other periodicals, would 
fill several volumes. Among tbem are two 
prize stories The Effect of a Single Folly, 
and The Forged Note which evince a con 
structive ability that would not, perhaps, be 
inferred from her other compositions, many 
of which are of a very desultory character. 
Miss Bogart has ease, force, and a degree 
of fervor, which might have placed her in 
the front rank of our female authors ; but al 
most everything she has given to the public 
has an impromptu air, which shows that lit 
erature has scarcely been cultivated by her 
as an art, while it has constantly been re 
sorted to for the utterance of feelings which 
could find no other suitable expression. 



AN AUTUMN VIEW, FROM MY WINDOW. 

I GAZE with raptured eyes 
Upon the lovely landscape, as it lies 

Outstretched before my window: even now 
The mist is sailing from the mountain s brow, 
For it is early morning, and the sun 
His course has just begun. 

How beautiful the scene 
Of hill on hill arising, while between 
The river like a Silvery streak appears, 
And rugged rocks, the monuments of years, 
Resemble the old castles on the Rhine, 
Which look down on the vine. 

No clustering grapes, tis true, 
Hang from these mountain-sides to meet the view; 
But fairer than the vineyards is the sight 
Of our luxuriant forests, which, despite 
The change of nations, hold their ancient place, 
Lost to the Indian race. 
Untiring I survey 

The prospect from my window, day by day : 
Something forgotten, though just seen before, 
Something of novelty or beauty more 
Than yet discovered, ever charms my eyes, 
And wakes a fresh surprise. 

And thus, when o er my heart 
A weary thought is stealing, while apart 
From friends and the gay world I sit alone, 
With life s dark veil upon the future thrown, 
I look from out my window, and there find 
A solace for the mind. 



The Indian Summer s breath 
Sighs gently o er the fallen leaflet s death, 
And bids the frost-king linger on his way 
Till Autumn s tints have brightened o er decay. 
What other clime can such rich painting show 1 
Tell us, if any know ! 



RETROSPECTION. 

AN EXTRACT. 

I M weary with thinking! with visions that pass 
So thickly and gloomily over my brain, 

In which are reflected through Memory s glass 
The lost scenes of youth which return not again. 

Oh ! now I look back and remember the hours 
When I wished that a time of sweet leisure might 

come, 
When, freed from employments and studies, tlie 

powers 
Of thought were all loosened, in fancy to roam. 

That time has arrived. Care nor business conspire 
To restrain the mind s freedom, nor press on the 
heart; 

No stern prohibition hangs over the lyre, 

To bid all its bright inspirations depart. 

But how has it tutne 1 Oh ! by breaking the ties 

Of affection and kindred, and snatching away 
The beloved from around me, whose praise was the 

prize 

Which lured me in Poesy s pathway to stray. 
137 



138 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 



FORGETFULNESS. 

WE parted ! Friendship s dream had cast 

Deep interest o er the brief farewell, 
And left upon the shadowy past 

Full many a thought on which to dwell: 
Such thoughts as come in early youth, 

And live in fellowship with hope; 
Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, 

Unfitted with the world to cope. 

We parted. He went o er the sea, 

And deeper solitude was mine ; 
Yet there remained in memory 

For feeling still a sacred shrine : 
And Thought and Hope were offered up 

Till their ethereal essence fled, 
And Disappointment from the cup 

Its dark libations poured instead. 

We parted. T was an idle dream 

That thus we e er should meet again ; 
For who that knew man s heart, would deem 

That it could long unchanged remain 1 
He sought a foreign clime, and learned 

Another language, which expressed 
To strangers the rich thoughts that burned 

With unquenched power within his breast. 

And soon he better loved to speak 

In those new accents than his own ; 
His native tongue seemed cold and weak 

To breathe the wakened passions tone. 
He wandered far, and lingered long, 

And drank so deep of Lethe s stream, 
That each new feeling grew more strong, 

And all the past was like a dream. 

We met a few glad words were spoken, 

A few kind glances were exchanged ; 
But friendship s first romance was broken 

His had been from me estranged. 
I felt it all we met no more 

.My heart was true, but it was proud; 
Life s early confidence was o er, 

And hope had set beneath a cloud. 

We met no more for neither sought 

To reunite the severed chain 
Of social intercourse ; for naught 

Could join its parted links again. 
Too much of the wide world had been 

Between us for too long a time, 
And he had looked on many a scene, 

The beautiful and the sublime. 

And he had themes on which to dwell, 

And memories that were not mine, 
Which formed a separating spell, 

And drew a mystic boundary line. 
His thoughts were wanderers and the things 

Which brought back friendship s joys to me, 
To him were but the spirit s wings 

Which bore him o er the distant sea. 



For he had seen the evening star 

Glancing its rays o er ocean s waves, 
And marked the moonbeams from afar, 

Lighting the Grecian heroes graves ; 
And he had gazed on trees and flowers 

Beneath Italia s sunny skies, 
And listened, in fair ladies bowers, 

To Genius words and Beauty s sighs. 

His steps had echoed through the halls 

Of grandeur, long left desolate ; 
And he had climbed the crumbling walls, 

Or oped perforce the hingeless gate ; 
And mused o er many an ancient pile, 

In ruin still magnificent, 
Whose histories could the hours beguile 

With dreams, before to Fancy lent. 

Such recollections come to him, 

With moon, and stars, and summer flowers 
To me they bring the shadows dim 

Of earlier and of happier hours. 
I would those shadows darker fell 

For life, with its best powers to bless, 
Has but few memories loved as well 

Or welcome as forgetfulness ! 



HE CAME TOO LATE. 

HE came too late ! Neglect had tried 

Her constancy too long ; 
Her love had yielded to her pride, 

And the deep sense of wrong. 
She scorned the offering of a heart 

Which lingered on its way, 
Till it could no delight impart, 

Nor spread one cheering ray. 

He came too late ! At once he felt 

That all his power was o er : 
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt . 

She thought of him no more. 
Anger and grief had passed away, 

Her heart and thoughts were free ; 
She met him, and her words were gay 

No spell had Memory. 

He came too late ! The subtle chords 

Of love were all unbound. 
Not by offence of spoken words, 

But by the slights that wound. 
She knew that life held nothing now 

That could the past repay, 
Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 

And coldly turned away. 

He came too late ! Her countless dreams 

Of hope had long since flown ; 
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, 

Nor in his whispered tone. 
And when, with word and smile, he tried 

Affection still to prove, 
She nerved her heart with woman s pride, 

And spurned his fickle love. 



MARY E. BROOKS. 



Miss MARY E. AIKEN, a native of New 
York, was for several years a contributor to 
the Mirror and other periodicals, under the 
signature of "Norna," her sister, during the 
same period, writing under the pseudonyme 
of "Hinda." In 1828 she was married to 
Mr. James G. Brooks, a gentleman of fine 
abilities, who was well known as the author 
of many graceful pieces, in prose and verse, 
signed " Florio." In the following year ap 
peared a volume entitled The Rivals of Este 
and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E 
Brooks. The leading composition, from 
which* the collection had its name, is by 



Mrs. Brooks. It is a stcry of passion, and the 
principal characters are of the ducal house 
of Ferrara. Her Hebrew Melodies, and other 
short poems, in the same volume, are written 
with more care, and have much more merit. 
Mr. Brooks was at this time connected 
with one of the New York journals ; but in 
1830 he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, 
where he was for several years editor of a 
political and literary gazette. In 1838 he 
returned to New York, and established him 
self in Albany, where he remained until his 
death, in February, 1841, from which time 
Mrs. Brooks has resided in New York. 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

" The everlasting to be which halli been 
Hath taught u* naught or little." 

FROM the deep and stirring tone, 
Ever on the midnight breaking, 

Came a whisper thrill and lone 
O er my silent vigil waking : 

" Come to me ! the dreamy hour 

Fades before the spoiler s power ! 

Come ! the passing tide is strong, 

A= it bears thy life along ; 

Soon another seal for thee 

Stamps the stern Futurity. 

Bow thee bend thee to the light 

Stealing on thy spirit sight, 

From the bygone s faded bloom, 

From the shadow and the gloom, 

From each strange and changeful scene 

Which amid thy path has been ; 

And oh, let it wake for thee, 

Beacon of the days to be !" 

Soft before my sight was spreading 
Many a sweet and sunny flower; 
Pleasure bright, her promise shedding, 

Gilded o er each fairy bower : 
Oh, it was a laughing glee, 
Hanging o er Futurity ; 
Blisses mid young beauties blooming 
Hopes, no sullen griefs entombing 
Loves that vowed to link for ever, 
Cold or blighted, never never; 
Not a shadow on the dome 
Fancy reared for days to come 
Not a dream of sleeping ill 
There her rushing tide to chill ; 
Gayly lay each glittering morrow : 
And I turned me half in sorrow, 



As that phantom beckoned back, 
To retrace Life s fading track. 
Sinking in the broad dim ocean, 

Shadows blending o er its bier, 
Slow from being s wild commotion, 

Saw I pass another year. 
There was but a misty cloud 
Bending o er a silent shroud ; 
Hope, fame, rapture loved and gay 
Tell, oh tell me, where were they 1 
Idols once in sunlight glancing, 

Ay, that claimed each starting sigh, 
With the green-leafed promise dancing 

Round the heart so merrily 
Where was now the waking blossom 
Should be wreathing round the bosom ] 
Only lay a mist far spreading, 
Dim and dimmer twilight shedding, 
Like to fever s fitful gleam, 
Like to sleeper s troubled dream ; 
In the cold and perished Past 
Lay the mighty strife at last. 
Oft that dim and visioned treading, 

Where the frail and fair decay, 
Comes upon my bosom, shedding 

Light through many a rising day. 
Phantoms now in beauty ranging, 
Dreaming ne er of chill or changing, 
Bright and gay and flashing all, 
How their voiceless shadows fall ! 
Go the weeper s heart is weary ; 
Go the widow s wail is dreary : 
Thousand-toned the agony 
On each night-breeze sweeping by : 
Go and for each little flower 
Wreathed about the blighted bower, 
Bright, when suns and stars have set, 
Will a flow ret blossom yet. 



140 



MARY E. BROOKS. 



A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR. 

FILL to the brim ! one pledge to the past, 

As it sinks on its shadowy bier ; 
Fill to the brim ! tis the saddest and last 

We pour to the grave of the year : 
Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us 

To linger awhile in those bowers; 
And flash the bright daybeams of promise upon us, 

That gilded life s earlier hours. 

Here s to the love though it flitted away, 

W T e can never, no, never forget ! 
Through the gathering darkness of many a day, 

One pledge will we pour to it yet. 
Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender, 

And bright on the wanderer broke, 
\\ hen Irem s own beauty in shadowless splendor, 

Along the wild desert awoke.* 

Fill to the brim ! one pledge to the glow 

Of the heart in its purity warm ! 
Ere sorrow had sullied the fountain below, 

Or darkness enveloped the form : 
Fill to that life-tide ! oh, warm was its rushing 

Through Adens of arrowy light, 
And yet like the wave in the wilderness gushing, 

Twill g adden the wine cup to-night. 

Fill to the past ! from its dim distant sphere 

Wild voices in melody come ; 
The strains of the bygone, deep echoing here, 

We pledge to their shadowy tomb ; 
And like the bright orb, that in sinking flings back 

One gleam o er the cloud-covered dome, 
May the dreams of the past, on futurity track 

The hope of a holier home ! 



"WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD." 

OH, weep not for the dead ! 
Rather, oh rather give the tear 
To those who darkly linger here, 

When all besides are fled : 
Weep for the spirit withering 
In its cold, cheerless sorrowing ; 
Weep for the young and lovely one 
That ruin darkly revels on, 

But never be a tear-drop shed 

For them, the pure enfranchised dead. 

Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
No more for them the blighting chill, 
The thousand shades of earthly ill, 

The thousand thorns we tread ; 
Weep for the life-charm early flown, 
The spirit broken, bleeding, lone ; 
Weep for the death pangs of the heart, 
Ere being from the bosom part ; 

But never be a tear-urop given 

To those that rest in yon blue heaven. 



* Irem, one of the gardens described by Mohammed 
planted, as the commentators of the Koran say by a kin" 
named Shedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandered 
Very far into the desert in search of a lost camel : a gar- 



DREAM OF LIFE. 

I BEAUT) the music of the wave, 

As it rippled to the shore, 
And saw the willow branches lave, 

As light winds swept them o er 
The music of the golden bow 

That did the torrent span ; 
But I heard a sweeter music flow 

From the youthful heart of man. 

The wave rushed on the hues of heaven 

Fainter and fainter grew, 
And deeper melodies were given 

As swift the changes flew : 
Then came a shadow on my sigh ; 

The golden bow was dim 
And he that laughed beneath its light, 

What was the change to him 1 

I saw him not : only a throng 

Like the swell of troubled ocean, 
Rising, sinking, swept along 

In the tempest s wild commotion : 
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then, 

Cnains to link or sever 
Turning to the dream again, 

Fain to clasp it ever. 

There was a rush upon my brain, 

A darkness on mine eye ; 
And when I turned to gaze again, 

The mingled forms were nigh : 
In shadowy mass a mighty hall 

Rose on the fitful scene ; 
Flowers, music, gems, were flung o er all, 

Not such as once had been. 

Then in its mist, far, far away, 
A phantom seemed to be ; 

The something of a bvgone day 
But oh, how changed was he ! 

He rose beside the festal board, 
W r here sat the merry throng ; 

And as the purple juice he poured, 
Thus woke his wassail song : 

SONG. 
COME ! while with wine the goblets flow, 

For wine they say has power to bless ; 
And flowers, too not roses, no ! 

Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness ! 
A lethc for departed bliss, 

And each too well remembered scene : 
Earth has no sweeter draught than this, 

Which drowns the thought of what has been 
Here s to the heart s cold iciness, 

Which can not smile, but will not sigh : 
If wine can bring a chill like this, 

Come, fill for me the goblet high. 
Come and the cold, the false, the dead, 

Shall never cross our revelry ; 
We ll kiss the wine cup sparkling red, 

And snap the chain of memory. 

den no less celebrated (says Sir W. Jones) by the Asiatic 
poets, than that of the He=perides by the Greeks. 



M. ST. LEON LOUD. 



MARGUERITE ST. LEON BARSTOW was born j 
in the rural town of Wysox, among the wind 
ings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford coun 
ty, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married 
to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia ; and, except 
during a short period passed in the South, 
has since resided in that city. Her poems 
have for the most part appeared in the Uni 
ted States Gazette and in the Philadelphia 



monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, in 
his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she 
"has imagination of no common order, and, 
unlike many of her sex, is not 

Content to dwell in decencies forever. 
While she can, upon occasion, compose the 
ordinary singsong with all the decorous pro 
prieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures 
very frequently into a more ethereal region." 



A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. 

THKRE is an isle in the far South sea, 
Sunny and bright as an isle can be ; 
Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave, 
As its sparkling waters the green shores lave ; 
And from the shell that upon the strand 
Lies half buried in golden sand 
A thrilling tone through the still air rings, 
Like music trembling on fairy strings. 
Flowers like those which the Peris find 
In the bowers of their paradise, and bind 
In the flowing tresses, are blooming there, 
And gay birds glance through the scented air. 
Gems and pearls are strewed on the earth 
Untouched there are known to know their worih ; 
And that fair island Death comes not nigh : 
Why should he come 1 there are none to die. 

My heart had grown, like the misanthrope s, 
Cold and dead to ail human hopes; 
Fame and fortune alike had proved 
Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved 
Vanished away, like the flowers that fade 
In the deadly blight of the Upas shade. 
I longed upon that green isle to be, 
Far away o er the sounding sea, 
Where no human voice, with its words of pain, 
Could ever fall on rny ear again. 
Life seemed a desert waste to me, 
And I sought in slumber from care to flee. 

Away, away, o er the waters blue, 
Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. 
Deep ocean-furrows her timbers plough, 
As the waves are parted before her prow ; 
And the foaming billows close o er her path, 
Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath. 
But swiftly onward, through foam and spray, 
.To the lonely island she steers her way : 
The heavens above wore their brightest smile, 
As the bark was moored by that fairy isle ; 
The sails were furled, the voyage was o er ; 
I should buffet the waves of the world no more \ 
I looked to the ocean the bark was gone, 



And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. 

My wish was granted, and I was blest; 

My spirit revelled in perfect rest 

A Dead sea calm even Thought reposed 

Like a weary dove with its pinions closed. 

Beauty was round me : bright roses hung 

Their blushing wreaths o er my head, and flung 

Fragance abroad on the gale to me 

Sweeter than odors of Araby ; 

Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold 

Lay before me in heaps untold. 

Death to that island knew not the way, 

But life was mine for ever and aye, 

Till Love again made my heart its throne, 

And I ceased to dwell on the isle alone. 

Long did my footsteps delighted range 
My peaceful home, but there came a change : 
My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain 
On all I had bartered life s ties to gain. 
A chilling weight on my spirits fell, 
As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell 
Or the bee s faint hum in the flowery wood, 
Was all that broke on mv solitude. 
Oh ! then I felt, in my loneliness, 
That earth had no power the heart to bless, 
Unwarmed by affection s holy ray ; 
And hope was withered, as day by day 
I watched for the bark, but in vain in vain ; 
She never sought that green isle again ! 

I stretched my arms o er the heaving sea, 
And prayed aloud, in my agony, 
That Love s pure spirit might with me dwell. 
Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell, 
Higher and higher, till naught was seen , 
Where slept in beauty that islet green. 
The waters passed o er me the spell was bioke; 
From the dream of the lonely isle I woke, 
With a heart redeemed from its selfish stain, 
To mingle in scenes of the world again 
With cheerful spirit and rather share 
The pains and sorrows which mortals bear, 
Than dwell where no shade on my path is tin own, 
Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone. 
141 



112 



M. ST. LEON LOUD. 



THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 

THERE is a lonely homestead 

In a green and quiet vale, 
"With its tall trees sighing mournfully 

To every passing gale ; 
There are many mansions round it, 

In the sunlight gleaming fair ; 
But moss-grown is that ancient roof, 

Its walls are gray and hare. 
Where once glad voices sounded 

Of children in their mirth, 
No whisper breaks the solitude 

By that deserted hearth. 
The swallow from her dwelling 

In the low eaves hath flown ; 
And all night long, the whip-poor-will 

Sings by the threshold stone. 
No hand above the window 

Ties up the trailing -vines; 
And through the broken casement-panes 

The moon at midnight shines. 
And many a solemn shadow 

Seems starting from the gloom; 
Like forms of long-departed ones 

Peopling that dim o d room. 
No furrow for the harvest 

Is drawn upon the ] lain, 
And in the pastures green and fair 

No herds or flocks remain. 
Why is that beauteous homestead 

Thus standing bare and lone, 
While all the worshipped household gods 

In dust lie overthrown. 
And where are they whose voices 

Rang out o er hill and dale ] 
Gone and their mournful history 

Is but an oft-told tale. 
There smiles no lovelier valley 

Beneath the summer sun, 
Yet they who dwelt together there, 

Departed one by one. 
Some to the quiet churchyard, 

And some beyond the sea ; 
To meet no more, as once they met, 

Beneath that old roof-tree. 
Like forest-birds forsaking 

Their sheltering native nest, 
The young to life s wild scenes went forth, 

The agrd to their rest. 
Fame and ambition lured them 

From that green vale to roam, 
But as their dazzling dreams depart, 

Regretful memories come 
Of the valley and the homestead 

Of their childhood pure and free 
Till each world-weary spirit pines 

That spot once more to see. 
Oh ! blest are they who linger 

Mid old familiar things, 
Where every object o er the heart 

A hallowed influence flings. 
Though won are wealth and honors 

Though reached fame s lofty dome 
There are no joys like those which dwell 

Within our childhood s home. 



PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 

FATHER in heaven ! 
Behold, he whom I love is daily treading 

The path of life in heaviness of soul. 
With the thick darkness now around him spreading 

He long hath striven 
Oh, thou most kind ! break not the golden bowl. 

Father in heaven ! 

Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted 
And raised the weary spirit bowed with care, 
Let him not say his joy hath all departed, 

Lest he be driven 
Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. 

Father in heaven ! 
Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessing 

Let peace and rest descend upon his head, 
That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, 

May not be riven 
Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed. 

Father in heaven ! 
Oh, may his heart be stayed or, thee ! each feeling 

Still lifted up in gratitude and love ; 
And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing 

To him be given, 
Till he shall praise thy name in realms above. 



REST IN THE GRAVE. 

OH, peaceful grave ! how blest 
Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest, 

After the feverish strife 
The wild, dark, turbulent career of life ! 

There shall the throbbing brain, 
The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, 

Find undisturbed repose 
No more to struggle with its weight of woes. 

No passionate desires 

For some bright goal to which the soul aspires 
Foreverunattained consume like quenchless firea 

Oh ! for a dreamless sleep, 

A slumber calm and deep, 
A long and silent midnight in the tomb, 
Where no dim visions of the past may come ; 

No haunting memories no tears, 
Nor voices which the startled spirit hears, 
Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years. 

Peace peace unbroken dwells, 

Oh grave ! in thy lone cells. 

And yet not lone, for they 

Who ve passed from earth away, 
People thy realms the beautiful, the young, 
The kindred who around my pathway flung 
All that earth had of brightness and the tomb 

Is robbed of all its gloom. 

There would I rest, O Grave ! 

Till thy unstormy wave 

Hath overswept the whole of life s bleak shore; 
In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness 

My soul would sink no more 
To brave within a frail, unanchored bark, 
Life s tossing billows and its tempests dark, 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



(Born 1806-Died 1863). 



THIS graceful and popular authoress the 
Milford of our country to whom we are in 
so large a degree indebted for redeeming the 
" ladies magazines," so called, from the re 
proach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is 
a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many 
years one of the most eminent physicians of 
New York, from whom she inherits all the 
peculiar pride and prejudice that make up 
the genuine Knickerbocker. She was mar 
ried, it appears from the New York Mirror 
of the following Saturday, on the tenth of 
May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of 
Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who 
is well known for his taste and scholarly ac 
quirements. 

Mrs. Embury s native interest in literature 
was manifested by an early appreciation of 
the works of genius, and her poetical talents 
were soon recognised and admired. Under 
the signature of " lanthe," she gave to the 
public numerous effusions, which were dis 
tinguished for vigor of language and genuine 
depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful 
but most promising compositions was select 
ed and published, under the title of Guido and 
other Poems. Since her marriage, she has 
given to the public more prose than verse, 
but the former is characterized by the same 
romantic spirit which is the essential beauty 
of poetry. Many of her tales are founded 
upon a just observation of life, although not 
a few are equally remarkable for attractive 



invention. In point of style, they often pos 
sess the merit of graceful and pointed dic 
tion, and the lessons they inculcate are inva 
riably of a pure moral tendency. Constance 
Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better 
known than any other of her single produc 
tions ; and this, as well as her Pictures of 
Early Life, has passed through a large num 
ber of editions. In 1845 she published, in a 
beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illus 
trations, Nature s Gems, or American Wild 
Flowers, a work which contains some of 
the finest specimens of her writings, in both 
prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the 
public a collection of graceful poems, under 
the title of Love s Token Flowers ; and, in 
1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather s 
Legends, a little volume in which she has 
happily adapted the romantic and poetical 
legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own 
country and the present age ; and a work 
entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which 
many of the beautiful fictions she had writ 
ten for the magazines, having a unity and 
completeness of design, are reproduced, to 
run anew the career of popularity through 
which they passed on their first and separate 
publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. 
Embury are very numerous, probably not less 
than one hundred and fifty ; and several such 
delightful series, evincing throughout the 
same true cultivation and refinement of taste 
and feeling, might be made from them. 



TWO PORTRAITS FROM LIFE. 

i. 
On, what a timid watch young Love was keeping 

When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise ! 

How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs ! 
What bitter tears thy mother s heart were steeping ! 

Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes 
A world of troubled tenderness lies sleeping, 

And on thy full and glowing lip there lies 
A shadow that portends thee future weeping. 
Tender and self-distrustful doubting still 

Thyself, but trusting all the world beside, 
Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill, 

Blending with woman s softness manhood s pride, 
How wilt thou all life s future conflicts bear, 
And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare 1 



Pnoun,self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught 
Save falsehood loving everything but sin 
How glorious is the light that from within 

Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought ! 

A child thou art but thy deep eyes are fraught 
With that mysterious light by genius shed, 

And in thine aspect is a glory caught 
From the high dreams that cluster round thy head. 

I know not what thy future lot may be, 
But, when men gather to a new crusade 

Against earth e falsehood, wrong, and tyranny, ^ 
Thou wilt be there with all thy strength dif 
played 

Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict s roar, 

And on thy banner, writ in stars, " Excelsior !" 
143 



141 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



THE DUKE OF RE1CHSTADT. 

HKITI of that name 

W hich shook with sudden terror the far earth 
Child of strange destinies e en from thy birth, 

When kings and princes round thy cradle came, 
And avr tiu-ir crowns, as playthings, to thy hand 
Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! 

How were the schemes 
Of human foresight haftled in thy fate, 
Thou victim of a parent s lofty state ! 

What glorious visions filled thy father s dreams, 
When first he gazed upon thy infant face, 
And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race ! 

Scarce had thine eyes 

Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound 
With power s vain symbols, and thy young brow 

crowned 

With Rome s imperial diadem the prize 
From priestly princes by thy proud sire won, 
To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 

Yet where is now 

The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, 
And led on half the world to stirring fight, 

Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ] 
Alas ! when foiled on his last battle-plain, 
Its shattered fragments forged thy father s chain. 

Far worse thy fate 

Than that which doomed him to the barren rock ; 
Through half the universe was felt the shock, 
When down he toppled from his high estate ; 
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power 
Could cheer him e en in that disastrous hour. 

But thou, poor boy ! 

Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours; 
Thy chains still galled, though wreathed with fairest 
Thou hadst no images of bygone joy, [flowers; 
No visions of anticipated fame, 
To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. 

And where was she, 

W 7 hose proudest title was Napoleon s wife ? 
She who first gave, and should have watched thy 
Treb ing a mother s tenderness for thee, [life, 
Despoiled heir of empire ] On her breast 
Did thy young heart repose in its unrest \ 

No ! round her heart 

Children of humbler, happier lineage twined : 
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind 
Of pageants where she bore a heartless part ; 
She who shared not her monarch-husband s doom 
Cared little for her first-born s living tomb. 

Thou art at rest : 

Child of Ambition s martyr ! life had been 
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene 

Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best ; 
For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, 
Would lead to sorrows it may be to crimes ! 

Thou art at rest : 

The idle sword hath worn its sheath away ; 
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay; 

And they, who with vain tyranny comprest 
Thy soul s high yearnings, now forget their fear, 
And fling ambition s purple o er thy bier ! 



SYMPATHY. 

LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers 
Upon the windharp s strings at close of day, 

When gently touched by evening s dewy fingers 
It breathes a low and melancholy lay : 

So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth ; 

And while its magic spell is round me cast, 
My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, 

And vaguely blends the future with the past. 

But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth. 
And mournful memories around me move ; 

E en friendship s alchemy no balm distilleth, 
To soothe th immedicable wound of love. 

Alas, alas ! passion too soon exhaieth 
The dewy freshness of the heart s young flowers; 

We water them with tears, but naught availeth 
They wither on through all life s later hours. 



AUTUMN EVENING. 

" And Isaac went out hi the field to meditate at eventide." 

Go forth at morning s birth, 
When the glad sun, exulting in his might. 
Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night, 

Shedding his gifts of beauty o er the earth ; 
When sounds of busy life are on the air, 
And man awakes to labor and to care, 
Then hie thee forth : go out amid thy kind, 
Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind. 

Go forth at noontide hour, 
Beneath the heat and burden of the day 
Pursue the labors of thine onward way, 

Nor murmur if thou miss life s morning flower; 
Where er the footsteps of mankind are found 
Thou may st discern some spot of hallowed ground, 
Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. 
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteousbud 

Go forth at eventide, 

When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, 
When e en the hum of insect life is still, 

And the bird s song on evening s breeze has died ; 
Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, [told, 

And commune with thy heart s deep thoughts un- 
Fathom thy spirit s hidden depths, and learn 
The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn. 

Go forth at eventide, 
The eventide of summer, when the trees 
Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze, 

And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed ; 
When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds 
In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds, 
Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay, 
To meditate alone alone to watch and pray. 

Go forth at eventide, 

Commune with thine own bosom, and be still 
Check the wild impulses of wayward will, 

And learn the nothingness of human pride: 
Morn is the time to act, noon to endure ; 
But, oh, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, 
Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod, 
Go forth at eventide, ii: heart to walk with God 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



145 



PEACE. 



i. sock l - er not in marl) o balls of pride, 
Where pushing fountains fliiu their silver tide, 

Their wea th of freshness toward the summer sky ; 
The ec ioos of a palace are too loud 
They hut give hack the footsteps of the crowd 

That throng ahout some idol throned on high, 
Whose er mined robe and pomp of rich array 
But serve tu hide the fa se one s feet of clay. 
Nor seek her form in poverty s low va e, [pale, 
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes 

And the heart faints, with sordid cares opprest, 
Where pining discontent has left its trace 
Deep and abiding in each haggard face. 

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest : 
Wild revel scares her from wealth s towering dome, 
And misery frights her from the poor man s home. 

Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage 
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page, 

Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine ; 
Oh, who can teli the restless hope of fame, 
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, 

That round the student s heart like serpents twine! 
Ambition s fever burns within his breast, 
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest ? 

Search not within the city s crowded mart, 
Where the low-whispered music of the heart 

Is all unheard amid the clang of go d ; 
Oh, never yet did Peace her chaplet twine 
To lay upon base mammon s sordid shrine, [sold ; 

Where earth s most precious things are bought and 
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be 
Despised, because unfit for merchantry. 

Go ! hie thee to God s altar kneeling there, 
List to the ming ed voice of fervent prayer 

That swells around thee in the sacred fane ; 
Or catch the solemn organ s pealing note, 
When grateful praises on the still air float, 

And the freed soul forgets earth s heavy chain : 
There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found 
In her eternal home, on holy ground. 



THE EOLIAN HARP. 

HARP of the winds ! how vainly art thou swelling 
Thv diapason on the heedless blast ; 

How idly, too, thy gentler chords are telling 
A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past : 

Why dost thou waste in loneliness the strain 

Which were not heard by human ears in vain ? 

And the Harp answered,Though the winds are bear- 
My soul of sweetness on their viewless wings, [ing 

Yet one faint tone may reach some sou! despairing, 
And rouse its energies to happier things : 

Oh, not in vain my song, if it but gives 

One moment s joy to anything that lives. 

Oh heart of mine ! canst thou not, here discerning 
An emblem of thyself, some solace find ] [irrg. 

Thou ah earth may never quench thy life-long yearn- 
Yet give thyself like music to the wind : 

Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and 
And waken sympathy when thou art dust, [trust. 
JO 



UNREST. 

HKATIT, weary Heart! what means thy wild Unrest 1 

Hast thou not tasted of earth s every p easurel 
With all that morta s seek thy lot is blest ; 

Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure 

" Something beyond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! canst thou not find repose 

In the sweet calm of friendship s pure devotion ? 
Amid the peace whic.h sympathy bestows, 

Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion, 

" Something beyond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! too idly hast thou poured 

Thy music and thy perfume on the blast ; 
Now, beggared in affection s treasured hoard, 

Thy cry is still thy saddest and thy last 

" Something beyond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! oh, cease thy wild unrest 

Earth can not satisfy thy bitter yearning : 
Then onward, upward speed thy lonely quest, 

And hope to find, where Heaven s pure stars are 
burning, " Something beyond !" 



THE OLD MAN S LAMENT. 

0;i, for one draught of those sweet waters now 

That shed such freshness o er my early life ! 
Oh that I could but bathe my fevered brow 

To wash away the dust of worldly strife, 
And be a simple-hearted child once more, 
As if I ne er had known this world s pernicious lore ! 
My heart is weary, and my spirit pants 

Beneath the heat and burden of the day ; 
Would that I could regain those shady haunts 

Where once, with Hope, I dreamed the hours 
Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, [away, 
And yielding up my soul to youth s delicious trance ! 
Vain are such wishes : I no more may tread 

With lingering step and slow the green hili-side , 
Before me now life s shortening path is spread, 

And I must onward, whatsoe er betide : 
The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye, 
And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. 
Alas ! the dust which clogs my weary feet 

Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine, 
Where once my spirit worshipped, when, with sweet 

And passionless devotion, it could twine 
Its strong affections round earth s earthliest things, 
Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. 

What though some flowers have scaped the tem 
pest s wrath ] 

Daily they droop by nature s swift decay : 
What though the setting sun. still lights my path! 

Morn s dewy freshness long has passed away. 
Oh, give me back life s newly-budded flowers- - 
Let me once more inhale the breath of morning s 
hours ! 

My youth, my youth ! oh, give me back my youth ! 

Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek, 
But childhood s sunny thoughts, its perfect truth, 

And youth s unworldly feelings these I seek 
Ah, who could e er be sinless and yet sage 1 [page . 
Would that I might forget Time s dark and blotted 



146 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



THE AMERICAN RIVER. 

A KKMK.MHKANCK. 

IT rusheth on with fearful might, 

That river of the west, 
Through forests dense, where seldom light 

Of sunbeam gilds its breast: 
Anon it dashes wildly past 
The widespread prairie ,one and vast, 
Without a shadow on its tide, 
Save the long grass that skirts its side ; 
Again its angry currents sweep 
Beneath some tall and rocky steep, 
Which frowns above the darkened stream, 
Till doubly deep its waters seem. 
No rugged cliff may check its way, 
No gent.e mead invite its stay 
Still with resistless, maddened force, 
Following its wild and devious course, 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on the rocks are stirred, 

And echoing far and wide, 
Through the dim forest aisles, is heard 

The thunder of its tide ; 
No other sound strikes on the ear, 
Save when, beside its waters clear, 
Crashing o er branches dry and sear, 
Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 
Or when, perchance, the woods give back 
The arrow whizzing on its track, 
Or deadlier rifle s vengeful crack: 
No hum of busy life is near, 
And still uncurbed in its career 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on no firebark leaves 

Its dark and smoking trail 
O er the pure wave, which only heaves 

The bateau light and frail ; 
Long, long ago the rude canoe 
Across its sparkling waters flew ; 
Long, long ago the Indian brave 
In the clear stream his brow might lave : 
But seldom has the white man stood 
Within that trackless solitude, 
Where onward, onward dashing still, 
With all the force of untamed will, 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on no changes mark 

How many years have sped 
Since to its banks, through forests dark, 

Some chance the hunter led ; 
Though many a season has passed o er 
The giant tree* that gird its shore 
Though the soft limestone mass, imprest 
By naked footstep on its breast, 
Now hardened into rock appears, 
B\ work of indurating years, 
Yet tis by grander strength alone 
That Nature s age is ever known. 
While crumbling turrets tell the tale 
Hf man s vain pomp and projects frail, 
Time, in the wilderness displays 
Th ennobling power of length of days, 
And in the forest s pathless bound, 
Type of Etenrty, is found 

The river rushing on. 



THE ENGLISH RIVER. 

A FANTASY. 

IT floweth on with pleasant sound 

A vague and dreamlike measure, 
And singeth to the flowers around 

A song of quiet pleasure ; 
No rugged cliff obstructs the way 
Where the glad waters leap and play, 
Or, if a tiny rock look down 
In the calm stream with mimic frown, 
The waves a sweeter music make, 
As at its base they flash and break : 
It speedeth on, like joy s bright hours, 
Traced but by verdure and by flowers ; 
And whether sunbeams on it rest, 
Or storm-clouds hover o er its breast, 
Still in that green and shady glen, 
Beside the busy haunts of men, 

The river singeth on. 
It floweth on, past tree and flower, 

Until the stream is laving 
The ruins of some ancient tower, 

With ivy banners waving : 
Methinks the river s pleasant chime 
Now tells a tale of olden time, 
W 7 hen mail-clad knights were often seen 
Upon its banks of living green, 
And gentle dames of lineage high 
Lingered to hear Love s thrilling sigh; 
Haply some squire, whose humble name 
Was yet unheralded by fame, 
Here wove ambition s earliest dreams : 
While then, as now, neath sunset gleams, 
The river singeth on. 
It floweth on that gentle stream 

And seems to tell the story 
Of old-world heroes, and their dream 

Of fame and martial glory ; 
The war-cry on its banks has pealed, 
Blent with the clang of lance and shield 
Waked to new life by war s alarms, 
Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms, 
Have sallied forth in proud array, 
Wit .i hearts impatient for the fray : 
Though nature s voice is little heard, 
When pulses are thus madly stirred, 
Yet, while in brightness it gives back 
The glittering sheen that marks their uack. 

The river singeth on. 
Yet, as above the sunniest fate 

Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow, 
So sadder scenes the fancy wait, 

Since dreams from truth we borrow : 
A well-worn path, now grass-o ergrown 
And hid by many a fallen stone, 
To yonder roofless chapel led 
Where sleep the castle s honored dead ; 
Full often that pure stream has glassed 
The funeral train, as slow it passed ; 
Hark ! as the barefoot monks repeat 
The " Requiescat," wild and sweet, 

The river singeth ou. 
The vision fades, the phantoms flee. 

And naught of all remaineth ; 
The river runneth fast and free, 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



147 



The wind through ruins plaineth : 
The feudal lord and belted knight, 
And spurless squire and lady bright, 
Long since have shared the common lot 
All, save their haughty name, forgot. 
The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, 
Flaunting beneath the glad sunshine; 
The fallen fortress, ruined wall, 
And crumbling battlement, are all 
That still are left to tell the tale 
Of those who ruled that fairy vale : 
But Nature still upholds her sway, 
And flowers and music mark the way 

The river singeth on. 



BALLAD. 

THE maiden sat at her busy wheel, 

Her heart was light and free, 
And ever in cheerful song broke forth 

Her bosom s harmless glee : 
Her song was in mockery of Love, 

And oft I heard her say, 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

I looked on the maiden s rosy cheek, 

And her lip so full and bright, 
And I sighed to think that the traitor Love 

Should conquer a heart so light: 
But she thought not of future days of wo, 

While she carolled in tones so gay 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

A year passed on, and again I stood 

By the humble cottage door ; 
The maid sat at her busy wheel, 

But her look was blithe no more ; 
The big tear stood in her downcast eye, 

And with sighs I heard her say, 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye, 

And made her cheek so pale : 
The maid had forgotten her early song, 

While she listened to Love s soft tale ; 
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, 

It had wasted her life away 
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, 

Had charmed but for a day. 



CHEERFULNESS. 

A GEXTLE heritage is mine, 

A life of quiet p easure : 
My heaviest cares are but to twine 
Fresh votive garlands for the shrine 

Where bides my bosom s treasure ; 
I am not merry, nor yet sad, 
My thoughts are more serene than glad. 

I have outlived youth s feverish mirth, 

And all its causeless sorrow : 
My joys are now of nobler birth, 



My sorrows too have holier birth 

And heavenly solace Dorrow ; 
So, from my green and shady nook, 
Back on my by-past life I look. 

The past has memories sad and sweet, 

Memories still fondly cherished, 
Of love that blossomed at my feet, 
Whose odors still my senses greet, 

E en though the flowers have perished : 
Visions of pleasures passed away 
That charmed me in life s earlier day. 

The future, Isis-like, sits veiled, 

And none her mystery learneth ; 
Yet why should the bright cheek be paled, 
For sorrows that may be bewailed 
W hen time our hopes inure th ] 
Come when it will grief comes too soon 
Why dread the night at highest noon ] 

I wou d not pierce the mist that hides 
Life s coming joy or sorrow ; 

If sweet content with me abides 

While onward still the present glides, 
I think not of the morrow ; 

It may bring griefs enough for me 

The quiet joy I feel and see. 



THE WIDOW S WOOER. 

HE woos me with those honeyed words 

That women love to hear, 
Those gentle flatteries that fall 

So sweet on every ear : 
He tells me that my face is fair, 

Too fair for grief to shade ; 
My cheek, he says, was never meant 

In sorrow s gloom to fade. 

He stands beside me when I sing 

The songs of other days, 
And whispers, in love s thrilling tonta, 

The words of heartfelt praise ; 
And often in my eyes he looks, 

Some answering love to see ; 
In vain he there can only read 

The faith of memory. 

He little knows what thoughts awake 

With every gentle word ; 
How, by his looks and tones, the foun s 

Of tenderness are stirred : 
The visions of my youth return. 

Joys far too bright to last, 
And while he speaks of future bliss, 

I think but of the past. 

Like lamps in eastern sepulchres. 

Amid my heart s deep gloom. 
Affection sheds its holiest light 

Upon my husband s tomb . 
And is those lamps, if brought once moi 

To upper air grow dim, 
So my soul s love is cold and dead. 

Unless it glow for him. 



148 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



MADAME DE STAEL. 

THKTIE was no beauty on thy brow, 

No softness in thine eye ; 
Thy cheek wore not the rose s glow, 

Thy lip the ruby s dye ; 
The charms that make a woman s pride 

Had never been thine own 
For Heaven to thee those gifts denied 

In which eatth s bright ones shone. 

But brighter, holier spells were thine, 

For mental wealth was given, 
Till thou wert as a sacred shrine 

Where men might worship Heaven. 
Yes, woman as thou wert, thy word 

Could make the tyrant start, 
And thy tongue s witchery has stirred 

Ambition s iron heart. 

The charm of eloquence the skill 

To wake each secret string, 
And from the bosom s chords, at will, 

Life s mournful music bring ; 
The o ermastering strength of mind, which sways 

The haughty and the free, 
Whose might earth s mightiest one obeys 

These these were given to thee. 

Thou hadst a prophet s eye to pierce 

The depths of man s dark soul, 
For thou couldst tell of passions fierce 

O er which its wild waves roll ; 
And all too deeply hadst thou learned 

The lore of woman s heart 
The thoughts in thine own breast that burned 

Taught thee that mournful part. 

Thine never was a woman s dower 

Of tenderness and love, 
Thou, who couldst chain the eagle s power, 

Cou d never tame the dove ; 
Oh, Love is not for such as thee : 

The gentle and the mild, 
The beautiful thus blest may be, 

But never Fame s proud child 

When mid the hal!s of state, alone, 

In queenly pride of place, 
The majesty of mind thy throne, 

Thy sceptre mental grace 
Then was thy glory felt, and thou 

Didst triumph in that hour 
When men could turn from beauty s brow 

In tribute to thy power. 

And yet a woman s heart was thine 

No dream of fame could fill 
The bosom which must vainly pine 

For sweet affection still ; 
And oh. what pangs thv spirit wrung, 

E en in thy hour of pride, 
\Vhen all could list Love s wooing tongue 

Save thee, bright Glory s bride. 

Curinna ! thine own hand has traced 

Thy melancholy fate, 

Though by earth s noblest triumphs graced, 
waits not on the grea : 



Only in lowly places sleep 

Life s flowers of sweet perfume, 

And they who climb Fame s mountain-steep 
Must mourn their own high doom. 



HEART QUESTIONINGS. 

WHEN Life s false oracles, no more replying 

To baffled hope, shall mock my weary quest, 
When in the grave s cold shadow calmly lying, 
This heart at last has found its earthly rest, 

How will ye think of me ] 
Oh, gentle friends, how wiil ye think of me 1 
Perhaps the wayside flowers around ye springing 
WastingjUrrmarked. their fragrance and their bloom, 
Or some fresh fountain, through the forest singing, 
Unheard, unheeded, may recall mv doom : 

Will ye thus think of me 1 
May not the daybeam glancing o er the ocean, 

Picture my restless heart, which, like yon wave, 
Reflected doubly, in its wild commotion, 
Each ray of light that pleasure s sunshine gave 1 

Will ye thus think of me 1 

Wiil ye bring back, by Memory s art, the gladness 
That sent my fancies forth, like summer birds ] 
Or will ye list that undertone of sadness, 
Whose music seldom shaped itself in words ] 

Will ye thus think of me 1 
Remember not how dreams, around me thronging, 

Enticed me ever from life s lowly way, 
But oh ! still hearken to the deep soul longing, 
Whose mournful tones pervade the poet s lay : 

Will ye thus think of me 1 
And then, forgetting every wayward feeling, 

Bethink ye only that I loved ye well, 
Till o er your souls that " late remorse" is stealing, 
Whose voiceless anguish only tears can tell. 

Will ye thus think of me 1 
Oh, gentle friends ! will ye thus think of me 7 



NEVP:R FORGET. 

NETKR forget the hour of our first meeting, 
When, mid the sounds of revelry and song, 
Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting 
Its idol, wished for, waited for, so long. 

Never forget. 
Never forget the joy of that revealment, 

Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour, 
When Love broke forth from friendship s frail con 
cealment, 
And stood confest to us in godlike power : 

Never forget. 
Never forget my heart s intense devotion, 

Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free 

Its golden hopes, whelmed in that boundless ocean, 

Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee: 

Never forget. 
Never forget the moment when we parted 

When from life s summer-cloud thebolt was hurled 
That drove us, scathed in soul and broken hearted, 
Alone to wander through this desert world 

Never forget. 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 



(Bom 1807 Died 1834). 



ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER was born j 
near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twen- | 
ty-fourth of December, 1807. Her father, an j 
exemplary member of the society of Friends, | 
after leaving college had become a physician, 
but at this period he was a farmer, in easy 
circumstances, and he continued his agricul 
tural pursuits until the death of his wife, 
when he removed to Philadelphia and re 
sumed the practice of his profession. He 
died in 1816, leaving two sons and a daugh 
ter to the caie of their maternal grandmo 
ther, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, 
the youngest of his children, was placed at 
one of the schools of the society, in Philadel 
phia, where she remained until about thir 
teen years of age. She was remarkable, when 
very young, for a love of books, and for a 
habit of writing verses, and in iier seven 
teenth year she began to send- pieces to the 
journals. For a poem entitled The Slave- 
Ship, written at eighteen, she received a 
prize offered by the publishers of The Cas 
ket, a monthly magazine, and this led to her 
acquain tance with Mr. Benjamin Lundy, then 



editor of The Genius of Universa^ Emanci 
pation, to which paper she became from that 
time a frequent contributor. She continued 
in Philadelphia until the summer of 1830, 
when, her health having failed, she accom 
panied her brother to a rural town in Lena- 
wee county, Michigan, where, at a place 
which she named Hazlebank, she remained, 
in intimate correspondence with a few friends, 
and ia the occasional indulgence of her taste 
for literary composition, until her death, on 
the second of November, 1834. 

The Poetical Works of Miss Chandler, 
with a Memoir of her Life an<J Character, 
and a collection of her Essays, Philanthropic 
and Moral, principally relating to the Aboli 
tion of Slavery, were published in Philadel 
phia in 1836. These volumes are altogether 
creditable to her principles and her abilities. 
Her style and feelings were influenced by her 
religious and social relations, and her wri 
tings exhibit but little scope or variety ; but 
the pieces that are here quoted, show how 
well she might have succeeded, with a wider 
experience and inspiration. 



THE DEVOTED. 

STERN faces were around her bent, 

And eyes of vengeful ire, 
And fearful were the words they spake, 

Of torture, stake, and fire : 
Yvi calmly in the midst she stood, 

With eye undimmed and clear, 
And though her lip and cheek were white, 

She wore no signs of fear. 

" Where is thy traitor spouse 1" they said ; 

A half-formed smile of scorn, 
That curled upon her haughty lip, 

Was back for answer borne ; 
"Where is thy traitor spouse V again, 

In fiercer tones, they said, 
And sternly pointed to the rack, 

All rusted o er with red ! 

Her heart and pulse beat firm and free 

But in a crimson flood, 
O er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow, 

Rushed up the burning blood ; 
She spake, but proudly rose her tones, 

As when in hall or bower, 
The haughtiest chief that round her stood 

Had meekly owned their power. 



" My noble lord is placed within 

A safe and sure retreat" 
" Now tell us where, thou lady bright, 

As thou wouldst mercy meet, 
Nor deem thy life can purchase his ; 

He can not scape our wrath, 
For many a warrior s watchful eye 

Is placed o er every path. 

"But thou mayst win his broad estates, 

To grace thine infant heir, 
And life and honor to thyself, 

So thou his haunts declare." 
She laid her hand upon her heart ; 

Her eye flashed proud and clear, 
And firmer grew her haughty tread 

" My lord is hidden here ! 

" And if ye seek to view his form, 

Ye first must tear away. 
From round his secret dwelling-place. 

These walls of living clay !" 
They quailed beneath her haughty glance 

They silent turned aside, 
And left her all unharmed amidst 

Her loveliness and pride ! 
149 



150 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 



THE BATTLE FIELD. 

THE last fading sunbeam has sunk in the ocean, 
And darkness has shrouded the fore.st and hill ; 
The scenes that late rang with the battle s commotion 
Now sleep neath the moonbeams serenely and still 
Yet light misty vapors above them sti 1 hover, 
And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover, 
Though all the stern clangor of conflict is over, 
And hushed the wild trump-note that echoed so 
shrill. 

Around me the steed and the rider are lying, 
To wake at the bugle s loud summons no more 
And here is the banner that o er them was flying, 
Torn, trampled, and sullied, with earth and with 

gore. 
With morn where the conflict the wildest was roar 

ing, 
Where sabres were clashing, and death -shot were 

pouring, 

That banner was proudest and loftiest soaring 
Now standard and bearer alike are no more ! 

All hushed ! not a breathing of life from the numbers 

That, scattered around me, so heavily sleep 
Hath the cup of red wine lent its fumes to their 

slumbers, 
And stained their bright garments with crimson so 

deep! 

Ah no ! these are not like gay revellers sleeping, 
The nightwirids, unfeit, o er their bosoms are sweep 

ing, 
Ignobly their plumes o er the damp ground are creep 

ing, 

And dews, all uncared for, their bright falchions 
steep. 

Bright are they 1 at morning they were ay, at 

morning 
Yon forms were proud warriors, with hearts beat 

ing high ; 

The smiles of stern valor their lips were adorning, 
And triumph flashed out from the glance of their 

eye ! 

But now : sadly altered the evening hath found them, 
They care not for conquest, disgrace can not wound 

them, 
Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around 

them, 
Beside their red broadswords unconscious they lie. 

How still is the scene ! save when dismally whooping, 

The nightbird afar hails the gathering gloom, [ing 

Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scoop- 

A couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb. 

.Mas! ere yon planet again shall be lighted, 

"What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be 

blighted, 
How many, midst sorrow s dark storm-clouds be 

nighted, 
Shall envy, e en while they lament, for thy doom. 

Oh war! when thou rt clothed in the garments of 



, 

When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine, 
And proudly thy deeds are emblazoned in story, 
W e think nut, we feel not, what horrors are thine. 



B ut oh,when the victors and vanquish d have parted, 

When onely we stand on the war ground deserted, 

And (hinicof the dead, and of those broken hearted, 

Thy blood-sprinkled laurel wreath ceases to shine. 

A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER S PRAYER. 

I CAUK not for the hurried march 

Through August s burning noon, 
Nor for the long cold ward at night, 

Beneath the dewy moon ; 
I ve calmly felt the winter s storms 

O er my unsheltered head, 
And trod the snow with naked foot, 

Till every track was red ! 

My soldier s fare is poor and scant 

Tis what my comrades share, 
Yon heaven my only canopy 

But that I well can bear; 
A dull and feverish weight of pain 

Is pressing on my brow, 
And I am faint with recent wounds 

For that I care not now. 

But oh, I long once more to view 

My childhood s dwelling-place, 
To clasp my mother to my heart 

To see my father s face ! 
To list each well-remembered tone, 

To gaze on every eye 
That met my ear, or thrilled my heart, 

In moments long gone by. 

In vain with long and frequent draught 

Of every wave I sip 
A quenchless and consuming thirst 

Is ever on my lip ! 
The very air that fans my cheek 

No blessed coolness brings 
A burning heat or chilling damp 

Is ever on its wings. 

Oh ! let me seek my home once more 

For but a little while 
But once above my couch to see 

My mother s gentle smile ; 
It haunts me in my waking hours 

T is ever in my dreams, 
With all the pleasant paths of home, 

Rocks, woods, and shaded streams. 
There is a fount I know it well 

It springs beneath a rock, 
Oh, how its coolness and its light, 

My feverish fancies mock ! 
I pine to lay me by its side, 

And bathe my lips and brow, 
T would give new fervor to the heart 

That beats so languid now. 
I may not I must linger here 

Perchance it may be just ! 
But well I know this yearning soon 

Will scorch my heart to dust ; 
One breathing of my native air 

Had called me back to life 
But I must die must waste away 

Beneath this inward strife ! 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 



151 



THE BRANDYWINE 

MY foot has climbed the rocky summit s height, 
And in mute rapture from its lofty brow 
Mine eye is gazing round me with delight 
On all of beautiful, above, below: 
The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, 

The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, 

That far beiK-ath in gentle murmurs flow, 

Or on ward dash in foam or sparkling sheen : [scene. 

While rocks and forest-boughs hide ha f the distant 
In sooth, from this bright wilderness tis sweet 
To look through loopholes formed bv forest boughs, 
And view t.,e landscape far beneath the feet, 
Where cultivation all its aid bestows, 
And o er the scene an added beauty throws; 
The busy harvest group, the distant mill, 
Tht- quiet cattle stretched in calm repose, 
Thn cot, ha f seen behind the sloping hill 

A I minted in one scene with most enchanting skill 
The very air that breathes around rny cheek 
T.ie summer fragrance of my native hil.s 
See. us with t .e voice of other times to speak, 
And, while it each unquiet feeling stills, ,- 
Mv pensive sou 1 with hallowed memories fills: 
My fathers hall is there ; their feet have pressed 
Tli > il nver-gemnied margin of these gushing rills, 
When lightly on the water s dimpled breast [rest. 

Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would 
r i he rj;/k was once your dwel ing-place, my sires ! 
Or cavern scooped within the green hih s side; 
The pr Avling wolf fled far your beacon fires, 
And tae kind Indian half your wants supplied; 
While round \ our necks the wampum-belt he tied, 
He bade you on his lands in peace abide, 
Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand, 

Oraught of broken faith to loose the peacebelt s band. 
Oh ! if there is in beautiful and fair 
A potency to charm, a power to bless ; 
If bright blue skies and music-breathing air, 
And nature in her every varied dress 
Of peaceful beauty and wi d loveliness, 
Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, 
J hen others, too, sweet stream, with only less 
Th in mine own joy, shall gaze. and bear away [day 

So.ne cherished thought of thee for many a coining 
But yet not utterly obscure thy hanks, 
N >r all unknown to history s page thy name; 
For there wi d war hath poured his battle ranks, 
And stamped in characters of blood and flame, 
Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. 
The wave t lat ripples on, so calm and still, 
Hath trembled at the war-cry s loud acclaim, 
T.ie cannon s voice hath rolled from hill to hill, 

And midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded 

shrill. 

My country s standard waved on yonder height, 
Her red cross banner England there displayed, 
And there the German, who, for foreign fight, 
Had left his own domestic hearth, and made 
War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, 
Amidst the battle stood ; and all the day, 
The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade, 
The bugle s martial notes, the musket s play, 

In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away. 



Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright 
And hung above them like a funeral pall, [sky, 
Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie 
Like brethren slumbering in one father s hall : 
The work of death went on, and when the fall 
Of night came onward silently, and shed . 
A dreary hush, where late was uproar all, 
How many a brother s heart in anguish bled [dead. 

O er cherished ones, who there lay resting with the 
Unshrouded and uncoffined they were laid 
Within the soldier s grave e en where they fell: 
At noon they proudly trod the field the spado 
At night dug out their resting-place ; and well 
And calmly did they slumber, though no bell 
Pea ed over them its solemn music slow : 
The night winds sung their only dirge their knell 
Was but the owlet s boding cry of wo, [ters flow. 

The flap of nighthawk s wing, and murmuring wa- 
But it is over now the plough hath rased 
All trace of where War s wasting hand hath been : 
No vestige of the battle may be traced, 
Save where the share, in passing o er the scene, 
Turns up some rusted ball ; the maize is green 
On what was once the death-bed of the brave ; 
The waters have resumed their wonted sheen, 
The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave, 

And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier s 

grave. 

A pebble-stone that on the war-field lay, 
And a wild rose that blossomed brightly there, 
Were all the relics that I bore away, 
To tell that I had trod the scene of war, 
When I had turned my footsteps homeward far 
These may seem childish things to some ; to me 
They shall he treasured ones and, like the stai 
That guides the sailor o er the pathless sea, 

They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandy- 
wine, to thee ! 



SUMMER MORNING. 

T is beautiful, when first the dewy light 
Breaks on the earth ! while yet the scented air 
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night, 

And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear 

When every leafy chalice holds a draught 
Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink, [laughed 
When streams gush sportively, as though they 
For very joyousness, and seemed to shrink 
In playful terror from the rocky brink 
Of some, s ight precipice then with quick leap 
Bound lightly o er the barrier, and sink 
In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep 
With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep ! 

While lights and shades play on them with each 

breath 

That moves the calm, still waters; when the fly 
Skims o er the surface, and all things beneath 
Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glanco 
With a quick flash of beauty , vhen the sky [by 
Wears a deep azure brightness, and the song 
Of matin gladness lifts its voice on h(gh, 
And mingled harmony and perfume throng 
On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



THE lives of LUCRETIA MARIA and MAR- 
SARET MILLER DAVIDSON, which ii is impos 
sible to contemplate without emotions of 
admiration and sadness, have been illustra 
ted at home by Professor Morse, by Wash 
ington Irving-, and by Miss Sedgwick, and 
abroad by Mr. Southey and several other 
authors of well-deserved eminence in the 
literary world. An attempt to invest them 
with any new interest would therefore be 
in vain. It is duubtful whether the annals 
of literary composition can show anything, 
produced at the same age, finer than some 
of their poems ; and the beauty of their char 
acters, which appear to have had in them 
something of angelic holiness, fitted them as 
well to shine in heaven, as their genius to 
win the applauses of the w^orld. 

Those who are familiar with our literary 
history may remember that a remarkable 
precocity of intellect has been frequently ex 
hibited in this country. The cases of Lu- 
cretia and Margaret Davidson are perhaps 
more interesting than any which have re 
ceived the general attention ; but they are 
not the most wonderful that have been known 
here. A few years ago I was shown, by one 
of the house of Harper and Brothers, the 
publishers, some verses by a girl but eight 
years of age the daughter of a gentleman 
in Connecticut that seemed nut inferior to 
any composed by the Davidsons ; and other 
prodigies of the same kind are at this time 
exciting the hopes of more than one family. 
Greatness is not often developed in child 
hood, and where a strange precocity is ob 
servable, it is generally but an early and 
complete maturity of the mind. We can 
not always decide, to even our own satisfac 
tion, whether it is so, but as the writings of 
i!i -r children, when they were from nine to 
lifer;! years of age, exhibited no advance 
ment, it is reasonable to suppose that, like 
the wonderful boy Zerah Colburn, of Ver 
mont, whose arithmetical calculations many 
years ago astonished the world, they would 
have possessed in their physical maturity no 
high or peculiar intellectual qualities. 



The father of Lucretia and Margaret Da 
vidson was a physician. Their mother s 
maiden name was Margaret Miller. She 
was a woman of an ardent temperament and 
an affectionate disposition, and had been care- 
| fully educated. Lucretia was born in the 
village of Plattsburg, in New York, on the 
twenty-seventh of September, 1808. In her 
infancy she was exceedingly fragile, but she 
grew stronger when about eighteen months 
old, and though less vigorous than most chil 
dren of her age, suffered little for several 
years from sickness. She learned the al 
phabet in her third year, and at four was. 
sent to a public school, where she was taught 
to read and to form letters in sand, after the 
Lancasterian system. As soon as she could 
read, her time was devoted to the little books 
that were given to her, and to composition. 
Her mother, at one time, wishing to write a 
letter, found that a quire or more of paper 
had disappeared from the place where wri 
ting implements were kept, and when she 
made inquiries in regard to it, the child came 
forward and acknowledged that she had 
" used it." As Mrs. Davidson knew she had 
not been taught to write, she was surprised, 
and inquired in what manner it had been 
destroyed. Lucretia burst into tears, and 
replied that she did not like to tell. The 
question was not urged. The paper contin 
ued to disappear, and she was frequently 
observed with little blank books, and pens, 
arid ink, sedulously shunning observation. 
At length, when she was about six years old, 
her mother found hidden in a closet, rarely 
opened, a parcel of papers which proved to 
be her manuscript books. On one side of 
each leaf was an artfully sketched picture, 
and on the other, in rudely formed letters, 
were poetical explanations. 

From this time she acquired knowledge 
very rapidly, studying intensely at school, 
and reading in every leisure moment at home. 
When about twelve years of age she accom 
panied her father to a celebration of the 
birth-night of Washington. She had stud 
ied the history of the father of his country. 
152 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



and the scene awakened her enthusiasm. 
The next day an older sister found her ab 
sorbed in writing. She had drawn an urn, 
and written two stanzas beneath it. They 
were shown to her mother, who expressed 
her delight with such animation that the 
child immediately added the concluding ver 
ses, and returned with the poem as it is 
printed in her Remains : 

And does a hero s dust lie here 1 
Columbia ! gaze and drop a tear ! 
His country s and the orphan s friend, 
See thousands o er his ashes bend ! 

Among the heroes of the age, 
He was the warrior and the sage : 
He left a train of glory bright, 
Which never will be hid in night. 

The toils of war and danger past, 

He reaps a rich reward at last ; 

His pure soul mounts on cherub s wings, 

And now with saints and angels sings. 

The brightest on the list of fame, 

In golden letters shines his name ; 

Her trump shall sound it through the world, 

And the striped banner ne er be furled ! 

And every sex, and every age, 
From lisping boy to learned sage, 
The widow, and her orphan son, 
Revere the name of Washington. 

She continued to write with much indus 
try from this period. In the summer of 1823, 
her health being very feeble, she was with 
drawn from school, and sent on a visit to 
some friends in Canada. In Montreal she 
was delighted with the public buildings, mar 
tial parades, pictures, and other novel sights, 
and she returned to Plattsburg with renova 
ted health. Her sister Margaret was born 
on the twenty-sixth of March, 1823, and a 
few days afterward, while holding the infant 
in her lap, she wrote the following lines: 

Sweet babe ! I can not hope that thou It be freed 
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed ; 
But may st thou be with resignation blessed, 
To bear each evil howsoe er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, 
And o er the tempest rear her angel form ; 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper cease ! 

And may Religion, Heaven s own darling child, 
Teach tbee at human cares and griefs to smile 
Teach thee to look beyond that world of wo, 
To Heaven s high fount whence mercies ever flow. 
And when this vale of years is safely passed, 
When Death s dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 



In the summer of 1824 she finished her 
longest poem, Amir Khan, and in the autumn 
of the same year was sent to the seminary of 
Mrs. Willard, at Troy, where she remained 
during the winter. In May, 1825, after 
spending several weeks at home, she was 
transferred to a boarding-school at Albany, 
and here her health, which had before been 
slightly affected, rapidly declined. In com 
pany with her mother, and Mr. Moss Kent, 
a gentleman of fortune, who- had undertaken 
to defray the costs of her education, she re 
turned to Plattsburg in July, and died there 
on the twenty-seventh of August, one month 
before her seventeenth birthday. She re 
tained, until her death, the purity and sim 
plicity of childhood, and died in the confident 
hope of immortal happiness. 

Soon after her death, her poems and prose 
writings were published, with a memoir by 
Mr. S. F. B. Morse, of New York, and an 
elaborate biography of her life and character 
has since been written by Miss C. M. Sedg- 
wick, the author of Hope Leslie, etc. The 
following verses are among the most perfect 
she produced. They were addressed to her 
sister, Mrs. Townsend, in her fifteenth year : 

When evening spreads her shades around, 

And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 
W r hen not a murmur, not a sound, 

To Fancy s sportive ear is given ; 
When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 

And looks around with golden eye ; 
When Nature, softened by her light, 

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give : 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom s core, 

And hovering, trembles, half afraid, 
Oh, sister, sing the song once more 

Which ne er for mortal ear was made. 
T were almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day 
Notes borne by angels purest wing, 

And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Shouldst thou still linger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love 1 

At the same age she wrote these lines To a 

Star : 

Thou brightly glittering star of even, 
Thou gem upon the brow of heaven. 
Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
How quick t would spread its wings to th3. 



lf)4 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



How ca rnly, brightly, dost thou shine, 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue s shrine : 
Sure the fair world which thou may st boast 
Was never ransomed, never lost. 

There, beings pure as heaven s own air, 
Their hopes, their joys, together share ; 
While hovering angels touch the string, 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by Heaven s refulgent lights 
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling star of even, 
Thou gem upon an azure heaven, 
How swiftly will I soar to thee, 
When this imprisoned soul is free. 

In her sixteenth year she wrote Three 
Prophecies, of which the following is one : 

Let- me gaze awhile on that marble brow, 
On that full, dark eye, on that cheek s warm glow ; 
Let. me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 
I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 
That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 
That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 
That full, dark eye may brightly beam 
In life s gay morn, in hope s young dream ; 
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 
And sorrow bright thy bosom s glow. 
I know by that spirit so haughty and high, 
I know by that brightly flashing eye, 
That, maiden, there s that within thy breast 
Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblessed: 
The strife of love with pride shall wring 
Thy youthful bosom s tenderest string; 
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, 
Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 
5Tes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye 
A dark and a doubtful prophecy : 
Thou shall love, and that love shall be thy curse ; 
Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. 
I see the cloud and the tempest near ; 
The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 
The rushing waves of a wretched life : 
Thy bosom s bark on the surge I see, 
And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 
Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave : 
Maiden, I ve gazed on thine early grave. 
When I am cold, and the hand of Death 
Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath ; 
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; 
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep : 
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, 
And think on my last sad prophecy. 

In a more sportive vein is the piece enti 
tled Auction Extraordinary, written about the 
same period : 

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
My thoughts ran along w such beautiful me*re, 
I in sure I ne er saw any poetry sweeter: 



It seemed that a law had been recently made, 
That a tax on old bachelors pates should be laid 
And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
The tax was as large as a man cou d well carry 
The bachelors grumbled, and said twas no use 
Twas horrid injustice, and horrid abuse, 
And declared that to save their own hearts blooc 

from spilling, 

Of such a vi e tax they would not pay a shilling 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue: 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow, 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
" Ho ! forty o d bachelors sold here to-day :" 
And presently all the o d maids in the town, 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
From thirty to sixt\, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
The auctioneer then in his labor began, 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
" How much for a bachelor ? who wants to buy ? 
In a twink, every maiden responded, " I, I." 
In short, at a highly extravagant price, 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : 
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

A few months hefore her death she wrote 
this address to her mo Jier : 

Oh thou whose care sustained my infant years, 

And taught my prattling lip each note of love ; 
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 

And round my brow hope s brightest garland wove: 
To thee my lay is due, the simplest song, 

Which Nature gave me at life s opening day ; 
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 

Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 
Oh say, amid this wilderness of life, [me ? 

What boso;n would have throbbed like thine for 
W T ho would have smiled responsive 1 who in grief 

Would e er have felt,and,feeang, grieved like thee? 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, 
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? 

Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
And clasped me to her heart,with love s bright tear? 

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 

Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the agony of love and wo ? 

Vone but a mother none but one like thee, 

W T hose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery ; 

Whose form has felt disease s mildew touch. 
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 

By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom 
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o er every grief. 

That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. 
Oh, then, to thee this rude and simple song, 

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, 

Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



155 



She died with her " singing robes" about 
her, having composed, while confined to her 
bed in her last illness, these verses, expres 
sive of her fear of madness : 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread, 
Or sweeps on wild destruction s wing. 

That thought comes o er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness : 

Tis not the dread of death tis more, 
It is the dread of madness. 

Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
Forgetful of their feverish course ; 

May this hot brain, which burning, glows 
With all a fiery whirlpool s forcr 

Be cold, and motionless, and still 

A tenant of its lowly bed ; 
But let not dark delirium steal 

The poem is unfinished, and it is the last 
she wrote. 

MARGARET DAVIDSON, at the time of the 
death of Lucretia, was not quite two years 
old. The event made a deep and lasting 
impression on her mind. She loved, when 
but three years old, to sit on a cushion at her 
mother s feet, listening to anecdotes of her 
sister s life, and details of the events which 
preceded her death, and would often exclaim, 
while her face beamed with mingled emo 
tions, "Oh, I will try to fill her place teach 
me to be like her !" She needed little teach 
ing. In intelligence, delicacy, and suscep 
tibility, she surpassed Lucretia. When in 
her sixth year, she could read with fluency, 
and would sit by the bedside of her sick 
mother, reading, with enthusiastic delight 
and appropriate emphasis, the poetry of 
Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and other great 
authors, and marking, with discrimination, 
the passages with which she was most 
pleased. Between the sixth and seventh 
years of her age, she entered on a general 
course of education, studying grammar, ge 
ography, history, and rhetoric ; but her con 
stitution had already begun to show symp 
toms of decay, which rendered it expedient 
to check her application. In her seventh 
summer she was taken to the springs of 
Saratoga, the waters of which seemed to 
have a beneficial effect, and she afterward 
accompanied her parents to New York, with 
which city she was highly delighted. On 
her return to Plattsburg, her strength was 
much increased, and she resumed her stud 
ies with great assiduity. In the autumn 



of 1830, however, her health began to fail 
again, and it was thought proper for her and 
her mother to join Mrs. Townsend, an elder 
sister, in an inland town of Canada. She 
remained here until 1833, when she had a 
severe attack of scarlet fever, and on her 
slow recovery it was determined to go again 
to New York. Her residence in the city was 
protracted until the summer heat became 
oppressive, and she expressed her yearnings 
for the banks of the Saranac, in the following 
lines, which are probably equal to any ever 
written by so young an author : 

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, 
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair, 
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright, 
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light: 
Again would I view the old cottage so dear, 
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear: 
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 
For a peep at my home on this- fair summer-day. 
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with 

regret, 

But the love of my home, oh, tis tenderer yet; 
There a sister reposes unconscious in death, 
T was there she first drew, and there yielded her 
A father I love is away from me now [breath. 
Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear, 
How quick y would vanish each trace of a tear: 
Attentive I listen to Pleasure s gay call, 
But my own happy home, it is dearer than all. 

The family soon after became temporary 
residents of the village of Ballston, near Sa- 
ratoga,and,intheau;umn of 1835, of Rure- 
mont, on the sound, or East river, about four 
miles from New York. Here they remained, 
except at short intervals, until the summer 
of 1837, when they returned 4o Ballston. In 
the last two years, Margaret had suffered 
much from illness herself, and had lost by 
death her sister Mrs. Townsend and two 
brothers ; and now her mother became alarm 
ingly ill. As the season advanced, however, 
health seemed to revisit all the surviving 
members of the family, and Margaret was 
as happy as at any period of her life. Early 
in 1838, Dr. Davidson took a house in Sara 
toga, to which he removed on the first of 
May. Here she had an attack of bleeding 
at the lungs, but recovered, and when her 
brothers visited home from New York, she 
returned with them to the city, and remained 
there several weeks. She reached Saratoga 
again in July ; the bloom had for the last 
time left her cheeks ; and she decayed grad 
ually until the twenty-fifth of November 



156 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



when her spirit returned to God. She was 
then but fifteen years and eight months old. 
She was aware of her approaching change, 
and in the preceding September she wrote a 
short poem, characterized by much beauty of 
thought and tenderness of feeling, to her bro 
ther, a young officer in the army, stationed 
at a frontier post in the west, in which an 
allusion lo the fading verdure, and falling 
leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless 
quiet of the season, as typical of her own 
b.i .jilted youth and approaching dissolution, 
is pointed out by Mr. Irving as having in it 
s^moJiing peculiarly solemn and affecting. 
" Bu when," she says: 

" But when, in the s .iadc of the autumn wood, 

i nv wandering footsteps stray ; 
When yel ow leaves and perishing buds 

Are scattered in ti.y way ; 
When all around thce breathes of rest, 

And sad.ioss and decay 
With the drooping tbwer, and the fallen tree, 
Oh, brother, b.end thy thoughts of me !" 

Her later poems do not seern to me supe 
rior to some written in her eleventh year, 
and the prose compositions included in the 
volume of her Remains, edited by Mr. Irving, 
are not better than those of many girls of 
her age. One cf her latest and most perfect 
pieces is the dedication of a poem entitled 
Leonore to the spirit of her sister Lucretia: 
Oh, thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
And while I t.iuch this hallowed harp of thine, 

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear. 
For thee I pour this unaffected lay ; 

To thee these simple numbers all belong: 
For though thine earthly form has passed away, 

Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 
Take, then, this feeble tribute tis thine own 

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o er, 
Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 

And bid its wakened music sleep no more ! 

LOIU has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 

Hung o er thy grave, in death s unbroken rest; 
But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 

One answering echo lingered in my breast 
Oh, thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near, 

Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 

By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee ! 

Leonore is the longest of her poems, and 
it was commenced after much reflection, and 
written with care and a resolution to do 
something that should serve as the measure 
}( her genius, and carry her name into the 



future. It is a story of romantic love, hap 
pily conceived, and illustrated with some 
fine touches of sentiment and fancy. It is 
a creditable production, arid would entitle 
a much older author to consideration ; but 
its best passages scarcely equal some of her 
earlier and less elaborate performances. 

The following lines addressed to her mo 
ther, a few days before her death, are the 
last she ever wrote : 

Oh, mother, would the power were mine 
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear, 

And breathe each trembling new-born thought 
Within thy fondly listening ear, 

As when, in days of health and glee, 

My hopes and fancies wandered free. 

But, mother, now a shade hath passed 
Athwart my brightest visions here ; 

A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped 
The remnant of my brief career: 

No song, no echo can I win, 

The sparkling fount hath dried within. 

The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 

And fancy spreads her wings no more, 
And oh, how vain and trivial seem 

The pleasures that I prized before ; 
My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 

Is struggling on through doubt and strife ; 
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on, 

The pathway to eternal life ! 
Then, when my cares and fears are o er, 
I 11 sing thee as in " days of yore." 

I said that Hope had passed from earth 
T was but to fold her wings in heaven, 

To whisper of the soul s new birth, 
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven: 

When mine are washed in tears away, 

Then sha;l my spirit swell the lay. 

When God shall guide my soul above, 
By the soft chords of heavenly love 
When the vain cares of earth depart, 
And tuneful voices swell mv heart, 
Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise: 
And all not offered at his sbrine, 
Dear mother, I will place on thine. 

In 1843, a volume entitled Selections from 
the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Davidson, 
the mother of Lucretia Maria and Margaret 
Miller Davidson, was published, with a pref 
ace by Miss Sedgwick. There is nothing in 
the book to arrest attention. Mrs. Davidson 
has some command of language and a know 
ledge of versification, and the chief produc 
tion of her industry in this line is a para 
phrase of six books of Fingal. Her writings 
are interesting only as indexes to the early 
culture of her daughters. 



MAEY E. STEBBINS. 



THE maiden name of Mrs. STEBBINS was 
MARY ELIZABETH MOORE, and she is a na 
tive of Maiden, a country town about five 
miles from Boston, in which city she re 
sided until her removal to New York, in 
1829, about two years after her marriage 
with Mr. James L. Hewitt. 

Mrs. Stebbins earlier poems appeared in 
The Knickerbocker Magazine and other pe 
riodicals, under the signature of "lone," 
and in 1 845 she published in Boston a vol 
ume entitled Songs of our Land and other 
Poems, which confirmed the high opinions 



which had been formed of her abilities from 
the fugitive pieces that had been popularly 
attributed to her. Her compositions in this 
collection show that she has a fine and 
well-cultivated understanding, informed 
with womanly feeling and a graceful fancy, 
and they are distinguished in an unusual 
degree for lyrical power and harmony as 
well as for sweetness of versification. 

Among the more recent productions of 
Mrs. Stebbins are some pure translations, 
which illustrate her taste and learning 
and fine command of language. 



THE SONGS OF OUR LAND. 

YK say we sing no household songs, 

To children round our hearths at p ay ; 
No minstrelsy to us belongs, 

No legend of a bygone day 
No old tradition of the hil s 
Our giant land no memory fills : 

We have no proud heroic lay. 
Ye ask the time-worn storied page 
Ye ask the lore of other age, 

From us, a race of yesterday ! 

Of yore, in Britain s feudal halls, 

Where manv a storied trophy hung 
With shield and banner on the walls, 

The Bard s high harp was sternly strung 
In praise of war its fierce delights 
To " heroes of a hundred fights." 

The lofty sounding shell outrung ! 
Gone is the ancient Bardic race : 
Their song hath found perpetual place 

Their country s proud arphives among. 

The stirring Scottish border tale 

Pealed from the chords in chieftain s hall, 
The wild traditions of the Gael 

The wandering harper s lays recall. 
Bold themes, Germania, fire thy strings; 
And when the Marseillaise outrings, 

With patriot ardor thrills the Gaul : 
All have their legend and their song, 
Records of glory, feud, and wrong 

Of conquest wrought, and foeman s fall. 
Fond thought the Switzer s bosom fills 

When sounds the " Rans des Vaches" on high. ; 
A race as ancient as their hills 

Still echoes that wild mountain cry. 
He springs along the rocky height, 
He marks the lamriergeyer s flight. 



The startled chamois bounding by ; 
He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn ; 
He winds again the mountain horn, 

And loud the wakened Alps reply ! 

Our fathers bore from Albion s isle 
. No stories of her sounding lyres : 
They left the old baronial pile 

They left the harp of ringing wires. 
Ours are the legends still rehearsed, 
Ours are the songs that g adsome burst 

By a l your cot and palace fires : 
Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, 
Waves o er our ancient sepulchres, 

The sleeping ashes of our sires ! 

They left the gladsome Christmas chime, 

The yule fire, and the misletoe ; 
They left the vain, ungodly rhyme, 

For hymns the solemn paced and slow ; 
They left the mass, the stoled priest, 
The scarlet woman and the beast, 

For worship rude and altars low : 
Their land, with its dear memories fraught, 
They left for liberty of thought 

For stranger clime and savage foe. 

And forth they went nerved to forsake 

Home, and the chain they might not wear 
And woman s heart was strong to break 

The links of love that bound her there : 
Here, free to worship and believe, 
From many a log-built hut at eve 

Went up the suppliant voice of prayer. 
Is it not writ on history s page, 
That the strong hand grasped our heritage * 

Of the lion claimed his forest lair ! 

Our people raised no loud war songs, 
The shouted no fierce battle cry 

A bumng memory of their wrongs 
Lit up their path to victory 
157 



if) 9 



MARY E. ST EBB INS. 



With prayer to God to aid the right, 
The yeoman girded him for fight, 

To free the land he tilled, or die. 
They bore no proud escutcheoned shield, 
No blazoned banners to the field 

Naught but their watchword " Liberty !" 

Their sons when after-years shall fling 

O er these, romance when time hath cast 
The mighty shadow of his wing 

Between them and the storied past 
Will tell of foul oppression s heel, 
Of hands that bore the avenging steel, 

And battled sternly to the last 
By their hearth-fires on the free hill-side : 
So shall our songs, o er every tide, 

Swell forth triumphant on the blast ! 

E en now the word that roused our land 

Is calling o er the wave, " Awake !" 
And pealing on from strand to strand, 

Wherever ocean s surges break : 
Up to the quickened ear of toil 
It rises from the teeming soil, 

And bids the slave his bonds forsake. 
Hark ! from the mountains to the sea, 
The old world echoes " Liberty !" 

Till thrones to their foundations shake. 
And ye who idly set at naught 

The sacred boon in suffering won, 
Read o er our page with glory fraught, 

Nor scoff that we no more have done : 
Read how the nation of the free 
Hath carved her deeds in history, 

Nor count them bootless every one 
Deeds of our mighty men of old, 
Whose names stand evermore enrolled 

Beneath the name of Washington ! 
Oh, mine own fair and glorious land ! 

Did I not hold such faith in thee, 
As did the honored patriot band 

That bled to make thce great and free 
Did I not look to hear thee sung, 
To hear thy lyre yet proudly strung, 

Thou ne er had waked my minstrelsy : 
Arid I shall hear thy song resound, 
Till from his shackles man shall bound, 

And shout, exultant, " Liberty !" 

THE TWO VOICES. 

A VOICK went forth throughout the land, 

And an answering voice replied 
From the rock-piled mountain fastnesses 

To the surging ocean tide. 
And far the blazing headlands gleamed 

With their land-awakening fires ; 
A rid the hill-tops kindled, peak and height, 

With a hundred answering pyres. 
The quick youth snatrhed his father s sword, 

And the yeoman rose in might ; 
And the aged grandsire nerved him there 

For the stormy field of fight : 
And the hillmen left their grass-grown steeps, 

And their flocks and herds unkept ; 



And the ploughshare of the husbandman 
In the half-turned furrow slept. 

They wore no steel-wrought panoply, 
Nor shield nor morion gleamed ; 

Nor the flaunt of bannered blazonry 
In the morning sunlight streamed. 

They bore no marshalled, firm array 

Like a torrent on they poured, 
With the fire ock, and the mower s scythe, 

And the old forefathers sword. 
And again a voice went sounding on, 

And the bonfires streamed on high ; 
And the hill-tops rang to the headlands back, 

With the shout of victory ! 

So the land redeemed her heritage, 
By the free hand mailed in right, 

From the war-shod, hireling foeman s tread, 
And the ruthless grasp of might. 



THE AXE OF THE SETTLER. 

THOU conqueror of the wilderness, 

With keen and bloodless edge 
Hail ! to the sturdy artisan 

Who welded thee, bold wedge ! 
Though the warrior deem the weapon 

Fashioned only for the slave, 
Yet the settler knows thee mightier 

Than the tried Damascus glaive. 
While desolation marketh 

The course of foeman s brand, 
Thy strong blow scatters plenty 

And gladness through the land: 
Thou opest the soil to culture, 

To the sunlight and the dew ; 
And the village spire thou plantest 

Where of old the forest grew. 

When the broad sea rolled between them 

And their own far native land, 
Thou wert the faithful ally 

Of the hardy pilgrim band. 
They bore no warlike eagles, 

No banners swept the sky ; 
Nor the clarion, like a tempest, 

Swelled its fearful notes on high. 
But the ringing wild reechoed 

Thy bold, resistless stroke, 
Where, like incense, on the morning 

Went up the cabin smoke : 
The tall oaks bowed before thee, 

Like reeds before, the blast ; 
And the earth put forth in gladness 

Where the axe in triumph passed. 
Then hail ! thou noble conqueror, 

That, when tyranny oppressed, 
Hewed for our tathers from the wild 

A land wherein to rest : 
Hail, to the power that giveth 

The bounty of the soil, 
And freedom, and an honored name, 

To the hardy sons of toil ! 



MARY E. STEBBINS. 



159 



A THOUGHT OF THE PILGRIMS. 

How beauteous in the morning light, 

Bright glittering in her pride, 
Trimountain,* from her ancient height, 

Looks down upon the tide : 
The fond wind woos her from the sea, 
And ocean clasps her lovingly, 

As bridegroom clasps his bride. 

And out across the waters dark, 

Careering on their way, 
Full many a gal ant, home-bound bark 

Conies dashing up the bay : 
Their pennons float on morning s gale, 
The sun ight gilds each swelling sail, 

And flashes on the spray. 

Not thus toward fair New Eng and s coastj 

With eager-hearted crew, 
The pil rim-freighted, tempest-tost, 

And lonely May Flower drew : 
There was no hand outstretched to bless, 
No we come from the wilderness, 

To cheer her hardy few. 

But onward drove the winter clouds 

Athwart the darkening sky, 
And hoarsely through the stiffened shrouds 

The wind swept stormily ; 
While shrill from out the beetling rock, 
1 hat seemed the billows force to mock, 

Broke f rth the sea-gull s cry. 

God s blessing on their memories ! 

Those sturdy men and bo d, 
Who girt their hearts in righteousness, 

Like martyr saints of o d ; 
And mid oppression sternly sought, 
To hold the sacred boon of Thought 

In freedom uncontrolled. 

They left the old, ancestral hall 
The creed they might not own ; 

They left home, kindred, fortune, all 
Left glory and renown : 

For what to them was pride of birth, 

Or vv iat to them the pomp of earth, 
Who sought a heavenly crown 1 

Strong armed in faith they crossed the flood : 

Here, mid the forest fair, 
With axe and mattock, from the wood 

They laid broad pastures bare ; 
And with the ploughshare turned the plain, 
And p anted fields of yellow grain 

And built their dwc lings there. 

The pilgrim sires ! How from the night 

Of centuries dim and vast, 
It comes o er every hi 1 arid height 

That watchword from the past ! 
And old men s pulses quicker bound, 
And young hearts leap to hear the sound, 

As at the trumpet s blast. 

* Boston built upon three hill? was originallj named, 
by tin- early settlorc, "Trimountain." 



And though the Pilgrim s day hath set. 

Its glorious light remains 
Its beam refulgent lingers yet 

O er all New England s plains. 
Dear land ! though doomed from thee to part, 
The blood that warmed the Pilgrim s heart 

Swells proudly in my veins ! 

Go to the islands of the sea, 

Wherever man may dare 
Wherever pagan bows the knee, 

Or Christian bends in prayer 
To every shore that bounds the main, 
Wherever keel on strand hath lain 

New England s sons are there. 

Toil they for wealth on distant coast, 

Roam they from sea to sea : 
Self-exiled, still her children boast 

Their birthplace mong the free ; 
Or seek they fame on glory s track, 
Their hearts, like mine, turn ever back, 

New England, unto thee ! 



THE CITY BY THE SEA. 

CROWNED with the hoar of centuries, 

There, by the eternal sea, 
High on her misty cape she sits, 

Like an eagle fearless, free. 

And thus in olden time she sat, 

On that morn of long ago ; 
Mid the roar of Freedom s armament, 

And the war-bolts of her foe. 

Old Time hath reared her pillared walls, 

Her domes and turrets high : 
W T ith her hundred tall and tapering aspires, 

All flashing to the sky. 

Shall I not sing of thee, beloved 1 

My beautiful, my pride ! 
Thou that towerest in thy queenly grace, 

By the tributary tide. 

There, swan-like crestest thou the waves 
That, enamored, round thee swell 

Fairer than Aphrodit , couched 
On her foam-wreathed ocean shell. 

Oh, ever, mid this restless hum 

Resounding from the street, 
Of the thronging, hurrying multitude, 

And the tread of stranger feet 

My heart turns back to thee mine own ! 

My beautiful, my pride ! 
W 7 ith thought of thy free ocean wind, 

And the clasping, fond old tide 

W T ith all thy kindred household smokes, 

Upwreathing far away ; 
And the merry bells that pealed as now 

On my grandsire s wedding-day : 

To those green graves and truthful heart* 

Oh, city by the sea ! 
My heritage, and priceless dower, 

My beautiful,. J n thee ! 



MARY E. STEBBIXS. 



TUB SUNFLOWER TO THE SUN. 

HVMKTTTS hees are out on filmy wing, 

Dim Phosphor slowly fades adown the west, 
And Earth awakes. Shine on me, oh my king! 

For I with dew am laden and oppressed. 
Long through the misty clouds of morning gray 

The flowers have watched to hail thee from yon 
Sad Asphodel, that pines to meet thy ray, [sea: 

And Juno s roses, pale for love of thee. 
Perchance thou dalliest with the Morning Hour, 

Whose blush is reddening now the eastern wave ; 
Or to Lie c.oud for ever leav st thy flower, 

Wiled by the glance white-footed Thetis gave. 

I was a proud Chaldean monarch s child !* 

Euphrates waters told me I was fair 
And thou, Thessa ia s shepherd, on me smiled, 

And likened to thine own my amber hair. 
Thou art my life sustain er of my spirit ! 

Leave me not then in darkness here to pine; 
Other hearts love thee, yet do they inherit 

A passionate devotedness like mine ] 

But lo ! thou lift st thy shield o er yonder tide : 

The gray clouds fly before the conquering Sun ; 
Thou like a monarch up the heavens dost ride 

And, joy ! thou beamst on me, celestial one ! 
On me, thy worshipper, thy poor Parsee, 

Whose brow adoring types thy face divine 
God of my burning heart s idolatry, 

Take root like me, or give me life like thine ! 



THE LAST CHANT OF CORINNE. 

BY that mysterious sympathy which chaineth 

For evermore my spirit unto thine ; 
And by the memory, that alone remaineth, 

Of that sweet hope that now no more is mine; 
And by the love my trembling heart betrayeth, 

That, born of thy soft gaze, within me lies; 
As the lone desert-bird, the Arab sayeth, 

Warms her young brood to life with her fond eyes : 
Hoar me, adored one ! though the world divide us, 

Though never more my hand in thine be pressed, 
Though t > commingle thought be here denied us, 

Till our high hearts shall beat themselves to rest ; 
Forget me not, forget me not ! oh, ever 

J his one, one prayer, my spirit pours to thee ; 
Ti!l every memory from earth shall sever, 

Remember, oh, beloved ! remember me ! 
And when the light within mine eye is shaded, 

When I, o erwearied, sleep the sleep profound, 
And like that nymph of yore who drooped and faded, 

And pined for love, till she became a sound ; 
My song, perchance, awhile to earth remaining, 

Shall come in murmured melody to thee: 
Then let my lyre s deep, passionate complaining, 

Cry to thy heart, beloved" Remember me !" 

*( !y -la, .hm-hrer of Orchnmus kin- of Babvlon, w 
l.e )v,.,l l,y Apollo; but the eod deserting her she nii 
away !, c- .nnnually .azuu on tl, ,un. and was 

"" which mr 



GREEN PLACES IN THE CITY. 

YE fill my heart with gladness, verdant places, 

That mid the city greet me where I pass ; 
Methinks I see of angel-steps the traces 

Where er upon my pathway springs the grass. 
I pause before your gates at early morning, 

When lies the sward with glittering sheen o er- 

spread ; 
And think the dewdrops there each blade adorning, 

Are angels tears for mortal frailty shed. 

And ye, earth s firstlings, here in beauty springing, 

Erst in your cells by careful Winter nursed 
And to the morning heaven your incense flinging, 

As at His smile ye forth in gladness burst 
How do ye cheer with hope my lonely hour, 

W T hen on my way I tread despondingly, 
With thought that He who careth for the flower, 

Will, in his mercy, still remember me ! 

Breath of our nostrils Thou ! whose love embraces, 

Whose light shall never from our souls depart, 
Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis 

Amid the arid desert of my heart. 
Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise, 

And with fresh leaves in spring-time deck the tree ; 
That where man s hand hath shut out Nature from 

We, by these glimpses, may remember Thee ! [us, 



CAMEOS. 

HEKCULES AXD OMPHALE. 

RECLINED enervate on the couch of ease, 
No more he pants for deeds of high emprise ; 
For Pleasure holds in soft, voluptuous ties 

Enthralled, great Jove-descended Hercules. 

The hand that bound the Erymanthian boar, 
Hesperia s dragon slew, with bold intent 
That from his quivering side in triumph rent 

The skin the Cieonsean lion wore, 

Holds forth the goblet while the Lydian queen, 
Rob d like a nymph, her browenvvreath d with vine, 
Lifts high the amphora, brimmed with rosy wine, 

Arid pours the draught the crowned cup within. 

And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway, 

Its worth forsakes its might forgoes for aye. 



TITTOS CHATXED IX TARTARUS. 

OH, wondrous marvel of the sculptor s art! 
Whatcumiinghand hath cull d thee from themine. 
And carved thee into life, with skill divine ! 
How claims in thee Humanity a part 
Seems from the gem the form enchained to start, 
While thus with fiery eye, and outspread wings, 
The ruthless vulture to his victim clings, 
With whetted beak deep in the quivering heart. 
Oh, thou embodied meaning, master-wrought ! 
Thus taught the sage, how, sunk in crime and sin, 
The soul a prey to conscience, writhes within 
Its fleshly bonds enslaved : thus ever, Thought, 
The breast s keen torturer, remorseful tears 
At life, the hell whose chain the soul in anguish 
wears ! 



MARY E. STEBBIXS. 



1G1 



A YARN. 

u Tis Saturday night, and our watch be^w 
What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, 
While our cans are brimmed with the spark ing flow: 
Come, Jack uncoil, as we pass the grog, 
And spin us a yarn from memory s log." 

Jack s brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, 
While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved; 
And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeve 
Across his mouth, as he drained the can, 
And thus to his listening mates began : 

When I sailed a boy. in the schooner Mike, 
No bigger, I trow, than a marlinspike 
But I ve to d ye the tale ere now, belike ?" 
"Go on !" each voice reechoed, 
And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said : 

"A stanch-built craft as the waves e er bore 
We had loosed our sails for home once more, 
Freighted full deep from Labrador, 
When a cloud one night rose on our lee, 
That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see. 

And voices wild with the winds were blent, 
As our bark her prow to the waters bent ; 
And the seamen muttered their discontent 
Muttered and nodded ominously 
But the mate, right carelessly whistled he. 

1 Our bark may never outride the ga 1 ^ 

Tis a pitiless night ! the pattering hail 

Hath coated each spar as t were in mail ; 

And our sails are riven before the breeze, 

While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze ! 

Thus spake the skipper beside the mast, 
While the arrowy s eet fell thick and fast ; 
And our bark drove onward before the blast 
That goaded the waves, till the angry main 
Rose up and strove with the hurricane. 

Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay 
Shall we at this hour to fear give way ] 
We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray : 
Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail, 
That flutters in ribands before the gale ! 

Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek 
Save, save ! we are sinking ! A leak ! a leak ! 
And the hale old skipper s tawny cheek 
Was cold, as twere sculptured in marble there, 
And white as the foam, or his own white hair. 

The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud 
It shrieked mong the cordage, it howled in the 

shroud ; 

And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud : 
But hi_rh over all, in tones of glee, 
The voice of the mate rang cheerily 

Now, men, for your wives and your sweethearts 

sakes ! 

Choer, messmates, cheer ! quick ! man the brakes ! 
We ll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes; 
And though our peril your hearts appal, 
Ere dawns the morrow we 11 laugh at the 

squall. 



He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats, 
He played with his fingers like castanets: 
Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgets 
That the plank he is riding this hour at sea, 
May launch him the next to eternity ! 

The white-haired skipper turned away, 
And lifted his hands, as it were to pray ; 
But his look spoke plainly as look could say, 
The boastful thought of the Pharisee 
Thank God, I m not hardened as others be ! 

But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, 
And the winds, o erwearied, forbore to blow ; 
And our bark lay there in the golden glow 
Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine, 
An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine. 

Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun 
The cold and the tempest their work had done, 
And I was the last, lone, living one, 
Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck, 
W T hile the dead around me bestrewed the deck. 

Yea, the dead were round me every whet e ! 
The skipper gray, in the sunlight there, 
Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer ; [leapt, 
And the mate, whose tones through the darkness 
In the silent hush of the morning, slept. 

Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save 
Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave, 
And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave : 
Crying, Messmates cheer ! with a bright,glad smile, 
And praying, Be merciful, God ! the while. 

True to his trust, to his last chill gasp, 
The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp 
You might scarcely in death undo the clasp : 
And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin, 
And the icicles hung from his bearded chin. 

My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale 
And when life s tempests this hulk assail, 
And the binnacle lamp in my breast burns pale, 
Cheer, messmates, cheer to my heart I say, 
< We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray ! " 



IMITATION OF SAPPHO. 

IF to repeat thy name when none may hear me, 
To find thy thought with all my thoughts inwove, 

To languish where thou rt not to sigh when neai 
Oh, if this be to love thee, 1 do love ! [thee : 

If when thou utterest low words of greeting, 
To feel through every vein the torrent pour; 

Then back again the hot tide swift retreating, 
Leave me all powerless, silent as before : 

If to list breathless to thine accents falling, 
Almost to pain, upon my eager ear 

And fondly when alone to be recalling 
The words that I would die again to hear : 

If neath thy glance my heart all strength forsaking, 
Pant in my breast as pants the frighted dove 

If to think on thee ever, keeping waking- 
Oh ! if this be to love thee. I do love 



162 



MARY E. STEBBIXS. 



LOVE S PLEADING. 

SPKAK tender words, mine own beloved, to me 

Call me thy lily thy imperial one, 
That, like the Persian, breathes adoringly 

Its train-ant worship ever to the sun. 

Speak tender words, lest doubt with me prevail : 

Call me thy rose thy queen rose ! throned apart, 
That all unheedful of the nightingale, 

Fo ds close the dew within her burning heart. 
For thou rt the sun that makes my heaven fair, 

Thy love, the blest dew that sustains me here; 
A IK! like the plant that hath its root in air, 

I only live within thy atmosphere. 

L -ok on me with those soul-illumined eyes, 

And murmur low in love s entrancing tone 
Methinks the angel-lute of paradise 

Had never voice so thri ling as thine own ! 
Say I am dearer to thee than renown, 

My praise more treasured than the world s acclaim: 
Ca:l me thy laure thy victorious crown, 

Wreathed in unfading g ory round thy name. 
Breathe low to me each pure, enraptured thought, 

While thus thy arms my trusting heart entwine : 
Call me by all fond meanings love hath wrought, 

But oh, Ian this, ever call me thine ! 



THE HEARTH OF HOME. 

THE storm around my dwelling sweeps, 
And while the boughs it fiercely reaps, 
My heart within a vigil keeps, 

The warm and cheering hearth beside; 
And as I mark the kind. ing glow 
Bright y o er a l its radiance throw, 
Back to the years my memories flow, 

When Rome sat or, her hills in pride ; 
When every stream, and grove, and tree, 
And fountain, had its deity. 

The hearth was then, mong low and great, 

Unto the Lares consecrate : 

The youth, arrived to man s estate, 

There offered up his golden heart ; 
Thither, when overwhelmed with dread, 
The stranger still for refuge fled 
Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed, 

Till he might fearless thence depart: 
And there the slave, a slave no more, 
Hung reverent up the chain he wore. 
Full many a change the hearth hath known; 
The Druid fire, the curfew s tone, 
The log that bright at yule-tide shone, 

The merry sports of Hallow-e en: 
Yft sti.l where er a home is found, 
Gather the warm affections round, 
And there the notes of mirth resound 

The voice of wisdom heard between : 
And welcomed there with words of grace, 
The stranger finds a resting place. 
Oh, wheresoe er our feet may roam, 
Still sacred is the hearth of home ; 



Whether beneath the princely dome, 

Or peasant s lowly roof it be, 
For home the wanderer ever yearns ; 
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns, 
Like to the wife of old, he turns 

Fondly the eyes of memory : 
Back where his heart he offered first 
Back where his fair, young hopes he nursed. 

My humble hearth though all disdain, 
Here may I cast aside the chain 
The world hath coldly on me lain 

Here to my Lares offer up 
The warm prayer of a grateful heart : 
Thou that my household Guardian art, 
That dost to me thine aid impart, 

And with thy mercy fill st my cup 
Strengthen the hope within my soul, 
Till I in faith may reach the goal ! 



THE LAUNCH. 

A SOUND through old Trimountain went, 

A voice to great and small, 
That told of feast and merriment, 

And welcome kind to all : 
And there was gathering in the hall, 

And gathering on the strand ; 
And many a heart beat anxiously 

That morning, on the sand : 

For tis the morn when ocean tide, 

An hundred tongues record, 
Shall wed the daughter of the oak 

The mighty forest lord. 

They dressed the bride in streamers gay, 

Her beauty to enhance ; 
And o er her hung Columbia s stars, 

And the tri-fold flag of France ; 
They decked her prow with rare device 

With wealth of carving good ; 
And they girt her with a golden zone, 

The maiden of the wood. 

The gay tones of the artisan 

Fell lightly on the ear, 
And sound of vigorous hammer stroke 

Rang loudly out and clear ; 
And stout arms swayed the ponderous sledge, 

While a shout the hills awoke, 
As forth to meet the bridegroom flood 

Swept the daughter of the oak. 

And bending to the jewelled spray 

That rose her step to greet, 
She dashed aside the vesty waves 

That gathered round her feet; 
And down her path right gracefully, 

The queenly maiden pressed, 
Till the royal ocean clasped her form 

To his broad and heaving breast. 

God guide thee o er the trackless deep, 

My brother brave and true ; 
God speed the good Damascus well, 

And shield her daring crew ! 



MARY E. STEBBIXS. 



163 



THE ODE OF HAROLD THE VALIANT. 

I Min the hills was horn, 

Where the skilled bowmen 
Send, with unerring shaft, 

Death to the foemen. 
But I love to steer my bark 

To fear a stranger 
Over the Maelstrom s edge, 

Daring the danger ; 
And where the mariner 

Paleth affrighted, 
Over the sunken rocks 
I dash on delighted. 

The far waters know my keel 

No tide restrains me ; 
But ah ! a Russian maid 
Coldly disdains me. 

Once to Sicilia s isle 

Voyaged T, unfearing: 
Conflict was on my prow, 

Glory was steering. 
Where fled the stranger-ship 

Wildly before me, 
Down, like the hungry hawk, 

My vessel bore me ; 
We carved on the craven s deck 

The red runes of slaughter: 
When my bird whets her beak, 

Our spears give no quarter ! 

The far waters know my keel, &c. 

Countless, like spears of grain, 

Were the warriors of Drontheim, 
When like the hurricane 

I swept down upon them ! 
Like chaff beneath the flail 

They fell in their numbers 
Their king with the golden hair 

I sent to his slumbers. 

I love the combat fierce, &c. 

Once o er the Baltic sea 

Swift we were dashing ; 
Bright on our twenty spears 

Sunlight was flashing ; 
When through the Skagerack 

The storm-wind was driven, 
And from our bending mast 

The broad sail was riven : 
Then, while the angry brine 

Foamed like a flagon, 
Brim full the yesty rhime 

Filled our brown dragon; 
But I, with sinewy hand, 

Strengthened in slaughter, 
Forth from the straining ship 

Bailed the dun water : 

I love the combat fierce, <fec 

Firmly I curb my steed, 

As e er Thracian horseman ; 

My hand throws the javelin true, 
Pride of the Norseman ; 

And the bold skaiter marks, 
While his lips quiver, 



Where o er the bending ice 

I skim the strong river. 
Forth to my rapid oar 

The boat swiftly springeth 
Springs like the mettled steed 
When the spur stingeth. 
Valiant I am in fight, 

No fear restrains me, &c, 

Saith she, the maiden fair, 

The Norsemen are cravens? 
I in the Southland gave 

A feast to the ravens ! 
Green lay the sward outspread, 

The bright sun was o er us, 
When the strong fighting men 

Rushed down before us. 
Midway to meet the shock 

My fleet courser bore me, 
And like Thor s hammer crashed 

My strong hand before me ! 
Left we their maids in tears, 

Their city in embers: 
The sound of the Viking s spears 

The Southland remembers ! 
I love the combat fierce, &c. 

LAY. 

A LAY of love ! ask yonder sea 

For wealth its waves have closed upon 
A song from stern Thermopylae 
A battle-shout from Marathon ! 
Look on my brow ! Reveals it naught 1 

It hideth deep rememberings, 
Enduring as the records wrought 

Within the tombs of Egypt s kings! 
Take thou the harp I may not sing 

Awake the Teian lay divine, 
Till fire from every glowing string 
Shall mingle with the flashing wine! 

The Theban lyre but to the sun 

Gave forth at morn its answering tone : 
So mine but echoed when the one, 

One sunlit glance was o er it thrown. 
The Memnon sounds no more ! my lyre 

A veil upon thy strings is flung: 
I may not wake the chords of fire 
The words that burn upon my tongue. 
Fill high the cup ! I may not sing 

My hands the crowning buds will twine 
Pour till the wreath I o er it fling 
Shall mingle with the rosy wine. 

No lay of love ! the lava-stream 

Hath left its trace on heart and brain ! 
No more no more ! the maddening theme 

Will wake the slumbering fires again ! 
Fling back the shroud on buried years 

Hail, to the ever-blooming hours! 
We ll fill Time s glass with ruby tears, 

And twine his bald, old brow with flowers! 
Fill high ! fill high ! I may not sing 

Strike forth the Teian lay divine, 
Till fire from every glowing string 
Shall mingle with the flashing wine! 



SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 



Miss SUSAN REBECCA AYER, now Mrs. 
BARNES, is a daughter of the Hon. Richard 
H. Aver, of the city of Manchester, in New 
Hampshire. Her family has furnished sev 
eral names distinguished in public affairs and 
in literature. Mr. John Greene, the banker, 
of Paris, is her maternal uncle, and the ac 
complished scholar and writer, Mr. Nathan 
iel Greene, of Boston, is nearly related to her. 



Her associations have therefore been preemi 
nently favorable to the cultivation of her abil 
ities. Her poems are marked by many feli 
cities of expression ; and they frequently cc m- 
bine a masculine vigor of style with tender 
ness and a passionate earnestness of feeling. 
Mrs. Barnes now resides with her father, in 
Manchester. Her native place is Hooksett, 
in the same state. 



IMALEE: 

AN EASTERN LEGEND 

SHRINED in the bosom of the Indian sea, 
Where ceaseless Summer smiles perpetually, 
A festal glory o er the tropic thrown, 
To other lands and other climes unknown 
By friends untrodden, un profaned by foes, 
The bright isle of the Indian god arose. 
There waving mid a wilderness of green, 
The palm-tree spread its leaf of glossy sheen ; 
The tamarind blossom floating on the gale, 
Bore breathing odors to the passing sail; 
The banyan s broad, interminable shade 
A bower of bright, perennial beauty made ; 
And from the rock s deep cleft, by Nature nurst, 
The tropic s floral wealth in sp endor burst. 
It seemed that Nature, revelling in bloom, 
Here claimed exemption from the general doom : 
Perpetual verdure o er the seasons reigned, 
Perpetual beauty every sense enchained ; 
And here the Indian, Nature s untaught child, 
The simple savage of a sunny wild, 
Deemed that the spirit whom he worshipped dwelt, 
And here at eve in adoration knelt 
The Indian maiden sacred to the power 
So deeply reverenced, day s departing hour 

The shadows deepen o er the summer sea, 
The breeze is up the ripple murmurs free ; 
A single sail in the dim distance holds 
Its onward course, though twilight s darkening folds, 
Descending, deepening, veil the lessening prow; 
And now it nears the sacred isle, and now 
A single, solitary form is seen 
A fearless foot hath pressed the yielding green ! 
And Ima!ee, the dark-browed Indian maid, 
At this dim hour, unshrinking, undismayed, 
With step that borrows firmness from despair 
With eye that tells what woman s soul will dare, 
When wars the spirit in its prisoned home, 
Till Keason yielding, trembles on her throne 
Hath sought the shrine, unmindful of the hour, 
To hold dark commune with an unknown power. 



Around, a paradise of bloom is shed ; 
The cocoa breathes its blossoms o er her head ; 
The scarlet bombex clusters at her feet, 
And bloom and fragrance unregarded meet ; 
While heavy with the glittering dews of night, 
The leaf is greener and the flower more bright. 

The maiden hung her wreath upon the shrine, 
An offering to the power she deemed divine, 
When soft and low a breathing whisper came 
That thrilled through every fibre of her frame; 
That spirit-voice all tremulous she hears 
" Within thy wreath a withered rose appears !" 

" There is there is fit emblem of my heart ; 
Oh, Power benign ! thine influence impart 
To raise, restore, and renovate for me, 
That withered flower, or bid its memory flee ! 
I flung it from me in an idle hour, 
In the first dream of conscious maiden power : 
That dream is o er, and I have lived to wake, 
To wish my bursting heart indeed might break !" 

Again that voice is stealing on her ear, 
That spirit-voice, but not in tones of fear ; 
It murmurs in a soft, familiar tone, 
It thrills he; heart, but why, she dares not own : 
Her head is raised, her cheek like sunset glows ; 
Again it breathes, " Wilt thou restore the. rose T* 
And mid the waving foliage s deepening green 
A well remembered form is dimly seen. 

That eve it had been hers unmoved to mark 
The shadows deepening round her lonely bark ; 
A darker shadow brooded o er her rest, 
A deeper desolation veiled her breast ; 
And she who had in tearless sadness sought 
The haunted shade where godsand demons wrought, 
And there unmoved her fearful vigil kept, 
Now bowed her head, and like an infant wept. 

Abroad once more upon the starlit sea, 
The sounding surge is musical to thee ; 
The deepening shadows lose their ghastly gloom, 
The distant shades are redolent of bloom ; 
The sky is cloudless and the air is balm, 
The tropic night s pecu iar, breathing calm 
Bright Irnalee, tis thine once more to own, 
Abroad upon the wave BUT XOT ALOXE. 
164 



SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 



J65 



THE ARMY OF THE CROSS. 

IT must have been a glorious sight, 

And one which to behold 
Would stir the sternest spirit s depths, 

Those armed bands of old ! 
The glittering panoply of proof, 

The helmet and the shield, 
The spear and ponderous battle-axe, 

Which only they could wield ! 

The knightly daring high resolve, 

Engraven on each brow, 
The manly form of iron mould 

Methinks I see them now, 
As fresh and vividly they rise, 

To bid the bosom glow, 
As when they burst upon the eye 

A thousand years ago ! 

And neath that burning Syrian sun, 

Far as the eye can measure, 
Prepared to pour like water forth 

Their life-blood and their treasure 
Those banded legions pressing on, 

The red-cross banner flying, 
And thousands seeking neath that sign 

The glorious need of dying! 

Oh holy, pure, and heartfelt zeal, 

Misguided though thou be, 
There still is something heavenly bright 

And beautiful in thee ! 
And He who judges not as man, 

Tis his alone to try thee, 
And thou wilt meet that grace from him 

Thy brother would deny thee. 

Assailed without, begirt within 

By those who hate and fear thee, 
Though Danger lurks within thy path, 

And Death is busy near thee 
As reckless of continual toil 

As if that frame were iron, 
A glorious destiny is thine, 

Undaunted Coeur de Lion ! 

God speed thee on thine enterprise, 

Lord of the lion heart ; 
Go mid " the rapture of the strife" 

Enact thy princely part : 
Do battle with the infidel, 

And smite his haughty brow, 
And plant the standard of the cross 

Where waves the crescent now ! 

The blood of the Plantagenets 

Is bounding in thy veins, 
The soul of the Plantagenets 

Within thy bosom reigns ; 
And deeds that breathe of future fame, 

And deathless meed assign, 
Desires not conquest e en can tame, 

And beauty s smile, are thine ! 

The story of thy knightly faith, 

As ages roll along, 
Shall brighten o er the poet s page, 

And wake the minstrel s song : 



Ay to the tale of high emprise, 
The daring deed and bold, 

The spirit leaps as wildly now 
As in those davs of old ! 



PENITENCE. 

THOU art not penitent, although 

There rages in thy brain 
A scorching madness undefined, 

Whose very breath is flame. 
Thou art not penitent : alas ! 

The world hath wounded thee, 
And thou in anguish ill concealed 

Art fain to turn and flee. 

Thou hast in Pleasure s maddening cup 

That cup too deeply quaffed 
The pearl of thy existence thrown, 

And drained it at a draught ! 
Unmourned and unrepressed, behold 

Life s energies decline 
Worn, wasted in unholy fires : 

And what reward is thine ! 

The world, once worshipped, spurns thee now 

Rejects thee casts thee hence 
And thou art nursing injured pride, 

And dreamst of penitence ! 
Let but the temptress smile again, 

Thou wouldst her influence own, 
Forgetting in that charmed embrace 

The evil thou hadst known. 

Thou bringest not a broken heart 

To offer at the throne 
Of Him who has in love declared 

The broken heart his own. 
Thy heart is hard thou who hast long 

The path of error trod ; 
Deemst thou that weak and wicked thing 

An offering meet for God 1 
Go, if thou canst, when Flattery s voice 

Is stealing on thine ear 
In tones so sweet, an angel might, 

Forgetting, turn to hear 
Go, rather list the voice within, 

And bow beneath the rod, 
And recognise with soul subdued 

The chastening of thy God ! 
Go to the wretch who may have wrought 

Irreparable ill, 
To thee, or those more deeply dear, 

More fondly cherished still ; 
Approach, though it may seem like death 

To look on him, and live, 
And while Revenge is wooing thee, 

Say firmly, " I forgive." 
Go, when to deep idolatry 

Thy heart is darkly prone 
That heart whose steadfast hope should still 

Be fixed on God alone : 
Go, rend the image from its shrine, 

And hurl the idol hence, 
And bring it bleeding back to Him r 

This this is penitence I 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 

(Born 1813). 



MRS, WHITMAN is a native of Providence. 
Her father., the late Mr. Nicholas Power, a 
merchant of that city, was a lineal descend 
ant of that Nicholas Power who accompanied 
Roger Williams in his banishment, and as 
sisted him in establishing the first of govern 
ments which claimed no authority over the 
conscience. The founder of her family in 
Rhode Island appears to have been worthy of 
his fraternity with the new Baptist, preaching 
the gospel of liberty in the wilderness, and the 
Massachusetts General Court made him feel 
the weight of its displeasure for advancing so 
much faster than itself in civilization. 

Miss Power married at an early age Mr. 
John Winslow Whitman, a son of Mr. Kil- 
born Whitman, an eminent citizen of Mas 
sachusetts, and a descendant from Edward 
WinslovA, the first governor of Plymouth. 
Mr. Whitman s childhood was passed with 
his grandfather, Dr. Isaac Winslow, upon 
the only estate which at that time remained 
by uninterrupted transmission in the families 
of the Pilgrims. Mrs. Whitman has pub 
lished an interesting account of a visit to the 
old mansion, soon after the death of Dr. Wins- 
low, while it was still graced with the rich 
ly-carved oaken chairs and massive tables 
brought over in the May Flower, and its ven 
erable walls were decorated with the family 
portraits, that have since been deposited in 
the halls of the Antiquarian and Historical 
Societies of Massachusetts. 

Mr. Whitman was graduated at Brown 
University, and, after completing his studies 
in the law, began to practise in the courts of 
Boston, where his fine abilities gave promise 
of a brilliant career ; but a lingering illness 
s )on compelled him to abandon his profes 
sion, and after a brief union his wife re 
turned, a widow, to the house of her mother, 
iu her native city. 

From this period she has devoted her time 
chiefly to literary studies. To a knowledge 
of the best English authors she has added a 
familiarity with the languages and literatures 
of (lermany, Italy, and France. Shehasgiv- 
nn her most loving attention to the poets, 
critic? and philosophers, of the first of these 



countries, who have in a larger degree tha 
any others formed her own tastes and opin 
ions. These are exhibited in several striking 
and brilliant papers in the periodicals ; and 
particularly in her article on Goethe s Con 
versations with Eckermann, in the Boston 
Quarterly Review, for January, 1840, and in 
her notice of Emerson s Essays, in the Dem 
ocratic Review, for June, 1845. 

Of the poems of Mrs. Whitman, one enti 
tied Hours of Life contains probably the finest 
passages, though it is perhaps somewhat too 
mystical and metaphysical to be very popular. 
This has not been printed. The most care 
fully elaborated of her published poems are 
three Fairy Ballads The Golden Ball, The 
Sleeping Beauty, and Cinderilla in the com 
position of which she has been assisted by 
her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power. To 
these are prefixed the lines of Burns: 

" Full oft the Muse, as frugal housewives do, 
Gars auld claes look amaist us wool as new." 

Nothingcan be finer in its way than the Sleep 
ing Beauty of Tennyson, but that brilliant po 
et has given only an episode of the beautiful 
legend, which is here presented with so much 
clearness of narrative, propriety of illustra 
tion, and splendor of coloring. Cinderilla is 
longer than the Sleeping Beauty, to the som 
bre character of which its polished and glow 
ing vivacity presents a pleasing contrast. 

Mrs. Whitman s poems all betray the lux 
uriant delight with which she abandons her 
self to her inspirations. The silvery sweet 
ness and clearness of her versification, the 
varied modulations of emphasis and cadence, 
the many nice adaptations of sound to sense, 
would alone entitle her poems to lank among 
our most exquisite lyrics ; but these subtle 
intertwinings and linked harmonies of her 
style are ennobled by thoughts full of origi 
nality and beauty, and enriched by illustra 
tions drawn from a wide range of literary cul 
ture. She has not only the artist eye which 
sees at a glance all that outline and color can 
express, but she gives us the breathing per 
fumes, the atmospheric effects, and the spir 
itual character, of the scenes that live in her 
numbers. lgg 



y 





SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



167 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY: 

A TALE OF FORESTS AND ENCHANTMENTS DREAR. 

// PctiScrM.,. 
Si-ter, tis the noon of night ! 

Lei us, in tlie web of thought. 
We ive the threads of ancient song, 

From the realms of F.iiiie.s brought. 
Thou shall stain the dusky warp 



In niglit.-hiide wet with 



t dew: 



I, with streaks of morning -old, 
Will strike tlie fabric Uiraufb and through. * 

WHKHE a lone castle by the sea 

Upreared its dark and mouldering pile, 
Far seen, with all its frowning towers, 

For many and many a weary mile ; 
The wild waves beat the castle walls, 

And bathed the rock with ceaseless showery 
The winds roared fiercely round the pile, 

And moaned along its mouldering towers. 
Within those wide and echoing halls, 

To guard her fro.n a fatal spell, 
A maid of noble lineage born 

Was doomed in solitude to dwell. 
Five fairies graced the infant s birth 

With fame and beauty, wealth and power; 
The sixth , by one fell stroke, reversed 

The lavish splendors of her dower. 
Whene er the orphan s lily hand 

A spindle s shining point should pierce, 
She swore upon her magic wand, 

The maid shou d sleep a hundred years. 
The wild waves beat the east e wall, 

And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers ; 
Dark, heaving billows plunge and fall 

In whitening foam beneath the towers. 
There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves, 

In youthful grace the maiden grew, 
And from her so itary dreams 

A sweet and pensive pleasure drew. 
Yet often, from her lattice high, 

She gazed athwart the gathering night, 
To mark the sea-gulls wheeling by, 

And longed to follow in their flight. 
One winter night, beside the hearth 

She sat and watched the smouldering fire, 
While now the tempests seemed to lull, 

And now the winds rose high and higher 
Strange sounds are heard along the wall, 

Dim faces glimmer through the gloom 
And still mysterious voices call, 

And shadows flit from room to room 
Till, bending o er the dying brands, 

She chanced a sudden gleam to see : 
She turned the sparkling embers o er, 

And lo ! she finds a golden key ! 
Lured on, as by an unseen hand, 

She roamed the castie o er and o er 
Through many a darkling chamber sped, 

And many a dusky corridor : 
And still, through unknown, winding ways 

She wandered on for many an hour, 
For gallery still to gallery leads, 

Arid tower succeeds to tower. 
Oft, wearied with the steep ascent, 

She lingered on her lonely way, 
And paused beside the pictured walls, 

* This is a joint production of Mrs. Whitman and her sis 
ter, Miss Tower. ;is before stated. 



Their countless wonders to survey. 
At length, upon a narrow stair 

That wound within a turret high, 
She saw a little low-browed door, 

And turned, her golden key to try : 
Slowly, beneath her trembling hand, 

The bolts recede, and, backward flung, 
With harsh recoil and sullen clang 

The door upon its hinges swung. 
There, in a little moonlit room, 

She sees a weird and withered crone, 
\V ho sat and spun amid the gloom, 

And turned her wheel with drowsy drone 
With mute amaze and wondering awe, 

A passing moment stood the maid, 
Then, entering at the narrow door, 

More near the mystic task surveyed. 
She saw her twine the flaxen fleece, 

She saw her draw the flaxen thread, 
She viewed the spind e s shining point, 

And, pleased, the novel task surveyed. 
A sudden longing seized her breast 

To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel : 
She stretched her lily hand, and pierced 

Her finger with the shining steel ! 
Slowly her heavy eyelids close, 

She feels a drowsy torpor creep 
From limb to limb, till every sense 

Is locked in an enchanted sleep. 
A dreamless slumber, deep as night. 

In deathly trance her senses locked 
At once through all its massive vaults 

And gloomy towers the castle rocked: 
The beldame roused her from her lair, 

And raised on high a mournful wail 
A shrilly scream that seemed to float 

A requiem on the dying gale. 
"A hundred years shall pass," she said, 

"Ere those blue eyes behold the morn, 
Ere these deserted halls and towers 

Shall echo to a bugle-horn. 
A hundred Norland winters pass, 

While drenching rains and drifting snows 
Shall beat against the castle walls, 

Nor wake thee from thy long repose. 
A hundred times the golden grain 

Shall wave beneath the harvest moon, 
Twelve hundred moons shall wax and wane 

Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun !" 
She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme 

The long-resounding aisles prolong, 
And a!I the castle s echoes chime 

In answering cadence to her song. 
She bore the maiden to her bower, 

An ancient chamber wide and low, 
Where golden sconces from the wall 

A faint and trembling lustre throw ; 
A silent chamber, far apart, 

Where strange and antique arras hung, 
That waved along the mouldering walls, 

And in the gusty night wind swung 
She laid her on her ivory bed, 

And gently smoothed each snowy limb, 
Then drew the curtain s dusky fold 

To make the entering daylight dim. 



168 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



P.ART II. 

And all around, on every side, 
Throughout the castle s precincts wide, 

In every bower and hall, 
All slept: the warder in the court, 
The figures on the arra.* wrought, 

The steed within his stall. 
No more the watchdog hayed the moon, 
The owlet ceased her boding tune, 

The raven on his tower, 
All hushed in slumber still and deep, 
Enthralled in an enchanted sleep, 

Await the appointed hour. 
A pathless forest, wild and wide, 
Engirt the castle s inland side, 

And stretched for many a mile ; 
So thick its deep, impervious screen, 
The castle towers were dimly seen 

Above the mouldering pile. 
So high the ancient cedars sprung, 
So far aloft tlieir branches flung, 

So close the covert grew, 
No foot its si!ence could invade, 
No eye could pierce its depths of shade, 

Or see the welkin through. 
Yet oft, as from some distant mound 
The traveller cast his eyes around, 

O er wold and woodland gray, 
.He saw, athwart the glimmering light 
Of moonbeams, on a misty night, 

A castle far away. 

A hundred Norland winters passed, 

While drenching rains and drifting snows 
Beat loud against the castle walls, 

Nor broke the maiden s long repose. 
A hundred times on vale and hill 

The reapers bound the golden corn 
And now the ancient halls and towers 

Reecho to a bugle-horn ! 

A warrior from a distant land, 

With helm and hauberk, spear and brand. 

And high, untarnished crest, 
By visions of enchantment led, 
Hath vowed, before the morning s red, 

To break her charmed rest. 
From torrid clime beyond the main 
He comes the costly prize to gain, 

O er deserts waste and wide. 
No dangers daunt, no toils can tire; 
With throbbing heart and soul on fire 

He seeks his sleeping bride. 
He gains the old, enchanted wood, 
Where never mortal footsteps trod, 

He pierced its tangled gloom ; 
A dullness loads the lurid air, 
Where baleful swamp-fires gleam and glare, 

His pathway to illume. 
Weil might the warrior s courage fail, 
Well might his lofty spirit quail, 

On that enchanted ground ; 
No opHii foemun meets him there, 
Bui, borne upon the murky air, 

Strange horror broods around 
At everv turn nis footsteps sank 



Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank, 

For long and weary hours 
Till issuing from the dangerous wood, 
The castle full before him stood, 

With all its flanking towers! 
The moon a paly lustre sheds; 
Resolved, the grass-grown court he treads, 

The g oomy portal gained 
He crossed the threshold s magic hound, 
He paced the hall, where all around 

A deathly silence reigned. 
No fears his venturous course could stay 
Darkling he groped his dreary way 

Up the wide staircase sprang. 
It echoed to his mailed heel; 
With clang of arms and clash of steel 

The silent chambers rang. 
He sees a glimmering taper gleam 
Far off, with faint and trembling beam, 

Athwart the midnight gloom : 
Then first he felt the touch of fear, 
As with slow footsteps drawing near, 

He gained the lighted room. 
And now the waning moon was low, 
The perfumed tapers faintly glow, 

And, by their dying gleam, 
He raised the curtain s dusky fold, 
And lo ! his charmed eyes behold 

The lady of his dream ! 
As violets peep from wintry snows, 
Slowly her heavy lids unclose, 

And gently heaves her breast; 
But all unconscious was her gaze, 
Her eye with listless languor strays 

From brand to plumy crest : 
A rising blush begins to dawn 
Like that which steals at early morn 

Across the eastern sky ; 
And slowly, as the morning broke, 
The maiden from her trance awoke 

Beneath his ardent eye ! 
As the first kindling sunbeams threw 
Their level light athwart the dew, 

And tipped the hills with flame, 
The silent forest-boughs were stirred 
With music, as from bee and bird 

A mingling murmur came. 
From out its depths of tangled gloom 
There came a breath of dewy bloom, 

And from the valleys dim 
A cloud of fragrant incense stole, 
As if each violet breathed its soul 

Into that floral hymn. 
Loud neighed the steed within his stall, 
The cock crowed on the castle wall, 

The warder wound his horn ; 
The linnet sang in leafy bower, 
The swallows, twittering from the tower, 

Salute the rosy morn. 
But fresher than the rosy morn, 
And blither than the bugle-horn, 

The maiden s heart doth prove, 
Who, as her beaming eyes awake, 
Beholds a double morning break 

The dawn of light and love! 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



169 



LINES WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 

FAREWELL the forest shade, the twilight grove, 
The turfy path with fern and flowers inwove, 
Where through long summer days I wandered far, 
Till warned of evening by her " folding star." 
No more I linger by the fountain s play 
Where arching boughs shut out the sultry ray. 
Making at noontide hours a dewy gloom [bloom, 
O er the moist marge where weeds and wild flowers 
Til! from the western sun a glancing flood 
Of arrowy radiance filled the twilight wood, 
Glinting athwart each leafy, verdant fold, 
And flecking all the turf with drops of gold. 

Sweet sang the wild bird on the waving bough 
Where cold November winds are wailing now ; 
The chirp of insects on the sunny lea, 
And the wild music of the wandering bee, 
Are silent a 1 closed is their vesper lay, 
Borne by the breeze of autumn far away : 
Yet still the withered heath I love to rove, 
The bare, brown meadow, and the leafless grove ; 
Still love to tread the bleak hill s rocky side, 
Where nodding asters wave in purple pride, 
Or from its summit listen to the flow 
Of the dark waters booming far below. 
Still through the tangling, pathless copse I stray 
Where sere and rustling leaves obstruct the way, 
To find the last pale blossom of the year, 
That strangely blooms when a 1 is dark and drear: 
The wild, witch hazel, fraught with mystic power 
To ban or bless, as sorcery rules the hour. 
Then, homeward wending thro the dusky vale 
Where winding rills their evening damps exhale, 
Pause by the dark pool in whose sleeping wave 
Pale Dian loves her golden locks to lave 
In the hushed fountain s heart, serene and cold, 
Glassing her glorious image as of old, 
When first she stole upon Endymion s rest, 
And his young dreams with heavenly beauty blest. 

And thou, " stern ruler of the inverted year," 
Cold, cheerless Winter, hath thy wild career 
No sweet, peculiar pleasures for the heart, 
That can ideal worth to rudest forms impart] 
When, through thy long, dark nights, cold sleet and 
Patter and plash against the frosty pane, [rain 
Warm curtained from the storm, I love to lie 
Wakeful, and listening to the lullaby 
Of fitful winds, that, as they rise and fall, 
Send hollow murmurs through the echoing hall. 

Oft by the blazing hearth at eventide 
I love to mark the changing shadows glide 
In flickering motion o er the umbered wall, 
Till Slumber s honey dew my senses thrall. 
Then, while in dreamy consciousness I lie 
Twixt sleep and waking, fairy Fantasy 
Cul s from the golden past a treasured store, 
And weaves a dream so sweet, Hope could not ask 
for more. 

In the cold splendor of a frosty night, 
When blazing stars burn with intenser light 
Through the blue vault of heaven ; when cold and 

clear 

The air through which yon tall cliffs rise severe ; 
Or when the shrouded earth in solemn trance 



Sleeps neath the wan moon s melancholy glance, 
I love to mark earth s sister planets rise, 
And in pale beauty tread the midnight skies, 
Where, like lone pilgrims, constant as the night, 
They fill their dark urns from the fount of light. 

I lo\<* the JBorealis flames that fly 
Fitful and wild athwart the northern sky 
The storied constellation, like a page 
Fraught with the wonders of a former age, 
Where monsters grim, gorgons, and hydras, rise, 
And " gods and heroes blaze along the skies." 

Thus Nature s music, various as the hour, 
Solemn or sweet, hath ever mystic power 
Still to preserve the unperverted heart 
Awake to love and beauty to impart 
Treasures of thought and feeling pure and deep, 
That aid the doubting soul its heavenward course 
to keep. 



A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 

I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary 
In the soft light of an autumnal day, 

When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, 
And like a dream of beauty glides away. 

How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, 
Serenely smiling through the golden mist, 

Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers 
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst : 

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
To light the gloom of Autumn s mouldering halls 

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining 
Where o er the rock her withered garland falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 

Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, 
Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes raining 

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
The moist windsbreathe of crisped leaves and flowers 

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, 

Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, 
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow 

The gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound. 
Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, 

Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, 
Or with shut wings, through silken folds intruding, 

Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 

The little birds upon the hil side lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from from spray to spray, 

Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 

The scentless flowers in the warm sunlight dream- 
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight, [ing, 

And through the tranced woods soft airs are stream- 
Still as the dewfall of the summer night. [ing, 

So, in my heart a sweet, unwonted feeling, 
Stirs like the wind in ocean s hollow shell 

Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, 
Yet finds no word its mystic charm to tell. 



170 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



A GREEN AND SILENT SPOT AMONG | 
THE HILLS." 

IN the soft gloom of summer s balmy eve, 
When from the lingering glances of the . 5 un 
The sad Earth turns away her blushing cheek, 
Mant ing its glow in twilight s shadowy .eil, 
Oft mid the falling dews I love to stray 
Onward and onward through the pleasant fields, 
Far up the lilied borders of the stream, 
To this "green, silent spot among tl^e hi Is," 
Endeared by thronging memories of the past. 

Oft have I lingered on this rustic bridge 
To view the limpid waters winding on 
Under dim vaulted woods, whose woven boughs 
Of beech, and maple, and broad sycamore, 
Throw their soft, moving shadows o er the wave, 
While blossoaied vines, dropped to the water s brim, 
Hang idly swaying in the summer wind. 

The birds that wander through the twilight heaven 
Are mirrored far beneath me, and young leaves 
That tremble on the birch tree s silver boughs, 
In the cool wave reflected, gleam below 
Like twinkling stars athwart the verdant gloom. 

A sound of rippling waters rises sweet 
Amid the silence ; and the western breeze, 
Sighing through sedges and low meadow blooms, 
Comes wafting gentle though tsfrom Memory s land, 
And wakes the long hushed music of the heart. 

Oft dewy Spring hath brimmed the brook with 

showers ; 

Oft hath the long, bright Summer fringed its banks 
With breathing blossoms; and the Autumn sun 
Shed mellow hues o er all its wooded shores, 
Since first I trod these paths in youth s sweet prime, 
With loved ones whom Time s desolating wave 
Hath wafted now for ever from my side. 
The living stream still lingers on its way 
In idle dalliance with the dew lipped flowers 
That toss their pretty heads at its caress, 
Or trembling listen to its silver voice ; 
While through yon rifted boughs the evening star 
Is seen above the hilltop, beautiful 
As when on many a balmy summer night, 
Lapped in sweet dreams, in " holy passion hushed," 
I saw its ray slant through the tremb ing pines. 

Long years have passed : and by the unchanging 
Bereft and sorrow taught, alone I stand, [stream, 
Listening the hollow music of the wind. 
Alone alone ! the stars are far away, 
And frequent clouds shut out the summer heaven, 
But still the calm Earth keeps her constant course, 
And whispershope through all hcrbreathingflowers. 

Not all in vain the vision of our youth 
The apocalypse of beauty and of love 
Thr, stag! ike heart of hope : life s mystic dream 
The soul shall yet interpret to our prayer 
The, Isis veil be lifted though we pine 
E en mid the ungathered roses of our youth, 
Pierced with strange pangs and longings infinite, 
As if earth s fairest flowers served but to wake 
Sad, haunting memories of our Eden home, 
Not all in vain. Meantime, in patient trust 
Rest we on Nature s bosom from her eye 
Serene and still, drinking in faith and love, 



To her calm pu se attempering the heart 
That throbs too wildly for ideal bliss. 

Oh, gentle mother ! heal me, for I faint 
Upon life s arid pathway, and " my feet 
On the dark mountains stumble." Near thy heart 
In childlike trust, close nestling, let me lie, 
And let thy breath fall cool upon my cheek 
As in those unworn ages, ere pale Thought 
Forestalled life s parent harvest. Give me strength 
In generous abandonment of heart 
To fo low wheresoe er o er the world s waste 
The cloudv pillar movcth, till at last 
It guide to p easant va es and pastures green 
By the sti.l waters of eternal life. 



THE WAKING OF THE HEART. 

" Pleasure sits in the flower cups, and breathes itselfout in ftagnince, 
Rake I. 

As the fabled stone into music woke 
When the morning sun o er the marble broke, 
So wakes the heart from its stern repose ; 
As o er brow and bosom the spring wind blows, 
So it stirs and trembles as each low sigh 
Of the breezy south comes murmuring by 
Murmuring by like a voice of love, 
Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove, 
Breathing of meadow-paths thickly sown 
With pearls from the blossoming fruit trees blown, 
And of banks that slope to the southern sky 
Where languid violets love to lie. 

No foliage droops o er the woodpath now, 
No dark vines swinging from bough to bough ; 
But a trembling shadow of silvery green 
Falls through the young leaf s tender screen, 
Like the hue that borders the snowdrop s bell, 
Or lines the lid of an Indian shell ; 
And a fairy light, like the firefly s glow, 
Flickers and fades on the grass below. 

There the pale Anemone lifts her eye 
To look at the clouds as they wander by, 
Or lurks in the shade of a palmy fern 
To gather fresh dews in her waxen urn. [breast, 
Where the moss lies thick on the brown earth s 
The shy little Mayflower weaves her nest, 
But the south wind sighs o er the fragrant loam, 
And betrays the path to her woodland home. 

Already the green budding birchen spray 
Winnows the balm from the breath of May, 
And the aspen thrills to a low, sweet tone 
From the reedy bugle of Faunus blown. 

In the tangled coppice the dwarf oak weaves 
Her fringelike b ossoms and crimson leaves; 
The sallows their delicate buds unfold 
Into downy feathers bedropped with gold ; 
While, thick as the stars in the midnight sky, 
In the dark, wet meadows the cowslips lie. 

A love tint flushes the wind-flower s cheek, 
Rich melodies gush from the violet s beak, 
On the rifts of the rock the wild columbines grow, 
Their heavy honey-cups bending low 
As a neart which vague, sweet thoughts oppress, 
Droops neath its burden of happiness. [wells, 

There the waters drip from their moss rimmed 
With a sound like the tinkling of silver bells, 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



171 



Or fall with a mellow and flutclike flow 
Through the channels and clefts of the rock below. 

Soft music gushes in every tone, 
And perfume in every breeze is blown ; 
The flower in fragrance, the bird in song, 
The glittering wave as it glides along 
All breathe the incense of boundless bliss, 
The eloquent music of happiness. 

And the soul as it sheds o er the sunbright hour 
The unto d wealth of its mystic dower, 
Linked to all nature by chords of love, 
Lifted by faith to bright worlds above 
How, with the passion of beauty fraught, 
Shall it utter its burden of blissful thought ! 
Yet sad would the springtime of nature seem 
To the soul that wanders mid life s dark dream 
Its glory a meteor that sweeps the sky, 
A blossom that floats on the storm-wind by, 
If it woke no thought of that starry clime 
That lies on the desolate shores of Time, 
If it nurtured no delicate flowers to blow 
On the hills where the palm and the amaranth grow. 



A DAY OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

"Yet one more smile, departing distant sun 
Ere o er the frozen earth the loud winds run 
And snows are sifted o er the meadows baie." Bryant. 

A DAY of golden beauty ! Through the night 

The hoar-frost gathered o er each leaf and spray 

Weaving its filmy network, thin and bright 

And shimmering like silver in the ray 

Of the soft, sunny morning turf and tree 

Pranked in its de.icate embroidery, 

And every withered stump and mossy stone, 

With gems encrusted and with seed-pearl sown ; 

While in the hedge the frosted berries glow, 

The scarlet holly and the purple sloe, 

And all is gorgeous, fairy-like and frail, 

As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale. 

How soft and still the varied landscape lies, 
Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies, 
As if the earth in prodigal array 
Of gems and broidered robes kept holyday ; 
Her harvest yielded and her work all done 
Basking in beauty neath the autumn sun ! 

Yet once more through the soft and balmy day 
Up the brown hill-side, o er the sunny brae, 
Far let us rove or, through lone solitudes [woods," 
Where " autumn s smile beams through the yellow 
Fondly retracing each sweet, summer haunt 
And sylvan pathway where the sunbeams slant 
Through yonder copse, tinging the saffron stars 
Of the witch-hazel with their golden bars, 
Or, lingering down this dim and shadowy lane 
Where still the damp sod wears an emerald stain, 
Though ripe brown nuts hang clustering in the 
And the rude barberry o er yon rocky ledge [hedge, 
Droops with its pendent corals. When the showers 
Of April clothed this winding path with flowers, 
Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay 
Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray ; 
And still the aster greets us as we pass 



With her faint smile among the withered grass 
Beside the way, lingering as loath of heart, 
Like me, from these sweet solitudes to part. 

Now seek we the dank borders of the stream 
Where the ta I fern-tufts shed a ruby gleam 
Over the water from their crimsoned plumes, 
And clustering near the modest gentian blooms 
Lonely around hallowed by sweetest song, 
The last and loveliest of the floral throng. 
Yet here we may not linger, for behold. 
Where the stream widens, like a sea of gold 
Outspreading far before us all around 
Steep wooded heights and sloping uplands bound 
The sheltered scene along the distant shore 
Through colored woods the glinting sunbeams pour, 
Touching their foliage with a thousand shades 
And hues of beauty, as the red light fades 
Upon the hill-side neath yon floating shroud, 
Or, from the silvery edges of the cloud 
Pours down a brighter gleam. Gray willows lave 
Their pendent branches in the crystal wave, 
And slender birch trees o er its banks incline, 
Whose tall, slight stems across the water shine 
Like shafts of silver there the tawny elm, 
The fairest subject of the sylvan realm, 
The tufted pine tree and the cedar dark, 
And the young chestnut, its smooth polished bark 
Gleaming like porphyry in the yellow light, 
The dark brown oak and the rich maple dight 
In robes of scarlet, all are standing there 
So still, so cairn in the soft misty air, 
That not a leaf is stirring nor a sound 
Startles the deep repose that broods around, 
Save when the robin s melancholy song 
Is heard from yonder coppice, and along 
The sunny side of that low, moss-grown wall 
That skirts our path, the cricket s chirping call, 
Or, the fond murmur of the drowsy bee 
O er some lone flow ret on the sunny lea, 
And, heard at intervals, a pattering sound 
Of ripened acorns rustling to the ground [all, 
Through the crisp, withered leaves. How lonely 
How calmly beautiful ! Long shadows fall 
More darkly o er the wave as day declines, 
Yet from the west a deeper glory shines, 
While every crested hi 1 and rocky height 
Each moment varies in the kindling light 
To some new form of beauty changing through 
All shades and colors of the rainbow s hue, 
" The last still loveliest" till the gorgeous day 
Melts in a flood of golden light away, 
And a l is o er. Before to-morrow s sun 
Cold winds may rise and shrouding shadows dun 
Obscure the scene vet shall these fading hues 
Arid fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse 
Into the mind and memory shall burn 
The painting in on her enamelled urn 
In undecaying colors. When the Ivast 
Rages around and snows are gathering fast, 
When musing sadly by the twilight hearth 
Or lonely wandering through life s crowded path 
Its quiet beauty rising through the gloom 
Shall sooth the languid spirits and illume 
The droo ing fancy winning back the soul [rrol 
To cheei il thoughts through nature s sweet COTJ 



172 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



THE LOST CHURCH. 

FROM THK GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Is yonder dim and pathless wood 

Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 
A.nd peals of solemn music swell 

As from some minster s lofty tower, 
From age to age those sounds are heard, 

Borne on the breeze at twilight hour ; 
From age to age no foot hat .i found 

A pathway to the minster s tower ! 

Late, wandering in that ancient wood, 

As onward through the gloom I trod, 
From all the woes and wrongs of earth 

My soul ascended to its God. 
When lo, in the hushed wilderness 

I heard, for off, that solemn bell : 
Still heavenward as my spirit soared, 

Wi der arid sweeter rang the knell. 

While thus in holy musings rapt, 

My mind from outward sense withdrawn, 
Some power had caught me from the earth, 

And far into the heavens upborne 
Methought a hundred years had passed 

In mystic visions as I lay, 
When suddenly the parting clouds 

Seemed opening wide and far away. 

No midday sun its glory shed, 

The stars were shrouded from my sight, 
And lo ! majestic o er my head 

A minster shone in solemn light. 
High through the lurid heavens it seemed 

Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, 
Till all its pointed turrets gleamed 

Far flaming through the vaulted skies ! 

The bell with full resounding peal 

Rang booming through the rocking tower: 
No hand had stirred its iron tongue, 

Slow swaying to the storm-wind s power. 
My bosom beating like a bark 

Dashed by the surging ocean s foam, 
I trod with faltering, fearful joy 

The mazes of the mighty dome. 

A soft light through the oriel streamed 

Like summer moonlight s go den gloom, 
Far through the dusky arches gleamed, 

And filled with glory all the room. 
Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 

Seemed waking from their icy thrall, 
And many a glory circled head 

Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 
Low at the altar s foot I knelt, 

Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dread, 
For blazoned on the vaulted roof 

Were heaven s fiercest glories spread. 
Vet when I raised my eyes once more, 

The vaulted roof itself was gone ; 
Wide open was heaven s lofty door, 

And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 
What visions burst upon my soul, 

What joys unutterable there 
fn wuves on waves for ever roll 

Like music through the pulseless air 



These never mortal tongue may tell : 

Let him who fain would prove their power, 

Pause when he hears that solemn knell 
Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 



THE PAST. 

" So near yet oh, how IUr!" Goetfie e Helena. 

THICK darkness broodeth o er the world: 

The raven pinions of the, Night 
Close on her silent bosom furled, 

Reflecf no gleam of orient light. 
E en the vild norland fires, that mocked 

The faint bloom of the eastern sky, 
Now leave me, in close darkness locked, 

To night s weird realm of fantasy. 
Borne from pa e shadow-lands remote, 

A Morphean music, wildly sweet, 
Seems on the starless gloom to float 

Like the white pinioned Paraclete. 
Softly into my dream it flows, 

Then faints into the silence drear, 
While from the hollow dark outgrows 

The phantom Past, pale gliding near. 
The visioned Past so strangely fair ! 

So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets, 
So steeped in sadness, like the air 

That lingers when the daystar sets ! 
Ah ! could I fold it to my heart, 

On its cold lip my kisses press, 
This waste of aching life impart 

To win it back from nothingness ! 
I loathe the purple light of dav, 

And shun the morning s golden star, 
Beside that shadowy form to stray 

For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
Thin as a cloud of summer even, 

All beauty from my gaze it bars ; 
Shuts out the silver cope of heaven, 

And glooms athwart the dying stars. 
Cold, sad, and spectral, by my side 

It breathes of love s ethereal bloom 
Of bridal memories long affied 

To the dread silence of the tomb. 
Sweet cloistered memories, that the heart 

Shuts close within its chalice cold, 
Faint perfumes that no more dispart 

From the bruised lily s floral fold. 
" My soul is weary of her life ;" 

My heart sinks with a slow despair 
The solemn, starlit hours are rife 

With fantasy the noontide glare, 
And the cool morning, " fancy free," 

Are false with shadows, for the day 
Brings no blithe sense of verity, 

Nor wins from twilight thoughts away 
Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream, 

And feed me pn the lotus flowers ; 
Shut out this false, bewildering gleam, 

The dreamlight of departed hours ! 
The Future can no charm confer, 

My heart s deep solitudes to break 
No angel s foot again shall stir 

The waters of that silent lake. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



I wander in pale dreams siway, 

And shun the morning s golden star, 
To follow still that tailing ray 

For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
Then bathe me in the Lel,hean stream, 

And feed me on the lotus flowers ; 
Nor leave one late arid lingering beam, 

One memory of departed hours ! 



A SEPTEMBER EVENING ON THE BANKS 
OF THE MOSHASSUCK. 



" Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought, 
1 summon up remembrance of tilings past." 

S/talapirv i Sw.nets. 

AGAIX September s golden day 

Serenely still, intensely bright, 
Fades on the umbered hills away 

And melts into the coming night. 
Again Moshassuck s silver tide 
Reflects each green herb on its side, 
Each tasselled wreath and tangling vine, 
Whose tendrils o er its margin twine. 

And standing on its velvet shore 

Where yesternight with thee I stood, 
I trace its devious course once more 

Far winding on through vale and wood. 
Now glimmering through yon golden mist, 
By the last glinting sunbeams kissed, 
Now lost where lengthening shadows fall 
From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall. 

Near where yon rocks the stream inurn 

The lonely gentian blossoms still, 
Still wave the star-flower and the fern 

O er the soft outline of the hill ; 
Wliile far aloft where pine trees throw 
Their shade athwart the sunset glow, 
Thin vapors cloud the illumined air 
And parting da v light lingers there. 

But ah, no longer fhou art near 

This varied loveliness to see, 
And I, though fondly lingering here 

To-night can only think on thee 
The flowers thy gentle hand caressed 
Still lie un withered on my breast, 
And still thy footsteps print the shore 
Where thou and I may rove no more. 

Again I hear the murmuring fall 
Of water from some distant dell, 

The beetle s hum, the cricket s call, 
And, far away, that evening bell 

Again, again those sounds I hear, 

But oh, how desolate and drear 

They seem to-night how like a knell 

The music of that evening bell. 

Again the new moon in the west, 
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky, 

Hangs o er the mountain s purple crest 
With one pale planet trembling nigh, 

And beautiful her pearly light 

As when we blessed its beams last night, 

But thou art on the far blue sea, 

And I can only think on thee. 



SUMMER S INVITATION TO THE ORPHAN 

THE summer skies are darkly blue, 

The days are still and bright, 
And Evening trails her robes of gold 

Through the dim halls of night. 
Then, when the little orphan wakes, 

A low voice whispers, " Come, 
And all day wander at thy will 

Beneath my azure dome. 
" Beneath my vaulted azure dome, 

Through all my flowery lands, 
No higher than the lowly thatch 

The roval palace stands. 
" I 11 fill lay little longing arms 

With fruits and wilding flowers, 
And tell thee tales of fairy land 

In the long twilight hours." 
The orphan hears that wooing voice : 

A while he softly broods 
Then hastens down the sunny slopes 

Into the twilight, woods. 
There all things whisper pleasure: 

The tree has fruits, the grass has flowers, 
And the little birds are singing 

In the dim and leafy bowers. 
The brook stays him at the crossing 

In its waters cool and sweet, 
And the pebb es leap around him 

And frolic at his feet. 
At night no cruel hostess 

Receives him with a frown ; 
He sleeps where all the quiet stars 

Are ca mly looking down. 
The Moon comes gliding through the tieeh, 

And softly stoops to spread 
Her dainty silver kirtle 

Upon his grassy bed. 
The drowsy night wind murmuring 

Its quaint old tunes the while, 
Till Morning wakes him with a song, 

And greets him with a smile. 



STANZAS WITH A BRIDAL RINd 

THE young Moon hides her virgin heart 

Within a ring of gold ; 
So doth this little circlet, all 

My bosom s love infold, 
And tell the tale that from my lips 

Seems ever half untold, 
Like the rich legend of the east 

That never finds a close, 
But winds in linked sweetness on 

And lengthens as it goes, 
Or like this little cycle still 

Returneth whence it flows. 
And still as in the elfin ring 

Where fairies dance by night, 
Shall the green places of the heart 

Be kept for ever bright, 
And hope within this magic round 

Still blossom in delight. 



174 



SARAH HELEN WHI1MAN. 



SHE BLOOMS NO MORE. 

"Oh jirimavera, gioventu dell anno, 
Itelht miulivdi liori 
Tu tiinii ben, ma teco 
Xori tnrnani i -ereni 
K tortiinati di delle mi gioge." Gttarini. 



to see the summer sun 
Come glowing up the sky, 
And early pansies, one by one, 
Opening the violet eye. 

The choral melody of June, 

The perfumed breath of heaven, 

The dewy morn, the radiant noon, 
The lingering light of even 

These, which so charmed my careless heart 

In happy days gone by. 
A deeper sadness now impart 

To Memory s thoughtful eye. 

They speak of one who sleeps in death, 

Her race untimely o er 
Who ne er shall taste Spring s honeyed breath, 

Nor see her glories more : 

Of one who shared with me in youth 

Life s sunshine and its flowers, 
And kept unchanged her bosom s truth 

Through all its darker hours. 

Slip faded when the leaves were sere, 
And wailed the autumnal blast; 

With all the glories of the year, 
From earth her spirit passed. 

Again the fair azalia bows 

Beneath its snowy crest ; 
In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows, 

The robin builds her nest ; 

The tulips lift their proud tiars, 

The lilac waves her plumes, 
And peeping through my lattice-bars 

The rose-acacia blooms. 

Bieathe but one word, ye starry flowers! 

One litt e word to tell, 
If in that far off shadow-land 

Love and Remembrance dwell. 

For she can bloom on earth no more, 

Whose early doom I mourn ; 
Nor Spring nor Summer can restore 

Our flower, untimely shorn. 

Now dim as folded vio ets 

Her eyes of dewy light, 
And her rosy lips have mournfully 

Breathed out their last good-night! 
She ne er shall hear again the song 

Of merry birds in spring, 
Nor roam the flowery braes among 

In the year s young blossoming ; 

\or longer in the lingering light 

Of summer s eve shall we, 
Locked hand in hand, together sit 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 
T is therefore that I dread to see 

The glowing summer sun, 



And balmy blossoms on the tree 
Unfo ding one by one. 

They speak of hings that once 1 have been, 

But never more can be : 
And earth all decked in smiles again 

Is still a waste to rne. 



THE MAIDEN S DREAM. 



1 Tlirire hallowed lie tlia 
c ln-ek Mill l)lu>he* at tb 
thoughts." Jean Pmil. 



beautiful dawn of love when tlie maiden t 
conscious vfetness of lie. ovrn inr.ocent 



ASK not if she loves, but look 
In the blue depths of her eye, 

Where the maiden s spirit seems 
Tranced in happy dreams to lie. 

All the blisses of her dream, 

All she may not, must not speak, 

Read them in her clouded eye, 

Read them on her conscious cheek. 

See that cheek of virgin snow 

Damasked with love s rosy bloom ; 

Mark the lambent thoughts that glow 
Mid her blue eye s tender gloom. 

As if in a cool, deep well, 

Veiled by shadows of the night, 

Slanting through, a starbeam fell, 
Filling all its depths with light. 

Something mournful and profound 
Saddens all her beauty now, 

Weds her dark eye to the ground 
Fling s a shadow o er her brow. 

Hath her love-illumined soul 

Raised the veil of coming years- 

Read upon life s mystic scroll 
Its doom of agony and tears 1 

Tears of tender sadness fall 
From her soft and lovelit eye, 

As the night dews heavily 

Fall from summer s cloudless sky. 

Still she sitteth coyly drooping 
Her white lids in virgin pride, 

Like a languid lily stooping 
Low her folded blooms to hide. 

Starting now in soft surprise 

From the tangled web of thought, 

Lo, her heart a captive lies, 

In its own sweet fancies caught 

Ah ! bethink thee, maiden yet, 
Ere to passion s doom betrayed ; 

Hearts where Love his seal has set, 
Sorrow s fiercest pangs invade. 

Let that young heart s umber still, 

Like a bird within its nest ; 
Life can ne er its dreams fulfil 

Love but yield thee long unrest. 

Ah ! in vain the dovelet tries 

To break the web of tender thought 
The little heart a captive lies, 

In its own sweet fancies caught 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



175 



KOGER WILLIAMS. 

WRITTEN FOR AV ANNIVERSARY OF THE IIHODE 
ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY. 

Now, wlii e the echoing cannon s roar 

Rocks our i ar frontal towers, 
And bu_>;le blast and trumpet s blare 

Float o er the " Land of Flowers ;" 
While our bo d ea^le spreads his wing, 

No more in lofty pride, 
But sorrowing sinks, as if from Heaven 

The ensanguined field to hide: 
Turn we from War s bewildering blaze, 

And Conquest s choral song, 
To the still voice of other days, 

Long heard forgotten long. 

Listen to his rich words, intoned 

To " songs of lofty cheer," 
Who, in the " howling wilderness," 

When only God could hear, 
Breathed not of exile, nor of wrong, 

Through the long winter nights, 
But uttered, in exulting song, 

The soul s unchartered rights. 

Who opened wide the guarded doors 

Where Conscience reigned alone, 
And bade the nations own her laws, 

And tremble round her throne ; 
Who sought the oracles of God 

Within her veiled shrine, 
Nor asked the monarch nor the priest 

Her sacred laws to sign. 

The brave, high heart, that would not yield 

Its liberty of thought, 
Far o er the melancholy main, 

Through bitter trials brought ; 
But, to a double exile doomed, 

By Faith s pure guidance led 
Through the dark labyrinth of life, 

Held fast her golden thread. 

Listen ! the music of his dream 

Perchance may linger still 
In trie old familiar places 

Beneath the emerald hill. 
The waveworn rock still breasts the storm 

On Seekonk s lonely side, 
Where the dusk natives hailed the bark 

That bore their gentle guide. 

The spring that gushed, arnid the wild, 
In music on his ear, 

Still pours its waters undefiled, 
The fainting heart to cheer. 

But the fair cove, that slept so calm- 
Beneath o ershadowing hills, 

And bore the pilgrim s evening psalm 
Far up its flowery rills 

The tide that parted to receive 

The stranger s light canoe, 
As if an angel s balmy wing 

Had swept its waters blue 
When, to the healing of its wave, 

We come in pensive thought, 
Through all its pleasant borders 

A dreary change is wrought ! 



The fire-winged courser s breath has swept 

Across its cooling tide : 
Lo ! where he plants his iron heel, 

How fast the wave has dried ! 
Unlike the fabled Pegasus, 

Whose proud hoof, where he trode 
Earth s flinty bosom, oped a fount 

Whence living waters flowed. 

Or, turn we to the green hill s side : 

There, with the spring-time showers, 
The white thorn, o er a nameless grave, 

Rains its pale, silver flowers. 
Yet Memory lingers with the past, 

Nor vainly seeks to trace 
His footprints on a rock, whence time 

Nor tempests can efface ; 

Whereon he planted, fast and deep, 

The roof tree of a home 
Wide as the wings of Love may sweep, 

Free as her thoughts may roam ; 
Where through all time the saints may dwell 

And from pure fountains draw 
That peace which passeth human thought, 

In liberty and law. 

When heavenward, up the silver stair 

Of silence drawn, we tread 
The visioned mount that looks beyond 

The valley of the dead 
Oh, may we gather to our hearts 

The deeds our fathers wrought, 
And feed the perfumed lamp of Love 

In the cool air of Thought. 
While Hope shall on her anchoi lean, 

May Memory fondly turn, 
To wreathe the amaranth and the palm 

Around their funeral urn ! 



HOW SOFTLY COMES THE SUMMER 
WIND. 

" And henceforth all that once was ffiir, 
Grew fairer." 

How softly comes the summer wind 

At evening, o er the hill 
For ever murmuring of thee 

When busy crowds are still ; 
The wayside flowers seem to guess 
And whisper of my happiness. 

While, in the dusk and dewy hours, 

The silent stars above 
Seem leaning from their airy towers 

To gaze on me in love ; 
And clouds of silver wander by, 
Like missioned doves athwart the sky 

Till Dian lulls the throbbing stars 

Into elysian dreams, 
And, rippling through my lattice-bai->, 

A brooding glory streams 
Around me, like the golden shower 
That rained through Danae s guarded tower 

A low, bewildering melody 

Is murmuring in my ar 
Tones such as in the twilight wood 



170 



SAKAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



The aspen thrills to hear, 
When Faunus slumbers on the hill, 
And all the tranct-d boughs are still. 

The jasmine twines her snowy stars 

Into a fairer wreath ; 
The lily, through my lattice-bars, 

Exhales a sweeter breath; 
And, gazing on Night s starry cope, 
I dwell with " Beauty, which is Hope." 



A SONG OF SPRING. 

Jx April s dim and showery nights, 
When music melts along the air, 

And Memory wakens at the kiss 

Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare 

Sweet springtime perfumes, such as won 
Proserpina from realms of gloom 

1 o bathe her bright locks in the sun, 
Or bind them with the pansy s bloom , 

When light winds rift the fragrant bowers 
Where orchards shed their floral wreath, 

Strewing the turf with starry flowers, 
And dropping pearls at every breath ; 

When all night long the boughs are stirred 
With fitful warblings from the nest, 

And the heart flutters like a bird 
With its sweet, passionate unrest 

Oh ! then, beloved, I think on thee, 
And on that life, so strangely fair, 

Ere yet one cloud of memory 

Had gathered in hope s golden air. 

I think on thee and thy lone grave 
On the green hillside far away ; 

1 see the wilding flowers that wave 

Around thee as the night winds sway ; 

And still, though only clouds remain 
On life s horizon, cold and drear, 

The dream of youth returns again 
With the sweet promise of the year. 

[ linger ti 1 night s waning stars 

Have ceased to tremble through the gloom, 
Till through the orient s cloudy bars 

I see the rose of morning bloom ! 

All flushed and radiant with delight, 
It opens through earth s stormy skies, 

Divine y beautiful and bright 
As on the hills of paradise. 

Lo ! like a dewdrop on its breast 

The morning star of youth and love, 

Melting within the rosy east, 
Exhales to azure depths above. 

My spirit, soaring like a lark, 
Would follow on its airy flight, 

And, like yon little diamond spark, 
Dissolve into the realms of light. 

Sweet-missioned star ! thy silver beams 

Foretell a fairer life to come, 
And through the golden gate of dreams 

Allurp the wandering spirit home. 



DAVID. 

SUGGASTEI) BY A STATUE: 



Ar, this is he the bold and gentle boy, 

That in lone pastures by the mountain s side 
Guarded his fold, and through the midnight sky 

Saw on the blast the God of battles ride ; 
Beheld his bannered armies on the height, 
And heard their clarion sound through all the stormy 

night. 
The va iant boy that o er the twilight wold 

Tracked the dark lion and ensanguined bear; 
Following their bloody footsteps from the fold 

Far down the gorges to their lonely lair 
This the stout heart, that from the lion s jaw 
Back o er the shuddering waste the bleeding victim 

bore. 
Though his fair locks lie all unshorn and bare 

To the bold toying of the mountain wind, 
A conscious glory haunts the o ershadowing air, 

And waits with glittering coil his brows to bind, 
While his proud temples bend superbly down, 
As if they felt e en now the burden of a crown. 

Though a stern sorrow slumbers in his eyes, 

As if his prophet glance foresaw the day 
When the dark waters o er his soul should rise, 

And friends and lovers wander far away 
Yet the graced impress of that floral mouth 
Breathes of love s golden dream and the voluptuous 

south. 
Peerless in beauty as the prophet star, 

That in the dewy trances of the dawn 
Floats o er the solitary hills afar, 

And brings sweet tidings of the lingering morn ; 
Or weary at the day-god s loitering wane, 
Strikes on the harp of light a soft prelusive strain. 

So his wild harp with psaltery and shawm 
Awoke the nations in thick darkness furled, 

While mystic winds from Gilead s groves of balm 
Wafted its sweet hosannas through the world 

So when the Dayspring from on high he sang, 

With joy the ancient hills and lone y valleys rang. 

Ay, this is he the minstrel, prophet, king, 
Before whose arm princes and warriors sank ; 

Who dwelt beneath Jehovah s mighty wing, 
And from the " river of his pleasures" drank ; 

Or through the rent pavilions of the storm 

Beheld the cloud of fire that veiled his awful form. 

Antl now he stands as when in Elah s vale, 
Where warriors set the battle in array, 

He met the Titan in his ponderous mail, 

Whose haughty chal enge many a summer s day 

Rang through the border hills, whi e all the host 

Of faithless Israel heard and trembled at his boast. 

Till the slight stripling from the mountain fold 
Stood, all unarmed, amid their sounding shields, 

And in his youth s first bloom, devout y bold, 
Dared the grim champion of a thousand fields : 

So stands he now, as in Jehovah s might 

Glorying, he met the foe and won the immortal fight. 



* This fine statue, executed by Thomas F. Hoppin, of 
Providence, R. I., represents the young champion of Is 
rael a* he stands prepared to attack the Philistine 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH 



(Born 1806). 



THIS accomplished and popular author was 
born in a pleasant country town about twelve 
miles from the city of Portland, in Maine. 
Descended on her father s side from Thomas 
Prince, one of the early Puritan governors of 
the Plymouth colony, and claiming through 
the Oakeses, on her mother s side, the same 
early identification with the first European 
planters .of our soil, Mrs. OAKES-SMITH may 
readily be supposed to have that characteris 
tic which is so rarely found among us, Amer 
icanism ; and her writings in their depart 
ment may be regarded as the genuine expres 
sion of an American mind. 

At the early age of sixteen, Miss Prince 
was married to Mr. Seba Smith, at that, time 
editor of the leading political journal of his 
native state, and since then well known to 
his countrymen as the original "Jack Down 
ing," whose great popularity has been attest 
ed by a score of imitators. The embarrassed 
affairs of Mr. Smith (who, himself a poet, 
partook with a poet s sanguineness of tem 
per in that noted attempt to settle the wild 
lands of Maine, which proved so disastrous a 
speculation to some of the wealthiest families 
of the state) first impelled Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
to take up her pen to aid in the support of 
her children. She had before that period, 
indeed, given utterance to her poetic sensi 
bilities in several anonymous pieces, which 
are still much admired. But a shrinking and 
sensitive modesty forbade her appearing as 
an author ; and though, in her altered cir 
cumstances, when she found that her talents 
might be made available, she did not hesitate, 
like a true woman, to sacrifice feeling to duty, 
yet some of her most beautiful prose writings 
still continue to appear under nommes des 
plumes, with which her truly feminine spirit 
avoids identification. 

Seeking expression, yet shrinking from no 
toriety ; and with a full share of that respect 
for a just fame and appreciation which be 
longs to every high-toned mind, yet oppressed 
by its shadow when circumstance is the im 
pelling motive of publication, the writings of 



Mrs. Oakes-Smith might well be supposed to 
betray great inequality ; still in her many con 
tributions to the magazines, it is remarkable 
how few of her pieces display the usual care 
lessness and haste of magazine articles. As 
an essayist especially , while graceful and live 
ly, she is compact and vigorous ; while through 
poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, (for her 
industrious pen seems equally skilful and hap 
py in each of these depatments of literature,) 
through all her manifold writings, indeed, 
there runs the same beautiful vein of philoso 
phy, viz. : that truth and goodness of them 
selves impart a holy light to the mind, which 
gives it a power tar above mere intellectu 
ality ; that the highest order of human in 
telligence springs from the moral and not 
the reasoning faculties. 

One of her most popular poems is The 
Acorn, which, thougli inferior in high inspi 
ration to The Sinless Child, is by many pre 
ferred for its happy play of fancy and proper 
finish. Her sonnets, oi which she has writ 
ten many, have not been as much admired 
as The April Rain, The Brook, and other fu 
gitive pieces, which we find in many popu 
lar collections. I doubt, indeed, whether they 
will ever attain the popularity of these "un- 
considered trifles," though they indicate con 
centrated poetical power of a very high, pos 
sibly of the very highest order. Not so, how 
ever, with The Sinless Child. Works of bad 
taste will often captivate the uncultivated 
many ; works of mere taste as often delight 
the cultivated few ; but works of genius ap 
peal to the uniA ersal mind. 

The simplicity of diction, and pervading 
beauty and elevation of thought, which are 
the chief/characteristics of The Sinless Child, 
bring it undoubtedly within the last category. 
And why do such writings seize at once on 
the feelings of every class ? Wherein lies 
this power of genius to wake a response in 
society ? Is it the force of a high will, fusing 
feeble natures, and stamping them for the 
moment with an impress of its own ? or i? 
it that in every heart, unless thoroughly ( :or- 

177 



178 



ELIZABETH O A KES-SMITH. 



rupted by the world in every mind, unless 
completely encrusted by cant, there lurks an 
inward sense of the simple, the beautiful, and 
the true; an instinctive perception of excel 
lence which is both more unerring and more 
universal than that of mere intellect. Such 
is the cheering view of humanity enforced in 
The Sinless Child, and the reception of it is 
evidence of the truth of the doctrine it so 
finely shadows forth. " It is a work," says a 
dis riminating critic, " which demands more 
in its composition than mere imagination or 
intellect could supply :" and I may add that 
the writer, in unconsciously picturing the 
actual graces of her own mind, has made an 
irresistible appeal to the ideal of soul-loveli 
ness in the minds of her readers. She comes 
before us like the florist in Arabian story, 
whose magic vase produced a plant of such 
simple, yet perfect beauty, that the multitude 
were in raptures from the familiar field as 
sociations of childhood which it called forth, 
while the skill of the learned alone detected 
the unique rarity of the enchanting flower. 
An analysis of The Sinless Child will not 
be attempted here, but a few passages are 
quoted to exhibit its graceful play of fancy 
and the pure vein of poetical sentiment by 
which it is pervaded. And first, the episode 
of the Step-Mother : 

You speak of Robert s second wife, 

A lofty dame and hold : 
I like not her forbiding air, 

And forehead high and cold. 
The orphans have no cause for grief, 

She dare not give it now, 
Though nothing hut a ghostly fear 

Her heart of pride could bow. 
One night the boy his mother called : 

They heard him weeping say 
" Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy s cheek, 

And wipe his tears away !" 
Red grew the lady s brow with rage, 

And yet she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too, 

At thought of that dead wife. 
Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, 

The watch-dog howls with fear ; 
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall : 

What form is gliding near ! 
No latch is raised, no step is heard, 

But a phantom fills the SJIHOB 
A sheeted spectre from the dead, 

With cold and leaden face ! 
What boots it that no other eye 

Beheld the shade appear] 
The guilty lady s guilty soul 

Beheld it plain and clear ! 



It slowly glides within the room, 

And sadly looks around 
And stooping, kissed her daughter s cheek 

With lips tha^ gave no sound ! 
Then softly on the stepdame s arm 

She laid a death-cold hand, 
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh 

Like to a burning brand ; 
And gliding on with noiseless foot, 

O er winding stair and hall, 
She nears the chamber where is heard 

Her infant s trembling call. 
She smoothed the pillow where he lay, 

She warmly tucked the bed, 
She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls 

That clustered round his read. 
The child, caressed, unknowing fear, 

Hath nestled him to rest ; 
The mother folds her wings beside 

The mother from the blest ! 

It is commonly difficult to select from a po 
em of which the parts make one harmonious 
whole ; but the history of The Sinless Child 
is illustrated all through with cabinet pic 
tures which are scarcely less effective when 
separated from their series than when com 
bined, and the reader will be gratified with a 
few of those which best exhibit the author s 
manner and feeling : 

GUARUIAX ANGELS. ^ 

With downy pinion they enfold 

The heart surcharged with wo, 
And fan with balmy wing the eye 

Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 
They bear, in golden censers up, 

That sacred gift, a tear 
By which is registered the griefs 

Hearts may have suffered here. 
No inward pang, no yearning love 

Is lost to human hearts 
No anguish that the spirit feels, 

When bright-winged Hope departs. 
Though in the mystery of life 

Discordant powers prevail ; 
That life itself be weariness, 

And sympathy may fail : 
Yet all becomes a discipline, 

To lure us to the sky ; 
And angels bear the good it brings 

With fostering care on high. 
Though human hearts may weary grow, 

And sink to toil-spent sleep, 
And we are left in solitude 

And agony to weep : 
Yet they with ministering zeal 

The cup of healing bring, 
And bear our love and gratitude 

Away, on heavenward wing ; 
And thus the inner life is wrought, 

The blending earth and heaven 
The love more earnest in its glow 

Where much has been forgiven ! 



ELIZABETH O A KES-SMITH. 



179 



FIELD KLVES. 

The tender violets bent in smiles 

To elves that sported nigh, 
Tossing the drops of fragrant dew 

To scent the evening sky. 
They kissed the rose in love and mirth, 

And its peta .s fairer grew ; 
A shower of pearly dust they brought, 

And o er the lily threw. 

A host flew round the mowing field, 

And they were showering down 
The cooling spray on the early grass, 

Like diamonds o er it thrown ; 
They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear 

With pearls of liquid dew, 
And bathed the state y forest tree 

Till his robe was fresh and new. 

SUPERSTITION". 

For oft her mother sought the child 

Amid the forest glade, 
And marvelled that in darksome glen 

So tranquilly she stayed. 
For every jagg; d limb to her 

A shadowy semblance hath 
Of spectres and distorted shapes, 

That frown upon her path, 
And mock her with their hideous eyes ; 

For when the soul is blind 
To freedom, truth, and inward light, 

Vague fears debase the mind. 

MIDSUMMER. 

T is the summer prime, when the noiseless air 

In perfumed chalice lies, 
And the bee goes by with a lazy hum, 

Beneath the sleeping skies : 
When the brook is low, and the ripples bright, 

As down the stream they go, 
The pebbles are dry on the upper side, 

And dark and wet below. 
The tree that stood where the soil s athirst, 

And the mulleins first appear, 
Hath a dry and rusty -colored bark, 

And its leaves are curled and sere ; 
But the dogwood and the hazel-bush 

Have clustered round the brook 
Their roots have stricken deep beneath, 

And they have a verdant look. 
To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings, 

And he gnaws it like a file ; 
The naked stalks are withering by, 

Where he has been erewhile. 
The cricket hops on the glistering rock, 

Or pipes in the faded grass ; 
The beetle s wing is folded mute, 

Where the steps of the idler pass. 

CONSCIENCE. 

" Dear mother ! in ourselves is hid 

The ho!y spirit-land, 
Where Thought, the flaming cherub, stands 

With its relentless brand : 
We feel the pang when that dread sword 

Inscribes the hidden sin, 
And turneth everywhere to guard 

The paradise within." 



FLOWERS. 

Each tiny leaf became a scroll 

Inscribed with holy truth, 
A lesson that around the heart 

Shou d keep the dew of youth ; 
Bright missals from angelic throngs 

In every by-way left 
How were the earth of glory shorn, 

Were it of flowers bereft ! 

They tremble <tn the Alpine height; 

The fissured rock they press ; 
The desert wild, with heat and sand, 

Shares, too, their blessedness : 
And wheresoe er the weary heart 

Turns in its dim despair, 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, 

Inviting it to prayer. 

INFANT SLUMBER. 

A holy smile was on her lip 

Whenever sleep was there; 
She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed 

Amid the silent air. 

Recently Mrs. Smith has turned her at 
tention to the field which next to the epic is 
highest in the domain of literary art, and it 
is anticipated by those who have examined 
her tragedies that her success as a dramatic 
poet will secure for her a fame not promised 
by any of her previous achievements. The 
Roman Tribute, in five acts, refers to a fa 
miliar period in the history of Constantinople 
when Theodosius saved the city from being 
sacked by paying its price to the victorious 
Attila; and the subject suggests some admi 
rable contrasts of rude integrity with treach 
erous courtesy, of pagan piety with the craft 
of a nominal Christianity, still pervaded by 
heathen prejudice while uncontrolled by hea 
then principle. The play opens with the 
spectacle of the frivolous monarch jesting 
with his court at their uncouth enemies, and 
exulting at the happy thought of buying them 
off with money. Then appears Anthemius, 
who had been absent, raising levies for the 
defence of the city, indignant at the coward 
ly peace which makes the Roman tributary 
to the Hun, and a soldier, a statesman, and 
a patriot he determines to retrieve the na 
tional honor. Perplexed as to the best means 
of doing this, he sees that the whole govern 
ment must be recast. Hitherto Theodosius 
and his sister had between them sustained 
its administration, with Anthemius as prime 
minister. The princess had conceived for 
him an attachment, and would have thrown 
herself and the purple into his arms; but he 
has no sympathy with her passion, and is in 
tent only upon the emancipation of the em 



:so 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



pire by placing her alone in possession of 
the crown, and sacrificing Eudocia, the wife 
of Theodosius, who is rapidly growing in the 
popular favor. Outraged as a woman a":d a 
queen, Pulcheria offers to adjust state affairs 
by marrying the barbarian Attila, and An- 
themius seemingly accedes to the plan, re 
solving to destroy the Hun at the bridal. But 
Attila rejects the proposal, and his answer is 
thus reported by An hemius to his mistress: 
The Hun strade up and down his tent, and swore 
The plan was worthy Atti a himself 
Then laid his finger to his brow, arid, thus 
Gods what a progeny might spring such veins con 
joined ! 

But she, like Attila, loves pomp and power 
She, with her line y trained and haughty blood, 
Mine, with a kingly but barbaric flow: 
She, keen in mystery of subtle thought, 
I, making records with the sword and blood. 

Anthemius, influenced entirely by consid 
erations of a public nature, at first resolves 
upon the destruction of Eudocia, but dis 
gusted with the masculine energy and cruel 
craft of Pulcheria, as well as subdued by the 
gentler virtues of the suffering queen, tries to 
save her life and place her upon the throne. 
He is persevering in the one purpose of 
saving the empire, and to accomplish this, 
proceeds to the camp of Attila, with the 
design of slaying him in the midst of his 
followers ; but the plot is betrayed by Hele 
na, who trembles for the life of her lover 
Manlius, the friend and companion of An 
themius ; and disappointed here, he next 
resolves that he shall die at the banquet 
prepared by the court, ostensibly in honor 
of the barbarian king, but in reality to poison 
him. The generous nature of Anthemius is 
touched by the hardy simplicity and truthful 
magnanimity of the rude warrior, and he 
dashes the poisoned chalice aside and dares 
him to single combat, in which the brave 
and patriotic minister is killed. The fol 
lowing extract gives a portion of the last 
scene : 

Anthemius. Bear with me : we have fallen upon 

evil times. 

Attila, thou art a soldier, bred in the camp 
For idle pastime hunting the wild boar, 
With n.mnd and spear and sound of bugle-horn ; 
In wantonness you march to Rome, or here: 
Thy palace by the Danube bravely shows 
With recking rafters, horns, and skins, and shields. 

Altila, (interniptiii jr him.} And men, stout men, 
true, and a thousand strong. 

Ant. I do believe them true, and strong, and bold. 
B hold our blazoned walls purple and gold ! 



Wine not from tusk of boar, or horn of deer, 
But blushing golden in the golden vase 

Alt. (scornfully.*) A fair picture, proud Roman 

goodly walls, 
With hollow faith men, curled and perfumed ! 

Ant. Attila, we have fallen upon evil times: 
Listen ! In that rude wooden home of thine [hound 
There s not the meanest serf would wrong his 
By mixing poison with his food there s not 

Att. No, by the eternal gods ! thou rt worthy, 
Roman, to be one of us. 

Ant. (waving his hand.} The most useless, the 

most old and outworn beast 
That human hand hath trifled with in love, 
Receives his death by honorable wound, 
JNor dies like a poor reptile in his hole. 

[JJimlies lite cupj i-om him ami draws /its sirot 

If thou rt God s Fate, show thy credentials now . 
Honor to thy rude service : thy barbaric faith 
Here stand thou for thy skin-clad hordes, and I 
For Rome ! 

There is a striking and not unnatural con 
trast in the character of the two queens. 
Pulcheria is haughty, revengeful, intelligent, 
and imaginative. Remorseless in the pur 
suit of an object, and unflinching in the most 
daring action, she is yet so much a woman 
as to love passionately almost tenderly 
and when evil follows her policy, haunted 
in secret by shapes of conscience, which, to 
her excited and powerful imagination, take 
tangible forms and beset her path, she med 
itates the death of Eudocia: 
It seemed I heard a dirge, a sound of wo 
Wo, wo ! it said. Was it Eudocia s voice 1 
How my heart beats, and its perturbed play 
Hath conjured sounds too wildly like its own 

KU DOC I A tut >,-. unofotrnrd, tnulpromotutce* , itr nam s ,///y 

Who called ? the slightest sound grows fearful to 
Ay, thus it is, that we in our poor pride fme ! 
By our earth-serving senses are beguiled ; 
Our overweening self shapes any sound 
To invocation of our name, and we 
Recoil as twere a summons from the dead. 
Eudocia, (w/%.) The child starts from his in- 

nocent pillow 

And answers with a smile, for he believes 
The angels called him with their sweet rose lips. 

[KUDOCIA retires. 

Pul. She is gone, and with her my good angel, 
I shall be haunted by the blackest fiends. 
We have sat embowered in friendly converse : 
Avaunt ! what dost thou say, thou gibbering imp 
Hark ! I have slumbered with thee until now 
A nameless, shapeless, wingless, couchant thing, 
Within the filmy vesture of the soul, 
Until thy evil hour evoked me forth. 
Oh God ! I dare not pray, and this within : 
She lives ! no sheeted ghost hath leave to walk, 
And curdle up my blood with its dead stare. 

Fearful to sacrifice Eudocia at once, she 
entangles her in the meshes of court craft 
till she is finally destroyed, and Pulcheria 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



181 



lives to enjoy her state alone. Eudocia is 
the reverse of the empress, gentle, affection 
ate, and trustful ; the force of her character 
is evolved solely through her tenderness for 
her child. Beloved by Theodosius, she is 
disgusted at his imbecile sensuality, while 
her graces have won upon the barbarian heart 
of Bleda, the brother of Attila, who would 
gladly win her to himself and usurp the 
throne. Eudocia is a woman, but one steady 
in her devotion to duty. Through this par 
tiality of Bleda, Pulcheria is able to work the 
downfall of the queen. She has gone to the 
house of her father, Leontius, who is a philos 
opher, where Bleda has also gone to learn the 
usages and philosophy of a more polite people. 
Here he is taken ill, and Eudocia, partly in 
waywardness and partly in admiration for 
his character, insists upon playing the leech. 
Pulcheria brings Theodosius, who finds her 
kneeling by the couch. She is thrown into 
prison ; thence she escapes to the chamber 
of her husband, designing to kill him in re 
venge for her wrongs, but, overcome with 
pity, she turns away, and dies of overwrought 
grief in the arms of Anthemius, who has tried 
in vain to save her. The following is a part 
of her interview with Bleda: 

End, Perchance the priest would best become 
thy case. 

Ble. A priest ! I do abhor the murmuring tribe. 
Thine air bespeaks thee gentle as thy sex : 
Art thou not one of those, once sacred held 
As priestess of a shrine 1 The ancient gods 
Whom our forefathers worshipped in their strength, 
It is not well to spurn : if such art thou, 
A secret will be held most sacred by thee. 

End. Nay, mistake me not. [office. 

Ble. Thou needst not fear ; I do respect thine 

End. It is enough ; thy leech is unknown to thee. 

Ble. (starting and taking hold of her veil.} By 
the gods that voice ! 

End. Our art is learned by dames of gentle blood, 
Who sit with patient toil and lips contract, 
If so they may relieve one human pang. 
The ghastly wound appals us not, nor yet 
The raging fury of the moonstruck brain ; 
Not wrinkled hags are we, with corded veins, 
Croaking with spells the midnight watches through, 
But some are fair as she, the vestal mother. 

Ble. And such art thou, might I but cast aside 
This envious veil ; thy voice is crystalline, 
Like water moss-incrusted in its flow ! [befit 

End. I will hear thee, prince such tale as may 
A woman s ear. 

Ble. (aside.} Now, Bleda, shape thy speech : 
Power and love both urge thee to the goal ! 
[7b EUDOCIA.] I have made my way with trusty 

sword and shield, 
Nor falsehood known there is no other crime. 



But thou, all passionless, cold, and serene 
Thy truth, like drops preserved in cubes of stone. 
For drinking of the gods, can know no change. 

Eud. (aside.} Thanks, thanks, for words so high. 

Ble. I am sick of love love of a dame 
Whose dovelike eyes have robbed me of all rest. 
The world is in the market, and all bid : 
Then whv not Bleda, urged less by pride than love ? 
I would become a Christian ; the meanest knight 
Who doth her service, should his office yield 
To me a prince, might I but win one smile. 
The fair Eudocia [talkest treason ! 

Eud. (starting} Lift not thy aspect there ; thou 

Ble. (aside} She listens. I can hear the beating 
This can not, must not be a dream ! [of her heart ; 
[To EUDOCIA.] Eudocia loathes the sensual, weak 
ling, dotard 

Emperor of Rome : she should cast the bondage off, 
And for herself and child assure the reins, [hence. 

End. (aside.} lean not lift my knees, or I would 
[To BLKDA.] Thy ta .e I must away. 

Ble. Tis told: I love Eudocia! and thou 

Eud. Thy words are madness ! [Aside.] And yet 

they steal 

Like dew into the parched bud, and lure 
My aching, vacant heart to maddening bliss. 

Ble. Eudocia must be saved, and who but Bleda 
W T ill lift a finger for the rescue 1 [dead ! 

Eud. Nothing can be done ; she and Rome are 

Ble. Is human will so impotent and vain ] 
Shall we see the wolf with fang upon the lamb, 
Nor stir to aid 1 the vulture tear the dove, 
And we forbear the shaft 1 No, by the fates ! 

Eud. (faintly.} Such are God s children: tis 
their doom, my lord. 

Ble. And we are made avengers of their doom. 

[EUDOCIA points to a ring on the finger of the J riiice. 

Such ills admit of no redemption none! 
Behold this circlet: lightly worn as tis, 
It hath not failed to leave its scar behind. 
We can not raze the traces of the past ; 
Heal up the jagged wound, and leave no seam ; 
Tread down the burning ploughshare with our feet> 
And feel ourselves unscathed : it is our doom, 
And we by patient sufferance keep our souls. 

Then follows the surprise of the court, in 
which she defends herself with gentle dig 
nity, but is disgraced and imprisoned. Pul 
cheria visits her and leaves a dagger, and 
the rooms ajar ; and she proceeds to the cham 
ber of Theodosjus, determined to revenge her 
wrongs : 

Eud. The stillness of this room is most terrible ! 
I wish that he would move. 

[*SVw lifts the citi^^cr utul appt ouches the c^ntch 

Oh, the long, long, eternal sleep ! He stirs ! now 
No, he sleeps. Tis pitiful: the jaw adovvn ; 
The loose brown flesh impending round the chu 
The eyes, like sunken and encas d balls, 
Shut in from speculation ; the thin locks, 
All wantoned by the wind, do mock at them ! 
Helpless and sleeping with his folded hands 

[She [urns IH-U.J 

Oh, I am glad to mark there is no line 



ELIZABETH CAKES-SMITH. 



To win on human love nor any shows 

Nor prints of grand old worth to plead for him ; 

No imperial majestv is there 

No lion-like rebuke, uncurbed by s eep, 

To shame me for the deed that I will do. 

arm mi i lioi.tt wet- Aim. 

A haggard, pal. id, weak, bad man asleep! 
Oh, weakness ! thou hast thy power : a pity grows 
Too terrible upon me ; it shields thee [locks ! 
More than love ; it pleads amid these whitening 

Then follows her interview with her child, 
and final burst of feeling, in which she ex 
pires. To her child she says : 

Boy, thou wilt be a man anon, and learn 
Hard, cruel, manlike ways : thou wilt break hearts, 
And think it brave pastime ; thou wilt rule men, 
And for the pleasure of thy petty will 
Make pools of blood, and top thy pikes with heads ; 
Burn cities, and condemn tbe little ones 
To bleed and die within their mother s arms ! 

Child, (weeping.} I will never be so vile ; I will 
And merciful as thou hast taught me. [be brave 

End. (fondly.} Wilt thou, pretty dear ! Thou 

art a brave boy. 

Wilt always love me ! Look here into mine eyes : 
My own brave boy, when men shall evil speak, 
Defame and curse me, wilt thou forget to love ] 

Child. Never! 

Eud. Never, my brave boy ; and when evil tongues 
Shall make thy mother s name a blush, wilt thou, 
Mine own dear child, wilt thou believe ? 

Child. Never! 

Eud. My boy, dost thou remember thy poor dove, 
Thy white-winged dove, which the fell hawk pur- 
And sprinkled all the marble with his blood 1 [sued, 

Child, (sobbing.} My poor, dear dove ! 

Eud. Ay, thine innocent dove ! 
Listen, child ! In the long hereafter years, 
Wilt thou remember me as that poor dove, 
Hawked down and done to death by cruel hands ] 
Think this, and God himself will bless thee ! 
To Anthemius, who urges her to speak the 
word, and he will avenge her and raise her 
to the throne, she says : 

That little word would yawn a gulf beneath my 
No more : that ready dagger told its bad tale, [feet. 

But I have closed the well of blackness up 

Have seen the pitying angel pleading 

In the locks of him, the weak and unloved one, 

Till my uplifted dagger fell. I wept 

Tears of unmingled pity aching tears! 

Empire has long since 1 faded from my thought: 

The nearer view of an eternal world 

Makes my poor, injured name a nothingness; 

A mother s love alone survives the wreck. 

The reverse of these painful scenes is the 
love of Manlius and Helena, in which sim 
ple affections and every-day perceptions take 
the piace of more profound emotions. The 
character of Petrus gives opportunity for 
nunint humor as well as efficient advance- 
incut of the plot. 



Mrs. Oakes-JSmi th s next work was Jacob 
Leisler, a Tragedy. Its general character 
will be inferred from its title. There is not 
perhaps in American history a finer subject 
for dramatic illustration than the revolution 
in New York in 1680, but hitherto it had 
failed of attention from any author of ade 
quate abilities. The story is in some re 
spects like that of Massaniello, but Leisler 
was a gentleman, and was never, like the 
Neapolitan, made "drunk with power,"but 
was all through the important scenes of his 
elevation, administration, and overthrow, a 
calm, sagacious, and brave man, equal to 
anything within the scope of lawful action 
or experience-suggesting probabilities that 
might be demanded for the common welfare. 
The interest of the play turns largely upon 
a striking underplot of domestic life which 
much affects and hastens the political de 
nouement. The heroine, Elizabeth Howard, 
is an original and noble creation, and the vi 
cissitudes of her life give occasion for dis 
plays of lofty sentiment and careful analysis 
of the heart, in scenes where tenderness be 
comes pathos, devotion sublimity, and the 
illustrations of a passionate fancy kindle up 
on the confines of imagination. In England 
she has been married to a man named Slough- 
ter, from whom, for reasons developed in the 
play, she has separated and fled to America, 
where she keeps the secret of her early his 
tory, and has been for some time happily 
married to Leisler, when he meantime 
having become the people s governor she 
hears that tSloughter has arrived on the coast 
to demand the seals of the province for the 
crown. The following scene here succeeds, 
an interview between Elizabeth and an old . 
and confidential servant: 

ELIZABETH and HANN AH. 

Eliz. Nay, it must be told : he might hear of it 
In the market-place, or on the battle-field. 
Leave me, my good Hannah. 

Hun. Oh, dearest madam ! you are so still 
Eliz. Leave me it were best. [Exit HANNAH. 
How mournfully, how yearningly have I 
Longed for thy presence, velvet-footed Peace ! 
The drudging housewife singing at her toil 
I have most envied; and the market dame, 
Content with her small gains, and with the chcei 
Homely but hearty of the wayside boor, 
Provokes me to a spleen. Oh, thou lowly [morn, 
Common flesh, braced by the rosy, sweet-breathed 
Could yet but see the ruby-girdled heart, 
How would ye shrink with dread, and bless the lol 

Of honest toil ! 

I do forget the secret of my grief. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



Enter LKISr.F.ll, htirri-d t/. 

Leis. Mv sweet wife, them art fit to wear a crown ! 
I ll give thee what is better: thou dost rule 
Him who rules the people by their own free choice. 
Look up, dearest ! I am the people s king 
Not king nay, God forbid, in this great land ! 
But what ails thee, sweet 1 these times oppress thee. 

[.Vre* the letter. 

A letter ? well, put it by I II none of it ; 
I shall be much abroad shall see thee less 
So we will seize the present bliss as sure. 
How beautiful thou art, and yet so pale, 
So very sad ! What is it, love ? 

Eliz. The vase of life is rarely garland-crowned. 

Leis. Nay, dearest, thou dost think me ambitious, 
And tremblest lest the household a tar dim. 

Eliz. Nay, fill thee wuh great thoughts, and me 
forget. 

Leis. Thou dost reproach me, love ; it can not be. 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ? 

Leis. Love thee, Bess ] To doatingness, to mad 
ness ! 

Eliz. Because that I am fair, and true, and good 1 

Leis. A very ange, ; nay, better, an all, all wo 
man 1 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler 1 

Leis. My own wife, thou knowest I do love thee. 

Eliz. I love to hear thee say it : I will remember. 

Leis. Thou art ill ; thy hands cold thy cheek so 

pale ! 
These times are too much for thee. 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ] 

Leis. Ah, Bess, dear Bess, thou art ill . Dost 
love me 1 

Eliz. Love thee 1 words have no meaning to my 

deep love ! 

It hath purged me from the weakness of my sex, 
And made me new create in thee. Love thee 1 
I had not lived until I knew thee ! 

Love thee 1 Oh Oh Oh ! [ Throws herself into Ids arms. 

Leis. My wife, my love, what has moved thee 
thus 1 

Eliz. Ah, the letter! shall I tell it thee] 

Leis. Yes let me know the worst. 

Eliz. The worst 1 

Leis. Yes, the worst : it can not touch our love. 

Eliz. Touch our love 1 

Leis. Nay, the letter 

Eliz. I have a friend, who was once exceeding 

fair. 

They tell me she is wan and changed now. 
Poor thing ! she broke the heart of him she loved : 
And she did love so wel! as I love thee ! \weep*. 

Leis. My poor Bess ! do not tell it now. 

Eliz. I must tell it thee. Well, she was wedded, 
A simple child, with childhood s vacant heart. 
The days wore on ; the night succeeded day ; 
And she did loathe him in her very soul, 
And loathed herself to such vile bondage held. 
She left him ! 

Leis. The tale should not be in thy mouth, sweet 
wife. 

Eliz. She did not love another 

Leis. Had she not felt the stirring of a life 
Within her own 1 small, pleading, upward hands, 
Or piping voice steal to a mother s heart 1 



Eliz. Oh, never, never ! I did know her wM! . 
She would have died sooner than leave her chi d 
To stranger hands; nay, more than this, had lived 
In bitterness had cherished life for it ; 
Not all the deadening miseries that wait 
On constrained love not all the tortures felt 
By th recoiling nerve and shrinking sense 
Not all the blight and famine of the soul 
Had moved her to forget a mother s love. 

Leis. Tis a sad tale, Bess ; think no more of it, 

Eliz. This is not all. Years passed, and she did 
love 

Leis. Talk no more of her ; we can but pity. 

Eliz. (drawing back.} This is not all : she buried 

up the past ; 
She loved and was beloved, and held the secret still. 

Leis. She was infamously perjured. 

Eliz. She married him she loved 

Leis. No more of the vile adultress ! 

Eliz. Leisler, Leisler, I am that woman ! 

Leis. (tenderly?) Alas ! she has gone mad ! 
My fond wife ! 

Eliz. Would to God it were madness, but tis 



true ! 

[T^KISf.KH staggers to one side ; 



tlirmes herself at hi 



Oh, I have killed thee killed thee ! Speak to me, 
Curse me stab me to the heart but look not thus ! 
See here ! [ Opens her bosom. ] To die by thy hand 

were joy indeed ^ 

I ll kiss the dagger s point, and kiss thy hand 
And forfeit heaven itself, if, ere I die, 
Thou wilt but smile and kiss me once again ! 

There are in this tragedy several scenes 
of great power, among which are that in 
which Elizabeth poisons her child, and that 
in which she discovers herself to the hus 
band whom she had abandoned, to plead for 
the life of the husband by whom she has her 
self been cast off, abhorred and contemned. 

The prose writings of Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
for the most part printed in magazines 
and other miscellanies are characterized 
by qualities similar to those which mark 
her poetry. Her most elaborate performan 
ces are The Western Captive, a novel, pub 
lished in 1842, and her last work, recently 
issued by Putnam, with illustrations by Dar- 
ley, entitled The Salamander, a Legend for 
Christmas, purporting to be by " Ernest Hel- 
fenstein," a name under which she has fre 
quently written. 

The great and peculiar merits of Mia 
Oakes-Smith are so fully illustrated in what 
has been remarked in ihe preceding pages, 
and in the liberal extracts that are here given 
from her works, that little remains to be ad 
ded upon the subject. In the drama, in the 
sonnet, and in miscellaneous poems of im 
agination and fancy, she has vindicated her 
right to a place among the first poets of her sex. 



184 



ELIZABETH () A K E S - S M I T H. 



THK ACORN". 

LONG years ago, when our headlands hroke 

The silent wave below, 
And bird-song then the morn awoke 

Where towers a city now ; 
When the red man saw on every cliff, 

Half seen and half in shade, 
A tiny form, or a pearly skiff, 

That sought the forest glade 

An acorn fell from an old oak-tree, 

And lay on the frosty ground : 
" Oh, what shall the fate of the acorn be 1" 

Was whispered al! around, 
By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, 

Like a floweret s bell when swung 
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, 

And the beetle s hoofs uprung; 

For the woodland Fays came sweeping past 

In the pale autumnal ray, 
Where the forest-leaves were falling fast, 

And the acorn quivering lay ; 
They came to tell what its fate should be, 

Though life was unrevealed ; 
For life is a ho y mystery, 

W r here er it is concealed. 

They came with gifts that should life bestow: 

The dew and the living air 
The bane that should work it deadly wo 

The little men had there. 
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, 

The worm in a rose-leaf rolled, 
And many things with destruction fraught, 

That its doom were quickly told. 
But it needed not ; for a bless : d fate 

Was the acorn s meant to be : 
The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait, 

And watch o er its destiny. 
To Hor OF THE SHELL was the task assigned 

To bury the acorn deep, 
Away from the frost and searching wind, 

When they through the forest sweep. 
Twas a dainty sight, the small thing s toil, 

As. bowed beneath the s\ ade, 
He balanced his gossamer wings the while 

To peep in the pit he made. 
A thimble s depth it was scarcely deep, 

When the spade aside he threw, 
And rolled the acorn away to sleep 

In the hush of dropping dew. 
The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 

And gush of woodland song; 
The dew came down, and the rain was there, 

And the sunshine rested long: 
Then softly the black earth turned aside, 

The old leaf arching o er, 
And up, where the last year s leaf was dried, 

Came the acorn-shell once more. 
With coiled stem, and a pale-green hue, 

It looked but a feeble thing; 
Then deeply its root abroad it threw, 

Its strength from the earth to bring. 
The woodland sprites are gathering round, 

Rejoiced that the task is done 



That another life from the noisome ground 
Is up to the pleasant sun. 

The young child passed with a careless tread, 

And the germ had well nigh crushed ; 
But a spider, launched on her airy thread, 

The cheek of the stripling brushed. 
He little knew, as he started back, 

How the acorn s fate was hung 
On the very point in the spider s track 

Where the web on his cheek was flung. 

The autumn came it stood alone, 

And bowed as the wind passed by 
The wind that uttered its dirgelike moan 

In the old oak sere and dry ; 
The hollow branches creaked and swayed, 

But they bent not to the blast, 
For the stout oak-tree, where centuries played, 

Was sturdy to the last. 

But the sapling had no strength as yet 

Such peril to abide, 
And a thousand guards were round it set 

To evil turn aside. 
A hunter boy beheld the shoot, 

And an idle prompting grew 
To sever the sta k from the spreading root, 

And his knife at once he drew. 

His hand was stayed ; he knew not why : 

Twas a presence breathed around 
A pleading from the deep-blue sky, 

And up from the teeming ground. 
It told of the care that had lavished been 

In sunshine and in dew 
Of the many things that had wrought a screen 

When peril around it grew. 

It to d of the oak that once had bowed, 

As feeble a thing to see ; 
But now, when the storm was raging loud, 

It wrestled mightily. 
There s a deeper thought on the hunter s brow, 

A new love at his heart ; 
And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow 

He turns him to depart. 

Up grew the twig, with a vigor bold, 

In the shape of the parent tree, 
And the old oak knew that his doom was told, 

When the sapling sprang so free. 
Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore 

The hollow limbs away ; 
And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor 

Round the trunk, time worn and gray. 
The young oak grew, and proudly grew, 

For its roots were deep and strong; 
And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, 

And the sunshine lingered long 
On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light 

Was flung to the evening sky ; 
And the wild bird sought to its airy height, 

And taught her young to fly/ 
In acorn-time came the truant boy, 

With a wild and eager look, 
And he marked the tree with a wondering joy, 

As the wind the great limbs shook. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



185 



He looked where the moss on the north side grew, 

The gnarled arms outspread, 
The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, 

As it towered above his head : 

Arid vaguc-like fears the boy surround, 

In the shadow of that tree ; 
So growing up from the darksome ground, 

Like a giant mystery. 
His heart beats quick to the squirrel s tread 

On the withered leaf and dry, 
And he lifts not up his awe-struck head 

As the eddying wind sweeps by. 

All regally the stout oak stood, 

In its vigor and its pride ; 
A monarch owned in the solemn wood, 

With a sceptre spreading wide 
No more in the wintry blast to bow, 

Or rock in the summer breeze ; 
But draped in green, or starlike snow, 

Reign king of the forest trees. 

A thousand years it firmly grew, 

A thousand blasts defied ; 
And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw 

A shadow dense and wide. 
Change came to the mighty things of earth 

Old empires passed away ; 
Of the generations that had birth, 

O Death ! where, where are they 1 

Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, 

Nor dreamed it of decay, 
Though a thousand times in the autumn wood 

Its leaves on the pale earth lay. 
It grew where the rocks were bursting out 

From the thin and heaving soil 
Where the ocean s roar and the sailor s shout 

Were mingled in wild turmoil ; 

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep 

Came up with a booming swell ; 
And the white foam dashed to the rocky steep, 

But it loved the tumult well. 
Then its huge limbs creaked in the midnight air, 

And joined in the rude uproar ; 
For it loved the storm and the lightning s glare, 

And the wave-lashed iron shore. 

The bleaching bones of the sea-bird s prey 

Were heaped on the rocks below ; 
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, 

Looked off from its topmost bough. 
Where the shadow lay on the quiet wave 

The light boat often swung, 
And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave, 

Her cable round it flung. 

A sound comes down in the forest trees, 

And echoing from the hill ; 
It floats far off on the summer breeze, 

And the shore resounds it shrill. 
Lo ! the monarch tree no more shall stand 

Like a watchtower of the main 
A giant mark of a giant land 

That may not come again. 

The stout old oak! Twas a worthy tree. 
And the builder marked it out ; 



He smiled its angled limbs to see, 

As he measured the trunk about. 

Already to him was a gallant bark 
Careering the rolling deep, 

And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, 
Her way she will proudly keep. 

The chisel clicks, and the hammer rings, 

The merry jest goes round ; 
While he who longest and loudest sings 

Is the stoutest workman found. 
With jointed rib and trunnelled plank 

The work goes gayly on, 
And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank, 

Are heard till the task is done. 

She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, 

With her oaken ribs all bare, 
And the child looks up with parted lip, 

As it gathers fuel there : 
With brimless hat, the barefoot bov 

Looks round with strange amaze, 
And dreams of a sailor s life of joy 

Are mingling in that gaze. 

With graceful waist and carvings brave 

The trim hull waits the sea 
She proudly stoops to the crested wave, 

While round go the cheerings three. 
Her prow swells up from the yesty deep, 

Where it plunged in foam and spray: 
And the glad waves gathering round her sweep 

And buoy her in their play. 

Thou wert nobly reared, heart of oak ! 

In the sound of the ocean roar, 
Where the surging wave o er the rough rock broke, 

And bellowed along the shore : 
And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, 

With the wind through spar and shroud, 
To hear a sound like the forest voice, 

When the blast was raging loud ! 

With snow-white sail, and streamer gay, 

She sits like an ocean-sprite, 
Careering on her trackless way, 

In sunshine or midnight : 
Her course is laid with fearless skill, 

For brave hearts man the helm ; 
And the joyous winds her canvass fill : 

Shall the wave the stout ship whelm 1 

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll, 

Like floating cities by ; 
Where meteors flash by the northern pole, 

And the merry dancers fly ; 
Where the glittering light is backward flung 

From icy tower and dome, 
And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung 

With gems from the ocean foam. 
On the Birman sea was her shadow cast, 

As it lay like molten gold, 
And her pendent shroud and towering mast 

Seemed twice on the waters told. 
The idle canvass slowly swung 

As the spicy breeze went by, 
And strange, rare music around her rung 

From the palm-tree growing nigh- 



180 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



^n, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee 

The gay and the hreaking heart, 
And weeping eyes looked out to see 

Thy white-spread sails depart. 
And when the rattling casement told 

Of many a perilled ship, 
The anxious wife her babes would fold, 

And pray with trembling lip. 
The petrel whee ed in her stormy flight , 

The wind piped shrill and high ; 
On the topmast sat a pale-blue light, 

That flickered not to the eye : 
The black cloud came like a banner down, 

And down came the shrieking blast ; 
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown, 

And gone are helm and mast! 
Helmless, but on before the gale, 

She ploughs the deep-troughed wave : 
A gurgling sound a phrensied wail 

And the ship hath found a grave ! 
And thus is the fate of the acorn told, 

That fell from the old oak-tree, 
And HE OF THE SHELL in the frosty mould 

Preserved for its destiny. 

THE DROWNED MARINER. 



A MAKIXER sat on the shrouds one night, 

The wind was piping free ; 

Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale, 
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale, 

As he floundered in the sea ; 
The scud was flying athwart the sky, 
The gathering winds went whistling by, 
And the wave as it towered, then fell hi spray, 
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 
The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, 

But the tumult pleased him well; 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
And the monsters watched as they hurried past, 

Or lightly rose and fell ; 

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, 
And they lashed as they passed the vessel s side, 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 
Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 

Like an uncurbed steed along, 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
As her gallant prow the water ploughs 

But the ship is fleet and strong: 
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled, 
And onward she sweeps o er the watery world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
But fhrre came no chill to the mariner s blood. 
Wildly she rocks, but he swinge th at ease, 

And holds him by the shroud ; 
And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 
The gaping deep the mariner sees, 

And the surging heareth loud. 
Was that a face, looking up at him, 
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim ? 
Did it beckon him down ] did it call his name ] 
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. 



The mariner looked, and he saw with dread, 

A face he knew too well ; 

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
And" its long hair out on the wave was spread, 

Was there a ta e to tell ? 
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, 
And the mariner groaned, as well he need, 
For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. 
Bethink thee, manner, well of the past, 

A voice ,alls loud for thee 
There s a stifled prayer, the first, the last, 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast, 

Oh, where shall thy burial be ? 
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken, 
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken, 
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee 
For thou art alone on the raging sea : 
Alone in the dark, alone on the wave, 

To buffet the storm alone 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 

To struggle, and feel there is none to sa\e 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past, 
The tremb ing hands on the deep are cast, 
The white brow gleams a moment more, 
Then slowly sinks the struggle is o er. 
Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep, 

Where the sea its dirge shall swell, 
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep, 
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep, 

There thou shalt slumber well. 
The gern and the pearl lie heaped at thy side, 
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride, 
From the strong man s lrand,from the maiden s brow, 
As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 
A peopled home is the ocean bed, 

The mother and child are there 
j The fervent youth and the hoary head, 
The maid, with her floating locks outspread, 

The babe with its silken hair, 
As the water moveth they lightly sway, 
And the tranquil lights on their features play ; 
And there is each cherished and beautiful form, 
Away from decay, and away from the storm. 



TO THE HUDSON. 

OH, river ! gently as a wayward child 

I saw thee mifl the moonlight hills at rest ; 
Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild, 

How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast! 
Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round, 

As if amid the hills to hold thy stav ; 
But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, 

Inviting thee from hill and vale away, 
To mingle thy deep waters with its own ; 

And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide, 
Onward from echoing hill and valley lone. 

Like thine, oh, be my course nor turned aside, 
While listing to the soundings of a land, 
That like the ocean call invites me to its strand. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



is: 



SONNETS. 

I. POEST. 

WITH no fond, sickly thirst for fame, I kneel 

goddess of the high-born art, to thee ; 
Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal 

1 come, pure and heaven-eyed Poesy ! 
Thou art to me a spirit and a love, 

Felt ever from the time when first the earth, 
In its green beauty, and the sky above 

Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
I was a child of thine before my tongue 

Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee, 
And now, albeit from my harp are flung 

Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
That which I would not, yet I know that thou 

The offering wilt not spurn,while th us to thee I bow. 



II. THE BAUD. 

IT can not be, the baffled heart, in vain, 
May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide ; 
Ten thousand other kindred pangs may bide, 

Yet not the less will our own griefs complain. 

Chained to our rock, the vulture s gory stain 
And tearing beak is every moment rife, 
Renewing pangs that end but with our life. 

Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song, 
The- soul s deep anguish thence an utterance finds, 
Appealing to all hearts : and human minds 

Bow down in awe : thence doth the Bard belong 

Unto all times : the laurel steeped in wrong 

Unsought is his : his soul demanded bread, [stead. 

And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone in- 
^ 

III. AX IXCIDEXT. 

A SIMPLE thing, yet chancing as it did, 

When life was bright with its illusive dreams, 
A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid ; 

The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams 
That lingering draped the west, a wavering stir, 

And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill ; 
An eagle, high above the darkling fir, 

With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill 
Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. 
^ O nob:e bird ! why didst thou loose for me 
Thy eagle plume ? still unessayed, unknown 

Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee ; 
I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine, 
I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine ! 

IV. THE UXATTA1XED. 

Axn is this life? and are we born for this 1 
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, 
Or whatsoe er secured, within our clasp, 

To withering lie, as if each earth y kiss [meet. 
Were doomed Death s shuddering touch alone to 

O Life ! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss ? 
Must still THE UVATTAIXEI) beguile our feet? 

The UXATTAIXEII with yearnings fill the breast, 

That rob, for ay, the spirit of its rest ? 
Yes, this is Life ; and everywhere we meet, 
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat ; 

^ et faint thou not, thou dost apply a test 
That shall incite thee onward, upward still, 
The present can not sate nor e er thy spirit fill. 



V. THE WIFE. 

ALL day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 

In its small cage, she moveth to and fro 
And ever and anon will upward spring 

To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
The murmured melody of pleasant thought, 

Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low. 
Light household duties, evermore inwrought 

With placid fancies of one trusting heart 
That lives but in her smile, and turns 

From life s cold seeming and the busy mart, 
With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns 
To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. 

Shut out from hence, the mockery of life, [wife. 

Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting 

VI. RELIGIOX. 

ALOXE, yet not alone, the heart doth brood 
With a sad fondness o er its hidden grief ; 

B -oods with a miser s joy, wherein relief 
Jomes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. 

How many hearts this point of life have passed ! 

And some a train of light behind have cast, 
To show us what hath been, and what may be ; 

That thus have suffered all the wise and good, 

Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free. 
So doth the pilot, trackless through the deep, 
Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep, 

He moves a highway not untried before, 
And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap, 

Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind the 
shore. 

VI T. THE DREAM. 

I niiKAMKi) last night, that I myself did lay 

Within the grave, and after stood and wept, 

My spirit sorrowed where its ashes s ept ! 
T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may 

Prefigure that which is akin to truth. 

How sorrow we o er perished dreams of youth, 
High hopes and aspirations doomed to be 
Crushed and o ermastered by earth s destiny ! 

Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth 
And that deluding faith so loath to part, 
That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart ! 

Oh, tis the ashes of such things that wring 
Tears from the eyes hopes like to these depart, 

And we bow down in dread, o ershadowed by 
Death s wing ! 

VIII. WAYFARERS. 

EARTH careth for her own the fox lies down 

In her warm bosom, and it asks no more. 
The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest, 
Or its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown, 

Circ es in airy rounds to heaven s own door, 
And folds again its plume upon her breast, 

Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise, 
Whose Ty rian vestments sweep the kindred ground, 

Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dies, 

She, kindly Mother, liveth in your eyes, 
And no strange anguish may your lives astound. 

But ye, O pale lone watchers for the true, 
She knoweth not. In Her ve have not found 

Place for your stricken head, wet with the mitl 
night dew. 



IS8 



ELIZABETH O ARE S-SMITH. 



IX. HELOISE TO ARELARI). 

MUST I not love thee ] when the heart would leap 
With all its stirring pulses unto thee, 
Must it be staved 1 is not the spirit free 7 

Can human bonds or bars its essence keep ? 

Or drills and banes hold love in deathful sleep! 
Love thee I. must yet I content will be, 
Like the pale victim, who, on bended knee, 

Presents the cha ice which his blood must steep, 
And prostrate on the altar falls to die : 

So let me knee! a guilt e*s votary sink 

Prayer o.i rny lip, and love within my heart: 
Thus from these willing eyes recede the sky 

Thus let these sighs my ebbing life-blood drink, 
May I but love thee still, but feel how dear thou art ! 



X. IIKLOISE TO ABELAttD, (CONTINUED.) 

shouldst thou hold thy tenderness aside 
From all thv lavishmcnt of other gifts ] 
As if thou wouldst resort to means and shifts, 
Thy dearest, noblest attribute to hide 
From her, thy soul s sequestered, nun-made bride 1 
Thou hast enshrined her, like the star that drifts 
Alone in space the worshipper who lifts 
His adoration, stayetli not the tide [thou 1 

Of his full heart ah ! wherefore then shouldst 
We do our natures unto those attune, 
Most prodigal of greatness and we feel 
That they do us with nobleness endow, 
As did the lavish moon Endyrnion : [ous zeal 1 
Then wherefore starve the heart with thrift of jeal- 



XI. DESPONDENCY. 

WURN thou didst leave me Hope, why didst thou 
In place of thy sweet presence, leave Despair, ("not, 
With her grim visage and disordered hair ? 

The past, the future, then had been forgot 

The soul, concentred on its blasted lot, 
Had rested mute and desolate of care 
Had ceased to question where its treasures were, 

And roamed no more the melancholy spot : 
But now, too much remembering of the past ; 

So huge the weight of gloom around me spread, 
That I, like one within a charnel cast, 

Hear but the dirges ringing for the dead 
Feel all the pangs of life, and thought, arid breath, 
Yet walk I all the time with hand in hand of Death. 



XII. LOVE. 



THERE may be death or peril grief and shame 
Cold, hollow human bonds ; and stony walls, 
And stonier hearts ; and solemn hackwood calls, 

Heard in the midnight silence, when our name 

< omes to the startled car in cadenced blame : 
Friends may fall, as the dried leaf in autumn falls: 
We, in blanched moonlight stand, in desolate halls, 

H.-arinjf dead branches grate the window frame, 
Under the pressure of the winter wind 

Y el Love will dare a l these, and more : ah ! more 

Outlive the changed look, wrench back despair, 
Knd in his dim, deserted chambers find 

The wherewithal to comfort to restore [there. 
God s manna find left by Archangel footprints 



XIII. "LOOK NOT BEHIND THEE. 

MKSEKMED, as I did walk a crystal wall, 
Translucent in the hue of rosy morn, 
And saw Eurydice, from Orpheus torn, 

Lift her white brow from out its heavy pall, 

With sweet lips echoing his melodious call, 
And following him, love-led and music-borne, 
A sharp and broken cry and she was gone : 

Thou fairest grief thou saddest tvpe of all 
Our sorrowing kind, oh, lost Eurydice ! 

Thy deathful cry thrilled in mine every vein, 
When Orpheus turned him back, thus losing thee 

His broken lute and melancholy plain 
All time prolongs the still unceasing flow 
Of unavailing grief and a regretful wo. 



XIV. CHAIUTT, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE. 

OUTWEARIED with the littleness and spite 
The falsehood and the treachery of men, 
I cried, " Give me but justice" thinking then 

I meekly craved a common boon, which might 

Most easily be granted : soon the light 
Of deeper truth grew on my wandering ken, 
(Escaped the baneful damps of stagnant fen,) 

And then I saw that, in my pride bedight, 
I claimed from weak-eyed man the gift of Heaven : 

God s own great vested right ! and I grew calm, 
W 7 ith folded hands, like stone to Patience given, 

And pityings of meek love-distilling balm 
And now I wait in hopeful trust to be 
All known to God, and ask of man sweet charity 



XV. THE GREAT AI3I. 

EARTH beareth many pangs of guilt and wrong, 
Hunger, and chains, and nakedness, all cry 
From out the ground to Him whose searching eye 

Sees blood, like slinking serpents, steal along 

The dusty way, rank grass, and flowers among 
Histhedread voice," Where is thy brother?" Why 

Sit we here, weaving our common griefs to song, 
When that eternal call forth bids us fly 

From self, and wake to human good 1 the near. 
The humble it may be, yet God-appointed : 

If greatly girded, go unknowing fear 
With solemn trust, thou missioned and anointed. 

Oh, glorious task ! made free from petty strife, 

Thy Truth become an Act thy Aspiration, Life. 



XVI. MIDNIGHT. 

AFAH in this deep dell, by the seashore, 
So, resteth all things from the summer heat, 
That I the Naiads hear from limber feet 

Let fall the crystal as in days of yore : 

Old sea-gods lean upon the rock, and pour 
The waves adown ; the light-winged zephyrs greet 
The tittering nymphs, that from their green retreat 

With pearl-shells play and listen to their roar: 
Endymion sure on yonder headland sleeps, 

Where Dian s veil floats out a silver sheen 
And large-eyed Pan amid the lotus peeps, 

Where glea?ns an ivory arm the leaves between. 
Nor stirs a restless hoof, lest his bit; heart, 
O erfilled with love, should si umbering Echo start. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



189 



XVII. JEALOUSY. 

ALAS ! for he who loves too oft may be 

Like one who- hath a precious treasure sealed, 
Whereto another hath obtained the key : 

And he, poor soul ! who there his a .l concealed, 
Lives blindly on, nor knows that mite by mite 

It dvvindleth from his grasp ; or if a thought 
That something hath been lost his mind affright. 

He puts it by as evil fancy wrought. 
Yet will there sometimes come -a ghostly dread, 

From which the soul recoils ; but he will sleep 
Av, sleep and when he wakes, all, all is fled. 

Thus we may " garner up" our hearts, and keep 
A more than human trust, and yet be left 
Despoiled of all of hope, of faith, of love bereft ! 



ECCK HOMO. 

THE WORSHIP AND THE WAY. 

WHETIE the great woods their dusky shadows spread, 
Where the co .d mountain-top in silence stood 

What time the stars hung dark. ing overhead, 
Or came the red sun forth a beaming god, 

There, dimly groping, yet for truth athirst, 

Before the heavenly hosts in worship first, 

Ecce Homo ! 

The sylvan god hid in the rude, worn stone, 

The fire with wreaths of smoke to heaven ascending 
From out the consecrated dell, are gone ; 

The Parsee on the mount no more is bending, 
But in a shapely temple, with the rites 
Of priest, and victim, and the burning lights, 

Ecce Homo ! 
Ah, struggling soul ! crushed and impeded, yet 

In form alone thou couldst riot rest content ; 
These were but symbols : thou couldst not forget 

Truth dwells within the veil, which must be rent ; 
And once again, mid earthquakes, doubt, and dread, 
And darkness o er the earth, and o er all worship 

spread Ecce Homo ! 

Where hath the lowly been, to point the path 

To all the strugglers for the good and true 1 
In peril and in scorn from earthborn wrath, 

His locks all covered with tae midnight dew 
The sweat of b.ood, the agony, the prayer 
Oh, dark Gethsemane, behold him there ! 

Ecce Homo ! 
Wayworn with toil, and sorrowful of heart, 

Amid earth s multitude despised and poor, 
W T ho, save their trust in God, have little art 

Their strength the strength that teaches to endure : 
To comfort such, and in the outcast s ear 
Great words to whisper of consoling cheer 

Ecce Homo ! 
W T here is the Priest, and where the altar now * 

Where is the reeking blood., and victim slain 1 
Tranquil is upward raised a heavenly brow 

" Do this in love until I come again" 

And mystic wine poured forth, and lowly bread, 
Earth s best and common gifts before him spread, 

Ecce Homo ! 

Not as the martyr dies with the great stamp 

Of Truth upon his brow, him to uphold ; 

But o er the suffering forehead, cold and lamp, 



Th A record of imposture three times told 
The outcast and the felon side by side 
" Without the walls," where all men may deride 

Ecce Homo ! 
Thou fainting bearer of the thorn and cross, 

Despised, rejected of thy brother here 
Sighing for lack of bread the wayside moss 

Thine only pillow cast aside thy fear ! 
Fill up thy human heart unto the brim 
Let the thorn pierce thee, as it pierced Him 

Ecce Homo! 



ODE TO SAPPHO. 

BRIGHT, glowing Sappho ! child of love and song ! 

Adown the blueness of long-distant years 
Beams forth thy glorious shape, and steal along 
Thy melting tones, beguiling us to tears. 
Thou priestess of great hearts, 

Thrilled with the secret fire 
By which a god imparts 

The anguish of desire 
For meaner souls be mean content 
Thine was a higher element. 
Over Leucadia s rock thou leanest yet, 

With thy wild song, and all thy locks outspread ; 
The stars are in thine eyes, the moon hath set 
The night dew falls upon thy radiant head ; 
And thy resounding lyre 
Ah ! not so wildly sway : 
Thy soulful lips inspire 

And steal our hearts away ! 
Swanlike and beautiful, thy dirge 
Still moans along the ^Egean surge. 
No unrequited love filled thy lone heart, 
But thine infinitude did on thee weigh, 
And all the wildness of despair impart, 
Stealing the down from Hope s own wing away. 
Couldst thou not suffer on, 
Bearing the direful pang, 
While thy melodious tone 

Through wondering cities rang? 
Couldst thou not bear thy godlike grief] 
In godlike utterance find relief! 
Devotion, fervor, might upon thee wait : 

But what were these to thine 1 all cold and chill, 
And left thy burning heart but desolate ; 
Thy wondrou? beauty with despair might fill 
The worshipper who bent 

Entranced at thy feet : 
Too affluent the dower lent 

Where song and beauty meet ! 
Consumed by a Promethean fire 
Wert thou, O daughter .of the lyre ! 
Alone, above Leucadia s wave art thou, 
Most beautiful, most gifted, yet alone ! 
Ah ! what to thee the crown from Pindar s brow e 
What the loud plaudit and the garlands tluown 
By the enraptured throng, 

When thou in matchless grace 
Didst move with lyre and song, 

And monarchs gave thee place 1 
What hast thou left, proud one ? what token ? 
Alas ! a lyre and heart uotli broken ! 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMTTH. 



LOVE DEAD. 

Th* lady sent liim an ima.se of Cupid, one wins veiling Ins face. He 
was pit-use,! tli>-rt-at, thinkin- it to be Low >|.-.-piii^, and betokened 
lie tendermM ot (lie sentiment. He looked again, and caw it 
Love dead, and laid upon his biet. 

THIS morn with trembling I awoke, 
Just as the dawn my slumber broke : 
Flapping came a heavy wing sounding pinions o er 

my head, 

Beating down the b .essed air with a weight of chil 
ling dread ; 

Felt I then the presence of a doom 
That an Evil occupied the room : 
And I dared not round the bower, 

Chi.ly in the grayish dawning 
Dared not face the evil power, 

With its voice of inward warning. 
Vain with weakness we may palter 
Vainly may the fond heart falter: 
Came there then upon my soul, dropping down 

like leaden weight, 
Burning pang or freezing pang, which I know not, 

twas so great ! 

Life hath its moments black unnumbered, 
I knew not if mine eyes had slumbered, 
Yet I little thought such pain 
Ever to have known again : 
Love dies, too, when Faith is dead 
Yesternight Faith perished ! 
I knew that Love could never change - 
That Love should die seems yet more strange ; 
Lifting up the downy veil, screening Love within 

my heart, 

Beating there as beat my pulse, moving like my 
self a part 

I had kept him cherished there so deep, 
Heart-rocked kept him in his balmy sleep, 
That till now I never knew 
How his fibres round me grew 
Could not know how deep the sorrow 
Where Hope bringeth no to-morrow. 
I struggled, knowing we must part ; 
I grieved to lift him from my heart: 
Grieving much and struggling much, forth I brought 

him sorrowing ; 
Drooping hung his fainting head, all adown his 

dainty wing ! 

Shrieked I with a wild and dark surprise, 
For I saw the marble in Love s eyes ; 
Yet I hoped his soul would wait 
^s he oft had waited there, 
Hovering, though at heaven s gate 
Could he leave me to despair ] 
Unfolded they the crystal door, 
W here Love shall languish never more. 
"VV eeping Love, thy days are o er. Lo ! I lay thee 

on thy bier, 
Wiping thus from thy dead cheek every vestige of 

a tear. 

Love has perished : hist, hist, how they tell, 
Beating pulse of mine, his funeral knell ! 
Lo\e is dead ay, dead and gone! 
Why should I be living on ? 
Why be in this chamber sitting, 
With but phantoms round me flitting? 



STANZAS. 

I PASS before them cold and lone; 
I ask no smile, I claim no tear; 
And like some chiselled form of stone, 

Doomed none save mocking words to hear, 
To meet no eyes with Love s own ray, 

No touch that might the life-pulse wake, 
No tone emotion to betray, 

No self forgotten for its sake ! 
So pass they all, and it is well ! 

I would not such should read the mind 
Where hidden tenderness may dwell, 

Like gem in icy cave confined ; 
I would not every eye should read 

What one alone should ever know 
One, only one, by Fate decreed 

To bid these icy fetters flow ! 
They deem that changeful, struggling still, 

For that nor time nor earth can give ; 
Misled by Fancy s aimless will, 

I in the cold ideal live. 
Oh, it is well ! thence holier far 

Is all I cherish thus apart 
Pure as the brightness of a star, 

Deep as the fountains of the heart ! 



ENDURANCE. 

1 She turned to him sorrowfully, saying, Thou art free! Tl.en P<at 
did ho feel how deep is the bondage of love." 

I HAVE loosed every bond from thy uneasy heart, 

Have given thee back every pledge that was dear ; 
I have bidden thee go, yet thou wilt not depart 

I have prompted away, yet still thou art here. 
I knew that thy freedom would be but in vain, 

Thy bondage the same, though absent the token : 
The chain may be reft, yet the scar will remain ; 

The weight will be felt, though the links are all 
broken. 

[ shed not a tear when I bade thee depart 

My lip curled with pride, but nothing with scorn ; 
[f the pang or the aching were felt at the heart, 

Thou couldst not divine that it nourished the 

thorn. 
[ dreamed not of comfort, I prayed not for bliss ; 

In loving I knew was the wreck of my life : 
[n silence I bowed and asked but for this 

Thou ever the same in my darkness and strife ! 
The prayer hath been mocked, it is well that we part ; 

Yet it grieves me a will so unfettered as thine 
Should wrestle in vain with the bonds of the heart, 

A captive unwilling in jesses of mine. 

would send thee away with fetterless wing, 

W ith eye that nor dimness nor sorrow hath known; 

The free airs of heaven around thee should sing, 
And I bear the shaft and the anguish alone, 
have learned to endure, I have hugged my despair, 
I scourge back the madness that else would invade ; 

On my brain falls the drop after drop, yet I bear, 
Lest thou shouldst discover the wreck thou hast 
made ! 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



191 



MINISTERING SPIRITS. 

WHITE-WIXGED angels meet the child 

On the vestibule of life, 
And they offer to his lips 

All that cup of mingled strife 
Mingled drops of smiles and tears, 
Human hopes, and human fears, 
Joy and sorrow, love and wo, 
Which the future heart must know. 

Sad the smile the spirits wear, 
Sad the fanning of their wings, 

As in their exceeding love 

Each a cup of promise hrings : 

In the coming strife and care, 

They have promised to be there ; 

Bowed by weariness or grief, 

They will minister relief. 

Lady, could the infant look 

In that deep and bitter cup, 
All its hidden perils know, 

Would it quaff life s waters up ? 
Lady, yes for in the vase 
Upward beams an angel face ; 
Deep and anguished though the sigh, 
There is comfort lurking nigh 
Times of joy, and times of wo, 
Each an angel-presence know. 



THE RECALL, OR SOUL MELODY. 

NOTI dulcimer nor harp shall hreathe 

Their melody for me ; 
Within my secret soul be wrought 

A holier minstrelsy ! 
Descend into thy depths, oh soul ! 
And every sense in me control. 

Thou hast no voice for outward mirth, 

Whose purer strains arise 
From those that steal from crystal gates, 

The hymnings of the skies ; 
And well may earth s cold jarrings cease, 
When such have soothed thee unto peace. 

Within thy secret chamher rest, 

And back each sense recall, 
That seeketh mid the tranquil stars 

Where melody shall fall ; 
Call home the wanderer from the vale, 
From mountain and the moonlight pale. 

Within the leafy wood, the sound 

Of dropping rain may ring, 
Which, rolling from the trembling leaf, 

Falls on the sparrow s wing ; 
And music round the waking flower 
May breathe in every star-lit bower : 

Yet, come away ! nor stay to hear 

The breathings of a voice 
Whose subtle tones awake a thrill 

To make thee to rejoice, 
And vibrate on the listening ear 
Too deep, too earnest ah, too dear. 
Yes, come away, and inward turn 

Each thought and every sense, 



For srrrow lingers from without 
Th( u canst not charm it thence ; 
But a l attuned the soul may be, 
Unto a deathless melody. 



THE WATER. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

Didst ever think of it, 
When down it tumbles from the skies, 

As in a merry fit ? 
It jostles, ringing as it falls, 

On all that s in its way 
I hear it dancing on the roof, 

Like some wild thing at play. 

Tis rushing now adown the spout, 

And gushing out below, 
Half frantic in its joyousness, 

And wild in eager flow. 
The earth is dried and parched with heat, 

And it hath longed to be 
Released from out the selfish cloud, 

To cool the thirsty tree. 

It washes, rather rudely too, 

The flow rets simple grace, 
As if to chide the pretty thing 

For dust upon its face : 
It showers the tree till every leaf 

Is free from dust or stain, 
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilleil. 

And showers them o er again. 

Drop after drop is tinkling down, 

To kiss the stirring brook, 
The water dimples from beneath 

With its own joyous look : 
And then the kindred drops embrace, 

And singing on they go, 
To dance beneath the willow tree, 

And glad the vale below. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

It loves to come at night, 
To make us wonder in the morn 

To find the earth so bright 
To see a youthful gloss is spread 

On every shrub and tree, 
And flowerets breathing on the ail 

Their odors pure and free. 

A dainty thing the water is 

It loves the blossom s cup, 
To nestle mid the odors there, 

And fill the petals up ; 
It hangs its gems on every leaf, 

Like diamonds in the sun ; 
And then the water wins the smile 

The floweret should have won. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

To me tis wondrous fair 
No spot can ever lonely be, 

If water sparkle there ; 
It hath a thousand tongues of mirtb. 

Of grandeur, or delight, 
And every heart is gladder made 

When water greets the sight 



l J2 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



THE BROOK. 

" WHITHKTI awav, thou merry Brook, 

Whither away so fast, 
With dainty feet through the meadow green, 

And a srni!e as you hurry past?" 
The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, 

And dimpled with saucy glee; 
The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the wil.ow free. 

I heard its lau^h adown the glen, 

And over the rocky steep, 
Away where the old tree s roots were bare 

In the waters dark and deep ; 
The sunshine flashed upon its face, 

And played with flickering leaf 
Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

" Now stay thy feet, oh restless one, 

Where droops the spreading tree, 
And let thy liquid voice reveal 

Thy story unto me." 
The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 

As the gushing music fell, 
The chiming music of the brook, 

From out the woody dell. 

" My mountain home was bleak and high, 

A rugged spot s.nd drear, 
With searching wind and raging storm, 

And moonlight cold and clear. 
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 

For a fond and answering look 
But none were in that solitude 

To bless the little brook. 

" The blended hum of pleasant sounds 

Came up from the vale below, 
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot, 

To lapse, and sing as I go ; 
That gentle things, with loving eyes, 

Along my path should glide, 
And blossoms in their loveliness 

Come nestling to my side. 

" I leaped me down : my rainbow robe 

Hung shivering to the sight, 
And the thrill of freedom gave to me 

New impulse of delight. 
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave, 

The bird and the swaying tree ; 
The spear-like grass and blossom start 

With joy at sight of me. 

" The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 

When the busy Spring is here, 
And twittering hears the moistened gift 

A nest on the eaves to rear; 
The twinkling feet of flock and herd 

Have trodden a path to me, 
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 

In the shade of the alder-tree. 

" The surinurnt child, with its rounded foo 

Comes hither with me to play, 
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 

As he dashes the merry spray. 



I turn the mill with answering glee, 
As the merry spokes go round, 

And the gray rock takes the echo up, 
Rejoicing in the sound. 

" The old man bathes his scattered locks, 

And drops me a silent tear 
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 

Look up from the waters clear. 
Then I sing in his ear the very song 

He heard in years gone by ; 
The old man s heart is glad again, 

And a joy lights up his eye." 

Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 

I ll treasure thy teachings well, 
And I will yield a heartfelt tear 

Thy crystal drops to swell ; 
Will bear like thee a kindly love 

For the lowly things of earth, 
Remembering still that high and pure 

Is the home of the spirit s birth. 



THE COUNTRY MAIDEN. 

I had rather have one kisse, 
Cliilde waters of thy mouth, 

Than 1 woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire both* 
That lye by north and south. Old Ballad. 

I CAME to thee in workday dress 

And hair but plainly kempt, 
For life is not all holyday, 

From toil and care exempt ; 

I met thee oft with glowing cheek 

Thus love its tale will tell ; 
Though oft its after paleness told 

Of hidden grief as well. 

Mine eyes that drooped beneath thy glance 

To hide their sense of bliss, 
Let fall too oft the tears that tell 

Of secret tenderness. 

I sought for no bewildering lure 

Thy senses to beguile, 
But checked the woman-playfulness, 

The witching tone and smile. 

With household look and household word. 

And frank as maidens meet, 
I dared with earnest, homely truth, 

Thy manliness to greet. 

For oh ! so much of truth was mine, 

So much of love beside, 
I wished in simple maidenhood 

To be thy chosen bride. 

Alas ! the russet robe no more 

Of humble life may tell, 
And thou dost say the velvet gear 

Becomes my beauty well. 

Twas thy dear hand upon my brow 
That bound each sparkling gem, 

But dearer far its slightest touch 
Than all the wealth of them. 

Oh ! tell me not of gorgeous robes, 
Nor bind the jewel there ; 



ELIZABETH CAKES-SMITH. 



193 



And teil me not with those cold eyes 

That 1 am wondrous fair. 
I will not chide, I will not blame, 

And vet the thought is here, 
The thought so fraught with bitterness 

It yieldeth rne no tear. 
I gave thee tenderness too deep 

Too deep for aught but tears ; 
And thou wouldst teach the world s cold rule, 

Which learned, the heart but seres. 

I gave Ihee all the soul s deep trust 

Its truth by sorrow tried ; 
Nay, start not thou ! what hast thou given 1 

Alas ! tis but thy pride. 
Give back, give back the tenderness 

That blessed my simple love, 
And call me, as in those dear days, 

Thine own, thy gentle dove ! 



THE APRIL RAIN. 

THE April rain the April rain 

I hear the pleasant sound ; 
Now soft and still, like little dew, 

Now drenching all the ground. 
Pray tell me why an April shower 

Is pleasanter to see 
Than falling drops of other rain? 

I m sure it is to me. 

I wonder if tis really so 

Or only hope the while, 
That tells of swelling buds and flowers, 

And Summer s coming smile. 
Whate er it is, the April shower 

Makes me a child again ; 
I feel a rush of youthful blood 

Come with the April rain. 

And sure, were I a little bulb 

Within the darksome ground, 
I should love to hear the April rain 

So gently falling round ; 
Or any tiny flower were I, 

By Nature swaddled up, 
How pleasantly the April shower 

Would bathe my hidden cup ! 

The small brown seed, that rattled down 

On the cold autumnal earth, 
Is bursting from its cerements forth, 

Rejoicing in its birth. 
The slender spears of pale green grass 

Are smiling in the light, 
The clover opes its folded leaves 

As if it felt delight. 

The robin sings on the leafless tree, 

Ana upward turns his eye, 
As loving much to see the drops 

Come filtering from the sky ; 
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves 

About his home to see, 
And feel the swaying summer winds 

Play in the full-robed tree. 
13 



The cottage door is open wide, 

And cheerful sounds are heard , 
The younjr girl sings at the merry wheel 

A song like the wilding bird; 
The creeping child by the old, worn sill 

Peers out with winking eye, 
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand, 

As the drops come pattering by. 

With bounding heart beneath the ky, 

The truant boy is out, 
And hoop and ball are da-rting by 

With many a merry shout. 
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng 

For yours is the April day ; 
I love to see your spirits dance V 

In your pure and healthful pla} r . 

ATHEISM. 

FAITH. 

BE WARE of doubt faith is the subtle chain 

Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
Of a deep life within, that will remain 

Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice 
With an exceeding joy, and make our life, 

Ay, this external life, become a part 
Of that which is within, o erwrought and rife 

With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart. 
The order and the harmony inborn 

With a perpetual hymning crown our way, 
Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn, [play. 

Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightning!/ 
Cling to thy faith tis higher than the thought 
That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt. 

REASON. 

THE Infinite speaks in our silent hearts, 

And draws our being to himself, as deep 
Calleth unto deep. He, who all thought imparts, 

Demands the pledge., the bond of soul to keep ; 
But reason, wandering from its fount afar, 

And stooping downward, breaks the subtle chain 
That binds it to itself, like star to star, 

And sun to sun, upward to God again : 
Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit s knell, 

And man is but a clod of earth, to die 
Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell 

More miserable doom than that, to lie 
In trembling torture, like believing ghosts, [Hosts*. 
Who, though divorced from good, bow to the Lord of 

AXXIHI1ATIOX. 

DOUBT, cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch 

Amid the shapely temple overthrown, 
Exultant, stays at length her onward march: 

Her victim, all with earthliness o ergrown, 
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there; 

His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight. 
Dying, deluding, are his hopes, though t uir 

And death, the spirit s everlasting night. 
Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain steep. 

Hear far above the avalanche boom down, 
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep, 

And lost in glens to human foot unknown 
The death-plunge of. the lost come to their ear, 
And silence claims again her region cold and dreai. 



194 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



LET ME BE A FANTASY. 

LIKE the faint breathing of a distant lute 

Heard in the hush of evening still and low, 
For which we lingering listen, though ? tis mute, 

I would be unto thee, and nothing moe 
Oh, nothing moe 
Or like the wind-harp trembling to its pain 

With music-joy, which must perforce touch wo 
Ere it shall sing itself to sleep again, 

80 I would pass to thee, and be no moe 

A breath, no moe ! 
Like lustre of a stone, that wakens thought 

Pure as the cold, far-gleaming mountain snow 
Like water to its crystal beauty wrought 

Like all sweet Fancy dreams, but nothing moe 

A dream, no moe ! 
Like gleams of better worlds and better truth, 

Which our lone hours of aspiration know, 
I would renew to thee the dew of youth 

Touch thy good-angel wing oh, nothing moe 
Oh, nothing moe ! 



STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS. 

COME up unto the hills thy strength is there. 

Oh, thou hast tarried long, 
Too long, amid the bowers and blossoms fair, 

With notes of summer song. 
Why dost thou tarry there 1 what though the bird 

Pipes matin in the vale 
The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd, 

As the red daylights fail 

Yet come unto the hills, the old strong hills, 

And leave the stagnant plain ; 
Come to the gushing of the newborn rills, 

As sing they to the main ; 
And thou with denizens of power shalt dwell, 

Beyond demeaning care ; 
Composed upon his rock, mid storm and fell, 

The eagle shall be there. 

Come up unto the hills : the shattered tree 

Still clings unto the rock, 
And flingeth out his branches wild and free, 

To dare again the shock. 
Come where no fear is known : the seabird s nest 

On the old hemlock swings, 
And thou shalt taste the gladness of unrest, 

And mount upon thy wings. 

t Jome up unto the hills. The men of old, 

They of undaunted wills, 
Grew jubilant of heart, and strong, and bold, 

On the enduring hills 
Where came the soundings of the sea afar, 

Borne upward to the ear, 
And nearer grew the moon and midnight star, 

And God himself more near. 



EROS AND ANTEROS. 

T is said sweet Psyche gazed one night 

On Cupid s sleeping face 
Gazed in her fondness on the wight 

In his unstudied grace : 
But he, bewildered by the glare 

Of light at such a time, 
Fled from the side of Psyche there 

As from a thing of crime. 

Ay, weak the fable false the ground 

Sweet Psyche veiled her face 
Well knowing Love, if ever found, 

Will never leave his place. 
Un found as yet, and weary grown, 

She had mistook another : 
T was but Love s semblance she had founi 

Not Eros, but his brother ! 



THE POET. 

NON VOX SED VOTUM. 

It is the belief of the vulgar that when the nightingale sings, she U 
her breast upon a thorn. 



, sing Poet, sing ! 
With the thorn beneath thy breast, 
Robbing thee of all thy rest ; 
Hidden thorn for ever thine, 
Therefore dost thou sit and twine 

Lays of sorrowing 
Lays that wake a mighty gladness, 
Spite of all their mournful sadness. 

Sing, sing Poet sing ! 
It doth ease thee of thy sorrow 
" Darkling" singing till the morrow ; 
Never weary of thy trust, 
Hoping, loving as thou must, 

Let thy music ring; 
Noble cheer it doth impart, 
Strength of will and strength of heart. 

Sing, sing Poet, sing ! 
Thou art made a human voice ; 
Wherefore shouldst thou not rejoice 
That the tears of thy mute brother 
Bearing pangs he may not smother, 

Through thee are flowing 
For his dim, unuttered grief 
Through thy song hath found relief I 

Sing, sing Poet, sing ! 
Join the music of the stars, 
Wheeling on their sounding cars ; 
Each responsive in its place 
To the choral hymn of space 

Lift, oh lift thy wing 
And the thorn beneath thv breast, 
Though it pierce, shall give thee rest 



E. C. KIN NET. 



THIS fine poet is the daughter of an old 
and respected merchant, Mr. J)avid L. Dodge, 
who retired from business many years ago. 
She was born, and chiefly educated, in the 
city of New York, where most of her life 
has been passed, in the pursuit of favorite 
s udies, and the intercourse of a large circle 
of friends. A few years ago she was mar 
ried to Mr. William B. Kinney, of the New 
ark Daily Advertiser, one of the most able, 
accomplished, and honorable of the men who 
preserve to journalism its proper rank, in a 
republic, of the first of professions. With a 
modesty equal to her genius, and an adequate 
sense of their function, she never deemed her 
self of the company of poets. Possessing in 
a remarkable degree the "fatal facility," she 
has written verse from childhood, but never 
with any of the usual incentives, except the 
desire of utterance, and the gratification of 
friends. The Spirit of Song, one of her latest 
pieces, is but a simple expression of her 
habitual feelings on the subject. The idea 



of publication always brought a seme of con 
straint, and her early improvisations, pro 
duced under this embarrassment, for the 
Knickerbocker, Graham s Magazine, and 
other periodicals, at " Cedar Brook," her fa 
ther s country residence, in the vicinity of 
Newai k, appeared under the name of Sted- 
man. One of her friends, whose opportuni 
ties to know are as great as his acknowledged 
sagacity of criticism to judge, observes, in a 
letter to me, that "decidedly the most free, 
salient, and characteristic effusions of her 
buoyant spirit, have been thrown off, cur- 
rente calamo, in correspondence and inter 
course with her friends." 

It will gratify the reader, who can appre 
ciate the delicacy and strength and melodi 
ous cadences, of the illustrations of her abil 
ities that are here quoted, to learn that Mrs. 
Kinney is turning her attention more and 
more to composition, and that she is medi 
tating an elaborate poem, which will serve 
as the just measure of her powers. 



TO THE EAGLE. i 

IMPERIAL bird! that soarest to the sky, [way j 
Cleaving through clouds and storms thine upward 

Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye, 
Dost face the great, effulgent god of day ! 

Proud monarch of the feathery tribes of air ! 
My soul exulting marks thy bold career, 

Up, through the azure fields, to regions fair, 
Where bathed in light thy pinions disappear. 

Thou with the gods upon Olympus dwelt, 
The emblem and the favorite bird of Jove 

And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt 
Since first they spread o er land and sea to rove: 

From Ida s top the Thunderer s piercing sight 
Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy ; 

So from thy eyry on the beetling height 
Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye ! 

From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth 
For ends inglorious in the god of gods! 

Leaving the beauty of celestial birth, 
To rob Humanity s less fair abodes : 

Oh, passion more rapacious than divine, 
That stole the peace of innocence away ! 

So, when descend those tireless wings of thine, 
They stoop to make defencelessness their prey. 



Lo ! where thou comest from the realms afar ! 
Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows 
breath ; 

Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star, 
And dark thy shadow as the pall of death ! 

But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree, 
And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb; 

Before thee stretch the sandv shore and sea, 
And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim. 

Fair is the scene ! Yet thy voracious eye 

Drinks not its beauty ; but with bloody glare 
Watches the wild fowl idly floating by, 

Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air : 
Oh, pitiless is thine unerring beak ! 

Quick as the wings of Thought thy pinions fall- 
Then bear their victim to the mountain-peak 

Where clamorous eag ets flutter at thy call. 

Seaward again thou turn st to chase the storm 
M here winds and waters furiously roar! 

Above the doomed ship thy boding form 
Is coming Fate s dark shadow cast before ! 

The billows that engulf man s sturdy frame 
As sport to thy careering pinions seem; 

And though to silence sinks the sailor s nainn, 
H:? end is told in thy relentless scream, 
195 



196 



C. KINNEY. 



Where the great cataract sends up to heaven 
Its spray ey incense in perpetual cloud, 

Thy wings in twain the sacred bow have riven, 
And onward sailed irreverently proud. 

Unflinching bird ! no frigid clime congeals 
The fervid blood that riots in thy veins ; 

No torrid sun thine upborne nature feels 
The north, the south, alike are thy domains. 

Emblem of all that can endure or dare, 
Art thou, bold eagle, in thy hardihood ! 

Emblem of Freedom, when thou cleav st the air 
Emblem of Tyranny, when bathed in blood ! 

Thou wert the genius of Rome s sanguine wars : 
Heroes have fought and freely b ed for thee ; 

And here, above our glorious " stripes and stars," 
We hail thy signal wings of Liberty ! 

The poet sees in thee a type sublime 
Of his far-reaching, high-aspiring art ! 

His fancy seeks with thee each starry clime, 
And thou art on the signet of his heart. 

Be still the symbol of a spirit free, 
Imperial bird ! to unborn ages given 

And to my soul, that it may soar like thee, 
Steadfastly looking in the eye of Heaven ! 



ODE: TO THE MOON. 

MYRIADS have sung thy praise, 
Fair Dian, virgin goddess of the skies ! 

And myriads will raise 
Their songs, while time yet onward flies, 
To thee, chaste prompter of the lover s sighs, 

And of the minstrel s lays ; 
But still exhaustless as a theme 
Shall be thy name 
While lives immortal Fame 
As when, to people the first poet s dream, 
Thy inspiration came. 

None ever lived, or loved, 
Who hath not thine oblivious influence felt 
As if a silver veil hid outward things, 
While some bright spirit s wings 

Mysteriously moved 

The world of fancies that within him dwelt. 
Kegent of height, what is this charm in thee, 
That sways the human soul, like potent witchery 1 

When first the infant learns to look on high 
While twilight s drapery his heart appals 
Thy full-orbed presence captivates his eye ; 
Or when, mid shadows grim upon the walls, 
Are sent thy pallid rays, 
T is awe his bosom fills, 
And trembling joy that thrills 
His tiny frame, and fastens his young gaze : 
Thy spell is on that heart, 
And childhood may depart, 
But it shall gather strength with youthful days; 
For oft as thou, capricious moon, 

Shalt wax and wane, 
He now perchance a lovesick swain 
Will watch thee at night s stilly noon, 
Pouring his passion in an amorous strain : 



Or, with the mistress of his soul, 
Lighted by thy love-whispering beams, 

In some secluded garden stroll, 
Bewildered in ambrosial dreams; 
Nor once suspect, while his full pulses move, [love. 
That thou, whom tides obey, mayst turn the tide of 

The watcher on the deep, 
Though weary be his eye, 

Forgets even downy sleep, 

When thou art in the sky ; 
For with thine image on the silvery sea, 
A thousand forms of memory 

Whirl in a mazy dance ; 
And when he upward looks to thee, 

In thy far-reaching glance 
There is a sacred bond of sympathy 

Twixt sea and land ; 

Yes, on his native strand 
That glance awakens kindred souls 

To kindred thought ; 
And though the deep between them rolls, 

Hearts are together brought ; 
While tears that fall from eyes at home, 

And those that wet the sailor s cheek, 
From the same holy fountains come, 

The same emotion speak. 

The watcher on the land, 
Who holds the burning hand 
Of one whom scorching fever wastes, 

Beholds thee, orient Moon, 
With reddened face expanded, in the east, 
Till superstition chills his breast, 

While tremulous he hastes 
To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on; 
But vhen the far-spent night 
Is streaked with dawning light, 
Again, to look on thee, 
He lifts the drapery, 
And hope divine now triumphs over fear, 

As in the zenith far, 
A pale, small orb thou dost appear, 
While eastward rises morn s resplendent star; 
And Fancy sees the parting soul ascend 
Where thy mild glories with the azure blend. 

Even on the face of Death thou tookest calm. 
Fair Dian, as when watchful thou didst keep 
Love s holy vigils o er Endymion s sleep, 
Drinking the breath of youth s perpetual balm : 
Thy beams are kissing now 
The icy brow 
Of many a youth in slumber deep, 

Who can not yield to thee 
The incense of Love s perfumed breath 
For no response gives death. 
Ah, tis a fearful thing to see 
Thy lustre shine 
Upon " the human face divine," 
From which the spark Promethean has fled ! 
As when, oh, melancholy Moon, 

Thy light is shed 
Upon the marble cold 
Of that famed ruin old 
The grand but silent Parthenon. 
Dian, enchantress of all hearts ! 



E. C. KINNEY. 



107 



While mine in song now worships tbee, 
From thy far-reaching bow the silver darts 
Fall thick and fast on me. 

Oh, beautiful in light and shade 
By thee is this fair landscape made ! 
Gems sparkle on the river s breast, 
Now covered by an icy vest ; 
Ijpon the frozen hills 

A regal glory shines, 
And all the scene, as Fancy wills, 

Shifts into new designs : 
Yet night is still as Death s unbroken realms, 
And solemnly thy beams, wan orb, are cast 
Through the arched branches of these reverend elms, 
As though they through the gothic windows past 
Of some old abbey or cathedral vast. 
In awe my spirit kneels, 

And seems before a hallowed shrine ; 
Yet not the majesty of art it feels, 

But Nature s law divine 
The presence of her mighty Architect, 

Who piled these pyramidic hills sublime, 
That stiil, fair Moon, thy radiance will reflect, 
And still defy the crumbling touch of Time ; 
Who buiit this temple of gigantic trees, 
Where Nature s worshippers repair 
To pray the heart s unuttered prayer 
That veil( d thought which the Omniscient sees. 
Oh, I could muse, and still adore 

Religious Night, and thee, her queen ! 
Till golden Phoebus should restore 

His splendor to the scene : 
But natural laws thy motions sway, 

And these must guide the poet s will ; 
Thus, while the soul may tireless stray, 

This actual life must weary still : 
Then oh, inspirer of my song ! 

As close these eyes upon thy beams, 
Watching amid thy starry throng, 
Be thou the goddess of my dreams. 

THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 

ETKHXAL Fame ! thy great rewards, 

Throughout all time, shall be 
The right of those old master bards 

Of Greece and Italy ; 
And of fair Albion s favored isle, 
Where Poesy s celestial smile 

Hath shone for ages, gilding bright 
Her rocky cliffs and ancient towers, 
And cheering this New World of ours 

With a reflected light. 
Yet, though there be no path untrod 

By that immortal race 
Who walked with Nature as with God, 

And saw her face to face 
No living truth by them unsung, 
No thought that hath not found a tongue 

In some strong lyre of olden time ^ 
Must every tuneful lute be still 
That may not give the world a thrill 

Of their great harp sublime ] 
Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice 

In music s simplest tone, 



And hear in Nature s every voice 

An echo to their own ! 
Not till these scorn the little rill 
That runs rejoicing from the hill, 

Or the soft, melancholy glide 
Of some deep stream through glen and glada 
Because tis not the thunder made 

By ocean s heaving tide ! 

The hallowed lilies of the field 

In glory are arrayed, 
And timid, blue-eyed violets yield 

Their fragrance to the shade ; 
Nor do the wayside flowers conceal 
Those modest charms that sometimes steal 

Upon the weary traveller s eyes 
Like angels, spreading for his feet 
A carpet, filled with odors sweet, 

And decked with heavenly dyes. 

Thus let the affluent soul of Song 

That all with flowers adorns 
Strew life s uneven path along, 

And hide its thousand thorns : 
Oh, many a sad and weary heart, 
That treads a noiseless way apart, 

Has blessed the humble poet s name 
For fellowship, refined and free, 
In meek wild-flowers of poesy, 

That asked no higher fame ! 

And pleasant as the waterfall 

To one by deserts bound, 
Making the air all musical 

With cool, inviting sound 
Is oft some unpretending strain 
Of rural song, to him whose brain 

Is fevered in the sordid strife 
That Avarice breeds twixt man and man, 
W T hile moving on, in caravan, 

Across the sands of Life. 

Yet not for these alone he sings : 

The poet s breast is stirred 
As by the spirit that takes wings 

And carols in the bird ! 
He thinks not of a future name, 
Nor whence his inspiration came, 

Nor whither goes his warbled song : 
As Joy itself delights in joy, 
His soul finds life in its employ, 

And grows by utterance strong. 



THE QUAKERESS BRIDE. 

(AN EXTRACT.) 

THE building was humble, yet sacred to One 
Who heeds the deep worship that utters no tone; 
Whose presence is not to the temple confined, 
But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind. 
Twas there all unveiled, save by modesty, stood 
The Quakeress bride in her pure satin hood ; 
Her charms unadorned by the garland or gem, 
Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its stem. 
A tear glistened bright in her dark, shaded eye, 
And her bosom half uttered a tremulous sigh, 
As the hand she had pledged was confidingly giver. 
And the low-murmured accents recorded in heaven. 



.93 



E. C. KINNEY. 



SONNETS. 

I. CULTIVATION. 

WEE us grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers 
Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air, 
And bloom on hills, in va es. and everywhere 

As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers 
But wither while our lips pronounce them fair! 
Flowers of more worth repay alone the care, 

The nurture, and the hopes, of watchful hours ; 

While plants most cultured have most lasting pow- 
So, flowers of genius that will longest live, [ers. 

Spring not in Mind s uncultivated soil, 

But are the birth of time, and mental toil, 
And all the culture Learning s hand can give : 

Fancies like wild flowers, in a night may grow ; 

But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow. 



II. ENCOURAfiE^EXT. 

WHEX first peeps out from earth the modest vine, 

Asking but little space to live and grow, 
How easily some step, without design, 

May crush the being from a thing so low ! 

But let the hand that doth delight to show 
Support to feebleness, the tendril twine 

Around some lattice-work, and twill bestow 
Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine : 

And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot, 
So timid, that it scarce dare ask to live 

The tender germ, if trodden under foot, 

Shrinks back again to its undying root; 
While kindly training bids it upward strive, 
And to the future flowers immortal give. 



III. FADIXG AUTUMX. 

TH autumnal glories all have passed away ! 

The forest leaves no more in hectic red 
Give glowing tokens of their brief decay, 

But scattered lie, or rustle to the tread, 

Like whisper d warnings from the mouldering dead. 
The naked trees stretch out their arms all day, 

And each bald hilltop lifts its reverend head" 
As if for some new covering to pray. 

Come Winter, then, and spread thy robe of white 
Above the desolation of this scene , 

And when the sun with gems shall make it bright, 
Or, when its snowy folds by midnight s queen 

Are silvered o er with a serener lisjht, 
We ll cease to sigh for Summer s living green. 

IV. A WINTER XI OUT. 

How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene! 
The moon in full-orbed glory sails above, 
And stars in myriads around her move; 

Each looking down with watchful eye serene 
On earth, which in a snowy shroud arrayed, 
And still, as in a dreamless sleep twere laid, 

Saddens the spirit with its deathlike mien : 
Yet doth it charm the eye its gaze still hold; 
Ji^st as the face of one we loved, when cold, 

And pale, and lovely e en in death, tis seen, 
Will fix the mourner s eye, though trembling fears 
Fill all his soul, and frequent fall his tears. 

< )h. I could watch, till morn shou d change the sight, 

Tins cold this beautiful, this mournful winter night. 



T. TO THE GREEK SLAVE. 

BEAUTIFUL model of creative art! 

My spirit feels the reverence for thee, 

That felt the ancients for a deity : 
Ana did the sculptor shape thee, part by part, 
Fair, as if whole from Genius mighty heart 

Thou dst sprung, like Venus from the foaming sea? 
Ah ! not for show, in a disgraceful mart, 

Is that calm look of conscious purity ; 
Nor should unhallowed eye presume to steal 
A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel, 

As to some goddess in her virgin youth. 
But who could shame in thy pure presence feel, 

Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, for- 

From the mild lustre of ungarnished truth 1 [sooth, 

VI. TO ARABELLA. 

THERE is a pathos in those azure eyes, 

Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child ! 

When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild 
Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies, 
Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies : 

No tokens glitter there of passion wild, 
That into ecstasy with time shall rise ; 

But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs 

Which Poesy s prophetic eye divines 
Of woman s love, enduring, undefiled ! 
If, like the lake at rest, through life we see 

Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines, 
No idol to thy worshippers thou It be, 

For he will worship Heaven who worships thee , 



THE WOODMAN. 

HE shoulders his axe for the woods, and away 
Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day, 
And merrily whistles some tune as he goes, 
So heartily trudging along through the snows. 

His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark, 
Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark 
Then answering the echo that comes back again 
Through the clear air of morn, over valley and plain. 

And now in the forest the woodman doth stand: 
His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand, 
While true to its aim is the ready axe found, [sound 
And quick do its blows through the woodland re- 

The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form, [storm: 
Whose freshness and strength have braved many a 
And the sturdy oak shakes that never trembled before 
Though the years of its glory outnumber threescore. 

They fall side by side just as man in his prime 
Lies down with the locks that are whitened by time : 
The trees which are felled into ashes will burn, 
As man, by Death s blow, unto dust must return. 

But twilight approaches: the woodman and dog 
Come plodding together through snowdrift and bog, 
The axe, again shouldered, its day s work hath done ; 
The woodman is hungry the dog wants his bone. 

Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast ! 
But the brow of the woodman with thought is o er 
He is conning a truth to be tested by all [cast 
That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall. 



ELIZABETH F. E L L E T. 

(Born 1818). 



MRS. ELLET S father was Dr. William A. 
Lummis, a pupil and friend of Dr. Benjamin 
Rush, whom in person he strikingly resem 
bled. He resided several years in Woodbu- 
ry, New Jersey ; but afterward, giving up the 
practice of his profession, removed to Sodus 
Bay, on Lake Ontario, in the state of New 
York, where he purchased lands and spent 
his fortune in improving them. He died ma 
ny years ago, eminently respected for his abil 
ities and honorable character. His second 
wife, the mother of Mrs. Ellet, was Sarah 
Maxwell, a daughter of John Maxwell, a rev 
olutionary officer, and niece of General Wil 
liam Maxwell, who served in the army with 
distinction from Braddock s campaign until 
near the close of the war of independence, 
when an unjust system of promotions in 
duced him with many others to surrender 
his commission. 

Miss Lummis was married, when about 
seventeen years of age, to Dr. William H. 
Ellet, then professor of chymistry in Colum 
bia College, in New York, and since one of 
the professors in the college at Columbia, in 
South Carolina, where she resided several 
years. 

Mrs. Ellet began to write for the maga 
zines in 1833, and in the following year ap 
peared her translation of Euphemia of Mes 
sina, by Silvio Pellico. In the spring of 
1835 her tragedy of Teresa Contarini was 
successfully represented in New York and 
in some of the western cities. It is founded 
on Nicolini s Antonio Foscarini, which illus 
trates one of the darkest periods in Venetian 
history, when the decrees of the senate and 
the judgments of the inquisitors were made 
most subservient to private purposes. The 
play is of the classic school, and it is too de 
ficient in action to retain a place upon the 
stage. In the autumn of the same year she 
published in Philadelphia a volume entitled 
Poems, Translated and Original. 

From this period until it ceased to be pub 
lished, Mrs. Eilet was a frequent contributor 
to the American Quarterly Review, for which 
she wrote papers on Italian Tragedy, The 



Italian Lyric Poets, Lamartine s Poems, Hu 
go s Dramas, The Troubadours, Andreini s 
Adam, (the work which suggested to Milton 
the idea of his Paradise Lost,) &c. 

In 1841 she published The Character of 
Schiller, an analysis and criticism of tbeprin 
cipal persons in Schiller s plays, with trans 
lated extracts, and an essay on Schiller s ge 
nius. Her next work was Joanna of Sicily, 
a series of passages in the life of tht queen 
of Naples, a blending of fact and fiction, with 
a coloring of the manners of the middle ages. 
This was followed by Country Rambles, a 
volume designed for juvenile readers, and de 
scriptive of scenery in various parts of the 
United States. -^ 

The last production of Mrs. Ellet, The 
Women of the American Revolution, in two 
volumes, was published in New York in 
the autumn of 1848. Her object was to il 
lustrate the action and influence of her sex 
in the achievement of our national indepen 
dence ; to exhibit something of the character 
and feeling of our heroic age, in the domestic 
side of the picture ; and with the assistance 
of a few gentlemen more familiar than her 
self with our public and domestic experi 
ence, she has made a valuable and interest 
ing work. 

From time to time Mrs. Ellet has also pub 
lished papers in the North American Review, 
the Southern Quarterly Review, and several 
of the monthly magazines, upon many sub 
jects of literature, art, and history, which 
evince considerable scholarship and literary 
dexterity. 

The poems of Mrs. Ellet do not perhaps 
evince much of the inspiration of genius, nor 
have they the freshness which distinguishes 
much verse that is very inferior in execution ; 
but while we rarely perceive in them any 
thing that is striking, they, as well as her 
prose works, are uniformly respectable. The 
most creditable illustrations of her abilities 
seem to be her translations from me French 
and Italian languages, in which she has oc 
casionally been remarkably successful. 

Mrs. Ellet now resides in New "YorK 

199 



200 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



SUSQ.UE HANNAH. 

SOFTLY the blended light of evening rests 
Upon thce, lovely stream ! Thy gentle tide, 
Picturing the gorgeous heautv of the sky, 
Onward, unhroken by the ruffling wind, 
Majestically flows. Oh, by thy side, 
Far from the tumults and the throng of men, 
And tie vain cares that vex poor human life, 
Twcre happiness to dwell, alone with thee, 
And the wide, so emn grandeur of the scene. 
From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose 
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, 
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, 
Enrobed with clustering woods, o er which the smile 
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, 
And flinging o er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
His golden livery. On the distant heights 
Soil clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar 
Their burnished summits in the clear, blue heaven, 
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye 
Turns drooping from the sight. Nature is here 
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell, 
In music never silent, of her power. 
Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she bui ds 
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide, 
Untrodden forests eloquently speak, 
Whether the breath of summer stir their depths, 
Or the hoarse moaning of November s blast 
Strip from the boughs their covering. All the air 
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude, 
Swell upward; and the play of dashing streams 
From the green mountain-side is faintly heard. 
The wild swan swims the waters azure breast 
With graceful sweep, or, startled, soars away, 
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear, bright air. 

Oh, in the boasted lands beyond the deep, 
Where Beauty hath a birthright, where each mound 
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past 
And every breeze, as with a spirit s tone, 
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back, 
Waking the soul to lofty memories, 
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 
The heart with peace more pure ? Nor yet art thou, 
Proud stream ! without thy records graven deep 
On von eternal hills, which shall endure 
Long as their summits breast the wintry storm, 
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been 
The chroniclers of centuries gone by : 
Of a stransre race, who trod perchance their sides, 
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth 
Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy 

waves, 

When tones now silent mingled with their sound, 
And the wide shore was vocal with the song 
Of hunter chief, or lover s gentle strain. 
Those passed away forgotten as they passed; 
But holier recollections dwell with thee : 
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen* 
Hath mingled with the soil and hallowed it. 
Thy waters in tneir brilliant path have seen 



The desperate strife that won a rescued world 
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, 
And hymned their requiem. Far beyond this vale, 
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, 
Gay village spires ascend and the glad voice 
Of industry is heard. So in the lapse 
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow 
Beneath the levelling axe and man s abodes 
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass 
In turn away ; yet, heedless of all change, 
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, 
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee 
To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom. 



LAKE ONTARIO. 

DEKP thoughts o ershade my spirit while I gaze 

Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast; 
Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays, 

And thy far-stretching waters are at rest, 
Save the small wave that on thy margin plays, 

Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest : 
While the fleet hues across thy surface driven, 
Ming e afar in the embrace of heaven. 
Thy smile is glorious when the morning s spring 

Gives ha f its glowing beauty to the deep ; 
When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing, 

And the gay winds that o er thy bosom sweep 
Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring, 

Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep. 
Thou t beautiful when evening moonbeams shine, 
And the soft hour of night and stars is thine. 
Thou hast thy tempests, too ; the lightning s home 

Is near thee, though unseen ; thy peaceful shore, 
When storms have lashed these waters into foam, 

Echoes fu .l oft the pealing thunder s roar. 
Thou hast dark trophies: the unhonored tomb 

Of those now sought and wept on earth no more : 
Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave, 
Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave. 
The world was young with thee : this swelling flood 

As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky, 
When sound of life roused not the ancient wood, 

Save the wild eagle s scream, or panther s cry : 
Here on this verdant bank the savage stood. 

And shook his dart and battle-axe on high, 
While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue, 
As deeper and more close the conflict grew. 

Here, too, at early morn, the hunter s song 
Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade 

And here, at eve, these clustered bowers among, 
The low, sweet carol of the Indian maid, 

Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long, 
That kept her lingering lover from the shade, 

While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o er, 

Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore. 

Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years 
Has breathed on all around, save thee alone. 

More faintly the receding woodland hears 
Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own. 

Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears 
To tell their tale forgotten or unknown : 

Yet here, unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie. 

Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



20 



THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP. 

OUR western land can boast no lovelier spot. 
The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, 
Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem 
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven 
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast 
A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, 
Touched by the slanting sunbeams ; while below 
The silent river, with majestic sweep, 
Pursues his shadowed way his glassy face 
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan 
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. 
Talk ye of solitude 1 It is not here. 
Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. 
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky 
That smiles upon their summits ; and the wind 
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, 
And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, 
Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, 
And nod to greet his coming ! And the brook, 
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down 
From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell ; 
The wild bird s music mingles with its chime ; 
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, 
Send forth their perfume as an a*dded gift. 
The river utters, too, a solemn voice, 
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, 
When not a sound was heard along his shores, 
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek 
Of some expiring captive and no bark 
E er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves 
Are vocal often with the hunter s song ; 
Now visit, in their glad and onward course, 
The abodes of happy men, gardens and fields, 
And cultured plains still bearing, as they pass, 
Fertility renewed and fresh delights. 

The time has been so Indian legends say 
When here the mighty Delaware poured not 
His ancient waters through, but turned aside 
Through yonder dell and washed those shaded vales. 
Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, 
Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed 
The wea th of summer on its graceful slope. 
Thither the hunter-chieftains oft repaired 
To light their council-fires ; while its dim height, 
For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared, 
T is said, to scale ; save one white-haired old man, 
Who there held commune with the Indian s God, 
And thence brought down to men his high com 
mands. 

Years passed away : the gifted seer had lived 
Beyond life s natural term, and bent no more 
His weary limbs to seek the mountain s summit. 
New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, 
Who strove against each other. Blood and death 
Filled those green shades where all before was peace, 
And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive 
E en on the precincts of that holy spot [mourned 
Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who 
The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest 
Again to seek the consecrated height, 
Succor from Heaven, and mercy to implore. 
They watched him from afar. He labored slowly 
High up the steep ascent, and vanished soon 



Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark 
As the last hues of sunset passed away. 
The night fell heavily ; and soon were heard 
Low tones of thunder from the mountain-top, 
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills _ 
In deep and solemn peal ; while lurid flashes 
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. 
Then, wilder and more loud, a fearful crash 
Burst on the startled ear : the earth, convulsed, 
Groaned from its solid centre ; forests shook 
For leagues around ; and, by the sudden gleam 
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, 
A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent 
From top to base; and where so late had smiled 
Green boughs and blossoms, yawned a frightful 

chasm, 

Filled with unnatural darkness. From afar 
The distant roar of waters then was heard : 
They came, with gathering sweep, o erwhelming all 
That checked their headlong course ; the rich maize 
The low-roofed hut, its sleeping inmates all [field, 
Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin ! 
Morn looked upon the desolated scene 
Of the Great Spirit s anger, and beheld 
Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks ; 
And men looked on in silence arid in fear, 
And far removed their dwellings from the spot, 
Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, 
Or the war-whoop was heard. Thus years went on : 
Each trace of desolation vanished fast; 
Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread 
With fresh, green foliage, and the swelling earth 
Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. 
The river passed majestically on 
Through his new channel; verdure graced his banks; 
The wild bird murmured sweetly as before 
In its beloved woods ; and naught remained, 
Save the wild tales which hoary chieftains told, 
To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought. 

EXTRACTS FROM TERESA CONTARINI. 

INSENSIBILITY. 

My heart is senseless. It is cold cold cold! 
Steeled in an apathy more deep than wo, 
Which even keen Thought can never pierce again. 
What nights of feverish unrest I ve borne, 
What days of weeping and of bitterness, 
When I have schooled me to a mocking calmness, 
While my heart ached within ! But all is past! 
My spirit is a waste o er which hath raged 
The desolating fire, to leave its trace 
In blackened ruins. I can feel no more ! 
Would that I could ! I d rather bear the gnawing 
Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void, 
In which all sense is buried. 



LOTE, IX YOUTH AXD ARE. 

How doth Youth 

Wear his soft yoke 1 More lightly than he wears 
The pageant plume, which every fickle wind 
Stirs at its will, to be thrown careless by, 
When he shall weary of its pride ! To youth 
Love is the shallow rill that mocks the sunshine, 
Wasting its strength in idle foam away , 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



To age, the rivor. silort, broad, and deep 
Hiding the wealth of years within its breast 
Baffling the vain eye that would read its depths 
Broader and deeper growing, as the channel 
Of life wears on ! 



SODUS BAY. 

I BLESS thee, native shore ! 
Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear ! 

Tis like a dream once more 
The music of thy thousand waves to hear, 

As, murmuring up the sand, 
With kisses bright they lave the sloping land. 

The gorgeous sun looks down, 
Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray ; 

And o er thy headlands brown 
With loving light the tints of evening play : 

Thy whispering breezes fear 
To break the calm so softly hallowed here. 

Here, in her green domain, 
The stamp of Nature s sovereignty is found ; 

With scarce disputed reign 
She dwells in all the solitude around : 

And here she loves to wear 
The regal garb that suits a queen so fair. 

Full oft my heart hath yearned 
For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest ; 

Even as the swan returned. 
Stoops to repose upon thy azure breast, 

I greet each welcome spot 
Forsaken long but ne er, ah, ne er forgot. 

Twas here that memory grew [left; 
T was here that childhood s hopes and cares were 

Its early freshness, too 
Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft : 

Where are they ? o er the track 
Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back ! 

They must be with thee still : 
Thou art unchanged as bright the sunbeams play: 

From not a tree or hill 
Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away 

Unchanged alike should be 
The blessed things so late resigned to thee. 

Give back, oh, smiling deep, 
T ne heart s fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth 

That in thy bosom sleep 
Life s April innocence, and trustful truth ! 

The tones that breathed of yore 
In thy lone murmurs, once again restore. 

Where have they vanished all ? 

l uly the heedless winds in answer sigh ; 

Still rushing at thy call, 
With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by ! 

And idle as the air, 
Ur fleeting stream, my soul s insatiate prayer. 

Home of sweet thoughts farewell ! 
Where er through changeful life my lot may be, 

A deep and hallowed spell " 
I* on thy waters and thy woods for me : 

Though vainly fancy craves 
Its childhood with the music of thy waves. 



O ER THE WILD WASTE. 

O ER the wild waste where flowers of hope lay dead, 

And wan rays struggled faintly through the gloom, 
Like starbeams on the midnight waters shed 

Thou hast brought back the sunshineand thebloom 
Like the free bird at heaven s blue portal singing, 

Thy coming heralded the auspicious morn ; 
And go den songs, and airy shapes upspringirig, 

In answering joy from night s dark breast were boni. 
Thou art the flower, whence zephyrs balm is stealing: 

The fountain, sparkling in the smile of day : 
The sunwrought iris, in the cloud revealing 

More tints than on the radiant sunset play. 
Blessings be with thee, oh, thou happy hearted ! 

For thoughts of beauty, fresh, and glad, and wild 
For visions of enchantment long departed, 

Bright as when first they dawned on Fancy s child 
The Beautiful, that from life s sky had faded, 

Fleet dream of joy ere passed the morning ray, 
Shines forth, by sorrow s wing no longer shaded, 

And pours again a sunshine on my way. 
No rainbow lustre to thy life s sweet dreaming, 

No gifts like thine, alas ! can she impart, [ing 
Whose trust, lone dove o er darkened waters gleam- 
Comes home to nestle in her pining heart ! 
Yet go thy way, blest evermore and blessing! [prayer; 

Heaven scorns not, nor wilt thou, one deep heart s 
And mine shall be, that earth s best joys possessing, 

God s love may guard thee his peculiar care ! 

SONG. 
COME, fill a pledge to sorrow, 

The song of mirth is o er, 
And if there s sunshine in our hearts, 

T will light our theme the more : 
And pledge we dull life s changes, 

As round the swift hours pass 
Too kind were fate, if none but gems 

Should sparkle in Time s glass. 
The dregs and foam together 

Unite to crown the cup, 
And well we know the weal and wo 

That fill life s chalice up ! 
Life s sickly revellers perish 

The goblet scarcely drained : 
Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets 

Which may not be retained. 
W T hat reck we that unequal 

Its varying currents swell 
The tide that bears our pleasures down, 

Buries our griefs as well ; 
And if the swift-winged tempest 

Have crossed our changeful day, 
The wind that tossed our bark has swept 

Full many a cloud away. 
Then grieve not that naught mortal 

Endures through passing years : 
Did life one changeless tenor keep, 

Twere cause, indeed, for tears. 
And fill we, ere our parting, 

A mantling pledge to sorrow : 
The pang that wrings the heart to-dar 

Time s touch will lisal to-morrow ! 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



203 



THE OLD LOVE. 

THE old love the old love 

It hath a master spell, 
And in its home the human heart 

It worketh strong and well : 
Ay, well and sure it worketh, 

And casteth out amain 
Intrusive shapes of evil 

A sullen, spectral train : 
The serpent, Pride, is crested, 

And Hate hath lips of gall ; 
But the old love the old love 

T is stronger than them all ! 

Years, weary years have vanished, 

Lady, since whisperers wrought 
The work that sundered you and me, 

With words that poison thought : 
Ah ! lasting is the sorrow 

Of a deep and hidden wound, 
When with the coming morrow 

No healing balm is found ; 
And easy tis with words to hide 

The stricken spirit s yearning, 
And wear a look of icy pride 

When the heart within is burning ! 

Oh, tis a bitter, bitter thing, 

Beneath God s holy sky, 
To fill that sentient thing, the heart, 

With strife and enmity ! 
Yea, wo to those who plant the seed 

That yieldeth naught but dole 
To those who thus do murder 

God s image in the soul ! 
Yet silently and softly 

The dews of mercy fall : 
And the old love the old love 

It triumphs over all. 

It was but yestereven 

A vision light and free, 
From the old and happy dreamland, 

Came gliding down to me : 
A vision, lady, of the past, 

The cottage far away, 
Where you and I together 

Oft sat at close of day 
Where you and I together 

Oft watched the starlit skies, 
And the soul of gentle kindness 

Beamed on me from your eyes : 

And there were gentle voices, 

Like some remembered song, 
And there were hovering shadows, 

A pale and beauteous throng ! 
They seemed like blessed angels, 

Those kindly memories 
That floated on their beaming wings, 

To steep the soiil in peace 
They smiled upon me softly, 

Though ne er a word was spo ice 
And then the golden past came back, 

And then my proud heart broke ! 



And, lady, from the vision 

I wistful rose to pray, 
That unto ruling love might be 

The victory alway : 
Oh, many are its cruel foes 

A host well armed and strong, 
And that fair garnished chamber 

Hath been their duelling long : 
But the old love the old love 

It hath a master spell, 
And in its home the human heart 

It worketh sure and well ! 



THE SEA-KINGS. 

1 They are rightly named sea-kings," says the author of the Ingli-igm- 
saga, who never seek shelter under a roof, and never dram their 
drinking-horn at a cottage fire." 

Oun realm is mighty Ocean, 

The broad and sea-green wave 
That ever hails our greeting gaze 

Our dwelling-place and grave ! 
For us the paths of glory lie 

Far on the swelling deep ; 
And, brothers to the Tempest, 

We shrink not at his sweep ! 

Our music is the storm-blast 

In fierceness revelling nigh, 
When on our graven bucklers gleam 

His lightnings glancing by. 
Yet most the flash cf war-steel keen 

Is welcome in our sight, 
When flies the startled foeman 

Before our falchions light. 
We ask no peasant s shelter, 

We seek no noble s bowers ; 
Yet they must yield us tribute meet, 

For all they boast is ours. 
No cast ed prince his wide domain 

Dares from our yoke to free ; 
Arid, like mysterious Odin, 

W T e rule the land and sea ! 

Rear high the blood-red banner ! 

Its folds in triumph wave 
And long unsullied may it stream 

The standard of the brave ! 
Our swords outspec-u the meteor s glance : 

The world their might shall know, 
So long as iieaven snines o er us, 

Or ocean roils below ! 



VENICE. 

From afar 

The surgelike tone of multitudes, the hum 
Of glad, familiar voices, and the wild 
Faint music of the happy gondolier, 
Float up in Mended murmurs. Queen of cities 
Goddess of ocean ! with the beauty crowned 
Of Aphrodite from her parent deep ! 
If thine Ausonian heaven denies the strength 
That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould, 
It gives thee charms whose very softness wins 
All hearts to worship ! 



204 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



SONNETS. 

MAIIT MAGIIALKX. 

, tho grief and shame o erflow thine eyes; 

Blessed, though scoffed at by the gazing crowd: 

He unto whom thou kneelst rebukes the proud, 
And bids thee now the child of Heaven arise. 
Hath he rot said, that where the bramble grew 

The myrtle should come up ? the sweet fir tree 

Replace the thorn, and grass abundantly 
Wave where the desert land no moisture knew 1 

But see the bleak and lonely wilderness 
With fragrant roses, like a garden bloom 

The perished tree revive, again to bless ! 
See, fed with streams, the thirsty land rejoice 
And hear the waste lift up its gladsome voice, 

" To taste his fruits, let my Beloved come." 



THE GOOD SHEPHKHI). 

SHEPHERD, with meek brow wreathed with blossoms 
sweet, 

Who guardst thy timid flock with tenderest care, 
Who guid st in sunny paths their wandering feet, 

And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear; 

Who leadst thy happy Hock to pastures fair, 
And by still waters at the noon of day 

Charming with lute divine the silent air, 
What time they linger on the verdant way : 

Good Shepherd ! might one gentle, distant strain 
Of that immortal melody sink deep 
Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep, 

And melt by powerful love its sevenfo d chain: 
Oh, then my soul thv voice should know, and flee 
To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow Thee ! 



OH, WEARY HEART. 

OH, weary heart, there is a rest for thee ! 

Oh truant heart, there is a blessed home 
An is e of gladness on life s wayward sea, 

Where storms that vex the waters never come; 
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade, 

There flower-wreathed hi Is in sun.it beauty sleep, 
There meek streams murmur thro the verdant glade, 

There heaven bends smiling o er the placid deep. 
Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle; 

Vocal its air with music from above : 
There meets the exiie eve a vve coming smile; 

There ever speaks a summoning voice of love 
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, 
" Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 



"ABIDE WITH US." 

ABIDE with us ! The evening hour draws on ; 
And pleasant at the daylight s fading close 

The traveller s repose ! 

A nd as at morn s approach the shades are gone, 
Thy words, oh, blessed stranger, have dispelled 
The midnight gloom in which our souls were held. 

Sad \\-ereoursouls, and quenched hope s latest ray, 
But thou to us hast words of comfort given 

Of Him who came from heaven ! 
How burned our hearts within us on the way, 
While thou the sacred scripture didst unfold, 
And bad st us trust the promise given of old. 



Abide with us : let us not lose thee yet ! 
Lest unto us the cloud of fear return, 

When we are left to mourn 
That Israel s Hope his better Sun is set ! 
Oh, teach us more of what we long to know, 
That new-born joy may chide our faithless wo." 

Thus in their sorrow the disciples prayed, 
And knew not He was walking by their side 

Who on the cross had died ! 
But when he broke the consecrated bread, 
Then saw they who had deigned to bless their board, 
And in the stranger hailed their risen Lord. 

"Abide with us !" Thus the believer prays, 
Compassed with doubt and bitterness and dread 

W hen, as life from the dead, 
The bow of mercy breaks upon his gaze : 
He trusts the word, yet fears lest from his heart 
He whose discourse is peace too soon depart. 

Open, thou trembling one, the portal wide, 
And to the inmost chamber of thy breast 

Take home the heavenly guest ! 
He for the famished shall a feast provide 
And thou shalt taste the bread of life, and so? 
The Lord of angels come to sup with thee. 

Belovi d who for us with care hast sought 
Say, shall we hear thy voice, and let thee wait 

All night before the gate 

W 7 et with the dews nor greet thee as we ought 1 
Oh, strike the fetters from the hand of pride, 
And, that we perish not, with us, O Lord, abide ! 



THE PERSECUTED. 



Oh angel! tl 



be threefold bliss in lieaven, 
ilark earth hast inner, ibrgive 



IT was a bitter pain 
That pierced her gentle heart; 
For barbed bv malice was the dart, 
And sped with treachery s deadliest art, 

The shaft ne er sped in vain. 
That trusting heart, so true, 
(For guile it never knew !) 
The tender heart, that ever clung 
Where its wild wreath of love was flung 
Tue proud, high heart, that could have borne 
Ail, save that false, unrighteous scorn 
It writhed beneath the stroke 

Of that strange, cruel wrong : 
Yet not not then it broke 

For brave it was and strong ! 
T was like the startled dove, 

Scared from her woody nest 
Her sheltered home of love, 

Deep in the mountain s breast : 
When first she mounts, the caverns ring 
To the wild flapping of her wing; 
But once aloft, she cleaves the light, 
And floats in calm, unruffled flight. 
Thus struggling o er the wo to rise, 
The stricken, heart-distempered flies 
Thus soars at last, its pain and peril o er, 
Serene in tranquil pride, to fear the shaft no more 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



205 



A DIRGE.* 

HE is gone ! Though mournfully 
Comes the deep, heart-heaved sigh, 

Though your tears do fall like rain, 
Though no outward sign could show 
All the bosom s wordless wo 

All is in vain : 

He, for whom ye, stricken, mourn, 
He, the lost one, shall return 

Never again ! 

To the grave in silence down, 

To the sullen, rayless gloom 

In the chambers of the tomb, 

He now is gone ! 
With his trustful, generous truth, 
In his guileless, joyous youth 

In his gentle constancy, 

In his young heart s purity ; 
Wearing life s wreath blooming, bright, 
That had known no touch of blight ; 

With the genius God had given, 

In the very smile of Heaven ; 
Smiling all around, above him, 
Knowing none who did not love him 
He hath passed away ! 

Ye who strove his flight to stay, 
Well ye know that he you mourn 

Never caused your hearts a pain, 
Till he left you, to return 
Never again ! 

Pass with measured pace and slow, 
Hide the faces pale with wo ; 
Solemn music, sad and low, 

Fill the hallowed aisle ! 
Let the the darkly-folded pall 
Like a shadow o er him fall 

Him your joy e erwhile ; 
Let the slowly sounding bell 
Peal its deep-voiced, warning knell : 
To the earth, with words of trust, 
Then commit him dust to dust ! 
Weep now for the lonely morrow, 

For the hearth light cold 
In your dark and silent sorrow, 

Hearts with grief grown old : 
Ye have trod the vintage dread, 

Till no purple drops remain ; 
Till no more its wine is shed 

Ye have drained the cup of pain. 
And ye know, as years go on, 
And are numbered one by one, 
This same grief shall have its rest 
In the worn and wounded breast ; 

Ye shall look and long in vain, 
Following still in thought the track 
He has passed, who will come back 
Never again ! 

Friends of youth, too, he left, 

When he departed : 
They are weeping now, bereft 

They, the true hearted. 

* In style and measure, this is an imitation of a poem by 
an English author, entitled The Flight of Youth. 



Desolate is now the place 
Where so late they saw his face, 
And a darkness seems to brood 
On the sudden solitude. 
Soon the places that of yore 
Knew, shall know the lost no more ; 
Soon forgotten he shall be, 

He who all so happy made 
With his smile so light and free, 

Bringing sunshine to the shade. 
Ay, between those hearts and him 
Lies a gulf so dark and dim, 
Eyes of flesh look not upon 

That strange distant shore, 
Whither the lost friend is gone 

To return no more ! 

Alas ! tis even so : 
Yet from that unknown land, 
That house not made with mortal hand, 
Can not the parted soul command 
Some balm for earthly wo 1 

Blessed the dead, the Spirit saith, 

Who life s beguiling path have trod 
Obedient to the law of faith, 

With heart still fixed on God. 
Eye hath not seen that world above ; 
Ear hath not heard that hymn of love : 
Oh, if but once were rent away 
The veil which hides that heavenly day, 
On this cold earth we would not stay ! 
Heard we the harpings of that sphere, 
We would not linger here ! 
Yea, we would spurn this darksome earth, 

And stretch our eager wings, and fly 
To claim our heritage by birth 

Heaven and Eternity ! 
Nor marvel in that glorious land, 
Who taste the joys at God s right hand, 

Where love divine doth reign . 
Who Heaven s own praises learn 
To this sad earth return 
Never again ! 



THE BURIAL. 

WE laid her in the hallowed place 

Beside the solemn deep, 
Where the old woods by Greenwood s shorp 

Keep watch o er those who sleep : 

We laid her there the young and fair, 

The guileless, cherished one 
As if a part of life itself 

With her we loved were gone. 

Like to the flowers she lived and bloomed, 

As bright and pure as they ; 
And like a flower the blight had touched, 

She early passed away. 

Oh, none might know her but to love, 

Nor name her but to praise, 
Who only love for others knew 

Through life s brief vernal days 



JULIA H. SCOTT. 



(Born 1809-Died 1842). 



THE late Mrs. Mayo describes the life of 
Mrs. SCOTT as having been "commenced in 
Dne of the quietest mountain valleys, and, 
with one or two brief episodes only, matured 
and finished not a dozen miles from where it 
was begun." In such a career there could 
have been little to interest the public, and 
ner friend appropriately confided the me 
moir prefixed to her poems as much as pos 
sible to the growth and product of her mind. 
Mrs. Scott s maiden name was JULIA H. KIN- 
NET, and she was born on the fourth of No 
vember, 1809, in the beautiful valley of She- 
shequin, in northern Pennsylvania. Her pa 
rents were in humble circumstances, and as 
the eldest of a large family she seems to have 
lived the patient Griselda, beautifully fulfil 
ling all the duties of her condition, while she 
availed herself of every opportunity to en 
large her knowledge and improve her tastes. 
She wrote verses with some point and har 
mony when but twelve years of age, and 
when sixteen or seventeen began to publish 



! in a village newspaper essays and poems that 
evinced a fine fancy and earnest feeling. She 
afterward wrote for The Casket, a monthly 
magazine published in Philadelphia, for The 
New-Yorker, and for the Universalist reli 
gious journals. In May, 1835, she was mar 
ried to Dr. David L. Scott, of Towanda, the 
principal village of the county, which from 
this period became her home. In 1838 she 
visited Boston, and she made some other ex 
cursions for the improvement of her health, 
but consumption had wasted the singularly 
fine person and blanched the beautiful face 
which I remember to have seen in their me 
ridian, and in the last year of her life she had 
no hope of restoration. She died at Towan 
da on the fifth of March, 1842. 

The poems of Mrs. Scott, with a memoir 
by Miss S. C. Edgarton, (afterward Mrs. 
Mayo,) were published in Boston, in 1843. 
The volume contains an excellent portrait 
of her by S. A. Mount, and several commem 
orative poems by her friends. 



THE TWO GRAVES. 

THEY sweetly slumber, side by side, 
Upon the green and pleasant hill 

Where the young morning s sunny title 
First wakes the shadows, dark and still, 

And where gray twilight s breeze goes by 

Laden with woodland melody, 

And Heaven s own tireless watchmen keep 

A vigil o er their slumbers deep. 

They sleep together but their graves 
Are marked by no sepulchral stone ; 

Above their heads no willow waves, 

No cypress shade is o er them thrown: 

The only record of their deeds 

Is that where silent Memory leads, 

Their only monument of fame 

Is found in each belovi d name. 

Oh. theirs was not the course which seals 

The iavor of a fickle world, 
They did not raise the warring steel, 

Their hands no bloody flag unfurled , 
They came not with a cup of wrath, 
To drench with gall life s thorny path, 
But, day and night, they strove to win, 
Uy love, the palsied soiii iroin sin. 



Like two bright stars at eventide, 

They shone with undiminished ray ; 
And! though clouds gathered far and wide, 

Still held they on their upward way, 
And still unheeded swept them by 
The threatening! of this lower sky 
For they had built upon the Rock, 
Defying tide and tempest s shock. 

To them the vanities of life 

Were but as bubbles of the sea : 

They shunned the boisterous swell of strife ; 
From Pride s low thrall their souls were 
free. 

They only sought by Christ to show 

The Father s love for all below ; 

They only strove through Christ to raise 

The wandering mind from error s maze. 

But now they sleep and oh, may ne er 
One careless footstep press the sod 

Where moulder those we held so dear, 
The friends of man, the friends of God ! 

And let alone warm feeling twine 

An offering at their lowly shrine ; 

While all who knew them humbly try 

Like them to live, like them to die. 
906 



JULIA H. SCOTT. 



207 



MY CHILD. 

" There is one who has loved me debarred from the day." 

THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped mountain, 

Leaving its green prints neath each spreading tree ; 
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, 

Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. 
From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses, 

To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care : 
Her balmy breath on the worn hrow reposes, 

And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere ; 
I heed them not, my child. 

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth, 

The golden dandelion by its side ; 
The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth 

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. 
The hyacinth and polyanthus render, 

From their deep hearts, an offering of love ; 
And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender 

Their grateful homage to the skies above ; 
I heed them not, my child. 

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, 

And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers; 
While o er them dip the willow s verdant tresses, 

Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. 
The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping 

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves ; 
Oh ! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, 

And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves ; 
T is naught to me, my child. 

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter; 

The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth ; 
And now a smaller band comes dancing after, 

Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. 
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending, 

To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast ; 
Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending ; 

Ah ! peace with her is no unusual guest ; 
Not so with me, my child. 

All the day long I listen to the singing 

Of the gay birds and winds among the trees ; 
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing 

A tale of death and its dread mysteries. 
Nature to me the letter is, that killeth 

The spirit of her charms has passed away ; 
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth 

Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; 

Thou rt in t\\e grave, my child. 

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, 

I languish for thy blue eyes holy light : 
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ; 

Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. 
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, 

Longing to lay my dust beside thine own; 
Oh cast the mantle of thy presence o er me ! 

Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ; 

Come back to me, my child ! 

Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest, 
Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, 

Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : 
Pray to Him, sinless he will hear thce now. 



Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother ; 

Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace : 
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other ; 

Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease ; 
Come back to me, my child ! 

Come but in dreams let me once more behold thee, 

As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee, 
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee 

Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me. 
Leave but the impress of thy dovelike beauty, 

Which Memory strives so vainly to recall, 
And I will onward in the path of duty, 

Restraining tears that ever fain would fall ; 

Come but in dreams, my child ! 



INVOCATION TO POETRY. 

1 1 said to the spirit of poesy, Come back; thou art my comforter. 

COME back, come back, sweet spirit, 

I miss thee in my dreams ; 
I miss thee in the laughing bowers 

And by the gushing streams. 
The sunshine hath no gladness, 

The harp no joyous tone 
Oh, darkly glide the moments by 

Since thy soft light has flown. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

As in the glorious past, 
When the halo of a brighter world 

Was round my being cast ; 
When midnight had no darkness, 

When sorrow smiled through tears, 
And life s blue sky seemed bowed in love, 

To bless the coming years. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

Like the glowing flowers of spring, 
Ere Time hath snatched the last pure wreath 

From Fancy s glittering wing ; 
Ere the heart s increasing shadows 

Refuse to pass away, 
And the silver cords wax thin which bind 

To heaven the weary clay. 

Come back, thou art my comforter : 

What is the world to me ] 
Its cares that live, its hopes that die, 

Its heartless revelry ? 
Mine, mine, oh blessed spirit ! 

The inspiring draught-be mine, 
Though words may ne er reveal how ueep 

My worship at thy shrine. 

Come back, thou holy spirit, 

By the b!iss thou mayst impart, 
Or by the pain thine absence gives 

A deeply stricken heart. 
Come back, as comes the sunshine 

Upon the sobbing sea, 
And every roaming thought shall vow 

Allegiance to thee. 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 



MRS. DINNIES is a daughter of Mr. Justice 
Shacklefurd, of South Carolina, and was edu 
cated at a school in Charleston conducted by 
the daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian. 
]n 1830 she was married to Mr. John C. Din- 
nies, then of St. Louis, where she resided 
until the recent removal of Mr. Dinnies to 
New Orleans. Mrs. Hale, in her Ladies 
Wreath, states that she became engaged in 
a literary correspondence with Mr. Dinnies 
more than four years before their union, and 
that they never met until one week before 
their marriage. " The contract was made 
solely from sympathy and congeniality of 



mind and taste ; and that in their estimate 
of each other they were not disappointed, 
may be inferred from the tone of her songs." 
The greater part of the poems of Mrs. Din 
nies appeared originally in various maga 
zines under the signature of "Moina." In 
1846 she published in a richly illustrated vol 
ume entitled The Floral Year, one hundred 
compositions, arranged in twelve groups, to 
illustrate that number of bouquets, gathered 
in the different months. Her pieces celebra 
ting the domestic affections are marked by 
unusual grace and tenderness, and some of 
them are worthy of the most elegant poets. 



WEDDED LOVE. 

COME, rouse thee, dearest! tis not well 

To let the spirit brood 
Thus darkly o er the cares that swell 

Life s current to a flood. 
As bro >ks, and torrents, rivers, all 
Increase the gulf in which they fall, 
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills 
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills, 
And with their gloomy shades conceal 
The landmarks Hope would else reveal. 

Come, rouse thee, now : I know thy mind, 
And would its strength awaken ; 

Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind 

Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken ! 

But rouse afresh each energy, 

And be what Heaven intended thee ; 

Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, 

And prove thy spirit firmly great: 

I would not see thee bend below 

The angry storms of earthly wo. 

Full well I know the generous soul 
Which warms thee into life 
Each spring which can its powers control, 

Familiar to thy wife ; 
For deemst thou she had stooped to bind 
Her fate unto a common mind! 
The eagle-like ambition, nursed 
From childhood in her heart, had first 
Consumed, with its Promethean flame, 
The shrine then sunk her soul to shame. 

Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 

That fetters now thy powers : 
Shake off this gloom Hope sheds a beam 

To gild eacli cloud which lowers ; 
And though at present seems so far 
The wished-for goal a guiding star, 
With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 



Until its utmost bounds be won : 
That quenchless ray thou It ever prove 
In fond, undying wedded love. 



THE WIFE. 

I COULD have stemmed misfortune s tide, 

And borne the rich one s sneer, 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 

Nor shed a single tear ; 
I could have smiled on every blow 

From life s full quiver thrown, 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 

I should not be alone." 
I C ould I think I could have brooked, 

E en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face hadst looked 

With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 

The sweet hope still my own 
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 

On earth, not been " alone." 

But thus to see, from day to day, 

Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
And watch thy life-sands waste away, 

Unnumbered, slowly, meek; 
To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 

And catch the feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 

And feel, I 11 be " alone ;" 
To mark thy strength each hour decay, 

And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
As, filled with heavenward trust, they say 

"Earth may not claim thee longer;" 
Nay, dearest, tis too much this heart 

Must break when thou art gono ; 
It must not be ; we may not part : 

I could not live " alone " 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 



209 



EMBLEMS. 

Finsr take a feather, and lay it upon 

The stream that is rippling by : 
With the current, behold, in a moment tis gone, 

Unimpressive and light as a sigh ; 
Then take thee a clear and precious stone. 

And on the same stream place it : 
Oh ! mark how the water on which it is thrown, 

In its bosom will quickly encase it ! 
Or take a crystal, or stainless glass ; 

With a crayon upon it then trace 
A sentence, or line, and watch how twill pass 

A breath will its beauty efface; 
Then take a diamond, as pure as tis bright, 

And write some modest token : 
Mid heat or cold, in shade, in light, 

Twill last till the crystal is broken. 
And thus with the tablet of woman s pure heart, 

W T hen the vain and the idle may try 
To leave their impressions, they swiftly depart, 

Like the feather, the scroll, and the sigh ; 
But once be inscribed on that tablet a name, 

And an image of genius and worth, 
Through the changes of life it will still be the same, 

Till that heart is removed from the earth. 



THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. 

A MAIDEN* in a southern bower 

Of fragrant vines and citron-trees, 
To charm the pensive twilight hour, 

Flung wild her thoughts upon the breeze; 
To Cupid s ear unconscious telling 
The fitful dream her bosom swelling, 
Till Echo softly on it dwelling, 
Revealed the urchin, bold and free, 
Repealing thus her minstrelsy : 
" Away, away ! by brook and fountain, 

Where the wild deer wanders free, 
O er sloping dale and swelling mountain, 
Still my fancy follows thee ; 

Where the lake its bosom spreading, 
Where the breeze its sweets is shedding, 
Where thy buoyant steps are treading, 
There where er the spot may be 
There my thoughts are following thee ! 
" In the forest s dark recesses, 

Where the fawn may fearless stray ; 
In the cave no sunbeam blesses 
With its first or parting ray ; 

Where the birds are blithely singing, 
Where the flowers are gayly springing, 
Where the bee its course is winging, 
There, if there thou now mayst be, 
Anxious Thought is following thee ! 
" In the lowly peasant s cot, 
Quiet refuge of content ; 
In the sheltered, grass-grown spot, 
Resting, when with travel spent, 
Where the vine its tendrils curling, 
Where the trees their boughs are furling, 
Where the streamlet clear is purling, 
There, if there thou now mayst be, 
There my spirit follows thee ! 



" In the city s busy mart, 

Mingling with its restless crowd ; 
Mid the miracles of art, 

Classic pile, and column proud , 
O er the ancient ruin sighing, 
When the sun s last ray is dying, 
Or to fashion s vortex flying, 
Even there, if thou mayst be, 
There my thoughts must follow thee 

" In the revel in the dance 

W ith the firm, familiar friend 
Or where Thespian arts entrance, 
Making mirth and sadness blend ; 
Where the living pageant glowing, 
O er thy heart its spell is throwing, 
Mimic life in alto showing, 
There, beloved, if thou mayst be, 
There, still there, I follow thee ! 

" When the weary day is over, 

And thine eyes in slumber close, 
Still, oh ! still, inconstant rover, 
Do I charm thee to repose ; 

With the shades of night descending 
With thy guardian spirits blending, 
To thy sleep sweet visions lending, 
There, e en there, true love may be, 
There and thus am I with thee !" 

Months and seasons rolled away, 

And the maiden s cheek was pale ; 
When, as bloomed the buds of May, 
Cupid thus resumed the tale : 
" Over land and sea returning, 
Wealth, and power, and beauty spurning. 
Love within his true heart burning, 
Comes the wanderer wild and free, 
Faithful maiden, back to thee !" 



LOVE S MESSENGERS. 

YE little Stars, that twinkle high 

In the dark vault of heaven, 
Like spangles on the deep blue sky, 
Perhaps to you tis given 

To shed your lucid radiance now 
Upon my absent loved one s brow 

Ye fleecy Clouds, that swiftly glide 

O er Earth s oft-darkened way, 
Floating along in grace and pride, 
Perhaps your shadows stray 

E en now across the starry light 
That guides my wanderer forth to-night 

Ye balmy Breezes sweeping by, 

And shedding freshness round, 
Ye, too, may haply as ye fly, 

With health and fragrance crowned, 

Linger a moment, soft and light, 

To sport amid his tresses bright 7 

Then Stars, and Clouds, and Breezes, bear 

My heart s best wish to him ; 
And say the feelings glowing there 
Nor time nor change can dim ; 
That be success or grief his share, 
My love still brightening shall appear. 



ANN S. STEPHENS. 



(Born 1813). 



MRS. STEPHENS is well known as one of 
tne most spirited and popular of our maga- 
zinists. She was born in Derby, Connecti 
cut, in 1811, and in 1831 was married to Mr. 
Edward Stephens, of Portland, who in 1835 
commenced the publication of the Portland 
Magazine, of which she was two years the 
editress. In 1837 she removed to New York, 
and she has since been a writer for The La 



dies Companion, Graham s Magazine, The 
Ladies National Magazine. The Columbian 
Magazine, and other periodicals of the same 
character. Her tales and sketches would 
probably fill a dozen common duodecimo vol 
umes. Her longest poem, entitled The Po 
lish Boy, was first published in 1839. There 
has been no collectiDn either of her poems or 
of her prose writings. 



THE OLD APPLE-TREE. 

I AM thinking of the homestead, 

With its low and sloping roof, 
And the maple boughs that shadowed it 

With a green and leafy woof; 
I am thinking of the lilac-trees, 

That shook their purple plumes, 
And, when the sash was open, 

Shed fragrance through the rooms. 

I am thinking of the rivulet, 

With its cool and silvery flow, 
Of the old gray rock that shadowed it, 

And the peppermint below. 
I am not sad nor sorrowful, 

But memories will come; 
So leave me to my solitude, 

And let me think of home. 
There was not around my birthplace 

A thicket or a flower, 
But childish game or friendly face 

Has given it a power 
To haunt me in my after-life, 

And be with me again 
A sweet and pleasant memory 

Of mingled joy and pain. 
But the old and knotted apple-tree, 

That stood beneath the hill, 
My heart can never turn to it 

But with a pleasant thrill. 
Oh, what a dreamy life I led 

Beneath its old green shade, 
Whore the daisies and the butter-cups 

A pleasant carpet made ! 
Twas a rough old tree in spring-time, 

When, with a blustering sound, 
The wind came hoarsely sweeping 

Along the frosty ground. 
15 ut. when there rose a rivalry 

Tween clouds and pleasant weather, 
Till the sunshine anil the raindrops 

Came laughing down together ; 



That patriarch old apple-tree 

Enjoyed the lovely strife; 
The sap sprang lightly through its veins, 

And circled into life: 
A cloud of pale and tender buds 

Burst o er each rugged bough; 
And amid the starting verdure 

The robins made their vow. 

That tree was very beautiful 

When all its leaves were green, 
And rosy buds lay opening 

Amid their tender sheen : 
When the bright, translucent dewdrops 

Shed blossoms as they fell, 
And melted in their fragrance 

Like music in a shell. 

It was greenest in the summer-time, 

When cheerful sunlight wove 
Amid its thrifty leafiness 

A warm and glowing love ; 
When swelling fruit blushed ruddily 

To Summer s balmy breath, 
And the laden boughs drooped heavily 

To the greensward underneath. 

Twas brightest in a rainy day, 

When all the purple west 
Was piled with fleecy storm-clouds 

That never seemed at rest ; 
When a cool and lulling melody 

Fell from the dripping eaves, 
And soft, warm drops came pattering 

Upon the restless leaves. 

But oh, the scene was glorious 

When clouds were lightly riven, 
Arid there above my valley home 

Came out the bow of heaven 
And in its fitful brilliancy 

Hung quivering on high, 
Like a jewelled arch of paradise 

Reflected through the sky. 
210 



A. R. ST. JOHN. 



211 



I am thinking of the footpath 

My constant visits made, 
Between the dear old homestead 

And that leafy apple shade ; 
Where the flow of distant waters 

Came with a tinkling sound, 
Like the revels of a fairy band, 

Beneath the fragrant ground. 

I haunted it at eventide, 

And dreamily would lie * 
And watch the crimson twilight 

Come stealing o er the sky ; 
Twas sweet to see its dying gold 

Wake up the dusky leaves 
To hear the swallows twittering 

Beneath the distant eaves. 



I have listened to the music 

A low, sweet minstrelsy, 
Breathed by a lonely night-bird 

That haunted that old tree 
Till my heart has swelled with feelings 

For which it had no name 
A yearning love of poesy, 

A thirsting after fame. 

I kave gazed up through the foliage 

With dim and tearful eyes, 
And with a holy reverence 

Dwelt on the changing skies, 
Till the burning stars were peopled 

With forms of spirit birth, 
And I ve almost heard their harp-strings 

Reverberate on earth. 



A. R. ST. JOHN. 



MRS. ST. JOHN, formerly Miss MUNROE, 
was bom in the vicinity of Boston, and in 
1826 was married to Mr. J. R. St. John. She 
has for several years resided in Brooklyn, 



New York. She is said to be a voluminous 
writer, and she has been a contributor, under 
her name, to the Democratic Review and oth 
er literary miscellanies. 



MEDUSA. 

FROM AN ANTIQUE GEM. 

FATED sister of the three ! 
Mortal, though a deity ; 
Superhuman beauty thine, 
Demon goddess, power divine ! 
Thou a mortal life didst share, 
Thou a human death didst bear; 
Yet thy soul supremely free 
Shrank not from its destiny : 
And the life-drops from thy head, 
On Libyan sands which Perseus shed, 
Sprang, a scourging race, from thee, 
Fell types of artful mystery. 
Thou wast the victim of dire rage, 
Minerva s vengeance to assuage, 
And thy locks like molten gold, 
Sheltering love in every fold, 
Transformed into the serpent s lair 
Tnat writhe and hiss in thy despair. 

Fatal beauty, thou dost seem 
The phantom of some fearful dream ; 
Extremes of horror and of love 
Alternate o er our senses move, 
As, wrapt and spell-bound, we survey 
The fearful coils which round thee play, 
And mark thy mild, enduring smile, 
Lit by no mortal fire the while. 

Formed to attract all eyes to thee, 
And yet their withering light to be, 
With some mysterious, powerful charm 



That can the sternest will disarm, 

The color from the warm cheek steal, 

The life-blood in the heart congeal, 

Or petrify with wild dismay 

The boldest gazer s human clay 

This is a terrible ministry 

For one with such a destiny. 

Oh couldst thou unto mortals give 
Thy strength to suffer, grace to live, 
Teach them with ever-heavenward eye 
The direst chances to defy, 
Wrapt in the grandeur of a soul 
To meet the finite and control 
This thy dread mission would unseal 
This thy mysterious self reveal. 

In vain we wonder what thou art 
Whether thou hast a human heart ; 
Whether thou feelest scorpion stings 
From shadowy troops Repentance brings 
In never still or slumbering bands 
Upon the spirit s arid sands; 
Whether Regret s more gentle forms, 
Long brooding, come at length in storms; 
Whether the taunts of flying Hope 
Doom thee without the gates to grope 
We know not we shall never know 
Night hides in gloom thy cause of wo. 
But if no voice of thine complains 
While braving all such human pains, 
Just is thy claim with gods to be 
Their aegis and dread mystery. 



SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 



(Born 1811 Died 1842). 



Miss HICKMAN, afterward Mrs. SMITH, was 
born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, 
at which time her grandfather, Major-Gen- 
eral Hull whose patriotism and misfortunes 
are at leng:h beginning to be justly appreci 
ated by the people was governor of Michi 
gan. While a child she accompanied her 
nuther to the home of her funily, in New 
ton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully 
educa ed. She cc^uired knowledge with ex 
traordinary facility, and when but thirteen 
year> of age her compositions were compared 
to those of Kirke White and others whose 
e..rly maturity is the subject of some of the 
most interesting chapters in literary history. 
1 i her eighteenth year she was married to 
Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a 
periidical in Providence, where he soon af- 
t.T published a collection of her poems, in a 
volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo 



pages, many of the pieces in which were 
written as it was passing through the press. 
In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cin 
cinnati, where they resided nearly two years, 
and here she continued to write, with a sort 
of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing 
elegance and a constantly deepening tone of 
reflection, until her health was too much de 
cayed, and then she returned to New York, 
where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she 
died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her 
husband was for several years connected with 
the press in this city, and died while on a 
voyage to Europe in 1842. 

The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting 
chiefly as the productions of a very youthful 
author. She wrote with grace and spright- 
liness, and sometimes with feeling ; but there 
is little in her writings that would survive 
its connexion with her history. 



THE HUMA* 

FLY on ! nor touch thy wing, bright bird, 

Too near our shaded earth, 
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, 

May lose its note of mirth. 
Fly on nor seek a place of rest 

In the home of "care-worn things;" 
T would dim the light of thy shining crest 

And thy brightly burnished wings, 
To dip them where the waters glide 
That flow from a troubled earthly tide. 

The fields of upper air are thine, 

Thy place where stars shine free ; 
I would thy home, bright one, were mine, 

Ab >ve life s stormy sea ! 
[ would never wander, bird, like thee, 

So near this place again, 
With wing and spirit once light and free 

They should wear no more the chain 
With which thev are bound and fettered here, 
For ever struggling for skies more clear. 

There are many things like thee, bright bird, 

Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
Our air is with them for ever stirred, 

But still in air they stay. 
And happiness, like thee, fair one, 



* A bird peculiar to the Ea=t. Tt i* supposed to fly con 
stantly in the air, and never tou h the ground. 



Ts ever hovering o er, 
But rests in a land of brighter sun, 

On a waveless, peaceful shore, 
And stoops to lave her weary wings 
Where the fount of " living waters" springs. 



WHITE ROSES. 

THEY were gathered for a bridal : 

I knew it by their hue 
Fair as the summer moonlight 

Upon the sleeping dew. 
From their fair and fairy sisters 

They were borne, without a sigh, 
For one remembered evening 

To blossom and to die. 

They were gathered for a bridal, 

And fastened in a wreath ; 
But purer were the roses 

Than the heart that lay beneath ; 
Yet the beaming eye was lovely, 

And the coral lip was fair, 
And the gazer looked and asked not 

For the secret hidden there. 

They were gathered for a bridal, 

Where a thousand torches glistened, 

When the holy words were spoken, 
And the false and faithless listened 
212 






SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 



213 



And answered to the vow 

Which another heart had taken : 
Yet he was present then 

The once loved, the forsaken ! 

They were gathered for a bridal, 

And now, now they are dying, 
And young Love at the altar 

Of" broken faith is sighing. 
Their summer life was stainless, 

And not like hers who wore them 
They are faded, and the farewell 

Of beauty lingers o er them ! 



STANZAS. 

I WOULD not have thee deem my heart 

Unmindful of those higher joys, 
Regardless of that better part 

Which earthly passion ne er alloys. 
I would not have thee think I live 

Within heaven s pure and blessed light, 
Nor feeling nor affection give 

To Him who makes my pathway bright. 

I would not chain to mystic creeds 

A spirit fetterless and free ; 
The beauteous path to heaven that leads 

Is dimmed by earthly bigotry : 
And yet, for all that earth can give, 

And all it e er can take away, 
I would not have that spirit rove 

One moment from its heavenward way. 

1 would not that my heart were cold 

And void of gratitude to Him 
Who makes those blessings to unfold 

Which by our waywardness grow dim. 
I would not lose the cherished trust 

Of things within the world to come 
The thoughts, that when their joys are dust, 

The weary have a peaceful home. 

For 1 have left the dearly loved, 

The home, the hopes of other years, 
And early in its pathway proved 

Life s rainbow hues were formed of tears. 
I shall not meet them here again, 

Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, 
Bright links in young Affection s chain, 

In Memory s sky unsetting suns. 

But perfect in the world above, 

Through suffering, wo, and trial here, 
Shall glow the undiminished love 

Which clouds and distance failed to sere : 
But I have lingered all too long, 

Thy kind remembrance to engage 
And woven but a mournful song, 

Wherewith to dim thy page. 



THE FALL OF WARSAW. 

THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping, 

And a voice of sorrow now, 
For the hero who is sleeping 

With death upon his brow ; 
The trumpet-tone will waken 
No more his martial tread, 
Nor the battle-ground be shaken 
When his banner is outspread ! 
Now let our hymn 

Float through the aisle, 
Faintly and dim, 

Where moonbeams smile ; 
Sisters, let our solemn strain 
Breathe a blessing o er the slain. 

There s a voice of grief in Warsaw 

The mourning of the brave 
O er the chieftain who is gathered 

Unto his honored grave ! 
Who now will face the foeman ? 
Who break the tyrant s chain 1 
Their bravest one lies fallen, 
And sleeping with the slain. 
Now let our hymn 

Float through the aisle, 
Faintly and dim, 

Where moonbeams smile ; 
Sisters, let our dirge be said 
Slowly o er the sainted dead ! 

There s a voice of woman weeping, 

In Warsaw heard to-night, 
And eyes close not in sleeping, 

That late with joy were bright ; 
No festal torch is lighted, 

No notes of music swell ; 
Their country s hope was blighted 
When that son of Freedom fell ! 
Now let our hymn 

Float through the aisle, 
Faintly and dim, 

Where moonbeams smile ; 
Sisters, let our hymn arise 
Sadly to the midnight skies ! 

And a voice of love undying, 

From the tomb of other years, 
Like the west wind s summer sighing, 

It blends with manhood s tears : 
It whispers not of glory, 

Nor fame s unfading youth, 
But lingers o er a story 
Of young affection s truth. 
Now let our hymn 

Float through the aisle, 
Faintly and dim, 

Where moonbeams smile , 
Sisters, let our solemn strain 
Breathe a blessing o er the slain 



SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 

(Born 1811). 



THIS author was born in Lexington, Ken 
tucky, in 1811, and in 1837 was married to 
Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed 
to Louisville, whence after a short time she 
returned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went 



to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one 
of the medical colleges of which city her hus 
band is a professor. Her poems are spirited 
and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in 
rhythm and have other signs of carelessness. 



"I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE." 

Ix fair Italia s lovely land, 

Deep in a garden bower, 
A dial marks with shadowy hand 

Each sun-illumined hour; 
And on its fair, unsullied face 

Is carved this flowing line, 
(Some wandering bard has paused to trace :) 

" 1 mark the hours that shine." 
Oh ye who in a friend s fair face 

Mark the defects alone, 
Where many a sweet redeeming grace 

Doth for each fault atone 
Go, from the speaking dial learn 

A lesson all divine 
From faults that wound your fancy turn, 

And " mark the hours that shine." 
When bending o er the glowing page 

Traced by a godlike mind, 
Whose burning thoughts from age to age 

Shall light and bless mankind 
Why will ye seek mid gleaming gold 

For dross in every line, 
Dark spots upon the sun behold, 

Nor " mark the hours that shine ]" 
Oh ye who bask in Fortune s light, 

Whose cups are flowing o er, 
Yet through the weary day and night 

Still pine and sigh for more 
W T hy will ye, when so richly blest, 

Ungratefully repine. 
Why sigh for joys still unpossessed, 

Nor " mark the hours that shine ] 
And ye who toil from morn till night 

To earn your scanty bread, 
Are there no blessings rich and bright 

Around your pathway spread 1 
The conscience clear, the cheerful heart, 

The trust in love divine, 
All bid desponding care depart; 

And " mark the hours that shine." 
And ye who bend o er Friendship s tomb 

In deep and voiceless wo, 
Who sad y feel no second bloom 

\ our b ighted hearts can know 
Why will ye mourn o er severed ties 

Whiln friends around vou twine ] 



Go ! yield your lost one to the skies, 
And " mark the hours that shine." 

Deep in the garden of each heart 

There stands a dial fair, 
And often is its snowy chart 

Dark with the clouds of care. 
Then go, and every shadow chase 

That dims its light divine, 
And write upon its gleaming face 

" I mark the hours that shine." 



THE CLOUD-SHIP. 

Lo ! over Ether s glorious realm 

A cloud ship sails with favoring breeze ; 

A bright form stands beside the helm, 
And guides it o er the ethereal seas. 

Far streams on air its banner white, 
Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, 

And now a beam of heaven s light 
With glory gems the snowy sail 

Perchance, bright bark, your snowy breast 
And silver-tissued pinions wide, 

Bear onward to some isle of rest 
Pure spirits in life s furnace tried. 

Oh ! could we stay each swelling sail 
Of spotless radiance o er thee hung, 

And lift the bright, mysterious veil 
O er forms of seraph beauty flung 

How would our spirits long to mount 
And float along the ethereal way, 

To drink of life s unfailing fount, 

And bathe in heaven s resplendent day ! 

But lo! the gold-tiara d West 

Unfolds her sapphire gates of light ; 

While Day s proud monarch bows his crest, 
And bids the sighing world Good-night. 

And now the cloud ship flies along, 

Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed, 

And Fancy hears triumphant song 
Swell from her light-encircled breast 

As to the wide unfolded gate, 
The brilliant portal of the skies, 

She bears her bright, immortal freight, 
The glorious soul that never dies ! 
214 



- 



SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 



215 



THE SHADOWS. 

THEY are gliding, they are gliding, 

O er the meadows green and gay ; 
Like a fairy troop they re riding 

Through the breezy woods away ; 
On the mountain-tops they linger 

When the sun is sinking low, 
And they point with giant finger 

To the sleeping vale below. 

They are flitting, they are flitting, 

O er the waving corn and rye, 
And now they re calmly sitting 

Neath the oak-tree s branches high 
And where the tired reaper 

Hath sought the sheltering tree, 
They dance above the sleeper 

In light fantastic glee. 

They are creeping, they are creeping, 

Over valley, hill, and stream, 
Like the thousand fancies sweeping 

Through a youthful poet s dream. 
Now they mount on noiseless pinions 

With the eagle to the sky 
Soar along those broad dominions 

Where the stars in beauty lie. 

They are dancing, they are dancing, 

Where our country s banner bright 
In the morning beam is glancing 

With its stars and stripes of light ; 
And where the glorious prairies 

Spread out like garden bowers, 
They fly along like fairies, 

Or sleep beneath the flowers. 

They are leaping, they are leaping, 

Where a cloud beneath the moon 
O er the lake s soft breast is sleeping, 

Lulled by a pleasant tune ; 
And where the fire is glancing 

At twilight through the hall, 
Tall spectre forms are dancing 

Upon the lofty wall. 

They are lying, they are lying, 

Where the solemn yew-tree waves, 
And the evening winds are sighing 

In the lonely place of graves; 
And their noiseless feet are creeping 

With slow and stealthy tread, 
Where the ancient church is keeping 

Its watch above the dead. 

Lo, they follow ! lo, they follow, 

Or before flit to and fro 
By mountain, stream, or hollow, 

Wherever man may go ! 
And never for another 

Will the shadow leave his side 
More faithful than a brother, 

Or all the world beside. 

Ye remind me, ye remind me, 

Shadows pale and cold ! 

That friends to earth did bind me, 

Now sleeping in the mould ; 



The young, the loved, the cherished, 
Whose mission early done, 

In life s bright noontide perished 
Like shadows in the sun. 

The departed, the departed 

I greet them with my tears ; 
The true and gentle-hearted, 

The friends of earlier years. 
Their wings like shadows o er me 

Methinks are spread for aye, 
Around, behind, before me, 

To guard the devious way. 



MINISTERING SPIRITS. 

THEY are winging, they are winging, 

Through the thin blue air their way ; 
Unseen harps are softly ringing 

Round about us, night and day. 
Could we pierce the shadows o er us, 

And behold that seraph band, 
Long-lost friends would bright before ua 

In angelic beauty stand. 

Lo ! the dim blue mist is sweeping 

Slowly from my longing eyes, 
And my heart is upward leaping 

With a deep and glad surprise. 
I behold them close beside me, 

Dwellers of the spirit-land ; 
Mists and shades alone divide me 

From that glorious seraph band. 

Though life never can restore me 

My sad bosom s nestling dove, 
Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o er me 

With her own sweet smile of love; 
And the brother, long departed, 

Who in being s summer died 
Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted 

Folds his pinions by my side. 

Last called from us, loved and dearest 

Thou the faultless, tried, and true, 
Of all earthly friends sincerest, 

Mother I behold thee too ! 
Lo ! celestial light is gleaming 

Round thy forehead pure and mild, 
And thine eyes with love are beaming 

On thy sad, heart-broken child! 
Gentle sisters there are bending, 

Blossoms culled from life s parterre; 
And my father s voice ascending, 

Floats along the charmed air. 
Hark ! those thrilling tones Elysian 

Faint and fainter die away, 
And the bright seraphic vision 

Fades upon my sight for aye. 
But I know they hover round rm- 

In the morning s rosy light, 
And their unseen forms surround me 

All the deep and solemn night. 
Yes, they re winging yes, they re winding 

Through the thin blue air their way : 
Spirit-harps are softly ringing 

Round about us night and uay. 



MARY E. LEE. 

(Born 1813 Died 1849.) 



Miss MART E. LEE, a daughter of Mr. 
William Lee, and niece of the late Judge 
Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, 
has been for many years a frequent contribu 
tor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose 
and verse. Among her best compositions 
are several poems, in ihe ballad style, found 



ed on southern traditions, in which she has 
shown dramatic skill, and considerable abil 
ity in description. One of the best of these 
is the Indian s Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, 
in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Lit 
erary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is also 
the author of some spirited translations. 



THE POKTS. 

THE poets the poets 

Those giants of the earth : 
In mighty strength they tower above 

The men of common birth 
A noble race they mingle not 

Among the motley throng, 
But move, with slow and measured steps, 

To music-notes along. 

The poets the poets 

What conquests they can boast ! 
Without one drop of life-blood spilt, 

They rule a world s wide host ; 
Their stainless banner floats unharmed 

From age to lengthened age ; 
And history records their deeds 

Upon her proudest page. 

The poets the poets 

How endless is their fame ! 
Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves 

No shadow on each name ; 
But as yon starry gems that gleam 

In evening s crystal sky, 
So have they won, in memory s depths, 

An immortality. 

The poets the poets 

Who doth not linger o er 
The glorious volumes that contain 

Their bright and spotless lore ! 
They charm us in the saddest hours, 

Our richest joys they feed ; 
And love for them has grown to be 

A universal creed. 

The poets the poets 

Those kingly minstrels dead, 
Well may we twine a votive wreath 

Around each honored head : 
No tribute is too high to give 

Those crowned ones among men. 
The pools ! the true poets ! 

Thanks be to God for them ! 



AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG. 

AWAKE, my silver lute; 

String all thy plaintive wires, 
And as the fountain gushes free, 
So let thy memory chant for me 

The theme that never tires. 

Awake, my liquid voice ; 

Like yonder timorous bird, 
Why dost thou sing in trembling fear, 
As if by some obtrusive ear 

Thy secret should be heard 1 

Awake, my heart yet no ! 

As Cedron s golden rill, 
Whose changeless echo singeth o er 
Notes it had heard long years before, 

So thou art never still. 

My voice! my lute! my heart! 

Spring joyously above 
The feeble notes of lower earth, 
And let thy richest tones have birth 

Beneath the touch of love. 



THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP. 

LAY me not in green wood lone, 
Where the sad wind maketh moan, 
Where the sun hath never shone, 

Save as if in sadness ; 
Nor, I pray tbee, let me be 
Buried neath the chill, cold sea, 
Where the waves, tumultuous, free, 

Chafe themselves to madness. 

But in yon enclosure small, 

Near the churchyard s mossy wall, 

W T here the dew and sunlight fall, 

I would have my dwelling ; 
Sure there are some friends, I wot, 
Who would make that narrow spot 
Lovely as a garden plot, 

With rich perfumes swelling. 
216 



CATHERINE H. ESLING. 



217 



Let no costly stone be brought, 
Where a stranger s hand hath wrought 
Vain inscription, speaking naught 

To the true affections ; 
But, above the quiet bed, 
Where I rest my weary head, 
Plant those buds whose perfumes shed 

Tenderest recollections. 



Then, as every year the tide 
Of strong death bears to my side 
Those who were by love allied 

As the flowers of summer 
Sweet to think, that from the mould 
Of my body, long since cold. 
Plants of beauty shall enfold 

Every dear new comer. 



CATHERINE H. ESLING. 

(Born 1812). 



Miss CATHERINE H. WATERMAN was born 
in Philadelphia, in 1812 ; and under her mai 
den name she became known as an author by 



many graceful and tender effusions in the 
periodicals. In 1840 she was married tc 
Mr. Esling, a shipmaster of her native city 



BROTHER, COME HOME. 

COME home 

Would I could send my spirit o er the deep, 
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home 
Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 

That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, 
Where cherished memory rears her altar s shrine. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home 
Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, 

Come to the ark, like the o erwearied dove ; 
Come with the sunlight of thy heart s warm rays, 
Come to the fireside circle of thy love : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home 
It is not home without thee : the lone seat 

Is st.ill unclaimed where thou were wont to be, 
In every echo of returning feet, 

In vain we list for what should herald thee : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home 

We ve nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, 
Watched every germ the full-blown flowers rear, 
Seen o er their bloom the chilly winter bring 
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home 
Would I could send my spirk o er the deep, 

Would I could wing it like a bird to thee 
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody : 
Brother, come home ! 



HE WAS OUR FATHER S DARLING 

HE was our father s darling, 

A bright and happy boy 
His life was like a summer s day 

Of innocence and joy ; 
His voice, like singing waters, 

Fell softly on the ear, 
So sweet, that hurrying echo 

Might linger long to hear. 

He was our mother s cherub, 

Her life s untarnished light 
Her blessed joy by morning, 

Her visioned hope by night ; 
His eyes were like the daybeams 

That brighten all below ; 
His ringlets like the gathered gold 

Of sunset s gorgeous glow. 

He was our sister s plaything, 

A very child of glee, 
That frolicked on the parlor floor, 

Scarce higher than our knee ; 
His joyous bursts of pleasure 

Were wild as mountain wind ; 
His laugh, the free, unfettered laugh 

Of childhood s chainless mind. 

He was our brothers treasure, 

Their bosom s only pride 
A fair depending blossom 

By their protecting side : 
A thing to watch and cherish, 

With varying hopes and fears 
To make the slender, trembling reed 

Their staff for future years. 

He is a blessed angel. 

His home is in the sky ; 
He shines among those living lights, 

Beneath his Maker s eye : 
A freshly gathered lily. 

A bud of eaily doom, 
Hath beeii transplanted from the earth. 

To bloom beyond the tomb. 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 

(Born 1812). 



CAROLINE M. FISHER, now Mrs. SAWYER, 
was born at the close of the year 1812, in 
Newton, Massachusetts, where she resided 
until her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Saw 
yer one of the most eminent scholars and 
divines of the Universalist denomination in 
September, 1832, when she removed to the 
city of New York. At the end of about fif 
teen years Mr. Sawyer was chosen presi 
dent of the Universalist seminary at Clinton 
in Oneida county, and of this pleasant vil 
lage he became a resident, upon his assump 
tion of the office. 

Mrs. Sawyer was very carefully and thor 
oughly educated at home, under the care of 
an invalid uncle whose life had been passed 
in pursuits of science and literature. With 
aim she became a favorite, and to his early 
apprehension of her abilities and anxiety for 
their full development she is indebted for her 
line taste and large knowledge, particularly 
in foreign languages and their most celebra 



ted authors. She commenced the composi 
tion of verse at an early age, but published 
little until after her marriage. Since then 
she has written much for various reviews 
and other miscellanies, besides several vol 
umes of tales, sketches, and essays, for chil 
dren and youth, which would probably have 
been much more generally known if they 
had not come before the public through de 
nominational channels of publication. She 
has also made numerous translations from 
the best German literature, in prose and verse, 
in which she has evinced a delicate appreci 
ation of the originals and a fine command of 
her native language. 

The poems of Mrs. Sawyer are numerous 
sufficient for several volumes though 
there has been published no collection of 
them. They are serious and of a fresh and 
vigorous cast of thought, occasionally em 
bodied in forms of the imagination or illus 
trated by a chaste and elegant fancy. 



THE BLIND GIRL. 

CROWN her with garlands! mid her sunny hair 

Twine the rich blossoms of the laughing May, 
The lily, snowdrop, and the violet fair, 

And queenly rose, that blossoms for a day. 
Haste, maidens, haste ! the hour brooks no delay 

The bridal veil of soft transparence bring ; 
And as ye wreathe the gleaming locks away, 

O er their rich wealth its folds of beauty fling 

She seeth now ! 
Bring forth the lyre of sweet and solemn sound, 

Let its rich music be no longer still ; 
Wake its full chords, till, sweetly floating round, 

Its thrilling echoes all our spirits fill. 
Joy for the lovely ! that her lips no more 

To notes of sorrow tune their trembling breath ; 
Joy for the young, whose starless course is o er ; 

16 ! sing paeans for the bride of Death ! 

She seeth now ! 
She has been dark ; through all the weary years, 

Since first her spirit into being woke, 
Through those dim orbs that ever swam ii_ tears, 

No ray of sunlight ever yet hath broke. 
Silent and dark ! herself the sweetest fiowei 

That ever blossomed in an earthly home, 
Un uttered yearnings ever were her dower, [come. 

And voiceless prayers that light at length might 
She seeth now ! 



A lonely lot ! yet oftentimes a sad 

And mournful pleasure filled her heart and brain, 
And beamed in smiles e er sweet, but never glad, 

As Sorrow smiles when mourning winds complain. 
Nature s great voice had ever for her soul 

A thrilling power the sightless only know; 
While deeper yearnings through her being stole, 

For light to gild that being s darkened flow. 

She seeth now! 
Strike the soft harp, then ! for the cloud hath past, 

With all its darkness, from her sight away ; 
Beauty hath met her waiting eyes at last, 

And light is hers within the land of day. 
Neath the cool shadows of the tree of life, 

Where bright the fount of youth immortal springs, 
Far from this earth, with all its weary strife, 

Her pale brow fanned by shining seraphs wings, 

She seeth now ! 
Ah, yes, she seeth ! through yon misty veil, 

Methinks e en now her angel-eyes look down, 
While round me falls a light all soft and pale 

The moonlight lustre of her starry crown ; 
And to my heart, as earthly sounds retire, 

Come the low echoes of celestial words, 
Like sudden music from some haunted lyre, 

That strangely swells when none awake its chorda 
But, hush ! tis past; the light, the sound, are o er* 
Joy for the maiden ! she is dark no more ! 

She seeth now ! 
218 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



219 



INFIDELITY AND RELIGION. 

Two Spirits o er an open grave were bending, 
Their gaze far down its gloomy chamber sending. 
One, with a brow of stern and cold despair, 
And sable weeds and cypress in his hair, 
Turned not his eyes, so fixed and dark with wo, 
From the cold pit, which fearful yawned below. 
The other stood with garments pure and white 
As deck the dwellers of the land of light: 
Her placid brow was as an angel s fair, 
While ca m and joyous was her gentle air; 
And though within the grave she dropped a tear, 
Her upturned eye was still serene and clear. 

" Life !" said the Spirit with the brow of gloom, 
His arm outstretching o er the gaping tomb 
" "Pis a deep and sullen river, 

Ro.ling slowly to the sea, 
There to be engu fed for ever 
In a dark eternity !" 

" Nay," said the shining one, with upturned eye, 
And smile so clear it mirrored back the sky 
"Tis a sunny streamlet gliding 

Gently on to seek its goal ; 
There in God s own bosom hiding 

Bright and pure, a white-robed soul." 
But the dark Spirit s gloomy voice again 
Doled out in slow and melancholy strain : 
u T is a mournful weed, that groweth 

Lone and friend less in the world, 
Which a ghastly reaper moweth, 
And tis to oblivion hurled!" 

" Nay," the bright, gentle one replied once more, 
And softer still the holy smile she wore 
" Tis a starry flower upraising 

Through a.l ill-s a trusting eye, 
Evermore its Maker praising 

Fading here to bloom on high !" 
Slowly the dark one sunk his gloomy brow, 
As once again he murmured sad and low : 
" T is a storm, for ever sweeping 
O er a bleak and barren heath ; 
Tossing, surging, never sleeping, 
Till it lull in endless death !" 

" Nay !" and the hoping Spirit s hands were prest 
In meek and holy rapture to her breast 
" T is a friendly rain, that showers 

On a fair and pleasant land, 
Where the darkest cloud that lowers 
By the rainbow still is spanned!" 
Stern was the gaze of sorrow and despair 
That now was fixed upon the Spirit fair, 
As, a last time, the hopeless waiter s burst 
Of anguish came more drear than e en at first : 
" Tis a haunting vision, blended 
Evermore with tears and pain : 
T is a dream, that best were ended ; 

Life is false, and life is vain !" 
Ceased the dark Spirit and a sable cloud 
O er his set features folded like a shroud ; 
Then slowly sank, as sinks the dying wave, 
In the dark chambers of the yawning grave. 



Silently closed the damp turf o er his head, 
And the stern Spirit, like the mortal dead, 
Came not again from out his gloomy bed ! 

" Life !" said the shining one, as, stretching forth 
Her long, fair arms, she blessed the teeming earth 
" Life is true, and life is real ! 

Life has worthy deeds for all ; 
Tis no vain and false ideal, 

Ending with the shroud and pall. 
Up and do, then, dreaming mortal ! 

With a strong heart toil away ; 
Earth has cares, but heaven a portal 

Opening up to endless day !" 

She paused, and o er her pure and spotless breast 
Drew the soft drapery of her snowy vest ; 
Her long, fair arms extended yet once more 
To bless the earth she oft had blessed before ; 
Then turned away to pour her heavenly light 
In genial floods where all were else but night. 

Still dwells she here, that child of heavenly birth 
Soothing the sorrows of the sons of earth ; 
Drying the tears that dim the mourner s eye ; 
Gently subduing Grief s desponding sigh ; 
Winging with rapture e en the parting breath, 
And wreathing smiles around the lips of Death ! 

Blest be her path along life s rugged way ! 
Blest be her smiles which light the darkest day ! 
And blest the tears that, trusting still, she weeps, 
Where the dark Spirit yet in silence sleeps ! 



THE VALLEY OF PEACE. 

It was a beautiful conception of tlie Moravians togiv to rural cemeto- 

OH, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace ! 

There earth s weary cares to perplex us shall cease ; 

W T e will stray through its solemn and far-spreading 
shades, 

Till twiligbt s last ray from each green hillock fades. 

There s .umber the friends whom we long must re 
gret 

The forms whose mild beauty we can not forget ; 

We will seek the low mounds where so softly they 
sleep, 

And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep : 

But we will not repine that they re hid from our 
eyes, 

For we know they still live in a home in the skies ; 

But we ll pray that, when life s weary journey 
shall cease, 

We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace ! 

Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears 
If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years 
No home were prepared where the pilgrim miurht 
Mortality s cumbering vestments away ! [lay 

But sadder, and deeper, a;id darker the gloom, 
That would close o er our way as we speed to tho 
If Faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, [tomb, 
Where the Sun of eternity beams on the soul ! 
Oh, who, mid the sorrows and changes of time. 
E er dreamed of that holier, that happier clime. 



220 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



But yearned for the hour of the spirit s release 
For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace ! 
Oh come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze 
Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days, 
Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo, 
And thy spirit is weary of life s garish show ! 
Come here : I will show thee a haven of rest, 
Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast; 
Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care, 
And the robe is ne er folded o er secret despair ! 
Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold, 
And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold ; 
But a bright Star has dawned through the shades 

of the east. 
That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace ! 

Thou frail child of error ! come hither and say, 
Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to 
Ah, no ! in thine aspect are anguish and wo, [stay ] 
And deep shame has written its name on thy brow. 
Pooi outcast ! too long hast thou wandered forlorn, 
In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn ; 
Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, 
And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung ! 
Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears, 
And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years ; 
We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall 

all cease : 
Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace ! 

The grave, ah, the grave ! tis a mighty stronghold, 
The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold : 
There Penury s toil-wasted children may come, 
And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home. 
What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose, 
Since the day when the sun on creation first rose ; 
And there, till earth s latest, dread morning shall 

break, 

Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make : 
But beyond is a world how resplendently bright ! 
And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light. 
We shall rise we shall soar where earth s sorrows 

shall cease. 
Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of 

Peace ! 



THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL. 

" OH, mother, I ve been with an angel to-day ! 
I was out, all alone, in the forest at play, 
Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, 
And hearing the woodpecker tapping the trees; 
So I played, and I played, till, so weary I grew, 
I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew, 
While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, 
I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop. 
Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky, 
And watching the clouds that went hurrying by, 
When I heard a voice calling just over my head, 
That sounded as if Come, oh brother ! it said ; 
And there, right over the top of the tree, 
O mother, an angel was beckoning to me ! 

"And, Brother, once more, come, oh brother! 

he cried, 
And flew on light pinions close down by my side ; 



And mother, oh, never was being so bright 
As the one which then beamed on my wondering 
His face was as fair as the de icate shell, [sight ! 
His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell, 
While his eyes resting on me, so melting with love, 
Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove. 
And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid, 
As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid, 
And murmured so softly and gently to me, 
Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee ! 
" And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed 
Such kisses oh, mother, they thrilled through my 

breast, 

As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high, 
When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky ; 
While his breath, floating round me, was soft as 

the breeze 

That played in my tresses, and rustled the trees ; 
At last on my head a deep blessing he poured, 
Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he 

soared 

And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far, 
He seemed to float there like a glittering star, 
Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight, 
Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight. 
Then, oh how I feared, as I caught the last gleam 
Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream 
When soft voicesmurmured once more from the tree, 
Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee ! " 

Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart, 
For she knew her fair boy from this world must 

depart ; 
That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the 

tomb, 
Ere the autumn winds withered the summer s rich 

bloom. 
Oh, how his young footsteps she watched, day by 

day, 

As his delicate form wasted slowly away, 
Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o er his face, 
And he crept up to die in her loving embrace ! 
" Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your 
On that gentle pillow again let me rest ; [breast ; 
Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye, 
And then, oh, methinks, I can willingly die. 
Now kiss me, dear mother oh, quickly for see, 
The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me !" 

Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her 

breast, 

As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed, 
And felt the vain search for his soft, pleading eye, 
As it strove to meet hers ere the fair boy could die. 
" I see you not, mother, for darkness and night 
Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight ; 
But I hear your low sobbings : dear mother, good 
The angels are ready to bear me on high. [by ! 
I will wait for you there ; but, oh, tarry not long, 
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song !" 
He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on hia 

breast, 
While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of 

rest; 

Then closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, 
W T cnt up with the angels that waited for him. 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER 



221 



THE LADY OF LURLEI.* 

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 

! *SKKST thou the lad} 7 on yonder steep, 

Whose crags beetle over the billowy deep ? 

Her robes of the sea-green waves are wove, 

And her eyes are blue as the skies above : 

Her golden tresses, like sunlight, roam 

O er a neck more pure than the wreathing foam, 

As her long white arms on the breeze she flings, 

And in sweet, low, silvery accents sings 

To the sti l, gray morning her strange wi d lay 

Away, to the lady, good boatman, away !" 

A film crept over the boatman s sight, 

And his arm grew weak, and his cheek grew white, 

As he saw the lady poised high in air, 

With her sea-green robes and her flowing hair ! 

"Sir knight, twould peril our lives to ride, 

In the stanchest boat, o er this surging tide, 

When yon wild lady at morn is seen 

On Luriei s cliff, with her robes of green ! 

Beware ! for evil befalls the knight 

Who dares to wish for a nearer sight !" 

" Go, preach thy fears to the timid girl, 
Or the craven coward, thou tremb ing churl ! 
The knight who the shock of an hundred fields 
Has borne, to no fancied danger yields : 
Then over the waves, with thy bounding skiff, 
To the strange bright lady of Lurlei s c .iff ; 
And take, as thy guerdon, this golden chain 
For me, none peril their lives in vain !" 

He took the chain, and he spake no more, 

But his strong arm shook, as he grasped the oar, 

And gave his bark to the rolling deep, 

To ferry the knight to the fatal steep ! 

The skies grew black, and the winds blew high, 

And ominous birds flew shrieking by, 

And roaring surges piled up the strand 

With a terrible wall as they nearcd the land. 

" Back, back !" the boatman with white lips cried, 

" Nor dare thus madly this fearful tide !" 

But the brave knight turned with a dauntless brow, 

And, bo!d y spurning the graceful prow, 

Plunged fearlessly over the light skiff s side, 

And eagerly breasted the foaming tide ! 

Strange faces arose to his troubled eye, 

As the whiriing waters swept wildly by 

Fierce voices hissed in his failing ear, 

And his stout frame trembled, but not with fear, 

For his breath he held and his arm he strained, 

Till the waves were passed and the shore was gained. 

Then, swiftly scaling the steep ascent, 

Before the lady he breathless bent ! 

He laid his head on her bosom fair, 

His fingers toyed with her golden hair 

Whi e " Mine for ever," she wildly sung, 

As round him her long white arms she flung ! 

" Bold knight, come down in the sunless deep, 

Where peris warble and naiads sleep 

Come down and dwell with the ocean-maid, 

Where the blight ne er falls and the flowers ne er 

fade !" 

* Lurlei is the name of a rocky cliff on the shores of 
the Rhine. 



She pressed her lips to his glowing cheek, 
She lured him along the dangerous peak 
One moment they stood on the dizzy verge 
The next, sank down neath the sounding surge 

The winds were hushed, and the waves were laid, 
And insects small in the sunbeams played 
The boat returned to the distant shore, 
But the knight and the lady were seen no more ! 



THE WIFE S REMONSTRANCE. 

OH, why are you sad when all others are gay 

Is earth darker now than in life s early day ? 

Is the kind hand withdrawn that upheld us of 

yore, 
Or the bright, laughing sunshine around us no 

more ? 

No : earth is still smiling, and nature is clad 
In all her old beauty then why art thou sad ] 

True, some friends, grown faithless, seem cold and 

estranged, 

But others are left us whose love is unchanged 
Whose hearts, through all seasons of good and 

of ill, 

Like the ivy around us cling faithfully still : 
Let us cherish them deep in our hearts, and be 

glad, 
For oh, with such blessings how can we be sad ! 

You say we are poor ! ah, I have not forgot 
That to struggle with fortune is ofttimes our lot; 
But think you that we are less happy than they 
Who drag on mid splendor their wearisome day ? 
For their wealth would you barter the bliss we 

have had ] 
Oh no ! then what need have our hearts to be sad ] 

Why fear for the future ? for nine years or more 
We have managed to keep the gaunt wolf from 

our door ; 
And why, in the days yet to come, should our 

state, 

Though humble, be marked by a gloomier fate ? 
Let us give God our thanks for the past, and be 

glad- 
How much more need have others, than we, to be 

sad ! 

I know there are seasons when, strive as we will; 
Presentiment whispers for ever of ill ; 
There are dark-boding visions of trouble and pain, 
That lurk in the heart till they madden the brain ! 
Wo, wo for that bosom ! it can not be glad 
Oh God, shield us well from such cause to be 
sad! 

Let us humbly hope on and if dark be our way, 
Remember that night is e er followed by day ; 
Though tempests and whirlwinds may rage through 

the skies, 
They will pass, and the sunbeams again meet our 

eyes : 
Let our hearts and our brows, then, in sunshine 

be clad, 
For God made us not to be gloomy and sad ! 



222 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



MY SLEEPING CHILDREN. 

YE sleep, ray children ! On your soft, blue eyes 
Those eyes that once, like summer sunlight glancing, 
From rnorn till eve with joy seemed ever dancing, 
A mournful slumber lies ! 

Ye sleep, but I I wake to watch your rest ; 
Yet not as erst, when, round your temples wreathing, 
The light locks stirred at every gentle breathing 
From your lull, quiet breast. 

No more my finger on my lips I lay, 
Lest so;ne rude soundjSome sudden footstep jarring 
Your litt.e couch, and the hushed stillness marring 
Shou.d chase your sleep away. 

Ah, no ! the winds go moaning o er your heads, 
And the sweet dryads of the valley, winging 
In airy circles, wild, shrill strains are singing 
Above your grassy beds ! 

But ye awake not they disturb not now: 
And a vain gush of childlike grief comes o er me, 
As the dread memory, sudden sweeps before me, 
That death is on your brow ! 

Oh, precious ones ! that seemed too fair to die 
My soft-eyed Mary, child of seraph sweetness : 
Bright vision, vanished with a shadow s fleetness 
Why hast thou left me 1 why ] 

Wcrl weary, gentle dove, of this cold world 1 
And didst thou long to rest thy little pinions 
Far in those bright and beautiful dominions, 

Where they at last are furled ] 
Wert homesick, darling ] Could thy little heart 
Yearn for a love more tender than we bore thee 
Yearn for a watch more fond and faithful o er thee, 
That thou shouldst hence depart ? 

That thou shouldst hence,and leave rnehere behind 
To fold thy little robes in silent anguish 
To dry my tears, then weep again to languish 
For what I can not find ! 

Had my low cradle-song no longer charms 
That cradle-song whose soft and plaintive numbers 
Lulled thee each evening to thy peaceful slumbers 
To keep thee in my arms 

And thou, my boy ! my beautiful my own ! 
Twin cherub of the one who stands beside rne, 
Grieving that we within the earth should hide thee, 

And leave thee all alone 
Grieving that thou canst play with him no more ; 
That, though his tears upon thy grave are falling, 

Thy voice replies not to his mournful calling 

Unheeded ne er before ! 

Did the sweet cup of life already cloy, 
That from thy lips, ere scarcely it was tasted 
Ere from its brim one sparkling gleam was wasted, 
Thou laidst it down, my boy 1 

J\ ay, wherefore question ? To my pleading vain, 

No voice to still my spirit s restless yearning 

No sweet rep y, to soothe my heart s deep burning, 
Comes from your graves again ! 

Ve were ye art not ! Thus earth s bloom decays : 
I watch the flowers neath Autumn s footstep dying, 



Yet know the spring-breath, through the valleys 
Each from its tomb will raise ! [sighing, 

But ye oh ye ! though soft the vernal rain, 
The sweet spring showers stern winter s chain dis 
solving 

May round you fall earth s loveliest flowers evolving, 
Ye will not bloom again ! 

Though by the streams, and all the meadows o er, 
Mid woods and dells, the south s gay clarion ringing, 
May peal, till life is everywhere upspringing, 
Ye ye will wake no more ! 

Nay, ye will wake ! not here, not here but there, 
In heaven ! Oh, there ye bloom e en now where 

never 
Falls the chill blight, and each sweet flower for ever 

Lives beautiful and fair ! 

There shall I find you stainless, pure, and bright, 
As the pure seraph-eyes, whose myriad numbers 
Are watching now, above your peaceful slumbers, 
From the far zenith s height : 

There shall I clasp you to my heart once more, 
And feel your cheeks mine own with rapture pres 
sing, 

Till all my being thrills with your caressing, 
And all its pain is o er ! 

Dear ones, sleep on ! A low, mysterious tone, 
Solemn yet sweet, my spirit s ear is filling 
Each wilder grief within my bosom stilling, 
And hushing sorrow s moan. 

It tells me that, no shadow on your brow, 
Far from the clouds that closely round me gather, 
Clasped on the bosom of the Good All-Father, 
Ye re blest and happy now. 

Ay, blest and happy ! never more shall tears 
Dim those sweet eyes; temptation ne er shall round 

you 
Wind its dark coils, nor guilt nor falsehood wound 

Through all your endless years. [you, 

Farewell awhile ! Ye were my heart s delight 
Ye were sweet stars, my spirit s clouds dissolving, 
Round which my heart was evermore revolving, 

Like some fond satellite. 
Ah, well I loved you but I yield you up, 
Without one murmur, at my Father s calling . 
With childlike trust, though fast my tears are falling, 
I drink the bitter cup. 

I drink for He, whom angels did sustain 
In the dread hour when mortal anguish met him, 
When friends forgot, and deadly foes beset him, 
Stands by to soothe my pain. 

I drink for thou, God, preparedst the draught 
Which to my lips thy Father-hand is pressing . 
I know neath ills oft lurks the deepest blessing 
Father, the cup is quaffed ! 

Tis quaffed and now, O Father, I restore 
The little children thou in mercy sent me : 
Sweet blessings were they, for a season lent me 
Take back thine own once more ! 

Yet, oh, forget not, Lord, thy child is weak : 
The dregs are bitter which my lips are draining, 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



223 



And my faint heart hath need of thy sustaining 
Father, thy child is weak ! 

Yet, take thine own ! their souls are innocent 
Their little lives were beautiful and blameless : 
I bring them back to thee, pure, white, and stainless, 
E en as when they were lent. 

Keep them, and make them each a shining gem 
Mid the bright things which fill the bovvers of heaven, 
Till my soul, too, shall soar, earth s fetters riven, 
Home home, to thee and them ! 



LAKE MAHOPAC 

LAKE of the soft and sunny hills, 

What loveliness is thine ! 
Around thy fair, romantic shore, 

What countless beauties shine ! 
Shrined in their deep and hollow urn, 

Thy silver waters lie 
A mirror set in waving gems 

Of many a regal dye. 

Like angel faces in a dream, 

Bright isles upon thy breast, 
Veiled in soft robes of hazy light, 

In such sweet silence rest 
The rustle of a bird s light wing, 

The shiver of the trees, 
The chime of waves are all the sounds 

That freight the summer breeze. 

Oh. beautiful it is along 

Thy silver wave to glide, 
And watch the ripples as they kiss 

Our tiny vessel s side ; 
While ever round the dipping oar 

White curls the feathery spray, 
Or, from its bright suspended point, 

Drips tinklingly away. 

And pleasant to the heart it is 

In those fair isles to stray, 
Or Fancy s idle visions weave 

Through all the golden day, 
Where dark old trees, around whose stems 

Caressing woodbines cling, 
O er mossy, flower-enamel ed banks, 

Their trembling shadows fling. 

Oh, he who in his daily paths 

A weary spirit bears, 
Here in these peaceful solitudes 

May he lay down his cares : 
No echo from the restless world 

Shall his repose invade, 
Where the spectres of the haunted heart 

By Nature s self are laid. 

I stood upon thy shore, fair lake ! 

Long parted was the day, 
And shadows of the eventide 

Upon the waters lay ; 
But from the sky the silver moon, 

All radiant and serene, 
Attended by eve s dewy star, 

Smiled sweetly o er the scene. 



The earth was mute no sound, save mine 

Own beating heart, I heard, 
When suddenly the listening air 

With melody was stirred : 
The low, faint chime of lapsing waves, 

The voice of whispering boughs, 
Waked by the night-winds gentle touch, 

In mingled sweetness rose. 
Oh, dear and hallowed was that hour : 

O er being s troubled tide 
Still waters of eternal peace 

Seemed solemnly to glide, 
Whose anthems, deep, subdued, and low, 

Through all my throbbing soul, 
Like breathings from a brighter world, 

In pleading murmurs stole. 
Oh, dear and hallowed was the hour ! 

Along life s mazy track, 
An angel from the paths of ill 

Hath ofttimes lured me back ; 
It watched above me at my birth, 

It led me when a child, 
And here, beside the moonlit waves, 

Once more upon me smiled. 
Lake of the hills ! around me yet 

I feel thy magic spell 
Still, still by Fancy led, I pace 

Thy dreamy island dell ; 
The sere leaves, rustling to my tread, 

Are heaped upon the ground, 
And the graves of long, long centuries 

Lie thickly clustering round. 
T was hither, old traditions tell, 

The Indian of yore 
Forth from the peopled haunts of life 

His dead in silence bore, 
And, trenching reverently the sod, 

Within earth s loving breast, 
With his bow and arrows by his side, 

Here laid him down to rest. 
Fit place of sepulture ! tall trees 

In columned arches rise, 
Through whose thick-woven boughs steal down 

Soft glimpses of the skies. 
Amid their leaves, like spirit strains, 

^Eolian sounds awake, 
And o er the long-forgotten dead 

A solemn requiem make. 
Ah, peace ! while on this rocky seat 

Myself once more I cast, 
And people all the island shades 

With phantoms of the past, 
Till from the grand old beetling rocks, 

That far above me frown, 
A thousand dusky faces gaze 

In ;nournful silence down. 
They gaze while in their troubled hearts 

Wild memories seem to lie, 
And fearful meanings darkly flit 

O er many a burning eye ; 
Pale warriors lift their folded hands 

In mute, appealing prayer, 
Then clasp them o er their snent breasts 

In deep and stil despair ! 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



B |f , see those sternly-lifted brows! 

Quick change comes o er my dream: 
Each phantom form is flashing now 

With strange and sudden gleam; 
Swift feathery arrows cleave the air, 

From coppice, trees, and rocks, 
And the wild glen hisses to the paths 

Of hurtling tomahawks ! 

I start - I clutch the air and lo ! 

My fearful dream is o er ; 
Kind human voices call me back 

To the bright world once more 
Kind, faithful hands, that grasp mine own, 

Conduct me from the dell : 
One last, one lingering gaze on thee 

Thou p ace of graves, farewell ! 

Lake of the hills ! my song has ceased ; 

But should my feet no more 
Thread thy fair island glades, or pace 

Thy richly varving shore, 
A memory lives within my breast, 

That, wheresoe er I be, 
As the heavens are mirrored by thy wave, 

Will ever mirror thee ! 



THE WARRIOR S DIRGE. 

WARRIOR, rest : thy toils are ended 

Life s last fearful strife is o er ; 
Clarion calls, with death-notes blended, 

Shall disturb thine ear no more. 
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber 

Peaceful but how cold and stern ! 
Thou hast joined that silent number 

In the land whence none return. 

Warrior, rest : thy banner o er thee 

Hangs in many a drooping fold ; 
Many a manly cheek before thee 

Stained with tear-drops we behold. 
Thine was not a hand to falter, 

When thy sword shou d leave its sheath ; 
Thine was not a cheek to alter, 

Though thy duty led to death. 

Warrior, rest: a dirge is knelling 

Solemnly from shore to shore ; 
Tis a nation s tribute, telling 

That a patriot is no more. 
Thou, where Freedom s sons have striven, 

Firm and bold, didst foremost stand ; 
Free y was thy life-blood given 

For thy home and fatherland. 

Warrior, rest : our star is vanished 

That to victory led the way, 
And from one lone hearth is banished 

All that cheered life s weary day ; 
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow 

Tnat no more she hears thy tread 
That the night which knows no morrow 

Darkly veils thy laurelled head. 

Warrior, rest : we smooth thy pillow 
For thy last, long earthly sleep ; 



Oh, beneath yon verdant willow 

Storms unheard will o er thee sweep. 

There, t is done ! thy couch awaits thee 
Softly down thy head we lay; 

Here repose, till God translates thee 
From the dust to endless day ! 



REUNION. 

NAY, pause not yet ! another strain 

A strain to bid the spirit start 
Glad songs for those who meet again, 

And blend together heart with heart ! 
Give to the winds each anxious thought 

Which o er our bliss a shade might cast; 
These hours, by weary absence bought, 

Should be all sunshine to the last. 

What though we part again to-morrow, 

For years, perhaps, no more to meet ? 
We will not of the future borrow 

One pang to mar an hour so sweet. 
Swell high the strain, then ! let our souls 

W ith mirth and gayety be filled, 
And brightly, as each moment rolls, 

Be drops of ecstasy distilled ! 

Hush, hark ! amid our rapture now, 

What strange, low, sorrowing tone comesnear? 
Why steals a shadow o er each brow, 

And through each mirthful smile a tear ! 
Alas ! the spirit can not brook 

The voice of careless glee to-day, 
But, from each thoughtless word and look, 

Turns, sick and shuddering, away. 

Oh, hush the song ! lest feeling s tide 

Grow mightier than may be controlled : 
Then calmly seated, side .by side, 

Each other s hand we ll fondly hold. 
Linger a little longer yet, 

And breathe your sweet words o er mine ear; 
Oh, I can die but ne er forget 

This hour, so beautiful and dear ! 



i PEBBLES. 

GTTE me the pebble, little one, that I 
To yon bright pool may hurtle it away : 
Look! how t has changed the azure wave to gray, 

And blotted out the image of the sky ! 

So, when our spirits calm and placid lie 
When all the passions of the bosom sleep, 
And from its stirless and unruffled deep 

Beams up a heaven as bright as that on high, 
Some pebble envy, jealousy, misdoubt 

Dashed in our bosom s slumbering waves to jar, 
Will cloud the mirrored surface of the soul, 
And blot its heaven of joy and beauty out. 

Sin ! fling no pebble in my soul, to mar 
Its solemn depths, and o er it clouds to roll ! 



MARGARET L. BAILEY. 

(Born 1812). 



MRS. BAILEY is a daughter of the Rev. 
Thomas Shands, and was born in Sussex 
county, Virginia, on the twelfth of Decem 
ber, 1812. When she was about six years 
of age, her father removed to theAVest ; and 
in 1833 she Avas married to Mr. G. Bailey, 
junior, subsequently editor of the Cincinnati 
Philanthropist, then of the Cincinnati Morn 
ing Herald, and now of the National Era, at 
Washington. In March, 1844, Mrs. Bailey 
became editress of The Youth s Monthly 
Visiter, at Cincinnati, and conducted it, with 
a circulation which arose to some three thou- 



! sand copies, until her removal to the District 
of Columbia, near the close of 1840. This 

| periodical was perhaps the first of its class 
ever published in the country, and its con 
tents justify the critical opinion of Mr. Wil 
liam D. Gallagher, that Mrs. Bailey is one 
of the ablest women of the age. 

The poems of Mrs. Bailey have appeared 
in the journals edited by herself and her 
husband, and there has been no collected edi 
tion of them. They have less individuality 
than her prose, but they are informed with 

i fancy and a just understanding. 



LIFE S CHANGES. 

A LITTLE child on a sunny day, 
Sat on a flowery bank at play ; 
The gentle breath of the summer air 
Waved the curls of her golden hair, 
And ever her voice rang merrily out 
In a careless laugh or a joyous shout. 

Beautiful was she as early morn, 
When the dew is fresh on the blossoming thorn; 
And methought as I looked on her fair young face, 
Beaming with beauty and truth and grace, 
How cold and heartless the world must be, 
That could su!ly such spotless purity ! 

Years ro led by : in her maiden pride 
She stood, a gentle and trusting bride 
How beautiful still ! though a softening shade 
O er the dazzling hue of that beauty played, 
Whi e the tender glance of her soft blue eye 
Told of a love that could not die : 
And I prayed as T gazed on her placid brow, 
Pure as a wreath of new-fallen snow, 
That sorrow, the sorrow that comes to all, 
Light y and gently on her might fall. 

Again I saw her: Time had been there, 
Tipping with silver her golden hair; 
He had breathed on her cheek, and its rosy hue 
Was gone, but her heart was pure and true, 
As when first I met her a budding flower, 
Or a gentle maid in her bridal hour. 
As mother and wife she bad borne her part, 
With the faith and hope of a loving heart ; 
And now when nature, with years opprest, 
Looks and longs for her quiet rest, 
With holy trust in her Father s love, 
Awaiting a summons from above, 
She lingers with us, as if to show 
To the faint and weary ones below, 
How oft to the faithful soul ^t is given 
To taste on earth of the joys of heaven. 
15 



THE PAUPER CHILD S BURIAL. 

STRETCHED on a rude plank the dead pauper lay: 
No weeping friends gathered to bear him away ; 
His white, slender fingers were clasped on his breast 
The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest. 

The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted ; 
No one cared for him, the desolate hearted : 
In life none had loved him his pathway, all sear 
Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer. 

No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him, 
In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him ; 
For ere his eye greeted the light of the day, 
His mother had passed in her anguish away. 

Poor litt e one ! often thy meek eyes have sought 
The smile of affection, of kindness unbought, 
And wistfully gazing, in wondering surprise, 
That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes. 

And when in strange gladness thy young voice was 

heard, 

As in winter s stern sadness the song of a bird, 
Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear, 
Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear. 

And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in 

twain, 

And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain, 
No gentle one soothed thee, in love s melting tone, 
With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. 

Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear 
With the songs of the angels the dying may hear; 
And thrillingly tender, amid Death s alarms, 
Was thy mother s voice welcoming thee to her arms. 

Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse snioud 

reposes . 

In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses 
And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed, 
The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his r>roat 
225 



MARGARET L. BAILEY. 



MEMORIES. 

On, pleasant are the memories 

Of childhood s forest home, 
And oft, amid the toil* of lifn, 

Like bless(:d dreams they come : 

Of sunset hours when I lay entranced, 

Mid shadows cool and green, 
Watching the winged insects glance, 

In summer s golden sheen : 

Theii drowsy hum was a lullaby 

To Nature s quiet sleeping, 
While o er the meadow s dewy breast 

The evening winds were creeping : 

The ploughman s whistle heard afar, 
To his humb e home returning ; 

And faintly in the gathering shade 
The firefly s lamp was burning. 

Up in the old oak s pleasant shade, 

Where mossy branches swing, 
With gentle twitterings, soft and low, 

Nestling with fluttering wing 

Were summer birds their tender notes 
Like love s own fond caressing, 

When a mother folds her little flock, 
With a whispered prayer and blessing. 

The cricket chirps from the hollow tree, 

To the music of the rill, 
And plaintively echoes through the wood 

The song of the whip-poor-will. 

Tinged with the last faint light of day, 

A white cloud in the west 
Floats in the azure sea above, 

Like a ship on ocean s breast. 

The evening star as a beacon shines 

On the far horizon s verge, 
And the wind moans through the distanl pines, 

Like Ihe troubled ocean s surge. 

From lowly va es the rising mist 

Curls up the hillside green, 
And its summit, twixt the earth and sky, 

Like a fairy isle is seen. 

Away in the depths of ether shine 

The stars serenely bright 
Gems in the glorious diadem, 

Circling the brow of night. 

Our Father ! if thy meaner works 

Thus beautiful appear, 
If such revealings of thy love 

Enkindle rapture here 

If to our mortal sense thou dost 

Thy treasures thus unfold, 
When death shall rend this earthly veil, 

How shall our eyes behold 

Thy glory when the spirit soars 

Beyond the. starry zone 
And in thy presence folds her wing, 

And bows before thy throne 



ENDURANCE. 

W T HE:V, upon wings of rainbow hues, 

Hope flits across thy pathway here, 
And gently as the morning breeze 

Her waving pinion dries thy tear, 
Oh, yield not all thy soul to joy, 

Let not her blandishments allure : 
Life s greenest spot hath withered flowers 

Whate er thy lot, thou must endure. 

If, on the mountain s topmost cliff, 

The flag of victory seems unfurled, 
And Faith, exulting, sees afar 

Earth s idol, Error, downward hurled, 
Deem not the triumph thou shall share 

God keeps his chosen vessels pure ; 
The final reckoning is on high, 

On earth thy meed is to endure. 
W 7 ith chastened heart, in humble faith, 

Thy labor earnestly pursue, 
As one who fears to such frail deeds 

No recompense is due : 
Wax not faint-hearted while thou toil st, 

Thy bread and water shall be sure ; 
Leaving all else to God, be thou 

Patient in all things to endure. 



DUTY AND REWARD. 

EVERY day hath toil and trouble, 

Every heart hath care : 
Meekly bear thine own full measure, 

And thy brother s share. 
Fear not, shrink not, though the burden 

Heavy to thee prove ; 
God shall fill thy mouth with gladness, 

And thy heart with love. 
Patiently enduring, ever 

Let thy spirit be 
Bound by links, that can not sever, 

To humanity. 
Labor wait ! thy Master perished 

Ere his task was done ; 
Count not lost thy fleeting moments, 

Life hath but begun. 

Labor ! and the seed thou sowest 

Water with thy tears ; 
God is faithful he will give thee 

Answer to thy prayers. 

Wait in hope ! though yet no verdure 

Glad thy longing eyes, 
Thou shall see the ripened harvest 

Garnered in the skies. 
Labor wait ! though midnight shadows 

Gather round thee here, 
And the storms above Ihee lowering 

Fill Ihy hearl wilh fear 

Wait in hope : the morning dawneth 

When the night is gone, 
And a peaceful rest awaits thee 

W hcu thy \\ ork is done. 



LAURA M. THURSTON. 



(Born 1812-Died 1842). 



LAURA M. HAWLEY, afterward Mrs. THURS 
TON, was born in Norfolk, Connecticut, in De 
cember, 1812. She completed her education 
in the Hartford Female Seminary, and sub 
sequently was a teacher in Hartford and New 
Milford, Connecticut, in Philadelphia, and in 
New Albany, Indiana. In the latter place 
she was married, in September, 1839, to Mr. 
Franklin Thurston, a merchant ; and surren 



dering- the school of which she had been the 
principal, to other hands, she resided there 
until her death, which occurred on the twen 
ty-first of July, 1842. Under the signature 
of " Viola ; Mrs. Thurston had made herself 
known by many productions marked by feel 
ing and a melodious versification, which were 
fjr the most part originally published in the 
Louisville Journal. 



THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHERLAND. 

THE green hills of my fatherland 

In dreams sti .l greet my view : 
I see once more the wave-girt strand, 

The ocean depth of blue ; 
The sky, the glorious sky, outspread 

Above their calm repose ; 
The river, o er its rocky bed 

Still singing as it flows ; 
The stillness of the sabbath hours, 

When men go up to pray ; 
The sunlight resting on the flowers, 
The birds that sing among the bowers 

Through all the summer day. 

Land of my birth mine early love 

Once more thine airs I breathe : 
I see thy proud hills tower above, 

Thy green vales sleep beneath ; 
Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, 

All rise before mine eyes ; 
The dawn of morning on thy hills, 

Thy gorgeous sunset skies; 
Thy forests, from whose deep recess 

A thousand streams have birth, 
Gladdening the lonely wi derness, 
Ami filling the green silentness 

With melody and mirth. 

(. wonder if my home would seem 

As lovely as of yore ; 
I wonder if the mountain stream 

Goes singing by the door ; 
And if the flowers still bloom as fair, 

And if the woodbines climb, 
As when I used to train them there, 

In the dear olden time ; 
I wonder if the birds still sing 

Upon the garden tree, 
As sweetly as in that sweet spring 
Whose golden memories gently bring 

So many dreams to me. 



I know that there hath been a change, 

A change o er hall and hearth 
Faces and footsteps new and strange 

About my place of birth : 
The heavens above are still as bright 

As in the days gone by, 
But vanished is the beacon light 

That cheered my morning sky ; 
And hill, and vale, and woodland glen, 

And rock, and murmuring stream, 
That wore such glorious beauty then, 
Wou d seem, should I return again. 

The record of a dream. 

I mourn not for my childhood s hours, 

Since, in the far-off west, 
Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers, 

My heart hath found its rest. 
I mourn not for the hills and streams 

That chained my steps so long, 
Yet still I see thee in my dreams, 

And hail them in my song; 
And often by the hearth-fire s blaze, 

When winter eves shall come, 
W e ll sit and talk of other days, 
And sing the well-remembered lays 

Of my green mountain home. 



CROSSING THE ALLEGANIES. 

THE broad, the bright, the glorious Wesl, 

Is spread before me now ! 
Where the gray mists of morning rest 

Beneath yon mountain s brow! 
The bound is past, the goal is won , 
The region of the setting sun 

Is open to my view : 
Land of the valiant and the free 
Mv own Green Mountain land to the* 

And thine a long adieu ! 
227 



228 



MARTHA DAY. 



I hail thce, Valley of the West, 

For what thou yet shall be ; 
I hail thee for the hopes that rest 

Upon thy destiny ! 

Here, from this mountain height, I see 
Thv bright waves floating to the sea, 

Thine emerald fields outspread ; 
And feel that, in the book of fame, 
Proudly shall thy recorded name 

In later days be read. 

Yet, while I gaze upon thee now, 

All glorious as thou art, 
A cloud is resting on my brow, 

A weight upon my heart. 
To me, in all thy youthful pride, 
Thou art a land of cares untried 

Of untold hopes and fears ; 
Thou art yet not for thee I grieve ; 
But, for the far-off land I leave, 

I look on thee with tears. 



Oh ! brightly, brightly glow thy skies 

In Summer s sunny hours! 
The green earth seems a paradise 

Arrayed in summer flowers ! 
But oh ! there is a land afar, 
Whose skies to me are brighter far, 

Along the Atlantic shore ! 
For eyes beneath their radiant shrine 
In kindlier glances answered mine: 

Can these their light restore ] 

Upon the lofty bound I stand 

That parts the East and West; 
Before me lies a fairy land 

Behind, a home of rest ! 
Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings, 
Portrays all bright and lovely things 

My footsteps to allure ; 
But there, in Memory s light, I see 
All that was once most dear to me 

My young heart s cynosure ! 



MARTHA DAY. 



(Born 1813 

Miss DAY was a daughter of the late emi 
nent president of Yale College, and was born 
in New Haven on the thirteenth of Febru 
ary, 1813. She was educated at the best 
schools in Connecticut, and was particularly 
distinguished for her acquirements in math 
ematics and languages. She died suddenly, 
when but twenty years of age, on the second 
of December, 1833, and in the following year 



-Died 1833). 

a collection of her Literary Remains, with 
Memorials of her Life and Character, was 
published at New Haven by her friend and 
relative. Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were 
buds of promise, which justified the anticipa 
tions that were entertained of her eminence 
in literature. The following hymn was de 
signed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, 
suggested by an incident in the life of David. 



HYMN. 

FATHER Almighty! 
From thy high seat thou watchest and controllest 

The insects that upon thy footstool creep, 
While, with a never-wearied hand, thou rollest 

Millions of worlds along the boundless deep. 
O Father