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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Author: Sarah S. Mower
Release Date: March 4, 2004 [eBook #11439]
Language: English
Character set encoding: Us-ASCII
***Start of the project gutenberg EBOOK the snow-drop***
E-text prepared by Amy Petri and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders from images provided by Internet Archive Children’s Library and University of Florida
Note: Images of the original pages are available
through the project
for Preservation
and Access for American and British Children’s
Literature, 1850-1869,
from an original source held at the
University of
Florida. See
http://purl.fcla.edu/fcla/tc/juv/UF00001888.jpg
or
http://purl.fcla.edu/fcl
a/tc/juv/UF00001888.pdf
A Holiday Gift
By miss Sarah S. Mower.
1851
The Authoress of “The snow-drop” has been misfortune’s child. Disease laid its relentless hand upon her in early childhood. It deprived her of a common school education and the world’s sweet intercourse. Such has been its nature, that, except on one occasion, she has not been able to leave home for more than six years.
“The snow-drop” would never have appeared had not life’s wintry hour given it birth! It was written to beguile tedious time. Winds, as they played through groves that surround her aged father’s retired and humble dwelling, sweet songsters, as they caroled from spray to spray, and the ripple of the Androscoggin, as it glided past, to her ear, were nature’s sweet minstrels, that cheered her heart in solitude and inspired her, too, to attempt the artless strains of nature.
This little work, at the suggestion of her friends, is presented and dedicated to the benevolent public, humbly hoping and trusting that it may give pastime to the leisure hour, impress more fully moral and religious sentiment, and afford some little return for the thought she has bestowed upon it.
Sweet little unassuming flower,
It stays not for an April shower,
But dares to rear its tiny head,
While threat’ning clouds the
skies o’erspread.
It ne’er displays the vain
desire
To dress in flaunting gay attire;
No purple, scarlet, blue, or gold,
Deck its fair leaves when they unfold.
Born on a cold and wintry night,
Its flowing robes were snowy white;
No vernal zephyrs fan its form—
It often battles with the storm.
It never drank mild summer’s
dew,
But chilling winds around it blew;
And hoary frost his mantle spread
Upon the little snow-drop’s
bed.
I love this modest little flower;—
It comes in desolation’s hour
The barren landscape’s face
to cheer,
When none beside it dares appear.
Just like the friend, whose brightest
smile
Is spared, our sorrows to beguile;
Who like some angel from the sky,
When needed most, is ever nigh—
To pluck vile slander’s envious
dart
From out the wounded, bleeding heart,
And raise from earth the drooping
head
When all our summer friends are
fled.
And shall these humble pages dare
Presume to ask, if they compare
With that fair, fragrant, precious
gem,
Plucked from cold winter’s
diadem?
’Tis true both struggled into
life,
Through scenes of sorrow, care and
strife;
This poor, frail, intellectual flower
Was reared in no elysian bower.
No ray of fortune on it shone,—
It forced its weary way alone;
Up-springing from the barren sod,
Untilled, save by affliction’s
rod.
[Footnote 1: A white, fragrant
flower, the earliest
that appears.—Language.—“I
am not a summer friend.”]
MY BIRTH PLACE
Where “old Blue” mountain’s
healthful breeze
Swept o’er the green
hill-side,
My little fragile bark was launched
On life’s uncertain
tide.
There verdant fields and murm’ring
brooks
Invited me to roam;
Old towering trees their heads upreared
Around my quiet home.
When morn unveiled her blushing
face,
The sun came peeping
in;
His quiv’ring beams upon the
wall,
Checked by the leafy
screen.
Oft in some sweet sequestered dell,
The blushing flow’ret
smiled;
And threw around a pleasing spell,
For me, an artless child.
The fragrant blossom peeping up,
From out the mossy sod,
Caused my young thoughts from earth
to rise
And soar to nature’s
God.
In summer, when I wandered forth,
Beneath the deep green
shade,
Or when mild autumn walked the rounds,
In gorgeous robes arrayed—
Music, in nature’s softest
strains,
Stole through my little
breast;—
’Twas something I could not
define,
Nor could it be expressed.
While some admire the pompous pile,
Or glitt’ring,
costly dome,
I’d gaze upon those ancient
trees,
Round that sweet rural
home.
Or, indolent wealth and honest labor.
Composed for the Franklin agricultural society.
To find employment for my pen,
I wandered from the haunts of men,
And sought a little rising ground,
With lofty oaks and elm trees crowned,
Where I might court the friendly
muse,
Who ever thinks herself abused
When woo’d ’midst tumult,
noise and strife,
And all the busy cares of life.
With senses quite absorbed in thought,
While all beside seemed half forgot,
I wandered on till I had strayed
Beneath an oak tree’s ample
shade,
Whose lofty top towered up so high,
It seemed aspiring for the sky.
Just at the basement of the hill,
A modest little purling rill
Shone like a mirror in the sun,—
Flashing and sparkling as it run.
The lofty oak scarce deigned to
look
Upon the little murm’ring
brook,
But tossed his head in proud disdain,
And thus began his boasting strain:—
“I’ve lived almost since
time began,
The friend and favorite of man;
Since I became a stately tree,
Cradled within my branches, lay
The young pappoose, who gayly smiled,
And listened to the music wild
That floated round his tiny head,
While through my top the breezes
played.
In after years to me he came,
When wearied in pursuit of game;
He from my branches plucked his
bow,
To slay the deer and buffalo;
Here, with his friends, he’d
often meet
To sing the war-song, dance, and
eat.
’Twas here he woo’d
the dark-eyed maid,
And built his wigwam in my shade;
To me he brought his youthful bride,
And dwelt here till with age he
died.
His children thought no place more
meet
To make his grave than at my feet;
They said ’twould greatly
soothe their woes
If I would let him here repose;
Then begged that I would deign to
wave
My verdant branches o’er his
grave.
And since the polished white man
came,
He’s loved and honored me
the same;
Though all the neighboring trees
around
Were slain, as cumberers of the
ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,—
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder’s fiery
car
Has never dared my form to mar;
I’ve heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked lightnings round me
played;
But O, thou little murm’ring
brook,
How mean and meager is thy look;—
Babbling, babbling, all day long,—
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant near,
And therefore ’tis that thou
art here.
As I am always very neat.
I’ll deign to let thee wash
my feet;—
Such work becomes one in thy place,—
To drudge for me is no disgrace.”
The spirit of the brook was stirred,
Moral.
These farmers and mechanics, here,
Much like the little brook appear;
Reared ’midst fair Franklin’s
hills and dells,
Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
They view their hands for labor
made,
And think that God should be obeyed;
Then grasp the plough and till the
soil—
It yields rich fruit, and corn,
and oil,
By which the multitude are fed.
And blessings o’er the land
are spread.
Mechanics next should take a stand
Beside the yeoman of our land;
Where’er enlightened men are
found,
They’re showering blessings
all around.
Yet time would fail should I rehearse
Their brave exploits, in simple
verse;
But there’s a class, (I hope
not here,)
Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
They think their hands were never
made
To wield the distaff, plough, or
spade;—
Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
Are made to twine their silken hair,
Or place upon a brow of snow,
Their gold and diamond rings, to
show.
Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
Or open with convulsive scream,
Whene’er they meet the farmer’s
cow,
The ox, or steer, which draws the
plough.
Should the mechanic’s labor
cease,
’Twould wound their pride—destroy
their peace;
Their flaunting garments, light
and frail,
Would quickly fade, wear out and
fail.
Soon, soon, they’d come with
humbled pride,
To him whom they could once deride,
To ask a shelter from the storm,
And clothes to keep their bodies
warm.
Should farmers their rich stores
withhold,
Their lily hands would soon grow
cold;—
No more their lips would curl with
scorn,
At him who grows and brings them
corn;—–
You’d see them kneeling at
his feet,
To beg for something more to eat;
And plead with him their lives to
save,
And snatch them from an opening
grave.
Now let us, like the little brook
We’ve heard of
in the fable,
Employ our hearts, our heads and
hands,
In doing what we’re
able;
Till all Columbia praise our deeds,
And nations, o’er
the waters,
Will tune their harps and chant
their song,
For Franklin’s
sons and daughters.
Composed for A donation gathering.
The armies of Isr’el round
Mount Sinai stood,
And heard, ’midst its thunders,
the voice of their God;
All silent and awe-struck they heard
the command—
“Bring unto the Lord the first
fruits of your land.”
These words are as sacred, their
import the same—
As when they came pealing through
Sinai’s dread flame,—
The banner of Jesus should soon
be unfurled,
And waving in triumph all over the
world.
Salvation’s glad tidings!
Oh send them abroad!
And tell the poor pagan that there
is a God!
Let those who are toiling in dark
heathen lands,
Find Christians all ready to strengthen
their hands.
Yet let not your gifts and your
offerings all roam;—
Remember the servant of Jesus at
home;
He’s spending his strength
and his life in the cause,—
From wells of salvation pure water
he draws.
The wells are our Father’s,
but still they’re so deep,
That shepherds are needed to water
the sheep;
And shall they thus labor and toil
for our good,
And we not supply them with clothing
and food?
How can we still hope that our souls
are new born,
And muzzle the oxen which tread
out the corn!—
Did God care for oxen, or did he
say thus,
Designing to give some instruction
to us?
St. Paul has explained it and told
what to do—
“Who preaches the gospel must
live of it too;”
Some say, were we able we’d
give with delight;
But think of the widow who cast
in her mite!
What though we’ve no money
to pamper our pride,
She kept not a penny for wants unsupplied;
Yet Jesus beheld her and sanction’d
the deed,
And promis’d in future to
shield her from need.
Cast your bread on the waters; obey
the command,—
The Lord will restore it; His promise
will stand;
Who give unto these, in the name
of the Lord,
A cup of cold water, shall have
their reward.
COMPOSED TO BE SUNG ON A WEDDING OCCASION, AUGUST 1ST, 1847
O ’tis an interesting sight,
When youthful hands and hearts unite!
The Lord himself was pleas’d
to own
That man should never dwell alone.
A rib he took from Adam’s
side,
And from it made a blooming bride;
In Eden’s bowers he placed
the pair,—
Then joined their hands in wedlock
there.
The nuptial ties by God were bound,
While angels chanted anthems ’round;
Then mounting on swift pinions sang,
Till heaven’s high arch with
music rang.
The Lord is present still to hear,—
The words you breathed have reached
his ear;
And his recording angel, now,
Is writing down the marriage vow.
Wilt thou, the bridegroom, till
the end,
Still prove the fair one’s
faithful friend,
Who leaves her childhood’s
happy home,
With thee through future life to
roam?
She trusts her fragile bark with
thee,—
O steer it well o’er life’s
rough sea.
And with an undivided heart,
Wilt thou, fair maiden, act thy
part?
As pure let thine affections be,
As those white robes now worn by
thee;
O keep the sacred holy trust,
Till these fair forms turn back
to dust.
On seraph wings then may you soar,
Where friends are never parted more;
There with the Lord may each reside,
And Jesus own you as his bride.
WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF MISS ELLEN N ... OF JAY.
Addressed to her relatives.
Ye gaze upon that fair young brow,
Where death’s pale shade is
resting now;—
Well, well may grief suffuse your
eyes,—
Yet let no murm’ring thought
arise,
To stain with guilt affection’s
tear,
Which falls upon the loved one’s
bier.
Tears are the antidote of grief,—
Kind nature sends them for relief.
While death a prisoner Lazarus kept,
The Son of God stood by and wept;—
And, father, here are tears for
thee,
The babe that prattled on thy knee,
And grew in beauty by thy side,
Till warm affection’s glowing
tide
Gushed from the fountain in thy
breast,
To cherish her who made thee blest.
But now, to thee no more appears
This light of thy declining years;
No more her smile brings joy to
thee,
When tempest toss’d on life’s
rough sea.
Fond mother, where’s the rosy
child
Which once upon thy bosom smiled?—
In her thou daily didst rejoice,—
She caught her language from thy
voice;
When she had learned to lisp thy
name,
New love with those sweet accents
came.
Soon did this bud of promise bloom,
But oh, it blossomed for the tomb!—
Each art, which thy fond care has
tried,
The fell destroyer’s power
defied.
And brothers, ye, too, weeping stand—
Pale death has robbed your household
band
Well may stern manhood melt in tears,
The playmate of your early years
Before you lies in death’s
cold sleep—
’Tis manly, then, for you
to weep.
No more will little Walter share
Her love, her counsel, and her care;
And thou, lone sister, now must
feel
What simple words can ne’er
reveal;—
Thou callest many sister yet,
In tones which they will ne’er
forget;
Yet no such love their bosoms fill,
As throbbed in that which now lies
still.
You oft, in love, each other greet,
But no such melting glances meet,
As ever have been wont to shine,
When Ellen’s speaking eyes
met thine.
Those eyes, which such pure love
revealed,
In death’s deep slumbers now
are sealed;
But I have watched the cloud that
fades,
While earth was wrapped in twilight
shades,
And quickly found the loss repaid
By beauties which the heavens displayed;
Anon, a sweet and pensive light
Came stealing o’er the brow
of night,—
The stars shone out from depths
profound,
Like bands of angels hov’ring
round,
Who look from off each lofty seat,
To watch lest snares beguile our
feet.
Though this was airy fancy’s
dream,
Yet still it doth an emblem seem,
Of her who lies before us now
With such calm beauty on her brow.
Death’s icy fingers plucked
Composed For Mrs. M.G.M. of Jay.
“We lay her in the earth,
and from her fair
And unpolluted flesh may violets
spring.”
Shakspeare.
With flowing tears, dear cherished
one,
We lay thee with the
dead;
And flowers, which thou didst love
so well,
Shall wave above thy
head.
Sweet emblems of thy dearer self,
They find a wintry tomb;
And at the south wind’s gentle
touch,
Spring forth to life
and bloom.
Thus, when the sun of righteousness
Shall gild thy dark
abode,
Thy slumb’ring dust shall
bloom afresh,
And soar to meet thy
God.
UPON THE DEATH OF REUBEN, PELEG B. CHARLES, SUSAN AND MARY A. WING,
(Children of Mr. Reuben and Mrs.
Lucy Wing of Livermore,)
who died within the space of 2 years
and 8
mouths, between the ages of 15 and
21 years.
Just like the rainbow in a shower,—
Like clouds that vanish in an hour.
Or some fair fragile vernal flower.
They passed away.
I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because thou didst it.—Scripture.
A peaceful dwelling,
once we found,
Where dwelt the bright eyed laughing
boy;
Fair blooming sisters
clustered round,
Fond parents eyed the group with
joy.
But death, who feeds
on tears and woe,
Beheld this happy youthful hand;
Then bade his pale companion
go
And smite them with his with’ring
hand.
The son, just launched
on manhood’s tide,
The doating father’s prop
and stay,—
The tender mother’s
joy and pride,—
Became the fell destroyer’s
prey;
While tasting bliss
without alloy,
Thrice happy with his youthful bride.
Alas! how frail all
mortal joy,
When cast on life’s tempestuous
tide.
Hygenia lends her aid
in vain,—
No balm can heal his aching breast,—
Nor anxious friends
relieve one pain,
Or give the sinking suff’rer
rest.
Patient and uncomplaining
still,
He smiles and cheers each weeping
friend;
Faith, love and grief,
their bosoms fill,
While he draws near his peaceful
end.
He calmly bids his friends
adieu;
My lovely bride, he cries, farewell!
By faith fair Canaan’s
land I view,
Oh may we there together dwell.
Do’nt weep for
me, dear mourning friends,
I’m not afraid to meet my
God;
The chief of sinners
pardon finds,
Washed in the Savior’s precious
blood.
He sleeps in Jesus and
is blest;
I hear the sacred word proclaim,
That all shall find
eternal rest,
Who trusted in their Savior’s
name.
Nor has the pale destroyer
done,
Although one victim is at rest;—
He plucks his dagger
from the son,
And plants it in a daughter’s
breast.
The blooming Susan feels
the blow,—
Her ruby lips turn deathly pale,—
She cries, Oh! mother,
I must go,—
This fatal weapon cannot fail.
The blushing rose forsakes
her cheek,—
The lily now usurps its place;—
But still she’s
patient, mild and meek,
She daily grows in ev’ry grace.
Though fading, yet more
lovely still.
She twines around each kindred heart,
While this dread truth
their bosoms fill,
That they with her must shortly
part.
The long feared fatal
hour draws near,—
Deep silence hushed the mourning
throng,
Yet still her feeble
voice they hear,—
Dear mother, falters on her tongue.
That name her infant
tongue first learned,
It trembled on her latest breath;—
Yet a deaf ear the monster
turned,
And hushed the tender sound in death.
A placid smile is on
her brow;—
Does filial love still linger there?
Or does her convoy angel
now
Breathe heavenly music in her ear?
Long ere a springing
blade appeared
Upon that daughter’s new made
grave,—
Consumption cries, Oh!
be prepared,
Another blooming form I crave.
A youthful son was now
his prey,—
Whose rising merits win each heart,—
A noble mind beams from
his eye,—
Fair virtue dwells in his young
heart.
Yet pale disease now
lurks around,
His active limbs their vigor lose;
But lo! he hears the
joyful sound;—
The gospel brings him glorious news.
What though his earthly
house decays,
And swiftly sink life’s ebbing
sands;
He’s one eternal
in the skies,
Not made by dying, mortal hands.
While friends ask, must
you go so soon,
Oh must we part with you to-day?
He, smiling, says, I
crave the boon;
Joyful I go without delay.
My Savior cheers the
lonely vale,
His smiles of love dispel the gloom;
Oh then how can my courage
fail—
Why should I dread the peaceful
tomb?
The Savior blest this
lowly bed,
And robbed the monster of his sting;
My Lord will raise me
from the dead,—
Give me a harp and bid me sing.
Behold this lovely,
youthful saint,
In raptures close his dying eyes;
He yields to death without
complaint,
And soars triumphant to the skies.
Voracious grave! thou
ne’er wast cloy’d!
Thy constant cry has been for more,
Since Abel, thy first
victim, died;
Yet thou art eager as before.
Once more death bends
the fatal bow,—
Again he seeks a shining mark;
Another blooming son
lies low,—
Death steals away the vital spark.
Though far from home
and those dear friends
Which soothe his grief and crown
his bliss,
His heavenly Father
comfort sends,—
The Holy Spirit whispers peace.
He seeks the dear paternal
hearth,
To die by his fond parent’s
side;
To him the dearest friends
on earth,
Who with a smile each tear would
hide.
A few short weeks he
lingered there,
While heav’nly peace reigned
in his breast;
He cries, my friends,
oh now prepare
To meet where sorrows ne’er
molest.
Though earthly friends
are dear to me,
I feel them twining round my heart,
A friend in heaven,
by faith, I see,
Who bids my joyful soul depart.
Dear mourning friends,
now dry your tears;
Bid ev’ry murm’ring
thought be still;
My mind is free from
doubts and fears,—
I sink into my Savior’s will.
With smiles of vict’ry
on his brow,
And heav’nly transport in
his breast,
Well pleased, he leaves
this vale of woe,
And like an infant sinks to rest.
Down through the portals
of the sky
Descend a glorious shining band.
Who waft his soul to
joys on high,
And blissful scenes at God’s
right hand.
Nor does the monster
yet relent,—
Four blooming victims he has slain,
Yet on another now intent,
He bends his fatal bow again.
And must this only daughter
go,
Ere half her budding graces bloom?
Yes, cruel death will
take her too,
To swell his numbers in the tomb.
See on her cheek the
death rose bloom,
And smile with a deceitful glow;
’Tis the red banner
of the tomb,
To warn her friends that she must
go.
With bleeding hearts
they feel the rod,
And weeping, lay her in the grave,
Yet with submission
yield to God,
The precious jewel which he gave.
But when the trump of
God shall sound,
To call each sainted sleeper home,
Should they, with ev’ry
child, surround
The mighty conq’ror of the
tomb—
They’ll cry, oh
Lord, thou ever just,
Behold is and our children here!
Thou didst in love give
them to us,
And we resigned them to thy care.
Now we will chant Redemption’s
sung,
Which Gabriel never learned to sing,
Nor one of all th’
angelic throng,—
To Jesus, prophet, priest and king.
No garland, fresh from Eden’s
bowers,
Could be more sweet than these dear
flowers
To each surviving friend;
They’ll water them with falling
tears,
And nurse them through succeeding
years,
And from each ill defend.
Bloom on, each weeping parent cried,—
My daughters planted you and died,—
You are most dear to
me;
Each now in smiling beauty stands,
Where placed by these fair youthful
hands,—
Sweet rose and lilac
tree.
Bloom on, bloom on, perfume the
air,—
I love to see you flourish there,
And in bright beauty
bloom;
Each tiny leaf I hold most dear,
Although you oft call forth a tear
For loved ones in the
tomb.
Bloom on, sweet flow’rs, while
yet you may;
Your fading leaves will soon portray
The lovely, fragile
form,
Which passed from earth while skies
seemed fair,
Like vapors quiv’ring in the
air,
Before a coming storm.
I gaze upon these opening flowers—
They bring a dream of blissful hours,
When brighter germs
were mine;
Once on my throbbing bosom lay
Sweet budding blossoms, fair as
they,
Fraught with immortal
minds.
’Neath summer skies these
flow’rs will fade—
Fair emblems of the youthful dead,
But spring restores
their bloom.
Just so the saints that droop and
die,
When Gabriel’s trump shall
rend the sky,
Will leave the mould’ring
tomb.
They’ll leave this dull, this
earthly sod,
And, in the garden of our God,
Bloom with celestial
grace,
Where frost and mildew ne’er
can blight;
There, all enraptured with delight,
God’s wondrous
works they’ll trace.
[Footnote 2: The Rose and Lilac
trees, referred to above, were
planted by two youthful sisters
a short time before their
death.]
LINES
Composed on the death of Mrs. Mary M. West, of Jay.
Dear Mary, while thou art in heaven,
at rest,
We’re mourning thy absence,
bereft and depressed;
For thou wert so faithful, so winning
and kind,
That our hearts’ ev’ry
fibre around thee entwined.
How oft have we listened, unwilling
to part,
While sweet heavenly music gushed
forth from thy heart,
Till angels in glory, well pleased
with the strain,
Re-echoed it over the heavenly plain.
The sound of thy voice we can never
forget,
Thy last parting smile sweetly lingers
here yet;
And since thy freed spirit to heaven
was borne,
Our hearts crave the boon o’er
thy mem’ry to mourn.
Adieu, dearest Mary, thy spirit
has flown
To those blissful regions where
tears are unknown;
No trials assail thee, no troubles
or fears,—
The smile of thy Savior has dried
up thy tears.
No more shalt thou weep o’er
thy dear Henry,[3] dead—
For now by his side thou art resting
thy head;
Thou now dost behold him in glory
above.
But Jesus, thy Savior, outvies him
in love.
Transported with joy, with thy Savior
at rest,
Though angels are singing, you’ll
praise him the best.
Bright glories, unfolding, still
burst on thy view—
The song thou art chanting will
ever be new.
Thy sun at its zenith on earth ceased
to shine,
But beams with new lustre in regions
divine;
For ages eternal ’t will ever
shine on—
Still gath’ring new splendor
from God’s dazzling throne.
[Footnote 3: Husband of Mrs. W.]
THOUGHTS
Occasioned by the sudden death of J.W.N.
The short lived, fragrant, vernal
flower,
Which blooms and withers in an hour,
With him may well compare;
His life was like the meteor’s
light,
Which shone and vanished from the
sight—
Dissolving in the air.
Not so the thrilling ties that bind
The loved one’s image to the
mind—
It lives and brightens
there;
Engraved upon each bleeding heart,
Which cannot, will not, deign to
part
With such a jewel rare.
Occasioned by the death of
S. White, of Livermore,
who died Dec. 25Th, 1842, aged
26.
Why do these tears bedew our eyes?
Why heaves the breast with bursting
sighs?
We’ve seen a friend
depart;
In vain we tune our harp and sing,
We cannot touch that thrilling string,
Which vibrates in the
heart.
Engaging, graceful and refined,
Frank, open, generous and kind,
Was our departed friend;
His mental powers were deep and
clear,—
His ardent friendship, most sincere,
With life alone could
end.
His heart could feel for others’
woe—
How oft his footsteps, soft and
low,
Fell on the suff’rer’s
ear!
Each word he spake, their grief
to quell,
Seemed waters gushing from a well,
Whose fount was deep
and clear.
In early years he mourned for sin,
And prayed for garments white and
clean,
Washed in the Savior’s
blood.
He journeyed on for many years,
Amidst temptations, doubts, and
fears,
But found a pard’ning
God.
His lustrous eyes are dim in death,
His voice passed like the zephyr’s
breath,
That heart has lost
its lone;
But while we weep around his dust,
That soul its prison doors hath
burst,
And worships ’round
the throne.
But shall we murmur and complain?
Shall our warm tears descend like
rain
Around his early grave?
While kindred dear must weep and
mourn,
More sacred tears bedew his urn
Than ever friendship
gave.
That brother, who with him has played
Beside the brook, or in the shade
Where feathered warblers
sang,
And sported by the river side,
Or o’er the ice taught him
to glide,
While merry laughter
rang—
His love increased with growing
years,
One were their hopes, their joys,
their fears,
Their Savior, too, was
one.
That brother’s grief must
be severe,
Yet from his lips we hope to hear,
“My Father’s
will be done.”
Like ivy, round some youthful pine,
Did Julia’s warm affections
twine
Round his fraternal
heart;
Through adverse scenes they struggled
long,
Which rendered nature’s ties
more strong,
But they, alas! must
part.
Should fell disease assail her now,
Place his pale signet on her brow,
And chill her heart
with fear;
No more he’d stand beside
her bed,—
Bathe her parched lips, and aching
head,
And strive her mind
to cheer.
She’ll range the paths where
they have strayed,
And wander through the silent shade,
And ask, “is brother
here?”
She’ll view the grave, and
that will say
There’s naught within but
mould’ring clay,
No more will he appear.
That sister, who hath sought a friend
To share her grief till time shall
end,
Must still in tears
be drowned;
Although a partner soothes her grief,
And kindly strives to give relief,
And children cluster
round;—
She sees their glossy ringlets flow,
In clusters o’er each little
brow;
They speak of days gone
by,
When she with brother often strayed,
O’er hill and dale and flow’ry
glade,
Where golden sunbeams
lie.
A fair young friend, whose aching
heart
Now feels affliction’s keenest
dart,
Must long in sadness
weep;
Her brightest hopes are fled away,
Alas! her sweetest joys decay,
They in the grave must
sleep.
Her heart still bleeds at every
pore,
That much loved form she’ll
see no more,
Till Gabriel’s
trump shall sound;
We trust they’ll then in raptures
rise,
To that blight world above the skies,
Where tears no more
are found.
His aged parents feel the blow;
Long since they gazed upon his brow,
And blessed their infant
boy;
Trembling with age, we hear them
say,
“This dear support is torn
away,
What now can yield us
joy?
“Long years we watched our
lovely plant,
With care supplied its every want,
And hoped it long might
bloom;
But fierce disease has laid it low,
Reckless of tears that ’round
it flow.
And laid it in the tomb.
“Long, long we nursed his
fading form,
And strove to shun the gath’ring
storm,
Which threaten’d
in the sky;
Yet from our bleeding bosoms torn,
Our darling son leaves us to mourn;
Who can his place supply?”
But could their vision now extend
To those bright realms where dwells
their friend,
Their tears would cease
to flow;
They’d long to leave this
dusky sphere,
And from their lips we soon should
hear,
“Dear Savior,
let me go.”
No more they’d wish the seraph
here,
To wander in this vale so drear,
And lay his glory by;
To suffer years of grief and pain,
And cross cold Jordan’s stream
again,
To reach the joys on
high.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF E. TORRY, OF PORTLAND
Oh, Edward, dear Edward! how precious
that sound,
I seek for an equal—it
cannot be found;
In tones soft and pensive it visits
my ear,—
I fain would believe thou art hovering
near.
Since thy happy spirit to heaven
has fled,
Art thou with me by day, by night
round my bed?
I visit thy grave and bedew it with
tears,
To share in my sorrow, no Edward
appears.
On earth ’t was thy pleasure
to soothe all my grief,
To wipe off my tears and to bring
me relief;
Thy heart’s warm affections
were lavished on me,
I’ve spent happy moments conversing
with thee.
My counselor, playmate, my guide,
and my friend,
On whom I might always in safety
depend,
In paths of fair virtue my feet
thou hast led,
Where vice, that foul monster, dares
not show his head.
Nor was all thy kindness bestowed
upon one;
Thou wast an affectionate, dutiful
son;
Thy dear honored parents drank deep
of thy love,
None ever shared more but thy Father
above.
Thy father now sinks ’neath
a burden of woe,
His once brilliant eyes now with
tears overflow;
Thy mother sits weeping, thy fond
brothers sigh,
The dear little children cease playing
and cry.
Fair nature is wearing a mantle
of gloom,
Deep sorrow sits brooding all round
our sweet home;
The soft venial zephyrs come sighing
along,
The streamlets are murm’ring
a sad, mournful song.
The gray twilight shades come attended
with gloom,
While like a dark pall they encircle
thy tomb;
When soft showers descend, something
whispers to me,
That tears from the clouds are descending
for thee.
No star spangled heavens nor cool
shady bowers,
No deep ancient forest or fair fragrant
flowers
Can fill up the void that I feel
in my breast,
Although thou art tuning thy harp
with the blest.
In dreams I behold thee when I am
asleep,
It cheers up my spirits and I cease
to weep;
Enshrined in my heart thy fair image
shall dwell,
I’ll keep it there always,
I love it so well.
I’ll weave a bracelet of this
hair,—
Although these locks so hallowed
are,
It seems like sacrilege to wear
Such relics of
the dead.
I’ve seen them clust’ring
’round a brow
Which drooped beneath affliction’s
blow,
And slumbers in the church-yard
now,
With all its beauty
flown.
The hand that dressed these locks
with care,
And ’ranged them ’round
that brow so fair,
And oft clasped mine with friendly
air,
Is turning back to dust.
And closed those eyes, whose radiant
beams
Surpass’d imagination’s
dreams,
Yet whisp’ring still, were
but faint gleams
Emerging from the soul.
Farewell, dear friend, these locks
I’ll keep,
Till in the grave with thee I sleep;
There, like thee, may I cease to
weep,
And, with thee, wake
to sing.
LINES
Suggested by reading an account of the last hours of Mrs. Sarah Judson, second wife of the Late lamented Dr. Judson, of Burman.
“I am in a strait betwixt two, let the will of the Lord be done.”—Judson’s Offering, 231_st page_. These were the words of Mrs. Judson a few days previous to her death, when questioned as to her desires respecting the issue of the affliction under which she was suffering.
Life’s trials and dangers
will all soon be o’er,
I feel myself nearing the heavenly
shore,
I’m weary of wand’ring,
oh! fain would I rest
With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep
on his breast.
I’m weary and thirsty, my
spirit has flown
Almost to that river which bursts
from the throne;—
I’d range its fair borders,
and plunge in its flood,
And join with the angels in praising
my God.
I’d rest in the shade of that
tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich fruit every
month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness
comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats
through the air.
I think of the rest in those regions
above,—
My soul spreads her pinions and
soars like a dove,—
Yet I’m drawn back to earth
by one tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;—then,
oh! how can I fly!
I think of New England, my fair
native land,
The friends of my childhood, that
dear faithful band,
Who’re waiting to greet me
with hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor
above.
To see me, my kindred impatiently
wait,—
I think of those dear ones,—my
soul’s in a strait,—
My father, my mother, my dear orphan
son,—
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy
will be done’
Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
Where have they laid thee down to
sleep?
Beside thy long lamented Ann,
Or ’midst thy charge at Aracan?
Or does that palm tree o’er
thee wave,
Which shadows thy dear Sarah’s
grave?
I pause, and drop the silent tear,—
In mournful tones, a voice I hear,
Exclaiming, “Earth affords
no space
For Judson’s last calm resting
place.”
Ye spicy groves, perfume each breeze
That steals along the Indian seas,—
For we have felt a pang of woe,
Since, plunged in awful depths below,
Our much lamented Judson’s
clay,
Must ’neath its rolling billows
lay,
Where monsters of the ocean creep,
’Round him o’er whom
the nations weep.
No stone directs the stranger’s
eye
To where his sacred relics lie,
Nor can the weeping Burmans come
To shed their tears around his tomb.
And when their work on earth is
done,
No mourning daughter, wife, or son
Can rest from toil the weary head,
Beside him in his ocean bed.
But while we shrink from such a
grave,
He rests as sweetly ’neath
the wave
As though in Auburn’s bowers
he lay,
Where sunbeams through green branches
play,
And roses, wet with tear drops,
bloom
Around th’ unconscious sleeper’s
tomb.
Let no rude wind, no angry storm,
The ocean’s heaving breast
deform,—
’Tis hallowed as dear Judson’s
bed,
Until the sea gives up its dead.
Though mortals weep with fond regret,
The Lord that spot will ne’er
forget;
He will a faithful record keep,—
He knows where all his children
sleep.
Though monsters should that form
devour,
’Twill rise in beauty, strength
and power;
That voice, which rends the tombs
and graves,
Will sound through all the ocean
caves;
Then ’roused by heaven’s
eternal King,
He’ll tune his golden harp
and sing;
While, quick as thought, to join
the song,
Will Burman converts round him throng,
And on that bright auspicious morn,
Like jewels his rich crown adorn.
LINES
Suggested by A remark made by the Rev. Winthrop Morse, while addressing A congregation assembled on the banks of the Sandy river, upon A baptismal occasion.
The writer of the following, though but a child, was present, and, for the first time, witnessed the administration of that solemn ordinance.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
God’s faithful
servant cried,
As he addressed the multitude
That thronged the water’s
side.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
He said with tearful
eye,—
Then come, dear friends, and choose
the path
That leads to joys on
high.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
The convert seemed to
say,—
I’ll trace the path my Savior
marked,
Though through these
waves it lay.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
Was echoed from the
stream,
Like me your days will swiftly glide,
Or like a fleeting dream.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
The Holy Spirit said,—
And sweetly whispered to the soul,
“I’ll be
thy heavenly guide.”
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”
That sentence reached
my heart,
I trembled lest I there should hear
That awful word, “depart.”
Yes, trav’ling to eternity,
While overwhelmed with
guilt,—
Afraid that Jesus’ pard’ning
love,
By me would ne’er
be felt.
“We’re trav’ling
to eternity,”—
It rings upon my ear;
The hills which echoed back that
sound,
Still to my heart are
dear.
“We’re traveling to
eternity,”
Said that dear faithful
friend,
Whose image in my mem’ry lives,
And will, till life
shall end.
“We’re traveling to
eternity,”
Soon, soon we there
shall meet,
And is my deathless soul prepared,
That friend in heaven
to greet?
Am I a Christian far astray,
And slumb’ring
on enchanted ground;
Or did my feet ne’er find
the way,
Which Bunyan’s
humble pilgrim found?
Whence was that strange delight
I felt?
Why did the gospel charm
my ear?
What caused this stubborn heart
to melt?
Why was the Savior’s
name so dear?
Why was the fountain of his blood,
So precious in my mental
eye?
Why did such deep sensations crowd
Around the scene on
Calvary?
Why did the Godhead shine so bright?
Why did I love the garb
he wore,
Alike, when justice claimed his
right,
And when sweet mercy’s
name he bore?
Did airy phantoms fill my brain?—
Did vain delusions cheat
my soul?—
Must those bright hopes prove false
and vain?
And must I miss the
heavenly goal?
* * * * *
“There is joy in Heaven, in the presence of the angels, over one sinner that repenteth.”—Scripture.
What’s this that breaks upon
my ear?
Music sweet;
From golden harps, methinks I hear
Glorious strains!
“There’s joy in Heaven,”
the angels sing,
“A soul repents and owns our
King;”
From Heaven to earth the echoes
ring,
Pard’ning love!
The warrior left the battle field,—
Jehovah there had been his shield,—
He heard his solemn
vow.
The foe had in confusion fled,
While thousands on the field lay
dead,
All, all were vanquish’d
now.
Though that brave heart was cased
in steel.
Which flashed forth wrath that all
might feel,
Who Israel’s right
oppressed;
Yet, in its sacred chambers rose
As pure a flame as ever glows
Within a parent’s
breast.
He turned him to that sacred spot,
Where one loved being shared his
lot,—
(It was an only child;)
Though long she’d wept and
quaked with fear,
When “victory,” fell
upon her ear,
She wiped her eyes and
smiled.
Like as the lark outspreads her
wings,
And, while she’s soaring,
sweetly sings
To charm the listener’s
ears,
The maiden, springing from her seat,
Flew forth, her coming friend to
greet.
Her father now appears.
As her light footsteps pressed the
ground,
Melodious music floated round,
Forth gushing from her
heart.
“Alas! my child,” the
father sighed,
“What sent thee here, my love?”
he cried,
“To tell that
we must part?”
“Thy father made a solemn
vow,—
He sees, he feels his error now,
Yes, made a vow to God;
And he will claim my darling now,
He bids me pay that awful vow,
And pay it with thy
blood.”
“But how can I thy life destroy?
Thou art my solace, hope, and joy,
My cherished only child.”
The lustre beaming from her eye,
Seemed caught from radiant orbs
on high,
So brilliant, yet so
mild.
“Pay to the Lord thy vow,”
she said,
“God’s altar is a pleasant
bed,
From thence to heaven
I’ll rise.
The Lord has answered thy request,
Israel is free, our land at rest,
I’ll be thy sacrifice.”
* * * * *
“Like a lost sheep I have gone astray.”—Psalms.
Like sheep that wander far astray,
Nor ask the shepherd’s
care,
Did I forsake the narrow way,
Nor seek my God in prayer.
I wandered in a desert wild.
Where snares beset me
’round;
Trifles and toys my feet beguiled,
And all my senses drowned.
Though clouds encompassed me around,
In darkness on I sped,
Still wand’ring on enchanted
ground,
Till hope seemed almost
fled.
I murmured, at the righteous hand
That held the chast’ning
rod,
Like one that could not understand
The precepts of his
God.
Well might the Father’s smile
depart,
The Savior hide his
face,
And God, the spirit, shun my heart,
That foul polluted place.
We never find the heavenly dove
Perched on an idol throne;
Those, who would share Jehovah’s
love,
Must worship him alone.
* * * * *
“And the vail of the temple was rent in twain.”—Scripture.
Come, with your guilt and sin oppressed,
In Christ there’s pardon,
peace and rest;
Come, humbly bow before his feet,
No vail conceals the mercy seat.
Come, boldly to a throne of grace,
The vilest here may find a place,—
For that dark vail was rent in twain,
When Christ, the heavenly lamb,
was slain.
Come, rear no altar, slay no beast,
Our Savior now is great high priest,
He rent the vail, to make it plain,
That free access should hence remain.
To A long absent relative.
Is Thy native land forgotten?
Wilt thou still a wand’rer
be?
Have New England’s hills and
valleys
Lost their every charm
for thee?
Is thy native land forgotten?
Tell me, dost thou feel
content,
Far from that loved rural dwelling
Where thine infant days
were spent?
Is thy native land forgotten,
Where glad parents,
filled with joy,
Prayed for heaven’s richest
blessings
To attend their infant
boy?
Is thy native land forgotten,
Laud where thou first
drew thy breath,
Where those sainted parents watched
thee,
Where they closed their
eyes in death?
Is thy native land forgotten?
Or dost thou revere
the sod
Where thy heart for sin was broken,
Where thy soul found
peace with God?
Is that sacred stream forgotten,
Where, immersed beneath
the flood,
Saying, “I with Christ am
buried,
And henceforth will
live to God?”
Is that hallowed spot forgotten?
Or does fancy paint
it now,
With bright angels hov’ring
o’er it
Waiting to record that
vow?
Are thy brothers all forgotten,
Playmates ’neath
New England’s skies?
When thy sisters’ names are
mentioned,
Do no warm emotions
rise?
Is that wasted form forgotten,
Ling’ring ’round
cold Jordan’s shore,
Praying death to stay his arrow
Till she hears thy voice
once more?
Can that sister be forgotten?
Thou art twining ’round
her heart:
Come, and let her eyes behold thee,
Let her soul in peace
depart.
Is that river’s shore forgotten,
Where in childhood,
oft we strayed;
Where the grape in purple clusters,
Ripen’d ’neath
the elm tree’s shade?
Tell, dear friend, hast thou forgotten,
When beneath the apple
tree,
That fair group of young companions,
Joined in merry sport
with thee?
That old apple tree has withered,
And has vanished from
the plain;
But that group are all still living,—
Come, and meet with
us again.
To the wife of the above.
Fair daughter of a sunny clime,[4]
And bride of him we
love,
The grief of those who mourn his
loss,
Hath power thy heart
to move.
E’en now we love thee for
his sake,
But not for his alone,
For in thy heart, a chord we find,
That vibrates with our
own.
We love thee, while thy feet still
roam
Far on a southern shore;
But lead that wand’ring brother
home,
And we will love thee
more.
Come, range New England’s
verdant hills,
And breathe our healthful
air,
’Twill tinge thy cheeks with
brighter bloom,
And make thee still
more fair.
Come, while the vernal zephyrs blow,
And wake to life the
flowers;
Come, while the feathered warblers
sing
Through all our woodland
bowers.
What though our leaves will fade
and fall.
And chilling north winds
blow,
And all New England’s hills
and vales,
Lie buried deep in snow!
Snug dwellings and warm clothing
still
Have power to keep us
warm,—
We sit around the fireside then,
And smile to hear the
storm.
Come, with thy partner, to that
home
Which once he called
his own,
Which his long absence oft has made
Most desolate and lone.
Welcome, twice welcome thou shalt
be,
Yes, welcome as his
bride;
Welcome, I trust, for virtues too,
Which in thy heart abide.
Come, see the grateful tears of
joy
Stand trembling in the
eye
Of those, who never can forget
The lost one, till they
die.
Come, feel the deep impassioned
grasp
Of each extended hand,
Which welcomes that lost wanderer
back
To his dear native land.
[Footnote 4: The lady addressed is a native of the south.]
COME HOME TO NEW ENGLAND.
To E.E.W. Of Texas.
Come home to New England, the land
of thy birth,
All nations still call her the queen
of the earth.
Oh! come with thy partner and sweet
rosy child,
Where friends in life’s morning,
around you have smiled.
Come, gather wild flowers, from
the brookside and dell,
And fruit from the orchard you once
loved so well,
And feast on the sugar, fresh made
from the grove,
Where you and your brothers delighted
to rove.
Come, sit in the shade of the clustering
vine,
Whose tendrils around the old elm
tree entwine.
Come, range o’er the intervale,
island and plain,
And live o’er the days of
thy boyhood again.
Thy Father in heaven seems acting
his part,
He keeps those alive, once so dear
to thy heart.
Thy brothers and sisters, and nieces
a score,
And nephews, are waiting to greet
thee once more.
Our Susan, the baby that clung to
thy knee,
And prattled around thee in infantine
glee,
Has grown up, she’s married
and two blooming boys
Have stirred in her bosom a fountain
of joys.
You start and exclaim, can the story
be true!
I fear that you’ll stay till
she’s grandmother, too.
You’ve staid for our infants
to grow up and wed,
Our young men are old, our old ones
are dead.
Yes, white hairs are clustering
round many a crown,
Which wore, when you left them,
rich tresses of brown.
One dear faithful sister has faded-and
died,
Don’t stay till the others
both lie by her side.
At night I behold thee, I laugh
and I weep,
Alas! I awake, ’tis the
vision of sleep;
Disheartened with pleading, and
pleading in vain,
Perhaps I may never entreat you
again.
I saw the tear trembling in sister’s
blue eye,
In bright smiles she vailed it,
full well I knew why.
That moment stern duty had called
us to part,
Emotion was struggling for vent
in her heart.
She asked, “will some angel
in mercy descend,
And from all afflictions each loved
one defend?
Or must pain and sickness make sweet
home forlorn?
Will death send an arrow, ere I
shall return?”
Dear sister, my thoughts did in
unison flow,
My heart will be with you wherever
you go;
By day, in my fancy, thy image I
see,
And sleep brings refreshment when
dreaming of thee.
A SISTER’S COUNSEL.
“Be cheerful,” thou
saidst; that sweet sentence I heard,
Though filled with emotion, I spake
not a word;
’Twas music, more soothing
than steals through the trees
With green tresses waving in twilight’s
cool breeze.
“Be cheerful,” thou
saidst, when about to depart.
In tones that said plainly, we come
from the heart.
We think of thee sister, when absent
or here,
And wish not thine eye to be dimmed
by a tear.
“Be cheerful,” thou
saidst, but, O how can I be,
When thou, my dear sister, art absent
from me?
Sweet home looks so vacant, so lonely
and drear,
I cannot be cheerful as when thou
art here.
“Be cheerful,” thou
saidst, when about to depart,
And conscious that grief was oppressing
my heart.
I thank thee, my sister, thy counsel
was good,
I fain would obey thee, I wish that
I could.
To A friend on parting.
Julia, let fond remembrance cling
Around the parting hour;
Unfading let that garland be,
Late plucked from friendship’s
bower.
Lurid and dark our path would be,
Uncheered by friendship’s
rays;
Incense divine, thy hallowed flame
Lights up our darkest
days.
Absence and time can ne’er
destroy
Pure friendship’s
chrystal streams;
Near us the loved one lingers round,
And greets us in our
dreams.
No brighter chain this earth can
boast,
Than twines ’round
kindred hearts;
Brilliant and fair the links remain,
Though fate rends them
apart.
Alas! that we so soon must part.
Ere budding friendship’s
bloom;
Remain, sweet germ, within each
heart,
And thrive beyond the
tomb.
Receive, dear friend, these parting
lines,
Though humble they appear;
Earth, with its joys, are fading
fast,
With all that love us
here.
Then may we be prepared to soar
Where ransomed spirits
blend;
There may our souls in love unite,
Where friendship fears
no end.
Farewell, farewell, my dearest brother,
Thou must be absent
for awhile,
May no dark clouds around thee gather,
May health and fortune
on thee smile.
In fancy’s dreams, I’ll
oft be with thee,
On thy fond heart my
image bear,
And while I hope again to meet thee,
The pleasing thought
my heart shall cheer.
TO W.H.D.
An adopted brother.
The home of thy childhood thou didst
not forget,
The friends which dwelt with thee
are dear to thee yet,
Thy warm friendly greeting betokens
it now,
The smile of pure friendship still
beams from thy brow.
I knew that thy heart was so faithful
and true,
Thou wouldst not forget, though
thou bad’st us adieu;
For thou didst rejoice with us when
we were blest,
And sympathize with us, however
distressed.
Say, wilt thou remember us, while
thou dost live,
And cherish our virtues, our frailties
forgive?
O think of us always, where’er
thou dost roam,
For thy living image dwells ever
at home.
But there is a home which is better
than this,
The inmates all drink at the fountain
of bliss;
A friend, than a father or mother
more dear,
More close than a brother, this
friend will adhere.
Wouldst find that blest home? go,
and follow the road,
Which Christ and the prophets have
marked out, to God;
The Spirit will teach you, and guide,
lest you stray,
While legions of angels shall throng
round your way.
To A friend in affliction.
An acrostic.
D ark frowning clouds obscure thy
sky,
E ach future prospect fades;
B ut there’s a kind protector
nigh,
O n him rely for aid.
R ich treasures are locked up in
store,
A ffliction turns the key;
H ow oft when dreadful thunders
roar,
M ay showers bid famine flee.
O sister, never yield to fears
W hen tempests roar aloud,
E ’en then, the bow of hope
appears,
R ich hues bedeck yon cloud.
Lines to A sister.
Susan, I long again to greet thee,
Fain would I clasp thee
in my arms,
While that bland smile o’erspread
thy features,
Which to thy brow adds
nameless charms.
Dear sister, I can still remember
When first I clasped
thee to my breast;
I viewed thee as a priceless treasure,
Bestowed to make life’s
pathway blest.
Although a little tiny creature,
Devoid of friendship,
love, or care,
Yet, I highly prized the casket,
I knew a sister’s
heart throbbed there.
And when I heard, in lisping accents,
Affection flowing from
thy tongue,
With strange delight, I listened
to it,
As though some little
cherub sung.
When in the garden thou wast straying,
To play among thy fragrant
flowers,
I thought that Flora’s fairest
blossoms
Would vainly strive
to vie with ours.
Dear sister, canst not thou remember,
When I’d been
absent for awhile,
With what a boyant step thou’dst
meet me,
And greet me with thy
sunny smile?
And, when fatigued, I sought retirement,
Or left thee for a few
short hours,
Oft them wouldst steal into my chamber
And strew my couch with
fragrant flowers.
I trust that flame is not extinguished,
Although our duty bade
us part;
I trust it still is burning brightly
Upon the altar of thy
heart.
O come, and join the fireside circle
Around the old paternal
hearth;
Come, let thy smiles and songs delight
us,
They are like sunlight
to the earth.
The little birds are singing sweetly;
The verdant fields perfume
the air;
Our garden walks would be most pleasant,
If Susan’s voice
was ringing there.
Adieu, dear sister, for the present,
But tell me, wilt thou
not be here
Ere the wintry winds are sighing
Requiems o’er
a dying year?
TO MY BROTHER.
The scenes of our childhood.
Far back, through the vista of long
buried years,
I look through this valley of sorrow
and tears;
Like pictures, in bright glowing
colors displayed,
The scenes of my life’s rosy
morn are portrayed.
An image, the foreground presents
to my sight,
Which shed o’er my pathway
its radiant light;
An image of him who first held my
soft hand,
And shouted with joy when his sister
could stand;
From him, I first caught the sweet
magical art
Of turning to language, the thoughts
of my heart;
When first to the school-house he
went as my guide.
His heart swelled with pleasure,
affection and pride.
Delighted, we ranged o’er
the hillside, in spring,
And listened with rapture to hear
the birds sing;
Then stopped in the pasture to see
the lambs play,
As frolicsome, cheerful, and happy
as they.
We ranged o’er the meadow,
the forest, and bowers,
Picked berries for mother, and gathered
wild flowers,
Dear brother, how oft by the rosebush
we sat,
While you caught the butterflies
under your hat.
With gay happy hearts to the woodland
we strayed,
When autumn its rich pensive beauty
displayed;
The robin was chanting her sweet
farewell song,
While blithe little squirrels went
skipping along.
Those bright little rogues which
the husbandmen scorn,
Sly’d into their holes with
their cheeks full of corn;
The clear mellow sunlight, in quivering
streams,
Sent through the tall tree tops
its roseate beams.
Jack Frost and October, when evenings
grew cold,
Had drest up the forest in crimson
and gold;
The bright leaves were borne on
the wings of the breeze,
While we picked up beach-nuts from
under the trees.
When trees were all leafless, and
snow-clad the ground,
Sweet pleasures at home in our cottage
we found;
’Round our bright blazing
fire, we’d work, read, or play,
And find sweet employment to fill
up each day.
And when evening came, the old hearth
we’d surround,
While you cracked the nuts, which
in autumn we found,
I tended my kittens, and made up
their bed,
You made them a yoke and a nice
little sled.
We heard the hens cackle, and thought
we were blest,
You flew to the hayloft, and found
a full nest,
Then caught up the treasure, and
smiled as you run,
With a hat full of eggs, and a head
full of fun.
We ran on the snow-crust like fleet
nimble deer,
Until our fair cheeks would like
rosebuds appear.
I never was lonesome, and never
afraid,
If Hiram, my brother, for company
stayed.
O, then we were happy in winter
or spring,
Yes, happier far than the happiest
king.
You grew up to manhood, and left
your old home,
But may you he happy wherever you
roam.
I ne’er can forget how it
made my heart grieve,
When you of the precious old homestead
took leave;
I feared that with business and
cares overrun,
You’d soon cease to love me
as once you had done;
And earth would be shrouded in sadness
and gloom,
If I, in your heart, could not always
find room.
Though care leaves a shadow on thy
manly brow,
Thy heart’s warm affections
are mirrored there now.
But when you are with me a brief
space to stay,
I’m all the while thinking
you’ll soon go away;
Yet we shall soon meet in a far
distant land,
God grant it may be at the Savior’s
right hand.
’Twas summer, and a sultry
day
Was drawing to a close,
One cloud, along the northwest lay,
Which tardily arose.
Along a winding path we strayed,
Which through the forest
led,
While not one gentle zephyr swayed
The branches overhead.
Deep mutt’ring thunders soon
were heard,
Dark shadows gathered
round;
The trees, at intervals, were stirred
By gusts of threat’ning
sound.
The hurricane arose in wrath,
The rain in torrents
poured;
Huge trees were flung across our
path,
Loud crashing thunders
roared.
When vivid lightnings round us blazed,
He told me not to fear;
My little trembling hand he seized,
And checked the rising
tear.
Loud thunders through the forest
pealed;
He smiled, and cheered
me on,
Exclaiming, “we’ll soon
reach the field,
Then all the danger’s
gone.”
But soon, in hurried tones he said,
“Run, sister,
run with me,
Look! look! directly o’er
your head,
Behold that falling
tree!”
But, while I heard the warning sound
Rise o’er the
raging storm,
Its double trunk had clasped around
My little trembling
form.
Why did my brother linger there,
Nor strive to gain the
field?
Torn branches filled the darkened
air,
Huge trees above us
reeled.
Like some stern warrior on the field,
’Midst danger,
death, and strife,
He stood, determined not to yield,
Until he saved my life.
That awful tempest, and thy care,
My mem’ry still
retains,
Engraved upon those tablets fair,
’Twill live while
life remains.
LINES
Addressed to an absent sister.
Dear sister, though absent, your
image is bright,
It dwells in my heart and prompts
me to write;
Your health, is it blooming, your
spirits in cheer?
You know ’twould rejoice me,
such tidings to hear.
The din of the village, and hum
of the mill,
Can they charm my sister like our
quiet vale?
Does our little cottage seem humble
and mean,
Embosomed with trees, and surrounded
with green?
Like father and mother, are those
where you dwell?
Like brothers and sisters who love
you so well?
Or do you look forward and sigh
for that hour,
When we shall all meet in your jessamine
bower?
Where vines that you planted, will
wave o’er your head,
And nature’s green carpet
sweet odors will shed;
Each cool breeze is playing with
flowers growing near,
Which sister has planted, our spirits
to cheer.
Your roses and lilacs, among the
pine trees,
Are swarming with butterflies, humbirds,
and bees;
I view them each morning, all spark’ling
with dew,
And fancy they’re emblems
of sisters like you.
Come home and do housework, tend
poultry and flowers,
At noontide recline in our cool
shady bowers;
Could not such employment still
yield you delight,
Where birds are all singing from
morning till night?
Soon summer is coming, your flow’rets
will bloom,
And spread new enchantments around
your old home;
Our grove by the river in beauty
is drest,
The Whippowil’s notes sweetly
soothe us to rest.
The sun, in mild splendor, sinks
down in the west,
Encircling with glory the old mountain’s
crest;
The clouds o’er his head glow
with purple and gold,
The river is catching the tinge
of each fold.
The scene would be lovely, if sister
was here,
But now I’m so lonely, it
looks sad and drear;
The beauties of nature are losing
their charms,
No more to divert me, till clasped
in your arms.
But I’m growing weary, I’ll
draw to a close,
And seek for refreshment in needful
repose;
If this, from a sister can give
you delight,
Retire to your chamber, this evening,
and write.
Adieu, my dear sister, until your
return
Sweet home will be dreary, and almost
forlorn;
May God be your guide, your supporter
and stay,
Directing your footsteps, wherever
you stray.
On A sister’s Wedding day.
Dear sister, when they called thee
bride,
That sound, my spirits deeply tried;
My heart, at that one little word,
Through every trembling fibre stirred.
I’d still a place within thy
heart,
But oh, I felt it hard to part;
And that long dreaded hour had come,
When thou must leave thy childhood’s
home.
But that sad morn; a pleasant sight
Cast o’er the future gleams
of light;
I listened, and the voice of prayer
Ascended on the morning air.
’Twas then, I thought the
heavenly dove
Gave us a token of his love,
For, in the western heavens, now
Appeared a bright resplendent bow.
’Twas lovely as that arch
displayed
When Noah by the altar prayed;
That sacred scene could but impart
A gleam of sunshine to my heart.
O, ’twas a consecrated hour,
When, through that sweet refreshing
shower
The morning sunbeams brightly smiled,
And whispered, trust thy Father,
child.
Vernal songster, thou art here,
With the flowers thou dost appear;
Yes, sweet little Whippowil,
Thou art singing by the rill;
Where the silver moonbeam plays
Thou dost chant thy hymn of praise;
Thy shrill voice I love to hear,
And I’d have thee warble near.
Come, sweet bird, the moonlight
shines
Through the verdant row of pines,
Standing by our cottage door,
Come, where thou hast sang before,
When I heard thy thrilling note
On the twilight breezes float,
Ming’ling with the cheerful
“My
harp is on the willows hung.
And
the strings all out of tune,”
And dost thou listen for a song,
From this frail harp, neglected
long?
My harp, alas! is drenched in tears,
Rent by contending hopes and fears.
Pale trembling fingers sweep the
strings
Whene’er my muse, in sadness,
sings;
For, prostrate now, before me lays
The playmate of bright joyous days;
She was my early childhood’s
pet,
Nor can my bleeding heart forget
That love, which has, in later years
Shared all my pastimes, hopes, and
fears.
Long has pale death beside her stood,
And poured his arrows like a flood,
Whilst I have tried, with beating
heart,
To steal the poison from each dart;
But oft I fear, lest these dread
showers
Will baffle all our feeble powers,
And death’s cold hand, will
rend apart
The tie that binds her to my heart.
Long I’ve refused to leave
her side,
Lest there should aught remain untried,
Which might her wasting form restore,
And tinge her cheek with bloom once
more.
Oft by her couch, the livelong night,
I’ve watched, till morn’s
unwelcome light,
Like some vain babbler, must reveal
The tears, which I would fain conceal;
Then softly stole, in silence, where
No sigh could reach the sufferer’s
ear.
But, shall I thus forever weep,
And let my harp forgotten sleep,
When there’s one sweet melodious
strain,
Whose power can wake its string
again?
Come, let us chant one grateful
song
To Him, whose patience waited long,—
“God ruleth, let the earth
rejoice!”
Yes, let us make a joyful noise.
We’re chastened by a hand
divine,
Let us be dumb, nor dare repine;
Thou didst it. O, our Father,
God,
Then let us humbly kiss the rod.
Though from our eyes the tear-drop
starts,
When those who twine around our
hearts
Are suffering with exquisite pain,
Yet, we may weep, and not complain.
Lord, thou didst weep, and so may
we,
And bow submissive still to Thee;
Grant us thy grace in sorrow’s
hour,
To flee for refuge to thy power.
TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.
O Sister! Sister! can it be
That thou must droop, and
die?
Still blending on thy fair young
cheek,
The rose and lily vie.
But burning fever is the root
From whence those roses spring;
While pain and suffering, on thy
brow,
Those snowy lilies fling.
The sick girl sat with downcast
eye,
Her bosom heaved the deep drawn
sigh,
She felt that all complaint was
vain,
For health would ne’er return
again.
With pain and weariness oppressed,
She sought her pillow, there to
rest,
While sleep a welcome visit paid,
Bright scenes were to her view displayed.
In fancy’s magic glass, she
sees
Her cheek, long faded by disease,
The rose of health blooms there
again,
’Tis no deceitful hectic stain.
Lightly and firm her footsteps fell;
In rapture, she exclaimed, “I’m
well!
I bear no suff’ring, feel
no pain,
My long lost treasure I regain.”
Her blooming form now stands erect,
In fair and comely robes bedecked;
Her limbs, so long with pain oppressed.
Can nimbly move or sweetly rest.
Rejoicing friends their praises
sing,
To Hezekiah’s bounteous king;
Well pleased, she hears their grateful
songs,
And her glad voice the strain prolongs.
But sleep his downy pinions spread,
Her slumbers broke, the vision fled;
Her burning temples throbbed with
pain,—
She was an invalid again.
TO A BUTTERFLY IN MY CHAMBER.
Whence art thou, frail, wand’ring
stranger,
Softly flitting round
my bed?
Is thy life exposed to danger?
Are thy friends and
kindred dead?
Does the cold rude breath of autumn,
Chill thy little fragile form?
Hast thou come to seek a shelter
From the dreaded gath’ring
storm?
Art thou now our friendship trying?
Wouldst thou test the vows
we made,
When thou was so gaily flying
’Round us, ’neath
the fragrant shade?
Or, wouldst thou our hearts be cheering,
Through this pensive lonely
eve,
While the chilly winds are bearing
On their wings the faded leaf?
Would thou wast the Father’s
token,
That the sweet celestial dove,
When the golden bowl is broken,
Will support us by his love,—
Will, in that dread painful conflict,
Flit around our dying bed,
And, to fill the soul with comfort,
Whisper, “blessed are
the dead.”
I’ve ranged the bright streamlet
in childhood’s blest hour,
And culled from its borders spring’s
loveliest flowers,
Then bound up my bouquet, all glitt’ring
with dew,
And smiled on my treasure as homeward
I flew.
I’ve seen the sweet violet
deck the green sod,
All fresh from the hand of a bountiful
God,
While soft whisp’ring zephyrs
breathed this in my ear,
“The wisdom of God in these
blossoms appear.”
I’ve looked on the mayflower,
spring’s earliest child,—
It peeped from the snowdrift and
modestly smiled;
I’ve plucked the fair lily,
arrayed in fair white,
And drank in its fragrance with
heartfelt delight.
Yet blossoms that smile in the green
woodland bower,
Ne’er rival this sweet intellectual
flower;
This blossom sprang up from the
depths of the mind,—
The heart’s thrilling fibres
its tendrils entwine,
Affection’s pure fountain
has watered the germ,
The bright sun of intellect cherished
its form,
It’s petals were colored in
fancy’s rich dye,
Till they, with the hues of the
rainbow may vie;
I’ll pluck thee, sweet blossom,
pure fragrance I find,
When the rich perfumes are inhaled
by the mind.
[Footnote 5: A volume of poems.]
THE MINISTER
At the family altar. Composed for the Rev. W. Foss, of Leeds.
The father, still in manhood’s
prime,
Was bowed in humble
prayer;
His partner, fair as when a bride,
Was kneeling by him
there.
Reclining on a sister’s arm,
The babe found sweet
repose;
While from the heart, in accents
warm,
The father’s prayer
arose.
And, fair as rosebuds bathed in
dew;
By morning zephyrs fanned,
A blooming group of loved ones,
too,
Was ranged on either
hand.
As many children God had given,
As good old Jacob had;
That he might meet them all in heaven,
How fervently he prayed.
What deep emotions filled my breast,
That scene my spirit
stirred;
Will not that family be blessed,
That prayer in heaven
be heard?
Though oft his duty calls abroad,
Salvation’s news
to bear,
The father leaves his charge with
God,
Confiding in his care.
“Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days.”—Ecel. xi; 1.
Hark! hear the cry of Erin’s
sons,
By plague and famine
frantic;
The wail of wives and little ones
Comes o’er the
broad Atlantic.
O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
That’s pealing
o’er the ocean;
To us, to us, for aid they fly,
As Israel fled to Goshen.
List! hear that sad and mournful
sound,
It is the parent sighing;
Beside him, on the damp cold ground.
His darling ones are
lying.
A nation sinking to the grave;
How thick death’s
shafts are flying!
The loved, the lovely, and the brave,
From want are daily
dying.
They’re calling to Columbia’s
sons,
And to her happy daughters;
Take of your bread, ye favor’d
ones,
And cast it on the waters.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
All day the rain has patter’d
down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang
around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.
But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o’erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.
Our fancy, while we gaze, takes
wings
And flits around earth’s brighter
things,
Then whispers in our list’ning
ears,
“This earth is not all sighs
and tears.”
This cloud is like the robin’s
song,
Whose notes were hushed all winter
long,
But comes to usher in the hours,
Whose genial warmth revives the
flowers.
Or like the south wind’s gentle
voice,
Bidding all nature’s works
rejoice,
Teaching the little birds, to sing
A serenade to blooming spring.
Like budding flowers where thorns
once grew,
And beauty bursting into view
Where all was dark, and drear, and
wild,
Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.
’Tis like the smile that beams
through tears,
When hope usurps the place of fears;
Like health, new sparkling in the
eye
Of him, whom friends gave up to
die.
Faint emblem of the glory shed
Around the dying christian’s
bed,
That prelude to the dazzling light
Which bursts on his enraptured sight,
When the freed spirit soars above,
And faith is swallowed up in love.
AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
It was a wild, sequestered spot,
With here and there a humble cot;
Yet, nature’s richest robes
were thrown
Around those hills and valleys lone.
’Twas quiet, fair, and lovely,
then,
Though beasts of prey and savage
men
Roamed o’er those hills of
graceful form,
Whose trees for ages braved the
storm,
Yet, humbly stooping to behold
The broad majestic stream, that
rolled
Through smiling mead and woody plain,
Fast speeding onward to the main,
Or, dashing from its rocky height,
Proclaims the great Creator’s
might,
Its deep toned music, strangely
meet
To mingle with the anthem sweet,
That floated on each whisp’ring
breeze,
Which came, soft stealing through
the trees
That grew upon the winding shore,
In giant ranks, in days of yore.
When genial spring her magic spell,
Cast ’round each lovely woodland
dell,
Should Art and Genius there assemble,
With solemn awe they’d stand
and tremble;
Than all their works, they’d
own this greater,
And bow before the great Creator.
BY AMELIA.
I wandered out one summer night,
’Twas when my
years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
One fleecy cloud upon the air,
Was all that met my
eyes,
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I
flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children
do.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
’Twas playing
with my hair;
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they
were.
The twilight hours came stealing
by,
And still I wandered
free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the
sea.
For ev’ry wave with dimpled
face,
That leaped upon the
air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling
there.
But wherefore weave such strains
as these,
And sing them day by
day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay.
I’d give the world for their
sweet art.
The simple, the divine;
I’d give the world to melt
one heart,
As they have melted
mine.
And wouldst thou, sweet minstrel,
if earth should unfold
To thee all her treasures of silver
and gold,
Resign all thy riches, thy wealth,
fame and power,
To sing like the birds in the green
woodland bower?
Like thee, dear Amelia, I love the
wild bird,
Their soft melting strains, at grey
twilight, I’ve heard;
The whippowils, then, on the cool
zephyr’s wing,
Their clear pensive notes in rich
harmony fling.
I listen each morning with heartfelt
delight,
While birds bid adieu to the shadows
of night.
And greet in sweet anthems the bright
king of day,
As they through the forest are soaring
away.
Yet thy flowing numbers, when breathing
around,
Awaken such echoes as these never
found;
A chord in my bosom, thy sonnet
has stirred,
Which never was touched by the notes
of a bird.
But meekness in woman to me is so
dear,
I love thee the more when such language
I hear;
True greatness and modesty, when
they combine,
Like stars of the firmament sparkle
and shine.
The birds of the forest thy spirits
can cheer,
Their songs fill with music thy
sensitive ear,
But has that fair dove in thy heart
found a nest,
Whose singing can make thee eternally
blest?
MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A ROW OF FINE TREES
NEAR
MY DWELLING.
These youthful pines,
a verdant row,
Cast their dark shadows
on the snow;
Just like a picture,
or a dream,
Or tale of fairy lands,
they seem.
I hear a soft melodious
lay,
The winds are with their
tops at play;
While moonbeams through their branches
stealing,
Wake up a wild romantic feeling.
The forest birds in
spring will come,
’Neath these green
boughs to make their home,
To cheer us with their
sweet wild song,
To build their nests
and rear their young.
Child of the wood, in
infancy,
I learned to love the
forest tree;
I’m still the same romantic
creature,
Admiring all the works of nature.
The rocks, the fields,
the groves and flowers,
Are fraught with some
mysterious powers,
That bind me with a
pleasing spell,
Which naught can break
while here I dwell.
The wild bird’s
note, the woodland dell,
Have charms beyond my
power to tell;
While winds are through the forest
roaring,
My spirit with the sound seems soaring.
The rosy morn, the sunset
sky,
The glitt’ring
retinue on high,
The sun’s broad
blaze, the moon’s mild beams,
Reflected from the lakes
and streams,
The lightning’s
flash, the thunder’s roar,
The ocean dashing on
the shore,
And meteors streaming through the
air,
Proclaim that God is everywhere.
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING A PETUNIA.
Fair plant, well pleased on thee
I look,
Thou art a page in nature’s
book,
Which I delight to read;
Though stoics set thee quite at
naught,
And say that none but children ought
On such vain trifles spend a thought,
Their words I little
heed.
A child I’d ever wish to be,
With an instructer just like thee,
And listen to her voice;
Fain wouldst thou our best passions
move,
And lead our wandering thoughts
above,
Where, at the fount of boundless
love,
We ever might rejoice.
Our tender care thou dost repay,
Though watched and guarded night
and day,
Thus teaching thoughtless
man;
When thou art nursed and watered
well,
Thy bursting buds with fragrance
swell,
And thus the grateful story tell,
That we do all we can.
Thy blooming petals love the light.
The sun smiles on them, they grow
bright,
Withdraws his beams,
they faint;
Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
The modest blush that o’er
them plays,
To every thinking mind, portrays
The contrite, humble
saint.
Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I
do,
And all thy blooming kindred too,
(More than the works
of art,)
For in them, I can ever find
Such beauty, skill and power combined,
As captivate and soothe the mind,
And cheer the drooping
heart.
Fair gift, by royal donor given,
dipped in the radiant dyes of heaven,
And strown o’er
every land,
Ye shed your fragrance o’er
the tomb,
Steal from deep solitude its gloom,
And when the gardener gives you
room,
You bless his fostering
hand.
Not Newton, though he soared so
high,
And traced the planets through the
sky,
With such amazing power,
Nor Franklin, whom we praise so
loud,
Though lightnings in their misty
shroud,
Obeyed his voice and left the cloud,
Could make the simplest
flower.
Nor could the chemist’s skill
suffice
To mingle such exquisite dyes,
As in the flowers appear;
And were all human powers combined,
And centred in one single mind,
Its best productions, we should
find,
Stand halting in the
rear.
When, veiled in flesh, God dwelt
below,
He deigned his watchful care to
show,
For man’s ungrateful
race;
When sin their drowsy eyes had sealed,
He took the lily of the field,
And bade them think what that revealed,
And learn to trust his
grace.
The garden which Jehovah planned,
And planted with his own right hand,
Was decked with fragrant
flowers;
And shall we boast that we now slight
What God designed to give delight,
Ere sin had cast its with’ring
blight
O’er all our mental
powers?
TO A WHITE HOLLYHOCK.
Sweet plant, so fair, so pure thy
blossoms look,
I almost fancy that some angel,
from
His wing the feathers plucked, and
of them, at
The twilight hour, thy snowy petals
made.
But fancy leads astray. Not
one of all
That shining throng, which worship
’round the throne,
Could e’er such work perform.
None but the hand
Divine, these curious fabrics wrought.
SUGGESTED BY VIEWING THE MINIATURE OF A PAIR OF LOVELY
TWIN BOYS, WHO WERE DEPRIVED OF THEIR MOTHER AT THE
AGE OF TWO MONTHS, AND WERE THE ONLY REMAINING CHILDREN
OF THEIR FATHER.
I gaze upon this picture fair,
And find strange beauty mirrored
there;
Its magic spell with power is fraught,
To ope the fount of hidden thought.
Sweet childhood’s opening
blossoms here,
In all their loveliness appear;
Pure innocence, with touching grace,
Smiles in each feature of the face,
Like rosy morning’s cheerful
rays,
O’er childhood’s artless
brow, it plays.
The lips, half open, almost speak,
Ah! now I know; you linger here,
Your father’s lonely hours
to cheer.
Death would not pluck the last fair
flower,
That bloomed in his connubial bower;
He fondly loves his orphan boys,
They half restore his withered joys.
Sweet rosebuds, springing from the
tomb,
Long round his hearthstone may you
bloom,
With smiles of love your father
greet,
And fill your mother’s vacant
seat.
Where can we find a more healthy and delightful employment, than the cultivation of flowers? Though of less importance than those plants which are necessary for the support of animal life, yet, rightly considered, they yield a pleasant and instructive entertainment for the intellectual powers, and may justly be termed food for the mind.
“Nonsense” some of our readers exclaim, “Nonsense, to talk of feeding the immortal mind, with flowers! For one, I think people may find some more useful employment than that of persuading their fellow beings to spend the precious hours of this short life upon these useless playthings.”
But pause, my readers, and consider who gave this finishing touch to the face of nature. Who strewed the fields with flowers? Were they not brought into existence by the same All-wise Being who created the earth upon which we dwell, with its millions of intelligent beings, its vast oceans, its towering mountains, its flaming volcanoes and its majestic rivers with their awe inspiring cataracts; who created the sun, that great fountain of light and heat, and the centre of attraction for those vast globes which revolve around it, and then counterpoised with such precision the different forces which produce and continue their motion, that they continue to perform their appointed revolutions, without the least deviation from that orbit, in which they were placed at creation’s dawn; who “made the stars also,” that innumerable multitude of fixed stars, or suns with their attending planets which inhabit the boundless regions of space; whose wonderful works are so numerous as to overwhelm the feeble mind of man, and to compel him to conclude at the commencement, by saying that they are infinite? And shall we be so impious as to hush the voice of reason, and disregard the words of holy writ enough to say, that even the little violet was made in vain? I should sooner believe that Washington, the father of our country, while the destiny of our nation was placed, as it were, in his hands, was in the habit of deserting his army while on the battle field, engaged in the most bloody conflict with a mortal foe, for the sole purpose of amusing himself with soap bubbles and firebrand ribbons.
“But,” says one, “they were created for a scourge and a snare to fallen man; for while we are compelled to spend much of our time in destroying thorns and thistles from our premises, they are continually tempting the weaker part of our race to spend their strength and time upon that, which at best, can yield no profit.” But against this assertion, the scriptures afford us ample proof, for we are there informed, that they were created before the fall, and pronounced very good, while thorns and thistles were brought forth afterwards; for the Lord said, when pronouncing the curse upon Adam, “Cursed be the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee,” thus implying that they were not already in existence. And again, flowers are universally spoken of in scripture as blessings, or used as emblems of things valuable or pleasing, while thorns and thistles are always used to represent things hurtful, or afflictive. And if any part of nature’s works retain their native purity and remain unchanged, save by the hand of death, is it not flowers? It is true, they neither supply us with food or clothing, and if they possess medical qualities, they might as well be contained in the plant without the appendage of a flower. Nor were they made for the fowls of the air, or the beasts of the field, for they totally disregard them; we never see the ox, the horse, or the sheep, stop to
Sweet flowers, there is room enough for you in the female mind. We will take you to our bosoms and cherish you with that affectionate regard, which your lovely qualities deserve. We will admire your spotless purity and innocence. You were thought worthy of a place in the blissful bowers of Eden. And for aught we know, ye were the only part of nature’s works which were created solely for the purpose of charming the mind and gratifying the senses of sinless beings. And may we make a profitable use of these lovely relics of paradise! May they continually remind us of the skill, wisdom and goodness of the great Architect of the universe!
Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may “look through nature up to nature’s God,” than a veil interwoven with flowers? When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care, thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks the monarch’s throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature of the inhabitants of the flower garden.
And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower, pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its coarsely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.
“I am weary of this lecture upon flowers,” the stoical reader exclaims: If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent, though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea, which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.
What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody? Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station, from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.
We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers, green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.
We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting rock forming a little
We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow’s form. We gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep, like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the shadows as they lengthen o’er the ground, till they lose themselves in the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by sunset’s magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.
We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night, cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance, till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.
We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its cage.
This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But when an individual is brought to realize and “believe with all his heart” that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper. For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.
No music, borne from Eden’s
bowers,
On heaven’s
own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these
lofty strings;
For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly
dove,
Could never touch the thrilling
notes
Of God’s
redeeming love.
* * * * *
The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.
* * * * *
Though city ladies treat with scorn
The humble farmer’s
wife,
And call his daughters rude and
coarse,
I’ll live a country
life.
I’d rather spin, and weave,
and knit,
And wholesome meals
prepare,
Than, dressed in silk, with servants
throng’d,
Lounge in my cushioned
chair.
I love to see my chickens grow,
My turkies, ducks, and
geese;
I love to tend my flowering plants,
And make the new milk
cheese.
I love to wash, I love to sew,
All needful work I like
to do;
I like to keep my kitchen neat,
And humble parlor, too.
And when the grateful task is done,
And pleasure claims
a share,
With some dear friend I’ll
walk abroad
And take the balmy air.
Not through the dusty, crowded streets,
Amid the bustling throng,
But in some pleasant cool retreat,
We’ll hear the
woodland song.
Or trace the winding silver stream,
And linger on its banks,
While all the birds in concert sweet,
Present their evening
thanks.
We’ll seek the ancient forest
shade,
And see its branches
wave,
Which have, perchance, a requiem
sang
Above the red man’s
grave.
We’ll breathe the pure untainted
air,
Fresh from the verdant
hills;
And pluck wild blossoms from their
beds
Beside the laughing
rills.
I love the country in the spring,
With all its waving
trees;
When songs of joy from every grove
Are wafted on the breeze.
The smiling pastures robed in green,
How beautiful, and gay;
With bleating flocks, and lowing
herds,
And little lambs at
play.
I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
In summer’s pleasant
hours;
And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,
And smell her fragrant
flowers.
I love to see the growing corn,
And fields of waving
grain;
I love the sunshine, and the shade.
And gentle showers of
rain.
I love to see the glitt’ring
dew,
Like pendant diamonds,
hung
On ev’ry plant, and flower,
and tree,
Their glossy leaves
among.
I love the joyful harvest months;
When smiling on the
plain,
We see rich golden ears of corn,
And bending sheaves
of grain.
I love to see the cellar filled
With sauce of various
kinds,
Potatoes, beets and onions too,
And squashes from the
vines.
I love to see the well filled barn,
And smell the fragrant
hay;
I’ll milk while brother feeds
the lambs,
And see them skip and
play.
I love to rise before the sun,
And see his rosy beams
Shine glim’ring through the
waving trees,
In quiv’ring fitful
gleams.
I love, when nothing intervenes.
The setting sun to spy,
Tinging the clouds with every hue,
Which charms the gazing
eye.
I love the country every where,
Here let me spend my
life;
No higher shall my thoughts aspire—
I’d be a farmer’s
wife.[6]
[Footnote 6: “Good, Sarah,
that’s right! If we can find one that
worthy of you, we will send him
along.”—Editor.]
ODE TO SARAH.[7]
Rural maid, who, o’er
glade,
Forest, plain, and mountain, roam
In joy and peace, and
made
Happy by the brook’s gay foam;
Who art content to live
In the farmer’s domicil;
A listening ear give
To a stranger, who, with quill
In hand, sits down to
write
An epistle, or letter,
To one, of whom it might
Be said, she’s far his better.
Fair maiden, thou hast
said,
And I doubt not truly too,
A farmer thou would
wed,
If he would sincerely woo
Thy heart’s best
affection,
And at the holy altar
Vow, that kind protection
He’d give thee, and never
falter,
But sacred keep the
vow
Thus solemn made, and never,
So long as life lasts,
bow
Down, and let this bond sever.
Lady fair, wouldst thou
dare
A mechanic’s wife to be,
And with him toil, and
share
All the ills of life’s rough
sea?
Wouldst thou trust thy
frail bark
In his hands, and if perchance
Ills should come, thick
and dark,
Stand firmly, and thus enhance
His happiness, and not,
At disappointment’s first
dart,
Complain of thy sad
lot,
And sink under a faint heart?
What sayest thou, fair
one?
Dost thou view the mechanic,
As some fair
ones have done,
With disgust, who grow frantic
At the sight of his
dress,
Just because it does not fit
So smooth as they confess
That they should like to see it?
Dost thou, in honesty
Of heart, think him good and wise.
And in sincerity
Believe him not otherwise?
Dear lady, wouldst not
thou,
To flee “single blessedness,”
Accept an offer now
From a mechanic, and bless
Him, throughout a long
life,
With thy good fairy presence,
And ne’er the
cry of strife
Raise, but yield obedience?
If him thou wilt
many,
Give him soon thy residence,
That he may not tarry,
But, with lightning speed, fly hence.
[Footnote 7: Authoress of “Praises of Rural Life.”]
JERE.
Worthy and much respected friend,
Accept the thanks I freely send;
Your generous offer, all will say,
Mere grateful thanks but ill repay.
An answer you request of me,
But prudence calls for some delay;
This weighty subject claims my care,
To answer now I must forbear.
Could you admire a homely face,
Devoid of beauty, charms, or grace?
Would you not blush, should friends
deride
The rustic manners of your bride?
Say, would you build a cottage near
Some pleasant grove, where we might
hear
The blithesome wild birds’
pleasing song,
From morn till eve, all summer long?
And would you plant some tall elm
trees,
Around your house, your bride to
please;
And have a little garden, too,
Where fruit, and herbs, and flowers
might grow?
And would you rear a mulberry grove,
That I might thus a helpmeet prove?
Although I suffer no distress
From fears of “single blessedness,”
I’d not disdain your rustic
dress,
If generous feelings fill your breast;
That would not bar you from my door,
For costly clothing makes us poor.
Although you do not till the soil,
You say you’re not afraid
to toil:
By prudence, industry, and care,
A man may prosper any where.
You ask, if I would you obey,
Nor have contentious words to say?
I should not scold without a cause,
Nor would I reverence rigorous laws.
But let our correspondence end,
’Twill much oblige your humble
friend;
As I’ve no gift for writing
letters,
A friendly call would suit much
better.
Appoint a day, and I’ll prepare,
I’ll sweep my hearth, and
comb my hair;
I’ll make the best of humble
means,
Bake pies and puddings, pork and
beans;
I’ll dress in neat, but coarse
attire,
And in my parlor build a fire.
Sir, I reside in Ruralville,
Southeast of Bluff, a craggy hill;
A broad majestic stream rolls by,
Whose crystal surface charms the
eye.
If you still wish to win a bride,
Come where the farmers’ girls
reside;
Henceforth I write no more to you,
My much respected friend, adieu!
* * * * *
NOTE. If Jere isn’t “done brown” now, we are no judge of human nater. Cheer up, Jere, “a faint heart never won a fair lady.” “Pull up your dicky up,” and try again; and if you get “sacked,” remember and practice the advice of the old Poet:—
“Chase your shadow, it will
fly you;
Fly yourself, it will
pursue;
Court a girl, if she deny you,
Drop your suit, and
she’ll court you.”—Editor.
Why sit you here, pining in languor
and gloom?
Except you do something, you’ll
sink to the tomb;
Ah, where’s the red roses
that bloomed on your brow,
Where nothing but white ones are
languishing now?
Go, learn of the red men, they certainly
know,
They find healing plants, and will
tell where they grow;
God gave them this knowledge; their
skill is the best;
Make use of such means, they will
surely be blest.
No poisonous minerals fill up his
chest,
But herbs that will heal you when
sick and distressed,
Designed by our Maker all pain to
subdue,
Which tortures the frame where these
antidotes grew.
O, shun the rude savage who roams
through the wood,
With knowledge too scanty to choose
wholesome food;
Thomsonians will help you, they’ll
heal your disease;
Emetics and numbers will soon give
you ease.
The brave number one all disease
can expel,
And make you exclaim, I am perfectly
well;
All poisonous drugs in your system
will die,
Each pain will take wings, and the
calomel fly.
These hot-crops will kill you with
pepper and steam,
Pork, mince pies and pancakes, hot
puddings and cream;
They’ll double your fever,
dyspepsia and pain;
I beg you take warning; by thousands
they’ve slain.
On boasting pretenders I’d
now turn my back,
No longer I’d deal with that
ignorant quack;
He cannot distinguish the heart
from the brain,
King’s evil or dropsy from
pleurisy pain.
Apply to the man who is bred in
our schools,
His drugs are examined by chemical
rules;
Whatever he uses is put to the test;
I like to take analyzed medicine
best.
His science trained eye your whole
system will scan,
From him naught is hidden which
preys upon man;
He’ll find ev’ry pain,
with its cause and effect,
Plain reason might teach you that
he’s most correct.
Oh, shun this deceiver, his motives
are gain,
He oftener augments, than alleviates,
pain;
His boasted attainments are nothing
but show,
Put him with the rest, they’ll
just make a row.
He’ll steal the warm crimson,
that flows through your heart,
He’ll haunt you with blisters
and plasters that smart,
Torment you with setons, with leaches
and cups,
His calomel poisons, the blood it
corrupts.
Emetics reduce you, and tonics distress,
While morphine distracts you and
seldom gives rest.
Now leave him, Oh, leave him! your
life he’ll not save;
Except you obey me, you’ll
sink to the grave.
Come, leave all the doctors; resort
to the shops
Which peddle pills, balsams, elixirs
and drops;
Each cures ev’ry malady whenever
used,
Altho’ by base slander they’re
greatly abus’d.
I hate these vile patents; they
often make worse;
Hear my good advice, let your mother
be nurse;
Ten thousand rare medical plants
grow around.
Their ne’er failing virtues
old women have found.
There’s catfoot and mugwort,
archangel and balm,
Possessing great virtues, and never
do harm;
While spleenwort, and whiteweed,
and hyssop, and sage,
Have cured the consumption in every
stage.
Take saffron and goldthread, white
poplar and rue,
They’ve cured the dyspepsia
wherever they grew;
Use clover and nightshade, and drink
wintergreen,
They’ll cure the worst cancer
that ever was seen.
But I have no faith in these simple
herb teas
They never can lessen or cure a
disease;
And do not take pills, nasty powders
and drops,
Till you are filled up like the
medical shops.
Still, something is needful, of
that I am sure,
But I’ve the most faith in
the cold water cure;
’Twill strengthen, invigorate,
open the pores,
’Tis curing sick people by
dozens and scores.
Don’t wrap yourself up in
that cold dripping sheet,
I always take cold, only wetting
my feet;
Yet there is an agent which I would
apply,
The red forked lightning which darts
through the sky.
Old Franklin has tamed it and brought
it to earth,
And men are now learning how much
it is worth;
’Twill dart through the stomach,
the heart, and the brain,
Each pore it will open and drive
out the pain.
Come, quit all this fussing, take
rich hearty food,
And soon, I assure you, your health
will be good;
Leave your warm stifling beds, your
soft cushioned chair,
Run ten miles a day in the cool
healthful air.
If I went thus, moping and lounging
about,
’Twould bring on dyspepsia,
consumption, or gout;
Now here is good counsel, why will
you be shy,
You’d much better take it
than lie down and die.
CONTENTS.
The Snow-drop
My Birth-place
The Oak and the Rill
Hymn for a Donation Gathering
The Marriage Vows
Lines on the death of Ellen N——
An Epitaph
Lines on the death of R., P.B.,
C., S., and M.A. Wing
The Rose and Lilac Tree
Lines on the death of Mrs. West
Thoughts on the sudden death of
J.W.N.
Reflections on the death of Mr.
White
The Sister’s Lament
Lines on a Lock of Hair
Lines on the last hours of Mrs.
Judson
Judson’s Grave
Lines on a Baptismal Occasion
The Inquiry
There is joy in heaven, &c.
Jephthah’s Vow
Like a lost sheep, &c.
And the vail of the temple was rent
in twain
Lines to an absent relative
Lines to the wife of the above
Come home to New England
A Sister’s Departure
A Sister’s Counsel
Lines to a Friend on parting
Farewell to a Brother
To W.H.D, an adopted Brother
Lines to a Friend in affliction
Lines to a Sister
To my Brother
My Brother in the Tempest
Lines to an absent Sister
A Scene on a Sister’s Wedding
day
To the Whippowil
My harp is on the willows hung,
&c.
To a Sister, while dangerously ill
The Invalid’s Dream
To a Butterfly in my Chamber
APPENDIX.
Praises of Rural Life
Ode to Sarah
An Epistle to Jere
Neighbors’ Advice to Invalids