An olio of domestic verses.
lt«r*^ cc^ fr- ?<fcrz s /I AN OLIO <Df JDnmtsttr Wtxnt*. v BY EMILY JUDSON. NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY LEWIS COLBY, 122 NAUSSAU STREET. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by EMILY JUDSON, In the Clerk's Office of the Northern District of New York. T. B. SMITH, STEREOTYPES., PUDNEY AND RUSSEL PRINTERS, 2IS William Street, New York. 71 John Street. PREFACE. Many — it seems to me, by the measure of events, but little leas than a hundred — 3 \ when a pupil in a boarding-school, I wrote, and at the instigation of a kind teacher, published a little book called M Charles Linn." It was my first effort of the kind; and the flutterings of the timid school-girl's heart will find ready appreciators. But it will scarcely be imagined that those feelings are the nearest possible index to the tremulous- ness of the woman in sending out this little volume. Owing much to a singularly indulgent public, it becomes me, in common gratitude, not to tax its patience too far, as my better judgment intimates I may be doing now. Perhaps my best apology is, that I was gravely informed on my late return from a foreign land, that a collection of my "Poems" had been some time contemplated; a IV PKEFACE. fact which had also been announced in some public journals. Possibly the infliction may have been light- ened by my personal supervision. Several of the pieces in this collection were written at the age of twelve, and quite a large number at about sixteen. Others are scattered sparsely through a longer term of years, up to the present time. Being incapable of any more ambitious arrangement, they are placed, with three or four exceptions, in the order of their dates, so far as these can now be ascertained. Most of them (I mean the earlier ones) have been more than once doomed to the usual fate of such crude productions, in company with things both better and worse, but more combustible. Having been rescued by some legerdemain best known to partial friendship, they have hidden for years in private drawers, and among old files of letters, till the very dust upon their pages speaks to me appeal- ingly, and softens the justice of a judgment at first only too lenient. Meeting them unexpectedly, after an inter- val well calculated to sweep things so trivial from mem- ory, they have revived many pleasant associations. Each tells some tale which does not meet the stranger's eye ; PREFACE. V and so to me they stand like little milestones along the truck of a life not free from changes, and which (like other lives) loves to be remembered, and pondered on, and dreamed over. After all their struggles for existence, perhaps I shall be pardoned for giving them a chance; dally as this promises to be the most effectual mode of extinguishing their hitherto extraordinary vitality. With regard to the later pieces, I scarcely feel more confidence. But very few of them were intended to go beyond the immediate family circle ; and though from circumstances, rather than any merit which they pot they have found a place in newspapers, and some in books, it has seldom been by the agency or consent of the writer. Several of the more strictly domestic pieces were at first excluded from this collection ; but I have been assured that the attempt to suppress them would only disappoint friends, and lay me open to the charge of affectation. And then — where all is domestic, where, perhaps, all had better been kept in the family portfolio, who is to say where the suppression shall cease ? This versifying I have never made a study, but it has been the spontaneous growth of daily incidents, and common VI PREFACE. feelings. Like the boy of school memory, "I didn't whistle, sir, it whistled itself." So, begging both critic and artist to shut the little book before turning another leaf, I submit it, as an humble offering, to such unskilled persons as can find pleasure in a simple, heartfelt strain, though it does not rise to the dignity of poetry. Hamilton, N. Y., August 1, 1852. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE v ill THE WINGED WATCHER 11 A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES 17 APOSTROPHE TO THE MOON 25 THE STORM 27 THE SEPTEMBER RALN 29 TAKE NOT THE VOW 33 THOUGHTS AT NIGHT 35 KLNDNESS, TRUST AND LOVE 42 EXPOSTULATION 44 DORA'S GRIEF 47 STORY OF LLFE 49 MISANTHROPY 52 PARTING ODE 55 THANKSGIVING 57 DUST TO DUST 59 DREAMING 64 THE SPIRIT-VOICE 67 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE DEATH AND OBLIVION 69 THOU HAST LEFT ME ALONE 72 TO ONE BELOVED 74 TO HELEN 76 THE CARE OF OTHER, YEARS 78 THE VILLAGE CHURCH 80 THE WANING YEAR 83 HOW THE BUTTERFLY SANG TO THE CHILD 85 HOW THE CHILD INTERROGATED THE BUTTERFLY 87 ROSANNAH COOPER 89 THE BOBOLINK a 92 FLOWERS AND BEAUX 94 THE LOVERS 95 THE BONNY SLEIGH 99 MAIDEN RESOLVE 101 OH, IT IS VERY SWEET TO LIVE 102 ON READING AN ANACREONTIC 104 TO A DEAR LITTLE EXILE 105 THE SIGNAL STAR 107 THANKSGIVING HYMN 110 TO BLANCHE 112 TO THE REV. DR. N * * * . . . 115 LIFE 117 PETER 121 REMEMBER THY CREATOR 131 A REPLY 133 IMPROMPTU VERSES 138 CONTENTS. IX PAGE A TRIBUTE , 140 SAMSON 143 love's last wish 150 to my husband 153 MY BIRD 157 SONG OF MAULMAIN 159 MY THREE TREASURES 161 THE KING AND THE ENVOY 103 CONTENTMENT 105 WATCHING 107 PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT FATHER 172 SWEET MOTHER 175 LITTLE CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 182 TO THE SOUTHERN CROSS 191 ALONE UPON THE DEEP 193 WAYSIDE FRIENDS 195 THE WAN REAPERS 197 SUBMISSION 200 THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND 202 WATCH AND PRAY 204 THE CHOICE 209 NOTES 233 I PART I. Morning arose, and from their dreams Awoke the slumbering flowers ; Red glowed the hill-tops in her beams, Her crest lay glittering on the streams. And on one cot her gayest gleams Broke in warm, golden showers. A pair of eyes had oped that morn, Eyes soft, and sweet, and blue ; A poor, weak, helpless thing forlorn, Beneath that humble roof was bom, — A shut bud from a blossoming thorn. Save that a soul looked through. 12 THE WINGED WATCHER. And many a jocund laugh there rung, Up from that cottage low; And glad words sat on many a tongue, And bliss upon fond bosoms hung, For there a rill of life had sprung, Which would forever flow. One form unseen stood meekly nigh, Yet drew the sunlight there; An angel from beyond the sky, With love and pity in his eye, His radiance for a time flung by, His forehead veiled in care. Down from the palace of the King, That morning had he hied ; The song was stayed upon the string, The glory folded in the wing, For dark must be his wandering, By that poor mortal's side. THE WINGED WATCHER. 13 PART II. Years passed. The boy a man had grown, And shadowy things of fear, With nameless ills his path had strown, — • Foes trooping came, and friends had flown, But one White Wing — to him unknown — Kept ever hovering near. It was a lovely sight to see, By those who watched above, That Spirit glorious, pure, and free, In such an humble ministry, Through sin and woe, unfalteringly, Pursue his work of love. When the worn youth lay down to rest, The Angel stood beside ; And stole the burden from his breast, 14 THE WINGED WATCHER. And soothed his wearied sense to rest, Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed, And blissful dreams supplied. Once on a mountain peak stood he, A high and rugged steep; Where many dangerous shapes there be, And many things most fair to see ; — There shouting crowds bent low the knee, And broke wild Echo's sleep. Pride centred in his burning eye, Pride mantled on his brow ; — "Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?" — Ah! he has climbed a step too high, And giddily — bewilderingly, His brain is whirling now. But ever that pure Watcher bright, Pleads softly in his ear, Think, mortal, of the coming night ! THE WINGED WATCHER. 15 Think of the mildew, and the blight! Think of thy ransomed spirit's light Dimmed by thy dallying here." He hears, — and lo! his pulses wild Are hushed, and in his veins The riot ebbs ; things, which beguiled, Seem heaps of mist about him piled ; He bends his knee, a little child, And tears efface his stains. PART III. The babe — the youth was bent and gray, A feeble man and old ; Death stood beside him as he lay ; No mourner there his breath could stay, Or guide him on his untrod way, "When lip and heart were cold. 16 THE WINGED WATCHEK. He loved, he had served the God of Heaven ; But Death's a fearful thing ; And when the ties of earth are riven, When back to dust the dust is given, The soul, which long with sin has striven, May shrink to meet the King. He trusted, but still shivering clung, Where long he had been a guest; Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung, — The scared soul on the hushed lip hung, Then lay, soft wings about it flung, Upon the Angel's breast. 1846. ft Jqle of Senile Wfljsferies. A rosy child with a laughing eye, And a forehead wreathed with curls, Bright, pouting lips of a ruddy dye, Encasing rows of pearls, Tripped gayly, with a fay-like foot, The tangled grass among ; A basket, filled with rich, ripe fruit, Upou her round arm hung. The autumn daisies, on their stems, Were dancing merrily, And the cardinal, with its blood-red gems, Was a royal thing to see. 2* 18 A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES. The aster showed its golden heart, Set round with purple rays ; And the little maid, with lips apart. Stood in a sweet amaze. u I'll bind a nosegay now," said she, " Of all these blossoms sweet," And the laden basket, carelessly, She cast down at her feet. One blushing peach, with a golden ring, Slid softly to the ground; And a rustle rose, as of a wing, Unfolding at the sound. And lo ! a Spirit passing fair, Bent earnestly above; But I pondered long, if her mission there, Could be a work of love. A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES. 19 While the peach, in ripened beauty lay, On that sunny, summer lea, She wrapped it round in a shroud of gray. And the hungry worm brought she. She scooped a grave, lone, still, and deep, Among the clovers red, And laid the skeleton to sleep, With a daisy at its head. White winter came on vale and hill, And her weary watch she kept, While the blighted flower and the frozen rill, With the buried sleeper slept. But when young, rosy-fingered Spring Unchained the waterfalls, And to each hillock stooped to bring Her budding coronals, 20 A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES. She marked the Watcher in her way, Adown the sunny lea ; And where the buried peach-stone lay, A footprint small left she. And lo ! up through the wakened soil, Where the tiny foot had been, There sprang a tender, curious coil, Of palest, daintiest green. Slowly unclosing to the light, Still deeper grew its stain ; It paused not for the shadowy night, Nor for the pelting rain. It wooed the sunshine, drank the dew, And wrestled with the blast ; Till strong its thick-leaved branches grew, And a grateful shadow cast. A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES. 21 Then came, her gay songs carolling, Another Spirit bright, With star-gems in each waving wing, And locks of braided light. Her eyes were like the quivering dew Within the violet ; Her mouth, small lilies peeping through, Two rose-leaves curled and wet. And with those rosy lips and sweet, She pressed the rugged bark, Till a pulse awoke, with a gladsome beat, In the tree so cold and dark. It beat beneath the glittering dew, Beneath the moon's soft light, The sun's bold eye, and the glance so true Of the little waiting Sprite. 24 A TALE OF GENTLE MYSTERIES. And one I marked, with a laughing eye, Among the village girls ; And knew the merry idler by Lip, brow, and clustering curls. She little dreamed, as round the tree She carolled like a bird, What a chain, all linked with mystery, Her heedless hand had stirred. And resting on a cloud above, White wing o'er wing enfolding, Three Spirits bent — Faith, Hope, and Love — The happy scene beholding. 1846. "WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN, AFTER A "FIRST GRIEF.' Sweet Moon, I love to gaze Upon thy smiling face, And give my fancy wings, Thy mystery to trace. I wonder what thou art, So beautiful and fair, Hung like a silver lamp In yonder halls of air. Tell me, if on thy sphere A tear is ever shed; If pallid mourners bend In grief above the dead. 26 APOSTROPHE TO THE MOON. Knowest thou that fearful One, He of the iron hand, "Whose shadow mingles here, In every love-knit band? Ah no! by that calm smile, I know thou hast but bliss ; Sure there's no other sphere So full of woe as this ! Ifee Sfoirfo). Without a pilot we are thrown On the tempestuous sea of life : A blackened cloud hangs o'er our head, A cloud with death eternal rife. The howling winds, the dashing waves, "With horror every bosom thrill; When lo! a voice of majesty: " Peace, surging ocean ! be thou still !" The winds are hushed, the billows roll, In silvery ripples softly round; The storm-sprite's laid, and echoing wilds No longer to his cries resound. 28 THE STORM. All, all is peace ; and on we glide, Before the favoring breezes given, Hope's snowy sails above us spread, And Faith to pilot us to heaven. Ah me ! the busy rain ! Drizzling down the window-pane, Still it comes ; I hate its dismal sound, Like a beetle on his round, When he hums. There's not a spot of blue ; One sober leaden hue Yeils the sky; And nothing can I see, Beyond the mist-capped tree, Dripping by. 30 THE SEPTEMBER RAIN. Yet, trudging through the mud, Though the street is in a flood, Whistling shrill, The farmer passes by, To where his broad fields lie, O'er the hill. And I'm certain by his jog, Notwithstanding all the fog, That his brow Is as clouded, as the sky, And impatience's in his eye, Even now. He's been prisoned in the house, Like a poor, captured mouse, All the morn ; And he's not secured his crops, And he's anxious for his hops, And his corn. THE SEPTEMBER RAIN. 31 Old Mooly droops her head, As if a weight of lead On it pressed ; And long-suffering Chanticleer To poor, dripping Partlet near, Shakes his crest. And still the rain comes down, As though the world to drown While I sing ; — Oh, for the merry dash, Or quick, enlivening splash Of the Spring ! But one solitary tune. At morning, night, and noon, Greets the ear ; Till the future is o'ercast, And every sorrow past, Gathers here. 32 THE SEPTEMBER RAIN. The very fire burns blue ; And the rain comes down the flue, Eobed in soot ; And dismal shadows crawl, In silence, from the wall To my foot. Ah me ! the busy rain ! If it's ever clear again, And old Sol Looks out upon the street, I'm sure there'll ready feet Meet the call. J^e ifjof fi)e Hob. SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE, Oh, bow not there — oh, bow not there ! Chain not thy spirit free ! 'Twas God who framed this glorious earth, The God who loveth thee. Take not the vow — take not the vow ! Pause ere the word is said ! Pause ere the fatal chain is linked, Which binds thee to the dead. 34 TAKE NOT THE VOW. God wishes not the sacrifice, He asks thee not to part With beings He has formed to love — He guards the trusting heart. Live in the world. If trials come, His promises are sure ; He will support thee by His power, And teach thee to endure. Temptation hath full many a wile ; His hand will be a shield, More safe by far than yon dark walls y Oh, to His guidance yield ! Take not the vow — take not the vow ! Pause ere the word is said ! Pause ere the fatal chain is linked Which binds thee to the dead. There is no moon to-night, save one white rim, On heaven's broad bosom lying ; but the stars, Castor and Pollux, and bright Sirius, Orion, belted by the Almighty's hand, And Pleiades, and all the god-like train, That guard the heights of heaven, are on their round, And I can read in their deep, pitying eyes, Mysterious teachings, as they trembling stoop To gaze into the sepulchre of earth. The world's asleep — some underneath the clod, And some (a little band, if placed beside The mouldering millions that no longer dream) 36 THOUGHTS AT NIGHT. On downy conches, waiting to be laid Beside the countless throng. I stand and look, From my high casement, on the moveless scene, Sloping away to the far river's marge, Roof beyond roof — warm, beating hearts beneath, All revelling in wild, fantastic dreams, As one wide mad-house where poor reason reels And wild imagination riot runs. Tet, when they're most awake they do but dream Things idle as the visions of to-night. Oh, dream we not, who think this faltering breath, Which comes to tell of life that's soon to wake, Is life itself; the pallid, mingled ray, "Which wanders from its fountain ere the dawn, To cast its feeble light upon the cloud THOUGHTS AT NIGHT. 37 That shuts in midnight, is a noon-day beam ! For one brief, giddy moment here we stand Upon the threshold of Eternity, Casting a hurried glance into the depths That lie beyond, ere yet we dare to leap ; And this poor, transient moment strive to swell, With pompous words of wisdom and of power, And turning round to say how firm we stand, Are wakened by the fall. All still and cold, Like white hewn sepulchres, the snow-thatched roofs Still stretch away into the shadowy vast, "While wait I here in museful, solemn awe. Ah me ! how soon this semblance will be o'er, These dreamers, on the couch spread out for all, Stretch their pale limbs, and close their nerveless lids, 38 THOUGHTS AT NIGHT And slumber on in truth. And yet e'en then, Another race will upward spring to dream, And throng this crowded ante-room of life, Striving for honors where no honors dwell, Searching for mysteries 'mid the cast-off things Of their compeers, when mysteries more deep Than all the ages of eternity Together linked — which all immortal minds, (Save the Gkeat Mind himself) stretched in a chain As limitless as is their spirit-life, Would fail to fathom — wait their search beyond. How they will burst upon the ravished sight — Those beautiful, transcendent mysteries — As some new fold is raised, while still below Wait countless foldings, that we know conceal Some glory yet more passing glorious, Until the spirit, awed and wondering, turns And hides its weakness in the bosom of God. THOUGHTS AT NIGHT. 39 My weary eye-lids droop as thus I muse, And life, and death, and Paradisal bowers Seem poised together on a single point, Twined into one enduring sacred truth. An Amaranthine crown, a maiden braid, May mingle into one, if holy thought Be set to guard the portals of the heart. Be this poor braid my crown ; for when these stars Watch nightly o'er the millions yet to come, I know there'll be a silent, narrow couch, Which men will walk upon, and I beneath, Who loved the sounds and sights of life so well, And on the star-light gazed while others slept, Shall never heed the tread. — Solemnly sad, This bribeless certainty to one like me, So full of youth, and hope, and life, and love ; But even now there comes a sudden pan°\ To mind me of mortality, and now 40 THOUGHTS AT NIGHT. I listen to the beatings of my heart, And know each throb but hurries on the last. x -Jf # * *• Morning will come anon, and I shall turn From Nature's book unto the books of men, And think that wisdom dwells upon the page. The sun that glances on my window-pane, Dissolving all the fairy frost-work there, Will frail as frost-work find the lessons wrought By Night upon my heart, and melt them off. I know that I've had glimpses of a light Not held by man ; I've felt a thrilling touch Upon my soul, which stirred its lowest depths, And made the impetuous, chainless life within Leap upward to a higher destiny. Yet as those countless suns of other spheres, Even in the moon's reflected light grow pale, Because that light is near, so this small lamp, — THOUGHTS AT NIGHT. 41 Whose trembling rays scarce pierce the mask of sin, By nearness dazzles, shutting from the soul The glorious things beyond. But oh, how soon This prison shell, in which we blinded lie, Will all be shattered, and our spirits soar, Like the winged bird, to heaven ! 4* Oh, who would not be kind, When kindness costs no art, But with delicious thrill, Comes gushing from the heart ? "Who would not breathe the word, With power to check a sigh, Or wipe the gathering tear From sorrow's heavy eye? And who would never trust, When confidence is bliss, Because deceit may steal The garb of truthfulness ? KINDNESS, TRUST, AND LOVE. 43 Suspicion's heavy chain, 'Twould crush my soul to bear; It sweetens life's poor cup The mingled draught to share. Oh, who would cease to love ? Who quench that spark divine, To lay the darkened soul On pride or passion's shrine ? What is the boasted good That wealth, that power can own ? — Better be loved, a slave, Than honored on a throne ! Sxposfyfyfioi). TO A CLERGYMAN. 11 There stood one over his head with a celestial crown in his hand, and proffered him that crown for his muck-rake ; but the man did neither look, nor regard, but raked to himself the straws, the small sticks, and dust of the floor." — Bunyan. ."Nay, stoop not thus ! Thou bearest precious seed, Richer than all the wealth of mine or sea. Strive not to grasp this world's vain, glittering meed ! Its laurels are not twined for such as thee ; A living crown awaits thy radiant brow, And thou should'st gather jewels for it now. EXPOSTULATION. 45 What would'st thou have ? The meteor of an eve, The mildewed "wreath, the worm-enclosing flower, The fading things that dying fingers weave, The star that darkens at its rising hour? Would'st chase the frolic phantom, men call fame, And on her crumbling tablet write thy name ? Thy name is written in the Book of Life, The glorious tablet of the King of kings ; Degrade it not by this poor, paltry strife, This clamorous rush for tinselled, cankering things ; Leave to poor dazzled moths the giddy round, Since on a loftier mission thou art bound. 'Tis thine to watch thy Master's budding vine, Till the ripe fruit in purple clusters falls; 46 EXPOSTULATION. The ever-radiant threads of truth to twine, A golden clue to those celestial halls, Where, when the kingdoms of the earth decay, And suns are dim, thou'lt live in endless day. £oh}'$ Grief. Why lingering here alone, My pretty one? Sure some new wonder's grown Beneath the sun ; Since in thy merry eye Gathers the tear ; — What naughty cloud thy sky Has ventured near? The cloudlet in the sky Began to swell; The tear-drop from the eye In sparkles fell. 48 DORA'S GRIEF. As rose-leaves, zephyr-stirred, The bright lips fluttered, But long the struggling word Strove to be uttered. In the white pinafore, Her kitten lay ; She said, nor could she more, " It died to-day." I i Sfoty of JLife. Smiling brightly — smiling brightly, Pretty fay ! In love's sheltering arms pressed lightly, An infant lay ; "With her violet eyes Full of dew from the skies, And glad with the coming day. Gaily dancing — gaily dancing Adown the lea, On her burnished ringlets glancing, The sunlight free ; 50 STOKY OF LIFE. Like a humming-bird wild, Sped a beautiful child, In a spirit of frolicsome glee. "Winsome playing — winsome playing, Zephyrs light, O'er the maiden's brow, were straying ; Visions bright Encircled her brain With their magical chain, And feasted her soul with delight. In her beauty — in her beauty, Stood the bride ; Cheerful waiting Love and Duty, By her side ; The deep wells of feeling, Revealing, concealing, In trustfulness, coyness, and pride. STORY OF LIFE. 51 Sadly straying — sadly straying Down the lea, Sable garments round her swaying, Solemnly, With silvery hair, And a brow of care, Trod the mourner down the lea. Sweetly sleeping — sweetly sleeping, In the grave, "Where the flowers nursed by her weeping, Softly wave ; By the bridegroom's side, Rests the weary bride, In the stillness of the grave. Oh, it is sad this beautiful, bright earth Should bear the taint of want and misery ; 'Tis sad, when listening to the voice of mirth, To see the stricken mourner weeping by ; 5 Tis sad to see the young and lovely lie, Wrapped in the dreaded cerements of the tomb, Or man in noon-day strength lie down and die ; 'Tis sad to see the brow, in beauty's bloom, By withering grief oppressed, thick-clothed in gathering gloom. MISANTHROPY. 53 But sadder still to mark the serpent coil, That binds the spirit, and within the heart Strikes deadly fangs, as if all good to foil, Which of man's nature forms so small a part ; To see misanthropy's empoisoned dart Rankling within a breast that God has given The power to rival angels in the art Of love and sympathy, which from him riven, Would leave no golden link betwixt his soul and heaven. Man was not made for woe ; though he may crush The power within that bids him to rejoice, He owns a spirit he can never hush, Answering to that the universe employs, — A string harmonious tuned to Nature's voice ; 54 MISANTHROPY. And its soft melody will often play Upon his heart, and call up buried joys, Those faded relics of a brighter day, His hand has madly crushed, yet cannot cast away. ^rtipg Ode. 8UNG- AT A " CELEBRATION," JULY 4, 1834. Fakewell. — The parting sunlight sits On hill and tree ; The zephyr, as it flits, Lisps " Liberty," With gentle swell. Farewell. — May the rich robe of peace Enfold ns o'er ; May plenty's golden fleece Find every door ; Health with us dwell. 56 PARTING ODE. Farewell. — The Father's blessing rest Upon ns all ; Love's voice, in every breast, To labor call, Our duty tell. Farewell. — It is the hour to part ; And circling round, As by angelic art, Echoes the sound, Farewell — farewell ! Farewell. — Till we shall join the choirs Of saints above ; And tune our golden lyres, To thoughts of love. Farewell — farewell ! Hail, cheering day ! but let us bring A richer, purer offering Than mirthfulness unmeaning ; In gratitude to Heaven raise The word of thanks, the note of praise, For blessings we are gleaning. Thanks for the basket and the store, With harvest wealth still flowing o'er ; Thanks for the roof's protection ; Thanks for the friends that 'neath it dwell, And thanks that love's unchanging spell So hallows the connection. 58 THANKSGIVING. Thanks, thanks for all that time has wrought, ITowe'er with grief or pleasure fraught ; — 'Twas Heaven, our footsteps guiding, That gave the smile, that woke the sigh, Or broke the too-endearing tie, For pleasures more abiding. Thanks that the last departed year Pealed not its requiem o'er our bier ; Thanks for this morning given ; And pray that God, whose eye of love, Beams ever on us from above, May guide our steps to heaven. All seek alike one final resting-place ; All are of dust, all turn to dust again. The babe that draws unconsciously its breath, And day by day, unconsciously doth steal From earth and air, that still increasing strength, Which creeps so silently into each nerve, Till he stands forth a man — that little babe, Even in his helplessness, has met the foe, And he grew strong no more. He turned away, With all his unformed powers, and mingled dust, 60 DUST TO DUST. With his, who yet in life, had felt the hand Of death upon him, and the earthly coil, Long, long relaxing ere he cast it off; — With his, whose youthful locks had long grown pale, As pales the heart, when manhood's glow is passed, Had felt his eye grow cold, his sinews shrink, And struggled on, though half to dust resolved, Till death, in mercy, bore away the prey. And, side by side with him, the joyous one, Who of the dance had not yet weary grown, Scared by a summons scarcely understood, Lay down and went to sleep. The maiden, too, She of the sunny brow, and budding lip, In all the radiance of her loveliness, Forth from the hand of the great Artist sent, But for a little hour ; she too became (Frail as the statue moulded from the snow) Naught but a thing of dust, for busy feet DUST TO DUST. 61 To trample carelessly, as other clay. That swarthy man, of stalwart, sinewy frame, "Who beats the anvil through the live-long day, (Loose but one cord) grows nerveless in an hour, And with the blossom of the early spring, The babe that never knew its mother's voice, Dissolving lies, as frail, as pure as they. Oh Death ! stern leveller ! thy fearful power Reigns by the happiest hearth. Nor can we teach Our shrinking souls the lesson thou dost bring, Though thou dost write it on each tender leaf, That shoots from out the mould beneath our feet ; Though thou dost write it on each flower that fades, To feed the germ of yet another flower ; Though thou dost write it on the silent grave, 6 62 DUST TO DUST. And trace it deeply on the mourner's brow. Mark how the skeptic heart turns quick away, And pressing back the bitter draught of truth, Winds its fresh tendrils round a crumbling shrine ; Then, crushed and riven as its idol falls, Lies mid the ruins, in cold, dumb despair. Why should immortal bow to mortal things? Why love we thus the frail and perishing, When changeless, and imperishable claim That Eden blossom lingering in the soul? Let dust go back to its own kindred dust, But let not spirit load itself with clay, And droop in sorrow when the toy is lost. Oh, let the deathless link itself with life, High on the wings of its own love upsoar, And with the glorious ranks that throng the sky Drink ceaseless draughts of truth and holiness, DUST TO DUST. 63 Until the pulses of the soul shall beat So that we feel the throb, though shackled down By thrice ten thousand bonds. Life, life we seek! And though our guide to yonder emerald shores, Be stern of brow, and of an iron hand, His eye is sure, his foot can never err ; — And who shall dare to grasp the glorious boon With trembling fingers, and a craven heart? 3. Why do I love to dream? To muse on aught So frail as those bright things, To which my spirit clings With life inwrought. The gift of poesy Cannot be mine ; The gifted are the free, But strong links fetter me, And o'er me twine. DREAMINGS. 65 Sometimes I fling aside The spell of song ; A>ld up my spirit-wings, Hush the imaginings, Cherished so long. But then my heart grows sad, My feelings cold, And life's warm currents stay, Lingering along their way, As if too old. Oh, why, why do I love To dream so bright? "Why stirs my spirit oft, As, beautiful and soft, Come in the night, Visions from brighter spheres, That will not stay, — 6* 66 DREAMINGS. Creatures of heavenly mould, Their treasures to unfold, Then melt away ? Oh, that a gift were mine, By which to breathe The things that angels write, And in the silent night, "With dreams enwreathe. But no ; it may not be ; The star of song Was dim at my life's dawn, And yet I must dream on, How long — how long ! Ji)e Spiirif 3JoIce. WRITTEN IN ILLNESS. 'Tis June — 'tis gladsome, gorgeous June, The rich, warm flush of summer noon Rests on the golden hills ; And far and wide a Spirit Voice Rings out, " Toung heart, rejoice ! rejoice !" But all this glow will soon be passed, And silvery mists their mantles cast Wide o'er the flushing fields ; Then will the sorrowing Spirit sigh, u 'Tis sweet with autumn flowers to die." 68 THE SPIRIT VOICE. When Nature wears her icy shroud, And winds are piping long and loud, Adown the rugged plain, The Spirit Voice shall softly call, But on my ear no whisper fall. I love the warm, wet summer sky, When gems on every flower-bud lie, Nov dread the autumn pale ; But know, ere winter, I shall be, Where fresh flowers bloom eternally. July, 1835. SUGGESTED BT THE REMARKS OP A FRIEND, The world ! I never sought its praise ; It never breathed my name ; And when this fragile form decays, Then perish too my fame ! When I am sleeping, cold and low, That strange and dreamless sleep, I'd ask the tear of love to flow, But only love should weep. What is it that my empty name A stranger's lips should breathe, Or stranger hands the flowers of fame Round my poor shadow wreathe ! 70 DEATH AND OBLIVION. Oh, let my memory cherished be, "While those kind spirits stay, "Who trod the path of life with me, — Then let it pass away. 'Tis sad — so sad ! — to die and leave This bright and glorious earth, While love and hope their tendrils weave Around a heart of mirth ; But 'tis no joy to think the name, The empty name, might stay, When all that ever love could claim, Had passed from earth away. When Death's stern touch has stilled my heart, When life's last cord is broken, I love to think the Spoiler's art Will shatter every token DEATH AND OBLIVION. 71 Of one who floated one short hour, A leaf upon the stream, Swayed by the lightest ripple's power, And dazzled by each gleam, That glanced athwart the crisping wave, — Scarce blessing, though so blessed ; Then back to God her being gave, And sought His sheltering breast. Ji)on fflgtf left hje qloiie. Glad faces are smiling around me, And many that love me are near ; The beautiful flowers I have cherished Are budding and blossoming here ; The voice of the silver-tongued streamlet I love, and the exquisite tone Of the singing-bird's blithesome as ever; But I'm sad — thou hast left me alone. There's joy in the rosy-lipped morning, And joy on the brow of the night ; There's joy in the eye of the floweret, And joy in each quiver of light ; THOU HAST LEFT ME ALONE. 73 Joy ! joy ! is the language of Nature — I list to its exquisite tone, And then answer back, "I am weary — I am sad, for thou'st left me alone !" 7 Jo oifie ;Beiobed. There comes a rich tone o'er my lone bosom's sadness, Like a glimmering ray on the brow of the Night ; 'Tis the voice of a loved one, in musical gladness, Still weaving its visions of hope and delight. Oh, may those gay flowerets, the sport of Time's billow, As onward it dashes so careless and free, Those flowerets of Hope, never plant in thy pillow, The thorns of regret they have left there for me. TO ONE BELOVED. 75 But may the gay things thy young fancy is wreathing, The bright buds of Hope, and the blossoms of Love, Around thee their perfumes deliciously breathing, Ne'er fade till they leave thee with seraphs above. Jo ifeien- Go gather flowers — fresh budding flowers, To deck thy shining hair, And garlands twine in summer bowers,. Oh, blossom thou, most rare ! Thy priceless jewels gather now, The spirit's wealth untold ; While they may glitter on thy brow, Ere yet thy heart grow cold. For Time will chill that trusting heart; — Though earth is passing fair, The soul most free from worldly art, Her heaviest chain must wear. TO HELEN. 77 Then tune thy lyre ! thy music breathe, Fair child of light and song ; Dream fairy Dreams, gay visions wreathe, Though they must fade ere long. 7* Ji)e &qH of offoeir tje^. I have seen day glide to darkness, And the worn year tombward tread ; Old men stooping, lowlier drooping, "With the silver on each head. I have watched the silent blighting Of full many a cherished flower ; Slowly paling, fading, failing, Lingering on from hour to hour. Like the golden daylight blending "With the melancholy night ; Summer failing — autumn paling — Winter's shroud of frosty white ; THE CARE OF OTHER YEARS. 79 Like the aged, worn and weary, Our frail prison looking through ; Like the quivering of the shivering Offspring of the summer dew ; Seemed the patient, fitful flickering, Of a life-flame blent with mine, Homeward stealing, and revealing All its journey to the shrine. Long I watched the life-blood creeping Painfully the shrunk veins through ; Pulses fluttering, pale lips muttering, Of the bourne so long in view. Gone is all my tearful watching, With its gentle hopes and fears, But my aching heart is breaking, For that care of other years. It stood upon a rise of ground, With snow-white paling all around, One dusty primrose by the door, Which pale, half-blighted blossoms bore, Large, stainless windows in a blaze, With morn or evening's level rays, And tower, with pinnacle so high, It seemed to pierce the arching sky. Thither from cot and farm-house trooping, Or in the coolest shadows grouping, Came those who love the house of God, Plain, simple souls, unknown to fame, Who swayed the axe, or turned the sod, The laborer and his ruddy dame ; THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 81 Blithe childhood, with its laughing eyes, And mild young matrons, fair and good, Girls, treading in half-awed surprise, Upon the verge of womanhood, Age, with its crown of hoary hairs, And midlife, with its weight of cares. The Holy Book was open spread, The hymn was sung, the prayer was said, Then all in hushed solemnity, And some with tearful fervor, hung Upon such magic as may lie In eloquence of heart and tongue, When earth recedes, and every string To Heaven's own touch is quivering. Oh, dear that voice, which thrilled with grace Of God to man, — those locks of gray, Hanging in meekness round the faqe, Dear even the half shut hand that lay 82 THE VILLAGE CHURCH. Upon the cloth of faded red, And once again it seems to rest, In gentlest blessings on my head, As oft in other days it blest. I may not feel that touch again, But newly from the Throne of Love, Seems dropped to-day the spirit-chain, "Which linked those scenes with things above, And round it, as of life a part, Gather the warm folds of my heart. The Year is waning. All its flowers are dead, The rich, warm glow has faded from the sky, The light, the joy of summer-time have fled, And like a folded shroud the cold mists lie On vale and hill. The year is waning fast ; Its death-dirge sounds in every passing blast. My Life is waning. All its hopes are dead, The rich, warm glow has faded from my heart, The light, the joy of bounding health have fled, And shroud-like fears in shadowy awe upstart, 84 THE WANING YEAR. Scaring the sunlight from my fading day ;— My life — my life is waning fast away. The Year is waning : mine is almost done ; Together turn we to our last repose, Waiting another Spring — a brighter Sun, Waiting — ah me ! — beneath these chilling snows ! — Stoops there no pitying angel, whose soft wing May bear me tidings of the promised Spring ? Jfoto He SilHel-flg mg to «W 6I)M. Happy, happy earth is gay ! Life is but a summer day ! Lightly, lightly flit along, Thing of sunlight, love, and song ; — Happy, happy earth is gay ; Life is but a summer day ! If perchance a cloud arise, Shedding blackness on thy skies, Heed it not — 'twill soon depart — Bar the blackness from thy heart ; Happy, happy earth is gay ; Life is but a summer day ! 8 86 THE BUTTERFLY AND CHILD. Drink the cup, and wear the chain ; Love shall make their mission vain ; Lightly, lightly let them press, On thy heart of happiness, — Happy, happy earth is gay ; Life is but a summer day ! Stay thee, stay thee, pretty thing, Balanced on thy burnished wing ; I have heard that wisdom lies, Folded in yon mystic skies ; Since thy wing has brushed the sun, Tell me all, thou pretty one. Tell me why the gentle flowers Wither in this world of ours ; Wherefore clouds, with leaden eyes, Wander weeping through our skies ; What lies hid beneath this glow, That men quake and tremble 60. 88 THE CHILD AND BUTTERFLY. I have heard earth's bitterest draught Oft by loving lips is quaffed ; Heard affection's shattered chain Wakes the keenest thrill of pain ; In thy journeyings above, Didst thou find a better love? Tell me, airy, radiant thing, Balanced on thy burnished wing, "When the time shall come to fold Thy rich robe of red and gold ; "When the day hath lost its light, Is there shelter for the night? When the heavy night is gone, Will a brighter morning dawn? ^o^iii^i} Goopei\ Swe^et Rosannah, we have loved thee, Who that saw could less than love, Noting all the patient suffering Of our sorrow- stricken dove ? Pillowed now on earth's still bosom, Free from grief and care and pain, In the golden sunlight sleej)ing, Tears for thee are surely vain. Short the brightness of thy morning, Few the flowers earth bore for thee ; Death from cankering care and sorrow Came thy burdened soul to free. 90 KOSANNAH. And we will not weep or mourn thee, Since thou art so deeply blest, With the holy saints and angels, And thy blessed Lord at rest. Yet we miss thee ; — thou wast gentle As the fawn upon the hills ; And when light was on thy pathway, Mindful thou of others' ills. But thy sky was early clouded, Thine was heaviness of soul, Anguish o'er thy riven spirit, With a crushing footstep stole. He who knows the wind to temper To the lamb, and by whose hand Thou wast guided, in His kindness Took thee to the Spirit-land. And we'll praise Him, sweet Rosannah, Praise Him even for our pain, ROSANNAH. 91 In a faint, but heart-felt echo, Of thine own enraptured strain. There, mid pure and bright- winged seraphs, Thou in loveliness mayest dwell, And the ills of our dark valley, To the pitying listeners tell ; While we linger yet a little, Often longing for release, Pressing toward the heavenly gateway, And the realms of perfect peace. Ji]£ Soboiiifilf. The Bobolink sings on the summer bough, And a happy thing is he, When the warm sun shines, and the breezes swing His couch so merrily. His voice is rich, and his voice is soft, And melting on the ear, It glides away to the place of dreams, "Where it rears a fabric dear; But the Bobolink notes the earliest shade Of autumn in the sky ; So he plumes his mantle of jet and gold, And spreads his wings to fly. THE BOBOLINK. 93 Oh, I love the tuneful Bobolink well, But hope it is not a sin Just to wish that the darling, merry bird Had his fountain of joy within. Sweet-william is a species of the pink, And "William sweet, the pink of gallantry ; The first 's a flower, which ladies pretty think, The last thinks pretty ladies flowers, and he the bee. Jl]e £obei\s. A FRAGMENT. He taught her lips to frame, in accents sweet, Though all imperfect, words he loved to hear, And with a joyous thrill his pulses beat, As, slowly syllabled, they met his ear. The tongue he loved in boyhood still was dear, And would not be forgot ; but dearer still From the rich voice which lisped its accents here, 96 THE LOVERS. To him it seemed, when 'neath the evening star, They sat, with no intruding doubt their bliss to mar. Then he would weave the wild pyrola's gems Amid the dark luxuriance of her hair, "Wreathed with the graceful blue-bell, whose slight stems, From every rocky crevice nodded there, To each soft whisper of the summer air ; And link the wampum, with more tasteful grace, "While she, unused to such insinuant care, Gazed all enraptured on its every trace, In yonder glassy wave that mirrored form and face. Day unto day succeeded, with fresh claim, Of heart to heart, till sober autumn spread THE LOVERS. 97 Her rainbow mantle, and the squirrel came, With rustling footstep o'er the leafy bed, With small, prismatic, glossy niits o'erspread, And from the russet bough the robin sung Her soft farewell, while far above her head The hang-bird's wind-rocked cradle empty hung, And melancholy sounds throughout the woodland rung. * * ft * 7f The maiden mouldered in her lover's grave, Giving her life back to its Giver's hand. With him we leave her. Time's effacing wave Has washed her memory from tradition's sand, With the same swell that whelmed that noble band Of Roman hearts in dark oblivion's stream. But still she lives ; and in that far-off land, 98 THE LOVERS. Kenned by her trustfulness, who can but deem Her spirit knows and loves the vision of her dream ? Come, come away, in my bonny sleigh, Away o'er the wintry sea, Love, Like a fairy boat on the foam afloat, It will skim with thee and me, Love ; Gay, gayly O, through the spangled snow, As our bounding pulses light, Love, While thy dear eyes beam, as in my dream I saw them yesternight, Love. Away, away in my bonny sleigh, The warm furs spreading over, And thy timid ear, half bent to hear The whispers of thy lover! 100 THE BONNY SLEIGH. Let poets woo, when the summer dew With the moon-beam comes to play, Love, But for me the bliss of the stolen kiss, That hallows my bonny sleigh, Love. They tell me thou lovest — beware ! beware ! Love whispers of bliss, but he traffics in care ; Illusions all glowing around thee he'll fling, But woes in his foot-prints forever upspring. They say thou wilt marry — 'tis well, 'tis well ! Though the chain may be heavy, thou 'rt under Love's spell ; But I — /am free, and no Cupid shall task me, 1 never will marry — till somebody ask me! 0i), if k bei^ij gtoeef lo JLibe. On, it is very sweet to live Earth's glorious things among — These fingers wrought by God to touch The living harp He 's strung. 'Tis sweet to feel life's warm, free tide Gush through its thousand cells ; And passing sweet the tide of soul, Refining as it swells. 