 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
195
TO MY SISTER.
“Her lot is on you, silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear in suffering's hour,
And sumless riches from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower,
To make them idols and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!”
Mrs. Hemans.
And patient smiles to wear in suffering's hour,
And sumless riches from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower,
To make them idols and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!”
Mrs. Hemans.
Aye, mark the strain, sweet sister—watch and pray,
Wean thy young, stainless heart from earthly things;
O, wait not thou, till life's bright morning ray
Only o'er blighted hopes its radiance flings,
But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tracery mar that placid brow.
Wean thy young, stainless heart from earthly things;
O, wait not thou, till life's bright morning ray
Only o'er blighted hopes its radiance flings,
But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tracery mar that placid brow.
Sinless and pure thou art, yet is thy soul
Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams;
Sweet fantasies that mock at thought's control,
Like atoms round thee float in fancy's beam;
But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee;
They have deceived all others, and will thee.
Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams;
Sweet fantasies that mock at thought's control,
Like atoms round thee float in fancy's beam;
But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee;
They have deceived all others, and will thee.
Well can I read thy dreams; thy gentle heart
(Already woman's in its wish to bless)
Now longs for one to whom it may impart
Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And pants to know the meaning of the thrill
That wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.
(Already woman's in its wish to bless)
Now longs for one to whom it may impart
Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And pants to know the meaning of the thrill
That wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.
196
Thou dreamest, too, of happiness—the deep
And placid joy which poets paint so well:
Alas! man's passions, even when they sleep,
Like ocean's waves are heaved with secret swell,
And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh,
Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by.
And placid joy which poets paint so well:
Alas! man's passions, even when they sleep,
Like ocean's waves are heaved with secret swell,
And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh,
Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by.
Vain, vain are all such visions! couldst thou know
The secrets of a woman's weary lot—
O! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow,
Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,
In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown.
The secrets of a woman's weary lot—
O! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow,
Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,
In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown.
But thou wilt do as all have done before,
And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine,
There all affection's priceless treasures pour,
There hope's best flowers in votive garlands twine;
And thou wilt meet the recompense all must
Who place in earthly love their faith and trust.
And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine,
There all affection's priceless treasures pour,
There hope's best flowers in votive garlands twine;
And thou wilt meet the recompense all must
Who place in earthly love their faith and trust.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |