Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form,
Though the shadowy curtains flow,
Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread
As “lightly as snow on snow;”

Though the perfum'd air as a garden teems
With flowers of healthy bloom,
And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze
In the cool and guarded room;

Though the costly cup for the fever'd lip
With grateful cordial flows,
While the watching eye and warning hand
Preserve the snatch'd repose.

Yes, even with these appliances
From wealth's unmeasured store,
'T is fearful to watch the spirit's flight
To its dim and distant shore.

But O, when the form that we love is laid
On Poverty's chilly bed,
When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs
Through crevice and pane is sped;

When the noon-day sun comes streaming in
On the dim or burning eye,
And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread
Is heard from the passers by;

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught
To us in vain upturns,
And the aching head on a pillow hard
In restless fever burns;

When night rolls on, and we gaze in woe
On the candle's lessening ray,
And grope about in the midnight gloom,
And long for the breaking day;

Or bless the moon as her silver torch
Sheds light on our doubtful hand,
When pouring the drug which a moment wrests
The soul from the spirit-land;

When we know that sickness of soul and heart
Which sensitive bosoms feel—
When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze
On woes we cannot heal,—

This, this is the crown of bitterness;
And we pray as the lov'd one dies
That our breath may pass with their waning pulse,
And with theirs close our aching eyes.

My story tells of sweet Rosalie,
Once a maiden of joy and delight,
A ray of love from her girlish days,
To her parents' devoted sight.

The girl was free as the river wave
That dances to ocean's rest;
And life look'd down like a summer's sun
On her pure and gentle breast.

She saw young Arthur—their happy hearts
Like two young streamlets shone
That leap along on their mountain path,
Then mingle their waters as one.

They parted;—he roved to western wilds
To seek for his bird a nest;
And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls,
And folded her wings to rest.

But her father died, and a fearful plight
O'er his child and his widow fell—
They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss
Where sorrow and poverty dwell.

Consumption came, and he whisper'd low
To the widow of early death;
He hasten'd the beat of her constant pulse,
And baffled the coming breath.

He prey'd on the bloom of her still soft cheek,
And shrivell'd her hand of snow;
He check'd her step in its easy glide,
And her eye beamed a restless glow.

He choked her voice in its morning song,
And stifled its evening lay,
And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn
As she lay on her pillow to pray.

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light,
And sat by the midnight oil;
But the pittance was fearfully small that came
By her morning and evening toil.

'T was then in her lodging the night-wind came
Through crevice and broken pane,
'T was there that the early sun-beam burst
With its glaring and burning train.

When Rosalie sat by her mother's side,
She smothered her heart's affright,
And essay'd to smile, though the monster Want
Stood haggard and wan in her sight.

She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor,
And crushed her hands on her heart,
Or stood like a statue so still and pale,
Lest a tear or cry should start.

Her household goods went one by one
To purchase their scanty fare;
And even the little mirror was sold
Where she parted her glossy hair.

Then hunger glared in her full blue eye,
And was heard in her tremulous tone;
And she long'd for the crust that the beggar eats
As she sits by the way-side stone.

The neighbors gave of their scanty store,
But their jealous children scowl'd;
And the eager dog that guarded the street,
Look'd on the morsel and howl'd.

Then her mother died—'t was a blessed thing!
For the last faint embers had gone
On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out
As Rosalie watch'd for the dawn.

'T was a blessed exchange from this dark, cold earth
To those bright and blossoming bowers,
Where the spirit roves in its robes of light,
And gathers immortal flowers!

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast,
Thought its fluttering breath was o'er;
And eagerly press'd her passive hand,
Which return'd the pressure no more.

In darkness she closed the fixing eyes,
And saw not the deathly glare;
Then straiten'd the warm and flaccid limbs
With a wild and fearful care.

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke
On the night that her mother died,
Poor rosalie sank from her long, long watch,
In sleep by her mother's side.

'T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see,
(When they woke from their kindlier rest,)
The beautiful girl with her innocent face
Asleep on the corpse's breast.

Her hair flowed about her mother's side,
And her hand on the dead hand fell;
Yet her breathing was light as the lily's roll
When waved by the ripple's swell.

There was surely a vision of heaven's delight
Haunting her exquisite rest,
For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile
As could only beam out from the blest.

'T was fearful as beautiful; and as they gazed,
The neighbors stood whispering low,
Nor dared they remove her white arm from the dead,
Where it seemed in its fondness to grow.

Life is not always a darkling dream,
God loves our sad waking to bless,
More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade
That heralds our happiness.

A stranger stands by that humble door,
A youth in the flush of life,
And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance
Seems with sorrow and care at strife.

Manly beauty and soul-formed grace
Stand forth in each movement fair,
And speak in the turn of his well-timed step,
And shine in his wavy hair.

With travel and watchfulness worn was he,
Yet there beamed on his open brow
Traces of faith and integrity,
Where conscience had stamped her vow.

'Twas Arthur—he gazed on those two pale forms,
Soon one was clasped to his heart—
In piercing accents he called her name—
That voice bade the life-blood start.

Not on the dead doth she ope her eyes,
Life, love, spread their living wings;
And she rests on her lover's breast as a child
To its nursing mother clings.

A pure white tomb in the near grave-yard
Betokens the widow's rest,
But Arthur has gone to his forest home,
And shelters his dove in his nest.

1837.