 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
ON THE LOSS OF A SISTER.
Written on hearing of the loss of a Sister, who died March —, 1832.
And thou, too, O my Sister! thou art dead:
And desolation once again has sped
His fiery arrow at the lonely heart.
Thus one by one from me, alas! depart
The images that, in the memory stored,
I count and view, as misers do their hoard;
They that along the wide waste of existence,
Have been, and are, the gentle spirits, whence
I gather strength to struggle on with life.
The first fierce sudden stroke the heart that crushed—
The first wild feelings through the brain that rushed—
Are gone, and grief hath now become more mild;
And I have wept as though I were a child—
I, who had thought my heart contained no tear.
And I have but returned from deserts drear—
And desolation once again has sped
His fiery arrow at the lonely heart.
Thus one by one from me, alas! depart
The images that, in the memory stored,
I count and view, as misers do their hoard;
They that along the wide waste of existence,
Have been, and are, the gentle spirits, whence
I gather strength to struggle on with life.
The first fierce sudden stroke the heart that crushed—
The first wild feelings through the brain that rushed—
Are gone, and grief hath now become more mild;
And I have wept as though I were a child—
I, who had thought my heart contained no tear.
And I have but returned from deserts drear—
91
Prairie, and snow, and mountain eminent,
At my first step upon my father-land,
To feel the snapping of another band,
Of those that bind me slightly to the world.
And thou! whose rainbow spirit now hath furled
Its wings, and gone to quiet sleep within
The dimness of the grave—amid the din
Of calumny which rose around my name,
When I left foes the guardians of my fame—
Amid the sneer, the smile, the slander rank,
Thy love, thy confidence, thy faith ne'er shrank.
Yea, when I tore asunder the few ties
Which bound me to the land of sunny eyes,
And broke the bands I could no longer bear,
Of poverty, enthralment, toil and care;
When love, and hope, and joy were changed to dreams
And fantasies, that, with their starry gleams,
Like things of memory, come upon the soul;
Then, then, my sister! did the big tear roll
Down thy pale cheek for me, thy only brother.
Thy love hath been like that of my dear mother;
And it hath fed my heart with gentle dew,
And on my shadowed soul its soothing hue
Lay like the sunlight on a broken flower.
Yea, in the darkness of full many an hour,
When I have climbed above surpassing mountains,
Where from the deathless snows break out cold fountains;
When storm hath beat upon me; when my head
Hath made the ground, the rock, the snow, its bed;
And I have watched cold stars career above—
Then, then my comforter hath been thy love.
When I have felt most sad and most alone;
When I have walked in multitudes unknown,
With none that I could greet for olden time,
Or in those silent solitudes sublime,
Where even echo shuns the loneliness,
And ceases with abundant voice to bless;
When I have thought that I was all forgot
By ancient friends—or if in one lone spot
Within the heart I still was kept in mind,
It was as one disgraced, deluded, blind;
Then, more than ever, then, in the intense
And overpowering wo, thy confidence,
Thy faith, and love, my comforters have been,
And weaned me from myself and from my spleen.
For friends—but I reproach them not, nor heed them now—
What there is left of life, with changeless brow,
And with unquailing heart, I can perform—
Front the world's frown, and dare its wildest storm,
Live out my day, and fall into my grave,
Nor even then the help of friendship crave,
To hide my bonés.
At my first step upon my father-land,
To feel the snapping of another band,
Of those that bind me slightly to the world.
And thou! whose rainbow spirit now hath furled
Its wings, and gone to quiet sleep within
The dimness of the grave—amid the din
Of calumny which rose around my name,
When I left foes the guardians of my fame—
Amid the sneer, the smile, the slander rank,
Thy love, thy confidence, thy faith ne'er shrank.
Yea, when I tore asunder the few ties
Which bound me to the land of sunny eyes,
And broke the bands I could no longer bear,
Of poverty, enthralment, toil and care;
When love, and hope, and joy were changed to dreams
And fantasies, that, with their starry gleams,
Like things of memory, come upon the soul;
Then, then, my sister! did the big tear roll
Down thy pale cheek for me, thy only brother.
Thy love hath been like that of my dear mother;
And it hath fed my heart with gentle dew,
And on my shadowed soul its soothing hue
Lay like the sunlight on a broken flower.
Yea, in the darkness of full many an hour,
When I have climbed above surpassing mountains,
Where from the deathless snows break out cold fountains;
When storm hath beat upon me; when my head
Hath made the ground, the rock, the snow, its bed;
And I have watched cold stars career above—
Then, then my comforter hath been thy love.
When I have felt most sad and most alone;
When I have walked in multitudes unknown,
With none that I could greet for olden time,
Or in those silent solitudes sublime,
Where even echo shuns the loneliness,
And ceases with abundant voice to bless;
When I have thought that I was all forgot
By ancient friends—or if in one lone spot
Within the heart I still was kept in mind,
It was as one disgraced, deluded, blind;
Then, more than ever, then, in the intense
And overpowering wo, thy confidence,
Thy faith, and love, my comforters have been,
And weaned me from myself and from my spleen.
For friends—but I reproach them not, nor heed them now—
What there is left of life, with changeless brow,
And with unquailing heart, I can perform—
Front the world's frown, and dare its wildest storm,
Live out my day, and fall into my grave,
Nor even then the help of friendship crave,
To hide my bonés.
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And yet—hush, heart! tell not thy weakness; let
False friends not know that thou hast ever wet
My eyelids with a tear for their neglect.
Why do I speak here of myself? Oh! grief
Is egotistical—and finds relief
In sad reflection, even on itself.
Woh, thou art dead; and thou didst for me plead,
In all the fervent spirit of thy creed;
And happily didst sink to thy last sleep,
Trusting to rise at sounding of the deep
And awful angel-trumpet. Be it so;
For me, I have yet more of life to go.
Perhaps, ere death shall close my quenched eyes,
I yet may sleep beneath my well-known skies—
Weep o'er the graves that my affections hoard,
Veiling the eyes and hearts I have adored;
And if, perchance, some one or two are left,
Sire, mother, sisters, take them to my heart,
Shield them, defend them, that when I shall die,
Some one above the wanderer's grave may sigh.
False friends not know that thou hast ever wet
My eyelids with a tear for their neglect.
Why do I speak here of myself? Oh! grief
Is egotistical—and finds relief
In sad reflection, even on itself.
Woh, thou art dead; and thou didst for me plead,
In all the fervent spirit of thy creed;
And happily didst sink to thy last sleep,
Trusting to rise at sounding of the deep
And awful angel-trumpet. Be it so;
For me, I have yet more of life to go.
Perhaps, ere death shall close my quenched eyes,
I yet may sleep beneath my well-known skies—
Weep o'er the graves that my affections hoard,
Veiling the eyes and hearts I have adored;
And if, perchance, some one or two are left,
Sire, mother, sisters, take them to my heart,
Shield them, defend them, that when I shall die,
Some one above the wanderer's grave may sigh.
Arkansas Territory, Jan. 12, 1833.
| Prose sketches and poems | |