Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO HONORABLE CHARLES J. JENKINS, Governor of Georgia, AND TO MRS. GOVERNOR JENKINS, MY HONORED AND TRUSTED FRIENDS, My First Volume IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

Out of a simple woman's heart these rivulets of rhyme have run. They may not be great, nor broad, nor deep. She trusts that they are pure. She wrote these verses often in sorrow, perplexity and distress. She publishes them in the hope that they may be souvenirs of the years and the scenes which cannot die out of the memory of this generation. She lays this simple offering on the altar of our common country's literature. She will feel rewarded if though these buds and flowers be not

very beautiful, they give to any soul the perfume of simple truthfulness and genuine feeling. “Homely” was once an endearing epithet, reminding the heart of its most sacred earthly associations. In this sense, the writer will be gratified to have her poems pronounced “homely.”

THE FIRST GREY HAIR.

No, let it stay. It speaks but truth:
My Autumn's day is dawning.
The dream is past; sweet dream of youth.
Hair, I accept thy warning.
With mournful thought, my spirit swells,
At the wild chime of memory bells.

Why will we in the present time,
Of by-gone days be dreaming?
Say, why throughout the storm sublime,
Is lightning ever gleaming?
Ah! there is naught on earth that quells
The chiming of sad memory bells.

Hope, garlands fair of future bliss,
With Fancy's pearls is weaving;
Alas! we find in world like this,
That Hope too is deceiving,
As on the past, our full heart dwells,
At your sad chiming, memory bells.

In youth all Earth was passing bright,
And life with joy was teeming—
But hidden in each flower was blight,
And happiness was seeming.
Yet charm me with your mystic spells—
With your sweet chiming, memory bells.

Why speak ye of the cruel wrong,
That I am ever grieving?
I would forget, forgive, be strong,
With faith in Christ, believing.
But oh! the strain triumphant knells—
Cease, cease your clashing, memory bells.

Avaunt, dark image of despair!
Why dost thou still go raving?
I would to Lethe's streams repair,
And drown thy taunts in laving.
Alas! can nothing still thy yells?
Cease, cease your clashing, memory bells.

Now mournful is the solemn strain,
And sadly I am weeping.
For those I love in battle slain,
Who all unknown are sleeping,
Like murmuring of ocean shells,
Swells your sad requiem, memory bells.

Now much loved voices in their glee
Their joyous shouts are sending;
And the sweet chorus, light and free,
Of many a song is blending,
Yet bitter tear-drops, sad fare-wells,
Melt in your chiming, memory bells.

Yet I would fain recall the past,
The bright celestial gleaming,
Which my first love around me cast,
Too sweet to be but dreaming.
Like flowing water, in lone dells,
Is your sweet chiming, memory bells.

Yes, silver hair, rest thee in peace,
I know that life is waning,
That soon will all my troubles cease,
And I, the goal attaining,
Will list the joy your music tells,
And love your chiming, memory bells.

FOUND—WHO LOST?

Lady, tell me, will you, pray,
Why that cheek of roseate hue;
Why so downcast, fond, yet shy,
Is thine eye of heavenly blue?

Let my eye gaze into thine;
Let me scan each fold of hair;
Let me gaze upon thy cheek—
By George! I've found the secret there.

Lady, lady, tell me, pray,
How you could do a thing so rash?
Found what was not lost by you,
One little hair from dark moustache!

So firmly printed on thy face!
There—I detach it from the spot;
Now blush no more—thy secret's safe.
Known but to me, I'll tell it not.

“DID YOU CALL ME, FATHER?”

She opened the door, and said in an alarmed tone: “Father, was that you calling me?” And again, “Father!” And once again, after listening, “Father! I thought I heard you call me twice before!” No response. Dickens' “Mutual Friend.”

“Did you call me, Father?” Ah no, 'twas the surge,
Swelling a requiem, wailing a dirge:
Back, maiden! create still thy images rare,
Thy bright glowing castles, so frail yet so fair.

“Did you call me, Father?” He hears thee no more,
Life's tide has run out, he has drifted ashore;
No bright angels guided the sinner's frail bark—
He was wrecked on the breakers, alone, in the dark.

“I thought that I heard you call twice before this,
And, Father, I felt on my brow your last kiss;
Come back to me, Father, come back to your child,
Ere you be in the darkness, by false lights beguiled.”

Go gaze in the hollow, way down by the flare,
Say, beautiful dreamer, what seest thou there?
Not the form of thy Father, cold, silent, and dead,
With the waves, and winds toying around his grey head.

Thou seest the future, bright, happy and free,
When thy present through veil of past years thou shalt see:
Now, garlands of hope, with thy love, and faith blend,
All fading, alas! as the gold sparks ascend.

Did you call me, Father? No, 'twas but the wind,
As searching, and prying, some secret to find;
It wailed round the dwelling, again sought the shore,
And lifted the rags from the body once more.

His grey hair is all stiff, with the cold ocean brine,
His eyes have a look which no word can define—
As if in his struggles, while borne by the tide,
He thought of his darling, he called her, and died.

“Did you call me, Father?” Awake, girl, awake!
Thy burden of sorrow, within thy heart take,
Awake from thy dreaming, each joy's fraught with care,
And Life's but a “hollow, way down by the flare.”

THE BLIGHT OF LOVE.

Many long years ago, I loved a youth,
Who seemed the soul of honor and of truth—
He charmed my heart with some unholy spell,
He was a serpent, whom I loved so well.

The blush of girlhood had just ting'd my cheek;
He knew me young—perchance he thought me weak.
'Tis said, he often boasted of his power,
To gather for his own each new-blown flower.

My simple language can not well describe
How first he stood before me in his pride;
His form was cast in beauty's manly mould;
His eyes shot fire, and his hair was gold.

Fain, fain would I describe to you his glance;
One look enough, to throw me in a trance;
His flute-like voice—ah! from my sleep I woke,
When on mine ear the cadence gently broke.

A month passed by: he lingered by my side,
Longed for the time, when I should be his bride;
Ah! bitter ending, of that month of years,
A life of sorrow, and a life of tears.

The scathing truth, like any lightning stroke,
Fell'd me to earth, and my poor heart was broke;
He, frightened, turned and left me, with my woe,
For, in my wrath, I sternly bade him go.

I've never loved again; for there, and then,
All my faith vanished in the truth of men.
Of that short month, 'tis seldom that I speak,
And to forget my youth, in vain I seek.

HEART'S EASE.

Lonely and dreary was the day,
Lonely and weary swelled my heart,
Fainting for need of Hope's bright ray—
For without Hope will Joy depart.

We may survive, but do we live
As God has willed his children should,
While craving, praying, give, oh give,
All, all is evil, give me good?

I wandered far from haunts of men—
Cold, bitter cold, the North wind blew;
It even reached my favorite glen,
Where first spring flowerets always grew

I threw myself in my despair
Upon a bed of faded leaves—
I wept aloud, and tore my hair,
Grieved, as a bereaved mother grieves.

I prayed for death; for death will bring
Oblivion, and rest, sweet rest!
Then memory will lose its sting,
And peace is found on Jesus' breast.

Give me, oh Father, was my prayer,
Some token, that my Spring is near,
Soothe my deep grief, calm my despair,
Console me, Lord, assuage my fear.

A sunbeam cleft the dense, cold air,
And rested on a Heart's Ease bloom;
Life, life in death! adieu, despair!
The morning dawns o'er night's deep gloom.

I clasped the omen to my soul,
And to my lips the Heart's Ease pressed,
Tumultuous storms may o'er me roll—
That token future joys expressed.

MY MOTHER'S VOICE.

Oh never on my youthful ear
A Mother's gentle accents broke!
The vital spark, from which I sprung,
Expired, as I to life awoke.

No mother pressed me to her breast,
And bade my childish heart rejoice,
For with my infant first-born wail,
Death hushed for aye my mother's voice.

Alone I climbed the dizzy height,
That led to never-dying fame,
I sought and won, and now I wear
A famous, but unenvied name.

Had she been near, to shield and guide
Her wayward, but her trustful child,
Rare flowerets would have bloomed where now
Are weeds in rank luxuriance, wild.

In visions, sometimes, I behold
Her form of heavenly loveliness;
She speaks, and o'er me gently bends,
And prints on my pale brow a kiss.

And I awake—'tis but a dream!
But still the voice strikes on mine ear,
And from my callous heart calls forth
Up through mine eyes the scorching tear.

Then pass not judgment rash, or harsh,
On stern Misfortune's chosen child,
Who never heard a mother's voice,
On whom a mother never smiled!

ADIEU.

Life is full of mirth and pleasure,
But all joy is on the wing—
Base alloy corrodes each treasure,
And enjoyment hides a sting.
Bliss is like a rainbow, cheating,
Beautiful and bright, but fleeting.

True, there's real bliss in the greeting
Of each loving, kindred heart;
But a sadness dims our meeting,
For we know we soon must part—
Thus ties of Love, and friendship true,
Are severed by the sad adieu.

Adieu, and from the mother's eyes
Streams her deep love, in tears.
Adieu, adieu, my child, she cries,
Adieu, perchance for years.
And of our parting, keep this token,
My bitter tears—my heart is broken.

And that mother, in her anguish,
Prays to God that she may die—
Better thus, than still to languish,
Crying ever, this sad cry:
Give me back my child, my treasure,
Ye have o'erflown my bitter measure.

Alas! the hand of reckless fate,
As on time's wings, she flies;
Severs, with most remorseless hate,
The tenderest, holiest ties.
E'en sacred bonds of heaven's making,
Fate laughs to scorn, and smiles in breaking.

Thus all earthly friendships sever—
Such is Heaven's stern decree.
But God's loved ones meet, to never
Part again in land of free,—
There, there above the sky's deep blue,
Hearts are not broken by adieu.

I SMILE, BUT OH! MY HEART IS BREAKING.

I mingle with the young and gay,
In halls where Fashion holds her sway;
I gaze upon the giddy throng,
While for some quiet spot I long.

They call me heartless. Do they know
That mirth is but an empty show?
That silvery grandeur often shrouds
The storms which lurk within bright clouds?

The eye may beam with dazzling light,
And shed on all its glances bright,
Yet be unburdened of the tears,
That shone like diamonds there, for years.

The lips may breathe the thoughtless word,
And yet, too oft alas! unheard,
That word may mingle with a sigh
From reckless heart which prays to die.

I seek each joy—I fain would lave
My restless mind in Lethe's wave;
But memory is ever waking—
I smile, but oh, my heart is breaking.

THE CRUSHED FLOWER.

As through earth's garden once I strayed
I saw a rose tree fair—
And from it plucked an opening bud,
In all its beauty rare.

I gazed deep in its heart of hearts—
It blushed beneath my eye;
While its faint fragrance seemed to breath
A gentle, unheard sigh.

'Twas mine alone! I cherished it—
My frail and lovely flower!
Until another bud I found,
More beauteous, in an hour.

Then with relentless hand I broke
The floweret's fragile stem:
I spoiled the gem that would have graced
A monarch's diadem!

But stern remorse soon touched my heart,—
Back to the spot I rushed.
Alas! too late; my flower was there,
But its poor heart was crushed!

THE OLD CRIB.

“Sell that crib? Indeed! indeed I cannot, for I see in it the faces of my children. I will starve before I sell that crib.” Confederate Lady, 1864.

I know thou art a senseless thing,
Still recollections round thee cling
Of joys long past;
And I would fain retain thee now,
Yet want's stern hand and lowering brow
Has o'er me cast
His misery with weight untold,
And, much prized crib, thou must be sold!

Ah! well do I remember yet,
Remember? can I well forget
That happy day,

When a swift tide my spirit moved,
And with a mother's soul, I loved
The child that lay
Within thy lap—my precious boy!
How throbbed my heart with untold joy.

How swiftly, then, the years sweep on,
With love, joy, wealth, they come, are gone,
And very soon
A little dark-eyed, bonny girl,
Pressed on thy pillow many a curl.
Most precious boon
That ever was to mortal given—
A cherub, from the gates of heaven.

And yet again, some powerful spell,
Called to this earth, sweet baby Bell,
My sunbeam child,
With hair of gold, and eyes of blue,
And cheeks that vie the rosebud's hue—
Pure, undefiled!

About my heart she seems to twine,
As round the oak, the clinging vine.

Take back thy gold! It shall not go!
'Twas mine in weal, and now in woe:
It comforts me.
It takes me back, in fitful gleams,
To the sweet, fairy land of dreams,
And then I see
Those little heads, with glossy curls,
My manly boy, my little girls!

CHRISTMAS EVE, SOUTH, 1865.

Poverty, remorseless spectre,
Reigns throughout our once fair land,
And he wields no fancy sceptre,
In his iron-covered hand.
Stifled sighs our hearts are rending,
Thanks for peace—with want contending.

Widows, orphans, homeless, dreary,
Call in vain for earthly aid,—
There is rest for all the weary,
On Him, let your cares be stayed.
He his helpless ones protecting,
Who abideth his directing.

'Tis the merry Christmas even,
Hallowed throughout all the earth;
Angels, too, rejoice in Heaven,
O'er the blessed Saviour's birth.
Yet many are sad vigils keeping
For those who all unknown are sleeping.

Children hush their eager voices,
They by instinct seem to feel,
That the heart which now rejoices
Must, indeed, be cased in steel.
Yet still they turn with bitter sighing,
To where their little socks are lying.

“Mother! mother! darling mother!
Please don't weep so any more;
We are left you, I and brother,
We don't care if we are poor.
Now, mother, darling, stop your weeping,
And kiss us ere we both are sleeping.”

Rosy sleep at last has bound them;
Now they revel in their dreams;
“Santa Claus” now hovers round them,
Showering o'er them fairy gleams
Darlings, what is life but dreaming?
Grasp a pleasure—'tis but seeming.

Mother! kneel in adoration,
That thou hast some comfort left;
Send forth, now, thy invocation
For the sad of all bereft.
With faith in God, in Christ believing,
For Heaven is real, and earth deceiving.

ARRIA TO POETUS.

In vain! in vain! my pleading all in vain!
Have I my senses, or am I insane!
Is it a dream, a fearful, bloody dream,
In which a mirage something real doth seem?

Or is it truth, truth, stunning real, yet truth,
That pales with age the sunny hair of youth?
Truth, nearest truth, that lying earth can give,
That thou hast, Poetus, but a day to live.

Have they no pity, or have they no shame,
That they should blacken thy illustrious name?
It is not death. Then dost not fear to die,
For thy pure soul will waft to God on high.

'Tis the disgrace, the ignominious end,
That our captors on thee fain would send.
Ah! we will thwart them, Poetus: you and I
Will show how well the noble brave can die.

And God will pardon. He, the God of love,
Will let us rest together, far above.
Ah, earth is fair and beautiful to see;
But what are joys, my husband, without thee?

To me, this dungeon is a palace gay,
For thou, beloved, art my soul's bright ray;
But wert thou gone, each day would seem to me
Years, years, on years, a dark eternity.

Ah! death is nothing but a moment's pain,
'Tis but the breaking of a link of chain,
'Tis but the ebbing of the tide of life,
'Tis but the leaving of this world of strife.

'Tis but the fading of a summer's flower,
To bloom again in Heaven's blissful bower;
'Tis but the ending of a verse of time,
To add to death but yet another rhyme.

'Tis but the changing of the robes of earth
For spotless garments of immortal birth;
Then, husband! lover! let us welcome death,
Our foes defy with e'en our latest breath.

This dagger, see how sharp its shining blade!
But one slight blow, and then death dues are paid.
She placed the knife upon her faithful breast—
Forgave the conquerors, and her husband blest.

Then plunged it in, and faintly, sweetly cried,
It is not painful, Poetus, and she died.
The faithful husband grasped the glittering knife,
And with his hand the forfeit paid of life.

TO MARY.

The sky low down in distant West, is tinged with golden hue,
While all the glorious vault above is one bright mass of blue.
Now as I still gaze in the West, my favorite star I see,
A diamond bright, queen of the night, the evening star for me.

Some love the warlike star of Mars: he pleaseth not my eyes;
Some say that Jupiter is bright: his looks I little prize;
The morning star is passing fair, but still I love it not;
For none to me shines lovingly, as Venus on my cot.

Now the pale moon, as if in love, is sending from the sky
Her tender beams upon the field, where, Mary, you and I
So oft have stood at close of day, and talked our little cares—
Love, children, cooks, our thoughts of books, our prospects, hopes and fears.

Now standing out in bold relief, I see your cottage white;
The once green trees are bare of leaves, they fell at winter's blight.
All is so still! No light is there, I know you are at rest;
May slumber's light be yours this night—may you be ever blest.

Soon, very soon, for aught we know, our pathway may divide;
But, Mary, will you think of me, when I'm not by your side?

And oh! look on, with pitying eye, in distant, distant years;
My virtues few, my friendship true, and o'er my faults shed tears.

Written when Venus was evening star.

SPRING.

Spring, glad Spring, has dawned on earth;
Birds rejoice for her bright birth;
Farewell now to winter dear—
Spring, with all her joys, is here.

Trees clothed in green, our hearts' delight,
Rare flowerets bloom, in colors bright;
Earth joyful now, her riches yields,
While Spring her radiant sceptre wields.

Lowing kine with thanks rejoice;
Insects hum with drowsy voice;
Everything on earth, in air,
Join in the chorus, Spring is fair!

But now, alas, no transient bloom
Can take from each sad heart its gloom;
For misery, with might untold,
Rests on each heart of mortal mould.

We mourn, because war's chilling blast
Its arm of death has round us cast;
We mourn the noble and the brave,
Now sleeping in an unknown grave.

REVENGE.

Ah! I could curse them in my woe,
E'en as the viper stings,
And to the heel that strikes it clings,
So I could plant my blow.

Yes, I could pray that fell disease
Should torture them with pain—
That plague should fall in every rain,
Miasma taint each breeze.

That wealth should vanish, and the curse
Of poverty should reign;
That cries for bread should be in vain!
An always empty purse.

That friends should die, and every pride
Should vanish in a day;
'Till even hope withdraws her ray,
And naught of joys abide.

Yes, I could whisper in the ear
Of one who loves to tell
Some fabrication, dark as hell,
As scandal loves to hear.

Revenge is sweet; I could invent
Full many a thousand way,
That would my heartfelt wrongs repay,
Could they my soul content.

But could I go to sleep in peace,
And could I dream of heaven—
Could I e'er hope to be forgiven
When death came to release?

Revenge is sweet to those who live;
But when we think of death—
The ebbing of this life-tide breath—
'Tis sweeter to forgive.

LIFT ME HIGHER.

Lift me higher! Lift me higher!
From this sphere of earthly dross;
Upward still! far yonder gleaming,
Shines my Saviour's glorious cross.

Oh, very beautiful is life,
And earthly flowers are passing fair:
But lift, oh lift me up to heaven,
And let me rest forever there.

There, no care shall plough its furrows;
There, no sin shall blur my heart;
There, in blessed choirs of angels,
I shall sing a humble part.

Lift me higher! Lift me higher!
Friends of earth, no tears for me!
From temptation, sin, and sorrow,
Let me be forever free!

Ah! I hear my Saviour call me!
Clad in heavenly robes of white;
He will lift me higher, higher,
From this world of storm and night.

Lift me higher! Lift me higher!
Farewell earthly friends I love.
Lift me higher! Lift me higher!
To that better world above!

“Lift me higher!” And our darling
Gently closed her wearied eyes;
And her spirit, lifted higher,
Reached its home beyond the skies.

She is sleeping, and white marble
This inscription only bears:
“Our lost flower—thirteen summers—
Lifted higher”—than life's cares.

SILVERY FOUNTAIN.

Silvery Fountain! soft and clear
Falls thy murmuring on mine ear;
And thy flowing ever brings
The memory that round me clings
Of long ago.

Resting on thy brink so oft,
Mingling with thy music soft,
I have heard words, sad and sweet,
Words no mortal can repeat
In days of yore.

When thy shining streamlet fell,
Ere it reached the crystal shell

My head would catch the glittering gleam,
And diamonds with my gold would beam
Like stars on night.

In waking dreams, with half-closed eyes,
I've seen fair forms from thee arise,
And wondered were they beings of earth,
With fairy forms, yet mortal birth,
Or rays of light.

I felt that angel ones were near,
And hoping, knowing, they would hear—
My heart's thoughts to my lips would rise,
And prayers be wafted to the skies,
On wings of love.

Ah, speak again! No unknown tongue
Was thine to me, when I was young;
Fain would I linger near thy side
And die, that those I love might guide
My soul above.

CRAZED.

No rest! no rest on this bleak earth for me;
A thousand fancies flit across my brain;
Dim phantoms of the shadowy past I see—
I know, oh God! I know I am insane.

Deep in my breast the secret I will hide—
To those who love me 'twould give bitter pain:
Foes would rejoice should evil ere betide,
And 'tis an awful curse to be insane.

Ho! ho! a light! I say, my wife, a light!
This heavy darkness crushes my poor heart;
And, darling, sit beside my bed to-night—
Thy kind words comfort to my soul impart.

Ah, do not start, when my deep groans you hear:
I stagger, struck with agony so fell;
See there! see there! 'tis gone; you need not fear;
You cannot see the Devil's mystic spell.

I hear a footstep! Halt! I say, who's there?
The wind, you answer; ah, I'm not insane!
You can't deceive me with your words so fair—
There! there! I hear the sound approach again.

The light! I say! I tell you I will see—
It is a thief, with murderous thought intent;
You can't prevent me—but, ah, woe is me!
Are you, too, on some hidden mischief bent?

Forgive me, darling; I did wildly rave;
I think I am a little crazed to-night.
Stay with me, pet-wife, you are good and brave;
The spell will pass with morning's dawning bright.

Press your soft hand upon my aching head—
Weeping again? Why will you always weep?
Your eyes their brightness with the tears will shed:
There, good night, darling! now, I fain would sleep.

NO LETTER.

“No letter!” poor mother! oh, well may'st thou weep,
For thy noble and manly first-born
Is now sleeping peacefully death's dreamless sleep;
He shall never again see the morn.

“No letter!” and yet from his pocket they took,
When they searched there to find out his name,
A missive unfinished in his Holy Book,
All hopeful of glory and fame.

“In battle to-day our flag I'll uphold,
And defend, though I lose my right arm;
I am young, I have strength, and with courage am bold,
With my life, I will shield it from harm.

“I must go, dear mother! I hear the drums call,
And I will write more on the morrow.”
Alas! ere that day closed, the enemy's ball
To that mother bequeathed ceaseless sorrow.

No letter! and sadly the wife turned away,
And crushed in her heart the great pain,
As God gave her patience, while day after day
She sought for the letter in vain.

“No letter!” your children are fatherless now;
Bow in meekness to God's stern decree,
Your husband, with laurel wreaths twined round his brow,
Is at rest in the land of the free.

“No letter!” sweet maiden, your lover so brave,
To his heart clasped your image and fell;
Said he gloried to fill a poor soldier's grave,
For the country he loved so well.

To leave you alone was his only regret,
In this sad world of sorrow and sin;
But your grief he was hopeful you soon would forget,
And sighing for what might have been.

“No letter!” dear sister, your brother is dead;
Alas! he was shot in the battle;
No sister's hand near to hold his cold head,
With no one to hear the death-rattle.

Only those who have writhed 'neath the heart-crushing thought,
And who live upon hope's brittle thread,
Can know the sad trial, with which life is fraught,
Brings the longing to be with the dead.

THE TRYST.

I waited full two hours, or more,
Beneath the old pine tree,
Where oft I've lingered twilight hours,
Watching, my Love, for thee.

I waited till the shadows grew
Like giants, grim and grey;
I waited till night's coming chased
The shadows far away.

I waited for, I knew not what;
But, oh, I waited there,
Hoping, perchance, some ray to find,
To lighten my despair.

A year ago last May, I sat
Beneath the old pine-tree;
My tryst was not a broken one,
For, Love, you came to me.

I waited, and my spirit called
Thy spirit, Love, to me;
No tryst was ever broken there
Beneath the old pine-tree.

HOPE.

As shines the sunbeam through dark clouds,
Hope breaks the spirit's lowering shrouds
E'en as the morning dawns o'er night,
Hope sheds her radiant, golden light.

Like the soft dew to thirsting flower,
Hope e'er revives the soul's faint hour—
A soothing balm for every grief;
Hope, precious hope, finds sure relief.

The anchor of the tide-bound soul,
With breakers near, while billows roll
Around, about, but ne'er o'erwhelm,
With Hope the anchor, Faith the helm.

Hope, like the olden Shepherd's star,
Telleth her tidings from afar;
And though earth's flowers fade and die,
Hope, Hope revives them in the sky.

AUTUMN THOUGHTS.

I, from my chamber-window, mark
The dying of the year;
The trees in red and green and gold,
Show Autumn's progress sere;
And soon, alas! these richest tints
Will change to sober brown;
The trees of their bright garb bereft,
Wear winter's sternest frown.

The warbling songster seeks in vain
Some place to shield his wings,
And shivering on the bare cold oak,
In piteous notes he sings.
The flowerets hide their frail bright heads
Till winter shall be o'er,
Then at the first faint call of Spring,
They show themselves once more.

The autumn rain is falling slow,
With chilling, solemn spell,
As if no brightness ever more
On this bleak earth shall dwell.
The dying of the day or year
With awe impress the mind;
For though we know God's ways are right,
His mercies ever kind,—

We mortals seldom stop to think,
When brooding o'er the night,
How quickly day will dawn again,
And Spring again bloom bright;
And at the end of life's short path
The aged should remember,
Eternal Spring-time dawneth bright
Soon after bleak December.

“THAT GLOVE.”

Why cherish thus the senseless thing?
Do memories around it cling
Of joys long past?
Or does it speak of present bliss?
Do sweet last word, or parting kiss,
Charms o'er it cast?

Now were it but a thing with life,
In which were earthly passions rife,
Then I could see
Why you should press it to your heart,
Nor let it from your hand depart—
It cannot flee.

You touch it, and you are unmann'd—
I hold it passive in my hand—
No thrill of love
Shoots through my veins; you bow before it,
The loving slave of her who wore it—
That white kid glove!

You fought for freedom. You were brave,
I grant it. Even now you rave
Of subjugation.
Yet you are subject of a queen,
Whose power greater is, I ween,
Than Yankee nation.

Yes, e'en the touch of her small hand
Is equal to a stern command,
Because you love.
You walk submissive in her band,
And when you cannot hold her hand,
You hold her glove.

I do not judge thee—go thy way.
I have a glove—(what can I say?)
And I adore it.
Ah! often in the hours for sleep,
I kiss the glove, and sadly weep
For one who wore it.

WAIL OF THE DIVORCED.

How can I give thee up, my child, my dearest, earliest born,
While fond hopes are 'round thee clustered, like bright clouds o'er morning's dawn?
No, I will not leave thee, darling; thou at least shall never say
That no tender hand did guide thee through the cares of childhood's day.

My child! when first thy mother heard thy feeble, first-born wail,
Love's tide came rushing through the heart, I thought encased in mail.
For the few years of my young life had been scenes of mirth and woe,
For I grasped the pleasures, darling, grasped them, ere I let them go!

E'en the brightest days of summer have their sun shine and their showers;
And the piercing thorn will wound us, as we pluck the fairest flowers;
But the perfume of the flowers makes us glory in the pain,
And exulting in the sunshine, we forget the chilling rain.

I know 'twould break my aching heart to leave thee, precious one!
How can they brand me with a curse—what have I ever done?
I know that I have never sent a sister down to shame,
By casting blots of foulest sin upon a snow-white name.

Have charity, have charity, my child, for every sin—
For the sore temptation, darling, may all-powerful have been;

And always lend a helping hand to those who chance to fall;
Forgive, forget, be ready to obey your Saviour's call.

Learn, learn, my child, and ne'er forget, learn while thou art still young,
That he will have the truest friends, who bridleth his tongue.
Speak well of all, if aught you know of evil, or of ill;
Deep in thy bosom let it rest, and keep the scandal still.

My baby, should you ever choose a partner for this life,
Oh, darling, ever strive to be a fond, devoted wife;
And never let thy husband's name be spoken but in praise;
For some will, if you let them, sadly misconstrue his ways.

Seek not happiness in pleasure, for the dregs of every cup
Are so bitter, darling, bitter, as we quaff the latest sup!
And never seek, my child, to win the laurel wreath of fame,
Unless thou hast a heart to bear the world's taunts, even shame.

Kind, noble, generous, they will give thy sister to me, dear:
But I must leave thee, child, and seek a home away from here.
Ah! I defy them to the last; they shall not part us, child
And thy mother's hand shall rear thee—rear thee, pure and undefiled!

May the fond prayers of thy mother prove a love-protecting shield
From each sorrow, and each harrowing care, that life doth ever yield.

And may the hand of love, my child, pluck thorns from thy bright flowers;
And may'st thou find a home at last in heaven's celestial bowers.

THE OPIUM-EATER.

[Before taking a dose.]

Life's pathway to me is dreary;
I am ill, and cold, and weary;
Would my lonely walk were done,
And my heavenly race begun!

Once all things to me were bright,
Things that now seem dark as night:
Is the darkness all within?
Dark without from inward sin?

The present dark; eyes dim with age
Can see no joy, save memory's page.
The present, future, ne'er can be
Bright as the past they once did see.

My hair is turning quite grey now;
I see some wrinkles on my brow;
My teeth—they must be failing too,—
And corns are growing in my shoe.

I muffle up my aching face,
And pray from pangs a moment's grace.
Ah! now the misery seeks my head—
Would I were with the pangless dead!

There is a cure for pain and grief—
Come, Opium, come to my relief!
Soothed by thy influence, I shall find
A moment's rest, and peace of mind.

[After taking a dose.]

Ah! now I sit in bowers of bliss,
Soothed by an angel's balmy kiss!
Delicious languor o'er me stealing
Is now my only sense of feeling.

The breath of flowers perfumes the air;
The forms around are—oh, so fair!
The once cold air seems warm and bright,
And I, too, seem a being of light.

My hair is not so very grey—
Some dye will take that hue away;
A little powder shall, I vow,
Hide the small wrinkles on my brow.

My teeth are sound—I feel no pain—
Their slight ache was but sign of rain;
And then the twinging of my feet
Was nothing but a dream, a cheat.

To me, the night, though dark, seems day,
Colored by Hope's most beauteous ray:
No sorrow hence shall give me pain—
I know I'll never weep again!

LITTLE BELL.

Evening came, a child was missing,
Where she was, we could not tell,—
Hiding, thought we, just for mischief;
Full of fun was little Bell.

Soon we found the little darling,
Hiding in a grassy dell;
All alone? No, gentle angels
Kept safe guard o'er little Bell.

Her sweet chubby cheek was resting
On her little dimpled hands;
While her sunny curls were shining
On her brow, in golden bands.

Silken eyelids softly closing
O'er the dancing eyes of blue,
Kept the envious stars from seeing
Earth can have her diamonds too.

A stick for gun and flag of bonnet
By her on the grass-bed lay;
Ah, poor Bell, our cruel warfare
Came to naught, like children's play.

Naught, alas! but blood and sorrows,
By each hearth a vacant place;
Years of joy can not redeem us
As a nation from disgrace.

Gentle be thy life's sweet slumbers;
Purity in thy heart dwell;
Every blessing rest upon thee—
Is my prayer for little Bell.

WEARINESS.

Ah, is there no, no place on earth
Where weary souls can rest?
Are none who spring from mortal birth
With perfect bliss e'er blest?

Or shall we be forever longing—
Be with wants and wishes filled;
Craving things to earth belonging,
Not the things that God hath willed?

Oh! how weary, weary, weary,
And how long doth seem the day,
When too sad, and lone and dreary,
Plod we on our toilsome way?

With not one, not one to love us,
How can we of bliss e'er dream?
Of the blissful heaven above as
Can we ever catch a gleam?

Can we long endure such sorrow
Without longing for the day—
Praying God that ere the morrow
We may pass from earth away?

Is there even one, a mortal,
Who content with life's sad store
Would retreat from heaven's blest portal,
And return to earth once more?

ONLY A BLUSH.

Only a blush! O'er the cheek it swept,
In a tint, but a shade more bright,
While over the forehead the soft glow crept,
Like Aurora's roseate light.

Only a blush! 'Twas a single word
That the heart's deep fountain woke,
And in turbulent gushes, its depths were stirred,
For the lips were loved that spoke.

Only a blush! Yet the glow revealed
That she loved him, and with pride
In the armor of many a conquest steel'd,
He lingered near her side,

And breathed into her credulous ear,
In the whim of an idle hour,
Vows never forgotten by those who hear
When subjected to Love's cruel power.

Only a blush! Long it lingered there
And assumed a hectic token,
When the vows that woke it had vanished in air,
And the maiden's heart was broken.

A KISS.

A kiss? Pray tell me, what is in a kiss,
That it should be the ultimate of bliss?
I've tried it, and in vain; I cannot see
Why so much sought for a mere kiss should be.

I wish I knew wherein lies the delight,
The smacking part! What's in that to excite?
Or drinking souls from lips, as lovers do—
Ah, let me see—and did I try that too?

I have convinced myself it must be good,
When people kiss each other as they should;
A mouth with rosy lips and a moustache
Together met, knock reason “all to smash.”

KINDNESS.

One single word of heartfelt kindness,
Oft is worth a mine of gold,—
Yet how oft, we, in our blindness,
The most precious wealth withhold.

Like soft dews on thirsting flowers,
It revives the drooping heart;
And its magical blest showers
Is the soul's best healing art.

Oh! however sad and lonely
Life's dark, sterile path may be,
One, one single kind word only
Causeth all its gloom to flee.

How can we know of the troubles
That must rack another's soul,
All must know that empty bubbles
Of Life's cares o'er all heads roll.

Then forgiving and forgetting,
Let for aye the kind word fall,
Only our own sins regretting
With a charity for all.

Then this life will be a pleasure,
When we all speak words of love,
For we know our earthly measure
Will be more than filled above.

CHILD LIFE.

Like the cadence of an old love song,
Borne on a zephyr's wings along,
Fading
and dying,
Then sounding again,
Touching the heart with its mournful strain,
Tearing my soul from its worldly strife,
Came a dream or vision of life, child-life.

Methought the heart of a child stood bare,
And I saw all human passions there,
Urging
and surging
Like waters grand,
Hurled by the mælstrom's mighty hand,
While the billows dashed with a sullen sound,
And scattered the foaming spray around.

'Twas a tiny seed in its embryo state,
Yet I saw there the germs of love and hate—
Loving
and hating!
Together they stood,
Strange that the evil should rest by the good!
Oh! would that to mortals was granted the meed
To cherish the flower, but pluck out the weed!

Faith, Hope and Charity, all were there,
Ambition, revenge, dark revenge, and despair,
Doubting
and wondering,
I touched a small sore,
And the heart of the child was enveloped in gore.
'Twas a slight disappointment that brought forth the blood,
For a sire's broken promise disturbed the deep flood.

Ah! I covered my eyes to shut out the sad sight,
For the face of the child was as dark as the night
Craving
and praying
That knowledge to find
A rest for the weary, a balm for the mind.
With Faith I looked up, and the child's face was fair;
Hope's flower had blossomed through blood and by prayer.

And as the dream-vision was passing away,
Through the deep silence reigning I heard a voice say,
Receive
and believe,
Thou, a mother of youth,
Oh! doubt not this vision, thou knowest its truth!
Thou knowest that virtues and passions are rife
In the beautiful morning of life, child-life.

Beware how thou touchest its heart cords wrong,
For the virtues are weak and the vices are strong.
Gently
and tenderly,
Wake the sweet strain,
Touch pleasure and peace, and no discord will reign.
Thou hast seen, oh my daughter, that each child of earth
Doth emulate manhood, yes, e'en at its birth.

Then deal with it lovingly, let the dream last,
When comes a deep sorrow, the child-life is past.
Softly
and sweetly—
Like light falling rain,
Then dying away as Æolian strain,
The dream-vision vanished, I heard still the voice,
Group no longer in darkness, in thy knowledge rejoice.
I woke, and the sun newly born, grand and bright,
Had flooded my room, and my soul with its light.

EVANISHINGS.

“Darling, how long before this breath will cease?
How long before my soul shall have sweet peace?
I am so weary, that I fain would rest,
Would rest forever on my Saviour's breast.

Ah! let me gaze once more upon the earth,
So gay, so bright, so full of joy and mirth.
The song-birds sing, and bright flowers bloom for me,
And night's pure stars shine on me lovingly:

Earth is all brightness, still I fain would go
Where all is real, where joy ne'er turns to woe,
Where this frail body will be free from pain,
Where we shall meet, no more to part again.

'Tis dark here, father! Oh, weep not for me,
For Heaven is light through all Eternity.
In the pure garland of her Saviour's love
Your bud will shed her fragrance far above.

Oh, mother! Think I've only gone before,—
My sisters! That we soon shall meet once more.
Weep not for me! my heart is passing light,
I'll rest to-morrow robed in spotless white.

Speak louder! for my earthly senses fail—
Terrestrial things before my dim sight pale.
Celestial visions meet my fading sight;
I hear sweet music in the realms of light.

And thou, beloved, who art near my side—
But one short month and I had been thy bride.
How can I leave thee? 'Tis my Saviour's voice,
He would espouse me—fainting heart, rejoice.

Farewell to all, a long and last farewell!
The angels call me where immortals dwell!
With a sweet smile she breathed her latest breath,
And thus our darling triumphed over death.

LIFE FOR A LIFE.

'Tis but a phantom of the weary brain,
An image wrought by sleepless nights of pain—
I know 'tis false, as false as earth can be,
Thy hand, my son, from blood of man is free.

Ah! ha! Thou shrinkest, oh, my son! my son!
If thou art guilty then am I undone!
Still thou art mine, a widow's only child;
Some subtle serpent has thy heart beguiled.

Plead for thee, boy? ay, give my life for thine—
A mother's love is holy, pure, divine.
I will away, to Cromwell will I hie,
And save thee, boy, ay, save or with thee die!

With brow unbent, grim Cromwell stood
Within the Council Hall,
Vouchsafing scarce the slightest glance
Upon the form to fall
Of her who pleaded for the boon
Most precious earth can give.
“Life for a life,” old Cromwell said.
She pleaded, let him live.
No eloquence so powerful as eloquence of love,
It melts the frozen fountain and the hardest heart can move.
Let me go back, the woman cried, to happy days of yore!
That wayward boy you doom to death is a young child once more.
See, see his bright and sunny curls now cradled on my breast!
Again I sing sweet lullaby and soothe my babe to rest.

Sleep, darling, sleep,
Thy mother's near,
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Thou knowest no fear.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Upon my breast;
Sleep, darling, sleep,
Sweet be thy rest.

Cromwell, your heart is hard, they say, but you have children too;
War's tide may turn, you too may plead for some life dear to you.
Then let your better nature act, oh, let my son go free,
And daily prayers by me and mine shall soar aloft for thee.

His features soften; does his heart relent towards my son?
I will another picture draw, then is my pleading done:

See, Cromwell, see, upon the lawn, my curly headed boy,
He knows not he is fatherless, my blessed, only joy.

See how he gambols! how can he know aught of my deep grief?
Tears, scalding tears pour from mine eyes, to give my heart relief.
Ah, now he rushes to my side, and wipes away a tear:
Oh, weep not, mother, for my sire, for, mother, I am here.

Soon, very soon I'll be a man; and then I'll work for you—
But I am little now, mamma, and what can children do?
Now all forgetful of my grief, he playful leaves my side—
You cannot slay my only son, my darling and my pride!

“Life for a life,” again he said, yet hurried a tear to hide;
Then gazing from the casement low, his cheek flushed in its pride.
The pleader's eye had followed his, to where his mother stood,
Well might the conqueror be proud of one so pure and good!

The doomed man's mother grasped his arm; thy mother, Cromwell, see!
Perchance the time may come, stern man, she may thus plead for thee.
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” hath said the Lord thy King—
Spare, spare my child, and blessings rare upon thy household bring.

“Life for life,”—then spare my son, and, Cromwell, let me die;
A mother's love will brave all earth, and even death defy.

The warrior in his fancy saw his mother's bended knee,
Tearing her gray hairs in her grief, yet all unheard her plea.

His stern heart softened, and his eye betrayed the pitying gleam
Which brightened his harsh, stern old face, like a celestial beam.
Go, woman, go, thy prayer is heard, and thy dear son shall live!
This time shall mercy, justice rule, and I for once forgive.

APPLE DUMPLINGS.

BY REQUEST.

Gaze not upon my outside, friend,
With scorn or with disgust—
Judge not, until you condescend
To look beneath the crust.

Rough and unsightly is my shell,
But you just dues will render;
And to the world the truth will tell,
And say my heart is tender.

The young may scorn my olden ways,
With their new-fashioned notions;
The old the insult soon repays
By claiming double portions.

'Tis true, like modern Misses, gay,
The truth is sad, distressing!
But I must now say out my say—
I need a little dressing!

My sauce, my rich apparel, hides
My ugly form from sight;
The goodness of my heart, besides,
Will always come to light.

Then judge not by the surface, dear;
Look deeper at the heart:
Above the faults of earth appear
Beneath the better part.

LIFE.

Life? What is life but fleeting bliss,
As transient as a lover's kiss,
Or like a flower
Of beauty and of fragrance rare
Which blooms, then vanishes in air,
In one short hour.
Unlike the flower, the soul will bloom,
Transplanted far above earth's gloom,
By God's vast power.

Life? What is life? 'Tis but a dream
Of weal or woe, a lightning's gleam,
That fades away.
Yet leaves its impress on the mind—
Some tie that memory will bind

With Love's warm ray:
Or, like the fiery subtle light,
The thoughts of its destroying blight
May last for aye.

Life? What is life? A morning mist,
Which vanishes when e'er 'tis kissed
By Sol's rays bright;
'Tis but a silver-tinted cloud,
Which floats so beautifully proud
In realms of light.
But gaze beneath the silver crest,
You find, deep buried in its breast,
Storms dark as night.

Life? What is life? Hopes, bright hopes wrecked;
Desire curbed, ambition checked,
By earthly scorn.
Vows, sacred vows, too lightly spoken;
Hearts filled with joy, neglected, broken,

'Till at each dawn
The victim sighs for death's release—
For with death will all troubles cease,
And peace is born.

Life? What is life? A heaving sea,
Which take us to Eternity;
Its billows, Time
Upon whose waves our barks are mann'd,
By God's all-powerful command,
To other clime,—
Perchance our goal is land of night,
Or we may take the form of light
In realms sublime.

Life? what is life? that we should grieve
The transient pomps of earth to leave,
When we must see
That flowers bloom to fade away—
That joys last not, for e'en a day.

100

That pleasures flee:
We know that in the land above
We shall redeemed by hand of love
All perfect be.

Then gladly should our souls rejoice
To hear our dear Redeemer's voice
Call us away.
Glad to exchange this land of night—
This land of sorrow and of blight—
For endless day;
Where, clothed in robes of spotless white,
We'll live in realms of boundless light,
For aye, and aye.

101

THE SIGNAL GUN.

Softly now the day is dawning,
Song-birds sing the lays of morning;
Al else around is calm and still,
Except the picket on the hill.

Now where once the morning breeze
Sweetly floated through the trees;
Grim earth-batteries rear on high
Their ghastly heads up to the sky.

From morning's light to evening shades
We dwell in dread of martiral raids;
With faith we trust protecting power
Will shelter us in this dark hour.

102

Listen! now the signal-gun
Tells the picket's work is done;
No more will he watch and wait—
Stands he now at heaven's gate.
Yes, the picket's race is run,
And his heavenly life begun.

103

ALL ALONE.

And shall we ever seek in vain,
In this cold world of ours,
The love of kindred heart to gain
To rouse our latent powers?
Or shall our hearts forever mourn
All alone?

Upon the silvery moon I gaze
And the bright gems of night;
And from their loving, tender rays,
My soul imbibes God's light.
Why to me is that radiance borne
All alone?

104

I feel each gentle, soothing word—
The perfume of the flower—
The thrilling music of the bird—
The twilight's quiet hour:
And sigh to think these joys mine own,
All alone.

Once in my early youth I thought
That answered was my prayer;
Alas! experience soon taught
'Twas but a dream so fair:
In heaven, blest heaven, I shall not mourn
All alone!

105

UPON RECEIPT OF A POUND OF COFFEE IN 1863.

The sight of the coffee was good for sore eyes,
For I have not learned yet its worth to despise;
I welcomed each grain as I culled with care o'er,
And in fancy increased it to ten thousand more.

I put it on fire, and stirred round and round,
Then took it off gently when it was quite browned;
When cool I proceeded to fill up my mill,
And ground up a boiling with very good will.

I measured three spoons full, you see, for us three—
The old Lady Lane, my Grand-mother and me;
I added some water, then put it to boil,
And stood close by, watching, for fear it might spoil.

106

I put cream and sugar in three of our cups,
Then poured out our coffee, and took some good sups.
I thought of the Turk, sitting on his curled knees,
And was sure that our coffee, his Lordship would please.

It spoiled me, and now I'm beginning to think,
When that coffee gives out, what the mischief I'll drink;
I must get some coffee—beg, borrow, or steal—
For after that Java, I can't drink parched meal!

Thus down to the bottom we drank your good health!
May God shower o'er you of blessings a wealth;
May you never want for good coffee and tea—
And, friend, in your buying, remember poor me!

107

MRS. MYRICK'S LECTURE.

You know, dear, that this vicious world is ever prone to see,
Most glaring faults and blemishes, in even purity;
And thus, my dear, a shade of black will much the darker show,
Should it chance to be embedded in the virgin white of snow.

The modest floweret of the wood that's born to blush unseen,
May all its simple defects hide with its own veil of green;
But woe betide the stately rose, the pride of the parterre,
Should but the canker-spot of life upon its leaves appear.

108

The rose's heart, for that is hid, may with the blight corrode;
Have faults, but ever hide them well, for that is a-lá-mode;
Should you but say that you have sinned—that you are but a mortal—
The world, amazed, will scorning cry, “she'll ne'er see heaven's portal!”

The brittle glass of character will have stains on it cast
By malice of the slanderous world, for simple faults, long past;
No matter how much tempted, or how pure your heart has been,
You're wicked, in the last degree, if scandal knows your sin.

Thank God! repentant sinners are not judged by those of earth,
Or they would never be redeemed by an immortal birth.

109

Ah! He, when the last trump shall sound, “who doeth all things well,”
Will wipe our sorrowing tears away, and pains of anguish quell.

See the flaw in this bright diamond; were it but a thing of glass,
A much larger flaw, unnoticed, would before the world's eye pass;
Gaze in the clearest waters, rocks and blemishes you spy,
That in less clearer streamlets would be hidden from your eye.

Be not offended now, my dear, at counsel from a friend,
Who blessings on thy youthful head, would daily, hourly send.
Deep in your heart your secrets keep; to enemies be civil;
And oh, be careful, and avoid appearances of evil.

110

TO FANNIE.

Write to thine eyes? Why, my poor pen
Quails at the unequal task;
I fear you don't appreciate
The mighty boon you ask.

Thine eyes, I know, oh! beautiful!
True poets would inspire;
But, dear, you should remember, that
I've not a poet's fire.

But still at thy request I call
My sleeping muse to me,
To write a sonnet to thine eyes—
Would it were worthy thee!

111

Tender and loving, soft and pure,
They pierce the heart of man;
And with the aid of Cupid's darts,
Maim all the hearts they can.

Bright as the stars in yonder sky,
They shine for all on earth:
So sad in sorrow, glad in joy,
And sparkling in their mirth.

They, like the eyes of the gazelle,
Gaze fondly where you love;
And who receives such gaze, esteems
Them angels from above.

Bright as the light of long-sought home
To pilgrims o'er earth's way,
Whose footsteps sore, have wandered far,
Through weary year and day.

112

The light of love, the light of truth,
From thy soft eyes e'er beam;
And from thy heart, so kind and true,
A host of virtues gleam.

Now if this sonnet, Fannie, dear,
Were written by a lover,
A thousand charms no doubt he'd see,
That I cannot discover.

113

I AM WEARY, MOTHER.

I am weary, Mother, and I fain would rest
Beside thee, in the cold and silent tomb—
The rayless pathways of a life unblest,
Are dark, beside the brightness of death's gloom.

I place my hand upon the marble white
Above thee, Mother, and it chills my frame;
Yet 'tis not cold as hearts which take delight
In casting stains upon a once fair name.

Few summers, Mother, smiled above thy head;
Ere thou wast chilled by breath of Azael's wing,
Love, flowers and sunshine brightness o'er thee shed,
But naught had power immortal life to bring.

114

My life has been one checkered scene of woe;
True, Spring and Summer flowers 'round me cast—
But ah, they faded, like all things below—
Bloomed but a moment, and like dreams, were past.

Why didst thou leave me, Mother? thy frail child
Had not the strength to guide her bark alone;
Full many a soul by false lights are beguiled,
But few are safely o'er life's breakers borne.

Ah! I have erred, my Mother; but my sin
Upon Him rests, whose blood all guilt redeems!
My heart was weak—but who is pure within?
What heart untouched by sin's dread, seething gleams?

But, Mother, I have left me some bright hours—
I revel 'mid the Barmacidian feast!
I cull imagination's fairest flowers;
I live again, with Shepherds in the East.

115

Oft Cleopatra's magic wand I wield
O'er Anthony and Julius Cæsar's reign—
With Sheba's queen, to Solomon I yield—
And, with fair Ruth, I glean the scanty grain.

With Beatricia Canci now I sigh,
The helpless victim of a Father's sin;
In loathsome dungeons, with her prey to die,
And weeping, think of joys which might have been

By Eloise, within the convent cell,
I listen for my Abelard's loved voice,
Whose every cadence, ah! I know full well,
Whose softest footsteps make my heart rejoice.

Is it a sin to dream? to live once more
Among remembered nations of the past—
To recall those who've only gone before,
And live beyond the reach of earth's rude blast?

116

The future, Mother, hath bright charms for me;
Not on this earth, but in my home above,
Where from temptation, sin, and sorrow free,
I'll see once more the dear ones that I love.

117

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

Mother, for months a mist has been before me,
And I have sought, in memory, to bind
All objects loved, ere darkness gathered o'er me,
For in my heart, I felt I would be blind.

I am so young, my Mother, that my sorrow
Is fraught with bitter anguish of despair;
How can I bear to think, that each to-morrow
Will robe in darkness all earth's beauties rare!

I feel a sunbeam, Mother, resting on me;
I take the omen to my breaking heart—
For thy sweet voice, thy loving hand upon me,
Will to thy son bright rays of light impart.

118

'Tis said that beauties, Mother, grow still fairer,
When looked upon through vista of past years,
And that joy's paintings seem still brighter, rarer,
Their colors set by sorrow's briny tears.

On memory's tablet, Mother, I have flowers
More beautiful than artist's cherished gems—
And bright tipped clouds of twilight quiet hours,
More prized by me than countless diadems.

And trees of Autumn, with their hues e'er changing,
And then the gentle budding green of Spring
Will keep my thoughts from ever, ever ranging
To leafless boughs that winter's blasts e'er bring

And I have faces passing sweet, too, Mother—
More holy than Corregio's fair saint;
Yes, I have drawn thy image, sister, brother,
And thine too, Mother, without earthly taint.

119

And, Mother, now too surely I am dreaming:
Sweet Lily's eyes will soon become my light,—
No, 'tis no dream, and earth with joy is teeming,
For Lily promised to be mine last night.

120

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

I entered my parlor one bright summer morn,
My vases with flowers, sweet flowers to adorn.
In arranging the curtains, there fell on my head
A dear little humming-bird, dead—quite dead!

I pressed the poor darling so close to my heart,
And thought that I felt a slight flutter, a start!
Could I but restore it to life, how divine,
How sweet, how delicious a joy would be mine!

I rushed to the garden and placed its long mouth
In the sweet honey-suckle which blooms in the South;
I saw that the humming-bird drew a long breath,
As it tasted the nectar that saved it from death!

121

The minutes flew past, yet I staid in the bower,
And moved my poor birdling from flower to flower;
At last, with a sweet strain of grateful heart's praise,
It flew upward, far upward, beyond my eyes' gaze.

Thus when you, dear children, are dying in sin—
When all is a void and an aching within—
Drink deep of the nectar of God's holy love,
And your souls will be wafted to mansions above.

122

THE SOLDIER BOY'S DREAM

A soldier boy lay dreaming
In his lonely prison cell,
While the stars above were gleaming,
And their lustre on him fell.
His dreams were bright, angels of light
Were hovering o'er his head;
'Twas day in night, the spirit's sight,
The living of sleep's dead.

On wings of love his soul was borne
By the celestial band,
Where he no longer mourned alone,
To his home in Southern land.

123

He roved in bowers, amid sweet flowers
Of every kind, and shade,—
The mock-bird's note thrilled from its throat,
And music filled the glade.

His noble sire, with silver hair,
Again stood by his side;
His saintly mother breathed a prayer
For this her son, her pride.
And yet again, joy deep brings pain!
His Katy meets him there—
Stands by his side, his promised bride;
Sweet Katy, pure and fair.

Again he cools his fever'd brain
With water soft and clear,
Whose murmuring, like distant rain,
Falls soothing on his ear.
And now a stroke the silence broke,
The wood-bird seeks his prey,—
Ah! 'tis not dreams, the daylight gleams,
The wood-bird's strokes still stay.

124

The boy sprang to his window small,
Gazed on the passing night—
A new-made gallows, grim and tall,
Loomed to his eager sight:
In his despair, he tore his hair,
And cursed the craven nation,
Who for but hate, made death his fate—
Noble retaliation!

A soft hand touched the stricken'd boy,
And an Æolian voice
Bade him, in accents full of joy,
To follow, and rejoice!
On by the guards, the sleeping guards,
They flew like silent death,
Without a sound the gate they found,
Scarce drawing e'en a breath.

Now the dread danger all is o'er;
He turned to thank his guide;
He gazed again once more, once more—
No one stood near his side.

125

Celestial light dawned o'er his night,
Earth seemed with glory bound,—
Filled him with joy, the blissful joy
Of Liberty, new found.

126

MINE.

Her eyes are bright as sparkling stars,
And as the violet blue;
In them celestial beauty lies,
The soul-light flashing through.

No painter, how e'er great his skill,
Can imitate her hair;
Naught save a sunset sea of gold
Had ever shade so rare.

The lilies with pale roses blend,
And melt upon her cheek—
Her carmine lips disclose seed pearls,
When e'er they ope to speak!

127

Her tiny ear, like sea-side shell,
Pink-ting'd, of perfect mould,
A moment gleams, then disappears,
Lost in the sea of gold.

Ah, should you see my birdie blithe,
In some lone sylvan dell,
You'd think she was a fairy child,
Made mortal by a spell.

Her voice! ah, never tropic bird
Could trill so sweet a glee;
Nor is the sad Æolian harp
So full of melody.

My birdie speaks, no earthly strain
Could thus my spirit move,
For her sweet notes pierce through my heart,
And thrill the cords of love.

128

For this fair child, this fairy bright,
So nearly being divine,
To me is sunshine, hope and life—
For she is mine, all mine!

129

MISTLETOE.

On yonder oak, upon its lordliest height,
Is fastened the destroying parasite;
His mighty arms caress his fawning foe,
And yield their life-sap to the mistletoe.

Through bark, through wood, the fatal roots extend;
The parasitic verdure seems a friend,
O'erspreading the gnarled trunk with livelier green—
Alas! decay, and death soon end the scene!

First dies the oak, and then the parasite
Cannot survive its royal patron's blight;
And when I look abroad among mankind,
Close semblance, and fit moral do I find.

130

God feared that poor, weak mortals here below
By chance might be too fond of earth's vain show
In hopes to draw our hearts from earth to heaven
The monster jealousy to us was given.

Search where you may, this wide, wide world around,
The green-eyed thing in every house is found;
In truth, it bitters every sweet of life,
And creates discord between man and wife.

To some it wears the winning garb of love,
And seems as sweet as any cooing dove:
Look closely, and perchance you can discover
The thing has other form than that of lover.

To sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers too,
As friend it goes, and seems so kind and true,
That they would fain believe all that it says,
And take, for pattern, its own noble ways.

131

Like mistletoe, it seems so green and bright,
At first you'd view it with unfeigned delight;
Examine it again, and you will see
Its nature with its looks does not agree.

For jealousy from out the tree of love
Its verdure draws, and like the plant above,
The roots, instead of dying, as they should
With age, become embedded in the wood.

And thus it lives, long, weary months and years,
And causes sorrow, guilt, and heartfelt tears,—
The boisterous winds of sorrow bear the seed,
And plant on other trees the loathsome weed.

Alas! in mercy sent, no tender hand
Can take this parasite from our good land;
It stays, and from its birth-place never hies,
Until it kills the tree, and then it dies.

132

FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Five buds were on the parent tree,
But God took one away;
“This flower will be too fair,” said He,
“Upon this earth to stay.”

And now, by His own throne above,
Our bud is blooming fair;
Twined in the garland of His love,
Our Prince is proud to wear.

A smaller bud now groweth there,
Whose red we just descry—
A blithesome child, with silken hair,
Gay as a butterfly.

133

With joy and gladness for her dower,
And always on the wing,
She extracts sweets from every flower—
For her, life has no sting.

My Pet! of all, I love thee best—
Thou child of noblest mind,—
Who lov'st me more than all the rest,
So generous, good and kind!

Sweet bud! Thou'rt very fair to me,
Unfolding day by day;
From sorrow be thou ever free,
On earth—long be thy stay!

And still another openeth rare,
Its petals now unclose,
More lovely far beyond compare
Than any splendid rose.

134

Graceful her form, as willow tree,
Her hair of sunny hue;
Face fair as mortal face can be,
Her eyes of heavenly blue.

Endowed with nature's every gift—
With beauty, mind and health;
Oh, may she never cast adrift
Such store of Nature's wealth!

Transplanted to another clime,
The eldest bud hath bloomed;
But cankered ere the opening time,
Her life to sorrow doomed.

Once, thoughtless, happy, gay and bright,
In life's young opening day,
'Till the fell frost, with glittering blight,
Ate her young heart away.

135

Now she awaits her Saviour's voice,
To kindly bid her come;
Her broken heart can but rejoice
To hear the summons home!

136

LINES TO AN OLD DRESS.

Alas! the time has come, old dress,
When you and I must part;
To say adieu, my valued friend,
Is tearing heart from heart.

Long years have passed since thou wert new,
Long years of war and crime;
But sight of thee to memory brings
The olden golden time.

I'd braid my silken tresses smooth;
Then cast thee o'er my form,
And press my hand upon my heart,
To quell tumultuous storm.

137

For well I know whose eye would beam
To see me thus arrayed;
'Twas one whose gentle tender glance,
His love for me betrayed.

Old dress, dost thou remember well
That beauteous moon-light night,
When the hoped-for truth o'erwhelmed my heart,
With a perfect blaze of light?

How he clasped us to his heart, old dress,
And he vowed beneath the stars,
That naught in heaven could us divide—
'Twas registered by Mars.

Ah, the Gods but mocked us then, old dress,
With a short, sweet dream of bliss,
That vanished, alas! from our mortal sight,
Like the dew at the sun's warm kiss.

138

In but a short year from then, old dress,
That sudden gleam of light
Had passed away, and left me naught,
But the darkness of midnight.

For Mars laughed at our arrogance,
And he hurled his mighty dart,
And my love lies in the battle-field,
And broken is my heart.

Ah, I cannot give thee up, old dress,
For thy threads are links of chain,
That bind my memory to the past—
To long gone joys and pain.

139

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

UPON THE LOSS OF HER CHILDREN'S PHOTOGRAPHS AT SEA.

Hast thou no mercy, wind, that thou should'st tear from me,
All that is left me of my loved—my own?
Thy hand is human, else it could not be
With weight of sorrow in my poor heart borne.

Two clinging vines, trained by my erring hand,
Two rose-buds, with their petals scarce unclosing—
See how they float, like tiny barks well manned,
Now like a bird upon the wave reposing.

Mock me not, waves! Why on your flirting spray,
Toss ye my precious darlings to and fro?
Oh! save them, sailor, ere they pass away;
Their worth to me, no mortal's soul can know.

140

There! see ye not their fairy brightness gleaming,
Like stars upon the darkness of the night?
See that fond smile upon each feature beaming;
Wave, can ye thus deprive my soul of light?

On, on they fly! too late! the ocean cave
Now claims among her jewels two rare gems,
Worth thousands such as Eastern monarchs crave,
To form star-clusters in their diadems.

Whene'er I looked into those faces fair,
Into those eyes of clear celestial blue,
I always prayed, and felt God heard my prayer,
That for their sakes I might be good and true.

Now those fair faces and those eyes of blue,
No more will daunt me with their pleading gaze;
The deep sea hides them from my reckless view,
And unrebuked I'll walk in worldly ways.

141

No! not unchecked; when sin's allurements fair,
Tempt me to err, with wily, subtle art,
I hear sweet voices in each breath of air,
“See, mother, see! thy children in thy heart.”

Then keep my jewels, sea, and guard them well;
I care not, wind, for your revengeful rage;
My babes are painted by love's mystic spell,
In colors rare, upon fond memory's page.

142

TO FATHER.

My father! when I saw thee last,
Thy noble, manly form,
Was unbent by the cares of time—
Unshattered by life's storm.

The raven hair around thy brow
Was scarcely tinged with gray—
While the bright lustre of thine eye
Denied old age's sway.

Oft in my dreams I see thy face,
As 'twas when last we met;
If we should never meet again,
Thy smile I'll ne'er forget.

143

My father, years have passed since then;
Aye, stern, heart-breaking years;
And we have each been made to feel
Life's sorrows, and life's tears.

Now, I am in my womanhood—
They say, life's glorious page;
And, father, I regret to think,
That you have reached old age.

Grieve not, grieve not, for broken buds,
They'll open in the sky;
In bower of celestial light,
They'll bloom, and never die.

Dear father, thou hast ever been
To me, thy orphan child,
A father and a mother too,
Kind, thoughtful, just and mild.

144

Then grant me, father, but this boon,
Then will thy child be blest—
Let me watch o'er thy latest years,
And lay thee down to rest.

145

I AM FASHION'S TOY.

LINES WRITTEN UPON SEEING A FASHIONABLY-DRESSED LADY ASK A SERVANT FOR A FEW BLADES OF GRASS, WHICH SHE PLACED UPON HER BOSOM.

Oh! give to me of the bright green leaves,
For they tell me of the past;
When I roved at will mid the golden sheaves—
And my heart it wildly, madly grieves,
And it throbs so painfully fast,
As I think of the days of peace and joy
That forever are gone—I am fashion's toy.

Yes, the modeste decks my raven hair,
In many a shape and coil—
And she dyes my cheek with the carmine rare,
And she makes my brow as the lily fair,

146

And they tell me, for beauty I can compare
With the daughters of eastern soil;
Yet, I sigh when I smile in my empty joy,
For I know, alas! I am fashion's toy.

My form is stately, and full of pride—
And the high of the land linger near my side,
Yet as they fawning bow,
My heart flows back on sweet memory's tide,
And I forget they are near my side,
And the past seems to me now.
Then I dream of the sweets that could not cloy,
For a moment forget, I am fashion's toy.

Yes, this grass reminds me of long past hours,
When in the woodland glen
I revelled 'mid song and birds and flowers,
And formed, with the evergreen, fairy bowers.
Ah! I was not lonely then;
For he was with me, my pride, my joy—
He is dead to me now, I am fashion's toy.

147

Ah! the hearts and the diamonds that lie at my feet—
Hearts are all hollow, and diamonds a cheat,
Yet I cannot cast them away;
I need much wealth for my life of deceit—
Yes, I need it every day.
I must give to the poor, for that bliss doesn't cloy;
'Tis my only relief—I am fashion's toy.

And is there no end to this empty life;
To this life of lip-smiles and a soul at strife?
Must it ever, ever last?
Shall I look through the vista dim of years,
And see there naught but grief, sin, and tears?
Ah! these blades of grass for a moment brief,
O'erflood my soul with a sweet relief,
And I live in the happy past.
In my dreams, I again am a maiden coy,
And I live o'er my life of love and joy—
Now, the dream is past. I am fashion's toy.

148

THE MAIL HAS COME.

Now the bitter pangs of hope deferred
O'er us no longer reign,—
But the very depths of our hearts are stirred
With a still more poignant pain;
And we sadly think of the lapse of years,
And our eyes grow dim with the unshed tears.

Where are the noble, the good, the brave,
The father, husband, son?
Can we bless the hand that the sorrow gave,
And say, “Thy will be done?”
Ah! we sadly weep o'er their honored graves—
But we glory to think, that they died not slaves.

149

Yes, we scorn to yield to a tyrant's power:
For oppression we despise;
But ah, in the twilight's quiet hour,
In bereaved hearts will arise
Fond thoughts of our kindred far away;
And again Hope emits her bright diamond-like ray.

Now the mail has come; in my trembling hand
Many missives of love I hold;
Northern brothers, such love is a stronger band
Than our cotton, our slaves, your gold.
Now I open them, one by one, in dread
To hear from the living, and the dead.

Ah! Ava Maria, mother mild,
I thank thee for thy care;
My father will see again his child,
Thou hast hearkened to my prayer.
But his form is bent, and the hand of time
Has silvered his locks with its war and crime.

150

Why with bitter will mingle the sweets of earth?
Why with hope will come despair?
Why cherish sweet flowers, when at their birth,
We know that their beauties rare,
At the touch of stern winter's chilling blast,
Will vanish forever, like dreams of the past?

My sister, my darling, has passed away—
She is not dead, but sleeping;
Again we will meet, in a short earthly day,
Then why are we still weeping!
We should gladly rejoice that the pride of our life
Was transplanted above all this war, sin, and strife.

All send kindest greeting from over the sea—
Not a word that can wound the full heart;
Full of deep tender feeling and sympathy,
Their letters but cheer impart:
Then shall I for this, but a national pride,
Cast the friends of my childhood's days aside?

151

No, I love the fair South, and my heart would bound
In its fullness of ecstacy,
Could but the glad cry from each hill resound—
We are free! we are free! we are free!
Yet again I send greeting far over the sea,
Each kind letter thence is thrice welcome to me.

1865.

152

TO DON JUAN BAZ, EX-GOV. OF MEXICO.

Welcome, stranger! glad I greet thee,
Welcome to our friendly shore;
Kindred hearts exult to meet thee,
Rest thyself in peace once more.

Think not I ignore the anguish
Which must rack thy soul with pain,
As thou dream'st of those who languish,
Far across the distant main.

No. I, too, am homeless, weary,
Fainting in my worldly strife;
And I know how very dreary
'Tis to be alone in life.

153

'Tis in sympathy I greet thee;
May my simple words impart
Some ray of light, a ray to cheat thee
Of sad thoughts that swell thy heart.

Sept. 20th, 1866.

154

DISAPPOINTMENT.

Oh, how can I live in a torture so wild,
And yet always be dreaming of bliss?
Why not learn Fate has doomed me to be sorrow's child,
And in meekness the heavy rod kiss?

I have lived for long months in a bright land of dreams,
Dawning roseate as th' opening of day;
But alas! the bright tints were but lightning gleams,
Flashing wrath, and then fading away.

True bliss of the soul I have constantly sought,
But alas! I have sought it in vain;
On earth its base semblance is rended and bought,
And I never will seek it again.

155

How I long for some spot in the solitude deep,
All alone I could dwell there for years;
My only companion, Repentance, and weep
Living fountains of sorrowful tears.

I feel we are drifting too surely apart,
And sadly I think of the pain,
For my loss, which will gnaw the proud core of your heart,
As alone you sail over life's main.

Oh, why do I sorrow? I know there is rest
For the weary, in mansions above;
And I long to go home to the land of the blest,
And drink deep of God's pardoning love.

156

GONE.

“She was beautiful in life And beautiful in death.”

Gone, with all her sparkling beauty,
Gone, with innocence and youth;
Gone, with loving ways and kindness,
Gone, with happiness and truth.

In the tomb they gently laid her—
Even strangers dropped a tear;
And one heart will feel the anguish
Of her loss for many a year.

Father, mother, loving sisters,
Deeply mourn the lov'd and lost;
Who can tell the crushing sorrow
Of the heart who lov'd her most?

157

Oft, I fancy, in the twilight,
That I see her winning face;
Dream to find, ah, sad awakening!
I was gazing into space.

Sister, this our earthly parting,
Will not, cannot, be for aye;
We will meet, ah, soon, my darling,
Where there is eternal day!

158

“I WAS A STRANGER AND YE TOOK ME IN.’

Tossed on the stormy waves of time,
By sternest cares oppressed,
I sought and found in Northern clime
A holy place of rest.

Blessed, thrice blessed be this spot,
Abiding place of peace,—
May trouble's hand pollute it not,
And only joys increase.

And you, fair Annie, may your days
Be fraught with joy and lightness;
May thornless flowers bestrew your ways,
And all your hours be brightness.

159

THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.

How slowly glide the hours by, the minutes hours seem;
Ah! can such misery be real, or is it but a dream?
'Tis passing strange that such as this should be my lot in life—
The curse I've always dreaded most,—to be an unloved wife.

The lark sung blithely as he left, quite early in the day;
The noon-time came, and then the night, and still he stays away;
Alas! I am too lonely now, for the children are asleep,
And I have nothing else to do, but watch, and wait, and weep.

160

The moon is shining brightly, and her calm and chilly beams
Would woo me if they could to seek the fairy land of dreams;
And the stars look down with pity from their lofty thrones above,
And tell me of the many things I have on earth to love.

Ah! earth is very beautiful: its sunshine and its flowers
Can truly heal the broken heart, and cheer its lonely hours;
But, ah! when night comes—lonely night, with all its starry train,—
The new-healed wound, the broken heart, begins to bleed again.

How endless seems this dreary night! and yet, 'tis only ten;
I ask aloud, “when will he come?” Echo repeats the “when?”

161

I fancy in each leaf that falls, 'tis his footsteps I hear;
But I will learn to school myself, nor deign to shed a tear.

Eleven, now! the night wears on, and still I am alone,—
How favored are the mortals who are blessed with hearts of stone!
My Father, on thy daughters look with pitying eye, I pray;
Ere such a lot in life be theirs, take them from life away.

Ah! oft, too oft, such lives of woe merge into lives of sin;
Poor woman's heart must bow before some image loved within;
Man's love must guide her footsteps, and her daily pathway cheer—
Then can it be a sin to love the one who holds her dear?

162

'Tis twelve o'clock! How can I still this throbbing of my brain?
I wonder how much life like this makes loving wives insane!
Each passing sound—the gentle breeze falls on my ear like fire,
And yet I dread to hear his voice—I dread the drunkard's ire!

The ceaseless ticking of the clock, with hollow, vocal sound,
Smites on my heart with boding voice, that leaves a bleeding wound:
And now, 'tis on the stroke of one! Will this night never end?
The watch-dog's bark, the mock-bird's note, and cock's shrill clarion blend.

Another hour rolls slowly on, and in the distant west
The pale moon hides her pearly beams, by sinking down to rest;

163

And now adown the distant road his horse I surely hear—
Ah, yes! ah, yes! his maudlin tones fall on my listening ear.

“Down, Flora, down! here, Pup, come here! Why, puppies, are you glad
To see your master home again? I believe the dogs are mad!”
And now he comes with tottering steps, and fury in his eye—
Ah! if I could, right gladly would I lay me down and die.

How can I bear this heavy load—for months, perhaps for years;
Wear out my life of misery with sorrow, sin, and tears?
How long! how long! how long! oh, Lord, will last this life of strife?
And shall I always—always be a drunkard's wretched wife?

164

THE FATHER'S LOVE.

Far more priceless than the diamonds rare from Golconda's rich mine;
Far more precious than the laurel wreaths that victor's brows entwine,
Is the garland that fond memory weaves, and twines about the heart—
For care nor time, nor war nor crime, can make its tints depart.

A mother's love! most sacred boon to mortals ever given;
'Tis not of earth; a mother's love was surely born in heaven!
See with what gentle, tender care her darling child she shields
From harms of life, from every strife this sphere terrestrial yields!

165

But ah, to me, of all the buds in memory's garland fair,—
And I have there full many a gem of worth and beauty rare,—
Is remembrance of my Father's love, that ever shineth bright!
To me, its ray tells of the day that dawns upon the night.

He gave to me a double share—a Joseph's sacred part,—
And it twined itself, like ivy-green, about my infant heart.
I have revelled in gay fashion's throng, have bowed at folly's shrine,
But I am sure my heart is pure, while Father's love is mine.

All other love is mockery to this, a Father's love—
Fit emblem of the strength of His, who dwelleth far above:

166

More lasting than eternity—more boundless than the sea!
The blessing mine, the ray divine, may Father's love e'er be.

167

BURIAL OF A FAIRY QUEEN.

On a verdant summer islet
I beheld a wondrous scene,
In a trance of dreamy waking—
Burial of a Fairy Queen!

First I heard some small pipes playing,
Like faint night-winds on the breeze,
Or the sound of distant rain-drops,
As they fall among the trees.

Floating softly o'er the waters,
And from every bell of foam,
The fairy anthem echoed sweetly,
Sad as thoughts of distant home.

168

Next the sound, as if of footsteps,
O'er the grass plot mov'd along;
And distinctly came the accents
Of the solemn funeral song.

Like the melting of the dew-drops,
Without words of grief or death,
Was the soul-enthralling music,
Scarcely louder than a breath.

Then my dreaming eyes were opened,
And in wonder I espied
Thousands of the fairy creatures
In a circle, side by side.

Scarcely taller than the leaflets
Of the herbage on the plain,
While their heads were bowed with anguish,
And their tear-drops fell like rain.

169

In the middle of the circle,
On a plat of grass most green,
Stood a bier of unknown flowers,
Whereon lay the Fairy Queen.

Ah, she was pale as any lily,
Cold and motionless as snow!
Fainter grew their solemn dirges,
And still deeper grew their wo!

Two sisters of the queenly fairy,
Stood at her feet and head,
And sang heart-broken measures,
Their requiems o'er the dead.

Scarcely louder than the twittering
Of the wood-lark's dewy breath—
But too full of desolation,
And the dark despair of death!

170

Then the flower-bier sank gently,
At the spot whereon it lay;
And the magic turf clos'd o'er it—
Thus the dead queen pass'd away!

Bright dew-drops glittered on the sward—
One fleet moment more, and then
The mystic troop sailed duskily,
And far from mortal ken.

The silence of the still midnight
The murmuring waters broke;
The moon, emerging from a cloud,
Shone on me, and I woke.

171

MYSTERIES OF LIFE.

God said, “Let there be light, and there was light,”
Created from the darkness infinite:
And from the waters, called he forth the Earth,
And Heaven rejoiced at this, her sister's birth.
The Earth brought forth the grass, the herb, the tree,
And flowers, bright flowers, so priceless and so free.
The heavens, God decked with mighty gems of light,
Sol ruled the day, the moon and stars the night.
“Let waters bring forth creatures that have life.”
On earth, in air, in water there was strife.

172

God saw that all his wondrous work was good,
As on his throne of Holiness he stood.
One thing was wanting, and the world so fair,
He perfect made; He placed his image there.
And woman too—of man the better part,
He made to twine herself about man's heart.
We gaze upon all natural works sublime,
Mark daily births, and sad decay of time:
We see flowers blooming—see them fade away—
We see bright visions vanish in a day:
We dream of joy—of perfect earthly bliss,
Dreams soft and sweet, yet fleeting as a kiss.
The wild wind comes—ah, whither does it go?
From whence do all these gushing waters flow?
Why do the roots take moisture from the soil?
And beauteous flowers neither spin nor toil;
Yet they in robes of splendor are arrayed,
Of texture fine, and colors of each shade.
Birds, beasts, and flowers, throughout our beauteous land,
Mysterious works of an Almighty hand.

173

In vain we seek solution here to find,
Of these great problems—earth and all mankind.
Man is the greatest mystery of life,
For in his soul are passions ever rife.
He in his Saviour's mighty image plann'd,
To love, to hate, to serve, and to command:
Yet changing ever—one thing but a day;
First young, then old, then passing quite away.
In his blind ignorance doomed to never know,
From whence he cometh, whither he will go.
Perchance his soul once lived in a bright flower,
Which bloomed and faded in a short sweet hour;
Perchance he dwelt in yonder twinkling stars—
In loving Venus, or the warlike Mars;
In youth he ever craves to be of age,
In age he sighs while reading memory's page
Forever filled with longings undefined,
With high-wrought fancies of a craving mind:
Craving, alas! but doomed to never find
Congenial nature to our hearts to bind.

174

Yearning for something cloudy as a dream,
He grasps the rainbow, finds it lightning's gleam.
The soul drinks beauty from each hill and dale,
The clouds of sunset and the flowery vale;
Revels amid the histories of yore,
Drinks deep of knowledge, wildly craves for more.
He is ambitious—he seeks lasting fame,
Will earth defy to win immortal name.
He would be happy. Ah, all joy, all bliss
Lasts but a moment in a world like this.
Why should we seek to solve this mystery?
Through time 'twill last, until Eternity;
We know that God, in his omnipotence,
Will make dark, light, when we are called from hence.
And then alone, when ceases this frail breath,
We'll read the mystery of Life, and Death.

175

LINES UPON THE DEATH OF CHARLEY DU BIGNON.

The years of manhood had not tinged
His young life with their gloom,
He tasted not the bitter cup
That comes with life's full bloom,

Of fond hopes wrecked, ambition crushed,
'Till doubting even truth,
The sternest soul would hide itself
In memories of youth.

He saw not that in friendship's smile,
Was lurking hate, deceit;
Nor had he proven earthly bliss,
A mirage, dream—a cheat.

176

While youth sees but the beautiful,
The sunshine and the flowers,
Maturity will have its cares,
And winter its cold showers.

Fortune bestowed on this her child,
High heritage, proud birth,—
Dame Nature added, as her dower,
Rare gifts of untold worth;

More priceless than most sparkling gems,
As pure as gold refined;
Most glorious birth-right—sacred gifts,
A noble heart and mind.

How his proud, young soul revolted
At oppression's cruel reign,
And he rushed forth to the battle-field,
Our freedom to regain.

177

He thought not of his slender frame,
His heart was filled with might;
His armor God—Truth for his shield—
His watchwords, Freedom! Right!

Alas, alas! where are they now,
Our noble, good—our braves?
Does our shame reflect upon them?
No, they rest in soldiers' graves.

And the old star-spangled banner,
Dyed with gore above us waves,
And our gallant dead are freemen,
And the living Union's slaves.

Then mourn not, parents, for your son,
Your much-beloved—your pride;
He dwells above this earthly sphere,
Where lasting joys abide.

178

When this troubled dream is over,
You will meet your boy again,
Ah, you would not then recall him
To this earth of war and pain?

Then mourn not, parents, for your dead,
But think that his pure name
Is on the list with those who wear
The laurel wreath of fame.

179

WE MET.

We met, and memory flew to joys and tears,
Back through the vista dim, of long-past years.
In my childhood's home I was a child again—
A home to me, save only in the name.

And yet I loved it, for there grew apace
Four lovely children ripening into grace;
If 'twas not home, they sisters were to me,
And even now their fairy forms I see.

Once by a tomb, alone I stood so drear—
Dropped on a mother's grave a daughter's tear.
A soft voice murmured, “She's my mother too;
Sister, I'll put some flowers there for you.”

180

God bless the child, she was too fair for earth;
Such flowers as she should have immortal birth;
And so God took our darling home on high,
Where she will bloom to never fade and die.

No stranger was she in that home above,
Where she was greeted with a mother's love;
A wife stood waiting for a husband's child;
A sister welcomed with a gladness mild.

We met, and I to him brought back—not years,
But months deep fraught, alas, with joys and tears,
That child a maiden grown, stood by his side;
His light, his life, his darling, promised bride.

Again he stood by that sad bed of death,
And felt the painful throbbing of her breath.
“I am so weary that I fain would rest—
Oh, darling, place my head upon your breast.”

181

We meet with hearts fast bound by mutual grief;
We knew that sympathy could give relief;
So when our stranger hands were joined together,
A lonely sister found a loving brother.

182

DRINK ON.

Take in hand the cup of delusion,
With your eyes on the future, drink;
Scorn the results, however appalling,
Tho' you see that you stand upon Hell's dark brink.

The bubbles that float on the top of the cup
Are only the tears of your wife!
You have drained her happiness in the draught—
Drink on, you will drain her life.

Drink on, fill the glowing cup anew—
Now the drops look red, blood red:
It is only the blood of your little ones—
And their doom rests on your head!

183

Drink then, drink on; take the cup to your lips!
What matter if parents' grey hairs
Are floating upon its surface in scores!
Drink on, you will drown your cares!

Drink then, drink on; for you must take the cup—
'Tis no longer a matter of will;
No longer the cup of habit or choice—
But the cup of punishment—fill!

Yes, drain the cup to the bitter dregs,
While the fiends laugh at your pains;
And exult to know that but wretchedness
In the tempting wine remains.

184

SPEAK TO HER TENDERLY.

Speak to her tenderly, taunt her not now,
Tho' a million of sins hath deep furrowed her brow;
Greet her with kindness. Her once raven hair
Is frosted with silver time's hand hath left there.

Cheeks now so colorless, bloomed like the rose;
Lips now all tremulous, spoke but repose;
Dim eyes, all clouded with fountains of tears,
Were like the young fawn's eyes, in long agone years.

Speak to her tenderly. How can you know
Why bowed her young soul 'neath temptation's fell blow?

185

It may be that poverty planted the seed—
Tears nourished its growth, Pride matured the rank weed.

It may be, she loved, tho' unwisely, too well;
It may be, the serpent allured, with his spell,
That from his sweet charming she woke but to know
The death in life sorrow—the all-alone woe.

It may be, in sinning, she erred but to save
A dear one from filling want's desolate grave;
Perchance some unkindness first drove to despair,
A manly heart saved her, she wept her grief there.

Then judge not too harshly. Remorse's heavy hand
Is a terrible stricture—an icy-cold band;
Long years of repentance, of praying, and pain,
And the blood of the Saviour, hath cleansed her from stain!

186

KNITTING.

My muse is in the sulks to-day,
I've tried in vain to find
A subject fit for rhyme and song,
Just suited to my mind.

I called last night upon the stars,
To-day upon the sun,—
My muse would leave me in the lurch,
With just a line begun.

I tried to work, I tried to sing,
And then I tried to play;
And then I took my knitting up,
To while the time away.

187

And then the flashes of quick thought,
With bliss thrilled all my soul;
With every stitch did fancy's hand,
A saddening page unroll.

The dullest of the dullest work,
So tiresome, and so slow!
To knit, and knit, the live-long day,
And still small increase show

But as I knit, a fairy web
My brain wore in its dreaming,
And in each stitch my fancy saw
Some bright poetic gleaming.

And stitch by stitch the work goes on,
For some proud soldier brave,
Who may, perchance, these stitches wear,
Into a soldier's grave.

188

Far away from mother, sister—
Aye, from wife and daughter true,
With their feet all bare and bleeding,
And their hearts all bleeding too.

Now, perchance, one may be lying
Wounded on the cold earth damp,
While so feebly, faintly burning,
Is the last light of life's lamp.

Bright visions of the happy past,
Move slow before his eyes—
And then the mocking present comes
To taunt him ere he dies.

The glorious future once so bright,
To him has now grown dim—
Alone he dies, while song-birds sing
The solemn funeral hymn.

189

Ah! in some distant cottage,
His dear wife knitting there,
Is sending with each stitch she takes,
An earnest, heartfelt prayer.

She little thinks, as, in her pride,
She rolls the finished pair,
That his loved feet are cold and still,
And his body free from care.

God grant that in the future,
The bliss may be in store,
That they may meet in heaven above—
Aye, meet to part no more.

Fond mother, cease your knitting,
For your boy with curly hair
Is dead upon the battle-field,
So cold, and, oh, so fair!

190

Poor child, why did they send him—
Too young, and yet so brave,
To be a bullet's shining mark,
And fill a soldier's grave?

Bend gently o'er him, comrades—
Drop on his curls a tear—
Write on his rude-carved head board,
A mother's pride sleeps here.

A mother's joy—her treasure,
A widow's only son,
Has gained the life eternal.—
Death's victory is won.

Around his noble brow is twined
The laurel wreath of fame,—
The mother's darling boy has now
A never-dying name.

191

I will not say, I will not think,
Knitting is dull, again;
For, from steel needles sparkling thoughts
Will fly into the brain.

192

LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. S. K. TALMAGE.

Mourn not, friends, mourn not, bereaved,
That his earthly race is run;
He hath reached the gates celestial,
Over death the victory won.

Moulded in his Father's image,
He the Saviour's footsteps trod;
And God claimed his sainted spirit,
Ere the body reached the sod.

Ah! ye would not then recall him,
But a tenement of clay;
Bless, oh! bless God, that his mercy,
Called his loved one away.

193

Meek and lowly, pure in spirit—
Humble as a little child—
Mighty in his love of Jesus—
He is with the undefiled.

Ever ready with his counsel,
And his prayers to guide the young;
Choirs of redeemed sinners,
When he died, the requiem sung.

Mourn not, friends, mourn not, bereaved,
That his earthly race is run;
He hath reached the goal eternal,
Over death the victory won.

194

TO ANNIE.

Annie, my first-born, gentle child,
My tender, fragile flower;
Why twines thy image round my heart,
With such mysterious power?

Is it because thy infant wail
The icy barrier moved,
That bound my soul's affections fast?
I knew 'twas mine I loved.

A mother's love no tongue can tell—
How boundless is that sea!
'Twas never mine; her spirit fled,
As she gave birth to me.

195

Annie, I gave to thee, my child,
The love my heart could yield;
God grant its influence o'er thee cast
From all life's ills a shield.

196

THE BEAUTIFUL.

The beautiful! what is not perfect here below,
Created by the great Almighty power?
Each grain of sand Omnipotence doth show,
And beauty beameth in the humblest flower.

There's beauty in the budding leaves of spring,
In the maturity of summer born—
And in the many hues that autumn's bring,
And in bright winter's glittering sheen at dawn.

Mark you the smallest insect's many hues;
What beauty in their ever changing shade!
The diamond glistening of the morning dews,—
The sunbeams on the ocean's bosom stayed.

197

Night robed in darkness, and with bright gems crowned;
The silvery softness of the midnight moon;
The sunrise-sky, with gold and blue zone-bound;
The fiery splendor of the day at noon.

The snow-white summit of the mountain proud;
The solemn stillness of the flowery dell;
The fleecy brightness of the sun-capped cloud;
The gem-decked chambers of the ocean's cell.

There's regal grandeur in the rushing storm;
There's sweetness in the gentle rain soft falling;
There's splendor in the lightning's dazzling form,
And thunder is majestic, yet appalling.

See life and beauty in the thoughtless child—
The nobler beauty of good manhood's grace;
The saintlier beauty of the aged mild,
Who waiteth summons to the resting place.

198

Can ye not see the beautiful repose,
O'er all the earth? How blind then, are your eyes!
For there is dearth of beauty but to those
Who scorn the Giver, and His gifts despise.

199

THE BEAUTIFUL SEA.

I have pined for the sight of the sea for years—
Pined amid hoping, and wished amid fears;
And my heart grew glad, and it bounded in glee
At the sight of the broad expanse of the sea.

The sea, the beautiful, beautiful sea—
Beautiful, boundless, joyful and free!
See how they glimmer, those white-capped waves,
Reflecting the sunlight from deep ocean caves!
Can things so bright and beautiful, hide
The breakers that rise and sink with the tide?

There, see that gay gleaming of white, bead-like spray,
Transformed to a rainbow by Sol's colors gay;
It gleams for a moment, and then disappears,
Like lost pleasures, as seen through despair's briny tears.

200

Far, far in the distance, the houses so white,
Faintly show through their veiling of green, red and light;
Very soon the dry land we shall leave far away,
And onward we'll bound o'er the billows so gay.

But what is the matter? what is the little swell?
It can surely be nothing—I still feel quite well;
Then another, another, another small swell,
And my feelings are too undefined now to tell—
And the sea at length loses its silvery light,
And its snow-capped, bright waves grow as dark as midnight.

Ah, what has become of those laughing young graces
Who entered the vessel with bright, smiling faces?
Their gladness is lost in the swell of the sea,
And to Neptune they pray from their ills to be free.
I laugh, I can't help it, to see the distress;
And yet—I am sick myself, nevertheless!

201

'Tis the vessel that tosses, she sinks and she heaves,
And my sea-admiration all quits me and leaves.
I am sick as the mischief! The sea, oh, the sea!
Thou hast lost all thy charms and thy beauty to me.

Sick? is there no word in our language to tell
The nausea and anguish of that rolling and swell?
'Tis so funny to see how each quick, sudden lurch,
Brings down a new victim from Romance's perch.

And now comes that torment—that Tom—the young sinner!
Says he, “darling sister, shall I bring up your dinner?”
Bah! dinner, you torment! oh, pray drown me, quick,
For I am so miserable—sick, oh, so sick!
The men, how I hate them! just see how they smile
At our torture, because they are well all the while.

202

Such pitching and tossing—inexpressible woe!
For we heave with the vessel, and join in each throe;
The faces around me I cannot portray—
But they show their disgust of the billows so gay.

There is nothing, no, nothing, can bring us relief
From this torture of tortures, this grief of all grief.
The sea, the boundless expanse of the sea,
Thrills others with rapture, but cannot charm me.

203

HUGGING THE SHORE.

“Do you think you will hug the shore, Captain, to-day?”
Asked a saucy young flirt, with a smile;
With crimson flush was dyed her cheek,
And over her brow swept the roseate hue,
While her eyes revealed in their dancing blue
All the lips declined to speak.

The captain glanced at the distant shore,
And then at the maid awhile—
The shore was distant, and she was near,
And the rose-tint deepened, as he said, “Dear,
I'll neglect the shore to-day!”

204

And around her waist crept the captain's hand—
It was so much better than hugging dry land!
And he said, glancing over the vessel's bow,
“The ship is hugging Cape Hatteras now,
But I'll hug the Cape of May.”

205

CHRISTMAS, SOUTH, 1866.

Laughing, merry, childish voices, woke us in their eager glee,
When the rosy blush of morning in the east we scarce could see:
Surely, ne'er a Christmas morning was so cold and drear as this;
Can it be our hearts are frozen with the sere frost's icy kiss?
Ah, stern want and desolation has a heavy, heavy hand,
And no mirth should ever issue from beneath the iron band.
Now the voices draw still nearer—bless the children, all are here!
“Mother, don't weep, they won't mind it; oh, God help thee, mother, dear!”

206

One by one they took their stockings, gazed upon the store, then turned:
“Sissic,” said the bravest rebel, “did Santee have his cotton burned?”
“Hush, hush, Buddie; don't say nothing; just see how poor mamma cries.”
Now the repentant Buddy to his mother's bedside hies—
“I'm so sorry, mother, darling: when I'm grown you shan't be poor;
I'll write for the Yankee papers, that will make us rich once more.”
Off I turned to hide my feelings—feelings deep by care refined,—
Ah! my child, like sister Annie's, your poor piece may be declined.
Ah, there is some joy in sorrow! in the door two freed-men creep:
“Christmas gif, ole Mis, Miss Annie—why, what fur you white folks weep?

207

All dis time you give us Christmas; now, we going to give to you:
Here, old Missus, here, Miss Annie—children, here's your Christmas, too!”
In black bosoms true love lingers, deeply by our kindness riven,
And the tender tie that binds us, can be severed save by heaven.
O'er the day that dawned so sadly, that kind act a ray imparts,
And we grasp the sunbeam gladly, for it cheers our aching hearts.

208

A LOVE-LETTER.

You wished for a love-letter, Doctor—but then,
I know you to be most conceited of men;
You'll think I'm in earnest, I vow now I ain't,
For I would not deign to love even a saint.

You must never believe what the fair ladies say:
Take their nay for a yes, and their yes for a nay.
Like doctors, the darlings are very deceiving,
And most that they say is not half worth believing.

But now for my letter. How shall I begin?
If I say, my dear Doctor, that will be a sin!
And a love-letter without dear, darling, or dove,
Would be as insipid as one without love.

209

Love, glorious love, with its grand mystic art,
Sways each mortal mind, and scathes each human heart;
Without care or regret it inflicts pain or joy,
Tossing high the frail heart that becomes its day's toy.

It drinks up the life-sap, becomes life itself,
Regardless of true love, of beauty or pelf—
An object most “homely” in love's eye I ween—
Will seem like an angel, as bright as a queen.

It glosses its object, like man's serpent tongue—
Makes even the aged appear as if young;
Waving locks to love's eye, e'en if sprinkled with gray,
Does not lessen, but strengthens its powerful sway.

Love, bright, joyous love, heals each sad, breaking heart,
But breaks it again when it strives to depart:

210

For the void, when once filled by love, never again
A vision can fill it, save only great pain.

The blessing of blessings, the greatest of woes,
Will leave its bright signet wherever it goes:
Then seek love and find it, whenever you can—
My counsel is needless, for you are a—man.

Now, Doctor, I'm sure that this letter you'll find
Is suited exactly to your turn of mind;
I've sent what I promised—a true loving letter,—
And if it don't suit you, why, just write a better!

211

TO ONE WHO SLEEPETH.

WRITTEN BY A SCHOOL-HOUSE WELL.

Long years have passed since first a merry child,
I quaffed the precious drink with eager joy,
And dashed the silvery drops, with laughter wild,
Upon the saucy youth, and maiden coy.

To the old well we wandered, hand in hand,
And by the way we cull'd each new-blown flower;
Then near the large old oak-tree we would stand,
And fashion wreaths to wither in an hour.

With a large leaf you made a tiny cup,
And call'd me then your little fairy queen;
And you, the king, would dip the water up—
Most faithful subject in my realm, I ween.

212

Up to the sky we built a mighty pile
Of lofty, splendid castles in the air;
Then dashed them down, you laughing all the while
At my half-smiling and half-sad despair.

We watched the others as they came to drink
With lore prophetic did their fortunes tell;
All by the way they made the bucket sink,
With motion fast or slow, down in the well.

How often shelter'd from the sudden shower,
Beneath the roof we'd sit, and sweetly dream;
Charmed with the lightning's swift and dazzling power,
We reached our hands to grasp the fatal gleam.

Then when the sun its radiant beams did lend
The glorious beauty of the clouds t' unfold.
We sought in vain to reach the rainbow's end—
To find a treasure there—a pot of gold!

213

Too short, alas! would be our dream of bliss—
For wakened by the school-bell's lively ring,
We did, as mortals must, in earth like this,
Our airy thoughts to things terrestrial bring.

Long years have passed, and once again I stand
Upon the brink of this much-loved old well;
An alien and a stranger in the land,
Drawn thither by some mystic charm or spell.

Where are ye now, friends of my early days?
Why stand I here so desolate and lone?
Alas! alas! all gone their earthly ways,
Or in the angel throngs around God's throne.

And you who swore to win, in youthful pride,
The laurel wreath of fame to deck your brow,
And then to come and claim me as your bride—
Where are you now? oh, God! where are you now?

214

Oh, that your sainted spirit had the power
To seek the earth, and on this loved spot stand,
That I could tell you, in this twilight hour,
All my past life, while clasping hand in hand:

Could put my hand upon your manly breast,
And tell you since the night, to young love's dawn,
The saddening shadows of a life unblest,
Veil-like athwart my spirit have been drawn.

And tell you, ere the flush of youth was past,
All bright hopes faded from my sight away;
And how I wished each hour could be my last,
For to me, time was night without its day.

How sadly I have roved from shore to shore—
Sought happiness in palace and in cot:
And still I seek, and shall forever more—
But shall I find it? Ah, you answer not!

215

How I have quaffed from pleasure's giddy cup,
And sought to win a never-dying name!
Alas! to taste with but the smallest sup
The bitter that is mixed with sweets of fame.

I am not wretched now. The heavy cloud
That shaded from my sight each joyous gleam,
And robed my spirit, as if with a shroud,
Has passed away. I see the moon's pale beam:

Peace should content me, but we mortals crave
Some earthly fame, some happiness and love;
But disappointed soon we reach the grave,
And find such bliss alone in heaven above.

In heaven? Oh, tell me from that other shore,
Where with the favored beings of God you dwell—
Is there a place they torture evermore—
Oh, is there without doubt a heaven or hell?

216

Say, will the doors of heaven be open thrown
To all who sorrow for a life of sin,
Far upward by their strong repentance borne—
Say, can such stricken, weary souls go in?

Why do I doubt! I know there is a heaven,
And that this life is nothing but a dream,
And hope one day, with all my sins forgiven,
To meet thee where all things are what they seem!

I must away, for now the night draws nigh,
And stars begin to glimmer o'er my head:
Ah! would my home was up above the sky—
My name, with yours, was numbered with the dead.