The lost pleiad ; and other poems

“Jehovah bless thee and keep thee:
Jehovah make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee!
Jehovah lift his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace!”—
Numbers, vi.: 24–26.

“Mild from the first beginning of her days;
Gentlest of all in Heaven.”—
Hesiod.

Life's anthem she had just begun
To sing, when she was called to die;
And now dost sing beyond the sun
With Angels in the heavens on high.
For, she was beautiful as pure,
And seemed to live on earth secure
From every harm, when Death's cold frost
Lay on the rosebud of her heart,
And tore its tender leaves apart—
The very heart my soul loved most!
The Lydian mode of her soft voice
Did make my very heart rejoice;
For she did ever sing to me
A song of joy incessantly—
Clear as the wild sweet notes, unheard
By me before, of some rare bird
From Eden-isles beyond the sea.

Winnowed upon thy silent breast,
Death-palsied, thy soft fingers lie,
While, underneath, thy heart doth rest,
Colder than cold, all silently!
Yes! thy pale limbs are cold in death!
As silent as the snow-white shroud
Which wraps thy tender form beneath,
Like some lone, solitary cloud
The infant, pale New Moon
Just from the old one born—
For, thou wert taken sick at noon,
And died before the next day morn!

Alas! thou wilt awake no more!
A death-frost is upon thy brow!
And on thy heart's deep, silent core,
A cold, damp dew is settling now!
But thou dost seem to sweetly sleep,
And calmly slumber, free from pain—
Not knowing I am doomed to weep,
Never, on earth, to smile again!
And though thy saintly form is hid
Beneath thy screwed-down coffin-lid;
Yet, I can see thee as thou wert—
The same dear creature to my heart!
Thou hast the same cerulean eyes
Of my first-born, now in the skies—
The same sweet lips of rosy hue,
Whereon thy breath hung like the dew
On rosebuds when they first dispart,
Disclosing thus their inmost heart,
Embalmed in fragrance—such as thine
Gave out to me in love divine
Embalmed in speech—such as was given
The Angel Israfel in Heaven.

Oh, God! how hard it was to part
From one who was so dear to me!
It was like taking out my heart—
The very heart that bleeds for thee!

The raptures of divinest love
I felt for thee, my snow-white Dove!
When thou wert from that World of Bliss
Sent down to make a Heaven of this,
Which ever seemed, while thou wert here,
Transformed into some other sphere—
Some happier world, where all is bright,
As if some Angel, full of light,
Had come down from the heavens above,
And changed it into one of love.

Thy moon-like beauty shall illume
The dark night of the silent tomb—
(Thus lying in that grave of thine,
As she does in the heavens, supine)—
And with the day of thy sweet light
Dissolve away the grave's dark night,
And make it brighter than the morn,
My Angel-child! when thou wert born—
When thou didst first become to me
The Morning-star of life's sweet day—
As bright as that which thou dost see,
In Heaven above—now far away!

The golden locks of thy soft hair
Lay floating on thy forehead fair,
In silken ringlets, on the day
When thou wert called from earth away—
From gladdening me with thy blue eyes—
To join thy SISTERS in the skies!

Thy spirit's soul-delighting face
Was smothered in the soft embrace
Of Angels, when they, from the skies,
Leant down with their sweet melodies,

In rapturous joy, to hail thee theirs,
And, by the keen light of the stars,
Beheld thee, like a snow-white Dove,
Ascending through the heavens above,
And caught thee, frantic with delight,
And bore thee, singing, out of sight,
And entered that Divine Abode,
To dwell for evermore with God.
For, as within its silken tomb,
The silk-worm enters to become
A full-grown chrysalis, in form
As different from the parent worm
As is the silk which it has spun
From the green leaf it feeds upon;
So does the soul cast off its form—
Even as the chrysalis the worm—
And rise up from its mortal night,
A spiritual body, clothed in light,
As different from its body here,
As Heaven is from this sinful sphere.
Then think not, Mortal! it is strange
That Man must undergo this change;
For who would ever think, from form,
A BUTTERFLY had been a worm?
And who would ever think to see
A worm, as green as green can be,
Become, soon after spinning silk,
A BUTTERFLY as white as milk?
If green worms turn to BUTTERFLIES,
When from their silken tombs they rise,
Why may not Men to Angels turn,
When they their bodies thus shall spurn—
Leaving them, as the worm its skin,
To rot the cold, dark grave within?
Nothing can be more strange to me,
Than such a change, so suddenly!
Therefore, I doubt not that this form
Contains within it, as a worm
The BUTTERFLY, another bright
And glorious body, full of light—
Undying in its nature—pure—
Here in this fleshly house secure—
Which, when this mortal body dies,
Will, on its own bright wings, arise,
As doth the BUTTERFLY, when free
From its frail tenement, to be
A child of dalliance, as it is,
Amid those FIELDS OF ENDLESS BLISS,
Where shines above thy sportive play
The sunlight of immortal day.

I doubt not, then, that we shall be
United in that WORLD OF BLISS,
Where thou shalt be the same to me
As thou hast ever been in this.

I sometimes see thee, in my dreams,
Beside those clear Elysian streams
Which flow out of the crystal fountains
Between the holy sapphire mountains
Of God's Eternity, whereon
Is built His Everlasting Throne.
Thou wast, in this dark world below,
The shadow of what thou art now,
In that high world of endless peace,
Whose songs of joy shall never cease.
As thou canst not return to me,
I know that I must go to thee!
For Death is but the gate from this
Dark world into immortal bliss,
Through which my soul must shortly go,
Thy pure delights in Heaven to know.
And though my grief is more than vain,
Yet, I shall never cease to grieve!
Because, no more while I shall live,
Will I behold thy face again!
No more while I have life or breath—
No more till I shall turn to dust!
But I shall see thee after death,
And in the heavens above, I trust!

For thy pure body now at rest,
And not thy soul among the blest—
Although to me it was most dear—
Is this frail stone erected here.
For that which is in Heaven on high,
Is full of immortality,
And needs no token of the grief
Which thus alone can find relief.
For by thy grave I seem to be
Again in thy sweet company,
Which love for thee has made to me
The very best society.
And while I bend me here alone
Above this Monumental Stone,
Weeping away my heart for thee
In tears which flow continually—
(Praying that I may meet thee there,
In that HIGH WORLD, where Angels are)—
If thou, from that Celestial sphere,
Canst look upon my sorrowing here—
Even as the Moon upon the sea—
Let thy pure soul look down on me,
Untroubled in that World of Bliss,
While I am sorrowing here in this!
And pardon me that I now grieve
That thou on earth hast ceased to live!
That thy dear body here can be
No more in this dark world with me!
The thought of which doth make me bow
Before thy grave in sorrow now!
And, oh! forgive me for the sin
Of wishing thee on earth again—
Away from that pure peace which is
The guerdon of immortal bliss;
And know that it is love for thee
Which makes me weep so bitterly!
For that which is in Heaven above
Alone can estimate my love!
For, out of thy pure, sacred dust,
I build my monumental trust,
Which rises from thy grave to thee—
Full in the front of Deity!
For, as thy soul on joyous wing
Did upward from thy body spring—

Rejoicing in its Heavenward flight
To gain those FIELDS OF PURE DELIGHT,
Where flowers of love immortal grow,
And rivers of pure water flow—
So, rises from my soul to thee
The hopes of immortality!

When thou wert in this world with me,
Bright Angel of the Heavenly lands!
Thou wert not fed by mortal hands,
But by the Nymphs, who gave to thee
The bread of immortality—
Such as thy spirit now doth eat
In that high world of endless love,
While walking with thy snowy feet
Along the sapphire-paven street,
Before the jasper-walls above,
And list'ning to the music sweet
Of Angels in that heavenly Hymn
Sung by the lips of Cherubim
In Paradise, before the fall,
In glory bright, outshining all
In that great City of pure gold,
The Angels talked about of old.

Because of thine untimely fate,
Am I thus left disconsolate!
Because thou wilt return to be
No more in this dark world with me!
Must these salt tears of sorrow flow
Out of my heart forever more!
Forever more as they do now!
Out of my heart forever more!

Thou wert my snow-white Jessamine—
My little Angel-Eglantine!
My saintly Lily! who didst grow
Upon thy mother's arms of snow—
Of whom thou wert the image true—
Whose tears fell on thy leaves for dew—
All but those deep blue eyes of thine—
They were the miniatures of mine,
Thou Blossom of that heavenly Tree,
Whose boughs are barren now for thee!
The sweetest bud she ever bore!
Who art transplanted to the skies
To blossom there forever more
Amid the Flowers of Paradise.

Thou hast the same sweet name in Heaven
That unto thee on earth was given.
I once did think it should adorn
Thy little sister to be born;
But no, it shall not be—her name
Shall be like thine—but not the same.
For then, she may not have the eyes
Of my first-born now in the skies,
Whose tender limbs where white as snow—
As virgin as her soul is now—
Who came me in this world to bless
With such celestial loveliness,
That, in the light of her blue eyes,
I seemed to dwell in Paradise,
And know how bright the Angels were
In Heaven, by gazing upon her.
For she was gentle as the flowers
Which she had gathered from the bowers,
The day before she died, for me—
Her breath so full of fragrancy.
Much softer than the unweaned lamb
New-washed with crystal water,
Was thy pure body, now so calm,
My darling little daughter!
For thou dost sleep beneath the shade
Of four young Cedars, which now spread
Their branches over thee so green—
The lovel est Cedars ever seen—
Brought from the hills of Lebanon,
And planted here by me, dear One!
At every corner of thy tomb,
To speak of me in years to come—
To say to those who pass them by,
We are four mourners standing round
This holy, consecrated ground—
Four verdant Angels round the head
And feet of her who now is dead—
Whose soul is in the heavens on high—
With wings of evergreen outspread—
To emblem that which cannot die.
And though mine eyes shall see thy face
No more—around thy dwelling-place,
Shall flourish these four Trees of God
To ornament thy blest abode.

In every corner underneath,
To emblem thy more fragrant breath,
The white buds of the Jessamine
Now blossom round the Myrtle Vine,
Which spreads its evergreen above
To emblem mine eternal love—
From whose green, oval leaves, sweet thing!
Like bits of immortality
Cut from the azure heavens on high
By some great Sculptor-Angel, who
Had polished them his whole life through—
A little purple flower doth spring,
Whose tender leaves appear, from size,
As if made out of thy blue eyes—
Which sheds an Eden-like perfume
All April long upon thy tomb!

Until my death, or soon or late,
My heart shall be disconsolate!
Shall grieve for thee forever more!
Forever more still grieve for thee!
Till we shall meet on that sweet shore,
Where all our grieving shall be o'er—
In Heaven above eternally.

And till that hour, there shall be none
In Heaven to match my love—not one!
Not even the mightiest Angel there,
Shall his great love with mine compare!
It is as deep as deep can be—
It rises from this world to thee!
Full as the ocean is of water,
Is my fond heart for thee, sweet Daughter!

Sweet Daughter! is my heart for thee!
Full as the ever-brimful sea—
The ever-brimful sea—with love—
Is my fond heart for thine above!

And I did thank the God of Heaven
That He this recompense had given—
That He permitted her to speak,
Although she was so very weak!
For, I did once more hear her voice,
Which made my breaking heart rejoice!
Which but to hear on earth again—
To hear it as I heard it then—
Like Angels' whispers when they tell
The living where the dead may dwell—
I would give all that could be given
By man on earth this side of Heaven!
I would be willing, could this be,
To suffer pain eternally!
For I was overwhelmed with grief,
And could not give my child relief!
The very love I had for her,
When most I wished to minister
To her relief, did make me less
A minister in my distress!
And then, with more than mortal dread,
I laid my hand upon her head!
It was as clammy cold with sweat,
As roseleaves in the frost-dew wet!
I wiped away the death-cold dew—
Her once soft pearly nails were blue!
The cramp was in her hands and feet!
Her breath, that once was more than sweet—
Than Jessamines when first in bloom—
Smelt like the cold earth of the tomb!
For, oh! the agonizing pain
Had palsied her young tender brain,
Till were the pupils of her eyes
Dilated twice their natural size!
The pearly alæ of her nose,
Like frost-bit petals of the rose,
Were both contracted, cold and thin;
And her blue eyes had both sunk in!
And her soft, heart-enfolding breast
Kept panting with that heart's unrest!
For, as her feeble breath grew thick,
Her thread-like pulse became more quick!
And then her pale, cold lips I kist,
And laid my hand upon her wrist!
Her pulse had almost ceased to beat!
And then I felt her icy feet!
Oh, God! to think of that child now,
Doth wring the life-drops from my brow!
I then grew speechless with despair,
And offered up to God one prayer—
One voiceless prayer—in my deep grief;
But He would give me no relief!
Then, in the depths of my distress—
The utmost of my bitterness—
My infinite of agony—
I prayed to Him to let me die!

Oh! if thy ears be to Despair
Forever open, hear my prayer!
If Thou canst pity my distress,
Scorn not my soul in bitterness!
When but one whisper of thy breath
Can save her from the pangs of death!
When but one whisper of thy voice
Can make her father's heart rejoice!

And then I bowed to earth my head!
(Oh! how my heart within me bled!)
And, with the mightiness of pain,
I cried out from my soul again,
My child is dead! my child is dead!
And strewed my garments in the dust—
Still lifting up to Him my trust—
Saying, Thou knowest a father's love!
The Angels Father Thee above!
If Thou dost love thy children's voice,
Speak! that my child may live again!
Let me not ask of Thee in vain!
And make her father's heart rejoice!
Let her not go into the grave!
But save her for me, Father! save!
Though she be now in pure delight,
Let her return to me to-night!
For Heaven itself can never be
What that dear child has been to me!
For, since the morning of her birth,
Has she not been my Heaven on earth?
Which, since her death, has been to me
The worst of hells continually!
Oh! raise her up as she was then,
And let her make it Heaven again!

And then I knelt down by my child,
(For now my sorrow had grown wild,)
Where, like the young Moon in some cloud,
Which her own beauty has made bright—
She lay all wrapped up in her shroud,
As bright to me as she to night!
And then, as do the far-off skies,
Beyond some cloud of pearly white,
Beneath her half-closed lids, her eyes
Appeared to me all blue and bright—
For Death had not eclipsed their light!
Then, every string in my poor heart
By grief's strong hands were torn apart!
And then my pallid lips grew mute,
As when the strings of some sweet lute
By ruffian-hands are rent in twain—
Never, on earth, to sound again!

As Mary of her brother cried—
Lord! hadst thou been there by her side,
My little Florence had not died!

And then the people said to me,
Why all this waste of agony?
What is the use of all this grief?
It will not give your heart relief!
And then, to reconcile my mind,
They said, You are of men most blind!
This selfish sorrow will not see
That God is dealing righteously!
You act as though you had no sense,
Thus to arraign His providence!

For Christ himself was born to die—
He suffered mortal agony!
For, when the mountain-rock was riven,
The Sun then hid his face in heaven,
As if he could not bear to see
His Maker suffering agony!
And when the Temple's vail was rent,
Thick darkness filled the firmament!
And there were Angels heard above,
Complaining of the deathless love
That caused the God of Heaven to die,
While suffering so much agony!

And then I made them this reply:
But, oh! His grief was not like mine,
For mine is mortal—His, divine!
Then, how superior is my pain,
To know His life was all His own—
That He had power to lay it down,
And then to take it up again!
But I have none in my distress—
My more than mortal bitterness!
Not even the power, which brings relief,
To suffer my exceeding grief!
For bearing suffering sometimes is
The way to conquer our distress.
This power He had to such extent,
He drew from it His whole content.
For, when He prayed the cup might pass,
He bowed His head to Death, alas!
And when He seemed to suffer most,
With joy divine—“gave up the ghost!”

I thought that, when my mother died,
Nothing in all this world beside
Could ever give me so much pain,
Or grieve my broken heart again!
For, when the letter came to me,
Which told that she had ceased to be,
The world seemed swallowed up in night—
All darkened for the want of light!
For, when I found that she was dead,
The blood all rushed into my heal,
And drowned the organs of my mind,
Till I, at length, became stone-blind!
Then I began on God to call,
And ask if I had lost my all!
If that dear being who had given
Me joy on earth—had gone to Heaven!
And thus, for four long, trying years,
I wept away my heart to tears,
Wrung by the bitterest agony—
Praying to God that I might die!

But this deep grief was pure delight,
Compared with that I felt the night
That my child died! for, when she died,
The world died with her! all beside!
Yes! when that precious being left,
I was of Heaven on earth bereft!
She died! No—Death did not destroy
My child—he only killed my Joy!
The dearest Joy I had on earth—
Born on the morning of her birth!
For, when they did my child inter,
Joy went into the grave with her!
But, still in Heaven—in that high sphere—
She is my child as she was here;
Wherever her dear soul may be,
She is the same dear child to me!

For, as the milk-white lamb lies down
Beneath some shady tree at noon,
And on the myrtle green reposes,
In Sharon's Garden full of roses;
So, thou dost take thy peaceful rest
In that High World among the blest.

I put on sackloth on the day
When thou wert called from earth away!
My body then in nakedness
Was left to emblem my distress!
Oh! when shall I be clothed again,
In linen garments, free from stain,
To emblem my deliverance
From sorrow in its widest sense?
Never, until I go away,
Where she is gone, to endless Day!
Never, until there shall be given
Those garments of resplendent white
To image my divine delight—
Such as the Angels wear in Heaven.

Although my heart was bursting ope,
My sorrowing was not “without hope,”
As poor Quinctilian's was, when he
Mourned for his absent family—
When Death destroyed his little ones—
His darling wife—his precious sons!
For, in the madness of his grief,
He would not stoop to find relief;
But lost all relish for those things
That once gave joy in murmurings,
Which evermore grew more intense,
Till he accused even Providence,
And said, with grief-embittered tongue,
The God of Heaven had done him wrong!
But He had reaped where He had sown,
And taken nothing but His own.

If Thou art Mercy's Father, hear!
And turn to me Thy gracious ear!
This mode of goodness dwells in Thee,
To succor those in misery!
Thy mercy is the heavens above,
And Thou art called the “God of Love!”
Thine uncreated fulness gives
The soul the joy by which it lives!
Thine all-sustaining nature feeds
The soul with what it daily needs!
Thou art the bounteous pourer forth
Of all the good we have on earth!
The “Gracious One,” whose goodness is
The fountain of our hopes of bliss!
Forever flowing, full forever!
Forever flowing, failing never!
Forever emptying, like the sea—
Forever full eternally!

The “God of comfort” I would see—
The “Goel” who can ransom me!
The Bonah who can me restore,
And comfort me forever more!
Who, stooping from the heavens above,
Hast come to earth with thy deep love,
And turned affliction's bitter sting
To joy by thy kind ministering;
And all my many wants supplied—
Nothing my soul desired denied;
Who chasteneth, yet upbraideth not—
Look down upon my wretched lot!
And shed upon my soul the light
Of Thy sweet countenance to-night!
The Stars, with all their burning fires,
Th' adoring Angels with their choirs—
A chorus of inspired Saints—
With Heaven's divine inhabitants—
In that sublime Doxology—
That holy, holy, holy hymn
Sung by the lips of Seraphim—
Heard by Isaiah in th' abode
And Temple of the Living God—
Praise Thee forever more on high,
Thou God of immortality!
Shouting aloud Thy name to bless
For thine exceeding loveliness—
Thou, who art known in Heaven so well—
The Holy One of Israel!

But God refused to hear my prayer!
(And Death sat mocking my despair!)
And trod upon my utmost trust,
And trampled all my hopes to dust!
And laid my child into the grave,
When He had all the power to save!
The first that He to me had given,
Because He wanted her in Heaven!
And then I felt my heart was breaking,
And all alone for her dear sake!
And knew that Hope was me forsaking,
As one would his own soul forsake!
And then, as one half reconciled
To what he cannot help, I smiled,
And said to God—Now keep my child!

And now this sorrow for thy sake,
In which my heart doth seem to break,
And melt in tears out of mine eyes,
Is but my pleasure in disguise.
And what doth seem like grief or wo,
Is but my joy on earth to know—
(For such deep grief to joy is given)—
That my dear child is now in Heaven.
Thus, what doth seem to thee like pain,
Is knowing we shall meet again.
For all pure joy is but the same
As grief—they differ but in name.
For grief is joy above the height
Of that sad joy we call delight.
And thus, in grieving, we express
That our deep joy is in excess.
Thus, joy, for Love, becomes so deep,
It turns to grief, which makes us weep.
This grief, expressive of our love,
Is like that joy they feel above—
That holy joy which fills the sight
With tears of infinite delight;
That joy above which joy below
Doth ape by rising into wo.

The dying swan is said to sing
Away its soul in sorrowing;
But sweeter sings the nearer death—
Proving it false with latest breath.
The swan is said thus to lament,
When telling sweetest its content.
For that which feels the most relief,
Appears to be in deepest grief.
So full of pathos is the strain
That tells of joy, it seems like pain.
Then, what is sorrow, but the sense
Of one soul's joy when most intense?
So, what appears like grief to thee,
Is but the deepest joy to me.

Since that dear being, loved from birth,
Has vanished from the face of earth,
And soared into the heavens above,
And left me nothing here to love;
I love, to reconcile my mind,
The sorrow she has left behind;
And this becomes more dear to me
Than any thing on earth can be,
Because it is the only thing
That she has left me—sorrowing!
The only thing that I now have
To comfort me this side the grave!
The cherished relic she has given
To make me think of her in Heaven!
For that which makes me think of her,
Delight to me doth minister;
Though it be sorrow, pain, or grief,
Yet, it doth bring my heart relief.
Therefore, I cherish that which is
My portion left on earth below,
Let it be sorrow, pain or bliss—
Since joy to me is nought but wo,
And wo deep joy—which this shall be
Forever more—eternally!

And while I iive on earth below,
Beside thy grave to worship so,
It gives me joy almost as great,
And makes this more than wretched state,
(As if thou still wert living here)—
More pleasant than it doth appear.
For, while I live by part of thee,
I hope that other part to see,
When I shall die, in Heaven above,
Which makes me more thy body love.
For, thinking of that one in bliss,
Doth make me more attached to this
Since knowing that in Heaven above
Did once live here for me to love,
When both were one, which they must be
In Heaven above eternally.

Her body is on earth to me,
Like some bright star seen in the sea,
The brightest of the stars of even—
The image of that one in Heaven—
Which were not there for me to love,
But for the soul of it above;
For, when we see it there, we know
The one in Heaven doth make it so;
Thus, Heaven above dwells here below.
So with her body—here, it is
The image of her soul in bliss,
Which, but for that dear soul in Heaven,
Had never unto me been given.
And thus her form appears to me
Like that bright star seen in the sea,
Which, though it shows its image nigh,
Its soul is in the heavens on high.
And like that star, amid the storm,
Setting, though still forever bright,
Appeared her soul through her sick form,
Till it had vanished from my sight!
And then, in death, she seemed to be
Still living in this world with me.
Then, as the earth is wrapped in night,
Long after all the stars are gone—
So was my soul for her sweet light,
In this dark world—alone—alone!
Thus, like the sphere-tones of her voice,
Which made my breaking heart rejoice—
More plaintive than the tones of love,
Sung latest by the dying Dove,
When, on her death-revealing tongue,
The last bit of her heart, in song,
Is breathed away in one soft coo
That melts into the heavens like dew;
Or, that sad bird of Mexico,
Whose song is with such pathos rise,
The ravishing sweetness pains it so,
It sings but one time in its life,
And, dying, soars to Heaven on high
On wings of its own melody;
So, faded from my soul that day,
All in the flowery month of May—
One of those radiant Cherubim
Who sang to me that heavenly hymn!
And like the new-born Moon supine,
So died she in these arms of mine,
To rise, like her, the next day even,
More full of light again in Heaven!
For, when her precious life did cease,
Two star-crowned Ministers of Peace,
With music soft as was the love
That bore her up to Heaven above—
Attended her to that HIGH BOURNE
“From whence no traveler shall return.”
Then what is Death? What is the grave?
A friend to life—the home I crave!
Where Man shall lay his body down,
And rest in dreamless sleep alone!
For grief it is the softest bed—
A pillow for the aching head—
A Hospital for all our wo—
Our last Asylum here below!
The body there shall rest in peace,
No more to suffer from disease—
No more to suffer pain or strife,
Or any of the ills of life!
Then, what is Death, but our release
From this dark life to one of peace?
It is by Death that we are brought
Those MIGHTY ONES in Heaven to see—
Great Sages of immortal thought,
And kings of deathless melody!
Who made the world ring with the shout
Exultant of their songs about
The joys divine which they should see
In Heaven above eternally!
And how their-unshod feet should tread
The MANSIONS of the MIGHTY DEAD,
And there enjoy the company
Of Angels in that world of bliss,
And see the friends they loved in this.
For there the faithful here in heart
Shall reunite no more to part—
No more to bow to ruthless fate—
No more to be disconsolate;
No more to sorrow, weep, or sigh—
But more than all—no more to die!

But those who lie in lowly bed,
Call the departed—not the dead!
They are not dead who seem to be—
They only slumber peacefully—
Waiting the Resurrection Morn,
When they shall all be newly born—
Born of the grave where they now lie—
Born unto immortality.

The Martyr Stephen “fell asleep,”
And he for whom poor Mary wept,
(Whose sorrow made poor Martha weep—)
Laz'rus, her brother, only “slept!”

We know not, while we linger here,
Whether the soul be far or near;
Though, in our love for them, we say,
The dead cannot be far away.
And though our parting give us pain,
Yet, we shall meet in Heaven again;
Wherein our love, when we shall meet,
By absence, shall be made more sweet.
My Mother long hath trod the path
That leads to that Serene Abode,
Where I shall meet her after death,
Safe in the bosom of our God.

The seed, when sepulchered in earth,
At the appointed time comes forth,
And grows until it comes to bloom—
Feasting us with its rich perfume;
For therein it is doomed to lie,
Until its outer shell doth die,
That, dying, it may live beneath—
For life is but the birth of Death;
And, as the seed thus changed must be,
Before the plant Heaven's light can see,
That it may, at th' appointed hour,
Array itself in beauteous flower;

So shall Man's body from the clay,
Where it is planted to decay—
Rise at the Resurrection Day,
And put on immortality.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Oct. 18th, 1842.

TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.

“ They sin who tell us love can die.”—
Southey.

I feel an ardent longing for thy love,
A yearning for that Spirit-land above!
A wounded spirit is the one to feel,
By suffering, what it is to value weal!
I long to lay me in my resting-place,
And cradle me again in thy embrace;
And stay my wounded spirit on thy breast—
The only one that ever gave me rest!
Thou art the same dear mother to me still—
The same dear creature, that was wont to fill
My heart with unalloyed delight—to throw
Such sweet enchantment over all my woe!
Though grief has almost driven me to despair,
I yet can feel some comfort in the care
Which soothed my sorrows with an answering smile,
And would not suffer me to want the while.
Methinks if I had been there by thy side,
As others were, that you would not have died!
I sometimes seek thee in the calm of even,
By soaring on the wings of thought to Heaven:
I look up through the rifted clouds to see
If there is anything in Heaven like thee;
I see thee in the noonday-waning moon,
And shall be with thee in that Kingdom soon—
In those far regions of delight where lie
The Golden Hills of Immortality.
And like the mateless dove, incessantly,
I go on tireless wing in search of thee;
But finding nowhere in this world to rest,
I come back home again to my sad nest,
And utter my lament upon this bough,
In pensive languishment, as I do now!
For as the Dove, with her soft wings, will hide
The wound that has been bleeding in her side,
And, with unmingled feelings of despair,
Compress the arrow that is quivering there;
So did my pride, within my heart, conceal
The uncomplaining grief which nought could heal!
It is most strange that music has the power
To call up childhood from its earliest hour:
Those words of soft endearment spoke by thee,
Worth all the praises in the world to me,
Are all respoken by the simplest tone
Resembling but an image of thine own:
And all those lineaments that once were thine,
Are pictured to me as they were, divine—
As when we occupied whole hours of talk
On heavenly things, beside the garden walk;
For there it was, when in my youthful prime,
I used to wallow on sweet beds of thyme,
And lying there some pleasant afternoon,
Would gaze up fondly at the full round moon,
Just coming out of heaven, as if to see
What holier Moon was watching there by me:
For, as that moon her little stars at night,
So thou didst lead me to the realms of light,
Through all the rich plantations of thy love,
More sweet to me than heaven to them above.

And all that time, whenever you were nigh,
I had no idea then that you could die!
I recollect, you used to comb my hair,
And part it on my forehead with such care;
And, bending down above me, on your knee,
Would say so many precious things to me,
And give me oval plums of purple hue,
Sweeter than all the fruitage of Meru;
And often, as our friendly talk went on,
How often would you call me your “dear son!”
And always, when that tender talk began,
I thought if I could only be a man,
I would be happier than the day was long,
And do such mighty things for thee—none wrong—
Until it seemed, by wishing it to be,
I was a man in cold reality.
But, since that time—before my youth was spent—
I have had many reasons to lament
The wish I made—for it was just as vain
As now to wish myself a child again!
And then the songs that you would sing for hours,
Seemed woven from the leaves of earliest flowers,
Whose melody was like the sweet perfume
The violet sheds upon an infant's tomb;
Which flowed as liquid as a wave that curls
Around an island in the Sea of Pearls;
Through which my spirit had the power to see
The link that bound you to the Deity.
The Hours, as if their wings were made of lead,
Have moved on tardily since thou wert dead!
I have forgotten half that might have been,
Just from the tardiness of each long scene!
I have been wounded, like the stricken deer
Flying from his pursuers in the rear,
That has no time to stop upon the way
To cool his parching thirst, but, day by day,
Forever farther from his covert flies,
Through vistas all unknown—until he dies!
So does my wounded spirit, from the hounds
Of sorrow, traverse earth's remotest bounds,
And flying thence, where deer was never driven,
Seek out its covert in the longed-for Heaven!
The very truths which you have taught to me,
Now make me mournful but to think of thee!
For now there is no mother to beguile
My leisure hours, nor comfort me the while!
It is mine orphanage alone can see
How much my spirit stands in need of thee!
And thus, while thou art in thy coffin laid,
This offering of my love must now be paid,

Which flows as freely from my soul to thee,
As when the rivers run into the sea;
In order that thy spirit from above
May know the depths of mine eternal love!
A few short years, perhaps, may roll around,
And I will then be buried in the ground!
But not so with my soul—it is divine—
And shall be happy in that world with thine!

Oaky Grove, Ga., August 1st, 1839.

THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.

“This was the only moan she ever made.”—
Shelley.

Father! from thy throne of glory,
Where we hope to find redress
In this world, when we are sorry—
Hear an orphan in distress!
I have no one now to love me,
For my parents both are dead!
Save the One that is above me—
Will He not sustain my head?
I am here alone in sorrow—
All my hope on Thee depends—
And may be, alas! to-morrow,
In this wide world without friends!
For the ones that now protect me,
Are but outward friends at best;
And if these should now neglect me,
Where on earth shall I find rest?
Oh! then, rather than to suffer
What has been, or is to be,
Let thy poor, sad orphan offer
Up her dying prayer to Thee!

What my mother had resented,
Had she lived, must now be borne;
And her orphan live contented
With the scorn that she would scorn!
If their children choose to knock me,
I cannot return the blow;
And, if told, their parents mock me,
And believe not what they know!
When they hand around the dishes,
Full of sweetmeats, all so free;
They then smile to all good wishes,
Till they come around to me!
Then they look at me so scornful,
As if better ones were nigh;
And it makes me feel so mournful,
That I pray to God to die!
And this burthen on my spirit
Is so painful now to me,
That, Lord! rather than to bear it,
I would freely go to Thee!

Then they say to me as often,
That my tears too often flow;
But the reason is, they soften
Not their hearts, that it is so!
For the one whose grief commences
At her birth, the least offence
Is the greatest of offences,
Though unfelt by happier sense.
For the poor are oft offended
By offences none can see
But the friendless, who are friended
In this world alone by Thee.
Thus, the words that would fall lightly
On another's ear, on mine
Are like thunders, if, but slightly,
They appear to mean design.
And 'tis all because my father
Left me nothing but his love,
That they choose to slight me, rather
Than the ones they think more of!
For they go not here by merit,
Nor by virtue, but by gold;
And the outward heart they wear it,
While the inward one is sold!
And, now, rather than to suffer
This unkindness shown to me;
I would freely, Father! offer
Up my dying prayer to Thee!

New York, Sept. 9th, 1840.

THE WIFE'S LAMENT FOR HER HUSBAND LOST AT SEA.

“Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale!”—
Bishop Henry King, 1600.

“Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not.”—
Shelley.

I hear thy spirit calling unto me
From out the Deep,
Like lost Archytas from Venetia's Sea,
While I here weep!
Saying, Come, strew my body with the sand,
And bury me upon the land, the land!

Oh! never, never more! no, never more!
Lost in the Deep!
Will thy sweet beauty visit this dark shore,
While I here weep!
For thou art gone forever more from me,
Sweet Mariner! lost—murdered by the Sea!

Ever—forever more, bright, glorious One!
Drowned in the Deep!
In Spring-time—Summer—Winter—all alone—
Must I here weep!
Thou Spirit of my soul! thou light of life!
While thou art absent, Shelley! from thy wife!

Celestial pleasure once to contemplate
Thy power, great Deep!
Possessed my soul! but ever more shall hate,
While I here weep!
Crowd out thy memory from my soul, Oh! Sea!
For killing him who was so dear to me!

He was the incarnation of pure Truth,
Oh! mighty Deep!
And thou didst murder him in prime of youth,
For whom I weep!
And, murdering him, didst more than murder me,
Who was my Heaven on earth, Oh! treacherous Sea!

My spirit wearied not to succor his,
Oh! mighty Deep!
The oftener done, the greater was the bliss;
But now I weep!
And where his beauty lay, unceasing pain
Now dwells—my heart can know no joy again!

God of my fathers! God of that bright One
Lost in the Deep!
Shall we not meet again beyond the sun—
No more to weep?
Yes, I shall meet him there—the lost—the bright—
The glorious Shelley! spring of my delight!

Like Orion on some dark Autumnal night
Above the Deep;
I see his soul look down from Heaven—how bright!
While here I weep!
And there, like Hesperus the stars of even,
Beacon my soul away to him in Heaven!

Middletown, Conn., Feb. 17th, 1842.

“Horace represents the spirit of Archytas addressing itself, from the gulf of Venice, after he had been drowned, to a mariner, earnestly requesting him to strew light sand over his body, which lay unburied on the beach.”— Bouck's Beauties and Sublimities of Nature.

TO ONE IN HEAVEN.

“Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
But sorrow's memory is sorrow still!”

There is no time through all the spring,
Nor through the long, long year,
That Nature does not something bring,
To make thy memory dear.
The scent of flowers—the same sweet tone
Thy sweeter voice hath given—
Remind me thou wert here mine own,
And shalt be mine in Heaven!

I look for thee when Spring returns—
I look for thee, in vain,
In Summer, when my spirit yearns
To be with thee again;
For so celestial was the tie
That bound us here, that even
I would be willing now to die,
To meet thee safe in Heaven!

The more we shed our fruitless tears,
The more we love to mourn;
For though we lived ten thousand years,
The lost would not return!
And all we have to soothe our wo
In this dark world, is given
By Hope, which tells us, we should know
That we shall meet in Heaven.

Oaky Grove, Ga., May 10th, 1837.

THE GEORGIAN CAPTIVE.

[_]

[The following poem is intended to represent the wonderful resignation of a beautiful Virgin of Georgia, who, rather than submit to be taken to Constantinople by the Turks, died by her own hands.]

I cannot leave the vine
Whereon the purpling clusters oft have hung,
Nor suffer this fond heart of mine
To bear the burden of the slave so young!
And still it would not grieve me to depart,
But for these yearnings of my breaking heart!

And then, you know, yon sky
Beheld that promise to my mother given;
And now Jerusia cannot lie;
For then her spirit would come down from Heaven,
And here remind me of that sacred vow
Which promised to be like that sky is now!

Oh! God! that it must be—
That this poor, broken-hearted thing must go,
And never more return to see
The dear young flowers that she has tended so;
And leave her parents where the young grass waves
In such wild beauty over their sweet graves!

The bird that leaves her nest
To scan the azure fields of Heaven, is free;
And finds, wherever she may rest,
A happy home—but there is none for me!
I see two little starlights in the sky,
And they shall be the lamps to lead me by!

How hard it is to be
So fatherless, away from my dear home,
Where, with the music of the sea,
The fragrance of the south winds used to come!
Lord! strengthen me from out the mighty Past,
To yield my soul unsullied to the last!

Let not the mighty soul,
The only living thing that cannot die,
Be fettered, while the thunders roll
To tell its freedom to the stars on high;
But on the wings of Death rise forth to Thee,
And show the world how Virtue can be free!

Philadelphia, Dec. 18th, 1837.

APOSTROPHE TO TIME.

“Time, the Avenger!”—
Byron.

Eternity's lost child! who, full of years,
And unbefriended, ever wandered on,
From age to age, through this dark vale of tears,
Waiting for no man underneath the sun;
But journeying onward with thy scythe in hand—
Mowing down nations at one stroke, which are
Thy harvestings—how long, on this dark land,
Wilt thou continue thus to lay life bare,
In utter nakedness?—how long before
My sorrowing soul shall triumph over thee?
Not till the hour when thou shalt be no more!
Not till the hour when thou shalt say to me,
Come! thou art called for in eternity!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Dec. 25th, 1842.

CAROL.

“Oh! that my song could emulate my soul!”
Young.

Oh! for an angel's wing,
That, like the frightened dove,
My spirit might, exultant, spring,
And soar to Heaven above!

Swift as an arrow's flight,
Shot from an Indian's bow,
My spirit, like the beams of light,
Would soar from earth below.

As when an eagle springs,
Snatching from earth his prey—
My soul's emancipated wings
Would soar to Endless Day!

From all earth's vanities—
Her guilt—her lying charms—
Up through the blue, the bending skies,
To my dear Saviour's arms!

The hounds of grief no more
Should follow me in flight,
When wounded, panting, weak, on shore,
To that sweet Land of Light!

But such sweet songs of love
Out of my heart should pour,
A deluge of delight above
Should spread from shore to shore.

My soul would, free from ill,
With power to spirits given,
Look down from God's most Holy Hill!
On all the scenes of Heaven!

Middletown, Conn., Aug. 8th, 1841.

TO ALLEGRA FLORENCE IN HEAVEN.

“My life, my joy, my food, my all-the-world!”—

Shakspeare.

“I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me.”—

Bible.

“But the grave is not deep—it is the shining tread of an Angel that seeks us.”—

Jean Paul Richter.

When thy soft round form was lying
On the bed where thou wert sighing,
I could not believe thee dying,
Till thy Angel-soul had fled;

For no sickness gave me warning,
Rosy health thy cheeks adorning—
Till that hope-destroying morning,
When my precious child lay dead!

Now, thy white shroud covers slightly
Thy pale limbs, which were so sprightly,
While thy snow-white arms lie lightly
On thy soul-abandoned breast;
As the dark blood faintly lingers
In thy pale, cold, lily-fingers,
Thou the sweetest of Heaven's singers!
Just above thy heart at rest!

Yes, thy sprightly form is crowded
In thy coffin, all enshrouded,
Like the young Moon, half enclouded,
On the first night of her birth;
And, as down she sinks when westing,
Of her smiles the Night divesting—
In my fond arms gently resting,
Shall thy beauty to the earth!

Like some snow-white cloud just under
Heaven, some breeze has torn asunder,
Which discloses, to our wonder,
Far beyond, the tranquil skies;
Lay thy pale, cold lids, half closing,
(While, in Death's cold arms reposing,
Thy dear Seraph-form seemed dozing—)
On thy violet-colored eyes.

For thy soft blue eyes were tender
As an angel's, full of splendor,
And, like skies to earth, did render
Unto me divine delight;
Like two violets in the morning,
Bathed in sunny dews, adorning
One white lily-bed, while scorning
All the rest, however bright.

As the Earth desires to nourish
Some fair Flower, which loves to flourish
On her breast, while it doth perish,
And will barren look when gone;
So, my soul did joy in giving
Thee what thine was glad receiving
From me, ever more left grieving
In this dark cold world alone!

Holy angels now are bending
To receive thy soul ascending
Up to Heaven to joys unending,
And to bliss which is divine;
While thy pale, cold form is fading
Under death's dark wings now shading
Thee with gloom which is pervading
This poor, broken heart of mine!

For, as birds of the same feather
On the earth will flock together,
So, around thy Heavenly Father,
They now gather there with thee—
Ever joyful to behold thee—
In their soft arms to enfold thee,
And to whisper words oft told thee
In this trying world by me!

With my bowed head thus reclining
On my hand, my heart repining,
Shall my salt tears, ever shining
On my pale cheeks, flow for thee—
Bitter soul-drops ever stealing
From the fount of holy feeling,
Deepest anguish now revealing,
For thy loss, dear child! to me!

As an egg, when broken, never
Can be mended, but must ever
Be the same crushed egg forever—
So shall this dark heart of mine!
Which, though broken, is still breaking,
And shall never more cease aching
For the sleep which has no waking—
For the sleep which now is thine!

And as God doth lift thy spirit
Up to Heaven, there to inherit
Those rewards which it doth merit,
Such as none have reaped before;
Thy dear father will, to-morrow,
Lay thy body, with deep sorrow,
In the grave which is so narrow—
There to rest for evermore!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Dec. 12th, 1842.

THE SOUL'S DESTINY.

“For God created Man to be immortal, and made him to be an image of His own eternity.”—

Wisdom.

“Eternity is in thine years.”—
Byron.

“We shall not die.”—
Habakkuk.

Soul of my being! Life! my Breath!
I long from Thee to know,
When this sad heart shall bow to death,
Where shall my spirit go?
I ask Thee now—for unto me
An answer must be given;
Are we to live, or die, or be
In neither Hell nor Heaven?

Say! are we doomed to wander here,
The ghosts of what we were—
Watching above each sepulchre
The form that moulders there?
Or, shall we sleep beneath the sod,
When this dark life shall cease?
Or, shall we soar away to God,
And dwell with Him in peace?

Raised from the earth, thy flight shall be
Above the rolling spheres,
On God's own breath, which gave to thee
The gift of endless years.
High in the realms of endless rest,
Immortal thou shalt be,
Surveying all the heavenly blest
That fill Eternity.

The spirit that can so survive
The dust in its decay,
Has power, within itself, to live
Through Everlasting Day;
For that which has the power to cause
The body thus to be,
Is subject not to Nature's laws,
But lives eternally.

Thus shalt thou leave this world of sin,
And soar into the sky,
Where Angels wait to let thee in
To immortality.
And those who had nowhere to rest
Their wearied limbs at night,
Shall lay their heads upon God's breast,
And sleep in sweet delight.

There, Death's dark shades no more shall be
The mystic veil between
The World which we desire to see,
And that which we have seen.
There, father, brother, husband, wife—
There, mother, sister, friend—
Shall be united, as in life,
In joys that never end.

No pangs shall there disturb the thrills
Which animate thy breast;
But Angels, on the Heavenly Hills,
Shall sing thee into rest.
No slanderous tongue shall there inflame
Thy heart with words of gall;
For all shall be in Heaven the same,
And God shall be in all.

Oaky Grove, Ga., April 3d, 1840.

SHELLEY.

“How rose in melody that Child of Love!”—
Young.

The vulgar hated thee, because thy soul
Would stoop not to the vulgar things of earth;
But, eagle-like, spurned all but self-control,
Though proud not of the privilege of birth—
And from the hawks of earth soared gloriously,
On wings of fire, into the heavens on high.

Thy soul was like an ocean, crystal, deep,
Whose bottom is all paved with sands of gold;
Whose thoughts, like sea nymphs, there did ever keep
Strange pastime, ever striving to unfold
Their heavenly charms, while weaving songs for thee,
To clothe thy name in immortality.

Thou didst desire the unadulterate truth,
As one who seeks what may be found, if sought—
The first love of his heart in earliest youth—
Though not amid the realms of mortal thought—
And, soaring far beyond all things, didst bring
Back unto Man the truths which Angels sing.

As when God said of old, “Let there be light?”
“And there was light,” amid the Halls of Time;
So, when thy soul dawned on the world's dark night,
All things grew bright beneath its song sublime,
Till, unto man's high soul such joy was given,
The things of earth became like things of Heaven.

Oaky Grove, Ga., August 10th, 1843.

TO MY FIRST-BORN IN HEAVEN.

“Yes, Heaven is thine!”—
Poe.

Where art thou, Florence? thou, my earliest born!
Where is thy soul, my darling little child?
Was not thy body here the other morn?
And now thou art in Heaven, my undefiled!
But I am one year nearer unto thee,
Since thou hast been twelve months away from me!

As thou canst not return again to me,
Before I shall behold thy glorious face,
I must ascend from this dark world to thee,
And meet thee in that heavenly dwelling-place,
Where thou art waiting now for me in bliss,
To make that world what thou didst once make this.

Oh! that the hour would come—that I could be
This moment lifted from this vale of tears—
As when God's Angel took thee up from me—
(Which thou didst once make Heaven for three short years)—
Then would I see thee, glorious as thou art,
And in God's bosom press thee to my heart!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Dec. 10th, 1843.

ON THE DEATH OF MY FIRST-BORN.

“I never shall smile more!”—
Wilson.

She died in beauty, like the Moon
Upon the first night of her birth,
Whose presence gladdens all, when soon
It vanishes away from earth!
And like the night, when she is gone,
Thine absence leaves me here alone
In darkness, darker than the night
Just alter she has sunk from sight!

She died in beauty, like some flower
New-blown upon its parent stem,
Whose leaves have blossomed for an hour—
Nipped by some frost which withers them!

And as the stem, thus left alone,
Will barren look when it is gone;
So does my soul for thine, sweet Dove!
Now shining in the heavens above!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Sept. 21st, 1840.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

“When such friends part,
'Tis the survivor dies.”—
Young.

“As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away; so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more!”—

Job vii. 9.

Not in the mighty realms of human thought—
Not in the kingdom of the earth around—
Not where the pleasures of the world are sought—
Not where the sorrows of the earth are found!
Nor on the borders of the great deep sea,
Wilt thou return again from Heaven to me—
No, never more!

Not while the clouds are wafted by the breeze
To deck the azure palace of the sky,
Like ships of gold upon cerulean seas—
Sailing in sunny multitudes on high—
Greening the mountains with refreshing rain—
Wilt thou return to this dark world again—
No, never more!

Not while the streams adown the mountain's slope,
Like silver serpents through the flowery vales,—
As joyful as the heart when full of hope—
Shall trickle, yielding freshness to the gales
From their own murmurings—will thy spirit come
To waft new pleasures to my native home—
No, never more!

Not while the children of the Spring shall smile,
And strew my path with flowers of every hue—
Cooling the fever of my heart the while,
With goblets brimful of nectarian dew;
Not while the younglings of her lap shall shine,
Wilt thou return to this dark home of mine—
No, never more!

Not till the orange bowers that wooed us long,
Where Love first haunted me in heavenly dreams—
Where Sorrow voiced itself away in song—
Shall pass away, with all our crystal streams;
Shall such sad partings, on life's barren shore,
Be changed for meetings which shall part no more—
No, never more!

Then shall our never-mores be made as sweet
As they are bitter now to this fond heart;
And all our partings, when we there shall meet,
Be changed to meetings which shall never part;
And never more to meet on earth be given
For never more to part again in Heaven—
No, never more!

Oaky Grove, Ga., July 1st, 1839.

WASHINGTON.

[“The sepulchre of the Father of his Country was recently opened, in order to place his remains in the marble sarcophagus presented by Mr. Struthers, of Philadelphia. When the lid of the coffin was raised, the hallowed form of Washington was discovered in a wonderful state of preservation. The lofty brow still wore its wonted majesty, and the compressed lips preserved their life-like air of calm decision and command. The attendants were overawed by the aspect of the sleeping hero, and the man whose lot it was to transfer the sacred dust to its new receptacle, was so overpowered by emotion, that it was with difficulty he fulfilled his office.”—

N. Y. Mirror.]

I saw the mighty dead
Lie in his narrow tomb,
And, in that mortal bed,
Wear an immortal bloom.
I saw that great one lie
Low in his grave, as fair
As if he could not die,
And God himself was there!

I saw that holy smile,
In scorn of all but truth,
Hang on his lips the while,
And speak eternal youth.
I saw that lofty brow,
As if with glory fraught,
When times were not as now—
Beam with immortal thought.

It seemed, upon that sod,
While thus we gazed within,
As if the mighty God
Had with the sleeper been!
For there he lay, as whole
As if his body were
Touched by th' immortal soul—
Low in his sepulchre!

Thus lay—while saints looked on—
The immortal Son of Him
Whose light, through Washington,
No sepulchre can dim.
And thus, when stars shall fade,
And when the sun shall die!
Thy form shall be arrayed
In immortality!

Philadelphia, Jan. 8th, 1837.

THE HEAVENLY VISION.

“If I be sure I am not dreaming now,
I should not doubt to say it was a dream.”—
Shelley.

She met me in the spring-time of my years,
Where suns set golden in the azure west;
The sight of her dissolved my heart to tears—
It seemed she came from Heaven to make me blest.

A golden Harp was in her snow-white hand,
And when she touched the strings, so softly prest,
The music seemed as from some Heavenly Band,
As though she came from Heaven to make me blest.

Her eyes were of that soft, celestial blue
Which Heaven puts on when Day is in the West;
Whose words were soft as drops of evening dew—
It seemed she came from Heaven to make me blest.

Long had we parted—long had she been dead—
When late, one night, when all had gone to rest,
Her spirit stood before me—near my bed—
She came from Heaven to tell me she was blest.

As some fond Dove unto her own mate sings,
So sang she unto me, in my unrest,
(Who lay beneath the shadow of her wings)—
Of Heaven, wherein she told me she was blest.

My spirit had been longing here for years
To know if that dear creature was at rest,
When, just as my poor heart lost all its tears,
She came from Heaven to tell me she was blest.

I then grew happy—for, with mine own eyes,
I had beheld that being whom my breast
Had pillowed here for years—fresh from the skies—
Who came from Heaven to tell me she was blest.

I wept no more—from that sad day to this,
I have been longing for the same sweet rest,
Where my fond soul shall dwell with her in bliss,
Who came from Heaven to tell me she was blest.

Middletown, Conn., Dec. 25th, 1841.

TO SHAKSPEARE DYING.

“Good night, sweet prince!
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
Horatio to Hamlet Dying.

By the shore of time, now lying
On the inky flood beneath,
Patiently, thou soul undying!
Waits for thee the Ship of Death!

In thy body's temple shining,
Like a star in séréne night,
Thy pure soul, to us repining,
Burns to reach the Land of Light!

He who on that vessel starteth,
Sailing from the sons of men—
To the friends from whom he parteth,
Never more returns again!

From her mast no flag is flying,
To denote from whence she came;
She is known unto the dying—
Azrael is her captain's name.

Not a word was ever spoken,
On that dark, unfathomed sea;
Silence there is so unbroken,
She herself seems not to be!

Silent thus, in darkness lonely,
Does the soul put forth alone,
While the wings of Angels only
Waft her to a Land unknown!

Soul of Poet! never fear thee,
For thy voyage will be short;
Wings of Angels soon shall bear thee
Onward to thy destined port.

Music, for a thousand ages,
Made on earth by thee for men,
Now transcribed on Angel's pages—
Thou shalt sing in Heaven again.

Just as he is home forsaking—
Angels tending him in love—
Light above his soul is breaking—
Streaming from the heavens above!

Far away the Fields Elysian
Burst upon his raptured sight—
Angels, shining on his vision,
Come to welcome him to light!

Yonder is the Throne of Glory,
On that sapphire mount on high!
Christ, who once on earth was sorry,
Seated there, no more to die!

Like Elijah, full of wonder,
In his fiery chariot driven
Through the parting clouds of thunder,
From th' astonished world to Heaven;

So, from out that ship, returning
Back again to earth, he rode
On the wings of Angels, burning
With their swiftness, up to God!

Angels now in joy are bringing
Flowers to deck thy pensive head—
Calling thee, while loudly singing,
Mightiest of the Mighty Dead!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Nov. 1st, 1844.

MY SOUL'S JEWEL.

In death's cold casket lies alone
The purest gem that ever shone—
The body of my precious child—
My beautiful—my undefiled!
Whose presence now doth beautify
The very grave where she doth lie!

The power to me will soon be given
To see my precious child in Heaven—
That snowy-winged, high-flying bird,
Who dwells now with her Gracious Lord,
Singing the sweetest song to Him
Ear ever heard, with Seraphim,
In everlasting, burning love,
Around the starry throne above.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Sept. 10th, 1844.

THE SALUTATION.

Angelic legions, full of love,
Like stars at midnight in the sky,
Gather around her from above,
With songs of immortality,
To hail her sister of the Seven,
Whose beauty is now lost in Heaven!

The great hierarchy on high,
Prostrate before the throne divine—
With songs of love that cannot die—
All, star-like, singing while they shine—
Now, rising her sweet lips to kiss,
Embrace her as they dance in bliss.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Sept. 2d, 1844.

SONNET.—TO ISA SLEEPING.

“Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile!”
Rogers.

As graceful as the Babylonian willow
Bending, at noontide, over some clear stream
In Palestine, in beauty did she seem
Upon the cygnet-down of her soft pillow;
And now her breast heaved like some gentle billow
Swayed by the presence of the full round moon—
Voluptuous as the summer South at noon—
Her cheeks as rosy as the radiant dawn,
When heaven is cloudless! When she breathed, the air
Around was perfume! Timid as the fawn,
And meeker than the dove, her soft words were
Like gentle music heard at night, when all
Around is still—until the soul of care
Was soothed, as noontide by some waterfall

New-York, April 10th, 1838.

SONNET.—THE HUSBAND'S REQUEST.

I know that I shall not live long to sing
Many more songs of such sweet love to thee!
When I am dead, if thou wilt weep for me,
The death that I may die will be no sting.
If flowers you gather from the lap of spring,
And plant them on my grave, I will feel glad,
And no more, if you promise it, feel sad!
I must be buried where the young birds sing,
And where they see such pleasure on the wing;
Then will my soul come down from Heaven to thine,
And talk with thee about this song of mine,
And all your kindness—each fond offering
That you may make—with that undying love
Which thou, on earth, shall feel for me above!

New York, March 8th, 1841.

SONNET.—ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

“Death gives us more than was in Eden lost.”
Young.

A voice came to me in the dead of night,
And said, Arise! put sackloth on thy brow!
Thy mother's spirit from the world takes flight,
And soars to Heaven—she is an Angel now!
Gather to that Asylum where she lies,
Poor orphan children! let us gather there,
And, bending near her, make Death, with our cries,
Give her, in pity, back to our despair!
A mournful spirit, like the plaintive dove,
Tells, for the mother of our hopes laid low,
In words all radiant with the soul of love,
From Gratitude's soft Cherub-mouth—our wo!
Oh! that to me the Dove's soft wings were given,
That I might soar away to thee in Heaven!

New York, April 10th, 1838.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

“My wives die, and I can replace them; my children perish, and others are born to me; but who can restore to me the mother who has passed away, and who is seen no more?”—

The Osmanli.

“Therefore my spirit is overwhelmed within me; my heart within me is desolate!”—

Ps. cxliii; iv.

I see thee not!—thy form is not before me,
As it was wont to be in days gone by!
But thy dear spirit is now hovering o'er me,
In that immortal shape that cannot die!

I see thee not!—thou art in that dark prison,
Wherein the voice of mourning cannot come,
For thy dear soul from this dark world has risen
To reign forever in its heavenly home!

I see thee not!—there is no eye can see thee,
And all our searchings in this world are vain!
Though we may yearn from that bright world to free thee,
Yet, we shall never greet thee here again!

I see thee not!—thy face is hid forever
From all those dear ones who now mourn with me!
But they were near thee—all but him, who, never,
In all this world, shall cease to grieve for thee!

Oaky Grove, Ga., April 9th, 1838.

THE POET'S LOVE OF FAME.

“Fame is the thirst of youth.”—
Byron.

It is not that my soul is vain of praise,
That it would drink of that joy-giving stream;
But feels undying wants within to raise
Some monument which others may esteem.
I love the sympathies of other minds—
Not that my soul is needy of mere praise—
I am not poor for friends—but something binds
My spirit sighing to the after-days.

I cannot call it any thing but love—
A longing in our souls to never die—
To be with men as we shall be above,
Clad in the robes of immortality.
If this is vanity, God made me so,
And placed it in the centre of my soul—
From which all thought proceeds—this wish doth grow—
Strong as the lightning's flash—the thunder's roll!

If not in life my soul your praise can have,
It is an idle breath flung on the air;
I care not for your plaudits in the grave—
What good were they? my soul will not be there!
And if men are to be what they have been,
Though more exalted, in that world above,
Let me, on earth, while living, have from men,
What, being dead, will show our former love.

But, though, within our mortal, we can see
Nothing which looks immortal to our sight;
Behind that veil there is what makes us be,
And without which we soon would be all night.
And as Man's natural body lives on earth,
With earthly things—seen with our natural eyes—
Our spiritual bodies shall, when we go forth,
Be seen by spiritual ones, where nothing dies.

Then, we shall see all things as they are seen
On earth, with eyes no mortal sun can dim;
And be in Heaven as we have ever been,
Like man, though subject not to death like him.
And if we carry with us all we have
Of knowledge here below, or happiness;
The more we have of each, this side the grave,
The richer will we be in heavenly bliss.

New York, April 1st, 1841.

SONG TO ISA.

“For while I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven.”—
Milton.

Why should I mourn, or weep, or sigh,
For that Bright World to be,
Where all my tears shall be wiped dry—
When here on earth, before I die,
I see that Heaven in thee?

If Heaven be here on earth with me,
Then I can never die;
Or, having died, as it may be,
I am to dwell, henceforth, with thee
In immortality.

Then let thy pensive head recline
Upon this peaceful breast;
For, being thus absorbed in thine,
My soul now seems in Heaven to shine
A saint among the blest.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Dec. 4th, 1844.

SPRING.

Thou art the fountain whence the crystal river
Of the warm year, from month to month, doth run,
Whose waves are days, which, flower-gemmed, flows forever
Out of the Golden Mountain of the Sun.

Thy warm flow greens the islands of the ocean,
Melting from off the streams their wintry chain—
As thou dost fill Man's heart with new emotion—
Bringing all dead things back to life again.

Thou art the advent of those flowery treasures
Which in the grave of Winter once lay dead—

Bestowing youth on Earth—on Man those pleasures,
Which, with the Old Year, in the dust were laid.

Thou art an emblem of Man's resurrection
From the cold embrace of the silent tomb;
When his bright soul, with all the flower's perfection,
Shall meet his body in immortal bloom.

New York, April 20th, 1842.

SONNET.—MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

“On the tender ties
Close twisted with the fibres of the heart!”—
Young.

Oh! as the twining tendrils of the vine
Fasten themselves around some graceful tree;
So did my infant arms take hold of thee,
Thou who didst answer with the strength of thine,
The fond, beseeching helplessness of mine!
Whose bosom was the cradle of my youth—
From whose sweet, snowwhite fountains, warm with truth,
Which, in thy heart's core, burnt with love divine—
I drank the emulgent nectar, while the shine
Of thy sweet countenance beamed down on me
With Angel-tenderness—all radiantly—
And kindled in mine agile form supine,
A thrill of joy, responsive to thine own,
Which, since that hour, this heart has never known!

New York, May 23d, 1841.

SONNET.—DEATH.

“Our birth is nothing but our death begun,
As tapers waste that instant they take fire.”—
Young.

I look upon the stars—upon the Moon—
And on the green things of the living Earth—
And say unto myself. Too soon, too soon—
Will I be made to leave thee to go forth
Into the haven of my quiet rest—
The stern, cold grave!—there to remain,
As silent as each clod upon my breast—
Never to wake up from that sleep again!
Not in the joyous spring-time of the year—
Nor in the Summer—nor the Autumn—Fall—
Nor Winter!—nothing shall be there as here—
No friendship, music, love, nor joy—for all
Is barren on that cold, oblivious shore,
From which we shall return—NO, NEVER MORE!

New York, May 15th, 1841.

THE PARTING APPEAL.

If the Dove should be taken away from his highland,
And there by the stranger let loose from his hand,
He would soar back again from that far distant island,
And light down with joy on his own native land.
Then why not believe that the heart that is fonder
And truer to thee than the mate to his Dove,
Will, as sure as the bird from his path will not wander,
Return back again to his own dearest love?

If that Dove should depart, at the death of his minion,
With other fond birds to the Isles of the Sea,
He would mate with the one that had lent him her pinion—
But when did my soul ever wander from thee?
Then, mourn not, my love! let no token of sadness
Escape from thy lips when they speak of me then,
But remember that he who first waked them to gladness,
Will come back as sure to embrace them again.

Philadelphia, May 10th, 1839.

THE PIQUE.

Take back the jewelled ring—
Take back the golden chain—
I would not keep one thing
To think of thee again.
My hands are just as white
As if they had on rings;
My neck is just as bright—
Take back the ugly things!

No—take not back the ring—
Give back the golden chain—
I wish to keep each thing
To think of thee again.
My neck is not as white
As if it wore the chain;
My hands are not as bright—
Give back the ring again.

The chain, you know, has bound
Thee nearer unto me;
And then the ring went round
My every thought for thee!
Oh! give me back the ring—
Give back the golden chain—
I swear that not one thing
Shall part from me again!

New York, June 5th, 1838.

AWAKE FROM THY SLUMBERS.

(SONG.)

Awake from thy slumbers! the bright Star is fading
That brought me the news of the coming of Day;
Though his chariot the hills from the valleys are shading,
He rides up the slope of the East far away!

Awake from thy slumbers! the wild birds are tuning
Their voices to greet thee so loud in the brake,
While the roebucks are watching the swans that are pruning
Their white silver wings on the glass of the lake.

Oh! wake from thy slumbers! the morning is shining,
And Phœbus is bathing his locks in the sea;
Then arise from that rose bed where thou art reclining,
And come, gentle lady! come swiftly to me!

Oaky Grove, Ga., June 10th, 1838.

THE VOICE OF MY DELIGHT.

I hear the soft, Lethéan song
Of many falling streams,
Winding oblivious, as they roll along,
Beneath the moonlight's rain of beams.
I hear the plaintive Nightingale
Singing with all his might,
Until his music seems to flood the vale
Afar with deluge-like delight.

A rose-bud, in his song's sweet rain,
Now bathes her drooping head,
Which so dissolves her beating heart of pain,
That she seems languishing as dead.
A cascade of sweet, mournful plaint,
He pours out through the grove,
As if his over-burthened heart would faint
With the sweet summer-heat of love.

But now the Nightingale is still—
A Spirit from above
Has drowned to silence each pellucid rill,
With the soft music of her love.
Her soft breath, like an odorous breeze,
Whispers to me to-night;
I am the soul of all such sounds as these—
It was the Voice of my Delight.

Oaky Grove, Ga., June 8th, 1840.

“The Nightingales warbled their enchanting notes and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose”—

Jumi.

THE DYING POET.

“I feel the daisies growing over me!”
Keats' Dying Words.

A little while this storm shall rage,
And then 't will all be o'er!
The cold, dark blood will then engage
My failing heart no more!

The fiery soul that fed on love,
From this worn frame must part;
And there, forever more, above,
Live mateless from my heart!

The dismal, shadowy vale that lies
In Death's dark region there,
Is now between my tearful eyes
And Heaven—where all is fair!

My young years' youngest flowers that grew,
And garlanded my brow,
Are slain beneath the heavy dew,
And all are withered now!

I see that earth cannot suffice
To give my spirit rest;
I now must go above the skies,
And sing among the blest.

Oaky Grove, Ga., May 10th, 1837.

SONG TO ISA IN HEAVEN.

“Fit love for Gods.”—
Milton.

Fair as the white Swan of the Nile,
Was thy pure neck of snow;
Like cloudless morning thy sweet smile—
Thy cheeks two roses, all the while
Beginning still to blow.

Thou wert as lovely as the hind—
As pleasant as the roe;
Thy beauty most was of the mind—
To wisdom thou wert more inclined
Than any one I know.

For thy sweet beauty was to me,
In this dark world below,
Like some bright star above the sea
To some lone ship—for, without thee,
I knew not where to go.

But thou art now in Heaven above,
A saint among the blest;
The same celestial, snow-white Dove,
That thou on earth didst ever prove
To this fond, aching breast!

“Let thy wife be as the loving hind, and the pleasant roe”—

Proverbs.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Nov 1st, 1844.

SONNET.—MEMORY.

“There is an eloquence in Memory, because it is the nurse of Hope.”—

Bidurer.

As silent burns that everlasting flame
Amid the darkness of the heathen's tomb—
A quenchless light which Time cannot consume—
So, in my heart, unquenchable, the same,
Love's undiminished fire, no age can tame,
Burns ever, starlike, giving tireless light
To thy sweet Memory, drest in saintly white,
Which there lies treasured; while thy precious name,
That fountain whence my inspiration came,—
Like Hesperus among the lights of Heaven—
Burns in the centre of my thoughts, which sit
With twinkling vigils, like the stars of even,
Each for its own life's sake now watching it—
Showing the soul it never can forget.

New York, May 23d, 1841.

SONNET.—THE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.

If thou art wholly mire on earth below,
Thou wilt be mine again in Heaven above;
If we were once united here by Love,
Our souls shall be wherever we may go;
And this is what, in truth, you ought to know
Above all things—for, if you are my wife
On earth, you will be there, as in this life—
(For not our bodies, but our souls are so)—
And should you on another one bestow
Your hand—how can you hope to meet me there?
Or, meeting me, to be what you are here?
For, if your hopes of meeting me, now flow
From knowing that my soul is ever thine—
You must remain on earth forever mine.

New York, Dec. 25th, 1837.

TO ALLEGRA FLORENCE.

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH.

I once believed, in youth's transported hour,
That thy dear mother was from Paradise;
But now the bush that could produce this flower,
I know is an exotic of the skies.

I feel, while gazing on thy beauteous face,
That so much of the Cherub has been given
To keep thee mindful of that glorious Place—
That we shall scarcely keep thee back from Heaven.

Thou art prophetic of what is to be—
A Heaven on earth, which tells of Heaven above—
Wherein all that my soul has longed to see,
Is seen—revealed to me in heavenly love.

Connecticut, June 25th, 1839.

THE VOICELESS EARTH.

Earth has no voice to tell of the To-Come—
No hieroglyphic writ on antique scroll,
To be deciphered, which might of that Home
Give light—the Kingdom of the Soul.
There is no Epitaph of what has been—
No Prophet to unfold what is to be—
The dark Before no human soul has seen—
The After—none shall ever live to see!

Earth veils the origin of what she is—
Beyond her spherëd Mountain who can see?
No human soul has ever seen, from this
Dark world, that Brighter One which is to be!

She is that darksome veil which hides, within
The Sanctuary of the Universe,
The Mortal from the Immortal—what has been
From what shall be—caused by the primal curse!

Oh! that my soul could this Dark Mountain climb!
I would behold the Hidden Things to be,
And see, upholding God's great Throne sublime,
The Sapphire Mountains of Eternity!

Oaky Grove, Ga., June 1st, 1843.

SONNET.—ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

“My world is dead.”—
Young.

As when Oblivion's gate, flung open wide,
Lets in the deluge of the night on day,
Till earth is drowned beneath the ebon tide,
And sunlight from the world is swept away;
So came her death upon my soul that hour!
Till all that was most bright to me before,
Was now imbued with that all-nameless Power
Which said, in silence, We should meet no more!
But on Death's ebon portal there is written,
He who hath by the world been made to mourn,
Or, by the snake of Envy hath been bitten,
Shall, from these confines, never more return;
But, for the sorrows that once pained his breast,
He shall, with Angels, find eternal rest.

Philadelphia, April 1st, 1838.

SONNET.—THE GRAVE.

“Peace is in the grave!”—
Shelley.

This is the fate of Man—this is his lot—
From which no mortal hand has power to save!
There is no place so silent as that spot—
None in this world so lonesome as the grave!
There is no memory there—all is forgot
Of joy or pain—whatever we may have

Before we go, we there will know it not!
We shall be there alone!—nor shall we crave
The things of earth—nor shall the guilty plot
Against the innocent—nor shall the brave
Be different from the coward,—there, no blot
Shall fall upon the good Man's name—the slave
Be like his master—all, alike, shall rot,
And mingle with that sea which has no wave!

New York April 1st, 1841.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

“I am come into my garden—my sister, my spouse.”—

Cant., chap. v.

She met me in the jassamine bower
One summer afternoon;
And, as she plucked each tender flower,
She said to me, that blessed hour,
This is the month of June.

She won from me, with her sweet smiles,
The deep love of my heart;
A white Swan from the Blessed Isles
Was not more free from earthly wiles
Than she was from all art.

Then on my breast she leant her head,—
Her heart beat close to mine—
And, hiding her sweet face, she said,
As in my hand her own she laid—
Why cannot I be thine?

My answering not did speak to her,
For I was dumb with love;
For what she said did minister
Delight unto my listening ear,
Like music from above.

I raised her from my panting breast,
And kist her lips with mine;
The blushes on my cheek confest
More than my faltering tongue exprest
In saying—I am thine!

Oaky Grove, Ga., Dec. 4th, 1844.

OH, BREAK THE HARP!

(SONG.)

Oh, break the Harp! since now my heart is broken!
Let not another song by me be sung!
Since she is dead for whom these words were spoken—
Since she is dead for whom this Harp was strung!

Let not my hand another chord awaken—
No—let its echoes into silence die!
Since Joy my soul, on earth, has now forsaken,
By soaring with her to the heavens on high!

Here let me cherish now the faithful sorrow
Which she has left me in my heart's deep core;
And teach my soul that joy from Hope to borrow,
Which she shall yield me in this world no more!

Oaky Grove, Ga., July 25th, 1843.

THE EVENING LAND.

“Oh! light us to the isles of the evening land!”—
Shelley.

Oh! come, gentle lady! come dwell with me
In that bright Eden Isle afar,
Where our home shall be far beyond the sea,
In the light of the western star.
We are going now where the turtle doves
May be seen upon every tree;
Where the young Fawns mate in the Indian groves,
As my spirit now mates with thee!
Then “follow Love's folding star”—
Far—far to that “sunnier strand,”
Where Peace comes down from her light afar,
On the Evening Land.

Make haste! for thy lover will meet thee soon,
In the light of an April morn:
Be as calm, dear one! as the first New Moon.
From the old one but newly born.
As the Night now longs for the coming Moon
Which ascends from the eastern sea—
Or the hart for the cooling streams at noon,
Does my soul, in its love, for thee!
Then “follow Love's folding star”—
Far—far to that “sunnier strand,”
Where Peace comes down from her light afar,
On the Evening Land.

As the pigeons fly from the frozen North,
For the maste by the Southern Sea;
So we go afar from our native earth,
To dwell where the People are free.
As from cruel hawks flies the timid dove,
So from tyrants we now must flee,
Where our souls may live, ever free to love,
As the birds of that rich countrie.
Then “follow Love's folding star”—
Far—far to that “sunnier strand,”
Where Peace comes down from her light afar,
On the Evening Land.

Middletown, Conn., Sept. 25th, 1841.

ON HEARING VON WEBER'S LAST WALTZ.

As sad as the love that is turned to despair,
When the heart for the lost one in silence is breaking;
As sweet as the scent of the crushed rose to air,
When its life is its own withered leaves now forsaking;
As sweet as the scent that is crushed from the flower,
When trampled to death; or like joy in its sadness—
Now faint as the soul in its last dying hour—
Now strong as that soul when its grief turns to gladness—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.

Like the last tender sigh of the virgin in tears,
When her lover, to come back no more, has departed;
Like that same tender sign when her lover appears,
And receives her again to his arms broken-hearted;
Like the dream of some land that is full of delight,
Where the joy of to-day is the same as to-morrow;
Where the evening returns, but to end not in night,
And the bliss is so pure that it turns not to sorrow—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.

For it tells of the rapture, the gladness, the love
Of the Seraph-winged soul, when the body is dying—
When the windows of Heaven are opened above
To receive it, while upward to Paradise flying;
And it tells here on earth of the bliss, the delight,
In the language of Angels, that Angels are feeling,
And reveals to the soul, what the soul, in its flight
Up to Heaven, of that Heaven to the world is revealing;
Until weary of earth, unto my soul seems given
The wings of an Angel to bear me to Heaven.

Oaky Grove, Ga., June 10th, 1844.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.

The funeral bell keeps tolling, keeps tolling,
Keeps tolling for the dead;
Whose azure round goes rolling, goes rolling,
Like waters, o'er my head!

It tells of joys departed, departed—
Of hopes no more to come!
And leaves me broken-hearted—sad hearted—
While home no more is home!

Oh! may be she is sleeping—is sleeping—
I hope she is not dead!
For, while I sat here weeping—thus weeping—
I thought she moved her head!

Her hands are getting colder—yes, colder;
She will awake no more!
Once more let me enfold her—enfold her—
My grief will then be o'er!

They put her in the coffin—the coffin—
I hear the hollow sound!
The babe I've kissed so often—so often—
To lay her in the ground!

Farewell, my little treasure! my treasure!
My darling little child!
The Angels give thee pleasure—deep pleasure,
In Heaven, my undefiled!

Though she is now in glory, in glory—
In Heaven among the blest—
My breaking heart keeps sorry, keeps sorry,
And never will find rest!

The mournful sound is dying, is dying
Into the azure sky;
While I am left here sighing—yes, sighing—
That I, too, cannot die!

Middletown, Conn., August 10th, 1841.

GOD DWELLS IN LIGHT.

SACRED SONG.

God dwells in light!
Before the ocean of unmeasured space
Was islanded with stars serenely bright—
Reflecting back the radiance of His face—
He dwelt above, in Heaven's immortal bliss,
Thinking into existence that which is.

God dwells in light!
Before He laid the world's foundation-stone
High on the nothing of primeval night,
And in Heaven's centre throned th' eternal sun;
He dwelt above, beyond the far-off sky,
With Angels born of His Eternity.

God dwells in light!
And holds within the hollow of His hand
The universe of worlds which gem the night,
Which, through Heaven's sea, at his divine command,
Freighted with His own smiles, now sail at even,
Fearless of storms, around the sun in Heaven.

God dwells in light!
And where He dwells, there spirits also dwell,
Who drink fresh glory from His face so bright,
As stars drink from the sun's deep, golden well
Exhaustless beams, so that they never die,
And thereby show His immortality.

Middletown, Conn., April 9th, 1842.

ON HEARING A LADY SING.

“My sense was filled
With that new blissful golden melody.”—
Keats.

Thy radiant voice was rained down from thine own
Upon my soul in tones of golden light,
As when the Day-god, from his burning throne,
Sheds heavenly splendor on departing night.

Then from my soul all sorrow fled away,
And all, but gladness, from my heart was driven,
As Night from Earth, to see the God of Day
Smiling upon her from his throne in Heaven.

New York, April 25th, 1840.

TO MARION IN HEAVEN.

(A LAMENT.)

Seraph in heaven above!
The highest, holiest, purest of God's host!
Whose spirit was the soul of my soul's love!
Though thou art absent, yet thou art not lost!
For, as the Ivy clingeth to the Tree,
So did thy soul, dear, lovely One! to me!
To me, dear One! forever more to me!

For here on earth below,
I have no pleasure neither day nor night!
It is all sorrow—all distress—all woe—
Born of thine absence, who wast my delight!
My Spring is winter—though, when thou wert here,
It was like spring-time to me all the year!
Spring-time, dear Marion! all the livelong year!

Thou wert my Morning Star—
The Evening Star of my divine delight!
Whose spirit seemed to me to dwell afar,
Before thou hadst departed from my sight—
Leaving me here to wander, my dear One!
In the dark night of life—alone—alone!
In life's dark night forever more alone!

Oh! for an Angel's wing!
That my imprisoned spirit might be free!
Emancipated from the world—to spring—
Exulting in the thought of meeting thee!
Swift would it join thy spirit in the skies,
Where sorrow ends, but pleasure never dies!
In Heaven, dear One! where pleasure never dies!

Peace! broken heart! be still!
A dead corpse in the grave of my lone breast,
Be thou forever! taking there thy fill
Of quiet, silent, solitary rest!
For, what thou hast, no other one would have—
Grief—grief—which thou shalt carry to the grave!
Deep grief—which thou shalt carry to the grave!

Middletown, Conn., April 8th, 1842.

TO A LADY SINGING.

“Thy voice is in my soul!”—
Felicia Hemans.

That joy-inspiring melody of thine
Intoxicates my heart with perfect bliss!
It rains upon my soul the dew divine
Of thine own joy, which is my happiness!

Pure as the pebble-chastened dews which flow
From holy Castaly as still of night—
Born of the melting of the Aonian snow—
Was thy sweet song—the heaven of my delight!

New York, April 20th, 1840.

TO ISA.

Through all this toilsome pilgrimage below,
My spirit ever yearned to be with thine,
Since, in our preëxistent state, we know,
It was appointed to be twined with mine.

I saw some glimpses of thy former state
In the calm languor of those downcast eyes,
For which my soul leaped forth in joy elate,
And claimed, on earth, its sister of the skies!

The presence of thy beauty gives me peace,
And whispers comfort to my longing soul;
It is an amulet against disease,
And that Bethesda which has made me whole.

To see thee, makes me long for something more—
Beyond the joy of that which thou hast given—
For that sweet fruit which grew on our own shore—
Where all is happiness—where all is Heaven.

New York, June 8th, 1837.

THE SERENADER'S SONG.

As the Fawn from the Leopard
Seeks safety in flight,
To the arms of thy shepherd
Fly swiftly to-night.

Let the song that thou hearest
Fall balmy, but low,
On the ear of my dearest,
Like rain upon snow.

Come—the morn is declining—
The pale stars are dim—
And the few that are shining
Will light us from him.

We will fly from thy father—
Though poor we may be,
I would choose it, love! rather
Than live without thee!

Then away with thy shepherd,
Thou lamb of the fold!
As the Fawn from the Leopard—
Who cares for his gold?

We are richer without it,
Than with it—Come, fly!
And, if any will doubt it—
Why—let them—Good bye!

New York, Aug. 20th, 1840.

ANACREONTIQUE.

“Humanum est errare.”

Oh! that those rose-bud lips of thine,
While hanging on my panting breast,
Would shed their nectared balm on mine,
And soothe my weary heart to rest.
My hand would steal, like heavenly Hope
To Adam from the Garden driven,
With trembling, down thy bosom's slope,
As he to enter his lost Heaven;
And grasp, on that elastic bough,
Cydonian fruit as white as snow,
And pay to thee vow after vow,
The more you chid for doing so.
And while, with sobs, thou wouldst impart
The wish of all most dear to me;
I would re-echo back thy heart,
And stronger sigh my wish to thee.
With mutual sobs—with mutual sighs—
And but one way to ease our pain—
It would be much to our surprise
If we should ever want again.

New York, April 5th, 1841.

The Ancients had an apple which came from Cydon, a town in Crete, called Cydonian, which, from its size and beautiful color, resembled a woman's breast. It was called in Greek, Κυδωνιον μηλον. Sir Philip Sidney, in speaking of his heroine in the Arcadia, says, “The apples, methought, fell down from the trees to do homage to the apples of her breast!” There is a wonderful story related of this Cretan apple and the youth Acontius, of the island of Cea, who, at the offering of the sacrifices in the Temple of Diana, fell in love with the beautiful virgin, Cydippe.

TO ISA.

“Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.”—

Proverbs xxxv. 29.

It was not for those locks of gold
Which dangled on thy bosom bare,
Whose languid strans thy hand controlled
With grace so much above compare;
Nor was it that thy bosom prest
A heart more true than all to me;
But all the ornaments of all the best
Were modestly combined in thee.

It was not for that winning smile
Which played upon thy roseate cheeks,
Through which thy soul looked all the while,
And spoke to me what mine now speaks;
Nor was it that thine eye possest
More fire than we in others see;
But all the ornaments of all the best
Were modestly combined in thee.

It was not for that snow-white throne
Whereon thy soul in wisdom reigned,
Which there, like Parian marble, shone,
And all thy heavenly thoughts contained;

Nor was it for each of the rest
Of all those charms so dear to me;
But all the ornaments of all the best
Were modestly combined in thee.

New York, July 20th, 1838.

TO ISA.

“Her soft smiles shone afar,
And her low voice was heard like love.”—
Shelley.

Thou wert as mild as an incarnate Moon,
Making thy soul the sattelite of mine—
Round which thou didst revolve in joy, as soon
As my fond soul could shed its light on thine.

Thus, basking in my beams—within the sphere
Of mine attraction—thou didst, every night,
Clothed in the radiance of my love, appear,
And shine upon me with divine delight.

Oaky Grove, Ga., Jan. 1st, 1843.

TO JESSE.

The Rose is called the Queen of all the Flowers,
More radiant, but of odor less divine;
The rich Magnolia, though it scent the bowers
Afar, is far less sweet than Jessamine!

The Peach-tree blossom is of “tender smell”—
So is the saintly Apple-bloom divine;
But never Tuberose, from Indian dell,
Could be compared with thee, my Jessamine!

There is not, in the Paradise above,
An Amaranth, or bud of Eglantine;
Nor in the Eden-bowers of Perfect Love,
A flower like thee, my gentle Jessamine!

The Lily is not half so sweet as thou,
Nor is the Tonquill's breath so sweet as thine;
Nor is the Daffodill, which greets me now
With its delicious speech, sweet Jessamine!

For, as in heaven there is one star whose light
Is brighter far than all the rest that shine;
So, here on earth, there is one flower more bright
Than all the rest—it is my Jessamine!

Middletown, Conn., Oct. 24th, 1841.

SONG TO A FALSE ONE.

We are parted!—no smile of to-morrow
Will ever restore thee again!
For the Present is filled with such sorrow,
Each future regret will be vain!
It is true, you have been to me nearer
Than life-blood itself to my heart;
Ah, so dear that no soul could be dearer—
And yet, near or dear—we must part!

You may think that my heart is forgiving,
And thereby expect to obtain
Some forgiveness—but, ah! you are striving
For that which you never will gain!
I should think that if pride could not keep you,
That shame would, from asking my care;
Which, if granted, this moment, would steep you
The deeper in guilt than you are!

You may weep—you may mourn without measure—
Your heart may forever repine!
But your grief were whole ages of pleasure,
Compared with one moment of mine!
There is nothing on earth can restore you—
In Heaven no friends could we dwell!
For, like Lucifer's soul curst before you,
No hope now is left you but—Hell!

New York, May 23d, 1841.

THE POETRY OF LOVE, JOY, AND GRIEF.

To hang upon his breast by day,
To lie close by his side by night;
To heed whatever he may say,
And do it with as fond delight;
To make each thought of him thy sigh,
To love him more than God above,
And think that he can never die—
This is the Poetry of Love.

To think him, absent, by thy side—
Whatever he may do is right;
To love him as when first his bride,
And think each one thy bridal night;
To live through life unchanged in years,
With love that time cannot destroy,
And have each thought expressed in tears—
This is the Poetry of Joy.

To sit down by his dying bed,
To count each pulse—to feel each pain—
To love him after he is dead,
And never more to smile again;
To love him after as before—
To find his grave thy sole relief—
And weep for him forever more—
This is the Poetry of Grief.

New York, October 10th, 1839.

TO A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL.

Thou hast not mourned, sweet dove!
But wearest the aspect of immortal youth!
Thou art like Peace begotten of pure Love,
Nursed by Religion in the Bowers of Truth,
And on Ambrosia, which the Months do bring,
Fed by the Spirit of perpetual Spring.

Thou wert not born to die!
The grave could feel no pride in burying thee!
Death would not dare to look thee in the eye—
Or, if he did, those smiles of purity,
Like streams of light descending from above,
Would melt his icy heart to tears of love.

There is not one on earth,
Nor in the Heaven above, like thee, sweet One!
Thou look'st as if God's smiles had given thee birth—
Sent on the wings of morning from the Sun—
A chrysolite of joy—of light divine—
I would not give for earth, if thou wert mine!

New York, June 8th, 1838.

FIRST LOVE.

With snow-white, lily-hand she softly bound
The healing herb upon my wounded heart;
But, as she healed the deep, life-taking wound,
Her own was stabbed beyond the reach of art.

Not as the husbandman the yellow ear,
Whose ripeness seems to chide his lazy hand;
I drew her eagerly my bosom near,
And—sat down with her on the snow-white sand.

New York, April 5th, 1839.

SONG TO SPRING.

“Thou dost wake, Oh, Spring!
Oh! child of many winds!”—
Shelley.

I am glad the Spring has come,
For my soul will now feel bright,
As it did at mine own home
In the sunny land of light.

For the pregnant sod now heaves
Of the gentle, joyful earth;
And the flowers, with tender leaves,
From her labor now come forth.

When the warm hands of the Spring
Shall have strewn the world with flowers,
Then the sweet song-birds will sing
In the shadows of green bowers.

We shall have no more of rain,
Nor of winter, nor of snow;
But our hearts will, all, again,
Be as glad as mine is now.

When the sun looks bright at morn,
I begin to feel me near
The bright land where I was born,
In the sunny South so dear.

Ah! that is the land for me!
Where the sunshine brings delight,
And the woods look like the sea,
And the skies are ever bright.

I must leave this frozen North,
Though the land has mighty men—
And go to my native earth,
In the sunny South again.

New York, April 1st, 1841.

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON.

“I have done for my country, and for all mankind, all that I could do, and now I resign my soul, without fear, to my God, and my daughter to my country.”—

Jefferson's Dying Words.

The eloquent tongue is mute,
The eagle eye is dim;
He hears not thy salute—
What is this world to him?
For though an earthquake rent
The mighty earth in twain,
And shook the firmament—
He would not wake again!

All that was earthly, lies
Low in his grave beneath!
His heavenly part defies
The mightiness of Death!
Then let the thunders roll,
The mighty cannons roar—
They cannot reach his soul
Upon that happy shore!

All that he wished below
From mortal man, was given—
What earth could not bestow
Is granted him in Heaven.
For, fed by Freedom's hand,
He grew, from infancy,
The mightiest of the land—
His cradle Liberty.

He prayed but to survive
To see that blessed day,
And God said, Let him live!
And Death then passed away.
And strengthened, soothed, sustained
By that Mysterious Power,
He never more complained,
But mended from that hour.

His faith had power to cause
That which was not to be,
And baffled Nature's laws,
And flattered Destiny.
His soul was in the faith
Of living anchored fast;
And when he bowed to Death,
The time he wished was past.

He saw the Fields of Bliss
Spread out before his eyes,
A brighter world than this—
The Heavenly Paradise.
And, Prophet-like, he stood
Upon the Mount of Time,
And saw, beyond the flood,
Eternity, sublime!

He went not down as one
That knew mortality;
But set as sets the sun
Upon the far-off sea!
And though his lips are mute,
His eagle eye is dim—
He hears not thy salute—
We have the light of him.

The hand of God above
Led him along the way
Of never-dying love,
To Everlasting Day.
Bright as th' eternal sun,
The Lord of Heaven, shall be
The race that thou hast run,
Through all eternity.

Then shout for him no more—
Cease now your revelry—
For who can hail that shore
Which bounds eternity?
For, in that far-off Land,
Beyond the reach of thought—
He joins the Patriot Band
Who first for Freedom fought.

July 4th, 1838.

The Fourth of July.

THE INVOCATION.

“Assist me: I will thank you in the grave!”
Young.

Tell me, ye stars of light!
Whose twinkling is your roll;
Whose beams are rained to-night
In silence on my soul;
Tell me, ye heavenly band!
In all that world above,
Know ye not some bright land,
Where love replies to love?
Where one true heart may there another find,
Wedded in love—where mind is linked to mind?

Tell me, ye winds! which are
The breath of God on high!
Have ye not passed some where,
Where man can never die?
Tell me if there is not
Some place where ye have been,
Where all is love—some spot
In which there is no sin?
Where man lies not, nor sland'reth he his friend,
But of whose friendship there shall be no end?

Tell me, ye souls set free!
For mine will soon be so—
Who mourned on earth, like me,
To know what ye now know;
Whose spiritual bodies dwell
Undying there—Oh! hear!
And what ye know now tell
To him who would be there!
And what on earth had been most joy to thee
To know, now ye are there, oh! tell to me!—

A voice as soft as love
Whispered at calm of even,
Like noon-notes from the dove—
Comes down to me from Heaven!
It is my mother's voice
I have not heard for years!
It makes my heart rejoice,
And fills mine eyes with tears!
Oh! after long, long, trying years of pain,
She comes back to me in this world again!

Her soul embraces mine,
With lips of heavenly love!
Her breath is breath divine—
It tells of Heaven above!
Oh! as she loved me here,
So will she love me there—
In that bright, glorious sphere,
Where all the Angels are!
And as she freed me here on earth from pain,
So will she comfort me in Heaven again!

Middletown, Conn., July 9th, 1339.

A LONGING TO KNOW.

“Who can endure to leave the future all unguessed, and sit tamely down to groan under the fardel of the present? No, no! that which the foolish-wise call fanaticism, belongs to the same part of us as hope. Each is yearning for the Great Beyond which attests our immortality.”—

Bulwer.

I long to know that which cannot be known,
Until my death—which, knowing not, doth give
Me much uneasiness on earth below,
At the same time it makes me long to live,
And fear to die, lest, dying, there should be
An end of all my immortality!

If the dark veil which keeps the soul below
Pavilioned from Eternity, were rent,
And we could see what we desire to know,
I think my spirit would be more content
Than it is now, which only hopes to be,
By faith, an heir of immortality.

But it is now denied us here to know
Aught that may happen in that world above;
Because, perhaps, our ignorance here below
May magnify the glory of our love
In Heaven, when we shall meet those who are dear
To us below, in that bright, glorious sphere.

And then it may be, that, to man is given
A fund of knowledge in this world below,
Commensurate with his faculties, which Heaven
Designed him only in this world to know,
To suit his mortal state, which, there, shall be
Enhanced, to suit his immortality.

Oaky Grove, Ga., April 10th, 1836.

THE CHERISHED FLOWER.

“An Eve in this Eden.”—
Shelley.

Amid the green things of my life's young spring,
One Rose there was which bloomed serenely bright,
From whose sweet leaves the zephyrs used to bring
Odors which wafted me to pure delight.

I treasured every breath of air that came
To waft its cherished redolence away,
Because, through every change, it was the same—
More beautiful by night than by the day.

A hopeful freshness lay upon its leaves,
Which prophesied new joys, as it did lie
Soft in the lap of Summer, which now grieves
That anything so beautiful could die!

At last, the Autumn winds began to howl
In jealous madness for the sweets it bore;
And, striving to deflower, drove off its soul,
Whose tender sweets shall comfort me no more!

New York, June 1st, 1839.

TO ONE FAR AWAY.

“For ours was not like earthly love.”—

Campbell.

“It is kindly ordered by Nature that the farther our bodies are separated from each other, the nearer our souls approach each other.”—

Jean Paul Richter.

Flower of this world's garden! whose sweet bloom
In such sweet fragrance to my heart is given;
Since thou wert born to yield me such perfume,
I know that thou could'st only come from Heaven!
Since thou wert first revealed to these fond eyes,
This heart has never known one single care;
And now to know thou art from Paradise,
Doth make me seem forever to be there.

Fountain of my delight! of that sweet stream
Which flows in joy to know it comes from thee;
Thou art the source of that sweet, heavenly dream
Which Love did first interpret unto me.
If this be so, my life should now be spent
In one sweet Sabbath of deep praise to Him—
(Since thou wert from that Heavenly Kingdom sent)—
Who sits enthroned above the Seraphim.

And though remote from thee, the same sweet smiles
Which once dissolved my beating heart pain,
Dispel the gloom of these nine hundred miles
And make the Past live in my soul again.
It is by memory that, despite the strife,
Renewal of this sacred joy is given—
A resurrection of our former life,
Which now restores me to my native Heaven

Oaky Grove, Ga., May 10th, 1838.

THE SPIRIT'S YEARNINGS.

“Man must soar.”—
Young.

Send to me, from the realms of rest,
Some fond assurance of the life to-come,
And let me know if thou art with the blest,
Enjoying pleasure in that heavenly home;
And those sad yearnings, which are now i vain,
Shall never touch my broken heart again!

Tell me if friends are not to meet,
And know each other in that world again;
Where our embraces shall be made so sweet
That we shall all forget our former pain?
Oh! if it be not so, why do we crave
Such interest for the dead beyond the grave?

Why do we, as the mateless Dove,
Soaring away when all the rest have fled—
Leaving no traces of her flight above—
Seek out the regions of the longed-for dead?
If there is not, beyond the far-off sky,
Some home for Man where he shall never die

Say, Mother! thou who now dost stand
At the right hand of God in Heaven above—
Drinking immortal nectar from His hand,
Fresh wafted from the Elysian Isles of Love—
Are we not destined, in that world of bliss,
To love each other as we did in this?

Oh! if you did but know,
Soul of my being! what there is for thee
Laid up in Heaven, it would rejoice thee so,
That, rather than not dwell up here with me,
Thou wouldst, but only to be free on high,
Pray earnestly from this blest hour to die!

Come to thy mother, then,
My first-born! come along in Heaven to me,
And let us be united here again,
As we were once on earth, eternally!
It is your Mother calls you to your rest—
Come, loveliest! come ye to your Mother's breast!

Oaky Grove, Ga., May 10th, 1839.

University of Virginia Library

THE LOST PLEIAD:

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MY FIRST-BORN.

TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.

THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.

THE WIFE'S LAMENT FOR HER HUSBAND LOST AT SEA.

TO ONE IN HEAVEN.

THE GEORGIAN CAPTIVE.

APOSTROPHE TO TIME.

CAROL.

TO ALLEGRA FLORENCE IN HEAVEN.

THE SOUL'S DESTINY.

SHELLEY.

TO MY FIRST-BORN IN HEAVEN.

ON THE DEATH OF MY FIRST-BORN.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

WASHINGTON.

THE HEAVENLY VISION.

TO SHAKSPEARE DYING.

MY SOUL'S JEWEL.

THE SALUTATION.

SONNET.—TO ISA SLEEPING.

SONNET.—THE HUSBAND'S REQUEST.

SONNET.—ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

THE POET'S LOVE OF FAME.

SONG TO ISA.

SPRING.

SONNET.—MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

SONNET.—DEATH.

THE PARTING APPEAL.

THE PIQUE.

AWAKE FROM THY SLUMBERS.

(SONG.)

THE VOICE OF MY DELIGHT.

THE DYING POET.

SONG TO ISA IN HEAVEN.

SONNET.—MEMORY.

SONNET.—THE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.

TO ALLEGRA FLORENCE.

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH.

THE VOICELESS EARTH.

SONNET.—ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.

SONNET.—THE GRAVE.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

OH, BREAK THE HARP!

(SONG.)

THE EVENING LAND.

ON HEARING VON WEBER'S LAST WALTZ.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.

GOD DWELLS IN LIGHT.

SACRED SONG.

ON HEARING A LADY SING.

TO MARION IN HEAVEN.

(A LAMENT.)

TO A LADY SINGING.

TO ISA.

THE SERENADER'S SONG.

ANACREONTIQUE.

TO ISA.

TO ISA.

TO JESSE.

SONG TO A FALSE ONE.

THE POETRY OF LOVE, JOY, AND GRIEF.

TO A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL.

FIRST LOVE.

SONG TO SPRING.

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON.

THE INVOCATION.

A LONGING TO KNOW.

THE CHERISHED FLOWER.

TO ONE FAR AWAY.

THE SPIRIT'S YEARNINGS.