17= feymgi B^wn^fl IH^^^ui^^l pipdyH I^I^Htpl ■^fCiHil ^^i^*^ jE^^/v'tTt x<^'i^9^^^B^^^^^^^^^^t^ . - i-^-^^jJ^y'-' ''^^H " : BML ''■H^^I^^^Su^ M^ii^l^fvl^^^^^P'QL^^M' ■M^^^^K ^^i^pSi^^^BflflEj'' ^^W^^^^^^^^^^^^^^Bk\/^ i^mPH ■ i 1^^%^ ^^^^^^^^^^B^NriTilVi MlSf^^^^^^H^^^I . R^^ra l^l^^Hi' ''^ E^^^pp ^^^^K^^^9: ^^HHk |PP9^[^Ul9 : ^^^Hfi j^^^^H ^^^M^^^^^ ^ i ■^m ■^■HH|H: ^^^^i JUJ^^gjIpll H^Aji'S"' cShiim^^wI'^^J^^^uI ~ CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF Coll. Regional History 1924 022 16G The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9240221 63731 'rjraf.if'ISAriam ^fc ^c:^^^^.. Y^ MEMOIR OF MRS. JULIA H. SCOTT; HER POEMS, SELECTIONS FROM HER PROSE. BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY ABEL TOMPKINS. 1853. f^'iri'jtl Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year IS53, By ABEL TOMPKINS, In the Clerlc'i) Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. StERXOTTFED BT HOBABT k BOBBIN'S, MEW EKQLAND TTPE AND 8TBRE0TTP8 FOUNDERT, BOSTON. PEEFACE. In a recent religious paper we met an expression of great regret that the " lives of holy women " are not more fre- quently given to the public ; such productions being a pow- erful and efficient aid to a religious life in others. . The paragraph impressed us deeply, while it suggested a hope which has acted as a powerfiil stimulus in preparing the imperfect Memoir of the "hdy woman" whose life and writings fill up the pages of this volume. A nobler example of devotion to religioxis principle, of never-sleeping effort to sustain, both by precept and example, the doctrines of her Saviour, we believe can scarcely be found; and it is our great desire and prayer to Grod that tihat example, however imperfectly it may be presented, may perform its legitimate work, by leading many others of our sex to the same devotion to God, the same love to the Saviour, and the same over- mastering desire to live the life of a Christian woman, that filled and animated her. In arranging the poems of Mrs. Scott we have found our- selves more and more averse to allow many omissions. Yet the dimensions of a single volume demand restrictions ; and we have, therefore, found it expedient to omit many of her earlier effusions, — inserting barely sufficient to mark the precocity of her genius, and her genial and ever-religious IT PBEFAOE. nature. As far as possible, regard has been had to chrono- logical order ; and we think the gradual development of the mind of the poet, and the ever upward flight of her spirit, can be clearly and distinctly followed, until it surrenders itself, resigned and fearless, into the hands of its Maker. Our selections of prose are necessarily limited. One only of her earlier tales — Nira Moore — is given, as a specimen of her style at the romantic age of seventeen. The other articles belong to a later period, and show the progress in spiritual culture which so peculiarly distinguished their author. Our thanks are due to many friends for aid in fiimishing the letters, poems, etc., which have been of so essential ser- vice to us, and they will accept them, heartfelt as they are tendered. With a fuU confidence that the writings of one so gifted will be gladly received by the public, and a modest hope that our own labors also may find a friendly acceptance, we now say Farewell. C. M. SAWTEK. Clinton, N. T., May l&th, 1853. CONTENTS. PASS Memoie, 13 POETICAL SELECTIONS. Marie, , 115 The Hebrew Mother, 117 A Morning Thought, 121 Invocation 122 Serenade, 123 Song of the Indian Girl, 128 The Vow of Friendship 124 Funeral Dirge 125 A Fragment 126 The Ghost of the Narrows . . . . 128 Deity, 132 And I became a Sceptic 183 Gather not the Flowers, 136 The Irish Emigrants 186 Twilight on the Susquehanna 138 Music Across the Water, 140 To C. M. S 141 The Slave, 143 The Maiden Martyr, 144 The Indian Maiden's Hymn to the Invisible 146 Thanksgiving Hymn, 147 Thoughts beside a Corpse, 148 Egypt's Last Plague 150 An Evening Walk in S********* 152 Spring-Day Visions, 154 Her Last Words 157 The Last of the Signers, 158 The Three Dark Hours 159 To Harriet 161 Stars i 162 The Eevivalist ., 164 Judas, . 165 The Burial of Gteorge Pejee, the last of the Koyal Uncases, . . . 167 A Closing Scene, . . 168 TI CONTENTS. FlOB The Wanderer's Saturday Night, . » , . . 169 The Aged Convert 170 The Fifth Day 6f February, 1834 ; or, a Spring Day in Winter, . 172 To a long absent Friend, 173 Devotional Moments, 175 The Emigrant's Farewell 176 June to the Invalid 177 The Parents' Farewell to their Child 178 Christ's Parting with his Disciples 180 The Dead Qladiator 183 The Death of Sisera 184 The Island Grave, 186 The Fair Captive, 187 A Mother's Lament 189 The Autumn Boses 191 A Fragment 193 The Young Dreamer, 194 Stanzas, 197 Children Returning from School, 198 True Riches 199 Invocation to Poetry 199 Counsels to the Young 201 The Graves of Crandal and Marsh 201 Murray at the Grave of Potter 203 My Wildwood Bower, 204 We Loved 205 Conscience, 206 Evening Hymn 207 David's Lamentations, 208 Stanzas 209 The Portionless 210 A Morning Wallc in S********» 211 The I^ew Commandment, 214 Infant Years 214 Weep not for Her 216 The Indian's Lament 217 A Domestic Scene 219 Summer, 220 Blest are the Dead, 221 Lines on a Husband's Absence, 222 Infidelity 223 Stanzas on beholding the Picture of Mrs. Hemans, 224 A Legend of the Sus(;[uehattna, 225 00NTBNI8. TH FAGS On the Death of a Namesake, 228 The Friend we Love, 229 Come to the Fount of Lore, 229 To an Infant Smiling in Sleep, 280 The Spirit Visitor, 231 The First Snow, 282 Visit to the Grave of a Friend 233 A Farting Lay to Chira, 285 Conununings with Nature, 286 Devotional Moments, 236 The Young Cherokee, 237 A Domestic Picture 241 My ChUd 243 The Last Look, 245 The Forest Grave, 246 GodisLove 248 Passing Away, 248 Hymn of the Western Missionaries, 249 The Bitter Cup 251 Cairistianityis What? 252 Lines to a Sick Friend 253 Spring, 254 Sin, 255 The Man who trusts our Father's Love 256 The Good Christian 257 The Power of Affection, 258 On the Death of an Aged Relative, 260 Bevelations to the Dying 262 Stanzas, written on Kecovery from Severe Illness 265 Resignation 266 The Mourner's Prayer 267 A Monody, 267 To a little Girl gathering Flowers, 269 Thoughts at the Grave of a Young Friend, 270 To a Widowed Friend 272 Alone with the Dead, 273 Death and the Child, 274 Hymn sung by a Band of Sabbath School Children 275 Stanzas 276 On receiving a Bouquet of Spring Flowers, 277 The Isle of the Susquehanna, 278 The Young Martyr, 280 To a Fxiend in the Far West 281 Vni CONTENTS. PAOl A Bemembrance, ....• 2S3 The- Prairie Cottage 284 A Farewell to Winter, 286 Death at Sea, 287 The Hour of Success, 288 The Miracle at Nain, 289 Those we Love, 295 Christ Blessing Little Children, 296 Youthful Piety, 296 The Grare of the Twins, 296 The Power of Prayer, 297 The Neglected Bard, 299 The Bride's Return, 301 Forest Kamblers, 304 Tale of the Mountain Stream, 305 The Tolling Bell, 807 Tale of an Invalid, 308 To a Dying Locust, 311 A Vision, S12 The Youthful Poet 313 " Hospitality Rewarded ;" or, the Widow's Trust, 314 Jairus' Daughter, 816 Mountain Melodies 818 Sleep 319 Spring 319 Moments of Sadness, 321 Passages from the Diary of a Beclose, 822 My Mountain Home 325 Sick-Bed Fancies, 826 Lines to Death, 828 PROSE SELECTIONS. Mra Moore, 329 The Blind Widow and her Family, 387 The Infidel Husband 358 Alice Seabury 363 Legend of the Isle of the Susquehanna, 367 The Power of Sympathy, 373 The Baptism of Tears 376 The Sacrifice 385 The Dweller Apart, 403 Views from My Window 426 MEMOIE. In assuming the task of preparing a new memorial of one so long loved and so long lamented as she, the few and unim- portant events of whose brief and most tmoffending life are to be the subject of the following pages, no thought has been entertained of easting, even by implication, a shadow over the labors of another. A brief memoir, — itself a graceful and touching memento of a most rare and unselfish friendship, — that was penned years ago, by one as good and true, as guile- less and confiding and full of genius as the sweet poetess whom she commemorates, and who, like her, has gone down mourned and lamented to an early grave, still remains, reflecting honor alike on its author and her subject. But, from various causes, this memoir was, as has been before remarked, exceedingly brief; and it has been felt by many that a more extended record of the life of the woman and the poet, as well as a more complete collection of her writings, was now demanded. This work is now attempted; with what success remains yet to be proved. The materials for such a work, which, even years ago, while the memory of the daily little incidents and thoughts, most truly portraying the outward and inner life 2 14 UEMOIB. of the poet, still remained fresh in the hearts of her fiiends, were either but scanty or felt to be too unimportant to offer to the biographer, can scarcely be expected, now that time has been so long busily shedding the waters of forgetfiilness over those mysterious pages, to have been materially increased. Still, much effort has been made to gather new matter, and not wholly without success. A week or more recently spent among the lovely and romantic scenes where her early life went by, and a constant mingling with the dear home-fnends, to whom her memory is still precious as the light is to the eye, have not failed to yield some fruits. These, together with the letters, now worn and discolored, and sometimes half obliterated with age, generously forwarded to me by the dear friends with whom she corresponded, and who have hitherto so religiously garnered them in their treasure-stores, cannot fail, it is hoped, to add some new interest to a life hitherto so imperfectly known. But it is, after all, among her poems that we shall learn most of her inner life. Here the gradual and steady devel- opment of her fresh and vigorous mind is most distinctly seen, and the higher and holier tone of feeling ever more and more clearly manifest; and here, more than elsewhere, we trust to find those intimations and aids necessary to a true delineation of each varying shade of that mind, which, amid all the sadness of its strains, was ever so versatile and genial. Our task" is before us, and, trusting that those who will soonest discover the many falterings in its performance will regard them with the kindest and most charitable eye, the introductory remarks are now gladly closed. Far away from the confused and noisy world, embowered like some sweet picture in the depths of a gigantic emerald vase, lies the charming valley of Sheshequin, hidden among UKMom. 15 the beautiftd Alleghames. The northern branch of the noble Susquehanna, with many a green island sleeping on its breast, pursues its tranquil course through the valley, while all around, — on the north, the east, the south, yea, on the west, also, — meet towering mountains, which, lifting their shaggy heads among the clouds, seem to shut out the whole world. Never did Nature more fuUy realize the description of Johnson's " Happy Valley," than in this little mountain fastness. It is but a strip of intervale of the richest soil, scarcely two miles in width at its widest point, and six or seven miles in length, and, like the " Happy Valley," permit- ting ingress and egress only at the narrow gorges where the river itself has broken its jagged way through the moun- tains. Here, on the 4th of November, 1809, the subject of this memoir, Julia H. Kinney, the eldest of a family of nine children, was born, and here, amid all lovely and engaging scenes, she grew up. If, as is believed, the beautiful and romantic in Nature always stamps itself upon and moulds the youthful mind that careftdly observes it, in the case of the young Julia it was, in a peculiar and remarkable sense, true ; and no spot on the wide earth could have been more aptly chosen for the cradle of the future poet. ■ It is remembered now, among those who watched the dawning faculties, of the child, that even in her nurse's arms she manifested a strange and earnest enthusiasm for all things beautiful that met her senses in the realms of sight and sound ; and Heaven, as if to develop in the highest degree this enthusiasm, placed a world of loveliness around her. As we stood gazing on those grand and lonely moimtains, watching the cloud-shadows as they chased each other over their forest-clad surface, and saw the towering pines, an- cient apparently as the hills whose summits they crowned, rock and sway in the mountain blast, whUe, ever and anon, the low sohbiag sound peculiar to that tree stole faintly and 16 HDMOIB. fitfully down into the valley, we wondered not that the thoughtful and dreamy child, whose life began and was nour- ished here, grew up a poet ; that the incense fire, whose living spark was laid on the altar of her heart ere her infant eyes first saw the light, should here have been silently kindled into that pure and holy flame, which, awaking almost in her infancy, burned in her bosom with an ever increasing intensity to the last. In her early childhood Julia gave promise of a robust and vigorous physical organization, and, in the language of her father, " was a pliunp, rosy-cheeked cherub of a girl ;" but, as she grew older, and the ardent and imaginative spirit began to wander forth into new and unknown realms, a change gradually passed over her. She grew slender and almost attenuated ; and the large, dark eyes looked out from a pale and dreamy face. Strange poetic fancies grew up in her litjtle mind, to be, in her own beautiful, untutored way, reproduced to others. As might be expected, few appreciated her, and the many who did not, called her a strange, odd chUd. Yet, however much of " strangeness " there might have been in her childish conceits, they were all beautifiil, and generally indicative of purpose. In a corner of the lawn connected with the paternal abode, she, one summer, raised a little mound, covering it with turf and twining over it a bower of vines and rich leaves. This, for several of her earliest years, was her favorite resort ; and here, for hours every pleasant day, she would sit, sometimes singing to a star which she had learned to know, and called her own, and sometimes filling the ear of the younger chil- dren with wild, strange tales, improvised for the occasion, and which, even at that early age, gave token of the talent which was afterwards so richly developed. This facility for amusing others was soon found to be of great service to her mother as well as herself. In all the more strictly rural districts it is stiU the custom for each family, the rich as well as the poor, to perform its MEMOIR. 17 own household labors, unaided by hired domestics. This ous- tom, where the foreign population, now so numerous and so useful in the more thickly-peopled town, have not yet pene-> trated, is generally one alike of choice and necessity. Yet, it cannot be denied that in such districts the task of the " house-mother,'' who, in addition to the cares and labors of the house and the dairy, has those of a stiU increasing family of little ones, with only her own two hands to perform the whole, is often, though perhaps a pleasant, still a very ardu- ous one. It was under circumstances like these that the little Julia, when scarcely beyond infancy herself, was able to render most important aid to her mother ; she would gather the younger fledglings of the household nest around her, and, leading them to her bower, would detain them hour after hour, listen- ing now to her wild and fanciful, but, no doubt, inartistic tales, and now to some little song, improvised for the occasion. Of these tales and songs, such was the versatility and richness of her young fancy, they never wearied, and their recital never failed to keep them quiet and happy ; while the BtUl happier mother, ever and anon glancing through the window, to see that all was well with her darlings, went industriously and cheerfully on with the manifold labors of her household, blessing God for the dear np-slings, but most of all for the little Julia. These pleasant cares of the little girl were, however, va- ried by another of a painful character, and one making a new and urgent demand upon her precocious thoughtfulness. When she had attained the age of four years, her father was struck by sudden and total blindness, and for two long years, during which this affliction continued, it was her task to be his guide and conductor wherever he wished to go. With her little hand nestled lovingly in his, she would lead him about the house and door-yard, " never failing," to use his own words, " to lead him a little out of the way, to pluck a new-blown flower, or to satisfy her inquiring mind at every 2* 18 MEMOIB. appearance of novelty; amusing him, in these dark and lonely hours, by her innocent prattle, that created, if pos- sible, even more than parental aflfeotion." " It was a great obstacle thrown in her way," her father regretfully remarks ; " for, during these two years, she was deprived of the advantages she should have been enjoying in sch'obl." With most children this remark would, undoubtedly, have been true ; but it may well be questioned whether her active and inquiring mind, so quick to seize each new idea, and so acute to perceive its bearings, was not really expand- ing far more rapidly and healthfully under the influence of a companionship so intimate, and an affection so confidential, as that existing between the blind father and his child. In their long and constant communion, his strong and vigorous under- standing and varied information must have been never-failing sources of improvement to the little mind, so stimulated by filial love and premature care. The long winter evenings, too, furnished opportunities rare and delightful for the em- bryo poetess, when, the younger ones all laid at rest, the little Julia, relieved from her cares, could sit at her mother's feet, and listen to her gentle and refined tones, as she read aloud some pleasant tale or exciting historic incident to the bliod husband, now so hopelessly dependent. But the season of darkness went by, and light again revis- ited the eyes of the blind father, bringing joy to the whole household, and a world of grateful delight to the heart of the loving little Julia. Her cares were at once lightened. She commenced goiug to school ; and here she distinguished her- self by a progress that enabled her soon to outstrip most of her little companions. With a thirst for knowledge that was well-nigh a passion, she learned, seemingly by intuition, what with others required long and assiduous application to master. Yet, remarkable as were the ease and quickness with which she acquired knowledge, her grasp of memory in retaining it was not less so, rarely forgetting what she had once learned. It is to be regretted that the facilities for acquiring a MEMOIE. 19 tiorough education in most of the rural districts, out of New England, were at that period, and even now are, so insuffi- cient ; six months in a year in a district school being then aU that was allowed for the education of the young of either sex, and, with a portion, only half that period. Toung as she was, Julia soon felt this deficiency, and, in an imperfect way, endeavored to supply it by her own sqji^ry and unaided efforts at home. Desultory and ill-directed these efforts, no doubt, often were, yet they nevertheless brought forth firuits ; and the mind of the young aspirant grew gradu- ally rich in its varied and ever increasing stores. But her love of study, great as it was, was never sufficient to cause her to forget the duties devolving upon her as " eldest daughter.'' Her daily domestic avocations were always faithftdly and cheerfully attended to, and her almost maternal care of her younger brothers and sisters still her first thought. In this she was actuated not more by a sense of duty than by a " strong, o'ermastering " impulse j for, to use her father's language, " one trait in Julia's character early developed itself; grew with her growth, and strengthened with her strength, increasing in depth and intensity to the end of her life ;" and that was an ardent love for the young and helpless, and a passion for •petting. This extended not only to children, but to all young things, especially those «of ani- mals. In this there was no affectation, and, above all, no selfishness, leading her to fondle them a little while for her own amusement, and then forget them. It was prompted by a deeply loving and benevolent nature, — an innate desire to make all things happy. Some of the earlier manifestations of this passion are thus touchingly and amusingly set forth by Miss Edgarton. " If there was a frozen brood of chickens, or a sick Iamb, an old sheep, or a calf, suffering or in need, she never faUed to feed, nurse and resuscitate it ; and it was no uncommon thing for her to walk miles, and to get up at dead of night, in a thunder-storm, to go in search of young lambs and bring 20 MEMOIR. them to shelter. Oftentimes, in spring, she quite appropri- ated the fire-side to these invalid animals ; for which little attentions she acquired in the family the pet name of Doctor Jule." Another little illustration, not only of her all-embraoing benevolence and kindness, but of her deep sense of justice, is furnished in the following incident. Not long after the last war with England, a lawless family, who were supposed to have sustained, during the war, about the same position towards the country as that occupied by the Skinners and Oow-boys of the Revolution, were living, or rather lurking, among the mountains near Sheshequin, and, by repeated marauding descents into the valley, had stirred up the ire of the peaceable citizens against themselves. One morning several young cattle were found to have disappeared during the night, and, sure of the direction which they had taken, several of the citizens issued forth in their pursuit. As may be supposed, however, the depredators were on their guard and fled; but so closely were they pursued that a young son of the ringleader, a lad of some ten or twelve years, fell into their hands, and was brought back bound into the village. A crowd soon collected about him, who bestowed upon him more words and looks of scorn and contempt than of sympa- thy or pity, Julia soon heard the tale, and seeing the helpless, forlorn condition of the little prisoner, her whole soul was excited in his behalf. She ran to her father to seek a full explanation, and to endeavor to procure his release. " Is he the guilty one ? " she inquired ; " I am sure, father, he cannot be, he looks so young." " I do not think he is guilty," the father replied, " but they detain him as a deooy for the father, who is the real rogue." " But is that right, father ? " " I cannot say it is ; yet it is perhaps a justifiable artifice to obtain a right." But the nice sense of justice in the youthful pleader was M E M 1 E . ,21 not thuB easily satisfied. She stood for a few moments thoughtftJ and perplexed, when all seemed to become clear to her. " Father," she said, looking fixedly in his fece, " something in my heart tells me it is wrong, and it must be wrong ; and I cannot bear any longer to see him standing there to be mocked and insulted by the people. Do go and tell them to untie him and let him go." " I cannot, child ; they would not listen to me." The little form of the young advocate dilated; her soft, dark eyes grew stern and proud, and, turning away, " Then I shall go myself," she exclaimed ; " and I will tell them what Father Murray once said: 'Never do a thing merely because you can do it, but because it is right ! ' " Without an instant's shrinking the young pleader pene- trated the crowd, and carried her design into execution ; and it is delightful to be able to record, that, struck with sudden shame at this keen reproof of a simple child, his keepers un- bound their guiltless prisoner, and her little heart was relieved and her sense of. justice satisfied by his immediate release. There are other instances of the singular power possessed over others by this generous and strong-hearted chUd, that are equally remarkable. One of these, which is still remembered by her mother as among the most beautifiil passages of her chUdhood, we cannot refrain from also recording. Somewhere among the mountains that shut in the valley of Sheshequin lived a poor woman, who obtained her livelihood, and that of a blind husband and idiot son, by the manufac- ture of baskets, — a business in which she by degrees acquired great skill and expertness. In this labor she was aided some- what by both objects of her care ; the father peeling the bark from the ash and hickory used in her manufactures, and the son, who was a stout, healthy lad, being employed in lieu of a pack-horse to bear them to market. Regularly each returning month, the little caravan, led by the careful mother, holding the blind husband by the hand, 22 M £ M 1 K . and closely followed by the idiot boy laden witt fresh, showily stained baskets, made its appearance in the little valley, where it never failed to meet a welcome reception among the adult portion of the community, and to create a general rejoiciog among the children, with whom the pretty baskets were in high repute, and who were never wanting in admiration, even though their purses might be empty. To Julia their advent was always a season of mingled de- light and pain ; for, while she shared the pleasure of the other children in admiring and handling their pretty wares, deeply did her little heart yearn over the unfortunate trio. All her pocket money was reserved for this occasion, and expended in the purchase of little baskets, to be distributed among the children who, less fortunate than herself, lacked the means of supplying themselves with the much-coveted wares. A small parcel of tea, of which the basket-woman was very fond, slyly slipped by Julia into her pocket, with a sweet smile and some kind word of childish sympathy, generally concluded the transaction. In these little excursions the idiot boy could never be pre- vailed upon to enter a dwelling ; but, while his mother was engaged in her sales, he would sit quietly down by the road-side, or under some shady tree, and amuse himself with spears of grass, never answering a word that was addressed him, and seeming utterly unconscious of the presence of the curious, half-fearful group of children that usually stood staring at him. But while he waited by the gate where Julia lived, it was observed that a strange restlessness pervaded his manner, and no effort of his mother could draw hiin away until Julia appeared, with a large slice of bread and butter in her hand, which, with a smile and a few kind words, she would reach through the fence to the poor idiot, who always received it with a smile and look more like those of intelligence than anything else ever elicited. For years this strange communion continued. From no M £ M I B . 23 one else in the valley would he ever receive the slightest favor ; and though to Julia no word of thanks was ever uttered by the poor imbecile object of her kindness, yet always the same helpless gratitude was in his face ; and no inducement could have been sufficient to prevent her from rendering this little service of love to the poor idiot, whose only moments of partial intelligence, and whose only gleam of pleasure, seemed to be awakened by her. Among the earliest tastes of Julia was a passion for read- ing, especially the writings of Burns; which, indeed, with the Bible, composed, for some years, her sole library. But, in these two books she possessed an inexhaustible supply of food for both her imagination and her heart, and the former of which she is said to have entirely committed to memory. No recreation of her childhood was so delightful to her as, her favorite poet in her hand, to seek some vrild, secluded mountain haunt, where, undisturbed by aught save the " rustle of the rabbit's tread," and the quick tapping of the wood- pecker, she could revel in his treasures of sweetness and beauty, lost to all save the world of imagination he created around her. Meanwhile, her own poetic powers were not dormant, but were rapidly acquiring form and tangibility, though in a very untutored way. The cradle songs, with which she lulled her infant brothers and sisters to sleep, were, like her tales in their waking hours, improvised for the occasion, and were as striking for their simple grace and beauty as for their origi- nality. The wild fancies with which her little brain was teeming gradually assumed poetic phrase and metrical pro- portion, and were warbled forth in gay or mournful strains, as the mood of the moment prompted, or " the spirits that tend on mortal thoughts " whispered to her heart. It does not appear that these earlier poetic flights were ever so reduced to method as to be committed to paper. In- 24 MEMOIB. does the ^oaring bird whose gushing melody fills the morning sky. Yet they were listened to and wondered at by her parents, especially by her mother, " who kept these things and pondered them in her heart." The library of the young improvisatrice now gradually received some additions, among which were the poetic works of Pope, aU of which she eagerly read, though not with the deep, abidmg pleasure she ever felt when reading the Scot- tish bard. The old favorite still filled her heart, and occu- pied her leisure hours. Even then, in the graeefiil language of Miss Edgarton, " to sit hour after hour poring over its price- less treasures, was not enough to satisfy the cravings of her young heart. There was, if possible, an intenser pleasure in lying upon her pillow at night, with the candlestick resting upon her breast, and the favorite volume open to her eager and brilliant gaze. But, unfortunately for the indulgence in this pleasure, the candlestick was found one morning sitting upon her breast (the candle having burnt quite into the socket and expired), and the young night-student fast asleep! The dangerous practice was forbidden and the candlestick concealed ; but ' necessity is the mother of invention,' and it was not long before the salt mortar was found to be an excel- lent substitute for the article prohibited." Another anecdote, related in the same little volume, that is so indicative not only of a closeness of observation, but of a keenness of satire so far beyond her years as to be truly remarkable, we cannot forbear extracting. " When Julia was about twelve .years old, some neighbors were passing the evening at her father's. A discussion arose between an Arminian and a Calvinist, in which their favorite tenets were strongly urged. Jidia was about the house with the rest of the children. No one supposed she was paying any particular attention to what was passing. The next evening, as her father was looking over her writing-book to see what progress she had made, he fotmd the following : — MEMOIR. 25 " Last night, as I slept, nnconscious of harm. And dreamed of the blest and the &ee, A spectre arose that created alarm, And thoughtfully thus said to me : • Look to thyself, and take care of thyself. For nobody cares for thee ! " The spectre withdrew ; and, passing away, A stern, rigid voice cried, ' Stop ! and see To thyself, or see not to thyself, The self-same thing will be 1 ' " Whether these crude rhymes were the first of her compo- sition ever committed to paper, camiot now be determined, nor is it at all important. It is certain that she herself had not yet for a moment indulged the suspicion that she was a dawn- ing poet ; that those wild cradle-songs and fanciful tales told in her garden bower were the harbingers of a dawn that was to be so fair, and of a day more beautiful still. But a dawning perception of the rich and beautifiil powers, whose incipient outreachings had been long the theme of many a wondering thought with her parents and friends, was soon to awaken in the heart of the young poet. She, one day, after much mental doubt and sensitive shrink- ing, confided to a near and dear relative, who loved and appreciated the imaginative girl, the secret that she had something which she very much wished to show her. Even then, it was only after much hesitation and encouragement, that she confessed that it was some verses she had written on her favorite bard. " Indeed ! " replied her aunt, and held out her hand with a smile ; but, although the sensitive girl had the lines even then concealed in that favorite receptacle of a young girl's treasures, her bosom, it was more than she could do to give them to her personally, and be present while they were undergoing her kind but critical inspection. Telling her she would send them, she turned and ran home. In an hour the aunt received the article, on the back of which — for we have the original copy at this moment in our hand — is still legible, though faded and 3 26 MDMOIB. discolored, the following little note, written in the cramped and formal hand of a school-girl. "Deak Aunt, — According to my promise, I send you this trash ; but, were it not for that promise, you never would have seen it. You may read it, and then laugh just as much as you please ; hut I hope you will do me the justice to believe that I am not foolish enough to rank such with poetry ; and I am sure you are too kind to make me appear ridiculous by showing it to any one else. Julu." The poem follows, unaltered from the original copy. LAMENT FOR ROBERT BURNS. Beheld ye the grave where the cold minstrel sleeps, ^ith the sun's feeble beams round his sepulchre glancing i Where violets grow and the heather-bell weeps. And the thistle's pure down o'er his bosom is dancing ? The mavis bemoans him along the side-hill ; The owl chants his praise to the dark, foaming rill ; And oft to the stranger the cottager turns To whisper the name of the bard, Robert Burns. And saw ye at night, when the pale moon rose high, And her radiant form thro' the forest was waning. How she paused to gaze down on the thornberry dry, That bent o'er the stone of the poet's engraving ? The cushat arose from the green mossy spray ; The woodlark flew swift thro' the bright starry way ; Unheeded they pass by the mouldering urns, And tune their last notes to the bard, Robert Burns ! The tempests of winter shall roll o'er his tomb ; The bright summer sun thro' the thorn be seen beaming ; The flowers of the spring in their beauty shall bloom. And the pale midnight moon thro' the woodland be gleanung ; But as long as old Scotia laments a lost son, And as long as those orbs round their circuits shall run. And as long as the earth bears a mortal that mourns. He shall weep for the fate of the cold Robert Bums ! u s u 1 B . 27 This poem, so fall of melody, so gushing with the love and reverence of the child-heart of its author for the great bard ■who had been her guide and teacher through so many of her young years, may be considered the first written poem of Julia ; and it is needless to say with what mingled pleasure and surprise it was read by the discriminating friend to whom it was confided. She saw, at once, that, whatever might be its imperfections, a poet's heart and fancy had woven its num- bers ; and that it was, indeed, a remarkable production for an untutored child of thirteen. She sent for Julia, and learned that the lines had been some time written, and that it was her great desire to know whether they were the least like poetry or not, that had, at last, induced her to show them. Since she had committed the irrevocable act of suffering them to pass imder the eye of another, she shrunk from hearing the sentence which might pronounce her vain and pretending. Great, therefore, was her excitement and delight when her axuit pronounced them poetry ; with the added opinion that she would, one day, dis- tinguish herself as a poet. This was the stimulus needed by the sensitive child. Thence- forth her flights in the fields of song were frequent ; and, though attended with varied success, became more and more assured and sustained. Her little articles by degrees found their way into the papers of the county, and she soon had the advantage, and, sometimes, the wholesome mortification, of searching criticism. They were, however, everywhere well received, and it was not long before much curiosity was mani- fested, in various quarters, to discover the true name of the " Juliet " who wrote so sweetly, and her mediums of publica- tion increased. She soon began to appear in the Philadelphia Casket and Saturday Evening Post, of which periodicals she w.as, for some years, a frequent and favorite correspondent; writing in both prose and verse. Continued additions were also being made to her library. 28 MEMOIR. and each new accession was the occasion of a jubilee to her young heart. Meanwhile, her worship in the halls of nature grew every day more heartfelt and profound. Her rambles abroad, now frequent and long, became sources of unspeakable happiness. And what wonder ? Nowhere has nature lovelier haunts to tempt the wandering footsteps of the poet than in Sheshequin. Those embowering mountains, rising so steeply towards the sky, and still clothed with the thick verdure of the primeval forest, over whose rich green the mountain laurel spreads its rosy sheets of magnificent bloom ; those deep and quiet dells, carpeted with the purest emerald and enamelled with the loveliest wild flowers ; the lordly river, so exquisitely pure and transparent, studded with fairy islands, and fiinged with the noblest old elms and sycamores that ever waved in a mountain breeze or laughed in the summer sunshine. It may well be supposed that scenes like these, blended as they were with all sweet sounds, — the low chime of the lapsing river, — the wilder melody of the foaming torrents that, gushing from the jutting crags, leap roaring down the mountain sides, — the whispering of the distant pines, and the quick, spiritual rustle of the birch and poplar, — sounds that ever fill the deep and narrow valley, should "have for the young, enthusi- astic poet an inexpressible and ever-varying charm. Constant allusions to them are made in her writings, and the descriptive portions of many of her finest poems are but reflections of that which, was smiling all around her in that "Mountain Home," which she thus lovingly apostrophizes : — " My mountain home ! my mountain home ! Where wild waves o'er the rude rooks foam ; Where subterranean echoes wake The wizard spell o'er fern and brake. My mountain home, where tall trees toss Their shadows o'er the dark gray moss ; Where flowers their dewy foreheads bare To catch the sunbeams soft and rare : HEMOIK. 29 Where fox-grapes clasp misciiieTonBly Their fingers round each ashless tree. And where the eagle stoops to lave His plumage in the flashing wave. My monntain home ! 'mid cliff and dell. My home, I love thee passing well ! " My mountain home ! ^ring never threw Her giits 'neath skies of lovelier hue ; Ne'er waved sweet summer's rosy plume O'er spot of more unsullied bloom ; And ne'er did autumn's purple ray 'Mid scenes of loftier grandeur stray. My mountain home ! rude nature's hand. Unaided, all thy beauties planned ; Hill, glen and stream, and hearts, whose key Is nature's own sincerity ; Hearts, which, though least of love they boast, Stm closest cling, and feel the most. My mountain home ! 'mid cliff and dell. My home, I love thee passing well ! " There were two or three favorite hannts where Julia was wont to linger, and where the muses seemed ever most fondly to smile upon her. The one was a bower on the mountain side, sheltered by the overhanging branches of the walnut and boxwood, and made charming by its mossy seats, its «lo8e, caressing vines, and wide and glorious prospect. This seems to have been her best loved retreat, and is eflenest apostro- phized in her poems. " My Wildwood Bower " is a gushing memory of that cherished spot, and the " Evening Walk in S.," one of the finest descriptive pieces that ever glided from her pen, melodiously describes it. Another spot, dear to the poet-maiden, was a lovely isle in the Susquehanna, and near her father's house. To this island she was wont to row, and, mooring her barque by the shore, to seek the shelter of its most secluded -depths, there to linger absorbed in the pages of some delightM book, or throwmg off stanza afta: stanza of the sweetest, most heart-felt poetry, 3* . 3D M£MOIB. until the gathering twilight warned her to return. It is this beautiful isle, of which, under the title of the " Isle of the Susquehanna," she has made so lovely and true a picture. It is this isle which her much-loved friend, Mrs. Edgarton Mayo, in her "Memory's Picture Gallery," thus sweetly sketches : — " What scene is this ? A fairy isle, Upon a bright, blue mountain river ; The sunlit waves around it smUe, The aspens o'er it droop and shiver. " A little barque is moored thereby ; 0, fair and soft the hands that row it ! And dark as midnight is the eye Of sweet Sheshequin's gentle poet. " Her barque 'neath flowery shadows floats. Its sails a broad and starry banner ; While softly to the rower's notes Chimes in the low-voiced Susquehanna." Among the peculiar traits of Julia's character, and closely connected with her enthusiasm, was a constitutional bravery; which, on occasions when her kindlier sympathies were called into action, no difficulties could subdue, no dangers could daunt. This was exhibited in her early childhood, in the midnight rambles to bring the suffering lamb to shelter ; and, later, in the lonely mountain walk, to carry succor to a mis- erable and lawless family, whose only recommendation to her favor was their utter destitution, and the fear and hatred with which they were regarded by all save herself. But never was it more strikingly manifested than on the occasion of a sudden fire which occurred, when she was about fifteen years old, near Sheshequin, and which indirectly nearly cost her her life. A thunder-storm had come down over the valley. The evening was dark, and the storm accompanied by such vivid and incessant flashes of lightning, as greatly to terrify the MEMOIB. 31 inhabitants, though nowhere are they accustomed to more appalling thunder-storms than there. Shut ia among high mountains, the loud artillery reverberated among the clifis and echoed from mountain to mountain with an uproar mag- nified tenfold by the position of the valley. On this occasion all nature seemed to be in a tumult. The terrified cattle fled wildly in all directions, and men everywhere sought the near- est shelter. At this juncture a barn, filled with new hay, at a distance of two or three miles up the valley, was struck with lightning, and instantly in flames. Julia saw the reflection, and, sup- posing it to be a dwelling, was in an agony of apprehension for the unfortunate inmates. She entreated that some one would go to their relief. But the rain was pouring a flood, and the more experienced father deciding, from the appear- ance of the fire, that it was some building more combustible than a dwelling-house, no one could be found disposed to bufiet such a storm and venture out. But this did not satisfy Julia. Her anxiety redoubled, and she came to the resolu- tion to go out and satisfy herself on the subject. At a moment when she perceived the attention of the family with- drawn from herself, she quietly stole out, and, guided by the lightning, ran to the village-church, against which — it being not yet completed — a ladder was still leaning. Catching sight of this object, her resolution was instantly formed, and, in another minute, she had reached the eaves. Here her groping hand encountering a rope left for the purpose of aiding the workmen in ascending to the ridge-pole, she in- stantly availed herself of it, and crept up the steep and slip- pery roof to its peak, and along the ridge-pole to the little belfry at the other end. Here she stood safely leaning, and, quite unappalled by the darkness and the storm, made her observations, until even she was satisfied that the burning bmldiog was not a dwelling. The great apprehension for others was lifted from her mind, and, then, for the first moment, a little startled at the dangers S2 UEMOIB. of her own position, she turned to descend. But, as may be im- agined, this was a much more diflScult operation tJian she had anticipated. Fortunately, she still retained her grasp of the rope, and, committing herself to its imcertain guidance, had already commenced her return, when her progress was sud- denly arrested by the thought that she was ignorant of the exact position of the ladder. The fladies of limning had now become less frequent, and, in the intense darkness, not an object aroioid her could be discerned ; but, with the old habit, she stood stUl to think. The pitch of the roof was very steep, and slippery with wet, and a single false step might be death. At that moment she was intensely conscious that her only chance for preservation was in the most perfect self-possession. With a nerve that might have done credit to a philosopher, she ai)solutely commanded the beatmgs of her heart, while she waited until another flash should reveal the two slender points which, barely overtopping the eaves, denoted the object on which her life depended. It came, giving her a momentary glimpse of the all-important object, and just in a line below her ; when, commending herself to Grod, she commenced the dangerous descent. Fortunately her foot struck the ladder just as she reached the eaves, when, with rapidly-faUing strength, she attained a position on its upper rung, clutched the sides with a convulsive grasp, and, half-dead with terror and excitement, reached the ground she knew not how, and instantly fainted. Here she was soon found by her alarmed friends, who, missing her, and knowing her errant nature, had sallied out in search of her. Previous to this period, which was about 1825, Julia had already written considerably, and often in a vein 'of the gay- est and most delightful humor. For in those young days her health was not as it afterwards became, but buoyant and elas- tic, her spirits often rising to a degree of contagious gayety that would scarcely be credited by those who knew her only through the sweet, low echo of her published poems. This MliMOIB. 83 gayety was accompanied by a refined humor and penetrating ■yrit that made her society especially delightfiil. The little article, written about this time, called the " Ghost of the Narrows," is an Ulustration of her humor even at this early age ; a humor, however, far more frequently displayed in her conversation than in her writings. Her signatures at this time were various, which circum- stance has much increased the difficulty of collecting her earlier writings. Articles over the various signatures of " Blanche," " Emma," " Juliet," and her initials in both their true and reversed positions, are in our hands, and we have recently heard of others which we fear it will not be in our power to obtain. During the two succeeding years little occurred to vary the Arcadian quiet of Julia's life. The little community of She- shequin went on in their simple and monotonous way, very seldom interrupted by the appearance of strangers in their secluded valley, and caring little for the busy world beyond their mountain barriers. Meanwhile, Julia continued to write with great but varying success, and with a constantly increasing reputation. Her poems graced the " poet's comer " of a large number of peri- odicals, until the name of the Sheshequin poet was a house- hold word, a dear and familiar sound by many a pleasant hearthstone. Dear as this must have been to her young and aspiring mind, it was not all she needed. The stimulus of society was a necessity that she was beginning sensibly to feel. Contact with fresh minds was required to give a new impulse to a nature growing morbidly sensitive by seclusion. To the young poet her monotonous life was sometimes irksome to an almost insupportable degree ; and, dearly as she loved nature, she pined for the society of congenial spirits and for the excite- ment of sometimes a new face. In a letter to an absent brother she thus speaks : — S4 USMOIB. " What can I write you 1 I have literally nothing to commu- nicate. All is perfectly flat around me. Like the good lady, ' I write because I have nothing to do, and quit because I have nothing to say.' Matters go on much after the old fashion here. I see no one ; hear nothing ; have nothing to contemplate but my own sins, which I do until they look like mountains to me. I protest I would give a thousand worlds to fly somewhere else ; and I do in reality as much calculate on going to Connecticut in the spring as I do on living. O, if I am disappointed in that, what shall I do ? Can you tell ? I do seriously think I shall be tempted to ' make my quietus with a bare bodkin.' " Dear brother, I am, to tell the truth, quite disheartened. I am nothing but a cipher. Poetry ! I wish I had never written a line. How provoking it is to realize oneself an idiot, and know that everybody has found it out ! And yet they constantly flatter me ; and I, O, how I despise myself for being pleased with it ! " But save this and a few other expressions indicative of a morbid condition of mind, all things show that Julia still clung to her old love of nature, whose ministrations are ever so healthy and invigorating. Her devotion to poetry, too, against which her temporary _^isgust seems soon to have subsided, grew more and more arden*. The mountain and yaMey still offered new and delightful themes for her young mind, which she seized Tvith all a lover's avidity. Poems on these fresh themes were sometimes interspersed with songs of love, and sea-rovers, and kindred subjects, such as are wont to charm the girlish fancy and always claim more or less tribute from the youthftd poet. Some of these little effusions are peculiarly sweet and pretty ; and, even at the hazard of proving imi young poetess a mere mortal, we subjoin one or two of ttem, premising that they were written at about the age of fifteen. " I love him, but I would not tell His name ; ye winds, 0, ask it not ! Upon my lip there is a spell. But 0, within my heart a thought : List, winds ! his name is surely dear, But, 0, ye cannot, must not hear ! MEUOIS. 35 " I 'n tell ye, thongh, when first I saw His face ; 'twas where the chosen meet O'er mortal joys a Teil to draw. And kneel at a Redeemer's feet. I saw him there with half-raised eye Imploring mercy from on high. " That look I never shall forget, It was BO fraught with holy loTe ! So pnre, it seemed some angel met ]E)ach thought to speed it safe above. His name so dear I 'II ne'er reveal. Upon my lip there is a seal." The following, written somewhat before the age of fi3«en, has something of the poet's own daring spirit, and opens with the description of a scene often witnessed in Sheshequin. " THE PIRATE'S SONG. " Upon the high mountain The pine-tree is bending. The deer by the fountain The hazel is rending ; Over bog, over brae. O'er hill and o'er valley. The hounds are at bay, The huntsmen they rally. " My love through the willow A dark glance is throwing ; She watches the billow. The home of her Owen ; She dwells on the past. She hopes for the future. Eat she 's seen for the last Her gallant freebooter. " The waves of dishonor My dark ship are laving ; The pirate's red banner My comrades are waving ; 36 M£MOIB. And the still moonlit eky Can alone mark our way Where assault is our cry. And a Teasel our prey. " High OTer the ocean Our dark masts are beaming. And pale in the moonshine Our broadswords are gleaming. We sing not of beauty. We talk not of truth ; To forget, is our duty, The ways of our youth." " The Dying Soldier's Farewell," and " Funeral Dirge," both of which have much merit, were written at about the same time as the two preceding ones. Whether any of them were published we cannot say, yet presume they might have been, as Julia was then contributing to several papers. In January, 1826, a Universalist paper, called the " Can- did Examiner," was started in Montrose, Pennsylvania, having an ephemeral existence of two years. For this Julia, then sixteen years old, wrote a few pieces over the signature of " Enuna." This was her first introduction to the public of that denomination of which she was ever so true and devoted a member. These articles were marked by earnest and deep thought and strong religious feeling, and gave fuU promise of the high excellence in that vein, so truly her own, to which she afterwards attained. At about this time, a prize was offered, by the Philadelphia Casket, for a prose tale ; and Julia was persuaded by her friends to become a competitor. The field of prose, if not a wholly untried one to her, was unfamiliar, and she more than doubted the wisdom of making the attempt. She, never- theless, finally concluded that it could do no harm to try to compose a tale, though without any hope of winning the prize ; and, accordingly, after many trials, her first prose tale, called •' Queen Easter's Rock," was completed. It is a tale of the HEMOIB. 37 Massacre of Wyoming, and, thougli betraying an nnpractiaed pen, is indicative of power and talent. That she should feel some anxiety in relation to the fate of this child of her young brain, even though persuaded that it would not win the prize, was natural ; and that she really did so, the following extract from a letter to her brother shows: — " What will you say when I tell you that I have spent two whole weeks in writing a story for the Casket prize of one hun- dred and fifty dollars ? I really have ; in hopes to no ! not in. hopes — I know better than to expect. O, folly! The judges have not yet decided, but I know my fate well enough ; and yet I believe my story has merit. If you should ever read anything called ' Queen Esther's Rock,' thai is it — a Wyoming concern. But enough. I will try to write something to interest you mofe." Her presentiment was realized. She did not obtain the prize for which so many older and more practised pens were competitors ; but her article was published with gratifying comment in the paper to which it was offered. We have heretofore scarcely adverted to the deep interest which Julia ever, from the period when she may be said to have reflected at all, felt in the subject of religion. And this was no occasional, spasmodic feeling, awakened by some brief, peculiar period of public excitement, and alternating with long seasons of spiritual lethargy and worldliness ; but a deep, abiding, never-sleeping love to Grod and man, and an earnest desire to do all she could for the improvement of the world. In what way this good was to be done, was, in these early years, not so clear to her young heart ; but the longing and the striving were still there, and as her intellect gradxially expanded, and that heartfelt love to God and man grew broader and deeper, these longings and strivings found per- petual voice in her ever sweeter, holier, and higher-soaring song, whose echo, though she knew it not, penetrated deeply and with most sanctifying power thousands and thousands of 4 38 MEMOIR. hearts, awakening there the same sweet, undying love which inspired and filled her own. The doctrinal tenets of her childhood, embracing, as they did, Universal love and faith, found a fitting home in her large and loving heart, and she clung to the denomination, of which she was through her whole life a most beloved and honored member, with an attachment a thousand fold increased by the unmerited scorn and opprobrium which, particularly in that portion of the country where lay her home, were lavishly heaped upon it. The time was now approaching when she was to take her stand as its eloquent and high-souled cham- pion ; not in the public debate, the long and elaborate, unfem- inine harangue, nor yet as the obtrusive proselyter, hawking her religious views from house to house ; but as a minstrel on whose lips the love and the truths of God were ever blending, and as a noble, spotless, intellectual woman, living the doc- trines she believed, ready on all suitable occasions ably and eloquently to defend them, and proud to yield the united aid of her talents, her voice and her life to their establish- ment. In 1831, circumstances occurred to bring the young Julia to the personal acquaintance of the able editor of one of our denominational papers, then exerting a very extensive and continually increasing influence. This acquaintance resulted in a request from him to furnish articles for his paper. It was received, even then, with surprise and grateful timidity; for the modest young poet wondered that her writings could be sought by one as gifted as he. An engagement was entered into, which was in a few days followed by two poems, " Deity " and ''I became a Sceptic," — the first articles from her pea which ever appeared in our denominational papers, with the ex- ception of the two or three, before alluded to, published some years before over the signature of " Emma," in the " Candid Examiner," and which were probably scarcely seen beyond her own neighborhood. It was not until now that the denom- ination became aware how sweet a minstrel was singing, among MEMOIB. 39 the motrntains of Pennsylvania, the praises of the Universal Redeemer. These poems at once attracted attention, and it was felt that they were written by a poet. We well remember the delighted surprise with which we were seized in perusing the " Sceptic,'' and with what eagerness we rushed down stairs, paper in hand, to inquire of one, who was in many editorial secrets, the ownership of the initials " J. H. K. ;" and from that day Julia H. Kinney was looked up to by us with an admiration felt for few other writers. Other poenra soon appeared, not only in the paper which first introduced her among us, l)ut in several others ; they were widely copied and praised, and the popularity of Julia soon reached an enviable height. We wish it were in any degree possible to convey a true idea of the impression made by this young, devotional, and devoted poetess upon the public advocates of the cross, and particularly the younger portion of them. But to do this many things must be brought before the reader. At the haz- ard of seeming too prolix, and of incurring the charge of intro- ducing matter foreign to the subject in hand, we venture to allude to these matters ; for in no other way can we so truly show what our young poetess really was. Those who have read the biography of that apostolic ser- vant of Christ, the lamented Stephen R. Smith, know some- what of the trials and crosses the minister of Universalism was in his young days called daily to endure. What hard- ships and toils, what poverty and privations, what insults and persecutions, we of this day can hardly dream. They were what, we trust, few will be called to bear again. Those of a later day even were not exempt. From a letter written by a friend, in reply to a request from us for the loan of Mrs. Scott's letters to him, we make a few extracts peculiarly in point. He had just been reading the Life of Stephen R. Smith, when our note reached him. He says — " In that I found so much of my own personal history of early ministerial life, that I seemed to be living it all over again. I 40 M E M I B . felt anew the emotions, the aspirations, the hopes, and incite- ments interwoven with that period, when the fervor and high- wrought expectations of youth, the enthusiastic zeal for God, and the complete blending of self with the cause espoused, rendered the soul evangelical and indefatigable in its efforts and self-sacri- fices for the truth. * * * * " The history of Brother Smith, in many of the circumstances attending his ministry, is but the history of many of the Western servants of the cross, though some of us, with less ability and attainments, and notoriety, if not of zeal and perseverance, found the siraitness of the conditions somewhat intensified; a state which would seem wonderful in the eye of others at this later day, especially when the denomination has become more ex- tended. * * * " But I had known them all, and while memory was made to walk through the scenes of earlier days, to witness the reenact- ments of the stirring events connected with the denominational history of that period, your note came bearing the name of Julia H. Scott, once ' Julia H. Einney,' and a new train of thoughts and feelings was at once added ; and, in connection with them, were awakened again emotions, that the cares of the world, and the lulling effects of time and change, had hushed to a peaceful sleep ; and, truly, I am again communing with the spirits with whom I was once united in bonds of deep-felt sympathy. " It was at the season of ministerial trials and privations of which I have spoken, that ' J. H. K.' appeared as a co-worker with the little band of religious reformers, who gave themselves with such untiring devotion to the cause of their crucified Re- deemer, as heralds of unlimited salvation. Although the views cherished were so congenial to the heart of woman, and so likely to be embraced with all the fondness and attachment peculiar to the female heart, yet the reproach and calumny that prejudice and persecution at that time threw around the profession of such faith, were highly calculated to deter the gentle and retiring spirit from giving public countenance to doctrines that would involve repudiation from certain classes of society, and limit sociality to a proscribed few of corresponding views. " Under such circumstances, the noble stand taken by Julia H. Kinney seemed to elevate her above her sex. By the young servants of the Cross, she was regarded as an angel-helper, whose MEMOIR. 41 smile of approval would encourage to renewed efforts, and as a moral heroine that merited the sympathy and friendliness of all the household of believers. To them, she was like Martha and Mary to our blessed Lord, when he labored, and suffered, and died for a sinful world." We believe it is scarcely a figure to say that it was in a light like tibis that Julia was really regarded. An " angel- helper" she was indeed, in many respects, to hundreds, per- haps thousands, of true but trembling hearts ; and we believe few denominations have presented the spectacle of a young, unpretending girl, exerting such an influence as she. But, amid all the homage rendered to her, she was still the same humble spirit, doubting her own powers, and shrinking from everything like flattery, into which she often construed merited praise. Tet the thought of being in any way useful to the world with her pen, was still especially dear and coveted. An extract &om a letter written about this time to the minis- tering friend who first introduced her to the UniversaUst pub- lic, and with whom, from that period untU approaching death prevented, she ever maintained a frank and friendly corre- spondence, will best reveal her feelings on this subject. She had been ill, which ishe offers as an apology for a gap in her correspondence, for which he had playftilly reproached her, and continues : — " At present I am beginning to be myself a little more, and you may prepare yourself for a deluge of those small portions of which you think this beautiful existence so much consists. "0, there is something peculiar in this expression of yours : ' The whole happiness of this beautiful and glorious existence is made up of small portions, thrown out by individuals, and scat- tered along life's pathway.' Whether it be strictly original, or not, I cannot say ; but to me there was about it a something of newness and beauty, which struck me with uncommon force. To be able, in any way, to benefit, interest, or even amuse, any of the weary beings that toil their way through this ' vale of tears,' whether our efforts are known and appreciated or not, whether we live within the halo of fame, or sink beneath the pall of 4* 42 MEMOIR. obscurity ; but to hare it in our power to wipe one tear from the cheek of the despondent, to cast one ray of light upon the hag- gard features of misery, — O, the individual who would not, at this gladdening prospect, feel a deep glow of gratitude for the power, and the warm promptings of ambition to put it in exer- cise, must possess a heart colder than the misanthrope, an imag- ination which nothing can rouse ! And is this power mine \ The bare idea of its possibility has gilded the dark images of life with a glow which they never wore to me before. What would be toil and privation f How would these small considerations sink into insignificance when contrasted with the rich, the ample reward of feeling that our efforts have met with success, and that those efTorta were impelled by disinterested benevolence ! Should I ever, through the emanations of my yet inexperienced pen, reap this sweet harvest of perseverance, I should then remember a few encouraging words from Brother G. as a powerful, and, I had almost said, first stimulus to exertion." That she appreciated the kindness of intention, while she determinedly rejected what she termed the Jlattery of her friends, the following playful paragraph to the same friend will show: — " What could that insignificant note of mine have contained so extremely saucy ? Why, I had no intention of calling either your judgment or your sincerity in question. I only meant to give you credit for a good deal of complaisance in kindly assist- ing me to clamber up the steeps of Parnassus ; and your refer- ence to other sage editors has not altered my opinion a jot. Look over that article in question, and see what it was that paved its way into the columns of other periodicals. Ay, indeed — a generous encomium from the pen of the Rev. A. B. G. I presume you will now yield to my incorrigibility ; but of late I must set you down as a flatterer. What ! have the audacity to place my poor talents in competition with ! If that gentleman hap- pens to be possessed of much spirit, I think he will hardly thank you for bringing his genius down to a level with an uneducated country girl's/" This dread of everything which sounded like flattery, was ever a marked characteristic of the poet and the woman, and MEMOIR. 43 waa based on that true humility of spirit which was not only natural to her, but was sedulously cultivated by her through her whole life as one of the first of Christian graces, and without which the Christian walk could never be maintained. This is manifest in both her prose and poetical writings, and often appears in her letters to personal friends ; most of whom, it is presumed, found it difiScult to suppress that just and heart- felt praise of her talents and productions, which ever seemed to sound an alarm to her humility. " There were some things in my letter," she writes to another friend, " the meaning of which I suspect you must have measur- ablymisunderstood, and you will pardon me if I revert to them. " The long train of thought, on the subject of flattery, was in- deed called forth by some things contained in your letter ; but I did not mean its application to yourself, though you might pos- sibly infer that I did from the way I mentioned it, which was perhaps out of place. But, though I have the vanity to believe my own heart pretty well fortified against the stratagems of this wily siren, I have witnessed so much of its deleterious effects upon others, that I always shrink from, and seldom fail to re- prove, the slightest approach to it ; and very frequently to men- tion it when I have not the slightest suspicion of even that. I am happy to find that you agree with me in relation to this mat- ter, and Mncerely hope that what I said concerning it gave you no offence, as, I do assure you, not the least was intended." Among the happiest seasons of Julia's life, may be reckoned that which, when she was about eighteen years of age, brought a young stranger to her quiet valley to spend a few months with a mutual friend. She was a young lady of fine intellect, and meek and gentle heart, and Julia soon found in her that rarest of earthly treasures, a truly congenial spirit. The morning and evening rambles along the mountain-side and through the forest dingles — for she came with the summer birds — had now a tenfold charm for Julia, for they were shared by one who worshipped at the shrine of nature as de- voutly as herself. They were constantly together, and soon 44 MEMOIR. that sweetest, most disinterested of earthly friendships, — a friendship between two youag, ardent, enthusiastic, pure- minded girls, — was closely and forever cemented. Nothing could equal the joy they experienced in their long hours of intercourse, for in feelings, thoughts, opinions, all save one, they were as one mind and one heart. But in one important thing — their religious fiiith — there was a gulf between them wide and deep as could well be fashioned. Almena — for that was the name of the new friend — had been brought up in the " land of steady habits " and after the " straitest sect " of the New England Puritans; and not the most devoted among that self-sacrificing band of pilgrims that first trod the rock of Plymouth, could have been governed by a stronger, more undoubting faith in all the tenets of the stem reformer of Geneva, than she. With this faith, also, was blended, what so often accompanies it, a bitter, unreasonable prejudice against the adherents of the despised and repudiated faith which even with her mother's milk Julia had drunk in ; which she loved with a love that had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength ; that was " the spirit of her life, the breath she breathed, her hope, her aE." Such were the faiths, so opposite, of these two young girls ; and it may be a matter of wonder that, being such, the preju- dices of one, at least, should have been so far forgotten as to permit the first dawnings of intimacy or afiection. Ah ! they who wonder thus, think not how far sweeter and more pre- vailing is the voice of nature, in the true young heart, than the cold utterances of bigotry and spiritual pride. Differing faiths could not here separate those whom nature attracted together ; yet, heartfelt and real as they were, it could not be but they should be discussed between them. And they were, until religion grew to be the one all-absorbing theme ; yet never for a moment did it jar the sweet fountain of affection that was daily growing deeper and purer in their hearts. Day after day, they would withdraw together to the favorite forest- bower, and, seated or kneeling side by side, hand clasped in MEMOIB. 45 hand, would discuss the great theme of the world's redemption, and pray that they might be guided aright. The prayer was at length answered, and it was the dearest moment of Jiilia's life when this friend, so dearly loved and so good and pure, told her that she had prevailed ; that her understanding was convinced, her heart satisfied, and that she, too, could now sing the song of Universal redemption. Dearer and closer, after this hour, grew the communion of these fresh young hearts, and brighter seemed the world and all that it contained. But the hour of separation, and of Almena's return to her New England home, at length came. How that farewell was spoken, far better than by our weak powers of description, may be learned by a little extract from a poem, entitled " Twilight on the Susquehanna," written years afterwards by the sweet poetess herself. " Tears, many years, have passed Since in this hallowed spot I bade farewell To her whose lore had been my guiding star — The glad, warm summer of my darkened life. She was my friend — my best — my earliest — The being who had well-nigh drained my heart Of all its sympathies, and made me pour The incense of my spirit out before An idol of the earth ! But now 'twas time Our destinies should sever, and we met To ' look our last ' and take our different paths. Twilight hung o'er us, beautiful as now. And, save the murmurs of the eddying wave And the occasional note of night's sad bird. No sound disturbed the silence of the scene. Blue clouds hung round the hill's far-towering height. Like some tall spirit's floating drapery Inwrought with tints from the fair rainbow's wing ; And, in the distance, like a thing of life. Arose our fairy Island with its trees, Its deep embowering trees, whose boughs bent down To bathe their dark-green tresses in the stream. 0, it was lovely, exquisitely so I 46 MSMOIB. And in that hour of chastened grief we felt The presence of a high, mysterious power, Inspiring confidence ; and when our hands Were clasped in fervent prayer to God, that all Our after life might be directed by The wisdom which descendeth from above, — That all our hopes might centre in that truth Wliioh gives alone the piace that never fails, And that our youthful love might gather strength, Living through absence, undiminished still. And be at last perpetuate with all This beauteous earth's intelligence, — our tears. Our parting tears, were hope, and not despair ! " They parted, and whether they ever met again we know not; but their correspondence was long, frequent, and affec- tionate, going far to recompense them for their separation. It is a matter of much regret to us that this correspondence, pronounced by the sister of Almena an impoktant one, in consequence of frequent and distant removals is now lost, "not a vestige remaining." Many allusions are made, and one or two of Julia's sweetest poems addressed, to her. We regret that we cannot leave this picture while it is still bathed in sunshine ; but it has a sequel that to her was overshad- owed. We find in a letter, written some years later to another friend, the following paragraph-: — " I have lately received news of the apostasy of one of our sisters in the faith, and it has distressed me more than I can tell. She was my most beloved and confidential friend, and a young lady of superior intellect. We became acquainted six or seven years ago, while she was visiting some friends in this neighbor- hood. She was at the time, though very young, a member of a Calvinistic church of the strictest order, but she became ac- quainted with the principles of our precious faith, and embraced them — not privately, but openly, boldly ; and, from the frequent controversies with her numerous partial friends, she always came off conqueror. Indeed, I supposed her firm as the rock whereon her hope was grounded. You may recollect a couple of articles entitled ' Reveries,' Nos. 1 and 2, in the Messenger. They were MEMOIB. 47 addressed to her, Almena M. P. You may see by them how lit- tle fear I entertained of her constancy. ! I can hardly believe my own senses ! Her brother has just come from Massachusetts. He says there has been no revival, but that Almena has become convinced of her error by a long and laborious investigation of the Scriptures, and now she publicly renounces her ' hope for humanity.' Well, so it must be ! And though I am unable at present to divine the cause of the revolution in sentiment, there nndoubtedly exists one, and I am certain that it is anything rather than error in our beloved faith. ! no earthly power will ever shake my confidence in that ! " This was a sad blow to Julia. She loved her Mend not the less, but she grieved for her defection ; and whenever she spoke of her afterwards, it was with a regretful mgh, and as of one who had left her. Two or three short extracts from the " Keveries " above- mentioned may not be unacceptable to the reader. " Well did I love thee at the first, Almena — though I knew thy creed Had taught thee to believe accursed All whose opinions disagreed With thine, in what thy faith termed truth, [For puritanic faith was thine.] I loved thee — and I strove, in sooth. To guide thee to the holy shrine Of true devotion. Ah ! how well Heaven blessed my efforts, thou dost know. By the unerring light which fell. Like rays from sunset's golden bow. Teaching God's love for all below : • Almena, we are poor in what The gay and fashionable cherish — ■ Earth's glittering toys ; but have we not That wealth of soul ne'er doomed to perish ? Ours is th& faultless faith, which gives A light to cheer the spirit's gloom — 48 MEMOIR. The hope which gloriously outlives The startling terrors of the tomb. # « » * * " Dearest, adieu ! we may not meet, Alas ! we may not meet again Till heart and pulse have ceased to beat. And broken is life's weary chain !" Before taking leave of this subject, so painfiil in its sequel, we cannot forbear confiding to the reader a secret, we believe not very generally known. It is, that the original of " Alice Sherwood," the herome of the Kev. Greorge Rogers' " Tale of the Pennsylvania Valley," was no other than this dear friend of Julia — Almena ; and that " Miss J." was Julia herself. We believe that that tale will not be read with less Interest for this knowledge. The " falling away " of this dear friend was not the only grief which Julia experienced iu her religious walk. No- where was the faith she loved regarded with a more scornful eye than in the interior of Pennsylvania ; and though there was a church in Sheshequin, the society was small, and far from being as zealous as it should have been. Frequent and deep was her sorrow that this was so. " We have much reason," she writes, " to feel ashamed of our backwardness in spiritual affairs. It is a want of gratitude to that Being who hath made us a peculiarly favored people, and a cold return to those ministering spirits who have been among us, and have endeavored with all the arts of persuasion to arouse us from this lethargic indifference. Painful, very painful, it is to speak thus of my own neighborhood ; for no being was ever more enthusiastically, perhaps I might say weakly, attached to her native place, than myself; nor is there anything I so ardently desire as to see it built up in the 'most holy faith.' I wish, — if it is not incompatible with your many duties, — that you would give a lecture on ' lukewarmness,' &c. It might suit more cases than ours. We have now no meetings here. An old lady came to me the other day, and said, ' Julia, if you will read some of Mr. G.'s excellent sermons to us, on the Sabbath, or any time, MEMOIR. 49 I will certainly come and hear you if I have to ■walk every step of the way,' — a distance of five miles ; — and I don't know really but I shall do so. It would look odd at first, but what of that ? ' ' The following extract, written in 1832, will show how earnestly her heart was directed to these " matters of the kingdom," and how inefficient the then total want of proper organization in the denomination rendered every effort to pro- mote its progress : — " You probably," she writes, " as anticipated, attended the Bainbridge Association. I hope you found things and people as agreeable as at H. 0, dear! — a mingled feeling of mirth and sadness comes over me when I remember those two days of ' auld lang syne ! ' It was the first meeting of the kind I ever at- tended from home, and I of course started with high eoopectations, as is the privilege, you know, in all new undertakings. Well, to find the worst of all possible roads, and, when we arrived, that not a soul even knew that there was to be a meeting in the place, and of course no one ready to see us, was all rather a damper to my enthusiasm. I should, however, notwithstanding all, have enjoyed the preaching very well — for it was with little exception excellent — but that I felt that we must have been burdensome to the poor family, all sick as they were, into whose privacy we made such an irruption. " Poor H ! What would become of the people should that threatening scourge, the cholera, get among them? I am sure, I never was in so wretched a place in my life before. I could not help laughing, though, at some of your sublime friend, 0. A. B — n — n's speeches about the ' ague harvest ' there. I wonder what has become of him ! I know not that I ever allowed myself to become so much prejudiced against any person, with whom I had no personal acquaintance, as I did against him ; and, when Brother D. arose to introduce him, I felt as if I wanted to do as a young lady told me she once did, when introduced to a political notable, turn on my heel and say, ' No, sir, I wish not your ac- quaintance.' Sympathy, however, is electrical. I saw that the ' high gift of thought ' was his, though turned into a forbidden channel ; and, much as I despised his course of conduct, I could not, for my life, help pitying him, perhaps the more that he 5 50 MEMOIB. thoQght he did not need it. Wherever he is, I am sure he mnst be miserable, for I fear he has often sold his Lord for less than thirty fieces of silver." The above estimate of the individual alluded to, and who has since become somewhat notorious, discovers, not only a Spirit that may well be termed prophetic, but a power of keen appreciation, not common in one so young and so all- unpractised as Julia ; a characteristic often remarkably dis- played by her, yet never exercised in a spirit of ill-nature. If she was ever too severe, it was only when she felt the cause, so dear to her heart, to be in perU from " false breth- ren," — a peril which, in its then infant state, it was so little able to endure. Thank God that she lived to see a healthier state of relig- ious things in her beloved valley, and to enjoy the stated promulgation of that doctrine so dear to her heart ; though, alas ! never to feel that that Christian charity, which forms the crown of the religion of Jesus, was yet extended toward it by other and opposing sects. It is reserved, perhaps, for even a later day than ours, to see the spirit of the lowly Redeemer, so pervading the Christian church, as to render it loving and gentle towards all. God grant that it be not too far distant ! In 1833, when she was twenty years old, the long-wished- for visit to her friends in Connecticut was made ; and there, as well as in New York where she spent a day or two on her return, a new world was opened to the eager gaze of the young poetess. For the first time in her life, she looked upon the great sea and its white-winged ships, and trod the streets of a great city. It was something of a change for one brought up, as she had been, in the complete solitude of a mountain valley, and she fully appreciated it. She enjoyed, too, the society of friends, who strove in every way to render her visit pleasant ; and she returned home full of grateful tlEMOIR. 51 memories of their kindness, and cherishing an added world of love to them in her heart. It was during this brief sojourn in New York that we first met her ; and that short but delightful communion, though it did not lead to a particular subsequent intimacy, was long remembered by us with feelings of peculiar pleasure. She seemed full of hope and happiness, yet looked pale and some- what thin ; for even then the shadow of that disease, which ten years afterwards laid her in the grave, was falling around her. We well remember the depth and darkness of those large, soft eyes, so full of thought and feeling, and radiant with that peculiar lustre which is rarely seen, save in those marked for early death. Perhaps, all things considered, at no period of her life was her resemblance to the portrait in this volume so striking. A slight embarrassment was at first perceptible in her manner, but it soon disappeared, and she conversed with ease and fluency ; passing from grave to gay, and from gay to grave, with a charming facility ; discussing various subjects of an interesting nature, particularly those connected with her religious faith, with a fine enthusiasm, which was quite inspiring to those who listened, and which brought a beauti- ful glow to her somewhat pale cheeks. We left her, after an hour thus delightfully spent, with a mingled admiration and regret, which we shall never cease to remember. In a letter, written soon after her return, to the dear " Cous- in Happy," to whom her visit in Norwich had been made, her journey home is thus playfully described : — " I had a pretty comfortable journey home, after I took the stage. Thanks to your little basket of medicines, it did wonders. Be sure, folks did stare somewhat, when they heard the phials jingle ; and they scrutinized the owner pretty closely, to discover,' I suppose, where were located the symptoms of the invalid ; but I put on a little dignity, and things were all right. I had a good deal of pain in my shoulder, and the Elixir helped it immedi- 52 UEMOIB.. ately. 'T is an excellent medicine, and I mean to immortalize it by a poem. " And how do you all get on, this cold weather ? For my part, I am almost turned into an icicle. I keep a great shawl about my shoulders, and draw the curtains over the windows, for I cannot bear to look out into the bleak, stormy north. Tell J. I do not wonder he loves the south. " How is H. 1 You must take care of her, for I fear a robber has fastened his eye upon her. What a dear, good girl she is ! I shall never forget the endearing attentions she bestowed upon me, while with you. Cousin J. also showed me much kindness, in furnishing me with books, etc. ; and I fancy that your father was less lonely for having me to tease him with questions about our ancestry, etc. " I have written you a dreadful-looking scrawl ; but 't is my way, and I seldom do better." This visit was long remembered, by Julia, with a peculiar pleasure, as her first journey from home ; and it is spoken of, in some of her earlier letters, as an event of no small impor- tance. Meanwhile, she was extending both her acquaintance and her correspondence, while her busy pen still wove, from week to week, the sweet and touching verses with which she was delighting her constantly increasing admirers. In a letter to her true and tried friend, the Rev. Mr. Grosh, written immediately after her return, and inclosing two articles, — "Lines from an Orphan's Diary," and "The Three Dark Hours," — to be inserted in the Magazine and Advocate, which he was still editing, with her usual modest frankness she thus writes : — " I hope you will like the two articles I send ; — the first I feel disposed to give myself some little credit for ; not that it contains anything new or very beautiful, but it approaches more nearly to that simplicity of style which I do love above all things. The blank verse I should like to have you improve, if you are dis- posed to throw away time enough. The subject, you will agree MEUOIB. 68 with me, is sublime. I wish I could have done it greater justice. Take it into consideration, however, and do as you think proper about publishing it. Perhaps I have not done exactly right in varying the circumstances related by the Evangelist, though I think I have succeeded in the descriptive part, as well as I should were I to try again. " I have a subject in contemplation which haunts me contin- ually, especially in my hours of gloom and despondency, — hours which I acknowledge are more frequent than they ought to be with any Universalist. The subject I speak of would involve a long poem, — too long for your paper ; and, besides, there would not be much religion in it. I should call it the ' Poet's Death- bed.' The hero, a poor, poverty-stricken VFretch, with a broken harp [not heart], naked rafters in the roof, a crust of bread, and a fireless grate. It would be just the thing. I must attempt it, though I have to leave it among my unpublished poems." In allusion to a description of a tour recently published by himself, she playfully continues : — " I find your tour very interesting ; but I am half- vexed that you should so exhaust your eloquence, in praising those hideous narrows, as to be able to say nothing in favor of poor Sheshequin, except that it has an unfinished church. I have a real Bums' anxiety to ' gar our streams and burnies shine up wi' the best ;' and, if I had a little of his inspiration, some valleys that I know of would have to be exalted after a while." To one, among the many who at this time sought her correspondence, and who has kindly furnished us with her correspondence, she thus charmingly manifests her great unselfishness, and her warm-hearted interest in all things connected with the communion to which she was so truly attached : "I am really delighted with the prospect you hold forth, of more female advocates for the truth. It is soul-cheering news, and I truly hope your influence, which I doubt not is considera- ble, will not be wanting to induce many to ' come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty.' I well remember the article 5* 54 MDMOIB. you mention. It was a most excellent production, and I looked long and anxiously for more from the same source ; for I am con- fident the fair author, if disposed, could do much for our holy faith. " And so you have lately been in Boston? And are you ac- quainted with our beloved and venerable father in Israel, Hosea Ballon? 0, how it would gladden my heart to be for once per- mitted to gaze upon his time-worn features ! It is a desire that has for years filled my heart, and I cannot bear to give it up. I was last fall within a day's ride of Boston, and I came near going quite there, for the express purpose of seeing Father Bal- lon; but I reflected, — 'Boston is a world of strangers to me; not one face within its boundaries that I have ever seen, and ' — I dismissed the thought. But I now believe that, should I ever be as near again, I should go further. " I have, since I wrote you, received a few numbers of the Ladies' Repository, and ha^ partly promised to write an occa- sional article for it. I think the plan of this paper a very good one, and would like to see it extensively circulated, for it appears to me, that, with proper management, it may be made greatly to subserve the interests of our denomination among all ranks and classes. Its tone is mild, but decided, and I think will tend to eradicate the unfavorable and erroneous impressions, entertained by many, in regard to our peculiar tenets, as wanting in that principle of vital piety which they do, in reality, more strictly enjoin than any others." The following, written to the same friend, is so character- istic of the young, enthusiastic poet, that we give it almost entire. It was written in the month of April, when all nature was full of beauty as her own young heart : — "You are wondering why I have not written ; and I suppose etiquette demands that I should commence this epistle with a labored apology, but I cannot do it,' — at least, in the fashiona- ble way. " The truth is, I have of late felt a wonderful aversion to writ- ing, reading, etc. ; for the beautiful spring is here, and my heart is ever at this season with nature. 0, how much I have rambled lately ! — for I live in the country, you know, far away from the MEMOIR. 55 noisy world, and I hall with transport the dawnings of this delightful season. It lures me to the green hills and the frar grant forests ; and, 0, 1 dearly love to clamber among the crags, and listen to the happy streams, rejoicing in their newly-acquired liberty, and to gajo upon the delicate rook-flower, just merging from its cold and flinty bed ! I dearly love to bend down my ear to the sweet music of the breeze, as it sighs through the waving pines, and lifts the rustling hemlock from the damp earth ; and I feel, 0,1 do feel that ' the hand of the Lord hath done this ;' that the principle of immutable Love is abroad, and pervadeth the air and the earth ; and my soul is lifted up, yea, my spirit is steeped in the dews that descend upon the mountains of Zion! " Does this seem to you mere rhapsody ? I had forgotten that I am writing to one recently but a stranger, and suffered my pen to run on in its own enthusiastic way ; but why apologize ? I am almost an enthusiast, and I may as well acknowledge it at the outset ; and you will forgive me if I insinuate the suspicion that even you are somewhat spiced with the same weakness. * * * " Then you have your home in that ' little world of Universal- ism, Boston,' and you are acquainted with our excellent Father Ballou and family 1 What a delightful picture you have given mo of that little circle ! I do wish I lived a little nearer Boston, that I might become acquainted with that interesting family. But I cannot say that I wish my residence were there, for I find that my local prejudices are very, very strong. I could not then look out at my window and see the beautiful Susquehanna, with its proud waves glancing in the early sunlight, and its lucid sur- face reflecting the high points of the western hills, which rise up like pedestals, for the clouds to rest upon. " ' Home, sweet home ! ' and so that is your favorite song? It is, indeed, a delightful thing, and, old as it is, I still dearly love it, and sometimes sing it for almost hours together. I never knew a person who could hear this little air sung sweetly, plaintively, without being affected by it. Home, home ! 0, there is ' a mystic thread,' that is so closely twined around that one dear spot of earth, that every heart must beat re- sponsively when recollection paints it anew. There is a charm in the very sound that entrances every listener. The strains of ambition and glory may plume the wings of the soaring 56 M E M I E . Bpirit, may cause the flush of pride to mantle the brow, and a glow of wild satisfaction to light the lip ; but these are but as the flashes of an April sky ; they disappear and are forgot- ten. But the still small voice of home! — the student hears it, and his books are neglected ; the man of business catches the tone, and relaxes his application ; and even the rugged sailor, whose soul is all daring, whose heart is all recklessness, even he is unmanned by the word ' home.' His mind goes back to the beautiful season of childhood, to the sweet haunts of early inno- cence and gayety ; he sees the humble cottage, with its trellised arbors and emerald lawn ; he hears the murmurs of the silvery streams, and the warblings of the happy birds ; sweet house- hold voices are in his ear, and — and — 'tis all a dream, and he weeps that he is not a ' child again.' O, home ! how soothing, how important are the reflections connected with thee ! We look upon the pleasant grave-yard ; its green bosom will be a home for our bodies, and we forget not that the home of our spirits is heaven, where we shall all meet in our father's house, an inno- cent and loving family ; where our home will be permanent, and our love undisturbed by discord and sorrow. " The discussion going on between brothers and , is interesting, and yet I am pained to perceive what appears to be a spirit of personal animosity towards one another. I regret, equally with yourself, that the doctrine of ' future punishment ' should be allowed to mar the beauty of our Zion, and slacken the cords of love which have hitherto so sweetly united our little band of laborers. ' Let every one be fully persuaded in his own mind ' in relation to it, yet without strife. " You ask my opinion of Byron. I know not how I can ex- press it fully. Lofty his poetry is, and ' beautiful exceedingly.' Nothing can surpass the glowing brilliancy of his conceptions, or the striking boldness and beauty of his figures ; but, in smooth- ness and pathos, I think Moore excels him. It always seems to me the field of Byron is the glorious mind, and that of Moore i\i& feeling heart. * * * * " Poor Byron ! How does it sadden the heart to contemplate his brilliant but unfortunate career ! How does his life admonish the children of genius to lay up their treasures where the rust of this heartless world cannot corrode and destroy ! " But I must close. You need not fear a scolding from me for MEMOIR. 57 careless writing, for I too well know the fate of those who "live in glass houses." " As ever, your friend and sister in the faith, " Julia." " A beautiful day," she thus writes to the same friend, " this has been, and the evening is far more beautiful still. 0, 1 do love a quiet Sabbath evening! It wakens warm and grateful aspirations to Him who has sanctified its beauty to our hearts, and written Salvation upon the banner of that hope which the Sabbath most frequently recalls to our minds. " I wish we could, in our little neighborhood, be more fre- quently blessed with the preached word. It is a deprivation I feel very sensibly. We have a pleasant church, but, alas ! no pastor. But I still live in hopes that the Lord will send us one." In May, 1834, a change took place in the situation of Julia, on the occasion of her removal to Towanda, — a beautiful vil- lage, some ten miles distant from Sheshequin, but Ijdng on the same " river of her heart," the beautifiil Susquehanna, — to become a teacher. " It is about six weeks, dear friend," she writes, " since I became a resident of this pleasant village, — formerly an Indian town, as you perceive by its name, Towanda, — and the time has flown by rapidly, as it always does to me when engaged in school; and yet my patience — that standing virtue with a teacher, you know — gets sometimes most sorely tested. I have some eighteen or twenty rude girls — some of them nearly of my own age — to manage, and I find it draws sadly on my little stock of forbearance and assumed dignity. But everything gets put to rights once in two weeks, for I am then at home; and, in the midst of a happy group of brothers and sisters, I forget the vexations of life, and, like Burns, I hardly care if ' the world gangs tapsalterie.' " But how goes the world at the East 1 I hear little from that quarter of late, or indeed any other of the blessed vineyards of our Lord and Master ; but, 0, my heart is with you all, and my confidence in the Truth hourly increases ! It is mighty and must prevail. It is a mountain that is rapidly filling the whole earth. 58 MEMOIB. Universalisni has few advocates in this place ; but it would have more if there were some one to proclaim it occasionally from the pulpit. The laborers are certainly few for so great a harvest. A preacher of our order is quite a novelty among the good people of our county ; and will you believe me when I tell you that I have heard but one preacher since last winter? Nevertheless, I have no apprehension of departing from my ' first love.' No ! The stem and fearful doctrines, which I sometimes permit myself to hear from other pulpits, contrast so strongly with the beau- tiful images of peace and holiness bom of my ovm dear faith, that the 'still small voice' sinks only the deeper into my heart. " The description contained in your last interested me more than I can tell. How sad, and yet how joyful ! 0, it is one of the most glorious features of our faith, that, as earth fades away, heaven brightens upon us ! I often anticipate that last dark hour, and, even in my best health, I hardly find myself dreading it. I boast of no superior firmness of mind, but so sure am I that the transit must be happy." To another friend she also writes thus : — " My dbak Rhoda, — I thought, when I bade you ' bood-bye' at your father's gate, that pleasant Sabbath morn, that I should trouble you with a scrawl as soon as I arrived at Towanda ; but I have been in such a whirl of dissipation, school-teaching, &c. , ever since, that I have had scarcely a moment for thought, much less for vrriting. Cousins Maria and Helen have lately spent a week here, which gave rise to a series of balls, parties, etc., and, to tell the truth, I am nearly tired of ' gadding,' as the phrase is here, and shall bless the moment that sees me safely landed at the door of my own humble but happy home. ' Home' — commonplace enough is that word, and commonplace the sub- ject, but one to me replete with beautiful though oft-contemplated images. The love which encircles each dear member, making our labor light — the sharing of each other's joys and sorrows — the mutual encouragement and forbearance — the mysterious cord, whose sympathetic fibres link heart to answering heart, — O, Rhoda, what is there in our bleak world like home and its holy affections ? What evil would be to us so calamitous as a depri- vation of it?" MEMOIR. 59 The residence of Julia in Towanda was destined to exert an influence over her whole future life, little anticipated when she first assumed her position as village teacher. It was during the period in which she sustained this somewhat arduous post that she became acquainted with Dr. D. L. Scott, the gentleman with whom, on the second of May, in the following year, 1835, she was united in marriage — removing with him at once to Towanda. A new home and new objects of affection were henceforth to fill a large place in her heart ; but they were never for a moment, dear as they became, sufficient to wean her from the friends of her childhood and youth. Her heart seems rather to expand and grow warmer as its objects of affection in- creased ; " her love seemed to grow by what it fed on," and it was one of the few causes of disquiet which, in these happy days of early wedded life, crept into her heart, that a possi- bility existed that in her absence the love of those friends might grow cool. This feeling is very touchingly expressed in the following extract of a letter to a dear friend, written soon after her marriage : — •'Mt dear Ehoda, — I was in Sheshequin when your last came to hand, and you may be assured I was right glad to get it, for I was in truth somewhat low-spirited ; and that little evi- dence of the remembrance and friendship of one very near my heart was truly gratifying. When I gave up my name, the fear that the love of my friends would depart with it, gave me much uneasiness, for I had seen many instances wherein I thought this change became apparent ; and the bare possibility that it might be my fortune distressed me exceedingly. But you, dear E., will be an exception, and I hope not the only one. Certainly my affection for my friends, so far from decreasing, waxes stronger and stronger daily ; they are all very, very dear to me, and if my love is unrequited, I hope they will, at least, keep me ignorant thereof. * * * * " 0, if I could only keep my friends forever ! Poor Emeline M ! My heart aches at thought of her ! 'T is hard to be confined all these long, pleasant days ; to see all the world bright and 60 M E M 1 K . happy, and ourselves going down with disease and pain to the chambers of darkness. Poor Emeline ! May the Father of Love give her strength and patience to bear it all ! " That this love for her friends, so affeetingly expressed in the preceding extracts, was a deep, warm, true, ever-living, ever- increasing principle of her nature, a thousand little touching expressions, involuntarily penned, in even her shortest letters, affeetingly attest. The iU-health, for many years so apparent, imperceptibly but steadily increased after her marriage, often rendering her going abroad a difficult matter. Yet her cling- ing affection still demanded frequent communion with her friends, while her modest, lowly estimate of her own worth ever led her to feel every testimonial of affection on the part of those friends as a favor for which she could never be too gratefully obliged. "My dear E.," she earnestly inquires, "are you really offended that you have not written me one little line ? But my letters are so uninteresting, and yours so excellent and good. Yet, I do so want to hear from and see you. Beloved R., you surely will come down and see me before the sleighing is gone. I know your last visit was enough to discourage you ; but, believe me, 'twill not always be thus, and I have so many things to say to you. I fear I shall hardly be able to visit you before warm weather. Yet I am sure I know you too well to suppose that you will for an instant doubt my w^arm, earnest wish to go to you. No, you will not now stay away from me on account of it. " JuLU." " 0, how can I be reconciled," she writes another, " to giving up your visit next summer? That is the 'unkindest cut of all.' I really, as the patriarch expresses it, ' yearn to see you.' " To another and distant friend, at a later day, she thus pours out her heart : — " I fear you, by this time, consider me the most negligent, un- grateful creature in existence. Ah ! my dear, dear friend, if you knew but half the pleasure I take in reviewing the sweet hours I M E M 1 B . 61 enjoyed with" you last fall, you would not have a momentary sus- picion of the depth and fervor of my love for you ; and you do not, I am sure. My weak actions must have told you with what difficulty I tore myself away, and what bitterness was in my heart when the dreadful thought came over me, that I should see your face no more." Yet, with all her fond reverting to old friends and old scenes, in her new home the young wife found a thousand fresh sources of pleasure, and a new world of objects to draw out her warm affections. A pleasant cottage, surrounded by a wilderness of beautiful flowers and shrubs, and festooned with clasping vines of the most delicate varieties, which her tasteful hand delighted to train and nurse, and to which she was continually adding new varieties, was her happy home. An affectionate and appreciating husband blest her hours of retirement and privacy, while a constantly widening circle of admiring friends and acquaintances added zest and pleas- ure to many a social season. The following passages found in a letter, written somewhat more than a year after her marriage, to a brother-in-law, are so illustrative of the innocent gayety of her heart before sor- row had ever deeply touched it, and are, withal, so full of good-natured sarcasm, that we cannot refrain from copying them : — " Your letter to G. was an intellectual feast to all of us — to me particularly ; for, besides the deep satisfaction of hearing of your safe arrival at Thomasville, I was delighted with the description of your voyage and of your present locale. I had hitherto been wholly and marvellously ignorant of the south, but had somehow associated it with ideas of Italian softness and splendor ; and in these associations were not only mixed up the air, the sky, the climate, but the inhabitants and their habita- tions, particularly the latter. With the south always came up the pictures of verandahs, moon-lit arbors, sparkling fountains (artificial, of course), and magnificent edifices. Pshaw ! — how stupid I have been ! And so the south is really no better than 6 62 MEUOIB. the north, except in climate ? I don't more than half believe your stories. ^ "I never knew more delightful weather than we are having with us now ; the sweetest sunshine and the softest air. The ladies of the village have seemed to enjoy it well — especially the Misses . They are a couple of very humane young ladies. They have not the hearts to add to the distress of the many young men who are dying of their charms, by total seclusion — not they. They are hourly to be seen in the streets. G. and I to-day quar- relled about them. He insists on their having a certain kind of sense, without a particle of common sense for superstructure. Yes, although they last evening seriously told him that there were never any gloves brought into Towanda small enough for their delicate hands, still he talks of some kind of sense. Towanda is getting a very sensible place. The march of mind is not con- fined to the Misses , by any means. and are ' so happy ! ' There have been tremendous displays since their re- turn. Such bridal wreaths, such waving plumes, such — such — George calls them, 'flare-ups.' I don't know where he got the phrase, nor what it means, but I suppose something about dignity, and elegance, and tender regards. " Do you know we have had some cousins visiting us ? I am much pleased with them. Keal sensible, fine people ; such as one is glad to meet among the many would-bes. They have been at Mr. B.'s some time. Uncle D. has told them all about the S.'s — their large hands and bristling hair ; L.'s ' pursing eyes,' and M.'s being courted by the priest. In fact, their seeing IJncle D. one hour was equivalent to their extreme intimacy with the whole tribe, for they were all unravelled. And what kind of eulogy do you think he was pleased to pass upon your humble servant ? You would never guess ; so, if you will spare my blushes, I will tell you. 'She is a splendid — a very splendid woman ! ' Think you I feel grieved any longer, because I was not invited to the wedding 1 Not I ! He did n't say so because some- body was by who would tell me — not he ; and so I shall go on curling my hair, and getting new dresses. Ibegin to know myself." Relapsing into her usual genial, affectionate tone, — " Our good mother," she goes on, " and the children are well. R. has been to me one of the kindest of sisters, and I shall always MEMOIR. 63 love her in remembrance of the past. D. goes dovm there every day, making fences and digging about. W., he says, works like a hero ; but Lawrence he calls lazy. I don't believe that. I am greatly attached to Lawrence, — the good, warm-hearted boy! I shall be his true friend, through evil report and through good report." How delightfully genial the feelings and relations of the young wife towards " our good mother," and the brothers and sisters-in-law, and especially the " good, warm-hearted Law- rence ;" and how charmingly the excellent, loving, unselfish woman is there mirrored ! It was these peculiarly genial qualities, combined with her brilliant intellect, which made her so lovable and beloved, wherever she made her abode. It is but justice to Julia, to remark that the whirl of gay- ety and pleasure in which, as a resident of so gay a village as Tbwanda, she was for a time necessarily involved, although its novelty for a time interested, and the adulation she there received captivated her, was, after all, little congenial with her true nature. That nature was essentially devotional, loving rather the communion with her own soul and with God, than the frivolities of society. She had, besides, an ear- nest desire so to cultivate her rare gifts of intellect, as to be able, not alone to make a temporary impression on society, but to extend her sphere of true useftilness while she lived, and leave a worthy memorial of her genius behind her. That the gay life she then led was far from being calculated to promote this result she often most deeply felt, and it was not long ere a deep and abiding desire grew up in her heart for a return to that nature which, in her girlish days, she had so fondly loved. "I can do nothing," she exclaims, "in this visiting life. I long for a home far away in the green fields, where there would be nothing to interrupt my thoughts. The excitement of com- pany completely unfits my mind for any protracted efifort, and I can never attempt the execution of an elaborate poem till I am free to fetter my soul down to steadfast meditation. A nice lit- 64 M E M I B . tie farm, on the banks of the Susquehanna, would be just the spot to dream, and study, and create, — and some day it will be ours, so hope promises." "But," in the touching language of Miss Edgarton, "hope promised what death did not allow to become realized ; and the only home the banks of the Susquehanna now afford to one who loved them so well, is the silent home that permits no thought, with the long repose that brings no dreams." Two years went by in her wedded home, and a new joy, and yet another, were added, to fill to overflowing the sweet cup of her silent happiness. The one was a dear and beau- tiful babe, " whose sunshiny tresses, and eyes like mountain violets, were mirrored brightly, day and night, in the deep tides of her over-loving heart." The other was a new friend, whose friendship soon became to her one of the dearest things of life ; and which, ere long, ripened into a love tender and true as was that of David and Jonathan, and destined to continue as long as the life beat in those two loving hearts, and, we trust, to live on in the better world, increasing in depth and purity forever and ever. This new friendship was that with Sarah C. Edgarton. It filled a void in the heart of Mrs. Scott, which, perhaps, noth- ing else could have done. She had not been destitute of literary friends, for she found a number of such in Towanda to admire, and warmly to appreciate herself. But sincerely as she came to love some of these, they yet lacked one ele- ment necessary to a perfect sympathy. They were not of her faith. This, with many, would seem but an unimportant circumstance ; yet, with her, it was not so. Her religious views were the light of her life ; the great theme of her daily thought ; and to meet sympathy here was her great desire, and well-nigh her utmost need. It was, therefore, with unalloyed delight, when circum- stances offered a way to an intimate intercourse with Sarah C. Edgarton, then a timid young poetess, but rapidly acquir- UEUOIB. 65 ing fame and winning general love in our denomination, that she accepted the communion. " My dear Miss Edgarton," she -writes, " I have seldom, I as- sure you, been more agreeably surprised than in the reception of your most sisterly epistle. It is so delightful to be remem- bered and oared for by the young and happy ; and your letter came to hand in a season of peculiarly low spirits. I thank you, beloved sister, from my heart I thank you, for your words have been sweet to my soul. Yet, I am not sure that, had you waited a week or two longer, you would have had the pleasure of first setting the good example of writing. I have long had my eye upon you ; and ever since you came before the public, my heart — as the patriarchs would have expressed it — has yearned over you, and longed to embrace you with its many beloved ones. And often have I determined, and re-determined, to address you at all hazards. But an entire ignorance of you, except from your writings, together with procrastination, that commonest fault of lazy and sick people, had, until quite recently, made me falter. But now all obstacles are removed, and let me again thank you. The ice of formality is broken ; we are at length acquaintances, we are friends, we are sisters. "And now, Sarah dear, let me talk with you as with the friend of my youth. Let me talk with you as though time had made no difference in our years ; for though, in connection with sickness, he has bowed and wasted my form, he has touched lightly my heart. TJiat is still warm as at sunny eighteen. It has lost nothing but earthly hope ; it has grown old but in experience. My heart is still young. * * * " I am pleased to learn that you have another work in press. ' Ellen Clifford ' sounds quite pretty. I am very anxious to see it. The Palfreys gave me much pleasure, and I have reperused it since your letter came, as was quite natural, you know, that I should. I shall think much of it for my little Marian, when she gets old. The precious child ! — how I shall rejoice to see her young heart warm and expand beneath such pious teach- ings ! " I regret for your own sake, but for the sake of the denomi- nation rejoice, that you are obliged to depend on your literary efcrts for a competence. The path is a toilsome one, but the 66 MBMOIE. difficulties to be encountered will ofttimes call up those latent energies ■which, under easier circumstances, -vrould perish in inac- tion. Thus doth our Heavenly Father ever extract good from evil, and this is the most glorious principle of His government. Be reconciled, therefore, dear sister, nor believe that lot a hard one which can give so much happiness to thousands, and produce ultimately so much satisfaction to yourself. Be reconciled. Be glad. You are not the first one who has labored by the sweat of the brow, ay, and with a far less reward, — even the bread that perisheth, — while you are rewarded with the bread of life. But, because I talk to you thus, do not suppose me destitute of sym- pathetic feelings. I sincerely sympathize with you, and well I may ! I know what it is to grapple with iron-handed poverty. I know what it is to have the heart crushed, the energies cramped by its icy restrictions. I was once poor, and, alas ! worse, — I was proud. I thought my lot hard. God has shown me my folly. He has been pleased to place me in easy circumstances, but he has taken away my health and spirits ; and, alas ! how often do I find myself sighing for health and poverty ! Believe me, my sweet friend, our Father only knoweth what is best for us." Meanwhile, during the two years elapsing between the marriage of Julia and the commencement of her acquaintance with that friend, ever after so dear, her pen had been exceed- ingly busy, — many of her sweetest poems having been writ- ten during that period. Her contributions to the New Yorker, Christian Messenger, Evangelical Advocate, and some other papers, were regular and frequent. " The Island Grave," " Autumn Roses," " A Domestic Picture," " Marie," " The Fair Captive,'' and others equally beautiful, were among them ; and her fame, as an authoress, was every day increasing. Perhaps this period, also, may be said to have been the happiest pf her life. A brighter sunshine was over all the world, and her song was more cheerful than ever before. Yet it cannot be denied that a low, deep undertone of sad- ness, often mingled, even at this time, with the gayer strains, MEMOIR. 67 and a vague presentiment of grief seemed breathing from her lay. If " coming events " do, indeed, " cast their shadows before," the shadow of that great sorrow, which was so soon to overtake her, perhaps' even then lay along her pathway. That sorrow came only all too soon. A sudden and fatal ill- ness seized the babe of her bosom, the lovely little Marian, and, before her father, who was at the time some distance from home, could be even apprized of her danger, she was dead. The anguish of the bereaved parents cannot be de- scribed. It was suck as only they who have suffered similar bereavements can know. Among the first to tender that true and deep sympathy which, save one other and holier thing, is the only balm for wounds like these, was the new, but already endeared friend, Sarah Edgarton ; and in her own affectionate and loving way, she ministered to the stricken and sorrowing heart of the bereaved mother. Among the many tributes of affection and sympathy offered to the bereaved parents at this trying season, few would be read with more interest and pleasure than the following sweet ELEGIAC STANZAS. BY MISS FEAZEE. Died, July 3l9t, Marian Almena, only child of Br. David L. and Mrs. Julia H. Scott, aged 13 montlis and 11 days. And oouldst thou die, fair child ? Light of the eyes that fondly gazed on thee ! How could they follow to the tomb and see Dust on thy fair brow piled ? Thou, the bright, worshipped one. Whose morn gave promise of a fairer day ! How would their yearning hearts have bid thee stay ! But the dread work is done. 68 UEMOIB. Sweet one ! ere thou didst soar. Was it an angel's ■whisper in thine ear, That bade thee murmur names of those most dear. Untaught, unlisped before ? The grave — the silent grave Hath won thee from the hearts that loved go well } Death hath dissolved a bright, a dazzling spell. Not love itself could save ! Sweet be thy dreamless sleep ! Thou hast not known the fitful, feverish strife Of hopes and fears, that deepen with our life. And gather tears to weep. Then sleep ! — thou wert but given As a rich perfume, briefly to repose Upon the bosom of the parent rose. And be exhaled to heaven ! How precious such sympathy was to that mother's heart, may be learned from the following most affecting letter, written in answer to Miss Edgarton's, just one month after the death of the dear idol, and when the first bitterness of grief had, in a measure, subsided : — " How shall I express my gratitude, dear sister, for your very feeling letter ? It was so kind of you to write so soon ; and yet the favor was not wholly unexpected. I knew that your deep, warm heart would overflow for me, and I have waited anxiously, each returning mail, for those breathings of sympathizing love, which have this day fallen so soothingly upon my lacerated heart. Believe me, beloved Sarah, the bread you have cast upon the troubled waters of grief will some day return to you doubled fourfold. May God, in his infinite mercy, bless you again and again, for the angel act ; and may He keep ever far from you that wisdom of ' sorrow's lore,' which you have seemed so much to covet, nor ever, ever make yours tiiat deso- late iQt, « • ■\yiiere grief sits mantling up her head. Loathing the beauty and proud pomp of day ; ' MEMOIR. 69 but give you, what He dispenses to few, a gentle and showerless voyage adovni life's eddying stream, with sweet and Jakfifvl spirits to accompany you. Amen. " I trust, sweet sister, that I am at present, through the all- pervading influence of a Saviour's love, in a great measure recon- ciled to the loss of the dear idol, although the shock was at first so great as to prostrate me to the brink of the grave ; and I have ever since, until within a, few days, been unable to inhale the fresh, out-door air, or gaze upon the decorations of nature's tem- ple once so very dear to me. And will you wonder? The disease of the little sufferer was that most dreadful one called cholera in- fantum ; and my husband was absent all of the time, and could not get home until within a very few hours before her burial. The disease was not understood by the attending phyrician, — though J more than suspected its nature, — consequently the medicine administered only tended to aggravate the violence of the most distressing symptoms imaginable, until nature, wearied with the scene of torture, calmly resigned the innocent lamb to her per- petual sleep, 0, Sarah! it is such reflections as these that em- bitter the cup which my Father has given me to drink ! To feel that all we did to alleviate, only sharpened the pangs of distress ; to believe, — as I most solemnly do, — that, had her father been here, the little arms might still be clasping my neck ; the rosy lips still be pressed in clinging fondness to miue, and the soft blue eyes throwing dovm a world of light and gladness to my heart! 0, can I live? — Can I live? Yes, I can. Even now my health is improving, my spirits are rallying. Although the dying picture still hangs between me and the blessed sunlight, — although, through all my feverish sleep, I am clasping the cold, corrupted — but 0, how dear ! — clay to my throbbing bosom, try- ing to reanimate it with the consuming fire within, while the sweet eyes but open to smile upon me, and again fade and die, — I can still live ; for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and, by this, I also know that Marian lives. God be praised for the invaluable knowledge ! All else were now vain, and, but for this, the grave would long since have closed over me. God be praised! Halle- lujah ! " But I will dwell no longer on this agonizing theme, though I am sure you will forgive me ; for your tender nature has undoubt- edly long since taught you the melancholy joy of weeping on the 70 MJBMOIE. bosom of a congenial friend — a joy the more highly prized fcy Buch aa we, from so few opportunities occurring in this jostling world for its indulgence. Let me now turn to a happier subject, " Do you know, dear Sarah, that I anticipate seeing you soon? Ah ! you would hardly guess how, at first ; but it is really the case. I have every expectation — health permitting so ^rea« an undertaking — of attending the General Convention in Boston. How my pulse bounds at the thought ! I shall behold you, and O, such a host of known and unknown beloved ones ! Do you wonder that my spirits rise ? — that my heart grows buoyant ? — that my pen wavers with anticipated joy 1 I shall try to leave all my heaviness of soul in Towanda, and do nothing but smile and be happy the dear few hours I am there. Ah, I fear I am anticipating too much ! But let me hope. Meanwhile, believe me ever Affectionately yours, " JUUA." The anticipations so ardently indulged were not disap- pointed, and the following month, saw Mrs. Scott on her way to Boston. Personal ill-healtJi prevaited our joining her on this excursion ; but we again had the happiness of receiving her in our own house- in New York. But what a change a few short years, and, above all, grief had wrought in her ! The ^lish gayety of former years was all vanished, and such a world of calm but settled sorrow looked out from her dark, prophetic eyes, as was painful to behold. The " impressions " of Miss Edgarton, in relation to her appearance, are so accurate, so true to life, that we copy them as embodying nearly everything that could, at that time, be said in describing it : — " We had heard her appearance," she writes, "described as 'majestic;' and in younger and healthier days this term would have been singularly appropriate ; but at the time of our first meeting with her, sickness and sorrow bad made melancholy rav- ages both upon her face and form ; her figure, which was strik- ingly tall, was bowed and emaciated, her cheeks hollow, and her eyes languid and full of touching sorrow. But there was some- thing in the very droop of her figure, which seemed to us emi- nently graceful, and her countenance, with its fitful color, that MEMOIR. 71 came and went with every transition of thought and feeling, and its glorious black eyes, that were one moment radiant with spirit- ual joy, and the next drooping with the intensest melancholy, was one of the most striking and intellectual that our eyes had ever rested upon," Her visit in Boston was all, and more than she had antici- pated. Her circle of acquaintance, among both ministers and lay-people in the Universalist communion, was very widely extended ; every one being eager to take her by the hand as the " bright particular star " towards which all looked. It did her much good, while the rare enjoyment of the religious services of the occasion combined to heal and gladden her sorrowing heart. But more than all else, perhaps, the meeting and mingling with "her soul's loved sister" tended to bring back joy and brightness to her darkened heart. This was the medicine she needed, and of this she herself was deeply sensible ; a con- viction which she afterwards touchingly and beautifully illus- trated in her sweet article entitled the " Power of Sympathy." On her return from Boston, she again visited her dear friends in Norwich, Connecticut, remaining with them two or three weeks, and afterwards making a brief sojourn of as many days in New York, where, for the third and last time in this world, we again met her. Her spirits were visibly im- proved, but the. same drooping appearance remained, and the same startling depth of the eye ; and it was felt by her friends that they probably saw her for the last time. The following extracts from her diary, written on the last day of her stay in New York, will interest the reader : — " COCRTLANDT Street — Hotel. " Arose this morning at break of day, and commenced toilet with all the bustle and eagerness of a homesick person actually about experiencing the realization of the warmest anticipations ; had bonnet, shawl, and gloves all on, when husband returned to tell me I should have the inexpressible pleasure of spending another day in the great city, as no boat would leave until even- 72 MEMOIE. ing. Did not scold, nor cry, nor even give ' a look,' but merely remarked, with what I conceived an unprecedented exhibition of mildness, ' I don't care,' and fell to reading the Direc- tory, the only thing come-at-able. ' ' I believe there ia nothing in this world irredeemably bad. I found, in this horrible old Directory, some very good Italian prov- erbs ; among which I selected, as particularly original and no less true, the saying, ' He who would not have trouble in this world, must not be born in it.' Alas ! alas! I fear that few have ever doubted the veracity of this all-attending monitor. I found, besides, a very fine piece of Lieutenant Patten's poetry. Wonder if / shall ever write anything good enough for a Directory ? " Saw at the breakfast-table Col. , and Mr. , from Bradford. Ah, dear, enchanting Bradford ! Are you ever to be a forbidden word to me? How doth my heart yearn for your green hills and silver streams ! How wildly, for weeks, have I dreamed of your islands and trees, and richly-colored autumn flowers! Have two months changed thee, my Bradford] Thy forests are crimsoned o'er ; thy streams have assumed a melan- choly voice ; thy flowers, mayhap, are pale, for King Frost has been there; but the warm hearts are still warm — the loving eyes still bright! Ay, love, immaculate love, endureth for- ever ! " Thou hast a grave among thy dim recesses, my Bradford — a little, a blessed grave. Is it still green ? Is the rose still fresh upon its rounded bosom ? Ah, melancholy time, why thus slow ! Quicken thy sluggish pace. I would hasten there — to the home of my Marian — the home of my heart — for the fountain of tears has risen high, and would pour out its restless waters alone, at that dear spot ! " Noon. — Still raining, and quite hard. How gloomy ! I could at this moment almost consent to see our fair land watered after the Egyptian process, even by the inundation of rivers. Husband up town, looking out old schoolday friends ; would have gone with him, but thought sobbing out a second farewell rather awkward business. Therefore staid behind to look out of the window, and have a reckoning with conscience and imagination, after several weeks' debt and credit. Find the former presenting UEMOIB. 73 many claiiiis — hope the horrors of this day will cancel them. Am relieved from any embarrassment by the latter — no charges. " How sorrowful the ,j)oor horses look as they pass ! Their spirits, like the other denizens of the city, are evidently de- pressed, although I have seen among them several sorry attempts to arch the neck and elevate the ear, as in more auspicious weather ; but it is in vain ; and the portrait of the celebrated Dr. Syntax's horse would answer well for most of them. " There goes a little, barefooted urchin, with his arms folded, and hat turned back, in stern defiance of wind and weather. Speed thee on, my little philosopher! thou mayst be President yet, and be scolded about as hard as is poor Matty V. " But yonder comes one whose indifierence to the weather I cannot so much admire. Borrow an umbrella, good woman, if thou canst not buy, or else cover thy baby with thy shawl. Hold not up the little innocent, thus uncovered, to ' bide the peltings of the pitiless storm.' Woman! woman! thou hast never laid thy first-born in the grave, or thou conldst not do thus ! Now, may God have mercy upon thee, helpless one, for truly thou hast a heartless protector ! " What a fine flock of sheep, imdoubtedly on their way to the slaughter-house ! Meek and harmless creatures, my heart bleeds for you. Happy are ye in your ignorance of the bloody destiny that awaits you. But He Whose meek and innocent character your harmlessness has been made to typify, went not thus igno- rantly. He knew the bitterness of each pang he would be made to suffer. He knew every drop of blood which should be wrung from his quivering heart. But He hesitated not. He went up the rugged hill as cheerfully as ye now pass, little lambs, and the smile of forgiveness sat upon his dying lips. Oh! Lamb of God, who taketh awiiy the sin of this cruel world, shall we, thy re- deemed ones, forget thy great example ? Shall we falter in the midtet of our light afflictions ? Shall we refuse to love and serve thee, from the rising of the sun to the going down of the same ? Thy all-pervading spirit forbid ! Thou hast bought us all with a price. Take thou, Lord, our undivided hearts ; we are thine, and only thiiie ! 7 74 MEMOIR. "Beloved New York! I must leave thee! The hour has at length arrived, and, much as I have desired to give thee the part- ing hand, there is a little lurking sensibility at my heart, and I am loath to say takewbll. But I go hence, and we may meet no more forever ! Peace be within thy walls, for thou enclosest many noble and many dear hearts ! Peace be within thy walls, great queen of our great world ! May they speedily become the walls of Zion, and thy gates the gates of praise ! " Oct. 2/kh. — I had a very melancholy journey to New York," — she, after her return home, thus writes the dear cousin in Connecticut, — " which, as I had no acquaintance on board, was only relieved by the beautiful scenery of the Thames. Many a sweet spot along that delightful river is so deeply impressed upon my mind, tliat, were I a skilful artist, I should long ere this have transferred many beautiful and I presume exact pictures to canvas. " I neither heard anything from or about my husband, all the six weeks I was gone, until the Monday morning after I left you ; when, just as I had, in spite of all persuasion, made up my mind to start home alone, I heard his voice at the door. There was quite a scene, I assure you. It turned out that we had all along been writing each other at cross purposes. My letters were near three weeks in getting to Towanda, and his, although sent by both public and private conveyance, did not reach me at all ; thus causing a world of anxiety and misunderstanding. " On Wednesday evening, we took the boat for Newburgh, thence crossing the country by private conveyance. Our journey home was quite tedious, owing to bad roads and imsettled weath- er ; but we were travelling home, and therefore contrived to make November seem ' as pleasant as May ;' there is such magic in that word home, even though deprived of its beat-loved inmate." A world of cares which met her on her return home, though perplexing and fatiguing, was no doubt of most es- sential benefit to her mind ; luring it from its sorrows, and promoting a healthful diversion of thought, that had been too long concentrated upon one sad theme. " Since our return," she writes her friend, Miss Edgarton, " we have been the busiest people in existence, tearing down old MEMOIB. 75 walls, and replacing them with new ones. I with company all the while, and no help, although poor husband spent half his time in scouring the county in search of such commodity. In addition to these vexations, I have been racked with a three- weeks' toothache, caused by newly-plastered walls, and have had to rack my brains daily for a month in search of apologies for the non-attendance of parties and the like, — things which I do here- after and forever entirely eschew, — and have, besides, been con- stantly pestered for descriptions of my journey, by such as could not possibly appreciate its interest, if it possessed any. ' 0, for a lodge in some vast wilderness,' with just a dozen I could name ! " Your letter was peculiarly welcome to me, for it assured me that our few hours' intercourse did not entirely do away any favorable impression its writer may have conceived of me before our meeting, 0, it is so pleasant to be loved by those we love ! " How like a dream does that sweet meeting now seem to me ! — dim and shadowy, and yet thrilling. Not one countenance there, that for an instant caught my eye, but is indelibly pictured in memory. I shall remember them all a hundred years hence in heaven. But the streets, the scenery, all else have become al- most as though they were not. I shall ever rejoice that I was there. I have been happier since, and the tie of brotherly and sisterly affection has been widened and strengthened ; and I feel that even the slight personal acquaintance enjoyed with you quite rewarded my ' perils by sea and land.' " The literary labors of Mrs. Scott were, in these days, for a time, nearly suspended ; but the occasion so enthusiastically alluded to in the preceding extract, called forth the following glowing stanzas from her pen : — " THE LAST CONFERENCE. "I saw a glorious multitude Bow down in worship there ; While lips, at heaven's own altar fired. Sent up the glowing prayer ; And hymns of lofty praise were sung, In the stirring airs of old ; While love's white banner waved aloft, In many a sUken fold. 76 MEMOIR. " I saw the eye, grown dim with years, Flash forth unearthly light ; The nwuraer's care-wreathed brow become With heavenly Tisions bright ; And loveliness seemed lovelier there. In the blessed garb of youth. And lisping infancy more wise In the golden lore of truth. " It was a glorious jubDee — A Irigh-wrought happiness — And tears, warm, heart-fejt tears alone. Could tellof its excess. O ! many an eye was moist, that ne'er Had wept for joy before. And many a callous heart grew soft. Ere that blessed eve was o'er ! " Was not our Master in the midst, Te cross-tried soldiers, say ? Sid not his I^ly Spirit breathe In every burning lay ? Did not his melting voice supply Those, hallowed words, that fell. Like manna from the hand of God, To fainting Israel ? " Yes, in our midst that form beloved Stood as in days gone by ; We knew it by the deep-drawn breath And the uplifted eye. We knew it by the love, which linked So close each fervent heart. Yet gave us strength with smiles of hope In the last sad hour to part " ! never more, in earthly halls. Shall meet that happy band ; Already some have travelled home To the glorious Fatherland. And, one by one, we 're following on. To a Conference above, Where Aii may break and eat the bread Of everlasting love." MEMOIB. 77 " 0, how I ■wish you were only a hundred miles from here!" she soon afterward writes her friend ; " I should coax very hard for your company the rest of the winter, and I am sure you could not haye the heart to deny me. 0, we would do wonders in the literary way if we could be together, in contriving plans, etc. ! For my part, I need a great deal of stimulus and encouragement to help me on. My inspiration is below zero, and there is no thought at present so dreadfiil to me as that of composition of any species ; and I can make no promise for your Annual, until the mood changes ; of which, at present, there is little pros- pect." The winter, however, seems to have been passed by her with far more physical comfort than her friends had, for a long time, felt to be possible. " I am in good health and spirits," she writes her cousin. " Indeed, I enjoy better health this winter than I ever did in my life before ; thanks to the journey and the visit, and thanks to your father, and the oysters and clams ! " Tell uncle that his letter to grandfather was a world of com- fort to the old gentleman ; he laughed and wept alternately while reading it. How glad he would be to see you and your father, dearH! O, how should we all rejoice in a visit from you! Do, do, beloved cousin, try and visit us ere long, before that dear old man goes the way of all the earth. It would do his yearning heart so much good to look upon one of whom he has heard so much, and of whom he so often speaks. Indeed, I cannot help anticipating seeing you the ensuing summer ; and 0, what a joyful sight it will be ! " How the deep, true aflfection of the warm, loving heart ever speaks out ! Who will say that love was not the life of that heart ? But the happiness of this, to Julia, so bright winter, could not long continue. Clouds were in the distanee, and their shadows were already falling around her. " I should have answered your letter, dear R.," she writes, " but the Dr. was sent _ for suddenly to visit my dear mother ; 7* 78^ M.EMpIK. and I, of course,, acwmpanied him. We tovni her ,better> but very miserable. She was affected with , severe , spasroodic pains ill her chest,, and the,dootor suspects a rewfrf'few. affection of -the heart. You may easily imag^e ,'the deep .anxiety we labor .under., on her account." Soon, also, the old anguish of her spirit waa renfiwed by the sudden bereavement of an early and dear friend. '^ " My dear friend," she writes her, " I could not avoid writing you a few lines, to tell you how my h'eart overflows for you in your afflictions. Ah, my dear friend, God has called on you also to drink the bitter cup, and none knew better than your friend Julia, how to feel for you in your affliction. I did not hear of the dear child's death until the day of her burial, and then I lived over again the funeral day of my Marian, what a mel- ancholy day it was to me, and how I longed to be with you, that I might, at least, give you the consolation of my tears ! But I could not possibly do it, — I could only think of, and weep for, you. " I have little to say to you, as yet, dear Matilda, by way of consolation, because I know that the wounds of a bereaved moth- er's heart can never be healed by human words ; but I would beg of you to withdraw your thoughts, as much as possible, from the grave of the beloved little one, and to think of her, as she now is, a happy angel in the arms of her loving Saviour. Ah, Matilda, our two precious ones are not lost — are not dead ! Methinks I see them now, straying, hand in hand, through the sweet bowers of Paradise ; their young voices going up in hjrmns of praise to their God, and their happy hearts blessing Him, that he called them so soon away from this cruel and wicked world. " Let not such thoughts depart from you, dear friend. Think thus of your child, until you feel that she is just as certainly living as when following your footsteps about the house ; and, 0, so ituch happier ! Think of her thus, and pray often and fervently to your Redeemer, for strength to bear your sorrowful lot, and though 't will be long before you can think of her loss without a bitter pang at your heart, such as you never felt before, MEMOIR. 79 still , peace will come at last, and you will say, in submisgiou and thankfulnepa, ' Our Sayiour hath dpne all things well ! ' " In great haste, "Yours most af^Qtionately, " JULU." Spring came at last, with, its buds and flowers, its,- carolling birds and singing brooks ; and with it, also, came another beautiful babe, a little son, to fill up that void in- her heart occasioned by the departure of the little Marian. Yet she writes : — " I am in an extremely weak and nervous state, and though my boy (a great, fine, laughing fellow) is more than six weeks old, I am but just beginning to walk about my room. I have tried and tried to vreite the article you wished, but, after half- finishing and crying over a dozen diflerent pieces, and then throw- ing them aside, I have completed one ; and that, I suppose, because ' out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.' I fear it is unsuitable, but I send it." This article was that most sweet, touching, heart-full poem, " My Child," than which nothing could be more replete with the outgushing loye and anguish of a bereaved mother's heart. Several months went by, marked by vacillating health in both mother and child, when her friend, Sarah, was alarmed by a letter from Julia, bearing most sad and threatening intel- ligence : — " I snatch a hasty moment," she writes, "to let you know, dear Sarah, that I am still among the living, although, since I wrote you last, I have been much of the time upon the thres- hold of death. I was attacked in April with a fever, from which I am now but slowly recovering.. Your late very dear letter (May 9) found me in an almost unconscious state ; but husband read it to me, and I at length comprehended its contents. A thousand thanks for the sweet things it contained. I will not distress your feeling heart with a detail of my suffering during 80 MEMOIR. the severe part of my illness. The recollection of those horrid, suffocating hours is terrible, and I seldom, on my own account, dwell upon them. It is enough that I am better now. The spectre, consumption, is still stalking at no great distance from me, but my friends think I may for some time escape his impor- tunities, by a change of air; and we shall, therefore, probably remove south or west as soon as my strength will permit. So much for myself. And would I could stop here; but O, my baby ! Would, dear sister, that you were with me, that I might put my arms around your neck, and sob out the grief that op- presses me, upon your bosom. The dear little one is still with us, but the eye of the destroying angel is upon him, and I fear few days will pass ere we shall lay him by the side of Marian. During my sickness, from one of the healthiest children in the world, he has changed to a mere skeleton. O, Sarah ! is not the hand of the Lord laid heavily upon me ? All the day long, the little dear lies moaning in his cradle, wringing his skeleton fingers, and singing, during intervals of ease, a monotonous, melancholy tone, that sounds to me like his death-requiem ; — and, through the long, feverish nights, we carry him from bed to cradle, and from cradle to his wagon, but still he vrrithes and suffers, while I can only weep and exclaim, ' Lord, be merciful to me a sinner !' Sarah ! Sarah ! I sometimes think my affictions are greater than I can bear, and that my poor brain must give way after a while. Job's were great, but people came and told him that nis children were dead; he did not witness the torturing pangs of dissolution. There lies the sting of death to a mother. But God may, after all, be merciful, and spare this one lovely blos- som ; and to this end, dear sister, do thou pray for thy broken- hearted friend. Plead with the Saviour for me, Sarah, and surely if the prayers of the pure in heart avail with him, thine will not pass unheeded." On the last page of the same letter is the following note, ehowing the ruling passion, the almost holy love of flowers, as it were, still strong in death : — " The little Olatonia you sent, has lost but little of its beauty. It sleeps sweetly, in our large Bible, upon the leaf that chronicles the death of my sainted Marian." MEMOIR. 81 God was meroifiil to that bereaved and pious heart, and spared her babe. Its recovery was, however, but tardy and long-deferred, as the following letter, so ftdl of humble hope and faith, will show. It was written more than two months later than the preceding one. "Deak Brother G. — Although poorly situated to write, I cannot longer defer expressing my deep gratitude for your very kind and consoling letter. It reached me on a day of peculiar bitterness and grief; a day in which it was thought my poor, suffering babe could not siirvive ; and He only who readeth the heart could know the melancholy joy its perusal gave me. Ah, my dear, kind brother ! may Heaven reward you fourfold for the sympathy so grateful to a lonely and bereaved heart. " As this letter is intended to be a short one, I will hasten to answer your inquiries respecting my health. It has been grad- ually improving during the last two months, until within a week of the present time. I feel now quite miserable, owing to the protracted anxieties and watohings with my sick child. My com- plaint is chronic inflammation, of the lungs, asauiqing the. acute form from colds and over-exercise. I look no more tor good health in this world ; but my hudaand hopes by extreme prudence on my part, and a western air, to. keep my ever-highly irritable lungs from actual disease for a length of time. What will be the result I know not, but I feel that my hold on life is very frail. But, with Divine help, I trust my few remaining days may not be, as may have hitherto been the case, wholly useless to the wprld. I hope still to be able to go about doing a little good, tq the sick and afflicted at leas^t, if my present severe test of strength does not entirely overcome me. Ah ! Brother G. ! the hand of the Lord is upon me! Just a year ago, we laid a too precious daughter in the grave under very trying circumstances ; and now another, and, if possible, still more promising one, is going from us to the ' la,nd of shadows,' and no earthly power seems suffi- cient to detain him, He became ill during the severe and uncon- scious part of my illness, and has never been well since. Many are the long weeks since we have watched by his side day and night, and he Btill hqlds, out, though apparently enduring.suffi- cieiit pain, eaqh day, to finish the struggle , of nature. 82 , MEMOIK. "0, my dear, dear brother and sister, may the kind Father preserve you from this bitterest of trials, and make you fully sensible of your high domestic privileges. I could not help shedding tears over the picture of your fireside, for next winter. Ah, if I were an envious person, how I should envy you ! May nothing occur to mar your anticipations. I dare not hazard a calculation about our winter fireside. My husband is not well ; my little George . Well, everything is in the hands of a merciful God ! He will do for us as he sees best, and, I think, at all events, I shall not doubt his goodness and wisdom. I feel that these light afflictions are working out for me already a ' far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory ;' for I have learned to feel that there are no riches like the unsearchable riches of Christ." It was not until the following mid-winter, nearly a year after the commencement of his illness, that the little George fully recovered. Meanwhile, her own health had been grad- ually improving, and the poet's mind again, after a long recess, reverted to literary matters. Fresh, cheerful thoughts once more arise in her heart, and she chats most delightfully with her friend, and sometimes, too, a little at random, as the bird, that has been long imprisoned, darts hither and thither in the joyous sunshine, rioting in excess of liberty. " I like your sketch of character," she writes of a certain arti- cle, " but I cannot agree with you in believing poverty the nurse of love. I consider it almost the parent of crime. " Your letters to Annie are most sweetly interesting, and the extracts valuable. That little conceit of TJhland, of the ' spirits twain,' has also haunted me for months with its exceeding beauty. Are not our tastes a little in unison ? I showed the expression to quite a discriminating literary friend, who pronounced it ^flat.' I then began to suspect my judgment; but since you agree with me, I will stand up for the ' spirits twain.' « * « * " I hope you have not for a moment supposed, dear Sarah, that a want of feeling or sense to appreciate the very beautiful and pathetic, has prevented my alluding to the dear poem about the child you know so ' well by her snowy cheeks,' and ' the gentle MEMOIR. 83 name that the Saviour speaks.' No, beloved friend, I never could master my emotion to speak of it as I wished. But now, when long indulged tears have washed away the ashes of bitter- ness from my heart, I may tell you how precious, how exceed- ingly precious, those lines are to me. I have shed over them tears of the deepest anguish and purest joy these eyes have ever known ; anguish for my loss, joy for my beloved one's happi- ness ; a reality made more visibly apparent to my heart by those lines than I supposed ever could be, — except by the Saviour's di- rect interposition, — and I know that his spirit inspired you. Ever, ever, Sarah, shall my soul prize you for that tribute to the mem- ory of one, alas ! still too dear ! Much more have I to bless you for, my kind sister — more than I will here mention. But I trust you will not suppose that the delicate praise of my humble talents, — occasionally bestowed by the now distinguished S. 0. B., — is ever thrown away upon a stony heart. Ah, no ! I have felt a pleasure in reading these little testimonials of friendship, which, whatever the world might say about gratified vanity, you know, and I know, to be of .the purest kind, — the pleasure of knowing ourselves beloved and admired by those we admire and love. # * * * " I do not think I can vrrite for you, and, to speak seriously, Sarah, I intend publishing no more. I will state briefly some of my reasons. My domestic cares are a bar to that full outpouring of feeling which is necessary to supply what I feel to be a defi- ciency of talent. I do not ask fame, and if I did there is no road open to me. I cannot reform the age ; it takes genius for that. I can do no more than ^ve occasional satisfaction to a very few friends, who would find other sources of pleasure in my absence, and many of whom, I know, have already ceased to miss me ; such is the instability of our natures. Daily am I learning lessons of the fickleness and selfishness of mankind, and some, I am sorry to say, do I have to gather from my own heart. I hear in society the most opposite opinions expressed of various productions, by persons of equal taste and judgment, and am often confounded by severe and heartless criticisms, by near and dear friends of the writer of articles criticized. I saw a case of this kind the other day that decided me. ' I wiU never write again,' said I ; ' or, if I do, nobody shall recognize me.' Such ia still my determination." 84 UEMOIB. In the preceding extracts, we know not which most to admire, tibie warm, gushing, gratefiil, unselfish love, so evident and so sincere, or the lowliness of heart manifested in the very mistaken estimate of her own powers. No one 'who reads the ' writings of Julia, whether of prose or poetry, can, for a mo- ment, doubt that a substratum of great talent was present. That the power she possessed of throwing her whole ardent, gushing soul into her words, gave intensity to that talent, there is not the shadow of a question ; but that this was her solo merit as a writer, was undeniably a mistaken impression. If acute perception, far-reaChing thought, nice judgment, and ardent feelings, combined with a power of expression rare as it was delightftil, indicate the possession of talent, then cer- tainly Julia possessed it in no ordinary degree ; and it is delightful to know that by no one but herself was this fact ever disputed. The long confinement of Julia was now over, and she began to breathe the breath of nature once more. " Our little village is quite lively this winter, excellent sleigh- ing, and a plenty of party-going people to enjoy it. I must plead guilty to a little worldly amusement myself. I do not much relish it, but they drag me out, on the plea of my long confinement at home, and the necessity of a little fresh air for health. I occa- sionally meet, however, with those I very much esteem ; and have three or four literary acquaintances here who possess a very good degree of talent." The improvement in her health continued, and her physical and intellectual systems both gradually attained a buoy- ancy they had not for a long time experienced. The sweet, warm, genial nature again breathed forth, and the heavy clouds seem quite to have passed aWay from her spirit. In this mood she again thus writes her friend, S. C. E., to whom, indeed, most of the remaining letters in our possession are addressed : — MEMOIB. 85 " TowANDA, Feb. 8, 1840. " Mt dear Sarah, — I cannot, for a moment, defer answering your most joyfully-received letter. I had become so utterly hope- less of eyer hearing from you again, that the certainty of your good health and abiding affection for me was, I assure you, no slight relief to my anxious forebodings. It is strange it never occurred to me that you might be in the dark as to my where- abouts. But we, so soon after I wrote you, gave up the idea of the West or South. I had forgotten having given you such an intimation. " Thank God ! my sweet friend, none of your questions have given me a moment's uneasiness. I feel, except in warm days, quite well indeed ; and the little bird of my bosom is doing very well. His soft cheeks are getting quite rosy and fat ; and his laughing black eyes are ' bright as the shield of my father's.' I cannot express the happiness I enjoy with him. 0, how I wish you were here to help me romp with him. Shall we never meet and mingle? Shall our personal acquaintance never be extended in this world ? I feel as if it will. Do, beloved friend, determine to visit me. Did I not take that same long journey almost entirely to see you? I must be allowed to anticipate, however short of the reality I may come. Next September is the general Convention, and, either to or from it, you must visit me. O, there are many sweet spots here to visit ; many delight- ful prospects to survey ; many dear ones, whose society you would relish ; many, many 0, how I wish you were within arm's reach! You will not wait till fall — you will come this spring. My heart bounds so rapturously at the thought of dear, dear spring ! O, if, with all her flowers, she might bring you, the dearest! " The key-note of her nature once awakened, how sweetly accordant are all its harmonies with that sound ! She goes on — "Your 'Moss-Rose,' dearest, — speaking of flov^prs has re- minded me of that. It is one of the sweetest things I ever read. It is indeed the beauty of holiness ! Ah ! it is this subdued spirit and trustfulness which most attaches me to your writings and yourself. Would God I were like you! — my heart as pure, as jmsophisticated, as trustful ; — then might I indeed see God ; 8 86 MEMOIB. for the pure in heart only see Him. Sarah, forgive me ! for I speak in the fuhiess of a sorrowing but sincere heart. " Have you the charming flower from which that sweet article was named ? And could you not send me a slip in the folds of a newspaper ? How I should value it coming from you ! If you have not the rose, why then the jasmine, or any little choice thing, or even some rare seeds dropped in your next letter ; any- thing that I can look at and think of the donor. I have a little flower-yard, all to myself, and I am trying to stock it with rari- ties, I do so love the sweet flowers ! I am a perfect child about them. I will write you a poem for every favor of the kind. " You have interested me exceedingly in Mrs. C. Nothing could give me greater pleasure than a letter from her, and I could raise no possible objections to a correspondence, except the exceeding meagreness of my epistolary talent. Now, don't under- take, — by your too soothing flat praise, I mean, — to con- vince me to the contrary ; neither fire nor flattery can ever melt that knowledge out of me. If Mrs. C. will — with the full knowledge of my dulness — enter upon a correspondence with me, I shall be most happy to hear from her the first opportunity. " How much I think of Mrs. T.'s death ; she was so lovely, so intelligent. I have her beautiful face fully impressed upon the tablets of memory. How does her husband bear it? 0, that I could give him a word of real consolation ! But everything has been said that can be, and the Saviour alone can give him com- fort. * # * * "I have reserved the last page for a couple of little child's tales. They are simplicity simplified, that I concocted for my little George — Heaven bless him ! — to learn when he gets old enough. If you think them of any consequence, I might furnish one for every number, fgive but a few moments to their com- position ; speak plainly. It is a good way to send altogether invaluable articles, and these perhaps are so. I meant to have sent you something before of more consequence, but will try to make up hereafter, if you will at this late hour accept. " Do answer soon if you love me. In haste and love, "J. H. S." Mrs. Scott was again, during the latter part of this winter, busy with her pen, writing for two or three papers, and sev- M E M 1 K . 87 eral articles for the " Eose of Sharon," then being prepared for its second year, and in which, for her friend's sake, she took a strong interest ; as she did in all things that concerned her. " Tell me all about your plans for it," she writes, " without reserve. I am so anxious for your success, I will do all I can ; and, health permitting, think I may promise two poems and a sketch." In a few weeks a large sheet full of poems — " The Bride's Keturn," "Tale of the Mountain Stream," "The Tolling Bell," "The Hour of Success," — one of her finest poems, — and "The Eorest Ramblers," — was sent. " I hasten to inform you," she writes, " dear Sarah, that I do not expect you to put all that long string of verse into the ' Kose.' I send you so much only to give you a chance to select ; and you will laugh when I tell you I have still another piece, called the ' Prairie Cottage,' that I could not get in. Verily, you are in danger of being killed with kindness ! " I regret, deeply, that I could not send you the prose sketch. It was all beautifully planned in my head ; but 0, if I could see you and tell you all my feelings, you would readily under- stand and forgive me, I am sure ! I am not at all satisfied with what I do send. I have not done justice to myself or the ' Rose.' You will find many defects, and, I pray you, take all liberty in altering, where you can, for the better. They sound to me (worst of all sounds) common-place. I suppose the "Mountain Stream " best, but that is defective. I shall never write any- thing of value while residing in the centre of a visiting village like this. My time is very little my own, and, although such a life is very pleasant in some respects, it is crushing to a poetic temperament — or rather to poetry itself. "0, the dear little bridal roses! they are all dead — woe's me ! I did my best with them ; but I think the life was gone out of them ere they reached me, the weather was so cold. I regretted it the more, as the kind is unknown here, whUe I find the moss-rose b in the garden of one or two of my friends. But 88 U £ U 1 B . I thank you very much for your kind endeavors. I shall take every pains with the clematis. " I like your flower fancy much, and send you a few flowers of the polyanthus. I know not their language ; but from me let them speak the language of love. I send you, also, a few seeds of the cypress vine, a southern thing, for your arbor. It is said to be very beautiful. Accept my thanks for your kind offer of flower-seeds, and believe me ever "Yours, Julia." In the autumn of 1840, the cherished wish of Julia's heart was accomplished, and her beloved friend, Miss Edgarton, made her the visit for which she had so long pleaded. We give the account of her visit in Miss Edgarton's own lan- guage : — "It was the delicious Indian summer, — everywhere beauti- ful, but thrice glorious when resting down upon the mountains and river scenery of Pennsylvania. " We found Mrs. Scott much changed, even from the wasted appearance she presented two years before. Her health was quite poor ; sometimes confining her to the house, and, at the best, subtracting much from the enjoyment of her rides and ram- bles. Nevertheless, we were much abroad, visiting her favorite haunts, riding on the rough mountain roads, exploring the sweet islands upon the bosom of the river, and realizing in fuU the dreams of previous years. We visited together the home of her childhood ; and, as we stood by the banks of the Susque- hanna, and looked up at the rugged Alleganies, that wall in that beautiful valley on either hand, or cast our eyes around upon the lovely islands, the swift mountain-streams, and the emerald meadows asleep in the bosom of the hills, she related in her glowing, piquant manner, the adventures, the gipseyings, and romantic dreams of her girlhood. These sylvan commu- nings had a charm in them, never to be forgotten. They were held with the divinity at her own shrine, and before her own incense-breathing altars ; for, to modify slightly the words of another — ' Her pen had linked with every glen, And every hill, and every stream, The romance of some poet-dream,' MEMOIR. S9 " We found all that was lovely in the poet, beautifully illus- trated in the daily life of the woman. Genius was, with her, no glittering mirage, hovering over a barren and arid life ; it was like the rainbow mist, uplifting itself from the bosom of a pure and fertilizing stream, anjj soaring up to heaven, in incense- wreaths too sweet to be wasted on an earthly shrine. "We rambled with her through the mountain-passes, and bathed our brow in the silvery waters of her native valley ; we stood with her by the bed of the dying, where, on her own sweet voice, the departing spirit was wafted up in triumph and rejoic- ing to the throne of the Father ; we sat at her side through the simple family devotions that were wont to ascend from her own fireside ; and, in all these varied scenes and acts, it is sufficient to say of her, that the poet and the woman were scarcely differ- ent phases of the same pure, gentle, yet lofty and fervent soul ; that the priestess wore into the Holy of Holies the same Urim and Thummim that dazzled the eyes of those who saw her only in the outer court of the Temple ; and that, as of the Master she loved, so might it be said of this faithful servitor, that — ' In every act, in every thought, She lived the precepts that she taught.' , " On our return to Massachusetts, wo besought Mrs. Scott's company as far as Utica, New York, the residence of a mutual friend, in whose family we purposed visiting. Although very unwell, she was prevailed upon, by our entreaties, to undertake the journey. The route was delightful, through the villages of Athens, Owego, Ithica, across the Cayuga lake, by steamboat and by railroad from Auburn to Utica. We arrived safely ; but the second day of our visit, Mrs. Scott was taken ill, and, for nearly a week, confined to her chamber. As soon as her strength would allow, we returned together to Pennsylvania ; and, though fitter for her couch than for the confusion and fatigue of public travelling, her perception and enjoyment of the ludicrous were never more active than through the various adventures of this comfortless journey." The following letter to Mr. and Mrs. Gr., written a few days after her arrival home, is full of the grateful love and care whicli Julia ever entertained toward her friends : — 90 MEMOIB. " TowANDA, Oct. 30, 1840. " Dbak Brother and Sister G., — I have barely time, before the mail closes, to say to you that I arrived home safely, after a short but rather fatiguing journey, which, I trust, I bore with Christian fortitude. I found the house locked up, and husband on his way to Utica, which made me quite fidgety for a w;hile ; he returned, however, next day, having learned my passage at Owego. He missed me by taking the eastern side of the river, while I came down on the west. I have been quite sick, since my return, of irritation of lungs ; but, by care and prudence, hus- band thinks I may be comfortable through the winter. These frailties, however, admonish me to work while the day lasts, for the night evidently draweth nigh. " Dear Sarah left with brother Wilson, last Monday, for Owego, whence, he says, she started next morning on her way, in good health and spirits. Heaven bless her ! She will visit you ere long, while I shall probably never see her again. Certain it is, I shall never look upon her like again. " Are yourselves and all the dear children well, — I would give much to know, — and Dr. N. and family 7 How I love that good man. It was. always my destiny to love doctors, and certainly good doctors deserve to be loved. I would give much for B.'s paintings this morning. I bear excitement much better than I did while with you. " Well, time is getting limited to a few minutes. I am sure, my dear, kind friends, that I need not repeat to you how truly, gratefully, deeply, " I am yours, " J. H. ScoiT. " P. S. — You will certainly write me early, — do." Her next letter is to Miss Edgarton, and is every way char- acteristic. It has, as usual, its tale of sickness and cares, but is full of genial aflfeotion, and betokens a nearer return to the old, glad, cheerful, almost gay spirit, than anything that had for a long time fallen from her pen. But the letter will speak for itself: — " December, 1840. "Mr DEAR Sarah, — It seems we misunderstood each other relative to the order of writing. I expected to hear from you MUMOIB. 91 immediately on your arrival in Clinton, and to answer your letter 80 that you should receive it in Utica. You can scarcely imagine how much trouble I had about you before I heard from you ; I was so impressed with the certainty of your writing as soon as you reached Clinton. I felt quite certain you were sick, and of course through my means. The doctor ran and ran to the post- office day after day, and I fretted myself into fidgets ; and had I not fortunately been taken quite sick again, so as to be frightened about myself, I know not what would have become of me. After you left me, I had no sort of help for four days, except David and Georgy, and was scarcely able to walk across the room. After that we got a girl from Sheshequin, and soon after her arrival I took to my bed for two weeks, and began to think I should never get out ; but I grew so furious at being starved and frozen to death, — my girl used to look in upon me only once a day, — that I ' ran violently' down stairs one day, and have kept here ever since. I am really pretty well, now, for me, but am quite worn out with nursing George, who has been sick a week. We think he is out of danger now, as he has begun tearing the house down again. lam nearly through the sick list — have patience. The doctor is complaining of the worst cold he ever had ; but he thinks he will muster courage enough to scribble a word in this sheet. You will understand it as a mark o£ peculiar esteem, for I do not think I have another correspondent for whom he would make the wonderful effort. The truth is, I am a little jealous of you. I hope you will marry before my decease, for I do not believe my threatening to haunt him afterwards would prevent his trying to ' seize and carry you off.' " What a dreary jaunt you must have had of it to Madison ! Ludicrous as was your account of it, I could not laugh, for I covdd not forget that I was the cause. Wilson was very sorry, he said, when he found how the election went, that he had not continued on to Utica. He inquires for you every time he comes here, and he is not the only one, by several. * * * # A great stag has been roasted on the green in celebration of the Tip. vic- tory. I think I must send you W 's account of it, under the head of Harrisonalia, in the last Banner. I seldom read such things, but I really think that is rather keen ; it is certainly true. " Then you had a very pleasant visit at Clinton. So pleasant. 92 MliMOIB. I fear it has erased all memory of the little enjoyment you had while here. Well, I can only hope to do better when you come again. And how did your visit end at brother G.'s? Did you haye an opportunity to present the sugar to C. ? I am sorry I had you obliterate the ' sap,' since I learned what a May-pole he thinks me. " Have you pleasant weather yet? This is a most lovely day, here. I ought to go and examine Mr. Kittle's portraits. I talk of sitting ; so, when you get ready to bring out my poems, you can send your engravers on for a resemblance of the remarkable woman. "Did you find everything right at home? I shall be very anxious to hear, and am sure you cannot have the heart to pro- crastinate. I think this letter will remind you of Malibran's Memoirs — you will have to read over a great many ' final scenes ! ' Did C. accompany you ? or did the gizzard peelings cure him, so that he resumed his pastoral charge ? I cannot help laughing, when I think what a lugubrious look he gave the disgusting medicine. Did L. still wear the union ring ? I am suspicious one of H.'s deep, sparkling, long-winded yarns will beguile him of it as Delilah's caresses did the secret from Sam- son. Nevertheless, I never did a foolish thing with which I was better pleased in my life. Did you see Dr. N. again ? I have a great deal of his medicine on hand yet, and intend taking it all, out of pure affection for the man, much as I hate medicine. " What a sweet spot you have made of the Isle of the Susque- hanna. Ah ! we are very grateful to you for it. D. was quite in ecstasies at your allusion to him ; he tried to look indifferent while reading it, knowing I was watching him ; but pleasure would streak down the corners of his mouth in spite of every- thing, and, of all the talented persons in the world, he thinks you are the most talentful, as R. has it. My article he does not deign to notice. I told him that he and Mrs. B. agreed per- fectly. * * * * " If you should see a little article in the Union about the Fairy Isle, I beg you will not take a close peep at it. It sounded so unharmonious after reading yours, although suggested by it, that I had half a mind to suppress it. Indeed, I must practise a little, or I shall lose sight of you. " Georgy sends you a world of love. I read him a bit of your MEMOIR. 93 letter every day, and the little rogue laughs till his ejses go out of sight. It is where you say ' Give my love to little Qie<)rgy ;' and I always add, ' Kiss little Georgy for me.' He is growing handsome fast, and I begin to think him quite a little Cupid, in his jockey-cap. Well, I don't know but I shall run on forever, and it will not do, for your room must be put to rights for Clara. Ah ! it makes me quite melancholy to go to your room, I miss you so very much, my dear friend. God grant this letter may find you well and happy, though not quite forgetful of some affec- tionate friends, 'far awa'.' God forever bless you, dear, and bring us together once more on earth. Farewell. " JtTLIA." Alas ! the gay sunshine soon passed away forever ; a dan- gerous illness again intervened, and a gap of many weeks occurs in the correspondence. But amid all the sadness and sufferings of now permanent prostration, the bright wings of that sweet " angel of light," Religion, ever hovered smilingly, soothingly over her. But her own words tell the tale fai: better : — "January, 1841. "Mr DEAR Friend, — Your letter was very gladly received, although I was not permitted to read it. The doctor, however, made known to me the contents, which interested me deeply, for I knew not before whether you had reached home. I have the old story to tell of sickness. Have been confined ever since New- Year's to my bed, until within three or four days.' Sit up a lit- tle, but am very weak. Took a severe cold — settled on my lungs — attended with fever, and the greatest nervous derange- ment I ever knew. In a word, I have been very sick, much worse than when in Utica; and have about done looking for even comfortable health in this sickly world more. Everything has a bilious, consumptive look to me, except religion. No shadows, thank God ! can ever darken the face of that angel of light. Her smiles are ever upon us. " I regret to tell you that my mind is wearing out with my body. I think I must give up mental efforts entirely for a time, I feel so very languid. I enjoy reading well as ever, when they will let me use my eyes ; but the thought of originating, myself, is exceedingly annoying. What, you will say, then, is to be dona 94 MEMOIR. with your leaf in the ' Rose V Ah ! my dear, I know not. You will, I fear, have to let me off entirely, or at least give me some months, unless a change comes over me soon. I have attempted several pencil sketches in bed, but my ideas seemed but a curdled and colorless mass, and I gave over. I had written some dozen articles for various papers, but my nerves were even then so pros- trated, that my sketches read very stupid. " ' My days are in the yellow leaf. ' That reminds me that my friend, E. W. M., made me a New-Year's present of Halleck's splendid Byron. I am deeply in love with the noble bard's deep, dark eyes ; but what business has Quiccioli in it ? I think I shall tear her out. His ' Detached Thoughts ' have interested me deeply. I think Byron much more entitled to the world's admi- ration than Napoleon. The latter I have learned almost to detest, and I am satisfied the twenty-second century will class him with Nero. What do you think of ' Byron ' for the name of an article for the ' Rose,' if I am able to write anything ? I should hardly dare be enthusiastic in praise of the author of ' Don Juan,' and yet it seems as if I could almost be eloquent in admiration of his poetical sublimity. O, is not he great ? I feel like the veriest insect, when reading Mazeppa and Childe Harold. The former absolutely makes me dizzy ; the latter crushes me into the meanest insignificance. "I have, this evening, received a pretty letter from Mrs. C, which I shall try soon to answer. I am very much obliged to you, for I am sure your kindness must have obtained for me this favor. "I see, by brother G.'s paper, that you have dedicated your beautiful stories to me. Thank you, my dear, a thousand times. Be assured that I feel the kindness and honor deeply. ' I am not all forgot.' I shall try very hard to obtain the work. I hope it is prettily got up ; the Minister's Wife should be done in gold. How I wish I could write stories like you ! but my ink will not turn to pearls ! it will run on, a muddy pool, spite of all I can do. Your journey I find interests everybody, as it should do. Do you think Mrs. S. will really publish her poetry? — and you advise me to do the same. Sarah, Sarah ! don't advise me to a foolish thing. Our booksellers' shelves are already loaded with mediocre poetry, and never, — till I have written something that will do me more credit than anything I have yet written, — shall DIIIMOIB. 95 my soribblings go into a book. If I should die before this hap- pens, I should hope there would be those who eared enough for me to get my scraps together and send out a small edition, enough for my particular friends. I have very few things in my possession — no MSS., and my health will not warrant me in col- lecting, copying, revising, etc. ; and, indeed, I don't know that 1 should care to do it under any circumstances. Were I sure Georgy would grow up, perhaps . He is very well, but don't talk yet. The little rogue ! how I love him ! I think he will make a great man. — don't you ? I wish I had called him Washington, or Lafayette. " Mr, Kittle has given the doctor a capital portrait. Mine is still in dis/utbille. He has thrown one aside, and is in doubt whether the second will be anything of a likeness. The poor man does me the honor to say that I have a most extraordinary face — quite chameleon-like — and sums up the whole by declar- ing that I wear too much soul to be painted ; just like Henry Clay ! Is n't that good ? People shall not see me without a fee after this ! " I did not think to make this letter half as long ; but I have run on, and ail about myself, I guess. I durst not look back. I made myself entirely down writing to yesterday. We have formed a little church in Sheshequin, and several -are opposed to it. I have had a world of trouble about it. As I helped the matter on, they are displeased with me ; but that I should not care for, if they could be brought into the measure at last. O, if some influential brother at the Bast could be persuaded to write some strong articles in favor of church-organization and the Eucharist, and would send me the papers containing them, that I might show them to these people, how happy should I be. If you were with them, I would beg you to get Father Ballon, or H. Ballou, 2d, to do it. This trouble lies at my heart's core. I cannot tell you all. Adieu. Your own « Julia." Happy was it indeed for Mrs. Scott that, amid all her trials and sufferings, the comforter was still near, on her right hand and on her left ; never once forsaking her, and making even her narrow couch and lonely fireside brighter to her than are the halls of mirth to the healthfid and the gay. 96 MEMOIB. " The young people are very gay about town this winter," sbe writes ; " they are sleighing almost continually. I am glad to see them so happy, but do not envy them. I also have sources of happiness which they dream not of. My joy and trust are in One who doeth all things well. The Lord will do as he sees fit ; and, whether I live or die, I feel that I am his. How could I bear all that I have to, if I did not thus feel 1 " Her love for literature still remained, and some of her finest, most elevated productions were composed during this winter and the brief period of perpetual illness intervening between that and her death. She had formed plans for other works also, which were, alas ! never to be carried into execution. Her interest in her friends and their successes seemed to grow warmer and more earnest as life slowly ebbed away. "I hope you are contributing many good things for Sarah's 'Eose.' Poor girl ! she has a world of cares on her hands, but she has her reward. I have a few things in reserve for her, in case she canHAo better ; but they do not suit me at all. I never was in a more miserable vein for writing ; and, to add to the difficulty, I have lately reperused Byron from beginning to end, and it makes me feel so perfectly insignificant, so insect-like, that I shall not, for some time, have the courage to attempt anything. "Sarah has written," she writes Mr. G., "forbidding me to send an article on Byron as I proposed to, saying she expected one from you about Bums, and she is afraid the ' unco gude ' will cavil at seeing two such bad characters eulogized in her book. She is probably right ; but you see it is paying you a very pretty compliment to reject mine instead of yours. I am not sorry, however, for I had only two verses written, which I will give you as an offiet to your Album piece, which is really beautiful. For the angelic compliment it contains, I sincerely thank you, both for Sarah and myself. But here is "BYRON. " Byron ! what name doth thrill Poetic- hearts like thine ? thou crowned king Of the eternal hill, MEMOIR. 97 On whose bright top Fame folds her weary wing. And gazes from those glittering peaks of snow On the pale thousands toiling up helow ! " Thy realm 's the human mind ; Through whose dark void thy pen's ' live thunder leaps,' Making th' unused eye blind With its quick flashes, till it starts and weeps. And owns thee sovereign of each secret thought. And master of a harp before untaught ! " " There, is it not a pity such a smart thing should be nipped in the bud ? I really did intend to make it what those who pat- ter French would call my chef-d'ceuvre; but I shall now prob- ably never finish it." Writing of almost all kinds was at this time found to be so extremely prejudicial to her health, as to receiTe a positive interdiction from her husband. " I had written the first page of a letter to you," she writes another friend in March, " when my husband came in, and com- manded me to desist. Don't you pity me, my dear Mrs. C, for being under the control of such an arbitrary being ? Perhaps you will not when I tell you the cause of such an ' abuse of power.' I was just beginning to sit up a very little for the first time since New- Year's, and, such was my nervous excitement, that my husband felt satisfied, he said, that to write yon a letter, at such a time, would undo me. But he quieted me by saying I might go to bed and solace myself with the composition of one of my ' baby stories ;' the name by which he dignifies my scraps in the Union, over ' Juliet.' Indeed, the composition of these, and similar articles, has been nearly my entire resource for amusement this long sick winter. I am absolutely forbidden to entertain for a moment a sensible or exciting thought, much less to fatigue myself by transferring them to paper. So, my dear Mrs. C, if you should hear any of my friends speak of my lucu- brations as particularly flat, pray inform them that Mrs. Scott is not permitted to write as smartly as she can ; like Mr. Holmes, of mirth-moving memory, who, after he had killed his servant with laughter, never dared to write again ' as funny as he could.' " • 9 y» MEMOIR. The powers of life once more rallied for a little while, and she attempted a prose article, — a tale, for the " Rose," — but was never able to complete it. She writes her friend : — "April, 1841. " Deak Sarah, — I was intending to finish, nearly, to-day, the prose article I promised you ; but the doctor has forbidden my touching it. The truth is, I am strangely threatened with some brain difficulty. I thought, last night, what little sense I have was fast leaving me ; and, as I won't have the nape of my neck blistered, he can only revenge himself by trying to keep me stupid — an unnecessary caution, one would think. But it does not re- quire effort to write you, you are so kind in letting me scrawl off things in my own heedless way. All my scribbling has now to be done in my lap, with George to give the pauses. So do exert your usual lenity, for my side obliges me to sit upright, and my head can't be bent at all. But a truce to complaints. " I am afraid the prose I have for you will be too long. I have taken some pains with it so far, and shall, if able, re-copy it ; but it maybe some time first, judging from my present situation. 'Tis not really a story — but intended to illustrate, by a kind of biography, the falseness of the doctrine of hereditary obtuseness; also the insufficiency of everything to produce happiness, save Christianity. The first part is somewhat humorous, by way of variety; the latter intended to be elevated, according to the simple sublimities of the Gospel. Nothing new, you see. I have christened it, ' The Dweller Apart,' and the heroine is Kate Scranton. I see you are horrified at the name ; but, remember, she is of a wretched family. Write soon, and tell me whether you realli/ want an article of this character and length. Always, dearparah, deal frankly Mfith me in these things. I shall love you the better. I think I shall like it, after copying it again, but cannot answer for otljers. "I had a letter from A. B. G. the other day. He strongly urges the immediate publication of nearly all I have ever writ- ten ; and says he will edit the work himself, if I can get no one " else. I hardly know what to think. I am afraid you and he together will make me do a foolish thing. I can hardly resist you combined — separate, I think I might. If you were only near, with your advice and assistance, I don't know but I might undertake it. 'T will be a task to get my scraps together, and MEMOIK. 99 s correct them. 0, that you lived near ! I should hare so much advice to beg about what to publish and what to suppress. I know there is much G. would be for publishing, that I, and perhaps you, would suppress. If, after I get them in publishing form, you could look them over ; but I see no possible way. Well, let it go now. The book would be as new to me as to any one, for I really know not what I have written, but fear little that any save friendship would care to preserve. * * * As usual, I have neglected saying much I wished to, — Transcend- entalism, — " The Future," — etc. etc. Good-by, — good-by. "JULU." We now approach a delicate subject; which, were it not for a most grave and widely extended misapprehension abroad in the minds of our denomination, and one, too, that has deeply wounded some of the kindest and gentlest hearts that beat in human bosoms, we would not advert to. It is, that the story of Kate Soranton is but the disguised personal his- tory of its author. This impression was, probably, produced by a paragraph contained in the preface to the fourth volume of the Rose of Sharon, the volume in which the story alluded to was published. The paragraph is as follows : — " We regret the unavoidable omission of an editorial article entitled ' Kate Scbanton and her Original,' the design of which was to point out the strong points of likeness in the characters of The Dweller Apart ' and the lamented author. We believe it would have thrown an increased interest around the latest work of her pen to have been told what a truthful and beautiful portraiture of her own nature is given in the history of poor Kate." Never, we venture most solemnly to declare, did Miss Ed- garton for a moment so much as dream that any one would ever extort from this passage the idea that the story was a history of its author, as nothing could have been further from her intention than to make an assertion of ihat kind, and, we add, nothing could have been more false in fact. It was the 100 MEMOIR. likeness between the characters of Kate Scranton and her author that she intended to point out, not between their personal histories; a likeness, no doubt, intentionally given by the author, and one that most certainly existed. But, between the coarse, vulgar, ignorant mother of Kate, and the refined, lady-like, intelligent mother of Julia, is a c^Msimilarity, wide as could well be imagined. The haunts of the childhood of each were the same, for Julia, in her story, described what long years of familiarity had forever painted upon her memory ; but beyond this no similarity exists. Had the article by Miss Edgarton, explanatory of these things, been, as was designed, inserted in the " Eose," this misapprehension could never have arisen; for in it the au- thor, after pointing out the various similarities of character and scenery, distinctly says, " But, beyond these resemblances, let no one trace out history in poor Kate's life. Mrs. Scott was, fortunately, an exempt from the social miseries that fell so darkly upon the lot of the ' Dweller Apart.' Her early home was one of neatness, kindness and comfort, — her later one brightened by the most devoted and unwavering love, the gentlest and most affectionate sympathy." In her memoir of Mrs. Scott, also, she speaks of both her parents as being " fully capable of understanding ' the vision and faculty divine.' " To this we would add, that while Kate did not look like any of her family, Julia bore a very marked and striking resemblance to her mother ; a resemblance even now strikingly apparent in that venerable parent, whose large, dark '%yes atill look out from her refined, sweet face with the same mournful tenderness of expression so peculiarly charac- teristic of Julia's. She is, indeed, one whom you could not see for an hour without the feeling that you could take her to your heart forever. We trust we have now said enough to remove forever the erroneous impression, so inadvertently given, and to convince all that the parents of Julia are as remarkable for native MEMOIK. 101 / refinement, intelligence and kindness, as were those of Kate for vulgarity, ignorance and brutality. *4tr 4t- •U' 4t- JC- T^ W "Tl" W tP Through all the seasons of sickness and suffering, now al- most constant, the progress of Julia in the Christian walk was steady and marked. Of this she herself was humbly con- scious, as is evident from the last entry ever made in her journal by her own hand : — " It is now nearly a year since my last entry was made, and it may be that length of time before I make another. " For the past year I have had much poor health, and conse- quent low spirits ; have taken one journey in the time, and en- joyed much happiness at home ; think I have made some advances in religion — I mean that of the heart ; think really I am some better than I was a year ago, though still led astray ; can con- trol my passions better, and am better guarded against besetting sins. God be blest ! " The following letter, written not many weeks later than the preceding extract, is a very sacred memento ; not only as the last thing ever penned by that hand, which had, for so many years, been active in the utterance of all that is true and noble in woman's heart, but as containing her last, dearest, most affecting expression of love to her friend, and her last solemn injunction. Tremulous and feeble, and often scarcely legible, how precious must have been every little line to that friend ! " Dear Sarah, — Although forbidden to write anything, I can- not forbear scribbling a few words to tell you how very, very happy I was in the receipt of your kind letter. But that I knew you were busy, I should have wondered at your silence ; your letter, however, was good enough to make amends for the time. This, of course, cannot be a reply to it, as I take advantage of my husband's absence to write. He watches me like a kite. I have not written a word since I wrote you except a pencil line to P. P. I think you have guessed by this time that I am pretty 9* 102 M E H 1 K . nearly sick. I am, indeed, miserable enough ; have thrown aside every kind of employment, even reading to a great extent. I have had a physician from abroad, to visit me once, in whom I have considerable confidence. He holds out to me a faiat pros- pect of health after a six months' course of medicine, though I am informed that he has told some of my friends that he con- sifters my case almost hopeless. My husband, however, is much more sanguine, and will not hear me say a word about dying — which is natural, you know. I wish to have no will but the Lord's. " While on the subject of my health let me say a few things which I may never be able to say to you again. I care very little, at present, about the publication of my writings. But, should I go hence without accomplishing that object, I would be glad that you should get them together in a suitable form, and, after defraying the expenses of publication, and remunerating yourself for the great trouble it will be to you, from the proceeds of the sale, [should it be so fortunate as to sell,] to appropriate the remainder to the education of my dear child ; in case of his death, to the advancement of the cause of Impartial Grace, in any way which yourself, Brs. T., G. and P. shall think proper. To you alone do I delegate the power of arranging, altering, suppressing my articles, with the advice of the others, or of Br. T., if you like. I know your judgment and feeling for mo will be a sufficient guide in the matter, and I am not afraid to trust all I have ever written in your hands ; knowing that you will let nothing see the light which I should, in a cool moment, disapprove ; and I have written many such things. " When you write to Brothers G., T., T. and Mrs. C, give my warmest, dearest love to them. I could not bear the thought of being forgotten by those persons when I am gone ; and you, Sarah ! — but I am too selfish, too foolish. " This has been a season of peculiar gloom in our village, Death has been so busy ! " * * I have so much to say which I must not. My story ! I am so sorry, — 't is about half finished. There is but one way. If you can get nothing in its place, and think it will be easier to finish this than to write another, I will try and sketch the remainder of the plan, and send it on for you to fill. If you can get along without it, however, I think you had better, for I am MEMOIB. 103 afraid it will not answer your expectations. Indeed, I feel quite sure, I was so nervous when I wrote it. I will try and have D. get M. to illustrate your ' Highlands ' — ■ he has lived at West Point. I anticipate a great treat when that book comes out, if I live. I have lent the last volume until it is nearly worn out. Your articles are unusually admired, at which I am not sur- prised. * * I am greatly pleased with the ' Christian Grac^ ' — they, also, will come out in book-form, will they not? " My message to those brethren, Sarah ; perhaps it may appear a little too warm ; yet, the thought of death makes it seem as if no language could be too strong to express my feelings towards those whom I love. You may remember me to them as you think proper. If you have not yet written to Br. G., please state to him my situation as an excuse for not answering his last dear, warm-hearted letter, for which, tell him, he has my deepest gratitude. Another thought, — I have sometimes thought you a little jealous of his influence over me. That should not be, dearest, for, though I love him very much, I assure you, — it is too foolish to write it, — ' thou knowest that I love thee ' .' "But I am exhausted. You will not neglect to write me, dearest friend ! If I get a great deal worse, D. shall infonu you ; if better, I will write myself. Love to your whole familys^ Fare- well. May God forever bless you. "Your affectionate " Julia." There is little more to be learned of the inner life of Julia, for this letter was the last effort of her pen. The few remaining records of her life must be gathered from the hand of others. As she grew weaker in body the old feel- ings of her youth seemed to revive, and a yearning, strong as death, came over her to visit the old romantic haunts of those young days once more. She talked of it incessantly, and with an earnestness almost painful to hear. The last poem from her pen, called " Sick-Bed Fancies," written just previous to her last letter, is full of these yearning desires, and is a rich, full echo of that harp whose strings were so soon to be broken. She herself spoke of it as an " expres- sion of the half-delirious fancies of an invalid." " It re- 104 MBMOIE. calls," so writes her friend Rhoda, " painfully to the minds of some of her near friends the sentiments she had expressed to them ; the desires, the lon^ngs she felt to go forth where she might be amid the wildness of Nature ; to go forth in freedom among the wildwoods and upon the mountains, and to wander along the banks of her ' native river.' Perhaps it may interest you," she continues, " to know that she often expressed these longing, intense desires to me. I spent a few days with her, in the early part of May, before her jour- ney into Virginia, — whither her husband proposed to carry her, in the fond hope that a summer spent at one of its min- eral springs would restore her to health, — and, while I was with her, she talked a great deal about it. It seemed as if her soul thirsted for this free communion with Nature. She was at this time very feeble, but she went out once into her flower-garden. Her steps were fakering, and, I think, she had to lean on her husband for support, to accomplish this little effort." Her longings to retrace the paths of her early rambles were never answered, but the projected visit to Virginia was made. An account of this journey, and of the few remain- ing months of her life, as well as of her death, is gathered from her husband's letters to Miss Edgarton and Mr. Grosh. The following, dated Towanda, Jan., 1842, is to Miss Edgar- ton, and we copy it entire from her book : — "Julia suffered much, very much, during last winter. She was some better in the first of the summer — able to ride out some, — but still her throat and lungs were very much irritated. A treatise on the medicinal properties of the Red Sulphur Springs of Virginia fell into my hands. I found that, if true, it would meet her case fully. The water is celebrated for its con- trol over the arterial and nervous systems ; reducing the force and frequency of the former, in many cases, in an astonishing degree, and quieting the latter, so that you would, in the lan- guage of one who spoke from experience, ' sleep like a log.' We started in the early pait of July, with Mrs. S., in a carriage,' M £ M 1 B . 105 and, after a drive of fifteen days, reached our place of destina- tion. Through the lower part of this state we found ripe cher- ries, and in Virginia, blackberries, in great abundance. Mrs. T,, who had been afflicted with scrofula many years, was in the habit of eating fruit as a medicine, Julia had been dieting for months, but, notwithstanding my remonstrances, they both ate to excess. This, together with bad water, deranged their sfs- tems, and when we reached the springs they were both sick, and, for a few days, alarmingly so. Julia's system was so much weak- ened that she has not yet recovered from the effects. I nursed them, and in the course of a week considered them nearly well. Julia's pulse, which had ranged from one hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty, was down to about eighty-five or ninety, and she rested well nights. In this flattering condition I left her, to go back three days' ride to see a favorite and valuable horse, one of a span I had purchased for the journey, which I had been obliged to leave to recover from an injury. * * » When I left I told Julia, if she needed medicine, to ca;ll on Dr. , to whom I had letters, and who had been in the habit of calling daily. She needed medicine, and the Doctor volunteered to prescribe. She first told him what she could not take, owing to idiosyncrasy, and mentioned opium particularly ; but he, being an old practitioner, and somewhat opinionated, persisted, without her knowledge, in giving her opium. She had taken it about a week, and all the while getting rapidly worse ; when I returned she was in a wretched state ; chills and fever twice in twenty-four hours, — ,in short, with all the symptoms of confirmed consumption. * « * "Julia's system was too much unhinged to be benefited by the water. I tried in vain to get her under the influence of it again. In addition to her other difiioulties, she had paroxysms of difficulty of breathing in the middle of the day, which were much increased by the great elevation of the springs [some three thousand three hundred feet]. We were between two high parallel mountains, the valley only eight or ten rods wide. The sun shone only in the middle of the day, — morning and evening cool, and very hot at noon-day. Here was another very serious objection ; sensitive as her system was, it could not adapt itself to these changes — delightful to some, but injurious to her. I combated the difficulty as long as it was prudent, in hope to get 106 M B M I K . her system balanced again. After remaining something less than four Tveeks, we started, with three dozen bottles of the water, for the valley of Virginia, where the elevation is much less, and the temperature more uniform and mild. Julia's health improving some, we diverged, and visited the Natural Bridge. If I had not been reading ' Stephens' Travels,' I should say ' mag- nificent ! ' but aa he has ' used up ' that word, I can give no description, — nor do I think any one can do it justice. It must be seen to be understood. Julia, with my assistance, got down two hundred feet to the bed of the stream, and went under the arch, and got back, with the aid of three persons and a chair. She has a very ludicrous anecdote, connected with that excur- sion, to tell you when you meet again. From the bridge, or rather from Staunton, we again went out of our route to visit Wyer's Cave, also one of the great natural curiosities of our country. Julia was unable to go into the cave, the entrance being half way up the mountain, and several flights of stairs to ascend and descend in the cave. * * * After we left this place, Julia was anxious to come the nearest and quickest way home. She felt uneasy about George, and was very anxious to see him. We reached home in nineteen days ; Julia improved in health, but still unable to take any exercise except in a car- riage. " In October we went to Mr. Shepard's, three miles above Athens, for Julia to sit for her portrait to Mr. Mount, of New York, who was there recruiting his health, and making pencil sketches. He was unwilling to leave his family, and the room and light he was accustomed to, to come here, but was anxious she should go up. Having known her when in health, he thought he could give a good likeness, and he succeeded admirably, not only in the likeness, but he made a beautiful picture. We value it the more, perhaps, from the circumstance that two unsuccess- ful attempts were made by an artist before we went South. Julia was worn out sitting, and the artist gave up in despair. He said her countenance was constantly changing. He could no sooner get one expression in his mind than another would chase it out. " Since we returned, Julia has not been out of the house, and I believe not out of her room. For months she has had a dis- tressing cough, with copious expectoration, profuse night-sweata, MEMOIE. 107 heetic fever, — in short, what every one, myself excepted, said was confirmed consumption ; with the nervous system in the most sensitive, excitaWe state imaginable. You will discover that I had something to do, I found that she could not live and see company. She pleaded for a few — for a while they were admitted. At length, I shut her up, and suffered her to see no one but the person who makes her bed. She at length began to improve, with the aid of powerful medicines and my nursing, of course. * * * * " Julia has a fund of anecdote, incidents, etc., for the Repos- itory, picked up on our journey ; but I am in hopes to be able to drive that, together with every thought, wish, etc., out of her head, in order to hasten convalescence. If she had any other mind, or a body capable of resisting the ' wear and tear,' or if I could keep her perfectly imbecile for a month, I should have no fear of the result. As it is, I am obliged to administer powerful narcotics to keep the system sufBciently balanced to be compat- ible with life." The winter went nearly by, and a season of hope came — delusive indeed — but one fondly nursed for a time. Julia was evidently improved; her spirits good, her appetite re- turned, and everything promising a renewal of health ; when one day, during the temporary absence from the house of Dr. Scott, a large package of books was received from a friend in Boston, Mr. T. Her sister, who was with her, " ran eagerly and thoughtlessly into the room with them, and, when I re- turned," — the Dr. continues to another friend, — " they were distributed about the bed, and Julia nearly overcome with excitement and fatigue. Half an hour after, she told me that she had not yet drawn a breath." From that time she failed rapidly; her difficulty of breathing returned with tenfold power, and in four days the last great struggle was over. " Julia died last evening," he continues, " March 5th, 1842, at 7 o'clock, as she had often wished, easily and quietly, without a struggle or a groan. The most of her time for ten days before her death was spent in communion with her God. She told me yesterday that she had strength given her to pass the preceding 108 HEMOIB. night, and it was passed happily. I am alone in the room with her. She looks calmly, serenely beautiful. * * * * "During that night, she fancied she saw — and it amounted to a firm, conviction with her — her little daughter wading about in a limpid stream with pebbly bottom, with beautiful flowers in her hands. She told me of it in the morning, and it seemed a real, tangible thing to her. ! if I could realize it as she did, I should have no other wish than to arrange my temporal afikirs, and go home to her." The records of that life, so lovely in its morning, its noon- day, and its evening, are- now closed, and the sweet poet of Sheshequin sleeps. " She lies buried " — so her well-loved friend beautifully closes her affectionate memoir — " by her own beautiful ' river of the hills,' with murmuring water, and singing birds, and the shifting shadows of spring-time, and summer, and gorgeous autumn over and around her grave. The pretty ' Isle of the Susquehanna,' forever hallowed by the tributes of her genius, lies nearly op- posite — a miniature, in its beauty and gracefulness, of the ideal ' islands of the blest.' She hears not the bland winds that play with the long grass and the fallen leaves upon her grave ; she knows not that the gay-plumed birds of summer flutter among the evergreen branches over her head ; she is unconscious of the wild requiem sung by her native stream. Her black-eyed boy treads gently near her dust, but it feels not now the thrill of ma- ternal love ; the hand of widowed afiection plants the grateful shade, and rears the memorial-stone, but no look of gratitude repays the kindly deed. Oh ! it were bitter indeed to rest our reflections here ; bitter to think that the unconsciousness of the sleeping dust is all that now remains. Thank God! we have faith, in her own beautiful words, that — ' Death is but A kind and gentle servant, who unlocks With noiseless hand life's flower-enoircled door, To show us those we love.' A few words more and our task, so full of interest to us, though go imperfectly performed, is done. We are sure it MEMOIR. ■ 109 will be gratifying to our readers to learn that " Georgy," the child so dear to Mrs. Scott, stiU lives — a promising boy, now fourteen years of age ; tall for his years, but apparently strong and healthy ; fair and frank-looking, with the soft, dark eyes of his mother, whom he indeed every way strikingly resembles. May he live long, a blessing to his remaining parent, and an honor to that pious and beloved mother, who watches over him in heaven ! Before closing, we cannot forbear inserting the following affecting paragraph, which we find on the back of the last leaf torn for us from Julia's journal. It was written two or three years since by her mother, now more than seventy years of age. We trust no apology is necessary ! " Beloved Julia, — * Thou art dead, yet speaketh.' " This short journal, that thou commenced March 7th, 1840, I found at thy once happy dwelling. I have lately visited the dear, old mansion, — after a delay of eight long years, — where thou wert once the happy wife and mother. But I saw — not thee, Julia — but I I saw thy little son, fks facsimile of thee as thou wert in thy childhood's days, a frail and feeble being, — too frail, I fear, to stay long in this wicked and selfish world. I saw many things in that home thou once didst love and cher- ish. There were musical and happy voices there, but they were not thine, Julia ! No, but, blessed be God ! there are kind and good hearts there, that thy dear son doth love. I slept in the same room in which I slept long years ago, when I was wont to visit thee there. My mind was absorbed in melancholy reflec- tions on the past. Still I felt a calm and holy feeling, when I remembered how my prayers had mingled with thine in former times, and that we should meet ere long in that haven of rest, where parting will be no more. I am talking to thee, Julia, but thou hearest me not ; and now, what time the Lord sees fit to let me stay in this cold world, I shall continue this weekly journal, which thou didst commence." We subjoin two or three, from the many tributes offered to the memory of Mrs. Scott, which, we are sure, will not be 10 110 ■ MBMOIE. uninteresting to the reader. The first is from the pen of that dear friend who loved her so well in life, and who has since followed her to the " Land of Light." STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. J. H. SCOTT. BY SARAH C. EDGABTON. " Sister, my soul's loved sister, I have bidden thee farewell." — Mrs. Scott. A1.-L things do call for thee ! I hear low breathings 'mid the bright spring-roses, And tolling murmurs from the harebells blue ; And where the violet on the turf reposes. Filling its urn-cup with the sparkling dew. A soft lament, a wild and sweet deploring. Calls for thy presence here amid the flowers, — The early flowers, o'er which thy heart, adoring. Poured forth its gladness in thy brighter hours — All these do call for thee ! And more than these — ay, more ! Hearts that were linked to thine by strong aSFection, Thy child's young voice in many a mournful cry, They who have named thee, by the soul's election, The brightest star that shone along our sky — These call for thee in tones of thrilling sadness. They woo thee back by many a burning tear — 0, 'midst the music of thy heart's deep gladness. Canst thou in heaven their wild complainings hear. Thou, who art past all grief ? Thou wert a priestess here ; In nature's temple, by her flower-wreathed altar. Long hast thou ministered with gifts divine ; Thy heart hath been thy prayer-book and thy psalter. And every lone, bright spot a sacred shrine. Thy hymns — 0, were they not, 'mid glen and mountain. Called from thy heart by some resistless power ? Blending the music of the wild wood fountain With the pure sweetness of the summer-flower ? Were they not, dearest friend ? Deep sank their fervent tones — Deep in our heart of hearts, their praise descended. M E 31 I K . Ill And stirred up burning thoughts and holy love, For, in their rich, impassioned strains were blended A zeal and beauty sent thee from above. No more to us shall those sweet strains be chanted — Hushed is thy voice beside life's flowing stream — Thou, who so long for cl^rer waters panted, Hast found at last the beauty of thy dream — The bright, eternal Fount ! We would not call thee thence — We would not, bright one, though a dimness lieth Along those pathways where thy smile hath shone — For thou art now where beauty never dieth. And shadows on the heart are never strewn. Not all of thee, sweet friend, from earth hath perished. Our hearts stai keep thee, still they love thee well — There are thy songs and gentle teachings cherished. There shall the memory of thy goodness dwell — For good thou wert, and true ! MBS. JULIA H. SCOTT. BY EEV. DAT K. LEE. " Sweet angel, thou art with the ransomed daughters Of our dear Lord, rejoicing in his Bight : Quenching thy soul's deep thirst in life's clear waters. Crowned with the wreath whose flowers are bathed in light." Mrs, Scott. * * * * " And gentle forms drew near And welcomed her to heaven." — Miss Edgarion. Another spirit of entrancing song Lifts holy anthems in our Father's palace ! One seraph more, communing with that throng. Presses with radiant lips life's sweetest chalice ! The world's attractions, dear and bright to some, Were dull to her — the skies contained her treasures, — God's loveliest angel came and bore her home — She drinketh from the river of his pleasures ! As some bright bird, just broke from wiry cell. Against whose bars its struggling pinions fretted. Soars o'er the rainbow's arch with notes that swell More exquisite, more ravishing than ere 't was netted : 112 MEMOIR. So that tired spirit burst these fleshly bands. Bested her wings upon her angel's pinions. Sprung warbling up to greener, sunnier lands. And breathed her holiest songs in love's dominions. To say I 'd pressed her hand, 't was ne'er for me — To share her friendship it was not my gladness ; 'T was ne'er the blessing of these eyes to see The form whose slumber wakes this note of sadness. But ! I weep for those who yet remain. To know so bright a spirit hath ascended ! Fond of that lyre, enraptured of its strain, I weep to hear its melodies are ended ! Who that is bathing in the living fire Of that high faith which ne'er contracts nor wavers - Who that hath heard the breathings of that lyre. Which seemed the echoes of cherubic quavers — Who that hath drunk those melodies that rose Sweet as the murmur of celestial fountains. Has not in fancy pictured her with those Whose feet are beautifiil upon the mountains ! Short years ago, in boyhood's rosy mom. When Aspiration seemed its measure brimming, Longing for joys that crown the sprrit-bom, I heard the lays of life that she was hymning. My soul was anchored high in courts of day, I found the spring for which my heart was thirsting - The veil of death and doubt was rent away, And beams of heaven came on my vision bursting ! I 've dwelt afar, where western forests blow. Where bright Elysium opens round the stranger ; Where flowers of rosiest tint and perfume glow. And prairie-choristers enchant the ranger ; There, to that Eden of earth's loveliest things. That sleeping harp hath sent forth many a number. Lifting my soul on mom's eternal wings To bowers where angel-warblings never slumber ! " That sleeping lyre," sang I. But wherefore this ? Why say it sleeps, and that its sounds are dying ? That palm-crowned minstrel in her home of bliss MEMOIB. 113 Strikes it to notes of joy — Trhile we aie sighing ! She clasped it to her, on that angel's flight Who bore her up to blessedness immortal ; — Waking new music as some holier height Of Zion's hiU lifted a brighter portal ! The seraphs all had joy in fuller streams, When her pure lips their symphonies were swelling ; They '11 want her there while God's own glory beams, And while the ransomed keep their starry dwelling. To hymn the beauty of immortal mind, — For, of that world, mind is the greatest splendor, — lift holier anthems as new bliss they And, And drink new life as loftier praise they render. For whom, then, should the warm affections bleed ? For whom the tears gush from their fountains, burning ; For us ! — our spirits have not yet been freed — For us ! — our hearts 'gainst aching bands are yearning. But hark ! that minstrel's warbling yet I hear. Melt o'er my soul in sweet reverberation 1 The hope she sings of shall my bosom cheer. Tin I have taken heavenly habitation. TO A DEPARTED POETESS. BY MBS. u. IT. SAWTEB. Thou art gone from our midst, gentle daughter of song, And thy heart's thrilling music is o'er ; We have heard thy last strain, as it floated along And died on Eternity's shore ! Thou hast left us, sweet minstrel ! in sorrow and tears. They have smoothed the green turf o'er thy breast. Where thou, in the beauty and bloom of thy years. Art laid down in silence to rest. There 's a seat now left vacant, a dear, BMSsing face. In the circle around the home-hearth ; And the dark wing of Sorrow broods over the place. Once gladdened with innocent mirth ! Yet, say, hath thy-lay ceased forever .' 0, no ! O'er thy harp still thy spirit is bending : 10* J.14 MDMOIB. And the strains which seemed those of an angel beloWi With the soft notes of seraphs are blending ! And, oh ! we believe that thou dost not forget To be round us, though hid from our sight — That the love of thy spirit is true to us yet. Though our own may be shrouded in night ! Tet, tell us ! stoop down from that star-lighted way Which thy feet, ' 'mid the seraphim ' tread, And say if Earth's ties o'er thy spirit have sway In the bright land to which thou art fled : 0, come ! through our sleep let thy bright vision gleam. And our bosoms shall cease to repine ; While our spirits, entranced in some beautiful dream. Shall mingle enraptured with thine ! Fare thee well, sweetest minstrel ! there 's many a heart That pines thy dear image to see ; There are fond eyes, that wept when they saw thee depart. Still heavy with weeping for thee ! Fare thee well ! round thy name, which long shall endure. While the lily and myrtle we twine ; We will pray that our hearts may be ever as pure, And our lives ever lovely as thine. POEMS. MARIE. She sits beside a fountain in the midst Of an unbroken forest. Overhead The fragrant birch and elm have interlaced Their sweet green leaves so thickly, that the sun Turns back abashed. Close at her feet reclines A shaggy mastiff, whose ungraceful neck Her playful hand hath bound with forest flowers And feathery brake, and whose affectionate eye Watches her every movement with a glance That seems almost intelligence : And she, The young enchantress of this sylvan scene — Is she not very beautiful ? Her head Is small and finely moulded, and her hair, Released from the dark jewelled coif, falls down In shining masses. In her fair, mild face. So cherub-like in its serene repose. Is that expression which doth make the charm Of Titian's Madonnas. On her cheek, — Where eloquent Feeling sometimes sends its waves Like an o'erflowing river — is a tinge The faintest and the purest of the race That blooms but in the forest, and her lips Wear the deep quiet smile which tells so well Of happiness within. Her eye is bent Meekly but earnestly, upon the page Of a soiled antique volume, and there is. At times, a heavy moisture on their lids, 116 POEMS. And a deep tremor of those rosy lips, As she drinks in the words that seem to shake Her inmost soul. A little bird has perched Upon a waving bough above her head, And tries to woo her with his simple song ; A playful squirrel ventures from the cleft Of an old broken tree, to rouse the ire Of the o'er-watchful mastiff. The shrill jay Breaks out in discord near her, and a fawn Rushes through a dense thicket, in her sight, Trailed by a baying hound. Yet heeds she not — Her sense is lost — her whole soul is absorbed In the old volume over which she bends. What is the tale, sweet Marie, that can thus Enchain thy buoyant spirit? 'Tis, perchance. Of some frail, hapless maiden, doomed to pine In unrequited love ; or captive knight, Kept in vile durance on a hostile shore. Far from his friends and home. Such legends oft Have wrung salt streams from young, romantic eyes, And made the aged sigh. That fair girl weeps Thick anguished tears ; and her bright cheek is blanched Of an unwonted paleness ; and large drops Stand out amid the snowy pearls which bind Her radiant brow. Anon, her small, white hands. Where precious diamonds cast their sparkling glare, Are clasped in frenzied bitterness, and lo ! Through her closed teeth she whispers hoarsely out — "0, God ! they crucified him ! " Thou mayst weep. Sweet Jewish Marie ! Woman e'er should weep When she peruseth, in Heaven's holy book. The story of the Cross. And O ! not left Without a witness is our blessed Lord, When such pure spirits leave this tempting world And seek the forest's holy solitude, To read, to weep, to pray. 1840. POEMS. 117 THE HEBREW MOTHER. Again she pressed her trembling lips upon The cheek of her pale babe, and strove to hush Its feeble Tvailings with her mournful voice ; Murmuring in low, soft tones, the holy psalms Which she had loved so well in happier days — Days that had left but their sweet memory To soothe her now. The noonday sun came down, With its accustomed brightness, through the leaves Of the tall palm, and lingered on the brow Of that fair dying child, as if to call His pure young spirit from its darkened home ; And soft rich odors from the vales below Came up, with their delicious breath, to cool His parched and fevered lips. What brought her there, That young and lovely Hebrew, so aside iVom the glad flowery paths of those whose forms Were all too delicate to move in bowers Less lovely than Engeddi's ? Sure it was not That the world's treasure (that which buyeth &iends, And meteth out -the giddy cup of bliss, To those who revel 'mid the dross of earth). The burnished plate of Ophir had departed, Leaving the wanderer cursed with poverty ? Ah, no ; for her dark hair gleamed brightly forth With precious stones and radiant pearls and gems, Bright sparkling gems, of heaven's all-varying hues, And her white arms were girt about with bands Dazzling in their deep inwrought workmanship, And silvery tassels decked her rich dark robe, After the gorgeous manner of her tribe. What brought her there, — Alone, amid the hills of dark Judea, With her young precious charge, and none to cheer Her fainting spirits with affection's tone ; No hand to raise the famished sufferer from Her wearied arms, or cool his raging thirst, 118 POEMS. With the pure drops which she could never reach ? Where were the gay, the festive groups, in which That fair-haired beauty moved, of late a star Of the first magnitude ; and he to whom Her first pure love, her heart's deep troth was given — The wedded of her soul, where, where was he? Had he, too, left her in that trying hour. To watch with curdling cheek the failing breath Of her fair first-born son ; to see him droop And fade away, like a young spring flower. Lacking nourishment, alone to close His lifeless eyes, when death indeed should come, And then in her deep hopelessness to bow Her soul to its dark destiny and die ? A sound is heard, — A sad, low, mournful sound, — and the dull wind Is burdened with the rush of dying tones ; The long, shrill clash of sword with glittering sword, Of sabre meeting sabre, the wild charge Of ra^ng chariots and the lengthened shout Of fierce encounter, though so far away. Break in discordant murmurs on the ear Of Israel's pale daughter, and she turns ■ Her tearful eyes towards the red gleaming west. Where still is seen, though wrapt in flame and smoke, The far-famed temple of the living God, Standing unmoved amid the general crash Of falling towers, as if the spirit, which Once deigned to dwell between the golden wings Of the fair cherubims, yet lingered there. To frown defiance on the \mhallowed crew. Whose hands had dared profane its holy shrine. A smile is on the gazer's quivering lip, And her dark eye flashes unwonted fire. As its quick vision hails the holy site Of that stern edifice, her nation's boast ; Forgotten now are the protracted ills Which she hath suffered since her exile lone, Hunger and thirst and cold, and deep fatigue, POEMS. 119 And those dread scenes of blood and cruelty, Wherewith man proves the love his bosom bears To those whom God hath formed of dust the same. Forgotten now the dark terrific hour, When the shrill trumpet from the walls first gave The signal of invasion, and there came, Like an o'erwhelming deluge, hosts of men In warlike guise, to raze the sacred gates Of great Jerusalem. Forgotten is Her beauteous home, in smouldering ruins laid. Her murdered friends, decaying 'neath the piles Of burning rubbish. Her young husband, too, His last fond look, his last impressive words — All, all have faded from her memory ; Forgot, absorbed in one all-kindling thought. The thought of that high temple of the skies. Backward she flings her rich, unbraided locks, And raising aloft her weak and trembling £ands, The spirit of the chosen band of God Breaks forth from her deep soul, in words like these : " Away, ye men of Eome ! Think ye to trample down The Temple, which our fathers reared, The mighty of renown? " Away, for lightnings dwell Within its sacred vail. Ay, and a voice, whose tones would make Hearts of the stoutest quail. " Desist, fierce men of war ! Nor dare, one moment, dare Profane with heathen touch that shrine ; For holy things are there. " Ah ! ye may bathe your hands In choicest Hebrew blood, And desolate with fire the spot Where our fair dwellings stood. " And ye may fling your chain Around our brave and free. 120 POEMS. And lead our weeping daughters forth To dread captivity. " But never may ye bring To earth, our heavenvrard tower ; Jehovah ia its sentinel ! Bash men, ye lack the power. " Hush, hush, my dying one ! For I would gaze once more Upon that glorious dome, ere yet My pilgrimage ia o'er. "How beautiful it stands. Like a a proud spirit throwing A lofty radiance o'er the field, With shields and targets glowing ! " Most beautiful ! O, would. My child, that thy dim eyes Might see how deeply grand looks down That pillar of the skies ! " Firm as the moveless hills My nation's hope, art thou ; Home of our holy statutes, none Have power to harm thee now." Exhausted drooped the wanderer's weary head, Though her wan vision clung tenacious still To its great idol, thinking some miracle Would work, as formerly, deliverance sure. Ay, and it did, but darkened sounds alone Revealed what that deliverance was. She saw. The Hebrew saw her last hope fade. She saw The temple totter, fall, and heard the shriek Of dying thousands, crushed beneath the weight Of its red, glowing timbers. Then she thought On Him who prophesied that not one stone Should lie unturned in that polluted tower. She thought on Him, the hated Nazarene; And the truth flashed on her benighted mind, That He indeed had been the promised Shiloh, POEMS. 121 Her nation's King, and they had murdered him. O ! it was agony ! and in despair She sank beside her lifeless child, and gave Her spirit to its Maker ! 1826. A MORNING THOUGHT.* And thou hast waked, while all around Wrapt in forgetfulness hare slespt ; And thou hast watched while man was found Unconscious who the vigils kept. And when my heart, aroused from slumber, Shall all its dearest thoughts renew, Among the least, O, shall it number The praises to thy goodness due? No, Father ! no ! my orisons As grateful incense shall arise ; A song of praise, a soft response. To the sweet warMer of the skies. For whence, but fronPthy bounteous hand, Have our unnumbered comforts flowed ? Whose but thy goodness strewed the land. With gifts so rich, so free bestowed ? The earthly parent, mindful till The midnight tolls its solemn hour. Droops o'er her charge and sinks at will And owns of sleep the Lethean power. But thine 's the eye that never sleeps ; Thy pitying eye that scans the whole. And thine the hand that kindly keeps. When dangers press and troubles roll. A mother's love ! — the tender vow Of gratitude still gilds the name ; But thou, my Heavenly Father, Thou, My deeper gratitude shalt claim. * This and the three succeeding pieces were written between the ages of sixteen and seventeen. 11 122 POEMS. INVOCATION. Pass'd ye, unseen, to the home of the dead. When the sun was gone down and the twilight was stealing, Paused ye to gaze on their "green-curtained bed," And to weep 1 — The sad tribute and offspring of feeling. Over the green graves the "willow boughs sweep. Through their slight tendrils the night-winds are breaking ; Coldly and darkly the lovely ones sleep — The still dreamless sleep that is long ere the waking. Flowers of the spring, ye arise in your brightness. Tossing your beauty in pride and in lightness, Ye heed not the lou^ ones your young buds are steeping In tear-drops as pure as of evening's own weeping. Winds of the night, ye retreat with a sigh ! How like your fleetness is man's fading glory ! ' T was here in its bloom — it has withered — gone by ; And the trace that it left — but a name or a story. Forms I have loved, though ye moulder in clay. In the sweet recollections of_ghildhood I meet you ; Ye of the locks of the silvery^ay, Still in my sleeping and waking I greet you. Smiling ye seem as when fondly ye pressed me To climb to the knees where so oft I did rest me. When I in my recklessness plaited your tresses. And ye in your kindness returned my caresses. Hearts of the gay, ye are light in your joys, Mine, like your own, has throbbed quick to their measure ; But come ye away from the town and its noise. To the scenes that can soften and chasten our pleasure. Come, see — where is all which was good and was fair? Where is wisdom, worth, genius, and mirth's giddy allies? Save the mound and the marble come trace to me where They are more than the grass or the clods of the valleys. Come weep — for the flower of the field is decaying. The terror of man his proud sceptre is swaying ; But smile in your tears, for from dust and from gloom Shall beauty arise and exult o'er the tomb. February, 1827. 1847. POEMS. 123 SERENADE. Coke in the moonlight hour, my lore, When all are hushed in sleep — When stars are beaming bright above, And spirits watch the deep. I '11 meet thee at the tide-washed strand, While tides are sinking low ; Our bark shall leave the yielding sand For ocean's lofty flow. We 'U ride upon the dusky wave, And mark the dying*light That rises from the sailor's grave. Beyond the bounds of sight. Our boat will rive the foaming spray — Our ears will catch the song Of fairies, as, with mystic sway. They drive the surge along. And should the winds rush furiously, And waves run mountains high. Our magic barque would leave the sea. And skim along the sky ! 0, come ! the hour is nigh, my love — The world is hush'd to sleep ; The stars are clothed in light above. And spirits watch the deep ! SONG OF THE INDIAN GIRL. After the battle of Wyoming, a few of the surviving inhabitants fled northward, and took possession of a small, defenceless Indian village, situated on the east side of the Susquehanna. The few women and children of the place hastily retreated before them, and precipitately crossed the river. Two young girls, only, were seen lingering on the bank ! and one of them leaning on the paddle of her canoe, was heard chant- ing, in the most melancholy voice, a song, the burthen of which is supposed to be the following : — Father of mighty waters, Forgettest thou thy daughters? 124 POEMS. They of the raven hair, The sunlit cheek, and eye Of midnight's darkest dye, And foot which passes by rieet as the mountain air ? The white man's hands are reeking — Our steps his eye is seeking , He hates our scattered race. Our homes he' s torn away — Our forests prostrate lay, . And none are left to say Where was our former place ? No pleasant morning hreaketh. Nor sky-bird's song awaketh The brave ones from their sleep The ball and glittering blade Our sires and brothers laid Far in the wildwood shade — , Where wild winds round them sweep. Father of mighty waters ! Receive thy weeping daughters ; Speed us across thy waves. Better the lone retreat Where none but panthers meet. Than that where haughty feet Trample our humble graves ! 1827. THE VOW OF FRIENDSHIP. O, 't was a lovely midnight hour, When nature's beauties noblest shine ; Dewdrops were glittering on the bower, And pearly wreaths o'erhung the vine. Yon towering trees, the loftiest That waves upon the mountain high. Shone purple through the gathering mist — A phantom wrapt in cloudy sky. 1828. POEMS. 125 And all seemed joy and all seemed love ; With thousand lays the forest rung ; The owlet and the mourning dove With mingled vofce their praises sung. 'Twas in that hour, so pure and bright, I vowed, my friend, a vow to you ; I vowed, by yon pale queen of night, To love thee ever fond and true. And think'st thou, when dark years are past, And grief has prest this youthful brow, — Think'st thou, though whirled in sorrow's blast, I '11 then forget my sacred vow ? No ! the pale moon may cease to light The Susquehanna's brilliant wave ; — Yon stars may fall in dusky night To cold annihilation's grave ; And birds may cease to fill the air ; Yon arch may burst of heavenly blue, And perish all that's bright and fair, — Yet still I '11 love thee fond and true. FUNERAL DIEGE. O, Death ! — grim death ! — unbar thy massive gates ; Thy victim waits ; Prepare the narrow, cold, sepulchral bed ; Raise the damp veil that shrouds the pallid head ; Receive thy dead ! Hushed be the wailing voice, unheard the groan, Silent and lone ; Let noiseless hands the grassy mantle bear. And nought that whispers to the midnight air, Say she is there ! Her pilgrimage was sad, uncheered and dark ; Hope's early spark Fell, like the early leaf, wasted and sear, 11* 126 POEMS. Leaving the heart to find its pillow drear Beneath the bier. Leave — leave the spot, for,darkness veils the sky ; O, let her lie, E'en as she wished, — unwept her early doom. Unknown the humble mound, unmaxked the tomb,— Leave it in gloom! Farewell, departed girl ! thy memory. To one, shall be A dear, undying vision from above. Bearing through death the olive, like the dove. To realms of love. 1829. A FRAGMENT. Her hour had come — And the long-cherished hope, that she might live^ Gave way before the startling change which crept Over her wasting form. Scarce audible Was now the feeble play of her low pulse. And the short snatching breath gave token that Her spirit's wings had plumed themselves for heaven ! Ah ! how we loved that fair young creature there ! — Yes ; fair she was, though Death's remorseless hand Had scattered far, the morning hues which blend So gracefully upon the cheek of youth ; And in their place, planted the loathsome Symbols of the grave ! Still she was lovely, For a placid smile, like the soft moonlight On some waveless lake, lingered about Her pale, unmoving lips, as if her soul Rejoiced that its enfranchisement drew near. There was no sound in that dark curtained room, Save the half-stifled sobs of her whose hopes Were fast decaying with her only child. Past was the hour when, in the wild agony Of our despairing hearts, we vainly prayed To Heaven, for her whose destiny was sealed. POBMB. 127 Her last faint kiaa had melted &om our lips. And the low farewell tones of her meek voice Had passed away, like strains which gently fada On the dull ear from the unechoing harp : And now we sadly watched the fitful ray Which gleamed around life's waning lamp, ere yetf 'Twas quite extinguished — and we strove to bow Our heads submissive to the chastening hand Which never smites, save in unerring kindness- A knock was heard ; And a tall, aged man, with locks of snow, Came in, and stood beside the shaded couch Of our young friend. He took her hand and spake Abruptly of life's closing scene, and asked The dying girl if she had hopes of bliss. Slowly her dark fringed lids unclosed, and light, Pure as the ray that gilds the horizon's verge At dawn of day, beamed from her speaking eyes. Wistful she gazed upon his face, but soon, With a sweet smile of fervent piety. She raised her hands in confidence to heaven. It would not do — this holy man could not Behold the triumph of eternal love. Nor brook the deep, warm gratitude which burst From the pure altar of a heart which owned No creed, save God's alone. With bitterest tone He talked of carnal reason, carnal hopes,- Of man's depravity, of God's revenge. And pictured scenes of never-ending woe With earnestness, as if he hoped them true. A flush passed o'er that pale young creature's brow, And her roused spirit found its way in words : — " O, hear'st thou this, most righteous God! " she cried, " This blasphemy against thy holy name ? Yet, Father, yet, forgive his impious words : — He ne'er has tasted thy redeeming love ! For^ve him — " and her pleading voice grew faint, And she was numbered vrith the slumbering dead. 128 POEUB. But there was one, the parent of that girl, In whose lone, cheerless breast the shaft had lodged In all the rankling hopelessness of grief ! She raved incessantly of death and hell. And the dread tones of dire insanity Came, ever after, from her broken heart ! 1830. THE GHOST OF THE NARROWS. It is but proper to inform the gentle reader, that the events recorded in the follow- ing lines may be relied on, as strict, unexaggerated truth — even as they were com- municated to the writer ; and that they are, also, of recent occurrence. If he be a true descendant of the ever-to-be-remembered New England Puritans, he will need no argument to convince him of supernatural agency. But, should he, peradventure, belong to that obstinate, heretical cla^s of beings, who (we grieve to say) seem quite determined to be neither convinced nor refuted, but axe in the daily habit of treating the theory of Ghosts, &c., with indignity, we refer him to Mr. , of , the re- doubtable hero of our story, who will, probably, not only establish him firmly in the belief of their actual existence, but, mayhap, impart tiiat word of rnagic which has hitherto proved such a powerfiil barrier to their dangerous designs. 'TwAS dark — and o'er the sleeping world. Midnight her banner had unfurled ; The howling winds rose wild and high, And clouds rolled darkling through the sky ; The moon threw down a casual light Upon the snow-topt mountain height ; And stars flew by with arrow speed. Like war-horse from the battle freed. Winding the way, and dark the road Which Reuben brave that evening trode : It lay along a mountain rude — The fairies' gateless solitude. Where glen and brake, and briny dell Sheltered the mystic asphodel. And where in summer season grew. The spell-bound plantain, birch, and yew. Bold Reuben heeded not the storm, — Courage alone could keep him warm, — Nor cared he for the idle tales Of gliding spirits 'mid the dales ; FOEMS. 12d His was the heart of truest Steel That scorns in vulgar fears to deal; His was the bold and dauntless look, Which mortal eye could scarcely brook. And it hath been f(» truth dedared, Oui gallant hero would have dared With nought but staff maintain a flgh* 'Gainst any haughty belted knight ; E'en he himself confessed it true — He would have gained the victory toa. But to our tale — That night, in wrath. Poured snow o'er Keuben's blinded path ; The varying winds moaned hoarsely by. The stormy spirit's lullaby ; Its naked arms the pine-tree flung, High in the air like phantoms hvmg, The rough, unyielding, black, ribb'd oak Groaned answer to the raven's croak. And ominously on the ear Came up the owlet's notes of fear. Still sped our traveller fearless on. To where a gurgling streamlet run — A little brook which mdting snow Had caused in saucy pride to flow, And with its boasting voice defy The foot that fain would pass it by ; But Reuben's step is quick and sound, He '11 clear the torrent a* a bound. Why starts our hero gaping back? Why steals the color from his cheek I Why from his stafl" his clenched hand slack, And his pale lips essay to speak ? Why drips the cold sweat from his brow. Like dew from chilly atmosphere? Why shakes he like the aspen bough. As if the bdts of death were near ? O ! — ask not why — ! ask not why ! Behold ! on yon protruding peak 130 POEMS. A livid fire ghoota up the &ky Its pale, imearthly, fitful streak T And in that flame there writhes a form. And o'er that form there hangs a shroud. Like misty folds of April storm. Which gather round the bursting cloud ! And there's a hood upon her head. Of the deep sumach's crimson dye ! And ay ! — her look is like the dead, That in the ocean mouldering lie ! One foot rests on a dizzy crag. Which hangs o'er the foaming waters deep. Whose headlong waves remorseless drag Their victim to his lasting sieep. Her robe floats free along the air, And as she sings her fearful lay, The winds in murmurs disappear. Alarmed at such dire melody ! THE ghost's song. " Back ! — back, base craven ! go back to thy den, Nor set thy foot on my path again ! Go back ! — and boast of thy chivalrous deeds. And eat of the bread on which vanity feeds. Go back — or the hopes thou hast stored for the morrow This night shall be scattered with wailing and sorrow ! " I have sailed o'er the lofty pyramid. Where earth itself seemed nearly hid — I have hovered o'er steeple, o'er tower and tree — O'er sandy desert and flowery lea ; I have come o'er the land, I have come o'er the ocean, In the scallopped air with the whirlvrind's motion ! "0! — still is the voice of the wearying blast. And a pensive shade o'er the world is cast ! 0, silently wander the waters along, Forgotten their murmurs, forgotten their song ; But thoa, ere the dawn of another day, Shalt be more forgetful, more senseless than they ! POEMS. 131 « Lo<& down to the river, look up to the sky ! Their beauties shall never more gladden thine eye ! Thy farewell to home — give it forth to the air ! The hawk and the blackbird shall carry it there : For the plans thou hast laid, and thy hopes of the morrow, This night shall be scattered with wailing and sorrow." As sinks the bitter threatening taunt. When hurricanes have spent their breath. So dies that spirit's maddening chant. And all is calm and still as death ! The trees hug close their rustling leaves. The waves cling stilly to the shore, The tiny reed no longer weaves. The snow-bird's chattering is o'er ; But 0, that form darts swiftly down. To where pale Reuben trembling lies ; Wild o'er his head her arms are thrown, While fury sparkles in her eyes ! O, Reuben ! — Reuben 1 — art thou like The rest of thy exulting race. Whose tongues alone can aim and strike, While swords hang idle in their place ? Bear up, bold Reuben — nobly bear ! One thrust will break demoniac spell i It may not be thy fate is there — List to that deep, victorious yell. What means it nowl the scene is new — A light is flashing o'er the water ! With shrieks the phantom downward flew, Like Arthur's foiled, unfeeling daughter ; And that weird word which Reuben spake — 'T was like the charm by Merlin spoken, When noble heart's blood steeped the brake, And rusted on the lances broken ! Brave Reuben is an altered man. His looks are humble and becoming ; You '11 never hear him boast or ban, Nor wicked, witch-like sonnets humming. 132 FOIiMg. And that green wood, so scathed for years, Is blooming like the hills of Sharon ! The songster's nest again appears, Again the jay and soaring heron. The Village Clerk need never fear, These dreadful powers hath Keuben shaken ! One ■word has closed a dark eaieer. Which mortal strength can ne'er awaken ! 1830. DEITY. "And he was seen upon the wings of the wind. And he made daj^nes? pavilions round about him, daric waters and tliick clouds of the skies. And the channels of the sea appeared, the foundations of the earth were discovered." He was seen on the wings of the rushing wind, 'Mid the vaults of the burning sky ; He uttered his voice, and the heavens shrunk back, And the thick clouds hurried by ! He drew up the folding doors of night With the waters of deepest gloom. And he spread his pavilion round about, Like a dark pall o'er a tomb ! The waves of the everlasting deep With their haughty murmurs fled, And the eye looked down on the startling depths Of the ocean's flashing bed ! The earth gave forth, to the wondering sight. The keys of this boundless sphere. For the hand whioh had fashioned their mystery, In its mightiness drew near ! Our God ! our God ! thou art terrible — Thy greatness surpasseth thought ! And thou makest us feel, in our lowliness, Like the worthless things of nought. Yet — ah, our Father ! how more than great Must thy quenchless love have been. When thou gavest thy pure One to redeem Foci ruined man from sin ! 1831. POEMS. 183 ««AND I BECAME A SCEPTIC." And I became a sceptic then, With blight and mildew on my soul — A scorned, a hated thing of men, A drug in life's enchanting bowl. Ay ! raise, dread memory, raise the veil Which curtains up the wretched past ; Let others read the darkened tale Of one on Error's billows cast! Months followed months, and still unchanged I hugged the vampire to my breast; Still uncontrolled the demon ranged, And, drop by drop, my heart's blood pressed! -I would have loosed his direful hold. But that, alas ! I had no power ; My flagging pulse waxed low and cold, A torpor stole, from hour to hour. Upon my senses ; life became A weary and a tasteless thing — A funeral light, whose sickly flame Glared ghastly on Night's ebon wing; A ghost, 'mid sepulchres I trod, Without a hope, without a God! I placed me on an ancient hill. Where all was beautifully fair, ; I listened to each speaking rUl, And breathed the soft unoonscious air. Ajgain, my earnest gaze I bent I On the sweet garnished face of earth. And traced each striking lineament. As I had erst, in days of mirth;! I saw the: far-stretched azure peaks Of caverned mountains, rising high, As if to catch the gladsome streaks Of. sunlight, as they wandered by; The beauteous trees were glistening there. And flowers glanced o'er the streams below, 12 134 POEMS. And ever on the whispering air Ethereal music seemed to flow. I turned to man — and then there rose A deep ungovernable gush Of passionate feeling. Ah ! who knows The warm heart's anguish, and the rush Of bitter waters — when is seen Deep intellect and wondrous thought ; And known, that soon the gifted one Must perish, and return to nought ? I might feave thought there was a God, But that the voice of other years ■ Portrayed him with a vengeful rod, A tyrant, drinking human tears. I felt it could not, could not be — There was no future — Death would keep Its victim 'neath its loathsome key. In one eternal, dreamless sleep ! And then I would, I gladly would Have bargained lots with Earth's dull brood, Or reptiles of the wilderness. So it had brought unconsciousness ! But changed the scene. — My feverish hand Lay on an icy-seeming brow, And moonbeams fell, so soft and bland, Upon my Helen's cheek of snow. One would have thought some spirit strove To light again life's wasted lamp. And cause those marble lips to move. Alas ! their touch was chill and damp ! I saw that Death had set his seal Upon the only living thing For which my palsied heart might feel. And in its latest moments cling. The only tone that ever flung Undying love upon my ear. Had passed away — I knew that none Oared for the stricken wanderer. po':bms. 1S5 I did not weep — but when they laid The careless clod upon her breast, And — as I thought — in mockery prayed, A sternness seized my heaving chest. A curse forth from my parched lips went, A phrensy fired my tortured brain, Pale Reason from her throne was rent — I henceforth knew nor joy nor paini For years, cold, miserable years, I shared the maniac's usual lot; Deriding taunts and brutal jeers Were mine, although I felt them not. At last, a soft, sweet ray of light. Increasing in intensity. Came o'er my dark bewildered sight. Like sunshine o'er a boisterous sea. I gazed around' — all, all was new. But all was beautiful and good ; And o'er my deluged hopes a true And dove-like spirit seemed to brood. I yielded to that blessed spell, All fraught with gushing tenderness, And felt my morbid bosom swell With deep, unutterable bliss. He spake — He, called the Holy One — He whispered to his erring child, Not with the despot's angry tone ; No — all was love and mercy mild. He carved his name in words of fire Upon the tablets of my heart. And bade my humble thoughts aspire To that bright crown unwrought by art. Nor would I give this priceless gem For all the treasures earth could bring. Were every leaf a diadem. And could I be, of worlds, the king. I was a sceptic — but the name Hath perished. I am not the same. 1831. 136 POEMS. GATHER NOT THE FLOWERS. Gather ye — gather ye not the flowers That glitter in pleasure's delusive bowers, Nor trust to the smiles of the happy and gay — Like the sunlight on water they vanish away. They were here — they are gone, and their place is filled up With a tear-drop, a sigh, and a withered rose-cup. Place not your faith in the promise of one. Though the tongue should declare in its holiest tone ; The earth is for change — and that vow will not last ; — Thou wilt wake to thyself, when the vision is past, With thy fondest hope crushed and thy feeling flung back. As drear and as waste as the Samiel's track. But when — like myself — thou hast clasped in despair, Thy last cherished phantom, and found it but air, — When thy soul is all sadness, thy summer all gloom. And the brightness of life wears the hue of the tomb, — When the Angel of Peace seems with bitterness shod, Give thy prayers to thy Father, thy trust to thy God ! 1831. THE IRISH EMIGRANTS. Thbt came o'er the waves of the blue mirrored sea, To the land where the hearts of a people are free ; They came, for the voice of oppression rose high. And the cry of the poor seemed to challenge the sky. They came, the sad husband and wife by his side, — The unwavering in heart whose affections were tried, — And the bright rising sun bade them falter adieu To their last native cliff, as it sunk from their view. 0, say not the soul of green Erin is sear ! — 0, say not her eyes never melt with a tear ! 'Tis the galling of bondage — the strength of her chain - That make her best feelings in darkness remain. POEMS. 137 Our sails fluttered gayly the high masts among, And the tones of our seamen in ecstasy rung ; Ah, well might our eyes glance with pleasure around. For we knew the dear port where our vessel was bound. Our thoughts travelled over the white-crested foam To the deep welcome voice that would hail us at home, And our spirits rushed wildly, as fancy portrayed That bright cherished circle whose welfare we prayed. But those children of Erin stood sadly the while. Their eyes bending still towards their own. emerald isle, And that pale one clung close to her tusband for stay. As each bound of the ship bore them farther away. She spoke* not, nor wept — but that desolate look Told a tale, which from childhood I never could brook. And the long quivering sigh breathed a language more drear Than the passion of words or the eloquent tear. Alas ! broken-hearted — how black to thy sight Seemed the wide-tossing billow so fearfully bright ; How mournful the sound of the murmuring sea, That left neither home nor a country to thee '. 'Twas thine to gaze back towards that ivy-crowned hearth, The covert of childhood, the place of thy birth. Where a lone aged mother in hopelessness knelt, And poured forth to Heaven the sorrows she felt. 'Twas thine to remember a brother's farewell — The broken " God bless you," how bitter it fell! — And to feel on thy lip the last perishing kiss Of a fair worshipped sister and partner of bliss. . But the thought of thy country, — that heaviest thought. Of a lofty-souled people to slavery brought, — No wonder it came like a withering blight. And spread o'er the future its mantle of night. Alas, that the ties which are broken in twain. Can never, on earth, be united again ! 12* 138 POEMS. Alas, that oppression and tyranny stand Like merciless vultures, to prey o'er that land ! AlaS, that the batiner which Liberty rears, Must bathe its pure folds in a foreiguer'l9 tears-. And the arra that is stretched for the exile's relief, Must -wreath o'er his forehead the chaplet of grief ! 1831. TWILIGHT ON THE SUSQUEHANNA. LoTELT indeed thou art, cahn twilight hour. With thy dim veil of silvery vapor flung O'er all created things, shrouding alike The gorgeous temple, and the meek, low flower. Within thy silent wings. Lovely thou art. And ever hast thou been to me a time Of pure refined enjoyment, such as day, With all its glowing beauties, ne'er could bring. Dear art thou ever, but in this sweet spot, This lone wild bower, so hidden from the world. Thou wearest a charm doubly imperative, And playest the magician with my woman's heart. Forms dost thou conjure up, — familiar forms Eecline, as usual, on yon grassy slope, And hands are busy braiding wild-rose vrreaths. And plaiting blue bells, 'mid the rich dark hair Which flings its restless curls o'er brows more pure Than the white snow-flake on Himmaleh's top. Voices are in mine ear, whose witching tones Come up, in e'en discordant harmony, Blending the sounds of laughter and complaint, Of wit, embarrassment, of love and pride. With the low music of the waves, to give A softening solo to the unfinished piece. And is it all unreal ? Ah, thou hour — Thou deep, deluding twilight — thou dost sure People thy haunted atmosphere with shades, Clothed in the habiliments of life and light, To lead astray the trusting fancy, by Their ignis fatuus wanderings ! POEMS. 139 'T is over now — The vision has departed, and I leave The land of dreams, and pay my court alone To thee, vmoertain Memory. And yet "What art thou, tyrant, but the sorcerer's wand Which calls at will those scenes of long ago, The same which I supposed had left me now ? And here, again, thou bringest another to My spell-bound sight. Yes ; many years have passed Since, in this hallowed spot, I bade farewell To her whose love had been my guiding star — The glad, warm summer of my darkened life. She was my friend — my best — my earliest — The being who had well-nigh drained my heart Of aU its sympathies, and made me pour The incense of my spirit out before A deity of earth! — but now 'twas time Our destinies should sever, and we met To " look our last " and take our different paths. Twilight hung o'er us, beautiful as now, And, save the low murmurs of the eddying wave And the occasional note of night's sad bird. No sound disturbed the silence of the scene. Blue clouds hung round the hill's far towering height. Like some tall spirit's floating drapery Inwrought with tints from the fair rainboWs wing ; And in the distance, like a thing of life. Arose our fairy island, with its trees. Its deep embowering trees, whose boughs bent down To bathe their dark-green tresses in the stream. 0, it was lovely, exquisitely so ! And in that hour of chastened grief, we felt The presence of a high, mysterious power. Inspiring confidence ; and when our hands Were clasped in fervent prayer to God, that all Our after life might be directed by The wisdom which descendeth from above ; That all our hopes might centre in that truth Which gives alone the peace that never fails ; 140 POEMS. And that our youthful love might gather strength, Living, through absence, undiminished still, And be at last perpetuate with all This beauteous earth's intelligence, — our tears Our parting tears, vyere liope and not despair. 1832. MUSIC ACROSS THE WATER. Hush ! not a breath. A soft low note is stealing From the wave's murmuring lip. O, comes it from The spirit of thy precious depths, bright stream ! Warming my heart that I may never leave Thy loved and honored banks % Again, again ! — There is a little isle, half hid in mist. Whereon the smiling moon doth look more kind Than elsewhere ; and the rising strain doth seem To swell from its wild bowers. 'Tis there, 'tis there ! A clear, lone bugle-note is trembling on The stilly air. And now the mellow flute. The clarinet, the spirit-stirring drum. And all those soul-touched instruments which thrill With euch wild ecstasy the bounding pulse And the vibrating nerve — all, all are joined ; And o'er the wave-kissed beach there comes a rush Of such ecstatic melody, I feel My heart dissolving in its own warm tears. Music, immortal music ! thou dost lure The spirit from its home. ! leave me not With all this darkness round me. Give me wings — Give me sweet freedom, music, for thy voice Doth whisper secrets of thy lovelier home, And I would dwell with thee. POEMS. 141 TO 0. M. S. Ladt, 'tis tmo " we ne'er have met," And true that we may never meet, For many a weary mile is set Between us, and our days are fleet ; Yet say not 't is a " worthless " one, The " offering " which thy hand hath brought, Since its solacing tones have won Full many a wild and lonely thought Of this sad heart to pleasure back, And roused that all-responsive chord Which time nor change can ever slack, So but sweet friendship's voice is heard. If thine are not " the thoughts that breathe And words that bum," like those which flow When genius' frenzied visions wreath A chaplet of unearthly glow ; Yet, lady, yet not powerless fall The glances of thy gentle muse, For light more beautiful we call When slightly veiled by morning dews — More beautiful the rays that tinge With chastened smiles the dawning sky. Twining amid night's silver fringe. Ere the fierce sun has risen high ; And dearer are the sounds which steal In low, soft murmurs on the ear. Than such as all-o'erwhelming peal With less of melody than fear. Nor wilt thou deem it flattery when, Fair stranger, from my heart, I say. Faint are these emblems to portray What tliy sweet lyre to me hath been. And hast thou " seen a beauteous face In inspiration upward lifted " ? 'Tis well thou add'st, " a poetess Is seldom with much beauty gifted." 142 P E M 8 . ! 't were in me most svirely wrong To hint that stem, impartial nature Had added to the gift of song Both fairy form and faultless feature ; Nor will I few have likened me To Selim's peerless Nourmahal, And when beside the ivied tree, Where my own mountain torrents fall, 1 've caught, with careless eye, the light Which my reflected image gave. Much fairer I have thought the sight, Soft picttured on the purple wave — The sight of bending trees and flowers, With golden sunshine flashing through, Lovely aa those which deck the bowers, Far, far 'mid ocean's depths of blue, Where sinless beings ever stray Through fields of never-wasting bloom, Living that long unclouded day Which ends not in the darkling tomb. But this is fancy ! and must Alone wild, wayward fancy tell Of beings beautiful and just. Untainted with earth's passions fell? Alone wild fancy — 'tis unfolded, The destiny of all beneath ; The leaven of sin is early moulded Into our very thought and breath ; Our spirits catch the shades which mar The brightness of life's morning dial, And mournfully truth's brilliant star Goes dovm 'mid clouds of tears and trial. High-Bceptred pride becomes the bane. The poison of our earthly bliss ; She and her dire companions drain Our cup of holy-heartedness. Ah ! as thou say'st, we weakly cling To things from time's dark pinion cast, POEMS. 143 And find but this their comforting, They 're worse, " far worse than frail at last." But peace 't were meet a farewell tone Were echoing from my harp-strings now, For midnight's sombre hand has thrown Oblivious dews upon my brow. The world of jarring sound is lost, The yery waves and winds are still. And stars no more by dark clouds crossed, Sleep sweetly on the misty hill ; And on the half-uncurtained pane. Where the faint moonlight wanders free, My lamp's pale beams, though on the wane, Are struggling for the mastery : Yet, ere I speak that word, so oft Most fatal to the trusting heart, Hear this, my wish — May slumber soft To thee its sweetest dreams impart ; And should kind Heaven allow us e'er On time's uncertain shores to meet, O, surely 'twere to me most dear. The bliss a kindred soul to greet : If not to meet it is decreed, Still, lady, shall this prayer be mine — That Providence will ever shed Its choicest gifts o'er thee and thine. THE SLAVE. And canst thou see him toiling there. Beneath the scorching, noonday sun. And mark his look of deep despair, • Which says, " My work is scarce begun " ? - Canst thou behold his vrrithing form When the inhuman lash is given ; Behold his tears of anguish warm. And his clasped hands, upraised to heaven, - Nor say, from thy remorseful heart, " Slave, thou art free — depart — depart " ? 144 POEMS. Man, if thou canst, thy soul must be Composed of metal yet unknown — Harder than steel — and thou shouldst flee From all of life to dwell alone ! Thy home should be the desert waste — Thy nourishment the burning sand — A galling chain should gird thy waist, A manacle thy bloody hand ! Thy drink should be the negro's tears. Thy music his expiring sighs — Thy bitter days should drag like years. Thy torturing nights like centuries — Thy conscience, like a restless snake. Should keep each cankering thought awake ! The shaft of death should mock thee stUl, And thou shouldst live against thy will. Till thy proud heart could meekly say, "Negro, thou art my brother day!" 1832. THE MAIDEN MARTYR. They led her through the jeering crowd. To where the fagots high were piled. And mockingly their knees they bowed — And taimtingly they smiled. They tore her sunny locks away. And crowned her with the wounding thorn. Then bade her to their idols pray — They spoke in bitter scorn. For well they knew how powerless still Were mortal efforts to subdue Her soul's high trust — her Master's will They knew that she would do. They had no hearts, those callous men — They gazed with cold, unmoistened eye Upon their lonely victim, when They bound her down to die. POEMS. 145 They had tto hearts-^ her kindred too Stood haughtily aloof, and he, Who swore till death his love was true. Looked on her carelessly. O ! but' one bleeding heart remained Unchanged and faithful to the last ! Ofie pure, bright soul, With guilt unstained. Wept as the martyr passed ! Her love came up, in accents wild. Petitioning those men of strife, And, on her bended knees, that child Begged for her sister's life. 'Twas vain — but on the martyr's face. Which all before so calm had seemed, A gush of feeling found its place. As if her spirit dreamed. O ! she had left her father's halls. His spacious courts, and cloud-capped towers, The far-stretched woods, the water-falls, Ser own soft, smiling flowers, And all her spring-robed haunts, without One rebel sigh, and freely given, From her young sinless heart, devout, Her all for Christ and heaven. And she had meeUy bent beneath The scoffer's loud anathema^ And viewed unmoved the flaming death Prepared her soul to free. But when that sweet young sister knelt In all the eloquence of tears. And breathed in prayer the love she felt, Una wed by human fears — I'iien: — then, the tide, the long chilled tide Of crushed affections found its way, But words upon her pale lips died. Death caught their sOund away. 13 146 FOBMia. O, Jesns ! if thy faith can give To weakness such o'ermastering power, - Making the heart's seared flowiets live Fresher in trial's hour, — How should we cling to that fond hope Which tells of ties renewed again, And beais to heaven love's fragments up, To link life's broken chain ! 1832. THE INDIAN MAIDEN'S HYMN TO THE INVISIBLE. Spirit of sky, of earth, and the deep sea, Whose breath takes up the mighty forest trees, WTiose voice is heard in grand sublimity, 'Mid the dark clouds, like battle revelries — Spirit of mystery ! I bow — I bow to thee. Thou art in the wild rush of boisterous floods, And in the soft music of floating air ; And awfully, the vast untrodden woods Say, in their solemn stillness, thou art there ! Spirit of mystery ! I bow — I bow to thee. Thou walkest unseen through realms of fadeless light. Making each star a step-stone for thy feet ! Thy sans, thy worlds, and all thy works at night, Spread to thy gaze in one broad sparkling sheet ! Spirit of mystery ! I bow — I bow to thee. The farthest depths of ocean's garnished caves Flash forth the mysteries of a hand unseen — And the dread tribe that skirt the billowy waves Kaise their huge forms to show where thou has been. Spirit of mystery ! I bow — I bow to thee. POEMS. 147 Thou wakest to life the long forgotten flowers, And wreathest with rainbow hues their gentle heads ; And thou dost gild the vintage-woven bowers, "With soft beams which early sunlight sheds. Spirit of mystery ! I bow — I bow to thee. Nor pausest thou here. Spirit invisible 1 I feel thy power within my glowing heart, In Eden dreams so bland, ao beautiftil, So deeply pure, that earth bears not a part. Spirit of mystery i I bow — I bow to thee. 1832. THANKSGIVING HYMN. For the first Sabbath in November, 1832, appointed as a day of general Ihanksgifing, for the denomination of UnirersaUsts, in the United States of America. This day, Almighty God, this da^ We consecrate alone to thee ; And humbly at thy footstool pray, That with us thou wilt deign to be. Not in the pomp of pride we meet, Decked out with ostentatious art, — Ah, no, dear Lord ! low at thy feet We pour the incense of the heart. We come with songs of grateful praise, Though feebly may our tongues express How much we feel the kind displays Of thy unwearied tenderness ; We come, with hearts subdued by love, To pay deep homage to our King ; And, Father, wilt thou not approve The spirit' of the offering ? Thanks, thanks, unceasing thanks we give For all the blessings from thy hand, Thanks, thanks that thou dost let us live In Freedom's broad unshackled land — 14$ POEMS. Thanks that thy glorious Gospel light. So long by priestly craft supprest, Hath turned to day our mental night. And hushed each doubt and feai to rest. Backward we look, for years have passed Since but once voice proclaimed abroad, Unawed by persecution's blast, The name of an mpartial God; One only voice — no answered sound From Georgia to unsettled Maine — Was heard to wake the dark profound With Zion's soul-inspiring strain. The scene how changed ! — where'er we turn. Our eyes behold the genial rays Of sparkling truth more brightly bum As Tkiie flings down his radiant days ; Impartial grace, impartial grace, The words roll onward through the sky. Dark Superstition hides her face, And bigots' missiles harmless fly. Impartial grace.' — and can we faint With such a motto on our shield? Shall coward fears our bosoms taint Before the victory is sealed ? No, brethren, no ! on valiantly, — Love's mission soon will conquer all, — On, on, like 'Mvtrca.j, faithfully. And thanks from every tongue ^all faU. 1832. THOUGHTS Seside the corpse of a young and deeply lamentett coDsizk How quiet is thy sleeping, Loved one ! how calm thy rest ! While all around are weeping. In robes of sadness drest. POEMS. 149 O, Mary ! there are eyes, whose tears For thee will never dry ; And hearts, whose grief will last as long As life, or memory. How has the garland withered Which bloomed but yesterday ! The flowers thy young hands gathered. Have bowed them in decay ! And thou, more pure, more beautiful, More cherished than they all. Art laid with all thy budding hopes Beneath the gloomy pall ! There are days of pleasure comlag For the young, the gay, and fair — For the young, whose thoughts are roaming ' Unfettered as the air ; There are days of sunshine, and of joy For the happy and the free ; But some will breathe the anguished sigh. When thought returns to thee ! When they think of her whose morning In cloudless splendor woke ; Till death's untimely warning The sweet illusion broke ! They listen for that deep, low tone, To friendship's soul so dear, Then turn with tearful eyes to gaze Upon thy lonely bier. Farewell, meek, faded blossom, A holy rest is thine ; Thy calm unruffled bosom — O ! would its peace were mine ! Farewell — for other hands are near To fix thy last repose. And o'er thy dear remaias, the dark, Unyielding grave to close. 13* JjSP POEMS. They will leave thee io thy dwelling — Thy cold and narrow bed — With novight bflt wild winds syej^g Their dirge aboye thy head ; And the cypress tree will cast its leaves, Unnwinbeied o'er thy tomb, Torgetting that thy spirit lives WJie^e tempests never come. 1833. EGYPT'S LAST PLAGUE. Exodus xU. Ain> night was there — deep, solemn night — And darkness hung o'er Egypt's towers, Nor was there one dim ray of light Togild the dew-enamelled flcwers. The moon had ceased, above, her motion, And made her pillow in the ocean ; The stars shrank back, and^dun clouds spread Their sackcloth pinions overhead. The lamps, whose beams, of late, were thrown 'Mid dancing groups, were rayless now — Extinguished all — and sad, and lone, The fire-fly crept 'neath mossy stone, And sleep sat on each careless brow. And all was silence — not a sound Vibrated on the midnight air — The winds sank stilly to the ground. And clung in voiceless slumber there. The minstrels of the forest's glade Drooped listless in the woody shade — Nor all along Nile's tree-bound river Was heard of leaves the faintest shiver — It seemed as if earth's common track Were lost, and that the elements Had all dissolved to chaos back, So deathly small, so deeply black, The spell o'er dqmes {md monuments. 1832. FOJiMS. 151 But hark ! a strange, unearthly tone Pierces the wild, sepulchral gloom ! 'Tis not the shrill hyena's moan With which he greets the sodded tomb. — 'T is not the sound of distant war-r— 'T is not the lion's shout afar, Nor yet the lone cigala's cry Pealing along the midnight's sky, More mournful still — it is the wail, Of Egypt for her dead and dying; For God hath made the life-tide fail. And locked in death, all cold and pale, Are her fair flrst-born children lying ! There 's not a house her borders through, E'en to Baal-zephon's lowliest shed. But streams with death-lights dim and blue, And sings " wulwullahs " o'er the dead. The princess with tiara'd brow. The peasant youth, the high, the law, All in their last sad sleep recline — 0, Egypt, woe, deep woe, is thine ! Deep woe is thine — no voice may wake Thy cherished ones to life again ; Alas ! that one cold heart should make, Reckless, a thousand others break, And wring a world with needless pain ! The iron-hearted king arose. And threw his jewelled casque aside — His servants come with ready bows. And trumpets sounded far and wide. But 't was not foes of mortal mould Dark Pharaoh feared ; his conscience told How great the cause his hand had given To rouse the slumbering wrath of Heaven ; He sent for Moses ; " Go," said he, " Where'er the God of Israel calls — This mpnient.are your people free, But let your blessing stay ^ith me And all within my palewe walls." 152 POEMS. AN EVENING WALK IN S*********. [Imitated from Bishop Heber-I Come, go with me. The evening star Is riding in her misty car, The infant moon, with all her train, But slightly luminates the plain. Daughter of tears, she cannot bear To light a world of sin and care, But homeward to the tranquil deep She goes, to rest her eyes in sleep. There lies our path, round yonder hill, Though dim, mine eye hath found it still ; For at the winding of the rock I see returns the farmer's flock ; With cautious eye and stealthy pace They seek their nightly resting-place. Step softly now — a rustling tread Might start the rabbit from his bed ; Sweet innocent ! we would not wake His dream of joy for pleasure's sake, But onward, through the velvet grass Avoid his fern-encircled pass. 0, what an hour ! I love to gaze Upon the moon's departing rays. And watch the last retiring beam That stoops to kiss the rippling stream, And in the sunken dells to view The wild pinks glittering in the dew. And bowers of darkest emerald green Arising from the deep ravine, And mark each bed of daisies white, As pearls upon the brow of night. There is a deep, entrancing spell, The purest language fails to tell, A mystery of early youth — When all were garbed in robes of truth. And words were fair, and every breath Spoke of fidelity till death ; POEMS. 153 Though long since vanished, moumiiil night Recalls it to our fearful sight. Here pause we now — our walk is done ; The mountain-side our feet hare won, And sweetly round our mossy seat, Where walnut boughs and boxwood meet. Light woodland sounds, in nature's tone, In wild profusion round are thrown, Mingling the notes of joy and sorrow And songs to hail the coming morrow. Paler the light, and faintly seen Are boats upon the river sheen, — Dear Susquehanna, which, of yore, Beceived the children from thy shore In bark canoe, with painted face, And flowers, their olive brows to grace, 'Mid songs of war, and shouts of gleer-^ The wildest tones of revelry. Happy thy voice, thou rapid stream ; Like young life's high, romantic dream, Thy far-stretched isles, like canvas white, With gentle waving meets the sight ; The dusky elm and broader beech. Entwined with ivy, seem to reach Their arms to clasp each misty wreath That circles round, above, beneath. And the thick grapes' entangled bed Where many a hunted deer hath fled In fearful speed, nor sinew staid Until her covert she had made. Home of my childhood ! happy hours I've spent beneath thy hazel bowers. Where hope's young sunny smiles were free, TJnmarred by gad reality. But see, my friend, the gathering gloom — The darkest hour of night has come. Thy arm-!- we will retrace our way, For we must rise at dawn of day ; 154 POEMS. But ! with deepest gratitude Give thanks to Him, so great and good, Whose hand profusely here hath given A foretaste of the joys of Heaven. SPRING-DAY VISIONS. How beautiful — How passing beautiful the first bright blush Of a fair spring-day mom ! when earth, and sky, And sea, and dancing river, all seem bom Into a new existence, and the sound Of many soothing voices fills the air With 'vpitching melody. 0, 'tis as if Invisible forms from the ethereal realms Had wandered back to earth again, to pour The healing balm of minstrelsy upon The sick and wounded spirit, and to bathe, In the soft dews of heaven, the bleeding heart ! Here shall my footsteps pause, for there is not On earth one place that hath the power to charm, From ipemory's dim arcades, the glowing scenes Of life's unsullied morning, like this rude Uncultured eminence, where first my thoughts Ban wild in living fancies, and my soul Drank in the first inspiring gush of light From heaven's blue halls of beauty, and the visions Of my young restless spirit had their birth In realms of fairy splendor, and came down To bless my heart like bright realities. 'T is sweet to stand once more upon this spot Of innocent endearment — here to live. In thought, a second childhood, and behold, In fancy's blending mirror, all those wild And flashing scenes which erst awoke the tone Of mystic poetry, and caused to sparkle. Deep in the 'raptured bosom, the high flame Of ever-glowing romance, and to list The varying cadence of each rapid season POEMS. 155 As it went mumuring on its billowy course, Like dying winds of eve. First, Summer came, — All glorious its skies with roseate hues, And its proud landscapes decked with gorgeous flowers, Like the fair bosom of earth's primal Eden. And Autumn followed on — ah ! then I loved To steal to my accustomed haunt, and give My heart to sober musings, and to gaze Upon the checkered livery of the forest. When twilight flung abroad her dusky mantle. And there was much of wild, sublime delight, Li witnessing the desolating sweep Of Winter's angry whirlwinds, when the spirit Of the fast coming storm howled fearfully Along the echoing woods his wrathful dirge, While the sere leaves clung trembling to the ground. As if to kiss the foot-prints of his ire. And when the mighty rush of his strong wing Tore from this ragged rock its mossy vestments, And even shook it to its very centre. My warm imagination caught the tones Of the mad elements, and thrilled intense With breathing ecstasy. But it was Spring, , Sweet Spring, with its bland smiles and budding beauty, Which had alone the power to steep my soul In dreams of e'en delirious entrancement. Ah ! o'er me now steals the same Spring-day spell That came in by-gone hours of happiness. I feel the magic of the slanting sunshine. As it strays idly o'er my careless brow Like glances from an angel's beaming eye, I hear low, melting voices in the breeze, Communing with the pine's upshooting branches, And with the lowly violet, as if To reconcile it to its humble station. I see upon the river's glassy breast Bright images most beautifully reflected — Such as but live 'mid Chivalry's mementoes 156 POEMS. And on the page of fancy. — There are halls, High festooned halls, and battlements, and towerS', And golden canopies, Trhere dark eyes fling A chastened radiance on each knightly train -^ And snowy hands are twining laurel wreaths, Fresh for the victor's temples. — There are steeds With princely riders, whose long plumes are waving Like cherub pinions in the flowing sunlight — And there 's a circling line of glittering shields. That sparkle like an assembled host of suns. I see the unfurling banners, and I hear The first deep note of the all-startling clarion, And then the o'erwhelming flood of sounds which burst From thousand martial instruments with such Exulting melody ! — 0, earth ! dull earth ! I am another being — suno, and moons, And stars are sailing in their liquid channels. Far, far beneath me — and I bask in light Which knows no waning, gaze on forms which smile In fadeless beauty ; deep vrithin my heart Are borne the whispered words of love which fall From lips of kindred spirits. — All is calm. And pure, and passionless. The silver streams Glide noiselessly along, and flowers are bending. In " beautiful transparency," above The fount of holiness, and every breath Goes up in adoration to the Great Dispenser of all blessings — tears, nor sighs. Nor aught of this turmoiling ****** Again on earth ? Again weak Frailty's daughter, Sinful and sorrowful, partaking all The humbling feelings of our common nature ? O dreams, ye are but golden mockeries — But taunting aggravations ! I will go And mingle with the gay, unthinking crowd. With laughter on my lip ; although, perchance. Sweet mournful memories may still survive Within my soul of sadness. — I will go. POEMS. 157 O, when again I view this breathing landscape — Again ascend the threshold of my heaven — I may have other feelings — pride, and hate, And morbid selfishness, with their most dark And grovelling suggestions, then may be My odious companions ! It may be so — But, ah ! like Syria's king, my trusting heart Kefuseth to believe it. 1833. HER LAST WORDS. [From an Orphan's Diary.] Thet took us sleeping, from our beds — My sister Bell, and me — And carried us into the room Where our sick mother lay ! They bore us gently to her side. And raised her drooping head, That she might bless us once again Before her spirit fled. " 0, are they here," she faintly cried, " My beautiful, my own? " And round my little sister's form Her arms were wildly thrown ; And sweet and tender were the words That told her last farewell — Words that '11 be forgotten ne'er. By me and sister Bell. " I leave you now, my precious ones ! " - These were the words she said, — " But I shall come to you again When Christ revives the dead. The hand of time will wear away Remembrance of your mother ; But ne'er, 0, ne'er may ye forget Your God and one another .' " 14 158 POEMS. Two days passed by, and on the third Strange faces gathered round, — They told us they had come to lay Our mother in the ground, — They bade us kiss her, for the last. For she would ne'er awake ; And then we thought, with tears, upon The dying words she spake. Like other orphans, we have felt The cold world's pride and scorn, And sometimes hare we almost wished We never had been bom ; Yet still, amid the griefs and toils Spread out from day to day. Those last, fond words have kept us in The strait and narrow way. 1833. THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS. The last, the last frail link is broke, past, glorious age, which kept A sample of those few brave hearts which long in peace have slept. Nobly life's taper struggled on through chill and withering blight. As if time's hand would fain eke out its fair but glimmering light. The last, the last — we think upon that all-important day, When stem, resolving spirits sought to quell tyrannic sway. With firm, yet sorrowing hearts, those men the alien paper drew, And penned with tears the words which reft the loyal bond in two. Call it not uieakness — true, they had with fond confiding trust Leaned on an arm which spurned their love and dashed their hopes to dust ; Parental tenderness had changed to fiendish cruelty. But still there were some ties to which they clung instinctively. The struggle past — we see them rise — the weak to meet the strong. The small devoted handful led against the countless throng ; POEMS. 159 But theirs were injuries which brought the arm of Heaven to wield The sword of Justice 'gainst their foes, — Jehovah was their shield. The days, the peaceful days which came when war's wild blast was o'er, And Freedom's banner hung like light upon our happy shore, Still lived they on in usefulness, those signers few, and laid Our basis broad of equal rights — our laws in wisdom made. The last, the last — one after one those brilliant stars have set, Till thou, brave Carrol, "last not least," hast paid the final debt ; But they have left remembrances which never can depart. While one ennobling thought survives within the patriot heart. 1833. THE THREE DARK HOURS. Two hours had passed — Two dreadful hours of darkness, and the third Came slowly on — but yet no change appeared. The air was mute — the sun looked wan and dead — A few faint stars were seen, like drops of blood, Sprinkling the blackened heavens, and on the top Of the proud temple's dusky spire, a cloud " Slumbered in calm, but terrible repose." The trees were bent to earth, as if in fear Of the mad hurricane — the tall grass shivered, Though no wind was near ; and sullenly The wolf crouched in his den — the eagle sprang, Affrighted, to her eyry, and the face Of everything in nature seemed to wear A wild and lonely aspect ! 'T was the day Of Jesus' crucifixion; and around The bloody cross were gathered all the stem And haughty scions of a murderous race ; But they were awed by the alarming spell — Their brows relaxed — their lips grew white — their eyes Stared wildly on each other, and even the priest, 160 POEMS. The great high priest, bowed down his aged head, And pressed the loathsome sackcloth to his lip ! At length a voice was heard — clear, loud, and deep, Yet, ! so full of anguish, that a thrill Of answering bitterness pervaded all The assembled multitude. It savored not Of anger or reproach : but seemed as if Wrung out, by keenest suffering, from a breast Unwilling to complain. Its words rang high Throughout the echoing skies, " Why, O my God, Hast thou forsaken me?" Up rose the winds With wild and threatening howl. The thunder roUed- The lightning wreathed its long and glaring chain Adown the temple's vail — the hoaiy rocks Were rent like flax apart — the earth did quake. As if a thousand Etnas raged within. And a loud shriek of sick'ning horror burst From every quivering lip ! 'T was heard again — That deeply solemn voice ! — but now its tones Were low, and trembling, as if smothered by A sadden rush of tears. Yet there was such A depth of love and sorrow — such a sweet. Beseeching earnestness — in each faint word, That every ear awoke to intense list'ning : " Forgive than, O my Father! " All was calm. The winds were hushed — each ruffled element Subsided at the sufferer's dying prayer ! The sun broke forth in beauty, and its rays Played mournfully upon the pallid face Of God's anointed Son, while those who stood And saw, from far, the wonders that were done. Exclaimed, with gushing pity at their hearts, "TmS TEULT WAS THE ChBIST ! " 1833. POEMS. 161 TO HARRIET. They sleep, earth's weary children sleep ; But midnight brings no sleep to me, For wakeful thoughts their vigils keep, And winds are high on memory's sea, And dark remembrances arise Like spectres from each tossing wave, And scenes, like clouds on April skies, Past scenes unveiled before my eyes — Would they were in oblivion's grave. For what avails it that the heart. Whose spring-day visions live no more, Should let one truant thought depart To young life's high, romantic shore, Though e'er so lovely? Were they not, The smiles, the hopes, of those bright hours, But heralds of that darksome lot. Unsunned by one redeeming spot, A winter in its summer bowers ? I write at random — but I feel, 0, Harriet ! that 'tis. hard to brook The changes dark which hourly steal In altered tone and careless look ; Deception, where I had dreamed of naught But pure, high-souled sincerity; And selfishness, where I had thought Heaven's universal spirit taught Each earthborn interest to flee ; And vanity, and baleful pride. E'en amid intellectual fires. Like the dread Upas reared beside Jerusalem's towering spires ; And ill-concealed hypocrisy, ■ Masking corruption's vaults within ; And envy, which will never see. In virtue, truth, humility, Aught but the serpent-coils of sin. 14* 162 F E M B. But peace ! I would not dwell too long On what each softer feeling sears, ^though the elements of song Are lowering skies and heartfelt tears. Fond memory gladly turns to view An Eden, once, still all my own, Where weed of darkness never grew. Where change ne'er flung her blighting dew, And pride hath not a golden throne. Thou, thou, my more than sister, thou Hast proved the star whose gentle light, Like Heimdaller's, gilds the brow Of my faint spirit's dreary night. Our love has lived as by a spell. Through time and absence undiminished ; No ice between our hearts hath fell — 0, may it ever be as well, Until our earthly course is finished. STARS. Inscribed to hee who will understand. Glorious and mysterious creatures that they are ! how idle the desire to penetrate the phenomenon of their existence ! Yet who hath ever gazed upon them gliding in mournful sweetness through the blue vaults of heaven, like diamonds in the chambers of the "vasty deep," and suppressed a wish to raise the veil of their history, and learn the character of the beings with which fancy ever peoples the realms of fairy beauty? But, alas! who may ever know more of them, than that " There they shine, and there they have shone, In one eternal hour of prime, Each rolling burningly alone Through boundless space and countless time " f It is natural for us to attach ourselves to the beautiful, in inani- mate as well as animate nature, and I, though I disclaim the appellation of " star-gazer," have nevertheless more nearly wor- shipped the lights which form the " burning blazonry of God," POEMS. 168 than aught else upon which my eye hath ever rested. I very ■well remember one lovely evening of my dreaming days — alas ! what does youth ever but dream ? — we were straying through our favorite isle, and watching the increasing brilliancy of the stars as they stole down one after another from their dim resting- places, when it was proposed that each of us should select one as our favorite, to which we would ever affectionately cling as to creatures of life and intellect. It was a childish fancy, — as of course it might be expected, for we were children then, — but I remember we chose the brightest, and mine was the brightest 9f the chosen. It was like that which shines so conspicuously in the girdle of Cassiopea. But it was alone ; like a master- spirit of earth it seemed to breathe a separate atmosphere ; its pathway lay along the purple fields of the west, and it rolled onward, onward, a world of glorious mystery, till suddenly a dark cloud o'ershadowed its surface, and when I again beheld it, its brilliancy, like the first fond hopes of the poet, had melted down to dim and uncertain glimmerings. Yet to my heart That one lone star, that one lone star. Which lingers in the dark blue west. Like some neglected isle afar Upon the wild sea's heaving breast ; That one lone star, though faint its ray. And tearful every glance it gives, Is dearer than the bright array Which in fame's glowing circle lives. That one lone star — 0, 1 have drank Its twilight beauties, till my eye From every earthly object shrank. And heaven seemed bending from the sky ; And forms more beautiful than light When trembling on the dewy spray, Came softly on the wings of night, To steal my soul's deep griefs away. Thou one lone star — the spell is o'er — The wing of fancy droopeth now ; And my Worn spirit lives no more To melting voice and angel brow ; 164 POEMS. Yet do I love thee, child of tears ; For, like the love no change may chill, Thy beams, assailed by blighting years, Are gentle and subduing still. THE REVIVALIST. He stood by the altar, a being of gloom. With a visage as wan as a ghost from the tomb. And he lifted his voice as a messenger sent To make the unsanctified sinner repent. But what were his words ? were they such as were spoken 'Mid the wilds of Judea, when fetters were broken ; When the poor burthened soul burst its shackles of fear, And rejoiced that the kingdom of heaven drew near ? Did he preach to his people the gospel of peace ; The message which causes the mourner to cease ? Did he melt the proud heart vrith the language of love. With the spirit that breathes from the Changeless above 1 Ah, no ! — nothing like it. From Sinai's scathed height He had snatched the last phial of wrath, in his might ; And he hurled forth its contents of vengeance and ire, Till he made every hope of the wretched expire ! He heaped o'er each vision thick clouds of despair. Tin the frozen heart sunk with its half-uttered prayer ; And then, like Morkanna, he turned him and laughed When he saw that his victims the poison had quafled ! Ye — ye, who have listened to preaching like this. Till ye hung, as it were, o'er the pictured abyss, Did it never occur, that ye possibly might Have been led by a teacher deprived of his sight ? Come away — come away from the Samiel's breath, It bears on its pinions the arrows of death ! It will wreath for your future a ohaplet of care ; 'lis the whirl of the tempest — the Lord is not there ! POEMS. 165 Come away ! for as well might ye stand on the verge Of Etna's red crater, unharmed by its surge ; Or as well might you drain the fell dews which distil Erom the dark Upas tree, unattended with ill. Come away to the beautiful gardens that lie All smiling and bright, 'neath a soft vernal sky — To the fair promised land where the waters of life Glide smoothly along, unembittered by strife. Peace dwells in its borders — the penitent one. Though crimsoned his hands with the deeds they have done. May find a sure refuge, from guilt and despair, 'Neath the banner of Truth, for Jehovah is there .' 1829. JUDAS. "Then covering with hifl steel-gloved hand his darkly XDOumAil brow, *No more, there is no more,' he said, * to lift the sword for now.* " Bernardo del Carpio. The morning sun shone brightly down an ancient pillared aisle, Betraying many a proud lip wreathed with hate's triumphant smile ; And low and vengeful threats were heard, as the Saviour onward With soldiers watching at his side and chains about him cast. A mournful smile he gave to those who sought his life's pure stream, A smile of love to the surging crowd he was yielding to redeem ; Then on to the halls of the Roman judge, like a lamb to the butcher's stall ; But one was there on whom his smile like a withering curse did fell. A wild form rushed through the startled crowd, and through the unguarded door. And to the high-raised Rabbi seats o'er tho cold resounding floor : — 166 POEMS. 0, there needed no deep 'words to tell of the conflict dire within, Of the burning of remorseful thoughts in the traitor's heart of He bared his dark, stem brow before those priests of haughty mien. And the dews of his wrung heart's agony in each deep-drawn line were seen ; And his broad chest heaved, like the troubled sea at the storm- king's earliest breath, And the hue of his quivering lip and cheek was the livid hue of death.' " Take back," he cried, with a hollow voice, " take back your unrighteous bribe — T is the price of blood more pure than runs in the veins of the Levite tribe ; Take back the coin, it hath scorched my soul, like a brand of that quenchless fire Which flashes up at Moloch's feet, 'mid Hinnom's vale of ire. " Take, take it back ! — 0, men of stone ! I see how vain are all The pleadings of this bursting heart, for the bird is in your thrall ; And ye will quench the brightest flame at virtue's holy shrine, While I — O, bitterer pang than death ! — must feel the giUlt is mine." And the traitor slowly bowed his head, and cast upon the floor The meed of his cruel treachery, then sought the temple door, Murmuring, as on the marble tiles his faltering footsteps fell, " Noblest and best of human hearts, I have murdered thee — farewell ! " And silence sat upon his lip and dimness in his eye. And the sunshine warmed no more his heart, for the fount of joy was dry ; Sadly the strong man sought his death, by a frenzied grief op- pressed ; O, surely such deep grief at last was with forgiveness blest ! 1834. POEMS. 167 THE BURIAL OP GEORGE PEJEE, THE LAST OF THE ROYAL UNCASES. Whoever has visited the beautiful and romantic city of Norwich, Conn., will remember the Indian burying-ground, a small hill to the west, finely skirted with majestic oaks. Here repose the ashes of ITncas, the great friend of the whites, with naught but a gray flag-stone to mark the spot. This, however, bears an inscription, no part of which I can recollect, except the last two lines, which follow : — " Tor courage bold, and things wareffan. He was the glory of Mohegan." During the President's tour through Norwich, in June last, the ceremony of laying the corner stone of a monument, to be erected to the memory of Uncas, was performed, and an eloquent address delivered on the occasion, by Gov. Cass. Soon after this I witnessed the burial of George Pbjee, the last of the royal family } and it gave me- a feeling of deep melancholy to gaze upon the degraded train of mourners that 'fol- lowed him, and contrast in my mind then: appearance with that of their noble and departed ancestors. Last of a noble race — the red sun flings Its dying splendors o'er thy dusky brow, And a low murmur from the wild- wood springs, As if some spirit from the dark oak's bough Had spread its wings To bear thee to thy heaven of happy things. Last of the Uneas — not as formerly Steal the brave warriors to yon lonely hill, With flashing arms in stern solemnity, Bearing their precious burthen slow and still, And reverently Placing the loaded rifle at his knee. 0, not as then ! — a small and feeble band — A mockery of that high and gallant race — Around the dead Mohican idly stand. Like hunters wearied with the mountain chase ; And not a hand Grasps now the hilt of trusty forest brand. Yet in each dark and half-averted eye A restless spirit lurks, which seems to say — "Though ye have caused our native pride to die, Ye whites, and taken our lands and homes away, There '11 come a day When Manitac each injury will repay." 168 POEMS. A CLOSING SCENE, Suggested by perusing a thrillingly interesting passage from the " Diary of a lat« London Physician." Still dreamed he on — although an icy hand Pressed heavily his heart ; and breath and pulae Gave an uncertain answer, and the dews Of death weighed down his eyelids and displaced The life-lines of his cheek. — Still dreamed he on. And from his hollow chest the vrild thoughts came In soft yet earnest murmurs, like the sounds Which sometimes, when the winds and waves are hushed. Steal up from ocean's depths, as if to cheat Our hearts into belief of heaven below. Still dreamed he on. — 0, he had always dreamed ! His life had been one wild and frenzied vision : — An evening 'neath the tropics, where the moon Bevrilders with her beauty tUl the eye Forgets the coming darkness, — a dark stream. Plunging 'mid subterranean rocks, with joy At the imagined sunbeams on its breast. And singing gayly dovm the gloomy vault Destined to be its grave. Such was his life — A magic wand had drawn the fatal ring In which he proudly stood, and spumed alike The things of earth and heaven, and shut his heart 'Gainst common hopes and common sympathies. He heard no voice but from Parnassus' heights ; He spake not but in words of ancient men — Deep burning words, .^schylus-like — and owned But one desire — one all-absorbing wish — To fling his spirit into deathless verse, And write his name upon the glowing stars. And on the pillars of eternity. And time passed on, and health and life decayed, And all life's comforts too, and none was found To clasp his dying hand, save one, who felt POEMS. 169 Some pity, though a stranger. But the words Of consolation fell as idly as The whispers of the wind. — Still dreamed he on, Still lived in his own world — the Poet's world, — Still basked in Grecia's smiles, and drank the tears Of heaven-bedewed Italia, and resigned, At last, his martyred being with the words Of Euripides trembling on his lips. THE WANDERER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. He did not mingle with them, but his eye Gazed earnestly upon each happy face Assembled underneath the vine-clad eaves Of a New England cottage, and his head Assumed a listening attitude, as words Of unaffected kindness greeted him. The last one welcomed to the social ring ; And his lip quivered when each grateful heart Sent forth its aspirations, in the deep. Emphatic voice of sacred melody. Yet stood he still apart, and when the last Soft fading ray of sunset bade them seek The comforts of the parlor, he was seen Gliding with stealthy step along the banks Of the scarce noted Quinnebaug. And long did he bathe his fevered brow In the waves of the dusky stream, And his eye looked down on the golden path Of the sun's departing beam ; For his spirit had mounted its lightning wing, And away in the glowing west Did he hail once more that spot, of all On earth he loved the best. And again did he steal, as in former days, Unseen through the garden gate. And he crept o'er the hedge, where with beads and flowers His youngest sister sate ; 15 170 POEMS. He heard the voice of his brother's flute, With its soft and mellow tone, And he gazed with a beating heart on each Familiar tree and stone. And he bent him forward to catch the sound That came from the sideling glen. As the whoop and tossing arms proclaimed That the welcome one was seen ; He felt in his pockets the ready hand Of each pilfering little wight. And he gravely undid the parcel which held The gifts of Saturday night. " Here, these are for you, and you," he said; But the excited tones of his own voice Boused the lone wanderer from his reverie ; The spell of fancy passed like light away. And his brow sunk upon his trembling hand. While mournfully he murmured to himself, " Alas ! I only dreamed, I only dreamed." THE AGED CONVERT. The first impressive prayer was o'er, the hymn's last verse was sung, And solemnly its dying notes along the arch-way rung. When from his desk the preacher rose, with Heaven's immortal book. And from among its sacred leaves his holy motto took. The aged mourner bent above his brave, his youthful dead. And on his trembling hand reclined his snow-besprinkled head ; A heavy sadness dimmed his brow, his furrowed cheeks were wet, And mournfully his glances fell upon the pall of jet. But he listened not, nor heard the words which would have poured A balm within his wounded soul, and peace and hope restored ; He listened not — for prejudice and blinded bigotry Had steeled his heart, and made him deem God's truth but heresy. POEMS. 171 He listened not — his fancy roved 'mid scenes of happier years, Ere yet the grave-grass rank had grown beneath his moistening tears; When infant voices carolled forth a happy roundelay, And all the gloom of care was chased by love's glad smiles away. But, ah! a death-tone mingled in each pleasant household sound, — He saw his cherished ones go forth, in sin's dark fetters bound ! He followed to their dying beds, he heard their parting breath — All — all changed — alas! their doom he thought was endless death ! O, bitter were the tears which fell upon the cofl5n-lid. And deep the unavailing sigh his pride would fain have hid, And heavy was the old man's heart, that aU his hopes were gone, Garnered and sealed in the pale form of his lamented son ! " And tears from all shall flee away " — the mourner gave an ear ; This was the first of heresy his pride had deigned to hear ; And though he strove to list no more, he could not help but cling With fondness to those promises, so deeply comforting. " The ransomed of the Lord shall come to Zion's holy hill. And songs of praise and shouts of joy the heavenly courts shall fill. And every knee shall bow to God, and every tongue confess That I, the Lord, their helper am, their strength, their right- eousness." 0, sweeter than the welcome sound of streams in Araby Was the " stUI small voice " that softly spoke his captive spirit free ! ^ And bright as those pure rays which fell round Israel's shepherd youth. Appeared salvation's glorious plan arrayed in gospel truth. A change was o'er the old man's heart, a change his looks be- And the deep stream of wakened hope from his full bosom broke — His eyes were raised in thankfulness, his words were strong but brief, — " 0, Lord, I do believe thee now, help thou mine unbelief! " 172 POEMS. THE FIFTH DAY OF FEBRUARY, 1834; OR, A SPRING DAY IN WINTER. Just like a day in spring — as pure the air. As sweet the gushing -vraters, and as bright The laughing sunshine on the purple hills, E'en like the early spring. The harsh-voiced wind Comes now in gentle murmurs. In the west Are congregated all the beauteous hues Of a soft April evening, and the buds Of the encouraged lilac half betray ' Their hidden emerald to the friendly sun, E'en as in early spring. 0, stealeth thus, At times, upon the winter-shrouded heart The stinted day of joy ! The angry rush Of ever-jarring passion dies away Softly, as doth the tempest, when the wing Of its great spirit droopeth to the earth In preparation for a wilder flight. The sun of Hofe comes smiling up life's sky With healing in its glances, and the fount Of human sorrow waxeth dry before Its summer-searching beams. Yet who hath e'er. E'en in these spring-day seasons of delight. Forgotten that all-chilling voice which tells Of suns that set in clouds — of smiles that wake But to conduct the garnered gems of grief. And morrows that only dawn to show The cheerless prospect of a rayless sky? POEMS. 173 TO A LONG ABSENT FRIEND. Oter hill and over vaUey, River deep and forest dark, Speed my spirit's tireless pinions, Like the wanderer from the ark — Seeking thee, my earliest idol, 'Mid the South's voluptuous bowers. Where thy life-stream floweth brightly, 'Neath a lovelier sky than ours. Thou art where the proud magnolia Sunward lifts her starry eye. And the oleander yieldeth License to the passer-by. Fairy music floats around thee, Blue streams murmur at thy feet, And a rare and grateful homage Thy uprising merit greets. Admiration gilds thy morning With her smiles so bland and free ; Like a bird at noon thou revest. But at night thou art with me. When the moon her silver lustre Mingles with the dreamer's rest. Then, as in the past, I meet thee. And my soul is deeply blest. Then I clasp thy dear hand tightly. Press thy velvet cheek to mine, And with breathless rapture listen To that thrilling voice of thine. All thy wild and girlish beauty. With its later, tenderer hue. Plash by turns upon my vision. Like the light through drops of dew. Sometimes hand in hand we wander Through that sweet secluded vale, Where our youthful spirits plighted Those high vows that ne'er can fail. 15* 174 POEMS. All the old wild paths are chosen, Which of yore we loved so well — Tangled woods, and mountain passes. Mossy grot, and laurel dell. Sometimes by the brooklet's margin Thy beloyed form I see. With thy newly-braided roses, Seated on some fallen tree ; Trilling now some ancient ditty, Chiming in with wild bird's song, And with peals of merry laughter Hasting time's dull car along. Sometimes by that " lonely river," Where our parting tears were shed, When the stars are high, I meet thee. As the living meet the dead ; Then thy face doth shine upon me. As the holy Stephen's shone. And thou speakest like the seraphs Bowing at the golden throne. Then we talk of those who left us. When our hearts were wild with bliss. And I feel that thou partakest Their eternal happiness ; And I turn me from my dreaming To the gay and careless world. But my spirit's boding pinion Still refuseth to be furled. O, beloved! a sad conviction, Like an ice-drop, chills my heart. That I ne'er again shall meet thee, Till life's threads are worn apart ! Still I pray, and still I cherish Hopes once more to see thee here, If, indeed, thou 'rt not already Moving in a holier sphere ! POEMS. ITS DEVOTIONAL MOMENTS. These spring-time hours, how sweetly do they glide Afong the surface of time's murmuring stream ! The warm, bright sun diffuseth far and wide The life-fraught influence of his mellow beam ; Green verdure springs beneath the airy tread, Fresh odors breathe in every passing gale, Young violets smile along their mossy beds, And light-winged birds seek out the quiet vale ; The mountain rill sings gayly on its way. Kissed by the daisies on its pebbly shore, And silver clouds along the blue sky stray, And on the earth baptismal blessings pour. Lovely, most lovely, nature, art thou now, Simple, yet queenly, all thy graces are ; For He whose hand so richly gemm'd thy brow. Of his own spirit gave thyself a share. Love is thy heart. Love is the fire that warms The slenderest fibre of thy giant frame, — The breath that gives the majesty of storms. Yet quells them with one gently whispered name. The billowy sea, the strong rock lightning-cleft, The humble dew-drop, the lone forest-flower, Each wear the charm by that high spirit left, To win the wayward by its quickening power. And is there. Lord, one eye that kindleth not With holier light while gazing thus abroad ? One heart whose fervent prayer ascendeth not. With nature's eloquence to nature's God? Thy grace forbid ! The earth is full of thee ; — Make thou each soul, most Holy One, the same ; Bow down in worship every stubborn knee. Illume our shrines with an undying flame. Until the law unbroken shall be prest To every heart as its supremest good. Thy love become the tenant of each breast. Thy glorious truth the spirit's daily food. 176 POEMS. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. Away to the prairies ! the hour is at hand, I must fly my sweet home to the paradise land, Where the flowers are the brightest, the blue skies more clear, And the wild-wood is thronged with the elk and the deer. Away to the prairies ! Dear father, farewell ! 0, dark is that word, as these tear-drops may tell. Farewell, my lone brother ; we part not for long — We shall soon join again in the hunter's wild song. Away to the prairies ! Sweet sisters, one kiss — Beloved ! may your cups ever sparkle with bliss : As bright be your lives as your roses, ye blest — But forget not your brother, whose home is the West. Away to the prairies ! O, bitterest now Comes the pang to my heart and the ice to my brow : I kneel, but, my mother, thy lips cannot bless * Thy heart-stricken child, nor return his caress. The death-dew is gathering upon thy pale cheek ; To tell thy soul's wishes thy breath is too weak ; Thy dimm'd eyelids droop, yet is written beneath, " The love of a Mother is stronger than death." Away ! dearest mother, we 're passing away, Like the spring-loving birds from stern winter's decay : Thy home will be bright, but in mine may be tears — 0, gild with thy spirit my desolate years ! Away to the prairies ! the parting is o'er ; My steed bounds with joy towards Missouri's far shore — My dreams are of mountain, of river, and plain ; — Will they bring me my home and my mother again? * He was obliged to leave home at a time when his mother's decease was dailj expected. pOEjffiB. 177 JUNE TO THE INVAtlD. " O, LOVELIEST art thou, month of many flowers, To this sick pining heart ! " Thus sang a child — A child of ten soft summers, and again Bared to the freshening breeze her roseless cheek, StiU murmuring as each balmy breath stole by — " 0, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! " Thy sunbeams clothe the grass With a more heavenly garment, and the atreama Whisper, as on they pass, The spirit-musio which so lives in dreams ; Gentle and voiceful are thy evening showers, — O, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! " The lilac's breath comes up To the high casement purified and bland, And from the lily's cup Faint odors by the bees' soft wings are fenn'd : Bright are the birds that seek thy green-leafed bowers, — O, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! " Voices are kinder now. And higher, holier influences obtain ; Joy sits on each fair brow, Nor lights sweet love his altar-fires in vain ; No shade of gloom o'er nature's empire lowers, — 0, loveliest art thou, month of many flowers ! " Dearest, I would depart, While thou dost wreath with smiles the opening grave, Giving the throbbing heart That holy quiet which the weary crave : O, faintly struggle now frail nature's powers ! — Give me my rest, thou month of many flowers ! " And as the snow-drop folds its pure bright leaves Before the tears of night, so gathered up With smile and song that frail and beauteous child 178 POEMS. Her robe of mortal happiness, and bowed Her eyes to death's sweet sleep — the loveliest flower That e'er gave incense to the skies of June. THE PARENTS' FAREWELL TO THEIR CHILD. " Fare thee well, our last and fairest " — - Dearest Emma, fare thee well ! There is slumber on thine eyelids Morning's light can ne'er dispel. Vainly hath deep knowledge striven With the conquering angel's power ; Darkness evermore encloseth Thee, our stricken flower ! ! as through our happy dwelling like a sunbeam thou didst stray, Little did we deem such anguish E'er could make our hearts its prey. On thy cheek health's rosy lustre Such far-reaching promise gave. That our weak, unthinking spirits Half forgot the grave. And that rich, unearthly beauty. Which should ever startle love. Only drew our fond hearts closer To our little nestling dove ; And, entranced, we watched the vision, Growing every day more bright. Till the death-wind, wildly moaning. Swept it from our sight. Tears will flow, yet, ah ! how vainly Gush the troubled founts of woe ! Time alone hath power to soften Such an overwhelming blow. POEMS. Ever-tender recollections Press ■with melting voices round, And each burst of sorrow leaveth Sorrow more profound. "We behold our little angel Wheresoe'er our dim eyes turn, And her young lips' thrilling music Bach sad hour our bosoms bum ; And we start with joy, and listen For her busy steps at play. Till remembrance wildly pointeth To the shrouded clay. And we feel those dear eyes never Shall their pearly lids unclose. Nor that sweet, pale brow in slumber On our yearning hearts repose ; Never those fond arms caress us With their warm and loving clasp ; And we fain would turn and welcome Death's unfriendly grasp. Yet why should we vainly linger By the dear but soulless clay? Know we not our loved one. wingeth, Like a bird, her upward way? Seeking heaven's young, happy children, In their midst a welcome guest — Even now, perchance, she leaneth On the Saviour's breast ; — And her lisping voice doth whisper Thanks that he has called her home, Ere the tempter's wiles had lured her From life's narrow path to roam ; Cherished by such love as never E'en a mother's heart can know. Bright and happy as the seraph's. Far from our deep woe. 179 "i,^ POEMS. CHRIST'S PARTING WITH HIS DISCIPLES. As yet 't is scarcely dawn — the gray mist rests In dim and solemn beauty on the boughs Which shade the streams of wooded Bethany. The wild flower rears her cup to catch the tears Sent down from unseen eyes, and the low voice Of day's first zephyr whispers 'mid the leaves Of the bowed olive, like — ! love, like thee, When first thou speakest to the yielding heart. And sleep is on Jerusalem — the dark. The blood-besprinkled city ; but the dreams Of her uuhumbled Pharisees are fraught With troubled memories — not such as shed A melancholy radiance around The couch of suffering innocence, but wild And bloody reminiscences come up From guilt's unsleeping fountain, and the words Of him who sought in mercy to remove Afar their bitter bondage, greet them now Like oracles of fate — too late, too late ! And that remorse which righteous Heaven hath made To follow crime's red footsteps, even as The shadow doth the substance, glares above The murderers of Christ. But who are these. For whom the ponderous gate thus early breaks The death-like stillness ? and wherefore do they steal At this dim hour towards Bethany's green hills, Where yet the wild fawn keeps his dewy bed ? They are not pilgrims, for they bear nor scrip. Nor stafF, nor sallow parchment. Peasants they seem, Few, faint and poor, with thin and tattered garb, And sandals worn, and bowed, uncovered heads. And looks which speak bereavement ; yet they lift On high their mellow voices, and their griefs Seem lessened as they sing : — " Again, our Father, ere the first Faint tinge of morn hath left the sky, POEMS. 181 Or the sweet forest birds have burst The sleep which chains their melody — We of the scorned yet faithful few Who worship thine anointed Son, Beseech thee kindly to renew The spirits which thy love hath won. " Strengthen us, Father, for the hour Which breaks our little fold is nigh, And our loved Shepherd's voice no more Shall thrill our hearts with ecstasy. Strengthen us, Father. O ! impress Each mind with thine unerring will, , Else may this grief's deep bitterness Leave a repining spirit still." They pause — for through yon dimly opening glade Steals the faint sound of footsteps, and a voice, Whose lightest whisper hath the power to charm The soul to heaven's portals, reaches each Scarce breathing listener : — " Children ! " It is He, The dead, the risen, the worshipped — O ! to them The all of heaven and earth ; and as they kneel In silent adoration at his feet, Their eyes are fed with beauty, such as ne'er Before blest human vision. 'T is the form Of Him whose hand waved thijough chaotic gloom. And dashed out light from darkness. 'T is the eye Whose flashes laid bleak Sinai's summit bare. Yet died away, like sunset's glow, in sweet And tender glimmerings. 'T is the voice Which rocked the solid earth, yet grew at last So still, so small, so touching, that the heart's Deep streams gushed out in floods of blessed tears. O ! 'tis the glorious image of our God, The Father of our -spirits — it is Christ. " Children " — each brave seeks reverently the ground, And all is hushed in silence, while the last Deep farewell words are spoken. 16 182 POEMS. " Children, peace be unto you ! Ye hare done Wisely, my faithful, to obey the call Of your true Shepherd — for the setting sun Shall look on earth and see ye scattered all. But I will bless you, and my words shall be As manna to your spirits, and the light Of their deep truths shall keep ye ever free From sin's strong bonds, and sorrow's gloomy night. Blest, ! ye chosen of my soul, be blest On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest. " I send ye forth like sheep 'mid beasts of prey, To suffer persecution's venomed hate ; But murmur not — a voice from day to day Shall whisper comfort which can ne'er abate. Go forth and preach to error-stricken man The gospel of a Father's changeless love. So shall ye sweep from earth death's heavy ban, And o'er the vulture set the peaceful dove ; And blest, O ! chosen of my heart, be blest With peace on earth, in heaven with endless rest. " Go forth, and let the flame of virtue bum So purely round you, that each eye may see. Each heart may feel, each spirit joy to learn, Children of light, that ye have been with me. And I will keep you, for your voice must win To my lone pasture countless numbers back. Go forth with joy, ye conquerors of sin ! Nations shall haste to follow in your track. And, ! be blest, ye chosen few, be blest On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest. " And now I leave you, little ones, awhile To linger 'mid the mansions of decay ; But ye shall come where pleasures ever smile, And wear the crown which fadeth not away. I leave you, but the Comforter shall write Truth's glowing lessons on each waiting heart. Then fear ye not, but trust — an arm of might Shall keep ye from temptation's wiles apart. POEMS. 183 Farewell, ye chosen of my soul ! be blest On earth with peace, in heaven with endless rest." 'T is lost — that melting voice is lost amid The strains of waiting angels — and the eyes Of that pale band, through tears, can but discern Dim beauteous wings and floating robes of light Tar in the blue sky's distance ; yet they rise With cheerful hope, rejoicing that to them Are given the words of everlasting life. With power to speak them to a dying world. THE DEAD GLADIATOR. " ' What ! who would separate the father from the son ?' — and Medon clasped the liody tightly in his arms, and covered it with passionate kisses. — * Oo ! ' said he, lifting up his faxG for one moment, — ' go ! we must be alone ! ' " Last Days of Pompeii. 'T WAS a dark cell, and ghastly streamed the half-extinguished lamp Upon the black, uncovered walls, and the floor with blood made damp ; And ever as the fitful flame an instant's radiance gave, A father's arms were seen to clasp his young, his fated brave. No smile was on the sleeper's lip, no beauty in his eye ; But locks of clustering gold shone down his forehead pale and high; And a velvet softness lingered yet upon the youthful cheek. And grace was in the folded hands — but the tongue refused to speak. " He is not dead ! it cannot be ! " — murmured a deep low tone. Like the haunting voice of midnight winds 'mid sepulchres of stone ; " He is not dead ! his heart yet beats — 0, beautiful ! to thee Life's morning flowers will yet unfold — bright days thou yet shalt see. " He is not dead ! did not these eyes behold his stately form Towering amid those savage men, like the proud oak in the storm 1 184 POEMS. 'T was Love that gave him pride and strength with iron frames to cope — Gold for a father's freedom made the Gladiator's hope. " Dead ? no ! he sleeps ! 't is but a cloud which veils the weary sun, 'T will pass, and brighter rays will dart when the mystic spell is done; Awake ! my Lydon, hear'st thou not ? thy father calls thee now ; Awake ! I cannot kiss away the cold dew from thy brow ! " Thou answerest not — ah ! now I know thy sun hath lost its beams — The hand of death hath frozen up thy young life's gushing streams ; Thy love hath murdered thee, poor boy — my crushed, my blighted flower, Ages of slavery ! what were ye to this o'erwhelming hour ? " Away ! intruders — would ye part the father and his child ? Away ! — for scenes of other years press mournfully and wild. Leave ua alone ! the dying hath communion with the dead, And visions of unearthly hue are o'er our spirits shed ! " Faint grew each word, and fainter still came the last whispered prayer, Which gave a crushed but trusting soul into a Saviour's care ; And the bowed head, with its silvery locks, 'mid the heart's red streams was pressed ; — On the bosom of his youthful son had the mourner found his rest ! 1835. THE DEATH OF SISEE4. Judges, Chapter iv. The fugitive paused at the Kenite's tent, And the blood on his dark cheek came and went Like the lightning's flash, or the waves of the sea When they rush to their caverns tumultuously ; And his breath came quick, and a cold sweat stood 'Neath the glittering clasp of his helmet rude ; fOEMS. 185 And a shade as of death passed over his face, For he thought of his flight and its deep disgrace. He drew his bright sword from its iron bed, And a scalding tear on its surface shed. Then broke it in twain, and the fragments cast In a stream which the tent of the Kenite passed. " So brittle," he cried, " were the hopes of the mom — So soon was the laurel-wreath trampled and torn — So perish the honors my prowess had sought ! For the warrior is humbled — the chieftain is naught.' But the arras is raised, and a fair form stands In Heber's door-way with beckoning hands, And a smile so kind, and a voice so sweet. That the warrior is lured to her dread retreat. He enters the door, and his parched lips drain - Sweet milk from the flocks of fair Zaanaim's plain, And he lays down his weary limbs to rest. With the Kenite's mantle upon his breast. What bodes, dark Jael, that smile of ire ? And the snake-like gleam from thy eyes of fire ? Why closes thy hand on that long sharp nail? And the huge hammer rests in thy fingers frail ? Thou wouldst not injure the fallen great 1 0, darker than death is their vanquished state ! And Sisera's lord is with thine at peace — Away ! let thy murderous purpose cease ! With a cat-like stealth did the traitress steal To the prostrate chief, and beside him kneel, And she raised her hand, but he spake in sleep Wild words which might make the hardiest weep. O listen, dark Jael ! thou too hast a son, — Couldst thou spare from thy bosom that darling one ? He speaks of his moihei — mad woman, away ! But when did the tigress e'er turn from her prey? She raised her hand, and a crimson stream Gushed forth to the low tent's rafter beam ; And the chief like a goaded lion rose And wildly called for his craven foes ; 16* 186 POEMS. And he felt for his sword — when his dim eye saw That a woman had dealt the treacherous blow ! And he fell with a groan on the blood-stained floor, And yielded his life at the Kenite's door. 1836. THE ISLAND GRAVE. 'T IS in a sweet and quiet spot, That humble island grave ; The rock which guards its sacred dust Pellucid waters lave, And o'er its green and sloping breast TJnplanted vrillows wave. The earliest birds assemble there, The earliest spring-flowers too ; And there the sun first bathes his lips In the cool and hallowed dew ; But he leaves a deep and fragrant shade The sultry noon-day through. And music floats through that fairy isle On mom and midnight air ; And 't is said some gentle spirit-band Hath made its bowers their care ; For ne'er breathed human voice such sounds Save hers who slumbers there. She was a daughter of the woods. With soul of poetic flow ; With a form as light as the springing breeze. And a cheek of the amber glow ; And an eye as dark as her own bird's wing — But her heart was white as snow. She had a dream of the spirit-land, One morn ere the leaves grew dim ; And sweetly and loudly o'er hill and stream She chanted her funeral hynm ; But her eyelids drooped and she went away To sing with the Seraphim. POEMS. 187 And slowly and sadly, at moonlight hour. The chiefs of the wildwood bore " The Bird of the pine-tree's melting voice " To the fairy island's shore ; And they buried her there, and clasped their hands In blessings her relics o'er. Saying, " We leave thee, our forest's pride, With the loveliest flowers to dwell ; And ever may voices, as sweet as thine own. Around thee their music swell ; But never may white-man's reckless foot Disgrace to this green sod tell." And never hath it, for light-flamed shruba Guard it perpetually ; And birds of a sheen and rainbow wing Through its fragrant branches stray ; But voices e'er mingle in cadence sweet With the wild waves' roundelay. Noverriber, 1836. THE FAIR CAPTIVE. A Legend of the Colonies. Thbt took her by stealth from her cradle bed. And away like the deer of the forests fled To their own wild haunts, where the branching trees Chid softly the haste of the j)erfumed breeze , Where the red sun sent but a chequered beam Through the willowed banks of the mountain stream ;' Where the long shadows slept on the pearly grass ; Where the moon looked down from her sea of glass. And they smiled when they saw that her eyes were blue, And her cheek of the delicate morning's hue ; And they bribed with trinkets her falling tears, And soothed with kisses her childish fears ; 188 POEMS. And they bound round her innocent baby brow Bright feathers and beads of transparent glow ; And they laid on her form the gorgeous dress Of the richer tribes of the wilderness. And an old chief took her to be his child, And she grew with the young fawn fleet and wild ; A creature as light as the fairy down Which she chased through the glades of the forest brown ; As beautiful, too, as the softest flower Which peeps from the nook of some secret bower ; With a voice as sweet as her own tame dove. When he hymned in her presence the notes of love. She worshipped her father, the aged chief. And her smile grew sad when he spake of grief; And she loved his son as a brother dear. And she loved the stars and the fountains clear — She loved all things — for she did not know That her blood had been drained from the "drifted snow ;" She dreamed not that hers was the hated race. For she thought that the moon-beams had paled her face. But times were changed, and the flag of peace Was sent to the woods by the pale " Yengeese ;" And the Indians yielded their captive bands, With a suUen gloom to the victor's hands ; And among them the beautiful " Spring-Bird" came, — The chief had assigned her that pleasant name, — But she brought not her heart from the pine-tree's shade, And the sunbeams no more in her bright eyes played. Her parents remembered their long-lost child. And gazed with joy on her features mild ; And they placed her — a star — in their spacious halls, And her brow wore fair Learning's coronals ; And a " great one " sought her to be his bride. And she plighted her troth, though she inly sighed ; For the chieftain had taught her to yield her will To a father's wish, and her lips were still. POEMS. 189 And the bridal mom came, and the guests were there ; But they waited in vain for the " ladye-fair: " The Spring-Bird had flown, and search was made, From day to day, through the forest shade ; But made for nought, till, one sunset eve. When hope from the seekers was taking its leave, They spied, near the brink of a fountain clear, The Indian robe of their mistress dear. But a tall form bent o'er her lifeless clay. And motioned their hasty steps away ; And they dared not intrude on his sacred grief. For they knew him the son of the aged chief ; And they turned them homeward, a sorrowing band, For they loved the sweet flower of the rainbow land ; And they said that she died of a quenchless thirst For the home where her loveliest thoughts were nursed. 1836. A MOTHER'S LAMENT. "She was my idol — night and day to scan The fine expression of her form, and mark The unfolding mind like vernal rose-bud start To sudden beauty, was my chief delight." — Mrs. Si^o^rney, 'Tis over now, my lost, my cherished one — The last confining link of this frail earth Is severed — and thy spirit lives in Miss. And yet, this truth, deep as the comfort is "Which flows from its conviction, cannot blot The memory of thy suflerings, my poor babe. From this wrung, bleeding heart. ! had'st thou fallen As others do, or like the young weary buds Which tire to hang so long upon the boughs. And droop in gradual decay to earth — Had thy sweet, cherub form gone down unscathed To its dim resting-place, with e'en one ray Of ita transcendent beauty — that my thoughts 190 POEMS. Might after dwell in sad delicious dreams Upon the last deep-treasured farewell view Of my soul's jjarling — ah ! I could — I think I could have borne it. But thus to have thee Always in my imagination pictured out, With thy fair features blackened and deformed, — Thy sunny locks scorched by the blasting flame, — Thy beauteous hazel eyes bleared o'er and dim, — Thy sweet lip, once so rife with frolic mirth. Shriveled and seared ; and then thy little hands In an imploring attitude held up, With thy low, wailing voice asking the help Which none, alas ! could give. 0, my poor heart. This is too much ! — break — break, thou surely vrilt. #* ******* Peace, peace ! 'tis past ; — The almost mortal struggle of despair At last hath given over, and I feel A something like to calmness brooding o'er The intense springs of my mind's agony. The door of that dread passage now is closed. And I can look beyond the torturing scene And think on thee again, my little Ruth, As thou wert once ; and as, indeed, art now : A fair, young, smiling flower, too deeply pure To flourish long on this sin-tainted soil ; And hence transplanted by the great Gardener's hand To bowers where love and beauty never fade. Stay, stay, sweet vision ! ever let me gaze Upon that sunny aspect. 0, my child ! Though I shall weep full many bitter tears To find thy place unfilled again on earth, — Though the deep thrill of disappointed hope Will ever quicken when my eyes behold Thy silent playthings — thy bright tinsel toys. And all those cast-off speaking things that wake The chords which twine round mothers' hearts alone ;- And though the lack of thy soft gleesome voice, POEMS. 191 (When others kneel to ask the kiss which none E'er got before the worshipped of my heart) — Will seem the loss of the harp's sweetest string — StiU, still the thought that thou dost dwell within The circle of that changeless love, which said " Suffer thy little ones to come to me " — And that the time will soon arrive when thou Wilt welcome my poor pilgrim spirit home To the bright realms of blissful purity, — O, the sweet thought — with hope and faith 'tis given — That we shall meet, my cherished one, in Heaven. 1836. THE AUTUMN ROSES. " My brother had a beautiful Bose-tree standing directly under the window of his study, wliich he cultivated with great care, and which rewarded him every spring with a large number of the loveliest white roses I ever saw. On the spring, how- ever, preceding his decease, it did not blossom ; but in the fall, when everything else was going to decay, how were we surprised to behold this sweet tree drooping beneath an unusual quantity of snow-white flowers ! We did not allow one of them to be plucked until my poor brother's death, when we strewed them over his grave." Gently looked the morning sun Into a quiet room ; Softly through a broken pane Stole a sweet perfume ; " Is not that the rose's scent? " A dying sufferer said ; As a fair one o'er his pillow leant, And raised his feeble head, Whispering, the while, a few low words ; But they soothed not the spirit's trembling chords ; For the pallid cheek of the student flushed, And a flood of tears from his dim eye gushed. ' ' Roses on my beauteous tree ? Roses, didst thou say? Roses, when all sights and sounds Whisper but ' decay ' ? 192 P E M 3 . Quickly, quickly, sister, dear, Lead my footsteps where These untrusting eyes may feast On a sight so rare." And they made him a seat by the window's side, Where the bright flowers clung in their dewy pride, Smiling above the unburied leaves Which the frost had cast from the vine-wreathed eaves. "Wherefore, children of the light," Whispered he again, " Come ye in these gloomy days Near the couch of pain ? Would ye mock the fading flower Of a human tree, Boasting for its deathless root Immortality? Would you mock with your purity the heart Whence sinful passions so vsdldly start ? Or bring ye the hope of a cleansing power For the sin-dyed soul in its parting hour? " Ye are emblems, lovely flowers. Of unnumbered things — Emblems of unsuUied hopes With their airy wings — Emblems of the love which burns With a hueless ray. Spreading o'er the lamb-like mind An eternal day ; Also of hearts where a living faith Rises up coldly, 'mid fields of scathe, Startling the eye in a vrintry hour With its healing fruit and its fragrant flower. " Autumn flowers ! ye come to me As a voice might come To the wave-tossed mariner From his mountain-home ; 1836. POEMS. 193 Bringing ail sweet summer sounds From the forests deep, And the music low which makes his heart With a mournful joy to weep ; Ye come to me as the star-lit eves To the exile lone when his spirit grieves, Kindling a thought, with your tender light, Which guides me on through the closing night. " Ye are spirits of the blest, Gentle, gentle flowers ! Spirits of that sweet-voiced land Missed in all our bowers ; They who passed like twilight gleams On a summer sea, Leaving the wail of a billowy grief For their homeward minstrelsy ! O, come ye not, with your music breath, Beautiful ones, to vrrest from death This soul's dim germ and plant it where It may gather strength from purer air ? " 7P # W ^ W * tF Softly shone the morning sun On a new-made grave ; Slowly o'er a marble fresh Did a vfillow wave ; Faintly stole the southern breeze Through the dewy grass, Scarcely stirring the tall blades As its wings did pass ; When a pale and drooping form drew near, And strewed fresh roses beside the bier ; Murmuring, as each pale offering fell, " Brother ! thou lov'dst them passing well ! " A FRAGMENT. And she was seen no more. The low-roofed church, Half hid by branching elms and locusts green, Did echo ne'er again the buoyant tread 17 194 POEMS. Of that young fairy creature — and the voice. That erst did kindle in each wandering heart A deep and burning fervor, had gone out From the pale, sorrowing choir, even as doth The song of a crushed bird, or the sweet tone Of a torn harp-string touched by careless hands ; And she was seen no more. What was her fate ? There is a mound beside that low-roofed church, Unmarked by sculptured stone, but whose young grass Is softer, greener, sunnier than the rest Of the broad marbled yard ; and there 's a flower Amid those velvet turfs, — one frail white flower, — As pure and delicate as are the wreaths Quivering upon the Andes' wintry heights. Yet not more pure than was her heart who sleeps Beneath its tearful gaze. What was her fate ? They said the night-dews touched her fragile form. And she bowed down in silence, like the rose Upon her grassy bed, when evening's pearls Cling to its_ tender petals — and, as if Death were too harsh a word, they said she slept, And that they made her grave upon the spot Which she herself desired. They told not all. She died as thousands die — could we but read The heart's unwritten history — because Earth could no longer minister unto The wants of one untainted by its thoughts ; And she went back to Heaven to taste the fruits Which do not turn to ashes on the lips. 1836. THE YOUNG DREAMER. " T was Fancy wove the web." She was a dreamer. This bright world to her Was but as a gilt souvenir, whose seals POEMS. 195 She cared not to unclose. She read alone The glowing page of fancy. She communed With few, save those her wild brain conjured up From halls of fairy beauty ; and with these She held familiar converse day and night. In truth, she was most whimsical — most strange ; And none could understand her, though by all Her name was oft repeated, yet with dread, As of a thing admired, though all unknown. She had an odd dislike for things which were To others most delightful. Flowers and birds And smiling sunshine were passed idly by. As if mere trivial nothings ; and the sweet. Low, melting streams of music, which so steep In ecstasy the soul, were sure to make This wayward child an instant absentee. She loved the whirling tempest, the wild strife Of fierce contending elements. She loved The raging cataract, the cannon's roar. The dread, resounding thunder, and the winds — The mocking winds, as they careered abroad In creaking chariots through the warring skies ; And often was she seen, at evening hour, 'Mid shaggy cliffs which bent their flinty brows And stony teeth above the boiling ocean ; Her dark hair streaming in the wailing breeze-; Her hands clasped fervently, and her bright eye, Like a bewildered meteor, glancing o'er The moaning waste of waters ; while her voice, In its shrill, startling melody, was heard Above the towering surges, and the words Of its unearthly roundelay were clear As is the night-bird's carol : — " Rouse thee, 0, Spirit ! The winds are awaking. The surges are breaking And Neptune is shaking Soft, soft sleep from his eyes. Rouse thee, 0, Sjririt ! The sun leaves the billows, 196 POEMS. The mermaids their pillows, And high o'er the willows The sea-mews arise. "Soar, 0, thou Spirit! Up where the eagle is veering ; Up where the clouds are careering ; Up where the stars are appearing Ever unfading and bright ! Soar, 0, thou Spirit ! By the deep spell which is o'er thee, To the blue regions before thee, Where the pure air will restore thee, — Soar, 0, thou Spirit of light ! " She scorned the name of poetess ; although Her pencil oft betrayed her thoughts, and then The eye was dewed, the feeling heart was pained With the deep pathos, — the Promethean fire Which ran, like laya, through each breathing line. But time wore on, and she, 0, she was changed! — That being of high intellect was changed. Even in the sudden twinkling of an eye. A shadow passed before her, and she bowed Low to the earth her spirit, and gave up The casket which contained the precious gems By nature's hand so lavishly bestowed. Her mind, that golden bowl, was broken, and Its fragments far were scattered. She became The very opposite of her first self. Her foim Lost its uprightness, as if " struck with eld; " The thrilling glance of her dark, restless eye Gave place to one of indolent repose ; Her voice was low and childish, and her words Were simple and unmeaning, like the first Faint warblings of an infant. She would sit Sometimes from morn till night beside the cage Of her canary-bird, or idly nurse Her climbing multiflora. And for hours She would amuse her with the golden beams POEMS. 197 Of sunshine, as they darted through the pane And strayed amid her long, disordered looks ; And if, perchance, a cloud obscured their light, She would shed tears of unaffected grief. • «#»***** The mind ! the glorious mind ! 0, there is not In life a thing so beautiful, so bright, So greatly to be coveted, as is This soaring principle, whose empire ends Scarce with the boundless universe. It rises on the winds ; it seeks the stars ; It soars through other realms ; but there 's a line Which, if it once reach, its doom is fixed ; — 'T will fall to earth, and, like an unsphered sun, Its brightness perish there. 1836. STANZAS. It thou wouldst wake within thy heart A music that can never sleep — Wouldst bid care's shadowy gloom depart. And smile where erst thou couldst but weep ■ Go, clothe the shivering orphan boy, Who wanders lonely through the streets ; And thou shalt know such depths of joy As the world's votary rarely meets. If thou wouldst have thy midnight dreams More beautiful than dreams by day, Like perfumed flowers by woodland streams, Softer in moonlight's trembling ray — Go, watch the eye of waning health ; Go, whisper words of hope and peace ; And thou shalt have a store of wealth. Which time shall bounteously increase. If thou wouldst have thy latest breath Pass softly as an infant's sigh — Wouldst fall into the arms of death As gently as the flowers that die — 17* 198 POEKS. Speak pardon to thy kneeling foe, E'en on his head thy blessings pour ; And angels shall their smiles bestow, And bear thee to their own bright shore. 1836. CHILDREN RETURNING FROM SCHOOL. Listen ! The school for the day is out — On the evening breeze comes the merry shout, And a cloud of dust as, hand in hand, Bown the clayey street trails the happy band. Come to this window ; 't will glad thy heart To see the gem shine ere it shines by art ; Ere the smile of deceit hath obtained a place 'Mid the hallowed lines of each umocent fiice. Come to this window. See those wild boys, Swinging their hats 'mid the deafening noise ; Their cheeks are as red as the cherry pie Which at morning they carried so slowly by ; Their clothes are all dust, but they do not care. They can dance once more in the fresh, free air, " And ma and school-ma may scold an' please," When thoughts of frolic their bosom seize. Next comes a bevy of tall young girls, Glancing contempt at those graceless churls ; Their steps are light as the airy fawn When he daintily trips o'er the daisied lawn. Lace-frames are dangling from graceful hands, Curls streaming down from their velvet bands. While tongues run on with a steam-like power — Little dream they of an evil hour. Next comes a hopping and jumping crew. With torn straw bonnets and aprons blue ; Masters and misses with sparkling eyes. But some wax grave with a sour surprise ; Now brews a quarrel o'er pilfered fruit. There 's a threat, a box, and a " rising " foot, F B M S . 139 While the passing " school ma'am " in Tain essays With eloquent speeches to mend their ways ! And here, away in the silent rear, A sweet one clings to her papa dear ; He clasps the young lamb to his swelling heart, But her fair young brother stands out apart ; Large tears swell in his full blue eyes. And he scarce can smother the soba that rise. While he marvels such partial care to see Towards one that is younger and smaller than he. 0, beautiful childhood ! the golden gleam Which flashes across thy unsullied stream Brings a warmth to the heart, and the ice-drops there Dissolve like snows in a southern air. ! when I gaze down in the clear, deep spring, Where fresh thoughts like beautiful birds take wing, 1 would almost live over dark years of pain. To be but an innocent child again. 36. TRUE RICHES. Health and simplest fare — if thou hast these. Accompanied with one single steadfast friend — A conscience which thou dost not fear to bare To the great Searcher's eye, and that strong hope Whose wing ne'er tires, e'en o'er the yawning grave ■ Go thou thy way — thou art an emperor. Bearing thy crown e'er with thee ; go thy way, And thank thy God, who hath bestowed on thee The gold which monarchs covet, but in vain, 1836. INVOCATION TO POETRY. ' I said to the spirit of poesy, Come back ; thou art my comforter." Come back, come back, sweet spirit ! I miss thee in my dreams ; I miss thee in the laughing bowers And by the gushing streams. 200 POEMS. The Biinsbine hath no gladness, The harp no joyous tone, — 0, darkly glide the moments by Since thy soft light has flown ! Come back, come back, sweet spirit, As in the glorious past. When the halo of a brighter world Was round my being cast ; When midnight had no darkness. When sorrow smiled through tears. And life's blue sky seemer bowed in love, To bless the coming years. Come back, come back, sweet spirit, Like the glowing flowers of spring. Ere time hath snatched the last pure wreath From fancy's glittering wing ; Ere the heart's increasing shadows Refuse to pass away, And the silver cord wax thin which binds To heaven the weary clay. Come back, thou art my comforter ; What is the world to me ? Its cares that live, its hopes that die, Its heartless revelry ? Mine, mine, O ! blessed spirit, The inspiring draught be mine, Though words may ne'er reveal how deep My worship at thy shrine. Come back, thou holy spirit, By the bliss thou may'st impart, Or by the pain thine absence gives A deeply stricken heart. Come back, as comes the sunshine Upon the sobbing sea. And every roaming thought shall vow Allegiance to thee. ]? £ M s . 201 COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. O, PLACE not too fondly, my daughter, thy trust On the treasures that perish, the things which are dust ! For change will o'ershadow thy way with his wing, And pluck from thy path every blossom of spring. Pour out thy affections on nothing beneath ; 'T is a wasting of feelings, a savor of death ; Few days, and thy dearest shall wither and die, And thy bright visions vanish like clouds from the sky. Yet vain are my counsels — the youthful and free. With their warm kindling hopes, ever reckless will be ; Alas ! 't is their nature, unmindful to cast Scarce a thought to the future, or glance at the past. Said I 'twas their nature? Yes, daughter, but thou, With youth's brightest bloom on thy radiant brow, Draw near, while I whisper a thought that will ^ve Thy young heart a strength every change to outlive. As sunlight will steal from the roses their hue, When a blight lurks beneath their fair foldings, of dew — As streams from the mountains unceasingly glide Till their waters are mingled with ocean's blue tide — So riseth to heaven life's perishless part. When decay is at work in the depths of the heart ; So a power, though unseen, ever gathereth on high The things which, on earth, are too lovely to die. Then peace, O my daughter ! whatever thy lot — Beams the sunshine of fortune upon thee or not — Peace, peace, to thy heart, for the dreams of its love Will be blest with a holy fulfilment above. THE GRAVES OF CRANDAL AND MARSH. They sweetly slumber, side by side, Upon the green and pleasant hill. Where the young morning's sunny tide First wakes the shadows, dark and still. 202 POEMS. And where gray twilight's breeze goes by Laden with woodland melody, And Heaven's own tireless watchmen keep A vigil o'er their slumbers deep. They sleep together — but their graves Are marked by no sepulchral stone ; Above their heads no willow waves, No cypress shade is o'er them thrown : The only record of their deeds Is that where silent memory leads, Their only monument of fame Is found in each beloved name. 0, theirs was not the course which seals The favor of a fickle world ! They did not raise the warring steel. Their hands no bloody flag unfurled ; They came not vrfth a cup of wrath. To drench with gall life's thorny path, But, day and night, they strove to win. By love, the palsied soul from sin. Like two bright stars at eventide. They shone with undiminished ray ; And though clouds gathered far and viide. Still held they on their upward way ; And still unheeded swept them by The threatenings of this lower sky, For they had built upon the Rock, Defying tide and tempest's shock. To them the vanities of life Were but as bubbles of the sea ; They shunned the boisterous swell of strife ; Rrom pride's low thrall their souls were free. They only sought by Christ to show The Father's love for all below ; They only strove through Christ to raise The wandering mind from error's maze. fOEMS. 203 But now they sleep — and 0, may ne'er One careless footstep press the sod Where moulder those we held so dear, — The friends of man, the friends of God ! And let alone waTvn feeling twine * An offering at their lowly shrine ; While all who knew them humbly try Like them to live, like them to die. MUREAY AT THE GRAVE OF POTTER. And is this all, my brother. That I may see of thee 1 This lowly grave, where wind'and storm Hold revel wild and free 1 I thought to meet thee at thy gate, To grasp thy manly hand, To hear thy kind voice welcome me Back from a distant land. I thought to kneel beside thee, Dear brother of my heart. And hear once more thy full deep voice Each warm desire impart. I thought to feel thy clasped hands pressed In blessing on my head. And see thy thankful tears — all this ; — And thou — 0, thou art dead ! I thought — but ah ! how vainly Comes each remembrance now ! — Hath human thought e'er warmed the dew On death's congealing brow ? Hath human power obstructed e'er The upward spirit's track? Or strong inquiring love e'er won Aught but its own tears back ? Yet must my thoughts be with thee. Thou holy man of God ; 204 POEMS. Like Enoch's was the perfect way Thy upright footsteps trod. Thy loye was like thy Father's love, — As sunlight warm and free ; And poverty and grief had ne'er A dwelling-place by thee. Thy love was like thy Father's love, — It bore upon its wings An antidote for every draught From sin's polluting springs. It won the hardened sinner from The evil of his way, And taught the mourning heart to bask In faith's unclouded ray. Thou wert the first to rear to God, In this wild western land, A temple of impartial grace, — Ay, with thine only hand. And thou the first to welcome him Whom thy prophetic eye Knew for that Saviour's advocate Who wills not man shall die. Forgive, 0, ransomed spirit ! These tears — these falling tears ; This heart, though aged, is not cold, And bright were former years. Bright were the years when oft thine eye Shone from this very spot. And grief o'ercomes me when again I look and see thee not. MY WILDWOOD BOWER. Mt wildwood bower ! thou art the same As when in childhood's morn I found thee ; Thy flowers as fresh, thy birds as tame, And June's first gales are sighing round thee : FOUMS. 205 No foot hath pressed thy balmy fern, No hand thy tangled vines unbraided ; Time hath not read his lesson stem To aught by thy green arch o'ershaded. The bee still lingers in the rose, The hvimming-bird upon the laurel ; And where yon ivy's tendrils close, The violet still imparts her moral ; No moss has gathered on the spray ; My slight pine seat has ceased to moulder ; The grass is young, the brook as gay — Alas ! am I alone grown older ? My wildwood home ! I never seek, Save in bright June, thy trellised arbor. When earth's unsaddened voices speak, ^ And all is joy that thou dost harbor : So fondly clings the care-worn heart To its first scenes of bliss and brightness. In after years it may not part With aught that breathes of youth and lightness. WE LOVED. We met, we loved. A sunset gleam was straying Amid the dim graves where strangers first we met, And autumn winds upon their wild harps playing, 'Mid yellow leaves with tears of evening wet. We met, we loved. O, grief hath power to waken, With its dark weeds, a tenderness which ne'er Decays with time ! — and we were all forsaken — The last lone watchers o'er a household bier. We loved, as orphan sisters, who have broken Full oft the bread of bitterness and woe ; As isolated beings, who have spoken A farewell to the world of pride and show. 18 206 POEMS. We loved with that devotedness which buries All thoughts of others in oblivion's sea — With that endearing confidence which parries The shafts of malice and adversity. We loved. Through every season, one deep feeling, One joy, one grief, one prayer, one pulse was ours ; Whether stern winter's voice were o'er us pealing, Or gentle sunshine gilding April showers. Night ever found us at God's altar bending ; Mom saw our hands, e'en as our hearts, entwined — Our soaring spirits, as our voices blending In that sweet union earth can ne'er unbind. We loved. A trgss of silken hair is lying Within my hand, more precious than the light ; She took it from her angel brow while dying. And faintly smiled upon the token bright. O, blessed sister ! when dark earth releaseth Her trusting hearts, so long, so sternly proved, Will not the eye, which kindred spirit seeketh, Say, in one deep and thrilling glance — wb loved ? CONSCIENCE. '* Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unponiBhed." — Bible* Wht steals he away from the haunts of men, To the lonely depths of the mountain glen I Why shuns he the light of the smiling day. Like the craven owl, or a beast of prey? Why shrinks he abashed at a single glance. And his quailing eye looks down askance ? Why deepens the flush of his varying cheek When his quivering lips essay to speak? And why, 'mid the solemn hours of night. Does he wake, like a timorous bird, with fright ? Then cling to his burning pillow again. And seek for the blessings of sleep in vain ? 'T is Conscience — stern conscience, the judge within, Convicting the soul of its load of sin : POEMS. 207 The deeds which his ruthless hand hath wrought, In their black array, to his sight are brought ; He sees the words on the naked wall, And he fears that others may read the scroll ; The voices of unrequited ill Moan over his heart till its blood is chiU ; He hears the widow's and orphan's cry Go loudly up to the threatening sky ; And he shrinks in dismay for the grave to hide The injured spectres that round him glide. O, sinner ! lost sinner ! how long before Thou wilt seek to enter at Wisdom's door? How long ere the scales from thy eyes shall fall, And thy spirit arise from its shameful thrall ? Away, away with the lying thought That peace and pleasure with crime are bought ; Away with the hope ! — like the Dead-sea fruit, It will crumble to ashes beneath thy foot ; For e'en should the hands of the mighty join. Their strength must yield to the power divine ; And Conscience, though everything else may sleep, Her tireless watch o'er the soul will keep. EVENING HYMN. Air : — " Safely through another week." Day is gone, and peaceful night Brings, Lord, our thoughts to thee - Thee, from whose all-searching sight Nothing hidden e'er can be. Wilt thqu. Father, condescend. While we sing, an ear to lend ? Thou hast safely led us through Sin and error's thorny way. And to our enraptured view Opened truth's unclouded day. 0, may all our actions prove How we prize thy faithful love ! 208 POEMS. By that precious Mood which sealed Our unworthy spirits thine, May we as dear children yield Honor to the " Living Vine," Till we reach that blessed shore. There to praise thee evermore. DAVID'S LAMENTATION. "I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan ! Tery pleasant haat thou been unto me. Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of woman." 2 Samuel I 26. 0, THERE 's a pang of deep distress, My brother, at this heart for thee ! A wild, a harrowing grief, too strong For me to bury silently. These tears, these burning tears may tell How mighty was the mystic spell Of love, which all my spirit won. For thee, my brother Jonathan. Ay ! let me weep, for I have lost A faithful heart, — the only thing. Of all earth's beautiful, to which My fond, unchanging soul did cling. And stick a one ! 0,1 will bow Low in the dust my aching brow, And ne'er these sorrows cease to pour. Since thou, my brother, art no more ! It lives, it lives, it cannot fade. The memory of those hallowed hours. When in our hearts' first bliss we strayed 'Mid golden streams and sunny flowers ; And little dreamed we then, that hate. And pride, and scorn, could desolate So soon the Eden-wreaths which flung Their sky-stained hues our hopes among. FODMS. 20O Thy father's hand — ah, he is dead ! But yet, 't was he whose hate pursued, With a stern purpose, one who ne'er Wished aught to him or his but good. But this wild furnace-fire has failed To melt one link of that strong chain, That spiritual tie which early mailed Our willing souls, no longer twain. O ! it is wonderful, the love Which springs in woman's gentle bseast ; The deep, undying principle. The high law, " written above the rest " By nature's hand, and it wiU glow More fervent through time's onward flow ; Yet, strong as woman's love may be, Stronger was thine, my friend, for me. How hast thou fallen ! O thou, whose form Was beautiful as light from heaven ! Thy look was power, thy arm was strength ; How hath their mightiness been riven ! The stars of night gleam cold and still Upon Gilboa's towering hill, And lonely, 'mid its depths of shade. Are Israel's brightest glories laid. Daughters of Jacob ! let the dews Of your hearts' sorrows ceaseless fall ! Weep, Jabesh-Gilead ! let the robes Of mourning clothe thy lovely ! All Weep ; for our nation's boast and pride By unanointed heathen died. For me, I '11 mourn from sun to sun Thy loss, my brother Jonathan. STANZAS. " They that sow in tears shall reap in joy . " — Psalms, Thou, of the young yet shaded brow. Has sadness flung its mantle o'er thee? 18* 210 POEMS. Are all thy cherished hopes laid low, And gloom and sorrow spread before thee ? Has fate thy soul's best prospects blighted, Leaving thee weary and benighted — Broken thy life's last flowering branch. Like an o'erwhelming avalanche ? Still hope, pale mourner ! coming years Will give thee smiles instead of tears. Thou, of the tottering step, whose eye Time's oft-repeated storms have clouded; The glory of whose summer sky The chamel's frequent mists have shrouded ; Moum'st thou that the ties are riven Which kept thy worshipped ones from heaven ? Falls that tear, thou lonely one. That thy life's sands so slowly run ? Peace to thee, weeper ! endless joy Will soon these gems of grief destroy. THE PORTIONLESS. Fair child of poverty, thy only dower Is thy transcendent beauty, and the gift Which nature throws but seldom in a vase Of such exquisite workmanship — a heart Pure as the wreath round Apennine's cold brow. And true, and gentle, as the constant dove. Thy dress is coarse and simple, and thy hands, Though small and delicate, are sparkling not With many costly diamonds. On thy brow No band of woven brilliants tells the tale Of lavish partiality. Thy hair, In its dark flowing richness, boasteth not Of pearl or ornament, save one wild flower. Plucked from the sterile borders pf a rock ; Fit emblem of thy lowliness and worth. O ! hast thou thought, young sister, on the lot Of poverty's pale daughters — how they toil POEMS. 211 And struggle on beneath the oppressive scorn, The cold, unfeeling pride of haughty ■wealth ? Thy looks are sad. Thus early doth thy heart Bleed 'neath the infliction of deriding power ! Yet cheer thee up ! there is an antidote — Thy Saviour mingled with the lowly poor ; Thy Saviour wore the peasant's humble garb ; Thy Saviour had not where to lay his head ; Yet meekly did he bear the rich one's sneer. Nor envied he their pompous luxuries. And when the tempter offered to invest With princely honors his uncrowned head. He spurned the subtle sorcerer from his sight, And gave at last his life to bless the poor. Sweet sister ! be thy youthful soul like his ; And may he give thee strength to bear, alike. Temptation's arts and poverty's dark ills. With heart unbent, unmoved, that thou may'st know Through life that peace which wealth can never give. A MORNING WALK IN S*********. INSCRIBES TO UT ESTEEMED FaiENDS, MBS. 9. AND H. SMITH, FA. " Deemest thou these saddened scenes have pleasure stiU ? Jjorest thou through Autumn^s foding realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill. To listen to the wood's expiring lay. To note the red leaf shivering on the spray. To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain. On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way. And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? O, if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the nunstrel strain ! " ScoWs Lord of the Isles. 'T IS early mom — as yet the uprising sun The glances of his crimson eye confines To the high western ridge, whose foliage dun Brightens beneath the yellow kindling lines ; The walnut pale, the warrior-crested pines. The spreading maple, with its varied hues, 212 POEMS. The rugged oak, o'erliuiig with clustering vines, The bending sumach, wet with morning dews — All catch the smiles which heaven's bright beams difiuse. O ! brings it not a sadness to the heart, A trembling moisture to the heavy eye, When thus we see earth's lovely things depart. Gathering fresh beauty when about to die? As do the forest trees, we heave the sigh ; We pass the dark uncheering gulf of years. When those, whose dwelling now is in the sky, Too beautiful for these corrupting spheres. Arose and left us here, in darkness and in tears. A truce to this — we have come forth to share The glowing prospect of the opening day ; To catch the first sweet breath of mountain air. And listen to the waves' unequal play. As, eddying round some ■willow-planted bay, They scorn to follow in the onward stream ; Or, like a songster weary of his lay. Forget their murmurs in a voiceless dream, While others muttering on at first as reckless seem. 0, Susquehanna ! river of the hills ! How lovely are thy towering banks to me ! Adown whose jutting crags a thousand rills. Like chafing chargers, thunder wild and free. Connecticut and Hudson, true, may be By gifted poets more renowned in song ; But nature never made them equal thee. Thou most delightful of the classic throng ; Sublimity and grace alike to thee belong. A spirit of unearthly nature broods Above the dark blue surface of thy wave ; A spirit which still haunts the untrodden woods, And lingers at the red-man's hollow grave. Chanting a death-dirge for departed brave. The mourning genius of that lofty race. Whose floating barks and flashing arms once gave POEMS. 213 A martial beauty to the wilderness, Though now the raised earth shows alone their resting-place. Here in our path this arrow's pointless head Is a meet emblem of that scattered band ; A broken thing, whose power to harm has fled. By haughty foot half-buried in the sand. This lovely valley, once their hunting land. Owns now no vestige of their hardy reign ; Wide-spreading orchards rise on either hand, The far-stretched fields are brown with ripening grain, And neat though humble dwellings smile along the plain. Where once the prowling wolf and panther met To snarl above the newly-murdered deer, A temple to the Holy One is set. That every contrite spirit may draw near. And to truth's message yield the willing ear. The distant hills are white with grazmg sheep. And " lowing herds," which stray devoid of fear; And laughing groups a mirthful pastime keep Upon the school-house green, where sparkling streamlets leap. Thus time brings change — e'en ye, my friends, o'er whom Kind nature threw a garland passing fair. Daily some flattering tints of youthful bloom Are. yielding to the usurping hand of care ; Yet no less dear to this lone heart ye are. Ye who have shared my pleasures and my tears, And ministered attentions sweet and rare. Like angel visitors from holier spheres, Bearing affection's wreath undimmed by blighting years. But, see, the mist is falling from the trees Before the all-absorbing King of day ! A gentle murmur swells the rising breeze. The world is waking, with hope's visions gay. O ! we will now retrace our "winding way," With feelings chastened by reflecting thought ; Happy that He whom warring winds obey, To us the pleasant paths of duty taught. And praying that through life we may oflend in naught. 214 POEMS. THE NEW COMMANDMENT. "'A. new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another i as I have loved you, that ye also love one another." — John xiii. 34. What was the love of which he spake, As bearing to those chosen men 1 Was it the love which time ean make Indifferent, and cold again ? Was it the love whose strength is based On vanity and worldly pride ? The love which one slight jar may waste. One evil breath may turn aside ? He bade them love as he had loved, — With that deep, faithful glow of feeling. Which lingers on unchanged, unmoved, 'Mid blight and death, its smiles revealing. O, child of frailty, if within Thy soul's dark book one leaf remain Unlettered by the hand of sin, One bright page free from vieiouB stain : There, write these words — My Saviour, be The influence of thy spirit given. That J may ever love, like thee. My fellow-travellers to heaiien. INFANT YEARS. " Our Infant years I is it not beautiiul, The tight that hovers round them ? " Prentice. It is depraved (so many say) , the nature Of a sweet, sinless child ; that all its thoughts. Its beautiful, glad thoughts, which fling the rays Of Heaven's own perfect innocence upon Features of even seraphic loveliness, — That these are but the serpent's subtle train, POEMS. 215 Coiling within the depths of the young heart, With an all-poisoning influence, and that Bach avenue of the unpractised soul Is saturate with the dark flood of sin. And is it so? ! thou, whose whitened locks Bespeak a lengthened life's experience, I do appeal to thee. Where, where, 'mid all The varied recollections of the past. Where rests the ken of thy dim, sorrowing eye With most of yearning fondness ? " ! upon childhood. There is naught So linked with every holy thought. No spot in all life's travels given So radiant with the smiles of heaven ; No voice that with such freshness comes From memory's cold and darkened rooms As that whose tones were bland and free. The voice of hallowed infancy. " Pure as the first soft breath of Spring, Was all my heart's imagining : I loved the beauteous earth and sky. The trees and flowers — I scarce knew why ; — I loved the glorious noon-day sun, I loved each face I looked upon ; And gratefully my bosom glowed To Him who had such gifts bestowed. " Time never slacks. Dark years have cast Their shadows o'er the blissful past ; Dark toiling years of sin and strife Hang bleakly o'er the tide of life ; Yet flashes up its narrow stream A ray from childhood's sunny beam , Like day-springs from the realms of light. To bless with heaven my longing sight." Then cease, 0, ye perverters of the truth. Ye, ye who stamp the loveliest of God's works With hideous depravity — and make 216 POEMS. Yonr Saviour's words* but void, nmneaning thiDgs. Forbear ! and when ye kneel to crave a blessing For your young, preeious ones, beseech him not To change by grace their hard and stubborn nature ; But that his kind and pitying hand will keep Apart from sin their pure, untarnished spirits. WEEP NOT FOR HER. Weep not for her — she was too pure For such a world as this ; No breath of guilt had dared to mar Her spirit's holiness ; But, sinless as the golden flowers That yield their breath in tropic bowers. Or the bright gems that span the sky, Her few, but joyous years went by. Weep not for her — her life was like Long months of polar light. That glide in fadeless beauty on, TJndarkened by the night. She lived not to behold the dearth Of friendship at the social hearth, Or, with a crushed and baffled heart. To bid hope's darling dreams depart. Weep not for her — she did not die As those who ne'er have known The bliss communing spirits feel At a Redeemer's throne. She clung not to the things of time, Though prospects dawned for her sublime ; For faith revealed a Father's love, Preparing deathless joys above. Weep not for her — she passed away Like music on the sea, * " And JcsuB said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not^/br of mch is the kingdom of heaven." — Matt. xix. 14. POEMS. 217 When wave to answering wave imparts The dying melody ; Like rainbow hues that leave the earth, To seek the Fount that gave them birth, Or the sweet cherub forms which bare Their bright wings to the lower air. Weep not fiwr her — the glorious bands Of heaven surround her now ; The wreath of immortality Sits smiling on her brow. O, rather give thy tears to those O'er whom long life its shadows throws, Whose cares, and griefs, and follies must Weigh down the spirit to the dust. THE INDIAN'S LAMENT. " Didst thou not know I loved thee well f Thou didst not, and art gone In bitterness of soul to dwell Where man must dwell alone ! " — Ivan the Czar. The sternness of the aboriginal character is pretty well known. But, notwithstand- ing its apparent indifference in the family circle, there is doubtless an under-current of deep and thrilling tenderness, wending its way beneath a frigid exterior ; which, but for the inveteracy of custom, would at times break forth. The following poem is based upon the supposition. The tradition is, simply, that an aged Indian chief^ called Sleepless Panther, was decoyed by an enemy &om his home, and in his absence his only child, a beautiful young girl, was murdered. Tee autumn wind moaned hoarsely through a dark and ancient wood, Within whose wild and silent depths a lonely dwelling stood, And the faint red flush of sunset through the half-closed door found way Where a form of youthful loveliness in death's deep slumber lay. Over the still and pallid face an aged warrior bent, And mournful were the words that from his full, bruised heart found vent ; — A broken arrow at his feet, a bow-string by his side, Told that by cold and treacherous hands his dark-haired one had died! 19 218 POIiMB. "Was it for this," the chieftain said, and winds the echo caught, — "Was it for this with eagle speed my forest home I sought — Scorning the deer that crossed my path, the birds that soared above. And hearing but that voice whose words were ever words of love? "My child — my child — my last, lone flower! — the spoiler's hand hath swept The beauty from thy fragrant leaves while the Sleepless Panther slept ! Woe ! for the voice that lured me from my vine-clad home away, Leaving my young and timid lamb to bloody wolves a prey ! " Fairest thou wert — ay, fairest of all our noble race, And the glory of a brighter land shone ever on thy face ; Thy step was as the morning breeze upon the silver stream. And the mournful light of thy dark eyes like the moon's depart- ing beam. " Fairest thou wert — ay, fairest — thy form was like the pine, That sheds its long and slender leaves where deep spring-waters shine ; Thy voice was as the voice of leaves, when the mystic dewdrops fall ;— Woe, that I call upon thee now, and thou answerest not the call! "My child — my child — my morning star — the daylight of my path ! — One thought of cruel bitterness pursues me in its wrath ; I never gave thee look of love, nor spoke one word to bless ; — O, for one hour to tell thee all this heart's deep tenderness ! " One little hour — but thou art gone, like the mist-wreath from the hill. Thou art journeying to the land of dreams, where the moon and stars are stUl ; Thine ear will drink the voice of birds where deathless flowerets shine, And catch from other lips the praise that never fell from mine ! " POEMS. 219 And thus he poured his wailings forth, till the moon had sought the west, When he bore with slow and solemn step his treasure to its rest ; Burying with her — his murdered one — life's last remaining joy, Save the stern hope, ere moons should wane, her murderer to destroy. A DOMESTIC SCENE. It was a pleasant scene ! An aged, white-haired man, with tremulous voice, Had just been reading from the melting book Of " the beloved disciple." He had closed The holy leaves, and now they knelt them down, That grandsire and his numerous family. In the dim room where none but Heaven could hear, And raised their souls to God. 'Twas Sabbath eve, Holy, and bright and still. The moon looked through With trembling glances the vine-curtained panes, And softly lingered on the long white hairs Of the bowed patriarch. A shallow brook Went slowly singing by the half-shut door ; So slowly, that it seemed to linger there For the accustomed blessing ; and a bird, A sweet, lone, plaintive bird, did add its hymn Unto the general worship. In the voice • Of the old man there was a tone which thrilled To the soul's depths, and from the fount of tears Drew forth rich streams, and made the suppliant feel He had a righteous advocate with God. He prayed for all men, that time-stricken one ; And as he dwelt upon the love which would At some far period bring all wanderers back Unto their Father's house, his whole frame shook With strong emotion, and his voice grew faint. Till he could speak no more. ! long will live That hallowed scene in hearts which felt its power 220 POEMS. On that blessed eve. Long, long ; — when all the g^are And tinsel of this hollow, heartless world Are numbered with the vanished things that were, 'Twill be a picture brightening still with time, Who ever looketh with a smiling eye Upon the imperishable things of heaven. SUMMER. We welcome, beauteous Summer, With joyous hearts and free. The music of thy dancing winds Through wildwood bower and tree — Thy golden sunshine 'mid the flowers. Thy birds so bright and rare. And the soft, delicious scents which steal Along thy balmy air. A charm thou bearest with thee. Sweet season of delight. To turn the weeper's tears to smiles, To glowing day the night. The school-boy's laugh is merrier now. Upon the shaven green ; And the wild young girls play brisker far, Beside the river sheen. The eye of careful wealth is seen Relaxing from its gloom. While gazing on thy far-stretched fields Of bright and varied bloom ; And the lips of sorrowing age are vrreathed With many a languid smUe, When sunset calls around the door A noisy, youthful file. Thou bindest, gentle Summer, All spirits unto thee ; The farmer 'mid his ripening fields. The sailor on the sea. POEMS. 221 The poet 'mid his moonlight dreams, The student at his lore, — All givest thou hopes of coming bliss, Ere thy sunny days are o'er. But mostly in the forests, Sweet Summer, dost thou send Thy winning ministers, the charms Of all thy reign to blend ; The whispering leaves, the waterfalls. The happy bounding deer. The murmuring bees, the moss-clothed flowers, The deep streams gliding near ; The wild-grape bower, through which the sun At mid-day faintly smiles ; The mimic lake, upon whose breast Sleep fairy-seeming isles ; The rocky cells, where quiet birds Rejoice the livelong day — ! season dear to all the earth. Why wilt thou pass away? Yea, Summer, beauteous Summer, Why wilt thou pass so soon. Leaving the hopes thy beauty raised To perish in their noon ? Thy lovely things wiU seek the halls Of cold and stem decay — But I know a land where thou dost come, And never pass away. BLEST ARE THE DEAD. Blest are the dead — the sickening strife Which marks earth's closing scene is o'er ; The cares, the ills, the griefs of life Can rack their bleeding hearts no more. 19* 222 POEMS. The clouds which dim our summer rfcy Are shadowless as liays of ligM When darkness seals the heayy eye, And wraps the dreary sense in night. Blest are the dead — the flowers which bend like gentle mourners o'er their graves, And heaven's own choicest glories blend. Fresh to the heart their memory saves. They speak, as do the summer birds. Of beauteous life from dim decay, And breathe those sweet, mysterious words Which fright the weeper's tears away. Blest are the dead — eternity Showers down its choicest gifts to them ; They sit beneath life's golden tree, They wear its starry diadem. Their light, their life is in the smile Of Him whose love looks down on all ; They fear no change in that far isle. No taint of sin, no funeral-pall. LINES, SUGGESTED BY HEARING A LADY BEWAIL THE ABSENCE OF HER HUS- BAND. I MISS thee each lone hour, Star of my heart ! No other voice hath power Joy to impart. I listen for thy hasty step, Thy kind, sweet tone ; But sorrowing silence whispers me, "Thou art alone." Darkness is on the hearth. Naught do I say ; Books are but little worth — Thou art away. POEMS. 223 Voices the true and kind Strange are to me ; I liave lost Toice and mind, Thinking of thee. ! if one little week Yieldeth such pain, Who through long widowed years Life could sustain 1 Father, this mystic love, Grant it, I pray. Home in thy courts ahoTe, When we are clay. INFIDELITY. Gloomy and dark as the depths of yon ocean. Whose secrets we know not, and seek not to know. When sunlight streams o'er them with tremulous motion — As if half afraid of the silence below — Is the sea where the genius of error reposes, Bequeathing to death each high wish of the soul ; Reducing to ashes the best of life's roses. And bidding the waters of misery roll. The sun-flower of hope gazes down the dark mirror, But sees not its image — and withers away ; And the spring-rose of love casts its bright leaves in terror, And yields up its beautiful buds to decay ! The song-bird of pleasure an instant rejoices Amid the wild cells of the rock-covered shore ; But echo sends back many sepulchre-voices. And the song and the singer are heard of no more. One smile, only, lightens this tomb of the spirit — One low wail of music, alone, cleaves the air ; 'Tis the grim smile of death, who his thousands inherits — 'T is the music which bursts from the heart of despair. 224 p £ M s . STANZAS, ON BEHOLDING THE PICTDEE OF MRS. HEMANS. Is it indeed on thee, Long-worshipped object of my heart, I gaze ? Thee, to whose minstrelsy A world on bended knee doth offer praise ? How thrill my spirit's inmost depths, while o'er Each high angelic lineament I pore. E'en as 't were some departed friend returned. With the dear smile for which I vainly yearned ! 0, beautiful thou art, High-souled Felicia ! In thy earnest eyes — Sweet mirrors of thy heart ! — Dwell the rich pictures of May-tinted sHes, Beauteous in all their changes ; while around The eloquent lips, half-playful, half-profound, Deep words seem hovering ; and thy pure brow wears Most radiantly the gift of many cares. And yet, alas ! o'er all A mist, a shade of gentle sadness, clings. Like the soft twilight's pall When night's lone bird its touching requiem sings To the far listening stars. Too strongly fell On thy young spirit poesy's deep spell, Wearing away the tense cords vainly taught To pour in words its tide of glorious thought. Thy heart's sad history, Fair poetess, is written out amid Those rich curls clustering free. Where grief can ne'er, in one like thee, be hid. The cloud's still shadow resteth mournfully Where should have been but sunshine. Ah ! thy tree Of earthly happiness but blossoms showered, - To wither round thee when the tempest lowered. Love's richest dower to thee. As to thy own Properzia, was a light Baxing the heart's deep sea. With all its workings, to the aching sight ; F £ M s , 225 GiYing, by many a fitful flash, at length A knowledge of thy own aflfection's strength, With the dark counterpart — cold, hollow fame ; The substance and the shadow, love and name. And could a face like this. Filled with such soul, encounter one cold glanoe ? ! it is more than bliss On this faint semblance day by day to chance. And this is little. How supremely blest The few who knew thee in thy hours of rest, And held thy sweet communion ! It is vain, And yet I weep that thou art freed from pain. 1 would have seen thee here. Enveloped in thy beauteous robe of clay — Have listened to the clear, Low music of thy voice, ere thou didst stray Sack to thy native heaven. But now farewell ! Too wildly do the waves of feeling swell Within this surcharged heart ; and I, ere long — Ah ! I shall listen to thy holiest song. Erelong ! — meanwhile, the spell Which thy sweet lays have cast o'er all things here, Fresh in each thought shall dwell, Making thine image ever doubly dear. No sound from spring's loved haunts, no smeU Of summer's rose-buds, beautiful and brief. But will of thee some bright remembrance tell ; 0, empress of thy sex ! farewell — farewell ! A LEGEND OF THE SUSQUEHANNA. I KNOW a deep and dark ravine, Near our wild " river of the hills," Whose depths the sun has never seen. Whose very air the bosom chills. 226 POEMS. Though summer heats may reign above ; So thick a woof the trees have woven, With their old arms, and plants that love To creep from rocks by earthquakes cloven. A little brook moans ever o'er Its log-diverted path below. Sometimes with quick and startling roar, Sometimes with soft, melodious flow : , Like the heart's deep, uncertain stream, By gushing impulse forced along ; Now wild in passion's fierce extreme. Now with a gently-murmured song. One spot is in that dark ravine — I knew it in my childhood's hours, For oft, the " spells " of school between, I sought it for its drooping flowers — Which shows a scallop in the rock, Midway the dizzy precipice. Where every sound the echoes mock. And winds howl through each dim recess. A narrow, dangerous path runs by That wizard nook, and onward still To an old cavern, dark and high. Deep in the bowels of the hill ; Where long ago, tradition reads, An old man with his only child, To 'scape the dues of murderous deeds. Sought refuge in the lonely wild. He was a fierce, dark-visaged man. That aged hermit, and would brook No eye his lineaments to scan. But ever wore so stern a look. That men turned hastily away. Young children shrank within the door, And women went aside to pray The " fiend " might visit them no more. POEMS. 227 And never did he visit them, Save when by meagre want impelled, And then his child, a beauteous gem, The cave a weary prisoner held : 0, sweeter than the wild-flowers there, — Her only friends, — was that pale maid ! Though on her brow were clouds of care, And in her eye the spirit's shade. A young and gallant hunter heard One day her plaintive voice in song ; He saw her weep ; his heart was stirred, To shield that gentle one from wrong. They met by night — in secret loved. Nor dreamed a lurking footstep pressed, With cat-like stealth, where'er they moved, 'Mid all their scenes a silent guest. They met — it was their trysting place — One evening in that shadowy nook : The maiden deemed her sire in chase Of game beyond the babbling brook ; And in that hour, so long oppressed, Her overburthened heart gave way, And on the hunter's throbbing breast She breathed her tale of misery. She told of days of ceaseless toil, Of nights by hunger sleepless made. Of many a dark and deadly broil Within the forest's awful shade ; From whose black depths her sire e'er came With bloody hands and cursing tongue, And with coarse jests and words of blame Her mother's gentle spii^t vrrung. That mother dear had found a grave Long ere they sought the darksome den. And left her hapless child to brave The passions of the worst of men ; 228 POEMS. And since, the maiden whispered low, With tearful eye and sobbing breath, No mortal breast could ever know How fervently she 'd prayed for death ! A dull and heavy stroke was heard — A shriek upon the evening air — A rumbling fall — and night's roused bird Flew screaming from her eyry there ! The moon looked on that trysting-place, Where moss-wreaths clothed the ragged stone. And saw, with darkly-working face, The aged hermit there alone ! A hunter heard that piercing shriek, And deemed it but the panther's cry ; But when his comrades went to seek A lost one from their company. The lovers' mangled forms they found. Within the streamlet's chilly bed ; They sought the cave with eager bound — The hoary murderer had fled ! ON THE DEATHOF A NAMESAKE. Has the dark grave o'ershadowed thee, sweet child? Has the soft light from thy young eyes departed? The rose still blossoms in the lonely wild, But thou, the loveliest flower that ever smiled. Thou hast bowed down and left us broken-hearted ;- Thou art with Death, sweet child. I know not why my spirit clung to thee, Vision of beauty, only once beheld ! Thou wert no more, except in name, to me Than many others — but a name may be A fount of tears o'er many high hopes swelled. Bright one , I mourn for thee ! I mourn for thee, for on thy future's sky Fancy had joyed in painting scenes of bliss ; I saw thee, with high heart and kindling eye, POEMS. 229 The purest and the loveliest outvie, While all who knew thee prayed thy happiness ; — But hope is bom to die. The flower is crushed — the bird has ceased its song — The low-voiced harp breathes in a holier sphere, Where the full-flowing soul, unchecked by wrong. Pours its ne'er-dying strains bright streams along. O, child of love ! to some fond hearts too dear, Thou art the blest among. SONG — THE FRIEND WE LOVE. The friend we love is a friend indeed ; She 's ever true in the hour of need ; She 's a smile for our joy, and a tear for our woe. And a song of cheer when our hearts are low. O ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; She 's ever true in the hour of need. The friend we love is youthful and fair, And gentle and pure as the angels are. Sincerity dwells in her earnest eyes. And her soul is warm as the southern skies ! O ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; She 's ever true in the hour of need. The friend we love has no cares to mar The beautiful hopes of her rising star ; She 's good, and she 's happy, as all must be, Whose hearts from this selfish world are free ! O ! the friend we love is a friend indeed ; She 's ever true in the hour of need. COME TO THE FOUNT OF LOVE. Come to the fount of love ! Come while youth's sun the sky of life is flushing ; Come while the thoughts of thy young heart are pare ; Come while the roses in thy path are blushing ; Come to the fount whose waters e'er endure. 20 230 F0EM9. Come while affection's waves are sweetly flowing ; Come ere thy sun is glimmering in the west ; Come with thy young soul in deep ardor glowing ; Come to thy Saviour, — he will give thee rest. Come to the fount of love ! Come to the fount of love ! Leave the wan flowers that deck the fields of passion ; Leave the false hopes that glitter to betray ; Leave the vain arts which guide the world of fashion ; Leave all that make thee linger on thy way. Leave the cold doubts that breathe of sceptic weakness ; Leave the fanatic in his wild career ; Leave all, and bow thy spirit in its meekness ; Leave all, and taste of life the waters clear. Come to the fount of love ! Come to the fount of love ! Kneel where the gem of faith is ever gleaming ; Kneel where the pearl of hope is always bright ; Kneel where the eye of charity is beaming ; Kneel, gentle pilgrim, and receive thy sight. Kneel, and thy soul shall prove a well of gladness ; Kneel, and eternal life will soon be thine ; Kneel, and forget in joy thy spirit's sadness ; Kneel, and thy heart shall never more repine. Come to the fount of love ! TO AN INFANT SMILING IN SLEEP. Whence, loveliest, that soft and radiant smile, That so entrances her who bends above Thy gentle, slumbering form? Thou hearest not The one dear voice that cheers thy waking hours, Nor seest the eye whose love-enkindled glance Calls ever forth thy young heart's joyousness. E'en though it break through tears. Whence, then, the ray That lingers on thy sweet and loving lips. And on thy soft, half-curtained eyes of blue. POEMS. 231 Making thy beauty of such cherub mould, That she who bore thee feels a thrill of fear Lest, prematurely. Heaven should claim its own? Perchance thy spirit, late from Eden's bowers, Forgetteth not its spring-day happiness ; But walks in dreams beside the tree of life And the eternal rivulet, whose flowers Need not the aid of sun and life-fraught dews To give them star-like beauty ; but receive Their wondrous hues from every varied glance Of Hm who smiles on all. Perchance the words Of sister spirits fall upon thy ear, Cheering thee on thy lonely pilgrimage — Thy path through thorns and tears — and thou dost smile To think of that blest home, where, freed from earth, Thou shalt in heaven's triumphant melody Bear a still higher part. Smile on, fair babe. And revel in thy heaven-blent memories, And dwell 'mid angel visions — ere the world Hath set its seal oblivious on thy heart. And thou canst look beyond this misty earth But through the glass of faith. THE SPIRIT VISITOR. I HAVE a spirit visitor — She Cometh every night, When sleep across my heavy lids Hath swept his pinions light ; She Cometh with a noiseless step Through the unopened door. And glideth as the moonbeams glide Across the marble floor. Long are her robes, and very white, Like winter's first pure snow. And as she moves along, they seem Like waves of light to flow 232 POEMS. Her face is radiant with such smiles As hare not here their birth ; — Ah ! well I know that one beloved Hath passed away from earth. I had a friend in life's sweet spring — How dear I now can feel — A feir, fond-hearted, guileless girl, Unchanged by woe or weal ; She loved me with a love as deep As woman's heart may know, Nor waned that love when ocean's wave Betwixt us 'gan to flow. 'Tis she, my midnight visitor. With her dark, soul-moving eye ; She speaketh not, but upward points As she slowly sweeps me by. I know that men will soon exclaim, " Thy early friend is dead ! " I know the heavy clods are heaped Upon her precious head. But well I know, — 0, blessed be God ! - Her gentle spirit lives Where bliss, the Sun of Heaven, to all Undying rapture gives ; I know the memory of our love Still glows within her breast, When every night she pleads vrith me To seek the heavenly rest. THE FIKST SNOW. I LOVE to watch the first soft snow, As it slowly saileth down. Purer and whiter than the pearls That grace a monarch's crown ; Though winter wears a freezing look, And many a surly frown. FOUMS. 233 It lighteth like the feathery down Upon the naked trees, And on the pale and withered flowers, That swing in every breeze ; And they are clothed in such bright robes As summer never sees. It bringeth pleasant memories. The falling, falling snow, Of neighing steeds, and jingling bells, In the happy long ago ; When hopes were bright, and health was good, And the spirits were not low. And it giveth many promises Of quiet joys in store ; Of bliss around the blazing hearth. When daylight is no more — Such bliss as nowhere else hath lived Since the Eden-days were o'er. God bless the eye that views with mine The falling snow to-day ! May truth her pure white missions spread Before its searching ray. And lead, with dazzling garments, towards " The strait and narrow way." VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. How sweetly steal these soft spring days above Thy grave, lamented one ! Methinks the light Of the broad sun a lustre here doth wear More rich than elsewhere — the young grass a hue Of fresher beauty — while the violets bow More gracefully their meek and dewy heads Upon the warm earth's breast. The south wind brings From yon thick grove of tall and whispering pines An incense sweeter than the breath of flowers When flowers are loveliest. And from the shores 20* 234 POEMS. Of yonder blue and willow-skirted stream Issues a strain of trembling melody That angel harps might envy. 0, beloved ! Blest in thy life, thrice blessed in early death, How pleasant is the spot of thy repose ! Would, gentle reader, that my hand might lead Thy noiseless footsteps to this humble grave ; Or that my voice might breathe into thy ear But half her excellence, whose only world "Was a few loving hearts ! She was the queen Of all our mountain flowers — the fair wild rose That bent in glovring beauty o'er the flood. And cast its leaves upon the dancing waves "While yet the blush was on them. Her young heart Was warm and sunny as a day in June, Yet pure and bland as its succeeding eve, When chastened by the moonlight ; and there lived In its clear depths a fount of love that had Its tribute-streams in heaven. She was a child. Though twenty summers had looked dovm on her — A very child in sportive playfulness — A chaser of the golden butterfly, A gatherer of berries and wild flowers, A lover of the simplest lay that stole Prom the lone forest's depth. And yet she bore In her mind's casket that which might Kave won Fame's brightest coronal ; although to her The holy gem was but a lamp to gild The gloom of idle hours. She did not die. As often die the lovely, by the slow And torturing warfare of a stealthy foe. One little day of dread and feverish strife With clinging nature, and she fell asleep. Murmuring dear names. And ere Time's hand had joined The thick sods on her grave, a gentle youth, FOEMS. 235 Whose love for her had ever been in vain, Yet dreamed of its requital in a world That hath no disappointments, vras laid, One starry eve, beside her. Peace to them ! — The loved, the wept, the happy now in heaven, — Peace to them ! But ah ! more to those who bathe With annual tears their quiet place of rest — Yea, deeper peace to them ! A PARTING LAY TO CLARA. I BREATHE a parting lay, dear friend, a parting lay to thee. Though faintly may cold words give forth the fervent minstrelsy ; O, many a wild, sad thought doth rise from feeling's troubled spring, That spurns the dress which language fain would o'er its bright- ness fling ! Yet will I breathe a parting lay, beloved friend, to thee ; And may each faint, fond tone preserve some kindly thought of me, In after years, when change hath swept "thy spirit's tenderest strings, And soaring fancy shaken the dew that gilds her rainbow wings. I tell thee, Clara — and thou knowest no flatterer's voice is mine — Thy gentle love is more to me than treasures from the mine ; And 'twere a sorrowing thought to me, that one so dear as thou, Should e'er withdraw from friendship's shrine the strong but wordless vow. Since I have learned to know thee well, and feel thy silent worth, Another rosy link hath bound my willing heart to earth — Another sweet wild music-note hath mingled with life's strain, Another precious perfume risen from nature's fragrant plain. The flowers have now a brighter hue, the stars a softer light, Since thy dear thoughtful face became familiar to my sight. 236 POEMS. How shall I miss thy touching Toioe, dear friend, dear gentle friend, Through the long twilight hours that seemed with thee too soon to end ! I know we part, as often part the hopeful and the strong, With the cheering thought before our eyes that we shall meet ere long ; But change is ever in our paths, with dark and restless wing. And death, the cruel archer, ne'er forgets his darts to fling. But peace ! I will not breathe a word, dear Clara, that can mar The brilliance of that beacon-light that beams on thee from 'far. Kind Heaven permit thy home-born ties long round thy heart to twine. And may the bliss thy spirit craves be thine, forever thine. 1837. COMMUNINGS WITH NATURE. Agaik, 0, solemn woods ! again I stand Amid the depths of your vast solitude. And gaze with joy, on each remembered form Of wild and rugged beauty : such as hath Been ever most congenial to my soul. As being free from art's deforming touch. There is a. freshness in the mountain-breeze, Which penetrates the avenues of sense, And rouses all the spirit into life ; And that most perfect eloquence, which speaks In the low whisperings of each bending tree, Descendeth to my heart, and once again — 0/ once again, this vain, deceitful world Eecedeth from my sight, and I forget Its joys, its sorrows — I forget, 0, God! All things but thee, and then thy glorious works ! DEVOTIONAL MOMENTS. The solemn night is closing round me fast ; Eve's loveliest star is glimmering in the west ; A gentle sadness o'er the earth is cast And all harsh sounds are sinking to their rest. 1838. POEMS. 237 A sweet, low murmur from the river steals, — The voice of slow and half-forgetful waves — And, journeying to his wild and sparry caves. The prince of storms his weary chariot wheels. The clear, cold moon looks out among the trees With a grave smile, like some complacent friend, When mournfully beneath the lattice bend The way-worn objects of her courtesies. Thus, Father, bends my spirit unto thee, 'Mid the bleak deserts of her pilgrimage ; Nor doth the nursling to its mother flee With surer trust in power that will assuage. Abject and weak, 0, Father ! I have nought But my necessity with thee to plead ; All things are thine, and thou dost nothing need ; By earthly coin thy favors are unbought. Yet dost thou deign, from thy all-glorious throne. To smile upon the meek and contrite heart — Unto the mourner, of thy strength impart, And to the poor thy watchful love make known. Lord of all lords ! Eternal King of all ! Within whose hand the earth is but a grain ! Myriads of systems answer to thy call ; Yet makest thou not one spire of grass in vain ! I gaze upon the deep blue paths wherein Thy watchful sentinels untiring glide, Till thought becomes a dark and ebbless tide, And longer contemplation seems a sin. Away, weak reason, that doth pause before The distant threshold of thy goal is won — Thy orbit is around thy spirit's sun. Thy strength is love — "be silent and adore." THE YOUNG CHEROKEE. The warrior stood by his native hearth, In the moss-clad wigwam that gave him birth, 238 POEMS. With his tomahawk clasped in his strong right hand, And a gleaming knife in his bead-knit band. Down from his shoulder a well-tried bow, With its string of sea-grass depended low ; And a bunch of death-winged arrows shone Where the torch-light's glare on his breast was thrown. Stem was the glance of his eagle eye. As he gazed on the circle of weepers nigh ; Firm was his form as the mountain oak When the forest bows at the lightning's stroke ; For his young heart burned at the bitter scorn By the grasping white to his dwelling borne, And he longed to grapple in deadly strife. And out in revenge pour the streams of life. His mother rose from her fragrant seat, And bowed herself at her first-bom's feet ; And his fair young sister clasped his knees. Praying his stay by his native trees ; His brother turned with a sigh away, His father looked out through the twilight gray ; But the warrior rushed from that group of woe. Whispering only — " Farewell — I go ! " He strode through the vines at the open door, Kudely trampling their tendrils o'er. And down through the clearing of tasseled com, Like an antlered stag at the sounding horn ; But his fleet foot faltered beside the spring. For memory came with a rushing wing ; And gentle and tender, though cold to see. Was the noble heart of the Cherokee. A light step came through the scented glade, A trembling hand on his own was laid, A beautiful face in the moonlight shone. And a soft voice whispered — " My own — my own ! I come to give thee the parting kiss ; Ah ! blame me not in an hour like this ; For a grave-like voice hath revealed to me That we meet no more 'neath this spreading tree. F0EM3. 239 " And blame me not, although I speak Words that may rouse thine ire, For, mantling up my lip and cheek I feel the prophet fire ; And I must breathe my mission forth, Though thou shouldst cast away The priceless pearl that ne'er again Can glitter in thy way. "And call not mine a traitress' part. Though plainly I unfold The utter madness of thy heart In the fate which thou wouldst mould. Do not I feel my country's wrongs 1 Is not my spirit wrung At the cold threats by tyrant lips Within our lodges flung ? " Look at this form, on which thine eye Once lingered with delight ; Wasted and bowed, its home will soon Be hidden from thy sight ; Yet, were there one faint, wavering hope Of our deep wrongs' redress, Thou shouldst see what in woman's soul Is deep devotedness. " But I have gazed, in spirit, forth Upon the haughty foe : His dwellings are as forest leaves By early winds laid low ; His numbers as the gleaming sands Upon yon sloping shore, And his speed and strength as the thunderbolt At the tempest's awful roar. " Can we withstand the whirlwind's shook When the forest's pride is low ? — Kesist the inundating floods When wild spring torrents flow 1 240 POEMS. Ay, easier than those bannered host« By foaming chargers led, While thousand cannons thunder forth A requiem for the dead ! " They crave our blood ; and wouldst thou pour Thy life-drops at their feet. Like the scared fawn when huntsmen's horns Are ringing a retreat 1 True, thou mayst wreak, before thy death, Vengeance full oft, I wist ; But in that sweeping, countless band Hundreds would ne'er be missed. " Meanwhile, thy aged sire must bear Alone his heavy fate ; Thy sister, unprotected, share The bitter taunts of hate ; Thy heart-wrung mother wearily Her pilgrim journey wend. Made darker by the haunting thought Of thy untimely end. ' ' In yon far land — though such as we No second home may trace, — There is a quiet resting-spot For the tamer of our race. Years may pass by ere Avarice there His wrathful vials pour ; 0, let them reach that land in peace ! Chieftain, my words are o'er." The listener gazed with a vacant stare Awhile on the frail young speaker there, Then pressed his hand to his burning brain, As if to smother its wasting pain, While he spoke in a low, dull, hollow tone — " Maiden, the truth of thy words I own, And I yield my plans to thy wiser thought, For the voice of God has thy spirit taught. 1838. POEMS. 241 " I yield ; but away from my anguished sight ! No longer art thou my being's light ; Cross never again my forest path, Lest my anger thou rouse to its utmost wrath. Hast thou not blighted the only hope That has buoyed for years my spirit up ? Alike hast thou made to me night and day ; Thy mission is over — away, away ! " The maiden, with broken heart, turned back, The warrior retraced his homeward track ; But they knew him not at his father's door, So strange the expression his features wore. Dull was the glance of his half-closed eye. And they ne'er saw token of reason nigh, Save one cold shudder he inly gave As their route lay over his loved one's grave. A DOMESTIC PICTURE. Mat, thou art blessed ever in thy death, When from thy violet-pillow moist-eyed June Uprears the golden sceptre. We rejoice, 'Mid all our grateful sighs and filial tears. At the rare gifts thou dost bequeath unto Thy beautiful successor — sunny moms And soft south winds, and trees with tender leaves, And birds with plumage fine and heavenly song, And flowers of rainbow radiance, sending forth From their bright lips a renovating charm. Dull languor's antidote. Yes, we rejoice. And register, with care-observing hand, Bach little picture of the sunny time In memory's ample book ; that, when the hours Of cold and cheerless Winter have come on. We may, like children, gather round the fire, And, gazing on each summer-tinted scene, Be happy at the past. 21 242 FOUMS. Thou seest, beloved friend, This little valley in its vemal dress, 'Mid whose green bowers still blend Rich sunset hues with lingering caress ; And in whose softest, sunniest nook is seen The sweet white cottage, with its leafy screen. Forms gather at the door, — Earth ! thou hast many lovely forms to see, — Where the old walnuts pour Their long, deep shadows o'er them reverently ; And the young porch-vine, with its fingering leaves. Above their heads a fairy netting weaves. There is the beauteous wife. With many a rose-bud wreathed in her dark hair ; "Gently the stream of life Thus far hath borne her on its surface fair ; Tor joy still sparkles in her meaning eye, And on her cheek is Nature's richest dye. A look of pride she bends Upon the manly being seated near ; But that which far transcends Is the soft love-glance, not devoid of fear. But speaking all the mother, often bent On the young cherub to her keeping lent. Ah ! little recks, I ween. That youthful sire for all the sparkling lore Those shining lids between. Which once with such delight he lingered o'er. Gone are the days when undivided thought Grasped with strong hold the truths by sages taught. The book is on his knee, But he contemplates a far lovelier page. From affectation free — Sweet Nature, ne'er the homelier for age ; Cleft rocks, bright streams, dark woods of stately pride, And — last, not least — the dear ones at his side. POEMS. 243 Proudly that infant boy Meets the fond glance of his still prouder sire ; Down goes each glittering toy — To high estate those outstretched arms aspire ; But a loyed voice hath whispered in his ear, And he turns back a gentler heart to cheer. And now he striyes to speak That witcliing word so often tried in vain ; Hope flushes his fair cheek — Ah, disappointment clouds his brow again ! But hark ! 't is said — the sweet word " Mother " 's said, And in her breast he hides his conscious head ! Young wife ! I marvel not At those soft tears of sensibility ; For though thy future lot Brightened by many a heart-prized joy may be, Ne'er will by thee so sweet a sound be heard As this, thy first-born son's first love-lisped word ! 1838. MY CHILD. " There is one who has loved me debarred from the day." The foot of Spring is on yon blue-topt mountain. Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree ; Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses. To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care : Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes, . And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere ; — I heed them not, my child. lo the low vale thb snow-white daisy springeth. The golden dandelion by its side ; The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. 244 POEMS. The hyacinth and polyanthus render, Prom their deep hearts, an offering of lore ; And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender Their grateful homage to the skies above ; — I heed them not, my child. In the clear brook are springing water-cresses. And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers ; While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses. Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves ; O ! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves ; — 'T is naught to me, my child. Dovm the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter ; The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth ; And now a smaller band comes dancing after. Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending. To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast ; Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending ; Ah ! peace with her is no unusual guest ; — Not so with me, my child. All the day long I listen to the singing Of the gay birds and winds among the trees ; But a sad under-strain is ever ringing A tale of death and its dread mysteries. Nature to me the letter is that killeth, — The spirit of her charms has passed away ; A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth, — Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; — Thou 'rt in the grave, my child. For thy glad voice my spirit inly piueth ; I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light : Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ; Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. POEMS. 245 I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, Longing to lay my dust beside thy own ; O, cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me ! Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ; — Come back to me, my child. Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest. Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : — Pray to Him, sinless ; He will hear thee now. Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother ; Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace : Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other ; Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease ; — Come back to me, my child. Come but in dreams — let me once more behold thee. As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee. And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee — Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me. Leave but the impress of thy dove-like beauty. Which memory strives so vainly to recall. And I will onward in the path of duty, Restraining tears that ever fain would fall ; — Come but in dreams, my child. THE LAST LOOK. Once more ! once more ! 0, tear me not So rudely from this coffined clay ! My heart will burst upon the spot. Unless its swollen floods have way. Another look, ye men of stone. On what I ne'er again shall see ; Then let the heavy mould be thrown — O, would its weight might fall on me ! My boy ! my precious boy ! I gaze. As mothers oft before have done. To treasure up, for gloomy days, Some semblance of the buried one. 21* 246 POEMS. Thy cheeks are very pale, my child ; Thine eye hath lost its starry light ; And there 's a spot ! — my brain is wild — Go, take him, bearers, from my sight! Yet one more look ! Why should I shrink To view thy loathsome work, O, Death? This is the cup that all must drink. Who hang their hopes on mortal breath. It is his flesh, and it were dear, ThoHgh spurned by vultures, unto me ; Away ! away ! my place is here — Where else should childless mothers be? Dear little lamb ! 0, thou wert fair As is the fairest morn in June, When beauty clothes the very air. And every bird and flower 's in tune. A merry little bee thou wert. Drinking in bliss from every leaf. And singing, to thy mother's heart, A song that had no tones of grief. O, will ye close the coffin's lid? And must this be my last, last look? Must that dear form for aye be hid? Truly is life a sealed book. 'Tis as ye say — he is in heaven; So may I feel, when sorrow's wave No more across my soul is driven ; But now my hopes are in — the grave. THE FOREST GRAVE. " Mourn not for her, — though life was Bvreet, She ne'er before was truly blest, — The path grew rough and bruised her feet, — She sleepeth now, and taketh rest." S. 0. E. It has a lonely look, that forest grave, So hid away from sight of envious eyes, Beneath old arching trees. POEMS. 247 The wild grape hangs Its purple fruit with clustering fondness o'er The low gray head-stone, and the spotted fawn Lies softly down amid the reed-like grass Which droopeth at the foot, as if to seek Companionship with her who sleeps beneath. ! sweetly, softly ,'sadly beautiful. Are all things circling that love-hallowed spot, Whether it be the hill-side rill which foams With grief-like passion o'er its rocky bed, Flinging its white tears back ; or the thick hedge Of pale wood-roses, gazing timidly On the soft, sun-streaked carpet at their feet ; Or the gray mounds and mossy knolls o'ercrept With partridge-vine, whose sparkling berries ne'ei Lose their rich hue, but lay their coral forms Within the moss-cups white. An old dark pine, That standeth near, doth murmur endlessly, With its wild voice, like one bereaved, and ne'er On earth with words of comfort to be blest. And to its shade there cometh every eve A mourning dove, and poureth forth a flood Of tender, broken-hearted melody. Would'st know the history of her who sought In burial a refuge from the world ? It is a simple, common tale of love, Such as perchance thou 'st heard a thousand times Without a tear. 'T is, I had almost said, The history of woman. She did love. And was betrayed. They saw the light go out From her young eyes like the soft, glimmering rays Of setting stars, nor dreamed the cause, till sleep With its untrammelled words breathed out a name That made them shudder. Then with trembling hands They wrought the victim's graYe-clothes, and no more Gave ear to hope. 248 POEMS. That wronged one never breathed One word against her callous murderer ; But with a farewell smile for all who came To see her spirit take its upward flight, A gentle pressure of her sister's hand, One tender kiss on her gray father's cheek, One thrilling gaze in her pale mother's eyes, She whispered of this long-beloyed spot, And rose to meet the love which eateth not The heart away. GOD IS LOVE. It but these words that book contained, On which our every hope is built, It were enough, though we had drained The very dregs of grief and guilt. Love will not harm — love will not pause In doing good to aught that 's dear, Till nature doth reverse her laws, And thwart high Heaven in her career. "PASSING AWAY." Frequent as the yellow leaves. On an Autumn day. Vanish from the vine-clad eaves. Pass our friends away — By the breeze and by the blight - By the heavy rain — By the chilling frost at night, We may hope in vain. " Passing " is the solemn word In each mourning mansion heard. Have we jarred affection's string In some trusting heart ? Left in love's unfolding wing An envenomed dart ? 1839. POEMS. 249 Quickly let repentant tears Wash away the stain ; Streams of woe in after years May be shed in vain. " Passing " is the solemn word In ea«h mourning maflsion heard. Are there sufferings we may soothe, 'Mid our little band ? Dying pillows we may smooth With a tender hand? Mental blindness we may heal With a holier light? Let us to these labors steal Ere the day be night. " Passing " is the solemn word In each mourning mansion heard. Ever, ever let us live As in view of death, Knowing earth has naught to ^ve Like affection's vrreath — Scattering roses while we may In the mourner's path, Lest remorse in open day Visit us in wrath. " Passing " is the solemn word In each mourning mansion heard. HYMN OF THE WESTERN MISSIONARIES. Wk have left the scenes of childhood, The friends of early years. To journey through the wildwood, And weep the pilgrim's tears. We have left our own green mountains, All gay with sunny flowers. And our silver-glancing fountains, For toil and lonely hours. 250 POEMS. But shall our spirits falter, While Jesus calls us on? Before God's holy altar From error's grasp is won ? Away with grief and sadness, Let every cdre depart ; We bring the oil of gladness To many a wounded heart. What though dark clouds are o'er us. And angry waves beneath, — Our Master braved before us Wild persecution's breath ; What though our zeal may lead us O'er danger's wintry track, — Our Guide will ne'er-deceive us. But safely bring us back. Then on ! — his footsteps follow ; Our banner waves on high ; Truth, mighty truth, shall swallow Bach vulture of the sky. On, on ! till light descendeth To every darkened heart. And scripture knowledge rendeth All hope from sin apart. On, on ! — we ask no guerdon ; Enough for us to know We take from men the burden Of " everlasting woe " — We bring them joyous tidings, From God, their friend, above, And bury their baokslidings In renovating love. POEMS. 251 THE BITTER CUP. « The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it f ■" GiYE me that cup ; I may not shrink, Whate'er the dreaded contents prove — But -with unblenching spirit drink The bitter draught of chastening love. Has not His blessed hand prepared In mercy every burning drop 1 And shall the medicine be spared To folly's prayer? Eaise, raise the cup ! Father, I drink. 0, let thine eye Rest fondly on thy drooping child ! Lest in the o'erwhelming anguish nigh Her soul of reason be beguiled. Thou didst unto thy dying Son Vouchsafe a strength all ills to bear ; O, unto me, thy lowliest one. Impart of that high strength a share ! I drink. It is a bitter draught ; I feel the aloed streams within, And my sick heart receives a shaft Which rankles like the sting of sin. An awful revelation opes Its lengthened scroll unto my sight — Death smiles above my dearest hopes. And heaven's bright sun withdraws its light. How dark ! 0, Father ! if thou wilt, Take the pain-giving dregs away ; This little spirit knows no guilt — Earth holds no purer, lovelier clay. How can I meet that glazing eye Imploringly to mine upturned. And listen to that anguished cry. Nor pray the envenomed cup returned? I drink. Unto my quivering heart I press the pale and writhing form ; At the death-shriek I do not start — I quake not at the rushing storm. 252 FOEMS. I feel each faint pulse come and go, I mark each laboring breath decrease, And smile as death's grim fingers throw O'er brow and cheek the veil of peace. 'T is done — the last dire drop is drained ; The rites are o'er, the grave doth close Upon my dearer self, nor gained Is yet the haven of repose. 0, Father, take me to thy breast! For I am weak, and worn, and chill ; Thou wilt not fail to give me rest. For I have striven to do thy will. There — peace ! I feel a heavenly calm Diffused throughout my sinking frame ; My Saviour's words, like drops of balm, Grief's ever restless billows tame. I look beyond the dreary grave, To where my hopes relighted dwell. And own, though dark the cup he gave. Our Father " hath done all things well." CHRISTIANITY IS WHAT? Is what, dost thou ask? 'T is the sunbeam that dries The night-gathered tear from the violet's eyes — That warms the cold earth round the valueless thorn, And flings through the darkness a beautiful morn. What is it ? The perfume which steals from sweet flowers When the sick heart is pining for summer's loved showers ; The rain-drop that falls on the desolate leaf; The oil that composes the billows of grief. What is it? The young breeze, whose pinions, unfurled, Stay not till their choice gifts have circled the world ; A harp-tone at midnight, when nature is still, Or the voice of a dove by a pine-shaded rill. What is it? A star on the wild-heaving sea, Prostrating the proud on a prayer-bended knee ; poiiHs. 253 A &ce that refineth the .metal within ; The canker which gnaws at the vitals of sin. What is it? 'Tis mercy, 'tis justice, 'tis tkuth^ The staff of the aged, the glory of youth ; The rainbow of promise, to brighten our tears ; A lamp in death's valley dispersing our fears. What is it? Thou askest — thy answer is there In thy own swelling heart, with its beautiftd prayer. It breathes through all nature — it centres above — 'T is our own spirit's essence -^ 't is infinite love. LINES TO A SIOK FRIEND. The hand of 284 And the sweet moon smiled sweeter than her wont, — We came from God's dear house and gave our thoughts To music and to hope. And where are they ? One stands on fame's high pinnacle, with wreaths Of beauteous hue strown careless at his feet. And men approve, and grateful blessings fall Upon his noble head. 'T is all he asks — 'Tis all he ever asked, and he is blest. And one, a kind and generous one, whose cheek Was tinged with many summers, but whose soul Gave out a spring-like melody — she still Keeps on the even tenor of her way, Like some unmurmuring stream, which gently laves Its perfumed banks. Others perchance now sleep. But one was there, a wild yet gentle girl. Not very beautiful, but very kind. When once you saw her heart, and felt the warmth Of feelings which few dreamed that she possessed. She did not know the world, and she had thought. In her wild home, that merit such as hers Could only meet derision, and therefore She watched with jealous eye, and often showed Indifference where her soul had much of love ; And this became her curse. But where is she ? Her home is far from hence, and it is said Her eye is brightest in the glittering throng. Her laugh the merriest, and her earthly lot Happy beyond a doubt. But I have heard Another and more potent voice, which said — Read not her heart's book through, for thou wilt find More tears than sunshine, and one only page Unwritten by the blotting pen of grief — The page where God is worshipped. THE PRAIRIE COTTAGE. A cottage on the prairie ! 't is a wild and lonely thing ; The south wind wanders through its rooms with softly fluttering wing; POEMS. 285 The Ibrightest sunbeams kiss the vines that clothe its lowly eaves, And many a plaintive warbler 'mid its woodbine arbors grieves. It stands beside a running stream, with green a&d doping banks, And in its rear tall forest trees present their waving ranks ; While far beyond as sight may reach, with undulating sway, The prairie, like some broad lake, sweeps in waves of light away. The cottage of the prairie ! behold, at sunset's glow, Upon its soft grass-plat bright forms are flitting to and fro ; The welcome strains oft ring upon the silver air, And a voice of melting sweetness sings to the light-toned guitar. Our home upon the prairie ! though rude and dull it seem, Time passes 'neath its humble roof like an Eden-tinted dream ; For love doth bind with rosy chain the hearts that dwell within, And love hath e'er a pleasant voice wherewith from care to win. Long did we dwell in princely halls, with all that boastful pride With which man strives to wrap the soul that fain from God would hide ; And long with thankless hearts and lips we broke our daily bread, Till Heaven, in mercy, o'er our path its stern misfortunes shed. Our home upon the prairie ! blest be the peaceful hour, When with sad hearts and wearied limbs we reached our shel- tering bower ! No crowd of flatterers welcomed us with words of honeyed tone ; But we felt that Heaven's approving smile upon our spirits shone. The cottage of the prairie ! there is no spot on earth So dear as this, our cabin home, with its broad and cheerful hearth ! We pray that God will never let our footsteps from it stray. But make our graves, our pleasant graves, where nature's foun- tains play. 286 POEMS. A FAREWELL TO WINTER. Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! We part, but be thine all the tears ; For thy reign has been stem, as the streamlet doth tell. While its blithe voice thy burial cheers. Thou didst sweep through our valleys in vrrath, And call the deep snows from the sty. Till the white drifts swelled high in the forester's path. And the fleet deer no longer could fly. Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! We lay thy Methuselah head 'Neath the grass-covered mounds where thy forefathers fell. The oft-sung illustrious dead. A patriarch thou of the race. Subdued by Spring's mellowing glance, Thou didst war to the last with a chivalric grace, But the sunbeams have broken thy lance. Farewell to thee. Winter, farewell ! Thy beautiful victress doth come From the far happy South, with the zephyr's soft swell, To smile on our desolate home. She breathes the low music of love, She speaks the sweet language of flowers, She brings its young leaves to the sorrowing grove. And green vines to the murmuring bowers. Farewell to thee, Winter, farewell ! The red rose will bloom on thy grave. And the song-bird, perchance, through the echoing dell, Will chant a faint dirge to the brave ; — But thy name, like all tyrants', will soon Sink unblest to oblivion's sea, While around the sweet princess who taketh thy throne Will be gathered the happy and free. POEMS. 287 DEATH AT SEA. Wb smoothed away the silken hair From her angelic brow ; We drew above each upturned orb Ita lid, as white as snow ; We gathered slowly o'er her breast, Where now the young heart slept, The folding of her icy shroud ; Then turned aside and wept. We wept — for our 8w«et summer bird, The loving and the free, Had flown with all its wildwood songs, Its thrilling melody : And we were on the mighty deep ; And well we knew how dark, Without the light of those dear eyes. Must be our homeward bark. We thought upon her sunny smile. Warm as her ovm pure heart ; Her ringing laugh, which made the gloom From every face depart ; We thought upon her brow of light, And her low voice of love : Alas ! that we remember not Such only live above ! She had been with us since the first Frail spring-rose saw the light ; Had blessed with us Spain's brilliant mom, And fair Italia's night ; And now, with rapt and yearning soul, Toward her home she came. And yet upon her fond lips dwelt Bach well-beloved name. 0, little sister ! with the wreath, Twined for that dear one's hair, Press now no more thine ear to earth, To list hex coming far. 288 POEMS. And thoo, lone mother, murmuring oft " When wai my darling come V — Know that thy precious flower doth bloom In a far lovelier home. We knelt beside the shrouded clay ; We gave the last sad look ; And, with scarce-beating hearts, our stand On the still deck we took : We saw her hallowed form descend Far down the shelving deep, With prayers that, in some coral cave, Peaceful might be her sleep. THE HOUR OF SUCCESS. The revel is over — the dancers are gone — The belle of the evening is sitting alone. With the diamonds BtUl circling her forehead so fair, And the white jasmine twined in her beautiful hair. 0, signal hath been her good fortune to-night ! She has distanced her rivals, and captured her knight ; She has seen the land's noblest a slave at her feet, And a dukedom's bright pearls wait her vision to greet. Her lip curls with scorn, and her cheek glows with pride, As her glass points to charms by pale envy decried ; And a smile of deep triumph illumines her face. As her thoughts, like swift ruimers, her pathway retrace. She sees the dark spot where she dwelt when a child. And strayed in coarse garments o'er common and wild, A poor peasant girl, rich in beauty alone. Ere the arms of a patroness round her were thrown. How strong is the contrast her mirror reveals ! But, lo ! whUe she gazes, a shadow there steals : From the halls of the past dark remembrances start, And the fangs of remorse bury deep in her heart. POEMS. 289 She sees her lone mother liegleotedly pine. While her child in the gems of a princess can shine ; She hears the last prayer, from her famishing lips, For the ingrate who cares but a world to eclipse. She sees her pale sister o'erwearied with cares, And her tender young brother a prey to life's snares ; While the lover, who trusted the tale of her truth, Wastes away in the mad-house the fire of his youth. They are marshalled before her, and more, many more, — Pale offerings to pride on the threshold of power. O, leaden the weights that her bosom oppress ! And this is her coveted hour of success ! She casts the rich gems from her quivering breast ; No more can her heart 'neath their brightness find rest ; She crushes her flowers in the midst of their bloom. For her spirit is wrapt in a mantle of gloom. "0, Father ! " she whispers, " receive me at last, A miserable reed, broken down by the blast. Yet bearing a penitent spirit within, That wearies of earth and the thraldom of sin. " Cast me back to obscurity's waves if thou wilt. But wipe from my soul the dark records of guilt ; O, gladly from fame's softest smiles do I flee. To earn the deep peace which descendeth from thee ! " Blest, blest are the tears of those penitent eyes ; They have drawn melting hope from the listening skies ; They have wakened a joy the lip fails to express, — This, this is the hour of the spirit's success ! THE MIRACLE AT NAIN. MoEN breaks upon Judea with the ftdl. Deep, golden splendor of the eastern clime When in midsummer. Every spire, and dome, And gorgeous temple, and sun-loving tower, 25 290 POEMS. Throws down a flood of radiance ; and the tall Green cedars, and more leafy sycamores, Shake their night-gathered diamonds to the breeze As it glides murmuringly. Softly riseth From the blue lakes, by prophets sanctified, A silvery mist, enrobing shrub and flower With a transparent beauty, and, anon. Stealing through the slant olive-fields to bathe The rich fruit with its dew. A hymn is heard — The shepherds have gone forth upon the hills With their white flocks, and grateful praise ascends From their rapt souls to heaven. The busy world Is now abroad. The dark-browed vine-keeper With pruning-knife and eager eye surveys Bach ripening grape-row and pomegranate bed. The gardener seeks, with watering-pot in hand. His flowers and spices ; while in playful groups Gather the peasant children round the doors Of the low cottages, to watch their sires Wend cheerfully their way to daily toil. The city's hum increaseth with the mom ; The rush of chariots and the neigh of steeds ; The heavy tread of camels laden for Some distant mart ; the cries of vintners o'er Their wine-flasks, and of grasping merchantmen Above their gorgeous wares ; while, now and then, Mingle the cymbal's silvery cadences With the deep-sounding tambour, and the songs Of flower and dancing girls, as oft they pause Beneath the spacious balconies to give Their morning serenade. Is there an ear, 0, lovely Nain ! within thy massy gates That listens not with rapture to the sounds Of thy prosperity? Is there an eye Alive to nature's glories, but doth glance With an unwonted fervor o'er the scenes Of such a morn as this ? POEMS. 291 There is a house, A small, dark house in thy far suburbs, Nain, That knows no gladness ; from the darkened rooms Ascends the deep, low wailing, and the chant That's breathed but for the dead. One only room Admits the cheerful sunshine. And there sits The mother by her child. What now to her Is all the glory of this outer world — The smiling heavens — the myrrh-scented winds — The music of the waters and the birds — The breath of once-loved flowers ? Long, long had watched That widowed woman by her dying son, With all that deep, unfathomed tenderness God giveth but to mothers. In her heart She had shrined hope as an enchanted tree By naught to be uprooted, and had prest With cheerful lip the sufferer's burning brow. And breathed sweet words of peace. And time wore on ; And he she loved grew worse. Yet dreamed she not Of death. 0, slow of heart, and faithless, they Who garner all their little world of wealth In one frail mortal bark ! They cannot hear Death's echoing footsteps ; they are blind to all The visible symptoms of decaying life, And build the golden palaces of hope Until the very last. That mother saw The idol of her soul each day more weak And thin ; and o'er his eye, at last, — That eye which ever fondly gazed on her, — There came a dimness. On his sunken cheek The hectic rose waxed purple ; and she heard. When in his fever-dreams, a whispered name That was not hers ; and then her sick heart knew He had loved vainly, and that poverty Had been the barrier of his earthly hopes. And made his portion death. The victim died ; And by him in the sackcloth's dismal garb 292 poDus. Sat the now childless widow. Night and mom, Of all the long days ere the burial, Found her still bowed beside the precious clay. Heedless of prayers and tears. Dreams have come down To blunt the deadly anguish of her soul. And gently lead her to the sunny past, When love was happiness. She feels again The young arms clasped around her bending neck The soft cheek on her bosom, and the sweet, Low, lisping voice of infancy thrill all The fibres of her heart. She hears again The first warm, guileless prayer go up to heaven. Holy as angels breathe — again the breath Of the dear sleeper stirs her flowing hair ; She gazes on the half-shut violet eyes, The parted lips, the soft and sunny curls Half-shading the white brow, and feels a deep, O'erflowing gush of happiness within Her spirit's holiest depths. Memory Still leads her on. The schoolboy rushes in, Glowing with health and rosy exercise, And with delighted accents breathes the tale Of his excelling labors, while he fills Her lap with wild-flowers and sweet frankincense. Again he stands before her, in the pride And beauty of his early manliness. Noble in form and soul. In him she sees Revived the lost love of her widowed heart — The husband of her youth. She hears his name Spoken by all with blessings. Prophecies Of the sure greatness of his latter years Fall on hw ear like music. All her toils. Her hard privations, deep solicitude. Are merged into forgetfulness — and far In the dim vista of declining life She seeks a refuge for her weary head Upon the bosom of rewarding love. POEMS. 293 O, could the wretched but live on in dreams ! The mourner wakes to feel the mockery Of dear remembrances. With that despair Which knows no soul's physician, she again Presses her lips unto his icy brow, And prays for her own death. The burial mom Has now arrived, and with it bringeth news. The widow has become the 'heritor Of vast possessions. As if, alas ! her cup Of bitterness were not already fall Without this added drop. She hears it but To breathe a wild and frenzied curse on gold, The canker-worm of love, and then relapse Into her still despair. « # * The funeral train Winds slowly through the long o'ershadowed streets And winding alleys. Solemnly arise Through the clear air the wallers' piercing cries, Shaking the hearse-plumes with their tremulous swell. Anon is heard the low melodious chant Which weeping Israel ever breathes above The corpse of the beloved ; and every head Is bowed to catch its spirit-moving words. "Put off thy pleasant robes, O, daughter of Nain ! Lay aside thy beautiful garments for the sackcloth of grief ; For the brave hath gone down to the place of darkness. The cedar is bowed in the dust ; his leaves are perished. Let the fir-tree mourn aloud in Elealah ; Let the trees of Lebanon hang their heads in tears. Very comely was Heli, the son of Susannah ; Like the sun at noon-day was the glory of his countenance. But the spoiler hath laid the canker at his heart, And the home that knew him shall know him no more forever. Let your tears fall for Susannah, 0, daughters of Nain ! Wail for the childless mother, in her hour of desolation ; For mightily doth the hand of the Lord oppress her. And heavy on her soul is the weight of his chastening. ,25* 294 POEMS. Her sun hath gone down in darkness at mid-day ; Her moon hath buried its beams in the grave of Heli." The gates are passed ; the low chant dies away Amid the sobs of sympathizing friends ; And now they move in silence. But, ah ! who Are those few pilgrims, toil and travel-worn, Grouped by the way-side, gazing earnestly On the long ffle of mourners ? In their midst Stands one on whom all eyes are riveted In silent wonder. He is like the rest In dress and stature, but there is enstamped On every feature of his Godlike face A beauty so transcendent, mingled with Such pitying softness, that all hearts are dravra Towards him insensibly. It pauses there. That great procession ; and beside the bier Standeth the holy stranger. In his eyes Are drops of sweet compassion, as their glance Rests on the bowed and muffled form of her Who is no longer mother. His rich voice Is low and deeply tremulous, as in Her torpid ear he breathes the words, — so oft Breathed, ah, how vainly ! — " Daughter, weep thou not! " She starts. Those tones are not all strange to her, For 'mid the horrors of a midnight watch Beside dissolving nature, thrice had she heard That deep voice whisper slowly at her side, " I am the resurrection and the life." Thrice had those melting eyes thrilled her whole soul With an unearthly peace, and she awoke To chide imagination, that could thus Mock her with happiness. But now she feels A strange presentiment of bliss to come. And, trembling, watches every varying look Of her deliverer. Hia hand is raised — He touches the dark bier, and cries aloud, ' ' Young man, I say, Arise ! " POEMS. 29& ! when from death The sleeper woke to life, to love, to hope, And in the snowy vestments of the grave Sat up and ministered to all around Of heavenly things to come ; they needed not A revelator's voice to prove that he Whose hand had wrought this wondrous miracle Was God's anointed Son ! THOSE WE LOVE. Those we love are passing from us — Passing like the summer flowers ; Soon our dearest heart-companions Death shall gather to his bowers. Vainly shall we list for voices Made by absence doubly dear. And remorse will sternly question — " Bidst thou cherish them when here ? " ! in sorrow — in vexation — In all trials, let us prove. By the purest, tenderest duties. How undying is our love. Thus life's parting pangs a solace In sweet retrospect shall know. And the grieved and wounded spirit Rise unburthened from its woe. CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. Methinks I see that thrilling scene — Those children and our Lord ; Each little head bent lovingly, To catch Ms faintest word. He gazes in their melting eyes. He clasps them to his breast. And calls them flowers of Paradise — Partakers of his rest. 296 POEMS. 0, mother ! from whose heart of hearts The grief-drops yet distil ; Whose bosom hears an aching void This world can never fill — Take hope — your little lambs repose Upon a tenderer breast, And never may your fond heart dream How deeply they are blest. YOUTHFUL PIETY. Mt locks are gray, my light is dim. My form is bowed with years ; I have seen many lovely things In this dark vale of tears. I 've seen the high advance the low, The rich befriend the poor, I have seen smiling constancy For love all ills endure. I have seen bitter enemies The tenderest friends become ; I have seen long-lost prodigals In penitence come home ; But never have these eyes beheld A sight so pure and sweet, As youth's unsullied spirit bowed At the Redeemer's feet. THE GRAVE OF THE TWINS. One winding-sheet enveloped them ; One sunny grave was theirs ; ^ne soft, green spot of silken grass Received their mother's tears. And softly did the night-winds steal Their resting-place above, As if it feared to wake them from Tlieii sweet repose of love. POEMS. 297 The rains came down, and forth there sprung, One bright and early spring. Two rose-buds on one slender stalk, And closely did they cling. Yet never did they blossom there, But aU untimely shed Their young leaves on that holy grave — Meet emblems of the dead. THE POWER OF PRAYER. A WIDOW knelt, at eventide, in the holy act of prayer. Amid the young and sireless band entrusted to her care : Meekly and trustfully she sued before the Power divine, Yet closed each prayer with these deep words, — "Lord, not my wUl, but thine." She prayed for all this sorrowing world, its sinners and its saints, For every stricken heart, too weak to utter its complaints : She prayed for blessings to descend on every human head, — The rich, the poor, the high, the low, the dying, and the dead. She prayed — her little ones drew near — for all the fatherless, And, with clasped hands, besought .our Lord her tender flock to And with the needed strength to nerve her faint and erring heart To train them in the way from which they never might depart. She prayed — her voice grew tremulous — for one who long had been A reckless wanderer from her arms, a reveller in sin, — Her first-bom son, who scorned alike her prayers and her reproof, And from his home and God, for years, had coldly kept aloof. She prayed ; and the warm eloquence of stung but hoping love Bore on its swift and fervid wings these heart-wrung words above ; " O, Lord ! my Lord ! thou yet wilt have compassion on my tears, Nor turn to dust the lone desire of all my widowed years. "He is my child, — he was the first fair blossom from thy-hand, Fore as the snowdrop when the spring first breathes upon the land: 298 POEMS. Ha loved thee ere the blight of sin had fallen on his soul, Or vile companions had enticed to drain the maddening bowl. " I know, dear Saviour, thou hast borne with scoff, and taunt, and jest, And deeply have these insults pierced and rankled in my breast : I know that justice calls aloud for vengeance on his head ; Yet save him. Lord ! nor vainly let thy widowed suppliant plead. " O ! by the holy water poured upon his infant brow, When with rapt soul I breathed to Heaven the dedicating vow. And by the prayers and by the praise of his unsullied youth, I pray thee call him back again by thine all-saving truth. " By all my heavy, darkened days, by all my sleepless nights, When striving with this cankering woe, that every pleasore blights, — By the last boon his father craved 'mid dissolution's pangs, I pray thee snatch my dying child from out the tempter's fanga. " Call home the prodigal, — a feast of love awaits him still ; Yet pardon this weak heart, if aught it asks against thy will. O ! frenzied is a mother's love, — such frenzied love is mine ; Yet shall it yield its strength to thee : ' Lord, not my will, but thine.' " • A cry is heard ! a loathsome form in tattered garb draws near , A sobbing voice breathes " Mother " in the widow's startled ear ! O ! doth the mighty God at last her sad petition heed? He doth, he doth, and answers it, in this her hour of need. The wanderer weeps, upon her neck, hot, penitential tears ; He had come back, with callous heart, to bid farewell for years. When that wild prayer his bosom pierced, like lightning from the heaven ; And now, as when a little child, he prays to be forgiven. 0, ye who mourn o'er blighted hopes, o'er loved ones gone astray ! Do ye, like him who craves for bread, importunately pray? Though many blessed gifts are ours without our anxious thought, There are some boons that with our prayers and tears alone are bought. POEMS. 299 THE NEGLECTED BARD. "The full, wann gushings of thy heart Were chilled like fount-drops, frozen as they start." Maare. Yes, it was beautiful, that night — That calm, soft night ; and gently fell, From the gemmed skies, a flood of light, Waking to life each sleeping dell, And stealing from the floweret's bell Each twilight frown that lingered there, Wreathing in its dark place the spell Which moonlit flowers so sweetly wear. 'T was beautiful ! 0, earth! 0, earth! Thou givest but one pure hour of bliss, One hour, of all thine others worth, For its surpassing loveliness. One hour ! Who that hath ever gazed, Unfettered by one worldly thought, Where. Heaven's eternal altars blazed, And their first vestal glances caught, Nor felt a holier spirit stir Within his bosom's deep recess — A voice whose deep-toned breathings were Unrivalled in their power to bless ? Such were thy thoughts, pale Tannahill, Till on that last, sad, fearful night. When by thy side the murmuring rill In vain threw back its waves of light, And breathed its music. What to thee Were nature's gifts, profusely spread ? What the vast range of scenery — The hiUs, the glens, the river's bed Of dazzling brightness — once the boast Of thy young Scottish heart, when life Seemed to thy earnest gaze, at most, A beauteous bower with roses rife ? But now, what was there left to thee ? Thy cup was full. Love, glory, fame. 300 POEMS. All that thy high soul aimed to be, Had vanished ! no, not e'en a name Was left ; naught hut this sickening choice — A life of cheerless poverty, Unsweetened by one kindly voice ; Unknown, unblest, from all to flee, Like the lone leper — this, hat this, Or that from which the stoutest heart Shrinks back appalled — the loneliness Of death's dread heritage thy part ! Thou ohosest the latter. May this guilt, Unfeeling world, be thine — all thine ! That the fond hopes by genius built Were 'reft away, and all divine Uprooted with them, tUl the hand Of the poor victim sought to stay Unbidden life's slow-floating sand. And fly from torturing scenes away ! Thine be the guilt ! Thy sons of pride, With their loud-boasted feeling, should Have placed them by the trembling side Of that lone being, as he stood On the low river's bank, and bared His marble forehead to the breeze, As if his fluttering pulse had dared Rebellious in its channels freeze ! They should have seen the bitter tears, As from his swollen eyes they fell. Cold as the lucid stream appears Wrung from the glossy icicle ; — Sent forth to tell how chilled the seat Of life's best energies ; how waste The Etnaed path where darkling meet The scathed leaves there by memory placed ! O, it was not the sordid fear, Planted in common minds, that shook His upright frame, and drew the tear From his seared brain ! 't was not the look Of ghastly death — ah, no ! ah, no ! 'T was wounded feeling, crushed and flung FOBMS. 801 All poisoned back, like drops that flow The fatal upas-leaves among ! "I was this ; and as his cold hands grasped His untuned harp, and calmly tore Its glittering strings, — so often clasped With a deep, fervid wish to pour Undying anthems, — there were heard The lingering numbers of a lay, Mournful as that which night's sad bird Sings, as it wends its weary way O'er deserts ; it was like the dirge Chanted by wailing winds o'er those Whose pillow is the sparkling surge, Mingled with flowers the sea-weed throws. It breathed a language known to none, Save those whose very hopes are sorrow ; Whose years their sombre wings have thrown To shroud in death the coming morrow. 'T was thy last song, neglected bard ! Of all thy fruitless dreams a token ! Of dreams by callous memories marred — The offspring of a spirit broken ! The song had ceased, and naught was heard. Save the low wind's unchanging tone, As the unconscious leaves it stirred, Like some sad spirit's listless moan ; — Till, suddenly, the splashing wave Told to the startled ear that Death Had given to Tannahill a grace ! THE BRIDE'S RETURN. A UTTBK is borne to the cottage door, — Pair Edith returns to her home once more ; But dim is the light of her soft blue eye, — She has come to the haunts of her youth to die. Scarce a twelvemonth has passed since she left the side Of her weeping mother, a happy bride : 26 302 POEMS. O, bright on that morn seemed her future sky, And now she comes to her home to die ! Long, long has she borne with the taunting mirth Of her lord's proud friends at her humble birth ; She has borne in silence with open wrong, For her faith in one was undimmed and strong ; But a shadow has crept to that idol's heart, — She has seen young love from his throne depart ; She has read dislike in her husband's eye, And she turns to the home of her youth to die. "Mother," she whispers low, " Dear mother, take again your weary child. O, it is bliss to know There is one breast in all this earth's drear wild, Whereon the aching head may safe repose, TJnscourged by change, and all its cankering woes ! " Mother, I come to die ! Shrink not ; 't is sure a blessed, blessed boon. When loye's deep streams are dry, And life's best hopes grow pale at early noon. Let thy fond eye but mark my latest breath, And I can smile amid the pangs of death. " Take me to my own room. For which so long my breaking heart hath pined. There ! there ! how rich the bloom Of the wild plant my hand so gayly twined Around the casement ! 0, thou hast the power To draw sweet tears, my simple forest flower ! " Thou hidest no thorns to pierce The tender love that trusts and blesses thee ; Thou look'st not dark and fierce. As he has looked for many months on me ; But, from thy soft, red lips, methinks I hear The love-breathed language of a higher sphere. POEMS. 303 " 0, is not all a dream, A wretched dream, from -wliioh I now awake? I hear the wild mill-stream 'Mid the rough crags its hoarse complainings make ; I see the tall trees by soft zephyrs stirred ; I hear the singing of my favorite bird. " There are my choice books ranged Upon the shelf, as by my own fond hand : 0, there is nothing changed In this dear spot ! — not even my dahlia-stand. There are my nurslings, — bright and fresh they seem : Thank Heaven ! 't was but a dark and frightful dream. " No ! by this burning pain Deep in my heart, that will not come away. It was no dream. Again My spirit writhes beneath remembrance' sway ; His cold, distrustful glance is on me stUl, And bitter words my cup of grief refill. " Fold me to your kind breast ; Closer, dear mother ! — I am growing cold : Soon shall I be at rest Beneath the valley's ever-hiding mould-; And thou wilt weep, and he, perchance, at last Will dwell remorseful on the cruel past. " Should that blest hour e'er come, O, mother ! soothe him with these peaceful words : In this, my hour of doom, I bless him from my spirit's inmost chords ; And, as I hope for mercy from above, I leave him my forgiveness and my love." The martyr is yielding her tremulous breath ; On her forehead are falling the shadows of death ; Her bird is still singing, her flowers are yet gay. But the soul that so loved them is passing away. A shriek has gone out on the soft summer air ; 'T is the heart-piercing note of a mother's despair, As she clasps to her bosom her idolized clay. And the darkness of night settles over her way. 304 P E M B . O, she sees not the beautiful beings who come To bear her dear child to a heavenly home ! She hears not the anthems that ring through the sky, Nor the whispers of love where the cherubim fly. There is joy in high heaven ; a saint hath returned : -'Bring flowers," fadeless flowers, for the heart that hath mourned ; Let her sit at the feet of the holy I Am, Beloved of the angels, and dkide or the Lamb ! FOREST RAMBLERS. There go our little ramblers. Blithe children of the wopd. Who every holiday seek out The forest's solitude. They seek the spring's first violets, They seek the laughing streams. They seek the emerald moss-banks, where The snow-white daisy gleams. A happy elf is Willy, With his fishing-rod and bait ; And like a shadow at his heels Goes little dancing Eate. Their voices far are ringing out ; They are thinking of their spoils. Their flowers, their fish, their berries, and Their welcome from their toils. Heaven bless our little ramblers ! They will hear the wild birds sing , They will listen to all pleasant sounds Of the gay, rejoicing spring ; They will breathe the fragrant mountain air ; They will see the young fawns play, And, with swift feet and eager eyes, Through dell and dingle stray. POEMS. 305 Hearen bless our little ramblers, And bring them back, at night. To our fond arms, with happy hearts And sharpened appetite. O, sweet the lessons they will hear From nature's lips to-day ! And whom she learns need never go From life and light astray. TALE OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. What hast thou to tell me, wild mountain stream ? I will sit me down on thy velvet bank. Where the daisies and bright yellow buttercups gleam, Like the Druid whose spirit the moonbeams drank. Where hast thou been roaming, so merry and free ? Come, give me thy joyous history. I was born in the depths of a narrow glen^ Of a fountain as pure as the tears of the rose ; Far away from the troublesome haunts of men, Where the star-flower forever in secret glows. And the wild-balm flings to the misty breeze The honeyed breath of the laden bees. 'T was a bright spring oiom when I ventured out From a hiding-place in my mossy cave ; 0, merrily gamboled the winds about. And dashed the spray from my shrinking wave I And the red sun flaunted his glittering locks In my face, as I leaped from the threatening rocks. 0, wild are the sights which the mountain stream sees, Though lonely and shadowed its course may be ! With terror I crept 'neath the frowning trees, In the craven hours of my infancy. And scarcely breathed when a sound was heard That came not from leaves by the zephyrs stirred. A spotted fawn came down from the hills, With a stealthy motion and timid eye ; 26* 306 POEMS. A moment he paused 'mid the murmuring rills, Then sprang, like a star from the midnight sky ; And an eager greyhound came rushing by. With a fallen tongue and a bloody cry. Is such this bright world ? I whispered low. When above me the clashing of swords was heard, And I drank the blood of the fallen foe. And mingled my wail with the evening birds'. 'T is mournful, I said, but still best, I am. sure, To be patient with evils we cannot cure. So I danced along with a heart of glee. Giving out music where'er I went ; And sister riUs came from each upland lea, With the birch and the spice-bush redolent ; And our fond waves joined, till at last I took The name and pride of a mountain brook. Sometimes I dashed, with a courser's speed, Down gulfs where the daylight never shines ; Sometimes I lay in some scalloped mead, And dallied all day with its trailing vines ; Then stealthily wound away at night. Like a cautious snake with the foe in sight. Sometimes I rumbled through haunted caves, Chatting with goblins and mocking fays ; Sometimes o'er the red men's shallow graves I swept with a dirge, in the moon's dim rays ; And beauty and verdure sprang up where'er My voice rang out on the silver air. A white rose bent o'er my glassy sheet. And blushed at the beauty she there discerned ; A pale spruce buried her dying feet In my depths, and the dew to her leaves returned ; And I nursed into brightness those delicate gems That give but to water their pearly stems. O, sweet are the sights which the mountain stream sees ! A fair babe fell in my arms and slept ; I bore its soft form 'neath the whispering trees. And I hushed its last wail like a mother, and wept POEMS. 807 As its blue lips I kissed ; and its silky white hail* I turbaned with willow-leaves sorrowing there. A gray-haired parson approached me one day, With a youthful maiden of loveliness rare ; And he sprinkled her brow with my purest spray, And offered to Heaven an eloquent prayer. 0, none but I heard the wild music that thrilled Through the sky when that baptismal rite was fulfilled ! A wanderer sat by my gurgling side, And repentance came down to his blackened heart ; His hot tears fell in my hurrying tide. As he vowed with the apple of sin to part. And I saw the recording angel write His name in a glorious book of light. But, mortal, I tarry too long with thee ; I must hasten on to the sounding main, Gladdening all hearts as I wander free. And soothing the brows that are throbbing with pain. Be thou, too, active, and learn of me To brighten thy road to eternity. THE TOLLING BELL. How dost thou vibrate on my trembling heart. Stern clarion of the grave, with thy deep knell ! Causing dim memory from the past to start. And o'er again life's dark experience tell. Tolling bell ! Hush thy cold voice ! Too plainly do I see The mournful throng in long procession swell ; But the dear form, alas, unseen by me, Must pass, for thou of time dost tell. Tolling bell! O, the sweet bird that hushed its song so soon ! Tears ever must from feeling's fountain well, 308 JP B M 8 . While 'neath the saintly beaming of the moon A weary wanderer from my home I dwell, ToUing beU ! But it is joy to know there is a sphere Where thy dread sounds on startled ear ne'er fell ; Toll on ! I will with hopeful patience hear, Since time for thee reserves a parting knell, Tolling bell ! TALE OF AN INVALID. " We are truly ' beings clothed with veils,' and cannot understand each other } scarcely, indeed, can we comprehend ourselves. It is very likely that those we often most envy are most to be pitied, while those we most pity are most to be envied." — Letter. I SCARCE can tell how many years I 've lain within this darkened room, — Now buoyed with hop6s, now sad with fears, — The liying tenant of a tomb. But when disease first laid his hand. With palsying touch, upon my brow, I had a babe that scarce could stand, — He wears the look of manhood now. Slowly the first few years dragged on Their lengthened seasons ; and, to me. It seemed their round would ne'er be done, Nor changed their dull monotony. I saw not, then, the chastening rod, • Which now my lips so joyous kiss. Nor raised one feeble prayer to God To mitigate my wretchedness. My friends forsook me, one by one, — They who had said they loved me well, — They wearied of my endless moan. And pity ceased their hearts to swell. Why should it not ? I could no more Their worldly interests promote ; They knew my little day was o'er. And took of me no further note. P £ u s . 30d E'en those by ties of blood allied At length grew cMeless of my fate ; They seldom came to my bedside, And, lastly, left me desolate. Months, years went by, and my weak gaze Scarce rested on a human face, Save those who fed life's feeble blaze, / And kept, forgold, their tedious place. My life was one unvarying reign Of gloomy days and gloomier nights ; Of hours of sorrow, hours of pain. Without one taste of earth's delights ; Without one single thought of heaven, Without one effort to subdue My stubborn heart, that should have given Its trust to God when life was new. I heard the voices of the gay. And mourned the world that I had lost ; My soul grew darker day by day ; Like a poor vessel tempeSfc-tossed, When storm-clouds sweep across the sky, And masts are gone, and shoals are nigh, No guide, no star, no hope had I, And only wished that I might die. Such might have been toy state e'en now, Had not all-seeking mercy shone Across my path, and bade me bow A humble suppliant at its throne. There came one mom, — it was in May, They told me, and I felt the air. The first I 'd felt for many a day. Kiss balmily my brow of care, — There came a laughing child to me, — • Wherefore, I never asked, nor knew ; But her blue eyes suppressed their glee, As their quick glances o'er me flew. 310 POEMS. She oped a little Testament, And softly leaned against my bed ; I felt she was an angel sent To raise the sinner from the dead. , And never yet, to mortal ear, Came sweeter sounds than then were mine, From those young lips that whispered clear The lessons of the Book Divine. I wept, I sobbed, — for backward rolled The long and blotted scroll of years, And from my heart sin's serpent-fold Uncoiled beneath those scorching tears. God gave me back, in that blest hour. My childhood's fresh and trusting love, And to my fainting soul the power Of fixing all its hopes above. The burdens which so long had weighed My sinking spirit to the dust. At the Redeemer's feet were laid, And I was numbered with the just. 0, ye gay worldlings ! who so oft In haste past my barred window steal, Would that ye found your beds as soft As mine, with all its thorns, doth feel ! I know ye. In your festering hearts Writhes the blind worm that never dies. Till sin, with scorpion train, departs. And heaven its healing balm applies. I know ye. Waste no thoughts on me ; This dark room is an Eden now ; The blossoms of life's fragrant tree Fall sweetly on my fevered brow. I have blest thoughts, e'en when my form Is writhing in the grasp of pain ; I hear Him whisper through the storm, " My chUd, thou sufferest not in vain ! " POEMS. 311 Through the dark -watches of the night, When guilt on seas of blood is tost, I walk in heaven's unshadowed light, And clasp again the loved and lost. And e'er above my couch doth bend, — Husband and brother, all to me, — With melting eye the Sinner's Friend. 0, worldlings ! need I pitied be? . TO A DYING LOCUST. Thy days are now numbered, thou beautiful tree ; Summer will ne'er again smile upon thee. Earth can no more to thee vigor impart. For thy enemy feasts on the blood of thy heart. No more will the hands of the flower-yielding Spring O'er thy cold branches a garniture fling ; Henceforward, neglected and lone wilt thou be ; 0, 1 cannot but mourn for thee, beautiful tree ! How oft, from my window, I 've gazed with delight On thy dark shining leaves, vrith their blossoms so white ; And caught the rich breath of each delicate bell, As it gracefully bent to the zephyr's faint swell ! The brightest-winged birds ever sought from the heat Amid thy cool branches their summer retreat ; And the school-boy ne'er ran from thy glimmering shade Till the last warning bell-note its music had stayed. The sunshine e'er lay, with a softer repose, In thy broad, loving arms, when the morning arose. And gathered more slowly thy night-borrowed gems, As they glittered aloft on their emerald stems. The winds seemed to love thee, though wild in their wrath, They strewed not thy leaves in the traveller's path, But wailed 'mid thy boughs, when their anger was past, A hymn for thy brethren who bowed to the blast. Thou hast many brethren, O, beautiful tree I Though none are so noble, so stately as thee ; 812 voEiis. But they will not survive thee, the pride of their race, — Already they languish and vpither aipace. And I, who have made thee a thing of my heart, With the rest of my idols, must bid thee depart ; Like a loved one I knew in an earlier day. Who sank in the glory of manhood away. 1839. A VISION. " Dream'st thou of heaven ? What dreams are thine f " Hemans, I STOOD by the side of a newly-made grave. One eve, when no brightness the firmament gave, With a spirit as sad as the night wind which swept Through the long reedy grass, where my cherished one slept. I heard the lone owl in his distant retreat, And the river's wild waves 'gainst their barriers beat, And the willows their tresses sigh sadly o'erhead ; But my heart had gone down to the home of the dead. I thought of that beautiful being whose love Had been bright to my soul as the sunbeams above ; Of the spirit-light quenched in the merciless tomb, And the whispers of faith died away in the gloom. When, lo ! a soft halo encircled me round ; The winds and the waves ceased their murmuring sound, And that face, from whose beauty no gazer could flee, In its newly-clad radiance was shining on me. She spoke, and her voice was so thrillingly sweet. That I fell, like the prophet of old, at her feet ; But she bade me look up from the perishing clay. And the mists of death's valley were taken away. I saw the far land of our loveliest dreams. The flowers that ne'er wither, the ever pure streams ; The mansions of glory prepared for the blest. Where the way-worn of earth are forever at Test. FOSMS. 313 I bathed in the fountain which cleanseth from sin, Till the life-drops were glowing my spirit within ; And I tasted the fruit of that beautiful tree Whose blossoms are faith, and my pinions were free. LoTed forms gathered round me, loved voices were near, — The low and the sweet which in childhood we hear ; And warmly past scenes did to memory throng When they welcomed me home with the jubilee song. And away through their midst came the Saviour of men. And my heart he engraved with his love-writing pen, And he gave me the crown which the cherubim wore. And he whispered, " Go forth, thou art mortal no more." I arose, and the bliss which were death upon earth In the shadowless depths of my spirit had birth ;, And the wealth of that knowledge no flesh may divine, When the books were unsealed and its brightness was mine. 'T was a dream, 't was a dream — but its memory hath power To win me away from " the things of an hour." Ah ! I think upon death as I thought not of yore. And I long for his voice at mortality's door. THE YOUTHFUL POET. The gem is found, the fountain is unsealed. And now she entereth an enchanted world. With all her young mind's powers awake to grasp The treasures it unfolds. To her how changed i Are all the aspects of this glorious earth. And the surrounding heaVens ! The morning sun, Which erst but half-admiringly she viewed, Shines now into her heart, and kindles there Unutterable thoughts. The gentle moon Has an all-marvellous beauty in her eyes ; And with the sweet and misty stars she holds Communion as with angel visitor When other eyes are shut. 27 S14 POEMS. Her house is 'mid The dwellings of the great ; but all day long She lingereth on some moss-clothed precipice, Or near some forest stream, indulging rich And erer-Tarying fancies, while the gay. The beautiful, the worldly, wonder at Their favorite's absence. * * * On the scroll of fame, Inscribed in never-dying characters, Is now that young girl's name. The crowd doth gaze. And minister of flattery's incense-cup. Whene'er she passes by. But she is like the flower That yields its sweets to every gentle breeze. And still is not impoverished. Within The depth of that high heart there glows a fount Of pure, unsullied feeling, where the streams Of heartless adulation yet have failed To make their poisonous way. May He, Whose cherub bands with flaming sword preserved The tree of life, protect that sacred fount. And to earth's sweetest singer teach at last The triumph song of Moses and the Lamb. "HOSPITALITY REWARDED;" OR, THE WIDOW'S TRUST. If there is one noble quality in the human heart which I admire above any other. It ia hospitality, — genuine, unostentatious hospitality. In former times a neglect to exercise this benevolent disposition was considered in some countries deeply criminal, and was punished with severity. It is now, in most civilized nations, punished with a loss of reputation. This Is as it should be. I have somewhere read a little story, which beautifully illustrated this noble principle, and of which the following is, in part, an abridgment. Still wildljibeat the storm. The hollow winds Moaned fearfully around the shattered base Of the poor widow's miserable hut. The withered leaves went fluttering on the blast, Like things of life and voice, and the tall trees. P £ M s . 815 Which peered above the half-uncovered roof, Dashed dovm their knotty arms, as if to tear The last frail covering from the orphan's head. Cold was the widow's heart, and hopeless tears Fell thickly from her dim and anxious eye, As, with a bitter pang, she gazed upon Her little children hovering around the fire. She thought upon the marrow, — would it bring Raiment and food to save her suffering babes ? 'T was past aU hope ! and, with a broken prayer To God for resignation, she essayed To still the throbbings of her aching breast. She heard a sound — was it the creaking door Half-loosened from its hinges ? or the hail Battling through each unmortared aperture 1 Again — no; 'tis a faint and piteous voice. Beseeching shelter from the howling storm. The widow hastened to undo the latch, And, lo ! a wretched figure slowly dragged Its shivering limbs towards the cheerless hearth. The stranger wore a sailor's tattered garb — His locks were long and matted, and his head Boasted no covering save a 'kerchief vile, From which depended icicles and frost. His hands were gloveless, and his freezing feet Peered through his worn-out shoes — and poverty And grief seemed his familiar elements. In pity gazed the widow, and well-nigh In his still keener misery forgot her own. But when he asked for food, the spell was broke — The dreadful morrow rushed upon her mind With all its pining horrors. Could she snatch The last remaining morsel from her babes To feed a wandering stranger? 0, reflect, Thou hast a son, lone widow, who for years Has been a reckless truant from thy side ! Think of this boy, fond mother ; for perchance This night, this very night, in some far land, 316 POEMB. He craves with bitter tears one mite to sav6 His miserable existence ; — and wouldst thou That he should be denied i "There is an ear," Exclaimed the widow with a mournful smile, "That listeneth to the raven's piercing cry ; — 'Twill surely hear the orphan's ; " — and she placed Before her guest her cupboard's scanty all. But 'tis untasted. With a varying cheek And tear-beclouded eye, the stranger turns Towards his wondering hostess. O'er his face Are flitting strange expressions, and his voice Seems choked with words too deep for utterance. He clasps her hand, and sobs at length aloud ^^ " Mother, my dearest mother.'''' 'Tis her son. Her long-lost son, comes to her in disguise. He hath returned well stored vnth India's wealth, ' And, O ! what is still more precious in The pious widow's sight — a heart replete With filial love and gratitude to God. JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. She ceased to breathe ; and o'er her brow The clammy dews of death were spread ; And her sweet voice, so bland and low. Murmured its last ; and prayers were said. And holy vesper hymns were sung, And trembling lips the dirge prolonged, And wailing through the wide halls rung, And mourners to the death-room thronged ; For she, who lay so cold and still Within the snow-white linen there, Had been the light of vale and hill -^ The star of all Judea's fair. POEMS. 317 No newly-gathered spring-flowers threw Their rich and balmy freshness round — No funeral wreath of heavenly hue That pale young sleeper's temples bound ; For autumn's leprosy had been, "With withering breath, through Heshbon's groves, And lone Elealeh's bowers were seen Relinquishing their summer loves ; And the small fingering vines which crept Along Engedi's terraced walls. Drooped wearily ; and cold dews slept, 'Mid leaves, like glittering coronals. 0, t 'is a saddening thing to stand Beside the beautiful — the dead — And mark the still, small, lifeless hand Out o'er the heaveless bosom spread ; To gaze upon the half-closed eye. The lips compressed, the close-bound hair, Where dwelt the spark of mystery Which flies at death through upper air ! 'Tis a subduing thing — we turn With our dissolving hearts, and treasure Low in the depths of memory's urn Our sorrows in their utmost measure. But, soft ! a stranger's foot hath crossed The threshold of yon darkened room — A stranger bends above that lost, Frail blossom of untimely doom. What doth he there 1 The wailings cease — The broken-hearted parents rise. What are his words? They breathe of peace. Thinks he that death will yield his prize ? " She is not dead, she only sleeps." They answered him with bitter scorn ; Again despairing Jairus weeps. All comfortless, his only bom. He heeds them not — the stranger guest His mild blue eye turns mournfully 27* 318 POEMS. From their blasphemous taunts, to rest Upon the unconscious form of clay. And O, can aught of earth portray The holy heaven of that dear glance ? — Silent the scoffers turned away ; Their hearts grew still as in a trance, Their hands waxed nerveless — for they knew. By that one look, their eyes had seen The far-famed dread of priestly Jew — The persecuted Nazarine. He took the maiden's hand, and said, " Return to love, and life, and light ! ' The word went forth ! the mourned and dead Broke from the icy thrall of night ! Radiant with vernal health she stood, Enveloped still in winding sheet ;. Whilst the astonished multitude Fell prostrate at the Saviour's feet. • MOUNTAIN MELODIES. A MOMENT pause, thou wandering breeze. And touch my lonely harp again. Before my wasting pulses freeze. And darkness wraps this fevered brain. 0, linger yet ! but let each tone Be such as breaking hearts should hear. As when some spirit's voice alone Falls gently on the listening ear. And thou, bright star, whose quivering beam Spreads melting o'er the liquid deep, 0, gild, this wild, despairing dream, And leave these heavy eyes to weep ! For every hope, by memory blest. Hath perished like the blighted flower, And future years, in gladness drest. Were but the visions of an hour. FOEMS. 319 It is not meet for souls like mine To dwell with those of lighter mood ; Away ! in sadness let me twine My wreath, 'mid bowers of solitude. Away ! But thou, unchanging star, Companion of my rooky cell, O, send thy softer rays afar Within these dusky shades to dwell ! And breathe, ye winds ! there is a spell^ A charm, in every varying tone. That speaks along each echoing deU, Like streams by magic influence thrown. Bolian sounds ! 0, quickly fall ! Disperse these deep, desponding featS, And let your wild, entrancing call Dissolve my bursting -heart to tears. SLEEP. O, SLEEP ! thou sweetly, gently soothing power j How like to thee the Christian's dying hour, When, hopeful of a glorious mom, he lies Upon a bed of death, and calmly dies ! And what,'indeed, is death? 'Tis but to sleep. What though upon our heads the earth they heap? Still we sleep on, until the glorious day. When, bursting from our prison-house of clay, We join the universe in one glad, joyous cry, To hail the Friend who for our aina did die. SPRING. Thou art welcome again, sweet smiling Spring, With thy flowers and thy birds of the rainbow wing ; ■ Thou art welcome again, for thy face is bright, And thou bringest the sounds of immixed delight. 320 POEMS. Thy warm sun calls from their deep recess The wild ones that dwell in the wilderness ; The young fawns leap to the slant sunbeams, And bathe in the foam of the mountain streams. And the passage birds, with their southern songs. Come fluttering homeward in countless throngs ; And the golden hues of a varying sky, Like cherub pinions, are passing by. Not a vision of wild, entrancing frame E'er lighted my soul with its skyward flame But savored of music and smiles, alone To the softened glories of spring-time known. Thy song was abroad when my childish hand First gathered the flowers from the forest land. And wrought them in fairy wreaths to glide On the glassy breast of the mimic tide ; When the noise of the dashing waterfall Scarce equalled the thrill of my mirthful call. And my young thoughts flew on the passing breeze To the honeyed bowers with the morning bees. Sweet Spring ! I have greeted thy morning ray Pull oft since the zenith of childhood's day, 'Mid the silvery haunts where the first deep spell On the wings of my early fancy fell. I have greeted thee oft, and another tone Hath murmured thy praises beside mine own ; Another being hath helped me cull Thy flowers so fragrant and beautiflil. And another eye, more lovely and bright Than the sun in yon burnished sea of light. Hath glanced abroad, and pronounced thy gifts More precious than gold which the sea-maid sifts. But, alas, for the fate of the cherished here ! They scarcely bloom in our blighting sphere, pOEMd. 321 For they fade like the wreath oa the misty hill, Or the rainbow that melts in the slumbering rill. Our brightening springs are hurried away, Our loved go down to the halls of decay ; And they leave but the harp of the mournful tone To tell us of pleasures we once have known. MOMENTS OF SADNESS. "Prom my basket of odd scraps They will come when they will come." MrsTERiotrS visitors ! why steal ye whero Joy's sunny glance is bright? Ye are like The unrighteous robber who purloins unseen The temple's sacred treasures. Ye arise Ever where least expected, as did he The storied dread of Venice. When the wing of peace is brooding above The wandering spirit's home, And hope unfurleth her banner of love. To gladden the hour of gloom ; When the cup of bliss is filled to the brinl, And the heart-glow deepens beneath, Then gather those images wild and dim, With the shroud and cypress wreath. Like shadows that fall On a silvery lake, When the moaning surges Have ceased to break ; Like the sobbing wind Through channels damp ; Like the startling blaze Of a dying lamp ; Like a& ice-cold hand On a pulse that 's high ; 322 POEMS. Like an open grave To a laughing eye ; Like the lightning that comes From' — you know not where — And leaves no track In the misty air : — So wakes that sad, mysterious tone In the bosom's depths where pleasure is nigh ; And we feel, though encircled by crowds, alone, And we yield to tears, though we know not why. PASSAGES FROM THE DIARY OF A RE- CLUSE. Silent as death's own valley. Not a wave — A leaf — a breath — a murmur stirs the down Of midnight's purple pinion. To the tree Clingeth the yellow foliage, and the breeze Hath sighed itself to sleep. The stars are few, But brightly beautiful, e'en like the hopes That gild young life's horizon, and the rays Of the fast-sinking moon fall tenderly Upon the glassy billow, as in grief To leave the mirror of their loveliness. 0, softly now, sweet memory, doth a light Steal o'er thy rose-touched pages, and the wing Of an invisible spirit rustleth 'mid Their sunniness and shade ! Yet to these eyes, Weighed down with many sorrows, all is dim, And fluttering, and tearful. Tell me, then, Kind spirit, what Time's brush hath painted there : What seest thou, spirit? " I see a garden rife with golden flowers, And silver-flowing fountains. In its midst Stands one upon whose high and manly brow Life's summer sun hath glanced, yet left undried The bubbling spring of hope. Beside him sits POEMS. 323 A fairy creature, with a voice as clear And musical as song-bird's. In its tone The father finds that melody which first Awoke the answering music of his heart. He thinks of one in heaven, and well may tears Half joy, half sorrow, fill his eyes when thus He gazes on her image." What seest thou next 1 " A house of mourning. Death has laid his hand With icy grasp upon that parent's heart. Its pulse is still, and o'er the pallid clay Bends the bereaved daughter, clad in weeds, Which faintly speak the anguish of her mind. They whisper, ' She 's an heiress ;' but she feels Alone that she 'a an orphan." What seest thou next? " I see an altar — and before it kneel Two youthful beings, on whose union hath The man of God pronounced the words of peace. O, they are lovely — eminently so. And pure, and high of soul 1 The bride is one Whose wealth and beauty might have claimed the hand Of many a gallant wooer ; but she hath Passed by them all indifierently, and given Her holiest affections up to one Unknown to fame and wealth, but ah ! replete With all the high mind covets — intellect. And all who see them know their hearts are proud, — His of its nobleness, and hers of him." What next, 0, spirit? " Decline and early death. Alas, they 're dim, The passages that follow ! Tears have washed Away each smiling image. I can trace Naught but the ebon outlines of that form Which lately at the altar trembling knelt. With spirit steeped in bliss too pure to last. She bendeth now at nightfall o'er the grave ^4 FOEMS. Of her heart's dearest treasure ; and the grief Which hath no words, no sighs, no blessed tears, To loosen feeling's suffocating cords, Hath wrapt her in its pall. She is become Familiar with death's horrors, and would press In ecstasy the earth-worm to her lips. " But this is over. Light hath visited Her winter-shrouded spirit. Night and day Her eye is riveted upon the page Which yieldeth peace and everlasting life ; And she hath found it. O'er her pale, mild face Are flashing now the soft celestial beams Of Heaven's unsullied glory ; all the streams Of wandering thought are gathered into one O'erflowing channel ; every falling word Is burning with one high, exulting theme; Each angel look is kindling with one pure And all-absorbing sentiment. 'T is love. Impartial, holy, never-dying love, Encircling all the mighty realms of mind. " They gaze with wonder — her professed friends — They smUe, they mock, they spurn her from their sight. And now she strays alone amid the hills, A trembling outcast, with a pallid brow, And slow and weary step. But where 's the heart E'er touched by spark of God's unchanging love That cannot 'bide the storm ? " Up in her breast Hath sprung mysterious strength. The ills of life Are passed from her remembrance. She doth live, And move, and have her being, in the light Of God's eternal presence ; and the fears Of death and hell have now no place within Her heaven-instructed soul." POEMS. S25 MY MOUNTAIN HOME. Mt mountain home, my mountain home, Where wild waves o'er the rude rocks foam, Where subterranean echoes wake The wizard spell o'er fern and brake ; — My mountain home, where tall trees toss Their shadows o'er the dark gray moss, Where flowers their dewy foreheads bare To catch the sunbeams soft and rare ; Where fox-grapes clasp mischievously Their fingers round each sapless tree ; And where the eagle " stoops to lave" His plumage in the flashing wave ; — My mountain home, 'mid clifi' and dell, My home, I love thee passing well. My mountain home — spring never threw Her gifts 'neath skies of lovelier hue ; Ne'er waved sweet summer's rosy plume O'er spot of more unsullied bloom ; And ne'er did autumn's purple ray 'Mid scenes of loftier grandeur stray. My mountain home — rude nature's hand, Unaided, all thy beauties planned; Hill, glen and stream, and hearts whose key Is nature's own sincerity ; Hearts which, though least of love they boast, Still closest cling, and feel the most. My mountain home, 'mid clifi" and dell, My home, I love thee passing well. My mountain home — earth has no voice To lure me from my treasures choice ; The swell of nature's thrilling hymn. Through festooned aisles and grottos dim ; The tones which greet soft evening's air Of deep, unostentatious prayer ; The words from lips which ne'er deceive, And whose fond truths our spirits cleave. 28 826 F £ M 9 . O, world ! yrhat boots thy cankering gold. For which such joys as these are sold ? What are thy pleasures, boasted fame ? Kindle they not life's funeral flame ? Away, away ! I cannot roam Beyond my own loved mountain home. SICK-BED FANCIES. Father ! thou call'st me hence. I hear thy voice, Though others no unusual sounds discern. There is a low, soft whisper, making ^choice Of the wan hour, when stars first dimly bum, For its revealing, and that voice is thine ; I feel it all my being's depths refine. O, sweetly solemn do its fond words come, — *' Thy race is o'er, dear, sorrowing chUd, come home ! " There is a balmy softness in the air ; There is bright sunshine on the distant hills ; God's holy spirit moveth everywhere. Brightening the dim old trees and misty hills, Till heaven comes down, as 'twere, to this dull earth. Giving the glorious Indian summer birth — And all is beauty. But is heaven less fair? My spirit inly cries, " Dear Father, take me there ! " I have been wedded to the sights and sounds Of this bright world too deeply and too long. E'en now, while standing on life's crumbling bounds. With scarcely strength for one sad parting song, My weak heart flutters as each woodland tone Steals through the casement, and again is thrown The spell of olden scenes o'er heart and brain, Till I go back to childhood's haunts again. 0, blessed spot! Who talks of sickness now? — I am at home amid the wild, wild woods — There is no longer fever on my brow. As free I roam the ancestral solitudes. POEMS. 327 A pure, glad-hearted, never-wearied child, Chasing the echoes through the caverns v?ild. And shouting to the eaglets as they fly. On tireless pinions, towards the deep blue sky! ********* O, 'mid these bleak and rudely scalloped hills — Solemn and full of stem magnificence — A life-fraught essence through the air distils, And God's high presence thrills the weakened sense ! I feel not of the world. I cast aside All memory of its jarrings. It has died Unto my soul ! I am alone — alone — With but Heaven's sheltering wings around me throvrn ! Here let me linger now. I hear the gush Of furious waters in yon cavern dim — And, hark ! there comes the tempest's fearful rush, With the wild sobbings of its hollow hymn. The trees " do battle," and the air grows black! Huzza ! I walk the whirlwind's dizzy track ; I laugh amid the lightnings as they spread Their flaming banners harmless o'er my head ! ********* The scene is changed. 0, nature, thou art sweet In all thy phases ! With a pleasant voice RoUeth a well-kno-^Ti river at my feet. On its green banks my favorite birds rejoice ; Rich flowers are round me with their honeyed breath ; Old friends draw near ; e'en those who fought with death, And were the vanquished, years, long years ago ; I know them by their trailing robes of snow ! O, bright must be the land from whence they come. Where bliss, like light, a halo round them flings ! Who would not walk through death's dark valley home, To drink such joys from life's unfailing springs ? They point to heaven with earnest, pleading eyes, And, lo ! bright visions fill the glowing skies. They rise! — and earth beneath them waxes dim, As dieth on the air their parting hymn ! 328, F D u s . Father ! I turn me to the darkened ■wall, As did thy erring servitor of old ; But not, 0, God ! for length of days I call — Already have too many here been told. I would be gathered to thy fold above. If so thou wiliest — for I know thy love Such blessings for the mourner hath in store As heart hath ne'er conceived on mortal shore. LINES TO DEATH. Death ! dost thou aim at me With thine unerring arrow, sharp and chill? Wouldst gain a victory O'er the poor atom which awaits thy will? Speed thy winged shaft ! I ask no longer time — My soul is ready for the better clime. I weary of the world — I weary of its coarse and heartless show ; Let life's dim flag be furled ; Let the sick mourner to her chamber go ; Let the racked frame and aching heart find rest — A little space on earth's oblivious breast. 'T is time the feverish strife Of flesh and spirit should forever cease ; Draw near, thou " better life," And rend, 0, Death ! these bands that yield no peace ; I will not fly thine amputating hand. Surgeon of God ! I wait but thy command ! Let but the few who love This wasting form, and are beloved by me. My pillow bend above, That on dear faces my last look may be ; And I will bless thee, with my dying breath, Friend of the friendless ! kind, life-giving Death ! PHOSE SELECTIONS. NIRA MOORE. PivB years ago, this evening, I witnessed the parting scene between two of the dearest friends I ever had, Nira Moore and Moi-ton Fairfield. It was one of those bland, delicious nights, whose very monotony calls forth the slum- bering energies of the soul, as if to contrast the ever restless and unembodied shadows which flit through its fathomless cells, with the calm, unvarying surface of things without. The winds had wandered noiselessly back to their dim resting- places, and the broad moon moved in mournful sweetness through the cloudless vaults of heaven, while the pale stars followed meekly along in her shadowless path. We had stood some momenta gazing upon the beautiful things around us, when the distant sound of a carriage reminded me that I must soon bid adieu to the noble young cousin who stood beside me, and that, probably, forever. He had been with us some months, and during his stay had contrived to steal the best alFections of all our warm-hearted neighbors ; indeed, he was the general favorite of every circle in which he made his appearance. Possessed of that noble frankness of manners, which so invariably secures the attention of the aged and the admiration of the young, it was no wonder that he was looked upon with peculiar interest ; and happy, thrice happy had it been for one being, had his powers been limited to these less rare qualities ; but no, his power was lodged in that one arbitrary charm which has ever exerted such an 28* 330 PBOSB SELECTIONS. unfailing influence upon every sensitive heart. The high gift of imperishable thought was his, — that rich poetry of feeling, that warm glow of refined sensibility, for which language has no words, and which is only read in the lights and shades which alternately break over the usually dull index of the mind, like the images reflected on the surface of some shaded rill. This gift, this mighty talisman, was his, and woe to the rash being who came unguardedly within the circle of its magic ; so responded the hearts of many of our village girls, after a brief acquaint- ance with Morton Fairfield. But there appeared a Mordecai among them ; one proud creature, who " stooped not down nor did reverence," but kept aloof; and, if she addressed the young stranger, it was always with that air of self-complai- sance, and that tone of calm, careless indiflFerence which was meant to impress him with the idea that she considered cort- descension a virtue of no ordinary magnitude. Everybody (that sage reserved personage) had taken the liberty to pre- dict the immediate surrender of Nira Moore's affections to the gallant attack of this all-triumphant besieger of hearts ; but everybody began to think himself a little on the unphilosophical side of correct calculation, when month after month glided away, and the dark eye of the wayward girl was seen throw- ing the same cold, unfamiliar glance upon the acknowledged irresistible, that it had done the first time they ever met. In private, in the secret recesses of her own twilight bower, the thoughts and feelings of Nira Moore were almost as well known to me as my own. A heart she certainly did possess, (though I was sometimes obliged to use my choicest flow of eloquence, to convince those who knew her not as I did, of the fact) — a weak woman's heart, tremblingly alive to every vibration of acute sensibility, and one that felt intensely for the sufferings of the unfortunate. Nor were those pure devotional emotions, which cast so holy a lustre over the female character, wanting to her, in that softened retreat; and any one who had seen her as I have often, with her beautiftil brow bent tearfully to the earth, in the depth of PEOSE SELECTIONS. 331 humiliation, and heard her meek voice ascending in prayer and thanksgWing to Him who dwelleth in the unwrought temple, would have discarded the idea of pride's being her besetting sin. But so it was, and before the eyes of the world she was to all others — and sometimes almost to rm — a^er- fect enigma,. She usually frequented the gayest parties, though she did not seem to participate in their enjoyment. If the sound of laughter fell from her lips, it was when others had become uniformly sad ; and if mirth and gayety pre- vailed, her sudden abstractedness and reserve showed how little she cherished the whisperings of visible sympathy. Fairfield had paid her some attention, not really marked, but such as many would have considered flattering; but she received it with such provoking hauteur, made such matters- of-course of all the fine things his gallantry suggested, that he was glad to secure an honorable retreat. I could not help rallying her one day about her wilful eccentricities. " Strange," said I, " Nira, that you can have the heart to misuse so noble a fellow as Cousin Morton ; and one who is, withal, so devoted to the interest of the ladies." " Misuse ! " repeated she, in a tone of mock distress ; " do you suppose it possible for me to intentionally misuse that dear young gentleman ? Why, really, Juliet, you are quite mistaken. I never refused to take his ofiered arm, and the other day, when he picked up my glove, I thanked him with my very best grace. Indeed, I flattered myself that I had been extremely polite to him." " Yes," replied I, " thou piece of cold incorrigibility ; no one who ever heard you speak, will deny your treating him with extreme politeness. It is these bar-s to familiar inter- course, these everlasting ' much obligeds,' ' very kinds,' &c., of which I complain, and which are enough to provoke the temper of a saint." " Why, so I guess they must be," retorted she, " since I discover a slight shade of irritation visible on the features of my gentle pattern of piety here ; but, seriously, would you 332 PKOSE SELECTIONS. have me prostrate myself before the wheels of Juggernaut, merely because others do ? Would you have me fall in love ■with your elegant friend because other hearts are not proof against him? No, Juliet, everybody's idol is no idol for me." " Fall in love .' " exclaimed I ; " who on earth has asked you to fall in love ? I shall begin to think, then, that he is uppermost in your mind. Do you plead guilty ? " " 0, yes ! " replied she, " if it will help us into an argu- ment ; for I am sure some concessions will have to be made before we quarrel about a thing, of which we know as little as we do of this walking epidemic — this love,'' and so the matter ended ; and I scarcely thought of it after, until the evening of Morton Fairfield's departure. " Juliet," said he, as the driver reined his horses up to where we were standing, " I fear I shall never see you again. I shall now go direct to New York, and from thence, in a few days, to Europe ; but may I hope you will not entirely for- get your rude and reckless cousin ? " And, turning to Nira, he said he supposed " it would be of no use to solicit the same favor of Miss Moore ? " " Not of the least," answered she in her usual tone ; " I presume I can very well recollect you without; indeed, I shall be obliged to, if Juliet keeps on weeping at this rate. Poor child, I fear her heart goes with you." He made no reply to this nonsensical speech, but, raising his hat to us, was soon out of sight. " Nira," exclaimed I, as soon as I could master my feel- ings sufficiently to speak, " was it generous — was it even civU, to part thus with one who has always treated you well, and whom you will never again behold on this side of the grave ? " She did not answer ; and when I looked up I was struck with amazement at the wonderful change which a few short moments had produced in her appearance. She was leaning against the trunk of a tail, decayed tree, with her hands PROSE SELECIIONS. 333 clasped tight across her breast, and tlie silvery moonlight rev- elling amid the rich clusters of her dark hair ; but there was a paleness, an almost ghastly paleness, on her cheek, and her white lips quivered as with some deep irrepressible emotion. " In the name of mercy," I gasped out, " what does this mean, Nira ? Are you ill — dying ? " " No, no ! " replied she, in a low, sepulchral voice, " I am not dying; but would to Heaven I were ! It means, Juliet — it means that the long, long struggle of pride and dissimula- tion is at length over, and now it matters not who knows my folly — nay, my very madness. The grave will soon claim its victim, and then all will be well. These sleepless, these cor- roding thoughts will not cling so lava-like to my burning temples, and the whispers of the unfeeling and malignant will pass unheeded by; the grave will calm all. Do not turn away ; no tears for me — I need them not. Look on me and listen. My voice will not be here long ; but now I would speak, and you must hear. Yes, I have stooped, — the haughty, unyielding Nira Moore has stooped, — to love, to worship a creature of earth ; but you, at least, my friend, will bear me witness that I have not stooped to conquer ! A glance at this will make you recollect," — and she drew from her bosom a small unfinished likeness of — yes, it was Morton Fairfield. I could scarcely suppress my surprise at the discovery ; but she did not appear to observe my emotion. " Is it not supremely beautiful ? " murmured she, as if in soliloquy, — " the high, pale forehead, with the careless part- ing of the hair ; and the dark-blue, melancholy eye, with its deep purity of expression ; is it not indeed a fit subject for woman to cast her strong affections upon ? " " And how came you by this ? " I inquired hesitatiagly. " I never knew that you could sketch." " Nor did I ever," replied she, " until I returned from that party at D 's. He was there ; but though he was sur- rounded by smile and song, and bright eyes beamed gladness upon him, still there was an occasional shade of softened 334 PROSE SELECTIONS. melancholy upon his features, which seemed to say, the soul within communed with something holier than the gay frivoli- ties of a ball-room. Then was made the impression. I re- turned home; and this sketch, though my first attempt, shows how well I succeeded in copying that image so deeply engraven on the tablets of my memory. Alas ! on what a lowly shrine is the incense of the heart's adoration sometimes ofiered up. Many are the long, sleepless nights in which I have sat at my window, tracing with tearful eyes, by the light of the dim moon, the shades which my pencil drew upon this bit of white paper ; and what hath it availed me ? He is gone, — the wronged, the injured, has departed in all the bitterness of mortified feeling, leaving me to the harrowing conscious- ness that I have made myself detestable in his sight ; and yet it could not be otherwise. I could not gratify the vain and curious with the knowledge that their vulgar predictions were verified — no ; and though I have thrown far from me the only gem which ever possessed any attractions in my sight, and broken my own heart, still the world knows it not; and in this there is a Caesar-like victory, a triumph which Joan of Arc herself need not have scorned," — and she bvirst into a hysterical laugh. I felt a vague apprehension of something, I scarce knew what. The wild expression of her eyes, and her deeply -agitated voice, which spoke the overwhelm- ing tumult within, made me fear (nothing which she might do in her rational moments, for I knew that the laws of religion were binding upon her) the horrid effects of disordered intel- lect, and I hastened our departure to the house. A servant met us at the door with a light. " I shall not need your assistance to-night," said Nira, determinately, and the girl withdrew. " But," said I, " you will allow me to occupy a part of your room ? " " You ! " and she gave me a searching look. " Why, is there anything so improper in the request ? " " Improper or not," said she, " I shall take the liberty of PBOSE SELECTIONS. 335 possessing my own apartments exclusively. I shall be alone to-night, and " — she turned away. It seemed, however, that she relented her harshness, for she looked round, after reaching her room, and smiled so languidly, with such a despairing heart-brokenness of expression, that I could scarcely help weeping outright. " Did we not agree to walk in the morning ? " she whis- pered ; " you may call for me early. Good night, dearest Juliet ; I shall be ready very early." I lingered some moments at her door ; but, as all appeared to be hushed into silence, I at length retired to my own chamber, but not to sleep. Pale images were continually hanging over my pillow ; low, mournful tones sounded in my ears, and my disturbed imagination almost led me to rouse the family and see if, indeed, some dreadful casualty were not about happening. But my better judgment prevailed, and I kept my bed till morning. The first gray streak of twilight found me at Nira's door; it was locked, and I almost fainted with apprehension. I awoke a servant, and went in another way. Never, never will the scene which then presented itself be banished from my memory. The yet unextinguished lamp threw a sickly glare upon the dis- ordered objects around. The windows had been left open, and the early breeze waved aside the damp tresses from the brow of her who had once been radiant in intellectual beauty, and whose half-closed eyes and mournfully compressed lips still retained their original angelic sweetness of expression, as though the light which gave variation to that expression had departed forever. The spirit of my beloved friend had indeed left its frail habitation, and the emptied phial upon the table alone unravelled the dreadful mystery of its exit. The fatal likeness — the cherished representation of Morton Fairfield — was clasped firmly in her right hand, and by her side upon the sofa were found the following lines, appar- ently written a few moments before the fatal elixir termi- nated her existence, and which I give the reader in their 336 PEOSE SELECTIONS. original form, Tliey show what were the feeling of that vic- tim of love and pride, in her last moments of frenzy and despair : — Why bum ye so coldly, ye stars above ? Why veil ye your gentle eyes ? Do ye tire of your watchings o'er earthly love. Pale children of the skies ? Ay, rest ye now, for the pulse is low. The thoughts of the brain wax thick and slow. The warm blood curdles about the heart. Farewell, pale stars, you have done your part — Ay, go to your rest, pale stars. Winds, ye have borrowed an aching tone. Do ye come from the halls beneath ? Did ye gather these murmurs, wild and lone, 'Mid the solemn haunts of death ? Go back, wild winds, to the sounding deep. And rock with your whispers the waves to sleep ; Go back, for the heart which is breaking now. In silence would rest in its home below — Back, back to the sounding deep ! Shadows of memory, bland and dim, With your smiles and your many tears. Ye rise on my soul like some wailing hymn From the funeral-chanting spheres. Away, dim shadows ! — I hear your call, I see your white fingers array the pall. And a marble cheek and a rayless eye 'Mid your twilight tresses are passing by — Go shadows, I hear your call. 0, for this earth, this sad, sad earth ! What hath it to bind me here. Save the drooping flowers on the cheerless hearth. And the hopes that Hre chilled and sear ? What hath it to keep me ? The early light. Which beamed on the wing of my spirit's night — Alas ! it departed with thee, loved one, Like the charmless rays of the setting sun — Earth, earth, thou hast nothing here ! Forgive me, Morton, that I have seemed So careless and cold to thee. 1830. PBOSE SBIiECTIONS'. 337 ! in thy heart thou hast never dreamed Of the wild idolatry, The worship which language may never tell. So locked in the depths of my spirit's cell. Rearing its altar mid blight and gloom, Like the taper which flashes above the tomb, Deepening the shadow's swell. Thou hast not known, and may thou never. The anguish, the wasting pain, - Which the sound of that one dark word./orcKer .' Flung back on my 'wildered brain. Thou wilt wander abroad, like the spring-bird, free, To the rose-wreathed gardens beyond the sea. With fame on thy youthful brows ; while I In the dreamless chambers of death must lie, 'Neath my star's dark destiny. 'T will soon be over, — the fitful scene Is closing, — and now I go. Like the blighted flower from the meadow green. Seared, "seared on the heart I go," Far from the smiles of the sunny spring. From the earth in her beauteous apparelling ; 1 go in my hopelessness away. To mingle my dust with its sister-clay, A lonely, for gotten thing ! THE BLIND WIDOW AND HER FAMILY. It is a pleasant thing to cast, occasionally, life's little cares and perplexities aside, and let oppressed memory fill up her beautiftil casket with the gem-like reminiscences of early years. She brings us the impression of many a bright form, now mouldering in earth ; she recalls to us many a thrilling scene of the long, long past, whose very remem- brance sends the warm blood to the heart, and we awake and look round us for the performers of- those generous deeds, those high and princely acts, which were, in early manhood, the themes of our admiration ; forgetting the partiality of 29 338 PROSE SELECTIONS. change for our fair earth's loveliest features, and that the north wind scatters not more readily the frail flowers of summer, than does change the cherished blossoms of human- ity. But they leave (thank Heaven !) their memory, and we linger with melancholy fondness upon the Christian fortitude, the self-denial, the pure, impartial -benevolence; until, from these, we go back to the holy principles from whence they emanated, and lose ourselves in contemplating the religion which taught those blessed ones to gather smiles at the foun- tain of tears, and overcome the temptations of this world by the low-voiced spirit of pious love. I was but a child when Mrs. Hamilton became a widow ; but I was permitted to attend her husband's funeral, and can never forget the small group of darkly-clad forms that clus- tered round his grave, nor how, with childish curiosity, I caught the hand of one of the little orphans, and gazed rudely into his face, to see if he were crying. Nor can I forget how I turned away and wept when I saw the widow, with clasped hands, raise her sightless eyes to heaven, and heard the deep sobbings of the eldest daughter and son, who had led their blind mother to the grave. I wept, but with infantile selfish- ness ; for I reflected, what if it were cmr own dear father who was dead, how would Charles and Harriet cry ; and how bad we should all feel if our poor mother could not see ! Such were the natural suggestions of simple, childish feeling ; and so deeply does the pen of early impression engrave its char- acters on the tablets of the immortal mind, that the little scene just described, though of no particular importance to myself, shines forth to recollection as vividly as if but a yesterday's transaction, although many long years have since gone by. But to my narrative. Mr. Hamilton married with very good prospects in life, — I mean in humble life. He was the owner of a small dry goods shop in one of our southern cities, and his well-known honesty, and persevering business habits, rendered it probable that he would arrive, if not at opulence, to at least respect- PROSE SELECTIONS. 839 able independence. But who, alas ! may calculate on the certainty of any human event ? Mr. Hamilton had the mis- fortune to render himself unpopular among his friends, by the open and earnest advocacy of a system of religion (Uni- versalism) which was deemed, in those days, the root of incalculable evils, and the very kernel of heresy. This was an offence not to be tolerated, and it injured his business materially. He had, beside, one failing (for it is conceded that Universalists have some failings, although, in view of their doctrines, one would almost deem the thing impossible), which was not at all calculated to win the smiles of father Mammon; namely, a benevolence of heart, which always caused him to shed tear for tear with the unfortunate, and to open freely his purse for their relief. Notwithstanding, however, the unpopularity and too-far- carried effects of his religion, there was little doubt of his having obtained a competency but for the breaking out of a fire, which resulted in the destruction of his shop, and nearly all its uninsured effects. This was an almost overwhelming disaster, as it reduced him to the necessity of accepting an offer of clerkship in a large mercantile establishment, the proprietor of which, a Mr. Ward, enjoyed no very enviable reputation. This man had been recently excommunicated from some Christian church, the doctrines of which he con- tinued to advocate, long after his expulsion, for the purpose, it was said, of furthering the more easily his dark intrigues, under the fair covering of piety. But we will leave his character to develop itself in the course of these details. Long and faithfully had Mr. Hamilton labored in the service of " Merchant Ward," as he was called ; the avails of that labor barely affording his family a subsistence, including the expense of educating his two eldest children — the first, a beautiful daughter of seventeen, and a son two years younger, — when he was taken away, by sudden and severe sickness, from the active scenes of life, leaving his afflicted 340 FBOSE SELECTIONS. wife and five children to struggle unprotected through a cold, uncharitable world ! It was with a heavy heart that Widow Hamilton returned from the funeral to her humble home. " The one dear voice " was not there to welcome her ; neither the kind hand which had often, since the development of that dreadful disease, called cataract of the eye, been extended to direct her uncer- tain steps. The pale mourner sank for a moment, overcome with painful emotions ; but the many sweet consolations of the faith whose hopes had brightened her whole life, and sus' tained her husband in the hour of death, sent down their precious encouragements to her heart, and gave her peace. " Thou art not an orphan, my little James ! " cried she, clasp- ing her youngest son fondly in her arms. " Neither are ye fatherless," she continued, drawing closely together her little bevy of bereaved ones ; " the father of the fatherless is yours. He watches you, and will spread his mantle of love over you, and ye shall not be hurt. ' He watches you, and will gather, in due time, your immortal spirits, with the whole world's purified intelligences, to bloom like sweet flowers, as it were, in his own bright garden forever ! The storm of adversity, 'tis true, is gathering darkly above your heads; but remem- ber the injunctions of the dear parent that is gone, and trust in your Saviour. Let your hearts go up to him in frequent prayer, and, believe me, 0, my precious sorrowing ones ! believe me, he will bless you,. — he iirill bless you ! " Oh ! who could have seen the grateful tears of those aflFectionate children, as they caught the inspiring words of their pious mother, — who could have felt their young, innocent hearts beating warmly with high, devotional resolves, — who could have heard their fervent aspirations to Him who once took such as themselves to his bosom, and blessed them, — who could have seen and felt all this, and said. This is the spirit of Antichrist ? Or, rather, who could have witnessed these things, and refrained from saying. This is the light which PROSE SELUCTIONS. 341 must ultimately dawn upon every one that cometh Into the world ? The death of Mr. Hamilton, it will of course be supposed, from his extremely small income, left his family in very depressed circumstances. The expenses incurred in his sick- ness and burial were considerable; and the widow found herself under the immediate necessity of disposing of her pleasant home, and removing to miserable lodgings, in a nar- row by-street, in order to save the additional cost of high rent. Here, with the assistance of her eldest son, Robert, — who, at his father's decease, was taken into the establishment of Merchant Ward, — the slight avails of Marian's sewing, and her own small jobs of knitting, being the only work her afflicted situation allowed her to do, — she contrived to live, although the strictest and most ingenious economy was necessary to keep them from a state of actual pauperism. But no complaint was made ; and when they were all seated around their scant evening fire, — for Robert staid with them at nights, — the closest observer could not have detected a single cloud upon their smiling faces, nor heard a sentence from their lips, betokening aught but the most peaceful serenity. And when the long evening's sweet and cheerful conversation was over, they all joined in singing a family hymn, which was succeeded by the low-voiced mother in prayer and thanksgiving, and the young members of that holy family sought their pillows with the seeds of eternal life spreading beautifully their warm roots through the soul's deep avenues. But the hour of temptation was at hand, for one, at least, of their number ; and wily were the snares of the enemy laid, to entrap his victim. Merchant Ward had, during the lifetime of Mr. Hamilton, tried every art in his power to obtain the services of that excellent man in some of his dishonest schemes. He com- menced by endeavoring to sap Mr. Hamilton's religious principles ; thinking that, by converting him to his own par- tial system, by doing away the parental relationship between 29* 342 PROSE SELECTIONS. man and his Maker, he might destroy that love for his fellow- creatures, which had ever induced Mr. Hamilton to consider their interest as his oivn. But it was of no use ; and of this the crafty merchant was soon convinced, and therefore changed the form of his attack. He next attempted to con- found principle with interest and necessity, — to erase those nice distinctions between virtue and the form thereof, and lead his victim blindfolded, as it were, into " by and forbidden paths.'' The practised eye of James Hamilton, however, detected all his subtleties, and scorned them ; as, also, his delicately managed hints at bribery ; and the vexed and baf- fled merchant would have discarded him, but for the reflec- tion that he could find no one to fill his place. Of the young and inexperienced son, however, he hoped different things ; and many were the guarded lectures to which the unsuspecting young man was obliged to listen, often wonder- ing to what such things tended. It was late one stormy evening, when, in a dark and unfre- quented street, some one touched Robert's arm, and the voice of Merchant Ward sounded in his ear. " Eobert," said he, " I forgot, to-day, to speak with you on a subject of some importance. But, I presume, 'twill do just as well now, as this spot seems to be perfectly private. You recollect, I dare say. Col. Hartley's giving me a check on the MobUe Bank, a few days since, while in the store ? " " I recollect, sir," replied Robert, after a moment's mus- ing, "seeing him sign a check; but I thought it was on a bank in this city." " No, no ; 't was Mobile. Don't you know he spoke of its permanency, and also mentioned his extensive interest in it ? " " He did ; but I have still an impression that the check related to a bank here." " No doubt you have ; but a moment's reflection must convince you of your mistake. 'T is a subject of considerable consequence to me, and it will, I assure you, be greatly to your advantage to remember right ; for, should the matter PBOSI! S^I-ECTIOKB. 843 be called in question, as report gays it will, I shall depend on you to evidence the facts of the case. The thing- is undoubt- edly coming to your memory ? " " No, sir," answered Robert, after some pause ; " my mind is quite confused on the subject, and reflection only seems to confirm my first impressions." " Well, it is very strange," muttered the merchant, inward- ly provoked to find the lad's memory so perversely pertina- cious ; — " 't is very strange you should get things so mixed up. You remember the eolonel's mentioning, particularly, the Mobile Bank, — you recollect his signing the cheek, and I remember that said check related to said bank. You will, therefore, I presume, have no objection to telling the good jury of the court, should one be called, that you saw Colonel Hartley give me a Mobile check, remembering, all the time, that in performing this little act of friendship, or, I might say, duty, you are materially benefiting yourself? " " I will, most cheerfully, tell them all I know about it," rejoined Robert, " for I should be glad to oblige you ; but I would not, for worlds, testify to a circumstance of the truth of which I am not perfectly positive." " Poh ! " replied the merchant, " there can be no harm in it, at all, — you have my word for its truth ; and you have got it all yourself, except the little minutiae. Beside, if that exquisite conscience of yours should ever trouble you, a priest will absolve it. Or, you may repent on Protestant principles, and be none the worse. And then," he continued, in a soft, insinuating tone, — feeling the arm he had taken endeavoring to withdraw itself, — "the reward you shall receive will make your family independent ; and the day may come that wiU see you a partner in my establishment. Only think, Robert, a partner with Merchant Ward ! " Robert Hamilton was by no means destitute of ambition ; and we will not say that his heart did not beat quicker at the thought of seeing his dear mother, and her little ones, in a more comfortable situation ; or of being, himself, at some 344 PBOSE SELECTIONS. future period, in independent circumstances. But whatever his thoughts may have been, they glided by, like shadows across the dial plate, without marring the pure polish of pious virtue. " You have certainly mistaken my character ! " said he, slowly, but firmly, — his fine, youthful form expanding into manliness, as the tide of indignant blood rushed impetuously through his swelling veins ; " you have mistaken my char- acter ; for, young as I am, I have learned to love and keep my heavenly Father's commandments. And sooner shall this body be consumed by hunger, — sooner shall this tongue be torn out by the roots, than it shall infringe one little hair's breadth upon the law which says. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor." " Then, may these curses fall upon thee I " shouted the enraged merchant, his voice almost choked with the hoarse- ness of immoderate passion ; " may these curses, and worse than these, fall upon thee, baser son of a base father ! Ay, and they shall, if I have any influence over thy destiny. Presume not, henceforth, to set thy foot within my door, — but beware ! Thou hast goaded the lion, and may test his strength ! " " Say, rather," said a deep voice near him, " he has dis- turbed the viper, and may feel his fangs." And at that moment two human figures passed them, but slowly, as if to witness the result of the conference. The merchant turned upon his heel, without another word ; and Robert hastened home to relieve the anxiety of those who, he knew, must be wondering at his long absence. " What ails you, Robert ? " said his little sister Rose, as the light fell upon his face at the door ; " what ails Robert, Marian ? " " You are very pale, my brother ! " said Marian, laying aside her work. " I hope nothing has happened." " Are you sick ? " added the anxious voice of Mrs. Ham- ilton. PROSE SELECTIONS. 345 " No, mother, I am only a little melancholy. I have been strongly tempted to-night, and — " "And you resisted — " half-exolaimed, half-inquired the widow, hurriedly. " Yes, mother, I did." " Thank God ! — thank God ! " came from the ' " 0, how vain were each endeavor. Blessed Saviour, to convey By the power of language, ever. What my grateful heart would say ! All who know thee must adore thee. None can name thee but to praise ; Souls must melt like wax before thee, When thy love its power displays." PROSE SELECTIONS. 367 The last words, though uttered with a sweet distinctness, had a faint and tremulous accent. The uplifted hands sunk gently upon her bosom, the flush of agitated joy disappeared from her cheek, her dark eyes closed, and her spirit was in heaven. LEGEND OF THE ISLE OF THE SUSQUE- HANNA. There is a legend connected with the little isle which Miss Edgarton has so faithfully and beautifully described, that any further account of its peculiarities would be, at my hands, but a work of supererogation ; — a legend, which, though distin- guished by no particular moral, may, nevertheless, possess interest to those who have a love for the romantic, or for the scenery of " the river of the hills." Many years ago, — soon after the dreadful butcheries at Wyoming, — there resided on the western bank of the Sus- quehanna, near where the sweet village of T. now stands, three Indian families, of the almost estinct tribe of Dela- wares ; the most important of whom was an aged chief, and his only child Ameta, or the Evening Star. These isolated people held little communication with their haughty neigh- bors, the whites, whose prejudices were at times so bitter that they considered an Indian little better than the beast that perishes. They sold them moccasins and baskets, and there the intercourse ended, — except with the daughter of the chief. This young squaw was so very beautiful and guileless, that the girls of the village were fond of having her with them in their rambles through the yet unsettled country. There was a little selfishness in this. Ameta was acquainted with every rood of ground within the circumference of ten miles. She knew where all the best prospects were to be obtained. She knew where were the finest beds of winterberries, the coolest 368 PROSE SELECTIONS. springs, the richest clusters of rock-laurel and honey-suckle, and, more than all, she was ever ready to row them, in a moment, to the Isle of the Susquehanna, in her little red canoe, whenever they were in want of particularly fine blue- bells and adder-tongue, for flower-pots. There was something peculiarly sweet and tender in the disposition of Ameta. She was susceptible of the purest and most ardent attachments of our nature, and to oblige was with her an impulse quick as thougjit. But beneath it all lurked the inherent, indomitable, pride of the Indian. Ameta would have died to serve a friend, — she would also have died to sustain the dignity of the aboriginal character. She had one warm, steadfast friend, in Lucy Laiming, the daughter of the most wealthy and aristocratic man on the river. Lucy loved the " wild girl," as she called her, with all a sister's affection. Lucy's brother, unfortunately, loved her with more than a brother's affection. Somers Lanning had spent some years at the east in acquir- ing an education, not easily obtained in a new country ; and when he returned, the picturesque beauty of the young In- dian excited the highest admiration of his romantic mind, — an admiration which soon deepened into the most passionate, absorbing love. Ameta was not wholly uneducated. Lucy Lanning had taught her the first rudiments of learning, and her own intuitive perception of the useful and beautiful, taught her the rest. She was a scholar. I speak in the sense attached to the word by the first settlers in those early days. Young Lanning contrived to have Ameta included in all the rustic excursions of the village, much to the secret dissatisfaction of the young ladies, who, all at once, discovered in the unoffending girl many imperfections, and the open dis- approval of his father, who more than suspected the state of his son's heart. It was an evening in spring, — one of those soft, delicious evenings which come but in lovely May, with its air of mel- PEOSE SELECTIONS. 369 ody and skies of deepest blue. There waa a little sailing- party upon the river, and Ameta was among them. She was unusually animated, for Somers Lanning had found op- partunity.to whisper a word of warm admiration in her ear ; and where is the woman, savage or civilized, who ever re- sisted the influence of sincere admiration, from one beloved ? Ameta sung several songs, with thrilling effect, both in her own and the English tongue, as their canoes danced over the rippling water toward the fairy isle. Her rich, untutored voice rose and fell with each bound of the boat, and Somers thought such strains could only proceed from a heart overflow- ing with the warm poetry of untrammeled nature. The canoes made, as if by instinct, for the " slant old sycamore " at the cove, where the party landed and separated, to roam at will over various parts of the island. Somers and Ameta kept along the pebbly beach, until they reached a wild old tree, called the "Mammoth Sycamore," — a tree whose trunk meas- ures forty-five feet in circumference, — where they sat them- selves down, amid the odor of violets and sweet fern, to listen to the sobbing waves as they rushed up like things of life to their very feet. With a deep and trembling voice Somers Lanning poured forth the story of his strong, unchanging love. There were no words of reply ; but the warm tears that fell upon his hand, as Ameta, with bowed head, listened to his eloquent pleadings, told him that the heart of the maiden was his. .One moment of deep, unbreathed, undisturbed bliss, — such as is known but once in a long life, — succeeded, when Somers broke the silence by adverting to the unjust prejudices of his father against the Indians, and proposed deferring their marriage until he was independent of him ; or, — and this he was prepared to urge, — of having it solemnized immediately, in secret. Suddenly, with a faint cry, as if an adder had stung her, Ameta sprang to her feet. The branches of the old sycamore parted above her head, and let down the light of the full moon upon her queen-like person. Her black hair was parted in 370 PEOSE SELECTIONS. the middle of her intellectual forehead, and its heavy braids confined with a band of ingeniously-woven red feathers, which terminated at the left ear in long tassels of crimson silk. A white slip, fastened at the waist with a rich belt of wampum, descended to within a few inches of the glittering moccasin, and over these was thrown a trailing robe of black velvet, edged with the finest otter, and musical when stirred with the tinkling of many a rare shell and carved stone. Such was the attire of Ameta, on the evening which was, to her, at once the happiest and most miserable of her exist- ence. A deep flush passed over her face, as she stood with her large, intensely black eyes fixed upon her lover, but it was succeeded by a deadly paleness. There was a slight movement of the scornful mouth, as if she were about to speak, but no words came from her parted lips ; and ere Lanning could recover from his surprise, she had disappeared among the wild old trees. From that evening, Ameta shut herself in the wigwam of her father. The bright sim and happy birds tempted her not out, as they ever before had done, to wander amid the flowers and trees that surrounded her dwelling. Her moccasins and beautifully-wrought willow baskets were seen no more in market, though often inquired for. No smile again visited her eye, — her cheek paled, — she was hastening to the land of shadows. Often did Lucy, the gentle Lucy, visit her ; but her presence was unheeded, — the victim never spoke or looked up. Deeply did the Lanning family regret the fate of her whom one word had " sufficed to kill." The haughty father himself relented, when he saw the bitter anguish of his son, and even consented to have his family " disgraced " by their immediate marriage. To the all-afifeotionate, all-hoping Lucy was assigned the task of reconciliation, and she flew to the dwelling of her friend with a glad heart ; but her message, like everything else, was disregarded, and the poor martyr was left to her fate. *^ 41, ^ 4{. A£. TP If Iv "B" It PKOSE SELECTIONS. 371 "Father," said Ameta, one bright morning, — it was the first time she had spoken since the fatal eve, — " father, I am going home ! Bury me, by moonlight, beneath the big syca- more of the island, — bust me by moonlight ! " *J^ 4t- ^ 4t 4t "W "TV" 'TV* "TP TV" There was the dull, melancholy sound of muffled oars that evening, upon the placid waters of the Susquehanna ; a few canoes glided slowly towards the fairy isle, but one lingered far behind. It contained no " sable sail," but within it was a heart upon whom the blackness of darkness seemed to have settled forever. Somers Lanning and his sister arrived at the place of burial in season to breathe one low prayer above the remains of her they so deeply loved, and scatter a few fresh flowers upon the sequestered grave. Soon after these events, the remaining Indians removed to the west, and the Lanning family was broken up by the death of the father. Lucy married and moved to New York, and Somers travelled into foreign parts. *^ M. ,i^ ^ .AL. "H" "TV- "Tt" •Tf" ■7S* Thirty years from this time, an aged man was seen wend- ing his way along the banks of the Susquehanna, in search of a habitation in which to spend the remainder of his days. He at length fixed upon a small, retired cottage near the village of T., and was seldom seen out, except on Sundays, when he always preached to the poor of the village and sur- rounding country. The people asked his name, and he told them to call him the " Minister." This was all they had to satisfy a curiosity which was considerably increased by observ- ing him every Sabbath afternoon, fine weather or foul, to visit the fairy isle. And whoever happened there the next day, discovered fresh flowers beneath the boughs of the mammoth sycamore. Several years passed by without any clue to these singular circumstances ; and people had learned to deeply love the venerable man, whose only desire seemed the extension of his Master's kingdom, and the comfort and spiritual welfare 372 PROSE SELECTIONS. of the poor and sorrowful, when he was discovered one morn- ing in a sitting posture beneath the mammoth sycamore. His head, with its long, white hair o'ershadowing his face, was resting upon his knees, as if in a pleasant sleep. A few dying flowers were dangling from his clasped hands, — a tastefully-wrought but much worn willow basket contained some more at his feet; and beside him, with a pen-knife pointing to the words, " As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive," was his pocket Bible, satu- rated with the dews of heaven. They spake to him, but he answered not ; they parted the snowy looks from his face — he was dead ! They buried him there beneath the old syca- more ; they buried him there by moonlight, — for his papers had revealed his name, and the story of his sorrowful love j and they thought he would rest more sweetly beside her whose untimely death had widowed his heart for life. They buried him there by moonlight, with but the quiet stars watching them, and the eddying waters singing a mournful lullaby. Peaceful be the rest of the sleepers beneath that wild old tree ! The lark breathes his earliest melody above their heads, — the whip-poor-will and plaintive katy-did sing in a low wail of sadness a requiem to departed worth ; while the wild winds and wilder waves of the daughter of the moun- tains chant around them an eternal hymn ! Peaceful be the rest of the sleepers beneath that wild old tree ! Eor their spirits have entered the mansion of their God ; — they have met, and they shall never part ; they have drank, and they shall never thirst ! The tie that was so rudely severed here hath been reunited, and the sorrows of a few short days have been rewarded by an eternity of bliss ! Peaceful be the rest of the sleepers beneath that WILD old tree ! 1840. PBOSE SELECTIONS. 373 THE POWER OF SYMPATHY. ' The little dear is gone," sobbed the nurse, as the last quivering breath died away from the lips of the sufferer. " I am glad his troubles are over at last. Bring in his mother.' A small, pale woman came hurriedly through the door, and, clasping the still warm corpse convulsively to her breast, she covered its little open eyes, its lips, its hands, its blue little feet with innumerable kisses, and then burst into a loud wail of imcontroUable grief. " Do not take on so, Mrs. R.," said a tall, hard-featured woman in attendance; "we must all die some time or other; and, my mind is, the younger the better.'' " Compose yourself, my love," whispered the bereaved father, with a strong effort. " Do consider your health.'' But they might as well have refrained. The mother heeded nothing but her dead child, and shriek after shriek burst from her agonized heart, as she gazed on his blue lustreless eyes, and felt his little limbs stiffening in her grasp. It was a touching scene, and such as the sun probably beholds, in some part of our vast globe, every day. Thankful indeed should we be that we have not an equal power of vision. Four years had Mrs. R. been a wife, and two years of that time a mother. Those years had been all sunshine. Her husband was rich, moral, devoted ; her child sprightly, a gen- eral favorite, and deeply attached to his mother. Happy creature ! She had not thought of death, — but death had thought of her. The little boy was uncommonly healthy from his birth ; he had never known a day's illness, until a week previous to his death, when he was attacked with dropsy of the brain, and so dreadful were the paroxysms incident to that disease, that they were obliged to force the frantic mother from his side, nor permit her to return till the dread conflict was over ; when the scene which I have just described took place. 32 374 PEOSE SELECTIONS. It was with the greatest difSculty that we tore from her the beloved object long enough to prepare its delicate limbs for burial. Neighbor after neighbor dropped in, in the course of the morning, to offer assistance and consolation ; and each new face caused in the mourner a fresh outburst of grief. Some begged her to resign herself to the will of God ; others offered a few common-places of comfort ; others, still, told her 't was wrong to murmur against Providence, as it had an undoubted right to recall what it had bestowed ; and two or three — the most sensible, I thought, of the number ■ — said nothing at all, but shed a few tears over the babe and went their way. The day wore heavily away. The violent sorrow of the miserable mother had subsided into a kind of apathetic despair, and she sat most of the time with her head resting on the cold bosom of her babe, without observ- ing anything that passed around her. Towards evening a carriage stopped at the door, and a lady, richly clad and of very prepessessing appearance, alighted and unceremoniously entered. She seated herself beside Mrs. E;., took her passive hand, and, in one of the sweetest and most plaintive voices I ever heard, exclaimed, " My dear sister, though thou knowest me not, I have come hither to sympathize with thee. I, too, have lost my first-born." These words seemed electrical. The mourner threw her arms around the stranger's neck, and long did they mingle their tears and sobs together. " Yes, I, too, have lost my first- born," repeated the lady, when the torrent of grief had some- what subsided ; " and many times since have I had reason to thank Providence for calling him in the happy, sinless dawn- ing of life, ere one drop of bitterness had mingled in his . joyous cup. Nay, he was just such another dear little lamb as your own, and he loved me to idolatry. It nearly cost me my life parting with him. But Heaven be praised for the bitter trial ! It was my salvation. It drew me nearer my Saviour, — it tauglit me to sympathize in the afflictions of others, and made me more useful in society. It caused me PROSE SELECTIONS. 375 to search, the Scriptures and ascertain for myself the founda- tion of my hopes of immortality. And, ever since, my soul has been at rest. I know that my Kedeemer liveth. I know that no actual harm can befall those who trust in him. And I also know, my dear, stricken sister, that my child and thine both live in his presence. And could thy agonized spirit for one instant imagine the deep bliss of all upon whom the im- veiled glory of the Lamb of God doth shine, thy tears would be changed to smiles of exultation." * * * * The stranger arose to go. The mother also arose. To- gether they approached the shrouded clay, and turned back the linen from its pallid face. The expression of pain and grief, which the death-struggle left upon the features, had disappeared, and in its place was that calm," sweet light which so often Illumines the face of the dead, and for whose exist- ence no arrangement of the features can account. Long did they gaze upon the beautifiil face, — doubly beautiful in death, — and the tears of the mother fell fast and thick upon it J but they were no longer tears of despair. " I bless thee, my Grod," exclaimed she passionately, " for all things ! 1 blessed thee when thou gavest me this precious babe. I now bless thee that thou hast taken him unto thyself. For all things do I bless thee, my God ! " Her eyes were raised to heaven, and a radiance, such as rested on the face of the sleeping child, irradiated her coun- tenance. The cold-hearted sceptic would have called it the excitement of fanaticism. The phrenologist might have pro- nounced it the result of an increased action of the organs of marvellousness and veneration ; but we, who saw it, fdt that it was the descent of the Holy Ghost ; and we knew that the mourner would sorrow no longer as one without hope. 1841. ' 376 PROSE SELECTIONS. THE BAPTISM OP TEARS. It was a bright Sabbath morning in June, that I started ■with my cousins for meeting, — I cannot say church, for churches in that new country were, at the time I speak of, unknown ; there was not even a school-house within three miles. Consequently the minister, who had happened along the day before, was expected to hold forth in the most cen- tral private house in the neighborhood, situated about two miles from the uncle's whom I was visiting for the first time in my life. In order to avoid the fatigue of a hasty walk, we started an hour and a half before the time of meeting, which was ten o'clock. I shall never forget that delightful walk ; we took a road which had once been a highway, but, oS account of a " shorter cut " made by the inhabitants, it had remained untrodden for some time, except by those who were fond of enjoying undisturbed the sweet revelations of nature. It was very wide, and covered with short green grass, of such velvet softness that fairies might have sought the spot for their evening promenade. On one side were deep, dark, interminable woods, composed of old giant trees, their out- stretched arms covered with dewy leaves, and slightly ele- vated with every motion of the breeze, as if whispering a prayer for the sunbeams to shine more warmly upon them. Prom their crooked trunks depended long festoons of moss, that swung to and fro with a wavy, solemn motion, like the beard of ancient dervishes; and at their feet mingled the sere leaves of the past season with the newly-blown flowers of the present, as mingle the youths and patriarchs of human life. Par, far away, amid those old veterans of the forest, might be seen wild arbors of laurel and honeysuckle, from whose pale pink cups arose clouds of delicious fragrance. And many a tall, slender sapling was bowed by the broad-leafed grape, and scarlet bitter-sweet, till its topmost branches kissed PROSE SELECTIONS. 377 the ground. The spirit of beauty had, on that holy morn, laid her hand on everji;hing around us. On the other side of the road, and but a few steps from it, ran, in a parallel line, one of those clear, sparkling brooks, which ever make so beautiful a feature in woodland scenery. Its bed was a strata of slate rock, sufficiently un- even to draw from the little wanderer that delicious murmur, half-querulous, half-melancholy, which no sound on earth can successfully imitate. In places the irregularity amounted to a kind of mimic precipice, over which the bright waves sprang with a joyous outburst of melody, as if glad to break the monotony of their morning hymn. The roots of many an old tree were washed white in this little streamlet, and the pale-green mosses crept down, to fiU their tiny cups with the spray that fell in misty showers above them, gemming with pearly drops rich clusters of wild rose, and prickly goose-brier. The little brook was our companion the whole way ; sometimes wandering a little out of sight, but again returning to us with its thrUling song ; like the friend, whom misunderstanding may cause, for a moment, to diverge, but can never wholly estrange. We. had little conversation on the way. Now and then, when we came to some particularly romantic spot, my cousins would wish they had brought along Ghilde Harold ; and we occasionally burst into ecstatic exclamations at the carol of some melodious bird, or when the leafy screen above us allowed the sunbeams to fall in unusual splendor upon our path. With all our loitering, we arrived before the time of meeting. The house in which it was holden was an old one, built of hewn logs, and contained two square rooms in front, with an entry between, and a kitchen and two bed-rooms back. The room into which we were ushered, by a little boy at the door, presented a very cool and picturesque ap- pearance. The cracks between the logs were pasted over with strips of clean newspaper ; and, wherever there was a 32* 378 PEOSE SELECTIONS. nail or opening in the edge of the roof, rich festoons of ever- green and freshly-gathered laurel were placed in delightful relief to the rude walls. One small broken looking-glass and two windows were ornamented in the same manner. In one corner of the room was an old-fashioned clock, standing on a tall green case, and embellished with a yellow, fat-faced sun, just rising above the figures. In another was a red cupboard, containing three rows of bright pewter plates, set up edge-wise, a dozen spoons, with the handles thrust through holes in the shelves, made there for the purpose, and two large platters, a coffee and tea-pot, of the same materia), shining brightly below. Seats of pine boards, upon blocks, ran round the room, and a few splint-bottomed chairs, for the old people, stood in the centre. The oak floor had been scoured until the boards were white as the snowy sand sprinkled in such profusion upon them ; the long Dutch fire- place, running nearly across the room, was filled with pine- bushes, intermingled with box-wood and june-berry, — the white flowers and crimson berries contrasting beautifidly with the dark-green verdure surroundiijg them. On the wide hearth stood a small oak table, covered with snowy home- made linen, on which was a family Bible, and a bowl of clear water from the spring which ran bubbling and spark- ling at the door. This spot was evidently intended for the minister, who had not arrived. But three or four people were there on our entrance; and it was my lot to get seated quite near two elderly ladies, who were so earnestly engaged in conversation as not to heed my approach. I was therefore compelled, willing or unwilling, to listen to their talk, which, though carried on in a low voice, was evidently waxing warm when I reached them. " I say," said the one nearest me, vith a sprinkling, I thought, of anger in her tones ; " I say, what is the use of all this mummery, after all ? What better will this blind PEOSB SELECTIONS. 379 woman's baby be, after the priest has dedicated it, as you term the ceremony ? Or what better will she be ? " " I cannot foresee," replied the other, mildly, " what effect it may have, because I cannot read hereafter events ; I can only say what effect it is designed to have, — what it has had upon others, — and what I think it will have upon ihem." " Well ! " " Well, I think the ceremony will make the young mother realize, more fully than anything else can, the deep gratitude she owes Him who hath lent her so many blessings, more particularly the blessing of so lovely a child. The solemnity of the scene will impress her mind with the greatness of maternal responsibility ; it wiU leave upon her heart a never- failing picture of the innocent child and guiding parent ; and the promise she thus publicly, but tacitly, makes her Master, to bring it up in his nurture and admonition, cannot but influence her to a more watchful and tender care of its moral and religious interests." " Well, it may be so, but I doubt it ; besides, I think our denomination is trying too much to ape the fashionable religious world. I suppose the next step will be the one of forming a church, and partaking the Sacrament." "I sincerely hope so,'' was the answer; "for, although I would, as much as any one, dislike to have our order ape orthodoxy, or infidelity, as a matter of obsequious fashion, I would equally dislike to see them, from narrow prejudices, discarding measures which, in two hundred years, would make our religion the religion of the world ; measures, too, which the New Testament not only allows, but, in the minds of many, requires ; measures which our own, and the ex- perience of ages, prove to have kept even a bad cause from sinking, and whose effects, any one may see, have been good, and only good continually. Even if the Bible did not require these things, as our peculiar state of society warrants us in doing many things which were not, in the olden days, 380 PROSE SELECTIONS. necessary, and we do them, and think no harm therein, I know not why people should feel .hostile towards two or three harmless and exceedingly impressive ceremonies, which they cannot deny having been immensely beneficial." '' We do it because they foster self-righteousness ; we do not like to see people trying to make the world believe them a great deal better than they are, and, in effect, saying phar- isaically to others, ' Stand back, for I am holier than thou ! '" " But what reason have you to suppose we thus feel ? Have our words or conduct ever warranted you in thinking us desirous of mere empty, deceptive show ? And have you a right to impugn our motives without evidence ? You would call it unchristian if we should treat you thus in re- turn ; you would think it very hard if I should say you have come to meeting to-day merely to make people think you a little better than you really are, — a little better than some of your neighbors, who have chosen to stay at home." " Well, I withdraw my accusation against your sincerity ; but I will not give up my bad opinion of the priest so readily. I believe priestcraft is at the bottom of all these mummeries. The ministers are determined to get the power into their own hands ; they are determined to have a dash at the ' loaves and fishes,' and, to efiect this, are leading people blind-folded back into all the rituals of popery.'' "My dear Mrs. E,., how can you talk thus; and par- ticularly about our poor, self-sacrificing clergy, who have left profitable trades and professions, to preach among the erring and sinful the despised Gospel of our Lord, with scarcely the prospect of thereby obtaining bread for their families ; and none of whom have ever, by •preaching, ob- tained more than a competence, and that often given grudg- ingly, and more as a matter of alms than justice ? I have no doubt that one quarter, at least, of our ministers through the United States, receive scarcely enough to feed and clothe them decently; leaving out of the account the books they PROSE SELECTIONS. 381 Bhould purchase for the improvement of their minds, the conveniences of travelling to benefit destitute societies, and the yearly amount they aught to be able to lay up for their families, if they have them, against hard times, sickness, and the like ; while, I presume, there are many at this moment who have not where to lay their heads, and could scarcely muster money to bear them a week's journey, for dear life. Priestcraft, indeed ! People-craft, you should have said ; for the truth is, the word priestcraft has been bandied from mouth to mouth, until our people are afraid of their own shadows ; and our ministers, instead of being the servants of one Master, are obliged to become the slaves of many tyran- nical people, or leave the ministry altogether. The latter alternative some have, I had almost said timely, preferred. I know those who cannot take a step towards any measure for a more perfect organization and improvement, without incurring the charge of trying to aggrandize themselves, or of getting power for pecuniary purposes ; men who get small salaries, of inconvenient payment, and yet have no more liberty of speech and action, than if living under an inquis- itorial government. Is this making the laborer worthy of his hire ? Is this giving the vine-dresser a chance to prune his Master's vineyard ? Believe me, Mrs. E., you should never pronounce the fruit of a tree bad, before you can discover a flaw in either its leaves or blossoms. Even if our ministers should take it into their heads to gull the people for their own emolument, is it at all likely, with all these argus eyes about them, they could succeed ? Is it probable that when the flame of jealousy is constantly breaking out without a cause, that a reason for offence could pass by unnoticed ? Fie, fie, Mrs. E., on your jpriestoraft ! Do consider our poor ministers what they really are, — honest, toiling dis- ciples of the Lord Jesus Christ, who labor by day, and study by night, to ameliorate the condition of men, and fill the world with the glorious hope of immortality, with scarcely a thought for themselves." 382 PKOBE SELECTIONS. " Well, even if you are right in your opinion of the minis- ters, which, mind, I do not acknowledge, I don't see why you should insist upon the organization of churches ■ the spirit should he free, — untrammelled by the creeds and devices of men. If the people read their Bibles, and go to meeting, I should think that sufficient." " For some, perhaps, it is ; but for me, and, I believe, most others, it is, I assure you, insufficient. I need not point out to you the importance of close chvflrch or society organ- ization, if you will but look around you a moment, and observe the eflfect of association and organization in every- thing else, — in the cause of temperance, — politics, — in everything where a great object is to be attained. I certainly would advocate freedom as strongly as yourself, but not free- dom without order ; the mind is never in greater bondage than when it is ungoverned. France was never in so des- picable a state of servitude as when every man undertook to be his own governor, without any regard to organization. Our forefathers did well to trample British creeds and British chains under foot, but would they have done well to substi- tute nothing in their place ? Would they have done well without senate, without laws, without officers? But it is folly to speak of this farther ; there is not an argument in the world against it. Of its effect upon us individually, I may say that we Lave neither of us yet to learn that our senses were given us for use ; that they are the avenues to the soul, and that we must ever, in this world, be more or less affected by outward impressions ; the body cannot get along without the soul, nor the soul without the body ; they are helpers to each other. Now the very act of joining a church will leave an impression which cannot be easily effaced; we publicly profess ourselves believers in Chris- tianity, and feel measurably responsible to the world, as well as the Master whose service we enter, for the fulfilment of the Gospel requirements. In addition to this there is formed a tie, — a palpable tie, — between the members, which links PKOSE SELECTIONS. 383 them all in one kindly brother and sisterhood, zealous for each other's moral improvement and happiness, and rejoicing over every wanderer admitted to their Master's fold. But I will not dilate upon this subject, dear as it is to my heart, but turn to the ceremony you so much dislike ; that is, of the celebration of the Eucharist. But first I would say, with St. Paul, in such matters, ' Let every one be fully per- suaded in his own mind, and let not one be a stumbling-block to another.' Every one- should have the privilege of believ- ing and acting according to his own convictions in such cases, without the persecution of even harsh words. There is, cer- tainly, a doubt whether this ceremony was originally designed to continue through all generations of Christians, although I am inclined to think it was. It was enjoined and practised by the apostles j and, had any bad effects from the rite been foreseen, it would undoubtedly have been discarded at once. That it has a purifying and happifying effect, I can testify from my own experience ; I have, a few times in my life, had an opportunity of attending to this ordinance, and must say that the tender, solemn enjoyment of the ceremony ex- ceeds anything I had ever imagined. Nor did the impres- sion wear away on leaving the table ; it was a bright amulet about my heart, accompanying me home, guarding me against temptation, and enlarging my affections towards all man- kind." " But, if you continue this old Jewish rite, why not intro- duce the whole Mosaic code ? Ay, and the papal too 1 " " Because most of the Jewish rituals were abolished by our Saviour; but this, if it was Jewish, was sanctioned by him, and practised by the apostles. The popish ceremonies are, many of them, not only useless, but idolatrous ; besides, a great number of forms is apt to render religion cold and unspiritual ; and, with none at all, is equally liable to wax cold, and at length decay. It should be the philosophy of the true Christian to avoid each extreme ; common sense always teaches us to do thus in other matters, why not in 384 PROSE SELECTIONS. religion ? We are ever crying ' a medium, a medium,^ in ■worldly things." A slight bustle, and a confusion of voices at the door, pre- vented my hearing the reply to the last word, greatly to my regret. Presently the whisper of " the minister " ran around the room ; and a tall, middle-aged man, with a pleasant coun- tenance, entered, and took his seat at the oak table, by the hearth. The house was soon thronged with people ; and, in a few minutes after the noise had subsided, the minister arose, to commence services. His face was very intellectual, though a good deal browned by exposure to the elements ; and his mUd blue eye seemed to say that the love of God and his fellow-men dwelt deeply in his soul. As he rose, a small door near him opened, from which a young, hale-looking man emerged, leading by the arm a fairy being, with a young babe, clad in white, clasped closely to her bosom. I gazed enraptured on the sweet pale face of the young mother, thus early approaching the altar, to consecrate to the Father she loved and worshipped, the first young lamb of her bosom. Her features were delicately chiselled, and their complexion exceedingly fair, but her eyes were closed, and I saw that the light of this bright world would never again visit them. She was blind ! A sweet flush of emotion passed over her face as she approached the table. She listened, with bowed head, to the words of the minister, on the importance of early religious culture ; but her lip quivered ; and, as he raised the bowl for the baptism, the intensity of her feelings could no longer be suppressed, and a torrent of tears fell from those sightless orbs, on the upturned face of the sweet creature who lay smiling and crowing in her arms. The minister paused ; a few tears fell from his own dark lashes, and he said, in a very low, but distinct voice, — " Young MOTHER ! THERE NEEDS NOT THE DROPS OF THIS BOWL TO SANCTIFY THV BABE ! ThB TEARS OP THINE OWN PURE HEART HAVE BAPTIZED HIM IN THE NAME OF THE LORD JeSUS ChRIST. Let rs prat." PEOSE- SELECTIONS. 885 THE SACRIFICE. A clergyman's sioet. I HAD been nearly a year settled in the city of Z., before I became acquainted at the house of Deacon Daniel Cummings, although he was the very corner-stone of our outward temple, having built the meeting-house at his own entire expense, been chiefly instrumental in getting up revivals, by which our members were generally obtained, establishing Sabbath schools, and rooting out of our councils every weed of heresy that dared show its head ; or, in other words, in crushing, with an iron heel, the monster Liberality. And no man was ever better calculated to carry his points, in all religious under- takings, than the good deacon. In the first place, he was very wealthy. This gave great solidity to his opinions with the multitude. Secondly, he possessed a persevering zeal, which, if not according to knowledge, was deprived, on that account, of none of its fervency. And this principle, set in motion by early prejudice, that great moving wheel in the grand structure of fanaticism, made him a very Samson among the Philistines of Z. None could gainsay or resist him. If he said, "Let there be a revival," there was a revival. If he said, " The Saybrook platform is without fault or blemish," where was the being rash enough to contradict him ? Such was Deacon Cummings; and, with my then views and feelings, he was to me, as to others, an object of wonder and admiration. I could hardly account to myself how I had resisted so many urgent solicitations to visit his beautiful residence, which was only one mile from town. One reason, I believe, was, that, being young in the ministry, it took up considerable of my time to prepare lectures suitable for the ears of a large and somewhat difficult audience. Another was, — though I was too proud to own it even to myself, — that Mr. Cummings was always accompanied to church by a couple of beautiful 33 386 PKOSE SBLECIION&. daughters, twins ; and being no " ladies' man " at all, as the phrase is, I heartily dreaded a tete-S.-tete with those lovely girls, although one of them was a member of my church. But the deacon became at length importunate, and would hear excuses no longer. I accordingly found myself one morning stepping very courageously into my sulky, for a drive to Three Hills, as the deacon's residence was called, from the circumstance of three very singular hills, something of the form of pyramids, shooting up within a short distance of the central building. It would puzzle any one to find, either in nature or imagination, a lovelier spot than Three Hills. Its numerous buildings were arranged in such a man- ner as to give it, at a distance, the appearance of a little villa, shut out from the commotions of a wicked world, — a sweet paradise for humble and pious hearts. I involuntarily checked my horse, as we reached an eminence from whence I could enjoy an uninterrupted prospect; for I was then one of Nature's most ardent worshippers. The hills were nearly in the centre of a large and rather irregular plain, whose borders were skirted with a variety of handsome forest trees, which the woodsman had probably wanted heart to destroy. The loftiest of these prominences was crowned with a clump of beautiful cedars, whose lofty tops seemed a resting-place for the clouds. The second in height had nothing remarkable in its appearance, save a per- pendicular ledge of blood-colored rock, whose dark cavities were nearly obscured by tendrUs of the ivy and wild grape. But the last, and smallest, possessed some peculiarities upon which the eye could not fail of resting in sweet, though sor- rowful, contemplation. A narrow road communicating with the broad gravel-walk which led to the mansion, and shaded each side with thrifty young locusts, wound round this little hill until it reached the summit, and opened a small enclos- ure, containing two plain, marble grave-stones, and a white cottage, which stood, like Alciphron's love-bower and tomb, side by side. A short distance from this repository of the PKOSE SELECTIONS. 387 " loved and lost," were seen two large and flourishing trees, thougli of very different appearance, — the one being a dense weeping-willowy whose tearful branches waved silently above the sleepers ; the other a lofty fir, with its dark arms, like the . turrets of a watch-tower, flung aloft to the skies. ■ An excel- lent device, thought I ; a beautifiil emblem of the sorrow which clings to the buried dust, and the hope which pointeth to heaven ; a beautiful emblem of death and immortality. I could have lingered long upon this interesting scene, and the reflections it naturally suggested ; but the deacon had seen me with his spy -glass from the window, and was already opening the gate for my admittance. He expressed much pleasure at beholding me, and soon engrossed me so much in conversation that I had hardly an opportunity of glancing at the beautiful arbors, grottos and artificial fountains, with which the gar- dens through which we passed were decorated. I did not find the Miss Oummings half so formidable as I had anticipated. They were certainly very elegant and accomplished girls; but they were frank and social, and entirely free from that affected reserve which puts to flight the power, as well as desire, of intinaate acquaintance. There was a striking similarity in the features and expression of their faces, as is usually the case with twins ; but one three days' visit convinced me that their minds were dissimilar. Har- riet was one of earth's happiest creatures, — all imagination, kindness and light-heartedness ; unaddicted to deep and con- clusive thought, but with a well-stored memory, and a heart overflowing with pure and gentle affections. Helen, the least handsome of the two, — I quote public opinion, — was by no means a being of sorrow ; but possessing a quicker penetration than her sister, and taking a deep interest in the happiness of all around her, whether known or unknown, the various scenes of hopeless misery which came so frequently under her obser- vation, had given to her pale, sweet face, young as it was, a tinge of that tender melancholy which seldom fails to affect an amiable and sensitive heart. Yet was she not deficient in 388 PROSE SELECTIONS. the more shining qualities of the mind. She was gifted with a calm and winning dignity of manner, which "every eye fol- lowed with benisons ; '' and if she made fewer professions of attachment to her friends than many others, the strength of that attachment was never doubted by those that knew her. Such were the two sisters. The one resembling a wild cas- cade, flinging out its light and beauty in glad murmurs to the laughing sun ; the other a subterranean stream, casting up no boisterous waves, but hushing its low, sweet music in its own silver depths. I spent a most delightful day at Three Hills, and it may easily be guessed that jaj first visit was not my last. No ; I found too much congeniality of taste and sentiment to allow me to remain long a stranger, or even casual visitor. I soon became a constant one. And do you wonder at this, dear reader? Now, without inquiring into your right to be indulged in such equivocal curiosity, I will frankly confess that I was operated upon by two causes, in my visits at Three Hills. In the first place, I was not long in discovering that the favor and approbation of the good deacon was equivalent to that of the whole religious world of Z. Of course his good will was a matter of some importance. Secondly, I learned, in a much less period, that one look of kindness from Helen, the beautiful, dark-eyed Helen, was sufficient to create a world of itself in my heart. The feelings of that heart I had long neglected to analyze ; and when the reckoning did come, I was astonished to find so small a thing so very com- plicated. Its motions even to me, its owner, were perfectly mysterious. I had, at the age of twenty-one, that most sus- ceptible season, been thrown in the way of two very fascinat- ing women, one of whom was a fair-haired daughter of my own native state, the other a converted Jewess, who was beau- tiful and talented as the Rebecca of Ivanhoe ; but I escaped unscathed. I afterwards boarded three years in the same house with a West India heiress, whose inmiense wealth was considered PEOSE SELECTIONS. 389 the very least of her attractions, and who condescended to treat me with marked deference. I was still heart-whole ; — my friends added, "heart-hardened." And I almost con- curred in their opinions, when, after listening to the wild warbling of Harriet Cummings' voice at the piano, and drink- ing the light of her bewildering smile, I detected no answer- ing tone among the harp-strings of feeling. But my hour came at last. The kneeling form of Helen at the hour of evening devotion, the tremulous earnestness of her dark-blue eye, " As through its raised and moistened lids It sought the spirit throne," .produced a sensation which convinced me the " star of my heaven " was revealed ; and, like Zoroaster, I bowed in rapt admiration before it. There is no denying it, — love is the universal talisman — the magician of all hearts. Its empire is human nature, and profession offers no bar to its despotic extravagances. The acknowledgment of my affection for that gentle and high-minded girl was more like the confession of a despairing criminal than the suit of a trusting lover. It partook neither of hope nor fear, for of these I had not thought. It was simply an involuntary and unreserved outpouring of my soul's warm admiration, — a releasing of pent-up sympathies, of wild and dream-like thoughts. I asked, I expected, nothing in return. But the generous being, to whom I confided my heart's dear- est secret, understood better the wishes of that heart. She spoke not of love, but she acknowledged sincere regard; and and she consented to be mine. O, the happy days of our betrothment ! Bear with me, dear reader, if I linger a moment in that sunniest spot of my existence, — that one green isle 'mid the turbulent waters of a long and wearisome life. The lovely Helen little suspected the depth of my idol- atry. I would not have had her for worlds ; she would have shrunk from me in terror. She knew not that her sweet 33* ?90 FROSE SELECTIONS. iqiage continually hovered between me and heaven ; that she was ever present to my mind in seasons of contemplation, and even prayer. She knew not that my increasing perseverance in pastoral duties was chiefly to gain favor in her sight; and that the overpowering eloquence, which gained me such bursts of applause, was wrung from a heart more deeply consecrated to her than to that Divine Master whose name so often trembled on my lips. Such was the mad worship of my love ; and bit- terly, bitterly was I punished for disobeying the first and great commandment. Time passed on. Our sky was still unclouded. We strayed through the green fields of Three Hills with light and happy hearts. We lingered amid the melancholy beauties of the cottage grave-yard. We bent together over the inspired pages of holy writ. We mingled our voices in the vesper hymn, and at the altar of family devotion. But the fall drew near, and Deacon Cummings thought it time to propose the renewal of a right spirit among the churches. The reader is sufii- ciently acquainted with the character of the deacon, to antici- pate the result. A revival was soon in operation in Z., and never did I know a greater excitement. Every visage sud- denly underwent a longitudinal extension ; every mind seemed depressed. All labor was suspended ; the children were seen kneeling in groups in the corners of the streets, and the aged and the middle-aged collected in praying-circles, with counte- nances which seemed to forebode some impending calamity. And a calamity was impending. Harriet Cummings, unlike her sister, had ever resisted the influences of the Holy Spirit. Not that she could be called really irreligious. The doctrines of the blessed Redeemer, the ceremonies of his visible church, were sacred in her eyes; but, agreeably to her own admission, their beautifying principles were not, as with Helen, the streams from whence every thought, and word, and action of her life issued. She had not " given herself to God," as the saying was in those days. She still loved the carnal allure- ments of the world better than the things of the kingdom. PROSE SELECTIONS. 891 She loved gay company. She loved the theatre, and was often known to prefer a tete-a-tete with some of Sir Walter Scott's heroines in her own little room, to the soher saluta- tions of pious sisters at the house of prayer. The deacon often remonstrated, and with harshness, as was his manner ; but it affected her not. Helen entreated and prayed. We both of us prayed for her, and with her. Still it availed nothing. For though she listened with the utmost sweetness to all we said to her, — nay, would sometimes even weep at the anxiety we manifested for her eternal welfare, — she, neverthe- less, continued the same happy child of nature, untU the revival of which I have spoken, when a change suddenly became visible in her appearance. A preacher from a great distance, by the name of , conducted the meetings, and he was the most powerful revi- valist I ever knew. Harriet attended his meetings strictly. She soon became thoughtful, then melancholy, and was, at last, carried home in a state of insanity. Two days and nights did Helen and myself watch by her bedside, and dread- ful were the ravings to which we were obliged to listen. On the third day, towards evening, she became calm. She called us both to her. She spoke of her past life as one of bitter rebellion, one that deserved not forgiveness ; " and," added she, " it will never obtain forgiveness. Do not weep, Helen. Have you not always said we should be resigned ? I am resigned. I have seen the great book of fate, my sister. Thy name was written among the blessed few who are chosen to minister through a long eternity at the throne of the Almighty, while mine was on the dark and blotted list of the damned ! Yes, we shall be separated, Helen ; but do not weep so sadly now, — save your tears till the day of judgment, when the mighty King shall frown me down to the pit. I can bear them then, for my heart will be harder. But now I must sleep. Leave me, Helen, for my head is very heavy ; " and she clasped her hands across her swollen eyes. We left the room. Helen went below to her father, while I thought 392 PROSE SELECTIONS. it more prudent to remain in an adjoining chamber. I lis- tened some time at the door, but could hear nothing save an occasional half-breathed sigh, as of one in an uneasy slumber. I took a book and retired to a distant window. I had read through several pages, and quite forgotten my fears, when suddenly my ear was pierced by a low, agonizing groan. To burst into the room was but the work of an instant ; but, alas ! I was too late. That dreadful sound had been wrung out by the parting spirit. She had committed suicide ; how, I cannot tell, for my senses, even now, reel at the horrid recollection. To describe the feelings of the family at this shocking occurrence, would, of course, be impossible. An almost idolized daughter — a twin sister — the reader can imagine how the survivors were affected. The funeral was held in the large hall of the deacon's own house, which was filled to overflowing. The officiating cler- gyman was from a considerable distance, and, though a stranger to me, I felt encouraged to hope, while gazing on his silver hairs and time-dimmed eyes, that he had come prepared to speak peace to the broken-hearted. I was mistaken. It was too good an opportunity for a dreadful warning, to be left unimproved. The harrowing circumstances of the poor girl's death were minutely and callously detailed. Could he only have stopped here ! But no ! She had died a hard- ened, impenitent sinner, despising, and despised of God. She had died by her own hands, and thereby precluded even the possibility of salvation.^ And he quoted the oft^repeated, though unscriptural, text, " No self-murderer can enter into the kingdom of heaven." My very heart ached. But even this was insufficient. He pronounced the final doom of the wrathful Judge upon the lost spirit. He described the part- ing scene on the confines of the two worlds — he pursued it to the very verge of its flaming, its eternal abode, and there He was interrupted by a wild and piercing shriek, and the next moment Helen Cummings was carried senseless out of the room. PEOSE SELECTIONS. 393 0, how long, and in what agony, did we hang o'er that pale and apparently lifeless victim ! Our hopes waxed faint, and even the physician — who was luckily in the house at the time — began to despair of restoring her ; when, suddenly, she astonished us all by springing like a frightened fawn from her bed. We were perfectly electrified. A single glance, how- ever, at her distorted features unravelled the mystery. She was mad. Her beautiful dark eyes sparkled with all the frenzied fury of a maniac ; the white froth bubbled on her lip, and her hands were both clenched in her soft brown tresses. Weeks, long, long weeks, went by, and the dread disease abated not. I seldom saw her. I could not bear to behold her delicate form writhing under restraint, though necessarily imposed. I could not listen to her piteous supplications for her sister's soul. But I could stay near her ; I could pray for her, and for myself; ay, and I did pray, as it were, without ceasing. Yet how impotent, how childish were those prayers I " Let her but give signs of returning consciousness, let me but hear one word, see one look of dawning reason, 't is all I ask." This was the burden of my midnight orisons. Alas ! so little do we know the wishes of our own hearts. The spell, for spell it seemed, was at length, contrary to all our expecta- tions, broken. She was restored. Her lips played with their former sweet smile ; her eye assumed its usual bland and beau- tiful expression. But she could not speak, or even lift a fin- ger, so completely was her strength wasted ; and death seemed still to hover near her, unwilling to yield so fair a prize. The physician ordered every room adjoining hers to be evacuated — every sound of labor to be suspended j for, said he, a word, even a breath, may waft her hence. For three weeks not a human being, save himself and the nurse, were admitted. At the end of that time she was allowed to see her father, and afterwards me. She wept like a little child when I entered the room, and I shame not to acknowledge that our tears were mingled together. She spoke of her long illness, but made no 894 PROSE SELECTIONS. allusion to the cause. She also avoided everything relating to her deceased sister ; of which I was glad, for I dreaded the probable consequences to herself. " Yes, Frederick," continued she, " I have been very, very sick, and nurse says I was hardly myself some of the time. I remember my head did feel strange, and I think I had some singular fancies. But I am so much better now ! I have had a long time for reflection, Frederick ; and though I have not been able to read, I have revolved in my mind many of the sweet and comforting sayings of our blessed book, and I hope it has bettered my heart. ! I shall rejoice when I am again permitted to read and listen to its sublime instructions. And will you not read me a chapter now, Frederick ? " " Of course. Have you any choice ? " " None, excepting I think I should prefer something in the New Testament." " Well, then, I will read wherever the book happens to open." The leaves parted at the fifteenth chapter of first Corinthians. I read to the twenty-third verse, when she interrupted me with, "Excuse me, Frederick, but you must have miscalled one word. You said. As in Adam ail die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. I presume it reads, ' even so in Christ shall many be made alive.' " " No, Helen. I read it right. It is ALL." " Indeed !" replied she, musingly. " Well, read on, perhaps it is somewhere explained." " Is it not strange," said she, when I had finished and laid by the book, " is it not strange that I have no recollection of ever reading that chap- ter ? It is entirely new, and I think very interesting, too. Does it not contain some new doctrines ? It speaks of a mystery — that we shall all be changed after death. Do you suppose this possible ? " " Why, yes, Helen, we shall undoubt- edly appear at the resurrection with bodies difierent from those we now possess." " But does this change regard only the out- ward form ? It says we shall be made alive in Christ ; that this corruptible shall put on incorruption ; that Christ is to rule until he has put all enemies under his feet ; and Death is called the last enemy, and that is to be swallowed up in PROSE SELECTIONS. 395 victory. What can it all mean ? " I did not inform her what it meant, for the simple reason that I did not happen to know myself; but I told her I presumed she could easily satisfy herself in relation to it, when she was sufficiently recovered to investigate abstruse subjects ; and here the matter dropped. I was, soon after this, summoned home — about forty miles distant — to see my father, whose demise was daily expected. He, however, recovered, though almost miraculously, and I was enabled to return in a couple of weeks, being much sooner than I anticipated. I found strange rumors afloat in Z., to which, as rumors, I at first gave little heed. The substance of them was that Miss Cummings had become sceptical in regard to the main doctrines of the church, and that the matter was soon to be investigated in due form in council. I soon visited Three Hills. The deacon, as was his custom, met me at the gate ; but I saw, at a glance, that all was not right. A settled gloom was on his brow, partaking, I thought, however, more of anger than sorrow. I hastened to inquire after the health of his daughter. The old man bit his lip. " Frederick Grrey," said he, sternly, " that perverse girl will be my undoing. She will bring these gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. I thought, when our poor Harriet was taken away, that my cup of bitterness was drained ; but it was nothing to this, Frederick ; it was nothing to this." " And to what, pray, can you allude? " asked I, in a faltering voice; for his man- ner alarmed me. " What can you possibly mean ? " " To what do I allude ? And have you not heard — do you not know — that Helen, our pious, our sainted Helen, has become a rank Universalist ? " "A Universalist .' " ejaculated I, scarcely able to articulate the word; "God forbid! 'Tis impossible. She has never read their works ; she has never heard one preach, or even seen one. How then can it be ? 'T is impossible — there is some mistake." " No, Frederick, 't is too true ; for though she does not plead guilty to the name, her sentiments are precisely theirs. She talks of the promise made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob ; of the fulness of the 396 PEOSE SELECTIONS. Gentiles ; of the whole world's remembering and turning to the Lord. She is a believer in that most abhorrent doctrine. Alas ! that I should live to know it." " And how, pray, has this been brought about ? " " Ah ! that is the mystery. She says that a better acquaintance with the character of the Divine Being has convinced her of the unreasonableness of the doctrine of endless misery. And she draws arguments in support of her favorite theory, both from nature and revela- tion; only think, Frederick, from revelation! And it seems as if she must be leagued with the prince of the power of the air, for she has, by the aptness of her woman's tongue, put to flight three of our most enlightened brethren. To you, alone, do I look for hope. You have some influence. Save her, if possible, from this dreadftil infatuation, this suggestion of the devil, and thereby wipe ofif the foulest blot that ever darkened the name of Cummings." The unconscious subject of our colloquy met me, at the par- lor door, with one of her sweetest smiles. " I have been hop- ing all this afternoon," said she, " that you might get back in time to help me to admire this splendid sunset. Just so it looked yesterday, but there was nobody to enjoy it with me ; for papa is quite abstracted lately, and seems to be losing his taste for our quiet scenery." " And Miss Cummings is resuming hers." " Why, yes, I don't know but I am. The world certainly unfolds new beauties every day. The flowery fields look fairer, the sun brighter, and my heart feels light, and almost happy. For ' I cannot go where Universal Love smiles not around.' " " Helen," I exclaimed, rather reproachfully, " from recent circumstances I should think your feelings would be of a very different nature." " I peufectly understand you," replied she, her soft eyes filling with tears ; " but I fear you do not me. When our dear Harriet died, I felt as if my very soul was halved. ! you know, Frederick, that my sorrow was greater than 1 could bear. But what added to the poignancy of that sorrow ? Was it not the thought that our separation PKOSE SBL3SCTI0NS. 397 was eternal ? That bitter cup, my brother, has been removed from me. The Lord has shown me that we shall meet again in peace, when he shall gather together in one all things in Christ. And is it strange that my poor heart should become buoyant at this sudden transition from despair to hope ? " " Helen," said I, deeply agitated, " you are certainly tam- pering with your soul's salvation. You are clinging to a wild and dangerous heresy ; you are fastening in your soul a doc- trine which takes away every salutary restraint from society and loosens the darkest passions of the human heart." " Your accusations are very, very serious," she replied, " and they shall not remain unnoticed. You say, I am tampering with my soul's salvation. And is it doing this to place myself unreservedly in the hands of my Saviour ; to build my faith upon the immovable Eock of Ages ? Is it a dangerous her- esy to believe that the will of the Lord shall prosper in his hand, until he has done all his pleasure? — that he will turn away ungodliness from Jacob ? — and that all the ends of the earth shall behold his salvation ? Is it loosing the darkest passions of the human heart, to be convinced that the way of the transgressor is hard ? — that his punishment is certain and immediate ? — and that it is the goodness, and not the badness of God, which leadeth to repentance ? Believe, me, Freder- ick, you have greatly mistaken the nature of the sentiments you so cruelly impeach ; for they not only correspond with the plainest declarations of Scripture, but also with the holiest desires of the human heart. Yoit bring this argument in sup- port of Christianity against Deism, that the Almighty has implanted in every heart an unconquerable thirst for immor- tality. Hence, if he is a God of goodness, that desire must be gratified. And may not this argument be extended ? Has he not also implanted in every breast a desire for the immor- tality of others ; yea, for the happy immortality of the whole human race ? And may we not on the same grounds expect it ? While I was a Partialist — and I have been one, many, alas ! too many years — I enjoyed many seasons of what 34 898 PKOSE SELECTIONS. I then thought devotional happiness. That happiness I now feel to have been but negative ; a miserable exemption from the pangs of acute suffering; an occasional forgetting of the uncertainties of eternity, or a slight and scarce perceptible hope that the mercies of the Lord might at some far-off period encircle the whole creation. Ofhow different a character is my present enjoyment ! The scales have fallen from my eyes. I know that mine and the worWs Redeemer liveth ; that he is good to all, and his tender mercies are over all his works. I have found the golden thread of promise. I have traced it in all its beautiful windings back to the ocean from whence it emanated, even the shoreless ocean of Almighty love ; and no more do I doubt the final restitution of all things, than I do the truth of my own existence." Her father, who had stood in the door, unperceived, during a great part of the conversation, now entered. His eye flashed fire. " Helen," said he, in a voice hoarse with con- flicting emotions, "Helen, you have pronounced your own doom ; you have acknowledged yourself a a I will not pollute my lips with the ungodly name ; but you have pronounced your final doom. Henceforth you are to me a stranger. Prepare to depart ; for, as I hope for mercy, this house shall no longer be contaminated by one, child though she be, professing such damnable heresy. You shall go, Helen — ay, and pennyless, too; a beggar, like the rest of that miserable and deluded denomination." " Father ! father ! " cried the trembling girl, flinging her arms wildly around his neck, and bursting into tears, " father, I would not leave you for worlds. Poor Harriet is gone, and who would be left to take care of you in your declining years ? Who would nurse you in sickness ? Who would love and com- fort you like an only daughter ? ! do not drive me from you. I will submit to any restriction. I will not be called a Universalist, if the name is so disagreeable; I will only be called a Christian. But I cannot, dear father, I am sure I cannot, leave you.'' " And will you give PROSE SELECTIONS. 399 up your mad notions, then ? " inquired he, slightly relaxing his stern features at this strong evidence of filial attachment. " "Will you renounce the Christless doctrine of free salva- tion ? " " Never ! father," she answered, hastily drawing back, and pressing her hand to her heart, " never will I do this ! I cannot be a hypocrite ! I cannot deny the Lord who bought me ! If these are the conditions, then, indeed, must we part, though my heart should break in the struggle. Father, lam ready for the saceificb ! " " Go, then, destroyer of my peace," exclaimed he, " go as soon as may be ; but remember that the curse of an abused and gray-haired father shall follow you to your grave.^'' The old man left the room with meas- ured steps, while Helen sank, almost fainting, to a seat. For a long time all was hushed in silence. Neither of us spake, and but for an occasional deep-drawn sigh, apparently wrung from an aching heart, I should have feared the wounded spirit had sought its native element — the skies. But the oil was poured upon the troubled waters, and they were calm. She arose and sought me at the window, where the rays of the full moon were dispelling the gloom of twilight. " Fred- erick," said she, in a voice of tender melancholy, " there still remains one unsevered tie. It also must be broken, that I may be wedded alone to my Saviour. Yet, may it not be rudely severed. ! Frederick, I could not live to hear a curse from your lips." " And I, Helen, — I should die in pronouncing it. No, I cannot speak harshly to one so fondly loved ; but I can pity you, and I do heartily. ! is there no hand to pluck you as a brand from the burning ? Will neither arguments nor entreaties avail ? Must you sacrifice everything — your home, your friends, your reputation, and even your immortal soul — to this wretched fantasy?" "Fred- erick," murmured she in a voice, low, and sweet as an angel, and taking my hand between her own, " Frederick, do you see yon beauteous moon ? Its beams are gentle and subdu- ing. They visit alike the sterile rock and fruitful field, — they linger upon my hand as well as yours ; there is no par- 400 PROSE SELECTIONS. tiality. Such, dear brother, is the love of our Father above. It has no favorites, — it is limitless as the blessed light of heaven. Like the sweet rains of spring, it falleth upon the just and upon the unjust ; it encompasseth the whole earth. And call it not a fantasy, Frederick, that my heart should burn to proclaim that love. A flame is kindled on the altar of gratitude; it would flash out into the surrounding darkness; it would communicate a portion of its light and warmth to the spirits of others. Frederick, my resolution is taken, irrevo- cably taken. I will forsake all things for Christ. I may efiect little; but if I succeed, by divine grace, in releasing one soul from the bondage of that fear which hath torment, — in speaking peace to one error-stricken heart, — I shall feel that I have not lived in vain. But, pardon me, I would now speak of different things. " Our vows are registered in heaven, but our hands can never be united on earth. Frederick, you are free ! Yet look not thus reproachfully on me. You cannot surely doubt the sincerity of my attachment. 0, you may doubt almost everything sooner than that ! And now that we may never meet again this side of the grave, I will confess to you, what in its extent no other circumstances should ever wring from me. My love for you has been pure and deep as the foun- tain of life itself. It reared its altar in the very temple of feeling; it sent up its sacred fires through all seasons; it mingled its glowing incense with every thought and hope of my being. Seldom, Frederick Grey ! seldom hath woman loved as I have loved. The sentiment is still strong at my heart. But stronger is the love of truth and a crucified Eedeemer. We must part ! Yet do not quite forget me, Frederick. Let the beautiful seasons of our past happiness and communion sometimes be present with you. And may the Lord bless you, and give you that peace which passeth understanding. Farewell ! " I could not speak — I could only press her hand in silence to my lips; for my heart was crushed, and my spring-day hopes, like the seared and FBOSI! SELECTIONS. 401 withered leaves of winter, lay quivering at my feet. I did not see her again ; for, receiving the next day an invitation to settle in one of the Western States, I immediately accepted it. Nine years passed away, during which time 1 heard noth- ing from Helen Cummuigs, save that she had left her father, and that father had willed away her inheritance to a dissi- pated nephew. My own little history, meanwhile, was distin- guished by nothing remarkable, save a change of sentiment in regard to religion, and an installation as pastor over a small but interesting Universalist society, in lieu of a flourishing Presbyterian church. This change in my views of the divine character was produced by a variety of causes, though I always believed the first good seed to have been sown by Helen Cummings. Business at length called me to the east, and as the city of Z. lay nearly in my route, I concluded to visit it, and exchange a friendly greeting with the friends of " auld lang syne." It was early one bright spring afternoon that I drew up my horse at the door of a small public house in the village of Sullivan, a little place forty miles west of Z., and which I very well remembered as being some years before the diocese of a brother clergyman, who wrote me, soon after his removal there, that the inhabitants were below all hope of reformation, and that he was about leaving them in despair. This recollection would probably have carried me directly through the village ; but I saw what I took to be a funeral procession forming a short distance ahead, and concluded to wait till it was past. I found no one within, except a very old lady, who sat at the parlor window, watching the people as they came out of the church door. She arose at my entrance, and politely offered me a seat, which I accepted. I observed that her eyes were red with weeping, by which I naturally conjectured the deceased to have been a near rela- tion. The procession soon came by. It consisted of several hundred very respectable-looking persons, nearly half of whom were dressed in deep mourning. As the hearse passed, fol- lowed by several young women, whose forms were nearly 34* 402 r&osE sELDCiiONS. shrouded by long black veils, the old lady buried her face in her hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears. " The deceased must have been very dear to you, madam," I ventured to observe. " 0, yes ! " sobbed she, " she was very, very dear to us all, — dear as our own lives. Could you but have known her, sir, — so beautiful, so learned, so pious ! She came a stranger among us eight or nine years ago. O, we were in a sad state then ! Our minister, who loved us not, had just left us. We had neither meetings nor schools. Our young men were intemperate and profane ; our young women ignorant, idle and mischievous ; and our children ran like so many little savages about the streets. But she came, like a ministering spirit, among us, and the aspect of things changed. She told us of the dear love of our Father in heaven, and her words were sweet as the manna in the wilderness. She taught a day school and a Sabbath school. She encouraged reading meetings, until Heaven should send us a good minister ; and she planned sewing and other societies for the improvement of our young ladies. We were soon a changed people. Everybody loved the young school-mistress for her sweet face, and mild and affectionate disposition ; and the interest she took in all our little affairs made us anxious to please her in return. Idleness and intemperance rapidly decreased. Our children became obedient and refined, and none of our young men were hardy enough to indulge any longer in the disgust- ing sin of profanity. But, alas ! she is gone, and never, -never shall we look upon her like again. Yet does she speak to us, — her last words are with us, — they will never be forgotten. ' Weep not for me, dear friends,' said the departing angel, ' weep not for me. I am only called a little before. You will soon follow, and we shall sing together the song of Moses and the Lamb, in the dear presence of our Father and our God.' " " And pray, madam," said I, deeply affected with her sin- gular, narrative, " pray, what was the name of this extraordi- nary young person ? ' " It was "Relw Ccmjhnqs." PEOSB SELECTIONS. 403 THE DWELLER APAET. " It 's of no use trying any longer to make anything of her," cried Mrs. Soranton, putting on her glasses with an angry jerk, and rummaging a large work-basket, filled with soiled articles of dress, for her knitting. " I have got almost to wishing she were not my child ; andT I sometimes wonder how she can be, or yours either; I am sure none oi our folks ever acted like her about anything. I never heard of a Hig- gins or Scranton wanting to spend all their time with books and posies, or in running about the fields and woods, or of being so pesky proud as to want everything slicked up about them, as she does. I am glad none of the other children take after her. Ben won't touch a book no more than a snake, nor Mime either ; and, as for flowers, Hetty pulled up the last four-o'clocks yesterday, and I was glad on 't, much as Miss Bookworm cried about it ; for she would always have some of the flaunting things in her hair, or fingers, when I wanted her to do anything, and I was tired of seeing them. I really wish such a thing as a flower or book had never been made. It was but a few minutes ago that I went into the buttery, where I sent her an hour ago to wash dishes, and there she was, wiping plates and reading at the same time. She does n't earn the salt in her victuals, and that 's the truth ! If we could only get her ofiF upon some one that does n't know her ! I am clear out of patience with her refusing young Jennings ; such a nice little farm, and a good house and barn on it, all paid for ! — and then two of the children could have gone with her, and saved me so much work. She has n't common sense, and that 's the truth ; but they say there is a black sheep in every flock, — so I s'pose we '11 have to put up with it." At this moment a door opened, and the object of the afiec- tionate mother's vituperations entered, looking very little like the animal to which she had just been compared ; or, indeed, like the offspring of the uncouth beings before her. 404 PKOSE SELECTIONS, " Mother," said she, in a faltering voice, as if expecting denial or reproach, " I have done the work ; may I take a ramble in the woods ? I will take knitting-work with me, and be back Lq an hour." " No, not a step shall you go ! " was the answer. " How should I know what you are gadding off there for, every week of your life ? I will take care, and keep an eye upon you hereafter. I have no notion of having our family disgraced by such a senseless thing as yourself; and I have not forgot the time you were seen running down the lane with the finely- dressed gentleman that Mime said you were so nearly in love with ; the Millers have n't got done talking about it yet." The face, neck, and even arms of the girl grew crimson at these words. "Mother," said she, in a voice piercingly bit- ter, " I have borne, and had determined to bear, everything from you. Such intimations as these, however, I will not bear. I shall go to the woods to-day — I shall go to-morrow, if I choose, and every day, — and will return when I like ; but under your control I will no longer be. Your abuse and insult have broken the tie between us. I am no longer your daughter." Mrs. Scranton half arose to her feet, as if to admin- ister the usual admonition of a blow ; but apparently changing her mind, she sank back with a loud laugh, and complimented " Miss Katy" on the fine speech she had made ; while her father, who began to be roused from his intoxication by the loud talk of his wife, asked his daughter if she could not repeat some of the poetry found under her pillow that morning. , Without a word of reply, the indignant girl took from the clothes-press a tattered book, a pair of stockings she was knitting for her youngest brother, and, putting on her sun-bonnet, went hastily out of the house, and made her way to the dense forest that skirted her father's farm. Poor Kate Scranton ! Never had she traversed that green path with such a hurried step or anguished heart, before. The quick voice of conscience reproached her for the language PROSE SELECTIONS. 405 with which she had addressed her mother, and it required the remembrance of all the wrongs that had been heaped upon her from her birth, to reconcile her to the unnaturalness of her conduct, or restore a particle of her self-respect. Fortu- nately for the process of self-reconciliation, it was no difficult task to recollect that these wrongs and abuses had, within the past two years, increased to a degree quite beyond the power of her patient, loving nature to endure. It may not be amiss, at this point of a narrative intended to chronicle feelings rather than events, to glance at the causes of the scene in which we have seen fit to introduce our heroine. In order to do this, it will be necessary to deal with certain peculiarities characterizing her family, which, however unpleasant to discuss between writer and reader, are absolutely indispensable to a mutual understanding. Mr. Soranton was the descendant of a long line of ances- tors bearing the same melodious name, whose habits and dis- positions had varied so little for several generations, as to make it a proverb, that "A Scranton would always be a Scranton." This proverb was true to the letter ; for no in- termarriages with families of different breeding and tempera- ment could keep down the family blood. The specific grav- ity of everything in contact with it was found to predominate ; the Scranton would come bubbling above, like water over heavy metals. The eccentricities of this family were avarice without thrift, petty meanness in the pecuniary department, total barrenness in the intellectual region, with a correspond- ing hatred of schools, and every species of intellectual and moral improvement ; a total disregard of order and regular- ity in everything, with a tendency to perpetual indolence. What seemed rather singular, they manifested a kind of pride in view of these hereditary traits. Mr. Jake Scranton, the father of Kate, was often heard to boast that he had never an ancestor who could more than read and write his own name ; and his wife (he was fortunately linked with a congenial spirit) frequently declared that her children were all regular 406 PROSE SELECTIONS. Scrantons; that none of them would learn their A, B, C, without being whipped ; they hated books like pison, and had no notion of being " dressed up," whatever. These assertions came less boldly, however, when little Kate had attained her eighth year, for she had, by that time, passed the stage of premonitory symptoms, and given indubi- table evidence of having that incurable disease called a miTid. In a word, they discovered that she was not a Scranton, but a lusus natures in the family. She did not look like them ; she did not act like them ; she had not the large, turn-up nose, the wide mouth, nor the sallow complexion, and low forehead. She loved adverse things, — things that had never been tolerated in the Scranton philosophy, — nature, books, order, neatness, refined manners, and, worse than all, she loved to be loved ! Poor Kate ! she had better have been born among the Esquimaux, or, with the unfortunate Riley, gone into captivity to the Arabs. Mr. Scranton was the owner of a large, rich-soiled farm, which had descended to him from his great-grandfather, and which, by his peculiarly ingenious management, yielded his family bread, and a surplus sufficient to furnish a few yards of coarse calico and factory-cloth per annum, and an occa- sional pound of tea and sugar, though the female part of the house usually contented themselves with a beverage of sweet- fern and sage, without sweetening ; while the male poi'tion luxuriated in the delicacies of cider and whiskey. The fences and buildings of this farm, originally miserable, were ever out of repair ; and all things about it, taken together, realized admirably the sketch of " Unthrifty,'' in the old Webster spelling-book. The windows of the house, which was a high, narrow one, with steep roof and broken porch, were always stuffed with old hats and worn-out clothes. The kitchen and stoop were let to pigs and poultry ; and even the " best room " was the receptacle of tattered quilts, mammoth skeins of tow and woollen yarn, and ornamented with strings of birds' eggs, and caricatures of various animals, done in poke- PEOSB SELECTIONS. 407 berry and pigweed, and framed by strips of sbingles, glued together at the corners. Kate had a remarkably keen perception of the proper and the beautiful ; and the daily contemplation of these outrages upon taste and decency, instead of deadening that perception, only seemed to increase its intensity, until disgust became the inseparable companion of her at-home life. At the age of ten, she begged her mother to let her work out ; she felt willing to do anything to free herself from the squalid wretch- edness of her situation. But such a thing was not to be thought of, her mother said. Who ever heard of a Scran- ton's living out ? Such a disgrace should never, through one of her children, come upon the family ; and she won- dered " Katy " could be so low-minded. The poor girl had but one alternative, which was, to spend as much of her time as possible apart from her family, whose coarse vulgarities grew daily more disgusting. To accom- plish this, she begged all the out-of-door drudgery, such as milking the cows, bringing wood and water, and even helping her father and brothers in their haymaking, digging pota- toes, — anything that gave her communion with the green fields, and bright, blue sky. Being an expert knitter, she was allowed an occasional ramble in the woods, by promising not to idle away her time. These were to Kate seasons of special delight. She had learned to knit and read at the same time, by laying a twig across the leaves of her book to hold them down ; and many a happy day had she spent in this manner, drinking in knowledge and poetry from everything around her. This state of things, however, was too joyous to last long. Her mother and sisters began to suspect her of too much enjoyment ; and, in consequence, began a series of petty an- noyances and persecutions, which nearly drove the poor girl to distraction. She was kept closely confined to the house, obliged to do the kinds of drudgery she most disliked, eat the sort of food they knew she had almost loathed from infancy, 408 PROSE SUtHCTIONS. and listen to convei'sation that made her delicate mind shudder. The faults of the whole family were laid upon her. If an accident happened, it was, somehow, Kate's carelessness. If anything was mislaid, it was Kate's forgetfulness. " She never thought of anything but books and fine clothes." Her books were forbidden her ; her few clothes, of which she was particularly careful, were purposely soiled ; the flowers she planted under her window, to relieve her aching eyes, were pulled up. She was completely wretched. She often won- dered whether Cinderella could have been more so ; and then Cinderella's mother was a step-mother. There was but one comfort for poor Kate in her trials, beside her little brother and pet lamb, which were the only animate things she really loved. She could sit at her window by moonlight — not being allowed a candle, lest she should read — and scribble on the blank edge of some newspaper, in the form of verse, the burning, melancholy thoughts which oppressed her. This would, for a time, relieve her overburdened heart. It was to a scrap of this kind that her father alluded, which, hav- ing been discovered by her sister, and deciphered by the united efforts of the family, had been ironically sung and re- peated to her by nearly every member. Kate bore all with the fortitude of a martyr, until her mother's stinging re- marks, when she inly determined to leave her home, and abide the consequences, whatever they might be. It is not to be supposed that one lovely as Kate Scranton, — for lovely she was, very lovely, in face, air, person, — could reach her eighteenth year without admirers from among that sex over which beauty holds such indomitable sway. She had many in her own neighborhood ; but they were of the coarser sort, and she turned from them with disgust. Not so, however, with one she had known abroad. The only event in her monotonous life had been a four weeks' visit to a cousin, living in a city-like village, some distance from her father's. This cousin contrived, by the aid of her own ward- PROSE BELECTIONS. 409 robe, to give the poor girl, in spite of her rusticity, quite an interesting appearance. She became acquainted with a young lawyer, of some eminence, with whom, almost without knowing it, she thought she might pass life happily under any circumstances, so much were his thoughts and feelings ia unison with her own. This feeling was, at the time, fully reciprocated by Mr. Herbert. He admired, nay, he loved the artless, feeling girl, and was on the point of telling her so, when an officious friend whispered to him, " A Scranton will be a Scranton." The spell was broken. Had it not been, a professional visit at her father's, at the time he overtook the blushing girl in the lane of which her mother spoke, would have deterred one of his fastidious nature from any serious step. Kate felt, when he had gone, that all hope was over. Nevertheless, when, three months after, she read his marriage to another, a pang shot through her heart which brought her senseless to the floor. This was not the' only conquest her beauty had effected during her visit. Mr. Staunton, a widower without a family, an excellent match, as all the mammas declared, had made her, while with her cousin, a lawful tender of his hand and estates, which she unhesitatingly rejected. With this, how- ever, he was not satisfied ; and she had since received from him several letters, urging his suit, none of which she had thought of answering, except one of great importunity, re- ceived the day before the one in which we have introduced her, to which she had determined to return an unappealable negative. Now, however, the matter seemed to strike her in a differ- ent light ; for, as she hurried past the black-stump field, which had always been an especial abhorrence, her features seemed working with some unusual resolve ; and she at length ex- claimed with sudden energy, " I will marry him ! There is no other way ; and what does it matter — when that dream can never come again — what does it matter what becomes 3§ 410 PKOBE SELECTIONS. of me ? Though I may never love him, I can at least per- form the kind duties of wife and sister, and I shall get rid of these galling chains. I will marry him ! " Kate passed swiftly the soft red-clover fields, without once glancing at them, or at the little lamb who was trotting pa- tiently at her side, and turning upon her an occasional look of mute wonder, at not receiving his accustomgd words of en- dearment. Poor Kate was too much agitated to notice any- thing. Tears fell at every step, and she wondered why people should think it a hard thing to die. Tears were as natural to her as rain to an April cloud ; but she possessed a wonderful faculty of controlling them in the presence of others. She was never suspected of being that very interestiag character, a weeping young lady, though scarcely a day passed without her having a hearty cry, all alone by herself. The poor girl wandered about all that day among her dearly loved haunts, like one bewildered. It was quite evi- dent she never expected to visit them again. She bathed her brow in the little spring overhung with goose-brier and witch- hazel ; she pulled the moss from an old flat rock where she had often sat ; and took some little white pebbles from the moun- tain brooklet, and ' put them into her book for mementos. She walked the dim, shady, velvet wood-path far as it went, and then clambered up a steep, rocky hill beside it, till she reached a little recess made of laurel and birch, where she had often passed the day in reading, and gazing on the valley beneath. Here she seated herself as usual, and opened Her- vey's Meditations; but she could' not read. She gazed on all the dear old trees around, and down into the little valley, with its low, vine-covered cottages, and the blue sparkling river, winding so gayly among them. She looked ofi' upon the blue Alleganies in the distance, their lofty ridges rising one above another, till they seemed like lines of pale, cold clouds, stretched across the horizon. " 0, that I could stay here forever ! " exclaimed Kate, en- thusiastically, as her eye wandered from one object of inter- PEOSE SELECTIONS. 411 est to another. There were the small, picturesque islands of the river, where she had often been to cull anemones and blue-bells in the spring, and in harvest-time the large, brown beach-cherry, and low, purple, dewy wild grape. There were the sloping, pebbly banks, where she had so often searched for Indian arrows, and other aboriginal curiosities ; and there, the line of tag'^.lders, where she had spent many a Saturday morning in pulling silver tassels from the^long boughs, and in wringing willow twigs to make whistles for her little brother. Kate looked on all, on everything; on the old spire-like Lombardy poplars, the broad-spreading black walnut, the little willow-shaded coves, the strawberry knolls, the choke- cherry ridges, the smooth clover pastures, all sleeping calmly in the afternoon sunlight, as if there were no such things as trials and vexations in the world. She looked as a miser might be supposed to loOk upon his gold for the last time, and again ejaculated, " 0, that I might stay here forever ! " There was one spot, however, still to be taken into the sur- vey, — the miserable habitation of her father. As her eye fell upon this, th^ events of the morning rushed fully upon her mind, and she could not avoid a fresh outburst of grief. It was sundown when the wanderer reached home. She was received with rather more than the usual quantity of taunts and sneers. Of this she was rather glad than otherwise. It strengthened her resolution of leaving home, when one kind word would have broken it. In the course of the evening, Kate, with some difficulty, succeeded in mustering writing apparatus, and framing a note, very little to her satisfaction, as is usual in such cases, to Mr. Staunton, her widower-lover. " I wish his name were not quite so much like my own," murmured she, as she folded and directed the missive, which seemed to her about as much like a death-warrant as anything she could think of. " Staunton ! Scranton ! They sound dreadfiilly alike. Kate Staunton, however, is not quite so horrible as Katy Scran- 412 PROSE SBLBCTIONS. ton, which our people have persisted in calling me ever since they knew I preferred the sound of Kate." We are tempted to betray so much of our heroine's confi- dence as will show her straightforward way of disposing of a matter which many of our highly-bred misses of the present day would have refined and metaphorized until the actual meaning were lost, and also as a sample of brevity to those who are in the habit of having their love-epistles of " linked sweetness long drawn out." Here is the letter : " Mr. Stattnton ; " Sir, — I have thought better of your proposal, lately, and have determined, on certain conditions, to accept it. The conditions are these : First, the marriage ceremony shall not be performed in my father's house (where else, I care not) ; second, I shall be allowed, with my parents' permission, to take with me my youngest brother, and educate him as I see proper ; lastly, none of my family shall be invited, or allowed to visit me until I desire it. " I will not deceive you, sir, in my object for acquiescing in your oft-repeated proposal of making me. your wife. It is no love I bear, or ever may bear yourself. My home is dis- agreeable to me, and I see no other way of leaving it. (If you think this mercenary, you can act accordingly.) Let me, at the same time, assure you, that I do not love another, and that I hope to be able (if you treat me kindly), in time, to bestow upon you the affection necessary to insure, at least, your fraternal esteem ; and I am willing to promise the feith- ful performance of a wife's duties, far as I know them. If your mind is not changed by the nature of this communica- tion, you can come for me any time within two weeks. I shall be ready. Yours, Kate Scranton." We hope none of our readers will entertain as harsh an opinion of our heroine, after the perusal of the above, as she did of herself. " It is too heartless," said she, in a self depre- PEOSE SELECTIONS. 413 eating tone. " I almost hope he will be disgusted with me, as he certainly ought to be." Mr. Staunton was, however, so far from being disgusted with the abrupt straightforwardness of the young rustic, as to start for her immediately. There was the anticipated quan- tum of astonishment, expostulations, reproaches, sneers, and abuse, on his arrival at the Scran tons', Kate having been per- fectly secret in her plans ; but it all ended in the widower's carrying off his prize, accompanied by the little brother, — the family wisely concluding, after the boy had vehemently de- clared that he would live with Kate, and no one else, that it was best to let him have his own way, as it would make one less to work for. The ceremony was performed at the house of a friend of Mr. Staunton, a minister living on their road. Kate was delighted with the elegance of her new home, everything was so rich, so appropriate. It was astonishing with what ease and grace she bore her new dignities, as if, as the old housekeeper observed, she were really born to them. The usual round of parties, rides, calls, etc., were gone through with, greatly to the eclat of the young bride, and de- light and admiration of her husband, who had never courted anything so much as a beautiful and intelligent wife. It was matter of astonishment to many, that one bred in the low manner poor Kate had been, could so readily comprehend and practise all the formula of fashionable life, without em- barrassment, or any appearance of affectation. They did not know that she had ever been a dweller apart, and was no more of her family than if never with them ; and that her society had been the ideals of Walter Scott, and J. Fenni- more Cooper. Some months passed away before the whirl of dissipation allowed Mrs. Staunton to look within and around herself, enough to calculate her chances for domestic happiness. When she did, she was surprised to find that many of her old heart-aches had given place to new ones but little easier. True, she was surrounded bv all that was refined, orderly, 35* 414 FBOBi; SELECTIONS. neat. Her fine ear was never shocked by vulgar voices, or vulgar expressions ; her discriminating eye was never pained with outrages upon taste and propriety. She was treated with all the outward tokens of respect and admiration. She was even openly proclaimed the star of M., and evidently held a high place in the heart of her husband. What more could she desire ? Alas for a worldly nature ! God has wisely ordained it shall never be satisfied. Kate soon looked deep enough into the material set around her, to find it all hollowness ; and she sometimes thought she would prefer even the coarse, open enmity of the associates of hjer former life, to the refined, but secret and piercing envy and hatred of those of her present. The unkindness Kate experienced in early life, from a source whence every one expects the deepest affection, operated upon her exceedingly sensitive nature like a slow but concealed poison, which needed but the slightest accident to develop. A few insin- uations from those " parlor serpents " who crawl into all families, had led her to doubt the sincerity of nearly all around her ; and she shrank from their overstrained civility, as if a pestilence lurked beneath. It required, howfever, very little fortitude to bear this trial, compared with others. The skeleton was in her own house. Mr. Staunton was a man about twice the age of his present wife, highly educated, wealthy, of dignified, gentle- manly manners, possessing, if not a warm, at least a kind heart, and keeping up a style of living almost princely. Not- withstanding all this, Kate discovered, — that most harrowing of all discoveries to a woman of sensibility, — that there could be no congeniality between them. By congeniality, she meant that understanding which persons of ardent temper- ament have of each other's feelings, as if by intuition ; that oneness of perception, that seeing with one eye, hearing with one ear, feeling with one pulsation of the heart. There was nothing that Kate, from her youth up, had courted like sympathy ; and it was only by imagining a kind PROSE SELECTIONS. 415 of understanding between terself and various objects of na- ture, that she had hitherto contrived to exist. If she wept, she was sure the flowers at her feet bowed their little heads. If a feeling of joy came over her heart, the stars under- stood her ; there was a sweet smile in their soft glances. She had often thought, if she had a sister, or cousin, or any one, who could always be with her to reciprocate these emotions, to whom she could speak the very thoughts of her heart, read the beautiful ideas of her favorite authors, she should be perfectly happy. Should she ever marry, she thought all these heart-cravings must be satisfied. Simple, ignorant Kate ! Mr. Staunton had a very large library. His wife was delighted with it ; but when she began to speak, with all her enthusiastic heart, of the dear passages of her favorite authors, she saw her husband turn away with a cold smile, and her heart sank within her. But she might be mistaken ; she would try again. Alas ! his pulse always ticked with the clock, his nerves never became excited, and Kate soon found him to be, without hope of reformation, that horror of sensi- tive persons, the man who feels, and speaks, and acts, by rule. It seemed unaccountable to Kate how he could be so different from herself; one who had looked up, from childhood, to the same beautiful sky, had listened to the same thrilling music of nature, and read the same soul-stirring books, to heighten in her mind the effect of this enthusiasm. She was often thrown into the society of him who had awakened her youthful fancy — Theodore Herbert ; and the contrast was so perfect as to give acute pain. O, that he were like him ! she often found herself sighing, before she was aware of the nature of her thoughts. And then she turned from him with a shudder, and wondered how she could so far forget herself. Woe for the woman who finds herself mak- ing invidious comparisons between her husband and another ! She has little hope of happiness thereafter. When Kate first saw Mr. Herbert, after her marriage, she 416 PROSE SELECTIONS. took a very natural pleasure in showing him that a Scranton could be something besides a Scranton ; for the story had been whispered to her, and she was not sorry to observe that he did not think her defects of person so very congpicuous. But when, upon farther acquaintance, 'she saw that he felt a sin- cere and rather too hearty admiration for her, she endeavored to avoid his presence. This, however, was difficult. Herbert was the intimate friend of her husband, and there was, conse- quently, scarcely a day that they did not meet. It was not that she feared becoming too deeply interested in this man. With all her faults, and they were many, as the reader has discovered, Kate's truly feminine nature shrank from the slightest approach to an unwarranted regard for any one beside her liege lord ; and she felt that she could defy the machinations of the powers of darkness in this particular. But she dreaded the effects upon her heart as it regarded her determination of becoming attached to her husband. She dreaded the effects of this perpetual contrast of eloquence with reserve, of warmth with indifference, perception with obtuse- ness ; and she rightly conjectured if Mr. Staunton were re- moved from these depressing influences, it would be a much less difficult task to discover, or, if necessary, to imagine those qualities which are necessary to fix and retain the affections. This, however, was a forlorn hope. There was not a day that Kate did not find herself turning for sympathy to one who was — not her husband ; and those bitterest words of a bitter heart, " Yet I was formed to be So richly blest ! " if unspoken, were ever playing upon her lips. Kate was again wretched, completely so, when her little brother — the only being she had ever truly, deeply loved — was taken from her by death. She wept,' she repined : but there was one thing she did not do — she did not pray. Poor Kate ! she found some relief in her old occupation of PROSE SELECTIONS. 417 penning poetry; and the world crowned her with laurels. Her name was a word of admiration through the land, but she was still wretched — She " turned from " all fame ',' brought, to all it could not bring." Her husband's manner grew indifferent towards her. She was not surprised at this. She had long been satisfied that his first admiration of her was but a passing fancy, and the conscientiousness of her nature prevented her attempting to awaken feelings she could not reciprocate. This, with all his obtuseness, he could not help perceiving. There arose, however, no misunderstanding between them. There seemed to be a tacit agreement to avoid each other's presence as much as was compatible with their relative situations. Mr. Staunton appeared perfectly satisfied with having a woman of beauty and talent at the head of his establishment ; and his wife, with all her pent-up emotions, yearning to over- flow into a kindred bosom, tried to satisfy her cravings for sympathy with the heartless amusements of fashionable life. But again she felt herself a dweller apart. She was with the world, but not of it. She talked, she smiled, she visited, she received visits ; but her warm heart was shut, the treasures of her mind locked from prying eyes ; for the world had learned her the application of the homely proverb of the pearls, and she turned from it with her original disgust. She despised its honeyed flattery, she shrank from its utter hol- lowness, and almost wished herself again the inmate of her father's wretched mansion, where coarseness was not clothed in soft words, nor cruelty united with deception. Poor mar-, tyr of a mistaken philosophy, dying of thirst, with all the waters near ! — diseased in heart and soul, with the great Phy- sician bending over thee unperceived, and thy hand resolute- ly, with the caprice of a sick babe, rejecting his medicines ! How many of the inhabitants of this vast globe are, at this moment, in the same miserable situation ! It may be wondered at that Kate Soranton had yet learned 418 PEOSB SELECTIONS. nothing of reli^on. The truth was, she had seen so much of its counterfeit as to doubt the existence of the reality. In her youth she had been familiar with those devastating tornadoes called protracted meetings, whose power was shown in exciting the lower passions, and whose fruits were intoler- ance and the display of coarse sanctimony. Since, she had been acquainted with professors, on the one hand, leading in fashion and wasteful extravagance ; on the other, with those ridiculously conscientious regarding everything pertaining to dress, style, etc., and rather, in eflFect, advocating a falling back into the customs of barbarism. Kate could perceive nothing spiritual in either class ; and, without an effort to investigate the claims of Christianity for herself, she became the most unhappy of intelligent beings, without hope and without God in the world. It was a soft, cloudy morning in July that Mrs. Staunton threw on her calash, sauntered out of her house, and took a by-lane leading out of the village, and over a small hill. It was called the lumber-road, being traversed chiefly by wag- ons, loaded with boards and shingles for market. There were many wild, sweet wood-paths leading into the dim forest from this highway. Into one of these Kate diverged for her morning walk. She had often taken it before, for, at its extremity, on a small, cleared plat of grass, shaded by a large black walnut, was the grave of her little brother. The land was her husband's, and the child had been buried there at her solicitation. It was the favorite resort of her lonely hours. She had shed her bitterest tears there, — tears of disappointment, remorse, and despair. On the present morning, her husband had left town to be absent some days ; and, with that loathing of society which latterly had greatly increased upon her, she had determined to pass the day in melancholy, beside her dead. A rude seat had been made by her order near the grave ; and there she seated herself, with a deep-drawn sigh, scarce glancing at the blushing wild-roses that almost touched her PROSE SELECTIONS. 419 cheek. The country about was uneven, and thinly wooded ; but the trees were very large, and shaded the softest green grass imaginable. Here and there were thick clusters of wild honeysuckle, rose and sweet-brier; and, occasionally, the bright blossoms of the tulip-tree were seen, entangled with the dark foliage of the long ivy. Beneath the far-stretched boughs of a large, white pine was a small spring, whose waters glided so silently and slowly over the velvet grass as scarcely to bend its delicate blades, and emptying its silver treasures into a mimic lake, whose glassy surface was spark- ling with the flowers of the white pond-lily. Kate gazed listlessly, despairingly upon everything around her. She felt no longer that flush of delight which was once awakened at every glow and tint on nature's diversified page. She knew that her heart had grown old, that the freshness of feeling had prematurely faded, and left her the prey of a fruitless past and hopeless future. " I shall never love anything again," sobbed she, placing her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of what had become indifierent to her. " There is nothing in the world worth loving ! All is soulless, changeful, decaying ; death is the finisher of all. ! what is life, and why was I made a recipient of it ? A curse, and only a curse, has it been ! " " Woman ! woman ! " said a voice near her, " talk not thus. Life a curse ? I, an old, homeless, childless man of eighty winters, tell thee, that whatever may have been thy afflictions, life is not a curse. It should, and may, be to every thinking, breathing, creeping thing, a blessing, and the greatest of blessings." Kate had, at the first sound of his voice, sprung to her feet in alarm ; but seeing no one but a tottering, white-haired man, she sank again to her seat, and resumed her thoughtful attitude, without deigning a reply. " My daughter," continued the old man, in a subdued voice, taking oflF his broad-brimmed hat, and advancing 420 PEOSB SELECTIONS. nearer, " fofgive my harshness. I had heard much of the coohieas of your spring, and stepped out of my way a little, to enjoy its deliciousness, when your words — pardon again my harshness — came so gratingly to my ear.'' His listener interrupted him with a haughty stare. " My dear child," continued the old man, in a still more kindly tone, " reserve that expression for those whom it may profit ; it is wholly lost upon me. An old man, who has been to the verge of the grave with all the buffetings which sin and mis- fortune could rally against him, is not likely to be discomfited by a lady's frown, especially when that frown cannot conceal that the wearer carries a wounded spirit, which can only be healed by the words of the Comforter." Kate grew ashamed of her moroseness, and begged the old man to be seated, and rest himself, which he accordingly did. She prepared herself for the usual homily upon sinning away the day of grace, and striving to make peace with God while the lamp should hold out to burn ; but she found it had been a work of supererogation. The old man never touched upon those subjects. He descanted, with an eloquence which sur- prised his listener, on the scenery around them, and pointed out many beauties which her eye, all practised as it was, had never detected. There was a refinement, a spirituality in his words, which sounded to her like the solemn, beautiful proph- ecies of the ancient seers of God (for her love of the sub- limely poetical had made her acquainted with the writings of the prophets) ; and she listened, with bowed head, while he unveiled to her many hidden treasures of the metaphysical world, and until he came to the all-absorbing truths of Chris- tianity, when the intense earnestness of his manner caused her to watch his varying countenance, as he poured forth, in burning language, the hopes and joys of the religion which the Man of Sorrows had died to establish. " My dear child," said the old man, " there has been dust heaped upon Christianity since the days of the fathers. Beau- tiful and elevating was it then, in nil its ministrations. It PEOSE SELECTIONS. 421 made no appeal to the lower propensities. It ^had no cords but those holy ones of its Founder, which every purified heart • was so glad to hold in its embrace. Even thus it is now to those who can put aside the veil of prejudice, and look into its beautiful truths. Search the Scriptures, and learn by the eye and the understanding, rather than by the ear and the passions. Were it not for this sun of our moral atmosphere, how many thousands, like yourself, would speak of life as a curse, who are at this moment, perhaps, thanking. God on their knees for its heaviest afflictions. My poor child, I see that this is all dark to thee. So might it seem to many who have risen many degrees in the heavenly kingdom ; but to me, who, in scholastic lore, am, perchance, the least in the king- dom of God, it is as plain as the shining of yonder smi. One little sentence expresses it all, — unceasing trust in the good- ness of God. By this have I learned to set at defiance all the ills flesh is heir to." " Perhaps," said Kate, " the philosophy of your creed has not been fully tested." " Has it not ? " said the old man, sadly. " Listen. I be- gan life with wealth ; it was wrested from me by fraud, and the wife of my bosom was murdered by my enemy, as the greatest vengeance he could wreak upon me. I loved her next my Saviour. My children were swept ofi' by a pesti- lence ; my relations deserted me in my misfortunes; my friends turned their backs upon me, and I became a stranger in my own land ; but my watchword was, Ti~ust in God ! and it carried me through. I knew all must be for the best, though darkness sometimes settled over me like a heavy cloud." " But did you fulfil," said Kate, " that hardest of Christian injunctions, — did you forgive your wife's murderer ? " "Did not Christ forgive his?" replied the old man, quickly. " I aided him in escaping the fangs of justice. I knew that vengeance belonged to the Lord ; and, even in the exercise of this Christian requirement, proved the divine 36 422 PROSE SELECTIONS. origin of the gospel. I had, according to the prophecy of the Saviour, heaped coals of fire on my enemy's head, and he became mine, and the Redeemer's friend. He confessed his crime, with tears of contrition ; and, with the full opportunity I had procured for his escape, surrendered himself into the hands of justice, and died on the scaffold, an humble, rejoicing disciple of the Lord. Since then, I have had no abiding place, but have journeyed from country to country, speaking to all who would listen, of the blessings of the Master's love ; and (I would not say it boastingly) it has pleased Grod to bless my labors abundantly. I have seen many a sad heart made glad by the words of eternal life, many a despairing soul filled with joy unspeakable from above. But let me not speak of these things. I would breathe to thee, pale mourner, a few messages from Him who spake as never man spake, and his blessing rest upon thee. Think not I seek a history of thy woes. I know, full well, the heart-burnings of the worldly ; full well, the history of all who walk not in the light of the new Jerusalem. They have no rest, day nor night, who wor- ship the beast and his image. They are harassed continually with the sting of sin, the goadings of conscience, the empti- ness of all worldly things, the fear of death, the horror of annihilation. My poor child, it was to free us from all these miseries that the Redeemer poured out his blood. Has it never ocourre'd to thee that his pitying eye might be watching thee in all thy bitter conflicts ? Believe me, my dear child, it has. No tear of thine has ever fallen without his observa- tion and sympathy. He is ever with thee ; he wiU never for- sake thee, and waits but the awaking of thy better nature to reveal all the glories of the celestial world, through faith, to thy spiritual gaze." The old man arose. " Wilt thou reject," said he, with much emotion, " the love of this, I may say, only friend ? for this world is a cold one, and it cannot furnish thee such another. I must leave thee, dear child, but not till I have begged from Him a blessing to rest on thee when I am gone," PEOSE SELECTIONS. 423 The old man fell on his knees. Kate, scarce knowing what she was about, did the same. ' At first, a feeling of hu- miliation came over her when she found herself in a position she had never been in before, and then a blush of shame that such a thought could find access to her heart. But the low-breathed prayer of the kind old man made her forget everything but the holy presence in which her soul told her she was ; and when she arose from the earth the old man had been some time gone. " Is not this all a dream ? " said she, hastily putting on her calash, and going towards home. But the words had im- pressed themselves too strongly on her heart for fancy. How fully were the secrets of that heart laid bare for her inspec- tion, and how did she shrink from the survey ! Selfishness — cold, uncompromising selfishness — she discovered to have been hitherto the mainspring of all her actions. She reviewed the events of her past life, and shuddered at the utter worth- lessness of all her thoughts and actions. Who had been made happier and better by her exertions ? Who could say she had returned good for evil ? Who could say she had given consolation to the dying, or whispered comfort to the sorrow- ing ? And how had she dishonored her parents ! Cruel, coarse as they were, they were still her parents. How had she, from an unrestricted desire for kindred feeling, rewarded her husband, who had heaped upon her all the refinements and luxuries of life ! Above all, how had she crucified her Saviour, if, indeed, she had a Saviour ! — but this she hastened home to ascertain. Kate took not her tearftd eyes from the sacred Record till the sunlight shone through her window ; and how much more beautiful seemed that sunlight to her than ever before ! The night had been one of prayer and bitter anguish ; but it had worked out her salvation. She had become convinced of truth, righteousness and judgment, and hope threw a sacred halo over the bitterness of the past ; and when she threw open the shutters in the morning, she thought the air had never felt so 424 PROSE SELECTIONS. balmy, the flowers and the grass and the blue sky had never looked so tenderly beautiful as now. Kesurreotion from the dead, and immortality, found written on everything ! and an angel voice seemed continually whispering in her ear, " The love of God, — the love of God ! " Kate thought it was the voice of her brother. Her husband returned in the course of the day, and she threw herself into his arms, and told him all — everything. " Well, my dear," said he, in his usual calm way, after she had got through, " what does all this amount to ? " Now came the first test of her faith. The bitter Waters came bubbling to her eyes, but she forced them back, and replied, with a smile, " 0, nothing, only I shall make you a better wife." " Who has called you a bad one ? — not I, certainly." Kate was glad he turned- away at that moment, for she feared the weakness of her nerves ; " but no," said she, with energy, " I have tasted the heavenly bread, and loill not go back to the beggarly elements ! " And she kept her deter- mination. How precious, now, seemed every moment of her time ! She had ever been careless of her health ; now, she was ex- tremely careful of it. She feared death would come ere her ten talents were faithfully accounted for. Her first step was to visit her family, and beg their forgiveness for her treat- ment. They could not understand her ; but this gave her no uneasiness. She knew the day was coming when the veil must be removed from all nations, and they would know her as she was. She labored to make her home pleasant to all within it, and she succeeded. Her efforts did not stop here. She became, in a short time, all things to all persons, that she might win souls to Christ ; but this was done so quietly, so craftily, that no one suspected her design. She was not known as that ever-dreaded person who goes from house to house, making inappropriate remarks on religion, at all times and seasons. The importance of her object taught her wari- PROSE SELECTIONS. 425 ness, as it did the apostles, and she did no harm where she could do no good. Silently, but resolutely, did she pursue her good work, until there was a perfect reformation in M., without any one suspecting where it originated. The follies and extrava- gancies of the fashionable class were moderated, for her vigi- lance penetrated everywhere. She feared not contamination from the sinful and degraded, but deemed that the field in which her Master had labored should be the place for the servant. The industry of the poor quickened, the despond- ency of the unhappy exchanged for contentment, the hopes of the sinful raised and purified, and the hearts of the sick and dying made joyful, — these were the fruits of her ministration. There was no good work that she was not ready to perform, whether it consisted in advice, appropriation of her own money, or labor with her own hands ; for she knew that there were many services to be performed for the poor and dying, that money could not procure, and-she had easily disposed of her fastidious notions regarding physical drudgery. Happy Kate ! when she contrasted the joyous activity of her present life with the miserable indolence of the former, she could hardly believe it a reality. There was one thing, however, to keep her constantly reminded of it, — her hus- band's continued uncongeniality of heart and habit. Yet even this, in time, she learned to disregard ; and, when alone, could sing, with a smile, half-joyous, half-melancholy, " 0, hope not, ask thoa not too much Of sympathy below ; Few are the chords whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountain flow. ' ' She learned to be satisfied with those more reliable qualities which he so abundantly possessed — >good sense, practical morality, and the most amiable of tempers ; and would often whisper to herself, " It, is better as it is; his equanimity of thought and feeling is just the proper regulator for my foolish 36* 426 FBOSE SELECTIONS. excitability ; and I am confident that his excellent nature is winning upon my affections every day. He is, of all others, just the husband I need ; just the one my better judgment would select." She was no longer a Dweller Apart, save from the sinful corruptions of the world. These she sedulously excluded from her heart, and lived in the pure practices of Christian- ity, as serenely happy as she had once been restlessly miserable. VIEWS FROM MY WINDOW. NO. I. What a delicious morning ! Is it not a temptation to " throw medicine to the dogs," — as elegantly saith a friend of mine, — and flee to the mountains, to the river, or to some sweet,' quiet valley, where the sun is shining warm, and the little violets peeping out from the soft, green grass ? Ah ! I know such a valley — * * * Where the sun is shining, This blessed morn, with a celestial light ; A small, deep valley, 'mid the hills reclining. Like a rich emerald, half-revealed to sight. Round its green borders fall the blue hills' shadows. Giving soft twilight to the dewy flowers ; Gay mountain rills are singing through the meadows, A happy exit to the passing hours, * * * In that valley of the wilds. I have a picture of that valley, in all its variegated beauty, on the very first leaf of my heart. The blue river on the west, with many a little isle upon its lulling bosom ; on the east, on the north, on the south, yea, on the west, too, across the river, are high, " o'ertopping " hills ; for, like the happy valley of Johnson, it is rendered nearly impassable by reason of nature's fastnesses, there being no outlet but the river. In the centre is the pretty white church, and, far up and PEOSE SELECTIONS. 42^ down the green-edged and tree-shaded street, may be seen, at irregular intervals, varying with the width of the farms, pic- turesque dwellings, surrounded with shrubbery. In the midst is the school-house, shaded by sturdy oaks, and, not far off, the saw and grist mill, with their lulling music tempered by distance. And then there are the walks to the marsh, to the hollows, the river ; and the long green lanes to the creeks, that came rushing between the narrow openings of the hills, where we used to steal away to gather winter-green berries, rushes, bee-balm, and the precious birch. Ah ! what joy, of a Saturday spring morning, when there was no school, to clamber over the numerous fences, which necessarily ob- structed our passage to " the creek," and spend the long day in sailing wild-rose wreaths over mimic falls ; gathering carious pebbles ; torturing " sUly fish " with the always receding bait of our pin hooks ; piercing the thicket for squaw-berries ; taking care, however, to avoid the beds of moss, as traidition had certified us, that they were the couches of bears, and that they generally returned to them for a nap, in the course of the day. With what an appetite was our bowl of bread and milk despatched after a day of such enjoyment and exercise ! Memory ! memory ! I love thee ; I revere thee. Yet was there a time when I almost prayed for thy non-existence. But to return to my window, which is open this fine morn- ing. How green everything looks ! It seems as if a chem- ical change must have been wrought in the verdure, since yesterday ; the plants were so dingy before the shower, and now they wear such a sparkling freshness. Few flowers are yet in blossom, though I was, this morning, presented with a boquet, composed of grape, hyacinth, polyanthus, iris, and creeping Charlie, or Iceland moss. The lilac, my especial favorite, is not yet out ; but the birds are among its branches, singing very happily. We always boast the first serenade in the village, from the sweet garden choir, probably because of the number of trees about us. We also boast of the first plate of greens upon our table — the reason of which I 428 PROSE SELECTIONS. may easily explain, by acknowledging a great fondness for weeds, commonly called dock and plantain, not a leaf of which do we allow our gardener to destroy. But here comes my little beggar girl, from the hill, with her basket on her arm, seeking for " cold wittals." " Ah ! how do you do, Patience ? Come in, child. Are you not tired ? How is your mother. Patience ? " " She 's pretty well ; but the baby is sick, so she can't wash for nobody this week." " I am sorry to hear it. Is your father at home ? " "No, ma'am; he hasn't been back since he whipped mother." " Indeed ! " The child's name is Patience. It is a very appropriate cognomen, and it is to be hoped her mother is distinguished by the same. By the way, I have often regretted the unfashionableness of those ancient but useful appellations. Useful, they certainly must have been, and, undoubtedly, would be now, did not the false taste and over-fastidiousness of the present stiff-necked generation prevent their universal application. Patience, Charity, Lenity, Prudence ! What excellent — what pretty- sounding names ! How much more impressive to the wearer than some staid motto on a gilt bracelet. Instance some giddy girl, with the latter name, ready to rush headlong into mis- chief. Let some loving voice whisper the sweet word. Pru- dence, in her ear, and would she not hesitate, waver, and at length act prudently ? I feel that I should have been named both the first and last. Of the others, I flatter myself, I do not stand particularly in need. Well, Patience, thy name does not belie thy nature. Here hast thou sat this full hour, with thy little black eyes fixed on vacancy, without speaking a word. Is it possible the child has been waiting all this while for the spirit of benevolence to take possession of her patroness ? She shall certainly find somewhat on her basket's return from the kitchen. PROSE SEIBCTIONS. 429 " Do you •want anything in particular to-day, Patience ? " " Yes, ma'am, a little cold wittals for mammy." " You shall have it ; but where is the bonnet I gave you last fall?" " I gave it to Jane. She works out, and is more dressed up than I." " And why don't you work out, too ? " " Mammy can't spare me. When pappy comes home drunk, I have to go to the barn, and help her take care of the baby. And I don't love to work out." " Well, here is your basket; take it home to your mother, Patience, and be a good girl." " Yes, ma'am." What a miserable child ! How I pity her but what is she doing at the gate-post ? Ah, I see ! She is stealing a tobacco pipe, which I saw H. lay there a moment ago. I say steaZtre^, because her actions show that she so considers it. How she hurries through the gate, at the risk of upsetting her basket. There ! she is scampering up the hill, with " might and main," looking round at every other step, as if expecting me to follow and regain the prize. The silly little thing ! did she not know she would be welcome to it for the asking ; and that I would rather have given her a cargo of them, than witness such ingratitude ? Well, I will not pass a severe judgment without reflection. Her mother, I recollect, has quite a penchant for the ignited weed. She has stolen it for her mother ! NO. II. What an interesting bevy of young girls are coming down the hill for their morning walk ! First and foremost are Miss and Miss ; the former, a flaming aristocrat ; her mind completely crammed with narrow and ridiculous preju- dices, to the exclusion of everything useful and amiable. Her papa is our wealthiest merchant, and has contrived to 430 PKOSE SELECTIONS. give his daughter a smattering of everything scientific and fashionable. Her education was begun and completed in Philadelphia. Her particular friends and correspondents reside in Philadelphia. Her dresses are all made in, and brought from, Philadelphia, to the great vexation of our milliners and mantau-makers, whose " latest fashions " are obtained at the same place. And she makes semi-annual peregrinations to the same great city, and is hailed, on her return, as one of the greatest curiosities of the place — being completely metamorphosed in dress, carriage and conversa- tion ; and retaining only a pair of large, never-shrinking bl^ck eyes, and an imperfection of speech, as evidences of her identity. Last fall she returned " made over," according to the most approved patterns of the Lady's Book, and other equally correct prints ; her waist pinched to the most excru- ciating smallness — her littl^ curved-up feet looking as if they wished, at every step, to spurn the low, sandal-like slippers encasing them — her hair tortured into every kind of ungrace- ful, unclassical shape, and her neck and shoulders thrown awkwardly forward, like a frightened ostrich, striving to hide from its pursuers. Everybody ran immediately to see, — everybody has curiosity, — and came back quite bewil- dered at the additional polish they discovered. Extreme delicacy and sentimentality was then her forte. The windows and doors must all be kept shut, on account of the extreme delicacy of her lungs. Her nerves were extremely irritable, but there were no salts, or Eau de Cologne, in the village, sufficiently ethereal for her use. She read Bulwer and Miss Landon, and frequented none but the smallest and most select parties, for fear of being shocked by something rustic. 'She could find no gloves small enough for her hands, no shoes for her feet ; though the clerks averred she never tried either. A malicious wag had the naughtiness to christen her " the Yahoo," by which feminine appellation she seems stSl univer- sally designated, as I, this instant, heard a young gentleman say to another, on passing my window : " Yonder is ' the mOSE SELECTIONS. 431 Yahoo.' " " Ay, ay," was the reply, and " Venus ! what a shape ! Nothing short of steafti-power could have reduced her waist to that. See ! it makes no shadow ! " Poor girl ! she is really, after all, more to be pitied than blamed ; for she is the victim of an imbecile mother. How different with the sweet sylph hanging upon her arm ! With, comparatively, very few advantages, she is perfectly genteel and lady -like ; an object of admiration to the most festidious of the other sex, and of bitter envy to the foolish of her own. What a joy is she to her wise, well-guiding mother ! Would there were many such mothers ! What a beautiful specimen of combined greatness and humility — of true republican refinement and politeness ! The next couple are the orphan niece of the wealthy Mr. , edu- cated as his own daughter, and the pretty " school-ma'am," gen- erally known by her drab calash, and buff calico dresses. What accident can have thrown her into the company of the Yahoo ? The latter has as great a dread of contact with persons who do any kind of work " for a living," as if they carried a pestilence. Can she have learned that the school- ma'am is, in prospect, the heiress of many thousands ? It must be so. She is looking back and conversing with her in a very condescending manner. Ah ! I thought the money matter a profound secret ; but it must have got out, and she will, ere long, be surrounded by fortune-hunters, all disinter- ested, and eager to show a chivalrous appreciation of her talents and beauty ! But I have no fears for her ; for though but eighteen, good sense and her own warm heart will guard her. She is the only child, reader, of a widow many miles from here, and is somewhat of an eccentric. She has latterly taken a great fancy to school-teaching ; and, having a relative in this place, came on about a month ago to "take a school," and spend the summer. Her taste is considered, here, quite singular; for though qualified to teach the highest aca- demical branches, and strongly urged to superintend the female department of our Academy, at a very high considera- 432 FB09I1 SELIiOTIOKS. tion, she declined, and has rented a little school-room, in sight of my window, and taken a very small class of youngest schol- ars, all girls. The truth is, she loves the little things, and they requite that love with a sentiment little short of idolatry. She lives in an atmosphere of love. Circled bv hearts that are young and pure ; One glance'of her eye doth the wildest reprove — One lisp of her voice their affections secure. Her motto is sweetness, and all must bow To the magic wand that she wields so well ; 0, small is the power of a frowning brow ! And the youthful school-ma'am knows it well. It is really amusing to see the haste with which the " tod- dling wee things " flutter by to school each morning, long before the hour — one striving to outrun the other, and each with a present for the school-ma'am. A bunch of fleur de lis, a lilac bud, or bit of mint, for which they always receive the courted reward — a kiss and a smile; or, perhaps, some new, pretty play is learned them ; or they listen to a little, loving story, calculated to make a deep impression on their ductile affections ; for the school-ma'am does not begin teaching the head. She knows the heart should be written over first with the pen of love ; else may the ink of the knowledge of evil blacken its pure white surface, and leave no room for the knowledge of good. Ah, happy teacher ! thrice happy children ! Were not envy a sin, how deeply I should envy you ! I have many delightful recollections of school-days. My first romantic attachment was to a young and beautiful school-mistress. And / was once a teacher myself. I be- lieve I could fill a volume with school-teaching anecdotes ; but for thy sake, reader, I forbear.