Part 6

And sadly as I moved along With tott’ring steps and slow, I bent beneath the pond’rous weight Of overwhelming woe.

The mem’ry of that dreadful hour Remaineth with me still; And often to my bleeding heart It sends an icy chill.

I seem’d to tread the earth alone, The last of human kind; I had no power to send afar My stricken, palsied mind.

For there were those who loved me well, Who watch’d my early years; And many dear ones shed for me Most agonizing tears.

In Carolina’s sunny land, They wept and pray’d for me; But where I was, I had not one To share my misery!

And was it strange that I should feel The heaviest weight of gloom, When those who shared my last sweet walk, Were silent in the tomb?

I lean’d upon my husband’s arm, And on him gazed with pride, And Charley too, my darling boy, Danced gaily by my side.

There was an old and leafless tree Laid prostrate by the blast, And often, in our pleasant walks, That lonely tree we pass’d.

And when fatigued with rambling long, It was our resting place; For sitting there, we loved to gaze On nature’s glorious face.

It lay upon a verdant hill, Begirt with beauty round; How often, in that varied scene, A Paradise we found!

The far famed river spread below, All gemm’d with islands green, And many a cloud reflected lay Upon its breast serene.

For there the Mississippi seem’d A boundless peaceful sea, A mirror for the fleecy clouds, And many a forest tree.[7]

And often, on its bosom fair Was seen the light canoe, Swift darting to some well known place Where richest berries grew.

While gentle maids, all blithe of heart, On harmless frolic bent, (Who’d left behind each grave Mamma On household cares intent,)

And gallant youths, in merry mood, Who row’d each swift canoe, Gave life and gladness to the scene, Which seemed forever new.

And here and there, among the trees, A painted Indian stalked, With gaudy feathers on his head, All dancing as he walked.

For many a stately forest chief Would often wander there, Among those unfrequented isles To hunt the antler’d deer.

And where the curling smoke afar Slow mounted to the skies, We knew a freighted steamer came, And soon would greet our eyes.

Perhaps ’twould bring us news from home, Tidings of joy or woe; Then would the life blood in our veins With swifter current flow.

And Charley, springing to my side, Would watch my anxious face; Or throw his arms around my neck, With childhood’s native grace;--

Or, bringing flowers, the fragrant flowers, The beautiful and rare, Would climb upon the prostrate tree, And twine them in my hair.

For he, with youthful buoyancy, Would never want to rest, But, hunting for the sweetest flowers, In richest colors dress’d,

Would bring them to his mother dear, To wreathe around her head: O, God! it breaks my heart to think That noble boy is _dead_!

He was the life of every scene, The sunshine of my breast; He smiled away each gloomy thought That e’er my heart oppress’d.

But now in loneliness I stood Beside that very tree, And mem’ry seemed, in every spot, My darling boy to see.

But when I gaz’d with earnest eye, I found the vision fled; Twas but a momentary thought, My child--my child was dead!

And oh! I had another woe I knew not how to bear; I _felt_, my husband’s words of love I never more should hear.

I asked my heart, “O, can it be I am so desolate?” My broken heart, with throbbing pain, Confess’d the mournful fate.

In utter solitude of soul, I sat me down and wept, But guardian angels all around Their watchful station kept.

I heard a voice which said to me, “Write, Blessed are the dead! O, weep not that thy dearest ones Away from earth are fled.

Thy Father called them to his arms, Ere long he’ll call for thee; Then wipe away those bitter tears, And bow to his decree.”

I listen’d to the soothing voice, And peace return’d again; I ask’d for sweet submission, too, _And did not ask in vain_.

FOOTNOTE

[7] The waters of the Mississippi, above the Missouri, are very different in their character from those below. Below, they are, like the Missouri waters, turbulent and muddy; above, they are singularly tranquil and clear, excepting at the rapids. Bloomington, the scene of the preceding poems, is situated on the western bank of the Mississippi, two or three hundred miles above St. Louis.

TO MY MOTHER.

Written after reading the following sentence in one of her letters to Mr. Dana, received by Mrs. D. after his death:--“Come to us, my dear children, as soon as you can.”

Dear Mother! dear Mother! _we_ cannot come now, I fly to your arms _alone_; Shall I find a soft nest in your dear tender breast, For the poor, lonely, heart-stricken one?

Dear Mother! dear Mother! the grave it is cold; Yet there are my loved ones laid; How sweet would it be, if I thought not of thee, There to cool my poor feverish head!

Dear Mother! dear Mother! I long to die, For my treasures are laid in heaven; My husband is there, and my boy is there, And my brothers and sisters seven!

Dear Mother! dear Mother! I’ll live for thee; God help me to journey home! There is always rest on a mother’s fond breast; I come, dearest Mother, I come!

TO MR. AND MRS. H. N. DAVIS, OF ST. LOUIS.

My kind friends will excuse this public mention of their hospitality to an afflicted stranger. I love to hold up to view the bright spots in the human character; and I do it now, not entirely as a compliment to them, (for they know the deep well of gratitude that is ever springing in my heart,) but it is for the sake of the afflicted--of the stranger--of those who may be in need of the kindness and hospitality of their fellow men; it is for an example to those who may have an opportunity to “do likewise.”

I came a stranger lone and sad, Whose earthly prop was gone, And ye outstretch’d your shelt’ring arms For me to lean upon; And clasp’d me warmly to your breasts, As though I were your own; O, who can prize a friendly heart Like one who’s _all alone_?

The husband of my love is dead-- But ye my griefs have soothed; And the rough pathway of this world Your tenderness has smoothed; O, bless you--bless you--friendly hearts! Ye sweetly tell my fears, This world is not a desert quite, Nor all a vale of tears.

Some verdant spots of smiling green Lie scatter’d here and there, On which the sun of friendship shines, The sadden’d heart to cheer; And ye have done a kinder deed, O, well tried friends and true, Than ever, in your hours of joy, I _could_ have done for you.

My widow’d heart is stricken sore, With yet another woe; O, once i had the loveliest boy-- But _he_ too lieth low! The father and his darling son Are now together laid In those dark graves which speak for me, A childless widow made!

In two short days they both were dead; And when I call’d _my own_, No cheerful voices answer’d me, For, O! _I was alone!_ They were not mine--I thought them so, But He who kindly gave, As kindly took them to himself, Their souls and mine to save.

The great deliv’rance came to them From sin, and pain, and woe; To me, a severing of the ties That bound my heart below. O, then, it was a hand of love, Which wrote their early fate To leave a treach’rous world, while I In silence am to wait.

O, bless you--bless you--friendly hearts! In all this earthly woe, Ye kindly took me to your home, And did your love bestow; Ye love me, tender hearts and true, I hear it in each tone! I see it in your swimming eyes, And feel I’m not alone!

ST. LOUIS, _October 10, 1839_.

THE CHANGE.

Written on board the steamboat Gov. Shelby, on the Mississippi river, October 20th, 1839.

Why do I stand so silently, With folded arms and tearful eye? Hour after hour thus I spend, Immers’d in thoughts which know no end.

It was not thus in days gone by, When heart and hands found full employ, When earth’s attachments warm’d my breast, And earth’s engagements shared my rest.

But now, dejected and alone, My busy thoughts are all I own, Thoughts often sad as parting sighs, When long cemented union dies;

But oft’ner sweet as greeting tears, When separations end with years; When nought the union shall destroy, And tears alone can speak the joy.

In such a meeting does my heart By expectation bear a part, When, free from sin, and earth’s alloy, I’ll greet my husband and my boy.

But meetings in that world of bliss, Are never tearful as in this; For every tear is wiped away, And every eye beams bright as day.

I know my loved ones I shall see, With arms outstretch’d to welcome me; Their angel voices I shall hear, Sounding my rapt’rous welcome there.

They’ll lead me to my Savior’s feet, Whom more than all I long to meet, And in one thrilling note of joy I’ll join my husband and my boy!

It could not be a tyrant’s nod, Which call’d them to that bright abode; It must have been a Father’s hand, Which led them to the promis’d land.

My stately tree, and beauteous flower, Shall never droop or wither more; Transplanted to a genial clime, They flourish in immortal prime.

“They are not lost--they’re gone before;” My weary days shall soon be o’er, When all that’s dark shall flee away Before the dawn of heavenly day.

O, then, my soul! be thankful still, And bow thee to thy Father’s will; His arm shall be thy constant stay, Till thou art sweetly call’d away.

I charge my footsteps softly tread The same dark way the Savior led; My trembling feet shall never slide, With such a Savior at my side.

DON’T CRY, MY MOTHER!

’Twas on a tranquil summer’s morn, My gentle boy and I, Fatigued, had laid us down, to rest From sporting joyously; He’d close his laughing violet eyes, Then slyly peep at me; And shake his curly auburn locks, And laugh right merrily.

A welcome letter came from home, That home was distant far; But though I left it long ago, ’Twas still my polar star. O, home--sweet home! in joy or woe, My heart will turn to thee, Awake--asleep--my thoughts are thine, Home of my infancy!

Twas there my childhood’s years flew by In heartfelt happiness, ’Twas there I learn’d what magic power The darkest hour could bless-- ’Twas there I learn’d what love could do, Love first, my God! to thee! And there I gave my heart to _him_ Whose love was bliss to me.

But now sad news had come from home, That one I loved was dead, And, weeping sorely, on the couch I bowed my mournful head. “Don’t cry, my Mother!” soft and sad, My little darling said; But, ah! I only wept the more-- His cousin Charles[8] was _dead_!

“Don’t cry, my mother!” once again, In trembling tones I heard, And, struggling with my grief, I strove To speak one soothing word. My little Charley’s eyes were dim, And one unconscious tear Roll’d slowly down his velvet cheek; My grief he could not bear.

So far his little life had been One smiling April day, And I was wrong to cloud it o’er; But grief must have its way; I kiss’d away the stranger tears, And smiled upon my boy, And then his little angel face Was lighted up with joy.

And soon he slept--then, O, how sweet The luxury of grief! To let the pent up feelings flow, And find in tears relief! And, ere he woke, a solemn calm Sweet o’er my spirit stole, I had applied for Gilead’s balm-- It came, and soothed my soul.

But now, alas! I weep again! And weep more burning tears; And weep _alone_! no lovely child To soothe my grief appears; No husband near--how sad! how strange! He who was all to me-- Who soothed me--cheer’d me--loved me so-- O, this _is_ agony!

My God! my God! I weep for _them_! Yet ne’er will I repine; O, help me, Father! those I loved, In silence to resign! Shall I, from thine all-bounteous hand, Receive so sweet a boon, And, when thou call’st them to thyself, Not give thee back _thine own_?

Hark! hark! that little cherub voice, Sounds gently in mine ear, In tones of angel harmony, “Don’t cry, my mother dear! O, wipe away those flowing tears, If we _could_ sorrow here, ’Twould be to see thee mourn for us; Don’t cry, my mother dear!”

NEW ORLEANS, _October 25, 1839_.

FOOTNOTE

[8] CHARLES HENRY LANNEAU, who died in Charleston, in 1839, aged 6 years.

TO MY HUSBAND’S PICTURE.

When I can steal a moment alone, I gaze on thine image, my sainted one! And turn away with a heavy heart, For, O, my love! we are far apart; Thou art in Heaven, and I below, A mourning widow, in weeds of woe.

I teach my heart to rejoice for thee, O, glorified spirit! for thou art free! And though thou lovest me still, my dear! I know thou would’st rather not be here; Thou knowest that God will take care of me, And bring me soon to Heaven and thee!

Perhaps thou art hovering o’er me now, And watching me better than when below; Perhaps the delightful work is thine, To keep thy vigils o’er me and mine; To soothe my sorrows and dry my tears, T’ encourage my hopes and quell my fears.

Yes--I will fancy that thou art near, And whisperest often in my ear, And believe that thou comest not alone, But bringest with thee our angel son; O, my darlings! is it not sweet, Though in different worlds, in spirit to meet?

Do ye not know that I can say, Strength has been equal to my day? Have ye not heard that my tearful eye Oft glances upward in ecstasy, And feasts on visions of future joy, With thee, my husband, and thee, my boy?

Ye have seen what here I cannot see, The stores of mercy laid up for me; Ye have known what here I cannot know, Why our Father has laid me low; The wonderful secrets of infinite love Are only known in the world above.

Then, sainted husband! I’ll surely try Rejoicing to live as well as die; Thou wert always grieved to see me sad, And ever pleased when my heart was glad; But may I not shed _one_ tender tear, When I gaze on thy picture _alone_, my dear?

CHARLESTON, _January 11, 1840_.

“REJOICE WITH THOSE WHO DO REJOICE.”

Ye whom I fondly loved! my dearest joys Were treasured up in you; And a bright store of cherish’d earthly bliss, The future brought to view; ’Twas an illusive scene--that picture fair Hope’s rainbow pencil drew; Those Eden bowers have faded, and those walks Where brightest flowers grew, Now echo not the sound of lightsome steps; Those flowers, pale and few, Close up their faded petals mournfully, Nor drink the balmy dew; But I--I will no longer vainly droop O’er such a scene as this; For I am blest, ye happy shining ones! In all your blessedness!

Ye were the idols of my secret heart, Enshrined and worshiped there; And I, well pleas’d with my dear household gods, Found earth too bright and fair; No cloud seem’d gathering in gloomy wrath, To tell the storm was near; It came, as comes the midnight lightning’s flash, With sudden lurid glare; And left as dark a night within the heart, And chill’d the soul with fear; Gone is the altar of my idol love, No burning fires are there; But I--I gaze where beams th’ eternal sun Of bright celestial bliss; For I rejoice, ye glorious shining ones! In all your joyfulness!

CHARLESTON, _June 20, 1840_.

TO MY DEAR DEPARTED FRIEND.

Beloved! no--I will not wish for thee, Nor call thee from thy dear delightful home! Resign’d and patient still, O, let me be, While ’tis my lot in loneliness to roam.

Soon--soon--beloved! I shall go to thee; The longest life is short--time flies apace; I know ’tis well thou canst not come to me, Then would I loiter in my heavenly race.

O, ’twas an evil and a bitter thing, When I, forsaking thee, my Father God! With all my heart to earth’s delights did cling, And brought upon myself thy chast’ning rod.

Then let me bear it--though it break my heart; I’ll bless the hand that keeps me in the way; And if again from thee my steps depart, O, send the rod, lest I forever stray.

JUNE 16, 1841.

MY SISTER.[9]

I.

Ah me! the joyous scenes of other days Are crowding on my view. The mental eye Is aching from the long and ardent gaze On these bright pictures of my memory. I am in danger of idolatry; It were not well to idolize the past, And so forget the present. Blessings lie All--all around me, but I vainly cast A longing eye to things that were too bright to last.

II.

Sweet vine, that creep’st along the lattice work Of my dear western window! where the beams Of the departing sun do wanton lurk To kiss thy blushing flowers, or with bright gleams To peep through all thine ever opening seams, When gentle breezes are at play with thee! Dear to my heart thy curtain’d verdure! Dreams Of former joyous days thou bring’st to me, When as a child I roam’d where vines were waving free.

III.

I do bethink me of the jessamine, The pride of Carolina’s early spring! Whene’er to swell the yellow buds begin, Their odors fly on every breezy wing, And far and near the delicate perfume fling. And when the fragrant flowers have opened wide, While to the forest pines the tendrils cling, It is a sight to raise a Southron’s pride, To see on lofty boughs the golden flowers ride.

IV.

I’d leave the city gardens when our own Sweet jessamines are blooming. Fairy land Is not more beautiful, than when, full blown, The jasmine, gilt by the Creator’s hand, Hangs all around us. Then ’tis sweet to stand, At early morning, with a friend we love, Beneath our fragrant bowers, while pure and bland, The playful zephyrs o’er the flow’rets move, And bring a perfumed breath from many a dewy grove.

V.

I had a gentle sister once; and, O, I have one now; but she of whom I sing-- Our Jane--was in an early grave laid low, A victim to the stern relentless king, Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing-- Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died, I lost a friend indeed; my heart did cling To her sweet love, and in that love confide; For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide.

VI.

How often have we roved together, where Our fav’rite jasmine grew, and sat us down To twine a wreath each in the other’s hair; Or tax’d our skill to form a golden crown, Forgetful that the sun would soon embrown Our city faces with his kisses rude! Nor cared we for the dull and dusty town, When we could wander through the lonely wood, And feel in all their power the sweets of sisterhood.

VII.

I’m never weary of a country life, Where tedious city noises ne’er intrude; O, I have sicken’d when the jarring strife Of various sounds has reach’d my solitude-- Discordant gabblings of the city brood! ’Mid rural scenes my thoughts all tranquil flow, Attired in many a sweet similitude, For poets much to rural emblems owe, The great domain of nature is their studio.

VIII.

My sister had a poet’s eye and heart; Ye’ll not deny she had a poet’s face! For ye could often see the teardrop start, And many a proof of high wrought feeling trace In every delicate feature’s changefulness. If early she had not been call’d to die, She might have found an enviable place, Amid that throng who’ve gain’d distinction high By clothing burning thoughts in sweetest poetry.

IX.

My fellow man, despise not poetry! It is “a holy thing”--it is the chain Electric, hanging from the glorious sky. Touch it--it is a sov’reign cure for pain-- A remedy not often tried in vain. Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you, And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain; He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew, And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too.

X.

A real poet is a friend to man, And I will aye revere the sacred name; He is in truth a skilful artisan, And his material is thought. The flame That burns within the poet’s breast, doth aim To purify the thoughts of every mind, And place them in a brightly gilded frame, For curious posterity enshrined; And thus he ever seeks to elevate mankind.

XI.

This was my sister’s aim. She lived to bless And comfort all around her. Discontent Was banish’d from her bosom. Tenderness Its beaming softness to her features lent, And made each gentle movement eloquent. And she was gifted too. She could delight Her friends with many a sweet accomplishment: Her voice was music--and her sportive wit Made her of old and young the general favorite.

XII.

She had a soul attuned in sweet accord, Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay, Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard, Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay; Each trembling chord within her breast would play Like an Æolian harp, with concord sweet; And though no sound her feelings would betray, Her soul was all with melody replete-- O, it was music’s self--an instrument complete.

XIII.

Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell! Was she not gifted? Ye who knew her, say! The love ye bore her speaks your answer well. Your falling tears did more than words convey, When it was told you she had pass’d away-- She, who had won the warm enduring love Alike of old and young, of grave and gay! Ye speak of her as one who dwells above; I want no other words your high regard to prove.

XIV.

Some would have thought her cheek a shade too pale, Or that her lovely languid eye lack’d fire; For fair she was as lily of the vale, And ’neath her snowy lids would oft retire Her gentle eyes; but this provoked desire To see those eyes once more; for what is rare And seldom seen, we always most admire; Some eyes of liquid love more dang’rous are, Than eyes of sparkling light that shame the evening star.

XV.

She lack’d the beauty of “a damask’d skin,” But there were roses lying near at hand, To spring into her cheek; oft from within They came, call’d up at feeling’s high command, And on the glowing surface long remain’d. O, she _was_ beautiful, when her soft eye Would speak the feelings all could understand, And on her cheek glow’d heaven-born sympathy! O, sympathy! thou hast strange power to beautify.

XVI.