And all prepared to follow to the grave
Him who had won their hearts. The twilight hour
Was beautiful indeed. The setting sun
Linger’d awhile upon his ruddy throne
Of burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest,
To shed his parting beams upon the grave
Of him on whom he ever loved to shine.
The river roll’d more silently along
Than was its wont;--all nature seem’d to pause
T’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently,
With ling’ring feet, the long procession moved
To that same resting place within a grove,
Where they had follow’d to his peaceful home
The young and lovely boy, two days before.
But who are these approaching from afar,
And urging on their weary steeds? They seem
In haste to meet the mournful retinue
Of him who rides within the sabled hearse.
They meet--dismount--advance with tott’ring steps,
And take their station at the mourner’s side,
Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they?
The minister, and his beloved wife;
Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful;
They each had risen from the couch of pain,
And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.
Nor did they come too late; again in prayer
The preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tones
Awaked the evening echoes; hollow sounds
They were, for he was sick; but in that hour
The spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame.
It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairs
Were waving in the breeze, while old and young
Again uncover’d their respectful heads,
When prayer was made to God; and in that hour,
When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave,
Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’er
Her boy so beautiful, again she rais’d
Her beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’d
With visions of celestial glory--smiled!
The parting beams of the descending sun
Play’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow,
And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a sign
From Heaven--a sweet love token from the skies.
But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaks
Upon the sacred stillness of the scene?
All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,
Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!
Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,
There lies the dog; he struggles in his grief
To tear away the heavy covering
That hides his little master from his sight!
With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!
The faithful creature sees one open grave;
Why not the other too? Why keep it closed--
That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?
Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!
Again the minister returneth thanks
To those around, for all their kindness shown;
Again upon the buried coffin, fall
The heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound;
Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away,
And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.
Go with her to the now deserted room,
Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness.
She slowly enters there, and casts around
A sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,
How would the briny waters burst their bounds,
And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,
She cannot weep. The fountain of her tears
Seems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,
To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;
There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,
Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,
And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,
All ready for the wearer. There is, too,
His little hat of leghorn, temptingly
Laid by his long sleeved apron, ready for
His gamboling upon the sunny lawn.
There hangs the coat her husband wore, when last
He walk’d with her, and with his little boy.
There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,
Worn for her brother, who had died before.
To each of these she goes, and lays her hand
Upon them--takes them down, and fancies how
They look’d upon the wearer--kisses them--
The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes--
And then returns them to their places. O,
For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.
There in the corner stands the instrument
On which her husband loved at eve to play;
Yes, at that very hour--that twilight hour,
How often would the viol’s tones be heard
To mingle with her voice in sacred song!
She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair,
And sits beside it. See! she lays her head
Upon the very spot his hand would touch
If he were playing it. See! she kisses it,
And clasps her arms around the slender neck,
And hugs it to her breast! It will not do--
Still, still she cannot weep.
The violin
Is hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;
’Twas with the violin he used to lull
His boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,
His head was on its evening pillow laid.
The boy would warble, as the father play’d,
A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep.
What visions must have visited his couch,
Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chair
She stands, and reaches it from its high place,
And covers it with kisses!--Still no tears.
Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?--
That room so sacred to the mourner, who?
It is a good old lady, come to see
What means the stillness in that mournful room.
Long had she knock’d without--but, dead to all
Save her own grief, the mourner did not hear.
At last she ventured in, and reaching forth
Her venerable arms, she clasp’d them round
The mourner, sobbing out--“My poor dear child!”
Lo! at these magic words of pity, she
Who could not weep before, is weeping now
Upon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!
Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,
As though she were her mother; and her head
Has sunk upon that sympathizing breast;
And when at length she raises it again,
There beams a tranquil smile upon her face,
Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!
How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth know
Its own deep bitterness; but many weigh
The grief of others in false balances,
And blame them where they ought to sympathize.
When the sharp deadly arrows of the Lord
Are drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hard
To meet with “miserable comforters.”
To him that is afflicted, pity show;
Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence!
Your turn may come; then who will pity you,
If ever you have breath’d a word unkind
To one whose heart was breaking? God will laugh
At your calamity, and mock at all your fear!
CHARLESTON, _June 26, 1841_.
FOOTNOTES
[5] MARTHA DAY, daughter of President Day, of Yale College: and JANE L.
FLOYD, daughter of the late Rev. Laomi Floyd, and adopted daughter of
the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of Charleston; who died in New Haven, where she
was pursuing her studies.
[6] The REV. CLAUDIUS HERRICK, long known and celebrated as the
instructor of young ladies in New Haven.
A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.
“And one of the elders said unto me, ‘Weep not.’”
ST. JOHN.
O, weep not in thy lonely hours,
My Mary! weep not so;
If thou couldst hear my spirit-voice,
Thy tears would cease to flow.
I’d tell thee of thy future home,
Its pure unfading bliss,
Where hearts that once have swell’d with grief
Now swell with happiness.
I’d tell thee how our angel son
Reclines in Jesus’ arms,
Or roams with me these heavenly hills,
Enraptured with their charms.
I’d tell thee how with seraph’s voice
We make these arches ring,
And sound melodious notes of praise
To Heaven’s eternal King.
I’d tell thee how with golden wings
We fly at his command,
Who bought for us this heritage--
This fair delightful land.
I’d tell thee how in God’s own book
I’ve read thy title clear,
I know, my own! my still beloved!
That I shall see thee here.
I’d tell thee of the glorious rest
Remaining yet for thee,
When with thy loved and sainted ones
In Heaven thou shalt be.
I’d tell thee of the honor’d place
The Savior will prepare,
When thou shalt have thy shining crown,
And robes of glory wear.
I’d tell thee how these ransom’d ones
No more shall say farewell,
Forever in these realms of joy
Unparted may we dwell.
I’d tell thee how we long for thee,
And soon expect thee here,
Where all thy sorrows shall be past,
Forgotten every tear.
O, weep not in thy lonely hours,
My Mary! weep not so;
If thou couldst hear my spirit-voice,
Thy tears would cease to flow.
CHARLESTON, _June 20, 1840_.
THE SOLITARY WALK.
One sunny day I walk’d abroad,
All balmy was the air;
The noble Mississippi roll’d
Majestically there.
But nature’s smiling beauty brought
No pleasure to my breast,
For gloomy grief sat brooding there,
An uninvited guest.
In vain I strove to drive away
The deep unwelcome gloom,
My fav’rite flowers I heeded not,
In all their summer bloom.
It was the first, the only time,
Since I was left alone,
That I had dared to wander forth,
A solitary one!
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.