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.
There stands a country church within a wood,
Embower’d by branches green--a vocal shade,
Where all the livelong week to solitude
Gay plumaged birds their cheerful music made.
How often have we there together strayed,
In sweet retirement long hours to spend--
To listen to the warbled serenade,
Or talk of many a dear departed friend;
Or, to our absent ones, our wishful thoughts to send.
XVII.
O, that my friends would ever think of me
In such dear solitudes, far, far away
From this world’s bustle. Then fond memory
Can take a long and undisturb’d survey
Of scenes long past, in beautiful array.
’Mid nature’s peaceful shades they will forget
The wayward follies of my life’s short day,
And only think of me with fond regret,
And link my name with many a pleasing epithet.
XVIII.
So may I be remembered, when my heart
Has ceased its beating!--when the purple tide
Has curdled in my veins, that used t’ impart
Life, health, and vigor to me. Glorified
Then may my spirit be! But this beside
I wish, that those who’ve known and loved me here,
In lonely hours would sometimes turn aside,
O, not to weep beside my early bier,
But just to think of me as one to mem’ry dear.
XIX.
Sweet sister! thus thy friends remember thee;
They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate,
Thus early call’d to that eternity
Where perfect joys the ransom’d soul await.
O, not with tears and hearts disconsolate
Art thou lamented! While we mourn our loss,
’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate;
And thus we learn to count as only dross,
All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross.
XX.
That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme;
Earth’s evanescent pleasures could not lure
Thy heart from him who had thy love supreme.
No, dearest! rather would that heart endure
The utmost strength of persecution’s power,
Than e’er deny the friend who died for thee!
But now, dear angel! now thou art secure
From sorrow, and from sin’s dark tyranny!
Yes! thou art safe in Heaven, from sin and sorrow free!
XXI.
That head that lean’d upon our mother’s breast
With such a fond confiding tenderness--
That often aching head, is now at rest!
O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to press
Close to my loving heart; but motionless
That form now lies beneath the silent sod!
Well--rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness,
Till glorious life shall visit thine abode,
And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God!
XXII.
When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now,
To wake no more till waken’d by the sound
Of the archangel’s trumpet? Here below
I would not always dwell. The cold damp ground
Has sweeter charms for me than can be found
On downy pillow. I shall not be free
Till pale faced mourners shall my grave surround,
And many a faithful friend who loveth me,
Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.
XXIII.
For my poor heart is often full of grief--
All seems so dark around me. Stubborn fate
Has left me like a seared autumn leaf,
Nearly alone. Whene’er I meditate
On my once peaceful, joyful, blest estate,
And think how chang’d are all my prospects now,
My _future_ joys I must anticipate,
Else would I ’neath the weight of anguish bow,
And gloom, dark frowning gloom, would overcloud my brow.
XXIV.
The very things my soul refused to touch[10]
Are as my sorrowful meat. O, woe is me!
For all night long with tears I wet my couch,
And peaceful thoughts far from my pillow flee;
O, God! let loose thy hand, and set me free!
How can I live--for is my strength of stones,
Or is my flesh of brass? Woe, woe is me!
The livelong day my breath is turned to groans;
My God has troubled me, and broken all my bones.
XXV.
But cease, desponding heart! To Heaven lift
With earnest faith thine agonizing cry,
And ask for patience. Patience is a gift
Of rare attainment. Disappointments try--
Severely try our frail humanity,
And chafe the delicate framework of the mind,
Unless ’tis steel’d by patience. O, may I
Be sweetly to my Father’s will resign’d,
And thus ’mid all my woes, I still may comfort find.
XXVI.
How many cares do press the soul to earth,
Nor can we rid us of them! How they cling
To love, to friendship! Ah! they have their birth
Where love and friendship reign; for every thing
Our loved ones feel, we feel. Their sorrows wring
Our inmost hearts. The hardest grief to bear
Is that of others when we cannot bring
Joy to the stricken heart, nor wipe the tear,
Nor cure the countless ills of which we daily hear.
XXVII.
I _will_ not mourn my loved ones who are dead;
I know they are in Heaven. O, happy thought!
Sorrow, away! He who on Calv’ry bled
For all who love him, has redemption bought,
And for the soul a righteousness has wrought,
So pure, so spotless, that the King of kings
Will look upon it, and refuse it not!
Fly, fly, my soul, on faith’s triumphant wings,
Nor grovel here on earth, amid these gloomy things!
XXVIII.
There is an hour which cometh unto all--
A solemn trying hour that must be met;
’Tis when the damps of death around us fall,
As night dews gather ere the sun is set.
When comes that hour to me, I’ll not forget
The only friend, whose friendship can avail
To bear me safely through “death’s iron gate”--
To chase away the foes who dare assail
My trembling, dying heart, when flesh and spirit fail.
XXIX.
My sister Jane! I did not see thee die,
Though I was near thee when thy spirit fled;
It nearly broke my heart to think that I
Could not be bending o’er thy dying bed--
Supporting in mine arms thy fainting head!
It was God’s holy will to lay me low,
And, ere I left my couch, O, thou wert dead!
It pleased my Father that it should be so,
And I will not repine, my heavenly Father! No!
XXX.
And she--our sole surviving sister--who
Did love thee, dearest! with such tenderness,
In thy last hour was absent from thee too!
Well, all is right--and we must acquiesce
In God’s most wise appointments, and confess
That he doth all things well--so let it be!
Yes, holy Father! and thy name we bless,
That our sweet sister was so dear to thee--
One of thy chosen ones, from all eternity!
XXXI.
But she was not alone when death was near;
For, though so far from her dear southern home,
Her father, mother, brother, all were there!
And her adopted sister too had come
To see her loved one die. That silent room
Was not by hireling strangers occupied,
Whisp’ring their wonder at thine early doom;
No--no--it was not thus my sister died--
Her own belov’d ones stood her dying bed beside.
XXXII.
My brother rais’d her in his own fond arms,
But just before her eager spirit fled;
She smiled as if she saw seraphic charms,
And in another moment she was dead!
I heard a voice of weeping, and I said
To one who watch’d beside me, “Do you hear
That sound? What is it?”? She this answer made,
“’Tis nothing.” Soon it died upon my ear,
And then I sank to sleep, not dreaming death was there.
XXXIII.
And my dear angel sister was in Heaven!
A happy spirit--grief and anguish o’er--
All suff’rings ended--all her sins forgiven--
Safe landed on that bright immortal shore
Beyond cold Jordan’s stream! O, never more
Could mortal sickness waste her feeble frame!
No, sister, no! Death had no further power
To harm thee. Like a long forgotten dream
Did all thy woes--thy pains--thine earthly sorrows seem.
XXXIV.
There was a deathlike stillness--but the truth
Ne’er flash’d upon me, till the morning came,
That the beloved companion of my youth
Had passed away. I knew her suff’ring frame
Grew weaker every day--I knew the flame
Of life was burning with a feeble light,
But when the taper gave its parting gleam,
I knew it not! Her spirit took its flight
While I was wrapt in sleep, that sad eventful night.
XXXV.
I should not call it sad. It was not sad!
When morning came, they told me life had fled;
I saw my father’s brow with paleness clad,
I saw my mother raise her aching head,
And they both told me that our Jane was dead--
But that she was in Heaven! Then all drew near,
And, while they knelt around, my father pray’d;
He held my thin pale hand--and, O, that prayer!
His solemn deep toned voice e’en now I seem to hear!
XXXVI.
Well--let that pass. My honor’d father lives--
I must not praise the living. But I may
Implore of Him who every blessing gives,
Long, long to spare him to us. Yes, I pray,
My heavenly Father! that the trying day
Of separation may not quickly come;
Take not my few remaining friends away;
Hide not my loved ones in the envious tomb,
Unless it please thee first to take my spirit home.
XXXVII.
They told me she look’d beautiful in death,
My lovely sister! and I long’d to see
That calm repose; for with her parting breath
There came a look of peace--of ecstasy,
Which settled on her features. Eagerly
I prayed I might be carried to her side,
To gaze upon the face so dear to me;
And in a moment arms were open’d wide--
My husband’s faithful arms; and I was gratified!
CHARLESTON, _July 8, 1841_.
FOOTNOTES
[9] My sister, JANE KEITH PALMER, died in New York, May 27th, 1837,
aged 22 years.
“Why make ye this ado, and weep? The damsel is not dead, but
sleepeth.”--Mark v. 39.
[10] Complaint of Job.
TO A SISTER, IN THE REPOSE OF DEATH.
Sleep on, sweet sister! holy joy
Sits on thy placid brow;
No sudden anguish can destroy
Thy peaceful slumbers now.
Sleep on--sleep on--and I will pray
That I may rest like thee,
When comes the pris’ner’s ransom day,
My life’s great jubilee!
Sleep on! ’tis long since thou hast known
A sweet release from pain;
Dear angel, bowing near the throne!
Thou canst not weep again!
Sleep on--sleep on--thy work is done!
I must not mourn for thee!
I wish thee joy, thou ransom’d one!
Thou hast thy liberty!
NEW YORK, _May 24, 1837_.
TO MY ONLY SISTER.
My last--my only one!
O, leave me not alone--
Bereft of all!
May we together go,
That those we leave below
May o’er us lightly throw
One funeral pall!
I would not from thee part,
Thou of the gentle heart,
And dove-like mien!
Go not, my only one!
As those we loved have gone;
Who, passing gently on,
No more are seen.
Theirs is the peaceful home,
And ours the lonely gloom
Of parted love;
We hear their evening hymn
As some remember’d dream;
Sweet whisp’rer does it seem
Of songs above!
In fair immortal bowers
Of amaranthine flowers,
They sweetly dwell;
Pain cannot enter there,
Nor dark foreboding fear,
Nor dull, corroding care,
Nor sad farewell!
How many cherish’d ones,
Array’d in sparkling crowns,
Shall greet us there!
There are our treasures laid,
Earth’s love, immortal made,
Shall never, never fade,
But grow more fair.
Pass not away from earth,
And from thy peaceful hearth,
And leave me here!
When thy freed spirit flies
To seek its native skies,
Then, too, may I arise,
And enter there!
CHARLESTON, _June 28, 1840_.
MY BROTHER.[11]
I.
Kind friends! bear with me but a moment more,
My tales of death are nearly ended now;
’Tis sad I must repeat them o’er and o’er.
If by these mournful lines, on any brow
I cause a cloud to gather, O, do Thou
Whose love can turn the darkest night to day,
Dispel the gloomy clouds, and me endow
With power to sing a sweetly soothing lay,
And by religion’s light to chase the gloom away.
II.
Yet all have sorrows--all are called to mourn;
There lives no man who has not bid farewell
To youthful joys that never will return.
Then patient listen to the mourner’s tale,
And if perchance your gentle bosoms swell
With sympathetic feeling, breathe a prayer
For all who in the vale of sorrow dwell,
That pitying Heaven would grant them strength to bear
The woes they but increase by yielding to despair.
III.
Like an oasis in the desert wild,
Is the sweet sympathy of tender hearts
To the sad mourner--sorrow’s weeping child!
O, when the bitter tear of anguish starts,
When every cheering ray of hope departs,
When tides of sorrow o’er the bosom roll,
And pleasure vainly tries her dazzling arts,
If aught on earth can soothe the stricken soul,
Sweet sympathy will oft grief’s raging tide control.
IV.
But let me with my mournful task proceed;
’Tis pleasing, though ’tis mournful. I have said
How my dear brother, in her hour of need,
Stood near his darling sister’s dying bed,
And on his bosom held her drooping head.
But ah, sad thought! I have no brother now!
He too is number’d with the silent dead!
When the strong hand of death shall lay _me_ low,
O, he will not be near, to wipe my cold damp brow!
V.
’Twas sad to see him when our sister died,
Struggling to bear his grief composedly;
For they had “grown together--side by side;”
And it was rare such perfect love to see
As was their love. But they were not to be
Divided long. Ere one short year had pass’d,
Our tender mother’s penetrating eye
Saw that disease a with’ring blow had cast
Upon her only son, and he was failing fast.
VI.
’Tis much to say his mother was his friend;
For this implies such holy confidence,
As will at once his filial heart commend;
And we may draw this wise conclusion thence,
That both were worthy; for kind Providence
Hath so arranged this sweet relationship,
That faithfulness will bring its recompense.
Who sows the seed will aye the harvest reap--
A faithful mother will her son’s affections keep.
VII.
Good mothers make good men. It is a truth
With few exceptions, that the great and good
Have learn’d such lessons in their earliest youth,
That, like attendant angels, they have stood
Close by their side in hours of solitude,
There, by the charms of mem’ry, to arrest
Each thought of vice, whene’er it would intrude
Into the heart. O, those are truly blest,
Who drink the purest virtue at their mother’s breast.
VIII.
Few lose the mem’ry of a mother’s love;
Few go so far from virtue, that they ne’er
Think of the hand that pointed them above;
The lips that whisper’d in their infant ear;
The eyes that often shed affection’s tear.
I speak of Christian mothers. There are those
Who lead the way in folly’s mad career,
Who never speak of Heaven’s blest repose,
Or tell in accents sweet, of Sharon’s deathless Rose.
IX.
How often, in the tender sprouting time
Of early youth, the plant receives a blight!
Or the young vine, that upward loves to climb,
Creeps on the ground from careless oversight,
Needing a friendly hand to train it right!
Then let the tree of knowledge flourish near,
To give the clinging vine support, and bright
Will be the clustering flowers that vine will bear,
And rich reviving fruit, man’s drooping heart to cheer.
X.
“Knowledge is power.” ’Tis a trite remark,
But true. _’Tis_ power for good or ill;
With ever bright’ning flame it lights the dark
Uneven path to Zion’s holy hill,
Which else had been to mortals darken’d still,
Or fires the magazine so full of things
Combustible--man’s unregenerate will.
Knowledge gives pain or joy. To earth it clings,
Or to the highest Heaven it soars with eagle wings.
XI.
My brother’s gifted mind was furnish’d well
With earthly knowledge, and with heavenly.
I’ve often seen, as words of wisdom fell
From lips so young, surprise light up the eye,
When those who knew not his attainments high
Held converse with him. From his earliest years,
His eager mind with such intensity
Sought after knowledge, that, oppress’d with fears,
His parents oft would shed most sad foreboding tears:
XII.
For when they saw his cheek grow thin and pale,
And saw the lustre fading from his eye,
What wonder if their anxious hearts did fail
Within them? Oft they fear’d that he would die
A victim to that slow, sure malady--
The fever of the mind. Their only son--
Their gifted son he was; yet silently
They saw disease at work; that work begun,
How surely speeds it on, until at length--’tis done!
XIII.
How often is the meed of fame obtain’d
At vast expense; by blood, and groans, and tears!
But he who immortality has gain’d
By lightening the load of human cares,
Or teaching men true wisdom, passing years
Dim not the glory of his deathless fame:
For each succeeding age its witness bears
To things which ever must attention claim,
And shed a living light upon their author’s name.
XIV.
Lo! on the mount where fame’s proud temple towers,
All things look beautiful to those below;
And trees of life, and amaranthine flowers,
Immortal there in bright luxuriance grow,
And streams with soft melodious murmurs flow.
Lured by the view, ambition’s vot’ries press
To reach th’ inviting spot which charm’d them so;
But many a man who there has gain’d access,
Has gain’d it at th’ expense of health and happiness.
XV.
Then what to him the glory of renown--
The loud tongued welcome to the realms of fame--
The nymphs who wait his weary brow to crown,
And sing with voices sweet his honor’d name?
How sinks his heart who hears the loud acclaim,
But sees the landscape fading from his eye,
And feels that he has overtask’d his frame,
And spent his life to reach the summit high!
Just as his end is gain’d, he lays him down--to die!
XVI.
’Tis sad--’tis sad! but if his aim has been
To plant with deathless flowers man’s rugged way,
What matters it if he must leave the scene,
And die upon his coronation day?
Bright round his head immortal glories play;
’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain;
For every tear that he has wiped away,
An angel comes to cool his burning brain,
Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain.
XVII.
My brother cared not for this world’s applause;
He long’d to be a minister of God,
Well furnish’d for his work. His object was
To preach the blessed gospel, but the rod
Was often held above him, while he trod
The path of learning. Sickness often came,
And to his failing heart his weakness show’d;
But still within his bosom burn’d the flame
Of love to dying men, and to the Savior’s name.
XVIII.
In early youth religion was his choice--
His solemn choice; and one might often hear,
In some retired place, his deep toned voice--
That voice so like his father’s--rais’d in prayer,
When, with his young companions, gather’d there,
He’d kneel before the mercy seat, and fly
On wings of faith above this world of care.
Thus while to Heaven he turn’d his constant eye,
He heeded not, nor loved, the vain world’s flattery.
XIX.
That man is blest, who ne’er, with greedy ears,
Drank in the sounds of flatt’ry’s silver tongue;
He feels himself a man, who never cares
To hear his name on fame’s loud tocsin rung,
Content to be unnoticed and unsung!
He who, with stern integrity of soul,
Moves on, earth’s fawning sycophants among,
Has that within himself which can control
Deep sorrow’s darkest waves, and make them backward roll.
XX.
Who cares not to be prais’d or paragraph’d,
Is wise--is happy. Better ’tis to be
Too low to make a mark for envy’s shaft,
Than be so high that thousands bow the knee.
The happiest men are men of low degree,
Cheerful, contented with their humble lot,
_With minds enlighten’d, and with thoughts all free_,
Who have no restless cares, of pride begot,
Nor envy others’ fame, because they have it not.
XXI.
I’d rather gaze at earth’s proud pageantry,
Than be a part o’ the show. I love to hide
Far from the envious world’s malignant eye,
And calmly down the ever flowing tide
Of this short life, in humble silence glide.
I’m weary of the never ending chase
After the world’s esteem--its pomp and pride!
Then grant me, Heaven! some secret hiding place,
Till I shall sweetly rest--asleep in death’s embrace.
XXII.