Mother's Dream and Other Poems

FRAGMENTS FROM “ESTHER,” A POEM

The monarch of Persia has wrapped o’er his breastThe vesture, whose jewels emblazoned the throne:His lovely young queen, who in sackcloth is dressed,Is far from his presence, and weeping alone.***And who in behalf of her people shall sueFor mercy? To whom will the sovereign give ear?’T is death now to be, in his kingdom, a Jew —’T is death in his presence uncalled to appear.The wife of his bosom that peril will take!The helpless young Jewess, so gentle and fair,To live with her people, or die for their sake,Will go to her lord, and her nation declare.For little he deems that his idolized bride,The joy of his heart – the delight of his eyes,Is born of that race whom the Persians deride —A people, his nation oppress and despise.There ’s wine at the palace, and feasting, and mirth;In Esther’s still chamber there ’s fasting, and prayer;While he with the crown, has the homage of earth,She calls on her God her doomed people to spare.She thinks of her fathers in Egypt’s dark land —She thinks of the bush, as in Horeb it burned;She knows who the hearts of the kings hath in hand,To turn them, as rivers of water are turned.To him, for support, and for light to her mind,She sends up the cries of her soul from the dust;Then, rising to go to the king, is resignedTo do this and perish, if perish she must.* * * *With fasting and tears she is languid and pale;But o’er her young face beams the sunrise of soul;And flesh, though but feeble, and ready to fail,Is urged to its point by the spirit’s control.The woman within her is timid and faint;The holy believer, unawed and serene;She goes to the presence, adorned as a saint,With power that has never invested the queen.* * * *And now are her people to safety restored —To peace, and their rights, when resistance had failed:A woman in weakness, who drew on the LordFor strength, o’er the mighty of earth hath prevailed.Fair Jewess, the tears thou hast dropped in the dust,As pearls, to Jehovah are precious and bright.The hand, that in sorrow has here been thy trust,Will crown thee with joy in the kingdom of light.

GONE IN HER BEAUTY

O! she is gone! the wintry blasts, that sweepWild round her mansion, trouble not her sleep:Gone in her beauty! Fast the drifting snowsFall cold, but harmless, o’er her deep repose!Here, in her circle of its gem bereft,Love hath but tears to fill the place she left.Sigh calls to sigh, from aching bosoms drawn.Void gives to void the mournful echo, “gone!”Spring will return, and bring around her doorSweet opening flowers, their odors there to pour,Striving to win her forth, who planted them,Once more to smile that they adorn the stem.Yet, must they wait her, till they die away:She was a fairer, lovelier flower than they,Snapped off in blooming! ere a leaf could fade,Cast into darkness! wrapped in silent shade!O! she is gone; and where shall burdened griefPour forth her fountains for the soul’s relief?Not to the dust to nourish earthly weeds:They yield no balsam while the spirit bleeds!Not unto death let sorrow’s waters flow,But to death’s victor may the weeper go!His risen glory, chasing mortal gloom,Shows grief a rainbow, bending o’er the tomb.

THE NUN

Fair penitent, with rosary,And cross and veil, in gloomy cell,What guilty deed was done by thee,To cause thee here immured to dwell?Come forward, and present thy cause;That we may clearly judge, and knowIf violated human lawsImprison and afflict thee so:Or if it be some secret sin,That haunts thy contrite soul with fears;And here sequesters thee withinThe place of fasting, gloom, and tears?Art thou the guiltiest of thy race?Why, thou art human, it is true;Which is alone enough for graceTo have renewing work to do.But, can devotion, warm and deep,Thy duty’s bounds so closely set,That faith may plough, and sow, and reapBy trials shunned, instead of met?What ray of truth, revealed, would thusMake of a tender opening soulA close, dark blue convolvulus,And give its bloom this inward roll?Dost thou the never-fading crownOf life and joy intend to win,By here supinely sitting down,Where others but the race begin?And dost thou think to gain the palmBy hiding from thy Saviour’s foes;Or hope in Gilead’s sacred balmA cure for self-inflicted woes?I never saw a Nun before;And therefore claim indulgence now,If I presume to question moreThan courtesy might, else, allow:As one, then, who in darkness pleads,For light, I ask to be informedHow, by a string of pegs and beads,A soul is raised, or fed, or warmed.Tell me, thou sober cabalist,What is the potent, hidden charmHung on that string, or in its twistContorted, for repelling harm?And is thy spirit kept so faint,It cannot mount to God above;But here must substitute a saint,In image, for a heavenly love?Has He, who lived and died for us —Whose gifts are light and liberty,Left in his Word the mitimusThat here confines and fetters thee?Does He assign a living tombFor souls, endowed with vital grace;Or need surrounding convent gloom,To show the radiance of his face?And, pensive Nun, now what ’s the chartThat he has drawn, and left below,That by it every pious heartMay follow on the Lord to know?Far from temptation, in retreat,Did he consume his earthly days?With houseless head, and weary feet,What were his works? and where his ways?O! get thy spirit’s wings unfurled!Hide not thy candle, if ’t is lit:Be in, but be not of the world,If thou wouldst shine to lighten it.Come out, and show that face demure;And see, if, smit on either cheek,Thy righteous soul would then endureTo turn the other, and be meek.For, let me tell thee, coy recluse,If we are gold, we must be tried;If stones, we must be hewn for use,Or by the builder cast aside.The axe and chisel, we must bear,To give us smoothness, shape, and size,Are in the world – the furnace there;For Heaven the gold and silver tries.If we are salt to salt the earth,Ah, then, our savor, to be known,Must be diffused; for what ’s the worthOf salt en masse, boxed up alone?The touchstone, where we must inquireIf we have safely hid our life,Is found in pitfall, flood, and fire,Allurements sweet, and bitter strife.Come out! behold the billowy seas,The flowery earth, and shining skies:Say wherefore God created these;And then, fair Nun, thy beauteous eyes.Was it for thee to turn and slightThe glorious things he spread to view —To give earth, ocean, air, and light,And freedom, for a dismal mew?O! if beneath some lawless vowTo man, in self-delusion made,An heir of heaven is brought to bow,That vow were better broke than paid.What binds thee here? or who shall setHis name endorsed a pledge for thee,When Christ has died to pay thy debt,And burst the tomb to make thee free?The world’s the great arena, whereThe fight of faith must well be fought,And each good warrior seen to wearThe armor for the victory wrought.How dost thou know but it may beThy foe, thy tempter, who has foundThis cunning way to corner thee,To keep thee from the battle-ground?Come forth, thou timid, hampered one,And doff that outward, odd disguise,That cumbers thee, if thou wouldst run,Or fight the fight, to win the prize.Come! from the bushel take thy light,And give its radiance room to play;Bind on thy shoes and armor tight,And up, and to the field away!

TREES FOR THE PILGRIM’S WREATH

Knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed.

Romans v. 3-5.Tribulation, if by loss,Or by thorny gain, the cross,Thou art not a barren tree;Seeds of Patience drop from thee.Patience, bitter from thy rootUpward, till we reach the fruit,Thou hast golden grains to sow,Whence Experience full shall grow.Broad Experience, rank and dark;Thick in leaves, and rough in bark;Through thy dubious shade we grope,Till we grasp the bough of Hope.Hope, we ’re not ashamed, with theeShowered by drops from Calvary,When thy branches shoot and bloomThrough a Saviour’s broken tomb.Trees, whereof the pilgrim weavesFor his crown the mingled leaves,Wreaths of you are rich and bright;Earth ’s the shade, and heaven ’s the light.

THE MUSHROOM’S SOLILOQUY

O what, and whence am I, ’mid damps and dust,And darkness, into sudden being thrust?What was I yesterday? and what will be,Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn,To bear the new, full glory of the morn,Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,With all before me, beauty, show, and pride.Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light,A thing unfit for use – unfit for sight;Less like her work, than like a piece of art,Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part?Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine,No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine.No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor beeWill come to cheer, caress or flatter me.No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,No spicy odors on the air I shed;But here I ’m stationed in my sober suit,With only top and stem – I ’ve scarce a root.Untaught of my beginning and my end,I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend;Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne’er presumeTo question Justice – I, a frail Mushroom!

THE SPIRIT AND THE MOUNTAIN

Mountain, with thy firm old footFast beside the sea,What was in thy keeping put,Prisoned under thee?“Hark, and hear the shuddering ground!Feel it rock and quake!Struggling fires, beneath me bound,Strive their chains to break.”Mountain, with a cloudy vestGirded o’er thy heart,Does it pierce thine aged breast,When its lightnings dart?“No: – beneath me far, the crashOf the bolt is felt:Here, the fiery chain and flashBut adorn my belt.”Mountain, with a snowy crownStainless on thy brow,Wilt thou never cast it down —Never, never bow?“When the mandate I shall hearFrom my Maker’s throne,I will bow and disappear,Hence to be unknown.”Mountain, holding proud and highThine old hoary head,What is written on the sky,Thou so long hast read?“Brighter than the stars and sunShining over me,I behold the name of OneThou must die to see!”Mountain, bold thine eloquence —Glowing is thy speech;Mighty import flashes thence;What is it to teach?“Thoughts of Him, before whose breathI shall melt away;While of thee, soul – spirit, deathNe’er shall quench a ray!”

THE FALL OF THE STATUE

A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION

This declaration [of Independence] was received by the people with transports of joy. Public rejoicings took place in various parts of the Union. In New York, the statue of George III. was taken down; and the lead, of which it was composed, was converted into musket-balls.

Goodrich’s History of the United States.There stood in New York, when, the times growing warm,All o’er our fair country had gathered the storm,Which wore in its coming, so fearful a form,But left us the rainbow of peace,An image of royalty, stately and proud —A leaden old king, where his votaries bowed;While true friends of Liberty marked it, and vowedThat its honors should speedily cease.And when our brave statesmen the article signed,Declaring us free, with pure freedom of mind,Columbia’s true sons, feeling strongly inclinedTo learn how the statue was based,Assembled forthwith; and, besieging it, foundThat the king in head, body and limb was quite sound,And had of good lead in him many a pound,Which might be more usefully placed.Then, “Down with the ponderous George the Third!”From a mingling of voices together, was heard,With shoutings aloud, as they gave out the word,“Down with it! let it come down!We ’ll soon transform his grave highness of lead,And turn him to balls from the feet to the head;And then shall the mouths of our muskets be fedWith him of the throne and the crown.“So now for the fall! for our Sages have met,And their names to a broad Declaration have set,That they are resolved, from this moment, to getOf the king independent and free;And to give by their valor a nation her birth,Or to empty their veins, a free gift to the earth,In Liberty’s name, to betoken her worthTo us and the millions to be.“Columbia’s wrongs have gone to the skies;’T is time that her blood and her spirit should riseAbove her oppressors, till tyranny flies,And leaves her unfettered, to bearThe flag of a nation instead of a chain —The palm of her triumph, ’mid weakness and pain,O’er them that were mighty, but struggled in vainTo force her their shackles to wear.“And, no leaden monarch will we have to standProclaiming our vassalage here, in the landOf lovely Manhattan! We ’ll each lend a handTo give him a jerk or a pull,And flat to the ground, in a trice, as we bringHis dignified form, it shall merrily ding,To sound all around how we honor the king,And pay our respects to John Bull.“This, this is the season for trying men’s souls,The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls!So, we ’ll have his Majesty over the coals,And make him the first that shall run:When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould,We ’ll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold;Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told,In the voice of the thundering gun!“The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite,And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight,To scatter his subjects – to purchase our right —The land of oppression to clear.And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come,In the form of a ball, ’mid the noise of the drum,The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sumOf his deeds as a royalist here!”Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast!The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast,While a bevy of Rome’s feathered sentinels passed,Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell!But, how the proud royalist felt, when the leadOf his late British Majesty came at his head,While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled,Is more than a Yankee can tell.

THE BIRD’S MATERNAL CARE

The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door.

A shadowy tree, that grew besideIts city owner’s door,Its branches threw so high and wide,That many a bird could sing, and hideAmong the leaves it bore.A robin came, and built her nestIn that green rustling tree.At evening, there she sank to restAnd furled her weary wings, as blestAs little bird could be.Upon her side her drowsy head,Beneath her folded wing,She pillowed, while the night-hours fled;When morning flushed the east with red,She ’d wake, and mount, and sing.Five pretty eggs of azure hue,In that soft nest she laid.So clear and vivid was their blue,Like polished balls they shone to view,Of purest sapphire made.And many a day she brooded o’erThose treasures, till they grew,In what the shells contained before,To something different – something more —Young birds came peeping through!Five little baby birds were there,In that fond robin’s nest,All callow; and their mother’s careWas now to find their daily fare,And shield them with her breast.Her tiny game, or berries ripeFrom some far distant stemShe ’d bring them; then her beak she ’d wipe,And sit upon a twig, and pipeA mother’s tune to them.At length, the owner of the treeOne dismal, stormy day,His window from the shade to free,The better in his room to see,Some branches lopped away.He dropped the very bough that hungA curtain o’er the nest.The sun burnt through the clouds, and flungHis fire the helpless brood among,Till they were sore oppressed.Their tender mother then was seenTo stand on weary feet,Where now they missed the leafy green,With one wing raised her babes to screenFrom sultry noontide heat.And, patient there, she day by day,Upon her nest’s round edge,Stood up to keep the sun away,While, shaded thus, her nestlings layTill time their forms could fledge.Then, when the master of the treeBeheld what love and careWithin a mother bird could be,He wished in vain that he could seeThe bough still living there.Thus, thoughtless we may often painOr grieve a feeling heart,Wherein the anguish must remain,While we may wish, but wish in vain,To lay or lull the smart.A good destroyed ’s a fearful thing,And so ’s a good undone!We, serving self, on self may bringA heavier ill – a keener stingThan what we sought to shun.’T is little acts of good or ill,That make our vast account.No one, though great, does all God’s willSmall drops the caves of ocean fill;And sands compose the mount.

SONG

Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye.Looking as if ’t were cut out of a star,How do I know but it once was on high,Beaming through evening, sublime from afar?I cannot say what thy Maker divine,When he composed thee an optic so bright,Making the skill of his finger to shine,Drew from those high upper regions of light.Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings,Fleet as the air, – as the rainbow in hues,How can I tell but the Ruler of kingsFormed them by those his blest ministers use?Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume,Was not the delicate down of thy breast,Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom, —Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest?Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voiceTuned like a seraph’s, deep, flowing, and clear,Was not thy melody, touching and choice,Taught by some angel, who visited here?What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go,Fleet as a vision, without a reply,Just like all other bright treasures below,Charming a moment, to change or to fly?

THE WHITE MOTH

Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white,Beware of the lamp’s dazzling rays!It is not a drop of the sun! but a lightThat shines to allure little rovers by night;Away! there is death in the blaze.O why didst thou come from thy covert of green,The vine, round my window so bright;And pop in to know what was here to be seen,Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen,And hazarding life by the flight?The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pureThat flame would most fatally singe:And nothing thy beautiful wings can insureFrom harm and from pain beyond mending or cure,If caught by their delicate fringe.Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine;And breathe in the fresh evening air;Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine;And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine,My soft little eavesdropper, there!And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know,Why thus I have lifted my armTo scare thee away from thy luminous foe.That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a showTo tempt the unwary to harm.For, I through the day, have been guarded by One,Who, greater and wiser than I,Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shunIllusive temptations, where I might have runThe peril of sporting to die.’T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commendMyself through the darkness of night,That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend,Between thee and evil, thy life to defend;Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.

EDWARD AND CHARLES

The brothers went out with their father to ride,Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side,So lately were blooming and fair;But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped;Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped;And nothing but ruin was there.“Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!”Exclaimed little Charles, “and has choked the bright rillsWith leaves that are faded and dead!The few on the trees are fast losing their hold,And leaving the branches so naked and cold,That the beautiful birds have all fled.”“I know,” replied Edward, “the country has lostA great many charms by the touch of the frost,Which used to appear to the eye;But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too,The walnut released from the case where it grew;And now is our Thanksgiving nigh!“Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?”“I guess,” answered Charles, “we shall all go awayTo Grandpa’s; and there find enoughOf turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens,For Grandpa’ and Grandma’, aunts, uncles and cousins;And at night we ’ll all play blind-man’s-buff.“Perhaps we ’ll get Grandpa’ to tell us some storiesAbout the old times, with their Wigs and their Tories;And what sort of men they could be;When some spread their tables without any cloth,With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-brothWhich they took for their coffee and tea.“They ’d queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma’ say,About in their streets; for, if not every day,At least it was nothing uncommon,To see them pile on the poor back of one horseA saddle and pillion; and what was still worse,Up mounted a man and a woman!“The lady held on by the driver; and so,Away about town at full trot would they go;Or perhaps to a great country marriage —To Thanksgiving-supper – to husking, or ball;Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly allTheir rides, on an animal carriage.“I know not what huskings and quiltings may be;But Grandma’ will tell; and perhaps let us seeSome things, she has, long laid away: —That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist,The hoop, the craped-cushion, and buckles of paste,Which they wore in her grandparents’ day.“She says they had buttons as large as our dollars,To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars:And then, there ’s a droll sort, of hat,Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper,And said she believed ’t was called, three-cornered scraper;Perhaps, too, she ’ll let us see that.“Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knewAt the South, what it is, I guess they ’d have one too;But I have heard somebody say,That, there, they call all the New England folks Bumpkins,Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkinsAnd have our good Thanksgiving-day.”“I think, brother Charles,” returned Edward, “at least,That they might go to church, if they do n’t like the feast;For to me it is much the best part,To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we giveTo Him, on whose bounty we constantly live: —It is feasting the ear and the heart.“From Him, who has brought us another year round,Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned,Their gratitude who can withhold?And now how I wish I could know all the poorTheir Thanksgiving-stores had already secure,Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!”“I ’m glad,” said their father, “to hear such a wish;But wishes alone, can fill nobody’s dish,Or clothe them, or build them a fire.And now I will give you the money, my sons.Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns,To spend in the way you desire.”The brothers went home, thinking o’er by the way,For how many comforts this money might pay,In something for clothing or food:At length they resolved, if their mother would spend itFor what she thought best, they would get her to send itWhere she thought it would do the most good.

MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS

I cannot to the city go,Where all in sound and sight,Declares that nature does not know,Or do a thing aright.To granite wall, and tower, and domeMy heart could never cling;Its simple strings are tied to home —To where the crickets sing.I ’m certain I was never madeTo run a city race,Along a human palisade,That ’s ever shifting place.The bustle, fashion, art and showWere each a weary thing;Amid them, I should sigh to goAnd hear the crickets sing.If there, I might no longer beMyself, as now I seem,But lose my own identity,And walk, as in a dream;Or else, with din and crowd oppressed,I ’d wish for sparrow’s wing.To fly away, and be at rest,Where free the crickets sing.The fire-fly, rising from the grassA winged and living light,I would not give for all the gas,That spoils their city sight.Not all the pomp and etiquetteOf citizen or king,Shall make my rustic heart forgetThe song, the crickets sing.I find in hall and gallery,Their figures tame and faint,To my wild bird, and brook, and tree,Without a touch of paint.And from the sweetest instrumentOf pipe, or key, or string,I ’d turn away, and feel contentTo hear the crickets sing.O! who could paint the placid moon,That ’s beaming through the boughOf yon high elm, or play the tune,That sounds beneath it now?Not all the silver of the mine,Nor human power could bringAnother moon like her to shine,Or make a cricket sing.I know that, when the crickets trillTheir plaintive strains by night,They tell us that, from vale and hill,The summer takes her flight.And were there no renewing Power,’T would be a mournful thing,To think of fading leaf and flower;And hear the crickets sing.But, why should change with sadness dimOur eye, when thought can rangeThrough time and space, and fly to him,Who is without a change?For he, who meted out the year,Will give another spring:He rolls at once the shining sphere,And makes the cricket sing.And when another autumn stripsThe summer leaves away,If cold and silent be the lipsThat breathed and moved to-day,The time I ’ve passed with nature’s GodWill cause no spirit sting,Though I ’ve adored him from the sodWhereon the crickets sing.