TO MY DEAR AND BELOVED FRIEND,
Oh dearest, could my feeble pen
Express the feelings of my heart,
Or give to verse the soothing charm
Thy presence ever doth impart,
Then would I touch the trembling chord,
And pour forth the full tide of song,
Thine ear should catch the swelling strain
As the sweet numbers roll along.
But my weak lyre in vain essays
To touch the notes to friendship dear;
Trembling it shrinks; the feeble lay
Responds alone to sorrow's tear.
Oh, I would paint in glowing verse
Thy gentle, tender, faithful love
For the dear objects of my care-
Those fair young angels now above.
Oft hast thou watched the germs of thought,
And seen the swelling buds expand,
Inhaled the fragrance of the flowers,
When blooming 'neath my fostering hand.
And thou hast marked the swift decay,
The blight of all my dearest hopes,
And wept to see them fade away,
My fairest, dearest earthly props.
And when my mourning soul looked up
To find some resting place from grief,
Thy gentle voice has led my heart
To the true source of sweet relief.
There, in yon blissful realms of light,
In spotless purity they stand,
Before their Lord and Saviour's throne,
Behold! my fair young angel band.
Their sacred lyres are tuned to sing
The praises of redeeming love;
Their full rich tones melodious join
The saint and seraph choir above.
Oh, dearest, may this mourning heart
E'er hope to join that youthful band
Of angels, in those regions bright,
The pure, the blessed spirit land?
The following stanzas were suggested by reflecting on the early development of Margaret's genius. She was but two years old when Lucretia died, who often, during the last year of her life, asserted that Margaret must and would be a poet. Her words seemed prophetic; the babe commenced writing between the age of six and seven years.
But, as she sought her mansion in the sky,
She turned to view, with pity in her eye,
Her much lov'd home, now desolate and lone;-
Not a faint ray of light around it shone!
She dropped the mantle from her graceful form,
And tow'rd her infant sister it was borne;
The babe, with rapture, seized the bright bequest,
And all the fire of fancy warmed her breast!
With eager haste she touched the sounding lyre,
And filled each chord "with wild poetic fire."
The wondering muses gazed upon the child
As the full tide of song rose clear and wild;
Then claimed the babe, inspired, pure, bright, and fair,
As the dear object of their future care!
ON THE VANITY OF WORLDLY PLEASURE.
Tell me, weak votary of pleasure,
With haggard eye and pallid cheek,
Tell me the value of the treasure
Which so earnestly you seek.
Can your enjoyments purchase peace?
Or sweet content impart?
Avert the shaft of fell disease?
Or heal a wounded heart?
Each finer feeling of the mind
Is blunted by their power;
And, lost to virtue, you resign
Your peace in folly's hour!
Does not the canker of remorse
Prey on thy wasted frame?
Wither thy fleeting, transient joys
With never ceasing shame?
Come view the path to virtue dear!
Her steps will lead to peace;
No stings of conscience ravage here,
Her joys can never cease!
Should sorrow blight your dearest hopes,
Each fancied bliss destroy,
Virtue is an unfailing prop
The sinking soul to buoy.
In the last hour of mortal strife,
When earth recedes from view,
How happy to retrace a life
To every virtue true!
This sweet reflection sheds a ray
Of brightness o'er the mind,
Which lights it to eternal day,
And pleasures all refined!
How long will ye afflict my soul:
And break my mourning heart in twain,
Your words, like raging torrents roll,
And add new torture to my pain:
If I have erred, the sin is mine,
My errors rest on me alone;
Why thus assume the power divine
To judge the faults which I bemoan?
Why with such cruelty reproach.
Thy friend, bowed down with grief and pain? Oh! rather light the cheering torch
Of hope within my breast again!
Know ye, that 'tis the hand of God
Has overthrown my strength and power?
And while I wither 'neath His rod,
Should you these bitter curses shower?
Why heap on this devoted head
Such cold contempt, and foul reproach?
The path of anguish which I tread
Methinks should your compassion touch.
For He hath stripped me of my pride,
My strength, my glory, my renown,
My wealth and grandeur laid aside,
And reft me of my brilliant crown.
He hath consumed my fairest hopes,
Wither'd my dearest, sweetest joys,
And, like the stately, blasted oak,
My spreading branches he destroys!
My friends, who shared my social board,
And feasted in my splendid hall,
Around me their reproaches pour,
And triumph in my mournful fall:
Their eyes glance coldly on my face,
They scarcely know my altered voice,
I walk a stranger in this place,
The scene of all my former joys:
I call my servants, but receive
No answer to my urgent call;
No sympathy relieves my woe,
'Tis scornful silence with them all!
My wife, who pledged to me her truth,
Her duty, and her fervent love,
And in the happy days of youth
Each care to lighten, daily strove;
Now views with cold, suspicious eye
My alter'd, wan, and wasted form:
I feel my heart within me die,—
Naught to my woe imparts a charm!
Each friend I love, with horror turns
And views me with unfeign'd disgust;
My flesh with raging fever burns,
My mouth is parched with constant thirst.
Oh! let soft pity touch your heart!
'Tis God who deals the heavy blow,
Beneath his chastening hand I smart,
His power hath laid my grandeur low!
|