Mother's Dream and Other Poems
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CHILDHOOD’S DREAM
Give me back, give me back but my one infant dream,As it passed on the turf by my dear native stream,Where I slept from my play, while the wind tossed my hair,Till its ringlets, unbound, clasped the violets there.O return, fleeting time, the soft moments that flewBy the calm sinking sun, and the fall of the dew,When, refreshing as light, and as dew to the flowerO’er my young spirit came the blest dream of that hour!I remember the song of the bird, and the breezeWith the perfumes it swept from the bloom of the trees,As my eyes gently closed; but the visions that stoleThrough my fancy’s green bowers, come no more to my soul!They were sweet but to pass, as the odors that fledFrom the young flowers I crushed, while they pillowed my head;And like them, when they flew on the wings of the air,They are gone, and have left not a trace to tell where!They were clear as the sun in his mild, setting rays;They were pure as the stars, soon to kindle and blaze;But they ’re gone! I have lost the dear dream of that sleep,As a bright planet drowned in the vast ether deep.Yet the face of my mother, through tears as she smiled,When she found, gently raised, and led home her lost child —I shall see that loved face by time’s stream evermore,Till I follow her home, where life’s dreamings are o’er.THE FRUIT-TREE BLOSSOM
My flower, thou art as sweet to me.Thy form as full and fair —As rich a fruit shall follow thee,As if thou hadst denied the beeThe pure and precious gift, that heWafts joyous through the air.The spices from thy bosom flowAs freely round thee now,As if withheld an hour ago.Bestowing, thou canst still bestow;Though, whence thy gifts thou may’st not know,Or giving, tell me how.And future good, we yet shall find,Was hidden in thy heart;Its witness shall be left behind,When thou like all thy tender kind,Thy minutes summed, shalt be resignedForever to depart.Thy ruin I would not forestall;Yet soon, I know, to theeMust come, what happens once to all: —Thy life will fail, and thou must fall —Must fade and perish, past recall,To vanish from the tree.Then, on the bough where thou wast sentTo pass thy fleeting days,At work for which thine hours were lent,In silent, balmy, mild content,A rich and shining monumentTo thee will nature raise.Now, not in pride – in purpose high,Awhile in beauty shine;And speak, through man’s admiring eye,Forbidding every passer byTo wish to live, or dare to dieWith object less than thine.THE PLYMOUTH APPLE DECLINED
Visiting at the house of a friend in Boston, I was shown an apple which he told me had been sent to him from Plymouth, and was the fruit of a tree that was planted by Peregrine White, the first child born of Pilgrim parents in New England. I praised the apple for its beauty, and the venerable associations connected with it. He wished me to keep it; but, as he had no other of the tree, I declined the gift.
I wanted the apple, when offered to meBy its generous owner, but thought it not rightTo take it, because it had grown on a tree,That sprang from a seed sown by Peregrine White.And he, who thus proffered it, had none beside it;While diffidence checked the words, – “Let us divide it.”Now Peregrine White was the first white, you know,Who drew his first breath in New England – the child,Whose parents were making to bud and to blow,With its earliest blossoms, America’s wild:But he with the fruit never questioned me, whetherWe might partake of the apple together.Though a fabled divinity once had let fallAn apple of gold, where his favorites thronged,Inscribed, “Of the fair, to the fairest of all!”It was not to me this whole apple belonged:My friend was no god – and then I, but a woman;I thought that to halve it were just about human.The whole I declined; still I did not denyA wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart;And from it entire, while averting my eye,I own I was secretly coveting part;And had he divided the offering presented,Preserving one half, I had come off contented.Had Solomon been there to put in a word,His wisdom had brought the debate to an end,Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword,This contest of kindness between friend and friend:Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sightedTo see how I might in a half have delighted.I hope that next autumn he ’ll go where it grew,And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he ’ll reachAnd pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two,And tell me at once that a half is for each.Of friendship’s best gift how the worth may be lightenedBy having it whole, when, if shared, how ’t were heightened!THE HALF APPLE
A year after the foregoing poem was written, a nice little casket was sent me, at the distance of thirty-five miles, which, on opening, I found to contain the half of an apple like the one I had seen the previous autumn.
The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair,Which shows by division such soundness of heart,I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the careAnd kindness of him, who retains t ’other part.The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight,The seed taking out to lay cautiously by,Because it encloses, concealed from my sight,An emblem of that, which in us cannot die.Its elements, when ’t is laid low in the earth,If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom;As man’s deathless soul seeks the world of its birth,When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb.The little memento I ’ll hide in the ground,For Nature, its mother, to tenderly rear;And bright be its blossoms – its fruit fair and sound,When I and the giver no more shall be here!For, when I depart, and some good, living deedWould fain leave behind, in remembrance of me,At least, be it said that I planted a seed,That others might gather the fruit from the tree!THE HORTICULTURIST’S TABLE-HYMN
From him, who was lord of the fruits and the flowers,That in Paradise grew, ere he lost its possession —Who breathed in the balm, and reposed in the bowersOf our garden ancestral, we claim our profession.And fruits rich and brightBless our taste and our sightAs e’er gave our father in Eden delight:Our fount clear as that, which he drank from, here flows;Where green grows the myrtle, and blushing the rose.While some sit in clouds but to murmur, or grieveThat earth has her wormwood, her pitfalls, and brambles;We smile, and go forth her rich gifts to receive,Where the boughs drop their purple and gold on our rambles.Untiring and free,As we work, like the bee,We bear off a sweet from each plant, shrub, and tree:Where some gather thorns but to torture the flesh,Ripe clusters we pluck, and our spirits refresh.Yet, not to self only, we draw from the soilThe treasures that Heaven in its vitals hath hidden;For thus to lock up the fair fruits of our toilWere bliss half possessed, and a sin all forbidden.Like morning’s first ray,When it spreads into day,Our hearts must flow out, until self melts away!Our joys, in the bosoms around us when sown,Spring up and bloom out, throwing sweets to our own.And this makes the world all a garden to us,Where He, who has walled it, his glory is shedding:His smile is its sun; and beholding it thus,We gratefully feast, while his bounty is spreading.Our spirits grow brightAs they bathe in his light,That beams on the board where in joy we unite:And the sparks, which we take to enkindle our mirth,Are blessings from heaven showering down on the earth.And now that we meet, and the chain is of flowers,Which binds us together, may sadness ne’er blight them,Till those, who must break from a compact like ours,Ascend where the ties of the blest reunite them!May each, who is here,At the banquet appear,Where Life fills the wine-cup, and Love makes it clear;And Gilead’s balm in its freshness shall flowOn the wounds, which the pruning-knife gave us below!THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
Thou mournful bird, when shadows fellAt yester-eve on hill and dell,I heard thee of thy sorrows tell;And, as the dews distil,Again, amid this twilight gray,I hear thee pour thy solemn lay,With only one sad thing to say,Still crying, “Whip-poor-will.”O who has grieved thee, gentle bird,That now thy vesper note is heardAnd with thy melting, triple wordThus dropping from thy bill?How could they rudely whip at thee,To scare thee from thy native tree,And send thee moaning back to meRepeating, “Whip-poor-will?”And wherefore did they whip thee so,To give thy voice this sound of wo,Which comes so plaintively to showThat they have used thee ill?Didst thou go through the woods alone,Where brambly snares had thickly grownWhen thou wast taught thy piteous toneAnd story, “Whip-poor-will?”There have they made thee all the dayIn silence hide thyself away,To lose the light, the flash, the playOf sun, and fount, and rill?And didst thou now steal out, afraidOf midnight in the coppice shade,That here thy tender plaint is madeAgain, sad Whip-poor-will?The trembling stars and lunar gleam,That fitful in the thicket beam,Perhaps would make poor Willie dreamHis foes were round him still.And in the copse-wood, dark and deep,A waving flower, or leaflet’s sweepMight startle thee, in troubled sleepTo murmur, “Whip-poor-will!”My bird, there ’s mystery in thy strain —A power I might resist in vain,With mournful joy – with pleasing painMy inmost soul to thrill.’T is memory stirs to wet my eyeBy waking shades of days gone by,When first, a child, I heard the crySo solemn, “Whip-poor-will.”I call thee bird, yet thou may’st beA spirit! for I cannot see —I ne’er could catch a glimpse of thee;And undiscovered stillThe vision form, that might appear,Wert thou to sight revealed as clear,As is thy presence to mine ear,Mysterious Whip-poor-will.THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD
Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one!Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun;For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,At height’ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,Will give it a blush that no other can raise;Thy fine silken petals they ’ll softly unfold,And fill their pure centre with spices and gold.I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is brightWith feasting on breezes, and drinking the light.Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out,And see what the glad, golden sun is about:His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impartA grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.TO L. A. E. ON HER WEDDING-DAY
That I will “be near” on thy “bridal day” —Be with thee before we are ten hours older,This hasty messenger comes to say,And bringing its witness, – a pearly folder.And this, perhaps, as a pointed sign,By the light upon Hymen’s altar burning,May signify, to a heart like thine,“What a leaf to-day in thy life is turning!”May the lines for thy future reading there,With no sad characters dark or frowning,In every letter be bright and fair,To thee and to him thou to-day art crowning.Accept the token, and let it prove,As long as thou hence shalt remain its owner,When thou must be at a far removeFrom her, memorial of the donor.Thou ’lt see engraved on its handle-part,The form of a pen, with its top of feather —A type of the wings that heart and heartMay find, when absent, to fly together.I send thee an opening, thornless rose,Harmless and soft as the peaceful turtle;With an emerald sprig from a branch that growsOn the single stalk of my true green myrtle.I bound them about with a silver thread;But, ere thy hand is the cord untwining,The rose will have drooped, or its leaves be shed,While the myrtle still is freshly shining.But I will “be near” in thy bridal hour,This, “Wednesday, evening, at half past seven,”And give at the nuptials my holier dower, —A prayer for a smile on them from Heaven.TO MRS. H. F. L
To think of thee, my Hannah —To sit and think of thee,Is to my heart like manna,Or balsam from the tree.For, first, its tendrils feeding,It gives them strength to cling;And then, if pained or bleeding,It soothes the wound or sting.To thine, a fount of feelingThe warmest and the best,’T is sweet to seem revealingThe secrets of my breast.Of half its care and trouble,My bosom, thus beguiled,Feels every joy is double,When on it thou hast smiled.’T is dark and stormy weather —Our first October day;But we are here together,Though thou art far away.For still I feel thee near me —I see thy soft black eye —I fancy thou canst hear me,And I thy sweet reply.And yet, my friend, my dearest,This moment, where art thou?What envied eye is nearest,To look upon thee now?Is thine own Hannah present,In spirit, still with thee?And dost thou find it pleasantTo feel alone with me?Then we are never parted!Nor distance, place, nor scene,The whole and faithful-heartedShall ever come between.And when earth’s changeful weather,Its joys and sorrows cease,O may we dwell togetherIn deathless love and peace!MUSIC
Music? A blessed angel! She was bornWithin the palace of the King of kings —A favorite near his throne. In that glad childOf Love and Joy, he made their spirits one;And her, the heir to everlasting life!When his bright hosts would give him highest praise,They send her forward with her dulcet voice,To pour their holy rapture in his ear.When the young earth to being started forth,Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven.A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushedWith living waters; and the sparkling cupFor her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink.While o’er her brow a tender halo shone,Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclinedUpon a flowery pillow. At her ear,The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lipsThe gentle air strewed spices, wooing them.Dropped o’er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lidVeiled the deep inspiration of her eye;But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went,At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast,And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep,With one fair hand thrown o’er its silent strings,Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre,To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamedOf the sweet uses she might make of itTo numbers yet untried.When, suddenly,A shout of joy from all the sons of God,Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call,“Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us,A new-created sphere!”She woke! She rose —She moved among the morning stars, and gaveThe birth-song of a world.Our infant globe,With life’s first pulse, rolled in its ether bed,Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon,Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays:Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touchedIts beauty then. No stain of guilt was here,And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade,Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower.As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven,Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained,Music, from her celestial walks looked down,And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills,Sing through the silent forests – in the vales —Beside the silver waters pour her sounds;And multiply her numbers by the rocks!She longed to give it voice to speak to God;And, being told of her blest ministry,Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wingsDripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised,And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight.Made viewless by the circumambient air,And scattering voices to its feathered tribes,As down she hastened to the shining sphere,The happy angel reached the beauteous earth.At her electric touch, young nature smiled,And kindled into rapture; then broke forthWith thousand, thousand songs.The green turf woke;The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore,The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower.Osier and reed became Eolian lyres.Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dellSang to each other in a joyous round.Man, that mysterious instrument of God,When the warm soul of new-descended powerBreathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice,Chanting, “Jehovah!”Since that blessed hour,While still her home is heaven, Music has ne’erThis darkened world forsaken. She delights,Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace,To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart;And lends her wings to waft it to the skies.She throws a lustre o’er Devotion’s face —Drinks off the tear from Sorrow’s languid eye —Tames wild Despair – brings Hope a brighter bloom —Lulls Hate to rest – Love’s ruffled bosom smooths;Pours honey into many a bitter cup;And often gives the black and heavy hourA downy breast and pinions tipped with light.She steals all balmy through the prisoner’s grates,Making that sad one half forget their use.With holy spell she binds the exile’s heart,And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds.Kings are her lovers – cottagers her loves:The hero and the pilgrim walk with her.Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy,And from the pillow of the dying saint,When a glad spirit borrows her light wingsTo practise for the skies, ere it unfoldsIts own, and breaks its tenure to the clay.True, by man’s wanderings for his tempter’s lure,Music is often drawn to scenes unmeetFor purity like hers; and made to bearUnhallowed burdens; or, to join in ritesTo turpitude in fellest places held.Yet, like the sun, whose beaming vesture, trailedO’er all things staining, still defies a stain;And is at night withdrawn, and girded up,Warm and untarnished for the morning skies —She comes unsullied from her baser walks,Sighs at the darkness, guilt and wo of earth;Breathes Zion’s air, and, warmed with heavenly fire,Mounts to her glorious home!’T was she, who boreThe first grand offering of the free, on high,When to the shore, through Egypt’s solemn sea,The franchised Hebrews passed with feet dry-shod,And pæans gave to their Deliverer there.She cheered the wanderers on; and when they crossedOver old Jordan, to the strong-armed foe,Still she was with them; and her single breathLaid the proud Painim’s city-walls in dust!In native light, she walked Judea’s hills,And sipped the dew of Hermon from its flowerBefore the Sun of righteousness arose.The Prophet chose her to unseal his lips,Ere God spake through them; and the Prophetess,To lift the heart’s pure gift from her’s to Heaven.When Israel’s king was troubled, her soft handPut close, but gently, to his gloomy breast,Reached the dark spirit there, and laid it still,Bound by the chords a shepherd minstrel swept.And since, her countless thousands she has broughtTo heaven’s mild kingdom, happy captives led,By those sweet glowing strings of David’s lyre.But oh! her richest, dearest notes to man,In strains aerial over Bethlehem poured,When He, whose brightness is the light of heaven,To earth descending for a mortal’s form,Laid by his glory, save one radiant mark,That moved through space, and o’er the infant hung,He summoned Music to attend him here,Announcing peace below!He called her, too,To sweeten that sad supper, and to twineHer mantle round him, and his few, grieved friendsTo join their mournful spirits with the hymn,Ere to the Mount of Olives he went outSo sorrowful.And now, his blessed word,A sacred pledge, is left to dying man,Then at his second coming in his power,Music shall still be with him; and her voiceSound through the tombs and wake the dead to life!1
A robin had, this spring, been seen taking materials from an old nest on an apple-tree near the door, and carrying them to the corner of the house, where she built on the top of the water-conductor, and close under the eaves, so near my father’s chamber, that, when her brood had peeped, if the window was opened, their voices could be heard in the room, while she was feeding them.
2
His birth-place.
3
This piece originally illustrated an engraving.