Lydia Huntley Sigourney

“ And early hoary, seeks the voiceless tomb,
Its lessons still unlearn'd; nor lose thyself
In the entangling lore of many lands,
Until thy mother tongue seem strange to thee.
Much knowledge is much toil, and hath no end.
But come thou forth, amid the breeze-swept trees,
And learn their language. Ask the peaceful vales,
Where roam the herds, or where the reaper plies
His busy sickle—ask the solemn sea,
With all its foaming wilderness of waves,
To spread its mighty volume out for thee,
And search thou there, on every fearful page,
Jehovah's name. ”

“ Rear'd its light dome among them, and the voice
Of a devoted shepherd, day by day,
Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering fold
Of a Redeemer's righteousness.
And then
Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand
Close clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forth
The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes
Which in the darkness and the shade of death
Benighted dwell.
Strong ties detain'd thee here:
Home—father—sightless mother—sister dear—
Brothers and tender friends—a full array
Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee,
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self? ”

“ Her heart went wandering to her loved one's grave,
Marking in every bud that blossom'd there,
In every joyous butterfly that spread
Its radiant wing amid the flowers, a type
Of glorious resurrection. Every drop
Of dew that sparkled on the turf-clad mound
Seem'd holy to her. Even the bitter grief
That made the parting hour so desolate,
Put on the robe of humble faith, and said,
"'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little one
That dwells with thee." ”

“ In this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear
The "Dust to dust," that turns the cheek so pale
Of mourning love. Till the green turf is laid,
The last sad office of affection o'er,
I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, I'll wait
Till every lingerer hasteth to his home,
And then I'll breathe a prayer beside thy bed,
Thou, who so oft hast pour'd thy prayer with me.
I'll be the last to leave thee. O, be first
To welcome me above, if, through the trust
In my Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust. ”

“ She dwelt, whose hallow'd welcome was so dear;
O Mother, Mother! all thy priceless love
Is fresh before me, as of yesterday.
Thy pleasant smile, the beauty of thy brow,
Thine idol fondness for thine only one,
The untold tenderness with which thy heart
Embraced my firstborn infant, when my joys,
Swelling to their full climax, bore it on,
With its young look of wonder, to thy home,
A stranger visitant. Fade, visions, fade! ”

“ Is launch'd so lonely on this tossing sea
Of time and change; and mid thy future course,
If here, in our dark clime, thy years unfold,
Bind her fair image to thy loving heart,
My little one, and let thy father hear
From thy young lips the same rejoicing words
Of piety and peace, which thrill'd his heart
With grateful prayer when at his fireside sat
The chosen idol of his early love. ”

“ Shot o'er the river-tide, and then the wheel,
Careful yet tedious, mark'd the well-known track
O'er hill and valley. Patiently she bore
The weary travel, and when sunset brought
The well-remember'd haunt, upraised her head,
And with a tremulous and tender tone
Hail'd each familiar object. It would seem
As if, indulgent to her fond request,
Death waited for her. Though the thread-like pulse
Stirr'd not the ivory arm, and the poor heart
Scarce forced the life-tide oozing drop by drop,
Yet still Death waited for her. ”

“ Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.
Hark! from sky-piercing Himmaleh, to where
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,
From the scath'd pine-tree near the red-man's hut,
To where the everlasting banian builds
Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail
For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch,
The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall,
Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant
And ritual of the muse: who found the link
That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,
And made that link a melody. ”

“ Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her charms,
Or of her aspen gracefulness of form
Spoke slightingly. Yet when they saw the fields
Her father till'd, well clad with ripening grain,
And knew he had no other heir beside,
They with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes,
And huge red nosegays flaunting in their hands,
Were fain to woo her. And they marvell'd much
How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air
Of mild indifference, and with truthful words
Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself
To chosen solitude, intent to keep
A maiden's freedom. ”

“ Casts a lone shadow o'er the sacred spot
Where sleeps the white-hair'd shepherd mid his flock,
The loved of God and man. The statesman's head,
With all its gather'd mass of curious lore,
Lock'd up in marble; and the soldier's arm,
Strong for his country in her hour of need,
Are here, too, 'neath the turf. And there, amid
The lawns and gardens which their hands had dress'd,
The ancient fathers, with their numerous race,
Securely dwelt. ”

“ And through the dark gorge makes a double plunge
Abruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock,
And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foam
All exquisitely blent, while deafening sound
Of torrents battling with their ruffian foes
Fill'd the admiring gaze with awe, and wrought
A dim forgetfulness of all beside.
Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan home,
Whose music thrill'd my heart when life was new,
Wordsworth! with wild enchantment circled round,
In love with Nature's self, and she with thee. ”

“ Their lodges to build and their nurslings rear.
The Indian fig, with its arching screen,
Welcomes them in to its vistas green,
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree
Thrill at the burst of their melody,
And the bulbul starts, mid his carol clear,
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear.
O wild-wood wanderers! how far away
From your rural homes in our vales ye stray.
But when they are waked by the touch of Spring,
Shall we see you again with your glancing wing?
Your nests mid our household trees to raise,
And stir our hearts in our Maker's praise? ”

“ Most reverend owl! Utility bears rule,
And the shrewd spirit of a busy age
Dotes not on things antique, nor pays respect
To hoary hairs, but counts it loss of time
To honour whatsoever fails to yield
A fat per centage. Yet thou'rt not ashamed
To live a gentleman, nor bronze thy claw
With manual labour, stupidly content
To be a burden on community.
—Meantime, the worthy and hard-working goose
Hath rear'd us goslings, fed us with her flesh,
Lull'd us to sleep upon her softest down,
And with her quills maintain'd the lover's lore,
And saved the tinsel of the poet's brain. ”

“ THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES.
"The retiring of the mind into itself is the state most susceptible of divine impressions."—Lord Bacon.
How beautiful you are, green trees! green trees!
How nobly beautiful! Fain would I rest
'Neath the broad shadow of your mantling arms,
And lose the world's unquiet imagery
In the soft mist of dreams. Your curtaining veil
Shuts out the revelry and toil, that chafe
The city's denizens. Man wars with man,
And brethren forage on each other's hearts,
Throwing their life-blood in that crucible
Which brings forth gold. ”

“ Yet, 'neath the settled countenance of guile,
They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire,
And wore the semblance of a quiet smile,
To lull the victim of their deadly ire:
But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen,
Blame not too much those erring, red-brow'd men,
Though nursed in wiles. Fear is the white-lipp'd sire
Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain
To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain. ”

“ The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower,
Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain;
While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power,
With merry music wake the village plain,
And toil comes forth refresh'd, and age is young again.
The outgoings of mild eve! the folded rose;
Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell;
The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose,
While restless winds no more its murmurs swell;
The stars emerging from their secret cell,
A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep ”

“ To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir,
To the sad sire, who fondly dreams of her;
But kindling smiles recall the thoughts that roam,
For at her side a bright-hair'd nursling plays,
While bends her bosom's lord, with fond, delighted gaze.
XL.
And this is woman's world. It matters not
Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell,
Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot,
Or in the subterranean Greenland cell,
Her world is in the heart. ”

“ For Pocahontas, his dearest jewel and daughter, came through the irksome woods in that dark night, and told us that great cheer might be sent us by-and-by, but that the king, and all the power he could make, would afterwards come and kill us all. Therefore, if we would live, she wished us presently to be gone. Such things as she delighted in we would have given her; but, with tears running down her cheeks, she said she durst not be seen to have them; for, if Powhatan should know it, she were but dead. And so she ran away by herself, as she came."—Captain Smith. ”

“ Art thou a mouth for the immortal mind?
A voice that shall be heard when ages sleep
In cold oblivion? when the rich man's pomp,
And all the ambitious strivings of the crowd
Shall be forgotten? Art thou well convinced
That such a gift is thine?
Bow thee to dust,
And take this honour from the hand of God
In deep humility, worm as thou art,
And all unworthy. Ask for naught beside,
Though worldlings scorn thy lot.
Prosperity,
Such as earth names, what are its gauds to thee? ”

“ While their arrows of frost flew thick, and chill'd
The hardiest seaman's blood.
But there fell a gleam of the light above,
That with Mercy's angel dwells,
And aided the labouring bark to foil
The King of the Iceberg's spells:
For this, by many a hearth-stone bright,
A strain of praise shall be,
To him who guides the wanderer home,
And rules the boisterous sea. ”

“ FOLLY.
"The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God."
Psalm xiv.
"No God! no God!" The simplest flower
That on the wild is found,
Shrinks as it drinks its cup of dew,
And trembles at the sound.
"No God!" astonished echo cries
From out her cavern hoar,
And every wandering bird that flies
Reproves the atheist-lore. ”

“ And little dancing feet, and outstretch'd hands
Grasping the parents' skirts: it was a group
That artist's pencil never yet hath sketch'd
In all its plenitude.
And when I saw
The brightness of the tear of joy, I felt
How poor the pomp of princes, and the dross
Of beaten gold, compared with that dear wealth—
Home, and its gratulations, and the ties
Which Heaven hath twisted round congenial souls,
To draw them to itself. ”

“ O ye who feel the poison-fumes
Of earth's fermenting care
Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim
What Heaven created fair,
Should languid piety decline
Within your erring breast,
Or baleful passion's scorpion-sting
Bereave your soul of rest,
Ask music from a guileless heart,
High tones, with sweetness fraught,
And, by that alchymy divine,
Subdue the sinful thought. ”

“ She meekly bow'd her heart, to learn a Saviour's will.
XXX.
And holy was the voice that taught her ear
How for our sins the Lord of life was slain;
While o'er the listener's bosom flow'd the tear
Of wondering gratitude, like spring-tide rain.
New joys burst forth, and high resolves were born
To choose the narrow path that worldlings scorn,
And walk therein. Oh, happy who shall gain
From the brief cloud that in his path may lie
A heritage sublime, a mansion in the sky. ”

“ The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch
The springs of every nature. The high lore
Of Heaven he humbled to the simplest child,
And in the guise of parable allured
The sluggish mind to follow truth and live. ”

“ When first eternity's dread shore spread out in pomp sublime?
Wo, wo was with the living heart! In many a smitten home,
Where, in the garniture of grief, the weeping inmates come,
Round many a lonely hearth-stone shall Memory's touch restore
The image of the loved and lost, who must return no more. ”

“ Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew;
The group of dear ones gathering round thy board—
She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved—
The daughter, sweet companion—sons mature,
And favourite grandchild, with his treasured phrase—
The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locks
And ample brow fell fitfully, and touch'd
Thy lifted eye with earnestness of thought,
Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fade
Till death shall darken all material things. ”

“ Joy'd at another's joy, or mourn'd for other's wo.
Hast thou embraced them there,
Thy kindred, tenants of yon world of bliss?
Oh say, do angels share
The sympathies so sweetly sown in this?
The nurtured 'neath one roof, one native sky,
Meet they with changeless love where every tear is dry? ”

“ His sister's eye with tears was dim:
She said, "I'll plant that tree for him."
"Its roots are deep," the mother said;
"Beyond the darkling grave they spread:"
"Thy hand is weak," the father cried;
"Too young thou art to be a bride." ”

“ To wake the grateful tear,
For deeds like these more precious grow
With every waning year.
I cannot think that bitter grief
Would please thy happy soul,
Raised as thou art to that bless'd world
Where tempests never roll ”

“ Who meekly kneel, at morning ray,
The incense of their vows to pay,
Or pour, amid their evening train,
From love's full heart, the incense-strain,
What know they of her anguish'd cry
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye? ”