Lydia Huntley Sigourney

“ Whose fearless voice for truth and virtue strove,
Whose stainless life, and death serene, have taught
The Christian world to wonder and to love,—
Come forth, with Plato, to thy hallow'd grove
And bring that golden chain by Time unriven,
Which round this pendent universe ye wove,
For still our homage to your lore is given,
And your pure wisdom priz'd, next to the page of Heaven.
Still gathering round, high shades of glorious birth
Do throng the scene. Hath aught disturb'd their rest?
Why brings Philosophy her idols forth
With pensive brow, in solemn silence drest? ”

“ When the clime of his birth like a maniac rushed,
And the blood of kings from its fountain gushed,
He had stood at his post the same.
By Memory's chart he sought
For dell, and rock, and stream,
But a spell of magic had fallen around,
And cities arose where the forest frowned,
And the far, lone lake, with masts was crowned,
Like the change of a fairy dream.
The exulting pulse beat high,
In the heart of this western zone,
His home was the breast of the free and brave,
No sceptred king, with the world his slave,
E'er sate on such a throne. ”

“ Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd,
How awful such a rush from time must be.
Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her
The idol of thy tenderness, with whom
Life had been one long scene of changeless love.
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger
In sleepless agony, that bore her hence,—
And when the eye did darken, from whose beams
Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy,
Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God,
Bowing thy spirit to His righteous will. ”

“ Seek ye a boon of us,—the nameless, the unknown?
We, who have blest you with our lisping tongue,
And to your baptism bow'd when life was new,
And when upon our mother's breast we hung
Your flowing nectar with our life-stream drew,
Who dipp'd our young feet in Castalian dew,
And pois'd with tiny arm that lance and shield,
Before whose might the boastful Persian flew,
We, who Ulysses trac'd o'er flood and field,
What can ye ask of us, we would not joy to yield? ”

“ They are as strangers. And those little trees
My mother nurtur'd in the garden bound,
Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach
Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer sure
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day."
—"What, ho!—my little girl," and with light step
A fairy creature hasted toward her sire,
And setting down the basket that contain'd
His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face
With sweet, confiding smile.
"See, dearest, see,
That bright-wing'd paresquet, and hear the song
Of yon gay red-bird, echoing thro' the trees,
Making rich music. ”

“ Forgetful of youth's pleasures? Did some voice
Prophetic warn her of that hasting clime
Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor
To need a garment? Felt she that her step
Was near that threshhold where the weary rest?
—We may not say what light was in her soul,—
For that Blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind
Was her close counsellor, and night and day
She woo'd its wisdom with a childlike love,
'Till the wild gladness of her nature took
A deeper and a holier tint, like one
Who girds his Sabbath-mantle meekly on,
To tread God's courts. ”

“ I should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, a spot sacred to silence, or to the soft-breathed song, but the cypress and willow declared it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble, lay a sheet, and the outline of a human form, was plainly visible beneath its folds. It was reverently turned back, and displayed the statue of the Queen of Prussia. It is said to be a perfect resemblance,—not as in death,—but when she lived, to bless and to be blessed. She seems scarcely to sleep; the mind and heart are on her sweet lips. ”

“ The sapling, ere kind Nature's hand could weave
Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm,
Coiling itself amid our garden-plants,
Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.
And well I knew how wild and wrecking winds
Might take the forest-monarchs by the crown,
And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;
And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,
Might, in one hour, such revolution work,
As all Earth's boasted power could never hope
To re-instate. ”

“ Love, with warmth that ever glows,
Speaketh through our lips of rose,
Friendship, to our dewy sighs
Trusts her hoarded memories,
Gratitude, with Penury pale,
Hasting to our native vale,
Bade us fervent, for their sake,
Plead, and no denial take,
Come back to us.
Tardy Spring hath held us long,
From thy bowers of light and song,
Now on vine, and shrub, and tree,
See! we bloom to welcome thee,
For thy tasteful eye we pine,
Wilt thou teach us where to twine? ”

“ In all earth's change the counsels of the skies?
None, who close wrapped in panoply divine,
Show their faith's value in this hour of need?
Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step
Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,
And do his holy will. Amid the haunts
Of poverty and pain, with angel-step
Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field
Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,
As one who soon may leave it. ”

“ With strange foreboding, till he seemed a speck
Upon the ebon bosom of the cloud.
And I remembered that he once had said,
"I fear I shall not see my home again:"
And sad the memory of those mournful words,
Dwelt with me, as he passed above my sight
Into thick darkness.
The wild blast swept on,
The strong ship tossed.
Shuddering, I heard a plunge
A heavy plunge—a gurgling 'mid the wave.
I shouted to the crew. In vain! In vain! ”

“ Liberty as a God. There, 'neath the shade
Of the Collisseum vaulting up to Heaven,
The time-spar'd arch, the mighty Basilic,
Palace, and pantheon, and monument,
Where throng a wondering world in pilgrimage,
They bow no knee to Cesar, but compel
The kingly Tiber to pronounce the name
Of their own Washington. Sublime they pour
Warm Memory's incense to their Country's Sire,
He, who in pliant infancy was train'd
By Spartan nurture first to rule himself,
And then a young, embattled host to lead
Through toil and terror, to a glorious seat
Among the nations. ”

“ And thro' their long fringe, as it rose from its sleep,
Its eyes beam'd a rapturous ray,
And I wonder'd that silence should settle so deep
O'er the home of a being so gay.
"Is it well with the child?" And she said, "It is well."
It hath tasted of sickness and pain,
Of the pang and the groan, and the gasp it might tell,
It never will suffer again.
In my dreams, as an angel, it stands by my side,
In the garments of glory and love ”

“ Dr. Hawes.
Man asketh homage. When his foot doth stand
On earth's high places, he exacteth fear
From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves
The quick observance of an abject eye
And cowering brow. His dignity he deems,
Demands such aliment,—and he doth show
Its evanescence, by the food he seeks
To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this—
He o'er his brother rules, with scourge and chain,
Treading out Nature's charities, till life
To madness tortur'd, or in misery crush'd,
Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God. ”

“ Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears
On thine unending volume.
Every leaf
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism.—Lo!—yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. ”

“ If Fancy, she who bids young Thought, its freshest incense bring,
By stern reality rebuk'd, should fold her stricken wing,
There is a brighter, broader realm than she hath yet reveal'd,
From flesh-girt man's exploring eye, and anxious ear conceal'd.
Earth is Death's palace: to his court he summons great and small,
The crown'd, the homeless and the slave, are but his minions all;
We turn us shrinking from the truth, the close pursuit we fly,
But faultering on the grave's dark brink, do lay us down and die. ”

“ Wilt thou be weary, tho' long years should ask
The patient offices of love to gird
A broken mind?
Turn back the book of life
To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there?
Lines from a Mother's pencil. When her scroll
Of life is finish'd and the hand of Death
Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break,
What should its last trace be? ”

“ DEATH OF AN AGED MAN.
Rise, weary spirit, to a realm of rest!
Sorrow hath had her will of thee, and Pain,
With a destroyer's fury prob'd thy breast,
But thou, the victory through Christ didst gain;
Rise, freed from stain.
Years wrote their history on thy furrow'd brow
In withering lines; and Time like ocean's foam
Swept o'er the shores of hope, till thou didst know
Earth's emptiness. ”

“ The perfect meekness of that child-like soul,
Turning 'mid sorrow's chastening to its God,
And loosening every link of earthly hope,
To gird an angel's glorious garments on.
The younger lingered yet a little while,
Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve
Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop;
Yet still in timid tenderness embraced
The Rock of Ages—while the Saviour's voice
Confirmed its trust: "Suffer the little ones
To come to me." ”

“ Neighbor on neighbor gaz'd, and friend on friend,
Yet few saluted; for the sense of loss
Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Even the dirge
Breath'd tremulous—for holy music moan'd
A smitten worshipper. Grave, aged men
Bow'd down their reverend heads in wondering woe,
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile
And step elastic of life's morning prime,
Should fall before them. ”

“ To whom this earth could render nothing back
Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. The old house dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreprov'd. He for his master mourn'd,
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fire-side hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet, and round his bed
Of death had watch'd, with wondering, wishful eye,
In fear and sympathy? No! ”

“ Winds! what have ye gather'd from Afric's strand,
As ye swept the breadth of that fragrant land?
The breath of the spice-bud, the rich perfume
Of balm and of gum and of flowret's bloom?
"We have gather'd nought, save a pagan prayer,
And the stifling sigh of the heart's despair." ”

“ This earth is poor without them. But a view
Of better climes broke on thee, and thy soul
Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing
Of seraph rapture: for to reach a home
Where is no restless hope, no vain desire,
No film o'er faith's bright eye, for love no blight,
Is glorious gain: and lo! that home is thine. ”

“ THE TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.
"A Josephine, [1] —Eugene et Hortense."—1825.
Empress of Earth's most polish'd clime!
Whose path of splendid care
Did touch the zenith-point of hope,
The nadir of despair,—
Here doth thy wrong'd, confiding heart
Resign its tortur'd thrill,
And slumber like the peasant's dust,
All unconcern'd and still? ”

“ The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice
And Beauty's smile his fluttering pulses woke.
To Love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle-wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged Wealth indulg'd him,—till the world
Pronounc'd him happy. Manhood's vigorous prime
Swell'd to its climax, and his busy days
And restless nights swept like a tide away. ”

“ THE GARDEN.
"Gardens have been the scenes of the three most stupendous events that have occurred on earth:—the temptation and fall of man—the agony of the Son of God—and his resurrection from the grave"
Notes of the American Editor of "Kebb's Christian Year."
Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound,
Peopled with plants and every living leaf
Instinct with thought, to stir the musing mind? ”

“ From Scythia's wilds, the Sage to Athens came,
In search of wisdom, not allur'd by fame,
But there, his uncouth mien provok'd the proud,
And mov'd the laughter of a thoughtless crowd,
Who saw not through a veil so coarsely wove,
An upright soul, that heaven itself might love. ”

“ A despot's shackles from their giant-breast,
And rush to freedom. But the baneful breath
Of ignorance, or luxury, or sin,
Swept o'er them as a siroch, and they sank
Amid the waste of ages. They, perchance,
Did look on woman as a worthless thing,
A cloistered gem, a briefly-fading flower,
Remembering not that she had kingly power
O'er the young soul. ”

“ And fold their wings around them as they run
Time's slippery course, with what a flood of joy,
With what refin'd, exulting intercourse,
At Heaven's bright threshhold, when all ills are past,
A mother greets her child! ”

“ And rives the lordly tree,
Doth scarcely work so strange a deed
As Death hath done for thee:
And so we lay thee in the tomb,
Son of a patriot line,
Let not majestic manhood boast
Who sees a grave like thine. ”

“ For 'tis a holy thing."
'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
'Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere,
Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread
The waiting Angel's wing,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing." ”

“ Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip,
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength,
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope,
Where are they? Can ye tell, ye hoary Ones,
Who few, and feebly leaning on your staves
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port
Ye tower'd as columns? They have sunk away,
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left,
With life's long lessons furrow'd on your brow.
Change worketh all around you. ”