Chapter XVII: Introduction (15)

“Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” replied the hostess compassionately; and then, with the inborn courtesy peculiar to Nantucket folk, turned aside the laugh that followed by hastily displaying some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine curiosities, many of them brought home by the deceased captain, many of them presented to his relict by his comrades or by her own friends; they were mostly such as we have seen many times in many places, but some few were _sui generis_, such as a marriage contract between a Quaker bachelor and maid in the early days of the island, with the signatures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, mutual consent before others being the only ceremony required by the canon of these Non-sacramentarians. Then there was Phœbe Ann’s comb, a wonderful work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the possessor, Phœbe Ann’s sister, delivered a short original poem, setting forth how ardently Phœbe Ann had desired one of these immense combs, their price being eight dollars each; and how, having engaged it, she set to work to earn it by picking berries for sale; but before the pence had grown to the pounds the big comb was out of fashion, and poor Phœbe Ann’s hair, which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through illness, and what remained was cut short. Nantucket probity would not, however, be off its bargain for such cause as this; and Phœbe Ann paid her money and took her ornamental comb,――more useful in its present connection, perhaps, than it could have been in any other. The crown and glory of Mrs. McCleve’s museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one of the red-cedar posts planted a century or two since by this lady’s ancestor, to inclose a certain parcel of land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty years ago the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins proposed to her to drive out to the place and secure a relic of the original island cedar now extinct. She accepted; and the section of the post, sawed off with great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved into its present shape in “Cousin Reuben Macy’s shop on Orange Street.”

But all this set forth in an original poem delivered with much unction by its author, who decisively refuses a copy to any and everybody, and is even chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. It is original――in fact, one may say, intensely original――and quite as well worth listening to as the saga of a royal skald. It begins after this fashion:

“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,
Merits, my friends, your careful observation.

* * * * *

Saturday, the busiest day of all,
From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”

Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, and the demur on account of pies then baking in the oven; but this being overruled by masculine persuasiveness――

“Across the hall I gayly skipped,
And soon was for the cruise equipped.”

Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt to cut the stern old cedar trunk with a dull saw,――

“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,
Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”

and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But these stray couplets give a very inadequate idea of the poem as delivered by its author; and he who visits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament.

Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her eye steadily upon a figure beside one of the windows, and sternly inquired:

“Is that woman sick? Why don’t somebody see to her?”

It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat of the room, the excitement of the narrative, and possibly certain ancient and fish-like odors connected with the marine specimens, had fainted a little; but was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, prominent among which in those days is a disinclination to have one’s crimps spoiled by the application of water; and the incident was made more memorable by the valedictory of the hostess:

“Now, if any of you want to come in again while you stay on the island you can, without paying anything; and if I don’t remember you, just say, ‘I was here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know it’s all right.” And we heard that the experiment was tried and succeeded.

As the party left the house the señor lingered to say: “We are going up to the old windmill, Aunty. Didn’t it belong to your family once?”

“I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a windmill and didn’t know how to make one: and they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to make it, and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He went back to the continent for something――nails maybe, or maybe idees――and carried the money with him; some pirate or other got wind of it, and the first thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and murdered there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up the windmill though, and the women had got almost tired grinding their samp and meal in those old stone mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks spoke to my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and he thought it over, and finally went to bed and dreamed just how to build it, and the next day got up and built it. That’s the story of _that_, my dear.”

“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” suggested the señor with a twinkle in his eye; to which the hostess rather sharply replied:

“I don’t profess to know much about revealation, and I don’t surmise you know much more, Sammy; but that’s how the windmill was built.”

History adds another anecdote of the windmill, worthy to be preserved for its Nantucket flavor. Eighty-two years from its marvelous inception, the mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners concluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting was called, and Jared Gardner, the man who was supposed to be wisest in mills of any on the island, was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Sylvanus Macy――

“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without the stones?”

“Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as succinctly; and the other――

“What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared?”

“I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” replied Jared indifferently.

The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned to the charge with――

“Jared, thee must make us an offer.”

“Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Sylvanus.”

The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd Jared did not burn his mill, even to roast a suckling pig; but repaired and used it to his own and his neighbor’s advantage, until the day of his death.

REPRESENTATIVE WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA.

Illustration: WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA

_PHOEBE CARY_ • _ALICE CARY_
_LUCY LARCOM_ • _LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON_
_LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY_ • _ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH_

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

PIONEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA.

MRS. SIGOURNEY, was among the first, and is the most voluminous of all the early female poets of America. In fact she has been, up to this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863, ♦forty-eight years later. Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which abound in passages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit in their graver moods characteristics of a mind trained by exercise in self-knowledge and self-control. Her writings possess energy and variety, while her wide and earnest sympathy with all topics of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those interests. Mr. Edward H. Everett in a review of Mrs. Sigourney’s works declared: “They express with great purity and evident sincerity the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. If her power of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a Christian Pindar.” Continuing he says: “Though she does not inherit

‘The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of
air,’

she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that refined felicity of expression, which is the principal charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have much of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be nearly or quite as highly relished by his admirers.”

♦ ‘fifty-eight’ replaced with ‘forty-eight’

To the above eminent critical estimate of Mrs. Sigourney’s writings it is unnecessary to add further comment. The justice of the praise bestowed upon her is evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider and more pervading reputation than many of her more modern sisters in the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of late years, her poetry has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860.

Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at Norwich, Connecticut, September 1st, 1791. Her father was a man of worth and benevolence and had served in the revolutionary struggle which brought about the independence of America. Of the precocity of the child Duyckinck says: “She could read fluently at the age of three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm and of an invariable religious sentiment.” Her girlhood life was quiet and uneventful. She received the best educational advantages which her neighborhood and the society of Madam Lathrop, the widow of Dr. Daniel Lathrop, of Hartford, could bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years of age, Miss Huntley was induced to take a select school at Hartford, and removed to that city, where the next year, in 1815, her first book, “Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The prose essays are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of young ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems to have had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819 Miss Huntley became the wife of Mr. Charles Sigourney, an educated gentleman and a merchant of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in five cantos, entitled “Traits of the Aborigines,” was published, and about the same time a London publisher made a miscellaneous collection of her verses and published them under the title of “Lays from the West,” a compliment of no small moment to an American poetess. Subsequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and “Letters to Mothers,” “Poetry for Children,” “Zinzendorf and Other Poems,” the last named appearing in 1836. It introduces us to the beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent tribute to its scenery and historic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, a noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming Valley. The picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the departure of Zinzendorf from the then infant city of Philadelphia, extols him for his missionary labor, and utters a stirring exhortation to Christian union. In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other Poems” was issued by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagination conceived it in the condition of the new world prior to its discovery. The landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject.

In 1840 Mrs. Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 published a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond bracelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a touching and beautiful memento of her severe ♦bereavement in the death of her only son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose sketches.

♦ ‘bereavment’ replaced with ‘bereavement’

Mrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three years of age.

* * * * *

COLUMBUS.

ST. STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proud
In learning’s pomp that day,
For there a robed and stately crowd
Pressed on in long array.
A mariner with simple chart
Confronts that conclave high,
While strong ambition stirs his heart,
And burning thoughts of wonder part
From lips and sparkling eye.

What hath he said? With frowning face,
In whispered tones they speak,
And lines upon their tablets trace,
Which flush each ashen cheek;
The Inquisition’s mystic doom
Sits on their brows severe,
And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb
Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
Thy splendid dream shall crown,
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow,
The Indian hunter’s bow,
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou
To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
In Fates’ unfolding scroll,
Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,
That rack the noble soul.
On! on! Creation’s secrets probe,
Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
All glorious,――yet forlorn.

* * * * *

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips,
Whence are ye? Did some white winged messenger
On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Did them with tear drops nurse ye?――
――Tree nor shrub
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness――
Fearless, yet frail――and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale
And freer dreams of heaven.

* * * * *

NIAGARA.

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him
Eternally――bidding the lip of man
Keep silence――and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrink
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,
Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,
When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth,
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,
Of 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. ’Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.

* * * * *

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that polished brow
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,
Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal
The signet ring of heaven.

* * * * *

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE.

A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave,
Where a lily had chanced to grow;
“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,
When she of the blue and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the churchyard low?”

Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:
“I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings,
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?”

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

AUTHOR OF “THE SINLESS CHILD.”

IT was in the year 1841 that a poetic Romance of several episodes, written in ballad style and entitled “The Sinless Child,” was published in the Southern Literary Messenger and brought its author, a woman of thirty-five years, into general prominence, and gained for her an enviable position which she ever after maintained and fortified with a series of the finest sonnets which the literature of our country affords. “Her productions,” says Reade, “are characterized rather by a passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and a subtle vein of philosophy more than sentiment, though in the latter she is by no means deficient.”

The maiden name of this lady was Prince. She is descended from old Puritan stock on both sides, and was born in Cumberland, near Portland, Maine, on the twelfth day of August, 1806. At an early age Miss Prince was married to Mr. Seba Smith, a newspaper editor whom she assisted in his editorial work. Mr. Smith, himself, was a man of considerable literary attainment, who, under the _nom de plume_ of “Jack Downing,” obtained a national reputation. He is also the author of “Powhattan; a metrical romance,” and several shorter poems which appeared in the periodicals of the day. His magazine tales and essays were collected in 1850 and published under the title of “Down East.”

Like most young women writers of that day, Mrs. Smith contributed her early productions to various periodicals, anonymously. It was not until her husband suffered business disaster that she commenced the open profession of authorship as a means of support for her family. Her first published work “Riches Without Wings” appeared in 1838; “The Sinless Child and other poems” was collected and issued in book form in New York, in 1841. In 1842, Mrs. Smith and her husband removed to New York where they have afterwards resided and the same year she published a novel entitled “The Western Captive” and also a fanciful prose tale “The Salamander; a Legend for Christmas.”

Mrs. Smith is also the author of “The Roman Tribute, a tragedy in five acts,” founded on the exemption of Constantinople from destruction by a tribute paid by Theodosius to the conquering general, Attila. She is also the author of a tragedy entitled “Jacob Leisler,” which is founded upon a well known dramatic incident of the colonial history of New York. Both of these plays enjoyed in their day popular favor upon the stage. In 1847, she published “Woman and her needs,” and in 1852, “Hints on Dress and Beauty.” Subsequent to these came “The Bald Eagle; or the last of the Ramapaughs;” “The News Boy;” “Sagamor of Saco;” “The Two Wives;” “Kitty Howard’s Journal,” and “Destiny, a Tragedy.”

Besides the above volumes, Mrs. Smith was the author of much fugitive verse and was also a liberal contributor of the current magazines of her day. The varied and peculiar merits of this author will appear to the reader of her writings, who must be impressed that in the drama, in the sonnet and in miscellaneous poems of imagination and fancy, she has vindicated her right to a place among the first poets of her sex, while her prose writings, though not largely read at this time, are characterized by the same subtle insight, analysis and delicacy of treatment which mark her poetry.

* * * * *

EXTRACTS FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”

It is difficult to select from a poem of which the parts make
one harmonious whole; but the history of “The Sinless Child” is
illustrated all through with panel pictures which are scarcely
less effective when separated from their series than when
combined, and the reader will be gratified with a few of those
which serve to exhibit the author’s graceful play of fancy,
and the pure vein of poetic sentiment as well as her manner and
style in treating this masterpiece of its author.

THE STEP-MOTHER.

(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)

YOU speak of Hobert’s second wife,
A lofty dame and bold:
I like not her forbidding air,
And forehead high and cold.
The orphans have no cause for grief,
She dare not give it now,
Though nothing but a ghostly fear
Her heart of pride could bow.

One night the boy his mother called:
They heard him weeping say――
“Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy’s cheek,
And wipe his tears away!”
Red grew the lady’s brow with rage,
And yet she feels a strife
Of anger and of terror too,
At thought of that dead wife.

Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue,
The watch-dog howls with fear;
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall:
What ♦form is gliding near?
No latch is raised, no step is heard,
But a phantom fills the space――
A sheeted spectre from the dead,
With cold and leaden face!

What boots it that no other eye
Beheld the shade appear?
The guilty lady’s guilty soul
Beheld it plain and clear!
It slowly glides within the room,
And sadly looks around――
And stooping, kissed her daughter’s cheek
With lips that gave no sound!

Then softly on the stepdame’s arm
She laid a death-cold hand,
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh
Like to a burning brand;
And gliding on with noiseless foot,
O’er winding stair and hall,
She nears the chamber where is heard
Her infant’s trembling call.

She smoothed the pillow where he lay,
She warmly tucked the bed,
She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls
That clustered round his head.
The child, caressed, unknowing fear,
Hath nestled him to rest;
The mother folds her wings beside――
The mother from the blest!

♦ ‘from’ replaced with ‘form’

* * * * *

GUARDIAN ANGELS.

(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)

WITH downy pinion they enfold
The heart surcharged with wo,
And fan with balmy wing the eye
Whence floods of sorrow flow;
They bear, in golden censers up,
That sacred gift a tear――
By which is registered the griefs
Hearts may have suffered here.

No inward pang, no yearning love
Is lost to human hearts――
No anguish that the spirit feels,
When bright-winged Hope departs.
Though in the mystery of life
Discordant powers prevail;
That life itself be weariness,
And sympathy may fail:

Yet all becomes a discipline,
To lure us to the sky;
And angels bear the good it brings
With fostering care on high.
Though human hearts may weary grow,
And sink to toil-spent sleep,
And we are left in solitude
And agony to weep:

Yet _they_ with ministering zeal
The cup of healing bring,
And bear our love and gratitude
Away, on heavenward wing;
And thus the inner life is wrought,
The blending earth and heaven――
The love more earnest in its glow
Where much has been forgiven!

* * * * *

THE BROOK.

WHITHER away, thou merry Brook,
Whither away so fast,
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past?”
The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.

I heard its laugh adown the glen,
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree’s roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf――
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.

“Now stay thy feet, oh restless one,
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”
The flashing pebbles lightly rung,
As the gushing music fell,
The chiming music of the brook,
From out the woody dell.

“My mountain home was bleak and high,
A rugged spot and drear,
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little brook.

“The blended hum of pleasant sounds
Came up from the vale below,
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To lapse, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms in their loveliness
Come nestling to my side.

“I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
Hung shivering to the sight,
And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossoms start
With joy at sight of me.

“The swallow comes with its bit of clay,
When the busy Spring is here.
And twittering bears the moistened gift
A nest on the eaves to rear;
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink
In the shade of the alder-tree.

“The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot,
Comes hither with me to play,
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round,
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.

“The old man bathes his scattered locks,
And drops me a silent tear――
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his ear the very song
He heard in years gone by;
The old man’s heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye.”

Enough, enough, thou homily brook!
I’ll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
Will bear like thee a kindly love
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit’s birth.

* * * * *

THE APRIL RAIN.

THE April rain――the April rain――
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,
Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see
Than falling drops of other rain?
I’m sure it is to me.

I wonder if ’tis really so――
Or only hope the while,
That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And Summer’s coming smile.
Whate’er it is, the April shower
Makes me a child again;
I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.

And sure, were I a little bulb
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So gently falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By Nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup!

The small brown seed, that rattled down
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.
The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.

The robin sings on the leafless tree,
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops
Come filtering from the sky;
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,
And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.

The cottage door is open wide,
And cheerful sounds are heard,
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
The creeping child by the old, worn sill
Peers out with winking eye,
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.

With bounding heart beneath the sky,
The truant boy is out,
And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout.
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng――
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.

* * * * *

FLOWERS.

(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)

EACH tiny leaf became a scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left――
How were the earth of glory shorn,
Were it of flowers bereft!

They tremble on the Alpine height;
The fissured rock they press;
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares, too, their blessedness:
And wheresoe’er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer.

* * * * *

EROS AND ANTEROS.

TIS said sweet Psyche gazed one night
On Cupid’s sleeping face――
Gazed in her fondness on the wight
In his unstudied grace:
But he, bewildered by the glare
Of light at such a time,
Fled from the side of Psyche there
As from a thing of crime.

Ay, weak the fable――false the ground――
Sweet Psyche veiled her face――
Well knowing Love, if ever found,
Will never leave his place.
Unfound as yet, and weary grown,
She had mistook another:
’Twas but Love’s semblance she had found――
Not Eros, but his brother!

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LUCY LARCOM.
AUTHOR OF “HANNAH BINDING SHOES.”

HAD we visited the cotton mills of Lowell, Massachusetts, sixty years ago, we perhaps would not have noticed anything peculiar or different from other girls in the busy little body known as Lucy Larcom. She had left school in her early teens to help support the family by serving as an ordinary operative in a cotton factory. Yet this is where Lucy Larcom did her first work; and to the experiences she gained there can be traced the foundation of the literature――both prose and poetry――with which she has delighted and encouraged so many readers.

Lucy Larcom was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, in 1826. Her father, a sea captain, died while she was a child, and her mother removed with her several children to Lowell, Massachusetts. For a while Lucy attended the public schools and at the age of ten years showed a talent for writing verses. In the cotton mill, she tells us, her first work was “doffing and replacing the bobbins in the machine. Next,” she says, “I entered the spinning-room, then the dressing-room, where I had a place beside pleasant windows looking toward the river. Later I was promoted to the cloth-room, where I had fewer hours of confinement, without the noisy machinery, and it was altogether neater.” The last two years, of her eight years’ work in the mill, she served as book-keeper, and, during her leisure hours, pursued her studies in mathematics, grammar and English and German literature.

The female operatives in the Lowell mills published a little paper entitled “Offering,” and it was to this that Miss Larcom contributed her first literary production, which was in the shape of a poem entitled “The River;” and many of her verses and essays, both grave and gay, may be found in the old files of this paper. Her first volume, “Similitudes,” was compiled from essays which appeared originally in “Offering.” Since then her name has found an honored place among the women writers of America. Among her early and best poems are “Hannah Binding Shoes” and “The Rose Enthroned,” the latter being Miss Larcom’s first contribution to the “Atlantic Monthly.” She did not sign her name to the contribution and it was of such merit that one of the reviewers attributed it to the poet Emerson. Both Mr. Lowell, the editor of “The Atlantic Monthly,” and the poet, Whittier, to whose papers she also contributed, praised her ability. Miss Larcom studied at Monticello Female Seminary, Illinois, and afterwards taught in some of the leading female schools in her native State. In 1859 appeared her book entitled “Ships in the Mist and Other Stories,” and in 1866 was published “Breathings of a Better Life.” From 1866 to 1874 she was editor of “Our Young Folks,” and in 1875 “An Idyl of Work, a Story in Verse,” appeared. In 1880 “Wild Roses of Cape Ann and Other Poems” was published, and in 1881 “Among Lowell Mill Girls” appeared. In 1885 her poetical works were gathered and published in one volume. Of late, Miss Larcom’s writings have assumed deeply religious tones in which the faith of her whole life finds ample expression. This characteristic is strongly noticeable in “Beckonings” (1886), and especially so in her last two books “As It Is In Heaven” (1891) and “The Unseen Friend” (1892), both of which embody her maturest thought on matters concerning the spiritual life.

One of the most admirable characteristics of Miss Larcom’s life and her writings is the marked spirit of philanthropy pervading every thing she did. She was in sentiment and practically the working woman’s friend. She came from among them, had shared their toils, and the burning and consuming impulse of her life was to better their condition. In this, she imitated the spirit of Him, who, being lifted up, would draw all men after Him.

* * * * *

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

POOR lone Hannah,
Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
Faded, wrinkled,
Sitting stitching, in a mournful muse!
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree:
Spring and winter
Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor
Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,
“Is there from the fishers any news?”
Oh, her heart’s adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning
Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos;
Hale and clever,
For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For the wedding
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing:
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders,
For the mild south-wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped:
Silent, lonesome,
Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes.

’Tis November.
Now no tears her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland
Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely, “Fisherman,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?”
Old with watching,
Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons;――
Never has one brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently
Chase the white sail o’er the sea:
Hopeless, faithless,
Hannah’s at the window, binding shoes.

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ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

“THE SISTER SPIRITS OF POESY.”

IT would be difficult to treat the two poetic Cary sisters separately. Their work began, progressed through life and practically ended together. Few persons have written under the circumstances which at first appeared so disadvantageous. They had neither education nor literary friends, nor was their early lot cast in a region of literary culture――for they were reared in Cincinnati, Ohio, during the formative period of that Western country. But surely in the wild hills and valleys of their native West, they found

“Tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, April 20, 1820, and her sister Phoebe at the same place four years later. The two sisters studied at home together and, when eighteen years old, Alice began to write poems and sketches of rural life under the _nom de plume_ of Patty Lee, which attracted considerable attention and displayed an ability which elicited encouragement from the editors of the periodicals to which she contributed. In the mean time, Phoebe Cary, following her sister’s example, began to contribute, and, in 1850, the two sisters published their first volume of poems in Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches entitled “Clover Nook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West,” by Alice Cary followed in 1851. In 1852, the Cary sisters removed to New York city where they chiefly resided during the remainder of their lives, returning occasionally to their early farm home. For some years they held weekly receptions in New York, which were attended by leading artistic and literary people. They earned by their pens――pure and womanly pens――sufficient to provide a competence for all their wants. They gathered a library, rich in standard works, to gratify their refined tastes and did much to relieve the needy with their charity. In 1853, Alice Cary issued a second series of her “Clover Nook Papers” and a third gleaning from the same field appeared in 1855, entitled “Clover Nook Children,” for the benefit of her more youthful readers. During the prolific years, from 1852 to 1855, she also published “Lyra and other Poems,” followed by “Hagar, a Story of To-day,” “Married, Not Mated,” and “Hollywood,” a collection of poems. In 1854, Phoebe Cary, also, published “Poems and Parodies.” In 1859 appeared her “Pictures of Country Life,” a series of tales, and “The Bishop’s Son,” a novel. In 1867, appeared her “Snowberries,” a book for young folks. In 1866, Alice also published a volume entitled “Ballads, Lyrics and Hymns,” which is a standard selection of her poetry and contains some of the sweetest minor poems in the language. Alice’s “The Lover’s Diary” appeared in 1868. It begins with the poem “Dreamland” and ranges with a series of exquisite lyrics of love through all the phases of courtship to married life. This was the last of her works published during her lifetime. During the same year (1868), Phoebe published the “Poems of Faith, Hope and Love,” a worthy companion volume to her sister’s works, and in 1869 she aided her pastor, Chas. F. Deems, in editing “Hymns for All Christians.”

In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in writing. The disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same number of years is the result, not so much of the mental equality as of the superior energy, industry, and patience of the elder.

The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her constantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New York, Phoebe died at Newport, Rhode Island, whence her remains were removed and laid by her sister’s side.

The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and constitute a continual incense to their memory.

Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also left the manuscript of a completed novel.

* * * * *

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

(ALICE CARY.)

AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all:
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies,
That lead from the fragrant hedge,
Coqueting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemed to me the best.

I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep――
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

* * * * *

NOBILITY.

(ALICE CARY.)

HILDA is a lofty lady,
Very proud is she――
I am but a simple herdsman
Dwelling by the sea.
Hilda hath a spacious palace,
Broad, and white, and high;
Twenty good dogs guard the portal――
Never house had I.

Hilda hath a thousand meadows――
Boundless forest lands:
She hath men and maids for service――
I have but my hands.
The sweet summer’s ripest roses
Hilda’s cheeks outvie――
Queens have paled to see her beauty――
But my beard have I.

Hilda from her palace windows
Looketh down on me,
Keeping with my dove-brown oxen
By the silver sea.
When her dulcet harp she playeth,
Wild birds singing nigh,
Cluster, listening, by her white hands――
But my reed have I.

I am but a simple herdsman,
With nor house nor lands;
She hath men and maids for service――
I have but my hands.
And yet what are all her crimsons
To my sunset sky――
With my free hands and my manhood
Hilda’s peer am I.

* * * * *

THE GRAY SWAN.

(ALICE CARY.)

(_From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phœbe Cary, 1876._)

OH tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?”
The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,――
“Your little lad, your Elihu?”
He said with trembling lip,――
“What little lad? what ship?”

“What little lad! as if there could be
Another such an one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The _Gray Swan_ sailed away.”

“The other day?” the sailor’s eyes
Stood open with a great surprise,――
“The other day? the _Swan_?”
His heart began in his throat to rise.
“Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on.”
“And so your lad is gone?”

“Gone with the _Swan_.” “And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month, and never stir?”
“Why, to be sure! I’ve seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand,
The wild sea kissing her,――
A sight to remember, sir.”

“But, my good mother, do you know
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the _Gray Swan’s_ deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw,
Taking it off, as it might be, so!
The kerchief from your neck.”
“Aye, and he’ll bring it back!”

“And did the little lawless lad,
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the _Gray Swan’s_ crew?”
“Lawless! the man is going mad!
The best boy mother ever had,――
Be sure he sailed with the crew!
What would you have him do?”

“And he has never written a line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign
To say he was alive!”
“Hold! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine,
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man, what would you have?”

Gone twenty years――a long, long cruise,――
’Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you can
Forgive him?” “Miserable man,
You’re mad as the sea,――you rave,――
What have I to forgive?”

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild.
“My God! my Father! is it true?
My little lad, my Elihu!
My blessed boy, my child!
My dead, my living child!”

* * * * *

TO THE EVENING ZEPHYR.¹

ALICE CARY.

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

I SIT where the wild-bee is humming,
And listen in vain for thy song;
I’ve waited before for thy coming,
But never, oh, never so long!
How oft with the blue sky above us,
And waves breaking light on the shore,
Thou, knowing they would not reprove us,
Hast kissed me a thousand times o’er!
Alone in the gathering shadows,
Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee,
I look for the waves of the meadows,
And dimples to dot the blue sea.
The blossoms that waited to greet thee
With heat of the noontide oppressed,
Now flutter so light to meet thee,
Thou’rt coming, I know, from the west.
Alas! if thou findest me pouting,
’Tis only my love that alarms;
Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting,
And take me once more to thine arms!

* * * * *

DEATH SCENE.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

DYING, still slowly dying,
As the hours of night rode by,
She had lain since the light of sunset
Was red on the evening sky;
Till after the middle watches,
As we softly near her trod,
When her soul from its prison fetters
Was loosed by the hand of God.

One moment her pale lips trembled
With the triumph she might not tell,
As the sight of the life immortal
On her spirit’s vision fell;
Then the look of rapture faded,
And the beautiful smile was faint,
As that in some convent picture,
On the face of a dying saint.

And we felt in the lonesome midnight,
As we sat by the silent dead,
What a light on the path going downward
The feet of the righteous shed;
When we thought how with faith unshrinking
She came to the Jordan’s tide,
And taking the hand of the Saviour,
Went up on the heavenly side.

* * * * *

MEMORIES.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

“_She loved me, but she left me._”

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

MEMORIES on memories! to my soul again
There come such dreams of vanished love and bliss
That my wrung heart, though long inured to pain,
Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness:
Thou, dearer far than all the world beside!
Thou, who didst listen to my love’s first vow――
Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride:
Is the dream over? comes that awakening now?
And is this hour of wretchedness and tears
The only guerdon for my wasted years?

And I did love thee――when by stealth we met
In the sweet evenings of that summer time,
Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,
As the remembrance of a better clime
Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou――
Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind
Thy heart from breaking――thou hast felt ere now
A heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind:
Affection’s power is stronger than thy will――
Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still.

My heart could never yet be taught to move
With the calm even pulses that it should:
Turning away from those that it should love,
And loving whom it should not, it hath wooed
Beauty forbidden――I may not forget;
And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel;
But time, which hath not changed affection yet,
Hath taught at least one lesson――to conceal;
So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall know
The silent bleeding of the heart below.

* * * * *

“EQUAL TO EITHER FORTUNE.”¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

EQUAL to either fortune!” This should be
The motto of the perfect man and true――
Striving to stem the billow fearlessly,
And keeping steadily the right in view,
Whether it be his lot in life to sail
Before an adverse or a prosperous gale.

Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise,
When truth would force its way in deed or word;
Whether for him the popular voice of praise,
Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard:
Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose
Distinct above the hisses of his foes.

“Equal to either fortune,” Heaven designs,
Whether his destiny be repose or toil――
Whether the sun upon his palace shines,
Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil:
So shall he find life’s blessings freely strewn
Around the peasant’s cottage as the throne.

Man should dare all things which he knows are right,
And fear to do no act save what is wrong;
But, guided safely by his inward light,
And with a permanent belief, and strong,
In Him who is our Father and our friend,
He should walk steadfastly unto the end.

Ready to live or die, even in that day
Which man from childhood has been taught to fear,
When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay,
The spirit enters on a nobler sphere:
And he will be, whose life was rightly passed,
“Equal to either fortune” at the last.

* * * * *

LIGHT.¹

(PHOEBE CARY.)

This is one of the last poems. It was written after the death
of her sister Alice, in 1871.

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

WHILE I hid mine eyes, I feared;
The heavens in wrath seemed bowed;
I look, and the sun with a smile breaks forth,
And a rainbow spans the cloud.

I thought the winter was here,
That the earth was cold and bare,
But I feel the coming of birds and flowers,
And the spring-time in the air.

I said that all the lips
I ever had kissed were dumb;
That my dearest ones were dead and gone,
And never a friend would come.

But I hear a voice as sweet
As the fall of summer showers;
And the grave that yawned at my very feet
Is filled to the top with flowers!

As if ’t were the midnight hour,
I sat with gloom opprest;
When a light was breaking out of the east
And shining unto the west.

I heard the angels call
Across from the beautiful shore;
And I saw a look in my darling’s eyes,
That never was there before.

Transfigured, lost to me,
She had slipped from my embrace;
Now, lo! I hold her fast once more,
With the light of God on her face!

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Illustration: (‡ decoration)

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.