Chapter I: Front Matter

Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

By Abigail Stanley Hanna.

"There comes a voice that awakes my soul;
It is the voice of years that are gone,--
They roll before me with all their deeds."

1857.

Preface

These pages were not written for public inspection; but to beguile the weary hours of indisposition, and present a record of thoughts and sentiments to the eyes of my children, after my lips are sealed in death.

By the recommendation of friends, I have decided to submit them to the public.

From a criticising public I should shrink; but to a sympathizing public I would appeal, trusting the holy mantle of charity will be flung over my errors, and my motives appreciated.

I would take this opportunity to tender my hearty and sincere thanks to my patrons, who have aided me in this enterprise, not only by their subscriptions, but by their words of sympathy and encouragement, which have fallen like sunshine upon my gloomy pathway, warming my desolate heart, and leaving a sweet fragrance upon the memory, which shall live on and on, through the long ages of eternity; for beautifully and emphatically has Mrs. Childs said,

"Goodness and beauty live forever,"

Perhaps I should apologise for the pensive strain in which I have written, but it has been in shady places, when the body was suffering from disease, and I felt almost too weak to breathe. Dear reader, did you ever feel that you were dying? that there was but a step between you and death? How natural, at such a time, and in such a place, to contemplate the circumstances connected with the deaths of dear, departed friends.

Hoping this may lead some thoughtless one to reflection, I submit it to the investigation of a generous public.

But if I fail in this, shall I have written in vain? O, no; it is but a fulfilment in part of the great mission, "do with all thy might what thy hand findeth to do." If we have but one small talent we are commanded to put it upon usury, "that the Lord may receive his own when he cometh."

Some pieces were contributions from the pen of a loved sister, whose sentiments and principles are in unison with my own, and so they flow on together, in one common channel. Those designated by a star (*) in the Index, are from her pen.

On page 141, near the bottom, the paragraph which now reads, "You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?" should read, "You did not expect to find me _alive_ now," &c.

On page 272, in the 11th line from the top, in the word "rugg'd," the letter _e_ should be substituted for the apostrophe.

These errors escaped attention in reading the proof, before it went to press.

When autumn winds are round us sighing,--
When pale flowers are 'round us dying,
It pain and pleasure to us gives,
To gather up the wither'd leaves.

The year so tasteful flung her flow'rs
In garlands gay, o'er sylvan bow'rs;
But where they hung:--so brief--
Now only hangs the wither'd leaf.

Dear reader, thus to thee I come,
With tresses blossom'd for the tomb;
And offer what the season gives,--
My faded flow'rs--my WITHERED LEAVES.

A. S. H.

Index

Shadows of the Past

Reminiscences; The Old Homestead
The Old House
The Old School House
The Grave Yard

Midnight Scenes, or, Pictures of Human Life
Picture No. 2
Picture No. 3
Picture No. 4

The History of a Household

Lines written during convalescence from Brain Fever

The Angel Cousin

Lines written at the close of the year 1842

Lines written on the New Year 1843

The Unhappy Marriage

On the year 1852

Consumption

To Mrs. A.B.

An Evening in our Village

Contemplations in a Grave Yard

A Scene on the Kennebec River

To Miss H. B----

Lines written in an Album

A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century

On Hearing a Bird Sing, Dec. 19, 1826

Variety

Henriette Clinton

The Child

On the Death of Ellen A. B----

The Order of Nature

The Seasons

Dedication of an Album

To Mrs. S. on the Death of her infant

To Mrs. S. on the Death of her Son

The first and last Voyage of the Atlantic

The Fatal Feast

To the Maiden

To Mrs. B. on the Death of her Son

O Come Back, my Brother

The Twins

On the Frailty of Earthly Things

To a Friend

The Mother and her Child

A Mother's Prayer

Lines in an Album

On the Death of a Mother

The Music of Earth

On the Death of Mrs. C.P. Baldwin

Lines written in a Sick Room, April 15th, 1855

Lines written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855

To a Friend

The Mother's Watch

Why should I Smile *

The Youth's Return *

To A---- *

The Beauties of Nature *

On the Death of Willie T. White *

The Human Heart *

On the Death of a Friend *

To a Friend *

Happiness *

A Picture of Human Life

Flowers *

The Old Castle *

The Myrtle *

Death

The Home of Childhood *

The Happy Land *

Devotion *

To a Friend *

Lines written upon the Death of Two Sisters

To I----

Lines for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of her
Birthday

Human Thought

Lines written upon the Departure of a Brother

Lines on the Death of a Friend

The Power of Custom

Annie Howard

We all do Perish like the Leaf

Life Compared to the Seasons

Writing Composition

Lines written in Answer to the Question "Where is
our Poet?"

My Husband's Grave

Lines written upon the Young who have recently died
in our Village

Conscience

Lines written in an Album

Lines from the pen of my Husband, who is Deceased

Hope

Visit to Mount Auburn

Lines from Mary to her Father in California, with her
Daguerreotype

A Reminiscence

Letter of Resignation from Mrs. Hanna to the Maternal
Association

Improvement of Time

Lines written on the Death of Frank

The Pleasures of Memory

The Song of the Weary One

Lines inscribed to a Brother

Changes

Lines to Mrs. S---- on the Death of an Infant

The Spirits of the Dead

To Mrs. J.C. Bucklin, by her Father

The Widow's Home

To the Reader

WITHERED LEAVES.

Shadows of the Past

Sister, the solemn midnight hour
Is meet, to weave the web of thought,
To trace the shadowy imagery,
From fancy's secret chambers brought.

To enter Memory's hidden cell,
And bid the sentinel appear;
Her strange, mysterious tales to tell,
And wipe the dust from by-gone years.

To wander back down time's dark stream,
And from its margin pluck the flowers,
To twine them with the moon's pale beams,
Then fling them over Memory's bow'rs.

To gather all the fragments up,
The phantoms chase of other years;
Their blighted joys, their withered hopes,
Their clouds, their sunshine, and their tears.

We'll wander forth while others sleep,
Fanned gently by the night wind's sigh
And thus our midnight vigils keep,
While night's fair lamps burn bright on high.

We'll wander in the realms of thought,
That boundless space, who may define?
From which more dazzling gems are brought
Than sparkle in Golconda's mine.

Then, sister, let us linger not,
The conscious moon her lamp holds high,
And with her smiling, placid face,
Beams from the chambers of the sky.

Touched by fancy's magic spell,
We'll conjure up the things of yore;
From their cold chambers bring the dead,
And friends of former years restore.

But oh, the shadows will not stay,--
The dreamy shadows of the past;
Before the sun they'll fade away--
Their mystic visions cannot last.

Then let us leave the world of dreams
Where shapes and shadows melt away;
Bathe in salvation's cooling streams,
And soar to realms of endless day.

Reminiscences.