American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ANN ELIZA BLEECKER.

Biographical Sketch.

THE interesting subject of this notice was the daughter of Mr. Brandt Schuyler, and was born in New York, in 1752. She was married to John J. Bleecker, Esq., of New Rochelle, in 1769, and went to live at Poughkeepsie. From that place she soon removed to a village some distance above Albany, called Tomhanick, and spent several years of quiet domestic enjoyment amidst the wild scenes of this romantic spot. But in 1777, the approach of Burgoyne's army from Canada spread terror and dismay through the back settlements in that quarter, and broke, for a time, the peaceful happiness of her home in the wilderness. Mr. Bleecker hastened to Albany to prepare a shelter for his family, and no sooner had he gone, than the fearful news was brought to Mrs. Bleecker, that the enemy was within two miles of the village, burning and killing all before him. She immediately started up, and, with a daughter clinging to each side, set off on foot, attended only by a young mulatto girl, leaving her house, and everything in it, a prey to the savages.

After travelling, without being able to obtain any assistance, for more than five miles, she at length procured a seat for the children in a wagon, and walked on, herself, to the village of Stony Arabia; where, with much difficulty, she found shelter in a garret. The next morning her husband met her as he was returning from Albany, whither they all proceeded, and quickly set sail down the Hudson, intending to go to Red-Hook; at which place they hoped for safety from the enemy. But on the voyage this poor lady was overtaken by a fiercer affliction, from the sword and flame of which there was no escaping. Her youngest daughter was taken so ill that they were forced to go on shore, and, soon after, she died. Mrs. Bleecker never recovered from this blow; and though, after the capture of Burgoyne, she returned to her former home in the country, she could never regain her cheerfulness. She lived in peace, however, until one day in August, 1781; when a party of the enemy seized Mr. Bleecker and two of his men, while they were busy in the harvest-field, and carried them off prisoners. After an absence of six days, during which time his wife endured all the sickening

anguish of the most frightful suspense and conjecture, he was retaken by some Americans from Bennington, and returned home.

Mrs. Bleecker visited her native city after the peace was concluded; but the havoc war had made among the scenes, and especially among the friends, of her early days, weighed so heavily on her spirits that she soon sank under it. She returned to her cottage at Tomhanick, and died on the 23d of November, 1783, aged thirty-one.

Her poems were published in 1793. They have no very marked characteristics; they are occasionally sweet, generally mournful. Her biographer truly says, "Mrs. Bleecker's poetry is not of that high order which would sustain itself under any very bold attempt; but the events of her life confer a degree of interest upon the few productions which she has left behind her. A female cultivating the elegant arts of refined society, at the ultima Thule of civilized life, in regions of savage wildness, and among scenes of alarm, desolation, and bloodshed, is a spectacle too striking not to fix our attention."

EXTRACT FROM A POEM

TO MR. BLEECKER, ON HIS PASSAGE TO NEW YORK.

METHINKS I see the broad majestic sheet Swell to the wind; the flying shores retreat; I see the banks, with varied foliage gay, Inhale the misty sun's reluctant ray; The lofty groves stripped of their verdure, rise To the inclemence of autumnal skies. Rough mountains now appear, while pendent woods Hang o'er the gloomy steep, and shade the floods; Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound The caverned echoes doubly loud rebound; A placid stream meanders on the steep, Till tumbling from the cliff, divides the frowning deep.

Oh! tempt not fate on those stupendous rocks, Where never shepherd led his timid flocks; But shagged bears in those wild deserts stray, And wolves, who howl against the lunar ray; There builds the ravenous hawk her lofty nest, And there the soaring eagle takes her rest;

The solitary deer recoils to hear The torrent thundering in the midway air. Ah! let me intercede, — ah! spare her breath, Nor aim the tube charged with a leaden death.

But now advancing to the opening sea, The wind springs up, the lessening mountains flee; The eastern banks are crowned with rural seats, And nature's work the hand of art completes. Here Philips' villa, where Pomona joins At once the product of a hundred climes; Here, tinged by Flora, Asian flowers unfold Their burnished leaves of vegetable gold. When snows descend, and clouds tumultuous fly Through the blue medium of the crystal sky, Beneath his painted mimic heaven he roves Amidst the glass-encircled citron groves; The grape and luscious fig his taste invite, Hesperian apples glow upon his sight; The sweet auriculas their bells display, And Philips finds in January, May.

But on the other side the cliffs arise, Charybdis-like, and seem to prop the skies: How oft with admiration have we viewed Those adamantine barriers of the flood! Yet still the vessel cleaves the liquid mead, The prospect dies, the aspiring rocks recede; New objects rush upon the wondering sight, Till Phoebus rolls from heaven his car of light, And Cynthia's silver crescent gilds the night.

I hear the melting flute's melodious sound, Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round, The rocks in notes responsive soft complain, And think Amphion strikes his lyre again. Ah! 'tis my Bleecker breathes our mutual loves, And sends the trembling airs through vocal groves.

Thus having led you to the happy isle, Where waves circumfluent wash the fertile soil, Where Hudson, meeting the Atlantic, roars, The parting lands dismiss him from their shores, Indulge the enthusiast muse her favourite strain Of panegyric, due to Eboracia's plain.

There is no land where heaven her blessings pours In such abundance, as upon these shores; With influence benign the planets rise, Pure is the ether, and serene the skies; With annual gold, kind Ceres decks the ground, And gushing springs dispense bland health around; No lucid gems are here, or flaming ore, To tempt the hand of avarice and power; But sun-burnt labour, with diurnal toil, Bids treasures rise from the obedient soil, And commerce calls the ships across the main, For gold exchanging her superfluous grain; While concord, liberty, and jocund health, Sport with young pleasure 'mid the rural wealth.

AN EVENING PROSPECT.

COME, my Susan, quit your chamber, Greet the opening bloom of May, Let us up yon hillock clamber, And around the scene survey.

See the sun is now descending, And projects his shadows far, And the bee her course is bending Homeward through the humid air.

Mark the lizard just before us, Singing her unvaried strain, While the frog abrupt in chorus Deepens through the marshy plain.

From yon grove the woodcock rises, Mark her progress by her notes, High in air her wing she poises, Then like lightning down she shoots.

Now the whip-poor-will beginning, Clamorous on a pointed rail, Drowns the more melodious singing Of the catbird, thrush, and quail.

Pensive Echo from the mountain Still repeats the sylvan sounds; And the crocus-bordered fountain With the splendid fly abounds.

There the honey-suckle blooming, Reddens the capricious wave; Richer sweets, the air perfuming, Spicy Ceylon never gave.

Cast your eyes beyond this meadow, Painted by a hand divine, And observe the ample shadow Of that solemn ridge of pine.

Here a trickling rill depending, Glitters through the artless bower And the silver dew descending, Doubly radiates every flower.

While I speak, the sun is vanish'd, All the gilded clouds are fled; Music from the groves is banish'd, Noxious vapours round us spread.

Rural toil is now suspended, Sleep invades the peasant's eyes; Each diurnal task is ended, While soft Luna climbs the skies.

Queen of rest and meditation! Through thy medium, I adore Him— the Author of creation, Infinite and boundless power!

He now fills thy urn with glory, Transcript of immortal light; Lord! my spirit bows before thee, Lost in wonder and delight.

LINES TO GRIEF.

COME Grief, and sing a solemn dirge Beneath this midnight shade; From central darkness now emerge, And tread the lonely glade.

This is the cheerless hour of night, For sorrow only made; When no intrusive rays of light, The silent gloom pervade.

Though such the darkness of my soul, Not such the calmness there; But waves of guilt tumultuous roll 'Midst billows of despair.

Fallacious Pleasure's tinsel train My soul rejects with scorn; If higher joys she can't attain, She'd rather choose to mourn.

For bliss superior she was made; Or for extreme despair; If pain awaits her past the dead, Why should she triumph here?

Tho' Reason points at good supreme, Yet Grace must lead us thence Must wake us from this pleasing dream, The idle joys of Sense.

Surely I wish the blackest night Of Nature to remain, Till Christ arise with healing light, Then welcome day again.

HYMN.

(WRITTEN IN DESPONDENCY.)

JESUS CHRIST! regard my anguish, Oh! commiserate my pain; Bid my soul no longer languish, Bid my spirit not complain.

'T is my comfort thou'rt omniscient, All my griefs are known to thee, Saviour! thou art all sufficient, To relieve a wretch like me.

Now thy clemency discover, Give my wounded soul repose, E'er my transient life is over, E'er my sorrowing eyelids close.

By thy passion I conjure thee, By thy painful sweat of blood, Let my sighing come before thee, Seal my pardon now with God.

RETURN TO TOMHANICK.

HAIL, happy shades! though clad with heavy snows, At sight of you with joy my bosom glows;

Ye arching pines, that bow with every breeze, Ye poplars, elms, all hail! my well-known trees! And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye, And now the tinkling rivulet I spy; My little garden, Flora, hast thou kept, And watch'd my pinks and lilies, while I wept? Or has the grubbing swine, by furies led, The enclosure broke, and on my flowrets fed? Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately grac'd, With storms and driving snows, is now defaced; Sharp icicles from every bush depend, And frosts all dazzling o'er the beds extend: Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene, And yellow cowslips gild the level green; My little orchard sprouting at each bough, Fragrant with clustering blossoms deep shall glow: Ah! then 't is sweet the tufted grass to tread, But sweeter slumbering is the balmy shade; The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast, Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest, Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives The labouring bee to her domestic hives: Then shines the lupine bright with morning gems, And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems; The humble violet, and the dulcet rose, The stately lily then, and tulip blows.

Farewell, my Plutarch! farewell, pen and muse! Nature exults —shall I her call refuse? Apollo fervid glitters in my face, And threatens with his beam each feeble grace: Yet still around the lovely plants I toil, And draw obnoxious herbage from the soil; Or with the lime-twigs little birds surprise; Or angle for the trout of many dyes.

But when the vernal breezes pass away, And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray, The spiky corn then rattles all around, And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound; Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note, The cricket chirps familiar in each cot. The village children, rambling o'er yon hill, With berries all their painted baskets fill. They rob the squirrel's little walnut store, And climb the half-exhausted tree for more; Or else to fields of maze nocturnal hie, Where hid, the elusive water-melons lie; Sportive, they make incisions in the rind, The riper from the immature to find; Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, And laughing, bear the bulky fruit away.