Poetical remains of the late Lucretia Maria Davidson / [Lucretia Maria Davidson] [electronic text]

DEDICATION

TO WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQUIRE

DEAR SIR —

Since the publication of my daughter Margaret's Poems, I have been solicited to revive the writings of my lamented Lucretia. The public has manifested so much interest, and expressed such unqualified admiration of their merits, and so much forbearance in criticising the errors of these juvenile productions, that I feel myself, in a measure, bound to comply with their wishes. As a testimony of my grateful respect, will you permit me, sir, to dedicate this little volume to you, with the sincere and united thanks of my family, for the truly touching and elegant manner in which you have executed your voluntary task.

I am called upon for a life of my Lucretia. Broken as I am in health and spirits, I am not equal to the effort; but the kindness of Miss Sedgwick has obviated that difficulty, and I am happy in being able to substitute the following elegantly written memoir from the pen of that highly gifted lady, which is incorporated in Sparks's American Biography, for the broken and unconnected narrative which a griefworn, and almost broken-hearted mother would have produced.

I have merely strength to slightly remark upon the circumstances under which some few of her poems were written; and should the imperfect manner in which this little volume is "got up," form a painful contrast to your elegant work, I trust an indulgent and discriminating community will make every allowance for its inefficiency. The forbearance, and even approbation in some instances, manifested by Mr. Southey, in his Review of her former publication, to which Professor Morse prefixed a brief sketch of her life, leads me to hope, that the same indulgence will be granted to this little tribute of maternal love; — a feeble monument of a mourning mother to the talents and virtues of a darling child.

I have felt much diffidence in presenting these manuscripts to the public, in their present imperfect and unfinished state; but the circumstances under which many of them were written, condemned and partly destroyed by herself, as if unworthy to hold a place among her papers, her extreme youth and loveliness, and the melancholy fact of her dying before she had time to complete others, will, I trust, make them not less interesting to the reader of taste and feeling.

The allegory of "Alphonso in search of Learning," was written at the age of eleven. It was suggested to her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected upon the Plattsburgh Academy, upon which was painted the Temple of Science.

The poem of "Chicomico" was written after a severe illness, which confined me many months to

my bed, during which time Lucretia made a resolution that if I ever should recover, she would give up her "scribbling," as she called it, and devote herself to me; at my earnest entreaty, however, she resumed her pen, and the first thing she produced was Chicornleo, prefaced by the following lines:

"I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, for ever; To have touched thy dear strings again — never — oh, never! To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee, To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee; But the voice of affection hath call'd forth one strain, Which when sung, I will leave thee to silence again."

This beautiful tribute of affection has ever been one of the most cherished relics of my child, and I deeply regret that the irregular and unconnected state of the manuscript obliges me to withhold the whole of the first part.

The ballad of "De Courcy and Wilhelmine" was written for a weekly paper, which she issued for the amusement of the family. It was dated from "The Little Corner of the World," edited by the Story-Teller, and dedicated to Mamma. After a time it was discontinued, and to my extreme regret destroyed. The fragment inserted in the collection, is one of the very few remnants found among her manuscripts; the first sixteen verses are purely original; the sequel was supplied by a friend, it being deemed too fine to be rejected for want of mere filling out. Lucretia's diffidence, and the apprehension that the circumstances might transpire, or the papers be read by some friend out of the

family, was, I believe, the sole reason why she discontinued and destroyed them. This mutilated paper, and a part of Rodin Hall, are all that remain of the "Story-Teller."

Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly manifested in her "Petition of the Old Comb." She had retired to her room with her books and pen, where she had spent several days. Feeling a desire to see how she was getting on, I went to her room. As I passed through the hall, I saw a sealed letter directed to me, lying at the foot of the stairs; I opened it, and found it contained the "Petition of a Poor Old Comb."

Dear mistress, I am old and poor, My teeth decayed and gone; Oh! give me but one moment's rest, For mark, I'm tott'ring down.

Thy raven locks for many a day, I've bound around thy brow; And now that I am old and lame, I prithee let me go.

Have I not, many a weary hour, Peep'd o'er thy book or pen; And seen what this poor mangled form Will ne'er behold again?

A faithful servant I have been, But ah! my day is past; And all my hope, and all my wish, Is liberty at last.

Mark but the glittering well-fill'd shelf, Where my companions lie; Are they not fairer than myself, And younger far than I?.

Oh! then in pity hie thee there, Where thousands wait thy call, And twine one in thy raven hair, To shroud my shameful fall.

My days are hast'ning to their close, Crack! crack! goes every tooth; A thousand pains, a thousand woes, Remind me of my youth.

Adieu then — in distress I die — My last hold fails me now; Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly For ever 'round thy brow.

On reading it, I went up stairs and found her enveloped in books and manuscripts. Several large folios lay open on the table, to which she seemed to have been referring; while books, papers and scraps of poetry were strewn in confusion over the carpet. Her luxuriant hair had escaped from its confinement, and hung in rich glossy curls upon her neck and shoulders, while the superannuated comb lay at her feet. As I hastily entered the room, she manifested some mortification, that I should have surprised her in the midst of so much confusion, and throwing her handkerchief over her papers, laughingly asked, what I thought of the Petition? I advised her to send directly to the "well-filled glittering shelf" as I had no desire to see the curse denounced verified, or her

"Elf locks fly For ever 'round her brow."

"Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico," was written in Albany, during her stay at the Institution of Miss Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the brief space of three weeks, while getting daily lessons like any other school girl. During that period, she also produced several fugitive pieces. She had been absent from home but six weeks when I was summoned to attend her: she had then been confined to her bed three weeks. On the morning after my arrival, she desired me to collect the scattered sheets of Maritorne, and expressed much sorrow when she found that some were missing. She told me with tears, that she feared she could never supply the loss, and said, "Do, mamma, take care of what remains; it is thus far the best thing I ever wrote."

After her death, in her portfolio, which her nurse told me she used every day sitting in bed, supported by pillows, I found the "Last Farewell to my Harp," and the "Fear of Madness," both written in a feeble, irregular hand, and evidently under a state of strong mental excitement. By their side lay the unfinished head of a Madonna, copied from a painting executed several centuries ago, and with the drawing lay also the unfinished poem suggested by the painting

"Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell."

In the "Last Farewell to my Harp," the presentiment of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly

portrayed, mingled with the feeling of presumption which she often manifested in having "dared to gaze"

"Upon the lamp which never can expire, The undying, wild, poetic fire."

There is something extremely touching in the last stanzas.

"And here, my harp, we part for ever, I'll waken thee again — oh! never; Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, And thou shalt calmly slumber here!"

The Fear of Madness." — The reader will find his sympathies all awakened upon perusing this unfinished fragment from the pen of the lovely sufferer. It leaves too painful a sensation upon the mind to admit a comment.

I have suppressed a very few of the poems heretofore published, and have added many new ones.

I have the honour to be, Sir, your very sincere and obliged friend, M.M.D. SARATOGA SPRINGS, August, 1841