American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

MERCY WARREN.

Biographical Sketch.

MRS. WARREN was the daughter of James Otis, of Barnstable, and the wife of General James Warren of Plymouth, both of whom were celebrated in the political history of Massachusetts. She was a skilful and industrious writer both of prose and verse; attempting and achieving great subjects, with a boldness and ease that prove her mind to have been of no ordinary stamp. The station and character of her father and husband, procured her a wide acquaintance with the greatest men of her time; not only those distinguished for their practical patriotism in the revolutionary war, but those who were famous for their learning and talent. She well knew how to appreciate the honour, and improve the advantage, of such a noble acquaintance; a proof of which, is her History of the American Revolution. Before this, however, her talents as an author were made extensively known by two political works from her bold pen,—The Adulator ,and The Group. In 1790 she published a volume of Poems, containing two tragedies, The Sack of Rome, and The Ladies of Castile, with several Miscellaneous Pieces. She died in 1814.

EXTRACT FROM A POLITICAL REVERIE.

(JANUARY 1774.)

LET Grecian bards, and Roman poets tell, How Hector fought, and how old Priam fell; Paint armies ravaging the Ilian coast, Show fields of blood, and mighty battles lost; Let mad Cassandra with dishevelled hair, With streaming eyes, and frantic bosom bare, Tell dark presages, and ill-boding dreams, Of murder, rapine, and the solemn themes Of slaughter'd cities, and their sinking spires, By Grecian rage wrapp'd in avenging fires;

To bolder pens I leave the tragic tale, While some kind muse from Tempe's gentle vale, With softer symphony shall touch the string, And happier tidings from Parnassus bring.

Not Caesar's name, nor Philip's bolder son, Who sigh'd and wept, when he'd one world undone; Who dropp'd a tear, though not from pity's source, But grief, to find some bound to brutal force, Shall tune my harp, or touch the warbling string; No bold destroyer of mankind I sing; These plunderers of men I greatly scorn, And dream of nations, empires yet unborn.

I look with rapture at the distant dawn, And view the glories of the opening morn; When justice holds his sceptre o'er the land, And rescues freedom from a tyrant's hand; When patriot states in laurel crowns may rise, And ancient kingdoms court them as allies; Glory and valour shall be here display'd, And virtue rear her long dejected head; Her standard plant beneath these gladden'd skies, Her fame extend, and arts and science rise; While Empire's lofty spreading sails unfurl'd, Roll swiftly on towards the western world! Long she's forsook her Asiatic throne, And leaving Afric's barb'rous burning zone, On the broad ruins of Rome's haughty power, Erected ramparts round fair Europe's shore; But in those blasted climes no more presides, She o'er the vast Atlantic surges rides, Visits Columbia's distant fertile plains, Where Liberty, a happy goddess, reigns.

No despot here shall rule with awful sway,Nor orphan's spoils become the minion's prey; No more the widow'd bleeding bosom mourns, Nor injured cities weep their slaughter'd sons; For then each tyrant, by the hand of fate,And standing troops, the bane of every state, For ever spurn'd, shall be removed as far As bright Hesperus from the polar star; Freedom and virtue shall united reign, And stretch their empire o'er the wide domain; On a broad base the commonwealth shall stand, When lawless power withdraws its impious hand, When crowns and sceptres are grown useless things, Nor petty praetors plunder here for kings.

Then bless'd Religion in her purest forms, Beyond the reach of persecuting storms,In purest azure gracefully arranged,In native majesty shall stand display'd.Till courts revere her ever sacred shrine,And nobles feel her influence divine; Princes and peasants catch the glorious flame, And lisping infants praise Jehovah's name!

TO AN AMIABLE FRIEND MOURNING THE DEATH OF AN EXCELLENT FATHER.

LET deep dejection hide her pallid face, And from thy breast each painful image rase; Forbid thy lip to utter one complaint, But view the glories of the rising saint, Ripe for a crown, and waiting the reward Of watching long the vineyard of the Lord.

The generous purpose of his zealous heart, Truth to enforce, and knowledge to impart,

Insures his welcome on the unknown shore, Where choirs of saints and angel forms adore. A seraph met him on the trackless way, And strung his harp to join the heavenly lay.

Complain no more of Death's extensive power, Whose sceptre wafts us to some blissful shore; Where the rough billows that roll o'er the head, That shake the frame, and fill the mind with dread, Are hush'd in silence, and the soul serene Looks back delighted on the closing scene.

Happy, thrice happy, that exalted mind, Who, leaving earth and all its cares behind, Has not a wish to ruffle or control The equal temper of his tranquil soul, Who, on a retrospect, is safe within; No private passion, nor a darling sin, Can check his hope, when death's insatiate pow'r Stands hovering on the last decisive hour.

Then weep no more, my friend, but all resigned, Submit thy will to the Eternal Mind, Who watches o'er the movements of the just, And will again reanimate the dust! Thy sire commands, suppress the rising sigh, He wipes the tear from thy too filial eye, And bids thee contemplate a soul set free, Just safe escaped from life's tempestuous sea.