American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Biographical Sketch.

MRS. SIGOURNEY, whose maiden name was Huntley, was born in Norwich, Connecticut, in 1797. She was the only child of pious parents, who early instilled into her mind principles of religion, and habits of industry. Her precocity was remarkable; at three she read with a distinct and perfect enunciation; and at eight wrote verses which were marked by rhythmical accuracy, more than by poetic impulse; at nine, she commenced a fictitious work, in the epistolary style; and at eleven, began a regular journal. Her diffidence was as great as her love for the pen; for, having no lock or key in her possession, she carefully hid all her effusions under huge piles of books, with a nervous fear, amounting to shame, lest they should be discovered. One point in her childish character — so strong as to be worth recording — was an ardent love and reverence for the aged, and an extreme tenderness towards animals. At school she was distinguished for the ease with which she acquired knowledge, and for her unceasing devotion to study. Books, however,

did not engross her attention to the exclusion of other duties, for she loved domestic employments; and was as industrious in her attention to them, as in her favourite studies. She was particularly fond of spinning on the great wheel, and constructed in this way many fabrics of enduring benefit to the family; among others, a whole suit of broadcloth for her father, which he long wore with peculiar satisfaction. To those who have read Mrs. Sigourney's most admirable and instructive Letters to Young Ladies, it will be pleasant to learn, that in her own case, precept and practice, as it regards diligence in domestic life, were not divided. Her prevailing desire from childhood was to be fitted for the task of a teacher. Beginning with two young ladies as day-scholars, in her own room, she afterward shared with a dear friend the charge of a large school, two miles from her home. In summer time she was accustomed to walk this distance, morning and evening; the exercise giving her a perpetual elasticity of spirits, and rigour of health. Her chief object in teaching now was to assist her parents, whose income was small, and to add various comforts to their home and persons, which their own prudence denied. That this filial desire might be better accomplished, her kind friend, Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., of Hartford, obtained for her, in that city, a school after her own heart, over which she presided for five years. To this same benevolent friend she was indebted for the first encouragement her literary efforts received; and through his persuasions she published her first volume, called Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse, being then only eighteen. At twenty, she was married to Mr. Charles Sigourney, of Hartford; a merchant of distinction, and a gentleman of wealth and education. In 1822, Mrs. Sigourney published a poem called Traits of the Aborigines of America, the proceeds of which were wholly devoted to religious charities. The Sketch of Connecticut Forty years since, a prose legend, in which the history of New England, and its romantic and varied scenery, are set forth in glowing colours, appeared in 1824. From that time, until the present, she has never wearied in her endeavours to entertain and benefit the public mind, by her numerous writings in prose and verse. Her pen is ever as ready as it is skilful, for charitable purposes; and the cause of missions, temperance, and every philanthropic society, have again and again been indebted to her genius. The one great aim of her soul, is —to do good. Mrs. Sigourney visited England and France in 1840, and spent a year in travelling among the cities and haunts most interesting to the mind of a poet, and most likely to yield, not only for herself,

but for the public, Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands. An interesting volume under this title, was published soon after her return from England. She resides still at Hartford, Connecticut. Her Select Poems, from which some of the following have been taken, have passed through five or six editions, which tells plainly the wide admiration they have won, by their mild dignity and harmony, good sense, and pure religion. Memory, and Dew-drops, have been kindly sent us by the authoress, as an express contribution for this volume.

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY.

I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd His purple mantle gloriously around, And took the homage of the princely hills, And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down, Each in his order of nobility. — And then in glorious pomp, the sun retired Behind that solemn shadow. And his train Of crimson, and of azure and of gold, Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, And ray on ray, till all the concave caught His parting benediction.

But the glow Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood In awful state, like dread ambassador 'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe Upon the world beneath, and lifted up The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky, To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet For thee, swoln out in cloud-capp'd pinnacle, To scorn thine own original, the dust That, feebly eddying on the angry winds,

Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee, Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root Draws depth and nutriment?

But lo! a star, The first meek herald of advancing night, Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe Might gaze with brow of timid innocence Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star! Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world, Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes Thee light, and man salvation.

Not to mark And treasure up his follies, or recount Their secret record in the court of Heaven, Thou com'st. Methinks thy tenderness would shroud, With trembling mantle, his infirmities. The purest natures are most pitiful. But they who feel corruption strong within, Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace Of their own image, in another's breast. — So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies His own mad visage, furiously destroys The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls, While race on race their little circles mark, And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, Who through this evening scene may wander on, And from yon mountain's cold magnificence Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all, The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, A silent teacher of its boundless love.

FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE.

How beautiful it stands, Behind its elm-tree's screen, With simple attic cornice crown'd, All graceful and serene! Most sweet, yet sad, it is, Upon yon scene to gaze, And list its inborn melody, The voice of other days:

For there, as many a year Its varied chart unroll'd, I hid me in those quiet shades, And call'd the joys of old; I call'd them, and they came When vernal buds appear'd, Or where the vine-clad summer bower Its temple-roof uprear'd;

Or where the o'er-arching grove Spread forth its copses green, While eye-bright and asclepias rear'd Their untrained stalks between; And the squirrel from the boughs His broken nuts let fall, And the merry, merry little birds Sang at his festival.

Yon old forsaken nests Returning spring shall cheer, And thence the unfledged robin breathe His greeting wild and clear; And from yon clustering vine, That wreathes the casement round, The humming-bird's unresting wings Send forth a whirring sound;

And where alternate springs The lilac's purple spire Fast by its snowy sister's side; Or where, with wing of fire, The kingly oriole glancing went Amid the foliage rare, Shall many a group of children tread, But mine will not be there.

Fain would I know what forms The mastery here shall keep, What mother in yon nursery fair Rocks her young babes to sleep: Yet blessings on the hallow'd spot, Though here no more I stray; And blessings on the stranger-babes, Who in those halls shall play.

Heaven bless you, too, my plants, And every parent bird, That here, among the woven boughs, Above its young hath stirred. I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, That often, o'er my head, The blossoms of your flowery spring In fragrant showers have shed.

Thou, too, of changeful mood, I thank thee, sounding stream, That blent thine echo with my thought, Or woke my musing dream. I kneel upon the verdant turf, For sure my thanks are due To moss-cup and to clover-leaf, That gave me draughts of dew.

To each perennial flower, Old tenants of the spot, The broad-leaf'd lily of the vale, And the meek forget-me-not; To every daisy's dappled brow, To every violet blue, Thanks! thanks! may each returning year Your changeless bloom renew.

Praise to our Father-God, High praise, in solemn lay, Alike for what his hand hath given, And what it takes away: And to some other loving heart May all this beauty be The dear retreat, the Eden-home, That it hath been to me.

NIAGARA.

FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on Unfathom'd 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 thine altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise.

Earth fears to lift The insect-trump, that tells her trifling joys Or fleeting triumphs 'mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves

Retire abashed. For he hath need to sleep, Sometimes, like a spent labourer, calling home His boisterous billows from their vexing play, To a long, dreary calm: but thy strong tide Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart forgets Its everlasting lesson, night nor day The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth, Heard thy hoarse anthem, mixing with their song Jehovah's name; and the dissolving fires, That wait the mandate of the day of doom To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscribed Upon thy rocky scroll.

The lofty trees That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore Of the too fitful winds; while their young leaves Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray, Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds, How bold they venture near, dipping their wing In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 't is meet For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud, Unblamed, or warble at the gate of heaven Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems Scarce lawful with our erring lips to talk Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace Thine awful features, with our pencil's point, Were but to press on Sinai.

Thou dost speak Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop From his right hand, —bidding the soul that looks Upon thy fearful majesty, be still, Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness, And lose itself in Him.

AUTUMN.

HAS it come, the time to fade? And with a murmur'd sigh, The Maple, in his scarlet robe, Was the first to make reply; And the queenly Dahlias droop'd Upon their thrones of state, The frost-king, with his baleful kiss, Had well forestall'd their fate.

Hydrangia, on her telegraph A hurried signal traced Of dire and dark conspiracy, That Summer's realm menaced; Then quick the proud exotic peers In consternation fled, And refuge in their green-house sought Before the day of dread.

The vine that o'er my casement climb'd And cluster'd day by day, I count its leaflets every morn, See, how they fade away; And, as they withering one by one Forsake their parent tree, I call each sere and yellow leaf A buried friend to me.

Put on thy mourning, said my soul, And, with a tearful eye, Walk softly 'mid the many graves Where thy companions lie. The violet, like a loving babe, When vernal suns were new, That met thee with a soft, blue eye, And lips all bathed in dew;

The lily, as a timid bride, While summer suns were fair, That put her snowy hand in thine, To bless thee for thy care; The trim and proud anemone, The daisy from the vale, The purple lilac towering high To guard his sister pale;

The ripen'd rose, where are they now? But from the rifled bower A voice came forth, "take heed to note Thine own receding hour, And let the strange and silver hair That o'er thy forehead strays, Be as a monitor, to tell The autumn of thy days."

TO AN ABSENT DAUGHTER.

WHERE art thou, bird of song? Brightest one and dearest? Other groves among, Other nests thou cheerest; Sweet thy warbling skill To each ear that heard thee, But 't was sweetest still To the heart that rear'd thee.

Lamb, where dost thou rest? On stranger-bosoms lying? Flowers, thy path that drest, All uncropp'd are dying; Streams where thou didst roam Murmur on without thee, Lov'st thou still thy home? Can thy mother doubt thee?

Seek thy Saviour's flock, To his blest fold going, Seek that smitten rock Whence our peace is flowing; Still should Love rejoice, Whatsoe'er betide thee, If that Shepherd's voice Evermore might guide thee.

WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR A SICK FRIEND.

RISE from the dells where ye first were born, From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn, Rise, for the dews of the morn are bright, And haste away, with your eyes of light.

— Should the green-house patricians, with withering frown, On your simple vestments look haughtily down, Shrink not, for His finger your heads hath bow'd, Who heeds the lowly, and humbles the proud.

— The tardy spring, and the chilling sky, Hath meted your robes with a miser's eye, And check'd the blush of your blossoms free; With a gentler friend your home shall be, To a kinder ear you may tell your tale Of the zephyr's kiss, and the scented vale: Ye are charmed! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh Is health to the bosom on which ye die.

SOLITUDE.

DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky.

Thither I went, And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount, For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife And fever of the world. —I thought to be There without witness. — But the violet's eye Look'd up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled, And the young pendent vine-flower kiss'd my cheek. There were glad voices too. —The garrulous brook, Untiring, to the patient pebbles told Its history. — Up came the singing breeze, And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake Responsive, every one. —Even busy life Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought To be alone and silent in thy realm, Spirit of life and love! —It might not be!—There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world Without a witness. Even the desert place Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams Are social and benevolent, and he Who holdeth converse in their language pure, Roaming among them at the cool of day, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest, His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

THE HAPPY FARMER.

SAW ye the farmer at his plough, As you were riding by? Or wearied 'neath his noon-day toil, When summer suns were high? And thought you that his lot was hard? And did you thank your God That you, and yours, were not condemn'd Thus like a slave to plod?

Come, see him at his harvest-home, When garden, field, and tree, Conspire with flowing stores to fill His barn and granary. His healthful children gaily sport Amid the new-mown hay, Or proudly aid, with vigorous arm, His task, as best they may.

The dog partakes his master's joy, And guards the loaded wain, The feathery people clap their wings, And lead their youngling train. Perchance, the hoary grandsire's eye The glowing scene surveys, And breathes a blessing on his race, Or guides their evening praise.

The Harvest-Giver is their friend, The Maker of the soil, And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread And cheers their patient toil. Come, join them round their wintry hearth, Their heartfelt pleasures see, And you can better judge how blest The farmer's life may be.

THE LONELY CHURCH.

IT stood among the chestnuts, its white spire And slender turrets pointing where man's heart Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs, Abruptly beautiful, above its head, Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, That just beyond in deep sequester'd vale Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs And varying sounds of village industry Swell'd from its margin, while the busy loom, Replete with radiant fabrics, told the skill Of the prompt artisan.

But all around The solitary dell, where meekly rose That consecrated church, there was no voice Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, And that unspoken lore with which the dead Do commune with the living. There they lay, Each in his grassy tenement, the sire Of many winters, and the noteless babe Over whose empty cradle, night by night, Sat the poor mother mourning, in her tears Forgetting what a little span of time Did hold her from her darling. And methought How sweet it were, so near the sacred house Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, And Sabbath after Sabbath gathered strength To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls; And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up Our simple tomb-stone witness to that faith Which cannot die.

Heaven bless thee, Lonely Church, And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band,

From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee, And drink the waters of eternal life: Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies, Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand To guide the living and to guard the dead.

NO CONCEALMENT.

THINK'ST thou to be conceal'd, thou little stream, That through the lonely vale dost wend thy way, Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide Of woven branches, blent with hillocks gray? The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy course Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green Tinting thy marge, and the white flocks that haste At summer noon to taste thy crystal sheen, Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day. And then, thy smiling answer to the moon, Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep, Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon — How couldst thou hope, in such a world as this, To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of bliss?

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed, That in the bosom of the earth art cast, And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st awhile, Unmoved by trampling storm or thunder blast? Thou bid'st thy time; for herald Spring shall come And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art, Unhood thy eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath, And stir the languid pulses of thy heart; The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews Weep o'er thy bed, and, ere thou art aware, Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem, The trembling bud, the flower that scents the air;

And soon, to all, thy ripen'd fruitage tells The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells.

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought, That in the curtain'd chamber of the soul Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do A secret work? Look to the hues that roll O'er the changed brow —the moving lips behold — Linking thee unto speech —the feet that run Upon thy errands, and the deeds that stamp Thy lineage plain before the noonday sun; Look to the pen that writes thy history down In those tremendous books that ne'er unclose Until the day of doom, and blush to see How vain thy trust in darkness to repose, Where all things tend to judgment. So, beware, Oh! erring human heart! what thoughts thou lodgest there.

THE BENEFACTRESS.

WHO asks if I remember thee? or speak thy treasured name? Doth the frail rush forget the stream from whence its greenness came? Doth the wilds lonely flower that sprang within some rocky dell Forget the first awakening smile that on its bosom fell?

Did Israel's exiled sons, when far from Zion's hill away, Forget the high and holy house, where first they learn'd to pray? Forget around their Temple's wreck to roam in mute despair,And o'er its hallow'd ashes pour a grief that none might share?

Remember thee? Remember thee? —though many a year hath fled, Since o'er thy pillow cold and low, the uprooted turf was spread,

Yet oft doth twilight's musing hour thy graceful form restore, And morning breathe the music-tone, like Memnon's harp of yore.

The simple cap that deck'd thy brow is still to Memory dear, Her echoes keep thy cherish'd song that lull'd my infant ear; The book, from which my lisping tongue was by thy kindness taught, Gleams forth, with all its letter'd lines, still fresh with hues of thought.

The flowers, the dear, familiar flowers, that in thy garden grew, From which thy mantel-vase was fill'd — methinks, they breathe anew; Again, the whispering lily bends, and ope those lips of rose, As if some message of thy love, they linger'd to disclose.

'T is true, that more than fourscore years had bow'd thy beauty low, And mingled, with thy cup of life, full many a dreg of woe, But yet thou hadst a better charm than youthful bloom hath found, A balm within thy chasten'd heart, to heal another's wound.

Remember thee? Remember thee? though with the blest on high, Thou hast a mansion of delight, unseen by mortal eye, Comes not thy wing to visit me, in the deep watch of night, When visions of unutter'd things do make my sleep so bright?

I feel thy love within my breast, it nerves me strong and high, As cheers the wanderer o'er the deep the pole-star in the sky, And when my weary spirit quails, or friendship's smile is cold, I feel thine arm around me thrown, as oft it was of old.

Remember thee! Remember thee! while flows this purple tide, I'll keep thy precepts in my heart, thy pattern for my guide, And, when life's little journey ends, and light forsakes my eye, Come, hovering o'er my bed of pain, and teach me how to die.

THE LITTLE HAND.

THOU wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep, And through its silken fringe Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep, Gleams forth with azure tinge.

With what a smile of gladness meek Thy radiant brow is drest, While fondly to a mother's cheek Thy lip and hand are prest!

That little hand! what prescient wit Its history may discern, When time its tiny bones hath knit With manhood's sinews stern?

The artist's pencil shall it guide? Or spread the adventurous sail? Or guide the plough with rustic pride, And ply the sounding flail?

Through music's labyrinthine maze, With dexterous ardour rove, And weave those tender, tuneful lays That beauty wins from love?

Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome With patient toil turn o'er? Or trim the lamp in classic dome, Till midnight's watch be o'er?

Well skilled, the pulse of sickness press? Or such high honour gain As, o'er the pulpit raised, to bless A pious listening train?

Say, shall it find the cherished grasp Of friendship's fervour cold? Or, shuddering, feel the envenom'd clasp Of treachery's serpent-fold?

Yet, oh! may that Almighty Friend, From whom existence came, That dear and powerless hand defend From deeds of guilt and shame.

Grant it to dry the tear of woe, Bold folly's course restrain, The alms of sympathy bestow, The righteous cause maintain —

Write wisdom on the wing of time, Even 'mid the morn of youth, And with benevolence sublime Dispense the light of truth —

Discharge a just, an useful part Through life's uncertain maze, Till coupled with an angel's heart, It strike the lyre of praise.

SILENT DEVOTION.

"The Lord is in his holy temple; — let all the Earth keep silence before him."

THE Lord is on his holy throne, He sits in kingly state; Let those who for his favour seek, In humble silence wait.

Your sorrows to his eye are known, Your secret motives clear, It needeth not the pomp of words To pour them on his ear.

Doth Death thy bosom's cell invade? Yield up thy flower of grass: Swells the world's wrathful billow high? Bow down, and let it pass.

Press not thy purpose on thy God, Urge not thine erring will, Nor dictate to the Eternal mind, Nor doubt thy Maker's skill.

True prayer is not the noisy sound That clamorous lips repeat, But the deep silence of a soul That clasps Jehovah's feet.

TO A DYING INFANT.

Go to thy rest, my child! Go to thy dreamless bed, Gentle and undefiled, With blessings on thy head, Fresh roses in thy hand, Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this fearful land, Where flowers so quickly fade.

Before thy heart might learn In waywardness to stray, Before thy foot could turn The dark and downward way; Ere sin might wound the breast, Or sorrow wake the tear, Rise to thy home of rest, In yon celestial sphere.

Because thy smile was fair, Thy lip and eye so bright, Because thy cradle-care Was such a fond delight, Shall Love, with weak embrace, Thy heavenward flight detain?No! Angel, seek thy place Amid yon cherub-train.

LINES.

FROM a bright hearth-stone of our land, A beam hath passed away, A smile, whose cheering influence seem'd Like morning to the day; A sacrificing spirit With innate goodness fraught, That ever for another's weal Employ'd its fervid thought.

That beam is gather'd back again To the Pure Fount of flame, That smile the Blessed Source hath found, From whence its radiance came, — That spirit hath a genial clime; And yet, methinks, 't will bend Sometimes, amid familiar haunts, Beside the mourning friend.

Yet better 't were to pass away, Ere evening shadows fell, To wrap in chillness, and decay, What here was loved so well; And strew unwither'd flowers around, When the last footsteps part, And leave in every nook of home, Sweet memories for the heart.

ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.

LOST! lost! lost! A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock, And graved in Paradise. Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light.

Lost —where the thoughtless throng In fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth folly's song, Leaving a sting behind; Yet to my hand 't was given A golden harp to buy, Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost! I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again; I offer no reward, For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand Who judgeth quick and dead, And when of scathe and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there?

MEMORY.

THE past she ruleth. At her wand Its temple-valves unfold, And from their glorious shrines descend The mighty forms of old; To her deep voice the dead reply, Dry bones are clothed and live, Long-perish'd garlands bloom anew, And buried joys revive.

When o'er the future many a shade Like saddening twilight steals, Or the dimm'd present to the heart Its vapidness reveals, She opes her casket, and a cloud Of treasured incense steams, Till with a lifted heart we tread The pleasant land of dreams.

Make friends of potent Memory, Oh young man, in thy prime, And store with jewels rich and rare Her hoard for hoary time; For if thou mockest her with weeds, — A trifler 'mid her bowers, — She'll drop their poison on thy soul'Mid life's disastrous hours.

Make friends of potent Memory Oh Maiden in thy bloom, And bind her closely to thy heart Before the days of gloom; For sorrow softeneth into joy Beneath her touch sublime, And she celestial robes can weave From the frail threads of time.

DEW-DROPS.

"FATHER, there are no dew-drops on my rose: I thought to find them, but they all are gone. Was Night a niggard? Or did cunning Dawn Steal those bright diamonds from the slumbering Day?" — The father answer'd not, but waved his hand, For the soft falling of a summer shower Made quiet music 'mid the quivering leaves, And through the hollows of the freshen'd turf Drew lines like silver. Then a bow sprang forth, Spanning the skies. "Seest thou yon glorious hues, Violet and gold? The dew-drops tremble there, That from the bosom of thy rose had fled, My precious child. Read thou the lesson well, That what is pure and beautiful on earth, Shall glow in Heaven." He knew not that he spake Prophetic words. But ere the infant moon Swell'd to a perfect orb its crescent pale, That gentle soul which on the parent's breast Had sparkled as a dew-drop, was exhaled, To mingle 'mid the brightness of the skies.