American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

CAROLINE GILMAN.

Biographical Sketch.

WHO, that has ever read the Recollections of a Southern Matron, with its wise clear thought, its delicate wit, its unaffected pathos, its fresh descriptions, and its vividly-drawn characters, but loves the name of Mrs. Caroline Gilman? Not we, assuredly. We must therefore be permitted to pay a warm tribute of gratitude for that most charming book. Mrs. Gilman, formerly Miss Howard, was born in Boston, in the year 1794. She married Dr. Samuel Gilman, a minister of a Unitarian church in Charleston, S.C., in 1819; and has resided ever since in that city, where both are distinguished for their high intellectual attainments, and venerated for their moral excellencies. For seven years Mrs. Gilman edited a literary gazette, called The Southern Rose. Her published works are, Recollections of a New-England House-keeper; Recollections of a Southern Matron; Tales and Ballads; Love's Progress; Letters of Eliza Wilkinson; Stories and Poems for Children; Poetry of Travelling in the United States; Oracles from the Poets; The Sibyl; and a volume of poetry now in the press, called, Verses of a Life-time. Her poems are unaffected and sprightly; inspired by warm domestic affection, and pure religious feeling.

MY PIAZZA.

MY piazza, my piazza! some boast their lordly halls, Where soften'd gleams of curtain'd light on golden treasure falls, Where pictures in ancestral rank look stately side by side, And forms of beauty and of grace move on in living pride!

I envy not the gorgeousness that decks the crowded room, Where vases with exotic flowers throw out their sick perfume, With carpets where the slipper'd foot sinks soft in downy swell, And mirror'd walls reflect the cheek where dimpled beauties dwell.

My fresh and cool piazza! I seek the healthy breeze That circles round thy shading vines, and softly-waving trees, With step on step monotonous, I tread thy level floor, And muse upon the sacred past, or calmly look before.

My bright and gay piazza! I love thee in the hour, When morning decks with dewy gems the wavy blade and flow'r, When the bird alights, and sings his song, upon the neighbouring tree, As if his notes were only made to cheer himself and me.

My cool and fresh piazza! I love thee when the sun His long and fervid circuit o'er the burning earth has run; I joy to watch his parting light loom upward to the eye, And view the pencil-touch shade off, and then in softness die.

My sociable piazza! I prize thy quiet talk, When arm in arm with one I love, I tread the accustomed walk; Or loll within our rocking-chairs, not over nice or wise, And yield the careless confidence, where heart to heart replies

My piazza, my piazza! my spirit oft rejoices, When from thy distant nooks I hear the sound of youthful voices; The careless jest, the bursting laugh, the carol wildly gay, Or cheerful step, with exercise that crowns the studious day.

My beautiful piazza! thou hast thy nightly boast, When brightly in the darken'd sky appear the heavenly host; Arcturus glows more brilliantly than monarchs' blazing gem, And fair Corona sits enshrined, like angels' diadem.

My loved and lone piazza! the dear ones have departed, And each their nightly pillow seek the young and happy-hearted, I linger still, a solemn hush is brooding o'er the skies, A solemn hush upon the earth in tender silence lies.

I feel as if a spirit's wing came near and brush'd my heart, And bade, before I yield to sleep, earth's heavy cares depart; Father, in all simplicity: I breathe the prayer I love, Oh, watch around my slumbering form, or take my soul above,

A SKETCH.

THE gay saloon was thronged with grace and beauty, While astral rays shone out on lovely eyes,And lovely eyes look'd forth a clearer beam. Fashion was there —not in her flaunting robes, Lavish of charms —but that fair sprite who moulds All to her touch, yet leaves it nature still. The light young laugh came reed-like on the ear, Touching the cord of joy, electrical; And smiles too graceful for a sound passed out From ruby lips, like perfume from a flower. Catching the gracious word of courtesy, The listening maid turn'd to the speaker's eye; And bowing in his honour'd lowliness, His manly head inclined to her slight form. There was a hum of social harmony, "Like the soft south" upon the rushing seas. Between its pauses burst the harp's rich tone, Pour'd out by one who fill'd the poet's eye With fond fruition of his classic dream. A voice was there —clear and distinct it rose, Like evening's star when other stars are dim; Clear, sweet and lonely, as that southern bird's Who on far turrets trills his midnight lay. In the heart's cavern, deep that voice went down, Waking up echoes of the silent past. O woman! lovely in thy beauty's power! Thrice lovely, when we know that thou canst turn To duty's path, and tread it with a smile.

"HE FOR GOD ONLY, SHE FOR GOD IN HIM."

WHEN Pleasure gilds thy passing hours, And Hope enwreaths her fairy flowers, And Love appears with playful hand To steal from Time his falling sand, Oh, then I'll smile with thee.

When nature's beauties bless thy sight, And yield a thrill of soft delight; When morning glories greet thy gaze, Or veiling twilight still delays, Then I'll admire with thee.

When the far-clustering stars unroll Their banner'd lights from pole to pole, Or when the moon glides queenly by, Looking in silence on thine eye, I'll gaze on Heaven with thee.

When music with her unsought lay Awakes the household holiday, Or Sabbath notes in concert strong Lift up the sacred wings of song,I'll sing those strains with thee.

But should misfortune hovering nigh Wrest from thy aching heart a sigh, Or, with an aspect chill and drear, Despondence draw the unbidden tear, Oh, then, I'll weep with thee.

Should poverty with withering hand Wave o'er thy head his care-wrought wand, And ope within thy soul the void That haunts a mind with hopes destroy'd, I'll share that pang with thee.

When youth and youthful pleasures fly, And earth is fading on thine eye, When life has lost its early charm, And all thy wish is holy calm, I'll love that calm with thee.

And when unerring death, at last, Comes rushing on time's fatal blast, And naught (not e'en my love) can save Thy form from the encroaching grave, I'll share that grave with thee.

And when thy spirit soars above, Wrapt in the foldings of God's love, Is it too much to ask of Heaven, That some low seat may there be given, Where I can bow near thee?

MY GARDEN.

MY garden, fresh and beautiful! — the spell of frost is o'er, And earth sends out its varied leaves, a rich and lavish store; My heart too breaks its wintry chain, with stem and leaf and flower, And glows in hope and happiness amid the spring-tide hour.

'T is sunset in my garden —the flowers and buds have caught Bright revelations from the skies in wondrous changes wrought; And as the twilight hastens on, a spiritual calm Seems resting on the quiet leaves which evening dews embalm.

'T is moonlight in my garden; like some fair babe at rest, The day-flower folds its silky wing upon its pulseless breast; Nor is it vain philosophy to think that plants may keep A holiday of airy dreams beneath their graceful sleep.

'T is morning in my garden; each leaf of crisped green Hangs tremulous in diamond gems with emerald rays between It is the birth of nature; baptized in early dew, The plants look meekly up and smile as if their God they knew.

My garden— fair and brilliant! — the butterfly outspread Alights with gentle fluttering on the wall-flower's golden head, Then darting to the lily-bed floats o'er its sheeted white, And settles on the violet's cup with fanciful delight.

My quiet little garden! — I hear the rolling wheel Of the city's busy multitude along the highway peal, I tread thy paths more fondly, and inhale the circling air That glads and cools me on its way from that wide mart of care.

My friendly little garden! few worldly goods have I To tender with o'erflowing heart in blessed charity, But, like the cup of water by a pure disciple given, An herb or flower may tell its tale of kindliness in heaven.

My faith-inspiring garden! thy seeds so dark and cold Late slept in utter loneliness amid earth's senseless mould; No sunbeams fell upon them, nor west-wind's gentle breath, But there they lay in nothingness, an image meet of death.

Now, lo! they rise in gorgeous ranks, and glad the eager eye, And on the wooing summer-breeze their odour passes by; The flower-grave cannot chain them; the spirit-life upsprings And scatters beauty in its path from thousand unseen wings.

My garden! may the morning dew rest lightly on thy bowers, And summer clouds distil around their most refreshing showers, And when the daily sun withdraws his golden tent above, May moon and stars look watchful down and bless thee with their love.

OLD AGE.

WHY should old age escape unnoticed here, That sacred era to reflection dear? That peaceful shore where passion dies away, Like the last wave that ripples o'er the bay? Oh, if old age were cancell'd from our lot, Full soon would man deplore the unhallow'd blot! Life's busy day would want its tranquil even, And earth would lose her stepping-stone to heaven.

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides; Look, how the violet roguishly hides; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the flies go about him one by one; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree, But very lazily flieth he, And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near, And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud; Books and work I no more should see, And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.

THE MOCKING-BIRD IN THE CITY.

BIRD of the south! is this a scene to waken Thy native notes in thrilling, gushing tone? Thy woodland nest of love is all forsaken — Thy mate alone!

While stranger-throngs roll by, thy song is lending Joy to the happy, soothings to the sad; O'er my full heart it flows with gentle blending, And I am glad.

And I will sing, though dear ones, loved and loving, Are left afar in my sweet nest of home; Though from that nest, with backward yearnings moving, Onward I roam!

And with heart-music shall my feeble aiding Still swell the note of human joy aloud; Nor, with untrusting soul, kind Heaven upbraiding, Sigh 'mid the crowd.