American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

JESSIE G. M'CARTEE.

Biographical Sketch.

ALTHOUGH the subject of this notice is entirely unknown to the literary world, never having written a book, or contributed to the magazines of the day, or imprinted her poetry anywhere except in the hearts of her family, and now and then in the pages of a country newspaper; yet we are gratified by the permission so kindly granted us, to place her pure and pious lays among those of the acknowledged American poetesses. Mrs. M'Cartee is the wife of the Rev. Dr. M'Cartee, of Goshen, Orange county, N.Y., where she has lived for a number of years, quietly and meekly fulfilling her responsible duties as a minister's wife, and the mother of a very large family. Her father, Mr. Divie Bethune, came from Scotland at an early age, and settled as a merchant in New York; where his active philanthropy, and unostentatious benevolence, made him known to all classes, rich and poor;

while, in a smaller circle, he was held up as a pattern of those virtues and graces which made him a perfect Christian gentleman. He died in 1824. Her mother is a daughter of the celebrated Isabella Graham, (whose name is too universally loved and honoured to need a word in passing, pleasant though it would be to render a tribute of grateful reverence to her memory,) and is herself distinguished in the religious world, for her unwearying energy and unfailing zeal in the cause of suffering humanity. "She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hand to the needy;" while multitudes of orphan "children rise up and call her blessed." Dr. Bethune of Philadelphia, the poet, orator, and divine, is the only brother of Mrs. M'Cartee. She has written much, (though not for publication,) having felt all her life the joy and consolation of poetry, and that nothing was sweeter than to sit in her quiet parsonage, while her fingers were busy with her needle, and weave her peaceful thoughts into pleasant rhymes or holy hymns.

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP.

How beautiful is sleep! Upon its mother's breast, How sweet the infant's rest! And who but she can tell how dear Her first-born's breathings 't is to hear.

Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers! When the moon her light doth shed; Still she rocks thy cradle bed, Singing in melodious numbers, Lulling thee with prayer or hymn, When all other eyes are dim.

How beautiful is sleep! Behold the merry boy! His dreams are full of joy, He breaks the stillness of the night With tuneful laugh of wild delight.

E'en in sleep, his sports pursuing, Through the woodland's leafy wild, Now he roams a happy child, Flow'rets all his pathway strewing; And the morning's balmy air Brings to him no toil or care.

How beautiful is sleep! Where youthful Jacob slept, Angels their bright watch kept, And visions to his soul were given, That led him to the gate of Heaven.

Exiled Pilgrim! many a morrow, When thine earthly schemes were cross'd, Mourning o'er thy loved and lost, Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow For that blessed hour of prayer, And exclaim, God met me there!

How blessed was that sleep The sinless Saviour knew! In vain the storm winds blew, Till he awoke to others' woes, And hush'd the billows to repose.

Why did ye the master waken? Faithless ones! there came an hour, When, alone in mountain bower, By his loved ones all forsaken, He was left to pray and weep, When ye all were wrapp'd in sleep.

How beautiful is sleep! The sleep that Christians know: Ye mourners! cease your woe, While soft upon his Saviour's breast The Righteous sinks to endless rest.

Let him go! the day is breaking, Watch no more around his bed, For his parted soul hath fled. Bright will be his heavenly waking! And the morn that greets his sight, Never ends in death or night.

THE STREAM IN THE DESERT.

"The Lord spake unto Moses, Gather the people together, and I will give them water. Then Israel sang this song, Spring up, O well: sing ye unto it."

—Numbers xxi. 16, 17.

FROM the parch'd bosom of the desert bursting, Spring forth, oh stream, to bless us on our way; Revive our fainting spirits, cheer the thirsting, Spring forth! and let thy crystal waters play.

Flow on rejoicing, through the deep wilds wending, Till the green herb shall blossom on thy brink, And wild gazelles o'er thy bright bosom bending, Shall quaff from thee their cool refreshing drink.

Roll on! not long we pitch our tents beside thee, Pure fountain for our fainting spirits made! Yet He who bade thee flow can fill and guide thee, When far from thee our pilgrim feet have stray'd.

Still on thy waters may the sunbeams quiver, And the mild moon shed down her silver light, Till with the billows of some ancient river Thy sparkling treasures mingle and unite.

Thus spake the Hebrews, in the desert singing, Asking in faith what God design'd to give, And the glad water from the dry sands springing, Burst forth, and bade the dying pilgrim live.

THE DEATH OF MOSES.

LED by his God, on Pisgah's height The pilgrim-prophet stood; When first fair Canaan bless'd his sight, And Jordan's crystal flood.

Behind him lay the desert ground His weary feet had trod; While Israel's host encamp'd around, Still guarded by their God.

With joy the aged Moses smiled On all his wanderings past, While thus he pour'd his accents mild Upon the mountain blast: —

" I see them all before me now, — The city and the plain, From where bright Jordan's waters flow, To yonder boundless main.

"Oh! there, the lovely promised landWith milk and honey flows; Now, now, my weary murm'ring band Shall find their sweet repose.

"There groves of palm and myrtle spread O'er valleys fair and wide; The lofty cedar rears its head On every mountain side.

"For them the rose of Sharon flings Her fragrance on the gale; And there the golden lily springs, The lily of the vale.

"Amid the olive's fruitful boughsIs heard a song of love, For there doth build and breathe her vows The gentle turtle-dove.

"For them shall bloom the clustering vine, The fig-tree shed her flowers, The citron's golden treasures shine From out her greenest bowers.

"For them, for them, but not for me, Their fruits I may not eat; Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea, Shall lave my pilgrim feet.

"'T is well, 't is well, my task is done, Since Israel's sons are blest; Father, receive thy dying one To thy eternal rest!"

Alone he bade the world farewell, To God his spirit fled. Now to your tents, oh! Israel, And mourn your prophet dead!

THE HEAVENLY SONG.

"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain."

—Rev.v. 22.

ALL hail to thee! All hail to thee! Thou Lamb enthroned in glory; We'll praise thee through eternity, And cast our crowns before thee.

No more the helpless babe who slept In Bethlehem's lowly manger, Nor Man of sorrows, he who wept, On earth a lonely stranger.

No thorny crown is round thy brow, No more in anguish bleeding, Angelic hosts before thee bow, But not for mercy pleading.

Thy blood-bought flock all safely rest Within thy fold in heaven; Their happy souls for ever blest, Their many sins forgiven.

All hail to thee! All hail to thee! Thou Lamb enthroned in glory, We'll praise thee through eternity, And cast our crowns before thee!