American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ELIZA FOLLEN

Biographical Sketch: Eliza Follen

WAS born in Boston, but now resides in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She was married in September, 1828, to Professor Charles Follen, who perished in the conflagration of the steamer Lexington, in the winter of 1839. Her chief work is theMemoirof her husband, published in five volumes; but several other interesting books in prose have appeared from her pen: Sketches of Married Life, The Skeptic, The Well-spent Hour, Selections from Fenelon, The Warning, etc. In poetry, she has written Hymns, Songs, and Fables for children; and another little book called Nursery Songs. A volume of Poems was published in Boston in 1839; from which we select the following pieces, as a fair specimen of her sweet and serious style.

WINTER SCENES IN THE COUNTRY.

THE short, dull, rainy day drew to a close; No gleam burst forth upon the western hills, With smiling promise of a brighter day, Dressing the leafless woods with golden light; But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round, And the unceasing rain pour'd like a torrent on. The wearied inmates of the house draw near The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed;

A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say, Now let the darkness and the rain prevail; Here all is bright! How beautiful is the sound Of the descending rain! how soft the wind Through the wet branches of the drooping elms! But hark! far off, beyond the sheltering hills, Is heard the gathering tempest's distant swell, Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes. The stream, that glided through its pebbly way To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on; The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh; The gentle south has ceased; the rude northwest, Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth. The rain is changed into a driving sleet, And when the fitful wind a moment lulls, The feathery snow, almost inaudible, Falls on the window-panes as soft and still As the light brushings of an angel's wings, Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts 'Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life. The tighten'd strings of nature's ceaseless harp Send forth a shrill and piercing melody, As the full swell returns. The night comes on, And sleep upon this little world of ours Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings; and man —The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth, The bold interpreter of nature's voice, Giving a language even to the stars — Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart, Is still; and all unheeded is the storm, Save by the wakeful few who love the night; Those pure and active spirits that are placed As guards o'er wayward man; they who show forth God's holy image on the soul impress'd, They listen to the music of the storm,

And hold high converse with the unseen world; They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep.

The stormy night has pass'd; the eastern clouds Glow with the morning's ray; but who shall tell The peerless glories of this winter day? Nature has put her jewels on; one blaze Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues Bursts on the enraptured sight. The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head; The graceful elm and all the forest trees Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem All deck'd and trick'd out for a holiday, And every stone shines in its wreath of gems. The pert, familiar robin, as he flies From spray to spray, showers diamonds round, And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes. The universe looks glad; but words are vain, To paint the wonders of the splendid show. The heart exults with uncontroll'd delight. The glorious pageant slowly moves away, As the sun sinks behind the western hills. So fancy, for a short and fleeting day, May shed upon the cold and barren earth Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues; And thus they melt and fade away, and leave A cold and dull reality behind.

But see where in the clear, unclouded sky, The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke, Doth charm away the spirit of complaint. Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills, Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow Upon this world of beauty, and of sin, That mingle not with that whereon they rest; —

So should immortal spirits dwell below. There is a holy influence in the moon, And in the countless hosts of silent stars, The heart cannot resist: its passions sleep, And all is still; save that which shall awake When all this vast and fair creation sleeps.

ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.

THE young, the lovely pass away, Ne'er to be seen again; Earth's fairest flowers too soon decay; Its blasted trees remain.

Full oft we see the brightest thing That lifts its head on high, Smile in the light, then droop its wing, And fade away, and die.

And kindly is the lesson given, Then dry the falling tear; They came to raise our hearts to heaven, They go to call us there.

"TO WHOM SHALL WE GO?"

WHEN our purest delights are nipt in the blossom, When those we love best are laid low, When grief plants in secret her thorns in the bosom, Deserted, "to whom shall we go?"

When error bewilders, and our path becomes dreary, And tears of despondency flow; When the whole head is sick, and the whole heart is weary, Despairing, "to whom shall we go?"

When the sad, thirsty spirit turns from the springs Of enchantment this life can bestow, And sighs for another, and flutters its wings, Impatient, "to whom shall we go?"

O, blest be that light which has parted the clouds, A path to the pilgrim to show, That pierces the veil which the future enshrouds, And shows us to whom we may go.

TO MY AEOLIAN HARP.

AS IT WAS PLAYING ON A COLD, STORMY DAY.

SAY, was it, my harp, the invisible wing Of a spirit that pas'd o'er thy musical string? And comes it in love, with its light, airy hand, To play me a song from the heavenly land?

Though chill is the wind, and fitful it blows, Yet sweet as in summer thy music still flows; But, when rages the blast, and contending winds roar, In silence you wait till the tempest is o'er.

And thus, like thy strings, is the virtuous mind, Harmonious e'en in adversity's wind; But, when by the tempests of life it is driven, It remembers, in silence, the storm is from Heaven.

THE LITTLE SPRING.

BENEATH a green and mossy bank There flows a clear and fairy stream; There the pert squirrel oft has drank, And thought, perhaps, 't was made for him.

Their pitchers there the labourers fill,As drop by drop the crystals flow,

Singing their silvery welcome stillTo all who to the fountain go.

Then to the river on it glides, Its tributary drop to bear; Its modest head a moment hides, Then rises up and sparkles there.

The touching lesson on my heart Falls like the gentle dews of heaven, Bids me with humble love impart The little treasure God has given.

For from a source as small as this Full many a cup of joy may flow, And on the stream of human bliss Its little ray of gladness throw.