American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

LOUISA JANE HALL

Biographical Sketch: Louisa Jane Hall

WAS born at Newburyport, Massachusetts, February 7th, 1802. Her father, Dr. John Park, was a physician; but at that time he had given up the practice of his profession, and was editing the Repertory, a well-known federal paper. In 1811, he opened a school for young ladies in Boston, (to which city he had removed several years before,) with a view of giving his daughter a more liberal education than was common at that period, and keeping her at the same time under his own immediate care. She improved her advantages to the utmost; the chaste and correct style of her writings shows that the study and discipline of her early years must have been thorough and unwavering. None of her poems appeared in print until after she was twenty; they were then published anonymously in the Literary Gazette, and other periodicals. Dr. Park removed to Worcester, Mass., in 1831, accompanied

by his daughter, who lived with him until October, 1840, when she married the Rev. E. B. Hall, of Providence, R. I., where she still resides.

Miriam, a Dramatic Sketch, the admirable production on which Mrs. Hall's fame as a poet chiefly rests, was begun in the summer of 1826, and finished the following summer. Not believing that it possessed sufficient merit to claim attention from the literary world, she allowed ten years to pass before publishing it; then the commendations it received, which were neither faint nor few, surprised no one so much as its modest author. The story is simple and interesting; the characters are drawn with much spirit and skill; and some passages display no ordinary amount of power and pathos. Her other principal work is in prose, Joanna of Naples, an Historical Tale; published in 1838. Ill health, failure of eyesight, and great distrust of her own powers, have prevented her from being a very prolific writer; but her essays and reviews which have occasionally appeared, and her successful efforts in poetry, prove that the deficiency lies, not in the talent, but the will to use it.

Extract from Miriam, a Dramatic Sketch.

PRAYER.

(FROM MIRIAM.)

THRASENO.

WHERE wouldst thou seek for peace or quietness, If not beside the altar of thy God?

MIRIAM.

Within these mighty walls of sceptred Rome A thousand temples rise unto her gods, Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, Graced with the proudest pomp of earth; their shrines Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades, Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms, Instinct with grace and godlike majesty, Their ever-smoking altars, white-robed priests, And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers ascend To greet th' unconscious skies, in the blue void

Lost like the floating breath of frankincense, And find no hearing or acceptance there. And yet there is an Eye that ever marks Where its own people pay their simple vows, Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness, Scourged by a stern and ever-watchful foe! There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet, Although it stir not more the sleeping air Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. Think'st thou, my father, this benignant God Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away From the poor sinful creature of his hand, Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer? Think'st thou He will not hear me, should I kneel Here in the dust beneath his starry sky, And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to Him, Making an altar of my broken heart?

MIRIAM EXPLAINS TO PAULUS WHY THEY MUST PART.

(FROM THE SAME.)

PAULUS.

My brain is pierced! Mine eyes with blindness smitten! and mine ear Rings faintly with the echo of thy words! Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith On woman's love, on woman's constancy? Maiden! look up! I would but gaze once more Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye, To read what aspect Perjury may wear, What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use, To lure the eye of guileless, manly love! Cruel, cold-blooded, fickle that thou art, Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover's eye?

How! there is light within thy lofty glance, A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm Upon thy lip and brow!

MIRIAM.

Ay, even so. A light — a flush — a calm — not of this earth! For in this hour of bitterness and woe, The Grace of God is falling on my soul, Like dews upon the with'ring grass which late Red scorching flames have sear'd. Again The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, Sheds on my breast its long-forgotten peace, And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, Lights me along the path that duty marks. Lover too dearly loved! a long farewell! The banner'd field —the glancing spear —the shout That bears the victor's name unto the skies, — The laurell'd brow —be thine —

PAULUS.

Maid! — now hear me! For by thine own false vows and broken faith, By thy deceitful lips, and dark, cold heart—

MIRIAM.

Great God, support me now! —It cannot be That from my Paulus' lips such bitter words —

PAULUS.

Such bitter words! nay, maiden, what were thine?

MIRIAM.

Mine were not spoken, love, in heat or wrath, But in th' uprightness of a heart that knew Its duty both to God and man, and sought Peace with its Maker —ere it broke. But thou —

PAULUS.

And I? —thou false one! am not I a man?

A Roman too? and is a Roman's heart A plaything made for girls to toy withal, And then to keep or idly fling away, As the light fancy of the moment prompts? Have I then stoop'd to win thy fickle love From my proud pinnacle of rank and fame. Wasting my youth's best season on a dream, Forgetful of my name, my sire, my gods, To be thus trifled with and scorn'd at last?

MIRIAM.

Canst thou not learn to hate me?

PAULUS.

O ye gods! With what a look of calm despair —

MIRIAM.

Ay, Paulus! Never, in all my deep despondency, In all the hours of dark presentiment In which my fancy often conjured up This scene of trial —did my spirit dream Of bitterness like that which now thy hand Is pouring in my cup of life. Alas! Must we then part in anger? shall this hour, With harsh upbraidings marr'd —

PAULUS.

Syren! in vain — Would I could learn to hate thee! trampling down The mem'ry of my fond and foolish love, As I would crush an adder 'neath my heel! But no! the poison rankles in my veins;—It may not be; —each look and tone of thine Tells me that yet thou art my bosom's queen, And each vain, frantic struggle only draws Closer around my heart the woven toils.

[A pause.]

Miriam! my pride is bow'd —my wrath subdued — My heart attuned e'en to thy slightest will, — So that thou yet wilt let me linger on, Hoping and dreaming that thou hat'st me not, Suffer'd to come at times, and sadly gaze Upon thy loveliness, as if thou wert A Dian shrined within her awful fane, Made to be look'd upon and idolized, But in whose presence passion's lightest pulse, Love's gentlest whisper, were a deadly sin. Cast me not from thee, love! send me not forth Blasted and wan into a heartless world, Amid its cold and glittering pageantry, To learn what utter loneliness of soul, What wordless, deep, and sick'ning misery, Is in the sense of unrequited love!

MIRIAM.

I cannot —must not hear thee. Even now A chord is touch'd within my soul. — Great God! Where is the strength thou didst vouchsafe of late? Anger —reproach — were better borne than this!

PAULUS.

Why should thy gentle nature thus be crush'd? Is not the voice within thee far more just Than the harsh dictates of thy gloomy faith? Thy stern and unrelenting Deity —

MIRIAM.

Youth! thou remindest me —thou dost blaspheme The God of Mercy whom I serve; and now Courage and strength return at once to nerve My trembling limbs, my weak and yielding soul. What wouldst thou have? that I should yet drag on A life of dark and vile hypocrisy, Days full of fear and nights of vain remorse, And love, though sinless, yet not innocent?

For well I know that when thy sunny smiles Are on me, sternly frowning doth look down My Maker on our stolen interview! It is a crime of dye too deep and dark To be wash'd out but with a life of tears, And penitence, and utter abstinence. I never will behold thy face again! My soul shall be unlock'd and purified, And there the eyes of those that love me well Shall find no dark and sinful mystery, Shunning a tender father's scrutiny, And weighing down my spirit to the dust. — Paulus! —again —farewell! yet —yet in peace We part!

PAULUS.

Maiden! by all my perish'd hopes, By the o'erwhelming passion of my soul, By the remembrance of that fatal hour When first I spake to thee of love — and thought That thou — Ay! by the sacred gods, I swear, I will not yield thee thus! In open day, Before my father's eyes —and bearing too Perchance his malediction on my head — Before the face of all assembled Rome, Bann'd though I be by all her priests and gods, —Thee —thee will I lead forth —my Christian bride!

MIRIAM.

Ay! sayst thou so, my Paulus? thou art bold, And generous. Meet bridal will it be — The stake —the slow red fire —perchance the den Of hungry lions, gnashing with white teeth In savage glee at sight of thy young bride, Their destined prey! for well thou know'st that these Are but the tend'rest mercies of thy sire To the scorn'd sect, whose lofty faith my soul

Holds fast through torments worse than aught that these Can offer to the clay wherein it dwells.

PAULUS.

Drive me not mad! — Nay — nay — I have not done; The dark cold waters of despair rise fast, But have not yet o'ertopp'd each resting-place. We will go forth upon the bounding sea, We two alone, and chase the god of day O'er the broad ocean, where each eve he dips His blazing chariot in the western wave, And seek some lonely isle of peace and love, Where ling'ring summer dwells the livelong year, Wasting the music of her happy birds, The unpluck'd richness of her golden fruits, The fragrance of her blossoms o'er the land. And we will be the first to tread the turf, And raise our quiet hearth and altars there, And thou shalt fearless bow before the Cross, Praying unto what unknown God thou wilt, While I —

MIRIAM.

No more, my Paulus! it is vain. Why should we thus unnerve our souls with dreams, With fancies wilder, idler far than dreams? Our destiny is fix'd! the hour is come! And wilt thou that a frail and trembling girl Should meet its anguish with a steadier soul Than thine, proud soldier!

MIRIAM APPEALS TO THE HEART OF PISO.

(FROM THE SAME.)

PISO.

Bold maiden! While thou art safe, go hence; for in his might The tiger wakes within me!

MIRIAM.

Be it so. He can but rend me where I stand. And here, Living or dying, will I raise my voice In a firm hope! The God that brought me here Is round me in the silent air. On me Falleth the influence of an unseen Eye! And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer, This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame. Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul! My father thou mayst slay! Flames will not fall From heaven to scorch and wither thee! The earth Will gape not underneath thy feet! and peace, Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still Thy home and hearth! But deep within thy breast A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, And know that even in death —is no repose! And this shall be thy life! Then a dark hour Will surely come—

PISO.

Maiden, be warn'd! All this I know. It moves me not.

MIRIAM.

Nay, one thing more Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth — Full as it is of young and gentle hearts — One man alone that loves a wretch like thee; And he, thou say'st, must die! All other eyes Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look, Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine; And he whose loving glance alone spake peace,

Thou say'st must die in youth! Thou know'st not yet The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, The throes and achings of a childless heart, Which yet will all be thine! Thou know'st not yet What 't is to wander 'mid thy spacious halls, And find them desolate! wildly to start From thy deep musings at the distant sound Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick—Ay! sick at heart —with dark remembrances! To dream thou seest him as in years gone by, When in his bright and joyous infancy, His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, And his soft arms were twined around thy neck, And his twin rosebud lips just lisp'd thy name — Yet feel in agony 't is but a dream! Thou know'st not yet what 't is to lead the van Of armies hurrying on to victory, Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour, Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume, Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fix'd In battle-field! —to sit, at midnight deep, Alone within thy tent —all shuddering —When, as the curtain'd door lets in the breeze, Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms And bright young hero-face of him who once Had been most welcome there! —and worst of all—

PISO.

It is enough! The gift of prophecy Is on thee, maid! A power that is not thine Looks out from that dilated, awful form — Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light — And stills my soul. —My Paulus must not die! And yet —to give up thus the boon! —