American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.

Biographical Sketch.

ELIZABETH CHANDLER was born at Centre, near Wilmington, Delaware, on the 24th of December, 1807. Her father was a respectable farmer, who had been educated liberally, and had studied medicine; but while he resided in the country devoted himself principally to agriculture. Her mother (whose maiden name was Margaret Evans) died when she was an infant; and soon after this event, the family removed to Philadelphia, where Elizabeth was placed under the care of her grandmother, attended a school established by the society of Friends, and quickly evinced her fondness for literary pursuits, and her genius for poetry.

Before she was sixteen, she had contributed many excellent articles in prose and verse, to some of the most popular magazines of the day; but her retiring habits, and determined resolution to keep back her name from the public, prevented her talents from obtaining the notice they deserved. She became a member of an Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia, and laboured with her pen very industriously in its behalf. In the summer of 1830, she removed with an aunt and brother to Michigan. The spot they chose for a dwelling was on the banks of the river Raisin, near the village of Tecumseh. Elizabeth gave it the name of Hazlebank, and enjoyed herself much amidst its wild forest scenes, searching after Indian traditions, and gathering food for poetry and romance from their legendary lore. Here she lived four years, loving and beloved; and here she died, most deeply regretted, and was buried under "her own transplanted forest-vine," in November, 1834.

Her productions show much poetic fervour, and, at the same time, are by no means wanting in correctness, and elegance of expression.

THE BRANDYWINE. * 1.1

MY foot has climb'd the rocky summit's height, And in mute rapture, from its lofty brow, Mine eye is gazing round me with delight, On all of beautiful, above, below:

The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow, Or onward dash in foam and sparkling sheen, While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant scene.

In sooth, from this bright wilderness 't is sweet To look through loop-holes form'd by forest-boughs, And view the landscape far beneath the feet, Where cultivation all its aid bestows, And o'er the scene an added beauty throws; The busy harvest group, the distant mill, The quiet cattle stretch'd in calm repose, The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill, All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill.

The very air that breathes around my cheek, The summer fragrance of my native hills, Seems with the voice of other times to speak, And, while it each unquiet feeling stills, My pensive soul with hallow'd memories fills: My fathers' hall is there; their feet have press'd The flower-gemm'd margin of these gushing rills, When lightly on the water's dimpled breast, Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would rest.

Oh! if there is in beautiful and fair, A potency to charm, a power to bless; If bright blue skies and music-breathing air, And nature in her every varied dress Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness, Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away Some cherished thought of thee for many a coming day.

But yet not utterly obscure thy banks, Nor all unknown to history's page thy name; For there wild war hath pour'd his battle ranks, And stamp'd in characters of blood and flame, Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. The wave that ripples on, so calm and still, Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim, The cannon's voice hath roll'd from hill to hill, And 'midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded shrill.

My country's standard waved on yonder height, Her red cross banner England there display'd, And there the German, who, for foreign fight, Had left his own domestic hearth, and made War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, Amidst the battle stood; and all the day, The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade, The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play, In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away.

Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright sky, And hung above them like a funeral pall, Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall. The work of death went on, and when the fall Of night came onward silently, and shed A dreary hush, where late was uproar all, How many a brother's heart in anguish bled O'er cherish'd ones, who there lay resting with the dead.

Unshrouded and uncoffin'd they were laid, Within the soldier's grave, e'en where they fell; At noon they proudly trod the field—the spade At night dug out their resting-place— and well And calmly did they slumber, though no bell Peal'd over them its solemn music slow; The night-winds sung their only dirge, their knell

Was but the owlet's boding cry of woe, The flap of night-hawk's wing, and murmuring waters' flow,

But it is over now, —the plough hath rased All trace of where war's wasting hand hath been; No vestige of the battle may be traced, Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene, Turns up some rusted ball; the maize is green On what was once the death-bed of the brave; The waters have resumed their wonted sheen; The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave, And nought remains to show the sleeping soldier's grave.

A pebble stone that on the war-field lay, And a wild-rose that blossom'd brightly there, Were all the relics that I bore away, To tell that I had trod the scene of war, When I had turn'd my footsteps homeward far. These may seem childish things to some; to me They shall be treasured ones; and, like the star That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea,They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandywine, to thee.

THE SOLDIER'S PRAYER.

Garden, in his "Anecdotes of the Revolution," when describing the sufferings of the army, mentions the circumstance of a soldier having earnestly entreated permission to visit his family, which was refused, on the ground that the same favour must be granted to others, who could not be spared without weakening the army, whose strength was already reduced by sickness. He acquiesced in the justice of the denial, but added, that to him refusal would be death. He was a brave and valuable soldier, and apparently in health at the time; —but his words were verified.

I CARE not for the hurried march through August's burning noon, Nor for the long cold ward at night, beneath the dewy moon; I've calmly felt the winter's storms, o'er my unshelter'd head. And trod the snow with naked foot, till every track was red!

My soldier's fare is poor and scant —'t is what my comrades share, Yon heaven my only canopy —but that I well can bear; A dull and feverish weight of pain is pressing on my brow, And I am faint with recent wounds —for that I care not now.

But oh, I long once more to view my childhood's dwelling-place, To clasp my mother to my heart —to see my father's face! To list each well remember'd tone, to gaze on every eye That met my ear, or thrill'd my heart, in moments long gone by.

In vain with long and frequent draught of every wave I sip, — A quenchless and consuming thirst is ever on my lip! The very air that fans my cheek no blessed coolness brings, —A burning heat or chilling damp is ever on its wings.

Oh! let me seek my home once more —for but a little while — But once above my couch to see my mother's gentle smile; It haunts me in my waking hours —'t is ever in my dreams, With all the pleasant paths of home, rocks, woods, and shaded streams.

There is a fount, — I know it well —it springs beneath a rock, Oh, how its coolness and its light, my feverish fancies mock! I pine to lay me by its side, and bathe my lips and brow, 'T would give new fervour to the heart that beats so languid now.

I may not —I must linger here —perchance it may be just! But well I know this yearning soon will scorch my heart to dust! One breathing of my native air had call'd me back to life — But I must die —must waste away beneath this inward strife .

THE DEVOTED.

IT was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who being asked where her husband was, when he lay concealed for having been deeply concerned in a conspiracy, resolutely answered that she had hidden him. This confession caused her to be carried before the governor, who told her that nought but confessing where she had hidden him, could save her from the torture. "And will that do?" said she. "Yes," replied the governor, "I will pass my word for your safety, on that condition." "Then," replied she, "I have hidden him in my heart, where you may find him."

STERN faces were around them bent, and eyes of vengeful ire, And fearful were the words they spake of torture, stake, and fire: Yet calmly in the midst she stood, with eye undimm'd and clear, And though her lip and cheek were white, she wore no sign of fear.

"Where is thy traitor spouse?" they said; — a half-form'd smile of scorn, That curl'd upon her haughty lip, was back for answer borne; — "Where is thy traitor spouse?" again, in fiercer notes, they said, And sternly pointed to the rack, all rusted o'er with red!

Her heart and pulse beat firm and free —but in a crimson flood, O'er pallid lip and cheek and brow, rush'd up the burning blood; She spake, but proudly rose her tones, as when in hall or bower. The haughtiest chief that round her stood had meekly own'd their power;

"My noble Lord is placed within a safe and sure retreat"— "Now tell us where, thou lady bright, as thou wouldst mercy meet,

Nor deem thy life can purchase his —he cannot 'scape our wrath, For many a warrior's watchful eye is placed o'er every path.

"But thou mayest win his broad estates to grace thine infant heir, And life and honour to thyself, so thou his haunts declare." She laid her hand upon her heart; her eye flash'd proud and clear, And firmer grew her haughty tread; — "My lord is hidden here!

"And if ye seek to view his form, ye first must tear away, From round his secret dwelling-place these walls of living clay!" They quail'd beneath her haughty glance, they silent turn'd aside, And left her all unharm'd amidst her loveliness and pride!

THE CHINESE SON.

The following lines were suggested by reading a narrative of a Chinese youth, whose mother felt great alarm during the prevalence of a thunder-storm, and whose filial affection always prompted him to be present with his mother on such occasions, and even after her death to visit and remain at her grave, during their continuance.

I COME to thee, my mother! the black sky Is swollen with its thunder, and the air Seems palpable with darkness, save when high, The lurid lightning streams a ruddy glare Across the heavens, rousing from their lair The deep-voiced thunders! how the mounting storm Strides o'er the firmament! yet I can dare Its fiercest terrors, mother, that my arm May wind its shield of love around thy sleeping form.

What uproar! raging winds, and smiting hail, The lightning's blaze, and deaf'ning thunder's crash,

Let loose at once for havoc! I should quailBefore the terrors of the forked flash, Did not the thought of thee triumphant dash All selfish fears aside, and bid me fly To kneel beside thy grave; the rain-drops plash Heavily round thee from the rifted sky; Yet I am here, fear not —beside thy couch I lie.

Thou canst not hear me — the storm brings not now One terror to thy bosom —yet 't is sweet To call to mind the smile, wherewith thy brow Was wont in by-gone days my step to greet, When o'er the earth the summer tempest beat, And the loosed thunder shook the heavens —but when Was there a look of mine that did not meet A smile of love from thee? the world of men A friend, like thou hast been, will never yield again.

Oh! mother, mother, how could love like thine Pass from the earth away! on other eyes, The glances of maternal love will shine, And still on other hearts the blessing lies, That made mine blissful; yet far less they prize That boon of happiness —and in their glee, Around their spirits gather many ties Of joy and tenderness —but all to me That made the earth seem bright, is sepulchred with thee.

They sometimes strive to lead me to the halls Where wine and mirth the fleeting moments wing, But on my clouded spirit sadness falls More darkly then, than when the cave-glooms fling Their shadows round me, and the night-winds sing Through the torn rocks their melancholy dirge, Or when as now the echoing thunder rings O'er the wide heavens, and the mad gales urge Unto an answering cry, the overmastering surge.

The storms of nature pass, and soon no trace Is left to mark their ravage —but long years Pass lingeringly onward, nor efface The deep-cut channel of our burning tears, Or aching scars, that wasting sorrow sears Upon the breast: lo! even now, a gleam Of moonlight through the broken clouds appears, To bless the earth again. I fain would dream, It was a smile of thine, to bless me with its beam.

Notes

• * 1.1

  A beautiful stream, flowing near the author's place of nativity.