American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

EMMA C. EMBURY.

Biographical Sketch.

THIS gifted lady was born in New York, where her father, Dr. Manly, has been practising as a physician many years. She was married when quite young to Mr. Embury, a gentleman of wealth and education, who himself possesses no small claim to distinction, for his superior talents, and high intellectual attainments. He is considered one of the first mathematicians in the country. Mrs. Embury wrote for the various periodicals at an early age, under the name of Ianthe; and in the year 1828, these contributions, with many other pieces, were collected into a volume, called Guido and other Poems. Her juvenile productions, however, although in their versification remarkably flowing and sweet, are not to be compared with her after works, which are written with great freshness and vigour, and display as much sound sense as tender sentiment.

In the course of a few years Mrs. Embury became very popular as a prose-writer; published a work on Female Education; after that, Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl; and several tales of much beauty, and moral excellence. A little book, Love's Token Flowers, appeared in 1845, which she says in the short preface prefixed to it, "differs from other works of floral sentiment, inasmuch as it is not a compilation, but a collection of original poems;" adding, "though they are perhaps but little worthy of appropriation, yet they have that value which the simple

philosophy of Touchstone recognises, a poor thing, sir, but my own." This modest little book contains many of the most exquisite songs that were ever written, the pure melodious accents of music-making love; and a few larger poems, more serious, but not less sweet. Mrs. Erabury has recently written a prose work called Glimpses of Home Life, which well sustains the reputation which has so long been hers, as one of the most useful and attractive of American authoresses.

Mrs. Embury resides at Brooklyn, where she has lived ever since her marriage. Her many home-bred virtues and capabilities, her well-ordered household, and the happiness, harmony, and content which reign there, prove a delightful contradiction to the vulgar idea, that women of genius cannot be women of domestic worth. But it is certainly true, as a noble writer of great penetration (Hannah More) affirms, that "those women who are so puffed up with the conceit of talents, as to neglect the plain duties of life, will not often be found to be women of the best abilities." No employment of native genius, however lofty and honourable in itself considered, no exertion after the applause, the gratification, or even the improvement of the public, can absolve a wife and mother from her highest, holiest obligation —to make home happy.

"THE NIGHT COMETH."

YE, who in the field of human life Quickening seeds of wisdom fain would sow, Pause not for the angry tempest's strife, Shrink not from the noontide's fervid glow —Labour on, while yet the light of day Sheds abroad its pure and blessed ray, For the Night cometh!

Ye, who at man's mightiest engine stand Moulding noble thought into opinion, Oh, stay not, for weariness, your hand, Till ye fix the bounds of truth's dominion; Labour on, while yet the light of day Sheds upon your toil its blessed ray, For the Night cometh!

Ye, to whom a prophet voice is given, Stirring men, as by a trumpet's call, Utter forth the oracles of Heaven — Earth gives back the echoes as they fall: Rouse the world's great heart, while yet the day Breaks life's slumber with its blessed ray, For the Night cometh!

Ye, who in home's narrow circle dwell, Where Love's flame lights up the household hearth, Weave the silken bond, and frame the spell, Binding heart to heart throughout the earth; Pleasant toil is yours; the light of day On nought holier sheds its blessed ray, Yet the Night cometh!

Diverse though our paths in life may be, Each is sent some mission to fulfil; Fellow-workers in the world are we, While we seek to do our Master's will; But our doom is labour, while the day Points us to our task, with blessed ray, For the Night cometh!

Fellow-workers are we: hour by hour, Human tools are shaping Heaven's great schemes, Till we see no limit to man's power, And reality outstrips old dreams. Toil and struggle, therefore, work and weep, In God's acre ye shall calmly sleep, When the Night cometh!

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

ST. MATTHEW, viii. 24-27.

MIDNIGHT was on the mighty deep, And darkness filled the boundless sky, While 'mid the raging wind was heard The sea-bird's mournful cry; For tempest clouds were mustering wrath Across the seaman's trackless path.

It came at length —one fearful gust Rent from the mast the shivering sail, And drove the helpless bark along, The plaything of the gale, While fearfully the lightning's glare Fell on the pale brows gathered there.

But there was one o'er whose bright face Unmarked the livid lightnings flashed; And on whose stirless, prostrate form Unfelt the sea-spray dashed; For 'mid the tempest fierce and wild, He slumbered like a wearied child.

Oh! who could look upon that face, And feel the sting of coward fear? Though hell's fierce demons raged around, Yet heaven itself was here; For who that glorious brow could see, Nor own a present Deity?

With hurried fear they press around The lowly Saviour's humble bed, As if his very touch had power To shield their souls from dread;

While, cradled on the raging deep, He lay in calm and tranquil sleep.

Vainly they struggled with their fears, But wilder still the tempest woke, Till from their full and o'erfraught hearts The voice of terror broke: "Behold! we sink beneath the wave, We perish, Lord! but thou canst save."

Slowly he rose; and mild rebuke Shone in his soft and heaven-lit eye: "Oh ye of little faith," he cried, "Is not your master nigh? Is not your hope of succour just? Why know ye not in whom ye trust?"

He turned away, and conscious power Dilated his majestic form, As o'er the boiling sea he bent, The ruler of the storm; Earth to its centre-felt the thrill, As low he murmured: " Peace! Be still!"

Hark to the burst of meeting waves, The roaring of the angry sea! A moment more, and all is hushed In deep tranquillity; While not a breeze is near to break The mirrored surface of the lake.

Then on the stricken hearts of all Fell anxious doubt and holy awe, As timidly they gazed on him Whose will was nature's law: "What man is this," they cry, "whose word E'en by the raging sea is heard?"

JANE OF FRANCE.

"Jeanne de France étoit fille de Louis XI. et soeur de Charles VIII. On la mari a l'age de vingt deux ans avec Louis XII., l'an 1476. Elle en usa bien avec lui pendant qu' il etoit disgracie; et ce fut elle qui, par ses prières, le fit sortir de prison, l'an 1491; mais cela ne fut point capable de balancer dans le coeur de son mari l'inclination violente qu' il avoit pour la veuve de Charles VIII. C'etoit Anne de Bretagne, il l'avoit aimée, et en avoit été aimé avant qu' elle epousât Charles. Afin donc de contenter son envie, il fit rompre son mariage, et il promit tant de récompense au Pape Alexandre VI. qu' il en obtint tout ce qu' il voulut."

—Bayle —Dictionnaire.

PALE, cold and statue-like she sate, and her impeded breath Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of death, While listening to the harsh decree that robbed her of a throne, And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world alone.

And fearful was her look; in vain her trembling maidens moved, With all affection's tender care, round her whom well they loved; Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless spell, Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their embrace she fell.

How bitter was the hour she woke from that long dreamless trance! The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane of France; But soon her o'erfraught heart gave way, tears came to her relief, And thus, in low and plaintive tones, she breathed her hopeless grief:

"Oh! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy shrine My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant grasp of thine, And yet I hoped —My own beloved, how may I teach my heart To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must part?

"Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah! I fondly thought That years of such deep love as mine some change ere this had wrought; I dreamed the hour might yet arrive, when, sick of passion's strife, Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected wife.

"Vain, foolish hope! how could I look upon thy glorious form, And think that e'er the time might come when thou wouldst cease to charm? For ne'er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty's magic art, Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful heart.

"In vain from memory's darkened scroll would other thoughts erase The loathing that was in thine eye, whene'er it met my face: Oh! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all-seeing sun, To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look upon.

"Woe, woe for woman's weary lot, if beauty be not hers; Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs; And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart's dearth, The hour that fixed her fearful doom —a helot from her birth.

"I would thou hadst been cold and stern, — the pride of my high race Had taught me then from my young heart thine image to efface; But surely even love's sweet tones could ne'er have power to bless My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tenderness.

"Alas! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul,And bid th' unbending spirit bow that never knew control; But harder still when thus the heart against itself must rise, And struggle on, while every hope that nerved the warfare dies.

"Yet all this have I borne for thee —ay, for thy sake I learned The gentleness of thought and word which once my proud heart spurned; The treasures of an untouched heart, the wealth of love's rich mine, These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol's shrine.

"In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, 'twas mockery of prayer; In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis there: To him I gave the worship that I should have paid my God, But oh! should his have been the hand to wield the avenging rod?

ABSENCE.

COME to me, Love; forget each sordid duty That chains thy footsteps to the crowded mart, Come, look with me upon earth's summer beauty, And let its influence cheer thy weary heart. Come to me, Love!

Come to me, Love; the voice of song is swelling From nature's harp in every varied tone, And many a voice of bird and bee is telling A tale of joy amid the forests lone; Come to me, Love!

Come to me, Love; my heart can never doubt thee, Yet for thy sweet companionship I pine; Oh, never more can joy be joy without thee, My pleasures, even as my life, are thine; Come to me, Love!

FAREWELL.

Go, dearest one, nor think my heart Will ever breathe a sigh, Because it never more may share Thy glorious destiny, My love has never sought reward, 'T was joy enough for me To dwell within my solitude, And cherish thoughts of thee.

While yet a child I freely gave Affection's untold wealth, Since then I've seen the swift decay Of hope, and joy, and health, Yet murmured not at Heaven's decree, Though thus of all bereft, While thou, beloved, wert at my side, A world of bliss was left.

Though other ties thy soul may bind, Though we are doomed to part, Yet still it is no sin to hide Thine image in my heart; So sweet, so holy was the spell By Love around me cast, That even now I would not wake, Although the charm be past.

Within thy memory by-past daysWill leave a pleasant trace,

[figure] The Bride

Not all another's happier love Those bright tints can efface; Her lot must be a joyous one, IF thou her fate control, But I have known that higher bliss — A union of the soul.

Farewell, beloved one: when thy brow The laurel-crown shall bind, When men are taught by thee to own The sovereignty of mind, Then think of one who looks on thee With more than woman's pride, And glories in the thought that she Has been thy spirit's bride.

MAIDEN PURITY.

(THE LILY OF THE NILE.)

BE thine the emblem, sweet one —watch and pray, Win thy young, stainless heart from earthly things; Oh! wait not thou till life's bright morning ray Only o'er blighted hopes its radiance flings, But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now, Ere sorrow's tracery mar thy placid brow.

Sinless and pure thou art, yet is thy soul Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams, Sweet fantasies that mock at truth's control, Like atoms round thee float in fancy's beams; But trust them not, young dreamer —bid them flee, They have deceived all others, and will thee.

Well can I read thy thoughts —thy gentle heart (Already woman's in its wish to bless) Now longs for one to whom it may impart Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,

And yearns to know the meaning of the thrill That wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.

Thou dreamest of love's happiness, —the deep And placid joy which poets paint so well. Alas! our passions, even when they sleep, Like ocean waves, are heaved with secret swell, And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh, Know 't is the wailing of the storm gone by.

Vain, vain are all thy visions; couldst thou know The secrets of a woman's weary lot, Oh! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot, In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down, And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown.

HOW HAVE I THOUGHT OF THEE?

How have I thought of thee? as flies The dove to seek her mate, Trembling lest some rude hand has made Her sweet home desolate; Thus timidly I seek in thine, The only heart that throbs with mine.

How have I thought of thee? as turns The flower to meet the sun, E'en though, when clouds and storms arise, It be not shone upon: Thus, dear one, in thine eye I see The only light that beams for me.

How have I thought of thee? as dreams The mariner of home, When doomed o'er many a weary waste Of waters yet to roam;

Thus doth my spirit turn to thee, My guiding star o'er life's wild sea.

How have I thought of thee? as kneels The Persian at the shrine Of his resplendent god, to watch His earliest glories shine; Thus doth my spirit bow to thee, My soul's own radiant deity.

CONFIDENCE IN HEAVEN.

IT is in vain the weary spirit strives With that which doth consume it; —there is born A strength from suffering which can laugh to scorn The stroke of sorrow, even though it rives Our very heart-strings; —but the grief that livesFor ever in the heart, and day by day Wastes the soul's high-wrought energies away, And wears the lofty spirit down, and gives Its own dark hue to life, oh! who can bear? Yet, as the black and threatening tempests bring New fragrance to earth's flowers, and tints more fair, So beneath sorrow's nurture virtues spring. Youth, health, and hope, may fade, but there is left A soul that trusts in Heaven, though thus of all bereft.

REMEMBRANCE.

THOU hast left us, and for ever; The light of those sweet eyes Will beam upon us never Till we meet beyond the skies. Life's sunshine was around thee, The world looked glad and bright, And the ties of love that bound thee Might have stayed thy spirit's flight;

But the bonds that earth entwineth Are all too weak to stay, When the far off Heaven shineth, The spirit's upward way.

Thou hast left us, and for ever; Thy smile of quiet mirth, Thy low sweet voice, shall never Soothe our aching hearts on earth; The joys thy presence cherished Like mourning dreams have fled, And many a fair hope perished Upon thy narrow bed. For the love that we have borne thee Thy loss we needs must weep, But even while we mourn thee, We envy thee thy sleep.

LOVE ME STILL.

WHEN 'mid the festive scene we meet, To joyous bosoms dear, Though other voices fall more sweet Upon thy listening ear, Yet scorn not thou my ruder tone; Oh! think my heart is all thine own, And love me still.

When o'er young Beauty's cheek of rose Thine eye delighted strays, Half proud to watch the blush that glows Beneath thine ardent gaze, Oh! think that but for sorrow's blight My faded cheek had yet been bright, And love me still.

POOR, BUT HAPPY.

WE'LL have a cot Upon the banks of some meandering stream, Whose ripple, like the murmur of a dream, Shall be our music: roses there shall twine Around the casement, with the jessamine, Whose starry blossoms shine out from beneath Their veiling leaves, like hope, and whose faint breath Is sweet as memory's perfume. All the flowers That nature in her richest bounty showers Shall deck our home: fresh violets, that, like light, And love, and hope, dwell everywhere; the bright And fragrant honeysuckle, too; our feet Shall press the daisy's bloom. Oh! 't will be sweet To sit within the porch at eventide, And drink the breath of heaven at thy dear side. The sky will wear a smile unseen before, The sun for me more genial light will pour, Earth will give out its treasures rich and rare, New health will come in every balmy air.

Then thou wilt ope to me great Nature's book, And nightly on the star-gemmed heavens we'll look; Thou, with the pride of knowledge, wilt unfold The mighty chart where science is enrolled, And gaily smile when I recount to thee My wild and wayward flights of fantasy; For the frail beings of my dreamy heaven Shrink from the light by scholiast wisdom given. Wilt thou not joy to see the vivid glow Of my expanded mind, when I shall owe Its treasures all to thee?

Methinks it would be grief for me to bear E'en bliss, beloved, unless thou too might share; But oh! were joy poured forth in such excess, My heart would break from very happiness.

ERROR.

BECAUSE my heart dwelt not like cloistered nun In lonely cell unquiet silence keeping, Because it went forth 'neath Hope's blessed sun, And freely shared another's joy and weeping, Thou hast mistaken me.

Because my sympathy awoke from sleep, And frankly did unclose affection's portal To thoughts of tenderness as pure, as deep, As ever proved the human soul immortal, Thou hast mistaken me.

Because thy feebler spirit, lacking power, By generous thought such priceless love to measure, Awoke its base distrust in that sweet hour When my fond heart revealed its hidden treasure, Thou hast mistaken me.

INQUIETUDE.

METHOUGHT the icy hand of Time had chilled The gushing fount of passion in my breast — Methought that Reason's power, for aye, had stilled The bitter struggles of my heart's unrest.

Cold, calm, and self-possessing, I had deemed In quiet now to view life slip away — Forgetting much that once my soul had dreamed, And lengthening out in peace my little day.

Safe in indifference, I had vainly hoped To scorn the sympathy I might not share, And little thought mine own hand would have oped My bosom's portal to returning care.

How burns the blush of shame upon my cheek —How bends to earth in grief my haughty brow, When thus I find myself disarmed and weak Before the ideal shapes that haunt me now!

Oh God! how long, misled by erring thought, Shall I grope darkly on in feeling's maze? When shall I be by Time's sad lessons taught, And reach my home of rest by quiet ways?

OH! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE.

OH! tell me not of lofty fate, Of glory's deathless name; The bosom Love leaves desolate, Has naught to do with fame.

Vainly philosophy would soar — Love's height it may not reach; The heart soon learns a sweeter lore Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poisoned draught, The altar may be cold, But yet the chalice will be quaffed —The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away To seek ambition's goal; Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray, May charm his weary soul; —

But woman knows one only dream —That broken, all is o'er; For on life's dark and sluggish stream Hope's sunbeam rests no more.

DARK THOUGHTS.

AH! is this, then, the common lot — The end of earthly love and trust? To be by cherished ones forgot, When the frail body sleeps in dust? Shall hearts, which now with love run o'er, Retain for us no deeper trace Than leaves the foot-print on the shore, Which the next wavelet may efface?

Shall those who once could only live Within the sunshine of our smile, To whom existence could not give A joy unshared by us the while: Shall they 'mid other joys live on, And form anew affection's tie, When we from earth's delights are gone, For ever hid from human eye?

Ay, thus it is th' eternal laws That rule our nature are obeyed: Not in mid conflict may we pause To linger long where love is laid; We pile the turf above the breast Which pillowed oft our aching head, Then turn, and leave unto its rest Our buried, half-forgotten dead.

Tears —the heart's desolating rain, Awhile upon our path may fall,

But hope's sweet sunshine smiles again On all things save the funeral pall:—Anon the dirge's mournful measure Is changed to some less saddening strain, And soon the echoing voice of pleasure Tells Love and Grief alike were vain.

We form new schemes of future bliss, New flowers spring up to cheer our way, And scarcely from our side we miss The partners of life's earlier day; Alas! how vain our noblest feelings, How idle would affection seem, Did not God give us bright revealings Of Life, where Love is not a dream!

HEEDLESSNESS.

WHEN like a fairy scene, in youth, The untried world is spread before us, When fancy wears the garb of truth, And sunny skies are shining o'er us; When never yet a dream of woe The heart's deep sympathies have stirred, How little then our spirits know The evils of a thoughtless word!

When one by one our joys depart, When hope no more each bright hour measures, When, like a Niobe, the heart Sits lonely 'mid its perished treasures; When far from human aid we turn, And human comfort is unheard, Oh! then, how bitterly we learn The anguish of a thoughtless word!