American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

CYNTHIA TAGGART.

Biographical Sketch.

THE history of this sorely afflicted and deeply interesting person, excites in us the most solemn sympathy, admiration and wonder. It has been narrated with touching and beautiful simplicity by the Rev. James C. Richmond, in a little book called "The Rhode-Island Cottage, or A Gift for the Children of Sorrow;" and from this, and a short autobiography prefixed to Miss Taggart's poems, we have obtained all our information concerning her. She is a native of Rhode-Island. Her father, William Taggart, was a revolutionary soldier, and took a very active part in the defence of his country. The property of his family was entirely destroyed while the British troops were on the Island, but after the war he purchased a farm about six miles from Newport, built a cottage on the side of a hill near the sea-shore, and there lived in quiet seclusion until his death. He was an intelligent and pious man, and cheerfully bore the heavy domestic afflictions which were allotted him. Cynthia's education was but trifling; for even in childhood she was subject to debility and pain; and could attend school only in the summer-time, from her sixth to her

ninth year. In the autobiography alluded to, she says: "My favourite amusements were invariably found, when health permitted, in viewing and admiring the varied and soul-filling works of the great Creator; in listening to the music of the winds and waves with an ineffable and indefinable delight; in reading books that were instructive and interesting; in pursuing without interruption a pleasing train of thought; and in the elysian scenes of fancy. My employments were chiefly of a domestic kind, and my inclinations and habits those of activity and industry. I had never the most remote and vague apprehension that my mental capacities, even if cultivated, were competent for productive efforts; with few exceptions, it was not till several years after the commencement of excruciating illness, that my thoughts and feelings were committed to paper in the form of poetry." When she was about nineteen years old, a complication of chronic diseases began to afflict her; and from that time until now, a period of twenty-six years, she has been confined to a bed of agony, without one gleaming hope of ever being relieved from her intense suffering, until the angel of Death sets her free. Her case has baffled all medical skill; sleep has been withheld to an almost unparalleled degree, never appearing, unless forced by the most powerful anodynes. But although in such a hopeless state, although she never loses the sense of pain, she yet sometimes forgets her misery, and finds relief and even consolation in the gift of God within her soul, —the power of expressing thought, feeling, and imagination, in words that glow with true poetic fire. During the restless hours of midnight nearly all her fervent and pathetic strains have been composed, and were written down afterwards, by her father or her friends, at their leisure. She has, however, a more refreshing source of relief than genius. Religion is her comforter and never-failing support, strengthening her to be calm and patient, and clearing her vision to see by faith the land that is afar off —" where the inhabitant shall no more say, I am sick."

Her father and mother are dead; but she still lives in The Rhode Island Cottage, nursed by a widowed sister, and companioned by another sister, who, a kindred sufferer in resignation and intelligent piety, has been many years a helpless invalid. Her poems, which were first edited in 1834, are about to be re-published in New York. The editor of the Providence Literary Journal says, "They are the emanations of a mind rich in endowment, embodied in a style of language, the correctness and purity of which, under all these adverse circumstances, is scarcely less remarkable than the thoughts which it contains."

INVOCATION TO HEALTH.

O HEALTH, thy succouring aid extend While low, with bleeding heart, I bend, And on thine every means attend, And sue with streaming eyes; But more remote thou fliest away, The humbler I thine influence pray, And expectation dies.

Twice three long years of life have gone, Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, And I to grief resigned; Laid on the couch of lingering pain, Where stern disease's torturing chain Has every limb confined.

And separate from the household band, Disconsolate and lone, With no sweet converse's social charm One pain imperious to disarm, Or quell the rising moan; I lie in hopeless doom to grieve, While no kind office can relieve, Nor can I sustenance receive But from another's hand.

While anguish veils the body o'er, And balmy sleep is known no more, And every thought that thrills the brain Gives frantic energy to pain, And the cold dewdrops copious drain Through every opening, rending pore.

Health! wilt thou not, for the black stream That bears keen poison through the veins,

A cordial swift prepare? Bring back their own bright crimson glow, And the true circulating flow, And mitigate despair?

Once more my pleadings I renew, And with my parting breath I sue, Goaded by potent pain, By all the pangs of wasting life, By gasping nature's chilling strife, To gain one lingering view Of thy fair aspect, mildly sweet, And kiss from off thine airy feet The healing drops of dew.

O bathe my burning temples now, And cool the scorching of my brow, And light the rayless eye; My strength revive with thine own might And with thy footsteps firm and light, O bear me to thy radiant height, Where, soft reposing, lie Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, And Nature's sweets that never cloy, Unmixed with direful pain's alloy; Leave me not thus to die!

AUTUMN.

Now Autumn tints the scene With sallow hues and dim; And o'er the sky Fast hurrying, fly Dark sombre clouds, that pour From far the roaring din;

The rattling rain and hail, With the deep sounding wail Of wild and warring melodies, begin.

The wind flies fitful through the forest trees With hollow howlings, and in wrathful mood; As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease, Tears with convulsive power, In horrid fury's hour, His locks dishevelled; and a chilling moan Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread and dismal tone,

Thus, the impetuous blast Doth from the woodlands tear The leaves, when Summer's reign is past, And sings aloud the requiem of despair; Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh, While past the honours of the forest fly, Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die.

ODE TO THE POPPY.

THOUGH varied wreaths of myriad hues, As beams of mingling light, Sparkle replete with pearly dews, Waving their tinted leaves profuse, To captivate the sight; Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend With the soft balmy air, And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide Their spicy odours bear; While to the eye, Delightingly, Each floweret laughing blooms, And o'er the fields Prolific, yields

Its increase of perfumes; Yet one alone o'er all the plain, With lingering eye, I view; Hasty, I pass the brightest bower, Heedless of each attractive flower, Its brilliance to pursue.

No odours sweet proclaim the spot Where its soft leaves unfold; Nor mingled hues of beauty bright Charm and allure the captive sight, With forms and tints untold.

One simple hue the plant portrays Of glowing radiance rare, Fresh as the roseate morn displays, And seeming sweet and fair.

But closer prest, an odorous breath Repels the rover gay; And from her hand, with eager haste, 'T is careless thrown away; And thoughtless that in evil hour Disease may happiness devour, And her fair form, elastic now, To misery's wand may helpless bow.

Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth To seek the lonely flower; And blest experience kindly proves Its mitigating power.

Then, its bright hue the sight can trace, The brilliance of its bloom; Though misery veil the weeping eyes, Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs, And life deplore its doom.

This magic flower In desperate hour A balsam mild shall yield, When the sad, sinking heart Feels every aid depart, And every gate of hope for ever seal'd.

Then still its potent charm Each agony disarm, And its all-healing power shall respite give. The frantic sufferer, then, Convulsed and wild with pain, Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live.

The dews of slumber, now, Rest on her aching brow, And o'er the languid lids balsamic fall; While fainting nature hears, With dissipated fears, The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call.

Then will affection twine Around this kindly flower; And grateful memory keep How, in the arms of sleep, Affliction lost its power.