American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON.

Biographical Sketch.

IT would be wrong, merely for the sake of chronological order, to separate these sweet sisters, who, though not twins by birth, were twins in thought, feeling, loveliness, and purity. We will sketch them together, therefore, while their devoted mother and excellent father shall stand at their head.

Mrs. Davidson was a daughter of Dr. Burnet Miller, a respectable physician in the city of New York, where she was born on the 27th of June, 1787. Her mother was early left a widow, and removed to Dutchess County, where, at the age of sixteen, this daughter was married to Dr. Davidson. The greater part of her married life was spent at Plattsburg, (on Lake Champlain,) where all her children were born, ten in number — eight of whom passed before her into heaven. She resided in Plattsburg at the time of the battle, August, 1814. The fearful events of that season, and her own escapes and adventures, have been narrated by both Mrs. Davidson and Margaret, in a fictitious garb. She never could speak of them without great excitement; and invariably wept at the sound of martial music. An intimate friend writing of her, says —

"Mrs. Davidson's appearance and manner when talking enthusiastically, as she always did on a favourite subject, could never be forgotten. The traces of early beauty were still evident in her large dark eyes and her exquisite complexion; but the great charm of her countenance was in its mingled expression of intelligence and sensibility, varying not unfrequently from deep sadness to a playful vivacity of which you would not at first suppose her capable." She possessed great elasticity of spirit and vigour of mind, which were not at all impaired by the constant pain and suffering she endured. During the last few years of her life, she resided alternately at New York, Ballston, and Saratoga Springs. At the latter place she died, on the 27th of June, 1844. She had long been thought a victim to consumption, but the fearful and agonizing disease which terminated her life was a cancer in the face. A year before her death, a volume, entitled Selections from the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Davidson, was published, with a short preface from her distinguished friend, Miss Sedgwick. Her poems, however, although they display that tenderness of feeling and romantic disposition which characterized her so strongly, are too inferior to her daughter's to be quoted with any advantage.

Dr. Davidson was a man of extensive reading, and possessed a taste for natural science. His moral character, however, more than his intellectual, renders him worthy of notice. "He was one of the most guileless and pure-minded men I ever knew," writes the friend we have before quoted. "He was entirely unpretending in his manners, and always exhibited a degree of affectionate devotedness to his wife, unusual and touching. His piety was simple, confiding, and unobtrusive; and his conduct in every situation unreproachable." He died about a year ago.

Such were the parents of the inspired poet-children, Lucretia and Margaret Davidson.

Lucretia Maria was born on the 27th of September, 1808, and was distinguished almost from her birth by an extraordinary development of the imaginative and sensitive faculties. When she was four years old she went to the Plattsburg Academy, and was taught to read, and form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method. She began to turn her infant thoughts into measured strains before she had learned to write; and devoting herself with tireless attention to her studies both at home and at school, she soon attained a wonderful amount of knowledge. It was only in her intellectual character that she was thus premature;

in her innocence, simplicity, playfulness, and modesty, she was a perfect child. Her conscientiousness and dutifulness were remarkably prominent; as they were also with Margaret. Her health, always very feeble, began to decline in 1823, when she was taken from school, and accompanied her mother on a visit to some relatives in Canada. While there she finished Amir Khan, her longest poem, and began a prose tale, called The Recluse of the Saranac. It was about this time that the Hon. Moss Kent, an early friend of her mother, became acquainted with Lucretia, and so deeply interested in her genius, that he resolved, if he could persuade her parents to resign her to his care, to afford her every advantage for improvement that the country could afford. At his suggestion, in November, 1824, she was placed under the care of Mrs. Willard; in whose seminary at Troy she remained during the winter. The following spring, she was transferred to a boarding school at Albany; but while there her health gave way, and she was obliged to return home to Plattsburg. The strength of affection, and the skill of physicians, failed, however, to restore her. The hand of Death alone gave her ease; and she gently fell asleep one morning in August 1825; exactly one month before her seventeenth birthday. President Morse, of the American Society of Arts, first published her biography; and soon after, a delightful memoir from the able pen of Miss Sedgwick spread the name of Lucretia Davidson far and wide.

Margaret Miller was born on the 26th of March, 1823. She was therefore but two years and a half old when Lucretia died; an event which made a deep impression on her. Although so young, she seemed not only to feel her loss, but to understand and appreciate her sister's character and talents; and from the first dawning of intellect gave evidence that she possessed the same. "By the time she was six years old," says her mother, "her language assumed an elevated tone; and her mind seemed filled with poetic imagery, blended with veins of religious thought." The sacred writings were her daily study. Devotional feelings seemed interwoven with her very existence. A longing after heaven, that her spirit might be free from the thraldom of earth, was as natural to her, as a longing for a holiday to be let loose from school is to other children. Yet she enjoyed most fully the quiet pleasures that surrounded her, and her heart was always swelling with love and gratitude. Sometimes, too, the consciousness of genius,— the inward assurance that she was a poet, — would make her think on what might be, were she to live; but the restless thoughts of

fame were soon lost again, in happier, calmer hopes of an abiding heaven.

Dear child! she little knew that so soon both were to be hers —" an honoured name" on earth, and "a glorious crown" in heaven. Like all true poets, she had a keen relish for the beauties of nature, and fed upon them from her infancy. Her earliest home was upon the banks of the Saranac, commanding a fine view of Lake Champlain, and surrounded by the most romantic and picturesque scenery; but wherever she resided, she found something to admire and love, upon the earth or in the sky.

Margaret was always instructed by her mother, whose poetical tastes and affectionate disposition made her capable of appreciating and sympathizing with the warm impulses and aspiring thoughts of her sweet pupil. The love between this mother and daughter is a poem of itself. No one can read the memoir of Margaret, by Washington Irving, without feeling the heart, if not the eyes, overflow. But the links that bound them to each other on earth were soon severed; —for when she was but fifteen years and eight months old, this gentle girl died at Ballston, Saratoga County, in November, 1838. We could not wish that she should have staid longer on earth, an exile from her native heaven; yet, as we listen to the soaring strains of her young genius, and are borne upward by their energy, we cannot help wondering what would have been its thrilling tones and lofty flights, had life unfolded its mysteries year after year to her poet's eye. But we thank God she was spared the sight of them; for though we have lost the songs, she has missed the sorrow!

Robert Southey, interested in Lucretia's story, wrote eloquently upon it in the London Quarterly Review. His high estimate of her genius may with equal truth be applied to both sisters. "There is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, in their poems, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons, and friends, and parents of the deceased could have formed."

LUCRETIA.

TO MY SISTER.

WHEN evening spreads her shades around, And darkness fills the arch of heaven; When not a murmur, not a sound To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, soften'd by her light, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give; Oh, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core, And hovering, trembles, half afraid; O sister, sing the song once moreWhich ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'T were almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day;Notes borne by angel's purest wing, And wafted by their breath away.

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Should'st thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song I love?

FEATS OF DEATH.

I HAVE pass'd o'er the earth in the darkness of night, I have walk'd the wild winds in the morning's broad light; I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low; I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth, And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high; The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, I stop not to pity — I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! The deep purple fountain seem'd melting away, And the faint pulse of life scarce remember'd to play; She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream roll'd gladly, and bounded along, With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove.

I pass'd, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which roll'd deeply, 't was recklessly hung; The minstrel was not! and I pass'd on alone, O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved stone.

MORNING.

I COME in the breath of the waken'd breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star; When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, To their far-away harbour, all silently driven, Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; Where the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! But when I steal silently o'er the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!

ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL.

"If I lose thee, I am lost."

(ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.)

WAFTED o'er a treacherous sea, Far from home, and far from thee; Between the heaven and ocean toss'd, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

When the polar star is beaming, O'er the dark-brow'd billows gleaming, I think of thee and dangers cross'd, For, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

When the lighthouse fire is blazing, High towards Heaven its red crest raising, I think of thee, while onward toss'd, For, "If I lose thee, I am lost."

MARGARET.

TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA.

MY sister! With that thrilling word What thoughts unnumber'd wildly spring! What echoes in my heart are stirr'd, While thus I touch the trembling string!

I cannot weep that thou art fled,—For ever blends my soul with thine; Each thought, by purer impulse led, Is soaring on to realms divine.

Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, For sin too pure, for earth too bright! And death, who call'd thee hence away, Placed on his brow a gem of light!

A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, Which gilds the memory of the dead, And pours its radiance on thy grave.

When day hath left his glowing car, And evening spreads her robe of love; When worlds, like travellers from afar, Meet in the azure fields above;

When all is still, and fancy's realm Is opening to the eager view, Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue.

I know that here thy harp is mute, And quench'd the bright poetic fire, Yet still I bend my ear, to catch The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.

Oh! if this partial converse now So joyous to my heart can be, How must the streams of rapture flow When both are chainless, both are free!

When borne from earth for evermore, Our souls in sacred joy unite, At God's almighty throne adore, And bathe in beams of endless light!

TO DIE, AND BE FORGOTTEN.

A FEW short years will roll along, With mingled joy and pain, Then shall I pass —a broken tone! An echo of a strain!

Then shall I fade away from life, Like cloud-tints from the sky, When the breeze sweeps their surface o'er, And they are lost for aye.

The soul may look with fervent hope To worlds of future bliss; But oh! how saddening to the heart To be forgot in this!

Who would not brave a life of tears To win an honour'd name? One sweet and heart-awakening tone From the silver trump of fame?

To be, when countless years have pass'd, The good man's glowing theme? To be —but I —what right have I To this bewildering dream?

Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain,To dwell on thoughts like these; I, a frail child, whose feeble frame Already knows disease!

Who, ere another spring may dawn, Another summer bloom, May, like the flowers of autumn, lie A tenant of the tomb.

Away, away, presumptuous thought, I will not dwell on thee! For what, alas! am I to fame, And what is fame to me?

Let all these wild and longing thoughts With the dying year expire, And I will nurse within my breast A purer, holier fire!

Yes, I will seek my mind to win From all these dreams of strife, And toil to write my name within The glorious book of life.

Then shall old Time, who, rolling on, Impels me towards the tomb, Prepare for me a glorious crown, Through endless years to bloom.

ON MY MOTHER'S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY.

YES, mother, fifty years have fled, With rapid footsteps o'er thy head; Have pass'd with all their motley train, And left thee on thy couch of pain! How many smiles, and sighs, and tears, How many hopes, and doubts, and fears, Have vanish'd with that lapse of years! Though past, those hours of pain and grief Have left their trace on memory's leaf; Have stamp'd their footprints on the heart, In lines which never can depart; Their influence on the mind must be As endless as eternity.

Years, ages, to oblivion roll, Their memory forms the deathless soul; They leave their impress as they go, And shape the mind for joy or woe! Yes, mother, fifty years have past, And brought thee to their close at last Oh that we all could gaze, like thee, Back on that dark and tideless sea, And 'mid its varied records find A heart at ease with all mankind, A firm and self-approving mind! Grief, that had broken hearts less fine, Hath only served to strengthen thine; Time, that doth chill the fancy's play, Hath kindled thine with purer ray; And stern disease, whose icy dart Hath power to chill the shrinking heart, Has left thine warm with love and truth, As in the halcyon days of youth. Oh! turn not from the meed of praise A daughter's willing justice pays; But greet with smiles of love again This tribute of a daughter's pen.

TWILIGHT.

TWILIGHT! sweet hour of peace, Now art thou stealing on; Cease from thy tumult, thought! and fancy, cease! Day and its cares have gone! Mysterious hour, Thy magic power Steals o'er my heart like music's softest tone.

The golden sunset hues Are fading in the west; The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, Folded on evening's breast. So doth each wayward thought, From fancy's altar caught, Fade like thy tints, and muse itself to rest.

Cold must that bosom be Which never felt thy power, Which never thrill'd with tender melody At this bewitching hour; When nature's gentle art Enchains the pensive heart; When the breeze sinks to rest, and shuts the fragrant flower.

Wearied with care, how sweet to hail Thy shadowy, calm repose, When all is silent but the whispering gale Which greets the sleeping rose; When, as thy shadows blend, The trembling thoughts ascend, And borne aloft, the gates of heaven unclose.