American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

Biographical Sketch.

MRS. SAWYER, whose maiden name was Fisher, was born at Newton, Massachusetts, in the year 1812, and lived there until her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Sawyer in 1831. Her husband was settled as a pastor over a Presbyterian church in the city of New York for a number of years, but is now the president of a literary institution in Clinton, N.Y. Mrs. Sawyer is a lady of refined taste and cultivated mind, familiar with many of the modern languages, and accustomed to write translations from the German. She takes a warm interest in the education of the young; and has published a number of useful little books, both in prose and verse, for children. Her poems are scattered through various magazines; the following are among her best.

EDITH.

ROBED in strange beauty, she comes back to me,A shadowy vision from the spirit-land; From eve till morn her phantom shape I see Beck'ning me ever with her moonlight hand.

Beloved Edith! dost thou come to breathe Once more thy music on mine earthly ear? Around my heart in passion-folds to wreathe Mem'ries that still are all too deeply dear?

Forbear the task! for earth grows dark to me; And shadows, deeper than my soul can bear, Sweep o'er it oft, like tempests o'er the sea, To leave all desolate and sunless there.

Tell me, sweet spirit! do they pass away — These mournful shadows — in the land of light? Or linger onward through the heavenly day — The only darkness where all else is bright?

Are the unutter'd yearnings which are nurst Here, by the restless spirit, answer'd there? Hath heaven a fountain for the quenchless thirst Which through earth's weary pilgrimage we bear?

Thy quest was beauty —such as we behold Not while Time's fetters clog the spirit's wing: A pure ethereal —thou didst spurn the mould Of earth, and closer to the heavenly cling.

In the pale clouds which wander through the sky — In the bright stars that 'mid their orbits burn, And light the spirit through the upturn'd eye — Beauty thou saw'st few others can discern.

The first frail flowers —sweet nurslings of the spring — The drooping snow-drop and the violet fair, To thy young heart a sudden thrill could bring, A gushing joy, too rapturous to bear.

Yet did thy spirit, like a fetter'd dove, Its bright ideal struggle still to gain; Till the fond searcher, on the brow of Love, Found it at length, and broke its weary chain.

Now, I believe, no cloud obscures thy sight — No gliding spectre darkly steps between The beautiful and thee; but, robed in light, All thy soul yearn'd for by thine eye is seen.

Ay, by the lustre of thy starry brow — The seraph-beauty on thy cheek imprest — The joyous beams that through thy soft eyes glow —Edith! beloved! I know that thou art blest.

Spirit celestial! linger round me still, With all the beauty thou hast sought and found, And the deep urn within my bosom fill From those bright rays which circle thee around.

Thy quest is mine! and thou my soul wilt teach Through what blest paths to seek its lofty goal; Lead me still on, and up, until I reach The land where beauty ever fills the soul!

THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL.

" OH, mother, I've been with an angel to-day!I was out, alone, in the forest at play, Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, And hearing the woodpecker tapping the trees; So I played, and I played, till, so weary I grew, I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew, While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop! Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky, And watching the clouds that went hurrying by, When I heard a voice calling just over my head, That sounded as if 'come, oh brother!' it said; And there, right over the top of the tree, Oh mother, an angel was beck'ning to me!

And, ' brother!' once more, 'come, oh brother! he cried, And flew on light pinions close down by my side! And mother, oh, never was being so bright, As the one which then beam'd on my wondering sight! His face was as fair as the delicate shell, His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell, His eyes resting on me, so melting with love, Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove! And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid, As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid, And whispered so softly and gently to me, 'Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'

"And then on my forehead he tenderly press'd Such kisses —oh, mother, they thrill'd through my breast, As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high, When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky! While his breath, floating round me, was soft as the breeze That play'd in my tresses, and rustled the trees; At last on my head a deep blessing he pour'd, Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he soar'd! And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far, He seem'd to float there like a glittering star, Yet still my eyes follow'd his radiant flight, Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight! Then, oh, how I fear'd, as I caught the last gleam Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream! When soft voices whisper'd once more from the tree, 'Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'"

Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart, For she knew her fair boy from this world must depart! That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the tomb Ere the autumn winds withered the summer's rich bloom! Oh, how his young footsteps she watch'd, day by day, As his delicate form wasted slowly away, Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o'er his face, And he crept up to die in her loving embrace! " Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your breast, On that gentle pillow again let me rest! Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye, And then, oh, methinks, I can willingly die! Now kiss me, dear mother! oh, quickly! for see, The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me!"

Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her breast, As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she press'd! And felt the vain search of his soft, pleading eye, As it strove to meet her's ere the fair boy could die.

"I see you not, mother, for darkness and night Are hiding your dear loving face from my sight — But I hear your low sobbings —dear mother, good bye! The angels are ready to bear me on high! I will wait for you there —but, oh, tarry not long, Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song!" He ceased, and his hands meekly clasp'd on his breast, While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of rest, Then, closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, Went up with the angels that waited for him!

THE VALLEY OF PEACE.

It was a beautiful conception of the Moravians to give to rural cemeteries the appropriate name of "Valleys" or "Fields of Peace."

OH, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace! There earth's weary cares to perplex us shall cease; We will stray through its solemn and far-spreading shades, Till twilight's last ray from each green hillock fades. There slumber the friends whom we long must regret — The forms whose mild beauty we cannot forget! We will seek the low mounds where so softly they sleep, And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep: But we will not repine that they're hid from our eyes, For we know they still live in a home in the skies; But we'll pray that, when life's weary journey shall cease,We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears, If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years, No home were prepared, where the pilgrim might lay Mortality's cumbering vestments away! But sadder, and deeper, and darker the gloom, That would close o'er our way as we speed to the tomb,

If faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, Where the sun of eternity beams on the soul! Oh, who 'mid the sorrows and changes of time, E'er dreamed of that holy, that happier clime, But yearn'd for the hour of the spirit's release — For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace!

Oh, come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze Seems fix'd on the shadows of long vanish'd days, Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and woe, And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show! Come here — I will show thee a haven of rest, Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast — Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care, And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair! Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold, And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold; But a bright star has dawn'd through the shades of the east, That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace!

Thou frail child of error! come hither and say, Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to stay? Ah, no! in thine aspect are anguish and woe, And deep shame has written its name on thy brow! Poor outcast! too long hast thou wander'd forlorn, In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn — Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung! Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears, And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years! We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall all cease, Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace!

The grave! ah, the grave! 't is a mighty strong-hold, The weak, the oppress'd, all are safe in its fold! There penury's toil-wasted children may come, And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home!

What myriads unnumber'd have sought its repose, Since the day when the sun on creation first rose: And there, till earth's latest, dread morning shall break, Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make! But beyond is a world —how resplendently bright! And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light! We shall rise —we shall soar where earth's sorrows shall cease, Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of Peace!