American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

CATHERINE H. ESLING.

Biographical Sketch.

THIS lady, best known as Miss Catherine H. Waterman, has long been an able contributor to the periodical literature of the country. A selection from her writings, entitled "The Broken Bracelet and other Poems," has recently been published in Philadelphia. Here poems are smoothly and gracefully written; always pleasing, from the deep and pure affection they display. Tender and heart-stirring, indeed, is the pathos of that exquisite strain —Brother, come home!

Miss Waterman was born in Philadelphia, in 1812, married there, in 1840, to Captain Esling, and has remained there all her life; never having left her home for a greater distance than forty miles, or for a longer period than forty-eight hours. Well may such a nestling bird sing sweetly of home's quiet joys!

BROTHER, COME HOME.

COME home, Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep With these unwearying words of melody; Brother, come home.

Come home, Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine; Brother, come home.

Come home, Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove, Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, Come to the fire-side circle of thy love; Brother, come home.

Come home, It is not home without thee; the lone seat Is still unclaim'd where thou were wont to be, In every echo of returning feet, In vain we list for what should herald thee; Brother, come home.

Come home, We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, Watch'd every germ the full-blown flowers rear, Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring Its icy garlands, and thou art not here; Brother, come home.

Come home, Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Would I could wing it like a bird to thee — To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep With these unwearying words of melody; Brother, come home.

HOW SHALL I WOO THEE?

How shall I woo thee, tell me how, With looks and words of gladness? Then gaze not on my pale, pale brow, Nor note my tones of sadness.

How shall I woo thee? with a smile That speaks the bosom clear? Look not upon mine eyes the while, Nor mark the starting tear.

How shall I woo thee? with the bright And blessed words of joy? Drive from my heart its long, long night, Its early life's alloy.

How shall I woo thee, tell me how? Will sorrow make thee mine? Can the sad heart I bring thee now Find favour at thy shrine?

How shall I woo thee? with a gleam That glistens but to die, Fleet as the summer's moonlight beam Upon an evening sky?

How shall I woo thee? as the night Woos with its silver dew The faithless flowers, that burst to light, Beneath the sun's bright hue?

How shall I woo thee, tell me how? If thou hast aught of care To dim the glory of thy brow, Let me thy sadness share.

How shall I woo thee? with a strain Like that of other times?

And seek thro' memory's caves again, Hope's sweet delusive chimes.

How shall I woo thee, tell me how? Can sorrow make thee mine? For a sad heart hath come to bow, And worship at thy shrine.

HE WAS OUR FATHER'S DARLING.

HE was our father's darling, A bright and happy boy;—His life was like a summer's day Of innocence and joy. His voice, like singing waters, Fell softly on the ear, So sweet, that hurrying echo Might linger long to hear.

He was our mother's cherub, Her life's untarnish'd light, Her blessed joy by morning, Her vision'd hope by night. His eyes were like the day-beams That brighten all below; His ringlets like the gather'd gold Of sunset's gorgeous glow.

He was our sister's plaything, A happy child of glee, That frolick'd on the parlour floor, Scarce higher than our knee. His joyous bursts of pleasure Were wild as mountain wind; His laugh, the free unfetter'd laugh Of childhood's chainless mind.

He was our brothers' treasure, Their bosom's only pride; A fair depending blossom, By their protecting side. A thing to watch and cherish, With varying hopes and fears; To make the slender trembling reed Their staff for future years.

He is —a blessed angel, His home is in the sky; He shines among those living lights, Beneath his Maker's eye. A freshly gather'd lily, A bud of early doom, Hath been transplanted from the earth, To bloom beyond the tomb.