American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

THE SISTERS OF THE WEST.

Biographical Sketch.

Two volumes of the joint productions of these united sisters have been given to the world: the first in 1843, called The Wife of Leon and other Poems, which was published anonymously, or with the title with which we have headed our sketch; the second in 1846, namely, The Indian Chamber and other Poems, by Mrs. Catherine Ann Warfield, and Mrs. Eleanor Percy Lee. Of their outward life we know nothing. It commenced, we believe, at Natchez, Mississippi, and one of them, Mrs. Warfield, resides at Grasmere, near Lexington, Kentucky. That their inward life is full of poetic beauty, and of the sweet yet mournful enchantment bestowed by true sentiment and strong imagination, may be seen by all who read their poems. There is something touching and noble about their sisterly union, —the purest, holiest, most undecaying friendship their souls will ever know. We love to think upon it! Whether Mrs. Lee has more original talent than Mrs. Warfield, or Mrs. Warfield writes with greater ease than Mrs. Lee, is entirely concealed by their generous affection.

A VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

A LONG deep valley —narrow, silent, shaded By lofty trees —the young, the old, the seer; It lies where footstep seldom has invaded The haunts and coverts of the graceful deer. The silver sound of a small fountain, springing From the green bosom of the shaded earth, With its blithe, mellow and eternal singing, Is there the only voice that tells of mirth.

For all the day the ringdove's note complaining, Fills with its murmurs sad the dusky air; And when the twilight solemnly is waning, The sullen owl shrieks wildly, harshly there. The young fawn starts, as o'er the fountain bending To quaff the water sparkling to the brim, He hears the savage cadence, far ascending Through the still evening air and forest dim.

The grass is full of wild flowers, and they render A fragrance, strangely delicate and fine, And the young cedars, tall, erect and slender, Grow wreathed around with many a clinging vine. The purple clusters, 'mid the shadows falling, Invite the bird to leave his leafy hall, And, in low melodies, you hear him calling His brooding mate to share his festival.

Vale of Virginia! oft my spirit turneth From crowded cities to thy deep repose; And with a sick and weary aching, yearneth To bear unto thy gloom its weight of woes, And dwell within thy shadows; there repelling All worldly forms, all vanities of earth,

I would uprear a rude and moss-crown'd dwelling,And muse above a solitary hearth.

There would I summon many a vanish'd vision, Around my threshold and my couch to draw; And far from earthly fane, and man's derision, Adore, according to the living law. There, when mine eyes had closed in sleep eternal, Still would I wish to take my quiet rest, Shrined in that solitude profound and vernal, The boughs above, the wild flowers on my breast.

LINES.

"You must makeThat heart a tomb, and in it bury deepIts young and beautiful feelings."

BARRY CORNWALL.

LAY them, lay them in their graves, Those feelings, deep and fine; Henceforth their marble tomb shall be The heart that was their shrine. Bury them with all the dreams Of those departed years, When joy was all too bright for smiles! And grief too deep for tears!

Close within that stony vault, Which never more shall ope, The bitterness of memory, The feverishness of hope, The yearnings deep for sympathy, That deep within thee dwell, The love that finds no answering flame, And sickens in its cell.

Spread, O spread above that tomb A pall of purple pride, To veil the darkness and the gloom That 'neath its folds abide. Bear thee gaily in the dance, And proudly in the hall; I charge thee, let no eye behold What moulders 'neath that pall.

It is thus that I have done, For such hath been my doom; My heart was once a fiery shrine, And now it is —a tomb! My heart was once a storm-swept sea, And now it is that lake, O'er whose dead surface tempests rush, Nor bid its waters wake.

Yet the ghosts of those dead thoughts, Those buried hopes and fears, They rise at times across the soul, Recalling vanish'd years: They float in dim and pale array, Those phantoms of the past; They freeze my blood —they chill my brain, As with an Iceland blast.

Oh! the spectres of the soul, How fearfully they rise; Each looking from its fleecy shroud With cold, clear spirit eyes. How chill a print their icy feet Leave on the burning brain; How bleak a shadow do they cast, That dim and awful train.

Back to your cells, ye fleeting things, I do command ye, back! Obey the sceptre of despair, Retrace your ghostly track. Back to your tomb where ye were pent, Like the frail nuns of old, Ere yet the grief that was your life Was waxing faint and cold.

THE PALACES OF ARABY.

"Oh, the heart,Too vivid in its lightened energies,May read its fate in sunny Araby!How lives its beauty in each eastern tale —Its growth of spices, and its groves of balm —These are exhausted; and what is it now? —A wild and burning wilderness."

MISS LANDON.

THE Palaces of Araby! how beautiful they were, Rearing their golden pinnacles unto the sunny air, 'Mid fragrant groves of spice, and balm, and waving orange trees, And clear-toned fountains sparkling up to kiss the passing breeze.

The Palaces of Araby! oh, still there is a dream, A vision, on my brain of all, as long extinct and dim; They rise upon my fancy yet, vast, beautiful and grand, As in past centuries they stood through all that radiant land.

The Palaces of Araby! pale forms of marble mould Were ranged in every stately hall, white, glittering and cold; And urns of massive crystal bright stood on each marble floor, Where odours of a thousand lands burn'd brightly evermore.

The Palaces of Araby! vast mirrors, shrined in gold, Gave back from every lofty wall splendour a thousand fold;

And the gleaming of uncounted gems, and the blaze of odorous light, Stream'd down from every fretted dome, magnificently bright.

I see them now, "so fancy deems," those bright Arabian girls, Binding, with glittering gems and flowers, their dark and flowing curls, Or sweeping, with their long, rich robes, throughout those marble halls, Or holding, in their rose-clad bowers, gay, gorgeous festivals.

I see them now, "so fancy deems," those warriors high and bold, Draining their draughts of ruby wine from cups of massive gold, Or dashing on their battle steeds, like meteors, to the war, With the dazzling gleam of helm and shield and jewelled scimitar.

That dream hath fled, that pageant pass'd —unreal things and vain, Why rise ye up so vividly, so brightly, to my brain? The desert hath no palaces, the sands no fountain stream, And the brave and beautiful are frail and shadowy as my dream.

The Palaces of Araby! oh, there is not a stone To mark the splendour and the pride, for ever crushed and gone; The lonely traveller hears no more the sound of harp and lute, And the fountain voices, glad and clear, for evermore are mute.

Lost Araby! lost Araby! the world's extinguish'd light, Thou liest dark and desolate, a thing of shame and blight; Rome hath her lofty ruins yet —Greece smiles amid her tears; In thee alone we find no trace, no wreck, of other years.

BURY HER WITH HER SHINING HAIR.

BURY her with her shining hair Around her streaming bright; Bury her with those locks so rare Enrobing her in light. As saints, who in their native sky Their golden haloes wear, Around her forehead, pure and high, Enwreathe her shining hair.

She was too frail on earth to stay, I never saw a face On which, of premature decay Was set so plain a trace. She was too pure to linger here, Amid the homes of earth; Her spirit in another sphere Had its immortal birth.

She was not one to live and love Amid earth's fading things; Her being had its home above, And spread immortal wings. And around her now, as still she sleeps Encoffin'd in her prime, No eye in anguish'd sorrow weeps, For grief is here sublime.

Even while she lived, an awe was cast Around her loveliness; It seem'd as if, whene'er she passed, A spirit came to bless. A child upraised its tiny hands, And cried —"Oh, weep no more, Mother! behold an angel standsBefore our cottage door."

We would not bring her back to life, With word, or charm, or sign — Nor yet recall to scenes of strife A creature all divine. We would not even ask to shred One tress of golden gleam, That o'er that fair and perfect head Sheds a refulgent beam.

No! —lay her with her shining hair Around her flowing bright; We would not keep, of one so rare, Memorials in our sight. Too harsh a shade would seem to lie On all things here beneath, If we beheld one token by, Of her who sleeps in death.