American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

AMANDA M. EDMOND.

Biographical Sketch.

MRS. EDMOND was born in Brookline, Massachusetts; her maiden name was Corey. She was married at nineteen, and soon after made a tour through the most interesting countries of Europe. On her return she published a volume, entitled The Broken Vow and other Poems; nearly all of which were written between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. This is sufficient to deter any one from searching out their faults, or making a show of them when found. They are all dictated by a truly religious spirit; and, therefore, claim respect for the author as a Christian, whatever may be thought of her abilities as a poet.

WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE?

I ASKED a glad and happy child, Whose hands were fill'd with flowers, Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild, Among the vine-wreathed bowers. I cross'd her sunny path, and cried, 'When is the time to die?' 'Not yet! not yet!' the child replied, And swiftly bounded by.

I ask'd a maiden, back she flung The tresses of her hair; A whisper'd name was on her tongue, Whose memory hover'd there. A flush pass'd o'er her lily brow, I caught her spirit's sigh; 'Not now,' she cried, 'O no, not now! Youth is no time to die.'

I ask'd a mother, as she prest Her first-born in her arms, As gently on her tender breast She hush'd her babe's alarms. In quivering tones her answer came, Her eyes were dim with tears, 'My boy his mother's life must claim, For many, many years!'

I question'd one in manhood's prime, Of proud and fearless air, His brow was furrow'd not by time, Or dimm'd by woe and care. In angry accents he replied, — And gleam'd with scorn his eye, 'Talk not to me of death,' he cried, 'For only age should die.'

I question'd Age; for him, the tomb Had long been all prepared, But death, who withers youth and bloom, This man of years had spared. Once more his nature's dying fire Flash'd high, as thus he cried, 'Life, only life is my desire!' Then gasp'd, and groan'd, and died.

I ask'd a Christian —'answer thou When is the hour of death;' A holy calm was on his brow, And peaceful was his breath; And sweetly o'er his features stole A smile, a light divine; He spake the language of his soul,'My Master's time is mine!'

THE GREENWOOD DEPTHS.

O! the greenwood depths are beautiful, When the tall and stately trees, In the summer's radiant foliage clad, Are sway'd by the passing breeze.

I love them best in the evening hour, When the silver moon pours down A flood of light, from her censer bright, On the shadowy forest's crown.

The soft breeze moans thro' the rustling trees, And the silvery brook afar, With a glad, clear tune, like a bird's in June, Leaps on where the rushes are.

The cricket chirps in the old stone wall, Where the velvet mosses grow,

And the earnest voice of the katydid Responds from the turf below.

O! tell me not of the loneliness Of the wood, nor call it drear, For a thousand, thousand living things To gladden its depths are here.

Some pass me by on their pinions light, Through the trackless realms of air, And some repose on the bending flower, Their couch in its blossoms fair.

Some hide in the twisted, grass-grown roots Of the lofty oak or pine; And some in the bark of the old fir trees, Which the ivy tendrils twine.

And the answering echoes of my soul Go forth at each joyous tone, Which the humblest, tiniest creature pours In a language all its own.

O! greenwood depths! ye are beautiful In the summer evening hour, And this wondering soul of mine ye thrill With a strange enchanting power.

Nay, tell me not of the crowded halls, They are solitude to me; And the sweetest notes of the harp are nought To the tones of nature free.