American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

LUCY HOOPER.

Biographical Sketch.

THIS lovely girl was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the 4th of February, 1816. Her father, Mr. Joseph Hooper, was a highly respectable merchant, a man of strong mind, considerable cultivation, and decided piety. From this excellent parent Lucy received her entire education, and to his unremitting watchfulness and affectionate counsels she fondly attributed all the merits of her character. She was a docile, gentle child, full of quiet love and reverence; her health was always so delicate that her careful friends were obliged to restrain her desires after study and meditation, which were so lively and deep-rooted as to wear upon the little strength her fragile frame possessed. She was passionately fond of flowers, and of all the bountiful gifts of nature, and devoted much time to the knowledge of botany and chemistry. Her habits of orderly systematic application were admirable, and by their means her mind was stored with valuable information of various kinds. Ancient and modern history, and classic English literature, were diligently studied, while she also became well versed in the Latin, French, and Spanish languages.

When Miss Hooper was fifteen, her family removed to Brooklyn, L. I., where she resided until her death. Soon after this removal she began to contribute to The Long Island Star, to The New Yorker, and other periodicals, under the simple initials L. H. In 1840, a volume of her prose articles was published, called, Scenes from Real Life; which, with the Essay on Domestic Happiness, proved her to

be a writer of much taste, reflection, and good judgment. She loved best, however, to express her thoughts and feelings in verse; then she wrote freely, without effort, and with that feeling of relief and delight in the act, which is natural to the true poet. During her short life, Miss Hooper suffered much from bereavement; her father, and several other near relatives closely entwined around her loving heart, preceded her to the tomb. These afflictions, and the hopeless but flattering malady which was undermining her constitution, subdued and saddened her character, and shed a certain tender melancholy over all her thoughts. A few weeks before her death, she prepared a work for publication called The Poetry of Flowers, and also projected a volume of prose on a larger scale, but in the same style, as her Scenes from Real Life. But the summons came on the 1st of August, 1841, and ended in her twenty-fourth year all her industrious plans for future usefulness. In 1842, her Poetical Remains were collected and arranged, and published with an interesting Memoir from the eloquent pen of Mr. John Keese. Another edition of her writings, both in prose and poetry, has recently appeared.

But we must hasten to give a few specimens of her poetic genius, —marked as they are by elevation of thought and refined sweetness of expression, — though we could linger long over the memory of Lucy Hooper, the good, the gifted, and the pure.

"TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."

HIGH words and hopeful! — fold them to thy heart, Time, Faith and Energy, are gifts sublime; If thy lone bark the threatening waves surround, Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part. When thou wouldst cast thy pilgrim-staff away, Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound, And faint not in the noontide of thy day, — Wait thou for Time!

Wait thou for Time —the slow-unfolding flower Chides man's impatient haste with long delay;

The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun, — The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power Within the soul; — like soft bells' silvery chime Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won, Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine, Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way.

Wait thou for Time —it hath a sorcerer's power To dim life's mockeries that gaily shine, To lift the veil of seeming from the real, Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower, Write golden tracery on the sands of life, And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal, To a high purpose in a world of strife. Wait thou for Time!

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith, Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea; A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass Through a dim world, untouch'd by living death; A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night, Soothing the grief from which she may not flee; — A herald of glad news — a seraph bright, Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be.

Yea, Faith and Time, and thou that through the hour Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand, Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire, Gifted the drooping soul with living power, Immortal Energy! shalt thou not be, While the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire, Linked with each vision of high destiny, Till on the fadeless borders of that land

Where all is known we find our certain way, And lose ye, 'mid its pure effulgent light?

Kind ministers, who cheer'd us in our gloom, Seraphs who lighten'd griefs with guiding ray, Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawning, Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless morning, Joy that ye led us through the drooping night?

IT IS WELL.

Written after being shown the inscription on the grave of a child in the Brooklyn church-yard, bearing only the date, the age, and these simple words, "It is well."

'T WAS a low grave they led me to, o'ergrown With violets of the Spring, and starry moss, And all the sweet wild flow'rets that disclose Their hues and fragrance round the dreamless couch, As if to tell how quietly the head That here had throbb'd so feverishly, doth rest. 'T was a low grave, and the soft zephyrs play'd Gently around it; and the setting sun Gleam'd brightly on the marble at its head, Bearing the date, the name —the few brief years, Of one whose blessed lot it was to pass To the fair Land of Promise, ere the chill And blight of this dark world had power to cast A shade on life's pure blossom; while the dew Of morning was upon its leaves, and all The outward world was beauty; ere the eye Had ever wept in secret, or the heart Grown heavy with a sorrow unconfess'd. Was it a bitter lot? That stainless stone Answer'd the query; but one line it bore — One brief inscription, thrilling the deep heart Of those who, leaning o'er that narrow mound, Mused over life's vain sorrow:

"It is well." Ay, the deep words had meaning; but what grief Had taught the lone survivors thus to count The sum of all, and, struggling with their tears, Write only —"It is well?" Oh! well for her To rest on that green earth —to lay the head Unwearied on its bosom, and to seek A refuge from the coldness of the world, Ere yet its shaft had pierced her.

"It is well." And, oh! for us who, musing o'er that grave, Sigh for the rest a stranger's breast hath found, Were it not well, in the heart's hour of grief, When Earth is dim, and all her shining streams Discourse no more in music to our ears — When shadows rest upon her brightest flowers, And the continual sorrow of the soul Doth darken sun and moon, to dream at last Of a still rest beneath the lowly stone — A calm, unbroken slumber, where the eye Shall weep no more in sadness, and the pulse Forget its quick, wild throbbings?

O'er that grave Such were my musings, till a deeper truth Broke on my mind, as the blue violet shed Its sweetness round me, and the evening winds Brought fragrance from afar; and then I pray'd, In lowliness of heart, that I might bear In faith "the heat and burden of the day," And never, till His purpose was fulfill'd, And every errand He had set perform'd In trusting patience, sigh for dreamless rest, Nor till th' impartial pen of Truth could write Above that quiet refuge — "It is well."

THE OLD DAYS WE REMEMBER.

THE old days we remember, How softly did they glide, While all untouch'd by worldly care, We wander'd side by side. In those pleasant days, when the sun's last rays Just linger'd on the hill, Or the moon's pale light with the coming night Shone o'er our pathway still.

The old days we remember, — Oh! there's nothing like them now, The glow has faded from our hearts, The blossom from the bough; In the chill of care, 'midst worldly air, Perchance we are colder grown, For stormy weather, since we roam'd together, The hearts of both have known.

The old days we remember, — Oh! clearer shone the sun, And every star look'd brighter far, Than they ever since have done! On the very streams there linger'd gleams Of light ne'er seen before, And the running brook a music took Our souls can hear no more!

The old days we remember,— Oh! could we but go back To their quiet hours, and tread once more Their bright familiar track, Could we picture again, what we pictured then, Of the sunny world that lay

From the green hillside, and the waters wide, And our glad hearts far away.

The old days we remember, When we never dream'd of guile, Nor knew that the heart could be cold below, While the lip still wore its smile! Oh! we may not forget, for those hours come yet, They visit us in sleep, While far and wide, o'er life's changing tide, Our barks asunder keep.

Still, still we must remember Life's first and brightest days, And a passing tribute render As we tread the busy maze; A bitter sigh for the hours gone by, The dreams that might not last, The friends deem'd true when our hopes were new, And the glorious visions past!

GIVE ME ARMOUR OF PROOF.

GIVE me armour of proof, I must ride to the plain; Give me armour of proof, ere the trump sound again: To the halls of my childhood no more am I known, And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath blown! Till the conflict is over, the battle is past — Give me armour of proof — I am true to the last!

Give me armour of proof —bring me helmet and spear; Away! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear? Bring the steel of Milan — 't is the firmest and best, And bind on my bosom its closely-link'd vest, Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain!

Give me armour of proof — I have torn from my heart Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part; Bring the sword of Damascus, its blade cold and bright, That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight; And stay — let me fasten yon scarf on my breast, Love's light pledge and true — I will answer the rest!

Give me armour of proof —shall the cry be in vain, When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth amain? The knight clad in armour the battle may bide; But woe to the heedless when bendeth the tried; And woe to youth's morn, when we rode forth alone, To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown!

Give us armour of proof —our hopes were all high; But they pass'd like the meteor lights from the sky; Our hearts' trust was firm, but life's waves swept away One by one the frail ties which were shelter and stay; And true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain: Give me armour of proof, ere we ride forth again.

Give me armour of proof —we would turn from the view Of a world that is fading to one that is true; We would lift up each thought from this earth-shaded light, To the regions above, where there stealeth no blight; And with Faith's chosen shield by no dark tempests riven, We would gaze from earth's storms on the brightness of heaven!

Notes

• Suggested by a passage in Bulwer's "Night and Morning."