American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

JULIET H. CAMPBELL.

Biographical Sketch.

MISS LEWIS, now Mrs. Campbell, was born in the year 1823, at Williamsport, Lycoming County, Pa.; but soon after her birth, her parents removed to Towanda, Bradford County, in which romantic spot the happiest period of her childhood was spent. Here she revelled amidst the choicest beauties of nature; and here, inspired by the joyous harmony of woods, and streams, and valleys, she first attempted to make music of her thoughts. Her father, the Hon. Ellis Lewis, —a learned lawyer and judge, a man of fine taste and superior talent, —was well fitted for the task he never wearied in, of guarding and guiding the rich developments of his daughter's mind and heart. Although she was sent to a seminary at Bethlehem, and afterwards to a French boarding school at Philadelphia, she was educated (in the true sense of that term) by the society and conversation of her father. She wrote much when only fourteen; and everything that has been published under her maiden name, was written during the space of three years from that early age. When yet a girl, she was married to Mr. Campbell, a member of the bar, in Pottsville, where they now reside; and so happy and busy is she in her domestic life, as to have very little time for the use of her pen. May this happiness be as lasting as her life! And yet, so great is the beauty and freshness of her poetic talent, as to compel us to express the hope that they may not be suffered to wither and die for want of proper attention.

DREAMS.

MANY, oh! man, are the wild dreams beguiling Thy spirit of its restlessness, and ever Thou rushest onward, some new prize pursuing, Like the mad waves of a relentless river. First Love, the morning sun of thy existence, Enchants thy path with glories and with bliss: Oh! linger, for the shadowy hereafter Hath nought to offer that can equal this!

Linger, and revel in thy first young dreaming, The holiest that can thrill thy yearning heart, Husband the precious moments, the brief feeling Of youthful ecstasy will soon depart. Seek not to win too soon that which thou lovest, When winning will but break the magic spell; Love on, but seek not, strive not, —the attainment Will cloy thy fickle heart, thy dream dispel.

Vain is the warning! Death as soon will listen To the beseechings of his stricken prey; Or Time will tarry when the cowering nations Shrink from their desolating destiny! Thou art as fierce as fate in thy pursuing; Thou art impetuous as the flight of Time; And didst thou love a star, thy mad presuming Would pluck it from high heaven, and dim its shine.

And now Ambition, like a radiant angel, Attracts thy vision, and enchains thy thought; Ambition is thy god, and thou art laying Thy all before the insatiate Juggernaut; The health, the strength, which crown'd thy youth with glory, The friends who loved thee in thy early day, The clinging love which once thy bosom cherish'd; — All these are cast, like worthless weeds, away.

Take now the prize for which thou'st madly barter'd, Thy first, best treasures; and in lonely grief Enjoy Fame's emptiness, and broken-hearted, Feed on the poison of my laurel leaf; Then, sated, turn in bitter disappointment From the applause of flattery's fawning troop, And curse, within thy cheated heart's recesses, Ambition's demon, and thyself his dupe!

These are the visions of thy youth and manhood; With disappointment, wilt thou grow more sage? Alas, more grovelling yet, and more degrading, Is Avarice, the sordid dream of age! When all the joys of summer have departed, And life is stripp'd alike of birds and bloom, 'T is sad to see Age, in his dotage, treasure The wither'd leaves beside his yawning tomb!

Yes, many are thy dreams, while gentle woman Hath but one vision, and it is of thee! Faith, Hope, and Charity, (most Christian graces,) In her meek bosom dwell, a trinity Combined in unit; and an earthly Godhead Whose name is Love, demands her worshipping; And she, e'en as the Hindoo to his idol, The blind devotion of her heart doth bring, And when her god of clay hath disappointed, Earth can enchant no more; she looks above, Laying her crush'd heart on her Saviour's bosom Love was her heaven, now Heaven is her love.

A CONFESSION.

THEY are not tears of sorrowing, Then, dearest, chide me not! I weep with very thankfulness, For this, my blessed lot.

I think me of the rose-hued past, And tears will fall like rain; I turn me to my present bliss, And forth they gush again.

The past, the sunny past was like A glorious dream to me, The earth was as a fairy land, And fairy creatures we.

The hours went by as angels would When forced from heaven to roam; Each gave a blessing as it past, And hasten'd to its home.

The memories of those vanish'd hours Throng round me like a spell, And charm these drops of tenderness Up from their secret cell.

Yet, love, I would not barter now The luxury of these tears, For all the joys that woo my thoughts Back to those by-gone years!

For though my heart, blithe as a bird, From flower to flower would rove, It had not known thy tenderness, It had not felt thy love!

LINES AT NIGHT.

I HAVE wander'd in the moonlight, And my brow has met the breeze, With its forest-freight of odours, And its soughing like the seas. I have listen'd to the night-bird, As she chaunts her mellow lay; But my heart is very heavy, And I would be far away.

The breeze may journey onward With its restless, rustling wings; The bird may ease her bosom, When her sadden'd lay she sings; But my sorrow must be voiceless, Or but spoken when I pray,

And I linger here, a captive, When I would be far away!

The rude old church seems frowning As it looms upon my eyes, With its corner-stone deep buried, While its spire is in the skies. List, a moral I will read you, From this temple, quaint and gray; Though the clod must seek the valley, Lo, the soul shall soar away!

I would step into the church-yard, But at every sleeper's head Stands a tombstone, cold and pallid, Like the spirit of the dead. And I almost see them beckon me, I almost hear them say, — "There is rest with us, oh! mortal, Come away, then, come away!"

TARPEIA.

Tarpeia, the daughter of Tarpeius, the keeper of the Roman capitol agreed to betray it into the hands of the Sabines on this condition, "that she should have for her reward that which they carried upon their left arms," meaning the golden bracelets they wore upon them. The Sabines having been let in by Tarpeia, according to compact, Titus, their king, well pleased with having carried the place, yet detesting the manner in which it was done, commanded the Sabines to give the traitoress her promised reward, by throwing to her all they wore upon their left arms; and therewith, unclasping his bracelet from his left arm, he cast that, together with his shield, upon her. All the Sabines following the example of their chief, the traitoress was speedily overwhelmed with the number of bracelets and shields heaped upon her, and perished beneath them.

UNBLUSHINGLY the maiden stood, — Rome's recreant, shameless child! While round were ranged her country's foes, Those Sabine warriors wild.

They stood with lips all proudly curl'd, And brows bent down in ire, And eyes, that on the traitoress Flash'd forth their haughty fire,

As though they'd sear her very soul With their consuming scorn; Such deep disdain, a noble heart Had never brook'd or borne.

In his right hand each warrior clasp'd His blade, all stain'd with gore, While on his stout left arm, a shield Of massive weight he bore;

And round that arm a bracelet bright Was bound —of shining gold: 'T was for those gleaming bands, that Rome, Proud boasting Rome, was sold.

All silently they stood, when hark! Their lord and chieftain speaks: " Ha! this is well; her just reward From us, Tarpeia seeks.

Thy heritage—is Rome's deep hate; Thy memory —lasting shame; And thou hast wedded to a curse Thy once untarnish'd name

Thy father is the prey of worms, His life-blood stains my blade; Thy city is one mighty bier On which her sons are laid.

Thy home, —earth does not hold a spot Loathsome enough for thee, And one long life of bitter woe, Of torture, agony,

Were all too blissful for thy lot; And shall I let thee live, When anguish, such as thou should'st feel, This world can never give?

But I have not discharged the debt From Sabines due to thee: — Warriors, on your left arms, you bear The price of treachery!"

He threw to her the bribe, for which Imperial Rome was lost, And there upon the traitoress His heavy shield he toss'd.

She fell beneath it, with one shriek,One agonizing moan, While fast the weighty shields were piled,And golden bracelets thrown.

Buried beneath her infamy, Crush'd 'neath her weight of guilt; Her ignominious monument Of her reward was built.