#L1BRARY OF ( (INGRESS. #i 
 
 I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. J 
 
cyy 
 
POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 CYNTHIA TAGGAET. 
 
 Though He caiise grief, yet will He have compassion according to the 
 multitude of his mercies. ' For He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve 
 the children of men. — Lam. Hi. 32, 33, 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PRINTED BY B. R. BARLOW. 
 
 1848. 
 

 TO THE 
 
 REV. JAMES COOK RICHMOND, 
 
 HER STEADFAST FRIEND, 
 NOW IN LONDON, 
 
 ® l)is boinmc, 
 
 IS MOST GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 MiDDLETOwN. Rhode Island, July, 1848. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 It is believed that the Poems in this volume, 
 composed as they vv^ere under circumstances of 
 unusual affliction, will be read w^ith a peculiar in- 
 terest. They are the record of a secluded suffer- 
 er ; yet surely, in a world like this, of vicissitude 
 and sorrow, they cannot fail to touch some chord 
 of sympathetic feeling. We are not fitted for the 
 condition of human life, — we are not cultivated 
 to the extent of the capabilities of our nature, if 
 to us the genuine expressions of sorrow are not 
 eloquent. It is for a benevolent purpose, that God 
 has wrought into our souls a capacity of receiving 
 the impression of another's joys or sorrows. It is 
 this capacity which unites us most truly to our fel- 
 low-beings. Without it, we should be solitary and 
 sad in any part of Grod's universe. Without it, 
 knowledge would lose half its value, prosperity its 
 highest charm, and suffering its most grateful alle- 
 viation. The scriptures make their appeal to us 
 through this principle of our nature. Without this 
 power of sympathy, we can hold no communion 
 with Prophets and Apostles ; and without it, the 
 subduing narrative of a Saviour's sufferings would 
 have been given to us in vain. Imagination was 
 bestowed upon us, that we might place ourselves in 
 
IV PREFACE TO THE 
 
 the situation of others, and be excited by it to a con- 
 genial sympathy. This is, at least, one of the high- 
 est moral purposes of that noble faculty. When 
 allied with benevolence and truth, it brings within 
 our view a wider range of human interests than rea- 
 son alone can apprehend. Why is it so seldom con- 
 secrated either to the sacred charities of life, or to 
 the anticipation of the untold glories of heaven ! 
 
 Fi'om the Christian who has held intimate com- 
 munion with the spirit of his crucified Master, and 
 whose tenderness is kept alive by the highest mo-« 
 tives and the most touching remembrances, we may 
 expect a just appreciation of the productions in this 
 little volume. He solemnly realizes that every hu- 
 man being is placed under the government of God ; 
 and he views with deep interest the dispensations 
 of his Providence toward individuals, as well as to- 
 ward nations. To him, an immortal being, striving 
 for submission to the will of God, in the midst of 
 calamity and accumulated suffering, is an object oi 
 sublime interest. The pathos and the poetry of 
 truth, as exhibited in these productions, will be felt 
 by the Christian. To the medical man and the phi- 
 losopher, desirous of contemplating the human in- 
 tellect and character under every variety of circum- 
 stance, productions indicating so much thought, ima- 
 gination, and feeling, and composed under the weight 
 of the most oppressive disease, may furnish an in- 
 teresting subject of reflection and inquiry. We can- 
 not expect that those who are too much engrossed 
 by their own personal welfare, and with the con- 
 veniences and pleasures which surround them, to 
 think often of others, or to feel for them, will pe- 
 ruse this volume. Their sphere is too limited for 
 the enlarged and generous sympathies of a rational 
 spirit. But it is hoped that there are few who can 
 peruse it, and remain unaffected by it. 
 
 In confirmation of our opinion, that these Poems 
 
FIRST EDITION. V 
 
 are not without power to interest, we offer some re- 
 marks introductory to one of the pieces, " An Ode 
 to the Poppy," pubUshed in the Providence Literary 
 Journal. 
 
 " The author of the following Ode is one of those 
 whom Misery has long since maiked for her own, 
 and exercised with the severest form of physical 
 suffering. Afflicted with a chronic disease of many 
 years' duration (in the seat of thought itself), for 
 which there is no remedy, and which must fatally 
 terminate through slow and protracted degrees of 
 pain and distress ; never wholly losing her conscious- 
 ness of present evil, in the balm of sleep, the author 
 has yet been able briefly to forget her condition, and 
 to find momentary consolation, in dictating to her 
 friends several poetical effusions ; from which the 
 present has been selected as one of the most finished. 
 Though secluded from the face of Nature, the mem- 
 ory of its various and beautiful forms is quickened, 
 in her solitude, by a poet's imagination. There is a 
 pathos in some of her pieces, a strength of soul strug- 
 gling against the doom of its decaying tenement, in 
 the agony of deferred and expiring hope, that excite 
 in us, as we lay them down, a feeling of melancholy 
 regret, that another mind is destined to pass away, 
 and leave so imperfect a record of its origin ; — a 
 regret that is but partially alleviated by the convic- 
 tion, however sincere, that, as well in the universe 
 of mind, as of matter, through all their endless chan- 
 ges, nothing is lost, and all is safe in the hands of its 
 Maker. 
 
 " The subject of this brief notice is little improved 
 by ed.ucation, and owes nothing to circumstances : 
 thus adding another to the thousand proofs that 
 genius, in its different degrees and kinds, is a gift, 
 native in the soul, irrepressible in its growth by the 
 greatest weight of calamity, and flourishing even in 
 the cold shadow of Death. 
 
PREFACE TO THE 
 
 " The author's story disarms criticism, and makes 
 its way at once to the charity of the heart." 
 
 Jour, for Nov. 2d, 1833. 
 
 The eloquent observations of the Editor of the 
 Literary Journal are to the same purpose. 
 
 " We solicit the attention of the reader to the pre- 
 ceding columns, containing the Memoir of William 
 Taggart, and to the communications by which it 
 is accompanied. His unstudied and unpretending 
 narrative would repay perusal, were it merely for 
 the fine exhibition of personal character which it 
 contains. It, moreover, affords information respect- 
 ing important events in the war of our Independ- 
 ence, and particularly illustrates some of the most 
 interesting passages in the history of our own State. 
 
 " But these are not the strongest circumstances 
 which recommend it to attention. We refer to it, not 
 so much on account of its connexion with the mem- 
 ory of the dead, as with the fate of the living ; with 
 the condition of the surviving daughter, whose story, 
 though brief, is terrible, and which cannot be re- 
 peated or heard without emotion. It has already 
 been told in the introductory remarks accompanying 
 one of her poetical effusions which we inserted a 
 few weeks since. The victim of a lingering and in- 
 curable malady, under which she has suffered for 
 years ; never losing the sense of physical pain, and 
 perfectly conscious of the hopelessness of her con- 
 dition ; although possessing but slight advantages of 
 education, and owing little to the influence of soci- 
 ety, she has sent forth compositions which contain 
 the emanations of a mind rich in endowment, fraught 
 with beautiful and delicate conceptions, embodied in 
 a style of language, the correctness and purity of 
 which, under all these adverse circumstances, is 
 scarcely less remarkable than the thoughts which 
 it contains. 
 
FIRST EDITION. VU 
 
 " "We do not mean to say that her writings are 
 not in many respects defective. They are so ; and 
 they could not be otherwise. But, considering the 
 pecuhar situation of their author, they are certainly 
 remarkable productions ; and without any allowance 
 for circumstances, if subjected to the rules of rigid 
 criticism, some of them would not suffer by a com- 
 parison with the ordinary writings of many who have 
 acquired no slight degree of celebrity. 
 
 " The references to her own severe deprivations, 
 which they contain, often bear a touching pathos, 
 which finds its way directly to the heart ; but of their 
 affecting power she herself appears to be almost un- 
 conscious. There is evidently an absence of all de- 
 sign to enlist the feelings of others by allusions of 
 this nature. Whenever we find them in her writ- 
 ings, they appear to come involuntarily from the 
 depths of her own feelings, and to be mingled with 
 the beautiful imagery of her poetry merely through 
 the unceasing pressure of the physical sufferingfrom 
 which her spirit seeks relief, among the creations of 
 her vivid imagination. 
 
 '* The proposal for publishing a collection of her 
 poems certainly deserves encouragement. We hope 
 it will be canied into effect : for, apart from all 
 personal considerations, their intrinsic value renders 
 them worthy of presei-vation. It is not to furnish the 
 author with the means of ease and enjoyment, for 
 this is beyond the reach of human power ; but it is 
 with the design of alleviating, in some degree, the 
 calamities which surround her, that this proposal has 
 been made. It is honorable to those with whom it 
 originated. 
 
 " No one who can appreciate the productions of 
 genius ; indeed, no one who can feel the claims of 
 humanity, will view a proposal of this nature, with 
 indifference. The mere statement of facts relating 
 to this young lady, which has already been given, is 
 
VUl PREFACE TO THE 
 
 in itself the most powerful appeal which can be 
 made in her behalf. It is mournful to think upon 
 such a mind, suffering under the infliction of a fate 
 like hers ; of a spirit so finely tempered, — so framed 
 to sympathize with all the beautiful and exquisite 
 harmonies of the outward creation, — so fitted to 
 draw instruction and delight from the exhaustless 
 treasury of nature ; debarred from all communica- 
 tion with the thousand scenes of inspiration, which 
 are continually furnishing other minds with the ma- 
 terials of new and expanded thought, — doomed to 
 the endurance of bodily pain, from which there is 
 no relief — still rising above the trials which are 
 wearing it away, and pouring forth, amid languish- 
 ment and pain, its rich iBusic, like the melody of the 
 dying swan." Journal for December 7th, 1833. 
 
 To the subjoined letters,* the reader is referred 
 for other interesting particulars respecting the sub- 
 ject of this notice. 
 
 The venerable fathert of the author, like many 
 other patriots of the Revolution, bequeathed noth- 
 ing to his family but the memory of his good works ; 
 and their circumstances, before much straitened, 
 have been reduced, by the cessation of his pension, 
 within the ordinary measure of a comfortable sub- 
 sistence. The publication of this volume, under- 
 taken at the suggestion of her friends, will be the 
 means, — not of ministering to the love of fame, but 
 of affording to the afflicted daughter, in the way 
 most grateful to her fine feelings, and, through her, 
 to the other portion of the family, a very needful 
 relief from the pressure of adverse fortune. Let 
 those who believe that the national obligations to 
 the Men of '76 have been but imperfectly fulfilled, 
 avail themselves of every opportunity to discharge 
 
 * Page xxi. 
 
 t See the annexed Memoir, wfitten by himself, p. xxix. 
 
FIRST EDITION. IX 
 
 their portions of the accumulated debt of public 
 gratitude, to such of the descendants of these Men, 
 as are the worthy inheritors of their good name. — 
 Had the author been favored with but a common 
 share of that most essential blessing, health, she 
 would not now need a preface to commend her to 
 the public attention ; but would, in all probability, 
 be enjoying that homage of consideration and es- 
 teem for eminent talent and personal excellence, 
 which we delight to manifest towards the distin- 
 guished female writers of our country. 
 
 As has already been stated, the author of these 
 Poems dictated them (or the gi-eater part of them) 
 to her friends. They have never had her revision 
 for publication, her health not permitting any exer- 
 tion of this kind ; and some of those who wrote 
 them down, evidently have an imperfect acquain- 
 tance with the constiuction of verse. It has there- 
 fore been found necessary to make occasional cor- 
 rections of style and language ; not, however, such 
 as to impair the author's originality of thought or 
 expression. It is a matter of surprise, considering 
 her defective education, and the impossibility of 
 improvement, from the very nature of her unhappy 
 condition, that there should have been so few gram- 
 matical inaccuracies and defects of rhyme that need- 
 ed to be amended. The reader will readily per- 
 ceive that poetical writings must I'equire, much 
 more frequently than prose compositions, the pro- 
 per exercise of this discretion. We oftentimes meet 
 with excellent ideas (particularly in I'eadingthe old, 
 quaint prose writers) embodied in a rude and repul- 
 sive style, and very readily pardon the language to 
 the sense. But is not so witli poetry. One of the 
 principal pleasures, which poetry, as such, distin- 
 guished from poetical thoughts in prose, affords us, 
 is in the structure and harmony of its versification. 
 When this is careless, impei-fect and discordant, the 
 ear is at once offended ; and good taste may thus 
 
X PREFACE TO THE 
 
 mislead the judgement to an unfair estimate of the 
 real powers of an author. 
 
 " Like words to music in an uuknovvn tongue, — 
 Uniiolished diamonds, or as pearls unstrung. 
 Large, generous thoughts, in phrase obscure confined, 
 Are buried deep, and lost to all mankind." 
 
 To those who are in the habit of hastily running 
 the eye over a few pages of a work, and of casting 
 it aside if the first impression be unfavorable, we 
 would point out any one of the following pieces, — 
 " The Heart's Desire," " The Happy Birds," " On 
 the Return of Spring," " Lines on a Minister of the 
 Gospel," " Ode to the Poppy," " Midnight," "The 
 Twin Sisters," " An Apostrophe to Thought," 
 " Woman's Sympathy," " Lines on Reading the 
 Poems of** * *," "The Happiness'of Early Years," 
 " Distress," "Despair," "To her Father supposed 
 to be Dying," — as well adapted to attract their at- 
 tention, and to secure their interest and good opinion. 
 
 It is possible, from the tone of melancholy com- 
 plaint, which pervades these productions, that some 
 may be led to believe the author destitute of one 
 gift, so necessary in her condition, that of pious re- 
 signation. It should be remembered, however that 
 the poems were separately composed, — most of them 
 at long intervals of time ; and that each, when writ- 
 ten, naturally expressed the feelings of the author 
 in her peculiar trials. The general effect of the 
 whole upon the reader is not then the true test of 
 the character of the several parts ; — and, as "every 
 heart knoweth its own biterness" under the pres- 
 sure of afflictions, who but the Searcher of hearts 
 shall chide these lamentations of poor, stricken hu- 
 manity, and say that they are too deep, and bitter, 
 and prolonged ! 
 
 But further, — a moment's reflection on the in- 
 fluence of cerebral disease upon the mind, would 
 remove any remaining impression unfavorable to the 
 author. If you would form a just estimate of her 
 
FIRST EDITION, XI 
 
 piety, you should think what the effect would be in 
 your own case, to have all the sources of pleas- 
 urable sensation dried up, and all the powers of 
 thought disturbed by its oppressed organ. If the 
 brain, the medium through which the mind acts, be 
 diseased, of course all the operations of the mind are 
 impeded, or iiuperfectly and painfully performed. — 
 Christianity, we know, does not directly remove those 
 evils which have their oi'igin in j^hysical causes ; — 
 though undoubtedly it has in it a tendency, as Baxter 
 remarks, to remove all evil, inasmuch as it strikes 
 at the root of all sin. " For those whose melan- 
 choly arises from cor^^oreal causes," he says, " I 
 would give this advice : Expect not that rational, 
 spiritual remedies should suffice for this cure ; for 
 you may as well expect a good sermon, or comforta- 
 ble words, should cure palsy, as to be a sufficient 
 cure to your melancholy fears, for this is as real a 
 bodily disease as the other." Baxter was no super- 
 ficial thinker. He knew well that the reciprocal in- 
 fluences of mind and body do not cease in those 
 who have their hearts and hopes in Heaven. No, — 
 though its contemplation rest on Grod, on eternity, 
 and its own moral nature and destiny, — while the 
 soul is in the hody, it is subject to the laws which 
 govern both, and to the mysterious action and reac- 
 tion established by them ; and the faith of a Chris- 
 tian, though it may sustain the sufferer in the pain- 
 ful exercise of thought, feeling, and volition conse- 
 quent upon a diseased organization, yet will not re- 
 verse this effect of physical causes. All the appropri- 
 ate efforts of the rational spirit aije to be made, in 
 such a case, by an instrument unfited ibr its " high 
 employ ;" and the soul must sink back upon itself, 
 waiting, in faith, the day of its redemption from the 
 burden of flesh. Blessed be God, that there are 
 truths appropriate to our higher nature, and ade- 
 quate to sustain us amidst the gloom and solitude of 
 bodily suffering. The Resurrection will be a reme- 
 
XU PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 dy to the most lengthened malady ; and the body 
 will then become a peifect medium for the manifes- 
 tations of mind and spirit. If we duly considered 
 how easily " the fine net-work of mortality" may be 
 disordered, and the effects resulting from this dis- 
 order, we should be better prepared to comprehend 
 the state of the alflicted, and to minister to their ne- 
 cessities. Let the diseased bear in mind, for their 
 own consolation, that God remembers their frame. 
 "He knows each secret thread in nature's loom ;" 
 and perceives the necessary effect of their physi- 
 cal maladies, though unperceived by human skill 
 and science. The weakness of the flesh now too 
 often defeats the willing submission of the spiiit. — 
 But it will not be so always. 
 
 It is important that, in the perusal of these poems, 
 we should keep in mind the peculiar character of 
 the author's sufferings, and the circumstances under 
 which they were composed ; — otherwise we shall 
 be but poor interpreters of their spirit. We should 
 remember that, under " the pressure of irresistible 
 suffering," God permits his creatures to complain 
 to him, though not to murmur against him. We 
 should Consider, that the faith manifested in such a 
 complex state of trial, though darkened by disease, 
 may be as acceptable in the eye of God, as it is in 
 its more joyous and triumphant exhibitions. 
 
 We would hope that the perusal of this volume 
 may awaken in us a solemn conviction of our de- 
 pendance on a Higher Power for every blessing, 
 and of the consequent duty of using each to his 
 glory ; — and a sentiment of deep consideration and 
 tenderness for those less prosperous than ourselves. 
 We should remember that though the dispensations 
 of God's Providence are various, yet that He de- 
 signs but one end by them all, — to educate immor- 
 tal spirits for the future life. When this end shall 
 have been accomplished, the dark waters of afflic- 
 tion will have passed away forever. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 In the present edition the pieces entitled " The 
 Cup of Bitterness," "Psalm Forty-first," "To a 
 
 Lady," " To the Young Ladies of Miss 's 
 
 School," have been added to the Poems ; and "Some 
 Account of the Author, written by Herself," has 
 been prefixed to them. 
 
 The volume is moreover enriched by a portrait 
 of the author, and by a landscape view of the cot- 
 tage where she resides. The former has been 
 kindly furnished by Miss .Tane Stuart of Newport, 
 and the latter by Lieut. Harwood of the same place. 
 
 August, 1834. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 Goethe somewhere says, " One ought every day 
 to hear at least, a httle song, read a good poem, see 
 an excellent picture, and if it could be done, speak 
 some sensible words." Had this gifted poet been 
 accustomed to holier meditations, he had added, one 
 ought every day to say at least a short prayer, and 
 do a kind action. It is, he trusts, in the spirit sug- 
 gested above, that the writer of these few lines, sits 
 down on this blessed morning in the last of June — 
 nowhere more blessed than in this health-preserving 
 and health-restoring region — to pi'epare a Preface 
 to another edition of Cynthia Taggart's Poems. 
 
 He is now, on the opposite shore of the noble bay 
 in sight of the very spot where the old cottage, now 
 destroyed, stood in 1832, when he happened to 
 visit it in company with a brother, who recorded 
 what we there found in the little book called " The 
 Rhode Island Cottage, or, A Gift to the Children 
 of Sorrow." There before his eyes stand, and will 
 stand to the end of time, the firm rocks, heedless 
 alike of the fate of individuals and the fall of dynas- 
 ties, where in her early youth, Cynthia Taggart, 
 
XVI PREFACE TO THE 
 
 with a heart that was itself enjoyment, watched 
 when the sea was cahn, or in the awful magnifi- 
 cence of the storm, the clashing of the waves, and 
 at the sweet hour of prime, from the naked top of 
 the bold headland, beheld the sun rise up in glory 
 out of the ocean, and 
 
 " Bathe the world in light." 
 
 The delightful and grand scenery that nursed her 
 poetic fancy, and helped to open the buds of what 
 in continued health had been no common genius, is 
 all around. And, merciful Father ! on last Sunday 
 these eyes again looked on her, smitten, bowed 
 together and withered as she has been for her good, 
 by the divine hand, lying upon the lowly bed from 
 which she has not been able to raise herself for 
 more than twenty-seven years, and all the affecting 
 associations now connected with our first visit to her, 
 rushed upon the memory. Under the full influence 
 of these recollections, the writer could not refuse to 
 attempt the kind act of aiding her friends in the 
 publication of another edition of her Poems, for her 
 relief, and that of the insane Maria and the bed-rid- 
 den Elizabeth, her afflicted sisters. The author ot 
 these Poems is altogether a Rhode Island woinan, 
 and this is strictly a Rhode Island Book. The 
 great merit that belongs to it is its Truth. 
 
 The chief object of this short Preface is to induce 
 the favored sons and daughters of health and pros- 
 perity, when they visit Newport this summer, to 
 take the advice of the great poet, cited above. Af- 
 ter listening to the morning hymn the birds chant 
 to the Creator — reading one of the sublime songs 
 of the prophet Isaiah or the monarch-minstrel of 
 Israel — looking on the perfect pictuie painted by 
 the hand of God himself, that may be seen for in- 
 stance, from the Atlantic or Ocean House — speak- 
 ing some sensible words to their fellow sojourners 
 
THIRD EDITION. XVll 
 
 — sending up to the open heaven the morning or 
 noon-day prayer — they will find it good for them, 
 in the afternoon, to visit the bed-side of this suffer- 
 ing woman. In her deeper agony of the morning, 
 she cannot be seen. The house is about five miles 
 out from Newport, on the West Road, the second 
 on the west side of the road, beyond the picturesque 
 little church of" The Holy Cross." It may add to 
 the interest with which the stranger will look upon 
 this Church, to know that it stands there, probably 
 because Cynthia Taggart is a sufferer, and visits of 
 clergymen to her gave impulse to the pious enter- 
 prise of building it. There is not a warm-heart- 
 ed girl, however thoughtless, who will not be 
 disposed after that sad visit, when preparing for 
 the ball in the evening — if on that day she can 
 force herself to prepare for it at all — to lay aside 
 some trinket, or devote the price of some article of 
 dress to that afflicted family. There is not a true- 
 hearted father, or mother or brother, among all the 
 prosperous visitors to the beautiful Island, who will 
 not encourage her to do so ; who will not at her 
 soft request, add a token of self-denial to the little 
 treasure which she will put into the hands of those 
 sisters of charity, ever ready to minister to the 
 lonely ones. As her healthful cheek presses in the 
 solitude of the midnight, the downy pillow, she will 
 call up before her mental eye the never to be for- 
 gotten image of one whose heavy head, for more 
 than twenty -seven years, has hardly been raised, 
 and has never, never, never during all those weari- 
 some days and nights, ceased to throb with unutter- 
 able nervous agony. She will bless God for her 
 own freedom, and of those she loves, from fearful 
 pain. When she also in dying — as die she must, 
 Grod grant her whole life like that of Cynthia may 
 not be for long years a protracted death-struggle — 
 the memory of the single act of benevolence of that 
 
XVlll PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 day will be 'oweeter to her than of all the days of 
 hilarity and evenings of dissipation she ever spent 
 in Newport. 
 
 " It is little 
 But in these sharp extremities of fortune, 
 The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
 Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
 To give a cup of v\^ater ; yet its draught ♦ 
 
 Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, 
 May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
 More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
 Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
 It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
 Of common comfort, which by daily use 
 Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the eai's 
 Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall, 
 Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 
 With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
 To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
 And shed on the departing soul a sense, 
 More precious than the benison of friends 
 About the honored death-bed of the rich, 
 To him who else were lonely, that another 
 Of the great family is near and feels." 
 
 Talfourd's Ion, Act I, Scene II 
 
 W. R. 
 Richmond Rock, Saconet, Rhode Island, 
 June 29th, 1848. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 xxvi 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface to the First Edition- .... jjj 
 
 Preface to the Second Edition. ... xii 
 
 Preface to the Third Edition. - - - - xv 
 
 Letters relating to the Author. ... xxi 
 
 Letter from the Rev. Mr. Richinoiid. ... xxi 
 
 " " the Rev. Mr. Cutler. 
 
 " " the Author. .... 
 
 " " Mr. GammelL .... xxvii 
 
 " Miss E. V. xxix 
 
 Memoir of William Taggart. xxxi 
 
 Some Account OF THE Author BY Herself. - - xl 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Evening, 1817. 1 
 
 Autumu. 1822. - 2 
 
 A Solace. 1822. - - ■ 3 
 
 The Use of Afflictions. 1822 6 
 
 Hope of Happiness after Death 7 
 
 Contrast. 1823. 8 
 
 The Heart's Desire. 1823. ..... 9 
 
 Health. 1823. 15 
 
 The Change. May, 1824. - - . ... 17 
 
 An Invocation to Hope. 1824. .... is 
 
 The Happy Birds. - . ..... 19 
 
 To my Father's Friend. -----. 20 
 
 Past Pleasures. 1824. . • ■ - - - 21 
 
 The Starry Worlds. -.-•--- 23 
 
 On the Return of Spring. 1825. - - - - - 24 
 
 Verses for Children. ■.----- 25 
 
 To a Nephew. . - - . - . - - 28 
 
 Lines on a Minister of the Gospel. . . - - 29 
 
 On a Storm. 1825. .----.- 31 
 
 To a Once Frequented Retreat. 1825. . - - 32 
 
 Ode to the Poppy. 1825 - 34 
 
 B 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Summer Sunset. ■ - . . . . ^^7 
 
 Midnight. 1825. .---■.. 33 
 
 The Twin Sisters. -.-.--. 41 
 
 Pity. ----..--., 42 
 
 Christian Character. ■-..■.. 43 
 
 An Appeal to the Faculty. - ■ - ■ . 45 
 
 To a Young Lady. Nov. 1825. ----- 47 
 
 To Mrs. R . 1826. 49 
 
 To an Aged Friend of my Father. - - - 53 
 An Apostrophe to Sorrow ; the Sorrow of this World. 
 
 1826. . - ■ - - ... 54 
 On Commodore Oliver H. Perry ; upon the Re-inter- 
 ment of his Remains at Nev^rport, R. I. 1826. - 57 
 An Apostrophe to Thought ; Winter of 1826, Midnight. 5.9 
 To a Sister in Affliction. -.-.-- 03 
 To a beloved Sister, a lew Weeks hefore her Death. ■ 65 
 On the sudden Death of the Rev. William Gammell, of 
 
 Newport, R. I. 1827. - . . . . 67 
 
 An Epitaph on a Mother and her Son. - . - 68 
 
 Epitaph on Captain J T . - - - 69 
 
 To a Cousin. 1827. --.---- 70 
 
 To an Intimate Friend. 1827. .... 71 
 
 Woman's Sympathy ! to a Lady. 1828. - - ■ 11 
 
 Musings. -.--■--.. 79 
 
 The Song of the Birds. -.--.. 80 
 
 The Voice of the Wind. 1829. .... 81 
 
 Lines on Reading the Poems of* * * * 1829. - . 83 
 
 The Happiness of Early Years. .... 34 
 
 A Fragment. ••"--. " - 89 
 
 Sorrow. --..-.-.- 90 
 
 Lines composed in great Suffering. 1829. - - - 90 
 
 Distress. -----.•-.- 92 
 
 Despair. ■ • - 93 
 
 To her Father, supposed to be Dying. 1833. • • 95 
 
 The Cup of Bitterness. ------ 98 
 
 Psalm Forty-first. - 100 
 
 To a Lady. 1834. - • 102 
 
 To the Young Ladies of Miss 's School. 1834. - 104 
 
 «# 
 
LETTERS 
 
 RELATING TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 "Letter from the Rev. James C. RicJimond, to Tin 
 Brother, tlie Rev. William Riclimoncl, of Bloom,- 
 ingdale, N. Y. 
 
 Salem, Mass. , April lOtli, 1833. 
 Dear Buother, 
 
 Agreeably to your request I have drawn up a brief 
 account of the visit we made, in the spring of 1832, 
 to the home and graves of our forefathers, and of 
 an incident which then occurred. 
 
 Wearied with the noise and bustle of a Rhode 
 Island Election, we determined to make our escape 
 fi'om Newport, to the quiet scenes, in the midst of 
 which we had passed together many happy and 
 tranquil hours. We intended to cross ir-om the 
 Island to the town of Little Compton ; but, as might 
 have been anticipated, the ferryman was enjoying 
 the Election holyday at Newport. Observing a 
 small house on the hill, 1 went to it for the purpose 
 of procuring some provisions for our party. When 
 I reached the fence, I observed, in the little yard 
 before the house, an old man, who seemed to be oc- 
 cupied about some household duties, and who did 
 not at first notice my presence. As .soon, however, 
 as I spoke to him (Mr. Taggart), he came towards 
 
XXU LTTERS RELATING TO 
 
 me ; and, on my making known our wants, a con- 
 f ersation ensued, in which, to show that his will to 
 serve us was greater than his abiUty, he spoke of 
 the afflictions of his family. Still, he said, we were 
 welcome to all that his house could afford us. Re- 
 turning to the subject of his family, he said, with 
 deep feeling, " I suppose, Sir, that I have the most 
 afflicted family on this Island. I have one dauo-hter 
 who has been lying on her bed in that house, more 
 than eleven years, and the physicians can do noth- 
 ing for her. Her sister has worn herself out in 
 watching over her, and now she is a cripple, and 
 has to be moved about the house. Another daugh- 
 ter is deranged, and my wife is old and feeble, and 
 troubled with a bad cough. She does all she can 
 Sir ; but I cannot work as I used to do ; and I have 
 had very heavy doctors' bills to pay. It is but a 
 little while since I paid more than four hundi'ed 
 dollai's. I have been obliged to mortgage my little 
 farm ; and it is almost all gone. I hope it will be 
 enough to carry us through this world to a better. 
 It is all right. I know that the Supreme Ruler of 
 the Univei'se does what is best for us." 
 
 I informed him that I had left you waiting for the 
 ferry-boat, and he seemed highly pleased to learn 
 that you were a Christian minister.* Your own 
 words, after the interview, that "we were as much 
 interested in this scene, as in almost any other that 
 we ever witnessed together," show that I was not 
 wrong in my anticipations when I requested you to 
 visit the family. 
 
 They spoke of the manner in which their daugh- 
 ter Cynthia passed the time ; and the verses which 
 she- had written were shown to us. I do not sup- 
 
 * Mr. J. C. Richmond was uot at that time admitted to the 
 ministry. 
 
THE AUTHOR. XXIU 
 
 pose the poems would have affected me so deeply 
 as they did, had I met with them as those who will 
 read this description will meet with them, in a print- 
 ed book. But I must confess, that, when I consid- 
 ered the place, the seclusion from almost all the 
 world, in which the family have lived, the few ad- 
 vantages, even of a common school education, 
 which their daughter had enjoyed, and then remem- 
 bered the manner in which it has pleased God to 
 wound her spirit, and to bow down her soul, I could 
 not but consider them as remarkable productions. 
 Probably the verses maybe liable to criticism ; but 
 one thing is certain, — they are a faithful picture of 
 deep sorrow and suffering. The sufferer had lain 
 for nearly half her life, where we saw her. Through 
 how many weary, restless days and nights had she 
 passed ! Is it not strange, that we, who are blessed 
 with health and strength, should ever murmur at the 
 allotments of Providence, when, compared witli 
 such sorrows as these, our afflictions seem trifling 
 and momentaiy 1 
 
 When you conversed with her, she expressed her 
 resignation to the will of Grod ; but, though patient 
 under her sufferings, her heart seemed almost bro- 
 ken with hope deferred. She had passed most of 
 this long period of affliction in the expectation that 
 she should one day be raised again to health and 
 strength ; and this disappointment had imparted a 
 "deep melancholy to her thoughts. Her views of 
 herself were most humble; and she seemed unwil- 
 ling by her answers to lead you to suppose, that she 
 was more at peace with herself and her Maker, than 
 was really the case. 
 
XXIV LETTERS RELATING TO 
 
 Letter from the Rev. Benjamin C. Cutler, Rector of 
 St. Ann^s C/mrcJi, Brooklyn, New York, to a 
 Gentleman of the City of New York. 
 
 Brooklyn, N. Y., Dec. 1833. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 The request that I would give you some account 
 of the writer of the Poems about to be published, 
 is cheerfully granted. 
 
 For some years past I have spent a few weeks 
 in autumn, on the southeastern extremity of Rhode 
 Island. 
 
 While there in the autumn of 1832, I heard of 
 an afflicted family in the neighborhood ; and, learn- 
 ing that a visit of condolence would be very accep- 
 table, I determined to make one. I was directed to 
 a small house, far from any road, on the side of a 
 hill descending precipitately to an arm of the sea, 
 which separates this Island from the adjoining State. 
 The first person I saw, on approaching the house, 
 was a young woman at the door, who, as soon as she 
 perceived me, uttered some incoherent words and 
 disappeared. I knocked, was admitted, and soon 
 introduced to the family. 
 
 It was composed of a venerable old man, his wife, 
 and three daughters. Here I found sickness, dis- 
 tress, and poverty, in conflict with religion, peace 
 and purity; and I rejoice to say the latter appeared 
 to triumph. 
 
 The old man was feeble, and broken in constitu- 
 tion and health. His " hoary head," however, was 
 " a crown of glory," for it was found in " the way of 
 righteousness," 
 
 He had been an officer in the Revolutionary war, 
 and his last days were made anxious by endeavors 
 to obtain a pension. He succeeded about a year 
 since ; but has now gone to serve a more generous 
 Master. 
 
THE AUTHOR 
 
 His wife was a confirmed invalid, and could with 
 the greatest difficulty discharge her domestic duties. 
 
 The three daughters were the principal sufferers. 
 One was deprived of reason : the other two were 
 emaciated by disease, and had been confined to their 
 beds, one for two, and the other for seven years. 
 Medical attendance, medicines, and loss of time in 
 nursing his children, had consumed all the property 
 of the good old man, except the small tenement 
 which he occujjied, and which ere long he expected 
 to exchange for a still narrower one. But, for the 
 credit of religion, and for the comfort of all who 
 may be called to pass thi-ough " the fire" of such 
 trials, I can say that this veteran soldier of Christ 
 and his family seemed supported by the consolations 
 of the Gospel. On these I conversed at large, and 
 with each member of the family ; and I endeavored 
 to lighten, by every means in my power, the heavy 
 burdens of these poor pilgrims. 
 
 The father, the mother, and one of the daughters 
 appeared cheerful and resigned ; but the other 
 daughter seemed greatly depressed. She had been 
 now seven years on a bed of exquisite pain. Her 
 hair had turned gray by the unmitigated anguish of 
 her head. Sleep had long deserted her, and she 
 seemed to have been in the act of martyrdom for 
 years. Confined for so long a time to her bed, in- 
 capable of occupation or amusement, at times, even 
 of devotion, she struggled hard to say " Thy will be 
 done." She however appeared to confide in God, 
 but was destitute of spiritual consolation. 
 
 In this state, and in this place, she composed, 
 from time to time, the Poems which are about to be 
 published. They are like the Lamentations of Jere- 
 miah, or, more truly, like the complainings of Job ; 
 and may serve to make both the prosperous and the 
 afflicted more grateful and submissive to the allot- 
 ments of Divine Providence. 
 2 
 
XXVI LETTERS RELATING TO 
 
 The Poems were composed and committed to 
 memory, chiefly in the night ; and were committed 
 to writing by the father and others at their leisure. 
 
 A httle garden before her window, the sun which 
 rose and set, the winds of heaven which shook her 
 cottage, and the ocean, whose " billowy anthem" 
 was ever chanting at the foot of the hill, afforded 
 the only variety to her thoughts. From these and 
 from her bodily sufferings, she draws subjects and 
 illustrations for her Muse. She remains to this day 
 sunk in a bed of anguish, calm and patient. The 
 blessed Saviour, I trust, sits beside her as a " re- 
 finer and purifier of silver;" and when he perceives 
 the work to be completed, he will doubtless with- 
 draw the fire. I am glad that her Poems are to be 
 published, for it is always a relief to make known 
 our griefs ; and I cannot but hope, whether the 
 number of her admirers be great or small, that she 
 will by these Poems secure to herself a few sympa- 
 thizing friends. One I am sure she has already 
 made ; who remains, dear Sir, 
 
 Always yours. 
 
 B. C. Cutler. 
 
 hetter from tJie Author to a Friend in Providence. 
 (dictated.) 
 
 October 28th, 1833, 
 
 Dear Madam, 
 
 I have not strength at present to comply with your 
 request respecting an account of the nature and pro- 
 gress of my protracted diseases, and of my feelings 
 under them, which have been anything rather than 
 what I could wish ; though at all times, in my great- 
 est extremities, I have assuredly believed that the 
 
THE AUrHOR. XXVll 
 
 Judge of all the earth will do right, and that it is 
 in mercy and compassion He afflicts ; and have de- 
 sired to be enabled to say, "It is the Lord ; let him 
 do as seemeth to him good." If ever I am favored 
 with strength and composure sufficient, I will, with 
 the utmost readiness and alacrity, gratify your wish- 
 es. My dear father is very ill, and to appearance 
 fast approaching the bounds of mortality, — but with 
 prospects full of immortality and life. His faith is 
 strong, and his soul sustained, in the midst of his 
 bodily distresses, with heavenly consolations, and 
 peace that passeth understanding ; which is a great 
 encouragement and support to our minds, in the 
 pain and anguish of being separated from a kind 
 and precious parent. But it is our humble hope and 
 earnest prayer, that the separation may not be final ; 
 and that we may be again united in those blessed 
 abodes, where there is no more pain, sin, nor sor- 
 row, and where the Lord shall wipe away all tears 
 from all eyes ; and it is a consoling reflection that 
 this will be the happy lot of all those that love and 
 obey the Saviour. 
 
 With great esteem and cordial regard, 
 
 Your fiiend, 
 Cynthia Taggart. 
 
 Letter from William Gammcll, Tutor in Brown 
 University , to a Friend of the Author. 
 
 Monday, Dec. 30th, 1833. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 I went on Saturday to fulfil my promise and visit 
 the lady, in whom you have taken so kind an in- 
 terest. 
 
 Watchfulness and pain had so reduced her 
 strength that she was able to converse but little. 
 
XXVlll LETTERS RELATING TO 
 
 But, in that little, was manifested a mind superior to 
 the circumstances in which she had always been 
 placed. She spoke of the gloom which disease will 
 sometimes bring over the hopes and prospects of the 
 future ; and, though her confidence in the truths and 
 promises of religion, was too firm to be shaken, she 
 seemed to be the victim of fears, and doubts, and 
 those gloomy apprehensions, with which a diseased 
 body so often afflicts the mind. With a clearness of 
 expression, such as experience alone can give, she 
 alluded to the influence of the body upon the spirit, 
 withdrawing it from its appropriate range, either to 
 prey upon its own existence, or to fret itself against 
 the walls of its prison-house, — to the difficulty of 
 pursuing continuous thought, and of catching more 
 than occasional glimpses of that region where the 
 mind finds its proper aliment, and objects worthy of 
 its attention. She spoke of the kindness of the 
 fi-iends who had visited her afflicted family, and ex- 
 pressed her gratitude for the letters which she had 
 received. Her conversation was characterized by 
 cleaiTiess and appropriateness of expression, by cor- 
 rectness of remark, and sometimes by superior in- 
 telligence. She had recently been so ill, that after 
 a few minutes conversation I took my leave, regret- 
 ting that I could stay no longer. I left their dwel- 
 ling, having witnessed a scene of domestic suffering, 
 and a form of domestic piety, which none can con- 
 template without being made better. The impres- 
 sion of it will never be effaced from my recollec- 
 tion. Amidst the discontents and repinings of so- 
 ciety, I shall often recall the spectacle of this suffer- 
 ing family, and think of the value of that religion 
 which has been their support. I am, &c. 
 
 W. Gammell. 
 
THE AUTHOR. XXIX 
 
 The Publishers have been kindly permitted to 
 insert the following passage from a 
 
 Letter of Miss E. V. of New York, written, in 1847. 
 
 Let me tell you of a visit I paid some time since 
 to Miss Taggart. I dare say you have heard of her 
 and her Poems. If not, ask cousin C. I found her 
 in a little chamber with one window, an easy chair, 
 a bed and a stove — everything scrupulously neat, 
 and she wasted to a skeleton. For twenty-six years 
 she has lain there with no hope of being freed from 
 the most intense suifering, till " Death, the great 
 consoler, lays his hand on her heart and stills it for- 
 ever." But she is perfectly cheerful, and so happy 
 in the thought that the time will come when mortal 
 shall put on immortality. She made a remark very 
 striking to me. " You do not know how strong and 
 clear the hope of eternity can be,when it is all you 
 have to look forward to." These were not her ex- 
 act words, for she uses the most beautiful and scrip- 
 tural language, not the very words of the Bible, but 
 of one imbued with its very essence. She says 
 sometimes when moved to the edge of the bed she 
 can catch a glimpse of a star, and it is such a treat. 
 I thought of the glorious sights we enjoy daily, so 
 thoughtless of the blessing as we are. Her voice is 
 so faint that you must lean over her bed to speak 
 with her, and if you close your eyes, you could 
 easily imagine it a voice from the sjDirit world. All 
 she says too is in harmony with such a feeling. 
 Once after speaking of the certainty of salvation to 
 those who put their trust in Jesus, proceding from 
 the immutability of Him who has pro?nised, she op- 
 ened her eyes, and asked unexpectedly, " Are these 
 
XXX LETTERS RELATING TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 your sentiments ]" I cannot describe to you liow I 
 felt these simple words. Her sister who has been 
 confined to her bed for four years, is also very in- 
 teresting and an intelligent Christian. They are 
 nursed by a widowed sister. The deranged one, tell 
 cousin C, is still at Bloomingdale. 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. 
 
 WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 William Taggart, tlie eldei-, was a respectable 
 citizen of Newport, Rhode Island. He held the 
 office of President of the Town-Council; was, for 
 several years, one of the Judges of the Court of Com- 
 mon Pleas for the County of Newport ; and was 
 subsequently elected a Judge of the Supreme Court. 
 He took a very active part in our Revolutionary 
 struggle, and suffered great loss of property, by se- 
 vere depredations dui'ing the War of Independence. 
 His eldest son, William, the writer and subject of 
 the present short Memoir, was boi'n in Newport, on 
 the 7th day of May, 1755, and resided there until 
 he was fifteen years of age, when he went on a voy- 
 age to sea, with his father. 
 
 Soon after our return, my father purchased a val- 
 uable farm in the town of Middletown, about six miles 
 from Newport. He removed to the farm, where I 
 resided with him, being fond of agricultural pursuits. 
 I was the eldest of twelve children ; among whom 
 the greatest harmony prevailed, until it was unhap- 
 pily interrupted by the arrival of the British troops, 
 who landed upon Rhode Island, in December, 1776. 
 In a few days, a Hessian Colonel took possession of 
 the best part of our commodious mansion-house ; he 
 having selected it as quarters for himself and his reti- 
 nue. Although the Colonel was extremely poHte, 
 yet the mother of this numerous family was render- 
 ed very uneasy, and could not brook the idea of be- 
 ing among soldiers, in such a state of vassalage and 
 danger, more especially on account of her daugh- 
 ters, who she was very apprehensive, would be pax*- 
 
XXXn MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGAUT. 
 
 ticularly liable to the insults of a brutal soldiery. 
 She therefore prevailed upon her husband to re- 
 move the family from the Island ; and accordingly 
 the whole, with the exception of my father and two 
 of my brothers next in age to myself, removed, un- 
 der my care, to the town of Little Compton. Du- 
 ring the following summer an expedition was form- 
 ed under the command of Major-General Spencer, 
 to attack the Biitish troops, and to obtain possession 
 of the Island, and the town of Newport. About 
 this time, a person came from the Island with a flag, 
 and informed me that my father had expressed a 
 wish for me to come over to the Island and have an 
 interview with him. I communicated this fact to 
 Colonel Joseph Stanton, who then commanded at 
 Rowland's Ferry, in Tiverton. He assented to the 
 proposal, and directed three officers of the American 
 army to accompany me, and to obtain the best pos- 
 sible information of the force, strength, and situation 
 of the enemy. One of these officers was a Lieu- 
 tenant Charles Handy, of Newj^ort. On the follow- 
 ing night, we proceeded to my father's mansion on 
 the Island ; and ascertained, to the best of my re- 
 collection, that thg British force did not exceed two 
 thousand men, who had scarcely any intrenchments 
 on any part of the Island ; — that their naval force 
 was very small, and in such a situation, that an 
 expedition might, if judiciously arranged, be so con- 
 ducted, as, under God, to insure success. We re- 
 turned in safety, and made report of every particu- 
 lar to the proper officers. The expedition was 
 rapidly progressing. In the interim, 1 several times 
 went upon the island, to obtain additional informa- 
 tion, previous to the night, which had been assigned 
 for the landing of our army ; and thi'ough the same 
 channel, I received all the intelligence which was de- 
 sirable or necessary. 
 
 The night at length arrived. Our troops, said to 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TARGART. XXXIU 
 
 be twelve thousand strong, were drawn up, under 
 arms, ready for embarcation. A party of about 
 thirty, of which I was one, was detached in three 
 boats : and having landed, well down to the mouth 
 of the river, we immediately proceeded to my fa- 
 ther's house. He, with his two sons, who, until this 
 period, had remained on the Island, and had com- 
 municated much important information to the Ameri- 
 can commander, now joined us. Our orders were, 
 to proceed to Black Point, so called, which was the 
 place designated for the landing of our army. The 
 landing was to be made, at a signal which had been 
 previously arranged ; and were ordered to secure 
 the sentinels in our route, and to call on the inhabi- 
 tants to come out with their teams, &c , to assist in 
 transporting the cannon. On our way we captured 
 two mounted light-horsemen, who were patrolling the 
 shore; and, after our ai-rival at the appointed sta- 
 tion, we waited until near day bi'eak, for the signal. 
 But it was not given ; and to our great mortifica- 
 tion and disappointment, we were under the neces- 
 sity of leaving the Island, accompanied by my father 
 and brothers, who would undoubtedly have been con- 
 demned to an ignominious death, if they had I'e- 
 mained ; as the active part which they had taken, 
 in communicating intelligence to the American 
 forces, was now discovered. They were according- 
 ly compelled to abandon a valuable property, which 
 was desti-oyed by the ruthless enemy. Houses, 
 barns, orchards, fruit trees, fences, were all wanton- 
 ly torn in pieces ; and the whole farm left a barren 
 waste, — the mere soil, which they could not destroy, 
 alone remaining. 
 
 My venerable parents being thus reduced, at once, 
 from affluence to extreme poverty, the Legislature 
 of the State granted my father the sum of two hundred 
 pounds, lawful money ; which, in the then deprecia- 
 ted state of the currency, was but a temporary re- 
 
XXXIV MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. 
 
 lief for SO numerous a family. Some time after this, 
 the same authority put him in possession of a confisca- 
 ted estate, called the Seconnet Point Farm, which 
 was extremely exposed to the enemy, as will be found 
 in the sequel of this narrative. Early in the summer 
 of 1778, another expedition for taking possession of 
 Rhode Island was planned, under the direction of 
 Major-General Sullivan ; and a very large force 
 from the States of Rhode Island and Massachusetts, 
 was collected so carry it into effect. My father was 
 appointed to command the boats intended for landing 
 the troops, with the rank, pay and rations of a major 
 in the army ; and afterwards, by a warrant, dated 
 May 8th, 1778, under the hand of General Sullivan, 
 I was appointed a captain of the boats under my fa- 
 ther, with the pay, &c., of a captain in the ai-my. — 
 By virtue of this warrant, I enlisted a number of 
 boatmen, who were allowed the same pay as the 
 troops in the service of the State. After the fail- 
 ure of the expedition, we were ordered to proceed 
 with the boats, for their safe keeping, to Dighton, in 
 the State of Massachusetts, were we remained un- 
 til the tenth of March, 1779 ; when we were all dis- 
 charged by General Sullivan. I then retired, with 
 my father, to the farm on Seconnet Point. 
 
 Toward the latter part of the July following, a 
 large party of Refugees from Newport, came to Lit- 
 tle Compton, for express purpose of making priso- 
 ners of my father and his sons, who were peculiar- 
 ly obnoxious to the enemy. This party landed un- 
 discovered; although there was a guaid kept at the 
 house where we dwelt, and sentinels were stationed 
 on the shore. Two of the sentinels, discovering a 
 boat, hailed and fired ; but were immediately seized 
 by the enemy, then at their backs, with threats of im- 
 mediate death for daring to fire. We were alarm- 
 ed at the house by the report of the muskets ; and 
 1 and ray unf trtunate bi-other, having armed our- 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXXV 
 
 selves were the first to reach the shore ; and were 
 instantly made prisoners by the enemy, who were 
 in ambush. As they appeared to be in confusion, my 
 poor brother attempted to escape, by leaping over a 
 stone wall ; and had proceeded some distance, when 
 he was fired cui, and wounded through the thigh. 
 One of the merciless desperadoes pursued, and ran 
 him through with a bayonet. Although more than 
 half a century has passed, since that cruel and sav- 
 age deed, my blood still thrills at the recollection of 
 the tragic scene ! They then took four of our party 
 on board their schooner, and lodged us in the jail at 
 Newport, which was then used as a provost. I 
 there remained as prisoner for about a fortnight, 
 when, with a Captain Benjamin Borden, of Fall 
 River, I made my escape, m the following manner. 
 The prisoners were occasionally peiTnitted to go in- 
 to the cellar; where we observed that, instead of iron, 
 the window were fu/-nished with wooden bars, which 
 might easily be removed with a good knife. But 
 even then, thei'e were difficulties to be surmounted, 
 which, to persons less determined than ourselves, 
 would doubtless have appeared insuperable. Sen- 
 tinels were placed both in front and rear of the pris- 
 on ; and were continually patrolling. At the east 
 end of the building, there was and still is, a narrow 
 street, communicating with the front and back streets 
 of the prison. From the cellar window, by which 
 we escaped, a few steps brought us into the street 
 in front, and in view of the soldier ; who, fortunately 
 for us, was at that time in the sentry box, on account 
 of the rain which was falling. We had previously 
 selected a topic of conversation respecting New 
 York, that we might appear to have recently arrived 
 from that place ; in order to avert any suspicion 
 which might arise in the mind of the sentinel, or of 
 any other person whom we might meet. We had 
 agreed to walk deliberately, and without betraying 
 
XXXVl MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. 
 
 any signs of fear; and were providentially enabled 
 to pass, in the twilight, safely through the compact 
 part of the town. Near the hay-scales in Broad 
 Street, we went into the fields on the south-east of 
 that street ; and at a short distance from thence, with- 
 out detection, we crossed the lines >which enclosed 
 the town, although these were strictly guarded. — 
 We then attemj^ted to cross the road, and to steer 
 our course between the forts by Irish's and Tamma- 
 ny Hill, in order to avoid the regiment of Ans^jach, 
 which was encamped near by ; but, as it had then 
 become very dark, we soon found ourselves much 
 too near for our safety. The darkness however 
 prevented our re-capture : for, as we heard the sound 
 when the guard was relieved at the fort at Irish's, 
 we (to use a not unapt metaphor) Avere enabled "to 
 steer between Scylla and Charybdis." We came 
 out into the west road ; and having proceeded about 
 eight or nine miles towards Bristol Ferry, halted at 
 the house of Nathan Brownell, who received us with 
 great kindness. 
 
 As the troops at that season of the year, were en- 
 camped in the fields, it was extremely hazardous 
 for us to visit, at seasonable hours, those of the in- 
 habitants who were friendly to the American cause ; 
 but still greater, and apparently insurmountable ob- 
 stacles opposed any attempt to leave the Island, un- 
 discovered. As the shores were closely guarded, 
 we could not possibly obtain a boat ; and our only 
 alternative was to procure a number of rails from 
 the fences, for the construction of a raft ; and then 
 to await a proper time for making an attempt to es- 
 cape in that manner. This was truly the most haz- 
 ardous part of our enterprise ; for we were obliged 
 to launch our frail and unseaworthy bark between 
 two of the nightly guards which were stationed on 
 the shore. But the same Providence, by which we 
 had thus far been so signallv favored, still shielded 
 
MEMOIR OP WILLIAM TAGGAIIT. XXXVU 
 
 and protected us. We left the shore with our raft, 
 unperceived. A thick fog soon came up, and as it 
 was very calm we knew not in what direction to 
 steer. We were all night upon, or rather in, the 
 water, as our rude bark was not stiong enough to 
 keep us entirely above the surface ; and at day- 
 break, when the fog passed away, we found our- 
 selves so near the Island, that we could see the sen- 
 tinels leaving the shore, and were in momentary 
 expectation of being pursued and retaken. We 
 were, however, enabled to continue our course ; and, 
 about an hour after sunrise, we safely landed from 
 our sinking raft, on the south point of the Island of 
 Prudence, a distance of eight or ten miles from the 
 spot where we embarked. From Prudence, we 
 were taken in a boat, and conveyed to the town of 
 Bristol ; and from thence proceeded to our respec- 
 tive places of abode. How wonderful are the ways 
 of Him, whose throne is in the Heavens ; whose 
 tender mercies are over all his works ; whose word 
 assures us, " that it is not in man that walketh, to 
 direct his steps !" In the autumn following, the 
 Btitish forces evacuated Rhode Island, and departed 
 for New York ; and in the spring my father again 
 removed his family to the Island, — but not to our 
 once flourishing and delightful abode. Not a ves- 
 tige remained of our mansion, which, with every 
 surrounding building, was totally demolished ; — the 
 orchards, the fruit, and ornamental trees were utterly 
 destroyed ; even the hay and rails were consumed ; 
 and nothing remained but a barren, uncultiv-ated 
 heath. This was a deplorable prospect for a man 
 with a numerous femily. This sad reverse of for- 
 tune was all attributable to the active part we had 
 taken in behalf of our beloved country ; but the 
 love of Liberty was so closely interwoven with our 
 nature, that they must stand or fall together. My 
 father was advised to make application to the 
 
XXXVlll MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGARX. 
 
 general government, for some recomjaense for his 
 great losses ; but he never did more than to make an 
 estimate of them, which, if I correctly remember, 
 amounted to twelve thousand dollars. At his de- 
 cease, I found that the portion of his estate which 
 had been devised to me was involved beyond its 
 value, under a heavy mortgage. But, with a firm 
 persuasion, that by industry I should be able to re- 
 deem it, I commenced the work of repair, and 
 erected suitable buildings for the accommodation of 
 my increasing family. But, as this was composed 
 entirely of females, my agricultural concerns were 
 managed with difficulty. In addition to this, we 
 have experienced a long scene of affliction, in the 
 protracted illness of three amiable daughters ; one 
 of whom, for a long time, has been, and still is, de- 
 prived of her reason, — another, for more than ten 
 yearS) has been, by a series of complicated disorders, 
 confined helpless to her bed, — and a third, who 
 more than three years since, on the day after the 
 funeral obsequies of another sister, was seized with 
 sudden illness, has also been confined from that 
 time until the last few weeks. Thus, by an accu- 
 mulation of misfortunes, I have been compelled to 
 relinquish my property to my indulgent creditors ; 
 excepting a sufficiency for procuring a small tene- 
 ment for my suffering family. But, what abundant 
 reason have I to pour out my soul in grateful ac- 
 knowledgment to the Author of all good, that in the 
 midst of judgment he hath remembered mercy ; that 
 he has taken my leet from the miry clay, and placed 
 them on the rock Christ Jesus. 
 
 In June, 1804, I united in Christian fellowship 
 with the Second Baptist Church in Newport ; and 
 in September, 1800, was chosen by an unanimous 
 vote to the office of deacon. As an additional mo- 
 tive to call on my soul to bless God's holy name, I 
 have abundant reason to hope and firmly believe. 
 
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXXIX 
 
 that my three afflicted daughters have found the 
 Pearl of great price : and, when reason shall have 
 regained its empire in the mind of ray afflicted Ma- 
 ria, they will unite in pronouncing all things as loss 
 and dross, in comparison with the knowledge of 
 their exalted Redeemer ; and, with devout hearts 
 and united voices, say, with the inspired Apostle, 
 " Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, 
 worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal 
 weight of glory." 
 
 WILLIAM TAGGART. 
 Middletown, R. L, Octoher 2Uh., 1833. 
 
SOME ACCOUNT OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 WRITTEN CY HERSELF. 
 
 During infancy and childhood I was the subject 
 of emaciating disease, and suffered much fi'om pain 
 and debihty ; but, when healtli permitted, I occa- 
 sionally attended school, during the summer season 
 only, from my sixth to my ninth year, and six or' 
 eight weeks, several years afterwards, to study ge- 
 ography and grammar. My knowledge of writing 
 and arithmetic was acquired at home, as also that of 
 grammar and geography with the above-mentioned 
 exception. I had likewise some opportunity, which 
 was sedulously improved, of attending to the inter- 
 esting study of astronomy, natural and civil history, 
 and of reading the works of esteemed authors on 
 important subjects ; but have been chiefly debarred, 
 by sickness and indigence, from the advantages of 
 education, for which, during childhood and youth, I 
 longed with an intensity of desire, that was acutely 
 painful. But for many years past I have resignedly 
 acquiesced in the allotments of Providence ; believ- 
 ing assui'edly, that all things are ordered in infinite 
 mercy, and that the decrees of the all-wise Creator 
 are lighteous altogether. 
 
 From the earliest time I can recollect, I was, 
 though not melancholy, of a meditative and re- 
 tired habit, and found much more amusement in 
 yielding my mind to a pleasing train of fancy, and 
 in forming stories and scenes according to my incli- 
 nation, than in the plays, in which the children with 
 whom I associated took delight. And during the 
 whole of my childhood and youth, previous to my 
 
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. xli 
 
 incurable illness, I derived incomparably more en- 
 tertainment and delight from these mental reveiies, 
 and in silently contemplating the beauties and won- 
 ders of the visible creation, than in associating with 
 my youthful companions; though I was not averse 
 to society, especially that in which I could find a 
 congenial spirit, and such I highly enjoyed. My 
 favorite amusements were invariably found, when 
 health j^ermitted, in viewing and admiring the varied 
 and soul-filling works of the great Creator ; in lis- 
 tening to the music of the winds and waves with 
 an ineffable and indefinable delight; in reading 
 books that were instructive and interesting; in 
 pursuing without interruption, a pleasing train of 
 thought ; and in the elysian scenes of fancy. My 
 employments were chiefly of a domestic kind, and 
 my inclinations and habits those of activity and in- 
 dustry. I had never the most remote and vague 
 apprehension, that my mental capacities, even if 
 cultivated, were competent for productive eftbrts; 
 with few exceptions, it was not till several years 
 after the commencement of excruciating illness, that 
 my thoughts and feelings were committed to paper, 
 in the form of poetry; and the sole cause of the 
 production of many little pieces, since that period, 
 was, that in them my mind found some small relief 
 from the pressure of incessant suffering, though, from 
 the prevalence of bodily languor, it was possible 
 to derive only transient amusement from thus occu- 
 pying my thoughts ; — if longer persisted in, partial 
 faintness and an insupportable agony of the brain 
 ensued. 
 
 I was frequently, during childhood, the subject of 
 religious impressions, especially when hearing or 
 reading of the love of Christ, the depravity of the 
 human heart, and the happiness or misery of a fu- 
 ture state. But these impressions were fleeting ; 
 and it was not till my eighteenth year, that any abid- 
 
xlii 
 
 SOMEACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ing seriousness was produced in my mind ; when I 
 became deej^ly impressed with the supaeme excel- 
 lence and importance of religion, and greatly desir- 
 ous that my dark and alienated mind might be en- 
 lightened by the Spirit of Truth, and brought into a 
 sacred nearness to the Saviour of sinners, — that my 
 soul might be renovated, and entirely conformed to 
 the holy will of God, and that I might live a de- 
 voted and useful life. And for a short time T believed 
 I had experienced, in part, what I so anxiously de- 
 sired ; but I have never derived that peace and con- 
 solation from religion, which Christians in general 
 enjoy, and which it is so amply adequate to afford. 
 But if I have not been the subject of renovating 
 grace, and of those holy illuminations, that are es- 
 sential to the divine life, it is my earnest and supreme 
 desire that I yet rnay be, and that my soul, in life and 
 in death, may be entirely resigned and conformed to 
 the righteous will of the all-wise God and Saviour. 
 But, though I have failed of obtaining that enjoy- 
 ment and holy delight, which the principles of relig- 
 ion in ordinary cases afford, yet through a series of 
 the deepest afflictions they have been my sole sup- 
 port. When in the bloom of youth, with a high 
 relish f )r the tranquil and dehghtful amusements of 
 early life, and an ardent desire of impiovement, I 
 was at once deprived of every earthly enjoyment, 
 and of almost all that could render life tolerable, — 
 doomed to the endurance of perpetual bodily an- 
 guish, — and, while writhing upon the bed of lan- 
 guishing, deprived even of the sweet and soothing 
 influence of balmy sleep, the all-important support 
 and restorative of exhausted and decaying nature. 
 In the midst of these deplorable calamities, a firm 
 belief in the doctrines of the Gospel has sustained 
 my spirit, and endued my soul with strength to bear, 
 with a measui'e of composure and resignation, these 
 long-protracted and inconceivable sufferings. 
 
SOME ACCOUNT OP THE AUTHOR, xliii 
 
 But in order to give a more explicit account o 
 the nature' and progress of this afflictive dispen- 
 sation, I must revert to the period of its com- 
 mencement, which was that of my existence ; from 
 which, and during infancy and childhood, I was so 
 extremely sickly, that my parents had no hope of 
 my attaining mature years ; and though blessed, from 
 my sixth year, with a degree of strength that enabled 
 me occasionally to attend school, and afterwards to 
 engage in active employment, yet my slender con- 
 stitution was frequently assailed by disease, from 
 my birth to my nineteenth year. Shortly after this 
 period, I was seized with a more serious and alarm- 
 ing illness, than any with which I had hitherto been 
 exercised, and in the pi'ogress of which my life was 
 for many weeks despaiied of But after my being 
 reduced to the brink of the grave, and enduring ex- 
 cruciating pain and excessive weakness for more 
 than three months, it yielded to superior medical 
 skill ; and I so far recovered strength as to walk a 
 few steps and frequently to ride abroad, though not 
 without a great increase of pain, an almost mad- 
 dening agony of the brain, and a total deprivation of 
 sleep for three or four nights and days successively. 
 
 From this time a complication of the most pain- 
 ful and debilitating chronic diseases ensued, and 
 have continued to prey upon my frail system during 
 the subsequent period of my life, — from which no 
 permanent relief could be obtained, either through 
 medicine or the most judicious regimen, — natural 
 sleep having been withheld to an almost, if not alto- 
 gether unparalleled degree, from the first serious ill- 
 ness throughout the twelve subsequent years. This 
 unnatural deprivation has caused the greatest debility, 
 and an agonizing painfulness and susceptibility of 
 the whole system, which I think can neither be de- 
 scribed nor conceived. After the expiration of a 
 little more than three years from the above mention- 
 
Xliv SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ed illness, the greater part of which period I was 
 able to sit up two or three hours in a day, and fre- 
 quently rode, supported in a carriage, a short dis- 
 tance, though as before observed, not without great 
 increase of pain, and total watchfulness for many 
 succeeding nights, — I was again attacked with a 
 still more acutely painful and dangerous malady, 
 from which, recovery for several weeks seemed 
 highly improbable, when this most alarming com- 
 plaint again yielded to medical skill, and life con- 
 tinued, though strength has never more returned. 
 And in what agony, in what excruciating tortures, 
 and restless languishing the greater part of the last 
 nine years has been passed, it is believed by my pa- 
 rents that language is inadequate to describe or the 
 human mind to conceive. Duringtboth the former 
 and latter period of these long protracted and un- 
 compromising diseases, every expedient that has 
 been resorted to, with the blissful hope of recovery, 
 has proved, not only ineffeclual to prodvice the de- 
 sired result, but has, invariably, greatly aggravated 
 and increased my complicated complaints ; from 
 which it has been impossible to obtain the smallest 
 degree of relief that could render life supportable, 
 and preserve the scorching brain from phrensy, with- 
 out the constant use of the most powerful anodynes. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 1817. 
 
 Pensive, I walk beside the placid stream, 
 And view the beauteous Sun's departing beam, 
 As o'er the adjacent landscape's verdant hill 
 His golden rays their brightness yet distil ; 
 But fainter grow, as every moment flies, 
 And now they vanish from my gazing eyes. 
 Yet lovely still the scene, more lovely too. 
 Than when the radiant orb appeared in view. 
 A glowing softness, with a charm supreme, 
 Marks every field, and smooths the flowing stream ; 
 Bright clouds, commixed with ever-varying hues. 
 Gold, purple, azure, beauteous charms diffuse. 
 Now dusky shades apace begin to fall, 
 And mingling light and darkness cover all ; 
 
Now twilight's tranquil, pensive, pleasing hour 
 
 Diffuses o'er the soul its lovely power. 
 
 Calm contemplation now enwraps the mind ; 
 
 To pensive musing all the soul's resigned. 
 
 Sweet hour ! when every anxious thought is still, 
 
 Like the smooth surface of the placid rill. 
 
 Thoughts, unconfin'd and freed from earth, now soar. 
 
 The farther flying still delighted more ; 
 
 To distant worlds extend their piercing view ; — 
 
 Enraptured, their aerial flight pursue. 
 
 Elate with joy the sparkling moments fly. 
 
 And circling beauties charm the wondering eye. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 1822. 
 
 Now Autumn tints the scene 
 With sallow hues and dim ; 
 
 And o'er the sky. 
 
 Fast hurrying, fly 
 Dark, sombre clouds, that j)our 
 From far the roaring din ; 
 The rattling rain and hail, 
 With the deep sounding wail 
 Of wild and warring melodies, begin, 
 
The wind flies fitful through the forest trees 
 With hollow howlings, and in wrathful mood ; 
 As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease, 
 Tears with convulsive power, 
 In horrid fury's hour. 
 His locks dishevelled ; and a chilling moan 
 Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread and 
 dismal tone. 
 
 Thus, the impetuous blast 
 
 Doth from the woodlands tear 
 The leaves, when Summer's reign is past, 
 And sings aloud the requiem of despair ; — 
 Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh. 
 While past the honoi's of the forest fly. 
 Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die. 
 
 A SOLACE. 
 1822. 
 
 Thus anxiously why watch the dawn, 
 And hope for morning light 1 
 
 Wlien day to me is still the same 
 As sad and dreary night. 
 
But yet the now approaching morn 
 
 One pleasure will unfold, 
 My sister and her beauteous babe 
 
 Once more I shall behold. 
 
 And though her presence cannot give 
 
 The joy which once it gave, 
 Nor from one racking, torturing pain 
 
 My wearied frame can save. 
 
 Yet still, 'tis sweet to hear her voice, 
 
 And feel my hand in hers ; — 
 To know she's sitting by my bed, 
 
 A solace true confers. 
 
 Her sweetly prattling infants too. 
 
 With sportive innocence," 
 Could cheer a heart less pained than mine, 
 
 Or soothe less aching sense. 
 
 E'en now their playful kiss 
 
 Has a prevailing charm ; 
 Their artless questions too afford 
 
 A momentary calm. 
 
 Their little songs of joy 
 
 Are constant all the day ; 
 And laughing eyes and merry looks 
 
 Bespeak their life is May. 
 
 Or, if sometimes a tear 
 
 Bedim those sparkling eyes, 
 
A parent's kiss with fondest care 
 The pearly crystal dries. 
 
 But ah ! the latent woe 
 
 That lurks in future years, 
 To blast their spirit's playfulness, 
 
 And cloud their minds with fears. 
 
 As reason grows mature, 
 
 New cares and griefs oppress, 
 
 And patience oft and fortitude 
 Must struggle with distress. 
 
 Their troubled hearts will then despond 
 To find Hope's promise vain ; 
 
 But soon will youthful buoyancy 
 Dispel the clouds again, 
 
 may their lives be quiet still, 
 
 As ought on earth can be. 
 And moments pass, 'twixt grief and care, 
 
 Of soft serenity. 
 
 May every guardian power on high 
 Their growing years befriend ; 
 
 And heavenly virtue's fostering hand 
 From every snare defend. 
 
 O may Affliction ne'er dispense 
 Her deadliest sorrows drear ; 
 
 But may the sweet, contented smile 
 Their parents' hearts still cheer. 
 
THE USE OF AFFLICTIONS. 
 1822. 
 
 My fainting life now longs to die, 
 Then mourns untimely fate ; 
 
 And then all those I long to fly, 
 That are with joys elate. 
 
 But the most happy oft lament, 
 
 And do their griefs confess : 
 Now joy prevails, and now despair 
 
 With icy chilliness. 
 
 For earthly pleasures quickly pass, 
 
 And vanish quite away ; 
 And sorrow, sickness, pain and death 
 
 Obscure the brightest day. 
 
 But far beyond this world of woe. 
 
 Of grief, regret, and gloom. 
 For those who sought fair wisdom's path, 
 
 Unfading pleasures bloom. 
 
 The wise Disposer of events 
 
 Hath in his mercy, given 
 Those sore afflictions, to prepare 
 
 And fit our souls for Heaven. 
 
 I 
 
HOPE OF HAPPINESS AFTER 
 DEATH. 
 
 In spite of this despairing gloom, 
 
 Some blighter pleasures yet may bloom, 
 
 And last without alloy ; 
 After this life has passed away, 
 After this wasted frame's decay, 
 
 The soul may live in joy. 
 
 Religion can the heart divest 
 
 Of its repining, murmuring guest, 
 
 And cheer with love divine ; 
 Can fill the soul with transpoit pure, 
 That everlasting shall endure. 
 
 In ecstasies sublime. 
 
 And when this world shall be dissolved, 
 When time's last circles have r evolved 
 
 And quenched their earthly ray ; 
 Then shall the immortal soul resume 
 Its wakened body from the tomb, 
 
 To live an endless, blissful day. 
 
CONTRAST. 
 
 1823. 
 
 When by the limpid streamlet's flow 
 Congenial spirits mingle woe, 
 Sweet solace doth the margin strow, 
 
 And happiness will dawn. 
 
 When sorrow deep retires afar, 
 
 To mourn 'neath Vesper's lonely star, 
 
 With naught the solitude to mar, 
 
 A calmness doth o'erspread. 
 
 But when in pleasure's festive train 
 The demon of insatiate pain 
 Unites, the dregs of misery drain, 
 
 And drench the sinking heart. 
 
 While grief relentless rends her prey 
 Hope's happy offspring, blithe and gay, 
 Laugh, sing, and sinile the hours away, 
 Replete with social glee. 
 
 Then deep is drawn the lengthened sigh, 
 But no congenial heart is nigh. 
 And none the falling tear to dry, — 
 
 The tear of deep distress. 
 
Then gladly would that soul forego 
 The sight of bliss it ne'er can know, — 
 The sounds of joy that cause the throe 
 
 Of anguish more severe ; — 
 
 Would fly to some retreat where wave 
 The sighing leaves, and waters lave. 
 In pensive sounds, or rushing rave 
 
 In varying tones and force ; — 
 
 To the lone forest sigh each pain, 
 While through the woods a pitying strain, 
 Borne on the breeze in language plain 
 Of consolation sweet, 
 
 Falls softly soothing on the ear, 
 And quells the murmurs of despair. 
 And bids one gleam of hope appear 
 
 To raise and cheer the mind. 
 
 THE HEART'S DESIRE. 
 
 1823. 
 
 Essay, my Heart, my aching heart, 
 To lisp thy longing forth ; — 
 
 Speak thy intense desire to gaze 
 Upon the blooming earth. 
 
10 
 
 All the desires that e'er thou felt'st, 
 Compared with this, (save one) 
 
 Die sooner than the taper's beam 
 When the quick blast hath blown. 
 
 This, this my panting heart excites, 
 
 With all a passion's glow, 
 That I may know long banished health, 
 And feel the balmy air's sweet stealth 
 
 Across my temples flow ; — 
 
 And stray the verdant landscape o'er, 
 And press the lawns, and walk the shore. 
 That I have traced, long since, before. 
 And lift mine eyes unpained, to view 
 The glorious morning Sun. 
 
 What years have passed of anguish keen. 
 
 Since last I heard the roar 
 Of clashing waves, or marked the scene, 
 Where in the milder sea's deep green. 
 The inverted, towering trees were seen 
 
 From yon delightful shore, — 
 
 Or heard the warbling concert ring, 
 While echoing joys responsive sing, 
 And purling brook aud bubbling spring. 
 In sweet melodious offering. 
 Their simple music pour ! 
 
11 
 
 Long since, I watched the sun go down, 
 
 Fai' in the verrail west ; 
 And lingering viewed his latest beam, 
 T-ill the fair eveninor star's first gleam 
 
 Shone in the misty east ; 
 
 Then sought the stilly couch at night 
 With sweet repose and calm delight, 
 While fancy's soft aerial flight. 
 In milder gleams of magic light, 
 Shed peace upon my breast. 
 
 Soft slumber's downy arms received 
 My sinking form, and sweet relieved 
 The pleasing task of thought, 
 Whilst the gay dream's 
 Unfettered themes 
 The brain's freed fibres sought. 
 
 Or, deeper in the placid night, 
 
 I watched the flickering northern light. 
 
 Or gliding meteor's bound, ' 
 
 Or saw the fair moon slow ascend 
 Her radiant height, while stars attend 
 
 At humble distance round; — 
 
 Or viewed the silvery hill and dale. 
 While the sweet night air's plaintive wail 
 Through gilded branches of each tree, — 
 Or moan in concert with the sea. 
 And sigh along the ground. 
 
12 
 
 'Tis long since Summer's early dawn, 
 That breaks the shades of nioht, 
 
 And the gay, smiling, blooming morn 
 Have cheered my aching sight ; — 
 
 When songs of sweeter harmony 
 Than night's soft chanted melody 
 
 Salute the captive ear ; 
 And far soft slumber's bondage flies 
 Froin off the glad, rejoicing eyes. 
 
 And joys unveiled appear. 
 
 'Tis'long since at the winter hearth, 
 When friends and kindred meet 
 
 In serious joy, and playful mirth, 
 I held a happy seat, — 
 
 And tUT-ned beside the taper's light 
 
 The instructive pages o'er, 
 Or heard the wise discourse of age. 
 Or read with awe the sacred page 
 
 And felt its quickening power ; — 
 Then joined the joyous vocal strain, 
 While fast against the sheltering pane 
 Dash the large, pattering drops of rain, 
 
 Or wild winds blustering roar. 
 
 O Health, thy succouring aid extend, 
 
 While low, with bleeding heart, I bend. 
 And on thine every means attend. 
 
13 
 
 And sue with streaming eyes ; — 
 But more remote thou fliest away, 
 The humbler I thine influence pray, 
 
 And expectation dies. 
 
 Twice three long years of life have gone, 
 Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, 
 
 And I to grief resigned ; — 
 Laid on the couch of lingering pain. 
 Where stern disease's torturing chain 
 
 Has every limb confined ; 
 
 And separate from the household band, 
 
 Disconsolate and lone, 
 With no sweet converse's social charm 
 One pain imperious to disarm, 
 
 Or quell the rising moan, 
 1 lie in hopeless doom to grieve. 
 While no kind office can relieve, 
 Nor can I sustenance receive 
 
 But from another's hand ; 
 
 While anguish veils the body o'er 
 And balmy sleep is known no more. 
 And every thought that thrills the brain 
 Gives frantic energy to pain, 
 And the cold dew-drops copious drain 
 Through every opening, rending pore. 
 
14 
 
 Health ! wilt thou not, for the black stream, 
 That bears keen poison through the veins, 
 
 A cordial swift prepare ; — 
 Bring back their own bright crimson glow 
 And the true circulating flow. 
 
 And mitigate despair 1 
 
 Once more ray pleadings I renew. 
 And with my panting breath I sue, 
 
 Goaded by potent pain. 
 By all the pangs of wasting life, 
 By gasping nature's chilling strife. 
 
 To gain one lingering view 
 Of thy fair aspect, mildly sweet. 
 And kiss from off thine airy feet 
 
 The healing drops of dew. 
 
 O bathe my burning temples now, 
 And cool the scorching of my brow. 
 
 And light the rayless eye ; — 
 My strength revive Avith thine own might. 
 And with thy footsteps firm and light, 
 O bear me to thy radiant height. 
 
 Where, soft reposing, lie 
 Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, 
 And Nature's sweets that never cloy. 
 Unmixed with direful pain's alloy ; — 
 
 Leave me not thus to die ! 
 
15 
 
 HEALTH. 
 
 1823. 
 
 When from the fair and verdant fields 
 
 Her breath salubrious blows, 
 Then Health her choicest blessings yields, 
 
 And peaceful pleasure flows. 
 
 Far as the breezes fan the air, 
 
 Her gentle influence flies, 
 When o'er the wakening hemisphere 
 
 The charms of morning rise. 
 
 Fresh odors forth exhaling pour 
 
 And every breath is balm ; 
 The air wafts kisses to the rose, 
 And o'er the humble wilding flows, 
 
 And owns each fragrant charm. 
 
 And when bright Phoebus' beaming smile 
 Decoys the dew-drops from the lawn, 
 Then calmly speed the flowing hours, 
 And Hope relumes the mental powers, — 
 On gilded pinions borne. 
 
16 
 
 Can aught be brighter than the ray- 
 That bears the orient smile of day, 
 When the first beams of sunlight play- 
 On dew-bespangledfcflowers ? 
 The soul domestic peace employs 
 With sweet aftection's lovelier joys. 
 
 And when the day's declining hour 
 Invites you to the woodland bower, 
 
 Where bending osiers wave, 
 And near the mossy hillock's side 
 The gently rippling waters glide, 
 
 And the green margin lave. 
 Then 'neath the shades with dulcet song 
 Will Youth her pleasures sweet prolong. 
 
 And when sear Autumn's sallow leaves 
 
 Fly from the bending tree, 
 And low and sad, the dull wind grieves 
 
 Along the fading lea. 
 Though vernal green and summer's tints 
 
 And beauteous blooms decay. 
 Still hovering o'er the changing hues. 
 
 Content's soft numbers play. 
 
17 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 Ye morning scenes ! ye evening beams ! 
 
 I once have peace enjoyed, 
 And, v^^atcliing at your golden gates, 
 
 Drank pleasure unalloyed. 
 
 Gayly each gilded moment sped, 
 
 When Pleasure beamed and Rapture led ; 
 
 Each winning flower was sweet and bright, 
 
 Bathed in ethereal dew ; 
 And happiness culled the fair wreath 
 
 Where joys redundant grew : 
 Hope's blossoms bloomed an annual round, 
 Nor one loved leaf died on the ground. 
 
 Ah ! what this saddening change has wrought ] 
 
 What cause for gloomy sighs ? 
 What turns away, with painful haste. 
 
 From these fair scenes the eyes 1 
 They ne'er more bright than now were found, 
 Nor shed a richer glory round. 
 Affliction's adverse blast has swept afar 
 Hope's golden blossoms, and bedimed life's star. 
 
18 
 
 AN INVOCATION TO HOPE 
 
 1824. 
 
 Reach out, sweet Hope, thy fostering hand, 
 To succour in this barren land. — 
 
 Of aught but pain and grief : 
 There's naught that now my heart can cheer 
 Unless thy soothing voice be near, 
 
 To calm and give relief. 
 
 Come, quickly fly, ere 'tis too late. 
 While, struggling with oppressive fate. 
 
 Life's feeble pulses flow : 
 Oh ! in this sad distressing hour, 
 Wilt thou display thy sovereign power, 
 
 And guide through every woe 1 
 
 Then, O accept my thanks sincere. 
 If thou my prayer shalt deign to hear, 
 
 And thy deliverance send, 
 I'll ever live thy devotee ; 
 My willing heart I'll give to thee, 
 
 Until my life shall end. 
 
19 
 
 THE HAPPY BIRDS. 
 
 Serenely now the day rolls on, 
 
 And gladdening sun-beams play- 
 Wide o'er the fair cerulean arch, 
 With bright unclouded ray : 
 
 And flitting o'er the verdant fields 
 The feathered songsters move, 
 
 Chirping unsullied pleasures forth, 
 In vai-ying tones of love. 
 
 Sweet was the hour, when Nature gave 
 Her loveliest treasures birth. 
 
 And sent these artless choristers 
 To bless the smihng earth. 
 
 And blest are ye, gay, sinless Birds, 
 
 That feel no human woe. 
 No fierce disease, no mental pang. 
 
 Nor sorrow's latent throe. 
 
 And sweet your matin song shall rise, 
 And soft your vesper strain ; 
 
 And soothing harmony resound 
 Throughout the sylvan plain. 
 
20 
 
 TO MY FATHER'S FRIEND 
 
 Friend of the reverend name, on eai'th most dear, 
 A Father's precious and consoling name, — 
 Unchanging friend of him, how bright appear 
 Thy worth, thy virtue, and affection's flame. 
 
 Vainly this troubled mind essays to speak 
 The strength and firmness of the cordial tie ; 
 How in each heart, with pious pleasures meek, 
 The sacred friendship glows that cannot die. — 
 
 That sacred friendship, of no earthly kind. 
 That firm endures 'mid every scene of woe : 
 When silent sorrows overwhelm the mind, 
 With purer lustre beams the brightened glow. 
 
 The tie that binds thee, true Worth's fadeless charm. 
 Unites with pleasing and resistless force ; — 
 Worth that vicissitudes can ne'er disarm. 
 Nor turn from its undeviating course. 
 
 Firmly allied in spirit and in mind, 
 
 Each for the other sheds soft pity's tear ; 
 
 By faith supported, and by hope refined. 
 
 Each waits for bliss beyond this nether sphere ; — 
 
 With eyes unclouded to behold the dawn 
 
 Of endless day and of perpetual joy. 
 
 Where no keen anguish, nor sharp sorrow's thorn 
 
 The everlasting friendship shall annoy. 
 
21 
 
 PAST PLEASURES 
 
 1824, 
 
 No more, dear Sisters, hand in liand, 
 
 Beside the placid sti'eam. 
 At eve we wander pensively 
 
 By Luna's silver beam. 
 
 No more in musing mood we stray 
 
 Along: the windino- shore, 
 And list the music of the waves, 
 
 Where mingling surges roar ; 
 
 Nor haste, in joyous ramble free. 
 Through flowery fields and fair, 
 
 Where vermil blooms delightingly 
 Wave in the sportive air ; — 
 
 Where lucid streamlets rippling flow. 
 The shadowy vales among, 
 
 And Zephyr, flitting o'er each bough. 
 Wakes the aerial song. 
 
 No gayly tinted beauties now. 
 From the wild brake's recess, 
 
 These cold, emaciate hands convey 
 In blooming loveliness. 
 
 3* 
 
22 
 
 No more each thought unsullied springs, 
 
 With peace ench-cled round, 
 As when in some fair bower I lay, 
 
 Or on some mossy mound ; — 
 
 While the faint light's last glimmering beam 
 
 Did through the branches play 
 And on the thin cloud blushing gleam. 
 
 Then beauteous glide av/ay. 
 
 Nor when the still and placid night 
 
 In darkness veils the sphere, 
 And silence spreads a soft delight, 
 
 Doth peace's loved form appesiv. 
 
 No more the spirit tranquil yields, 
 
 To slumber soft resigned. 
 The pleasing meditative task 
 
 Of the retiring mind. 
 
 Those transient hours of peace are fled, 
 
 Those happy days are gone ; 
 Time moving forward, winged with haste. 
 
 Forbids their blest return. 
 
23 
 
 THE STARRY WORLD. 
 
 Softly and sad the night wind blows, 
 
 In melancholy tone ; 
 And through the darkling branches sounds 
 
 An unremitted moan. 
 
 And deep the blue wave, swelling heaves,- 
 
 Its mournful murmurs tell ; 
 •Mysterious sadness they inspire 
 
 Where sombre sorrows dwell. 
 
 But far from hence the glittering stai's 
 
 Proclaim a region fair ; 
 Nor sorrow's breath, nor darkness' shade, 
 
 Shall have dominion there. 
 
 But gloom befits this nether world, 
 
 Where mournful visions rise ; 
 While joy, resplendent from on high, 
 
 Glows o'er the peaceful skies. 
 
24 
 
 ON THE RETURN OF SPRING 
 
 1825. 
 
 In vain, alas ! are Nature's charms 
 To those whom sorrows share, 
 
 In vain the budding flowers appear 
 To misery's hopeless heir. 
 
 In vain, the glorious sun adorns 
 And glads the lengthened day. 
 
 When grief must share the tedious hours 
 That pass in long array ; — 
 
 When stern disease with blighting power 
 Has nipt life's transient bloom. 
 
 And long, incessant agonies 
 Unrespited consume. 
 
 How lost the glow that pleasure thrilled 
 Once through the raptured breast, 
 
 When, bright in every blooming sweet, 
 This beauteous earth was drest ! 
 
 No joyous walks through flowery fields 
 
 Shall e'er again delight ; 
 For sorrow veils those pleasing scenes 
 
 In deepest shades of night. 
 
25 
 
 Now, worn with pain, oppressed with grief, 
 . To wretchedness a prey, 
 The night returns, and day succeeds, 
 Without a cheering ray. 
 
 The room, with darkened windows sad, 
 A dungeon's semblance bears, — 
 
 And all about the silent bed 
 The face of misery wears : 
 
 Shut out from Nature's beauteous charms, 
 
 And breath of balmy air. 
 Ah ! what can chase the hopeless gloom, 
 
 But Heaven, — but humble prayer ! 
 
 VERSES FOR CHILDREN. 
 For Maria Rogers. 
 
 Now young life cheers my raptured eye. 
 May I the transient time improve. 
 
 And seek beyond the glowing sky 
 A mansion of eternal love. 
 
26 
 Foil Ann Elizabeth Rogers. 
 
 The earth, outspread in beauty fair, 
 
 T love delightingly to see. 
 And leai-n my Heavenly Father's care 
 
 Of every opening flower and me. 
 
 For Amarintha Rogers. 
 
 My little heart with joy beats high, 
 And all my infant powers expand. 
 
 O may my soul obedient be, 
 
 And answer all my Grod's demand : 
 
 From joy to joy my spirits fly, 
 
 And every earthly beauty charms : 
 
 But may I live beyond the sky. 
 Encircled in my Saviour's arms. 
 
 For Martha and Sarah Rogers, Twin Infants. 
 
 Our little joys, by smiles expressed, 
 Are all our souls can now convey. 
 
 While in our cradle soft we rest, 
 Or on our parent's bosom play ; 
 
27 
 
 Are all, — except tlie flowing tears 
 That from these eyes contrasted fall, 
 
 Where transient pleasure oft appears. 
 And tender grief, when pains appal. 
 
 But may the sovereign God on high 
 Expand our infant minds, and give 
 
 His Holy Spirit from the sky. 
 To guide us in his fear to live. 
 
 And may our parents early teach 
 Our little tongues to lisp his praise ; 
 
 And may our infant hearts beseech 
 
 His pitying love and pardoning grace. 
 
 And may these mental powers receive 
 The Spirit that our Saviour gave ; 
 
 Be in his righteousness arrayed, 
 
 And live with him beyond the grave. 
 
 And if the paths of life we trace, 
 
 And more mature our spirits gi'ow, 
 
 May we still keep his holy ways. 
 And bless him in his courts below. 
 
28 
 
 TO A NEPHEW. 
 
 Dear boy, life's untried scenes to you 
 Are fresh with opening charms : 
 
 No latent poison canst thou view, 
 Nor aught thy fear alarms. 
 
 Smoothly, serenely, on life flows, 
 In childhood's pleasing sport ; 
 
 Thy youthful heart now bounds with joys, 
 Nor dreams the season short. 
 
 But, dearest child, the path of life 
 Is crossed with grief and cares, 
 
 And, in the various windings, lie 
 Concealed, entangling snares. 
 
 The brightest hope oft turns to pain, 
 
 And fills the heart with grief; 
 And promised pleasures, ere we taste. 
 Oft cheat the fond belief. 
 
 And friends, who promise love unfeigned, 
 Their plighted faith may break ; 
 
 When sickness, woe, or want assails, 
 Regardless may forsake. 
 
 But there presides a Sovei-eign Powei', 
 
 The friend of the distressed. 
 Who guards the hapless child of grief. 
 
 And gives the sufFeier rest. 
 
29 
 
 Seek thou His all-important aid, 
 
 Assisting might and truth ; 
 And through the dark, perplexing maze, 
 
 Safely he '11 guide thy youth. 
 
 And when thy days on earth shall end, 
 
 Thy soul will soar above. 
 To dwell with that eternal Friend, 
 
 In endless peace and love. 
 
 LINES ON A MINISTER OF THE 
 GOSPEL. 
 
 Where doth the brightest beauty dwell 1 
 On blooming flower, or blooming cheek 1 
 
 Where laughing eyes of rapture tell. 
 And rosy lips sweet health bespeak ? 
 
 Where doth the brightest beauty shine, 
 Which I, lone sufferer, most admire ? 
 
 On that calm aspect, meek, divine. 
 
 Where virtue glows with heavenly fire ; — 
 
30 
 
 Where serious thought and holy joy- 
 Beam in the milcl and speaking eyes ; 
 
 "Where sacred themes the Ups employ 
 With ardor glowing from the skies. 
 
 What worth, what virtue join to grace 
 That manly aspect, more than fair ; 
 
 What goodness shines in that calm face, 
 As if an angel's smile were there ! 
 
 What must the soul immortal be, 
 
 That gives such radiance to the clay ; 
 
 What glories must that spirit see, 
 That beams around celestial day ! 
 
 What mental power and lofty thought 
 In those mild accents sweetly flow : 
 
 With heavenly love that soul is fraught, 
 And breathes its excellence below. 
 
 Thou loved and honored worthy one. 
 May all thy life such beauties yield ; 
 
 And, when thy earthly course is done, 
 Be with eternal glory sealed. 
 
31 
 
 ON A STORM. 
 
 1825. 
 
 The harsh, terrififc, howling Storm, 
 With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm. 
 
 Turns pale the cheek of mirth ; 
 And low it bows the lofty trees. 
 And their tall branches bend with ease 
 
 To kiss their parent earth. 
 
 The rain and hail in torrents pour ; 
 The furious winds impetuous roar, — 
 
 In hollow murmurs clash. 
 The shoi-e adjacent joins the sound, 
 And angry surges deep resound, 
 
 And foaming billows dash. 
 
 Yet ocean doth no fear impart. 
 
 But soothes my anguish-swollen heart, 
 
 And calms my feverish brain. 
 It seems a sympathizing friend. 
 That doth with mine its troubles blend, 
 
 To mitigate my pain. 
 
 In all the varying shades of woe. 
 The night relief did ne'er bestow, 
 
 Nor have I respite seen : 
 Then welcome, Stoi-m, loud, wild, and rude ; 
 To vie thou art more kind and good. 
 
 Than aught that is serene. 
 
32 
 
 TO A ONCE FREQUENTED 
 RETREAT. 
 
 1825. • 
 
 Thou verdant vale of willows fair, 
 O might I 'neath those boughs repair, 
 
 At evening's tranquil hour. 
 Or when the blushing morn serene 
 Glides o'er the azure crystal sheen, 
 And lucid drops of pearl are seen 
 
 Within thy fragrant bower. 
 
 There ocean's distant murmurs low. 
 And the clear, sparkling streamlet's flow 
 
 The pleased attention greet ; 
 And on the verdant margin gay 
 The flowerets bloom in bright array. 
 And o'er the leaves fond zephyrs play 
 
 ^Eolian numbers sweet. 
 
 There Nature's lovely charms combine. 
 And through the soul a thrill divine 
 
 Of untold bliss inspire, — 
 Inspire to reach yon azure plain. 
 The seraph seats of glory gain. 
 Where harps melodious pour the strain 
 
 That spirits rapt admire. 
 
33 
 
 And when the day's dedining hour 
 Succeeds with mild and pleasing power 
 
 Of mellow light refined ; 
 When the charmed zephyr folds his wing, 
 And the glad birds enamored sing, 
 Their vesper warblings sweetly bring 
 
 Peace to the wearied mind. 
 
 Alas ! the stream of Health no more 
 Will through life's languid currents pour 
 
 Her mild and genial sway ; 
 Nor can the beauties of the plain, 
 With all their balmy gifts, restrain 
 The agony of poignant pain, — 
 
 The wastings of decay. 
 
 Health from that blooming bower was gone, 
 When suppliant there I could but mourn 
 
 That her reviving breath 
 No more would fan my aching brow. 
 Nor hope within my breast allow, 
 Nor fell, unyielding sickness bow 
 
 Her gentle power beneath. 
 
 No more, on me, Karth's treasures shed 
 Their healing power ; the balsam's fled 
 
 From Nature's balmy breath ; 
 No more this wasted frame again 
 Txips lightly o'er the flowery plain. 
 But on the couch of withering pain 
 
 Sinks in untimely death. 
 
34 
 
 ODE TO THE POPPY. 
 
 1825. 
 
 Though varied wreaths of myriad hues, 
 
 As beams of minghng light, 
 Sparkle replete with pearly dews, 
 Waving their tinted leaves profuse. 
 To captivate the sight : 
 
 Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend 
 
 With the soft, balmy air ; 
 
 And gentle . zephyrs, wafting wide, 
 
 Their spicy odors bear ; 
 
 While to the eye, 
 
 Delightingly, 
 Each floweret laughing blooms. 
 
 And o'er the fields 
 
 Prolific, yields 
 Its incense of perfumes ; 
 
 Yet one alone o'er all the plain, 
 With lingering eye, I view ; 
 Hasty, I pass the brightest bower, 
 Heedless of each attractive flower. 
 Its brilliance to pursue. 
 
35 
 
 No odors sweet proclaim the spot, 
 Where its soft leaves unfold ; 
 Nor mingled hues of beauty bright 
 Charm and allure the captive sight, 
 With forms and tints untold. 
 
 One simple hue the plant portrays 
 
 Of glowing radiance rare, 
 Fj-esh as the roseate morn displays, 
 
 And seeming sweet and fair. 
 
 But closer prest, an odorous breath 
 
 Repels the rover gay ; 
 And from her hand with eager haste, 
 
 'Tis careless thrown away : 
 
 And thoughtless, that in evil hour 
 Disease may happiness devour, 
 And her fair form, elastic now, 
 To misery's wand may hopeless bow. 
 
 Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth, 
 To seek this lonely flower ; 
 
 And blest experience kindly proves 
 Its mitigating power. 
 
 Then, its bright hue the sight can trace, 
 
 The brilliance of its bloom ; 
 Though misery veil the weeping eyes. 
 Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs, 
 And life deplore its doom. 
 
36 
 
 This magic flower 
 
 In desperate hour, 
 A balsam mild shall yield, 
 
 When the sad, sinking heart 
 
 Feels every aid depart, 
 And every gate of hope forever sealed : 
 
 Then still its potent charm 
 Each agony disarm. 
 And its all-healing pow^er shall respite give. 
 The frantic sufferer, then. 
 Convulsed and wild with pain. 
 Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 
 
 The dews of slumber, now. 
 
 Rest on her aching brow ; 
 And o'er the languid lids, balsamic fall ; 
 
 While fainting nature hears, 
 
 With dissipated fears. 
 The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call. 
 
 Then will Affection twine 
 Around this kindly flower ; 
 
 And grateful memory keep, 
 
 How, in the arms of sleep, 
 Affliction lost its power. 
 
37 
 
 SUMMER SUNSET. 
 
 When the Sun's rich rays at setting 
 
 Played upon the azure fair ; 
 Then my young heart secret whispered, 
 
 " Eden's beauties lijiger here." 
 
 Happiness, the scene pervading, 
 
 Offered me her downy hand ; 
 Swift we sped, the beauty fading. 
 
 When she raised her magic wand : 
 
 Pointing far beyond these glories. 
 
 Far beyond the crystal sky. 
 " Seek me in those worlds more pleasant, 
 
 Seek me in the realms on high." 
 
 She said, and vanished from my presence, 
 I no more have seen her form ; 
 
 But she smiles with lasting radiance. 
 Far beyond earth's blighting storm. 
 
38 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 1825. 
 
 Now Night her sable mantle wraps around, 
 And reigns, in mute and solemn stillness, o'er 
 The slumbering globe. — Sunk in repose supine, 
 The varied mass of animated being 
 Lies silent ; and the power of active thought, 
 In deep oblivion sealed, no longer heeds 
 The pleasures, cares, and woes of toilsome life ; 
 Unless, perchance, a glimmering dream traverse 
 The brain, with semblance of past scenes ; of joys, 
 Extatic some, and some of sober cast ; 
 And tortured some, with frightful images 
 Of intermingling horror and despair. 
 
 Others to rest resigned ; alone I wake, 
 Weary and sad ; and silent cast my eyes 
 Around the solemn scene : no voice is heard ; 
 No footsteps move : a perfect stillness reigns. 
 Save the light breeze that sighs in softened sounds, 
 And plaintive murmurs round the casement lone. 
 The pensive stars glow faintly : the fair moon 
 Has risen on high, in majesty serene. 
 How mildly beams her soft quiescent light. 
 As if ordained to inspire tranquillity, 
 And fill the soul with sentiments beuigti. 
 How far from me is sweet tranquillity ! 
 
39 
 
 And no blest balm of consolation doth 
 
 Infuse content, alas ! but torturing pains 
 
 And pangs incessant, unabating, shoot 
 
 Their keen inflictions ; whilst my burning brain, 
 
 Forebodins: thoughts and dread contentions rack : 
 
 Each slender fibre thrills with horror wild : 
 
 Unnumbered filaments, tenacious of 
 
 New woe, catch and convey thro' the whole frame 
 
 The dire disorder. Gentle sleep has flown ; 
 
 Nor dares revisit this assemblage strange 
 
 Of pains and black despair. In vain I strive. 
 
 By every art prelusive, to regain 
 
 His power reluctant, to appease this strife 
 
 Of mind and body ; and once more to breathe 
 
 The soothing quiet of his balmy rest. 
 
 In vain I close my eyes, that on my lids 
 
 His kindly influence softly may alight. 
 
 And fast retain them, till, through all my frame, 
 
 His power restoring, re-illume faint life. 
 
 And balm all-healing, vigor new create. 
 
 But poignant pangs vindictively expel 
 
 The soft restorer, and preclude his aid ; 
 
 While the tired, watching eyes wander about, 
 
 In search of objects to I'elieve the gloom 
 
 Of inward anguish : none appear. The lamp's 
 
 Pale glimmering light, an emblem, sad and true, 
 
 Of life's faint, flickering spark within me, gives : 
 
 And from the indurated walls. Despair, 
 
 Grim-visaged, beckons, that his dismal port 
 
 May the wild glance engage, and penetrate 
 
 The dim, recoiliny vision's aching sense. 
 
40 
 
 The soul, — ah me, these agonizing thrills, 
 These wild commotions and insatiate pains ! 
 When banished Nature's great supporter, how- 
 Can Nature bear this dread conspiracy 
 Of ills unnumbered 1 Yet, so long as flow 
 The faintly circling streams of life, 
 Dear is thy dreary gloom, O Night ! to me. 
 Though rest hath vanished fi'om thy lingering hours, 
 And griefs augmenting cause convulsive starts, 
 That make me quickly turn from side to side, 
 Fatigued and fainting with the frequent task ; 
 Yet thou art welcome still, and thy deep tones. 
 That sigh congenial sadness from the wind, — 
 Whether in whispers soft it moan around. 
 Or fiercer breathe its strong, impetuous power ; 
 When the fair moon her aspect mild displays 
 Amid the silence of the twinkling stars. 
 Or when obscvired by thick and sombre clouds ; 
 Night, still thou ever art more dear to me. 
 Than all the glories of the rising day, — 
 The soft and varying rays of mingling hues. 
 That blend in changeful beauty, and adorn 
 The placid azure, — and the fleecy clouds. 
 That, buoyant, sail upon the balmy air. — 
 The joyous music of the harmonious choir, 
 When first they gayly tune their magic song. 
 Replete with artless melody and love. 
 Can soothe and charm no more ; nor social sound 
 Of cheerful voices, nor the busy scenes 
 Of active, happy life have aught for me 
 More of sweet pleasure in them. Mingling sounds 
 
41 
 
 Perplex me ; and the sight of joyful beings 
 
 Thrills the chill feeling through my tortured breast, 
 
 That I shall never more again enjoy 
 
 Those dear delights. The tranquil happiness, 
 
 That mildly shone on my pa^^t life, is now 
 
 For ever fled : the gay and beauteous scenes 
 
 Of smiling nature, that with health and joy 
 
 The heart relume, can me delight no more ; — 
 
 For sadness rules, and fainting life begins 
 
 To sink beneath the overwhelminof weierht 
 
 Of hopeless anguish, that admits no cure. 
 
 THE TWIN SISTERS. 
 
 Sweet blooming babe ! 
 Now gentleness thine every action wears. 
 And winning sweetness with a charm unnamed. 
 What beauties wrap thy little form around, 
 And glow resplendent in thy beaming face ! 
 And playful frolic in those laughing eyes 
 Darts its enlivening influence to the soul. 
 And thy fair sister, gentler than thyself, 
 Twin-born with thee, with pleasing aspect smiles; 
 And with a calm, confiding glance of love 
 Steals the fond heart away ; though yet unfelt 
 
42 
 
 Each pleasing power and winning trait within. 
 These ever-growing charms, this dawning grace, 
 And fascinating play and loveliness endear. — 
 But soon the infant state will pass away, 
 And richer treasures ripen and unfold, 
 And intellectual pleasures thrill. the soul ; — 
 Their forms in beauty's bright perfections swell. 
 Then, oh, how fondly, will these darlings love ! 
 Whom the same period gave to life and light, 
 And the same cradle rocked to rosy rest. 
 And the same arms in tender office bore. 
 Sweet, lovely babes, may kinder arms than those 
 That now support you, be your guardian strength 
 Embrace you with immortal love, and bear 
 You safely to your Saviour's breast. 
 When this vain, transitoi-y life hath passed ! 
 
 PITY. 
 
 '•' To liim that is afflicted, pity should be sliown from liis 
 friend." 
 
 How sweetly friends in kindness smile, 
 
 And boast affection true ; 
 But long attention weans their love. 
 
 And makes their number few. 
 
43 
 
 When first Affliction prostrates low, 
 
 They weep, and wish relief; 
 But should it prove beyond their power. 
 
 Deny the hopeless grief. 
 
 The sleepless night, the wretched day. 
 To months and years prolonged, 
 
 Drive all one's pitying friends away. 
 That once benignant thronged. 
 
 The gasping breath, the struggling moan. 
 
 The sigh, and bitter tear. 
 Ne'er find compassion when 'tis fled, 
 
 Nor reach the shunning ear. 
 
 CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 Ah ! who can know the treasures of that soul 
 Where mildness sheds its sweet and soft control, 
 And virtue, guarding with angelic care, 
 The placid spirit saves from every snare ; — 
 Where blest benignity, with pious grace, 
 And calm contentment dwells, with peacefulness ;- 
 Where injured patience, smiling 'midst its pains, 
 Endures affliction, every grief sustains ; — 
 And kind compassion lives, that fain bestows 
 Its bliss on others and partakes their woes ; — 
 
44 
 
 Where sympathy's seraphic tenderness, 
 
 In silence feels what words can ne'er express ; — 
 
 Where reason reigns, approved by spotless truth, 
 
 And virtue blossoms in immortal youth ; — 
 
 Caution, discretion, and forbearance still, 
 
 Dwell in each action and direct the will ; 
 
 While meekness bows beneath oppression's load. 
 
 And resignation owns its Sovereign God. 
 
 There blest Religion, with celestial love. 
 
 And faith divine, transports the soul above ; 
 
 And glows expanded in that holy breast, 
 
 Whose prayer imploring pleads for the distressed, 
 
 For mercy's sovereign power to melt the soul. 
 
 And Gilead's balm to make the sufferer whole : 
 
 For blind and wretched, guilty and undone. 
 
 The fervent prayer ascends to the high throne 
 
 Of the Supremely Good, whose mercy saves 
 
 The bold offender, and the wretch forgives ; 
 
 While humble thanks and ardent praises rise. 
 
 An incense-offering to the opening skies, 
 
 O that the humble tribute of a verse 
 
 Might these dear treasures of the soul rehearse. 
 
 But far, too far inferior, dare I dream 
 
 To ope the beauties of the sacred theme ? 
 
 For half concealed from human view they lie ; — 
 
 But, scanned with approbation from on high, 
 
 The Power Supreme looks gently from above. 
 
 And fills the spirit with celestial love ; 
 
 Encircles in a Father's kind embrace. 
 
 And wraps in the Redeemer's righteousness. 
 
45 
 
 AN APPEAL TO THE FACULTY. 
 
 While griefs relentless heavy press, 
 And sorrow's icy chilliness 
 Consigns to weary woe and pain, 
 A hapless sufferer sighs in vain 
 For sweet relief and balmy rest. 
 To sooth the tortures of the breast, 
 And calm the fever of the brain. 
 Where agonizing tumults reign. 
 For every pleasing vision flies, 
 And sleep is banished from the eyes ; 
 That weary, watching, still and still. 
 See naught but long-protracted ill, 
 Ard horror's train of dismal shapes; 
 While naught the trembling glance escapes 
 Of Misery's dread, appalling power, 
 That constantly usurps the hour. 
 And marks the minutes as they flow 
 With the dire impress of her woe. 
 In vain the blessings of relief 
 Are sought ; in vain the child of grief 
 Seeks aid from drugs that nature boasts. 
 Amid disease's powerful hosts. 
 The weary eyes in sleep can close. 
 And yield the wretched calm repose ; — 
 And pour the sweetly healing balm, 
 That can imperious pain disarm. 
 
46 
 
 The opiate's once so potent spell 
 That could the wakeful brain compel, 
 To quiet sleep no more can bind. 
 In silent revery, the mind 
 Pui'sues its cogitations still, 
 In spite of the unbending will ; 
 And through the watches of the night, 
 New pains, with wild and haggard friglit, 
 Combine, and from the pained head 
 Their direful emanations spread : - 
 Through the whole frame they rending thrill, 
 And rage unseen with horrid chill : 
 The nerves unceasing tortures feel. 
 And madness threats the curse to seal. 
 The sufferer, doomed to fell despair, 
 Calls piteous on the friendly ear. 
 And begs the Faculty to wake, 
 Anotlier generous effort make, 
 And search, with thought and skill profound, 
 If naught in nature can be found 
 To close the eyes long oped by pain. 
 And calm the fiercely burning brain, — 
 The long-lost power of sleep restore ; 
 The sueing suppliant asks no more ! 
 
47 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 November, 1825. 
 
 Ah ! gentle Stranger, the sad cause of grief, 
 That banishes, resistless, all relief. 
 And dooras a hapless being to complain 
 Of deep, incessantly afflictive pain. 
 Is stern Disease, w^hose blighting hand is j^ressed 
 On the warm current of a youthful breast ; 
 With its worst evils lastingly combined 
 To damp the ardor of a dawning mind. 
 
 The endearing sweets of life I must forego, 
 And youthful pleasures never more can know ; 
 Ne'er hail again with joy the roseate morn. 
 When its soft fragrance on the breeze is borne ; 
 When opening flowers, in brightly painted bloom, 
 Fill the pure air with balmy, sweet perfume ; 
 When the soft tints of varying light unfold, 
 In deeper crimson and in richer gold ; 
 When glowing blushes, on the azure bright. 
 And on the fleecy, flying clouds, alight ; 
 When gentle music floats along the sky, 
 As o'er the soft cerulean wildly fly 
 Sweet strains of joyous, artless melody. 
 
 I wandered, once, in happy, careless ease. 
 Where vai'ious circling beauties gayly please ; 
 
48 
 
 Through verdant fields, with flowers bespangled wild 
 Where the soft, varied landscape sweetly smiled ; 
 Plucking the gorgeous beauties that invite 
 The hand to crop them, and the eye delight ; — 
 Or musing, slowly gained the adjacent shore. 
 Charmed by the waters' ever-restless roar ; 
 Where swelling waves progressive, fiercely flow, 
 Or round the ragged rocks, in murmurs low. 
 Gurgles the song that soothed my buoyant breast, 
 And all within was happy and at rest. 
 With a dear sister, or a tender friend. 
 Each moment joy and happiness attend : 
 Gayly conversing, or in pensive mood, 
 We wandered far away in pleasing solitude. 
 
 But those loved scenes no more can cheer my eyes; 
 No joy awakes, when morning's charms arise. 
 For all is gloomy as the silent night. 
 When sadness shadows o'er the hours of light ; 
 When pain unceasing wastes the time away. 
 And hopeless anguish fast consumes its prey. 
 While tender friends in silent sorrow mourn, 
 Augmenting fears forbid sweet Hope's return. 
 
 Oh ! may'st tliou never know such sore distress, 
 May'st thou ne'er taste of bitterness like this. 
 May each fell symptom of malign disease 
 Vanish, and health, and happiness, and ease 
 Await thy hours, — successive pleasures flow. 
 And guardian angels save from every woe. 
 Accept my thanks, thy gentle pity's claim, 
 From one, who happiness no more must name. 
 
49 
 
 TO MRS. R. 
 
 1826. 
 
 Where is that smile of sparkling light 
 That played o'er thy fair brow 1 
 
 The radiance of the heart's delight, — 
 In vain we seek it now. 
 
 When Hfe's bright morn unfolding bloomed, 
 
 Luxuriant to the view, 
 Then fancy every scene illumed, 
 
 With rapture ever new. 
 
 While pm-e as morn's first orient dawn 
 
 Thy gentle virtues glowed, 
 And, soft as shades of eve advance, 
 
 Thy placid minutes flowed. 
 
 Thy modest look and playful air 
 
 Of innocence and ease — 
 A winning native grace was there. 
 
 That taught each word to please. 
 
 While the rich music of thy voice. 
 
 In soft endearing tone, 
 Could bid the care-worn heart rejoice, 
 
 And hope's sweet influence own. 
 4 
 
50 
 
 Those dark and beaming eyes confessed 
 
 The mind's refulgent power, 
 And placid joy, thy spirit's guest. 
 
 Gilded each passing hour. 
 
 Though fled the bright and transient gleam 
 
 Of beauty's early grace. 
 That, playing o'er each feature, beamed 
 
 With magic loveliness ; — 
 
 Though dim the radiance of that glance, — 
 
 Its lambent brightness flown ; — 
 Tho' changed the smile where pleasure danced, 
 
 Or mild contentment shone, — 
 
 Far deeper thoughts and richer themes 
 
 Now shade that polished brow ; 
 Maternal love's soft, gentle beams 
 
 O'er those fair features glow. , 
 
 And oft that pallid brow is pressed, 
 
 As anxious cares arise. 
 While, pillowed on thy gentle breast, 
 
 Thine infant placid lies ; 
 
 Or sports in pleasing playfulness. 
 
 Pure as the opening skies, — 
 And bright, with untold happiness, 
 
 Its pleasure-beaming eyes. 
 
51 
 
 While from the soul affection pure 
 
 Glows o'er that faded cheek, 
 And virtues, which the heart allure, 
 
 Thine aspect mild bespeak. 
 
 Though fled the early grace which twined 
 
 Around that blooming form, 
 The virtues of the fadeless mind 
 
 Yield a diviner charm. 
 
 Though cares which age alone can bring, 
 May those bright beauties shade, 
 
 Still in thy heart, affection's spring, 
 Are joys that never fade. 
 
 When thy loved infant's opening powers 
 
 Disclose the dawning mind. 
 What pleasure cheers the lonely hours. 
 
 With hope's bright garlands twined ! 
 
 And when its fii'st soft accents breathed 
 
 Its uttered love to thee, 
 What visions thy fond fancy wreathed 
 
 Of peace and purity ! 
 
 Its blooming aspect bright with bliss, 
 
 The music of its voice, 
 The fi-agrance of its rosy kiss 
 
 A mother's heart rejoice. 
 
52 
 
 A wayward tone, a want expressed, 
 
 Engage thy tender care, 
 And, soothed upon thy gentle breast, 
 
 It sweetly slumbers there. 
 
 Then those mild eyes with pleasure gi-eet 
 
 Its precious little form, 
 And, gazing on its aspect sweet, 
 
 Observe each varying charm. 
 
 The sire, with sweet affection mild, 
 
 Surveys the pleasing sight, 
 And gazes on his blooming child, 
 
 Rapt in a new dehght : 
 
 His fancy paints its future fonii, 
 
 Its mind's expanded powers, 
 And, with parental ardor warm, 
 
 Gilds all its coming hours. 
 
 How pure the joys where hearts unite 
 And mind's congenial join, — 
 
 In sweet affection's power delight,. 
 And own its source divine ! 
 
 Thus may thy moments sweetly flow 
 
 With him, thy chosen friend, 
 And both, with your loved offspring, know 
 
 The bliss that shall not end. 
 
53 
 
 r;i:!<i lili.ii'id :■;•{•)■,';' ■> i ;;! : l-i';!!-i :;.? i •',uh\'r 
 
 !l,;-.n 1- -r^ ::■!■:■■- :,i;;ll ;i/ii:-i:jx':;:i yir/.:;---;:.; i;ii:A 
 With yiQuthful diffV^ence, and ^ dubio.u^ ,Xb!9;i*gljt|i,^ .j,, r f 
 The sufferijig; dfiild of tt),y. frjgXen^^l.fraend-,. p.,:-; ,\^p// 
 Would, though by genius and by art untaught, 
 H^iiithanks with feyei^ence audaffeotiDB<blend!|rio 1,1 
 
 Would brea^i^p,-tQ thee, ^ though n;0, g!pft.:piusiqi%W/y' 
 The simple t^bulje .Qf.?i.gjq,tefiJ!.l|heaj;^ ; ^^..if.i oiodW 
 The mind, o'erwhelmed with long prevailing woe, 
 No pleasing strains harmonious can impart. 
 
 But gratitude awakes within the breast 
 
 Each tender cord, responsive to the tone 
 
 Of kindest pity oft by thee expressed, 
 
 ^¥heiii H6p6's bl^st consiolatioh -lohg had- flb^n. i^'i A 
 
 The balm that Symp3,thy balsamic yiqldg, 
 
 From thee can soothe, when stern afflictions I'end, — 
 
 With peaceful solace the torn bosom heal. 
 
 And pensive pleasure's niilder influence lend. 
 
 Cordial compassion; with its pious r^yji':' <^'"'' < • 
 And friendship fpure ; within; thy bl»ea.4t?al>e''Siiiflned ; 
 And worth, unfading asi jierbnniy 'day,-!^:"'' 'f') 
 With all .the rhigiiep virtue!^ isiiconibined.i»> YjfT 
 
54 
 
 Without presumption bold, expansive, clear, 
 Thine intellectual powers bright stores display ; 
 And sweet benignity with softened grace 
 O'er the rich treasure sheds its spotless ray. 
 
 Enabling wisdom marks thy reverend brow, 
 And gravity bespeaks that serious thought 
 Dwells with serene composure in thy breast, 
 With heavenly hope and resignation fraught. 
 
 Long may'st thou live, and virtue's halcyon beams 
 Gild thy last moments, and may peace divine 
 Waft thy blest spirit to its native realm, 
 Where bliss eternal shall be ever thine. 
 
 AN APOSTROPHE TO SORROW; 
 
 THE SORROW OF THIS WORLD. 
 
 1826. 
 
 O Sorrow ! sad and dismal guest, 
 Where'er I turn my longing eye, 
 (In vain to seek relief,) I view 
 Thy dread appearance hovering nigh. 
 
55 
 
 At morning's dawn and evening's close, 
 The poignant pangs relentless rend : 
 And when the happy seek repose, 
 Thine agonizing woes descend. 
 
 When all in quiet rest recline. 
 Alone I feel the direful press 
 Of thy cold, heavy, marble hand. 
 That tortures with extreme distress. 
 
 Where'er T look, or seek for aid, 
 That darkening foi'm is ever near, 
 And through its hovering, gloomy shade 
 No ray of hope can more appear. 
 
 Why is this happy, peaceful home 
 Made the dire seat of thine abode, — 
 Where hope's bright smiles once softly shone, 
 And gentle quiet sweetly flowed ] 
 
 O leave this lowly, humble seat ! 
 Once more let mild contentment breathe 
 Enlivening solace through each heart, 
 That thy keen tortures cease to gi'ieve. 
 
 Then shall each tranquil morn again 
 Be hailed with sounds of grateful joy ; 
 And placid peace, with thoughts serene, 
 The soft declining hours employ, — 
 
56 
 
 The wild birds warbling through the air, 
 The gurgling streamlet's gentle flow, 
 The zephyr's breath, the falling shower. 
 Shall fill the soul with rapture's glow. 
 
 When o'er the lawn the floweret fair 
 Springs forth in vernal beauty free, 
 Or autumn's sallow lints, — and when 
 Stern winter strips the fading tree, 
 
 Still pleasure, hovering o'er each scene 
 In fancied visions from afar. 
 Shall, with hope's smile serene, again 
 Glide beauteous as the morning star. 
 
 But whence this fond, delusive dream ! 
 Those halcyon days have swiftly fled ; 
 No morning's joys, nor evening's calm, 
 Can more their peaceful influence shed. 
 
 O Sorrow ! whence this long delay, 
 Why lingerest here with blighting power ? 
 O canst thou, canst thou not away, 
 And leave one blessed, tranquil hour % 
 
 But hush, my wayward sj)irit ; yield 
 Obedience to thy Sovereign God : 
 Then shall thy wounded heart be healed, 
 And bless him for aflliction's rod. 
 
 i 
 
57 
 
 When Jesus to thy soul reveals 
 His heavenly charms, his dying love, 
 And vv^ith his Holy Spirit seals 
 Thine interest in the joys above. 
 
 Then shall this heart no more repine, 
 No more shall flow the bitter tear : 
 Adoring love and faith divine 
 Shall banish every anxious fear. 
 
 ON COMMODORE 
 OLIVER HAZARD PERRY, 
 
 UPON THE RE-INTERMENT OF HIS REMAINS 
 AT NEWPORT, R. I. 
 
 1826. 
 
 What mean this solemn pomp, this phalanx slow 
 Moving august, these military bands, 
 With pausing pace and countenance of woe, 
 And arms inverted gravely borne along. 
 Mournful, majestic, without pipe or song ? 
 
58 
 
 But list ! the silence breaks ; a mingled sound 
 
 Of notes melodious falls on all around. 
 
 The swelling tones flow solemn, and proclaim 
 
 A nation's soitow for the mighty dead ; 
 
 And lingering on the breeze its accents came, 
 
 Harmonious as the breath of spirits fled. 
 
 Approaching now behold the storied car. 
 Bedecked with ensigns of a conquering war ; 
 And nearer view the once effective sword. 
 The plume and helmet of its lifeless lord ; 
 The valiant warrior, who in battle won 
 A name of glory that shall never die. 
 His name immortal through all lands shall fly. 
 By Triumph borne along far as the rolling sun. 
 
 Son of his Country ! lowly now in death, 
 The warrior lies, shrouded in sable gloom, 
 While slow they bear him to a native tomb : 
 His country called, the dauntless hero sped 
 Where battle raged, 'mid foul contagion's breath ; 
 He followed with his life where honor led : 
 The pati'iot sailor slept among the foreign dead. 
 
 A distant land received his latest sigh. 
 Far from domestic happiness and love ; 
 No kindred tear, no weeping consort nigh. 
 The solace of affection pure to prove ; 
 But the affection in a Nation's heart, 
 Swelling, proclaims the valued sacrifice : 
 
59 
 
 Thougli not on glorious battle's vengeful dai't, 
 Fled his great soul away, yet still shall rise 
 A Nation's tribute, and her Genius moum, 
 With memory sad and deep above his honored urn. 
 
 'Mid signs unwonted of a heartfelt grief, 
 His birth-place pays the last sad honors true. 
 Slowly they bear him to the peaceful earth. 
 Pausing in silence o'er the matchless worth 
 Of their loved champion and illustrious chief, 
 Then seal aloud their last renowned adieu. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO TH0UC4HT. 
 Winter of 1826, Midnight. 
 
 Come, dull Stupidity, 
 
 From grief and anguish free, 
 With Somnus' semblance mark the nightly hours ; 
 
 O ! do thou soft pei-vade 
 
 With still Lethean aid ; 
 With healing balm and with oblivious powers 
 
60 
 
 ' Encompass my tired brain, 
 
 And bid each mental pain 
 Fly with dread visions far from hence away. 
 
 Away ! imperious Thought ! 
 
 With keenest anguish fraught ; 
 Thy aid I ask not, nor invoke thy sway ! 
 
 Leave the lone hours to rest, 
 
 Obey the mild behest. 
 And swift, with silent haste, retire afar. 
 
 Visit thy votaries pale, 
 
 Who thee at midnight hail, 
 And by thy power sublime contemplate every star 
 
 The studious thee enjoys, 
 
 Free from tumultuous noise, 
 When the fair moon rides in the vaulted blue ; 
 
 And by her paly light. 
 
 Through the long, solemn night. 
 Pleased with thine aid, doth fancies strange pursue. 
 
 But why dost hither bend % 
 
 Thou canst not here ascend, 
 And mount the lofty pinnacles of fame ; 
 
 Thou canst not travel o'er 
 
 Regions of leanied loie. 
 Nor light thy torch from Genius' magic flame. 
 
61 
 
 Midst horrors wild and strange, 
 
 Dost thou delight to range, 
 And plunge to misery's deepest depths thy way ; 
 
 And brood o'er dismal care. 
 
 Portending wild despair, 
 "Where ghastly visions gloomily dismay ] 
 
 For this art hither come. 
 
 Far from thine ancient home, 
 The noble, wise, and philosophic realm ; 
 
 Dost quit all thou shouldst prize. 
 
 Leave the ethereal skies. 
 To trace this drear domain, that sorrows overwhelm ? 
 
 Thou foe of the distressed, 
 
 And torturer of the breast, 
 That thus usurp'st the houi's to slumber given, 
 
 Bid'st the pale victim lie, 
 
 With haggard, unclosed eye, 
 And the sunk heart by keenest angush riven : 
 
 Far, far from hence, begone ! 
 
 Nor ever doom to moux-n ; 
 Leave, leave the lonely hours to calm repose ; 
 
 The agonizing brain 
 
 Needs not thy keener pain. 
 Nor thy remediless, augmenting woes. 
 
62 
 
 Still dost without remorse 
 
 Pursue thy cruel course, 
 And the consuming sufferer thus destroy ; — 
 
 Those pangs yet more malign, 
 
 With griefs and woes combine ; 
 Where once thou fostered'st happiness and joy ? 
 
 In solitude's sweet hours, 
 
 Spent in the woodland bowers, 
 Ere yet dismantled of thy halcyon charm, 
 
 Much wast thou loved, before 
 
 Infantile days were o'er, 
 When thou could'st solace, and each grief disami. 
 
 Then thy abstracted joy 
 
 Thrilled deep, without alloy. 
 And bound the opening mind affectionate to thee. 
 
 With pleasure childhood beamed. 
 
 When Thought benignant seemed, 
 And in the yielding heart wrote soft serenity. 
 
 But now those days are o'er. 
 
 And thou canst charm no more ; 
 Now o'er dread Misery's train thou reign'st supreme. 
 
 And mark'st each waking hour 
 
 With thy distracting power ; 
 And bid'st chill Horror ape thee in a dream. 
 
63 
 
 TO A SISTER IN AFFLICTION 
 
 Dear Sister, gi'ief and sorrows are 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ; 
 No human heart is free from care, 
 
 Nor misery's cruel claim. 
 
 One only sovereign, healing balm. 
 
 Upon life's bitter grief, 
 Flows from a never-dying source, 
 
 With safe and sure relief. 
 
 Where calm content and peace serene 
 
 In rich exuberance flow. 
 Celestial joys successive rise, 
 
 And banish every woe. 
 
 A noble pleasure glows supreme 
 
 O'er all the ills of life ; 
 The aching heart no more complains. 
 
 And troubles cease their strife. 
 
 Could we, Maria, banish grief. 
 And raise our thoughts above. 
 
 Consider these afflictions here, 
 As chastisements of love, — 
 
64 
 
 Repinings banish from our hearts, 
 
 And feel to Heaven resigned, 
 Though hourly troubles waste our lives, 
 
 Our souls v\^ould be refined. • 
 
 We too should feel the purer bliss 
 
 Of pleasure all divine, 
 Each moment give unx'ivalled joy, 
 
 Thi'ough never-ending time. 
 
 The Sovereign Pow^er, that dw^ells unseen 
 In the broad heavens on high, 
 
 Can conquer the most fiow^ard mind. 
 And change its sinful dye. 
 
 Change our vain minds, O, Power Divine ! 
 
 Point to the blissful shore ; 
 Fill our reluctant souls with grace. 
 
 And teach us to adore. 
 
65 
 
 TO A BELOVED SISTER, 
 
 A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HER DEATH. 
 
 Dear Sister, precious, cordial friend, 
 By nature's warm and kindred tie ; 
 
 Till thought in dark oblivion end, 
 My love for thee can never die. 
 
 "Wert thou in peace, in health, and joy. 
 My heart should quick responsive thrill. 
 
 And, sympathizing in thy bliss. 
 Bid every torturing throb be still. 
 
 But now, the sad reverse is thine ; 
 
 The blooming health of other years 
 Has fled thy glowing heart, and thou 
 
 Must own the world a vale of tears ; 
 
 Where pain and sorrow all oppress. 
 And quickly waste the fragile form : 
 
 The transient dreams of youthful bliss 
 Fast flee before affliction's storm. 
 
 But, Sister, Gilead's balm is near. 
 
 Its healing free, could'st thou beheve : 
 
 The Son of God for thee doth care ; 
 His arms are ready to receive ; 
 
66 
 
 Yes, He, the one, the Saviour Lord, 
 
 Who owns the world : — and all its woes 
 
 Are present to his pitying eyes, 
 
 Who felt them, died the death, then rose. 
 
 He died for all, for us he died. 
 To ransom our immortal souls, 
 
 That we might in His bliss reside 
 
 Who doth the heaven of heavens control. 
 
 Now with compassion's voice, he calls 
 Us to approach his throne of love ; 
 
 Pardon and righteousness he gives 
 With the eternal, holy dove. 
 
 Let us attend his gracious call. 
 
 His grace with melting hearts receive ; 
 
 On his kind arms of mercy fall. 
 And in a Saviour's love believe : 
 
 In meek, submissive trust recline 
 Low at the great Redeemer's feet ; 
 
 Our life, our all, — the woi-ld resign, 
 
 And wait the pardoning promise sweet. 
 
 Then, though life's current cease to flow. 
 He life and peace eternal gives ; 
 
 While with transporting joys we know 
 That our Divine Redeemer lives. 
 
67 
 
 ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF 
 
 THE REV WILLIAM G A MM ELL, 
 
 OF NEWPORT, R. I. 1827. 
 
 Hi«H on the willows hang your harps, 
 
 Ye mourning, holy throng ; 
 For Zion's teacher sleeps in dust. 
 
 And mute's the instructive tongue. 
 
 Now with a pensive pace ye move 
 
 To the lone temple, where, 
 With eloquence divinely sweet, 
 
 His voice dispelled your cai-e. 
 
 There mercy was his darling theme ; 
 
 His soul divinely taught, 
 Dwelt on the mysteries of His name, 
 
 Who our salvation brought. 
 
 There heavenly strains ecstatic flowed, 
 
 Or mournful tones proclaimed 
 Our deep, original default : — 
 
 And Sinai threatening flamed. 
 
 Then peace descended like a dove. 
 
 On grace's seraphic wing ; 
 And faith triumphant songs of love 
 
 Bade all the ransomed sing. 
 
68 
 
 Thus pious, pure, celestial peace 
 
 Did heavenly accents bring : 
 Now Death has proved his conquering might, 
 
 But Death without the sting. 
 
 For sweet was his departing hour, 
 
 When gently from his clay 
 Omnipotence did loose the bands, 
 
 And bore his soul away. 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 ON A MOTHER AND HER SON. 
 
 Mother and Son in darkness sleep ; 
 
 In death's cold damp they lie ; 
 But both shall wake when Christ's command 
 
 Shall summon all who die. 
 
 Then, as the blessed Saviour smiles, 
 
 And calls them to the skies, 
 What beauteous forms, divinely bright, 
 
 From these cold gi'aves shall rise ! 
 
 I 
 
69 
 
 With rapturous joy and bliss divine, 
 Celestial songs they'll sing ; 
 
 And with adoring transport join 
 The praises of their King ; 
 
 Through endless days, in holy light. 
 
 His sovereign love adore : 
 God and his Son shall bless their sight, 
 
 And sin be know^n no more. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 ON CAPTAIN J T- 
 
 Though the destroying angel cold hath pressed 
 Upon thy generous, philanthropic breast, 
 And thy pure, noble mind's forever fled. 
 And form lies lovv^ly in this darksome bed, 
 Thy worth, unfading, shall forever bloom, 
 A bright example from thy saci'ed tomb. 
 And though thy silent dust shall ever sleep 
 Far from thy khidred, who in anguish weep, 
 The friends thy virtues gained, will linger here, 
 And fond remembrance shed the heart-felt tear. 
 
70 
 
 TO A COUSIN 
 
 1827. 
 
 Once free as breath of opening flowers 
 
 Elastic health respired, 
 And through the gladsome, golden hours, 
 
 Met the calm eve untired ; 
 
 Where o'er the soft and vermil west 
 Bright beams ethereal played ; 
 
 And through the pleased and placid breast, 
 Bliss' brighter vision strayed ; 
 
 Till the calm hour of sweet repose 
 
 Embraced the wearied frame, 
 And o'er the lids a downy joy 
 
 In sleep's soft influence came. 
 
 But now farewell to peace and joy. 
 
 And all that earth can yield : 
 Anguish and pain my soul emj>loy, 
 
 And Hope's bright gates are sealed. 
 
 Farewell to thee ! no more we pass 
 
 The social hours of peace ; 
 No more together view the scenes 
 
 That joy's glad thrills increase. 
 
71 
 
 Yet thou may'st happiness partake, 
 And life and health enjoy ; 
 
 With thy congenial friend be blest, 
 And pleased thy hours employ. 
 
 But sickness claims Tny wasting form, 
 
 My broken spirit bends ; 
 While misery, with unceasing storm, 
 
 On my crushed heart descends. 
 
 TO AN INTIMATE FRIEND 
 
 1827. 
 
 While fierce afflictions darken round 
 And pleasure's smile no more is found. 
 While hope and happiness are flown. 
 And sorrow heaves the breast alone. 
 The tortured heart in deep distress 
 Still ponders o'er thy loveliness ; — 
 Still seems thy soothing voice to hear, 
 That sweetly falls on misery's ear. 
 The memory of thy worth and truth, 
 The sweetness of thy early youth, 
 From thy sad friend's dissolving heart 
 Nor pain, nor agony, can part. 
 
72 
 
 And though this hand no more can guide 
 
 The friendly pen, till pain subside, 
 
 Yet, gentle one, at thy request. 
 
 The thoughts within this heart compressed, 
 
 In simple, mournful strains, shall flow. 
 
 On pleasures past and present woe. 
 
 Yet must thy gentle heart prepare 
 
 To hear the tones of deep despair ; 
 
 Though lightly touched my grief shall be, 
 
 Thou much loved friend of infancy ! 
 
 When morning life in brightness bloomed. 
 And pleasure each young heart illumed, 
 Hope's joyous accents then were borne 
 On the soft breath of balmy morn : 
 And virtue's pure seraphic voice 
 Bade youth in her loved power rejoice ; 
 While friends and kindred sweetly smiled, 
 And every transient care beguiled. 
 The ardent, young, and glowing mind 
 O'er pleasure's flowery scenes rechned, — 
 O'er fairy tale and vision pored 
 With fancy's glowing beauties stored. 
 The poets page of ancient name 
 Charmed with its bright, bewitching flame ;— 
 And history's calm learned lore 
 Was added to the mental stoi-e. 
 While each a varying picture wrought 
 To charm the soul, or guide the thought. 
 All met the heart, and transient pain 
 Released its victim soon again. 
 
 i 
 
73 
 
 The minstrel's tuneful notes of joy 
 
 Could eveiy saddening thought destroy, — 
 
 And fancy's scenes of rapture bright 
 
 Through every tranquil hour delight. 
 
 But now, those happy days are o'er. 
 
 And these loved treasures charm no more ; 
 
 No more the poet's sweetest strain 
 
 Can check the cruel force of pain ; 
 
 Nor flowery page, nor reason's voice 
 
 Can bid the breaking heart rejoice. 
 
 E'en Nature's blooming aspect fails 
 
 To cheer the soul where grief prevails : 
 
 Nor vernal music's gentle flow 
 
 Can soothe the heart o'erwhelmed with woe. 
 
 Past are those sweet and happy hours, 
 
 Which, spent in nature's blooming bowers, 
 
 Delight serene and pleasure gave. 
 
 Though destined to an early grave. 
 
 Ah me ! what grief hath shadowed o'er 
 
 Those prospects that can charm no more ; — 
 
 What clouds of sorrow move between 
 
 The dawning and the noon-day scene ! 
 
 Once each fair smile of morning light 
 
 Awoke our souls to visions bright, 
 
 The spirits in rejoicing ease 
 
 Sprang lightly as the vernal breeze, — 
 
 And mingled free in social joy. 
 
 And kindred kindness' sweet employ : 
 
 Or contemplation's calmer thought 
 
 Delight in loved retirement sought, 
 
 When oft, at evening's sweeter calm, 
 
74 
 
 Silent we sipped the breathing balm ; 
 
 While the fair moon with chastened beam 
 
 Gilded the playful, murmuring stream, 
 
 And with her soft, quiescent light 
 
 Silvered the sable garb of night. 
 
 Pensive we ranged the pebbly shore, 
 
 Whose waters their wild music pour, — 
 
 Where mingling waves, in loftier tone 
 
 Of mournful grandeur, wake the song. 
 
 Then happiness and we were seen 
 
 In gayer rambles on the green ; 
 
 And life was sweet with peace and joy, 
 
 Nor aught could long the bliss annoy. 
 
 E'en now, my friend, in mental view, 
 
 Gliding we skip the vernal dew, 
 
 And taste the fresh morn's healthful breeze, 
 
 Charmed with her fragrant gayeties ; 
 
 Then pause, while, all delighted, spring 
 
 Glad spirits on their airy wing : 
 
 Our bosoms thrill with pleasure's glow 
 
 And rapture's ardent accents flow. 
 
 Alas ! how changed ! the tear, the sigh, 
 
 Instead of song, are ever nigh ; 
 
 And life grows dim with lingering pain, 
 
 While mitigation's sought in vain. 
 
 Once more forgive the mournful song 
 That flows fi'om sorrow sad and long, 
 But fain would yield to friendship's claim 
 A tribute to its sacred name, — 
 Would dwell upon the pleasing theme. 
 
75 
 
 When virtue glows with gentlest beam, 
 And sweet affection's power benign 
 Expands that generous breast of thine. 
 But sorrow checks the pleasing thrill, 
 Blending affliction's deadliest ill, — 
 And boding guides my thoughts afar 
 To misery's night without a star. 
 But still may friendship's cheering sound 
 
 ft soothe the rankling, cureless wound ; 
 And oft the midnight thought will rove 
 On viitues that it still must love ; — 
 Where innocence and truth combined 
 Adorn the treasures of the mind, 
 Where sympathy's sweet voice relieves 
 The aching heart that silent grieves. 
 
 1 view the beauteous, blooming maid 
 
 As when 'mid flowei'y scenes she strayed, 
 Where the fair lily and the rose 
 Their beauty and their sweets disclose ; 
 Which her own blooming aspect wears, 
 With loveliness more dear than theirs, — 
 And sweetly smiled in artless ease, 
 Brightest of blooming gayeties. 
 But beauty's charms on me no more 
 Exert their soul-enlivening power ; 
 For vision fails, with light oppressed, 
 And beauty mocks the troubled breast. 
 Then strive, my aching thought, to shun 
 Those ills that cloud thy brightest sun : — 
 And dwell on fadeless beauties now, 
 And mark the matron's milder brow ; 
 
76 
 
 For wisdom, prudence, pious care 
 Mingle in meek assemblage there. 
 The wife, — affectionate, resigned, 
 The mother, — tender, watchful, kind, 
 Bespeak the heart where virtue yields 
 Her choicest fruits, and gently shields 
 Her votary from mental pain, — 
 And sweet content and quiet reign. 
 Methinks I see thee fondly gaze. 
 As thy loved infant near thee plays. 
 With all a mother's anxious care. 
 And hope delighted, beaming there ; — 
 When at its lovely, winning wiles. 
 Responsive, sweet affection smiles, — 
 And its first uttered accent breathes 
 Sweetest of pleasing harmonies. 
 Then, clasped within thy longing arms, 
 I see thee bear its infant charms, 
 Or fold it gently to thy breast. 
 And lull it to its peaceful rest. 
 O may the beauteous infant fair 
 Its mother's charms, her virtues share, — 
 And long, thy joy and solace prove. 
 The cherished offspring of thy love ; — 
 And bless her father's guardian name, 
 And long his loved protection claim. .^ 
 Still may'st thou here be ever blest, ,., a 
 And go at last to a blissful rest. ■■■^nV 
 
 Adieu ; these pains, augmenting jfast, ^ 
 Rack every nerve, and check,tlie lagtt , /_ 
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
77 
 
 The fond remembrance of thy worth, 
 That fain would breathe thy beauties forth; 
 But pangs imperious cry — " Obey !" — 
 And nature faints beneath their sway. 
 Once more, farewell, my gentle friend ; 
 May guai'dian angels all thy life attend ! 
 
 WOMAN'S SYMPATHY 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 1828. 
 
 When doomed to agonizing pain, 
 
 And hope's dim taper cheerless burns, 
 
 Blest Sympathy, with voice benign. 
 Complaint to resignation turns. 
 
 From kindred dear and much-loved friends, 
 It flows, the solace due to woe ; 
 
 And softly mingling, silent blends 
 With sweet affection's purest glow.. 
 
 But when from one whom kindred ties, 
 Nor fiiendship's charm can fondly claim, 
 
 It wafts above the nether skies 
 
 The lasting sweetness of the name. 
 
78 
 
 And thus, thy sympathetic charm, 
 
 With seraph influence spreading wide, 
 
 Reaching where sorrow's billow's roll. 
 Thrills a soft pleasure through the tide. 
 
 Long will remembrance fondly dwell 
 
 Upon thy truly piteous tear. 
 Shed at pale misery's lonely cell, 
 
 When hope was dead, and death was near. 
 
 And gratitude shall e'er retain 
 
 The love and reverence due to thee, 
 
 While consolation's cordial breath 
 Dear to the comfortless shall be. 
 
 1 
 
79 
 
 MUSINaS. 
 
 In vain the laughing Spring returns 
 
 In beauteous mantle fair, 
 And budding flowers unfolding bloom 
 
 To greet the genial air. 
 
 In vain the rising sun displays 
 
 His radiant beams afar, 
 And softer glories mildly blaze 
 
 In the fair evening star. 
 
 In vain the looming cloud, that soft 
 
 Distils the grateful show^er, 
 And calls the latent beauties forth 
 
 From each expanding flower. 
 
 Though renovation's joyous breath 
 Glide through the liquid air, 
 
 And breezes soft, on silken wing, 
 Salubrious odors bear ; 
 
 Though smiling verdure dress the fields 
 
 In eveiy varying shade. 
 And songs of sweetest melody 
 
 The fragrant grove pervade ; 
 
80 
 
 Yet sad the fainting eyes move o'er 
 
 The once delighting scene : 
 The halcyon prospect tells no more 
 
 Of happiness serene. 
 
 Now, no bright thoughts the flowing hours 
 
 Mark with a soft delight, — 
 Nor fancy feeds on fadeless flowers 
 
 In fairer realms of light. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BIRDS 
 
 The cheerful birds their notes begin, 
 
 To welcome dawn of day. 
 And usher glorious morning in, 
 
 Charmed with its earliest ray. 
 
 Those rapturous songs did once awake 
 
 Me from a calm repose ; 
 But now no quiet slumbers break, 
 
 Nor sweets of morn disclose. 
 
 J 
 
81 
 
 They now impart a sharper sting 
 
 To sore affliction's train ; 
 Tlioughts of past health and pleasures bring, 
 
 And prospects that were vain. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 
 [The most striking images in these poems are peculiar to 
 the authoress, being derived from her peculiar afflictions. 
 Except her earnest invocations to sleep, that "balm of 
 sweet forgetfulness" (p. 94), no longing of her heai-tis more 
 apparent than her intense desire for sympathy. But while 
 the loneliness and obscurity of her situation on the sea- 
 shore deprive her of the sympathy of man, they open her 
 ears to the " voice of the Lord in majesty," which she hears 
 in the storm as it rushes by her casement. Perha23sin such 
 circumstances, she may be forgiven for imagining that even 
 the drops of rain that fall against her little window are the 
 tears which Heaven itself sheds over human suflFerings. 
 Thus, in the commencement of the following poem, her 
 mind seems to be turning from her disappointed hope iu 
 man, to sympathy from a higher source.] 
 
 1829. 
 
 But list ! O list ! the mighty Harp, 
 Devoid of frame or strings. 
 
 Touched by a hand omnipotent, 
 With tones celestial rings ; 
 
82, 
 
 With awful notes now swelling high, 
 Bearing mysterious power, 
 
 Then sinking soft with gentle voice, 
 Breathing of Mercy's dower. 
 
 O list again ! the soothing sound 
 
 Of Sympathy is near ; 
 Enchanting tones aerial 
 
 Burst on the captive ear. 
 
 Ah ! yes, and now the pitying tears 
 Fast falling bathe the ground ; 
 
 Weeping the woe, the grief, the fears 
 That wretchedness surround. 
 
 Then cease, my soul, no moi'e repine ; 
 
 The healing mercy flows : 
 Blest Sympathy, with voice benign, 
 
 Her cordial gifts bestows. 
 
S3 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED ON READING THE POEMS oP * * * * 
 1829. 
 
 Friend of the unhappy ! thou no more 
 Wilt moui-n the fate of injured worth ; 
 For thou hast reached the eternal shore, 
 And bid a last farewell to earth. 
 
 No more thou'lt sing in gayest strains 
 The pleasures dearest to thine heait, — 
 The scenes that rapture and delight 
 To youth and innocence impart. 
 
 Though poverty's cold, barren lot 
 Thee to the humblest fate consigned, 
 Yet nought could damp that glowing heart, 
 Nor check the vigor of thy mind. 
 
 Thy genius bold, superior rose 
 To stern oppression's cruel force ; 
 Una wed by adverse fortune's frown, 
 And vigorous in its daring course. 
 
 Temptations hovered thick around. 
 And urged thy youthful feet to stray ; 
 But the Great Guardian of thy soul 
 Turned thee from their destructive way, — 
 
84 
 
 Illumed thine eye, aud taught thy heart 
 The kind and sympathetic glow : 
 Benevolence sat there enthroned, 
 And P'eeling wept for others' woe. 
 
 That bliss thou humbly didst desire, 
 To wipe the tear from every eye. 
 And breathe into the sufferer's ear 
 The sweet, consoling, cordial sigh. 
 
 For thou wert Kindness' loveliest child ; 
 Benignity thy soul possessed, 
 And virtue's all-endearing charms 
 Glowed ardent in thy matchless breast. 
 
 That noble, generous mind has fled. 
 That form is cold as senseless clay ; 
 Confined within a nariow bed 
 To wait the Resurrection day. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF EARLY 
 YEARS. 
 
 4 
 
 Ah ! where the days of dawning life, 
 Where those blest, happy, precious hours. 
 When ever-varying jc)ys were rife, 
 And fancy wrought unfading flowers 1 
 
85 
 
 When tranquil pleasure's placid stream 
 Unsullied shone, for ever clear ; 
 And Hope's pure cordial, sweet, serene, 
 Checked the approach of anxious fear : 
 
 Each golden morn returned with joy. 
 And each mild evening sweetly calm ; 
 When youth and health, alert and gay, 
 Inhaled their fragrant breath of balm. 
 
 Then the blithe song of Rapture's bird. 
 Or plaintive warbler's gentle tone. 
 On the soft, breezy air was heard. 
 And pleasure thrilled the breast alone. 
 
 Meanwhile the melody of waves. 
 Soul-soothing murmur, greets the ear ; 
 The raptured bosom swelling heaves, 
 And softly drops the joyous tear. 
 
 O'er the briglit soul, fresh scenes of bliss, 
 Portrayed by fancy's glowing power, 
 In winning form of loveliness. 
 Delight and charm each fleeting hour. 
 
 And through the calm revolving day, 
 How sweet the kindred smile and tone, 
 When each briglit brow and laughing eye 
 With fear and kind affection shone ! 
 
86 
 
 How lightly tript the bounding form, 
 When rosy health with rapture smiled, 
 O'er the serene and flowery lawn, 
 And every transient care beguiled ! 
 
 A parent's smile, a parent's voice 
 Awoke the purest thrills of bliss : 
 The kindred band in love rejoice, 
 And share in mutual happiness. 
 
 The pleasing daily task performed. 
 How sweet at evening hour to view 
 The starry heaven's unnumbered host. 
 And deep in thought those worlds pursue ! 
 
 And when the silent night resumed 
 Her wonted reign, with darkening power, 
 Soft in the arms of sweet repose. 
 Past the unconscious, j^eaceful houi'. 
 
 All nature seemed replete with bliss, 
 Sublime or sportive, — void of caie, 
 And the light heart of childhood deemed 
 These joys should ever blossom fair. 
 
 Dear days ! in rap;d pleasures past, 
 Whene'er I glance my longing eyes 
 Back o'er those joys too fair to last. 
 My aching heart within me dies. 
 
87 
 
 The waves melodious flow the same, 
 The joyful birds still wake the song, 
 The morn and evening gales still breathe 
 Their balmy odors pure along. 
 
 The flowery landscape blooms as fair. 
 The foliage waves as graceful nov/, 
 As when each breezy breath of air 
 Fanned fragrance o'er this peaceful brow. — 
 
 Gone are the bright, the rosy smile. 
 The raptured bosom's thrilling glow, 
 The peace, the joy, that breathed the while. 
 Soft as the warbling music's flow. 
 
 Where calmly spreads the embowering shade, 
 That oft this gliding form hath traced, 
 When laughing joy and pleasure strayed, 
 And innocence and peace embraced. 
 
 Still nature wears her sweetest charms ; 
 And wooingly each loved retreat 
 Seems opening, as affection's arms, 
 The long expected guest to meet. 
 
 Far from each bright, each flowery scene, 
 In solemn silence now reclined, 
 No hope, no joy, no smile serene. 
 Revives this bliffhted form and mind. 
 
8S 
 
 Though nature smile with aspect sweet, 
 And varying seasons circle round, 
 No more the struggling captive's feet 
 Can 'scape affliction's prison bound. 
 
 The refluent tide, the rolling wave 
 Alternate on the peaceful shore, 
 That oft to this glad spirit gave 
 A pensive rapture now no more. 
 
 Though every winged warbling choir 
 Awake the tenderest, sweetest strains. 
 No music, no seraphic lyre, 
 Can lighten these afflictive pains. 
 
 Now, fairest, wildest beauties reign 
 O'er every verdant vale and hill. 
 And, bright meandering o'er yon plain, 
 Glides softly on the murmuring rill. 
 
 Still all remains that once could please. 
 Could cheer and charm the tranquil mind. 
 But gone the peace, the joy, the ease, 
 That fondly round the heart-strings twined ; — 
 
 Are gone, alas ! for ever gone : 
 Now pain and grief, and wan decay 
 Combine, and, in triumphant tone, 
 Proclaim my future life their prey. 
 
 % 
 
89 
 
 Now sleep spreads wide his downy wings, 
 And flies from hence in sore aftVight ; 
 While bitter pains and thrilling pangs 
 Keep the dark watch of dreary night. 
 
 The moon's o'ercast with withering gloom, 
 And sorrows linger through the day ; 
 Chill sadness rules the dismal scene, 
 And ceaseless anguish wastes away. 
 
 Return, sweet Hope ! with magic power, 
 Thy smile benign can give relief. 
 Dispel the horrors of despair. 
 And gild this tenfold night of giief. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Even to-day is my cmnplaiut bitter: my stroke is heavier 
 than my groaning. — Job xxiii. 2. 
 
 If 'tis a truth that in a world we dwell, 
 That God halh given, and that to him belongs, — 
 Then 'tis a truth that these the pains I bear 
 Are here described far less than I endure. 
 Who like a thing mysterious seem to those 
 Whom health hath blessed and needful rest sus- 
 tained. 
 
90 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 Sorrow ! bitter, dreaded draught, 
 Must I ne'er drink but of thy cup 1 — 
 And though I drank of thee alone, 
 
 1 ne'er could drink tliine anguish up. 
 
 Thy chalice ever will remain 
 As full as when I tasted first, 
 And others have as large a share. 
 Though my embittered heart should burst. 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN GREAT 
 SUFFERING. 
 
 1829. 
 
 Sad, moaning wind ! thy mournful melody, 
 Joined with the murmurs of the troubled sea, 
 Falls on the ear disconsolate and lone, 
 Like pitying Mercy's sympathizing tone ; — 
 Calms the wild throbbing of the rending breast, 
 Where ever rankling tortuies are compressed, 
 
91 
 
 And each chill tenant that inhabits there 
 
 Is griefs sad offspring, fostered by despair : — 
 
 Thy fitful gusts, thy faint and dying sounds, 
 
 Thy hoarse, loud roarings, and thy plaintive moans, 
 
 Calm the wrecked brain, where pangs contentious 
 
 dwell, 
 All wildly striving, all triumphant still ! 
 Congenial sounds, for each unuttered pain. 
 In thy wild, frantic muraiurings complain, — 
 Reason, confusion, madness, and despair 
 Striving the palm of victory to bear ! 
 Convulsions direful rend each fibrous thread. 
 Bearing keen tortures, and the aching head 
 Traverse .with vigorous and appalling might, 
 With rage consuming and terrific fright. 
 Laboring unwearied, watchful, firm, and strong, — 
 Tenacious each of the aspiring throng 
 To gain the empire of the ruined brain. 
 Where Happiness once held her blest domain. 
 Thy mournful murmurs sympathize alone ; 
 But the keen tortures every charm disown. 
 Thy wild commotion and aerial strife 
 Tells the strange tumult of a mortal life, — 
 When each sad night is marked with grief supreme, 
 And erery vision, every soothing dream 
 Of rest and quiet, has for ever fled. 
 And prostrate hope lies blasted, cold, and dead, — 
 Each moment big with every grief and woe 
 That reiofns in ceaseless anfjuish here below. 
 
92 
 
 DISTRESS. 
 
 There flows from Misei-y's melancholy pen 
 No metre, measure, nor consistent prose ; 
 But truth unpolished, misery unfeigned, 
 Griefs, that a marble heart would melt to hear, — 
 Would wreck the strongest intellect of man, 
 "With nights of anguish, — struggling strifes un- 
 known. 
 Sought but not found, oblivion might allay 
 The maddening tunuilt. Peace beheld afar 
 In the worn meditation, like a foe 
 Inexorable, mock's the suppliant's prayer ; 
 Nor coukl the world united rest bestow. 
 Alas ! world, friends, nor kindred, — griefs severe. 
 Remediless, unpopular and long, 
 Have power, nor scarcely will, to mitigate : — 
 For pity vanishes, unless relief 
 Approximating prove the smile may soon 
 
 Supply the place of sympathetic care, 
 
 And ease affection of external pain. 
 
 For anxious, mourning, deep regret may well 
 
 Befit a human heart at intervals ; 
 
 But joy must thrill between, and woe must change 
 
 Its name and its appearance, vaiying oft ; 
 
 And hope must smile to keep regret alive, 
 
 And bear compassion through her toilsome task. 
 
 Then, then, what anguish must the wretched bear. 
 
 i 
 
93 
 
 When friends, — whom liealth and social converse 
 
 bless, 
 To whom sweet sleep returns at wonted hours, 
 Their minds releases from all active thought. 
 Soothes and supports with her nutritious balm, 
 And vigorous leaves to cheerful life anew, — 
 Find it too painful to lament their woe. 
 To pause and meditate their sad reverse, 
 The dying anguish of their nightly hours ; 
 When tortures fierce, instead of balmy rest. 
 Run riot wild within their wasted forms, 
 And thought, combined with pain's exhausting power 
 Resistless piessing every care-worn nerve, 
 Excites the system to unknown excess. 
 And racks with more than mortal agony. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 'Have pity upon me, have pity up<^'" "'«- ^ -V^' ^"y fri"i<ls !" 
 
 Sorely my wounded spirit strives, 
 
 And struggles hard to gain 
 A moment's calmness to endure 
 
 Unutterable pain. 
 
94 
 
 In vain I covxrt long absent sleep, 
 
 For one short hour to spread 
 The balm of sweet forgetfulness 
 
 Around my aching head. ^ 
 
 When fainting half, in fancied ease. 
 
 My heavy eyes I close, 
 And think the soft restorer near, 
 
 Breathing benign repose, — 
 
 Then quick returning watchfulness 
 
 Destroys the transient rest, 
 And misery lays her cruel hand 
 
 Once more upon my breast. 
 
 Now frantic thoughts fly through my brain 
 
 By fiercer anguish driven. 
 The strife it cannot long sustain, — 
 It sues to Hope — to Peace, in vain : — 
 
 No consolation 's given ! 
 
 No succouiing hand supports me now, 
 My soul to wretchedness must bow. 
 
 And feel Distraction's force ; 
 For pangs still fiercer, and unknown. 
 Rends Reason from her ruined throne. 
 While all the struggling fibres groan, 
 
 And I in phrensy toss ; — 
 
 1 
 
95 
 
 And in my heart a pang more dread 
 Than that which makes the dying dead, 
 
 Tells, nought can ever more relieve. 
 Till mortal pains life's course arrest, 
 And from my struggling, w^rithing breast, 
 The soul in agony divest. 
 
 And the cold earth the corse receive. 
 
 TO HER FATHER, 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE DYING.* 
 
 1833, 
 
 My Father ! sweet thine accents fall, 
 
 And full of tender love ; 
 These will thy suffering child recall, 
 
 "When thou art blest above. 
 
 Thou didst the words of joy and peace 
 
 With faith and love combine, 
 That taught my soul fi"om earth to cease, 
 
 And seek to follow thine. 
 
 * She did not see him for four weeks previous to his death. 
 
96 
 
 Oh ! shall no more my listening ear 
 Catch that celestial voice ; 
 
 No more thy heavenly converse hear, 
 That bade my soul rejoice ! 
 
 Those words of kind, parental care, 
 "Which soothed my bed of pain ; 
 
 That look of sympathy, oh ! ne'er 
 Shall I behold again ! 
 
 Where shall thy suffering child repair. 
 
 To seek protection now 1 
 Since Death's cold hand, so often near, 
 
 Has touched thine honored brow. 
 
 Where shall this hapless, wiithing form 
 
 A kind supporter find 1 
 And where, oh ! where, 'midst sorrow's stoi'm. 
 
 Shall rest this struggling mind 1 
 
 Who will, like thee, direct the prayer 
 
 With strong desire to heaven ; 
 And grace unto thy children bear. 
 
 To fervent pleadings given ] 
 
 O blessed parent, guide, and friend ! 
 
 Where shall my soul repose 1 
 Our sky is dark ; what ills attend ! 
 
 The world no succour shows. 
 
97 
 
 "Where 1 — but alas ! on earth how vain 
 
 To seek a cure for grief: 
 Yet One the helpless will sustain ; 
 
 Thy God will give relief. 
 
 Yes, He to whom thy soul shall rise, 
 
 And be forever blest, 
 Will look in pity from the skies. 
 
 And give thy children rest.* 
 
 [ * He died on the 1 0th of November, 1833 ; and it is but 
 a just tribute to the memory of a good man, to say, that the 
 spot where he lived more than thirty years, and the grave in 
 which he lies buried, are consecrated in the affections of his 
 family and of his neighbors. Before he went to his rest, he 
 had purchased, with the small remnant of his property, a cot- 
 tage about four miles from Newport, and nearly as far from 
 his former residence by the sea-side. Those who approach 
 this home of suffering will be surprised and pleased by the air 
 of neatness, and even of cheerfulness, which pervades the hum- 
 ble tenement. Here they may behold one of the brightest 
 ti'iumps of piety over the sorrows so thickly strewn in the vale 
 of tears, through which this gifted female has been cal ed to 
 pass. They will ascend the narrow staircase that leads to 
 Cynthia's quiet chamber. There they will find a being, whoso 
 sufferings words cannot describe, looking to her God calmly, 
 and with a resignation which seems almost to have imparted 
 its peacful influence to the silent air that surrounds the lowly 
 dwelling. It was in this chamber that she lay helpless, Avhile 
 those of the household, w^hose health and reason permitted, 
 were assembled around the bed-side of the dying man, to re- 
 ceive his last farewell. Again and~ again she had heard the 
 sad intelligence, that her father, who had for a long period of 
 years so truly sympathized with her sufferings, and who had 
 
98 
 
 THE CUP OF BITTERNE>SS. 
 
 1825. 
 
 All my life's spring-time lost in agony ! 
 And now 'tis fast retiring ; yeai*s have flown, 
 One score and five, nor left much trace behind, 
 
 been almost alone in discerning the powers of that mind in 
 whose cultivation he was chiefly ins'i-umental, was now pass- 
 ing from the earth, and she would behold him no more, not 
 even in the dying hour. Again he was restored, and proba- 
 bly in such intervals of affliction and hope these' touching lines 
 were composed. Four weeks she lay without seeing that ven- 
 erable countenance, though from below she heard the sound 
 of the precious words, which all who knew him will treasure 
 up as the last legacy of an aged Christian in the immediate 
 prospect of eternal bliss. If we place ourselves in her situa- 
 tion, we shall not wonder that, as her father lay dead in the 
 house, it was a consolation to her deeply wounded spirit to dic- 
 tate these lines, at a sister's request, to a friend who was seek- 
 ing to pour into the hearts of the mourning family the balm of 
 consolation. Nor shall we be surprised, that now, when the 
 bright returning June has clothed the earth afresh in its gai*- 
 ments of green, she often gazes from the window at the head 
 of her couch, over the orchard, where but lately she saw him 
 walking beneath the trees, or, supported by his daughters, 
 feebly attempting to select the spot for his burial. And when 
 we look upon the unmarked mound in the corner of that or- 
 chard, we shall understan I why the daughter dropjied a tear on 
 the flower that was brought to her, the first that had bloomed 
 on her father's grave. — June 21.s<, 1834."] 
 
99 
 
 Save theix- sad havoc with my clymg form, 
 Aiitl mind half prostrate, half to phrensy driven. 
 Ah ! would this night were past ! But wherefore 
 
 wish 1 
 For me, 'tis better than the glorious morn. 
 The sounds of busy life will sore distract 
 This weary brain, and thrill my fainting frame 
 With quick vibrations and excess of pain, 
 And goad to torture every struggling nerve. 
 Ah ! the day dawns ! The sounds of joy awake 
 And swell harmonious on the morning air. 
 The feathered songsters, eager to address 
 Their matin notes of grateful praise to Him 
 Who formed their nature and decreed their joy, 
 Pour forth the homage of their new delight 
 In tuneful strains of native harmony. — 
 The glorious light approaches, and the shades 
 Of solitary night retire afar. 
 But whence this gathering gloom, that whelms my 
 
 soul 
 In darkness deeper than the shade of night. 
 And sinks my spirit in the depth of woe 1 
 These sounds of joy are goads of keenest smart ; 
 They mock my sorrows, and deride their pang. — 
 Ah ! where the days when dawning life first woke 1 
 Then a short taste of happiness was mine. 
 And nature's charms and song revived my soul, 
 Nor contemplation wrought a maddened pain ; — 
 Those days are past, for ever past away. 
 Nor joy can visit my sad spirit more. 
 
100 
 
 PSALM XLT. 
 
 Blest is tlie wise and gracious man 
 
 Whose trust is in the Lord, 
 Who bows to his divine control, 
 
 And keeps his holy woi'd ; 
 
 Whose heart in gentle pity moves 
 
 For the oppressed and poor, 
 Who all his hapless brethren loves, 
 
 And welcomes to his door ; 
 
 Whose sympathizing spiiit feels 
 
 The force of others' pain, 
 To whom the suppliant ne'er appeals 
 
 For succouring aid in vain. — 
 
 He soothes the wretched mourner's grief, 
 
 And large his bounty flows ; 
 He grants the needy sweet relief, 
 
 And banishes their woes. 
 
 He ne'er distrusts the piteous tale 
 
 Disclosed in anguish deep. 
 Nor flies when hopeless griefs prevail. 
 
 But weeps with those that weep. 
 
 He shall be blest in all his ways, 
 
 His foes shall ne'er prevail ; 
 He shall prolong his prosperous days, 
 
 And pleasures never fail. 
 
 i 
 
101 
 
 The Lord sliall be his strength and aid ; 
 
 And, when disease invades, 
 When languishing upon his bed, 
 
 His mortal beauty fades, 
 
 Then holy comforts shall sustain. 
 And heavenly thoughts employ, 
 
 Shall banish every wasting pain. 
 And fill with boundless joy. 
 
 And when death lays his senseless form 
 
 Low in the peaceful tnmb, 
 His soul shall gain thf' perfect charm 
 
 Of full expanded bloom ; — 
 
 Shall soar triumphant to the skies 
 
 On love's seraphic wing, 
 And the new song in raptures raise. 
 
 To heaven's eternal Kinsf. 
 
102 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 1834. 
 
 What sweetness, gentleness, what love 
 
 In that calm face appeal's, 
 And lofty thought that soars ahove 
 
 This darksome vale of tears ! 
 
 On thy blest soul, refined and pure, 
 What heavenly beauties rise ! 
 
 And, with sublime attraction, lure 
 Thy spirit to the skies. 
 
 O blessed friend, supremely blest, — 
 What sacied joys are thine, 
 
 Of nature's noblest gifts possessed 
 And crowned with grace divine ! 
 
 O will that gentle spirit deign 
 
 To think on one forlorn, 
 Whose soul the bitterness of pain 
 
 Through hopeless years hath borne 1 
 
 O may this stricken child of grief 
 Still claim thee for a friend 1 
 
 That thought a balmy, blest relief 
 With sorrows deep shall blend. 
 
 Thy sympathizing accents oft. 
 In the lone hours of night, 
 
103 
 
 I seem again to heai-, and soft 
 On the worn sense they hght. 
 
 Thy pitying tenderness relieves 
 My sorrowing heart e'en now, 
 
 When gentle sleep in anguish leaves 
 My thought-distended brow. 
 
 But ne'er can this tiied soul reveal, 
 Till life's satl course be run, 
 
 The bitterness, the woes I feel : — 
 Yet all is known to One. 
 
 Yes, and in His appointed hour 
 He will each grief remove : 
 
 Oh miy I trust His sovereign power, 
 And His sustaining love. 
 
 And may'st thou ever still be blest, — 
 And still those powers emplf)y, 
 
 To gii'e the weaiied spiiit re:t, 
 And guide to future joy. 
 
 O may thy earthly course be peace, — 
 
 Life's purer joys be thine, 
 Till its last fliclvering pulse shall cease, 
 
 In ecstasy divine. 
 
 Then will thy ransomed spiiit lise 
 
 To glorious realms above, 
 And gain its raansicm in the skies, 
 
 Rapt in I'edeeming love. 
 
104 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 May 1, 1834. 
 
 to the yoing ladies of miss 's school, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 O Charity divine ,' thy soothing voice, 
 Sweet as angelic accents, greets the ear; 
 And these fair friends, inspired by thee rejoice 
 To wipe from Misery's pallid cheek the tear. 
 
 O how benign thy office ! wiih what grace 
 Thou giv'st thy blessings, ever-beaming Love ! 
 While in those lineaments divine we trace 
 Tiie gracious semblance ot the holy Dove. 
 
 O blessed Spirit ! that from God receives 
 Sweet approbation, and a purer bliss 
 Pours on the holy deed, when it relieves 
 Neglected anguish in a world like this ! 
 
 O may'st thou ne'er desert ihis sordid earth, 
 That without thee no sacred peace can yield, 
 Till all the ransomed of the second birth 
 With thee in Heaven eternally are sealed ! 
 
 THE ENn.