V ^^0^ "V .*' .* .V'' aPvN ■'^Ao? -0/ .0 /•o^ a > V ?^^. • "oV^ « • •. ?V^* /> "^^.^^ ^ik *5 v^ ..^t^ f • B IRE S NE ST CO T TA GE ., .ij „ IB n L ] f f fl 1^] C O T T 1^ C © = 3B® L ^ CLARA'S POEMS. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in ami for tiie Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 2-4^/0 ; TO MRS. JAMES K. POLK, OF NASHVILLE, TENN., IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY CLARA. PREFACE. In presenting this volume of poems to the public, justice to myself demands I should state that it has been alone owing to the earnest and oft-repeated entreaties of many noble, true-hearted friends that I have done so. For their unwavering kindness through the darkest, saddest years of my life, I can make no better return than by complying with their wishes, and submitting these simple heart-leaves to their gentle care. They were never intended, when first written, for the eye of the cold and heartless; and such would never have rested upon them save for a mere accident un- necessary now to relate here. But after seeing many of them published again and again in the leading pa- pers and periodicals of the day, I have gained confi- dence, and having gathered up the wandering fugitives, with the kind assistance of a true brother in literature arranged them in their present form, and now send (V) VI PREFACE. them forth, like tender, timid birdlings from their shel- tered nest, through the "wide, wide world;" feeling well assured that those who have drank life's bitter cup as deeply as I have done, will receive and wel- come them with loving sympathy and true Christian indulgence. CLAKA. - BiRDSNEST Cottage, Nashville, Tenn., ]86L ittw^ptit BY JOHN T. EDGAR, D.D. We take much pleasure in responding to the request made to us by several friends, in regard to Clara's Poems, and their claims to publication. In thus responding, however, we prefer no peculiar claims to the privileges of a critic, in relation to any compositions, whether in poetry or prose. This being our confession, and premising that feelings of friendship have mainly prompted the request referred to, joined, perhaps, with the circumstance that a periodical under our care first contained a number of Clara's poetical contributions — at the time greatly admired — we would merely add, that many of Clara's immediate friends, in common with ourself, have been delighted with her poems, and with us have desired that they should appear in a form more worthy of their beauty, and better calculated to give them general circulation. To this desire of her friends, the retiring and unpretending Clara has, at length, acceded; yielding to their judgment the propriety of her becom- ing an authoress in a published volume of poems. Yes, she is truly retiring, and as delicate in her claims to attention as she is in the sweet images which are so meekly and touchingly con- (vii) VI 11 INTRODUCTORY, spicuous in many of the more tenderly pathetic of her pieces. It will be seen that the great charm of her verses is found, not in their classical allusions or romantic imagery, but in the sim- ple appeals which they so winningly make to all that is unarti- ficial, uncorrupted, truthful and responsive in the more pure and gentle emotions of every unsophisticated heart. She has had no learned resources from which to draw her inspirations. To such fountains, no former familiarity, or m.ore recent acquaint- ance, could have enabled her to resort. The school in which many of her most impressive lessons have been taught has been that of disappointment and sorrow ; and to such lessons we are indebted for many of the finest and most thrilling stanzas of her often plaintive and pensive muse. In short, to us the great beauty and effect of her poetical creations are to be found in their touching simplicity; in their flow not of rhyme only, but of sentiment — pure, moral, and elevating sentiment ; in their echoes to the kindlier and better emotions of human nature ; in their moving appeals, through many alternating trials and afflic- tions, to hearts that have been smitten by adversity, or rendered desolate by grief ; in their softening and refining influence; and in their tendency to elevate by their purity, and their freedom from all sickly affectation or unhallowed imagery, the purest and best affections belonging to human hearts. In such hearts, they must always find many responsive tones ; for such hearts are always more or less alive to the beautiful in description, to the sympathetic in sorrow, and to the truthful in sentiment or taste. In conclusion, we would not be understood as intimating that in all her poems Clara has been equally happy and successful. This would be an assumption in her favor which has never been verified by any other poet or poetess w^ho has preceded her. We admit that the frequent inspirations of her muse have not INTRODUCTORY. IX been always equally successful. The wing of the brightest and fleetest bird wall sometimes droop and grow weary. Such, we think, has been the case with Clara, both at times in the selec- tion of her subjects, and in the poetic drapery wath w^hich she has clothed them. But in all of them we discover more or less the same leading attractions, the same beauty of expression, the same natural flow of feeling, the same gentle current of thought- ful tenderness and of genuine pathos, by which some of her more happy creations are rendered exquisitely beautiful and touching. Let them, then, we say, be published, both for their ow^n in- trinsic merit, and as an lionor to the city which can claim the residence of Clara. We wish the friends who have resolved to publish them ample success in bringing them before the public. CONTENTS. CLARA'S POEMS. PAGE Sabbath Mokn . 17 A Sabbath Eve at Oakland Cottage 18 Night on the iNTississippi ..... . 20 Twilight Musings ...... 21 The Star and Cross .... . 23 Bury me not in the deep, deep Sea 25 The Fatal Gift . 27 To a Butterfly 28 Roman Nights ....... . 29 There is a Time for all Things 30 The Orphans' Fair . . . . . . 31 Invocation to the Muse ..... 33 Spirit of the Mountain Breeze . . . . 35 Midnight Musings ..... .36 The Blind Girl to her Bird . . . . . 38 Forget Thee ! ...... 41 Earth to Earth . 43 To Cynthia . . 44 Farewell to the Old Year . . . . . . 45 Angel Whispers ...... 47 The World is full of Beauty . . . . ... .49 The Forty-second Psalm .... 51 What is my Name when I atn Dead? . 52 The Orphans' Appeal ..... 53 The Drunkard's Wife . 55 That Soft, Brown Curl 57 The Wounded Bird . 58 "Chateaux en Espagne" .... 59 (xi) Xll CONTENTS. The Close of the Year 1856 . Time's Soliloquy . To an Absent Friend Sunset on the Mississippi To George D. Prentice What is Love? Earth is not our Home 'Twas but a Dream A Summer Sabbath Morn Let Me Die at Home Come to my Grave . The Exile's Memory of Home To Miss Mary L. G s Love's Memories Sonnet to Sleep The Death of Hope I am Weary .... 1 hink of Me Lines sent with a Withered Leaf What is Masonry ? To Mrs. Chase, the Heroine of Tampico Lines Dedicated to the "Chatham Artillery" Reply to the Preceding, (by an Honorary Member Lines on the Death of a Stranger, whose Grave was made upon the Summit of Grand Tower, on the Mississippi A Mother's Lament . . . Loneliness of Heart . . . A Better World . . . . . " . . . Lines on the Death of Benjamin, only son of General and Mrs. Pierce .......... To Willie S. H s Reply to the " Invitation" of Quien Sabe .... Hours of Sadness ......... A Dirge .......... The Old Church . . Eirst Love .......... Eighteen To-day !..,...... Impromptu . . . . , . . . Coaae to Me in Dreams ........ PAGE GO 03 64 66 67 68 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 79 79 81 82 84 85 86 88 89 91 92 94 95 97 99 101 102 108 104 106 107 108 110 CONTENTS. Xlll Moru upon the Mountains To a Friend Alone! Alone! The Summer Rain . The Dead of 1853 The Exile's Song of Home If We must Part An Autumn Evening in the Counti-y A Birth-day Greeting . Twilight Shadows . The Fairy of Melrose . My Heart is Sad Snow flakes and Flowers The Close of the Year Memories The Stranger's Funeral Why Weep for the Dead? Lines Suggested by the Funeral of the Hon A. V Night Thoughts at Oakland Cottage Lines on the Death of my only Sister, Mrs. Jane Come unto Me, and I will give you Rest Wedded Love . "I Think of Thee" . The Angel's Serenade To One Beloved . "The Broken-hearted" . I would I were a Bird . To Miss Lida A n ]\Iy Peerless Flower To 0. H. L. . . . The Ascension God's Beverage -To my Brother, J. C Leake Speak Kindly to the Orphan Deceived ...... To my Friend Col. George F. A — k — s Lines to Mrs. O. K "Dear Little Frank" .... Reflections of a Hus'iand on the Miniat-.iroof his Brown W. T arver Wife PAGE 111 112 lU 115 116 118 120 121 122 123 125 126 127 129 180 132 134 135 136 138 139 140 141 142 145 146 148 150 152 153 154 158 159- 161 162 164 165 166 168 XIV CONTENTS. Boyd Midnight *■ . . . . . . . Sympathy ...,..,... Lines to Miss Narcissa P. Saunders ..... The Music of Nature ........ On Seeing a Portrait that bore Resemblance to a Beloved Sis- ter ,,,.^. ..••.. The Death of General Jackson ...... The Dove of Campbell's Hill Lines written on Returning to Nashville .... My Ideal To Amelia .......... '•Forget Me Not" . . To Ada in Heaven ........ Lines, after hearing Dr. Mackay's beautiful Lecture on Poetry and Song ...... Thoughts Suggested by the Miniature of Little Little Sammy's Address .... Clara's Thanks for the Unfinished Serenade Evening Musings ..... Lonely Musings ..... Why do I Love Thee? .... Hast Thou Forgot Me? If We must Part ..... May Day ...... Childless ...... The Wanderer's Return The Lady to her Chosen Kniglit Sabbath Morning in the Country Why Should I Sing? .... To Cecil, of Versailles, Missouri . To my Heart ...... My Heart Palace .... To a distant Friend . . . . The Faithless — A Song The Stage-horn Lines on receiving an exquisite Bouquet from Miss S. B y The Anniversary ........ Faded Flowers .... On the death of Mrs. Sarah Leake PAGE 171 172 174 175 176 178 180 181 182 183 181 186 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 199 200 201 202 203 205 206 207 209 210 212 213 215 216 CONTENTS. XV VMiF. My Last Request ....... . 218 New Year's Eve ....... 219 Sweet Memories of Thee . . , . . .221 Do you remember Me? ..... 223 On the Death of Mrs. Amelia G. Welby . . 224 On Visiting my Daughter's Grave on her Birthday 225 On Parting with my only Daughter . . . . . 227 A Wish 229 The Death of the Gifted One . 231 Tlie ]\Iigl)ty, too, must Die ..... 232 The Spirit Land . 233 Autumn Musings ...... 235 There is a Better World . 236 Viuvela ........ 238 Hours of Sadness . . . . , . . 239 The Fairy Isle ....... 240 Little Rosabelle ....... . 242 On the Death of my Youngest Sister , 243 On the Death of Mrs. Eliza Odom Simpson . 245 The Penitent 246 To Lucia . . . . . . ' . .248 The Lily of W^oodlawn ..... 250 A June Morning at Woodlawn . . . . . 251 An Invocation ....... 252 A Morning at the Cemetery . , . . . . 253 The Evening Star ...... 255 The Magic Spell . . . . . 256 Farewell to Woodbine Cottage .... 257 The Autumn Morn ....... . 259 To a Friend ....... 261 A Sister's Love ....... . 262 Our Baby Boys ....... 263 Musings on the Last Night of the Year . . 264 Little Ida 265 Lines — for Music ....... . 267 To Ada in Piichmond ...... 268 A Winter Scene on the Mississippi . . . . . 269 Invocation to Spring ...... 271 The Wanderer ....... . 274 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE There is a Spiritual Body ... . . 275 Lines to One who can understand them ..... 276 To a Humming Bird ........ 278 Who is CLara? . . . 279 Sonnet 280 The Border Country ........ 281 ADA'S POEMS. To my Mother 283 Give Tears 286 Day Dreams . . . . . ... . 287 Bear Me away to my Childhood's Home . . . ' . . 289 No, not too Late! 291 The Daughter's Last Prayer ....... 293 Thou Didst return, my Stricken Dove ..... 294 POEM BY JOHN L. MARLING Napoleon 297 Obituary Notice of John L. Marling — from the Nashville Union and American ......... 300 Another Obituai-y Notice from the Fifty-first Number of the Masonic Mirror and Keystone ...... 303 ^^l^ SABBATH MORN. Bathed in the orient flush of morn, How lovely earth appears ! New tints the opening rose adorn, Gem'd with night's dewy tears. Soft whispering breezes sigh around, And snowy cloudlets lie. Like angel watchers, floating through The calm, pure, azure sky. The mountain-tops reflect the rays That usher in the day-god's beams; The birds trill forth their songs of praise ; The wave in gold and crimson gleams : Oh, beautiful ! My spirit drinks In copious draughts of love divine. While gazing on this glorious scene, And worships at a holier shrine 3 (IT) 18 CLARA'S POEMS. Than mortal hands could ever rear, Or mortal language e'er portray; For angel voices, murmuring near. Seem wafting my glad soul away. Sweet, tranquil morn ! so clear, so calm. What soft emotions fill my breast ! Bright emblem of that glorious dawn — A Sabbath of eternal rest I '^■^- A SABBATH EYE AT "OAKLAND COTTAGE/'* The sun's last golden rays are brightly streaming Through the leaf-glory of these grand old trees ; A dewy freshness bathes each bud and blossom. That flings its perfume on the evening breeze ; A holy calm seems resting on the valley — O'er plain and dell the twilight shadows creep, And birds and bees their vesper hymns are singing, And folding up their weary wings to sleep. A Sabbath eve, oh, how I love to linger, And catch the echo from the distant hills — The dove's low, plaintive coo, that's softly blended With whispering leaves and faintly murmuring rills ! ^ The residence of the late Hon. J. L. Marling, near Nashville, Tenn. A SABBATH EVE AT "OAKLAND COTTAGE." 19 Ah! they are voices, soft, melodious, thrilling I The glad, sweet freshness of the summer eve. That o'er my heart its gentle influence breathing, Bids me again the angel Hope receive. For my life's hope, I ofttimes think, resembles The last faint crimson of the sunset skies — Bright, transient hue, that on the clear wave trembles But for a moment, then in darkness dies. And many a mournful thought is o'er me stealing, As 'mid these quiet shades I pensive stray, Where nature smiles in all her summer glory — But my sad heart refuses to be gay. For one by one my earthly ties are severing, Until the last seems almost rent apart ; Death's gloomy form, alas I is dimly hovering O'^r my soul's idol, with uplifted dart; Yet as the sunset melts in deeper glory. And pure, bright stars beam softly from above, Faith whispers, " Hope, sad and weary spirit. And trust thy 'jewels' to a God of love." 20 CLARA'S POEMS. NIGHT ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 'Tis night upon this broad, majestic river — 'No cloud to dim the azure vault above — While myriad stars amid its bright waves quiver, And all around is breathing peace and love. The moon, resplendent in her queenly beauty. With one sweet star of promise by her side, Is tinging every wave with molten silver, That mirrors her fair face within its tide. Yon little isle, that seems so calmly sleeping In magic loveliness beneath her ray, Might be a spot where fairy forms are keeping Their watch, to guide the wanderer on his way. Oh, who can gaze on such a scene of glory. And doubt. the existence of a power supreme? Who would not laugh to scorn the atheist's story. That earth is but a chance — heaven but a dream ? 'Twas here the savage war-whoop once was pealing. While the red man glided o'er the sparkling wave, Death and destruction to the wanderer dealing, Who found, instead of rest, a bloody grave. TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 21 How all is changed I Proud cities now are springing, And lofty spires uptowering to the sky, And vesper bells their low, sweet chimes are ringing, Where erst was heard the warrior's battle-cry. And ships from every clime come richly laden : Where once the light canoe was wont to glide. With stately chief, or dark-brow'd Indian maiden, 'Now mighty steamers cleave the sparkling tide. And on thy banks, O great and wondrous river. Fair liberty hath paused and reared her dome. That here the oppressed of every land and nation May find a brother's welcome and a home. TWILIGHT MUSINGS. When the twilight shades are gathering, With their ever-changing hues. O'er the mountain-tops and valleys. Then I love to sit and muse. Building many a fairy palace In the gold and crimson clouds — Till the darkness, like a mantle. All their glorious beauty shrouds. 3* 2§ CLARA'S POEMS. Then the evening star comes softly From her radiant home of light, Like an angel pure and holy, Watching o'er the world by night; And the crescent moon is gliding Like a pearly bark on high. With the stars like jewels gleaming In her pathway through the sky. Oh, how quiet, calm, and holy Is this solemn hour to me, With its wondrous star-light splendor Breathing of eternity ; And the night-breeze gently sighing With the silvery, tinkling rills, And the echoes, faint replying, All the air with music fills ! Then, my soul, at last awaken From thy leaden trance of woe. Strike thy harp, long since forsaken, Bid its sweetest numbers flow. Ah ! perchance some heart may quiver With a thrill of strange delight, As its tones are softly floating O'er the starry waves of night — Swelling upward like the murmurs Of some tranquil summer sea, THE STAR AND CROSS, When its dimpled waves are breaking In their mournful melody ; For I feel that ever round me Angel forms with snowy wings Guide my trembling, wayward fingers As they touch the quivering strings. THE STAR AND CROSS. TT^KOM cliildhood I have always loved the Evening Star. It has JL ever possessed a strange, mysterious influence over my imagin- ation ; and I have often fancied it some bright spirit, looking gently down to soothe, console, and bless some lone one of earth. I love to wander unobserved beneath its softly radiant light, and muse on hopes and friends forever gone. A few evenings since it presented a most beautiful appearance — shining with uncommon brilliancy — apparently just over the cross of the Catholic church, and seemed whispering to my weary spirit, "Here lay all thy sorrows down, and be comforted." Sweet star of eve, at this lone hour, Oh, how I love to gaze on thee ! Thy gentle rays have magic power ; Their silent spell is memory. For thus I've ever loved to muse, From childhood, 'neath thy pensive light. And dream my future life should be Like thee — forever pure and bright. 24 Clara's poems. And now, what scenes of love and joy- Are not recalled, sweet orb, by thee ! The fair, the beautiful, again In memory's magic glass I see. And there was one — a lovely one — As mournfully at eve we strayed, Who raised her tearful glance to thee. And thus in faltering accents said : — "Though I must leave my childhood's home. And from the friends I love must part. Although in distant lands I roam — Time cannot change my loving heart. "And when thy tearful eyes shall rest Upon this Star, so dear to thee, Where'er I am — whate'er my fate — Then, dearest sister, think of me." We parted — and when twilight shades Are gathering over hill and plain. And thou, sweet Star, beam'st softly forth, I seem to hear her voice again. For now she dwells in heaven above. While I still linger here below ; But thou still beamest pure, undimmed By all my tears of grief and woe. "BURY ME NOT IN THE DEEP, DEEP SEA" 25 And as above yon Sacred Cross Thou sliinest with clear and steady ray, Thou seem'st the star oi faith and hope, To guide me on my lonely way. Then at that Cross I'll meekly bow, And lay my sins and sorrows down, Assured that Christ will raise me up, To wear with her a glorious crown. "BURY ME NOT IN THE DEEP, DEEP SEA." "Oh, BtTRT me not in the deep, deep sea!" WERE the words which came faint and mournfully from the pale lips of that dying youth, as he lay on his cabin couch. — Isabella, in the Olive Branch. "Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea, Where the billows wildly rave, Where no sweet flowers will ever bloom, Or sunbeams light my grave ! Oh, grant this simple boon to me, Bury me not in the deep, deep sea. "But lay me down on the green hill-side, Where the bones of my fathers sleep. Where my mother may pray at eventide, And my sisters may o^er me weep. 26 CLARA'S POEMS. Oh, comrades, this could never be, If you make my grave in the deep, deep sea. "And there is another, dearer still, Who will look for me in vain ; Oh, how will you tell her that far away, Beneath the dark, cold main, Ye've laid me down where my shroud shall be The tangled weed in the deep, deep sea !" The setting sun threw his golden gleams Round the dying sufferer's head. And the moon came out with the quiet stars As the spirit softly fled. But its last faint murmurings seemed to be, ^' Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea !" Yet they heeded not his last fond prayers, But over the tall ship's side They lowered him down with sighs and tears. In the mournfully sounding tide ; And the stormy winds shall his requiem be, Who sleeps so calm in the deep, deep sea. THE FATAL GIFT. 27 THE FATAL GOT. i i TT THANK you for the wish that I may be free from 'sorrow's X dart,' but would almost consent to feel the wound, if I could give vent to my feeling in such plaintive and beautiful language as the gifted 'Claka!' " — Note from a Friend. Ask not, dear girl, the fatal gift Which thou hast thus ascribed to me ; I would not cast o'er thy young life The weird spell of ''Poesy." Not thine the mournful fate of those Who woo the minstrel's ''gentle art," To dream for years of love andifame, Then wake to see those dreams depart. Thou knowest not how oft their song Is but an ecJio from the past — A knell across life's passion-wave, On which hope^s withered buds were cast ; How oft around some idol shrine They wreathe bright gems by fancy wrought, And waste on dull and careless minds The priceless pearls of living thought. For me — I do but sing because My soul hath many a low, sweet tone Forever murmuring in its depths. When I am weary and alone. 28 olara's poems. I know I may not win a name, For mine is but a lowly lot ; For me shall bloom no wreath of fame— I soon shall die and be forgot. And when amid the minstrel throng My simple lute is heard no more, Ah ! who will miss its mournful song, When all its melody is o'er ? None, save some gentle heart like thinej With tender love and pity fraught. Will give those fitful strains of mine, More than a passing, careless thought. TO A BUTTERFLY. Beautiful butterfly ! happy are you. Kissing the flowers and sipping the dew ; Bathing your wings in the morn's rosy light, Folding them up, with the shadows of night, When bright stars peep out through the beautiful sky, To rest on the rose's sweet bosom and die. Beautiful butterfly ! sportive and gay, Roaming from blossom to blossom all day. Inhaling their sweets in a long sigh of bliss, Thrilling and pure as a maiden's first kiss ; ROMAN NIGHTS. 29 When zephyrs are bearing the lily's last sigh, Then fold up your bright starry pinions and die. For, oh ! it were meet for a life such as thine. Beautiful type of a nature divine, To die when the blossoms are falling to sleep, And o'er them the night-dews in loneliness weep ; When the nightingale's singing a soft lullaby. On the rose's sweet bosom, oh, rest thee and die. ROMAN NIGHTS. WRITTEN after reading <' Roman Nights, or Tombs of the Scipios," where the shade of Cornelia is represented as la- menting over the degeneracy of the modern Romans. Thus the grandeur and glory Of earth will decay— The noble, the mighty, Must all pass away ; But time shall but add To a Cicero's fame, And wreathe a fresh garland Round Brutus' great name. Then weep not, Cornelia, Thou beautiful shade : The renown of the Scipios Never shall fade ; 4 30 CLARA'S POEMS Though their altars be broken, Their tombs overthrown, Yet while knowledge remaineth Their deeds shall .be known. And thou, lovely matron, Time-honored, shalt stand, The pride of each mother In our patriot land, Who will point to her sons. And, like thee, exclaim : "Ye alone are my jewels-^ Deserve well the name I" nm- "THERE IS A TIME FOR ALL THINGS." There is a time for mirth — In youth's fresh, joyous hour. Ere the young, glad heart hath felt the sting Of grief's corroding power. Ere the sparkling eye is dimmed with tears. Or care hath paled the cheek. When the rosy lip is wreathed in smiles, And truth and honor speak, When hope a paradise makes of earth — Oh, then is the time for joy and mirth. THE orphan's fair. 31 There is a time to weep — When we gaze on the silent dead, The lovely and lost, in their dreamless sleep, And know the pure spirit's fled ; When we feel the iron hath entered a soul Where grief was before unknown. And we steal away like the stricken deer To bear our anguish alone ; In the lonely hours when others sleep — Then, then is the time to pray and weep. And there is a time to die — When the heart grows sick of life, With its false and fleeting pageantry. Its mockery and strife ; When the soul, redeemed and purified, Longs to soar above, To dwell with the pure, the sanctified, Where all is peace and love ; When faith can look beyond the sky — Oh, then is the time to rejoice and die. THE ORPHAN'S FAIR. Oh, come to the Orphan's Fair to-night ! The eyes of beauty are sparkling bright. And lips that rival the rose's dye Are whispering softly, "Buy, come buy;" 32 CLARA'S POEMS. And their gentle murmurs you'll surely heed, When you know for the orphan child they plead. Then come — we have presents rich and rare, To please the taste of "ladie faire;" And fragrant flowers whose radiant hue Seems still impearled with the morning dew ; And the bashful lover can slyly say How much he loves — in a sweet bouquet. And we've caps, and mantles, and pretty toys. With soldiers and drums for the little boys ; And waxen dolls, with silken curls. And cradles to rock, for the darling girls ; And a thousand beautiful things are here. That may serve as a delicate souvenir. Come, fathers — come, with your happy band Of prattling children by the hand, And as each smiling face you view, Think they may soon be friendless too ; And let your bounty freely flow, . To bless and soothe the orphan's woe. Come, mothers, on whose gentle breast A cherub babe is lulled to rest ; There is a homeless, helpless child. On whom no doting mother smiled. Ah I not in vain we ask of you. You'll give, and love the orphan too. INVOCATION TO THE MUSE. 33 And brothers, sisters — ye who twine Affection's wreath, and fondly join Around your father's board at eve, Remember those who sadly grieve For home and friends of other years — Oh, cheer their hearts, and dry their tears. ' We've gathered them within our fold, And sheltered them from want and cold ; And mothers, loving as their own, Strive to replace the dear ones gone; And ye who would our labors share, Come, haste ye to the orphan's fair. And God will bless the generous deed Of those who, to the orphan's need. Of their abundance give a share — For they are His peculiar care — And peace shall angel-like descend. To bless the lonely orphan's friend. INVOCATION TO THE MUSE. Depart not, sweet and gentle Spirit Light upon my darkened way ; Leave me not, thus sad and lonely ; Shed thy soft, benignant ray 4* 34 CLARA'S POEMS. O'er my soul, and fill its yearning With the beauty and the flowers Of that heaven, whose music ever Echoes through this world of ours. Sweet Spirit I earth is not thy dwelling, Yet thine influence I have known. Murmuring by the stream, the mountain. Heard it in the whispering tone Of the morning breeze, that softly Sweeps across the dewy plain. In the autumn winds that whisper 'Mid the golden harvest grain. Thou hast taught me, gentle Spirit, How to bear life's heaviest woes ; To gather sweets from every bitter, 'Mid the thorns to find the rose ; And though its beauty oft hath faded, Still its fragrance will remain ; And hope whispers, " From its ashes. Phoenix-like, 'twill spring again." SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN BREEZE. 35 SPIRIT OE THE MOUNTAIN BREEZE. Spirit of the mountain breeze ! Whispering, sighing 'mid the trees, As the sun's returning ray Ushers in the Sabbath day ; Lifting up the silvery clouds That o'er the valley fall like shrouds, While from every glittering spray, Wakened by the blush of -day, Tiny warblers plume their wing, And their welcome sweetly sing ; And the dove with plaintive moan Coos within the forest lone ; And the distant mountains lie Dark against the azure sky; Thou com'st with fragrance and perfume From the wild flowers in their bloom, — Oh, bathe my throbbing brow with these, Spirit of the mountain breeze ! Spirit of the mountain breeze, Come with gentle memories Of the past, when I was blest ; Soothe my weary heart to rest, 36 CLARA'S POEMS. Banish all my fond regret, Teach, oh, teach me to forget Thoughts that, like wild billows, roll O'er the gladness of my soul, And, this glorious Sabbath day. Bear them on thy wings away ! Sweet Spirit ! I cannot behold Thy waving pinions soft unfold, Yet I know thou'rt passing by, For I hear thy balmy sigh, Whispering in a low, sweet tone. As I sadly muse alone Of friends beloved, but far away, Who sigh for me this Sabbath day — Oh, bear my loving thought to these, Sweet Spirit of the mountain breeze 1 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 'Tis midnight's lone and solemn hour, And sad the night wind sighs around, And stars, like angel watchers, seem To guard the azure depths profound. The moon glides swiftly through the clouds, That part like banks of rifted snow, And o'er each strange fantastic peak She casts a softly-radiant glow. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. B1 And ever as she sweeps along, With queen-like majesty and pride, One pure, bright star, unchanging still As constant love, is by her side. Oh ! how I love at this lone hour, To leave my restless couch of pain. While memory, with unerring power, Recalls the scenes of youth again ! Yon glorious sky shone just the same When life to me was fresh and fair, As now, when silvery threads are twined Amid my locks of raven hair. Ah ! still the same, as when my heart First strove the Chaldean's lore to trace, And blessed the gentle faith that made Each star a blissful dwelling-place. Yes, calm they smile, as when the breeze Swept lightly o'er my youthful brow, I knelt beneath their living light, And breathed love's purest, holiest vow. And they have kept a record true. Of all I've loved and lost below. The bitter tears — the wasting grief, Which none on earth will ever know. 38 CLARA'S POEMS. They've seen, while in their earliest bloom, The flowers that love and hope intwined Around my heart, death rend away, Till scarce a leaf remains behind. And as the midnight breezes sweep Across my worn and feverish brow. Remembrance o'er the past must weep — Yet to thy chast'ning, Lord, I bow. And now, as with a soul resigned, I kneel beneath this jeweled dome. Faith whispers, ''Weary one, be still; Thou hast beyond the stars a home." THE BLIND GIRL TO HER BIRD. MISS , an amiable and interesting young lady, who has been blind for several years, is the possessor of a beautiful canary, and while listening to its warblings her sweet face brightens with pleasant emotions, and I have often tried to imagine what her thoughts were while listening to its charming melody. My bird, my bird ! thy joyous song. So gushing, glad, and free. This bright, sweet summer morn awakes No thrill of joy in me; THE BLIND GIRL TO HER BIRD. 39 I hear the perfume-laden breeze, That cools my throbbing brow, Make music 'mid the quivering leaves, And whispering round me now. I know far up the clear, blue sky The silvery cloudlets sweep, Like angel pinions, softly o'er Me as I sadly weep ; Ay, weep that ne'er again I'll see The gates of morn unfold. Nor watch the rose-tinged billows play In a sea of liquid gold. My bird, my bird ! thou hast carried me back To the sunny days of yore, When I wandered a careless, happy child, Where I shall roam no more. Oh ! never more shall my nut-brown curls Be tossed by the laughing wind. As I chase the butterflies, golden winged, For now, God, I'm blind ! Ay, blind! in the sweet spring-time of youth, When life seems ever bright. Am I doomed to wander a lonely thing In the shadowy gloom of night. I must see my sweet mother's face no more, Nor the light of her loving smile, 40 CLARA'S POEMS. Only feel her hot tears upon my brow, As she prays for her sightless child. My bird ! thy song's like the rippling brook, That murmured low and sweet. Where so oft in my school-girl days I loved To bathe my wearied" feet ; Where the tangled grape-vine loops hung low, From the tall old maple trees. And violets grew in the shady nooks. That we found out by the breeze. There, too, we gathered the pale wild rose, A fragrant wreath to twine, And crowned the victor, who highest dared To swing in the old grape-vine. But never more shall my merry sport Make the woodland echoes ring, Nor my pulses leap, with a wilder thrill. To the rush of that dear old swing. My bird, my bird ! how the very air Yibrates to thy last sweet note ! 'Twas as if some gentle spirit sang To me from thy golden throat, "Hope on, hope on; oh ! weary heart, Strength shall to thee be given ; Though dark thy path may be on earth. There'' s light for thee in heaven.'''' FORGET thee! 41 FORGET THEE! IFoRGET thee ! ay, when life shall cease To thrill this heart of mine ; But not till then can I forget One look or tone of thine. Oh, no I it mingles with the sound Of everything I hear : And think'st thou I can e'er forget One I have loved so dear ? Forget thee ! when I raise mine eyes To yon blue vault above, I think how oft I've gazed with thee On those bright orbs of love ; And as they roll their onward course Still changeless, clear, and free, I think how I can be like them In my true love for thee. Forget thee ! 'tis a bitter word — I would it were unsaid ; Forgetfulness is not with life, But with the silent dead. 5 42 CLARA'S POEMS. And till the icy hand of death Shall clasp my throbbing brow, This heart shall still remain as true, As constant, pure, as now. Forget thee ! when I kneel in prayer Thou'rt ever by my side, And thy soft tones seem mingling with My hymn at eyentide ; And when thy name is blended with Each pure and hallowed thought. In fervent orisons to Heaven, Say, canst thou be forgot ? Forget thee I yes, when o'er my grave The careless foot may tread ; When this sad heart hath found its rest Among the quiet dead ; I then may cease to think of thee, As earthly mortals do, But oh ! I'll meet thee, love, in heaven, With heart unchanged and true. EARTH TO EARTH." 43 "EARTH TO EARTH." I NEVER could bear the thought of being buried in a vault, or in one of those gloomy metallic coffins: the very thought makes me shudder. No, no! Lay me in the fresh, green earth, where my body may return to dust as soon as possible, and, thus purified, spring up, perhaps, in the form of the very flowers I love so well. Let no cold marble rest upon my pulseless heart, but let the silent snows of winter, the bright sunshine of summer, buds of spring and leaves of autumn, dews of summer twilight, and gentle rain, fall upon my grave. Oh ! bury me in the cool, damp earth, Where April violets bloom, That o'er my weary, stricken heart May float their first perfume ; Where birds may build their tiny nests, And sing their songs of love, And fold their downy wings to rest 'Mid whispering leaves above. And lay me where the pure white snow, Like fond affection's tear, May fall upon my quiet grave, And bid spring flowers appear ; And where the wandering breeze may sigh A mournful requiem o'er The minstrel lute, whose broken chords Shall sing of love no more. 44 CLARA'S POEMS. And bury me as the sun declines In the brightly glowing west, With crimson, purple, and golden clouds Sinking to regal rest ; As the moon walks forth in silvery robe, And the vesper star appears. And blossom and leaf bend gently down 'Neath twilight's dewy tears. And there I shall softly, sweetly sleep, In simple, childlike trust. And wild birds sing and violets grow O'er the form that turns to dust ; To bloom, perchance, like some fair flower, Above the fresh green sod, Transplanted to a happier clime, The paradise of God. TO CYNTHIA. Shine on, gentle Cynthia, thou queen of the night, And cheer my lone heart with thy beautiful light ; For the friends that I love will, though distant they be When they view thy mild radiance, think fondly of me. O'er my heart, lovely planet, as o'er thee, has passed A cloud, all my bright expectations to blast ; FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. 45 It will quickly pass from thee, and radiant and clear Thou wilt shine — but my life is still darkened with care. When thy soft rays are glancing o'er valley and hill, What visions entrancing arise at my will ; How oft have I wandered beneath thy pale beams, And heard a sweet voice like the music of dreams ! Our low-murmured vows of affection and love Were pure as the stars that were beaming above ; But that voice on this earth can enchant me no more, And the passionate dreams of my young heart are o'er. Oh ! bright are the visions of life's morning hours. When earth seems an Eden of beauty and flowers ; And the Iris of hope sheds her light on our way — Ah ! we dream not how soon its gay tints will decay. Shine on in thy beauty ! my loved ones are gone To the home of the blessed — while, sad and alone, I wait till I'm summoned from sorrow and pain. To meet them in glory, nor lose them again. -'^^■^- FAEEWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. Stars above like gems are gleaming, Earth is wrapped in robes of snow, Joyous hearts of bliss are dreaming. While my tears of anguish flow. 5* 46 CLARA'S POEMS. Hark ! the midnight hour is sounding With a low and mournful knell, And its echoes whisper round me — 'Tis the passing year's farewell. Oh ! how every year is stealing, One by one, our joys away; Yet it leaves no balm for healing- Griefs inflicted by its stay. How our brightest hopes have perished 1 In one little year they've fled : Friends beloved, and dear ones cherished^ Now are sleeping with the dead. Another year is swiftly dawning, But it brings no joy to me ; Life must wear a garb of mourning When I think, my child, of thee ; And thine image is beside me^ Angel as I know thou art, Breathing of thy home in heaven — Hopes to soothe and cheer my heart. Then, farewell, thou year of sadness ! I will weep no more for thee. But will hail the new with gladness — It, perhaps, my soul may free From this heavy weight of sorrow That has long oppressed me here, And a brighter, happier morrow Dawn for me another year. ANGEL WHISPEES. 47 ANGEL WHISPERS. The golden light of day had fled, And twilight's dreamy hour Inclined my soul to seek repose Within a favorite bower, Where oft I'd sported when a child With all a young heart's glee — Dear were its gray and moss-grown rocks. Its starry flowers, to me. 'Twas at the entrance of a glen, Just where a tiny brook Came dancing o'er its pebbly bed, With bright and joyous look; Above, the interlacing vines A canopy had made, And warblers sang and flowerets bloomed Beneath its leafy shade. I gazed into the far-off depth's That vailed the azure sky — And many a bright ethereal form Methought I could descry. I heard a whispering, soft and low, A voice in all around. And soon its gentle influence My weary spirit found. 48 CLARA'S POEMS. The rock itself reminded me Of that Eternal One Beneath whose shadow all may rest, When earthly hope is gone ; Who will a stay, a refuge prove, A shelter from the blast, A shield and fortress of defense. Until the storm be passed. The brook that murmured at my feet Seemed softly whispering, too. That I could in its crystal waves A beauteous emblem view Of that pure stream that from His side Came gushing, clear and free. In which the sin-polluted soul Might bathe, and spotless be. My heart was filled with love and praise ; My spirit seemed to hear The whisperings of the blessed ones. As if they hovered near — ■ Redeeming love was all their theme. And, oh ! the thrilling strain. No mortal formed of earthly mold Could ever breathe again. Methought I was no more on earth. But heavenward seemed to go. As rose those sweet, melodious strains. At first so soft and low, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAtFTY. 49 Of "glory, honor, praise and power, To Him, the just, be given, Who worthy is to be adored By ransomed hosts in heaven." But, ah ! they faded soon away. And my lone spirit sighs. Till those sweet whispering angels call Me home above the skies. Who, passing, murmur, ''Sister, wait Thy Lord's appointed time ; We soon shall come and bear thee hence To a far happier clime." 'Tis long since those celestial strains Breathed 'round that twilight bower; But well I know that they will bless And soothe my dying hour ; Then, oh, my soul, no more repine, But kiss the chast'ning rod, Since thou canst kneel at such a shrine, And praise thy Lord and God ! THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. Yes, many fair and lovely things Bless this bright world of ours — The bird that in the forest sings, The dew-drop on the flowers. 50 CLARA'S POEMS. The morning clouds, so softly tinged, That round Aurora play, The silvery chime of distant bells Borne on the breeze away. And sweet the merry streamlet's song. As by the oak it winds, And lovely o'er the cool rock spring The wild rose fondly twines ; And, echoing through the dim old woods, The dove's low, plaintive moan Recalls sweet visions of the past, Ere youth's bright dream had flown. The glory of the western skies, As daylight disappears, When e'en the zephyr's silken wing Seems bathed in twilight's tears ; When faintly gleams the crescent moon. As gently, one by one. The stars come forth, as if rejoiced Our daily toils are done. And, oh ! how holy, calm and pure Is midnight's soothing spell. When soul with kindred soul communes. Though far apart they dwell ; And when in dreams we sink to rest. Fond lips are pressed to ours, Until we feel that life once more Is bright with hope's sweet flowers I THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 51 Thus earth is filled with lessons pure, If we but read them right ; They breathe their sacred influence o'er Our souls by day and night; And like sweet tones from angel harps, On every breeze is borne — "Look up, thou sad and weary heart, Man was not made to mourn." THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. As the wearied hart doth pant For the cool, refreshing streams, When nature droops and faints 'Neath the noontide's sultry beams; As the withered bud and flower, As the grass, the fading tree, Wait the reviving shower, So I wait, Lord, for thee. I thirst for the living waters Thou hast promised with thy love. That I with Zion's daughters ^ May sing thy praise above ; For tears have been my portion — I have bowed beneath thy rod, While my foes, exulting, ask me, Ay, where is now thy God ? 52 olaiia's poems. Yet I will still remember Thy mercy unto me — Through the dark night of affliction My song shall be of thee ; And thy light and truth shall guide me Along life's stormy road — My trust, my hope, is on thee, My Saviour and my God. Then, oh, my soul ! why mourning ? The Lord thy rock shall be ; Joy cometh with the morning, And night's dark shadows flee. Yet a few more years of anguish. And all thy cares shall cease, Where rest Earth's lone and weary. And all is joy and peace. WHAT IS MY NAME WHEN I AM DEAD? What is my name when I am dead !" Though wreath of laurels bind my head. My acts, my lineage, what are they. When I am sleeping in the clay ? My form, my features, and my lot — Mournful or happy — soon forgot Within the dark and silent gloom That wraps the inmate of the tomb. THE orphans' appeal. 53 Yet faith can pierce the gloomy night, And see, beyond, a world of light ; To weary ones a peaceful home, Where sin and death shall never come. THE ORPHANS' APPEAL. DEDICATED TO THE MECHANICS OF NASHVILLE. O YE, whom happy children meet At merry eventide, With sparkling eyes and loving hearts Around your own fireside, Think, as you view each smiling face. How sad a change may come, When Death shall quench the light that makes A paradise of home. Perhaps those little ones you've reared With tender, anxious care, Bereft of you may wander forth With none to soothe or cheer. Then think of those poor friendless ones In poverty who roam, And let soft pity move your hearts — To build the Orphans' Home. 6 64 CLARA'S POEMS. Go hear the dying mother, as The death-damps dew her brow — " My fatherless, my precious ones, And must I leave you now, — Alone, unsheltered in the world ? Oh ! is there none will come. Whose heart with generous pity glows, And give my babes a home ?" Yes, we will take thy helpless lambs Into our quiet fold, And shield them from the summer's heat And winter's piercing cold ; And train them up in His commands. Who watches o'er them here, For God has made the fatherless His own peculiar care. And ye, upon whose noble toil Kind Providence has smiled. Say, will you not a portion spare The lonely orphan child ? And daily shall their grateful prayers Ascend to heaven's dome. For those whose willing hearts and hands Have reared the Orphans' Home. THE drunkard's WIFE 55 THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE. SUOGESTED BY AN OCCURRENCE IN REAL LIFE. 'Tis night, and sad and lonely, With none to soothe and bless, She is weeping o'er the wreck Of her blighted happiness : Ay, such bitter tears are flowing As crush the very life From the fond, devoted heart Of that pale, suffering wife. She is thinking of the hour When, in her maiden pride. She stood by him she idolized, A fair, young, smiling bride ; But now her pride hath perished, Her idol's overthrown, And the light of love hath faded. That o'er her pathway shone. She hath clung to him in sorrow, Like the ivy to the oak. And still more fondly twining As the storm-cloud o'er him broke. 56 CLARA'S POEMS. But the strength that once sustained her Hath vanished like a dream ; And hope on her poor broken heart No more shall softly beam. For Intemperance has slain him, And her prayers and tears are vain To win him back to honor, Or break the demon's chain; And her heart is throbbing wildly With grief and anxious fear. For he revels with the shameless, While she is dying here. Yet, as life's sands are failing, She thinks of him alone. And pleads for hope and mercy For that deeply erring one. And the last fond words she murmured Were, ''May he be forgiven;" And in death her lips seemed whispering, ''I'll pray for him in heaven," THAT ''SOFT, BROWN CURL." 5t THAT "SOFT, BROWN CURL." This little, soft, brown, silken curl Once kissed a pure and lofty brow. Where sleeps a poet's soul of fire, Whose thoughts in sweetest numbers flow, When waked by love's resistless power, Like dew upon the opening flower. His dark-blue eyes, like some still lake That slumbers in the forest rude, The impress of the cloud will take Amid its mountain solitude, Reflecting on its tranquil breast The azure sky, the clouds at rest. But love will mar that quiet sleep. All quivering with delight, whene'er Soul meets its kindred soul, and wakes The deep volcano slumbering there. And heaves with passion-throes the lake. Till all its waves in dimples break. Oh I little, soft, brown, glossy curl, A precious gift to me thou art; For every shining link is twined With gentle memories round my heart: And tears are sparkling pure and bright, Amid thy silken folds to-night. 6* 58 CLARA'S POEMS. For, oh 1 I'm dreaming that again Those eyes, so deeply, darkly blue, Are fondly gazing into mine, And vows are whispered softly too, As when, that calm, sweet summer even, This simple pledge of love was given. THE WOUNDED BIRD. The bird sits mute in her lonely bower. And her pleasant songs are o'er; For sorrow's dart hath pierced her heart, And she sings of love no more. And why are her sweet strains hushed and still. That were soft as the zephyr's sigh. And her pinions pressed to her snowy breast ? Oh, list, and I'll tell thee why. Long by "Sewanee's" crystal wave Had her low, sweet songs been heard, Till an eagle stooped from his lofty flight To list to the gentle bird. He smoothed his proud plumes, tempest tossed, And his radiant eye grew dim With the heart's rich dews, as he whispered low, Would she sing alone for him — "CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE." 59 Would she leave her lowly bower and dare With him the storms of fate — Soar through the clouds to the sun's fierce rays, As the lordly eagle's mate ? Then her heart, long calm as her own bright stream Ere 'twas swept by the tempest's wing, Awoke to the wild, sweet dream of bliss, That was told by the eagle-king ; And glorious then were the strains they sang As they sprang through the fields of light, And his pinions strong bore the bird along. Till a meteor crossed their flight. Then the storm-king left the gentle bird, As he followed the dazzling train. To sink, with her snowy plumage soiled, To her simple bower again. And that is why, with a low, sad moan. She foldeth her pinions o'er Her stricken heart, and hideth the wound That will bleed forever more. -^'^- "CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE." I, TOO, have dreamed ; 'neath the summer skies, O'erarched with hope's resplendent bow, Built towers of gorgeous sunset dyes; But soon an envious cloud of woe 60 CLARA'S POEMS. Obscured those golden visions fair Of my heart-castles in the air. Yes, swiftly fled those halcyon hours, So bright with love's celestial ray; Like perfume crushed from early flowers. They've passed, those airy dreams, away; And left but mournful ruins where Once shone my castles in the air. Ay, gone those visions pure and bright — All, save their memory, now is dead ; But that still glows with radiant light. Though every joy of life seems fled, And gilds the somber clouds of care, That vail my castles in the air. THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1856. ' Tis night, lone, solemn night — The death-night of the year. O'er this sin-wearied world pale silence reigns ; The very winds seem hushed in awe and fear ; Not e'en a star peers through the murky gloom, Nor mourner weeps a sympathizing tear Above the Old Year's tomb ; But ghosts of buried joys, wild phantoms of despair, Bewail his doom. THE CL08E OF THE YEAR 1856. 61 With pallid brow and tear-dimmed eye, Pale sorrow kueels in widowed grief Beside his couch, and frantic asks him why He stole, like a base midnight thief, Her richest jewel — rent the golden tie That bound two loving hearts, and left Her thus alone to pine and die. And love, with low and plaintive sigh. Soft as the breathings of ^olus' lute. When the lone night winds, idly wandering by, Sweep o'er its shattered chords that all day long were mute, Implores again the loving, trusting faith That only one short year ago she gave Into his keeping, and she gently layeth Her wasted, bleeding heart, her blighted hopes. With all love's broken vows, within his grave. The pitying skies alone A snowy shroud have wept o'er earth's kind breast, In which to fold his aged, shivering form. And lay him softly with the past to rest, That, with the myriad years forever gone, Unblessing and unblest. He, too, may sleep forgotten and unknown. But can this be, Old Year ? Can we forget Thy varied scenes of happiness or grief — The hopes thou didst inspire — the bliss rv Thou o^avest — and the fond belief o 62 CLARA'S POEMS. That brighter years would come — the deep regret For severed ties — the rapturous kiss Of friends returned — love's dream, so sweet, so brief, — Can these be all forgot ? All, no I Old Year, we'll mourn thee yet ! And yet, why should we ? Thou art gone Forever ! merged into the deep. Wide ocean of eternity : thou who hast borne Upon thy passion- waves such precious argosies of love, Of fame and glorious beauty, whose shattered wrecks now sleep Entombed in thine illimitable depths, alone Remembered by some faithful heart. As the sweet music of a dream That with the night has flown. But hark ! a knell is ringing on the midnight air ! " The Old Year is no more," And sad and wearily I stand, Like some pilgrim on the shore Of the vast future, waiting with patient hope until The "messenger" shall come and bear Me o'er its deep, dark waters, to that land Whose time is reckoned not by years, and where My lonely heart shall never more Fond memory's vigils keep Beside the dying year. time's soliloquy. 63 TIME'S SOLILOQUY. Old call you me ?■ — ay, well you may, For I was born on Earth's natal day; 'Mid the verdure and bloom of paradise wild, I gazed when the young world joyously smiled; I inhaled the first fragrance of Eden's bowers, And caught the first dew-drop that sprinkled her flowers ; And when her pure waters, all flashing and bright, Reflected the sun on their bosom of light, When the cataracts sent up their anthems on high. None heard their sweet melody then, save I. When the deer bounded over the hills undismayed — For man was not there to make them afraid — When the bright star of morn in its beauty arose. And its twin sister of eve ushered in its repose, Many thousands of years in their splendor did shine With no eye to admire or to praise them but mine. You say I am old — and the truth you but tell ; View the empires and cities that rose and that fell, Of them scarce a vestige, a trace, can be found — I was there when their first stone was laid in the ground ; But the seeds of decay I concealed at their birth, And their grandeur and glory soon crumbled to earth. 64 CLARA'S POEMS. My course is still onward — unceasing my fliglit — I watch over man both by day and by night — Though they oft try to stop me, yet nothing I mind, I laugh at their folly, and leave them behind ; I dimple the cheek of the innocent child. And the soft lip of beauty I deck with a smile ; I crown her fair brow with bright tresses of gold, And I plant the gray hair on the head of the old. I'm an agent of power resistless, sublime — Yet who can compute the duration of Time ? Who can number my days till the angel shall stand, One foot on the sea and the other on land ? When the sound of the trumpet creation shall shake. And the dead from their long, dreamless slumbers shall wake — When the dark reign of death and of sin shall be o'er, And Eternity dawn — then shall Time be no more ! TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. Beneath my favorite beech-tree, in the budding, fresh spring-time. Once more I weave for thee, my friend, a wild and simple rhyme ; While the swelling buds are crimsoned with the sun's rich golden hue, The morning air is echoing with the dove's low, plaintive coo. TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. 65 As Aurora's dainty fingers ope tlie pearly gates of morn, A gush of flute-like music upon the breeze is borne ; 'Tis the matin hymn of nature to the God of peace and love, Up-pealing through the heaven's blue arch, so pure and bright above. The pear-tree's snowy blossoms are redolent of perfume. And the peach-trees in the orchard seem a cloud of rosy bloom; Each pendant leaf a diamond holds, meet for a regal brow, And all is fair and beautiful, — but where, my friend, art thou ? Are thy dark-blue eyes unclosing in that sweet southern clime Whose atmosphere is fragrant with orange and the lime ? Or art thou musing sadly in thy far-off ''polar home," Where over the broad prairies the deer and bison roam ? Ah, I fain would stand beside thee, on such a morn as this, When earth seems just created a paradise of bliss. When the future, bright and glowing, before thy fancy gleams. And the past, like sunset shadows, but a clouded vision seems. And yet I hope that many a sweet and pleasant trace Of the past will linger round thee, no time can e'er efface ; For with earnest hearts we're striving to attain a lofty goal, And our friendship here hath ever been a union of the soul. 1 66 Clara's poems. And wheresoe'er thy wanderings, north or south, may tend, Thy memory with the blossom and the bird will softly blend ; But the spring-time and the summer a dreary time will be Without thy presence, dearest friend — will it be thus with thee? ^^ SUNSET ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 'TwAS sunset on the waters, And the heaving billows rolled, In their undulating beauty. Like waves of liquid gold. And the western clouds were gleaming With a thousand brilliant dies. As if angel hands were opening The portals of the skies. My heart was filled with rapture, As 1 mused that quiet hour, And thoughts were then awakened Of high and holy power. My soul caught inspiration From the living fount of love. And I seemed to hold communion With angel forms above. I heard sweet voices singing, That had been silent long, But the soul-entrancing music Did not to earth belong ; TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 67 And my spirit sighed to sever The bonds that held it here, And float away forever With those once loved so dear. Thus I lingered till the glories Of eve had faded quite, And the stars were mirrored singly In the waters deep and bright ; There they seemed like holy watchers, To guard me on my way, And whisper to my spirit, Sad mourner, hope and pray. TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE. Where the turbid, dark Missouri Rolls her billows to the main, 'Mid her broad and fragrant prairies. Wakes my minstrel lute again ; And upon the wings of morning, With the song of bird and bee. One leaf fresh from memory's garland, Poet-King, I waft to thee. Soft and sweet as echoes playing O'er some fairy-haunted stream, May it gently float around thee Like some dim-remembered dream, 68 Clara's poems. Till those memories pure and holy, Of thy life the dearest part, Wake, and breathe in thrilling numbers The rich music of thy heart. June is here again, all radiant. With her roses and perfume. And the bees are softly humming 'Mid the honeysuckles' bloom, And the sunset skies are glowing With the same rich golden dyes That they wore one summer twilight, When we dreamed of paradise. Then come, when mystic shadows Cover all the sleeping world, And we'll float upon the star-beams, With our spirit wings unfurled, Far away where angel watchers Guard the wondrous and unknown. And no more on earth we'll wander. Weary hearted and alone. ji^- WHAT IS LOYE? 'Tis like some deep, quiet river, That floweth softly on, The music of whose rippling Is like the angel's song; WHAT IS LOVE? G9 Upon whose borders flourish The lily and the rose, And, sheltered by those flowers, The modest violet blows. What is love ? 'Tis a pure and gentle blossom, That maketh glad the heart ; Its hues are bright and beautiful Beyond the reach of art. And hope and memory cherish it, Like dews of morn and even, Till abroad it sheds a fragrance Like the balmy breath of heaven. Oh ! beautiful and holy, This flower unrivaled stands — Methinks from Eden's bowers 'Twas borne by angel hands ; Around the heart intwining, Its tendrils reach above, A paradise it makes on earth. For God himself is love. This is love. t* 10 CLARA'S POEMS. EARTH IS NOT OUR HOME. It cannot be that earth alone Is our abiding place — That, like the foam on ocean's wave, We sink and leave no trace Of all those high and glorious thoughts That fill our souls with love For all that's pure and beautiful, In earth or heaven above ! It cannot be that we are made To linger here in pain, To feel immortal longings thrill . Our hearts, yet know them vain — To love, but never see more near. The stars, whose silvery light Reflects the glory of God's throne Upon the earth each night ! It cannot be ! Though earth is filled With fair and lovely things — With birds, and flowers, and sunny skies, Green woods, and gushing springs, And true and loving hearts, that make. A paradise below — Yet, 'mid our sweetest, purest joys. Death aims his fatal blow. 'twas but a dream. tl Ah, no ! this earth can never be A dwelling for the soul ; It longs to soar away through space, Where myriad planets roll, — For only where the Eternal reigns, 'Mid radiant worlds of light, Where streams of knowledge ever flow, Will the spirit stay its flight. ^^- 'TWAS BUT A DREAM. " Sweet vision of my sweetest dreams, In dream-like beauty pass away." — Amfxia. 'TwAS but a dream — a sweet, wild dream- A vision false as vain — Yet, oh I what would my sad heart give To dream it o'er again ! 'Twas but a dream, and yet thy voice. Like low, sweet music, still Yibrates along my spirit chords With soft, melodious thrill. I strive to smile, and oft appear From care and sorrow free, But deep within my soul is shrined A mournful dream of thee. '72 Clara's poems. Oh I why didst thou my palsied heart From its long slumber wake To love, and hope, and joy once more, Then leave it thus to break ? But, fare thee well ! the dream is past, And I am now alone — For never can another win The heart still all thine own. I only ask, in future years, When others smile for thee, Thou wilt recall our sad, sweet dream, And give one sigh to me. A SUMMER SABBATH MORN. How calm, how bright the Sabbath morn I The dewdrops glisten on the lawn Like jewels rare, while, 'mid the trees, Comes the low, wailing, autumn breeze ; The little birds their anthems raise ; All nature seems to hymn the praise Of Him who all his creatures blessed, And bade them on the Sabbath rest. Yon snowy clouds, slow floating through Heaven's high vault of azure blue, Seem angel watchers, listening there. To hear earth's Sabbath morning prayer ! LET ME DIE AT HOME. 73 LET ME DIE AT HOME. SUGGESTED BY A CONA^ERSATION AVITH REV. MR. C. AND LADY, CNR EVENING, ON BOARD THE STEAMER . Let me die at home ; let me sink to rest Where first I reposed on my mother's breast, With the friends I have left in this world of gloom, To bear me with tears and sighs to the tomb. And lay me down where my woes shall cease, And say, sweet sister, sleep in peace. Here, where no pain or grief can come. Let me die with my friends — let me die at home ! Let me die at home in the sweet spring-time, When the birds and bees make their pleasant chime, And the balmy breeze, with its rich perfume, Comes stealing into my darkened room, Bringing sweet dreams of my youthful hours, When careless I wandered amid its flowers, And learned in each sunny nook to find The violets blue in my hair to bind. And watched the brook, with its silvery foam. Dancing along by my childhood's home ! Let me die at eve, when the sun's last rays Are fading away, and the hymn of praise Is rising from every roof and tree, And the evening star seems to wait for me. t4 CLARA'S POEMS. And loved ones are near in the calm twilight- Oh, then let my spirit take its flight ! Like the wearied dove, no more to roam, I would fold my wings and die at home ! COME TO MY GRAVE. Come to my grave, when I shall rest From all life's cares forever ! When the ties that bound us here are rent, Which death alone could sever I Come, when around my lowly bed The flowers I love are springing; And when a requiem, soft and low. The birds are sweetly singing. Think how I loved with thee to stray 'Mid nature's scenes of gladness ; But, then, to thee I know they'll wear A tinge of grief and sadness ! Then come, when o'er me softly fall The twilight dews of even ; And when the stars look gently down Like angel eyes from heaven. THE exile's memory OF HOME. 75 Let memory then recall to mind The sacred vows we've plighted — The bygone scenes of early bliss, Which death alone has blighted ! Then kneel and pray, as oft we've prayed, And strength will still be given. By Him who is the mourner's friend, Till we shall meet in heaven I THE EXILE'S MEMORY OF HOME. I AM lonely and sad, yet a beautiful throng Of strangers are round me with music and song, And fairy-like forms in their loveliness glide. With eyes beaming gladness and hope, by my side. Yet I'm lonely and sad 'mid the young and the gay. For I think when I too joined their frolicsome play, With spirits as light — and the song and the jest An echo still find in my desolate breast. And I muse on the loved and the lost that are gone, Who have left me to weep in my sorrow alone ; Their smiles of affection can soothe me no more. For the hopes of my young heart forever are o'er. \ 16 CLARA'S POEMS. Oh I how vividly memory brings back my youth, When my path was all sunshine, the world was all truth ; But false was its promise, its bright hues are fled, And my friends and my country now sleep with the dead ! As I list to the song, it recalls those blest hours When fearless I sang in my own native bowers ; Now those bowers are faded, and long, long ago, The hand of the spoiler my home hath laid low. And I wander an exile, and never again Shall I see my loved valley far over the main ; Yet 'tis graved on my heart, and my last prayer shall be, That God, in his mercy, my country may free. TO MS. MARY L G S, OF VALHERMOSA SPRINGS. Dear lady, when in future years, Though clouds of sorrow intervene, I strive to trace through misty tears The beauty of this sylvan scene — Oft as the low winds whispering sigh. Like music's soft, bewild'ring strain- When faint the lingering echoes die, I'll dream of thy sweet voice again. love's memories. It Dream of thy valley home so green, Whose towering mountains pierce the sky; Where silvery fountains ceaseless play In cadence with the zephyr's sigh ; Where dwell thy loved, thy cherished ones, Who make life's sunshine everywhere. Ay ! oft my heart will fondly turn To this sweet, smiling Eden fair. Oh 1 never may the serpent come To blight thy paradise of love ; But happier in thy peaceful home May each revolving year still prove ; And thus, with music, mirth, and song, May'st thou and all thy precious band Move sweetly on, a love-linked throng, . Till safe within God's holy land. ' LOVE'S MEMORIES. I'm thinking of my first, pure love, My earliest dream of youth. When every thought of my young heart Was innocence and truth ; When looks, more eloquent than words, From dear eyes glanced to mine ; Then e'en a sigh my spirit thrilled. With ecstasy divine. 8 18 CLARA'S POEMS. I'm thinking of the hour when fate Dissolved this dream so sweet, And severed two fond hearts, that ne'er Again on earth shall meet; And ever since my soul hath been A sad and mournful thing, A lonely dove, without her mate, Forever on the wing. I'm thinking how, in after-years, A new love strove to breathe A warmth into this icy heart, Round which such memories wreathe. But all in vain — the sun may shine Upon the dreary tomb. But not one ray can penetrate Its dark and silent gloom. And I'm thinking of the hour when this Lone spirit shall be free. To soar away through boundless space. And meet, dear one, with thee. And, oh ! if there's superior bliss To ransomed spirits given, It must be when two kindred souls Thus reunite in heaven. TUB DEATH OF HOPE. 79 SONNET TO SLEEP. Come, thou white- winged angel, gentle Sleep, Press thy cool fingers on my tear-stained lids, Each wearied sense in soft ol)]ivion steep, Oh, give the rest my sorrow still forbids 1 Come, with thy crimson poppy-juice, and bathe My throbbing, care-worn brow ; Ope the rose-tinted, pearly gate of dreams, And let my weary spirit enter now. Come, fold thy pinions softly round ray soul. And waft it to some bright and happier sphere, To meet and mingle for a moment with Its kindred, who are blest and smiling there, Waiting with song and harp to welcome me. When death shall close my simple history here. THE DEATH OF HOPE. SUGGESTKD BY AN ENGHAVINO. I HAVE waited for thy coming. Through the summer's dreamy hours. When the air was filled with music And the earth was bright with flowers. 80 CLARA'S POEMS. And though I wept in sorrow When the day was past and gone, Hope sang, "He'll come to-morrow," And my heart still trusted on. But the summer roses faded, And the autumn's golden grain Waved ready for the reapers, And yet I looked in vain, Till mine eyes grew dim with watching, My cheek with anguish pale ; Yet Hope still softly whispered, "Trust on — he will not fail !" When first our vows were plighted, 'Twas beneath a starry sky, And their radiant luster trembled In the clear waves gliding by. Ah I could I dream that ever Thy love would prove untrue. As the star gleams on the water — As false and fleeting too ! Now the wintry winds are sighing Through the forests bleak and drear, And Hope's sweet song is dying, While I wait thy coming here — Here, where the spring's first blossoms Breathe around their soft perfume, Shouldst thou ever come to seek me, Thou'lt find my lowly tomb. ::S£, SAKTAIl/^PHlLAL C^^A^J % LINES. 1 35 LINES SUGGESTED by the funeral of Hon. A. V. Brown, late Postmaster- General of the United States, at the Capitol, Nashville, Ten- nessee, March 14th, 1859. He comes ! he comes ! but not as of yore, With joy to his Southern home,* But heralded, alas ! by the cannon's roar, The knell, and the muffled drum. He comes I but the shadowy gloom of death Rests dank on his lofty brow; And the warm, true heart, once throbbing beneath, Lies cold and pulseless now. He comes ! but the patriot's race is run. And the statesman's toils are o'er. And Tennessee weeps for her noble son, Who'll guard her rights no more. And there 's silence and grief in thy halls, Melrose, Where a tearful mourner in vain Listens sadly at eve, for the well-known step That Cometh, ah ! never again. ^ Melrose. 136 CLARA'S POEMS. And never again, through thy shady groves, Shall they wander in converse sweet ; For only in Eden's bright bowers of love Can the husband and wife now meet. Then lay him to rest where that gentle wife, With children and friends, may come, To weep o'er the dust so dear in life, Close by his own loved home. NIGHT THOUGHTS AT OAKLAND COTTAGE. 'Tis night ! the radiant moon looks down, Sprinkling, with its silvery showers. Rock, tree, and shrub, and sparkling wave, Bright buds, and brilliant dewy flowers ; On such a night the angels rove, If ever, from their bowers above. The light so calm and holy seems, I once more fancy by my side The bright ideal of my dreams. Who passed away in manhood's pride ; Yet, when life's cares my heart depress, Still comes to soothe, console, and bless. Oh, loved and lost ! this world hath been A sad and dreary one to me. Since, 'neath the turf, so soft and green. We made a lowly bed for thee ; NIGHT THOUGHTS AT OAKLAND COTTAGE. 131 The young, the noble, and the brave, Thus doomed to fill an early grave. Night, glorious night ! I love thee well, With all thy glittering, starry train ; Methinks their heavenly anthems swell In many a soft, seraphic strain, As distant worlds their voices raise, And ceaseless hymn their Maker's praise. 'Tis midnight ! and the dew-drops fall Light as the tread of fairy feet ; And gentle vows, unheard by all Save kindred spirits, low and sweet Are whispered 'neath the starry skies, As heart to heart responsive sighs. On such a night my soul would fain Shake off her fetters, and arise From earth, with all its grief and pain, And seek a home beyond the skies ; Where dwells alone that perfect bliss I've vainly dreamed to find in this. 13 138 CLARA'S POEMS. LINES ON THE DEATH OP MY ONLY SISTER, MRS JANE W TARVER, WHO DIED APRIL 26, 1856. "There were twelve of us, but three are left." — ***** Twelve precious pearls were braided Round a gentle lady's brow, But one by one they've faded. Only three remaining now — For death has gathered softly And silently each one. And twined them in a chaplet Around God's holy throne. The last sweet one that's fallen Was a pure and shining gem — A priceless jewel, worthy To grace a diadem. But angels' hands have severed The golden links apart, That bound our gentle sister To each fond and loving heart. And we've laid her down to slumber By those* she loved the best. And smoothed the green turf lightly Above her care-worn breast, * Her children. COME UNTO ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST. 139 Where the April violets springing, Breathe their faint but rich perfume, And bright wild birds are singing Sad requiems o'er her tomb. Then softly rest, sweet sister, Thy pilgrimage is o'er — Thou hast crossed death's gloomy river, But thy Saviour went before. And though the night was long and drear, When thy spirit-chords were riven. Thy morn was bright and glorious. For, oh, it dawned in heaven ! COME UNTO ME, AND I WILL GIYE YOU REST. The Saviour speaks, in accents mild, To him by grief oppressed — Come unto me, earth's weary child, And I will give thee rest. Like Hermon's dews that softly fall Upon the drooping flowers, Those sacred words revive my heart. In sorrow's darkest hours. For life hath been a pilgrimage To me both sad and sore ; But still sustained I journey on, And soon it will be o'er. 140 Clara's poems. Then let me bear thy gentle yoke, And kiss thy chastening rod ; My burden thou wilt soon remove, My Saviour and my God. -^^- WEDDED LOVE. I LOVED thee when the hue of health And hope was on thy lofty brow : Thy cheek is pale, thine eye is dim With sorrow — yet I love thee now. Thy voice first taught, with melting tone, My young romantic heart to thrill With rapturous joy, till then unknown — That voice to me is music still. Thy manly form, erect and proud. Was like the forest's lordly pine : That form with grief and care is bowed — Yet is my love still fondly thine. I loved thee when thy friends seemed true, And house, and lands, and wealth were thine- Now, like a vision false they've fled. And not a wreck is left behind : Yet there is one that will console, And share thy lot, whate'er it be ; True as the needle to the pole, My heart will ever turn to thee. "r THINK OF THEE." 141 And when its last faint pulse shall cease, And grief no more my spirit fill, Perchance in. some bright realm of peace, I'll prove thy guardian angel still. -^^ "I THINK OF THEE." TO ADA IN HEAVEN. I THINK of thee when the sun's first ray Disperses the gloom of night ; When flower, and bud, and dewy spray Are flushed with his rosy light; When nature sends up her sweet matin song To the source of joy and love, And bright winged forms bear the notes along Through the blue arch bending above. I think of thee when the quiet stars Look lovingly down on earth, And I look with a wildly-throbbing heart For the glorious one of thy birth ; Yet I know that a brighter one now gleams On thy pure, angelic brow. Caught from the throne of God, whose beams Illumine my sad soul now. And I think of thee as we laid thee down In the narrow bed to rest, 18* 142 Clara's poems. Where the weary and worn from troubles cease, And the heart is no more oppressed — With that voiceless grief that hath never a name, Though its impress may oft be seen On the lofty brow, and the compressed lip, And the dark eyes' depths serene. When the moon sheds her pale and silvery light, And the stars seem asleep on the lea, Then my soul goes forth in the calm midnight And holds a sweet tryst with thee ; For thy last fond words for evermore Strengthen and cheer my heart — ''When a few brief years of pain are o'er, We shall meet and never part." ^^- THE ANGEL'S SERENADE. What soft, melodious notes are these That float upon the midnight breeze ? — Now distant, and again more near, They fall so sweetly on mine ear, Like harps by seraph fingers played — 'Tis sure an angel serenade ! The moon seems gently sailing through Yon star-gemmed vault of azure hue, While every vale and mountain height Is bathed in floods of silvery light ; THE angel's serenade. The birds sit hushed on every bough, And silence holds her vigils now, And all is still in earth and air, As if the world had paused to hear The sounds by angel harpers made In this mysterious serenade. It is, indeed, a glorious song That echoes heaven's bright arch along — Their golden harps exulting ring, While countless hosts of angels sing : Glory to God I from realms of light Glad tidings we have brought to-night ; Good-will to men, on earth be peace ; Let war, and strife, and envy cease ; We usher in a glorious morn — A Prince and Saviour now is born. He comes ! the broken heart to cheer ; To dry the hapless mourner's tear ; The weary captive to unbind ; Illuminate the darkened mind ; To raise the soul by sin oppressed. And give the heavy laden rest; To light the grave where horror reigns, And lead the monster, death, in chains; To shed a radiance o'er its gloom, Till earth again like Eden bloom. Glory to God ! creation sings : Ye seraphs, sweep the glittering strings 143 144 CLARA'S POEMS. Till heaven re-echo back the strain — Messiah comes in peace to reign. He comes I but not in royal state, Attended by the rich and great ; No gorgeous couch supports his head — A babe in lowly manger laid — The great Redeemer sinks to rest Upon his virgin mother's breast. The angels, at this wondrous sight, Adore, and tremble with delight; Such love as this was never known. That God should give his only Son To die upon the accursed tree, A ruined world from guilt to free : And, bending from the starry skies. They view the scene with glad surprise, And raise the loud, triumphant strain. Till heaven and earth respond again The song that makes creation thrill, "Glory to God ! to men good-will I" Then soft and low the murmurs fade Of that celestial serenade. Oh I when my dreams of earth are o'er. And mortal music charms no more — "When slowly life's bright visions fade, Still may I hear that serenade I TO ONE BELOVED. 145 TO ONE BELOVED. Farewell, beloved one ! perchance we never Amid life's changing scenes again shall meet, Yet in my spirit depths, enshrined forever. Thy memory will make music, low and sweet. Perhaps I ne'er again, entranced, may listen To those soft, pleading tones so dear to me, Nor mark thy blue eyes, with love's heart-dew glisten. As when I parted last, dear one, with thee. 'Tis sad to part with one so loved and cherished, So fondly twined around my trusting heart. Who, like an angel, came, when even hope seemed perished, And of my very life has now become a part; Who, when the tempest darkly round me lowered. Smiled like a sunbeam o'er the threat'ning cloud. And golden thoughts upon my pathway showered, Until my restless soul again submissive bowed. How can I say farewell ? — ^thy treasured token Will waken many a dream of rapture to the last. But, like a silvery lute-string, crushed and broken. My heart can only give an echo of the past. Oh I wilt thou not recall that vanished past before thee. With all its sweet, bewildering music, birds, and flowers, And let it breathe its gentle influence o'er thee, To soothe and bless thee 'mid life's weary hours ? 146 CLARA'S POEMS. How can I part from thee, beloved, forever ? — How tear thy cherished image from my heart ? Yain would I strive the spirit-bond to sever That makes thee of my life, my soul, a part I Thy love is all on earth I have to cheer me : Though, like the wandering dove, afar I roam. My thoughts, by day and night, still hover near thee, For thy true heart can only be my spirifs home ! "THE BROKEN-HEARTED." Clasp the pale, cold hands so meekly, O'er the heart once warm and true, Ceased, for aye, their busy motion, — No more work for them to do. Close the weary eyes, so heavy, No more tears for them to shed ; Part the raven tresses softly, No more pain for that poor head. Closed alike to love's soft murmurs Is the ear so dull in death. Or the base insidious whisper Of detraction's poisonous breath Ah ! if in that heart you've planted, With a ruthless hand, a thorn — Loving glances coldly blighted — Answered loving words with scorn,- "the broken-hearted." 147 God forgive you, for you never Can repair the wrong you've done ; All too late your tears of anguish To recall that gentle one I Oh I the grave, so cold and silent ; How we'd shrink, with solemn dread, From its dark and misty portals, If no light by hope was shed I If love's broken links were never To be gathered up again ; If beyond death's swelling river No bright port of peace remain ; If no radiant bow of promise Spring from that dark, gloomy cloud ; If love's sweet, ecstatic visions , End but with the pall and shroud, — Then, indeed, would will triumphant Rear its hydra-crested head, If all hopes of life immortal With the passing spirit fled. But a murmur, like the rippling Of the silvery-sounding wave, Is around me, as I linger By the broken-hearted's grave. 148 CLARA'S POEMS. ''Weep not — she is only sleeping!" Far above yon starry sky Her freed soul is with the angels, Where no tear-drops dim the eye ; Where false love again can never Fill her gentle heart with pain ; Where her harp, so wildly broken, Breathes love's thrilling notes again. Then rest thee, dear one, rest thee softly. Life's wild dreams for thee are o'er; Soon with smiles we hope to greet thee, Where the faithful part no more. * -^^- I WOULD I WERE A BIRD. I WISH that I could be a bird, To nestle on thy breast. To feel the throbbings of thy heart, Atfd sing thee, love, to rest ; To breathe my soul's deep tenderness, By all, save thee, unheard. In strains of thrilling melody — Oh, would I were a bird ! I wish that I could be a flower, So beautiful and rare, That thou wouldst love and cherish me With all a miser's care ; I WOULD T WERE A BIRD. 149 And sun me with thy loving smile, And make thy heart my bower, Where I might bloom unseen the while — Oh, would I were a flower ! I wish that I could be a star, So radiant, clear, and bright. That never cloud could intervene To hide me from thy sight; Whose rays, o'er life's tempestuous sea, Might beam on thee afar. And guide thee to one loving heart — Oh, would I were a star ! I wish that I could be all these Sweet loving things to thee : My song should cheer thy loneliness, My light thy guidance be ; And if thy love were all mine own. Amid life's darkest hour I'd be, then, all combined to thee — A bird — a star — a flower ! 14 150 CLARA'S POEMS. TO MISS LOA A N. Days, weeks, and months have flown Since we in tears did part. But thy fair and gentle image Is still mirrored in my heart ; And thy low, sweet voice is sounding Far down in memory's sea — Oh ! I ofttimes wonder, Lida, If I still am dear to thee. Since last we met, grief's tracings Are heavy on my brow : Death has waved his dark wing o'er me, I am lone and childless now ; For me hope's withered blossoms No more on earth can bloom, My soul's last idol sleepeth, Dear Lida, in the tomb. Where art thou roaming, sweet one ? Oh! haste thee to the ''Nest," Let me clasp my own pet "birdling" Once more unto my breast. The winter's almost over, The flowers will soon appear, And the song-birds be returning — Come with them, Lida, dear. TO MISS LIDA A N. 151 Come, and again we'll wander, In the pleasant summer-time. Where the 'Tairy-cascade" waters Ring out their silvery chime ; And as we pensive listen To their murmurs soft and low, Will not fond memory whisper Sweet dreams of "long ago?" But, Lida, is thy young heart Still in "maiden fancy free"? Or hast thou found one dearer Than all the world to thee ? Hath he wooed and won our "wild bird," Her home with him to make ? Then taring him with thee, darling. He'll be welcome for thy sake. 152 CLARA'S POEMS. MY PEEKLE8S FLOWER. Oh ! my heart once cherished a lovely flower, In a sunny garden fair, And for years I inhaled its rich perfume As it bloomed in the summer air ; And it cheered my soul in its darkest hour. When even hope seemed fled, Till a storm arose, and my peerless flower 'Neath its wasting breath lay dead. And many a year hath passed since then. And IVe wandered sadly on. And mourned o'er the blight of my early hopes, And wept for my sweet flower gone ; And this world is a dreary place to me, Yet I know, in a fadeless bower Above the skies, I shall meet once more My own sweet, peerless flower. TO G H. L. 153 TO G. H. L. My valley home ! my father's house, Would I could see thee now, And feel my gentle mother's kiss To-night upon my brow — Could linger by the river side, And list its song of joy. And o'er its mimic billows glide, As when a wayward boy. Methinks I hear its rippling wave Make music on the shore. And see the water-lilies lave Their snowy bells once more, And hear my brother's merry shout, As from the silvery tide He drew the shining, speckled trout. In gleeful schoolboy pride. I know my father's heart is lone. And my sweet mother sighs. Till, musing of her absent son, Tears dim her soft, dark eyes ; And when amid the grand old trees The quivering moonbeams play. To heaven a tearful glance she'll raise, And for the wanderer pray. 14* 154 Clara's poems. What though in this fair Southern land Warm, loving hearts I've found, With whom, in friendship's golden band, My own is softly bound : 'Mid all its music, birds, and flowers, My thoughts will sadly roam, To linger at this twilight hour Round my sweet valley home. -^•a^- THE ASCENSION. TO DR. PROCTOR, OP THE CHRISTIAN CHFRCn, ST. LOUIS, THIS POEM IS DEDICATED AS A TOKEN OP ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP. 'TwAS morn upon Judea's hills. That calm and peaceful hour When trembling dew-drops shone like gems On pendant leaf and flower. See, radiant in the eastern skies. The king of day appears. And smiles away the frowns of night, And kisses up her tears. A thousand domes and minarets Seemed tinged with rosy light, And the temple's golden pinnacles Were dazzling to the sight. THE ASCENSION. 155 A silvery haze still softly slept On Olivet's fair brow, As through her dark-green olive groves A group are wending slow. They followed with a wondering look The footsteps of their Lord, With hearts that throbbed with hope and fear, And spake no idle word. Yet oft his sweet and gentle tones Their mournful thoughts would cheer : "Behold, I'm with you evermore. Why should you doubt or fear?" And oft he paused, as if to trace Each well-remembered scene. Where, on his pilgrimage of love, His weary steps had been. On yonder height Jerusalem, The glorious city, slept. O'er whose dark fate in future years Such bitter tears he'd wept. Here, 'neath the mountain shadow, stood That little cot so blest. Where Lazarus and his sisters dwelt, And where, a welcome guest. So oft he'd rested from the scorn That mocked his steps by day — 156 Clara's poems. Oh, beautiful and dear it seemed, As nestling there it lay ! He gazed on Cedron's silvery wave, Gethsemane's garden fair, And then recalled that dreadful night Of agony and prayer. He marked the cross on Calvary's hill ; Then from that scene of blood He turned, and soon, with those he loved, On Olivet he stood. His dark eye scanned each anxious face, He smiled with holy love — ''AH power is given to me," he cried, "In earth and heaven above." "1 send you forth, my chosen few; Spread the glad tidings wide. That, to redeem men from their sins, The Son of God hath died." And, as he spoke, a crimson cloud Floats through the azure skies — Its silvery lining softly blends With sunset's gorgeous dies : It hovered o'er the Saviour's head, It beamed with dazzling light, And as he, smiling, blessed them all, Keceived him from their sight. THE ASCENSION 15t And folded its bright vesture round The form they loved so dear, Then upward soared; yet still they gazed With wonder, love, and fear. While thus absorbed, they heeded not Two beauteous strangers nigh. Whose snowy wings and shining robes Were glittering to the eye. They speak ! like low, sweet music falls Their voice upon the ear — "Ye men of Galilee, why thus Do ye stand gazing here ? "This Jesus, whom ye've seen ascend, More glorious yet shall come. With shining hosts, amid the clouds, To bear his ransomed home." They stood alone — yet from that morn Was heard no doubting word ; 'Twas there the loved disciples first Praised their ascended Lord. 158 CLARA'S POEMS. GOD'S BEVERAGE. 'Tis bursting from the mountain side, 'Tis gushing clear and free — The pure, sweet beverage God hath brewed, Oh, thoughtless man, for thee ! JSTot in the simmering, smoky still, Whence poisonous vapors rise. But in the green and grassy dells The precious essence lies : There crystal fountains murmur low. There sings the tiny rill, As rushing in its beauty from The rock and vine-clad hill. 'Tis sporting in the cataract's foam, 'Tis dancing in the storm ; It folds a pure white mantle round The cold earth's wintry form. 'Tis sleeping in the glacier deep, Beneath the midnight moon ; And it trembles in the dew-drop, as It bathes the rose of June. It sparkles in the seraph-zone That spans the azure skies ; TO MY BROTHER, J. C. LEAKE. 159 'Tis woven in the sunbeams, in A thousand brilliant dies. 'Tis giving health and beauty still To every living thing ; No murder and no madness will That priceless beverage bring. No blood defiles its purity — No orphan's tears are there — No drunkard curses it in death, With accents of despair. But pure and sweet, 'tis welling up Beneath the clear blue heaven. The pledge of love and happiness, That God to man has given. TO MY BROTHER, J. C. LEAKE. Do YOU remember, brother dear, The orchard where we played, And the two old apple-trees we claimed As ours, beneath whose shade We sported many a summer day, With hearts so light and free, Unconscious of the griefs and cares Life had for you and me ? 160 CLARA'S POEMS. Do you remember, too, the spring That murmured sweetly there, — How we deemed some gentle fairy dwelt In its depths, so calm and clear, And fancied music softly breathed With the crystal water's flow. And the azure skies that were mirrored there, Seemed enchanted halls below ? And think you of those sunny hours When, hand in hand, we roved » In quest of early fruits and flowers, With playmates dearly loved ? When we mocked the woodland echoes with Our shouts of childish glee : Ah! happier were we then, dear J., Than we e'er again shall be. For time and death have wrought a change On all that joyous band — For some are in the silent tomb. Some in a foreign land ; And soft and low the evening breeze Sighs with a wailing tone. As, 'mid our old familiar trees, We sadly muse alone. And we are passing, brother dear. Unto that distant bourne, Where the weary traveler may rest. But never more return. SPEAK KINDLY TO THE ORPHAN. 161 And here we may at last repose, Amid those scenes we love, While our unfettered spirits soar To seek our friends above. -^'^- SPEAK KINDLY TO THE ORPHAN. Oh ! let no word of harsh rebuke Fall on the orphans' ear ! Add not a pang to their lone hearts, Nor cause another tear. They have no mother's gentle voice To soothe their childish grief — No father's firm and manly arm To fly to for relief. They have no cheerful fireside, With smiling faces round. To welcome them. Ah, no ! their home With strangers must be found. And when the merry Christmas comes. Laden with gifts and toys, No parents kind select for them. And share their infant joys. 15 162 CLARA'S POEMS. Then speak to them in gentle tones, And soothe their deep regret ; And make them, by your love and care, Their loneliness forget. And He who is the orphan's friend Will add unto your store ; For he but lendeth to the Lord That giveth to the poor. DECEIVED. "Is friendship but a name? love but a jest?" — Anon. Opttimes I ask my weary heart, Can this indeed be true ? Are love and friendship but a dream, Transient as early dew, That in the morning sun appears Pearls, diamonds, rubies red. Till clouds his radiant face obscure. Then all their beauty's fled ? For men will oft with subtle art Their truest friends deceive — Win woman's pure and trusting heart. Only to break and leave ; DECEIVED. 163 Vowing to love them evermore, Until their lives shall close, Enshrine them in their heart of hearts, Like perfume in the rose ! And thus deceived, proud woman's heart Oft breaks without a moan, Like ripples on some mountain lake — A moment seen, then gone; Yet some will smilingly live on Through long and weary years. None dreaming that her sparkling eyes Are bright with unshed tears I And thou, mine own familiar friend. Whom once I deemed so true, I've found thy friendship but a jest, Thy love like morning dew I Yet if, in after- years, thy heart Mourn broken faith to me. One contrite tear upon my urn Is all I'll ask of thee. 164 CLARA'S POEMS. TO MY FRIEND, COL. GEO. F. A-K-S/ ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1860. Fain would my simple muse essay A votive offering — sweet and pure, My friend — to hail tliy natal day, That shall recall me when no more. And could my glowing fancy breathe — In words — the thoughts that thrill me now, Bright gems of poesy I'd wreathe In beauty round thy classic brow. For thine's a graceful, manly form, That with Apollo's well may vie, And all thy soul, pure, true, and warm, Is mirrored in thy dark blue eye. Oh ! ever thus — Prometheus-like — Keep clear, undimmed, that hallowed flame, Nor ever pale its radiant light By aught that can thy manhood shame. Friend of my heart, in manhood's prime. Life's battle-field before thee lies, And to an ardent, gifted mind 'Tis but to strive and win the prize. Then nerve thee for the noble strife ; Be firm, be energetic, free, LINES TO MRS O. K. 105 And never in thy course through life Make thy fond mother bUish for thee. Then, as I touch my lone harp-strings, I'll wake its echoes wild and free, And waft upon night's starry wings Its softest, sweetest tones to thee. And pray that time may realize Thy youthful hopes, thy manly aim, And blend with all the good,, the wise, In future years, thine honored name. LINES TO MRS. 0. K. A BOUQUET I send you, fair lady, All gemmed with the dew-drops of May, And if with attention you'll listen. You will hear what the sweet flowers say. "Think of me, then," the Heart's-ease will whisper. Though we seldom each other may see ; While the Pink breathes ''the purest affection," The Box sighs, I'm "constant to thee." And the Rose, in her proud, queenly beauty, Shows truly a "favorite thou art ;" And the Mint and the Myrtle intwining. Speaks the love that is "warm in my heart." 15* 166 CLARA'S POEMS. And the Trefoil, that '' Providence ever Watches over the good and the true ;" And I send, in ^'love's bonds" to unite us, The sweet Honeysuckle to you. -^^- "DEAR LITTLE FRANK." His soft blue eyes are closed in death ; His little feet no more Will run with eager haste to meet His father at the door. His little hands, so busy once. Are folded on his breast; And cold those rosy lips that oft His mother's fondly pressed. And lovely as a sculptor's dream, He sleeps unconscious now, For the parting spirit left a gleam Of glory on his brow. That pure, white, sinless brow now wears No tinge of grief or shame; But wlio can tell, through future years. If 'twould remain the same ? "DEAR LITTLE FRANK " 167 Ah, none ! and you who, frantic,- thus Mourn round his lifeless clay, Weep not I perhaps your darling was In mercy called away. Why weep because his stay was brief In this dark world of woe, That thus he hath escaped the grief Which all who live must know? Think of your dear one's last sweet words. When thus you sadly weep — As with a smile he whispered soft, ''Now, Ma, I'll go to sleep." Then bid each vain repining cease, Hush every murmuring sigh, For blessed are the young who thus In life's sweet morning die. And grieve no more, dear friends, but bow Beneath the chastening rod ; Your child just came to show how fair The angels are with God. 168 CLARA'S POEMS, REFLECTIONS OF A HUSBAND ON THE MINIATURE OF HIS WIFE. RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO DOCTOR J. M, W. Oft in my lonely liours, when sadly musing O'er by-gone days of happiness with thee, I fondly gaze on this, thy faint resemblance, That, true to life, still seems to smile on me. But thou art gone, whose love made life so precious, And earth to me a paradise of bliss — Thy soft, dark eyes no more can beam upon me, Nor thy sweet lips return me kiss for kiss. Then I recall our years of blest communion, When, like a guardian angel by my side. Thine influence with such holy love was blended As won me from my waywardness and pride; And when around me all are calmly sleeping, In vain my lonely couch invites repose — My soul with thee a sacred tryst is keeping, And finds a brief oblivion to its woes. For we have passed such blissful hours together As only kindred spirits ever know — So full of rapture ! — ah I I dreamed that never Cold death could lay my cherished idol low. MIDNIGHT. 169 Till thou wert called, my worshiped one, to leave me — To rend the links, that bound us here, apart ; 'Twas then, thy seraph vestures soft unfolding, I knew thee for the angel now thou art. Loved one, though I no more on earth behold thee, I feel thy spirit ever lingers near ; As like a weary pilgrim on I wander, Thy low, soft voice thrills softly on mine ear. Although the ties by fate's decrees are severed That bound our hearts in one sweet, mystic chain, A few short years, and we shall meet in heaven. And clasp their broken links of love again. -s^^- IIDNIGHT. 'Tis midnight, and the weary day hath ended, And all around is hushed in deep repose ; O'er hill and dale, and floweret, softly blended. The moon her pale, ethereal splendor throws ; The little rills are sparkling in their gladness, The night-bird sings her melancholy lay, And o'er my spirit steals a pensive sadness, As I recall the scenes of life's young day. Fair queen of night, that with thy silvery radiance Illum'st yon pure, cerulean dome above, 1*70 Clara's poems. With all thy glittering hosts of starry planets, Forever singing one great hymn of love, I gaze with wonder on thy glorious beauty, TJndimmed by age, still rolling changeless on; While countless millions 'neath thy sight have perished, Thou art the same as at creation's dawn ; When morning stars together sang for joy, And night and chaos owned thy gentle reign ; When heaving billows, in their wild commotion, Boiled back affrighted in their dark domain. And as I raise my tearful glance to heaven, And feel the influence of this solemn hour, When ministering angels to the world are given, My soul is thrilled with strange mysterious power. Pure, radiant forms seem dimly floating round me, Dear loving eyes look love again to mine, And gentle tones amid the low winds murmur, For which, by day and night, I ever pine. Thus, when the midnight moon is softly beaming O'er hill and vale, with all her starry train, I'm not alone, but of a bright world dreaming. Where I shall meet my loved and lost again. SYMPATHY. 171 SYMPATHY. I THINK of thee, when softly beams The midnight moon, beneath whose ray Our souls can meet in fancy's dreams. Denied throughout the weary day — And does she not a record keep Of all that's pure and dear to thee ? And is there not one page unseen. Sacred to love, and hope, and me ? I think of thee, and gentle thoughts Wake in my heart, by day unknown ; The night- wind sighs around me, filled With many a soft, enchanting tone : As if amid this tranquil scene My soul would wing its way to thine, And, filled with ecstasy, could feel Thy spirit all absorbed in mine. I think of thee as some pure star, Whose light is mirrored in the wave Of some still mountain lake afar, Where seldom storms or tempests rave ; I fain would be that lake to thee, And thou the star upon my breast — For one sweet look or smile of thine Would soothe my wildest thoughts to rest. 172 CLARA'S POEMS. What is the strange, mysterious spell That links my very soul to thine, And makes my inmost being thrill With feelings I cannot define ? Is it that we were kindred once — Twin-born of heaven before our birth- That thus our wandering spirits seek To reunite again on earth ? Oh ! while the life-blood courses warm Within my heart, 'twill throb for thee No time nor distance can impair Our mystic bond of sympathy ; For love like ours can never die : It triumphs over death and time, And, reaching its great source at last. Will live eternal and sublime. LINES TO MISS NARCISSA P. SAUNDERS, OF MELROSE, I LOVE the beauty of thy fair young face- Thy dove-like eyes, Wherein a soul of purity and grace All dreaming lies. As if it just had floated softly down From Paradise. LINES. Its I love to gaze upon thy beauteous form Of perfect mould, And watch as o'er thy teeth of living pearls Bright lips unfold, Breathing sweet thoughts, that ever, fairy-like, Turn into gold. Oh, beautiful thou art ! — no poet's dream Shows one more fair. And in my heart thine image will be shrined With all most dear ; Still shall thy memory, like some holy thing, Be cherished there. Sweet, lovely girl, may grief and care be far From thy pure heart, And every blessing earth can give be thine. Or love impart, And wisdom, virtue, ever shield thee still From sorrow's dart. And never may thy dearest ties to earth, Like mine, be riven, But faith and peace, as angel guides, to thee Through life be given, And hope's bright star still light thee on, e'en to The gates of heaven. 16 It 4 CLARA'S POEMS. THE MUSIC OF NATUEE. I HEAR a low, sweet music In eyery thing around : The autumn leaves, that sadly float With melancholy sound. Seem sighing for the beauty That has perished since their birth, For the gorgeous robes of summer. The glory of the earth. The wintry winds are wailing Amid the leafless trees ; Like sad thoughts of the past They mingle with the breeze, — Those wind-harps of Creation, Their music is sublime, Pure, holy inspiration. For angels keep the time. The skies are scrolls of music. The stars the characters ; And their ceaseless chimes are ringing Amid celestial spheres. Oh I when shall my freed spirit. In worlds of fadeless bliss, Hear the music of the angels, Of which I've dreamed in this ? ON SEEING A PORTRAIT. 175 ON SEEING A PORTRAIT THAT BORE RESEMBLANCE TO A BELOVED SISTER, WHO DIED VERY SUDDENLY, My own sweet Mary, as I gaze On this fair youthful face, Each well-remembered lineament Of thine I seem to trace. Once more I meet the loving glance Of thy soft, azure eyes, Once more I see thy beauteous form, Though in the grave it lies. And oh ! I long to press those lips That smile so like thine own, And almost pause to hear thy voice. And thy laugh's low silvery tone. Yet all in vain ! this 'semblance mute But mocks my burning tears. Still smiles, unconscious of my grief, Unmoved my anguish hears. My angel sister I years have flown Since death forced us to part. Yet still thy every look and tone Is treasured in my heart. 116 CLARA'S POEMS. And memory now as vividly Recalls that mournful hour When last I gazed on thy sweet face, My pale and blighted flower I THE DEATH OF GENERAL JACKSON. PASSING, not long since, by the last resting place of that grand old "chieftain," who, if not "first" is second "in the hearts of his countrymen," my thoughts reverted to the scenes of other days, and my soul was sad within me, as memory dwelt upon the struggles, sacrifices, and triumphs of the wonderful man who sleeps so calm and silent, while such mighty events are convulsing the world around him, and while even the land of his birth, which his indomitable valor saved from a foreign foe, seems almost again in the invader's grasp, aided and abetted by her own degenerate sons. Alas! I almost imagined I could see the tall form of the glorious old patriot, towering in his wrath above the dense foliage which o'er- shadows his tomb, his white locks floating in the morning breeze, sternly hurling, "by the eternal!" his bitter denunciations on those base recreants who, for the sake of booty, would desecrate their own fair land, and break that sacred chain of union whose every link was cemented by the heart's best blood of their gallant sires; and, calling on his countrymen by all those dear and holy memories, to rise in their strength and face their invaders once more. And then, busy fancy portrayed again the sad "funeral pomp," when, with mufiied drum and martial tread, they laid him down to rest by his first and last love — his pure, true-hearted "Rachel." The following imperfect lines were the result: — - THE DEATH OF GENERAL JACKSON. Ill Ay, mourn our country's gallant chief, Whose warfare now is o'er; Against a fierce, invading foe He'll lead the charge no more. Nor clarion's peal, nor cannon's roar, Can break his dreamless sleep ; No more his sword at freedom's call Shall from its scabbard leap. For palsied now's that mighty hand, And dim that eagle eye; No squadrons charge at his command, Though martial forms are nigh. And hoary heads are bowed with grief, And hearts with anguish thrill, As they gaze their last on their brave old chief, So rigid, pale, and still. And every brow is clothed in gloom, As with slow and solemn tread They bear him to the silent tomb. The noblest of the dead ; With his country's banner for his pall. With freedom's stars inwrought; For the warrior's shroud should ever be The flag 'neath which he fought. 16* Its Clara's poems. There let him rest by her he loved, His pure and gentle wife ; United they should be in death, Who ever were through life. Then mourn the hero patriot gone, While on the scroll of fame "Columbia's" grateful sons inscribe Their "Jackson's" deathless name. THE DOVE OF CAMPBELL'S HILL. Sweet dove, with each returning Spring Thy plaintive tones I hear, And sad and mournful are the thoughts That waken memory's tear ; For as I list thy low, soft strain, I seem in every breath To hear a gentle voice again That's long been hushed in death. A fair young face once more appears With smiling, sunny brow ; Mine eyes are dimmed with burning tears- Where is that dear one now ? Ay I where is she who paused so oft With me upon this hill. To catch thy low, sweet melody ? Alas! now pale and stil], THE DOVE OF CAMPBELL'S HILL. 1^9 That lovely form sleeps low in death ; Hushed is that young heart's glee ; While all alone I wander here, To mourn, sweet bird, with thee, For one as artless as the fawn, As gentle as the dove, The pride, the joy of many hearts — None knew her but to love. Her voice, 'twas tender, low, and sweet As zephyr's gentlest sigh, And all her soul's pure truthfulness Beamed from her soft, dark eye. But, ah ! her pilgrimage was brief In this dark world of pain ; God saw she was too pure for earth, And called her home again. And now, when dewy Spring returns, Arrayed in all her pride, I love to pause and fancy still That dear one's by my side. Oh! there are many birds whose notes The groves with music fill, But none can be so dear to me As the dove of Campbell's Hill. 180 CLARA'S POEMS. LINES WRITTEN ON BETURNING TO NASHVILLE, DURING THE PROGRESS MADE IN BUILDING THE CAPITOL. Once more I stand on Campbell's Hill, Thy song, sweet dove, to hear ; But, ah ! what change hath time and man Wrought in one little year ! That modest mansion* is erased. Once " Lowered" amid the grove; The shrubs and flowers are all defaced — And where art thou, sweet dove ? Hath the workman's din, thou timid thing. Frightened thee far away. To some lone wilderness of shade. To breathe thy plaintive lay? Dost thou, too, feel like me, poor bird. When doomed afar to roam — Though other scenes may fairer be, No place is still like home ? Then, oh I return once more, sweet dove, Where freedom's halls arise ; Brood with the glorious bird of Jove, O'er the councils of the wise I * The former residence of the late Judge Campbell. MY IDEAL. 181 Where the eloquence of Cicero The patriot's heart shall thrill, As the wisdom of the brave and free Echoes from Campbell's Hill, '^0r MY IDEAL "Thy songs, thy fame, are all my heart hath known." — Amklia. And have we met? Do I, indeed, behold thee, Thou bright ideal, worshiped many a year, Whose image, shrined within my heart, was ever Guarded with all a miser's jealous care ? My star of hope, that shone with radiant splendor Above the weaves of life's tempestuous sea, O'er which my spirit, like the lone dove, wandered Until it met a kindred soul in thee I Deep in my heart the sacred fire was burning, A vestal flame the world might never see — A lute, whose gushing music none could waken, Until its spirit-chords were swept by thee. Like some bright gem within the dark mine shrouded, Like some sealed fount, deep hidden from the eye. O'er which the careless foot is daily passing, Unconscious of the sparkling treasures nigh: So slept my heart, while round me gently breathing, Low music -tones fell softly on mine ear. Melting in such delicious dreams of rapture, That well I knew thy spirit lingered near; 182 CLARA'S POEMS. And all unstrung my long-neglected lyre Slept, cold to love and hope's enchanting strain, Till, with a spark of pure Promethean fire, You woke its chords to life and song again. TO AMELIA. If I could be like this sweet breeze. That fans my feverish brow, I would be kissing thy soft cheek, Amelia dearest, now ; Or, like those pure, white, fleecy clouds. That float so soft along. Gaze down into thy dark-blue eyes. And breathe my soul in song. And had I wings like those bright birds, That sing so blithe and gay, I soon would fold them by thy side. This glorious summer day, And whisper many a loving word, Though we are far apart, That still should keep my "memory green" In thy pure, gentle heart. But, dearest girl, my thoughts have wings — They wander wild and free — And swift they've flown this summer morn, Bearing my love to thee. "FORGET iME NOT." 183 And they shall breathe their gentle song — When years, perchance, have fled — At morning's flush, at dewy eve. When I am with the dead. "FORGET ME NOT." "Forget thee !" I shall never ! Nor thy first, pure, timid kiss — How it thrilled each nerve with rapture, And my throbbing heart with bliss ! For if our souls are ever Subdued by love's sweet power, 'Tis when we feel the pressure Of a dear one's lips to ours. And I sometimes dream I see thee, As in those blissful hours, When life was bright with sunshine. And our path was strewed with flowers. But, alas I the sunshine darkened. And the flowers were blighted soon ; Yet their fragrance sweetly lingers Like the balmy breath of June. And years have passed like shadows, And we are severed now, And care hath left its impress Upon thy lofty brow ; 184 CLARA'S POEMS. Yet T love thee still as fondly, And my heart responds to thine, As when first I felt thy glowing lip Pressed fervently to mine. TO ADA IN HEAVEN. When the night dews are falling On valley and lea, Thy spirit seems calling In soft tones to me ; For I cannot forget thee, Though happier thou art, Nor cease to mourn for thee. While life warms my heart. Thou wast lovely and pleasant — So graceful thy mien ! Thy lips, like two rosebuds, With snow-drops between ; And thy long, glossy ringlets I've twined in my pride — Oh ! the clods of the valley Their soft luster hide. The stars now are gleaming Amid the blue sky ; 'Twas thus they were beaming The night thou didst die, — TO ADA IN HEAVEN. 185 When the spirit was yearning For heaven, thy home, And thy pale lips were murm'ring, "My Saviour, now come !" My sweet, gentle daughter, As I sit thus alone, I seem to hear ever Thy last loving tone, Whisp'ring softly, *'Dear mother, Oh ! meet with me where There is no more parting, JSfo sorrow, nor care." The winter snows lightly Above thee are spread. And the summer dews nightly Fall on thy green bed ; And the heart that adored thee Bends o'er thee to weep, When thy loved star at evening Looks down on thy sleep. Oh 1 when shall I meet thee, My pure, blighted flower ? When life's cords are loos'ning, At that solemn hour May thine be the pinions To waft me above, To join the redeemed in their Anthems of love. n 186 CLARA'S POEMS. LINES, AFTER HEARING DR. MACKAY's BEAUTIFUL LECTURE ON POETRY AND SONG. Some hearts are like a harp that's waked Alone by touch divine — So thou hast thrilled one trembling chord, O stranger bard, in mine. I, too, have felt that living flame Glowing within my soul, The visions of an inner world, That earth could not control. The thoughts, the feelings, all too deep For language to define — The gushings from a thousand founts, Of origin divine. I, too, have felt the thrilling strains That sang of chivalry — And oft wept o'er the sweet romance Of love and mystery. And in my heart the gentle flame Is not extinguished yet ; O'er many a soul-entrancing dream It lingers with regret. LINES, 187 The spirit of sweet poesy- Is breathing everywhere — Wreathing, with many a glorious smile, A garland rich and rare. She twines it round the brow of youth, Bright with immortal flowers, That still retain their vividness In life's maturer hours. She makes the cold and sluggish heart To noble deeds aspire, And warms and animates the soul With true Promethean fire. And though dark clouds may oft obscure Our sky of hope and love, She spans the Iris o'er the storm, And wings our soul above. ISS CLARA'S rOEMS. THOUGHTS CI UGGESTED by the miniature of little Boyd, and respectfully in- L3 scribed to his sorrowing mother, Mrs. Lizzie B. Williams, of Woodlawn, Tennessee. Beautiful babe ! on his marble brow The seraph's kiss seems lingering now ; And the silken fringe of his soft, dark eyes Seems raised in a loving, glad surprise; While the coral lips, like a elefted rose, Are smiling still in their sweet repose. See ! pure and white on his dimpled breast His tiny hands, like the snow-flakes, rest. As if clasped in joy when the golden glow Of the opening heaven fell soft below On his dying face, and the Saviour smiled A welcome home to his sinless child. Then, fair young mother, thy weeping cease : On this cherub brow lies the seal of peace, For sin cannot mar, nor death erase One charm of beauty from this sweet face ; Yet 'tis but the casket — the priceless gem Is shining in God's own diadem. LITTLE SAMMY'S ADDRESS. 189 LITTLE SAMMY'S ADDRESS. Amid this scene of youthful joy, 1 come, a little orphan boy. Ye generous friends and patrons dear, To thank you for the tender care You have bestowed with gentle art, To cheer the friendless orphan's heart. Look on those little ones to-night. Whose eyes are sparkling with delight — They once were desolate and sad, With none to soothe or make them glad ; No loving mother on them smiled, No father blessed the lonely child. But helpless, friendless they were left, Of every earthly hope bereft, Until you came with pitying voice. And bade each orphan's heart rejoice. You dried their bitter tears of grief, You gave each little one relief, You gave them teachers, parents, home, And now no more they friendless roam, But bless the noble and the fair, Who listened to the orphan's prayer, And gathered with a bounteous hand This little smiling happy band. 17* 190 CLARA'S POEMS. And may the little children's Friend, To whom their grateful prayers ascend, Make life to you one scene of joy, Thus prays your little orphan boy. "CLARA'S" THANKS FOR THE UNFINISHED SERENADE. 'TwAS midnight — lonely, witching hour ! — Deep silence reigned profound, When o'er my sleeping spirit stole A soft, delicious sound. 'Twas low and sweet as summer winds Amid the dew^y flowers ; Or like the tinkling melody Of gentle April showers. Entranced I listened. Fairy forms Seemed floating through my room, Diffusing, from their starry wings, A radiance and perfume. Dissolved in ecstasy, my soul From that sweet dream awoke. Just as, alas ! with mournful twang, The fiddle-strings all broke! EVENING MUSINGS. 191 EVENING MUSINGS. How glorious, 'mid those crimson clouds, The sun fades in the west ! 'Tis thus, methinks, the dying saint Sinks to his peaceful rest. And as the radiant stars come forth So softly, one by one, They bring sweet visions of the past — Of loved ones that are gone. How oft, alas ! at this sweet hour, When twilight vails the plain, I've listened to that gentle voice I ne'er shall hear again ; And as T gaze on those bright orbs, My heart will strangely thrill. For I think that some who loved me here, Are watching o'er me still. 192 CLARA'S POEMS. LONELY MUSINGS. 'Tis an Autumn night — so calm, so clear, The very winds to my list'ning ear Seemed lulled to sleep by the rippling streams. Whose wavelets dance in the silvery beams Of the gentle moon, as she folds to-night The slumbering earth in her radiant light, While the twinkling stars 'mid the azure glow Look lovingly down on all below. Oh, beautiful night ! would my heart could be Holy, and quiet, and calm like thee ; Could cast from it every grief and care That fetters my soaring spirit here, That darkens with bitter and ceaseless strife The light of an inner and holier life, Dimming the hope, that for weary years Hath shone through a mournful mist of tears. And crushed back its yearnings pure and high 'Till I've prayed in my stricken soul to die, To rest in the quiet grave in peace, Where the weary and worn from their labors cease, Where no dreams from its lonely sleep will start. As they do to-night, from my bleeding heart I u o to WHY DO I LOVE TUEE ? 193 WHY DO I LOVE THEE? Why do I love thee ? Ask the timid blossom That opes its beauty to the sun's first ray, And breathes its fragrant life out on his bosom, And dies in rapture ere the close of day. So would my heart, its inmost leaves unfolding, Reveal what careless eyes must never see. Give all its sweet, and deep, and pure devotion, Though like the flower it die in loving thee. Why do I love thee ? Ask the calm lake, sleeping Waveless and still amid the silent night, Until a gleam of starlight, softly falling. Breaks it, all trembling, quivering with delight. Thus lay my soul, all quiet and undreaming Of its wild hopes, its passionate desires. Until thy spirit like a starbeam wakened Into a brilliant flame its smouldering fires. And wilt thou love me, thy pale, trembling flower. That opes at morn, all bathed in dewy tears. Thy lonely lake amid the wildwood mirrored, Which only thy bright image ever wears ? And will our souls, in pure and sweet communion. Thus live and love till life's wild dreams are past. Then meet and consummate that holy union. Which shall through heaven's eternal ages last? 194 Clara's poems. HAST THOU FORGOT ME? " Can you forget me ? I am not relying On plighted vows — alas ! I know their worth ; Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying Upon the very breath that gave it birth." — L. E. L. Hast thou forgot me ? Were thy vows but seeming, Breathed in those low, deep passion-tones of thine, Whose music haunts my soul awake or dreaming, Thou for whose presence day and night I pine ? Hast thou forgot me ? I have loved thee only As thou wilt ne'er be loved on earth again ; And watched and waited for thee, sad and lonely, Within our "vine-clad bower," but all in vain. Canst thou forget me ? Like a timid blossom That bloomed unnoticed till it caught thine eye, • 'Twas gathered, pressed awhile unto thy bosom, Then cast aside, alas ! to fade and die. Oh ! if another in thy soul is worshiped. Another's image on love's altar set, If thou hast bowed unto a fairer idol. Then teach me how I may, like thee, forget. Canst thou forget me ? Will not memory linger O'er the sweet past, and thy heart strangely thrill. As in thy dreams a mournful voice shall whisper. Thou may'st forget — but, oh, I love thee still ! IF WE MUST PART. 195 IF WE MUST PART! " Oh ! magic of a tone and word, LoTed all too long and well; I cannot close my heart and eai' Against their faithless spell." — L. E. L. If we must part, beloved one, Speak as you've spoken now — Low, soft, and sweet, and press your lips Once more upon my brow ; And clasp my trembling hand in thine ; Though wild its pulses thrill Beneath thy touch, as this sad heart Throbs yet more wildly still. Oh ! how thy gentle accents fall Like music on mine ear ; Each tone vibrates within my soul, So mournful, sweet, and clear. I wish, sometimes, I could forget. And coldly turn, like thee. And worship at some other shrine — But that can never be. For in my heart thy memory lives. Though mine to thee will seem But as the ''Lotus-shadow" cast Upon thy life's clear stream, 196 Clara's poems. Above whose tranquil waves may Hope's Bright star forever shine, And light thy home, in future years, With love as pure as mine. MAY DAY. ♦ Sweet voices hail thy coming, May, And fairy hands thy garlands twine. And youthful hearts with joy unite To lay them on thy vernal shrine. Soft zephyrs kiss the opening rose, And waft its balmy breath along, And every flower-laden tree Resounds with Flora's choral song. The clouds like white-winged cherubs float Amid the azure-tinted sky ; And the tiny brook with its low, sweet note Is murmuring in its gladness by. The wild rose blooms on the dewy slope ; And deep in the shady valley green, Half hid beneath the fallen leaves, Is the modest, blue-eyed violet seen. CHILDLESS, 197 Ah ! Spring is like our morn of life, When all is fresh, and bright, and gay ; Beguiled by Hope's enchanting song, We dream our joys will ne'er decay. But soon, alas I \Ye wake and find Pale Autumn gathering in its gloom; And Death, like Winter, blights our buds Of sweetest promise ere they bloom. Yet Faith still whispers, "Dry thy tears, Heaven will again thy lost restore ; And where no Wintry Death can come They'll bud and bloom for evermore. ''For she,* who was thy joy, thy pride. Thy flower that withered ere its prime, Who last May day was by thy side, Is blooming in a holier clime." CHILDLESS. She sits alone ; yet memory rolls, In burning waves, across her brow ; That home, whose merry echoes rang With childish mirth, is silent now. * My only daughter. 18 198 CLARA'S POEMS. She sits alone; no cherub form Is softly bending at her knee, Its lovely face upturned in awe, As 'twould some angel watcher see. No rosy lip is pressed to hers, No arni is proudly round her thrown ; Like raindrops fall her blinding tears ; No sound is heard, except her moan. She weeps alone, and slumber falls Upon her aching eyes at last ; She sleeps, and lo ! her soul is free. Her wild regrets — her sorrows past. Far, through the boundless realms of space. On angel wings she takes her flight ; The burning stars are left behind ; She sees the pearly gates of light. She hears the soft, melodious strain That from angelic harps resounds ; She sees her loved and lost ones float, With snowy robes and golden crowns. They speak in tones earth never heard, In accents not for mortal ear, — ''Sweet mother, weep no more, for thus We wait to hail thy entrance here." THE wanderer's RETURN. 199 She wakes, yet never from that hour Was heard that mother to complain She waits her Lord's appointed time To meet her angel babes again. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. I'm home again, and oh, how sweet The words that fondly greet me, When those I hold most dear on earth With smiles and kisses meet me ! I've met with naught that thrilled my soul With such exquisite pleasure. As the love that welcomes me, and tell I am their dearest treasure. I've mingled with the busy throng, And strangers have caressed me. And many a kindly look and tone In other lands have blessed me ; And friendly hands have clasped my own, And friendship's vows were spoken, That bound true hearts in golden chains That never can be broken. But in my soul, when all seemed gay, There was a secret yearning ; For memory pictured those dear ones Who sighed for my returning. 200 CLARA'S POEMS. But ah ! there's one whose fond embrace At home no more can meet me ; But well I know her angel smile The first in heaven shall greet me. THE LADY TO HER CHOSEN KNIGHT. I 'VE chosen thee my own true knight ; Let this thy motto be, Through all the years of coming time, "Love and fidelitv." And stainless as the snowy scarf I 've round thy helmet twined. My memory shall remain through life. Within thy spirit shrined. This little braid of raven hair, Which I to thee have given. Shall be a talisman, to link Thy heart to mine in heaven. I 've twined it with this evergreen. Amid thy crest to wave, A token that my love survives, Unchanged, beyond the grave. SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 201 And should fate sever us on earth, 'Twill soothe, 'mid all thy care, To know the sympathy we feel Will still unite us here. SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. Sweet Sabbath morn ! the snowy clouds That gleam 'mid yon soft azure sky. The whispering breeze, the dove's low moan, The rich perfume that's floating by, — All breathe of peace and love to me, As nature wakes in joyous strains, And pours her matin hymn of praise From verdant hills and dewy plains. On every flowery shrub and tree Are glittering gems of georgeous hue ; And fairy hands o'er all have thrown A silvery web of morning dew. All, all is beautiful ! oh, why Should earthly care or grief be mine — And why, amid a scene so fair. Should this poor, wandering heart repine ? Then I will strive to be resigned ; A tranquil joy may fill my breast. For soon I'll hail a happier morn, A Sabbath of eternal rest. 18* 202 CLARA'S POEMS. WHY SHOULD I SING? " Sing on, thou sad, sweet angel, Where'er thy bark is driven; The echo thou hast waked on earth Will answer thee in heayen." — Tomeja. Why should I wake my harp again, When every trembling tone Would be a requiem for my life's Sweet hopes forever flown ? 'Twould tell thee of a weary heart, Oppressed with many cares, And if it woke a joyous lay, 'Twould quickly melt in tears. For I have lived to know the love I deemed so pure, estranged ; The trusting friendship of my youth By time and falsehood changed. Then ask me not for cheerful strains ; My songs of mirth are o'er. For joy lies dead within my heart. To sing on earth no more. The star that once in radiance bright Above my pathway shone, Hath paled its pure and holy light, And I am left alone : TO ''CECIL." 203 Alone to suffer and conceal The keen envenomed dart; To soar, a wounded bird, and sing, While death is in my heart. And yet it soothes my troubled soul Sometimes to touch its chords, To bid my sorrows find relief In softly thrilling words ; To find some kindred heart that beats Responsive to my own, To feel that on life's dreary road I am not quite alone. TO "CECIL," OF VKRSAILLES, MISSOURI, IN REPLY TO HIS BEAUTIFUL LINES TO "CLARA," IN THE PLATTE CITY ATLAS. As some lone pilgrim, 'mid the desert straying. Faint and bewildered by the sun's fierce ray. Hears on the breeze some secret fountain playing, Finds some sweet flower upspringing in his way, Thus my sad heart, so long in sorrow pining For sweet communion with a kindred mind, Felt, as I read, my spirit tendrils twining In mystic clasp, oh unknown friend, with thine. 204 Clara's poems. I love the beautiful ; my soul Is ever thrilling With music from a harp unseen, divine ; Wind, wave, and leaf to me are ceaseless calling, In tones sublime, from nature's holiest shrine. Oh I there are thoughts and aspirations welling Up from the spirit depths we cannot name — How few, alas ! can feel and comprehend them. And fewer still keep pure the heavenly flame ! I love to wander in the dim old forest. To hear, far off, the dove's low, plaintive coo ; To dream I'm on the silver cloudlets floating, With sister angels, through a sea of blue. On to that world where love and joy forever Dwell undivided, free from sorrow's gloom ; Where hope and memory weave of rich thought-blossoms A fadeless wreath, in Paradise to bloom. My soul is sighing to cast off her fetters, To fold her weary wings and be at rest Beside those crystal streams and bowers of beauty Where dwell the spirits of the pure, the blest ; For I would fain be like the swan when dying — Calm and unmoved amid the careless throng, Breathe out my life in one sweet strain of rapture. And float to heaven upon the tide of song. TO MY HEART. 205 TO MY HEART. Oh I weary, sighing heart, Why thus deprest — Why like the wandering dove Still seeking rest ? Thy love has been a dream Thou'st seen depart ; Swift as a meteor's gleam It fled, sad heart I Thy hopes of deathless fame, Ah ! where are they ? The lips that would breathe thy name With pride, are clay. And thou, poor weary heart, Of all bereft. Hast but thy broken lute And wrecked hopes left. 206 CLARA'S POEMS. MY HEART PALACE. My heart's a palace, large and grand, With many a jeweled cell, Where faithful friends, unchanged by time, In matchless beauty dwell. The sacred fire Prometheus stole Illumes each holy shrine, O'er which, in sparkling gems and gold, Their names forever shine. Though oft the storms of fate arise, And life looks dark and drear, No clouds obscure these radiant skies, 'Tis always sunshine here. This is my world of art, more rare Than Vatican at Rome, — God sculptured every image here, And crowned with light the dome. Here, like a princess proud, at eve Within my halls I stray — Ope every golden door, and live With loved ones far away. TO A DISTANT EKIEND. 207 Here eyes that long have slept in death Beam bright on me again, And lips, to other ears long mute, For me sing love's refrain. 'Tis thus I live 'mid graceful forms That fill my palace heart — So fair, that not e'en Raphael's touch Could one more charm impart. TO A DISTANT FRIEND. Once more amid the budding Spring, though in a distant clime, I waft to thee, on zephyr's wing, another simple rhyme. The pale-green leaves are opening, the sky is darkly blue, And from the depths of yonder grove floats up the dove's faint coo. Ah ! many buried memories rise at that low, plaintive moan. And burning tears suffuse mine eyes, for I, too, am alone. And where art thou, my gentle friend ? oh ! would that I could be A guardian angel by thy side, upon the billowy sea ; Could kneel with thee at ancient shrines, and whisper words of peace, And roam with thee amid the bowers and sunny isles of Greece ; 208 CLARA'S POEMS. Could muse upon that classic shore, where Sappho loved and died, And hear her death song echo o'er that softly murmuring tide. And when the silvery moonbeams fall on fair Italia's plains, And light her Coliseum walls and gild her moldering fanes. Wilt thou not think how soft they rest upon one cottage home, And grieve to find thyself amid the marble halls of Rome, Where only strangers meet thy gaze, no heart responds to thine, Nor thrills with rapture at thy praise, as well thou know'st does mine ? And when thy dark-blue eyes shall close in that fair Orient land, Where sings the bulbul to the rose, 'mid bowers of Samar- cand, Wilt thou not dream of trellised vines that round that cot- tage cling, And deem no music half so sweet as that our mock-birds sing ? And sigh to think that, far away, across the moonlit sea. One faithful heart a vigil keeps, and ever prays for thee ? THE FAITHLESS, 209 THE FAITHLESS-A SONG. We met ! and coldly fell thy words Upon my listening ear, But colder far on this sad heart, Where thou art still too dear ; No loving smile thy glance illumed. But clouded was thy brow ; Another's image fills thy soul, And I'm forsaken now. Oh, faithless one ! when far away, 'Mid scenes of pleasure bright, I mused on thee alone by day, And dreamed of thee by night ; I never thought a few brief months Could thus thy love estrange — Ah ! had thy heart been true, like mine, Years, years could make no change. Thine is a noble, manly form. And art might vainly try To match the beauty of thy face, The luster of thine eye ; But oh I the stars, that seeming sleep Within the azure sea, Have not more mockery in their light Than those dark eyes to me. 19 210 CLARA'S POEMS. For truth, with thee, is but a name, And love and honor words — Thou ne'er hast felt the sacred flame, Nor swept the spirit chords That thrilled with ecstasy divine The heart bowed to the dust, Whose every throb, once truly thine, Thou'st paid with cold mistrust. Then fare thee well ! — 'tis sad to see The wreck of all so dear Thus pass, like meteors, swept away Forever from our sphere, As bright and evanescent too; They've but increased the gloom Thy falsehood o'er my spirit cast. And made my heart a tomb. THE STAGE-HORN. I LOVE to hear the merry stage-horn, As it comes with its soft and mellow tone, Borne on the gentle breeze along. While mountain and valley re-echo its song Of tra-la-lira-lira-lee — Oh, the merry stage-horn is dear to me. THE STAGE-HORN. 211 What thougli at a sluggard's race we creep, Our pulses anew will throb and leap, And each gallant steed will prick up his ears Whenever the merry stage-horn he hears Playing tra-la-lira-lira-lee — The jolly old stage-horn, wild and free. And when jolting along o'er some lonely road, Afar from any human abode, When painful and sadly our thoughts will roam To the loved ones left in a distant home. Oh, how mournfully pleasing then will be The stage-horn's wailing melody ! And when at the lonely midnight hour The tempest will darkly around us lower, When naught but the lightning's flash can illume Our dreary road through the forest gloom. Thus 'wildered — lost — if we chance to hear The stage-horn, we know that a friend is near. And oh I how sweet in the calm still night, When the moon sheds her soft, pale silvery light, And the weary heart in that solemn hour Communes with a higher, holier power. What buried memories rise again. Waked by the stage-horn's plaintive strain ! Yet dearer than all to me at last. When tired and worn — my journey past — 212 CLARA'S POEMS. It was to know that with anxious ear Kind friends were waiting the horn to hear, And with glad greetings would quickly come To welcome the weary traveler home. Then ever dear while I live will be The stage-horn's pleasant strains to me. 'i^- LINES, ON RECEIVING AN EXQUISITE BOUQUET FROM MISS S. B****StV, OF HUNTSVILLE, ALA. Flowers, sweet girl, and sent by thee — Bright buds all gemmed with pearly dew — Ah ! I will prize them as a pledge Of friendship tender, warm, and true. How beautiful ! They seem to breathe The gentle thoughts that fill thy heart, And whisper, 'mid their glossy leaves, "We come, an offering free from art, From one who loves the songs of birds. The music of our starry flowers — A modest violet, half concealed In this sweet mountain vale of ours." 'Twas thus each tiny fairy bell A fragrant message bore to me, That shall a sweet "memento" dwell Within my heart, fair one, of thee ; THE ANNIVERSARY. 213 And bud and blossom many a year, Though every beauteous leaf decay, And oft my lonely spirit cheer When I am wandering far away. And though my thread of life no more Again with thine be softly twined, Wilt thou not keep one gentle thought Of me in thy pure spirit shrined ? THE ANNIYERSAKY. One little year hath passed away, Since with the quiet dead I laid thee down, my beautiful, Within thy narrow bed. Yes, laid thee down to sleep in peace, But not upon my breast ; For the angel's trump alone can wake Thy long and dreamless rest. 'Twas in the bright, sweet month of June, With all its rosy hours ; The breeze swept through thy darkened room, Rich with the breath of flowers, 19* 214 CLARA'S POEMS. And lifted thy soft, raven curls, And kissed thj feyerish brow ; But, ah ! the zephyr's gentle wings Cannot disturb them now. Death came, an angel robed in light, My beautiful, to thee ; He pressed his lips to thine one night, And whispered, " Come with me ; " Come, leave this world of pain and care For one of peace and love; Seraphic hosts are waiting near. To welcome thee above." Then o'er thy lovely face there shone A pure, refulgent ray. Reflected from the seraph wings That bore thy soul away. And such a smile of faith and hope Beamed with thy last low sigh, We scarce could deem so fair a thing, So beautiful, could die. And love will twine, with fondest care, When June's sweet roses bloom, A dewy garland gemmed with tears. And wreathe it round thy tomb. FADED FLOWERS. 21 h FADED FLOWERS. Hast thou forgot the budding flowers Thou gav'st as love's first tow ? They still recall those blissful hours, Though pale and faded now. How fondly I received the pledge, Yet dreamed not of the smart The thorn it bore so well concealed Would cause this trusting heart ! Yet as an emblem of my life, The faded leaves I keep, And o'er the hopes they once inspired. In sadness oft I weep. And must those cherished hopes, alas ! Like these sweet blossoms, fade ? And will the hand of time ne'er heal The wounds its thorns have made ? No time nor season can restore The bloom and fragrance past, Of hopes that were too sweet and pure, Too bright for earth, to last; Yet when the welcome hand of death Shall set my spirit free, This fond, devoted heart shall breathe Its latest sigh for thee. 216 CLARA'S POEMS. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. SARAH LEAKE. MRS. L. had lived in Nashville for more than forty years. She was born in Rockingham County, North Carolina. When very young she emigrated with an elder brother to Sumter County, Ten- nessee, and, subsequently, was married to John Leake, of Henry County, Virginia, whom she survived more than a quarter of a cen- tury. Her life was one of sorrow and vicissitude, such as few have experienced; but her faith in the mercy and goodness of God was undimmed to the last. She died as she had lived for many years, in the bright hope of a glorious immortality. She was a faithful and pious member of the Christian Church; quiet, unostentatious in her manners and deportment, she was much beloved by all who knew her modest, domestic worth; for her province lay at home, and beyond its quiet precincts she was seldom seen. The loving, self-sacrificing mother of twelve children, but three (two sons and one daughter) survive to mourn her irreparable loss. May her death be sanctified to them, and may they live and die, as she died, the life and death of tlie righteous. X. She is dead, our loving mother, Her pilgrimage is o'er; She has gone to meet her loved ones Where parting is no more ; Fled 's all trace of pain forever From her pure and placid brow, Grief can dim its beauty never — But we have no mother now.' ON THE DEATH OP MRS. SARAH LEAKE. 2l7 The wintry winds are sighing Above her pulseless breast, Yet no bitter wail of anguish Can e'er disturb her rest; She received the heavenly token, And her soul with rapture thrilled Ere the golden bowl was broken, Or the heart's bright fountain chilled. She is gone to God, and angels Are her companions now. And a fadeless crown of glory Is gleaming on her brow ; Yet my heart is sad and lonely, And my future life looks drear. For 'twas her sweet counsels only Could soothe and bless me here. " And our homes look dark and dreary, Of her cheerful smile bereft, And very sad and weary Are the children she has left ; But we know, though from our circle Our brightest jewel's riven, The mother we have lost on earth We'll find again in heaven. 218 CLARA'S POEMS. MY LAST REaUEST. Oh I wrap me not, when I am dead, In tlie gliastly winding sheet, And bind no kerchief round my head, Nor fetter my active feet : But let some friend who loves me best Comb out my long, dark hair, And part the ringlets round my face, In the fashion I loved to wear ; And robe me in my favorite garb ; And let sweet flowers be pressed Within my hand, and to my heart. When ye lay me down to rest : For I would not my friends should turn Away with a thrill of fear, As they give the last fond look and kiss To one in life so dear. And lay me down in a quiet spot, Beneath some spreading tree, Where birds may build their nests and sing Their sweetest songs o'er me. And let no tears be o'er me shed. But the pearly tears of night. As the flowers I love weep o'er my bed. In the pale moon's silvery light. NEW year's eve. 219 And let no chilling marble rest On my heart so warm and true ; But the verdant turf be my winding sheet, Kept green by the summer dew. Thus let me sleep ; and my glad soul, On wings of hope and love, Shall haste to meet my loved and lost In a world of bliss above. NEW YEAR'^ EVE. Hark I I hear the midnight hour Slowly toll a solemn knell. And the mournful echoes whisper — '"Tis the dying year's farewell.'^ Yet there is no change apparent In the dark and starless sky, But the night-winds seem to murmur- " Come and see the old year die." And my soul is sadly musing On the years I've seen depart Ere life's gloomy shadows gathered Like a pall around my heart ; Ere each link of love was severed, Or its gilding worn away, When hope's fairy visions lingered With my spirit day by day. 220 Clara's poems. And there's many a tearful watcher, Who will mourn with me to-night, As the past comes floating round them, With its radiant dreams of light ; When perchance like me they listen To sweet voices, soft and dear, Murmuring words of fond affection, As they hail the glad New Year. Now those lips are mute forever; All those joyous scenes are o'er; Childhood's mirth and youth's sweet laughter Echo through my home no more ; And my heart to-night is pining With its loved and lost to be — When will time's slow wheel revolving Set my longing spirit free ? But hark ! the last low chime is ringing, And the matin hymn of morn On my ear seems softly falling, " Now another year is born ; May it prove a year of gladness, Healing wounds that time has made, Binding up the broken-hearted. Mingling sunshine with its shade." And pale shadows seem to gather Round me as I weep alone, Voices of the long departed Mingle with the wind's low moan — SWEET MEMORIES OF THEE. 221 Whispering, though by death thus riven From thy loving heart with pain, We shall greet thee soon in heaven, And reclasp love's broken chain. SWEET MEMORIES OF THEE. When the daylight fadeth softly In the golden tinted west, And our wandering thoughts and fancies Fold their weary wings to rest; When the vesper star is smiling At her image in the sea. Then the zephyr's breath comes laden With sweet memories, love, of thee. When the misty twilight shadows Steal into my quiet room, And the fitful firelight flashes Strange amid the gathering gloom ; Where thy voice, like murmured music. Breathed its passion tones to me, Ah ! this hour will ever whisper Gentle memories, love, of thee. . When the midnight moon is beaming From her radiant throne above, With the burning stars forever, In their mystic watch of love ; 20 222 CLARA'S POEMS. Then my spirit, disencumbered, From its daily toil is free, And again in shadowy dreamland Holds communion, love, with thee. Wilt thou meet me then at evening, When the daylight disappears. And each bud and blossom slumbers. Bathed in twilight's dewy tears. When sweet " Hesperus " is mirrored In "Sewanee's" crystal tide. Where we wandered, when you whispered. Wilt thou be my "spirit bride ?" Oh, meet me thus ! although our pathway Here on earth lies far apart, Severed still, yet still united, Mine in soul I know thou art; Soon, like pilgrims, we shall enter That celestial city, where Soul with kindred soul shall mingle ; Dearest, will you meet me there ? DO YOU REMEMBER ME? 223 DO YOU REMEMBER ME? Yes, when the twilight dews are softly falling Upon the flowers, at quiet evening time, When bird and bee are to each other calling Their last good night in many a pleasant chime ; And when pale Luna o'er the scene is rising, With silvery radiance gilding tower and tree, And gathering all her starry gems around her, Friend of my soul, then I remember thee. And when at midnight's lonely hour I'm kneeling Before the throne of grace, in fervent prayer, I find a balm my wounded spirit healing, For, ah ! I feel that thou art with me there. No time nor distance kindred souls can sever; Holy and pure shall their communion be : Then doubt me not ; while life shall last — forever, Friend of my soul, will I remember thee. 224 CLARA'S POEiMS. ON THE DEATH OP MRS. AMELIA G. WELBY, OF LOUISVILLE, KY. Hushed is the harp whose magic strain ThrlHed gentle hearts with soft emotion — Its fairy chords shaH ne'er again Breathe forth the spirit's pure devotion ; And never more her free, wild notes Shall soothe us with their melting numbers,- Our sweetest song-bird of the West Within the tomb now silent slumbers. She died just as the dewy Spring- Smiled radiant with its buds and flow'rs ; Her angel spirit plumed its wing, And sought a lovelier world than ours. Such beings of immortal song Are only for a season given. And now recalled, with seraph bands She strikes her golden harp in heaven. Oh ! make her grave where " Summer-birds"* May build their nests amid the flow'rs, And sing her requiem evermore At dewy morn and twilight hours ; * Amelia's Poems. ON VISITING MY DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 225 And where the star she loved may beam Above her lowly place of rest, And kindred hearts weep softly o'er The sweetest song-bird of the West. ON VISITING MY DAUGHTER'S GMYE ON HER BIRTHDAY. I'm weeping o'er thy grave, my child, On this thy natal day, And thinking on the hour when first Within my arms thou lay, And how in infancy thou smiled My every grief away. And oh ! how fondly I retrace Thine every look and tone, Thy childish glee, thy maiden grace. When thou wert all my own. And the beauty of thy fair young face. Where hope and joy then shone. But now those days are past and gone ; Thy smile for me is o'er ; Yet oft I listen for thy voice. That I shall hear no more — For, ah 1 no time nor season can My Adeline restore ! 20* 226 CLARA'S POEMS. For death hath dhumed thy sparkling eyes, And touched with pale decay Thy lovely form, and thou hast passed From all earth's cares away : And we have laid thee here with tears, To sleep with kindred clay. And have I lived to deck thy tomb With flowers once loved by thee ? And water every tiny bud "With tears of memory ? Alas ! I fondly thought my child Would plant them over me. And now I'm kneeling all alone Upon the dewy sod That wraps thy form — yet faith beholds Thy spirit with its God ; And with a soul resigned I bow Beneath his chast'ning rod. Then, dear one, sleep, till Christ shall come And break death's heavy chain. And call thee to that blissful home Where we shall meet again. And with the just made perfect, through Eternity shall reign. ON PARTING WITH MY ONLY DAUGHTER. 227 ON PARTING WITH MY ONLY DAUGHTER. They teH me not to weep for thee, Sole daughter of my heart, As if it were an idle thing From one so loved to part ; As if thine image e'er could leave My thoughts, by night or day ; Tain, vain the effort not to grieve, When thou art far away I They teU me thou wilt still be blessed, My beautiful, my own ; That fondly thou wilt be caressed By friends till now unknown. Ay, kindly thee may strangers greet. And bland their words may be; But will their voice e'er sound so sweet As mine, my child, to thee ? They say that health again will breathe Upon thy faded brow ; Restore the roses to thy cheek That is so pallid now. Oh were it thus, it would my heart Of half its grief divest; I would not murmur or complain, If thou, my child, wert blessed. 228 Clara's poems. How everything around recalls Thee, dearest, to my view : There hangs the rose against the wall, Thy fairy fingers drew ; And every little flower thou'st left Is nursed with anxious care. And as the tiny buds come forth They're moistened with a tear. How soft the dewy breath of Spring Is stealing through the air ; The insect tribe are on the wing. And flowers are everywhere ! How sweet to me they all would seem If thou, my child, wert nigh. To watch with me the sun's first beam Illume the eastern sky ! The birds their choral music hymn, The dove's low moan is heard — How many pure and holy thoughts Within the heart are stirred ! But where is she, who loved so well The sad, yet pleasing strain ? Oh when will time or seasons bring My Ada home again ? For well I know, though far you roam. Still, like the wandering dove, Thy weary heart will pine for home And a mother's changeless love. A WISH. 229 Yet should we meet no more in this Cold world of grief and care, There is a brighter land of bliss — My daughter, meet me there ! A WISH. 'Tis not in gloomy winter, When clouds obscure the sky, And nature's tinged with sadness, That I would Avish to die ; But in the pleasant spring-time, With its soft and balmy air, Amid green trees and flowers, The hills and valleys fair. Nor would I die forsaken By those I've loved on earth, Whose smiles alone could waken All I have known of mirth ; I would have those around me. When comes the parting strife, Whose love the most hath bound me, And soothed my mournful life ; With the hands of friends to raise me, And looks of holy love ; And the prayers of faith to bless me. And waft mv soul above : 230 Clara's poems. With those I love before me, And a bright and sunny sky, And all nature smiling o'er me, — 'Tis thus I wish to die. And in some silent valley, Where flowerets ever bloom Untrodden by the thoughtless, I wish my lowly tomb. Then, if some gentle mourner. Some friend to mem'ry dear, Should view my narrow dwelling, And drop a kindly tear, — Tell him in peaceful slumbers I pass the dreamless day. Till the archangel's trumpet Shall wake my sleeping clay; Then, robed in life and beauty. Shall this weak body rise, To meet my great Redeemer, My Father in the skies. THE DEATH OF THE GIFTED ONE. 231 THE DEATH OF THE GIFTED ONE. The harp of tlie gifted now is still, Its trembliug chords no longer thrill Beneath her touch ; pale, silent now She sleeps, for death is on her brow. This world to her was full of grief. Her joys, like angel's visits, brief: But now 'tis past, and all her woes Within the tomb have found repose ; Now envy's poisoned shafts are vain — They cannot wound her peace again. Nor pierce that heart so kind and true, That never guile or malice knew; But kindred souls will mourn her long, The glorious, gifted child of song. Yet weep not, loved ones left behind. O'er her pale dust. The immortal mind Unfettered soars — but not alone — With sister seraphs round the throne ; A starry crown of life she wears ; A golden harp unstained by tears Is sounding through the courts above Its glorious theme, redeeming love. Then make her grave in some old wood, 'Mid nature's dreamless solitude. Where the sighing breeze and dove's low moan May wail the dirge of the gifted one ; 232 Clara's poems. There let her sleep, in that quiet spot, And plant the pale forget-me-not. With flowers she loved, that their soft perfume May breathe sweet incense o'er her tomb. THE MIGHTY, TOO, MUST DIE. "And how dleth tlie wise man? — as the fool!" — Ecclesiastes, ii. IG. And must the mighty die ? Must they Sleep with the lowly in the clay ? The monarch and the slave. The rich, the great — in all their pride — Rest with the beggar by their side. Unconscious in the grave ! The world's dread conquerors, who wore Their laurels steeped in human gore, Whose fury naught could stem. Till death's unerring dart had sped, And low in dust now lies the head That wore a diadem ! Look at the mighty Corsican, Whose wild ambition — scourge of man — Had set the world on fire ! Exiled upon the sterile rock, Whose base the surging billows mock. Behold him there expire ! THE SPIRIT LAND. 233 Where are the kings of ancient Rome And Greece — of knowledge once the home — The glorious and the free ? They now unknown, unhonored lie ! Their graves are passed unheeded by, With men's of low degree ! And where is now the gallant band, The patriots of our own bright land — The wise, the just, the good. Who never to oppression bowed, Who sought no incense from the crowd, ISTor trophies stained with blood ? They, too, have gone ! Time's onward course Hath borne them with resistless force Like airy beams away ! And oh, may we, who thoughtless live, Instruction from them all receive Ere we become death's prey ! THE SPIRIT LAND. The spirit land ! — mysterious bourne — The land to which we all must go — And yet, how strange, whence none return To tell us of its joy or woe I 21 234 CLARA'S POEMS. The spirit land ! — that mystic word Falls ever solemn on mine ear; It asks, shall I with angels reign, 'Or sink with demons to despair ? That spirit land ! — the blessed abode Of seraphs holy, pure, and bright. Of souls redeemed by Jesus' blood — ■ A heaven of uncreated light. The spirit land !^ — the souls of those We most have loved and cherished here- The fair, the beautiful of earth — Have left us, and are dwelling there. The spirit land ! — there strife shall cease, The heart no more be filled with care, The weary pilgrim rest in peace ; The wicked never trouble there. The spirit land ! — the eye of faith Can pierce beyond this earthly vail, And view thy groves of living fruit. Thy crystal streams that never fail. Land of the blest ! my spirit longs To reach thy bright and happy shore, To join with those celestial throngs That round the burning throne adore. AUTUMN MUSINGS, 235 When shall I gain that bright abode, Kedeemed and purified by grace, And with my Saviour and my God Forever find a dwelling-place ? AUTUMN MUSINGS. The low, sad wail of autumn Is whispering to mine ear, In soft and gentle murmurs. The death-dirge of the year; I see the fading flowers Lie scattered on the ground, And the withered leaves are rustling With a sweet yet mournful sound. Yes, 'tis sweet to hear the music Of the chill November breeze, As it whirls the scanty foliage From the stately forest trees ; Gone are the robes of beauty That clothed each graceful form. And, shorn and unprotected. They must battle with the storm. And though they're fading, dying. And desolate appear. While the autumn breeze is sighing The requiem of the year, 236 CLARA'S POEMS. Yet, the wintry storm surviving, They'll bloom more sweet and fair, With the genial spring reviving, For the germ of life is there. And each fading leaf and blossom Is an emblem of the doom That awaits onr fragile bodies, When they slumber in the tomb ; But love divine shall raise them. When life's wild storms are o'er. To bloom in fadeless beauty 'Mid Eden's bowers once more. -feig THEEE IS A BETTER WORLD. There is a world, whose peaceful rest No grief can e'er destroy; There all is pure and perfect love. And bliss without alloy. There is a world, and oh ! how sweet The hope that fills my heart ; The friends I've lost again I'll meet, No more from them to part I THERE IS A BETTER WORLD. 237 In that bright world, calm and serene, Their ransomed spirits dwell ; The joys of that celestial state No mortal tongue can tell. And yet, methinks, it must be filled With music and with flow'rs, They shed such light and happiness On this dark world of ours. And dark, indeed, this life would be, If faith's unerring eye Beyond those scenes of pain and care No brighter could descry. If falsehood we have found where once We trusted and believed, If where we garnered up our hearts We've been the most deceived, — Then let us turn to that fair world. Where the redeemed shall come, With songs of everlasting praise. To their eternal home. 21* 238 Clara's poems. YINVELA. . " He thought Vinvela lived ; he saw her hair moving on the plain ; l)ut the fair form lasted not — the sunbeam fled from the field, and she was seen no more, hoar the song of Shilric, it is soft but sad." — Ossian. I SIT by the cool, mossy fountain, The lake surges wildly below. The dun deer descend from the mountain, But no hunter with strong-bended bow ; And sad are my thoughts, for Vinvela Sleeps under the gray, mossy stone — Here I'll sit, when the night winds are moaning. And weep for Yinvela — alone. Wouldst thou but appear, oh my loved one. Thy hair floating free on the wind, Thy white bosom heaving with sorrow For the friends thou'st left grieving behind ; Like a beam o'er the summer cloud breaking. Like the moon in the autumn's rich glow. She comes, but her voice is as mournful As the breeze by the lake sighing low. "Returnest thou safe from the battle ? Oh I I heard thou wert low with the slain ; And alone on tlie hills I have wandered, And wept for my Shilric in vain; HOURS OF SADNESS. 239 Until grief like a dark mist was round me, O'ershadowing my soul with its gloom, And alone in the winter-house sleeping — Oh, Shilric, I'm pale in the tomb !" As a mist that fleets over the mountain, As a sunbeam that quick disappears, • So passes my gentle Yinvela, And leaves her lone Shilric in tears : Yet oft as I sit by the fountain, My cheek with my sorrow grown pale, I shall hear thy soft voice, my Vinvela, As it comes on the light- winged gale. HOURS OF SADNESS. Oh, I am ill and weary, And my soul is dark to-night. With memories sweet yet mournful Of sorrow and delight; For the shadowy past is round me, Its struggles and its tears, Its changes, hopes, temptations. Through long and anxious years ; With its dreams of love and beauty, That once my heart beguiled, When I painted life's bright future With the folly of a child. 240 CLARA'S POEMS. But, alas I those glorious visions Embodied ne'er have been, Or came, like angel visits, But few and far between. And now I'm slowly passing Away from earthly things. And my harp is softly murmuring, 'Mid its worn and wasted strings, Of a peaceful grave and quiet. By those I've loved the best. And a home at last in heaven, Where the weary are at rest. THE FAIRY ISLE. Where the Father of Waters his mighty tide Rolls on with a conquering monarch's pride. Is a lonely isle, in the far-off West, Where the sun's last rays in their splendor rest; Where clouds, in their crimson and azure glow, Seem mirrored in calm, bright waves below. And water and sky in their beauty blend Till you scarce can tell where their limits end. Oh I it seemed that lonely and lovely spot Was a place where care and sin came not ; Where life might pass so calmly away, We should heed not nature nor time's decay ; THE FAIRY ISLE. 241 And death, at last, like a friend should come, To bear us away to a brighter home. And, oh I methought how sweet 'twould be, With a kindred spirit to wander free, Afar from the world and its wildering guile, To dwell for aye in this lone, sweet isle; To watch, at eve, as the fairy throng Trip in their mystic dance along; To rove at will through its verdant bowers, To gather its sweet and dewy flowers ; Where birds with their rainbow plumage spring, And make the grove with their glad notes ring ; Where, blest with youth, and health, and love. Our fairy isle should an Eden prove, And the voice of grateful praise arise At eve from our Western paradise, And the sun, as he sank, should sweetly smile His last bright rays on our fairy isle. 242 CLARA'S POEMS. LITTLE ROSABELLE. WHENEVER I view thy lowly bed, sweet babe, I still must weep; fond memory still recalls thine infant beauty — thine inno- cent endearments — for thou wert a lovely child, too bright for earth, an angel visitant, and soon recalled into thy native heaven; yet I will not mourn for thee that thou art gone — hast left a world that had no charms for thee — a cold, a desert world, whose fancied joys are like the shooting ray that gleams a moment 'cross the 'nighted wanderer's path, then leaves him cheerless as before. Pure, happy being, thou hast early fled from life and all its sorrows, and thy stain- less spirit hath regained its native bliss ; thy mother's tears embalm the hallowed spot where thou, who wast so lovely, young, and fair, art wrapped in peaceful and untroubled sleep. Yes, I have kissed thy clay-cold lips, And bid a long farewell ; But still for thee thy mother's heart Will mourn, sweet Rosabelle. Mine own sweet babe, thine image fair Is still to memory dear ; And oft we'll to thy grave repair, And shed affection's tear. For though within the silent tomb Thy sleeping body lies, It shall with fadeless beauty bloom Above the starry skies. ON THE DEATH OF MY YOUNGEST SISTER. 243 From sorrow, dear one, and from grief, Thou wert timely snatched away — To worlds of light and joy thou art gone, And everlasting day. A long adieu ! the sigh of pain Shall oft my bosom swell ; Yet I will not wish thee here again, My lovely Kosabelle. ^^ m THE DEATH OF MY YOUNGEST SISTER, WHO DIED SUDDENLY. I SEE thee yet, my sister dear, As in the first warm flush of youth, When all thy pure, ingenuous mind Shone in thy soul-lit eyes of truth. Those deep, dark eyes — thy soft, brown hair — Thy sunny smile — thy brow serene — Thy lips, like rose-buds wet with dew — Thy pearls that gleamed those buds between — Thy fairy form — thy buoyant step — Thy low, sweet voice — thy winning ways — And all thy thousand nameless charms — Are present now to memory's gaze. When twilight spreads her misty vail. And birds have sung themselves to sleep, 'Mid old, familiar haunts I stray, And sadly think on thee, and weep ; 244 CLARA'S POEMS. I sit within thy favorite bower, Where oft thy song my cares beguiled, Thyself the sweetest, fairest flower — Oh, nature's pure and artless child ! And when the star of eve comes forth With gentle radiance, pure yet bright, I often deem, my sister dear, Thou'rt gazing from those realms of light ; And as the night wind sighs among Thy flowers. I lend a listing ear, And seem in every lingering breeze Thy low, sweet accents still to hear. I see thee as when on that day The orange-wreath adorned thy brow. And thou, with smiles and blushes gay. Didst breathe thy happy nuptial vow. Oh ! joyous hearts were round thee then, ' 'Mid mirth and music's social flow; Alas ! we little thought how soon Our joy would all be turned to woe. I see thee in thy winding-sheet, A pale and senseless thing of clay. And view the sad and mournful throng That bears thee to the tomb away. And oft I seek thy lowly grave — To me the dearest spot on earth — And deck it with the sweetest flowers. Faint emblems of thy peerless worth. ON THE DEATH OF MRS, ELIZA ODOM SIMPSON. 245 Dear one, sleep on ; thy calm repose Heeds not the chilling wintry storm ; Soon heaven shall raise thy beauteous dust Clothed in a glorious seraph's form. ON THE DEATH OP MRS. ELIZA ODOM SIMPSON, OF INDEPENDENCE, MO. But thou hast left us, gentle one, And we are lonely now — With thy soft smile still on thy lips, Though death is on thy brow ; Yet long thy memory, like a tone Of far-off music sweet, Will thrill our lonely, aching hearts, As we together meet. Thine was the pure and patient faith That did not fear to die ; It ever beamed upon thy face, And in thy soft, blue eye ; For oh I so much of grace and truth Thy God to thee had given, It guided thee e'en from thy youth, And led thee up to heaven. 22 246 CLARA'S POEMS. Yes, thou art gone — the mother, friend, Light of thine earthly home — And though we mourn, yet well we know Heaven but claimed its own. Then fare thee well, oh sister sweet ! Within each loving heart We '11 shrine thy memory till we meet Never again to part. THE PENITENT. Oh ! cold and dreary was the night, And fierce the north wind's roar. When a poor Magdalen was spurned From her betrayer's door: Her naked feet and tattered garb. Her slight and shivering form, Could ill resist the piercing blast. Or bide the pelting storm. Yet had that faded form been decked With silks and jewels rare. And moved in wealth and fashion's throng. The loveliest maiden there ; And she had been a mother's joy, A father's hope and pride — But now, within the silent tomb. They slumber side by side ; THE PENITENT. 24t For she, their bright, their beautiful. The idol of their hearts. Became a ruthless villain's prey, A victim of his arts. And now, cast out, she wandered long, Her heart filled with despair ; At length she knocked at Mercy's door, And sought admission there. With ready hand sweet Mercy came. And helped the wanderer in ; And she, the pure, with pitying eye. Wept o'er the child of sin. She raised that pale and fainting form, And bid the sufferer live ; And bade her look to Him alone Who could her woes relieve. With soft and gentle hand she drew The sin-invenomed dart. And poured the healing balm of hope In that poor bleeding heart; She told her, though the world might scorn, And treat her with disdain. To seek the Lamb whose precious blood Could cleanse from every stain. The sinner heard, and offered up. With many tears and sighs, A broken and a contrite heart — God's sweetest sacrifice. 248 CLARA'S POEMS. And as she felt the healing stream Of pardon fill her breast, A smile beamed o'er her dying face, And calm she sunk to rest. Hark I heard ye not that glorious song That seemed to fill the skies. As the ransomed spirit was borne along To the gates of paradise ? And as its portals wide were flung, A shout filled heaven's high dome : Let your golden harps anew be strung, For we bring the lost one home ! TO LUCIA. Thanks, gentle Lucia; those few lines Were deeply felt by me — As greetings from a distant friend. Whom I may never see : Yet kindred souls, though far removed, Can hold communion sweet. And oft in fancy's bright domain Congenial spirits meet. Though one has sung that friendship is A false and fleeting shade. And love alone another name For confidence betrayed, TO LUCIA. 249 Yet, oh ! believe it not ; for love By God himself was given, * And friendship is a holy thing That had its birth in heaven. And though misfortunes, dark and drear. Our fairest hopes may blight. If love and friendship but appear. How soon our path grows bright ! Though few my sunny hours of bliss Through life have ever been, Those heavenly guests have cheered my heart Through every varying scene. And as I've read each pious wish. So kindly breathed for me, I've prayed they all may be returned With added grace to thee. And when life's weary journey's o'er, May angel hands convey Thy spirit to that blissful shore. Where love shall ne'er decay. 22* 250 Clara's poems. THE LILY OF WOODLAWN. There's many a floweret sweetly blooms On mountain, vale, and lea, But tlie peerless Lily of the West Is gentle Annie D * * * * *. Her voice is low and musical As song of summer bird, Her laugh the thrill of blossom leaves, By zephyr kisses stirred. And, oh I the deep-blue firmament, Where snow-clouds floating lie, Is not more lovely than the light Of darling Annie's eye. Her form is graceful as the fawn's. With Juno's regal ease ; And Venus clasps her magic zone Around her, all to please ; And hers the intellectual gifts, That make her still more fair ; And hers the pure and guileless heart, Meekly the crown to wear. Long may it bloom upon her brow. Untarnished, pure, and bright, And no dark tinge of grief and care Our peerless Lily blight. A JUNE MORNING AT WOODLAWN. 251 A JUNE MORNING AT WOODLAWN.* The breeze is whispering 'mid the leaves, And gathering rich perfume From every opening bud and flower Of summer's ripening bloom ; The tuneful lark on dew}' wings Mounts upward through the sky, As earth and air vibrates and rings With nature's minstrelsy. A thousand rural echoes glide Across Platte's murmuring stream. Or mingle with her sparkling tide, Like music in a dream ; As softly in the eastern skies The gates of morn unfold. Up springs the day-god from his couch 'Mid flaming clouds of gold. Oh, lovely scene ! so calm, so clear. What rapture fills my breast ! I seem in every breeze to hear A voice that bids me rest ; And as I gaze, my spirit, thrilled With ecstasy divine, Breathes out its fervent orisons At nature's holiest shrine. * T}ie residence of Gen. G. P. Dorris, Plafte County, Missouri. 252 CLARA'S POEMS. AN INYOCATION. Oh I come to me, my spirit love, When sunset shadows rest. In golden rays of ruby red. Upon the mountain's crest; Till every glittering wave beneath Is crimsoned with the glow. And the evening breeze, through waving trees, Comes gliding soft and slow. And come in dreams, at midnight's hour, When night-dews gently weep Their pearly tears o'er bud and flower, Where silvery moonbeams sleep ; When every sound in earth and air Breathes only peace and love. As if afar each angel star Were keeping watch above. Come, fold, me to thy loving heart, And breathe again love's vow ; Eain thy sweet kisses on my lips. And on my throbbing brow : I'll tell thee then of tearful nights, And weary days I've known, Since with the dead thy spirit fled, And left me here — alone. A MORNING AT THE CEMETERY. 253 A MORNING AT THE CEMETERY. Around me, as I muse alone, The gentle zephyrs sigh, And snowy clouds, like seraph wings, 'Float through the azure sky; The birds pour forth a joyous song From every flowery spray, The air is languid with perfume This glorious April day. And, as I list, sad memories wake Of friends' and hopes long fled, As here I wander all alone Amid the quiet dead ; I gaze around, and everywhere I view the resting-place Of many a dear and precious form, Now cold in death's embrace. There sleeps my dark-haired queenly one, The white rose on her brow ; My blue-eyed babes are slumbering near — Would I were with them now I And there my darling sisters rest — Their life's short dream is o'er; My brother, too ; ah ! earth cannot Wound his proud spirit more ! 254 CLARA'S POEMS. Oh ! what a bright and beauteous throng Are gathered round me now ! Fond glances beam from every eye, And smiles light every brow ; They fill my soul with faith and hope, And sweetly whisper, '' Come; Leave all the cares of earth behind ; Thou hast a happier home With us, where thou wilt find thy lost, And kindred spirits greet. Whose smile was sunshine to thy heart — Each dear one there thou'lt meet. Then wait thy Lord's appointed time ; The hour is drawing nigh, When thou shalt rest thy weary form Here, where thy loved ones lie." And when like them I softly sleep In this sweet, quiet spot, Is there a hand that on my grave W^ill plant " Forget-me-not," And drop a tear of fond regret For one who weeps no more ? Oh, bid them meet me in that land Where weeping all is o'er ! THE EVENING STAR. 255 THE EVENING STAR. Thou lovely orb, serene and clear, So bright at twilight's pensive hour, Throbs there a heart that has not felt, And owned thy softly soothing power ? What blessed memories round us throng — Of friends and hopes long passed away ! What gentle tones seem whispering low, In every breeze at close of day ! The cherished scenes of earlier years, Those fair unclouded hours of bliss, Undimmed by sorrow or by tears. Too bright for such a world as this — They come, sweet visions of our youth. When daily cares and toils are past, And musing memory sadly weeps . O'er joys too pure on earth to last. They come, beneath thy holy light. The friends we've loved and lost below, With words as kind and smiles as bright As greeted us long years ago : And oft we gaze on thee, till eve Hath bathed in dew each shrub and flower, And think on those dear ones that loved To roam with us at twilight's hour. 256 CLARA'S POEMS. And then we pause, as if to hear From some familiar voice the tone Of gentle vows, to us so dear, And start, to find ourselves alone. And then our chastened spirit turns From all earth's idle dreams of bliss To seek beyond thy light, sweet star, A purer, brighter world than this. THE MAGIC SPELL A MAGIC spell was on our hearts, Of deep and holy power. As we sat amid the gathering gloom Of twilight's dreamy hour. My hand lay trustingly in thine. Its pulses hushed and still, And thoughts that angels might have felt, Our bosoms softly thrilled. Our words were few, and murmured low,— One promise asked and given : That when earth's ties were rent, I'd be Thine " angel bride" in heaven. Thy dewy lip the compact sealed All tremblingly on mine. Yet not one throb of passion marred Its purity divine. FAREWELL TO WOODBINE COTTAGE. 25t Oh ! life hath many moments left, I hope, of rapturous bliss ; But never can my spirit know An hour more sweet than this, — Until we meet in yon bright world, Where none our souls can sever, And God shall bid us reunite. And live and love forever. -^^- FAREWELL TO WOODBINE COTTAGE, ON LEAVING INDEPENDENCE, MO., Aug. 31, 1858. Farewell, ye kind and gentle friends ! I leave you with regret : Time hath so softly glided by Since we've together met, That now I scarce can realize That we indeed must part ; But long shall these sweet memories - Be cherished in my heart. A stranger, pale and sad I came, Seeking for health and rest. And found a friend in every one, A welcome in each breast : 23 258 CLARA'S POEMS. And loving hands were clasped in mine When kindred spirits met, And words were whispered soft and low, Whose spell is o'er me yet. Throughout the long sweet summer day I've wandered wild and free. And like a dream those peaceful hours Have fleeted by with me ; But now I leave those pleasant vales, Those fountains clear and bright, Those cool embowering shades where oft I've roamed with such delight. Adieu, adieu ! when summer blooms Again, though I may be A wanderer in some other land. Dear friends, remember me ; ^ And when sometimes you pensive muse Beneath my star's pale ray. Oh, breathe one loving prayer for her, The stranger, far away. THE AUTUMN MORN. > 259 THE AUTUMN MORN. How the morning sunbeams glimmer Through the window-panes so bright, Weaving strange, fantastic pictures. With their golden quivering light, As their dancing shadows fall On the carpet, on the wall ! Oh ! an autumn morn is glorious, With its pure, fresh, bracing breeze Whispering, sighing, lightly swaying O'er the meadows, through the trees ; Singing dirges low and solemn Round the maple's leafy column ! Fading leaves are slowly falling, Tinged with gold and crimson hues, And the birds are softly calling, " Have you heard the mournful news ? List I the autumn winds are humming. Winter cold and dark is coming." See ! the tender birdlings trying If their wings are swift and strong For their first, long, weary journey To a Southern land of song. Where the sunshine and the flow'rs Fade not with the summer hours. 260 CLARA'S POEMS. Thus my soul would fain be pluming Its glad wings, to soar away To that world where ever-blooming Summer reigns without decay, And no chilling winds of winter Through its shining portals enter. Autumn, sweet and mournful season, How I love thy quiet days ! With thy rainbow-tinted forests, And thy soft, blue, dreamy haze Floating, lingering o'er the mountains, Pleasant vales, and murmuring fountains. As thy withered leaves are crisping 'Neath my footsteps, wandering slow. Soft, sweet voices seem to whisper, " Soon, like us, you may be low. Sleeping on the earth's cold bosom, Ere another spring shall blossom." Yet I grieve not : life hath never Been so full of bliss to me That I should regret to sever Every bond that sets me free ; And my spirit with the blest Fold its weary wings to rest. TO A FRIEND. 261 TO A FRIEND, WHO observed: "you are in this world, but you are not of it. Yes, I am only lingering here Like some poor prisoned bird, And the wailing of my captive soul For freedom oft is heard ; And from a world that knows me not, I turn without a sigh, As faith exclaims, ''there is a land Where love and truth ne'er die." Ah! could I breathe the burning thoughts As, torrent-like, they roll In visions beautiful, sublime. Within my restless soul — The fable of the Orphean lute Might be realized again, And hearts like adamant be moved By my low, thrilling strain. And yet I live 'mid pleasant dreams Of fair and beauteous things — A world of love, where angel forms With briglit and starry wings 28* 262 CLARA^S POEMS. Brush softly back my raven curls, And kiss my feverish brow, And whisper like sweet music, "come, We're waiting for thee now." A SISTER^S LOVE. A sister's love ! how pure, how calm The heart by anguish riven. Beneath its soft and healing balm, Looks up with hope to heaven I A sister's kiss no feverish pulse Awakens in our breast ! It bringeth peace, when on our brow A sister's hand is pressed. Her voice like music gently soothes, When angry passions rise. And sheds a moonlight radiance o'er Our pathway to the skies I OUR BABY BOYS." 263 "OUR BABY BOYS." THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE COMPOSED AT THE REQUEST OF THE BEREAVED PARENTS OF TWO LOVELY LITTLE BOYS — THEIR ONLY CHILDREN. We've laid them here, where the blossoms weep Their silvery tears o'er their quiet sleep ; Where oft, at eve, on her shining wings, An angel comes, and softly sings This low, sweet song, our souls to cheer : "Weep not for the dear ones mouldering here; They are blooming in life and beauty now. With God's own smile on each baby brow. And their golden harps ring soft and low. With a dream of heaven to soothe thy woe." Yes, we've laid them where the violet's bloom May blend with the rose its faint perfume. And bright-winged birds, 'mid the leafy bow'rs, May sing through the long, sweet summer hours, As the day grows pale, and the zephyr's sigh Wakes many a dream of the days gone by. Till our hearts grow sad, and our tears will flow, As we think of our fair young babes below. 264 Clara's poems. MUSINGS ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. I AM dreaming — sadly dreaming, As I watch the Old Year die — Of the hopes, once brightly beaming As yon starry jeweled sky : Of the loved, the pure, true-hearted, Who have faded one by one, — Gathered by the angel-reaper, Till the very last is gone. Oh, my mother ! why thus leave me. All alone on earth to weep ? Would that I were resting by thee, Where the weary-hearted sleep I Thou wert left the last to bless me, Of that gentle household band, Who, to-night, with smiles caress thee In the happy spirit-land. Yet not all alone — for softly Enters at my chamber door One, who ofttimes watched beside me. In those blissful days of yore ; And her silvery laugh is ringing Sweetest music in mine ear. While her bird-like voice is singing, "Welcome in another year!" LITTLE IDA. 265 And her brother stands beside her, With his smiling eyes of love, Whispering — "Bear on, stricken mother! Soon with us you'll dwell above. Where thy many sweet life-blossoms, Death has blighted in the tomb, Angel hands shall safely gather. Sweeter far in heaven to bloom." Hark ! the midnight chimes are ringing, — Joy 1 another year is born, — Friends now part to meet — ah, never, 'Till the resurrection morn I — Then farewell, Old Year, forever, O'er thy quiet, lonely grave 1 Filled with gems of love and beauty, Kolls oblivion's voiceless wave. LITTLE IDA. THESE LINES ARE INSCRIBED TO MRS. T. F. M., WITH THE HEARTFELT SYMPATHY OF "CLARA." In her tiny coffin lying, Like a white dove in her nest. With her dimpled fingers softly Clasped upon her quiet breast — Little Ida's now at rest. 266 Clara's poems. Dim, beneath their fringed covers, Sleep the eyes so darkly blue, While the parted lips, half open, Seem still whispering unto you Little Ida's last adieu. Loving hands, with bud and blossom Fondly wreathe her snowy brow ; But she heedeth not their beauty, Nor the weeping friends that bow O'er her, softly sleeping now. All unconscious of the sorrow Throbbing at her mother's heart — Of her father's tearless anguish. Forced from one so loved to part — Angel, though he knows thou art. Lovely babe I while sadly gazing On thy face, methought could I Only be as pure and sinless, Oh, how calmly could I lie Down by thee, and gladly die I And where summer roses linger. Breathing out their last perfume — Where the April violets earliest, In their timid beauty, bloom — There we'll make sweet Ida's tomb. LINES — FOR MUSIC. 267 LINES-FOR MUSIC. Stars of heaven, pure and radiant, Beam upon my love to-night ; Soothe him, as afar he wanders, With your calm and holy light ; Breathing soft ecstatic visions 'Round his pillow as he sleeps, Tell him one true heart is lonely, And his absence fondly weeps. Tell him oft I gaze upon you. Till my weary eyes are dim. And when all the world lies dreaming, Then my spirit pines for him. Stars, amid the azure glowing. With your soft, ethereal light, Shed your sweetest, holiest visions O'er my sleeping love to-night. 26S CLARA'S POEMS. TO ADA IN RICHMOND. THOU HAST said: *'I AM SURROUNBED BY STRANGERS — I AM ALL ALONE." Alone ! ah, thou canst never be ! Each breeze that softly whispers thee, Speaks to thy heart in low, sweet tone, That thou canst never be alone. Where'er thy lonely footsteps rove. There is a voice of ceaseless love ; Should care or sorrow bid thee moan, It tells thee thou art not alone. And when the storms of life arise, And clouds obscure thy brightest skies, That voice is heard in soothing tone — ''Dispel thy fears — thou'rt not alone." And this sweet voice should cheer thy soul, When death's dark shadows o'er thee roll — That round the bright eternal throne Thou'lt praise thy God, but not alone ! A WINTER SCENE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 269 A WINTER SCENE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. It was indeed a glorious scene, As fair as mortal gaze, I ween, Had ever rested on ; The first and palest golden ray That ushered in the king of day, That moment had begun To shed a soft and roseate glow On rock and tree, now vailed in snow. And on the ice-bound tide ; Save in the midst, where dark and deep Its mighty torrents onward sweep To swell the ocean's pride. The morning clouds, like waves of gold, Around Aurora's chariots rolled. While far off in the west The stars, that faintly lingered still Like wardens on some beacon hill. Sunk slowly to their rest. The eastern hills were bathed in light, Each craggy steep and mountain height Reflected back the glow, Till earth seemed like a maiden fair, With bridal jewels in her hair, And bridal robes of snow. 24 210 CLARA'S POEMS. Our noble vessel stemmed the tide, And dashed the floating ice aside, Yet fierce was oft the shock; It made our hearts with terror bound, Whene'er we heard the crashing sound, And felt the timbers rock. Those sweet blue hills so far away, Those little fairy isles that lay Around, I'll ne'er forget ; And o'er a gentle group that morn That viewed with me the op'ning dawn, Fond memory lingers yet. Two lovely brides — I see them now — The one with fair and smiling brow, And eyes so deeply blue. One would have thought that from the sky. So brilliant was their azure dye, They'd caught their radiant hue. The other, in whose queen-like air, And soft, dark eyes, and raven hair Spake fair Italia's child. Say, hast thou left thine orange bowers. Thy native land of song and flowers, And sought our western wild ? Yes, woman's faithful heart can brave. For him she loves, the angry wave. To soothe, console, and bless ; INVOCATION TO SPRING. 211 For where thy pure, true altars rise, O Love, thou mak'st a paradise Bloom in the wilderness. . And she, the pale, sad child of song, Unnoticed stood amid the throng, A lonely stranger there ; But oh 1 her thoughts were pure and high, While gazing on the glorious sky ; She breathed a fervent prayer. That life to them might ever prove A cloudless morn of hallowed love, Undimmed with grief and pain ; And when its varying scenes should cease, In that bright world of joy and peace They all might meet again. INVOCATION TO SPRING. I HEAR thy gentle tones, Spring I Thy soft and flute-like voice Is floating through the perfumed air. Making the earth rejoice; 'Tis breathing beauty all around, It fills the clear, blue sky. And the weary-hearted invalid Revives when thou art nigh. 272 CLARA'S POEMS. There's music in thy voice, O Spring ! That through creation thrills ; 'Tis heard amid thy leafy groves, And in thy murmuring rills, — In the song of every tuneful bird That carols through the wood, — In the dimpling waves that lightly curl, And crest the crystal flood. 'Tis heard in mountain solitudes. Afar from mortal ken, In the echo of the waterfall, In the fairy-haunted glen. 'Tis the voice of praise and gratitude Erom each created thing. From nature up to nature's God, The incense of the Spring. 'Tis a voice that sometimes charms my soul From its wasting grief and fears ; But the heart's low sigh comes sweeping by, And thy buds are wet with tears. When I think of all the young, the fair, The lovely, and the gay Who hailed thee one short year ago, Bright, beauteous month of May ; When life seemed full of bliss, when hope Shone radiant on each brow : Those joyous hearts and smiling lips, Alas ! where are they now ? INVOCATION TO SPRING. 21 S Ah, never more they'll greet thee, Spring ! Thou seekest them in vain ; For some in silent slumbers rest Beneath the rolling main ; And some beneath the grassy turf, Where thou may'st shed thy bloom, And breathe thy sweetest minstrelsy Above thy votary's tomb. But hark ! a low, soft voice I hear. Sighing amid thy flowers, " Pale mourner, weep for them no more : In amaranthine bowers They now repose, where brighter springs And balmier breezes blow ; Where from the throne of love divine The living waters flow ; Where sweeter flowers than earth can boast Adorn a holier sod : Their music is the seraph's song. Their light the smile of God." 24* 2 '74 CLARA'S POEMS. THE WANDEREE. Ye starry lights, so soft, so clear, To me ye are mementoes dear Of hopes that are forever fled. Of friends long numbered with the dead, Of blissful hours too quickly past. Of joys too sweet, too pure to last, That like the meteor's brilliant ray, A moment gleams across our way, And leaves us, when its glare is o'er, In deeper darkness than before. And as I watch each trembling ray, I muse on loved ones far away. Who'll gently sigh and think of me Whene'er your radiant forms they see ; And as remembrance wakes a tear, Will whisper, "would that she were here I" And thus in spirit oft we'll meet. And hold communion pure and sweet. Oh, memory ! at this solemn hour What heart owns not thy magic pow'r ? Who, in the night-wind's gentle moan. Hears not each well-remembered tone Of some loved voice, whose plaintive strain On earth may not be heard again ; "there is a spiritual body." 215 That when the twilight shades grew dim, Oft breathed with us the evening hymn, And whiled the pleasant hours, away With sportive mirth and converse gay ? But ah I those cherished friends of youth, Those hearts so full of love and truth, Those forms in beauty's radiant bloom Sleep cold within the silent tomb ; And weeping o'er those scenes of bliss, Recalled by such a night as this, A lonely exile, now I roam. Afar from childhood's pleasant home. "THERE IS A SPIRITUAL BODY." I KNOW not what our forms may be When we shall meet above, But I know thou'lt be the same to me, My own, my spirit love. I'll know thee by the mystic tie That binds our being here, And there, where love can never die, 'Twill be still more sincere. 216 CLARA'S POEMS. E'en here our hearts hold sweet commune, Though distance intervene, Amid the busy hum of noon, Or midnight's hour serene ; For we've a higher world of thought, To which our spirits soar. Where earthly passion entereth not. And earthly dreams are o'er. To love, with aught of earthly love, My proud soul could not bow ; I but adore the glorious intellect Whose stamp is on thy brow ; For pure as yonder radiant star. That smiles so bright above. Is every thought of mine for thee. My own, my spirit love I -^m- LINES TO ONE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. My heart, it is a mournful thing, A lonely dove without a mate. That sits, with softly folded wing, Within her nest, all desolate ; Or like some crushed, neglected flower. Despoiled of all its rich perfume. That neither sun nor summer shower Can cause again to bud and bloom. LINES. 27 1 My heart — oh I 'tis a frozen thing, Colder than Nova Zembla's snow, That ne'er again can throb and thrill With passion's warm ecstatic glow. Dead — cold — it lies within my breast — Of Love and Joy the living tomb — Above whose waveless lethean rest No buds of Amaranth* ever bloom. I've loved, I've worshiped — oh ! my God I — As I can love on earth no more I The idol's fallen — cold's the shrine — My dreams of earthly bliss are o'er ! Then seek not thou the spell to break That chills my heart, — 'twere all in vain ; Thou canst not, like Prometheus, wake The marble into life gain. ^ Emblem of Hope. 278 CLARA'S POEMS. TO A HUMMING BIRD. Thou fairy thing, thou gleam of light, Glancing amid the dewy flowers, Dashing sweet music from thy wings In glittering, flashing, rainbow showers ; Oh I how I love to watch thee sip The honey-dew, the tears of night, That sleep, like kisses on the lip Of beauty, melting with delight. How joyous, full of bliss, must be Thy little life, which only lasts Throughout the gorgeous summer day. And fades before the autumn blasts, Or winter robs thee of one joy. One long, delicious day of bliss, Rocked in the lily's velvet cup. And fanned by zephyr's gentle kiss ! How sweet methinks 'twere thus to live, And die, when summer blooms depart, Soft folded on one faithful breast, Ere love's sweet dream had left the heart ! "who is CLARA?" 279 "WHO IS CLAEA?" She's a queer little woman, that dwells in a cot, So lowly and simple, the world knows her not ; Where the birds sing all day, and the sweet flowers bloom, Filling the air with song and perfume. And peace seems to brood on her halcyon wings, O'er the dear little nest where unnoticed she sings. She's a sad little woman, though appearing as gay As the lark, soaring high at the dawning of day, Far up the blue heavens, to gaze on the sun. Yet folding her wings ere his bright course is run ; All drooping and weary she sinks to her nest. To hide the keen arrow still deep in her breast. Yes, she's lonely and sad, for death has bereft Her home of its jewels — ^not one now is left To wake its lone echoes with music and mirth ; Like sunbeams they've passed from the beautiful earth, Shrouding her spirit in darkness and gloom, That the sunlight of heaven alone can illume. And she sits in her bower, and dreams of the past ; When twilight's pale shadows around her are cast. And zephyrs kiss softly the whispering leaves, Sweet visions of beauty and gladness she weaves, In low thrilling numbers, that flow from a heart Where the world and its follies have never a part. 280 CLARA'S POEMS. SONNET. O LOVELY bird, that plaintive sings All througli the summer night, Or sits, with softly folded wings, Beneath the moon's pale silvery light — Art thou some dim and shadowy sprite. With some sad, secret woe oppressed — Some mournful echo of the past. That will not let thy spirit rest ? Hast thou fond " memories " buried deep Within thy heart, sweet bird, like me, Too sacred for the garish day — Too pure for mortal eyes to see ? And comest thou at eventide. O'er blighted joys once more to weep, Or watch o'er loved ones ling'ring here, And soothe and guard them in their sleep ? Ah I I am weary, sad, and lone, And mournful *'mem'ries" fill my heart ; But at thy low, sweet, melting tone, I bid them like a dream depart. Then if thou art some guardian sent From those bright realms of starry light, Pour forth thy plaintive strains, and thrill My soul with thoughts of heaven to-night. THE BORDER COUNTRY. 2Sl THE BORDER COUNTRY. I've been wandering, dearest mother, Through the wild and lovely West, Where broad prairies blossom Like gardens of the blest ; Where deep and mighty rivers Eoll onward to the main, Through hills and valleys glowing With fruit and golden grain ; Where once the dusky warrior ♦ Amid the forest strayed, Or chased the deer and bison O'er the prairie undismayed, And built his simple wigwam. And snared his finny prey — And when the pale face came he passed Like morning mist away. Now cities rise like magic On plain and rocky height, And the shrill scream of the engine Wakes the echoes day and night — And halls of classic beauty, Magnificently grand. Pour floods of light and knowledge Throughout this noble land. 25 282 CLARA'S POEMS. And far away, dear mother, Toward the setting sun, 'Tis said o'er beds of jewels And gold the rivers run ; And as I've watched the gorgeous clouds Slow melting into heaven, I've wondered if their tints were not The glow of jewels riven. Oh, it is a land, dear mother. Where all the oppressed may come. And find a peaceful refuge. Warm welcome and a home, — Flowing with milk and honey. Of every good possessed. In this second land of promise. This Eden of the West. khiC': r^ ^ P!Cl3?ttt'S< TO MY MOTHER. Sweet mother, I have left thy side, To woo, in distant climes, The balm of health unto my brow. That throbs so strangely, wildly now, So different from those by-gone times. And I have left thine anxious care, Thy deep, untiring love. That sought to guide my youthful days In virtue's pure and peaceful ways, And train me for the world above. Yes, now I'm in a stranger's house, Afar from childhood's friends ; And vainly do I strive to find A solace for my careworn mind ; But naught can ever make amends (283) 284 Ada's poems. For all I've left. Though kind and bland The stranger's words may be, They soothe me but a fleeting hour ; My heart still owns a mother's power, Still turns, though distant far, to thee. And when the long and weary day Is past away and gone, My soul, with sleepless grief oppressed. All vainly seeks, yet finds no rest, It hears no tender loving tone. Then, mother, then do I recall Thy words of love once more, And memory's sweet and holy pow'r Still cheers me in that lonely hour, Recalls the bliss I fear is o'er. Familiar faces round me gleam, With thy dear sacred form, And many loved and lost I see. Who shared life's brightest hours with me. Who shared its sunshine and its storm. Then, mother, do I feel thy tears. As on our parting day; They seem to linger on my cheek — Oh I then I feel my heart would break, Could I not, mother, weep and pray. TO MY MOTHER. 285 Thy kiss still thrills upon my lips, Thy voice I seem to hear ; And thus, my mother, doth thy child The weary hour of night beguile, And fondly fancy thou art near. My mother, it may be on earth That we shall meet no more ; The stranger's turf my form may press, And I without one fond caress May die upon this distant shore : The stranger's careless foot may tread Above my mouldering clay — No flowers I love around me wave, No tears bedew my lonely grave, From home and thee so far away. Yet weep not, if we're severed thus. Amid the seraph train, Where earth's sad partings are unknown, With angels, at our Father's throne, Shall Ada greet thee once again. 25* 286 ADA'S POEMS. GIVE TEARS. Come hither ! give tears, kind tears, To friendship now departed. The guiding light for years Of the sorrowing, broken-hearted ; Give tears, yet breathe not a word To soothe the soul thus riven. For silent tears to the grieved Is sympathy like heaven. Oh ! how vain in this gloomy hour To proffer a balm to the heart I As well strive to the broken flow'r New life and bloom to impart, As to renew a friendship perished In hearts thus rent in twain. Bring back the hopes once cherished Too fondly, yet how vain ! But tears give, soul-felt tears. To the lonely, careworn heart. That has seen the joy of years. Like a morning dream depart ; Ay ! tears, deep tears, for those Who thus linger alone on earth. Who have held the thorn and rose. True emblems of grief and mirth. DAY DREAMS. 287 Give tears ; no, cease them now, 'Twould only a mockery be To weep for the heaven-born soul At last from its bondage free. But smile, when ye give your last Fond kiss to this beauteous clay, To think she is now with the blessed, Where all tears "are wiped away." -T^SSS- DAY DREAMS. Those day dreams, those day dreams, How lovely they seem 1 Now brilliant with hope As the rainbow's soft gleam ; Dazzling with beauty Our gaze, as we view Them reflected with joy's Rich colored hue. Oh, could we retain them, Life then would not seem As fitful and varied As yon rolling stream, Which in majesty sweeps Through the dark vale away, Or in beauty moves soft 'Neath the bright orb of day. 288 ADA'S POEMS. Oh ! it reminds, it reminds me Of life's changing scenes, As it sparkles and dazzles '^eath the sun's golden beams — And radiant and flashing Is fleeting away, To be mingled and lost In some dark rolling bay. Though a day dream, a day dream ! What in life is so sweet As those visions of beauty So fair, yet so fleet ; When the dark cloud of sorrow Rolls back for a while, And the sunlight of hope Breaks forth with a smile I BEAR ME AWAY TO MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 289 BEAR ME AWAY TO MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. REQUEST ON LEAVING K FOR X , 1844. Oh bear me away to my cliildhood's home, Where my early friends are dweHing ; Oh bear me away ere death shaU come, With grief my bosom sweUiug, For far away from aU I love, 'Mid strangers, I am sighing For one familiar look or tone To soothe me when I'm dying. Oh bear me away, for my spirit yearns For a mother's quiet care ; Oh bear me home, for there alone It yields not to despair. Let me recline my throbbing brow On her kind, tender breast; As when in my guileless infancy I found a peaceful rest. Away, away to my childhood's home ! Oh let me view once more The woods, the hills, o'er which I roamed In those happy days of yore. 290 ADA'S POEMS. Serenely there, I'd welcome death, And there in peace could die : To have my heart's warm treasured friends Receive my latest sigh. And lay me in that old graveyard, Whose paths I used to rove Ere my soul awoke from its first sweet dream And trust in earthly love ; And where the sun's last golden ray May gild my grave at even; Where the first faint star gleams softly forth From the clear blue vault of heaven ; And where the first pure violet May shed its sweet perfume, And the dove her plaintive melody May breathe around my tomb. Then bear me away to my childhood's home 1 This is my last request ; That in the arms that held me first I may calmly sink to rest. Oh bear me away to those dear scenes For which in dreams I sigh ; That I may have the friends I love Around me when I die. NO, NOT TOO late! 291 NO, NOT TOO LATE! I ACCIDENTALLY becnme possessed of a pamphlet (from a pri- son) entitled "A Word in Season," on which was written these soul-stirring words — ^^But it came too late!'^ the perusal of which suggested the following lines. Oh, erring one, say not too late, While yet thou hast a soul to save ! While the throbbing pulse of life still beats, Mercy seek and mercy crave. On thy bended knee to God, Trembling suppliant, lowly bow ; Though thy sins are deep and many, He may hear thee even now. For his mercy long endureth, Though it oft repelled may be, Still the doors of his salvation Open yet remain to thee. Oh, remember life is fleeting ! Oh, remember death will come I Canst thou dare to meet thy Saviour, Canst thou dare a sinner's doom ? Endless hours of torture, sorrow. Endless hours of grief to know, Where the damned have no to-morrow. But one long dread night of woe. 292 ADA'S POEMS. Then, erring one, say not too late ; Jesus died for such as thee : Oh, repentant, seek thy Saviour, Jesus pours his mercy free ! Though thy sins are dark and deadly, Though thy soul deep crime has known, If repentant thou wilt seek Him, Thee He will not still disown. A Word in Season, hear, I pray. In deep contrition seek thy God ; Out of season never say, But humbly kiss the chastening rod. Crash the sin within thy heart, Bending low upon thy knee. Crush each dark rebellious thought, Pray in deep humility. Long in prayer now seek thy God, He is all that's left to thee, Thus for thy many sins atoning. And He at last will set thee free. THE daughter's LAST PRAYER. 293 THE DAUGHTER'S LAST PRAYER. Come hither, mother ; on thy breast Oh let me lay my head and weep I There, when an Infant, I found rest, There, oft, you've lulled me unto sleep. And sing me, mother, even now, The songs you sung unto me then ; Wipe the cold dews from off my brow, And smiling, sing those songs again. Oh, mother ! weep not that I ask Thee to recall those hours of bliss ! It shall not prove an idle task Comparing those sweet hours with this. And well I love them to recall — My childhood's calm and happy days — When every future scene of life Was colored by hope's brilliant rays. Mother, such visions fill my soul Of pure ecstatic joys on high. That I can gladly welcome death. And leave the world without a sigh Sweet mother, weep not when I'm gone — When in the silent grave I'm laid — Do not recall the heart that's lone, You know not all the grief it had. 26 294 Ada's poems. And now I feel that Death is coming, Though his approach seems slow, to me Mother, with joy, oh ! not with mourning, Look on thy child from sorrow free ; For, mother, it were better now That she in youth should pass away, Than live for grief to dim her bjow. And bear within her heart decay. -^^- THOU DIDST RETURN, MY STRICKEN DOYE. "With the incense bteathing morn, Her soul went up to God." Thou didst return, my stricken dove. To fold thy wings and die ; The bosom that sustained thee first Received thy last faint sigh ; We watched thy struggles through the night, And as the first pale ray Of morning dawned serene and bright. Thy spirit passed away. Away to that pure home of bliss, For which so long thou'st sighed — The robe, the harp, the crown, prepared For all the sanctified ; THOU DIDST RETURN, MY STRICKEN DOVE. To dwell with loved ones gone before, In those celestial bowers, To realize thy dying words,* "Sweet heaven is filled with flowers." My Ada, oh ! my precious one, Can I forget when thou Didst call me, as the damps of death Were gathering on thy brow, — "Dear mother, do not weep, although Our parting hour has come, For this I prayed when far away — To die with thee at home." "And God has heard my prayers, and now, Dear mother, give me up ; For well thou knowest in life's sweet morn I've drained affliction's cup ; But now my Saviour calls me home From all my griefs and care. To join the angels round his throne — My mother, meet me there !" "Dear brother, and ye loving friends That now surround my bed. Mourn not for me, and let no tear Of grief be o'er me shed ; 295 * A short time previous to her death, I gave her some flowers a friend had sent her ; after inhaling their fragrance, she exclaimed : <'0h, how sweet heaven is filled with flowers!" 296 ADA'S POEMS. Death is a sweet release to me : Then promise, when I die, To seek your God, that we may meet, And reign with him on high." And thus our loved one passed away To her eternal rest, And we laid her in that old graveyard. With the green turf on her breast ; We laid her where the dove may breathe Her low, sweet song at even. And the stars she loved watch o'er her sleep, Like angel eyes from heaven. ZNamtvED J3Y ea:. , y^^^z^- ^' /^i/^?^/i^t^ ^yr. ^0lt» BY JOHN L. MARLING. NAPOLEON. BY THE LATE HONORABLE JOHN LEAKE MARLTNG, U. S. MINISTER TO GUATEMALA, CENTRAL AMERICA. Like some bright meteor of the night, He flashed before the world, And startled kings in pale affright To see how soon he hurled Oppression to the groaning sod. And smote earth with an iron rod ! The nations of the earth beheld With joy his advent bright, And joyed to see the hoary spell Of Ignorance and night Dissolve before his matchless stride Like shadows at the morning tide. 2G* (297) 298 POEM BY JOHN L. MARLING. Oh, Italy I thou promised land, 'Twas on thy sunny plains He first essayed, with giant hand. To break the galling chains Which tyranny had cast about The land where rose the legion's shout 1 Egypt beheld her ancient ground His myriads cover o'er; And Pyramids looked darkly down. And trembled at the roar Of cannons thundering at their base, To scourge anew the Prophet's race I The anchored Isle beheld his sway Extending far and wide, And dimly saw the coming day When Europe in her pride Should tamely crouch beneath his yoke, And tremble, as her fate he spoke. Then leagued she with the foes of man. To dim the rising star, And vainly sought in battle's van To stay the hero's car, Which came resistless as the flash Of lightning, or the thunder's crash. She sought in vain, till fortunes vast Tempted the Chieftian on NAPOLEON. To stake bis kingdom on the cast Of war, and war alone, And seek on the ensanguined field To make the world submission yield. Oh Fate ! why didst thou tempt so far This favorite child of thine, Nor crush the murdering lust for war That quenched those rays divine Which beamed forth from his genius bright. And flooded earth with burning light ? Oh Genius ! when thou gavest to him Thy spirit's strength and pride. Didst know how Europe's shores thou'dst lave In passion's gory tide ? Or knowing, didst thou only care To wring the sigh and draw the tear ? Yet, blame him not, the hero-god, His heart was ever kind. And lofty as the Alps he trod The grandeur of his mind ; And oft he sighed, and oft he wept. When with the dead his chosen slept. What recks it, if on battle-field He never showed regret ; Within that outward form of steel The noblest feelings met, And in a current coursed along, As burnins^ as the tide of song. 299 300 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. Oppressor, call him what you will, But bear it well in mind, His equal we may never see Again among mankind ; Another mind, so truly great, All coming time may not create. THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. FROM THE NASHVILLE UNION AND AMERICAN. We regret to announce the decease of Hon. John L. Marling, United States Minister to Guatemala and for- merly one of the editors of this paper, who died at his residence at Oakland, in the vicinity of this city, yesterday morning, at three o'clock, in the thirtieth year of his age. In all the walks of life, Mr. M. was a gentleman at home and abroad ; a gentleman, in the highest sense of the term. Brave, honest, and upright, he won the esteem of the good and the true with whom he came in contact. He has been cut down in the morning of manhood — at that critical period of life when men become most burdened with the cares of this world. He desired to live for the sake of the fond wife of his choice and the two dear pledges of their affection which God had given them. He was at first disposed to murmur at his hard lot; but his mind underwent a great change, and he was willing to leave this world, in the bright hope of finding a better. THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 301 Without any special advantages in the way of education, in very early life he was placed in a printing-office — that ''college" from which have emanated so many great men, so many bright intellects, such a number of leading minds — thus entering upon a profession which, in this country, governs and guides the popular mind. In the printing-office he not only pursued his business with alacrity, but in his leisure moments was constantly engaged in reading and studying standard authors ; progressing in mental culture step by step. He had something of a poetic turn of mind. How could it be otherwise, when his mother is recognized as one of the ^" most gifted poetesses in the South? Her son often felt the lofty inspiration — often did he sip nectar from the mount of Parnassus ; but his innate modesty forbade his permitting such efforts as he committed to paper to see the light. How many chords of the lyre within the poet's heart have been dumb to the world's earl With his taste for refined and elevated literature, he possessed a strong practical feeling, and that rare faculty called "com- mon sense," which is the true index of real greatness. From his youth up he read and thought much of the omni- potence, the justice, and the mercy of God. He possessed a remarkable veneration for the incomprehensible, immacu- late and glorious Jehovah. He connected himself with the First Baptist Church in 1842, and was baptized by Rev. Dr. Howell, in company with several other young gentlemen of this city. Forsaking, for a time, the printing-office, he entered upon the study of law, in the office of Hons. A. 0. P. 302 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. Nicholson and Russell Houston, under whose tutelage he was soon enabled to obtain license to practice at the bar. He was induced, however, soon after, to take charge of the Daily Gazette of this city as its editor — a position which gave him an opportunity to display his intellectual attainments before the popular mind. Subsequently he took charge of the columns of the Nashville Union. In the Pi-esidential canvass of 1852 partisan feeling ran high — criminations and recriminations were common with editors of opposite opinions. Such was the fierceness of political warfare, that he had a personal difficulty with a gentleman at the head of an opposition organ, and was severely wounded by a pistol shot, which caused him much suffering. On the 1st of August, 1854, Mr Marling was appointed by President Pierce as American Resident Minister near Guatemala. He immediately issued his valedictory to the readers of the Union, and took his departure to Cen- tral America. After a residence of nearly two years in Guatemala, his health becoming enfeebled, he obtained leave of absence for the purpose of returning to his native land. His indisposition increased to such an ex- tent, that he was compelled to stop for several days at ]S"ew Orleans, under medical treatment. Finally he reached his home in the vicinity of this city, and again put his foot on his own threshold at Oakland Cottage, where wife and children, mother and kind relatives, gladly welcomed him. Por weeks past has he suffered — disease slowly wasting THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 303 away his frame — until death came and took him to the spirit world — to that untrodden land from whence " no traveler returns." He was willing to die — feeling that reliance upon God which the Christian only can feel. He went in peace. He left no bitter pangs behind — no ani- mosities, no resentments. He freely forgave all, and was as freely forgiven by Him who rules in the high courts of heaven. His numerous friends will long remember his virtues, his talents, his nobleness of soul, and his trium- phant departure to the world of glory. N. -^^ OBITUARY. FROM THE FIFTY-FIRST NUMBER OF THE MASONIC MIRROR AND KEYSTONE, DECEMBER 7tH, 1856. At a Stated Meeting of the Phoenix Lodge, No. 131, Free and Accepted Masons, held in JSTashville, Tennessee, on Saturday, the 25th of October, a.d. 1856., a.l. 5856, the following preamble and resolutions were unanimously adopted : — Whereas, in the dispensation of an All-wise Providence, it has pleased the Grand Master of the Universe to call our beloved Brother, Honorable John L. Marling, from labor in Terrestrial Lodges to refreshment in his Celestial Lodge on high ; yet, while we mourn his untimely loss, we sorrow not as those without hope. Resolved, That we hereby tender our heartfelt sympathy to his bereaved family. 304 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. Resolved, That the membersof this Lodge wear the usual badge of mourning for thirty days. Resolved, That the above preamble and resolutions be entered on our records, a copy furnished the family of the deceased, and a copy furnished the Mirror and Keystone, Philadelphia, for publication. Edward D. Hicks, Secretary. The above preamble and resolutions were forwarded to us by our faithful agent and highly esteemed Brother, T. B. Hamlin, accompanied with a beautiful poem, written by the talented mother of the deceased, which we regret we cannot find room for, being so near the close of the present volume. Brother Marling was only thirty years of age, yet he had attained a high position among his fellow-men, and was endeared to all who knew him, by the kindness of his heart and the purity of his life. At the time of his decease, he was United States Minister to Guatemala. He was buried with Masonic honors. His remains were followed to the grave by a large number of the citizens of Nashville, a United States military company and band. After the solemn services of the Order at the grave, the military fired a salute, in honor to the deceased as a United States officer. Weep not, wife, nor child, nor mother; in the unseen, in- visible world, where the immortal spirit of the deceased exists, there, happy in the consciousness of having faith- fully fulfilled his mission here on earth, he will be exalted to higher honors ; and a happy reunion awaits you, when the Grand Master above shall call you from your labors here. Q « 9 t. t « o .40^ '^9' .-i^^ lO^ •IV*. V V^\«l^% e ♦V//;^^"'^ -^ .1^^ * -ov^' .40^ ,■10^ N O y ^. o .s.^"^^ 1 1 • !io^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process, «< Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 ^ PreservationTechnologies ^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive r Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 (724) 779-2111 N O ^4?''' .oO^lV/^. «>• * c- .*j^f^^\ -o^ ,4,-^** /^5t-. '"-'^. .c"\«>.^^% -o.. .,4 .■i<3«. * ■''^«, %,''r7.'\