~k -" ffe- MARY M. CHASE AKD HER WRITINGS. HENRY FOWLER, EDITOR BOSTON: TICKNOR AND FIELDS M DCCC LV. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1855, by C. THURSTON CHASE, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. THCUSTOX AND TORRY, PRINTKRS. TO CORNELIUS CHASE. steemed Friend, — Two years ago, word came to me, like the startling toll of the village church bell, that the life of your daughter Mary was ebbing fast. I broke from busi- ness, and sought out the yet unknown way among the silent hills to your retired home. You met me at the door, took my hand, — for you knew me, though you had never seen me, — and led me with quiet step to her bedside. The flush of setting life was on her cheek, and the brightness of a glory soon to be revealed shone from her dark eyes, as she said with a smile of earnest greeting, 'I thank thee, for I wished to see thee again before I die.' Then she spoke words of faith and hope and joy, so full of beauty and truth. I Hard it is,' she said, « to part with friends ; my cup of life has mantled to overflowing with choice wine ; but Heaven now is nigh, and soon I shall drink it new in my Father's kingdom.' And then in animating words of encouragement for the life before me and with a prayer of blessing, she bade me Farewell, in IV DEDICATION. tones of hallowed sweetness, which have been often with me since. And then I turned back to the strifes of business. This life of ours is too full of partings. But one Sabbath had your daughter rested c beside the still waters,' ere there stood before her One bound to me by closer than filial ties. The first glow of morning stole through the window to the East, as that cherished life passed away in beautiful serenity to those Realms which « need no light of the sun.' * Let me go, for the day breaketh,' we wrote above her grave. And again I turned back to the strifes of men. The months went by, and once more I sought out your hill-side home. Again you met me at the door: ' I am glad to see thee, for thou wert one of Mary's friends,' you said, and soon led me with quiet step across the narrow pasture westward, over the stone stile, and down the wooded slope through a winding path, till we stood at the meadow's edge before a grassy mound, and read from the small white head- stone that it was « Mary's Grave.' Around its base lay wreathed the fresh and fragrant Trailing Arbutus ; above, the old Oak, to which she was wont to come, stretched its wide encircling arms, as if in mute yet DEDICATION. V conscious protection ; at a short distance, the Brook, where as a child she played, murmured its sympathy ; on its bank, the graceful Elm which she admired, swayed its arching limbs, relieved in Gothic outline against the sky ; the Sun was hastening to touch its red disc to the soft outline of the distant Caatskills, and over the meadow poured a flood of light, whose golden waves rolled up the hill-side, and rock and bush and trunk of maple, ash, and oak stood bathed in beauty : and though she had said to us — * Not with vain longings would I have ye stand In my loved haunts, and gaze around with pain ; ' yet we mourned together. 4 Do not wonder that I bow in grief,' you said, as the sun went down, ' for the Light of my old age is set.' It was early spring-time, and there were as yet no leaves upon the trees. As we talked together, the eye of friendship detected in me energies prostrated by undue labor. ' Fear not,' you said cheerily, pointing up to the ' old arm-tree,' * the leaves will come again when the desolate winter is fully past. Thou needest rest. Wait in quietness the coming on of warm sum- mer, and thou, too, wilt find new life.' The Spring blossoms are come and gone ; the leaves VI DEDICATION. have waved their Summer life, turned to Autumn yellow, and fallen ; the meadows have been mown, the grain cradled, and the corn husked ; the birds have gathered from the south, reared their broods, and returned ; and I am still beneath your roof. During these months you have reviewed the expe- riences of threescore years and ten with the satisfac- tion of a conqueror ; you have instructed me by your wisdom, wrought out from a stern experience through independent thinking ; on the Sabbath I have been with you to the place where is realized the mingled command and promise, ' Be still, and know that I am God,' as the silent adoration has ascended from the hearts of worshippers ; I have found true com- munion with Nature, in all her glorious revelations through sunset, mountain, tree, and flower ; T feel the pulse of the ; new life' you promised. Now it is time to say, Good-bye. On parting, I hand you this volume. You remember the sunset by 4 Mary's Grave.' Though the day is gone, shall not these clustered Poems be the stars to lighten the calm Evening of your life ? Your friend, ^ ^ Ihe .Lditor. Hill-side Home, Thanksgiving Day, 1854. CONTENTS. SKETCH OF THE LIFE. Chapter. pagk> I. INTRODUCTORY xiil II. TWO POSSIBLE ERRORS OF THE READER WOMANLY ADAPTATION SELF-SACRIFICE XV III. RAPIDITY IN COMPOSITION CONSCIOUSNESS OF POWER x j x IV. HUMOR — CONVERSATION — PRACTICAL CHRIS- TIANITY XXI V. COMBINATION OF INTELLECTUAL AND PRAC- TICAL GENIUS XXV VI. BIOGRAPHY XXvii VII. THE TEACHER XXxil VIII. LAST DAYS, AN ACCOUNT PREPARED BY C. THURSTON CHASE XXXV Vlll CONTENTS. POETRY. INDIAN SUMMER 1 FLORAL. how shall i think of thee 15 southernwood 17 a few green leaves 20 with a bouquet 21 frazer's tree 22 trailing arbutus 25 autumn violet 29 yellow roses 34 the flower gift 38 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. VISIONS OF A NIGHT 43 SONGS. TRIUMPH OF SPRING 53 BIRTHDAY CAROL 58 CHRISTMAS CAROL 60 THOU AND I 62 SONG FOR DECEMBER 65 CONTENTS. IX SISTER MINE 68 THY LOVE 71 THE IDLE MAIDEN 72 WHY I LOVE THEE 75 TO FANNY 77 MY CASTLE BY THE RIVER . » 79 CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE. CALLS FOR ADMITTANCE 83 MISCELLANEOUS. THE FALLEN OAK 105 morning h3 my native hills 114 my old dog and my new 116 my mother 120 childhood 123 words of cheer 125 Christ's blessing 126 the weary heart • . . . 128 WITH THE GIFT OF A YARD MEASURE .... 132 THE WINE CUP 134 THE PRISONER'S PRAYER 136 THE NUN OF SANTA MARTHA 139 GOD CARETH FOR THEE 144 X CONTENTS. THE BIRD AND THE BROOK 146 INVITATION TO CHRISTMAS 149 THE PARTING 151 TO A FRIEND IN EUROPE 154 COME TO THE HILLS 157 THE GOLDEN ISLANDS 161 MY BROTHER 165 WOMAN 167 LIGHT FOR THE AGED. LIGHT FOR THE AGED 183 A PRAYER FOR REMEMBRANCE 205 LETTERS.. . LETTERS 211-336 Bktitfy OF THE LIFE OF MARY M. CHASE. THE LIFE. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. From the many appreciative friends of Mary M. Chase, the earnest request has come to the home where her writings are treasured, that those who have no opportunity of reading her manuscripts, might par- ticipate in the enjoyment of her legacy, as they shared in her affections, and cherish her memoiy. It has been also urged, that her writings were fitted to effect much good beyond the circle of friendship by their inspiring influence towards Truth and Goodness, and by the radiating of genuine happiness, which converse with their free, glad nature and genial sympathies might diffuse through the Home Circle ; thus serving to lighten the burden of household cares, freshen the monotony of daily toil, animate the strong by a bright example, and encourage the weak by a noble emulation. Her Letters, it was also suggested, should be pre- sented to young women, as models of epistolary style, XIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE in their out-spoken integrity, their winning unreserve, their conversational grace, and their investment of the every-day experiences of Home, with the true color and expression that pictures warm vitality, while pos- sessing the happy combination of Pathos and Humor which truly represents real life, with its alternating tears and smiles, partings and meetings, griefs and gladnesses. It was also felt that the Aged might find in her writings some light for their closing days, and the Afflicted some consolation for their sorrowing hearts. To meet this expressed want, a selection has been made from her Writings, which it was deemed best to accompany with a brief Sketch, presenting a distinct and reliable outline of her Life and Character. An extended Biography is less essential, because her life consisted much in the workings of her mind, which the writings reveal with peculiar openness, as well in its rare beauties as in its necessitated imperfections ; while eulogy would be dissonant with the directness and simplicity of her nature. It is proposed to devote whatever profits may accrue from the sale of this work to some educational or charitable purpose, fitted to enlist the co-operation of all her friends ; and, by reference to Letter XL VI. on 1 Greenwood,' it will be seen that this plan harmonizes happily with her own sentiment. OF MARY M. CHASE. XV CHAPTER II. TWO POSSIBLE ERRORS OF THE READER WOMANLY ADAPTATION SELF-SACRIFICE. Faithful as is the transcript of the c inner life ' of Mary Chase, penned by herself in the Poems and Letters, two points exist in which a stranger would probably be led astray. In the first place, some of her poems are pervaded with a sentiment of dark dis- couragement or unrest, not rightly representing her. 4 Indian Summer ' and ' The Weary Heart ' are exam- ples. So far from this being the case, her character was free from that vague sensibility, which creates out of the grim facts of actual life only huge, distorted apparitions to scare the soul. There was no yielding of the heart to morbid sentiment and despairing tears. Her spirit was strong, and upright, and brave. She met duties, trials, vexations, with a vigor which forth- with conquered or scattered them. She held the helm on the voyage of life with so firm a hand and so sure a hope, that the whirling eddies and the counter cur- rents served rather as excitement than discouragement. I dare not say that she experienced no states of mind in which c the darkness may be felt.' She may have adopted them for some present purpose with the facility of genius, in order justly to represent them as existing XVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE in others ; and at times they may have been developed from within, as in all strong and passionate natures who see with such penetrating insight and feel with such absorbing intensity : yet it was so far from a pre- vailing element in her nature, that intimacy alone de- tected it. On the contrary, her natural spirits were unconquerable, her vivacity exuberant, her vitality in- exhaustible, and her humor gushing and sparkling day by day, without drought or stagnation, like the over- flowing waters of a living spring, whose source lies where neither storm nor heat can vary its continuous outwelling. In a second respect, more serious, Mary Chase's poetry inaccurately represents her. It does injustice to her genius. She has written nothing, I venture to say, fully equal to her highest power. She had never taxed herself to the utmost on any one composition, nor wrought upon one poem to its greatest capacity of polish. She felt this herself. She was conscious of power in reserve. I know that the world judge by the fruits, and by these alone ; yet it is due to her to say that the reaper, Death, came by ere the kernel of the wheat was full and the stalk golden. In my free access to her papers, I have found a large quantity of manuscript essays, tales and poems, many of the last written in pencil on fragments of paper, evidently first drafts, laid aside for future revision. But this labor was never accomplished, and ■ there is no work in the grave.' I would say, in hope of the good it may sug- OF MARY M. CHASE. XV11 gest, that it was a wrong to herself and to others that she wrote much instead of perfecting little. She might have done this. Her mental powers had reached full vigor, and needed but the discipline of thorough, un- wavering effort. But she did not do it, for several reasons. In the first place, because only a few of her many poems did she esteem of sufficient value to deserve revising labor ; they were dotted down in haste for some special purpose, or to satisfy some impulse from within. A felt disparity between what she had written and what she had the power to write, made her shrink from publication, which would have necessitated revision ; while the poet's inspiration was ever impelling her to fresh productions. And secondly, she yielded to the persuasive influence of a large circle of friends, who, perhaps not directly, but through the responsive force of her own outgoing sympathies, claimed many gifts of her poetiy. She wrote a score of pieces in the time that should have been devoted to one. In that way, doubtless, she dispensed pleasure to as many homes, but prodigality to others was injustice to herself. Moreover, she allowed much time to be absorbed by Society, which belonged to her own study. It should not be inferred that she frequented parties. She was averse to them in town, and had little opportunity in the country. But her father's house was rarely free from guests, and often overflowing, and claims were b XV111 SKETCH OF THE LIFE made upon her for entertainment which seemed at the time right and inevitable. The Ahasuerus of society ' commanded to bring the golden and silver vessels ' from the temple of her Genius, and though consecrated to a higher purpose, they were brought and used. Much of her time, also, was consumed by household duties, and in the use of the needle, both for herself and in the multiplication of ingenious gifts for friends. In every department of housewifery, she executed with rare skill and rapidity. There seemed to be nothing within the scope of female ingenuity that she could not compass, and easy success stimulated to more endea- vors. Adaptation to time, place, and circumstance, not by quiet passiveness, but in the more difficult art of active participation, was a characteristic. Moreover, her father's house was ever open to the incoming of the invalid, and she spent many days and nights, of years, in the care of the sick, who preferred no claim except that of a common Humanity. This was most praiseworthy, but not in the path of her peculiar, and, as I cannot but esteem, highest vocation. By no means should she have isolated herself for the sake of poetry ; but with less profusion should she have lavished her time and energies on the many who claimed sympathy and care. And sad it is to know that these multiplied claims of friends, accumulated and concentrated at the last, wore away the vigor of her constitution, and the ' golden bowl ' lay broken, while yet the costliest wine of life stood untasted. OF MARY M. CHASE. XIX CHAPTER III. RAPIDITY IN COMPOSITION CONSCIOUSNESS OF POWER. Mary Chase composed in poetical measure, as well as in prose, with remarkable facility. She attained well nigh to improvisation. She could write at any- time and in any place, surrounded either by chat or quiet. She wrote responsive to incidents, and replied at the moment in poetry to the voices of Nature, or to the warm words or gifts of friends. Her words formed themselves into verse with such easy naturalness as almost irresistibly to persuade from prose. The best of her simple lays, and indeed of the more highly wrought poetiy, were penned in the brief interludes of busy housewifery, and many were written to friends as the appendage to rapid letters. The poem entitled ' Woman ' was composed in less than three days, for a special occasion, and more remarkable instances even than this might be mentioned. It will be observed from her letters that she was aware of her mental power. The soul's strength made itself felt to her self-consciousness, as I am confident it does sooner or later to all gifted ones ; and I regard with no questioning, rather with respect, the unfettered XX SKETCH OF THE LIFE way in which she writes of herself, so far removed from all the littleness of assumed humility. Yet this self-knowledge did not produce pride or vanity. In- deed, she was too true a woman to regard intellectual ability as the highest ambition. Affection was more precious to her than admiration. The letter, in which she reproaches a friend for having spoken of her as a genius, in a mingled strain of raillery and of almost passionate appeal, beautifully reveals her ' feminin- ity.' She never wrote for fame, or personal aggrandize- ment. She regarded her powers as ' lent on usury for Heaven ; ' and the truth, ' For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required,' often pressed with almost crushing weight upon her heart. She com- bined, in happy union, a sincere humility with a sense of power, which gave her a self-possession, a courage, a feeling of equality to any achievement and of supe- riority to every emergency, imparting decision to her plans and firmness to her purposes. Yet her standard was kept far above her accomplishment, and tearful sorrow for short-comings was more habitual than sat- isfaction in success. I have ventured to publish a let- ter, which unveils the secret working of her mind with regard to itself, in the confidence that it will meet a response in many an appreciative mind. This and the letter referred to above appear at the close of the Series. OF MARY M. CHASE. XXI CHAPTER IV. HUMOR CONVERSATION PRACTICAL CHRISTIANITY. Mary's letters better represent her gift of humor than her poetry, yet not fully, for one is apt to suspect premeditation on paper ; but in her conversation no one could entertain an idea of preparation. She was regarded by all as unsurpassed in the variety, the enlivenment, the alternating light and shade of her fireside conversings. The little things of every-day life, unnoticeable by the ordinary eye, served as the occasions of the daintiest descriptions and the happiest hits, yet without exaggeration or distortion. Her mem- ory received like wax and retained like iron, and thus the anecdotes and facts she had heard came to the surface at the right moment with charming readiness, to serve for illustration or instruction. Past conversa- tions were to her like stereotyped pages, which she could re-produce at any time, and she retained the idiosyncracies of another's language and intonation with extraordinary accuracy. She could repeat every poem she ever wrote, and much of what she had read of others' productions, and thus her quotations and allusions were frequent and happy. She allowed no unkind sarcasms on misfortune ; but XX11 SKETCH OF THE LIFE to assumption, or vanity, or sham of any kind, she was merciless. Yet she knew ' that honorable stop, not to outsport discretion.' Indeed, her mind inclined natu- rally to the Earnest in life. She recognised the True everywhere, and adopted it, while all that was fraudu- lent in society, or unsound in character, or affected in manner, was offensive to her. This union of humor with seriousness is by some esteemed rare ; by some, impossible ; and by others, inconsistent ; yet a careful analysis and observation will show each of these notions to be incorrect. The universal fact will appear, that in those strong religious characters, whose moral power controls the circle in which they move, whether compressed within a neigh- borhood, or embracing a continent, the appreciation of humor, and oftentimes the genius for it, is exquisite. Indeed, a foundation of earnestness seems essential to the development of the highest form of humor, as the most delicate carving can be wrought out of only the solidest wood. The character is not complete in which either department exists alone or in undue proportion ; and hence care has been taken, in the selection of Maiy Chase's letters for publication, to show the happy balance of her character in this respect. Rightly re- garded, the mirth-provoking portions, instead of being incongruous with the deep religious tone of others, are an evidence of its genuineness, as fruit-bearing trees alone produce gay blossoms. In the social circle it was a necessity imposed, which OF MARY M. CHASE. XX111 she bore gracefully, to fill a large space in conversa- tion. Others seemed ready to listen when she was speaking. Yet her talk did not discourage, but rather developed latent ideas in the minds of others. Her light resembled in effect that of the moon upon the diamond to elicit light, rather than on surrounding stars to pale their lustre ; and yet the lead of conversa- tion was her prerogative, which, adopting without asserting, with self-possessed animation, she would stand in the party or sit by the fireside, surrounded by a group of listeners wrought up to the happiest ex- citement. It was the use of this prerogative which may have prevented some from being at first favorably impressed. They may have esteemed her frank and brilliant, too soon after introduction ; and reflecting that it is 4 not yet the third hour of the day ' of our acquaintanceship, and ' we hear every one in his own tongue,' ascribed it to the ' new wine ' of unfeminine assurance. But I think this impression, if ever made, was never abiding. Longer acquaintance showed that her manner sprung from the inspiration of a true, trusting, sympathetic nature, too thoughtful of imparting happiness to be suspicious of criticism. Mary was blest in the power of adaptation to the mental grade and scope of those with whom she con- versed, and she used it without encroaching upon her own individuality or integrity. It was this facility, XXIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE coupled with appreciative sympathy, of which it was perhaps the fruit, that made her the welcome presence in all the farm-houses scattered among the hills about her home. The happiness and the good of those with whom she was associated or surrounded were ever superior in her view to personal comfort, and she sometimes sacrificed health in her devotion to friends. Wherever suffering and degradation existed, she turned unhesitatingly with means of relief. And not only did she minister to bodily necessities, but she was at the same time watch- ful of the needs of the spirit. She was in the habit of seeking and supplying the destitute with Bibles and religious books ; also striving, by unobtrusive yet timely counsel, to sow some seed of divine truth. When those words of blessed assurance shall be spoken by the King, ' For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink ; I was a stranger, and ye took me in ; naked, and ye clothed me ; I was sick, and ye visited me ; I was in prison, and ye came unto me ; ' then will rise up those of each suffering class, who will bear witness to her christian care, — yes, and the prisoner, too, will be there, with fast-falling tears, to tell the story of his temptation, his first crime, his desertion by friends, his despair ; when she alone sought him out with medicine for the body, and healing words, yet more precious, for the prostrate soul, and by her faithfulness he was healed and saved. OF MARY M. CHASE. XXV CHAPTER V COMBINATION OF INTELLECTUAL AND PRACTICAL GENIUS. The reader, by this time, can hardly fail to have noted the feature of Mary Chase's character, or rather the characterizing form in which it was moulded, which constituted its marked excellence. I mean the rare union of the executive and the practical with the sensi- tive and the poetical. Her writings illustrate the latter; the c daily beauty in her life ' evidenced the former. While so literary in taste and habit, she was as far removed from pedantry as any rosy-cheeked child. She was practical without being matter-of-fact, and poetical without being sentimental. She did not dwell in cloud-land or in dream-land, above or apart from the sympathies and duties of e very-day life. The pinion of her genius was strong, and at any time of choice, when the external might not claim attention, she could rise to the pure ether of thought and feeling. But the Real was not sacrificed to the Ideal ; indeed, as we have seen, it asserted an undue claim. But this was the result of circumstances beyond her control, and to which she yielded, not only with the apparent resigna- XXVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE tion which would satisfy the standard of most, but with the gladness of a hearty zeal. And these two distinct elements were not separated in daily doings. She was not wholly practical in the morning and exclusively poetical in the afternoon. She clothed work with such a cheerful light by her conversation, when employed with others, or by her own rich musings, when alone, that it was, so to speak, 4 transfigured.' Could not much be done by all women thus to make the household yoke rest more lightly, and transform what is now a drudgery into a source of hap- piness ? It was this combination of two elements generally esteemed incompatible, which forms the most note- worthy point of her character and life, more remark- able than either her poetical or practical genius regard- ed separately. Hence it resulted that her scope of objects and interests was unusually wide, and her sources of enjoyment and occupation were ever accu- mulated far beyond the power even of her rapid industry to exhaust. When prostrated by sickness, while teaching in Brooklyn, her spirit drooped some- what under the iron chain of bodily inactivity ; but it was not long ere the great lesson of submission was learnt, and it rose again with a buoyancy that disease could not wither. OF MARY M. CHASE. XXV11 CHAPTER VI. BIOGRAPHY. A brief biographical record of Mary Chase will not be inappropriate, although many incidents are por- trayed in her letters with an accuracy and vigor which another could not attain. She was born at her father's house in Chatham, Columbia County, New York, on the twelfth of Au- gust, 1822. Most of her early life was passed at home until she entered an advanced class in the Al- bany Female Academy in September, 1843, where she spent one year, and was graduated with the honor of the gold medal for Composition. Her intellectual tastes developed very early, and her abounding love of Nature seemed born with her. Her insight into the mysteries of that life of beauty, with which the Creator has surrounded us, was clear and deep, and the bond of union close and confiding. She had, what Carlyle styles as ' Nature's choicest gift, an open eye and heart.' The education of her parents was calculated to de- velop her mind in these directions. Her father writes as follows in a letter to a friend : — 4 Having from early youth been a fervent admirer XXVlil SKETCH OF THE LIFE of the Holy Scriptures, as also of the glories and beau- ties of the material creation, I was always desirous that my children's minds should be imbued with the same feeling, as it has constituted one of the chief enjoyments of my life ; and for that purpose I em- braced all the opportunities afforded me, from the pressing engagements of business, to point out these to them, and to impress on their minds the truth, that these were the works of an Almighty Power, whose glorious attributes they could in time more easily com- prehend. As Mary was my youngest, I had more opportunity to take her out with me into the fields and woods, from whence she could see the wide- spread landscape stretching far away to the blue hori- zon, dotted with villages and farm-houses, cleared fields teeming with their cereal burden, lofty hills whose tops were crowned with waving forests, and streams silently wending their way through the grassy meadows, or dashing down in roaring torrents from some mountain height. From these two sources she caught that inspiration which afterwards flowed in such graceful numbers from her prolific pen, and from hence she drew much of that beautiful imagery and those noble conceptions with which her writings so abound. 1 Mary's mother was one of those women who, never favored with what some esteem the essential advantages of town culture and the range of libraries, seemed gifted, direct from the lavish hand of Nature, with the 01* MARY M. CHASE. XXIX refined tastes, exquisite appreciations, and lofty as- pirings which finished education in literature and art claims as its exclusive privilege. She was a woman of beautiful expression and com- manding presence, and of a manner uniting gentleness with dignity, which invested her with a serene attrac- tiveness. Mary thus pictures her mother's love of flowers : 1 Sweet mother ! how precious to her were the com- monest flowers ! One pleasant June morning I joined the family circle at breakfast, for the first time in months ; how had our invalid mother's hand decorated the table ! A branch of blossomed sweet-brier lay by each plate, gemmed with dew. She had plucked them herself, walking falteringly, and leaning on her staff*. Her love of flowers never left her. All the summer long you might see every day some fragrant pink, or rose, or lily, nestled among the snowy folds of her kerchief, and her table never lacked a glass filled with the fairest that the garden and grove produced. Oh ! sweet mother ! they tell us that in " the land which no mortal may know," all former envies and affections are forgotten, that " the maid thinks not of her lover there, or the mother of her child," but I long to know whether among all thy old beautiful loves, this one does not remain.' The system of family education was somewhat pe- culiar. Punishment was rarely employed to secure obedience, yet a controlling influence was pervading XXX SKETCH OF THE LIFE like the air. Its principle was the power of love, untiring in its manifestations, and its appeals were to the conscience of the child ; while the love of Christ, and the all-seeing presence of God, were made living realities. Encouragement and approval for well-doing were preferred to reproof and blows for ill-doing. The training of Mary was culture, and its fostering influence developed individuality. Mary's poetical genius was early manifested. When she was eight years old, her teacher, residing in the family, discovered one of her poems on 4 The Three Days' Revolution in France,' which he deemed extra- ordinary, and with a pardonable zeal sent it to a city newspaper. When a copy came back, she detected her production in the i poet's corner,' flushed deeply, and burst into tears. For years after it was impossible to get a sight at her compositions, although she wrote much ; and this early piece cannot be found. The year at the Academy was a happy and profita- ble one. Her progress was striking, and her success even beyond the warm anticipations of her friends. During the years after graduation she spent much time with relatives in Albany, and through 1846 was pleasantly associated with a valued friend in the edit- ing of the * Monthly Rose,' a periodical published in connection with the Academy, for which she wrote much and well. From this time onward she published occasional articles of prose and poetry in leading mag- azines, which won attention and much commendation. OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXI Her published and unpublished prose writings would form a large and attractive volume. In 1845 she was awarded two gold medals by the 'Association of the Alumnse ' of Albany Female Acad- emy, for a prize ' Poem ' entitled ' The Visions of a Night,' and a prize ' Moral Tale,' entitled i Life in the Country.' In 1846 she received a gold medal from the same society for a prize ' Essay ' on 4 Flowers.' During the summer of 1849 she made a collection of most of the flowers growing in this region, com- prising some three hundred varieties, put up with skill and taste in three portfolios, and accompanied with descriptions of each, arranged in an essay of fifty pages. These were sent to the ' World's Exhibition,' at London, and returned with gratifying testimonials. In May, 1846, she was prevailed upon to take charge of the Department of Composition in the Brook- lyn Female Academy, under the direction of Mr. Crit- tenden, her former Principal at Albany. Before the close of the following winter, she was attacked with hemorrhage of the lungs, induced by over-exertion in teaching, which suddenly interrupted her labors. In early spring she was taken home, and the summer was spent in means of restoration, which happily proved successful. But she did not resume her labors in the Academy, except during the summer of 1851, when she supplied a temporary vacancy in the same Department. XXx'l'l SKETCH OF THE LIFE CHAPTER VII. THE TEACHER- Of Mary Chase as the teacher, I had no opportunity of personal judgment, but the earnest words of pupils and associates, lead to the conviction that she left a most happy and abiding impression. She engaged in her work with an artist's enthusiasm, which inspired a responsive glow in her classes. In devising methods to stimulate mind, and elicit individuality of thought, she was ingenious and successful, and the tasks imposed were original and varied. She gathered selections of English literature from reviews and books, as means of forming correct style ; repeated selections from old ballads ; wrote poetry to illustrate particular forms of the Art ; brought into full use her remarkable knowl- edge of history; and delivered a series of lectures, which contain excellent criticisms and practical direc- tions for study and writing, combined with forcible appeals to the highest considerations, calculated to inspire effort and courage. The depth of her religious nature was fully manifested in her intercourse with her pupils. Her labors were never confined to their mere scholastic advancement ; a holier work was ever before OF MARY M. CHASE. XXX111 her, as her heart went forth with strong affection to individuals of her charge ; it was her greatest joy to feel that she had been the means of leading more than one wanderer to Him who is the Light and the Life. Her pupils cannot read without emotion, the letter numbered XVI. The following is a brief extract from one of the lectures : ' In your writings keep close to the realities of life. Truth is stronger than fiction, and infinitely more lovely. Imagination is a priceless gift, yet, like the fire-spirit, it is a good servant but a bad master. It is enough for fancy if she be allowed to catch and hold up to the sun the crystal droppings of the robe of her who hideth at the bottom of a well, — pure, holy Truth ! It is not enough for you to place on my table an exquisitely tender and graceful essay on the Beautiful. You must note down its bearings on the great business of Life, and tell me of what use is this fine perception of Beauty Have a visi- ble aim in all your writings. You should think to the point, speak and act to the point, then write to the point When you go into the peaceful coun- try, and lie on the lap of Mother Earth under the forest trees, reflect that the moss beneath you is in every fibre a marvel, and no one can tell whence comes its seed, and that the tree against which you lean is the perfection of architecture, but none have seen the hand that fashioned its shaft and spread the vaulted arches of its boughs c XXXIV SKETCH OF THE LIFE c But one day more, and we shall part for this ses- sion. During my absence, I shall not cease to exert myself for you. Whatever I have of physical and mental energies I give to this work. Life is so very short, and there is so much to do ! Let us imitate those Who came from Chaldea's land A feeble few, To build with trembling hand Their halls anew. So with us should it be, While striving here, 'Mid foes we cannot see, Our shrine to rear. Girt with a trusty sword, Should we build on ; Faith in God's holy word And His dear Son.' It remains to speak of the last days of Mary's life. It will be a satisfaction to her friends to peruse the record of this deeply interesting summer in the words of her loved companion-brother. And I would em- brace this opportunity of paying my heartfelt tribute to his devotion to a sister's idolized memory, mani- fested during these weeks of our companionship in the labor of revision and selection. OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXV CHAPTER VIII. LAST DAYS, AN ACCOUNT PREPARED BY C. THURSTON CHASE. Ever, as the remembrance of the closing scenes of Mary's life steals over me, I seem to approach her bed- side, and placing a kiss upon her cheek, take her hand in mine, and strive to allay the darting pain and soothe the quickened nerves ; — the sister, with whom my in- fancy was nursed, the companion of my childhood, the participator in all my youthful joys, who was dear to me as the light that awakes the shrouded earth to gladness. But the privilege I enjoyed of being a few weeks constantly by her, has tended to remove the sting of death, that seemed at one time fixed in my heart. I came when her energies were much exhausted ; she leaned upon me with the confiding trust of childhood ; she called me ' her strength ; ' and at the last, when failing hopes no longer sustained the circle of attached friends, she exhorted me to be calm and cheerful. 1 Be strong,' she said, ' for I have now no other earthly strength.' Through the sunny days and long nights we talked together of the affairs of life and eternity with an earnestness and composure I cannot forget. XXXVI SKETCH OF THE LIFE As I recall our childhood, remembering how carefully she guarded against the many temptations of youth, and how trusting was her pure heart, I see that she early learned to love the God of the Universe, to con- fide in His promises, and to regard Him as an ever- present Deity. Although education cultivated her intellect and refined her taste, the silent inspiration of the field and forest was ever with her. She inves- tigated the deepest truths of religion with even more ardor than characterized her literary efforts. Her calm independence and earnestness of manner, united with her chastened language, told that there was a secret influence awakening her soul to the clearest per- ceptions of the beauties of the unseen as well as the visible world. The following remark, made to her father on the morning of her death, is appropriate in this connection : « Father, when I was a little fragile child, thee took me in thy arms and carried me out into the fields, and told me to look around and see what a good world God had made for little children ; and after that, I think I was not as before.' Mary was attached to the faith and mode of worship in which she had been educated, as expressed to her father on the day of her death. 'My father's people aiv my people, and his God my God.' Yet she was not the votary of any one religious sect. Her creed was as comprehensive as the Bible ; her leader, Christ. His abiding presence was the Light of her hope and the Strength of her confidence. Whether she listened to OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXvii the organ filling the vaulted roof, or sat in humble adoration among a band of silent worshippers, she sought that communion with the Saviour which alone can sanctify the spirit. The principles of Christianity were the light of her understanding, and the deep mys- teries of God were so revealed to her soul, that secta- rian differences appeared like barriers, shutting out one portion of true Christian life from intercourse with another; each sustaining, by its own exclusiveness, some portion of error. She often mentioned with regret that she had in- dulged in the common fault of sealing up so much of the deep workings of her heart. Though she had been accustomed to converse freely on religious sub- jects, yet she often said, ' Were I to live my life over again, I would be more outspoken in matters of the highest interest.' She felt that the time was steadily approaching when the masses would be more thorough- ly educated, and God electing from them, would pre- pare and qualify chosen instruments for His work. This is the 'royal priesthood' that the advancing spirit of the age demands. Then the bonds will be broken that suppress the fervent upwellings of the heart, and check the free expression of the noblest sentiments of our nature, till the glow of vital Chris- tianity is extinct, and individual action effectually crushed. But it should be understood that she had no sympathy with the extravagant illusions and fanati- cal notions that obtain. XXXVill SKETCH OF THE LIFE ' The death-bed 's a revealer of the heart.' In the depth and perfection of her meditations upon the relations of the present to the future life she tri- umphed over the grave. Death was to her the fulfill- ment of life, not its failure. In her own expressive words, It is not new, it is not strange, This sudden, mystic, mighty change ; To gain our life, not lose our life, Is the grand end of all this strife. The light of her cheerfulness and pleasantry per- vaded her sick room. Every visitor was greeted with cordial words, and the grief of endeared friends and relatives assuaged by fitting consolations. She pos- sessed such a fountain of feeling and buoyancy of spirits, and there was always so much of life about her, that when we knew her strength was fast wasting, we could hardly realize that she must shortly die. Wouldst thou, the friend of my angel sister, come with me to her bedside, and receive, as it were, once more her welcoming smile, and hear some of the precious words from out the volumes that she spoke to us, traced indelibly upon our memories, as through those silent Indian Summer days, she awaited in the serenity of a triumphant faith, the slow, but sure approach of the Destroyer ? Thou wilt come with quiet step, not to disturb the peacefulness of her repose, and with happy look, not to shadow the OF MARY M. CHASE. XXXIX indwelling ' peace which passeth all understanding.* Thou wilt meet in her cheerful room the watchful sister, who rarely left her side by day, and through the many long nights held the wasting hand in hers, to waken when she roused, and anticipate her varied wants ; the loving niece, also, who while ministering to her, often soothed her restlessness by the soft music of sacred hymns, alluring a sleep as sweet as that of childhood when visited by angels ; the welcome brother, too, come from far, who in the hour of dark- ness and temptation knelt by her, and prayed the Father to sustain his child. Those playful boys have come in to speak with her, for whom she had designed, she said, ' to write good books, which might be a mother's guide to them in their orphanage, and help to lead them in the way of life.' The gay canary, by the window, will trill for thee his cheerful notes, wont to waken, before the morning dawned, the sparrows on the poplar to join his lay. This is the Bible that she gave our father. ' The print is plain,' she said, ' and thee can read it when thy sight grows dim. Thee early taught me to love this book, and its teachings are my consolation now.' This tasteful volume, ' Light for the Aged,' in her own handwriting, contains a record of the pleasant thoughts she left for him to read, when passing down the dim declivity of life. x l SKETCH OF THE LIFE The Aged were her friends, — to them ' Her looks Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, Upon the "Winter of their age.' And she used to sit upon this cushioned stool, and looking up into their benignant eyes, talk with them of past experiences, and catch the glances that they had, by near approach, of their eternal home. It may be appropriate to insert here a letter of Mary's, just received from the intimate friend to whom it was written. My dear , After I left thee I had a hot ride, arriving at East Chatham excessively weary. As I left the cars the station keeper laid his hand on my shoulder, saying, 4 1 've another sort of scene for you ; there lies a Hud- son car on the dead body of a child. His parents are at the other depot, you'd better go down there.' I felt sick at the words, but divesting myself of my shawl, almost ran the quarter of a mile intervening. I arrived trembling and faint ; a crowd of people were there. The parents sat in the parlor among the loud talking of excited company, who could not, or dared not ap- proach them with consolation or assistance. The child was down at the track ; it was half an hour since the accident, and neither had shed a tear. I looked at the scene in dismay, but felt that my duty was clear. I stepped up to the shrieking mother, laid my hand OF MARY M. CHASE. xli upon the poor woman's head, and spoke out clearly and slowly, ' Mother ! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' She screamed, ' I had forgotten my God ! God forgive me ! ' And in an instant the tears were flowing like rain down from the eyes of each. ' That 's right,' said a coarse, but compassionate woman, ' I always like to see folks cry smartly when they're in trouble. It does 'em more good than anything else.' The crowd looked on, wondering what I would do. I did what you would have done, drew the young mother to my bosom, kissed her, made her feel that she was not wholly alone ; sent for a physician to bring some restorative for her, though she was not hurt, but over- come with nervous convulsions, sent for my brother, obtained another room for her with a bed, prevailed on the mother to be partially undressed, and got water to bathe her head ; the husband, meanwhile, pouring out mingled groans and entreaties to his wife to be calm, and thanks to me. I then spied blood on the father's linen overcoat. Dreading lest his wife should see it, I beckoned him out, took the coat away, and washed the terrible stain. I soon discovered more blood on his arm, and it was at last found that he was severely hurt in the shoulder, which was bleed- ing profusely. Just then the mother caught sight of A. carrying a coffin, and sprang up in the wildest frenzy, tearing her hair, striking herself, the wall, the furni- ture ; the husband was greatly affected, and tried in Xlii SKETCH OF THE LIFE vain to hold her. At length I summoned all my reso- lution, with a prayer for strength, and kneeling at the bed's foot as calmly as I could, prayed aloud : 4 Fa- ther in heaven, tender and merciful, who didst give thine only Son to die a lingering and tormenting death for us, I entreat thee to have compassion on these, thy suffering children, in their dark hour. Manifest Thyself, I implore thee, unto them as a Comforter and Healer of souls. Make these, my brother and sister through sorrow, to know that their precious darling is even at this veiy moment resting upon thy Divine bosom. Let thy presence fill this chamber of mourning. Be a friend to the friendless mourners, a physician to the broken-hearted, a shaft which shall not be broken, on which they may lean. Come, dear Father, who can- not be separated from the afflicted by distance or time, and gather them to thy breast with a strong upholding arm, and bear their burden of grief for them, and assure their souls that this sudden and awful parting is not forever, but that their child lives, and they will assuredly go to him, if they bide thy good time, and meet him where tears shall be wiped from all eyes.' The voice of prayer accomplished what that of affec- tion could not, and from that time they grew calmer. I thought of remaining until they left, but A. was alarmed at my paleness, and hurried me away. Tell me, dear , was I in the path of my duty ? Like the bereaved parents in Marion's Pilgrimage, the word 1 mother, to her sad heart found way.' I was almost OF MARY M. CHASE. xliii appalled at the idea of supplicating Heaven for them with my lips, which a moment before had been trifling with gay jests. I thought when the mother was lying in my arms, wringing her hands, and calling frantically for death, what was I, the plaything and mirth-maker of my friends, to become the comforter and stay of these afflicted ones. What a contrast to the scenes of the morning. Truly, Father, Thy ways are inscruta- ble ! We may thwart Thy purposes, but Thou will still make of us Thy instruments, though unworthy. May we become hallowed by the using ! About two weeks before her death, Mary asked me to tell her plainly what I thought of her recovery, and perceiving by my reply that I was less hopeful than I had been, she made numerous suggestions which she wished carried out, but closed by saying, ' Father may alter them at his pleasure, I want him to ; ' and then added, ' I have reviewed my past life with great care, since I have been confined here, and have felt, as in former sicknesses, that I was in my Maker's hands, and have tried to be ready. There is yet much I had intended to do, — many plans to perfect and exe- cute for the good of others ; but I feel that the imper- fect life ' that I have lived shall be perfected, and all I have ever learned will yet be called in action ; and all the good I have ever known, will not be quiescent, in the glorious world to which I am going.' On one occasion, turning to her mourning friends, xliv SKETCH OF THE LIFE she said, ' Do not grieve for me, remember the Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in his wings, and I shall only pass to everlasting bliss. Then shall be perfected the gifts God has given me, and which I have striven somewhat to improve.' After conversing freely with her sisters on house- hold affairs, and making many pertinent suggestions within a week of her death, she said to them, 4 It may seem strange to you, that, at such an hour, I interest myself in these matters ; but you will miss me when I am gone, and I feel it my duty to assist you, by my counsel, while I stay ; for my work is all done.' When speaking of the wrongs she had sometimes suffered, she would thus express herself: ' They were not much, when 1 thought of the end of all things, and the tears they brought were healthful. I forgive, — when I forgive, I feel that I am forgiven.' After reading aloud, at her request, a favorite chap- ter from c Holy Dying,' as the morning light was dawning, on the day of her death, the third of eleventh month, 1852, she referred me to her pencilings upon the margin of the book. These were among them : 4 Oh, Immortality ! if the sages of old, in the dim light of nature, beheld thee afar off; if, out of the agonizing necessities of their hearts, there rose up a piercing cry for Life Eternal ; if their mighty souls were sustained by the faith of an Hereafter, which neither priest nor book had taught them, — shall not I hold fast my hope in Thee, live for Thee, die to Thee ? ' OF MARY M. CHASE. xlv 1 Though sometimes bowed in sorrow, I have striven to go rejoicing on my way. I serve the Father best when I am glad. ' I do not fear to die ! Through the dark valley of the shades of death I've passed already, with convulsive breath Of agony. « Oh, soul ! thy faith hold fast ! Let friendship wither, and let love depart ; But this strong anchor of the shipwrecked heart Shall save at last.' 'I have gazed o'er the grave at the glorious portals, Light-streaming, song-thrilling, which opened afar, And I felt that, to enter that land of immortals Was worth all life's struggles and losses and war.' About nine o'clock in the morning she requested the family, friends, and domestics to be called in, that she might take leave of them. ' For,' she added,' « 1 have endeavored to be prepared for every emergency in life, and I would have nothing to do, but to follow, when the good Master calls.' In that holy hour were many absent friends brought to remembrance, and parting words of tenderness left for them. Feeling much exhausted, and being sensible that the close of life was near, she spoke to the family physician : ' Doctor, take my pulse and tell me how long thee thinks I will live. One hour ? two hours ? how long ? ' ' You may live several hours,' was the Xlvi SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF MARY M. CHASE. reply. ' I will try to wait patiently the Lord's coming, but now I long to be with my Heavenly Father. Do not think, doctor, that I do not consider this a beautiful world ; it is a glorious world. It is a world of God's own making, and He pronounced it good, and every tree that beareth good fruit will be transplanted into His own Heavenly Kingdom. Thee knows, doctor, what I mean. All who love God, and work righteous- ness, shall be accepted of Him.' As her breath grew feebler, and her voice became low and tremulous, she beckoned for a sister's ear, and whispered in it, ' I cannot bid father — farewell ; my love — for him is so strong, — I fear my trust — in my Heavenly Father — might be momentarily — shaken. Bid him farewell — for me. Give him — a parting kiss.' Then, before the full-fledged pinion of her youth was wearied, or her clear eye dimmed, Mary exclaimed in full tones of assurance and almost triumphant exul- tation, 4 Father ! my feet are established on the Rock of Ages ! ' And as the prospect of Infinite Beatitude unfolded to her view, she uttered her last words, 'Lord Jesus! Come ! ' Two days after, we laid her remains under the old arm tree, near her home, consonant with her request, and inscribed upon the head-stone, Mary's Grave. POETEY. THE INDIAN SUMMER. Lo ! the blessed Indian Summer visiteth the earth once more, Spreads her violet-tinted pinions all the golden landscape o'er, Shutting out the golden heavens, that have blazed above our eyes, Like the flaming sword that guarded once the gates of Paradise, 1 2 THE INDIAN SUMMER. Came the Spring, with flying footstep, up the darkly wooded hill, Wakening with a thrilling whisper all the echoes sleeping still, — Wakening with a thrilling whisper echoes slum- bering in the heart, With a sudden palpitation and a trembling, causeless start. Came the Summer, like a Victor, on a car of glory borne, With a thunder-roll at even and a clarion-blast at morn, And a wild illumination, lighting up the living air, Till our temples throbbed with fever, and we fainted 'neath its glare. « THE INDIAN SUMMER. 6 Then the Indian Summer floated toward us from the spirit shore, Stoled in trailing azure vestments, such as Gre- cian mourners wore ; On her lip one shadowy finger, and a censer in her hand, Whence a wreathing cloud of incense rose, and curtained all the land. Oh, thou quiet Indian Summer! brooding over stream and hill, I would thank thee for thy mission, bidding all the earth be still ; In thy hush the Autumn flowers stand together pale and mild, Helianthus in the hedgerows, purple aster in the wild. 4 THE INDIAN SUMMER. And the busy, bustling creatures that amid the greenwood be, The brown marmot in the bushes, and the squir- rel on the tree, Silent, gather in their harvests, and no more upon the wind Comes the whistling and the singing of the soul- less feathered kind. They have satisfied their being, and they ask for nothing more ; But the restless, wayward spirit turns its memo- ries o'er and o'er, Self-accusing, self-condemning, in its human dis- content, For the early Spring-time wasted, for the Sum- mer days misspent. THE INDIAN SUMMER. O Lo ! the earth hath grown repentant, and amid the holy calm Goeth up her Miserere, her low, penitential psalm ; And with ashes on her forehead, where the roses lately pressed, Hears the mass for the departed, whom she cher- ished on her breast. I am standing in the forest — in the sunny forest glade ; All around the drooping branches cast a steady, moveless shade ; Far beneath the dim wood-arches the eternal shadows sleep, Only o'er this little hillock doth the quiet sun- beams creep. 6 THE INDIAN SUMMER. Earth ! a loving, world-worn daughter comes, to lie upon thy knee, Mother Earth, alas ! there is none other now to cherish me ; I am lost and I am lonely, like a birdling from its nest ; Back I come, with failing pinion, — silent Mother, let me rest ! Lo ! thy cheek is cool and pulseless, — here, beneath the violet sky That seems stooping to embrace me, it is happi- ness to lie : How the low winds softly murmur out their pity as they pass O'er this lovely woodland hillock, toying with its vines and grass. THE INDIAN SUMMER. 7 Yonder tall fantastic chestnut — how I watched it long ago, When into those uncouth figures its long arms began to grow ; Thence I brought my moss and pebbles, and beneath this old oak's shade, With a store of burnished acorns childish Babel- structures made. Gazed with wonder at the heavens, traced with curious eye the cloud, Heard the strange prolonged vibration of the pine-tree swelling loud, Till I dropt my pretty mosses, and stood up with awe to hear The invisible musician pealing out his anthem near. 8 THE INDIAN SUMMER. Then I came with classic pages, heavy tomes for childish hands, Read them here with wild romances from his toric eastern lands, Till Dodona's sacred voices seemed to people all the wood ; Piping Fawns and Hamadryads in the shadows round me stood. Oft I came with bounding footsteps that befitted happy years, Came with mirth, but stayed in sadness, came with laughter, left in tears, — For a sudden inspiration trembled on my pallid lips, And before me stood revealed Nature's great Apocalypse. THE INDIAN SUMMER. 9 The unheard found solemn utterance, the invisi- ble was seen, And a hundred radiant pinions flashed the an- cient trees between ; In that hour all former memories left the spirit undefiled, And a temple was the forest, and a priestess was the child. Thus my youthful soul was nourished, and the forest, day by day, With the beckoning of its branches called me to its depths away ; Now with bowed and languid spirit back I come from fruitless quest, I have loved and I have trusted — silent Mother, let me rest. 10 THE INDIAN SUMMER. Heavy head and throbbing bosom, burning cheek and shadowed eye, Nature's balm shall be your healing while with- in this wood I lie. Down amid yon sheltered dingle what a saintly silence sleeps, Sweetly through the bending branches the undy- ing music sweeps. But the heavy shadows deepen, while around the towering pines, Wreathing mist from off the meadows slowly creeping up entwines, And the evening wind arises, sweeping through the arches dim, With a solemn intonation sounding forth its mighty hymn. THE INDIAN SUMMER 11 Voices call me at the sunset, silvery murmurs come and go, Through the crimson clouds of even flickering faces on me glow, Strange mysterious echoes answer, memories haunt me like a dream, And like unsubstantial visions real words and actions seem. Still I linger — silent Mother! on thy lap I yet must lie, Till the lamps that watch thy slumber are all lighted in the sky, Till the gems thou nightly wearest glisten on thy holy breast — I have loved and I have trusted — Goddess Mother, let me rest ! FLORAL. HOW SHALL I THINK OF THEE ? How shall I think of thee ? And which of these, thy flowers, Shall be the token meet, To bring remembrance sweet Of thee, in coming hours ? Not by the Vervain's lip Of velvet, and its hue Of scarlet, colors gay That shine then pass away, Shall I bring thee to view. Not by Geranium tall, Of fifty odors proud, Stolen from rose and balm, — Listening with haughty calm The praises of the crowd. 16 HOW SHALL I THINK OF THEE? The Trefoil, full of grace, Bending with lightsome touch, Iberia's tuft of snow, The Violet's purple glow, — I '11 think of thee by suchi By Gillia's vase of pearl, By all that nameless band. Of tiny cups and bells, Which of thy goodness tells, "While there they stand. Yes — by all lovely things That I possess or see, — - By sunshine and perfume, — By Summer's lavish bloom, — Will I remember thee. 17 SOUTHERNWOOD. Sweet flowers to-day were given me, the lily and the rose, The violet and the mignionette, the sweetest flower that blows ; But for one tuft of green the midst, I prized it all the more, — A branch from that low fragrant shrub that grows beside our door. 18 SOUTHERNWOOD. I used to pluck it oft for her, the mother of my youth, She said it was an emblem of God's undying Truth : For when the other plants were sere, then flour- ished all the more, That lowly shrub of Southernwood that bloomed beside our door. 'Twas in the early days of Spring the grass began to rise, The pale Veronicas looked up with their blue saintly eyes ; I went among the woods for flowers, I sought the meadows o'er, Nor thought of that sweet Southernwood that grows beside our door. SOUTHERNWOOD. 19 From straying long through wood and field I slowly homeward drew, My mother's bended form I spied, her locks of silvery hue ; With faltering step she slowly walked, and in her hand she bore A fragrant branch of Southernwood that grows beside our door. From that warm eve she never felt again the blessed sun ; Three mournful days we watched her pulse till its last beat was done, — And for her sake, I now shall prize a thousand times the more, That lowly shrub of Southernwood that grows beside our door. 20 A FEW GREEN LEAVES. A few green leaves ! the last sad remnant of The gorgeous Summer's gay and glittering show ! A few green leaves — they 're all stern Winter grants : Yet these are fragrant, and they speak as well To the observing mind of nature's God, As the more glowing tints of rainbow flowers : Then take them kindly, take them with the love Of one who fain had made them gold and pearl. 21 WITH A BOUQUET. Go ! humble little blossoms, To one I love full well, And of all pleasant things, Such as the wild bird sings, Unto her spirit tell Ye little starry flowers, Which on a far-off shore Have raised your modest heads Above the garden beds, Bid her be glad once more ! 22 FRAZER'S TREE. Green wave thy boughs above the pleasant meadow, Soft the wind whispers through the trembling leaves, The grass untrampled grows beneath thy shadow, And yonder slope displays the harvest sheaves. Not thus that day when with prolonged vibration The hills gave echo to the cannon's roar, As the great heart of the long outraged nation Burst with its throbbings the iron bands it wore. frazer's tree. ^3 As well the reed might stem the mountain tor- rent, As well the rush hedge in the panther strong, As well the leaf might turn the ocean current, As England clasp again the chain of wrong. Woe, for the true men with the recreant blended! No time was there for charity of choice ; In one vast storm the hail of death descended, And pity wept not, mercy found no voice. Prone at thy base, among the sorely wounded That lay unconscious of the battle's yell, By faces steeled to deadly work surrounded, A shining mark, the gallant Frazer fell! Although enrolled among the hated foemen, His name shone ever as a pure, bright star, And sorrow moved those stern and rugged yeo- men, That such should be the cruel hap of war. 24 frazer's tree. Wave on, green tree ! above the field of slaugh- ter, Living memorial of the noble dead, The priceless blood that drenched thy roots like water, In that dread hour, was not all vainly shed. For Freedom's light from that dark moment dawning, Will yet in rich effulgence bathe the world ; When Freedom's champions, in that glorious morning, Will hail in every clime its flag unfurled 25 TRAILING ARBUTUS. A strange guest in the city, Thou of the silent wood, I look on thee with pity, Far from thy solitude ; For I, a woodland ranger, May feel for hap like thine, Like thee, a lonely stranger, Forest vine. We pine for the small bird's singing That went up every morn, A daily blessing bringing To the woods where thou wast born ; 26 TRAILING ARBUTUS. The drifted snow is lying On that mossy bed of thine, And there 's a voice of sighing, Forest vine. Thou hast seen the tempest gather Upon the beetling rock, And earth and skies together Grow dark before the shock, But in thy prison dwelling There comes no tempest sign, Though wild woods round are swelling, Forest vine. We have seen the lightning shiver The storm defying oak, ind the greenwood monarchs quiver As they dared the deadly stroke ; TRAILING ARBUTUS. 27 No more of nature's glory We see in her high shrine, Ours is a short, sad story, Forest vine. We pine for the blessed coming Of sunshine and of dew — The wild bee's restless humming, The Summer harvest through : We pine for the tearless morrow That blest thy hope and mine, 'Tis darkened now with sorrow, Forest vine. And since we took our pleasure Once 'mid the trees and flowers, We prize no other treasure, No other joy is ours ; 28 TRAILING ARBUTUS. Oh, for the forest-chancel! Oh, for the free sunshine ! Our bond of love to cancel, Forest vine. Not ours the fettered spirit That calmly brooks the chain ; We 're drooping to inherit A free, wild life again : But oh! in vain we've striven, In vain we withering pine, The bond may not be riven ! Forest vine. 29 THE AUTUMN VIOLET. In the far-off woods, where the wild winds dwell, Deep in the shade is a narrow dell ; Deep in the shade, with a rock wall wide, Mounting to heaven on either side, With mossy drapery hung. Sunshine ne'er fell on that curtain of green, Though fair as the verdure of Eden, I ween, And long slight fern leaves wave to and fro, As the mountain breezes come and go, Like elfin banners swung. 30 THE AUTUMN VIOLET. Drop by drop, like a steady tread, From the thousand fissures overhead, Tiny fountains come plashing down On the pavement stones, and their mossy crowns Their perfect greenness keep. And the drooping boughs of the hemlocks sway Over the dell, by night and day ; There, never comes the Summer bird, The voice of music is never heard To break its holy sleep. There, when the Spring-time breezes blew, Blossomed a flower of delicate hue, A sweet, low Violet with tender leaves, Gemmed by the drops of the rocky eaves With fragrant scented breath. THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 31 Other flowers, when the Summer passed, Shrivelled and danced on the sudden blast ; The spikenard leaned from the shadowed rift, With the weight of fruit it might not lift, But the Violet knew not death. There it blossomed — that maiden flower, — Holy and pure in its secret bower, And its faint young buds rose up in strength, While its trailing stem had a triple length, And a flush lay on its cheek. Saintly relic of vanished Spring, The golden rod was blossoming Over its head, and asters shook Their leaves in many a meadow nook, And the sparrow's song grew weak. 32 THE AUTUMN VIOLET. For the Summer days were hastening by, The cardinal-flower and the dragon-fly Together flashed by the failing stream, And the cricket sang in the starlight gleam Its pretty harvest song. ' T were idle to tell of the soft, low note That seemed from that eremite flower to float, Wordless, voiceless, but oh ! a strain The listener lingered to hear again With a painful yearning strong. She lingered, the listener, long and still. In that damp, cold seam of the ancient hill ; And never a sound her ear so filled, And never a lesson her soul so thrilled, As the lesson she learned that hour. THE AUTUMN VIOLET. 33 She trembled and sorrowed, that hearts so few The wonderful speech of the forest knew, Then comforted, stole from the silent glen, Bringing with her to the haunts of men The memory of that flower. 34 YELLOW ROSES. Golden roses! royal roses! flaming in the fervid noon, Ye are precious gifts flung to us from the lavish lap of June ; Winds around you linger sighing, 'neath your branches we behold That the earth is wooed like Danae, in a shower of dropping gold. Thus in Summers long departed, your uprising, glorious band, Blossomed for a stately presence, clustered for a gentle hand ; YELLOW ROSES. 35 I beheld her standing queenly, and your branches all around Did her homage, casting lowly their bright crowns upon the ground, And her soft, brown eyes with pleasure looked upon your sudden wealth — Hazel eyes of lustrous beauty, cheeks with flush of perfect health. Summers few were quickly numbered, and when now your blooming came, She that bore the stately presence stood among you not the same, For a rapid touch of silver had inlaid her chest- nut hair, And she walked, with heavy leaning on her staff, to breathe the air ; Yet there shone the same mild pleasure in her eyes, when she did fold In her plaited kerchiefs whiteness, your rich blossoms, as of old ; 36 YELLOW ROSES. Ever bloomed ye at her birthday, and we learned to love you more Than the crowd of crimson roses clustering round our humble door. Once more hath that day dawned on us, but the staff is now laid by, And the kerchiefs folds are breaking, in the chest where it doth lie, And the silvered hair is mingling slowly with the common earth, Yet I feel my mother's presence on this morning of her birth, Calmly teaching, sanctifying, this too fervent heart of mine, And expelling vain excitements that despoil its heaven-lit shrine. Mother ! if I could forget thee through the whole year without thought, YELLOW ROSES. 37 By the blooming of thy roses would thy memory back be brought ; Were I grown so hard and cruel that I wept not for a year, I could not behold these blossoms with an eye that shed no tear. 38 THE FLOWER GIFT. There is a little maiden, Of modest mien and face, And often does she bring to me, A weary stranger though I be, Sweet flowers, with sweeter grace ; Roses and fresh geraniums, And snowy fever-few, And crimson tassel-flowers that blow On slender foot-stalks to and fro, And flowers of every hue ; THE FLOWER GIFT. 39 I see them in my chamber, I watch them till they fade : Oh ! many a blessed thought of home To me, hath with these blossoms come, And happy moments made ! Of my own rustic garden, The flowers I planted there, Sweet-smelling flowers, — the fragrant pea, The balm that tempts the honey-bee, From his w r ild fields of air. I bless that little maiden, With her eyes so bright and mild, And pray that she may never know An hour without a happy glow : She is a darling child. VISIONS OF A NIGHT VISIONS OF A NIGHT. From the unfathomed realm above, The holy stars looked down, Encircling the dark brow of night With an eternal crown. In their pure light the still earth lay, And wandering night winds made A pleasant music, as afar Amid the hush they strayed ; They woke wild echoes in the wood And by the gushing rills, And danced in very playfulness Upon the ancient hills. Lulled by their voice, upon her couch A weary sleeper lay, Forgetful of the changeful scenes That shared the busy day. 44 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. She slept, but ever through her sleep The wind's soft murmur stole, And woke sweet dreams of life and light In the unslumbering soul. Rare visions of a glorious land Went ever sweeping by, And spirit dancers came and went, Like streamers through the sky. The veil that covers human sight Seemed parted to her view, And fragments of bright scenes within Were ever glancing through. She knew, although she slept, the hum Of insect life arose From grassy mead, from lily cup, From heart of blushing rose. She knew the shining stars had paled The moon's rich light before, Which clear and white as snow-flakes lay Upon the chamber floor. VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 45 She felt the warm and balmy breath, Of Summer's incense flowers, Creep through her casement, sweeter far Than in the noon-tide hours. The sleeper's heart was filled with joy, And, as in childhood's day, From her closed eyes the tear-drops stole And on her pillow lay. And yet as 'twere another life Its sense had o'er her cast; She saw each burning form of light Flit like a meteor past. Again the mystic veil was closed, Dimmed was each glowing scene, And but the moonlight lay where those Angelic ones had been. The night sped on, the wind stole by, Then music rich and rare, Such as a zephyr never woke, Came floating through the air. 46 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. It rose and fell as silvery soft As where the ocean-chime Goes from the choral-ledges up In some Pacific clime. It died away in cadence low, All, all around was still, The night wind crept with noiseless foot Along the dark-browed hill: And as it glided forth afar, Like lapsing waters slow, The spirit of the sleeper too Seemed thus with it to go. She saw the moonlight on the floor, She heard the cricket near, But 'twas not with the spirit-eye, Nor with the spirit-ear. For lo ! once more the veil was rent ; A burst of glory filled The quivering air, and music proud The shadowy drapery thrilled. VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 47 Then came those glorious forms of light, Upborne on glancing wings, Enrobed with clouds of rose and gold, Such as the sunset brings. Bright garlands, gemmed with fadeless flowers, Decked every radiant head, And balmy as Arabia's groves, Their fragrant odors shed. Then over all the music swelled Till night's vast arches stirred, And with clasped hands and beating heart. The raptured sleeper heard. We came through the hours of night "With pinion and footstep free, Watching till dawn of light, Sleeper! for thee. Hushed is the sky above, Hushed is the earth and sea ; 48 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. Yet breathing a song of love, Sleeper ! for thee. Hushed is the Summer rill, Hushed is the leaf-clothed tree ; Silent they rest and still, Sleeper ! for thee. Gleams of a world of bliss, Such as the soul may see, We bring through the gloom of this, Sleeper! for thee. Garlands of precious flowers, With us that blossomed be, We have culled in the midnight hours, Sleeper! for thee. Not as a vanished dream, Away with the dawn we flee ; We walk in the sunlight's gleam, Sleeper! for thee. VISIONS OF A NIGHT. 49 Resteth the heart of fear ; Waketh the heart of glee ; Dried is the sorrowing tear, Sleeper! for thee. Thanks to the God above! Lord of the earth and sea ! For He sendeth a mission of love, Sleeper! to thee. The strain was hushed, the morning wind Across the low couch crept; And with a peal of melody Afar the pageant swept. The maiden woke to morning light, But through the live-long day Those heavenly visions of the night, Were by her side alway. The shades of evening came anon ; Again she sweetly slept; 4 50 VISIONS OF A NIGHT. Once more bright visions round her couch Their welcome vigils kept ; Again the angelic song went up, Now tremulous and low, Now wildly joyous as the sounds Of mountain waters' flow. Oh ! blessed is this life of ours, When unto us is given Throughout the day, throughout the night, To walk with forms from Heaven! SONGS. THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. Sing a song, a song of triumph, For the advent of the Spring ; She hath quelled the mailed warriors Of the haughty Northern king : She hath burst his thousand strongholds, She hath set the captives free, And the shout of their rejoicing Bursteth forth from land and sea : How it shakes the hoary king in his retreating! 54 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. Sing a song, a song of triumph, For the advent of the Spring ; She hath called the hills from slumber By the waving of her wing ; For the snow-wreaths of the valley- Rise the apple-blossoms white ; Creeps the grass along the meadow, Where the frost hath taken flight ; And the forest's heart responsively is beating. Oh the Forest ! the proud Forest ! How his mighty heart was shaken, When he felt his stately branches By the Winter winds o'ertaken ! How they moaned and tossed forever, Like a troubled midnight sea ! Sing a song, a song of triumph, For the Spring hath set them free, And the shrieking winds of Winter cower before her. THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 55 Oh the Leaves, the Leaves of beauty ! They are starting from their night, — They are quickened into music, They are bursting into light ; Cold and dark as graves beneath them, They were locked in shadows deep : Sing a song, a song of triumph, That the Spring hath stirred their sleep, And the leafless boughs are wakened to adore her. Down the breezy wood-paths glisten Thousand starry living things, And the cloudless blue is shaded By the rush of coming wings ; For the birds have heard the summons, Over land and over sea ; They have come to swell the triumph With their songs of merry glee, — With their songs that leave no dark remembrance after. 56 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. Down the hill-slope through the meadow, By the woodland in their play, Leap the bright unfettered waters On their green and winding way : Spring hath loosed them from their thraldom, She hath broken every chain ; And they look forth in their freedom To the heaven's light again : And the sunny greenwood ringeth with their laughter. Ah, the Dead ! we miss their voices From the glad triumphal strain ; And we seek them in the sunlight, But we find them not again : Little heed they that the waters Are awaking from their night; That the rich blue sky above us Is so joyous in its light; Or that Spring hath made the wild-wood places glorious. THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 57 We are longing for their voices, For their music mid the flowers ; But they swell the song of rapture In a fairer clime than ours : They are on the nightless meadows, They are by the living springs, They are crowned with deathless beauty, They are conquerors and kings, And they triumph o'er the Grave and Death victorious ! 58 BIRTHDAY CAROL. Cousin dear, I bring thee Here a simple song — Fashioned for thy birthday, Neither proud, nor long. Just a heartfelt wishing, That this day may be, As a blessed omen Of thy life, to thee. Down thy coming future May the sunlight sweep, All along thy pathway May no shadows sleep. BIRTHDAY CAROL. 59 Like the wind's wild blowing, Fetterless and free, May thy spirit's yearning Through life's journey be. Hoping is but idle, — Wishing is but vain, — Yet 'tis all I bring thee With my simple strain. And when wealth and honors Round thee proudly glow, Think that cousin Mary Wished it might be so. 60 CHRISTMAS CAROL. Blessed day ! happy day ! Welcome to the earth alway ! Brighter glow the eastern skies, Brighter glow the awakening eyes, And a heart-song riseth clear, Heard by listening spirit-ear, Welcoming the glorious morn When the Saviour babe was born. Blessed day ! happy day ! Welcome to the earth alway ! Saileth on the golden cloud, Ringeth childhood's laughter loud, CHRISTMAS CAROL. 61 Mountain winds in silence sleeping, Mourning hearts a vigil keeping, All the heavens, all the earth, Soothing sorrow, waking mirth. Blessed day ! happy day ! Welcome to the earth alway ! Kindly word and pleasant greeting, Tearless parting, joyous meeting, Come to each and every one Whom thy bright sun looks upon, Welcoming the glorious morn When the Saviour babe was born. 62 THOU AND I. We have loved each other long, Thou and I, And our love has flowed along Like a pleasant murmuring song, Like a spring with no decay, As we travelled the same way ; Thou and I. We have watched each other's eyes, Thou and I, With full-brimming sympathies, THOU AND I. 63 When the low dull clouds that rise In the Autumn of the soul, Gloomy draperies round it roll ; Thou and I. Each, the hand laid in the other's, Thou and I, Each, the other's care discovers, When a shadow o'er us hovers, Sharing pillow, book, and hearth, Sharing sorrow, sharing mirth ; Thou and I. How long shall our loving last ? Thou and I : Will there come no passion-blast Blight and death on it to cast ? Lip and eye by smile deserted ? Lip and eye for aye averted? Thou and I. 64 THOU AND I. How long shall our loving be ? Thou and I. Thou, by wishing, swaying me, I, by striving, pleasing thee, — Oh ! like some deep, silent river, It shall flow forever, ever : Thou and I. 65 SONG FOR DECEMBER. The stars were everywhere, The wailing night-winds hushed, When through the cloven air A sudden pinion rushed ;