1VER 
 
 .(71^
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 
 
 COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 
 
 BY HER MOTHER: 
 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHY, 
 
 MISS SEDGWICK. 
 
 " Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
 
 Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
 Slit- pve a ti rir I'm those wiie loved 
 Theu met him wuh a smile " 
 
 A NEW EDITION. REVISED. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON. AND COMPANY. 
 
 NEW YORK : J. C. DERBY. 
 1855. 
 
 626796
 
 Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1841, by 
 LEA & BLANCHARD, 
 
 In the office of the clerk of the District Court of the Eastern District 
 of Pennsylvania.
 
 2)8 A/ f 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 DEDICATION 17 
 
 BIOGRAPHY 25 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 79 
 
 Address to my Muse 83 
 
 Amir Khan 99 
 
 Chicomico 100 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 121 
 
 Charity 123 
 
 To Science 123 
 
 Pleasure 124 
 
 The Good Shepherd 124 
 
 Lines, written under the promise of Reward 125 
 
 To the Memory of H. K. White 126 
 
 Stilling the Waves 126 
 
 A Song, in imitation of the Scotch 127 
 
 Exit from Egyptian Bondage 128 
 
 Last Flower of the Garden 129 
 
 Ode to Fancy 130 
 
 The Blush 131 
 
 On an ^Eolian Harp 132 
 
 The Coquette 133 
 
 Death of an Infant 134 
 
 Reflections on Crossing Lake Champlain 135 
 
 The Star of Liberty 136 
 
 1 * (13)
 
 tlv CONTENTS. 
 
 The Mermaid 137 
 
 On Solitude .' 138 
 
 On the Birth of a Sister 139 
 
 A Dream 139 
 
 To my Sister 141 
 
 Cupid's Bower 142 
 
 The Family Time-Piece 143 
 
 On the Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots 145 
 
 The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah 146 
 
 Ruth's Answer to Naomi 148 
 
 David and Jonathan 148 
 
 The S'ick Bed 149 
 
 Death 150 
 
 To my Mother 150 
 
 Sabrina, a Volcanic Island, which appeared and disappeared 
 
 among the Azores, in 1811 151 
 
 The Prophecy 152 
 
 Prophecy II 154 
 
 Prophecy III 155 
 
 Byron 156 
 
 Feats of Death 156 
 
 Auction Extraordinary 158 
 
 The Bachelor 159 
 
 The Guardian Angel 160 
 
 On the Crew of a Vessel who were found Dead at Sea . . . 161 
 
 Woman's Love 163 
 
 To a Lady, whose singing resembled that of an absent Sister 164 
 
 To my Friend and Patron, M K , Esq 165 
 
 On seeing a Picture of the Virgin Mary, painted several 
 
 centuries since 166 
 
 American Poetry 168 
 
 Headache 169 
 
 To a Star 169 
 
 Song of Victory for the Death of Goliath 170 
 
 The Indian Chief and Conconay 171 
 
 The Mother's Lament for her Infant 174
 
 CONTENTS. XV 
 
 On the Motto of a Seal 175 
 
 Morning 176 
 
 Shakspeare 177 
 
 To a Friend 177 
 
 The Fear of Madness 178 
 
 Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico 179 
 
 America 187 
 
 Lines addressed to a Cousin 189 
 
 Modesty 190 
 
 A View of Death 190 
 
 Rob Roy's reply to Francis Osbaldistone 191 
 
 To a Lady recovering from Sickness 192 
 
 The Vision 192 
 
 On seeing, at a Concert, the public performance of a Fe 
 male Dwarf 195 
 
 On seeing a young Lady at her Devotions 196 
 
 Alonzo and Imanel 197 
 
 To Margaret's Eye 199 
 
 To a young Lady, whose Mother was Insane from her Birth 199 
 
 Song, tune Mrs. Robinson's Farewell 201 
 
 Song 202 
 
 Twilight 202 
 
 On the Death of Queen Caroline 203 
 
 On the Death of the beautiful Mrs. 204 
 
 The White Maid of the Rock 205 
 
 The Wee Flower of the Heather 206 
 
 To my Dear Mother in Sickness 207 
 
 An Acrostic (Moon, Sun) 208 
 
 Habakkuk 3d, 6th 208 
 
 On reading a fragment called the Flower of the Forest . . . 209 
 
 Zante 209 
 
 The Yellow Fever 212 
 
 Kindar Burial Service Versified 2L3 
 
 The Grave 214 
 
 Ruins of Palmyra 214 
 
 The Wide World is Drear . . . 215
 
 Xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 Farewell to Miss E. B 216 
 
 The Army of Israel at the foot of Mount Sinai 217 
 
 Garden of Gethsemane 218 
 
 The Tempest God 219 
 
 To a Departing Friend 219 
 
 The Parting of De Courcy and Wilhelmine 220 
 
 Love, Joy, and Pleasure, an allegory 225 
 
 My Lust Farewell to my Harp 228 
 
 SPECIMENS OF PROSE COMPOSITION 231 
 
 Columbus 233 
 
 Alphonso in Search of Learning 235 
 
 Sensibility 240 
 
 The Holy Writings 241 
 
 Charity 243 
 
 Remarks on the Immorality of the Stage 244 
 
 Contemplation of the Heavens 245 
 
 The Origin of Chivalry 247
 
 DEDICATION, 
 
 TO 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQUIRE. 
 
 DEAR SIR : 
 
 Since the publication of my daughter Margaret's 
 Poems, I have been solicited to revive the writings 
 of my lamented Lucretia. The public has mani 
 fested so much interest, and expressed such unquali 
 fied admiration of their merits, and so much forbear 
 ance in criticising the errors of these juvenile pro 
 ductions, that I feel myself, in a measure, bound to 
 comply with their wishes. As a testimony of my 
 grateful respect, will you permit me, sir, to dedicate 
 this little volume to you, with the sincere and united 
 thanks of my family, for the truly touching and ele 
 gant manner in which you have executed your vol 
 untary task. 
 
 I am called upon for a life of my Lucretia. Broken 
 as I am in health and spirits, I am not equal to the 
 effort ; but the kindness of Miss Sedgwick has obvi 
 ated that difficulty, and I am happy in being able 
 to substitute the following elegantly written memoir 
 from the pen of that highly gifted lady, which is in 
 corporated in Sparks's American Biography, for the 
 broken and unconnected narrative which a grief- 
 worn, and almost broken-hearted mother would have 
 produced 
 
 (17)
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 I have merely strength to slightly remark upon 
 the circumstances under which some few of her 
 poems were written ; and should the imperfect man 
 ner in which this little volume is " got up," form a 
 painful contrast to your elegant work, I trust an 
 indulgent and discriminating community will make 
 every allowance for its inefficiency. The forbear 
 ance, and even approbation in some instances, mani 
 fested by Mr. Southey, in his Review of her former 
 publication, to which Professor Morse prefixed a 
 brief sketch of her life, leads me to hope, that the 
 same indulgence will be granted to this little tribute 
 of maternal love ; a feeble monument of a mourning 
 mother to the talents and virtues of a dai'ling child. 
 
 I have felt much diffidence in presenting these 
 manuscripts to the public, in their present imperfect 
 and unfinished state; but the circumstances under 
 which many of them were written, condemned and 
 partly destroyed by herself, as if unworthy to hold 
 a place among her papers, her extreme youth and 
 loveliness, and the melancholy fact of her dying be 
 fore she had time to complete others, will, I trust, 
 make them not less interesting to the reader of taste 
 and feeling. 
 
 The allegory of Alphonso in search of Learn 
 ing," was written at the age of eleven. It was sug 
 gested to her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected 
 upon the Plattsburgh Academy, upon which was 
 painted the Temple of Science. 
 
 The poem of "Chicomico" was written after a 
 severe illness, which confined me manv months to
 
 DEDICATION. XIX 
 
 rtiy bed, during which time Lucretia made a resolu 
 tion that if I ever should recover, she would give up 
 her " scribbling," as she called it, and devote herself 
 to me ; at my earnest entreaty, however, she resumed 
 her pen, and the first thing she produced was Chi- 
 comico, prefaced by the following lines : 
 
 ' I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, for ever ; 
 To have touched thy dear strings again never oh, never ! 
 To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee, 
 To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee , 
 But the voice of affection hath callM forth one strain, 
 Which when sung, I will leave thee to silence again." 
 
 This beautiful tribute of affection has ever been 
 one of the most cherished relics of my child, and I 
 deeply regret that the irregular and unconnected 
 state of the manuscript obliges me to withhold the 
 whole of the first part. 
 
 The ballad of " De Courcy and Wilhelmine" was 
 written for a weekly paper, which she issued for the 
 amusement of the family. It was dated from " The 
 Little Corner of the World," edited by the Story- 
 Teller, and dedicated to Mamma. After a time it 
 was discontinued, and to my extreme regret de 
 stroyed. The fragment inserted in the collection, is 
 one of the very few remnants found among her 
 manuscripts ; the first sixteen verses are purely 
 original ; the sequel was supplied by a friend, it 
 being deemed too fine to be rejected for want of 
 mere filling out. Lucretia's diffidence, and the ap 
 prehension that the circumstances might transpire 
 or the papers be read by some friend out of the
 
 XX DEDICATION. 
 
 family, was, I believe, the sole reason why she dis 
 continued and destroyed them. This mutilated pa 
 per, and a part of Rodin Hall, are all that remain 
 of the " Story-Teller." 
 
 Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly mani 
 fested in her " Petition of the Old Comb." She had 
 retired to her room with her books and pen, where 
 she had spent several days. Feeling a desire to 
 see how she was getting on, I went to her room. 
 As I passed through the hall, I saw a sealed letter 
 directed to me, lying at the foot of the stairs ; I 
 opened it, and found it contained the " Petition of a 
 Poor Old Comb." 
 
 Dear mistress, I am old and poor, 
 
 My teeth decayed and gone ; 
 Oh ! give me but one moment's rest, 
 
 For mark, I'm tott'ring down. 
 
 Thy raven locks for many a day, 
 
 I 've bound around thy brow ; 
 And now that I am old and lame, 
 
 I prithee let me go. 
 
 Have I not, many a weary hour, 
 
 Peep'd o'er thy book or pen ; 
 And seen what this poor mangled fornr 
 
 Will ne'er behold again 1 
 
 A faithful servant I have been, 
 
 But ah ! my day is past ; 
 And all my hope, and all my wish, 
 
 Is liberty at last. 
 
 Mark but the glittering well-fill'd shelf 
 
 Where my companions lie ; 
 Are they not fairer than myself, 
 
 And younger far than I ?
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Oh ! then in pity hie thee there, 
 
 Where thousands wait thy call, 
 And twine one in thy raven hair, 
 
 To shroud my shameful fall. 
 
 My flays are hast'ning to their close. 
 
 Crack ! crack ! goes every tooth ; 
 A thousand pains, a thousand woes, 
 
 Remind me of my youth. 
 
 Adieu then in distress I die 
 
 My last hold fails me now ; 
 Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly 
 
 For ever 'round thy brow. 
 
 On reading it, I went up stairs and found her en- 
 veloped in books and manuscripts. Several large 
 folios lay open on the table, to which she seemed to 
 have been referring ; while books, papers and scraps 
 of poetry were strewn in confusion over the carpet. 
 Her luxuriant hair had escaped from its confine 
 ment, and hung in rich glossy curls upon her neck 
 and shoulders, while the superannuated comb lay at 
 her feet. As I hastily entered the room, she mani 
 fested some mortification, that I should have sur 
 prised her in ths midst of so much confusion, and 
 throwing her handkerchief over her papers, laugh 
 ingly asked, what I thought of the Petition ? I ad 
 vised her to send directly to the " well-filled glitter- 
 ,ng shelf," as I had no desire to see the curse de 
 nounced verified, or her 
 
 " Elf locks fly 
 For ever 'round her brow." 

 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 " Maritornc, or the Pirate of Mexico," was writ 
 ten in Albany, during her stay at the Institution of 
 Miss Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the 
 brief space of three weeks, while getting daily les 
 sons like any other school girl. During that period, 
 she also produced several fugitive pieces. She had 
 been absent from home but six weeks when I was 
 summoned to attend her : she had then been confined 
 to her bed three weeks. On the morning after my 
 arrival, she desired me to collect the scattered sheets 
 of Maritorne, and expressed much sorrow when 
 she found that some were missing. She told me 
 with tears, that she feared she could never sup 
 ply the loss, and said, " Do, mamma, take care of 
 what remains ; it is thus far the best thing I ever 
 wrote." 
 
 After her death, in her portfolio, which her nurse 
 told me she used every day sitting in bed, supported 
 by pillows, I found the " Last Farewell to my 
 Harp," and the " Fear of Madness," both written 
 in a feeble, irregular hand, and evidently under a 
 state of strong mental excitement. By their side lay 
 the unfinished head of a Madonna, copied from a 
 painting executed several centuries ago, and with 
 the drawing lay also the unfinished poem suggested 
 by the painting 
 
 " Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell." 
 
 In the " Last Farewell to my Harp," the presenti 
 ment of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly
 
 DEDICATION. XX1J1 
 
 portrayed, mingled with the feeling of presumption 
 which she often manifested in having " dared to 
 gaze" 
 
 " Upon the lamp which never can expire, 
 The undying, wild, poetic fire." 
 
 There is something extremely touching in the last 
 stanzas. 
 
 " And here, my harp, we part for ever,- 
 I '11 waken thee again oh ! never ; 
 Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 
 And thou shall calmly slumber here !" 
 
 The Fear of Madness." The reader will find 
 his sympathies all awakened upon perusing this 
 unfinished fragment from the pen of the lovely suf 
 ferer. It leaves too painful a sensation upon the 
 mind to admit a comment. 
 
 I have suppressed a very few of the poems 
 heretofore published, and have added many new 
 ones. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 
 Sir, your very sincere 
 
 and obliged friend, 
 
 M. M. D. 
 
 SARATOGA SPRINGS, 
 August, 1841.
 
 This new Edition has been carefully revised, 
 and the errors corrected. Upon the first 
 publication of Amir Khan some few stanzas 
 were omitted, in consequence of the difficulty 
 of decyphering, or some other good cause. 
 Those stanzas are here restored, according to 
 the original design of the author. 
 
 M. M. D. 
 
 Saratoga Springe, March, 1843.
 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON was born at Platts- 
 burgh, in the state of New York, on the 27th of Sep 
 tember, 1808. Her father, Dr. Oliver Davidson, is a 
 lover of science, and a man of intellectual tastes. 
 Her mother, Margaret Davidson, (born Miller,) is of 
 a most respectable family, and received the best edu 
 cation her times afforded, at the school of the cele 
 brated Scottish lady, Isabella Graham, an institution 
 in the city of New York, that had no rival in its day, 
 and which derived advantages from the distinguished 
 individual that presided over it, that can scarcely be 
 counterbalanced by the multiplied masters and multi 
 form studies of the present day. The family of Miss 
 Davidson lived in seclusion. Their pleasures and 
 excitements were intellectual. Her mother has suf 
 fered year after year from ill health and debility ; and 
 being a person of imaginative character, and most 
 ardent and susceptible feelings, employed on domestic 
 incidents, and concentrated in maternal tenderness, 
 she naturally loved and cherished her daughter's 
 marvellous gifts, and added to the intensity of the fire 
 with which her genius and her affections, mingling in 
 one holy flame, burned till they consumed their mor 
 
 2* (251
 
 26 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 tal investments. We should not have ventured to say 
 thus much of the n/other, who still survives to weep 
 and to rejoice over her dead child more than many 
 parents over their living ones, were it not to prove 
 that Lucretia Davidson's character was not miracu 
 lous, but that this flower of paradise was nurtured 
 and trained by natural means and influences. 
 
 The physical delicacy of this fragile creature was 
 apparent in infancy. When eighteen months old, she 
 hud a typhus fever, which threatened her life ; but 
 nature put forth its mysterious energy, and she 
 became stronger and healthier than before her illness. 
 No records were made of her early childhood, save 
 that she was by turns very gay and very thoughtful, 
 exhibiting thus early these common manifestations of 
 extreme sensibility. Her first literary acquisition 
 indicated her after course. She learned her letters at 
 once. At the age of four she was sent to the Platts- 
 burgh Academy, where she learned to read and to 
 form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method. 
 As soon as she could read, her books drew her away 
 from the plays of childhood, and she was constantly 
 found absorbed in the little volumes that her father 
 lavished upon her. Her mother, on some occasion, in 
 haste to write a letter, looked in vain for a sheet of 
 paper. A whole quire had strangely disappeared 
 from the table on which the writing implements 
 usually lay; she expressed a natural vexation. Her 
 little girl came forward, confused, and said, "Mamma, 
 I have used it." Her mother, knowing she had never 
 been taught to write, was amazed, and asked what 
 [K>ssible use she could have for it. Lucretia burst into 
 tears, and replied that " she did not like to tell." Her 
 mother respected the childish mystery, and made no 
 farther inquiries. The paper continued to vanish, 
 and the cnild was often observed with pen and ink,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 27 
 
 siill sedulously shunning observation. At last her 
 mother, on seeing her make a blank book, asked what 
 she was going to"tio with it '? Lucretia blushed, and 
 left the room without replying. This sharpened her 
 mother's curiosity ; she watched the child narrowly, 
 and saw that she made quantities of these little books, 
 and that she was disturbed by observation ; and if one 
 of the family requested to see them, she would burst 
 into tears, and run away to hide her secret treasure. 
 The mystery remained unexplained till she was six 
 years old, when her mother, in exploring a closet 
 rarely opened, found behind piles of linen, a parcel oi 
 papers, which proved to be Lucretia's manuscript 
 books. At first, the hieroglyphics seemed to baffle 
 investigation. On one side of the leaf was an artfully- 
 sketched picture ; on the other, Roman letters, some 
 placed upright, others horizontally, obliquely, or 
 backwards, not formed into words, nor spaced in any 
 mode. Both parents pored over them till they ascer 
 tained the letters were poetical explanations, in metre 
 and rhyme, of the picture in the reverse. The little 
 books were carefully put away as literary curiosities. 
 Not long after this, Lucretia came running to her mo 
 ther, painfully agitated, her face covered with her 
 nands, and tears trickling down between her slender 
 ringers "Oh, mamma ! mamma!" she cried, sobbing, 
 " how could you treat me so ? You have not used me 
 well ! My little books ! you have shown them to papa, 
 Anne Eliza, I know you have. Oh, what shall I 
 do ?" Her mother pleaded guilty, and tried to soothe 
 the child by promising not to do so again : Lucretia's 
 face brightened, a sunny smile' played through her 
 tears as she replied, "Oh, mamma, I am not afraid 
 you will do so again, for I have burned them all;' 
 and so she had ! This reserve proceeded from no 
 thing cold or exclusive in her character; never was
 
 28 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 there a more loving or sympathetic creature. It 
 would be difficult to say which was most rare, her 
 
 modesty, or the genius it sanctified. She did not 
 
 learn to write till she was between six and seven ; 
 her passion for knowledge was then rapidly develop 
 ing ; she read with the closest attention, and was con 
 tinually running to her parents with questions and 
 remarks that startled them. At a very early age, her 
 mother implanted the seeds of religion, the first that 
 should be sown in the virgin soil of the heart. That 
 the dews of Heaven fell upon them, is evident from 
 the breathing of piety throughout her poetry, and still 
 more from its precious fruit in her life. Her mother 
 remarks, that, "from her earliest years, she evinced a 
 fear of doing anything displeasing in the sight of God ; 
 and if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look of dis 
 approbation from me, she would ask, with the most 
 artless simplicity, ' Oh, mother, was that wicked ?' " 
 There are very early, in most children's lives, cer 
 tain conventional limits to their humanity, only cer 
 tain forms of animal life that are respected and che 
 rished. A robin, a butterfly, or a kitten is a legitimate 
 object of their love and caresses ; but woe to the bee 
 tle, the caterpillar, or the rat that is thrown upon their 
 tender mercies ! Lucretia Davidson made no such 
 artificial discriminations ; she seemed to have an in 
 stinctive kindness for every living thing. When she 
 was about nine, one of her schoolfellows gave her a 
 young rat that had broken its leg in attempting to 
 escape from a trap; she tore off a part of her pocket 
 handkerchief, bound up the maimed leg, carried the 
 animal home, and nursed it tenderly. The rat, in 
 spite of the care of its little leech, died, and was 
 buried in the garden, and honoured with the meed of 
 a " melodious tear." This lament has not been pre 
 served ; but one she wrote soon after, on the death
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 29 
 
 of a maimed pet Robin, is given here as the earliest 
 record of her muse that has been preserved : 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MY ROBIN. 
 
 " Underneath this turf doth lie 
 A little bird which ne'er could fly, 
 Twelve large angle worms did fill 
 This little bird, whom they did kill. 
 Puss ! if you should chance to smell 
 My little bird from his dark cell, 
 Oh! do be merciful my cat, 
 And not serve him, as you did my rat !" 
 
 Her application to her studies at school was intense. 
 Her mother judiciously, but in vain, attempted a 
 diversion in favour of that legitimate sedative to fe 
 male genius, the needle ; Lucretia performed her pre 
 scribed tasks with fidelity, and with amazing celerity, 
 and was again buried in her book. 
 
 When she was about twelve, she accompanied her 
 father to the celebration of Washington's birth-night 
 The music and decorations excited her imagination ; 
 but it was not with her, as with most children, the 
 mere pleasure of stimulated sensations ; she had studied 
 the character and history of the father of her country, 
 and the "fete" stirred up her enthusiasm, and inspired 
 that feeling of actual existence, and presence peculiar 
 to minds of her temperament. 
 
 To the imaginative there is an extension of life, far 
 back into the dim past, and forward into the untried 
 future, denied to those of common mould. 
 
 The day after the fete, her elder sister found her 
 absorbed in writing. She had sketched an urn, and 
 written two stanzas beneath it : she was persuaded to 
 show them to her mother; she brought them, blushing 
 and trembling; her mother was ill, in bed; but she 
 expressed her delight with such unequivocal anima
 
 yO LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 tion, that the child's face changed from doubt to 
 rapture, and she seized the paper, ran away, and im 
 mediately added the concluding stanzas ; when they 
 were finished, her mother pressed her to her bosom, 
 wept with delight, and promised her all the aid and 
 encouragement she could give her; the sensitive child 
 burst into tears. "And do you wish me to write, 
 mamma 1 and will papa approve? and will it be right 
 that I should do so 1" This delicate conscientiousness 
 gives an imperishable charm to the stanzas, and to 
 fix it in the memory of our readers, we here quote 
 them from her published poems. 
 
 "And does a Hero's dust lie here? 
 Columbia ! gaze and drop a tear ! 
 His country's and the orphan's friend, 
 See thousands o'er his ashes bend ! 
 
 " Among the heroes of the age, 
 He was the warrior and the sage ! 
 He left a train of glory bright 
 Which never will be hid in night. 
 
 "The toils of war and danger past, 
 He reaps a rich reward at last ; 
 His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings, 
 And now with saints and angels sing's. 
 
 o o 
 
 "The brightest on the list of fame 
 In golden letters shines his name; 
 Her trump shall sound it through the world, 
 And the striped banner ne'er be furled ! 
 
 "And every sex, and every age, 
 From lisping boy, to learned sage, 
 The widow, and her orphan son, 
 Revere the name of Washington." 
 
 Lucretia did not escape the common trial of pre 
 cocious genius. A literary friend to whom Mrs 
 Davidson showed the stanzas, suspected the child 
 had, perhaps unconsciously, repeated something she
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 31 
 
 nad gathered from the mass of her reading, and she 
 betrayed her suspicions to Lucretia she felt her rec 
 titude impeached, and this, and not the wounded pride 
 of the young author, made her weep till she was ac 
 tually ill ; as soon as she recovered her tranquillity, 
 she offered a poetic and playful remonstrance, which 
 set the matter at rest, and put an end to all future 
 question of the authenticity of her productions. Be 
 fore she was twelve years old, she had read the Eng 
 lish poets. " The English poets," says Southey, in 
 his review of Miss Davidson's poems, though a vague 
 term, was a wholesome course, for such a mind. She 
 had read, beside, much history, sacred and profane, 
 novels, and other works of imagination. Dramatic 
 works were particularly attractive to her ; her devo 
 tion to Shakspeare is expressed in an address to him 
 written about this time, from which we extract the 
 following stanza : 
 
 " Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
 Gave thee of virtue, then of vice a part, 
 Lest we in wonder here, should bow before thee, 
 Break God's commandment, worship and adore thee." 
 
 Ordinary romances, and even those highly wrought 
 fictions, that without any type in nature have such a 
 mischievous charm for most imaginative young per 
 sons, she instinctively rejected ; her healthy appetite, 
 keen as it was, was under the government of a pure 
 and sound nature. Her mother, always aware of the 
 worth of the gem committed to her keeping, amidst 
 her sufferings from ill health kept a watchful eye on 
 her child, directed her pursuits, and sympathized in 
 all her little school labours and trials ; she perceived 
 that Lucretia was growing pale and sickly over her 
 studies, and she judiciously withdrew her, for a time, 
 from school. She was soon rewarded for this wise 
 measure by hearing her child's bounding step as she
 
 32 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 approached her sick room, and seeing the cheek bent 
 over her pillow blooming with returning health. 
 How miserably mistaken are those, who fancy that 
 all the child's lessons must be learned from the school^ 
 book and school-room ! This apt pupil of nature had 
 only changed her books and her master; now, she sat 
 at the feet of the great teacher, nature, and read, and 
 listened, and thought, as she wandered along the 
 Saranac, or contemplated the varying aspects of Cum 
 berland Bay. She would sit for hours and watch the 
 progress of a thunder-storm, from the first gathering 
 of the clouds, to the farewell smile of the rainbow. 
 We give a specimen of the impression of these studies 
 in the following extract from her unpublished poems: 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 How sweet the hour when daylight blends 
 
 With the pensive shadows on evening's breast ! 
 
 And dear to this heart is the pleasure it lends, 
 For 't is like the departure of saints to their rest 
 
 Oh ! 't is sweet, Saranac, on thy lov'd banks to stray, 
 To watch the last day-beam dance light o'er thy wave, 
 
 To mark the white skiff as it ski'ms o'er the Bay, 
 Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's deep grave.* 
 
 Oh ! 't is sweet to a heart, unentangled and light, 
 
 When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest, 
 
 To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, 
 And mark the last sunbeams while sinking to rest. 
 
 The following, from her unpublished poems, is the 
 result of the same pensive meditations. 
 
 * Cumberland Bay was the ^ene of a battle during the last
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 83 
 
 THE EVENING SPIRIT. 
 
 When the pale moon is shining bright, 
 
 And nought disturbs the gloom of night, 
 
 'Tis then upon yon level green, 
 
 Prom which St. Glair's dark heights are seen, 
 
 The Evening Spirit glides along, 
 
 And chaunts her melancholy song ; 
 
 Or leans upon a snowy cloud, 
 
 And its white skirts her figure shroud. 
 
 By zephyrs light she 's wafted far, 
 
 And contemplates the northern star, 
 
 Or gazes from her silvery throne, 
 
 On that pale queen, the silent moon. 
 
 Who is the Evening Spirit fair, 
 
 That hovers o'er thy walls, St. Glair? 
 
 Who is it, that with footstep light, 
 
 Breathes the calm silence of the night 1 
 
 Ask the light zephyr who conveys 
 
 Her fairy figure o'er the waves ; 
 
 Ask yon bright fleecy cloud of night, 
 
 Ask yon pale planet's silver light, 
 
 Why does the Evening Spirit fair 
 
 Sail o'er the walls of dark St. Glair? 
 
 In her thirteenth year the clouds seemed heavily 
 gathering over her morning ; her mother, who had 
 hitherto been her guide and companion, could no 
 longer extend to her child the sympathy and en 
 couragement which she needed. Lucretia was 
 oppressed with the apprehension of losing this fond 
 parent, who for weeks and months, seemed upon the 
 verge of the grave. There are among'her unpub 
 lished poems, some touching lines to her mother 
 written I believe about this time, concluding thus : 
 
 " Hang not thy harp upon the willow, 
 
 That weeps o'er every passing wave; 
 This life is but a restless pillow, 
 
 There 's calm and peace beyond the grave." 
 3
 
 34 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 As Mrs. Davidson's health gradually amended, 
 with it returned her desire to give her daughter every 
 means in her power to aid the development of her 
 extraordinary genius. Her extreme sensibility and 
 delicate health, subjected her, at times, to depres 
 sions of spirit ; but she had nothing of the morbid 
 dejection, the exclusiveness, and hostility to the world, 
 that are the results of self-exaggeration, selfishness, 
 and self-idolatry, and not the natural offspring of 
 genius and true feeling, which, in their healthy state, 
 are pure and living fountains flowing out in abundant 
 streams of love and kindness.* 
 
 Indulgent as Mrs. Davidson was, she was too wise 
 to permit Lucretia to forego entirely the customary 
 employments of her sex. When engaged with these 
 it seems she sometimes played truant with the muse ; 
 once she had promised to do a sewing task, and had 
 eagerly run off' for her work-basket ; she loitered, and 
 when she returned, she found her mother had done 
 the work, and that there was a shade of just displeasure 
 on her countenance. " Oh mamma !" she said, " I did 
 forget, I am grieved, I did not mean to neglect you." 
 " Where have you been, Lucretia 1" " I have been 
 writing," she replied, confused ; " as I passed the win 
 dow, I saw a solitary sweet pea, I thought they were 
 all gone ; this was alone ; I ran to smell it, but before I 
 could reach it a gust of wind broke the stem ; I turned 
 away disappointed, and was coming back to you ; but 
 as I passed the table there stood the inkstand, and I 
 forgot you." If our readers will turn to her printed 
 poems, and read the " Last Flower of the Garden," 
 
 * Genius, like many other sovereigns, has been allowed the 
 exercise of unreasonable prerogatives ; but none perhaps much 
 more mischievous, than the right to confer on self-indulgence 
 the gracious name of sensibility.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 35 
 
 they will not wonder that her mother kissed her, and 
 bade her never resist a similar impulse. 
 
 When in her " happy moments," as she termed 
 them, the impulse to write was irresistible she 
 always wrote rapidly, and sometimes expressed a 
 wish that she had two pairs of hands, to -record as 
 fast as she composed. She wrote her short pieces 
 standing, often three or four in a day, in the midst of 
 the family, blind and deaf to all around her, wrapt in 
 her own visions. She herself describes these visita 
 tions of her muse, in an address to her, beginning 
 
 " Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 
 
 I drop each earthly care; 
 I feel as wafted from the world 
 To Fancy's realms of air." 
 
 When composing her long, and complicated poems, 
 like " Amir Khan," she required entire seclusion ; if 
 her pieces were seen in the process of production, the 
 spell was dissolved, she could not finish them, and 
 they were cast aside as rubbish. When writing a 
 poem of considerable length, she retired to her own 
 apartment, closed the blinds, and in warm weather 
 placed her ^Eolian harp in the window. Her mother 
 has described her on one of these occasions, when an 
 artist would have painted her as a young genius com 
 muning with her muse. We quote her mother's 
 graphic description: "I entered the room she was 
 sitting with scarcely light enough to discern the charac 
 ters she was tracing ; her harp was in the window, 
 touched by a breeze just sufficient to rouse the spirit 
 of harmony ; her comb had fallen on the floor, and 
 her long dark ringlets hung in rich profusion over her 
 neck and shoulders, her cheek glowed with animation, 
 her lips were half unclosed, her full dark eye was 
 radiant with the light of genius, and beaming with
 
 36 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 sensibility, her head rested on her left hand, while she 
 held her pen in her right she looked like the inhabi 
 tant of another sphere ; she was so wholly absorbed 
 that she did not observe my entrance. I looked over 
 her shoulder and read the following lines : 
 
 " What heavenly music strikes my ravish'd ear, 
 So soft, so melancholy, and so clear ? 
 And do the tuneful nine then touch the lyre, 
 To fill each bosom with poetic firel 
 Or does some angel strike the sounding strings 
 Who caught from echo the wild note he sings? 
 But ah ! another strain, how sweet ! how wild ! 
 Now rushing low, 't is soothing, soft, and mild." 
 
 The noise I made in leaving the room roused her, 
 and she soon after brought me her " Lines to an 
 ^Eolian Harp." During the winter of 1822 she wrote 
 a poetical romance, entitled " Rodri." She burned 
 this, save a few fragments found after her death. 
 These indicate a well-contrived story, and marked by 
 the marvellous ease and grace that characterized her 
 versification. During this winter she wrote also a 
 tragedy, " The Reward of Ambition," the only pro 
 duction she ever read aloud to her family. The fol 
 lowing summer, her health again failing, she was 
 withdrawn again from school, and sent on a visit to 
 some friends in Canada. A letter, too long to be in 
 serted here entire, gives a very interesting account of 
 the impression produced on this little thoughtful and 
 feeling recluse, by new objects and new aspects of 
 society. We visited," says the writer, " the British 
 fortifications at Isle-aux-Noix. The broad ditch, the 
 lofty ramparts, the drawbridge, the covered gateway 
 the wide-mouthed cannon, the arsenal, and all the 
 imposing paraphernalia of a military fortress, seemed 
 connected in her mind with powerful associations of 
 what she had read, but never viewed before. Instead
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 37 
 
 of shrinking from objects associated with carnage and 
 death, like many who possess not half her sensibility, 
 she appeared for the moment to be attended by the 
 god of war, and drank the spirit of battles and sieges, 
 with the bright vision before her eyes, of conquering 
 heroes, and wreaths of victory." It is curious to see 
 thus early the effect of story and song in overcoming 
 the instincts of nature ; to see this tender, gentle 
 creature contemplating the engines of war, not with 
 natural dread as instruments of torture and death, but 
 rather as the forges by which triumphal cars and 
 wreaths of victory were to be wrought. A similar 
 manifestation of the effect of tradition and association 
 on her poetic imagination is described in the following 
 passages from the same letter. " She found much less 
 in the Protestant than in the Catholic churches to awa 
 ken those romantic and poetic associations, created 
 by the record of events in the history of antiquity and 
 traditional story, and much less to accord with the 
 fictions of her high-wrought imagination. In view 
 ing the buildings of the city, or the paintings in the 
 churches, the same uniformity of taste was observa 
 ble. The modern, however beautiful in design or 
 execution, had little power to fix her attention ; while 
 the grand, the ancient, the romantic, seized upon her 
 imagination with irresistible power. The sanctity of 
 time seemed, to her mind, to give a sublimity to the 
 simplest objects ; and whatever was connected with 
 great events in history, or with the lapse of ages long 
 gone by, riveted and absorbed every faculty of her 
 mind. During our visit to the nunneries she said but 
 little, and seemed abstracted in thought, as if, as she 
 herself so beautifully expresses it, to 
 
 " Roll back the tide of time, and raise 
 The faded forms of other days." 
 
 3*
 
 38 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 " She had an opportunity of viewing an elegant 
 collection of paintings. She seemed in ecstasies all 
 the evening, and every feature beamed with joy." 
 The writer, after proceeding to give an account of 
 her surprising success in attempts at pencil-sketches 
 from nature, expresses his delight and amazement at 
 the attainments of this girl of fourteen years in gene 
 ral literature, and at the independence and originality 
 of mind that resisted the subduing, and, if I may be 
 allowed the expression, the subordinating effect of this 
 early intimacy with captivating models. A marvel 
 lous resistance, if we take into the account " that 
 timid, retiring modesty," which, as the writer of the 
 letter says, " marked her even to painful excess." 
 Lucretia returned to her mother with renovated 
 health, and her mind bright with new impressions 
 and joyous emotions. Religion is the natural, and 
 only sustaining element of such a character. Where, 
 but at the ever fresh, sweet, and life-giving fountains 
 of the Bible, could such a spirit have drunk, and not 
 again thirsted? During the winter of 1823, she ap 
 plied herself more closely than ever to her studies. 
 She read the Holy Scriptures with fixed attention 
 She almost committed to memory the Psalms of 
 David, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, and the book 
 of Job, guided in her selection by her poetic taste. 
 Byron somewhere pronounces the' book of Job, the 
 sublimest poetry on record. During the winter Miss 
 Davidson wrote " A Hymn on Creation," " The Exit 
 from Egyptian Bondage," and versified many chap 
 ters of the Bible. She read the New Testament, and 
 particularly those parts of it that contained the most 
 affecting passages in the history of our Saviour, with 
 he deepest emotion. 
 
 In her intellectual pursuits and attainments only 
 was she premature. She retained unimpaired, the
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 39 
 
 innocence, simplicity and modesty of a child. We 
 have had descriptions of the extreme loveliness oi 
 her face, and gracefulness of her person, from less 
 doubtful authority than a fond mother. 
 
 Our country towns are not regulated by the con 
 ventional systems of the cities, where a youthful 
 beauty is warily confined to the nursery and the 
 school till the prescribed age for coming out, the coup- 
 de-theatre of every young city-woman's life arrives. 
 In the country, as soon as a girl can contribute to 
 the pleasures of society, she is invited into it. During 
 the winter of 1823, Plattsburgh was gay, and Miss 
 Davidson was eagerly sought to embellish the village 
 dances. She had been at a dancing school, and, like 
 most young persons, enjoyed excessively this natural 
 exercise ; for that may be called natural which exists 
 among all nations, barbarous and civilized. 
 
 Mrs. Davidson has given an account of her daugh 
 ter's first ball, which all young ladies, at least, will 
 thank us for transcribing almost verbatim, as it places 
 her more within the circle of their sympathies. Her 
 mother had consented to her attending one or two 
 public assemblies, in the hope they might diminish her 
 extreme timidity, painful both to Lucretia and her 
 friends. The day arrived; Mrs. Davidson was con 
 sulting with her eldest daughter upon the all-important 
 matter of the dresses for the evening ; Lucretia sat by, 
 reading, without raising her eyes from the book, one 
 of the Waverly novels. " Mamma, what shall Luly 
 wear?" asked her eldest sister, calling her by the pretty 
 diminutive by which they usually addressed her at 
 home. " Come Lucretia, what colour will you wear 
 to-night?" "Where?" "Where, why to the assem 
 bly, to be sure." "The assembly; is it to-night? so it 
 is !" and she tossed away the book and danced about 
 the room half wild with delight ; her sister at length
 
 40 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 called her to order, and the momentous question re 
 specting the dress was definitely settled ; she then 
 resumed her reading, and giving no thought to the 
 ball, she was again absorbed in her book. This did 
 not result from carelessness of appearance, or indiffer 
 ence to dress; on the contrary she was rather remark 
 able for that nice taste, which belongs to an eye for 
 proportion and colouring; and any little embellishment 
 or ornament she wore was well chosen, and well 
 placed ; but she had the right estimate of the relative 
 value of objects, which belongs to a superior mind. 
 When the evening approached, the star of the ball 
 again shone forth, she threw aside her book, and be 
 gan the offices of the toilet with girlish interest, and 
 it might be, with some heart-beating at the probable 
 effect of the lovely face her mirror reflected. Her sister 
 was to arrange her hair. Lucretia put on her dress 
 ing-gown to await her convenience ; but when the 
 time came, she was missing ; " we called her in vain," 
 says Mrs. Davidson ; " at last, opening the parlour 
 door, I distinctly saw, for it was twilight, some person 
 sitting be'.iind the large close stove ; I approached, and 
 found Lucretia writing poetry ! moralizing on what 
 the world calls pleasure ! I was almost dumb with 
 amazement she was eager to go, delighted with the 
 prospect of pleasure before her ; yet she acted as if the 
 time were too precious to spend in the necessary pre 
 parations, and she sat still, and finished the last stanza, 
 while I stood by, mute with astonishment at this 
 strange bearing in a girl of fourteen, preparing to 
 attend her first ball, an event she had anticipated with 
 so many mingled emotions." " She returned from 
 the assembly," continues her mother, " wild with de 
 light. 'Oh mamma,' she said 'I wish you had 
 been there ! when I first entered, the glare of light 
 dazzled my eyes, my head whirled, and I felt as it I
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 41 
 
 were treading on air ; all was so gay, so brilliant ! 
 but I grew tired at last, and was glad to hear sister 
 say it was time to go home.' " 
 
 The next day the ball was dismissed from her 
 mind, and she returned to her studies with her cus 
 tomary ardour. During the winter she read " Jose- 
 phus," Charles the Fifth, Charles Twelfth ; read over 
 Shakspeare, and various other works in prose and 
 poetry ; she particularly liked " Addison," and read 
 almost every day a portion of the Spectator. Her 
 ardent love of literature seldom interfered with her 
 social dispositions, never with her domestic affections; 
 she was ever the life and joy of the home circle. 
 Great demands were made on her feelings about this 
 time, by two extraordinary domestic events ; the mar 
 riage and removal of her elder sister, her beloved 
 friend and companion ; and the birth of another, the 
 little Margaret, so often the fond subject of her poetry. 
 New, and doubtless sanative emotions were called 
 forth by this last event. The following lines from her 
 published poems were written about this time. 
 
 Sweet babe ! I cannot hope that thou 'It be freed 
 From woes, to all since earliest time decreed ; 
 But may'st thou be with resignation blessed, 
 To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 
 
 May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, 
 And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ; 
 May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
 To the rude whirlwind softly whisper cease ! 
 
 And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
 Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile; 
 Teach thee to look beyond this world of woe, 
 To Heaven's high fount whence mercies ever flow.
 
 42 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 And when this vale of tears is safely passed, 
 When death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
 May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
 And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 
 
 The following lines, never before published, and, as 
 we think, marked by more originality and beauty, 
 were written soon after, and, as those above, with her 
 infant sister in her lap. What a subject for a painter 
 would this beautiful impersonation of genius and love 
 have presented ! 
 
 THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE 
 
 (Written at the age of fifteen.) 
 
 There is a smile of bitter scorn, 
 
 Which curls the lip, which lights the eye; 
 
 There is a smile in beauty's morn, 
 Just rising o'er the midnight sky. 
 
 There is a smile of youthful joy, 
 
 When Hope's bright star's the transient guest \ 
 There is a smile of placid age, 
 
 Like sunset on the billow's breast. 
 
 There is a smile the maniac's smile, 
 
 Which lights the void which reason leaves, 
 
 And like the sunshine through a cloud, 
 Throws shadows o'er the song she weaves. 
 
 There is a smile, of love, of hope, 
 
 Which shines a meteor through life's gloom; 
 
 And there's a smile, Religion's smile, 
 Which lights the weary to the tomb. 
 
 There is a smile, an angel's smile, 
 
 That sainted souls behind them leave. 
 There is a smile which shines thro' toi], 
 
 And warms the bosom though in grief;
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 43 
 
 And there's a smile on nature's face, 
 
 When evening spreads her shades around; 
 
 A pensive smile when twinkling stars 
 Are glimmering thro' the vast profound. 
 
 But there 's a smile, 't is sweeter still, 
 
 'T is one far dearer to my soul ; 
 It is a smile which angels might 
 
 Upon their brightest list enrol. 
 
 It is the smile of innocence, 
 
 Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; 
 Like lightning on a summer's eve, 
 
 It sheds a soft and pensive gleam. 
 
 It dances round the dimpled cheek, 
 
 And tells of happiness within ; 
 It smiles what it can never speak, 
 
 A human heart devoid of sin. 
 
 The three last most beautiful stanzas must have 
 been inspired by the sleeping infant on her lap, and 
 they seem to have reflected her soul's image ; as we 
 have seen the little inland lake catch and give back 
 the marvellous beauty of the sunset clouds. " Soon 
 after her marriage," says Mrs. Davidson, " her sister, 
 Mrs. Tovvnsend, removed to Canada, and many cir 
 cumstances combined to interrupt her literary pursuits, 
 and call forth, not only the energies of her mind, but 
 to develope the filial devotion and total sacrifice of all 
 selfish feelings, which gave a new and elevated tone 
 to her character, and showed us that there was no 
 gratification either in pursuance of mental improve 
 ment, or personal ease, but must bend to her high 
 standard of filial duty." Her mother was very ill, 
 and, to add to the calamity, her monthly nurse was 
 taken sick, and left her the infant, too, was ill. Lu- 
 cretia sustained her multiplied cares with firmness 
 and efficiency : the conviction that she was doing her
 
 44 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 duty gave her strength almost preternatural. I shall 
 again quote her mother's words, for I fear to enfeeble 
 by any version of my own, the beautiful example of 
 this conscientious little being. " Lucretia astonished 
 us all; she took her station in my sick room, and de 
 voted herself wholly to the mother and the child ; and 
 when my recovery became doubtful, instead of re 
 signing herself to grief, her exertions were redoubled, 
 not only for the comfort of the sickt but she was an 
 angel of consolation to her afflicted father ; we were 
 amazed at the exertions she made, and the fatigue 
 she endured; for with nerves so weak, a constitution 
 so delicate, and a sensibility so exquisite, we trembled 
 lest she should sink with anxiety and fatigue. Until 
 it ceased to be necessary, she performed not only the 
 duty of a nurse, but acted as superintendent of the 
 household." When her mother became convalescent, 
 Lucretia continued her attentions to domestic affairs: 
 " She did not so much yield to her ruling passion as 
 to look into a book, or take up a pen (says her 
 mother), lest s!ie should again become so absorbed 
 in them as to neglect to perform those little offices 
 which a feeble, affectionate mother had a right to 
 claim at her hands. As was to be expected from the 
 intimate union of soul and body, when her mind was 
 starved, it became dejected and her body weak ; and, 
 in spite of her filial efforts, her mother detected tears 
 on her cheeks, was alarmed by her excessive pale 
 ness, and expressed her apprehensions that she was 
 ill. "No, mamma," she replied, "not ill, only out of 
 spirits." Her mother then remarked, that of late, she 
 never read or wrote. She burst into tears, a full 
 explanation followed, and the generous mother suc 
 ceeded in convincing her child that she had been 
 misguided in the course she had adopted, that the 
 utrongest wish of her heart was to advance her in
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 4 
 
 her literary career, and for this she would make 
 every exertion in her power ; at the same time she 
 very judiciously advised her to intersperse her literary 
 pursuits with those domestic occupations so essentia 1 
 to prepare every woman in our land for a housewife, 
 her probable destiny. 
 
 This conversation had a most happy effect; the 
 stream flowed again in its natural channel, and Lu 
 cretia became cheerful, read and wrote, and practised 
 drawing. She had a decided taste for drawing, anc 
 excelled in it. She sung over her work, and in even- 
 way manifested the healthy condition that results 
 from a wise obedience to the laws of nature. 
 
 We trust there are thousands of young ladies in 
 our land, who at the call of filial duty would cheer 
 fully perform domestic labour ; but if there are any 
 who would make a strong love for more elevated 
 and refined pursuits, an excuse for neglecting these 
 coarser duties, we would commend them to the ex 
 ample of this conscientious child. She, if any could 
 might have pleaded her genius, or her delicate 
 health, or her mother's most tender indulgence, for a 
 failure, that in her would have hardly seemed to us 
 a fault. 
 
 During this summer, she went to Canada with he. 
 mother, where she revelled in an unexplored library 
 and enjoyed most heartily the social pleasures at he- 
 sister's. They frequently had a family concert of 
 music in the evening. Mrs. Townsend (her sister) 
 accompanied the instruments with her fine voice. 
 Lucretia was often moved by the music, and par 
 ticularly by her favourite song, Moore's " Farewell 
 to my Harp;" this she would have sung to her at 
 twilight, when it would excite a shivering through 
 her whole frame. On one occasion, she became 
 4
 
 46 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 cold and pale, and was near fainting, and afterwards 
 poured her excited feelings forth in the following 
 iddress : 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 When evening spreads her shades around, 
 And darkness fills the arch of Heaven ; 
 
 When not a murmur, nor a sound 
 To fancy's sportive ear is given; 
 
 When the broad orb of Heaven is bright, 
 And looks around with golden eye ; 
 
 When nature, softened by her light, 
 Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 
 
 n, when our thoughts are raised above 
 ^his world, and all this world can give ; 
 Or sister, sing the song I love, 
 And tears of gratitude receive. 
 
 The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
 And hovering, trembles, half afraid, 
 
 Oh sister, sing the song once more 
 Which ne'er for mortal ear wtis made. 
 
 'T were almost sacrilege to sing 
 Those notes amid the glare of day 
 
 Notes borne by angels' purest w'jig, 
 And wafted by their breath away. 
 
 When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
 Shouldst thou still linger here above, 
 
 Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
 And, sister, sing the song I love? 
 
 We insert here a striking circumstance that occur- 
 red during a visit to her sister the following year. She 
 was at that time employed in writing "her longest 
 published poem, "Amir Khan." Immediately after 
 breakfast she went to walk, and not returning to din-
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 47 
 
 ner, nor even when the evening approached, Mr. 
 Townsend set forth in search of her. He met her, 
 and as her eye encountered his, she smiled and blush 
 ed, as if she felt conscious of having been a little 
 ridiculous. She said she had called on a friend, and, 
 having found her absent, had gone to her library, 
 where she had been examining some volumes of an 
 Encyclopedia to aid her, we believe, in the oriental 
 story she was employed upon. She forgot her dinner 
 and her tea, and had remained reading, standing, and 
 with her hat on, till the disappearance of daylight 
 brought her to her senses. In the interval between 
 her visits, she wrote several letters to her friends, 
 which are chiefly interesting from the indications they 
 afford of her social and affectionate spirit. We sub 
 join a few extracts. She had returned to Pittsburgh 
 amid the bustle of a Fourth of July celebration. 
 We found," she says, " our brother Yankees had 
 turned out well to celebrate the Fourth. The wharf 
 from the hill to the very edge of the water, even the 
 rafts and sloops, were black with the crowd. If some 
 very good genius, who presided over my destiny at 
 that time, had not spread its protecting pinions around 
 me, like everything else in my possession, I should 
 have lost even my precious self. What a truly la 
 mentable accident it would have been just at that 
 moment ! We took a carriage, and were extricating 
 
 ourselves from the crowd, when Mr. , who 
 
 had pressed himself through, came to shake hands 
 
 and bid good-bye. He is now on his way to . 
 
 Well ! here is health, happiness, and a bushel of love 
 to all married people ! Is it possible, you ask, that 
 sister Lue could ever have permitted such a toast to 
 pass her lips ? We arrived safely at our good old 
 home, and found everything as we left it. The chim 
 ney swallows had taken up their residence in the
 
 48 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 chimney, and rattled the soot from their sable habita 
 tions oyer the hearth and carpet. It looked like deso 
 lation indeed. The grass is high in the yard: the 
 wild-roses, double-roses, and sweet-briars are in full 
 bloom, and, take it all in all, the spot looks much as 
 the garden of Eden did after the expulsion of Adam 
 and Eve. We had just done tea when M. came in 
 and sat an hour or two. What in the name of won 
 der could he have found to talk about all that time ? 
 Something, dear sister, you would not have thought 
 of; something of so little consequence that the time he 
 spent glided swiftly, almost unnoticed. I had him all 
 to myself, tete-a-tete. I had almost forgotten to tell 
 you I had yesterday a present of a most beautiful 
 bouquet : I wore it to church in the afternoon ; but it 
 has withered and faded 
 
 Withered, like the world's treasures, 
 Faded, like the world's pleasures.' " 
 
 From the sort of mystical, girl-like allusions in the 
 above extracts, to persons whose initials only are given, 
 to bouquets and tete-a-tetes, we infer that she thus early 
 had declared lovers even at this age, for she was not 
 yet sixteen : her mother says she had resolved never 
 to marry. " Her reasons," continues her mother, " for 
 this decision were, that her peculiar habits, her entire 
 devotion to books, and scribbling (as she called it), 
 unfitted her for the care of a family ; she could not do 
 justice to husband or children, while her whole soul 
 was absorbed in literary pursuits ; she was not willing 
 to resign them for any man, therefore she had formed 
 the resolution to lead a single life ;" a resolution that 
 would have lasted probably till she had passed under 
 the dominion of a stronger passion than her love for 
 the muses. With affections like hers, and a mosi 
 lovely person and attractive manners, her resolution
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 49 
 
 would scarcely have enabled her to escape the com 
 mon destiny of her sex. The following is an extract 
 from a letter written after participating in several gay 
 parties : " Indeed, my dear brother, I have turned 
 round like a top, for the last two or three weeks, and 
 am glad to seat myself once more in my favourite 
 corner. How, think you, should I stand it to be 
 whirled in the giddy round of dissipation? I come 
 home from the blaze of light, from the laugh of mirth, 
 the smile of complaisance, and seeming happiness, 
 and the vision passes from my mind like the brilliant 
 but transitory hues of the rainbow ; and I think with 
 regret on the many, very many happy hours I have 
 passed with you and Anne. Oh ! I do want to see 
 you, indeed I do, you think me wild, thoughtless, 
 and perhaps unfeeling ; but I assure you I can be 
 sober, I sometimes think, and I can and do feel. 
 Why have you not written 1 not one word in almost 
 three weeks ! Dear brother and sister, I must write; 
 but dear Anne, I am now doomed to dim your eye 
 and cloud your brow, for I know that what I have to 
 communicate will surprise and distress you. Our 
 dear cousin John is dead ! Oh ! I need not tell you 
 how much, how deeply he is lamented ; you knew 
 him, and like every one else who did, you loved him. 
 Poor Eliza ! how my heart aches for her ! her father, 
 her mother, her brother, all gone ; almost the last, the 
 dearest tie is broken which bound her to life; what 
 a vacancy must there be in her heart! how fatal would 
 it prove to almost every hope in life, were we allowed 
 even a momentary glimpse of futurity ! for often half 
 the enjoyments of life consist in the anticipation of 
 pleasures, which may never be ours." Soon after this 
 Lucretia witnessed the death of a beloved young 
 friend ; it was the first death she had seen, and it had 
 its natural effect on a reflecting and sensitive mind. 
 4*
 
 50 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Her thoughts wandered through eternity by the light 
 of religion, the only light that penetrates beyond the 
 death-bed. She wrote many religious pieces ; but as 
 I hope another volume of her poems will be given to 
 the public, 1 have merely selected the following :- 
 
 Oh, that the eagle's wing were mine, 
 
 I 'd soar above the dreary earth ; 
 I 'd spread my wings, and rise to join 
 
 The immortal fountain of my birth. 
 
 For what is joy] how soon it fades, 
 
 The childish vision of an hour ! 
 Though warm and brilliant are its shades, 
 
 'Tis but a frail and fading flower. 
 
 And what is hope? it is a light 
 
 Which leads us on deluding ever, 
 Till lost amid the shades of night 
 
 We sink, and then it flies for ever ! 
 
 And what is love ! it is a dream, 
 
 A brilliant fable framed by youth ; 
 A bubble dancing on life's stream, 
 
 And sinking 'neath the eye of truth. 
 
 And what are honour, glory, fame, 
 
 But death's dark watchwords to the grave; 
 
 The victim dies, and lo! his name 
 Is stamp'd in life's red rolling wave. 
 
 And what are all the joys of life, 
 
 But vanity, and toil, and woe; 
 What but a bitter cup of grief, 
 
 With dregs of sin and death below. 
 
 This world is but the first dark gate 
 
 Unfolded to the wakening soul; 
 But death unerring led by fate, 
 
 Shall Heaven's bright portals backward roil.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 51 
 
 Then shall this unchained spirit fly 
 
 On to the God who gave it life; 
 Rejoicing as it soars on high, 
 
 Released from danger, doubt, and strife. 
 
 There will it pour its anthems forth, 
 
 Bending before its Maker's throne; 
 The great I AM, who gave it birth, 
 
 The Almighty God, the dread unknown. 
 
 During this winter her application to her books was 
 so unremitting, that her parents again became alarmed 
 for her health, and persuaded her occasionally to join 
 in the amusements of Plattsburgh. She came home 
 one night at twelve o'clock, from a ball, and after 
 giving a most lively account of all she had seen and 
 heard to her mother, she quietly seated herself at the 
 table, and wrote her " Reflections after leaving a 
 Ball-room." Her spirit, though it glided with kind 
 sympathies into the common pleasures of youth, never 
 seemed to relax its tie to the spiritual world. During 
 the summer of 1824, Captain Partridge visited Platts 
 burgh, with his soldier scholars. 
 
 Military display had its usual exciting effect on Miss 
 Davidson's imagination, and she addressed " to the 
 Vermont Cadets" the following spirited stanzas, which 
 might have come from the martial Clorinda : 
 
 Pass on ! for the bright torch of glory is beaming ; 
 Go, wreathe round your brows the green laurels of fame, 
 Around you a halo is brilliantly streaming, 
 And history lingers to write down each name. 
 
 Yes ! ye are the pillars of liberty's throne ; 
 When around you the banner of glory shall wave, 
 America proudly shall claim you her own ; 
 And freedom and honour shall pause o'er each grave ! 
 
 A watch-fire of glory, a beacon of light, 
 
 Shall guide you to Honour, shall point you to Fame;
 
 52 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 The heart that shrinks back, be it buried in night, 
 And withered with dim tears of sorrow and shame ! 
 
 Though death should await you, 'twere glorious to die 
 With the glow of pure honour still warm on the brow ; 
 With a light sparkling brightly around the dim eye, 
 Like the smile of a spirit still ling'ring below. 
 
 Pass on, and when war in his strength shall arise, 
 Rush on to the conflict and conquer or die; 
 Let the clash of your arms proudly roll to the skies: 
 Be blest, if victorious and cursed, if you fly ' 
 
 It was about this time that she finished " Amir 
 Khan," and began a tale of some length, which she 
 entihed the " Recluse of the Saranac." " Amir 
 Khan" has long been before the public, but we 
 think it has suffered from a general and very natural 
 distrust of precocious genius. The versification is 
 graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the 
 orientalism well sustained. We think it would not 
 have done discredit to our best popular poets in the 
 meridian of their fame : as the production of a girl 
 of fifteen, it seems prodigious. On her mother disco 
 vering and reading a part of her romance, Lucretia 
 manifested her usual shrinkirigs, and with many 
 tears exacted a promise that she would not again look 
 at it till it was finished ; she never again saw it till 
 after her daughter's death. Lucretia had a most 
 whimsical fancy for cutting sheets of paper into nar 
 row strips, sewing them together and writing on both 
 sides ; and once playfully boasting to her mother of 
 having written some yards, she produced a roll, and 
 forbidding her mother's approach, she measured off 
 twenty yards ! She often expressed a wish to spend 
 one fortnight alone, even to the exclusion of her little 
 pet-sister ; and Mrs. Davidson, eager to afford her 
 every gratification in her power, had a room prepared
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 53 
 
 for her recess ; her dinner was sent up to her, she 
 declined coming down to tea, and her mother, on 
 going to her apartment, found her writing, her plate 
 untouched. 
 
 Some secret joy it was natural her mother should 
 feel at this devotion to intellectual pleasure ; but her 
 good sense or her maternal anxiety got the better of 
 it, and she persuaded Lucretia to consent to the inter 
 ruption of a daily walk. It was about this period 
 that she became acquainted with the gentleman who 
 was destined to influence the brief space of life that 
 remained to her. The late Hon. Moss Kent, with 
 whom her mother had been acquainted for many 
 years, previous to her marriage, had often been a 
 guest at the house of Dr. Davidson, but it had so hap 
 pened that he had never met Lucretia since her early 
 childhood. Struck with some little effusions which 
 
 were in the possession of his sister, Mrs. P , he 
 
 went immediately to see Mrs. Davidson, to ask the 
 privilege of reading some of her last productions. 
 On his way to the house he met Lucretia ; he had 
 been interested by the reputation of her genius and 
 modesty ; no wonder that the beautiful form in which 
 it was enshrined should have called this interest into 
 sudden and effective action. Miss Davidson was just 
 sixteen her complexion was the most beautiful bru 
 nette, clear and brilliant, of that warm tint that seems 
 to belong to lands of the sun rather than to our 
 chilled regions; indeed her whole organization, mental 
 as well as physical, her deep and quick sensibility 
 her early development, were characteristics of a 
 warmer clime than ours ; her stature was of the mid 
 dle height, her form slight and symmetrical, her hair 
 profuse, dark, and curling, her mouth and nose regu 
 lar, and as beautiful as if they had been chiselled by 
 an inspired artist ; and through this fitting medium
 
 64 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 beamed her angelic spirit. " Mr. Kent, with all the 
 enthusiasm inherent in his nature, after examining 
 her common-place book, resolved, if he could induce 
 her parents to resign Lucretia to his care, to afford 
 her every facility for improvement that could be ob 
 tained in the country and in short, he proposed to 
 adopt her as his own child. Her parents took the 
 subject into consideration, and complied so far with 
 his benevolent wishes, as to permit him to take an 
 active interest in her education, deferring to future 
 consideration, the question of his adopting her. Had 
 she lived, they would, no doubt, have consented to 
 his plan. It was, after some deliberation, decided to 
 send her a few months to the Troy Seminary, and on 
 the same evening she wrote the following letter to 
 her brother and sister: 
 
 " What think you ? ' ere another moon shall fill 
 round as my shield," I shall be at Mrs. Willard's se 
 minary; in a fortnight I shall probably have left 
 Plattsburgh, not to return at least until the expiration 
 of six months. Oh ! I am so delighted, so happy ! I 
 shall scarcely eat, drink, or sleep for a month to come. 
 You and Anne must both write to me often, and you 
 must not laugh when you think of poor Luly in the 
 far-famed city of Troy, dropping handkerchiefs, keys, 
 gloves, &c. ; in short, something of everything I have. 
 It is well if you can read what I have written, for 
 papa and mamma are talking, and my head whirls 
 like a top. Oh ! how my poor head aches ! Such a 
 surprise as I have had !" 
 
 On the 24th of November, 1824, she left home, 
 health on her cheek and in her bosom, and flushed 
 with the most ardent expectations of getting rapidly 
 forward in the career her desires were fixed upon. 
 But even at this moment her fond devotion to her 
 mother was beautifully expressed in some stanzas,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 55 
 
 which she left where they would meet her eye as 
 soon as the parting tears were wiped away. These 
 stanzas are already published, and I shall only quote 
 two from them, striking for their tenderness and truth. 
 
 " To thee rny lay is due, the simple song 
 Which nature gave me at life's opening day; 
 
 To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
 Whose heart, indulgent, will not spurn my lay ! 
 
 " Oh say, amid this wilderness of life 
 
 What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? 
 
 Who would have smiled responsive 1 Who in grief 
 'Would e'er have felt, and feeling, grieved like thee?" 
 
 The following extracts from her letters, which were 
 always filled with yearnings for home, will show that 
 her affections were the strong-hold of her nature. 
 
 " Troy Seminary, December 6th, 1824. Here I 
 am at last ; and what a naughty girl I was, when I 
 was at Aunt Schuyler's, that I did not write you 
 everything ! But to tell the truth, I was topsyturvy, 
 and so I am now ; but in despite of calls from the 
 young ladies, and of a hundred new faces, and new 
 names which are constantly ringing in my ears, I 
 have set myself down, and will not rise until I have 
 written an account of everything to my dear mother. 
 I am contented ; yet, notwithstanding, I have once 
 or twice turned a wishful glance towards my dear- 
 loved home. Amidst all the parade of wealth, in the 
 splendid apartments of luxury, I can assure you, my 
 dearest mother, that I had rather be with you in our 
 own lowly home, than in the midst of all this cere 
 mony." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I like Mrs. Willard. ' And so this 
 is my girl, Mrs. Schuyler ?' said she, and took me af 
 fectionately by the hand. Oh, I want to see you so
 
 56 LUCRET1A MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 much ! But I must not think of it now. I must learn 
 as fast as I can, and think only of my studies. Dear, 
 dear little Margaret ! kiss her and the little boys for 
 me. How is dear father getting on in this rattling 
 world ?" 
 
 The letters that followed were tinged with melan 
 choly from her " bosom's depth," and her mother has 
 withheld them. In a subsequent one she says, " I 
 have written two long letters ; but I wrote when I 
 was ill, and they savour too much of sadness. I feel 
 a little better now, and have again commenced my 
 studies. Mr. K. called here to-day. Oh, he is very 
 good ! He stayed some time, and brought a great 
 many books ; but I fear I shall have little time to 
 read aught but what appertains to my studies. I am 
 consulting Kames's Elements of Criticism, studying 
 French, attending to Geological lectures, composition, 
 reading, paying some little attention to painting, and 
 learning to dance." 
 
 .A subsequent letter indicated great unhappiness 
 and debility, and awakened her mother's apprehen 
 sions. The next was written more cheerfully. " As 
 I fly to you," she says, " for consolation in all my 
 sorrows, so I turn to you, my dear mother, to par 
 ticipate in all my joys. The clouds that enveloped 
 my mind have dispersed, and I turn to you with a 
 far lighter heart than when I last wrote. The ever 
 kind Mr. K. called yesterday." She then describes 
 the paternal interest he took in her health and hap 
 piness, expresses a trembling apprehension lest he 
 should be disappointed in the amount of her improve 
 ment, and laments the loss of time from her frequent 
 indisposition. " How, my dear mother," she says, 
 " shall I express my gratitude to my kind, my excel 
 lent friend ? What is felt as deeply as I feel this 
 obligation, cannot be expressed ; but I can feel, and
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 57 
 
 do feel." It must be remembered that these were 
 not formal and obligatory letters to her guardian, but 
 the spontaneous overflowing of her heart in her pri 
 vate correspondence with her mother. 
 
 We now come to a topic, to which we would ask 
 the particular attention of our readers. Owing to 
 many causes, but chiefly, we believe, to the demand 
 for operatives in every department of society in our 
 country, the work of school education is crowded 
 into a very few years. The studies, instead of being 
 selected, spread through the whole circle of sciences. 
 The school period is the period of the young animal's 
 physical growth and development ; the period when 
 the demands of the physical nature are strongest, 
 and the mental weakest. Then our young men are 
 immured in colleges, law schopls, divinity schools, 
 &c. ; and our young ladies in boarding-schools, 
 where, even in the best regulated, the provisions for 
 sxercise in the open air are very insufficient. In the 
 city schools, we are aware, that the difficulties to be 
 overcome to achieve this great object are nearly in 
 superable, we believe quite so ; and, if they are so, 
 should not these establishments be placed in the coun 
 try'? Are not health and physical vigour the basis 
 of mental health and vigour, of usefulness and happi 
 ness 1 What a proportion of the miseries of the more 
 favoured classes of our females result from their in- 
 validism ! What feebleness of purpose, weakness of 
 execution, dejection, fretfulness, mental and moral 
 imbecility ! 
 
 The case would not be so bad, if the misery ended 
 with one generation, with the mother cut off in the 
 midst of her days, or dragging on to three-score and 
 ten, her unenjoyed and profitless existence. But that 
 is not so : there are hosts of living witnesses in the 
 sickly, pale drooping children of our nurseries. There 
 5
 
 58 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 are multitudes who tell us that our climate will not 
 permit a delicate female to exercise in the open air. 
 If the climate is bad, so much the more important is 
 it to acquire strength to resist it. Besides, if out-of- 
 door exercise is not at all times attractive, we know it 
 is not impossible. We know delicately bred females, 
 who during some of our hardest winters, have not for 
 more than a day or two lost their exercise abroad. 
 When, in addition to the privation of pleasurable 
 exercise, (for the walk in funeral procession, attended 
 by martinets, and skewered by city decorums, can 
 scarcely be called pleasurable,) the school-girl is con 
 fined to her tasks from eight to ten hours, in rooms 
 sometimes too cold, sometimes too hot, where her 
 fellow-sufferers are en masse, can we wonder at the 
 result ? 
 
 How far this evil may have operated in shortening 
 the life of Lucretia Davidson, we cannot say ; but we 
 cannot but think, that her devoted and watchful friends 
 erred in sending a creature so delicate in her constitu 
 tion to any boarding-school, even the best conducted 
 institution. We certainly do not mean to express or 
 imply any censure of the " Troy Seminary. We 
 have no personal knowledge of it ; but we believe no 
 similar institution has more the confidence of the com 
 munity ; and, as it has been now many years estab 
 lished and tried, it is fair to believe it deserves it. 
 
 An arrangement of these boarding-schools, that 
 bore very hard upon Miss Davidson, was the public 
 examination.* These examinations are appalling to 
 
 *I did not intend remarking upon the influence these exami 
 nations have on the scholar's progress; but I cannot forbear 
 quoting the following pertinent passage from President Hopkins's 
 Inaugural Address. " There are not wanting schools in this 
 country, in which the real interests and progress of the pupils 
 are sacrificed to their appearance at examination. But the vanity
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 59 
 
 a sensitive mind. Could they be proved to be of man 
 ifest advantage to the scholarship of the young ladies, 
 we should doubt their utility on the whole. But even 
 where they are conducted with perfect fairness, are 
 they a test of scholarship 1 Do not the bold outface, 
 and the indolent evade them? The studious are 
 stimulated, and the sensitive and shrinking, if stimu 
 lated, are appalled and disconcerted by them, so that 
 the condiment affects those only whose appetites are 
 already too keen. 
 
 But the experience of Miss Davidson is more per 
 suasive than any reasoning of ours, and we shall give 
 it in her own language, in occasional extracts from 
 her letters to her mother. 
 
 " We now begin to dread the examination. Oh, 
 horrible ! seven weeks, and I shall be posted up before 
 all Troy, all the students from Schenectady, and per 
 haps five hundred others. What shall I do 1 
 
 " I have just received a note from Mr. K. in which 
 he speaks of your having written to him of my illness. 
 I was indeed ill, and very ill, for several days, and in 
 my deepest dejection wrote to you ; but do not, my 
 dearest mother, be alarmed about me. My appetite 
 is not perfectly good, but quite as well as when I was 
 at home. The letter was just such a one as was 
 calculated to soothe my feelings, and set me completely 
 at rest. He expressed a wish that my stay here 
 should be prolonged. What think you, mother ? I 
 should be delighted by such an arrangement. This 
 place really seems quite like home to me, though not 
 my own dear home. I like Mrs. Willard, I love the 
 girls, and I have the vanity to think I am not actually 
 disagreeable to them." 
 
 of parents must be flattered, and the memory is overburdened, 
 and studies are forced on prematurely, and a system of infant 
 school instruction is carried forward into maturer life."
 
 00 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 We come now to another expression (partly seri 
 ous and partly bantering, for she seems to have uni 
 formly respected her instructress) of her terrors of 
 " examination." 
 
 " We are all engaged, heart and hand, preparing 
 "or this awful examination. Oh, how I dread it ! But 
 there is no retreat. I must stand firm to my post, or 
 experience all the anger, vengeance, and punishments, 
 which will, in case of delinquency or flight, be exer 
 cised with the most unforgiving acrimony. We are 
 in such cases excommunicated, henceforth and for 
 ever, under the awful ban of holy Seminary ; and the 
 evil eye of false report is upon us. Oh mamma, I do 
 though, jesting apart, dread this examination ; but 
 nothing short of real and absolute sickness can excuse 
 a scholar in the eyes of Mrs. Willard. Even that 
 will not do it to the Trojan world around us ; for if a 
 young lady is ill at examination, they say, with a 
 sneer, ' Oh, she is ill of an examination-fever !' Thus 
 you see, mamma, we have no mercy either from 
 friends or foes. We must ' do or die.' Tell Morris 
 he must write to me. Kiss dear, dear little Margaret 
 for me, and don't let her forget poor sister Luly, and 
 tell all who inquire for me that I am well, but in 
 awful dread of a great examination." 
 
 The following extract is from a letter to her friends, 
 who had written under the impression, that all letters 
 received by the young ladies were, of course, read 
 by some one of the officers of the institution. 
 
 " Lo ! just as I was descending from the third story, 
 (for you must know I hold my head high,) your letter 
 was put into my hands. Poor little wanderer ! I 
 really felt a sisterly compassion for the poor little 
 folded paper. I kissed it for the sake of those who 
 sent it forth into the wide world, and put it into my 
 bosom. But oh, when I read it ! Now, Anne, I will
 
 .BIOGRAPHY. 61 
 
 tell you the truth ; it was cold ; perhaps it was writ 
 ten on one of your cold Canada days, or perchance 
 it lost a little heat on the way. It did not seem to 
 come from the very heart of hearts ; it looked as 
 though it were written ' to a young lady at the Troy 
 Seminary,' not to your dear, dear, dear sister Luly. 
 Mr. K. has thus far been a father to me, and I thank 
 him ; but I will not mock my feelings by attempting 
 to say how much I thank him." 
 
 " My dear mother ! oh how I wish I could lay my 
 head upon your bosom ! I hope you do not keep my 
 letters, for I certainly have burned all yours,* and I 
 stood like a little fool and wept over their ashes, and 
 when I saw the last one gone, I felt as though I had 
 parted with my last friend." Then, after expressing 
 an earnest wish that her mother would destroy her 
 letters, she says, " They have no connection. When 
 I write, everything comes crowding upon me at 
 once ; my pen moves too slow for my brain and 
 my heart, and I feel vexed at myself, and tumble in 
 everything together, and a choice medley you have 
 of it !" 
 
 " I attended Mr. Ball's public (assembly) last night, 
 and had a delightful evening ; but now for something 
 of more importance Ex-am-i-na-tion ! I had just 
 begun to be engaged, heart and hand, preparing for 
 it, when, by some means, I took a violent cold. I 
 was unable to raise my voice above a whisper, and 
 coughed incessantly. On the second day, Mrs. Wil- 
 lard sent for Dr. Robbins ; he said I must be bled, 
 and take an emetic ; this was sad ; but oh, mamma, 
 I could not speak or breathe without pain." There 
 
 * This was in consequence of a positive command from her 
 mother. 
 
 5*
 
 62 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 are further details of pains, remedies, and consequent 
 exhaustion; and yet this fragile and precious crea 
 ture was permitted by her physician and friends, 
 kind and watchful friends too, to proceed in her sui 
 cidal preparations for examination ! There was no 
 thing uncommon in this injudiciousness. Such viola 
 tions of the laws of our physical nature are every 
 day committed by persons, in other respects, the 
 wisest and the best ; and our poor little martyr may 
 not have suffered in vain, if her experience awakens 
 attention to the subject. 
 
 In the letter from which we have quoted above, 
 and which is filled with expressions of love for the 
 dear ones at home, she continues : " Tell Morris I 
 will answer his letter in full next quarter, but now I 
 fear I am doing wrong, for I am yet quite feeble, 
 and when I get stronger, I shall be very avaricious 
 of my time, in order to prepare for the coming 
 week. 
 
 " We must study morning, noon, and night. / 
 shall rise between two and four now every morning, 
 till the dreaded day is past. I rose the other night 
 at twelve, but was ordered back to bed again. You 
 see, mamma, I shall have a chance to become an 
 early riser here." " Had I not written you that I 
 was coming home, I think I should not have seen you 
 this winter. All my friends think I had better re 
 main here, as the journey will be long and cold ; but 
 oh ! there is that at the journey's end, which would 
 tempt me through the wilds of Siberia father, 
 mother, brothers, sisters, home. Yes, I shall come." 
 
 We insert some stanzas, written about this time, 
 not so much for their poetical merit, as for the play 
 ful spirit that beams through them, and which seems 
 like sunbeams smiling on a cataract.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. PS 
 
 One has a headache, one a cold, 
 One has her neck in flannel rolled; 
 Ask the complaint, and you are told 
 
 ' Next week's examination 
 
 One frets and scolds, and laughs and cries, 
 Another hopes, despairs, and sighs ; 
 Ask but the cause, and each replies, 
 
 ' Next week's examination 
 
 One bans her books, then grasps them tight, 
 And studies morning, noon, and night, 
 As though she took some strange delight 
 
 ' In these examinations.' * 
 
 The books are marked, defaced, and thumbed, 
 The brains with midnight tasks benumbed, 
 Still all in that account is summed, 
 
 ' Next week's examination.' 
 
 In a letter, February 10th, she says, " The dreaded 
 work of examination is now going on, my dear mo 
 ther. To-morrow evening, which will be the last, 
 and is always the most crowded, is the time fixed 
 upon for rny entree upon the field of action. Oh ! 
 I hope I shall not disgrace myself. It is the rule 
 here to reserve the best classes till the last; so I 
 suppose I may take it as a compliment that we aro 
 delayed." 
 
 " February 12th. The examination is over. E 
 
 E did herself and her native village honour ; but 
 
 as for your poor Luly, she acquitted herself, I trust, 
 decently ! Oh ! mamma, I was so frightened ! but, 
 although my face glowed and my voice trembled, I 
 did make out to get through, for I knew my lessons 
 The room was crowded almost to suffocation. All 
 was still the fall of a pin could have been heard
 
 64 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 and I tremble when I think of it even now." No one 
 ran read these melancholy records without emotion. 
 
 Her visit home during the vacation was given up, 
 in compliance with the advice of her guardian. " I 
 wept a good long hour or so," she says, with her 
 characteristic gentle acquiescence, " and then made 
 up my mind to be content." 
 
 In her next letter she relates an incident very 
 striking in her eventful life. - 
 
 It occurred in returning to Troy, after her vaca 
 tion, passed happily with her friends in the vicinity. 
 "Uncle went to the ferry with me," she says, " where 
 we met Mr. Paris. Uncle placed me under his care, 
 and, snugly seated by his side, I expected a very plea 
 sant ride, with a very pleasant gentleman. All was 
 pleasant, except that we expected every instant that 
 all the ice in the Hudson would come drifting against 
 us, and shut in scow, stage, and all, or sink us to the 
 bottom, which, in either case, you know, mother, 
 would not have been quite so agreeable. We had 
 just pushed from the shore, I watching the ice with 
 anxious eyes, when, lo! the two leaders made a tre 
 mendous plunge, and tumbled headlong into the river. 
 I felt the carriage following fast after; the other two 
 horses pulled back with all their power, but the lead 
 ers were dragging them down, dashing and plunging, 
 and flouncing in the water. ' Mr. Paris, in mercy let 
 us get out !' said I. But, as he did not see the horses, 
 he felt no alarm. The moment I informed him they 
 were overboard, he opened the door, and cried, ' Get 
 out and save yourself, if possible ; I am old and stiff, 
 but I will follow in an instant.' ' Out with the lady ! 
 Jet the lady out !' shouted several voices at once ; ' the 
 other horses are about to plunge, and then all will be 
 over.' I made a lighter spring than many a lady 
 does in a cotillion, and jumped upon a cake of ice.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 65 
 
 Mr. Paris followed, and we stood, (I trembling like a 
 leaf,) expecting every instant that the next plunge of 
 the drowning horses would detach the piece of ice 
 upon which we were standing, and send us adrift ; 
 but, thank Heaven, after working for ten or fifteen 
 minutes, by dint of ropes, and cutting them away 
 from the other horses, they dragged the poor crea 
 tures out, more dead than alive. 
 
 " Mother, don't you think I displayed some cou 
 rage ? I jumped into the stage again, and shut the 
 door, while Mr. Paris remained outside, watching the 
 movement of affairs. We at length reached here, and 
 I am alive, as you see, to tell the story of my woes." 
 
 In her next letter she details a conversation with 
 Mrs. Willard,.full of kind commendation and good 
 counsel. " Mamma," she concludes, "you would be 
 justified in thinking me a perfect lump of vanity and 
 egotism; but I have always related to you every 
 thought, every action of my life. I have had no con 
 cealments from you, and I have stated these matters 
 to you because they fill me with surprise. Who 
 would think the accomplished Mrs. Willard would 
 admire my poor daubing, or my poor anything else ! 
 Oh, dear mamma, I am so happy now ! so contented ! 
 Every unusual movement startles me. I am con 
 stantly afraid of something to mar it." 
 
 The next extract is from a letter, the emanation of 
 her affectionate spirit, to a favourite brother seven 
 years old. 
 
 " Dear L , I am obliged to you for your two 
 
 very interesting epistles, and much doubt whether I 
 could spell more ingeniously myself. Really, I have 
 some idea of sending them to the printers, to be struck 
 off in imitation of a Chinese puzzle. Your questions 
 about the stars I have been cogitating some time past, 
 and am of the opinion, that, if there are beings inha-
 
 66 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 biting tnose heavenly regions, they must be content to 
 feed, cameleon-like, upon air ; for even were we dis 
 posed to spare them a portion of our earth sufficient 
 to plant a garden, I doubt whether the attraction of 
 gravitation would not be too strong for resistance, and 
 the unwilling clod return to its pale brethren of the 
 valley ' to rest in ease inglorious.' So far from burn 
 ing your precious letters, my dear little brother, I 
 carefully preserve them in a little pocket-book, and 
 when I feel lonely and desolate, and think of my dear 
 nome, I turn them over and over again. Do write 
 often, my sweet little correspondent, and believe me," 
 &c. &c. 
 
 Her next letter to her mother, written in March, 
 was in a melancholy strain ; but as if to avert her 
 parent's consequent anxieties, she concludes : 
 
 " I hope you will feel no concern for my health or 
 happiness. Do, my dear mother, try to be cheerful, 
 and have good courage." 
 
 " I have been to the Rensselaer school, to attend 
 the philosophical lectures. They are delivered by 
 the celebrated Mr. Eaton, who has several students, 
 young gentlemen. I hope they will not lose their 
 hearts among twenty or thirty pretty girls. For my 
 part, I kept my eyes fixed as fast as might be upon 
 the good old lecturer, as I am of the opinion that he 
 is the best possible safeguard, with his philosophy and 
 his apparatus ; for you know philosophy and love are 
 sworn enemies !" 
 
 Miss Davidson returned to Plattsburgh during the 
 spring vacation. Her mother, when the first rapture 
 of reunion was over, the first joy at finding her child 
 unchanged in the modesty and naturalness of her 
 deportment, and fervour of her affections, became 
 alarmed at the indications of disease, in the extreme 
 fragility of her person, and the deep and fluctuating
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 67 
 
 colour of her cheek. Lucretia insisted, and, deceived 
 by that ever-deceiving disease, believed she was well. 
 She was gay and full of hope, and could hardly be 
 persuaded to submit to her father's medical prescrip 
 tions ; but the well-known crimson spot, that so often 
 flushed her cheek, was regarded by him with the 
 deepest anxiety, and he shortly called counsel. During 
 her stay at home she wrote a great deal. Like the 
 bird, which is to pass away with the summer, she 
 seems to have been ever on the wing, pouring forth 
 the spontaneous melodies of her soul. The following 
 are a few stanzas from a piece 
 
 "ON SPRING." 
 
 1 have seen the fair Spring, I have heard her sweet song, 
 As she passed in her lightness and freshness along ; 
 The blue wave rolled deeper, the moss-crest looked bright, 
 As she breathed o'er the regions of darkness and night. 
 
 I have seen the rose bloom on the youthful cheek, 
 And the dew of delight 'neath the bright lash break ; 
 The bounding footstep, scarce pressing the earth, 
 And the lip which speaks of a soul of mirth. 
 
 I have seen the winter with brow of care, 
 With his soulless eye and his snow-white hair ; 
 And whate'er his footsteps had touched was cold, 
 As the lifeless stone which the sculptors mould. 
 
 ******* 
 
 As I knelt by the sepulchre, dreary and lone, 
 
 Lay the beautiful form in its temple of stone ; 
 
 I looked for its coming, the warm wind passed by, 
 
 I looked for its coming on earth and on high. 
 
 The young leaves gleamed brightly around the cold spot, 
 I looked for the spirit, yet still it came not. 
 Shall the flower of the valley burst forth to the light, 
 And man in his beauty lie buried in night]
 
 68 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 A voice on the waters, a voice in the sky, 
 A voice from beneath, and a voice from on high, 
 Proclaims that he shall not, that Spring, in her light, 
 Shall waken the spirit from darkness and night. 
 
 These were singular speculations for a beautiful 
 girl of sixteen. Were there not spirits ministering to 
 her from that world to which she was hastening 1 
 
 The physician, called in to consult with her father, 
 was of opinion that a change of air and scene would 
 probably restore her, and it was decided, in compli 
 ance with her own wishes, that she should return to 
 school Miss Gilbert's boarding-school, at Albany, 
 was selected for the next six months. There are few 
 more of her productions of any sort, and they seem 
 to us to have the sweetness of the last roses of sum 
 mer. The following playful passages are from her 
 last letter at home to her sister in Canada. 
 
 " The boat will be here in an hour or two, and I 
 am all ready to start. Oh, I am half sick. I have 
 taken several doses of something quite delectable for 
 a visiting treat. Now," she concludes her letter, 
 " by your affection for me, by your pity for the wan 
 derer, by your remembrance of the ubsent, by your 
 love for each other, and by all that is sacred to an 
 absent friend, I charge you, write to me, and write 
 often. As ye hope to prosper, as ye hope your boy 
 to prosper, (and grow fat !) as ye hope for my grati 
 tude and affection now and hereafter, I charge you, 
 write. If ye sinfully neglect this last solemn injunc 
 tion of a parting friend, my injured spirit will visit 
 you in your transgressions. It shall pierce you with 
 goosequills, and hurl down upon your recreant heads 
 the brimming contents of the neglected inkstand. 
 This is my threat, and this is my vengeance. But 
 if, on the contrary, ye shall see fit to honour me with 
 numerous epistles, which shall be duly answered,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 69 
 
 know ye, that I will live and love you, and not only 
 you, but your boy ! So you see upon your own bear 
 ing depends the future fate of the little innocent, to 
 be beloved, or not to be beloved !' They have come ! 
 Farewell, a long farewell !" 
 
 She proceeded to Albany, and in a letter dated 
 May 12th, 1825, she seems delighted with her recep 
 tion, accommodations, and prospects, at Miss Gilbert's 
 school. She has yet no anxieties about her health, 
 and enters on her career of study with her customary 
 ardour. With the most delicate health and constant 
 occupation, she found time always to write long let 
 ters to her mother, and the little children at home 
 filled with fond expressions. What an example and 
 rebuke to the idle school-girl who finds no time for 
 these minor duties ! But her studies, to which she 
 applied herself beyond her strength, from the con 
 scientious fear of not fulfilling the expectations of her 
 friends, were exhausting the sources of life. Her 
 letters teem with expressions of gratitude to her 
 
 friend Mr. K , to Miss Gilbert, and to all the 
 
 friends around her. She complains of debility and 
 want of appetite, but imputes all her ailings to not 
 hearing regularly .from home. The mails were of 
 course at fault, for her mother's devotion never in 
 termitted. The following expressions will show that 
 her sensibility, naturally acute, was rendered intense 
 by physical disease and suffering. 
 
 " Oh, my dear mother, cannot you send your Luly 
 one line ? Not one word in two weeks ! I have done 
 nothing but weep all day long. I feel so wretchedly! 
 I am afraid you are ill." 
 
 " I am very wretched, indeed I am. My dear 
 
 mother, am I never to hear from you again ? I am 
 
 home-sick. I know I am foolish ; but I cannot help 
 
 it. To tell the truth, I am half sick. I am so weak 
 
 6
 
 70 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 so languid, I cannot eat. I am nervous, I know I 
 am ; I weep most of the time. I have blotted the 
 paper so, that I cannot write. I cannot study much 
 longer if I do not hear from you." 
 
 Letters* from home renovated her for a few days, 
 and at Mr. K.'s request, she went to the theatre, and 
 gave herself up, with all the freshness of youthful 
 feeling, to the spells of the drama, and raved about 
 Hamlet and Ophelia like any other school-girl. 
 
 But her next letter recurs to her malady, and for 
 the first time, she expresses a fear that her disease is 
 beyond the reach of common remedies. Her mother 
 was alarmed, and would have gone immediately to 
 her, but she was herself confined to her room by ill 
 ness. Her father's cooler judgment inferred from 
 their receiving no letters from Lucretia's friends, 
 that there was nothing immediately alarming in her 
 symptoms. 
 
 The next letter removed every doubt. It was 
 scarcely legible ; still she assures her mother she is 
 better, and begs she will not risk the consequences of 
 a long journey. But neither health nor life weighed 
 now with the mother against seeing her child. She 
 set off, and by appointment, joined Mr. K. at White 
 hall. They proceeded thence to Albany, where, after 
 the first emotions of meeting were over, Lucretia said, 
 " Oh mamma, I thought I should never have seen you 
 again ! But, now I have you here, and can lay my 
 aching head upon your bosom, I shall soon be better." 
 
 For a few days the balm seemed effectual; she 
 was better, and the physicians believed she would 
 recover; but her mother was no longer to be per 
 suaded from her conviction of the fatal nature of the 
 disease, and arrangements were immediately made 
 to convey her to Plattsburgh. The journey was ef
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 71 
 
 fected, notwithstanding it was during the heats of 
 July, with less physical suffering than was appre 
 hended. She shrunk painfully from the gaze her 
 beauty inevitably attracted, heightened as it was by 
 that disease which seems to delight to deck the vic 
 tim for its triumph. " Her joy upon finding herself 
 at home," says her mother, " operated for a time like 
 magic." The sweet health-giving influence of do 
 mestic love, the home atmosphere, seemed to suspend 
 the progress of her disease, and again her father, 
 brothers and friends were deluded ; all but the mo 
 ther and the sufferer. She looked, with prophetic 
 eye, calmly to the end. There was nothing to dis 
 turb her. That kingdom that cometh " without ob 
 servation" was within her, and she was only about 
 to change its external circumstances, about to put off 
 the harness of life in which she had been so patient 
 and obedient. To the last she manifested her love 
 of books. A trunk filled with them had not been 
 unpacked. She requested her mother to open it at 
 her bed-side, and as each book was given to her, she 
 turned over the leaves, kissed it, and desired to have 
 it placed on a table at the foot of her bed. There 
 they remained to the last, her eye often fondly resting 
 on them. 
 
 She expressed a strong desire to see Mr. Kent 
 once more, and a fear that though he had been sum 
 moned, he might not arrive in time. He came, how 
 ever, to receive the last expressions of her gratitude, 
 and to hear his own name the last pronounced by 
 her lips. 
 
 The " Fear of Madness" was written by her while 
 confined to her bed, and was the last piece she ever 
 wrote. As it constitutes a part of the history of her 
 disease, it is, though already published, inserted here
 
 72 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 There is a something which I dread, 
 
 It is a dark and fearful thing; 
 It steals along with withering tread, 
 
 Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 
 
 That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
 
 Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 
 'Tis not the dread of death; 'tis more, 
 
 It is the dread of madness. 
 
 Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
 
 Forgetful of their feverish course ; 
 May this hot brain, which, burning, glows 
 
 With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 
 
 Be cold, and motionless, and still 
 
 A tenant of ita lowly bed ; 
 But let not dark delirium steal 
 (Unfinished.) 
 
 That the records of the last scenes of Lucretm 
 Davidson's life are scanty, is not surprising. The 
 materials for this memoir, it must be remembered, 
 were furnished by her mother. A victim stretched 
 on the rack cannot keep records. She says in general 
 terms, " Lucretia frequently spoke to me of her ap 
 proaching dissolution, with perfect calmness, and as 
 an event that must soon take place. In a conversa 
 tion with Mr. Townsend, held at intervals, as her 
 strength would permit, she expressed the same senti 
 ments she expressed to me before she grew so weak. 
 She declared her firm faith in the Christian religion 
 her dependence on the divine promises, which she 
 said had consoled and sustained her during her illness. 
 She said her hopes of salvation were grounded on the 
 merits of her Saviour, and that death, which had 
 once looked so dreadful to her, was now divested of 
 all its terrors." 
 
 Welcome, indeed, should that messenger have beei?
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 73 
 
 that opened the gates of knowledge, and blissful im 
 mortality, to such a spirit ! 
 
 During Miss Davidson's residence in Albany, which 
 was less than three months, she wrote several miscel 
 laneous pieces, and began a long poem, divided into 
 cantos, and entitled " Maritorne, or the Pirate of 
 Mexico." This she deemed better than anything she 
 had previously produced. The amount of her com 
 positions, considering the shortness and multifarious 
 occupations of a life of less than seventeen years, is 
 surprising.* 
 
 We copy the subjoined paragraph from the bio 
 graphical sketch prefixed to " Amir Khan." " Her 
 poetical writings, which have been collected, amount 
 in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of 
 various lengths. When it is considered, that there 
 are among these at least five regular poems, of several 
 cantos each, some estimate may be formed of her 
 poetical labours. Besides these were twenty-four 
 school exercises, three unfinished romances, a com 
 plete tragedy, written at thirteen years of age, and 
 about forty letters, in a few months, to her mother 
 alone." This statement does not comprise the large 
 proportion (at least one-third of the whole) which she 
 destroyed. 
 
 The genius of Lucretia Davidson has had the meed 
 of far more authoritative praise than ours. The 
 following tribute is from the " London Quarterly 
 Review ;" a source whence praise of American pro 
 ductions is as rare as springs in the desert. The 
 notice is by Mr. Southey, and is written with the 
 earnest feeling that characterizes that author, as 
 generous as he is discriminating. " In these poems,' 
 
 * She died on the 27th of August, 1825, just a month before 
 her seventeenth birthday. 
 6*
 
 74 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 (Amir Khan, &c.) " there is enough of originality, 
 enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, 
 enough of growing power, to warrant any expecta 
 tions, however sanguine, which the patrons, and the 
 friends, and parents of the deceased could have 
 formed." 
 
 But, prodigious as the genius of this young creature 
 was, still marvellous after all the abatements that 
 may be made for precociousness and morbid develop 
 ment, there is something yet more captivating in 
 her moral loveliness. Her modesty was not the 
 infusion of another mind, not the result of cultivation, 
 not the effect of good taste ; nor was it a veil cau 
 tiously assumed and gracefully worn ; but an innate 
 quality, that made her shrink from incense, even 
 though the censer were sanctified by love. Her 
 mind was like the exquisite mirror, that cannot be 
 stained by human breath. 
 
 Few may have been gifted with her genius, but all 
 can imitate her virtues. There is a universality in the 
 holy sense of duty, that regulated her life. Few young 
 ladies will be called on to renounce the muses for do 
 mestic duties ; but many may imitate Lucretia David 
 son's meek self-sacrifice, by relinquishing some favour 
 ite pursuit, some darling object, for the sake of an 
 humble and unpraised duty ; and, if few can attain her 
 excellence, all may imitate her in gentleness, humility, 
 industry, and fidelity to her domestic affections. We 
 may apply to her the beautiful lines, in which she 
 describes one of those 
 
 -forms, that, wove in Fancy's loom, 
 
 Float in light visions round the poet's head." 
 
 " She was a being formed to love and bless, 
 With lavish nature's richest loveliness; 
 Such I have often seen in Fancy's eye, 
 Beings too bright for dull mortality.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 75 
 
 I 've seen them in the visions of the night, 
 I 've faintly seen th"m when enough of light 
 And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, 
 As forms of other worlds, or brighter days." 
 
 This memoir may be fitly concluded by the follow 
 ng " Tribute to the Memory of my Sister," by Mar 
 garet Davidson, who was but two years old at the 
 time of Lucretia's death, and whom she often men 
 tions with peculiar fondness. The lines were written 
 at the age of eleven. May we be allowed to say, that 
 the mantle of the elder sister has fallen on the younger, 
 and that she seems to be a second impersonation of 
 her spirit '? 
 
 "Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb, 
 Like the floweret which drops in its verdure and bloom; 
 Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 
 And thy strains shall ne'er waken their echoes again, 
 Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide, 
 Still, still thou art ours, and America's pride. 
 Sing on thou pure seraph, with harmony crowned, 
 
 And pour the full tide of thy music along, 
 O'er the broad arch of Heaven the sweet note shall resound, 
 
 And a bright choir of angels shall echo the song 
 The pure elevation which beamed from thine eye, 
 As it turned to its home in yon fair azure sky, 
 Told of something unearthly; it shone with the light 
 Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 
 Round the rose that is withered a fragrance remains; 
 O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns. 
 Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave, 
 And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave; 
 But thy spirit has mounted to mansions on high, 
 To the throne of its God, where it never can die."
 
 POETICAL REMAINS.
 
 AN ADDRESS TO MY MUSE. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 WHY, gentle Muse, wilt them disdain 
 To lend thy strains to me? 
 
 Why do I supplicate in vain 
 And bow my heart to thee? 
 
 Oh ! teach me how to touch the lyre, 
 To tune the trembling chord ; 
 
 Teach me to fill each heart with fire, 
 And melting strains afford. 
 
 Sweep but thy hand across the string, 
 The woodlands echo round, 
 
 And mortals wond'ring, as you sing, 
 Delighted catch each sound. 
 
 Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 
 
 I drop each earthly care ; 
 I feel as wafted from the world 
 
 To Fancy's realms of air. 
 
 Then as I wander, plaintive sing, 
 And teach me every strain; 
 
 Teach me to touch the trembling string 
 Which now I strike in vain. 
 
 (79)
 
 AMIR KHAN. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 PART I. 
 
 BRKJHTLY o'e; spire, and dome, and tower, 
 The pale moon shone at midnight hour, 
 While all beneath her smile of light 
 Was resting there in calm delight ; 
 Evening with robe of stars appears, 
 Bright as repentant Peri's tears, 
 And o'er her turban's fleecy fold 
 Night's crescent stream'd with rays of gold, 
 While every crystal cloud of Heaven 
 Bowed as it passed the queen of even. 
 
 Beneath calm Cashmere's lovely vale 1 
 Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale ; 
 The amaranth and tuberose, 
 Convolvulus in deep repose, 
 Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, 
 Or scarcely kissed the dew, and fled 
 The bulbul, with his lay of love : 2 
 Sang, 'mid the stillness of the grove ; 
 The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, 3 
 And trembling shed a shower of dew, 
 Which perfumed ere it kiss'd the ground, 
 Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. 
 
 7
 
 82 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow 4 
 Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow ; 
 And wide the plantain's arms were spread,' 
 The guardian of its native bed. 
 
 Where was Amreta at this hour? 
 
 Say! was she slumb'ring in her bower? 
 
 Or gazing on this scene of rest, 
 
 Less calm, less peaceful than her breast ? 
 
 Or was she resting in the dream 
 
 Of brighter days, on Fortune's stream ? 
 
 Or was she weeping Friendship broken, 
 
 Or sighing o'er Love's wither'd token ? 
 
 No ! she was calmly resting there, 
 Her eye ne'er spoke of hope nor fear, 
 But 'mid the blaze of splendour round, 
 For ever bent upon the ground, 
 Their long, dark lashes hid from vi^.w, 
 The brilliant glances which they thiew. 
 Her cheek was neither pale nor red ; 
 The rose, upon its summer bed, 
 Could never boast so faint a hue ; 
 So faint, and yet so brilliant too ! 
 
 Though round her, Cashmere's incense streamed 4 
 Though Persia's gems around her beamed ; 
 Though diamonds of Golconda shed 
 Their warmest lustre o'er her head 
 Though music lulled each fear to sleep, 
 Or like the night-wind o'er the deep ; 
 Just waking love and calm delight, 
 Kindling Hope's watch-fire clear and bright ; 
 For her, though Cashmere's roses twine 
 Together round the parent vine ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 83 
 
 And though to her, as Cashmere's star, 
 
 Knelt the once haughty Subahdar ; 6 
 
 Still, still, Amreta gazed unmoved, 
 
 Nor sighed, nor smiled, nor owned she loved ! 
 
 But, like the Parian marble there, 
 
 So bright, so exquisitely fair, 
 
 She seemed by Nature famed to bless, 
 
 Rich in surpassing loveliness. 
 
 But never from those lips of red 
 
 A single syllable had fled, 
 
 Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour 7 
 
 That placed Amreta in his bovver ; 
 
 Within that bower, 'mid twining roses, 
 
 Upon whose leaves the breeze reposes, 
 
 She sits unmoved, while round her flow, 
 
 Strains of sweet music, sad and low ; 
 
 Or now, in softer numbers breathing, . 
 
 A song of love and sorrow wreathing, 
 
 Such strains as in wild sweetness ran 
 
 Through the sad breast of Amir Khan ! 
 
 He loved, and oh! he loved so well 
 That sorrow scarce dared break the spell ; 
 Though oft Suspicion whispered near 
 One vague, one sadly boding fear, 
 A fear that Heaven in wrath had made 
 That face with seraph-charms array'd, 
 And then denied in mockery there 
 To breathe upon a face so fair ! 
 Without that spark of heav'nly flame, 
 Which burns unchanging, still the same, 
 Without that bright ethereal charm, 
 Oh ! what were beauty's angel form ? 
 
 The breeze as it sweeps o'er the poisonous flow'r ; 
 Dripping with night's damp blistering show'r,
 
 84 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Laden with woe, disease, and death, 
 Fading youth's bloom with its passing breath 
 Blighting each flower of various hue, 
 Ne'er o'er its fated victim threw 
 So dark a shade, a cloud so drear, 
 As hovered o'er the Subahdar. 
 
 Cool and refreshing sighs the breeze 
 Through the long walk of tzinnar-trees, 8 
 And cool upon the water's breast 
 The pale moon rocks herself to rest, 
 Yes ! calmer, brighter, cooler far 
 Than the fever'd brow of the Subahdar ! 
 
 Amreta was fair as the morning beam, 
 
 As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream,* 
 
 Bat oh ! she was cold as the marble floor 
 
 That glitters beneath the nightly shower. 
 
 Where was that eye which none could scan, 
 
 Which once belonged to Amir Khan ? 
 
 Where was that voice that mocked the storm ? 
 
 Where was that tall, majestic form ? 
 
 That eye was turn'd in love and woe 
 
 Upon Amreta's changeless brow, 
 
 That haughty form was bending low, 
 
 That voice was utt'ring vow on vow, 
 
 Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade, 
 
 Before that cold Circassian maid ! 
 
 " Oh speak, Amreta ! but one word ! 
 Let one soft sigh confess I 'm heard ! 
 Those eyes (than those of yon gazelle 
 More bright) a tale of love might tell ! 
 Then speak, Amreta ! raise thine eye, 
 Blush, smile, or answer with a sigh."
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 But 'twas in vain no sigh no word 
 Told that his humble suit was heard ; 
 Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there, 
 Her dark eyes glanc'd no answered pray*r, 
 Upon her cheek no blush was straying, 
 Around her lip no smile was playing, 
 And calm despair reigned darkly now, 
 O'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow. 
 
 What pity that so fair a form 
 
 Should want a heart with feeling warm ! 
 
 What pity that an eye so bright 
 
 Should beam o'er Reason's clouded night ! 
 
 And like a star on Mahmoud's wave, 10 
 
 Should glitter o'er a dreary grave : 
 
 A dark abyss a sunless day, 
 
 An endless night without one ray. 
 
 'Twas at that day, that silent hour, 
 When the tall poppy sheds its show'r, 
 When all on earth, and all on high 
 Seemed breathing slumber's sweetest sigh; 
 At that calm hour when Peris love 
 To gaze upon the Heaven above, 
 Whose portals, bright with many a gem. 
 Are closed for ever closed on them; 
 'T was at this silent, solemn hour, 
 That, gliding from his summer bower, 
 The Subahdar with noiseless step 
 Steals like the night-breeze o'er the deep. 
 
 Where glides the haughty Subahdar? 
 Onward he glides to where afar 
 Proud Hirney-Purvet rears his head 11 
 High above Cashmere's blooming bed. 
 
 7*
 
 86 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 And twines his turban's fleecy fold 
 With many a brilliant ray of gold, 
 Or places on his brow of blue 
 The crescent with its silver hue ; 
 
 There 'neath a plantain's sacred shade, 
 Which deep, and dark, and widely spread, 
 Al Shinar's high prophetic form 
 Held secret counsel with the storm ; 
 His hand had grasped, with fearless might 
 The mantle of descending night ; 
 Such matchless skill the prophet knew, 
 Such wond'rous feats his hand could do, 
 That Persia's realm astonished saw, 
 And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe ! 
 
 Low bowed the lofty Amir Khan, 
 Before the high and mighty man, 
 And bending o'er the Naptha's stream, 
 Which onward rolled its fiery gleam, 
 The Subahdar in murmurs told 
 Of beauteous form, of bosom cold, 
 Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek, 
 Of tongue which could or would not speak 
 
 At length the mourner's tale had ceased, 
 
 He crossed his hands upon his breast, 
 
 He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh, 
 
 But keenly fixed his piercing eye 
 
 Upon Al Shinar's gloomy brow, 
 
 In all the deep despair of woe ; 
 
 The Prophet paused ; his eye he raised, 
 
 And stern and earnestly he gazed, 
 
 As if to pierce the sable veil 
 
 Which would conceal the mournful tale ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 87 
 
 When, starting with a sudden blow, 
 He op'd a portal dark and low, 
 Which shrouded from each mortal eye 
 Al Shinar's cavern broad and high; 
 'T was bright, 't was exquisitely bright, 
 For founts of rich and living light 
 There poured their burning treasures forth, 
 Which sought again their parent earth. 
 
 Rich vases, with sweet incense streaming, 
 Mirrors a flood of brilliance beaming, 
 Fountain, and bath, and curling stream, 
 At every turn before them beam ; 
 And marble pillars, pure and cold, 
 And glitt'ring roof, inlaid with gold, 
 And gems, and diamonds met his view 
 In wild and rich profusion too; 
 And had Amreta's smiles been given, 
 This place had been the Moslem heaven f 
 
 The Prophet paused; while Amir Khan 
 Gazed, awe-struck, on the wond'rous man; 
 Al Shinar plucked a pale blue flow'r, 
 Which bent beneath the fountain's show'r, 
 Then slowly turned towards Amir Khan, 
 And placed the treasure in his hand. 
 
 " Mark me !" he cried ; " this pensive flower, 
 Gathered at midnight's magic hour, 
 Will charm each passion of the breast, 
 And calm each throbbing nerve to rest; 
 'Twill leave thy bounding bosom warm, 
 Yet set death's seal upon thy form ; 
 'T will leave thee stiff, and cold, and pale, 
 A slumberer 'neath an icy veil,
 
 88 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But still shall Reason's conscious reign 
 Unbroken, undisturbed remain, 
 And thou shall hear, and feel, and know 
 Each sigh, each touch, each throb of woe !' 
 
 Go, thou ! and if Amreta be 
 Worthy of love, and worthy thee, 
 When she beholds thee pale and cold, 
 Wrapped in the damp sepulchral fold; 
 When her eye wanders for that glow 
 Once burning on thy marble brow; 
 Then, if her bosom's icy frame 
 Hath ever warmed 'neath passion's flame, 
 'T will heave tumultuous as it glows 
 Like Baikal's everlasting throes; 
 And if, to-morrow eve, you press 
 This pale cold flow'ret to your breast, 
 Ere morning smiles, its spell will prove 
 If that cold heart BE WORTH thy love ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THERE'S silence in the princely halls, 
 And brightly blaze the lighted walls, 
 While clouds of musk and incense rise 
 Prom vases of a thousand dyes, 
 And roll their perfumed treasures wide, 
 In one luxuriant, fragrant tide; 
 And glittering chandeliers of gold, 
 Reflecting fire from every fold, 
 Hung o'er the shrouded body there, 
 Of Cashmere's once proud Subahdar ! 
 The crystal's and the diamond's rays 
 Kindled a wide and brilliant blaze;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 89 
 
 The ruby's blush, the coral's hue, 
 By Peris dipped in Henni's dew, 
 The topaz's rich and golden ray, 
 The opal's flame the agate grey, 
 The amethyst of violet hue, 
 The sapphire with its heav'nly blue, 
 The snow-white jasper sparkling there 
 Near the carbuncle's deep'ning glare ; 
 The warm cornelian's blushing glow 
 Reflected back the brilliant flow 
 Of light, which in refulgent streams, 
 O'er hall, o'er bower, and fountain beams. 
 
 O'er beds of roses, bright with dew, 
 Unfolding modestly to view, 
 Each trembling leaf, each blushing breast, 
 In Cashmere's wildest sweetness dressed ; 
 Through vistas long, through myrtle bower* 
 Where Amir Khan once passed his hours 
 In gazing on Amreta's face, 
 So full of beauty, full of grace, 
 Through veils of silver bright and clear, 
 It poured its softened radiance far; 
 Or beamed in pure and milky brightness, 
 O'er urns of alabaster whiteness; 
 Through Persian screens of glittering gold. 
 O'er many an altar's sacred fold, 
 Where to Eternity will blaze 
 The naphtha's never-fading rays, 
 The Gheber's fire which dieth never, 
 But burns, and beams, and glows for ever 1 
 
 'T was silent not a voice was heard 
 No sigh, no murmur, not one word, 
 Was echoed through that brilliant hall, 
 The spell of silence hung o'er all ;
 
 90 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON 
 
 For there had paused the wing of death, 
 The midnight spirit's withering breath. 
 
 At that still hour no sound arose 
 To break the charm of deep repose ; 
 The lake was glittering, and the breeze 
 Sighed softly through the the tzinnar trees, 
 And kissed the Wuller's wave of blue, 
 Or sipped the gull's light trembling dew ; 
 But not a murmur, not a sigh 
 Was wafted by the night-breeze by, 
 Through that wide hall and princely bower, 
 At midnight's calm and solemn hour ! 
 
 Oh ! where was Love, his night-watch keeping 
 Or was the truant sweetly sleeping? 
 Where was he at that hour of rest, 
 By him created, claimed, and blessed? 
 Where were the tears of Love, and Sorrow, 
 The sigh which sympathy can borrow ? 
 Where were regret, and chill despair? 
 Where was Amreta? where, Oh where? 
 
 Hark ! 't is the night-breeze softly playing, 
 Through veils of glittering silver straying 
 No ! 't is a step so quick, so light, 
 That the wild flower which weeps at night, 
 Would raise again its drooping head, 
 To greet the footstep which had fled. 
 
 'Tis not the breeze which floats around, 
 Lifting the light veil from the ground: 
 No ! 't is a form of heav'nly mien 
 Hath dared to draw the curtain's screen. 
 
 Dimly, behind the fluttering veil, 
 Which trembles in the breathing gale,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 A form appears of seraph mould 
 As 'neath a light cloud's fleecy fold; 
 The veil is drawn with hasty hand, 
 Loosed is the rich embroidered band 
 'Tis solemn solitude around, 
 There 's not a murmur, not a sound 
 Again a snowy hand is seen, 
 Again is raised the silken screen, 
 And lo ! with light and noiseless tread, 
 Amreta glided from its shade ! 
 
 Her veil was fluttering in the air, 
 Her brow, as Parian marble fair, 
 Was glittering bright with many a gem 
 Set in a brilliant diadem ; 
 Her long dark hair was floating far, 
 Braided with many a diamond star; 
 Her eye was raised, and Oh ! that eye 
 Seemed only formed to gaze on high ! 
 For Oh, more piercing bright its beam 
 Than diamonds 'neath Golconda's stream; 
 That angel-eye was only given 
 To look upon its native heaven ! 
 The glow upon her cheek was bright, 
 But it came, and it fled like a meteor's light,' 
 A brilliant tear was still lingering there, 
 And Oh, it was shed for the Subahdar ! 
 
 O'er ev'ry tear the maiden shed, 
 The heart of Amir Khan had bled ; 
 Now Amir Khan, she weeps for thee, 
 Oh! what must be thy ecstasy? 
 For Amir Khan Amreta weeps, 
 Yet Amir Khan unheeding sleeps ! 
 Like crystal dew-drops purely glowing, 
 O'er his pale brow her tears are flowing ;
 
 92 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 She wipes them with her veil away, 
 Less sacred far less sweet than they ! 
 
 Where was that eye whose ardent gaze 
 Had warmed her bosom with its rays? 
 Where was that glance of love and woe ? 
 Where was that proud heart's throbbing glow ? 
 All, all was cold and silent there, 
 And all was death, and dark despair! 
 She hid her face, now cold and pale, 
 Within her sweetly scented veil; 
 Then seized her lute, and a strain so clear, 
 So soft, so mournful arose on the air, 
 That Oh ! it was sweet as the music of heaven 
 O'er a lost one returning, a sinner forgiven ! 
 Such notes as repentance in sorrow might sing,- 
 Notes wafted to heaven by Israfil's wing: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Star of the morning ! this bosom was cold, 
 When forced from my native shade, 
 
 And I wrapp'd me around in my mantle's fold, 
 A mournful Circassian maid ! 
 
 I vowed that rapture should never move 
 This changeless cheek, this rayless eye, 
 
 I vowed to feel neither bliss, nor love, 
 In silence to meet thee, and then to die ! 
 
 Each burning sigh thy bosom hath breathed, 
 
 *Has been melting that chain away ; 
 The galling chain which around me I wreath'i 
 On the morn of that fatal day !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 93 
 
 Tis done ! and this night I have broken the vow 
 
 Which bound me in silence for ever ! 
 And thy spirit hath fled from a world of woe, 
 
 To return again, never ! Oh never ! 
 
 My soul is sad ! and my heart is weary ! 
 
 For thy bosom is cold to me; 
 Without thy smile the world is dreary, 
 
 And I will fly with thee ! 
 
 Together we '11 float down eternity's stream, 
 Twin stars on the breast of the billow, 
 
 The splendours of Paradise round us shall beam, 
 And thy bosom shall be my pillow ! 
 
 Then open thine arms bright star of the morning I 
 
 My grave in thy bosom shall be, 
 The glories of Paradise 'round us are dawning, 
 
 My Heaven is only with thee I 
 
 Hushed were the words, and hush'd the song 
 Which sadly, sweetly flow'd along, 
 But Amir Khan's warm heart beat high, 
 Though closed and rayless was his eye ; 
 And every note which struck his ear, 
 Whisper'd a hovering angel near; 
 And each warm tear that wet his cheek, 
 Her long-concealed regard bespeak ; 
 His bosom bounded to be free, 
 And fluttered, wild with ecstasy ! 
 Oh ! would the magic charm had passed ! 
 Would that the morn would break at last 1 
 But no it will not, may not be ! 
 He is not, nor can yet be free! 
 8
 
 94 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But hark ! Amreta's murmurs rise, 
 Sweet as the bird of Paradise ; 
 She bowed her head, and deeply sighed, 
 "Yes, Amir Khan, I am thy Bride! 
 And here the crimson hand of death 
 Shall wed us with a rosy wreath ! 
 My Mood shall join us as it flows, 
 And bind us in a deep repose!" 
 
 Beneath her veil a light is beaming, 
 A dagger in her hand is gleaming, 
 And livid was the light it threw, 
 A pale, cold, death-like stream of blue, 
 Around her form of angel brightness, 
 And o'er her brow of marble whiteness ! 
 
 Awake ! Oh ! Amir Khan, awake ! 
 Canst thou not rouse thee for her sake ? 
 Beside thee can Amreta stand, 
 The fatal dagger in her hand, 
 And canst thou still regardless lie, 
 And let thy loved Amreta die ? 
 Awake ! oh, Amir Khan ! awake, 
 And rouse thee for Amreta's sake ! 
 
 Like lightning from a midnight cloud, 
 The Subahdar, from 'neath his shroud, 
 Burst the cold, magic, death-like band, 
 And snatched the dagger from her hand I 
 The maiden sunk upon his breast, 
 And deep and lengthened was her rest ! 
 There was no sigh, no murmur there, 
 And scarcely breathed the Subahdar, 
 While almost fearing to be blest, 
 He clasped Amreta to his breast !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 95 
 
 Deep buried in his mantle's fold, 
 He felt not that her cheek was cold ; 
 His own heart throbbed with pleasure's thrill, 
 But whispered not that hers was still ! 
 Yes ! the wild flow of blissful joy, 
 Which, bursting, threatened to destroy, 
 Gave to her soul a rest from feeling; 
 A transient torpor gently stealing 
 O'er beating pulse, and throbbing breast, 
 Had calmed her ev'ry nerve to rest ; 
 But see ! the tide of life returns, 
 Once more her cheek with rapture burns, 
 Once more her dark eye's heav'nly beam 
 Pours forth its full and piercing gleam, 
 Once more her heart is bounding high, 
 Too full to weep too blest to sigh ! 
 
 NOTES TO AMIR KHAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Beneath calm Cashmere's lovely vale, &c. 
 
 " Cashmere, called the happy valley, the garden in perpetual 
 spring, and the Paradise of India." 
 
 II. 
 
 The bulbul, with his lay of love, &c. 
 " The Bulbul, or Nightingale "
 
 96 LUORETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 III. 
 
 The gulnare blush'd a deeper hue, &c. 
 " Gulnare or Rose." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow, &c. 
 
 " The Plane-tree, that species termed Platanus orientalis, is 
 commonly cultivated in Cashmere, where it is said to arrive at 
 a greater perfection than in any other country. This tree, 
 which in most parts of Asia is called the Chinur, grows to the 
 size of an oak, and has a taper, straight trunk, with a silver- 
 coloured bark, and its leaf, not unlike an expanded hand, is of a 
 pale green. When in full foliage it has a grand and beautiful 
 appearance, and in hot weather affords a refreshing shade."- 
 Foster. 
 
 V. 
 
 And wide the plantain's arms were spread, &c. 
 
 " Plantain-trees are supposed to prevent the plague from 
 visiting places, where they are found in abundance." Middle 
 ion's Geography. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Knelt the once haughty Subahdar, &c. 
 " Subahdar, or Governor." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour, &c. 
 
 " To the east of this delightful spot is a fortified palace, erected 
 by Amir Khan, a Persian, who was once Governor of Cashmere 
 He used to pass much of his time in this residence, which was 
 curiously adapted to every species of Asiatic luxury." See En 
 cyclopaedia, vol. v., part 2. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Through the long walks of tzinnar-trees, &c. 
 
 " Their walks are curiously laid out, and set on both sides 
 with tzinnar-trees, a species of poplar unknown in Europe It
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 97 
 
 grows to the height of a pine, and bears a fruit resembling the 
 chestnut, and it has broad leaves like those of the vine." Mid- 
 dleton's Geography. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream, &c. 
 
 " A beautiful river passes through Cashmere, called the 
 Ouller, or Wuller. There is an outlet, where it runs with 
 greater rapidity and force than elsewhere, between two steep 
 mountains, whence proceeding, after a long course, it joins with 
 the Chelum. 
 
 X. 
 
 And like a star on Mahmoud's wave, &c. 
 " It appears like a lake covered with rocks and mountains. 
 Stones, when thrown in, make a surprising noise, and the river 
 itself is deemed unfathomable." Middleton's Geography. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Proud Hirney Purvit rears his head, &c. 
 
 " There is an oval lake, which joins the Chelum towards the 
 east. The Yucht Suliman and Hirney Purvit form the two 
 sides of what may be called a grand portal to the lake. They 
 are hills ; one of which is sacred to the great Solyman. 
 
 8*
 
 CHICOMICO. 
 
 THIS Poem I have discovered to be founded on the following 
 actual occurrences : During the Semjnole war, Duncan M. Rim- 
 mon, (the Rathmond of the poem,) a Georgia militiaman, was 
 captured by the Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, condemned 
 him to death. He was bound ; but while the instruments of 
 torture were preparing, the tender-hearted daughter of Hillis- 
 adjo (the Chicomico of the tale) threw herself between the pris 
 oner and his executioners, and interceded with her father for his 
 release. She was successful. His life was spared. In the pro 
 gress of the war, however, it was the fate of the generous Hillis- 
 adjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a prisoner of war, 
 and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These are 
 the facts which Miss D. has wrought up, with other characters, 
 (probably fictitious,) to compose the whole of this poem. The 
 first part of the poem is so incomplete, that I have thought it 
 best to introduce the reader immediately to the second part. 
 The war had broken out. Chicomico had solicited the presence 
 of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid her father Hillis-adjo 
 against the whites, with Rathmond at their nead. The battle 
 is described, the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is taken 
 prisoner. Here the second part commences. 
 
 EDITOR. 
 
 (89)
 
 CHICOMICO. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 PART II. 
 
 WHAT sight of horror, fear and woe, 
 Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe ? 
 What thought of blood now lights his eye ? 
 What victim foe is doomed to die? 
 For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild, 
 And he cares not to look on his only child. 
 His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire. 
 And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire. 
 Alas ! 't is Rathmond stands a prisoner now, 
 Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 
 From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread, 
 To whose vindictive, cruel, savage mind, 
 Loss after loss fast following from behind, 
 Had only added thirst insatiate for blood ; 
 And now he swore by all his heart held dear, 
 That limb from limb his victims he would tear. 
 
 But ah ! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tdl I 
 Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell ? 
 To die when manhood dawns in rosy light, 
 
 To be cut off in all the bloom of life, 
 To view the cup untasted snatched from sight, 
 
 Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife 
 
 (100)
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 101 
 
 Alas, poor youth ! how sad, how faint thy heart ! 
 
 When memory paints the forms endeared by love 
 From these so soon, so horribly to part ; 
 
 Oh ! it would almost savage bosoms move ! 
 But unextinguished Hope still lit his breast, 
 And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest ! 
 Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, 
 Though sinking 'mid th' abyss o'er which it beamed 
 Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, 
 Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound, 
 Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, 
 And as it rolls away, gives up to fear: 
 Dreads to look round, for death 's on every side, 
 The low'ring clouds above the ocean wide : 
 He wails alone "and scarce forbears to weep,"* 
 That his wreck'd bark still lingers on the deep ! 
 
 E'en to the child of penury and woe, 
 
 Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep, 
 Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow, 
 
 Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep ! 
 Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink, 
 
 Snatch'd from each joy, which opening life may give, 
 Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink 
 
 And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live!" 
 But, see ! the captive is now dragged along, 
 While round him mingle yell and wild war-song ! 
 The ring is formed around the high-raised pile, 
 Fagot o'er fagots reared with savage toil ; 
 Th' impatient warriors watch with burning brands, 
 To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands ! 
 Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn, 
 All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone ! 
 A horrid death is placed before his eyes ; 
 In fancy now he sees the flames arise, 
 
 * Campbell.
 
 102 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 He hears the deaf'ning yell which drowns the cry 
 Of the poor victim's last, dire agony ! 
 His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray 
 
 To that great God, before whose awful bar 
 His lighten'd soul was soon to wing its way 
 
 From this sad world to other realms afar ! 
 
 He raised his eyes to Heaven's blue arch above, 
 That pure retreat of mercy and of love ; 
 When, lo ! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye, 
 The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die ! 
 His haughty spirit now must be brought low, 
 Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe : 
 The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom, 
 As on they led him to his horrid doom. 
 A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned, 
 His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned : 
 His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear, 
 Though the death-note already met his ear. 
 Tall and majestic was his noble mien, 
 
 Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire, 
 His step was bold, his features all serene, 
 
 As he approached the steep funereal pyre ! 
 
 Close at his side, a figure glided slow, 
 Clad in the dark habiliments of woe, 
 Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold, 
 All, save one treacherous ringlet, bright as gold 
 
 The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high, 
 A signal that the victim soon must die ! 
 While yell and war-note join the chorus still, 
 Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill ! 
 Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze, 
 Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days ; 
 When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye 
 Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 103 
 
 Bent upon him with such a steady gaze, 
 
 That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze ! 
 
 Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, 
 
 To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky 
 
 And o'er the parting day its glories spread, 
 
 Which was to close when their sad souls had fled, 
 
 " White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, 
 
 Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, 
 
 " Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep, 
 
 This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep !" 
 
 He said no more, for lo ! the death-yells cease. 
 
 'T is hushed ! no sound is echoed through the place 
 
 The opening ring disclosed a female there, 
 
 In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair, 
 
 Which long and dark, luxuriant round her hung, 
 
 With many a clear, white pearl and dew-drop strung 
 
 She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, 
 She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe ! 
 The angel of mercy ! the herald of grace ! 
 
 Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe ! 
 " My father ! my father !" the maiden exclaims, 
 " Oh doom not the white man to die midst the flames 
 'T is thy daughter who kneels ! 't is Chicomico sues ! 
 Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse ? 
 This heart is the white man's ! with him will I die ! 
 With him, to the Great Spirit's mansion I '11 fly ! 
 The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul, 
 Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll 
 My life is his life his fate shall be mine ; 
 For his image around thy child's heart will entwine ! 
 
 Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern ; 
 From the sufferings of others it heedless may turn ; 
 To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe, 
 To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow
 
 104 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But 't will melt like the snow on the Apennine's breast, 
 As the sunbeam falls light, on its fancy-crowned crest, 
 When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given, 
 Fill'd with sorrow's sad notes like the music of Heaven. 
 
 " Loose the white man," the king in an agony cried, 
 
 " My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied ! 
 
 The pris'ner is yours ! to enslave or to free ! 
 
 I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee ; 
 
 But remember !" he cried, while pride conquered his 
 
 woe, 
 
 " Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe !" 
 He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night, 
 looked darker, when tinged by a moon-beam of light; 
 Chicomico saw she saw, and with dread 
 The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head; 
 And quickly to Rathmond she turned with -\ sigh, 
 While a love-brightened tear veiled her hea tr enly eye. 
 
 " Go, white man, go ! without a fear ; 
 
 Remember you to one are dear ; 
 
 Go ! and may peace your steps attend 
 
 Chicomico will be your friend. 
 
 To-morrow eve, with us may close 
 
 Joyful, and free from cares or woes ; 
 
 To-morrow eve may also end, 
 
 And find me here without a friend ! 
 
 Remember then the Indian maid, 
 
 Whose voice the burning brand hath stt fed ! 
 
 But should I be, as now I am, 
 
 And thou in prison and in woe, 
 Think that this heart is still the same, 
 
 And turn thee to Chicomico ! 
 Then, go ! yes, go ! while yet you may, 
 Dread death awaits you, if you stay ! 
 May the Great Spirit guard and guide 
 Your footsteps through the forest wide !" 
 
 9
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 105 
 
 She said, and wrapped the mantle near 
 Her fragile form, with hasty hand, 
 
 Just bowed her head, and shed one tear, 
 Then sped him to his native land. 
 
 The wind is swift, and mountain hart, 
 From huntsman's bow, the feathered dart ; 
 But swifter far the pris'ner's flight, 
 When freed from dungeon-chains and night 1 
 So Rathmond felt, but wished to show 
 How much he owed Chicomico ; 
 But she had fled ; she did not hear ! 
 She did not mark the grateful tear 
 Which quivered in the hero's eye ; 
 Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh ; 
 And Heaven alone could hear the prayer, 
 Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 WHILE swift on his way young Rathmond sped, 
 Death's horrors awaited those he fled. 
 Already were the prisoners bound, 
 
 One word, and every torch would fly; 
 No step was heard, nor feeblest sound, 
 
 Save the death-raven's wing on high . 
 The sign was given, each blazing brand 
 Like lightning, shot from every hand ; 
 The crackling, sparkling fagots blazed, 
 Then Montonoc his dark eye raised ; 
 He whistled shrill an answering call 
 Told that each foeman then should fall! 
 Sudden a band of warriors flew 
 From earth, as if from earth they grew. 
 9
 
 106 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 The brake, the fern, and hazel-down, 
 Blazed brightly in the sinking sun ; 
 Confusion, blood, and carnage then 
 Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen ; 
 The blazing brands were quenched in blood, 
 And Montonoc unshackled stood ! 
 He paused one moment dark he frowned, 
 By dire revenge and slaughter crowned ; 
 Then bent his bow, let loose the dart, 
 And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart. 
 Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped, 
 For Hillis-ha-ad-joe is dead! 
 
 And now within their hidden tent, 
 The conquered make their sad lament ; 
 Before them lay their slaughtered king. 
 While slowly round they form the ring ; 
 Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form 
 Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm j 
 Upon his brow a dreadful frown 
 Still lingered as the warrior's crown; 
 And yet it seemed as mortal ire 
 StiL sparkled in that eye of fire, 
 And blazing, soon should light the face 
 O'er which death's shadow held its place, 
 And like the lightning 'neath a cloud, 
 Shoot, flaming from its sable shroud. 
 But, hark ! low notes of sorrow break 
 The solemn calm, and o'er the lake, 
 Float on the bosom of the gale; 
 Hark ! 't is the Chieftain's funeral wail I 
 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen low 
 Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 
 To the land of the dead, 
 By the white man sped!
 
 POETICAI REMAINS. 107 
 
 In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
 To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer ! 
 
 Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 
 
 Chaunt his death-dirge sad and slow ; 
 
 In the battle he fell, in the fight he died, 
 
 And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. 
 In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there 
 To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer. 
 
 The sun is sinking in the deep, 
 
 Our " mighty fallen one" we weep ; 
 
 Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 
 
 The axe has laid our broad oak low ! 
 In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
 To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer. 
 
 The last sad note had sunk on the breeze, 
 
 Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees, 
 
 When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, 
 
 But joined not her voice to the funeral song. 
 
 When the notes cease, she knelt, and in accents of woe, 
 
 Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. 
 
 Her words were but few, and her manner was wild, 
 
 For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan 
 
 child ! 
 
 She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red, 
 She looked, and that glance told that reason had fledi 
 
 Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico 1 
 Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough? 
 Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair? 
 Read ! for the " wreck of reason 's written there !" 
 'T is true ! the storm was high, the surges wild, 
 And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child! 
 Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea 
 Say ! who is left to love, to comfort thee ?
 
 108 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 All, all are gone, and thou art left alone, 
 Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown. 
 
 But she has fled, the wild and winged wind 
 Is by her left, long loitering far behind ! 
 But whither has she fled 1 to wild-wood glen, 
 Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men ! 
 Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream, 
 And murdered friends her ever constant dream ! 
 Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale, 
 Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail ! 
 Her little skiff she paddles o'er the lake, 
 And bids " the Daughter of the Voice," awake ! 
 From hill to hill the shrieking echoes run, 
 To greet the rising and the setting sun. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE lake is calm, the sun is low, 
 The whippoorwill is chaunting slow, 
 And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen 
 To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green 
 Fit emblem of a guiltless mind, 
 
 The glassy waters calmly lie; 
 Unruffled by a breath of wind, 
 
 Which o'er its shining breast may sigh ! 
 The shadow of the forest there 
 
 Upon its bosom soft may rest; 
 The eagle-heights, which tower in air, 
 
 May cast their dark shades o'er its breast 
 
 But hark ! approaching paddles break 
 The stillness of that azure lake ! 
 Swift o'er its surface glides the bark, 
 Like lightning's. flash, like meteor spark.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 109 
 
 It seemed, as on the light skiff flew, 
 As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue, 
 Which, dimpling round the vessel's side, 
 Sparkled and whirled in eddies wide ! 
 
 Who guides it through the yielding lake 1 
 Who dares its magic calm to break 1 
 'T is Montonoc ! his piercing eye 
 
 Is raised to where the western hill 
 Rears its broad forehead to the sky, 
 
 Battling the whirlwind's filry still. 
 
 'Twas Montonoc, and with him there 
 Was that strange form, with golden hair ! 
 Wrapped in the self-same garb, as when 
 Surrounded by those savage men, 
 The stranger had, with Montonoc, 
 Been led before the blazing stake ! 
 Swift, swift, the light skiff forward flew, 
 Till it had crossed the waters blue ; 
 Both leaped like lightning to the land, 
 And left the skiff upon the strand ; 
 Far mid the forest then they fled, 
 And mingled with its dark brown shade. 
 
 The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking, 
 The bird of the gloomy brow was shrieking, 
 When a note on the night-wind was wafted along, 
 A note of the dead chieftain's funeral song. 
 A form was seen wandering in frantic woe, 
 'T was the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe ! 
 Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar, 
 And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of 
 
 War! 
 
 9*
 
 110 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 She ceased when she came near the breeze-ruffled 
 
 lake ; 
 She ceased was't the wind sighing o'er the long 
 
 brake ? 
 Wast't the soft rippling wave 1 was 't the murmur 
 
 of trees? 
 Which bending, were brushed by the wing of the 
 
 breeze ? 
 
 Ah, no ! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught 
 A form which her frenzied brain never forgot ! 
 'T was Rathmond ! yes, Rathmond before her now 
 
 stood, 
 And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood. 
 
 " Chicomico !" he cried, his voice sad and low, 
 
 " Chicomico !" we are the children of woe ! 
 
 Oh, come, then ! oh, come ! and thy Rathmond's 
 
 strong arm 
 
 Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm ; 
 'T is true, I have loved with the passion of youth ! 
 I have loved ; and let Heaven attest with what truth ! 
 But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead " 
 (Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek 
 
 turned red) 
 
 " 'T was thy father, Chicomico yes, 't was thy sire, 
 Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre ! 
 But, 't is passed" (and he crossed his cold, quivering 
 
 hand 
 
 O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,) 
 " 'T is pass'd ! and Chicomico, thou didst preserve 
 The life of a wretch, who now never can love ! 
 That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled 
 To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled !" 
 ****%##* 
 
 She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright fire 
 Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends of her sire
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. Ill 
 
 " Young Eagle !" she cried, " when my father was 
 
 slain, 
 
 What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain, 
 Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life 
 Of Hillis-ad-joe 1 and say, who in that strife, 
 Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone ? 
 Yes, Young Eagle ! my father, my brothers are gone ! 
 Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they 
 To yon Heaven in the west are wending their way ! 
 And, hark ! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on 
 
 high, 
 Bids me come ! and see, white man, how gladly I 
 
 fly!" 
 More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in 
 
 view, 
 
 To the bark that was stranded, Chicomico flew ! 
 She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming sprav 
 And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away : 
 
 " I go to the land in the west, 
 The Great Spirit calls me away ! 
 
 To the land of the just and the blest, 
 The Great Spirit points me the way! 
 
 " Like snow on the mountain's crest, 
 Like foam on the fountain's breast, 
 
 Hillis-ad-joe and his kinsmen have passed ! 
 Like the sun's setting ray in the west, 
 
 When it sinks on the wave to rest, 
 
 The dead chieftain's daughter is coming at last 
 
 "Too long has she lingered behind, 
 Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice ! 
 
 But hark ! it calls loud in the wind, 
 And Chicomico now will rejoice! 
 
 "I go to the land in the west: 
 The Great Spirit calls me away !
 
 112 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 To the land of the just and the blest, 
 The Great Spirit points me the way !" 
 
 The wild notes sunk upon the gale, 
 
 And echo caught them not again ! 
 For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail, 
 
 Wafted afar the last sad strain ! 
 
 'T was said, that shrieking 'mid the storm, 
 
 The maiden oft was seen to glide, 
 And oft the hunters mark'd her form, 
 
 As swift she darted through the tide. 
 
 And once along the calm lake shore, 
 Her light canoe was she seen to guide, 
 
 But the maid and her bark are seen no more 
 To float along the rippling tide. 
 
 For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar, 
 And her lamp, as it glimmered amid the storm, 
 
 A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more, 
 For it sunk 'mid the waves with her maniac form 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 Ad"ieu, Chicomico, adieu ; 
 
 Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave, 
 And 'neath thy canopy of blue 
 
 May sea-maids deck thy coral grave. 
 
 'Twas but a feeble voice which sung 
 Thy hapless tale of youthful woe ; 
 
 But all ! that weak, that infant tongue 
 Will ne'er another story know. 
 
 And tho' the rough and foaming surge, 
 And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er, 
 
 Should rudely chaunt thy funeral dirge, 
 And send the notes from shore to shore :
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 113 
 
 Still shall one voice be heard, above 
 The dreadful " music of the spheres !" 
 
 The voice of one whose song is love, 
 Embalm'd by sorrow's saddest tears. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 THE fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o'er 
 
 Their chieftain's body, chieftain now no more 1 
 
 As fire half-quench'd, some faint spark lives, 
 
 Glimmers, half dies, and then revives, 
 
 Revives to kindle far and wide, 
 
 And spread with devastating stride ; 
 
 So glimmered, so revived, so spread 
 
 The mourners' rage around the dead ! 
 
 Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung, 
 
 Up rose the aged and the young ; 
 
 And swore, as tenants of the wood, 
 
 By all their hearts held dear or good, 
 
 That, ere another sun should rise, 
 
 Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes. 
 
 They swore revenge and bloodshed too, 
 
 As their slain chieftain's rightful due, 
 
 They swore that blood should freely flow 
 
 For their poor, lost Chicomico ! 
 
 'T was evening : all was fair and still ; 
 The orb of night now sparkling on the rill ; 
 Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake, 
 Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake ! 
 Far through the forest, where no footpath lay, 
 Old Montonoc pursued his onward way ; 
 The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm, 
 Shook at each noise, and trembled with alarm ; 
 " Well do I know the woodland way, 
 For I have tracked it many a day.
 
 114 LUCRETlA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 When mountain bear or wilder deer 
 Have called me to this forest drear. 
 Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray, 
 Why wand'rest thou so far away, 
 From friends, from safety, and from home, 
 To war, and weariness, and gloom ? 
 Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear 
 Free from disguise that form so dear; 
 It must not, and it will not be, 
 Till, buried in the dark Monee, 
 The last of yonder tribe of blood, 
 Lies weltering in the sable flood! 
 But rest thee on this fresh green seat, 
 And I will trace his wandering feet; 
 Warn him to watch the lurking foe, 
 Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow ; 
 Then rest thee here ; within yon dell 
 I saw his form, and knew him well !" 
 
 Thus spoke the prophet of the wood, 
 As near the stranger maid he stood. 
 
 " Then go," she cried, half-faltering, " go ! 
 
 Bid him beware the bloody foe ! 
 
 But give me, ere we part," she cried, 
 
 " Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side ? 
 
 Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find 
 
 Strength, in the hour of deep distress ; 
 Go ! my preserver, and my friend, 
 
 May heaven thy steps and efforts bless !" 
 
 Cautious and swift the Indian went ; 
 His head was raised, his bow was bent, 
 And as he on, like wild-deer, sped, 
 So light, so silent, was his tread, 
 That scarce a leaf was heard to move, 
 Of flower below, or branch above !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 115 
 
 Where Rathmond, with a heart of woe, 
 
 Had gazed on lost Chicomico, 
 
 There, on that spot, the prophet's eye 
 
 Mark'd the young warrior's farewell sigh. 
 
 " Why lingerest thou here, Young Eagle," he cried, 
 
 " The foe 'neath the fern, and the dark hazel hide ! 
 
 Blood, blood ! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs ! 
 
 Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears ' 
 
 When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe, 
 
 Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below, 
 
 Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here, 
 
 Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear ! 
 
 But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be, 
 
 And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee, 
 
 Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and woe, 
 
 Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know!' 
 
 " What meanest thou, prophet of the eagle-eye, 
 By thy mysterious prophecy'? 
 Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief 
 Doomed her to death, and me to grief! 
 That round that form, the wild flames rolled 
 And wafted far her angel soul ! 
 Why didst thou not arrest the brand ? 
 For, prophet, fate was in thy hand." 
 
 " 'T is well," the Indian calmly said, 
 "'Tis well," and bowed to earth his head; 
 * But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave, 
 " I left a skiff on yonder wave 
 Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know 
 Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe ?" 
 
 " No, Montonoc ! no foe was she, 
 Who plunged adown the swift Monee. 
 Chicomico is cold and damp ! 
 The wave her couch the moon her lamp;
 
 i!6 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 
 
 But mark ! adown the foaming stream 
 The barks beneath the moon's pale beam 1 
 What bode they? or of weal, or woe? 
 Do they betoken friend or foe? 
 Perchance to rouse the wildwood deer 
 The Indian hunters landed there." 
 
 Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill 
 A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill ! 
 Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye 
 Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky. 
 But hark ! what cry of savage joy is there, 
 Borne through the forest on the midnight air ? 
 
 It is the foe ! the band of blood-hounds came, 
 
 Who erst had lit the Chieftain's funeral flame ! 
 
 Revenge and death around their arrows gleam, 
 
 And murder shudders 'neath the moon's pale beam 
 
 The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief, 
 
 Sage in the council, bloody in the strife, 
 
 High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air 
 
 Waved on the breeze, and shone a bsacon there ! 
 
 Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire, 
 
 And bosom burning high with ire 
 
 And sparkling eye, and burning bran'3, 
 
 Which gleamed athwart both lake aud strand, 
 
 Still echoed back the lengthened yell 
 
 Which startled wildwood, rock, and dell ! 
 
 And more were there, so dread, so wild, 
 
 Nature might shudder at her child, 
 
 And curse the hand that e'er had made 
 
 So dark a stain, so deep a shade ! 
 
 On, on they flew, with lengthened stride 
 But, ah ! the victims, where are they ? 
 
 Naught but the lake lies open wide, 
 And the broad bosom of the bav '
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 117 
 
 But, ah ! 't is well ; that shrill shriek toll'd 
 The death-knell of their chief once more ! 
 
 Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold, 
 
 That stretched yon white plume on the shore ! 
 
 Safe crouch'd 'neath fern-bush, dark and low, 
 
 Rathmond had truly bent his bow, 
 
 And Montonoc, with steady eye, 
 
 From 'mid the oak's arms broad and high, 
 
 Took aim as sure ; his arrows sped, 
 
 And many a bloody foe is dead ! 
 
 Wide tumult spreads ! afar they fly, 
 
 Each rustling brake, which meets the eye, 
 
 Seems shrouding still some warrior there, 
 
 With bloody brand and eye of fire. 
 
 Slow dropping from his safe retreat, 
 
 The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat ; 
 
 Then raised loud yells of various tone, 
 
 Such as are given at victory won, 
 
 And Rathmond joined, till long and high, 
 
 Rang the loud chorus to the sky ! 
 
 Hark ! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild 
 
 Can it be Echo, Nature's darling child ? 
 
 No 'tis a whoop of horror and despair, 
 
 Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear ! 
 
 Lo ! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave, 
 Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave ! 
 'T is done : the sullen bosom of the bay 
 Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey ! 
 
 One hollow splashing, as the waters part, 
 Sad welcome of the victim to his bed, 
 One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart 
 
 Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and 
 dread ! 
 10
 
 118 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But ah ! like some sad spectre lingering near, 
 A form still hovers o'er the scene of woe ; 
 
 Does it await its hour of vengeance here, 
 Watching the cold forms weltering below? 
 
 The morn was dawning slowly in the east, 
 A few faint gleams of light were bursting through 
 
 When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm 
 
 breast, 
 And sullen sunk amid its waters blue ! 
 
 That rude, wild phantom hovering there, 
 Poised on the precipice mid-way in air, 
 Like some stern spirit of the dead, 
 Rising indignant from its bed, 
 Was Ompahaw ! alone, he stood, 
 Gazing on Heaven, on hill, and wood ! 
 His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare ; 
 Its glance was triumph, mingled with despair ! 
 Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red, 
 Waving in warlike pride around his head ; 
 His bow was aimless, bent within his hand ; 
 His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band ; 
 And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm. 
 Was wildly fluttering round his warrior-form ! 
 
 " Farewell !" he cried, " this aged hand 
 
 Draws the last bow-string of our band!" 
 
 He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's glance, 
 
 The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced ; 
 
 Like comet's blaze, like shooting star, 
 
 It whirled across the waters far ! 
 
 The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell, 
 
 Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell ! 
 
 Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore, 
 
 " Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore P
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 119 
 
 Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung 
 The death-song of his tribe, till nature rung ! 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG. 
 
 " The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 
 
 Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe 
 But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west, 
 The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed ! 
 
 " From the dark rock's frowning brow 
 
 They flew to the deep below ; 
 
 They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west 
 Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest ! 
 
 " The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 
 
 Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below I 
 I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest ! 
 Lo ! my freed soul is winged towards the west!" 
 
 'T is past ! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep, 
 Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep ! 
 'Tis past! the deed is done, the tribe has gone 1 
 Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one ! 
 
 The last of all that tribe of blood 
 
 Lies weltering in the sable flood ! 
 
 Oh ! where is yonder fair-haired maid ? 
 
 Say, whither hath the lone one strayed ? 
 
 'Mid the wild tumult of the strife, 
 
 Where fled she from the scalping-knife 1 
 
 Angels around her spread their arm, 
 
 And shrouded her from fear and harm ! 
 
 But oh ! what shriek rang shrill and clear, 
 
 And echoed still in Rathmond's ear 1 
 
 Why should he note that voice, that scream ? 
 
 Was it his fancy, or a dream ?
 
 120 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Or was it hope illumed his eye, 
 And pointed to the prophecy ! 
 
 "But no! 't were madness to return 
 To those bright scenes of joy," he cried, 
 
 " Her bones are whitening in the sun, 
 Her ashes scattered far and wide !" 
 
 But where is Montonoc? alone, 
 
 Rathmond is musing on the strand ; 
 Say, whither has the prophet gone ? 
 
 Why does young Rathmond heedless stand ? 
 
 Oh ! he is picturing to his vacant breast 
 Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed; 
 Which youthful hope had promised should be his, 
 When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss ! 
 Oh ! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste, 
 
 Left in that bosom, which had loved so well ! 
 Oh ! he was wishing for some place of rest, 
 
 Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell ! 
 
 But, ah ! the voice of Montonoc is heard, 
 
 Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird 
 
 " Eagle !" he cried, " the fatal charm hath passed ! 
 
 The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last ! 
 
 And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power 
 
 The latest trophy of my life's last hour ! 
 
 Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine ! 
 
 But mark ! 't was I who gave, for he was mine ! 
 
 Adieu ! I go !" He closed his fiery eye, 
 
 And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high ! 
 
 The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile 
 
 Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil, 
 
 Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark 
 
 hood, 
 And, lo ! Cordelia before Rathmond stood !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 10 * mi)
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 A VERSIFICATION OF PART OF THE THIRTEENTH 
 CHAPTER OF FIRST CORINTHIANS. 
 
 (Written in her twelfth year.) 
 
 THOUGH I were gifted with an angel's tongue, 
 And voice like that with which the prophets sung, 
 Yet if mild charity were not within, 
 'T were all an impious mockery and sin. 
 
 Though I the gift of prophecy possessed, 
 And faith like that which Abraham professed, 
 They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound, 
 If meek-eyed charity did not abound. 
 
 Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow, 
 And to the flames my body I should throw, 
 Yet the vain act would never cover sin 
 If heaven-born charity were not within. 
 
 TO SCIENCE. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Let others m false Pleasure's court be found, 
 But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round ; 
 Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight, 
 Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight. 
 
 (123)
 
 124 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide, 
 Direct my way, whene'er I step aside ; 
 May one bright ray of Science on me shine 
 And be the gift of learning ever mine. 
 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Away ! unstable, fleeting Pleasure, 
 Thou troublesome and gilded treasure ; 
 When the false jewel changes hue, 
 There 's naught, O man, that 's left for you 1 
 What many grasp at with such joy, 
 Is but her shade, a foolish toy; 
 She is not found at every court, 
 At every ball, and every sport, 
 But in that heart she loves to rest, 
 That's with a guiltless conscience blest. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 The Shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care, 
 And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed ; 
 
 He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air, 
 O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade 
 
 But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen 
 Depicted on the careful shepherd's face, 
 
 When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green, 
 He sees his fav'rite charge is in its place.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 125 
 
 Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn, 
 When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed, 
 
 And thus with mercy he receives him home, 
 When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed. 
 
 There is great joy among the saints in heaven, 
 When one repentant soul has found its God, 
 
 For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given, 
 And sealed it with his own redeeming blood ! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page, 
 At the sight of reward, she flies off in a rage ; 
 Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try, 
 But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh. 
 
 She torments me each moment, and bids me go write, 
 And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight; 
 The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense, 
 And against all her insults I have no defence. 
 
 I advise all my friends, who wish me to write, 
 To keep their rewards and their praises from sight ; 
 So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride, 
 Nor Pegasus rear, till I 've taken my ride.
 
 126 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF HENRY KIRK WHITE. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads 
 Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades, 
 The mourning JVine, o'er White's untimely grave 
 Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave. 
 
 There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin, 
 Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin ; 
 There his deserted garlands with'ring lie, 
 Like him they droop, like him untimely die. 
 
 STILLING THE WAVES 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 " And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea 
 Peace, be still !' " 
 
 Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread 
 On the rough bosom of your watery bed ! 
 Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet, 
 But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet ; 
 'T is He alone can calm your rage at will, 
 This is His sacred mandate, " Peace, be still !"
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 127 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 (iff IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH.) 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sac swift, 
 
 His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift, 
 
 His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his 
 
 plaid, 
 
 And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad. 
 Ah ! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now? 
 The tiny drop trickles frae off thy dark brow. 
 
 " I come," said the stranger, " to spier my lued hame, 
 And to see if my Marion still were the same ; 
 I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled, 
 And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid; 
 I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame, 
 And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame." 
 
 " Gude Spirit of Light 1" ('t was a voice caught hi* 
 
 ear) 
 
 " And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear? 
 And lias the fierce Southron then left me my child ' 
 Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild ?" 
 He turned to behold 'tis his mother he sees! 
 He flies to embrace her he falls on his knees. 
 
 " Oh ! where is my father ?" a tear trickled down, 
 And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown : 
 " Ah! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast, 
 Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest !" 
 "But where is my Marion?" his pale cheek turner 
 
 red, 
 And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried.
 
 128 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDbON. 
 
 " She lives !" and he knew 't was his Marion's sweet 
 
 tone, 
 
 " She lives," exclaims Marion, " for Norman alone !" 
 He saw her : the rose had fled far from her cheek, 
 But Norman still lives ! his Marion is found ; 
 By the adamant chains of blithe Hymen they're 
 
 bound. 
 
 EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 When Israel's sons, from cruel bondage freed, 
 Fled to the land by righteous Heaven decreed; 
 Insulting Pharaoh quick pursued their train, 
 E'en to the borders of the troubled main. 
 
 Affrighted Israel stood alone dismayed, 
 The foe behind, the sea before them laid ; 
 Around, the hosts of bloody Pharaoh fold, 
 And wave o'er wave the raging Red Sea rolled. 
 
 But God, who saves his chosen ones from harm, 
 Stretched to their aid his all-protecting arm, 
 And lo ! on either side the sea divides, 
 And Israel's army in its bosom hides. 
 
 Safe to the shore through watery walls they march, 
 And once more hail kind Heaven's aerial arch ; 
 Far, far behind, the cruel foe is seen, 
 And the dark waters roll their march between. 
 
 The God of vengeance stretched his arm again, 
 And heaving, back recoiled the foaming main ; 
 And impious Pharaoh 'neath the raging wave, 
 With all his army, finds a watery grave.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 129 
 
 Rejoics, O Israel ! God is on your side, 
 He is your champion, and your faithful guide ; 
 By day, a cloud is to your footsteps given, 
 By night, a fiery column towers to heaven. 
 
 Then Israel's children marched by day and night, 
 Till Sinai's mountain rose upon their sight : 
 There righteous Heaven the flying army staid, 
 And Israel's sons the high command obeyed. 
 
 To Sinai's mount the trembling people came, 
 
 'T was wrapped in threat'ning clouds, in smoke, and 
 
 flame; 
 
 A silent awe pervaded all the van ; 
 Not e'en a murmur through the army ran. 
 High Sinai shook ! dread thunders rent the air ! 
 And horrid lightnings round its summit glare ! 
 'T was God's pavilion, and the black'ning clouds, 
 Dark hov'ring o'er, his dazzling glory shrouds. 
 
 To Heaven's dread court the intrepid leader came, 
 T' receive its mandate in the people's name ; 
 Loud trumpets peal the awful thunders roll, 
 Transfixing terrors in each guilty soul. 
 
 But lo ! he comes, arrayed in shining light, 
 And round his forehead plays a halo bright : 
 Heaven's high commands with trembling were re 
 ceived, 
 
 Heaven's high commands were heard, and were be 
 lieved. 
 
 THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 The last flower of the garden was blooming alone, 
 The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone; 
 11
 
 130 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, 
 And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were en 
 twined. 
 
 Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou here ? 
 And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear? 
 'T is the tear of a zephyr for summer 't was shed, 
 And for all thy companions now withered and dead. 
 
 Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown 
 The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown ? 
 Say, why, sweetest flow'ret, the last of thy race, 
 Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace? 
 
 As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand, 
 Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand ; 
 I hastened to raise it the dew-drop had fled, 
 And the once lovely flower was withered and dead. 
 
 ODE TO FANCY. 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Fancy, sweet and truant sprite, 
 Steals on wings, as feathers light, 
 Draws a veil o'er Reason's eye, 
 And bids the guardian senses fly. 
 
 Soft she whispers to the mind, 
 Come, and trouble leave behind : 
 She banishes the fiend Despair, 
 And shuts the eyes of waking Care. 
 
 Then, o'er precipices dark, 
 Where never reached the wing of lark, 
 Fearing no harm, she dauntless flies, 
 Where rocks on rocks dread frowning rise.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 13 
 
 When Autumn shakes his hoary head, 
 And scatters leaves at every tread ; 
 Fancy stands with list'ning ear, 
 Nor starts, when shrieks affrighted Fear. 
 
 There's music in the rattling leaf, 
 But 't is not for the ear of Grief; 
 There 's music in the wind's hoarse moan, 
 But 'tis for Fancy's ear alone. 
 
 THE BLUSH. 
 
 ( Writttcn in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Why that blush on Ella's cheek, 
 What doth the flitting wand'rer seek ? 
 Doth passion's black'ning tempest scowl, 
 To agitate my Ella's soul ? 
 
 Return, sweet wand'rer, fear no harm ; 
 The heart which Ella's breast doth warm, 
 Is virtue's calm, serene retreat; 
 And ne'er with passion's storm did beat. 
 
 Return, and calmly rest, till love 
 Shall thy sweet efficacy prove; 
 Then come, and thy loved place resume, 
 And fill that cheek with youthful bloom. 
 
 A blush of nature charms the heart 
 More than the brilliant tints of art ; 
 They please awhile, and please no more 
 We hate the things we loved before. 
 
 But no unfading tints were those, 
 Which to my Ella's cheek arose ;
 
 132 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 They please the raptured heart, and fly 
 Before they pall the gazing eye. 
 
 'T was not the blush of guilt or shame, 
 Which o'er my Ella's features came ; 
 'T was she, who fed the poor distressed, 
 'T was she the indigent had blessed ; 
 
 For her their prayers to heaven were raised, 
 On her the grateful people gazed ; 
 'T was then the blush sufl'used her cheek, 
 Which told what words can never speak. 
 
 ON AN ^OLIAN HARP. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, 
 So soft, so melancholy, and so clear ? 
 And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, 
 To fill each bosom with poetic fire ? 
 
 Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, 
 Catching from echo the wild note he sings ? 
 But hark ! another strain, how sweet, how wild ! 
 Now rising high, now sinking low and mild. 
 
 And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, 
 Oh, tell me where those artless notes to find ! 
 So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear, 
 That even angels might delighted hear ! 
 
 But hark ! those notes again majestic rise, 
 As though some spirit, banished from the skies, 
 Had hither fled to charm ^Eolus wild, 
 And teach him other music sweet and mild.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air, 
 Then hither fly, and to my harp repair ; 
 At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay, 
 And charm the sorrows of thy soul away. 
 
 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, 
 
 My Ellen's lost for aye, 
 My heart is sair and much distressed, 
 
 I surely soon must die. 
 
 I canna think o' wark at a', 
 
 My eyes still wander far, 
 I see her neck like driven snaw, 
 
 I see her flaxen hair. 
 
 Sair, sair, I begged; she would na* hear, 
 
 She proudly turned awa', 
 Unmoved she saw the trickling tear, 
 
 Which, spite o' me, would fa'. 
 
 She acted weel a conqueror's part, 
 
 She triumphed in my woe, 
 She gracefu' waved me to depart, 
 
 I tried, but could na' go. 
 
 "Ah why," (distractedly I cried,) 
 
 " Why yield me to despair ? 
 Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway, 
 
 To ease my heart sae sair." 
 
 11*
 
 134 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go! 
 
 This roused my dormant pride; 
 I craved nae boon I took nae luke, 
 
 " Adieu !" I proudly cried. 
 
 I fled ! nor Ellen hae I seen, 
 
 Sin' that too fatal day: 
 My "bosom's laird" sits heavy here, 
 
 And Hope's fled far away. 
 
 Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm, 
 I 'm Sorrow's child indeed ; 
 
 She stamps her image on my form, 
 I wear the mourning weed! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled ! 
 Low lies thy body in its grassy bed ; 
 But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air 
 Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share. 
 
 And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white, 
 Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright. 
 Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below, 
 And mark their trickling tears of silent woe. 
 
 Look down with pity in thy infant eye, 
 
 And view the friends thou left, for friends on high : 
 
 Methinks I see thee leaning from above, 
 
 To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love. 
 
 " Weep not for me, for I am happy still, 
 And murmur not at our great Father's will ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 135 
 
 Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake, 
 Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take. 
 
 " Once you looked forward to life's opening day, 
 The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way; 
 Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near, 
 Coloured it bright 'tis blotted with a tear. 
 
 " Then let that tear be Resignation's child ; 
 Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild ; 
 Weep for your child no more, she 's happy still, 
 And murmur not at your great Father's will." 
 
 REFLECTIONS, % 
 
 ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT PHO3NIX. 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 Islet* on the lake's calm bosom, 
 
 In thy breast rich treasures lie; 
 Heroes ! there your bones shall moulder, 
 
 But your fame shall never die. 
 
 Islet on the lake's calm bosom, 
 
 Sleep serenely in thy bed ; 
 Brightest gem our waves can boast, 
 
 Guardian angel of the dead ! 
 
 Calm upon the waves recline, 
 
 Till great Nature's reign is o'er; 
 Until old and swift-winged time 
 
 Sinks, and order is no more. 
 
 * Crab Island ; on which were buried the remains of the sailors 
 who fell in the action of September llth, 1814.
 
 136 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then thy guardianship shall cease, 
 Then shall rock thy aged bed ; 
 
 And when Heaven's last trump shall sound, 
 Thou shalt yield thy noble dead I 
 
 THE STAR OF LIBERTY. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 There shone a gern on England's crown, 
 Bright as yon star; 
 Oppression marked it with a frown, 
 He sent his darkest spirit down, 
 To quench the light that round it shone, 
 
 Blazing afar. 
 
 But Independence met the foe, 
 And laid the swift-winged demon low. 
 
 A second messenger was sent, 
 
 Dark as the night; 
 On his dire errand swift he went, 
 But Valour's bow was truly bent, 
 Justice her keenest arrow lent, 
 
 And sped its flight ; 
 
 Then fell the impious wretch, and Death 
 Approached, to take his withering breath. 
 
 Valour then took, with hasty hand, 
 
 The gem of light; 
 He flew to seek some other land, 
 He flew to 'scape oppression's hand, 
 He knew there was some other strand, 
 
 More bright; 
 
 And as he swept the fields of air, 
 He found a country, rich and fair.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 137 
 
 Upon its breast the star he placed, 
 
 The star of liberty; 
 
 Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed, 
 
 The lesser planets stood amazed, 
 
 Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed, 
 
 Looking on fearfully. 
 
 That star shines brightly to this day, 
 
 On thy calm breast, America ! 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Maid of the briny wave and raven lock, 
 
 Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the 
 
 rock, 
 
 Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride 
 O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide ? 
 
 Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod, 
 Flies to obey the mandate of that god 1 
 Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on, 
 Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun I 
 
 Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock, 
 Twining with lily hand thy raven lock ; 
 Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm, 
 Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form ? 
 
 Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play, 
 To warn the seaman from his dangerous way ? 
 Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge 
 Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge 1 
 
 Tell me, mysterious being, what you are ? 
 So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair !
 
 138 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone, 
 Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone 1 
 
 And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave, 
 Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave, 
 That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed, 
 And hush the roaring billows o'er my head. 
 
 ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 Sweet Solitude ! I love thy silent shade, 
 I love to pause when in life's mad career : 
 
 To view the chequered path before me laid, 
 And turn to meditate to hope, to fear. 
 
 'T is sweet to draw the curtain on the world, 
 To shut out all its tumult, all its care ; 
 
 Leave the dread vortex, in which all are whirled, 
 And to thy shades of twilight calm repair. 
 
 Yet, Solitude, the hand divine, which made 
 The earth, the ocean, and the realms of air, 
 
 Pointed how far thy kingdom should extend, 
 
 And bade thee pause, for he had fixed thee there 
 
 Then, when disgusted with the world and man, 
 When sick of pageantry, of pomp, and pride, 
 
 To thee I T I1 fly, in thee I '11 seek relief, 
 
 And hope to find that calm the world denied
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 13P 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF A SISTER 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Sweet babe, I cannot hope thou wilt be freed 
 From woes, to all, since earliest time, decreed ; 
 But mayest thou be with resignation blessed, 
 To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 
 
 May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, 
 And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ! 
 May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
 To the rude whirlwinds softly whisper " cease !" 
 
 And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
 Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile ; 
 Teach thee to look beyond this world of woe, 
 To Heaven's high fount, whence mercies ever flow 
 
 And when this vale of tears is safely passed, 
 When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
 May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
 And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Methought, (unwitting how the place I gained,) 
 I rested on a fleecy, floating cloud 
 Far o'er the earth, the stars, the sun, the heavens, 
 And slowly wheeled around the dread expanse ! 
 Sudden, rnethought, a trumpet's voice was heard. 
 Pealing with long, loud, death-awakening note,
 
 140 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Such note as mortal man but once may hear ! 
 
 At that heart-piercing summons, there arose 
 
 A crowd fast pouring from the troubled earth ! 
 
 The earth, that blackened speck alone seemed moved 
 
 By the dread note, which rushed, 
 
 Like pent-up whirlwinds, round Heaven's azure 
 
 vault ; 
 
 All other worlds, all other twinkling stars 
 Stood mute stood motionless; 
 Their time had not yet come. 
 Yet, ever and anon, they seemed to bow 
 Before the dread tribunal ; 
 And the fiery comet, as it blazed along, 
 Stopped in its midway course, as conscious of the 
 
 power 
 
 Which onward ever, ever had impelled : 
 No other planet moved, none seemed convulsed, 
 Save the dim orb of earth ! 
 Forth eddying rushed a crowd, confused and dark, 
 Like a volcano, muttering and subdued ! 
 There came no sound distinct, but sighs and groans 
 And murmurings half suppressed, half uttered ! 
 All eyes were upward turned in wonder and in fear, 
 But soon, methought, they onward rolled 
 To the dread High One's bar, 
 As the tumultuous billows rush murmuring to the 
 
 shore, 
 
 And all distinctions dwindled into naught. 
 Upward I cast my eyes ; 
 High on an azure throne, begirt with clouds, 
 Sate the dread Indescribable ! 
 He raised his sceptre, waved it o'er the crowd, 
 And all was calm and silent as the grave ! 
 He rose ; the cherubs flapped their snowy wings ! 
 On came the rushing wind the throne was moved, 
 Anch flew like gliding swan above the crowd !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 141 
 
 Sudden it stopped o'er the devoted world ! 
 
 The Judge moved forward 'mid his sable shroud, 
 
 Raised his strong arm with rolling thunders clothed, 
 
 Held forth a vial filled with wrathful fire, 
 
 Then poured the contents on the waiting globe ! 
 
 Sudden the chain, which bound it to God's throne, 
 
 Snapped with a dire explosion ! 
 
 On wheeled the desolate the burning orb 
 
 Swift through the heavens ! 
 
 Down, down it plunged then shot across the ex 
 panse, 
 
 Blazing through realms, where light had never 
 pierced ! 
 
 Down, down it plunged fast wheeling from above. 
 
 Shooting forth flames, and sparks, and burning brands, 
 
 Trailing from shade to shade ! 
 
 Then bounding, blazing brighter than before, 
 
 It plunged extinguished in the chaotic gulf! 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.*) 
 
 When evening spreads her shades around, 
 And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 
 
 When not a murmur, not a sound 
 To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 
 
 When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
 And looks around with golden eye ; 
 
 When Nature, softened by her light, 
 Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; 
 
 * See Biographical Sketch. 
 12
 
 142 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
 This world, and all this world can give ; 
 
 Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
 And tears of gratitude receive. 
 
 The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
 And hovering, trembles, half afraid; 
 
 O sister, sing the song once more 
 
 Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 
 
 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 
 Those notes amid the glare of day ; 
 
 Notes borne by angels' purest wing, 
 And wafted by their breath away. 
 
 When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
 Should'st thou still linger here above, 
 
 Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
 And, sister, sing the song I love ? 
 
 CUPID'S BOWER. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Am I in fairy land ? or tell me, pray, 
 To what love-lighted bower I 've found my way ? 
 Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled 
 In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild. 
 
 And is this Cupid's realm ? if so, good bye ! 
 Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly ; 
 No offering to his altar do I bring, 
 No bleeding heart or hymeneal ring,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 143 
 
 What though he proudly marshals his array 
 Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way ; 
 Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly, 
 Playing around some darkly-beauteous eye ? 
 
 What though the rose of beauty opening wide, 
 Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride ? 
 What though his garden boasts the fairest flower 
 That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower ; 
 
 Still, Cupid, I 'm no votary to thee ; 
 Thy torch of light will never blaze for me ; 
 I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh ; 
 I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly ! 
 
 Adieu, then, and for evermore, adieu ! 
 Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you ! 
 And, O ye powers ! a hapless mortal prays 
 For guidance through this labyrinthine maze. 
 
 THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth, 
 Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth ; 
 Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low 
 Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe. 
 
 Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew, 
 Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true ; 
 Or when the task employed my infant mind, 
 Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind ;
 
 144 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee, 
 When it had pointed silently, " be free :" 
 Thou wert my mentor through each passing year ; 
 'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near. 
 
 And when the wings of time unnoticed flew, 
 I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you ; 
 Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand, 
 Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand ; 
 
 To watch thee stealing on thy silent way, 
 Silent, but sure, Time's pinions cannot stay ; 
 How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain, 
 When smiles were bright'ning round affliction's train? 
 
 How many hours of poverty and woe, 
 Which taught cold drops of agony to flow 1 
 How many hours of war,* of blood, of death, 
 Which added laurels to the victor's wreath 1 
 
 How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, 
 And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which 
 
 rolled ? 
 
 When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war, 
 And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car ? 
 
 When the proud banner, waving in the breeze, 
 Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace, 
 Thy faithful finger traced the wing of time, 
 Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime. 
 
 Unmoved amid the carnage of the world, 
 When thousands to eternity were hurled, 
 Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child, 
 Beaming serenely through the troubled wild. 
 
 * Alluding, probably, to the late war scenes at Plattsburgh. 
 EDITOR.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 145 
 
 Friend of my youth, ere from its mould'ring clay 
 My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way ; 
 O may'st thou watch beside my aching head, 
 And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Touch not the heart, for Sorrow's voice 
 
 Will mingle in the chorus wild; 
 When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice ? 
 
 No: rather mourn her murdered child. 
 
 Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood, 
 
 'Mid foes exulting in her doom, 
 The captive Mary fearless stood, 
 
 A helpless victim for the tomb. 
 
 Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled, 
 
 And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze, 
 
 When, like a lamb to slaughter led, 
 Poor Mary met her murderers' gaze. 
 
 Calm was her eye as yon dark lake, 
 And changed her once angelic form; 
 
 No sigh was heard the pause to break, 
 That awful pause before the storm. 
 
 O draw the veil, 't were shame to gaze 
 
 Upon the bloody tragedy; 
 But lo! a brilliant halo plays 
 
 Around the hill of Carberry. 
 12*
 
 146 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 'Tis done and Mary's soul has flown 
 Beyond this scene of blood and death; 
 
 'Tis done the lovely saint has gone 
 To claim in heaven a thornless wreath. 
 
 But as Elijah, when his car 
 
 Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, 
 Dropped on his friend, he left afar, 
 
 His mantle, like a meteor bright; 
 
 So Mary, when her spirit flew 
 
 Far from this world, so sad, so weary, 
 
 A crown of fame immortal threw 
 Around the brow of Carberry. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OP 
 
 SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 
 
 " And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo ! the 
 smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace." 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 O dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wick plain 
 
 The fire of heaven descended ; 
 For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er blcom there 
 again, 
 
 For man hath his Maker offended. 
 
 The midnight of terror and woe hath passed by, 
 
 The death-spirit's pinions are furled ; 
 But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high 
 
 Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 147 
 
 Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake, 
 As in mockery of what had been there ; 
 
 The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake, 
 Which waves its scorched arms in the air. 
 
 In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing, 
 
 Joy held her high festival there ; 
 Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,) 
 
 Of the close of that night of despair. 
 
 For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was 
 wreathing, 
 
 At the altar the bridegroom was waiting, 
 But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing, 
 
 And Death at that shrine was their greeting. 
 
 But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies, 
 
 The lip which it foamed for, is cold ; 
 For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies, 
 
 And Sodom is wrapped in its fold. 
 
 The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death, 
 With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand; 
 
 Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath, 
 Heaven's flames are her nuptial band. 
 
 And near to that cold, that desolate sea, 
 Whose fruits are to ashes now turned, 
 
 Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree, 
 Now blooms where those cities were burned.
 
 148 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 RUTH'S ANSWER TO NAOMI. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Entreat me not, I must not hear, 
 Mark but this sorrow- beaming tear; 
 Thy answer's written deeply now 
 On this warm cheek and clouded brow. 
 'T is gleaming o'er this eye of sadness 
 Which only near thee sparkles gladne* 
 
 The hearts most dear to us are gone, 
 And thou and / are left alone 
 Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, 
 I '11 follow thee through joy or woe , 
 Shouldst thou to other countries fly, 
 Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. 
 
 Thy people shall my people be, 
 And to thy God, I '11 bend the knee ; 
 Whither thou fliest, will I fly, 
 And where thou diest, I will die; 
 And the same sod which pillows thee 
 Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me. 
 
 DAVID AND JONATHAN. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain, 
 The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain ; 
 O publish it not in proud Askelon's street, 
 Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet, 
 
 For how are the mighty fallen !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 149 
 
 O mount of Gilboa, no dew shall thou see, 
 Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee; 
 For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead, 
 Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed ! 
 
 O how are the mighty fallen ! 
 
 Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave ! 
 What breast will now pity, what arm will now save? 
 O my brother ! my brother ! this heart bleeds for thee 
 For thou wert a friend and a brother to me ! 
 
 Ah, how are the mighty fallen 1 
 
 THE SICK-BED. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 O have you watched beside the bed, 
 Where rests the weary, aching head ? 
 
 And have you heard the long, deep groan, 
 The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone ? 
 
 O have you seen the fevered sleep, 
 Which speaks of agony within ? 
 
 The eye which would, but cannot weep, 
 And wipe away the stains of sin 1 
 
 O have you marked the struggling breath, 
 Which would but cannot leave its clay ? 
 
 And have you marked the hand of death 
 Unbind, and bid it haste away ? 
 
 Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel ; 
 
 Then thou hast read thy future doom ; 
 O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal, 
 
 Thero 's no repentance in the tomb.
 
 150 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 The destroyer cometh ; his footstep is light, 
 He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night ; 
 He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose, 
 And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows. 
 
 His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath 
 Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death . 
 His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe 
 Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 O thou whose care sustained my infant years, 
 And taught my prattling lip each note of love ; 
 
 Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
 And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove; 
 
 To thee my lay is due, the simple song, 
 
 Which Nature gave me at life's opening day ; 
 
 To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
 Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 
 
 O say, amid this wilderness of life, 
 
 What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me ? 
 Who would have smiled responsive ? who in grief, 
 
 Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee 1
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 151 
 
 Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, 
 Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear ? 
 
 Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
 And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear? 
 
 Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
 And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 
 
 Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
 In all the agony of love and woe ? 
 
 None but a mother none but one like thee, 
 Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 
 
 Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, 
 Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 
 
 Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 
 By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom 
 
 Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, 
 That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of 
 gloom. 
 
 O then, to thee, this rude and simple song, 
 
 Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 
 
 To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, 
 Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 
 
 SABRINA. 
 
 A VOLCANIC ISLAND, WHICH APPEARED AND DIS 
 APPEARED AMONG THE AZORES, IN 1811. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou ? 
 The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy 
 brow
 
 152 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad, 
 And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud. 
 
 From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave, 
 Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the grave; 
 A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright, 
 Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned 
 with the light. 
 
 Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire ; 
 The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir; 
 They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast, 
 A slumb'ring volcano, an earthquake at rest 
 
 Thou hast looked on the isle thou hast looked on 
 
 the wave 
 
 Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave ; 
 Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing, 
 Thou spark from the fallen an?s wide flaming wing. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 (TTHltai ti hrr rtnnarti jau t 
 
 Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow, 
 
 On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow ; 
 
 Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 
 
 I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 
 
 That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 
 
 That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 
 
 That full, dark eye may brightly beam 
 
 In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 163 
 
 But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 
 
 And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. 
 
 I know by that spirit so haughty and high, 
 
 I know by that brightly-flashing eye, 
 
 That, maiden, there 's that within thy breast, 
 
 Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest : 
 
 The strife of love, with pride shall wring 
 
 Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; 
 
 And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, 
 
 Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 
 
 Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye, 
 
 A dark, and a doubtful prophecy. 
 
 Thou shall love, and that love shall be thy curse ; 
 
 Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shall feel no worse 
 
 I see the cloud and the tempest near ; 
 
 The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 
 
 The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 
 
 The rushing waves of a wretched life ; 
 
 Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see, 
 
 And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 
 
 Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave I 
 
 Maiden, I 've gazed on thine early grave. 
 
 When I am cold, and the hand of Death 
 
 Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath ; 
 
 When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; 
 
 When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep, 
 
 Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high 
 
 And think on my last sad prophecy. 
 
 13
 
 154 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 PROPHECY II. 
 
 TO ANOTHER LADY. 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 I have told a maiden of hours of grief, 
 
 Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life; 
 
 I have read her a tale of future woe ; 
 
 I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below ; 
 
 I have read on the page of her blooming cheek, 
 
 A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 
 
 Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye 
 
 To a brighter path through futurity. 
 
 The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 
 
 And bright be the closing of life's long day ; 
 
 The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, 
 
 And angels around thee their watches shall keep ; 
 
 Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight, 
 
 And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night ; 
 
 And the twilight of age shall come quietly on ; 
 
 Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath flown; 
 
 For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul, 
 
 And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll 
 
 Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest, 
 
 In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest. 
 
 Thy soul shall glide on to its harbour in Heaven, 
 
 Every tear wiped away every error forgiven.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 PROPHECY III. 
 
 TO ANOTHER LADY. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate ? 
 It is open before thee, repentance is late ; 
 Too late, for behold, o'er the dark page of woe, 
 Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below. 
 There is one, whose sad destiny mingles with thine: 
 He was formed to be happy he dared to repine; 
 And jealousy mixed in his bright cup of bliss, 
 And the page of his fate grew still darker than this: 
 He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed ; 
 But better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast 
 Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there, 
 So youthful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair. 
 And mark ye his broad brow ? 't is noble ; 't is high ; 
 And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye ? 
 When the wide wheels of time have encircled the 
 
 world ; 
 
 When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled ; 
 Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told, 
 For farther I may not, I dare not unfold. 
 The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed, 
 And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade; 
 'T is an emblem of thee, broken, withered, and pale 
 Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the tale; 
 An hour-glass half-spent, and a tear-bedewed, token, 
 A heart, withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken, 
 All these are the emblems of sorrow to be ; 
 I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee.
 
 166 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 His faults were great, his virtues less, 
 His mind a burning lamp of Heaven ; 
 
 His talents were bestowed to bless, 
 But were as vainly lost as given. 
 
 His was a harp of heavenly sound, 
 
 The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; 
 
 But ah ! some demon, hovering round, 
 Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. 
 
 His was a mind of giant mould, 
 Which grasped at all beneath the skies ; 
 
 And his, a heart, so icy cold, 
 That virtue in its recess dies. 
 
 FEATS OF DEATH. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 1 have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, 
 I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad 
 
 light; 
 I have paused o'er the bower where the Infant lay 
 
 sleeping, 
 And I 've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping, 
 
 My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night 
 Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 157 
 
 Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, 
 And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low ; 
 I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth, 
 And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. 
 
 I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 
 Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high ; 
 The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, 
 And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. 
 
 I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, 
 I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, 
 But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, 
 I stop not to pity I stay not to save. 
 
 1 paused in my pathway, for beauty was there ; 
 It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair ! 
 The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, 
 And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; 
 She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me. 
 I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. 
 
 The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 
 With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; 
 The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, 
 And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove. 
 I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; 
 O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 't was recklessly 
 
 hung; 
 
 The minstrel was not ! and I passed on alone, 
 O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved 
 
 stone. 
 
 13*
 
 158 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 1 dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
 And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
 My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
 I 'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter; 
 It seemed that a law had been recently made 
 That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid : 
 And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
 The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
 The bachelors grumbled, and said 't was no use ; 
 'T was horrid injustice, and horrid abuse, 
 And declared that to save their own hearts'-blood 
 
 from spilling, 
 
 Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
 But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
 So they set the old bachelors up at ve,ndue. 
 A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
 To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow, 
 And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
 " Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to-day !" 
 And presently all the old maids in the town, 
 Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
 From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
 Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
 The auctioneer then in his labour began, 
 And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
 " How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?" 
 In a twink,* every maiden responded, " I, I ;" 
 
 * " That in a twink she won me to her love." Shakspeare 
 [EDITOR.]
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 159 
 
 In short, at a highly-extravagant price, 
 
 The bachelors all were sold off in a trice ; 
 
 And forty old maidens, some younger^ some older 
 
 Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 To the world, (whose dread laugh he would tremble 
 
 to hear, 
 From whose scorn he would shrink with a cowardly 
 
 fear,) 
 
 The old bachelor proudly and boldly will say, 
 Single lives are the longest, single lives are most gay. 
 
 To the ladies, with pride, he will always declare, 
 That the links in love's chain are strife, trouble, and 
 
 care; 
 
 That a wife is a torment, and he will have none, 
 But at pleasure will roam through the wide world 
 
 alone. 
 
 And let him pass on, in his sulky of state ; 
 O say, who would envy that mortal his fate ? 
 To brave all the ills of life's tempest alone, 
 Not a heart to respond the warm notes of his own. 
 
 His joys undivided no longer will please ; 
 The warm tide of his heart through inaction will 
 
 freeze : 
 
 His sorrows concealed, and unanswered his sighs, 
 The old bachelor curses his folly, and dies.
 
 160 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate ; 
 Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance too late ; 
 Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind, 
 No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind. 
 
 Not a sweet voice shall murmur its sighs o'er thy tomb; 
 Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom ; 
 Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed ; 
 By the living 't was scorned, 't is refused to the dead 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 TO MISS E. C. COMPOSED ON A BLANK LEAP OF 
 
 HER PALEY, DURING RECITATION. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 I 'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest 
 in mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast ; 
 At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, 
 When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. 
 
 When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses 
 
 flow 
 In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow ; 
 
 then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, 
 And listen to music which steals from thy heart. 
 
 Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, 
 My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; 
 
 1 feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, 
 And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. 
 
 The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me ; 
 There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknow 
 ledged by thee,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 16 
 
 Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, 
 Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. 
 
 Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, 
 With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled 
 
 skies, 
 
 I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, 
 To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. 
 
 I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, 
 Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night ; 
 Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, 
 Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy, 
 My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, 
 My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart 
 Farewell ! for the shadows of evening are fled, 
 And the young rays of morning are wreathed round 
 my head. 
 
 ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL, 
 
 WHO WERE FOUND DEAD AT SEA. 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 The breeze blew fair, the waving sea 
 Curled sparkling round the vessel's side 
 
 The canvass spread with bosom free 
 Its swan-like pinions o'er the tide. 
 
 Evening had gemmed with glittering stars, 
 
 Her coronet so darkly grand ; 
 The Queen of Night, with fleecy clouds, 
 
 Had formed her turban's snowy band.
 
 162 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 On, on the stately vessel flew, 
 
 With streamer waving far and wide ; 
 
 When lo ! a bark appeared in view, 
 And gaily danced upon the tide. 
 
 Each way the breeze its wild wing veered, 
 That way the stranger vessel turned ; 
 
 Now near she drew, now wafted far, 
 She fluttered, trembled, and returned. 
 
 " It is the pirate's cursed bark ! 
 
 The villains linger to decoy ! 
 Thus bounding o'er the waters dark, 
 
 They seek to lure, and then destroy. 
 
 " Perchance, those strange and wayward signs 
 
 May be the signals of distress," 
 The Captain cried, " for mark ye, now, 
 
 Her sails are flapping wide and loose." 
 
 And now the stranger vessel came 
 Near to that gay and gallant bark ; 
 
 It seemed a wanderer fair and lone, 
 Upon Life's wave, so deep and dark. 
 
 And not a murmur, not a sound, 
 Came from that lone and dreary ship ; 
 
 The icy chains of silence bound 
 Each rayless eye and pallid lip. 
 
 For Death's wing had been waving there, 
 The cold dew hung on every brow 
 
 And sparkled there, like angel tears, 
 Shed o'er the silent crew below.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 163 
 
 Onward that ship was gaily flying, 
 
 Its bosom the sailor's grave ; 
 The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing 
 
 Their requiem over the brave. 
 
 Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death, 
 
 Fly on, with thy desolate crew ; 
 For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 
 
 'Mong the red coral groves for you. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 They told me of her history her love 
 
 Was a neglected flame, which had consumed 
 
 The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught 
 
 With bitterness is unrequited love ! 
 
 To know that we have cast life's hope away 
 
 On a vain shadow ! 
 
 Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, 
 
 As a woman's love should be, 
 
 All tenderness and silence, only known 
 
 By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, 
 
 Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts ; 
 
 A sigh, scarce heard ; a blush, scarce visible, 
 
 Alone may give it utterance. Love is 
 
 A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, 
 
 When felt, as only woman love can feel ! 
 
 Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower 
 
 Sinks on spring-flowers ; deep, as a cave-locked 
 
 fountain ; 
 
 And changeless as the cypress's green leaves ; 
 And like them, sad ! She nourished
 
 164 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed 
 
 A passion unconfessed, till he she loved 
 
 Was wedded to another. Then she grew 
 
 Moody and melancholy ; one alone 
 
 Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, 
 
 Her gentle sister ; But that sister died, 
 
 A.nd the unhappy girl was left alone, 
 
 A maniac. She would wander far, and shunned 
 
 Her own accustomed dwelling ; and her haunt 
 
 Was that dead sister's grave : and that to her 
 
 Was as a home. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT 
 SISTER. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Oh ! touch the chord yet once again, 
 Nor chide me, though I weep the while; 
 
 Believe me, that deep seraph strain 
 
 Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. 
 
 It murmured of an absent friend ; 
 
 The voice, the air, 't was all her own ; 
 And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend 
 
 In one mild, murmuring, touching tone. 
 
 And days and months have darkly passed, 
 Since last I listened to her lay; 
 
 And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, 
 Since then, across my weary way.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 165 
 
 Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, 
 Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; 
 
 Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear 
 
 Will blight the garland thou art wreathing. 
 
 'T is sweet, though sad yes, I will stay, 
 
 I cannot tear myself away. 
 
 T thank thee, lady, for the strain, 
 
 The tempest of my soul is still ; 
 Then touch the chord yet once again, 
 
 For thou canst calm the storm at will ! 
 
 TO MY FRIEND AND PATRON, 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 And can my simple harp be strung 
 To higher theme, to nobler end, 
 
 Than that of gratitude to thee, 
 
 To thee, my father and my friend 1 
 
 1 may not, cannot, will not say 
 
 All that a grateful heart would breathe ; 
 But I may frame a simple lay, 
 
 Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath 
 
 Yes, I will touch the string to thee, 
 Nor fear its wildness will offend; 
 
 For well I know that thou wilt be, 
 What thou hast ever been a friend. 
 14
 
 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 There are, whose cold and idle gaze 
 
 Would freeze the current where it flows ; 
 
 But Gratitude shall guard the fount, 
 And Faith shall light it as it flows. 
 
 Then tell me, may 1 dare to twine, 
 While o'er my simple harp I bend, 
 
 This little offering for thee, 
 
 For thee, my father, and my friend? 
 
 ON SEEING 
 
 A PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN MAR\, 
 
 PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 (Written in her fifteenth year. 1 * 
 
 Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 
 
 Of book, of rosary, and bell ; 
 
 Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom, 
 
 Immured within her living tomb; 
 
 Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, 
 
 Borne gently by the breeze along ; 
 
 Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell ; 
 
 Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell ; 
 
 Of midnight taper, dim and small, 
 
 Just glimmering through the high-arched hall ; 
 
 Of gloomy cell, of penance lone, 
 
 Which can for darkest deeds atone 
 
 Roll back, and lift the veil of night. 
 
 For I would view the anchorite.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 167 
 
 Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, 
 
 Shuddering at Superstition's tale : 
 
 Crossing his breast with meagre hand, 
 
 While saints and priests, a motley band, 
 
 Arrayed before him, urge their claim 
 
 To heal in the Redeemer's name ; 
 
 To mount the saintly ladder, (made 
 
 By every monk, of every grade, 
 
 From portly abbot, fat and fair, 
 
 To yon lean starveling, shivering there,) 
 
 And mounting thus, to usher in 
 
 The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. 
 
 And tell me, hapless bigot, why, 
 
 For what, for whom did Jesus die, 
 
 If pyramids of saints must rise 
 
 To form a passage to the skies 1 
 
 And think you man can wipe away 
 
 With fast and penance, day by day, 
 
 One single sin, too dark to fade 
 
 Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? 
 
 O ye of little faith, beware ! 
 
 For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer, 
 
 Would aught avail ye without Him, 
 
 Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. 
 
 Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise 
 
 The faded forms of other days ! 
 
 Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, 
 
 The work of some forgotten hand, 
 
 Will teach thee half thy mazy way, 
 
 While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. 
 
 Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 
 
 Of secret charm, of holy spell, 
 
 Of Superstition's midnight rite, 
 
 Of wild Devotion's seraph flight, 
 
 Of Melancholy's tearful eye, 
 
 Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,
 
 163 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 That trembling from her bosom rose, 
 Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes 
 And some warm image lingering there, 
 Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, 
 Still, like an outcast child, will creep 
 Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, 
 And mingle its unhallowed sigh 
 With cloister-prayer and rosary; 
 Then tell the pale, deluded one 
 Her vows are breathed to God alone ; 
 Those vows, which tremulously rise, 
 
 Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. 
 
 [Unfinished.] 
 
 AMERICAN POETRY. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Must every shore ring boldly to the voice 
 
 Of sweet poetic harmony, save this ? 
 
 Rouse thee, America ! for shame ! for shame I 
 
 Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join 
 Thy glimmering taper to the holy flame : 
 
 Such honour, if no other, may be thine. 
 Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke ? 
 
 Shall Ireland's harpstrings thrill, though all unstrung? 
 And must America, her bondage broke, 
 
 Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, 
 Must she be silent 1 who may then rejoice ? 
 
 If she be tuneless, Harmony, farewell ! 
 Oh ! shame, America ! wild freedom's voice 
 
 Echoes, " shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. 
 Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past? 
 Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile? 
 And canst thou then [Unfinished.]
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 169 
 
 HEADACHE. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.; 
 
 Headache ! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, 
 Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well ! 
 Beneath thy lash I 've writhed for many an hour, 
 1 hate thee, for I Ve known, and dread thy power. 
 
 Even the heathen gods were made to feel 
 The aching torments which thy hand can deal ; 
 And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth, 
 Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom 
 forth. 
 
 Would'st thou thus ever bless each aching head, 
 And bid Minerva make the brain her bed, 
 Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe, 
 And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow. 
 
 But always the reverse to me, unkind, 
 Folly for ever dogs thee close behind ; 
 And from this burning brow, her cap and bell, 
 For ever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell. 
 
 TO A STAR. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Thou brightly-glittering star of even, 
 Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven 
 Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
 How quick 't would spread its wings to thee. 
 14*
 
 170 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, 
 Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine ! 
 Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast 
 Was never ransomed, never lost. 
 
 There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, 
 Their hopes, their joys together share ; 
 While hovering angels touch the string, 
 And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 
 
 There cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
 Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights ; 
 There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
 And unregretted by the soul. 
 
 Thou little sparkling star of even, 
 Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, 
 How swiftly will I soar to thee, 
 When this imprisoned soul is free ! 
 
 SONG OF VICTORY, . 
 
 FOR THE DEATH OF GOLIATH, 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
 God, O Israel, is your King ! 
 We have slain our deadliest foe, 
 David's arm hath laid him low. 
 
 Saul hath oft his thousands slain, 
 His trophies have bedecked the plain ; 
 But David's tens of thousands lie 
 In slaughtered millions, mounted high.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 171 
 
 Sound the trumpet strike the string, 
 Loud let the song of victory ring ; 
 Wreathe with glory David's brow, 
 He hath laid Goliath low. 
 
 Mark him on yon crimson plain, 
 He is conquered he is slain ; 
 He who lately rose so high, 
 Scoffed at man, and braved the sky. 
 
 Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
 God, O Israel, is your king ! 
 We have slain our deadliest foe, 
 David's arm hath laid him low. 
 
 THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 The Indian Chieftain is far away, 
 
 Through the forest his footsteps fly, 
 But his heart is behind him with Conconay, 
 He thinks of his love in the bloody fray, 
 
 When the storm of war is high. 
 
 But little he thinks of the bloody foe, 
 
 Who is bearing that love away ; 
 And little he thinks of her bosom's woe, 
 And little he thinks of the burning brow 
 
 Of his lovely Conconay. 
 
 They tore her away from her friends, from her home 
 
 They tore her away from her Chief. 
 Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced 
 her to roam,
 
 172 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam 
 While her bosom o'erflowed with grief. 
 
 But there came a foot, 't was swift, 't was light, 
 
 'T was the brother of him she loved ; 
 His heart was kind, and his eye was bright ; 
 He paused not by day, and he slept not by night, 
 
 While through the wild forest he roved. 
 
 'T was Lightfoot, the generous, 't was Lightfoot the 
 
 young, 
 
 And he loved the sweet Conconay; 
 But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung, 
 And the chords of his heart should to breaking be 
 
 wrung, 
 Ere love should gain o'er him the sway. 
 
 Far. far from her stern foes he bore her away. 
 
 And sought his own forest once more ; 
 But sad was the heart of the young Conconay, 
 Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay, 
 And was even more drear than before. 
 
 'T is evening, and weary, and faint, and weak 
 
 Is the beautiful Conconay; 
 
 She could wander no farther, she strove to speak, 
 But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck, 
 
 And seemed breathing her soul away. 
 
 The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven, 
 
 He turned them towards the west ; 
 For one moment a ray of light was given, 
 Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven 
 
 But to strike at the fated breast.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 173 
 
 For there was his brother returning from far, 
 
 O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung ; 
 For he had been victor amid the war, 
 His plume had gleamed like the polar star, 
 And on him had the victory hung. 
 
 The Chieftain paused in his swift career, 
 
 For he knew his Conconay; 
 He saw the maid his heart held dear, 
 On his brother's breasf, in the forest drear, 
 
 From her home so far away. 
 
 He bent his bow, the arrow flew, 
 
 It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast ; 
 And it pierced a heart, as warm and true 
 As ever a mortal bosom knew, 
 
 Or in mortal garb was dressed. 
 
 He turned to his love from her brilliant eye 
 
 The cloud was passing away; 
 She let fall a tear she breathed a sigh 
 She turned towards Lightfoot she uttered a cry, 
 
 For weltering in gore he lay. 
 
 Her heart was filled with horror and woe, 
 
 When she gazed on the form of her Chief; 
 'T was his loved hand that had bent the bow, 
 'T was he who had laid her preserver low ; 
 And she yielded her soul to grief. 
 
 And 't was said, that ere time had healed the wound 
 
 In the breast of the mourning maid, 
 That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground, 
 And ivy the snow-white monument crowned 
 
 With its dark and jealous shade.
 
 174 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT 
 
 FOR HER INFANT. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening 
 
 Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed ; 
 
 Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness, 
 Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest. 
 
 Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder 
 
 Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing 
 cheek ; 
 
 Calmly he '11 rest there, and silently moulder, 
 No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake. 
 
 Dread king of the grave, Oh ! return me my child ! 
 
 Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death ! 
 Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent, 
 
 Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath ! 
 
 Where is my infant? the storms may descend, 
 The snows of the winter may cover his head ; 
 
 The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend, 
 And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'ei 
 the dead. 
 
 Where is my infant ? the damp ground is cold, 
 Too cold for those features so laughing and light ; 
 
 Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form, 
 And shield ofTthe tempest which wanders at night
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 175 
 
 This fond bosom loved him, ah ! loved him too dearly, 
 And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore ; 
 
 All its beauty has faded, and broken before me 
 Is the god my heart ventured to worship before. 
 
 'T is just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven, 
 Thy will, oh, my Father ! for ever be done ! 
 
 Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given, 
 Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone ' 
 
 ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL. 
 
 "IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST." 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Wafted o'er a treacherous sea 
 Far from home, and far from thee ; 
 Between the Heaven and ocean tossed, 
 " If I lose thee, I am lost." 
 
 When the polar star is beaming 
 O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming, 
 I think of thee and dangers crossed, 
 For, "If I lose thee, I am lost. 
 
 When the lighthouse tire is blazing, 
 High towards Heaven its red crest raising, 
 I think of thee, w r hile onward tossed, 
 For, " If I lose thee, I am lost."
 
 176 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, 
 I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees ; 
 And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, 
 From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. 
 Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, 
 I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high ; 
 When my gay purple banners are waving afar ; 
 When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each 
 
 star; 
 
 When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, 
 Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake ! 
 Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of 
 
 Heaven 
 
 Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even ; 
 When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, 
 O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, 
 Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, 
 To their far-away harbour, all silently driven, 
 Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, 
 Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and 
 
 night ; 
 When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save 
 
 where 
 
 The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star ; 
 When all is in silence and solitude here, 
 Then sleep, maiden, sleep ! without sorrow or fear ! 
 But when I steal silently over the lake, 
 Awake thee then, maiden, awake ! oh, awake !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. it? 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Shakspeare ! " with all thy faults, (and few have more,) 
 I love thee still," and still will con thee o'er. 
 Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
 Gave thee of virtue then, of vice a part, 
 Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee, 
 Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee 
 But admiration now, and sorrow join ; 
 His works we reverence, while we pity thine. 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour, 
 The fearless boundings of my breast, 
 
 When, fresh as Summer's opening flower, 
 I freely frolicked, and was blessed. 
 
 Oh ! say, was not this eye more bright 1 
 Were not these lips more wont to smile ? 
 
 Methinks tha* then my heart was light, 
 And I a fearless, joyous child. 
 
 And thou didst mark me gay and wild, 
 My careless, reckless laugh of mirth ; 
 
 The simple pleasures of a child, 
 The holiday of man on earth. 
 15
 
 17-8 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then thou hast seen me in that hour, 
 When every nerve of life was new, 
 
 When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, 
 And Hope her witcheries round it threw. 
 
 That hour is fading, it has fled, 
 And I am left in darkness now; 
 
 A wand'rer towards a lowly bed, 
 The grave, that home of all below. 
 
 THE FEAR OF MADNESS. 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER 
 LAST ILLNESS. 
 
 There is a something which I dread, 
 
 It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
 It steals along with withering tread, 
 
 Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 
 
 That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
 Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 
 
 'Tis not the dread of death 'tis more, 
 It is the dread of madness. 
 
 Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
 
 Forgetful of their feverish course ; 
 May this hot brain, which burning, glows 
 
 With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 
 
 Be cold, and motionless, and still, 
 
 A tenant of its lowly bed, 
 But let not dark delirium steal 
 
 ******** 
 
 [Unfinished.'] 
 
 (Ttia was the last piece she ever wrote.)
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 179 
 
 MARITORNE, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 PIRATE OF MEXICO. 
 
 (Written in her seventeenth year.) 
 
 ON Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, 
 Their beacons beaming on the gulf below, 
 As if to dare some death-devoted hand 
 To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand ; 
 Some Orlean herald arm'd with threatening high 
 To daunt the Pirate-chieftain's haughty eye, 
 To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, 
 And bow to painted things with trembling awe. 
 Such herald well may come, but woe betide 
 The self-devoted messenger of pride ! 
 Such herald well may come, but far and near 
 The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; 
 His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will, 
 Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. 
 The iron hand of power is raised in vain, 
 Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 
 'Tis his to sacrifice 'tis his to spare 
 He moves in silence, and is everywhere. 
 His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, 
 But if he pities, who may tell the deed ? 
 'T is done in secret, that no eye may mark 
 One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. 
 
 And he, the governor of yon fair land, 
 
 Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand
 
 180 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, 
 
 And adds unseen fresh links to slavery's chain, 
 
 Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorr'd, 
 
 The Pirate-chief, the haughty island lord. 
 
 And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, 
 
 Had he, the moody leader of the west, 
 
 To hate that fearful man, who stood alone 
 
 Feared, dreaded, and detested, tho' unknown ; 
 
 That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light, 
 
 Wreath'd in the incense of a patriot's right, 
 
 To drive the bold intruder from the shore, 
 
 Where war and bloodshed must appear no more ; 
 
 But deep within his heart the crater glow'd 
 
 From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd ; 
 
 'T was wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, 
 
 And called for vengeance on the offender's head ; 
 
 For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow, 
 
 Had scorn'd his power that were enough ; but lo 
 
 There, on the very threshold of his home, 
 
 There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come, 
 
 And thence had borne his own, his only child, 
 
 Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild ; 
 
 And when the maiden curs'd him in her breast 
 
 Those curses came not o'er him he was blest 
 
 For but to gaze upon her, and to feel 
 
 That she whom he ador'd was near him still, 
 
 Was bliss ! was Heav'n itself! and he whose eye 
 
 Bent not to aught of dull mortality 
 
 Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er 
 
 The voice of Laura rose upon his ear ; 
 
 That voice had pow'r to quell the fiend within, 
 
 Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin. 
 
 That fiend was vengeance ; e'en his virtues bow'd 
 
 Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd. 
 
 His virtues ! yes ; for even fiends may boast 
 
 A shadow of the glory they have lost,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 181 
 
 But oh ! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, 
 For vengeance was awake, can vengeance sleep? 
 Yes ; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-shut eye, 
 Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, 
 With parch'd tongue cleaving to his blacken'd cell, 
 Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell 
 Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour 
 The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r. 
 Yes : thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, 
 Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. 
 Thus may it sleep, like ./Etna's burning bieast, 
 To burst in thunders when 'tis dreaded least; 
 For his had been the joyless, thankless part, 
 Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart, 
 And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast 
 Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd. 
 Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate, 
 Ere he became the harden'd child of hate. 
 At first his breast was torn with anguish wild, 
 He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd 
 The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind ; 
 He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind ; 
 And then his heart grew callous, and like steel 
 Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel. 
 'T was like yon mountain snow-crest, chill tho' bright; 
 Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight, 
 Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then 
 The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. 
 He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye 
 Had deeply, rashly stamp'd fidelity: 
 Traitor had better seem'd worm viper aught 
 The vilest, veriest, wretch e'er named in thought, 
 For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er 
 Angels above may hate or mortals fear. 
 There was a fascination in his eye 
 Which those who felt, migh seek in vain to fly. 
 15*
 
 182 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 There was blasting glance of mockery there, 
 There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer 
 For ever on his lip, which made men fear, 
 And fearing shun him, as a bird will shun 
 A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun ; 
 But still the mask of friendship he could wear, 
 The smile, the warm professions all were there ; 
 Let him who trusts to these alone beware ! 
 A lurking devil may be crouching there. 
 Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use 
 Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. 
 Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light, 
 And following desolation's blasting flight 
 
 There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, 
 
 Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide ; 
 
 His sable plumes were hov'ring o'er his brow, 
 
 As if to hide the depth of thought below. 
 
 He paus'd 't was but the dashing of the spray 
 
 Again ! 't was but the night-watch on his way. 
 
 He only mutter'd, gnashed his teeth and smil'd, 
 
 Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild, 
 
 To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip, 
 
 'T was like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. 
 
 The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, 
 
 But burns it not more dimly than before? 
 
 Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping, 
 
 His weary vigils negligently keeping. 
 
 So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye 
 
 Was fix'd intently between earth and sky, 
 
 As if its quick keen glance would light the flame, 
 
 And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. 
 
 He starts suspicion flashes on his brain 
 
 He grasps his dagger by St. Mark again !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 183 
 
 His bugle brightly glittered on his breast ; 
 His lip the gilded bauble gently press'd 
 One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea, 
 Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. 
 The figure which had slowly pass'd between 
 Himself and yonder blaze, sank where 't was seen, 
 As tho' the earth had gaped with sudden yawn, 
 And drank both fire and form in silence down ; 
 The beacon was extinguish'd, rock and tree 
 And beetling cliff, and wildly foaming sea 
 Were hid in darkness, for the deep red light 
 Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night 
 Was dim, as was the moon's pale tremulous glow, 
 For tempest-clouds were rallying round her brow ; 
 
 The sound of a footstep is on the shore, 
 
 It dies away in the surge's roar; 
 
 It is heard again as the angry spray 
 
 Rolls back and foams its shame away ; 
 
 And shrill and clear was the call of alarm, 
 
 T was like the breaking of spell or charm ; 
 
 It scream'd o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill, 
 
 And the answering echoes re-echoed it still. 
 
 A rushing sound as of coming waves, 
 
 A glittering band as if burst from their graves, 
 
 Are the answers which wake at the bidding clear 
 
 Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. 
 
 But scarce had the summons in silence died, 
 
 When the foot which had waked the tumult wide, 
 
 Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave 
 
 To the lightest tread as 't was washed by the wave , 
 
 By the side of the Pirate, with outstretch'd hand, 
 
 The bold intruder look'd round on the band ;
 
 184 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But none saw the face of that being save he ; 
 In wonder he gazed in his eye you might see 
 Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-like gleam, 
 Which whisper'd of more than fear might dream ; 
 And is it for this for a woman like thee? 
 He angrily mutter'd and turn'd to the sea 
 And is it i'or this I have sounded the call 
 Whose notes may never unanswer'd fall ; 
 Whose lowest tone is the knell of more 
 Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore ? 
 And is it for this, I must idly stand 
 To trace the wave with my sword on the strand ? 
 Speak ! tell me or now by the blood on its blade, 
 I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade. 
 The beacon ! the beacon she turn'd to the spot, 
 Arid pointed the chief where the light was not; 
 The murmur ran thro' the waiting crowd, 
 It was loud at first but it grew more loud, 
 Till the Bea,con, the Beacon rang on to the sky, 
 But its light was extinguish'd, no blaze met the eye; 
 Thus much for the moment thy honour is clear, 
 If it suffers then look for thy recompense here ; 
 And she threw back her mantle and gave to the light 
 Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright 
 A form which e'en Maritorne rnark'd not unmoved, 
 But t' was one which he did not, nor ever had loved 
 There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee 
 1 mark'd out the cavern 'twas near to the sea; 
 They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one 
 Who has sworn ere the dawn of another day's sun 
 To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharm'd, 
 To yonder proud city all chain'd and unarm'd ; 
 This swears he, by all that is sacred to do, 
 1 heard it, and hasten'd thus breathless to you. 
 For pardon I sue not, O punish my crime ! 
 Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time!
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 185 
 
 The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, 
 Now 't is not worth asking I sue but for death 
 The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear 
 The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear ; 
 His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, 
 Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare ; 
 As a being all guilty and trembling would rest 
 Self-accused, self-condemn'd in the land of the blest. 
 And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale ? 
 His eye flash'd the darker, his lip grew more pale ; 
 But when it was finish'd and Clara knelt down, 
 Where, where was his anger, and where was his 
 
 frown ? 
 
 On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss 
 Oh Clara forgive me remember not this, 
 But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know 
 The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my woe. 
 If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 
 'Neath the stone, near the rock, where the beacon- 
 light glow'd ; 
 
 If I live and he hastily bowed himself then 
 The Fiend and the pirate were masters again. 
 
 A light is on the waters, and the dip 
 
 Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep; 
 
 The hum of voices float upon the air, 
 
 Soft, yet distinct, tho' distant, full and clear. 
 
 Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes ? 
 
 7 T is well ! the world but roughly with them goes. 
 
 Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join 
 
 Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine ?
 
 186 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh, better had they never left yon shore, 
 
 To which they may return again no more. 
 
 Fools ! think they he is bleeding in a strife 
 
 Where every drop writes guilt upon his life 
 
 For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on earth 
 
 Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth 
 
 A life of bloodshed and dishonour ? No ! 
 
 They read not right, who read yon pirate so; 
 
 The plash of troubled waters, and the sound 
 
 Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground, 
 
 The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush 
 
 Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush 
 
 They feebly kiss'd the bark, then sunk away, 
 
 As half-repenting them such welcome gay, 
 
 Were caught perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, 
 
 Who plied his line, or net at midnight here; 
 
 Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood, 
 
 And toss'd his bait still further down the flood ; 
 
 But be that as it may, 't was heard no more, 
 
 And list'ning silence hover'd o'er the shore. 
 
 And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming, 
 
 Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming, 
 
 The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there, 
 
 Its banners feebly dancing in the air ; 
 
 Its broad sails veering idly to and fro, 
 
 Now glitt'ring 'neath the full moon's silver glow, 
 
 Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown, 
 
 'T was like its chief, in silence and alone, 
 
 Gazing upon the shadow which it cast 
 
 O'er ev'ry rippling wave which gently pass'd. 
 
 And such had been his joyless, gloomy lot, 
 
 Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot, 
 
 Save that accursed one whose blasting eye 
 
 Was glaring on him, 't was in vain to fly 
 
 While vengeance whisper'd curses in his ear, 
 
 And thought, the demon thought receiv'd them there
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 187 
 
 But it had ever been his lot to throw 
 
 O'er those who pass'd him, shades of gloom and woe ; 
 
 His love for Laura had been deeply curs'd, 
 
 Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst ; 
 
 He felt himself detested, and he knew 
 
 That she whom he adored abhorr'd him too. 
 
 But oh the hapless, the ill-fated one, 
 
 She who could love him for himself alone, 
 
 Love him, with all his crimes upon his head, 
 
 Love, when the crowd with detestation fled ; 
 
 A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast 
 
 Fell o'er her destiny ; the die was cast 
 
 She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded, 
 
 Whose wand'ring tendrils round the night-shade 
 
 braided, 
 
 Clung to its baleful breast hung drooping there, 
 Self-sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air 
 And with'ring *********** 
 
 [Unfinished."] 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 (Written in her seventeenth year.) 
 
 And this was once the realm of nature, where 
 
 Wild as the wind, tho' exquisitely fair, 
 
 She breath'd the mountain breeze, or bow'd to kiss 
 
 The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. 
 
 Here in this Paradise of earth, where first 
 
 Wild mountain Liberty began to burst, 
 
 Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace, 
 
 The hill her throne, the world her dwelling-place. 
 
 And where are now her lakes so still and lone, 
 
 Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown?
 
 138 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, 
 With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky? 
 Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwin'd, 
 Her waving alders streaming to the wind ? 
 Nor these alone, her own, her fav'rite child, 
 All fire ; all feeling ; man untaught and wild ; 
 Where can the lost, lone son of nature stray? 
 For art's high car is rolling on its way ; 
 A wand'rer of the world, he flies to drown 
 The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown, 
 In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and WOP 
 With slavery's iron chain conceal'd below. 
 Once thro' the tangled wood, with noiseless tread 
 And throbbing heart, the lurking warrior sped, 
 Aim'd his sure weapon, won the prize, and turn'd 
 While his high heart with wild ambition burn'd, 
 With song and war-whoop to his native tree, 
 There on its bark to carve the victory 
 His all of learning did that act comprise, 
 But still in nature's volume doubly wise. 
 
 The wayward stream which once with idle bound, 
 Whirl'd on resistless in its foaming round, 
 Now curb'd by art flows on, a wat'ry chain 
 Linking the snow-capp'd mountains to the main. 
 Where once the alder in luxuriance grew, 
 Or the tall pine its towering branches threw 
 Abroad to Heaven, with dark and haughty brow, 
 There mark the realms of plenty smiling now ; 
 There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows, 
 And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows ; 
 And man, a brute when left to wander wild, 
 A reckless creature, nature's lawless child, 
 What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now, 
 From the full hand of art around him flow ! 
 Improvement strides the surge, while from afar, 
 Learning rolls onward in her silver car ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 189 
 
 Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head, 
 While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed. 
 
 The muse arises from the wildwood glen, 
 And chants her sweet and hallow'd song again, 
 As in those halcyon days, which bards have sung, 
 When hope was blushing, and when life was young 
 Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear 
 Her sacred temple here, and only here, 
 While Percival, her lov'd and chosen priest, 
 For ever blessing, tho' himself unblest, 
 Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine, 
 And charm the ear with numbers half divine. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A COUSIN. 
 
 She gave me a flow'ret, and oh ! it was sweet ! 
 'T was a pea, in full bloom, with its dark crimson 
 
 leaf, 
 
 And I said in my heart, this shall be thy retreat ! 
 'T is one " sacred to Friendship" a stranger to 
 grief. 
 
 In my bosom I placed it, 't is withered and gone ! 
 
 All its freshness, its beauty, its fragrance had fled ! 
 And in sorrow I sigh'd, am I thus left alone ? 
 
 Is the gift which I cherish'd quite faded and dead ? 
 
 It has wither'd ! but she who presented it blooms, 
 
 Still fresh and unfading, in memory here ! 
 And through life shall here flourish, 'mid danger and 
 
 storms, 
 
 As sweet as the flower, though more lasting and 
 fair! 
 16
 
 190 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 MODESTY 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 There is a sweet, tho' humble flower, 
 Which grows in nature's wildest bed j 
 
 It blossoms in the lonely bower, 
 But withers 'neath the gazer's tread. 
 
 'Tis rear'd alone, far, far away 
 
 From the wild noxious weeds of death, 
 
 Around its brow the sunbeams play, 
 The evening dew-drop is its wreath. 
 
 'T is Modesty ; 't is nature's child ; 
 
 The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower 
 That ever blossom'd in the wild, 
 
 Or trembled 'neath the evening shower. 
 
 'T is Modesty ; so pure, so fair, 
 That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow, 
 
 When that sweet flower is blooming there 
 The brightest beauty of her brow. 
 
 A VIEW OF DEATH. 
 
 When bending o'er the brink of life, 
 My trembling soul shall stand, 
 
 Waiting to pass death's awful flood, 
 Great God ! at thy command
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 191 
 
 When weeping friends surround my bed, 
 
 To close my sightless eyes, 
 When shattered by the weight of years 
 
 This broken body lies; 
 
 When every long-lov'd scene of life 
 
 Stands ready to depart, 
 When the last sigh which shakes this frame 
 
 Shall rend this bursting heart ; 
 
 Oh thou great source of joy supreme, 
 
 Whose arm alone can save, 
 Dispel the darkness that surrounds 
 
 The entrance to the grave. 
 
 Lay thy supporting gentle hand 
 
 Beneath my sinking head, 
 And with a ray of love divine, 
 
 Illume my dying bed. 
 
 Leaning on thy dear faithful breast, 
 
 I would resign my breath, 
 And in thy loved embraces lose 
 
 The bitterness of death. 
 
 ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBAL- 
 DISTONE. 
 
 The heather I trod while breathing on earth, 
 Must bloom o'er my grave in the land of my birth ; 
 My warm heart would shrink like the fern in the 
 
 frost, 
 If the tops of my hills to my dim eye were iost.
 
 102 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 There is a charm in the pallid cheek; 
 A charm which the tongue can never speak, 
 When the hand of sickness has wither'd awhile, 
 The rose which had bloom'd in the rays of a smile. 
 
 There is a charm in the heavy eye, 
 When the tear of sorrow is passing by, 
 Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue, 
 Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew. 
 
 It spreads around a shade as light 
 As daylight blending with the night; 
 Or 'tis like the tints of an evening sky, 
 And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 'Twas evening all was calm and silent, save 
 The low hoarse dashing of the distant wave ; 
 The whip-poor-will had clos'd his pensive lay, 
 Which sweetly mourned the sun's declining ray ; 
 Tired of a world surcharged with pain and woe, 
 Weary of heartless forms and all below,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 193 
 
 Broken each tie, bereft of every friend, 
 Whose sympathy might consolation lena, 
 And musing on each vain and earthly toy, 
 Walk'd the once gay and still brave Oleroy. 
 Thus lost in thought, unconsciously he stray'd, 
 When a dark forest wild around him laid. 
 In vain he tried the beaten path to gain, 
 He sought it earnestly, but sought in vain ; 
 At length o'ercome, he sunk upon the ground, 
 Where the dark ivy twined its branches round.; 
 Sudden there rose upon his wond'ring ear, 
 Notes which e'en angels might delighted hear. 
 Now low they murmur, now majestic rise, 
 As though " some spirit banished from the skies" 
 Had there repair'd to tune the mournful lay, 
 " And chase the sorrows of his soul away." 
 The,y ceas'd when lo ! a brilliant dazzling light 
 Illumed the wood and chas'd the shades of night; 
 He raised his head, there stood near Oleroy, 
 The beauteous figure of a smiling boy; 
 Across his shoulder hung an ivory horn, 
 With jewels glittering like the rays of morn ; 
 In his white hand he held the tuneful lyre, 
 And in his eyes there beam'd a heavenly fire ; 
 Approaching Oleroy, he smiling cried, 
 
 You hate the world and all its charms deride, 
 You hate the world and all it doth contain, 
 Condemn each joy, and call each pleasure pain ; 
 Then come, he sweetly cried, come follow me, 
 Another world thy sorrowing eyes shall see. 
 
 No sooner said than swift the smiling boy 
 Led from the bower the wond'ring Oleroy. 
 Beneath a tree three sylph-like forms recline, 
 Each form was beauteous, and each face benign; 
 16*
 
 194 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Beside them stood a chariot dazzling bright, 
 Yoked with two beauteous swans of purest white; 
 They mount the chariot, and ascend on high, 
 They bend the lash, on winged winds they fly, 
 Above the spacious globe they stretch their flight, 
 That globe seem'd now but as a cloud of night. 
 Swift towards the moon the white swans bend their 
 
 way, 
 
 And a new world its treasures doth display. 
 They halt ; before them rocks and hills are spread, 
 And birds, and beasts, which at their footsteps fled. 
 Another moon emits a softer ray, 
 And other moon-beams on the waters play : 
 They wander on, and reach a darksome cave 
 Against whos*e side loud roars the dashing wave : 
 These words upon its rugged front appear, 
 ' What in your world is lost is treasured here." 
 They enter ; round upon the floor are strewn, 
 The ivory sceptre, and the glittering crown ; 
 Unnumbered hopes there flutter'd on the wing, 
 There were the lays discarded lovers sing ; 
 There fame her trumpet blew, long, loud, and clear, 
 Worlds tremble as the deaf'ning notes they hear; 
 There brooded riches o'er his lifeless heap, 
 There were the tears which misery's children weep. 
 There were posthumous alms, and misspent time 
 Lost in a jingling mass of foolish rhyme. 
 There was the conscience of the miser ; there 
 The tears of love, the pity of the fair ; 
 There, pointing, cried the sylph-like smiling boy, 
 There 's the content which fled you, Oleroy ! 
 Regain it if you can; then far away, 
 And reach your world before the dawn of day.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 196 
 
 ON SEEING AT A CONCERT, THE PUBLIC 
 PERFORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Helpless, unprotected, weary, 
 
 Toss'd upon the world's wide sea, 
 
 Borne from those I love most dearly, 
 Say dost thou not feel for me? 
 
 Who that hath shrunk 'neath nature's frown 
 Would court false fortune's fickle smile? 
 
 Oh, who would wander thus ilone, 
 Reckless alike of care or toil? 
 
 Who would, for fading pleasure, brave 
 The sea of troubles, dark and deep ? 
 
 For lo ! the gems which deck the wave 
 Vanish, and " leave the wretch to weep." 
 
 'T was not for fortune's smile of light, 
 Which beams but to destroy for ever; 
 
 'T was not for pleasure's bubbles bright. 
 Which dazzle still, deluding ever: 
 
 Oft have I falter'd when alone 
 
 Before the crowd I sung my lay, 
 But ah, a father's feeble moan 
 
 Rung in my ears, I dared not stay. 
 
 Oh, I have borne pride's scornful look, 
 
 And burning taunts from slander's tongue ; 
 
 i r et more of malice I could brook, 
 E'en though my heart with grief was wrung.
 
 196 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Adieu ! a long a last adieu 
 
 Once more I launch upon life's sea ; 
 
 But still shall memory turn to you, 
 For, stranger, you have felt for me. 
 
 ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER 
 DEVOTIONS. 
 
 (Written in her seventeenth year.) 
 
 She knelt, and her dark blue eye was rais'd, 
 
 A sacred fire in its bright beam blaz'd, 
 
 And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light 
 
 So pure, so sacred, so clear and so bright, 
 
 That Parian marble, tho' glittering fair 
 
 'Neath the moon's pale beam, or the sun's broad glare, 
 
 Were far less sweet, tho' more dazzlingly bright, 
 
 Than that cold cheek array 'd in its halo of light. 
 
 Oh ! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky 
 
 When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and 
 
 high, 
 
 But my fond soul adores the pure author of light, 
 The more when she looks on the broad brow of night; 
 On myriads of stars glitt'ring far thro' the sky, 
 Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on 
 
 high 
 
 From their garden of Paradise, blooming in Heaven, 
 On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile 
 
 of even. 
 
 I love not the cheek which spe-aks slumber unbroken, 
 That heart hath ne'er sigh'd o'er hope's fast fading 
 token ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 197 
 
 That bosom ne'er throbbed with half-fearful delight 
 When it thought on its home in the regions of light, 
 Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye 
 It gaz'd on the beautiful gates of the sky, 
 And the angels which watch at their portals of light 
 All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright : 
 But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion, 
 Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean. 
 
 ALONZO AND IMANEL. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand 
 
 A form, 'twas so airy, so light, 
 He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land 
 That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and thro' 
 sand, 
 
 'Neath the moon-beam so fitfully bright. 
 
 He paus'd, as the bittern scream'd loud o'er his head. 
 
 One moment he paus'd on the shore, 
 To mark the wild wave as it dash'd from its bed, 
 Tossing nigh the white spray from its foam-spangled 
 head, 
 
 With a fitful and deafening roar 
 
 He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind, 
 
 Ere the tempest-god bore them away, 
 And they told of a tortured and desperate mind, 
 To despair's dark shadows for ever resign'd, 
 Of a heart, once hope-lighted and gav
 
 198 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON 
 
 The bright moon was hid in the breast of the storm, 
 
 And darkness and terror drew round, 
 Yet still he could mark her light fanciful form, 
 \s she roam'd round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm, 
 Tho' the fiend of the whirlwind frown'd. 
 
 Oh tell me, he cried, what spirit so light, 
 
 So beautiful e'en in despair, 
 Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night, 
 When to guide her no star in the heaven is bright, 
 
 No gleam save the lightning's red glare ! 
 
 'T is young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh, 
 
 The rich, the belov'd and the gay, 
 Who is doom'd from her friends and her country to fly, 
 For she lov'd, and she wedded Alonzo the spy, 
 
 Who has left her and fled far away. 
 
 Alonzo the spy ! and he darted away 
 
 With the speed of a shooting star, 
 Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay, 
 But toward the poor lone one he bounded away, 
 
 She had fled to the sea-beach afar. 
 
 One glance of the forked lightning's glare 
 Play'd bright round the fair one's face, 
 And it beam'd on Alonzo, for he was there, 
 And it beam'd on his bride, on his Imanel dear, 
 Clasp'd at length in his joyful embrace.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. lOQ 
 
 TO MARGARET'S EYE. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Oh ! I have seen the blush of morn, 
 And I have seen the evening sky; 
 
 But ah ! they faded when I gaz'd 
 
 On the bright heaven of Margaret's eye. 
 
 I 've seen the Queen of evening ride 
 Majestic, 'mid the clouds on high ; 
 
 But e'en Diana in her pride 
 
 Was dim, near Margaret's brilliant eye. 
 
 I 've seen the azure vault of heaven, 
 I 've seen the star-bespangled sky ; 
 
 But oh ! I would the whole have given 
 For one sweet glance from Margaret's eye. 
 
 I 've seen the dew upon the rose, 
 It trembled 'neath the zephyr's sigh ; 
 
 But oh ! the tear which nature shed 
 Was dim near that in Margaret's eye. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH. 
 (Written in her seventeenth year.) 
 
 And thou hast never, never known 
 A mother's love, a mother's care ! 
 
 Hast wept, and sigh'd, and smil'd alone, 
 Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer.
 
 20f> LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh, if sad sorrow's blighting hand 
 Hath e'er an arrow, it is this; 
 
 To feel that phrenzy's burning brand 
 Hath wip'd away a mother's kiss ; 
 
 To mark the gulf, the starless wave, 
 Which rolls between th.ee and her love, 
 
 To feel that better were a grave, 
 A grave beneath a home above; 
 
 Than thus that she should linger on, 
 In dreamless, sunless solitude; 
 
 Like some bright ruin'd shrine, where ono 
 All loveliness and truth hath stood. 
 
 And he, her love, her life, her light, 
 How burst the storm o'er him ! 
 
 Oh, darker than Egyptian night, 
 'T was one wild troubled dream ! 
 
 To gaze upon that eye, whose beam 
 Was love, and life, and light, 
 
 To mark its wild and wandering gleam 
 Which dazzles but to blight; 
 
 To turn in anguish and despair 
 From those wild notes of sadness, 
 And feel that there was darkness there, 
 The midnight mist of madness ; 
 
 To start beneath the thrilling swell 
 Of notes still sweet, tho' wasted, 
 
 To mark the idol lov'd too well, 
 In all its beauty blasted; 
 
 Oh ! it were better far to kneel, 
 In darkly brooding anguish, 
 
 Upon the graves of those we love, 
 Than thus to see them languish.
 
 FOETICAL REMAINS. 201 
 
 A SONG. 
 , Tune, Mrs. Robinson's Faretodl 
 
 (Written in her thirteenth year.) 
 
 Tell me not of joys departed, 
 
 Or of childhood's happy hour! 
 When unconsciously I sported, 
 
 Fresh as morning's dewy flower 1 
 
 Tell me not of fair hbpes blasted, 
 
 Or of unrequited love ! 
 Tell me not of fortune wasted, 
 
 Or the web which Fate hath wove I 
 
 One fond wish I long have cherish'd, 
 
 I have twined it round my heart ! 
 While all other hopes have perish'd, 
 
 I with that could never part. 
 
 On life's troubled, stormy ocean 
 That bright star still shone serene ! 
 
 To that star, my heart's devotion 
 Rose, at morning, and at e'en ! 
 
 And the hope that led me onward, 
 
 Like a beacon shining bright, 
 Was that when this form had moulder'd 
 
 I might wake to realms of light ! 
 
 Wake to bliss that changes never! 
 
 Wake no more to hope or fear ! 
 Wake to joys that bloom for ever! 
 
 Wither'd by no sigh, no tear J 
 
 17
 
 202 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Life is but a troubled ocean, 
 Hope a meteor, love a flower 
 
 Which blossoms in the morning beam, 
 And withers with the evening hour. 
 
 Ambition is a dizzy height, 
 
 And glory, but a. lightning gleam; 
 
 Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright, 
 
 Which fairest shines in fortune's beam. 
 
 When clouds and darkness veil the skies, 
 And sorrow's blast blows loud and chill. 
 
 Friendship shall like a rainbow rise, 
 And softly whisper peace, be stn. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 How sweet the hour when daylight blends 
 
 With the pensive shadows on evening's breast ; 
 
 And dear to the heart is the pleasure it .ends, 
 'T is like the departure of saints to their rest. 
 
 Oh, 't is sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, 
 To watch the last day-beam dance light on thy 
 wave,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 203 
 
 To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay, 
 Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave. 
 
 Oh, 't is sweet to a heart unentangled and light, 
 When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is 
 blest, 
 
 To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, 
 And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE. 
 
 (Written in her twelfth year.) 
 
 Star of England ! Brunswick's pride ! 
 Thou hast suffer'd, droop'd, and died ! 
 Adversity, with piercing eye, 
 Bade all her arrows round thee fly ; 
 She marked thee from thy cradle-bed, 
 And plaited thorns around thy head ! 
 As the moon, whom sable clouds 
 Now brightly shows now darkly shrouds 
 So envy, with a serpent's eye, 
 And slander's tongue of blackest dye, 
 On thy pure name aspersions cast, 
 And triumph'd o'er thy fame at last ! 
 But each dark tale of guilt and shame 
 Shall darker fly to whence it came ! 
 A stranger in a foreign land, 
 Oppress'd beneath a tyrant's hand, 
 She drank the bitter cup of woe, 
 And read Fate's black'ning volume through ! 
 The last, the bitterest drop was drank, 
 The volume closed and all was blank !
 
 204 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. ***** 
 
 I saw her when life's tide was high, 
 
 When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow, 
 
 When joy was dancing in her eye, 
 
 And her cheek blush'd hope's crimson glow 
 
 I saw her 'mid a fairy throng, 
 She seem'd the gayest of the gay ; 
 
 I saw her lightly glide along, 
 
 'Neath beauty's smile, and pleasure's lay. 
 
 I saw her in her bridal robe, 
 
 The blush of joy was mounting high ; 
 
 I mark'd her bosom's heaving throb, 
 I mark'd her dark and downcast eye. 
 
 I saw her when a mother's love, 
 Ask'd at her hand a mother's care ; 
 
 She look'd an angel from above, 
 Hov'ring round a cherub fair. 
 
 I saw her not till cold and pale, 
 
 She slumber'd on death's icy arm ; 
 The rose had faded on her cheek, 
 
 Her lip had lost its power to charm. 
 
 That eye was dim which brightly shone ; 
 
 That brow was cold, that heart was still 
 The witch'ries of that form had flown 
 
 The lifeless clay had ceas'd to feel.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 205 
 
 I saw her wedded to the grave; 
 
 Her bridal robes were weeds of death 
 And o'er her pale, cold brow, was hung 
 
 The damp sepulchral icy wreath. 
 
 THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing, 
 Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splash 
 ing; 
 
 The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream, 
 As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream; 
 Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze 
 Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees. 
 The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode 
 Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad ; 
 Lo ! the black thunder-cloud is spread over the skies, 
 And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies. 
 The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks, 
 And the alder leaf dank, with its silver drops shakes; 
 This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream, 
 With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver 
 
 beam, 
 
 Are sacred to beings ethereal and light, 
 Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night. 
 Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream, 
 The White Maid of the rock gave a shrill piercing 
 
 scream ; 
 Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling 
 
 wave, 
 
 And rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave. 
 17*
 
 206 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 " The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock, 
 The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak; 
 Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid, 
 Uncoffin'd, except by his own Scottish plaid ! 
 Long since has my girdle diminished to naught, 
 And the great house of Avenel low has been brought ; 
 The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone, 
 And proud Avenel's glory for ever has flown. 
 As I sail'd and my white garments caught in the 
 
 brake, 
 'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the 
 
 lake, 
 
 Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the Rock,' 
 Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak ; 
 ' Woe to thee ! guardian spirit of Avenel ! 
 Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet and dell ? 
 No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep, 
 Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep! 
 Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the rock,' 
 Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak ! 
 Then farewell, great Av'nel, thy proud race is run ! 
 The girdle has vanish'd my task is now done." 
 Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew, 
 And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet 
 
 threw. 
 
 THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing, 
 Thou brightest jewel of the heath, 
 
 Which waves at zephyr's lightest wing, 
 And trembles at the softest breath ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 207 
 
 Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land, 
 Thou pretty fragrant burnie gem, 
 
 By whisp'ring breezes thou art fann'd, 
 And greenest leaves entwine thy stem, 
 
 No raging tempest beats thee down, 
 
 Or finds thee in thy safe retreat ; 
 By no rough wint'ry winds thou'rt blown, 
 
 Safe seated at the dark rock's feet. 
 
 TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Hang not thy harp upon the willow, 
 
 Mourn not a brighter, happier day, 
 But touch the chord, and life's wild billow 
 
 Will shrinking foam its shame away. 
 
 Then strike the chord and raise the strain 
 
 Which brightens that dark clouded brow ; 
 Oh ! beam one sunshine smile again, 
 And I '11 forgive thy sadness now. 
 
 Tho' darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee, 
 Thy bark, tho' frail, shall safely ride ; 
 
 The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee 
 But thou wilt all their wrath abide. 
 
 Hang not thy harp upon the willow 
 
 Which weeps o'er every passing wave ; 
 
 Tho' life is but a restless pillow, 
 
 There 's calm and peace beyond the grave
 
 208 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 
 (Written in her eleventh year.) 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 Lo ! yonder rides the empress of the night ! 
 Unveil'd she casts around her silver light ; 
 Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march, 
 Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch. 
 E'en now, as weary of the tedious way, 
 Thy head on ocean's bosorn thou dost lay ; 
 In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face, 
 And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place. 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 [l CONTINUATION.] 
 
 Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides, 
 And from his path fell darkness quick divides ; 
 Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach, 
 It dares not on his blazing path encroach ; 
 Down droops the flow'ret, and his burning ray 
 Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay. 
 Oh ! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course, 
 Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force. 
 
 HABAKKUK III, 6. 
 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear, 
 When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 209 
 
 On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly 
 Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come frooi 
 on high. 
 
 Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow 
 The voice of the deep thunder'd loud from below ; 
 Thy arrows glanced bright as they shot thro' the air. 
 And far gleam'd the light of thy glittering spear ; 
 The bright orb of day paus'd in wonder on high, 
 And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky. 
 
 ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED THE 
 FLOWER OF THE FOREST. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast ; 
 Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast ; 
 The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost, 
 Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest. 
 
 The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page 
 Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near, 
 Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage, 
 By sorrow's sigh fann'd, and bedew'd by a tear. 
 
 ZANTE. 
 
 (Written in her seventeenth year.) 
 
 She stood alone, *t was in that hour of thought, 
 When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught
 
 210 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile, 
 
 Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile 
 
 O'er all life's sad variety of woe, 
 
 Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow 
 
 The deep dark traces of its passage there, 
 
 In all the clouded majesty of care. 
 
 That hour was twilight ; and the shade of night, 
 
 Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight, 
 
 Was walking o'er the waters, while its train 
 
 Of glittering millions danced along the main, 
 
 And Zante, that fairy island fading fast, 
 
 Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last 
 
 Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night, 
 
 Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'n's silvery light. 
 
 And where was she, the lone one, for the sky 
 Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye 
 Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last 
 Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd ; 
 And still she linger'd there, as noting not 
 The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot; 
 As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky, 
 Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye. 
 
 She was a being form'd to love, and blest 
 With lavish Nature's richest loveliness. 
 Oh ! I have often seen, in fancy's eye, 
 Beings too bright for dull mortality. 
 I 've seen them in the visions of the night, 
 I 've faintly seen them, when enough of light 
 And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, 
 As forms of other worlds, or brighter days. 
 
 Such was lanthe, though perhaps less bright, 
 Less clearly bright, for mystery and night 
 Hung o'er her she e'en lovelier seem'd, 
 More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd 
 Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun, 
 As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 211 
 
 There was a temple, which had stood, where then 
 lanthe stood, and old and learned men 
 Mused o'er its ruins, marking here and there 
 Some porch, some altar, or some fountain, where 
 In other days, the towers of faith were raised, 
 Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed; 
 There stood lanthe, leaning on a shrine 
 Which rose half mournfully, from 'neath the vine, 
 Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown 
 And twin'd its tendrils round its breast of stone ; 
 Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step, 
 In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept, 
 And little dreaming of the years gone by, 
 Ere tyrant Time had hurl'd them from on high. 
 The moon emerging from the cloud more bright 
 The marble surface glitter d in its light ; 
 lanthe mark'd it tears will sometimes steal, 
 From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to 
 
 feel 
 
 She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam 
 Which shone upon the column, where the beam 
 Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast 
 Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress, 
 Or what it was I know not but she wept 
 O'er the wide ruin which around her slept ; 
 Then as if scorning * * * * 
 
 ****** 
 
 [Unfinished.]
 
 212 LUCRETIA MARIA DAV IDSON. 
 
 THE YELLOW FEVER. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 The sky is pure, the clouds are light. 
 
 The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; 
 
 O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh ; 
 
 The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sk^, 
 
 And every beam of Heav'n's broad brow 
 
 Glows brightly on the world below. 
 
 But ah ! the wing of death is spread ; 
 
 I hear the midnight murd'rers tread ; 
 
 I hear the Plague that walks at night, 
 
 I mark its pestilential blight; 
 
 I feel its hot and with'ring breath, 
 
 It is the messenger of death ! 
 
 And can a scene so pure and fair 
 
 Slumber beneath a baleful air ? 
 
 And can the stealing form of death 
 
 Here wither with its blighting breath ? 
 
 Yes ; and the slumb'rer feels its power 
 
 At midnight's dark and silent hour ; 
 
 He feels the wild fire thro' his brain ; 
 
 He wakes ; his frame is rack'd with pain ; 
 
 His eye half closed ; his lip is dark ; 
 
 The sword of death hath done his work ; 
 
 That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip, 
 
 That eye which burns but cannot sleep, 
 
 That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain, 
 
 All mark the monarch's baleful reign ! 
 
 Oh ! for one pure, one balmy breath, 
 To cool the sufferer's brow in death ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 213 
 
 Oh ! for one wand'ring breeze of Heav'n ; 
 Oh that one moment's rest were giv'n ! 
 'T is past ; and hush'd the victim's prayer ; 
 The spirit was but is not there ! 
 
 KINDAR BURIAL SERVICE, 
 
 VERSIFIED. 
 
 We commend our brother to thee, oh earth ! 
 To thee he returns, from thee was his birth ! 
 Of thee was he form'd, he was nourish'd by thee; 
 Take the body, oh earth ! the spirit is free. 
 
 Oh air ! he once breath'd thee, thro' thee he -surviv'd, 
 And in thee, and with thee, his pure spirit liv'd ; 
 That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to thee ; 
 His ashes be spread, like his soul, far and free. 
 
 Oh fire ! we commit his dear reliques to thee, 
 Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free ; 
 May his soul, like thy flames, bright and burning arise. 
 To its mansion of bliss, in the star-spangled skies. 
 
 Oh water ! receive him ; without thy kind aid 
 
 He had parch'd 'neath the sunbeams or mourn'd in 
 
 the shade ; 
 
 Then take of his body the share which is thine, 
 For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering shrine. 
 
 18
 
 214 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 There is a spot so still and dreary, 
 It is a pillow to the weary; 
 It is so solemn and so lone, 
 That grief forgets to heave a groan. 
 
 There life's storms can enter never ; 
 There 'tis dark and lonely ever; 
 The mourner there shall seek repose, 
 And there the wanderer's journey close. 
 
 RUINS OF PALMYRA. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone ? 
 
 The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath 
 
 flown ; 
 
 O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers and halls 
 The dark veil of oblivion silently falls. 
 
 The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride, 
 They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide, 
 And soon, like the mountain stream's wild-rolling 
 
 wave, 
 Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave 
 
 Oh, where are the footsteps which once gaily flew 
 O'er pavements, where now weep the foxglove and 
 
 yew? 
 
 Oh where are the voices which once gaily sung, 
 While the lofty-brow 'd domes with melody rung?
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 215 
 
 They are silent; and naught breaks the chaos 
 
 of death ; 
 
 Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath. 
 Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry 
 Echoes loud thro' the halls and the palaces high. 
 
 Thou art fallen, Palmyra ! and never to rise, 
 
 Thou " queen of the east, thou bright child of the 
 
 skies !" 
 
 Thou art lonely ; the desert around thee is wide, 
 Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride. 
 
 Thou 'rt forgotten, Palmyra ! return thee to earth ; 
 And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth ; 
 With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time, 
 And sink, not in splendour, but sadly sublime. 
 
 THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary ! 
 
 Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
 There 's ever some comfort in store for the weary, 
 
 And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast. 
 
 There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er 
 
 the soul, 
 
 Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear, 
 That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry 
 
 fall, 
 And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear.
 
 216 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief, 
 Which will beam o'er his pathway oi danger and 
 
 fear; 
 There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm " joy of 
 
 grief," 
 Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear ! 
 
 There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the 
 breast, 
 
 Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear, 
 Which return on the heart, and there lingering rest, 
 
 Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear. 
 
 'T is true, that the dreams of the evening will fade, 
 When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and 
 clear ; 
 
 Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade, 
 And say that the world is not lonely and drear. 
 
 Oh then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
 
 That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear, 
 But remember that man, undeserving, is blest, 
 
 And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear. 
 
 FAREWELL TO MISS E. B. 
 
 (Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 Farewell, and whenever calm solitude's hour, 
 Shall silently spread its broad wings o'er your bower, 
 Oh ! then gaze on yon planet, yon watch-fire divine, 
 And believe that my soul is there mingling with 
 thine.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 217 
 
 When the dark brow of evening is beaming with 
 
 stars, 
 
 And yon crest of light clouds is the turban she wears, 
 When she walks forth in grandeur, the queen of the 
 
 night, 
 Oh ! then think that my spirit looks on with delight. 
 
 O'er the ocean of life our frail vessels are bounding, 
 And danger and death our dark pathway surrounding; 
 Destruction's bright meteors are dancing before, 
 And behind us the winds of adversity roar. 
 
 Oh ! then come, let us light friendship's lamp on the 
 
 wave, 
 
 If we're lost, it will shed its pure light o'er the grave, 
 Or 't will guide to the haven of Heaven at last, 
 And beam on when the voice of the trumpet hath 
 
 past. 
 
 THE ARMY OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF 
 MOUNT SINAI. 
 
 Their spears glittered bright in the beams of the sun ; 
 Their banners waved far, and their high helmets 
 
 shone; 
 And their dark plumes were toss'd on the breast of 
 
 the breeze, 
 But the war-trumpet slumbered the slumber of peace. 
 
 He came in his glory, he came in his might, 
 His chariot the cloud, and his sceptre the light; 
 The sound of his coming was heard from afar, 
 Like the roar of a nation when rushing to war. 
 18*
 
 218 LUCRETIA MARL* DAVIDSON. 
 
 'T was the great God of Israe., riding on high, 
 Whose footstool is earth, and whose throne is the sky; 
 He stood in his glory, unseen and alone, 
 And with letters of fire traced the tablets of stone. 
 
 The eagle may soar to the-sun in his might, 
 And the eye of the warrior flash fierce in the fight ; 
 But say, who may look upon God the Most High? 
 Oh, Israel ! turn back from his glory, or die. 
 
 The sun in its splendour, the fire in its might, 
 Which devours and withers, and wastes from the 
 
 sight, 
 
 Is dim to the glory which beams from his eye 
 Then, Israel, turn back Oh ! return, or ye die 
 
 THE GARDEN OP GETHSEMANE. 
 
 Gethsemane! there's holy blood 
 Upon thy green and waving brow ; 
 
 Gethsemane ! a God hath stood, 
 And o'er thy branches bended low ! 
 
 There, drops of agony have hung 
 Mingled with blood upon his brow ; 
 
 For sin his bosom there was wrung, 
 And there it bled for human woe. 
 
 There, in the darkest hour of night, 
 Alone he watched, alone he prayed ; 
 
 Didst thou not tremble at the sight ? 
 A God reviled ! a God betrayed !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 219 
 
 Gethsemane ! so dark a scene 
 
 Ne'er blotted the wide book of time ! 
 
 Oblivion's veil can never screen 
 So dark a deed, so black a crime ! 
 
 THE TEMPEST GOD. . 
 
 Hark ! 't is the wheels of his wide rolling car, 
 They traverse the heavens and come from afar; 
 Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides, 
 The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides, 
 The glance of his eye is the lightning's broad flame, 
 And the caverns re-echo his terrible name. 
 
 In the folds of his pinions, the wild whirlwinds sleep, 
 At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep, 
 He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest, 
 And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast; 
 His seat is the mountain top's loftiest height ; 
 He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night. 
 
 TO A DEPARTING FRIEND. 
 
 Farewell, and may some angel guide, 
 Some viewless spirit hover o'er thee; 
 
 Who, let or weal or woe betide, 
 
 Will still unchanging move before thee.
 
 220 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 A hallow'd light shall burn at night, 
 When sorrow's wave rolls drearily, 
 
 And o'er thy way a cloud by day 
 Shall cast its shadow cheerily. 
 
 Thy bark of pleasure o'er life's smooth sea 
 
 Shall gallantly glide along ; 
 Pray'rs and blessings thy breezes shall be, 
 
 And hope be thy parting song. 
 
 Go then ; I have given the spirits charge 
 To watch o'er thee now and for ever; 
 
 To smooth life's waters, and guide thy barge 
 Where tempest shall toss it never. 
 
 TO MAMMA. 
 
 Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue. 
 To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung, 
 Thy love inspires ; fresh flows the copious stream, 
 And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream. 
 
 THE STORY TELLEB. 
 
 THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND 
 ., WILHELMINE. 
 
 (Written in her fourteenth year.) 
 
 1. Lo! enthron'd on golden clouds, 
 Sinks the monarch of the day; 
 Now yon hill his glory shrouds, 
 And his brilliance fades away.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 221 
 
 2. But as it fled, one ling'ring beam 
 
 Play'd o'er yon spire, which points on high ; 
 It cast one bright, one transient gleam, 
 Then hast'ned from the deep'ning sky 
 
 3. Lo ! the red tipp'd clouds remain 
 
 But to tell of glories past; 
 Mark them gath'ring o'er the plain, 
 Mark them fade away at last. 
 
 4. The lake is calm, the breeze is still, 
 
 Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; 
 And nothing save the murm'ring rill, 
 Can give the vacant ear relief. 
 
 5. Around yon hawthorn in the vale, 
 
 White garments float like evening mis* 
 'Tis Wilhelmine, and cold and pale 
 A simple marble stone she kiss'd. 
 
 6. She knelt her by a lowly tomb, 
 
 And wreath'd its urn anew with flowers ; 
 She taught the white rose there to bloom, 
 And water'd it with sorrow's showers. 
 
 7. Like raven's wing, her glossy hair 
 
 In ringlets floated on the gale, 
 Or hung upon a brow as fair 
 As snow-curl crested in the vale. 
 
 8. And her dark eye which rolls so wild, 
 
 Once brightly sparkled with hope's light, 
 For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child, 
 
 When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright
 
 222 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 9. Decourcy lov'd the morn was clear, 
 
 And fancy promis'd bliss ; 
 For now the happy hour was near, 
 Which made the maiden his. 
 
 0. And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet 
 
 Beneath the spreading tree, 
 Her nimble foot was quick to meet, 
 Her glancing eye to see. 
 
 11. Decourcy came upon his steed, 
 
 His brow and cheek were pale; 
 Speak speak, Decourcy, cried the maid, 
 'Tis sure a dreadful tale. 
 
 12. My love, my Wilhelmine, cried he, 
 
 Be calm and fear thee not; 
 In battle I will think on thee, 
 And oh, forget me not. 
 
 13. Adieu ! he clasp'd her to his breast, 
 
 And kiss'd the trickling tear 
 Which 'neath her half-clos'd eyelids prest 
 And ling'ring glist'ned there. 
 
 14. He gazed upon that death-like face, 
 
 So beautiful before ; 
 He gazed upon that shrine of grace, 
 And dared to gaze no more. 
 
 15. He trembled, press'd his burning brow, 
 
 And clos'd his aching eyes; 
 His limbs refuse their office now, 
 The maid before him lies.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 223 
 
 16. But hark ! the trumpet's warlike sound 
 
 Lchoes from hill to vale ; 
 H' caught the maiden from the ground, 
 * And kiss'd her forehead pale. 
 
 17. .Vhy should Decourcy linger there, 
 
 When the bugle bids him speed'? 
 One long last look of calm despair, 
 And he springs upon his steed; 
 
 j. He strikes the sting of his bloody spur 
 
 In his foaming courser's side, 
 And he gallops on where the wave of war 
 Rolls on with its bursting tide. 
 
 19. Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, 
 
 Like the flaming brand of heaven 1 
 And whose the plume, that from morn till night 
 Was a star to the hopeless given ? 
 
 20. 'T was thine, Decourcy ! that terrible sword 
 
 Hath finished its work of death, 
 And the hand which raised it on high is lowered 
 To the damp green earth beneath. 
 
 
 
 21. The sun went down, and its parting ray 
 
 Smiled sorrow across the earth, 
 The light breeze moaned then died away, 
 And the stars rose up in mirth. 
 
 22. And the timid moon looked down with a smile 
 
 On the blood-stained battle ground, 
 And the groans of the wounded rose up the while 
 With a sad heart-rending sound,
 
 224 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 23. While the spectre-form ot some grief-worn man, 
 
 Steals slowly and silently by, 
 Each corpse to note each face to scan, 
 For his friend on that field doth lie. 
 
 24. But whose is the figure dimly seen 
 
 By the trembling moon-beam's light ? 
 'T is the form of the weeping Welhelmine, 
 And she kneels by the slaughtered knight. 
 
 25. Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, 
 
 And the rapturous shouts of strife, 
 And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within 
 The portals of future life. 
 
 26. Weep not for the dead ! who would not die 
 
 As that gallant soldier died? 
 With a field of glory whereon to lie, 
 And his foeman dead beside. 
 
 27. A year passed by, and a simple tomb 
 
 Rose up 'neath a willow tree, 
 'T was decked with flowers in vernal bloom 
 As fresh as flowers could be ; 
 
 28. And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam 
 
 O'er tne scene was gently stealing, 
 The form of the sorrowful maid was seen 
 By the grave of her lover kneeling. 
 
 29. But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, 
 
 And her cheek, oh how pale and fair! 
 And the mingled smile, and the deep drawn sigh, 
 * Show that reason's no longer there.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 225 
 
 30. Another year passed, and another grave 
 
 'Neath the willow tree is seen ; 
 By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, 
 Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine. 
 
 LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 (Written in her fifteenth year.) 
 
 The night was calm, the sky serene, 
 
 The sea a mirror display'd, 
 On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen, 
 The moon-crested waves were dancing between, 
 
 And smiling through evening's shade. 
 
 On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding, 
 Love and Joy were its guides through the deep, 
 
 And their hearts beat high, while on fortune con 
 fiding, 
 
 They smiPd at the forms that were gloomily striding, 
 O'er the brow of the wave-wash'd steep. 
 
 Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate, 
 
 And they flitted around so dark, 
 That they seem'd like the gloomy sisters of Fate, 
 Intent on some dreary, some deadly debate, 
 
 To ruin the beautiful bark. 
 19
 
 220 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 But the eye of Joy was raised on high, 
 
 She gaz'd at the moon's pale lamp, 
 The tear of Pleasure shone bright in her eye, 
 And she saw not the clouds which were passing by, 
 
 Death's messengers dark and damp. 
 
 And Pleasure was gazing with childish glee 
 
 At the beacon's trembling gleam, 
 Or watching the shade of her wings in the sea, 
 With their colours as varied and fickle as she 
 
 As fleeting as Folly's dream. 
 
 And Love was tipping his feathery darts, 
 
 And feeding his flaming torch, 
 He was tinging his wings with the blood of hearts, 
 He was chaunting low numbers, and smiling by 
 starts 
 
 At the flowers 'round Hymen's porch. 
 
 Meanwhile the clouds were gath'ring drear, 
 
 They hung 'round the weeping moon, 
 And still the mariners dream'd not of fear, 
 Still in Joy's bright eye beam'd the brilliant tear, 
 Which sorrow would claim too soon. 
 
 The voice of the tempest-god rolled around, 
 
 The bark towards heaven was toss'd ; 
 Then, then the fond dreamers awoke at the sound, 
 And Pleasure, the helmsman, in agony found 
 That the light-house fire was lost. 
 
 Loud and more loud the billows roar, 
 
 The ocean no more is gay, 
 Love dreams of his pinions and arrows no more, 
 Joy mourns the hour that she left the shore, 
 
 And Pleasure's bright wings fade away
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 227 
 
 Then Malice sent forth a shadowy bark, 
 
 Which, bounding o'er the wave, 
 Came like a meteor's brilliant spark, 
 A star of light 'mid the tempest dark, 
 
 A beacon of hope from the grave. 
 
 3oy onward rush'd to the airy skiff 
 
 Which near them gaily drew, 
 But ah ! she sank to the arms of Grief, 
 For the bark, which promised them sure relief 
 
 Away like lightning flew. 
 
 Then the smile of Scorn and Malice gleam'd 
 
 Across the billow's foam, 
 And long and loud fell Hatred scream'd 
 With fiend-like joy, as the lightning stream'd 
 
 Around their forms of gloom. 
 
 On, on, they drifted before the gale ; 
 
 Again the signal rose; 
 Joy and Pleasure the beacon hail, 
 Love's ashy cheek becomes less pale 
 
 As clearer and brighter it glows. 
 
 'T was Hope who fired the beacon high, 
 
 And she came with her anchor of rest, 
 And Faith, who raised towards heaven her eye, 
 Spoke peace to the storm of the troubled sky, 
 And calm to the weary breast. 
 
 And Charity came with her robe of light, 
 
 And she led the wanderers home, 
 She warmed them and wept o'er the woes of the 
 
 nteht. 
 >*nd she welcomed them in with a smile so bright, 
 
 That Pleasure forgot to roam.
 
 228 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 And she led thfem to Religion's shrine, 
 Where Hope was humbly kneeling, 
 And there the tears of Joy did shine 
 With a light more dazzling, more divine, 
 They were mingled with tears of feeling. 
 
 There Love's wild wings shone calmly bright, 
 
 As over the altar he waved them ; 
 There Pleasure folded her pinions light, 
 And fondly gazed with a sacred delight 
 On the scroll which Charity gave them 
 
 MY LAST FAREWELL TO MY HARP 
 
 And must we part 1 yes, part for ever 
 I'll waken thee again no, never; 
 Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 
 And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 
 Unhallowed was the eye that gazed 
 Upon the lamp which brightly blazed, 
 The lamp which never can expire, 
 The undying, wild, poetic fire. 
 And Oh ! unhallowed was the tongue 
 Which boldly and uncouthly sung ; 
 I bless'd the hour when o'er my soul, 
 Thy magic numbers gently stole, 
 And o'er it threw those heavenly strains, 
 Which since have bound my heart in chains ; 
 Those wild, those witching numbers still 
 Will o'er my widow'd bosom steal.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 229 
 
 I blest that hour, but Oh ! my heart, 
 Thou and thy Lyre must part ; yes, part ; 
 And this shall be my last farewell, 
 This my sad bosom's latest knell. 
 And here, my harp, we part for ever ; 
 I '11 waken thee again, Oh ! never ; 
 Silence shall chain thee cold and drear 
 And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 
 
 19*
 
 SPECIMENS 
 
 OF 
 
 PROSE COMPOSITION, 
 
 (Ml)
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 i Written in her sixteenth year.) 
 
 WHAT must have been the feelings of Christopher 
 Columbus, when, for the first time, he knelt and 
 clasped his hands, in gratitude, upon the shores of his 
 newly-discovered world? Year after year has rolled 
 away ; war, famine, and fire have alternately swept 
 the face of that country ; the hand of tyranny hath 
 oppressed it; the footstep of the slave hath wearily 
 trodden it ; the blood of the slaughtered hath dyed it ; 
 the tears of the wretched have bedewed it ; still, even 
 at this remote period, every feeling bosom will delight 
 to dwell upon this brilliant era in the life of the per 
 severing adventurer. At that moment, his name was 
 stamped upon the records of history for ever; at that 
 moment, doubt, fear, arid anxiety fled, for his foot had 
 pressed upon the threshold of the promised land. 
 
 The bosom of Columbus hath long since ceased to 
 beat its hopes, its fears, its projects, sleep, with him, 
 the long and dreamless slumber of the grave; but 
 while there remains one generous pulsation in the 
 human breast, his name and his memory will be held 
 sacred. 
 
 When the cold dews of uncertainty stood upon his 
 brow ; when he beheld nothing but the wide heavens 
 above, the boundless waters beneath and around him; 
 himself and his companions in that little bark, the only 
 beings upon the endless world of sky and ocean 
 
 (233)
 
 234 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 when he looked back and thought upon his native 
 land; when he looked forward, and in vain traversed 
 the liquid desert, for some spot upon which to fix the 
 aching eye of anxiety; oh! say, amidst all these dan 
 gers, these uncertainties, whence came that high, un 
 bending hope, which still soared onward to the world 
 before him 1 ? whence that undying patience, that more 
 than mortal courage, which forbade his cheek to blanch 
 amid the storm, or his heart to recoil in the dark and 
 silent hour of midnight 1 ? It was from God it was 
 of God His Spirit overshadowed the adventurer ! By 
 day, an unseen cloud directed him by night, a bril 
 liant, but invisible column moved before him, gleam 
 ing athwart the boundless waste of waters. The 
 winds watched over him, and the waves upheld him, 
 for God was with him the whirlwind passed over 
 his little bark, and left it still riding onward, in safety, 
 towards its unknown harbour for the eye of Him 
 who pierces the deep was fixed upon it. 
 
 Columbus had hoped, feared, and had been disap 
 pointed ; he had suffered long and patiently he had 
 strained every faculty, every nerve ; he had pledged 
 his very happiness upon the discovery of an unknown 
 land ; and what must have been the feelings of his 
 soul, when, at length bending over that very land, his 
 grateful bosom offered its tribute of praise and thanks 
 giving to the Being who had guarded and guided him 
 through death and danger 1 He beheld the bitter smile 
 of scorn and derision fade before the reality of that 
 vision, which had been ridiculed and mocked at ; he 
 thought upon the thousand obstacles which he had 
 surmounted ; he thought upon those who had regarded 
 him as a self-devoted enthusiast, a visionary madman, 
 and his full heart throbbed in gratitude to Him whose 
 Spirit had inspired him, whose voice had sent him 
 forth, and whose arm had protected him.
 
 ALPHONSO. 235 
 
 ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 (Written in her eleventh year.) 
 
 EARLY one morning Alphonso set out in search of 
 Learning. He travelled over barren heaths and over 
 rocks, and was often obliged to ford rivers, -which 
 seemed almost impassable ; at last, completely ex 
 hausted, and at a loss what road to take, he sat down 
 desponding by the side of a rapid river. Soon a pas 
 senger approached with whom Alphonso entered into 
 conversation, and a L length asked him where he was 
 going. I am, replied the stranger, seeking Fame, and 
 already by her trump has my name been sounded in 
 her courts. She has promised to immortalize my 
 name; follow me, and you shall richly reap the reward 
 of your labour, /also, answered Alphonso, have a 
 road to pursue, which leads to Fame, but it is through 
 Learning that I must reach her courts, and then shall 
 I enjoy the fruits of my toil, in proportion to the 
 hardships with which I have acquired it. Can you 
 tell me where she can be found 1 
 
 You see, replied the stranger, yonder hills which 
 rise one upon the other, as far as the eye extends ; far, 
 far beyond them, whose every precipice you have to 
 climb, Learning resides. Her temple is pleasant, but 
 few there are who gain it ; many, indeed, have gone 
 beyond these foremost hills, but stumbling, they have 
 been dashed to pieces on the rocks, but still they have 
 had the reputation of having reached her temple, and 
 their names are recorded in the roll of Fame. Thus
 
 236 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 saying, the stranger proceeded on his journey, and 
 left Alphonso in doubt whether to pursue the danger 
 ous road of which the stranger had warned him, or 
 to follow him to more easily acquired fame. 
 
 At last Wisdom came to his assistance, and he re 
 solved not to give up his search after Learning. He 
 proceeded therefore, and had reached the foot of the 
 hill, when he was met by another person, who inquired 
 whither he was going ? I am in pursuit of Learning, 
 replied Alphonso. What ! do you intend climbing 
 yonder rugged and tiresome hill? I do, answered 
 Alphonso. 
 
 Indolence is my companion, said the stranger : I 
 found her in yonder valley. I toiled not for her, and 
 without toil, I enjoy ease ; on the other hand, Learning 
 cannot be obtained without labour ; go with me, and 
 you shall enjoy life. Alphonso, partly fatigued with 
 his long walk, and partly discouraged by the rugged 
 appearance of the hill, consented. After walking on 
 sometime in a beautiful valley, Alphonso began to dis 
 cover that his new companion was flat and insipid, 
 that he had exhausted all his little fund of knowledge 
 in the beginning of their journey, and that he now 
 scarcely said anything. Thus continuing dissatisfied, 
 not with the path, but with the companion he had, 
 they entered a beautiful meadow, in which there was 
 an arbour, called the arbour of Indolence, and there 
 they lay down to rest ; but before Alphonso slept, a 
 warning voice sounded in his ear, " awake, for de 
 struction is at hand." He heeded it not, and with 
 his senses slept his conscience. 
 
 When they arose to pursue their journey, a tempest 
 gathered ; thick clouds were in the heavens, all was 
 black. Night's sable mantle was thrown over the 
 horizon, and only now and then a flash of lightning, 
 attended with a dreadful thunderbolt, showed them
 
 ALPHONSO. 207 
 
 both the dead waters of oblivion ; near them was the 
 path which slides the unhappy deluded mortal down 
 to its deep and noisome bed. 
 
 Alphonso's conductor, who had before appeared cer 
 tain of being on safe ground, trembled and turned pale 
 when he found himself in the fatai path. Alphonso 
 was on the brink ! He receded ; his flesh grew cold, 
 his eyeballs glared, and his hair stood on end. Pre 
 sently he heard a low plashing of the dead waters of 
 oblivion ; they closed with a sullen roar over the un 
 happy sufferer, and all was silent. This is the end of 
 the careless votary of Indolence, thought Alphonso, 
 as he turned from the dead waters of the lake. Let 
 this be a lesson to me ! 
 
 He stood in deep perplexity some time, not daring 
 to turn back, and he knew it would be certain death 
 to proceed ; but suddenly the clouds dispersed, the air 
 was calm, and all was silent; he blessed the returning 
 light, and with new vigour, passed on his way in search 
 of Learning. He was overjoyed, when he found him 
 self out of the fatal vale of Indolence. 
 
 Again he viewed those hills which so discouraged 
 him when they met his eye before, but now they ap 
 peared to him with a far different aspect, as he traced 
 over them the path to Learning's happy temple. 
 
 He began his journey anew, and as he proceeded, 
 the ascent was easier. When he reached the top of 
 the hill, a few faint rays of the bright sun of Learning 
 warmed his heart, and though faint, it was sufficient 
 to kindle the slumbering fire of hope in his bosom. 
 After he had reached the valley below, he saw a 
 person crossing on the opposite side, with a light step, 
 and an open ingenuous countenance. 
 
 Alphonso stopped him, and inquired, why he did 
 not ascend the hill before him ? Because, said the 
 stranger, " I seek Truth, and she dwells in the simple 
 20
 
 238 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 vale of Innocence ; at her court there is no pomp, but 
 there is peace ; she discloses her name to all ; some 
 revile her, others say she is of no use to the world, 
 that they are always as victorious without her assist 
 ance as with it. Her followers scarce ever suffer 
 from the imputations of the vile, when they hold fast 
 upon her garments. I can possess Truth and Inno 
 cence without Learning." Here the travellers parted 
 Alphonso to ascend the hill, the stranger to the 
 vale of Innocence. 
 
 Without a companion in his solitary journey; with 
 no one to assist him on his way ; no one to raise him 
 if he stumbled, Alphonso pursued his toilsome course. 
 At length, casting his eyes to the top of the hill, he 
 perceived standing on its summit a figure stretching 
 out one hand to assist him, the other rested on an an 
 chor, arid a bright beam played around her brow. 
 Alphonso hastened to ascend the hill, and when he 
 approached, he clasped the outstretched hand of Hope, 
 for that was the name of the fair form, and imprinted 
 it with kisses. Hope smiled affectionately upon him, 
 and with these encouraging words addressed him : 
 " Alphonso ! I come to conduct you to the temple of 
 Learning ; you have overcome alone the greatest 
 obstacles, you shall now have a conductor." 
 
 As they came to frightful precipices, where un 
 fortunate mortals had been dashed headlong, for dating 
 to approach too near its edge, Hope would catch his 
 hand and conduct him to safer ground. At last, 
 through many difficulties, hazards, and reproaches, 
 Alphonso came in sight of the temple of Learning. 
 The sun was just sinking, and it illumed the edges of 
 the fleecy floating clouds with a golden hue. Its last 
 beam played upon the glittering spire of the temple ; 
 Alphonso could scarce believe his eyes, They reached
 
 ALPHONSO. 239 
 
 the threshold. After so many toils, so many dangers, 
 he had now acquired the object of his hopes. 
 
 They stood a moment, when the door was opened 
 by a grave-looliing old man, who heartily welcomed 
 them to the temple. As they entered, all was light: 
 it burst upon his sight like some enchanted scene, 
 where none but astherial beings dwell. Irresistibly 
 he cast his eyes up to the nave of the spacious hall, 
 and beheld Learning seated upon a throne of gold 
 A bright sun emitted its cheering rays above his head. 
 In one hand she held a globe, in the other a pen. 
 Books were piled up in great order here, and in an 
 other place they were strewn in wild profusion. Ten 
 of her favourite disciples were ranged on either hand, 
 the swift-winged Genius with his beloved companion 
 Fancy were seated at her right hand, and often did 
 Genius cast an approving smile at the mistress of his 
 heart and actions ; she who had tamed the wild spirit 
 of his temper, and taught it to follow in gentler, softer, 
 and sweeter murmurs. 
 
 Hope now conducted Alphonso to the throne of 
 Learning. She smiled as he humbly kneeled at her 
 footstool, and taking a laurel from the hand of the de 
 lighted and willing Genius, she crowned the brow of 
 the elated Alphonso. Fancy for a moment deserted 
 the side of Genius and hovered over his laurel-crowned 
 brow ; then clapping her wings in delight, she again 
 resumed her former station. Learning stretched forth 
 her hand to him ; arise, said she, you are destined by 
 fate to fill this long vacant seat. Alphonso kissed the 
 outstretched hand, and gratefully took his seat at the 
 side of Learning.
 
 240 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 
 
 lie this delicate emotion of the human mind there is 
 a mixture of danger and delight ; it may be indulged 
 moderately, with pleasure to its possessor, but uncon 
 trolled, it brings in its train a succession of ideal mise 
 ries, and sensations of acute pain or exquisite delight. 
 
 It often causes the heart to shrink with sensitive 
 horror from difficulties in the path of life slightly no 
 ticed, or scarcely perceptible to the mind well governed 
 by reason, or fortified by principle. Lively sensi 
 bility may be considered as the key-stone of the heart: 
 it often unguardedly unlocks the treasures confided to 
 its care, and pouring forth the full tide of feeling, the 
 warmest impulses of the soul are wasted upon trifles 
 or squandered on objects insignificant to the eye of 
 reason, and frequently exposes the feeling heart to 
 contempt and ridicule. 
 
 Deep and delicate sensibility, that feeling of the soul 
 which shrinks from observation and pours itself forth 
 in secret calm retirement, must certainly by its dignity 
 and sacred character cause feelings of reverence foi 
 its possessor. Jesus wept over the grave of his de 
 parted friend, his sensibility was aroused, and he shed 
 tears of sorrow over the dark wreck of a once noble 
 fabric in the mouldering remnants of mortality before 
 him. His prophetic soul gazed upon wide scenes of 
 future desolation. He felt for the miseries of mankind ; 
 he pitied their folly and wept over the final destruc 
 tion of the human frame, undermined by sin and 
 borne down by death.
 
 THE HOLY WRITINGS. 241 
 
 THE HOLY WRITINGS. 
 
 THROUGH the whole of this sacred volume may be 
 traced the finger of a God ! It is overshadowed by 
 his arm, and his spirit walks forth in the sublimity of 
 his commandments. What are the mad revilings of 
 the scoffer? They are like burning coals which fall 
 back upon the head of him who hurled them, leaving 
 the object of his rage uninjured. What are the most 
 philosophic works of mankind when placed in com 
 parison with it ? They sink into nothing. What are 
 the brilliant shafts of human wit when directed against 
 it ? They are as the gilded wing of the butterfly, flut 
 tering feebly against the nervous, the resistless pinion 
 of an eagle. What are all the immense magazines 
 of learning beside it, but a boundless heap of chaff? 
 Yes; the vast edifices of human knowledge reared 
 by the restless hand of ingenuity, and bedecked with 
 all the gaudy trappings of eloquence, crumble into 
 dust and fall prostrate in its presence, as did the hea 
 then idol before the ark of the living God ! 
 
 Do we ask eloquence? Where can it be found 
 more pure than from the mouth of him whose voice 
 of mercy is a murmur, and whose anger speaks in 
 wrathful thunders? Do we ask sublimity? The 
 eagle in its flight toward heaven is less sublime than 
 the hallowed words of its Maker. Do we ask sim 
 plicity ? What is more touchingly so, than the lan 
 guage of the sacred volume? Do we ask sweetness 
 or tenderness ? The breath of summer is less sweet 
 than the Almighty's offered mercies. The fabled 
 bird which sheds her blood for the nourishment of 
 20*
 
 242 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 her innocent offspring, is cruel in comparison with 
 him, who bled, who died, for those who cursed and 
 tortured him. Do we ask grandeur, wildness or 
 strength ? Look there ! there upon the law of him 
 whose very self is grandeur, whose glance is light 
 ning, and whose arm is strength. 
 
 The hand of the impious and the envious may 
 hurl the dust of derision upon this sacred volume 
 still, it will shine on, brighter and brighter, while time 
 shall be!
 
 CHARITY. 243 
 
 CrfARITY. 
 
 THE sacred volume exhorts us to Charity. How 
 carefully then should we cherish this kindly feeling, 
 this spark from the fountain of life, that it may beam 
 forth undimmed, and with its pure and friendly light, 
 cast a ray over our many imperfections, in that day 
 when all will stand in need of mercy and forbear 
 ance ! 
 
 It is not the bare distribution of alms to the needy 
 and suffering beggar, it is not the pompous offerings 
 of opulence to the shrinking child of poverty, which 
 constitutes true charity ; no ; it is to be understood 
 in a far wider sense ; it is forbearing to join with the 
 multitude, when trampling upon a fallen fellow-crea 
 ture. It is the voice of charity which pleads for the 
 wretched and the penitent, which raises the prostrate, 
 and whispers forgiveness for the past, and hope for 
 the future. It is her hand which pours the balm of 
 consolation into the lacerated bosom of the returning 
 wanderer ; who dares not look back upon the past, 
 and whose heart shrinks as it meets the cold and 
 averted glances of those, who in the hour of its pride 
 had bowed before it. 
 
 We are all liable to err. Let us make the situation 
 of the suffering penitent our own. Where are the 
 friends we had fondly fancied ours 1 fled, as from the 
 breath of pestilence, and we are desolate; left with 
 the arrow of adversity rankling in our bosoms, like 
 the stricken deer by the selfish herd, to perish in soli 
 tude and wretchedness. 
 
 There is no heart so hardened and depraved, thai
 
 244 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 it will not, when the soft voice of charity whispers 
 peace and forgiveness, yield like wax beneath the 
 hand which stamps it. Then is the moment to im 
 press upon it the sacred precepts of virtue, and to 
 place the bright rewards of penitence before it. " Let 
 us then do as we would that others should do unto 
 us ;" have mercy upon the fallen, and stretch forth 
 the hand of charity to the suffering and the penitent. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF 
 THE STAGE. 
 
 WHY is it that the ear of modesty must be shocked 
 by the indelicacy and immorality which obstinately 
 clings to the stage, that vehicle of good or evil, that 
 splendid engine whose movements may shed a halo 
 of brilliancy around it, or leave behind the blackened 
 traces of its desolating progress ? 
 
 Can the eye of innocence gaze even upon the mimic 
 characters of vice, or the ear of delicacy become 
 familiarized to the rude and boisterous, or the more 
 dangerously subtle insinuations of depravity, without 
 quitting the fascinating scene less fastidious in its feel 
 ings, less sensible to the bold intrusions of barefaced 
 wickedness ? No : though the change be slow and 
 almost imperceptible, still it will not be the less certain, 
 the fata] poison will creep to the very vitals of virtue, 
 and stamp deep stains upon the spotless tablet of inno 
 cence. 
 
 Must then all that is bright and pure be shut out 
 from those scenes of fascination, and delight ? Must 
 that very purity which should be cherished and guard 
 ed as a sacred deposit, be converted into a chain
 
 CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 245 
 
 wherewith to shackle the amusements of its possessor? 
 Would not the frequent indulgence of this amusement, 
 be holding forth a strong temptation to those who are 
 but partially fortified in the principles of rectitude to 
 overleap the crumbling ill-formed barrier, and plunge 
 at once into the boundless ocean of vice and immo 
 rality 1 
 
 Oh why will not authors, those helmsmen in the 
 mighty vessel of improvement, dash the countless 
 stains from the charts which they are holding to our 
 eyes, and transform their blackened pages to pure, 
 spotless records of truth and virtue 1 Then we should 
 no longer mark the blush of offended modesty 
 mantling the cheek of sensibility, or the frown of dis 
 approbation clouding the pure brow of refinement 
 and morality. The stage would then become the 
 guardian and the friend, instead of the fell destroyer 
 of all that is pure and virtuous in the human breast. 
 
 CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 
 
 To count the glittering millions of the sky, to mar 
 shal them in bright array before us, to mark the bril 
 liant traces of a Creator's presence, the foot-prints of 
 the Deity, is a hallowed and sublime employment of 
 the soul ; for being insensibly led onward from gazing 
 upon the portals of heaven, the wonderful threshold of 
 God's wide pavilion, it dares to lift itself in pure and 
 unearthly communion, with the Holy Spirit that in 
 habits there, and to bow in adoration and praise be 
 fore the great I AM. 
 
 To a feeling mind, the heavens unroll a vast vol 
 ume, filled with subjects of wonder, love, and praise.
 
 246 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 Wonder, at the inconceivable majesty and goodness 
 of the great Creator of so vast, so splendid a system; 
 love, for his condescension in deigning to bend his at 
 tention to so insignificant a creature as man, even in 
 the meridian of his earthly glory; and praise, for his 
 unchangeable benevolence, infinite wisdom, and per 
 fection. What hand but that of a God could have 
 formed the wide solar system above us? what voice but 
 that of Him who created them, could bid the starry 
 millions move on for thousands of ages in one unbro 
 ken and unceasing march ? The lights of heaven are 
 bright and beautiful, still they are but feeble beams 
 from the everlasting fountain of splendour, or wander 
 ing sparks of Heaven's dazzling glory. Well indeed 
 might Zoroaster, in the enthusiasm of his heart, wor 
 ship the fires of Heaven as parts of that ineffable ana 
 never-dying spirit which animates and lives in all, 
 through all eternity. 
 
 In the dark ages of superstition and bigotry, was it 
 strange that he should turn in disgust from the sacri 
 fices of blood, from horrid images the disgraceful pro 
 ductions of weak bewildered minds, to a fount of pure, 
 unchanging, living light, to the brilliant fires above 
 him, holding their unbroken paths through Heaven, 
 pointing to God's throne, and whispering to the heart 
 of something still more bright, more beautiful and 
 holy?
 
 THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 24~ 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 When society first began to form itself, rank and 
 authority became necessary to subdue the wi^d and 
 impetuous passions which raged unbridled in the 
 savage bosom of man ; oppression and vassalage 
 first appeared in the form of feudal government, each 
 family looked up to its head, as each kingdom does 
 now, to his sovereign, his will was absolute, and 
 his power unbounded in his castle and dominions. 
 
 In this way the rights of man were partially se 
 cured, the vassal was bound to serve and succour his 
 lord in the hour of danger, as it was that lord's duty 
 to support and protect his serf; but in those ruae 
 and barbarous ages, where was weak and helpless 
 woman to find a shelter from the wild and lawless 
 multitude 1 and what tribunal was there to which she 
 could appeal if injured ? when man was contending 
 with man for superiority, or right, where could she 
 fly for redress? could the feeble voice of woman be 
 heard amid the uproar ? no ! but it arose, though in 
 murmurs, to the ear of oer Maker, and that very evil 
 which menaced her destruction, proved her blessing. 
 
 In the dark ages of the world, woman held not 
 that rank in society which a more enlightened age 
 has allotted her ; she was deemed merely the slave 
 of man's tyrannical will, the tool of his pleasure 
 too weak to defend herself, and too insignificant to 
 claim the protection of the lords of the creation. 
 As the sun of Religion arose upon the world, the dark 
 clouds of contention arose with its light, arms were 
 the arguments which were unanimously chosen to 
 decide every controversy ; the sword was the test of
 
 248 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 merit, and the hand which wielded it with the great 
 est dexterity was chosen to direct the community. 
 
 The youthful soldier, ardent and enthusiastic, was 
 ever in search of some object on which to display 
 his valour : the fair sex at length caught and fixed 
 his attention, tournaments and feats of arms were 
 instituted to display his devotion to the cause of 
 beauty and virtue in distress, and love and religion 
 were blended love became wildly romantic, religion 
 was enthusiastically venerated the name of woman 
 was held as sacred as that of religion, and both, as 
 dear to the heart of every knight-errant as that of 
 the idol, Honour ! they were blended with each other 
 the passions held the reins, and religion, though 
 contemplated with enthusiasm, was too often made 
 to bow before the shrine of love and romance. 
 
 THE BMi>.
 
 THE LATE 
 
 MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON
 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 AND 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OP THE LATH 
 
 MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 
 
 BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 1'hou WRrt unfit to dwell with clay. 
 For sin loo pure, for earth (oo bright ! 
 
 And Death, who call'd thee hence away, 
 Plac'd on his brow a fern of light ! 
 
 MARGARET TO HER SISTFB 
 
 SI Neto ISfcftfon, tebfseS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON. AND COMPANY. 
 
 NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY. 
 1855.
 
 ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and forty-one, by WASHINGTON IRVING., in the Clerk's 
 Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 District of New York
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY Page 17 
 
 REMAINS 114 
 
 A Tale, written at the age of fifteen 115 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 131 
 
 To my Mother 131 
 
 Pride and Modesty 131 
 
 Versification of the Twenty-third Psalm 133 
 
 To Brother L 134 
 
 For Mamma 134 
 
 To Mamma 134 
 
 To a Flower 135 
 
 Stanzas 136 
 
 Essay on Nature 136 
 
 Home 137 
 
 The Majesty of God 137 
 
 From the Forty-second Psalm 137 
 
 Hymn of the Fire- Worshippers 138 
 
 Enigma 139 
 
 To a Little Cousin at Christmas 139 
 
 On reading Childe Harold 140 
 
 Invocation 140 
 
 1* :1
 
 xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Christmas Hymn 140 
 
 Evening 14] 
 
 Enigma 141 
 
 To the Deity 142 
 
 To my Sister Lucretia 143 
 
 Prophecy 143 
 
 Enigma 144 
 
 Essay on the Sacred Writings 144 
 
 The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah 145 
 
 Versification from Ossian 146 
 
 To my dear Mamma 146 
 
 On the Death of Mrs. F. H. Webb 147 
 
 To the Evening Star 148 
 
 To my Father 149 
 
 On Nature 149 
 
 To the Infidel 151 
 
 On the Mind 152 
 
 On the Hope of my Brother's Return 153 
 
 To my Mother 154 
 
 Boabdil el Chico's Farewell to Granada 155 
 
 The Shunamite 161 
 
 Belshazzar's Feast 165 
 
 To my Mother on Christmas Day 168 
 
 On visiting the Panorama of Geneva 169 
 
 The Funeral Bell 169 
 
 Lines on receiving a Blank-book from my Mother .... 170 
 
 To Fancy 171 
 
 Invocation to Spring 172 
 
 From the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Psalm 173 
 
 Stanzas 173 
 
 Letter to a Poetical Correspondent 174
 
 CONTENTS. XV 
 
 Stanzas 176 
 
 Versification from Ossian , . . . 177 
 
 To the Muse, after my Brother's Death 179 
 
 Lines on hearing some Passages read from Mrs. Hemans' 
 
 " Records of Woman," 180 
 
 An Appeal for the Blind 180 
 
 The Smiles of Nature 183 
 
 On a Rose received from Miss Sedgwick 185 
 
 The Church-Going Bell 187 
 
 Fragment 187 
 
 Fragment 188 
 
 On returning to Ballston 189 
 
 Twilight 191 
 
 On the Departure of a Brother 192 
 
 Lines written after reading Accounts of the Death of 
 
 Martyrs 193 
 
 On reading Cowper's Poems 194 
 
 Stanzas 195 
 
 Fragment 196 
 
 Imitation of a Scotch Ballad 196 
 
 Ere Thou didst Form 197 
 
 A Fragment 198 
 
 Fragment of the Spectre Bridegroom 198 
 
 Elegy upon Leo, an old House-Dog 202 
 
 Morning 203 
 
 Lines written after she herself began to fear that her 
 
 disease was past remedy 203 
 
 To my Old Home at Pittsburgh 205 
 
 Fame 205 
 
 On my Mother's Fiftieth Birthday 206 
 
 The Storm hath Passed By 207
 
 xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 Epitaph on a Young Robin 207 
 
 To a Moonbeam 208 
 
 Evening 209 
 
 A Poetical Letter to Henrietta 211 
 
 Lines on seeing some Fragments from the Tomb of 
 Virgil 212 
 
 A Short Sketch of the most important ideas contained in 
 
 Cousin's "Introduction to the History of Philosophy." 213 
 Brief Notes from Cousin's Philosophy 214 
 
 LENORE.. . 215
 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 OF 
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 THE reading world has long set a cherishing value on the 
 name of Lucretia Davidson, a lovely American girl, who, 
 after giving early promise of rare poetic excellence, was 
 snatched from existence in the seventeenth year of her age. 
 An interesting biography of her by President Morse of the 
 American Society of Arts, was published shortly after her 
 death ; another has since appeared from the classic pen of 
 Miss Sedgwick, and her name has derived additional celebrity 
 in Great Britain from an able article by Robert Southey, 
 Inserted some years since in the London Quarterly Review. 
 
 An intimate acquaintance in early life with some of the 
 relatives of Miss Davidson had caused me, while in Europe, 
 to read with great interest every thing concerning her ; when, 
 therefore, in 1833, about a year after my return to the United 
 States, I was told, while in New York, that Mrs. Davidson, 
 the mother of the deceased, was in the city and desirous of 
 consulting me about a new edition of her daughter's works, I 
 lost no time in waiting upon her. Her appearance corresponded 
 with the interesting idea given of her in her daughter's biog 
 raphy ; she was feeble and emaciated, and supported by 
 pillows in an easy chair, but there were the lingerings of 
 grace and beauty in her form and features, and her eye still 
 gleamed with intelligence and sensibility. 
 
 While conversing with her on the subject of her daughter's 
 works, I observed a young girl, apparently not more than 
 eleven years of age, moving quietly about her; occasionally 
 arranging a pillow, and at the same time listening earnestly 
 to our conversation. There was an intellectual beauty about
 
 18 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 this child that struck me ; and that was heightened by a 
 blushing diffidence when Mrs. Davidson presented her to me 
 as her daughter Margaret. Shortly afterwards, on her leaving 
 the room, her mother, seeing that she had attracted my atten 
 tion, spoke of her as having evinced the same early poetical 
 talent that had distinguished her sister, and as evidence, 
 showed me several copies of verses remarkable for such a 
 child. On further inquiry I found that she had very nearly 
 the same moral and physical constitution, and was prone to 
 the same feverish excitement of the mind, and kindling of the 
 imagination that had acted so powerfully on the fragile frame 
 of her sister Lucretia. I cautioned the mother, therefore, 
 against fostering her poetic vein, and advised such studies and 
 pursuits as would tend to strengthen her judgment, calm and 
 regulate the sensibilities, and enlarge that common senso 
 which is the only safe foundation for all intellectual super, 
 structure. 
 
 I found Mrs. Davidson fully aware of the importance of 
 such a course of treatment, and disposed to pursue it, but 
 saw at the same time that she would have difficulty to carry 
 it into effect ; having to contend with the additional excitement 
 produced in the mind of this sensitive little being by the 
 example of her sister, and the intense enthusiasm she evinced 
 concerning her. 
 
 Three years elapsed before I again saw the subject of this 
 memoir. She was then residing with her mother at a rural 
 retreat in the neighbourhood of New York. The interval 
 that had elapsed had rapidly developed the powers of her 
 mind, and heightened the loveliness of her person, but my 
 apprehensions had been verified. The soul was wearing out 
 the body. Preparations were making to take her on a tour 
 for the benefit of her health, and her mother appeared to 
 flatter herself that it might prove efficacious ; but when I 
 noticed the fragile delicacy of her form, the hectic bloom of 
 her cheek, and the almost unearthly lustre of her eye, I felt 
 convinced that she was not long for this world ; in truth, she 
 already appeared more spiritual than mortal. We parted, 
 and I never saw her more. Within three years afterwards, 
 a number of manuscripts were placed in my hands, as all 
 that was left of her. They were accompanied by copious 
 memoranda concerning her, furnished by her mother at my 
 request. From these I have digested and arranged the fol- 
 owing particulars, adopting in many places the original
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 19 
 
 manuscript, without alteration. In fact, the narrative will be 
 found almost as illustrative of the character of the mother as 
 of the child; they were singularly identified in taste, feelings, 
 and pursuits ; tenderly entwined together by maternal and 
 filial affection ; they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace 
 and interest upon each other by this holy relationship, and, to 
 my mind, it would be marring one of the most beautiful and 
 affecting groups in the history of modern literature, to sunder 
 them. 
 
 Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of Dr. 
 Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was born at the family 
 residence on Lake Champlain, in the village of Plattsburgh, 
 on the 26th of March, 1823. She evinced fragility of con 
 stitution from her very birth. Her sister Lucretia, whose 
 brief poetical career has been so celebrated in literary history, 
 was her early and fond attendant, and some of her most popu 
 lar lays were composed with the infant sporting in her arms. 
 She used to gaze upon her little sister with intense delight, 
 and, remarking the uncommon brightness and beauty of her 
 eyes, would exclaim, " She must, she will be a poet !" The 
 exclamation was natural enough in an enthusiastic girl who 
 regarded every thing through the medium of her ruling pas 
 sion ; but it was treasured up by her mother, and considered 
 almost prophetic. Lucretia did not live to see her prediction 
 verified. Her brief sojourn upon earth was over before Mar 
 garet was quite two years and a half old ; yet to use her 
 mother's fond expressions, " On ascending to the skies, it 
 seemed as if her poetic mantle fell like a robe of light on her 
 infant sister." 
 
 Margaret, from the first dawnings of intellect, gave evidence 
 of being no common child : her ideas and expressions were 
 not like those of other children, and often startled by their 
 precocity. Her sister's death had made a strong impression 
 on her, and, though so extremely young, she already under 
 stood and appreciated Lucretia's character. An evidence of 
 this, and of the singular precocity of thought and expression 
 just noticed, occurred but a few months afterwards. As 
 Mrs. Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with a 
 female friend, Margaret entered the room with a light elastic 
 step, for which she was remarked. 
 
 " That child never walks," said the lady ; then turning to 
 her, " Ma'garet, where are you flying now?" said she.
 
 20 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " To heaven !" replied she, pointing up with her finger 
 " to meet my sister Lucretia, when I get my new wings." 
 " Your new wings ! When will you get them ?" 
 " Oh soon, very soon ; and then I shall fly !" 
 " She loved," says her mother, " to sit hour after hour on 
 a cushion at my feet, her little arms resting upon my lap, and 
 her full dark eyes fixed upon mine, listening to anecdotes of 
 her sister's life and details of the events which preceded her 
 death, often exclaiming, while her face beamed with mingled 
 emotions, ' Oh mamma, I will try to fill her place ! Oh teach 
 me to be like her !' " 
 
 Much of Mrs. Davidson's time was now devoted to her 
 daily instruction ; noticing, however, her lively sensibility, tho 
 rapid developement of her mind, and her eagerness for know 
 ledge, her lessons were entirely oral, for she feared for the 
 present to teach her to read, lest by too early and severe 
 application, she should injure her delicate frame. She had 
 nearly attained her fourth year before she was taught to spell. 
 Ill health then obliged Mrs. Davidson, for the space of a year, 
 to entrust her tuition to a lady in Canada, a valued friend, 
 who had other young girls under her care. When she re- 
 turned home she could read fluently, and had commenced 
 lessons in writing. It was now decided that she should not 
 be placed in any public seminary, but that her education 
 should be conducted by her mother. The task was rendered 
 delightful by the docility of the pupil ; by her affectionate 
 feelings, and quick kindling sensibilities. This maternal in 
 struction, while it kept her apart from the world, and fostered 
 a singular purity and innocence of thought, contributed greatly 
 to enhance her imaginative powers, for the mother partook 
 largely of the poetical temperament of the child ; it was, in 
 fact, one poetical spirit ministering to another. 
 
 Among the earliest indications of the poetical character in 
 this child were her perceptions of the beauty of natural 
 scenery. Her home was in a picturesque neighbourhood, 
 calculated to awaken and foster such perceptions. The fol 
 lowing description of it is taken from one of her own writings : 
 "There stood on the banks of the Saranac a small neat cot 
 tage, which peeped forth from the surrounding foliage, the 
 image of rural quiet and contentment. An old-fashioned 
 oiazza extended along the front, shaded with vines and honey 
 suckles ; the turf on the bank of the river was of the richest 
 and brightest emerald ; and the wild rose and sweet briar,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 21 
 
 which twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with 
 more delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds of this 
 earthly paradise. The scenery around was wildly yet beau 
 tifully romantic ; the clear blue river glancing and sparkling 
 at its feet, seemed only as a preparation for another and more 
 magnificent view, when the stream, gliding on to the west 
 was buried in the broad white bosom of Champlain, which 
 stretched back wave after wave in the distance, until lost in 
 faint blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, 
 seeming more lovely from their indistinctness." 
 
 Such were the natural scenes which presented themselves 
 to her dawning perceptions, and she is said to have evinced 
 from her earliest childhood, a remarkable sensibility to their 
 charms. A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower, would fill her 
 with delight ; she would note with surprising discrimination 
 the various effects of the weather upon the surrounding land 
 scape ; the mountains wrapped in clouds ; the torrents roaring 
 down their sides in times of tempest ; the " bright warm sun 
 shine," the " cooling showers," the " pale cold moon," for 
 such was already her poetical phraseology. A bright starlight 
 night, -also, would seem to awaken a mysterious rapture in 
 her infant bosom, and one of her early expressions in speaking 
 of the stars was, that they " shone like the eyes of angels." 
 
 One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal instruction 
 was in guiding these kindling perceptions from nature up to 
 nature's God. 
 
 " I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age her 
 religious impressions were imbibed. They seemed to be inter 
 woven with her existence. From the very first exercise of 
 reason she evinced strong devotional feelings, and although 
 she loved play, she would at any time prefer seating herself 
 beside me, and, with every faculty absorbed in the subject, 
 listen while I attempted to recount the wonders of Providence, 
 and point out the wisdom and benevolence of God, as mani 
 fested in the works of creation. Her young heart would swell 
 with rapture, and the tear would tremble in her eye, when I 
 explained to her, that he who clothed the trees with verdure, 
 and gave the rose its bloom, had also created her with capaci 
 ties to enjoy their beauties : that the same power which clothed 
 the mountains with sublimity, made her happiness his daily 
 care. Thus a sentiment of gratitude and affection towards 
 the Creator entered into all her emotions of delight at the 
 wonders and beauties of creation." 
 2
 
 22 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 There is nothing more truly poetical than religion when 
 properly inculcated, and it will be found that this early piety, 
 thus amiably instilled, had the happiest effect upon her through 
 out life ; elevating and ennobling her genius ; lifting her above 
 every thing gross and sordid ; attuning her thoughts to pure 
 and lofty themes ; heightening rather than impairing her en 
 joyments, and at all times giving an ethereal lightness to her 
 spirit. To use her mother's words, " she was like a bird on 
 the wing, her fairy form scarcely seemed to touch the earth 
 as she passed." She was at times in a kind of ecstasy from 
 the excitement of her imagination and the exuberance of her 
 pleasurable sensations. In such moods every object of natural 
 beauty inspired a degree of rapture, always mingled with a 
 feeling of gratitude to the Being " who had made so many 
 beautiful things for her." In such moods too her little heart 
 would overflow with love to all around ; indeed, adds her 
 mother, to love and be beloved was necessary to her existence. 
 Private prayer became a habit with her at a very early age ; 
 it was almost a spontaneous expression of her feelings, the 
 breathings of an affectionate and delighted heart. 
 
 " By the time she was six years old," says Mrs. Davidson, 
 " her language assumed an elevated tone, and her mind seemed 
 filled with poetic imagery, blended with veins of religious 
 thought. At this period I was chiefly confined to my room 
 by debility. She was my companion and friend, and, as the 
 greater part of my time was devoted to her instruction, she 
 advanced rapidly in her studies. She read not only well, but 
 elegantly. Her love of reading amounted almost to a passion, 
 and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with 
 astonishment a child little more than six years old reading 
 with enthusiastic delight Thomson's Seasons, the Pleasures 
 of Hope, Cowper's Task, the writings of Milton, Byron, and 
 Scott, and marking, with taste and discrimination, the pas 
 sages which struck her. The sacred writings were her daily 
 studies; with her little Bible on her lap, she usually seated 
 herself near me, and there read a chapter from the holy 
 volume. This was a duty which she was taught not to per 
 form lightly, and we have frequently spent two hours in read 
 ing and remarking upon the contents of a chapter." 
 
 A tendency to " lisp in numbers," was observed in her 
 about this time. She frequently made little impromptus in 
 rhyme, without seeming to be conscious that there was any 
 hing peculiar in the habit. On one occasion, while standing
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 23 
 
 by a window at which her mother was seated, and looking 
 out upon a lovely landscape, she exclaimed 
 
 " See those lofty, those grand trees ; 
 Their high tops waving in the breeze ; 
 They cast their shadows on the ground, 
 And spread their fragrance all around." 
 
 Her mother, who had several times been struck by little 
 rhyming ejaculations of the kind, now handed her writing 
 implements, and requested her to write down what she had 
 just uttered. She appeared surprised at the request, but 
 complied ; writing it down as if it had been prose, without 
 arranging it in a stanza, or commencing the lines with 
 capitals ; not seeming aware that she had rhymed. The 
 notice attracted to this impromptu, however, had its effect, 
 whether for good or for evil. From that time she wrote some 
 scraps of poetry, or rather rhyme, every day, which would 
 be treasured up with delight by her mother, who watched with 
 trembling, yet almost fascinated anxiety, these premature 
 blossomings of poetic fancy. 
 
 On another occasion, towards sunset, as Mrs. Davidson 
 was seated by the window of her bed-room, little Margaret 
 ran in, greatly excited, exclaiming that there was an awful 
 thundergust rising, and that the clouds were black as midnight. 
 
 " I gently drew her to my bosom," says Mrs. Davidson, 
 "and after I had soothed her agitation, she seated herself at 
 my feet, laid her head in my lap, and gazed at the rising 
 storm. As the thunder rolled, she clung closer to my knees, 
 and when the tempest burst in all its fury, I felt her tremble. 
 I passed my arms round her, but soon found it was not fear 
 that agitated her. Her eyes kindled as she watched the war 
 ring elements, until, extending her hand, she exclaimed, 
 
 "The lightning plays along the sky, 
 The thunder rolls and bursts from high ! 
 Jehovah's voice amid the storm 
 I heard methinks I see his form, 
 As riding on the clouds of even, 
 He spreads his glory o'er the heaven. 
 
 This likewise her mother made her write down at the 
 instant ; thus giving additional impulse to this growing inclina 
 tion. 
 
 I shall select one more instance of this early facility at 
 numbers, esprcially as it involves a case of conscience, credit 
 able to her early powers of self-examination. She had been
 
 24 MISS TMARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 reproved by her mother for some trifling act of disobedience 
 but aggravated her fault by attempting to justify it ; she was 
 therefore, banished to her bed-room until she should become 
 sensible of her error. Two hours elapsed, without her evincing 
 any disposition to yield : on the contrary, she persisted in 
 vindicating her conduct, and accused her mother of injustice. 
 
 Mrs. Davidson mildly reasoned with her; entreated her to 
 examine the spirit by which she was actuated ; placed before 
 her the example of our Saviour in submitting to the will of 
 his parents ; and, exhorting her to pray to God to assist her, 
 and to give her meekness and humility, left her again to her 
 reflections. 
 
 " An hour or two afterwards," says Mrs. Davidson, " she 
 desired I would admit her. I sent word that, when she was 
 in a proper frame of mind I would be glad to see her. The 
 little creature came in, bathed in tears, threw her arms round 
 my neck, and sobbing violently, put into my hands the fol 
 lowing verses : 
 
 " Forgiven by my Saviour dear, 
 
 For all the wrongs I 've done, 
 What other wish could I have here? 
 Alas there yet is one. 
 
 1 know my God has pardon' d me, 
 
 I know he loves me still ; 
 I wish forgiven I may be, 
 
 By her I 've used so ill. 
 
 Good resolutions I have made, 
 
 And thought I loved my Lord ; 
 But ah! I trusted in myself, 
 
 And broke my foolish word. 
 
 But give me strength, oh Lord, to trust 
 
 For help alone in thee ; 
 Thou know'st my inmost feelings best, 
 
 Oh teach me to obey." 
 
 We have spoken of the buoyancy of Margaret's feelings, 
 and the vivid pleasure she received from external objects ; she 
 entered, however, but little into the amusements of the lew 
 children with whom she associated, nor did she take much 
 delight in their society ; she was conscious of a difference 
 between them and herself, but scarce knew in what it con 
 sisted. Their sports seemed to divert for a while, but soon 
 wearied her, and she would fly to a book, or seek the con 
 versation of persons of maturer age and mind. Her highest 
 pleasures were intellectual. She seemed to live in a world 
 of her own creation, surrounded by the images of her own
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 25 
 
 fancy. Her own childish amusements had originality and 
 freshness, and called into action the mental powers, so as to 
 render them interesting to persons of all ages. If at play 
 with her little dog or kitten, she would carry on imaginary 
 dialogues between them ; always ingenious, and sometimes 
 even brilliant. If her doll happened to be the plaything of 
 the moment, it was invested with a character exhibiting know 
 ledge of history, and all the powers of memory which a child 
 can be supposed to exercise. Whether it was Mary Queen 
 of Scots, or her rival, Elizabeth, or the simple cottage maiden, 
 each character was maintained with propriety. In telling 
 stories, (an amusement all children are fond of,) hers were 
 always original, and of a kind calculated to elevate the minds 
 of the children present, giving them exalted views of truth, 
 honour, and integrity ; and the sacrifice of all selfish feelings 
 to the happiness of others was illustrated in the heroine of 
 her story. 
 
 This talent for extemporaneous story-telling increased with 
 exercise, until she would carry on a narrative for hours toge 
 ther ; and in nothing was the precocity of her inventive powers 
 more apparent than in the discrimination and individuality of 
 her fictitious characters ; the consistency with which they 
 were sustained ; the graphic force of her descriptions ; the 
 elevation of her sentiments, and the poetic beauty of her 
 imagery. 
 
 This early gift caused her to be sought by some of the 
 neighbours ; who would lead her unconsciously into an exer 
 tion of her powers. Nothing was done by her from vanity 
 or a disposition to " show off," but she would become excited 
 by their attention and the pleasure they seemed to derive from 
 her narration. When thus excited, a whole evening would 
 be occupied by one of her stories ; and when the servant came 
 to take her home, she would observe, in the phraseology of 
 the magazines, " the story to be continued in our next." 
 
 Between the age of six and seven she entered upon a course 
 of English grammar, geography, history, and rhetoric, still 
 under the direction and superintendence of her mother; but 
 such was her ardour and application, that it was necessary to 
 keep her in check, lest a too intense pursuit of knowledge 
 should impair her delicate constitution. She was not required 
 to commit her lessons to memory, but to give the substance 
 of them in her own language, and to explain their purport 
 f hus she learnt nothing by rote, but every thing understand 
 2*
 
 26 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ingly, and soon acquired a knowledge of the rudiments of 
 English education. The morning lessons completed, the rest 
 of the day was devoted to recreation ; occasionally sporting 
 and gathering wild flowers on the banks of the Saranac ; 
 though the extreme delicacy of her constitution prevented her 
 taking as much exercise as her mother could have wished. 
 
 In 1830 an English gentleman, who had been strongly in 
 terested and affected by the perusal of the biography and 
 writings of Lucretia Davidson, visited Plattsburgh, in the 
 course of a journey from Quebec to New York, to see the 
 place where she was born and had been buried. While there, 
 he sought an interview with Mrs. Davidson, and his appear 
 ance and deportment were such as at once to inspire respect 
 and confidence. He had much to ask about the object of his 
 literary pilgrimage, but his inquiries were managed with the 
 most considerate delicacy. While he was thus conversing 
 with Mrs. Davidson, the little Margaret, then about seven 
 years of age, came tripping into the room, with a book in 
 one hand and a pencil in the other. He was charmed with 
 her bright intellectual countenance, but still more with finding 
 that the volume in her hand was a copy of Thomson's Sea 
 sons, in which she had been marking with a pencil the pas 
 sages which most pleased her. He drew her to him ; his 
 frank, winning manner soon banished her timidity ; he en 
 gaged her in conversation, and found, to his astonishment, a 
 counterpart of Lucretia Davidson before him. His visit was 
 necessarily brief; but his manners, appearance, and conver 
 sation, and, above all, the extraordinary interest with which 
 he had regarded her, sank deep in the affectionate heart of 
 the child, and inspired a friendship that remained one of her 
 strongest attachments through the residue of her transient 
 existence. 
 
 The delicate state of her health this summer rendered it 
 advisable to take her to the Saratoga Springs, the waters of 
 which appeared to have a beneficial effect. After remaining 
 here some time, she accompanied her parents to New York. 
 It was her first visit to the city, and of course, fruitful of 
 wonder and excitement ; a new world seemed to open before 
 her; new scenes, new friends, new occupations, new sources 
 of instruction and enjoyment; her young heart was overflow 
 ing, and her head giddy with delight. To complete her hap 
 piness, she again met with her English friend, whom she 
 greeted with as much eagerness and joy as if he had been a
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 27 
 
 companion of her own age. He manifested the same interest 
 in her that he had shown at Plattsburgh, and took great plea 
 sure in accompanying her to many of the exhibitions and 
 places of intellectual gratification of the metropolis, and mark 
 ing their effects upon her fresh, unhackneyed feelings and 
 intelligent mind. In company with him, she, for the first and 
 only time in her life, visited the theatre. It was a scene of 
 magic to her, or rather, as she said, like a " brilliant dream." 
 She often recurred to it with vivid recollection, and the effect 
 of it upon her imagination was subsequently apparent in the 
 dramatic nature of some of her writings. 
 
 One of her greatest subjects of regret on leaving New 
 York, was the parting with her intellectual English friend; 
 but she was consoled by his promising to pay Plattsburgh 
 another visit, and to pass a few days there previous to his 
 departure for England. Soon after returning to Plattsburgh, 
 however, Mrs. Davidson received a letter from him saying 
 that he was unexpectedly summoned home, and would have 
 to defer his promised visit until his return to the United States. 
 
 It was a severe disappointment to Margaret, who had con 
 ceived for him an enthusiastic friendship remarkable in such 
 a child. His letter was accompanied by presents of books 
 and various tasteful remembrances, but the sight of them 
 only augmented her affliction. She wrapped them all care 
 fully in paper, and treasured them up in a particular drawer, 
 where they were daily visited, and many a tear shed over 
 them. 
 
 The excursions to Saratoga and New York had improved 
 her health, and given a fresh impulse to her mind. She re 
 sumed her studies with great eagerness ; her spirits rose with 
 mental exercise ; she soon was in one of her veins of intel 
 lectual excitement. She read, she wrote, she danced, she 
 sang, and was for the time the happiest of the happy. In the 
 freshness of early morning, and towards sunset, when the 
 heat of the day was over, she would stroll on the banks of 
 the Saranac, following its course to where it pours itself into 
 the beautiful Bay of Cumberland in Lake Champlain. There 
 the rich variety of scenery which bursts upon the eye ; the 
 islands, scattered, like so many gems, on the broad bosom of 
 the lake ; the Green Mountains of Vermont beyond, clothed 
 in the atmospherical charms of our magnificent climate ; all 
 these would inspire a degree of poetic rapture in her mind, 
 mingled with a sacred melancholy; for these were scenes
 
 28 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 which had often awakened the enthusiasm of her deceased 
 sister Lucretia. 
 
 Her mother, in her memoranda, gives a picture of her in 
 one of those excited moods. 
 
 " After an evening's stroll along the river bank, we seated 
 ourselves by a window to observe the effect of the full moon 
 rising over the waters. A holy calm seemed to pervade all 
 nature. With her head resting on my bosom, and her eyes 
 fixed on the firmament, she pointed to a particularly bright 
 star, and said : 
 
 " 'Behold that bright and sparkling star 
 Which setteth as a queen afar : 
 Over the blue and spangled heaven 
 It sheds its glory in the even ! 
 
 " ' Our Jesus made that sparkling star 
 Which shines and twinkles from afar. 
 Oh ! 't was that bright and glorious gem 
 Which shone o'er ancient Bethlehem !' " 
 
 " The summer passed swiftly away," continues her mother, 
 " yet her intellectual advances seemed to outstrip the wings 
 of time. As the autumn approached, however, I could plainly 
 perceive that her health was again declining. The chilly 
 winds from the lake were too keen for her weak lungs. My 
 own health, too, was failing ; it was determined, therefore, 
 that we should pass the winter with my eldest daughter, Mrs. 
 
 T , who resided in Canada, in the same latitude it is true, 
 
 but in an inland situation. This arrangement was very 
 gratifying to Margaret ; and, had my health improved by the 
 change, as her own did, she would have been perfectly happy. 
 During this period she attended to a regular course of study, 
 under my direction ; for, though confined wholly to my bed, 
 and suffering extremely from pain and debility, Heaven in 
 mercy preserved my mental faculties from the wreck that 
 disease had made of my physical powers." The same plan 
 as heretofore was pursued. Nothing was learnt by rote, and 
 the lessons were varied to prevent fatigue and distaste, though 
 study was always with her a pleasing duty rather than an 
 arduous task. After she had studied her lessons by herself, 
 she would discuss them in conversation with her mother. Her 
 reading was under the same guidance. " I selected her 
 books," says Mrs. Davidson, " with much care, and to my 
 surprise found that, notwithstanding her poetical temperament, 
 she had a high relish for history, and that she would read
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 29 
 
 with as much apparent interest an abstruse treatise that called 
 forth the reflecting powers, as she did poetry or works of the 
 imagination. In polite literature Addison was her favourite 
 author, but Shakspeare she dwelt upon with enthusiasm. She 
 was restricted, however, to certain marked portions of this 
 inimitable writer ; and having been told that it was not proper 
 for her to read the whole, such was her innate delicacy and 
 her sense of duty, that she never overstepped the prescribed 
 boundaries." 
 
 In the intervals of study she amused herself with drawing, 
 for which she had a natural talent, and soon began to sketch 
 with considerable skill. As her health had improved since 
 her removal to Canada, she frequently partook of the favour 
 ite winter recreation of a drive in a traineau or sleigh, in 
 company with her sister and her brother-in-law, and com 
 pletely enveloped in furs and buffalo-robes; and nothing put 
 her in a finer flow of spirits, than thus skimming along, in 
 bright January weather, on the sparkling snow, to the merry 
 music of the jingling sleigh-bells. The winter passed away 
 without any improvement in the health of Mrs. Davidson ; 
 indeed she continued a helpless invalid, confined to her bed, 
 for eighteen months ; during all which time little Margaret 
 was her almost constant companion and attendant. 
 
 " Her tender solicitude," writes Mrs. Davidson, " endeared 
 her to me beyond any other earthly thing; although under 
 the roof of a beloved and affectionate daughter, and having 
 constantly with me an experienced and judicious nurse, yet 
 the soft and gentle voice of my little darling, was more than 
 medicine to my worn-out frame. If her delicate hand 
 smoothed my pillow, it was soft to my aching temples, and 
 her sweet smile would cheer me in the lowest depths of 
 despondency. She would draw for me read to me and 
 often, when writing at her little table, would surprise me by 
 some tribute of love, which never failed to operate as a cordial 
 to my heart. At a time when my life was despaired of, she 
 wrote the following lines while sitting at my bed 
 
 " ' I '11 to thy arms in rapture fly, 
 
 And wipe the tear that dims thine eye ; 
 Thy pleasure will be my delight, 
 Till thy pure spirit takes its flight. 
 
 " ' When left alone when thou art gone, 
 Yet still I will not feel alone ; 
 Thy spirit still will hover near, 
 And guard thy orphan daughter dear !' "
 
 30 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 In this trying moment, when Mrs. Davidson herself had 
 given up all hope of recovery, one of the most touching sights 
 was to see this affectionate and sensitive child tasking herself 
 to achieve a likeness of her mother, that it might remain with 
 her as a memento. " How often would she sit by my bed," 
 says Mrs. Davidson, " striving to sketch features that had 
 been vainly attempted by more than one finished artist ; and 
 when she (bund that she had failed, and that the likeness 
 could not be recognised, she would put her arms around my 
 neck and weep, and say, ' Oh dear mamma, I shall lose you, 
 and not even a sketch of your features will be left me ! and 
 if I live to be a woman, perhaps I shall even forget how you 
 looked !' This idea gave her great distress, sweet lamb ! I 
 then little thought this bosom would have been her dying 
 pillow !" 
 
 After being reduced to the very verge of the grave, Mrs. 
 Davidson began slowly to recover, but a long time elapsed 
 before she was restored to her usual degree of health. Mar 
 garet in the meantime increased in strength and stature ; she 
 still looked fragile and delicate, but she was always cheerful 
 and buoyant. To relieve the monotony of her life, which 
 had been passed too much in a sick chamber, and to preserve 
 her spirits fresh and elastic, little excursions were devised for 
 her about the country, to Missique Bay, St. Johns, Al burgh, 
 Champlain, &c. The following lines, addressed to her mother 
 on one of these occasional separations, will serve as a specimen 
 of her compositions in this the eighth year of her age, and 
 of the affectionate current of her feelings. 
 
 " Farewell, dear mother ! for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 " May the Almighty Father spread 
 His sheltering wings above thy head ; 
 It is not long that we must part, 
 Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 
 
 " Remember, oh remember me, 
 Unceasing is my love for thee ; 
 When death shall sever earthly ties, 
 When thy loved form all senseless lies. 
 
 " Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
 And roam through wide eternity ; 
 Could trend with thee the courts of heaven, 
 And count the brilliant stars of even !
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 31 
 
 " Farewell, dear mother ! for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watcli thy couch of woe, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow." 
 
 In the month of January, 1833, while still in Canada, she 
 was brought very low by an attack of scarlet fever, under 
 which she lingered many weeks, but had so far recovered by 
 the middle of April as to take the air in a carriage. Her 
 mother, too, having regained sufficient strength to travel, it 
 was thought advisable, for both their healths, to try the effect 
 of a journey to New York. They accordingly departed 
 about the beginning of May, accompanied by a family party. 
 Of this journey, and a sojourn of several months in New 
 York, she kept a journal, which evinces considerable habits 
 of observation, but still more that kindling of the imagination 
 which, in the poetic mind, gives to commonplace realities the 
 witchery of romance. She was deeply interested by visits to 
 the " School for the Blind," and the " Deaf and Dumb Asy 
 lum ;" and makes a minute of a visit of a very different 
 nature to Black Hawk and bis fellow-chiefs, prisoners of 
 war, who, by command of government, were taken about 
 through various of our cities, that they might carry back to 
 their brethren in the wilderness, a cautionary idea of the 
 overwhelming power of the white man. 
 
 " On the 25th June I saw and shook hands with the famous 
 Black Hawk, the Indian chief, the enemy of our nation, who 
 has massacred our patriots, murdered our women and helpless 
 children ! Why is he treated with so much attention by those 
 -whom he has injured ? It cannot surely arise from benevo 
 lence. It must be policy. Be it what it may, I cannot un 
 derstand it. His son, the Prophet, and others who accompa 
 nied him, interested me more than the chief himself. His 
 son is no doubt a fine specimen of Indian beauty. He has a 
 high brow, piercing black eyes, long black hair, which hangs 
 down his back, and, upon the whole, is well suited to captivate 
 an Indian maiden. The Prophet we found surveying himself 
 in a looking-glass, undoubtedly wishing to show himself off 
 to the best advantage in the fair assembly before him. The 
 rest were dozing on a sofa, but they were awakened sufficiently 
 to shake hands with us, and others who had the courage to 
 approach so near them. I remember I dreamed of them the 
 following night." 
 
 During this visit to New York, she was the life a'ud delight
 
 32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 of the relatives with whom she resided, and they still retain 
 a lively recollection of the intellectual nature of her sports 
 among her youthful companions, and of the surprising aptness 
 and fertile invention displayed by her in contriving new sources 
 of amusement. She had a number of playmates, nearly of 
 her own age, and one of her projects was to get up a dramatic 
 entertainment for the gratification of themselves and their 
 friends. The proposal was readily agreed to, provided she 
 would write the play. This she readily undertook, and indeed 
 devised and directed the whole arrangements, though she had 
 never been but once to a theatre, and that on her previous 
 visit to New York. Her little companions were now all busily 
 employed, under her direction, preparing dresses and equip 
 ments ; robes with trains were fitted out for the female charac 
 ters, and quantities of paper and tinsel were consumed in 
 making caps, helmets, spears, and sandals. 
 
 After four or five days had been spent in these preparations, 
 Margaret was called upon to produce the play. " Oh !" she 
 replied, " I have not written it yet." " But how is this ! Do 
 you make the dresses first, and then write the play to suit 
 them?" " Oh !" replied she gaily, " the writing of the play 
 is the easiest part of the preparation ; it will be ready before 
 the dresses." And, in fact, in two days she produced her 
 drama, " The Tragedy of Alethia." It was not very volumi 
 nous, to be sure, but it contained within it sufficient of high 
 character and astounding and bloody incident to furnish out 
 a drama of five times its size. A king and queen of England 
 resolutely bent upon marrying their daughter, the Princess 
 Alethia, to the Duke of Ormond. The princess most per 
 versely and dolorously in love with a mysterious cavalier, 
 who figures at her father's court under the name of Sir Percy 
 Lennox, but who, in private truth, is the Spanish king, Rod- 
 rigo, thus obliged to maintain an incognito on account of cer 
 tain hostilities between Spain and England. The odious 
 nuptials of the princess with the Duke of Ormond proceed : 
 she is led, a submissive victim, to the altar ; is on the point of 
 pledging her irrevocable word ; when the priest throws oflf 
 his sacred robe, discovers himself to be Rodrigo, and plunges 
 a dagger into the bosom of the king. Alethia instantly plucks 
 the dagger from her father's bosom, throws herself into Rod- 
 rigo's arms, and kills herself. Rodrigo flies to a cavern, 
 renounces England, Spain, and his royal throne, and devotes 
 himself to eternal remorse. The queen ends the play by a
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 33 
 
 passionate apostrophe to the spirit of her daughter, and sinks 
 dead on the floor. 
 
 The little drama lies before us, a curious specimen of the 
 prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no means 
 more incongruous in its incidents than many current dramas 
 by veteran and experienced playwrights. 
 
 The parts were now distributed and soon learnt ; Margaret 
 drew out a play-bill, in theatrical style, containing a list of 
 the dramatis personae, and issued regular tickets of admission. 
 The piece went off with universal applause : Margaret figur 
 ing, in a long train, as the princess, and killing herself in a 
 style that would not have disgraced an experienced stage 
 heroine. 
 
 Jn these, and similar amusements, her time passed happily 
 in New York, for it was the study of the intelligent and 
 amiable relatives with whom she sojourned, to render her 
 residence among them as agreeable and profitable as possible. 
 Her visit, however, was protracted much beyond what was 
 originally intended. As the summer advanced, the heat and 
 restraint of the city became oppressive ; her heart yearned 
 after her native home on the Saranac; and the following 
 lines, written at the time, express the state of her feelings 
 
 HOME. 
 
 I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, 
 
 To my own native plants and my flpw'rets so fair ; 
 
 To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright, 
 
 Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light. 
 
 Again would I view the old mansion so dear, 
 
 Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear ; 
 
 I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 
 
 For a peep at my home on this fine summer day. 
 
 I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret, 
 
 But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet ! 
 
 There a sister reposes unconscious in death 
 
 'T was there she first drew and there yielded her breath 
 
 A father I love is away from me now 
 
 Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 
 
 Or smooth the grey locks, to my fond heart so dear, 
 
 How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear ! 
 
 Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call, 
 
 But my own darling home, it is dearer than all. 
 
 At length, late in the month of October, the travellers 
 turned their faces homewards ; but it was not the " darling 
 home" for which Margaret had been longing : her native cot 
 tage on the beautifuf banks of the Saranac. The wintry 
 winds from Lake Champlain had been pronounced too severe 
 
 a
 
 34 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 for her constitution, and the family residence had been re- 
 luctantiy changed to the village of Ballston. Margaret fcit 
 this change most deeply. We have already shown the tender 
 as well as poetical associations that linked her heart to the 
 beautiful home of her childhood ; a presentiment seemed to 
 come over her mind that she would never see it more ; a pre 
 sentiment unfortunately prophetic. She was now accustomed 
 to give prompt utterance to her emotions in rhyme, and the 
 following lines, written at the time, remain a touching record 
 of her feelings 
 
 MY NATIVE LAKE. 
 
 Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, 
 Lit by the sun's resplendent beam, 
 Reflect each bending tree so light 
 Upon thy bounding bosom bright, 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 
 
 The little isles that deck thy breast, 
 
 And calmly on thy bosom rest, 
 
 How often, in my childish glee, 
 
 I 've sported round them, bright and free ! 
 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain! 
 
 How oft I 've watch'd the freshening shower 
 Bending the summer tree and flower, 
 And felt my little heart beat high 
 As the bright rainbow graced the sky. 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 
 
 And shall I never see thee more, 
 
 My native lake, my much-loved shore? 
 
 And must I bid a long adieu, 
 
 My dear, my infant home, to you ? 
 
 Shall I not see thee once again, 
 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain? 
 
 Still, though disappointed at not returning to the Saranac, 
 she soon made herself contented at Ballston. She was at 
 home, in the bosom of her own family, and reunited to her 
 two youngest brothers, from whom she had long been sepa 
 rated. A thousand little plans were devised by her, and some 
 few of them put in execution, for their mutual pleasure and 
 improvement. One of the most characteristic of these was 
 a " weekly paper," issued by her in manuscript, and entitled 
 "The Juvenile Aspirant." All their domestic occupations 
 and amusement* were of an intellectual kind. Their morn 
 ings were spent in study; the evenings enlivened by con-
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 35 
 
 versation, or by the work of some favourite author, read 
 aloud for the benefit of the family circle. 
 
 As the powers of this excitable and imaginative little being 
 developed themselves, Mrs. Davidson felt more and more 
 conscious of the responsibility of undertaking to cultivate and 
 direct them ; yet to whom could she confide her that would 
 BO well understand her character and constitution 1 To place 
 her in a boarding-school would subject her to increased ex 
 citement, caused by emulation, and her mind was already too 
 excitable for her fragile frame. Her peculiar temperament 
 required peculiar culture; it must neither be stimulated nor 
 checked ; and while her imagination was left to its free soar 
 ings, care must be taken to strengthen her judgment, improve 
 her mind, establish her principles, and inculcate habits of self 
 examination and self-control. All this, it was thought, might 
 best be accomplished under a mother's eye ; it was resolved, 
 therefore, that her education should, as before, be conducted 
 entirely at home. " Thus she continued," to use her mother's 
 words, " to live in the bosom of affection, where every thought 
 and feeling was reciprocated. I strove to draw out the powers 
 of her mind by conversation and familiar remarks upon sub 
 jects of daily study and reflection, and taught her the neces 
 sity of bringing all her thoughts, desires and feelings under 
 the dominion of reason ; to understand the importance of self- 
 control, when she found her inclinations were at war with its 
 dictates. To fulfil all her duties from a conviction of right, 
 because they were duties ; and to find her happiness in the 
 consciousness of her own integrity, and the approbation of 
 God. How delightful was the task of instructing a mind like 
 hers ! She seized with avidity upon every new idea, for the 
 instruction proceeded from lips of love. Often would she 
 exclaim, ' Oh mamma ! how glad I am that you are not too 
 ill to teach me ! Surely I am the happiest girl in the world !' 
 She had read much for a child of little more than ten years 
 of age. She was well versed in both ancient and modern 
 history, (that is to say, in the courses generally prescribed 
 for the use of schools,) Blair, Kaimes, and Paley had formed 
 part of her studies. She was familiar with most of the British 
 poets. Her command of the English language was remark 
 able, both in conversation and writing. She had learned the 
 rudiments of French, and was anxious to become perfect in 
 the language ; but I had so neglected my duty in this respect 
 after I left school, that I was not qualified to instruct her. A
 
 86 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 friend, however, who understood French, called occasionally 
 and gave her lessons for his own amusement ; she soon trans- 
 lated well, and such was her talent for the acquisition of lan 
 guages, and such her desire to read every thing in the origi 
 nal, that every obstacle vanished before her perseverance. 
 She made some advances in Latin, also, in company with her 
 brother, who was attended by a private teacher ; and they 
 were engaged upon the early books of Virgil, when her health 
 again gave way, and she was confined to her room by severe 
 illness. These frequent attacks upon a frame so delicate 
 awakened all our fears. Her illness spread a gloom through 
 out our habitation, for fears were entertained that it would end 
 in a pulmonary consumption." After a confinement of two 
 months, however, she regained her usual, though at all times 
 fragile, state of health. In the following spring, when she 
 had just entered upon the eleventh year of her age, intelli 
 gence arrived of the death of her sister, Mrs. T., who had 
 been resident in Canada. The blow had been apprehended 
 from previous accounts of her extreme illness, but it was a 
 severe shock. She had looked up to this sister as to a second 
 mother, and as to one who, from the precarious health of her 
 natural parent, might be called upon to fulfil that tender office. 
 She was one also calculated to inspire affection ; lovely in 
 person, refined and intelligent in mind, still young in years ; 
 and with all this, her only remaining sister ! In the follow 
 ing lines, poured out in the fulness of her grief, she touch- 
 ingly alludes to the previous loss of her sister Lucretia, so 
 often the subject of her poetic regrets, and of the consolation 
 she had always felt in still having a sister to love and cherish 
 her. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER ANNA ELIZA. 
 
 While weeping o'er our sister's tomb, 
 
 And heaving many a heartfelt sigh, 
 And while in youth's bewitching bloom, 
 
 I thought not that thou too couldst die. 
 
 When gazing on that little mound, 
 
 Spread o'er with turf, and flowers, and mould, 
 
 I thought not that thy lovely form 
 Could be as motionless and cold. 
 
 When her light, airy form was lost 
 
 To fond affection's weeping eye, 
 I thought not we should mourn for thee, 
 
 I thought not that thou too couldst die.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 37 
 
 Yes, sparkling gem ! when thou wert here, 
 
 From death's encircling mantle free, 
 Our mourning parents wiped each tear, 
 
 And cried, " Why weep? we still have thee." 
 
 Each tender thought on thee they turn'd, 
 
 Each hope of joy to thee was given, 
 And, dwelling on each matchless charm, 
 
 They half forgot the saint in heaven. 
 
 But thou art gone, for ever gone ! 
 
 Sweet wanderer in a world of woe ! 
 Now, unrestrained our grief must pour ; 
 
 Uncheck'd our mourning tears must flow. 
 
 How oft I 've pressed my glowing lip 
 
 In rapture to thy snowy brow, 
 And gazed upon that angel eye, 
 
 Closed in death's chilling slumber now ! 
 
 While tottering on the verge of life, 
 
 Thine every nerve with pain unstrung, 
 That beaming eye was raised to heaven, 
 
 That heart to God for safety clung. 
 
 And when the awful moment came, 
 
 Replete with trembling hope and fear, 
 Though anguish shook thy slender frame, 
 
 Thy thoughts were in a brighter sphere. 
 
 The wreath of light which round thee play'd, 
 
 Bore thy pure spirit to the skies ; 
 With thee we lost our brightest gem, 
 
 But heaven has gained a glorious prize. 
 
 Oh may the bud of promise left, 
 
 Follow the brilliant path she trod, 
 And of her fostering care bereft, 
 
 Still seek and find his mother's God. 
 
 But he, the partner of her life, 
 
 Who shared her joy and soothed her woe, 
 How can I heal his broken heart ? 
 
 How bid his sorrow cease to flow ? 
 
 It 'e only time these wounds can heal ; 
 
 Time, from whose piercing pangs alone 
 The poignancy of grief can steal, 
 
 And hush the heart's convulsive moan. 
 
 To parry the effect of this most afflicting blow, Margaret 
 was sent on a visit to New York, where she passed a couple 
 of months in the society of affectionate and intelligent friends, 
 and returned home in June, recruited in health and spirits. 
 The .sight of her mother, however, though habituated to sor 
 row and suffering, yet bowed down by her recent bereave 
 ment, called forth her tenderest sympathies ; and we consider 
 it as illustrating the progress of the intellect and the history 
 3*
 
 39 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 of the heart of this most interesting child, to insert another 
 effusion called forth by this domestic calamity : 
 
 TO MY MOTHER OPPRESSED WITH SORROW. 
 
 Weep, oh my mother ! I will bid thee weep ! 
 
 For grief like thine requires the aid of tears ; 
 
 But oh, I would not see thy bosom thus 
 
 Bow'd down to earth, with anguish so severe ! 
 
 I would not see thine ardent feelings crush'd, 
 
 Deaden'd to all save sorrow's thrilling tone, 
 
 Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head 
 
 Beneath the chilling blasts of stern .^Eolus ! 
 
 Oh I have seen that brow with pleasure flush 'd, 
 
 The lightning smile around it brightly playing, 
 
 And the dark eyelids trembling with delight 
 
 But now how changed ! thy downcast eye is bent, 
 
 With heavy, thoughtful glances, on the ground, 
 
 And oh how quickly starts the tear-drop there ! 
 
 It is not age which dims its wonted fire, 
 
 Or plants his lilies on thy pallid cheek, 
 
 But sorrow, keenest, darkest, biting sorrow ! 
 
 When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief, 
 
 And fondly pleads one cheering look to view, 
 
 A sad, a faint sad smile one instant gleams 
 
 Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined, 
 
 Brooding o'er ruins of what once was fair ; 
 
 But like departing sunset, as it throws 
 
 One farewell shadow o'er the sleeping earth, 
 
 (So soon in sombre twilight to be wrapt,) 
 
 Thus, thus it fades ! and sorrow more profound 
 
 Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold, 
 
 It scarcely might be called the mockery 
 
 Of cheerful peace, but just before had been. 
 
 Long years of suffering, brightened not by joy, 
 
 Death and disease, fell harbinger of woe, 
 
 Must leave their impress on the human face, 
 
 And dim the fire of youth, the glow of pride; 
 
 But oh my mother! mourn not thus for her, 
 
 The rose, just blown, transplanted to its home, 
 
 Nor weep that her angelic soul has found 
 
 A resting-place with God. 
 
 Oh let the eye of heaven-born faith disperse 
 
 The dark'ning mists of earthly grief, and pierce 
 
 The clouds which shadow dull mortality ! 
 
 Gaze on the heaven of glory crown'd with light, 
 
 Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brow, 
 
 In the same voice which charm' d her father's halls, 
 
 Chanting sweet anthems lo her Maker's praise ; 
 
 And watching with delight the gentle buds 
 
 Which she had lived to mourn ; watching thine own, 
 
 My mother! the soft unfolding blossoms, 
 
 Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint, 
 
 Departed to their Saviour ; there to wait 
 
 For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss ! 
 
 The ange! babes have found a second mother; 
 
 But when thy soul shall pass from earth away,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 39 
 
 The little cherubs then shall cling to the*, 
 
 And their sweet guardian welcome thee with joy, 
 
 Protector of their helpless infancy, 
 
 Who taught them how to reach that happy home. 
 
 Oh think of this, and let one heartfelt smile 
 
 Illume the face so long estranged from joy ; 
 
 But may it rest not on thy brow alone, 
 
 But shed a cheering influence o'er thy heart, 
 
 Too sweet to be forgotten ! Though thy loved 
 
 And beautiful are fled from earth away, 
 
 Still there are those who love thee who would live 
 
 With thee alone who weeps or smiles with thee. 
 
 Think of thy noble sons, and think of her 
 
 Who prays thee to be happy in the hope 
 
 Of meeting those in heaven who loved thee here, 
 
 And training those on earth that they may live 
 
 A band of saints with thee in Paradise. 
 
 The regular studies of Margaret were now resumed, and 
 her mother found, in attending to her instruction, a relief from 
 the poignancy of her afflictions. Margaret always enjoyed 
 the country, and in fine weather indulged in long rambles in 
 the woods, accompanied by some friend, or attended by a 
 faithful servant woman. When in the house, the versatility 
 of her talents, her constitutional vivacity, and an aptness at 
 coining occupation and amusement out of the most trifling 
 incident, perpetually relieved the monotony of domestic life; 
 while the faint gleam of health that occasionally flitted across 
 her cheek, beguiled the anxious foreboding that had been in- 
 dulged concerning her. " A strong hope was rising in my 
 heart," says her mother, "that our frail, delicate blossom 
 would continue to flourish, and that it was possible I might 
 live to behold the perfection of its beauty ! Alas ! how un 
 certain is every earthly prospect ! Even then the canker was 
 concealed within the bright bud, which was eventually to 
 destroy its loveliness! About the last of December she was 
 again seized with a liver complaint, which, by sympathy, 
 affected her lungs, and again awakened all our fears. She 
 was confined to her bed, and it was not until March that she 
 was able to sit up and walk about her room. The confine 
 ment then became irksome, but her kind and skilful physician 
 had declared that she must not be permitted to venture out 
 until mild weather in April." During this fit of illness her 
 mind had remained in an unusual state of inactivity ; but with 
 the opening of spring, and the faint return of health, it broke 
 forth with a brilliancy and a restless excitability that astonished 
 and alarmed. " In conversation," says her mother, " her 
 s Hies of wit were dazzling. She composed and wrote in-
 
 4C MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 cessantly, or rather would have done so, had I not interposed 
 my authority to prevent this unceasing tax upon both her 
 mental and physical strength. Fugitive pieces were produced 
 every' day, such as, ' The Shunamite,' ' Belshazzar's Feast,' 
 ' The Nature of Mind,' ' Boabdil el Chico,' &c. She seemed 
 to exist only in the regions of poetry." We cannot help 
 thinking that these moments of intense poetical exaltation 
 sometimes approached to delirium, for we are told by her 
 mother that " the image of her departed sister Lucretia min 
 gled in all her aspirations ; the holy elevation of Lucretia's 
 character had taken deep hold of her imagination, and in hei 
 moments of enthusiasm she felt that she held close and inti 
 mate communion with her beatified spirit." 
 
 This intense mental excitement continued after she was 
 permitted* to leave her room, and her application to her books 
 and papers was so eager and almost impassioned, that it was 
 found expedient again to send her on an excursion. A visit 
 to some relatives, and a sojourn among the beautiful scenery 
 on the Mohawk river, had a salutary effect ; but on returning 
 home she was again attacked with alarming indisposition, 
 which confined her to her bed. 
 
 " The struggle between nature and disease," says her 
 mother, " was for a time doubtful ; she was, however, at 
 length restored to us. With returning health, her mental 
 labours were resumed. I reasoned and entreated, but at last 
 became convinced that my only way was to let matters take 
 their course. If restrained in her favourite pursuits she was 
 unhappy. To acquire useful knowledge was a motive suffi 
 cient to induce her to surmount all obstacles. I could only 
 select for her a course of calm and quiet reading, which 
 while it furnished real food for the mind, would compose 
 rather than excite the imagination. She read much, and 
 wrote a great deal. As for myself, I lived in a state of con 
 stant anxiety lest these labours should prematurely destroy 
 his delicate bud." 
 
 In the autumn of 1835, Dr. Davidson made arrangements 
 to remove his family to a rural residence near New York, 
 pleasantly situated on the banks of the Sound, or East River, 
 as it is commonly called. The following extract of a lettei 
 from Margaret to Moss Kent, Esq.,* will show her anticipa 
 tions and plans on this occasion. 
 
 * This gentleman was an early and valued friend of the Davidson 
 family, and is honourably mentioned by Mr. Morse for the interest he
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 41 
 
 September 20, 1835. 
 
 " We shall soon leave ^allston for New York. We are 
 to reside in a beautiful spot, upon the East River, near the 
 Shot Tower, four miles from town, romantically called 
 Ruremont. Will it not be delightful ! Reunited to father 
 and brothers, we must, we will be happy ! We shall keep a 
 horse and a little pleasure-wagon, to transport us to and 
 from town. But I intend my time shall be constantly em 
 ployed in my studies, which I hope I shall continue to pursue 
 at home. I wish (and mamma concurs in the opinion that 
 it is best) to devote this winter to the study of the Latin 
 and French languages, while music and dancing will unbend 
 my mind after close application to those studies, and give 
 me that recreation which mother deems requisite for me. 
 If father can procure private teachers for me, I shall be saved 
 the dreadful alternative of a boarding-school. Mother could 
 never endure the thought of one for me, and my own aver 
 sion is equally strong. Oh ! my dear uncle, you must come 
 and see us. Come soon and stay long. Try to be with us 
 at Christmas. Mother's health is not as good as when you 
 were here. I hope she will be benefited by a residence in 
 her native city in the neighbourhood of those friends she 
 best loves. The state of her mind has an astonishing effect 
 upon her health." 
 
 took in the education of Lucretia. The notice of Mr. Morse, however, 
 leaves it to be supposed that Mr. Kent's acquaintance with Dr. and Mrs. 
 Davidson was brought about by his admiration of their daughter's 
 talents, and commenced with overtures for her instruction. The follow 
 ing extract of a letter from Mrs. Davidson will place this matter in a 
 proper light, and show that these offers on the part of Mr. Kent, and 
 the partial acceptance of them by Dr. and Mrs. Davidson, were warranted 
 by the terms of intimacy which before existed between them. " I had 
 the pleasure," says Mrs. Davidson, " to know Mr. Kent before my 
 marriage, after which he frequently called at our house when visiting his 
 sister, with whom I was on terms of intimacy. On one of these occa 
 sions he saw Lucretia. He had often seen her when a child, but she 
 had changed much. Her uncommon personal beauty, graceful man 
 ners, and superior intellectual endowments made a strong impression on 
 him. He conversed with her, and examined her on the different branches 
 which she was studying, and pronounced her a good English scholar. 
 He also found her well read, and possessing a fund of general informa 
 tion. He warmly expressed his admiration of her talents, and urged 
 me to consent that he should adopt her as his daughter, and complete 
 her education on the most liberal plan. I so far acceded to his proposi 
 tion as to permit him to place her with Mrs. Willard, and assured him 
 I would take his generous offer into consideration. Had she lived, we 
 should have complied with his wishes, and Lucretia would have been 
 the child of his adoption. The pure and disinterested friendship of this 
 excellent man continued until the day of his death. For Margaret he 
 manifested the affection of a father, and the attachment was returned 
 by her with all the warmth of a young and grateful heart. She always 
 addressed him as her dear uncle Kent."
 
 42 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The following letter to the same gentleman, is dated Octo 
 ber 18, 1835 : 
 
 " We are now at Ruremont, and a more delightful place 
 I never saw. The house is large, pleasant, and commodious, 
 and the old-fashioned style of every thing around it trans 
 ports the mind to days long gone by, and my imagination 
 is constantly upon the rack to burden the past with scenes 
 transacted on this very spot. In the rear of the mansion a 
 lawn, spangled with beautiful flowers, and shaded by spread 
 ing trees, slopes gently down to the river side, where ves 
 sels of every description are constantly spreading their 
 white sails to the wind. In front, a long shady avenue leads 
 to the door, and a large extent of beautiful undulating 
 ground is spread with fruit-trees of every description. In 
 and about the house there are so many little nooks and by- 
 places, that sometimes I fancy it has been the resort of 
 smugglers ; and who knows but I shall yet find their hidden 
 treasures somewhere ! Do come and see us, my dear uncle ; 
 but you must come soon, if you would enjoy any of the 
 beauties of the place. The trees have already doffed their 
 robe of green, and assumed the red and yellow of autumn, 
 and the paths are strewed with fallen leaves. But there is 
 loveliness even in the decay of nature. But do, do come 
 soon, or the branches will be leafless, and the cold winds 
 will prevent the pleasant rambles we now enjoy. Dear 
 mother has twice accompanied me a short distance about 
 the grounds, and indeed I think her health has improved 
 since we removed to New York, though she is still very 
 feeble. Her mind is much relieved, having her little family 
 gathered once more around her. You well know how 
 great an effect her spirits have upon her health. Oh ! if my 
 dear mother is only in comfortable health, and you will 
 come, I think I shall spend a delightful winter prosecuting 
 my studies at home." 
 
 " For a short time," writes Mrs. Davidson, " she seemed 
 to luxuriate upon the beauties of this lovely place. She se 
 lected her own room, and adjusted all her little tasteful orna 
 ments. Her books and drawing implements were transported 
 to this chosen spot. Still she hovered around me like my 
 shadow. Mother's room was still her resting-place ; mother's 
 bosom her sanctuary. She sketched a plan for one or two 
 poems which were never finished. But her enjoyment was 
 soon interrupted. She was again attacked by her old enemy, 
 and though her confinement to her room was of short dura 
 tion, she did not get rid of the cough. A change now came
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 43 
 
 over her mind. Hitherto she had always delighted in serious 
 conversation on heaven ; the pure and elevated occupations 
 of saints and angels in a future state had proved a delightful 
 source of contemplation ; and she would become so animated 
 that it seemed sometimes as if she would fly to realize her 
 hopes and joys ! Now her young heart appeared to cling to 
 life and its enjoyments, and more closely than I had ever 
 known it. ' She was never ill.' When asked the question, 
 * Margaret, how are you ?" ' Well, quite well,' was her reply, 
 when it was obvious to me, who watched her every look, that 
 she had scarcely strength to sustain her weak frame. She 
 saw herself the last daughter of her idolizing parents the 
 only sister of her devoted brothers ! Life had acquired new 
 charms ; though she had always been a happy, light-hearted 
 child." 
 
 The following lines, written about this time, show the elas 
 ticity of her spirit, and the bounding vivacity of her imagina 
 tion, that seemed to escape, as in a dream, from the frail 
 tenement of clay in which they were encased : 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Oh for the pinions of a bird, 
 
 To bear me far away, 
 Where songs of other lands are heard, 
 
 And other waters play ! 
 
 For some aerial car, to fly 
 
 On through the realms of light, 
 To regions rife with poesy, 
 
 And teeming with delight. 
 
 O'er many a wild and classic stream 
 
 In ecstasy I'd bend, 
 And hail each ivy-cover'd tower, 
 
 As though it were a friend. 
 
 O'er piles where many a wintry blast 
 
 Is swept in mournful tones, 
 And fraught with scenes long glided past, 
 
 It shrieks, and sighs, and moans. 
 
 Through many a shadowy grove, and round 
 
 Full many a cloister' d hall, 
 And corridors, where every step 
 
 With echoing peal doth fall. 
 
 Enchanted with the dreariness, 
 
 And awe-struck with the gloom, 
 I would wander, like a spectre, 
 
 'Mid the regions of the tomb.
 
 44 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And Memory her enchanting veil 
 
 Around my soul should twine, 
 And Superstition, wildly pale, 
 
 Should woo me to her shrine ; 
 
 I 'd cherish still her witching gloom, 
 
 Half shrinking in my dread, 
 But, powerless to dissolve the spell, 
 
 Pursue her fearful tread. 
 
 Oh what unmingled pleasure then 
 
 My youthful heart would feel, 
 As o'er its thrilling cords each thought 
 
 Of former days would steal ! 
 
 Of centuries in oblivion wrapt, 
 
 Of forms which long were cold, 
 And all of terror, all of woe, 
 
 That history's page has told. 
 
 How fondly in my bosom 
 
 Would its monarch, Fancy, reign, 
 And spurn earth's meaner offices 
 
 With glorious disdain! 
 
 Amid the scenes of past delight, 
 
 Or misery, I 'd roam, 
 Where ruthless tyrants sway'd in might, 
 
 Where princes found a home. 
 
 Where heroes have enwreathed their brows 
 
 With chivalric renown, 
 Where beauty's hand, as valour's meed, 
 
 Hath twined the laurel crown. 
 
 I 'd stand where proudest kings have stood, 
 
 Or kneel where slaves have knelt, 
 Till wrapt in magic solitude, 
 
 I feel what they have felt. 
 
 Oh for the pinions of a bird, 
 
 To waft me far away, 
 Where songs of other lands are heard, 
 
 And other waters play ! 
 
 About this time Mrs. Davidson received a letter from tne 
 English gentleman for whom Margaret, when cuite a child, 
 had conceived such a friendship, her dear elder brother, as 
 she used to call him. The letter bore testimony to his undi- 
 minished regard. He was in good health ; married to a very 
 estimable and lovely woman ; was the father of a fine little 
 girl, and was at Havana with his family, where he kindly 
 entreated Mrs. Davidson and Margaret to join them ; being 
 sure that a winter passed in that mild climate would have the 
 happiest effect upon their healths. His doors, his heart, he 
 added, were open to receive them, and his amiable consort
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 45 
 
 impatient to bid them welcome. " Margaret," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " was overcome by the perusal of this letter. She 
 laughed and wept alternately ; one moment urged me to go, 
 ' she was herself well, but she was sure it would cure me ;' 
 the next moment felt as though she could not leave the friends 
 to whom she had so recently been reunited. Oh ! had I gone 
 at that time, perhaps my child might still have lived to bless 
 me!" 
 
 During the first weeks of Margaret's residence at Rure- 
 mont, the character and situation of the place seized power 
 fully upon her imagination. " The curious structure of this 
 old-fashioned house," says Mrs. Davidson, " its picturesque 
 appearance, the varied and beautiful grounds which sur 
 rounded it, called up a thousand poetic images and romantic 
 ideas. A long gallery, a winding staircase, a dark, narrow 
 passage, a trap-door, large apartments with massive doors, 
 and heavy iron bars and bolts, all set her mind teeming with 
 recollections of what she had read and imagined of old cas 
 tles, banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in 
 perfect ecstasy, peopling every part with images of her own 
 imagination, and fancying it the scene of some foregone event 
 of dark and thrilling interest." There was, in fact, some 
 palpable material for all this spinning and weaving of the 
 fancy. The writer of this memoir visited Ruremont at the 
 time it was occupied by the Davidson family. It was a 
 spacious, and somewhat crazy and poetical-looking mansion, 
 with large waste apartments. The grounds were rather wild 
 and overgrown, but so much the more picturesque. It stood 
 on the banks of the Sound, the waters of which rushed, with 
 whirling and impetuous tides, below, hurrying on to the dan 
 gerous strait of Hell Gate. Nor was this neighbourhood 
 without its legendary tales. These wild and lonely shores 
 had, in former times, been the resort of smugglers and pirates. 
 Hard by this very place stood the country retreat of Ready- 
 Money Prevost, of dubious and smuggling memory, with his 
 haunted tomb, in which he was said to conceal his contraband 
 riches ; and scarce a secret spot about these shores but had 
 some tradition connected with it of Kidd the pirate and his 
 buried treasures. All these circumstances were enough to 
 breed thick-coming fancies in so imaginative a brain; and the 
 result was a drama in six acts, entitled " The Smuggler," the 
 scene of which was laid at Ruremont in the old time of the 
 province. The play was written with great rapidity, and, 
 4
 
 46 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 considering she was little more than twelve years of age, and 
 had never visited a theatre but once in her life, evinced great 
 aptness and dramatic talent. It was to form a domestic en 
 tertainment for Christmas holidays ; the spacious back parlour 
 was to be fitted up for the theatre. In planning and making 
 arrangements for the performance, she seemed perfectly 
 happy, and her step resumed its wonted elasticity, though her 
 anxious mother often detected a suppressed cough, and re 
 marked a hectic flush upon her cheek. " We now found," 
 says Mrs. Davidson, " that private teachers were not to be 
 procured at Ruremont, and I feared to have her enter upon 
 a course of study which had been talked of, before we came 
 to this place. I thought she was too feeble for close mental 
 application, while she was striving, by the energies of her 
 mind and bodily exertion, (which only increased the morbid 
 excitement of her system,) to overcome disease, that she 
 feared was about to fasten itself upon her. She was the more 
 anxious, therefore, to enter upon her studies ; and when she 
 saw solicitude in my countenance and manner, she would fix 
 her sweet sad eyes upon my face, as if she would read my 
 very soul, yet dreaded to know what she might find written 
 there. 1 knew and could understand her feelings ; she also 
 understood mine ; and there seemed to bs a tacit compact 
 between us that this subject, at present, was forbidden ground. 
 Her father and brothers were lulled into security by her cheer 
 ful manner and constant assertion that she was well, and con 
 sidered her cough the effect of recent cold. My opinion to 
 the contrary was regarded as the result of extreme maternal 
 anxiety." 
 
 She accordingly went to town three times a week, to take 
 lessons in French, music, and dancing. Her progress in 
 French was rapid, and the correctness and elegance of her 
 translations surprised her teachers. Her friends in the city, 
 seeing her look so well and appear so sprightly, encouraged 
 her to believe that air and exercise would prove more bene 
 ficial than confinement to the house. She went to town in 
 the morning and returned in the evening in an open carriage, 
 with her father and one of her elder brothers, each of whom 
 was confined to his respective office until night. In this way 
 she was exposed to the rigours of an unusually cold season ; 
 yet she heeded them not, but returned home full of animation 
 to join ner little brothers in preparations for their holiday fete. 
 Their anticipations of a joyous Christmas were doomed to
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 47 
 
 sad disappointment. As the time approached, two of her 
 brothers were taken ill. One of these, a beautiful boy about 
 nine years of age, had been the favourite companion of her 
 recreations, and she had taken great interest in his mental 
 improvement. "Towards the close of 1835," says her 
 mother, " he began to droop ; his cheek grew pale his step 
 languid, and his bright eye heavy. Instead of rolling the 
 hoop, and bounding across the lawn to meet his sister on her 
 return from the city, he drooped by the side of his feeble 
 mother, and could not bear to be parted from her ; at length 
 he was taken to his bed, and, after lingering four months, he 
 died. This was Margaret's first acquaintance with death. 
 She witnessed his gradual decay almost unconsciously, but 
 still persuaded herself ' he will, he must get well !' She saw 
 her sweet little playfellow reclining upon my bosom during 
 his last agonies ; she witnessed the bright glow which flashed 
 upon his long-faded cheek; she beheld the unearthly light of 
 his beautiful eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine, and 
 exclaimed, ' Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come !' 
 Oh ! it was indeed an hour of anguish never to be forgotten. 
 Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her life. 
 The sudden change from life and animation to the still uncon 
 sciousness of death, for the time almost paralysed her. She 
 shed no tear, but stood like a statue upon the scene of death. 
 But when her eldest brother tenderly led her from the room, 
 her tears gushed forth it was near midnight, and the first 
 thing that aroused her to a sense of what was going on 
 around her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a con 
 viction that it was her province to console me." 
 
 We subjoin a record, from her own pen, of her feelings on 
 this lamentable occasion. 
 
 ON THE CORPSE OF MY LITTLE BROTHER KENT. 
 
 Beauteous form of soulless clay ! 
 
 Image of what once was life ! 
 Hush'd is thy pulse's feeble play, 
 
 And ceased the pangs of mortal strife. 
 
 Oh ! I have heard thy dying groan, 
 
 Have seen thy last of earthly pain ; 
 And while I weep that thou art gone, 
 
 I cannot wish thee here again. 
 
 For ah ! the calm and peaceful smile 
 
 Upon that clay-cold brow of thine, 
 Sjieaks of a spirit freed from sin, 
 
 A spirit joyful and divine.
 
 48 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But thou art gone ! and this cold clay 
 
 Is all that now remains of thee ; 
 For thy freed soul hath wing'd its way 
 
 To blessed immortality. 
 
 That dying smile, that dying groan, 
 
 I never, never can forget, 
 Till death's cold hand hath clasp' d my own, 
 
 His impress on my brow has set. 
 
 Those low, and sweet, and plaintive tones, 
 Which o'er my heart like music swept, 
 
 And the deep, deathlike, chilling moans, 
 Which from thy heaving bosom crept. 
 
 Oh ! thou wert beautiful and fair, 
 
 Our loveliest and our dearest one ! 
 No more thy pains or joys we share, 
 
 No more my brother, thou art gone. 
 
 Thou 'rt gone ! What agony, what woe 
 
 In that brief sentence is express'd ! 
 Oh that the burning tears could flow, 
 
 And draw this mountain from my breast ! 
 
 The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as she 
 saw her bright and beautiful but perishable offspring thus, 
 one by one, snatched away from her. " My own weak 
 frame," says she, " was unable longer to sustain the effects 
 of long watching and deep grief. I had not only lost my 
 lovely boy, but I felt a strong conviction that I must soon 
 resign my Margaret ; or rather, that she would soon follow 
 me to a premature grave. Although she still persisted in the 
 belief that she was well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, 
 (so often mistaken for the bloom of health,) the hurried beat 
 ing of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations con 
 firmed me in this belief, and I sank under this accumulated 
 load of affliction. For three weeks I hovered upon the bor 
 ders of the grave, and when I arose from this bed of pain 
 so feeble that I could not sustain my own weight, it was to 
 witness the rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by 
 exertions to suppress a cough. Oh ! it was agony to see her 
 thus! I was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, 
 lest the agitation of her mind should produce fatal conse 
 quences. As I seated myself by her, she raised her speaking 
 eyes to mine with a mournful, inquiring gaze, and as she read 
 the anguish which I could not conceal, she turned away with 
 a look of despair. She spoke not a word, but silence, still, 
 deathlike silence, pervaded the apartment." The best of 
 medical aid was called in, but the physicians gave no hope; 
 they considered it a deep-seated case of pulmonary consump-
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 49 
 
 tion. All that could be done was to alleviate the symptoms, 
 and protract life as long as possible by lessening the excite 
 ment of the system. When Mrs. Davidson returned to the 
 bedside, after an interview with the physicians, she was re 
 garded with an anxious, searching look, by the lovely little 
 sufferer, but not a question was made. Margaret seemed 
 fearful of receiving a discouraging reply, and " lay, all pale 
 and still, (except when agitated by the cough,) striving to 
 calm the tumult of her thoughts," while her mother seated 
 herself by her pillow, trembling with weakness and sorrow. 
 Long and anxious were the days and nights spent in watching 
 over her. Every sudden movement or emotion excited the 
 hemorrhage. "Not a murmur escaped her lips," says her 
 mother, " during her protracted sufferings. ' How are you, 
 love ? how have you rested during the night ?' ' Well, dear 
 mamma ; I have slept sweetly.' I have been night after 
 night beside her restless couch, wiped the cold dew from her 
 brow, and kissed her faded cheek in all the agony of grief, 
 while she unconsciously slept on ; or if she did awake, her 
 calm sweet smile, which seemed to emanate from heaven, has, 
 spite of my reason, lighted my heart with hope. Except 
 when very ill, she was ever a bright dreamer. Her visions 
 were usually of an unearthly cast : about heaven and angels. 
 She was wandering among the stars ; her sainted sisters were 
 her pioneers ; her cherub brother walked hand in hand with 
 her through the gardens of paradise ! I was always an early 
 riser, but after Margaret began to decline I never disturbed 
 her until time to rise for breakfast, a season of social inter 
 course in which she delighted to unite, and from which she 
 was never willing to be absent. Often when I have spoken 
 to her she would exclaim, ' Mother, you have disturbed the 
 brightest visions that ever mortal was blessed with ! I was in 
 the midst of such scenes of delight ! Cannot I have time to 
 finish my dream?' And when I told her how long it was 
 until breakfast, 'It will do,' she would say, and again lose 
 herself in her bright imaginings ; for I considered these as 
 moments of inspiration rather than sleep. She told me it was 
 not sleep. I never knew but one, except Margaret, who en 
 joyed this delightful and mysterious source of happiness : that 
 one was her departed sister Lucretia. When awaking from 
 these reveries, an almost ethereal light played about her eye, 
 which seemed to irradiate her whole face. A holy calm per 
 vaded her manner, and in truth she looked moie like an angel 
 
 A*
 
 50 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 who had been communing with kindred spirits in the world 
 of light, than any thing of a grosser nature." 
 
 How truly does this correspond with Milton's exquisite 
 description of the heavenly influences that minister to virgin 
 innocence 
 
 " A thousand liv'ried angels lackey her, 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision, 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear : 
 Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 And turn it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
 Till all be made immortal." 
 
 Of the images and speculations that floated in her mind 
 during these half dreams, half reveries, we may form an idea 
 from the following lines, written on one occasion after what 
 her mother used to term her " descent into the world of 
 reality." 
 
 THE JOYS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Oh who can tell the joy and peace 
 
 Which souls redeem'd shall know, 
 When all their earthly sorrows cease, 
 
 Their pride, and pain, and woe ! 
 Who may describe the matchless love 
 Which reigneth with the saints above ? 
 
 What earthly tongue can ever tell 
 
 The pure, unclouded joy 
 Which in each gentle soul doth swell, 
 
 Unmingled with alloy, 
 As, bending to the Lord Most High, 
 They sound his praises through the sky ? 
 
 Through the high regions of the air, 
 
 On angels' wings, they glide. 
 And gaze in wondering silence there 
 
 On scenes to us denied : 
 Their minds expanding every hour, 
 And opening like the summer flower. 
 
 Though not like them to fade away, 
 
 To die, and bloom no more ; 
 Beyond the reach of fell decay, 
 
 They stand in light and power ; 
 But pure, eternal, free from care, 
 They join in endless praises there ! 
 
 When first they leave this world of woe 
 
 For fair, immortal scenes of light, 
 Angels attend them from below, 
 
 And upward wing their joyful flight ; 
 Where, fired with heavenly rapture's flame, 
 They raise on high Jehovah's name.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 51 
 
 O'er the broad arch of heaven it peals, 
 While shouts of praise unnumbered flow ; 
 
 The full, sweet notes sublimely swell, 
 And prostrate angels humbly bow; 
 
 Each heart is tuned to joy above, 
 
 Its theme, a Saviour's matchless love. 
 
 The dulcet yoice, which here below 
 Charm'd with delight each listening ear, 
 
 Mix'd with no lingering tone of woe, 
 Swelling harmonious, soft and clear, 
 
 Will sweetly fill the courts above, 
 
 In strains of heavenly peace and love. 
 
 The brilliant genius, which on earth 
 
 Is struggling with disease and pain, 
 Will there unfold in power and light, 
 
 Nought its bright current to restrain ; 
 And as each brilliant day rolls on, 
 'Twill find some grace, till then unknown. 
 
 And as the countless years flit by, 
 
 Their minds progressing still, 
 The more they know, these saints on high 
 
 Praise more His sovereign will ; 
 No breath from sorrow's whirlwind blast 
 Around their footsteps cast. 
 
 From their high throne they gaze abroad 
 
 On vast creation's wondrous plan, 
 And own the power, the might of God, 
 
 In each resplendent work they scan ; 
 Though sun and moon to nought return, 
 Like stars these souls redeem'd shall burn. 
 
 Oh ! who could wish to stay below, 
 
 If sure of such a home as this, 
 Where streams of love serenely flow, 
 
 And every heart is filled with bliss t 
 They praise, and worship, and adore 
 The Lord of heaven for ever more. 
 
 During this dangerous illness she became acquainted with 
 Miss Sedgwick. The first visit of that most excellent and 
 justly distinguished person, was when Margaret was in a 
 state of extreme debility. It laid the foundation of an attach 
 ment on the part of the latter, which continued until her 
 death. The visit was repeated ; a correspondence afterwards 
 took place, and the friendship of Miss Sedgwick became to 
 the little enthusiast a source of the worthiest pride and purest 
 enjoyment throughout the remainder of her brief existence. 
 
 At length the violence of her malady gave way to skilful 
 remedies and the most tender and unremitting assiduity. 
 When enabled to leave her chamber, she rallied her spirits, 
 made great exertions to be cheerful, and strove to persuade
 
 53 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. * 
 
 herself that all might yet be well with her. Even her parents, 
 with that singular self-delusion inseparable from this cruelly 
 flattering malady, began to indulge a trembling hope that she 
 might still be spared to them. 
 
 In the month of July, her health being sufficiently re-esta 
 blished to bear the fatigues of travelling, she was taken by 
 her mother and eldest brother on a tour to Dutchess County 
 and the western part of New York. On leaving home, she 
 wrote the following lines, expressive of the feelings called 
 forth by the events of the few preceding months, and of a 
 foreboding that she should never return : 
 
 FAREWELL TO RUREMONT. 
 
 Oh ! sadly I gaze on this beautiful landscape, 
 And silent and slow do the big tear-drops swell ; 
 
 And I haste to my task, while the deep sigh is breaking, 
 To bid thee, sweet Ruremont, a lasting farewell. 
 
 Oh ! soft are the breezes which play round the valley, 
 And warm are the sunbeams which gild thee with light, 
 
 All clear and serenely the deep waves are rolling, 
 The sky in its radiance is dazzlingly bright. 
 
 Oh ! gaily the birds 'mid thy dark vines are sporting, 
 And, heaven-taught, pouring their gladness in song ; 
 
 While the rose and the lily their fair heads are bending 
 To hear the soft anthems float gently along. 
 
 Full many an hour have I bent o'er thy waters, 
 
 Or watch'd the light clouds with a joy-beaming eye, 
 
 Till, delighted, I long'd for the eagle's swift pinions, 
 To pierce the full depths of that beautiful sky. 
 
 Though wild were the fancies which dwelt in my bosom, 
 Though endless the visions which swept o'er my soul, 
 
 Indulging those dreams was my dearest enjoyment- 
 Enjoyment unmiugled, unchained by control ! 
 
 But each garden of earth has a something of sorrow, 
 
 A thorn in its rose, or a blight in its breeze, 
 Though blooming as Eden, a shadow hangs o'er thee, 
 
 The spirit of darkness, of pain, of disease ! 
 
 Yes, Ruremont ! thy brow, in its loveliness deck'd, 
 
 Is entwined with a fatal but beautiful wreath, 
 For thy green leaves have shrunk at the mourner's cold toucA 
 
 And thy pale flowers have wept in the presence of death. 
 
 Yon violets, which bloom in their delicate freshness, 
 Were strew'd o'er the grave of our fairest and beet ; 
 
 Yon roses, which charm by their richness and fragrance, 
 Have wither'd and died on his icy-cold breast.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 53 
 
 The soft voice of spring had just breathed o'er the valley, 
 The sweet birds just carol!' d their song in her bower, 
 
 When the angel of death in his terror swept o'er us, 
 And placed in his bosom our fragile young flower. 
 
 Thus, Ruremont, we mourn not thy beauties alone, 
 Thy flowers in their freshness, thy stream in its pride 
 
 But we leave the loved scene of our mourning and tears, 
 We leave the dear spot where our cherish' d one died. 
 
 The mantle of beauty thrown gracefully o'er thee, 
 
 Must touch a soft chord in each delicate heart ; 
 But the tie is more sacred which bids us deplore thee, 
 
 Endear' d by affliction 'tis harder to part. 
 
 The scene of enjoyment is ever most lovely, 
 
 Where blissful young spirits dance mirthful and glad ; 
 
 But when sorrow has mingled her tears with our pleasure, 
 Our love is more tender, our parting more sad. 
 
 How mild is the wing of this delicate zephyr, 
 
 Which fans in its coolness my feverish brow ! 
 But that light wing is laden with breezes that wither, 
 
 And check the warm current of life in its flow. 
 
 Why blight such an Eden, oh spirit of terror ! 
 
 Which sweepest thy thousands each hour to the tomb ? 
 Why, why shouldst thou roam o'er this beautiful valley, 
 
 And mingle thy breath with the rose's perfume ? 
 
 The sun rises bright o'er the clear dancing waters, 
 
 And tinges with gold every light waving tree, 
 And the young birds are singing their welcome to morning 
 
 Alas ! they will sing it no longer for me ! 
 
 The young buds of summer their soft eyes are opening, 
 The wild flowers are bending the pure ripples o'er ; 
 
 But I bid them farewell, and my heart is nigh breaking 
 To think I shall see them and tend them no more. 
 
 I mark yonder path, where so often I 've wander'd, 
 Yon moss-covered rock, with its sheltering tree. 
 
 And a sigh of deep sadness bursts forth to remember 
 That no more its soft verdure shall blossom for me. 
 
 How often my thoughts, to these loved scenes returning, 
 Shall brood o'er the past with its joy and its pain : 
 
 Till waking at last from the long, pleasing slumber, 
 I sigh to behold thee, thus blooming, again. 
 
 The little party was absent on its western tour about two 
 months. " Margaret," says her mother, " appeared to enjoy 
 the scenery, and every thing during the journey interested 
 her. But there was a sadness in her countenance, a pensive- 
 ness in her manner, unless excited by external circumstances, 
 which deeply affected me. She watched every variation in 
 my countenance ; marked every little attention directed to
 
 54 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 herself, such as an alteration in her diet, dress, exposure to 
 the changes of weather, yet still discovered an unwillingness 
 to speak of her declining health, and laboured to conceal every 
 unfavourable symptom or change for the worse. This, of 
 course, imposed upon me the most painful restraint. How 
 heart-breaking to find that she considered my tongue as the 
 herald of mournful tidings, and my face as the mirror of evil 
 to come ! How true that self-deception seems to be almost an 
 invariable sympton attending this dreadful complaint! Mar 
 garet, all unconscious of the rapid strides of the destroyer, 
 taught herself to believe that the alarming symptoms of her 
 case existed only in the imagination of her too anxious mo 
 ther. Yet knowing my experience in these matters, she still 
 doubted and trembled, and feared to ask, lest a confirmation 
 of her vague apprehensions should be the result. She avoided 
 the slightest allusion to the subject of her disease in any way ; 
 and in the morbid excitement of her mind it appeared to her 
 almost like accusing her of something wrong to say that she 
 was not well." 
 
 The following letter was written by her to Miss Sedgwick, 
 after her arrival in Dutchess County. 
 
 " LithgoTO, Putchess County. 
 
 "Happy as I am, my dear madam, in the privilege of 
 writing to you, I cannot permit another day to pass ere I 
 inform you of our safe arrival at one of the most lovely 
 spots in this beautiful and healthy country. Our passage 
 up the river was rather tedious, being debarred the pleasure 
 of remaining upon deck, but this privation was counter 
 balanced by the pleasure of a few moments' conversation 
 with my dear brother, who was permitted to meet us when 
 the boat stopped at West Point. Arrived at Poughkeepsie, 
 brother M. procured a private carriage, which was to 
 convey us to the end of our journey, a distance of twenty 
 miles. The drive was delightful ! The scenery ever chang 
 ing, ever beautiful ! We arrived at Lithgow without much 
 fatigue, where a hearty welcome, that sweetest of cordials, 
 was awaiting us. Oh ! it is a lovely spot ! I thought Rure- 
 mont the perfection of beauty ! but here I find the flowers 
 are as blooming, the birds as gay, the air as sweet, and the 
 prospect far more varied and extensive ; 't is true we have 
 lost the beautiful East River, with its crowd of vessels 
 sweeping gracefully along, but here are hills crowned with 
 the richest foliage, valleys sprinkled with flowers, and wa 
 tered with winding rivulets ; and here, what we prize more 
 than all, a mild, salubrious air, which seems, in the words
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 55 
 
 of the divine poet, " to bear healing in its wings.' Dear 
 mother bore the fatigue of our journey better than we 
 anticipated ; and although I do not think she is permanently 
 better, she certainly breathes more freely, and seems alto 
 gether more comfortable than when in the city. Oh ! how 
 sincerely I hope that a change of air and scene may raise 
 her spirits and renovate her strength. She is now in the 
 midst of friends whom she has known and loved for many 
 years ; and surrounded by scenes connected with many of 
 her earliest remembrances. Farewell, my dear madam ! 
 Please give my love to your dear little nieces ; and should 
 you have the leisure and inclination to answer this, believe 
 me your letter will be a source of much gratification to 
 your 
 
 Highly obliged little friend, 
 
 M. M. DAVIDSON. 
 Miss CATHERINE SEDGWICK. 
 
 August, 1836." 
 
 The travellers returned to Ruremont in September. The 
 tour had been of service to Margaret, and she endeavoured to 
 persuade herself that she was quite well. If asked about her 
 health, her reply was, that "if her friends did not tell her she 
 was ill, she should not, from her own feelings, suspect it." 
 That she was, notwithstanding, dubious on this subject, was 
 evident from her avoiding to speak about it, and from the 
 uneasiness she manifested when it was alluded to. It was 
 still more evident from the change that took place in her 
 habits and pursuits; she tacitly adopted the course of conduct 
 that had repeatedly and anxiously, but too often vainly, been 
 urged by her mother, as calculated to allay the morbid irrita 
 bility of her system. She gave up her studies, rarely in 
 dulged in writing or drawing, and contented herself with light 
 reading, with playing a few simple airs on the piano, and with 
 any other trivial mode of passing away the time. The want 
 of her favourite occupations, however, soon made the hours 
 move heavily with her. Above all things, she missed the 
 exciting exercise of the pen, against which she had been 
 especially warned. Her mother observed the listlessness and 
 melancholy that were stealing over her, and hoped a change 
 of scene might banish them. The airs from the river, too, 
 had been pronounced unfavourable to her health ; the family, 
 therefore, removed to town. The change of residence, how 
 ever, did not produce the desired effect. She became more 
 and more dissatisfied with herself, and with the life of idle 
 ness, as she considered it, that she was leading ; but still she
 
 60 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 had resolved to give the prescribed system a thorough trial 
 A new source of solicitude was now awakened in the bosom 
 of her anxious mother, who read in her mournfully quiet 
 manner and submissive silence, the painful effects of com 
 pliance with her advice. There was not a murmur, however 
 from the lips of Margaret, to give rise to this solicitude ; on 
 the contrary, whenever she caught her mother's eye fixed 
 anxiously and inquiringly on her, she would turn away and 
 assume an air of cheerfulness. 
 
 Six months had passed in this inactive manner. " She 
 was seated one day by my side," says Mrs. Davidson, 
 ' weary and restless, and scarcely knowing what to do with 
 herself, when, marking the traces of grief upon my face, she 
 threw her arms about my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, 
 ' My dear, dear mother !' ' What is it affects you now, my 
 child?' 'Oh! I know you are longing for something from 
 my pen !' I saw the secret craving of the spirit that gave 
 rise to the suggestion. ' I do indeed, my dear, delight in the 
 effusions from your pen, but the exertion will injure you.' 
 'Mamma, I must write! I can hold out no longer! I will 
 return to my pen, my pencil, and my books, and shall again 
 be happy !' I pressed her to my bosom, and cautioned her 
 to remember she was feeble. ' Mother,' exclaimed she, ' I 
 am well ! I wish you were only as well as I am !' " 
 
 The heart of the mother was not proof against these appeals : 
 indeed she had almost as much need of self-denial on this 
 subject as her child, so much did she delight in these early 
 blossomings of her talent. Margaret was again left to her 
 own impulses. All the frivolous expedients for what is usually 
 termed killing time were discarded by her with contempt ; 
 her studies were resumed ; in the sacred writings and in the 
 pages of history she sought fitting aliment for her mind, half 
 famished by its long abstinence; her poetical vein again burst 
 forth, and the following lines, written at the time, show the 
 excitement and elevation of her feelings : 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 
 
 The cravings of immortal mind ! 
 Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 
 
 The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 
 
 Impatient of its long delay, 
 
 The pinion'd spirit fain would roam, 
 And leave this crumbling house of clay, 
 
 To seek above its own bright home .
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 The spirit, 't is a spark of light 
 
 Struck from our God's eternal throne, 
 
 Which pierces through these clouds of night, 
 And longs to shine where once it shone ! 
 
 Earth ! there will come an awful day, 
 When thou shall crumble into nought; 
 
 When thou shall melt beneath that ray 
 
 From whence thy splendours first were caught. 
 
 Quench'd in the glories of its God, 
 Yon burning lamp shall then expire ; 
 
 And flames, from heaven's own altar sent, 
 Shall light the great funereal pyre. 
 
 Yes, thou must die ! and yon pure depths 
 Back from thy darken'd brow shall roll ; 
 
 But never can the tyrant death 
 Arrest this feeble, trusting soul. 
 
 When that great voice, which form'd thee first, 
 Shall tell, surrounding world, thy doom, 
 
 Then the pure soul, enchain'd by thee, 
 Shall rise triumphant o'er thy tomb. 
 
 Then on, still on, the unfetter'd mind 
 
 Through realms of endless space shall fly ; 
 
 No earth to dim, no chain to bind, 
 Too pure to sin too great to die. 
 
 Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 
 
 The cravings of immortal mind ! 
 Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 
 
 The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 
 
 Yet is this never-dying ray 
 
 Caught in thy cold, delusive snares, 
 
 Cased in a cell of mouldering clay, 
 
 And bow'd by woes, and pain, and cares i 
 
 Oh ! how mysterious is the bond 
 
 Which blends the earthly with the pure, 
 
 And mingles that which death may blight 
 With tnat which ever must endure ! 
 
 Arise, my soul, from all below, 
 And gaze upon thy destined home, 
 
 The heaven of heavens, the throne of God, 
 Where sin and care can never come. 
 
 Prepare thee for a state of bliss, 
 
 Unclouded by this mortal veil, 
 Where thou shall see thy Maker's face, 
 
 And dews from heaven's own air inhal*. 
 
 How sadly do the sins of earth 
 
 Deface thy purity and light, 
 That thus, while gazing at tnyself, 
 
 Thou shrink 'st in horror at the sight !
 
 58 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Compound of weakness and of strength, 
 
 Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power 5 
 Loftier than earth, or air, or sea, 
 
 Yet meaner than the lowliest flower ! 
 
 Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still 
 
 To earth, by many a tender tie ! 
 Longing to breathe a purer air, 
 
 Yet tearing, trembling thus to die ! 
 
 She was soon all cheerfulness and enjoyment. Her pen 
 and her pencil were frequently in her hand ; she occupied 
 herself also with her needle in embroidery on canvass, and 
 other fancy work. Hope brightened with the exhilaration of 
 her spirits. " 1 now walk and ride, eat and sleep as usual," 
 she observes in a letter to a young friend, " and although not 
 well, have strong hopes that the opening spring, which reno 
 vates the flowers, and fields, and streams, will revive my en 
 feebled frame, and restore me to my wonted health." In 
 these moods she was the life of the domestic circle, and these 
 moods were frequent and long. And here we should observe, 
 that though these memoirs, which are furnished principally 
 from the recollections of an afflicted mother, may too often 
 represent this gifted little being as a feeble invalid struggling 
 with mortality, yet in truth her life, though a brief, was a 
 bright and happy one. At times she was full of playful and 
 innocent gaiety ; at others of intense mental exaltation ; and 
 it was the very intensity of her enjoyment that made her so 
 often indulge in those poetic paroxysms, if we may be allowed 
 the expression, which filled her mother with alarm. A few 
 weeks of this intellectual excitement was followed by another 
 rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and a long interval of 
 extreme debility. The succeeding winter was one of vicissi 
 tude. She had several attacks of bleeding at the lungs, which 
 evidently alarmed her at the time, though she said nothing, 
 and endeavoured to repress all manifestation of her feelings. 
 If taken suddenly, she instantly resorted to the sofa, and, by 
 a strong effort strove to suppress every emotion. With her 
 eyes closed, her lips compressed, and her thin pale hand rest 
 ing in that of her anxious mother, she seemed to be waiting 
 the issue. Not a murmur would escape her lips, nor did she 
 ever complain of pain. She would often say, by way of con 
 solation to her mother, " Mamma, I am highly favoured. I 
 hardly know what is meant by pain. I am sure I never, to 
 my recollection, have felt it." The moment she was able to 
 sit up, after one of these alarming attacks, every vestige of a
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 59 
 
 sick chamber must be removed. No medicine, no cap, no 
 bed-gown, no loose wrapper must be in sight. Her beautiful 
 dark hair must be parted on her broad, high forehead, het 
 dress arranged with the same care and neatness as when in 
 perfect health ; indeed she studied to banish from her appear 
 ance all that might remind her friends that her health was 
 impaired, and, if possible, to drive the idea from her own 
 thoughts. Her reply to every inquiry about her health was, 
 " Well, quite well ; or at least / feel so, though mother con 
 tinues to treat me as an invalid. True I have a cold, 
 attended by a cough, that is not willing to leave me ; but 
 when the spring returns, with its mild air and sweet blossoms, 
 I think this cough, which alarms mother so much, will leave 
 me." 
 
 She had, indeed, a strong desire to live ; and the cause of 
 that desire is indicative of her character. With all her retiring 
 modesty, she had an ardent desire for literary distinction. 
 The example of her sister Lucretia was incessantly before 
 her ; she was her leading star, and her whole soul was but to 
 emulate her soarings into the pure regions of poetry. Her 
 apprehensions were that she might be cut off in the immatur 
 ity of her powers. A simple, but most touching ejaculation, 
 betrayed this feeling, as, when lying on a sofa, in one of those 
 alarming paroxysms of her malady, she turned her eyes, full 
 of mournful sweetness, upon her mother, and, in a low, sub 
 dued voice, exclaimed, "Oh! my dear, dear mother ! I am 
 so young!" 
 
 We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia was 
 incessantly before her, and no better proof can be given of it 
 than in the following lines, written at this time, which breathe 
 the heavenly aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains, 
 to us, quite unearthly. We may have read poetry more 
 artificially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly 
 divine in its inspiration. 
 
 TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 My sister ! With that thrilling word 
 
 What thoughts unnumber'd wildly spring ! 
 
 What echoes in/roy heart are stirr'd, 
 
 While thus I touch the trembling string ! 
 
 My sister . ere this youthful mind 
 
 Could feel the value of thine own ; 
 Ere this infantine heart could hind, 
 
 In its deep cell, one look, one tone.
 
 60 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 To glide along on memory's stream, 
 And bring back thrilling thoughts of the 
 
 Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream, 
 Thy soul had struggled and was free ! 
 
 My sister! with this mortal eye, 
 I ne'er shall see thy form again; 
 
 And never shall this mortal ear 
 
 Drink in the sweetness of thy strain ! 
 
 Yet fancy wild, and glowing love, 
 Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 
 
 Enwreath'd with graces from above, 
 And deck'd in heaven's own fadeless hu. 
 
 Thy glance of pure seraphic light 
 Sheds o'er my heart its soft'ning ray ; 
 
 Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 
 And hover o'er my path by day. 
 
 I cannot weep that thou art fled, 
 For erer blends my soul with thine ; 
 
 Each thought, by purer impulse led, 
 Is soaring on to realms divine. 
 
 Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts, 
 And lays its inmost recess bare ; 
 
 Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 
 And soothes each wilder passion there. 
 
 I hear thee in the summer breeze, 
 See thee in all that 's pure or fair; 
 
 Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, 
 Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere. 
 
 Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleef, 
 Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue ; 
 
 Thy tears, "such tears as angels weep," 
 Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 
 
 Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, 
 And teach its softer strains to flow ; 
 
 Thy spirit checks each vain desire, 
 And gilds the low'ring brow of woe. 
 
 When fancy wings her upward flight 
 On through the viewless realms of air, 
 
 Clothed in its robe of matchless light, 
 I view thy ransom'd spirit there ! 
 
 Far from her wild delusive dreams, 
 It leads my raptured soul away, 
 
 Where the pure fount of glory streams, 
 And saints live on through endless day. 
 
 When the dim lamp of future years 
 
 Sheds o'er my path its glimmering faint, 
 
 First in the view thy form Appears, 
 My sister, and my guardian saint !
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 81 
 
 Thou gem of light ! my leading star ! 
 
 What thou hast been, I strive to be ; 
 When from the path I wander far, 
 
 Oh turn thy guiding beam on me. 
 
 Teach me to fill thy place below, 
 
 That I may dwell with thee above ; 
 To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 
 
 And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 
 
 Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay. 
 
 For sin too pure, for earth too bright ! 
 And death, who call'd thee hence away, 
 
 Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 
 
 A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
 
 Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, 
 Which gilds the memory of the dead, 
 
 And pours its radiance on thy grave, 
 
 When day hath left his glowing car, 
 
 And evening spreads her robe of love; 
 When worlds, like travellers from afar, 
 
 Meet in the azure fields above ; 
 
 When all is still, and fancy's realm 
 
 Is opening to the eager view, 
 Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, 
 
 Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue. 
 
 I know that here thy harp is mute, 
 
 And quench'd the bright poetic fire, 
 Yet still I bend my ear, to catch 
 
 The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 
 
 Oh ! if this partial converse now 
 
 So joyous to my heart can be, 
 How must the streams of rapture flow 
 
 When both are chakiless, both are free ! 
 
 When borne from earth for evermore, 
 
 Our souls in sacred joy unite, 
 At God's almighty throne adore, 
 
 And bathe in beams of endless light ! 
 
 Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 
 
 I must not, dare not dwell on thee ; 
 My soul, immersed in life's dark stream, 
 
 Is far too earthly to be free. 
 
 Though heaven's bright portal were unclosed, 
 
 And angels wooed me from on high, 
 Too much I fear my shrinking soul 
 
 Would cast on earih its longing eye. 
 
 Teach me to fill thy place below. 
 
 That I may dwell with thee above ; 
 To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 
 
 And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 
 
 5*
 
 62 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 It was probably this trembling solicitude about the duration 
 of her existence, that made her so anxious, about this time, 
 to employ every interval of her precarious health in the cul 
 tivation of her mental powers. Certain it is, during the win 
 ter, chequered as it was with repeated fits of indisposition, 
 she applied herself to historical and other studies with an 
 ardour that often made her mother tremble for the con 
 sequences. 
 
 The following letters to a young female friend were written 
 during one of these intervals. 
 
 "New York, February 26, 1837. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all the dangers which might have be 
 fallen your letter, my dear Henrietta, it arrived safely at its 
 resting-place, and is now lying open before me, as I am 
 quietly sitting, this chill February morning, to inform you 
 of its safe arrival. I find I was not mistaken in believing 
 you too kind to be displeased at my remissness ; and I now 
 hope that through our continued intercourse neither will 
 have cause to complain of the other's negligence. 
 
 " For my own part, I am always willing to assign every 
 reason but that of forgetfulness for a friend's silence. Know 
 ing how often I am obliged to claim this indulgence for my 
 self, and how often ill health prevents me from writing to 
 those I love, I am the more ready to frame apologies for 
 others; indeed I think this spirit of charity (if so I may call 
 it) is necessary to the happiness of correspondents, and as 
 I am sure you possess it, I trust we shall both glide quietly 
 along without any of those little jars which so often inter 
 rupt the purest friendships. And now that my dissertation 
 on letter- writing is at an end, I must proceed to inform you 
 of what I fear will be a disappointment, as it breaks away 
 all those sweet anticipations expressed in your affectionate 
 letter. Father has concluded that we shall not return to 
 Plattsburgh next spring, as he had once intended ; he fears 
 the effects of the cold winds of Lake Champlain upon mo 
 ther and myself, who are both delicate ; and as we have so 
 many dear friends in and about the city, a nearer location 
 would be pleasanter to us and to them. We now think se 
 riously of returning to Ballston, that beautiful little village 
 where we have already spent two delightful years ; and 
 though in this case I must relinquish the idea of visiting my 
 dear 'old home'' and my dear young friend, hope points to 
 the hour when you may become my guest, and where the 
 charms of novelty will in some degree repay us for the de 
 lightful associations and remembrances we had hoped to 
 enjoy. But I cannot help now and then casting a backward 
 glance upon the beautiful scenes you describe, and wishing
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 63 
 
 myself with you. A philosopher would say, 'Since you 
 dannot enjoy what you desire, turn to the pleasures you 
 may possess, and seek in them consolation for what you 
 have lost ;' but I am no philosopher. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " I will endeavour to answer your question about Mrs. 
 Hemans. I have read several lives of this distinguished 
 poetess, by different authors, and in all of them find some 
 thing new to admire in her character and venerate in her 
 genius! She was a woman of deep feeling, lively fancy, and 
 acute sensibilities ; so acute, indeed, as to have formed her 
 chief unhappiness through life. She mingles her own feel 
 ings with her poems so well, that in reading them you read 
 her character. But there is one thing I have often remarked : 
 the mind soon wearies in perusing many of her pieces at 
 once. She expresses those sweet sentiments so often, and 
 introduces the same stream of beautiful ideas so constantly, 
 that they sometimes degenerate into monotony. I know 
 of no higher treat than to read a few of her best produc 
 tions, and comment upon and feel their beauties; but perus 
 ing her volume is to me like listening to a strain of sweet 
 music repeated over and over again, until it becomes so 
 familiar to the ear, that it loses the charm of variety. 
 
 "Now, dear H., is not this presumption in me, to criticise 
 so exquisite an author 1 ? But you desired my opinion and I 
 have given it to you without reserve. 
 
 " You desire me to send you an original poem for your 
 self. Now, my dear Hetty, this is something I am not at 
 present able to do for any of my friends, writing being sup 
 posed quite injurious to persons with weak lungs. And I 
 have still another reason. You say the effect of conveying 
 feelings from the heart and recording them upon paper, 
 seems to deprive them of half their warmth and ardour ! 
 Now, my dear friend, would not the effect of forming them 
 into verse seem to render them still less sincere ! Is not 
 plain prose, as it slides rapidly from the pen, more apt to 
 speak the feelings of the heart, than when an hour or two 
 is spent in giving them rhyme and measure, and all the 
 attributes of poetry?" ******* 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 " New York, April 2d. 1837. 
 
 " About an hour since, my dear Henrietta, I received your 
 token of remembrance, and commence rny answer with an 
 act of obedience to your sovereign will ; but I fear you will 
 repent when too late, and while nodding over the closely 
 written sheet, and peering impatiently into each crowded 
 corner, you will secretly wish you had allowed my pen to
 
 04 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 commence its operations at a more respectful distance from 
 the top of the page However, the request was your own 
 I obey like an obedient friend, and you must abide the con 
 sequences of your rash demand. Should the first slanc-e 
 at my well-filled sheet be followed by a yawn, or its last 
 word be welcomed with a smile, you must blame your own 
 imprudence in bringing down upon your luckless head the 
 accumulated nothings of a scribbler like myself. It is indeed 
 true that we shall not return to Pittsburgh; and much a 
 long to revisit the home of my infancy, and the friends of 
 my earliest remembrance, I shall be obliged to relinquish 
 the pleasure in reality, though fancy, unshackled by earth 
 shall direct her pinions to the north, and linger, delighted 
 on the beautiful banks of the Champlain ! Methinks I hear 
 you exclaim, with impatience, ' Fancy ! what is it* oni 
 for something more substantial.' So do I, ma cherc but 
 since I cannot hope to behold my dear native village and its 
 dear inhabitants with other eyes than those of fancy I w III 
 e'en employ them to the best of my ability. You may be 
 sure we do not prefer the confined and murky atmosphere 
 of the city to the pure and health-giving breezes of the 
 country; far from it-we are already preparing to remove 
 as soon as the mild influence of spring has prevailed over 
 the chilling blasts which we still hear whistling around us 
 and gladly shall we welcome the day that wtll release us 
 from our bondage. But there is some drawback to everv 
 pleasure-some bitter drop in almost every cup of eniov 
 ment; and we shall taste this most keenly when we bfd 
 farewell to the delightful circle of friends who have cheered 
 us during the solitude and confinement of this dreary win 
 ter. The I\ew York air, so far from agreeing with us T 
 deprived us of every enjoyment beyond the boundaries of 
 our own walls and it will be hard to leave those frfends 
 who have taught us to forget the privations of ill heal hn 
 .the pleasure of their society. We have chosen Ballston for 
 our temporary home, from the hope of seeing them oftener 
 there than we could in a secluded town, and because pure 
 air, medicinal waters, and good society have all combined 
 to render i a delightful country residence; yet w 1 a 
 
 " w h k at d ^ ar old home, where pass'd my childish yearb, 
 When fond affection wiped my infant tears ! 
 Where first I leaned from whence my blessings came 
 And lisp d in faltering tones, a mother's name ! 
 
 w dear old home > wner e memory fondly clings 
 Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings 
 Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray 
 Ana pass the hours in pleasing dreams away !
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 rolling wave 
 Thy islets, mirror' 
 
 es the fairy 
 
 & 
 
 And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart ? 
 
 Where'er through future life my steps may roam, 
 
 wept to enjoy it ^^^S lved scenes, I shall scrib- 
 fancy to dwell ^nger upon^ ese ^. t what l most wish 
 
 e ' sweet ' sweet 
 
 home '.' as the song goes. June , 1837. 
 
 .. Now for ,he m ,gh t, , theme UP- , , scarc^ dare 
 to dwell : my visit to PI "e * ^ ^ ay come when 
 
 accompa . e w 
 
 think of it too much--but it l a C01 ; We are now de- 
 
 hope of gaining a still greatei pteas me and make 
 
 ^
 
 66 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 pleasure like those we look forward to, through a long lapse 
 of time, and dwell upon as some bright land that we shall 
 inhabit when the present shall have become the past 1 I 
 have heard it observed that it was foolish to anticipate 
 that it was only increasing the pangs of disappointment. 
 Not so : do we not, in our most sanguine hopes, acknow 
 ledge to ourselves a fear, a doubt, an expectation of disap 
 pointment? Shall we lose the enjoyment of the present, 
 because evil may come in future 1 No, no if anticipation 
 was not meant for a solace, an alleviation of the sorrows 
 of life, would it have been so strongly implanted in our 
 hearts by the great Director of all our passions ? No it is 
 too precious ! I would give up half the reality of joy for the 
 sweet anticipation. Stop I have gone too far for indeed 
 I could not resign my visit to you, though I might hope and 
 anticipate for years ! 
 
 " Just as I had written the above, father interrupted me 
 with an invitation to ride. We have just returned from a 
 lorig, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot compare 
 with Plattsburgh for its rich and varied scenery, still there 
 are romantic woods and shady paths which cannot fail to 
 delight the true lover of nature. 
 
 ******** 
 
 " So you do have the blues, eh 1 I had almost said I was 
 glad of it ; but that would be too cruel I will only say, one 
 does not like to be alone, or in any thing singular, and I too, 
 once in a while, receive a visit from these provoking imps 
 are they not 1 You should not have blamed Scott only, 
 (excuse me,) but yourself, for selecting such a book to chase 
 away melancholy. 
 
 " You ask me if I remember those story-telling days ? In 
 deed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than the 
 recollection of those happy hours ! If my memory could 
 only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly would I 
 resume and continue it when I meet you again. I will ease 
 your heart of its fear for mine your scolding did not break 
 it. My dear H., it is not made of such brittle materials as 
 to crack for a trifle. No, no ! It would be far more prudent 
 to save it entire for some greater occasion, and then make 
 the crash as loud as possible don't you think so 1 Oh non 
 sensical nonsense ! Well, 
 
 ' The greatest and the wisest men 
 Will fool a little now and then.' 
 
 But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen 
 should slide off into some new absurdity." 
 
 On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left New York for 
 Ballston. They had scarce reached there when Mrs. David-
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 67 
 
 son had an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, which con 
 fined her to her bed, and rendered her helpless as an infant. 
 It was Margaret's turn now to play the nurse, which she did 
 with the most tender assiduity. The paroxysms of her mo 
 ther's complaint were at first really alarming, as may be seen 
 by the following extract of a letter from Margaret to Miss 
 Sedgwick, written a short time afterwards : 
 
 "We at first thought she would never revive. It was in 
 deed a dreadful hour, my dear madam a sad trial for poor 
 father and myself, to watch, as we supposed, the last agonies 
 of one so beloved as my dear mother ! But the cloud has 
 passed by, and my heart, relieved from its burden, is filled, 
 almost to overflowing, with gratitude and joy. After a few 
 hours of dreadful suspense, reaction took place, and since 
 then she has been slowly and steadily improving. In a few 
 days, I hope, she will be able to ride, and breathe some of 
 this delightful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and re 
 store her. My own health has improved astonishingly 
 since my coming here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as 
 much as possible in the open air, and find it of great service 
 to me. Oh how much I hope to see you here ! * * * * 
 Do, if possible, try the Ballston air once more. It has been 
 useful to you once, it might be still more so now. You will 
 find warm hearts to welcome you, and we will do all in our 
 power to make your visit pleasant to you. The country 
 does indeed look beautiful ! The woods are teeming with 
 wild flowers, and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild 
 warbling of the birds is far more sweet to me than the 
 most laboured performances of art; they may weary by 
 repetition, but what heart can resist the influence of a 
 lovely day ushered in by the morning song of those sweet 
 carollers ! and even to sleep, as it were, by their melodious 
 evening strain. How I wish you could be here to enjoy it 
 with me." 
 
 The summer of 1837 was one of fhe happiest of her fleet 
 ing existence. For some time after the family removed to 
 Ballston she was very much confined to the house by the 
 illness of her mother, and the want of a proper female com 
 panion to accompany her abroad. At length, a Mr. and Mrs. 
 H., estimable and intimate friends, of a highly intellectual 
 character, came to the village. Their society was an invalua 
 ble acquisition to Margaret. In company with them she was 
 enabled to enjoy the healthful recreations of the country ; to 
 ramble in the woods ; to take exercise on horseback, of which 
 she was extremely fond, and to make excursions about the
 
 68 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 neighbourhood ; while they exerted a guardian care to prevent 
 her, in her enthusiastic love for rural scenery, from exposing 
 herself to any thing detrimental to her health and strength. 
 She gave herself up, for a time, to these exhilarating exercises, 
 abstaining from her usual propensity to overtask her intellect, 
 for she had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recrea 
 tions, and a holiday frame of mind would effectually re-esta 
 blish her health. As usual, in her excited moods, she occa 
 sionally carried these really healthful practices to excess, and 
 would often, says her mother, engage, with a palpitating heart, 
 and a pulse beating at the rate of one hundred and thirty in 
 a minute, in all the exercises usually prescribed 19 preserve 
 health in those who are in full possession of the blessing. She 
 was admonished of her danger by several attacks upon her 
 lungs during the summer, but as they were of short duration, 
 she still flattered herself that she was getting well. There 
 seemed to be almost an infatuation in her case. The exhilara 
 tion of her spirits was at times so great as almost to overpower 
 her. Often would she stand by the window admiring a glo 
 rious sunset, until she would be raised into a kind of ecstasy ; 
 her eye would kindle ; a crimson glow would mount into her 
 cheek, and she would indulge in some of her reveries about 
 the glories of heaven, and the spirits of her deceased sisters, 
 partly uttering her fancies aloud, until turning and catching 
 her mother's eye fixed painfully upon her, she would throw 
 her arms round her neck, kiss away the tears, and sink 
 exhausted on her bosom. The excitement over, she would 
 resume her calmness, and converse on general topics. Among 
 her writings are fragments hastily scrawled down at this time, 
 showing the vague aspirations of her spirit, and her vain at 
 tempts to grasp those shadowy images that sometimes flit across 
 the poetic mind. 
 
 Oh for a something more than this, 
 
 To fill the void within my breast ; 
 A sweet reality of bliss, 
 
 A something bright, but unexpress'd ! 
 
 My spirit longs for something higher 
 Than life's dull stream can e'er supply ; 
 
 Something to feed this inward fire, 
 
 This spark, which never more can die. 
 
 I 'd hold companionship with all 
 
 Of pure, of noble, or divine; 
 With glowing heart adoring fall, 
 
 And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 69 
 
 My soul is like a broken lyre, 
 
 Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone ; 
 
 A note, half trembling on the wire 
 A heart that wants an echoing tone. 
 
 When shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
 
 This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 
 This something words can ne'er express, 
 
 So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 
 
 Language ! thou never canst portray 
 
 The fancies floating o'er my soul ! 
 Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away 
 
 Which o'er my changing visions roll ! 
 
 And again 
 
 Oh I have gazed on forms of light, 
 
 Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear 
 Till in that fleeting space of sight 
 
 Were merged the feelings of a year. 
 
 And I have heard the voice of song, 
 Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 
 
 And my rapt soul would float along 
 As it on waves of melody. 
 
 But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 
 
 I long'd to feel a deeper thrill : 
 And wnile I heard that dying strain, 
 
 I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 
 
 I have been happy, and my soul 
 
 Free from each sorrow, care, regret ; 
 Yet even in these hours of bliss 
 
 I long'd to find them happier yet. 
 
 Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 
 
 Some meteor thought has glanced at willj 
 "T was bright but ever have I sigh'd 
 To find a fancy brighter still. 
 
 Why are these restless, vain desires, 
 Which always grasp at something more 
 
 To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 
 
 Which burn unseen unnoticed soar ? 
 
 Well might the heathen sage have known 
 
 That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 
 That life, and life's tame joys, alone, 
 
 Could never chain the ethereal mind. 
 
 The above, as we have before observed, are mere frag, 
 ments, unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the verses 
 have a vagueness incident to the mood of mind in which they 
 were conceived, and the haste with which they were penned , 
 but in these lofty, indefinite aspirations of a young, half- 
 schooled, and inexperienced mind, we see the early and im- 
 6
 
 70 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 patient flutterings of a poetical genius, which, if spared, 
 might have soared to the highest regions. 
 
 In a letter written to Miss Sedgwick during the autumn, 
 she speaks of her health as having rapidly improved. " I 
 am no longer afflicted by the cough, and mother feels it un 
 necessary now to speak to me as being ill ; though my health 
 is, and probably always will be, very delicate." "And she 
 really did appear better," observes her mother, " and even I, 
 who had ever been nervously alive to every symptom of her 
 disease, was deluded by those favourable appearances, and 
 began to entertain a hope that she might yet recover, when 
 another sudden attack of bleeding at the lungs convinced us 
 of the fallacy of our hopes, and warned us to take every 
 measure to ward off the severity of the climate in the coming 
 winter. A consultation was held between her father and our 
 favourite physician, and the result was that she was to keep 
 within doors. This was indeed sad, but, after an evident 
 struggle with her own mind, she submitted, with her accus 
 tomed good sense, to the decree. All that affection could 
 suggest, was done, to prevent the effects of this seclusion on 
 her spirits." A cheerful room was allotted to her, command- 
 ing an agreeable prospect, and communicating, by folding 
 doors, to a commodious parlour; the temperature of the whole 
 apartment was regulated by a thermometer. Hither her 
 books, writing-table, drawing implements, and fancy work 
 were transported. When once established in these winter 
 quarters, she became contented and cheerful. " She read 
 and wrote," says her mother, " and amused herself with 
 drawing and needle work. After spending as much time as 
 I dare permit in the more serious studies in which she was 
 engaged, she would unbend her mind with one of Scott's de 
 lightful novels, or play with her kitten ; and at evening we 
 were usually joined by our interesting frjends, Mr. and Mrs. H. 
 It is now a melancholy satisfaction to me to believe that she 
 could not, in her state of health, be happier, or more plea 
 santly situated. She was always charmed with the conver 
 sation of Mr. H., and followed him through all the mazes of 
 philosophy with the greatest delight. She read Cousin with 
 a high zest, and produced an abstract from it which gave a 
 convincing proof that she understood the principles there laid 
 down ; after which she gave a complete analysis of the In 
 troduction to the History of Philosophy, by the same author. 
 Her mind must have been deeply engrossed by these studies,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 71 
 
 yet it was not visible from her manner. During this shor' 
 winter she accomplished what to many would have been the 
 labour of years, yet there was no haste, no flurry ; she pur 
 sued quietly her round of occupations, always cheerful. The 
 hours flew swiftly by ; not a moment lagged. I think she 
 never spent a more happy winter than this, with all its varied 
 employments." 
 
 The following extract from a letter to one of her young 
 friends, gives an idea of her course of reading during this 
 winter; and how, in her precocious mind, the playfulness of 
 the child mingled with the thoughtfulness of the woman. 
 
 " You ask me what I am reading. Alas ! book-worm as 
 I am, it makes me draw a long breath to contemplate the 
 books 1 have laid out for perusal. In the first place, I am 
 reading Condillac's Ancient History, in French, twenty-four 
 volumes; Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 
 in four large volumes. 1 have not finished Josephus. In 
 my moments of recreation I am poring over Scott's bewitch 
 ing novels. I wish we could give them some other name 
 instead of novels, for they certainly should not bear the same 
 title with the thousand and one productions of that class 
 daily swarming from the press. Do you think they ought? 
 So pure, so pathetic, so historical, and, above all, so true to 
 human nature. How beautifully he mingles the sad with 
 the grotesque, in such a manner that the opposite feelings 
 they excite harmonize perfectly with each other. His works 
 can be read over and over again, and every time with a 
 growing sense of their beauties. Do you read French 1 If 
 so, I wish we could read the same works together. It would 
 be a great pleasure to me at least, and our mutual remarks 
 might benefit each other. Supposing you will be pleased to 
 hear of my amusements, however trifling, I will venture to 
 name one, at the risk of lowering any great opinion you 
 may have formed of my wisdom ! A pet kitten ! ! ! Yes, my 
 dear Henrietta, a sweet little creature, with a graceful shape, 
 playful temper, white breast, and dear little innocent eyes, 
 which completely belie the reputed disposition of a cat. He 
 is neither deceitful, ferocious, nor ungrateful, but is certainly 
 the most rational being for an irrational one, I ever saw. 
 He is now snugly lying in my lap, watching every move 
 ment of my pen with a quiet purr of contentment. Have 
 you such a pet 1 I wish you had, that we both might play 
 with them at the same time, sunset, for instance, and while 
 so far distant, feel that we were enjoying ourselves in the 
 selfsame way. You ask what I think of animal magnetism 1 
 My dear Hetty, I have not troubled my head about it. I 
 hear of it from every quarter, and mentioned so often with
 
 72 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 contempt, that I have thought of it only as an absurdity 
 If I understand it rightly, the leading principle is the influ 
 ence of one mind upon another ; there is undoubtedly such 
 an influence, to a reasonable degree, but as to throwing one 
 into a magnetic sleep presenting visions before their eyes 
 of scenes passing afar off, it seems almost too ridiculous! 
 Still it may be all true ! A hundred years since, what would 
 have been our feelings to see what is now here so common, 
 a steam engine, breathing lire and smoke, gliding along with 
 the rapidity of thought, and carrying at its black heels a 
 train which a hundred men would fail to move. We know 
 not but this apparent absurdity, this magnetism may be a 
 great and mysterious secret, which the course of time will 
 reveal and adapt to important purposes. ***** 
 What are you studying] Do you play? Do you draw? 
 Please tell me every thing. I wish I could form some pic 
 ture of you to my mind's eye. T t is so tormenting to cor 
 respond with a dear friend, and nave no likeness of them in 
 our fancy. I remember every thing as it used to be, but 
 time makes great changes ! Now here comes my saucy 
 kitten, and springs upon the table before me as if he had a 
 perfect right there. ' What do you mean, little puss 1 ! Come, 
 sit for your portrait !' I hope, dear H., you will fully appre 
 ciate this painting, which I consider as my chef-d'oeuvre, 
 and preserve it as a faithful likeness of my inimitable cat. 
 But do forgive me so much nonsense ! But I feel that to 
 you I can rattle off any thing that comes uppermost. It is 
 near night, and the sun is setting so beautifully after the 
 long storm that I could not sit here much longer, even if I 
 had a whole page to fill. How splendid the moon must 
 look on the bright waters of the Champlain this night ! 
 Good bye, good bye love to all from all, and believe me, 
 now as ever, 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 MARGARET." 
 
 The following passages from her mother's memorandums, 
 touch upon matters of more solemn interest, which occasion 
 ally occupied her young mind : 
 
 " During the whole of the preceding summer her mind 
 had dwelt much upon the subject of religion. Much of her 
 time was devoted to serious reflection, self-examination, and 
 prayer. But she evidently shunned all conversation upon 
 the subject. It was a theme she had always conversed 
 upon with pleasure until now. This not only surprised but 
 pained me. I was a silent but close and anxious observer 
 of the operations of her mind, and saw that, with all hei 
 apparent cheerfulness, she was ill at ease ; perfect silence
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 73 
 
 was however maintained on both sides until the winter 
 commenced, and brought us more closely together. Then 
 her young heart again reposed itself, in confiding love, upon 
 the bosom that heretofore had shared its every thought, and 
 the subject became one of daily discussion. I found her 
 mind perplexed, and her ideas confused by points of doctrine 
 which she could neither understand nor reconcile with her 
 views of the justice and benevolence of God, as exhibited 
 in the Scriptures. Her views of the divine character and 
 attributes had ever been of that elevated cast, which, while 
 they raised her mind above all grosser things, sublimated 
 and purified her feelings and desires, and prepared her for 
 that bright and holy communion without which she could 
 enjoy nothing. Her faith was of that character 'which 
 casteth out fear.' It was sweet and soothing to depend 
 upon Jesus for salvation. It was delightful to behold, in the 
 all-imposing majesty of God, a kind and tender father, who 
 pitied her infirmities, and on whose justice and benevolence 
 she could rest for time and eternity. She had, during the 
 summer, heard much disputation on doctrinal points, which 
 she had silently and carefully examined, and had been 
 shocked at the position which many professing Christians 
 had taken ; she saw much inconsistency, much bitterness 
 of spirit, on points which she had been taught to consider 
 not essential to salvation ; she saw that the spirit of perse 
 cution and uncharitableness which pervaded many classes 
 of Christians, had almost totally destroyed that bond of 
 brotherhood which ought firmly to unite the followers of the 
 humble Saviour ; and she could not reconcile these feelings 
 with her ideas of the Christian character. Her meekness 
 and humility led her sometimes to doubt her own state. She 
 felt that her religious duties were but too feebly performed, 
 and that without divine assistance all her resolutions to be 
 more faithful were vain. She often said, ' Mamma, I am far 
 from right. I resolve and re-resolve, and yet remain the 
 same.' I had shunned every thing that savoured of contro 
 versy, knowing her enthusiasm and extreme sensibility on 
 the subject of religion ; I dreaded the excitement it might 
 create. But I now more fully explained, as well as I was 
 able, the simple and divine truths of the Gospel, and held 
 up to her view the beauty and benevolence of the Father's 
 character, and the unbounded love which could have devised 
 the atoning sacrifice; and advised her at present to avoid 
 controversial writings, and make a more thorough examina 
 tion of the Scriptures, that she might found her principles 
 upon the evidences to be deduced from that groundwork 
 of our faith, unbiassed by the opinions and prejudices of 
 any man. I represented to her, that, young as she was, while 
 in feeble health, researches into those knotty and disputed 
 6*
 
 74 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 subjects would only confuse her mind ; that there was 
 enough of plain practical religion to be gathered from the 
 Bible ; and urged the importance of frequent and earnest 
 prayer, which, with God's blessing, would compose the 
 agitation of her mind, which I considered as essential to 
 her inward peace. 
 
 On one occasion, while perusing Lockhart's Life of Scott 
 with great interest, her mother ventured to sound her feelings 
 upon the subject of literary fame, and asked her whether she 
 had no ambition to have her name go down to posterity. She 
 took her mother's hand with enthusiasm, kissed her cheek, 
 and, retiring to the other room, in less than an hour returned 
 with the following lines : 
 
 TO DIE AND BE FORGOTTEN. 
 
 A few short years will roll along, 
 
 With mingled joy and pain, 
 Then shall I pass a broken tone ! 
 
 An echo of a strain ! 
 
 Then shall I fade away from life, 
 
 Like cloud-tints from the sky, 
 When the breeze sweeps their surface o'er, 
 
 And they are lost for aye. 
 
 The world will laugh, and weep, and sing, 
 
 As gaily as before, 
 But cold and silent I shall be 
 
 As I have been no more. 
 
 The haunts I loved, the flowers I nursed 
 
 Will bloom as sweetly still, 
 But other hearts and other hands 
 
 My vacant place shall fill. 
 
 And even mighty love must fail 
 
 To bind my memory here 
 Like fragrance round the faded rose, 
 
 'T wifl perish with the year. 
 
 The soul may look with fervent hope 
 
 To worlds of future bliss ; 
 But oh how saddening to the heart 
 
 To be forgot in this ! 
 
 How many a noble mind hath shrunk 
 
 From death without a name : 
 Hath look'd beyond his shadowy realm, 
 
 And lived and died for fame. 
 
 Could we not view the darksome grave 
 
 With calmer, steadier eye, 
 If conscious that a world's regret 
 
 Would seek us where we lie ?
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 75 
 
 Faith points, with mild confiding glance, 
 
 To realms of bliss above, 
 Where peace, and joy, and justice reign, 
 
 And never-dying love ! 
 
 But still our earthly feelings cling 
 Around this bounded spot ; 
 
 There is a something burns within 
 Which will not be forgot. 
 
 It cares not for a gorgeous hearse, 
 For waving torch and plume ; 
 
 For pealing hymn, funereal verse, 
 Or richly sculptured tomb ; 
 
 But it would live, undimm'd and fresh, 
 When flickering life departs ; 
 
 Would find a pure and honour'd grave, 
 Embalm'd in kindred hearts. 
 
 Who would not brave a life of tears 
 To win an honour'd name ? 
 
 One sweet and heart-awakening tone 
 From the silver trump of fame ? 
 
 To be, when countless years have past, 
 The good man's glowing theme ? 
 
 To be but I what right have I 
 To this bewildering dream ? 
 
 Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain, 
 To dwell on thoughts like these ; 
 
 /, a frail child, whose feeble frame 
 Already knows disease ! 
 
 Who, ere another spring may dawn, 
 
 Another summer bloom, 
 May, like the flowers of autumn, lie 
 
 A tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Away, away, presumptuous thought, 
 
 I will not dwell on jthee ! 
 For what, alas ! am I to fame, 
 
 And what is fame to me? 
 
 Let all these wild and longing thoughts 
 With the dying year expire, 
 
 And I will nurse within my breast 
 A purer, holier fire ! 
 
 Yes, I will seek my mind to win 
 From all these dreams of strife, 
 
 And toil to write my name within 
 The glorious book of life. 
 
 Then shall old Time, who, rolling on, 
 Impels me towards the tomb, 
 
 Prepare for me a glorious crown, 
 
 Through endless years to bloom. 
 December, 1337.
 
 76 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The confinement to the house, in a graduated temperature, 
 the round of cheerful occupations, and the unremitting care 
 taken of her, produced a visible melioration of her symptoms. 
 Her cough gradually subsided, the morbid irritability of her 
 system, producing often an unnatural flow of spirits, was 
 quieted ; as usual, she looked forward to spring as the genial 
 and delightful season that was to restore her to perfect health 
 and freedom. 
 
 Christmas was approaching, which had ever been a time 
 of social enjoyment in the family ; as it drew near, however, 
 the remembrance of those lost from the fireside circle was 
 painfully felt by Mrs. Davidson. Margaret saw the gloom on 
 her mother's brow, and kissing her, exclaimed, " Dear mo 
 ther, do not let us waste our present happiness in useless re 
 pining. You see I am well, and you are more comfortable, 
 and dear father is in good health and spirits. Let us enjoy 
 the present hour, and banish vain regrets !" Having given 
 this wholesome advice, she tripped off with a light step to pre 
 pare Christmas presents for the servants, which were to be 
 distributed by St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, in the old tradi 
 tional way. Every animated being, rational or irrational, 
 must share her liberality on that day of festivity and joy. 
 Her Jenny, a little bay pony on which she had taken many 
 healthful and delightful rides, must have a gayer blanket, and 
 an extra allowance of oats. " On Christmas morning," says 
 her mother, " she woke with the first sound of the old house- 
 clock striking the hour of five, and twining her arms around 
 my neck, (for during this winter she shared my bed,) and, 
 kissing me again and again, exclaimed 
 
 ' Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
 The golden sun is dawning ! ' 
 
 then slipping a piece of paper into my hand, she sprang out 
 of bed, and danced about the carpet, her kitten in her arms, 
 with all the sportive glee of childhood. When I gazed upon 
 her young face, so bright, so animated, and beautiful, beaming 
 with innocence and love, and thought that perhaps this was 
 the last anniversary of her Saviour's birth she might spend 
 on earth, I could not suppress my emotions : I caught her to 
 my bosom in an agony of tenderness, while she, all uncon 
 scious of the nature of my feelings, returned my caresses 
 with playful fondness." The following verses wero contained 
 in the above-mentioned paper :
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 77 
 
 TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
 
 The golden sun is dawning ! 
 Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
 
 This happy Christmas morning ! 
 
 Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow, 
 
 Each lip is laughing merrily ; 
 A smile hath pass'd o'er winter's brow, 
 
 And the very snow looks cheerily. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the waken' d day, 
 To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing, 
 
 While a thousand, thousand happy hearta 
 Their Christmas lays are singing. 
 
 'Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love, 
 And my heart is overflowing ! 
 
 Come, let us raise our thoughts above, 
 While pure, and fresh, and glowing. 
 
 'T is the happiest day of the rolling year, 
 But it comes in a robe of mourning 
 
 Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here 
 Its icy shroud adorning. 
 
 It comes when all around is dark, 
 
 'Tis meet it so should be, 
 For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, 
 
 The spirit's jubilee. 
 
 It does not need the bloom of spring, 
 Or summer's light and gladness, 
 
 For love has spread her beaming wing 
 O'er winter's brow of sadness. 
 
 ' Twas thus he came, beneath a cloud 
 
 His spirit's light concealing, 
 No crown of earth, no kingly robe 
 
 His heavenly power revealing. 
 
 His soul was pure, his mission love, 
 His aim a world's redeeming ; 
 
 To raise the darken'd soul above 
 Its wild and sinful dreaming. 
 
 With all his Father's power and love 
 The cords of guilt to sever ; 
 
 To ope a sacred fount of light, 
 Which flows, shall flow for ever. 
 
 Then we shall hail the glorious day, 
 
 The spirit's new creation, 
 And pour our grateful feelings forth, 
 
 A pure and warm libation. 
 
 Wake, mother, wake to chasten' d joy, 
 The golden sun is dawning 1 
 
 Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
 This happy Christmas morning.
 
 78 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 "The last day of the year 1837 arrived. Mamma,' said 
 she, 'will you sit up with me to-night until after twelve?' I 
 looked inquiringly. She replied, ' I wish to bid farewell to 
 the present, and to welcome the coming year.' After the 
 family retired, and we had seated ourselves by a cheerful fire 
 to spend the hours which would intervene until the year 1838 
 should dawn upon us, she was serious, but not sad, and as if 
 she had nothing more than usual upon her mind, took some light 
 sewing in her hand, and so interested me by her conversation, 
 that I scarcely noticed the flight of time. At half past eleven 
 she handed me a book, pointing to some interesting article to 
 amuse me, then took her seat at the writing-table, and com 
 posed the piece on the departure of the old year 1837, and 
 the commencement of the new one 1838. When she had 
 finished the Farewell, except the last verse, it wanted a few 
 minutes of twelve. She rested her arms in silence upon the 
 table, apparently absorbed in meditation. The clock struck 
 a sort of deep thought passed over her expressive face she 
 remained solemn and silent until the last tone had ceased to 
 vibrate, when she again resumed her pen and wrote, ' The 
 bell ! it hath ceased.' When the clock struck, I arose from 
 my seat and stood leaning over the back of her chair, with a 
 mind deeply solemnized by a scene so new and interesting. 
 The words flowed rapidly from her pen, without haste or con 
 fusion, and at one o'clock we were quietly in bed." 
 
 We again subjoin the poem alluded to, trusting that these 
 effusions, which are so intimately connected with her personal 
 history, will be read with greater interest, when given in con 
 junction with the scenes and circumstances which prompted 
 them. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1837, AND THE 
 COMMENCEMENT OF 1838. 
 
 Hark to the house-clock's measured chime, 
 
 As it cries to the startled ear, 
 " A dirge for the soul of departing time, 
 
 A requiem for the year." 
 
 Thou art passing away to the mighty past, 
 
 Where thy countless brethren sleep, 
 Till the great Archangel's trumpet-blast, 
 
 Shall waken land and deep. 
 
 Oh the lovely and beautiful things that lie 
 
 On thy cold and motionless breast ! 
 Oh the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the sighs, 
 
 Departing with thcc to their rest.
 
 BIOGRAPHY 7t 
 
 Thou wert usher' d to life amid darkness and gloom, 
 
 But the cold icy cloud pass'd away, 
 And spring, in her verdure, and freshness, and bloom, 
 
 Touch' d with glory thy mantle of gray. 
 
 The flow' rets burst forth in their beauty the trees 
 
 In their exquisite robes were array'd, 
 But thou glidedst along, and the flower and the leaf, 
 
 At the sound of thy footsteps, decay'd. 
 
 And fairer young blossoms were blooming alone, 
 
 And they died at the glance of thine eye, 
 But a life was within which should rise o'er thine own 
 
 And a spirit thou couldst not destroy. 
 
 Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete, 
 
 And fulfiU'd the Creator's behest, 
 Then, adieu to thee, year of our sorrows and joys, 
 
 And peaceful and long be thy rest. 
 
 Farewell ! for thy truth-written record is full, 
 
 And the page weeps, for sorrow and crime ; 
 Farewell ! for the leaf hath shut down on the past, 
 
 And conceal' d the dark annals of time. 
 
 The bell ! it hath ceased with its iron tongue 
 To ring on the startled ear, 
 
 The dirge o'er the grave of the lost one is rung- 
 All hail to the new-born year! 
 
 All hail to the new-born year ! 
 
 To the child of hope and fear ! 
 
 He comes on his car of state, 
 
 And weaves our web of fate, 
 And he opens his robe to receive us all, 
 And we live or die, and we rise or fall, 
 
 In the arms of the new-born year ! 
 
 Hope ! spread thy soaring wings ! 
 
 Look forth on the boundless sea, 
 And trace thy bright and beautiful things 
 
 On the veil of the great To Be. 
 
 Build palaces broad as the sky, 
 
 And store them with treasures of light, 
 
 Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye, 
 And illumine the darkness of night. 
 
 We are gliding fast from the buried year, 
 
 And the present is no more, 
 But hope, we will borrow thy sparkling gear, 
 
 And shroud the future o'er. 
 
 Our tears and sighs shall sleep 
 In the grave of the silent past ; 
 
 We will raise up flowers nor weep 
 That the air hues may not last.
 
 8& MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 We will dream our dreams of joy, 
 
 Ah, fear ! why darken the scene ? 
 Why sprinkle that ominous tear, 
 
 My beautiful visions between? 
 
 Hath not sorrow swift wings of her own, 
 
 That thou must assist in her flight? 
 Is not daylight too rapidly gone, 
 
 That thou must urge onward the night? 
 
 Ah ! leave me to fancy, to hope, 
 
 For grief will too quickly be here ; 
 Ah ! leave me to shadow forth figures of light, 
 
 In the mystical robe of the year. 
 
 ' T is true, they may never assume 
 
 The substance of pleasure, the real, 
 
 But believe me, our purest of joy 
 Consists in the vague the ideal. 
 
 Then away to the darksome cave, 
 
 With thy sisters, the sigh and the tear, 
 
 We will drink, in the crystal wave, 
 To the health of the new-born year. 
 
 ' She had been for some time thinking of a subject for a 
 poem, and the next day, which was the first of January, came 
 to me in great perplexity and asked my advice. I had long 
 desired that she would direct her attention to the beautiful and 
 sublime narratives of the Old Testament, and now proposed 
 that she should take the Bible and examine it with that view. 
 After an hour or two spent in research, slie remarked that 
 there were many, very many subjects of deep and thrilling 
 interest ; but if she now should make a failure, her discou 
 ragement would be such as to prevent her from ever making 
 another attempt. ' I am now,' she said, ' trying my wings ; I 
 will take a lighter subject at first: if I succeed, I will then 
 write a more perfect poem, founded upon Sacred History.' " 
 
 She accordingly took as a theme a prose tale, in a current 
 work of the day, and wrote several pages with a flowing pen, 
 but soon threw them by dissatisfied. It was irksome to 
 employ the thoughts and fancies of another, and to have to 
 adapt her own to the plan of the author. She wanted some 
 thing original. " After some farther effort," says Mrs. Da 
 vidson, " she came to me out of spirits and in tears. ' Mother, 
 said she, ' I must give it up after all.' I asked the reason, and 
 then remarked that as she had already so many labours upon 
 her hands, and was still feeble, it might be the wisest course. 
 4 Oh mother,' said she, ' that is not the reason ; my head and 
 my heart are full : poetic images are crowding upon my brain,
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 81 
 
 but every subject has been monopolised : " there is nothing 
 new under the sun." ' I said, ' My daughter, that others 
 have written upon a subject is not an objection. The most 
 eminent writers do not always choose what is new.' ' Mo 
 ther, dear mother, what can I say upon a theme which has 
 been touched by the greatest men of this or some other age ? 
 I, a mere child ; it is absurd in me to think of it.' She 
 dropped beside me on the sofa, laid her head upon my bosom, 
 and sobbed violently. I wiped the tears from her face, while 
 my own were fast flowing, and strove to soothe the tumult of 
 her mind. * * * When we were both more calm, I said, 
 ' Margaret, I had hoped that during this winter you would not 
 have commenced or applied yourself to any important work ; 
 but if you feel in that way, 1 will not urge you to resign an 
 occupation which gives you such exquisite enjoyment.' " 
 
 Mrs. Davidson then went on to show to her that, notwith 
 standing the number of poets that had written, the themes and 
 materials for poetry are inexhaustible. By degrees Margaret 
 became composed, took up a book and read. The words of 
 her mother dwelt in her mind. In a few days she brought 
 her mother the introduction to a projected poem to be called 
 Lenore. Mrs. Davidson was touched at finding the remarks 
 she had made for the purpose of soothing the agitation of her 
 daughter had served to kindle her imagination, and were 
 poured forth with eloquence in those verses. The excitement 
 continued, and the poem of Lenore was completed, corrected, 
 and copied into her book by the first of March ; having writ 
 ten her plan in prose at full length, containing about the same 
 number of lines as the poem. " During its progress," says 
 Mrs. Davidson, " when fatigued with writing, she would take 
 her kitten, and recline upon her sofa, asking me to relate to 
 her some of the scenes of the last war. Accordingly, I would 
 while away our solitude by repeating anecdotes of that period ; 
 and before Lenore was completed she had advanced several 
 pages in a prose tale, the scene of which was laid upon Lake 
 Champlain during the last war. She at the same time exe 
 cuted faces and figures in crayon, which would not have dis 
 graced the pencil of an artist. Her labours were truly im 
 mense. Yet a stranger coming occasionally to the house 
 would hardly observe that she had any pressing avoca 
 tions." 
 
 The following are extracts from a rougfe -fraught of a letter 
 written to Miss Sedgwick about this time. 
 7
 
 32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 1 My DEAR MADAM, 
 
 " I wish I could express to you my pleasure on receiving 
 your kind and affectionate letter. So far from considering 
 myself neglected by your silence, I felt it a great privilege 
 to be permitted to write to you, and knew that I ought not 
 to expect a regular answer to every letter, even while I was 
 longing, day after day, to receive this gratifying token of 
 remembrance. Unless you had witnessed, I iear you would 
 hardly believe my extravagant delight on reading the dear 
 little folded paper, so expressive of your kind recollection. 
 I positively danced for joy ; bestowed a thousand caresses 
 upon every body and every thing I loved, dreamed of you 
 all night, and arose next morning (with a heart full,) to 
 answer your letter, but was prevented by indisposition, and 
 have not been able untfl now to perform a most pleasing 
 duty by acknowledging its receipt. My health during the 
 past winter has been much better than we had anticipated. 
 J't is true I have been with dear mother, entirely confined 
 to the house, but being able to read, write, and perform all 
 my usual employments, I feel that I have much more reason 
 to be thankful for the blessings continued to me, than to 
 repine because a few have been denied. But spring is now 
 here in name, if not in reality, and I can assure you my 
 heart bounds at the thought of once more escaping from 
 my confinement, and breathing the pu/e air of Heaven, 
 without fearing a blight or consumption in every breeze. 
 Spring ! What pleasure does that magic syllable convey to 
 the heart of an invalid, laden with swest promises, and 
 bringing before his mind visions of liberty, which those who 
 are always free cannot enjoy. Thus do I dream of summer, 
 I may never see, and make myself happy for hours in 
 anticipating pleasures I may never share. It is an idle 
 employment, and little calculated to sweeten disappoint 
 ment. But it has opened to me many sources of delight 
 otherwise unknown; and when out of humour with the 
 present, I have only to send fancy flower-gathering in the 
 future, and I find myself fully repaid. Dear mother's health 
 has also been much better than we had feared, and her ill 
 turns less frequent and severe. She sits up most of the 
 day, walks around the lower part of the house, and enjoys 
 her book and her pen as much as ever. ***** * You 
 speak of your intercourse with Mrs. Jameson. It must 
 indeed be an exquisite pleasure to be intimately associated 
 with a mind like hers. I have never seen any thing but 
 extracts from her writings, but must obtain and read them. 
 I suppose the world is anxiously looking for her next volume. 
 * * * We have been reading Lockhart's Life of Scott. Is 
 it not a deeply interesting work ? In what a beautiful light 
 it represents the character of that great and good man
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 83 
 
 No one can read his life or his works without loving and 
 venerating him. As to ' the waters of Helicon' we have but 
 a few niggardly streams in this, our matter-of-fact village ; 
 and father in his medical capacity has forbidden my par 
 taking of them as freely as I could wish. But no matter, 
 they have been frozen up, and will flow in ' streams more 
 salubrious ' beneath the milder sky of spring." 
 
 In all her letters we find a solicitude about her mother's 
 health, rather than about her own, and indeed it was difficult 
 to say which was most precarious. 
 
 The following extract from a poem written about this time 
 to " Her Mother on her fiftieth Birthday" presents a beautiful 
 portrait, and does honour to the filial hand that drew it. 
 
 Yes, mother, fifty years have fled 
 With rapid footsteps o'er thy head ; 
 Have past with all their motley train, 
 And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
 How many smiles and sighs and tears, 
 How many hopes and doubts and fears 
 Have vanish' d with that lapse of years. 
 
 Oh that we all could look like thee, 
 Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
 And 'mid its varied records find 
 A heart at ease with all mankind, 
 A firm and self-approving mind 
 Grief that had broken hearts less fine 
 Hath only served to strengthen thine. 
 
 Time that doth chill the fancy's play 
 Hath kindled, thine with purer ray : 
 And stern disease, whose icy dart 
 Hath power to chill the breaking heart, 
 Hath left thine warm with love and truth, 
 As in the halcyon days of youth. 
 
 The following letter was written on the 26th of March, to 
 a female cousin resident in New York. 
 
 " DEAR KATE : This day I am fifteen, and you can, you 
 will, readily pardon and account for the absurd flights of 
 my pen, by supposing that my tutelary spirits, nonsense 
 and folly, have assembled around the being of their crea 
 tion, and claimed the day as exclusively their own ; then I 
 pray you to lay to their account all that I have already 
 scribbled, and believe that, uninfluenced by these grinning 
 deities, I can think and feel, and love, as I love you with all 
 warmth and sincerity of heart. Do you remember how 
 we used to look forward to sweet fifteen as the pinnacle of 
 human happiness, the golden age of existence 1 You have 
 but lately passed that milestone in the highway of life j I 
 have just reached it, but I find myself no better satisfied to
 
 P4, MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 stand still than before, and look forward to the continuance 
 of my journey with the same ardent longing I felt at fourteen. 
 " Ah, Kate, here we are, two young travellers starting 
 forth upon our long pilgrimage, and knowing not whither 
 it may conduct us ! You some months my superior in age, 
 and many years in acquaintance with society, in external 
 attractions, and all those accomplishments necessary to 
 form an elegant woman. /, knowing nothing of life but 
 from books, and a small circle of friends, who love me as I 
 Jove them ; looking upon the past as a faded dream, which 
 I shall have time enough to study and expound when old 
 age and sorrow come on; upon the present as a nursling, 
 a preparative for the future; and upon that future, as what? 
 a mighty whirlpool, of hopes and fears, of bright anticipa 
 tions and bitter disappointments, into which I shall soon 
 plunge, and find there, in common with the rest of the 
 world, my happiness or misery." 
 
 The following to a young friend, was also written on the 
 26th of March. 
 
 " MY DEAR H. : You must know that winter has come, 
 and gone, and neither mother nor myself have felt a single 
 breeze which could not force its way through the thick 
 walls of our little dwelling. Do you not think I am looking 
 gladly forward to April and May, as the lovely sisters who 
 are to unlock the doors of our prison house, and give us 
 once more to the free enjoyment of nature, without fearing 
 a blight or a consumption in every breath ? \nd now for 
 another, and even more delightful anticipation your visit ! 
 Are you indeed coming 1 And when are you coming ? Do 
 answer the first, that I may for once have the pleasure of 
 framing delightful visions without finding them dashed to 
 the .ground by the iron hand of reality; and the last, that I 
 may not expect you too soon, and thus subject myself to 
 all the bitterness of " hope deferred." Come, for I have so 
 much to say to you, that I cannot possibly contain it until 
 summer; and come quickly, unless you are willing to 
 account for my wasted time as well as your own, for I shall 
 do little else but dream of you and your visit until the time 
 of your arrival. You cannot imagine how those few words 
 in your little good for nothing letter have completely upset 
 my wonted gravity. Do not disappoint me. It is true, 
 mother and I are both feeble and unable to go out with you 
 and show you the lions of our little village ; but if warm 
 welcomes can atone for the want of ceremony, you shall 
 have them in abundance : but it seems to me that I shall 
 want to pin you down in a chair, and do nothing but look 
 at you from morning till night. As to coming to Platts- 
 burgh, I think if we cannot do so in the spring, ("which is
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 85 
 
 doubtful,) we certainly shall in the course of the summer. 
 Brother M. wrote to me yesterday, saying that he would 
 spend the month of August in the country, and if nothing 
 occurred to prevent, we would take our delightful trip by 
 the way of Lake George. Oh it will be so pleasant ! But 
 my anticipations are now all bent upon a nearer object. 
 Do not allow a slight impediment to destroy them. We 
 expect in May to move to Saratoga. We shall then have 
 a more convenient house, better society, and the benefit of 
 a school in which I can practise music and drawing, without 
 being obliged to attend regularly. We shall then be a few 
 miles nearer to you, and at present that seems something 
 desirable to me. I have read and own three volumes of 
 Scott's life, and was much disappointed to find that it was 
 not finished in these three, but concluded the remainder had 
 not yet come out. Are the five volumes all ? it is indeed a 
 deeply interesting work. I am very fond of biography, for 
 surely there can -be nothing more delightful or instructive 
 than to trace in the infancy and youth of every noble mind 
 the germs of its future greatness. Have you read a work 
 called Letters from Palmyra, by Mr. Ware of New York 1 
 I have not yet seen it, but intend to do so soon. It is writ 
 ten in the character of a citizen of Rome at that early 
 period, and it is said to be a lively picture of the manners 
 and customs of the imperial city, and still more of the 
 magnificence of Palmyra, and its splendid queen Zenobia. 
 It also contains a beautiful story. I have lately been re- 
 perusing many of Scott's novels, and intend to finish them. 
 Was ever any thing half so fascinating 1 Oh how I long to 
 have you here and tell you all these little things in person. 
 Do write to me immediately, and tell me when we may 
 expect you; I shall open your next with a beating heart. 
 Do excuse all the blunders and scrawls of this hasty letter. 
 You must receive it as a proof of friendship, for to a stran 
 ger, or one who I thought would look upon it with a cold 
 and critical eye, I certainly should not send it. I believe 
 you and I have entered into a tacit agreement to forgive 
 any little mistakes, which the other may chance to commit. 
 Croyez moi ma chere amie votre 
 
 MARGUERITE." 
 
 The spirits of this most sensitive little being became more 
 and more excited with the opening of spring. " She watched," 
 says her mother, " the putting forth of the tender grass and 
 the young blossoms as the period which was to liberate her 
 from captivity. She was pleased with every body and every 
 Ihintr. She loved every thing in nature, both animate and 
 inanimate, with a warmth of affection which displayed the 
 7*
 
 86 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 benevolence of her own heart. She felt that she was well, 
 and oh ! the bright dreams and imaginings the cloudless future 
 presented to her ardent mind all wers sunny and gay." 
 
 The following letter is highly expressive of the state of her 
 feelings at that period. 
 
 " A few days since, my dearest cousin, I received your 
 affectionate letter, and if my heart smote me at the sight 
 of the well-known superscription, you may imagine how 
 unmercifully it thumped on reading a letter so full of affec 
 tion, and so entirely devoid of reproach for my unkindly 
 negligence. I can assure you, my dear coz, you could have 
 no better way of striking home to my heart the conviction 
 of my error ; and I resolved that hour, that moment, to lay 
 my confessions at your feet, and sue for forgiveness ; I 
 knew you were too gentle to refuse. But alas ! for human 
 resolves ! We were that afternoon expecting brother M. 
 Dear brother ! And how could I collect my floating thoughts 
 find curl myself up into a corner with pen, ink and paper 
 before me, when my heart was flying away over the sand 
 hills of this unromantic region, to meet and embrace and 
 welcome home the wanderer"? If it can interest you, picture 
 to yourself the little scene : Mother and I breathless with 
 expectation, gazing from the window, in mute suspense, 
 and listening to the 'phiz, phiz,' of the great steam-engine. 
 Then when we caught a rapid glance of his trim little figure, 
 how we bounded away over chairs, sofas, and kittens, to 
 bestow in reality the greeting fancy had so often given him. 
 Oh ! what is so delightful as to welcome a friend ! Well, 
 three days have passed like a dream, and he is gone again. 
 I am seated at my little table by the fire. Mother is sewing 
 beside me. Puss is slumbering on the hearth, and nothing 
 external remains to convince us of the truth of that bright 
 sunbeam which had suddenly broken upon our quiet retreat, 
 and departed like a vision as suddenly. When shall we 
 have the pleasure of welcoming you thus, my beloved cou 
 sin 1 Your flying call of last summer was but an aggrava 
 tion. Oh ! may all good angels watch over you and all you 
 love, shake the dew of health from their balmy wings upon 
 your smiling home, and waft you hither, cheerful and happy, 
 to sojourn awhile with the friends who love you so dearly ! 
 All hail to spring, the bright, the blooming, the renovating 
 spring ! Oh ! I am so happy I feel a- lightness at my heart, 
 and a vigour in my frame that I have rarely felt. If I speak 
 my voice forms itself into a laugh. If I look forward, every 
 thing seems bright before me. If I look back, memory calls 
 up what is pleasant, and my greatest desire is that my pen 
 could fling a ray of sunshine over this scribbled page, ana 
 infuse into your heart some of the cheerfulness of my own.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 87 
 
 1 have been confined to the house all winter, as it was 
 thought the best and only way of restoring my health. Now 
 my symptoms are all beMer, and I am looking forward to 
 next month and its blue skies with the most childish impa 
 tience. By the way, I am not to be called a child any more ; 
 for yesterday I was fifteen, what say you to that 1 I feel 
 quite like an old woman, and think of putting on caps and 
 spectacles next month." 
 
 It was during the same exuberance of happy feeling, with 
 the delusive idea of confirmed health, and the anticipation of 
 bright enjoyments, that she broke forth like a bird into the 
 following strain of melody. 
 
 Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy, 
 
 With a rapture too full to express ; 
 From within and without I am blest, 
 
 And the world, like myself, I would bless. 
 
 All nature looks fair to my eye, 
 
 From beneath and around and above, 
 Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, 
 
 And the broad earth is glowing with love. 
 
 I stand on the threshold of life, 
 
 On the shore of its wide-rolling sea, 
 I have heard of its storms and its strife, 
 
 But all things are tranquil to me. 
 
 There 's a veil o'er the future 't is bright 
 
 As the wing of a spirit of air, 
 And each form of enchantment and light 
 
 Is trembling in Iris hues there. 
 
 I turn to the world of affection, 
 
 And warm, glowing treasures are mine ; 
 
 To the past, and my fond recollection 
 Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 
 
 But oh, there 's a fountain of joy 
 
 More rich than a kingdom beside ; 
 It is holy death cannot destroy 
 
 The flow of its heavenly tide. 
 
 'Tis the love that is gushing within 
 
 It would bathe the whole world in its light 
 
 The cold stream of lime shall not quench, 
 The dark frown of woe shall not blight. 
 
 These visions of pleasure may vanish, 
 These bright dreams of youth disappear 
 
 Disappointment each air hue may banish, 
 And drown each frail joy in a tear. 
 
 I may plunge in the billows of life, 
 
 I may taste of its dark cup of woe, 
 I may weep, and the sad drops of grief 
 
 May blend with the waves as they flow
 
 88 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 I may dream, till reality's shadow 
 
 O'er the light form of fancy is cast ; 
 I may hope, until hope, too, despairing 
 
 Has crept to the grave of the past. 
 
 But though the wild waters surround me, 
 
 Misfortune, temptation, and sin, 
 Though fear be about and beyond me, 
 
 And sorrow's dark shadow within ; 
 
 Though age, with an icy-cold finger, 
 
 May stamp his pale seal on my brow 
 Still, still in my bosom shall linger 
 
 The glow that is warming it now. 
 
 Youth will vanish, and pleasure, gay charmer, 
 
 May depart on the wings of to-day, 
 But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer, 
 
 As year after year rolls away. 
 
 " While her spirits were thus light and gay," says Mrs, 
 Davidson, " from the prospect of returning health, my more 
 mature judgment told me that those appearances might be 
 deceptive that even now the destroyer might be making sure 
 his work of destruction ; but she really seemed better, the 
 cough had subsided, her step was buoyant, her face glowed 
 with animation, her eye was bright, and love, boundless, uni 
 versal love, seemed to fill her young heart. Every symptom 
 of her disease assumed a more favourable cast. Oh how my 
 heart swelled with the mingled emotions of hope, doubt, and 
 gratitude ! Our hopes of her ultimate recovery seemed to be 
 founded upon reason, yet her father still doubted the propriety 
 of our return to Lake Champlain ; and as Saratoga held out 
 many more advantages than Ballston as a temporary resi 
 dence, he decided to spend the ensuing year or two there ; 
 and then we might perhaps, without much risk, return to our 
 much-loved and long-deserted home on the banks of the 
 Saranac. Accordingly a house was taken, and every prepa 
 ration made for our removal to Saratoga on the first of May. 
 Margaret was pleased with the arrangement." 
 
 The following playful extract of a letter to her brother in 
 New York, exhibits her feelings on the prospect of their 
 change of residence : 
 
 "I now most humbly avail myself of your most gracious 
 permission to scribble you a few lines in token of my ever 
 lasting love. ' This is to inform you I am very well, hoping 
 these few lines will find you in possession of the same bless 
 ing' notwithstanding the blue streaks that flitted over your 
 pathway a few days after you left us. Perhaps it was occa-
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 89 
 
 sioned by remorse, at the cruelty of your parting speech ; 
 perhaps it was the reflection of a bright blue eye, upon the 
 deep waters of your soul ; but let the cause be what it may, 
 ' black spirits or white, blue spirits or grey,' I hope the effect 
 has entirely disappeared, and you are no longer tinged with 
 its most doleful shadow. A blue sky, a blue eye, or the blue 
 dye of the violet, are all undeniably beautiful, but this tint 
 when transferred from the works of nature to the brow of 
 man, or the stockings of woman, becomes a thing to ridicule 
 or weep at. May your spirits henceforth, my dear brother, 
 be preserved from this ill-omened influence, and may your 
 feet and ankles never be graced with garments of a hue so 
 repulsive. Oh, brother, we are all in the heat of moving ; 
 we, I say you will account for the use of that personal 
 pronoun on the authority of the old proverb, 'What a dust 
 we flies raise,' for, to be frank with you, I have little or no 
 thing to do with it, but poor mother is over head and ears 
 in boxes, bedclothes, carpets, straw and discussions. Our 
 hall is already filled with the fruits of her labours and per 
 severance, in the shape of certain blue chests, carpet cases, 
 trunks, boxes, &c., all ready for a move. Dear mother is 
 head, hands, and feet for the whole machine ; our two helps 
 being nothing but cranks, which turn when you touch them, 
 and cease their rotary movement when the force is with 
 drawn. Heigho ! We miss our good C , with her quick 
 
 invention and hopeful hand. ***** oh, my dear brother, 
 I am anticipating so much pleasure next summer, I hope it 
 will not all prove a dream. It will be so delightful when 
 
 you come up in August and bring cousin K with you ; 
 
 tell her I am calculating upon this pleasure with all my 
 powers of fore-enjoyment tell her also, that I am waiting 
 most impatiently for that annihilating letter of hers, and if 
 it does not come soon, I shall send her another cannonade, 
 ere she has recovered the stunning effects of the first. Oh 
 dear ! I have written a most disunderstandable letter, and 
 now you must excuse me, as I have declared war against 
 M , and after mending my pen, must collect all my scat 
 tered ideas into a fleet, and launch them for a combat upon 
 a whole sea of ink." 
 
 " The exuberance of her spirits," says her mother, " as the 
 spring advanced, and she was enabled once more to take exer 
 cise in the open air, displayed itself in every thing. Her 
 heart was overflowing with thankfulness and love. Every 
 fine day in the latter part of April, she either rode on horse- 
 back or drove out in a carriage. All nature looked lovely to 
 her, not a tree or shrub but conveyed some poetical image or 
 moral lesson to her mind. The moment, however, that she
 
 90 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 began to take daily exercise in the open air, I again heard 
 with agony the prophetic cough. I felt that all was over ! 
 She thought that she had taken cold, and our friends were of 
 the same opinion. ' It was a slight cold which would vanish 
 beneath the mild influence of spring.' I, however, feared 
 that her father's hopes might have blinded his judgment, and 
 upon my own responsibility consulted a skilful physician, who 
 had on many former occasions attended her. She was not 
 aware of my present alarm, or that the physician was now 
 consulted. He managed in a playful manner to feel her 
 pulse, without her suspicions. After he had left the room, 
 ' Madam,' said he, ' it is useless to hold out any false hopes ; 
 your daughter has a seated consumption, which is, I fear, 
 beyond the reach of medical skill. There is no hope in the 
 case ; make her as happy and as comfortable as you can ; 
 let her enjoy riding in pleasant weather, but her walks must 
 be given up ; walking is too great an exertion for her.' With 
 an a.ching heart I returned to the lovely unconscious victim, 
 and found her tying on her hat for a ramble. I gently tried 
 to dissuade her from going. She caught my eye, and read 
 there a tale of grief, which she could not understand, and I 
 could not explain. As soon as I dared trust my voice, I said, 
 ' My dear Margaret, nothing has happened, only I have just 
 
 been speaking with Dr. , respecting you, and he advises 
 
 that you give up walking altogether. Knowing how much 
 you enjoy it, I am pained to mention this, for I know that it 
 will be a great privation.' ' Why, mamma,' she exclaimed, 
 ' this cold is wearing off, may I not walk then ?' ' The Doctor 
 thinks you should make no exertion of that kind, but riding 
 in fine weather may have a happy effect.' She stood and 
 gazed upon my face long and earnestly ; then untied her hat 
 and sat down, apparently ruminating upon what had past ; 
 she asked no questions, but an expression of thoughtfulness 
 clouded her brow during the rest of the day. It was settled 
 that she was to ride out in fine weather, but not to walk out 
 at all, and in a day or two she seemed to have forgotten the 
 circumstance altogether. The return of the cough, and pro 
 fuse night perspirations, too plainly told me her doom, but I 
 still clung to the hope, that, as she suffered no pain, she 
 might, by tender judicious treatment, continue yet for years. 
 I urged her to remit her labours ; she saw how much my 
 heart was in the request, and promised to. comply with my 
 wishes. On the first of May we removed to Saratoga. One
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 91 
 
 short half hour in the railroad-car completed the journey, and 
 she arrived fresh, cheerful, and blooming in her appearance, 
 such an effect had the excitement of pleasure upon her lovely 
 face." 
 
 On the day we left Ballston she wrote a " Parting Word" 
 to Mrs. H., who had been one of our most intimate and af 
 fectionate visitors throughout the winter, and whose husband 
 had assisted her much in her studies of moral philosophy, 
 as well as delighted her by his varied and instructive con 
 versation. 
 
 A PARTING WORD TO MY DEAR MRS. H. 
 
 Ballston Spa, April 30, 1833 
 
 At length the awful morn hath come, 
 
 The parting hour is nigh, 
 And I sit down 'mid dust and gloom, 
 
 To bid you brief "good-bye." 
 
 Each voice to fancy's listening ear 
 
 Repeats the doleful cry, 
 And the bare walls and sanded floor 
 
 Re-echo back "good-bye." 
 
 So must it be ; but many a thought 
 
 Comes crowding on my mind, 
 Of the dear friends, the happy hours, 
 
 The joys we leave behind. 
 
 How we shall miss your cheerful face, 
 
 For ever bright and smiling, 
 And your sweet voice, so often heard, 
 
 Our weary hours beguiling ! 
 
 How shall we miss the kindly hearts, 
 
 Which none can know unloving, 
 Whose thoughts and feelings none can read, 
 
 Nor find his own improving ! 
 
 And he, whose converse, hour by hour, 
 
 Hath lent old Time new pinions, 
 Whose hand hath drawn the shadowy veil 
 
 From wisdom's broad dominions ; 
 
 Whose voice hath poured forth priceless gems 
 
 Scarce conscious that he taught, 
 Whose mind of broad, of loftiest reach, 
 
 Hath shower'd down thought on thought. 
 
 True, we may meet with many a dear 
 
 And cherish'd friend, but yet 
 Oft shall we cast a backward glance 
 
 Of wistful, vain regret. 
 
 When evening spreads her sombre veil, 
 
 To fold the slumbering earth, 
 When our small circle closes round 
 
 The humble, social hearth
 
 *9 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oft shall we dream of hours gone by 
 
 And con these moments o'er, 
 Till we half bend our ears to catch 
 
 Your footsteps at the door, 
 And then turn back and sigh to think 
 
 We hear those steps no more ! 
 
 But though these dismal thoughts arise 
 
 Hope makes me happy still ; 
 There is a drop of comfort lurks 
 
 In every draught of ill ! 
 
 By pain and care each joy of earth 
 
 More exquisite is made, 
 And when we meet, the parting grief 
 
 Shall doubly be o'erpaid. 
 
 In disappointments deep too quick 
 
 Our fairest prospects drown, 
 Let not this hope, which blooms so bright, 
 
 Be wither'd at his frown ! 
 
 Come, and a mother's pallid cheek 
 
 Shall brighten at your smile, 
 And her poor frame, so faint and weak, 
 
 Forget its pains the while. 
 
 Come, and a glad and happy heart 
 
 Shall give the welcome kiss, 
 And puss shall purr, and frisk, and mew, 
 
 In token of her bliss. 
 
 Come ! and behold how I improve 
 
 In dusting cleaning sweeping; 
 And I will hear, with patient ear, 
 
 Your lectures on housekeeping. 
 
 And now, may all good angels guard 
 
 Your path where'er it lie ; 
 May peace reign monarch in your breast, 
 
 And gladness in your eye. 
 
 And may the dews of health descend 
 
 On him you cherish best, 
 To his worn frame their influence lend, 
 
 And calm each nerve to rest ! 
 
 And may we meet again, nor feel 
 
 The parting hour so nigh 
 Peace, love, and happiness to all, 
 
 Once more once more, "good-bye!" 
 
 " She interested herself," continued Mrs. Davidson, " more 
 than I had anticipated in the arrangement of our new habita 
 tion, and in forming plans of future enjoyment with our 
 friends when they should visit us; I exerted myself to please 
 her taste in every thing, although she was prohibited from 
 making the slightest physical exertion herself. The house
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 93 
 
 settled, then came the flower-garden, in which she spent more 
 time than I thought prudent ; but she was so happy while 
 thus engaged, and the weather being fine, and the gardener 
 disposed to gratify and carry all her little plans into effect, I, 
 like a weak mother, wanted resolution to interfere, and have 
 always reproached myself for it, although not conscious that 
 it was an injury at the time. Her brother had invited her to 
 return to New York with him when he came to visit us in 
 June, and she was now impatiently counting the days until 
 his arrival. Her feelings are portrayed in a letter to her 
 young friend H." 
 
 " Saratoga, June 1. 1838. 
 
 "June is at last with us, my dear cousin, and the blue- 
 eyed goddess could not have looked upon the green bosom 
 of her mother earth attired in a lovelier or more enchanting 
 obe. I am seated by an open window, and the breeze, 
 laden with the perfumes of the blossoms and opening leaves, 
 just lifts the edge of my sheet, and steals with the gentlest 
 footsteps imaginable to fan my cheek and forehead. The 
 grass, tinged with the deepest and freshest green, is waving 
 beneath its influence ; the birds are singing their sweetest 
 songs ; and as I look into the depths of the clear blue sky 
 the rich tints appear to flit higher and higher as I gaze, till 
 my eye seems searching into immeasurable distance. Oh ! 
 such a day as this, it is a luxury to breathe. I feel as if I 
 could frisk and gambol like my kitten from the mere con 
 sciousness of life. Yet with all the loveliness around me I 
 reperuse your letter, and long for wings to fly from it all to 
 the dull atmosphere and crowded highways of the city. 
 Yes ! I could then look into your eyes, and I should forget 
 the blue sky ; and your smile, and your voice would doubly 
 compensate me for the loss of green trees and singing birds. 
 There are green trees in the heart which shed a softer per 
 fume, and birds which sing more sweetly. ' Nonsense ! 
 Mag is growing sentimental !' I knew you would say so, 
 but the streak came across me, and you have it at full 
 length. In plainer terms, how delighted, how more than 
 delighted I shall be when I do come ! when I do come, Kate ! 
 oh ! oh ! oh ! what would our language be without inter 
 jections, those expressive parts of speech, which say so 
 much in so small a compass 1 Now I am sure you can un 
 derstand from these three syllables all the pleasure, the 
 rapture I anticipate; the meeting, the parting, all the com 
 ponent parts of that great whole which I denominate a visit 
 to New York ! No, not to New York ! but to the few dear 
 friends whose society will afford me all the enjoyment I ex 
 pect or desire, and who, in fact, constitute all my New York.
 
 94 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 June 2d. I had written thus far, dear Kate, when I was 
 most agreeably interrupted by a proposal for a ride on 
 horseback ; my sheet slid of itself into the open drawer, 
 my hat and dress flew on as if by instinct, and in ten 
 minutes I was galloping full speed through the streets of 
 our little village with father by my side. I rode till nearly 
 tea-time, and came home tired, tired, tired ; oh, I ache to 
 think of it. My poor letter slept all night as soundly as its 
 writer, but now that another day has dawned, the very 
 opposite of its predecessor, damp, dark, and rainy, I have 
 drawn it forth from its receptacle, and seek to dissipate all 
 outward gloom, by communing with one the thought of 
 whom conveys to my mind any thing but melancholy. Oh, 
 Kate, Kate, in spite of your disinterested and sober advice 
 to the contrary, I shall come, I shall soon come, just as soon 
 as M. can and will run up for me. Yet, perhaps, in the end 
 I shall be disappointed. My happy anticipations resemble 
 the cloudless sky of yesterday, and who knows but a stormy 
 to-morrow may erase the brilliant tints of hope as well as 
 those of nature. ****** Do write quickly, and tell me 
 if I am to prepare. If you continue to feel as when you 
 last .wrote, and still advise me not to come, I shall dispose 
 of your advice in the most approved manner, throw it to 
 the winds, and embark armed and equipped for your city, 
 to make my destined visit, and fulfil its conditions by fair 
 means or foul, and bring you home in triumph. Oh ! we 
 shall have fine times. Oh dear, I blush to look back upon 
 my sheet and see so many Ps in it." 
 
 The time of her brother's coming drew near. He would 
 be with us at nine in the morning. At eleven they were to 
 start. I prepared all for her departure with my own hand, 
 lest, should I trust it to a domestic to make the arrangements, 
 she would make some exertion herself. She sat by me while 
 thus engaged, relating playful anecdotes, until I urged her to 
 retire for the night. On going into her room an hour or two 
 afterwards, I was alarmed to find her in a high fever. About 
 midnight she was taken with bleeding at the lungs. I flew to 
 her father, and in a few minutes a vein was opened in her 
 arm. To describe our feelings at this juncture is impossible. 
 We stood gazing at each other in mute despair. After that 
 shock had subsided her father retired, and I seated myself by 
 the bedside to watch her slumbers, and the rising sun found 
 me still at my post. She awoke, pale, feeble and exhausted 
 by the debilitating perspiration which attended her sleep. She 
 was surprised to find that I had not been in bed ; but when 
 she attempted to speak I laid my finger upon her lips and
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 95 
 
 desired her to be silent. She understood my motive, and when 
 I bent my head to kiss her, I saw a tear upon her cheek. I 
 told her the necessity of perfect quiet, and the danger which 
 would result from agitation. Before her brother came, she 
 desired to rise. I assisted her to do so, and he found her 
 quietly seated in her easy chair, perfectly composed in man 
 ner, and determined not to increase her difficulties by giving 
 way to feelings which must at that time have oppressed her 
 heart. My son was greatly shocked to find her in this state. 
 I met him and urged the importance of perfect self-possession 
 on his part, as any sudden agitation might in her present 
 alarming state be fatal. Poor fellow ! he subdued his feelings 
 and met her with a cheerful smile which concealed a heart 
 almost bursting with sorrow. The propriety of her taking 
 this jaunt had been discussed by her father and myself for a 
 number of weeks. We both thought her too ill to leave home, 
 but her strong desire to go, the impression she had imbibed 
 that travelling would greatly benefit her health, and the plead 
 ing of friends in her behalf, on the ground that disappointment 
 would have a more unfavourable effect than the journey pos 
 sibly could have, all had their effect in leading us to consent. 
 It was possible it might be of use to her, although it was at 
 best an experiment of a doubtful nature. But this attack was 
 decisive : yet caution must be used in breaking the matter to 
 her in her present weak state. Her brother stayed a day or 
 two with us, and then returned, telling her thai when she 
 was able to perform the journey, he would come again and 
 take her with him. After he left us, she soon regained her 
 usual strength, and in a fortnight her brother returned and 
 took h'jr to New York. 
 
 Tho anxiety of Mrs. Davidson was intense until she received 
 her first letter. It was written from New York, and in a 
 cheerful vein, speaking encouraging! 3' of her health, but 
 showing more solicitude about the health and well being of 
 her mother than of her own. She continued to write fre 
 quently, giving animated accounts of scenes and persons. 
 
 The following extract relates to an excursion, in company 
 with two of her brothers, into West Chester county, one of 
 the pleasantest, and, until recently, the least fashionably 
 known, regions on the banks of the Hudson. 
 
 " At three o'clock, we were in the Singsing steamer, with 
 the water sparkling below, and the sun broiling over head. 
 In the course of our sail a huge thundercloud arose, and I
 
 96 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 retreated, quite terrified, to the cabin. But it proved a re 
 freshing shower. Oh ! how sweet, how delightful the air 
 was! When we landed at the dock, every thing looked so 
 fresh and green ! We mounted into a real country vehicle, 
 and rattled up the hill to the village inn, a quiet, pleasant 
 little house. I was immediately shown to my room, where 
 I stayed until tea-time, enjoying the prospect of a splendid 
 sunset upon the mountains, and resting after the fatigues of 
 the day. At seven, we drank tea, a meal strongly contrasted 
 with the fashionable meagre unsocial city tea. The table 
 was crowded with every thing good, in the most bountiful 
 style, and served with the greatest attention by the land 
 lord's pretty daughter. I retired soon after tea, and slept 
 soundly until daybreak. After breakfast, we sent for a car 
 riage to take us along the course of the Croton, to see the 
 famous water-works, but, to our disappointment, every car 
 riage was engaged, and we could not go. In the afternoon, 
 a party was made up to go in a boat across the river, and 
 ascend a mountain to a singular lake upon its summit, 
 where all the implements of fishing were provided, and a 
 collation was prepared. In short it was a pic-nic. To this 
 we were invited, but on learning they would not return 
 until nine or ten in the evening, that scheme also was aban 
 doned. Towards night we walked around the village, 
 looked at the tunnel, and visited the ice-cream man, and in 
 spite of my various disappointments, I retired quite happy 
 and pleased with my visit. The next day was Sunday, and 
 we proposed going to the little Dutch church, a few miles 
 distant, and hearing the service performed in Dutch ; but 
 lo ! on drawing aside my curtains in the morning, it rained, 
 and we were obliged to content ourselves as well as we 
 could until the rain was over. After dinner the sun again 
 peeped out, as if for our special gratification, and in a few 
 minutes a huge country wagon, with a leathern top and 
 two sleek horses, drew up to the door. We mounted into 
 it, and away we rattled over the most beautiful country I 
 ever saw. Oh ! it was magnificent ! Every now and then 
 tne view of the broad Hudson, with its distant hills, and the 
 clouds resting on their summits, burst upon our view. Now 
 we would ascend a lofty hill, clothed with forests, and 
 verdure of the most brilliant hues; now dash down into a 
 deep ravine with a stream winding and gurgling along its 
 bed, with its tiny waves rushing over the wheel of some 
 rustic mill, embosomed in its shade and solitude. Every 
 now and then the gable end of some low Dutch building 
 would present itself before us, smiling in its peaceful still 
 ness, and conveying to the mind a perfect picture of rural 
 simplicity and comfort, although, perhaps, of ignorance. At 
 length we paused upon the summit of a gentle hill, and
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 97 
 
 judge of my delight when I beheld below me the old Dutch 
 church, the quiet, secluded, beautiful little churchyard, the 
 running stream, the path, and the rustic bridge, the ever 
 memorable scene of Ichabod's adventure with the headless 
 horseman. There, thought I, rushed the poor pedagogue, 
 his knees cramped up to his saddle-bow with fear, his hands 
 grasping his horse's mane, with convulsive energy, in the 
 hope that the running stream might arrest the progress of 
 nis fearful pursuer, and allow him to pass in safety. Vain 
 hope ! scarce had he reached the bridge when he heard, 
 rattling behind him, the hoofs of his fiendish companion. 
 The church seemed in a blaze to his bewildered eyes, and 
 urging on, on, he turned to look once more, when, horror 
 of horrors ! the head, the fearful head, was in the act of de 
 scending upon his devoted shoulders. Ha! ha! ha! I never 
 laughed so in my life. Well, we rode on through the scene 
 of poor Andre's capture, and dashed along the classic valley 
 of Sleepy Hollow. After a long and delightful drive, we 
 returned in time for tea. After tea we were invited into 
 Mrs. F.'s parlour, where, after a short time, were collected, 
 quite a party of ladies and gentlemen. At nine we were 
 served with ice-cream, wine, &c. I retired very much 
 pleased and very much fatigued. Early in the morning we 
 rose with the most brilliant sun, breakfasted, mounted once 
 more into the wagon, and rattled off to the dock. Oh ! that 
 I could describe to you how fresh and sweet the air was. I 
 felt as if I wanted to open my mouth wide and inhale it 
 We gave M. our parting kisses, and soon found ourselves 
 once more, after this charming episode, approaching the 
 mighty city. We had a delightful sail of two or three 
 hours, and again rode up to dear aunt M.'s, where all 
 seemed glad at my return. I spent the remainder of the 
 day in resting and reading." 
 
 In these artless epistles, continues Mrs. Davidson, there is 
 much of character, for who could imagine this constant cheer 
 fulness, this almost forgetful ness of self, these affectionate 
 endeavours, by her sweetly playful account of all her employ 
 ments while absent, to dispel the grief which she knew wns 
 preying upon my mind on account of her illness? Who 
 could conceive the pains she took to conceal from me tho 
 ravages which disease was daily making upon her form? 
 She was never heard to complain, and in her' letters to me, 
 she hardly alludes to her illness. The friends to whom I had 
 entrusted her, during her short period of absence, sometimes 
 feared that she would never be able to reach home again. 
 Her brother told me, but not until long after her return, that 
 8*
 
 98 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 on her way home she really fainted several times from debil 
 ity and that he took her from the boat to the carriage as he 
 would have done an infant. 
 
 On the sixth of July, I once more folded to my heart this 
 cherished object of my solicitude ; but oh, the change which 
 three short weeks had wrought in her appearance struck me 
 forcibly. I was so wholly unprepared for it, that I nearly 
 fainted. After the excitement of the meeting (which she had 
 evidently summoned all her fortitude to bear with composure) 
 was over, she sat down by me, and passing her thin arm 
 around my waist, said, " Oh, my dear mamma, I am home 
 again at last ; I now feel as if I never wanted to leave you 
 again ; I have had a delightful visit, rny friends were all glad 
 to see me, and have watched over me with all the kindness 
 and care which affection could dictate, but oh, there is no 
 place like home, and no care like a mother's care ; there is 
 something in the very air of home, and in the sound of your 
 voice, mother, which makes me happier just now, than all the 
 scenes which I have passed through in my little jaunt; oh, 
 after all, home is the only place for a person as much out of 
 health as I am." I strove to suppress my emotions, while I 
 marked her pale cheek and altered countenance. She fixed 
 her penetrating eyes upon my face, kissed me, and drawing 
 back to take a more full survey of the effects which pain and 
 anxiety had wrought in me, kissed me again and again, say 
 ing, " she knew I had deeply felt the want of her society, and 
 now once more at home, she should so prize its comforts as 
 to be in no haste to leave it again." She was much wasted, 
 and could hardly walk from one room to another; her cough 
 was very distressing ; she had no pain, but a languor and 
 depression of spirits, foreign to her nature. She struggled 
 against this debility, and calted up all the energies of her 
 mind to overcome it ; her constant reply to inquiries about her 
 health, by the friends who called, was the same as formerly, 
 " Well, quite well mother calls me an invalid, but I feel well." 
 Yet, to me, when alone, she talked more freely of her symp 
 toms, and I thought I could discern from her manner, that 
 she had apprehensions as to the result. I had often endea 
 voured to acquire firmness sufficient to tell her what was her 
 situation, but she seemed so studiously to avoid the disclosure, 
 that my resolution had hitherto been unequal to the task. Bu* 
 I was much surprised one day, not long after her return from 
 New York, by her asking me to tell her, without reserve, my
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 90 
 
 opinion of her state. The question wrung my very heart ; I 
 was wholly unprepared for it, and it was put in so solemn a 
 manner, that I could not evade it, were I disposed to do so. 
 I knew with what strong affection she clung to life, and the 
 objects and friends which endeared it to her ; I knew how 
 bright the world upon which she was just entering appeared 
 to her young fancy, what glowing pictures she had drawn of 
 future usefulness and happiness. I was now called upon, at 
 one blow, to crush these hopes, to destroy the delightful 
 visions, which had hovered around her from her cradle until 
 this very period ; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive her , 
 in vain I attempted a reply to_her direct and solemn appeal, 
 and my voice grew husky ; several times I essayed to speak, 
 but the words died away on my lips ; I could only fold her to 
 my heart in silence, imprint a kiss upon her forehead, and 
 leave the room to avoid agitating her with feelings I had no 
 power to repress. 
 
 The following extract from a letter to her brother in New 
 York, dated a short time after this incident occurred, and 
 which I nevor saw until after her departure, will best portray 
 her own feelings at this period. 
 
 " As to my health at present, I feel as well as when you 
 were here, and the cough is much abated, but it is evident 
 to me, that mother thinks me not so well as before I left 
 home; I do not myself believe that I have gained any thing 
 from the visit, and in a case like mine, standing still is cer 
 tainly loss, but I feel no worse. However, I have learned 
 that feelings are no criterion of disease. Now, brother, I 
 
 want to know what Dr. M discovered, or thought he 
 
 discovered, in his examination of my lungs; father says no 
 thing mother, when I ask, cannot tell me, and looks so 
 sad ! Now, I ask you, hoping to be answered. If you have 
 not heard the doctor say, I wish you would ask him, ana 
 write to me. If it is more unfavourable than I anticipate, it 
 is best I should know now ; if it is contrary, how much pain 
 and restlessness and suspicion, will be spared me by the 
 knowledge. As to myself, I feel and know that my health 
 is in a most precarious state, that the disease we dread has 
 perhaps fastened upon me, but I have an impression that if 
 I make use of the proper remedies and exercise, I may yet 
 recover a tolerable degree of health. I do not feel that my 
 case is incurable ; I wish to know if I am wrong. I have 
 rode on horseback twice since you left me ; dear, dear 
 brother, what a long egotistic letter I have written you ! do 
 forgive me, my heart was full, and I felt that I must unbur 
 den it. I wish you would write me a long letter. Do not
 
 100 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 let dear mother know at present the questions I have asked 
 you." * * * * * * * 
 
 From this period she grew more thoughtful. There was 
 even a solemnity in her manner which I never before observ 
 ed. Her mind, as I mentioned before, had been much per 
 plexed by some doctrinal points. To solve these doubts I 
 asked if I should not send for some clergyman. She said no. 
 She had heard many discussions on these subjects, and they 
 nad always served rather to confuse than to convince her. 
 " I would rather converse with you alone, mother." She 
 then asked me if I thought it essential to salvation that she 
 should adopt any particular cred. I felt that I was an ineffi 
 cient, perhaps a blind guide, yet it was my duty not only to 
 impart consolation, but to explain to her my own views of the 
 truth. I replied that I considered faith and repentance only, 
 to be essential to salvation ; that it was very desirable that 
 her mind should be settled upon some particular mode of faith ; 
 but that I did not think it absolutely necessary that she should 
 adopt the tenets of any established church, and again recom 
 mended an attentive perusal of the New Testament. She ex 
 pressed her firm belief in the divinity of Christ. The perfec 
 tions of his character, its beauty and holiness excited her 
 admiration, while the benevolence which prompted the sacri 
 fice of himself to save a lost world, filled her with the most 
 enthusiastic gratitude. It was a source of regret that so much 
 of her time had been spent in light reading, and that her 
 writings had not been of a more decidedly religious character. 
 She lamented that she had not chosen scriptural subjects for 
 the exercise of her poetical talent, and said, " Mamma, should 
 God spare my life, my time and talents shall for the future be 
 devoted to a higher and holier end." She felt that she had 
 trifled with the gifts of Providence, and her self-condemnation 
 and grief were truly affecting. "And must I die so young? 
 My career of usefulness hardly commenced ? Oh ! mother, 
 how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of heaven ! What have 
 I done which can benefit one human being?" I folded her 
 to my heart, and endeavoured to soothe the tumult of her feel 
 ings, bade her remember her dutiful conduct as a daughter, 
 her affectionate bearing as a sister and a friend, and the con 
 solation which she had afforded me through years of suffering ! 
 ' Oh my mother," said she, " I, have been reflecting much of 
 late upon this sad waste of intellect, and had marked out for 
 myself a course of usefulness which, should God spare my
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 101 
 
 .ife " Here her emotions became too powerful to proceed. 
 At times she suffered much anxiety with regard to her eternal 
 welfare, and deeply lamented her want of faithfulness in the 
 performance of her religious duties ; complained of coldness 
 and formality in her devotional exercises, and entreated me 
 to pray with and for her. At other times, her hopes of hea 
 ven would be bright, her faith unwavering and her devotion 
 fervent. Yet it was evident to me, that she still cherished the 
 hope that her life might be prolonged. Her mother had lin 
 gered for years in a state equally hopeless, and during that 
 period had been enabled to attend to the moral and religious 
 culture of her little family. Might not the same kind Provi 
 dence prolong her life 1 It would be vain to attempt a de 
 scription of those seasons of deep and thrilling interest. God 
 alone knows in what way my own weak frame was sustained. 
 I felt that she had been renovated and purified by Divine 
 Grace, and to see her thus distressed when I thought that all 
 the consolations of the Gospel ought to be hers, gave my 
 heart a severe pang. 
 
 " Many of our friends now were of opinion that a change of 
 climate might benefit, perhaps restore her. Heretofore, when 
 the suggestion had been made, she shrunk from the idea of 
 leaving her home for a distant clime. Now her anxiety to try 
 the effect of a change was great. I felt that it would be vain, 
 although I was desirous that nothing should be left untried. 
 Feeble as she now was, the idea of her resigning the comforts 
 of home, and being subject to the fatigues of travelling in public 
 conveyances, was a dreadful one, and yet if there was a ra 
 tional prospect of prolonging her life by these means, I was 
 anxious to give them a trial. Dr. Davidson, after much de 
 liberation on the subject, called counsel. Dr. came, 
 
 and when, after half an hour's pleasant and playful conversa 
 tion with Margaret, he joined us in the parlour, oh ! how my 
 poor heart trembled. I hung upon the motions of his lips as 
 if my own life depended on what they might utter. At length 
 he spoke, and I felt as if an icebolt had passed through my 
 heart. He had never thought, though he had known her 
 many years, that a change of climate would benefit her. She 
 had lived beyond his expectations many months, even years ; 
 and now he was convinced, were we to attempt to take her to 
 a southern climate, that she would die on the passage. Make 
 it as pleasant as possible for her at home, was his advice. He 
 thought that a few months must terminate her life. She
 
 102 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 knew that we had confidence in the opinion of this, her favourite 
 physician. When I had gained firmness enough to answer 
 her questions, I again entered the room and found her com 
 posed, though she had evidently been strongly agitated, and 
 had not brought her mind to hear her doom. Never, oh ! 
 never to the latest hour of my life, shall I forget the look she 
 gave me when I met her. What a heart-rending task was 
 mine ! I performed it as gently as possible. I said the doctor 
 thought her strength unequal to the fatigue of the journey ; 
 that he was not so great an advocate for change of climate as 
 many persons ; that he had known many cases in which he 
 thought it injurious, and his best advice was, that we should 
 again ward off the severity of the winter by creating an at 
 mosphere within our house. She mildly acquiesced, and the 
 subject was dropped altogether. She sometimes read, and fre 
 quently, from mere habit, held a book in her hand when un 
 able to digest its contents, and within the book there usually 
 rested a piece of paper, upon which she occasionally marked 
 the reflections which arose in her mind, either in poetry or 
 prose." 
 
 We here interrupt the narrative of Mrs. Davidson, to insert 
 a copy of verses addressed by Margaret to her brother, a 
 young officer in the army, and stationed at a frontier post in 
 the far west. They were written in September, about two 
 months before her death, and are characterized throughout by 
 her usual beauty of thought and tenderness of feeling ; but the 
 last verse, which alludes to the fading verdure, and falling 
 leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless quiet of the sea 
 son, as typical of her own blighted youth and approaching 
 dissolution, has something in it peculiarly solemn and affecting. 
 
 TO MY SOLDIER BROTHER IN THE FAR WEST.* 
 
 'Tis an autumn eve, and the tints of day 
 
 From the west are slowly stealing, 
 And clouds round the couch of the setting sun 
 
 Are gently and silently wheeling. 
 'Tis the scene and the hour for the soul to bathe 
 
 In its own deep springs of feeling, 
 And my thoughts, from their galling bonds set free, 
 Have fled to the " far, far west" to thee! 
 
 And perchance, 'mid the toils of thy varied life, 
 
 Thou also art pausing awhile, 
 To behold how beautiful all things look 
 
 In the sunlight's passing smile ; 
 
 * This copy of verses has come to hand since the publication of the 
 first edition of this memoir.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 108 
 
 And perchance recollections of kindred and home 
 
 Thy cares for a moment beguile ; 
 Thy thoughts have been mine in their passage to thee, 
 And though distant, far distant, our spirits are free ! 
 
 I know thou art dreaming of home, 
 
 And the dear ones sheltered there ; 
 Of thy mother, pale with the pain of years, 
 
 And thy sire with his silvered hair ; 
 And with them blend thoughts of thy boyish years, 
 
 When the world looked all so fair, 
 When thy cheek flushed high at the voice of praise, 
 
 And thy breast was unknown to care ; 
 And while memory burns her torch for thee, 
 I know that these thoughts and these dreams will be ! 
 
 But when, in the shade of the autumn wood, 
 
 Thy wandering footsteps stray, 
 When yellow leaves and perishing buds 
 
 Are scattered in thy way ; 
 When all around thee breathes of rest, 
 
 And sadness and decay 
 With the drooping flower, and the falling tree, 
 Oh ! brother, blend thy thoughts of me ! 
 
 "The following fragments," continues Mrs. Davidson, 
 " appear to be the very breathings of her soul during the last 
 few weeks of her life, written in pencil, in a hand so weak 
 and tremulous that I could with difficulty decipher them word 
 by word with the aid of a strong magnifying glass. 
 
 " Consumption ! child of woe, thy blighting breath 
 Marks all that 's fair and lovely for thine own, 
 And, sweeping o'er the silver chords of life, 
 Blends all their music in one deathlike tone." 
 1838. 
 
 " What strange, what mystic things we are, 
 
 With spirits longing to outlive the stars. 
 
 * * * * but even in decay 
 
 Hasting to meet our brethren in the dust. 
 
 As one small dewdrop runs, another drops 
 To sink unnoticed in the world of waves." 
 
 " O it is sad to feel that when a few short years 
 Of life are past, we shall lie down, unpitied 
 And unknown, amid a careless world ; 
 That youth and age and revelry and grief 
 Above our heads shall pass, and we alone 
 Shall sleep ! alone shall be as we have been, 
 No more. 
 
 These are unfinished fragments, a part of which I could 
 not decipher at all. I insert them to give an idea of the daily 
 operations of her mind during the whole of this long summer 
 of suffering. Her gentle spirit never breathed a murmur or
 
 104 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 complaint. I think she was rarely heard to express even a 
 feeling of weariness. But here are a few more of those out 
 pourings of the heart. I copy these little effusions with all 
 their errors ; there is a sacredness about them which forbids 
 the change even of a single letter. The first of the fragments 
 which follow was written on a Sabbath evening in autumn, 
 not many weeks before her death. 
 
 It is autumn, the season of rapid decay, 
 
 When the flow'rets of summer are hasting away 
 
 From the breath of the wintry blast, 
 And the buds which oped to the gazer's eye, 
 And the glowing tints of the gorgeous sky, 
 And the forests robed in their emerald dye, 
 
 With their loveliest blossoms have past. 
 
 'Tis eve, and the brilliant sunset hue 
 Is replaced by a sky of the coldest blue, 
 
 Untouched by a floating cloud. 
 And all nature is silent, calm and serene, 
 As though sorrow and suffering never had been 
 On this beautiful earth abroad. 
 
 'Tis a Sabbath eve, and the longing soul 
 Is charm'd by its quiet and gentle control 
 
 From each wayward and wandering thought, 
 And it longs from each meaner affection to move. 
 And it soareth the troubles of earth above 
 To bathe in that fountain of light and love, 
 
 Whence our purest enjoyments are caught. 
 1838. 
 
 But winter, O what shall thy greeting be 
 
 From our waters, our earth, and our sky t 
 What welcoming strains shall arise for thee 
 
 As thy chariot- wheels draw nigh ? 
 Alas ! the fresh flowers of the spirit decay 
 
 As thy cold, cold steps advance, 
 And even young Fancy is shrinking away 
 
 From the chill of thy terrible glance ; 
 And Hope with her mantle of rainbow hue 
 
 Hath fled from thy freezing eye, 
 And her bright train of visions are melting in tar 
 
 As thy shivering blasts sweep by. 
 Thy ****** 
 Oct. 1838. 
 
 THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 The spirit, what is it ? Mysterious, sublime, 
 
 Undying, unchanging, for ever the same, 
 It bounds lightly athwart the dark billows of time, 
 
 And moves on unscorched by its heavenly flame. 
 
 Man owns thee and feels thee, and knows thee divino* 
 He feels thou art his, and thou never canst die ; 
 
 He believes thee a gem from the Maker's pure shrine, 
 A portion of purity holy and high.
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 105 
 
 "Tig around him, within him, the source of his life, 
 Yet too weak to contemplate its glory and might ; 
 
 He trembling shrinks back to dull earth's humble strife, 
 And leaves the pure atmosphere glowing with light. 
 
 Thou spark from the Deity's radiant throne, 
 I knowthee, yet shrink from thy greatness and power; . 
 
 Thou art mine in thy splendour, I feel thee my own, 
 Yet behold me as frail as the light summer flower. 
 
 I strive in my weakness to gaze on thy might, 
 
 To trace out thy wanderings through ages to come, 
 
 Till like birds on the sea, all exhausted, at length 
 I flutter back weary to earth as my home. 
 
 Like a diamond when laid in a rough case of clay, 
 Which may crumble and wear from the pure gem enclosed, 
 
 But which ne'er can be lit by one tremulous ray 
 From the glory-crown'd star in its dark case reposed. 
 
 As the cool weather advanced, her decline became more 
 visible, and she devoted more and more of her time to search 
 ing the Scriptures, self-examination and subjects for reflection, 
 and questions which were to be solved by evidences deduced 
 from the Bible. I found them but a few days before her 
 death, in the sacred volume which lay upon the table, at which 
 she usually sat during her hours of retirement. She had been 
 searching the holy book, and overcome by the exertion, rang 
 the bell, which summoned me to her side, for no person but 
 myself was admitted during the time set apart for her devo 
 tional exercises. 
 
 Subjects for reflection. 
 
 1st. The uniform usefulness of Christ's miracles. 
 
 2d. The manner in which he overthrows all the exalted 
 lopes which the Jews entertain of a temporal kingdom, and 
 /strives to explain to them the entire spirituality of the one 
 he has come to erect. 
 
 3d. The deep and unchangeable love for man, which must 
 have impelled Christ to resist so many temptations and 
 endure so many sufferings, even death, that truth might 
 enlighten the world, and heaven and immortality become 
 realities instead of dreams. 
 
 4th. The general thoughtlessness of man with regard to 
 his greatest, his only interest. 
 
 5th. Christ's constant submission to the will of his Father, 
 and the necessity of our imitating the meek and calm and 
 gentle qualities of his character, together with that firmness 
 of purpose and confidence in God which sustained him to 
 the end. 
 
 6th. The necessity of so living, that we need not fear to 
 think each day our last. 
 9
 
 106 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 7th. The necessity of religion to soothe and support the 
 mind on the bed of sickness. 
 
 8th. Self-examination. 
 
 9th. Is Christ mentioned expressly in Scripture as equal 
 with God and a part ? 
 
 10th. Is there sufficient ground for the doctrine of the 
 Trinity 1 
 
 1 1th. Did Christ come as a prophet and reformer of the 
 world, or as a sacrifice for our sins, to appease the wrath 
 of his Father 1 
 
 12th. Is any thing said of infant baptism? 
 
 Written in November, 1838. 
 
 About three weeks before her departure, I one morning 
 found her in the parlour, where, as I before observed, she 
 spent a portion of her time in retirement. I saw that she had 
 been much agitated, and seemed weary. I seated myself by 
 her and rested her head on my bosom, while I gently pressed 
 my hand upon her throbbing temples to soothe the agitation 
 of her nerves. She kissed me again and again, and seemed 
 as if she feared to trust her voice to speak lest her feelings 
 should overcome her. As I returned her caresses, she silently 
 put a folded paper in my hand. I began to open it, when she 
 gently laid her hand on mine, and said in a low tremulous 
 tone, " Not now, dear mother ! I then led her back to her 
 room, and placed her upon the sofa, and retired to examine 
 the paper. It contained the following lines. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 OH mother, would the power were mine 
 
 To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear, 
 And breathe each trembling new-born thought, 
 
 Within thy fondly listening ear, 
 As when in days of health and glee, 
 My hopes and fancies wander'd free. 
 
 But, mother, now a shade has past 
 
 Athwart my brightest visions here, 
 A cloud of ^darkest gloom has wrapt 
 
 The remnant of my brief career ! 
 No song, no echo can I win, 
 The sparkling fount has died within. 
 
 The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 
 
 And Fancy spreads her wings no more ; 
 And oh, how vain and trivial seem 
 
 The pleasures that I prized before. 
 My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 
 
 Is struggling on through doubt and strife : 
 Oh ! may it prove, as time rolls on, 
 
 The pathway to eternal life 
 Then, when my cares and fears are o'er, 
 I '11 sing thee as in days of yore
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 107 
 
 I said that hope had pass'd from earth : 
 'T was but to fold her wings in Heaven, 
 
 To whisper of the soul's new birth, 
 Of sinners saved and sins forgiven. 
 
 When mine are wash'd in tears away, 
 Then shall my spirit swell my lay. 
 
 When God shall guide my soul above, 
 By -the soft cords of heavenly love, 
 When the vain cares of earth depart, 
 And tuneful voices swell my heart, 
 Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
 Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise, 
 And all not offered at His shrine, 
 Dear mother, I will place on thine. 
 
 It was long before I could gain sufficient composure to re* 
 turn to her. When I did so, I found her sweetly calm, and 
 she greeted me with a smile so full of affection, that I shall 
 cherish the recollection of its brightness until my latest breath. 
 It was the last piece she ever wrote, except a paraphrase of four 
 lines of the hymn, " I would not live always," which was 
 written within the last week of her life. 
 
 " I would not live always thus fettered by 
 Temptation without, and corruption witnii 
 
 sin, 
 bin, 
 
 With the soul ever dimmed by its hopes and its fears, 
 And the heart's holy flame ever struggling through tears." 
 
 Thus far in preparing this memoir, we have availed our 
 selves almost entirely of copious memoranda, furnished us at 
 our own request by Mrs. Davidson ; but when the narrator 
 approached the closing scene of this most affecting story, the 
 heart of the mother gave out, and she found herself totally in 
 adequate to the task. Fortunately, Dr. Davidson had retained 
 a copy of a letter, written by her in the midst of her affliction 
 to Miss Sedgwick, in reply to an epistle from that lady, ex 
 pressive of the kindest sympathy, and making some inquiries 
 relative to the melancholy event. We subjoin that letter en- 
 tire, for never have we read any thing of the kind more truly 
 eloquent or deeply affecting. 
 
 " Saratoga Springs. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Miss Sedgwick, she is an angel now ; calm 
 ly and sweetly she sunk to her everlasting rest, as a babe 
 gently slumbers on its mother's bosom. I thank my Father 
 in heaven that I was permitted to watch over her, and I 
 trust administer to her comfort during her illness. I know, 
 my friend, you will not expect either a very minute or con 
 nected detail of the circumstances preceding her change
 
 108 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 from me at this time, for I am indeed bowed down with 
 sorrow. I feel that I am truly desolate, how desolate I will 
 not attempt to describe. Yet in the depth of grief I have 
 consolations of the purest, most soothing and exalted na 
 ture. I would not, indeed I could not murmur, but rath'T 
 bless my God that he has in the plenitude of his goodness 
 made me, even for a brief space on earth, the honoured 
 mother of such an angel. Oh my dear Miss Sedgwick, I 
 wish you could have seen her during the last two months of 
 her brief sojourn with us. Her meekness and patience, and 
 her even cheerful bearing were unexampled. But when she 
 was assured that all the tender and endearing ties which 
 bound her to earth were about to be severed, when she saw 
 that life and all its bright visions were fading from her eyes 
 that she was standing at the entrance of the dark valley 
 which must be traversed in her way to the eternal world, 
 the struggle was great, but brief she caught the hem of 
 her Saviour's robe and meekly bowed to the mandate of 
 her God. Since the beginning of August, I have watched 
 this tender blossom with intense anxiety, and marked her 
 decline with a breaking heart ; and although from that time 
 until the period of her departure, I never spent a whole 
 night in my bed, my excitement was so strong that I was 
 unconscious of the want of sleep. Oh, my dear madam, the 
 whole course of her decline was so unlike any other death 
 bed scene I ever witnessed ; there was nothing of the gloom 
 of a sick chamber; a charm was in and around her ; a holy 
 light seemed to pervade every thing belonging to her. 
 There was a sacredness, if I may so express it, which seem 
 ed to tell the presence of the Divinity. Strangers felt it, all 
 acknowledged it. Very few were admitted to her sick room, 
 but those few left it with an elevation of heart new, solemn, 
 and delightful. She continued to ride out as long as the 
 weather was mild, and even after she became too weak to 
 walk she frequently desired to be taken into the parlour, 
 and when there, with all her little implements of drawing 
 and writing, her books, and even her little work-box and 
 basket beside her, she seemed to think that by these little 
 attempts at her usual employments she could conceal from 
 me, for she saw my heart was breaking, the ravages of dis 
 ease and her consequent debility. The New Testament was 
 her daily study, and a portion of every day was spent in 
 private in self-examination and prayer. My dear Miss 
 Sedgwick, how I have felt my own littleness, my total un- 
 wort'hiness, when compared with this pure, this high-souled, 
 intellectual, yet timid, humble child ; bending at the altar of 
 her God, and pleading for pardon and acceptance in his 
 sight, and grace to assist her in preparing for eternity. As 
 her strength wasted, she often desired me to share her
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 109 
 
 hours of retirement and converse with her, and read to her, 
 when unable to read herself. 
 
 " Oh ! how sad, how delightful, how agonizing is the 
 memory of the sweet and holy communion we then enjoyed. 
 Forgive me, my friend, for thus mingling my own feelings 
 with the circumstances you wished to know; and, oh ! con 
 tinue to pray that God will give me submission under this 
 desolating stroke. She was my darling, my almost idolized 
 child truly, truly, you have said, the charm of my existence. 
 Her symptoms were extremely distressing, although she 
 suffered no pain. A week before her departure, she desired 
 that the sacrament of the Lord's Supper might be adminis 
 tered to her. ' Mother,' said she, ' I do not desire it because 
 I feel worthy to receive it ; I feel myself a sinner, but I de 
 sire to manifest my faith in Christ by receiving an ordinance 
 instituted by himself but a short time before his crucifixion 
 The Holy Sacrament was 1 administered by Mr. Babcock 
 The solemnity of the scene can be better felt than described. 
 I cannot attempt it. After it was over, a holy calm seemed 
 to pervade her mind, and she looked almost like a beatified 
 spirit. The evening following, she said to me, ' Mother, I 
 have made a solemn surrender of myself to God: if it is his 
 will, I would desire to live long enough to prove the sin 
 cerity of my profession, but his will be done ; living or dying 
 I am henceforth devoted to God.' After this some doubt 
 seemed to intrude ; her spirit was troubled. I asked her if 
 there was any thing she desired to have done, any little 
 arrangements to be made, any thing to say which she had 
 left unsaid, and assured her that her wishes should be sacred 
 to me. She turned her eyes upon me with an expression 
 so sad, so mournfully sweet ' Mother, " When I can read 
 my title clear to mansions in the skies," then I will think of 
 other matters.' Her hair, which when a little child had been 
 often cut to improve its growth, was now very beautiful ; 
 and she usually took much pains with it. During the whole 
 course of her sickness I had taken care of it. One day, not 
 long before her death, she said, evidently making a great 
 effort to speak with composure, ' Mother, if you are willing 
 I will have my hair cut off; it is troublesome ; I should like 
 it better short.' I understood her at once: she did not like 
 to have the idea of death associated with those beautiful 
 tresses which I had loved to braid. She would have them 
 taken off while living. I mournfully gave my consent, and 
 she said, ' I will not ask you, my dear mother, to do it ; my 
 
 friend, Mrs. F will be with me to-night, and she will do 
 
 it for me.' The dark rich locks were severed at midnight. 
 Never shall I forget the expression of her young faded fac 
 as I entered the room. ' Do not be agitated, dear mamma, 
 [ am more comfortable now. Lay it away, if you please, 
 9*
 
 110 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 and to-morrow I will arrange and dispose of it. Do you 
 know that I view my hair as something sacred ? It is a 
 part of myself, which will be re-united to my body at the 
 resurrection.' 
 
 " She had sat in an easy chair or reclined upon a sofa for 
 several weeks. On Friday the 22d of November, at my ur 
 gent entreaty, she consented to be laid upon the bed. She 
 found it a reJief, and sunk into a deep sleep, from which she 
 was only awoke when I aroused her to take some refresh 
 ment. When she awoke, she looked and spoke like an 
 angel, but soon dropped asleep as before. Oh ! how my 
 poor heart trembled, for I felt that it was but the precursor 
 to her long last rest, although many of our friends thought 
 she might yet linger some weeks. A total loss of appetite, 
 and a difficulty in swallowing, prevented her from taking 
 any nourishment throughout the day, and when we placed 
 her in the easy chair, at night, in order to arrange her bed, 
 I offered her some nice food, which I had prepared, and 
 found she could not take it. My feelings amounted almost 
 to agony. She said ' Do not be distressed. I will take it by 
 and by.' I seated myself beside her, and she said, ' Surely, 
 my dear mother, you have many consolations. You are 
 gathering a little family in heaven to welcome you.' My 
 heart was full ; when I could speak, I said, * Yes, my love, I 
 feel that I am indeed gathering a little family in heaven to 
 bid you welcome, but when they are all assembled there, 
 how dreadful to doubt whether I may ever be permitted to 
 join the circle !' ' Oh hush, dear, dear mother, do not in 
 dulge such sad thoughts ; the fact of your having trained 
 this little band to inhabit that holy place, is sufficient evi 
 dence to me that you will not fail to join us there.' I was 
 with her myself that night, and a friend in the neighbour 
 hood sat up also. On Saturday morning, after I had taken 
 half an hour's sleep, I found her as quiet as a sleeping infant. 
 I prepared her some food, and when I awoke her to take it, 
 she said, 'Dear mother, I will try if it is only to please you.' 
 I fed her as I would have fed a babe. She smiled sweetly 
 and said, ' Mother, I am again an infant.' I asked if I 
 should read to her; she said yes, she would like to have me 
 read a part of the gospel of John. I did so, and then said, 
 'My dear Margaret, you look sweetly composed this morn 
 ing. I trust all is peace within your heart.' ' Yes, mother, 
 all is peace, sweet peace. I feel that I can do nothing for 
 myself. I have cast my burden upon Christ.' I asked if 
 she could rest her hopes there in perfect confidence. ' Yes,' 
 she replied, ' Jesus will not fail me I can trust him.' She 
 then sank into a deep sleep, as on the preceding day. 
 
 " In the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. H. came from Ballston. 
 They were much affected by the change a few days had
 
 BIOGRAPHY. Ill 
 
 made in her appearance. I awoke her, fearing she might 
 sleep too long, and said her friends had come. She extended 
 her arms to them both, and kissed them, saying to Mr. H. 
 that he found her a late riser, and then sank to sleep again. 
 Mrs. H. remained with us that night. About sunset I spoke 
 to her. She awoke and answered me cheerfully, but observ 
 ing that I was unusually depressed, she said, ' Dear mother, 
 I am wearing you out.' I replied, ' My child, my beloved 
 child, it is not that ; the thought of our separation fills me 
 with anguish.' I never shall forget the expression of her 
 sweet face, as she replied. ' Mother, my own dear mother, 
 do not grieve. Our parting will not be long. In life we 
 were inseparable, and I feel that you cannot live without 
 me. You will soon join me, and we shall part no more.' I 
 kissed her pale cheek, as I bent over her, and finding my 
 agitation too strong to repress, I left the room. She soon 
 after desired to get up ; she said she must have a coughing 
 fit, and she could bear it better in the chair. When there 
 she began to cough, and her distress was beyond descrip 
 tion ; her strength was soon exhausted, and we again car 
 ried her to the bed. She coughed from six until half past 
 ten. I then prevailed on her to take some nutritious drink, 
 and she fell asleep. 
 
 "My husband and Mrs. H. were both of them anxious 
 that I should retire and get some rest, but I did not feel the 
 Want of it, and impressed as I was with the idea that this 
 was the last night she would pass on earth, I could not go 
 to bed. But others saw not the change, and to satisfy them, 
 I went at twelve to my room, which opened into hers, 
 There I sat listening to every sound. All seemed quiet. I 
 twice opened the .door, and Mrs. H. said she slept, and had 
 taken her drink as often as directed, and again urged me 
 to go to bed. A little after two I put on my night dress, 
 and laid down. Between three and four Mrs. H. came in 
 haste for ether. I pointed to the bottle, and sprang up. 
 She said, ' I entreat, my dear Mrs. Davidson, that you do 
 not rise ; there is no sensible change, only a turn of oppres 
 sion.' She closed the door, and I hastened to rise, when 
 Mrs. H. came again, and said Margaret has asked for her 
 mother. I flew she held the bottle of ether in her own 
 hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head 
 and chest. She revived. 'I am better now,' said she. 
 Mother, you tremble, you are cold ; put on your clothes.' 
 I stepped to the fire, and threw on a wrapper, when she 
 stretched out both her arms, and exclaimed, ' Mother, take 
 me in your arms.' I raised her, and seating myself on the 
 bed, passed my arms around her waist; her head dropped 
 upon my bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to 
 mine. That look I never shall forget; it said, 'Tell me,
 
 112 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 mother, is this death V I answered the appeal as if she had 
 spoken. I laid my hand on her white brow a cold dew 
 had gathered there. I spoke, Yes, my beloved, it is almost 
 finished; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave one more 
 look, two or three short fluttering breaths, and all was 
 over her spirit was with its God not a struggle or groan 
 preceded her departure. Her father just came in time to 
 witness her last breath. For a long half hour I remained 
 in the same position with the precious form of my lifeless 
 child upon my bosom. I closed those beautiful eyes witli 
 my own hand. I was calm. I felt that I had laid my angel 
 from my own breast, upon the bosom of her God. Her 
 father and myself were alone. Her Sabbath commenced in 
 heaven. Ours was opened in deep, deep anguish. Our 
 sons, who had been sent for, had not arrived, and four days 
 and nights did Ellen, (our young nurse, whom Margaret 
 dearly loved,) and I, watch over the sacred clay. I could 
 not resign this mournful duty to strangers. Although no 
 son or relative was with us in this sad and solemn hour, 
 never did sorrowing strangers meet with more sympathy, 
 than we received in this hour of affliction, from the respected 
 inhabitants of Saratoga. We shall carry with us through 
 life, the grateful remembrance of their kindness. And now, 
 my dear madam, let me thank you for your kind consoling 
 letter, it has given me consolation. My Margaret, my now 
 angel child, loved you tenderly. She recognised in yours 
 a kindred mind, and I feel that her pure spirit will behold 
 with delight your efforts to console her bereaved mother." 
 
 She departed this life on the 25th of November, 1838, 
 aged fifteen years and eight months ; her earthly remains 
 repose in the grave-yard of the village of Saratoga. 
 
 " A few days after her departure," observes Mrs. Davidson 
 in a memorandum, " I was searching the library in the hope 
 of finding some further memento of my lost darling, when a 
 packet folded in the form of a letter met my eye. It was 
 confined with a needle and thread, instead of a seal, and 
 secured more firmly by white sewing silk, which was passed 
 several times around it ; the superscription was, ' For my 
 mother, private.' Upon opening these papers, I found they 
 contained the results of self-examination, from a very early 
 period of her life, until within a few days of its close. These 
 results were noted and composed at different periods. They 
 are some of the most interesting relics she has left, but they 
 are of too sacred a nature to meet the public eye. They dis 
 play a degree of self-knowledge and humility, and a depth 
 of contrition, which could only emanate from a heart chastened 
 and subdued by the power of the divine grace."
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 113 
 
 We here conclude this memoir, which, for the most part, 
 as the reader will perceive, is a mere transcript of the records 
 furnished by a mother's heart. We shall not pretend to com 
 ment on these records ; they need no comment, and they 
 admit no heightening. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded 
 with our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and the 
 seraphic purity of the little being we have endeavoured to 
 commemorate broken upon us ; and the more have we shrunk 
 at our own unworthiness for such a task. To use one of her 
 own exquisite expressions, she was " A spirit of heaven fet 
 tered by the strong affections of earth ;" and the whole of her 
 brief sojourn here, seems to have been a struggle to regain 
 her native skies. We may apply to her a passage from one 
 of her own tender apostrophes to the memory of her sistef 
 Lucretia. 
 
 One who came from heaven awhila 
 To bless the mourners here, 
 Their joys to hallow with her smile, 
 Their sorrow with her tear. 
 
 Who joined to all the charms of earth 
 
 The nobiest gifts of heaven.; 
 To whom tbo Muses at her bu,? 
 
 Their sweetest smiles h 
 
 Whose eye beamed forth with fancy's ray, 
 
 And genius pure and high ; 
 Whose very soul had seemed to bathe 
 
 In streams of melody. 
 
 The cheek which once so sweetly beamed, 
 
 Grew pallid with decay, 
 The burning fire within consumed 
 
 Its tenement of clay. 
 
 Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
 Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
 
 She gave a tear for those she loved, 
 Then met him with a smile. 
 
 END OF THE MEMOIR,
 
 REMAINS.
 
 A TALE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OP FIFTEEN. 
 
 ABOUT the close of the year 1813 there stood on the banks of the 
 Saranac a small neat cottage, which peeped forth from the surrounding 
 foliage, the image of rural quiet and contentment ; the scenery around 
 it was wildly yet beautifully romantic ; the clear blue river, glancing 
 and sparkling at its feet, served only as a preparative for another and 
 more magnificent view, where the stream, gliding on to the west, waa 
 buried in the broad white bosom of Champlain, which stretched back, 
 wave after wave, in the distance, until lost in faint blue mists that veiled 
 the sides of its guardian mountains, seeming more lovely in their in 
 distinctness. 
 
 On the borders of the Saranac the little village of Plattsburgh had 
 sprung up, in picturesque wildness, amid the loveliest haunts of nature, 
 imparting to the mind, by its indications of man's presence with the 
 joys and sufferings ever attendant in his train, a deeper interest than a 
 scene of solitary nature would ever have inspired. Of all the low- 
 roofed and shaded dwellings which rose around, the one named above, 
 although less indicative of wealth, was by far the most striking, from 
 its peculiarly beautiful situation. The old-fashioned piazza, which ex 
 tended in front of the building, was shaded with vines and honeysuckle 
 just budding into life ; the turf on the bank of the river was of the 
 richest and brightest emerald, and the wild rose and sweetbriar, which 
 twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with more delicate 
 freshness and perfume within the bounds of this earthly paradise. It 
 was May the blue waves of the Saranac, so lately released from their 
 icy bondage, bounded along with music and gladness, to meet and 
 mingle with its parent lake ; the fairy isles, so beautifully throned on 
 its sparkling bosom, robed in all the rich luxuriance of spring, and the 
 song of the birds floated forth on the balmy air like a strain of eeraph 
 melody. 
 
 The proprietor of this lowly mansion was a grey-haired and respecta 
 ble physician, whose life had been spent in toiling to mitigate the ter 
 rors of disease, and to obtain a support for his lovely and delicate family 
 A few words may serve to describe a character so open and ingenuous, 
 and a fate so common to dispositions like his. Early in life he evinced 
 a studious and scientific turn of mind, and had seized upon the profes 
 sion of medicine with all the earnestness of youth. Thirsting for 
 knowledge, he plunged into its deepest waters, and, after a few yeara 
 of unremitting study, entered upon life with a character of firm and 
 anbending integrity, and an almost childlike simplicity of manners and 
 ignorance of the ways of the world. This was a disposition illy calcu 
 lated to gain wealth or even competence; he knew not how to snatch 
 the golden sands that lay within his grasp ; he could not be servile to 
 the rich or tyrannical to the poor, and passed through life unblest with 
 
 (115)
 
 116 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 other riches than those of an approving conscience, and the tributes of 
 respect and love from those whose welfare he had promoted at the 
 expense of his own. At the age of twenty-five he saw and loved a 
 beautiful and high-spirited girl, and obeying the impulse of affection 
 rather than the calm reasonings of prudence, he united her fortunea 
 with his own, and settled down for life in this lowly and humble retreat 
 we have vainly attempted to describe. At the time of our simple tale, 
 he was far in the decline of life, but still performing his professional 
 duties. He found his happiness in promoting the comfort of his family 
 and enjoying the quiet pleasures of his cheerful fireside. The circle 
 which had once closed around it was now sadly diminished by the in 
 roads of death, but three lovely plants still clung by the side of their 
 parent tree, and although one of these remaining blossoms seemed 
 already fading from the eyes of her idolizing parents, there was much 
 of pure and refined enjoyment in this lowly cottage, unknown in the 
 haunts of wealth and worldly pleasure. The two eldest children were 
 sisters ; the one was seventeen, and the other had nearly attained her 
 sixteenth year. Emily, the eldest, notwithstanding her youth, was the 
 belle of the little village, and the life of her family circle. Her form 
 and face might have been taken for the model of a Hebe all health and 
 gaiety her complexion of pure red and white, had never been blanched 
 by the cold touch of disease, and her smiling lip, with its childlike 
 dimples, seemed bidding defiance to care and sorrow, with all their 
 retinue of sighs, tears, and wrinkles ; her dark auburn hair curled in 
 natural and tiny ringlets on her soft white neck and shoulders ; her full 
 hazel eye wore an expression of habitual smiling archness, and her 
 birdlike voice was for ever bursting forth in snalches of wild and un 
 taught melody. Oh ! dearly did her father love, at the close of the long, 
 weary day, to draw forth his beloved flute and practise some soul-stirring 
 air, while the voice of the light-hearted maiden bleat with its notes, and 
 her feet danced lightly to its measure. Such was li'mily, whose spright- 
 liness and native good sense had rendered her the favourite of her father. 
 But how shall I describe, in words, the high-sooJed, the almost ethe 
 real Melanie ? Oh ! that memory could paint on other tablets than on 
 those of the heart ! Oh ! that we could transfer to lifeless paper the 
 warm and glowing images which she has there implanted ! then might 
 I picture that fragile form, which seemed every day fading into more 
 spiritual fragility ; that broad, high brow, through which the blue veins 
 coursed like silken threads, so feeble and transparent ; that veil of dark 
 and luxuriant hair parted so meekly above it, and flowing, in long, 
 waving tresses, on her neck ; that cheek, now pale as the snow of De 
 cember, now flushed with a hue too intense for health ; and that eye, 
 one moment melting with the warmest tears of earthly emotion, and the 
 next, sparkling with the radiant light of angelic inspiration ! She 
 seemed not a being of the present, all her confidence in the happiness 
 of earth was buried with the past, and all her hopes of pure, exalted 
 blessedness were merged in the vast future of eternity. Ardent and 
 enthusiastic in her temperament, she had loved. Highly and poetically 
 imaginative, she had invested the object of her affection with the highest 
 and most exalted qualities of our nature, and when stern, unbending 
 truth dissolved those bright dreams of fancy in which she had lived and 
 revelled when she beheld in sober reality that he upon whom she had 
 bestowed her affections was unworthy of the sacred trust, her mind
 
 RL:,IAINS. 117 
 
 received a sliock only to be felt or imagined by a spirit like her own 
 gentle, confiding, and, at the same time, bearing within itself a standard 
 of lofty honour, of pure sentiment, and high and heavenly virtue, by 
 which she judged of the world around her, it was indeed an overwhelm 
 ing blow; but hers was not the mind to wuste itself in fruitless repinings, 
 and bury all its wealth of intellect and affection in the grave of one dis 
 appointed hope: far from it! Upon its first short voyage on the cold 
 waters of life, her little bark had been wrecked, and it now turned back 
 to the quiet haven of home with a meek and gentle confidence, to bestow 
 Upon her family that love which was still treasured in her heart, and 
 direct her powers of mind to higher and holier purposes than before. 
 But if her spirit was strong in misfortune, her delicate frame partook 
 not of that strength : although the stream of affliction had passed over 
 the fragile flower, it h:id planted in the pale blossom the germs of 
 decay she seemed a spirit in the home and with the friends of her 
 childhood she was with them, but not of them. The light faded from 
 her eye, the buoyancy from her step, and her voice no longer mingled 
 with the gay-hearted enrols of her sister. Her hopes were now rested 
 upon a firmer foundation than that of earth, and while she walked day 
 by day more deeply into " the valley of the shadow of death," her soul 
 and its pure and heavenly faith waxed brighter and brighter to the close. 
 The dark mists of receding time seemed to blend with the brilliant fore- 
 shadowings of a blessed eternity, and impart to her manners an habitual 
 and subdued mournt'ulness, changed at times to the loftiest elevation, as 
 she caught some unwonted flash from that far land of light towards 
 which she was slowly and hopefully journeying. 
 
 Her heart, with its warm and glowing tenderness, still clung to the 
 beings of her early love, and wiien she saw how deeply they mourned 
 her visible decline, with a sad sweetness she resumed her wonted avo 
 cations, though each word and act was tinged with the lofty and spiritual 
 enthusiasm of her nature. If she read, her mind sought fitting aliment 
 in the holy sublimity of Milton, or the melancholy force and grandeur 
 of Young ; if she drew, faces and forms of aerial and unearthly beauty 
 sprung from her pencil ; and if she sung, the wild and tremulous melody 
 of her voice thrilled while it charmed the listener. She was dying! For 
 the brief space of sixteen years she had been a habitant of earth she 
 had tasted of its purest joy and its keenest sorrow, and now, with a 
 calm and trustful earnestness, she was hastening to the home of the 
 weary. Still there were deep and tender ties which bound her below. 
 Her mother she adored; her spirited and highly-gifted little brother she 
 watched with a mother's fondness ; the sister, the beautiful and light- 
 hearted Emily, she loved with more than sisterly affection ; and her 
 country, again threatened by the power of a foreign throne, while 
 scarcely shadowed by the banner of its new-born freedom her country, 
 its struggles and its welfare, was still a theme of deep and engrossing 
 interest. Such was Melanie Mentreville such, as far as language can 
 imperfectly pourtray, the lovely yet too unearthly form unfolded to my 
 " mind's eye," like an aerial vision such the gentle yet elevated spirit 
 which is mingling with every dream of fancy, and would fain embody 
 itself in words. 
 
 Those who seek in these few pages for a regular and eventful tale 
 will rise disappointed from the perusal ; it is nothing more than a faint 
 and imperfect sketch of sentiments and scenes which have long since 
 
 in
 
 118 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON.- 
 
 passed away, with their actors, "to dim burial isles of the past, and 
 which, still" living as vividly as ever in the ideal world of memory, I 
 would once more introduce upon the stage of life as beings of real and 
 actual existence. 
 
 It was a glorious evening in May ; the sun was just retiring to his 
 couch in the west, arrayed in all the splendid livery of a northern sun- 
 set; the groves of pine and elm upon the lake shore were bathed in his 
 golden hue, and their tall shadows were reflected in the clear depths 
 beneath; the distant mountains of Vermont, which bounded the horizon, 
 were shrouded with a veil of dream-like glory, blending shade by shade 
 with thu blue tints above, till heaven and eartli seemed one ; and that 
 heaven ! oh that pen could describe its calm and solemn magnificence ; 
 the clouds of amber and gold, tinted and fringed with crimson, floating 
 over the pure depths, moving as in sleep to their bright western home, 
 while a rich blending of purple and green rose up from the horizon as 
 if darting to meet them on their mid-career. It was at this glorious 
 sunset hour that the two sisters had repaired to the piazza of their little 
 cottage to breathe the invigorating air of spring ; and each to enjoy 
 with their peculiar feelings the lovely and solemnizing influence of the 
 scene. With the last ray of the golden sunlight playing over her 
 pale upraised features, Melanie stood beside one of the vine-wreathed 
 columns, her head resting on her hand, and her full dark eyes bent 
 earnestly upon the wild and purified drapery of the heavens, now fading 
 into dimness, now combining and bursting forth hues more gorgeous 
 than before. Emily was bending over a rose-tree in the little enclosure, 
 twining a fairy wreath of the wild sweetbriar, while the lively air 
 which she almost unconsciously warbled, as if in unison with the cha 
 racter of the scene, died away in tones of plaintive and tremulous 
 sweetness. For a few moments the silence was unbroken, until Emily, 
 springing lightly to her sister's side, exclaimed, while her fine features 
 beamed with an expression of affectionate gaiety, " How can you look 
 so sad, Melanie, when all around us is breathing the very spirit of hap 
 piness ? Do not the clouds you gaze upon make your heart feel light 
 and airy as themselves ! Will not these sweet flowers I have twined 
 for you, impart something of their own hue to your cheek and your 
 thoughts ?" 
 
 Melanie gently took the wreath from her hand and replied, " You 
 mistake me, sister, I am not sad never perhaps did I experience a mo 
 ment of more exquisite joy, for I thought, that ere those clouds had 
 many times fleeted away to their bright homes in the west, my freed 
 spirit might soar above them and the great orb which imparts their 
 brilliance ; to the source of all light, all love; that ere those flowers had 
 faded with the blasts of autumn, I might rest in that fair land, where 
 flowers of undying bloom bathe for ever in the river of the waters of 
 life ; where there is no more winter to chill the bright buds of nature, 
 or the far more fragile blossoms of the heart." 
 
 "Oh, Melanie! Melanie !" said Emily passing her arm around her 
 sister's neck, and bursting into tears ; " you will break my heart. Would 
 you so gladly leave us all father and mother, and me and " 
 
 " No, no," replied Melanie, earnestly ; " but even though you should 
 see me no more, I feel, I know, that I shall not leave you, my own. my 
 only sister. The thought may be a presumptuous one, but something 
 within tells me that I shall see you, shall love you as dearly as now
 
 REMAINS. 119 
 
 perhaps, even be permitted to watch over and protect you, and oh, Emi 
 ly, were not this happiness !" 
 
 She replied only by a warmer pressure of the pale hand within her 
 own, and borne away by the suggestions of her wild fancy, Melanie 
 continued 
 
 " Yes, Emily, though this weak and wasted frame may be gone from 
 among you, rny spirit shall be with you; yours will be the blessed task 
 of soothing the pillow of disease, when our beloved parents shall tread 
 the pathway I have trodden ; but think not that Melanie, the child of their 
 love, will be far from them in that parting hour when you are in sor- 
 row, my soul shall plead for you at the throne or eternal mercy and 
 when you are happy, my voice shall whisper in your soul of that Hea 
 venly Father, from whose treasures of love coineth all happiness on 
 earth, and all your hopes of blessedness in Heaven ! Do not weep, 
 Emily, 1 shall love you all with a purer and holier love. My kind- 
 hearted and ingenuous father, my high-souled, my beloved mother : you, 
 my sweet blossom ; and you also, my noble little brother," she added, as 
 the lovely boy bounded over the threshold, and she placed her hand 
 carelessly on his long dark curls. 
 
 " Oh ! sister, sister 1" cried Alfred with all the eagerness of boyhood, 
 " oh ! the sights I have seen to-day ! I have crossed the river in a canoe, 
 and I have been up to the old tort, and I have seen the inilitia-men 
 training, and the flags, and the drums, and the big cannon, and all ! 
 didn't you hear it fire ? Sister Emma and Mr. Selden said I should be 
 a soldier. Shall I not, dear sister ?" and with a martial air the minia 
 ture hero strode up and down the piazza as if courting admiration. 
 
 *" Fie, Alfred !" replied Emily, to whose lips the smile had returned 
 as before, " has the red coat and the gay epaulettes charmed you so soon ? 
 Remember, my little brother, that the life of a soldier is a life of hard 
 ships, and his employment a fierce and deadly one ; those glittering 
 bayonets have made many a mother childless, and those gay cockades 
 cover many a worthless or deceitful brain. No ! never be a soldier, 
 Alfred." 
 
 " Say not so, Emily," exclaimed Milanie ; " though we now smile at 
 the proud step and flashing eye of the mimic warrior, I can read his 
 fate in them. If his life is spared, that sprightly and slender form will 
 expand into the tall and athletic man, and the spark that is now warming 
 into life his unfledged fancy, will strengthen into a glowing and un 
 quenchable flame ; and as it now prompts to those tones and gestures 
 of mock defiance and command, it will lead him on to deeds of high 
 and lofty daring. Yes ! thou wilt be a soldier, my little Alfred noble, 
 generous, high-souled, and brave ; all, all " her voice trembled as she 
 added, " all I once thought another." 
 
 " Yes, I will be a soldier," echoed the youthful candidate for fame 
 " a brave and an honourable soldier ;" and he bounded away through 
 the open door, while the hall rang with his shouts. 
 
 For a few moments Melanie stood with her hands clasped upon her 
 bosom as if in mental prayer for the interesting boy whose fate she had 
 prophesied ; and Emily seemed buried in deep revery, her head bowed, 
 and her hand unconsciously pulling the leaves from a splendid moss 
 rose, which was half concealed in her bosom. The silence \vas at 
 length broken by the soft voice of Milanie. " Whence came that sweet 
 rose, sister Emily ?" The maiden started from her revery, blushed deep 
 ly, and drew the bud from the folds of her handkerchief
 
 liJO MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Forgive me, Melariie I Walter Mr. Seldcn left it for you, ana 
 I I forgot to give it you." 
 
 A faint sweet smile passed over Melanie's delicate features as she re 
 plied " Keep it, Emily ; save as a proof of brotherly kindness, his gills 
 jire valueless to me." 
 
 Emily gazed upon the calm and gentle face before her with a mingled 
 expression of doubt and joyful inquiry. " Do you not tell me, dea 
 sister, I fear it cannot be your heart belies your words ?" 
 
 Melanie took her trembling hand in both her own, and replied, while 
 a shade of deep sadness mingled with the affectionate simplicity of her 
 milliner. 
 
 " No, my beloved sister, you wrong me ; what I say is the true, the 
 only language of my heart. I wHl own to you that once had I known 
 Walter Selden, I might have returned with ardour what I now view 
 with pain as an unfortunate and misplaced attachment. You believe it 
 not, Emily, but I am dying. Is it for me, whose every thought and 
 hope should rest upon that world of spirits to which I am hastening, to 
 twine rny affections around an earthly idol ? Is it for me, whose way 
 ward love hath once been crushed and blighted, to bid it arise Phoenix- 
 like from the ashes of its destruction, with new hope and new confi 
 dence ? And more than all, is it for me to encourage a visionary 
 attachment, which would blast the hopes, the young affections of a 
 sister dearer than life ? Blush not, Emily ; I have read the pure volume 
 of your heart perhaps more clearly than yourself; I have long studied 
 its pages with pain, yet not without a deep, strong hope for the future. 
 When I am gone, Emily, his now ardent passion will be buried in my 
 grave ; he will only remember me as a sad and pleasing vision ; and as 
 day by day that impression waxes fainter, he will behold the loveliness, 
 the worth of your mind and person; and although it is denied tome 
 below, my rejoicing spirit shall behold the union of those two my heart 
 loves best, my sister and my friend." 
 
 Emily threw herself in tears upon the neck of her sister. "Oh ! Me 
 lanie, Melanie, my kind, my generous Melanie ! how can I believe that 
 any one who has looked upon that bright, heavenly face, could ever cast 
 one glance upon a simple, unideal child of earth like me ?" 
 
 " And the loveliest of earth's creation," was Melanie's fond reply as 
 she passed her hand over the silken ringlets and blushing cheek of the 
 
 tearful maiden. 
 
 ******** 
 
 A year had past by ; the flowers had again bloomed, and were again 
 fading, and time (as ever) had brought many a change upon his restless 
 pinions. The little village of Plattsburg still looked forth as sweetly 
 from amid its groves and streams; the Saranac flowed on with as ghid 
 a music; the billows rolled as proudly on the broad bosom of Champliiin, 
 but armed fleets in all their drcadlul array now rode upon its wnttrs; 
 the veice of the distant cannon echoed back from its shores, and martial 
 music pealed long and loud through those once quiet abodes <>t' peace. 
 It was September, 1814, that year which commenced with bloodshed 
 and dismay, and closed with a triumph that shall never fade from the 
 annals of our history, while America hath a heart to warm with the 
 glow of patriotism, or a voice to perpetuate the memory of the bravo. 
 Upon the tenth morning of this memorable month we would re-op<;n the 
 scene of our simple drurnu ; a morning which rose upon our feeble band
 
 REMAINS. 121 
 
 of intrepid patriots in doubt and anxiety, and inspired in the breasts of 
 their numerous and well-regulated foes, new hopes, new confidence of 
 victory. Well might they look around upon that mighty and veteran 
 host of fourteen thousand warriors, who had conquere'd in Spain, France, 
 and the Indies, and forward upon that weak but well-disciplined band 
 of fifteen hundred, commanded by the brave Macomb, and predict the 
 triumph which, in all human probability, must necessarily ensue. After 
 a long period of alternate success and defeat, the British forces poured 
 in their utmost strength upon the northern frontier, and determined, by 
 a, decisive attack upon the comparatively unprotected village, to open a 
 free passage into the heart of that country which they had laboured so 
 long and so fruitlessly to subdue. Their officers were men who sought 
 in foreign victories a glory which should enrol their names for ever 
 upon the pages of England's history; they fought for distinctions, for 
 titles, for wealth, and they knew not the force of a feeble arm, when 
 directed and nerved by that holy patriotism which could toil and bleed, 
 ere it would yield one single minutia of Ihat independence bequeathed 
 to them by the valour of their immortal sires. 
 
 On the morning of the filth, the land force, commanded by Sir George 
 Prevost, had approached the village of Plattsburgh, and their fleet was 
 prepared to make the attack by water at the same time that the army 
 entered the town, and overcame the feeble resistance which it expected 
 to meet. 
 
 Meanwhile the village presented a scene of deep and thrilling interest. 
 The small force which remained after the departure of the American 
 army for Lake Erie was collected by tlieii gallant leader, General Ma- 
 comb, in fort Moreau, situated on the borders of the lake, a short distance 
 from the banks of the Saranac. Here they had planted their cannon, 
 and collected their means of defence ; here they were to conquer, or if 
 courage and skill proved vain, here they were to die. Guards and sen 
 tinels were posted at intervals along the streets, parties of volunteers 
 were continually sallying forth to harass the enemy, and prepare them 
 selves for the decisive struggle, and expresses were riding back and 
 forth on their foaming steeds, shouting to the eager listener the position 
 of the army, as it approached nearer and nearer, or hastening in silence 
 to the fort to discharge some embassy of mighty and mysterious import. 
 The greater part of the peaceful inhabitants had fled from the scene of 
 bloodshed and commotion, and many a gun and buyonet were glittering 
 in the windows of their peaceful dwellings, thus converted into barracks 
 for the use of the soldiery, or hospitals for the wounded. 
 
 The mists of the morning had just rolled from the bosom of the 
 waters, and the sun, struggling through the dense clouds, had just 
 kissed the light foam upon its surface, when a tall, manly youth was 
 een approaching the guards on the northern bank of the Saranac with 
 a hurried, anxious, yet half-hesitating air. His form was slight and 
 graceful in the extreme, and the partly military dress which he wore 
 displayed to advantage its symmetry of proportion. He carried his 
 long rifle in one hand, and a massive oid-fasliioned sword was fastenec" 
 by an embroidered belt to his side ; his lips were firmly Compressed, 
 but his dark blue eyes were fixed upon the ground, as if some sad, sub 
 duing thought hnd mingled with the sterner occupants of his mind. 
 As he approached the sentinels, each touched his cap in respect, and he 
 passed on unquestioned, until pausing at the gate of Pr Mentrevilic's 
 10*
 
 122 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 cottage, he slowly and softly raised the latch ; a curtain was drawn 
 aside, a pale face peeped from the window, a light step was heard in the 
 hall, and Emily stood upon the threshold. A year had wrought many 
 changes in the person of this lovely girl; her form was taller and more 
 woinanly, but had lost much of its roundness; sorrow and midnight 
 watching had faded the roses on her cheek, and tears had been its fre 
 quent visitants ; but her features, in their morning freshness and gorgeous 
 bloom, had never seemed half so lovely. A flush sprang to her face 
 and a light to her eye, as she stepped forward to meet the stranger, ana 
 extended her hand with a frank and affecting simplicity. "Walter!" 
 " Emily !" His heart seemed too full for another word, and he raised 
 his eyes to hers with a look of sad and apprehensive inquiry. 
 
 " Oh ! do not ask me," she replied, bursting into tears. " Oh ! that I 
 could give you some gleam of comfort; -that I could lay down my 
 worthless life for my sweet sister ! But it may not be, her frame grows 
 hourly weaker, and her mind more strong ; she seems all soul a spirit 
 of Heaven fettered by the strong affections of earth ; but yet, Walter," 
 she added, wiping the blinding tears from her eyes, " when I look upon 
 her I can scarcely find it in my heart to grieve ; she seems so placid 
 and so happy, like an infant returning to the arms of its parent : it is 
 only when I look upon myself, and dear mother, and father, and you, 
 and think how lonely, how desolate we shall be, that I feel the full 
 weight of sorrow." 
 
 " Desolate ! desolate indeed !" replied the young man, and unable 
 longer to control his emotion he turned from her, and leaning his head 
 upon the little column where Melanie had so often rested, gave vent to 
 his excited feelings in a flood of tears. But a moment, and it was over 
 he had paid his tribute upon the altar of sorrowing affection, and he 
 awoke to the remembrance of sterner and more pressing duties. 
 
 " Forgive me, Emily !" his cheek burning with shame at this transi 
 tory weakness " surely the being for whose early fate I have shed 
 these unmanly tears must form my best apology ; yet I would not give 
 way to sorrow upon a day like this, when every man should bring a cool 
 head and a strong arm to the succour of his country." 
 
 Emily's pale cheek turned yet more pallid, as she exclaimed, " Wal 
 ter, do you have you indeed joined yourself with those doomed men ?" 
 and her eye rested on the sword and rifle, which she had not before 
 perceived. 
 
 "And have I not, Emily? Would you, would Melanie own me a& 
 her her friend ? Would she not blush to hear my shame ? Would 
 not the blood of my grandsire, who fought so bravely in the Revolution, 
 burn and scorch in the veins of his dastardly son, if I refused to join 
 the brave band in defence of my native village, of my family, and of 
 you, sweet Emily and and Melanie ?" 
 
 " And if you are defeated" 
 
 He smiled encouragingly. 
 
 " Why, then, Emily, we must yield like men, only with our lives. 
 But we shall not be defeated we shall conquer ! Brave hearts and de 
 termined hands will do more in the hour of conflict than closed ranks 
 and mere animal force." 
 
 " And when is this dreadful hour to come ? When do you expect 
 the final attack?" 
 
 ' I should be tempted to conceal it, little trembler," replied the youth,
 
 REMAINS. 123 
 
 * did I not feel that I have already too long neglected the chief object 
 of my visit. From the reports of the expresses and scouts who have 
 returned, we expect the enemy to-morrow morning, when we shall pro 
 bably be assailed by land and water. This place will be the scene of 
 bloodshed and confusion : you cannot remain here you must fly." 
 
 " I know it, I know it !" exclaimed Emily ; " father is already gone 
 in search of wagons to convey our effects ; but my sister, my poor 
 sister, it seems almost sacrilege to disturb and perhaps hasten her part 
 ing moments by this precipitation ; and the idea is so distressing, she 
 longs so to die in her own old home. I can read it in every look, though 
 she will not name it, lest we subject ourselves to danger for her sake. 
 You know, Walter, we should have fled long since, as at the time of 
 the former invasion, but ever since that short sojourn with strangers, 
 she has seemed to fade more rapidly. It was breaking up all the sweet 
 associations and habits which alone seem binding her to earth, and now, 
 when she has so short a time to live, oh! it is a cruel, cruel task !" and 
 the affectionate girl wept faster than before. 
 
 " I feel it all, dear Emily," said Walter, " but were it not more cruel 
 that her gentle spirit should part amid the roar of cannon and the shouts 
 of the combatants? Then, if the British conquer, the last sounds which 
 would meet her ear, would be those of insult and lawless triumph. No, 
 no, it is impossible you must fly. Would to God my duties did not 
 call me for the space of two hours, that I might see you all in safety, 
 and then return, with a light heart, to my post. But that cannot be ; by 
 especial favour I have obtained leave to make you this hasty visit, and, 
 upon my return, the band of volunteers which I have joined proceed to 
 the bank above the old bridge, the station deemed most advantageous 
 for this section of our small force. So you see, dear Emily, I cannot 
 aid you ; but you say your father is gone where, and with what hopes 
 of success ?" 
 
 " He started before daylight this morning, to obtain more easy con 
 veyance for our dear invalid than ou. old-fashioned family vehicle affords, 
 and wagons to convey the family and our most valuable effects ; but you 
 know calamity and terror make us selfish, and the inhabitants having 
 fled, he found not the proper means of conveyance for dear Melanie in 
 the village, and he hastened on some ten or twelve miles in the country 
 to obtain them, and we do not expect him to return until sunset." 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaimed Walter, " the British forces will have 
 advanced between him and our village, and he cannot return to you. 
 Why did I not know this before ?" 
 
 Scarcely had he spoken, when Mrs. Mentreville appeared on the 
 threshold of the open door, at the porch of which they had been con 
 versing. Her figure was about the middle height and delicately form 
 ed, and her features retained the traces of much former beauty, but 
 deep and unremitting anxiety had wasted a form naturally feeble, and 
 an expression of calm but unutterable grief was seated in her full dark 
 eye. As she advanced, she caught the expression of alarm in the face 
 of young Selden and her daughter, and after the first silent greeting was 
 over she inquired, " What were you saying, Walter ? Do not fear to 
 tell me ; nothing can alarm me now." 
 
 In brief words Walter repeated his apprehensions that her husband 
 -night be prevented from returning, and their flight would shortly be- 
 impossible.
 
 |24 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Then we will remain," replied Mrs. Mentreville firmly. " If we 
 are successful, all is well ; if we fail, the British officers are gentlemen 
 as well as soldiers they have mothers, wives, and daughters they will 
 protect us. I only fear the effect of the excitement and turmoil upon 
 our beloved sufferer." 
 
 Walter sighed deeply. 
 
 "God will protect you, my dear madam. I wish /could trust more 
 implicitly to the faith and honour of our enemies. But Dr. Mentreville 
 may still return all may yet be well. My term of absence is almost 
 expired can I not see Melanie ?" and he lowered his voice almost to a 
 whisper, as if he feared to breathe aloud a name so sacred. 
 
 The mother replied not, but silently taking the hand of the young 
 man, she led him into the chamber of the dying girl. It seemed not 
 like the abode of death and disease. The spirit, trembling, hovering 
 within its boundaries, appeared to sanctify its resting place. There was 
 no gloom, or darkness, or dreariness, for they found no place in the 
 mind of Melanie, and why should they surround her frame without ? 
 She was all purity, gentleness, elevation and an air of soft soothing me 
 lancholy pervaded the scene of her last sufferings. The windows open 
 ing upon the river were closed, for there were sights and sounds of too 
 animating and warlike a nature to meet the acute eye or sensible ear 
 of the dying maiden ; but a casement beside her couch was thrown 
 back, and the little flower-garden beneath it, which she had so often 
 tended, sent up tl>e perfume of its last fading blossoms into her chamber, 
 while the quivering poplar-trees waved and sighed her requiem before 
 it, and the luxuriant vines twined their small tendrils round the lattice. 
 The sunlight, broken and softened by the green branches, fell in 
 chastened splendour upon the floor, and tinged with a yet more heaven 
 ly radiance the pale, bright features of Melanie. The couch had been 
 placed beside the open casement, that, as she reclined upon its pillows, 
 ehe might yet look around upon the scenes so dear to her ; and well do 
 those who witnessed remember the unearthly loveliness of her form and 
 face, and the alternate sadness a glorious hope in its expression, as she 
 bade a mental farewell to the cherished scenes of earth, or looked for 
 ward to the blessed home which she was seeking. There was one by 
 her side who watched with unweaiied care and childish simplicity every 
 look and motion. It was the little Alfred. She dearly loved the ardent 
 and enthusiastic boy, and his young heart clung with all its ardour and 
 enthusiasm to the one who most deeply awakened and cherished the in 
 cipient romance of his nature. Now that he beheld her thus rading 
 from before him, he hovered for ever by her bed-side, and hun fe like 
 one entranced, upon each trembling accent of her voice. This deep and 
 subdued affection had unlocked a new fountain in his little breast, and 
 it flowed on, overwhelming all the petty selfishness of childhood, and 
 quenching all save the flame of military ardour, which still burnt silent 
 ly and slowly, though subdued by this new and overpowering sentimen* 
 of love for his gentle and intellectual sister. It was affecting to mark 
 the struggle of these two passions in his young mind. At the sound of 
 the distant cannon, the roll of the drum, or the shouting of the express 
 as he rode furiously by, he would start from his seat, while his eye 
 kindled, and his step involuntarily kept pace with the music ; then, as 
 the thought of Melanie rushed over his mind, he would turn to the bed, 
 take her hand gently in his own little palm, and whisper softly, " Sister,
 
 REMAINS. 1.25 
 
 did it disturb you ? He was seated on his little stool by her side, cut 
 ting miniature soldiers from the little branches of a wild rose-tree, and 
 watching every change in his sister's face, when Mrs. Mentreville, Emi 
 ly, and Walter entered. Melunie raised her head from the pillow on 
 which she reclined, and extended her hand feebly asSelden approached. 
 
 " Walter, this is kind," said she ; " I feared I should not see you 
 before the engagement, and then we may never meet again." The 
 youth spoke not, but kissed tlie pale hand which rested in his own. She 
 continued : " I see that you have joined them, that you are going forth 
 to add one more brave heart and arm to our adventurous band. I knew 
 it. Go, Walter, go ! and my blessing and the blessing of God go with 
 you. If you conquer, you will find your reward in that peace which 
 you have fought to bestow ; if you fall, it will be in the performance of 
 your duty, and you will share the grave of our bravest and best Oh !" 
 she added, clasping her hands, and her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, 
 " Oh ! that the shout of victory might be the last earthly sound wafted 
 to my spirit as it seeks the portal of a brighter world ! With the voice 
 of triumph floating around its pathway, how blessed might be its de 
 parture !" There was a moment's deep silence ; every heart seemed too 
 full for speech, till the soft sweet voice of Melanie again fell, like a bird 
 whisper, upon the ears of the motionless group : " Walter, do not deceive 
 me ; is it safe for my dear mother and sister to remain in this village, 
 abandoned as it will be to the soldiery in case of defeat ? God only 
 knows how deeply I have longed to breathe my last in this dear home 
 of my infancy, but, for the love of mercy, let not this idle fancy endan 
 ger the safety or comfort of those I love dearer than myself." Walter 
 replied that it was deemed necessary to fly, and that her father had 
 gone in search of the easiest means of conveyance for her. She sighed 
 deeply. " My own dear father ! But I shall not need him." Imme 
 diately rallying her spirits, while the faint sunlight smile, so peculiar to 
 herself, played over her features, she again extended her hand. " Let 
 me not detain you, Walter, from the performance of those duties which 
 now devolve upon you. Go ! When I hear the shouts and tumult of 
 the battle, I will pray for you, if on earth I will watch over you, if 
 released from its fetters. Oh ! do not look so sad ! If I saw not the 
 mournful faces of those I love, my soul feels so happy I could almost 
 think it Paradise. When I am gone, remember me as a dream, a 
 moonlight vision which never formed itself into reality till it had fled ; 
 as a being whose shadow has flitted over the past, whose life is only in 
 the future. I have only two hopes, two wishes upon earth ; one for my 
 country, the other " She paused, and gazed fondly upon Walter and 
 Emily as they stood beside her. The quick glance of Emily caught 
 her meaning, and, throwing herself upon Melanie's bosom, she looked 
 imploringly in her face. " Fear not, my sweet blossom," whispered 
 Melanie, " I cannot, will not say aught which you could wish unsaid." 
 Then turning to Selden, she said, "Farewell; may God protect and 
 prosper you, my brother .'" 
 
 The tears rushed to the young man's eyes as he cast one long, mourn 
 ful look upon the delicate and spiritual features, and kissed the small 
 wan fingers which he again pressed, but mastering his emotion with a 
 strong effort, he turned from the room, and paused a moment in the 
 hall, ere he could collect sufficient courage to leave the spot which con 
 tained a being so lovely (as he feared) for ever. As he stood thus, with
 
 126 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 his hand upon his brow and his eyes bent upon the floor, a slight noise 
 oehind him attracted his attention. He turned ; it was little Alfred. He 
 had Btolen unperceived from the room, and was examining Walter's 
 rifle with looks of earnest and admiring attention, and too much ab 
 sorbed to be conscious of the owner's presence ; he was, in fancy, load- 
 ing, presenting, firing, and performing all the military evolutions of 
 which he was master; when he at length perceived Walter, he sprang 
 to his side, and raising his bright face, exclaimed in an eager whisper 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Selden ! Mr. Selden ! take me with you to the battle ; I 
 will not trouble you ; I will load your gun, and I will take my little 
 bow and arrow, and fight as the Indians do ; and I will make the British 
 run do, do take me !" 
 
 " Will you not be afraid, my dear boy ?" said Walter, scarcely con- 
 scious that he spoke. 
 
 A smile of contempt curled the boy's red lip. 
 
 " Afraid ! what honourable soldier was ever afraid ?" and forgetting 
 his caution one moment, he laughed aloud. The spark had been awa 
 kened in his little bosom, and it required all the soft dews of feeling and 
 reflection to quench its flame. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Alfred !" said Selden ; " would you leave your sister, 
 your dear sister, and perhaps never see her more ?" The boy looked 
 down ; his heart swelled, and his lip trembled ; but his desire was still 
 strong. " Your father is gone, and would you leave your mother and 
 sisters defenceless? What will become of them if the British conquer?" 
 
 Here was a double motive ; here were united the two ruling passions, 
 and he clapped his hands in the eagerness of his joy. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will stay and protect them ; and mother shall call me 
 her little soldier, and sister Emmy will not be afraid, and no one shall 
 touch dear Melanie." And he stole back contented to the stool by his 
 bedside, to indulge his young fancy, in dreams of war, and victory, and 
 defence. 
 
 Walter departed ; and in a short time after the sound of martial 
 music, of the drum and fife, and the trampling of many feet, disturbed 
 the silence of Melanie's chamber. Mrs. Mentreville and Emily cast an 
 anxious glance upon the apparently sleeping sufferer, and softly raised the 
 curtain of the window. It was the band of volunteers marching out to 
 their post. It was mostly composed of the young men of the village, 
 led by an older and more experienced commander. Their hearts were 
 beating high with hope and expectation, and they kept pace with a 
 proud and even step to the lively national air which swelled in loud 
 strains upon the breeze. As they passed the house of Dr. Mentreville, 
 many an eye was turned, and many a glance fixed eagerly upon the 
 beautiful face of Emily, as she leaned from the window ; but she knew 
 it not, she saw, she thought of but one. The rest passed before her like 
 a colourless picture, and she beheld the form of Walter Selden, vivid 
 and distinct from the pageantry around him. His eye caught hers, 
 fixed with such an earnest and speaking gaze upon his features ! Then 
 first flashed the truth like an electric spark through his mind the idea 
 that that young and guileless maiden might feel in him an interest 
 deeper than that of a sister or a friend. A burning flush rose to his 
 cheeks and brow: he bowed low; a white handkerchief fluttered from 
 the window, and it was again closed. All had passed in an instant, but 
 it was one of those which contained more of existence than many a
 
 REMAINS. 127 
 
 long, long- year: in that one look, unseen save by its object, the uncon 
 scious girl had betrayed the secret most dear, most sacred to her heart; 
 the one which she had fancied, had believed, no grief, no mental torture 
 could force her to reveal. She turned from the window, hid her blush 
 ing face in her hands, and burst into tears. 
 
 "Come hither, Emily," said Melanie, and opened her arms, while 
 the weeping girl threw herself into them and sobbed upon her sister's 
 bosom. Melanie clasped her hands over the silken tresses of the young 
 mourner, and raised her head as in prayer. Oh ! that 1 had a purer 
 pencil than those of earth to paint tho forms, the expression, of those 
 two lovely beings ! Some hovering angel might have transferred that 
 scene to his immortal tablets, and laid it up among the records of heaven, 
 as one bright spot shining forth from the dark annals of misery and 
 crime. Emily, the type of all earth's loveliest, warm with its noblest 
 passions, all the generous impulses of youth, weeping upon the bosom 
 of a dying sister; and that sister, forgetful of herself, of all beside, pray 
 ing for the dear one, while her face beamed with all the hallowed love, 
 of the gentle compassion of a purified being, and her dark eyes kindled 
 with a glow reflected only from the heaven they sought. The da"" 
 rolled on, that long, long dreary day ; the village was still in the tumul 
 of preparation ; the expresses rode by more furious than ever ; tht 
 British forces were rapidly approaching the village, but still the father, 
 tfie husband came not, and fears for his safety mingled with the agony 
 of his helpless family. Mrs. Mentreville was a woman of acutely deli, 
 cate and sensitive feelings, but they were mastered and controlled by a 
 firm judgment, a strong and independent mind. She had long seen, 
 with tl it anguish which a mother only can know, the certain but 
 gradual decline of her beloved Melanie. 
 
 This child had been her favourite. There was something in the 
 pure and lofty enthusiasm of her character which touched a responsive 
 chord in her own bosom. What others had never seen, or only marked 
 as the idle fancies of a romantic girl, revealed to her the inmost recesses 
 of a nature composed of deep sensibilities, quiet, unobtrusive affections, 
 and lofty aspirations after something- higher and holier than earth. She 
 had studied her carefully ; she loved her to idolatry, and she only who 
 nas nurtured, who has wept over the death-bed of such a child, can un 
 derstand the bitterness of grief which converted her whole soul into a 
 fountain of agony. She saw how deeply it distressed Melanie to behold 
 her sorrow, and many an hour banished herself from her bedside, that 
 spot most sacred upon earth, that she might drink unperceived from the 
 darkness of her affliction, and in solitude, and silence, struggle to sub 
 due her heart into accordance' with the will of her Heavenly Father. 
 
 Night drew on ; the sky, which had been clear, became suddenly 
 overcast ; the sunbeams no longer played upon the quivering poplars, 
 or sparkled gladly in the blue depths of the Saranac, and a dark thun 
 der-gust rolled in black volumes from the west. The wing of the storm, 
 as it slowly unfolded in the heavens, cast a deep leaden shadow on the 
 waves of the Cham plain ; and the white foam gathered upon the crest 
 of each receding billow, as it rolled with an angry murmur to the shore. 
 The thunder growled faintly in the distance ; pale flashes of light burst 
 at intervals from the rent clouds, and large threatening drops fell with 
 their sullen patter on the roof. Every thing betokened the approach of 
 
 fearful, though transient storm ; and a fervent prayer for the safety of
 
 128 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 
 
 her husband burst from the lips of Mrs. Mentreville, as she closed the 
 door of the cottage and returned to the chamber of Melanie. As the 
 tempest strengthened, the lightning streamed in with broad and livid 
 flashes, and the thunder rolled on its tremendous pathway ; each crash 
 more loud and terrific than the last. Mrs. MentreviHe, seated on Me- 
 lanie's couch, supported her head upon her bosom, and an expression of 
 deep awe rested upon her pale features. Emily knelt by the bedside 
 and concealed her face in its drapery, and even the stout heart of little 
 Alfred quailed, as peal after peal burst and gleamed above them and 
 around them. He lisped no word of fear, but grasped the hand of Me 
 lanie in his own, gazed wistfully upon her placid and spiritual features, 
 as if something whispered within him that no danger could assail, no 
 bolts from the artillery of heaven descend upon a form and soul so hea 
 venly. No terror, no dread was on the face of Melanie; resting upon 
 her mother's bosom, she gazed on the dark rolling masses of the tem- 
 pest-cloud, and trembled not at the livid flames, or the pealings of the 
 loud-voiced thunder; her soul seemed bursting from her eyes in one 
 long gaze of solemn adoration ; her spirit was lifted above the warring 
 elements ; it was casting its burden of deep and silent worship at the 
 footstool of the Almighty. The storm for an instant paused: the thun 
 der-peals died away in a low muttering growl, and an awful silence 
 reigned in the heavens and on the earth; the angel of the tempest had 
 retired 'neath the veil of blackness, to gather the scattered thunderbolts 
 in his hand, and to wreathe the winged lightnings on his brow. Agnin 
 he came upon his wild career on, on, in more terrific majesty ; the 
 dark cloud parted with a fearful chasm, while from its bosom poured a 
 sheet of flame, broad, livid, terrible, and a fierce crash, as of a shattered 
 world, pealed along the heavens. A low shriek burst from the lips ot 
 Emily, and Alfred pressed his sister's hand with a convulsive energy. 
 The grasp recalled Melanie's wandering senses ; she drew him closer 
 to her bosom, and whispered in accents low but distinct, heard like an 
 angel's murmur amid the roaring of the storm, " Fear not, my little 
 brother; it is the same voice which breathes in melody among the 
 flowers of spring ; the same hand which paints the rainbow and the rose. 
 Fear not, it is your Father and your God ! He sendeth forth the spirit of 
 his love, and heaven and earth are bathed in the fountain of its glory , 
 he stretcheth out the arm of his power and the hills tremble and are 
 shaken. Yea," she added, clasping her hands and looking upwards 
 with an expression of fervent solemnity, " yea ; thou only art great who 
 coverest thyself with light as with a garment ; who stretchest out the 
 heavens like a curtain ; who makes the clouds thy chariot ; who walkest 
 upon the wings of the wind." 
 
 It was midnight. The storm had departed as it came ; the wind 
 sighed mournfully, yet sweet amid the dripping branches ; the black 
 masses rolled from the firmament, and the moon, struggling through 
 their gloom, cast her feeble and trembling beams on the still agitated 
 waters ; the waves rose and fell with a faint wailing murmur, like the sobs 
 of a weeping child ; and the hearts of the anxious mourners seemed to beat 
 in unison with their sad cadence. A taper was burning on the hearth 
 in Melanie's chamber, but the curtain was withdrawn, and the pure 
 cold rays of the moon trembled faintly upon a being, pure and heavenly 
 as themselves. She slept in the hush of that midnight hour, surround- 
 ed by those best loved on earth, she slept. Oh ! the peace ; the unearth
 
 REMAINS. 129 
 
 ly beauty of that sleep. Her head lay back upon the pillow, her bright 
 dark hair shaded with its rich tresses the exquisite features of her face; 
 Ihe serenity of heaven seemed resting on her broad, pale brow ; her dark 
 eyelids lay motionless on their snowy pillow, and nought could reveal 
 to the beholder that he gazed on an inhabitant of earth, save the brilliant 
 flush which mantled upon her cheek, as if death, fearing utterly to de 
 stroy a work so beautiful, had breathed a deeper crimson on the fresh 
 rose of health, and placed it 'mid the lilies of disease. Emily was 
 kneeling, beside her, her face bathed in tears, and her eyes now bent 
 with a wistful sadness upon her sleeping sister, now raised as in prayer 
 to Heaven; a petition seemed trembling upon her lips, but it would 
 wing its way no farther; she dared not pray for fetters to enchain the 
 struggling spirit ; she could not even wish to recall the fluttering priso 
 ner to its cage of clay, and the prayer died unuttered on her tongue. 
 Then her mind wandered far away from that shaded room and its mid 
 night stillness. She saw the morning dawn above the opposing ranks ; 
 she heard the shouts of the commanders, the sharp report of the rifles, 
 and the deafening roar of the cannon, and she saw one form amid the 
 thousands, and, as when she last beheld it, she saw that form alone ; she 
 marked his every movement, and when her quick fancy beheld the 
 " leaden death," flying around him, her breath was checked convulsive 
 ly, and the colour went and came upon her cheek, and then with the 
 swiftness and waywardness of thought, her mind returned to their last 
 meeting, their last look ; and her face became one burning flush when 
 she thought how much, how all too much that look betrayed. As she 
 raised her head from the counterpane in which it had been buried, her 
 eyes again rested upon the features of Melanie, and still more deeply 
 did she blush at her own selfishness in thinking of aught beside the 
 cherished sufferer and the duty she owed to her beloved mother. Where 
 was that mother now ? Why was not she too bending over the slum 
 bers of the dying one ? Oh ! had you asked her bleeding heart, an 
 answer had been poured forth in tones of the bitterest agony which the 
 hand of sorrow could draw forth from its broken strings. Grief grief, 
 too deep for utterance, too violent for restraint, had driven her from the 
 bedside of Melanie. With a burning brain and throbbing nerves, she 
 had stolen unnoticed from the side of Emily, and stepped forth upon the 
 broad piazza, to breathe for one moment the coolness of the midnight 
 air ; it soothed, it refreshed her, and throwing herself upon the seat be 
 neath Melanie's window, a burst of tears relieved her agitated feelings. 
 The scene was solemn, and to the reflecting mind it was one of deep 
 interest, for the shade of an eventful morrow seemed hanging darkly 
 over it ; torches were glancing to and fro in the distant fort ; boats were 
 crossing and recrossing the river ; the bridges were destroyed, and the 
 voice of the sentinel was heard at intervals, as he loudly demanded the 
 countersign from some belated traveller. In addition to her other cares, 
 Mrs. Mentreville was now seriously alarmed for the safety of her hus 
 band : at every casual footstep, at every shadow which obscured the 
 moonlight, she started from her seat, and an anxious " is it he ?" trem 
 bled unconsciously upon her lips. In the silent solemnity of that mid 
 night hour her mind reverted to her own early days, when loving and 
 beloved, she had first entered that humble cottage, a youthful and happy 
 wife, and when after the lapse of years she had still found herself an 
 adored and cherished mother, the centre of all the social affections, the 
 11
 
 130 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 parent tree which shadowed, nourished, and supported the fresh young 
 tendrils that twined around it; now there was a deep, deep void within her 
 heart. Death had breathed upon her paradise ; he had laid his cold 
 hand upon those delicate vines; he had torn them asunder; had gather 
 ed all but three young blossoms to twine around and wither on his 
 clay-cold brow. Her affection for the dead was now transferred with 
 tenfold ardour to the living; the buoyancy and hope of youth was gone; 
 but love, a mother's love, can never perish, and her spirit, chastened and 
 subdued by the hand of affliction, clung to Melanie as to some guardian 
 angel, some being of superior mould, who seemed unfitted for the cares 
 and bufferings of life, and yet foreboding fancy had never dared to 
 whisper she could die; and now the dreadful summons had arrived; 
 she saw it in the flushed and fevered cheek, the throbbing pulse, the eye 
 of piercing brilliancy ; she heard it in the tremulous accents of her be 
 loved one, they mingled all the sweetness of heaven, and all the sad 
 ness of earth; and the memory of those tones stole over her mind like a 
 soothing murmur, as she buried her face in her hands, and the tears 
 stole silently between them. She was startled from her revery by a 
 sound like the distant trampling of horses' feet ; she turned the sound 
 came nearer " It is he !" and she rushed down the steps of the piazza, 
 and with her hand upon the gate leaned anxiously over the little en 
 closure. She scarcely breathed. It was a horseman riding furiously 
 down the little hill to the right, and as he passed in the moonlight, hope 
 could deceive her no longer ; it was not he, it was the express ; he 
 dashed along through the row of sentinels, and waving his cap in the 
 air, his hoarse voice broke painfully upon the silence of the night. 
 
 " The enemy ! the enemy !" he shouted, " they have come on by 
 forced marches; they are now encamped within two miles; they will 
 be here by daybreak," and he dashed on, arousing the sleeping echoes, 
 till the trampling of his horse's feet, and the tones of his stentorian 
 voice were alike lost in the distance. Mrs. Mentreville slowly and me 
 chanically returned to the piazza, and a thousand agonizing thoughts 
 swept like a burning torrent through her brain. The British army was 
 rapidly approaching ; the conflict would probably take place at day 
 break ; her husband had gone to secure them a place of refuge, but he 
 returned not; perhaps he was a prisoner in the British camp, and she, 
 a helpless woman, with one young and timid daughter, and one, so dear 
 a one, just dying, was left alone in the deserted village, exposed to the 
 cruel insults of the British soldiery, should they conquer, and to all the 
 terror and tumult of a desperate conflict even should they fail. Oh ! 
 that was a night of agony, and never, through all the vicissitudes of 
 after life, did one thought, one feeling then endured fade from the Volume 
 of her memory. As the thoughts of danger and the necessity of exer 
 tion passed through her mind, she wiped the tears from her eyes, and 
 whispered within herself, "This weakness will not'do; I have a part 
 to perform. I am the only guardian of my three dear ones; we cannot 
 fly, and if the British conquer, as I fear they must, I will appeal for 
 protection to their officers ! they have wives and children." * * 
 ********
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 MOTHER ! thou bid'st me touch the lyre, 
 And wake its sweetest tones for thee ; 
 
 To kindle fancy's dying fire, 
 And light the torch of poetry. 
 
 Mother ! how sweet the word, how pure, 
 As if from heaven the accents came ; 
 
 If aught can rouse the dormant soul, 
 It is that cherish'd, honour'd name. 
 
 Deep in the heart's recess it dwells; 
 
 It lives with being's earliest dawn; 
 With reason's light expands and swells, 
 
 And dies with parting life alone. 
 
 Mother ! 't is childhood's first essay, 
 
 Breathed in its trembling tones of love , 
 
 It lights the heart, through life's long way, 
 And points to holier worlds above ! 
 
 It is a name, whose mighty spell 
 Can draw the chain'd affections forth, 
 
 Can rouse the feelings from their cell, 
 And give each purer impulse birth. 
 
 Then will I wake my sleeping muse, 
 
 And strive to breathe my thoughts in song. 
 
 Though sweetest strains must fail to speak 
 The heart's affections, deep and strong. 
 
 PRIDE AND MODESTY. 
 
 JUST where a wild and rapid stream 
 
 Roll'd back its waves in seeming pride, 
 Flowers of each softly varying hue 
 Were sweetly blooming, side by side. 
 
 Shaded by many a bending tree, 
 
 Their glowing cups with dew-drops fill'd, 
 
 Nature's fair daughters blushing stood, 
 And all their fragrant sweets distill'd 
 
 (131)
 
 ]32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh, 'twas a wild and lovely spot, 
 
 Which well might seem a spirit's home ! 
 
 A lone retreat, a noiseless grot, 
 
 Where earth's rude blasts could never come. 
 
 Within a broad and open glade, 
 A tulip spread its gaudy hue, 
 
 While, 'neath the myrtle's clustering shade, 
 A sweetly-drooping lily grew. 
 
 As the light zephyrs o'er them swept, 
 And heighten'd many a rosy glow, 
 
 A strange, deep murmur round them crept, 
 Like distant music, wild and low. 
 
 'T was the gay tulip's fragrant breath, 
 Which many an answering echo woke, 
 
 As to her lowly neighbour, thus, 
 
 With proud and haughty mien, she spoke : 
 
 " Away ! frail trembling flower ! nor dare 
 To droop beside my glittering form ! 
 
 Behold how bright my garments are, 
 And mark each sweetly varying charm ' 
 
 "Then hiathee to some lonely nook, 
 Nor show thy pallid features here ; 
 
 Go, murmur to some babbling brook, 
 Where like thyself each scene is drear ! 
 
 " Hast thou assurance thus to gaze 
 On one who nature's self beguiles ? 
 
 Hence ! haste thee hence ! and hide that face. 
 Where parent nature never smiles." 
 
 She ceased a sad, sweet whispering rose, 
 Which thrill'd the zephyrs list'ning ear; 
 
 Soft as an angel's gentlest tone, 
 Too heavenly for this mortal sphere. 
 
 'T was the pale lily's silvery voice, 
 Which rose in low and thrilling tone, 
 
 Like breath of wild Eolian lyre, 
 
 Moved by the wind-god's tenderest moan . 
 
 " Great queen !" the lovely gem replied, 
 " I view thy charms, I own their power, 
 
 And void of envy, shame, or pride, 
 Admire thy beauties of an hour. 
 
 "Full well I know my pallid brow 
 Can never match the hues of thine; 
 
 Nor my white robes the colours wear, 
 Which on thy dazzling garments shine. 
 
 " But the same hand hath form'd us both ; 
 
 And heaven-born nature smiled as sweet 
 As on thy form, when the low flower 
 
 Was peeping from its green retreat.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 133 
 
 " Here was I planted ! let me here 
 
 Still live in purity and peace ; 
 The lily's eye shall never weep 
 
 To gain the tulip's gaudy grace. 
 
 " But oh, forget not, 'mid the pomp 
 
 Of earthly kingdom, pride, and joy, 
 That boasted beauty must decay, 
 
 And withering age thy pleasures cloy. 
 
 "Receive the lily's kind advice, 
 
 Retire from scenes of public life, 
 And pass thy days in solitude, 
 
 Apart from vanity and strife." 
 
 While the sweet murmur past away, 
 
 The stately rose as umpire came ; 
 The lily ehunn'd her proud survey, 
 
 The lordly tulip bent for shame. 
 
 In accents bland, but nobly firm, 
 
 The queen-like flow'ret soon replied, 
 In tones which charm'd the tender flower, 
 
 And humbled more the tulip's pride. 
 
 " Come hither, pure and lovely one, 
 
 With thee no garden plant can vie ; 
 Not e'en the tulip's gaudy hues 
 
 Match with thy stainless, spotless dye. 
 
 "Come to my bosom, emblem fair 
 
 Of heavenly virtue's fairer form ! 
 Here let me learn each modest grace, 
 
 While here I hush each wild alarm. 
 
 " Come to my bosom ! what so pure, 
 
 So lovely as a modest one, 
 Who flies from folly's glittering lure, 
 
 And shuns the bright meridian sun ! 
 
 "Let the proud tulip glitter still, 
 
 Robed in her scarf of varying hue; 
 Alone 'neath nature's eye we'll rest, 
 
 Cheer'd by her smile, and nurtured by her dew." 
 
 VERSIFICATION OF THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 
 
 My shepherd is the faithful Lord, 
 I shall not want, I trust his word ; 
 He lays me down in pastures green, 
 He leads me by the lake serene ; 
 Comforts my soul, and points me on 
 To pure religion's holy shrine. 
 11*
 
 134 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 I wander through the vale of death, 
 Yet he supports me still ; 
 
 He will receive my dying breath 
 If I perform his will. 
 
 Even in the presence of my foes 
 He doth a meal of plenty spread ; 
 
 My cup with blessings overflows, 
 
 With oil he does anoint my head. 
 1831. 
 
 TO BROTHER L . 
 
 THE vessel lightly skims the wave, 
 And bounds across the waters blue, 
 
 Near shores where trees luxuriant spread 
 And roses wildly blooming grew. 
 
 Yon islands see ! so fair and bright, 
 Like gems upon the azure sea ; 
 
 The waters dance like forms of light, 
 And waft my brother dear from me. 
 
 1831. 
 
 FOR MAMMA. 
 
 THE rippling stream serenely glides, 
 And rising meets the swelling tides ; 
 The fleeting lights of heaven around 
 Shine brightly o'er the vast profound. 
 
 The moon hath hid her silvery face, 
 So mark'd with beauty and with grace, 
 Majestic when she rides on high, 
 A gem upon the azure sky ! 
 
 My thoughts, oh Lord, then turn to thee, 
 Of what thou art and I shall be ; 
 Thy outstrelch'd wings around me spread 
 And guard with love my hapless head. 
 1831. 
 
 TO MAMMA. 
 
 FAREWELL, dear mother, for awhile 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 May the almighty Father spread 
 His sheltering wings above thy head. 
 It is not long that we must part, 
 Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 135 
 
 Remember, oh remember me, 
 
 Unceasing is my love for thee ! 
 
 When death shall sever earthly ties, _ 
 
 When thy loved form all senseless lies. 
 
 Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
 And roam through wide eternity ; 
 Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
 And count the brilliant stars of even. 
 
 Farewell, dear mother, for awhile 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of woe, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 rssi 
 
 TO A FLOWER. 
 
 THE blighting hand of winter 
 
 Has laid thy glories low ; 
 Oh, where is all thy beauty ? 
 
 Where is thy freshness now? 
 
 Summer has pass'd away, 
 
 With every smiling scene, 
 And nature in decay 
 
 Assumes a mournful mien. 
 
 How like adversity's rude blast 
 
 Upon the helpless one, 
 When hope's gay visions all liave passed. 
 
 And to oblivion gone. 
 
 Yet winter has some beauties left, 
 Which cheer my heart forlorn ; 
 
 Nature is not of charms bereft, 
 Though shrouded by the storm. 
 
 I see the sparkling snow ; 
 
 I view the mountain tops ; 
 I mark the frozen lake below, 
 
 Or the dark rugged rocks, 
 
 How truly grand the scene! 
 
 The giant trees are bare, 
 No fertile meadows intervene, 
 
 No hillocks fresh and fair; 
 
 But the cloud-capp'd mountains rise, 
 Crown'd with purest whiteness, 
 
 And mingle with the skies, 
 
 That shine with azure brightness. 
 
 And solitude, that friend so dear 
 
 To each reflecting mind, 
 Her residence has chosen here 
 
 To soothe the heart refined. 
 1831.
 
 136 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ROLL on, roll on, bright orb of day , 
 Roll on, thou beauteous queen of even 
 
 Ye stars, that ever twinkling play, 
 And sweetly grace the azure heaven. 
 
 Roll on, until thy God's command 
 
 Shall rend the sky and tear the earth , 
 
 Till he stretch forth his mighty hand 
 To check the voice of joyous mirth. 
 
 He spread the heavens as a scroll, 
 He made the sea, he form'd the world ; 
 
 The heavens again shall backward roll, 
 And mountains from their base be hurl'd. 
 
 He form'd the lovely verdant green, 
 And aught of fair that e'er has been ; 
 These beauties all shall pass away, 
 And in one shapeless ruin lay. 
 
 But God in his glory, the God of the sky, 
 Will continue through endless eternity ; 
 For ever untainted, all holy and pure, 
 His love and his mercy shall ever endure. 
 
 ESSAY ON NATURE. 
 
 w ? W T JU8t ' h W pure ' how holy is the reat Cr eator of the universe ! 
 When I gaze upon all the wonders of nature, the rippling stream, the dis 
 tant mountain, the rugged rock, or the gently sloping hill, my mind 
 turns to the first Great Cause of all ; the Author of this mingled beauty 
 grandeur, and simplicity. God made this beautiful world for us, that 
 we might be happy, and why are we not so 1 Because we do not seek 
 real happiness. We are striving to obtain worldly pleasure ; but what 
 is that, compared with the happiness of a child of God ? He feels and 
 knows that his Saviour is ever dear ; he weeps over his past follies with 
 a sweet consciousness that they are all forgiven ; that the kind Shepherd 
 has brought back his lost sheep to the fold. He trusts in the goodness 
 )t his Creator. His faith is firm in the blessed Saviour who died for 
 him ; he has charity for all, love for all. Such is the Christian ! His 
 earthly sorrows seem light, for his thoughts are continually upon his 
 just Preserver. What is man, frail, feeble man, but a flower of the 
 field, that fades away with the rude blast of the autumnal storm! How 
 infinite the love which sustains him ! 
 Plattsburgh, 1832.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 137 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN NINE YEARS OP AGE. 
 HOME. 
 
 YONDER orb of dazzling light 
 Sinks beneath the robe of night, 
 And the moon so sweetly pale, 
 Waits to lift her silver veil. 
 One by one the stars appear, 
 Glittering in the heavenly sphere, 
 And sparkling in their bright array, 
 Welcome in the close of day. 
 But home, that sacred, pure retreat, 
 Where dwells my heart in all that's sweet, 
 And my own stream, where oft I 've stray'd, 
 And mark'd the beams that o'er it play'd, 
 Is far away, o'er the waters blue, 
 Far from mv fondly straining view. 
 1832. 
 
 THE MAJESTY OF GOD. 
 
 WITH the lightning his throne, and the thunder his voice, 
 
 He rides through the troubled sky ; 
 He bids all his angels in heaven rejoice, 
 
 And thunders his wrath from on high ! 
 "On the wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly rides," 
 O'er the heavens, the earth, and the ocean he strides ; 
 The breath of his nostrils the lightning's flame, 
 All nature re-echoes his powerful name ! 
 
 FROM THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 
 
 WHY is my bosom fill'd with fear, 
 
 And why cast down my troubled soul ? 
 
 Is not thy God, thy Saviour near, 
 And will he not thy fate control ? 
 
 How mighty is my Saviour's hand, 
 
 How powerful his word, 
 And how can I, a sinful worm, 
 
 Address him as my Lord ? 
 
 Jehovah sends his mighty breath 
 
 Across the placid sea ; 
 The foaming waters proudly whirl, 
 
 As longing to be free. 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep aloud. 
 
 The raging billows follow thee , 
 Thou send'st the roaring waves abroad, 
 
 Which rush o'crwhelming over me.
 
 138 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Yet at the great I AM'S command, 
 For me, the object of his care, 
 
 The shouting waters silent stand ; 
 
 He still shall listen to my prayer. 
 1833. 
 
 HYMN OF THE FIRE- WORSHIPPERS 
 
 WELCOME, oh welcome, god of day ! 
 
 Thy presence gives us peace ! 
 All hail, eternal, glorious king, 
 
 Thy light shall never cease ! 
 
 Transcendent Sun ! oh list to one 
 Whose heart is fill'd with love; 
 
 Let the sweet airs lift high our prayers 
 To thee our God above. 
 
 Pure orb of light ! resplendent, bright ; 
 
 Oh, who may cope with thee ? 
 And who may dare to view thee there, 
 
 And never bend the knee ? 
 
 Before thy ray the guilty flee, 
 
 And dread thy cheerful beam, 
 Lest thy fierce eye their crimes descry, 
 
 And chill hope's trembling gleam. 
 
 To thee we bow, for on thy brow 
 
 Is majesty impress'd, 
 Glory thy shroud, thy throne the cloud, 
 
 Which circles o'er thy breast. 
 
 The blushing flower will own thy power; 
 
 It blooms alone for thee ; 
 And though so frail, oh hear my wail, 
 
 My blessed guardian be ! 
 
 When the first ray of brilliant day 
 
 Illumes the hill, the plain, 
 The songsters raise a hymn of praise, 
 
 Oh, listen to my strain. 
 
 When thy loved form, which braves the storm, 
 
 In ocean disappears, 
 One mournful cry ascends on high, 
 
 The night is spent in tears. 
 
 But lest we mourn for thy return, 
 
 And pine away in grief, 
 The orb of night supplies thy light, 
 
 And gives us sweet relief. 
 
 Then on my head, Eternal ! shed 
 
 Thy warmest, purest beam, 
 And to my heart content impart, 
 
 With gratitude serene.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 139 
 
 Then, when, at last, my sorrows past, 
 
 With thee in light I'll roam, 
 And by thy side securely ride, 
 
 Thy bosom for my home. 
 1833. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 SOMETIMES I grace the maiden's brow, 
 And lend her cheek a brighter glow ; 
 Or grim and strong, secure the wall 
 Of many a castle gate from all. 
 The palace boasts me always there, 
 To guard the walls and bless the fair ; 
 The meanest cot I ne'er disdain, 
 Yet guard the portals jf the brain. LOCK. 
 
 TO A LITTLE COUSIN AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 MY dear little George, oh did you but know 
 How delighted I'd be could I meet with you now ; 
 Oh could I but print on your forehead a kiss, 
 To thy Margaret the moment were unalloy'd bliss. 
 Thy flowers and acorns I've cherished with care, 
 And to me they have seem'd more than lovely and fair, 
 For thoughts of the friends I. have left far behind, 
 And sweet recollections will crowd on my mind, 
 As I gaze on the tokens presented by you, 
 And the sweet little letter you've written me too ; 
 I fancy I see thee on bright Christmas day, 
 With Kitty and mother all sportive at play, 
 Admiring the bounty St. Nicholas gave 
 To the boy who was worthy his counsel so grave. 
 Oh could I but join thee, my beautiful boy, 
 In thy holiday pastimes and innocent joy ! 
 Is " Aunty" still working on bonnets and capes ? 
 Or examining flowers of all sizes and shapes? 
 Does Aiken's Collection still lie on her lap, 
 While her fingers are plaiting some ruffle or cap? 
 Is thy " dear little mother" still lively and gay, 
 Pleasing and pleased, as when I came away ? 
 And Annie and Kitty, and grandfather too? 
 But 'tis time, my dear George, I bade you adieu. 
 Tell uncle, and brother, and all whom I love, 
 My letters alone my affection must prove. 
 1833.
 
 MO MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ON READING CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 THE rainbow's bright and varying hue, 
 Mix'd with the soft celestial blue, 
 The brightest, fairest stars of night, 
 Which shed their radiance pure and bright, 
 If mingled in a wreath, would be 
 Too poor an offering for thee. 
 
 The morning sun should deck thy brow, 
 Now dazzling bright, and softening now ; 
 But night's dark veil too oft doth cloud 
 The brow which genius should enshroud, 
 For vice has set her impress there, 
 Mingled with virtues pure and fair. 
 1833. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 OH, thou almighty Lord of heaven and earth ! 
 From whom the world and man derive their birth, 
 My youthful heart with sacred love inspire, 
 And fill my soul with wild poetic fire. 
 
 And oh, thou pure, transcendent muse of heaven. 
 Descend upon an airy cloud of even, 
 With thy bright fingers touch the trembling chord, 
 And let it echo to my Saviour, Lord. 
 1833. 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 HAIL to salvation's brilliant morn, 
 Hail to the dawn of joy and peace, 
 
 When God's supreme, almighty power, 
 Bade all our pains and sorrows cease. 
 
 Ye angels, sing your sweetest songs, 
 And strike anew each golden lyre ; 
 
 Let him to whom the praise belongs 
 The sacred strain inspire. 
 
 The day the star of promise shone 
 
 Bright in yon eastern sky, 
 It bore redemption in its light, 
 
 A herald from on high. 
 
 It led a wise and chosen band, 
 Who writhed beneath the rod 
 
 Of Herod's proud and kingly hand, 
 To seek their infant God. 
 
 From his high throne in realms of bliss, 
 Where love was in every breast, 
 
 From his glorious home he came to this, 
 And in his descent we are blest.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 14! 
 
 For man's unconquerable pride, 
 
 That we salvation might obtain, 
 This blessed Saviour bled and died, 
 
 And has the sacrifice been vain ? 
 
 Oh Jesus, fill'd with sacred fire, 
 
 May I devote this life to thee; 
 May love my youthful heart inspire, 
 
 And glow to all eternity! 
 1833. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 ' TWAS evening, and the sun's last ray 
 Was beaming o'er the azure sky ; 
 
 Earth bade farewell to cheerful day, 
 
 Which sinks beneath the mountains high. 
 
 Those cloud-tipp'd mountains soared afar 
 In that bright heaven of blue, 
 
 And seem'd to reach yon eastern star, 
 Which glittering you might view. 
 
 Between its banks yon rippling stream 
 
 Unruffled glides along, 
 In curling eddies onward flew 
 
 Rocks, branches, trees among. 
 
 Beyond it raged the troubled sea, 
 
 Which drew aloft its wave, 
 And ever furious, ever dark, 
 
 The Sky it seem'd to brave. 
 
 How strangely, sweetly blended there 
 
 The beautiful and grand, 
 The awful with the prospect fair, 
 
 The terrible and bland ! 
 
 Behold that tall majestic rock, 
 O'erhanging yonder stream ; 
 See, at its frowning foot is seen 
 
 The pale moon's silvery beam. 
 1833. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 IN nature it holds a conspicuous part, 
 It lives in the ocean, and softens the heart ; 
 The supporter of angels, in heaven it dwells, 
 And the number of demons reluctantly swells, 
 'T is a part of our faith, and it lives with the dead, 
 'Tis devoid of religion, yet always in dread ; 
 In the wavering candle all brightly it glows, 
 And with the meandering streamlet it flows.
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Without it the name of the warrior were lost, 
 And the seaman would sink, on the wide ocean tost. 
 And now, my dear friend, if you guess what it means, 
 Ton may have the enigma for nought but your pains 
 1833. 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 ALMIGHTY GOD ! Father of heaven and earth, 
 Who fbrm'd, from 'midst the vast expanse of chaos, 
 This spacious world omnipotent and holy ! 
 Before thee angels bow ! the countless host 
 Of those that praise thee, and that hover round 
 Thy sacred throne, shrink from the blaze of light, 
 And shadow with their wings their beaming brows, 
 Lest, oo their senses thy transcendent glories 
 Burst with a stunning power, and absorb them 
 In one full flood of brilliance. 
 Oh tbou ! whose ever-seeing eye can pierce 
 The misty shades of night, and penetrate 
 The deep recesses of the human heart ; 
 Parent of earth ! how glorious are thy works ! 
 Look on yon orb, whose ever-open eye 
 Sheds at his glance a pure, resplendent light, 
 Dispensing good. Night throws her sable veil 
 O'er hill and rock, o'er rivulet and ocean : 
 Then chaste Diana sheds her silver ray 
 O'er all: her throne, the fleecy cloud that floats 
 Over the vast expanse of heaven above us ; 
 Her bright attendants are the brilliant stars, 
 That seem like guardian angels, who attend, 
 In virgin parity, to keep from ill 
 Oar ever-rolling orb : beauty reigns over all, 
 And tinges nature with her softest touch. 
 If scenery so bright as this be fore, 
 Oh, how can fancy paint the joys of heaven. 
 That pore and holy place, region of bliss ! 
 There glides an amber stream, diffusing sweets, 
 And every tiny wave, which o'er the sands 
 Of purest gold rolls backward, washes up 
 Some pearl or diamond, gem of dazzling beauty, 
 While ambrosial zephyrs fan the air. 
 See, yonder angel, resting on the cloud, 
 His beaming eye uptum'd with holy awe. 
 Oh fist! he channts his great Creator's praise ; 
 His golden harp is never hush'd by wo; 
 There music holds her sweet, harmonious reign. 
 How pore the being who calls forth that lay : 
 Such dear, melodious symphony 
 Might weQ awake the dead from their last sleep. 
 1833.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 THOUGH thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb, 
 
 Like the flow'ret, which droops in its verdure and bloom ; 
 
 Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 
 
 And thy strains will ne'er waken their echoes again ; 
 
 Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide; 
 
 Still, still, thou art ours and America's pride. 
 
 Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crown'd, 
 
 O'er the broad arch of heaven thy notes shall resound 
 
 And pour the full tide of thy music along, 
 
 While a bright choir of angels re-echoes the song. 
 
 The pure elevation which beam'd from thine eye, 
 
 As it turn'd to its home, in yon fair azure sky, 
 
 Told of something' unearthly, it shone with the light 
 
 Of pure inspiration and holy delight 
 
 " Round the rose that is wither'd a fragrance remains, 
 
 O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns." 
 
 Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave, 
 
 And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave, 
 
 But thy spirit has mounted to regions on high, 
 
 To the throne of its God, where it never can die. 
 
 1833. 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN ELEVEN AND TWELVE 
 PROPHECY. 
 
 FAIR mortal, I linger to tell thee thy fate, 
 
 Like an angel above thy bright fortunes I wait : 
 
 Thy heart is a mixture of tender and sweet, 
 
 And thy bosom is virtue's own sacred retreat. 
 
 Simplicity soft and affection combine 
 
 To render thee lovely and almost divine. 
 
 Devoid of ambition, rest, dear one, secure, 
 
 For with thoughts so refined, and with feelings so pure, 
 
 What mortal would injure, what care would pursue 
 
 A being protected by heaven like you ? 
 
 Bright beauty thou hast not, but something so fair 
 
 It may serve to protect thee from sorrow and care. 
 
 I pierce the light veil which would darken thy fate, 
 
 And angels of happiness round thee await ; 
 
 I see a bright cherub supporting thy head, 
 
 While around thee the smiles of affection are shed ; 
 
 I see thy aged arms around him prest, 
 
 Thy grey locks waving o'er his youthful breast 
 
 I see thee on his tender bosom lay, 
 
 In silent pleasure breathe thy life away. 
 
 My tale is told dear one, I linger now 
 
 To kiss with fervent love thy own fair brow. 
 
 1833. 
 
 143
 
 144 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 ON the brow of the monarch in triumph I stand, 
 I govern each measure, I rule each command ; 
 Without me, his kingdom to atoms would fall, 
 But I share not his crown, and I rule not his hall. 
 I dance in the meadow, and play on the stream, 
 And I glimmer obscurely in Luna's pale beam. 
 
 I dwell in thy bosom, I 'm part of thy form, 
 
 But I ride on the tempest, and guide the fierce storm ; 
 
 With the sea-nymph I rest on the moss-cover'd cliff, 
 
 And I weep with the mourner that life is so brief. 
 
 O'er the grave of the mighty in sorrow I bow, 
 
 And I rest in thy mind as thou 'rt watching me now. 
 
 Go look on the pillow of sorrow and care, 
 
 On the brow that is wither'd by darkest despair, 
 
 Stern affliction will meet you, but I am not there. 
 
 In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince, 
 
 In the mariner's vessel, the warrior's lance, 
 
 In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair, 
 
 Though millions surround them still I am not there. 
 
 In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great, 
 In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait. 
 I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye ; 
 I wish I might float on yon pure azure sky ; 
 I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray'd, 
 Where the sunbeam -had lit, or the pale moon had play'd. 
 1834. 
 
 ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS. 
 
 THE Bible! what is it? every heart which has read and justly ap 
 preciated that inestimable volume cannot fail to exclaim, " This is the 
 work of a God !" Who is there that will not admire, (although he read 
 with a doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity? Prin 
 ciples so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts so refined, who could 
 have formed them but one inspired by a God, or God himself? 'T is 
 our guide, our star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eter 
 nity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what power can 
 soothe like this sacred volume? Its pages beaming with truth and 
 mercy, will shed a holy light over the troubled landscape, and impart a 
 softer swell to the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by whose 
 beams we should direct our path over the gloomy waves of life. Then 
 why neglect it ? Some may think it derogatory to their earthly dignity 
 " What will the world say ?" Read it, and learn from its sublime 
 precepts to stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all else fails you, 
 this will remain the supporter of your rights; here is real dignity and 
 grandeur, but it is the dignity of the soul, the grandeur of virtue, the 
 dignity arising from a close alliance with the Deity. If He who
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 145 
 
 thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow froir. 
 rocks of adamant, will deign to approach so near us, is it for us to stand 
 aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our own insignificance, and brave the 
 tempest of life alone? Oh ! how depraved that heart must be, which 
 such condescension will fail to affect ! and how' happy the bosom for 
 ever confiding in its God! calm -in the midst of afflictions, resigned 
 while the torments of grief pour on the soul ; which, though borne 
 down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly and steadily 
 forward to the calamities which it is certain will terminate in an end 
 less communion with its Maker. 
 February 2d, 1834. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 
 
 OH tremble, ye proud ones ! oh tremble with fear ! 
 
 For Jehovah has come in his wrath ; 
 Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow, 
 
 And lightning attends on his path. 
 Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye, 
 As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high! 
 
 Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin ! 
 
 Before his dread presence in penitence bow ; 
 Oh, dash the bright wine-cup in terror away, 
 
 And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow, 
 For the angel of mercy no longer is there, 
 To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair. 
 
 The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd, 
 His broad flaming weapon is waving on high; 
 
 Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast, 
 'T is written in fear on yon lightning-crown'd sky ; 
 
 Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance, 
 
 As he cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance. 
 
 The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne, 
 The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower, 
 
 For the soft voice of music hear sorrow's deep moan, 
 And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his power ; 
 
 The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear, 
 
 But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear. 
 
 Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread, 
 For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow. 
 
 Oh, haste ere each fast-failing hope shall have fled, 
 Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow. 
 
 The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd , 
 
 Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain ; 
 The sword of destruction is levell'd at last, 
 
 And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again. 
 1834. 
 
 12*
 
 146 MISS MARGARET DAflDSON. 
 
 VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 OH thou, who rollest far above, 
 
 Round as my father's shield in war ! 
 
 From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun, 
 Which shine for ever and afar ? 
 
 AH cold and pale, the feeble moon 
 
 Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power; 
 
 The western wave conceals its light 
 At morning's bright resplendent hour. 
 
 But thou, unchanging, mov'st alone ! 
 
 Oh who may thy companion be? 
 The rugged rocks, the mountain's fall, 
 
 But who may stand in might like thee ? 
 
 The ocean shrinks and grows again, 
 All earthly things will fade away, 
 
 But thou for ever art the same, 
 Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray ; 
 
 Rolling and rolling on thy way, 
 
 Enlightening worlds from day to day. 
 
 When o'er yon vault the thunders peal, 
 And lightning in its pathway flies ; 
 
 When tempests darken o'er the world, 
 And cloud the once resplendent skies, 
 
 Thou rear'st on high thy noble form, 
 
 And laughest at the raging storm. 
 
 But now thou look'st to me in vain, 
 For I behold thy beams no more ; 
 
 I languish here in darkness now, 
 On Erin's green and fertile shore. 
 
 I know not if thy yellow hair 
 Is floating on the western clouds, 
 
 Or if the fleecy veil of morn 
 
 Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds ; 
 
 But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me, 
 Shall days of rest and silence see. 
 
 Amid the clouds thy form may sleep, 
 Regardless of the morning's voice ; 
 
 Exult then, mighty orb of day, 
 
 And in thy vigorous youth rejoice. 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY DEAR MAMMA. 
 
 ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK. 
 
 THOUGH my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long 
 That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung, 
 
 If 't will call but one smile of delight to thy cheek, 
 I will waken the notes which so long were unsung.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 147 
 
 My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside, 
 
 And other enjoyments I' ve sought for a while ; 
 But though lured by their brilliance, still none can compare 
 
 With my dear little harp and my mother's sweet smile. 
 
 With joy I return to my books and my pen, 
 To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, 
 
 For while scribbling each thought of my half-crazy brain 
 I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear. 
 
 Oh excuse my poor harp, if the lines do not rhyme, 
 'T is so long since it warbled aught breathing of sense, 
 
 That the chords, though I' m striving to tune them aright. 
 Still warble of folly and pleasure intense. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB 
 
 IN vain I strike my youthful lyre, 
 
 Some gayer music to impart, 
 And dissipate the gloom which hangs 
 
 Too sadly round my mourning heart. 
 
 Oh, I would wish its low deep tones, 
 
 Some gentler, sprightlier strains to borrow ; 
 
 But still they only can respond 
 
 The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow. 
 
 For she, the young, the bright, the gay, 
 
 Has left us here to weep, 
 While cover'd with her parent clay, 
 
 And wrapt in death's long sleep. 
 
 But memory still can paint the scenes 
 
 Of past, but ne'er forgotten joy, 
 When we have sported wild and free, 
 
 No sorrow pleasure's tide to cloy. 
 
 Thy form, as it was wont to be, 
 
 Still mingles with each thought of home ; 
 
 My earliest sports were join'd by thee, 
 When graced by beauty's brightest bloom 
 
 Again I view that hazel eye, 
 
 With life and pleasure beaming ; 
 Again I view that fair, white brow, 
 
 Those dark locks o'er it streaming. 
 
 Again I view thy blushing cheek, 
 
 The glow of love and pride, 
 When, 'mid the throng of smiling friends* 
 
 A blooming, happy bride. 
 
 But more than these, the angel mind 
 
 Should all our thoughts engage ; 
 Oh, 't was unsullied and refined 
 
 As is this spotless page.
 
 48 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 How changed the scene ! the star of hope 
 
 Has set in clouds of darkest night, 
 And she, the lovely and the gay, 
 
 Is laid in the grave with her beauty and light 
 Oh, where shall the mother, all mourning and sad, 
 
 Oh, where shall she look for the child she adored ! 
 And where shall the husband, half frantic with grief, 
 
 Find the wife in whose bosom his sorrows he pour'd I 
 How lonely and silent each well-beloved scene, 
 
 Each garden, each grove, which she loved to frequent, 
 The sweet flowers she nurtured so fondly and long, 
 In sorrow their heads to the damp ground have bent 
 
 But a flow'ret more lovely, more tender and pure, 
 
 Is languidly drooping, no mother to guide ; 
 The fond kiss of a mother it never can feel, 
 
 And to her the warm prayer of a mother's denied. 
 But the spirit we mourn has ascended on high, 
 
 Alid there it will watch o'er its little one's fate ; 
 In whispers her voice will be heard from the sky, 
 
 With a mother's affection which ne'er can abate. 
 1834. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 THOUGH yon broad vault of heavenly blue 
 Is spangled o'er with gems of light ; 
 
 Though veil'd beneath its azure hue 
 Is glittering many a star so bright ; 
 
 Though thousands wait around the throne 
 Of yon cold monarch, proudly fair; 
 
 Though all unite their dazzling powers 
 To vie with Luna's brilliance there ; 
 
 Each star which decks her cloud-veil'd brow 
 
 Or glitters in her snowy car, 
 Would shrink beneath thy dazzling ray, 
 
 Sweet little sparkling evening star ! 
 
 No twinkling groups around thoe throng, 
 
 Thy path majestic, lonely, bright ! 
 A radiant softness shades thy form, 
 
 First wanderer in the train of night ! 
 While gazing on thy glorious path, 
 
 It seems as though some seraph's eye 
 Look'd with angelic sweetness down, 
 
 And watch'd me from the glorious sky. 
 As the dim twilight steals around, 
 
 And thou art trembling far above, 
 I think of those no longer here, 
 
 Dear objects of my earliest love.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 And the soft ray which beams from thee, 
 A soothing calmness doth impart ; 
 
 And from each poignant sorrow free, 
 A sweet composure fills my heart 
 
 Oh ! then shine on thus pure and bright, 
 
 Pour on each mourning soul thy balm '. 
 Soothe the sad bosom's rankling grief, 
 
 And fill it with thy heavenly calm ! 
 Till meek, submissive, and resign'd, 
 
 It seeks above a purer joy ; 
 And stays the fickle, wayward mind 
 
 On pleasures which can never cloy. 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 OH, how I love my father's eye, 
 
 So tender and so kind ! 
 Oh, how I love its azure dye, 
 
 The index of his mind ! 
 
 Oh, how I love the silver hair 
 Which floats around his brow. 
 
 I love to press my father's form, 
 And feel his cheek's warm glow. 
 
 Oh what is like a parent's love? 
 
 What heart like his will fee), 
 When sorrow's waves are raging round, 
 
 And cares the thoughts congeal ? 
 
 Would he not die his child to save T 
 Would not his blood be shed 
 
 That yet one darling might remain 
 To soothe his dying bed? 
 
 Oh, what is like a parent's care 
 To guard the youthful mind ? 
 
 Oh, what is like a parent's prayer, 
 Unbounded grace to find ? 
 
 Ah, yes ! my father is a friend 
 
 I ever must revere, 
 And, if I could but cease to love, 
 
 His virtues I would fear. 
 1834. 
 
 ON NATURE. 
 
 " How beautiful is Nature !" Every soul, 
 Beating with warm and gentle feeling, 
 Must repeat with me these heartfelt words, 
 " How beautiful is Nature !" In the dark
 
 150 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Awful waving of the sky-crown'd forest, 
 
 Her gentle whisper, like an angel's voice, 
 
 Still breaks upon the stillness ; in the stream 
 
 Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet murmur ; 
 
 While on the varied sky, the frowning mount, 
 
 Her chainless hand majestical is laid ! 
 
 What voice so sweet as hers ? what touch so soft, 
 
 So delicate ? what pencilling so divine ? 
 
 Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture 
 
 To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful ! 
 
 Say, can imagination, light as air, 
 
 Capricious as each varying wind which blows, 
 
 Create a model of more perfect loveliness, 
 
 More grace and symmetry ? Can thought present 
 
 A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous 
 
 Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow, 
 
 Blending in grace more lovely with another ? 
 
 Ah no ! but 'tis the sin which dwells within 
 
 That casts a dark'ning shade o'er Nature's face 
 
 Nought can there be more beauteous and divine ; 
 
 But to the eye of discontent and wo, 
 
 Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow 
 
 And to the chilling glance of stern despair, 
 
 Her sweetest smile is but a threatening cloud ; 
 
 Just as the mind is turn'd she smiles or frowns, 
 
 And to each eye a different view appears. 
 
 The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt, 
 
 Like a white tablet, opens to receive 
 
 Each passing hue, and as the colours flit 
 
 Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil, 
 
 And fit to take once more the forms of joy, 
 
 Which ever, as they glide so sweetly by, 
 
 Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene. 
 
 If dark, degrading sin had never cast 
 
 Its shade of gloom o'er Nature's lovely brow, 
 
 This world had been an earthly paradise. 
 
 An all-presiding God has deck'd our globe 
 
 With grace, and life, and light ; each object glows 
 
 With heavenly tints, and every form 
 
 Contains some hidden beauty, which, to minds 
 
 Unbu--!en'd with a consciousness of guilt, 
 
 Proclaims the power of Him who rules o'er all. 
 
 The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee, 
 
 Small though they seem, may still contain a world 
 
 Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom, 
 
 Mix'd with human guilt, can never fathom. 
 
 The smallest item in this wondrous plan, 
 
 Replete with grace, and harmony, and light, 
 
 Would form employment for a fleeting life ? 
 
 Oh, 't were a home for angels ! and a home 
 
 No angel might despise, if human guilt 
 
 Had never stain' d it with its crimson glow. 
 
 Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 151 
 
 Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams, 
 And ne'er profaned its broad luxuriant fields 
 With scenes of wickedness and thoughts of woe, 
 Had thus remain'd ; each heart o'erflowing 
 With delight and love ; each bosom fill'd 
 With heavenly joy. How awful is the change ! 
 And how tremendous the effect of sin 
 On nature and on man ! The wayward soul, 
 Once open'd to degrading guilt, is deaden'd 
 To her beauty ; and all the glowing charms 
 Which waken'd it to love and happiness, 
 Ere thus ensnared, are pass'd unnoticed now ! 
 Oh, could we purify our souls from sin, 
 Would we desire a brighter heaven than this ? 
 More glorious, more sublime, more varied, 
 Or more beauteous ? The softly rippling stream, 
 The rising- mountain, and the leafy wood, 
 Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene I 
 The light-crown'd firmament, the tinted sky, 
 And all the sweetly varying graces 
 Which bedeck the queenlike brow of nature, 
 Serve but to show the power of nature's God, 
 The mighty Lord of this immense creation ! 
 The heavenly Maker of our lovely world. 
 l34. 
 
 TO THE INFIDEL. 
 
 BEHOLD, thou daring sinner ! canst thou say, 
 
 As rolls the sun along its trackless course, 
 A God has never form'd that orb of day, 
 
 Of life, and light, and happiness the source ? 
 
 Who made yon dark blue ocean ? Who 
 
 The roaring billow and the curling wave, 
 Dashing and foaming o'er its coral bed, 
 
 Of many a hardy mariner the grave? 
 
 Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue, 
 
 So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear, 
 Deck'd with its stars and clouds of fleecy white, 
 
 Like the bright entrance to another sphere ? 
 
 Who made the drooping flow'ret ? Who 
 
 The snowy lily and the blushing rose 
 Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round, 
 
 As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows ? 
 
 Who raised the frowning rock ? Who made 
 The moss and turf around its base to grow ? 
 
 Who made the lofty mountains, and the streams 
 Which at their feet in rippling currents flow ? 
 
 Say, was it not a God ? and does not all 
 
 Bear the strong " impress of his mighty hand ?' 
 
 Oh yes his stamp is fix'd on all around 
 All sprang to being at our Lord's command.
 
 152 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh, ask the mind ! oh, ask the immortal mind, 
 And this will be stern reason's firm reply 
 
 'T will echo 5ver ocean's swelling tide : 
 
 The hand that form'd us was a Deity ! 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE MIND. 
 
 How great, how wonderful the human mind, 
 
 Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread, 
 
 Mysterious truth ; which spurns the fetters 
 
 Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer 
 
 Round it ; which, yearning for a world more pure, 
 
 And more congenial with its heavenly thoughts, 
 
 Confines its soaring spirit to the region 
 
 Of death and sin ! But oh, how glorious 
 
 The sublime idea, that though this frame, 
 
 Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust, 
 
 There is a spark within, which, while on earth, 
 
 Gives to the clay its energy and life, 
 
 And when that clay returneth to the dust 
 
 From whence it came, may rise triumphant 
 
 From the senseless clod, and soaring, .mount on high, 
 
 To dwell with beings holy and divine ; 
 
 And there, with its ever-growing ken, 
 
 Clasp the great universe ; with angels there 
 
 To expand those heaven-born powers, which here 
 
 Were fetter'd with the earthly chains that bind 
 
 Misguided man pride, sorrow, discontent, 
 
 And cold ambition, foolish and perverted 
 
 But destined there to burn in all its light, 
 
 And urge the enfranchised on to seek 
 
 Glories still undiscover'd, wonders 
 
 As yet unknown. And can it be ? Does tliis 
 
 Weak, trembling frame conceal within itself 
 
 A soul ethereal and immortal ? 
 
 A glorious spark, sublime and boundless, 
 
 " Struck from the burning essence of its God," 
 
 The great I AM, the dread Eternal ? 
 
 Oh, how tremendous is the awful thought ! 
 
 The soul shrinks back alarm'd, too weak to gaze 
 
 On its own greatness, or rather on the greatness 
 
 Of that God who made it ! Yes ! 'tis his work ! 
 
 The moulding of his mighty hand ! How dread, 
 
 How peerless, how incomparably great 
 
 The Governor and Former of this vast machine ! 
 
 Who watches from on high its slightest thought, 
 
 And omnipresent and unbounded, sways 
 
 Each feeling and each impulse ! and whose touch, 
 
 However slight, may turn its passions from 
 
 Their common channel, and whose breath can tune 
 
 Aright those delicate and hidden fibres, 
 
 Which, rudely touch'd, would yield their finest chorda, 
 
 And thus destroy the harmony of all,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 Leaving a blank and darken'd chaos 
 Where once was harmony and joy ! 
 Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind, 
 Tamper not lightly with the human mind ; 
 But when an erring friend from virtue strajfe, 
 Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide 
 Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom. 
 Oh 'tis 'a fearful thing to see the mind, 
 Derived from such a pure and holy source, 
 Debased by sin, by dark, offensive crime, 
 And render'd equal with the beasts that roam ? 
 To see the wreck of all that once was good. 
 The shrinking remnant of a noble soul, 
 Like the proud ship, which for a while may stem 
 The roaring ocean, but o'ercome by storms, 
 With half its voyage done, is torn apart 
 The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all, 
 The guiding helm until the shatter'd hulk 
 Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts, 
 Threaten'd by frowning rocks ; but as some 
 Friendly hand may snatch from death's embrace 
 The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour's love 
 Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner, 
 And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven ! 
 The mighty God who saw him err, can change, 
 Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart, 
 And give to his apostate soul those pure 
 And blessed dreams of heaven, 
 Those hopes of immortality, which soothe 
 The dying Christian ; and when his spirit 
 Ascends to dwell with Him it once despised, 
 Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord, 
 It there may join in love and hope with all 
 The angel band, in singing praises 
 To their glorious King, the great Jehovah ! 
 Oh that we too might cherish every virtue, 
 Prepare our minds for immortality, 
 Where undisturb'd they may expand, 
 And reach perfection in a future world. 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER'S RETURN 
 
 WHY rejoices my heart at the passage of time, 
 As it sweeps on the wind o'er the fast-rolling year, 
 
 And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines, 
 His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear ? 
 
 I pause not to question if wise it may be, 
 But faster I'll hurry old Time on his way; 
 
 And while hours unnumber'd shall rapidly flee, 
 I'll laugh as they fade from the fast-closing day 
 13
 
 )* MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 When the icy-cold spell of stern winter shall break, 
 
 And the snow shall dissolve like the dewdrops of morn ; 
 
 When spring from his death-like embraces shall wake, 
 And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn; 
 
 To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile, 
 The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide ; 
 
 More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile, 
 
 And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed. 
 
 I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom, 
 Aroused, as by magic, from winter's cold tomb, 
 For my heart will be gladden'd as near and more near 
 The period approaches when he will be here. 
 Oh June ! how resplendent thy flowers shall appear, 
 The loveliest, the sweetest which bloom in the year ! 
 For with me a fond brother your grace shall admire, 
 And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire. 
 But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vaiw. 
 He never may visit the loved scene again ; 
 On his home the dread weight of affliction may rest, 
 And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast . 
 Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever 
 And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever. 
 But love will illumine the future with light, 
 And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright 
 As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted, 
 Or fancy with all her illusions has granted 
 1834, 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 THE spring of life is opening 
 
 Upon my youthful mind, 
 And every day the more I see, 
 
 The more there is to find. 
 
 The path of life is beautiful 
 
 When sprinkled o'er with flowers, 
 
 And I ne'er felt affliction's touch, 
 Or watch'd the weary hours. 
 
 To guard my youthful couch from wo, 
 
 An angel hovers near, 
 Watches my bosom's every throe, 
 
 And wipes each childish tear. 
 
 It is my mother and with her 
 
 Through life I 'd sweetly glide, 
 And when my pilgrimage is o'er 
 
 I'd moulder at her side. 
 
 To her I dedicate my lay, 
 
 'T is she inspires my song ; 
 Oh that it might those charms possess, 
 
 Which to the muse belong. 
 1834.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 155 
 
 BOABDIL EL CHICO'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA. 
 
 THE youthful lyre would shrink from tales of woe, 
 
 Would tune with hope and love each quivering string ; 
 But when truth bids the sorrowing numbers flow, 
 
 Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring. 
 'Tis sweet to tell of laughing mirth and glee ; 
 
 Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy ; 
 And when deep anguish pours unmix'd and free, 
 
 Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy. 
 
 But faithfal history still the page unfolds 
 
 Of war and blood ; of carnage fierce and dark ; 
 Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould, 
 
 And hearts unwarm'd by pity's gentle spark. 
 Then cast your garb of merry music by, 
 
 Assume the mantle of unbrighten'd woe; 
 A cloud is gathering o'er the peaceful sky, 
 
 And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow. 
 
 Robed in a mantle of unrivall'd light, 
 
 The glorious sun was sinking o'er the plain, 
 And tinging, with a glow of radiance bright, 
 
 The towering domes and palaces of Spain. 
 Between the lofty mounts which rise around, 
 
 And form the deep ravine or shady dell, 
 Granada's towers in mighty grandeur stood, 
 
 And on the plain their darkening shadows fell. 
 
 The beams were gilding all her lofty towers, 
 
 As on Nevada's side Alhambra stood, 
 And o'er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers, 
 
 Her marble courts, they pour'd a dazzling flood. 
 Her gothic arches glitter'd in the ray, 
 
 While many a gushing fountain cool'd the air, 
 And o'er the blushing flowers diffused their spray, 
 
 Which bloom perennial in a world of care. 
 
 The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung, 
 O'er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose, 
 
 And o'er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung 
 A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows. 
 
 And can it be ! can scenes so fair as this 
 
 Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss ? 
 
 Will heaven's bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed, 
 
 As if in moekery, upon sorrow's head ? 
 
 Will skies of azure pour their softest light 
 
 On hearts which grief has sear'd, and woe doth blight? 
 
 Will earth rejoice, while earthly hearts are riven, 
 
 While man, oppress'd, to dark despair is driven? 
 
 Retire, oh sun ! reserve thy cheering rays 
 
 For calm*- hours, for brighter, happier days !
 
 156 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Go shine on England's spires, or India's bowers, 
 But gaze not on Alhambra's humbled towers ! 
 
 Cease, cease thy soft meanderings, sparkling river ! 
 Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquivir ! 
 No more thy waves through Moorish woodlands glance 
 No more reflect the Moorish warrior's lance, 
 Nor view the tournament and sprightly dance. 
 Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood ! 
 Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood 
 Captive Boubdil leaves his rightful throne, 
 To others yields a kingdom once his own. 
 
 Behold yon gate ! l the ancient sages say 
 
 No stone shall loosen, till that awful day, 
 
 When yonder guardian hand, now firmly clasp'd, 
 
 The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp'd ; 
 
 At that dread hour each crumbling stone shall fall, 
 
 And in one common ruin bury all ; 
 
 But not till then, though first Alhambra lie 
 
 A shapeless ruin, 'neath a frowning sky. 
 
 Why should she last? the monument of shame, 
 Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name ! 
 
 Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil, 
 
 Her maidens left, the conqueror's spoil ! 
 Murder'd her children, scorn'd each lovely dame. 
 
 Oh, that the mystic hand had power 
 To veil Granada's shame; 
 
 That in one dark and awful hour, 
 Might perish each dishonour'd name. 
 
 Lo ! on yon mount appears a mournful train ! 
 Behold the newly-conquer'd slave of Spain ! 
 El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way, 
 For, with his home, he leaves the light of day. 
 Ill-fated prince ! thine errors still I mourn ; 
 
 A father's hatred caused each bursting sigh ; 
 Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn, 
 
 Condemn'd a father's cruelty to fly. 
 
 Thy heart was never form'd for kingly state ; 
 
 It teem'd with softest feeling, gentlest thought ! 
 Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate, 
 
 For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought ! 
 
 Though the brave may not tremble when war shall surround them 
 Or shrink when the mantle of death shall have bound them, 
 Yet the eye which can gaze unconcern'd on the tomb, 
 Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom. 
 Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard's dark spell, 
 When it bids the sweet home of its childhood farewell. 
 
 The exiled monarch slowly turn'd away ; 
 
 He could not bear to view those towers again, 
 Which proudly glitter'd in the sun's last ray, 
 
 As if to mock their wretched master's pain.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 157 
 
 His weeping bride press'd trembling near his form, 
 
 While sobs convulsive heaved her snowy breast; 
 But proud Ayxa bade their sorrows cease, 
 
 With scornful glances which she scarce represt. 
 "Chide me not, mother," cried the mourning son, 
 
 " Nor charge me with unmanly weakness now ; 
 I grieve that Spain the royal prize has won, 
 
 That proud Granada to her kings should bow." 
 He paused, and turn'd aside his glowing cheek ; 
 
 His wandering eyes Alhambra's palace met : 
 Those splendid domes, those towers for ever lost, 
 
 Lost, when the sun of Moorish glory set 
 
 " Yes ! yonder towering spires are seized by Spain, 
 
 Their king an exile from his native land ; 
 Shall I ne'er view thy princely courts again, 
 
 But yield resistless to the victor's brand ? 
 Yes, thou art gone ! thine ancient splendours fled ! 
 
 O'er thy gay towers the shroud of slavery thrown ; 
 Thy proudest chiefs, thy noblest warriors dead, 
 
 And all thy pride and all thy glory gone. 
 
 " Farewell to Alhambra, dear home of my childhood ! 
 
 Farewell to the land I so proudly have cherish'd ; 
 Farewell to the streamlet, the glen, and the wild-wood, 
 
 The throne of my fathers whose glory has perish'ri ! 
 'Neath the crest of Nevada the bright sun is setting, 
 
 And tinging with gold yonder beautiful river, 
 And his rays seem to linger, as if half-regretting 
 
 They must leave the clear waves where so sweetly they quiver. 
 
 " Farewell, thou bright valley ! I leave thee with sorrow ; 
 Thou wilt smile as serene 'neath the sun of the morrow ; 
 But thine ill-fated monarch shall view thee no more, 
 He ne'er shall revisit thy beautiful shore." 
 He paused ; and the accents of heart-rending grief 
 Were borne by the wind past each murmuring leaf. 
 
 Cease, cease these vain vvailings !" Ayxa replied, 
 " Nor languish and weep like thy timid young bride ; 
 
 Why mourn like a maid, who in sorrow will bend,' 
 
 For what as a man thou couldst never defend ! 
 
 Then cease these vain wailings, which womanlike pour. 
 
 Or Ayxa la Horra will own thee no more ; 
 
 Granada has fallen, her glory has fled, 
 
 Her warriors and chieftains now sleep with the dead , 
 
 But who has surrender'd her walls to our foe, 
 
 And branded her honour with shame's crimson glow ?" 
 
 The tear to his eyelid unconsciously sprung, 
 But back the intruder he eagerly flung, 
 And cried, in a tone which with frenzy might blend, 
 " Defamed by my country, and scorn'd by my friend!" 
 They slowly ascended a rock towering high, 
 Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh ; 3 
 13*
 
 158 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 No prospect of beauty his mourning heart cheers, 
 And he murmurs farewell on the dark hill of tears. 4 
 
 Though grief and remorse with terrors oppress'd him ; 
 Though peace and affection ne'er tranquilly blest him ; 
 Though his kingdom was captured, his warriors were dying. 
 Himself from the fury of Ferdinand flying ; 
 Through the tumult of feeling his pride had sustained him, 
 Had his griefs but a mother's fond sympathy gain'd him; 
 But the pride of a princess affection o'ercame 
 And with basest dishonour she branded his name 
 
 Reproachful invectives unthinking she shower'd, 
 
 " His country was fallen, its monarch a coward ?" 
 
 The proud Ayxa loved her yielding son, 
 
 And would have died had death his glory won ; 
 
 But she had hoped his rising fame to see, 
 
 Had long'd to view his vanquish'd foemen flee. 
 
 This cherish'd object of each glowing thought 
 
 Stern disappointment now had torn away, 
 And left a gaping wound, with frenzy fraught ; 
 
 For hope and fancy pour'd no cheering ray. 
 The mother was forgot in stately pride, 
 
 While bitter anguish drew the trembling tear; 
 He claim'd her pity she could only chide, 
 
 And laugh to scorn his cowardice and fear. 
 
 But the fair Zorahayda his beautiful bride, 
 To soothe his affliction, remain'd at his side ; 
 Each thought found an answering chord in her bosom, 
 Which glow'd with affection's first beautiful blossom : 
 * Tvvas warm as the sunbeam, and bright as its glance; 
 ' Twas clear as the ripples which fairy-like dance ; 
 Each thought and each feeling which dwelt in her soul 
 Her eye and her countenance told him the whole. 
 
 Yes, she, the young, the beautiful, the gay, 
 To sorrow's dread abode love call'd away ! 
 From her dark eye she wiped the starting tear, 
 And by his side repress'd each rising fear; 
 Though dark despair should dim each future day, 
 And even hope refuse her cheering ray, 
 Her fairy form would bless his wandering eyes 
 Like some pure spirit from the glowing skies. 
 
 Reposing 'mid Alhambra's shady bowers, 
 She cheer'd his lonely and his weary hours ; 
 But when, alas ! his brow no longer wore 
 The crown, which proudly grac'd his front before, 
 When fickle Moors forsook his tottering throne, 
 When, glory, power, and kingly state were gone, 
 And threatening clouds were seen around to lower, 
 Then, then he felt the more her witching power. 
 
 Vanquish'd at last upon the battle field, 
 And forced Granada's lofty towers to yield,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 159 
 
 Still the fair bud of promise brightly glow'd, 
 From her heart's depths the warm affections flow'd ; 
 She sweetly soothed his cares, she blest his name, 
 And sorrow fann'd to light the kindling flame 
 Which burn'd within that tender, faithful mind, 
 To all his faults, and all his errors blind. 
 
 How sweet the communion of kindred minds, 
 
 When sorrow each hope hath blighted ; 
 When the heart which is bursting with agony find* 
 
 One face with pure sympathy lighted. 
 And must he from the fair Zorahayda be banish'd, 
 
 Must the charm of existence for ever be broken ? 
 Has every fond drearn of prosperity vanish'd, 
 
 Must he sigh over love's wither'd token ? 
 In the tower of Gomares he gather'd a few, 
 
 And his warriors, still faithful, he rallied, 
 The broad Moorish banner far over them flew, 
 
 And forth to the battle he sallied. 
 He return'd and his eye was cast down in despair, 
 
 The glow on his cheek was still deeper ; 
 " Farewell to Granada ! our foemen are there I" 
 
 Loudly echoes the voice t>f the weeper. 
 " Come, wife of my bosom ! together we '11 wander, 
 
 The storm of affliction together we '11 brave ; 
 And perchance in some distant and desolate region, 
 
 We may find a lone shelter, a home, and a grave, 
 I would not my spirit should quit its sad mansion 
 
 'Mid the taunts and revilings of conquering Spain, 
 Where the foot of the victor would tread o'er my ashes, 
 
 And reproach and dishonour would tarnish my name. 
 " Oh, gaze on yon parapets towering on high, 
 
 Those pillars of pride were but yesterday mine ; 
 But to-day we are doom'd from their splendours to fly 
 
 Weep not for my sorrows, I mourn but for thine; 
 Those halls shall re-echo the loud voice of grief, 
 
 Those fountains in murmurs respond to our sorrow, 
 But ne'er can they waken the bright smile again, 
 
 Which woe from gay pleasure a moment would borrow 
 " Around those gay mansions and beautiful bowers 
 
 The foot of the stranger contemptuous shall press ; 
 Unmark'd the bright fountains, uncultured the flowers, 
 
 No fair hand to cherish, no soft voice to bless, 
 Ill-fated Boabdil ! thy name shall be hated ! 
 
 The babe shall repeat it with moaning and tears, 
 And the eye which was sparkling, with pleasure elated, 
 
 Indignant shall glance on thy cowardly fears/' 
 He paused, and led away his mourning bride, 
 In grief his solace, and in joy his pride. 
 But whither do his weary footsteps bend ? 5 
 What clime his broken heart one joy can lend ? 
 Where can he now from shame despairing fly, 
 Beneath what golden sun, what beaming sky ?
 
 160 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 On Afi.V irid plains and yellow sands, 
 Leagued' A ith the Moslem's wild and ruthless bands, 
 With desptrate force he grasp'd the fatal lance, 
 And shrank not at the scimitar's broad glance ; 
 Fighting for strangers' rights he bravely fell, 
 While his own land was sunk in slavery's spell; 
 Far from affection's soft and soothing hand, 
 Interr'd by strangers in a foreign land. 
 
 How strange the structure of the human heart, 
 Which springs anew 'neath sorrow's quivering dart ; 
 Bursting from wild despair, from sullen gloom, 
 And fired by frenzy, hastening to the tomb. 
 Reckless of danger, rushing to the strife, 
 For strangers bleeding, yielding even life, 
 Thus did Boabdil sink on Afric's plain, 
 His name dishonour'd in his own bright Spain ! 
 
 NOTES TO BOABDIL EL CHICO. 
 NOTE I. 
 
 " Behold yon gate '. the ancient sages say." 
 
 On the keystone of the arch is engraven a gigantic hand ; within the vestibule on the 
 keystone of the portal is engraven in like manner a gigantic key. Those who pretend to 
 tome knowledge of Mahometan symbols affirm, that the hand is an emblem of doctrine, 
 and the key of faith. The latter, they add, was emblazoned on the standard of the Mos 
 lems, when they subdued Andalusia, in opposition to the Christian emblem of the cross. 
 According to Mateo, it is a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, that the 
 hand and key were magical devices, upon which the fate of the Alhambra depended. 
 The Moorish king who built it was a great magician, and, as some believe, had sold him 
 self to the devil, and had lain the whole fortress under a magical spell. This spell, the 
 tradition went on to gay, would last till the hand on the outer arch should reach down and 
 grasp the key, when the whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried 
 beneath it by the Moors would be revealed. Irving. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 " Why mourn as a maid, who in sorrow will bend." 
 
 It was here, too, his affliction was embittered by the reproaches of his mother Ayxa who 
 bad often assisted him in times of peril, and had vainly sought to instil into him a portion 
 of her own resolute spirit " Why mourn as a woman, for that which aa a man you could 
 not defend 7" Irving. 
 
 NOTE in. 
 
 " Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh." 
 
 Beyond the embowered regions of the Vega, you behold a line of arid hills. It was 
 from the summit of one of there that the unfortunate Boabdil cast back his last look on 
 Granada, and gave vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and his 
 tory as " The Last Sigh of the Moor." Irving. 
 
 NOTE IV. 
 
 " And he murmur'd farewell on the dark hill of tears." 
 Another name given to the bill on the summit of which he bade farewell to Granada. 
 
 NOTE V. 
 
 " Bot whitber do his weary footsteps bend ?" 
 
 After leaving the Alpuxarra mountains he proceeded to Africa, and died in defence of 
 the territories of Muley Aben, King of Fez. On leaving Spain, a band of faithful follow 
 ers and the members of his household collected on the beach, to bid him farewell. As the 
 vessel in which he had embarked was slowly floating onward, they shouted, " Farewell, 
 Boabdil! Allah preserve thee. El Zogoybi I" (or the unlucky.) The name thus given him 
 sank BO deeply into bis heart, that he burst into a flood of tears, and was unable to speak 
 from emotion. 
 1834.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 THE SHUNAMITE. 
 
 THE sun had gently shed his twilight beams 
 
 O'er Shunam's graceful waving harvest fields, 
 
 And with his golden rays each object tinged, 
 
 Imparting to all nature hues of joy: 
 
 The western sky had caught his parting ray, 
 
 And with reflected glory shone above, 
 
 In all the lovely varied hues which deck 
 
 A summer sky ; masses of floating cloud 
 
 Hung gorgeous in the clear, blue firmament, 
 
 Brilliant as are the fairest rainbow's hues ; 
 
 While round them spread the light and silver haze. 
 
 Beyond whose fold the eye could just discern 
 
 The pure transparence of the azure heaven. 
 
 The scene was beautiful ! A tranquil sleep 
 
 Seem'd on the brow of nature lightly resting ! 
 
 It was an hour when the pure soul might rise 
 
 And dwell in sweet communion with its God, 
 
 And contemplation and unmingled love 
 
 Find for a while repose and silence there. 
 
 But where is she, the gentle, lovely mother, 
 
 Whose soul delighted in an hour like this? 
 
 Oh, why does not her footstep softly shake 
 
 From the moist grass the drops of pearly dew ? 
 
 Say, have the glittering charms of wealth and pride 
 
 Allured her from the sweetest charms of nature? 
 
 Have the gay baubles she was wont to scorn 
 
 Enticed her from this lovely scene away ? 
 
 It cannot be ; perchance amid the sick 
 
 Or suffering poor, her pitying spirit 
 
 Finds sweet employment, while her liberal hand 
 
 Offers relief to the sad prisoners 
 
 Who on her bounty live. No ! while her heart 
 
 Was free from care and racking anguish, 
 
 She could soothe another's grief; but now 
 
 Alas ! how alter'd now her darling child, 
 
 The laughing, sprightly boy, who at her side 
 
 Was wont in childish frolic to remain 
 
 Where is he now ? The tones of his soft voice 
 
 Would soothe a mourner's heart, however sad, 
 
 Much more the mother's, who so dearly loved him-- 
 
 Ay, loved him ! for she now hath nought to love 
 
 Save the cold remnant of what once was life ! 
 
 Yes 1 in the splendid mansion which but seems 
 
 To mock her heartfelt agony, she weeps, 
 
 And weeping, watches o'er the lifeless corpse 
 
 Of her adored, her beautiful, her boy. 
 
 Perhaps just heaven removed this cherish'd flower, 
 
 That her own heart, bereft of earthly joy, 
 
 Might cling more closely to her God and Maker. 
 
 I know not but the blow was keenly felt. 
 
 And deeply, truly mourn'd
 
 163 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The spacious room 
 
 With rich embroidered tapestry was bung. 
 And, mingled with the massy, crimson folds, 
 Shone many a gem of burning- lustre. 
 The floor was paved with polish'd marble, 
 And the lifeless form which lay before her 
 Was array'd in costly garments; bat she, 
 Vainly communing there with icy death. 
 If at her feet lay afl the wealth of nations, 
 One speaking glance of life from those sweet eye* 
 Now closed for ever, had been worth it alL 
 The boy lay gently cradled on the knee 
 Of the fond mother, and her crimson robe 
 Around his form was wrapt; while on one arm 
 His fair young bead was pillow'd, and her brow, 
 Her aching brow, reclined upon the other. 
 The auburn curls around his temples clung, 
 Clustering in beauty there, and the brae veins, 
 So dearly seen 'neath the transparent skin, 
 Seem'd flowing still with life-blood ; the long lash 
 Of his bine, half-closed eye appear'd to tremble 
 On his fair cheek, while the fast-rolling tears 
 Which from his mother's darker orbits fell, 
 Droop'd from bis snowy brow, as they had rested 
 Upon a marble statue. 
 
 Her grief 
 
 Burst forth awhile in sobs and bitter groans ; 
 Bat when the view of death had for a time 
 Met her dull vision, and the sight of sorrow 
 Grew more familiar, then her full heart 
 Burst forth in words, simple but plaintive. 
 Sweetly pathetic were the gentle tones 
 Of her melodious voice ; no ear 
 Could listen but to pity, and no eye 
 That saw her but must gaze and weep. 
 
 LAXEXT. 
 
 And art thou gone, my beautiful, my boy, 
 Thy sorrowing father's pride, thy mother's joy ! 
 I had not thought, my child, to view thee so, 
 In death's cold clasp laid motionless and low ! 
 I had not thought to dose thy beaming eyes, 
 To hear thy dying groans, thy feeble cries. 
 Alas! that thus for thee my tears should flow! 
 I thought not that this form, so fair and bright, 
 Death with bis chilling arrows e'er could blight ; 
 And oh, my child, my child, it cannot be 
 That his cold hand hath rested upon thee ! 
 That this fair form, so active but to-day, 
 I* now a senseless, lifeless mass of day 
 Dust of the earth, fit subject for decay*! 
 
 How white thy brow! how beautiful thy skin ! 
 The soirit must be resting still within !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 163 
 
 The pare, warm Mood thy lip is tinging still, 
 
 The purple current seems each vein to fill ! 
 
 Oh no, it cannot be ! My boy, awake ! 
 
 Rouse from this slumber, for thy mother's sake ! 
 
 Rouse, ere that mother's mourning heart shall break' 
 
 It is not so ! my boy is gone for ever, 
 
 And I shall view his face again, oh never ! 
 
 Ah, my sweet boy, I 1 ve watch'd thine infant yean 
 
 With joy and grief, alternate hopes and fears. 
 For many a night I' ve borne thee on my knee, 
 Full many an hour of care I've spent for thee ; 
 
 Thy joy would glad me, and thy grief bring tears. 
 
 Fond fancy pictured thee a noble man, 
 The fairest work in nature's wondrous plan ; 
 The foremost leader in each patriot band. 
 Redeeming Syria from her foeman's hand ; 
 Fearless in battle, swiftest in the race, 
 Replete with courage, virtue, strength, and grace ; 
 I saw thee generous, noble, active, mild, 
 And blest the hero as my darling child ! 
 
 But oh, my God ! these hopes were crash'd by thee, 
 How shall I murmur at thy dread decree ! 
 Hush, rebel spirit! whispering conscience tells 
 I should not vent each troubled thought which swells 
 
 In my torn heart my woes I'll speak no more. 
 Nor each vain thought which there impatient dwells, 
 
 Waiting for utterance at my bosom's door. 
 Rouse, dormant soul ! nor sleep when needed most, 
 While thy frail bark on adverse seas is tost, 
 And all thy comfort, all thy hope is lost ! 
 IT1 hie me to the prophet's mountain home, 
 He shall redeem my darling from the tomb. 
 Or teach me how, resign'd, to bear my dooin. 
 
 She ceased; 
 
 A glance of hope o'er her pale features flash'd, 
 And with unwonted energy she raised 
 Her feeble hands in prayer to heaven. 
 Once more she press'd her pallid lips upon 
 The marble forehead of her lovely boy, 
 Then rising, laid the cold and lifeless load 
 From off her bosom, strong in her despair; 
 Then wildly throwing back the silken folds 
 Which droop'd upon the wall, she rush'd along, 
 Through many a corridor and hall, illumed 
 With glittering lamps and gems of burning lustre. 
 Her sandalTd feet glanced lightly on the floor, 
 And her soft tread no answering echo gave ; 
 But heavier far her footstep would have been, 
 Beneath the galling burden on her heart, 
 If all had been despair ; but the small grain of hope 
 Which Unger'd still within, her onward course
 
 164 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Served but to quicken ; something in her soul 
 
 Seern'd battling with its sorrow, and a spark, 
 
 Lighted by hope, within, a tiny star, 
 
 Shone o'er the almost desert gloom of woe. 
 
 She hasted on ; and soon her form was lost, 
 
 In its dim outline, amid the windings 
 
 Of her noble mansion. Where hath she gone ? 
 
 Why at this moment leave her lifeless son? 
 
 What human voice can yield her heart relief? 
 
 What hand redeem her loved one from the dust? 
 
 Return, frail mourner ! and indulge thy grief, 
 
 Where none are nigh to view its heartfelt pangs ; 
 
 Return, nor seek one sympathetic heart 
 
 In the cold world around thee : thou wilt see, 
 
 Since rankling sorrow hath oppress'd thy soul, 
 
 All who with smiles attended thee before 
 
 Will gaze on thee in scorn, and mock thy tears, 
 
 Nor heed thy bitter groans. Oh better far 
 
 In thine own heart to hide each torturing grief, 
 
 And meet thy sorrow here. But she hath gone ! 
 
 Twilight is stealing on, and she hath gone ! 
 
 And where ! Gaze on yon rugged path, which leads 
 
 Far onward to the mountain's brow, and there 
 
 Behold her toiling on her weary way! 
 
 The thorny brambles meet along her path, 
 
 And close around o'ershadowing thickets grow 
 
 But still she rushes on the piercing thorn 
 
 Or fallen bough, alike unheeding all, 
 
 And with despairing heart and weary step 
 
 Reaches the mighty prophet's mountain home. 
 
 ****** 
 The last faint day-streak gleams on CarmePs brow, 
 And lights the tearful traveller on her way, 
 As with the holy man of God she turns 
 Her sorrowing footsteps backward to her home 
 They enter, and once more she stands beside 
 The silent couch of her unconscious boy. 
 There, overcome by speechless, mute despair, 
 Her agony how great ! Cold, deathlike drops 
 Hang on her snowy brow, and, half-distracted 
 With o'erwhelming grief, she turns her from the sight 
 Of the dear object of her fondest love. 
 
 ***** 
 Behold the prophet ! Lo ! the man of God 
 Is lowly bending o'er the couch of death 
 His long, dark mantle floating loosely round 
 His tall, majestic form ; his silver locks 
 Parted far backward on his noble brow, 
 And his full, piercing eye upraised to heaven , 
 His hands are clasp'd the feeble fingers 
 Trembling with emotion, and from his lips 
 Bursts forth an ardent prayer. He ceased, 
 And on the body stretch'd his aged form,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 165 
 
 Press'd his warm lips upon the marble brow, 
 And chafed the infn.nt limbs. 
 'T is done ! behold, the sleeping child awakes, 
 And sweetly smiles upon the holy man ! 
 And lo ! the weeping mother clasps her boy 
 Again, redeem'd from the embrace of death, 
 And strains him to her throbbing heart, as though 
 She fear'd the ruthless tyrant yet once more 
 Might snatch him from her arms ! 
 While the dread prophet stands aloof from all 
 And views the object of his fervent prayer 
 Restored again to love, and light, and life ! 
 
 BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 
 
 THROUGH proud Belshazzar's lofty halls 
 
 A wavering light is streaming, 
 And o'er his heaven-defying walls, 
 
 The blaze of torches gleaming. 
 Hark ! the voice of music breaks 
 
 Softly on the midnight air, 
 Each boisterous shout of laughter speaks 
 
 Of hearts untouch'd by woe or care. 
 
 The sounds of joy harmonious floating 
 
 O'er Euphrates' silver tide, 
 Which flows in ripples, gently passing 
 
 Near many a tower of stately pride. 
 With mirth, Belshazzar's halls resound, 
 
 Joy spreads each smiling feature o'er. 
 And laughing hundreds gather round 
 
 The red libations, as they pour 
 
 Fron. silver cup, and golden urn, 
 
 Once mantling with the holy wine, 
 By impious hands in frenzy torn 
 
 From great Jehovah's sacred shrine. 
 Surrounded by each smiling guest, 
 
 In regal pomp and splendid state, 
 With all save God's approval blest, 
 
 The warrior king serenely sate. 
 
 Their hearts demoniac pleasure found, 
 
 Exulting triumph swell'd their strain, 
 While Israel's children, captive, bound, 
 
 Were groaning 'neath their weight of pain r 
 Bright lamps o'erhung the festive scene, 
 
 Diffusing soflen'd brilliance round, 
 While mocking Israel's mighty Lord, 
 
 They dash'd his wine-cups to the ground. 
 14
 
 166 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Why does Belshazzar's lip turn pale ? 
 
 Why shrinks his form with trembling fear f 
 Why fades, within his tiger eye, 
 
 The scornful glance, the taunting sneer ? 
 A shadowy cloud o'erhangs the wall, 
 
 A mighty hand each fold reveals ! 
 There's silence in that princely hall, 
 
 And trembling awe each vein congeals. 
 
 The mystic fingers darkly move, 
 
 And words unknown in silence trace ; 
 Wide o'er the illumined walls, they spread, 
 
 While horror fills each pallid face ! 
 Oh ! who those awful words may read, 
 
 Or who their mighty import tell? 
 What hand perform'd the fearful deed, 
 
 What tongue may break the magic spell ! 
 
 Come forth, ye Chaldean seers ! come forth, 
 
 Ye men of Egypt's burning soil! 
 Let the dread words your thoughts employ, 
 
 And be the object of your toil ! 
 Oh, gaze upon the glowing wall! 
 
 Ha ! proud magicians, do ye shrink ? 
 Say, does the sight your hearts appal 
 
 As if on death's terrific brink ? 
 
 Now, strive to win the golden crown, 
 
 The scarlet robe, the badge of power 
 And tell if heaven in justice frown, 
 
 If round your king the tempest lower. 
 But still they shrink with innate fear, 
 
 Still from the awful scene retire ; 
 While trembling lips proclaim their awe, 
 
 And rouse the monarch's fiercest ire. 
 
 Who may the characters explain, 
 When Chaldea's ancient sages fail ? 
 
 Must the dread secret thus remain 
 Wrapt in its dark mysterious veil ? 
 
 Come forth, thou man of God, come forth . 
 
 By heaven beloved, by man reviled, 
 Robed in the mantle of thy faith, 
 
 Come forth, Jehovah's chosen child ! 
 Fear not to read Belshazzar's fate ! 
 
 Thy heavenly Father guides thee still ! 
 Though robed in scarlet, throned in state, 
 
 Thy God can mould him at his will. 
 
 Oh, mark his firm, majestic mien ! 
 
 Oh, mark his broad and lofty brow ! 
 With soften'd courage, calm, serene, 
 
 And flush'd with conscious virtue's glow.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 167 
 
 Well might they shrink before the man, 
 Whose gaze had reach'd the realms of bliss, 
 
 Whose eye had pierced a brighter world, 
 Whose spotless soul had soar'd from this. 
 
 Oh, hark ! his firm and manly voice 
 
 Is heard within that princely hall ; 
 No more the impious crowds rejoice, 
 
 But thrilling silence spreads o'er all. 
 " Oh king ! in wealth, and pride, and power, 
 
 At God's great footstool humbly fall, 
 That God hath seal'd thy doom this hour, 
 
 'Tis starnp'd on yonder fated wall. 
 
 " Thy stubborn knee was never bent, 
 
 Thy earthly heart was humbled never 
 Before the throne of Israel's God, 
 
 Of'life, of breath, of power the giver. 
 Against the Lord of heaven thy hand 
 
 In bold impiety is raised, 
 And vessels sacred to his name 
 
 The feasts of idol gods have graced. 
 
 He, in whose balance lords of earth 
 
 With justice, mercy, power, are tried, 
 Hath weigh'd thine errors and thy worth, 
 
 But virtue is o'ercome by pride. 
 From death thou art no longer free, 
 
 Thy sun of glory shall decline ; 
 The golden crown no more shall bind 
 
 That proud, ambitious brow of thine. 
 
 " The Medes and Persians shall possess 
 
 That which so lately was thine own ; 
 God will e'en now our wrongs redress, 
 
 And hurl thee from thy tottering throne.* 
 He ceased, an awful silence reign'd, 
 
 And chain'd each scarcely throbbing breast. 
 Where were the passions once so rude ? 
 
 Lull'd by the prophet's voice to rest ? 
 
 Gaze on Belshazzar's pallid brow, 
 
 And trace the livid horror there ; 
 Big drops o'erhang its surface now, 
 
 And backward starts the clustering hair ; 
 His eyeballs strain'd, and wildly staring 
 
 Upon the spot which bears his doom, 
 Seem like a frighted lion glaring 
 
 Through the dark forest's lonely gloom. 
 
 ***** 
 Morn hath brigliten'd o'er Chaldea, 
 
 Morning, lovely, fragrant, bright, 
 Glory crowns a night of terror, 
 
 Deeds of darkness view her light.
 
 168 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Euphrates' waves are brightly sparkling 1 
 Beneath Aurora's rosy beam, 
 
 As though the night had never darken'd 
 Above its broad and rapid stream. 
 
 The close of evening view'd it smiling, 
 
 Deck'd with barks and forms of light, 
 The weary moments still beguiling, 
 
 Sporting on its bosom bright. 
 Where are all its beauties banish'd ? 
 
 Why its banks so lone and still ? 
 Have all its pride and glory vanish'd, 
 
 All save desolation chill ? 
 
 The Mede and Persian have been here, 
 Heaven's just vengeance to fulfil ; 
 
 Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, 
 
 God has wrought his sovereign will. 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 WHEN last this morning brightly shone 
 
 Around my youthful head, 
 Inspiring love and joy and glee, 
 
 Dismissing fear and dread, 
 
 I thought not I should see thee here 
 Reclining on thy Margaret's breast ; 
 
 I thought that in a brighter sphere 
 Thy weary soul would sweetly rest. 
 
 But since the mighty God above 
 
 Has granted this my fervent prayer, 
 
 My heart is fill'd with joy and love 
 For all his kindness and his care. 
 
 Oh, may his guardian wings o'erspread, 
 To guard from sorrow, pain, or harm, 
 
 My mother's weary aching head, 
 And every rising fear disarm. 
 
 May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, 
 And fill with peace thy beating heart, 
 
 And may the feast which love prepares 
 A sweet security impart. 
 
 When He, who warm'd thy gentle soul, 
 
 And planted every virtue there, 
 Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss, 
 
 And free from earthly sin and care, 
 
 Oh, may a daughter's tender hand 
 
 The pillow of affliction smooth, 
 Teach every grief to lose its pang, 
 
 And every sorrow fondly soothe. 
 1834.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 160 
 
 ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA. 
 
 OH, if a painter's touch can form thee thus, 
 
 So bright with all an artist's hand can give, 
 How passing beautiful those scenes must be, 
 
 Which here inanimate, there sweetly live ! 
 
 Each verdant shrub, which here inactive bends, 
 
 So gently waving o'er the placid stream, 
 And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, 
 
 Reflecting back the sun's effulgent beam. 
 
 Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, 
 
 Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, 
 And see yon crumbling fort, with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 O'er whose high walls the weeping willow bends. 
 
 Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, 
 
 Lake Lernan, placid, beautiful, and fair, 
 So gently murmuring, as it flows along, 
 
 Of peace and happiness implanted there. 
 
 And towering far above, the mighty Alps 
 
 Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime, 
 Each snow-capp'd summit mingling with the clouds, 
 
 Seerns to defy the ravages of time. 
 
 It seems as though the glowing canvass moved, 
 Each figure fill'd with life and joy and love, 
 
 As if the dark blue waters at my feet 
 
 Would break the chain which binds them there, and move. 
 
 Each hill, each rock seem bursting into life, 
 
 The painter mock'd reality so well ; 
 It seems as if those shadowy forms would speak, 
 
 Could they but break the artist's magic spell. 
 
 THE FUNERAL BELL. 
 
 HARK ! the loudly pealing bell 
 
 Rises on the morning air ; 
 Its tones subdued and sadly swell, 
 
 For death, unpitying death is there ! 
 Hark ! again it peals aloud, 
 
 Bearing sorrow on its tone ; 
 While from the sad assembled crowd, 
 
 Is heard the echoing sob and groan, 
 Yes, in that solemn note is heard 
 
 A voice proclaiming woe and death' 
 A voice which tells of endless time, 
 
 Of sorrow's desolating breath. 
 To the warm fancy it would say, 
 
 In words which strike the heart with fear : 
 14*
 
 170 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Words for the thoughtless, vain, and gay, 
 Words echoed from the sable bier 
 
 " A spirit from the world hath fled, 
 
 A soul from earth departed ; 
 While mourners weep above the dead, 
 
 Despairing broken-hearted ! 
 Through the vast fields of viewless time 
 
 That conscious soul hath gone ; 
 To answer for each earthly crime, 
 
 At God's eternal throne. 
 
 "There at his mighty bar it stands, 
 
 A trembling, guilty thing, 
 To answer all his Judge demands, 
 
 Or his dread praises sing ! 
 Dust to its kindred dust returns ! 
 
 Earth to its mother earth ! 
 Still'd are its passions and its cares, 
 
 And hush'd its voice of mirth. 
 
 " Then learn from this how weak and vain 
 
 Is every earthly gift ; 
 How in one instant all may fade, 
 
 And leave thee thus bereft ! 
 When thy fond heart is filled with joy, 
 
 With gay and mirthful feeling, 
 Bethink thee, that the form of death v 
 
 Beside thee may be stealing ; 
 That ere another hour has past, 
 
 That rosy smile may fade, 
 And the light form that glides so fast, 
 
 In the cold tomb be laid. 
 
 " That the young heart within that clay, 
 To God's dread bar shall pass away, 
 
 And the dim future, dark to thee, 
 Shall bear it on its tideless sea, 
 
 To light or darkness, joy or woe, 
 Just as thy life hath pass'd below." 
 
 1834. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. 
 LINES ON RECEIVING A BLANK-BOOK FROM MY MOTHER. 
 
 THOUGH the new year has open'd in sickness and fear, 
 Though its dawning has witness'd the aigh and the tear, 
 Though the load on my heart and the weight on my brain, 
 And the sadness around me cause sorrow and pain, 
 Each feeling of woe from my bosom is driven 
 While I view the sweet volume affection has given, 
 And gazing delighted on binding and leaf, 
 I forget every thought which is tinctured with grief.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 171 
 
 Though it needed no gift from my mother to prove 
 The depth of that current of long-cherish'd love, 
 Which hath flow'd on unceasing, unaltering still, 
 Through sorrows unable its bright waves to chill, 
 Yet 'tis strangely delightful, 'tis sweet to possess 
 Some mementos to cherish and gaze on like this, 
 Some gift which long hence may impart to the mind 
 Fresh hues of the image there sweetly enshrined: 
 Which, when every gay feeling is clouded with night, 
 May burst on the soul like an angel of light, 
 And presenting unalter'd the visions of love, 
 Which had slumber'd awhile the more sweetly to soothe 
 May illumine the darkness with radiance sublime, 
 But more bright from repose, and unclouded by time. 
 Oh, think not, my mother, I ever shall part 
 From a token thus soothing, and sweet to my heart ; 
 That the dear little volume thus coming from thee, 
 Shall e'er be less valued, less cherish'd by me. 
 When the fathomless future its page shall unfold, 
 When time o'er this head now so youthful has roll'd, 
 And left me like others, gray, wither'd and old, 
 Then, then shall this gift of the merry new year, 
 From the loved one whose spirit no longer is here, 
 Impart a sweet sadness, and draw the warm tear. 
 'T will bring to remembrance my own lovely home, 
 And each feeling, each hope, which is now in its bloom. 
 As a fair little talisman bound up with joy 
 'T will be clasp'd to my bosom its fond hopes to buoy 
 And the love now within it must cease there to dwell, 
 When I bid this dear volume a lasting farewell, 
 1835. 
 
 TO FANCY. 
 
 FLY on, aerial Fancy! fly 
 
 Back, back through many an age, 
 
 To scenes which long have glided by, 
 Untold on history's page. 
 
 Oh, stretch thy heavenward wings, and soar 
 Through clouds mysterious and sublime, 
 
 To scenes which earth shall view no more, 
 Far down the dark abyss of time. 
 
 Lit by thy pure, celestial torch, 
 
 Earth, heaven, and sea have softly glow'd, 
 Nought in created space which ne'er 
 
 To thine enchanting sway hath bow'd. 
 
 Worlds framed and beautified by thee, 
 Have glow'd with every rainbow hue, 
 
 And o'er each meaner thing thy form 
 Hath shed a radiance as it flew.
 
 172 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 All potent Fancy ! deign to bend 
 One glance upon thy suppliant here ! 
 
 Thy glowing car in kindness send, 
 And bear me to thy beauteous sphere, 
 
 Believe me, thou hast ever been 
 
 The cherish'd monarch of my heart! 
 
 There's not one thought, one hope, one scene, 
 In which thy vagaries have no part. 
 
 Then deign to look with pitying eye 
 
 Upon thy votary's bended form ; 
 Disperse each cloud from yonder sky, 
 And clasp me in thy guardian arm. 
 1835. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SPRING. 
 
 BEND down from thy chariot, oh beautiful Spring, 
 
 Unfold like a standard thy radiant wing, 
 
 And beauty and joy in thy rosy path bring ! 
 
 We long for thy coming, sweet goddess of love, 
 
 We watch for thy smile in the pure sky above, 
 
 And we sigh for the hour when the wood birds shall sing, 
 
 And nature shall welcome thee, beautiful Spring ! 
 
 How the lone heart will bound as thy presence draws near, 
 
 As if borne from this world to some lovelier sphere ! 
 
 How the fond soul to meet thee in raptures shall rise, 
 
 When thy first blush has tinted the earth and the skies. 
 
 Oh, send thy soft breath on the icy -bound stream, 
 
 'T will vanish, 't will melt, like the forms in a dream, 
 
 Released from its chains, like a child in its glee, 
 
 'T will flow in its beauty, all sparkling and free. 
 
 It will spring on in joy, like a bird on the wing, 
 
 And hail thee with music, oh beautiful Spring ! 
 
 But tread with thy foot on the snow-cover'd plain, 
 
 And verdure and beauty shall smile in thy train. 
 
 Only whisper one word with thy seraph-like voice, 
 
 And nature to hear the sweet sound shall rejoice ! 
 
 Oh, Spring ! lovely goddess ! what form can compare 
 
 With thine so resplendent, so glowing, so fair ? 
 
 What sunbeam so bright as thy own smiling eye, 
 
 At whose glance the dark spirits of winter do fly ? 
 
 A garland of roses is twined round thy brow, 
 
 Thy cheek like the pale blush of evening doth glow ; 
 
 A mantle of green o'er thy soft form is spread, 
 
 And the zephyr's light wing gently plays round thy head. 
 
 Oh, could I but mount on the eagle's dark wing, 
 
 And rest ever beside thee, Spring, beautiful Spring J 
 
 Methinks, I behold thee ! I hear thy soft voice! 
 
 And in fulness of heart I rejoice ! I rejoice !
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 17S 
 
 But the cold wind is moaning, the drear snow doth fall, 
 And naught but the shrieking blast echoes my call. 
 Oh, heed the frail offering an infant can bring ! 
 Oh, grant my petition, Spring, beautiful Spring ! 
 835. 
 
 FROM THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH PSALM. 
 
 WHERE from thy presence shall I flee ? 
 Where seek a hiding-place from thee? 
 If the pure breath of heaven I share, 
 Lo ! I shall find thy spirit there ! 
 If wandering to the depths of hell, 
 I trust in secresy to dwell, 
 Behold ! in all thy power and might, 
 Thou, Lord, shall pierce the veil of night 
 If on the radiant wings of morn 
 To unknown lands I 'm gently borne ; 
 There, even there thy hand shall lead 
 Thy voice support my sinking head. 
 If to my inmost soul I say, 
 Darkness and night shall shroud my way, 
 That darkness shall dissolve in light, 
 And day usurp the throne of night 
 No power can dim thy searching eye, 
 Or bid thy guardian spirit fly. 
 Thou knowest well each infant thought, 
 Which passion, pride, or sin has taught; 
 And doubts and fears, but half express'd, 
 To thee, Almighty, stand confess'd. 
 Plain as the waves of yonder sea, 
 Man's subtlest thoughts are known to thee. 
 From the small insect tribe, which playa 
 Within the sun's enlivening rays, 
 To the broad ocean waves, which rise 
 In heaving billows to the skies. 
 Or great or small, each work of thine, 
 It whispers of a hand divine. 
 Each breeze which fans the twilight hour, 
 Speeds onward, guided by thy power ; 
 Each wind which wildly sweeps abroad, 
 Is teeming with the voice of God. 
 1835. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 THE power of mind, the force of genius, 
 Oh, what human heart can tell, 
 
 Or the deep and stirring thoughts, 
 Which in the poet's bosom dwell !
 
 174 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The high and holy dreams of heaven, 
 Which raise the soul above 
 
 This world of care, this sphere of sin, 
 To realms of light and love. 
 
 Oh who can tell its energy ? 
 
 The spirit's power and might, 
 When genius, with sublimest force, 
 
 Appoints its upward flight, 
 
 And lifts the struggling soul above 
 The prison-house of clay, 
 
 To roam amid the fancied realms 
 Of glory and of day ! 
 
 And breathes immortal vigour 
 To sustain it through this life, 
 
 The index of a higher world, 
 With power and beauty rife. 
 
 Oh, how sublime the very thought, 
 That this frail form of mine 
 
 Contains a spirit destined soon 
 In purer worlds to shine. 
 
 To unfold its infant energies, 
 
 In an immortal clime, 
 And far more glorious become 
 
 Each passing hour of time. 
 
 That it contains the heavenly germ 
 
 Of future being now, 
 Created there to beautify, 
 
 Where clearer waters flow. 
 
 And there expand the glowing bud, 
 'Mid worlds of light and love, 
 
 Through the bright realms of ether, 
 In glory still to rove. 
 
 LETTER TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT, 
 
 WRITTEN BORING MY ILLXESS, IN ANSWER TO ONE IN WHICH SHE DK- 
 SCRIBES PEGASUS AS BLIND, HALT, AND LAME, AND ENDEAVOHRS TO 
 CHEER ME WITH THE PROSPECT OF SPEEDY RECOVERY. 
 
 Now, my dear Cousin Maggy, behold me again, 
 Relieved in a measure from sickness and pain ; 
 With a wel'-sharpen'd phiz, and a cap on my head, 
 Just bidding farewell to the irksome sick bed, 
 And endeavouring to tune my enfeebled young lyre 
 To a theme which was wont its wild notes to inspire.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 175 
 
 'Tis long since the muse to my aid has descended, 
 Or smiling and pleased, her poor votary befriended; 
 Now tired of entreaties, I'll court her no more, 
 But alone and unaided her realms I '11 explore ; 
 So, dear cousin Maggy, condemn not my muse, 
 If my verse all its rhyme and its harmony lose, 
 For, vex'd with refusals so frequent and long, 
 Without her I ve dared to engage in a song ; 
 And shielded and guided by Clio no more, 
 To meet thy Pegasus I tremblingly soar. 
 While confined by the shackles of sickness arid pain, 
 For many a day on my couch I had lain, 
 And in seeking ibr rest, to my weak frame denied, 
 Was tossing fatigued on each sore, aching side, 
 There came down a tall spirit of light (as it were,) 
 From the realms of the sky and the regions of air ; 
 He dispell'd from my bosom its gloom and its dread, 
 And kindled the torchlight of hope in their stead. 
 Ah ! then, my dear friend, so great was his power, 
 He could lighten my pain, and soothe solitude's hour ; 
 Ah why then, my cousin, thus brand him with shame 
 Ah why then describe him as " sightless and lame?" 
 All noble and lovely he seem'd to mine eye, 
 And when ceasing to view him I ceased with a sigh ! 
 His wings were expanded, his eyebeam was fire ! 
 And that heart had been old he could fail to inspire. 
 But alas ! I should fail, did I strive to portray 
 But one half of the graces which round him did play, 
 And held captive my soul with their wildering sway ; 
 So no more I'll contemplate his charms or thine own, 
 But try to inform you how we're getting on. 
 Dear mother still sits on her old rocking-chair, 
 Either thinking, or smiling, or silent with care ; 
 Then plying her needle with industry still, 
 Or scribbling and wearing some tarnish'd goosequill. 
 Dear Matty is thinking of railroads again, 
 And longs to get hold of the rod and the chain. 
 He talks of embankments, canals, and high-bridges, 
 Of steam-cars and tunnels, of swamps and of ditches. 
 While dear little Kent, with his well-finger'd book, 
 Sits gazing around him with complacent look ; 
 "But alas ! my dear coz, the poor fellow has lost 
 The frequent amusement he valued the most ; 
 For know, in the midst of our sickness and cares, 
 The glass in our parlour was carried up stairs, 
 (Other furniture changed here was station'd a bed,} 
 So a mirror much smaller was placed in its stead, 
 And my hapless young brother is able no more 
 To admire his own beauty and grace as before ; 
 He looks at the tempter all rueful and sad, 
 And in vain the attempt to attain it is made, 
 And with long, disappointed, and sorrowful mien, 
 He retires from the spot to conceal his chagrin.
 
 176 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh ! join, my dear cousin, with me, and bewail 
 
 That his sources of pleasure thus early should fail. 
 
 Old Leo, tired out with his frolic and play, 
 
 Lies quietly sleeping the rest of the day ; 
 
 While pussy is purring contentedly near, 
 
 Devoid of all care and unconscious of fear. 
 
 But enough of this nonsense ! I fain would request 
 
 That my cousin again may be honour'd and blest 
 
 By receiving thy musical Nag as a guest : 
 
 His arrival I'll welcome with heartfelt delight, 
 
 And gaze on his beauties from morning till night. 
 
 Dear uncle and cousins I ne'er can forget, 
 
 With sweet little Georgie, his Aunty, and Kate, 
 
 Give our love to them all, and yourself must receive 
 
 My warm and my lasting affection. Believe, 
 
 I shall ever remain as I now am to thee, 
 
 Your dear little cousin, and 
 
 MARGARET M. D. 
 Ballston, 1835. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Though nought but life's sunshine has spread o'er my path. 
 Though no real distress has e'er clouded my brow : 
 
 Though the storms of affliction around me have past, 
 
 And shed o'er me nought save the rainbow's bright glow ; 
 
 Though nursed from the cradle with tenderest care, 
 
 Though shelter'd from all that might grieve or distress; 
 
 Though life's pathway has blush'd with the fairest of flower^ 
 And my heavenly Father has ceased not to bless ; 
 
 Though the chillness of want and the darkness of woe 
 From my joyous young spirit have rapidly fled : 
 
 Though the presence of all whom I cherish and love 
 Has not fail'd its sweet influence around me to shed; 
 
 Still, still there are moments of darkness and grief, 
 Which steal o'er my soul like the spirit of woe; 
 
 ! know not their coming, I feel not their cause, 
 But o'er my rapt spirit they silently flow. 
 
 I feel for a while as some terrible blow 
 
 Had depiived me of comfort, of friends, and of home; 
 Then depart they as silent, and leave my freed soul 
 
 Again in the bright path of pleasure to roam. 
 
 Like clouds in the sky of enjoyment they pass, 
 And shed o'er my heart a sensation of sadness ; 
 
 Like clouds do they glide o'er the surface of light 
 And leave me again to the spirit of gladness 
 1835.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 177 
 
 VERSES WKITTEN WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OF AOE. 
 VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 WHERE the stream in its wildness was rushing below, 
 
 And the oak in its greatness- was bending above, 
 Fell Cathba the brave by the hand of his foe, 
 
 By the hand of Duchomar, his rival in love. 
 
 Duchomar repair'd to the cave of the wild, 
 
 Where dwelt in her beauty the star of his breast, 
 Where she wander'd alone, nature's sensitive child, 
 
 Knowing little of life but its love and its rest 
 
 "Oh, beautiful daughter of Cormac the proud ! 
 
 Oh Morna, thou fairest that earth can bestow ! 
 Why dwellest thou here, 'neath the dark, angry cloud ? 
 
 Why dwellest thou here where the wild waters flow ? 
 
 " The old oak is murmuring aloud m the blast, 
 
 Which ruffles the breast of the far distant sea, 
 The storm o'er the heavens his thick veil hath cast, 
 
 And the sky in its sternness is frowning on thee ! 
 
 " But thou art like snow on the black, wither'd heath, 
 
 Thy ringlets are soft as the mist of the night, 
 When it winds round the broad hill its delicate wreath, 
 
 By the sun at its parting made gorgeously bright." 
 
 " Whence comest thou, man of the fierce-rolling eye ?** 
 
 Said the beautiful maid of the dark flowing hair ; 
 1 Oh proud is thy bearing, and haughty, and high, 
 
 And thy brow, there is darkness and gloominess there. 
 
 " Perchance thou hast heard from our foeman of blood ; 
 
 Doth Swaran appear on the broad-heaving sea, 
 Doth he pour on our coast like the deep raging flood ? 
 
 What tidings from Lochlin, Duchomar, for me ?" 
 
 " No tidings from Lochlin, oh Morna, I bring, 
 
 I come from the chase of the fleet-footed deer ; 
 My arrows have sped like the eagle's swift wing, 
 
 And the scatheless have fled from my presence for fear. 
 
 " Three deer at my feet in the death-pang have laid, 
 
 Fair daughter of Cormac, one perish'd for thee ; 
 As my soul do I love thee, oh white-handed maid ! 
 
 And queen of my heart ever more shalt thou be !* 
 
 15
 
 179 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Duchomar !" the maiden with firmness replied, 
 
 " No portion of love do I cherish for thee ; 
 For thy hosom is dark with its passions and pride, 
 
 And fickle thy heart as the wide-rolling sea. 
 
 " But Cathba ! thou only shall Morna adore, 
 Thine image alone this fond bosom shall fill ; 
 
 Oh bright are thy locks as the sunbeams of day, 
 When the mists of the valley are climbing the hill. 
 
 " Hast thou seen him, Duchomar, young Cathba the brave T 
 Hast thou seen the fair chief on his pathway of light? 
 
 The daughter of Cormac the mighty is here 
 
 To welcome her iove when he comes from the fight." 
 
 " Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna !" he cried, 
 And fiercely and sullenly gazed on the maid, 
 
 " Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna ! for here 
 Is the blood of thy chief on Duchomar's dark blade. 
 
 " Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand, 
 His tomb will I rear upon Cromla's dark hills; 
 
 Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft-beaming eye, 
 
 For his arm is like lightning, which withers and kills." 
 
 " Has he fallen in death, the brave offspring of Torman ?" 
 The maiden exclaim'd in the accents of woe, 
 
 " The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle, 
 Oh sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow ! 
 
 " And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance, 
 
 He hath blasted each hope which was bright in the bud ; 
 
 Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon, 
 For Cathba I loved, and I still love his blood." 
 
 He yielded the sword to her mourning and sighs, 
 She plunged the red blade in his fast-heaving side ; 
 
 And he lay by the stream, as the blasted oak lies, 
 Till raising his hand he indignantly cried, 
 
 " Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac ! thy blow 
 Hath cut off my youth from the fame I love best 5 
 
 My glory hath fled like a pale wreath of snow, 
 And Morna ! thy weapon is cold in my breast. 
 
 " Oh give me to Moina, the maiden of beauty, 
 
 Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, 
 
 My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain, 
 That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame 
 
 " She will hang o'er my grave like the mists of the morning, 
 And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride, 
 
 But my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing, 
 Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side "
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 179 
 
 Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding, 
 
 And drew forth the sword from his fast-bleedmg breast, 
 
 But he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom, 
 And laid her fair form on the damp earth to rest. 
 
 Her tresses dishevell'd around her were flowing, 
 
 The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, 
 
 And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing, 
 In dimness and pallor and silence were bound. 
 
 Oh Morna ! be thou as the moon, when its light 
 
 Shines forth from her throne on the light fleecy cloud, 
 
 To watch o'er the grave of thy lover at night, 
 
 And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud. 
 1835. 
 
 TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 AH where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song, 
 Who once bore my rapt fancy on bright wings slong ? 
 That soaring from earth, with its cares and its pains, 
 It might bathe in the light of thy seraph-like strains ? 
 
 Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness? 
 
 Why leave me in silence thy loss to bewail I 
 Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured with sadness, 
 
 The eye that is dimm'd, or the cheek that is pale ? 
 
 Since last waved around me thy pinions of light, 
 
 The chillness of sorrow hath breathed o er my home, 
 
 Tor one joyful young spirit hath taken its flight, 
 One icy-cold form has been borne to the tomb, 
 
 Like a flow'ret of summer, he wither'd and died 
 In the springtime of beauty, of youth, and of pride; 
 In the freshness of hope he was borne to his tomb, 
 And the home of his kindred is shadow'd with gloom. 
 
 Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy, 
 
 Oh touch with thy fingers my drooping young lyre! 
 
 Awake it to pleasures time ne'er can destroy, 
 And I its chords with a heavenly calmness inspire. 
 
 1836.
 
 180 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANs's 
 "RECORDS OP WOMAN." 
 
 OH, pause not yet, for many an hour 
 
 I'd lend a raptured ear, 
 The thrilling 1 , melting sweetness 
 
 Of that seraph strain to hear. 
 
 Dispel not yet the soften'd joy 
 
 Those gentle tones impart, 
 While painting in such vivid hues, 
 
 The worth of woman's heart. 
 
 Priestess of song ! could we but feel 
 
 The value of thine own, 
 How many a soul would bow before 
 
 Thy spirit's lofty throne. 
 
 How many now elated 
 
 With the muse's faintest smile, 
 
 Would turn them to thy radiant shrine, 
 And worship there awhile. 
 
 With softest touch thy magic hand 
 
 Awaked the sleeping lyre, 
 To all a woman's tenderness, 
 
 And all a poet's fire. 
 
 And proudly soar'd thy lofty mind 
 
 Each earthly thought above, 
 And vainly sought thy woman's heart 
 
 For something more to love. 
 1836. [Unfinished.] 
 
 AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND. 
 
 THOUGH thousands pass the mourners by, 
 And scorn the suppliant's bended knee, 
 
 u Hope springs exulting" to the eye, 
 When sorrow turns its glance on thee. 
 
 For soft compassion's slumbering ray, 
 And pity's melting glance is there, 
 
 To chase the sufferer's fears away, 
 And soothe to calmness wild despair
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 181 
 
 Oh fan to life the kindling spark, 
 
 Till brightly burns its radiant flame, 
 For thou art fortune's favour'd child, 
 
 And I would plead in mercy's name. 
 
 Scan the dark page of life, and say 
 
 If there thy searching eye can find 
 A woe more keen, a fate more sad, 
 
 Than that which marks the helpless blind. 
 
 Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path, 
 
 Its best and brightest gift denied, 
 No power to pluck its fragrant flowers, 
 
 Or turn its poisonous thorns aside; 
 
 No ray to pierce the gloom within, 
 
 And chase the darkness with its light ; 
 No radiant morning dawn to win 
 
 His spirit from the shades of night 
 
 Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair, 
 
 Casts a bright glow o'er life's dark stream, 
 
 Nature, sweet soother of our care, 
 HUB not a single smile for him. 
 
 When pale disease, with blighting hand, 
 
 Crushes each budding hope awhile, 
 Our eyes can rest in sweet delight 
 
 On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile. 
 
 Not so with him his soul, chain'd down 
 
 By doubt, and loneliness, and care, 
 Feels but misfortune's chilling frown, 
 
 And broods in darkness and despair. 
 
 Favour'd by heaven ! oh haste thee on, 
 
 Thy blest Redeemer points the way, 
 Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour 
 
 The light of intellectual day. 
 
 Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, 
 
 And wake them to the noonday sun ; 
 Thou canst not ope what God hath closed, 
 
 Or cancel aught His hands have done. 
 
 But oh ! there is a world within, 
 
 More bright, more beautiful than ours ; 
 A world which, nursed by culturing hands, 
 
 Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers. > 
 
 And thou canst make that desert mind 
 Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose ; 
 
 15*
 
 182 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Thou canst illume that rayless void, 
 Till darkness like the day -beam glows. 
 
 Thou canst implant the brilliant gem 
 Of thought, in each benighted soul, 
 
 Till back from radiance so divine 
 The clouds of ignorance shall roll. 
 
 Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray 
 O'er each beclouded mind within, 
 
 Than pours tne glorious orb of day 
 On this dark world of care and sin. 
 
 Prize you a self-approving mind ? 
 
 Then lay thine offering here; 
 The clouded orbits of the blind 
 
 Shall yield a grateful tear. 
 
 VVould'st thou the blessings of that band 
 Should crowd thy path below ? 
 
 That hearts, enlighten'd by thy hand, 
 With gratitude should flow ? 
 
 And would'st thou seek the matchless Ion 
 To God's own children given, 
 
 A conscience calmly resting 'neath 
 The fav'ring smiles of Heaven ? 
 
 Then speed thee on in mercy's cause, 
 And teach the blind to see; 
 
 " Hope springs exulting" in the eye 
 That sorrowing turns to thee. 
 
 And wannest blessings on thy head, 
 Full many a voice shall call ; 
 
 And tears upon thy memory shed, 
 Like Hermon's dew shall fall ! 
 
 And when the last dread day has come, 
 Which seals thy endless doom ; 
 
 When the freed soul shall seek its home, 
 And triumph o'er the tomb; 
 
 When lowly bends each reverend knee, 
 And bows each heart in prayer, 
 
 A band of spirits, saved by thee, 
 
 Shall plead thy virtues there! 
 1836.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 183 
 
 THE SMILES OF NATURE 
 
 THERE 's a smile above, and a smile below, 
 
 In the clouds that roll, and the waves that flow : 
 
 Is the heart unchain'd by sorrow's thrall, 
 
 There 's a smile of joy and of peace in all ! 
 
 There 's a smile on the brow of the waken'd day, 
 
 When, he gilds the east with his glowing ray, 
 
 And a smile on his brow when he sinks to rest, 
 
 Like the saint who expires on his Maker's breast 
 
 There are pensive smiles on the evening sky, 
 
 Which raise the thoughts to the pure and high, 
 
 Which speak to the soul of its glad release, 
 
 And tune its quivering chords to peace. 
 
 The flow'rets ope with the rising sun, 
 
 And wither and die ere his race is run; 
 
 Yet a smile is shed o'er their transient bloom, 
 
 Adorning the path to their early tomb. 
 
 There 's a smile on the brow of the gorgeous spring, 
 
 When she spreads o'er the valley her radiant wing ; 
 
 As she calms the wild winds with her fragrant breath, 
 
 And decks the glad earth in her beautiful wreath. 
 
 There 's a smile on the rose, though 't will cease to bloom ; 
 
 There 's a smile on the stream, though the storm may come; 
 
 There 's a smile in the sky, though the clouds may roll 
 
 Like sin o'er the depths of the human soul I 
 
 Thus, all that is lovely is form'd for decay, 
 
 But the pure beams of heaven are shed o'er the way. 
 
 There are varied smiles on a mortal's brow, 
 
 Which speak of the soul from its depths below ; 
 
 But they too vanish, when brightest they beam, 
 
 And bury their light in the world's dark stream. 
 
 For the heart of man is the throne of guile, 
 
 And sin can shadow each mortal smile ; 
 
 And the blossoms of light which are planted there, 
 
 Are weaken'd by passion, or wither'd by care. 
 
 There 's a haughty smile on the conqueror's brow, 
 
 As the nations of earth at his footstool bow ; 
 
 But that smile is chill as the frozen stream 
 
 Which glitters pale in the moon's cold beam, 
 
 It speaks of ambition, of pride, and of sin, 
 
 Which rankle and swell the dark bosom within. 
 
 There 's a smile on the brow of aspiring man, 
 
 As he pauses the works of his hand to scan, 
 
 And gazes far up to that gorgeous height 
 
 Which is guarded by danger, and terror, and night 
 
 But 't is cold as the bosom from whence it came, 
 
 And is lost in the splendours of grandeur and fame. 
 
 There 's a beaming smile upon beauty's brow, 
 
 As the young and the gay at her altar bow ; 
 
 'T is brilliant, 't is dazzling, 't is passing fair, 
 
 But the heart in its freshness is wanting there.
 
 184 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 There 's a sunny smile on the infant's lip, 
 
 As he pauses the cup of enjoyment to sip; 
 
 But a moment more shall have hurried by, 
 
 And that smile will fade from his clouded eye 
 
 Some childish sorrow, or childish sin, 
 
 Shall cast its shade o'er the depths within. 
 
 Then where shall we seek for a perfect smile, 
 
 If beauty hath sorrow, and youth hath guile ? 
 
 If the clouds of pride and ambition roll 
 
 O'er the inmost depths of the deathless soul ? 
 
 Oh Nature ! the soul is a spark divine, 
 
 But I turn from its light for a smile of thine ; 
 
 The soul in its greatness must ever endure, 
 
 But thou, in thy freshness, art holy and pure ! 
 
 Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
 
 Which gladden the bosom and rapture the eye ; 
 
 Though transient the radiance, though fleeting the smile, 
 
 They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile ! 
 
 But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 
 
 Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control : 
 
 For the soft smiles of nature around us are cast, 
 
 To light, with their brilliance, the world's weary waste. 
 
 To call the lone heart from its sadness away, 
 
 And shed o'er its darkness a magical ray ! 
 
 When oppress'd with the cares and sorrows of life, 
 
 The spirit turns back from its turmoil and strife, 
 
 When it longs to be happy, and sighs to be free, 
 
 Oh nature, 'tis cheer'd by communion with thee. 
 
 Though the waters may rise, and the sky be o'ercast ; 
 
 Though rages the tempest, and whistles the blast ; 
 
 Though thy brow may be shaded in darkness and fear, 
 
 He can read there a lesson to solace and cheer, 
 
 As the soft rays of sunshine succeed to thy frown ; 
 
 As the rainbow encircles thy brows like a crown ; 
 
 As the tempest rolls off which had reigned there awhile, 
 
 And bursts forth in radiance the light of thy smile, 
 
 So gently the shadows of sorrow depart, 
 
 And hope dawns again on the desolate heart, 
 
 And points f-otn thy glories to glories more pure 
 
 From thy fast-fading beauties to charms which endure, 
 
 And leads the rapt soul from its sinful abode, 
 
 To commune for awhile with its Maker and God. 
 
 Oh Nature ! what art thou ? a mighty lyre, 
 
 Whose wings arc swept by an angel choir ; 
 
 Whose music, attuned by a hand divine, 
 
 Thrills a chord in each bosom responsive to thine, 
 
 And whose gentle strain, as it softly swells, 
 
 Soothes many a bosom where sadness dwells ; 
 
 While the joyous and happy, the youthful and gay, 
 
 Pluck the flowers from thy garland and speed on their way. 
 
 Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
 
 Which gladden the bosom, and rapture the eye,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 185 
 
 Though fleeting the radiance, though transient the smile, 
 They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile, 
 But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 
 Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control. 
 1635. 
 
 ON A ROSE, 
 
 RECEIVED FROM MISS SED&WICK. 
 
 AND thou art fading too, my rose, 
 
 Thy healthful bloom is fled, 
 From thy pale flower the leaves unclow, 
 
 And bows thy pallid head. 
 
 I knew how quickly fades away 
 
 Each brighter, lovelier thing, 
 And did not deem that thou couldst stay, 
 
 Thou fairest rose of spring. 
 
 But I have watch'd thy varying hue, 
 
 As fading hour by hour, 
 And mourn'd that thou must perish too, 
 
 My lovely, cherish'd flower. 
 
 Oh, 'tis a mournful thing to see 
 How all that's fair must die ; 
 
 How death will pluck the sweetest bud, 
 On his cold breast to lie. 
 
 'Tis sad to mark his icy hand 
 
 Destroy our all that's dear, 
 In silent, shivering awe to stand, 
 
 And know his footstep near. 
 
 Yet 'twere unmeet that thou shouldst live, 
 When man himself must die ; 
 
 That death should cull each human form, 
 And pass the flow'ret by. 
 
 Why do I mourn for thee my rose, 
 
 When graven in my beart, 
 I read a deeper sorrow there 
 
 Than thou could'st e'er impart. 
 
 For one who came from heaven awhile 
 
 To bless the mourners here; 
 Their joys to hallow with her smile, 
 
 Their sorrows with her tear;
 
 186 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Who join'd to all the charms of earth 
 The noblest gifts of heaven ; 
 
 To whom the Muses, at her birth, 
 Their sweetest smiles had given ; 
 
 Whose eye beam'd forth with fancy's ray, 
 And genius pure and high ; 
 
 Whose very soul had seem'd to bathe 
 In streams of melody, 
 
 Was all too like to thee, my rose, 
 
 As fragile and as fair ; 
 For, while her eye most brightly beam'd, 
 
 The mark of death was there. 
 
 The cheek which once so sweetly bloom'd, 
 
 Grew pallid with decay ; 
 The burning fire within consumed 
 
 Its tenement of clay. 
 
 Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
 Paused o'er her couch awhile; 
 
 She gave a tear for those she loved, 
 Then met him with a smile. 
 
 Oh, who may tell what angel bands 
 Convey'd that soul away ; 
 
 And who may tell what tears were shed 
 Above that lifeless clay. 
 
 They laid her in the silent grave, 
 The moist earth for her bed ! 
 
 And placed the rose and violet 
 To blossom o'er her head ! 
 
 But though unseen by mortal eye, 
 
 ' She seem'd not to depart, 
 Her memory linger'd still below 
 In every kindred heart; 
 
 As if her pure unfetter'd soul 
 Return'd to earthly things, 
 
 And spread o'er all her cherish'd scenes 
 The shadow of her wings. 
 
 Still thou art like to her, my rose, 
 Though bending in decay ; 
 
 The tyrant death can never take 
 Thy fragrant breath away. 
 
 Like thee, my rose, she bloom'd and died, 
 Like thee, her life was brief; 
 
 And to her name remembrance clung, 
 Like perfume to thy leaf.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. ' 197 
 
 But when the torch of memory burn d 
 
 With fainter, feebler flame, 
 The pen of Sedgwick spread anew 
 
 A lustre round her name. 
 
 For this our daily gratitude 
 
 In raptures shall ascend ; 
 For this a sister's blessings 
 
 And a mother's prayer shall blend. 
 
 And if the Lord of heaven permits 
 
 His sainted ones to know 
 The varied scenes of joy and grief 
 
 Which mark the world below; 
 
 Then she will bend her angel form, 
 
 With heavenly raptures fired, 
 And bless the hand which penn'd the tale, 
 
 The genius which inspired. 
 
 1837. 
 
 THE CHURCH-GOING BELL. 
 
 How sweet is the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 When it bursts on the ear with its full rich swell, 
 
 So slow and so solemn it peals through the air, 
 
 It seems as if calling the soul to prepare 
 
 To meet in his temple, so holy and pure, 
 
 The Saviour, whose presence shall ever endure; 
 
 To unburthen the conscience devoutly to kneel 
 
 To pray for the pardon of sins which we feel ; 
 
 Before our almighty Preserver to bow, 
 
 With a purified soul, and a heart humbled low. 
 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 OH, for a something more than this, 
 To fill the void within my breast ; 
 
 A sweet reality of bliss, 
 
 A something bright, but unexpress'd ! 
 
 My spirit longs for something higher 
 Than life's dull stream can e'er supply ; 
 
 Something to feed this inward fire, 
 This spark, which never more can die.
 
 J88 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 
 
 I 'd dwell with all that nature forms 
 
 Of wild or beautiful or gay, 
 Bow, when she clothes the heaven with storms, 
 
 And join her in her frolic play. 
 
 I 'd hold companionship with all 
 
 Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 
 With glowing heart adoring fall, ! 
 
 And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine. 
 
 My soul is like a broken lyre, 
 
 Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone; 
 
 A note, half trembling on the wire, 
 A heart that wants an echoing tone. 
 
 Where shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
 This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 
 
 This something words can ne'er express, 
 So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 
 
 Language . thou never canst portray 
 The fancies floating o'er my soul ! 
 Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away 
 Which o'er my changing visions roll ! 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 OH, I have gazed on forms of light, 
 Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear 
 
 Till in that fleeting space of sight 
 Were merged the feelings of a year. 
 
 And I have heard the voice of song, 
 Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 
 
 And my rapt soul would float along 
 As if on waves of melody. 
 
 But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 
 
 I long'd to feel a deeper thrill: 
 And while I heard that dying strain, 
 
 I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 
 
 I have been happy, and my soul 
 Free from each sorrow, care, regret ; 
 
 Yet ever in those hours of bliss 
 I long'd to find them happier yet. 
 
 Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 
 
 Some meteor thought has glanced at will ; 
 
 'T was bright but ever have I sigh'd 
 To find a fancy brighter still.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 199 
 
 Why are these restless, vain desires, 
 
 Which always grasp at something more 
 To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 
 
 Which burn unseen, unnoticed soar 1 
 
 Well might the heathen sage have known 
 
 That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 
 That life, arid life's tame joys, alone, 
 
 Could never chain the ethereal mind. 
 1837. 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN 
 ON RETURNING TO BALLSTON, 
 
 AFTER THE DEATH OF A LITTLE BROTHER. 
 
 YES ! this is home ! the home we loved before, 
 The dear retreat we hope to leave no more ! 
 Since first we mourn'd thy calm enjoyments fled, 
 Two weary years with silent steps have sped ; 
 And ah I in that short space what scenes have past ! 
 Death has been with us since we saw thee last ! 
 Yes ! robed in gloom he came, the tyrant Death, 
 To blight our fairest with his chilling breath. 
 He stole along beneath the smiles of spring, 
 When youthful hearts to life most fondly cling ; 
 The loveliest flowers were blushing 'neath his tread ; 
 He stole the sweetest of them all, and fled ! 
 In vain, my brother, now we look for thee, 
 Thy form elastic, and thy step of glee ; 
 In vain we strove our thoughts from thee to win, 
 Our hearts recoiling feel the void within. 
 Alas ! alas ! thou dear and cherish'd one, 
 How soon on earth thy tranquil course was run ! 
 Like some bright stream that pours its waves to-day 
 Glides gently on, and vanishes away ! 
 A brief, brief time has pass'd with giant stride, 
 And thou hast lived, hast sufFer'd, and hast died ! 
 Memory, unmindful of the lapse between, 
 Paints forth in vivid hues that closing scene ; 
 The more we gaze, we feel its truth the more, 
 And live in thought those painful moments o'er. 
 We see his form upon its couch of pain, 
 We hear his soft and trembling voice again ; 
 Grief forcing from our lips the shuddering groan, 
 And sweet composure breathing from his own. 
 The earth was clothed in spring's enlivening hue, 
 The faded buds were bursting forth anew, 
 The birds were heard in sweet, melodious strain. 
 And Nature woke to radiant life again, 
 16
 
 1GO MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 While he, too fragile for this world of strife, 
 Prepared to blossom in a holier life, 
 The glowing spring of heaven's eternal year 
 Was usher'd in by all that 's loveliest here ; 
 Earth, robed in Nature's fairest, best array, 
 Led on his fluttering soul to purer day. 
 The soft winds fann'd him where his couch was laid, 
 On his hot brow the cooling breezes play'd, 
 And in his hand (fit type of early death,) 
 Was clasp'd a faded flower, a wither'd wreath. 
 f Hush'd was each bursting groan, each tumult wild, 
 
 Around the death-bed of that darling child ; 
 O'er each sad heart an awful trembling crept ; 
 E'en grief, o'erpower'd, a solemn stillness kept. 
 His soul, beyond the grasp of care and strife, 
 Stood on the confines of a deathless life ; 
 His gaze was fix'd upon * * * 
 The lapse between eternity and time ; 
 His eye was beaming with intenser light, 
 As broke new glories on his fading sight. 
 Oh, who may tell that hour of thrilling dread, 
 That midnight vigil by his dying bed ! 
 When his young spirit left its shrine of clay, 
 And sped through worlds unknown its pathless way ! 
 Methinks e'en now I see his speaking face, 
 Death on his brow, and in his bosom peace, 
 When soft he whisper'd, while the accent fell 
 Like the soft murmurings of the passing ^ale, 
 While his cheek glow'd with death's interuest bloom, 
 "Mother! dear mother! the last hour has tmel" 
 Yes ! thy last hour of pain, thou darling bo jr, 
 The opening scene to endless years of joy ! 
 Oh, never more, till memory's sun shall set, 
 Can I that thrilling scene of death forget ! 
 His earnest gaze, his bright and glowing cheek 
 Beaming with thoughts his tongue no more could speak, 
 His soul just hastening to the realms on high, 
 While all earth's love was kindling in his eye. 
 Alas ! it fades, that deep, unearthly glow, 
 And the cold drops stand quivering on his brow, 
 Death has o'ercome ! 't is nature's closing strife, 
 The last, last struggle of departing life ! 
 List to that sigh ! the poison'd shaft has sped, 
 And his young spirit to its home hath fled. 
 The silver chord is broke, dissolved the tie! 
 Alas ! alas ! how all that's fair must die ! 
 Hark to that heavenly strain, so loud, so clear, 
 Rising so sweet on fancy's listening ear ! 
 Hark ! 't is an angel's song, a voice of glee, 
 A welcome to the soul, unchain'd and free 1 
 On, on it flows in ceaseless tides again, 
 Till the rapt spirit echoes to the strain,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 191 
 
 Till on the wings of song it soars away, 
 To track its kindred soul through realms of day ! 
 Hark to that lyre, more sweet than all beside ; 
 Mother ! 't is hers ! oh, weep not that she died ! 
 Hark to that voice, so melting and so clear, 
 The same, my father, thou wert wont to hear ! 
 And mark that train of infant spirits come 
 To lead their brother to his glorious home ! 
 All, all are yours ! and all shall gather there, 
 To lead your spirits from this world of care ; 
 Then weep no more ; your darling son is blest, 
 ...And his young soul has enter'd into rest. 
 1837. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 TWILIGHT! sweet hour of peace, 
 
 Now art thou stealing on ; 
 
 Cease from thy tumult, thought ! and fancy, cease ! 
 Day and its cares have gone ! 
 Mysterious hour, 
 Thy magic power 
 Steals o'er my heart like music's softest tone. 
 
 The golden sunset hues 
 
 Are fading in the west; 
 
 The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, 
 Folded on evening's breast. 
 
 So doth each wayward thought, 
 From fancy's altar caught, 
 Fade like thy tints, and muse itself to rest. 
 
 Cold must that bosom be, 
 
 Which never felt thy power, 
 Which never thrill'd with tender melody 
 At this bewitching hour; 
 When nature's gentle art 
 Enchains the pensive heart ; 
 When the breeze sinks to rest, and shuts the fragrant flower. 
 
 It is the hour for pensive thought, 
 
 For memory of the past, 
 For sadden'd joy, for chasten'd hope 
 Of brighter scenes at last ; 
 The soul should raise 
 Its hymn of praise, 
 That calm so sweet on life's dull stream is cast. 
 
 Wearied with care, how sweet to hail 
 
 Thy shadowy, calm repose, 
 When all is silent but the whispering gale 
 Which greets the sleeping rose; 
 When, as thy shadows blend, 
 The trembling thoughts ascend, 
 And borre aloft, the gates of heaven unclose.
 
 192 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Forth from the warm recess 
 The chain'd affections flow, 
 And peace, and love, and tranquil happiness 
 Their mingled joys bestow ; 
 Charmed by the mystic spell, 
 The purer feelings swell, 
 The nobler powers revive, expand, and glow. 
 1837. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF A BROTHER. 
 
 BROTHER ! I need no pencill'd form 
 
 To bring back glowing thoughts of thee ; 
 
 Love's pencil, bathed in hues of light, 
 Shall trace the page of memory. 
 
 There they shall live, each look or smile, 
 Each gentler word, or look, or tone ; 
 
 Fancy shall view love's work the while, 
 And add rich colouring of her own. 
 
 How throbb'd my heart with sweet delight, 
 When hope beheld thy near return ! 
 
 Nor thought that day precedes the night, 
 And hearts the happiest soonest mourn. 
 
 Why knew I not that joy like mine 
 Was never, never formed to last? 
 
 That pleasures only live to die, 
 
 And, ere we feel them, ours are past ? 
 
 Oh ! turn not from my strain away, 
 Nor scorn it, simple though it be ! 
 
 It is a sister's sorrowing lay, 
 A token of her love for thee. 
 
 Oh ! that a prophet's eye were mine, 
 To read the shrouded future o'er ! 
 
 Oh ! that the glimmering lamp of time 
 Could cast its mystic rays before ! 
 
 Then would I trace thy devious way 
 Along the chequer'd path of life; 
 
 Discern each pure, reviving ray, 
 
 And mark each changing scene of strife. 
 
 Oh ! if a sister's partial hand 
 
 Could weave the web of fate for thee, 
 
 Pleasure should wave her mystic wand, 
 And all thy life be harmony. 
 
 Peace, foolish heart! a wiser Power 
 Thy hand shall guide, thy footsteps lead ; 
 
 Each bitter grief, each rapturous hour 
 By His unerring will decreed.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 193 
 
 Farewell, my brother ! and believe, 
 
 Through every scene of weal or woe, 
 A sister's heart with thine shall grieve, 
 
 With thine in rapturous joy shall glow. 
 
 Each morn and eve a mother's prayer 
 
 With mine shall seek the courts above : 
 A mother's blessing rest on thee, 
 
 Embalm 'd in all a mother's love. 
 1837. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING ACCOUNTS OF THE DEATH OF MARTYM. 
 
 SPEAK not of life, I could not bear 
 A life of foul disgrace to share ! 
 Wealth, fame, or honour's fleeting breath, 
 What are they to this glorious death ? 
 Think ye a kingdom back could win 
 My spirit to this world of sin ! 
 Think ye a few more years of strife 
 Could draw me from eternal life ? 
 Dark is the path to Canaan's shore, 
 But Jesus trod the path before! 
 He hath illumed the grave for me, 
 My Saviour ! I will die for thee 1 
 Yes ! lead me forth ; in faith secure, 
 The keenest anguish I'll endure! 
 And while my body feeds the flame, 
 My soul its bright reward shall claim ! 
 Soon shall these earthly bonds decay, 
 This trembling frame return to clay, 
 And earth, enrobed in clouds of night, 
 Shall fade for ever from my sight. 
 But who would mourn a home like this, 
 When gather'd to that home of bliss ? 
 But there is many a tender tie 
 Would shake my firm resolve to die ; 
 Cords which entwine my longing heart 
 Affection's death alone can part. 
 Jesus, forgive each faltering thought, 
 Which weaker, earlier love hath taught ; 
 Forgive the tears which struggling flow 
 To view a mother's, sister's woe. 
 Forgive this grief, though weak it be, 
 Nor deem my spirit turn'd from thee ! 
 Raise my unworthy soul above 
 The tempting wiles of earthly love ! 
 Soon shall each torturing pang be o'er, 
 Aod tears like these shall flow no more ; 
 
 16*
 
 194 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And those I love so deeply here 
 
 Shall meet me in yon heavenly sphere. 
 
 Love ! what have I, compared to thine ! 
 
 Love, pure, ineffable, divine ! 
 
 Love which could bring a God below 
 
 To taste a mortal's cup of woe ; 
 
 To weep in agony, to sigh, 
 
 To bear a nation's scorn to die ! 
 
 Oh, love ! undying, godlike, free, 
 
 All else is swallow'd up in thee. 
 
 Soon shall I also soar above, 
 
 To dwell with thee, for " God is love." 
 
 Yes ! pile the blazing fagots high, 
 Till the bright flames salute the sky ! 
 
 From each devouring pile you raise, 
 Shall soar a hymn of love and praise, 
 And the firm stake you rear for me, 
 The gate to endless life shall be. 
 But oh, ye frail, deluded train, 
 How will ye meet your Lord again ! 
 " Father ! their crimes in mercy view ! 
 Forgive, they know not what they do !" 
 1837. 
 
 ON READING COWPER'S POEMS. 
 
 CHARM'D with thy verse, oh bard, I fain would raise 
 A feeble tnbute teeming with thy praise; 
 lor thee, oh Cowper, touch the trembling string 
 And breathe the thoughts the muse inspires to sinjr : 
 tor thee, whose soul delighted oft to roam 
 O er the pure realms of thine eternal home ; 
 Who, scorning folly's smile, or fancy's dream, 
 Made truth thy guide and piety thy theme; 
 Who ] OV ed to soar where heaven's own glories shine, 
 And tuned the lyre to harmonies divine! 
 
 hose strains, when pour'd by faith's directing voice, 
 Made doubt recede, and certainty rejoice; 
 Whose lofty verse, by sterner justice led 
 Made unbelievers, trembling, shrink with dread. 
 Oh that each bard, from eurthborn passions free, 
 Might tread the path thus nobly mark'd by thee 
 And teaching song to plead in virtue's cause 
 Might win like thee, a grateful world's applause! 
 Knowing from whence thy matchless talents came, 
 Ihou fanned'st to purer life the kindling flame 
 And breathing all thy thoughts in numbers sweet, 
 Laid them adoring at thy Maker's feet. 
 Thus teaching man that all his nobler lays 
 Should rise o'erflowing with that Maker's praise
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 19fi 
 
 That his enraptured muse should firmly own 
 The claims of truth, and faith, and love alone ! 
 That he, who feels within the fire divine, 
 Should nurse the flame to grace God's holy shrine. 
 Let those who bask in passion's burning ray, 
 Who own no rule but fancy's changeful sway, 
 Who quench their burning thirst in folly's stream, 
 And waste their genius on each grosser theme, 
 Let them turn back on life's tumultuous sea, 
 And humbly gazing, learn this truth from thee; 
 That virtue's hand the poet's lamp must trim, 
 And its clear light, unwavering, point to Him, 
 Or all its brilliance shall have glow'd in vain, 
 And hours misspent shall win him years of pain. 
 1837. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 OH, who may tell the joy, the bliss, 
 
 Which o'er the realm of fancy streams ; 
 
 The varied streams of light and life, 
 
 Which deck the poet's world of dreams ? 
 
 The ransom'd soul may speed its flight, 
 To live and grow in realms above ; 
 
 May bathe in floods of endless light, 
 And live eternal years of love. 
 
 But oh, what voice hath e'er reveal'd 
 The glories of that blest abode, 
 
 Save the faint whisperings of the soul, 
 The mystic monitors of God ? 
 
 Thus may the poet's spirit dance 
 And revel in his world of joy, 
 
 May form creations at a glance, 
 And myriads at a word destroy. 
 
 But mortal ear can never hear 
 The music of that seraph band ; 
 
 Nought save the faint, unearthly tones 
 Just wafted from that spirit-land. 
 
 None but the poet's soul can know 
 The wild and wondrous beauty there ; 
 
 The streams of light, which ever flow, 
 The ever music-breathing air. 
 
 His spirit seeks this heaven awhile, 
 Entranced in glowing dreams of bliss 
 
 Lives in the muses' hallow'd smile, 
 And bathes in founts of happiness.
 
 196 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 
 
 Then, when he sinks to earth again, 
 His hand awakes the trembling lyre, 
 
 He strives to breathe a burning strain, 
 Kindled at fancy's altar-fire. 
 
 But oh, how frail the trembling notes, 
 Compared * * * 
 
 * * 
 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 ' TWAS the song of the evening spirit ! it stole, 
 Like a stream of delight, o'er the listening soul, 
 And the passions of earth joy, or sorrow, or pain 
 Were absorb'd in the notes of that heavenly strain. 
 My heart seem'd to pause as the spirit came nigh, 
 And, array'd in its garment of music pass'd by ! 
 " I am coming, oh earth ! I am hasting away, 
 With my star-spangled crown and my mantle of gray ; 
 I have come from my bower in the regions of light, 
 To recline on the breast of my parent, Night ! 
 To soften the gloom in her mournful eye, 
 And guide her steps through the darken'd sky ! 
 I come to the earth in my mystic array ; 
 Rest, rest from the toils and the cares of the day ! 
 I will lull each discordant emotion to sleep, 
 As I hush the wild waves of the turbulent deep, 
 And my watch o'er the couch of their slumbers I keep. 
 The streams murmur 'peace,' as I steal through the skv 
 And hush'd are the winds, which swept fitfully by ; 
 The bee nestles down on the breast of the rose, 
 And the wild birds of summer are seeking repose. 
 All nature salutes me, so solemn, so fair, 
 And a glad shout of welcome is borne on the air. 
 Now, now is the moment, and here is the way 
 For the spirit to mount from its temple of clay, 
 And soar on my pinions to regions sublime, 
 Beyond the broad flight of the giant- wing'd Time" 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD. 
 
 SWEETS of the glowing spring 
 
 Float on the air; 
 Gaily the birdies sing, 
 
 Banishm' care. 
 Softly the burnics flow, 
 Gently the breezes blow, 
 I to my Jeanie, oh, 
 
 Gaily repair.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. ] 07 
 
 Fair as the simmer flower 
 
 Sipp'd by the bee ; 
 Blithe as the weenie birds 
 
 Singin' their glee; 
 Fresh as the drappin' dew, 
 Pure as the gowan's hue, 
 Ever gay an' ever true, 
 
 Is Jeanie to me. 
 
 Bright as the gowden beam 
 
 Gildin* the morn ; 
 Sweet as the simmer's wind 
 
 Wavin' the corn ; 
 Sic is my Jeanie, oh, 
 Stainless as winter snow, 
 Given to the warld below 
 
 Life to adorn. 
 
 Joy to thee, bonnie lass, 
 
 Gently an' braw, 
 Thou, 'mang the fairest, 
 
 Art fairer than a' ; 
 Still mayst thou gladsome be, 
 Ever from sorrow free, 
 Blessings upon thine e'e 
 
 Numberless fa'. 
 
 Grief may bedim the while 
 
 Joy's glowing flame ; 
 Sorrow may steal the smile 
 
 From its sweet hame ; 
 But the sweet flow'ret love, 
 Native of heaven above, 
 In the dark storm shall prove 
 
 Ever the same. 
 
 ERE THOU DIDST FORM. 
 
 ERE thou didst form this teeming earth, 
 Or gave these mighty mountains birth ; 
 Ere mortal pressed this yielding sod; 
 From everlasting thou art God ! 
 
 Thousands of years, when passed away, 
 Seem, in thy sight, one fleeting day ; 
 Ages, where man may live and die, 
 An hour to thy eternity ! 
 
 Years roll on with a rolling stream, 
 They fade like shadows in a dream ! 
 Like grass, which springs at morning light, 
 And withers ere the close of night !
 
 IB? MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 For thou art mighty in thine ire 
 Thy wrath consumes like flaming fire; 
 And, spread before thy searching eye, 
 Our sins in dreadful order lie. 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 I SEE her seraph form, her flowing hair, 
 
 Her brow and cheek so exquisitely fair ; 
 
 Her smiling lips, her dark eye's radiant beam 
 
 A dream 1 this is not, cannot be a dream ! 
 
 They tell me 'tis some wild and phrensied thought, 
 
 Some glowing spark from fancy's altar caught ; 
 
 Some glowing spirit, fancied and unknown, 
 
 Which reigns supreme on Reason's vanquish'd throne. 
 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 THUS thought I, while in pensive mood, 
 Beneath a frowning cliff I stood, 
 And mark'd the autumn sun decline 
 Above the broad and heaving Rhine ! 
 Oh, 't was a rich and gorgeous sight, 
 But all too solemn to be bright. 
 A saddening hue was o'er it cast, 
 Which seem'd to tell of glories past, 
 Of summer ripen'd to decay, 
 Of ancient splendours past away. 
 The parting monarch's dying glow 
 Fell on the restless waves below, 
 As if an angel's hand had dyed 
 With hues from heaven the sparkling tide* 
 The fleeting ray an instant beam'd, 
 O'er hill, and dale, and rock it stream'd. 
 Till the dark, time-defying cliff, 
 Seem'd glowing, melting into life, 
 And the broad scene, so sad and wild, 
 Beneath its gentle influence smiled, 
 As care lifts up its sorrowing eye, 
 When hope has cast a sunbeam by ; 
 Then swiftly fading, glided o'er, 
 And left it lonely as before. 
 The distant hills of sombre blue, 
 Tinged with that rich and varying hue. 
 Now darker and more mingled grew, 
 While nearer rose so wild and bold 
 The rugged cliffs of Odenwald.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 
 
 Roll'd on its giant path, 
 Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way, 
 Now curling graceful, as in play, 
 
 Now roaring, as in wrath. 
 The forests murmur'd, bow'd, and slept, 
 But on the mighty river swept, 
 As in impatient haste to gain 
 The gentler waters of the Maine, 
 Which flow'd along in stately pride, 
 To mingle with its parent tide. 
 But where the kindred waters meet, 
 
 A rugged cliff there stood ; 
 It rose above the eddying waves, 
 With hanging rocks and yawning caves. 
 
 The guardian of the flood ; 
 Fit haunt it seem'd for giant forms 
 
 Of wild, unearthly mould, 
 The spirits of the winds and storms 
 
 Their mystic rites to hold. 
 And o'er its rugged brow was spread 
 
 The forest moss and flower, 
 And, 'mid a grove of solemn firs, 
 
 Arose a ruin'd tower; 
 The ivied walls and turrets gray 
 Seem'd vainly struggling with decay, 
 Still frowning o'er the restless tide, 
 An emblem of unyielding pride. 
 All, all was desolate and lone; 
 Beside its walls of crumbling stone 
 A giant beech its arms had thrown, 
 And ivy on its threshold grew; 
 The shouts of mirth, the cries of strife, 
 The varied sounds of bustling life, 
 
 Its walls no longer knew; 
 The moaning winds rush'd fitful by, 
 Blent with the owlet's dismal cry, 
 And every sad and mournful blast 
 Seem'd sadly wailing for the past ! 
 Scarce could the wandering eye discern 
 In that rude pile, so dark and stern, 
 The remnants of its lofty wall, 
 The area of its spacious hall, 
 Or trace in masses rude and steep, 
 What once was barbacan and keep. 
 * * * * 
 
 "Roll back, thou tide of time !" and bring 
 
 The faded visions of the past, 
 And o'er the bard's enchanted string 
 
 Thy veil of shadowy softness cast ! 
 Fancy, unfold thy swiftest wing ! 
 
 Thou dreary present, be no more ! 
 And I will tune my heart to sing 
 
 In simple strains the days of yore '
 
 200 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 These ruin'd walls again shall rise 
 
 In all their ancient pride and power, 
 Again the gorgeous banner float 
 
 In triumph from the stately tower! 
 The moss, the thorn, the poisonous weed 
 
 Shall vanish from the cheerful hearth, 
 And the rude hall again resound 
 
 With shouts of revelry and mirth ! 
 Again beside that ruin'd gate 
 
 The guard shall pace his weary round, 
 Again the warder's midnight cry 
 
 Within its massive turrets sound ; 
 Again the bright convivial band 
 
 Shall close around its joyous hearth, 
 Again the vaulted halls return 
 
 The shouts of revelry and mirth. 
 Oh, I could tell of thrilling scenes 
 
 Enacted in that lone retreat ; 
 How its paved courts have echoed back 
 
 The clanking tread of armed feet ; 
 How savage chiefs and knights of old, 
 With forms and souls of iron mould, 
 Have gather'd round this mountain hold, 
 
 And form'd their councils here, 
 Then rush'd upon the field below, 
 
 With clashing sword and spear; 
 And I could tell of princely dames, 
 
 Of powerful lords and highborn peers, 
 Who dream'd not that their honour'd namea 
 
 Could perish in the lapse of years, 
 Or only live at times to aid 
 
 The wandering minstrel's random song ; 
 An old traditionary tale 
 
 To float on memory's tide along ; 
 And I could sing full many a strain 
 
 Would call the life-blood from the cheek, 
 What fancy's eye would shrink to see, 
 
 And boldest tongue would fear to speak. 
 But I will leave to nobler hands 
 
 The framing of those mystic lars, 
 And only weave a simple tale 
 
 Of later and of gentler days, 
 When daring souls of daring deeds 
 
 Gave place to peaceful knights and squires, 
 And warlike gatherings on the field 
 
 To feastings round their evening fires ; 
 When nought remain'd of olden times, 
 
 Of strife and rivalry and blood, 
 Save where some sterner barons held 
 
 The remnants of an ancient feud. 
 
 'Twas morning, and the shades of night 
 Roll'd backward from her brow of light.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 201 
 
 As with majestic step she came, 
 With dewy locks and eyes of flame, 
 Her wreath of dancing light to twine 
 On the broad bosom ot the Rhine. 
 The scene beneath her spread was rife 
 With sights and sounds of bustling life, 
 Of joyful shouts, and glad halloo, 
 And quick steps running to and fro. 
 The castle walls, so dark and gray 
 Tinged with the morning's cheerful ray, 
 Seem'd revelling their gloom away, 
 While from the court came, long and loud, 
 The shouts of an assembled crowd, 
 And on the mountain echoes borne, 
 Peal'd out the huntsman's mellow horn. 
 The clanking drawbridge fell across 
 The sparkling waters of the foss, 
 And servants hurried here and there 
 With bustling and important air ; 
 Oft from the forest would appear 
 A group that bore the slanghter'd deer, 
 And distant shouts would faintly tell 
 As some new victim bleeding fell. 
 Light skiffs were floating down the Rhine. 
 Laden with casks of choicest wine, 
 And oarsmen bore the precious freight 
 For entrance to the postern gate. 
 Oft on the noisy tide along 
 The minstrel pour'd his careless song, 
 And all without was bustling glee. 
 
 ***** 
 Within, the castle hall was graced 
 With oaken tables, closely placed, 
 In preparation for a feast; 
 The ancient armour on the wall 
 Was cleansed, and gilt, and burnish'd all; 
 And helm, and casque, and corslet shone 
 Like mirrors in the morning sun ; 
 Oh, could the warlike forms which wore 
 Those garments grim in days of yore, 
 Come to their mountain home once more. 
 How would they frown on scene so gay, 
 And sigh for spirits past away ! 
 
 Beside the hearthstone of his hall, 
 The lord and master of them all, 
 The owner of this proud domain, 
 Stood, gazing on his menial train. 
 His ample robes were rich and gay, 
 His locks were slightly tinged with gray, 
 His eye, beneath its darker shroud, 
 Glanced, like a sunbeam from a cloud 
 17
 
 202 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Hope realized and love's warm glow 
 
 Seem'd mingling o'er his furrow'd brow, 
 
 And smiles of pleasure told in part 
 
 The inward gladness of his heart. 
 
 But ever and anon there stole 
 
 Some softer feeling o'er his soul, 
 
 And something like a tear would roll 
 
 Unnoticed down his furrow'd cheek, 
 
 The child of thoughts he could not speak. 
 
 Why rings the old castle with gladness this morn ? 
 
 Why echoes the wood with the blithe hunter's horn T 
 
 Why slandeth their lord with his train at their side, 
 
 And his eye beaming lightly with gratified pride ? 
 
 This day it shall close o'er his doubts and his fears, 
 
 It shall witness the realized wishes of years, 
 
 And his name shall be join'd, by the dearest of ties, 
 
 To the only one worthy so brilliant a prize. 
 
 Whose fathers of old were his fathers' allies. 
 
 Why stealeth the teardrop so sad to his eye ? 
 
 Why bursts from his bosom the half-smother'd sigh ? 
 
 Alas, for that father ! this day he must part 
 
 From the pride of his household, the joy of his heart; 
 
 No more may he gaze on his beautiful child, 
 
 Whose step ever bounded, whose lip ever smil'd ; 
 
 Who cast such a charrn o'er his wild mountain life 
 
 As the sunbeam may throw o'er the dark frowning cliff. 
 
 Now read ye the cause of the joyful array ? 
 
 'Tis to welcome the lord of this festival day ; 
 
 For he comes with his glittering train by his side, 
 
 To claim of her father his beautiful bride. 
 
 * 
 J837. 
 
 ELEGY UPON LEO, AN OLD HOUSE-DOG. 
 
 THOU poor old dog ! too long affection's tongue 
 Hath left thy merits and thy death unsung ; 
 Too long the muse hath sought for themes of fame, 
 And left untold thy well-remember'd name ; 
 And though that name hath lived on memory's leaf, 
 Has touch'd for thee no thrilling chords of grief. 
 Thou dear old dog ! thou joy of childish years ! 
 Here let me shed for thee my heartfelt tears ; 
 Here let me turn, from life's cold cares aside, 
 And weep that thou, my faithful friend, hast died. 
 Oh that no tears less pure might e'er be shed, 
 Than those which mourn a loved companion dead ! 
 This is a world where faithful hearts are few, 
 Where love too oft is vain, too oft untrue ; 
 And when some cherish'd form to earth is borne, 
 O'er fcnd affection's sevcr'd chain we mourn ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 203 
 
 Thus I for thee, that one more friend hath gone, 
 Who, though a dog, could love for love alone. 
 Thou dear old friend ! on memory's starlit tide, 
 Link'd with a sister's name thy name shall glide ; 
 ^nd when for her our tears flow fast and free, 
 Our hearts shall breathe a ling'ring sigh for thee ; 
 For thee, that sister's dearest, earliest pet, 
 Whom even when dying she remember'd yet, 
 Thou wast her playmate in each childish hour, 
 When her light footsteps sprang from flower to flower; 
 When not a cloud on life's fair surface lay, 
 And joys alternate chased the hours away ; 
 When her young heart beat high with infant glee, 
 And fondly sought to share those joys with thee. 
 And when youth's star arose on childhood's morn, 
 *And loftier thoughts on time's dark wing were borne; 
 When hope look'd forward with exulting eye, 
 And fear, the coward, still crouch'd trembling nigh ; 
 When long had pass'd those hours of infant glee, 
 Still, still she loved, and still would sport witk thee. 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 How calm, how beautiful a scene is this ! 
 When nature, waking from her silent sleep, 
 Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy ! 
 When earth, and sky, ana air are glowing all 
 With gaiety and life, and pensive shades 
 Of morning loveliness are cast around ! 
 The purple clouds, so streak'd with crimson light, 
 Bespeak the coming of majestic day; 
 Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still, 
 While ever and anon a golden beam 
 Seems darting out its radiance! 
 Herald of day! where is that mighty form 
 Which clothes you all in splendour, and around 
 Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 
 Of heaven ? He cometh from his gorgeous couch, 
 And gilds the bosom of the glowing east. 
 1837. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SHE BEGAN TO FEAR THAT HER DISEASE WAS PAST REMEDY. 
 
 I ONCE thought life was beautiful, 
 
 I once thought life was fair, 
 Nor deem'd that all its light could fade 
 
 And leave but darkness there.
 
 204 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But now I know it could not last 
 The fairy dream has fled ! 
 
 Though thirteen summers scarce have past 
 Above this youthful head. 
 
 Yes, life 'twas all a dream but now 
 
 I see thee as thou art ; 
 I see how slight a thing can shade 
 
 The sunshine of the heart. 
 
 I see that all thy brightest hours, 
 Unmark'd, have pass'd away ; 
 
 And now I feel how sweet they were, 
 I cannot bid them stay. 
 
 In childish love or childish play 
 My happiest hours were spent, 
 
 While scarce my infant tongue could say 
 What joy or pleasure meant. 
 
 And now, when my young heart looks up, 
 Life's gayest smiles to meet; 
 
 Now, when in youth her brightest charms 
 Would seem so doubly sweet ; 
 
 Now fade the dreams which bound my sou) 
 As with the chains of truth ; 
 
 Oh that those dreams had stay'd. awhile, 
 To vanish with my youth ! 
 
 Oh ! once did hope look sweetly down, 
 To check each rising sigh ; 
 
 But disappointment's iron frown 
 Has dimm'd her sparkling eye. 
 
 And once I loved a brother too, 
 Our youngest and our best, 
 
 But death's unerring arrow sped, 
 And laid him down to rest. 
 
 But now I know those hours of peace 
 Were never form'd to last ; 
 
 That those fair days of guileless joy 
 Are past for ever past ! 
 
 January, 1837.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 205 
 
 TO MY OLD HOME AT PLATTSBURG. 
 
 THAT dear old home, where pass'd my childhood's yean, 
 
 Where fond affection wiped my infant tears ; 
 
 Where first I learn'd from whence my blessings came, 
 
 And lisp'd, in faltering tones, a mother's name ; 
 
 That cherish'd home, where memory fondly clings, 
 
 Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
 
 Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 
 
 And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away. 
 
 Oh ! shall I ne'er behold thy waves again, 
 
 My native lake, my beautiful Champlain ? 
 
 Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 
 
 In sweet communion with my childhood's friend ? 
 
 Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 
 
 The patriot's cradle and the warrior's grave ? 
 
 Thy banks, illumined by the sun's last glow, 
 
 Thine islets mirror'd in the waves below? 
 
 Back, back, thou present robed in shadows lie ! 
 
 And rise the past before my raptured eye ! 
 
 Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 
 
 And memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene 
 
 And I shall view my much-loved home again, 
 
 My native village and my sweet Champlain, 
 
 With former friends retrace my footsteps o'er, 
 
 And muse delighted on thy verdant shore. 
 
 Alas ! the vision fades, the dream is past ; 
 
 Dissolved the spell by sportive fancy cast ! 
 
 Why, why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 
 
 And scenes illusive cheat the sorrowing heart? 
 
 Where'er through future life my footsteps roam, 
 
 I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home ! 
 
 With all my joys the thoughts of thee shall blend, 
 
 And join'd with thee shall rise my childhood's friend ! 
 
 1837. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 OH Fame ! thou trumpeter of dead men's deeds ! 
 Thou idol of the heart, thou empty flatterer, 
 That, like the heathen of the Nile, embalmest 
 Those that thou design'st to love, and ever hiding 
 Their vices and their follies with a veil 
 Of soft concealment, doth exalt them high 
 Above the common crowd, crown'd with thy might,
 
 206 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 That future years may copy and admire. 
 Thou bright, alluring dream ! thou dazzling star ' 
 Where shall we find thee ! Thou art call'd 
 Fickle and vain, and worthless of pursuit, 
 Yet ***** 
 1838. 
 
 ON MY MOTHER'S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 YES, mother, fifty years have fled, 
 With rapid footsteps o'er thy head ; 
 Have pass'd with all their motley train, 
 And left thee on thy. couch of pain ! 
 How many smiles, and sighs, and tears, 
 How many hopes, and doubts, and fears, 
 Have vanish'd with that lapse of years! 
 Though past, those hours of pain and grief 
 Have left their trace on memory's leaf; 
 Have stamp'd their footprints on the heart, 
 In lines which never can depart ; 
 Their influence on the mind must be 
 As endless as eternity. 
 Years, ages, to oblivion roll, 
 Their memory forms the deathless soul ; 
 They leave their impress as they go, 
 And shape the mind for joy or woe ! 
 Yes, mother, fifty years have past, 
 And brought thee to their close at last. 
 Oh that we all could gaze, like thee, 
 Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
 And 'mid its varied records find 
 A heart at ease with all mankind, 
 A firm and self-approving mind ! 
 Grief, that had broken hearts less fine, 
 Hath only served to strengthen thine ; 
 Time, that doth chill the fancy's play, 
 Hath kindled thine with purer ray ; 
 And stern disease, whose icy dart 
 Hath power to chill the shrinking heart, 
 Has left thine warm with love and truth, 
 As in the halcyon days of youth. 
 Oh turn not from the meed of praise 
 A daughter's willing justice pays; 
 But greet with smiles of love again 
 This tribute of a daughter's pen 
 1838.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 207 
 
 THE STORM HATH PASSED BY. 
 
 THE etorm hath pass'd by, like an angry cloud 
 Which sweeps o'er the brow of the azure heaven; 
 
 The sun and the earth to its sway hath bow'd, 
 And each radiant beam from the scene been driven 
 
 All hail to the smile of the cloudless sky ! 
 
 All hail to the sun as he rides on high ! 
 
 All hail to the heavens' ethereal blue, 
 
 And to nature, when deck'd in her own lovely hue ! 
 
 It hath pass'd ! the storm, like a giant form, 
 
 Which summons the winds from their tempest cave ; 
 Which opens a grave in each ocean wave, 
 
 Ajpd wraps the world in its shroud of gloom. 
 
 Oh ! welcome the smile of the gladden'd earth! 
 And welcome the voice of the wood-bird's mirth ! 
 And welcome these varying hues which delight 
 Like dawn at the close of a wearisome night. 
 
 The clouds have pass'd, with the shadows they cast, 
 And hush'd is the sound of the wind-god's power, 
 
 And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass'd, 
 Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour. 
 
 Oh ! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring ! 
 And welcome the perfumes they silently bring ! 
 And the rosy-tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide 
 O'er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride ! 
 
 It hath fled in its night, the dark spirit of night, 
 Which cast such a shade o'er the light of the soul ; 
 
 It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam 
 
 From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll. 
 
 - Oh ! welcome the smiles of a gladden'd heart ! 
 And welcome the joy which those smiles impart ! 
 And welcome the light of that sparkling eye 
 Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass'd by ! 
 Ballston, 1838. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A YOUNG ROBIN. 
 
 DESPITE the curling lip, the smile of scorn, 
 Thine early fate, oh ! hapless bird, we mourn ; 
 Too soon withdrawn thy scanty store of breath, 
 Too soon thy sprightly carols hush'd in death ! 
 Here let us lay thee on thy mother's breast, 
 Where no rude steps shall come, no cares molest, 
 No cruel puss disturb thy silent rest. 
 Saratoga, 1838.
 
 i08 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 TO A MOONBEAM. 
 
 AH, whither art straying, them spirit of light, 
 From thy home in the boundless sky ? 
 
 Why lookest thou down from the empire of night, 
 With that silent and sorrowful eye ? 
 
 Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, 
 Where it fell from its throne of pride ; 
 
 But oh, what pictures of joy or grief. 
 What scenes thou art viewing beside ! 
 
 Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves, 
 
 As they proudly heave and swell ; 
 Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves, 
 
 Where the green-hair'd sea-nymphs dwell ! 
 
 Thou art pouring thy beams on Italia's shore, 
 As though it were sweet to be there ; 
 
 Thou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, 
 And the monk to his midnight prayer. 
 
 Thou art casting a fretwork of silver rays 
 
 Over ruin, and palace, and tower ; 
 Thou art gilding the temples of former days, 
 
 In this holy and beautiful hour. 
 
 Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, 
 Where mortal foot never hath trod ; 
 
 Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, 
 While the spirit hath gone to its God ! 
 
 Thou art looking on those I love ! oh, wake 
 In their hearts some remembrance of me, 
 
 And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake 
 Of the love I am breathing to thee. 
 
 And perchance thou art casting thy mystic spell 
 
 On the beautiful land of the blest, 
 Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, 
 
 Where the weary have fled to their rest. 
 
 Oh yes ! with that soft and ethereal beam, 
 Thou hast look'd on the mansions of bliss, 
 
 And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world 
 Hath breathed thee a message to this. 
 
 'T is a mission of love, for no threatening shade 
 Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues, 
 
 And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, 
 And while raising it, melts and subdues. 
 
 And it whispers compassion ; for lo, on thy brow 
 Is the sadness of angels enshrined ; 
 
 And a misty veil, as of purified tears, 
 Round thy beautiful form is entwined.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 209 
 
 Hail, beam of the blessed ! my heart 
 
 Has drunk deep of thy magical power, 
 And each thought and each feeling seems bathed 
 
 In the light of this exquisite hour ! 
 Sweet ray, I have proved thee so fair 
 
 In this dark world of mourning and sin, 
 May I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where 
 
 Nor sorrow nor death enter in. 
 
 1838. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 O'ER the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, 
 
 Twilight has gently drawn her veil of gray, 
 
 And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, 
 
 Fast fading into nothing : o'er the expanse 
 
 Are swiftly stealing hues, which mildly blend 
 
 And shadow o'er the pure transparence 
 
 Of the az-ure heaven. Now is night array'd 
 
 In all her solemn livery, and one by one 
 
 Appear the sparkling gems which deck her robe. 
 
 Each glittering star shines brighter than its wont, 
 
 As though some brilliant festival were held, 
 
 Some joyful meeting in the courts above. 
 
 Now mark yon group of amber-tinted clouds, 
 
 Shrouding the silvery form of Luna ; 
 
 Their melting tints vanish away, and then 
 
 The pale, cold moon springs up unshackled 
 
 In her vast domain. Fair empress of the sky ! 
 
 Chaste queen ! thy hallow'd beauty can impart 
 
 A soften'd radiance to each sombre cloud 
 
 Of melancholy night, and, like a noble mind, 
 
 Immersed in seas of darkness,, thou canst cast 
 
 A portion of thy brilliant, mellow'd softness 
 
 Around the deepening gloom. While viewing thee 
 
 A sweet and pensive calm o'erspreads my soul, 
 
 And, conjured by thy gentle, melting rays, 
 
 Unerring memory hastens to my aid ; 
 
 With her, I view again my own dear home, 
 
 My native village, 'neath thy cloudless sky 
 
 Serenely sleeping : 't is as fair a picture 
 
 Of unsullied peace as ever nature drew. 
 
 Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river, 
 
 In one unbroken stream of molten silver, 
 
 And marking in the glassy Saranac 
 
 Thy graceful outline, while the fairy isles 
 
 Which on its bosom rest are slumbering 
 
 In thy light, while the fair branches, bending 
 
 O'er thy wave, turn their green leaves above, 
 
 And bathe in one celestial flood of glory
 
 210 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, 
 That ever loved and blooming theatre, 
 Where those I most revere have borne their parts, 
 Amid its changing scenes. Before the threshold 
 Tower the lofty trees, and each high branch 
 Is gently rocking in the summer breeze, 
 And sending forth a low, sweet murmur, 
 Like the soft breathings of a seraph's harp. 
 Around its humble porch entwines the vine, 
 While the sweetbriar and the blushing rose 
 Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass 
 And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. 
 Oh, my loved home, how gladly would I rove 
 Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay 
 Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers. 
 Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude 
 Listless remain, unknowing and unknown 
 Oh no, not quite alone, for memory, 
 And hope, and fond delight shall mingle there. 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A POETICAL LETTER TO HENRIETTA. 
 
 ONCE more, Henrietta, I open your sheet 
 
 To glance at its contents so playful and sweet, 
 
 To admire the flow of its easy strain, 
 
 And pen you an answer in nonsense again. 
 
 Perchance you may turn from my page away, 
 
 And with scornful lip and expression say, 
 
 " I think she might better have spent her time, 
 
 Than in stringing such masses of jingling rhyme;" 
 
 And perhaps I might, I admit the blame, 
 
 But like others, continue rny fault the same. 
 
 However, I think such a deacon as you 
 
 May need the refreshment of nonsense too; 
 
 That a creature so sober as you are, my friend, 
 
 Her ear to the whisperings of folly may lend. 
 
 Never mind 'tis a fancy has cross'd my brain, 
 
 Right or wrong, good or evil, I'll finish my strain. 
 
 I wish you, my dear Henrietta, could know 
 
 How much I am grieved that I now cannot go, 
 
 That our dreams of enjoyment have vanish'd in smoke 
 
 And the castles we builded on vapour are broke ! 
 
 But such are the chances of life, it is fit 
 
 That with stoical fortitude we should submit. 
 
 Am I not philosophic? A fortnight pass'd by 
 
 With its fretting and grieving, its tear and its sigh ; 
 
 Then a month, peopled well with regretting by me, 
 
 And behold me submissive as mortal can be ! 
 
 But jesting aside 'tis a very sad thing 
 
 To be torn from hope's anchor, where fondly we cling.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 I too had been cherishing feelings as vain, 
 
 Nursing hopes as delusive, as sweet in my brain ; 
 
 I had waited in fancy your loved form to see, 
 
 With a heart just as happy as happy could be ; 
 
 Had met you, embraced you, and welcomed you here, 
 
 When lo ! the bright dream dissolved in a tear ! 
 
 Like the gay, gorgeous bubble, which floats for awhile, 
 
 But departs ere you welcome its hues with a smile. 
 
 You were wishing for wings I enclose you a pair, 
 
 Which I hope you will use with all possible care, 
 
 For they were not prepared in a mortal mould, 
 
 But were forrn'd by a fairy in purple and gold ! 
 
 While riding one day by the green-wood side, 
 
 This fairy in beautiful garments I spied ; 
 
 Her mantle with dew-drops was spangled o'er 
 
 She had fairies behind her and fairies before, 
 
 And many and gay were the jewels she wore ; 
 
 But the wings which she raised to her delicate brow 
 
 Were the purest of azure and white as the snow ! 
 
 I bow'd at the foot of the fairy throne, 
 
 And begg'd of her beautiful wings like her own. 
 
 I sued for the favour in friendship's name ; 
 
 She assented, and smiling, admitted the claim. 
 
 All sparkling and pure as the evening star, 
 
 I gather'd the wings from the fairy's bower, 
 
 And came home exulting, impatient to send 
 
 The gift in its freshness and glow to my friend. 
 
 Elated with pride I exposed them to view, 
 
 But the touch of a mortal had clouded their hue ! 
 
 So marvel no more at their dimness believe 
 
 That the very same wings are the wings you receive. 
 
 Should my story too wild and too fanciful seem, 
 
 Oh, call it no fiction, but name it a dream. 
 
 I am reading " Josephus," a famous old Jew, 
 
 Whose name is, I doubt not, familiar to you. 
 
 He begins with the world, and proceeds to relate 
 
 How the Jews from a nothing grew prosperous and great ; 
 
 How Jerusalem reign'd as the Queen of the East, 
 
 Till her sacred religion was scorn'd and oppress'd ; 
 
 Then murder, and rapine, and famine ensued, 
 
 Till the fields of Judea were streaming with biood. 
 
 How I wish you were reading it with me, my friend 
 
 Your presence a charm to each sentence would lend. 
 
 Your father's return, you remark, is the time 
 
 To send you a budget of love and of rhyme ; 
 
 The love be assured you will always possess, 
 
 And you '11 have rhyme enough when you once have read this. 
 
 So you see what that love has induced me to do, 
 
 With it maybe a. fear of your scolding too ! 
 
 It is evening the close of a beautiful day, 
 And the last rays of sunset are fading away ;
 
 212 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Till nothing remains but a faint rosy hue, 
 
 Just mingling in with a fainter blue. 
 
 The shadows of twilight are closing around, 
 
 Not a murmur is heard but the cricket's sound, 
 
 And pensive thoughts o'er my heart-strings creep 
 
 As the " unvoiced" breezes around me sweep. 
 
 *T is a tranquil hour, and I lazily lie, 
 
 Gazing up at. my ease on the delicate sky, 
 
 With the sombre light on my dim page playing, 
 
 And my pen through its numberless labyrinths straying. 
 
 How gentle the spell of this exquisite hour ! 
 
 How soothing, how sweet its mysterious power ! 
 
 It steals o'er my heart, like a breeze o'er the lake, 
 
 Each half-buried accent of music to wake. 
 
 The kitten beside me hath fled from its play, 
 
 And close in my bosom is nestling away ; 
 
 And the trembling leaf, and the bending flower, 
 
 And the insect millions acknowledge its power. 
 
 How the fancy will fly from the present, and roam 
 
 O'er each corner of earth 'neath heaven's high dome ! 
 
 Perchance, like myself, you may cloud-gazing be ; 
 
 Perchance, iny sweet friend, you are thinking of me, 
 
 And this scene, like a beautiful image of rest, 
 
 Has awakened the same delicate chords in your breas* 
 
 And perchance how provoking ! that twinkling lamp-flight 
 
 Hath dissolved with its brilliance my dreams of delight, 
 
 Hath deepen'd to blackness the mantle of gray, 
 
 And chased all my beautiful visions away. 
 
 So it is they have fled and again I descend 
 
 To converse upon every-day themes with my friend ; 
 
 But the end of my paper convinces me still 
 
 That I soon must release thee,.my trusty goosequill ; 
 
 Though my breast and my head are yet aching to write, 
 
 I must bid yoii, dear Hetty, a loving good night. 
 
 If your ears are not tired of the jingling of rhymCj 
 
 I will finish my musical letter next time ; 
 
 In the meanwhile, believe me sincerely to be 
 
 Your affectionate scribbler, 
 
 MARGARET M. D. 
 Ballston, 1838. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON SEEING SOME FRAGMENTS FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 
 
 HAVE these gray relics, crumbling into dust, 
 Once rested 'neath Italia's burning sky ? 
 
 Has this cold remnant of what once was stone 
 Reflected back her warm cerulean dye ? 
 
 Have these white fragments rested o'er the sod 
 Hallow'd by virgil's ever-sacred clay ? 
 
 And have they mingled with the grass-grown mound 
 Which o'er the classic hero's bosom lay ?
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 213 
 
 Perhaps the crumbling 1 stones beside me now 
 Fell from the mouldering marble at his head 
 
 The icy tomb which hides his noble brow, 
 For ever hallow'd by the mighty dead. 
 
 In fancy o'er Italia's fields I roam, 
 
 In fancy view the poet's lowly grave, 
 Round which, as I in silent sorrow bend, 
 
 The flowering myrtle and the cypress wave. 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A SHORT SKETCH 
 
 OF THH MOST IMPORTANT IDEAS CONTAINED IN COUSIN'S " INTROD0CTION 
 TO THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY." 
 
 ACCORDING to Cousin, there are three elements of consciousness, 
 three first ideas of the infinite, the finite and their relations succeeding 
 each other in the above order. He believes that as the history of an in 
 dividual such is the history of mankind in general ; that as there are three 
 fundamental ideas there must be three epochs of the world to develope 
 those ideas. As the first idea is that of the infinite, the first age of the 
 world will express this idea in its laws, its arts, its religion, and its philo 
 sophy : this will predominate. When fully developed, the idea of the 
 finite will succeed ; action, variety, and liberty will take the place of 
 slavery and immobility ; man will begin to find himself. All the ele 
 ments of his nature will be brought into action, although still subjected 
 to the predominating principle. When this is exhausted, in its turn the 
 idea of the relations between the finite and the infinite will come ; man 
 will join these two great principles ; every element will assume its proper 
 station without asserting undue authority over the others ; man will at 
 once generalize and particularize ; and as this is the highest develope- 
 ment of the ideas of humanity, this epoch will be the last. After giving 
 this expansive view of man and his destination, he proceeds to show that 
 different climates and countries are destined for the development of dif 
 ferent ideas ; that the idea of the infinite must necessarily prevail in a 
 large continent surrounded by vast seas, traversed by inaccessible moun 
 tains, and divided by immense deserts, with a burning and enervating 
 climate, where every thing leads to and expresses the idea of the vast, 
 the absolute, the infinite: such a country is Asia. On the contrary, the 
 idea of the finite will occupy a smaller country, intersected by rivers 
 affording every facility of inland communication and commerce, surround 
 ed by small seas, inviting the inhabitants to intercourse with neighbouring 
 nations, and filled with beautiful and diversified scenery, all bearing the 
 impress of the finite, urging to action and enterprise, and devoid of that 
 solemn and sombre unity of expression which prevailed in its parent 
 epoch : such a country is Greece. That position of the world destined 
 for the developement of the last and most perfect epoch, must unite the 
 two great external features of the former countries, as it is to assist in 
 expressing the two great ideas in perfect unison with each other. It must 
 combine the sublime with the beautiful, every advantage of internal com 
 merce and high civilization with a manifest appearance of magnitude and 
 duration ; it must possess a perfect and minute individuality with a great 
 and striking general character ; a vast continent surrounded with vast 
 oceans, containing mighty rivers and inland seas, broad prairies, and long 
 
 18
 
 214 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ranges of mountains, together with fertile valleys and streams, and all 
 the minor qualities of a rich and magnificent country, containing facilities 
 for the minutest internal improvements* guided and governed by a lofty 
 and abstract spirit of generalization thus uniting the relative and the ab 
 solute, the finite and the infinite ! such a country is America. He then 
 proceeds to speak of war, its causes, and its effects. He considers it not 
 only beneficial but necessary. War is a combat of ideas. Underneath 
 the great and prominent idea of an epoch there exist minor elements in 
 a nation, as in an individual : one people expresses one element, one 
 idea ; another seizes upon and developes a second : these truths elevate 
 themselves against each other and combat hence war. When one of 
 these ideas is exhausted, it is opposed and superseded by a newer and a 
 better one hence conquest. One idea and one nation make room for 
 another idea and another nation ; one epoch is destroyed, and another 
 arises. Mark the benefits of war : had it never existed there had been 
 but one era of the world, and humanity could never have progressed. 
 He then proceeds to justify conquests. He considers that the event 
 proves the right ; that when a newer and nobler spirit rises against an 
 exhausted one, that spirit must conquer, and ought to conquer. He does 
 not believe in absolute error ; he believes every error is a part of truth, 
 and raised to an undeserved superiority among the elements of humanity 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
 BRIEF NOTES FROM COUSIN'S PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 MADE DURING THE WINTER OF 1838. 
 
 His first position is this: as soon as man receives consciousness he ia 
 surrounded by objects in a world hostile to himself, but by exertion and 
 developement of his power, he has conquered and modified matter, and 
 has, as it were, impressed with his image and rendered it subservient to 
 his will. The first man who overcame any obstacles in the way of his 
 desires created industry, and the first who measured the slightest space 
 around him or united the objects before him, introduced the science of 
 mathematics. All these, mathematics, physics, and political economy, 
 have one object, utility or the useful; but there are other relations in 
 which men stand to each other, besides those of hurtful or useful, the 
 just and the unjust. Upon the idea of the useful, man altered the ex 
 ternal appearance of nature ; upon the idea of justice he created a new 
 society, maintaining their own rights, and respecting the rights of others. 
 But man goes further : besides the hurtful or the useful, the just or the 
 unjust, he has inherent in his nature the idea of the beautiful and its 
 opposite. Impressed with this idea, man seizes, developes, and purifies 
 it in his thought, until he finds that thought superior to the object which 
 presented it. Every thing that is beautiful in nature is also imperfect, 
 and fades when compared with the idea it awakens. Thus, man not 
 only reforms nature and society by industry and the laws of justice, but 
 also remodels those objects which present to him the idea of beauty, and 
 renders them more beautifnl than ever. But man is not yet satisfied he 
 looks beyond the world of industry and arts, and conceives God. The 
 idea of God as separate fiom the world, but scarcely himself in it, is 
 natural religion ; but he does not rest there ; he creates another world, 
 in which he perceives nothing but its relation to God, the world of * * 
 he expands and elevates the sentiment of religion. Philosophy succeeds. 
 Philosophy is the developement of thought ; it may be good or bad, but 
 in itself it is demanded by the mind as much as religion, the sciences, 
 &c. Cousin proves this position by a rapid examination of the wants 
 of man ****' * * *
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 215 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHY should I sing ? The scenes which roused 
 The bards of old, arouse no more ; 
 
 The reign of poesy hath pass'd, 
 And all her glowing dreams are o'er ! 
 
 Why should I sing ? A thousand harps 
 Have touch'd the self-same chords before 
 
 Of love, and hate, and lofty pride, 
 And fields of battle bathed in gore ! 
 
 Why should / seek the burning fount 
 
 From whence their glowing fancies sprung ? 
 
 My feeble muse can only sing 
 
 What other, nobler bards have sung . 
 
 Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, 
 
 As, bending o'er my silent lyre, 
 I sigh'd for some romantic theme 
 
 Its slumbering music to inspire. 
 
 Scarce had I spoke, when o'er my soul 
 
 A low reproving whisper came; 
 My heart instinctive shrank with awe, 
 
 And conscience tinged my cheek with shame. 
 
 " Down with thy vain repining thoughts, 
 Nor dare to breathe those thoughts again, 
 
 Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre, 
 And scorn repel thy bursting strain ! 
 
 " What though a thousand bards have sung 
 The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 
 
 A thousand minstrels, old and young, 
 Pour'd forth their varied melody ! 
 
 " What though, inspired, they stoop'd to drink 
 At Fancy's fountain o'er and o'er! 
 
 Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think 
 The glowing streamlet flows no more ? 
 
 " Because a nobler hand has cull'd 
 
 The loveliest of our earthly flowers, 
 Dost thou believe that all of bloom 
 Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers . 
 
 " Know then, that long as earth shall roll, 
 
 Revolving 'neath yon azure sky, 
 Music shall charm each purer soul, 
 
 And Fancy's fount shall never dry !
 
 216 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Long as the rolling 1 seasons change, 
 
 And nature holds her empire here ; 
 
 * Long as the human eye can range 
 
 O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere ; 
 
 "Long as the ocean's broad expanse 
 Lies spread beneath yon broader sky ; 
 
 Long as the playful moonbeams dance, 
 Like fairy forms, on billows high ; 
 
 "So long, unbound by mortal chain, 
 Shall genius spread her soaring wing 
 
 So long the pure poetic fount, 
 
 Uncheck'd, unfetter'd, on shall spring. 
 
 " Thou say'st the days of song have past, 
 The glowing days of wild romance, 
 
 When war pour'd out his clarion blast, 
 And valour bow'd at beauty's glance ! 
 
 " When every hour that onward sped, 
 Was fraught with some bewildering tale , 
 
 When superstition's shadowy hand 
 O'er trembling nations cast her veil! 
 
 " Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream 
 In peaceful ripples wears away ; 
 
 And years produce no fitting theme 
 To rouse the poet's slumbering lay. 
 
 " Not so, while yet the hand of God 
 Each year adorns his teeming earth ; 
 
 While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, 
 
 And birds, and bees, and flowers have birtkv 
 
 " While every day unfolds anew 
 
 Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
 
 While buds of every varying hue 
 Are bursting 'neath a summer sky. 
 
 "'Tis true that war's unsparing hand 
 Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore; 
 
 That hate hath quench'd his burning brand. 
 And tyrant princes reign no more. 
 
 " But dost thou think that scenes like these 
 
 Form all the poetry of life ? 
 Would thy untutor'd muse delight 
 
 In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife ? 
 
 " No there are boundless fields of thought 
 Where roving spirits never soar'd ; 
 
 Which wildest fancy never sought, 
 Or boldest intellect explored ! 
 
 w Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre, 
 But tune its chords to nature's praise ; 
 
 At every turn thine eye shall meet 
 Fit themes to form a poet's lays.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 217 
 
 " Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles 
 
 In all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
 Nor deem, though others there have knelt, 
 
 Thou may'st not weave thy garland too 1" 
 It paused I felt how true the words, 
 
 How sweet the comfort they convey'd ; 
 I chased my mourning thoughts away 
 
 I heard I trusted I obey'd. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 OH thou, so early lost, so long deplored! 
 
 Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
 And while I touch this hallow'd harp of thine, 
 
 Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear ! 
 For thee I pour this unaffected lay, 
 
 To thee these simple numbers all belong; 
 For though thine earthly form hath pass'd away, 
 
 Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 
 Then take this feeble tribute ! 'tis thine own 
 
 Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er 
 Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 
 
 And bid its waken'd music sleep no more ! 
 Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
 
 Hung o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest 
 But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
 
 One answering-echo linger'd in my breast. 
 Oh thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near, 
 
 Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 
 Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 
 
 By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee! 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 'TWAS nightfall on the Rhine! the day 
 In pensive glory stole away, 
 Flinging his last and brightest glow 
 Full on the restless waves below, 
 As if an angel's hand had dyed 
 With hues from heaven the sparkling tide 
 The fleeting ray an instant beam'd, 
 O'er hill and vale and rock it stream'd, 
 Till the dark, time-defying cliff, 
 Seem'd glowing, melting into life 
 Then swiftly fading, glided o'er, 
 And left it lonelier than before. 
 The distant hills of sombre blue, 
 Tinged with that rich and varying hue, 
 Now darker and more mingled grew ; 
 The Rhire, enrobed in shadows gray, 
 18*
 
 218 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 RolPd on its giant path. 
 Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way, 
 Now curling graceful, as in play, 
 
 Now roaring as in wrath ! 
 While trembling in the tinted west, 
 The fair moon rear'd her silver crest, 
 And fleecy clouds, as snow-wreaths pale, 
 Twined on her brow their graceful veil ; 
 And one by one, with tiny flame, 
 Night's heavenly tapers softly came, 
 And toward their mistress trembling stole, 
 Like pleasing memories o'er the soul. 
 And shade by shade her brilliance grew, 
 As past away the sunset hue, 
 Till o'er the heaving Rhine she stood, 
 Bathing in light its sleeping flood ; 
 Pouring her full and melting ray 
 Where rock and hill and forest lay, 
 And where, in clust'ring trees embower'd, 
 An ancient castle proudly tower'd : 
 O'er the gray walls her glances play'd, 
 O'er drawbridge, moat, and tower they stray'd 
 As striving with that holy light 
 To pierce the works of earthly might, 
 And cast one heavenly beam within 
 The abode of human toil and sin. 
 Can sin and sorrow and despair 
 Be frowning 'neath a sky so fair ? 
 Can nature sleep while tempests roll 
 Impetuous o'er the tortured soul ? 
 Mark yonder taper, dimly beaming, 
 From the lone turret faintly streaming 
 Casting athwart the brow of night 
 Its wavering and uncertain light ! 
 Beside that torch sit guilt and care 
 And dark remorse, and coward fear ; 
 And fever'd thought is borrowing there 
 The haggard visage of despair ! 
 There, with his aged fingers prest 
 In clasp convulsive to his breast, 
 Bows, as with secret guilt and pain, 
 The master of this broad domain. 
 His ample robes around him stray, 
 His locks are deeply tinged with gray, 
 And his dark, low'ring brow is fraught 
 With marks of avarice and thought. 
 At every sound which meets his ear, 
 He starts instinctive as with fear, 
 And his keen eye roams here and there 
 With anxious and expectant air. 
 His seem'd a mind of timid mould, 
 Sway'd by some spirit, fierce and bold,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 219 
 
 Which lean'd to virtue, but could yield 
 
 When vice to avarice appeal' d 
 
 Which gazed on crime with shrinking eye, 
 
 But was too cowardly to fly. 
 
 He started heard, with troubled air 
 
 A tread upon the turret stair ; 
 
 Wiped from his brow the gathering dew, 
 
 And closer still his mantle drew, 
 
 When wide the massive portal flew ! 
 
 As wondering at this entrance rude, 
 
 The aged host in silence stood ; 
 
 While with a stern unchanging look, 
 
 The stranger dofTd his ample cloak, 
 
 Unloosed his bonnet's clasping band, 
 
 And toward the baron stretch'd his hand. 
 
 His host the friendly gesture saw, 
 
 But shrank in hatred or in awe 
 
 Then starting, as with eager haste, 
 
 The proffer'd hand he warmly prest, 
 And smiled a welcome to his guest. 
 The latter mark'd, with flashing glance, 
 That shrinking fear, this mean pretence 
 
 And then resumed the smile of scorn 
 
 His curling lip had lately worn. 
 
 Uninjured by the frosts of time, 
 
 He seem'd advanced in manhood's prime ; 
 
 His form was tall, his mien erect, 
 
 His locks, though matted by neglect, 
 
 Curl'd closely round his swarthy brow 
 
 While his dark orbits flashed below. 
 
 Nature, with fingers firm and bold, 
 
 Had made a form of finest mould, 
 
 And painted on his childish face 
 
 The outline of each manly grace; 
 
 But pride and art, those imps of sin, 
 
 Had crept the empty shrine within ; 
 
 Had taught his heart each serpent wile, 
 
 And lent his lip its fiendish smile. 
 
 His brow was knit with thought and care, 
 
 And dark design was scowling there ; 
 
 His glance inspired both hate and fear 
 
 Now withering with its biting sneer, 
 
 Now flashing like the mid-day sun, 
 
 Which scorches all it looks upon. 
 
 Boldness and artifice combined 
 
 To form the dark, perverted mind, 
 
 Within that goodly frame enshrined ; 
 
 And he, whose steps in early youth 
 
 Some kindly hand had led to truth, 
 With active brain, and heart that burn'd, 
 
 From that unpointed pathway turn'd, 
 
 Unwarn'd, unguided, plunged within 
 
 The blackening gulf of shame and sin.
 
 220 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 On his dark face the baron's eye 
 Gazed anxious and inquiringly, 
 And when he mark'd his silent guest 
 Draw forth a casket from the vest 
 Which folded loosely on his breast, 
 With half-conceal'd, convulsive gasp, 
 He stretch'd his eager hand to clasp 
 The sparkling treasure in his grasp. 
 But with a smile, more full than speech, 
 The stranger drew it from his reach ; 
 On the rude bench the casket laid, 
 Beside his dagger's glittering blade ; 
 Drew near his host, who quaked with dread, 
 And thus, in low, stern accents said : 
 " Thou deemest right that gem doth hold 
 A something dearer far than gold ; 
 To thee, more precious than thy life, 
 x To me, the cause of toil and strife ! 
 'T is that, which in another's hands, 
 Would tear thee from these goodly lands, 
 Send thee and thy fair daughter forth 
 From all thou thinkest life is worth, 
 From titles, honours, lands, and hall, 
 And to young Erstein yield them all, 
 Which in thine own will banish fear, 
 And make thee lord and master here, 
 Unchallenged by the rightful heir : 
 (Then in a low, impressive tone,) 
 But hold, that prize is still mine own .'" 
 " Villain !" " Nay, curb that wrath of thine 
 Hast thou forgot one word of mine 
 Could hurl thee from thy high estate, 
 To beggar'd infamy and hate ? 
 Could I not rend the shrouding veil, 
 And tell the wondering world the tale ; 
 How when thy kinsman died in Spain, 
 Thou seized upon his fair domain, 
 His titles, and his wealth ; despite 
 His heir, the youthful Erstein's right ? 
 Could I not tell, how many a year, 
 With artful wile and coward fear, 
 Thou sought'st with vain and mean pretence 
 These proofs of his inheritance, 
 That thou might'st thus for aye destroy 
 The claims of this romantic boy ? 
 Think'st thou I will this power forego, 
 Another's lands on thee bestow, 
 The rightful heir for thee despoil, 
 And gain but hatred, fear and toil ? 
 " Speak not, old man ! By heaven ! I swear 
 Yon casket and its contents there 
 Were not more safe from grasp of thine, 
 Though buried in the heaving Rhine,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 2S1 
 
 If thou grant not, unquestion'd, free, 
 
 The guerdon I shall claim of thee !" 
 
 Ask aught," the baron faltering cried ; 
 
 " Leave me my gold ! take aught beside !" 
 
 The stranger knit his swarthy brow, 
 
 " Old dotard ! yes, thy gold and thou ! 
 
 Swear by the God whom thou dost fear, 
 
 Swear by that gold thou dost revere, 
 
 My suit is granted !" and his eye 
 
 Flash'd on the baron fearfully. 
 
 " Herman, I swear !" he muttcr'd low, 
 
 And the blood left his cheek and brow; 
 
 Scarce said he, ere his fearful guest 
 
 The casket's jewell'd lock had press'd, 
 
 And from Ms case of richest mould, 
 
 Drawn forth a written parchment fold, 
 
 With eager hands, and sparkling eyes, 
 
 The aged baron seized the prize, 
 
 Tore it in haste, and opening wide 
 
 The vine-wreath'd lattice at his side, 
 
 With fix'd, exulting gaze, consign'd 
 
 Its fragments to the midnight wind. 
 
 That scene and act, that form and face, 
 A painter's hand had loved to trace : 
 The moon, as if the scene to shroud, 
 Had sought the bosom of a cloud ; 
 The murmuring waves, the rustling trees, 
 The fitful sighing of the breeze, 
 And the hoarse owlet's distant tone, 
 Blent in one soft and wailing moan, 
 Disturb'd that midnight calm alone. 
 
 His brow with burning drops bedew'd, 
 
 The old man at his lattice stood, 
 
 And scann'd with sparkling, lingering ey, 
 
 Each fragment as it floated by ; 
 
 And Herman mark'd his host the while 
 
 With sneering and contemptuous smile : 
 
 At length, with mien of joyous pride. 
 
 The baron hasten'd to his side, 
 
 And thus in tones of triumph cried: 
 
 " Now have they perish'd ! all that might 
 
 Prove to the world young Erstein's right! 
 
 His claim is as it ne'er had been, 
 
 And these broad lands are mine again ! 
 
 When first by youthful pride impell'd, 
 
 This princely barony I held, 
 
 I knew my kinsman lived, and knew 
 
 These fatal proofs existed too; 
 
 But all my cunning found not where. 
 
 Thus lived I years, in doubt and care, 
 
 In trembling terror, lest my name 
 
 Some evil chance should brand with shame ;
 
 222 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Or more, lest all my hoarded gold 
 Should vanish from my loosening hold. 
 " Blest be the day, good Herman, when 
 Thou earnest from thy mountain den, 
 And said that thou thyself had known 
 The secret which I deem'd mine own; 
 Despair and anguish made me dumb ; 
 I thought the fatal hour had come. 
 O'erwhelm'd in grief I little knew 
 Thy heart, so noble and so true, 
 Nor thought the object of my fears, 
 Could crown the fruitless search of years ! 
 But knows young Erstein of his claim 
 To Arnheim's barony and name ? 
 Will he behold his goodly lands 
 Seized by a stranger's trembling hands?** 
 
 "He knows it not; romantic, gay, 
 To distant lands he roam'd away, 
 And sought adventure and renown 
 In nobler countries than his own. 
 One month return'd from foreign war, 
 He lives within his lonely tower ; 
 Scouring the forest far and near, 
 And hunting down the antler'd deer ; 
 But should he search the written past, 
 And learn this fatal truth at last, 
 His heart and arm are strong to fight 
 In brave defending of his right." 
 
 " Ay, should he so, good Herman !" Now 
 A livid paleness robed his brow ', 
 But quick returning crimson spread, 
 While thus his dark accomplice said : 
 And canst thou not the path descry ? 
 Why then, good baron, he must die; 
 This barrier in thy way / hate, 
 And dark and wild shall be his fate. 
 He scorn'd me, and I vow'd to seal 
 My vengeance on this faithful steel, 
 And happy shall that moment be 
 Which bows his lofty crest to me. 
 But night wears on I must away 
 Thou hast the casket's price to pay." 
 
 The old man raised his troubled eye, 
 
 As longing, fearing to reply, 
 
 Then slowly gasp'd, with effort bold, 
 
 "Ay, ay, what wouldst thou, land or gold ?** 
 
 " Thou hast a beauteous daughter she 
 
 The guerdon of my toil must be ! 
 
 Her hand must be unite with mine 
 
 Before another sun decline 
 
 On the broad bosom of the Rhine t"
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 228 
 
 With smother'd shriek and heaving breast 
 
 The lather knelt before his guest 
 
 " My child ! my own Lenore ! thy bride ! 
 
 Ask aught, ask every thing beside. 
 
 The dews which wet the summer flower 
 
 Are not more sinless than Lenore! 
 
 Through years of guilt and care, my child 
 
 Cheer'd my soul's darkness till it smiled ! 
 
 Now that my locks are turned to gray 
 
 Thou canst not tear that child away ! 
 
 Her gentle purity hath been 
 
 A star on life's beclouded scene, 
 
 Music her voice, and heaven her eye, 
 
 Oh leave her, leave her, or I die !" 
 
 With kindling glances Herman heard 
 
 Each smother'd groan, each anguish'd word, 
 
 And then replied in tones of scorn, 
 
 " Up from thy knees ! hast thou not sworn 
 
 To grant my suit ? dost thou forget 
 
 Thine all is in my clutches yet? 
 
 I swear that she, and only she, 
 
 Shall buy my bond of secresy !" 
 
 " Forget ! why can I not forget ? 
 
 Would we had never, never met! 
 
 Leave me, for God's sake, leave me now I 
 
 Oh my torn heart, my burning brow !" 
 
 "Say thou wilt make thy daughter mine 
 
 Before another sun decline, 
 
 And I depart to come no more, 
 
 Until that joyous bridal hour !" 
 
 " Wretch ! fiend ! I will !" The accents hung 
 
 As loth to leave his faltering tongue ; 
 
 But ere had ceased that lingering tone, 
 
 He turn'd and found himself alone. 
 
 The taper's waving glimmer fell 
 
 On the rude pavement of the cell, 
 
 Where with his trembling fingers prest 
 
 Upon his heaving, labouring breast, 
 
 With air distracted, yet subdued, 
 
 That wretched, erring parent stood. 
 
 His eye was fix'd, and bent his ear, 
 
 His guest's retiring steps to hear, 
 
 Though like a quick and piercing dart, 
 
 Each sent a quivering through his heart; 
 
 When first that wild vibration ceased, 
 
 The floor with rapid steps he paced ; 
 
 And thoughts of agonizing pain 
 
 Flitted like wild-fire through his brain. 
 
 How should he give his child, his pride, 
 To be a branded outlaw's bride ? 
 How could her purity have part 
 In Herman's cold, perverted heart ?
 
 224 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then rush'd back memories of youth, 
 
 When earth was heaven, and man was truth, 
 
 And her he loved, too pure for life, 
 
 Too gentle for its toil and strife, 
 
 She, who, unheeding slander's tongue, 
 
 Still to her lord had fondly clung 
 
 Her, he had dared to scorn, deride, 
 
 Her, who had suffer'd, wept, and died I 
 
 While o'er his mind these memories stole, 
 
 He groan'd in agony of soul, 
 
 " My child ! no never shalt thou be 
 
 Heir to thy mother's misery ! 
 
 These aged eyes had rather weep 
 
 O'er thy dark bed of endless sleep." 
 
 Then o'er these better feelings came 
 
 The ghosts of penury and shame ; 
 
 He saw his gold another's prey, 
 
 His lands, his titles torn away, 
 
 Himself the theme of public scorn, 
 
 His daughter friendless and forlorn, 
 
 And then he whisper'd, " I have sworn I" 
 
 But why this picture longer view ? 
 
 Or why this painful theme pursue? 
 
 Oh! rather let us weep that he 
 
 Who might allied to angels be 
 
 Will sully thus the spark divine, 
 
 Imprison'd in its earthly shrine, 
 
 And in compassion drop the veil 
 
 O'er this sad portion of our tale. 
 
 Now let us seek the lonely bower 
 
 Where at this silent midnight hour, 
 
 So sweetly sleeps the fair Lenore. 
 
 A silver lamp, with flickering beam, 
 
 Now dies, now starts with sudden gleam, 
 
 Diffusing o'er the vaulted room 
 
 Or wavering light, or partial gloom 
 
 Near, on the oaken table, lie 
 
 Her crucifix and rosary, 
 
 And the small lute, whose golden string 
 
 Hath echoed to her evening hymn. 
 
 Her head is resting on her hand, 
 
 Her hair, escaping from its band, 
 
 Falls in rich masses on her neck, 
 
 Her fair white brow, and flushing cheek ; 
 
 The long, dark lashes of her eye 
 
 On their fair pillow trembling lie, 
 
 Her lips half part, and you can trace 
 
 A smile of pleasure on her face. 
 
 She dreams her soul hath pass'd away, 
 
 Far from its lovely shrine of clay, 
 
 Scenes of enjoyment to explore, 
 
 Where waking fancies dare not soar.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. - 225 
 
 She dreams what soft, subduing thought 
 
 Hath her unfetter'd spirit caught ? 
 
 She whispers " Erstein !" ah ! sweet one, 
 
 Thou know'st not what this hour hath done ! 
 
 What cloud hath dimm'd thy fortune's star, 
 
 And his thou lovest dearer far ! 
 
 Dream on ! for thou wilt wake to weep, 
 
 When morn dispels that balmy sleep, 
 
 And in thy pilgrimage of pain 
 
 Thou ne'er may'st dream so sweet again. 
 
 Hark ! 't is the night-breeze, as it twines 
 
 Round the tall lattice, wreath'd with vines. 
 
 Again ! arouse thee, sweet Lenore, 
 
 A step is in the corridor. 
 
 It pass'd along the echoing floor, 
 
 And paused beside the maiden's door, 
 
 And from beneath, a brilliant stream 
 
 Of wavering light was seen to gleam. 
 
 The door unclosed the torch's fire 
 
 Reveal'd its bearer 't was her sire ! 
 
 With trembling hand he strove to shade 
 
 The beams which through the apartment stray'd, 
 
 And o'er the placid sleeper play'd ; 
 
 Then to her side he softly came, 
 
 And moved the shadow from its flame. 
 
 She woke her night-robe closer drew, 
 A hurried glance around her threw; 
 Then, with a*troubled, anxious gaze, 
 She scann'd each feature of his face. 
 " Why come at midnight to thy child, 
 With cheek so pale, and eye so wild ?" 
 " My daughter, rise ! thou need'st not fear, 
 But /must speak, and thou must hear." 
 
 Then gave he to her listening ears 
 A tale of doubts and cares and fears; 
 Of future wretchedness and pain, 
 Of threaten'd penury and disdain, 
 An exile from their native hearth, 
 And how a generous friend stepp'd forth, 
 Turn'd from their heads this direful fate, 
 And freely ransom'd his estate. 
 
 And how, in an unguarded hour, 
 When gratitude alone had power, 
 He swore by every sacred name 
 To grant whatever he might claim ; 
 How, while he listen'd in despair, 
 Did Herman claim his daughter fair; 
 And he was bound, by all that 's dear, 
 That solemn promise to revere; 
 And then, with tears and sighs he said,' 
 " If thou dost love this aged head, 
 19
 
 226 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Preserve my wealth, my peace, my life, 
 And be my kind preserver's wife." 
 With cheeks and brow as snow-wreath pale 
 His daughter heard this fearful tale. 
 So suddenly that dread blow came, 
 It struck like pnlsy on her frame. 
 Through her veins crept an icy chill, 
 As if her very heart stood still, 
 
 4 And nought was heard the calm to break, 
 
 When her old sire had ceased to speak ; 
 But though her fix'd and glaring eye 
 No outward object could descry, 
 Before her spirit's glance, a throng 
 Of vivid pictures swept along. 
 She saw the shaded bower, the grove 
 Where first young Erstein " whisper'd love ;" 
 She saw his dark, reproachful eye 
 Upraised to hers in agony ; 
 And then a sterner vision came 
 Of him her fancy dared not name. 
 She saw his tall and muffled form, 
 She saw his withering smile of scorn, 
 She saw " Lenore !" her father spoke 
 The spell which bound her tongue was broke. 
 She knelt his bending form beside, 
 And thus in faltering accents cried : 
 " My father! canst thou doom so sore 
 A trial to thine own Lenore ? 
 Is there no spot of refuge still ? 
 Is poverty so great an ill ? 
 To pomp and wealth thy heart is cold 
 Yield up to him thy hoarded gold ! 
 What carest thou for state or pride, 
 If / am ever by thy side ? 
 Give him thine all, and let us go 
 Far from this darkest, deadliest fbe! 
 Thou shall have peace, and I will be 
 A more than comforter to thee !" 
 " My child, I cannot change thy lot 
 Thou speakest of thou know'st not what ! 
 How wouldst thou hear thy father's name, 
 Branded with infamy and shame ?" 
 To his dark mantle she had clung, 
 Now to her feet she swiftly sprung ! 
 A tear had trembled in her eye, 
 But now she dash'd it firmly by ; 
 Her cheek had blanch'd with fear before, 
 But now that paleness was no more ! 
 With form erect, and glance of fire, 
 She gazed upon her cowering sire, 
 As though her piercing eye could see 
 His heart's remotest scener.
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. i7 
 
 A dark and dread suspicion stole 
 
 Like burning lava o'er her soul. 
 
 " Why is that fear upon his face ? 
 
 Why should my father dread disgrace? 
 
 He, I had thought, no shame could dim, 
 
 Why, why should shame descend on him ? 
 
 What is this mystery, and how 
 
 Can I avert this dreaded blow ? 
 
 I know not, and because mine eye 
 
 May not the source of ill descry, 
 
 Shall I the power of good forego, 
 
 And plunge him into deeper woe ?" 
 
 Her pure affection answer'd " No !" 
 
 If he were noble, as she deem'd, 
 
 The path of right most open seem'd, 
 
 To chase each shadow from hia eyes, 
 
 E'en at this fearful sacrifice ; 
 
 If he deserved the meed of shame, 
 
 Was not that pathway still the same ? 
 
 A moment's calm was in her brain, 
 
 She dared not pause for thought again, 
 
 But springing to her father's side, 
 
 She whisper'd, " I will be his bride !" 
 
 She heeded not his fond caressing, 
 
 She heeded not his partfng blessing 
 
 The die was cast ! and there she bent, 
 
 Fix'd as a marble monument, 
 
 Nought but her quick and gasping breath 
 
 Revealing there was life beneath. 
 
 Her father left that fatal spot 
 
 She was alone, yet knew it not, 
 
 Till his quick footstep as it pass'd, 
 
 Dissolved the fearful charm at last, 
 
 And sent a wild and burning glow 
 
 Through the full arteries of her brow ; 
 
 Then came affliction's sweet relief, 
 
 Weeping, soft child of stern-eyed grief, . . 
 
 That lulls the passions into rest, 
 
 And soothes the mourner's tortured breast. 
 
 When the first agony was past 
 
 Her gushing tears flow'd long and fast, 
 
 And with thanksgiving fervent, deep, 
 
 She own'd the privilege to weep. 
 
 Alas ! frail flower ! her life had been 
 
 One bright, unchanging, tranquil scene ; 
 
 Loving and loved, as wild bird gay, 
 
 Her frolic childhood pass'd away ; 
 
 And when her stronger mind could feel 
 
 More deep emotions o'er it steal, 
 
 When her pure heart look'd forth for one, 
 
 To rest her pure affections on, 
 
 Then did her trusting spirit find 
 
 An answering chord ir< Erstein's mind ;
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And childhood's laughing glance and tone 
 Gave place to deeper joys alone. 
 
 And only would her cheek grow pale 
 To hear some wild romantic tale ; 
 And only for imagined woe 
 Her sympathetic tear would flow 
 Her youthful heart had never known 
 To sigh for sorrows of its own. 
 
 The past was all one vision bright, 
 
 A storehouse of untold delight, 
 
 To which her mind at will might stray ; 
 
 And bear unnumber'd gems away ; 
 
 With trusting hope and buoyant glee, 
 
 She gazed into futurity, 
 
 Nor thought that time's advancing wing 
 
 A darker moment e'er could bring. 
 
 The dream now faded from her eyes, 
 
 She woke to life's realities ! 
 
 And feelings pure, aud strong, and deep, 
 
 Rose from their long, inactive sleep, 
 
 And proudly did the maiden own 
 
 A strength within, till then unknown, 
 
 That which, secure in virtue, rose 
 
 To combat with assailing foes. 
 
 Oft would her fearful fancy shrink 
 
 Back from the gulfs tremendous brink, 
 
 And oft to reason's glance would rise 
 
 The madness of the sacrifice. 
 
 But o'er her father's aged form 
 
 There hung some dark, portentous storm i 
 
 A daughter's choice, a daughter's will 
 
 Could ward from him that nameless ill! 
 
 And thus the hapless maiden sought 
 
 To quell each wild, rebellious thought. 
 
 And morning came, and soft and still 
 She dawn'd above the distant hill, 
 Her wreaths of trembling light to twine 
 On the blue waters of the Rhine. 
 The mists which on his bosom lay, 
 Pass'd like an infant's dream away, 
 And left the sun's awakening beam 
 To frolic with his mighty stream. 
 
 As though to greet the dawning day, 
 The rolling billows curl'd in play ; 
 And wild and murmuring tones were borne 
 Forth on the balmy breeze of morn. 
 The towering cliffs, so dark and wild, 
 On its rude shores in masses piled, 
 Touch'd by her gentle influence, smiled ; 
 And the young flowers the rocks beneath 
 Woke at the dawn's reviving breath,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 229 
 
 And on their leaves, so soft and bright, 
 Hung tears of worship and delight. 
 When all is gay with nature's smile, 
 Forgive me if I pause awhile, 
 And turn from passion, grief, unrest, 
 To muse upon her tranquil breast. 
 
 Nature ! thou ever rollest on, 
 With winter's blast and summer's sun, 
 Untouch'd by passion's raging storm, 
 Rearing on high thy mystic form, 
 Springing anew to brighter life 
 Amid the world's enduring striib ! 
 Man lives, and breathes his fleeting day, 
 Now sinks 'neath sorrow's chilling sway, 
 Now basks in pleasure's golden ray, 
 Then, like a snow-curl, melts away. 
 The piles he rear'd in swelling pride, 
 To strive with time's o'erwhelming tide, 
 Proving the weakness of his trust, 
 Sunk, like their builders, in the dust 
 
 But while the fabrics, rear'd so high, 
 
 In ruins on thy bosom lie, 
 
 Thou, like some great and mystic page, 
 
 Unfoldest still from age to age, 
 
 Bearing in every line conceal'd 
 
 The wisdom ages could not yield ; 
 
 Thy flowers shall bloom, thy mountains soar. 
 
 Till rolling earth shall be no more; 
 
 Thine ocean waves shall sink and rise 
 
 Till Time himself exhausted dies ; 
 
 While on thy mighty bosom spread 
 
 The crumbling relics of the dead ! 
 
 How doth this sweet and solemn hour 
 
 Hold o'er the heart its mystic power ! 
 
 Bidding each wilder tumult cease, 
 
 To passion's whirlwind whispering " Peace !** 
 
 Calming the frantic flights of joy, 
 
 And bright'ning sorrow's downcast eye ! 
 
 Oh ! may it shed its influence o'er 
 The tortured heart of poor Lenore ! 
 She" who was wont at earliest dawn 
 To cnase the wild bird o'er the lawn, 
 While the young flowers their fragrance cast 
 As on her fairy footstep past! 
 Who now, unheeding bird or flower, 
 Steals forth to seek her favourite bower, 
 To bid each cherish'd scene farewell, 
 And calm her heart's convulsive swell. 
 
 There, in her childhood's buoyant days, 
 Oft had she sung her artless lays ; 
 
 19*
 
 230 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And still, as time roll'd onward, there 
 At morn and evening would repair, 
 To rear, in fancy, forms most fair, 
 Nor dream that she could find them air ! 
 
 Once more, within her loved retreat, 
 
 She lean'd upon its flowery seat, 
 
 And rnark'd the clustering vines, which sent 
 
 A grateful perfume as they bent; 
 
 Above the eastern hills of blue 
 
 The sun's broad orb more brilliant grew, 
 
 And many a rich and gorgeous ray 
 
 Full on the glistening forests lay ; 
 
 But buried in her lonely bower, 
 
 She heeded not the passing hour ! 
 
 The vines beside her loudly stirr'd 
 But not a sound her ear had heard ; 
 A step seem'd hast'ning to the spot, 
 But still the maiden mark'd it not 
 And yet more near the intruder came ; 
 A well-known voice pronounced her name: 
 She started lightly from her seat, 
 And blush'd 't was Erstein at her feet ! 
 
 As the bright sun-hues of tli-e west 
 Fade from the snow-wreath's pallid crest, 
 Flitted that blush her pale cheek o'er, 
 And left it paler than before ! 
 Oh, had you seen his youthful form, 
 Adorn'd with every manly charm, 
 And known his heart so bold and warm, 
 And, like Lenore, that heart had proved, 
 You would not marvel that she loved. 
 
 Bred to a fierce and martial life, 
 Nurtured for years on fields of strife, 
 A spirit fiery, bold, and high, 
 Was pictured in his flashing eye, 
 And you might think its glance implied 
 A soul of haughtiness and pride ; 
 But when some gentler feelings stole 
 O'er the deep waters of that soul, 
 Then fast that quick and burning ray 
 Melted in tenderness away, 
 And lovelier seem'd its gentle beam, 
 Contrasted with that brilliant gleam. 
 
 When first a brave young soldier, come 
 From clashing sword and pealing drum, 
 O'er his own land once more to rove, 
 Then first his soul awaked to love ! 
 And oh, what floods of pure dolight 
 Burst in upon his spirit's sight! 
 What depths of joy, unknown before, 
 Oped in the presence of Lenore I
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 231 
 
 Her gentle influence supjyess'd 
 Each sterner passion in his breast, 
 And while controlling, quell'd, subdued 
 Each feeling, haughty, wild, or rude. 
 From her, unwitting, he could learn 
 Her father's temper dark and stern ; 
 And while had glided day by day 
 In tranquil happiness away, 
 He dared not break the magic spell 
 His ardent feelings loved too well, 
 By laying thoughts and hopes so bold 
 Before a sire so stern and cold, 
 Who would have deem'd it daring pride 
 To claim his daughter as a bride ; 
 He who had nought to aid his claim 
 But love, his honour, and his name. 
 
 Thus he was wont, when morning gray 
 Cast o'er the hills its earliest ray, 
 Clad in the huntsman's sylvan gear, 
 To chase ( 'twas said) the wild- wood deer; 
 But ever, when his searching eye 
 The towers of Arnheim could descry, 
 He left his faithful steed to wait 
 Within the thicket's dark retreat, 
 And bounded lawn and streamlet o'er 
 To snatch one moment with Lenore. 
 
 This, morn with bosom bounding high, 
 With springing step and sparkling eye, 
 He came to seek her, but in vain ; 
 He pass'd her favourite haunts again, 
 Till winding down a shaded way, 
 Which o'er the cliff's dark bosom lay, 
 He turn'd the castle's rearmost tower, 
 And found this lone, sequester'd bower. 
 
 I may not tune my youthful string 
 That scene of hapless love to sing 
 Song cannot well those thoughts reveal 
 The heart ne'er felt, and cannot feel ; 
 Let fancy then her garland weave, 
 And fill the trifling void I leave. 
 
 Suffice it that with bearing high, 
 And sad composure in her eye, 
 And throbbing nerves and bursting heart, 
 Well did that maiden act her part, 
 And gave a tale of grief and fear 
 To Erstein's wondering, listening ear. 
 Nr>t so the youth, a burning glow 
 Was mounting fiercely to his brow, 
 And grief and anger in his eye, 
 Were struggling for the mastery. 
 When Herman's name escaped her tongue, 
 Quick to his feet he wildly sprung.
 
 232 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 44 In foreign lands that stretch I met ; 
 Fiend ! sordid villain ! lives he yet ! 
 Oh ! were the scoffer here to meet 
 From this strong hand his well-earn'd fate, 
 How few would be the moments given 
 To make his spirit's peace with heaven 1 
 " But thou, Lenore ! my steed is nigh, 
 And I will save thee ! Dearest, fly !" 
 " No ! Erstein, no ! I'd rather die ! 
 My fate is fix'd, my lot is cast, 
 Its keenest bitterness is past ; 
 Though her heart break, the poor Lenore 
 Must think of thee and love no more ! 
 " Oh, leave me ! 'tis my prayer, my will ; 
 Make not my task more dreadful still : 
 Thou knowest more than I would tell, 
 Erstein, away ! farewell, farewell !" 
 With trembling hand, the cavalier 
 Dash'd from his eye the starling tear, 
 Bow'd on her hand his burning head, 
 And ere her heart could throb, had fled. 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
 The notes have paused the song hath died away, 
 
 And wonldst thou wake the trembling tones again f 
 And while the minstrel pours his wandering lay 
 
 Bid thy warm heart re-echo to the strain ? 
 Wouldst hear the sequel of this simple tale, 
 
 And list attentive to the voice of woe ? 
 Weep with affection, or with fear turn pale, 
 
 And smile when riseth joy's triumphant glow ? 
 Then will I touch the quivering harp once more, 
 
 While fancy spreads her rainbow-tinted wing, 
 O'er the dark vale of buried years to soar, 
 
 And back to life their faded shadows bring ! 
 And thou must gently glance its errors o'er, 
 
 Should the untutor'd bard uncouthly sing. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 OH, darkly the shadows of evening fell 
 
 On forest and mountain, on streamlet and dell, 
 
 And the clouds, in masses of sombre hue, 
 
 O'er the couch of the morning their draperies threw ; 
 
 And their shade fell dark on the Rhine below, 
 
 Whose billows heaved proudly and slowly, as though 
 
 The giant heart of the tempest-god 
 
 Was beating strong 'neath its swelling flood. 
 
 Its voice came up with a sullen roar 
 
 As the waves dash'd fierce on the rock-bound shore, 
 
 And the wild-bird scream'd as he skimm'd them o'er, 
 
 While the vessel which flew o'er its surface that day. 
 
 With her white wings furl'd on its dark bosom lay,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 233 
 
 Just kissing the foam with her bending side, 
 As if owning the power of the lordly tide. 
 
 The morning rose meekly, and softly, and fair, 
 
 But at evening the frown of the storm-god was there, 
 
 And gladness and beauty fled back from his eye, 
 
 Like the smile from the spirit when sorrows draw nigh. 
 
 Where the sunbeams had wreathed round the mountain a tall crest 
 
 Now floated a mantle of darkness and mist, 
 
 And the wing of the tempest did fearfully fall 
 
 O'er the arches and towers of that time-honour'd hall. 
 
 The portal was shut, and the drawbridge was raised, 
 
 And no gleam of a torch from the banquet- hall blazed ; 
 
 But with faces of gloom, and steps measured and slow, 
 
 The warders were pacing the gateway below, 
 
 Now silently marking the clouds overhead, 
 
 Now whispering in accents of sorrow and dread. 
 
 The hall was deserted ; the court-yard alone 
 
 Heard an echoing tread on its pavement of stone. 
 
 And parties of menials were gathering there 
 
 With faces of mystery, faces of care. 
 
 Not a voice was heard but in murmurings low, 
 
 Not a torch was seen with its cheerful glow, t 
 
 Save where a ray was streaming o'er 
 
 The ancient chapel's massive door, 
 
 And wandering wi*h its glimmer faint 
 
 O'er sculptured cherubim and saint. 
 
 'T was an ancient pile, and the creeping vine 
 
 Had begun o'er its mouldering arches to twine, 
 
 And the long bright grass unmark'd had grown 
 
 On the broken pavement of crumbling stone ; 
 
 And the rude remains of a ruder day, 
 
 Shatter'd and torn 'neath its vaulted roof lay. 
 
 'T was a solemn scene, when the ancient pile 
 Was glittering bright in the morning smile. 
 
 And bold in nerve and in heart was he, 
 Who would dare to walk in its haunted aisle ! 
 
 For oh, it was fearful there t& be 
 
 When the night was falling gloomily ; 
 When the tempest shriek'd round its massive wall, 
 And darkness enrobed it like a pall. 
 Why then doth light unwonted shine 
 From the gilded lamps on the ruin'd shrine? 
 And why o'er the rest of the baron's hall 
 Is it darkness and silence and dreariness all ? 
 And why with that anxious and sorrowful mien, 
 Do the menials gaze on the desolate scene? 
 
 Alas ! those chapel walls this night 
 
 Must witness a dark, unholy rite, 
 
 And the gale, which shrieks in its fitful start, 
 
 Must sing the wail of a broken heart ! 
 
 And on that sacred altar, where 
 
 So soft the suppliant breathed his prayer, 
 
 A young and ardent soul must lay 
 
 A deeper sacrifice to-day 
 
 Upon its marble bosom fling 
 
 The blushing flowers of life's warm spring, ! * '-
 
 234 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOH. 
 
 And all the radiant garlands wore 
 By buoyant hope and gunefess love. 
 
 Alas, that man's vnhallow'd band 
 The apim > sacred veil should rend, 
 And for h own dark purpose tear 
 The warm and flowing treasures there, 
 Then as in mockery dare to twine, 
 
 Upon hw Maker", holr shrine, 
 Those pore and find affections, given 
 To make tin* weary earth a heaven. 
 
 When last thane crumbling walls had heard 
 Or muffled tread or whisper' d word, 
 A funeral wail had fill'd the pfle, 
 A train of mourners filFd the aide. 
 And there in solemn pomp interr'd 
 A distant kinsman of their lord. 
 
 Tims still upon the shrouded wall 
 Hong die Mack draperies, tike a pall, 
 In long unmoving masse*, save 
 When the dull wind its folds would wave, 
 And swelling slow the dismal screen 
 Betray*the shatter* d stones between. 
 
 Tall torches burn'd die shrine before, , 
 Casting their rajs die chapel o'er, 
 And shedding pale and sickly fight 
 Upon die scowling brow of nidn! 
 While, from each lofty arch, die eye 
 Could mark die drick clouds passing by, 
 In blackening manges, wildly driven 
 Athwart die frowning face of heaven. 
 
 The vaulted eeifing echoed round 
 
 Each clanking tread, or mutter* d sound, 
 
 And die blast which crept o'er die pavement* ban, 
 
 And wared die torches' nickering glare, 
 
 WaJTdjn a sad and '.hriiling tone, 
 
 Like a departed spirit's moan. 
 
 Beside die ahar stood its priest, 
 His wan hands folded on his breast, 
 The quivering torefanght o'er him playing, 
 Bis gray locks round his forehead straying; 
 Andms eye wandering here and there, 
 With anxious and unsealed air ; 
 And ever, as its glance would fall 
 On Herman's form, so grim and taO, 
 He mnner'd, tnrn'd in shuddering baste, 
 And sign'd die cross upon his breast. 
 
 Well might die priest unUiiiiltYe torn, 
 From gazing on a face so stern; 
 For oh. it told of storms within, 
 The strife of passion, pride, and sin; 
 More fearfoJU more appalling far, 
 Than die fierce tempest's raging war. 
 
 Widi harried steps be paced awhile 
 The grass-grown pavements of die aisle,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 And on the open portal nigh 
 His keen glance fell impatiently, 
 Till his dark brow yet darker lower'd, 
 And his hand fiercely grasp' d his sword. 
 
 " If he should dare deceive me ! then 
 He'll find the lion in his den!" 
 Scarce were the startling accents o'er, 
 When darkening shadows fill'd the door ; 
 It was the baron and Lenore. 
 
 A large dark mantle, closely drawn, 
 Conceal'd the maiden's fragile form ; 
 But her measured step was firmer far 
 Than the trembling tread of her aged sire, 
 And she came with a calm and unfaltering air 
 To offer up all that was dear to her there. 
 
 And when she stood the shrine beside, 
 A sad and self-devoted bride, 
 She clasp'd her hands, and raised on higfi 
 The thrilling glance of her tearless eye, 
 And the stern bridegroom shrunk below 
 That look of fix'd and' speechless woe. 
 
 But the keen pang pass'd quickly o'er, 
 And left her tranquil as before : 
 Her pallid finders gently press' d 
 The clasping jewel on her breast, 
 And the dark mantle falling back, 
 Reveal' d her bridal robe o( black ! 
 The massive folds hung drooping there 
 Around her form, so slight and lair, 
 As the sad cypress in its gloom 
 O'er the white marble of the tomb. 
 
 In unconfined and native grace 
 Her long dark tresses veil d her face, 
 Contrasting with the cheek and brow 
 So pallid and so deathlike now, 
 And casting round her, as they stray'd, 
 A waving and a dreamlike shade. 
 Thus stood she, motionless and still, 
 Like some pale form of Grecian skill, 
 Placed by the matchless sculptor there, 
 A breathing image of despair. 
 
 One torturing, agonizing day 
 Had quell' d the Heart so light and gay, 
 And given her mien a bearing high 
 Of calm and thoughtful dignity. 
 
 The baron started as his eye 
 
 Fell on her sombre drapery : 
 
 " Lenore," he whisper'd, " why to-day 
 
 Assume such ominous array? 
 
 Couldst thou not find a bridal dress 
 
 More fitting such a scene as this f"
 
 236 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 She bent her dark and earnest gaze 
 ^A moment on her father's face, 
 As if her senses could not hear 
 The trords which fell upon her ear, 
 Then said, with quick, convulsive start, 
 " And wouldst thou gild a bleeding heart? 
 A broken spirit wouldst thou fold 
 In sparkling robes of tinsell'd gold ? 
 'T were mockery ! this is fittest guise 
 To deck a living sacrifice." 
 
 The baron turn'd in sudden thought 
 To Herman's towering form, and sought 
 To melt that heart, more hard than steel, 
 By one long look of mute appeal, 
 As half expecting to receive 
 Some blessed signal of reprieve ; 
 But his knit brow and flushing eye 
 Reveal'd his dark and stern reply, 
 And the priest oped the sacred book 
 With pale and hesitating look. 
 The thunder's deep and muttering tone 
 Broke on the listening ear alone ; 
 He paused, bent low his moisten'd brow, 
 And read with quivering voice and slow. 
 While yet the feeble accents hung 
 Unfinish'd on his faltering tongue ; 
 Through the tall arches flashing came 
 A broad and livid sheet of flame, 
 Playing with fearful radiance o'er 
 The upraised features of Lenore, 
 The shrinking form of her trembling sire, 
 The bridegroom's face of scowling ire, 
 And the folded hands, and heaving breast, 
 And prophet-like mien of the aged priest ! 
 
 'T was a breathless pause, but a moment more, 
 And that fierce, unnatural beam was o'er. 
 And a stunning crash, as if earth were driven 
 On thundering wheels to the gates of heaven, 
 Burst, peal'd, and mutter'd. long and deep, 
 Then sinking, growl'd itself to sleep, 
 And all was still ; the priest first broke 
 Th' oppressive silence as he spoke : 
 "Both heaven and earth their powers unite 
 Against this dark, unhallow'd rite ! 
 A voice without, a voice within, 
 Hath told me that the deed were sin ! 
 Though death and danger bar my way, 
 I will not dare not cfisobey! 
 
 A cloud more dark than the tempest now 
 Was gathering sternly on Herman's brow : 
 "Priest! madman! hypocrite! proceed! 
 Or blows shall mend thy coward creed !" 
 " For God's sake, peace !" the baron cried, 
 And closer drew to Herman's side. 
 One moment, peace ! for hark ! I hear 
 Loud cries come nearer and more near!"
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 237 
 
 " Fool !" 'tis the wailing of the blast, 
 Which sweeps these echoing ruins past 1 
 I brook no dallying ! Deal thou fair, 
 Or by yon heaven, old man, I swear, 
 Thou shall have reason to beware I" 
 Still did the cowering baron stand, 
 With fixed eye and upraised hand, 
 As one who bends an earnest ear 
 Some faint and distant sound to hear. 
 
 And while he listen'd, by degrees 
 
 That sound came swelling on the breeze. 
 
 Now low and hoarse, now shrill and loud-, 
 
 Like mingled voices of a crowd ; 
 
 And as more near the tones were heard, 
 
 Did Herman fiercely grasp his sword, 
 
 As if preparing to chastise 
 
 Whate'er should bar his destined prize ! 
 
 And louder still the clamour rose, 
 
 Like mingled sounds of shouts and blows, 
 
 And on that tide of tumult came 
 
 The baron's and the bridegroom's name. 
 
 One moment struck with mute surprise, 
 
 Each raised to each his wondering eyes ; 
 
 But Herman, roused to action first, 
 
 Forth from the group infuriate burst ; 
 
 When, ere the baron reach'd his side, 
 
 The low-brow' d portal open'd wide, 
 
 And a menial, pale with breathless haste, 
 
 Wounded and bleeding, forward press'd : 
 
 Fly to the rescue, baron, fly ! 
 
 Ere all thy faithful followers die ! 
 
 For armed men the moat have pass'd, 
 
 Have gain'd the inner court at last, 
 
 And fight and clamour for thy guest !" , 
 
 A wild and bitter laughter rung 
 From Herman's lips ere forth he sprung. 
 " And so my comrades come to trace 
 Their worthy leader's lurking-place? 
 'T is well ! not yet my race is run, 
 And dearly shall my life be won !" 
 
 The baron and his guest have gone ; 
 The bride and priest are here alone ! 
 How doth that fragile plant sustain 
 Its courage in this hour of pain ? 
 Perplex'a, bewilder'd, and amazed, 
 Upon the shifting scene she gazed, 
 And only felt, with quick delight, 
 That he whose presence seem'd a blight 
 To chill each heart with shuddering fear, 
 That he no more was lingering near. 
 
 She breathed one deep and thrilling groan, 
 And sank upon the shatter'd stone ! 
 She had nor power nor will to rise, 
 But with clasp' d hands, and straining eye 
 20
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Fix'd on the portal, did she wait 
 The coming crisis of her fate. 
 
 The wind rush'd in from the open'd door, 
 And the red torchlight was no more, 
 And the rude pile was dark, save where 
 The lightning spread its ghastly glare, 
 Or from the crowded court-yard came 
 Some broad and glancing stream of flame. 
 
 The wounded man's expiring groan 
 Seem'd echoed from the roof of stone ; 
 And 'ouder yet the piercing din 
 Burst on the listening pair within. 
 The stone-paved court alternate rang 
 With clashing steel, and shout, and clang; 
 And waving wildly to and fro, 
 The torches spread their fiery glow, 
 Casting o'er every point of sight 
 A glaring and unearthly light ; 
 While, as the fearful shouts did rise 
 In blended tumult to the skies, 
 The spirit of the midnight storm 
 Rear'd on the clouds his black'ning form, 
 And with each cry which swell'd the gale 
 Mingled his wild and shrieking wail. 
 
 Now closer drew the assailing band, 
 With sword to sword, and hand to hand, 
 And fiercely toward the chapel pressed, 
 Where stood the baron and his guest. 
 Herman, with fix'd and cautious eye 
 Beheld his furious foes draw nigh, 
 And vow'd in this unequal strife 
 Not he alone should part with life. 
 
 Nearer they came, with shout and cry, 
 " Down with the traitor ! caitiff, die !" 
 And if a moment more had sped, 
 The wretch had number'd with the dead ; 
 When, with a voice deep-toned and loud, 
 A tall form issued from the crowd, 
 Press'd firmly through the rushing tide, 
 And springing close to Herman's side, 
 In calm commanding accents cried : 
 
 " And are ye men ? Bear back, I say ! 
 Ye throng like tigers on their prey ! 
 Bear back, a space, and he or I 
 In fair and equal fight shall die !" 
 
 As waves retire with sullen roar, 
 From meeting with the rock-bound shore, 
 The crowd bore back with mutterings low, 
 In waving columns, long and slow, 
 And stood, with eager gaze, to wait 
 The youthful champion's coming fate. 
 
 The stranger raised his sword, when nigh 
 There burst a low and thrilling cry ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 269 
 
 He turn'd a wretch unseen before, 
 Still linger'd by the chapel door, 
 And raised in air his gleaming blade 
 Above the baron's aged head. 
 One spring one stroke with piercing yell, 
 And long deep groan the miscreant fell ; 
 And the young warrior stood before 
 His dark-brow'd combatant once more ! 
 
 Herman, with eager look, intent 
 Upon his foe his keen eye bent ; 
 And while he thus his form survey'd, 
 His quivering lip his rage betrayed ; 
 Then forth in furious haste he sprang, 
 Till the young stranger's armour rang 
 With his quick strokes' incessant clang. 
 
 Regardless to preserve his own, 
 He sought the stranger's life alone, 
 With panting breast and flashing eye, 
 And all a madman's energy ; 
 While calm and firm his foe repaid 
 Each stroke with true unerring blade. 
 
 A few, but fearful moments pass'd, 
 Till blind with headlong rage at last, 
 Herman, with desperate fierceness, press'd, 
 And aim'd a quick blow at his breast ; 
 The youth beheld, sprung lightly round, 
 Dash'd the rais'd weapon to the ground, 
 And while the fragments scatter'd wide, 
 He sheathed his sword in Herman's side ! 
 Then bending o'er his fallen foe, 
 Whisper'd in accents stern and low, 
 " Herman ! thy miscreant life I spare ! 
 But should we meet again beware !" 
 Then gliding through the low-arch'd door 
 His manly form was seen no more ! 
 
 With straining eye and changeless mien 
 Lenore had marked this fearful scene, 
 Till her chill' d heart seem'd palsied there 
 With terror bordering on despair. 
 But when the gallant stranger came, 
 A something whisper'd Erstein's name, 
 And when beneath the dubious light 
 She saw him conqueror in the fight, 
 Her heart seem'd bursting with delight. 
 Hope, with its trembling radiance, stole 
 O'er the dark desert of her soul 
 Her head droop'd lightly on her breast, 
 As when an infant sinks to rest ; 
 Her heart gave one convulsive thrill, 
 Leap'd flutter'd wildly and was still 
 The courage grief could not destroy 
 Bow'd to intensity of joy. 
 The priest, unheeding all beside, 
 Bent sadly o'er the fainting bride,
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 With mystic sign and mutter'd prayer, 
 
 And all an anxious father's care ; 
 
 But as he knelt, absorb'd the while, 
 
 A quick step echoed through the aisle 
 
 A burst of joy assailed his ear ; 
 
 He turn'd the stranger youth was near! 
 
 A moment more his stalwart arm 
 Had raised the maiden's drooping form, 
 And turning swift, his eagle eye 
 Roam'd o'er the walls inquiringly. 
 The priest observed his doubtful air, 
 And clearly read his meaning there : 
 Trembling, he raised the massive pall 
 Which hung beside the crumbling wall, 
 And oped a secret door that led 
 Within a thicket's tangled shade. 
 
 The youth bow'd low his plumed head, 
 And 'neath the ruin'd portal fled ! 
 The priest conceal'd it as before, 
 And turning, past the draperies o'er, 
 
 But breathed a low and sinother'd cry, 
 As, fix'd upon that secret door, 
 
 His own met Herman's baleful eye. 
 
 It burn'd with hatred's living flame, 
 
 And rage convulsed his giant frame, 
 
 A curse hung quivering on his tongue ; 
 
 Each nerve to dark revenge was strung ; 
 
 And the full arteries of his brow, 
 
 Were swelled like livid serpents now. 
 
 The boiling blood with sudden start 
 
 Had gather' d fiercely at his heart, 
 
 And lent his cheeks and lips a hue 
 
 Of ghastly and unearthly blue. 
 
 But quick the coward tide return'd, 
 
 And through his veins like wildfire burn'd 
 
 And o'er his features crept the while, 
 
 Their sneering and revengeful smile 
 
 When in that crowded court he fell 
 
 Beneath that foe he knew too well, 
 
 He sought to find a safe retreat 
 
 From clashing swords and trampling feet - 
 
 And while he lean'd, with whirling brain, 
 
 The po-tal's sculptured arch beside, 
 Saw with a rage surmounting pain, 
 
 The flight of Erstein and his bride. 
 
 And where hath he fled with his lovely one, say T 
 And where are they wending their perilous way ? 
 The lover hath mounted his faithful steed, 
 He is bounding away with the lightning speed ! 
 One arm is supporting the rescued bride, 
 One hand is at freedom his bridle to guide, 
 And his spurs are dash'd in the charger's side. 
 
 Beneath them the turf, and above them the sky, 
 Away and away on their pathway they fly '
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 241 
 
 The sound of the tumult grew fainter and low, 
 And faded in distance the torches' red glow, 
 And in silence unbroken the fugitive sped, 
 Save when the low thunder was growling o'erhead, 
 Or the tempest was wailing, now shrill, now deep, 
 As it crept in the arms of the morning to sleep. 
 
 While the black clouds were rolling in masses away, 
 
 O'er the hills of the east rose a faint streak of gray ; 
 
 And as onward they flew, on the dim air was borne 
 
 The soft cooling breath of a bright summer's morn ! 
 
 Their speed as they bounded the forest path o'er 
 
 Recall' d the faint throb to the heart of Lenore, 
 
 But her senses bewilder'd long laboured in vain 
 
 To dispel the wild fancies which thronged on her brain ; 
 
 And when she awoke to the real at last, 
 
 Oh what mingled emotions were stirr'd in her breast, 
 
 Till her heart overflowing found soothing relief 
 
 In tears of united thanksgiving and grief! 
 
 She remember'd the scene in the old ruin'd aisle, 
 
 And silently pray'd for the victor the while, 
 
 Then she thought of her sire, and she shrank from his akk 
 
 And '' My father ! my father !" she bitterly cried. 
 
 " Fear not for your father ! yon furious band 
 
 Sought nothing but haply his gold at his hand ! 
 
 It was Herman they sought, and they long'd for the blood 
 
 Of that traitor alike to the vile and the good !" 
 
 " And whither art bearing me, Erstein, and why ? 
 And where shall Lenore lor a resting-place fly ?" 
 " We are hasting away to my rude mountain tower ! 
 'T is a rugged retreat for so fragile a flower ; 
 But my sister shall cherish the blossom with care 
 Till it blooms again, brighter and sweeter than e'er." 
 " And how didst thou come in that moment of gloom, 
 To snatch me away from my terrible doom ?" 
 
 " Lenore, my beloved ! thou rememberest the hour 
 When I parted from thee in the myrtle-wreath'd bower ; 
 That hour which was fated awhile to destroy 
 Each hope of the future, each vision of joy ; 
 I mounted my charger, I knew not how, 
 
 And I rode like a madman, I knew not where ; 
 For my brain was hot with a fiery glow, 
 
 And my heart was chill'd with a cold despair ; 
 I abandoned the reins to my faithful steed, 
 And we bounded away with a maniac speed, 
 Till exhausted and worn with exertion we stood 
 On the barren skirts of a lonely wood ; 
 'Twas deep immersed in a mountain dell, 
 
 On the rocky banks of a brawling stream, 
 Which o'er a dark precipice rapidly fell, 
 
 With dashing and foaming, and murmur and gleam, 
 I threw myself down by a rock-cover'd cave, 
 And silently bent o'er the breast of the wave, 
 And more calm in my veins did the life-current flow, 
 While the spray dashed cool on my feverish brow 
 21*
 
 242 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Of Herman 1 thought, and my pulses beat higher, 
 
 And my bosom throbb'd wild with the " tempest of ire !" 
 
 But then o'er my fancy that loved image crept, 
 
 And forgive me, Lenore, if in anguish I wept ! 
 
 While musing thus sadly, I started to hear 
 
 The sound of rude voices assailing my ear. 
 
 I turn'd, from the cavern beside me they came,- 
 
 And the speaker named Herman's detestable name ! 
 
 I listen'd but, dearest, so stainless thou art, 
 
 In each word of thy lips, and each thought of thy heart 
 
 That could I repeat, I should tell thee in vain 
 
 Of a language so loose, so impure and profane ! 
 
 Then listen, Lenore, as I briefly shall tell 
 
 The meaning I gain'd from their words as they fell. 
 
 They were robbers a fearful and ruffian band, 
 
 Most sordid of heart, and most bloody of hand, 
 
 And Herman had been, for full many a year, 
 
 Their chief in each deed of rebellion and fear ! 
 
 Yes ! he whose presumption hath claim'd thee as bride 
 
 To that lawless and desperate band was allied ; 
 
 Meet comrades for one whose degenerate mind 
 
 Is stain' d with each crime which can blacken mankind. 
 
 Thus a stranger to mercy, a stranger to fear, 
 
 He had rush'd on, uncheck'd in his reckless career, 
 
 Till, unheeding the pledge which at entrance he gave, 
 
 In secret he fled from the robbers' wild cave, 
 
 Bearing with him away their iniquitous spoil, 
 
 The fruits they had reap'd from unhallowed toil ' 
 
 Oh long did they labour, but labour' d in vain, 
 
 Some trace of their villanous chieftain to gain, 
 
 Till a comrade return'd with the tidings at last, 
 
 That the Baron of Arnheim received him as guest, 
 
 And this eve was to join his perfidious hand 
 
 To the fairest flower of his native land. 
 
 Then they vow'd revenge, and they fearfully swore 
 
 That long ere the shadows of midnight were o'er, 
 
 They would give to their leader, false Herman, the meed 
 
 He had won by the coward and traitorous deed ! 
 
 They resolved to assemble at eventide there, 
 
 And in arms to the Castle of Arnheim repair, 
 
 To recover the gold they had lost, and assuage, 
 
 In the blood of their chieftain, their hatred and rage. 
 
 Thus said they, Lenore ; and now eager I heard 
 
 Each ruffian voice, and each half-suppress'd word ; 
 
 For while o'er my senses their dark import stole, 
 
 A light broke in on my desperate soul, 
 
 Ana methought I discovered a path to guide 
 
 My steps once more to my dear onels side. 
 
 I could join their band at the castle gate ; 
 
 I could rescue thee from thy dreadful fate, 
 
 And while they were in fury revenging^ their wrong, 
 
 And searching for gold 'neath each time-worn wall, 
 I could plunge unseen 'mid the motley throng, 
 
 And bear away that which was dearer than all ! 
 Oh, blest be our Lady ! who guided me well, 
 
 And supported thy soul on this terrible night ! 
 But Lenore ! my beloved ! thy cheek is too pale, 
 
 And the tear steals adown it oh say, was I right ?"
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 243 
 
 She spoke no word, but he read her reply 
 
 In the timid glance of her downcast eye, 
 
 And the blush which sprung to her varying cheek, 
 
 In token of thoughts which she dared not speak ! 
 
 He saw the glance, and he felt its charm, 
 
 And he folded the mantle more close round her form, 
 
 And silently spurring his charger again, 
 
 They bounded away over forest and plain. 
 
 And softly and meekly the morning light 
 
 Stole up from the arms of that storm-toss'd night, 
 
 And faintly trembled its dawning beam 
 
 On each sparkling valley and purling stream. 
 
 And danced on the leaves of the forest trees, 
 
 As they slowly waved in the sighing breeze, 
 
 And with dripping branches bended low, 
 
 As if weeping the fate of each fallen bough. 
 
 "Lenore!" said Erstein, " Lenore, behold, 
 
 How each cloud from the glance of the morning hath roll'd ; 
 
 How the storm of the midnight has glided away, 
 
 And no traces are left of its passage to-day, 
 
 Save a pensive hue, which is stealing o'er, 
 
 And making all nature more fair than before. 
 
 " The whispering gale that is floating past, 
 
 Is all that remains of the howling blast, 
 
 And the sparkling waves of yon tiny river 
 
 Rush onward more swiftly and gaily than ever ; 
 
 While the emerald turf on the graceful hill 
 
 Outrivals in splendour the dew-dripping rill, 
 
 And the trees round its base with their broad arms cling, 
 
 Like the diamond crown of a giant king. 
 
 'T is a beautiful type of our fate, Lenore, 
 
 For our storm of misfortune has glided o'er, 
 
 And the joyous morning of hope and love 
 
 Is dawning our radiant pathway above ; 
 
 And life shall flow on with its dancing stream, 
 
 With murmur and sparkle, with music and gleam, 
 
 And the glittering dew-drops alone shall last, 
 
 To remind our souls of the storms that have past." 
 
 A sunbeam of gladness, a smile from the soul, 
 
 O'er the face of Lenore insensibly stole ; 
 
 They were slowly ascending a verdant hill, 
 
 At whose base there rippleda murmuring rill, 
 
 And she gazed on the vale they had left, till her sight , 
 
 Seem'd melting in tears of exquisite delight. 
 
 But she suddenly utter' d a smother'd cry, 
 
 As a figure advancing arrested her eye ; 
 
 ' T was a horseman, who spurr'd on his foaming steed 
 
 With a desperate madman's fiery speed, 
 
 While far beyond, on the level green, 
 
 A waving line was distinctly seen. 
 
 Scarce had the shriek escaped her tongue, 
 
 Ere to his feet young Erstein sprung, 
 
 And led the wearied steed, which bore t 
 
 The fragile form of poor Lenore, 
 
 Where a dark thicket rose in pride 
 
 The leaping, brawling stream beside.
 
 244 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " 'Tis Herman ! and the hour is come 
 To seal or his or Erstein's doom ! 
 If victor, well! but if I die, 
 Thine only resource is to fly." 
 
 He said, and press'd her hand the while 
 With fervent grasp and cheering smile : 
 Then ere had fled that earnest tone, 
 The trembling maiden was alone. 
 
 Meanwhile, with fierce and maniac haste, 
 The furious Herman forward press'd, 
 Clear'd the small stream with sudden bound, 
 And leap'd impetuous to the ground. 
 
 Oh, 'twas a dark and fearful sight ! 
 His writhing face was ghastly white ; 
 His horseman's cloak was deeply dyed 
 With the red life-blood from his side ; 
 His step was hurried and untrue ; 
 His scowling brow was bathed in dew, 
 And when he pass'd his fingers o'er, 
 They left its surface stain'd with gore. 
 
 Still did his rigid features wear 
 Their darkly biting, withering sneer, 
 And in his eye a fiendish glare 
 Revenge and hate had kindled there. 
 He wav'd His glancing sword on high, 
 And cried, "Defend thy life, or die !" 
 " I fight not," Erstein answered slow, 
 " A. frantic or a bleeding foe !" 
 
 A demon's rage fill'd Herman's eye, 
 Which flash' d around him fearfully. 
 " Then in thy coward folly die !" 
 Thus did he yell, and with the word 
 Plunged at his breast his ponderous sword. 
 The youth, who mark'd each look with care, 
 Turn'd and the weapon smote the air ; 
 Then, ere a second stroke was made. 
 Swift as the wind unsheath'd his blade ; 
 And springing forth, with gesture light, 
 Closed firmly in the desperate fight. 
 
 How did those sounds of doubt and fear 
 Ring on the maiden's listening ear ! 
 How did her veins convulsive swell, 
 As, fast and wild, the stern blows fell ! 
 But passion's rage must yield at length 
 To calmer reason's vigorous strength, 
 And Erstein's steel again was dew'd 
 With the fierce Herman's gushing blood. 
 
 Breathing one quick and startling yell, 
 Upon the trampled sward he fell, 
 And the dark life-stream gurgling fast, 
 Blent with the dew-drops on his breast, 
 And, as the current swifter sped, 
 Tinged the light sparkling stream with red ! 
 His clench'd hands held, with rigid clasp, 
 The turf and flowers within thtir grasp,
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 245 
 
 And the cold, clammy, deathlike de\ 
 In large drops gather' d on his brow. 
 
 Then a dark shade of fell despair 
 
 Chased from its glance its frenzied glare, 
 
 And yielded to his upraised eye 
 
 A look of helpless agony ; 
 
 It roll'd around from place to place, 
 
 And rested last on Erstein' s face ; 
 
 Then shrunk from the moment's encounter again 
 
 With a mingled thrill of remorse and pain ; 
 
 Then he strove to speak, but the accents hung 
 
 Unform'd on his quivering, palsied tongue. 
 
 Erstein the wounded sufferer gave 
 A cooling draught from the crystal wave, 
 And raising his form on the rivulet's brink, 
 Oh long and deeply did he drink, 
 Then, as o'ercome with torturing pain, 
 Sank on the crimson' d turf again. 
 
 Convulsions o'er his features past, 
 
 And, with a fearful strength, at last 
 
 He started clench'd his blood-stain' d vest, 
 
 And groan'd, " This mountain on my breast!" 
 
 Erstein bent o'er him "Herman! now 
 
 We stand no longer foe to foe ; 
 
 Tell me, if to one earthly thing 
 
 Thy parting spirit still doth cling ; 
 
 One deed, which, ere thy race was run, 
 
 Thou wouldst have purposed to have done ; 
 
 One word of penitence to send 
 
 An injured or deluded friend ; 
 
 And here I pledge my promise free, 
 
 That act shall be performed for thee ! 
 
 Aught that may cast a softening ray 
 
 Around thy spirit's fearful way, 
 
 Or soothe that dark and drear abode 
 
 Unbrighten'd by the smiles of God!" 
 
 " Of God ! Who spoke of God ? I own 
 No God but reckless chance alone ; 
 No hell more rife with pain and fear 
 Than that which burns and tortures here ! 
 Though I could sink to black despair, 
 If I met not his spirit there ! 
 
 " Away, away ! each look, each word 
 Pierces my bosom like a sword ! 
 'T is thou whom I have injured, thou 
 Whose arm, in justice, laid me low ! 
 Nay, leave me not, but come more near, 
 For my breath fails me bend thine ear ! 
 And ere from life for ever freed, 
 My soul shall boast one blameless deed ! 
 Child of a rich and ancient line, 
 Arnheim, its titles, lands, are thine !" 
 
 " Thou ravest !" " List ! if there be time 
 Thine ears shall drink my tale of crime ! 
 I seem'd thy father's friend, and he 
 Believed me all fidelitv ;
 
 246 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 He perished in a foreign land. 
 And, Erstein, by this blood-stain'd hand ? 
 Ay, shudder ! mark me well, and trace 
 The murderer's impress on my face ! 
 Yes ! 'neath a friend's disguise, there stole 
 A venom'd serpent to his soul! 
 In youth he dared to taunt me I 
 Vow'd for the insult he should die ! 
 " It's very memory pass'd from him ; 
 And when in after years I came, 
 Conceal'd by friendship's mask and name, 
 He took me to his bosom, while 
 Revenge was lurking 'neath my smile. 
 He died ! start not, but bend thine ear, 
 For I must speak and thou sJia.lt hear ! 
 Ay, though it rends my blacken'd heart, 
 And tears each gaping wound apart ! 
 " He died! I sought, with keenest hate, 
 The proofs of this thy fair estate ; 
 I kept the parchments, that I still 
 Might guide thy fortunes at my will. 
 I hated for thy features bore 
 The smile, the glance thy father's wore. 
 " Avert that look ! the memory brings 
 A thousand thousand scorpion stings ! 
 Ay, ay ! 'tis right, 'tis meet thy steel 
 This last and deadliest blow should deal ! 
 'Tis right thy grateful hand should send 
 The death-blow to thy father's friend! 
 " But I must on ! I left that shore 
 I sought my native land once more : 
 I join'd the robbers' desperate band ; 
 I found the baron on thy land ; 
 'Twas then I saw, I loved, Lenore ! 
 Oh heavens ! and must I tell thee more ? 
 I play'd the baron false, and he, 
 The fool ! the idiot I trusted me ! 
 " Here, on my cold and labouring breast- 
 Raise me here, here the parchments rest! 
 But my chill'd limbs grow stiff the sand 
 Of life is running fast the hand 
 Of death is plunging deep his icy dart 
 His grasp is cold cold cold upon my heart !" 
 The youth, with fix'd and wondering eyes, 
 Bent o'er his form in mute surprise ; 
 When loud, derisive laughter near, 
 Burst in discordance on his ear. 
 He rose, and saw before him stand 
 The dying Herman's ruffian band. 
 Returning from their midnight broil, 
 And laden with its varied spoil, 
 To their wild cave they led in haste 
 The aged baron and the priest. 
 But when in distance they beheld 
 Their leader's flight, so fierce and wild, 
 They turn'd, pursued, and came to see 
 His last, expiring agony ;
 
 POETICAL REMAINS. 247 
 
 And now, with laugh of scornful hate, 
 Like fiends, they triumph'd in his fate. 
 Those tones, with direst vengeance rife, 
 Recall'd their comrade's flickering life. 
 With them unnumber'd memories came 
 Again he raised his bleeding frame, 
 Gazed wildly on the furious band, 
 And shook his clench'd and stiffening hand. 
 His cheek burn'd with a livid glow, 
 A black scowl gather' d on his brow, 
 A fierce revenge his visage fired 
 He groan'd, fell backward, and expired. 
 
 Silence her breathless mantle threw 
 
 A moment o'er that lawless crew, 
 
 And awe one instant gain'd the place 
 
 Of triumph on each swarthy face. 
 
 But as the sun-ray glances past 
 
 The rugged cliff's unbending crest, 
 
 So did that faint beam disappear, 
 
 Lost in a dark demoniac sneer, 
 
 The baron and the priest alone 
 
 With trembling heard that dying groan, 
 
 And mark'd with awe-struck pitying gaze, 
 
 His stiffen' d form and ghastly face. 
 
 Erstein first broke the silence dread, 
 And to the outlaw'd chieftain said : 
 " Thou seekest spoil ! dost thou behold 
 This jewell'd cross, this purse of gold? 
 These will I gladly give, to gain 
 Two aged captives of thy train. 
 High ransom take, and yield to me 
 The priest's and baron's liberty." 
 
 " Yon priest I had design' d to save 
 
 The contrite sinners in our cave. 
 
 Yon miser lord, to gather in 
 
 The gold our midnight frays shall win ! 
 
 This nad I purposed!, but in truth 
 
 Thy sword hath served us well, brave youth, 
 
 By sending to the fiend, who gave, 
 
 The spirit of that scowling knave. 
 
 Bestow on us that glittering store, 
 
 And swear to seek our spoil no more, 
 
 Then will we freely yield to thee 
 
 The aged captives' liberty." 
 
 The pledge was given the band released 
 The aged baron and the priest, 
 And_ sweeping round a thicket nigh, 
 Their dark forms vanish'd to the eye. 
 With heaving breast and clouded brow 
 The baron wander'd to and fro. 
 And wrung his hands with gestures wild, 
 And wept and cried, " my child ! My child 
 
 Swiftly the youthful Erstein fled 
 To the dark wood's embowering shade, 
 And soon as swift return'd to lead 
 The fair Lenore's wearied steed.
 
 249 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 With joyful cry and agile bound, 
 The maiden sprang upon the ground, 
 And clasp'd her father's neck around. 
 
 And o'er and o'er again he press'd 
 The rescued maiden to his breast, 
 And gazed upon her features bright 
 With frantic transports of delight. 
 " My child ! my love ! my own Lenore . 
 Come to thy father's heart once more, 
 Nor fear that thou again shall be 
 
 A living sacrifice for me ! 
 But who preserved thee ? where didst thou 
 Find refuge on that night, and how ?" 
 
 Ker cheek with crimson blushes warm, 
 She turn'd her eye on Erstein's form. 
 " And by what title shall I bless ?" 
 " Erstein !" He groan'd "Alas ! alas ! 
 It is the very name, 'tis he 
 Whom I have heap'd with injury ! 
 A voice, too long a slighted guest, 
 Once more is whispering in my breast ! 
 And I will listen will obey ; 
 How shall I all these wrongs repay ?" 
 
 The youth's dark eye beam'd purest fire, 
 
 And his quick pulses bounded higher. 
 
 Oh let me, let me call thee sire !" 
 
 The baron bent his wondering gaze 
 
 Upon the speaker's beaming face ; 
 
 The youth was at his feet^nis brow 
 
 Was burning with a crimson glow, 
 
 His lips were parted, and his cheek 
 
 Fluah'd with the thoughts he could not speak, 
 
 And his dark eye was raised above, 
 
 With mingled glance of hope and love. 
 
 He turn'd to Lenore, and her downcast eye, 
 Her trembling frame, her heaving sigh, 
 Her cheek, now flush'd, now deadly pale, 
 In silence told the maiden's tale ! 
 
 " My children be happy ! henceforth to your sire 
 Shall your peace be his highest, his noblest desire ; 
 He shall see you enjoy, with a rapture tenfold, 
 Those affections he well nigh had barter'd for gold ! 
 And sorrow's dark pinion shall shadow no more 
 The loves of brave Erstein and fair Lenore." 
 
 1838. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 .
 
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