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?’ ‘O, 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 of 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.’” The following verses, written soon after, show the state of her feelings: —
“Earth, thou hast but 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 pinioned spirit fain would roam,
And leave this crumbling house of clay,
To seek, above, its own bright home!
O, how mysterious is the bond
Which blends the earthly with the pure,
And mingles that which death may blight
With that 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.
Compound of weakness and of strength;
Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power;
Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,
Yet meaner than the lowliest flower! —
Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still
To earth, by many a purer tie!
Longing to breathe a tender air,
Yet fearing, trembling thus to die!”
Some verses written about the same period show the feelings she held towards her sister Lucretia.
“My sister! with that thrilling word
What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring!
What echoes in my heart are stirred,
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 bind,
In its deep cell, one look, one tone,
To glide along on memory’s stream,
And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee;
Ere I knew aught but childhood’s dream,
Thy soul had struggled, and was free.
I cannot weep that thou art fled;
Forever blends my soul with thine;
Each thought, by purer impulse led,
Is soaring on to realms divine.
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, every where.
Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep,
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 lowering brow of woe.
Thou gem of light! my leading star!
What thou hast been I strive to be;
When from the path I wander far,
O, 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.
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 quenched the bright, poetic fire;
Yet still I bend my ear, to catch
The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.
O, if this partial converse now
So joyous to my heart can be,
How must the streams of rapture flow,
When both are chainless, 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!”
Although the extracts from the works of this gifted being have been so extensive, we cannot forbear giving some portions of a piece written about the same period, and entitled —
“Launched 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 on life’s dark stream, —
Nature, sweet soother of our care,
Has 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 chained down
By doubt, and loneliness, and care,
Feels but misfortune’s chilling frown,
And broods in darkness and despair.
Favored by Heaven, O, 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
