POEMS.

By Mrs. M. S. B. DANA.

THE
PARTED FAMILY,
AND
OTHER POEMS.

AN OFFERING TO THE AFFLICTED,

AND

A TRIBUTE OF LOVE TO DEPARTED FRIENDS.

BY

MARY S. B. DANA,
Author of “The Southern Harp,” &c.

“Is it well with thee? Is it well with thy husband? Is it well with the child?” And she answered, “It is well.”

II Kings iv. 26.

NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY DAYTON & SAXTON,
CORNER OF FULTON AND NASSAU STREETS.

BOSTON:
SAXTON AND PEIRCE.
1842.

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by
MARY S. B. DANA,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

It is with some degree of diffidence, that the writer of these Poems presents them to the public. The unexpected and abundant favor with which her late work, “The Southern Harp,” has been every where received, has given her heartfelt gratification; and perhaps her latent susceptibility, roused by the flattering encomiums of an indulgent public, may blind her judgment, and lead her into error. When she is in danger of venturing beyond her depth, and sinking in the treacherous waves of popular favor,

“May some kind power the giftie gie her,

To see herself as others see her,”

Or kindly lend a helping hand,

To lead her from the dang’rous strand.

It is, however, but justice to the writer to say, that many of these Poems have been submitted to the inspection of those in whose judgment she could confide, and she has been, with very cheering expressions of approbation, strongly advised to give them to the public; and many of her afflicted friends, who have perused them, have not only advised their publication, but have made it a subject of earnest request. A few of them have appeared in the “New York Observer,” “The Augusta Mirror,” and other periodicals; but by far the greater part of them are now published for the first time.

It will not require much penetration to discover that most of the Poems have been hastily written, and written rather under the guidance of feeling than of sober reflection; but, from the nature of their subjects, this last feature will be easily understood. It was some time after the severe afflictions to which allusion is made, before the writer could dwell upon them in this way, and thus render more vivid, scenes which were already too prominently before her mind; yet it was a tribute of love she was anxious to pay to the dear departed, and such things should not be too long deferred. Perhaps, hereafter, when time shall have shed its healing balm upon her heart, they can be essentially improved.

While the writer would solicit the indulgence of the literary public, she invites that kind and candid criticism, which would tend to improve her style, and correct her faults.

’Tis said that ancient authors on the shelf

Laid by their works till years had roll’d away;

But ah! they did not, like my humble self,

Live in an age of steam! Each passing day

Now flies, and with it, many a sparkling ray

Of native genius flies—for want of time,

Lost to our darken’d world. ’Tis true they say

Men never wrote so much, both prose and rhyme;

But then their writings range from silly to sublime.

This truly is an age for making books;

And many now are candidates for fame,

Who give, like some ingenious pastry cooks,

A patch’d-up dish with new high sounding name;

And Fortune, who is aye a partial dame,

Oft wreathes the laurel round a brainless head,

’Till grave posterity, with wiser aim,

Unwreathes the victor’s brow, alive or dead,

And gives the laurel crown to modest worth instead.

M. S. B. D.

THE PARTED FAMILY.

“Wait on the Lord, be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.” Psalm xxvii. 14.

Toll not for every joy a parting knell!

Say not to every smile, a last farewell!

O ye, who mourn in sorrow’s darkest night,

Wait on the Lord. He dwells enthron’d in light!

His glory can irradiate the gloom

Of every heart, whose hopes are in the tomb!

There is a power can pierce the darksome cloud

Which overhangs your soul with sable shroud.

O, when the soul is lifted up to Heaven

By the meek penitent, who, sorrow-driven,

Flies to her Savior God, and stretches high

Her supplicating hands in agony,

Bearing aloft to Heaven her bleeding heart,

In silent eloquence to plead her part;

Then comes an influence down, soft, sweet, and still,

Like dews of night, on some fair grassy hill

Parch’d by the noonday sun, whose drooping flowers

Hold up their heads, and wait the morning hours,

To spread their sparkling beauties to the light,

And gladden weary mortals with the sight.

So comes to those who wait, a potent balm

From God’s own hand—a spirit-soothing calm,

Which strengthens all the heart, and sheds abroad

A savor of th’ almighty love of God.

So soft, so sweet, so still, its gliding flow,

None see its coming, all its presence know.

I saw a sufferer once—her wounds were deep,

And wide, and deadly, yet she could not weep;

But drop by drop her heart’s blood seemed to go,

And misery sore drank up her spirit’s flow.

Pale grief sat pictured on her woful face,

And every movement gave despair a place.

Not long she suffer’d thus—she rais’d her eyes,

All burning in their anguish, to the skies,

With outstretch’d arms and bursting heart she cried

To Him, whose pierced hands and bleeding side

Told of his dying love, “O, pity me!

O, pity me! I cast myself on thee!”

Was all that she could say; but Jesus heard

Her broken cry, and at his sovereign word,

Sweet tears came trickling down her marble cheek,

And tenderly did angel voices speak:

They whisper’d gently in her ravish’d ear,

“Jesus is here, sad mourner! Do not fear.”

Fast fled the gloom from that o’erclouded brow,

And peace stole softly o’er her features now;

And a new song was given her to sing,

Though all was gone to which her heart could cling,

And she a stranger was in that far land,

Without a tender mother’s fostering hand,

Far from a father’s ever watchful care,

Far from a sister’s sympathizing tear—

Still could she sing with rapture-beaming eye,

Her pallid features brightening joyfully,

And Heaven was all her theme. Her voice would ring

A grateful anthem to the glorious King

Who conquer’d death, and made the lonely tomb

Seem a soft resting place, a peaceful home,

Where the tired wanderer shuts his weary eyes,

And bids a glad farewell to tears and sighs.

And O, the soul! she saw in visions bright,

The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light,

Her eye of faith she raised with fearful joy,

And they were there—her husband—and her boy!

Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm;

If storms arise, thy deep, rich, holy calm,

Comes with a spirit-influence to the breast,

And to the weary mourner whispers—rest!

Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead!

Rest—for the longing spirit, heavenward fled!

Rest—from a tiresome path, in weakness trod!

Rest—in the bosom of the Savior, God!

Far in the west—the boundless, prairied west,

Where nature revels, in her beauty drest,

Where roll the waters of that noble stream,

“Father of Rivers” called—the poet’s theme!

How oft the traveler deems he finds a home,

And plants his weary feet, no more to roam,

Feasts his delighted eyes on pastures green,

Nor dreams a blight can mar the lovely scene!

But many there no place of rest may have,

Save in one little spot—their early grave!

Homes of the west! too oft your precincts prove

Sad sepulchres of woman’s dearest love;

The tombs where lie enshrined her brightest joys,

When ruthless death her earthly hope destroys.

Bright was her home whose tale of wo I tell;

Hope ever paints her glittering landscape well,

And fair the tissues love and fancy show,

While joy o’erspreads the whole with radiant glow.

But now the scene was changed from earth to Heaven;

O’er things below brooded the gloom of even;

But an attractive brightness drew her gaze,

Where Heaven’s pure light stream’d in effulgent rays.

And strangers gazed, and wondered at the sight;

Round that lone being glow’d a hallow’d light;

Upon her pale thin face a heaven-born smile

Play’d like a sunbeam on some lonely isle.

Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song,

Like the low moaning wind the trees among,

And you could see her tender heart was riven,

And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven.

Oft when the god of day had sunk to rest,

And twilight lingered in the rosy west,

Still would she wander forth with noiseless tread,

And by a secret influence, spirit-led,

Seek the same spot to which her step would stray

With those she loved—but now, O, where are they?

At that soft, holy hour, in days gone by,

There might be seen that joyous family,

Husband, and wife, and child—’twas all so fair

Where all was love, it made an Eden there!

Retired from all the stirring scenes of life,

Who look’d so happy as that fair young wife?

The hand she loved had raised that vine-clad bower,

And o’er it trained full many a fragrant flower;

The heart she prized was beating near her side,

How throbb’d her own, that moment, in her pride!

On a soft grassy seat together there,

Her hand in his, the breeze that waved her hair

Seem’d not so sweet to that confiding one,

As the warm breath of him she gazed upon,

As o’er her with a touching smile he bent,

And spoke of love, and joy, and sweet content.

Her head lay pillow’d on his noble breast;

O, that she e’er should lose her place of rest!

Her prattling boy was standing at her knee;

Clear rang his silver voice in tones of glee,

As, shouting to his faithful dog, he cried,

“Come, Ralph, get up! I’ll take a little ride!”

Then would he strive to mount in mirthful mood,

But fractious oft he found his charger rude,

Now up, now down, the boy or dog would be,

Over and over tumbling playfully.

The smiling parents watch their sportive play,

Well pleased to see their darling boy so gay;

The mother whispers in her husband’s ear,

“Is he not beautiful?” she says, “my dear!”

“He is a noble boy,” he quick replies,

“O, long may he be spared to bless our eyes!

“But see! thy mute guitar neglected stands;

“Come, dearest, take it in thy willing hands,

“And sing to me one of thine own sweet songs,

“Surely the need of song to thee belongs.”

Thus sweetly urged, she tunes her soft guitar,

While the still evening sends her notes afar;

Quick at the sound, her music-loving boy

Stands at her side, partaker of their joy;

His playmate too, the shaggy dog, sits by,

Observing all with meek obedient eye.

And now her fingers sweep the tuneful strings,

As thus, with trembling voice, she plaintive sings:

Gently, gently, beating heart!

Love not earthly things too well;

Those who love may quickly part,

Sorrow’s waves too soon may swell.

Softly, softly, boding fear!

Tell me not of fleeting bliss;

Ever would I linger here,

With a joy so pure as this.

Shame thee, shame thee, earthly love!

Chain not thus my spirit here;

Earth must change, and joy must prove

Sure precursor of despair.

Cheer thee, cheer thee, child of God!

Trust in Heaven, and all is well;

Come the smile, or fall the rod,

Cheer thee, cheer thee, all is well!

The pensive song thus ended, all was still;

A warning voice had told of coming ill;

A big tear gather’d in the mother’s eye,

But ere it dropp’d, the father silently

Wiped it away, and kiss’d his wife’s pale cheek,

Though not a word could either parent speak.

The startled boy, with anxious restless eye,

Gazed on each one by turns mysteriously;

His quiv’ring lip gave signal of distress,

And seem’d to ask, “My mother, what is this?”

She who had wrought the spell was troubled too,

To see what one foreboding song could do;

O, was there need to feel her music so?

Was this the presage of a coming wo?

She play’d again a lively interlude,

And sang once more a song of merrier mood;

The spell was broken, and blest music’s power

Was felt again in that eventful hour;

Bright smiles were seen where gloom had been so late,

And burden’d hearts threw off their gathering weight;

Unconscious childhood turned again to play,

And peace resum’d its own delightful sway.

There sits a mourner solitary now,

With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow;

Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,

When last they sat beneath their favorite shade;

Hush’d is the voice which ever to her own

Answer’d in tones of tenderness alone;

Still’d are the merry notes of childish glee,

And she is left—of all that family.

She looks abroad, and sees no welcome smile;

No cheerful sounds her long, long hours beguile;

She looks within—and all is mute despair;

She looks to Heaven—O, joy! her all is there!

Do angels hover o’er that lonely place,

Bearing sweet messages of heavenly grace?

Do sainted spirits come from Heaven to those

Whom they have loved on earth, to soothe their woes?

See! o’er her face how spreads a kindling ray,

She, who must tread alone her weary way.

But oft in secret hours her tears must flow,

For sweet are tears to hearts o’ercharged with wo.

Well, pour them freely forth, they end with night,[1]

Bright joy stands waiting for the morning light.

A little longer now, and all is won;

Thou hast till break of day to struggle on.

Poor tired wanderer! gather all thy strength;

See, from the east gray morning dawns at length!

Hail to the breaking day! one moment more,

Tears, sighings, groans, and sorrows, all are o’er.

Raise up thy head—bright gleams the morning sun,

Hail to thy home in Heaven, poor sorrowing one!

July, 1840.

FOOTNOTE

[1] “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND.

The following piece was composed while viewing a beautiful sunset from the capitol at Washington, in September, 1835.

The day draws near its close, love,

But I am far from thee;

A sweet and calm repose, love,

This hour once brought to me.

But now I am alone, love,

And all the weary day,

I feel that thou art gone, love,

How can I then be gay?

Could’st thou with me enjoy, love,

This glorious sunset hour,

Of bliss without alloy, love,

My soul would feel the power.

But now my mourning heart, love,

Is struggling to be free;

O, could it hence depart, love,

’Twould join itself to thee.

If hanging on thy arm, love,

I could with rapture gaze,

And view without alarm, love,

Those mild departing rays;

But now they speak of change, love,

And dearest pleasures gone,

Thoughts to my bosom strange, love,

Sad thoughts come rushing on.

If nought of pain or harm, love,

Could cloud our future days,

Then nature’s sweetest charm, love,

Would nought but pleasure raise:

But in a changing world, love,