it be,
That they still find a foe in thee?
The Farewell
Farewell!—but thou wilt soon forget
The stranger thou hast seen,
And in the gay and busy world,
Forget that I have been.
And thought of me will scarce intrude,
When other forms are nigh;
Who, decked in beauty’s bright array,
Shall pass before thine eye.
Another’s lips will charm thee then,
Another’s voice will praise;
Thou wilt forget we e’er have met
In past and happy days.
And thou wilt scarcely deign to think
Of friendship’s early dream,
Or cast one glance, in after years,
On this poor offering.
Farewell—farewell!—’twere better far
That we had never met,
Than meeting one brief moment here,
To part—and then forget.
A Mother’s Grief
There lies the sole remaining hope
Of all my coming years;
The treasure of my widow’d heart,
The tie that bound me here.
He was the last—the loveliest,
And can you blame my grief,
Or chide the falling tears which give
This bursting heart relief?
There’s nothing left for me to love
This earth holds nothing dear,
Since he, my sweet—my gentle one,
Is now no longer here.
My poor fond heart had counted on
Such bliss, in future hours!
And I had dreamed his coming days
Here strewed with fairy flowers!
Perchance ’twas wrong to love him thus,
And I have been chastised—
For He who gave him to my trust,
Hath called him to the skies.
He was too dear—oh! far too dear,
The idol of my soul—
Then blame me not—this burst of grief
I cannot now control.
To the Hibernia
O, speed thee! speed thee! gallant bark,
Across the bounding wave;
Thou bearest to old Britain’s shores,
The Champion of the slave.
Propitious breezes waft thee on,
Safe o’er Atlantic’s sea;
For many a heart with fervor sends
A benizon to thee.
And he who fears not to commit
His body to thy care,
Fears not to brave the winds and waves,
Knowing that God is there.
He goes to raise the standard high,
And freedom’s flag unfurl,
And to proclaim the rallying cry
Of freedom to the world.
Then swift and steady be thy flight,
Across the briny wave;
And safely bear, O noble bark,
The Champion of the slave.
Life
To see our pathway strewn with flowers,
While ’neath their sunny hue,
We fear that many a rankling care
Lies hidden from our view;
To cull the flowers, to love their bloom,
A season to enjoy;
To mark the blast that rudely comes
Their beauties to destroy:—
Such is our life. How full of change!
How much of hope or fears!
Scarce on the cheek is seen the smile,
Ere it is lost in tears.
To see the cherished things of earth,
On which we placed the heart,
Fade, one by one, before our eyes,
And silently depart;—
This is our life—and who can tell
What future hours may bring?
What hopes will cheer the panting heart,
While close to earth we cling?
The morning of our days are bright,
And could the vision last—
But ’tis forbid—oh! changeful life,
How soon the dream is past!
And they are gone—that little band
Of friends—the firm and true!
We feel the void which absence makes,
With joy, and sorrow too.
We joy that duties call them forth,
Clad in an armor bright;
With shield of faith, their surest guard,
And sword of truth and light.
We bid God speed their parting steps,
And bless the righteous cause:—
Where’er the path of duty points,
May duty never pause.
And yet, we sorrow most of all,
And from the heart deplore,
That we perchance on earth again
May see these friends no more.
Their works shall live when other deeds,
Which ask a nation’s fame,
Have sank beneath Time’s whelming wave,
Unhonored and unnamed.
My Country
Oh! speak not of heathenish darkness again,
Nor tell me of lands held in error’s dread chain!
Where—where is the nation so erring as we,
Who claim the proud name of the “home of the free”!
What a throb do the lov’d ties of country awake
In the heart of the exile!—for time cannot break
The sweet vision of home, and all he loved well,
Which has thrown o’er his pathway a magical spell.
Can the name of “my country”—the deeds which we sing—
Be honored—revered—’midst pollution and sin?
Can the names of our fathers who perished in fight,
Be hallowed in story, midst slavery’s blight?
When America’s standard is floating so fair,
I blush that the impress of falsehood is there;
That oppression and mockery dim the high fame,
That seeks from all nations a patriot’s name.
Speak not of “my country,” unless she shall be,
In truth, the bright home of the “brave and the free!”
Till the dark stain of slavery is washed from her hand,
A tribute of homage she cannot command.
Dear cherished hours, how much ye tell
Of all we’ve known, and loved so well!
On memory’s page there is a leaf,
Bearing a trace of pleasures brief;
Of schoolday mirth, of pastime gay,
With which we whiled those hours away.
And those we loved in early youth,
With all the fervency of truth—
They seem to live, and pass us by,
With laughing lip and beaming eye.
Each favorite spot, each winding stream,
Where we have watched the bright sunbeam,
Appears at memory’s magic spell—
And joys, to which we bid farewell.
When grief and bliss are in the train
Of hours we ne’er shall live again;
When sorrow clouds our after years,
And fills our cup with bitter tears;
’Tis then we wait a sigh to ye
O by-gone days of memory.
An Appeal to Woman
Oh, woman, woman, in thy brightest hour
Of conscious worth, of pride, of conscious power,
Oh, nobly dare to act a Christian’s part,
That well befits a lovely woman’s heart!
Dare to be good, as thou canst dare be great;
Despise the taunts of envy, scorn and hate;
Our “skins may differ,” but from thee we claim
A sister’s privilege, in a sister’s name.
We are thy sisters—God has truly said,
That of one blood, the nations he has made.
Oh, Christian woman, in a Christian land,
Canst thou unblushing read this great command?
Suffer the wrongs which wring our inmost heart
To draw one throb of
