MY SISTER.[9]

I.Ah me! the joyous scenes of other daysAre crowding on my view. The mental eyeIs aching from the long and ardent gazeOn these bright pictures of my memory.I am in danger of idolatry;It were not well to idolize the past,And so forget the present. Blessings lieAll—all around me, but I vainly castA longing eye to things that were too bright to last.II.Sweet vine, that creep’st along the lattice workOf my dear western window! where the beamsOf the departing sun do wanton lurkTo kiss thy blushing flowers, or with bright gleamsTo peep through all thine ever opening seams,When gentle breezes are at play with thee!Dear to my heart thy curtain’d verdure! DreamsOf former joyous days thou bring’st to me,When as a child I roam’d where vines were waving free.III.I do bethink me of the jessamine,The pride of Carolina’s early spring!Whene’er to swell the yellow buds begin,Their odors fly on every breezy wing,And far and near the delicate perfume fling.And when the fragrant flowers have opened wide,While to the forest pines the tendrils cling,It is a sight to raise a Southron’s pride,To see on lofty boughs the golden flowers ride.IV.I’d leave the city gardens when our ownSweet jessamines are blooming. Fairy landIs not more beautiful, than when, full blown,The jasmine, gilt by the Creator’s hand,Hangs all around us. Then ’tis sweet to stand,At early morning, with a friend we love,Beneath our fragrant bowers, while pure and bland,The playful zephyrs o’er the flow’rets move,And bring a perfumed breath from many a dewy grove.V.I had a gentle sister once; and, O,I have one now; but she of whom I sing—Our Jane—was in an early grave laid low,A victim to the stern relentless king,Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing—Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died,I lost a friend indeed; my heart did clingTo her sweet love, and in that love confide;For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide.VI.How often have we roved together, whereOur fav’rite jasmine grew, and sat us downTo twine a wreath each in the other’s hair;Or tax’d our skill to form a golden crown,Forgetful that the sun would soon embrownOur city faces with his kisses rude!Nor cared we for the dull and dusty town,When we could wander through the lonely wood,And feel in all their power the sweets of sisterhood.VII.I’m never weary of a country life,Where tedious city noises ne’er intrude;O, I have sicken’d when the jarring strifeOf various sounds has reach’d my solitude—Discordant gabblings of the city brood!’Mid rural scenes my thoughts all tranquil flow,Attired in many a sweet similitude,For poets much to rural emblems owe,The great domain of nature is their studio.VIII.My sister had a poet’s eye and heart;Ye’ll not deny she had a poet’s face!For ye could often see the teardrop start,And many a proof of high wrought feeling traceIn every delicate feature’s changefulness.If early she had not been call’d to die,She might have found an enviable place,Amid that throng who’ve gain’d distinction highBy clothing burning thoughts in sweetest poetry.IX.My fellow man, despise not poetry!It is “a holy thing”—it is the chainElectric, hanging from the glorious sky.Touch it—it is a sov’reign cure for pain—A remedy not often tried in vain.Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you,And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain;He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew,And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too.X.A real poet is a friend to man,And I will aye revere the sacred name;He is in truth a skilful artisan,And his material is thought. The flameThat burns within the poet’s breast, doth aimTo purify the thoughts of every mind,And place them in a brightly gilded frame,For curious posterity enshrined;And thus he ever seeks to elevate mankind.XI.This was my sister’s aim. She lived to blessAnd comfort all around her. DiscontentWas banish’d from her bosom. TendernessIts beaming softness to her features lent,And made each gentle movement eloquent.And she was gifted too. She could delightHer friends with many a sweet accomplishment:Her voice was music—and her sportive witMade her of old and young the general favorite.XII.She had a soul attuned in sweet accord,Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay,Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard,Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay;Each trembling chord within her breast would playLike an Æolian harp, with concord sweet;And though no sound her feelings would betray,Her soul was all with melody replete—O, it was music’s self—an instrument complete.XIII.Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell!Was she not gifted? Ye who knew her, say!The love ye bore her speaks your answer well.Your falling tears did more than words convey,When it was told you she had pass’d away—She, who had won the warm enduring loveAlike of old and young, of grave and gay!Ye speak of her as one who dwells above;I want no other words your high regard to prove.XIV.Some would have thought her cheek a shade too pale,Or that her lovely languid eye lack’d fire;For fair she was as lily of the vale,And ’neath her snowy lids would oft retireHer gentle eyes; but this provoked desireTo see those eyes once more; for what is rareAnd seldom seen, we always most admire;Some eyes of liquid love more dang’rous are,Than eyes of sparkling light that shame the evening star.XV.She lack’d the beauty of “a damask’d skin,”But there were roses lying near at hand,To spring into her cheek; oft from withinThey came, call’d up at feeling’s high command,And on the glowing surface long remain’d.O, shewasbeautiful, when her soft eyeWould speak the feelings all could understand,And on her cheek glow’d heaven-born sympathy!O, sympathy! thou hast strange power to beautify.XVI.There stands a country church within a wood,Embower’d by branches green—a vocal shade,Where all the livelong week to solitudeGay plumaged birds their cheerful music made.How often have we there together strayed,In sweet retirement long hours to spend—To listen to the warbled serenade,Or talk of many a dear departed friend;Or, to our absent ones, our wishful thoughts to send.XVII.O, that my friends would ever think of meIn such dear solitudes, far, far awayFrom this world’s bustle. Then fond memoryCan take a long and undisturb’d surveyOf scenes long past, in beautiful array.’Mid nature’s peaceful shades they will forgetThe wayward follies of my life’s short day,And only think of me with fond regret,And link my name with many a pleasing epithet.XVIII.So may I be remembered, when my heartHas ceased its beating!—when the purple tideHas curdled in my veins, that used t’ impartLife, health, and vigor to me. GlorifiedThen may my spirit be! But this besideI wish, that those who’ve known and loved me here,In lonely hours would sometimes turn aside,O, not to weep beside my early bier,But just to think of me as one to mem’ry dear.XIX.Sweet sister! thus thy friends remember thee;They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate,Thus early call’d to that eternityWhere perfect joys the ransom’d soul await.O, not with tears and hearts disconsolateArt thou lamented! While we mourn our loss,’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate;And thus we learn to count as only dross,All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross.XX.That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme;Earth’s evanescent pleasures could not lureThy heart from him who had thy love supreme.No, dearest! rather would that heart endureThe utmost strength of persecution’s power,Than e’er deny the friend who died for thee!But now, dear angel! now thou art secureFrom sorrow, and from sin’s dark tyranny!Yes! thou art safe in Heaven, from sin and sorrow free!XXI.That head that lean’d upon our mother’s breastWith such a fond confiding tenderness—That often aching head, is now at rest!O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to pressClose to my loving heart; but motionlessThat form now lies beneath the silent sod!Well—rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness,Till glorious life shall visit thine abode,And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God!XXII.When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now,To wake no more till waken’d by the soundOf the archangel’s trumpet? Here belowI would not always dwell. The cold damp groundHas sweeter charms for me than can be foundOn downy pillow. I shall not be freeTill pale faced mourners shall my grave surround,And many a faithful friend who loveth me,Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.XXIII.For my poor heart is often full of grief—All seems so dark around me. Stubborn fateHas left me like a seared autumn leaf,Nearly alone. Whene’er I meditateOn my once peaceful, joyful, blest estate,And think how chang’d are all my prospects now,Myfuturejoys I must anticipate,Else would I ’neath the weight of anguish bow,And gloom, dark frowning gloom, would overcloud my brow.XXIV.The very things my soul refused to touch[10]Are as my sorrowful meat. O, woe is me!For all night long with tears I wet my couch,And peaceful thoughts far from my pillow flee;O, God! let loose thy hand, and set me free!How can I live—for is my strength of stones,Or is my flesh of brass? Woe, woe is me!The livelong day my breath is turned to groans;My God has troubled me, and broken all my bones.XXV.But cease, desponding heart! To Heaven liftWith earnest faith thine agonizing cry,And ask for patience. Patience is a giftOf rare attainment. Disappointments try—Severely try our frail humanity,And chafe the delicate framework of the mind,Unless ’tis steel’d by patience. O, may IBe sweetly to my Father’s will resign’d,And thus ’mid all my woes, I still may comfort find.XXVI.How many cares do press the soul to earth,Nor can we rid us of them! How they clingTo love, to friendship! Ah! they have their birthWhere love and friendship reign; for every thingOur loved ones feel, we feel. Their sorrows wringOur inmost hearts. The hardest grief to bearIs that of others when we cannot bringJoy to the stricken heart, nor wipe the tear,Nor cure the countless ills of which we daily hear.XXVII.Iwillnot mourn my loved ones who are dead;I know they are in Heaven. O, happy thought!Sorrow, away! He who on Calv’ry bledFor all who love him, has redemption bought,And for the soul a righteousness has wrought,So pure, so spotless, that the King of kingsWill look upon it, and refuse it not!Fly, fly, my soul, on faith’s triumphant wings,Nor grovel here on earth, amid these gloomy things!XXVIII.There is an hour which cometh unto all—A solemn trying hour that must be met;’Tis when the damps of death around us fall,As night dews gather ere the sun is set.When comes that hour to me, I’ll not forgetThe only friend, whose friendship can availTo bear me safely through “death’s iron gate”—To chase away the foes who dare assailMy trembling, dying heart, when flesh and spirit fail.XXIX.My sister Jane! I did not see thee die,Though I was near thee when thy spirit fled;It nearly broke my heart to think that ICould not be bending o’er thy dying bed—Supporting in mine arms thy fainting head!It was God’s holy will to lay me low,And, ere I left my couch, O, thou wert dead!It pleased my Father that it should be so,And I will not repine, my heavenly Father! No!XXX.And she—our sole surviving sister—whoDid love thee, dearest! with such tenderness,In thy last hour was absent from thee too!Well, all is right—and we must acquiesceIn God’s most wise appointments, and confessThat he doth all things well—so let it be!Yes, holy Father! and thy name we bless,That our sweet sister was so dear to thee—One of thy chosen ones, from all eternity!XXXI.But she was not alone when death was near;For, though so far from her dear southern home,Her father, mother, brother, all were there!And her adopted sister too had comeTo see her loved one die. That silent roomWas not by hireling strangers occupied,Whisp’ring their wonder at thine early doom;No—no—it was not thus my sister died—Her own belov’d ones stood her dying bed beside.XXXII.My brother rais’d her in his own fond arms,But just before her eager spirit fled;She smiled as if she saw seraphic charms,And in another moment she was dead!I heard a voice of weeping, and I saidTo one who watch’d beside me, “Do you hearThat sound? What is it?”? She this answer made,“’Tis nothing.” Soon it died upon my ear,And then I sank to sleep, not dreaming death was there.XXXIII.And my dear angel sister was in Heaven!A happy spirit—grief and anguish o’er—All suff’rings ended—all her sins forgiven—Safe landed on that bright immortal shoreBeyond cold Jordan’s stream! O, never moreCould mortal sickness waste her feeble frame!No, sister, no! Death had no further powerTo harm thee. Like a long forgotten dreamDid all thy woes—thy pains—thine earthly sorrows seem.XXXIV.There was a deathlike stillness—but the truthNe’er flash’d upon me, till the morning came,That the beloved companion of my youthHad passed away. I knew her suff’ring frameGrew weaker every day—I knew the flameOf life was burning with a feeble light,But when the taper gave its parting gleam,I knew it not! Her spirit took its flightWhile I was wrapt in sleep, that sad eventful night.XXXV.I should not call it sad. It was not sad!When morning came, they told me life had fled;I saw my father’s brow with paleness clad,I saw my mother raise her aching head,And they both told me that our Jane was dead—But that she was in Heaven! Then all drew near,And, while they knelt around, my father pray’d;He held my thin pale hand—and, O, that prayer!His solemn deep toned voice e’en now I seem to hear!XXXVI.Well—let that pass. My honor’d father lives—I must not praise the living. But I mayImplore of Him who every blessing gives,Long, long to spare him to us. Yes, I pray,My heavenly Father! that the trying dayOf separation may not quickly come;Take not my few remaining friends away;Hide not my loved ones in the envious tomb,Unless it please thee first to take my spirit home.XXXVII.They told me she look’d beautiful in death,My lovely sister! and I long’d to seeThat calm repose; for with her parting breathThere came a look of peace—of ecstasy,Which settled on her features. EagerlyI prayed I might be carried to her side,To gaze upon the face so dear to me;And in a moment arms were open’d wide—My husband’s faithful arms; and I was gratified!

Ah me! the joyous scenes of other daysAre crowding on my view. The mental eyeIs aching from the long and ardent gazeOn these bright pictures of my memory.I am in danger of idolatry;It were not well to idolize the past,And so forget the present. Blessings lieAll—all around me, but I vainly castA longing eye to things that were too bright to last.

Ah me! the joyous scenes of other days

Are crowding on my view. The mental eye

Is aching from the long and ardent gaze

On these bright pictures of my memory.

I am in danger of idolatry;

It were not well to idolize the past,

And so forget the present. Blessings lie

All—all around me, but I vainly cast

A longing eye to things that were too bright to last.

II.

Sweet vine, that creep’st along the lattice workOf my dear western window! where the beamsOf the departing sun do wanton lurkTo kiss thy blushing flowers, or with bright gleamsTo peep through all thine ever opening seams,When gentle breezes are at play with thee!Dear to my heart thy curtain’d verdure! DreamsOf former joyous days thou bring’st to me,When as a child I roam’d where vines were waving free.

Sweet vine, that creep’st along the lattice work

Of my dear western window! where the beams

Of the departing sun do wanton lurk

To kiss thy blushing flowers, or with bright gleams

To peep through all thine ever opening seams,

When gentle breezes are at play with thee!

Dear to my heart thy curtain’d verdure! Dreams

Of former joyous days thou bring’st to me,

When as a child I roam’d where vines were waving free.

III.

I do bethink me of the jessamine,The pride of Carolina’s early spring!Whene’er to swell the yellow buds begin,Their odors fly on every breezy wing,And far and near the delicate perfume fling.And when the fragrant flowers have opened wide,While to the forest pines the tendrils cling,It is a sight to raise a Southron’s pride,To see on lofty boughs the golden flowers ride.

I do bethink me of the jessamine,

The pride of Carolina’s early spring!

Whene’er to swell the yellow buds begin,

Their odors fly on every breezy wing,

And far and near the delicate perfume fling.

And when the fragrant flowers have opened wide,

While to the forest pines the tendrils cling,

It is a sight to raise a Southron’s pride,

To see on lofty boughs the golden flowers ride.

IV.

I’d leave the city gardens when our ownSweet jessamines are blooming. Fairy landIs not more beautiful, than when, full blown,The jasmine, gilt by the Creator’s hand,Hangs all around us. Then ’tis sweet to stand,At early morning, with a friend we love,Beneath our fragrant bowers, while pure and bland,The playful zephyrs o’er the flow’rets move,And bring a perfumed breath from many a dewy grove.

I’d leave the city gardens when our own

Sweet jessamines are blooming. Fairy land

Is not more beautiful, than when, full blown,

The jasmine, gilt by the Creator’s hand,

Hangs all around us. Then ’tis sweet to stand,

At early morning, with a friend we love,

Beneath our fragrant bowers, while pure and bland,

The playful zephyrs o’er the flow’rets move,

And bring a perfumed breath from many a dewy grove.

I had a gentle sister once; and, O,I have one now; but she of whom I sing—Our Jane—was in an early grave laid low,A victim to the stern relentless king,Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing—Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died,I lost a friend indeed; my heart did clingTo her sweet love, and in that love confide;For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide.

I had a gentle sister once; and, O,

I have one now; but she of whom I sing—

Our Jane—was in an early grave laid low,

A victim to the stern relentless king,

Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing—

Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died,

I lost a friend indeed; my heart did cling

To her sweet love, and in that love confide;

For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide.

VI.

How often have we roved together, whereOur fav’rite jasmine grew, and sat us downTo twine a wreath each in the other’s hair;Or tax’d our skill to form a golden crown,Forgetful that the sun would soon embrownOur city faces with his kisses rude!Nor cared we for the dull and dusty town,When we could wander through the lonely wood,And feel in all their power the sweets of sisterhood.

How often have we roved together, where

Our fav’rite jasmine grew, and sat us down

To twine a wreath each in the other’s hair;

Or tax’d our skill to form a golden crown,

Forgetful that the sun would soon embrown

Our city faces with his kisses rude!

Nor cared we for the dull and dusty town,

When we could wander through the lonely wood,

And feel in all their power the sweets of sisterhood.

VII.

I’m never weary of a country life,Where tedious city noises ne’er intrude;O, I have sicken’d when the jarring strifeOf various sounds has reach’d my solitude—Discordant gabblings of the city brood!’Mid rural scenes my thoughts all tranquil flow,Attired in many a sweet similitude,For poets much to rural emblems owe,The great domain of nature is their studio.

I’m never weary of a country life,

Where tedious city noises ne’er intrude;

O, I have sicken’d when the jarring strife

Of various sounds has reach’d my solitude—

Discordant gabblings of the city brood!

’Mid rural scenes my thoughts all tranquil flow,

Attired in many a sweet similitude,

For poets much to rural emblems owe,

The great domain of nature is their studio.

VIII.

My sister had a poet’s eye and heart;Ye’ll not deny she had a poet’s face!For ye could often see the teardrop start,And many a proof of high wrought feeling traceIn every delicate feature’s changefulness.If early she had not been call’d to die,She might have found an enviable place,Amid that throng who’ve gain’d distinction highBy clothing burning thoughts in sweetest poetry.

My sister had a poet’s eye and heart;

Ye’ll not deny she had a poet’s face!

For ye could often see the teardrop start,

And many a proof of high wrought feeling trace

In every delicate feature’s changefulness.

If early she had not been call’d to die,

She might have found an enviable place,

Amid that throng who’ve gain’d distinction high

By clothing burning thoughts in sweetest poetry.

IX.

My fellow man, despise not poetry!It is “a holy thing”—it is the chainElectric, hanging from the glorious sky.Touch it—it is a sov’reign cure for pain—A remedy not often tried in vain.Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you,And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain;He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew,And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too.

My fellow man, despise not poetry!

It is “a holy thing”—it is the chain

Electric, hanging from the glorious sky.

Touch it—it is a sov’reign cure for pain—

A remedy not often tried in vain.

Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you,

And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain;

He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew,

And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too.

A real poet is a friend to man,And I will aye revere the sacred name;He is in truth a skilful artisan,And his material is thought. The flameThat burns within the poet’s breast, doth aimTo purify the thoughts of every mind,And place them in a brightly gilded frame,For curious posterity enshrined;And thus he ever seeks to elevate mankind.

A real poet is a friend to man,

And I will aye revere the sacred name;

He is in truth a skilful artisan,

And his material is thought. The flame

That burns within the poet’s breast, doth aim

To purify the thoughts of every mind,

And place them in a brightly gilded frame,

For curious posterity enshrined;

And thus he ever seeks to elevate mankind.

XI.

This was my sister’s aim. She lived to blessAnd comfort all around her. DiscontentWas banish’d from her bosom. TendernessIts beaming softness to her features lent,And made each gentle movement eloquent.And she was gifted too. She could delightHer friends with many a sweet accomplishment:Her voice was music—and her sportive witMade her of old and young the general favorite.

This was my sister’s aim. She lived to bless

And comfort all around her. Discontent

Was banish’d from her bosom. Tenderness

Its beaming softness to her features lent,

And made each gentle movement eloquent.

And she was gifted too. She could delight

Her friends with many a sweet accomplishment:

Her voice was music—and her sportive wit

Made her of old and young the general favorite.

XII.

She had a soul attuned in sweet accord,Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay,Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard,Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay;Each trembling chord within her breast would playLike an Æolian harp, with concord sweet;And though no sound her feelings would betray,Her soul was all with melody replete—O, it was music’s self—an instrument complete.

She had a soul attuned in sweet accord,

Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay,

Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard,

Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay;

Each trembling chord within her breast would play

Like an Æolian harp, with concord sweet;

And though no sound her feelings would betray,

Her soul was all with melody replete—

O, it was music’s self—an instrument complete.

XIII.

Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell!Was she not gifted? Ye who knew her, say!The love ye bore her speaks your answer well.Your falling tears did more than words convey,When it was told you she had pass’d away—She, who had won the warm enduring loveAlike of old and young, of grave and gay!Ye speak of her as one who dwells above;I want no other words your high regard to prove.

Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell!

Was she not gifted? Ye who knew her, say!

The love ye bore her speaks your answer well.

Your falling tears did more than words convey,

When it was told you she had pass’d away—

She, who had won the warm enduring love

Alike of old and young, of grave and gay!

Ye speak of her as one who dwells above;

I want no other words your high regard to prove.

XIV.

Some would have thought her cheek a shade too pale,Or that her lovely languid eye lack’d fire;For fair she was as lily of the vale,And ’neath her snowy lids would oft retireHer gentle eyes; but this provoked desireTo see those eyes once more; for what is rareAnd seldom seen, we always most admire;Some eyes of liquid love more dang’rous are,Than eyes of sparkling light that shame the evening star.

Some would have thought her cheek a shade too pale,

Or that her lovely languid eye lack’d fire;

For fair she was as lily of the vale,

And ’neath her snowy lids would oft retire

Her gentle eyes; but this provoked desire

To see those eyes once more; for what is rare

And seldom seen, we always most admire;

Some eyes of liquid love more dang’rous are,

Than eyes of sparkling light that shame the evening star.

XV.

She lack’d the beauty of “a damask’d skin,”But there were roses lying near at hand,To spring into her cheek; oft from withinThey came, call’d up at feeling’s high command,And on the glowing surface long remain’d.O, shewasbeautiful, when her soft eyeWould speak the feelings all could understand,And on her cheek glow’d heaven-born sympathy!O, sympathy! thou hast strange power to beautify.

She lack’d the beauty of “a damask’d skin,”

But there were roses lying near at hand,

To spring into her cheek; oft from within

They came, call’d up at feeling’s high command,

And on the glowing surface long remain’d.

O, shewasbeautiful, when her soft eye

Would speak the feelings all could understand,

And on her cheek glow’d heaven-born sympathy!

O, sympathy! thou hast strange power to beautify.

XVI.

There stands a country church within a wood,Embower’d by branches green—a vocal shade,Where all the livelong week to solitudeGay plumaged birds their cheerful music made.How often have we there together strayed,In sweet retirement long hours to spend—To listen to the warbled serenade,Or talk of many a dear departed friend;Or, to our absent ones, our wishful thoughts to send.

There stands a country church within a wood,

Embower’d by branches green—a vocal shade,

Where all the livelong week to solitude

Gay plumaged birds their cheerful music made.

How often have we there together strayed,

In sweet retirement long hours to spend—

To listen to the warbled serenade,

Or talk of many a dear departed friend;

Or, to our absent ones, our wishful thoughts to send.

XVII.

O, that my friends would ever think of meIn such dear solitudes, far, far awayFrom this world’s bustle. Then fond memoryCan take a long and undisturb’d surveyOf scenes long past, in beautiful array.’Mid nature’s peaceful shades they will forgetThe wayward follies of my life’s short day,And only think of me with fond regret,And link my name with many a pleasing epithet.

O, that my friends would ever think of me

In such dear solitudes, far, far away

From this world’s bustle. Then fond memory

Can take a long and undisturb’d survey

Of scenes long past, in beautiful array.

’Mid nature’s peaceful shades they will forget

The wayward follies of my life’s short day,

And only think of me with fond regret,

And link my name with many a pleasing epithet.

XVIII.

So may I be remembered, when my heartHas ceased its beating!—when the purple tideHas curdled in my veins, that used t’ impartLife, health, and vigor to me. GlorifiedThen may my spirit be! But this besideI wish, that those who’ve known and loved me here,In lonely hours would sometimes turn aside,O, not to weep beside my early bier,But just to think of me as one to mem’ry dear.

So may I be remembered, when my heart

Has ceased its beating!—when the purple tide

Has curdled in my veins, that used t’ impart

Life, health, and vigor to me. Glorified

Then may my spirit be! But this beside

I wish, that those who’ve known and loved me here,

In lonely hours would sometimes turn aside,

O, not to weep beside my early bier,

But just to think of me as one to mem’ry dear.

XIX.

Sweet sister! thus thy friends remember thee;They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate,Thus early call’d to that eternityWhere perfect joys the ransom’d soul await.O, not with tears and hearts disconsolateArt thou lamented! While we mourn our loss,’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate;And thus we learn to count as only dross,All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross.

Sweet sister! thus thy friends remember thee;

They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate,

Thus early call’d to that eternity

Where perfect joys the ransom’d soul await.

O, not with tears and hearts disconsolate

Art thou lamented! While we mourn our loss,

’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate;

And thus we learn to count as only dross,

All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross.

XX.

That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme;Earth’s evanescent pleasures could not lureThy heart from him who had thy love supreme.No, dearest! rather would that heart endureThe utmost strength of persecution’s power,Than e’er deny the friend who died for thee!But now, dear angel! now thou art secureFrom sorrow, and from sin’s dark tyranny!Yes! thou art safe in Heaven, from sin and sorrow free!

That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme;

Earth’s evanescent pleasures could not lure

Thy heart from him who had thy love supreme.

No, dearest! rather would that heart endure

The utmost strength of persecution’s power,

Than e’er deny the friend who died for thee!

But now, dear angel! now thou art secure

From sorrow, and from sin’s dark tyranny!

Yes! thou art safe in Heaven, from sin and sorrow free!

XXI.

That head that lean’d upon our mother’s breastWith such a fond confiding tenderness—That often aching head, is now at rest!O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to pressClose to my loving heart; but motionlessThat form now lies beneath the silent sod!Well—rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness,Till glorious life shall visit thine abode,And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God!

That head that lean’d upon our mother’s breast

With such a fond confiding tenderness—

That often aching head, is now at rest!

O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to press

Close to my loving heart; but motionless

That form now lies beneath the silent sod!

Well—rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness,

Till glorious life shall visit thine abode,

And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God!

XXII.

When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now,To wake no more till waken’d by the soundOf the archangel’s trumpet? Here belowI would not always dwell. The cold damp groundHas sweeter charms for me than can be foundOn downy pillow. I shall not be freeTill pale faced mourners shall my grave surround,And many a faithful friend who loveth me,Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.

When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now,

To wake no more till waken’d by the sound

Of the archangel’s trumpet? Here below

I would not always dwell. The cold damp ground

Has sweeter charms for me than can be found

On downy pillow. I shall not be free

Till pale faced mourners shall my grave surround,

And many a faithful friend who loveth me,

Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.

XXIII.

For my poor heart is often full of grief—All seems so dark around me. Stubborn fateHas left me like a seared autumn leaf,Nearly alone. Whene’er I meditateOn my once peaceful, joyful, blest estate,And think how chang’d are all my prospects now,Myfuturejoys I must anticipate,Else would I ’neath the weight of anguish bow,And gloom, dark frowning gloom, would overcloud my brow.

For my poor heart is often full of grief—

All seems so dark around me. Stubborn fate

Has left me like a seared autumn leaf,

Nearly alone. Whene’er I meditate

On my once peaceful, joyful, blest estate,

And think how chang’d are all my prospects now,

Myfuturejoys I must anticipate,

Else would I ’neath the weight of anguish bow,

And gloom, dark frowning gloom, would overcloud my brow.

XXIV.

The very things my soul refused to touch[10]Are as my sorrowful meat. O, woe is me!For all night long with tears I wet my couch,And peaceful thoughts far from my pillow flee;O, God! let loose thy hand, and set me free!How can I live—for is my strength of stones,Or is my flesh of brass? Woe, woe is me!The livelong day my breath is turned to groans;My God has troubled me, and broken all my bones.

The very things my soul refused to touch[10]

Are as my sorrowful meat. O, woe is me!

For all night long with tears I wet my couch,

And peaceful thoughts far from my pillow flee;

O, God! let loose thy hand, and set me free!

How can I live—for is my strength of stones,

Or is my flesh of brass? Woe, woe is me!

The livelong day my breath is turned to groans;

My God has troubled me, and broken all my bones.

XXV.

But cease, desponding heart! To Heaven liftWith earnest faith thine agonizing cry,And ask for patience. Patience is a giftOf rare attainment. Disappointments try—Severely try our frail humanity,And chafe the delicate framework of the mind,Unless ’tis steel’d by patience. O, may IBe sweetly to my Father’s will resign’d,And thus ’mid all my woes, I still may comfort find.

But cease, desponding heart! To Heaven lift

With earnest faith thine agonizing cry,

And ask for patience. Patience is a gift

Of rare attainment. Disappointments try—

Severely try our frail humanity,

And chafe the delicate framework of the mind,

Unless ’tis steel’d by patience. O, may I

Be sweetly to my Father’s will resign’d,

And thus ’mid all my woes, I still may comfort find.

XXVI.

How many cares do press the soul to earth,Nor can we rid us of them! How they clingTo love, to friendship! Ah! they have their birthWhere love and friendship reign; for every thingOur loved ones feel, we feel. Their sorrows wringOur inmost hearts. The hardest grief to bearIs that of others when we cannot bringJoy to the stricken heart, nor wipe the tear,Nor cure the countless ills of which we daily hear.

How many cares do press the soul to earth,

Nor can we rid us of them! How they cling

To love, to friendship! Ah! they have their birth

Where love and friendship reign; for every thing

Our loved ones feel, we feel. Their sorrows wring

Our inmost hearts. The hardest grief to bear

Is that of others when we cannot bring

Joy to the stricken heart, nor wipe the tear,

Nor cure the countless ills of which we daily hear.

XXVII.

Iwillnot mourn my loved ones who are dead;I know they are in Heaven. O, happy thought!Sorrow, away! He who on Calv’ry bledFor all who love him, has redemption bought,And for the soul a righteousness has wrought,So pure, so spotless, that the King of kingsWill look upon it, and refuse it not!Fly, fly, my soul, on faith’s triumphant wings,Nor grovel here on earth, amid these gloomy things!

Iwillnot mourn my loved ones who are dead;

I know they are in Heaven. O, happy thought!

Sorrow, away! He who on Calv’ry bled

For all who love him, has redemption bought,

And for the soul a righteousness has wrought,

So pure, so spotless, that the King of kings

Will look upon it, and refuse it not!

Fly, fly, my soul, on faith’s triumphant wings,

Nor grovel here on earth, amid these gloomy things!

XXVIII.

There is an hour which cometh unto all—A solemn trying hour that must be met;’Tis when the damps of death around us fall,As night dews gather ere the sun is set.When comes that hour to me, I’ll not forgetThe only friend, whose friendship can availTo bear me safely through “death’s iron gate”—To chase away the foes who dare assailMy trembling, dying heart, when flesh and spirit fail.

There is an hour which cometh unto all—

A solemn trying hour that must be met;

’Tis when the damps of death around us fall,

As night dews gather ere the sun is set.

When comes that hour to me, I’ll not forget

The only friend, whose friendship can avail

To bear me safely through “death’s iron gate”—

To chase away the foes who dare assail

My trembling, dying heart, when flesh and spirit fail.

XXIX.

My sister Jane! I did not see thee die,Though I was near thee when thy spirit fled;It nearly broke my heart to think that ICould not be bending o’er thy dying bed—Supporting in mine arms thy fainting head!It was God’s holy will to lay me low,And, ere I left my couch, O, thou wert dead!It pleased my Father that it should be so,And I will not repine, my heavenly Father! No!

My sister Jane! I did not see thee die,

Though I was near thee when thy spirit fled;

It nearly broke my heart to think that I

Could not be bending o’er thy dying bed—

Supporting in mine arms thy fainting head!

It was God’s holy will to lay me low,

And, ere I left my couch, O, thou wert dead!

It pleased my Father that it should be so,

And I will not repine, my heavenly Father! No!

XXX.

And she—our sole surviving sister—whoDid love thee, dearest! with such tenderness,In thy last hour was absent from thee too!Well, all is right—and we must acquiesceIn God’s most wise appointments, and confessThat he doth all things well—so let it be!Yes, holy Father! and thy name we bless,That our sweet sister was so dear to thee—One of thy chosen ones, from all eternity!

And she—our sole surviving sister—who

Did love thee, dearest! with such tenderness,

In thy last hour was absent from thee too!

Well, all is right—and we must acquiesce

In God’s most wise appointments, and confess

That he doth all things well—so let it be!

Yes, holy Father! and thy name we bless,

That our sweet sister was so dear to thee—

One of thy chosen ones, from all eternity!

XXXI.

But she was not alone when death was near;For, though so far from her dear southern home,Her father, mother, brother, all were there!And her adopted sister too had comeTo see her loved one die. That silent roomWas not by hireling strangers occupied,Whisp’ring their wonder at thine early doom;No—no—it was not thus my sister died—Her own belov’d ones stood her dying bed beside.

But she was not alone when death was near;

For, though so far from her dear southern home,

Her father, mother, brother, all were there!

And her adopted sister too had come

To see her loved one die. That silent room

Was not by hireling strangers occupied,

Whisp’ring their wonder at thine early doom;

No—no—it was not thus my sister died—

Her own belov’d ones stood her dying bed beside.

XXXII.

My brother rais’d her in his own fond arms,But just before her eager spirit fled;She smiled as if she saw seraphic charms,And in another moment she was dead!I heard a voice of weeping, and I saidTo one who watch’d beside me, “Do you hearThat sound? What is it?”? She this answer made,“’Tis nothing.” Soon it died upon my ear,And then I sank to sleep, not dreaming death was there.

My brother rais’d her in his own fond arms,

But just before her eager spirit fled;

She smiled as if she saw seraphic charms,

And in another moment she was dead!

I heard a voice of weeping, and I said

To one who watch’d beside me, “Do you hear

That sound? What is it?”? She this answer made,

“’Tis nothing.” Soon it died upon my ear,

And then I sank to sleep, not dreaming death was there.

XXXIII.

And my dear angel sister was in Heaven!A happy spirit—grief and anguish o’er—All suff’rings ended—all her sins forgiven—Safe landed on that bright immortal shoreBeyond cold Jordan’s stream! O, never moreCould mortal sickness waste her feeble frame!No, sister, no! Death had no further powerTo harm thee. Like a long forgotten dreamDid all thy woes—thy pains—thine earthly sorrows seem.

And my dear angel sister was in Heaven!

A happy spirit—grief and anguish o’er—

All suff’rings ended—all her sins forgiven—

Safe landed on that bright immortal shore

Beyond cold Jordan’s stream! O, never more

Could mortal sickness waste her feeble frame!

No, sister, no! Death had no further power

To harm thee. Like a long forgotten dream

Did all thy woes—thy pains—thine earthly sorrows seem.

XXXIV.

There was a deathlike stillness—but the truthNe’er flash’d upon me, till the morning came,That the beloved companion of my youthHad passed away. I knew her suff’ring frameGrew weaker every day—I knew the flameOf life was burning with a feeble light,But when the taper gave its parting gleam,I knew it not! Her spirit took its flightWhile I was wrapt in sleep, that sad eventful night.

There was a deathlike stillness—but the truth

Ne’er flash’d upon me, till the morning came,

That the beloved companion of my youth

Had passed away. I knew her suff’ring frame

Grew weaker every day—I knew the flame

Of life was burning with a feeble light,

But when the taper gave its parting gleam,

I knew it not! Her spirit took its flight

While I was wrapt in sleep, that sad eventful night.

XXXV.

I should not call it sad. It was not sad!When morning came, they told me life had fled;I saw my father’s brow with paleness clad,I saw my mother raise her aching head,And they both told me that our Jane was dead—But that she was in Heaven! Then all drew near,And, while they knelt around, my father pray’d;He held my thin pale hand—and, O, that prayer!His solemn deep toned voice e’en now I seem to hear!

I should not call it sad. It was not sad!

When morning came, they told me life had fled;

I saw my father’s brow with paleness clad,

I saw my mother raise her aching head,

And they both told me that our Jane was dead—

But that she was in Heaven! Then all drew near,

And, while they knelt around, my father pray’d;

He held my thin pale hand—and, O, that prayer!

His solemn deep toned voice e’en now I seem to hear!

XXXVI.

Well—let that pass. My honor’d father lives—I must not praise the living. But I mayImplore of Him who every blessing gives,Long, long to spare him to us. Yes, I pray,My heavenly Father! that the trying dayOf separation may not quickly come;Take not my few remaining friends away;Hide not my loved ones in the envious tomb,Unless it please thee first to take my spirit home.

Well—let that pass. My honor’d father lives—

I must not praise the living. But I may

Implore of Him who every blessing gives,

Long, long to spare him to us. Yes, I pray,

My heavenly Father! that the trying day

Of separation may not quickly come;

Take not my few remaining friends away;

Hide not my loved ones in the envious tomb,

Unless it please thee first to take my spirit home.

XXXVII.

They told me she look’d beautiful in death,My lovely sister! and I long’d to seeThat calm repose; for with her parting breathThere came a look of peace—of ecstasy,Which settled on her features. EagerlyI prayed I might be carried to her side,To gaze upon the face so dear to me;And in a moment arms were open’d wide—My husband’s faithful arms; and I was gratified!

They told me she look’d beautiful in death,

My lovely sister! and I long’d to see

That calm repose; for with her parting breath

There came a look of peace—of ecstasy,

Which settled on her features. Eagerly

I prayed I might be carried to her side,

To gaze upon the face so dear to me;

And in a moment arms were open’d wide—

My husband’s faithful arms; and I was gratified!

Charleston,July 8, 1841.

FOOTNOTES

[9]My sister,Jane Keith Palmer, died in New York, May 27th, 1837, aged 22 years.“Why make ye this ado, and weep? The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth.”—Mark v. 39.

[9]My sister,Jane Keith Palmer, died in New York, May 27th, 1837, aged 22 years.

“Why make ye this ado, and weep? The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth.”—Mark v. 39.

[10]Complaint of Job.

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