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.
“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.
“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.
“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, sceneswhich 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 shelfLaid 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 dayNow flies, and with it, many a sparkling rayOf native genius flies—for want of time,Lost to our darken’d world. ’Tis true they sayMen 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.
’Tis said that ancient authors on the shelfLaid 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 dayNow flies, and with it, many a sparkling rayOf native genius flies—for want of time,Lost to our darken’d world. ’Tis true they sayMen 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.
’Tis said that ancient authors on the shelfLaid 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 dayNow flies, and with it, many a sparkling rayOf native genius flies—for want of time,Lost to our darken’d world. ’Tis true they sayMen never wrote so much, both prose and rhyme;But then their writings range from silly to sublime.
’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.
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.