Hear’st thou their moans whom hope hath fled?—
Wild cries, in agonizing starts?—
Know’st thou thy humid sails are spread
With ceaseless sighs from broken hearts?—
The fetter’d chieftain’s burning tear,—
The parted lover’s mute despair,—
The childless mother’s pang severe,—
The orphan’s misery, are there.
Ah!—could’st thou from the scroll of fate
The annal read of future years,
Stripes,—tortures,—unrelenting hate.
And death-gasps drown’d in slavery’s tears.
Down,—down,—beneath the cleaving main
Thou fain would’st plunge where monsters lie,
Rather than ope the gates of pain
For time and for Eternity.—
Oh Afric!—what has been thy crime?—
That thus like Eden’s fratricide,
A mark is set upon thy clime,
And every brother shuns thy side.—
Yet are thy wrongs, thou long-distrest!—
Thy burdens, by the world unweigh’d,
Safe in that Unforgetful Breast
Where all the sins of earth are laid. -
Poor outcast stave!—Our guilty land
Should tremble while she drinks thy tears,
Or sees in vengeful silence stand,
The beacon of thy shorten’d years;—
Should shrink to hear her sons proclaim
The sacred truth that heaven is just,—
Shrink even at her Judge’s name,—
“Jehovah,—Saviour of the opprest.”
The Sun upon thy forehead frown’d,
But Man more cruel far than he,
Dark fetters on thy spirit bound:—
Look to the mansions of the free!
Look to that realm where chains unbind,—
Where the pale tyrant drops his rod,
And where the patient sufferers find
A friend,—a father in their God.
The Indian’s Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers
Above them spread a stranger sky;
Around, the sterile plain;
The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh;
Beyond,—the wrathful main:
Chill remnants of the wintry snow
Still choked the encumbered soil,
Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go
To mark their future toil.
’Mid yonder vale their corn must rise
In summer’s ripening pride,
And there the church-spire woo the skies
Its sister-school beside.
Perchance mid England’s velvet green
Some tender thought reposed,
Though nought upon their stoic mien
Such soft regret disclosed.
When sudden from the forest wide
A red-browed chieftain came,
With towering form, and haughty stride,
And eye like kindling flame:
No wrath he breathed, no conflict sought,
To no dark ambush drew,
But simply to the Old World brought
The welcome of the New.
That welcome was a blast and ban
Upon thy race unborn;
Was there no seer,—thou fated Man!—
Thy lavish zeal to warn?
Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail
A weak, invading band,
But who shall heed thy children’s wail
Swept from their native land?
Thou gav’st the riches of thy streams,
The lordship o’er thy waves,
The region of thine infant dreams
And of thy father’s graves,—
But who to yon proud mansions, piled
With wealth of earth and sea,
Poor outcast from thy forest wild,
Say, who shall welcome thee?
Lines
From a bright hearth-stone of our land,
A beam hath pass’d away,
A smile, whose cheering influence seem’d
Like morning to the day;
A sacrificing spirit
With innate goodness fraught,
That ever for another’s weal
Employ’d its fervid thought.
That beam is gather’d back again
To the Pure Fount of flame,
That smile the Blessed Source hath found,
From whence its radiance came,—
That spirit hath a genial clime;
And yet, methinks, ’t will bend
Sometimes, amid familiar haunts,
Beside the mourning friend.
Yet better ’t were to pass away,
Ere evening shadows fell,
To wrap in chillness, and decay,
What here was loved so well;
And strew unwither’d flowers around,
When the last footsteps part,
And leave in every nook of home,
Sweet memories for the heart.
The Bell of the Wreck
Toll!—Toll!—Toll!
Thou bell by billows swung,
And night and day thy warning lore
Repeat with mournful tongue:
Toll for the queenly boat,
Wrecked on yon rocky shore;
Sea-weed is in her palace halls,
She rides the surge no more.
Toll for the master bold,
The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life
Amid the crested wave;
Toll for the hardy crew,
Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant Ocean dared—
It vanquished them at last.
Toll for the man of God,
Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the gathered groan
Of that intense despair,—
How precious were those tones
On the sad verge of life,
Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain-billows’ strife!
Toll for the lover lost
To the gay bridal train—
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath the unfathomed main;—
One from her casement bendeth
Long, o’er the misty sea,—
He cometh not—pale maiden—
His heart is cold to thee.
Toll for the absent sire,
Who to his home drew near
To bless that glad expecting group—
Fond wife, and children dear.
They heap the blazing hearth,
The festal board is spread,
But a fearful guest is at the gate,—
Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the loved and fair,
The whelmed beneath the tide,
The broken harps, around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide.
Mother, and nursling sweet
Reft from the household throng,
There’s bitter weeping in the nest
Where breathed their soul of song.
Toll for the hearts that bleed,
’Neath misery’s furrowed trace,
For the lone, hapless orphan, left
The last of all his race.
Yea, with thine heaviest knell,
From surge to echoing shore,
Toll for the living—not the dead
Whose mortal woes are o’er.
Toll! Toll!—Toll
O’er breeze and billow free,
And with thy startling voice instruct
Each rover of the sea;
Tell how o’er proudest joys
May swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high,
Lone teacher of the deep.
MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (1794-1845)
Maria Gowen Brooks, also known
as “Maria del Occidente,” grew up in a prosperous family. After her father’s death, Brooks married her much-older widowed brother-in-law when she was only sixteen years old. After falling in love with a young Canadian officer, Brooks began to write poetry, and published Judith, Esther, and Other Poems in 1820. When her husband died in 1823, Brooks moved to Cuba with her son and stepsons. While there, she wrote a verse romance, Zóphiël; or, the Bride of Seven, which was the first book-length poem written by an American woman. In 1826, Brooks began corresponding with English poet Robert Southey, who admired her works. Idomen (1843), an autobiographical story, was published serially in the Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. Maria Gowen Brooks died of tropical fever in 1845.
Stanzas
Oh! would I were as firm and cold
As rock that guards some barren isle
And ever bears an aspect bold,
Unmoved though heaven frown or smile,
Heeding alike the dashing wave
That rages ’gainst its beaten breast,
And the soft sea-bird in its cave
By parent bosom gently prest.
But such a rock’s frail weed, all white
With the wild ocean-spray would be,
When wandering day-beams lend it light,
A meeter simile for me.
When smiles bedeck the face of heaven
It sparkles back a kindred ray—
But, come one angry blast, ’tis driven
And all its lustre dashed away.
Oh! never was I doomed to know
Thine influence, sweet tranquillity,
But to endure whole months of woe
For every throb of ecstasy.
Would I could meet thee, marble death—
Feel undismayed thy cold embrace,
In thy dark bed resign my breath,
For such the only resting place.
Song
Day, in melting purple dying,
Blossoms, all around me sighing,
Fragrance, from the lilies straying,
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness.
Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou’rt true, and I’ll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent,
Let me think it innocent!
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure:
All I ask is friendship’s pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling!
Gifts and gold are nought to me;
I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the highwrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation,
Yet but torture, if compressed
In a lone, unfriended breast.
Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee;
Once, in caution, I could fly thee:
Now, I nothing could deny thee;
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!
LYDIA MARIA CHILD (1802-1880)
Born in Medford, Massachusetts, Lydia Maria Child was a pioneer in thought, advocating abolitionism, women’s suffrage, and sex education. She and her husband worked together for abolitionism, editing the National Anti-Slavery Standard in New York. Child founded a monthly magazine for children and published several best-selling books for women: The Frugal Housewife (1829), containing money-saving suggestions for the household; The Mother’s Book (1831), urging parents to teach their children about sex education; and A History of the Condition of Women in Various Ages and Nations (1835). When Child published An Appeal in Favor of That Class of Americans Called Africans (1833), she was ostracized from social and literary circles, and the sales of her books declined. Despite all of her social crusading, Child is best remembered for these opening lines from a poem she wrote in 1857: “Over the river, and through the wood,/To grandfather’s house we go.”
The World I Am Passing Through
Few, in the days of early youth,
Trusted like me in love and truth.
I’ve learned sad lessons from the years;
But slowly, and with many tears;
For God made me to kindly view
The world that I was passing through.
How little did I once believe
That friendly tones could e’er deceive!
That kindness, and forbearance long,
Might meet ingratitude and wrong!
I could not help but kindly view
The world that I was passing through.
And though I’ve learned some souls are base,
I would not, therefore, hate the race;
I still would bless my fellow men,
And trust them, though deceived again.
God help me still to kindly view
The world that I am passing through!
Through weary conflicts I have passed,
And struggled into rest at last;
Such rest as when the rack has broke
A joint, or nerve, at every stroke.
The wish survives to kindly view
The world that I am passing through.
From all that fate has brought to me
I strive to learn humility,
And trust in Him who rules above,
Whose universal law is love.
Thus only can I kindly view
The world that I am passing through.
When I approach the setting sun,
And feel my journey nearly done,
May earth be veiled in genial light,
And her last smile to me seem bright!
Help me till then to kindly view
The world that I am passing through!
And all who tempt a trusting heart
From faith and hope to drift apart,—
May they themselves be spared the pain
Of losing power to trust again!
God help us all to kindly view
The world that we are passing through!
The New-England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For ’t is Thanksgiving day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play—
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving day!
Over the river, and through the wood—
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For ’t is Thanksgiving day!
Over the riv
er, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood—
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood—
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN (1803-1878)
Sarah Helen Whitman was among the most popular women poets in the mid-nineteenth century. Born in Providence, Rhode Island, Whitman was influenced by the poetry of Byron. She married a Boston editor in 1828 and published her early poems in the Boston Spectator and Ladies’ Album under the name “Helen.” Her work also appeared in Sarah Josepha Hale’s Ladies’ Magazine and in a variety of other periodicals under the name “Egeria.” Whitman’s husband died in 1833, and she continued to write steadily. In 1848, she published some sonnets to Edgar Allan Poe and received an answer in his poem “To Helen.” Whitman and Poe were engaged for a time, but Whitman was advised against the marriage by her mother. Her books include Hours of Life, and Other Poems (1853), Edgar Poe and His Critics (1860), and Poems (1879), collected after her death in 1878. Whitman also served as vice president of the Rhode Island women’s suffrage association.
Great Poems by American Women Page 4
