On the pale lips detain the parting breath,
And bid hope blossom in the shades of death.
Beauty, like thine, could never reach a charm
So powerful to subdue, so sure to warm.
On her loved child behold the mother gaze,
In weakness pleased, and smiling through decays,
And leaning on that breast her cares assuage;—
How soft a pillow for declining age!
For this, when that fair frame must feel decay,-
Ye Fates, protract it to a distant day,-
When thy approach no tumults shall impart,
Nor that commanding glance strike through the heart,
When meaner beauties shall have leave to shine,
And crowds divide the homage lately thine,
Not with the transient praise those charms can boast
Shall thy fair fame and gentle deeds be lost!
Some pious hand shall thy weak limbs sustain,
And pay thee back these generous cares again;
Thy name shall flourish, by the good approved,
Thy memory honored, and thy dust beloved.
WHEN life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet,—
Alas, how hard it is to die!
When just is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,—
How awful then it is to die!
When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,-
Ah, then how easy 't is to die!
When faith is firm and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,—
'Tis joy, 't is triumph then to die.
When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,-
'T is nature's precious boon to die.
THE Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse,
In slipshod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon;-for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort;-
;—ere the first gray streak of dawn,
The red-armed washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day: the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlor,—an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatched;
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower.
From that last evil, O preserve us, heaven!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet: then expect to hear
Of sad disasters,-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short,-and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
-But grant the welkin fair, require not, thou
Who call'st thyself perchance the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual 'tendance;- -ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious: shouldst thou try
The accustomed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse checked apron,-with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Wo to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites!
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy,
Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie,
Or tart, or pudding:-pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try,
Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious:-the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them:
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,
Relics of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or buttered toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost or witch, or murder-so I went
And sheltered me beside the parlor fire:
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm,
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured One less indulgent.
At intervals my mother's voice was heard,
Urging despatch: briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles; little dreaming then
To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds-—so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them-this most of all.
THE poetry of Miss Taylor always reminds me of Cowper's; and in the character of their minds there was a striking similarity, as any one must have noticed, who has read the "Memoirs and Correspondence" of each of these gifted, good, and gentle beings. Miss Taylor possessed, like Cowper, a vein of playful humor, that often gave point and vividness to the most sombre sentiment, and usually animated the strains she sung for children; but still, there was often over her fancy, as over his, a deep shade of pensiveness,-"morbid humility," she somewhere calls it,—and no phrase could better express the state of feeling which frequently oppressed her heart. The kind and soothing domestic influences which were always around her path in life, prevented the sad and despairing tone of her mind from ever acquiring the predominance, so as to unfit her for her duties; in this respect she was much more favored than the bard of Olney. But we are inclined to think that, had she met with severe trials and misfortunes, the character of her poetry would have been more elevated, and her language more glowing. The retiring sensitiveness of her disposition kept down, usually, that energy of thought and elevation of sentiment, which, from
*There is an American edition, in three volumes, of the writings of Miss Taylor, to which is prefixed her " Memoirs and Correspondence."
|