[The Authoress of the following pieces, MARGARET M. DAIRDSON, was an American, of strong intellectual powers, which were early matured. The lines on "Home," were written when only nine years of age, and those "To my mother," were composed in the prospect of approaching dissolution. She died of consumption in the 16th year of her age.]
I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
Το
my own native plants and my flowrets so fair,
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old cottage so dear,
Where I sported a babe without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fair summer day.
I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh! 'tis tenderer yet.
There a sister reposes, unconscious in death,
'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath. A father I love is away from me now,
Oh! could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear.
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,
But my own happy home-it is dearer than all.
Oh! mother, would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear;
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly listening ear,
As when in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.
But, mother, now a shade hath past
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapt
The remnant of my brief career!
No song, no echo, can I win,
The sparkling fount hath dried within.
The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more;
And oh how vain and trivial seem
The pleasures that I prized before;
My soul with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,
The pathway to eternal life!
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee, as in "days of yore."
I said that hope had passed from earth,
'T was but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven ;
When mine are washed in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell my lay.
When God shall guide my soul above,
By the soft chords of heavenly love—
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart-
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise,
And all not offered at His shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.
Saratoga Springs, 11mo. 1838.
The duties that are owing to friends are integrity, love, counsel, and assistance. It is not intimacy and frequency of conversation that makes a friend, but a disinterested observance of these duties.
God might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough,
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drank them all.
Then, wherefore, wherefore, were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night?
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by.
Our outward life requires them not—
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man—
To beautify the earth.
To comfort man-to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim;
For Who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him.
The summer!—the summer!—the exquisite time
Of the red rose's blush, and the nightingale's chime;
The chaunt of the lark, and the boom of the bee,—
The season of brightness, and beauty, and glee!
It is here it is here! It is lighting again,
With sun-braided smiles, the deep heart of the glen;
It is touching the mountain, and tinging the hill,
And dimpling the face of the low-laughing rill;
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