Читать книгу Lives of Celebrated Women - Samuel G. Goodrich - Страница 10

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“O for the pinions of a bird,

To bear me far away,

Where songs of other lands are heard,

And other waters play!—

For some aërial car, to fly

On, through the realms of light,

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To regions rife with poesy,

And teeming with delight.

O’er many a wild and classic stream

In ecstasy I’d bend,

And hail each ivy-covered tower

As though it were a friend;

Through many a shadowy grove, and round

Full many a cloistered hall,

And corridors, where every step

With echoing peal doth fall.

… … . …

O, what unmingled pleasure then

My youthful heart would feel,

And o’er its thrilling chords each thought

Of former days would steal!

… … . …

Amid the scenes of past delight,

Or misery, I’d roam,

Where ruthless tyrants swayed in might,

Where princes found a home.

… … . …

I’d stand where proudest kings have stood,

Or kneel where slaves have knelt,

Till, rapt in magic solitude,

I feel what they have felt.”

Margaret now felt comparatively well, and was eager to resume her studies. She was indulged so far as to be permitted to accompany her father three times to the city, where she took lessons in French, music, and dancing. To the Christmas holidays she looked forward as a season of delight; she had prepared a drama of six acts for the domestic entertainment, and the back parlor was to be fitted up for a 40 theatre, her little brothers being her fellow-laborers. But her anticipations were disappointed. Two of her brothers were taken ill; and one of them, a beautiful boy of nine, never recovered. “This,” says her mother, “was Margaret’s first acquaintance with death. She saw her sweet little play-fellow reclining upon my bosom during his last agonies; she witnessed the bright glow which flashed upon his long-faded cheek; she beheld the unearthly light of his beautiful eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine, and exclaimed, ‘Mother, dear mother, the last hour has come!’ It was indeed an hour of anguish. Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her life. The sudden change from life and animation to the still unconsciousness of death, for a time almost paralyzed her. The first thing that aroused her to a sense of what was going on about her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a conviction that it was her province to console me.” But Mrs. Davidson soon presents a sadder picture: “My own weak frame was unable longer to sustain the effects of long watching and deep grief. I had not only lost my lovely boy, but I felt a strong conviction that I must soon resign my Margaret. Although she still persisted in the belief that she was well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, the hurried beating of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations, confirmed me in this belief, and I sank under this accumulated weight of affliction. For three weeks I hovered on the borders of the grave, and, when I arose from this bed of pain, it was to witness the rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by exertions to suppress a cough. I 41 was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, lest agitation of her mind should produce fatal consequences. As I seated myself by her, she raised her speaking eyes to mine with a mournful, inquiring gaze, and, as she read the anguish which I could not conceal, she turned away with a look of despair.” There no longer remained room for hope, and all that remained to be done was to smooth the pathway to the grave.

Although Margaret endeavored to persuade herself that she was well, yet, from the change that took place in her habits in the autumn of 1836, it is evident that she knew her real situation. In compliance with her mother’s oft-repeated advice, she gave up her studies, and sought by light reading and trivial employments to “kill time.” Of the struggles which it cost her thus to pass six months, the following incident, as related by her mother, will inform us: “She was seated one day by my side, weary and restless, scarcely knowing what to do with herself, when, marking, the traces of grief upon my face, she threw her arms about my neck, and, kissing me, exclaimed, ‘My dear, dear mother!’ ‘What is it affects you now, my child?’ ‘O, I know you are longing for something from my pen.’ I saw the secret craving of the spirit that gave rise to the suggestion. ‘I do indeed, my dear, delight in the effusions of your pen, but the exertion will injure you.’ ‘Mamma, I must write! I can hold out no longer! I will return to my pen, my pencil, and my books, and shall again be happy.’ ” The following verses, written soon after, show the state of her feelings:—

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“Earth, thou hast but nought to satisfy

The cravings of immortal mind;

Earth, thou hast nothing pure and high,

The soaring, struggling soul to bind.

Impatient of its long delay,

The pinioned spirit fain would roam,

And leave this crumbling house of clay,

To seek, above, its own bright home!

… … . …

O, how mysterious is the bond

Which blends the earthly with the pure,

And mingles that which death may blight

With that which ever must endure!

Arise, my soul, from all below,

And gaze upon thy destined home—

The heaven of heavens, the throne of God,

Where sin and care can never come.

… … . …

Compound of weakness and of strength;

Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power;

Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,

Yet meaner than the lowliest flower!—

Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still

To earth, by many a purer tie!

Longing to breathe a tender air,

Yet fearing, trembling thus to die!”

Some verses written about the same period show the feelings she held towards her sister Lucretia.

“My sister! with that thrilling word

What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring!

What echoes in my heart are stirred,

While thus I touch the trembling string!

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My sister! ere this youthful mind

Could feel the value of thine own;

Ere this infantine heart could bind,

In its deep cell, one look, one tone,

To glide along on memory’s stream,

And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee;

Ere I knew aught but childhood’s dream,

Thy soul had struggled, and was free.

… … . …

I cannot weep that thou art fled;

Forever blends my soul with thine;

Each thought, by purer impulse led,

Is soaring on to realms divine.

… … . …

I hear thee in the summer breeze,

See thee in all that’s pure or fair,

Thy whisper in the murmuring trees,

Thy breath, thy spirit, every where.

Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep,

Cast o’er my dreams a radiant hue;

Thy tears, “such tears as angels weep,”

Fall nightly with the glistening dew.

Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre,

And teach its softer strains to flow;

Thy spirit checks each vain desire,

And gilds the lowering brow of woe.

… … . …

Thou gem of light! my leading star!

What thou hast been I strive to be;

When from the path I wander far,

O, turn thy guiding beam on me.

Teach me to fill thy place below,

That I may dwell with thee above;

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To soothe, like thee, a mother’s woe,

And prove, like thine, a sister’s love.

… … . …

When all is still, and fancy’s realm

Is opening to the eager view,

Mine eye full oft, in search of thee,

Roams o’er that vast expanse of blue.

I know that here thy harp is mute,

And quenched the bright, poetic fire;

Yet still I bend my ear, to catch

The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.

O, if this partial converse now

So joyous to my heart can be,

How must the streams of rapture flow,

When both are chainless, both are free!—

When, borne from earth for evermore,

Our souls in sacred joy unite,

At God’s almighty throne adore,

And bathe in beams of endless light!”

Although the extracts from the works of this gifted being have been so extensive, we cannot forbear giving some portions of a piece written about the same period, and entitled—