Читать книгу Lives of Celebrated Women - Samuel G. Goodrich - Страница 9

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“Weep, O my mother! I will bid thee weep,

For grief like thine requires the aid of tears;

But O, I would not see thy bosom thus

Bowed down to earth, with anguish so severe;

I would not see thine ardent feelings crushed,

Deadened to all save sorrow’s thrilling tone,

Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head

Beneath the chilling blasts of Eolus!

… … . …

When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief,

And fondly pleads one cheering look to view,

A sad, a faint, sad smile one instant gleams

Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined,

Brooding o’er ruins of what once was fair;

But like departing sunset, as it throws

One farewell shadow o’er the sleeping earth,

Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow more profound

Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold,

It scarcely might be called the mockery

Of cheerful peace, but just before had been.

… … . …

But, O my mother, weep not thus for her,

The rose, just blown, transported to its home;

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Nor weep that her angelic soul has found

A resting-place with God.

O, let the eye of heaven-born Faith disperse

The darkening mists of earthly grief, and pierce

The clouds which shadow dull mortality!

Gaze on the heaven of glory crowned with light,

Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brow,

In the same voice which charmed her father’s halls,

Chanting sweet anthems to her Maker’s praise,

And watching with delight the gentle buds

Which she had lived to mourn; watching thine own,

My mother! the soft, unfolding blossoms,

Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint,

Departed to their Savior, there to wait

For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss!

The angel babes have found a sister mother;

But when thy soul shall pass from earth away,

The little cherubs then shall cling to thee,

And then, sweet guardian, welcome thee with joy,

Protector of their helpless infancy,

Who taught them how to reach that happy home.”

… … . …

So strong and healthful did she seem during the ensuing summer, that her mother began to indulge hopes of raising the tender plant to maturity. But winter brought with it a new attack of sickness, and from December to March the little sufferer languished on her bed. During this period, her mind remained inactive; but with returning health it broke forth in a manner that excited alarm. “In conversation,” says her mother, “her sallies of wit were dazzling; she composed and wrote incessantly, or rather would have done so, had I not interposed my authority to prevent this unceasing tax upon both her mental and physical strength. She seemed to exist only in the regions of poetry.”

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There was a faint return of health, followed by a new attack of disease; indeed, the remainder of her brief sojourn in this world presents the usual vicissitudes attendant upon her disease—short intervals of health, which she devoted to study, amid long and dreary periods of illness, which she bore with exemplary patience. It would be painful to follow her through these vicissitudes. We need only note those events and changes which produced a marked effect upon her feelings, and which she has recorded in verse.

In the autumn of 1835, the family removed to “Ruremont,” an old-fashioned country house near New York, on the banks of Long Island Sound. The character and situation of this place seized powerfully on Margaret’s imagination. “The curious structure of this old-fashioned house,” says her mother, “its picturesque appearance, the varied and beautiful grounds around it, called up a thousand poetic images and romantic ideas. A long gallery, a winding staircase, a dark, narrow passage, a trap-door, large apartments with massive doors and heavy iron bolts and bars—all set her mind teeming with recollections of what she had read, and imagination of old castles, &c.” Perhaps it was under the influence of feelings thus suggested that she composed the following