The Young Poetess

She was a lovely creature,—young and fair,
     And light of heart, and brilliant was her eye—
For never had the siroc-breath of care
     Swept o’er her spirit. Ocean, Earth, and Sky
To her clear, spiritual vision, wore a robe
     Transparent as the light—and she would gaze
With an enraptured spirit o’er the globe,
     On sea, vale, mountain—and in wonder raise
Her rich-toned, girlish voice, pouring her soul in praise!

She was a happy creature—bounding on
     From joy to joy, and feasting still her soul
Amid Earth’s beautiful things, till she had won,
     Or seemed almost to have won, the very goal
Of earthly bliss. Familiar was her eye
     With Nature’s wildest scenes—for well she loved
To watch the foaming cataract, flinging high
     Tempests of sheeted foam, until the sky
Kissed the upspringing waters!—and her soul,
     By the high majesty of Nature moved,
Panted to burst away from Earth’s corrupt control.

Her eye would kindle with a strange delight
     As its glad vision wandered o’er the stars;
And she would watch them in the silent night
     For ever “wheeling on their golden cars”—
Or when the storm-cloud o’er the sky was flung
     Like a broad pall, its loveliness to veil,
And the wild Demon of the Storm had sung
     His song in thunder and the sweeping gale,
     With a rejoicing spirit she would hail
Their dread approach, and feel her soul expand
With awe beneath their presence. In the grand
     And terrible war of elements, when the cloud
Burst in its fury o’er the wind-swept Ocean,
     And Deep to answering Deep was calling loud,
With voice of storm-lashed waters, the commotion
     Stirred the quick pulses of her heart, and thrilled
The chords of spirit with a mystic feeling—
And gazing still, her swelling soul was filled
     With thoughts too mighty for the mind’s revealing!

She loved the hush of forest-solitudes,
     Where the clear streamlet ripples peacefully,
And foot of Fashion’s votary ne’er intrudes—
     For there, in silent loneliness, could she
Hold sweet communion with the things around her—
     The stream—the leaflet—or the passing breeze,
     Sweeping in freedom o’er the forest-trees—
And, as the spell of Poesy had bound her,
     She seemed enchained to each delightful spot
Her footstep visited—and she would linger
     Hour after hour, around some shaded grot,
Wreathing the wild-flowers with her delicate finger,
     Unconscious of employment—while her eye
     Cast its inquiring glances to the sky,
As it would fain have read the mysteries there;
Or from the white folds of a floating cloud
     Had caught a glimpse of some bright angel-pinion
Careering onward through the fields of air,
     Seeking again the beautiful dominion,
From which, perchance, it had a moment bowed!

Let not the mind engrossed in worldly schemes
     Deem her’s was idle—or that squandered all
Were the lone hours of phantasies and dreams
     Whose mystic visions held her soul in thrall—
For by a long and intimate communion
     With things invisible, the human soul
Almost forgets its temporary union
     With that which binds it, in a stern control,
To gross, material nature—and its vision,
     Expanded, brightened, fondly turns away
To catch new glories from the fields Elysian,
     And view new beauties in the “Realms of Day”—
And still the heart grows better—and the hand
     Is open to relieve the wants of others,
And the mild eye beholdeth in the band
     Of Wo’s despairing children, friends and brothers!

‘Twas even thus with her—for though she loved
     To muse in solitude, amid the wild
And dreamy forests, yet she often roved
     Through Sorrow’s lonely haunts, to seek the child
Of hopeless Misery, and pour the balm
     Of sympathy upon the bleeding heart;
To comfort the despairing, and to calm
     The wounded soul till it forgot its smart.

But what avails the story of the Past?
     “She was!”—those two brief words will tell it all!
And such may be our epitaph at last,
     When we are covered by the sable pall.
She lived—she loved—she died—and is forgot,
     Save by a few fond hearts that linger yet
To mourn around the consecrated spot
     Where slumbers one they cannot all forget!