Read Ebook: The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems by Bigelow Mary Ann H T Mary Ann Hubbard Townsend

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Ebook has 292 lines and 18112 words, and 6 pages

Enshrined in this bosom, is living one now, Still youthful and truthful, and talented too, Though years have elapsed since she passed from our view; E'en in Summer midst roses in beauty and bloom, She faded away, and was borne to the tomb.

Weston, March 5, 1852.

FOR MY FRIEND MRS. R.

March 27, 1852.

FOR MY NIECE ANGELINE.

Weston, May 15, 1862.

AN ACROSTIC.

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply; Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by. Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each, How constant our aim is at what we can't reach. E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

Weston, June 6, 1862.

ACROSTIC.

SHE SLUMBERS STILL.

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep, Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then; How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest, 'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved In beauty and fragrance were blooming around; The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day, But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.

Day followed day until summer was gone, And autumn still found her alone and asleep; Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill, Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.

Again spring returns, and all nature revives, And birds fill the groves with their music again; But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed, And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.

Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake, Her mortal put on immortality then; And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Weston, May 29, 1852.

TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,

FROM HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

M.A.H.T. BIGELOW. Weston, April 6, 1852.

P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair, Your city advantages you should compare With ours in the country, let me know what they are.

REPLY:

WHICH I AM GRATEFUL FOR PERMISSION TO INSERT.

When hither you come, do enter our door, I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more. Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply, I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try; The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre. But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear," And frowns on me scornful, the year after year; Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf," She'll open her heart, and yield me relief. But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu, My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you, And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name, The privilege grant me of doing the same.

S. NICHOLSON. Boston, April 16, 1862.

REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY.

Many, many thanks my friend, For those sweet verses thou didst send, So good they were and witty; And now I will confess to thee, Mixed up with bad, much good I see Within the crowded city.

Boston, "with all thy faults I love Thee still," though much I disapprove-- See much in thee to blame; Yet to be candid, I'll allow Thy equal no one can me show From Mexico to Maine.

I hope when Kossuth fever's cool And we have put our wits to school, And sober senses found; When the Hungarian's out of sight And shattered brains collected quite, We may be safe and sound.

But you may not with me agree, And I am getting warm I see, So here I bid adieu To Kossuth and to Hungary, To Russia and to Germany, And the great Emperor too.

And now my friend a word I'd say Before I throw my pen away, On subject most important; In doing this I need not fear I shall offend the nicest ear, Or strike a note discordant.

Oh! had I true poetic fire, With boldness would I strike the lyre So loud that all might hear; But ah! my harp is tuned so low, Its feeble strains I full well know Can reach no distant ear.

Yet I rejoice that harps on high, And voices of sweet harmony, Are raised to bless the name Of Him who sits upon the throne, Rejoicing over souls new born, Who soon will join with them, Eternally His name to adore Who died, yet lives forevermore.

Weston, May 8, 1852.

TO MY FRIEND MR. J. ELLIS.

As I recall the days of former years, Thy many acts of kindness bring to mind, Tears fill my eyes, in thee I've ever found A friend most faithful, uniformly kind.

Thou art the earliest friend of mine that's left-- The rest have long departed, every one; They've long years since the debt of nature paid, But thou remainest still, and thou alone.

The snow of four score winters thou has seen, And life's long pilgrimage may soon be o'er; Respected, loved, and happy hast thou been, With ample means to relieve the suffering poor, Thou ever hadst the will, as well as power.

Temperate in habit, and of temper even, Calm and unruffled as the peaceful lake, To thee the satisfaction has been given Much to enjoy, and others happy make.

And when thy days on earth shall all be past, And thou before the Saviour's bar appear, Mayst thou be found clothed in his righteousness And from his lips the joyful sentence hear--

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou Hast over few things faithful been, and now I'll make thee ruler over many things, And place a crown of glory on thy brow."

Weston, April 24, 1852.

A PASTORAL.

Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray, Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way? You ne'er could forget her, if once you had seen, She's fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen.

Have you not seen her?--then listen I pray, Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say In the praise of one ne'er so lovely was seen; She's youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen.

She's fair as the Spring in the mild month of May, She's brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay; You ne'er could forget her if once you had seen, She's charming as Flora, she moves like a Queen.

Oh! tell me not Damon, that yours can compare To Jessie, sweet Jessie, with beauty so rare; With a face of such sweetness, so modest a mien, She's like morn in its freshness, she moves like a Queen.

You tell me your Sylvia is beautiful quite; She may be, when Jessie is kept out of sight; She is not to be mentioned with Jessie, I ween, Her voice is sweet music, she moves like a Queen.

Then name not your Sylvia with Jessie I pray, 'Tis comparing dark night with the fair light of day; Sylvia's movements are clumsy, and awkwardly seen, But Jessie is graceful, she moves like a Queen.

Oh! aid me, do aid me, ye shepherds, I pray! The time is fast flying, no longer I'll stay; You cannot mistake her, there's none like her seen, She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.

THE JESSAMINE.

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