Poems

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POEMS BY MATTIE GRIFFITH.

by

MATTIE GRIFFITH.

The Dying Girl

Beside the streams soft-gleaming 'mid the flowers And rainbow-groves of Eden's blessed bowers, And there I shall behold our mother's face, And she will clasp me in her dear embrace!

And yet, oh yet, it grieves my heart, dear love. To leave thee here, a young and tender dove Lone-wandering o'er life's waters cold and dark, Ne'er to find rest save in God's holy ark, But there, when Time's wild storms at last shall cease Thy weary pinions will repose in peace And their bright plumage never more be cast All tram and scattered on the bitter blast.

I'm musing now, my sister, on the time, When we in our own dear, our native clime, With our sweet mother in our childhood dwelt, Gay as the singing birds, and never felt The care, the grief, the agony, the strife. That lurk like fiends along the paths of life.

There round our home the rose with crimson dye Bared its young heart of beauty to the eye, There sprang the violets, and the lilies there, Pale nuns of nature, bowed their heads in prayer; The jasmine, sweetest of the race of flowers, Breathed its full soul of fragrance in the bowers; Above the window of our little room The honeysuckle hung in clustering bloom, Before our door the bright blue streamlet played, Leaping and dimpling in the light and shade. And the tall trees of deep and solemn green Upon the far horizon seemed to lean Like holy watchers of the golden sky, The sentinels of immortality.

And there, O sister, lay the burial ground, A lonely spot where broke no rude, harsh sound, And where the mournful grave-stones rose to keep Their silent vigils o'er each place of sleep, And where at times we wander'd with hushed breath To view the sad memorials of death.

There, sister, sleep our old ancestral line, And I would lay this weary head of mine Beside their forms, and I would have a rose To shed its sweetness o'er my still repose, A rose, dear sister, planted by thy care, Wooing the bright young birds to linger there, And sweetly sing my mouldering form above, To God their little songs of joy and love. Methinks 'twould soothe my spirit thus to lie In that dear spot beneath our natal sky, And hear (if spirits may) on Spring's soft eves Our natal breezes stir the dewy leaves, Waking the melodies that were so dear And yet so mournful to my childhood's ear.

Oh! chide me not, sweet sister, if I weep That these fond dreams are idle. I must sleep Here in this cold, strange land, far, far away From all I knew and loved in life's young day, Far from the ashes of the brave and fair Who bore the name that we are proud to bear,

And who have gone before me to their home In the high halls of yon star-lighted dome. Forms all unknown will slumber near my side, The poor remains, perchance, of wealth and pride, And shafted monuments around will rise, Mocking the green turf where the lone one lies. But, sister, thou at gentle close of day, Wilt often come upon my grave to lay The fading flowers, sad emblems of the fate Of the young stranger, lone and desolate. And, sister dear, when thou shalt come to shed Love's sacred tears above my humble bed, I pray thee speak to me, and thou shalt hear My voice soft-stealing on thy spirit-ear, And thou shalt feel, as thrillingly as now, My gentle kisses on thy sad, sweet brow.

Thus spake a young girl, pale, but beautiful As a rapt poet's holiest dreams. The dull Cold film of death was soon to dim her eye, Still bright as yon clear jewel of the sky;

Bright with the visions of her vanished years, Bright with the rainbow pictured on her tears By love's and memory's pure and tender beams, Soft-shining through her spirit's shadowy dreams. Down her fair form her clustering locks hung low, Like willow-boughs above a drift of snow; On her pale cheek the fever-flush was bright; Like a red flame upon a cloud of white; Her thin, pale hand, through which the blue veins shone, In all their windings beautiful, was thrown Upon the crimson drapery of her bed, Like a frail lily among roses red. And there she lay. and tossed in wild unrest, And clasped her weeping sister to her breast, And uttered broken words of prayer and love To God upon his mercy-seat above. At length the glories of the sunset sky Stole through the window to her wandering eye, And, as her gaze was fixed intensely there, She seemed to see a spirit in the air. Half-rising on her couch: with sudden start, She strove to clasp the vision to her heart,

And with a feeble cry of ecstasy, "Oh I mother, stay, I come, I come to thee! Her young soul passed, her dream of earth was o'er, Her pulse was still, her heart beat nevermore.

Uniontown, Pa, July 11.

The Lovers' Last Meeting

Her dark eyes gleamed with the intensity Of strange, unspoken griefs, and in their calm, Mysterious fixedness there seemed a high, And deep, and stern resolve, as though her heart Of iron pride might never quail beneath Life's fiercest storms. Yet when she turned those orbs To his, a gentle, melancholy smile Played round their lids, and quivering tear-drops hung, Like the bright gems of dewy morning, o'er Their dark and stormy depths.

And he on whom Her glance of love fell, piercing his deep soul, His soul of strong and manly daring, stood All tearfully beside her, and his arm Around her slender form was wildly flung, Love's living, burning cestus; and her head, With all its clustering wealth of raven curls, Drooped to his heaving bosom, as a dove, Weary and broken wing'd, sinks to its own Dear parent nest. Her little trembling hand

Was clasped within his own, her upturned eye Met his, and drank again the heavenly bliss Of dear and sweet reunion. On each pale And stricken brow the darkness of deep And solemn shadow rested, and each cheek And lip seemed chilled with sorrow's withering frost. Though summer, autumn, winter, spring had passed Again and yet again since they had met, They gazed into each other's hearts and read No change in those deep founts of burning love. There no dark raven-wing had brooded—each Had e'er embalmed with love's pure incense-breath The image of the other. They had vowed And kept their holy truth, end now their love Was all undimed, though grief had almost crushed The life from out their souls.

The sweet rich glow Of the soft twilight lent its passion-hue Of crimson to her temples, or perchance It may have been the deep reflection caught From the wild burning thoughts that raged within

Her shut and silent heart. She did not look Upon the many flowers, she did not hear The music of the stream—the fairy tints Of sunset, the green surging of the woods, The mildly-wooing zephyrs, and the tones, The thousand deep tones of the holy hour, All were unheeded then. Her eyes, her ears, Her thoughts, her soul, her life, were but for him. She leaned upon him with that touching trust And holy confidence a saint would feel In leaning upon heaven. And she to him Was all that mortal creature e'er could be To a proud child of earth. With lip to lip, And heart quick-throbbing to its throbbing mate, They stood in love's bewildering embrace, Silently clasping in their straining arms All that they knew of heaven on earth. And then They heeded not the passing of the hours, They saw not sunset's glorious roses fade Within the west's sky-garden, they but felt They loved and were supremely blest.

At length The thought that they must part stole on their souls Like the deep shadow of a thunder-cloud. She strove to drive that fearful thought away, But there it stood, a fiend between her soul And her bright heaven of joy. Beneath the weight Of her great grief, her head sank down, as bends The lily's pale and broken cup beneath The torrents of the cloud. And then with low, Sweet tones of tenderness, though his own heart Was bursting with its stifled rush of tears, He soothed her fearful agony. He spoke Of joys and raptures past but treasured still In memory's sacred chambers, of the hope That even then seemed shining with a dim And pale but beauteous gleam upon the waves Of the far distant future. Thus he won Her spirit from its dark and crushing grief, And bade her turn her thoughts from earth, and look Above life's clouds for perfect happiness Within the skies. He told her how they two

Would wander there, twin-spirits, hand in hand, Beside the lovely Eden streams that glass The blessed rainbow skies, how they would cull The sweetest blossoms glowing with the dews Of heaven, and twine them into beauteous wreaths, Dear love-wreaths, for each other's foreheads; how They oft would fly upon their spirit-wings From star to star, to read the beautiful And blazing mysteries of the sky, and how They would at times come down from heaven to earth To sit beside each other on the dear And blessed spot where then they sat, and muse On all the raptures shared together there, And breathe again the vows so often breathed In life from their deep hearts of love, and make That scene the tryst of their pure souls in heaven As 'twas their tryst upon the earth.

But though By soft and low and gentle words like these,

Breathed in the rich tones that first won her love, He calmed the fiery lava-flood that raged Within her tortured heart, he could not soothe The agony that burned within his own. His soul was strong and haughty. He could bear The cold world's bitter hate, he faltered not At "foaming calumny," he did not heed The piercing blasts of poverty, but when, At that sad hour, he fixed his eyes on her, His bright though fading flower, and thought how she Would pine in his drear absence from her side, And saw that her young morning-tide of life Was ebbing fast away, Oh then his heart, His high, proud heart, sank in his manly breast, His naughty spirit trembled, and a strong Convulsion shook his features, and the drops Of agony welled upward from a fount Long sealed within his bosom, and he wept As if his heart were broken. And her tears Gushed forth to blend with his, and thus they wept Together long and wildly.

On their ears Now stole the deep tones of the vesper bell, As mournfully as if it had been tolled For some dear friend. It woke them from their trance Of paralyzing grief, it pealed and rang Far through the echoing chambers of their souls, And told them with its mocking cadences That 'twas the hour, the moment, they must part. All silently, but for one death-like groan, He strained her to his bosom, on her brow He breathed his passion-kisses till it seemed As if each trembling blood-drop in her frame Rushed up to share the maddening embrace— Then with one low, deep, passionate farewell, That sounded as if uttered by his soul Through still, unbreathing lips, they parted.

She, Pale, faint, and weak, with faltering footsteps sought Her chamber's silent solitude, to pour Her sad soul forth in earnest prayer to God

For strength to quell the fierce, rebellious thoughts That seemed for ever sweeping like a tide Of burning waters o'er her heart. He sought The forest's deeper silence, there to hold Through the still night communion with his soul, And her, and heaven; and, when the morning came, He went with sickening heart and aching brow Once more into the toiling world of men, To struggle with his bitter destiny.

'Twas their last parting—a brief year passed by, And lo! a pitying angel came from Heaven And joined their fates forever. 'Twas the kind Death-angel—they are all each other's now.

Look and List, Love

To thine, to meet me at the soft And blessed twilight hour, Where we so oft have loved to meet In our own wildwood bower. List, love.

Look on the glorious hues that wave Along the sunset sky, Like heavenly banners o'er the hosts Of angels trooping by, And thou'lt see my spirit there Soft beckoning unto thine, To join me in that fairy realm, And be for ever mine. Look, love.

Look on the cloudless heavens that roll So beautiful and fair, And think of all our earnest vows That have their record there.

And see! the priest of Nature now Seems bending from above, With his own gentle hand to set The signet of our love. Look, love.

List to the murmurs sweet and wild That from the ocean swell, Like the mysterious melodies Heard in its music-shell; And they will speak of memories That in our bosoms sleep, Unseen and beautiful, like pearls Within the sea's blue deep. List, love.

List to the spirit-minstrelsy That steals from yon bright stars, As in their watch of love they float High on their golden cars;

And they will tell thee that the love To our young splints given, Like theirs, shines sweetly on the earth But has its home in heaven. List, love.

Look, at our own dear hour of tryst, Upon the passion-flower, I culled and laid upon thy heart In our own favorite boner; And if thou lov'st me dearly still, Thy gentle eye will trace The blessed story of our loves Upon its pale, sweet face. Look, love.

Oh! look and listen at the calm And holy midnight hour, When love's deep charm o'er human souls Hath strong and mystic power;

And thou wilt see my spirit stand Beside thee where thou art, And hear it breathe love's burning words Into thine ear and heart. Look and list, love.

Louisville, Ky., 1852.

The Close of the Year

Upon the still earth like a pall; the hills And mountains stand like mourners; the tall trees, Leafless ,red solemn, bend their tops like plumes Above the bier; and lo! a countless throng Of wan and ghastly phantoms seem to come From the dim realm of shadows, to convey The Old Year to his burial.

He is gone! He breathed no sigh or groan in his death-hour, But with the awful stillness of a dream, Passed to the mystic realm whine dwell the shades Of years that passed before him. One more wave, Bright with our smiles and bitter with our tears, A wave that has reflected star and cloud, The blue sky and the tempest's wrath, is lost In the great ocean of Eternity, Whose dark and dread and shoreless waters hide The wrecks of empires and the wrecks of worlds From every eye but God's.

Ah! gazing back Upon the parted year, we darkly mourn Its rich and wasted treasures. We recall, With keen remorse, life's follies and its crimes, And tears are swelling in our stricken hearts— Vain tears, alas how vain! And see! beside The shadowy spectre of the silent Past, A sad and sorrowing Angel seems to stand, Who, in a tone as mournful as the cry Of a lost soul, rebukes us for our deeds Of error, and implores us to be true To earth and Heaven in all the coming time That may be ours beneath the skies.

Here, here, At one year's burial and another's birth, Here, on this narrow isthmus in the sea, Time's ever surging sea, oh let us pause And deeply muse upon the two vast worlds, Spread out on either hand before our eyes, The Past and Future. From this lonely height,

Straining our gaze far backward o'er the plain That we have swiftly traversed, we behold, All thickly scattered o'er the dreary space, Unnumbered mounds, which mark the graves of joys, And loves, and hopes that thronged around our path, To charm our eyes and win our happy hearts By theft sweet smiles and wild enchanting tones, And then sank down to mingle with the dust, Like exhalations of the morning. We Look earnestly upon the fairy vales, Where, in life's spring-time hours, we lingered long To gather garlands of sweet flowers to deck The heart's own altars—but no flowers are there. The Autumn winds and Winter tempests swept Above their blooming loveliness, and they Perished in their bright beauty, and their souls Of perfume passed to Heaven. With wearied eyes, And sad and aching hearts, we turn away From the lone desolations of the past, To gaze upon Futurity, and there, Through the long vista of the years, we see,

With fancy's eye, rich vales, as beautiful As those through which in childhood's hours we roved And there, joys, hopes, and loves, as fresh and bright As those which sprang and perished by our side, Seem flitting in the distance, wild and free, And sweetly beckoning us to where they dwell, Like a young troop of Fairies.

A New Year, A new, unsullied year, is ours. Its page Is sealed; we know not what is folded there; We know not whether joy or agony We know not whether life or death, is writ Within the fearful scroll, but 'tis enough To know the gift is God's. Within our breasts, Amid love's blasted buds, joy's faded wreaths, And hope's pale withered garlands, one bright flower Is still uncrushed, undimmed, the holy flower Of Faith divine. We feel, we know that He, Who hath preserved us 'mid the thousand ills, The countless dangers lurking in our paths,

Still holds us in the hollow of His hand, And bids us trust in Him.

Farewell, Old Year ! May we, when called, like thee, from earth away, Obey. like thee, the summons, calm, serene, Without one sigh, or groan, or wild heart-throb To mark the moment of dissolving life. And oh may we, within the Eden land, Where angel wings are glancing through the air, And seraph songs are poured from rainbow clouds, Once more embrace the loved and lost whom thou Hast taken from us in thy silent flight.

Moonlight

Through the soft, silvery mists that float around, To follow them upon their long And shining trail of glory.

'Tis a strange But pure and blessed spirit, for each thought It wakes is pure and blessed. Every dream It brings is soft, and deep, and beautiful As 'twere an Eden vision. And, oh, see! A pale, unearthly light is in the air, Chastening the shadows that dance fitfully Along the silent walls; and now I feel My cheek and brow are hallowed by its pure And radiant baptism.

Ah, it is the sweet Soft spirit of the Moonlight. 'Tis the gleam Of yonder "Queen of mysteries," wandering forth Like a pale nun in heaven. Lone-musing here Amid the shadows of my curtained room, I saw it not, but yet I felt its spell

Steal through the air and sink into my soul, As with an angel power. And lo! as now I gaze out from my window on the earth, How softly and how beautifully beams The moonlight over nature. The young leaves Turn up their edges to its silver glow, And quiver with their rapture. The blue isles, The streams, the hills, the forests and the clouds Seem things of fairy-land, for beauty floats Like a wild dream around them. Gentle moon! Pale, lonely mistress of the solemn night! The tides of my young bosom heave and swell, Even as the tides of ocean, to thy strong Mysterious power! Oh! fill my breast with light From thy high sun and touch each shadowy thought, Each dark and gloomy fancy of my heart, With thy unclouded beams.

There is a pure Sweet moonlight of the soul, that from the sky Shines on our earthly spirits, silvering o'er

Each depth of doubt, and sin, and agony With the celestial beauty of its beams, And bidding every shadow melt away; Religion is that brightener of the soul, And life's dark waters glowing in its light, Mirror the wondrous glories of the heavens.

Louisville, March 15.

To Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart

Before thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life, All, all forgotten in its silent awe Toward a bright being of the earth so high, And glorious, and grand.

Oh I have thought As o'er thy bright and burning page my heart Wrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love, How like a demi-god thou art, thou proud And sceptred monarch of the realm of mind! The human soul, with all its mystic chords Of joy and woe, and hope and holy love, Is thine own instrument, from which thy hand Awakens tones whose echoes will be heard Through all the coming years, far sounding o'er The ocean of the future ages.

Thou Art a magician of strange power; thou canst Draw healing sweets from poisons; thou canst make The darkest, deadliest passions wear the hues

Of beauty and religion; all things, glassed Within thy fancy's mirror-wave, assume The holy tints of heaven. With wizard spell Thou stirrest the deep fountains of my life Until I worship thee, and feel myself Exalted by such worship. Thou dost stand Upon thy own high pyramid of mind, As on some lofty mountain-height, and wave Thy mighty wand, and myriads of bright And fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth, Come thronging on the wild careering winds, The vassals of thy bidding.

Cousin, I Have deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thou Hast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warm The frozen world of thought, but thou wilt not, Like him, be destined to the chain; the rock, And the fierce vulture at the heart, for Jove, The Tyrant, rules no more in heaven, and God Is justice, love, and mercy.

Cousin, thou Hast said thou lovest me, and in that love My bosom proud feels all the rapturous joy E'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met, And I could pray that we might never meet, For stern reality hath cruel power To cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells. To thee I would be ever as a thing Of youth and love. which, though from thee afar, Is still a part of thee. Oh let the light, The love-light of these tearful eyes of mine, Shine on thee in the beam of some pure star; Let my low voice steal o'er thee in the sound Of melancholy winds through midnight rains; Let the soft, dewy pinions of the breeze, As, laden with the perfume of the flowers, It comes to fan thy forehead, bear to thee A kiss from my young spirit; let me be As a soft, blessed tone of melody To stir with gentleness the passion-depths Of thy great soul; and when on some lone eve

I send, as now, my spirit to commune With thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flower From out the rich rose-garden of thy soul, One little diamond from thy priceless mine Of blight and glorious thought, one gentle sigh From thy deep spirit, mournful with the wild Excess of dreaming passion far too rich To find its proper guerdon in a cold, Unfeeling world like this.

Oh cousin mine, Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamed Oft of the glory of our ancient race Which lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride, Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone, In thee all perfected I've sat and mused On thee with blissful tears, until my soul Has from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawn Visions of love and immortality. In musings I have ofttimes stood with thee In ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayed

Through its time-honored shades, while thy rich tones Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts To sleep no more for ever.

Cousin dear, This humble wreath that here I send to thee Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers. Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh, And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.

On the Death of Miss Nannie C*****

Oh couldst thou, sweet and gentle girl, on earth no longer dwell? Had thy dear mother's love no power to hold thee with its spell? Had thy sweet sister's pleading voice no tone to keep thee here? Had life no charm to make thy home than paradise more dear? Ah no, the bright, the angel band bent gently from the sky, And wooed and won thee to their home, their own blest home on high. And there, beneath the holy shade of myriad starry wings, Thou wanderest 'mid the living flowers of heaven's own living springs, To hear the lofty music tones, the hymns of rolling spheres, Blend with thy own soul melodies through God's eternal years. But oh! does deeper, tenderer love in those high realms have birth, Than that which lives and throbs and weeps in human hearts on earth?

The thousand blossoms that have died beneath the Autumn blast, Will bloom in future Springs as bright as in the Springs long past; The rose and violet will lift their cups of white and blue, As erst at morn and mournful eve to catch the falling dew; The bright wing'd birds will pour their songs of love flora every tree, The bright young streams with ringing shout leap onward to the sea; But naught of these can ever pierce the cold and silent shade, Where, with thine arms upon thy breast, thy lovely form is laid. Yet come to us, dear Nannie, come, in this soft, stilly hour, And tell us of thy happy home in Heaven's immortal bower; I know that thou art there, for all thy thoughts beneath the skies Were beauteous as an Angel's dream asleep in Paradise. And, oh I ask that when thy hymns of ecstasy ascend, Thoul't breathe one deep and holy prayer for thy poor, erring friend,

Who still, with weary step must tread, in loneliness and gloom, Uncheered by flower or blessed star, her pathway to the tomb.

The Hermit

The bread and water on his table stood Untasted; his thin, bloodless hands were clasped Upon his breast; his blue, beseeching eye, Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame, Looked earnestly to Heaven; the corded veins, That lay upon his brow and temples pale, Throbbed visibly as if a living fire Were burning in their currents; his thin lip, Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple drops Were on his naked shoulders, and his frame Still writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lash Of his fierce penance; and, as there he turned Upward his suffering face to Heaven, his words Of penitence and supplication seemed To steal up from the caverns of his soul Like moans of keenest agony.

That night The hermit passed in meditation, prayer, And fierce and bitter penance for the sins Of early youth. But her dear image still,

The image of the sweet and gentle one That he had loved so passionately, rose 'Mid all his maddening tortures and his prayers Between him and his God.

The hours wore on, And when at length the first gray light of morn Dawned in the orient sky, laid his chill And trembling form upon his couch to check In sleep forbidden memories. In vain! The dear, the loved one, pale, and beautiful, Came softly stealing to his side in dreams, And bent above him, and her sweet blue eye Gazed mournfully in his, her tender lip Was pressed upon his forehead, and her voice, In tones of more than earthly melody, Was wildly breathing in his ear again Love's unforgotten words.

The sun arose, And then the hermit's sleep was dreamless; bright

The beam lay on the rigid brow of death. But on his breast, beneath the sackcloth robe, Was found the picture of his early love Pressed o'er his throbless heart. They buried him Upon that dismal moor, and when the Spring Smiled sweetly on the earth, a stranger come, A gentle lady, deeply bowed with grief, And planted flowers upon his lonely grave!

Louisville, Ky.

To my Sister

So red, so rich, so like the opening rose While yet the soft and early dew-drop blends With its wild perfume; thy bewitching smile Of strange, bright beauty, like a glance just caught From the closed portals of the Eden clime; Thy form, thy seraph form, that floats and glides Upon the earth in dreamlike loveliness, As 'twere the very spirit of a strain Of sweet and wild Æolian melody Made visible to mortal eyes; thy soft And gentle voice, that through my spirit sends Its thrill, like low and mournful music heard O'er the still waters of the midnight deep— All these seem stealing on my eye and ear, And lingering with me in my lonely hours, To fashion blessed dreams of thee and heaven Within my glowing soul.

Thou, sister dear, Art on the earth, not of it. Thy pure wing Is here chained back from thy own native heaven.

Thou art a gentle angel that my God Hath sent to soften, purify, and soothe My soul of fierce unrest. To me thy love Is the bright bow that spans life's darkest storm, An angel bending from the tempest-cloud. We two have wept o'er our dear mother's grave, Together we have bowed our heads and prayed For strength from Heaven to shield us from the stern Deep agonies of life. Our mother sleeps Afar, and we, the children of her love, Are left to buffet life's dark waves alone. No, not alone, for at the solemn hour Of holy midnight, on the moon's pale beams That mother seeks her loved ones on the earth, To whisper strength and comfort to their hearts. Oh then, sweet sister, let us gird ourselves For life's great battle, safe beneath her wing From every pain and danger.