Poems

Front matter

by

MARY CAROLINE AND JANE CAMPBELL DENVER.

Deux estions et n'avions qu'un Cœur.

In Memoriam

IN MEMORIAM.

The twin-sisters, Mary Caroline and Jane Campbell Denver, were born near Winchester, Frederick County, Va., on the 8th of February, 1821. Their parents sprang from that immigration which poured from the north of Ireland into Pennsylvania and Virginia during the latter part of the eighteenth century; and it was a thought which always awakened, in the minds of the subjects of this sketch, a pardonable pride and enthusiasm, that they had an ancestry to whom "Liberty was the breath of life."

The extreme loveliness of the region lying between the Blue Ridge on one side, and a spur of the Alleghanies on the other—the summits of both which could be seen from their home—no doubt had its influence on minds naturally open to impressions and imaginations always strongly excited by the grand and beautiful in nature. When they were about ten years of age, the family removed to a farm near Wilmington, Ohio, but not before these Daughters of Song—as they were destined to prove—had drunk in many an inspiration from the lovely valleys, winding streams, and cloud-capped mountains of the Old Dominion. These memo- ries, united to an ardent love of their Southern home, served as themes for lays of heart-music in after years, and to beguile the solitary hours of life in a comparatively new country. From their father (who had been an officer in the war of 1812—retiring immediately after to an agricultural life—a man of varied information, enlightened judgment, and unblemished honor) they inherited a passion for reading, and although their educational advantages were, in the common acceptation, somewhat limited, yet, perhaps they were of the best; for, among the treasures brought from Virginia was a fine collection of the works of standard authors. History, Politics, Religion, Poetry, Romance, contributed to form these minds and tone them to a far higher intelligence than is usually found,—especially in a home where "no simplest duty was forgot." It was pleasant, indeed, to sit, on a winter's night, round their cheerful family hearthstone, "with blazing logs piled high," and while enjoying the delicious apples and cider, nuts and cakes—true country cheer—listen to the genial flow of conversation! The well-told tale, the merry jest, the ready quotation, the quick repartee, the enlivening song, all lent their charm; and many there are, who will remember with a sigh—so far down time's vista seem these sunny spots in life, and so thickly since have shadows intervened—the hospitality of that old homestead. Indeed, it was proverbial the country round, and often did the walls ring with music and merriment in those happy days, when, with family ties unbroken, sickness infrequent, and death—as all hoped—in the far-off future, life seemed almost a pleasure-chase! During all this time, though leading lives of active usefulness, the sisters, Mary and Jane, found leisure to cultivate the poetic talent with which they were endowed,—the former commencing to write, at the early age of eleven years, a poem commemorative of her regret at leaving the beautiful "Selma," round which clustered her most delightful recollections. From this time until her health failed, she wrote rapidly and without effort, as water flows from the mountain-spring—because it was her nature and delight. Her sister began to write some years later in life, with less of ease but perhaps more vigor of expression, and to both this gift was a source of unspeakable happiness. The trees of the forest, the "voice of waters," and the "delicate indwellings" of their own spirits were their teachers; and many a song of the affections, many a tribute to glorious deeds and scenes of historic interest, from their pens, found way into the literary periodicals of the day, and were always favorably received. There was so great a similarity in character between them, that in thought, feeling, purpose, they were one, and in affection they were twin-souls as well as sisters. With no ostentatious display of this,—seldom even alluding to the peculiar tie which united them—yet so did their every word and act manifest it, that the prediction was often made that one could never survive the other's loss. They were truthful, natural, generous,—intuitively shrinking from all ignoble motives or actions. A happy gayety was theirs, although tempered by a sweet seriousness, as if it were "not all of life to live,"—and of either it might aptly have been said:

ppoem| {sm} "In her utmost lightness there is truth, and often she speaks lightly,— And she has a grace in being gay, that even mourners approve, For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so lightly As to justify the foliage and waving flowers above."

Their personal resemblance was extraordinary. A classic head, dark wavy hair, a pure white brow, where goodness sat enthroned, eyes of changeful hue, from bluish gray almost to hazel, clearly-cut features and sweet smiling mouth, would describe either; and often a "Comedy of Errors" was enacted when both were present at some festive scene. The following is a laughable illustration of this: An admirer of one sister startled the other, by a declaration of affection which she knew was not intended for her. In vain she endeavored to check the ardent wooer. "You are certainly mistaken, sir,—it cannot be I to whom you would say this,—do you not wish to see my sister?" "No," was the easy reply, "I cannot distinguish you, at any rate, and it is no matter." The mistake was reported by the victim himself.

And now changes gradually come to the household,—daughters marry—sons go out to battle with the world, and it is the "Old Home" no longer. The failure of Jane's health at length, following all these changes, produced a saddening effect upon her own and her sister's mind,—an indefinable longing for something they as yet possessed not. They began to realize that "The immortal mind craves objects that endure." Especially did these things weigh upon the mind of Mary, who felt the approaching gloom of a great sorrow, and turned almost unconsciously for strength to a higher power. For, it needed not even love's quick instincts to detect, in the wasting strength, the unnatural brightness of the eye, the hectic cheek and the hollow cough which had fastened upon her loved one, that they must part erewhile. Alas! what sure premonitions! In the early morning of December 7th, 1847, the dreaded messenger came, and in the glory and maturity of womanhood, the pure spirit of Jane C. Denver fled from earth, leaving behind her the stricken one of whose very existence she seemed an essential part. How she bore up under the weight of this affliction is best described in her own words to a friend who arrived just after the sad event. "She has left me," she said, "and I, too, should have died, but Jesus stood by me through all the fearful night!" This from one who was neither visionary nor superstitious,—though from childhood possessing a strongly religious element of character,—but whose soul had, doubtless, during the terrible ordeal of that night, cried out in strong agony, to the Compassionate One, who never yet refused such an appeal, or failed to recognize the incense of true worship,—and thereafter, over her already excellent life, fell a new charm, "the beauty of Holiness." Her grief was intense, though very quiet, "showing itself only in the softer footfall, the added tenderness of voice, the gentler sympathy, the warmer pity with which she bound up the broken-hearted." She could not, for years, speak of the departed, nor did any approach a subject so sacred to her; yet she was, evidently, always uppermost in her thoughts. The old delightful employment of embodying in song the emotions of the heart and experiences of life, ceased to interest her, and was not resumed until towards the close of her own life, when, with sorrow sanctified by religion, she wrote, perhaps, some of the sweetest gems which ever emanated from her pen. Among these are the "River Echo" and the "Ring Doves," the latter written during a final visit to her native place and under a strong conviction that she should see it no more.

Shortly after her sad bereavement it became evident that her own health was rapidly declining, and a long-cherished desire to visit the home of her childhood was carried out. Again she breathed the air of the mountains, and new strength was, for a time, infused into her feeble frame. She greeted each remaining tree and shrub as friends parted from but yesterday, and recollected and described each house in the neighborhood—a proof of her wonderful memory, which was so retentive, that fugitive poems, which had struck her fancy when a child, she could repeat entire, a score of years after, never having seen them in the interval. During this visit she made a public profession of her faith—circumstances having hitherto prevented—by connecting herself with the Presbyterian Church of Winchester, under the pastoral charge of Rev. Dr. A. H. H. Boyd, one of the most eminent ministers of the South, who said, on hearing of her death, "She was one of the most remarkable persons I ever met,—possessed of rare piety." She remained in Virginia eighteen months, passing through a severe illness towards the close of her visit, and returning home a confirmed invalid. The remainder of her life was a period of great suffering, but it was then that the piety, which was the center-jewel of the crowning graces of her character, shone brightest. She strove to make the outer life a counterpart of the inner. Spending much of her time with a married sister who resided a mile from the church, every Sabbath found her, when at all able to go, in her seat in the Sanctuary. It did not hinder her that she was compelled to pause every few minutes on the way, unable to proceed, from a paroxysm of coughing. Suffering for years from this grievous cause, scarce knowing an hour's respite, by day or by night, no murmur ever escaped her. She was accustomed to say, "The disciple must not be above his Lord." She never uttered an impatient word or gave a hasty look. Every-day annoyances—the real trials of life, because unanticipated—the "continual dropping," which is more wearing than the violence of misfortune, were met by her with sweet serenity. She "died to self." "Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing the crown of thorns and the cross of Christ." Next to God, her heart was given to her country, and it is remarkable that her last desire in reference to it was fulfilled so literally. Civil war in the United States was apprehended and in conversation upon the subject, some time before her death, she said, earnestly, with the upward glance so habitual to her—"It is my prayer, always, that I may be in my grave before civil war begins in my country." Her last summer was spent in visiting some of her loved friends—"parting visits" they proved to be, the last and longest being made to a sister living in Harveysburg, Ohio, where she remained until her death. Few who were her companions that summer, can forget the happy expression of her face—her unusual joyousness! She seemed not to be treading on earth, but looking into heaven, watching for the "chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!" Their coming was not long delayed. A little past midnight on the 16th of October, 1860, her departure took place. She had retired to rest, feeling better than usual, but being suddenly seized with hemorrhage, had only time to alarm the family, when her

ppoem| {sm} Life so sweetly ceased to be, It lapsed in immortality."

To J. C. D.

S.

That have shone around and sparkled, from their high and jeweled throne, Till my heart was stirred within me, by a glory not its own.

From my childhood I have worshiped that high intellectual power, Which, while pouring gems around us in profuse and golden shower, To the toil-worn and the weary when affliction draweth nigh, Yieldeth forth a sweet refreshment, when they almost pine to die.

As a fountain in the desert, when the storm clouds onward roll, Giveth life, and health, and vigor, to the parched and thirsty soul, So the well of mind will strengthen, when our strength is almost gone, And amidst this living desert we have wandered far alone.

Not all lonely have I wandered, not unanswered have I sung, For thy voice, like gladdest music, ever on my ear hath rung; In the lone and far-off valley—on the rugged mountain side, To whate'er my thoughts have wandered, thou wast ever found beside.

Oft in fancy we have traveled o'er the fields of Palestine, Seen a thousand armors gleaming, seen a thousand lances shine, Followed with our eyes the banners of the stern and high crusade, When the lion-hearted Richard, into dust the lion laid.

High above the holy city, with her thousand"minarets, Gleaming in the silent moonlight, like a sun that never sets, Seen the banners of the crescent, looking upwards toward the sky, While afar, in stern defiance, waved the red-cross flag on high.

Though the minstrel band hath sung them, and the minstrel eye have seen, And the minstrel heart hath loved them, for the glories that have been, Like to fancy's wayside children, still they gleam before the eye, Claiming for themselves a tribute, though that tribute be a sigh.

Not alone the days of knighthood hath our wandering fancy claimed, Yet a feeling binds us to them, that the present hath not named;

And the past is but a specter, haunting with a warning head, Every palace of the living, from the chambers of the dead.

And it reads to us a lesson it were wise in us to learn, Of the thousands gone before us, of the gentle and the stem: From the empire worn and wasted, to the single rose-leaf shed, There are foot-prints left to guide us, took we lessons of the dead.

And the faithful Christian soldier, with his helmet and his shield, Ever ready for the combat, ever ready for the field, Shadows forth the hurrying Present, where the armies of the heart, Moslem host and Christian soldier, strive for the better part.

Hark! the tread of armed foemen, rushing onward to the fight: In the crowded noontide hour, in the stillness of the night. Louder, louder yet the trumpet pealeth forth its warning tone; Pointing upward, ever upward, to the fountain-head above.

We hare heard it—oft-rimes heard it; and amidst the hurrying throng, Some glad tone of young affection, pouring its sweet stream along! To the way-worn and the weary breathing words of life and lore, Pointing upward, ever upward, to the fountain- head above.

It hath gathered strength and terror, it hath gathered sweetness too, Since the world of syn and shadow burst upon our infant view; It hath been a star of promise shining o'er a weary way, Singing, singing: rough the darkness, like a bird at break of day!

We hare heard it on the hillside, when together side by side, We hare watched the white clouds moving in the pleasant eventide, Pictured forth their strange, appearance, through imagination's eye, When for our beloved country, fought the warriors of the sky.

Oft beneath the tall, dark cedars of our first; and far-off home We have heard it through our bosoms like a gush of music come;

When the earnest stars were looking from their silent homes above, There hath breathed a whisper round us, and that single word was love!

There hath been an angel with us; 'neath the darkly-shining tree,— We have heard the sound of pinions rustling round us joyfully; Heard them in the voice of waters—heard them in the thrilling song Of the wild bird on the mountain;—may it linger with us long!

May it hover round us ever! leading to that only shrine; Through a world of sin and sorrow, we have need of light divine, Aiding every first endeavor—making e'en affliction dear, May we feel that earth is hallowed!—there hath been an angel here!

The Burial in the Wilderness

Of the dark wilderness, where never eye Of kindred might weep o'er it—where no hand Would plant the flowers she ever loved in life, Above her grave? Had England's wide-spread realm No grave for her fair daughter? Had the white And marble tombs that stood long centuries, Near her ancestral halls, many and wide, No space remaining for her father's child?

Aye, there was room enough, full space they had, Full beyond measure, for her fragile form, And kindred dust—but when she sought to kneel, As she would do on many a starry eve, Beside the graves of her dead ancestors, And pray the spirits of the mighty dead To act as ministering angels to her heart, And guard her from the ills that hovered round The weakest of her race—at such a time, A shadowy hand would beckon her away, And in her startled ear a solemn voice, Solemn, yet most distinct would whisper "Go!" And from the secret chambers of her soul, The mandate was sent forth—and from the vales, The giant mountains and the lofty hills, The mighty rivers, the ennobling streams, There came a voice, that rose and swelled, until No other sound was heard in all the earth. And she did go! +>But where?

A shout arose, And the huge ocean spread her billowy arms, Covered with foam, and panting like a steed, Just recent from the battle, to receive And bear her onward to the destined shore; And from the vast and gloomy wilderness, A voice said "Come," and perishing hearts said "Come," And fainting souls—and o'er that forest-land, Religion hovered, with a fluttering wing, Half scared and half triumphant—for the hearts That braved oppression in their native land, That left their homes, and left their fathers graves, To cross the toiling ocean, and to dare The dangers of the forest, could not yield Their courage up entirely—they had placed Their trust in Him who never would forsake,— The God of their true worship. So she came Unto an unknown and a barren shore Unfaltering.—With meek and placid brow, And tranquil eye, and ever-prayerful heart, Soothing the weary and afflicted one, With words of gentlest balm, and lifting up Her voice to heaven to bear her firmly on. Even to the end. Her task on earth was done. Fully accomplished, and she bowed her head, And rendered back her spirit to the hands

Of Him who gave it, pure as when it first Was sent from its primeval heaven to fill A tenement of clay, and do the will Of the Most High. Her task was done, and she Died peacefully, and full of hope, as those Who die in Christ, to live with him again Beyond the resurrection; and the hands That ministered unto her dying wants, Now bore her to her final resting place.

Moonlight lay on the forest like a shroud Wrapping its huge limbs in a last embrace; And the young stars looked softly on the flowers Which their fond gaze returned, with earnest eyes, Rich with deep language—and the sighing breeze, Mourned brokenly, and at short intervals, Among the lofty branches, as it, too, Sang a last requiem o'er departed worth.

Slowly they came! Slowly and heavily, as those who bore Their burden in deep sorrow! and they laid Her, where the moonlight shed its brightest beams, And where the stars might look upon her grave Forever. And they raised their voices high, And swelled a solemn chant of lowliest love And meek submission and reliance strong, Unto the pitying Chastener of their hearts, Until the bosom of the forest thrilled With the high anthem.

"O, Mightiest! from thy throne Look down upon Thy mourning children here; We come to render back to Thee Thine own, To yield a spirit that we held most dear! Bend from Thy throne, Holiest! to receive The offering we bring unto Thee now; Nothing more pure, more lovely, could we give— Nothing more precious had we to bestow. Lord, take her! she is Thine; O, twine A living laurel round her fadeless brow!

"Earth! open wide thy arms, To fold in thine embrace the loveliest child That ever sought thy bosom!—from the storms That quiver o'er thy breast in terrors wild, Protect her well! for she was kind and meek, And loved the simplest flowers that perfume shed Upon the morning breeze, and oft would seek Their balmy breath to ease her dying head! Earth, take the gift we bring, And fling Thy sweetest flowers upon her lowly bed!

"Ruler of heaven and earth! Dispenser of all good! to Thee we come, To yield a spirit of celestial birth. Receive her to thy fold, her heavenly home! She left a land of plenty, for the cold

And sterile wilderness, where she could bow In freedom to thee, and sweet converse hold, Fearless of haughty words and frowning brow! Lord, take her! she is Thine; O, twine A living laurel round her fadeless brow!

"From her ancestral halls. From England's princely palaces and domes, She heard the voice of her Redeemer call, And meek in faith she left her fathers' tombs, To make her home in this vast wilderness, To find a grave where love might never shed One tributary tear,—might never bless Her patient sufferings and her dying head! Earth, take the gift we bring, And fling Thy choicest flowers upon her lowly bed!

"O, from Thy great white throne, Almighty! look upon our mourning band; We miss from out its ranks the loveliest one! Deign to withdraw from us Thy chastening hand; Let Thine eye pity, and Thy patient love Upon our hearts in streams of mercy flow, And give us faith to meet with her above, As to Thy will submissively we bow! Lord, take her! she is Thine; O, twine A living laurel round her fadeless brow!

"Dust, to thy earth return! The temple thou didst form is desolate, Its dweller hath departed! thou wast worn, With sorrow, and no more couldst animate The living soul within thee! she away Hath sought a happier clime—there to remain Until the great and resurrection day, When the freed soul shall call for thee again! Earth, take again thy dust In trust; Our present loss is her eternal gain.

"Soul! to the God who gave Thee being without end! whom thou didst find Long-suffering, strong and infinite to save The tottering step, the broken heart to bind! Thou hast returned—thou couldst no longer stay; Thy mission is accomplished! thou hast thrown Aside the shackles of thy living clay, And thy Redeemer hath resumed His own! Soul, raise thy glad voice, raise In praise, With all God's angels round the Eternal Throne!"

Freedom's Watchword

The Past the glorious Past is there, magnificent and lone, And old affection takes her seat upon the phantom throne, And points with trembling hand to days—days passed forever by, When hand was met by kindred hand, and eye met kindred eye. How could they throw aside the chain, or how unloose the band, That bound them to the parent-stem, the far-famed motherland?

And on the fame of other years, remembrance looked with pride, When brave hearts undivided stood, together, side by side; When brave men smiled to see beneath the forest's shining leaf, What gleaming orbs of fire bespoke, the dark-browed Indian chief. And rising in illustrious shape, as if their eyes to mock, They see the feathered arrows strike—the glittering tomahawk; Oh! mutual danger met, endeared them to each other more Than all the pleasures they had quaffed upon the banquet-floor.

Those dreams are broken—gone the Past, and gone her magic thrall, When one arises in their midst, the noblest of them all! "Thou thinkest of a worn-out World, thou dweller of the New, And of her glory too, perchance, but is it shared by you? Go ask the slave, that in the mine, toils through unendihg night, If the gold he seeks for gives him joy, because that gold is bright? We, for her glory struggle on, down to destruction's waves; What does it matter?—she is great, and are we not her slaves?

"Ye think upon the Past—now turn, and on the Present think: We ask her for affection's cup, she gives us scorn to drink! But fourfold shall it be returned, amid the battle's glare. We'll tear a nation from her grasp, and shame shall be her share. We'll be a nation of ourselves; have glory of our own. Will win it for no other land; no monarch on his throne:

No king conferring rank or shame, with vacillating breath No stronger than mine own! then give me Liberty or Death!"

Then thrillingly to every cheek the crimson blood up-sprang, And each one started to his feet as if a trumpet rang; Firm is each lip, and fixed and bright the lustre of each eye, And wildly throbs each beating heart, impetuous and high, While murmurs rise around—at first, low as the breezes hum; But gathering strength as they advance, like wild sea-waves they come, Swelling into one mighty shout, given with unfaltering breath: "We'll stand together—give to us, give Liberty or Death!"

Then fast and far, like hurrying winds across the tossing sea, Abroad through all the land it went, that watchword of the free! The preacher in his pulpit stood, in silence and alone, There came upon his musing ear, a strange, a startling tone;

He lifted up his eyes to heaven, as if it came from there; He lifted up his heart to heaven, in deep and solemn prayer: "We ask not Pride, nor gorgeous Pomp, nor Glory's fading wreath, We ask not these—but give, give us Liberty or Death!"

And they—the hardiest of the land—sons of the mountain-soil, Whose hearts were strong with courage, and whose hands were hard with toil, Ah! honored be those dauntless men, the brave, the truly free, Honored be they!—except to God, to none they bend the knee. The plough was left within the field, the furrow was not done, Down dropped at once each implement, and up rose every one: "If we are slaves, alike to us rich soil or barren heath, We'll strike for both, and freely strike, for Liberty or Death."

And he whose voice was heard alone amid the battle's blast, Whose form was only seen amid war's whirl-wind as it past;

The forest was his tower by day; by night it was a flame— The Briton saw the light arise, and shouted Marion's name. Bold man! the gallant leader of a gallant little band, Thou wert among the first to snatch the beacon's flaming brand, "Ay! let us live the patriot's life, or yield the patriot's breath, We ask no other terms,—then strike for Liberty or Death!"

Should it be asked if Victory went onward in their track. Proud Saratoga's rocky plain can give the answer back; Where Britain's haughty soldiery war's bitterest fortune wept, And envied those, more fortunate, who, waiting burial, slept. Old Bennington can tell how Stark discomfited the foe, And Trenton how the invaders' blood stained its wide fields of snow, And Yorktown's shattered walls can tell, how fortune's fickle breath To millions living and unborn gave liberty, not Death!

The Father and his Child

And waking from my reverie, beheld Too late, indeed, the cause that called it forth. A gurgling stream ran through the grassy lawn, And hither in its sportive playfulness, The lamb had wandered from its mistress' side, Skipping and frisking in its fearless mood, Unconscious of the fate that hovered near! For while it stood upon the soft dark bank, The yielding earth gave way, and down it fell, Wavering an instant on the treacherous edge, As loth to leave the pleasant world behind.

"Lammy, poor little lammy!" on the bank She stood with arms outstretched, as if to snatch Her gentle favorite from its watery grave, That gave it back no more! and with a sob Of heartfelt sympathy for that lone child, I closed my eyes, that filled with bitter grief, For I, alas! was powerless to save.

"My daughter!" said a deep and manly voice, In tones of sad affection,—and an arm Was thrown caressingly around her form; And as the noble one before me, pressed The weeping mourner to his manly heart, His proud lip quivered, and his eyes grew dim, For she was motherless! What love is like The love we feel for children! O, what love Is like a father's for his worshiped child;

There dwells a tenderness in every thought, Too pure for earth, Something that breathes of heaven Is in the graceful movements of its limbs, That whispers to his heart, "this angel-one Is half of heaven!"—and so he feels a love, Sacred, distinct from all on earth beside. To which all other love is poor—so much Is it devoid of passion! Children are The earthly part of angels—sent on earth To minister unto affection's wants; Oh! when the heart is sad—when wasted hopes, And broken friendships, and affliction's rod, And all the dreams ambition called to life Are blasted, ere the buds had time to bloom, That never yet have borne but bitter fruit, Of sin, or of repentance—when all these Press heavily upon the aching heart, How soft the accents of his darling child Fall on the father's ear! He hears, and feels Less wretched than before—he hears and feels That one heart loves him still, amidst the gloom Of his wrecked fortunes—and he hopes once more, And when the love affection once enjoyed, And still remembers vividly, is lost Forever to the heart; when pallid death Hath laid his hand upon the loved one's brow, And dimmed the sparkling eye; when the cold earth

Hath folded in its bosom the fair form To be returned no more; when the sad train Of mourners have departed, every one, And left him in his desolate home alone; And all the agony, so long pent-up Within his soul, bursts forth—and as he clasps His orphaned children to his bleeding heart, A tenderness he knew not of before, Towards them fills all his soul, until he deems Their mother's spirit watches from above, Speaking unto his own, of those loved ones, So helpless and so innocent; he feels A comfort even in wretchedness; lie sees Their mother's beauty on each brow; he hears Her voice in every lisping tone; and turns Involuntarily to meet the eyes Cold, cold alas! in death! and then the tide Of his strong feelings, separated once, Now pours itself along in one broad stream Of concentrated and unwasting power!— O, sacred be such feelings; there is less Of earth than heaven in them!