Poems

Front matter

CAMBRIDGE, 1869.

CONTENTS.

PREFATORY

PREFATORY.

This volume includes nearly all the published and manuscript poems that have been preserved among Mrs. Rice's papers, and is now offered to her friends as a last and fitting memento of her love. It is believed that it will be dear to them all; not only for the many graceful verses which it contains, and the tender memories these awaken, but more especially because it is her own record of a life in whose thoughts and emotions they have shared, and which they prize the more now that it is a lost treasure.

Many of Mrs. Rice's poems were called forth by events in the lives of those she loved, or by scenes in which she took part; and all reveal that liveliness of fancy, that warmth of feeling, and quick, rare sympathy so endearing to all who knew her. The earlier pieces, written at Melrose, are pictures of the natural beauties about her there, which she always loved to recall, while those com- posed during her residence in Boston reflect the fuller life and more stirring public events of those later years. Preceding her own poems, will be found a few affectionate tributes written at her death by sorrowing friends.

A. G. W.

IN MEMORIAM

TRIBUTES.

IN MEMORIAM.

It is a beautiful custom common to all civilized nations, Pagan as well as Christian,—the attempt to preserve a memorial of the virtues and character of the loved and lost who have gone before us to the spirit land; and whether we resort for this purpose to the inscribed and votive tablet, or attempt, so to speak, to embalm the record in letters, the effort seems to spring from a common instinct of the human heart, which prompts us all to treasure up the memory of our departed friends, and to find some outlet for the grief which oppresses our hearts.

I saw in your last week's issue a poetical tribute to the memory of the late Mrs. Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of Boston, and I thought it would be becoming and appropriate to insert in your paper, of which she was an occasional contributor and correspondent, an obituary notice of the deceased.

It seems peculiarly appropriate to select the "Journal," as it is published near "the play places of her youth," and where a large portion of her early life was passed.

Mrs. Rice, for years, had been occasionally subject to attacks of a most severe and painful nature, from which she had always, heretofore, been apparently restored to her usual health.

But only a short time since, from what was to her a state of high health—for she had just written to a physician in the country, who in July last had attended and carried her through a most severe and somewhat protracted illness, "that she was as well as she ever was in her life"——she was suddenly and unexpectedly stricken down, never again to recover. Her death was entirely unexpected, not only to her friends, but also to the eminent physicians in attendance. So sudden, indeed, was it, that many of her most intimate friends were not aware of her illness.

Mrs. Rice possessed more than the usual personal attractions which fall to the lot of her sex. If personal beauty is to woman one of the greatest of the gifts which come from the great and good God, Mrs. Rice had certainly reason to be grateful for the portion allotted to herself. She possessed an intellect keen, quick, and appreciative, a disposition sweet and genial, in combination with a controlling will, and always in health, and sometimes in illness, a never ceasing flow of spirits, which seemed to well up and sparkle as from a fountain of perpetual joy. Few, even of her own sex, ever possessed more power to create an atmosphere of cheerfulness and happiness wherever she moved. She bound her friends to her by cords which nothing but death could sever. When she had once deliberately formed a friendship it was for life, but in the selection of her friends she adopted the advice of Polonius in Shakespeare, of whom she was a constant student:—

ppoem| {sm} The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to, thy soul with hooks of steel: But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new hatched, unfledged comrade."

Her natural tendencies were always to a "fit audience find, though few," rather than to mingle with the crowd.

Marrying as she did in very early life, to a great extent Mrs. Rice was a self-taught woman. In a quiet and unobtrusive manner she devoted much of her time to literary cultivation, but it was all done without the least affectation or parade. She occasionally wrote poetry, some of which would pass under the head of what is called Vers de Société, but occasionally, in moments of great distress or sorrow, she would strike a deeper chord, which would vibrate to some of the highest and most sacred feelings of the human soul. Without intending to institute any comparison between any of her poetry and that of Moore or Byron, still, in one respect there is a resemblance, for in the opinion of the writer their best poetry is their "Sacred Melodies," as her best efforts were those which touched upon the soul and the life to come. Some of her poetry has been set to music by a German gentleman of cultivation and taste. One piece is called the "Lake of Melrose," on the beautiful borders of which she once resided, but where she always thought she contracted a disease which haunted her till her death.

The other is just published, called "Christmas Bells," and was intended as a surprise and a present at Christmas to the eminent young physician and surgeon who carried her successfully through the terrible sickness of last summer above alluded to at Hanover, N. H., and to whom it is dedicated. When some of us at the coming Christmas may be listening to her own sweet "Christmas Bells," she will be listening to a far higher, and sweeter, and nobler strain.

In domestic life Mrs. Rice was an admired wife, a kind and tender mother, a generous friend. Born, I believe, in the Portsmouth Navy Yard, and having been brought up by an uncle, who was an officer on the old Constitution,—a beautiful model of which, made by her uncle on board the old "Ironsides," she always kept in her room,—she seemed to regulate her household, as it were, by naval, or military regulations. In all her household arrangements there was the same spirit of order, of quiet, of subordination, and obedience. And yet with all this strictness, it was the law of love. For her servants loved her and never left her, living with her continuously for years, and nothing ever taking them away but their marriage. It was delightful, in these days of domestic insubordination, to be in a household where the lady of the house, and not the servants, was the mistress.

To her friends, Mrs. Rice was always ready to dispense a quiet and elegant hospitality. To the poor, she was always a generous and sympathizing friend, giving to them not only of her worldly goods, but what in many cases was a still higher and better charity, advice and sympathy, and her best exertions to put them in a way to help themselves.

But there was a still higher character which our departed friend possessed, that of the true and sincere Christian. Without a particle of cant, or bigotry, or uncharitableness, she was a believer in Christianity; and it was not a dreamy, uncertain, hazy belief, like much of what is called Christianity at the present day, but with mind, heart, and soul, she believed in a personal God; she believed in God's revelation; she believed in the Son of God, who came to redeem us from our sins; she believed in the Holy Spirit, the glorious and blessed Trinity, the holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.

Mrs. Rice had been, for a long time, a communicant in the Episcopal church.

Few women who have led lives as quiet and unobtrusive as hers, have ever touched life at so many points. This was strikingly exemplified at her funeral, where were seen sad, and sorrowing, and weeping friends from all classes in life,—the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the uncultivated as well as the highly cultured,—all classes from her own sex, from the humble seamstress to the gay and fashionable woman of society. There came, too, to take their last look of her, representatives from all classes and creeds in the community,—the Rev. Father of the Roman Catholic Church, the Baptist clergyman, the Orthodox, and the Unitarian, as well as the clergy of her own communion, the Episcopal.

The funeral services were celebrated at the Church of the Messiah, on Florence St., on Thursday last, by the Rev. Mr. Knight; and at the grave by the rector of the church, the Rev. Mr. Williams.

I need not speak of the beautiful and touching burial service of the Church—rendered more impressive by the shock produced by her sudden and unexpected death, and more beautiful by all the means and appliances which affection, and love, and art could devise to take away the gloom of the grave.

Mrs. Rice has herself, at times, anticipated death in some of her terrible attacks. Not long since, when apparently in good health, she said to an intimate lady friend, "When I die, I care not what dress you put upon me, but cover me with flowers"—for which, like all true and beautiful souls, she had a passionate love.

Her request was carried out to the letter, and in most beautiful taste. In addition to the casket, which was covered and filled with them, the chancel of the church was lined on each side with a profusion of beautiful plants and flowers, while a wreath followed the outlines of the chancel front to the roof, and between each arch of the church was suspended a basket of flowers by a line so delicate as to escape observation, so that they really seemed to be poised and suspended in the air by some invisible power. The whole church was redolent of their perfume.

The writer of this sketch has never seen any floral arrangement, on such an occasion, which ever began to approach it in beauty; and no funeral services could be more beautiful and impressive than those of our departed friend. A large congregation were in attend- ance at the church, and a host of friends followed her to her last resting-place—the wardens and vestry-men of the church assisting as pall-bearers.

On a bright and beautiful day we took all that remained to us of our departed friend, and laid her down in the beautiful cemetery of "Forest Hills," there to rest till the graves are opened, and the dead shall rise to life everlasting.

Mrs. Rice was, by descent, partly of Spanish blood, her father having been born, I think, on the Spanish Peninsula. She showed something of the Spanish blood in her brunette complexion, and in the beauty and brilliancy of her eyes. She had also some of the best traits of the Spanish character, in her entire self-poise and reliance, and, when among strangers, in her retiring and dignified demeanor.

She showed it also in another tendency, common to all the Latin races, a love for the services and the worship of the Roman Catholic Church. It was not unusual for her to attend vespers at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and she went there not as a spectator—not to assist, as it were, at a splendid and imposing ceremonial or a gorgeous spectacle, but to listen to penitential psalms of David chanted to the music of the great masters of the art, and to worship, in spirit and in truth, the great Father of us all.

To those who did not know Mrs. Rice, all this may seem like extravagant eulogy, but there are many of her lady friends—and to make and retain friendships among her own sex is the true test of a true woman—who, to use the language of Ames in regard to Hamilton, will truly say, that when they think of her their hearts grow liquid as they think, and they could pour them out like water.

I would not say of Mrs. Rice, as Leigh Hunt, I think, said of some beautiful character, "To have known her and to have loved her was equal to a liberal education," but certainly no one could know Mrs. Rice well without being made better by the acquaintance, or without being lifted to higher and better aspirations.—Portsmouth Journal.

OBITUARY.

IN memory of Maria Theresa Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of Boston, who died on the morning of the 30th of November, 1868.

Those who have never seen the face, or heard the voice, or shared in the hospitalities of her home, beneath the shelter of her love, will feel no more than a momentary grief when reading a brief tribute of tried affection for the memory of this genial, generous, and gifted woman. But alas! there are many who will never cease to forget or fail to appreciate what a beautiful treasure of energy, of life and hope and love, of warmth of affection and grace, now lies buried in her new- made grave. To the latter class, friends and acquaintances not a few, who knew her inward heart and enjoyed her sympathies and affections, the writer would hope to place on record for their benefit a sincere and faithful portraiture of her virtues, her attractions, and varied accomplishments.

Mrs. Rice was a lady of no ordinary endowments of mind. With a genius undeveloped, she gave evidence of much culture and mental training. Her tastes were pure, simple, and refined. She had read much, and her judgment was strengthened by a clear and well-defined appreciation of real merit. She loved nature with an intense passion, 'and from her sweet communion with all of nature's works, she was able to throw off into sparkling verse, striking and beautiful sentiments worthy the genius of a true Christian poetess.

The broad, rich landscape, with its diversified hill and dale, stimulated the purer aspirations of her heart; and the wild flowers springing from the mould in the clefts of the rocks, created in her deep and sublime religious thoughts. She loved flowers in sunshine and in shade, "in camp and festival, before the altar and beside the hearth." If before she died the angel of death had asked her where she wished to be buried, whether in the tomb or under the shade of cathedral domes, she would have replied in unaffected simplicity, "O, no! no! Bury me—

ppoem| {sm} 'On an opening lawn—but not too wide; For I love the drip of the wetted trees; I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze To freshen the turf; put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair.'"

The religious element in the character of Mrs. Rice was beautifully developed in her strong Christian faith. Her earlier and later reading, her silent meditations and fellowship with sacred books and church music were in complete harmony with the quiet and unobtrusive conduct of her daily life. In her domestic relations she was cheerful, hopeful, and of tender sympathies; as wife, mother, and friend, she was dutiful, affectionate, devoted, and kind. To the bereaved family her death came suddenly and without warning, but it was serene and tranquil. After a long, long night of suffering and pain, she quietly passed away,—

ppoem| {sm} Gentle as when morning stealeth O'er the earth and sea and air."

Boston Post.

In silence, pondering the coming years, And this great loss that fills them all with gloom; Then o'er the past our loving fancies yearn, And, clearly mirrored, every scene appears.

Again, dear friend, along a hill-side, sweet With ox-eyed daisies, while the sun goes down, We tread, enraptured, toward the golden haze Whose molten glory fuses spire and town; Or, hand in hand, we pace the crowded street, As merry as the birds, that spend their days Singing to skies that know not how to frown.

For daily friendships, other souls, serene And fond, content us; but when wild with glee Our thoughts are bounding, and the tides of life Flow on exultant,—where then may we see In wit's gay tournament a lance so keen To shiver ours, in quick, responsive play? Where seek the mood to mate our rhapsody?

And must we miss forever from the hearth That glad, low laugh, those bright impulsive ways, And silvery accents, eager to impart Their spoken music, while before our gaze Droop the soft lids that quiver with their mirth? The earth is empty since that fervid heart Sleeps underneath it, silent while we praise.

The lightest griefs our summer hours have known She shared in pity, and our sorrows bore; Now, billowy seas of agony may roll And her warm sympathy can cheer no more, Feeling all woes as keenly as her own: Throned in her breast there dwelt a royal soul, Kin to that empress whose proud name she wore.

Ye muffling snows of winter, still delay; Sharp be the air, and bright;that we may hear The music of her own glad Christmas Bells,

Through frozen sunshine, ringing sweet and clear; Then shall we fancy that she lists their play, Afar, at morn, in fields of asphodels, And smiles to think that still we hold her dear.

>>A.G.W.

Boston Transcript, December, 1868.

She dwelt among flowers, enjoying their blooms, In garden, and trellis, and bowery places, And studied their hues and partook their perfumes, As they bowed to the breezes their sun-loving faces: "Sweet Eden of beauty! O, exquisite sight!" She said, as she watched them luxuriantly growing; "Ye give to my senses unwonted delight, Life's perishing emblems of Nature's bestowing.

'And we are but kindred, for I too must fade, And fall as the leaves do, in autumn descending; And when they shall lay me away in the shade, Whatever the state on my body attending, Let flowers be brought from the sunlight and air, By delicate fingers to strew o'er my sleeping, And exhalingly lie in their loveliness there, While the friends of my youth their last vigils are keeping

"Bring them at morning, bespangled with dew; Bring them with nectar of Nature's distilling; Bring them at noon, while their odors are new, And the wild birds are warbling their melodies thrilling, And weave them in garlands, while fragrant and gay, And drop them about me in vestal profusion; Then leave us together, while passing away, Like a bright but an often-remembered illusion."

Sweet prayer of a spirit to Beauty allied! Thy funeral garlands are gathered and braided; And Friendship has paid thee the rites of a bride, Adorned for the couch by the cypresses shaded. And over the pathway that led to thy bourn, And over the sod where thy form is reposing, The blossoms of virtue unfading return, And daily thy life is its perfume disclosing.

San Francisco, July 25, 1869.

The Connecticut

WRITTEN AT MELROSE.

POEMS.

Through vistas of beauty, the landscape so still Beyond did my dreams of enchantment fulfill; No fairer of Eden has poet e'er sung, No fairer did Milton e'er revel among: A spell seemed to reign over earth and through skies No language can paint, but the spirit replies To the beauty of day, when its glory declines, Crimsoning the waves of this River of Pines.

While pausing, enraptured, by slope and by steep, I yielded my ear to thoughts chastened and deep; From genius and worth, from a well-cultured mind, All nature so hushed seems to worship inclined; A voice,—aye, allow me to whisper the whole, Each syllable thrilled with power to my soul,— The echo vibrates those electrical lines, From eloquent lips, by that River of Pines.

Those snatches were brief, yet they fell on the ear In tones unimpassioned, pathetic, and clear; Some chords that were touched with deep sorrow were strung,: From others what marvelous melody rung: Ah, why attempt to portray or compare, While music defies, with its colorings rare; When matchless the hues my ideal enshrines, 'Of minstrel and song, by this River of Pines.

Mountains were slumbering in silence profound; With stars and with moonlight their summits were crowned;

While pensive we roamed o'er that dew-spangled sod In the twilight, it seemed the twilight of God; Imbued with a spirit of reverence, bliss, No pleasure, no joy can be likened to this, When the heart its holiest emotions resigns To pictures beheld on this River of Pines.

And there is a season of loveliness, bliss, Outvying the beauty, the splendor of this; When autumn transforms these midsummer views With its magical tints, its radiant hues; Go, sit by those banks, and compose, or compare The spiritual charms of this river so fair; Why should I profane, with my imperfect lines, The wonders unrolled by this River of Pines.

Unfolding, e'en now, like a vision, a dream, The shadows take shape, then realities seem; Were a sunbeam my pen, as melting its light, They'd vanish no faster, these views, while I write; A prophetical link, perchance, in the chain, The beautiful soul may roam here again, And this but a glimpse which the Bible defines Of regions surpassing the River of Pines.

Fair River of Pines, with thy mountains and plains, How rich are thy valleys, all golden with grains, And thy herb-scented groves, so vast and so dim! Thy solitudes teem with the greatness of Him: The cataract's fall, and its thundering roar, Will greet the lone Indian's ear nevermore;

Their sorrows are past, yet tradition divines How peaceful their homes by this River of Pines.

Now cottages, shaded by arbor or grove, Where Nature, where Art, all their treasures have wove: Gems from the forest and the tropics are there, Transplanted with taste and with infinite care; No discord; and there, O, how sweet to recall Hospitality's smile embellishing all; A magnetic star—in full glory it shines, Adorning the homes of this River of Pines.

There temples of peace, with their time-hallowed walls;: Each Sabbath to duty the pilgrim recalls: The ambassadors plead with fervor and love— That dews may descend from those rivers above; The spirit unveiled, soon, alas, may behold Those rivers immortal, with grandeur untold: Permitted to worship no more in these shrines, How calm will they rest by this River of Pines.

Like a monarch robed, see Ascutney there stand, His cloud-top o'erlooking the beautiful land; And all that a student of truth may desire, All that the sublime and the great can inspire, Is found here, the heart and the mind to expand; How sacred the theme, O, how classic and grand Are yon halls where Science unfolds her pure mines, When sought are her gems, by this River of Pines.

To banqueting halls by that river-side fair, To notes that were sounded to welcome me there, I fain would bestow, O, I fain would express A prayer, that all the good angels may bless; For tenderness, sympathy, gushing and free, My heart shall respond in its fullness to thee; While Hope shall illume, and while Memory shines In spirit I'll roam by this River of Pines.

Found at Last

We searched the house in every place, Grace, Bell, and I, To find the pretty sleeve of lace Robin placed high.

It formed a portion of her nest Swung from the bough; Sweet bird, with little scarlet breast, We've caught you now!

Lost at Sea

No tidings ever came to me, And weary years have sped; Alas! alas! and this may be Till seas give up their dead.

No token here to gaze upon, Not e'en a lock of hair, Which fell in sunny braids, around Thy beauteous face so fair.

Lake of Melrose

With her plumes and her wampum, and dark raven hair, So fitfully singing some wild pensive air: Alas for their sires, they shall never build more A canoe or a home on this beautiful shore; And dark is the tale of their wrongs and their woes As they fled from the banks of this Lake of Melrose.

The camp-fire once blazed on yon gray, craggy height, And threw forth the glare of its magical light; And the eagle-eyed Indian there counted his game, And 'reigned in the wilds till the pale-faces came. But here would I linger midst trees, birds, and flowers, To soothe all my cares and beguile my sad hours, And sit by the banks where the bright water flows, And share in the charms of the Lake of Melrose.

How suggestive the scene where the soft shadows fall, Of the maple and willow; how sweet to recall That Lord's own day when an ambassador led The lambs of his fold whom the Saviour had fed: There I caught the rich strains of the baptismal rhyme By the multitude sung on that bank; how sublime, How thrilling, how pure, O, how dear till life's close, And sacred, the charms of the Lake of Melrose.

Christmas Bells

A babe in the manger, the herald was true, A Saviour has come every heart to renew:" And Mary His mother awaked from her dream, What meekness and love from her countenance beam.

Afar in the temple, Simeon of old Brought incense of myrrh in rich censers of gold, Sublime were his words while saluting the Son— O, let me depart, our salvation is won. Sweet bells, ye are playing melodious chime, What raptures to raise in this bosom of mine, As all those bright pictures in joy seem to rise, While ringing your anthems this eve through the skies.

A Dream

To this gorgeous cave in the earth it will guide, O, haste thee, its riches to see; Your Father and Saviour there sit side by side, Their arms are extended to thee."

Lines suggested on reading the sudden Death of Miss P. A. P.

Her voice, though, no more Shall be blended with thine,— Prepare now to meet her, For you know not the time.

Weep not for your loved one, You'll soon meet again; She passed through the vale Without sorrow or pain: Then lift up your voices, Bend not to the blow, The Saviour can heal All your bleeding hearts now.

With a Moss-wreath

For its unpretending beauty, Gentle lady, you will prize; Trifles cheer the path of duty, Often in them magic lies; Nature with her quiet teaching Offers her perpetual balm, To our hearts alway beseeching All to sing their simple psalm.

Lady, pardon; may the pleasure Which it gave me while I wove Be imparted in full measure From this quiet, lovely grove; Go, fair wreath, to halls of splendor, From a donor's hand unknown; If a smile of love you render, Then your power I'll joy to own.

You may deck some wall or statue With your amaranthine bloom; Or perchance, alas, in sorrow Laid upon some loved one's tomb: Now adieu to stream and mountain, Song and bird and greenwood bower; Rock and wreath and gushing fountain All must own your thrilling power.

Lake Cottage, Melrose

I thought 'twould ope a week ago, And placed it in the sun; But then I found it would not blow Till the birth of Washington.

Then when I'm sad and sick at heart, O bring to me a rose; Sweet consolation it imparts, And rich perfume bestows. Thrice welcome are you, beauteous flower, To cheer our home on this great day; So emblematic of our power— Bud, blossom, then decay.

To my Absent Husband

And mope through a long autumn day; A blank you know I call The time I spend when you're away, And this is not quite all:

There's no one calls me beautiful, My mirror's silent, too; How strange this great discovery Should have been made by you! Excuse me, dearest, if I doubt Your taste so very pure; The beautiful I can't find out— 'Tis very strange, I'm sure.

The world is full of mystery, And O! this love is one; Its strange and wondrous history Is scarcely yet begun. All that we love is beautiful, Experience teaches this; The simplest thing sometimes has caused Me ecstasy of bliss.

Now as I wander round, and view Each gift, however small Or trifling, if twas brought by you, What joy does it recall! And every tender word and tone, Which did my bosom thrill Long years ago, now I'm alone, They make me happy still.

For with a generous heart and hand The fairest gifts you strew Around my home, from sea and land— What more can mortal do? It always makes me feel that I Can never half repay The many kindnesses, my love, You scatter o'er my way.

How many hours of happiness There are in this brief life, To those who truly realize The sacred name of wife! Now, dearest, you will smile to see I've tried to poetize; When you return, our home will be An earthly paradise.

In Early Spring

O where did they blossom, I long so to know, To know who so kindly did send; My heart with pure gratitude sure would o'erflow To so thoughtful and generous a friend.

After-thoughts

Comparisons continually I seem inclined to draw, As though perfection all were mine,— In me no sin or flaw.

My greatest fault, my vanity To think such one my friend; A strangeness, like insanity, The first thing I offend; But when by look, by word, or deed An injury I have done, I quickly will their pardon plead Until forgiveness won.

Few weave reproach with tact or skill Through graceful tête-à-tête; An arrow gemmed with flowers will Wound deep at any rate; You know the wound will sooner heal If rightly balm's applied; Its soothing influence you feel, This cannot be denied.

I know there are but very few Who will my shafts repel; With bitterness they don't imbue Before they run and tell; Most true, they seldom hesitate To render back my due— However small the debt, or great, Return with interest too.