Poems

Front matter

S

BY

,

Preface

PREFACE.

I have been requested by the nearest friends of the late Miss Chitwood to write a Preface for a volume of her poetry. It is to me an unaccustomed work, and I do not know that I can perform it more appropriately than by copying from my paper of last January the notice I then made of her death, and of her genius. That notice was as follows:

"We have seldom been so deeply pained, as by the intelligence of the death of Miss Mary Louisa Chitwood, of Mt. Carmel, Indiana. We grieve at her loss, for she was our very dear, personal friend, and one of the brightest among the young women of genius in this country. She was, for a long time, a writer of poetry for the Louisville Journal; and every reader has admired the rich and tender beauty of her productions.

"Miss Chitwood was young; but, in her brief career of life, she knew something of sorrow, and her heart was both softened and strengthened by the stern discipline. She was kind, and gentle, and true, and good—warm-hearted and high-souled—diffident and shrinking, but conscious of bright and beautiful thoughts, and of strong powers, given her by God for useful purposes. Her whole nature was deeply and intensely poetical; and thus to her the whole world was full of poetry. The deepest griefs of her young bosom were turned to music—soft, sweet, and mournful music, on her lips. There was a low, and sad, and mysterious melody in her heart, as if that young heart had wandered down from Heaven, and were moaning for its home, as the sea shell moans for its parent sea. There was no deadly nightshade, or other noxious thing among the myriad blossoms of her soul, that flung upon every breeze that stirred them an incense like that of Araby the Blest. She never uttered a thought that was not fitted to purify, and beautify, and make better every heart into which it sank-never a thought that might not be cherished and spoken by an angel in the midst of the shining hosts of Heaven. Every thought rested as purely and beautifully in her heart as a white dove in its nest, or a starbeam in the calm lake, or a dew-drop in the cup of the rose, or the soul of love and perfume in the bosom of the violet. The bitterest trials could not turn to bitterness her sweet and lovely nature. No adversity could make her cold, or morbid, or misanthropic; on the contrary, the whole tendency of her sorrowful experiences of life was to soften, and etherialize, and hallow her spirit, and to render it the home of universal benevolence, and charity, and love.

"Miss Chitwood had extraordinary genius; and, up to the time of her death, she cultivated it with diligence and success. She was rising rapidly to fame, when suddenly her fiery heart sank down, to be quenched in the cold damps of the grave. It was as if a tree, in the midst of all its wealth of April bloom, were uprent by the whirlwind; as if a young eagle, springing upward to the sky, were stricken down by the fowler's shaft; as if a young star, mounting brightly toward the zenith to take its place in heaven, were suddenly and mysteriously blotted in mid-career from existence. When the sad knowledge that she was dead came home to us, we felt, for a moment, as if beauty and glory had perished from the Universe—as if something beautiful in nature had stopped; as if an exquisite harmony in creation had ceased: we remembered not that her pure spirit still lives, exalted and strengthened, and rendered even more heavenly than in its lovely pilgrimage of earth. We loved her as dearly as we could love one whom we had never seen; and her pure, and gentle, and childlike, and enthusiastic, and holy love was to us, surrounded as we ever were by the fierce strifes of politics, like a tone of music among rude voices—a 'sweet benediction in the eternal curse.'

"We hope that Miss Chitwood's writings, in poetry and prose, will be collected by some surviving friend or relative, for publication, and it would give us pleasure to render our assistance in such a work. It would be to us a labor of duty and love. There is, in what Miss C. has written, not only a brilliant promise of what she would have done, but very much of graceful and beautiful fulfillment. She has uttered thoughts, which, we believe, will never die in the great heart of humanity. Perhaps her name may not survive her generation; it is possible, that her poetry, even before the lapse of many years, may be engulfed beneath the surging waves of time; but we religiously believe that there are influences from her life, and words, not destined to pass away. Those influences are as a soft and gentle zephyr, passing on to join the storms of beneficent might that sweep and purify the earth.

"We promised Miss Chitwood a tribute to her living worth and genius: but we have come too late; and now, standing, as it were, beside her coffin, we lay our humble offering on the cold bosom upon which her white hands are so meekly folded. We seem to hear a voice from all nature around us, asking what business we have here, while the bright spirits that have blessed our life are falling, one by one, around us. Oh, it seems a mysterious dispensation of Providence, that tho little amount of breath necessary to the life of a glorious young girl is withdrawn, while enough of wind to make a blustering day is vouchsafed to the lungs and the nostrils of the tens of thousands of the worthless and the vile:

ppoem|{sm} "There is a world of bliss hereafter—else

Why are the bad above, the good beneath

The green grass of the grave? The mower fells

Briars and flowers alike—but we may breathe

(When he his desolating blade shall sheathe,

And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,

Above the smoke of burning worlds—and death,

Upon scorch'd pinions, with the dead shall lie,

When Time, with all his years and centuries, has gone by."

Isabel Lee

Is it Robert, the hunter, afar on the moor? This morn, ere the sunrise, he stood at my door; He sued for a rose, that was just to unfold, And said he 'would deem it more precious than gold;' I have heard, through the wood, his old rifle ring out, And the bay of his hounds in victorious shout, But once since he left, and the noon is now past, And the shadows creep up to the garden-gate fast; I wonder, I wonder if, out on the lea, Dear Robert, the hunter, is thinking of me?" Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen, The hunter was nursing thy memory then; For as to his lips thy sweet rose-bud was pressed, The slight stem was broken—it fell on his breast. Sweet Isabel Lee, she heard the birds sing, And the cool water fall with a plunge in the spring; She went with a smile to the old cherry-tree, And said—"It is Alfred a-thinking of me; For when I stood here in the moonlight with him His dark poet-eyes grew all shadowed and dim, And his voice was the sweetest I ever have heard; Each pulse in my bosom its echos have stirred. He said that he loved me, and asked me to be His bride, when the autumn mists shone o'er the lea." Yes, Isabel Lee, the sweet pride of the glen, The poet was nursing thy memory then; He was saying, "The dream is too sweet, it will be Like the rose and the rainbow, my Isabel Lee."

Thy cheek hath grown pale, pretty Isabel Lee, But a lover unthought of was thinking of thee; His step was unheard on the emerald moor, His form was unseen, as it stood by the door, His kiss was not felt, as it lay on thy cheek, His troth-plight unspoken, as earth-lovers speak; The flowers for thy bridal are bright on the tree, The fair snowy robe will be ready for thee; But Harold, nor Robert, beside thee shall stand; Nor Alfred, loved Alfred, receive thy fair hand. O Isabel Lee! the sweet pride of the glen. Thy bridegroom was nursing thy memory then.

Dreaming

Not of moss-embroidered brooks Not of violet-dotted nooks; Nor of homesteads, old and brown, Where the moonbeams shimmer down; Not of hills and grassy dales, Nor of fairy-haunted vales; Not of earthly birth the light, Crowning all my dreams to-night.

For my soul hath taken wings, Dreaming of celestial things, And the city seen of old, With its streets of shining gold, With its bright-haired seraphim; Where the day can ne'er grow dim, Where the light shines like a mist O'er the walls of amethyst,— A faint shadow of the light Gilds my happy dreams to-night.

I forgot my weary lot, All my struggles are forgot; Serpents coiled amid the flowers, Thorns that pierced in other hours, Hopes that perished all unblest, Friends who died when loved the best, Partings that the heart have crushed, Prayers rebellion's voice have hushed,— No dark ghost of sin and blight, Glideth through my dreams to-night.

Ah! 'tis sweet the cross to bear, Sweet to lift the heart in prayer, Sweet the faith without a fear, Love that bringeth heaven so near, Till o'er life's thorn-dotted way Beams the dawn of perfect day; Till the path seems short and sweet Leading to the Saviour's feet. Oh, baptized in strength and light, Seems my inner soul to-night!

Dear one, through life's changeful way, Through its darkness, and its day, May we shun the ways of sin, May we strive the crown to win; Though our life-paths lead apart, Let this thought be in each heart. Soon will life be over, then Gladly we shall meet again, In the land whose starry light Gildeth all my dreams to-night.

Change

My locket!—oh, with what surprise I started, none can know— The shadows of my girlhood eyes Reproached, reproved me so. A smile of love those lips caressed, No shade was on the brow;— Ah, friend, the girl you loved the best Hath strangely altered now.

And thou art changed; the world's rough war, Its sorrow, and its care, Have left, alas, full many a scar Upon thy forehead fair. But, ah, thy heart—thy heart hath kept Its first and only vow, While change within my own hath crept;— I can not love thee now.

O friend, the careless-hearted one That stands unmoved by thee, With smiles for all, and love for none, Like butterfly or bee, Is not the fragrant-hearted thing Who gave thee her first vow, In that delicious day of spring That is but memory now.

Oh dream thy early love is dead, That moss and roses now Are o'er the golden-curtained head,— But ashes long ago.

Forget that she has said, to-night, With cold, unloving brow, And eyes without a tearful light— "I can not love thee now."

The Mother's Lament

Let me recall it in the starry light That sweetly glows along the deep blue sky,— Then can I call thee nigh.

In the deep midnight hour when all is still, Save the low thrillings of the wandering breeze, That floats in gentle murmurs from the hill, And like a harp-string thrills among the trees In strange, sad melodies.

And in the morning, when the eastern blue Brightens and glows with vivid, golden light; When the first sunbeam drinks the trembling dew Cast in the flower-cups, like some jewel bright, By the fair hand of night.

Then, thou beloved, at morning, noon, or night, In spring's first glow or in the summer hours, In autumn's saddening time of frost and blight, Or in the stormy winter's gloomy hours, Of wind and snowy showers,—

I'll think of thee; thy memory in my heart Shall ever find a constant dwelling-place; And though with thee I must forever part, Still will I love thee, and will often trace The features of thy face.

And though in after years from out my mind Those features, as in death, may fade away,

Yet in my heart thou shalt be e'er enshrined Deep, deep and true, when into senseless clay Thy loved form shall decay.

Farewell, dear love, now I must give thee up; Closed, closed for aye the coffin-lid must be; Yes, I, alas, must drain the bitter cup, I shall no more those lovely features see,— The grave must close o'er thee,

It must, it must be so; for, dear one; now I gaze on thee in death's long slumber deep, Look for the last time on thy peaceful brow; Farewell! farewell! Death will his vigil keep. Sweet be thy blessed sleep.

'Tis o'er at last; I heard the rattling clod Fall with a muffled sound above thy breast; But, Oh, I feel, that though beneath the sod Thy form is placed, yet still thou art at rest Amid the angels blessed.

Forget Me

As the dew passes, when the morn is bright, From the low desert-flower's transparent urn As a gold cloud floats slowly from the sight, So let my love depart, and ne'er return.

Yes, yes, forget me; cease to weave for me The sparkling thread in the deep woof of thought; Let all the past an idle fancy be,— A dream, whose speedy wak'ning brought thee nought; Or, if at times thy heart-strings wildly thrill Delicious breathings,—waking thee to tears,— Oh, think of me as one whose heart is still, Beneath the clay of long-departed years.

A Dream

But the vine was low; and the river's flow, And the shadowy vale a-near it, Were filled with a moan, and its life was lone, Till the pine sent down a strange, sad tone, And the vine crept up to hear it.

And it said, "O tree, I have envied thee, Thy life is so fair in seeming; From this gloomy vale, where my heart doth fail, And the blooms of my life are few and pale, I have thought thee blest, in my dreaming."

Then whispered the pine, "This life of mine Is dreary, is isolated; For something I miss; I've the sunlight's kiss, And the song of the birds; but it is not this,— I am lone, I am all unmated.

"To the outward sight my life is bright As the dawn on a rolling river; I look above, but I yearn for love To fly to my heart, like a gentle dove, And fold its wings forever."

Then the vine grew glad, a sweet hope had From its lowly life up-started: "O lonely pine, I will round thee twine; Each blow at thy heart shall strike first through mine."— But the tree and the vine were parted.

And the lofty tree—so it seemed to me— Bent down for the gentle twining; But the river's roar swelled over the shore, Deeper and darker than ever before, Till the vale with waves was shining.

And the lowly vine—in this dream of mine— Crept out to the angry river; Alas, the waves were Hope's dark caves, Scooped by the winds into yawning graves, To part them, aye and forever.

Said the vine, below, "O have blooms of snow, For thee shall they sweetly blossom; Their odors soft I will send thee oft, By the summer breeze as it floats aloft, "To rest in thy lonely bosom."

And the pine bent low, "Yes, be it so, For dark fate bids us sever; I will sing for thee, when each other tree "Hath lost its music; oh, trust in me, I will love thee, love forever."

So the tree and the vine—in this dream of mine,— On each bank of the rushing river, Looked love from afar, as star unto star; Nor time nor fate their faith could mar— Once true they were true forever.

Little Mary

Speaking of the angel-warder, Standing at the heavenly border, Till at last the soul was given Pass-word to the Court of Heaven. Not with tears, but smiling rather, Gave we Mary to the Father.

One of Earth's Angels

Oh, then life's burdens from her heart Were lifted far away, And she could bear to live apart From worldly love by day; And hear, unmoved, the sounds of mirth, That floated up from household hearth.

One night there glittered on the sky A strange, bright shining star; It seemed a bright and sunny eye, Soft gazing from afar; And then, a sylph-like form of light, Wrapped in a cloud of fleecy white.

When gently fell the day-light beams Upon the low straw bed, When she had dreamed, as many dreamed, The orphan child lay dead; For up the lonely garret stair, The angels found a sister fair.

On a Departed One

Few there were to cheer and bless her, Few there were to e'er caress her, For the grave's thick dusty cover Closed o'er those who once did love her; But their memories, in her bosom, Were like dew drops in a blossom.

Once she said, with gentle sighing,— 'Twas the day before her dying, And she spake with great endeavor,— "Not alone have I been, ever; For, whatever did betide me, 'Guardian angels' were beside me.

"By the stream, and by the meadow In the sunlight, in the shadow; In the crowd, or sitting lonely Where the bright stars saw me only; In my waking, in my dreaming, Angel eyes were o'er me beaming.

"I can almost hear the humming Of their pinions, at their coming; And their glances, clearly shining, Kept my heart from early pining; For I knew their love could cover All the cold world's frowning over."

Thus she spake, the gentle maiden, With whose memory I am laden;

And in whispers kept repeating, Till her pure heart ceased its beating, And the white hand I was clasping, Loosed its gentle, gentle grasping.

Thick the dust upon her bosom! Sweet her sleep—the lovely blossom! Yet in Spring-time's gentle hours, 'Mid the bees, and birds, and flowers, My full heart is softly laden With the memories of the maiden.

Do her pinions bright enfold me? Do her blue eyes e'er behold me? Does she leave each fair evangel To become my guardian angel? For my heart is ever laden With the memories of the maiden!

To a Favorite Stream

Where are thy haunts? Methinks I see thee still, Winding, like silvery threads, with brow of light, Thy shining arms around the clovered hill, Where young birds chirp among the grasses bright, And balmy breezes bear soft odors down The yellow ridges of the rocking wheat— Thy every wave a sunbeam's golden crown, Thy every tone a waif of music sweet.

Along the orchard, where the shining leaves Flutter and rustle all the summer's day, Thy sunny brow full many a leaf receives, And wafts it, like a fairy-barque, away,— Through the green lawn, where tall trees wave on high Their strong brown arms; and this, the quiet glen, Where sun-like flowers send fragrance to the sky, And blessings, through the dew, fall back again.

Dear, sunny stream, oh! does the sunbeam's woof Lie, like gold tissue, on thy singing breast? Dost thou still see the steep old homestead roof? And the white church spire, melting in the west? And hast thou quite forgotten, as the years Have slowly circled, with their change, away, The joyous-hearted child, whose hopes and fears Cast not a shadow further than the day?

I know not, stream beloved,—when, sick with strife And quenchless thirstings, I have thought of thee, And wished, like thine, the current of my life Floated in quiet beauty toward the sea,— But in my heart there is a secret urn, A place of purity, and there I keep The jewels of my childhood, and I turn From the world's music to their place of sleep.

Stream, loved in childhood, oft I come to thee, O'er weary miles, on Thought's mysterious wings; Bringing away thy music, as a bee Brings the rich honey with the song it sings. I know thy haunts by grove, and hill, and dell; By the old homestead, 'neath the willow tree;— As of the ocean moans the faithful shell, So sings my heart, forevermore, of thee.

Observations at a Party

I know her lips are smiling, And her brow is wondrous fair; But I know, at heart, a canker Corrodes each pleasure there.

For at times her eyes are downcast, Half shadowed with her tears; And her lips conceal their quiver By the smile that soon appears. I see her snowy fingers Close clasp'd upon her brow: I tell you, she remembers Her first love, even now.

I heard her sweetly singing A well remembered song; Her lips began to falter Amid the merry throng; And I know upon her spirit There nestled, like a dove, The face, the form and features Of her young heart's dearest love.

Yes, yes she does remember Her first love, even now; She would take a wreath of roses For the jewels on her brow; And exchange that splendid mansion, And costly robes, to be Attired in simple muslin, In a cabin-home with thee.

Do you notice what a scorning On her red lip seems to play When she speaks to him whose jewels Made her throw her heart away? She is trying to be happy— She is trying to forget; But, I tell you, she remembers Her first love, even yet.

The Stream of Life

tpp|THE STREAM OF LIFE.|

{sm}<>I. On the stream of life is a fairy boat;—

Light breezes o'er it creeping;

Oh, gently, gently doth it float,

And a child is in it sleeping.

How softly fall the sunbeams bright

In the sparkling waves beside it;—

And the boat glides on with a motion light,

For an angel's hand doth guide it. -

Fair, fragile flowers, with buds of snow,

On the grassy banks are gleaming;

While zephyrs kiss the infant's brow,

And whisper in its dreaming.

The angel guides the boat along,—

A cloudless sky is o'er them;

The bird of peace trills forth her song,

And the waves are clear before them.

|end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {sm}<>II. Gently, softly years have past Since we saw that infant last, Gliding down life's sunny tide With a gentle angel guide. Faster now the streamlet flows, Yet its water brightly glows, While bright roses by its side Sweetly edge its silvery tide; And rich trees, tall, slight and fair, Gently wave bright foliage there. Now, some clouds of golden hue Float 'mid heaven's pure arch of blue; Yet the floating cloudlets seem Tinged with pleasure's golden beam. Faster, now, the stream doth float, Bearing on the fairy boat; And the angel is not there; But the gentle child and fair— Not a child but now a youth, On his face the seal of truth,— HE the boat is guiding, now, Hope sits on his curl-swept brow. Watching o'er him in each place Is the guardian angel's face; But the youth sees not the angel, With her fair, unclouded brow, As she watcheth o'er his journey,— He is looking upward now. In the distance gleaming there, Is a castle built in air; |end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Yet to him it brightly looks Firmly built on granite rocks. How it glitters in the light— Like a star it beameth bright; Oh! what joy is on his face— Soon he thinks to reach the place. And the streamlet bright and fair,

As the gentle breezes' play,

Seems to guide him swiftly there,

To the castle far away.

{sm}<>III. Years have past,—ay, years of sorrow

Slowly, wearily have passed,

Bringing many a dark to-morrow,

Since we saw that youth the last!

Since we saw him smiling, smiling,

On the future seeming fair;

While Hope's voice was so beguiling,

Promising no touch of care.

Now the stream of life is dashing

Over many a hidden rock,

And the billows loud are crashing

With a dull and weary shock;

And the boat is dark and shrouded,

But the youth is sitting there;

Oh! his brow is sadly clouded

By the dark hand of despair.

All seems dark and drear before him;

Now he sits with folded arms;

|end=follow

ppoem| start=follow| Forms of evil hover o'er him,

Pointing to a thousand harms,

Years have placed full many a sorrow

On that once unclouded brow—

Disappointment, care and sorrow

Sit upon his features now!

And the castle in the distance

Long ago has passed away;

Now he offers no resistance

As the rough waves dash to-day.

Yet, afar off, watching ever,

Is the angel in her place;

He looks up with strong endeavor,—

Catches hope from her bright face.

{sm}<>IV. Years have gone and brought their changes;;

See the little boat once more:

It has passed those raging billows—

Storm and breakers all are o'er.

Now 'tis gliding, gently gliding

Over waves all tipped with light;

Scarce a zephyr stirs the billows,

As they ripple clear and bright.

There the same, same form is sitting,

Age's snow is on his brow;

All is peace within his bosom,

Not a care disturbs him now.

Bathed in folds of richest glory,

On the blue fields of the west,

|end=follow

Sinks the sun in mighty splendor, To his couch of nightly rest. And the little boat seems resting— For it moves so silently; And the aged pilgrim looketh Peacefully upon the sky. In that sky, so blue and tranquil, Smiles the angel gently fair, Stretching out her arms toward him, Calling him to join her there. See, the boat is sinking, sinking, Not by storm or tempest driven, Like a gem beneath the waters,— And the pilgrim wakes in Heaven.

Near Me, still Near Me

When Beauty's touch with all around is blended, When the soft sunlight dances on the rills; When the glad birds are singing in the bowers, Or mounting upward to the clouds on high,— Then, with the fragrance from the dew-kissed flowers, Cometh thy voice—near thee, still ever nigh.

And at the noontide, when the sunlight streaming, Comes softly in thy silent, silent room, I linger there; and find myself still dreaming Of thy sad fate—taken in life's bright bloom. And when I muse and call thine image near me, And think upon thee, lone and silently,— Then thy sweet voice doth gently, sweetly cheer me; I feel thy presence ever nigh.

Oh, thou art near me, yet still near forever: I mingle with the crowd in pleasure's halls, I wear a smiling lip with stern endeavor, And list to beauty's voice that softly falls Upon my ear, and strive to still dissemble My secret feelings from the cold world's eye; But my true heart, still, still for thee will tremble; Bright guardian spirit! thou art ever nigh.

Thou still art near me, though thy form is sleeping, And thy dear voice in solemn silence hushed; Thine eyes were closed ere they were dim with weeping,

O thou fair flower, in life's bright morning crush'd. And, though in form I never more shall meet thee, 'Till we shall meet above the o'erarching sky, Yet, still in spirit I may often greet thee; My soul is comforted—thou still art nigh.

To an Absent One

Can no winged messenger of air Bring back an olive branch of peace To hush these waves of deep despair— To bid these murmuring heart-throbs cease?

Can nothing bring my soul the rest That once it knew ere far from thee? Or hush these fears within my breast That tremble like the aspen tree? I've watched for thee when morning's light Wag stealing o'er the distant hill, And oft the solemn stars of night, Have found me at my vigil still.

My soul is sick with doubts and fears; A shadow lies upon my heart; Oh! three long years—three weary years— Have kept us, absent one, apart. Yet what is past I now can bear; But that to come I can not know; 'Tis this that makes my deep despair— 'Tis this that fills my heart with wo.

If I but knew that thou art clay, And done for aye with care and strife; But this suspense will wear away, Slowly, but sure, the chords of life. For three long years—for three long years— I've watched for thee with sad regret, If thou art in this "vale of tears," Return to those who love thee vet.

Lillia and Mary

A mourner, proud and stately, Bends over Lillia's clay; You can hear the rich robes rustle As sad she moves away. But over little Mary, A child with bronzed cheek Kneels every morn and even', With resignation meek.

Two little children sleeping, Whatever storms may blow; One dwelt amid the splendor Of luxury below; The other, on the greensward, Moved o'er the velvet leaves; And slept amid the flowers, "Like birds beneath the caves."

Two happy little children, Christ's blessing on their brow; On earth they had no meeting, But they are sisters now! They know and love each other, In the celestial land; Their lips one song are trilling, As stand they hand in hand.

They Met but Once

A holy thought that never slept, Illuminate with love.

They parted when the moon's fair rim Was resting on the sea; How could his heart fail. hope grow dim,— She was in the same world with him, Wherever he might be.

And she had gathered strength and light To meet the world's loud strife; The soul within was ever bright, Thus could she brave the darkest night That settled over life.

They parted. Journeying side by side Were boon for earth too sweet; Beyond the grave those souls so tried, By angels wedded, purified, Again, again, shall meet.

The Indian's Farewell

But in vain the hope—the wish in vain— I turn my steps to the West again: I turn from the mound so green and low, Where the sunlight falls, and the south winds blow, While waves of agony shake my breast, To the distant West, to the far off West.