In person, Miss Davidson was singularly beautiful: she had a high, open forehead, a soft black eye, perfect symmetry of features, a fair complexion, and luxuriant, dark hair. The prevailing expression of her face was melancholy.
When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound,
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;
When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, soften'd by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;
Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
Oh, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive!
The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
Oh, sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.
'Twere almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.
When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?
Let me gaze a while on that marble brow,
On that full dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow;
Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,
I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.
That brow may beam in glory a while;
That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
That full, dark eye may brightly beam
In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow.
I know by that spirit so haughty and high,
I know by that brightly-flashing eye,
growth in goodness, and their progress towards perfection." Read the article in the "Quarterly Review" for November, 1829, by the poet Southey; also “Remains," by S. F. B. Morse.
Addressed to her sister, requesting her to sing Moore's "Farewell to his Harp."
That, maiden, there's that within thy breast
Which hath marked thee out for a soul unbless'd;
The strife of love with pride shall wring
Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string;
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee,
Shall be drain'd to the dregs in agony.
Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye
A dark and a doubtful prophecy.
Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse;
Thou wilt need no heavier, shalt feel no worse.
I see the cloud and the tempest near;
The voice of the troubled tide I hear;
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief,
The rushing waves of a wretched life;
Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see,
And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee.
Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave!
Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave.
When I am cold, and the hand of Death
Hath crown'd my brow with an icy wreath;
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip;
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep,-
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high,
And think on my last, sad prophecy.
O thou whose care sustain'd my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simplest song
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
Oh, say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbb'd like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive?—who in grief Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear?
Who would have mark'd my bosom bounding high,
And clasp'd me to her heart, with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fann'd, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fever'd lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother,-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
1 This was written but a few months before her death.
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery;
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom,—
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
Oh, then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
HANNAH FLAGG GOULD was born in Lancaster, Vermont; but while yet a child her father removed to Newburyport, Massachusetts. She early wrote for several periodicals, and in 1832 her poetical pieces were collected in a volume. In 1835 and in 1841, a second and third volume appeared, entitled simply Poems ; and in 1846 she collected a volume of her prose compositions, entitled Gathered Leaves. Of her poetry, a writer in the "Christian Examiner" remarks that it is impossible to find fault. It is so sweet and unpretending, so pure in purpose, and so gentle in expression, that criticism is disarmed of all severity, and engaged to say nothing of it but good. It is poetry for a sober, quiet, kindlyaffectioned Christian heart. It is poetry for a united family circle in their hours of peace and leisure. For such companionship it was made, and into such it will find and has found its way.
A NAME IN THE SAND.
Alone I walk'd the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand
My name-the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I pass'd,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And wash'd my lines away.
And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me:
A wave of dark Oblivion's sea
Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of Time, and been to be no more,
Of me my day-the name I bore,
To leave nor track nor trace.
And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,
Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought:
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory or for shame.
THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.
"I am a Pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone;-
"Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none can tell about my birth,
For I'm old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod.
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough!"
The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abash'd and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happen'd that I am thrown
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the earth she sank away
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And, as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,
"A modest Acorn-never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And, oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never from this shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.
The Frost look'd forth one still clear night,
And whisper'd, "Now I shall be out of sight:
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train
The Wind and the Snow, the Hail and the Rain-
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain and powder'd its crest: He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
In diamond beads; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon, were seen
Most beautiful things: there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;
There were cities, with temples and towers,—and these
All pictured in silver sheen!
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