On which the ocean billows break, she hung
Her sombre mantle; and the gray old sea
That had been high in tumult all the day,
Became so mesmerized beneath her wiles,
He seemed a mere reflection of herself.
The billows sank into a dimpled sleep;
Only the little tide-waves glided up
To kiss the blackness of the airy robe
That floated o’er them.
Long I stood and watched
The mystic, spell-like influence of Night;
Till o‘er the eastern hills, came up the first
Faint glories of the crown that Phoebus wears.
And soon, the Earth, surprised to see the work
That Night had wrought, began to glow and blush,
Like maidens, conscious of the glance of Love.
While she,—the dark Enchantress,—like to one
Who decorates her bower with all things fair,
Wherewith to please her lover, but yet flees
At his approaching step,—at the first gleam
That lit the zenith from the Day-god’s eye,
Fled timid o’er the distant western hills.
The Crime of the Ages
1861
Poet, write!
Not of a purpose dark and dire,
That souls of evil fashion,
Nor the power that nerves the assassin’s hand,
In the white heat of his passion:
But let thy rhyme,
Through every clime,
A burthen bear of this one crime:
Let the world draw in a shuddering breath,
O’er the crime that aims at a nation’s death!
Minstrel, sing!
Not in affection’s dulcet tone,
Or with sound of a soft recorder:
Strike not thy harp to a strain arranged
In measured, harmonic order:
But loud and strong
The tones prolong,
That thunder of a Nation’s wrong;
Let a sound of war in thy notes appear,
Till the world opes wide a startled ear!
Soldier, fight!
Thou hast a patriot’s throbbing pulse,
And future history’s pages,
Shall tell of the blood so freely shed
To redeem “the crime of the ages.”
Well may’st thou fight
For Truth and Right,
And teach a rebel foe thy might!
Let a loyal heart, and undaunted will,
Show the world we are a Nation still!
Prophet, speak!
Speak for the children of martyred sires,
An offspring the most ungrateful!
Warn them of Justice hurrying on,
To punish a deed so hateful!
O read with thy
Prophetic eye,
The omens of our troubled sky!
What is the picture beyond the gloom?
New life, new birth, or a Nation’s tomb?
SARAH MORGAN PIATT (1836—1919)
Sarah Morgan Piatt’s family was one of the earliest settlers of the state of Kentucky. After her mother’s death, eight-year-old Piatt and her younger sister went to live with an aunt in New Castle, where they were educated. Piatt was an avid reader and enjoyed the works of Shelled, Coleridge, Byron, and Hemans. Her early verses were published in the Louisville Journal and the New York Ledger. In 1861, Piatt married and moved with her husband to Washington, D.C. Her numerous volumes of poems include: The Nests at Washington, and Other Poems (1864), A Woman’s Poems (1871), and A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles (1874). In 1882, Piatt moved to Ireland, where her husband was U.S. consul. While there, she wrote of her experiences, publishing An Irish Garland (1884) and An Irish Wild-Flower (1891).
Giving Back the Flower
So, because you chose to follow me into the subtle sadness of night,
And to stand in the half-set moon with the weird fall-light on your glimmering hair,
Till your presence hid all of the earth and all of the sky from my sight,
And to give me a little scarlet bud, that was dying of frost, to wear,
Say, must you taunt me forever, forever? You looked at my hand and you knew
That I was the slave of the Ring, while you were as free as the wind is free.
When I saw your corpse in your coffin, I flung back your flower to you;
It was all of yours that I ever had; you must keep it, and—keep from me.
Ah? so God is your witness. Has God, then, no world to look after but ours?
May He not have been searching for that wild star, with the trailing plumage, that flew
Far over a part of our darkness while we were there by the freezing flowers,
Or else brightening some planet’s luminous rings, instead of thinking of you?
Or, if He was near us at all, do you think that He would sit listening there
Because you sang “Hear me, Norma,” to a woman in jewels and lace,
While, so close to us, down in another street, in the wet, unlighted air,
There were children crying for bread and fire, and mothers who questioned His grace?
Or perhaps He had gone to the ghastly field where the fight had been that day,
To number the bloody stabs that were there, to look at and judge the dead;
Or else to the place full of fever and moans where the wretched wounded lay;
At least I do not believe that He cares to remember a word that you said.
So take back your flower, I tell you—of its sweetness I now have no need;
Yes, take back your flower down into the stillness and mystery to keep;
When you wake I will take it, and God, then, perhaps will witness indeed,
But go, now, and tell Death he must watch you, and not let you walk in your sleep.
My Babes in the Wood
I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,
Than any story painted in your books.
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks.
“Is it a Fairy Story?” Well, half fairy—
At least it dates far back as fairies do,
And seems to me as beautiful and airy;
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.
You had a baby sister and a brother,
(Two very dainty people, rosily white,
Each sweeter than all things except the other!)
Older yet younger—gone from human sight!
And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever,
And think with yearning tears how each light hand
Crept toward bright bloom or berries—I shall never
Know how I lost them. Do you understand?
Poor slightly golden heads! I think I missed them
First, in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way;
But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them,
My gradual parting, I can never say.
Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished
In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss,
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished,
For their small sakes, since my most lovely loss.
I fancy, too, that they were softly covered
By robins, out of apple-flowers they knew,
Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine hovered,
Before the timid world had dropped the dew.
Their names were—what yours are! At this you wonder.
Their pictures are—your own, as you have seen;
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under
Lost leaves—why, it is your dead selves I mean!
Transfigured
Almost afraid they led her in
(A dwarf more piteous none could find):
Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,
The woman was—and wan and blind.
Into his mirror with a smile—
Not vain to be so fair, but glad—
The South-born painter looked the while,
With eyes than Christ’s alone less sad.
“Mother of God,” in pale surprise
He whispered, “what am I to paint!”
A voice, that sounded from the skies,
Said to him, “Raphael, a saint.”
She sat before him in the sun:
He scarce could look at her, and she
Was still and silent.... “It is done,”
He said.—“Oh, call the world to see!”
Ah, this was she is veriest truth—
Transcendent face and haloed hair.
The beauty of divinest youth,
Divinely beautiful, was there.
Herself into her picture passed—
Herself and not her poor disguise,
Made up of time and dust.... At last
One saw her with the Master’s eyes.
CHARLOTTE L. FORTEN GRIMKÉ (1837—1914)
Charlotte L. Forten Grimké, born into a wealthy African-American family in Philadelphia, published one of the earliest journal accounts of an African-American woman. The Journal of Charlotte L. Forten (1953), written between 1854 and 1864, focuses on African-American life and discrimination in nineteenth-centurv America. Grimké became the first black to teach white children in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1856. An antislavery advocate, Grimké volunteered at a school for ex-slaves and their children, writing Life on the Sea Islands (published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1864) about her experiences there. Her poems, written under her maiden name and under pseudonyms “Miss C. L. F.” and “Lottie,” were published in abolitionist periodicals of the time such as the Liberator, The Dunbar Speaker and Entertainer, and the National Anti-Slavery Standard.
Poem
In the earnest path of duty,
With the high hopes and hearts sincere,
We, to useful lives aspiring,
Daily meet to labor here.
No vain dreams of earthly glory
Urge us onward to explore
Far-extending realms of knowledge,
With their rich and varied store;
But, with hope of aiding others,
Gladly we perform our part;
Nor forget, the mind, while storing,
We must educate the heart,—
Teach it hatred of oppression,
Truest love of God and man;
Thus our high and holy calling
May accomplish His great plan.
Not the great and gifted only
He appoints to do his will,
But each one, however lowly,
Has a mission to fulfill.
Knowing this, toil we unwearied,
With true hearts and purpose high;—
We would win a wreath immortal
Whose bright flowers ne’er fade and die.
A Parting Hymn
When Winter’s royal robes of white
From hill and vale are gone
And the glad voices of the spring
Upon the air are borne,
Friends who have met with us before,
Within these walls shall meet no more.
Forth to a noble work they go:
O, may their hearts keep pure,
And hopeful zeal and strength be theirs
To labor and endure,
That they an earnest faith may prove
By words of truth and deeds of love.
May those, whose holy task it is,
To guide impulsive youth,
Fail not to cherish in their souls
A reverence for truth;
For teachings which the lips impart
Must have their source within the heart.
May all who suffer share their love—
The poor and the oppressed;
So shall the blessing of our God
Upon their labors rest.
And may we meet again where all
Are blest and freed from every thrall.
MARY MAPES DODGE (1838—1905)
Educated by private tutors in New York City, Mary Mapes Dodge got her start in writing at her father’s magazine in 1847. With two children to support, the newly widowed Dodge began writing stories for publication in juvenile magazines, and her first book appeared in 1864. She wrote the children’s classic Hans Brinker; or The Silver Skates (1865), which included detailed descriptions of Dutch life and customs. Hans Brinker was a great success, and was translated into many foreign languages. In 1868, she became associate editor of Hearth and Home with Harriet Beecher Stowe and Donald G. Mitchell. Named editor of St. Nicholas Magazine for children, Dodge secured high standards for its writing and artwork. She died in her summer home in Onteora Park, New York, in 1905.
The Minuet
Grandma told me all about it,
Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,
How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she slowly leaned and rose—long ago.
Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,
Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl—long ago.
Bless her! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day: and yet
Grandma danced the minuet—long ago.
“Modern ways are quite alarming,”
Grandma says, “but boys were charming”
(Girls and boys she means, of course) “long ago.”
Brave but modest, grandly shy;
She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet—long ago.
Now the Noisy Winds Are Still
Now the noisy winds are still;
April’s coming up the hill!
All the spring is in her train,
Led by shining ranks of rain;
Pit, pat, patter, clatter,
Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!—
First the blue, and then the shower;
Bursting bud, and smiling flower;
Brooks set free with tinkling ring;
Birds too full of song to sing;
Crisp old leaves astir with pride,
Where the timid violets hide—
All things ready with a will—
April’s coming up the hill!
Emerson
We took it to the woods, we two,
The book well worn and brown,
To read his words where stirring leaves
Rained their soft shadows down.
Yet as we sat and breathed the scene,
We opened not a page;
Enough that he was with us there,
Our silent, friendly sage!
His fresh “Rhodora” bloomed again;
His “Humble-bee” buzzed near;
And oh, the “Wood-notes” beautiful
He taught our souls to hear.
So our unopened book was read;
And so, in restful mood,
We and our poet, arm in arm,
Went sauntering through the wood.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER (1838—1912)
Margaret E. Sangster learned to read at the age of four and studied Latin, Greek, and French. In 1855, she sold a children’s story, Little Janey, for forty dollars to the Presbyterian Board of Publication, which then gave her a commission to write a hundred more stories. After her husband’s death in 1871, Sangster assumed the editorship of the children’s page of Hearth and Home from Mary Mapes Dodge. Her pious and practical writings were highly valued, and she contributed many letters and essays to the periodicals of her time. Sangster became an editor for the Christian Intelligencer in 1876, a literary advisor to Harper & Brothers, and edited Harper’s Bazar (1889—99). She also published several novels, collections of verse, and an autobiography in 19
09.
A Song for Our Flag
A bit of color against the blue:
Hues of the morning, blue for true,
And red for the kindling light of flame,
And white for a nation’s stainless fame.
Oh! fling it forth to the winds afar,
With hope in its every shining star:
Under its folds wherever found,
Thank God, we have freedom’s holy ground.
Don’t you love it, as out it floats
From the school house peak, and glad young throats
Sing of the banner that aye shall be
Symbol of honor and victory?
Don’t you thrill when the marching feet
Of jubilant soldiers shake the street,
And the bugles shrill, and the trumpets call,
And the red, white, and blue is over us all?
Don’t you pray, amid starting tears,
It may never be furled through age-long years?
A song for our flag, our country’s boast,
That gathers beneath it a mighty host;
Long may it wave o‘er the goodly land
We hold in fee ’neath our Father’s hand.
For God and liberty evermore
Great Poems by American Women Page 12