MY SISTER.[9]

I. Ah me! the joyous scenes of other days Are crowding on my view. The mental eye Is aching from the long and ardent gaze On these bright pictures of my memory. I am in danger of idolatry; It were not well to idolize the past, And so forget the present. Blessings lie All—all around me, but I vainly cast A longing eye to things that were too bright to last. II. Sweet vine, that creep’st along the lattice work Of my dear western window! where the beams Of the departing sun do wanton lurk To kiss thy blushing flowers, or with bright gleams To peep through all thine ever opening seams, When gentle breezes are at play with thee! Dear to my heart thy curtain’d verdure! Dreams Of former joyous days thou bring’st to me, When as a child I roam’d where vines were waving free. III. I do bethink me of the jessamine, The pride of Carolina’s early spring! Whene’er to swell the yellow buds begin, Their odors fly on every breezy wing, And far and near the delicate perfume fling. And when the fragrant flowers have opened wide, While to the forest pines the tendrils cling, It is a sight to raise a Southron’s pride, To see on lofty boughs the golden flowers ride. IV. I’d leave the city gardens when our own Sweet jessamines are blooming. Fairy land Is not more beautiful, than when, full blown, The jasmine, gilt by the Creator’s hand, Hangs all around us. Then ’tis sweet to stand, At early morning, with a friend we love, Beneath our fragrant bowers, while pure and bland, The playful zephyrs o’er the flow’rets move, And bring a perfumed breath from many a dewy grove. V. I had a gentle sister once; and, O, I have one now; but she of whom I sing— Our Jane—was in an early grave laid low, A victim to the stern relentless king, Whose arrows sharp are ever on the wing— Who “loves a lofty mark.” O, when she died, I lost a friend indeed; my heart did cling To her sweet love, and in that love confide; For though more young than I, she was my frequent guide. VI. How often have we roved together, where Our fav’rite jasmine grew, and sat us down To twine a wreath each in the other’s hair; Or tax’d our skill to form a golden crown, Forgetful that the sun would soon embrown Our city faces with his kisses rude! Nor cared we for the dull and dusty town, When we could wander through the lonely wood, And feel in all their power the sweets of sisterhood. VII. I’m never weary of a country life, Where tedious city noises ne’er intrude; O, I have sicken’d when the jarring strife Of various sounds has reach’d my solitude— Discordant gabblings of the city brood! ’Mid rural scenes my thoughts all tranquil flow, Attired in many a sweet similitude, For poets much to rural emblems owe, The great domain of nature is their studio. VIII. My sister had a poet’s eye and heart; Ye’ll not deny she had a poet’s face! For ye could often see the teardrop start, And many a proof of high wrought feeling trace In every delicate feature’s changefulness. If early she had not been call’d to die, She might have found an enviable place, Amid that throng who’ve gain’d distinction high By clothing burning thoughts in sweetest poetry. IX. My fellow man, despise not poetry! It is “a holy thing”—it is the chain Electric, hanging from the glorious sky. Touch it—it is a sov’reign cure for pain— A remedy not often tried in vain. Ye suff’ring hearts! the poet toils for you, And while he toils, himself doth comfort gain; He seeks your path with fragrant flowers to strew, And, while he plants them there, enjoys their fragrance too. X. A real poet is a friend to man, And I will aye revere the sacred name; He is in truth a skilful artisan, And his material is thought. The flame That burns within the poet’s breast, doth aim To purify the thoughts of every mind, And place them in a brightly gilded frame, For curious posterity enshrined; And thus he ever seeks to elevate mankind. XI. This was my sister’s aim. She lived to bless And comfort all around her. Discontent Was banish’d from her bosom. Tenderness Its beaming softness to her features lent, And made each gentle movement eloquent. And she was gifted too. She could delight Her friends with many a sweet accomplishment: Her voice was music—and her sportive wit Made her of old and young the general favorite. XII. She had a soul attuned in sweet accord, Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay, Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard, Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay; Each trembling chord within her breast would play Like an Æolian harp, with concord sweet; And though no sound her feelings would betray, Her soul was all with melody replete— O, it was music’s self—an instrument complete. XIII. Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell! Was she not gifted? Ye who knew her, say! The love ye bore her speaks your answer well. Your falling tears did more than words convey, When it was told you she had pass’d away— She, who had won the warm enduring love Alike of old and young, of grave and gay! Ye speak of her as one who dwells above; I want no other words your high regard to prove. XIV. Some would have thought her cheek a shade too pale, Or that her lovely languid eye lack’d fire; For fair she was as lily of the vale, And ’neath her snowy lids would oft retire Her gentle eyes; but this provoked desire To see those eyes once more; for what is rare And seldom seen, we always most admire; Some eyes of liquid love more dang’rous are, Than eyes of sparkling light that shame the evening star. XV. She lack’d the beauty of “a damask’d skin,” But there were roses lying near at hand, To spring into her cheek; oft from within They came, call’d up at feeling’s high command, And on the glowing surface long remain’d. O, she was beautiful, when her soft eye Would speak the feelings all could understand, And on her cheek glow’d heaven-born sympathy! O, sympathy! thou hast strange power to beautify. XVI. There stands a country church within a wood, Embower’d by branches green—a vocal shade, Where all the livelong week to solitude Gay plumaged birds their cheerful music made. How often have we there together strayed, In sweet retirement long hours to spend— To listen to the warbled serenade, Or talk of many a dear departed friend; Or, to our absent ones, our wishful thoughts to send. XVII. O, that my friends would ever think of me In such dear solitudes, far, far away From this world’s bustle. Then fond memory Can take a long and undisturb’d survey Of scenes long past, in beautiful array. ’Mid nature’s peaceful shades they will forget The wayward follies of my life’s short day, And only think of me with fond regret, And link my name with many a pleasing epithet. XVIII. So may I be remembered, when my heart Has ceased its beating!—when the purple tide Has curdled in my veins, that used t’ impart Life, health, and vigor to me. Glorified Then may my spirit be! But this beside I wish, that those who’ve known and loved me here, In lonely hours would sometimes turn aside, O, not to weep beside my early bier, But just to think of me as one to mem’ry dear. XIX. Sweet sister! thus thy friends remember thee; They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate, Thus early call’d to that eternity Where perfect joys the ransom’d soul await. O, not with tears and hearts disconsolate Art thou lamented! While we mourn our loss, ’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate; And thus we learn to count as only dross, All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross. XX. That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme; Earth’s evanescent pleasures could not lure Thy heart from him who had thy love supreme. No, dearest! rather would that heart endure The utmost strength of persecution’s power, Than e’er deny the friend who died for thee! But now, dear angel! now thou art secure From sorrow, and from sin’s dark tyranny! Yes! thou art safe in Heaven, from sin and sorrow free! XXI. That head that lean’d upon our mother’s breast With such a fond confiding tenderness— That often aching head, is now at rest! O, ’twould be sweet once more thy form to press Close to my loving heart; but motionless That form now lies beneath the silent sod! Well—rest thee there, in sweet forgetfulness, Till glorious life shall visit thine abode, And thou shalt rise to dwell forevermore with God! XXII. When shall I sleep as thou art sleeping now, To wake no more till waken’d by the sound Of the archangel’s trumpet? Here below I would not always dwell. The cold damp ground Has sweeter charms for me than can be found On downy pillow. I shall not be free Till pale faced mourners shall my grave surround, And many a faithful friend who loveth me, Shall seek me in the morning, but I shall not be. XXIII. For my poor heart is often full of grief— All seems so dark around me. Stubborn fate Has left me like a seared autumn leaf, Nearly alone. Whene’er I meditate On my once peaceful, joyful, blest estate, And think how chang’d are all my prospects now, My future joys I must anticipate, Else would I ’neath the weight of anguish bow, And gloom, dark frowning gloom, would overcloud my brow. XXIV. The very things my soul refused to touch[10] Are as my sorrowful meat. O, woe is me! For all night long with tears I wet my couch, And peaceful thoughts far from my pillow flee; O, God! let loose thy hand, and set me free! How can I live—for is my strength of stones, Or is my flesh of brass? Woe, woe is me! The livelong day my breath is turned to groans; My God has troubled me, and broken all my bones. XXV. But cease, desponding heart! To Heaven lift With earnest faith thine agonizing cry, And ask for patience. Patience is a gift Of rare attainment. Disappointments try— Severely try our frail humanity, And chafe the delicate framework of the mind, Unless ’tis steel’d by patience. O, may I Be sweetly to my Father’s will resign’d, And thus ’mid all my woes, I still may comfort find. XXVI. How many cares do press the soul to earth, Nor can we rid us of them! How they cling To love, to friendship! Ah! they have their birth Where love and friendship reign; for every thing Our loved ones feel, we feel. Their sorrows wring Our inmost hearts. The hardest grief to bear Is that of others when we cannot bring Joy to the stricken heart, nor wipe the tear, Nor cure the countless ills of which we daily hear. XXVII. I will not mourn my loved ones who are dead; I know they are in Heaven. O, happy thought! Sorrow, away! He who on Calv’ry bled For all who love him, has redemption bought, And for the soul a righteousness has wrought, So pure, so spotless, that the King of kings Will look upon it, and refuse it not! Fly, fly, my soul, on faith’s triumphant wings, Nor grovel here on earth, amid these gloomy things! XXVIII. There is an hour which cometh unto all— A solemn trying hour that must be met; ’Tis when the damps of death around us fall, As night dews gather ere the sun is set. When comes that hour to me, I’ll not forget The only friend, whose friendship can avail To bear me safely through “death’s iron gate”— To chase away the foes who dare assail My trembling, dying heart, when flesh and spirit fail. XXIX. My sister Jane! I did not see thee die, Though I was near thee when thy spirit fled; It nearly broke my heart to think that I Could not be bending o’er thy dying bed— Supporting in mine arms thy fainting head! It was God’s holy will to lay me low, And, ere I left my couch, O, thou wert dead! It pleased my Father that it should be so, And I will not repine, my heavenly Father! No! XXX. And she—our sole surviving sister—who Did love thee, dearest! with such tenderness, In thy last hour was absent from thee too! Well, all is right—and we must acquiesce In God’s most wise appointments, and confess That he doth all things well—so let it be! Yes, holy Father! and thy name we bless, That our sweet sister was so dear to thee— One of thy chosen ones, from all eternity! XXXI. But she was not alone when death was near; For, though so far from her dear southern home, Her father, mother, brother, all were there! And her adopted sister too had come To see her loved one die. That silent room Was not by hireling strangers occupied, Whisp’ring their wonder at thine early doom; No—no—it was not thus my sister died— Her own belov’d ones stood her dying bed beside. XXXII. My brother rais’d her in his own fond arms, But just before her eager spirit fled; She smiled as if she saw seraphic charms, And in another moment she was dead! I heard a voice of weeping, and I said To one who watch’d beside me, “Do you hear That sound? What is it?”? She this answer made, “’Tis nothing.” Soon it died upon my ear, And then I sank to sleep, not dreaming death was there. XXXIII. And my dear angel sister was in Heaven! A happy spirit—grief and anguish o’er— All suff’rings ended—all her sins forgiven— Safe landed on that bright immortal shore Beyond cold Jordan’s stream! O, never more Could mortal sickness waste her feeble frame! No, sister, no! Death had no further power To harm thee. Like a long forgotten dream Did all thy woes—thy pains—thine earthly sorrows seem. XXXIV. There was a deathlike stillness—but the truth Ne’er flash’d upon me, till the morning came, That the beloved companion of my youth Had passed away. I knew her suff’ring frame Grew weaker every day—I knew the flame Of life was burning with a feeble light, But when the taper gave its parting gleam, I knew it not! Her spirit took its flight While I was wrapt in sleep, that sad eventful night. XXXV. I should not call it sad. It was not sad! When morning came, they told me life had fled; I saw my father’s brow with paleness clad, I saw my mother raise her aching head, And they both told me that our Jane was dead— But that she was in Heaven! Then all drew near, And, while they knelt around, my father pray’d; He held my thin pale hand—and, O, that prayer! His solemn deep toned voice e’en now I seem to hear! XXXVI. Well—let that pass. My honor’d father lives— I must not praise the living. But I may Implore of Him who every blessing gives, Long, long to spare him to us. Yes, I pray, My heavenly Father! that the trying day Of separation may not quickly come; Take not my few remaining friends away; Hide not my loved ones in the envious tomb, Unless it please thee first to take my spirit home. XXXVII. They told me she look’d beautiful in death, My lovely sister! and I long’d to see That calm repose; for with her parting breath There came a look of peace—of ecstasy, Which settled on her features. Eagerly I prayed I might be carried to her side, To gaze upon the face so dear to me; And in a moment arms were open’d wide— My husband’s faithful arms; and I was gratified!