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BIOGRAPHY 
 
 OP 
 
 THE LATE 
 
 MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, 
 
BIOGRAPHY 
 
 AND 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 
 
 BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, 
 For sin too pure, for earth too bright ! 
 
 And death, who call d thee hence away, 
 Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 
 
 MARGARET TO HER SISTER. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 LEA AND BLANC II A R D. 
 
 1841. 
 
ENTERED, according to the Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and forty-one, by WASHINGTON IRVING, in the Clerk s Office 
 of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
 New York. 
 
 C, SHEKJIAN & Co. PUJKTSRS. 
 
 * " 1 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY, ...... 9 
 
 REMAINS, - - - . - 153 
 
 A Tale, written at the age of fifteen, - 155 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS, - - - . - 185 
 
 To my Mother, ...... 185 
 
 Pride and Modesty, - - - . - 186 
 
 Versification of the Twenty-third Psalm, - 189 
 
 To Brother L , /. . " / 189 
 
 For Mamma, - - - . - - 190 
 
 To Mamma, - - - - * 190 
 
 To a Flower, - - ." . : - 191 
 
 Stanzas, - - - , . . 192 
 
 Essay on Nature, - - - .,*.*". 193 
 
 Home, - - - . * " : . 194 
 
 The Majesty of God, . 194 
 
 From the Forty-second Psalm, - 195 
 
 Hymn of the Fire- Worshippers, - - - - 195 
 
 Enigma, 197 
 
 To a Little Cousin at Christmas, - - - . 197 
 
 On reading Childe Harold, .... 193 
 
 Invocation, - - - - . . -199 
 
 Christmas Hymn, . - - - . 199 
 
 Evening, - - . . . . . 200 
 
 Enigma, . - - 201 
 
 To the Deity, ...... 201 
 
 To my Sister Lucretia, - - . .v 2Q3 
 
 Prophecy, - " - . - ^ - 203 
 
 Enigma, - - . . . , 204 
 
 Essay on the Sacred Writings, - - . 205 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Thie Destruction tf Socfom and Gomorrah, 206 
 
 Versification from Gssiaa, - - 207 
 
 To.myrteair Mamma,: * - 209 
 
 Oh &&&* oi* Mm -P. H. Webb, - 209 
 
 To the Evening Star, - 211 
 To my Father, - ... 212 
 
 On Nature, ...... 213 
 
 To the Infidel, - - - - - 215 
 
 On the Mind, - ... 216 
 
 On the Hope of my Brother s Return, - 219 
 
 To my Mother, 220 
 
 Boabdil el Chico s Farewell to Granada, - - 221 
 
 The Shunamite, - 230 
 
 Belshazzar s Feast, - 236 
 
 To my Mother on Christmas Day, - - 240 
 
 On visiting the Panorama of Geneva, - - 241 
 
 The Funeral Bell, 242 
 
 Lines on receiving a Blank-book from my Mother, - 244 
 
 To Fancy, 245 
 
 Invocation to Spring, - 246 
 
 From the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Psalm, 247 
 
 Stanzas, - - 248 
 
 Letter to a Poetical Correspondent, - 250 
 
 Stanzas, - - 252 
 
 Versification from Ossian, 253 
 
 To the Muse, after my Brother s Death, - - 256 
 Lines on hearing some Passages read from Mrs. Hemans 
 
 " Records of Woman," - 257 
 
 An Appeal for the Blind, 258 
 
 The Smiles of Nature, - - 261 
 
 On a Rose received from Miss Sedgwick, 264 
 
 The Church-Going Bell, - - 267 
 
 Fragment, 267 
 
 Fragment, - - 268 
 
 On returning to Ballston, - 269 
 
 Twilight, - - - 272 
 
 On the Departure of a Brother, 273 
 Lines written after reading Accounts of the Death of 
 
 Martyrs, - ... 275 
 
CONTENTS. vil 
 
 On reading Cowpgr s Poems, - 277 
 
 Stanzas, ----__ 278 
 
 Fragment, ------- 279 
 
 Imitation of a Scotch Ballad, - 280 
 
 Ere Thou didst Form, .... 281 
 
 A Fragment, - .... 282 
 
 Fragment of the Spectre Bridegroom, - 282 
 
 Elegy upon Leo, an old House-Dog, ... 288 
 
 Morning, - - - - 289 
 Lines written after she herself began to fear that her 
 
 disease was past remedy, ... 290 
 
 To my Old Home at Plattsburgh, 292 
 
 Fame, 293 
 
 On my Mother s Fiftieth Birthday, - - 293 
 
 The Storm hath Passed By, .... 294 
 
 Epitaph on a Young Robin, .... 295 
 
 To a Moonbeam, ...... 296 
 
 Evening, ...... 297 
 
 A Poetical Letter to Henrietta, - - 299 
 
 Lines on seeing some fragments from the Tomb of Virgil, 302 
 A Short Sketch of the most important ideas contained in 
 
 Cousin s "Introduction to the History of Philosophy," 303 
 
 Brief Notes from Cousin s Philosophy, - - 306 
 
 Lenore, -.--... 308 
 
BIOGRAPHY 
 
 OF 
 
 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 THE reading world has long set a cherishing value 
 on the name of Lucretia Davidson, a lovely American 
 girl, who, after giving early promise of rare poetic 
 excellence, was snatched from existence in the seven 
 teenth year of her age. An interesting biography of 
 her by President Morse of the American Society of 
 Arts, was published shortly after her death ; another has 
 since appeared from the classic pen of Miss Sedgwick, 
 and her name has derived additional celebrity in Great 
 Britain from an able article by Robert Southey, inserted 
 some years since in the London Quarterly Review. 
 
 An intimate acquaintance in early life with some of 
 the relatives of Miss Davidson had caused me, while 
 in Europe, to read with great interest every thing con 
 cerning her; when, therefore, in 1833, about a year 
 after my return to the United States, I was told, while 
 in New York, that Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the 
 deceased, v;as in the city and desirous of consulting 
 me about a new edition of her daughter s works, I 
 lost no time in waiting upon her. Her appearance 
 
 2 
 
10 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 corresponded with the interesting idea given of her in 
 her daughter s biography; she was feeble and ema 
 ciated, and supported by pillows in an easy chair, but 
 there were the lingerings of grace and beauty in her 
 form and features, and her eye still beamed with intel 
 ligence and sensibility. 
 
 While conversing with her on the subject of her 
 daughter s works, I observed a young girl, apparently 
 not more than eleven years of age, moving quietly about 
 her ; occasionally arranging a pillow, and at the same 
 time listening earnestly to our conversation. There 
 was an intellectual beauty about this child that struck 
 me ; and that was heightened by a blushing diffidence 
 when Mrs. Davidson presented her to me as her 
 daughter Margaret. Shortly afterwards, on her leaving 
 the room, her mother, seeing that she had attracted my 
 attention, spoke of her as having evinced the same early 
 poetical talent that had distinguished her sister, and as 
 evidence, showed me several copies of verses remark 
 able for such a child. On further inquiry I found that 
 she had very nearly the same moral and physical con 
 stitution, and was prone to the same feverish excitement 
 of the mind, and kindling of the imagination that had 
 acted so powerfully on the fragile frame of her sister 
 Lucretia. I cautioned her mother, therefore, against 
 fostering her poetic vein, an$ advised such studies and 
 pursuits as would tend to strengthen her judgment, calm 
 and regulate the sensibilities, and enlarge that common 
 sense which is the only safe foundation for all intellectual 
 superstructure. 
 
 I found Mrs. Davidson fully aware of the importance 
 of such a course of treatment, and disposed to pursue 
 it, but saw at the same time that she would have diffi- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 1 1 
 
 culty to carry ifinto effect ; having to contend with the 
 additional excitement produced in the mind of this 
 sensitive little being by the example of her sister, and 
 the intense enthusiasm she evinced concerning her. 
 
 Three years elapsed before I again saw the subject of 
 this memoir. She was then residing with her mother 
 at a rural retreat in the neighbourhood of New York. 
 The interval that had elapsed had rapidly developed the 
 powers of her mind, and heightened the loveliness of 
 her person, but my apprehensions had been verified. 
 The soul was wearing out the body. Preparations 
 were making to take her on a tour for the benefit of 
 her health, and her mother appeared to flatter herself 
 that it might prove efficacious ; but when I noticed the 
 fragile delicacy of her form, the hectic bloom of her 
 cheek, and the almost unearthly lustre of her eye, I felt 
 convinced that she was not long for this world ; in truth, 
 she already appeared more spiritual than mortal. We 
 parted, and I never saw her more. Within three years 
 afterwards a number of manuscripts were placed in my 
 hands, as all that was left of her. They were accom 
 panied by copious memoranda concerning her, furnished 
 by her mother at my request. From these I have 
 digested and arranged the following particulars, adopt 
 ing in many places the original manuscript, without 
 alteration. In fact, the narrative will be found almost 
 as illustrative of the character of the mother as of the 
 child ; they were singularly identified in taste, feelings, 
 and pursuits ; tenderly entwined together by maternal 
 and filial affection ; they reflected an inexpressibly 
 touching grace and interest upon each other by this 
 holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring 
 
12 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in the 
 history of modern literature, to sunder them. 
 
 Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of 
 Dr. Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was born at 
 the family residence on Lake Champlain, in the village 
 of Pittsburgh, on the 26th of March, 1823. She 
 evinced fragility of constitution from her very birth. 
 Her sister Lucretia, whose brief poetical career has 
 been so celebrated in literary history, was her early and 
 fond attendant, and some of her most popular lays were 
 composed with the infant sporting in her arms. She 
 used to gaze upon her little sister with intense delight, 
 and, remarking the uncommon brightness and beauty 
 of her eyes, would exclaim, " She must, she will be a 
 poet!" The exclamation was natural enough in an 
 enthusiastic girl who regarded every thing through the 
 medium of her ruling passion ; but it was treasured up 
 by her mother, and considered almost prophetic. Lu 
 cretia did not live to see her prediction verified. Her 
 brief sojourn upon earth was over before Margaret was 
 quite two years and a half old ; yet, to use her mother s 
 fond expressions, "On ascending to the skies, it seemed 
 as if her poetic mantle fell, like a robe of light, on 
 her infant sister." 
 
 Margaret, from the first dawnings of intellect, gave 
 evidence of being no common child : her ideas and 
 expressions were not like those of other children, and 
 often startled by their precocity. Her sister s death 
 had made a strong impression on her, and, though so 
 extremely young, she already understood and appre 
 ciated Lucretia s character. An evidence of this, and 
 of the singular precocity of thought and expression just 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 13 
 
 noticed, occurred but a few months afterwards. As 
 Mrs. Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with 
 a female friend, Margaret entered the room with a light 
 elastic step, for w T hich she was remarked. 
 
 " That child never walks," said the lady ; then turn 
 ing to her, " Margaret, where are you flying now ]" 
 said she. 
 
 " To heaven !" replied she, pointing up with her 
 finger, " to meet my sister Lucretia, when I get my 
 new wings." 
 
 " Your new wings ! When will you get them ?" 
 " Oh soon, very soon ; and then I shall fly !" 
 " She loved," says her mother, " to sit hour after 
 hour on a cushion at my feet, her little arms resting 
 upon my lap, and her full dark eyes fixed upon mine, 
 listening to anecdotes of her sister s life and details of 
 the events which preceded her death, often exclaiming, 
 while her face beamed with mingled emotions, Oh 
 mamma, I will try to fill her place ! Oh teach me to be 
 like her ! " 
 
 Much of Mrs. Davidson s time was now devoted to 
 her daily instruction ; noticing, however, her lively sen 
 sibility, the rapid developement of her mind, and her 
 eagerness for knowledge, her lessons were entirely oral, 
 for she feared for the present to teach her to read, lest, 
 by too early and severe application, she should injure 
 her delicate frame. She had nearly attained her fourth 
 year before she was taught to spell. Ill health then 
 obliged Mrs. Davidson, for the space of a year, to 
 entrust her tuition to a lady in Canada, a valued friend, 
 who had other young girls under her care. When she 
 returned home she could read fluently, and had com 
 menced letters in writing. It was now decided that she 
 
14 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 should not be placed in any public seminary, but that 
 her education should be conducted by her mother. The 
 task was rendered delightful by the docility of the pupil; 
 by her affectionate feelings, and quick kindling sensibili 
 ties. This maternal instruction, while it kept her apart 
 from the w r orld, and fostered a singular purity and 
 innocence of thought, contributed greatly to enhance 
 her imaginative powers, for the mother partook largely 
 of the poetical temperament of the child ; it was, in 
 fact, one poetical spirit ministering to another. 
 
 Among the earliest indications of the poetical charac 
 ter in this child were her perceptions of the beauty of 
 natural scenery. Her home was in a picturesque neigh 
 bourhood, calculated to awaken and foster such percep 
 tions. The following description of it is taken from one 
 of her own writings : " There stood on the banks of the 
 Saranac a small neat cottage, which peeped forth from 
 the surrounding foliage, the image of rural quiet and 
 contentment. An old-fashioned piazza extended along 
 the front, shaded with vines and honeysuckles ; the turf 
 on the bank of the river was of the richest and brightest 
 emerald ; and the wild rose and sweet briar, which 
 twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with 
 more delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds 
 of this earthly paradise. The scenery around was 
 wildly yet beautifully romantic ; the clear blue river, 
 glancing and sparkling at its feet, seemed only as a 
 preparation for another and more magnificent view, 
 when the stream, gliding on to the west, was buried in 
 the broad white bosom of Champlain, which stretched 
 back, wave after wave in the distance, until lost in faint 
 blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, 
 seeming more lovely from their indistinctness." 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 15 
 
 Such were tlie natural scenes which presented them 
 selves to her dawning perceptions, and she is said Jo 
 have evinced, from her earliest childhood, a remarkable 
 sensibility to their charms. A beautiful tree, or shrub, 
 or flower would fill her with delight ; she would note 
 with surprising discrimination the various effects of the 
 weather upon the surrounding landscape ; the mountains 
 wrapt in clouds ; the torrents roaring down their sides 
 in times of tempest; the "bright warm sunshine," the 
 " cooling shower," the " pale cold moon," for such was 
 already her poetical phraseology. A bright starlight 
 night, also, would seem to awaken a mysterious rapture 
 in her infant bosom, and one of her early expressions in 
 speaking of the stars was, thai, they " shone like the eyes 
 of angels." 
 
 One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal 
 instruction was in guiding these kindling perceptions 
 from nature up to nature s God. 
 
 " I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age 
 her religious impressions were imbibed. They seemed 
 to be interwoven with her existence. From the very 
 first exercise of reason she evinced strong devotional 
 feelings, and, although she loved play, she would at any 
 time prefer seating herself beside me, and, with every 
 faculty absorbed in the subject, listen while I attempted 
 to recount the wonders of Providence, and point out the 
 wisdom and benevolence of God, as manifested in the 
 works of creation. Her young heart would swell with 
 rapture, and the tear would tremble in her eye, when 1 
 explained to her, that he who clothed the trees with 
 verdure, and gave the rose its bloom, had also created 
 her with capacities to enjoy their beauties : that the 
 same power which clothed the mountains with sublimity, 
 
16 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 made her happiness his daily care. Thus a sentiment 
 o gratitude and affection towards the Creator entered 
 into all her emotions of delight at the wonders and 
 beauties of creation." 
 
 There is nothing more truly poetical than religion 
 when properly inculcated, and it will be found that this 
 early piety, thus amiably instilled, had the happiest 
 effect upon her throughout life ; elevating and ennobling 
 her genius ; lifting her above every thing gross and 
 sordid ; attuning her thoughts to pure and lofty themes; 
 heightening rather than impairing her enjoyments, and 
 at all times giving an ethereal lightness to her spirit. 
 To use her mother s words, " she was like a bird on the 
 wing, her fairy form scarcely seemed to touch the earth 
 as she passed." She was at times in a kind of ecstasy 
 from the excitement of her imagination and the exube 
 rance of her pleasurable sensations. In such moods 
 every object of natural beauty inspired a degree of 
 rapture always mingled with a feeling of gratitude to 
 the Being "who had made so many beautiful things 
 for her." In such moods too her little heart would 
 overflow with love to all around ; indeed, adds her 
 mother, to love and be beloved was necessary to 
 her existence. Private prayer became a habit with 
 her at a very early age; it was almost a spontaneous 
 expression of her feelings, the breathings of an affec 
 tionate and delighted heart. 
 
 " By the time she was six years old," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " her language assumed an elevated tone, 
 and her mind seemed filled with poetic imagery, blended 
 with veins of religious thought. At this period I was 
 chiefly confined to rny room by debility. She was my 
 companion and friend, and, as the greater part of my 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 17 
 
 time was devoted to her instruction, she advanced 
 rapidly in her studies. She read not only well, but 
 elegantly. Her love of reading amounted almost to a 
 passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers 
 viewed with astonishment a child little more than six 
 years old reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson s 
 Seasons, the Pleasures of Hope, Cowper s Task, the 
 writings of Milton, Byron, and Scott, and marking, 
 with taste and discrimination, the passages which struck 
 her. The sacred writings were her daily studies ; with 
 her little Bible on her lap, she usually seated herself 
 near me, and there read a chapter from the holy 
 volume. This was a duty which she was taught not 
 to perform lightly, and we have frequently spent two 
 hours in reading and remarking upon the contents of a 
 chapter." 
 
 A tendency to "lisp in numbers," was observed in 
 her about this time. She frequently made little im 
 promptus in rhyme, without seeming to be conscious 
 that there was any thing peculiar in the habit. On one 
 occasion, while standing by a window at W 7 hich her 
 mother was seated, and looking out upon a lovely land 
 scape, she .exclaimed 
 
 " See those lofty, those grand trees ; 
 Their high tops waving in the breeze ; 
 They cast their shadows on the ground, 
 And spread their fragrance all around." 
 
 Her mother, who had several times been struck by little 
 rhyming ejaculations of the kind, now handed her 
 writing implements and requested her to write down 
 what she had just uttered. She appeared surprised at 
 the request, but complied ; writing it down as if it had 
 
18 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 been prose, without arranging it in a stanza, or com 
 mencing the lines with capitals ; not seeming aware 
 that she had rhymed. The notice attracted to this 
 impromptu, however, had its effect, whether for good 
 or for evil. From that time she wrote some scraps of 
 poetry, or rather rhyme, every day, which would be 
 treasured up with delight by her mother, who watched 
 with trembling, yet almost fascinated anxiety, these pre 
 mature blossomings of poetic fancy. 
 
 On another occasion, towards sunset, as Mrs. David 
 son was seated by the window of her bed-room, little 
 Margaret ran in, greatly excited, exclaiming that there 
 was an awful thundergust rising, and that the clouds 
 were black as midnight. 
 
 " I gently dre^w her to my bosom," says Mrs. David 
 son, " and after I had soothed her agitation, she seated 
 herself at my feet, laid her head in my lap, and gazed 
 at the rising storm. As the thunder rolled, she clung 
 closer to my knees, and when the tempest burst in all 
 its fury, I felt her tremble. I passed my arms round 
 her, but soon found it was not fear that agitated her. 
 Her eyes kindled as she watched the warring elements, 
 until extending her hand, she exclaimed, 
 
 " The lightning plays along the sky, 
 The thunder rolls and bursts from high ! 
 Jehovah s voice amid the storm 
 I heard methinks I see his form, 
 As riding on the clouds of even, 
 He spreads his glory o er the heaven." 
 
 This likewise her mother made her write dow r n at the 
 instant ; thus giving additional impulse to this growing 
 inclination. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 19 
 
 I shall select -ene more instance of this early facility 
 at numbers, especially as it involves a case of con 
 science, creditable to her early powers of self-exami 
 nation. She had been reproved by her mother for 
 some trifling act of disobedience, but aggravated her 
 fault by attempting to justify it; she was, therefore, 
 banished to her bed-room until she should become 
 sensible of her error. Two hours elapsed, without her 
 evincing any disposition to yield ; on the contrary, she 
 persisted in vindicating her conduct, and accused her 
 mother of injustice. 
 
 Mrs. Davidson mildly reasoned with her; entreated 
 her to examine the spirit by which she was actuated ; 
 placed before her the example of our Saviour in sub 
 mitting to the will of his parents ; and, exhorting her to 
 pray to God to assist her, and to give her meekness and 
 humility, left her again to her reflections. 
 
 " An hour or two afterwards," says Mrs. Davidson, 
 " she desired I would admit her. I sent word that, 
 when she was in a proper frame of mind, I would be 
 glad to see her. The little creature came in, bathed in 
 tears, threw her arms round my neck, and sobbing 
 violently, put into my hands the following verses : 
 
 " Forgiven by my Saviour dear, 
 
 For all the wrongs I ve done, 
 What other wish could I have here ? 
 Alas there yet is one. 
 
 I know my God has pardoned me, 
 
 I know he loves me still ; 
 I wish forgiven I may be, 
 
 By her I ve used so ill. 
 
 Good resolutions I have made, 
 And thought I loved my Lord; 
 
20 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But ah ! I trusted in myself, 
 And broke my foolish word. 
 
 But give me strength, oh Lord, to trust 
 
 For help alone in thee ; 
 Thou knowest my inmost feelings best, 
 
 Oh teach me to obey." 
 
 We have spoken of the buoyancy of Margaret s 
 feelings, and the vivid pleasure she received from ex 
 ternal objects ; she entered, however, but little into the 
 amusements of the few children with whom she 
 associated, nor did she take much delight in their 
 society ; she was conscious of a difference between 
 them and herself, but scarce knew in what it consisted. 
 Their sports seemed to divert for a while, but soon 
 wearied her, and she would fly to a book, or seek the 
 conversation of persons of maturer age and mind. 
 Her highest pleasures were intellectual. She seemed 
 to live in a world of her own creation, surrounded by 
 the images of her own fancy. Her own childish 
 amusements had originality and freshness, and called 
 into action the mental powers, so as to render them 
 interesting to persons of all ages. If at play with her 
 little dog or kitten, she would carry on imaginary 
 dialogues between them ; always ingenious, and some 
 times even brilliant. If her doll happened to be the 
 plaything of the moment, it was invested with a cha 
 racter exhibiting knowledge of history, and all the 
 powers of memory which a child can be supposed 
 to exercise. Whether it was Mary Queen of Scots, 
 or her rival, Elizabeth, or the simple cottage maiden, 
 each character was maintained with propriety. In 
 telling stories (an amusement all children are fond of,) 
 hers were always original, and of a kind calculated to 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 21 
 
 elevate the minds of the children present, giving them 
 exalted views of truth, honour, and integrity ; and the 
 sacrifice of all selfish feelings to the happiness of others 
 was illustrated in the heroine of her story. 
 
 This talent for extemporaneous story-telling increased 
 with exercise, until she would carry on a narrative for 
 hours together ; and in nothing was the precocity of her 
 inventive powers more apparent than in the discrimina 
 tion and individuality of her fictitious characters; the 
 consistency with which they were sustained; the graphic 
 force of her descriptions ; the elevation of her senti 
 ments, and the poetic beauty of her imagery. 
 
 This early gift caused her to be sought by some of 
 the neighbours; who would lead her unconsciously into 
 an exertion of her powers. Nothing was done by her 
 from vanity or a disposition to "show off," but she 
 would become excited by their attention and the plea 
 sure they seemed to derive from her narrations. When 
 thus excited, a whole evening would be occupied by one 
 of her stories ; and when the servant came to take her 
 home, she w^ould observe, in the phraseology of the 
 magazines, " the story to be continued in our next." 
 
 Between the age of six and seven she entered upon a 
 course of English grammar, geography, history, and 
 rhetoric, still under the direction and superintendence of 
 her mother ; but such was her ardour and application, 
 that it was necessary to keep her in check, lest a too 
 intense pursuit of knowledge should impair her delicate 
 constitution. She was not required to commit her 
 lessons to memory, but to give the substance of them 
 in her own language, and to explain their purport; 
 thus she learnt nothing by rote, but every thing under- 
 
22 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 standingly, and soon acquired a knowledge of the rudi 
 ments of English education. The morning lessons 
 completed, the rest of the day was devoted to recrea 
 tion ; occasionally sporting and gathering wild flowers 
 on the banks of the Saranac ; though the extreme 
 delicacy of her constitution prevented her taking as 
 much exercise as her mother could have wished. 
 
 In 1830 an English gentleman, who had been strongly 
 interested and affected by the perusal of the biography 
 and writings of Lucretia Davidson, visited Plattsburgh, 
 in the course of a journey from Quebec to New York, 
 to see the place where she was born and had been 
 buried. While there, he sought an interview with Mrs. 
 Davidson, and his appearance and deportment were 
 such as at once to inspire respect and confidence. He 
 had much to ask about the object of his literary pilgrim 
 age, but his inquiries were managed with the most 
 considerate delicacy. While he was thus conversing 
 with Mrs. Davidson, the little Margaret, then about 
 seven years of age, came tripping into the room, with a 
 book in one hand and a pencil in the other. He was 
 charmed with her bright intellectual countenance, but 
 still more with finding that the volume in her hand was 
 a copy of Thomson s Seasons, in which she had been 
 marking with a pencil the passages which most pleased 
 her. He drew her to him ; his frank, winning manner 
 soon banished her timidity; he engaged her in conver 
 sation, and found, to his astonishment, a counterpart of 
 Lucretia Davidson before him. His visit was neces 
 sarily brief; but his manners, appearance, and conver 
 sation, and, above all, the extraordinary interest with 
 which he had regarded her, sank deep in the affectionate 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 23 
 
 heart of the child, and inspired a friendship that re 
 mained one of her strongest attachments through the 
 residue of her transient existence. 
 
 The delicate state of her health this summer rendered 
 it advisable to take her to the Saratoga Springs, the 
 waters of which appeared to have a beneficial effect. 
 After remaining here some time, she accompanied her 
 parents to New York. It was her first visit to the 
 city, and of course fruitful of wonder and excitement ; 
 a new world seemed to open before her ; new scenes, 
 new friends, new occupations, new sources of instruc 
 tion and enjoyment ; her young heart was overflowing, 
 and her head giddy with delight. To complete her 
 happiness, she again met with her English friend, whom 
 she greeted with as much eagerness and joy as if he 
 had been a companion of her own age. He manifested 
 the same interest in her that he had shown at Platts- 
 burgh, and took great pleasure in accompanying her to 
 many of the exhibitions and places of intellectual gratifi 
 cation of the metropolis, and marking their effects upon 
 her fresh, unhackneyed feelings and intelligent mind. 
 In company with him she, for the first and only time in 
 her life, visited the theatre. It was a scene of magic to 
 her, or rather, as she said, like a "brilliant dream." 
 She often recurred to it with vivid recollection, and the 
 effect of it upon her imagination was subsequently appa 
 rent in the dramatic nature of some of her writings. 
 
 One of her greatest subjects of regret on leaving 
 New York, was the parting with her intellectual Eng 
 lish friend ; but she was consoled by his promising to 
 pay Plattsburgh another visit, and to pass a few days 
 there previous to his departure for England. Soon 
 after returning to Plattsburgh, however, Mrs. Davidson 
 
24 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 received a letter from him saying that he was unex 
 pectedly summoned home, and would have to defer his 
 promised visit until his return to the United States. 
 
 It was a severe disappointment to Margaret, who had 
 conceived for him an enthusiastic friendship remarkable 
 in such a child. His letter was accompanied by pre 
 sents of books and various tasteful remembrances, but 
 the sight of them only augmented her affliction. She 
 wrapped them all carefully in paper, and treasured them 
 up in a particular drawer, where they were daily visited, 
 and many a tear shed over them. 
 
 The excursions to Saratoga and New York had 
 improved her health, and given a fresh impulse to her 
 mind. She resumed her studies with great eagerness ; 
 her spirits rose with mental exercise ; she soon was in 
 one of her veins of intellectual excitement. She read, 
 she wrote, she danced, she sang, and was for the time 
 the happiest of the happy. In the freshness of early 
 morning, and towards sunset, when the heat of the day 
 was over, she would stroll on the banks of the Sara- 
 nac, following its course to where it pours itself into 
 the beautiful Bay of Cumberland in Lake Champlain. 
 There the rich variety of scenery which bursts upon 
 the eye ; the islands, scattered, like so many gems, on 
 the broad bosom of the lake ; the green mountains of 
 Vermont beyond, clothed in the atmospherical charms 
 of our magnificent climate ; all these would inspire a 
 degree of poetic rapture in her mind, mingled with a 
 sacred melancholy; for these were scenes which had 
 often awakened the enthusiasm of her deceased sister 
 Lucretia. 
 
 Her mother, in her memoranda, gives a picture of 
 her in one of these excited moods. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 25 
 
 " After an evening s stroll along the river bank, we 
 seated ourselves by a window to observe the effect of 
 the full moon rising over the waters. A holy calm 
 seemed to pervade all nature. With her head resting 
 on my bosom, and her eyes fixed on the firmament, she 
 pointed to a particularly bright star, and said : 
 
 " Behold that bright and sparkling star 
 Which setteth as a queen afar : 
 Over the blue and spangled heaven 
 It sheds its glory in the even! 
 
 Our Jesus made that sparkling star 
 Which shines and twinkles from afar. 
 Oh ! twas that bright and glorious gem 
 Which shone o er ancient Bethlehem !" 
 
 " The summer passed swiftly away," continues her 
 mother, " yet her intellectual advances seemed to out 
 strip the wings of time. As the autumn approached, 
 however, I could plainly perceive that her health was 
 again declining. The chilly winds from the lake were 
 too keen for her weak lungs. My own health too was 
 failing; it was determined, therefore, that we should 
 
 pass the winter with my eldest daughter, Mrs. T , 
 
 who resided in Canada, in the same latitude, it is true, 
 but in an inland situation. This arrangement was very 
 gratifying to Margaret ; and, had my health improved 
 by the change, as her own did, she would have been 
 perfectly happy. During this period she attended to a 
 regular course of study, under my direction ; for, though 
 confined wholly to my bed, and suffering extremely from 
 pain and debility, Heaven, in mercy, preserved my men 
 tal faculties from the wreck that disease had made of 
 my physical powers." The same plan as heretofore 
 
 3 
 
26 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 was pursued. Nothing was learnt by rote, and the 
 lessons were varied to prevent fatigue and distaste, 
 though study was always with her a pleasing duty 
 rather than an arduous task. After she had studied her 
 lessons by herself she would discuss them in conversa 
 tion with her mother. Her reading was under the 
 same guidance. "I selected her books," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " with much care, and to my surprise found 
 that, notwithstanding her poetical temperament, she 
 had a high relish for history, and that she would read 
 with as much apparent interest an abstruse treatise that 
 called forth the reflecting powers, as she did poetry or 
 works of the imagination. In polite literature Addison 
 was her favourite author, but Shakspeare she dwelt 
 upon with enthusiasm. She was restricted, however, to 
 certain marked portions of this inimitable writer; and 
 having been told that it was not proper for her to read 
 the whole, such was her innate delicacy and her sense 
 of duty, that she never overstepped the prescribed 
 boundaries." 
 
 In the intervals of study she amused herself with 
 drawing, for which she had a natural talent, and soon 
 began to sketch with considerable skill. As her health 
 had improved since her removal to Canada, she fre 
 quently partook of the favourite winter recreation of a 
 drive in a traineau or sleigh, in company with her sister 
 and her brother-in-law, and completely enveloped in 
 furs and buffalo-robes ; and nothing put her in a finer 
 flow of spirits, than thus skimming along, in bright 
 January weather, on the sparkling snow, to the merry 
 music of the jingling sleigh-bells. The winter passed 
 away without any improvement in the health of Mrs. 
 Davidson ; indeed she continued a helpless invalid, con- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 27 
 
 fined to her bed, for eighteen months ; during all which 
 time little Margaret was her almost constant com 
 panion and attendant. 
 
 " Her tender solicitude," writes Mrs. Davidson, " en 
 deared her to me beyond any other earthly thing ; 
 although under the roof of a beloved and affectionate 
 daughter, and having constantly with me an experienced 
 and judicious nurse, yet the soft and gentle voice of my 
 little darling was more than medicine to my worn-out 
 frame. If her delicate hand smoothed my pillow, it 
 was soft to my aching temples, and her sweet smile 
 would cheer me in the lowest depths of despondency. 
 She would draw for me read to me and often, when 
 writing at her little table, would surprise me by some 
 tribute of love, which never failed to operate as a 
 cordial to my heart. At a time when my life was 
 despaired of, she wrote the following lines while sitting 
 at my bed 
 
 " I ll to thy arms in rapture fly, 
 And wipe the tear that dims thine eye ; 
 Thy pleasure will be my delight, 
 Till thy pure spirit takes its flight. 
 
 When left alone when thou art gone, 
 
 Yet still I will not feel alone : 
 
 Thy spirit still will hover near, 
 
 And guard thy orphan daughter dear !" 
 
 In this trying moment, when Mrs. Davidson herself 
 had given up all hope of recovery, one of the most 
 touching sights was to see this affectionate and sensitive 
 child tasking herself to achieve a likeness of her mother, 
 that it might remain with her as a memento. " How 
 often would she set by my bed," says Mrs. Davidson, 
 
28 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " striving to sketch features that had been vainly 
 attempted by more than one finished artist ; and when 
 she found that she had failed, and that the likeness 
 could not be recognised, she would put her arms around 
 my neck and weep, and say, Oh dear mamma, I shall 
 lose you, and not even a sketch of your features will be 
 left me! and if I live to be a woman, perhaps I shall 
 even forget how you looked ! This idea gave her great 
 distress, sweet lamb ! I then little thought this bosom 
 would have been her dying pillow !" 
 
 After being reduced to the very verge of the grave, 
 Mrs. Davidson began slowly to recover, but a long 
 time elapsed before she was restored to her usual de 
 gree of health. Margaret in the mean time increased 
 in strength and stature; she still looked fragile and 
 delicate, but she was always cheerful and buoyant. 
 To relieve the monotony of her life, which had been 
 passed too much in a sick chamber, and to preserve her 
 spirits fresh and elastic, little excursions were devised 
 for her about the country, to Missisque Bay, St. Johns, 
 Alburgh, Champlain, &c. The following lines, address 
 ed to her mother on one of these occasional separations, 
 will serve as a specimen of her compositions in this the 
 eighth year of her age, and of the affectionate current 
 of her feelings. 
 
 " Farewell, dear mother ; for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 May the Almighty Father spread 
 His sheltering wings above thy head ; 
 It is not long that we must part, 
 Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 29 
 
 Remember, oh remember me, 
 Unceasing is my love for thee ; 
 When death shall sever earthly ties, 
 When thy loved form all senseless lies, 
 
 Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
 And roam through wide eternity ; 
 Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
 And count the brilliant stars of even ! 
 
 Farewell, dear mother ; for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow." 
 
 In the month of January, 1833, while still in Canada, 
 she was brought very low by an attack of scarlet fever, 
 under which she lingered many weeks, but had so far 
 recovered by the middle of April as to take the air in a 
 carriage. Her mother, too, having regained sufficient 
 strength to travel, it was thought advisable, for both 
 their healths, to try the effect of a journey to New 
 York. They accordingly departed about the beginning 
 of May, accompanied by a family party. Of. this 
 journey, and a sojourn of several months in New York, 
 she kept a journal, which evinces considerable habits of 
 observation, but still more that kindling of the imagina 
 tion which, in the poetic mind, gives to commonplace 
 realities the witchery of romance. She was deeply 
 interested by visits to the " School for the Blind," and 
 the " Deaf and Dumb Asylum ;" and makes a minute of 
 a visit of a very different nature to Black Hawk and 
 his fellow- chiefs, prisoners of war, who, by command of 
 government, were taken about through various of our 
 cities, that they might carry back to their brethren in 
 
30 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 the wilderness, a cautionary idea of the overwhelming 
 power of the white man. 
 
 " On the 25th June I saw and shook hands with the 
 famous Black Hawk, the Indian chief, the enemy of our 
 nation, who has massacred our patriots, murdered our 
 women and helpless children ! Why is he treated with 
 so much attention by those whom he has injured? It 
 cannot surely arise from benevolence. It must be 
 policy. Be it what it may, I cannot understand it. 
 His son, the Prophet, and others who accompanied him, 
 interested me more than the chief himself. His son is 
 no doubt a fine specimen of Indian beauty. He has a 
 high brow, piercing black eyes, long black hair, which 
 hangs down his back, and, upon the whole, is well 
 suited to captivate an Indian maiden. The Prophet we 
 found surveying himself in a looking-glass, undoubtedly 
 wishing to show himself off to the best advantage in 
 the fair assembly before him. The rest were dozing on 
 a sofa, but they were awakened sufficiently to shake 
 hands with us, and others who had the courage to ap 
 proach so near them. I remember I dreamed of them 
 the following night." 
 
 During this visit to New York she was the life and 
 delight of the relatives with whom she resided, and 
 they still retain a lively recollection of the intellectual 
 nature of her sports among her youthful companions, 
 and of the surprising aptness and fertile invention dis 
 played by her in contriving new sources of amusement. 
 She had a number of playmates, nearly of her own 
 age, and one of her projects was to get up a dramatic 
 entertainment for the gratification of themselves and 
 their friends. The proposal was readily agreed to 
 provided she would write the play. This she readily 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 31 
 
 J0) 
 
 undertook, and indeed devised and directed the whole 
 arrangements, though she had never been but once to a 
 theatre, and that on her previous visit to New York. 
 Her little companions were now all busily employed, 
 under her directions, preparing dresses and equipments ; 
 robes with trains were fitted out for the female charac 
 ters, and quantities of paper and tinsel were consumed 
 in making caps, helmets, spears, and sandals. 
 
 After four or five days had been spent in these pre 
 parations, Margaret was called upon to produce the 
 play. " Oh !" she replied, " I have not written it yet." 
 " But how is this ! Do you make the dresses first, 
 and then write the play to suit them ? " Oh !" replied 
 she gaily, " the writing of the play is the easiest part of 
 the preparation ; it will be ready before the dresses." 
 And, in fact, in two days she produced her drama, 
 " The Tragedy of Alethia." It was not very volu 
 minous, to be sure, but it contained within it sufficient 
 of high character and astounding and bloody incident 
 to furnish out a drama of five times its size. A king 
 and queen of England resolutely bent upon marrying 
 their daughter, the Princess Alethia, to the Duke of 
 Ormond. The princess most perversely and dolor 
 ously in love with a mysterious cavalier, who figures 
 at her father s court under the name of Sir Percy 
 Lennox, but who, in private truth, is the Spanish king, 
 Rodrigo, thus obliged to maintain an incognito on ac 
 count of certain hostilities between Spain and England. 
 The odious nuptials of the princess with the Duke of 
 Ormond proceed : she is led, a submissive victim, to the 
 altar ; is on the point of pledging her irrevocable word ; 
 when the priest throws off his sacred robe, discovers 
 himself to be Rodrigo, and plunges a dagger into the 
 
32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 bosom of the king. Alethia instantly plucks the dagger 
 from her father s bosom, throws herself into Rodrigo s 
 arms, and kills herself. Rodrigo flies to a cavern, 
 renounces England, Spain, and his royal throne, and 
 devotes himself to eternal remorse. The queen ends 
 the play by a passionate apostrophe to the spirit of her 
 daughter, and sinks dead on the floor. 
 
 The little drama lies before us, a curious specimen of 
 the prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no 
 means more incongruous in its incidents than many cur 
 rent dramas by veteran and experienced playwrights. 
 
 The parts were now distributed and soon learnt; 
 Margaret drew out a play-bill, in theatrical style, con 
 taining a list of the dramatis persona), and issued regu 
 lar tickets of admission. The piece went off with 
 universal applause ; Margaret figuring, in a long train, 
 as the princess, and killing herself in a style that would 
 not have disgraced an experienced stage heroine. 
 
 In these, and similar amusements, her time passed 
 happily in New York, for it was the study of the intelli 
 gent and amiable relatives, with whom she sojourned, 
 to render her residence among them as agreeable and 
 profitable as possible. Her visit, however, was pro 
 tracted much beyond what was originally intended. 
 As the summer advanced, the heat and restraint of the 
 city became oppressive; her heart yearned after her 
 native home on the Saranac ; and the following lines, 
 written at the time, express the state of her feelings 
 
 HOME. 
 
 I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, 
 To my own native plants and my flowrets so fair ; 
 To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright, 
 Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 33 
 
 Again would I^iew the old mansion so dear, 
 
 Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear ; 
 
 I would leave this great city so brilliant and gay, 
 
 For a peep at my home on this fine summer day. 
 
 I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret, 
 
 But the love of my home, oh, tis tenderer yet ! 
 
 There a sister reposes unconscious in death 
 
 Twas there she first drew and there yielded her breath 
 
 A father I love is away from me now 
 
 Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 
 
 Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear, 
 
 How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear ! 
 
 Attentive I listen to pleasure s gay call, 
 
 But my own darling home, it is dearer than all. 
 
 At length, late in the month of October, the travel 
 lers turned their faces homewards ; but it was not the 
 "darling home" for which Margaret had been long 
 ing: her native cottage on the beautiful banks of the 
 Saranac. The wintry winds from Lake Champlain 
 had been pronounced too severe for her constitution, 
 and the family residence had been reluctantly changed 
 to the village of Ballston. Margaret felt this change 
 most deeply. We have already shown the tender as 
 well as poetical associations that linked her heart to the 
 beautiful home of her childhood ; a presentiment seemed 
 to come over her mind that she would never see it 
 more; a presentiment unfortunately prophetic. She 
 was now accustomed to give prompt utterance to her 
 emotions in rhyme, and the following lines, written at 
 the time, remain a touching record of her feelings 
 
 MY NATIVE LAKE. 
 
 Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, 
 Lit by the sun s resplendent beam, 
 
34 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Reflect each bending tree so light 
 Upon thy bounding bosom bright 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 My own, by beautiful Champlain ! 
 
 The little isles that deck thy breast, 
 
 And calmly on thy bosom rest, 
 
 How often, in my childish glee, 
 
 I ve sported round them, bright and free ! 
 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 
 
 How oft I ve watch d the fresh ning shower 
 Bending the summer tree and flower, 
 And felt my little heart beat high 
 As the bright rainbow graced the sky. 
 Could I but see thee once again, 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 
 
 And shall I never see thee more, 
 
 My native lake, my much-loved shore ? 
 
 And must I bid a long adieu, 
 
 My dear, my infant home, to you ? 
 
 Shall I not see thee once again, 
 
 My own, my beautiful Champlain ? 
 
 Still, though disappointed in not returning to the 
 Saranac, she soon made herself contented at Ballston. 
 She was at home, in the bosom of her own family, and 
 reunited to her two youngest brothers, from whom she 
 had long been separated. A thousand little plans were 
 devised by her, and some few of them put in execution, 
 for their mutual pleasure and improvement. One of 
 the most characteristic of these was a " weekly paper," 
 issued by her in manuscript, and entitled " The Juvenile 
 Aspirant." All their domestic occupations and amuse 
 ments were of an intellectual kind. Their mornings 
 were spent in study; the evenings enlivened by con- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 35 
 
 versation, or by the work of some favourite author, 
 read aloud for the benefit of the family circle. 
 
 As the powers of this excitable and imaginative little 
 being developed themselves, Mrs. Davidson felt more 
 and more conscious of the responsibility of undertaking 
 to cultivate and direct them ; yet to whom could she 
 confide her that would so well understand her character 
 and constitution? To place her in a boarding-school 
 would subject her to increased excitement, caused by 
 emulation, and her mind was already too excitable for 
 her fragile frame. Her peculiar temperament required 
 peculiar culture ; it must neither be stimulated nor 
 checked ; and while her imagination was left to its 
 free soarings, care must be taken to strengthen her 
 judgment, improve her mind, establish her principles, 
 and inculcate habits of self-examination and self-control. 
 All this, it was thought, might best be accomplished 
 under a mother s eye ; it was resolved, therefore, that 
 her education should, as before, be conducted entirely 
 at home. " Thus she continued," to use her mother s 
 words, " to live in the bosom of affection, where every 
 thought and feeling was reciprocated. I strove to draw 
 out the powers of her mind by conversation and familiar 
 remarks upon subjects of daily study and reflection, and 
 taught her the necessity of bringing all her thoughts, 
 desires and feelings under the dominion of reason; to 
 understand the importance of self-control, when she 
 found her inclinations were at war with its dictates. 
 To fulfil all her duties from a conviction of right, 
 because they were duties; and to find her happiness 
 in the consciousness of her own integrity, and the 
 approbation of God. How delightful was the task of 
 instructing a mind like hers ! She seized with avidity 
 
36 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 upon every new idea, for the instruction proceeded from 
 lips of love. Often would she exclaim, * Oh mamma ! 
 how glad I am that you are not too ill to teach me ! 
 Surely I am the happiest girl in the world ! She had 
 read much for a child of little more than ten years of 
 age. She was well versed in both ancient and modern 
 history, (that is to say, in the courses generally pre 
 scribed for the use of schools,) Blair, Kaimes, and 
 Paley had formed part of her studies. She was fami 
 liar with most of the British poets. Her command of 
 the English language was remarkable, both in conver 
 sation and writing. She had learned the rudiments of 
 French, and was anxious to become perfect in the 
 language ; but I had so neglected my duty in this 
 respect after I left school, that I was not qualified to 
 instruct her. A friend, however, who understood 
 French, called occasionally and gave her lessons for 
 his own amusement ; she soon translated well, and such 
 was her talent for the acquisition of languages, and 
 such her desire to read every thing in the original, that 
 every obstacle vanished before her perseverance. She 
 made some advances in Latin, also, in company with 
 her brother, who was attended by a private teacher; 
 and they were engaged upon the early books of Virgil, 
 when her health again gave way, and she was confined 
 to her room by severe illness. These frequent attacks 
 upon a frame so delicate awakened all our fears. Her 
 illness spread a gloom throughout our habitation, for 
 fears were entertained that it would end in a pulmonary 
 consumption." After a confinement of two months, 
 however, she regained her usual, though at all times 
 fragile, state of health. In the following spring, when 
 she had just entered upon the eleventh year of her age, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 37 
 
 intelligence arrived of the death of her sister, Mrs. T., 
 who had been resident in Canada. The blow had been 
 apprehended from previous accounts of her extreme ill 
 ness, but it was a severe shock. She had looked up to 
 this sister as to a second mother, and as to one who, 
 from the precarious health of her natural parent, might 
 be called upon to fulfil that tender office. She was one, 
 also, calculated to inspire affection ; lovely in person, 
 refined and intelligent in mind, still young in years ; and 
 with all this, her only remaining sister ! In the following 
 lines, poured out in the fulness of her grief, she touch- 
 ingly alludes to the previous loss of her sister Lucretia, 
 so often the subject of her poetic regrets, and of the 
 consolation she had always felt in still having a sister 
 to love and cherish her. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER ANNA ELIZA. 
 
 While weeping o er our sister s tomb, 
 
 And heaving many a heartfelt sigh, 
 And while in youth s bewitching bloom, 
 
 I thought not that thou too couldst die. 
 
 When gazing on that little mound, 
 
 Spread o er with turf, and flowers, and mould, 
 
 I thought not that thy lovely form 
 Could be as motionless and cold. 
 
 When her light, airy form was lost 
 
 To fond affection s weeping eye ; 
 I thought not we should mourn for thee, 
 
 I thought not that thou too couldst die. 
 
 Yes, sparkling gem ! when thou wert here, 
 
 From death s encircling mantle free, 
 Our mourning parents wiped each tear, 
 
 And cried, " Why weep ? we still have thee." 
 
38 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Each tender thought on thee they turn d, 
 Each hope of joy to thee was given, 
 
 And, dwelling on each matchless charm, 
 They half forgot the saint in heaven. 
 
 But thou art gone, for ever gone ! 
 
 Sweet wanderer in a world of wo ! 
 Now, unrestrain d our grief must pour ! 
 
 Uncheck d our mourning tears must flow. 
 
 How oft I ve press d my glowing lip 
 In rapture to thy snowy brow, 
 
 And gazed upon that angel eye, 
 
 Closed in death s chilling slumber now. 
 
 While tottering on the verge of life, 
 Thine every nerve with pain unstrung, 
 
 That beaming eye was raised to heaven, 
 That heart to God for safety clung. 
 
 And when the awful moment came, 
 Replete with trembling hope and fear, 
 
 Though anguish shook thy slender frame, 
 Thy thoughts were in a brighter sphere. 
 
 The wreath of light, which round thee play d, 
 Bore thy pure spirit to the skies ; 
 
 With thee we lost our brightest gem, 
 But heaven has gain d a glorious prize. 
 
 Oh may the bud of promise left, 
 Follow the brilliant path she trod, 
 
 And of her fostering care bereft, 
 Still seek and find his mother s God. 
 
 But he, the partner of her life, 
 
 Who shared her joy and soothed her wo, 
 
 How can I heal his broken heart ? 
 How bid his sorrow cease to flow ? 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 39 
 
 It s only^time those wounds can heal ; 
 
 Time, from whose piercing pangs alone, 
 The poignancy of grief can steal, 
 
 And hush the heart s convulsive moan. 
 
 To parry the effect of this most afflicting blow, 
 Margaret was sent on a visit to New York, where she 
 passed a couple of months in the society of affectionate 
 and intelligent friends, and returned home in June, 
 recruited in health and spirits. The sight of her mo 
 ther, however, though habituated to sorrow and suffer 
 ing, yet bowed down by her recent bereavement, called 
 forth her tenderest sympathies ; and we consider it as 
 illustrating the progress of the intellect and the history 
 of the heart of this most interesting child, to insert 
 another effusion called forth by this domestic calamity : 
 
 TO MY MOTHER OPPRESSED WITH SORROW. 
 
 Weep, oh my mother ! I will bid thee weep ! 
 For grief like thine requires the aid of tears ; 
 But oh, I would not see thy bosom thus 
 Bow d down to earth, with anguish so severe ! 
 I would not see thine ardent feelings crush d, 
 Deaden d to all save sorrow s thrilling tone, 
 Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head 
 Beneath the chilling blasts of stern ^Eolus ! 
 Oh I have seen that brow with pleasure flush d, 
 The lightening smile around it brightly playing, 
 And the dark eyelids trembling with delight 
 But now how changed ! thy downcast eye is bent, 
 With heavy, thoughtful glances, on the ground, 
 And oh how quickly starts the tear-drop there ! 
 It is not age which dims its wonted fire, 
 Or plants his lilies on thy pallid cheek, 
 But sorrow, keenest, darkest, biting sorrow ! 
 When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief, 
 And fondly pleads one cheering look to view, 
 
40 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 A sad, a faint sad smile one instant gleams 
 
 Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined, 
 
 Brooding o er ruins of what once was fair ; 
 
 But like departing sunset, as it throws 
 
 One farewell shadow o er the sleeping earth, 
 
 (So soon in sombre twilight to be wrapt,) 
 
 Thus, thus it fades ! and sorrow more profound 
 
 Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold, 
 
 It scarcely might be called the mockery 
 
 Of cheerful peace, but just before had been. 
 
 Long years of suffering, brighten d not by joy, 
 
 Death and disease, fell harbinger of wo, 
 
 Must leave their impress on the human face, 
 
 And dim the fire of youth, the glow of pride ; 
 
 But oh my mother ! mourn not thus for Aer, 
 
 The rose, just blown, transplanted to its home, 
 
 Nor weep that her angelic soul has found 
 
 A resting-place with God. 
 
 Oh let the eye of heaven-born faith disperse 
 
 The dark ning mists of earthly grief, and pierce 
 
 The clouds which shadow dull mortality ! 
 
 Gaze on the heaven of glory crown d with light, 
 
 Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brow, 
 
 In the same voice which charm d her father s halls, 
 
 Chanting sweet anthems to her Maker s praise ; 
 
 And watching with delight the gentle buds 
 
 Which she had lived to mourn ; watching thine own, 
 
 My mother ! the soft unfolding blossoms, 
 
 Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint, 
 
 Departed to their Saviour ; there to wait 
 
 For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss ! 
 
 The angel babes have found a second mother ; 
 
 But when thy soul shall pass from earth away, 
 
 The little cherubs then shall cling to thee, 
 
 And their sweet guardian welcome thee with joy, 
 
 Protector of their helpless infancy, 
 
 Who taught them how to reach that happy home. 
 
 Oh think of this, and let one heartfelt smile 
 
 Illume the face so long estranged from joy; 
 
 But may it rest not on thy brow alone, 
 
 But shed a cheering influence o er thy heart, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 41 
 
 Too sweet to be forgotten L Though thy loved 
 
 And beautiful are fled from earth away, 
 
 Still there are those who love thee who would live 
 
 With thee alone who weep or smile with thee. 
 
 Think of thy noble sons, and think of her 
 
 Who prays thee to be happy in the hope 
 
 Of meeting those in heaven who loved thee here, 
 
 And training those on earth, that they may live 
 
 A band of saints with thee in Paradise. 
 
 The regular studies of Margaret were now resumed, 
 and her mother found, in attending to her instruction, a 
 relief from the poignancy of her afflictions. Margaret 
 always enjoyed the country, and in fine weather indulged 
 in long rambles in the woods, accompanied by some 
 friend, or attended by a faithful servant woman. When 
 in the house, the versatility of her talents, her constitu 
 tional vivacity, and an aptness at coining occupation 
 and amusement out of the most trifling incident, perpe 
 tually relieved the monotony of domestic life ; while 
 the faint gleam of health that occasionally flitted across 
 her cheek, beguiled the anxious forebodings that had 
 been indulged concerning v her. "A strong hope was 
 rising in my heart," says her mother, " that our frail, 
 delicate blossom would continue to flourish, and that it 
 was possible I might live to behold the perfection of its 
 beauty ! Alas ! how uncertain is every earthly pros 
 pect! Even then the canker was concealed within the 
 bright bud, which was eventually to destroy its loveli 
 ness ! About the last of December she was again 
 seized with a liver complaint, which, by sympathy, 
 affected her lungs, and again awakened all our fears. 
 She was confined to her bed, and it was not until 
 March that she was able to set up and walk about her 
 room. The confinement then became irksome, but her 
 
 4 
 
42 MISS MARGARET DAVTDSON. 
 
 kind and skilful physician had declared that she must 
 not be permitted to venture out until mild weather in 
 April." During this fit of illness her mind had remained 
 in an unusual state of inactivity ; but with the opening 
 of spring and the faint return of health, it broke forth 
 with a brilliancy and a restless excitability that asto 
 nished and alarmed. " In conversation," says her mo 
 ther, " her sallies of wit were dazzling. She composed 
 and wrote incessantly, or rather would have done so, 
 had I not interposed my authority to prevent this 
 unceasing tax upon both her mental and physical 
 strength. Fugitive pieces were produced every day, 
 such as < The Shunamite, * Bclshazzar s Feast/ The 
 Nature of Mind, i Boabdil el Chico/ &c. She seemed 
 to exist only in the regions of poetry." We cannot 
 help thinking that these moments of intense poetical 
 exaltation sometimes approached to delirium, for we 
 are told by her mother that " the image of her departed 
 sister Lucretia mingled in all her aspirations ; the holy 
 elevation of Lucretia s character had taken deep hold 
 of her imagination, and in her moments of enthusiasm 
 she felt that she held close and intimate communion 
 with her beatified spirit." 
 
 This intense mental excitement continued after she 
 was permitted to leave her room, and her application to 
 her books and papers was so eager and almost impas 
 sioned, that it was found expedient again to send her on 
 an excursion. A visit to some relatives, and a sojourn 
 among the beautiful scenery of the Mohawk river, had 
 a salutary effect ; but on returning home she was again 
 attacked with alarming indisposition, which confined her 
 to her bed. 
 
 " The struggle between nature and disease," says her 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 43 
 
 mother, "was for*a time doubtful; she was, however, 
 at length restored to us. With returning health, her 
 mental labours were resumed. I reasoned and entreat 
 ed, but at last became convinced that my only way was 
 to let matters take their course. If restrained in her 
 favourite pursuits, she was unhappy. To acquire useful 
 knowledge was a motive sufficient to induce her to sur 
 mount all obstacles. I could only select for her a course 
 of calm and quiet reading, which, while it furnished real 
 food for the mind, would compose rather than excite the 
 imagination. She read much and wrote a great deal. 
 As for myself, I lived in a state of constant anxiety lest 
 these labours should prematurely destroy this delicate 
 bud." 
 
 In the autumn of 1835, Dr. Davidson made arrange 
 ments to remove his family to a rural residence near 
 New York, pleasantly situated on the banks of the 
 Sound, or East River, as it is commonly called. The 
 following extract of a letter from Margaret to Moss 
 Kent, Esq.,* will show her anticipations and plans on 
 this occasion. 
 
 * This gentleman was an early and valued friend of the Davidson 
 family, and is honourably mentioned by Mr. Morse for the interest he 
 took in the education of Lucretia. The notice of Mr. Morse, however, 
 leaves it to be supposed that Mr. Kent s acquaintance with Dr. and Mrs. 
 Davidson was brought about by his admiration of their daughter s 
 talents, and commenced with overtures for her instruction. The fol 
 lowing extract of a letter from Mrs. Davidson will place this matter in a 
 proper light, and show that these offers on the part of Mr. Kent, and the 
 partial acceptance of them by Dr. and Mrs. Davidson, were warranted 
 by the terms of intimacy which before existed between them. " I had 
 the pleasure," says Mrs. Davidson, " to know Mr. Kent before my mar 
 riage, after which he frequently called at our house when visiting his 
 sister, with whom I was on terms of intimacy. On one of those occa 
 sions he saw Lucretia. He had often seen her when a child, but she 
 
44 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " September 20, 1835. 
 
 " We shall soon leave Ballston for New York. We 
 are to reside in a beautiful spot upon the East River, 
 near the Shot Tower, four miles from town, romanti 
 cally called Ruremont. Will it not be delightful? 
 Reunited to father and brothers, we must, we will 
 be happy ! We shall keep a horse and a little plea 
 sure waggon, to transport us to and from town. But I 
 intend my time shall be constantly employed in my 
 studies, which I hope I shall continue to pursue at 
 home. I wish (and mamma concurs in the opinion 
 that it is best,) to devote this winter to the study of the 
 Latin and French languages, while music and dancing 
 will unbend my mind after close application to those 
 studies, and give me that recreation which mother 
 deems requisite for me. If father can procure private 
 teachers for me, I shall be saved the dreadful alternative 
 of a boarding-school. Mother could never endure the 
 thought of one for me, and my own aversion is equally 
 
 had changed much. Her uncommon personal beauty, graceful manners, 
 and superior intellectual endowments made a strong impression on him. 
 He conversed with her, and examined her on the different branches 
 which she was studying, and pronounced her a good English scholar. 
 He also found her well read, and possessing a fund of general informa 
 tion. He warmly expressed his admiration of her talents, and urged 
 me to consent that he should adopt her as his daughter, and complete 
 her education on the most liberal plan. I so far acceded to his proposi 
 tion as to permit him to place her with Mrs. Willard, and assured him 
 I would take his generous offer into consideration. Had she lived, we 
 should have complied with his wishes, and Lucretia would have been 
 the child of his adoption. The pure and disinterested friendship of this 
 excellent man continued until the day of his death. For Margaret he 
 manifested the affection of a father, and the attachment was returned 
 by her with all the warmth of a young and grateful heart. She always 
 addressed him as her dear uncle Kent." 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 45 
 
 strong. Oh ! my^dear uncle, you must come and see 
 us. Come soon and stay long. Try to be with us at 
 Christmas. Mother s health is not as good as when you 
 was here. I hope she will be benefited by a residence 
 in her native city in the neighbourhood of those friends 
 she best loves. The state of her mind has an astonish 
 ing effect upon her health." 
 
 The following letter to the same gentleman, is dated 
 October 18, 1835. " We are now at Ruremont, and a 
 more delightful place I never saw. The house is large, 
 pleasant, and commodious, and the old-fashioned style 
 of every thing around it, transports the mind to days 
 long gone by, and my imagination is constantly upon 
 the rack to burden the past with scenes transacted on 
 this very spot. In the rear of the mansion a lawn, 
 spangled with beautiful flowers, and shaded by spread 
 ing trees, slopes gently down to the river side, where 
 vessels of every description are constantly spreading 
 their white sails to the wind. In front, a long shady 
 avenue leads to the door, and a large extent of beautiful 
 undulating ground is spread with fruit-trees of every 
 description. In and about the house there are so many 
 little nooks and byplaces, that sometimes I fancy it has 
 been the resort of smugglers; and who knows but I 
 shall yet find their hidden treasures somewhere ? Do 
 come and see us, my dear uncle; but you must come 
 soon, if you would enjoy any of the beauties of the 
 place. The trees have already doffed their robe of 
 green, and assumed the red and yellow of autumn, and 
 the paths are strewed with fallen leaves. But there is 
 loveliness even in the decay of nature. But do, do 
 come soon, or the branches will be leafless, and the cold 
 
46 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 winds will prevent the pleasant rambles we now enjoy. 
 Dear mother has twice accompanied me a short dis 
 tance about the grounds, and indeed I think her health 
 has improved since we removed to New York, though 
 she is still very feeble. Her mind is much relieved, 
 having her little family gathered once more around her. 
 You well know how great an effect her spirits have 
 upon her health. Oh ! if my dear mother is only in 
 comfortable health, and you will come, I think I shall 
 spend a delightful winter prosecuting my studies at 
 home." 
 
 " For a short time," writes Mrs. Davidson, " she 
 seemed to luxuriate upon the beauties of this lovely 
 place. She selected her own room, and adjusted all 
 her little tasteful ornaments. Her books and drawing 
 implements were transported to this chosen spot. Still 
 she hovered around me like my shadow. Mother s 
 room was still her resting-place; mother s bosom her 
 sanctuary. She sketched a plan for one or two poems 
 which were never finished. But her enjoyment was 
 soon interrupted. She was again attacked by her old 
 enemy, and though her confinement to her room was of 
 short duration, she did not get rid of the cough. A 
 change now came over her mind. Hitherto she had 
 always delighted in serious conversation on heaven ; 
 the pure and elevated occupations of saints and angels 
 in a future state had proved a delightful source of con 
 templation ; and she would become so animated that it 
 seemed sometimes as if she would fly to realize her 
 hopes and joys! Now her young heart appeared to 
 cling to life and its enjoyments, and more closely than I 
 had ever known it. < She was never ill. When asked 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 47 
 
 the question, Margaret, how are you T < Well, quite 
 well, was her reply, when it was obvious to me, who 
 watched her every look, that she had scarcely strength 
 to sustain her weak frame. She saw herself the last 
 daughter of her idolizing parents the only sister of her 
 devoted brothers! Life had acquired new charms; 
 though she had always been a happy, light-hearted 
 child." 
 
 The following lines, written about this time, show the 
 elasticity of her spirit, and the bounding vivacity of her 
 imagination, that seemed to escape, as in a dream, from 
 the frail tenement of clay in which they were encased : 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Oh for the pinions of a bird, 
 
 To bear me far away, 
 Where songs of other lands are heard, 
 
 And other waters play ! 
 
 For some aerial car, to fly 
 
 On through the realms of light, 
 To regions rife with poesy, 
 
 And teeming with delight. 
 
 O er many a wild and classic stream 
 
 In ecstasy I d bend, 
 And hail each ivy-cover d tower, 
 
 As though it were a friend. 
 
 O er piles where many a wintry blast 
 
 Is swept in mournful tones, 
 And fraught with scenes long glided past, 
 
 It shrieks, and sighs, and moans. 
 
 Through many a shadowy grove, and round 
 
 Full many a cloister d hall, 
 And corridors, where every step 
 
 With echoing peal doth fall. 
 
48 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Enchanted with the dreariness, 
 And awe-struck with the gloom, 
 
 I would wander, like a spectre, 
 Mid the regions of the tomb. 
 
 And memory her enchanting vefl 
 Around my soul should twine, 
 
 And superstition, wildly pale, 
 Should woo me to her shrine ; 
 
 I d cherish stiTl her witching gloom, 
 Half shrinking in my dread, 
 
 But, powerless to dissolve the spell, 
 Pursue her fearful tread, 
 
 Oil what unmingled pleasure then 
 My youthful heart would feel, 
 
 As o er its thrilling cords each thought 
 Of former days would steal 
 
 Of centuries in oblivion wrapt, 
 Of forms which long were cold, 
 
 And all of terror, all of wo, 
 That history s page has told. 
 
 How fondly in my bosom 
 
 Would its monarch, Fancy, reign, 
 And spurn earth s meaner offices 
 
 With glorious disdain. 
 
 Amid the scenes of past delight, 
 
 Or misery, I d roam, 
 Where ruthless tyrants sway d in might, 
 
 Where princes found a home. 
 
 Where heroes have emvreathed their brows 
 
 With chivalric renown, 
 Where beauty s hand, as valour s meed, 
 
 Hath twined the laurel crown,, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 49 
 
 I d stancLwhere proudest kings have stood, 
 
 Or kneel where slaves have knelt, 
 Till wrapt in magic solitude, 
 
 I feel what they have felt. 
 
 Oh for the pinions of a bird, 
 
 To waft me far away, 
 Where songs of other lands are heard, 
 
 And other waters play. 
 
 About this time Mrs. Davidson received a letter from 
 the English gentleman for whom Margaret, when quite 
 a child, had conceived such a friendship, her dear elder 
 brother, as she used to call him. The letter bore testi 
 mony to his undiminished regard. He was in good 
 health ; married to a very estimable and lovely woman ; 
 was the father of a fine little girl, and was at Havana 
 with his family, where he kindly entreated Mrs. David 
 son and Margaret to join them ; being sure that a win 
 ter passed in that mild climate would have the happiest 
 effect upon their healths. His doors, his heart, he 
 added, were open to receive them, and his amiable 
 consort impatient to bid them welcome. " Margaret," 
 says Mrs. Davidson, " was overcome by the perusal of 
 this letter. She laughed and wept alternately. One 
 moment urged me to go, * she was herself well, but 
 she was sure it would cure me ; the next moment 
 felt as though she could not leave the friends to whom 
 she had so recently been reunited. Oh ! had I gone at 
 that time, perhaps my child might still have lived to 
 bless me !" 
 
 During the first weeks of Margaret s residence at 
 Ruremont, the character and situation of the place 
 seized powerfully upon her imagination. " The curious 
 structure of this old -fashioned house," says Mrs. David- 
 
50 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 son, " its picturesque appearance, the varied and beau 
 tiful grounds which surrounded it, called up a thousand 
 poetic images and romantic ideas. A long gallery, a 
 winding staircase,. a dark, narrow passage, a trap-door, 
 large apartments with massive doors, and heavy iron 
 bars and bolts, all set her mind teeming with recollec 
 tions of what she had read and imagined of old castles, 
 banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in 
 perfect ecstasy, peopling every part with images of her 
 own imagination, and fancying it the scene of some 
 foregone event of dark and thrilling interest." There 
 was, in fact, some palpable material for all this spinning 
 and weaving of the fancy. The writer of this memoir 
 visited Ruremont at the time it was occupied by the 
 Davidson family. It was a spacious, and somewhat 
 crazy and poetical-looking mansion, with large waste 
 apartments. The grounds were rather wild and over 
 grown, but so much the more picturesque. It stood on 
 the banks of the Sound, the waters of which rushed, 
 with whirling and impetuous tides, below, hurrying on 
 to the dangerous strait of Hell Gate. Nor w r as this 
 neighbourhood without its legendary tales. These wild 
 and lonely shores had, in former times, been the resort 
 of smugglers and pirates. Hard by this very place 
 stood the country retreat of Ready Money Prevost, of 
 dubious and smuggling memory, with his haunted tomb, 
 in which he was said to conceal his contraband riches ; 
 and scarce a secret spot about these shores but had 
 some tradition connected with it of Kidd the pirate and 
 his buried treasures. All these circumstances were 
 enough to breed thick-coming fancies in so imaginative 
 a brain, and the result was a drama in six acts, entitled 
 " The Smuggler," the scene of which was laid at Rure- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 51 
 
 mont iii the old tjme of the province. The play was 
 written with great rapidity, and, considering she was 
 little more than twelve years of age, and had never 
 visited a theatre but once in her life, evinced great 
 aptness and dramatic talent. It was to form a domestic 
 entertainment for Christmas holidays ; the spacious back 
 parlour was to be fitted up for the theatre. In planning 
 and making arrangements for the performance, she 
 seemed perfectly happy, and her step resumed its 
 wonted elasticity, though her anxious mother often 
 detected a suppressed cough, and remarked a hectic 
 flush upon her cheek. "We now found," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " that private teachers were not be procured 
 at Ruremont, and I feared to have her enter upon a 
 course of study which had been talked of, before we 
 came to this place. I thought she was too feeble for 
 close mental application, while she was striving, by 
 the energies of her mind and bodily exertion, (which 
 only increased the morbid excitement of her system,) 
 to overcome disease, that she feared was about to fasten 
 itself upon her. She was the more anxious, therefore, 
 to enter upon her studies ; and when she saw solicitude 
 in my countenance and manner, she would fix her sweet 
 sad eyes upon my face, as if she would read my very 
 soul, yet dreaded to know what she might find written 
 there. I knew and could understand her feelings ; she 
 also understood mine ; and there seemed to be a tacit 
 compact between us that this subject, at present, was 
 forbidden ground. Her father and brothers were lulled 
 into security by her cheerful manner and constant 
 assertion that she was well, and considered her cough 
 the effect of recent cold. My opinion to the contrary 
 was regarded as the result of extreme maternal anxiety." 
 
52 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 She accordingly went to town three times a week, to 
 take lessons in French, music, and dancing. Her pro 
 gress in French was rapid, and the correctness and 
 elegance of her translations surprised her teachers. 
 Her friends in the city, seeing her look so well and 
 appear so sprightly, encouraged her to believe that air 
 and exercise would prove more beneficial than confine 
 ment to the house. She went to town in the morning 
 and returned in the evening in an open carriage, with 
 her father and one of her elder brothers, each of 
 whom was confined to his respective office until night. 
 In this way she was exposed to* the rigours of an 
 unusually cold season ; yet she heeded them not, but 
 returned home full of animation to join her little 
 brothers in preparations for their holiday fete. Their 
 anticipations of a joyous Christmas were doomed to 
 sad disappointment. As the time approached, two of 
 her brothers were taken ill. One of these, a beautiful 
 boy about nine years of age, had been the favourite 
 companion of her recreations, and she had taken great 
 interest in his mental improvement. " Towards the 
 close of 1835," says her mother, " he began to droop; 
 his cheek grew pale, his step languid, and his bright 
 eye heavy. Instead of rolling the hoop, and bounding 
 across the lawn to meet his sister on her return from 
 the city, he drooped by the side of his feeble mother, 
 and could not bear to be parted from her ; at length he 
 was taken to his bed, and, after lingering four months, 
 he died. This was Margaret s first acquaintance with 
 death. She witnessed his gradual decay almost uncon 
 sciously, but still persuaded herself he will, he must 
 get well ! She saw her sweet little playfellow reclining 
 upon my bosom during his last agonies ; she witnessed 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 53 
 
 the bright glow which flashed upon his long-faded 
 cheek ; she beheld the unearthly light of his beautiful 
 eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine and exclaimed, 
 * Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come ! Oh ! 
 it was indeed an hour of anguish never to be forgotten. 
 Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her 
 life. The sudden change from life and animation to 
 the still unconsciousness of death, for the time almost 
 paralysed her. She shed no tear, but stood like a 
 statue upon the scene of death. But when her eldest 
 brother tenderly led her from the room, her tears 
 gushed forth it was near midnight, and the first thing 
 that aroused her to a sense of what was going on 
 around her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a 
 conviction that it was her province to console me." 
 
 We subjoin a record, from her own pen, of her 
 feelings on this lamentable occasion. 
 
 ON THE CORPSE OF MY LITTLE BROTHER KENT. 
 
 Beauteous form of soulless clay ! 
 
 Image of what once was life ! 
 Hush d is thy pulse s feeble play, 
 
 And ceased the pangs of mortal strife. 
 
 Oh ! I have heard thy dying groan, 
 
 Have seen thy last of earthly pain ; 
 And while I weep that thou art gone, 
 
 I cannot wish thee here again. 
 
 For ah ! the calm and peaceful smile 
 
 Upon that clay-cold brow of thine, 
 Speaks of a spirit freed from sin, 
 
 A spirit joyful and divine. 
 
54 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But thou art gone ! and this cold clay 
 
 Is all that now remains of thee ; 
 For thy freed soul hath wing d its way 
 
 To blessed immortality. 
 
 That dying smile, that dying groan, 
 
 I never, never can forget, 
 Till death s cold hand hath clasp d my own, 
 
 His impress on my brow has set. 
 
 Those low, and sweet, and plaintive tones, 
 Which o er my heart like music swept, 
 
 And the deep, deathlike, dulling moans 
 Which from thy heaving bosom crept. 
 
 Oh ! thou wert beautiful and fair, 
 
 Our loveliest and our dearest one ! 
 No more thy pains or joys we share, 
 
 No more my brother, thou art gone. 
 
 Thou rt gone ! What agony, what wo 
 
 In that brief sentence is express d ! 
 Oh that the burning tears could flow, 
 
 And draw this mountain from my breast ! 
 
 The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as 
 she saw her bright and beautiful but perishable offspring 
 thus, one by one, snatched away from her. " My own 
 weak frame," says she, " was unable longer to sustain 
 the effects of long watching and deep grief. I had not 
 only lost my lovely boy, but I felt a strong conviction 
 that I must soon resign my Margaret ; or rather, that 
 she would soon follow me to a premature grave. 
 Although she still persisted in the belief that she was 
 well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, (so often 
 mistaken for the bloom of health,) the hurried beating 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 55 
 
 of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations 
 confirmed me in this belief, and I sank under this 
 accumulated load of affliction. For three weeks I 
 hovered upon the borders of the grave, and when I 
 arose from this bed of pain so feeble that I could not 
 sustain my own weight, it was to witness the rupture 
 of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by exertions to 
 suppress a cough. Oh ! it was agony to see her thus ! 
 I was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, 
 lest the agitation of her mind should produce fatal 
 consequences. As I seated myself by her, she raised 
 her speaking eyes to mine with a mournful, inquiring 
 gaze, and as she read the anguish which I could not 
 conceal, she turned away with a look of despair. She 
 spoke not a word, but silence, still, deathlike silence, 
 pervaded the apartment." The best of medical aid 
 was called in, but the physicians gave no hope ; they 
 considered it a deep-seated case of pulmonary consump 
 tion. All that could be done was to alleviate the symp 
 toms, and protract life as long as possible by lessening 
 the excitement of the system. When Mrs. Davidson 
 returned to the bedside, after an interview with the 
 physicians, she was regarded with an anxious, search 
 ing look by the lovely little sufferer, but not a question 
 was made. Margaret seemed fearful of receiving a 
 discouraging reply, and " lay, all pale and still, (except 
 when agitated by the cough,) striving to calm the 
 tumult of her thoughts," while her mother seated her 
 self by her pillow, trembling with weakness and sorrow. 
 Long and anxious were the days and nights spent in 
 watching over her. Every sudden movement or emo 
 tion excited the hemorrhage. " Not a murmur escaped 
 her lips," says her mother, " during her protracted 
 
56 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 sufferings. How are you, love ? how have you rested 
 during the night ? Well, dear mamma ; I have slept 
 sweetly. I have been night after night beside her 
 restless couch, wiped the cold dew from her brow, and 
 kissed her faded cheek in all the agony of grief, while she 
 unconsciously slept on ; or if she did awake, her calm 
 sweet smile, which seemed to emanate from heaven, 
 has, spite of my reason, lighted my heart with hope. 
 Except when very ill, she was ever a bright dreamer. 
 Her visions were usually of an unearthly cast: about 
 heaven and angels. She was wandering among the 
 stars ; her sainted sisters were her pioneers ; her cherub 
 brother walked hand in hand with her through the 
 gardens of paradise ! I was always an early riser, 
 but after Margaret began to decline I never disturbed 
 her until time to rise for breakfast, a season of social 
 intercourse in which she delighted to unite, and from 
 which she was never willing to be absent. Often when 
 I have spoken to her she would exclaim, * Mother, you 
 have disturbed the brightest visions that ever mortal 
 was blessed with ! I was in the midst of such scenes 
 of delight ! Cannot I have time to finish my dream V 
 And when I told her how long it was until breakfast, 
 It will do, she would say, and again lose herself in 
 her bright imaginings ; for I considered these as mo 
 ments of inspiration rather than sleep. She told me it 
 was not sleep. I never knew but one, except Margaret, 
 who enjoyed this delightful and mysterious source of 
 happiness, that one was her departed sister Lucretia. 
 When awaking from these reveries, an almost ethereal 
 light played about her eye, which seemed to irradiate 
 her whole face. A holy calm pervaded her manner, 
 and in truth she looked more like an angel who had 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 57 
 
 been communing with kindred spirits in the world of 
 light, than any thing of a grosser nature." 
 
 How truly does this correspond with Milton s exqui 
 site description of the heavenly influences that minister 
 to virgin innocence 
 
 " A thousand liv ried angels lackey her, 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision, 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear ; 
 Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 And turn it by degrees to the soul s essence, 
 Till all be made immortal." 
 
 Of the images and speculations that floated in her 
 mind during these half dreams, half reveries, we may 
 form an idea from the following lines, written on one 
 occasion after what her mother used to term her 
 " descent into the world of reality." 
 
 THE JOYS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Oh who can tell the joy and peace 
 
 Which souls redeem d shall know, 
 When all their earthly sorrows cease, 
 
 Their pride, and pain, and wo ! 
 Who may describe the matchless love 
 Which reigneth with the saints above ? 
 
 What earthly tongue can ever tell 
 
 The pure, unclouded joy 
 Which in each gentle soul doth swell, 
 
 Unmingled with alloy, 
 As, bending to the Lord Most High, 
 They sound his praises through the sky ? 
 5 
 
58 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Through the high regions of the air, 
 
 On angel wings, they glide, 
 And gaze in wondering silence there 
 
 On scenes to us denied ; 
 Their minds expanding every hour, 
 And opening like the summer flower. 
 
 Though not like them to fade away, 
 To die, and bloom no more ; 
 
 Beyond the reach of fell decay, 
 They stand in light and power ; 
 
 But pure, eternal, free from care, 
 
 They join in endless praises there ! 
 
 When first they leave this world of wo 
 For fair, immortal scenes of light, 
 
 Angels attend them from below, 
 
 And upward wing their joyful flight ; 
 
 Where, fired with heavenly rapture s flame, 
 
 They raise on high Jehovah s name. 
 
 O er the broad arch of heaven it peals, 
 While shouts of praise unnumber d flow ; 
 
 The full, sweet notes sublimely swell, 
 And prostrate angels humbly bow ; 
 
 Each harp is tuned to joy above, 
 
 Its theme, a Saviour s matchless love. 
 
 The dulcet voice, which here below 
 
 Charm d with delight each listening ear, 
 
 Mix d with no lingering tone of wo, 
 Swelling harmonious, soft and clear, 
 
 Will sweetly fill the courts above, 
 
 In strains of heavenly peace and love. 
 
 The brilliant genius, which on earth 
 Is struggling with disease and pain, 
 
 Will there unfold in power and light, 
 Nought its bright current to restrain ; 
 
 And as each brilliant day rolls on, 
 
 Twill find some grace, till then unknown. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 59 
 
 And as the countless years flit by, 
 
 Their minds progressing still, 
 The more they know, these saints on high 
 
 Praise more His sovereign will ; 
 No breath from sorrow s whirlwind blast 
 Around their footsteps cast. 
 
 From their high throne they gaze abroad 
 
 On vast creation s wondrous plan, 
 And own the power, the might of God, 
 
 In each resplendent work they scan ; 
 Though sun and moon to nought return, 
 Like stars these souls redeem d shall burn. 
 
 Oh ! who could wish to stay below, 
 
 If sure of such a home as this, 
 Where streams of love serenely flow, 
 
 And every heart is filled with bliss ? 
 They praise, and worship, and adore 
 The Lord of heaven for ever more. 
 
 During this dangerous illness she became acquainted 
 with Miss Sedgwick. The first visit of that most 
 excellent and justly distinguished person, was when 
 Margaret was in a state of extreme debility. It laid 
 the foundation of an attachment on the part of the 
 latter, which continued until her death. The visit was 
 repeated ; a correspondence afterwards took place, and 
 the friendship of Miss Sedgwick became to the little 
 enthusiast a source of the worthiest pride and purest 
 enjoyment throughout the remainder of her brief ex 
 istence. 
 
 At length the violence of her malady gave way to 
 skilful remedies and the most tender and unremitting 
 assiduity. When enabled to leave her chamber, she 
 rallied her spirits, made great exertions to be cheerful, 
 and strove to persuade herself that all might yet be 
 
60 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 well with her. Even her parents, with that singular 
 self-delusion inseparable from this cruelly flattering 
 malady, began to indulge a trembling hope that she 
 might still be spared to them. 
 
 In the month of July, her health being sufficiently 
 re-established to bear the fatigues of travelling, she was 
 taken by her mother and eldest brother on a tour to 
 Dutchess County and the western part of New York. 
 On leaving home, she wrote the following lines, expres 
 sive of the feelings called forth by the events of the few 
 preceding months, and of a foreboding that she should 
 never return : 
 
 FAREWELL TO RUREMONT. 
 
 Oh ! sadly I gaze on this beautiful landscape, 
 And silent and slow do the big tear-drops swell ; 
 
 And I haste to my task, while the deep sigh is breaking, 
 To bid thee, sweet Ruremont, a lasting farewell. 
 
 Oh ! soft are the breezes which play round thy valley, 
 And warm are the sunbeams which gild thee with light, 
 
 All clear and serenely the deep waves are rolling, 
 The sky in its radiance is dazzlingly bright. 
 
 Oh ! gayly the birds mid thy dark vines are sporting, 
 And, heaven-taught, pouring their gladness in song ; 
 
 While the rose and the lily their fair heads are bending 
 To hear the soft anthems float gently along. 
 
 Full many an hour have I bent o er thy waters, 
 
 Or watch d the light clouds with a joy -beaming eye, 
 
 Till, delighted, I long d for eagle s swift pinions, 
 To pierce the full depths of that beautiful sky. 
 
 Though wild were the fancies which dwelt in my bosom, 
 Though endless the visions which swept o er my soul, 
 
 Indulging those dreams was my dearest enjoyment 
 Enjoyment unmingled, unchain d by control ! 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 61 
 
 But each garden of earth has a something of sorrow, 
 
 A thorn in its rose, or a blight in its breeze, 
 Though blooming aiS Eden, a shadow hangs o er thee, 
 
 The spirit of darkness, of pain, of disease ! 
 
 Yes, Ruremont ! thy brow, in its loveliness deck d, 
 
 Is entwined with a fatal but beautiful wreath, 
 For thy green leaves have shrunk at the mourner s cold touch, 
 
 And thy pale flowers have wept in the presence of death. 
 
 Yon violets, which bloom in their delicate freshness, 
 Were strew d o er the grave of our fairest and best ; 
 
 Yon roses, which charm by their richness and fragrance, 
 Have wither d and died on his icy-cold breast. 
 
 The soft voice of spring had just breathed o er the valley, 
 The sweet birds just caroll d their song in her bower, 
 
 When the angel of death in his terror swept o er us t 
 And placed in his bosom our fragile young flower. 
 
 Thus, Ruremont, we mourn not thy beauties alone, 
 Thy flowers in their freshness, thy stream in its pride, 
 
 But we leave the loved scene of our mourning and tears, 
 We leave the dear spot where our cherish d one died 
 
 The mantle of beauty thrown gracefully o er thee 
 
 Must touch a soft chord in each delicate heart ; 
 But the tie is more sacred which bids us deplore thee, 
 
 Endear d by affliction, tis harder to part. 
 
 The scene of enjoyment is ever most lovely, 
 
 Where blissful young spirits dance mirthful and glad ; 
 
 But when sorrow has mingled her tears with our pleasure, 
 Our love is more tender, our parting more sad. 
 
 How mild is the wing of this delicate zephyr, 
 
 Which fans in its coolness my feverish brow ! 
 But that light wing is laden with breezes that wither, 
 
 And check the warm current of life in its flow. 
 
62 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Why blight such an Eden, oh spirit of terror ! 
 
 Which swcepest thy thousands each hour to the tomb ? 
 Why, why shouldst thou roam o er this beautiful valley, 
 
 And mingle thy breath with the rose s perfume ? 
 
 The sun rises bright o er the clear dancing waters, 
 
 And tinges with gold every light, waving tree, 
 And the young birds are singing their welcome to morning 
 
 Alas ! they will sing it no longer for me ! 
 
 The young buds of summer their soft eyes are opening, 
 The wild flowers are bending the pure ripples o er ; 
 
 But I bid them farewell, and niy heart is nigh breaking 
 To think I shall see them and tend them no more. 
 
 I mark yonder path, where so often I ve wanderM, 
 Yon moss-covered rock, with its sheltering tree, 
 
 And a sigh of deep sadness bursts forth to remember 
 That no more its soft verdure shall blossom for me. 
 
 How often my thoughts, to these loved scenes returning, 
 Shall brood o er the past with its joy and its pain ; 
 
 Till waking at last from the long, pleasing slumber, 
 I sigh to behold thee, thus blooming, again. 
 
 The little party was absent on its western tour about 
 two months. " Margaret," says her mother, " appeared 
 to enjoy the scenery, and every thing during the journey 
 interested her. But there was a sadness in her coun 
 tenance, a pensiveness in her manner, unless excited by 
 external circumstances, which deeply affected me. She 
 watched every variation in my countenance; marked 
 every little attention directed to herself, such as an 
 alteration in her diet, dress, exposure to the changes of 
 weather, yet still discovered an unwillingness to speak 
 of her declining health, and laboured to conceal every 
 
BIOGRAPHY. G3 
 
 unfavourable symptom or change for the worse. This, 
 of course, imposed- upon me the most painful restraint. 
 How heart-breaking to find that she considered my 
 tongue as the herald of mournful tidings, and my face 
 as the mirror of evil to come. How true that self- 
 deception seems to be an almost invariable symptom 
 attending this dreadful complaint ! Margaret, all un 
 conscious of the rapid strides of the destroyer, taught 
 herself to believe that the alarming symptoms of her 
 case existed only in the imagination of her too anxious 
 mother. Yet knowing my experience in these matters, 
 she still doubted and trembled and feared to ask, lest a 
 confirmation of her vague apprehensions should be the 
 result. She avoided the slightest allusion to the subject 
 of her disease in any way ; and in the morbid excite 
 ment of her mind it appeared to her almost like 
 accusing her of something wrong to say she was not 
 well." 
 
 The following letter was written by her to Miss 
 Sedgwick, after her arrival in Dutchess County. 
 
 " Lithgow, Dutchess County. 
 
 " Happy as I am, my dear madam, in the privilege 
 of writing to you, I cannot permit another day to pass 
 ere I inform you of our safe arrival at one of the most 
 lovely spots in this beautiful and healthy country. Our 
 passage up the river was rather tedious, being debarred 
 the pleasure of remaining upon deck, but this privation 
 was counterbalanced by the pleasure of a few moments 
 conversation with dear brother, who was permitted to 
 meet us when the boat stopped at West Point. Arrived 
 at Poughkeepsie, brother M. procured a private car 
 riage, which was to convey us to the end of our 
 
64 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 journey, a distance of twenty miles. The drive was 
 delightful ! The scenery ever changing, ever beautiful ! 
 We arrived at Lithgow without much fatigue, where a 
 hearty welcome, that sweetest of cordials, was awaiting 
 us. Oh ! it is a lovely spot ! I thought Ruremont the 
 perfection of beauty! but here I find the flowers as 
 blooming, the birds as gay, the air as sweet, and the 
 prospect far more varied and extensive; tis true we 
 have lost the beautiful East River, w r ith its crowd of 
 vessels sweeping gracefully along, but here are hills 
 crowned with the richest foliage, valleys sprinkled 
 with flowers, and \vatered with winding rivulets; and 
 here, what we prize more than all, a mild, salubrious 
 air, which seems, in the words of the divine poet, " to 
 bear healing in its wings." Dear mother bore the 
 fatigue of our journey better than we anticipated ; and 
 although I do not think she is permanently better, she 
 certainly breathes more freely, and seems altogether 
 more comfortable than when in the city. Oh ! how 
 sincerely I hope that a change of air and scene may 
 raise her spirits and renovate her strength. She is now 
 in the midst of friends whom she has known and loved 
 for many years ; and surrounded by scenes connected 
 with many of her earliest remembrances. Farewell, 
 my dear madam ! Please give my love to your dear 
 little nieces ; and should you have the leisure and incli 
 nation to answer this, believe me your letter will be a 
 source of much gratification to your 
 
 Highly obliged little friend, 
 
 M. M. DAVIDSON. 
 Miss CATHERINE SEDGWICK. 
 August, 1836." 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 65 
 
 The travellers returned to Ruremont in September. 
 The tour had been of service to Margaret, and she 
 endeavoured to persuade herself that she was quite 
 well. If asked about her health, her reply was, that 
 " if her friends did not tell her she was ill, she should 
 not, from her own feelings, suspect it." That she was, 
 notwithstanding, dubious on this subject, was evident 
 from her avoiding to speak about it, and from the 
 uneasiness she manifested when it was alluded to. It 
 was still more evident from the change that took place 
 in her habits and pursuits; she tacitly adopted the 
 course of conduct that had repeatedly and anxiously, 
 but too often vainly, been urged by her mother, as 
 calculated to allay the morbid irritability of her system. 
 She gave up her studies, rarely indulged in writing or 
 drawing, and contented herself with light reading, with 
 playing a few simple airs on the piano, and with any 
 other trivial mode of passing away the time. The 
 want of her favourite occupations, however, soon made 
 the hours move heavily with her. Above all things, 
 she missed the exciting exercise of the pen, against 
 which she had been especially warned. Her mother 
 observed the listlessness and melancholy that were 
 stealing over her, and hoped a change of scene might 
 banish them. The airs from the river, too, had been 
 pronounced unfavourable to her health ; the family, 
 therefore, removed to town. The change of residence, 
 however, did not produce the desired effect. She be 
 came more and more dissatisfied with herself, and with 
 the life of idleness, as she considered it, that she was 
 leading; but still she had resolved to give the prescribed 
 system a thorough trial. A new source of solicitude 
 was now awakened in the bosom of her anxious mother, 
 
66 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 who read in her mournfully quiet manner and submissive 
 silence, the painful effects of compliance with her advice. 
 There was not a murmur, however, from the lips of 
 Margaret, to give rise to this solicitude; on the con 
 trary, whenever she caught her mother s eye fixed 
 anxiously and inquiringly on her, she would turn away 
 and assume an air of cheerfulness. 
 
 Six months had passed in this inactive manner. 
 " She was seated one day by my side," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " weary and restless, and scarcely knowing 
 w T hat to do with herself, when, marking the traces of 
 grief upon my face, she threw her arms about my 
 neck, and, kissing me, exclaimed, l My dear, dear 
 mother ! * What is it affects you now, my child T 
 Oh ! I know you are longing for something from my 
 pen ! I saw the secret craving of the spirit that gave 
 rise to the suggestion. 1 1 do indeed, my dear, delight 
 in the effusions from your pen, but the exertion will 
 injure you. * Mamma, I must write ! I can hold out 
 no longer ! I will return to my pen, my pencil, and my 
 books, and shall again be happy ! I pressed her to my 
 bosom, and cautioned her to remember she was feeble. 
 * Mother, exclaimed she, I am well ! I wish you were 
 only as well as I am ! r 
 
 The heart of the mother was not proof against these 
 appeals : indeed she had almost as much need of self- 
 denial on this subject as her child, so much did she 
 delight in these early blossomings of her talent. Mar 
 garet was again left to her own impulses. All the 
 frivolous expedients for what is usually termed kitting 
 time were discarded by her with contempt ; her studies 
 were resumed ; in the sacred writings and in the pages 
 of history she sought fitting aliment for her mind, half 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 67 
 
 famished by its long abstinence ; her poetical vein again 
 burst forth, and thp following lines, written at the time, 
 show the excitement and elevation of her feelings : 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 
 
 The cravings of immortal mind ! 
 Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 
 
 The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 
 
 Impatient of its long delay, 
 The pinion d spirit fain would roam, 
 
 And leave this crumbling house of clay, 
 To seek above, its own bright home I 
 
 The spirit, tis a spark of light 
 
 Struck from our God s eternal throne, 
 
 Which pierces through these clouds of night, 
 And longs to shine where once it shone ! 
 
 Earth ! there will come an awful day, 
 When thou shalt crumble into nought ; 
 
 When thou shalt melt beneath that ray 
 
 From whence thy splendours first were caught 
 
 Quench d in the glories of its God, 
 Yon burning lamp shall then expire ; 
 
 And flames, from heaven s own altar sent, 
 Shall light the great funereal pyre. 
 
 Yes, thou must die ! and yon pure depths 
 Back from thy darken d brow shall roll ; 
 
 But never can the tyrant death 
 Arrest this feeble, trusting soul. 
 
 When that great voice, which formM thee first, 
 Shall tell, surrounding world, thy doom, 
 
 Then the pure soul, enchain d by thee, 
 Shall rise triumphant o er thy tomb. 
 
68 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then on, still on, the unfetter d mind 
 
 Through realms of endless space shall fly ; 
 
 No earth to dim, no chain to bind, 
 Too pure to sin, too great to die. 
 
 Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 
 The cravings of immortal mind ! 
 
 Earth ! thou hast nothing pure or high, 
 The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 
 
 Yet is this never-dying ray 
 
 Caught in thy cold, delusive snares, 
 
 Cased in a cell of mouldering clay, 
 
 And bow d by woes, and pain, and cares ! 
 
 Oh ! how mysterious is the bond 
 
 Which blends the earthly with the pure, 
 
 And mingles that which death may blight 
 With that which ever must endure ! 
 
 Arise, my soul, from all below, 
 And gaze upon thy destined home, 
 
 The heaven of heavens, the throne of God, 
 Where sin and care can never come. 
 
 Prepare thee for a state of bliss, 
 Unclouded by this mortal veil, 
 
 Where thou shalt see thy Maker s face, 
 And dews from heaven s own air inhale. 
 
 How sadly do the sins of earth 
 
 Deface thy purity and light, 
 That thus, while gazing at thyself, 
 
 Thou shrink st in horror at the sight. 
 
 Compound of weakness and of strength, 
 Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power ! 
 
 Loftier than earth, or air, or sea, 
 Yet meaner than the lowliest flower ! 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 69 
 
 Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still 
 
 To earth, by many a purer tie ! 
 Longing to Ureathe a tender air, 
 
 Yet fearing, trembling thus to die ! 
 
 She was soon all cheerfulness and enjoyment. Her 
 pen and her pencil were frequently in her hand; she 
 occupied herself also with her needle in embroidery on 
 canvass, and other fancy work. Hope brightened with 
 the exhilaration of her spirits. " I now walk and ride, 
 eat and sleep as usual," she observes in a letter to a 
 young friend, " and although not well, have strong hopes 
 that the opening spring, which renovates the flowers, 
 and fields, and streams, will revive my enfeebled frame, 
 and restore me to my wonted health." In these moods 
 she was the life of the domestic circle, and these moods 
 were frequent and long. And here we would observe, 
 that though these memoirs, which are furnished princi 
 pally from the recollections of an afflicted mother, may 
 too often represent this gifted little being as a feeble 
 invalid struggling with mortality, yet in truth her life, 
 though a brief, was a bright and happy one. At times 
 she was full of playful and innocent gaiety ; at others 
 of intense mental exaltation ; and it was the very inten 
 sity of her enjoyment that made her so often indulge in 
 those poetic paroxysms, if we may be allowed the ex 
 pression, which filled her mother with alarm. A few 
 weeks of this intellectual excitement was followed by 
 another rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and a 
 long interval of extreme debility. The succeeding win 
 ter was one of vicissitude. She had several attacks of 
 bleeding at the lungs, which evidently alarmed her at 
 the time, though she said nothing, and endeavoured to 
 repress all manifestation of her feelings. If taken sud- 
 
70 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 denly, she instantly resorted to the sofa, and, by a 
 strong effort, strove to suppress every emotion. With 
 her eyes closed, her lips compressed, and her thin pale 
 hand resting in that of her anxious mother, she seemed 
 to be waiting the issue. Not a murmur would escape her 
 lips, nor did she ever complain of pain. She would often 
 say, by way of consolation, to her mother, " Mamma, 
 I am highly favoured. I hardly know what is meant 
 by pain. I am sure I never, to my recollection, have 
 felt it." The moment she was able to set up, after one 
 of these alarming attacks, every vestige of a sick 
 chamber must be removed. No medicine, no cap, no 
 bed-gown, no loose wrapper must be in sight. Her 
 beautiful dark hair must be parted on her broad, high 
 forehead, her dress arranged with the same care and 
 neatness as when in perfect health ; indeed she studied 
 to banish from her appearance all that might remind 
 her friends that her health was impaired, and, if pos 
 sible, to drive the idea from her own thoughts. Her 
 reply to every inquiry about her health was, "Well, 
 quite well; or at least / feel so, though mother con 
 tinues to treat me as an invalid. True I have a cold, 
 attended by a cough, that is not willing to leave me ; 
 but when the spring returns, with its mild air and sweet 
 blossoms, I think this cough, which alarms mother so 
 much, will leave me." 
 
 She had, indeed, a strong desire to live; and the 
 cause of that desire is indicative of her character. 
 With all her retiring modesty, she had an ardent desire 
 for literary distinction. The example of her sister 
 Lucretia was incessantly before her; she was her 
 leading star, and her whole soul was but to emulate 
 her soarings into the pure regions of poetry. Her 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 71 
 
 apprehensions were that she might be cut off in the 
 immaturity of her ^powers. A simple, but most touch 
 ing ejaculation, betrayed this feeling, as, when lying on 
 a sofa, in one of those alarming paroxysms of her 
 malady, she turned her eyes, full of mournful sweetness, 
 upon her mother, and, in a low, subdued voice, ex 
 claimed, "Oh! my dear, dear mother! I am so young!" 
 We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia 
 was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be 
 given of it than in the following lines, written at this 
 time, which breathe the heavenly aspirations of her pure 
 young spirit, in strains, to us, quite unearthly. We may 
 have read poetry more artificially perfect in its struc 
 ture, but never any more truly divine in its inspiration. 
 
 TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 My sister ! With that thrilling 1 word 
 
 What thoughts unnumber d wildly spring ! 
 
 What echoes in my heart are stirr d, 
 
 While thus I touch the trembling string ! 
 
 My sister ! ere this youthful mind 
 
 Could feel the value of thine own ; 
 Ere this infantine heart could bind, 
 
 In its deep cell, one look, one tone, 
 
 To glide along on memory s stream, 
 
 And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee ; 
 
 Ere I knew aught but childhood s dream, 
 Thy soul had struggled and was free ! 
 
 My sister ! with this mortal eye, 
 
 I ne er shall see thy form again ; 
 And never shall this mortal ear 
 
 Drink in the sweetness of thy strain ! 
 
72 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Yet fancy wild and glowing love 
 Reveal thee to my spirit s view, 
 
 Enwreath d with graces from above, 
 
 And deck d in heaven s own fadeless hue. 
 
 Thy glance of pure seraphic light 
 Sheds o er my heart its sofl ning ray ; 
 
 Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 
 And hover o er rny path by day. 
 
 I cannot weep that thou art fled, 
 For ever blends my soul with thine ; 
 
 Each thought, by purer impulse led, 
 Is soaring on to realms divine. 
 
 Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts, 
 And lays its inmost recess bare ; 
 
 Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 
 And soothes each wilder passion there. 
 
 I hear thee in the summer breeze, 
 See thee in all that s pure or fair; 
 
 Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, 
 Thy breath, thy spirit every where. 
 
 Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep, 
 Cast o er my dreams a radiant hue ; 
 
 Thy tears, " such tears as angels weep," 
 Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 
 
 Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, 
 And teach its softer strains to flow ; 
 
 Thy spirit checks each vain desire, 
 And gilds the low ring brow of wo. 
 
 When fancy wings her upward flight 
 On through the viewless realms of air, 
 
 Clothed in its robe of matchless light, 
 I view thy ransom d spirit there ! 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 73 
 
 Far from her wild delusive dream?, 
 It leads my- raptured soul away, 
 
 Where the pure fount of glory streams, 
 And saints live on through endless day. 
 
 When the dim lamp of future years 
 
 Sheds o er my path its glimmering faint, 
 
 First in the view thy form appears, 
 My sister, and my guardian saint ! 
 
 Thou gem of light ! my leading star ! 
 
 What thou hast been, I strive to be ; 
 When from the path I wander far, 
 
 Oh turn thy guiding beam on me. 
 
 Teach me to fill thy place below, 
 That I may dwell with thee above ; 
 
 To soothe, like thee, a mother s wo, 
 And prove, like^thine, a sister s love. 
 
 Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, 
 For sin too pure, for earth too bright ! 
 
 And death, who call d thee hence away, 
 Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 
 
 A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
 Beyond the ocean s swelling wave, 
 
 Which gilds the memory of the dead, 
 And pours its radiance on thy grave. 
 
 When day hath left his glowing car, 
 And evening spreads her robe of love ; 
 
 When worlds, like travellers from afar, 
 Meet in the azure fields above ; 
 
 When all is still, and fancy s realm 
 
 Is opening to the eager view, 
 Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, 
 
 Roams o er that vast expanse of blue. 
 6 
 
74 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 I know that here thy harp is mute, 
 
 And quench d the bright poetic fire, 
 Yet still I bend my ear, to catch 
 
 The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 
 
 Oh ! if this partial converse now 
 
 So joyous to my heart can be, 
 How must the streams of rapture flow 
 
 When both are chainless, both arc free I 
 
 When borne from earth for evermore, 
 
 Our souls in sacred joy unite, 
 At God s almighty throne adore, 
 
 And bathe in beams of endless light ! 
 
 Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 
 
 I must not, dare not dwell on thee ; 
 My soul, immersed in life s dark stream, 
 
 Is far too earthly to be free. 
 
 Though heaven s bright portal were unclosed, 
 
 And angels wooed me from on high, 
 Too much I fear my shrinking soul 
 
 Would cast on earth its longing eye. 
 
 * 
 
 Teach me to fill thy place below, 
 
 That I may dwell with thee above ; 
 To soothe, like thee, a mother s wo, 
 
 And prove, like thee, a sister s love. 
 
 It was probably this trembling solicitude about the 
 duration of her existence, that made her so anxious, 
 about this time, to employ every interval of her pre 
 carious health in the cultivation of her mental powers. 
 Certain it is, during the winter, chequered as it was 
 with repeated fits of indisposition, she applied herself to 
 historical and other studies with an ardour that often 
 made her mother tremble for the consequences. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 75 
 
 The following letters to a young female friend were 
 written during one^of these intervals. 
 
 "New York, February 26, 1837. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all the dangers which might have 
 befallen your letter, my dear Henrietta, it arrived safely 
 at its resting-place, and is now lying open before me, 
 as I am quietly sitting, this chill February morning, to 
 inform you of its safe arrival. I find I w r as not mistaken 
 in believing you too kind to be displeased at my remiss- 
 ness ; and I now hope that through our continued inter 
 course neither will have cause to complain of the other s 
 negligence. 
 
 " For my own part, I am always willing to assign 
 every reason but that of forgetfulness for a friend s 
 silence. Knowing how often I am obliged to claim 
 this indulgence for myself, and how often ill health 
 prevents me from writing to those I love, I am the more 
 ready to frame apologies for others ; indeed I think this 
 spirit of charity (if so I may call it) is necessary to the 
 happiness of correspondents, and as I am sure you pos 
 sess it, I trust we shall both glide quietly along without 
 any of those little jars which so often interrupt the 
 purest friendships. And now that my dissertation on 
 letter-writing is at an end, I must proceed to inform you 
 of what I fear will be a disappointment, as it breaks 
 away all those sweet anticipations expressed in your 
 affectionate letter. Father has concluded that we shall 
 not return to Plattsburgh next spring, as he had once 
 intended ; he fears the effects of the cold winds of Lake 
 Champlain upon mother and myself, who are both deli 
 cate; and as we have so many dear friends in and 
 about the city, a nearer location would be pleasanter 
 
76 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 to us and to them. We now think seriously of return 
 ing to Ballston, that beautiful little village where we 
 have already spent two delightful years ; and though in 
 this case I must relinquish the idea of visiting my dear 
 * old home and my dear young friend, hope points to the 
 hour when you may become my guest, and where the 
 charms of novelty will in some degree repay- us for the 
 delightful associations and remembrances we had hoped 
 to enjoy. But I cannot help now and then casting a 
 backward glance upon the beautiful scenes you describe, 
 and wishing myself with you. A philosopher would 
 say, * Since you cannot enjoy what you desire, turn to 
 the pleasures you may possess, and seek in them conso 
 lation for what you have lost ; but I am no philosopher. 
 
 ******* 
 " I will endeavour to answer your question about 
 Mrs. Hemans. I have read several lives of this dis 
 tinguished poetess, by different authors, and in all of 
 them find something new to admire in her character 
 and venerate in her genius ! She was a woman of deep 
 feeling, lively fancy, and acute sensibilities ; so acute, 
 indeed, as to have formed her chief unhappiness through 
 life. She mingles her own feelings with her poems so 
 well, that in reading them you read her character. But 
 there is one thing I have often remarked : the mind soon 
 wearies in perusing many of her pieces at once. She 
 expresses those sweet sentiments so often, and intro 
 duces the same stream of beautiful ideas so constantly, 
 that they sometimes degenerate into monotony. I know 
 of no higher treat than to read a few of her best pro 
 ductions, and comment upon and feel their beauties; 
 but perusing her volume is to me like listening to a 
 strain of sweet music repeated over and over again, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 77 
 
 until it becomes so familiar to the ear, that it loses the 
 charm of variety. ^ 
 
 "Now, dear H., is not this presumption in me, to 
 criticise so exquisite an author ? But you desired my 
 opinion, and I have given it to you without reserve. 
 
 " You desire me to send you an original poem for 
 yourself. Now, my dear Hetty, this is something I 
 am not at present able to do for any of my friends, 
 writing being supposed quite injurious to persons with 
 weak lungs. And I have still another reason. You 
 say the effect of conveying feelings from the heart and 
 recording them upon paper, seems to deprive them of 
 half their warmth and ardour ! Now, my dear friend, 
 would not the effect of forming them into verse seem to 
 render them still less sincere 1 Is not plain prose, as it 
 slides rapidly from the pen, more apt to speak the feel 
 ings of the heart, than when an hour or two is spent in 
 giving them rhyme and measure, and all the attributes 
 of poetry ?******* 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 " New York, April 2d, 1837. 
 
 " About an hour since, my dear Henrietta, I received 
 your token of remembrance, and commence my answer 
 with an act of obedience to your sovereign will ; but I 
 fear you will repent when too late, and w r hile nodding 
 over the closely written sheet, and peering impatiently 
 into each crowded corner, you will secretly wish you 
 had allowed my pen to commence its operations at a 
 more respectful distance from the top of the page. 
 However, the request was your own; I obey like an 
 obedient friend, and you must abide the consequences 
 
78 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 of your rash demand. Should the first glance at my 
 well-filled sheet be followed by a yawn, or its last word 
 be welcomed with a smile, you must blame your own 
 imprudence in bringing down upon your luckless head 
 the accumulated nothings of a scribbler like myself. It 
 is indeed true that we shall not return to Plattsburgh ; 
 and much as I long to revisit the home of my infancy, 
 and the friends of my earliest remembrance, I shall be 
 obliged to relinquish the pleasure in reality, though 
 fancy, unshackled by earth, shall direct her pinions to 
 the north, and linger, delighted, on the beautiful banks 
 of the Champlain! Methinks I hear you exclaim, 
 with impatience, Fancy! what is it? I long for some 
 thing more substantial. So do I, ma chere, but since I 
 cannot hope to behold my dear native village and its 
 dear inhabitants, with other eyes than those of fancy, I 
 will e er employ them to the best of my ability. You 
 may be sure we do not prefer the confined and murky 
 atmosphere of the city to the pure and health-giving 
 breezes of the country ; far from it we are already 
 preparing to remove, as soon as the mild influence of 
 spring has prevailed over the chilling blasts which we 
 still hear whistling around us ; and gladly shall we 
 welcome the day that will release us from our bond 
 age. But there is some drawback to every pleasure 
 some bitter drop in almost every cup of enjoyment ; 
 and we shall taste this most keenly when we bid fare 
 well to the delightful circle of friends who have cheered 
 us during the solitude and confinement of this dreary 
 w r inter. The New York air, so far from agreeing with 
 us, has deprived us of every enjoyment beyond the 
 boundaries of our own walls, and it will be hard to 
 leave those friends who have taught us to forget the 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 79 
 
 privations of ill health in the pleasure of their society. 
 We have chosen Ballston for our temporary home, from 
 the hope of seeing them oftener there than we could in 
 a secluded to\vn, and because pure air, medicinal 
 waters, and good society have all combined to render 
 it a delightful country residence; yet with all these 
 advantages, it can never possess half the charms of my 
 dear old home ! 
 
 That dear old home, where pass d my childish years, 
 When fond affection wiped my infant tears ! 
 Where first I learn d from whence my blessings came, 
 And lisp d, in faltering tones, a mother s name ! 
 
 That dear old home, where memory fondly clings, 
 Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
 Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 
 And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away ! 
 
 Oh, shall I ne er behold thy waves again, 
 
 My native lake, my beautiful Champlain ? 
 
 Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 
 
 In sweet communion with my childhood s friend ? 
 
 Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 
 The patriot s cradle, and the warrior s grave ? 
 Thy mountains, tinged with daylight s parting glow ? 
 Thy islets, mirror d in the stream below ? 
 
 Back ! back ! thou present, robed in shadows lie, 
 And rise, thou past, before my raptured eye ! 
 Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 
 And memory s hand shall paint the glowing scene ! 
 
 Lo ! how the view beneath her pencil grows ! 
 The flow ret blooms, the winding streamlet flows ; 
 With former friends I trace my footsteps o er, 
 And muse, delighted, on my own green shore ! 
 
80 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Alas ! it fades the fairy dream is past ! 
 Dissolved the veil by sportive fancy cast. 
 Oh why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 
 And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart ? 
 
 Where er through future life my steps may roam, 
 I ne er shall find a spot like thee, my home ; 
 With all my joys the thought of thee shall blend, 
 And, join d with thee, shall rise my childhood s friend. 
 
 " Mother is most , truly alive to all these feelings. 
 During our first year in New York, we were living a 
 few miles from the city, at one of the loveliest situa 
 tions in the world ! I think I have seldom seen a 
 sweeter spot ; but all its beauties could not divert her 
 thoughts from our own dear home, and despite the 
 superior advantages we there enjoyed, she wept to enjoy 
 it again. But enough of this ; if I suffer my fancy to 
 dwell longer upon these loved scenes, I shall scribble 
 over my whole sheet, and, leaving out what I most \vish 
 to say, fill it with nothing but Home, home, sweet, 
 sweet home ! as the song goes. * * * * 
 
 June, 1837. 
 
 " Now for the mighty theme upon which I scarcely 
 dare to dwell : my visit to Plattsburgh ! Yes, my dear 
 H., I do think, or rather I do hope, that such a time may 
 come when I can at least spend a week with you. I 
 dare not hope for a longer time, for I know I shall be 
 disappointed. About the middle of this month brother 
 graduates, and will leave West Point for home. He 
 intends to visit Plattsburgh, and it w r ill take much to 
 wean me from my favourite plan of accompanying 
 him. However, all is uncertain I must not think of it 
 too much but if I do come, it will be with the hope of 
 gaining a still greater pleasure. We are now delight- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 81 
 
 fully situated. Can you not return with me, and make 
 me a visit ? Whatjoy is like the joy of anticipation 1 
 What pleasure like those we look forward to, through a 
 long lapse of time, and dwell upon as some bright land 
 that we shall inhabit when the present shall have become 
 the past? I have heard it observed that it was foolish 
 to anticipate that it was only increasing the pangs of 
 disappointment. Not so : do we not, in our most san 
 guine hopes, acknowledge to ourselves a fear, a doubt, 
 an expectation of disappointment 1 ^Shall we lose the 
 enjoyment of the present, because evil may come in 
 future? No, no if anticipation was not meant for a 
 solace, an alleviation of the sorrows of life, would it 
 have been so strongly implanted in our hearts by the 
 great Director of all our passions 1 No it is too pre 
 cious ! I would give up half the reality of joy for the 
 sweet anticipation. Stop I have gone too far for 
 indeed I could not resign my visit to you, though I 
 might hope and anticipate for years ! 
 
 "Just as I had written the above, father interrupted 
 me with an invitation to ride. We have just returned 
 from a long, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot 
 compare with Plattsburgh for its rich and varied 
 scenery, still there are romantic woods and shady 
 paths which cannot fail to delight the true lover of 
 nature. ******** 
 
 " So you do have the blues, eh ? I had almost said I 
 was glad of it ; but that would be too cruel I will only 
 say, one does not like to be alone, or in any thing singu 
 lar, and I too, once in a while, receive a visit from these 
 provoking imps are they not ? You should not have 
 blamed Scott only, (excuse me,) but yourself, for select 
 ing such a book to chase away melancholy. 
 
82 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " You ask me if I remember those story-telling days ? 
 Indeed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than 
 the recollection of those happy hours ! If my memory 
 could only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly 
 would I resume and continue it when I meet you again. 
 I will ease your heart of its fear for mine your scold 
 ing did not break it. My dear H., it is not made of 
 such brittle materials as to crack for a trifle. No, no ! 
 It would be far more prudent to save it entire for some 
 greater occasion, and then make the crash as loud as 
 possible don t you think so ? Oh nonsensical non 
 sense ! Well, 
 
 The greatest and the wisest men 
 Will fool a little now and then. 1 
 
 But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen 
 should slide off into some new absurdity." 
 
 On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left New York 
 for Ballston. They had scarce reached there when 
 Mrs. Davidson had an attack of inflammatory rheu 
 matism, which confined her to her bed, and rendered 
 her helpless as an infant. It was Margaret s turn now 
 to play the nurse, which she did with the most tender 
 assiduity. The paroxysms of her mother s complaint 
 were at first really alarming, as may be seen by the 
 following extract of a letter from Margaret to Miss 
 Sedgwick, written some short time afterwards : 
 
 " We at first thought she would never revive. It was 
 indeed a dreadful hour, my dear madam a sad trial 
 for poor father and myself, to watch, as we supposed, 
 the last agonies of one so beloved as my dear mother ! 
 But the cloud has passed by, and my heart, relieved 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 83 
 
 from its burden, is filled, almost to overflowing, with 
 gratitude and joy. After a few hours of dreadful sus 
 pense, reaction took place, and since then she has been 
 slowly and steadily improving. In a few days, I hope, 
 she will be able to ride, and breathe some of this delight 
 ful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and restore her. 
 My own health has improved astonishingly since my 
 coming here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as much 
 as possible in the open air, and find it of great service 
 to me. Oh how much I hope to see you here ! * 
 
 * * * Do, if possible, try the Ballston air 
 once more. It has been useful to you once, it might be 
 still more so now. You will find warm hearts to wel 
 come you, and we will do all in our power to make 
 your visit pleasant to you. The country does indeed 
 look beautiful! The woods are teeming with wild 
 flowers, and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild 
 warbling of the birds is far more sweet to me than the 
 most laboured performances of art ; they may weary by 
 repetition, but what heart can resist the influence of a 
 lovely day ushered in by the morning song of those 
 sweet carollers ! and even to sleep, as it were, by their 
 melodious evening strain. How I wish you could be 
 here to enjoy it with me." 
 
 The summer of 1837 was one of the happiest of her 
 fleeting existence. For some time after the family 
 removed to Ballston she was very much confined to 
 the house by the illness of her mother, and the want of 
 a proper female companion to accompany her abroad. 
 At length, a Mr. and Mrs. H., estimable and intimate 
 friends, of a highly intellectual character, came to the 
 village. Their society was an invaluable acquisition to 
 Margaret. In company with them she was enabled to 
 
84 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 enjoy the healthful recreations of the country ; to ram 
 ble in the woods ; to take exercise on horseback, of 
 which she was extremely fond, and to make excursions 
 about the neighbourhood ; while they exerted a guardian 
 care to prevent her, in her enthusiastic love for rural 
 scenery, from exposing herself to any thing detrimental 
 to her health and strength. She gave herself up, for a 
 time, to these exhilarating exercises, abstaining from 
 her usual propensity to overtask her intellect, for she 
 had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recrea 
 tions, and a holiday frame of mind would effectually 
 re-establish her health. As usual, in her excited moods, 
 she occasionally carried these really healthful practices 
 to excess, and would often, says her mother, engage, 
 with a palpitating heart, and a pulse beating at the rate 
 of one hundred and thirty in a minute, in all the exer 
 cises usually prescribed to preserve health in those who 
 are in full possession of the blessing. She was admo 
 nished of her danger by several attacks upon her lungs 
 during the summer, but as they were of short duration, 
 she still flattered herself that she was getting well. 
 There seemed to be almost an infatuation in her case. 
 The exhilaration of her spirits was at times so great as 
 almost to overpower her. Often would she stand by 
 the window admiring a glorious sunset, until she would 
 be raised into a kind of ecstasy; her eye w r ould kindle; 
 a crimson glow would mount into her cheek, and she 
 would indulge in some of her reveries about the glories 
 of heaven, and the spirits of her deceased sisters, partly 
 uttering her fancies aloud, until turning and catching her 
 mother s eye fixed painfully upon her, she would throw 
 her arms round her neck, kiss away her tears, and sink 
 exhausted on her bosom. The excitement over, she 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 85 
 
 would resume her calmness, and converse on general 
 topics. Among her writings are fragments hastily 
 scrawled down at this time, showing the vague aspira 
 tions of her spirit, and her vain attempts to grasp those 
 shadowy images that sometimes flit across the poetic 
 mind. 
 
 Oh for a something more than this, 
 
 To fill the void within my breast ; 
 A sweet reality of bliss, 
 
 A something bright, but unexpress d. 
 
 My spirit longs for something higher 
 Than life s dull stream can e er supply; 
 
 Something to feed this inward fire, 
 This spark, which never more can die. 
 
 I d hold companionship with all 
 
 Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 
 With glowing heart adoring fall, 
 
 And kneel at nature s sylvan shrine. 
 
 My soul is like a broken lyre, 
 
 Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone ; 
 
 A note, half trembling on the wire 
 A heart that wants an echoing tone. 
 
 When shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
 This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 
 
 This something words can ne er express, 
 So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 
 
 Language ! thou never canst portray 
 
 The fancies floating o er my soul ! 
 Thou ne er canst chase the clouds away 
 
 Which o er my changing visions roll ! 
 
86 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And again 
 
 Oh I have gazed on forms of light, 
 
 Till life seem d ebbing in a tear 
 Till in that fleeting space of sight 
 
 Were merged the feelings of a year. 
 
 And I have heard the voice of song, 
 Till my full heart gush d wild and free, 
 
 And my rapt soul would float along 
 As if on waves of melody. 
 
 But while I glow d at beauty s glance, 
 
 I long d to feel a deeper thrill : 
 And while I heard that dying strain, 
 
 I sigh d for something sweeter still. 
 
 I have been happy, and my soul 
 
 Free from each sorrow, care, regret ; 
 Yet even in these hours of bliss 
 
 I long d to find them happier yet. 
 
 Oft o er the darkness of my mind 
 
 Some meteor thought has glanced at will ; 
 
 Twas bright but ever have I sigh d 
 To find a fancy brighter still. 
 
 Why are these restless, vain desires, 
 
 Which always grasp at something more 
 
 To feed the spirit s hidden fires, 
 
 Which burn unseen unnoticed soar ? 
 
 Well might the heathen sage have known 
 That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 
 
 That life, and life s tame joys, alone 
 Could never chain the ethereal mind. 
 
 The above, as we have before observed, are mere 
 fragments, unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 87 
 
 verses have a vagueness incident to the mood of mind 
 in which they were conceived, and the haste with 
 which they were penned ; but in these lofty, indefinite 
 aspirations of a young, half-schooled, and inexperienced 
 mind, we see the early and impatient flutterings of a 
 poetical genius, which, if spared, might have soared to 
 the highest regions. 
 
 In a letter written to Miss Sedgwick during the 
 autumn, she speaks of her health as having rapidly 
 improved. " I am no longer afflicted by the cough, 
 and mother feels it unnecessary now to speak to me as 
 being ill ; though my health is, and probably always 
 will be, very delicate." "And she really did appear 
 better," observes her mother, " and even I, who had 
 ever been nervously alive to every symptom of her 
 disease, was deluded by those favourable appearances, 
 and began to entertain a hope that she might yet 
 recover, when another sudden attack of bleeding at the 
 lungs convinced us of the fallacy of our hopes, and 
 warned us to take every measure to ward off the 
 severity of the climate in the coming winter. A con 
 sultation was held between her father and our favourite 
 physician, and the result was that she was to keep 
 within doors. This was indeed sad, but, after an 
 evident struggle with her own mind, she submitted, 
 with her accustomed good sense, to the decree. All 
 that affection could suggest, was done, to prevent the 
 effects of this seclusion on her spirits." A cheerful 
 room was allotted to her, commanding an agreeable 
 prospect, and communicating, by folding doors, to a 
 commodious parlour; the temperature of the whole 
 apartment was regulated by a thermometer. Hither 
 her books, writing-table, drawing implements 1 , and 
 
88 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 fancy work were transported. When once established 
 in these winter quarters, she became contented and 
 cheerful. "She read and wrote," says her mother, 
 and amused herself with drawing and needle-work. 
 After spending as much time as I dare permit in the 
 more serious studies in which she was engaged, she 
 would unbend her mind with one of Scott s delightful 
 novels, or play with her kitten; and at evening we 
 were usually joined by our interesting friends Mr. and 
 Mrs. II. It is now a melancholy satisfaction to me to 
 believe that she could not, in her state of health, be 
 happier, or more pleasantly situated. She was al\va\ s 
 charmed with the conversation of Mr. H., and followed 
 him through all the mazes of philosophy with the 
 greatest delight. She read Cousin with a high zest, 
 and produced an abstract from it which gave a con 
 vincing proof that she understood the principles there 
 laid down ; after which she gave a complete analysis of 
 the Introduction to the History of Philosophy, by the 
 same author. Her mind must have been deeply en 
 grossed by these studies, yet it was not visible from her 
 manner. During this short winter she accomplished 
 what to many would have been the labour of years, 
 yet there was no haste, no flurry ; she pursued quietly 
 her round of occupations, always cheerful. The hours 
 flew swiftly by; not a moment lagged. I think she 
 never spent a more happy winter than this, with all its 
 varied employments." 
 
 The following extract from a letter to one of her 
 young friends, gives an idea of her course of reading 
 during this winter; and how, in her precocious mind, 
 the playfulness of the child mingled with the thoughtful- 
 ness of the woman. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 89 
 
 " You ask me what I am reading. Alas ! book 
 worm as I am, it makes me draw a long breath to 
 contemplate the books I have laid out for perusal. In 
 the first place, I ajji reading Condillac s Ancient His 
 tory, in French, twenty-four volumes ; Gibbon s Decline 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire, in four large volumes. 
 I have not quite finished Josephus. In my moments of 
 recreation I am poring over Scott s bewitching novels. 
 I wish we could give them some other name instead of 
 novels, for they certainly should not bear the same title 
 with the thousand and one productions of that class 
 daily swarming from the press. Do you think they 
 ought? So pure, so pathetic, so historical, and, above 
 all, so true to human nature. How beautifully he 
 mingles the sad with the grotesque, in such a manner 
 that the opposite feelings they excite harmonize per 
 fectly with each other. His works can be read over 
 and over again, and every time with a growing sense 
 of their beauties. Do you read French ? If so, I wish 
 we could read the same works together. It would be 
 a great pleasure to me at least, and our mutual remarks 
 might benefit each other. Supposing you will be pleased 
 to hear of my amusements, however trifling, I will ven 
 ture to name one, at the risk of lowering any great 
 opinion you may have formed of my wisdom ! A pet 
 kitten ! ! ! Yes, my dear Henrietta, a sweet little crea 
 ture, with a graceful shape, playful temper, white breast, 
 and dear little innocent eyes, which completely belie the 
 reputed disposition of a cat. He is neither deceitful, 
 ferocious, nor ungrateful, but is certainly the most 
 rational being for an irrational one, I ever saw. He is 
 now snugly lying in my lap, watching every movement 
 of my pen with a quiet purr of contentment. Have 
 
 7 
 
90 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 you such a pet ? I wish you had, that we might both 
 play with them at the same time, sunset, for instance, 
 and while so far distant, feel that we were enjoying 
 ourselves in the selfsame way. You ask what I think 
 of animal magnetism? My dear Hetty, I have not 
 troubled my head about it. I hear of it from eveiy 
 quarter, and mentioned so often with contempt, that I 
 have thought of it only as an absurdity. If I understand 
 it rightly, the leading principle is the influence of one 
 mind upon another; there is undoubtedly such an in 
 fluence, to a reasonable degree, but as to throwing one 
 into a magnetic sleep presenting visions before their 
 eyes of scenes passing afar off, it seems almost too 
 ridiculous ! Still it may all be true! A hundred years 
 since, what would have been our feelings to see what is 
 now here so common, a steam engine, breathing fire and 
 smoke, gliding along with the rapidity of thought, and 
 carrying at its black heels a train which a hundred men 
 would fail to move. We know not but this apparent 
 absurdity, this magnetism may be a great and myste 
 rious secret, which the course of time will reveal and 
 adapt to important purposes. * * * * * 
 What are you studying? Do you play? Do you draw? 
 Please tell me every thing. I wish I could form some 
 picture of you to my mind s eye. It is so tormenting to 
 correspond with a dear friend, and have no likeness of 
 them in our fancy. I remember every thing as it used 
 to be, but time makes great changes ! Now here comes 
 my saucy kitten, and springs upon the table before me 
 as if he had a perfect right there. What do you mean, 
 little puss ? Come, sit for your portrait. I hope, dear 
 H., you will fully appreciate this painting, which I con 
 sider as my chef-d oeuvre, and preserve it as a faithful like- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 91 
 
 ness of my inimitable cat. But do forgive me so much 
 nonsense ! But I feel that to you I can rattle off any 
 thing that comes uppermost. It is near night, and the 
 sun is setting so beautifully after the long storm, that I 
 could not sit here much longer, even if I had a whole 
 page to fill. How splendid the moon must look on the 
 bright waters of the Champlain this night ! Good bye, 
 good bye love to all from all, and believe me, now as 
 ever, 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 MARGARET." 
 
 The following passages from her mother s memoran 
 dums, touch upon matters of more solemn interest, 
 which occasionally occupied her young mind : 
 
 " During the whole of the preceding summer her 
 mind had dwelt much upon the subject of religion. 
 Much of her time was devoted to serious reflection, self- 
 examination, and prayer. But she evidently shunned 
 all conversation upon the subject. It was a theme 
 she had always conversed upon with pleasure until 
 now. This not only surprised but pained me. I was a 
 silent but close and anxious observer of the operations 
 of her mind, and saw that, with all her apparent cheer 
 fulness, she was ill at ease; perfect silence was however 
 maintained on both sides until the winter commenced, 
 and brought us more closely together. Then her young 
 heart again reposed itself, in confiding love, upon the 
 bosom that heretofore had shared its every thought, and 
 the subject became one of daily discussion. I found her 
 mind perplexed and her ideas confused by points of 
 doctrine which she could neither understand nor recon 
 cile with her views of the justice and benevolence of 
 
92 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 God, as exhibited in the Scriptures. Her views of the 
 Divine character and attributes had ever been of that 
 elevated cast, which, while they raised her mind above 
 all grosser things, sublimated and purified her feelings 
 and desires, and prepared her for that bright and holy 
 communion without which she could enjoy nothing. 
 Her faith was of that character * which casteth out 
 fear. It was sweet and soothing to depend upon Jesus 
 for salvation. It was delightful to behold, in the all- 
 imposing majesty of God, a kind and tender father, who 
 pitied her infirmities, and on whose justice and benevo 
 lence she could rest for time and eternity. She had, 
 during the summer, heard much disputation on doc 
 trinal points, which she had silently and carefully 
 examined, and had been shocked at the position which 
 many professing Christians had taken; she saw much 
 inconsistency, much bitterness of spirit, on points which 
 she had been taught to consider not essential to salva 
 tion ; she saw that the spirit of persecution and unchari- 
 tableness which pervaded many classes of Christians, 
 had almost totally destroyed that bond of brotherhood 
 which ought firmly to unite the followers of the humble 
 Saviour; and she could not reconcile these feelings 
 with her ideas of the Christian character. Her meek 
 ness and humility led her sometimes to doubt her own 
 state. She felt that her religious duties were but too 
 feebly performed, and that without divine assistance 
 all her resolutions to be more faithful were vain. She 
 often said, Mamma, I am far from right. I resolve 
 and re-resolve, and yet remain the same. I had 
 shunned every thing that savoured of controversy, 
 knowing her enthusiasm and extreme sensibility on the 
 subject of religion ; I dreaded the excitement it might 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 93 
 
 create. But I now more fully explained, as well as I 
 was able, the simple and divine truths of the Gospel, 
 and held up to her jiew the beauty and benevolence of 
 the Father s character, and the unbounded love which 
 could have devised the atoning sacrifice; and advised 
 her at present to avoid controversial writings, and make 
 a more thorough examination of the Scriptures, that she 
 might found her principles upon the evidences to be 
 deduced from that groundwork of our faith, unbiassed 
 by the opinions and prejudices of any man. I repre 
 sented to her, that, young as she was, while in feeble 
 health, researches into those knotty and disputed 
 subjects would only confuse her mind ; that there was 
 enough of plain practical religion to be gathered from 
 the Bible ; and urged the importance of frequent and 
 earnest prayer, which, with God s blessing, would 
 compose the agitation of her mind, which I considered 
 as essential to her inward peace." 
 
 On one occasion, while perusing Lockhart s Life of 
 Scott with great interest, her mother ventured to sound 
 her feelings upon the subject of literary fame, and 
 asked her whether she had no ambition to have her 
 name go down to posterity. She took her mother s 
 hand with enthusiasm, kissed her cheek, and, retiring 
 to the other room, in less than an hour returned with 
 the following lines : 
 
 TO DIE AND BE FORGOTTEN. 
 
 A few short years will roll along, 
 
 With mingled joy and pain, 
 Then shall I pass a broken tone ! 
 
 An echo of a strain ! 
 
94 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then shall I fade away from life, 
 Like cloud-tints from the sky, 
 
 When the breeze sweeps their surface o er, 
 And they are lost for aye. 
 
 The world will laugh, and weep, and sing-, 
 
 As gaily as before, 
 But cold and silent I shall be 
 
 As I have been no more. 
 
 The haunts I loved, the flowers I nursed 
 Will bloom as sweetly still, 
 
 But other hearts and other hands 
 My vacant place shall fill. 
 
 And even mighty love must fail 
 To bind my memory here 
 
 Like fragrance round the faded rose, 
 Twill perish with the year. 
 
 The soul may look, with fervent hope, 
 
 To worlds of future bliss ; 
 But oh how saddening to the heart 
 
 To be forgot in this 1 
 
 How many a noble mind hath shrunk 
 From death without a name ; 
 
 Hath look d beyond his shadowy realm, 
 And lived and died for fame. 
 
 Could we not view the darksome grave 
 
 With calmer, steadier eye, 
 If conscious that a world s regret 
 
 Would seek us where we lie ? 
 
 Faith points, with mild, confiding glance, 
 
 To realms of bliss above, 
 Where peace, and joy, and justice reign, 
 
 And never-dying love ; 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 95 
 
 But still our earthly feelings cling 
 Around this bounded spot ; 
 
 There is a something burns within 
 Which will not be forgot. 
 
 It cares not for a gorgeous hearse, 
 For waving torch and plume ; 
 
 For pealing hymn, funereal verse, 
 Or richly sculptured tomb; 
 
 But it would live undimm d and fresh, 
 When flickering life departs ; 
 
 Would find a pure and honour d grave, 
 Embalm d in kindred hearts. 
 
 Who would not brave a life of tears 
 To win an honourM name ? 
 
 One sweet and heart-awakening tone 
 From the silver trump of fame ? 
 
 To be, when countless years have past, 
 The good man s glowing theme ? 
 
 To be but I what right have I 
 To this bewildering dream ? 
 
 Oh it is vain, and worse than vain, 
 To dwell on thoughts like these ; 
 
 J a frail child, whose feeble frame 
 Already knows disease ! 
 
 Who, ere another spring may dawn, 
 
 Another summer bloom, 
 May, like the flowers of autumn, lie, 
 
 A tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Away, away, presumptuous thought ! 
 
 I will not dwell on thee ! 
 For what, alas ! am I to fame, 
 
 And what is fame to me ? 
 
96 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Let all these wild and longing thoughts 
 
 With the dying year expire, 
 And I will nurse within my breast 
 
 A purer, holier fire 1 
 
 Yes, I will seek my mind to win 
 
 From all these dreams of strife, 
 And toil to write my name within 
 
 The glorious book of life. 
 
 Then shall old time who, rolling on, 
 
 Impels me towards the tomb, 
 Prepare for me a glorious crown, 
 
 Through endless years to bloom. 
 
 December, 1837. 
 
 The confinement to the house, in a graduated tem 
 perature, the round of cheerful occupations, and the 
 unremitting care taken of her, produced a visible melio 
 ration of her symptoms. Her cough gradually subsided, 
 the morbid irritability of her system, producing often an 
 unnatural flow of spirits, was quieted ; as usual, she 
 looked forward to spring as the genial and delightful 
 season that was to restore her to perfect health and 
 freedom. 
 
 Christmas was approaching, which had ever been a 
 time of social enjoyment in the family ; as it drew near, 
 however, the remembrance of those lost from the fire 
 side circle was painfully felt by Mrs. Davidson. Mar 
 garet saw the gloom on her mother s brow, and, kissing 
 her, exclaimed, " Dear mother, do not let us waste our 
 present happiness in useless repining. You see I am 
 well, and you are more comfortable, and dear father is 
 in good health and spirits. Let us enjoy the present 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 97 
 
 hour, and banish vain regrets!" Having given this 
 wholesome advice, she tripped off with a light step to 
 prepare Christmas presents for the servants, which were 
 to be distributed b~f St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, in the 
 old traditional way. Every animated being, rational or 
 irrational, must share her liberality on that day of fes 
 tivity and joy. Her Jenny, a little bay pony on which 
 she had taken many healthful and delightful rides, must 
 have a gayer blanket, and an extra allowance of oats. 
 " On Christmas morning," says her mother, " she woke 
 with the first sound of the old house clock striking the 
 hour of five, and twining her arms round my neck, (for 
 during this winter she shared my bed,) and kissing me 
 again and again, exclaimed 
 
 Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
 The golden sun is dawning ; 
 
 then slipping a piece of paper into my hand, she sprang 
 out of bed, and danced about the carpet, her kitten in 
 her arms, with all the sportive glee of childhood. When 
 I gazed upon her young face, so bright, so animated, 
 and beautiful, beaming with innocence and love, and 
 thought that perhaps this was the last anniversary of 
 her Saviour s birth she might spend on earth, I could 
 not suppress my emotions : I caught her to my bosom 
 in an agony of tenderness, while she, all unconscious of 
 the nature of my feelings, returned my caresses with 
 playful fondness." The following verses were con 
 tained in the above-mentioned paper : 
 
 TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Wake, mother, wake to hope and glee, 
 The golden sun is dawning ! 
 
98 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
 This happy Christmas morning ! 
 
 Each eye is bright with pleasure s glow, 
 Each lip is laughing merrily ; 
 
 A smile hath past o er winter s brow, 
 And the very snow looks cheerily. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the awaken d day, 
 To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing, 
 
 While a thousand, thousand happy hearts 
 Their Christmas lays are singing. 
 
 Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love, 
 And my heart is overflowing ! 
 
 Come, let us raise our thoughts above, 
 While pure, and fresh, and glowing. 
 
 Tis the happiest day of the rolling year, 
 But it comes in a robe of mourning, 
 
 Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here 
 Its icy shroud adorning. 
 
 It comes when all around is dark, 
 
 Tis meet it so should be, 
 For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, 
 
 The spirit s jubilee. 
 
 It does not need the bloom of spring, 
 Or summer s light and gladness, 
 
 For love has spread her beaming wing 
 O er winter s brow of sadness. 
 
 Twas thus he came, beneath a cloud 
 His spirit s light concealing, 
 
 No crown of earth, no kingly robe 
 His heavenly power revealing. 
 
 His soul was pure, his mission love, 
 His aim a world s redeeming ; 
 
 To raise the darken d soul above 
 Its wild and sinful dreaming, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 99 
 
 With all his Father s power and love, 
 
 The cords of guilt to sever ; 
 To ope a sacred fount of light, 
 
 Which flows, shall flow for ever. 
 
 
 Then we shall hail the glorious day, 
 
 The spirit s new creation, 
 And pour our grateful feelings forth, 
 
 A pure and warm libation. 
 
 Wake, mother, wake to chasten d joy, 
 
 The golden sun is dawning ! 
 Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
 
 This happy Christmas morning. 
 
 " The last day of the year 1837 arrived. Mamma, 
 said she, l will you sit up with me to-night until after 
 twelve V I looked inquiringly. She replied, I wish 
 to bid farewell to the present, and to welcome the 
 coming year. After the family retired, and we had 
 seated ourselves by a cheerful fire to spend the hours 
 which would intervene until the year 1838 should dawn 
 upon us, she was serious, but not sad, and as if she had 
 nothing more than usual upon her mind, took some light 
 sewing in her hand, and so interested me by her conver 
 sation, that I scarcely noticed the flight of time. At 
 half past eleven she handed me a book, pointing to some 
 interesting article to amuse me, then took her seat at 
 the writing-table, and composed the piece on the depar 
 ture of the old year 1837, and the commencement of 
 the new one 1838. When she had finished the Fare 
 well, except the last verse, it wanted a few minutes of 
 twelve. She rested her arms in silence upon the table, 
 apparently absorbed in meditation. The clock struck 
 a sort of deep thought passed over her expressive face 
 she remained solemn and silent until the last tone had 
 ceased to vibrate, when she again resumed her pen and 
 
100 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 wrote. The bell hath ceased. When the clock 
 struck, I arose from my seat and stood leaning over 
 the back of her chair, with a mind deeply solemnized 
 by a scene so new and interesting. The words flowed 
 rapidly from her pen, without haste or confusion, and 
 at one o clock we were quietly in bed." 
 
 We again subjoin the poem alluded to, trusting 
 that these effusions, which are so intimately connected 
 with her personal history, will be read with greater 
 interest, when given in conjunction with the scenes 
 and circumstances which prompted them. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1837, AND THE COM 
 MENCEMENT OF 1858. 
 
 HARK to the house clock s measured chime, 
 
 As it cries to the startled ear, 
 " A dirge for the soul of departing time, 
 
 A requiem for the year." 
 
 Thou art passing away to the mighty past, 
 
 Where thy countless brethren sleep, 
 Till the great Archangel s trumpet blast, 
 
 Shall waken land and deep. 
 
 Oh the lovely and beautiful things that lie 
 
 On thy cold and motionless breast ! 
 Oh the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the sighs, 
 
 Departing with thee to their rest. 
 
 Thou wert usher d to life amid darkness and gloom, 
 
 But the cold icy cloud passed away, 
 And spring, in her verdure and freshness and bloom, 
 
 Touched with glory thy mantle of gray. 
 
 The flow rets burst forth, in their beauty the trees 
 
 In their exquisite robes were array d, 
 But thou glidest along, and the flower and the leaf, 
 
 At the sound of thy footsteps, decay d. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 101 
 
 And fairer young blossoms wer,e blooming alone, 
 And they died at the glance -ol ^l^e pye, ^ ; i 
 
 But a life was within which should rfse o er their own, 
 And a spirit thou coulcTst not flestcoy", ; * ] 
 
 j^ *>*> +*}** * * + 
 
 Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete, 
 
 And fulfill d the Creator s behest, 
 Then, adieu to thee, year of our sorrows and joys, 
 
 And peaceful and long be thy rest. 
 
 Farewell ! for thy truth written record is full, 
 
 And the page weeps, for sorrow and crime, 
 Farewell ! for the leaf hath shut down on the past, 
 
 And conceal d the dark annals of time. 
 
 The bell ! it hath ceas d with its iron tongue 
 
 To ring on the startled ear, 
 The dirge o er the grave of the lost one is rung, 
 
 All hail to the new-born year ! 
 
 All hail to the new-born year, 
 
 To the child of hope and fear ! 
 
 He comes on his car of state, 
 
 And weaves our web of fate, 
 
 And he opens his robe to receive us all, 
 
 And we live or die, and we rise or fall, 
 
 In the arms of the new-born year 1 
 
 Hope ! spread thy soaring wings ! 
 
 Look forth on the boundless sea, 
 And trace thy bright and beautiful things, 
 
 On the veil of the great To Be. 
 
 Build palaces broad as the sky, 
 
 And store them with treasures of light, 
 Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye, 
 
 And illumine the darkness of night. 
 
 We are gliding fast from the buried year, 
 
 And the present is no more, 
 But, hope, we will borrow thy sparkling gear, 
 
 And shroud the future o er. 
 
102 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Our tsars and sighs shall sleep, 
 
 In the grave qf -the si-p.nlt *ast, 
 We will raise up flowers nor weep 
 *. "feiihje air huts My ifot hst 
 
 We will dream our dreams of joy, 
 Ah ! fear ! why darken the scene ? 
 
 Why sprinkle that ominous tear, 
 My beautiful visions hetvveen. 
 
 Hath not sorrow swift wings of her own, 
 That thou must assist in her flight ? 
 
 Is not daylight too rapidly gone, 
 
 That thou must urge onward the night. 
 
 Ah ! leave me to fancy, to hope, 
 For grief will too quickly be here, 
 
 Ah ! leave me to shadow forth figures of light, 
 In the mystical robe of the year. 
 
 Tis true, they may never assume 
 
 The substance of pleasure the real 
 
 But believe me our purest of joy, 
 Consists in the vague the ideal. 
 
 Then away to the darksome cave, 
 
 With thy sisters, the sigh and the tear, 
 
 We will drink, in the crystal wave, 
 The health of the new-born year. 
 
 " She had been for some time thinking of a subject 
 for a poem, and the next day, which was the first of 
 January, came to me in great perplexity and asked 
 my advice. I had long desired that she would direct 
 her attention to the beautiful and sublime narratives 
 of the Old Testament, and now proposed that she 
 should take the Bible and examine it with that view. 
 After an hour or two spent in research she remarked 
 that there were many, very many subjects of deep 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 103 
 
 and thrilling interest; but, if she now should make a 
 failure, her discouragement would be such as to pre 
 vent her from ever making another attempt. I am 
 now, she said, trying my wings. I will take a lighter 
 subject at first: if I succeed, I will then write a more 
 perfect poem, founded upon Sacred History. 
 
 She accordingly took as a theme a prose tale, in a 
 current work of the day, and wrote several pages with 
 a flowing pen, but soon threw them by dissatisfied. 
 It was irksome to employ the thoughts and fancies of 
 another and to have to ada pt her own to the plan of the 
 author. She wanted something original. "Aftersome 
 farther effort," says Mrs. Davidson, "she came to me 
 out of spirits and in tears. < Mother, said she, < I must 
 give it up after all. I asked the reason, and then re 
 marked that as she had already so many labors upon 
 her hands, and was still feeble, it might be the wisest 
 course. Oh mother, said she, that is not the reason; 
 my head and my heart are full: poetic images are 
 crowding upon my brain, but every subject has been 
 monopolised: "there is nothing new under the sun. " 
 I said my daughter, that others have written upon a 
 subject is not an objection. The most eminent writers 
 do not always choose what is new. * Mother, dear 
 mother, what can I say upon a theme which has been 
 touched by the greatest men of this or some other age? 
 I, a mere child; it is absurd in me to think of it. She 
 dropped beside me on the sofa, laid her head upon 
 my bosom and sobbed violently. I wiped the tears 
 from her face, while my own were, fast flowing and 
 strove to soothe the tumult of her mind. * * * When we 
 were both more calm, I said, < Margaret, I had hoped 
 that during this winter you would not have com- 
 
104 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 menced or applied yourself to any important work; 
 but, if you feel in that way, I will not urge you to 
 resign an occupation which gives you such exquisite 
 enjoyment." 
 
 Mrs. Davidson then went on to show to her that, 
 notwithstanding the number of poets that had written, 
 the themes and materials for poetry are inexhaustible. 
 By degrees Margaret became composed; took up a 
 book and read. The words of her mother dwelt in 
 her mind. In a few days she brought her mother the 
 introduction to a projected poem to be called Leonore. 
 Mrs. Davidson was touched at finding the remarks 
 she had made for the purpose of soothing the agitation 
 of her daughter, had served to kindle her imagination; 
 and were poured forth with eloquence in those verses. 
 The excitement continued and the poem of Leonore 
 was completed, corrected and copied into her book by 
 the first of March; having written her plan in prose 
 at full length, containing about the same number of 
 lines as the poem. "During its progress," says Mrs. 
 Davidson, " when fatigued with writing, she would 
 take her kitten and recline upon the sofa, asking me 
 to relate to her some of the scenes of the last war. 
 Accordingly I would wile away our solitude by re 
 peating anecdotes of that period; and before Leonore 
 was completed she had advanced several pages in a 
 prose tale, the scene of which was laid upon lake 
 Champlain during the last war. She at the same 
 time, executed faces and figures in crayon which 
 would not have disgraced the pencil of an artist. Her 
 labors were truly immense. Yet a stranger coming 
 occasionally to the house would hardly observe that 
 she had any pressing avocations." 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 105 
 
 The following are extracts from a rough draught of 
 a letter written to Miss Sedgwick about this time. 
 
 MY DEAR MADAM* 
 
 I wish I could express to you my pleasure on re 
 ceiving your kind and affectionate letter. So far from 
 considering myself neglected by your silence, I felt it 
 a great privilege to be permitted to write to you, and 
 knew that I ought not to expect a regular answer 
 to every letter, even while I was longing, day after 
 day, to receive this gratifying token of remembrance. 
 Unless you had witnessed, I fear you would hardly 
 believe my extravagant delight on reading the dear 
 little folded paper, so expressive of your kind recollec 
 tion. I positively danced for joy ; bestowed a thousand 
 caresses upon every body and every thing I loved, 
 dreamed of you all night, and arose next morning (with 
 a heart full,) to answer your letter, but was prevented 
 by indisposition, and have not been able until now to 
 perform a most pleasing duty by acknowledging its 
 receipt. My health during the past winter has been 
 much better than we had anticipated. It is true I have 
 been with dear mother, entirely confined to the house, 
 but being able to read, write and perform all my usual 
 employments, I feel that I have much more reason 
 to be thankful for the blessings continued to me, than 
 to repine because a few have been denied. But spring 
 is now here in name, if not in reality, and I can assure 
 you my heart bounds at the thought of once more 
 escaping from my confinement, and breathing the pure 
 air of Heaven, without fearing a blight or a consump 
 tion in every breeze. Spring! What pleasure does that 
 magic syllable convey to the heart of an invalid, laden 
 
 8 
 
106 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 with sweet promises, and bringing before his mind 
 visions of liberty, which those who are always free 
 cannot enjoy. Thus do I dream of summer, I may 
 never see, arid make myself happy for hours in antici 
 pating pleasures I may never share. It is an idle em 
 ployment, and little calculated to sweeten disappoint 
 ment. But it has opened to me many sources of de 
 light otherwise unknown ; and when out of humor with 
 the present, I have only to send fancy flower gather 
 ing in the future, and I find myself fully repaid. Dear 
 mother s health has also been much better than we had 
 feared, and her ill turns less frequent and severe. She 
 sits up most of the day, walks around the lower part 
 of the house, and enjoys her book and her pen as much 
 as ever. * * * * * * You speak of your intercourse 
 with Mrs. Jameson. It must indeed be an exquisite 
 pleasure to be intimately associated with a mind like 
 hers. I have never seen anything but extracts from 
 her writings but must obtain and read them. I sup 
 pose the world is anxiously looking for her next vol 
 ume. * * * We have been reading Lockhart s Life 
 of Scott. Is it not a deeply interesting work? In what 
 a beautiful light it represents the character of that great 
 and good man. No one can read his life or his works 
 without loving and venerating him. As to " the waters 
 of Helicon" we have but a few niggardly streams in 
 this, our matter of fact village; and father in his medi 
 cal capacity has forbidden my partaking of them as 
 freely as I could wish. But no matter, they have been 
 frozen up, and will flow in "streams more salubrious" 
 beneath the milder sky of spring. 
 
 In all her letters we find a solicitude about her 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 107 
 
 mother s health, rather than about her own, and indeed 
 it was difficult to say which was most precarious. 
 
 The following extract from a poem written about 
 this time to " Her mother on her fiftieth Birth-day" pre 
 sents a beautiful portrait, and does honor to the filial 
 hand that drew it. 
 
 Yes, mother, fifty years have fled, 
 With rapid foot-steps, o er thy head: 
 Have past with all their motley train, 
 And left thee on thy couch of pain! 
 How many smiles and sighs and tears, 
 How many hopes and doubts and fears 
 Have vanish d with that lapse of years. 
 
 Oh that we all could look, like thee, 
 Back on that dark and tidcless sea, 
 And mid its varied records find 
 A heart at ease with all mankind, 
 A firm and self-approving mind. 
 Grief that had broken hearts less fine 
 Hath only served to strengthen thine 
 
 Time that doth chill the fancy s play 
 Hath kindled thine with purer ray: 
 And stern disease, whose icy dart 
 Hath power to chill the breaking heart, 
 Hath left thine warm with love and truth 
 As in the halcyon days of youth. 
 
 The following letter was written on the 26th of 
 March, to a female cousin resident in New York. 
 
 DEAR KATE: This day I am fifteen, and you can, 
 you will readily pardon and account for the absurd 
 flights of my pen, by supposing that my tutelary 
 spirits, nonsense and folly, have assembled around the 
 being of their creation, and claimed the day as exclu- 
 
108 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 sively their own; then I pray you to lay to their ac- 
 rount, all that I have already scribbled, and believe 
 that, uninfluenced by these grinning deities, I can 
 think and feel, and love, as I love you with all warmth 
 and sincerity of heart. Do you remember how we 
 used to look forward to sweet fifteen, as the pinnacle 
 of human happiness, the golden age of existence? 
 You have but lately passed that milestone in the high 
 way of life; I have just reached it, but I find myself 
 no better satisfied to stand still than before, and look 
 forward to the continuance of my journey, with the 
 same ardent longing I felt at fourteen. 
 
 Ah, Kate, here we are, two young travellers start 
 ing forth upon our long pilgrimage, and knowing not 
 whither it may conduct us! You some months my 
 superior in age, and many years in acquaintance with 
 society, in external attractions, and all those accom 
 plishments necessary to form an elegant woman. /, 
 knowing nothing of life but from books, and a small 
 circle of friends, who love me as I love them, looking 
 upon \\\Q past as a faded dream, which I shall have 
 time enough to study, and expound, when old age 
 and sorrow come on upon the present as a nurse 
 ling a preparative for the future, and upon that 
 future, as what? a mighty whirlpool, of hopes and 
 fears of bright anticipations and bitter disappoint 
 ments into which I shall soon plunge, and find there, 
 in common with the rest of the world, my happiness 
 or misery. ***** 
 
 The following to a young friend, was also written 
 on the 26th of March. 
 
 MY DEAR H.: You must know that winter has 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 109 
 
 come, and gone, and neither mother nor myself have 
 felt a single breeze which could not force its way 
 through the thick walls of our little dwelling. Do 
 you not think I am looking gladly forward to April 
 and May, as the lovely sisters who are to unlock the 
 doors of our prison house, and give us once more to 
 the free enjoyment of nature, without fearing a blight 
 or a consumption in every breath? And now for 
 another, and even more delightful anticipation your 
 visit! Are you indeed coming? And when are you 
 coming? Do answer the first that I may for once have 
 the pleasure of framing delightful visions without 
 finding them dashed to the ground by the iron hand 
 of reality, and the last, that I may not expect you too 
 soon, and thus subject myself to all the bitterness of 
 " hope deferred." Come, for I have so much to say 
 to you, that I cannot possibly contain it until summer; 
 and come quickly, unless you are willing to account 
 for my wasted time as well as your own, for I shall 
 do little else but dream of you and your visit until the 
 time of your arrival. You cannot imagine how those 
 few words in your little good for nothing letter have 
 completely upset my wonted gravity. Do not disap 
 point me. It is true, mother and I are both feeble 
 and unable to go out with you and show you the 
 lions of our little village, but if warm welcomes can 
 atone for the want of ceremony, you shall have them 
 in abundance, but it seems to me that I shall want to 
 pin you down in a chair and do nothing but look at 
 you from morning till night. As to coming to Platts- 
 burgh, I think if we cannot do so in the spring, (which 
 is doubtful,) we certainly shall in the course of the 
 summer. Brother M. wrote to me yesterday, saying 
 
110 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 that he would spend the month of August in the 
 country, and if nothing occurred to prevent, we would 
 take our delightful trip by the way of Lake George. 
 Oh it will be so pleasant ! but my anticipations are 
 now all bent upon a nearer object. Do not allow a 
 slight impediment to destroy them. We expect in 
 May to move to Saratoga. We shall then have a 
 more convenient house, better society, and the benefit 
 of a school in which I can practise music and draw 
 ing, without being obliged to attend regularly. We 
 shall then be a few miles nearer to you, and at pre 
 sent even that seems something desirable to me. I 
 have read and own three volumes of Scott s life, and 
 was much disappointed to find that it was not finished 
 in these three, but concluded the remainder had not 
 yet come out. Are the five volumes all? It is indeed 
 a deeply interesting work. I am very fond of biogra 
 phy, for surely there can be nothing more delightful 
 or instructive than to trace in the infancy and youth 
 of every noble rnind the germs of its future greatness. 
 Have you read a work called Letters from Palmyra, 
 by Mr. Ware of New York? I have not yet seen it, 
 but intend to do so soon. It is written in the character 
 of a citizen of Rome at that early period, and it is said 
 to be a lively picture of the manners and customs of 
 the imperial city, and still more of the magnificence of 
 Palmyra, and its splendid queen Zenobia. It also 
 contains a beautiful story. I have lately been re- 
 perusing many of Scott s novels, and intend to finish 
 them. Was ever any thing half so fascinating? Oh 
 how I long to have you here and tell you all these 
 little things in person. Do write to me immediately, 
 and tell me when we may expect you, I shall open 
 
BIOGRAPHY. Ill 
 
 your next with a beating heart. Do excuse all the 
 blunders and scrawls of this hasty letter. You must 
 receive it as a proof of friendship, for to a stranger, or 
 one who I thought would look upon it with a cold 
 and critical eye, I certainly should not send it. I be 
 lieve you and I have entered into a tacit agreement 
 to forgive any little mistakes, which the other may 
 chance to commit. 
 
 Croyez moi ma chere amie votre. 
 
 MARGUERITE. 
 
 The spirits of this most sensitive little being became 
 more and more excited with the opening of spring. 
 " She watched," says her mother, " the putting forth of 
 the tender grass and the young blossoms as the period 
 which was to liberate her from captivity. She was 
 pleased with every body and every thing. She loved 
 every thing in nature, both animate and inanimate, 
 with a warmth of affection which displayed the bene 
 volence of her own heart. She felt that she was well, 
 and oh! the bright dreams and imaginings, the cloud 
 less future, presented to her ardent mind all was 
 sunny and gay." 
 
 The following letter is highly expressive of the state 
 of her feelings at that period. 
 
 " A few days since, my dearest cousin, I received your 
 affectionate letter, arid if my heart smote me at the sight 
 of the well known superscription, you may imagine 
 how unmercifully it thumped on reading a letter so 
 full of affection, and so entirely devoid of reproach for 
 my unkindly negligence. I can assure you, my dear 
 coz., you could have found no better way of striking 
 home to my heart the conviction of my error; and I 
 
112 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 resolved that hour, that moment, to lay my confessions 
 at your feet, and sue for forgiveness: I knew you were 
 too gentle to refuse. But alas! for human resolves! 
 We were that afternoon expecting brother M. Dear 
 brother! And how could [collect my floating thoughts 
 and curl myself up into a corner with pen, ink and pa 
 per before me, when my heart was flying away over 
 the sand hills of this un-romantic region to meet and 
 embrace and welcome home the wanderer. If it can 
 interest you, picture to yourself the little scene; mother 
 and I breathless with expectation, gazing from the 
 window, in mute suspense, and listening to the "phiz, 
 phiz" of the great steam engine. Then when we caught 
 a rapid glance of his trim little figure, how we bounded 
 away over chairs, sofas, and kittens, to bestow in 
 reality, the greeting fancy had so often given him. 
 Oh! what is so delightful as to welcome a friend! Well, 
 three days have passed like a dream, and he is gone 
 again. I am seated at my little table by the fire. 
 Mother is sewing beside me. Puss is slumbering on 
 the hearth, and nothing external remains to convince 
 us of the truth of that bright sun-beam which had sud 
 denly broken upon our quiet retreat, and departed like 
 a vision as suddenly. When shall we have the pleasure 
 of welcoming you thus, my beloved cousin? Your 
 flying call of last summer was but an aggravation. 
 Oh! may all good angels watch over you and all you 
 love; shake the dew of health from their balmy wings 
 upon your smiling home, and waft you hither, cheer 
 ful and happy, to sojourn awhile with the friends who 
 love you so dearly! All hail to spring, the bright, the 
 blooming, the renovating spring! Oh! I am so hap 
 py I feel a lightness at my heart, and a vigor in my 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 113 
 
 frame that I have rarely felt. If I speak, my voice 
 forms itself into a laugh. If I look forward, every thing 
 seems bright before me. If I look back, memory calls 
 up what is pleasant, and my greatest desire is that my 
 pen could fling a ray of sunshine over this scribbled 
 page and infuse into your heart some of the cheerful 
 ness of my own. I have been confined to the house 
 all winter, as it was thought the best and only way 
 of restoring my health. Now my symptoms are all 
 better, and I am looking forward to next month and 
 its blue skies with the most childish impatience. By 
 the way, I am not to be called a child any more; for 
 yesterday I was fifteen, what say you to that? I feel 
 quite like an old woman, and think of putting on caps 
 and spectacles next month." 
 
 It was during the same exuberance of happy feel 
 ing, with the delusive idea of confirmed health and the 
 anticipation of bright enjoyments, that she broke forth 
 like a bird into the following strain of melody. 
 
 Oh, my bosom is throbbing- with joy, 
 
 With a rapture too full to express; 
 From within and without I am blest, 
 
 And the world, like myself, I would bless. 
 
 All nature looks fair to my eye, 
 
 From beneath and around and above, 
 Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, 
 
 And the broad earth is glowing with love. 
 
 I stand on the threshold of life, 
 
 On the shore of its wide rolling 1 sea, 
 I have heard of its storms and its strife 
 
 But all things are tranquil to me, 
 
 There s a veil o er the future tis bright 
 As the wing of a spirit of air, 
 
114 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And each form of enchantment and light 
 Is trembling in Iris hues there. 
 
 I turn to the world of affection, 
 
 And warm, glowing treasures are mine; 
 
 To the past, and my fond recollection 
 Gathers roses from memory s shrine. 
 
 But oh, there s a fountain of joy 
 More rich than a kingdom beside, 
 
 It is holy death cannot destroy 
 The flow of its heavenly tide. 
 
 Tis the love that is gushing within, 
 
 It would bathe the whole world in its light; 
 
 The cold stream of time shall not quench it, 
 The dark frown of wo shall not blight. 
 
 These visions of pleasure may vanish, 
 These bright dreams of youth disappear, 
 
 Disappointment each air hue may banish, 
 And drown each frail joy in a tear. 
 
 I may plunge in the billows of life, 
 I may taste of its dark cup of wo, 
 
 I may weep, and the sad drops of grief 
 May blend with the waves as they flow. 
 
 I may dream, till reality s shadow 
 O er the light form of fancy is cast; 
 
 I may hope, until hope, too, despairing 
 Has crept to the grave of the past. 
 
 But though the wild waters surround me, 
 Misfortune, temptation and sin, 
 
 Though fear be about and beyond me 
 And sorrow s dark shadow within. 
 
 Though age, with an icy cold finger, 
 May stamp his pale seal on my brow 
 
 Still, still in my bosom shall linger 
 The glow that is warming it now. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 115 
 
 Youth will vanish, and pleasure gay charmer, 
 
 May depart on the wings of to-day, 
 But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer, 
 
 As year after year rolls away. 
 
 " While her spirits were thus light and gay," says 
 Mrs. Davidson, "from the prospect of returning 
 health, my more mature judgment told me that those 
 appearances might be deceptive that even now the 
 destroyer might be making sure his work of destruc 
 tion; but she really seemed better, the cough had sub 
 sided, her step was buoyant, her face glowed with 
 animation, her eye was bright, and love, boundless, 
 universal love seemed to fill her young heart. Every 
 symptom of her disease assumed a more favorable 
 cast. Oh how my heart swelled with the mingled 
 emotions of hope, doubt and gratitude. Our hopes 
 of her ultimate recovery seemed to be founded upon 
 reason, yet her father still doubted the propriety of 
 our return to lake Champlain; and as Saratoga held 
 out many more advantages than Ballston as a tem 
 porary residence, he decided to spend the ensuing year 
 or two there; and then we might perhaps, without 
 much risk, return to our much loved and long deserted 
 home on the banks of the Saranac. Accordingly a 
 house was taken and every preparation made for our 
 removal to Saratoga on the first of May. Margaret 
 was pleased with the arrangement." 
 
 The following playful extract of a letter to her 
 brother in New York, exhibits her feelings on the 
 prospect of their change of residence. 
 
 I now most humbly avail myself of your most 
 gracious permission to scribble you a few lines in 
 token of my everlasting love. " This is to inform 
 
116 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 you I am very well, hoping these few lines will find 
 you in possession of the same blessing" notwith 
 standing the blue streaks that flitted over your path 
 way a few days after you left us. Perhaps it was 
 occasioned by remorse, at the cruelty of your parting 
 speech, perhaps it was the reflection of a bright blue 
 eye, upon the deep waters of your soul, but let the 
 cause be what it may, " black spirits or white blue 
 spirits or grey," I hope the effect has entirely disap 
 peared, and you are no longer tinged with its most 
 doleful shadow. A blue sky, a blue eye, or the blue 
 dye of the violet, are all undeniably beautiful, but 
 this tint when transferred from the works of nature 
 to the brow of man, or the stockings of woman, be 
 comes a thing to ridicule or weep at. May your 
 spirits henceforth, my dear brother, be preserved from 
 this ill-omened influence, and may your feet and 
 ankles never be graced with garments of a hue so 
 repulsive. Oh, brother, we are all in the heat of 
 moving; we I say, you will account for the use of 
 that personal pronoun on the authority of the old 
 proverb, " What a dust we flies raise," for, to be 
 frank with you, I have little or nothing to do with it, 
 but poor mother is over head and ears in boxes, bed 
 clothes, carpets, straw and discussions. Our hall is 
 already filled with the fruits of her labours and perse 
 verance, in the shape of certain blue chests, carpet 
 cases, trunks, boxes, &c., all ready for a move. Dear 
 mother is head, hand and feet for the whole machine; 
 our two helps being nothing but cranks, which turn 
 when you touch them, and cease their rotary move 
 ment when the force is withdrawn. Heigho. We 
 miss our good C , with her quick invention and 
 
BIOGRAPHY. IIT 
 
 helpful hand. ***** Oh my dear brother, I am 
 anticipating so much pleasure next summer, I hope it 
 will not all prove a dream. It will be so delightful 
 when you come lip in August and bring cousin 
 
 K with you; tell her I am calculating upon this 
 
 pleasure with all my powers of fore-enjoyment tell 
 her also, that I am waiting most impatiently for that 
 annihilating letter of hers, and if it does not come 
 soon, I shall send her another cannonade, ere she has 
 recovered the stunning effects of the first. Oh dear! 
 I have written you a most dis-understandable letter, 
 and now you must excuse me, as I have declared war 
 against M , and after mending my pen, must col 
 lect all my scattered ideas into a fleet, and launch 
 them for a combat upon a whole sea of ink. 
 
 " The exuberance of her spirit," says her mother, 
 " as the spring advanced, and she was enabled once 
 more to take exercise in the open air, displayed itself 
 in every thing. Her heart was.overflowing with thank 
 fulness and love. Every fine day in the latter part of 
 April, she either rode on horseback or drove out in a 
 carriage. All nature looked lovely to her, not a tree 
 or shrub but conveyed some poetical image or moral 
 lesson to her mind. The moment, however, that she 
 began to take daily exercise in the open air, I again 
 heard with agony the prophetic cough. I felt that all 
 was over! She thought that she had taken cold, and 
 our friends were of the same opinion. i It was a 
 slight cold which would vanish beneath the mild in 
 fluence of spring. I, however, feared that her father s 
 hopes might have blinded his judgment, and upon my 
 own responsibility consulted a skillful physician, who 
 had on many former occasions attended her. She was 
 
118 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 not aware of my present alarm, or that the physician 
 was now consulted. He managed in a playful man 
 ner to feel her pulse, without her suspicions. After 
 he had left the room, Madam/ said he, it is use 
 less to hold out any false hopes, your daughter has a 
 seated consumption, which is, I fear, beyond the reach 
 of medical skill. There is no hope in the case, make 
 her as happy and as comfortable as you can; iet her 
 enjoy riding in pleasant weather, but her walks must 
 be given up; walking is too great an exertion for her. 
 With an aching heart I returned to the lovely uncon 
 scious victim, and found her tying on her hat for a 
 ramble. I gently tried to dissuade her from going. 
 She caught rny eye, and read there a tale of grief, 
 which she could not understand, and I could not ex 
 plain. As soon as I dared trust my voice, I said my 
 dear Margaret, nothing has happened, only I have 
 
 just been speaking with Dr. , respecting you, and 
 
 he advises that you give up walking altogether. 
 Knowing how much you enjoy it, I am pained to 
 mention this, for I know that it will be a great priva 
 tion. Why, mamma, she exclaimed, this cold is 
 wearing off, may I not walk then? t The Doctor 
 thinks you should make no exertion of that kind, but 
 riding in fine weather may have a happy effect. She 
 stood and gazed upon my face long and earnestly; 
 then untied her hat and sat down, apparently rumi 
 nating upon what had past; she asked no questions, 
 but an expression of thoughtfulness clouded her brow 
 during the rest of the day. It was settled that she 
 was to ride out in fine weather, but not to walk out 
 at all, and in a day or two she seemed to have forgot 
 ten the circumstance altogether. The return of the 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 119 
 
 cough, and profuse night perspirations, too plainly 
 told me her doom, but I still clung to the hope, that, 
 as she suffered no pain, she might, by tender judicious 
 treatment, continue yet for years. I urged her to re 
 mit her labours; she saw how much my heart was in 
 the request, and promised to comply with my wishes. 
 On the first of May we removed to Saratoga. One 
 short half hour in the railroad car completed the 
 journey, and she arrived fresh, cheerful and blooming, 
 in her appearance, such an effect had the excitement 
 of pleasure upon her lovely face." 
 
 On the day we left Ballston she wrote a " Parting 
 Word" to Mrs. I!., who had been one of our most 
 intimate and affectionate visitors throughout the win 
 ter, and whose husband had assisted her much in her 
 studies of moral philosophy, as well as delighted her 
 by his varied and instructive conversation. 
 
 A PARTING WORD TO MY DEAR MRS. H. 
 
 BALLSTON SPA, April 30, 1838. 
 
 At length the awful morn hath come, 
 
 The parting hour is nigh, 
 And I sit down mid dust and gloom, 
 
 To bid you brief " good bye." 
 
 Each voice to fancy s listening ear, 
 
 Repeats the doleful cry, 
 And the bare walls and sanded floor, 
 
 Re-echo back " good bye." 
 
 So must it be ! but many a thought 
 
 Comes crowding on my mind, 
 Of the dear friends, the happy hours, 
 
 The joys we leave behind. 
 
120 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 How we shall miss your cheerful face, 
 
 Forever bright and smiling, 
 And your sweet voice so often heard, 
 
 Our weary hours beguiling ! 
 
 How shall we miss the kindly hearts, 
 Which none can know unloving, 
 
 Whose thoughts and feelings none can read, 
 Nor find his own improving ! 
 
 And he, whose converse, hour by hour, 
 Hath lent old Time new pinions, 
 
 Whose hand hath drawn the shadowy veil 
 From wisdom s broad dominions. 
 
 Whose voice hath poured forth priceless gems, 
 Scarce conscious that he taught, 
 
 Whose mind of broad, ofloftiest reach, 
 Hath showered down thought on thought 
 
 True we may meet with many a dear 
 
 And cherished friend, but yet 
 Oft shall we cast a backward glance 
 
 Of wistful vain regret. 
 
 When evening spreads her sombre veil, 
 
 To fold the slumbering earth, 
 When our small circle closes round 
 
 The humble, social hearth 
 
 Oft shall we dream of hours gone by, 
 
 And con these moments o er, 
 Till we half bend our ears to catch 
 
 Your footsteps at the door. 
 And then turn back and sigh to think 
 
 We hear those steps no more ! 
 
 But tho these dismal thoughts arise, 
 
 Hope makes me happy still, 
 There is a drop of comfort lurks, 
 
 In every draught of ill! 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 121 
 
 By pain and care each joy of earth 
 
 More exquisite is made, 
 And when we meet the parting grief 
 
 Shall doubly b$ o erpaid. 
 
 In disappointments deep too quick 
 
 Our fairest prospects drown, 
 Let not this hope, which blooms so bright, 
 
 Be wither d at his frown ! 
 
 Come, and a mother s pallid cheek 
 
 Shall brighten at your smile, 
 And her poor frame so faint and weak, 
 
 Forget its pains the while. 
 
 Come, and a glad and happy heart, 
 
 Shall give the welcome kiss, 
 And puss shall purr, and frisk and mew, 
 
 In token of her bliss. 
 
 Come ! and behold how I improve, 
 
 In dusting cleaning sweeping, 
 And I will hear, with patient ear, 
 
 Your lectures on house-keeping. 
 
 And now, may all good Angels guard, 
 
 Your path where er it lie, 
 May peace reign monarch in your breast, 
 
 And gladness in your eye. 
 
 And may the dews of health descend, 
 
 On him you cherish best, 
 To his worn frame their influence lend, 
 
 And calm each nerve to rest! 
 
 And may we meet again ! nor feel 
 
 The parting hour so nigh, 
 Peace, love and happiness to all, 
 
 Once more once more, " good bye !" 
 
 "She interested herself" continued Mrs. Davidson, 
 " more than I had anticipated in the arrangement of 
 our new habitation arid in forming plans of future 
 
 9 
 
122 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 enjoyment with our friends, when they should visit 
 us; I exerted myself to please her taste in everything, 
 although she was prohibited from making the slightest 
 physical exertion herself. The house settled, then 
 came the flower garden, in which she spent more time 
 than I thought prudent: but she was so happy while 
 thus engaged and the weather being fine, and the 
 gardener disposed to gratify her and carry all her little 
 plans into effect; I, like a weak mother, wanted reso 
 lution to interfere, and have always reproached myself 
 for it although not conscious that it was an injury at 
 the time. Her brother had invited her to return to 
 New York with him when he came to visit us in 
 June, and she was not impatiently counting the days 
 until his arrival. Her feelings are portrayed in a 
 letter to her young friend H." 
 
 SARATOGA, June 1, 1838. 
 
 June is at last with us, my dear cousin, and 
 the blue-eyed goddess could not have looked upon 
 the green bosom of her mother earth, attired in a 
 lovelier or more enchanting robe. I am seated by an 
 open window, and the breeze laden with the perfumes 
 of the blossoms and opening leaves just lifts the edge 
 of my sheet and steals with the gentlest footsteps 
 imaginable to fan my cheek and forehead. The grass 
 tinged with the deepest and freshest green is waving 
 beneath its influence; the birds are singing their sweet 
 est songs; and as I look into the depths of the clear 
 blue sky the rich tints appear to flit higher and higher 
 as I gaze, till my eye seems searching into immea 
 surable distance. Oh ! such a day as this, it is a luxury 
 to breathe. I feel as if I could frisk and gambol like 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 123 
 
 my kitten from the mere consciousness of life. Yet 
 with all the loveliness around me I reperuse your letter, 
 and long for wings^to fly from it all to the dull atmos 
 phere and crowded highways of the city. Yes! I 
 could then look into your eyes and I should forget the 
 blue sky; and your smile, and your voice would doubly 
 compensate me for the loss of green trees and singing 
 birds. There are green trees in the heart which shed 
 a softer perfume, and birds which sing more sweetly. 
 "Nonsense, Mag is growing sentimental;" I knew 
 you would say so, but the streak came across me and 
 you have it at full length. In plainer terms, how de 
 lighted, how more than delighted I shall be when I 
 do come! when I do come, Kate! oh! oh! oh! what 
 would our language be without interjections, those 
 expressive parts of speech which say so much in so 
 small a compass. Now I am sure you can under 
 stand from these three syllables all the pleasure, the 
 rapture I anticipate; the meeting, the parting, all the 
 component parts of that great whole which I denomi 
 nate a visit to New York! No not to New York! 
 but to the few dear friends whose society will afford 
 me all the enjoyment I expect or desire, and who, in 
 fact constitute all my New York. 
 
 June 3d. I had written thus far, dear Kate, when 
 I was most agreeably interrupted by a proposal for a 
 ride on horseback; my sheet slid of itself into the open 
 drawer, my hat and dress flew on as if by instinct, and 
 in ten minutes I was galloping full speed through the 
 streets of our little village with father by my side. 1 rode 
 till nearly tea time and came home tired, tired, tired: Oh 
 I ache to think of it, My poor letter slept all night as 
 soundly as its writer, but now that another day has 
 
124 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 dawned the very opposite of its predecessor,damp,dark 
 and rainy, I have drawn it forth from its receptacle, and 
 seek to dissipate all outward gloom. by communing with 
 one the thought of whom conveys to my mind any thing 
 but melancholy. Oh, Kate, Kate, in spite of your dis 
 interested and sober advice to the contrary, I shall 
 come, I shall soon come, just as soon as M. can and 
 will run up for me. Yet perhaps, in the end I shall 
 be disappointed. My happy anticipations % resemble 
 the cloudless sky of yesterday and who knows but a 
 stormy to-morrow may erase the brilliant tints of hope 
 as well as those of nature. ****** DO write quickly 
 and tell me if I am to prepare, if you continue to feel 
 as when you last wrote and still advise me not to 
 come I shall dispose of your advice in the most ap 
 proved manner, throw it to the winds, and embark 
 armed and equipped for your city to make my destined 
 visit, and fulfil its conditions by fair means or foul and 
 bring you home in triumph. Oh! we shall have fine 
 times. Oh dear, I blush, to look back upon my sheet 
 and see so many Ps in it. 
 
 The time of her brother s coming drew near. He 
 would be with us at nine in the morning. At eleven 
 they were to start. I prepared all for her departure 
 with my own hand, lest, should I trust it to a domestic 
 to make the arrangements, she would make some ex 
 ertion herself. She sat by me whilst thus engaged, 
 relating playful anecdotes until I urged her to retire 
 for the night. On going into her room an hour or two 
 afterwards, I was alarmed to find her in a high fever. 
 About midnight she was taken with bleeding at the 
 lungs. I flew to her father, and in a few minutes a 
 vein was opened in her arm. To describe our feelings 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 125 
 
 at this juncture is impossible. We stood, gazing at 
 each other in mute despair. After that shock had sub 
 sided her father retired, and I seated myself by the bed 
 side to watch her slumbers, and the rising sun found 
 me still at my post. She awoke, pale, feeble and ex 
 hausted by the debilitating perspiration which attended 
 her sleep. She was surprised to find that I had not 
 been in bed; but when she attempted to speak I laid 
 my finger upon her lips and desired her to be silent. 
 She understood iny motive, and when I bent my head 
 to Jdss her, 1 saw a tear upon her cheek. I told her 
 the necessity of perfect quiet, and the danger which 
 would result from agitation. Before her brother came 
 she desired to rise. I assisted her to do so, and he 
 found her quietly seated in her easy chair, perfectly 
 composed in manner, and determined not to increase 
 her difficulties by giving way to feelings which must 
 at that time, have oppressed her heart. My son was 
 greatly shocked to find her in this state. I met him 
 and urged the importance of perfect self-possession on 
 his part, as any sudden agitation might in her present 
 alarming state be fatal. Poor fellow! he subdued his 
 feelings and met her with a cheerful smile which con 
 cealed a heart almost bursting with sorrow. The pro 
 priety of her taking this jaunt had been discussed by 
 her father and myself for a number of weeks. We 
 both thought her too ill to leave home, but her strong 
 desire to go, the impression she had imbibed that 
 travelling would greatly benefit her health, and the 
 pleading of friends in her behalf, on the ground that 
 disappointment would have a more unfavorable effect 
 than the journey possibly could have, all had their 
 effect in leading us to consent. It was possible it might 
 
126 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 be of use to her, although it was at best an experi 
 ment of a doubtful nature. But this attack was deci 
 sive; yet caution must be used in breaking the matter 
 to her in her present weak stale. Her brother stayed a 
 day or two with us, and then returned, telling her that 
 when she was able to perform the journey, he would 
 come again and take her with him. After he left us, she 
 soon regained her usual strength, and in a fortnight her 
 brother returned and took her to New York. 
 
 The anxiety of Mrs. Davidson was intense until she 
 received her first letter. It was written from New- 
 York, and in a cheerful vein, speaking encouragingly 
 of her health, but showing more solicitude about the 
 health and well being of her mother than of her own. 
 She continued to write frequently, giving animated 
 accounts of scenes and persons. 
 
 The following extract relates to an excursion, in 
 company with two of her brothers, into West Chester 
 county, one of the pleasantest, and, until recently, the 
 least fashionably known, regions on the banks of the 
 Hudson. 
 
 " At three o clock, we were in the Singsing steamer, 
 with the water sparkling below, and the sun broiling 
 over head. In the course of our sail a huge thunder 
 cloud arose, and I retreated, quite terrified to the 
 cabin. But it proved a refreshing shower. Oh! how 
 sweet, how delightful the air was. When we landed 
 at the dock, every thing looked so fresh and green. 
 We mounted into a real country vehicle, and rattled 
 up the hill to the village inn, a quiet, pleasant little 
 house. I was immediately shown to my room, where 
 I stayed until tea-time, enjoying the prospect of a 
 splendid sunset upon the mountains, and resting after 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 127 
 
 the fatigues of the day. At seven, we drank tea, a 
 meal strongly contrasted with the fashionable meagre 
 unsocial city tea. The table was crowded with every 
 thing good, in the rjaost bountiful style, and served 
 with the greatest attention by the landlord s pretty 
 daughter. I retired soon after tea, and slept soundly 
 until day break. After breakfast, we sent for a car 
 riage to take us along the course of the Croton, to see 
 the famous water works, but, to our disappointment, 
 every carriage was engaged, and we could not go. 
 In the afternoon, a party was made up to go in a boat 
 across the river, and ascend a mountain to a singular 
 lake upon its summit, where all the implements of 
 fishing were provided, and a collation was prepared. 
 In short, it was a pic-nic. To this we were invited, 
 but on learning they would not return until nine or 
 ten in the evening, that scheme also was abandoned. 
 Towards night we walked around the village, looked 
 at the tunnel, and visited the ice-cream man, and in 
 spite of my various disappointments, I retired quite 
 happy and pleased with my visit. The next day was 
 Sunday, and we proposed going to the little Dutch 
 church, a few miles distant, arid hearing the service 
 performed in Dutch; but lo! on drawing aside my 
 curtains in the morning it rained, and we were obliged 
 to content ourselves as well as we could until the rain 
 was over. After dinner the sun again peeped out, as 
 if for our especial gratification, and in a few minutes 
 a huge country waggon, with a leathern top and two 
 sleek horses drew up to the door. We mounted into 
 it and away we rattled over the most beautiful coun 
 try I ever saw. Oh! it was magnificent! Every now 
 and then the view of the broad Hudson, with its distant 
 
128 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 hills, and the clouds resting on their summits, burst 
 upon our view. Now we would ascend a lofty hill, 
 clothed with forests, and verdure of the most brilliant 
 hues; now dash down into a deep ravine, with a 
 stream winding and gurgling along its bed, Avith its 
 tiny waves rushing over the wheel of some rustic 
 mill, embosomed in its shade and solitude. Every 
 now and then the gable end of some low dutch build 
 ing would present itself before us, smiling in its peace 
 ful stillness, and conveying to the mind a perfect pic 
 ture of rural simplicity and comfort, although, perhaps, 
 of ignorance. At length we paused upon the summit 
 of a gentle hill, and judge of my delight when I beheld 
 below me, the old Dutch church, the quiet, secluded* 
 beautiful little church yard, the running stream, the 
 path, and the rustic bridge, the ever memorable scene 
 of Ichabod s adventure with the headless horseman, 
 There, thought I, rushed the poor pedagogue, his 
 knees cramped up to his saddle-bow with fear, his 
 hands grasping his horse s mane, with convulsive 
 energy, in the hope that the rising stream might ar 
 rest the progress of his fearful pursuer, and allow 
 him to pass in safety. Vain hope ! Scarce had he 
 reached the bridge when he heard, rattling behind 
 him, the hoofs of his fiendish companion. The church 
 seemed in a blaze to his bewildered eyes, and urging 
 on, on, he turned to look once more, when, horror of 
 horrors! the head, the fearful head, was in the act of 
 descending upon his devoted shoulders. Ha! ha! ha! 
 I never laughed so in my life. Well we rode on 
 through the scene of poor Andre s capture, and dashed 
 along the classic valleys of Sleepy Hollow. After a 
 long and delightful drive, we returned in time for tea. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 129 
 
 After tea we were invited into Mrs. F. s parlor, 
 where, after a short time, were collected quite a party 
 of ladies and gentlemen. At nine we were served 
 Avith ice-cream, wipe, &c. I retired very much pleased 
 and very much fatigued. Early in the morning we 
 rose with a most brilliant sun, breakfasted, mounted 
 once more into the waggon, and rattled off to the 
 dock. Oh! that I could describe to you how fresh 
 and sweet the air was. I felt as if I wanted to open 
 my mouth wide and inhale it. We gave M. our 
 parting kisses, and soon found ourselves once more, 
 after this charming episode, approaching the mighty 
 city. We had a delightful sail of two or three hours, 
 and again rode up to dear aunt M. s, where all seemed 
 glad at my return. I spent the remainder of the day 
 in resting and reading." 
 
 In these artless epistles, continues Mrs. Davidson, 
 there is much of character, for who could imagine this 
 constant cheerfulness, this almost forgetfulness of self, 
 these affectionate endeavors, by her sweetly playful 
 account of all her employments while absent, to dis 
 pel the grief, which she knew was preying upon my 
 mind on account of her illness. Who could conceive 
 the pains she took to conceal from me the ravages, 
 which disease was daily making upon her form. She 
 was never heard to complain, and in her letters to 
 me, she hardly alludes to her illness. The friends to 
 whom I had entrusted her, during her short period of 
 absence, sometimes feared that she would never be 
 able to reach home again. Her brother told me, but 
 not until long after her return, that on her way home 
 she really fainted several times from debility and 
 that he took her from the boat to the carriage, as he 
 would have done an infant. 
 
130 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 On the sixth of July, I once more folded to my 
 heart this cherished object of my solicitude, but oh, 
 the change which three short weeks had wrought in 
 her appearance, struck me forcibly. I was so wholly 
 unprepared for it, that I nearly fainted. After the 
 excitement of the meeting, (which she had evidently 
 summoned all her fortitude to bear with composure) 
 was over, she sat down by me, and passing her thin 
 arm around my waist, said, " Oh, my dear mamma, I 
 am home again at last, I now feel as if I never wanted 
 to leave you again; I have had a delightful visit, my 
 friends were all glad to see me, and have watched 
 over me with all the kindness and care, which affec 
 tion could dictate, but oh, there is no place like home, 
 and no care like a mother s care; there is something 
 in the very air of home, and in the sound of your 
 voice, mother, which makes me happier just now, 
 than all the scenes which I have passed through in 
 my little jaunt; oh, after all, home is the only place for 
 a person as much out of health as I am. I strove to sup 
 port my emotions, while I marked her pale cheek and 
 altered countenance. She fixed her penetrating eyes 
 upon my face, kissed me, and drawing back to take a 
 more full survey of the effects which pain and anxiety 
 had wrought in me, kissed me again and again, say 
 ing, " she knew 1 had deeply felt the want of her 
 society, and now once more at home, she should so 
 prize its comforts, as to be in no haste to leave it 
 again." She was much wasted, and could hardly 
 walk from one room to another; her cough was very 
 distressing, she had no pain, but a languor and a de 
 pression of spirits, foreign to her nature. She struggled 
 against this debility, and called up all the energies of 
 her mind to overcome it, her constant reply to inqui- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 131 
 
 ries about her health, by the friends who called, was 
 the same as formerly, " Well, quite well mother calls 
 me an invalid, but I feel well." Yet, to me, when 
 alone, she talked more freely of her symptoms, and I 
 thought I could discern from her manner, that she had 
 apprehensions as to the result. I had often endea 
 vored to acquire firmness sufficient to tell her what 
 was her situation, but she seemed so studiously to 
 avoid the disclosure, that my resolution had hitherto, 
 been unequal to the task. But I was much surprised 
 one day, not long after her return from New York, 
 by her asking me to tell her without reserve, my 
 opinion of her state; the question wrung my very heart. 
 I was wholly unprepared for it, and it was put in so 
 solemn a manner, that 1 could not evade it, were I 
 disposed to do so. I knew with what strong affection 
 she clung to life, and the objects and friends which 
 endeared it to her; I knew how bright the world upon 
 which she was just entering appeared to her young 
 fancy, what glowing pictures she had drawn of future 
 usefulness and happiness. 1 was now called upon at 
 one blow, to crush these hopes, to destroy the delight 
 ful visions, which had hovered around her from her 
 cradle until this very period; it would be cruel and 
 wrong to deceive her; in vain I attempted a reply to 
 her direct and solemn appeal, and my voice grew 
 husky; several times I essayed to speak, but the 
 words died away on my lips; I could only fold her to 
 my heart in silence, imprint a kiss upon her forehead, 
 and leave the room to avoid agitating her with feel 
 ings I had no power to repress. 
 
 The following extract from a letter to her brother 
 in New York, dated a short time after this incident 
 
132 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 occurred, and which I never saw until after her de 
 parture, will best portray her own feelings at this 
 period. 
 
 "As to my health at present, I feel as well as when 
 you were here, and the cough is much abated, but 
 it is evident to me, that mother thinks me not so 
 well as before I left home; I do not myself believe 
 that I have gained any thing from the visit, and in a 
 case like mine, standing still is certainly loss, but I 
 feel no worse. However, I have learned, that feel 
 ings are no criterion of disease. Now, brother, I 
 
 want to know, what Dr. M discovered, or thought 
 
 he discovered in his examination of my lungs; father 
 says nothing mother, when I ask, cannot tell me, 
 and looks so sad! Now, I ask you, hoping to be 
 answered. If you have not heard the doctor say, I 
 wish you would ask him, and write to me. If it is 
 more unfavorable than I anticipate, it is best I should 
 know now; if it is the contrary, how much pain and 
 restlessness and suspicion will be spared me, by the 
 knowledge. As to myself, I feel and know that my 
 health is in a most precarious state, that the disease 
 we dread, has perhaps fastened upon me, but I have 
 an impression, that if I make use of the proper reme 
 dies and exercise, I may yet recover a tolerable de 
 gree of health. I do not feel that my case is incura 
 ble; I wish to know if I am wrong. I have rode on 
 horseback twice since you left me; dear, dear brother, 
 what a long egotistic letter I have written you; do 
 forgive me, my heart was full, and I felt that I must 
 unburden it. I wish you would write me a long 
 letter. Do not let dear mother know at present, the 
 questions I have asked you. ********* 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 133 
 
 From this period, she grew more thoughtful. 
 There was even a solemnity in her manner, which 
 I never before observed. Her mind, as I mentioned 
 before, had been rrmch perplexed by some doctrinal 
 points. To solve these doubts, I asked if I should 
 not send for some clergyman. She said no. She had 
 heard many discussions on these subjects, and they had 
 always served rather to confuse than to convince her. 
 " I would rather converse with you alone, mother." 
 She then asked me if I thought it essential to salvation 
 that she should adopt any particular creed. I felt that 
 I was an inefficient, perhaps a blind guide, yet it was 
 my duty not only to impart consolation, but to explain 
 to her my own views of the truth. I replied that I con 
 sidered faith and repentance only, to be essential to sal 
 vation : that it was very desirable that her mind should 
 be settled upon some particular mode of faith; but that 
 I did not think it absolutely necessary that she should 
 adopt the tenets of any established church, and again 
 recommended an attentive perusal of the New Testa 
 ment. She expressed her firm belief in the divinity 
 of Christ. The perfections of his character, its beauty 
 and holiness excited her admiration, while the bene 
 volence which prompted the sacrifice of himself to save 
 a lost world, filled her with the most enthusiastic 
 gratitude. It was a source of regret that so much of 
 her time had been spent in light reading, and that her 
 writings had not been of a more decidedly religious 
 character. She lamented that she had not chosen 
 Scriptural subjects for the exercise of her poetical talent, 
 and said, "Mamma, should God spare my life, my time 
 and talents shall for the future, be devoted to a higher 
 and holier end." She felt that she had trifled with the 
 
134 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 gifts of Providence, and her self condemnation and 
 grief were truly affecting. " And must I die so young? 
 My career of usefulness hardly commenced? Oh! 
 mother, how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of 
 Heaven! What have I done which can benefit one 
 human being?" I folded her to my heart, and endea 
 vored to soothe the tumult of her feelings, baJe her 
 remember her dutiful conduct as a daughter, lur affec 
 tionate bearing as a sister and friend, and the consola 
 tion which she had afforded me through years ot suffer 
 ing! "Oh my mother," said she, " I have been reflect 
 ing much of late, upon this sad waste of intellect, and 
 had marked out for myself a course of usefulness which, 
 
 should God spare my life ." Here her emotions 
 
 became too powerful to proceed. At times she suffered 
 much anxiety with regard to her eternal welfare, and 
 deeply lamented her want of faithfulness in the perform 
 ance of her religious duties: complained of coldness 
 and formality in her devotional exercises, and entreat 
 ed me to pray with and for her. At other times, her 
 hope of Heaven would be bright, her faith unwavering 
 and her devotion fervent. Yet it was evident to me, 
 that she still cherished the hope that her life might be 
 prolonged. Her mother had. lingered for years in a 
 state equally hopeless, and during that period had been 
 enabled to attend to the moral and religious culture of 
 her little family. Might not the same kind Providence 
 prolong her life,. It would be vain to attempt a de 
 scription of those seasons of deep and thrilling interest. 
 God alone knows in what way my own weak frame 
 was sustained. I felt that she had been renovated and 
 purified by Divine Grace, and to see her thus distrest 
 when I thought that all the consolations of the Gospel 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 135 
 
 ought to be hers, gave my heart a severe pang. Ma 
 ny of our friends now were of opinion that a change 
 of climate might benefit, perhaps restore her. Here 
 tofore, when the* suggestion had been made, she 
 shrunk from the idea of leaving her home for a distant 
 clime. Now her anxiety to try the effect of a change 
 was great, I felt that it would be vain, although I was 
 desirous that nothing should be left untried. Feeble 
 as she now was, the idea of her resigning the comforts 
 of home and being subject to the fatigues of travelling 
 in public conveyances was a dreadful one, yet if there 
 was a rational prospect of prolonging her life by these 
 means, I was anxious to give them a trial. Dr. Da 
 vidson after much deliberation on the the subject,called 
 
 counsel. Dr. came, and when after half an hour s 
 
 pleasant and playful conversation with Margaret, he 
 joined us in the parlor, Oh! how my poor heart 
 trembled. I hung upon the motions of his lips as if 
 my own life depended on what they might utter. At 
 length he spoke, and I felt as if an ice-bolt had passed 
 through my heart. He had never thought, although 
 he had known her many years, that a change of cli 
 mate would benefit her. She had lived beyond his ex 
 pectations many months, even years; and now he was 
 convinced, were we to attempt to take her to a Southern 
 climate, that she would die on the passage. Make it 
 as pleasant as possible for her at home, was his advice. 
 He thought that a few months must terminate her life. 
 She knew that we had confidence in the opinion of 
 this, her favorite physician. When I had gained firm 
 ness enough to answer her questions, I again entered 
 the room and found her composed, although she had 
 evidently been strongly agitated, and had not brought 
 
136 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 her mind to hear her doom. Never, oh! never to the 
 latest hour of my life, shall I forget the look she gave 
 me when I met her. What a heart-rending task was 
 mine ! I performed it as gently as possible. I said the 
 Doctor thought her strength unequal to the fatigue of 
 the journey; that he was not so great an advocate for 
 change of climate as many persons; that he had known 
 many cases in which he thought it injurious, and his 
 best advice was that we should again ward off the 
 severity of the winter by creating an atmosphere within 
 our house. She mildly acquiesced, and the subject 
 was dropped altogether. She sometimes read, and 
 frequently from mere habit, held a book in her hand 
 when unable to digest its contents, and within the 
 book, there usually rested a piece of paper, upon which 
 she occasionally marked the reflections which arose in 
 her mind, either in poetry or prose. 
 
 The following fragments appear to be the very 
 breathings of her soul during the last few weeks of 
 her life written in pencil, in a hand so weak and 
 tremulous that I could with difficulty decipher them 
 word by word with the aid of a strong magnifying 
 glass. 
 
 "Consumption ! child of woe, thy blighting breath 
 Marks all that s fair and lovely for thine own, 
 And, sweeping o er the silver chords of life, 
 Blends all their music in one death-like tone. 
 
 1838. 
 
 " What strange, what mystic things we are, 
 With spirits longing to outlive the stars. 
 ******** b u t even m decay 
 
 Hasting to meet our brethren in the dust. 
 As one small dew-drop runs, another drops 
 To sink unnoticed in the world of waves. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 137 
 
 " O it is sad to feel that when a few short years 
 Of life are past, we shall lie down, unpitied 
 And unknown, amid a careless world ; 
 That youth and age and revelry and grief 
 Above our heads nhall pass, and we alone 
 Shall sleep ! alone shall be as we have been. 
 No more. ***** 
 
 These are unfinished fragments, a part of which I 
 could not decipher at all. I insert them to give an 
 idea of the daily operations of her mind during the 
 whole of this long summer of suffering. Her gentle 
 spirit never breathed a murmur or complaint. I think 
 she was rarely heard to express even a feeling of 
 weariness. But here are a few more of those out 
 pourings of the heart. I copy these little effusions 
 with all their errors; there is a sacredness about them 
 which forbids the change even of a single letter. The 
 first of the fragments which follow was written on a 
 Sabbath evening in autumn, not many weeks before 
 her death. 
 
 It is autumn, the season of rapid decay, 
 
 When the flow rets of summer are hasting away 
 
 From the breath of the wintry blast, 
 And the buds which oped to the gazer s eye, 
 And the glowing tints of the gorgeous sky, 
 And the forests robed in their emerald dye, 
 
 With their loveliest blossoms have past. 
 Tis eve, and the brilliant sunset hue 
 Is replaced by a sky of the coldest blue, 
 
 Untouched by a floating cloud. 
 And all nature is silent, calm and serene, 
 As though sorrow and suffering never had been 
 
 On this beautiful earth abroad. 
 Tis a Sabbath eve, and the longing soul 
 Is charm d by its quiet and gentle control 
 
 From each wayward and wandering thought, 
 10 
 
138 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And it longs from each meaner affection to move, 
 And it soareth the troubles of earth above 
 To bathe in that fountain of light and love, 
 Whence our purest enjoyments are caught. 
 
 1838. 
 
 But winter, O what shall thy greeting be 
 
 From our waters, our earth and our sky ; 
 What welcoming strain shall arise for thee 
 
 As thy chariot wheels draw nigh ? 
 Alas! the fresh flowers of the spirit decay 
 
 As thy cold, cold steps advance, 
 And even young Fancy is shrinking away 
 
 From the chill of thy terrible glance; 
 And Hope with her mantle of rainbow hue 
 
 Hath fled from thy freezing eye, 
 And her bright train of visions are melting in air 
 
 As thy shivering blasts sweep by. 
 
 Thy ****** 
 
 Oct. 1838. 
 
 The nature of the soul, 
 The spirit, what is it? Mysterious, sublime, 
 
 Undying, unchanging, forever the same, 
 It bounds lightly athwart the dark billows of time, 
 
 And moves on unscorched by its heavenly flame. 
 
 Man owns thee and feels thee, and knows thee divine; 
 
 He feels thou art his, and thou never canst die ; 
 He believes thee a gem from the Maker s pure shrine, 
 
 A portion of purity holy and high, 
 
 Tis around him, within him the source of his life, 
 Yet too weak to contemplate its glory and might; 
 
 He trembling shrinks back to dull earth s humble strife, 
 And leaves the pure atmosphere glowing with light. 
 
 Thou spark from the Deity s radiant throne, 
 
 I know thee, yet shrink from thy greatness and power ; 
 
 Thou art mine in thy splendor, I feel thee my own, 
 Yet behold me as frail as the light summer flower. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 139 
 
 I strive in my weakness to gaze on thy might, 
 
 To trace out thy wanderings through ages to come, 
 Till like birds on the sea, all exhausted, at length 
 
 I flutter back weary to earth as my home. 
 
 > * 
 Like a diamond when laid in a rough case of clay, 
 
 Which may crumble and wear from the pure gem enclos d, 
 But which ne er can be lit by one tremulous ray 
 
 From the glory-crown d star in its dark case reposed. 
 
 As the cool weather advanced, her decline became 
 more visible, and she devoted more and more of her 
 time to searching the Scriptures, self-examination and 
 subjects for reflection, and questions which were to 
 be solved by evidences deduced from the Bible. I 
 found them but a few days before her death, in the 
 sacred volume which lay upon the table, at which 
 she usually sat during her hours of retirement. She 
 had been searching the holy book, and overcome by 
 the exertion, rang the bell which summoned me to 
 her side, for no person but myself was admitted dur 
 ing the time set apart for her devotional exercises. 
 
 Subjects for reflection. 
 
 1st. The uniform usefulness of Christ s miracles. 
 
 2d. The manner in which he overthrows all the 
 exalted hopes which the Jews entertain of a temporal 
 kingdom, and strives to explain to them the entire 
 spirituality of the one he has come to erect. 
 
 3d. The deep and unchangeable love for man, 
 which must have impelled Christ to resist so many 
 temptations and endure so many sufferings, even 
 death, that truth might enlighten the world, and 
 heaven and immortality become realities instead of 
 dreams. 
 
 4th. The general thoughtlessness of man with re 
 gard to his greatest, his only interest. 
 
140 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 5th. Christ s constant submission to the will of his 
 father, and the necessity of our imitating the meek 
 and calm and gentle qualities of his character, together 
 with that firmness of purpose and confidence in God 
 which sustained him to the end. 
 
 6th. The necessity of so living, that we need not 
 fear to think each day our last. 
 
 7th. The necessity of religion to soothe and sup 
 port the mind on the bed of sickness. 
 8th. Self-examination. 
 
 9th. Is Christ mentioned expressly in Scripture as 
 equal with God and a part? 
 
 10th. Is there sufficient ground for the doctrine of 
 the Trinity? 
 
 llth. Did Christ come as a prophet and reformer of 
 the world, or as a sacrifice for our sins, to appease 
 the wrath of his father. 
 
 12th. Is any thing said of infant baptism? 
 
 Written in November 1838. 
 
 About three weeks before her departure, I one 
 morning found her in the parlor, where, as I before 
 observed, she spent a portion of her time in retire 
 ment, I saw that she had been much agitated, and 
 seemed weary. I seated myself by her and rested 
 her head on my bosom, while I gently pressed my 
 hand upon her throbbing temples to soothe the agita 
 tion of her nerves. She kissed me again and again, 
 and seemed as if she feared to trust her voice to speak 
 lest her feelings should overcome her. As I returned 
 her caresses, she silently put a folded paper in my 
 hand. I began to open it, when she gently laid her 
 hand on mine, and said in a low tremulous tone, Not 
 now, dear mother!" I then led her back to her room, 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 141 
 
 placed her upon the sofa, and retired to examine the 
 paper. It contained the following lines. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Oh Mother, would the power were mine, 
 To wake the strain thou lov st to hear, 
 
 And breath each trembling new-born thought, 
 Within thy fondly listening ear. 
 
 As when in days of health and glee, 
 
 My hopes and fancies wander d free. 
 
 But, mother, now a shade has past, 
 Athwart my brightest visions here, 
 
 A cloud of darkest gloom has wrapt, 
 The remnant of my brief career ! 
 
 No song, no echo can I win, 
 
 The sparkling fount has died within. 
 
 The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 
 
 And fancy spreads her wings no more. 
 And oh, how vain and trivial seem, 
 
 The pleasures that I prized before. 
 My soul with trembling steps and slow, 
 
 Is struggling on through doubt and strife, 
 Oh ! may it prove as time rolls on, 
 
 The pathway to eternal life; 
 Then, when my cares and fears are o er, 
 I ll sing thee as in days of yore. 
 
 I said that hope had pass d from earth, 
 Twas but to fold her wings in Heaven, 
 
 To whisper of the soul s new birth, 
 Of sinners sav d and sins forgiven. 
 
 When mine are wash d in tears away, 
 
 Then shall my spirit swell my lay. 
 
 When God shall guide my soul above, 
 By the soft cords of heavenly love, 
 When the vain cares of earth depart, 
 And tuneful voices swell my heart, 
 
142 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
 Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise, 
 And all not offered at His shrine, 
 Dear mother, I will place on thine. 
 
 It was long before I could regain sufficient com 
 posure to return to her. When I did so, I found her 
 sweetly calm, and she greeted me with a smile so full 
 of affection, that I shall cherish the recollection of its 
 brightness until my latest breath. It was the last 
 piece she ever wrote, except a parody of four lines of 
 the hymn, " I would not live always," which was 
 written within the last week of her life. 
 
 " I would not live always, thus fettered by sin, 
 Temptation without, and corruption within, 
 With the soul ever dimm d by its hopes and its fears, 
 And the heart s holy flame ever struggling through tears. 
 
 Thus far, in preparing this memoir, we have availed 
 ourselves almost entirely of copious memoranda, fur 
 nished us, at our request, by Mrs. Davidson; but 
 when the narrator approached the closing scene of 
 this most affecting story, the heart of the mother gave 
 out, and she found herself totally inadequate to the 
 task. Fortunately, Dr. Davidson had retained a copy 
 of a letter, written by her in the midst of her affliction, 
 to Miss Sedgwick, in reply to an epistle from that 
 lady, expressive of the kindest sympathy, and making 
 some inquiries relative to the melancholy event. We 
 subjoin that letter entire, for never have we read any 
 thing of the kind more truly eloquent or deeply affect- 
 ins. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 143 
 
 " SARATOGA SPRINGS. 
 
 "ES, my dear Miss Sedgwick: she is an angel now; 
 calmly and sweeny she sunk to her everlasting rest, 
 as a babe gently slumbers on its mother s bosom. I 
 thank my Father in heaven that I was permitted to 
 watch over her, and I trust administer to her comfort 
 during her illness. I know, my friend, you will not 
 expect either a very minute or connected detail of the 
 circumstances preceding her change, from me at this 
 time, for I am indeed bowed down with sorrow. I 
 feel that I am truly desolate, how desolate I will not 
 attempt to describe. Yet in the depth of grief I have 
 consolations of the purest, most soothing and exalted 
 nature. I would not, indeed I could not murmur, but 
 rather bless my God that he has in the plenitude of 
 his goodness made me, even for a brief space on earth, 
 the honored mother of such an angel. Oh my dear 
 Miss Sedgwick, I wish you could have seen her during 
 the last two months of her brief sojourn with us. Her 
 meekness and patience, and her even cheerful bearing 
 were unexampled. But when she was assured that 
 all the tender and endearing ties which bound her to 
 earth were about to be severed, when she saw that 
 life and all its bright visions were fading from her 
 eyes that she was standing at the entrance of the 
 dark valley which must be traversed in her way to 
 the eternal world, the struggle was great, but brief 
 she caught the hem of her Saviour s robe and 
 meekly bowed to the mandate of her God. Since the 
 beginning of August, I have watched this tender blos 
 som with intense anxiety, and marked her decline with 
 a breaking heart; and although from that time until 
 the period of her departure, I never spent a whole 
 
144 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 night in bed, my excitement was so strong that I was 
 unconscious of the want of sleep. Oh, my dear ma 
 dam, the whole course of her decline was so unlike 
 any other death-bed scene I ever witnessed; there 
 was nothing of the gloom of a sick chamber; a charm 
 was in and around her; a holy light seemed to per 
 vade everything belonging to her. There was a sacred- 
 ness, if I may so express it, which seemed to tell the 
 presence of the Divinity. Strangers felt it, all acknow 
 ledged it. Very few were admitted to her sick room, 
 but those few left it with an elevation of heart new, 
 solemn, and delightful. She continued to ride out as 
 long as the weather was mild, and even after she be 
 came too weak to walk she frequently desired to be 
 taken into the parlor, and when there, with all her 
 little implements of drawing and writing, her books, 
 and even her little work box and basket beside her: 
 she seemed to think that by these little attempts at 
 her usual employments, she could conceal from me, 
 for she saw my heart was breaking, the ravages of 
 disease and her consequent debility. The New Tes 
 tament was her daily study, and a portion of every 
 day was spent in private, in self-examination and 
 prayer. My dear Miss Sedgwick, how I have felt 
 my own littleness, my total unworthiness, when com 
 pared with this pure, this high-souled, intellectual, 
 yet timid, humble child; bending at the altar of her 
 God, and pleading for pardon arid acceptance in his 
 sight, and grace to assist her in preparing for eternity. 
 As her strength wasted, she often desired me to share 
 her hours of retirement and converse with her, and 
 read to her, when unable to read herself. Oh! how 
 sad. how delightful, how agonising is the memory of 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 145 
 
 the sweet and holy communion we then enjoyed. 
 Forgive rne, my friend, for thus mingling rny own 
 feelings with the circumstances you wished to know; 
 and, oh! continue to pray that God will give me sub 
 mission under this desolating stroke. She was my 
 darling, my almost idolized child: truly, truly, you 
 have said, the charm of my existence. Her symptoms 
 were extremely distressing, although she suffered no 
 pain. A week before her departure, she desired that 
 the sacrament of the Lord s Supper might be admin 
 istered to her. * Mother, said she < I do not desire 
 it because I feel worthy to receive it, I feel myself a 
 sinner, but I desire to manifest my faith in Christ by 
 receiving an ordinance instituted by himself but a 
 short time before his crucifixion. The Holy Sacra 
 ment was administered by Mr. Babcock. The solem 
 nity of the scene can be better felt than described. I 
 cannot attempt it. After it was over, a holy calm 
 seemed to pervade her mind, and she looked almost 
 like a beatified spirit. The evening following, she 
 said to me, < mother I have made a solemn surrender 
 of myself to God; if it is his will, I would desire to 
 live long enough to prove the sincerity of my profes 
 sion, but his will be done; living or dying I am hence 
 forth devoted to God. After this, some doubt seemed 
 to intrude, her spirit was troubled. I asked her if 
 there was any thing she desired to have done, any 
 little arrangements to be made, any thing to say 
 which she had left unsaid, and assured her that her 
 wishes should be sacred to me. She turned her eyes 
 upon me with an expression so sad, so mournfully 
 sweet: Mother, " When I can read my title clear, to 
 mansions in the skies," then I will think of other mat- 
 
146 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ters. Her hair, which when a little child had been 
 often cut to improve its growth, was now very beau 
 tiful; and she usually took much pains with it. During 
 the whole course of her sickness I had taken care of 
 it. One day, not long before her death, she said, evi 
 dently making a great effort to speak with composure, 
 " Mother, if you are willing I will have my hair cut 
 off; it is troublesome; I should like it better short." 1 
 understood her at once, she did not like to have the 
 idea of death associated with those beautiful tresses 
 which I had loved to braid. She would have them 
 taken off while living. I mournfully gave my con 
 sent, and she said, I will not ask you, my dear mother, 
 
 to do it, my friend, Mrs. F will be with me to 
 
 night, and she will do it for me. The dark rich 
 locks were severed at midnight; never shall I forget 
 the expression of her young faded face as I entered 
 the room. <Do not be agitated, dear mamma, I am 
 more comfortable now. Lay it away if you please, 
 and to-morrow I will arrange and dispose of it. Do 
 you know that I view my hair as something sacred? 
 It is a part of myself, which will be re-united to my 
 body at the resurrection. She had sat in an easy- 
 chair or reclined upon a sofa for several weeks. 
 
 " On Friday the 22d of November, at my urgent en 
 treaty, she consented to be laid upon the bed. She 
 found it a relief, and sunk into a deep sleep, from 
 which she was only awoke when I aroused her to 
 take some refreshment. When she awoke, she looked 
 and spoke like an angel, but soon dropped asleep as 
 before. Oh! how my poor heart trembled, for I felt 
 that it was but the precursor to her long last rest, 
 although many of our friends thought she might yet 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 147 
 
 linger some weeks. A total loss of appetite, and a 
 difficulty in swallowing, prevented her from taking 
 any nourishment throughout the day, and when we 
 placed her in the easy chair, at night, in order to ar 
 range her bed, I offered her some nice food, which I 
 had prepared, and found she could not take it. My 
 feelings amounted almost to agony. She said ( do 
 not be distressed. I will take it bye and bye. I 
 seated myself beside here, and she said, ( Surely, my 
 dear mother, you have many consolations. You are 
 gathering a little family in heaven to welcome you. 
 My heart was full, when I could speak, I said, Yes 
 my love, I feel that I am indeed gathering a little 
 family in heaven to bid you welcome, but when they 
 are all assembled there how dreadful to doubt whether 
 1 may ever be permitted to join the circle. 6 Oh 
 hush, dear, dear mother, do not indulge such sad 
 thoughts; the fact of your having trained this little 
 band to inhabit that holy place, is sufficient evidence 
 to me that you will not fail to join us there. I was 
 with her myself that night, and a friend in the neigh 
 borhood sat up also. On Saturday morning, after I 
 had taken half an hour s sleep, I found her quiet as a 
 sleeping infant. I prepared her some food, and when 
 I awoke her to take it, she said dear mother, I will 
 try if it is only to please you. I fed her, as I would 
 have fed a babe. She smiled sweetly and said, 
 1 Mother, I am again an infant. I asked if I should 
 read to her; she said yes, she would like to have me 
 read a part of the gospel of John. I did so, and then 
 said l my dear Margaret, you look sweetly composed 
 this morning. I trust all is peace within your heart. 
 * Yes mother, all is peace, sweet peace. I feel that I 
 
148 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 can do nothing for myself. I have cast my burden 
 upon Christ. I asked if she could rest her hopes 
 there in perfect confidence. Yes, she replied, 
 6 Jesus will not fail me. I can trust him. She then 
 sank into a deep sleep, as on the preceding day. In 
 the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. H. came from Ballston, 
 they were much affected by the change a few days 
 had made in her appearance. I awoke her, fearing 
 she might sleep too long; and said her friends had 
 come. She extended her arms to them both, and 
 kissed them, saying to Mr. H. that he found her a 
 a late riser, and then sank to sleep again. Mrs. H. 
 remained with us that night. About sunset I spoke 
 to her. She awoke and answered me cheerfully, but 
 observing that I was unusually depressed, she said, 
 Dear mother, I am wearing you out. I replied, 
 My child, my beloved child, it is not that, the thought 
 of our separation fills me with anguish. I never 
 shall forget the expression of her sweet face, as she 
 replied, Mother, my own dear mother, do not grieve. 
 Our parting will not be long, in life we were inseper- 
 able, and I feel that you cannot live without me. You 
 will soon join me, and we shall part no more. I 
 kissed her pale cheek, as I bent over her, and finding 
 my agitation too strong to repress, I left the room. 
 She soon after desired to get up; she said she must 
 have a coughing fit, and she could bear it better in the 
 chair. When there she began to cough, and her dis 
 tress was beyond description; her strength was soon 
 exhausted, and we again carried her to the bed. She 
 coughed from six until half past ten. I then prevailed 
 on her to take some nutritious drink, and she fell 
 asleep. My husband and Mrs. H. were both of them 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 149 
 
 anxious that I should retire and get some rest, but I 
 did not feel the want of it, and impressed as I was 
 with the idea that this was the last night she would 
 pass on earth, I could not go to bed. But others saw 
 not the change, and to satisfy them, I went at twelve 
 to my room, which opened into hers. There I sat 
 listening to every sound. All seemed quiet, I twice 
 opened the door, and Mrs. H. said she slept, and had 
 taken her drink as often as directed, and again urged 
 me to go to bed. A little after two I put on my night 
 dress, and laid down. Between three and four Mrs. 
 H. came in haste for ether. I pointed to the bottle, 
 and sprang up. She said, I entreat, my dear Mrs. 
 Davidson, that you do not rise; there is no sensible 
 change, only a turn of oppression. She closed the 
 door, and I hastened to rise, when Mrs. H. came 
 again, and said Margaret has asked for her mother. 
 I flew she held the bottle of ether in her own hand, 
 and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head 
 and chest. She revived. I am better now, said she. 
 Mother you tremble, you are cold; put on your 
 clothes. I stepped to the fire, and threw on a wrap 
 per, when she stretched out both her arms, and ex 
 claimed, Mother take me in your arms. I raised 
 her, and seating myself on the bed, passed my arms 
 around her waist; her head dropped upon my bosom, 
 and her expressive eyes were raised to mine. That 
 look I never shall forget; it said, t Tell me, mother, is 
 this death. I answered the appeal as if she had 
 spoken. I laid my hand upon her white brow, a cold 
 dew had gathered there, I spoke, Yes, my beloved, 
 it is almost finished; you will soon be with Jesus. 
 She gave one more look, two or three short fluttering 
 
150 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 breaths, and all was over her spirit was with its 
 God not a struggle or groan preceded her departure. 
 Her father just came in time to witness her last breath. 
 For a long half hour, I remained in the same position 
 with the precious form of my lifeless child upon my 
 bosom. I closed those beautiful eyes with my own 
 hand. I was calm. I felt that I had laid my angel 
 from my own breast, upon the bosom of her God. 
 Her father and myself were alone. Her Sabbath 
 commenced in heaven. Ours was opened in deep, 
 deep anguish. Our sons, who had been sent for, had 
 not arrived, and four days and nights did Ellen, (our 
 young nurse, whom Margaret dearly loved,) and I, 
 watch over the sacred clay. I could not resign this 
 mournful duty to strangers. Although no son or re 
 lative was with us in this sad and solemn hour, never 
 did sorrowing strangers meet with more sympathy, 
 than we received in this hour of affliction, from the 
 respected inhabitants of Saratoga. We shall carry 
 with us through life, the grateful remembrance of their 
 kindness. And now, my dear madam, let me thank 
 you for your kind consoling letter, it has given me 
 consolation. My Margaret, my now angel child, loved 
 you tenderly. She recognised in yours, a kindred 
 mind, and I feel that her pure spirit will behold with 
 delight your efforts to console her bereaved mother." 
 
 She departed this life on the 25th of November, 
 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months; her earthly 
 remains repose in the grave yard of the village of 
 Saratoga. 
 
 A few days after her departure, observes Mrs. 
 Davidson in a memorandum, I was searching the 
 library in the hope of finding some further me- 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 151 
 
 mento of my lost darling, when a packet folded 
 in the form of a letter, met my eye. It was con 
 fined with a needHi and thread, instead of a seal, 
 and secured more firmly by white sewing silk, which 
 was passed several times around it; the superscription 
 was, " For rny Mother, Private." Upon opening 
 these papers, I found they contained the results of 
 self examination, from a very early period of her life, 
 until within a few days of its close. These results 
 were noted and composed at different periods. They 
 are some of the most interesting relics she has left, 
 but they are of too sacred a nature to meet the public 
 eye. They display a degree of self knowledge and 
 humility, and a depth of contrition, which could only 
 emanate from a heart chastened and subdued by the 
 power of divine grace. 
 
 We here conclude this memoir, which, for the 
 most part, as the reader will perceive, is a mere tran 
 script of the records furnished by a mother s heart. 
 We shall not pretend to comment on these records; 
 they need no comment, and they admit no heighten 
 ing. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded with 
 our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and 
 the seraphic purity of the little being we have attempt 
 ed to commemorate broken upon us; and the more 
 have we shrunk at our own unworthiness for such a 
 task. To use one of her own exquisite expressions, 
 she was " A spirit of Heaven fettered by the strong 
 affections of earth;" and the whole of her brief so 
 journ here, seems to have been a struggle to regain 
 her native skies. We may apply to her a passage 
 
152 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 from one of her own tender apostrophies, to the 
 memory of her sister Lucretia. 
 
 One who came from Heaven awhile 
 
 To bless the mourners here, 
 Their joys to hallow with her smile, 
 
 Their sorrow with her tear. 
 
 Who joined to all the charms of earth 
 
 The noblest gifts of heaven, 
 To whom the muses at her birth 
 
 Their sweetest smiles had given. 
 
 Whose eye beamed forth with fancy s ray, 
 
 And genius pure and high ; 
 Whose very soul had seemed to bathe 
 
 In streams of melody. 
 
 The cheek which once so sweetly beamed, 
 
 Grew pallid with decay, 
 The burning fire within consumed 
 
 Its tenement of clay. 
 
 Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
 Paused o er her couch awhile ; 
 
 She gave a tear for those she loved, 
 Then met him with a smile. 
 
 END OF THE MEMOIR. 
 
REMAINS. 
 
A TALE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 
 
 ABOUT the close of the year 1813 there stood, on the 
 banks of the Saranac, a small, neat cottage, which peeped 
 forth from the surrounding foliage the image of rural quiet 
 and contentment ; the scenery around it was wildly yet 
 beautifully romantic; the clear blue river, glancing and 
 sparkling at its feet, served only as a preparative for another 
 and more magnificent view, where the stream, gliding on to 
 the west, was buried in the broad white bosom of Champlain, 
 which stretched back, wave after wave, in the distance, until 
 lost in faint blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian 
 mountains, seeming more lovely from their indistinctness. 
 
 On the borders of the Saranac the little village of Platts- 
 burgh had sprung up, in picturesque wildness, amid the 
 loveliest haunts of nature, imparting to the mind, by its 
 indications of man s presence with the joys and sufferings 
 ever attendant in his train, a deeper interest than a scene of 
 solitary nature would ever have inspired. Of all the low- 
 roofed and shaded dwellings which rose around, the one 
 named above, although less indicative of wealth, was by far 
 the most striking, from its peculiarly beautiful situation; the 
 old-fashioned piazza, which extended in front of the building, 
 was shaded with vines and honeysuckle just budding into 
 life ; the turf on the bank of the river was of the richest and 
 brightest emerald, and the wild rose and sweetbriar, which 
 twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with more 
 
156 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds of this 
 earthly paradise. It was May the blue waves of the Sara- 
 nac, so lately released from their icy bondage, bounded along 
 with music and gladness, to meet and mingle with its parent 
 lake; the fairy isles, so beautifully throned on its sparkling 
 bosom, robed in all the rich luxuriance of spring, and the 
 song of the birds floated forth on the balmy air like a strain 
 of seraph melody. 
 
 The proprietor of this lowly mansion was a gray-haired 
 and respectable physician, whose life had been spent in 
 toiling to mitigate the terrors of disease, and to obtain a sup- 
 port for his lovely and delicate family. A few words may 
 serve to describe a character so open and ingenuous, and a 
 fate so common to dispositions like his. Early in life he 
 evinced a studious and scientific turn of mind, and had 
 seized upon the profession of medicine with all the earnest 
 ness of youth. Thirsting for knowledge, he plunged into 
 its deepest waters, and, after a few years of unremitting 
 study, entered upon life with a character of firm and unbend 
 ing integrity, and an almost childlike simplicity of manners 
 and ignorance of the ways of the world. This was a dispo 
 sition illy calculated to gain wealth or even competence ; he 
 knew not how to snatch the golden sands that lay within his 
 grasp ; he could not be servile to the rich or tyrannical to 
 the poor, and passed through life unblest with other riches 
 than those of an approving conscience, and the tributes of 
 respect and love from those whose welfare he had promoted 
 at the expense of his own. At the age of twenty-five he saw 
 and loved a beautiful and high-spirited girl, and obeying the 
 impulse of affection rather than the calm reasonings of 
 prudence, he united her fortunes with his own, and settled 
 down for life in this lowly and humble retreat we have vainly 
 attempted to describe. At the time of our simple tale, he 
 was far in the decline of life, but still performing his profes 
 sional duties. He found his happiness in promoting the 
 
REMAINS. 157 
 
 comfort of his family and enjoying the quiet pleasures of his 
 cheerful fireside. The circle which had once closed around 
 it was now sadly diminished by the inroads of death, but 
 three lovely plants still clung by the side of their parent 
 tree, and although one of these remaining blossoms seemed 
 already fading from the eyes of her idolizing parents, 
 there was much of pure and refined enjoyment in this lowly 
 cottage, unknown in the haunts of wealth and worldly plea 
 sure. The two eldest children were sisters ; the one was 
 seventeen, and the other had nearly attained her sixteenth 
 year. Emily, the eldest, notwithstanding her youth, was 
 the belle of the little village, and the life of her family 
 circle. Her form and face might have been taken for the 
 model of a Hebe all health and gaiety her complexion of 
 pure red and white, had never been blanched by the cold 
 touch of disease, and her smiling lip, with its childlike 
 dimples, seemed bidding defiance to care and sorrow, with 
 all their retinue of sighs, tears, and wrinkles ; her dark 
 auburn hair curled in natural and tiny ringlets on her soft 
 white neck and shoulders ; her full hazel eye wore an 
 expression of habitual smiling archness, and her birdlike 
 voice was for ever bursting forth in snatches of wild and 
 untaught melody. Oh ! dearly did her father love, at the 
 close of the long, weary day, to draw forth his beloved flute 
 and practise some soul-stirring air, while the voice of the 
 light-hearted maiden blent with its notes, and her feet danced 
 lightly to its measure. Such was Emily, whose sprightli- 
 ness and native good sense had rendered her the favourite 
 of her father. 
 
 But how shall I describe, in words, the high-souled, the 
 almost ethereal Melanie ? Oh ! that memory could paint on 
 other tablets than those of the heart ! Oh ! that we could 
 transfer to lifeless paper the warm and glowing images which 
 she has there implanted ! then might I picture that fragile 
 form, which seemed every day fading into more spiritual 
 
158 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 fragility; that broad, high brow, through which the blue 
 reins coursed like silken threads, so feeble and transparent ; 
 that veil of dark and luxuriant hair parted so meekly above 
 it, and flowing, in long, waving tresses, on her neck ; that 
 cheek, now pale as the snow of December, now flushed with 
 a hue too intense for health ; and that eye, one moment 
 melting with the warmest tears of earthly emotion, and the 
 next, sparkling with the radiant light of angelic inspiration ! 
 She seemed not a being of the present, all her confidence in 
 the happiness of earth was buried with the past, and all her 
 hopes of pure, exalted blessedness were merged in the vast 
 future of eternity. Ardent and enthusiastic in her tempera 
 ment, she had loved. Highly and poetically imaginative, 
 she had invested the object of her affection with the highest 
 and most exalted qualities of our nature, and when stern, 
 unbending truth dissolved those bright dreams of fancy in 
 which she had lived and revelled when she beheld in sober 
 reality that he upon whom she had bestowed her affections 
 was unworthy of the sacred trust, her mind received a shock 
 only to be felt or imagined by a spirit like her own gentle, 
 confiding, and, at the same time, bearing within itself a 
 standard of lofty honour, of pure sentiment, and high and 
 heavenly virtue, by which she judged of the world around 
 her, it was indeed an overwhelming blow ; but hers was not 
 the mind to waste itself in fruitless repinings, and bury all its 
 wealth of intellect and affection in the grave of one disap 
 pointed hope: far from it! Upon its first short voyage on 
 the cold waters of life, her little bark had been wrecked, and 
 it now turned back to the quiet haven of home with a meek 
 and gentle confidence, to bestow upon her family that love 
 which was still treasured in her heart, and direct her powers 
 of mind to higher and holier purposes than before. But if 
 her spirit was strong in misfortune, her delicate frame par 
 took not of that strength : although the stream of affliction 
 had passed over the fragile flower, it had planted in the pale 
 
REMAINS. 159 
 
 blossom the germs of decay she seemed a spirit in the home 
 and with the friends of her childhood she was with them, 
 but not </them. Thought faded from her eye, the buoyancy 
 from her step, and her voice no longer mingled with the gay- 
 hearted carols of her sister. Her hopes were now rested 
 upon a firmer foundation than that of earth, and while she 
 walked day by day more deeply into " the valley of the 
 shadow of death," her soul and its pure and heavenly faith 
 waxed brighter and brighter to the close. The dark mists of 
 receding time seemed to blend with the brilliant fore-shadow- 
 ings of a blessed eternity, and impart to her manners an 
 habitual and subdued mournfulness, changed at times to the 
 loftiest elevation, as she caught some unwonted flash from 
 that far land of light towards which she was slowly and 
 hopefully journeying. Her heart, with its warm and glow 
 ing tenderness, still clung to the beings of her early love, 
 and when she saw how deeply they mourned her visible 
 decline, with a sad sweetness she resumed her wonted 
 avocations, though each word and act was tinged with the 
 lofty and spiritual enthusiasm of her nature. If she read, 
 her mind sought fitting aliment in the holy sublimity of Mil 
 ton, or the melancholy force and grandeur of Young ; if she 
 drew, faces and forms of aerial and unearthly beauty sprung 
 from her pencil ; and if she sung, the wild and tremulous 
 melody of her voice thrilled while it charmed the listener. 
 She was dying ! For the brief space of sixteen years she 
 had been a habitant of earth she had tasted of its purest 
 joy and its keenest sorrow, and now, with a calm and trust 
 ful earnestness, she was hastening to the home of the weary. 
 Still there were deep and tender ties which bound her below. 
 Her mother she adored ; her spirited and highly-gifted little 
 brother she watched with a mother s fondness; the sister, 
 the beautiful and light-hearted Emily, she loved with more 
 than sisterly affection ; and her country, again threatened by 
 the power of a foreign throne, while scarcely shadowed by 
 
160 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 the banner of its new-born freedom her country, its strug 
 gles and its welfare, was still a theme of deep and engrossing 
 interest. Such was Melanie Mentreville such as far as 
 language can imperfectly portray the lovely yet too un 
 earthly form unfolded to my " mind s eye" like an aerial 
 vision such the gentle yet elevated spirit which is mingling 
 with every dream of fancy, and would fain embody itself in 
 words. 
 
 Those who seek in these few pages for a regular and 
 eventful talc, will rise disappointed from the perusal ; it is 
 nothing more than a faint and imperfect sketch of sentiments 
 and scenes which have long since passed away, with their 
 actors, " to the dim burial isles of the past," and which, still 
 living vividly as ever in the ideal world of memory, I would 
 once more introduce upon the stage of life as beings of real 
 and actual existence. 
 
 It was a glorious evening in May ; the sun was just retiring 
 to his couch in the west, arrayed in all the splendid livery of 
 a northern sunset ; the groves of pine and elm upon the 
 lake shore were bathed in his golden hue, and their tall 
 shadows were reflected in the clear depths beneath ; the 
 distant mountains of Vermont, which bounded the horizon, 
 were shrouded with a veil of dream-like glory blending 
 shade by shade with the blue tints above, till heaven 
 and earth seemed one ; and that heaven ! oh that pen 
 could describe its calm and solemn magnificence; the clouds 
 of amber and gold, tinted and fringed with crimson, floating 
 over the pure depths, moving as in sleep to their bright western 
 home, while a rich blending of purple and green rose up from 
 the horizon as if parting to meet them on their mid-career. 
 It was at this glorious sunset hour that the two sisters had 
 repaired to the piazza of their little cottage to breathe the 
 invigorating air of spring ; and each to enjoy with their 
 peculiar feelings the lovely and solemnizing influence of the 
 scene. With the last ray of the golden sunlight playing over 
 
REMAINS. 161 
 
 her pale upraised features, Melanie stood beside one of the 
 vine-wreathed columns, her head resting on her hand, and 
 her full dark eyes bent earnestly upon the wild and purified 
 drapery of the heavens, now fading into dimness, now com 
 bining and bursting forth hues more gorgeous than before. 
 Emily was bending over a rose-tree in the little enclosure, 
 twining a fairy wreath of the wild sweetbriar, while the lively 
 air which she almost unconsciously warbled, as if in unison 
 with the character of the scene, died away in tones of plain 
 tive and tremulous sweetness. For a few moments the silence 
 was unbroken, until Emily, springing lightly to her sister s 
 side, exclaimed, while her fine features beamed with an expres 
 sion of affectionate gaiety, " How can you look so sad, 
 Melanie, when all around us is breathing the very spirit of 
 happiness ? Do not the clouds you gaze upon make your heart 
 feel light and airy as themselves ? Will not these sweet flowers 
 I have twined for you, impart something of their own hue to 
 your cheek and your thoughts ?" 
 
 Melanie gently took the wreath from her hand and replied, 
 " You mistake me, sister, I am not sad never perhaps did I. 
 experience a moment of more exquisite joy, for I thought, 
 that ere those clouds had many times fleeted away to their 
 bright home in the west, my freed spirit might soar above 
 them and the great orb which imparts their brilliance ; to the 
 source of all light, all love ; that ere those flowers had faded 
 with the blasts of autumn, I might rest in that fair land, 
 where flowers of undying bloom, bathe for ever in the river of 
 the waters of life ; where there is no more winter to chill the 
 bright buds of nature, or the far more fragile blossoms of the 
 heart." 
 
 " Oh, Melanie ! Melanie !" said Emily, passing her arm 
 around her sister s neck, and bursting into tears ; " you will 
 break my heart. Would you so gladly leave us all father 
 and mother, and me and " 
 
 " No, no," replied Melanie, earnestly ; " but even though 
 
162 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 you should see me no more, I feel, I know, that I shall not 
 leave you, my own, my only sister. The thought may be a 
 presumptuous one, but something within tells me that I shall 
 see you, shall love you as dearly as now, perhaps, even be 
 permitted to watch over and protect you, and oh Emily, were 
 not tJds happiness !" 
 
 She replied only by a warmer pressure of the pale hand 
 within her own, and borne away by the suggestions of her 
 wild fancy, Melanie continued 
 
 " Yes, Emily, though this weak and wasted frame may be 
 gone from among you, my spirit shall be with you ; yours 
 will be the blessed task of soothing the pillow of disease, when 
 our beloved parents shall tread the pathway I have trodden ; 
 but think not that Melanie, the child of their love, will be far 
 from them in that parting hour when you are in sorrow, my 
 soul shall plead for you at the throne of eternal mercy and 
 when you are happy, my voice shall whisper in your soul of 
 that Heavenly Father, from whose treasures of love cometh 
 all happiness on earth, and all your hopes of blessedness in 
 Heaven ! Do not weep, Emily, I shall love you all with a 
 purer and holier love. My kind-hearted and ingenuous father, 
 my high-souled, my beloved mother ; you, my sweet blossom ; 
 and you also, my noble little brother," she added, as the 
 lovely boy bounded over the threshold, and she placed her 
 hand caressingly on his long dark curls. 
 
 " Oh ! sister, sister !" cried Alfred, with all the eagerness of 
 boyhood, " oh ! the sights that 1 have seen to-day ! I have 
 crossed the river in a canoe, and I have been up to the old fort, 
 and I have seen the militia-men training, and the flags, and the 
 drums, and the big cannon, and all ! didn t you hear it fire ? 
 Sister Emmy and Mr. Selden said I should be a soldier. Shall 
 I not, dear sister ?" and with a martial air the miniature hero 
 strode up and down the piazza as if courting admiration. 
 
 " Fie, Alfred !" replied Emily, to whose lip the smile had 
 returned as before, " has the red coat and the gay epaulette 
 
REMAINS. 163 
 
 charmed you so soon ? Remember, my little brother, that the 
 life of a soldier is a life of hardship, and his employment a 
 fierce and deadly one those glittering bayonets have made 
 many a mother childless, and those gay cockades cover many 
 a worthless or deceitful brain. No ! never be a soldier, Alfred." 
 
 " Say not so, Emily," exclaimed Melanie ; " though we now 
 smile at the proud step and flashing eye of the mimic warrior, 
 I can read his fate in them. If his life is spared, that sprightly 
 and slender form will expand into the tall and athletic man, 
 and the spark that is now warming into life his unfledged 
 fancy, will strengthen into a glowing and unquenchable flame ; 
 and as it now prompts to those tones and gestures of mock 
 defiance and command, it will lead him on to deeds of high 
 and lofty daring. Yes ! thou wilt be a soldier, my little 
 Alfred noble, generous, high-souled, and brave; all, all " 
 her voice trembled as she added, " all I once thought another." 
 
 " Yes, I ivitt be a soldier," echoed the youthful candidate 
 for fame " a brave and an honourable soldier ;" and he 
 bounded away through the open door, while the hall rang 
 with his shouts. 
 
 For a few moments Melanie stood with her hands clasped 
 upon her bosom as if in mental prayer for the interesting boy 
 whose fate she had prophesied ; and Emily seemed buried in 
 deep revery, her head bowed, and her hands unconsciously 
 pulling the leaves from a splendid moss rose, which was half 
 concealed in her bosom. The silence was at length broken 
 by the soft voice of Melanie. " Whence came that sweet rose, 
 sister Emily ?" The maiden started from her revery, blushed 
 deeply, and drew the bud from the folds of her handkerchief. 
 
 " Forgive me, Melanie 1 Walter Mr. Selden left it for 
 you, and I I forgot to give it you." 
 
 A faint sweet smile passed over Melanie s delicate features 
 as she replied " Keep it, Emily ; save as a proof of brotherly 
 kindness, his gifts are valueless to me." 
 
 Emily gazed upon the calm and gentle face before her with 
 
164 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 a mingled expression of doubt and joyful inquiry. " Do you 
 not tell me dear sister I fear it cannot be your heart belies 
 your words ?" 
 
 Melanie took her trembling hand in both her own and 
 replied, while a shade of deep sadness mingled with the affec 
 tionate simplicity of her manner, 
 
 " No, my beloved sister, you wrong me ; what I say is the 
 true, the only language of my heart. I will own to you that 
 once had I known Walter Selden, I might have returned with 
 ardour what I now view with pain as an unfortunate and 
 misplaced attachment. You believe it not Emily, but I am 
 dying. Is it for me, whose every thought and hope should 
 rest upon that world of spirits to which I am hastening, to 
 twine my affections around an earthly idol 1 Is it for me 
 whose wayward love hath once been crushed and blighted, to 
 bid it arise Phoenix-like from the ashes of its destruction with 
 new hopes and new confidence 1 And more than all, is it for 
 me to encourage a visionary attachment, which would blast 
 the hopes, the young affections of a sister dearer than life? 
 Blush not, Emily; I have read the pure volume of your heart 
 perhaps more clearly than yourself; I have long studied its 
 pages with pain, yet not without a deep, strong hope for the 
 future. When I am gone, Emily, his now ardent passion will 
 be buried in my grave ; he will only remember me as a sad 
 and pleasing vision ; and as day by day that impression waxes 
 fainter, he will behold the loveliness, the worth of your mind 
 and person; and although it is denied to me below, my 
 rejoicing spirit shall behold the union of those two my heart 
 loves best, my sister and my friend." 
 
 Emily threw herself in tears upon the neck of her sister. 
 " Oh ! Melanie, Melanie, my kind, my generous Melanie ! 
 how can I believe that any one who has ever looked upon 
 that bright heavenly face could ever cast one glance upon a 
 simple unideal child of earth like me." 
 
 " And the loveliest of earth s creations," was Melanie s 
 
REMAINS. 165 
 
 fond reply as she passed her hand over the silken ringlets and 
 blushing cheek of the tearful maiden. 
 
 ****** 
 A year had past by"; the flowers had again bloomed, and 
 were again fading, and time (as ever) had brought many a 
 change upon his restless pinions. The little village of Platts- 
 burg still looked forth as sweetly from amid its groves and 
 streams ; the Saranac flowed on with as glad a music ; the 
 billows rolled as proudly on the broad bosom of Champlain, 
 but armed fleets in all their dreadful array now rode upon its 
 waters ; the voice of the distant cannon echoed back from its 
 shores, and martial music pealed long and loud through 
 those once quiet abodes of peace. It was September, 1814, 
 that year which commenced with bloodshed and dismay, and 
 closed with a triumph which shall never fade from the annals 
 of our history, while America hath a heart to warm with the 
 glow of patriotism, or a voice to perpetuate the memory of 
 the brave. Upon the tenth morning of this memorable month 
 we would re-open the scene of our simple drama ; a morning 
 which rose upon our feeble band of intrepid patriots in doubt 
 and anxiety, and inspired in the breasts of their numerous 
 and well-regulated foes, new hopes, new confidence of vic 
 tory. Well might they look around upon that mighty and 
 veteran host of fourteen thousand warriors, who had con 
 quered in Spain, France, and the Indies, and forward upon 
 that weak but well-disciplined band of fifteen hundred, com 
 manded by the brave McCombe, and predict the triumph 
 which, in all human probability, must necessarily ensue. 
 After a long period of alternate success and defeat, the Bri 
 tish forces poured in their utmost strength upon the northern 
 frontier, and determined, by a decisive attack upon the com 
 paratively unprotected village, to open a free passage into 
 the heart of that country which they had laboured so long 
 and so fruitlessly to subdue. Their officers were men who 
 sought in foreign victories a glory which should enrol their 
 
1G6 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 names for ever upon the pages of England s history ; they 
 fought for distinctions, for titles, for wealth, and they knew 
 not the force of a feeble arm, when directed and nerved by 
 that holy patriotism which could toil and bleed, ere it would 
 yield one single minutia of that independence bequeathed to 
 them by the valour of their immortal sires. 
 
 On the morning of the fifth, the land force commanded by 
 Sir George Prevost had approached the village of Plattsburg, 
 and their fleet was prepared to make the attack by water at 
 the same time that the army entered the town, and overcame 
 the feeble resistance which it expected to meet. 
 
 Meanwhile the village presented a scene of deep and thrill 
 ing interest. The small force which remained after the de 
 parture of the American army for Lake Erie was collected 
 by their gallant leader General McCombe, in the fort Morvan, 
 situated on the borders of the lake, a short distance from the 
 banks of the Saranac. Here they had planted their cannon, 
 and collected their means of defence ; here they were to con 
 quer, or if courage and skill proved vain, here they were to 
 die. Guards and sentinels were posted at intervals along the 
 streets, parties of volunteers were continually sallying forth 
 to harass the enemy, and prepare themselves for the decisive 
 struggle, and expresses were riding back and forth on their 
 foaming steeds, -shouting to the eager listener the position of 
 the army, as it approached nearer and nearer, or hastening in 
 silence to the fort to discharge some embassy of mighty and 
 mysterious import. The greater part of the peaceful inhabi 
 tants had fled from the scene of bloodshed and commotion, 
 and many a gun and bayonet were glittering in the windows 
 of their peaceful dwellings, thus converted into barracks for 
 the use of the soldiery, or hospitals for the wounded. 
 
 The mists of the morning had just rolled from the bosom 
 of the waters, and the sun, struggling through the dense 
 clouds, had just kissed the light foam upon its surface, when 
 a tall, manly youth was seen approaching the guards on the 
 
REMAINS. 167 
 
 northern bank of the Saranac with a hurried, anxious, yet 
 half-hesitating air. Hi form was slight and graceful in the 
 extreme, and the partly military dress which he wore dis 
 played to advantage its symmetry of proportion. He carried 
 his long rifle in one hand, and a massive old-fashioned sword 
 was fastened by an embroidered belt to his side ; his lips 
 were firmly compressed, but his dark blue eyes were fixed 
 upon the ground, as if some sad, subduing thought had min 
 gled with the sterner occupants of his mind. As he ap 
 proached the sentinels, each touched his cap in respect, and 
 he passed on unquestioned, until pausing at the gate of Dr. 
 Mentreville s cottage, he slowly and softly raised the latch ; 
 a curtain was drawn aside, a pale face peeped from the win 
 dow, a light step was heard in the hall, and Emily stood upon 
 the threshold. A year had wrought many changes in the 
 person of this lovely girl ; her form was taller and more 
 womanly, but had lost much of its roundness ; sorrow and 
 midnight watching had faded the roses on her cheek, and 
 tears had been its frequent visitants ; but her features, in 
 their morning freshness and gorgeous bloom, had never 
 seemed half so lovely. A flush sprang to her face, and a 
 light to her eye, as she stepped forward to meet the stranger, 
 and extended her hand with a frank and affecting simplicity. 
 " Walter !" " Emily !" His heart seemed too full for ano 
 ther word, and he raised his eyes to hers with a look of sad 
 and apprehensive inquiry. 
 
 " Oh ! do not ask me," she replied, bursting into tears. 
 " Oh ! that I could give you some gleam of comfort ; that I 
 could lay down my worthless life for my sweet sister ! But 
 it may not be, her frame grows hourly weaker, and her mind 
 more strong ; she seems all soul a spirit of Heaven fettered 
 by the strong affections of earth ; but yet, Walter," she added, 
 wiping the blinding tears from her eyes, " when I look upon 
 her I can scarcely find it in my heart to grieve ; she seems 
 so placid and so happy, like an infant returning to the arms 
 
1 68 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 of its parent : it is only when I look upon myself, and dear 
 mother, and father, and you, and think how lonely, how deso 
 late we shall be, that I feel the full weight of sorrow." 
 
 " Desolate ! desolate indeed !" replied the young man, and 
 unable longer to control his emotion he turned from her, and 
 leaning his head upon the little column where Melanie had 
 so often rested, gave vent to his excited feelings in a flood of 
 tears. But a moment, and it was over he had paid his tri 
 bute upon the altar of sorrowing affection, and he awoke to 
 the remembrance of sterner and more pressing duties. 
 
 " Forgive me, Emily !" his cheek burning with shame at 
 this transitory weakness " surely the being for whose early 
 fate I have shed these unmanly tears must form my best apo 
 logy ; yet I would not give way to sorrow upon a day like 
 this, when every man should bring a cool head and a strong 
 arm to the succour of his country." 
 
 Emily s pale cheek turned yet more pallid, as she exclaimed, 
 " Walter, do you have you indeed joined yourself with those 
 doomed men 1" and her eye rested upon the sword and rifle, 
 which she had not before perceived. 
 
 "And have I not, Emily? Would you, would Melanie 
 own me as her her friend? Would she not blush to hear 
 my shame? Would not the blood of my grandsire, who 
 fought so bravely in the Revolution, burn and scorch in the 
 veins of his dastardly son, if I refused to join the brave band 
 in defence of my native village, of my family, and of you, 
 sweet Emily and and Melanie ?" 
 
 " And if you are defeated " 
 
 He smiled encouragingly. 
 
 " Why, tlien, Emily, we must yield like men, only with 
 our lives. But we shall not be defeated we shall conquer ! 
 Brave hearts and determined hands will do more in the hour 
 of conflict than close ranks and mere animal force." 
 
 " And when is this dreadful hour to come? W 7 hen do you 
 expect the final attack ?" 
 
REMAINS. 169 
 
 " I should be tempted to conceal it, little trembler," replied 
 the youth, "did I not feel that I have already too long 
 neglected the chief object of my visit. From the reports of 
 the expresses and scouts who have returned, we expect the 
 enemy to-morrow morning, when we shall probably be 
 assailed by land and water. This place will be the scene 
 of bloodshed and confusion : you cannot remain here you 
 must fly." 
 
 " I know it, I know it !" exclaimed Emily ; " father is 
 already gone in search of waggons to convey our effects ; 
 but my sister, my poor sister, it seems almost sacrilege to 
 disturb and perhaps hasten her parting moments by this 
 precipitation ; and the idea is so distressing, she longs so to 
 die in her own old home. I can read it in every look, 
 though she will not name it, lest we subject ourselves to 
 danger for her sake. You know, Walter, we should have 
 fled long since, as at the time of the former invasion, but 
 ever since that short sojourn with strangers, she has seemed 
 to fade more rapidly. It was breaking up all the sweet 
 associations and habits which alone seem binding her to 
 earth, and now, when she has so short a time to live, oh ! it 
 is a cruel, cruel task!" and the affectionate girl wept faster 
 than before. 
 
 " I feel it all, dear Emily," said Walter, " but were it not 
 more cruel that her gentle spirit should part amid the roar 
 of cannon and the shouts of the combatants? Then, if the 
 British conquer, the last sounds which would meet her ear, 
 would be those of insult and of lawless triumph. No, no, it 
 is impossible you must fly. Would to God my duties did 
 not call me for the space of two hours, that I might see you 
 all in safety, and then return, with a light heart, to my post. 
 But that cannot be : by especial favour I have obtained leave 
 to make you this hasty visit, and, upon my return, the band 
 of volunteers which I have joined proceed to the bank above 
 the old bridge, the station deemed most advantageous for 
 
 12 
 
170 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 this section of our small force. So you see, dear Emily, I 
 cannot aid you ; but you say your father is gone where, 
 and with what hopes of success?" 
 
 " He started before daylight this morning, to obtain a 
 more easy conveyance for our dear invalid than our old- 
 fashioned family vehicle affords, and waggons to convey the 
 family and our most valuable effects ; but you know calamity 
 and terror make us selfish, and the inhabitants having fled, 
 he found not the proper means of conveyance for dear 
 Melanie in the village, and he hastened on some ten or 
 twelve miles in the country to obtain them, and we do not 
 expect him to return until sunset." 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaimed Walter, " the British forces 
 will have advanced between him and our village, and he 
 cannot return to you. Why did I not know this before?" 
 
 Scarcely had he spoken, when Mrs. Mentreville appeared 
 on the threshold of the open door, at the porch of which 
 they had been conversing. Her figure was about the middle 
 height and delicately formed, and her features retained the 
 traces of much former beauty, but deep and unremitting 
 anxiety had wasted a form naturally feeble, and an expres 
 sion of calm but unutterable grief was seated in her full dark 
 eye. As she advanced, she caught the expression of alarm 
 in the face of young Selden and her daughter, and after the 
 first silent greeting was over she inquired, " What were you 
 saying, Walter 1 Do not fear to tell me ; nothing can alarm 
 me now." 
 
 In brief words Walter repeated his apprehensions that her 
 husband might be prevented from returning, and their flight 
 would shortly become impossible. 
 
 " Then we will remain," replied Mrs- Mentreville firmly. 
 " If we are successful, all is well ; if we fail, the British officers 
 are gentlemen as well as soldiers they have mothers, wives, 
 and daughters they will protect us. I only fear the effect 
 of the excitement and turmoil upon our beloved sufferer." 
 
REMAINS. 171 
 
 Walter sighed deeply. 
 
 " God will protect you, my dear madam. I wish I could 
 trust more implicitly to the faith and honour of our enemies. 
 But Dr. Mentreville may still return all may yet be well. 
 My term of absence is almost expired can 1 not see Me- 
 lanie ?" and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, as if 
 he feared to breathe aloud a name so sacred. 
 
 The mother replied not, but silently taking the hand of 
 the young man, she led him into the chamber of the dying 
 girl. It seemed not like the abode of death and disease. 
 The spirit, trembling, hovering within its boundaries, ap 
 peared to sanctify its resting-place. There was no gloom, 
 or darkness, or dreariness, for they found no place in the 
 mind of Melanie, and why should they surround her frame 
 without ? She was all purity, gentleness, elevation and an 
 air of soft and soothing melancholy pervaded the scene of 
 her last sufferings. The windows opening upon the river 
 were closed, for there were sights and sounds of too ani 
 mating and warlike a nature to meet the acute eye or sensi 
 tive ear of the dying maiden ; but a casement beside her 
 couch was thrown back, and the little flower-garden beneath 
 it, which she had so often tended, sent up the perfume of its 
 last fading blossoms into her chamber, while the quivering 
 poplar-trees waved and sighed her requiem before it, and the 
 luxuriant vines twined their small tendrils round the lattice. 
 The sunlight, broken and softened by the green branches, 
 fell in chastened splendour upon the floor, and tinged with a 
 yet more heavenly radiance the pale, bright features of 
 Melanie. The couch had been placed beside the open case 
 ment, that, as she reclined upon its pillows, she might yet 
 look around upon the scenes so dear to her; and well do 
 those who witnessed remember the unearthly loveliness of 
 her form and face, and the alternate sadness a glorious 
 hope in its expression as she bade a mental farewell to the 
 cherished scenes of earth, or looked forward to the blessed 
 
172 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 home which she was seeking. There was one by her side 
 who watched with unwearied care and childish simplicity 
 every look and motion. It was the little Alfred. She dearly 
 loved the ardent and enthusiastic boy, and his young heart 
 clung with all its ardour and enthusiasm to the one who most 
 deeply awakened and cherished the incipient romance of his 
 nature. Now that he beheld her thus fading from before 
 him, he hovered for ever by her bedside, and hung, like one 
 entranced, upon each trembling accent of her voice. This 
 deep and subdued affection had unlocked a new fountain in 
 his little breast, and it flowed on, overwhelming all the petty 
 selfishness of childhood, and quenching all save the flame of 
 military ardour, which still burned silently and slowly, though 
 subdued by this new and overpowering sentiment of love for 
 his gentle and intellectual sister. It was affecting to mark 
 the struggle of these two passions in his young mind. At 
 the sound of the distant cannon, the roll of the drum, or the 
 shouting of the express as he rode furiously by, he would 
 start from his seat, while his eye kindled, and his step 
 involuntarily kept pace with the music ; then, as the thought 
 of Melanie rushed over his mind, he would turn to the bed, 
 take her hand gently in his own little palm, and whisper 
 softly, "Sister, did it disturb you?" He was seated on his 
 little stool by her side, cutting miniature soldiers from 
 the little branches of a wild rose-tree, and watching every 
 change in his sister s face, when Mrs. Mentreville, Emily, 
 and Walter entered. Melanie raised her head from the 
 pillow on which she reclined, and extended her hand feebly 
 as Selden approached. 
 
 " Walter, this is kind," said she ; " 1 feared I should not 
 see you before the engagement, and then we may never meet 
 again." The youth spoke not, but kissed the pale hand 
 which rested in his own. She continued : " I see that you 
 have joined them, that you are going forth to add one more 
 brave heart and arm to our adventurous band. I knew it. 
 
REMAINS. 173 
 
 Go, Walter, go! and my blessing and the blessing of God 
 go with you. If you conquer, you will find your reward in 
 that peace which you have fought to bestow ; if you fall, it 
 will be in the performance of your duty, and you will share 
 the grave of our bravest and best. Oh !" she added, clasp 
 ing her hands, and her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, " Oh! 
 that the shout of victory might be the last earthly sound 
 wafted to my spirit as it seeks the portal of a brighter 
 world ! With the voice of triumph floating around its path 
 way, how blessed might be its departure !" There was a 
 moment s deep silence; every heart seemed too full for 
 speech, till the soft, sweet voice of Melanie again fell, like 
 a bird whisper, upon the ears of the motionless group : 
 " Walter, do not deceive me ; is it safe for my dear mother 
 and sister to remain in this village, abandoned as it will be 
 to the soldiery in case of defeat ? God only knows how 
 deeply 1 have longed to breathe my last in this dear home of 
 my infancy, but for the love of mercy let not this idle fancy 
 endanger the safety or comfort of those I love dearer than 
 myself." Walter replied that it was deemed necessary to 
 fly, and that her father had gone in search of the easiest 
 means of conveyance for her. She sighed deeply. " My 
 own dear father ! But I shall not need them." Immediately 
 rallying her spirits, while the faint sunlight smile, so peculiar 
 to herself, played over her sunlight features, she again ex 
 tended her hand. " Let me not detain you, Walter, from 
 Jhe performance of those duties which now devolve upon 
 you. Go! When I hear the shouts and tumult of the 
 battle, I will pray for you, if on earth I will watch over 
 you, if released from its fetters. Oh! do not look so sad! 
 If I saw not the mournful faces of those I love, my soul feels 
 so happy I could almost think it Paradise. When I am 
 gone, remember me as a dream, a moonlight vision which 
 never formed itself into reality till it had fled ; as a being 
 whose shadow has flitted over the past, whose life is only in 
 
174 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 the future. I have only two hopes, two wishes upon earth; 
 one for my country, the other " She paused, and gazed 
 fondly upon Walter and Emily as they stood beside her. 
 The quick glance of Emily caught her meaning, and throw 
 ing herself upon Melanie s bosom she looked imploringly in 
 her face. "Fear not, my sweet blossom," whispered Me- 
 lanic, " I cannot, will not say aught which you could wish 
 unsaid." Then turning to Selden she said, " Farewell ; may 
 God protect and prosper you, my brotlwr!" 
 
 The tears rushed to the young man s eyes as he cast one 
 long, mournful look upon the delicate and spiritual features, 
 and kissed the small, wan fingers which he again pressed, but 
 mastering his emotion with a strong effort, he turned from 
 the room, and paused a moment in the hall, ere he could 
 collect sufficient courage to leave the spot which contained a 
 being so lovely (as he feared) for ever. As he stood thus, 
 with his hand upon his brow and his eyes bent upon the 
 floor, a slight noise behind him attracted his attention. He 
 turned ; it was little Alfred. He had stolen unperceived from 
 the room, and was examining Walter s rifle with looks of 
 earnest and admiring attention, and too much absorbed to be 
 conscious of the owner s presence ; he was, in fancy, loading, 
 presenting, firing, and performing all the military evolutions 
 of which he was master ; when he at length perceived Walter, 
 he sprang to his side, and raising his bright face exclaimed 
 in an eager whisper 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Selden ! Mr. Selden ! take me with you to the 
 battle ; I will not trouble you ; I will load your gun, and I 
 will take my little bow and arrow and fight as the Indians do ; 
 and I will make the British run do, do take me !" 
 
 " Will you not be afraid, my dear boy ?" said Walter, 
 scarcely conscious that he spoke. 
 
 A smile of contempt curled the boy s red lip. 
 
 " Afraid ! what honourable soldier was ever afraid ?" and 
 forgetting his caution one moment, he laughed aloud. The 
 
REMAINS. 175 
 
 spark had been awakened in his little bosom, and it required 
 all the soft dews of feeling and reflection to quench its flame. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Alfred !" said Selden ; " would you leave 
 your sister, your dear sister, and perhaps never see her 
 more ?" The boy looked down ; his heart swelled, and his 
 lip trembled ; but his desire was still strong. " Your father 
 is gone, and would you leave your mother and sisters defence 
 less 1 What will become of them if the British conquer?" 
 
 Here was a double motive ; here were united the two ruling 
 passions, and he clapped his hands in the eagerness of his 
 
 joy- 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will stay and protect them ; and mother shall 
 call me her little soldier, and sister Emmy will not be afraid, 
 and no one shall touch dear Melanie." And he stole back 
 contented to the stool by his sister s bedside, to indulge his 
 young fancy in dreams of war, and victory, and defence. 
 
 Walter departed ; and a short time after the sound of martial 
 music, of the drum and fife, and the trampling of many feet, 
 disturbed the silence of Melanie s chamber. Mrs. Mentreville 
 and Emily cast an anxious glance upon the apparently 
 sleeping sufferer, and softly raised the curtain of the window. 
 It was the band of volunteers marching out to their post. It 
 was mostly composed of the young men of the village, led by 
 an older and more experienced commander. Their hearts 
 were beating high with hope and expectation, and they kept 
 pace with a proud and even step to the lively national air 
 which swelled in loud strains upon the breeze. As they 
 passed the house of Dr. Mentreville, many an eye was turned, 
 and many a glance fixed eagerly upon the beautiful face of 
 Emily, as she leaned from the window ; but she knew it not, 
 she saw, she thought of but one. The rest passed before her 
 like a colourless picture, and she beheld the form of Walter 
 Selden, vivid and distinct from the pageantry around him ; 
 his eye caught hers fixed with such an earnest and speaking 
 gaze upon his features. Then first flashed the truth like an 
 
176 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 electric spark through his mind the idea that that young 
 and guileless maiden might feel in him an interest deeper than 
 that of a sister or a friend. A burning flush rose to his cheeks 
 and brow ; he bowed low ; a white handkerchief fluttered from 
 the window, and it was again closed. All had passed in an 
 instant, but it was one of those which contained more of exis 
 tence than many a long, long year : in that one look, unseen 
 save by its object, the unconscious girl had betrayed the 
 secret most dear, most sacred to her heart ; the one which 
 she had fancied, had believed, no grief, no mental torture 
 could force her to reveal. She turned from the window, hid 
 her blushing face in her hands, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Come hither, Emily," said Melanie, and opened her arms, 
 while the weeping girl threw herself into them and sobbed 
 upon her sister s bosom. Melanie clasped her hands over the 
 silken tresses of the young mourner, and raised her head as in 
 prayer. Oh ! that I had a purer pencil than those of earth 
 to paint the forms, the expression, of those two lovely 
 beings ! Some hovering angel might have transferred that 
 scene to his immortal tablets, and laid it up among the 
 records of heaven, as one bright spot shining forth from the 
 dark annals of misery and crime. Emily, the type of all 
 earth s loveliest, warm with its noblest passions, all the gene 
 rous impulses of youth, weeping upon the bosom of a dying 
 sister ; and that sister, forgetful of herself, of all beside, 
 praying for the dear one, while her face beamed with all the 
 hallowed love of the gentle compassion of a purified being, 
 and her dark eyes kindled with a glow reflected only from 
 the heaven they sought. The day rolled on, that long, long 
 dreary day; the village was still in the tumult of preparation ; 
 the expresses rode by more furious than ever ; the British 
 forces were rapidly approaching the village, but still the father, 
 the husband came not, and fears for his safety mingled with 
 the agony of his helpless family. Mrs. Mentreville was a 
 woman of acutely delicate and sensitive feelings, but they 
 
REMAINS. 177 
 
 were mastered and controlled by a firm judgment, a strong 
 and independent mind. She had long seen with that anguish, 
 which a mother only" can know, the certain but gradual 
 decline of her beloved Melanie. This child had been her 
 favourite. There was something in the pure and lofty enthu 
 siasm of her character which touched a responsive chord in 
 her own bosom. What others had never seen, or only 
 marked as the idle fancies of a romantic girl, revealed to her 
 the inmost recesses of a nature composed of deep sensibilities, 
 quiet, unobtrusive affections, and lofty aspirations after some 
 thing higher and holier than earth. She had studied her 
 carefully ; she loved her to idolatry, and she only who has 
 nurtured, who has wept over the death-bed of such a child, 
 can understand the bitterness of grief which converted her 
 whole soul into a fountain of agony. She saw how deeply 
 it distressed Melanie to behold her sorrow, and many an hour 
 banished herself from her bedside, that spot most sacred upon 
 earth, that she might drink unperceived from the darkness 
 of her affliction, and in solitude, and silence, struggle to 
 subdue her heart into accordance with the will of her 
 Heavenly Father. Night drew on ; the sky, which had been 
 clear, became suddenly overcast ; the sunbeams no longer 
 played upon the quivering poplars, or sparkled gladly in the 
 blue depths of the Saranac, and a dark thunder-gust rolled in 
 black volumes from the west. The wing of the storm, as it 
 slowly unfolded in the heavens, cast a deep leaden shadow on 
 the waves of the Champlain ; and the white foam gathered 
 upon the crest of each receding billow, as it rolled with an 
 angry murmur to the shore. The thunder growled faintly in 
 the distance ; pale flashes of light burst at intervals from the 
 rent clouds, and large threatening drops fell with their sullen 
 patter on the roof. Every thing betokened the approach of 
 a fearful, though transient storm ; and a fervent prayer for 
 the safety of her husband burst from the lips of Mrs. Men- 
 treville, as she closed the door of the cottage and returned to 
 
178 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 the chamber of Melanie. As the tempest strengthened, the 
 lightning streamed in with broad and livid flashes, and the 
 thunder rolled on its tremendous pathway ; each crash more 
 loud and terrific than the last. Mrs. Mentreville, seated on 
 Melanie s couch, supported her head upon her bosom, and an 
 expression of deep awe rested upon her pale features. Emily 
 knelt by the bedside and concealed her face in its drapery, 
 and even the stout heart of little Alfred quailed, as peal after 
 peal burst and gleamed above them and around them. He 
 lisped no word of fear, but grasped the hand of Melanie in 
 his own, gazed wistfully upon her placid and spiritual features, 
 as if something whispered within him that no danger could 
 assail, no bolts from the artillery of heaven descend upon a 
 form and soul so heavenly. No terror, no dread was on the 
 face of Melanie ; resting upon her mother s bosom, she gazed 
 on the dark rolling masses of the tempest-cloud, and trembled 
 not at the livid flames, or the pealings of the loud-voiced 
 thunder ; her soul seemed bursting from her eyes in one long 
 gaze of solemn adoration ; her spirit was lifted above the 
 warring elements ; it was casting its burden of deep and 
 silent worship at the footstool of the Almighty. The storm 
 for an instant paused ; the thunder peals died away in a low 
 muttering growl, and an awful silence reigned in the heavens 
 and on the earth ; the angel of the tempest had retired neath 
 his veil of blackness to gather the scattered thunderbolts in 
 his hand, and to wreathe the winged lightnings on his brow. 
 Again he came upon his wild career on, on, in more terrific 
 majesty ; the dark cloud parted with a fearful charm, while 
 from its bosom poured a sheet of flame, broad, livid, terrible, 
 and a fierce crash, as of a shattered world, pealed along 
 the heavens. A low shriek burst from the lips of Emily, and 
 Alfred pressed his sister s hand with a convulsive energy. 
 The grasp recalled Melanie s wandering senses ; she drew 
 him closer to her bosom, and whispered in accents low but 
 distinct, heard like an angel s murmur amid the roaring of the 
 
REMAINS. 179 
 
 storm, " Fear not, my Ijjtle brother ; it is the same voice which 
 breathes in melody among the flowers of spring ; the same 
 hand which paints the rainbow and the rose. Fear not, it is 
 your Father and your God ! He sendeth forth the spirit of 
 his love, and heaven and earth are bathed in the fountain of 
 its glory ; he stretcheth out the arm of his power and the hills 
 tremble and are shaken. Yea," she added, clasping her hands 
 and looking upwards with an expression of fervent solemnity, 
 " yea ; thou only art great who coverest thyself with light 
 as with a garment ; who stretchest out the heavens like a cur 
 tain ; who makest the clouds thy chariot ; who walkest upon 
 the wings of the wind." 
 
 It was midnight. The storm had departed as it came ; the 
 wind sighed mournfully, yet sweet amid the dripping branches ; 
 the black masses rolled from the firmament, and the moon, 
 struggling through their gloom, cast her feeble and trembling 
 beams on the still agitated waters ; the waves rose and fell 
 with a faint wailing murmur, like the sobs of a weeping child ; 
 and the hearts of the anxious mourners seemed to beat in 
 unison with their sad cadence. A taper was burning on the 
 hearth in Melanie s chamber, but the curtain was withdrawn, 
 and the pure cold rays of the moon trembled faintly upon a 
 being, pure and heavenly as themselves. She slept in the 
 hush of that midnight hour, surrounded by those best loved 
 on earth, she slept. Oh ! the peace, the unearthly beauty of 
 that sleep. Her head lay back upon the pillow, her bright 
 dark hair shaded with its rich tresses the exquisite features 
 of her face ; the serenity of heaven seemed resting on her 
 broad, pale brow ; her dark eyelids lay motionless on their 
 snowy pillow, and nought could reveal to the beholder that 
 he gazed on an inhabitant of earth, save the brilliant flush 
 which mantled upon her cheek, as if death, fearing utterly to 
 destroy a work so beautiful, had breathed a deeper crimson 
 on the fresh rose of health, and placed it mid the lilies of 
 disease. Emily was kneeling beside her, her face bathed in 
 
180 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 tears, and her eyes now bent with a wistful sadness upon her 
 sleeping sister, now raised as in prayer to Heaven ; a petition 
 seemed trembling upon her lips, but it would wing its way no 
 farther ; she dared not pray for fetters to enchain the strug 
 gling spirit ; she could not even wish to recall the fluttering 
 prisoner to its cage of clay, and the prayer died unuttercd on 
 her tongue. Then her mind wandered far away from that 
 shaded room and its midnight stillness. She saw the morn- 
 ing dawn above the opposing ranks ; she heard the shouts of 
 the commanders, the sharp report of the rifles, and the deaf 
 ening roar of the cannon, and she saw one form amid the 
 thousands, and, as when she last beheld it, she saw that form 
 alone; she marked his every movement, and when her quick 
 fancy beheld the " leaden death" flying around him, her breath 
 was checked convulsively, and the colour went and came 
 upon her cheek, and then, with the swiftness and wayward 
 ness of thought, her mind returned to their last meeting, their 
 last look ; and her face became one burning flush when she 
 thought how much, how all too much that look had betrayed. 
 As she raised her head from the counterpane in which it had 
 been buried, her eyes again rested upon the features of Mela- 
 nie, and still more deeply did she blush at her own selfishness 
 in thinking of aught beside the cherished sufferer and the duty 
 she owed to her beloved mother. Where was that mother 
 now ? Why was not sJie too bending over the slumbers of 
 the dying one ? Oh ! had you asked her bleeding heart, an 
 answer had been poured forth in tones of the bitterest agony 
 which the hand of sorrow could draw forth from its broken 
 strings. Grief grief, too deep for utterance, too violent for 
 restraint, had driven her from the bedside of Melanie. With 
 a burning brain and throbbing nerves, she had stolen unno 
 ticed from the side of Emily, and stepped forth upon the broad 
 piazza, to breathe for one moment the coolness of the mid 
 night air ; it soothed, it refreshed her, and throwing herself 
 upon the seat beneath Melanie s window, a burst of tears re- 
 
REMAINS. 181 
 
 lieved her agitated feeluags. The scene was solemn, and to 
 the reflecting mind it was one of deep interest, for the shade 
 of an eventful morrow seemed hanging darkly over it ; torches 
 were glancing to and fro in the distant fort ; boats were cross 
 ing and recrossing the river ; the bridges were destroyed, and 
 the voice of the sentinel was heard at intervals, as he loudly 
 demanded the countersign from some belated traveller. In 
 addition to her other cares, Mrs. Mentreville was now seri 
 ously alarmed for the safety of her husband : at every casual 
 footstep, at every shadow which obscured the moonlight, she 
 started from her seat, and an anxious, " is it he ?" trembled 
 unconsciously upon her lips. In the silent solemnity of that 
 midnight hour, her mind reverted to her own early days, 
 when loving and beloved, she had first entered that humble 
 cottage a youthful and happy wife, and when after the lapse 
 of years she had still found herself an adored and cherished 
 mother, the centre of all the social affections, the parent tree 
 which shadowed, nourished, and supported the fresh young 
 tendrils that twined around it ; now there was a deep, deep 
 void within her heart. Death had breathed upon her para 
 dise ; he had laid his cold hand upon those delicate vines ; he 
 had torn them asunder ; had gathered all but three young 
 blossoms to twine around and wither on his clay-cold brow". 
 Pier affection for the dead was now transferred with tenfold 
 ardour to the living ; the buoyancy of youth and hope were 
 gone, but love, a mother s love, can never perish, and her 
 spirit, chastened and subdued by the hand of affliction, clung 
 to Melanie as to some guardian angel, some being of superior 
 mould, who seemed unfitted for the cares and buffettings of 
 life, and yet foreboding fancy had never dared to whisper 
 she could die ; and now the dreadful summons had arrived ; 
 she saw it in the flushed and fevered cheek, the throbbing 
 pulse, the eye of piercing brilliancy ; she heard it in the low 
 tremulous accents of her beloved one, they mingled all the 
 
182 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 sweetness of heaven, and all the sadness of earth ; and the 
 memory of those tones stole over her mind like a soothing 
 murmur, as she buried her face in her hands, and the tears 
 stole silently between them. She was startled from her revery 
 by a sound like the distant trampling of horses feet ; she 
 turned the sound came nearer " It is he !" and she rushed 
 down the steps of the piazza, and with her hand upon the 
 gate leaned anxiously over the little enclosure. She scarcely 
 breathed. It was a horseman riding furiously down the little 
 hill to the right, and as he passed in the moonlight, hope could 
 deceive her no longer ; it was not he, it was the express ; he 
 dashed along through the row of sentinels, and waving his 
 cap in the air, his hoarse voice broke painfully upon the 
 silence of night. 
 
 " The enemy ! the enemy !" he shouted, " they have come 
 on by forced marches ; they are now encamped within two 
 miles ; they will be here by daybreak," and he dashed on, 
 arousing the sleeping echoes, till the trampling of his horse s 
 feet, and the tones of his stentorian voice were alike lost in 
 the distance. Mrs. Mentreville slowly and mechanically re 
 turned to the piazza, and a thousand agonizing thoughts 
 swept like a burning torrent through her brain. The British 
 army was rapidly approaching ; the conflict would probably 
 take place at daybreak ; her husband had gone to secure 
 them a place of refuge, but he returned not ; perhaps he was 
 a prisoner in the British camp, and she, a helpless woman, 
 with one young and timid daughter, and one, so dear a one, 
 just dying, was left alone in the deserted village, exposed to 
 the cruel insults of the British soldiery, should they conquer, 
 and to all the terror and tumult of a desperate conflict even 
 should they fail. Oh ! that was a night of agony, and never, 
 through all the vicissitudes of after life, did one thought, one 
 feeling then endured fade from the volume of her memory. 
 As the thoughts of danger and the necessity of exertion passed 
 
REMAINS. 183 
 
 through her mind, she^wiped the tears from her eyes, and 
 whispered within herself, " This weakness will not do ; I 
 have a part to perform. I am the only guardian of my three 
 dear ones ; we cannot fly, and if the British conquer, as I 
 fear they must, I will appeal for protection to their officers ! 
 they have wives and children. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 MOTHER ! thou bidd st me touch the lyre, 
 And wake its sweetest tones for thee ; 
 
 To kindle fancy s dying fire, 
 And light the torch of poetry. 
 
 Mother ! how sweet the word, how pure, 
 As if from heaven the accents came ; 
 
 If aught can rouse the dormant soul, 
 It is that cherish d, honour d name. 
 
 Deep in the heart s recess it dwells ; 
 
 It lives with being s earliest dawn ; 
 With reason s light expands and swells, 
 
 And dies with parting life alone. 
 
 Mother ! tis childhood s first essay, 
 Breathed in its trembling tones of love ; 
 
 It lights the heart, through life s long way, 
 And points to holier worlds above ! 
 
 It is a name, whose mighty spell 
 
 Can draw the chain d affections forth, 
 
 Cat rouse the feelings from their cell, 
 And give each purer impulse birth. 
 13 
 
1 86 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then will I wake my sleeping- muse, 
 And strive to breathe my thoughts in song, 
 
 Though sweetest strains must fail to speak 
 The heart s affections, deep and strong. 
 
 PRIDE AND MODESTY. 
 
 JUST where a wild and rapid stream 
 RolFd back its waves in seeming pride, 
 
 Flowers of each softly varying hue 
 Were sweetly blooming, side by side. 
 
 Shaded by many a bending tree, 
 
 Their glowing cups with dew-drops fill d, 
 
 Nature s fair daughters blushing stood, 
 And all their fragrant sweets distill d. 
 
 Oh, twas a wild and lovely spot, 
 Which well might seem a spirit s home ! 
 
 A lone retreat, a noiseless grot, 
 
 Where earth s rude blasts could never come. 
 
 Within a broad and open glade, 
 
 A tulip spread its gaudy hue, 
 While, neath the myrtle s clustering shade, 
 
 A sweetly-drooping lily grew. 
 
 As the light zephyrs o er them swept, 
 And heightened many a rosy glow, 
 
 A strange, deep murmur round them crept, 
 Like distant music, wild and low. 
 
 Twas the gay tulip s fragrant breath, 
 Which many an answering echo woke, 
 
 As to her lowly neighbour, thus, 
 With proud and haughty mien, she spoke : 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 187 
 
 " Away ! frail trembling flower ! nor dare 
 
 To droop beside my glittering form ! 
 Behold how bright my garments are, 
 
 And mark each sweetly varying charm ! 
 
 " Then hie thee to some lonely nook, 
 
 Nor show thy pallid features here ; 
 Go, murmur to some babbling brook, 
 
 Where like thyself each scene is drear ! 
 
 " Hast thou assurance thus to gaze 
 
 On one who nature s self beguiles 1 
 Hence ! haste thee hence ! and hide that face, 
 
 Where parent nature never smiles." 
 
 She ceased a sad, sweet whisper rose, 
 Which thrill d the zephyr s list ning ear ; 
 
 Soft as an angel s gentlest tone, 
 Too heavenly for this mortal sphere. 
 
 Twas the pale lily s silvery voice, 
 
 Which rose in low and thrilling tone, 
 Like breath of wild Eolian lyre, 
 
 Moved by the wind-god s tenderest moan : 
 
 " Great queen !" the lovely gem replied, 
 " I view thy charms, I own their power, 
 
 And void of envy, shame, or pride, 
 Admire thy beauties of an hour. 
 
 " Full well I know my pallid brow 
 
 Can never match the hues of thine ; 
 Nor my white robes the colours wear, 
 
 Which on thy dazzling garments shine. 
 
 " But the same hand hath form d us both ; 
 
 And heaven-born nature smiled as sweet 
 As on thy form, when the low flower 
 
 Was peeping from its green retreat. 
 
188 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Here was I planted ! let me here 
 Still live in purity and peace ; 
 
 The lily s eye shall never weep 
 To gain the tulip s gaudy grace. 
 
 " But oh, forget not, mid the pomp 
 Of earthly kingdom, pride, and joy, 
 
 That boasted beauty must decay, 
 And withering age thy pleasures cloy. 
 
 " Receive the lily s kind advice, 
 Retire from scenes of public life, 
 
 And pass thy days in solitude, 
 Apart from vanity and strife." 
 
 While the sweet murmur past away, 
 The stately rose as umpire came ; 
 
 The lily shunn d her proud survey, 
 The lordly tulip bent for shame. 
 
 In accents bland, but nobly firm, 
 The queen-like flow ret soon replied, 
 
 In tones which charm d the tender flower, 
 And humbled more the tulip s pride. 
 
 " Come hither, pure and lovely one, 
 With thee no garden plant can vie ; 
 
 Not e en the tulip s gaudy hues 
 
 Match with thy stainless, spotless dye. 
 
 " Come to my bosom, emblem fair 
 Of heavenly virtue s fairer form ! 
 
 Here let me learn each modest grace, 
 While here I hush each wild alarm. 
 
 " Come to my bosom ! what so pure, 
 
 So lovely as a modest one, 
 Who flies from folly s glittering lure, 
 
 And shuns the brigkt meridian sun ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 189 
 
 " Let the proud tulip glitter still, 
 
 Robed in hej. scarf of varying hue ; 
 Alone neath nature s eye we ll rest, 
 
 Cheer d by her smile, and nurtured by her dew." 
 
 VERSIFICATION OF THE TWENTY-THIRD 
 PSALM. 
 
 MY shepherd is the faithful Lord, 
 I shall not want, I trust his word ; 
 He lays me down in pastures green, 
 He leads me by the lake serene, 
 Comforts my soul, and points me on 
 To pure religion s holy shrine. 
 
 I wander through the vale of death, 
 
 Yet he supports me still ; 
 He will receive my dying breath 
 
 If I perform his will. 
 
 Even in the presence of my foes 
 He doth a meal of plenty spread ; 
 
 My cup with blessings overflows, 
 With oil he does anoint my head. 
 
 1831. 
 
 TO BROTHER L . 
 
 THE vessel lightly skims the wave, 
 And bounds across the waters blue, 
 
 Near shores where trees luxuriant spread, 
 And roses wildly blooming grew. 
 
190 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Yon islands see ! so fair and bright, 
 Like gems upon the azure sea ; 
 
 The waters dance like forms of light, 
 And waft my brother dear from me. 
 
 1831. 
 
 FOR MAMMA. 
 
 THE rippling stream serenely glides, 
 And rising meets the swelling tides ; 
 The fleeting lights of heaven around 
 Shine brightly o er the vast profound. 
 
 The moon hath hid her silvery face, 
 So mark d with beauty and with grace, 
 Majestic when she rides on high, 
 A gem upon the azure sky ! 
 
 My thoughts, oh Lord, then turn to thee, 
 Of what thou art and I shall be ; 
 Thy outstretch d wings around me spread 
 And guard with lotfe my helpless head. 
 
 1831. 
 
 TO MAMMA. 
 
 FAREWELL, dear mother, for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 May the almighty Father spread 
 His sheltering wings above thy head. 
 It is not long that we must part, 
 Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 191 
 
 Remember, oh remember me, 
 Unceasing is my love for thee ! 
 When death shall sever earthly ties, 
 When thy loved form all senseless lies, 
 
 Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
 And roam through wide eternity ; 
 Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
 And count the brilliant stars of even. 
 
 Farewell, dear mother, for a while 
 I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
 May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
 And joys unceasing round thee flow. 
 
 1831. 
 
 TO A FLOWER. 
 
 THE blighting hand of winter 
 
 Has laid thy glories low ; 
 Oh, where is all thy beauty T 
 
 Where is thy freshness now 1 
 
 Summer has pass d away, 
 
 With every smiling scene, 
 And nature in decay 
 
 Assumes a mournful mien. 
 
 How like adversity s rude blast 
 
 Upon the helpless one, 
 When hope s gay visions all have pass d, 
 * And to oblivion gone. 
 
 Yet winter has some beauties left, 
 Which cheer my heart forlorn ; 
 
 Nature is not of charms bereft, 
 Though shrouded by the storm. 
 
192 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 I see the sparkling snow ; 
 
 I view the mountain tops ; 
 I mark the frozen lake below, 
 
 Or the dark rugged rocks. 
 
 How truly grand the scene ! 
 
 The giant trees are bare, 
 No fertile meadows intervene, 
 
 No hillocks fresh and fair ; 
 
 But the cloud-capp d mountains rise, 
 Crown d with purest whiteness, 
 
 And mingle with the skies, 
 That shine with azure brightness. 
 
 And solitude, that friend so dear 
 To each reflecting mind, 
 
 Her residence has chosen here 
 To soothe the heart refined. 
 
 1831. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ROLL on, roll on, bright orb of day ; 
 
 Roll on, thou beauteous queen of even ; 
 Ye stars, that ever twinkling play, 
 
 And sweetly grace the azure heaven, 
 
 Roll on, until thy God s command 
 
 Shall rend the sky and tear the earth ; 
 
 Till he stretch forth his mighty hand 
 To check the voice of joyous mirth. , 
 
 He spread the heavens as a scroll, 
 
 He made the sea, he form d the world ; 
 
 The heavens again shall backward roll, 
 And mountains from their base be hurl d. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 198 
 
 He form d the lovely verdant green, 
 And aught of fair that e er has been ; 
 These beautiefc all shall pass away, 
 And in one shapeless ruin lay. 
 
 But God in his glory, the God of the sky, 
 Will continue through endless eternity ; 
 For ever untainted, all holy and pure, 
 His love and his mercy shall ever endure. 
 
 1831. 
 
 ESSAY ON NATURE. 
 
 How just, how pure, how holy is the great Creator of 
 the universe ! When I gaze upon all the wonders of 
 nature, the rippling stream, the distant mountain, the 
 rugged rock, or the gently sloping hill, my mind turns 
 to the first Great Cause of all ; the Author of this min 
 gled beauty, grandeur, and simplicity. God made this 
 beautiful world for us, that we might be happy, and 
 why are we not so ? Because we do not seek real hap 
 piness. We are striving to obtain worldly pleasure ; but 
 what is that, compared with the happiness of a child of 
 God 1 He feels and knows that his Saviour is ever dear ; 
 he weeps over his past follies with a sweet consciousness 
 that they are all forgiven ; that the kind Shepherd has 
 brought back his lost sheep to the fold. He trusts in the 
 goodness of his Creator. His faith is firm in the blessed 
 Saviour who died for him ; he has charity for all, love 
 for all. Such is the Christian ! His earthly sorrows 
 seem light, for his thoughts are continually upon his just 
 Preserver. What is man, frail, feeble man, but a flower 
 
194 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 of the field, that fades away with the rude blast of the 
 autumnal storm. How infinite the love which sustains 
 him! 
 
 Plattsburgh, 1832. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN NINE YEARS OF AGE. 
 HOME. 
 
 YONDER orb of dazzling light 
 
 Sinks beneath the robe of night, 
 
 And the moon, so sweetly pale, 
 
 Waits to lift her silver veil. 
 
 One by one the stars appear, 
 
 Glittering in the heavenly sphere, 
 
 And sparkling in their bright array, 
 
 Welcome in the close of day. 
 
 But home, that sacred, pure retreat, 
 
 Where dwells my heart in all that s sweet, 
 
 And my own stream, where oft I ve stray d, 
 
 And mark d the beams that o er it play d, 
 
 Is far away, o er the waters blue, 
 
 Far from my fondly straining view. 
 
 1832. 
 
 THE MAJESTY OF GOD. 
 
 WITH the lightning his throne, and the thunder his voice, 
 
 He rides through the troubled sky ; 
 He bids all his angels in heaven rejoice, 
 
 And thunders his wrath from on high ! 
 "On the wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly rides," 
 O er the heavens, the earth, and the ocean he strides ; 
 The breath of his nostrils the lightning s flame, 
 All nature re-echoes his powerful name ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 195 
 
 FROM THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 
 
 + 
 
 WHY is my bosom fill d with fear, 
 And why cast down my troubled soul ? 
 
 Is not thy God, thy Saviour near, 
 And will he not thy fate control 1 
 
 How mighty is my Saviour s hand, 
 
 How powerful his word, 
 And how can I, a sinful worm, 
 
 Address him as my Lord 1 
 
 Jehovah sends his mighty breath 
 
 Across the placid sea ; 
 The foaming waters proudly whirl, 
 
 As longing to be free. 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep aloud, 
 The raging billows follow thee ; 
 
 Thou send st the roaring waves abroad, 
 Which rush o erwhelming over me. 
 
 Yet at the great I AM S command, 
 For me, the object of his care, 
 
 The shouting waters silent stand ; 
 He still shall listen to my prayer. 
 
 1833. 
 
 HYMN OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 
 
 WELCOME, oh welcome, god of day ! 
 
 Thy presence gives us peace ! 
 All hail, eternal, glorious king, 
 
 Thy light shall never cease ! 
 
MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Transcendent Sun ! oh list to one 
 
 Whose heart is fill d with love ; 
 Let the sweet airs lift high our prayers 
 
 To thee our God above. 
 
 Pure orb of light ! resplendent, bright ; 
 
 Oh, who may cope with thee 1 
 And who may dare to view thee there, 
 
 And never bend the knee 1 
 
 Before thy ray the guilty flee, 
 
 And dread thy cheerful beam, 
 Lest thy fierce eye their crimes descry, 
 
 And chill hope s trembling gleam. 
 
 To thee we bow, for on thy brow 
 
 Is majesty impressed, 
 Glory thy shroud, thy throne the cloud, 
 
 Which circles o er thy breast. 
 
 The Washing flower will own thy power ; 
 
 It blooms alone for thee ; 
 And though so frail, oh hear my wail, 
 
 My blessed guardian be ! 
 
 When the first ray of brilliant day 
 
 Illumes the hill, the plain, 
 The songsters raise a hymn of praise, 
 
 Oh, listen to my strain. 
 
 When thy loved form, which braves the storm, 
 
 In ocean disappears, 
 One mournful cry ascends on high, 
 
 The night is spent in tears. 
 
 But lest we mourn for thy return, 
 
 And pine away in grief, 
 The orb of night supplies thy light, 
 
 And gives us sweet relief. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 197 
 
 Then on my head, eternal ! shed 
 Thy warmejt, purest beam, 
 
 And to my heart content impart, 
 With gratitude serene. 
 
 Then, when at last, my sorrows past, 
 With thee in light I ll roam, 
 
 And by thy side securely ride, 
 Thy bosom for my home. 
 
 1833. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 SOMETIMES I grace the maiden s brow, 
 And lend her cheek a brighter glow ; 
 Or grim and strong secure the wall 
 Of many a castle gate from all. 
 The palace boasts me always there, 
 To guard the walls and bless the fair ; 
 The meanest cot I ne er disdain, 
 Yet guard the portals of the brain. LOCK. 
 
 TO A LITTLE COUSIN AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 MY dear little Georgie, oh did you but know 
 
 How delighted I d be could I meet with you now ; 
 
 Oh could I but print on your forehead a kiss, 
 
 To thy Margaret the* moment were unalloy d bliss. 
 
 Thy flowers and acorns I ve cherish d with care, 
 
 And to me they have seem d more than lovely and fair ; 
 
 For thoughts of the friends I have left far behind, 
 
 And sweet recollections will crowd on my mind, 
 
 As I gaze on the tokens presented by you, 
 
 And the sweet little letter you ve written me too ; 
 
198 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 I fancy I see thee on bright Christmas day, 
 With Kitty and mother all sportive at play, 
 Admiring the bounty St. Nicholas gave 
 To the boy who was worthy his counsels so grave. 
 Oh could I but join thee, my beautiful boy, 
 In thy holiday pastimes and innocent joy ! 
 Is " Aunty" still working on bonnets and capes, 
 Or examining flowers of all sizes and shapes ] 
 Does Aikin s Collection still lie on her lap, 
 While her fingers are plaiting some ruffle or cap ] 
 Is thy " dear little mother" still lively and gay, 
 Pleasing and pleased, as when I came away 1 
 And Annie, and Kitty, and grandfather too ] 
 But tis time, my dear Georgie, I bade you adieu. 
 Tell uncle, and brother, and all whom I love, 
 My letters alone my affection must prove. 
 
 1833. 
 
 ON READING CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 THE rainbow s bright and varying hue, 
 Mix d with the soft celestial blue, 
 The brightest, fairest stars of night, 
 Which shed their radiance pure and bright, 
 If mingled in a wreath, would be 
 Too poor an offering for thee. 
 
 The morning sun should deck thy brow, 
 Now dazzling bright, and softening now ; 
 But night s dark veil too oft doth cloud 
 The brow which genius should enshroud, 
 For vice has set her impress there, 
 Mingled with virtues pure and fair. 
 
 1833. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 199 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 OH, thou almighty Lord of heaven and earth ! 
 From whom the world and man derive their birth, 
 My youthful harp with sacred love inspire, 
 And fill my soul with wild poetic fire. 
 
 And oh, thou pure, transcendent muse of heaven, 
 Descend upon an airy cloud of even, 
 With thy bright fingers touch the trembling chord, 
 And let it echo to my Saviour, Lord. 
 
 1833. 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 HAIL to salvation s brilliant morn, 
 Hail to the dawn of joy and peace, 
 
 When God s supreme, almighty power, 
 Bade all our pains and sorrows cease. 
 
 Ye angels, sing your sweetest songs, 
 And strike anew each golden lyre ; 
 
 Let him to whom the praise belongs 
 The sacred strain inspire. 
 
 This day the star of promise shone 
 
 Bright in yon eastern sky, 
 It bore redemption in its light, 
 
 A herald from on high. 
 
 It led a wise and chosen band, 
 Who writhed beneath the rod 
 
 Of Herod s proud and kingly hand, 
 To seek their infant God. 
 
200 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 From his high throne in realms of bliss, 
 Where love was in every breast, 
 
 From his glorious home he came to this, 
 And in his descent we are blest. 
 
 For man s unconquerable pride, 
 That we salvation might obtain, 
 
 This blessed Saviour bled and died, 
 And has the sacrifice been vain 1 
 
 Oh Jesus, filPd with sacred fire, 
 May I devote this life to thee ; 
 
 May love my youthful heart inspire, 
 And glow to all eternity. 
 
 1833. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 TWAS evening, and the sun s last ray 
 Was beaming o er the azure sky ; 
 
 Earth bade farewell to cheerful day, 
 Which sinks beneath the mountains high. 
 
 Those cloud-tipp d mountains soar d afar 
 
 In that bright heaven of blue, 
 And seem d to reach yon eastern star, 
 
 Which glittering you might view. 
 
 Between its banks yon rippling stream 
 
 Unruffled glides along, 
 In curling eddies onward flew 
 
 Rocks, branches, trees among. 
 
 Beyond it raged the troubled sea, 
 
 Which threw aloft its wave, 
 And ever furious, ever dark, 
 
 The sky it seem d to brave. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 201 
 
 How strangely, sweetly blended there 
 
 The beautiful and grand, 
 The awful with the prospect fair, 
 
 The terrible and bland ! 
 
 Behold that tall, majestic reck, 
 
 O erhanging yonder stream ; 
 See, at its frowning foot is seen 
 
 The pale moon s silvery beam. 
 
 1833. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 IN nature it holds a conspicuous part, 
 It lives in the ocean, and softens the heart ; 
 The supporter of angels, in heaven it dwells, 
 And the number of demons reluctantly swells. 
 Tis a part of our faith, and it lives with the dead, 
 Tis devoid of religion, yet always in dread ; 
 In the wavering candle all brightly it glows, 
 And with the meandering streamlet it flows. 
 Without it the name of the warrior were lost, 
 And the seaman would sink, on the wide ocean tost. 
 And now, my dear friend, if you guess what it means, 
 You may have the enigma for nought but your pains. 
 
 1833. 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 ALMIGHTY GOD ! Father of heaven and earth, 
 Who form d, from midst the vast expanse of chaos, 
 This spacious world, omnipotent and holy ! 
 Before thee angels bow ! the countless host 
 Of tjjpse that praise thee, and that hover round 
 14 
 
202 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Thy sacred throne, shrink from the blaze of light, 
 
 And shadow with their wings their beaming brows, 
 
 Lest, on their senses thy transcendent glories 
 
 Burst with a stunning power, and absorb them 
 
 In one full flood of brilliance. 
 
 Oh thou ! whose everseeing eye can pierce 
 
 The misty shades of night, and penetrate 
 
 The deep recesses of the human heart ; 
 
 Parent of earth ! how glorious are thy works ! 
 
 Look at yon orb, whose ever-open eye 
 
 Sheds at his glance a pure, resplendent light, 
 
 Dispensing good. Night throws her sable veil 
 
 O er hill and rock, o er rivulet and ocean : 
 
 Then chaste Diana sheds her silver ray 
 
 O er all : her throne, the fleecy cloud that floats 
 
 Over the vast expanse of heaven above us ; 
 
 Her bright attendants are the brilliant stars, 
 
 That seem like guardian angels, who attend, 
 
 In virgin purity, to keep from ill 
 
 Our ever-rolling orb : beauty reigns over all, 
 
 And tinges nature with her softest touch. 
 
 If scenery so bright as this be here, 
 
 Oh, how can fancy paint the joys of heaven, 
 
 That pure and holy place, region of bliss ! 
 
 There glides an amber stream, diffusing sweets, 
 
 And every tiny wave, which o er the sands 
 
 Of purest gold rolls backward, washes up 
 
 Seme pearl or diamond, gem of dazzling beauty ; 
 
 While ambrosial zephyrs fan the air. 
 
 See, yonder angel, resting on the cloud, 
 
 His beaming eye upturn d with holy awe. 
 
 Oh list ! he chaunts his great Creator s praise ; 
 
 His golden harp is never hush d by wo ; 
 
 There music holds her sweet, harmonious reign. 
 
 How pure the being who calls forth that lay : 
 
 Such clear, melodious symphony 
 
 Might well awake the dead from their last sleep. 
 
 1833. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 203 
 
 TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 ^ 
 
 THOUGH thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb, 
 
 Like the flow ret, which droops in its verdure and bloom ; 
 
 Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 
 
 And thy strains will ne er waken their echoes again ; 
 
 Still o er the fond memory they silently glide ; 
 
 Still, still, thou art ours and America s pride. 
 
 Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crown d, 
 
 O er the broad arch of heaven thy notes shall resound, 
 
 And pour the full tide of thy music along, 
 
 While a bright choir of angels re-echoes the song. 
 
 The pure elevation which beam d from thine eye, 
 
 As it turn d to its home, in yon fair azure sky, 
 
 Told of something unearthly, it shone with the light 
 
 Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 
 
 " Round the rose that is wither d a fragrance remains, 
 
 O er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns." 
 
 Thy lyre has resounded o er ocean s broad wave, 
 
 And the tear of deep anguish been shed o er thy grave, 
 
 But thy spirit has mounted to regions on high, 
 
 To the throne of its God, where it never can die. 
 
 1833. 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN ELEVEN AND TWELVE. 
 
 PROPHECY. 
 
 FAIR mortal, I linger to tell thee thy fate, 
 Like an angel above thy bright fortunes I wait : 
 Thy heart is a mixture of tender and sweet, 
 And thy bosom is virtue s own sacred retreat. 
 Simplicity soft and affection combine 
 To render thee lovely and almost divine. 
 
204 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Devoid of ambition, rest, dear one, secure, 
 
 For with thoughts so refined, and with feelings so pure, 
 
 What mortal would injure, what care would pursue 
 
 A being protected by heaven like you 1 
 
 Bright beauty thou hast not, but something so fair 
 
 It may serve to protect thee from sorrow and care. 
 
 I pierce the light veil which would darken thy fate, 
 
 And angels of happiness round thee await ; 
 
 I see a bright cherub supporting thy head, 
 
 While around thee the smiles of affection are shed ; 
 
 I see thy aged arms around him prest, 
 
 Thy gray locks waving o er his youthful breast 
 
 I see thee on his tender bosom lay, 
 
 In silent pleasure breathe thy life away. 
 
 My tale is told dear one, I linger now 
 
 To kiss with fervent love thy own fair brow. 
 
 1833. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 ON the brow of the monarch in triumph I stand, 
 I govern each measure, I rule each command ; 
 Without me, his kingdom to atoms would fall, 
 But I share not his crown, and I rule not his hall. 
 I dance in the meadow, and play on the stream, 
 And I glimmer obscurely in Luna s pale beam. 
 
 I dwell in thy bosom, I m part of thy form, 
 But I ride on the tempest, and guide the fierce storm ; 
 With the sea-nymph I rest on the moss-covered cliff, 
 And I weep with the mourner that life is so brief. 
 O er the grave of the mighty in sorrow I bow, 
 And I rest in thy mind as thou rt watching me now. 
 
 Go look on the pillow of sorrow and care, 
 
 On the brow that is wither d by darkest despair, 
 
 Stern affliction will meet you, but I am not there. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 205 
 
 In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince, 
 In the mariner s vessel, the warrior s lance, 
 In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair, 
 Though millions surround them still I am not there. 
 
 In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great, 
 
 In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait. 
 
 I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye ; 
 
 I wish I might float in yon pure azure sky ; 
 
 I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray d, 
 
 Where the sunbeam had lit, or the pale moon had play d. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS. 
 
 THE Bible ! what is it 1 every heart which has read 
 and justly appreciated that inestimable volume cannot 
 fail to exclaim, " This is the work of a God !" Who is 
 there that will not admire, (although he read with a 
 doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity ? 
 Principles so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts 
 so refined, who could have formed them but one in 
 spired by a God, or God himself? Tis our guide, our 
 star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eter 
 nity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what 
 power can soothe like this sacred volume 1 Its pages, 
 beaming with truth and mercy, will shed a holy light 
 over the troubled landscape, and impart a softer swell to 
 the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by whose 
 beams we should direct our path over the gloomy waves 
 of life. Then why neglect it ? Some may think it de 
 rogatory to their earthly dignity " What will the world 
 say T Read it, and learn from its sublime precepts lo 
 stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all else fails 
 
206 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 you, this will remain the supporter of your rights ; here 
 is real dignity and grandeur, but it is the dignity of the 
 soul, the grandeur of virtue, the dignity arising from a 
 close alliance with the Deity. If He who thundered on 
 Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow from 
 rocks of adamant, will deign to approach so near us, is 
 it for us to stand aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our 
 own insignificance, and brave the tempest of life alone ? 
 Oh ! how depraved that heart must be, which such con 
 descension will fail to affect ! and how happy the bosom 
 for ever confiding in its God ! calm in the midst of afflic 
 tion, resigned while the torrents of grief pour on the soul ; 
 which, though borne down by sorrow, is fortified by vir 
 tue, and looks calmly and steadily forward to the cala 
 mities which it is certain will terminate in an endless 
 communion with its Maker. 
 
 February 2, 1834. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 
 
 OH tremble, ye proud ones ! oh tremble with fear ! 
 
 For Jehovah has come in his wrath ; 
 Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow, 
 
 And lightning attends on his path. 
 Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye, 
 As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high ! 
 
 Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin ! 
 
 Before his dread presence in penitence bow ; 
 Oh, dash the bright wine cup in terror away, 
 
 And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow, 
 For the angel of mercy no longer is there, 
 To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 207 
 
 The spirit of death o er your city has pass d, 
 His broad flaming _weapon is waving on high ; 
 
 Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind s rude blast, 
 Tis written in fear on yon lightning-crown d sky. 
 
 Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance, 
 
 As he cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance. 
 
 The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne, 
 The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower, 
 
 For the soft voice of music hear sorrow s deep moan, 
 And shrink neath the hand of their God in his power. 
 
 The smile on the cheek is transform d to a tear, 
 
 But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear. 
 
 Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread, 
 For mercy may rest neath the frown on his brow. 
 
 Oh, haste e er each fast-failing hope shall have fled, 
 Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow. 
 
 The moment of grace and repentance has pass d ; 
 
 Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain ; 
 The sword of destruction is levell d at last, 
 
 And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again. 
 
 1834. 
 
 VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 OH thou, who rollest far above, 
 
 Round as my father s shield in war ! 
 
 From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun, 
 Which shine for ever and afar ! 
 
 All cold and pale, the feeble moon 
 
 Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power ; 
 
 The western wave conceals its light 
 At morning s bright, resplendent hour. 
 
208 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But thou, unchanging, mov st alone ! 
 
 Oh who may thy companion be 1 
 The rugged rocks, the mountains fall, 
 
 But who may stand in might like thee 1 
 
 The ocean shrinks and grows again, 
 All earthly things will fade away, 
 
 But thou for ever art the same, 
 Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray ; 
 
 Rolling and rolling on thy way, 
 
 Enlightening worlds from day to day. 
 
 When o er yon vault the thunders peal, 
 And lightning in its pathway flies ; 
 
 When tempests darken o er the world, 
 And cloud the once resplendent skies, 
 
 Thou rear st on high thy noble form, 
 
 And laughest at the raging storm. 
 
 But now thou look st to me in vain, 
 For I behold thy beams no more ; 
 
 I languish here in darkness now, 
 On Erin s green and fertile shore. 
 
 I know not if thy yellow hair 
 Is floating on the western clouds, 
 
 Or if the fleecy veil of morn 
 
 Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds; 
 
 But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me, 
 
 Shall days of rest and silence see. 
 
 Amid the clouds thy form may sleep, 
 Regardless of the morning s voice ; 
 
 Exult then, mighty orb of day, 
 And in thy vigorous youth rejoice* 
 
 1834 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 209 
 
 TO MY DEAR MAMMA, 
 
 - & 
 
 ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK. 
 
 THOUGH my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long 
 That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung 1 , 
 
 If twill call but one smile of delight to thy cheek, 
 I will waken the notes which so long were unsung. 
 
 My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside, 
 And other enjoyments I ve sought for a while ; 
 
 But though lured by their brilliance, still none can compare 
 With my dear little harp and my mother s sweet smile. 
 
 With joy I return to my books and my pen, 
 
 To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, 
 
 For while scribbling each thought of my half-crazy brain 
 I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear. 
 
 Oh excuse my poor harp if these lines do not rhyme, 
 Tis so long since it warbled aught breathing of sense, 
 
 That the chords, though I m striving to tune them aright, 
 Still warble of folly and pleasure intense. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB, 
 
 IN vain I strike my youthful lyre, 
 
 Some gayer music to impart, 
 And dissipate the gloom which hangs 
 
 Too sadly round my mourning heart. 
 
 Oh, I would wish its low, deep tones, 
 
 Some gentler, sprightlier strain to borrow ; 
 
 But still, they only can respond 
 
 The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow. 
 
210 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 For she, the young, the bright, the gay, 
 
 Has left us here to weep, 
 While cover d with her parent clay, 
 
 And wrapt in death s long sleep. 
 
 But memory still can paint the scenes 
 
 Of past, but ne er forgotten joy, 
 When we have sported wild arid free, 
 
 No sorrow pleasure s tide to cloy. 
 
 Thy form, as it was wont to be, 
 
 Still mingles with each thought of home ; 
 
 My earliest sports were join d by thee, 
 When graced by beauty s brightest bloom. 
 
 . Again I view that hazel eye, 
 
 With life and pleasure beaming ; 
 Again I view that fair, white brow, 
 Those dark locks o er it streaming. 
 
 Again I view thy blushing cheek, 
 
 The glow of love and pride, 
 When, mid the throng of smiling friends, 
 
 A blooming, happy bride. 
 
 But more than these, the angel mind 
 
 Should all our thoughts engage ; 
 Oh, twas unsullied and refined 
 
 As is this spotless page. 
 
 How changed the scene ! the star of hope 
 Has set in clouds of darkest night, 
 
 And she, the lovely and the gay, 
 
 Is laid in the grave with her beauty and light. 
 
 Oh, where shall the mother, all mourning and sad, 
 Oh, where shall she look for the child she adored ! 
 
 And where shall the husband, half frantic with grief, 
 Find the wife in whose bosom his sorrows he pour d ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 211 
 
 How lonely and silent each well-beloved scene, 
 Each garden, each grove, which she loved to frequent ; 
 
 The sweet flowers dhe nurtured so fondly and long, 
 In sorrow their heads to the damp ground have bent. 
 
 But a flow ret more lovely, more tender and pure, 
 Is languidly drooping, no mother to guide ; 
 
 The fond kiss of a mother it never can feel, 
 
 And to her the warm prayer of a mother s denied. 
 
 But the spirit we mourn has ascended on high, 
 And there it will watch o er its little one s fate ; 
 
 In whispers her voice will be heard from the sky, 
 With a mother s affection, which ne er can abate. 
 
 1834. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 THOUGH yon broad vault of heavenly blue 
 Is spangled o er with gems of light ; 
 
 Though veil d beneath its azure hue 
 Is glittering many a star so bright ; 
 
 Though thousands wait around the throne 
 Of yon cold monarch, proudly fair ; 
 
 Though all unite their dazzling powers 
 To vie with Luna s brilliance there ; 
 
 Each star which decks her cloud-veil d brow, 
 
 Or glitters in her snowy car, 
 Would shrink beneath thy dazzling ray, 
 
 Sweet little, sparkling evening star ! 
 
 No twinkling groups around thee throng, 
 Thy path majestic, lonely, bright ! 
 
 A radiant softness shades thy form, 
 First wanderer in the train of night ! 
 
212 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 While gazing on thy glorious path, 
 It seems as though some seraph s eye 
 
 Look d with angelic sweetness down, 
 And watch d me from the glorious sky. 
 
 As the dim twilight steals around, 
 And thou art trembling far above, 
 
 I think of those no longer here, 
 Dear objects of my earliest love. 
 
 And the soft ray which beams from thee 
 A soothing calmness doth impart; 
 
 And from each poignant sorrow free, 
 A sweet composure fills my heart. 
 
 Oh ! then shine on thus pure and bright, 
 Pour on each mourning soul thy balm ! 
 
 Soothe the sad bosom s rankling grief, 
 And fill it with thy heavenly calm ! 
 
 Till meek, submissive, and resign d, 
 It seeks above a purer joy ; 
 
 And stays the fickle, wayward mind 
 On pleasures which can never cloy. 
 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 OH, how I love my father s eye, 
 
 So tender and so kind ! 
 Oh, how I love its azure dye, 
 
 The index of his mind ! 
 
 Oh, how I love the silver hair 
 Which floats around his brow. 
 
 I love to press my father s form, 
 And feel his cheek s warm glow. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 213 
 
 Oh, what is like a parent s love 1 
 
 What heart like his will feel, 
 When sorrow s waves are raging round, 
 
 And cares the thoughts congeal 1 
 
 Would he not die his child to save 1 
 
 Would not his blood be shed 
 That yet one darling might remain 
 
 To soothe his dying bed ? 
 
 Oh, what is like a parent s care 
 
 To guard the youthful mind 1 
 Oh, what is like a parent s prayer, 
 
 Unbounded grace to find ] 
 
 Ah, yes ! my father is a friend 
 
 I ever must revere, 
 And, if I could but cease to love, 
 
 His virtues I would fear. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON NATURE. 
 
 " How beautiful is Nature !" Every soul, 
 
 Beating with warm and gentle feeling, 
 
 Must repeat with me these heartfelt words, 
 
 " How beautiful is Nature !" In the dark 
 
 Awful waving of the sky-crown d forest, 
 
 Her gentle whisper, like an angel s voice, 
 
 Still breaks upon the stillness ; in the stream 
 
 Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet murmur ; 
 
 While on the varied sky, the frowning mount, 
 
 Her chainless hand majestical is laid ! 
 
 What voice so sweet as hers 1 what touch so soft, 
 
 So delicate 1 what pencilling so divine ] 
 
 Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture 
 
 To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful 1 
 
2)4 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Say, can imagination, light as air, 
 Capricious as each varying wind which blows, 
 Create a model of more perfect loveliness, 
 More grace and symmetry 1 Can thought present 
 A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous, 
 Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow, 
 Blending in grace more lovely with another 1 
 Ah no ! but tis the sin which dwells within 
 That casts a dark ning shade o er Nature s face 
 Nought can there be more beauteous and divine ; 
 But to the eye of discontent and wo, 
 Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow ; 
 And to the chilling glance of stern despair, 
 Her sweetest smile is but a threatening cloud : 
 Just as the mind is turn d she smiles or frowns, 
 And to each eye a different view appears. 
 The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt, 
 Like a white tablet, opens to receive 
 Each passing hue, and as the colours flit 
 Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil, 
 And fit to take once more the forms of joy, 
 Which ever, as they glide so sweetly by, 
 Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene. 
 If dark, degrading sin had never cast 
 Its shade of gloom o er Nature s lovely brow, 
 This world had been an earthly paradise. 
 An all-presiding God has deck d our globe 
 With grace, and life, and light ; each object glows 
 With heavenly tints, and every form 
 Contains some hidden beauty, which to minds 
 Unburden d with a consciousness of guilt 
 Proclaims the power of Him who rules o er all ! 
 The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee, 
 Small though they seem, may still contain a world 
 Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom, 
 Mix d with human guilt, can never fathom. 
 The smallest item in this wondrous plan, 
 Replete with grace, and harmony, and light, 
 Would form employment for a fleeting life ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 215 
 
 Oh, twere a home for angels ! and a home 
 
 No angel might despise, if human guilt 
 
 Had never stain d it "with its crimson glow. 
 
 Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin 
 
 Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams, 
 
 And ne er profaned its broad luxuriant fields 
 
 With scenes of wickedness, and thoughts of wo, 
 
 Had thus remain d ; each heart o erflowing 
 
 With delight and love ; each bosom fill d 
 
 With heavenly joy. How awful is the change ! 
 
 And how tremendous the effect of sin 
 
 On Nature and on man ! The wayward soul, 
 
 Once open d to degrading guilt, is deaden d 
 
 To her beauty ; and all the glowing charms 
 
 Which waken d it to love and happiness, 
 
 Ere thus ensnared, are pass d unnoticed now ! 
 
 Oh, could we purify our souls from sin, 
 
 Would we desire a brighter heaven than this 1 
 
 More glorious, more sublime, more varied, 
 
 Or more beauteous 1 The softly rippling stream, 
 
 The rising mountain, and the leafy wood, 
 
 Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene ! 
 
 The light-crown d firmament, the tinted sky, 
 
 And all the sweetly varying graces 
 
 Which bedeck the queen-like brow of Nature, 
 
 Serve but to show the power of Nature s God, 
 
 The mighty Lord of this immense creation ! 
 
 The heavenly Maker of our lovely world. 
 
 1834. 
 
 TO THE INFIDEL. 
 
 BEHOLD, thou daring sinner ! canst thou say, 
 As rolls the sun along its trackless course, 
 
 A God has never form d that orb of day, 
 
 Of life, and light, and happiness the source ? 
 
216 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Who made yon dark blue ocean? Who 
 The roaring billow and the curling wave, 
 
 Dashing and foaming o er its coral bed, 
 Of many a hardy mariner the grave 1 
 
 Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue, 
 So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear, 
 
 Deck d with its stars and clouds of fleecy white, 
 Like the bright entrance to another sphere 1 
 
 Who made the drooping flow ret ? Who 
 The snowy lily and the blushing rose 
 
 Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round, 
 As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows 1 
 
 Who raised the frowning rock ! Who made 
 The moss and turf around its base to grow 1 
 
 Who made the lofty mountains, and the streams 
 Which at their feet in rippling currents flow 3 
 
 Say, was it not a God 1 and does not all 
 
 Bear the strong " impress of his mighty hand ]" 
 
 Oh yes his stamp is fix d on all around 
 All sprang to being at our Lord s command. 
 
 Oh ask the rnind ! oh ask the immortal mind, 
 And this will be stern reason s firm reply 
 
 Twill echo o er old ocean s swelling tide : 
 The hand that form d us was a Deity! 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE MIND. 
 
 How great, how wonderful the human mind, 
 Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread, 
 Mysterious truth ; which spurns the fetters 
 Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 217 
 
 Round it ; which, yearning for a world more pure, 
 And more congenial with its heavenly thoughts, 
 Confines its soaring spirit to the region 
 Of death and sin ! But oh, how glorious 
 The sublime idea, that though this frame, 
 Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust, 
 There is a spark within, which, while on earth, 
 Gives to the clay its energy and life, 
 And when that clay returneth to the dust 
 From whence it came, may rise triumphant 
 From the senseless clod, and soaring, mount on high, 
 To dwell with beings holy and divine ; 
 And there, within its ever-growing ken, 
 Clasp the great universe ; with angels there 
 To expand those heaven-born powers, which here 
 Were fetter d with the earthly chains that bind 
 Misguided man pride, sorrow, discontent, 
 And cold ambition, foolish and perverted 
 But destined there to burn in all its light, 
 And urge the enfranchised on to seek 
 Glories still undiscover d, wonders 
 As yet unknown. And can it be ) Does this 
 Weak, trembling frame conceal within itself 
 A soul ethereal and immortal 1 
 A glorious spark, sublime and boundless, 
 " Struck from the burning essence of its God," 
 The great I AM, the dread Eternal ? 
 Oh how tremendous is the awful thought ! 
 The soul shrinks back alarm d, too weak to gaze 
 On its own greatness, or rather, on the greatness 
 Of that God who made it ! Yes ! tis his work ! 
 The moulding of his mighty hand ! How dread, 
 How peerless, how incomparably great 
 The Governor and Former of this vast machine ! 
 Who watches from on high its slightest thought, 
 And omnipresent and unbounded, sways 
 Each feeling and each impulse ! and whose touch, 
 However slight, may turn its passions from 
 Their common channel, and whose breath can tune 
 15 
 
218 MISS MARGARET DAVID30X. 
 
 Aright those delicate and hidden fibres, 
 
 Which, rudely touch d, would yield their finest chords, 
 
 And thus destroy the harmony of all, 
 
 Leaving- a blank and darken d chaos 
 
 Where once was harmony and joy ! 
 
 Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind, 
 
 Tamper not lightly with the human mind ; 
 
 Bat when an erring friend from virtue strays, 
 
 Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide 
 
 Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom. 
 
 Oh tis a fearful thing to see the rnind, 
 
 Derived from such a pure and holy source, 
 
 Debased by sin, by dark, offensive crime, 
 
 And render d equal with the beasts that roam ! 
 
 To see the wreck of all that once was good, 
 
 The shrinking remnant of a noble soul, 
 
 Like the proud ship, which for a while may stem 
 
 The roaring ocean, but o ercome by storms, 
 
 With half its voyage done, is torn apart 
 
 The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all, 
 
 The guiding helm until the shatter d hulk 
 
 Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts, 
 
 Threaten d by frowning rocks ; but as some 
 
 Friendly hand may snatch from death s embrace 
 
 The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour s love 
 
 Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner, 
 
 And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven ! 
 
 The mighty God who saw him err, can change, 
 
 Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart, 
 
 And give to his apostate soul those pure 
 
 And blessed dreams of heaven, 
 
 Those 1 opes of immortality, which soothe 
 
 The dying Christian ; and when his spirit 
 
 Ascends to dwell with Him it once despised, 
 
 Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord, 
 
 It there may join in love and hope with all 
 
 The angel band, in singing praises 
 
 To their glorious King, the great Jehovah ! 
 
 Oh that we too might cherish every virtue, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 219 
 
 Prepare our minds for immortality, 
 Where undisturb d they may expand, 
 And reach perfection* in a future world. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER S RETURN. 
 
 WHY rejoices my heart at the passage of time, 
 As it sweeps on the wind o er the fast-rolling year, 
 
 And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines, 
 His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear 1 ? 
 
 I pause not to question if wise it may be, 
 
 But faster I ll hurry old Time on his way ; 
 And while hours unnumber d shall rapidly flee, 
 
 I ll laugh as they fade from the fast-closing day. 
 
 When the icy-cold spell of stern winter shall break, 
 
 And the snow shall dissolve like the dew-drops of morn ; 
 
 When spring from his death-like embraces shall wake, 
 And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn ; 
 
 To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile, 
 The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide ; 
 
 More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile, 
 
 And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed. 
 
 I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom, 
 
 Aroused, as by magic, from winter s cold tomb, 
 
 For my heart will be gladden d as near and more near 
 
 The period approaches when he \vill be here. 
 
 Oh June ! how resplendent thy flowers shall appear, 
 
 The loveliest, the sweetest which bloom in the year ! 
 
 For with me a fond brother your grace shall admire, 
 
 And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire. 
 
 But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vain, 
 
 He never may visit the loved scene again ; 
 
220 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 On his home the dread weight of affliction may rest, 
 And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast ; 
 Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever, 
 And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever. 
 But love will illumine the future with light, 
 And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright 
 As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted, 
 Or fancy with all her illusions has granted. 
 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 THE spring of life is opening 
 
 Upon my youthful mind, 
 And every day the more I see, 
 
 The more there is to find. 
 
 The path of life is beautiful 
 When sprinkled o er with flowers, 
 
 And I ne er felt affliction s touch, 
 Or watch d the weary hours. 
 
 To guard my youthful couch from wo, 
 
 An angel hovers near, 
 Watches my bosom s every throe, 
 
 And wipes each childish tear. 
 
 It is my mother and with her 
 Through life I d sweetly glide, 
 
 And when my pilgrimage is o er 
 I d moulder at her side. 
 
 To her I dedicate my lay, 
 Tis she inspires my song ; 
 
 Oh that it might those charms possess, 
 Which to the muse belong. 
 
 1834. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 221 
 
 BOABDIL EL CHICO S FAREWELL TO GRANADA. 
 
 THE youthful lyre would shrink from tales of wo, 
 
 Would tune with hope and love each quivering string ; 
 But when truth bids the sorrowing numbers flow, 
 
 Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring. 
 Tis sweet to tell of laughing mirth and glee ; 
 
 Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy ; 
 And when deep anguish pours unmix d and free, 
 
 Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy. 
 
 But faithful history still the page unfolds 
 
 Of war and blood ; of carnage fierce and dark ; 
 Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould, 
 
 And hearts unwarm d by pity s gentle spark. 
 Then cast your garb of merry music by, 
 
 Assume the mantle of unbrighten d wo ; 
 A cloud is gathering o er the peaceful sky, 
 
 And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow. 
 
 Robed in a mantle of unrivall d light, 
 
 The glorious sun was sinking o er the plain, 
 And tinging, with a glow of radiance bright, 
 
 The towering domes and palaces of Spain. 
 Between the lofty mounts which rise around, 
 
 And form the deep ravine or shady dell, 
 Granada s towers in mighty grandeur stood, 
 
 And on the plain their darkening shadows fell. 
 
 The beams were gilding all her lofty towers, 
 
 As on Nevada s side Alhambra stood, 
 And o er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers, 
 
 Her marble courts, they pour d a dazzling flood. 
 Her gothic arches glitter d in the ray, 
 
 While many a gushing fountain cool d the air, 
 And o er the blushing flowers diffused their spray, 
 
 Which bloom perennial in a world of care. 
 
222 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung, 
 
 O er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose, 
 And o er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung 
 
 A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows. 
 And can it be ! can scenes so fair as this 
 Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss 1 
 Will heaven s bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed, 
 As if in mockery, upon sorrow s head ? 
 
 Will skies of azure pour their softest light 
 On hearts which grief has sear d, and wo doth blight? 
 Will earth rejoice, while earthly hearts are riven, 
 While man, oppress d, to dark despair is driven 1 
 Retire, oh sun ! reserve thy cheering rays 
 For calmer hours, for brighter, happier days ! 
 Go, shine on England s spires or India s bowers, 
 But gaze not on Alhambra s humbled towers ! 
 
 Cease, cease thy soft meanderings, sparkling river ! 
 Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquiver ! 
 No more thy waves through Moorish woodlands glance, 
 No more reflect the Moorish warrior s lance, 
 Nor view the tournament and sprightly dance. 
 Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood ! 
 Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood ! 
 Captive Boabdil leaves his rightful throne, 
 To others yields a kingdom once his own. 
 
 Behold yon gate ! the ancient sages say 
 
 No stone shall loosen, till that awful day, 
 
 When yonder guardian hand, now firmly clasp d, 
 
 The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp d ; 
 
 At that dread hour, each crumbling stone shall fall, 
 
 And in one common ruin bury all ; 
 
 But not till then, though first Alhambra lie 
 
 A shapeless ruin, neath a frowning sky. 
 
 Why should she last? the monument of shame, 
 Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 223 
 
 Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil, 
 
 Her maidens left, the conqueror s spoil ! 
 Murder d her children, -ecorn d each lovely dame. 
 
 Oh, that the mystic hand had power 
 To veil Granada s shame ; 
 
 That in one dark and awful hour, 
 Might perish each dishonour d name. 
 
 Lo ! on yon mount appears a mournful train ! 
 Behold the newly-conquer d slave of Spain ! 
 El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way, 
 For, with his home, he leaves the light of day. 
 Ill-fated prince ! thine errors still I mourn ; 
 
 A father s hatred caused each bursting sigh ; 
 Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn, 
 
 Condemn d a father s cruelty to fly. 
 
 Thy heart was never form d for kingly state ; 
 
 It teemed with softest feeling, gentlest thought ! 
 Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate, 
 
 For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought ! 
 Though the brave may not tremble, when war shall surround 
 
 them, 
 
 Or shrink when the mantle of death shall have bound them, 
 Yet the eye which can gaze unconcern d on the tomb, 
 Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom, 
 Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard s dark spell, 
 When it bids the sweet home of its childhood farewelL 
 
 The exiled monarch slowly turn d away ; 
 
 He could not bear to view those towers again, 
 Which proudly glitter d in the sun s last ray, 
 
 As if to mock their wretched master s pain. 
 His weeping bride press d trembling near his form, 
 
 While sobs convulsive heaved her snowy breast ; 
 But proud Ayxa bade their sorrows cease, 
 
 With scornful glances which she scarce represt. 
 
224 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Chide me not, mother," cried the mourning son, 
 
 " Nor charge me with unmanly weakness now ; 
 I grieve that Spain the royal prize has won, 
 
 That proud Granada to her kings should bow." 
 He paused, and turn d aside his glowing cheek ; 
 
 His wandering eyes Alhambra s palace met : 
 Those splendid domes, those towers for ever lost, 
 
 Lost, when the sun of Moorish glory set. 
 
 " Yes ! yonder towering spires are seized by Spain, 
 
 Their king an exile from his native land ; 
 Shall I ne er view thy princely courts again, 
 
 But yield resistless to the victor s brand. 
 Yes, thou art gone ! thine ancient splendours fled ; 
 
 O er thy gay towers the shroud of slavery thrown ; 
 Thy proudest chiefs, thy noblest warriors dead, 
 
 And all thy pride and all thy glory gone. 
 
 " Farewell to Alhambra, dear home of my childhood ! 
 
 Farewell to the land I so proudly have cherish d ; 
 Farewell to the streamlet, the glen, and the wild-wood, 
 
 The throne of my fathers whose glory has perish d ! 
 Neath the crest of Nevada the bright sun is setting, 
 
 And tinging with gold yonder beautiful river, 
 And his rays seem to linger, as if half-regretting 
 
 They must leave the clear waves where so sweetly they 
 quiver. 
 
 " Farewell, thou bright valley ! I leave thee with sorrow ; 
 Thou wilt smile as serene neath the sun of the morrow; 
 But thine ill-fated monarch shall view thee no more, 
 He ne er shall revisit thy beautiful shore." 
 He paused, and the accents of heart-rending grief 
 Were borne by the wind past each murmuring leaf. 
 
 " Cease, cease these vain wailings !" Ayxa replied, 
 " Nor languish and weep like thy timid young bride ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 225 
 
 Why mourn like a maid, who in sorrow will bend, a 
 
 For what as a man thou couldst never defend 1 
 
 Then cease these vain wailings, which womanlike pour, 
 
 Or Ayxa la Horra will own thee no more ; 
 
 Granada has fallen, her glory has fled, 
 
 Her warriors and chieftains now sleep with the dead ; 
 
 But who has surrender d her walls to our foe, 
 
 And branded her honour with shame s crimson glow 1" 
 
 The tear to his eyelid unconsciously sprung, 
 But back the intruder he eagerly flung, 
 And cried, in a tone which with frenzy might blend, 
 " Defamed by my country, and scorn d by my friend !" 
 They slowly ascended a rock towering high, 
 Which long shall re-echo BoabdiPs last sigh ; 3 
 No prospect of beauty his mourning heart cheers, 
 And he murmurs farewell on the dark hill of tears. 4 
 
 Though grief and remorse with their terrors oppress d him ; 
 Though peace and affection ne er tranquilly blest him ; 
 Though his kingdom was captured, his warriors were dying, 
 Himself from the fury of Ferdinand flying ; 
 Through the tumult of feeling his pride had sustain d him, 
 Had his griefs but a mother s fond sympathy gain d him ; 
 But the pride of a princess affection o ercame, 
 And with basest dishonour she branded his name. 
 
 Reproachful invectives unthinking she shower d, 
 
 " His country was fallen, its monarch a coward I" 
 
 The proud Ayxa loved her yielding son, 
 
 And would have died had death his glory won ; 
 
 But she had hoped his rising fame to see, 
 
 Had long d to view his vanquish d foemen flee : 
 
 This cherish d object of each glowing thought 
 
 Stern disappointment now had torn away, 
 And left a gaping wound, with frenzy fraught ; 
 
 For hope and fancy pour d no cheering ray. 
 
220 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The mother was forgot in stately pride, 
 
 While bitter anguish drew the trembling 1 tear ; 
 
 He claim d her pity she could only chide, 
 And laugh to scorn his cowardice and fear. 
 
 But the fair Zorahayda, his beautiful bride, 
 To soothe his affliction, remain d at his side ; 
 Each thought found an answering chord in her bosom, 
 Which glow d with affection s first beautiful blossom : 
 Twas warm as the sunbeam, and bright as its glance ; 
 Twas clear as the ripples which fairy-like dance ; 
 Each thought and each feeling which dwelt in her soul 
 Her eye and her countenance told him the whole. 
 
 Yes, she, the young, the beautiful, the gay, 
 To sorrow s drear abode love call d away ! 
 From her dark eye she wiped the starting tear, 
 And by his side repress d each rising fear ; 
 Though dark despair should dim each future day, 
 And even hope refuse her cheering ray, 
 Her fairy form would bless his wandering eyes, 
 Like some pure spirit from the glowing skies. 
 
 Reposing mid Alhambra s shady bowers, 
 She cheer d his lonely and his weary hours ; 
 But when, alas ! his brow no longer wore 
 The crown which proudly graced his front before, 
 When fickle Moors forsook his tottering throne, 
 When glory, power, and kingly state were gone, 
 And threatening clouds were seen around to lower, 
 Then, then, he felt the more her witching power. 
 
 Vanquish d at last upon the battle field, 
 And forced Granada s lofty towers to yield, 
 Still the fair bud of promise brightly glow d, 
 From her heart s depths the warm affections flow d ; 
 She sweetly soothed his cares, she blest his name, 
 And sorrow fann d to light the kindling flame, 
 Which burn d within that tender, faithful mind, 
 To all his faults, and all his errors blind. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 227 
 
 How sweet the communion of kindred minds, 
 
 When sorrow each hope hath blighted ; 
 When the heart whieh is bursting with agony finds 
 
 One face with pure sympathy lighted. 
 And must he from the fair Zorahayda be banish d, 
 
 Must the charm of existence for ever be broken 1 
 Has every fond dream of prosperity vanished, 
 
 Must he sigh over love s wither d token 1 
 
 In the tower of Gomares he gather d a few, 
 
 And his warriors still faithful, he rallied, 
 The broad Moorish banner far over them flew, 
 
 And forth to the battle he sallied. 
 He return d and his eye was cast down in despair, 
 
 The glow on his cheek was still deeper ; 
 " Farewell to Granada ! our foemen are there !" 
 
 Loudly echoes the voice of the weeper. 
 
 " Come, wife of my bosom ! together we ll wander, 
 
 The storms of affliction together we ll brave ; 
 And perchance in some distant and desolate region, 
 
 We may find a lone shelter, a home, and a grave. 
 I would not my spirit should quit its sad mansion 
 
 Mid the taunts and revilings of conquering Spain, 
 Where the foot of the victor would tread o er my ashes, 
 
 And reproach and dishonour would tarnish my name. 
 
 " Oh, gaze on yon parapets towering on high, 
 
 Those pillars of pride were but yesterday mine ; 
 But to-day we are doom d from their splendours to fly 
 
 Weep not for my sorrows, I mourn but for thine ; 
 Those halls shall re-echo the loud voice of grief, 
 
 Those fountains in murmurs respond to our sorrow, 
 But ne er can they waken the bright smile again, 
 
 Which wo from gay pleasure a moment would borrow. 
 
 " Around those gay mansions and beautiful bowers 
 The foot of the stranger contemptuous shall press ; 
 
22S MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Unmark d the bright fountains, uncultured the flowers, 
 No fair hand to cherish, no soft voice to bless. 
 
 Ill-fated Boabdil ! thy name shall be hated ! 
 
 The babe shall repeat it with moaning and tears, 
 
 And the eye which was sparkling, with pleasure elated, 
 Indignant shall glance on thy cowardly fears." 
 
 He paused, and led away his mourning bride, 
 
 In grief his solace, and in joy his pride. 
 But whither do his weary footsteps bend I 5 
 
 What clime his broken heart one joy can lend 1 
 Where can he now from shame despairing fly, 
 
 Beneath what golden sun, what beaming sky 1 
 
 On Afric s arid plains and yellow sands, 
 Leagued with the Moslem s wild and ruthless bands, 
 With desperate force he grasp d the fatal lance, 
 And shrank not at the scimitar s broad glance : 
 Fighting for strangers rights he bravely fell, 
 While his own land was sunk in slavery s spell ; 
 Far from affection s soft and soothing hand, 
 Interr d by strangers in a foreign land. 
 
 How strange the structure of the human heart, 
 Which springs anew neath sorrow s quivering dart ; 
 Bursting from wild despair, from sullen gloom, 
 And fired by frenzy, hastening to the tomb. 
 Reckless of danger, rushing to the strife, 
 For strangers bleeding, yielding even life, 
 Thus did Boabdil sink on Afric s plain, 
 His name dishonour d in his own bright Spain ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 229 
 
 NOTES ^TO BOABDIL EL CHICO. 
 
 NOTE I. 
 " Behold yon gate ! the ancient sages say." 
 
 On the keystone of the arch is engraven a gigantic hand ; within 
 the vestibule on the keystone of the portal is engraven in like 
 manner a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge 
 of Mahometan symbols affirm, that the hand is an emblem of doc 
 trine, and the key of faith. The latter, they add, was emblazoned 
 on the standard of the Moslems, when they subdued Andalusia, in 
 opposition to the Christian emblem of the cross. According to 
 Mateo, it is a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, 
 that the hand and key were magical devices, upon which the fate 
 of the Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was 
 a great magician, and, as some believe, had sold himself to the 
 devil, and had lain the whole fortress under a magical spell. This 
 spell, the tradition went on to say, would last till the hand on the 
 outer arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole 
 pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath 
 it by the Moors would be revealed. Irving. 
 
 NOTE II. 
 
 " Why mourn as a maid, who in sorrow will bend." 
 It was here, too, his affliction was embittered by the reproaches 
 of his mother Ayxa, who had often assisted him iri times of peril, 
 and had vainly sought to instil into him a portion of her own reso 
 lute spirit " Why mourn as a woman, for that which as a man 
 you could not defend "!" Irving. 
 
 NOTE III. 
 
 " Which long shall re-echo Boabdil s last sigh." 
 Beyond the embowered regions of the Vega, you behold a line 
 of arid hills. It was from the summit of one of these that the un 
 fortunate Boabdil cast back his last look on Granada, and gave 
 vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and 
 history as " The Last Sigh of the Moor." Irving. 
 
230 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 NOTE IV. 
 
 " And he murmur d farewell on the dark hill of tears." 
 Another name given to the hill on the summit of which he bade 
 farewell to Granada. 
 
 NOTE V. 
 
 " But whither do his weary footsteps bend?" 
 After leaving- the Alpuxara mountains he proceeded to Africa, 
 and died in defence of the territories of Muley Aben, King of Fez. 
 On leaving Spain, a band of faithful followers and the members of 
 his household collected on the beach, to bid him farewell. As the 
 vessel in which he had embarked was slowly floating onward, they 
 shouted, " Farewell, Boabdil ! Allah preserve thee, El Zogoybi !" (or 
 ike unlucky.) The name thus given him sank so deeply into his 
 heart, that he burst into a flood of tears, arid was unable to speak 
 from emotion. 
 
 1834. 
 
 THE SHUNAMITE. 
 
 THE sun had gently shed his twilight beams 
 O er Shunam s graceful waving harvest fields, 
 And with his golden rays each object tinged, 
 Imparting to all nature hues of joy : 
 The western sky had caught his parting ray, 
 And with reflected glory shone above, 
 In all the lovely varied hues which deck 
 A summer sky ; masses of floating cloud 
 Hung gorgeous in the clear, blue firmament, 
 Brilliant as are the fairest rainbow s hues ; 
 While round them spread the light and silver haze, 
 Beyond whose folds the eye could just discern 
 The pure transparence of the azure heaven. 
 The scene was beautiful ! A tranquil sleep 
 Seem d on the brow of nature lightly resting ! 
 It was an hour when the pure soul might rise 
 And dwell in sweet communion with its God, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 231 
 
 And contemplation and unmingled love 
 
 Find for a while repose and silence there. 
 
 But where is sha, the gentle, lovely mother, 
 
 Whose soul delighted in an hour like this 1 
 
 Oh, why does not her footstep softly shake 
 
 From the moist grass the drops of pearly dew 1 
 
 Say, have the glittering charms of wealth and pride 
 
 Allured her from the sweetest charms of nature 1 
 
 Have the gay baubles she was wont to scorn 
 
 Enticed her from this lovely scene away 1 
 
 It cannot be ; perchance amid the sick 
 
 Or suffering poor, her pitying spirit 
 
 Finds sweet employment, while her liberal hand 
 
 Offers relief to the sad pensioners 
 
 Who on her bounty live. No ! while her heart 
 
 Was free from care and racking anguish, 
 
 She could soothe another s grief; but now 
 
 Alas ! how alter d now her darling child, 
 
 The laughing, sprightly boy, who at her side 
 
 Was wont in childish frolic to remain 
 
 Where is he now ] The tones of his soft voice 
 
 Would soothe a mourner s heart, however sad, 
 
 Much more the mother s, who so dearly loved him 
 
 Ay, loved him ! for she now hath nought to love 
 
 Save the cold remnant of what once was life ! 
 
 Yes ! in the splendid mansion, which but seems 
 
 To mock her heartfelt agony, she weeps, 
 
 And weeping, watches o er the lifeless corpse 
 
 Of her adored, her beautiful, her boy. 
 
 Perhaps just heaven removed this cherish d flower, 
 
 That her own heart, bereft of earthly joy, 
 
 Might cling more closely to her God and Maker. 
 
 I know not but the blow was keenly felt, 
 
 And deeply, truly mourn d. 
 
 The spacious room 
 
 With rich, embroider d tapestry was hung, 
 And, mingled with the massy, crimson folds, 
 Shone many a gem of burning lustre. 
 The floor was paved with polish d marble, 
 And the lifeless form which lay before her 
 
232 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Was array d in costly garments ; but she, 
 Vainly communing there with icy death, 
 If at her feet lay all the wealth of nations, 
 One speaking glance of life from those sweet eyes 
 Now closed for ever, had been worth it all. 
 The boy lay gently cradled on the knee 
 Of the fond mother, and her crimson robe 
 Around his form was wrapt ; while on one arm 
 His fair, young head was pillow d, and her brow, 
 Her aching brow, reclined upon the other. 
 The auburn curls around his temples clung, 
 Clustering in beauty there, and the blue veins, 
 So clearly seen neath the transparent skin, 
 Seem d flowing still with life-blood ; the long lash 
 Of his blue, half-closed eye appear d to tremble 
 On his fair cheek, while the fast-rolling tears 
 Which from his mother s darker orbits fell, 
 Dropp d from his snowy brow, as they had rested 
 Upon a marble statue. 
 
 Her grief 
 
 Burst forth awhile in sobs and bitter groans, 
 But when the view of death had for a time 
 Met her dull vision, and the sight of sorrow 
 Grew more familiar, then her full heart 
 Burst forth in words, simple but plaintive. 
 Sweetly pathetic were the gentle tones 
 Of her melodious voice ; no ear 
 Could listen but to pity, and no eye 
 That saw her but must gaze and weep. 
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 And art thou gone, my beautiful, my boy, 
 Thy sorrowing father s pride, thy mother s joy ! 
 I had not thought, my child, to view thee so, 
 In death s cold clasp laid motionless and low ! 
 I had not thought to close thy beaming eyes, 
 To hear thy dying groans, thy feeble cries. 
 Alas ! that thus for thee my tears should flow ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 233 
 
 I thought not that this form, so fair and bright, 
 Death with his chilling arrows e er could blight ; 
 And oh, my child, my child, it cannot be 
 That his cold hand hath rested upon thee ! 
 That this fair form, so active but to-day, 
 Is now a senseless, lifeless mass of clay 
 Dust of the earth, fit subject for decay ! 
 
 How white thy brow ! how beautiful thy skin ! 
 
 The spirit must be resting still within ! 
 
 The pure, warm blood thy lip is tinging still, 
 
 The purple current seems each vein to fill ! 
 
 Oh no, it cannot be ! My boy, awake ! 
 
 Rouse, from this slumber, for thy mother s sake ! 
 
 Rouse, ere that mother s mourning heart shall break ! 
 
 It is not so ! my boy is gone for ever, 
 And I shall view his face again, oh never ! 
 Ah, my sweet boy ! I ve watch d thine infant years 
 With joy and grief, alternate hopes and fears. 
 For many a night I ve borne thee on my knee, 
 Full many an hour of care I ve spent for thee ; 
 Thy joy would glad me, and thy grief bring tears. 
 
 Fond fancy pictured thee a noble man, 
 The fairest work in nature s wondrous plan ; 
 The foremost leader in each patriot band, 
 Redeeming Syria from her foeman s hand ; 
 Fearless in battle, swiftest in the race, 
 Replete with courage, virtue, strength, and grace ; 
 I saw thee generous, noble, active, mild, 
 And blest the hero as my darling child ! 
 
 But oh, my God ! these hopes were crush d by thee ! 
 How shall I murmur at thy dread decree ! 
 Hush, rebel spirit ! whispering conscience tells 
 I should not vent each troubled thought which swells 
 
 In my torn heart my woes I ll speak no more, 
 Nor each vain thought which there impatient dwells, 
 
 Waiting for utterance at my bosom s door. 
 16 
 
234 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Rouse, dormant soul ! nor sleep when needed most, 
 While thy frail bark on adverse seas is tost, 
 And all thy comfort, all thy hope is lost ! 
 I ll hie me to the prophet s mountain home, 
 He shall redeem my darling from the tomb, 
 Or teach me how, resign d, to bear my doom. 
 
 She ceased ; 
 
 A glance of hope o er her pale features flash d, 
 And with unwonted energy she raised 
 Her feeble hands in prayer to heaven. 
 Once more she press d her pallid lips upon 
 The marble forehead of her lovely boy, 
 Then rising, laid the cold and lifeless load 
 From off her bosom, strong in her despair ; 
 Then wildly throwing back the silken folds 
 Which droop d upon the wall, she rush d along, 
 Through many a corridor and hall, illumed 
 With glittering lamps and gems of burning lustre. 
 Her sandall d feet glanced lightly on the floor, 
 And her soft tread no answering echo gave ; 
 But heavier far her footstep would have been, 
 Beneath the galling burden on her heart, 
 If all had been despair ; but the small grain of hope 
 Which linger d still within, her onward course 
 Served but to quicken ; something in her soul 
 Seem d battling with its sorrow, and a spark, 
 Lighted by hope, within, a tiny star, 
 Shone o er the almost desert gloom of wo. 
 She hasted on; and soon her form was lost, 
 In its dim outline, amid the windings 
 Of her noble mansion. Where hath she gone 1 
 Why at this moment leave her lifeless son! 
 What human voice can yield her heart relief! 
 What hand redeem her loved one from the dust 1 ? 
 Return, frail mourner ! and indulge thy grief, 
 Where none are nigh to view its heartfelt pangs ; 
 Return, nor seek one sympathetic heart 
 In the cold world around thee : thou wilt see, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 235 
 
 Since rankling sorrow hath oppress d thy soul, 
 
 All who with smiles attended thee before 
 
 Will gaze on the in scorn, and mock thy tears, 
 
 Nor heed thy bitter groans. Oh better far 
 
 In thine own heart to hide each torturing grief, 
 
 And meet thy sorrow here. But she hath gone ! 
 
 Twilight is stealing on, and she hath gone ! 
 
 And where 3 Gaze on yon rugged path, which leads 
 
 Far onward to the mountain s brow, and there 
 
 Behold her toiling on her weary way ! 
 
 The thorny brambles meet along her path, 
 
 And close around o ershadowing thickets grow 
 
 But still she rushes on the piercing thorn 
 
 Or fallen bough, alike unheeding all, 
 
 And with despairing heart and weary step 
 
 Reaches the mighty prophet s mountain home. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The last faint day-streak gleams on Carmel s brow, 
 
 And lights the tearful traveller on her way, 
 
 As with the holy man of God she turns 
 
 Her sorrowing footsteps backward to her home. 
 
 They enter, and once more she stands beside 
 
 The silent couch of her unconscious boy. 
 
 There, overcome by speechless, mute despair, 
 
 Her agony how great ! Cold, deathlike drops 
 
 Hang on her snowy brow, and, half-distracted 
 
 With o erwhelming grief, she turns her from the sight 
 
 Of the dear object of her fondest love. 
 
 ****** 
 Behold the prophet ! Lo ! the man of God 
 Is lowly bending o er the couch of death 
 His long, dark mantle floating loosely round 
 His tall, majestic form ; his silver locks 
 Parted far backward on his noble brow, 
 And his full, piercing eye upraised to heaven ! 
 His hands are clasp d the feeble ringers 
 Trembling with emotion ; and from his lips 
 Bursts forth an ardent prayer. He ceased, 
 And on the body stretch d his aged form, 
 
236 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Press d his warm lips upon the marble brow, 
 And chafed the infant limbs. 
 Tis done ! behold, the sleeping child awakes, 
 And sweetly smiles upon the holy man ! 
 And lo ! the weeping mother clasps her boy 
 Again, redeem d from the embrace of death, 
 And strains him to her throbbing heart, as though 
 She fear d the ruthless tyrant yet once more 
 Might snatch him from her arms ! 
 While the dread prophet stands aloof from all, 
 And views the object of his fervent prayer 
 Restored again to love, and light, and life ! 
 
 1834. 
 
 BELSHAZZAR S FEAST. 
 
 THROUGH proud Belshazzar s lofty halls 
 
 A wavering light is streaming, 
 And o er his heaven-defying walls, 
 
 The blaze of torches gleaming. 
 Hark ! the voice of music breaks 
 
 Softly on the midnight air, 
 Each boisterous shout of laughter speaks 
 
 Of hearts untouch d by wo or care. 
 
 The sounds of joy harmonious floating 
 
 Over Euphrates silver tide, 
 Which flows in ripples, gently passing 
 
 Near many a tower of stately pride. 
 With mirth, Belshazzar s halls resound, 
 
 Joy spreads each smiling feature o er, 
 And laughing hundreds gather round 
 
 The red libations, as they pour 
 
 From silver cup, and golden urn, 
 Once mantling with the holy wine, 
 
 By impious hands in frenzy torn 
 From great Jehovah s sacred shrine. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 237 
 
 Surrounded by each smiling guest, 
 
 In regal pomp and splendid state, 
 With all save God s approval blest, 
 
 The warrior king serenely sate. 
 
 Their hearts demoniac pleasure found, 
 
 Exulting triumph swell d their strain, 
 While Israel s children, captive, bound, 
 
 Were groaning neath their weight of pain : 
 Bright lamps o erhung the festive scene, 
 
 Diffusing soften d brilliance round, 
 While mocking Israel s mighty Lord, 
 
 They dash d his wine-cups to the ground. 
 
 Why does Belshazzar s lip turn pale 1 
 
 Why shrinks his form with trembling fear 7 
 Why fades, within his tiger eye, 
 
 The scornful glance, the taunting sneer 1 
 A shadowy cloud o erhangs the wall, 
 
 A mighty hand each fold reveals ! 
 There s silence in that princely hall, 
 
 And trembling awe each vein congeals. 
 
 The mystic fingers darkly move, 
 
 And words unknown in silence trace ; 
 Wide o er the illumin d walls they spread, 
 
 While horror fills each pallid face ; 
 Oh ! who those awful words may read, 
 
 Or who their mighty import tell 1 
 What hand perform d the fearful deed, 
 
 What tongue may break the magic spell ] 
 
 Come forth, ye Chaldean seers ! come forth, 
 
 Ye men of Egypt s burning soil ! 
 Let the dread words your thoughts employ, 
 
 And be the object of your toil ! 
 Oh, gaze upon the glowing wall ! 
 
 Ha ! proud magicians, do ye shrink 1 
 Say, does the sight your hearts appal 
 
 As if on death s terrific brink? 
 
238 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Now, strive to win the golden crown, 
 
 The scarlet robe, the badge of power 
 And tell if heaven in justice frown, 
 
 If round your king the tempest lower. 
 But still they shrink with innate fear, 
 
 Still from the awful scene retire ; 
 While trembling lips proclaim their awe, 
 
 And rouse the monarch s fiercest ire. 
 
 Who may the characters explain, 
 When Chaldea s ancient sages fail 1 
 
 Must the dread secret thus remain 
 Wrapt in its dark, mysterious veil 1 
 
 Come forth, thou man of God, come forth 1 
 
 By heaven beloved, by man reviled, 
 Robed in the mantle of thy faith, 
 
 Come forth, Jehovah s chosen child ! 
 Fear not to read Belshazzar s fate ! 
 
 Thy heavenly Father guards thee still ! 
 Though robed in scarlet, throned in state, 
 
 Thy God can mould him at his will. 
 
 Oh, mark his firm, majestic mien ! 
 
 Oh, mark his broad and lofty brow ! 
 With soften d courage, calm, serene, 
 
 And flushed with conscious virtue s glow. 
 Well might they shrink before the man, 
 
 Whose gaze had reach d the realms of bliss, 
 Whose eye had pierced a brighter world, 
 
 Whose spotless soul had soar d from this. 
 
 Oh hark ! his firm and manly voice 
 
 Is heard within that princely hall, 
 No more the impious crowds rejoice, 
 
 But thrilling silence spreads o er all. 
 " Oh king ! in wealth, and pride, and power, 
 
 At God s great footstool humbly fall, 
 That God hath seal d thy doom this hour, 
 
 *Tis stamp d on yonder fated walL 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 239 
 
 " Thy stubborn knee was never bent, 
 
 Thy earthly heart was humbled never 
 Before the throne of Israel s God, 
 
 Of life, of breath, of power the giver. 
 Against the Lord of heaven thy hand 
 
 In bold impiety is raised 
 And vessels sacred to his name 
 
 The feasts of idol gods have graced. 
 
 " He, in whose balance lords of earth 
 
 With justice, mercy, power, are tried, 
 Hath weigh d thine errors and thy worth, 
 
 But virtue is o ercome by pride. 
 From death thou art no longer free, 
 
 Thy sun of glory shall decline ; 
 The golden crown no more shall bind 
 
 That proud, ambitious brow of thine. 
 
 " The Medes and Persians shall possess 
 
 That which so lately was thine own ; 
 God will e en now our wrongs redress, 
 
 And hurl thee from thy tottering throne." 
 He ceased, an awful silence reign d, 
 
 And chain d each scarcely throbbing breast. 
 Where were the passions once so rude 1 
 
 Lull d by the prophet s voice to rest ! 
 
 Gaze on Belshazzar s pallid brow, 
 
 And trace the livid horror there; 
 Big drops o erhang its surface now, 
 
 And backward starts the clustering hair ; 
 His eyeballs strain d and wildly staring 
 
 Upon the spot which bears his doom, 
 Seem like a frighted lion glaring 
 
 Through the dark forest s lonely gloom. 
 ***** 
 Morn hath brighten d o er Chaldea, 
 
 Morning, lovely, fragrant, bright ; 
 Glory crowns a night of terror, 
 
 Deeds of darkness view her light. 
 
240 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Euphrates waves are brightly sparkling 
 Beneath Aurora s rosy beam, 
 
 As though the night had never darken d 
 Above its broad and rapid stream. 
 
 The close of evening view d it smiling, 
 
 Deck d with barks and forms of light, 
 The weary moments still beguiling, 
 
 Sporting on its bosom bright. 
 Where are all its beauties banish d 1 
 
 Why its banks so lone and still ] 
 Have all its pride and glory vanished, 
 
 All save desolation chill 1 
 
 The Mede and Persian have been here, 
 Heaven s just vengeance to fulfil, 
 
 Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, 
 God has wrought his sovereign will. 
 
 1834. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 WHEN last this morning brightly shone, 
 
 Around my youthful head, 
 Inspiring love and joy and glee, 
 
 Dismissing fear and dread, 
 
 I thought not, I should see thee here 
 Reclining on thy Margaret s breast, 
 
 I thought that in a brighter sphere 
 Thy weary soul would sweetly rest. 
 
 But since the mighty God above 
 Has granted this my fervent prayer, 
 
 My heart is fill d with joy and love 
 For all his kindness and his care. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 241 
 
 Oh may his guardian wings overspread, 
 To guard from sorrow, pain or harm, 
 
 My mother a-weary aching head, 
 And every rising fear disarm. 
 
 May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, 
 And fill with peace thy beating heart, 
 
 And may the feast which love prepares, 
 A sweet security impart. 
 
 When He, who warm d thy gentle soul, 
 
 And planted every virtue there 
 Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss 
 
 And free from earthly sin and care. 
 
 Oh, may a daughter s tender hand 
 
 The pillow of affliction smooth, 
 Teach every grief to lose its pang, 
 
 And every sorrow fondly soothe. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA. 
 
 OH, if a painter s touch can form thee thus, 
 So bright with all an artist s hand can give, 
 
 How passing beautiful those scenes must be, 
 Which here inanimate, there sweetly live. 
 
 Each verdant shrub, which here inactive bends, 
 
 So gently waving o er the placid stream, 
 And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, 
 
 Reflecting back the sun s effulgent beam. 
 
 Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, 
 Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, 
 
 And see yon crumbling fort, with moss o ergrown, 
 O er whose high wall the weeping willow bends. 
 
42 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, 
 
 Lake Leman, placid, beautiful, and clear, 
 So gently murmuring, as it flows along, 
 
 Of peace and happiness implanted there. 
 
 And towering far above, the mighty Alps 
 
 Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime, 
 Each snow-capp d summit mingling with the clouds, 
 
 Seems to defy the ravages of time. 
 
 It seems as though the glowing canvass moved, 
 Each figure fill d with life and joy and love, 
 
 As if the dark blue waters at my feet, 
 
 Would break the chain which binds them there, and move. 
 
 Each hill, each rock seems bursting into life, 
 
 The painter mock d reality so well ; 
 It seems as if those shadowy forms would speak, 
 
 Could they but break the artist s magic spell. 
 
 1834. 
 
 THE FUNERAL BELL. 
 
 HARK ! the loudly pealing bell 
 
 Rises on the morning air ; 
 Its tones subdued and sadly swell, 
 
 For death, unpitying death is there ! 
 Hark ! again it peals aloud, 
 
 Bearing sorrow on its tone ; 
 While from the sad assembled crowd, 
 
 Is heard the echoing sob and groan. 
 
 Yes, in that solemn note is heard 
 A voice, proclaiming wo and death ; 
 
 A voice which tells of endless time. 
 Of sorrow s desolating breath. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 243 
 
 To the warm fancy it would say, 
 
 In words which strike the heart with fear ; 
 
 Words for the thoughtless, vain, and gay, 
 Words echoed from the sable bier : 
 
 " A spirit from the world hath fled, 
 
 A soul from earth departed ; 
 While mourners weep above the dead, 
 
 Despairing broken-hearted ! 
 Through the vast fields of viewless time 
 
 That conscious soul hath gone ; 
 To answer for each earthly crime, 
 
 At God s eternal throne. 
 
 " There at his mighty bar it stands, 
 
 A trembling, guilty thing, 
 To answer all his Judge demands, 
 
 Or his dread praises sing ! 
 Dust to its kindred dust returns ! 
 
 Earth to its mother earth ! 
 Still d are its passions and its cares, 
 
 And hush d its voice of mirth. 
 
 " Then learn from this, how weak and vain 
 
 Is every earthly gift ; 
 How in one instant all may fade, 
 
 And leave thee thus bereft, 
 When thy fond heart is fill d with joy, 
 
 With gay and mirthful feeling, 
 Bethink thee, that the form of death 
 
 Beside thee may be stealing. 
 That, ere another hour has past, 
 
 That rosy smile may fade, 
 And the light form that glides so fast, 
 
 In the cold tomb be laid. 
 
 " That the young heart within that clay, 
 To God s dread bar shall pass away, 
 
244 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And the dim future, dark to thee, 
 
 Shall bear it on its tideless sea, 
 To light or darkness, joy or wo, 
 
 Just as thy life hath pass d below." 
 
 1834. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. 
 LINES 
 
 ON RECEIVING A BLANK-BOOK FROM MY MOTHER. 
 
 THOUGH the new year has open d in sickness and fear, 
 Though its dawning has witness d the sigh and the tear, 
 Though the load on my heart and the weight on my brain, 
 And the sadness around me cause sorrow and pain, 
 Each feeling of wo from my bosom is driven 
 While I view the sweet volume affection has given, 
 And gazing delighted on binding and leaf, 
 I forget every thought which is tinctured with grief. 
 Though it needed no gift from my mother to prove 
 The depth of that current of long-cherish d love, 
 Which hath flow d on unceasing, unaltering still, 
 Through sorrows unable its bright waves to chill, 
 Yet, tis strangely delightful, tis sweet to possess 
 Some memento to cherish and gaze on like this, 
 Some gift which long hence may impart to the mind 
 Fresh hues of the image there sweetly enshrined : 
 Which, when every gay feeling is clouded with night, 
 May burst on the soul like an angel of light, 
 And presenting unalter d the visions of love, 
 Which had slumber d awhile the more sweetly to soothe, 
 May illumine the darkness with radiance sublime, 
 But more bright from repose, and unclouded by tune. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 245 
 
 Oh think not, my mother, I ever shall part 
 From a token thus soothing and sweet to my heart ; 
 That the dear little volume thus coming from thee, 
 Shall e er be less valued, less cherish d by me. 
 When the fathomless future its page shall unfold, 
 When time o er this head now so youthful has roll d 
 And left me like others, gray, wither d and old, 
 Then, then shall this gift of the merry new year, 
 From the loved one whose spirit no longer is here, 
 Impart a sweet sadness, and draw the warm tear. 
 Twill bring fresh to remembrance my own lovely home, 
 And each feeling, each hope which is now in its bloom. 
 As a fair little talisman bound up with joy 
 Twill be clasp d to my bosom its fond hopes to buoy, 
 And the love now within it must cease there to dwell, 
 When I bid this dear volume a lasting farewell. 
 
 1835. 
 
 TO FANCY. 
 
 FLY on, aerial Fancy ! fly 
 
 Back, back through many an age, 
 
 To scenes which long have glided by, 
 Untold on history s page. 
 
 Oh, stretch thy heavenward wings and soar 
 Through clouds mysterious and sublime, 
 
 To scenes which earth shall view no more, 
 Far down the dark abyss of time. 
 
 Lit by thy pure, celestial touch, 
 
 Earth, heaven, and sea have softly glow d, 
 Nought in created space which ne er 
 
 To thine enchanting sway hath bow d. 
 
246 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Worlds framed and beautified by thee, 
 Have glow d with every rainbow hue, 
 
 And o er each meaner thing thy form 
 Hath shed a radiance as it flew. 
 
 All potent fancy ! deign to bend 
 
 One glance upon thy suppliant here ! 
 
 Thy glowing car in kindness send, 
 And bear me to thy beauteous sphere. 
 
 Believe me, thou hast ever been 
 
 The cherish d monarch of my heart ! 
 
 There s riot one thought, one hope, one scene, 
 In which thy vagaries huve no part. 
 
 Then deign to look with pitying eye 
 Upon thy votary s bended form ; 
 
 Disperse each cloud from yonder sky, 
 And clasp me in thy guardian arm. 
 
 1835. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SPRING. 
 
 BEND down from thy chariot, oh beautiful Spring, 
 
 Unfold like a standard thy radiant wing, 
 
 And beauty and joy in thy rosy path bring ! 
 
 We long for thy coming, sweet goddess of love, 
 
 We watch for thy smile in the pure sky above, 
 
 And we sigh for the hour when the wood birds shall sing, 
 
 And nature shall welcome thee, beautiful Spring ! 
 
 How the lone heart will bound as thy presence draws near, 
 
 As if borne from this world to some lovelier sphere ! 
 
 How the fond soul to meet thee in raptures shall rise, 
 
 When thy first blush has tinted the earth and the skies. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 247 
 
 Oh, send thy soft breath on the icy-bound stream, 
 
 Twill vanish, twill melt, like the forms in a dream, 
 
 Released from its chains, like a child in its glee, 
 
 Twill flow on in its beauty, all sparkling and free. 
 
 It will spring on in joy, like a bird on the wing, 
 
 And hail thee with music, oh beautiful Spring ! 
 
 But tread with thy foot on the snow-cover d plain, 
 
 And verdure and beauty shall smile in thy train. 
 
 Only whisper one word with thy seraph-like voice, 
 
 And nature to hear the sweet sound shall rejoice ! 
 
 Oh, Spring ! lovely goddess ! what form can compare 
 
 With thine so resplendent, so glowing, so fair ? 
 
 What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye, 
 
 At whose glance the dark spirits of winter do fly 1 
 
 A garland of roses is twined round thy brow, 
 
 Thy cheek like the pale blush of evening doth glow ; 
 
 A mantle of green o er thy soft form is spread, 
 
 And the zephyr s light wing gently plays round thy head. 
 
 Oh, could I but mount on the eagle s dark wing, 
 
 And rest ever beside thee, Spring, beautiful Spring ! 
 
 Methinks, I behold thee ! I hear thy soft voice ! 
 
 And in fulness of heart I rejoice ! I rejoice ! 
 
 But the cold wind is moaning, the drear snow doth fall, 
 
 And nought but the shrieking blast echoes my call. 
 
 Oh, heed the frail offering an infant can bring ! 
 
 Oh, grant my petition, Spring, beautiful Spring ! 
 
 1835. 
 
 FROM THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH 
 PSALM. 
 
 WHERE from thy presence shall I flee T 
 Where seek a hiding-place from thee 1 
 If the pure breath of heaven I share, 
 Lo ! I shall find thy spirit there ! 
 If wandering to the depths of hell, 
 I trust in secrecy to dwell, 
 
248 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Behold ! in all thy power and might, 
 
 Thou, Lord, shalt pierce the veil of night. 
 
 If on the radiant wings of morn 
 
 To unknown lands I m gently borne ; 
 
 There, even there thy hand shall lead, 
 
 Thy voice support my sinking head. 
 
 If to my inmost soul I say, 
 
 Darkness and night shall shroud my way, 
 
 That darkness shall dissolve in light, 
 
 And day usurp the throne of night. 
 
 No power can dim thy searching eye, 
 
 Or bid thy guardian spirit fly. 
 
 Thou knowest well each infant thought, 
 
 Which passion, pride, or sin has taught ; 
 
 And doubts and fears, but half express d, 
 
 To thee, Almighty, stand confess d. 
 
 Plain as the waves of yonder sea, 
 
 Man s subtlest thoughts are known to thee. 
 
 From the small insect tribe, which plays 
 
 Within the sun s enlivening rays, 
 
 To the broad ocean waves, which rise 
 
 In heaving billows to the skies. 
 
 Or great or small, each work of thine, 
 
 It whispers of a hand divine. 
 
 Each breeze which fans the twilight hour, 
 
 Speeds onward, guided by thy power ; 
 
 Each wind which wildly sweeps abroad, 
 
 Is teeming with the voice of God. 
 
 1835. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 THE power of mind, the force of genius, 
 Oh, what human heart can tell, 
 
 Or the deep and stirring thoughts, 
 Which in the poet s bosom dwell ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 249 
 
 The high and holy dreams of heaven, 
 
 Which raise the soul above 
 This world of care, this sphere of sin, 
 
 To realms t> flight and love. 
 
 Oh, who can tell its energy ? 
 
 The spirit s power and might, 
 When genius, with sublimest force, 
 
 Appoints its upward flight, 
 
 And lifts the struggling soul above 
 
 This prison-house of clay, 
 To roam amid the fancied realms 
 
 Of glory and of day ! 
 
 And breathes immortal vigour 
 
 To sustain it through this life, 
 The index of a higher world, 
 
 With power and beauty rife. 
 
 Oh, how sublime the very thought, 
 
 That this frail form of mine 
 Contains a spirit destined soon 
 
 In purer worlds to shine. 
 
 T unfold its infant energies, 
 
 In an immortal clime, 
 And far more glorious become 
 
 Each passing hour of time. 
 
 That it contains the heavenly germ 
 
 Of future being now, 
 Created there to beautify, 
 
 Where clearer waters flow. 
 
 And there expand the glowing bud, 
 
 Mid worlds of light and love, 
 Through the bright realms of ether, 
 
 In glory still to rove. 
 17 
 
250 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 LETTER TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT, 
 
 WRITTEN DURING MY ILLNESS, IN ANSWER TO ONE IN WHICH 
 SHE DESCRIBES PEGASUS AS BLIND, HALT, AND LAME, AND 
 ENDEAVOURS TO CHEER ME WITH THE PROSPECT OF SPEEDY 
 RECOVERY. 
 
 Now, my dear Cousin Maggy, behold me again, 
 Relieved in a measure from sickness and pain ; 
 With a well-sharpen d phiz, and a cap on my head, 
 Just bidding farewell to the irksome sick bed, 
 And endeavouring to tune my enfeebled young lyre 
 To a theme which was wont its wild notes to inspire. 
 Tis long since the muse to my aid has descended, 
 Or smiling and pleased, her poor votary befriended ; 
 Now tired of entreaties, I ll court her no more, 
 But alone and unaided her realms I ll explore ; 
 So, dear cousin Maggy, condemn not my muse, 
 If my verse all its rhyme and its harmony lose, 
 For, vex d with refusals so frequent and long, 
 Without her I ve dared to engage in a song ; 
 And shielded and guided by Clio no more, 
 To meet thy Pegasus I tremblingly soar. 
 While confined by the shackles of sickness and pain, 
 For many a day on my couch I had lain, 
 And in seeking for rest, to my weak frame denied, 
 Was tossing fatigued on each sore, aching side, 
 There came down a tall spirit of light (as it were), 
 From the realms of the sky and the regions of air ; 
 He dispell d from my bosom its gloom and its dread, 
 And kindled the torchlight of hope in their stead. 
 Ah ! then, my dear friend, so great was his power, 
 He could lighten my pain, and soothe solitude s hour ; 
 Ah why then, my cousin, thus brand him with shame, 
 Ah why then describe him as " sightless and lame 1" 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 251 
 
 All noble and lovely he seem d to mine eye, 
 
 And when ceasing to view him I ceased with a sigh ! 
 
 His wings were expanded, his eye-beam was fire ! 
 
 And that heart had befin old he could fail to inspire. 
 
 But alas! I should fail, did I strive to portray 
 
 But one half of the graces which round him did play, 
 
 And held captive my soul with their wildering sway ; 
 
 So no more I ll contemplate his charms or thine own, 
 
 But try to inform you how we re getting on. 
 
 Dear mother still sits on her old rocking-chair, 
 
 Either thinking, or smiling, or silent with care ; 
 
 Then plying her needle with industry still, 
 
 Or scribbling and wearing some tar s h d goosequill. 
 
 Dear Matty is thinking of railroads again, 
 
 And longs to get hold of the rod and the chain. 
 
 He talks of embankment?, canals, and high bridges, 
 
 Of steam-cars, and tunnels, of swamps, and of ditches. 
 
 While dear little Kent, with his well-finger d book, 
 
 Sits gazing around him with complacent look ; 
 
 But alas ! my dear coz, the poor fellow has lost 
 
 The frequent amusement he valued the most : 
 
 For know, in the midst of our sickness and cares, 
 
 The glass in our parlour was carried up stairs, 
 
 (Other furniture changed here was station d a bed,) 
 
 So a mirror much smaller was placed in its stead, 
 
 And my hapless young brother is able no more 
 
 To admire his own beauty and grace as before ; 
 
 He looks at the tempter all rueful and sad, 
 
 And in vain the attempt to a 1 ain it is made, 
 
 And with long, disappointed, and sorrowful mien, 
 
 He retires from the spot to conceal his chagrin. 
 
 Oh ! join, my dear cousin, with me, and bewail 
 
 That his sources of pleasure thus early should fail. 
 
 Old Leo, tired out with his frolic and play, 
 
 Lies quietly sleeping the rest of the day ; 
 
 While pussy is purring contentedly near, 
 
 Devoid of all care and unconscious of fear. 
 
 But enough of this nonsense ! I fain would request 
 
252 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 That thy cousin again may be honour d and blest 
 By receiving thy musical Nag as a guest : 
 His arrival I ll welcome with heartfelt delight, 
 And gaze on his beauties from morning till night. 
 Dear uncle and cousins I ne er can forget, 
 With sweet little Georgie, his aunty, and Kate. 
 Give our love to them all, and yourself must receive 
 My warm and my lasting affection. Believe, 
 I shall ever remain as I now am to thee, 
 Your dear little cousin, and 
 
 MARGARET M. D. 
 Ballston, 1835. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 THOUGH nought but life s sunshine has spread o er my path, 
 Though no real distress has e er clouded my brow ; 
 
 Though the storms of affliction around me have past, 
 
 And shed o er me nought save the rainbow s bright glow ; 
 
 Though nursed from the cradle with tenderest care, 
 Though shelter d from all that might grieve or distress ; 
 
 Though life s pathway has blush d with the fairest of flowers, 
 And my heavenly Father has ceased not to bless ; 
 
 Though the chillness of want and the darkness of wo 
 From my joyous young spirit have rapidly fled ; 
 
 Though the presence of all whom I cherish and love 
 Has not fail d its sweet influence around me to shed ; 
 
 Still, still there are moments of darkness and grief, 
 Which steal o er my soul like the spirit of wo ; 
 
 I know not their coming, I feel not their cause, 
 But o er my rapt spirit they silently flow. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 253 
 
 I feel for a while as some terrible blow 
 
 Had deprived me of comfort, of friends, and of home ; 
 Then depart they as silent, and leave my freed soul 
 
 Again in the bright path of pleasure to roam. 
 
 Like clouds in the sky of enjoyment they pass, 
 And shed o er my heart a sensation of sadness ; 
 
 Like clouds do they glide o er the surface of light, 
 And leave me again to the spirit of gladness. 
 
 1835. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 WHERE the stream in its wildness was rushing below, 
 And the oak in its greatness was bending above, 
 
 Fell Cathba the brave by the hand of his foe, 
 By the hand of Duchomar, his rival in love. 
 
 Duchomar repair d to the cave of the wild, 
 
 Where dwelt in her beauty the star of his breast, 
 
 Where she wandered alone, nature s sensitive child, 
 Knowing little of life but its love and its rest. 
 
 " Oh, beautiful daughter of Cormac the proud ! 
 
 Oh Morna, thou fairest that earth can bestow ! 
 Why dwellest thou here, neath the dark, angry cloud ] 
 
 Why dwellest thou here where the wild waters flow ? 
 
 " The old oak is murmuring aloud in the blast, 
 Which ruffles the breast of the far distant sea, 
 
 The storm o er the heavens his thick veil hath cast, 
 And the sky in its sternness is frowning on thee ! 
 
254 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " But thou art like snow on the black, wither d heath, 
 Thy ringlets are soft as the mist of the night, 
 
 When it winds round the broad hill its delicate wreath, 
 By the sun at its parting made gorgeously bright." 
 
 " Whence comest thou, man of the fierce, rolling eye 1" 
 Said the beautiful maid of the dark flowing hair, 
 
 " Oh proud is thy bearing, and haughty and high, 
 
 And thy brow, there is darkness and gloominess there. 
 
 " Perchance thou hast heard from our foeman of blood ; 
 
 Doth Swaran appear on the broad, heaving sea, 
 Doth he pour on our coast like the deep raging flood 1 
 
 What tidings from Lochlin, Duchomar, for me 1" 
 
 " No tidings from Lochlin, oh Morna, I bring, 
 I come from the chase of the fleet-footed deer ; 
 
 My arrows have sped like the eagle s swift wing, 
 And the scathless have fled from my presence for fear. 
 
 " Three deer at my feet in the death-pang have laid, 
 Fair daughter of Cormac, one perish d for thee ; 
 
 As my soul do I love thee, oh white-handed maid ! 
 And queen of my heart ever more shalt thou be !" 
 
 " Duchomar !" the maiden with firmness replied, 
 " No portion of love do I cherish for thee ; 
 
 For thy bosom is dark with its passions and pride, 
 And fickle thy heart as the wide-rolling sea. 
 
 " But Cathba ! thou only shall Morna adore, 
 Thine image alone this fond bosom shall fill ; 
 
 Oh bright are thy locks as the sunbeams of day, 
 When the mists of the valley are climbing the hill. 
 
 " Hast thou seen him, Duchomar, young Cathba the brave 1 
 Hast thou seen the fair chief on his pathway of light 1 
 
 The daughter of Cormac the mighty is here 
 To welcome her love when he comes from the fight." 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 255 
 
 " Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna !" he cried, 
 And fiercely and sullenly gazed on the maid, 
 
 " Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna ! for here 
 Is the blood of thy diief on Duchomar s dark blade. 
 
 " Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand, 
 His tomb will I rear upon Cromla s dark hills ; 
 
 Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft beaming eye, 
 
 For his arm is like lightning, which withers and kills." 
 
 " Has he fallen in death, the brave offspring of Animl" 
 
 [The maiden exclaim d in the accents of wo, 
 " The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle, 
 Oil sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow ! 
 
 " And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance, 
 He hath blasted each hope which was bright in the bud ; 
 
 Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon, 
 For Cathba I loved, and I still love his blood." 
 
 He yielded the sword to her mourning and sighs, 
 
 She plunged the red blade in his fast-heaving side ; 
 And he lay by the stream, as the blasted oak lies, 
 
 [Till raising his hand he indignantly cried, 
 " Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac ! thy blow 
 
 Hath cut off my youth from the fame I love best; 
 My glory hath fled like a pale wreath of snow, 
 And Morna ! thy weapon is cold in my breast. 
 
 " Oh give me to Morna, the maiden of beauty, 
 
 Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, 
 
 My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain, 
 That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame. 
 
 " She will hang o er my grave like the mists of the morning, 
 And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride, 
 
 But my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing, 
 Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side." 
 
256 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding, 
 
 And drew forth the sword from his fast-bleeding breast, 
 But he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom, 
 
 And laid her fair form on the damp earth to rest 
 
 Her tresses dishevell d around her were flowing, 
 
 The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, 
 
 And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing, 
 In dimness and pallor and silence were bound. 
 
 Oh Morna ! be thou as the moon, when its light 
 
 Shines forth from her throne on the light fleecy cloud, 
 
 To watch o er the grave of thy lover at night, 
 And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud. 
 
 1836. 
 
 TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER S DEATH. 
 
 AH, where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song, 
 Who once bore my rapt fancy on bright wings along ] 
 That soaring from earth, with its cares and its pains 
 It might bathe in the light of thy seraph-like strains ? 
 
 Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness? 
 
 Why leave me in silence thy loss to bewail ] 
 Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured with sadness, 
 
 The eye that is dimm d, or the cheek that is pale 1 
 
 Since last waved around me thy pinions of light, 
 The chillness of sorrow hath breathed o er my home, 
 
 For one joyful young spirit hath taken its flight, 
 One icy-cold form has been borne to the tomb. 
 
 Like a flow ret of summer, he wither d and died, 
 In the springtime of beauty, of youth, and of pride ; 
 In the freshness of hope he was borne to his tomb, 
 And the home of his kindred is shadaw d with gloom. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 257 
 
 Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy, 
 
 Oh touch with thy fingers my drooping young lyre ! 
 
 Awake it to pleasures time ne er can destroy, 
 And its chords witk a heavenly calmness inspire. 
 
 1836. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS 
 " RECORDS OF WOMAN." 
 
 OH, pause not yet, for many an hour 
 
 I d lend a raptured ear, 
 The thrilling, melting sweetness 
 
 Of that seraph strain to hear. 
 
 Dispel not yet the soften d joy 
 Those gentle tones impart, 
 While painting, in such vivid hues, 
 . The worth of woman s heart. 
 
 * 
 
 Priestess of song ! could we but feel 
 
 The value of thine own, 
 How many a soul would bow before 
 Thy spirit s lofty throne. 
 
 How many now elated 
 
 With the muse s faintest smile, 
 Would turn them to thy radiant shrine, 
 
 And worship there awhile. 
 
 With softest touch thy magic hand 
 
 Awaked the sleeping lyre, 
 To all a woman s tenderness, 
 
 And all a poet s fire, 
 
258 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And proudly soar d thy lofty mind 
 Each earthly thought above, 
 
 And vainly sought thy woman s heart 
 For something more to love. 
 
 1836. [Unfinished.] 
 
 AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND. 
 
 THOUGH thousands pass the mourner by, 
 And scorn the suppliant s bended knee, 
 
 " Hope springs exulting" to the eye, 
 When sorrow turns its glance on thee. 
 
 For soft compassion s slumbering ray, 
 And pity s melting glance is there, 
 
 To chase the sufferer s fears away, 
 And soothe to calmness wild despair. 
 
 Oh fan to life the kindling spark, 
 Till brightly burns its radiant flame, 
 
 For thou art fortune s favour d child, 
 And I would plead in mercy s name. 
 
 Scan the dark page of life, and say 
 If there thy searching eye can find 
 
 A wo more keen, a fate more sad, 
 Than that which marks the helpless blind. 
 
 Launch d forth on life s uncertain path, 
 Its best and brightest gift denied, 
 
 No power to pluck its fragrant flowers, 
 Or turn its poisonous thorns aside ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 259 
 
 No ray to pierce the gloom within, 
 And chase the darkness with its light ; 
 
 No radiant morning dawn to win 
 His spirit from the shades of night. 
 
 Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair, 
 
 Casts a bright glow o er life s dark stream, 
 
 Nature, sweet soother of our care, 
 Has not a single smile for him. 
 
 When pale disease, with blighting hand, 
 
 Crushes each budding hope awhile, 
 Our eyes can rest in sweet delight 
 
 On love s fond gaze, or friendship s smile. 
 
 Not so with him his soul, chain d down 
 
 By doubt, and loneliness, and care, 
 Feels but misfortune s chilling frown, 
 
 And broods in darkness and despair. 
 
 Favour d by heaven ! oh haste thee on, 
 Thy blest Redeemer points the way, 
 
 Haste o er the spirit s gloom to pour 
 The light of intellectual day. 
 
 Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, 
 And wake them to the noonday sun ; 
 
 Thou canst not ope what God hath closed, 
 Or cancel aught His hands have done ; 
 
 But oh ! there is a world within, 
 
 More bright, more beautiful than ours ; 
 
 A world which, nursed by culturing hands, 
 Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers. 
 
 And thou canst make that desert mind 
 Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose ; 
 
 Thou canst illume that rayless void, 
 Till darkness like the day-beam glows. 
 
260 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Thou canst implant the brilliant gem 
 Of thought, in each benighted soul, 
 
 Till back from radiance so divine 
 The clouds of ignorance shall roll. 
 
 Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray 
 O er each beclouded mind within, 
 
 Than pours the glorious orb of day 
 On this dark world of care and sin. 
 
 Prize you a self-approving mind 1 
 Then lay thine offering here ; 
 
 The clouded orbits of the blind 
 Shall yield a grateful tear. 
 
 Would st thou the blessings of that band 
 Should crowd thy path below? 
 
 That hearts, enlighten d by thy hand, 
 With gratitude should flow ? 
 
 And would st thou seek the matchless love 
 To God s own children given, 
 
 A conscience calmly resting neath 
 The fav ring smiles of Heaven? 
 
 Then speed thee on in mercy s cause, 
 And teach the blind to see ; 
 
 " Hope springs exulting" in the eye 
 That sorrowing turns to thee. 
 
 And warmest blessings on thy head, 
 Full many a voice shall call ; 
 
 And tears upon thy memory shed, 
 Like Hermon s dew shall fall ! 
 
 And when the last dread day has come, 
 Which seals thine endless doom ; 
 
 When the freed soul shall seek its home, 
 And triumph o er the tomb ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 261 
 
 When lowly bends each reverend knee, 
 
 And bows each heart in prayer, 
 A band of spirits, saved by thee 
 
 Shall plead thy virtues there. 
 
 1836. 
 
 THE SMILES OF NATURE. 
 
 THERE S a smile above, and a smile below, 
 
 In the clouds that roll, and the waves that flow : 
 
 Is the heart unchain d by sorrow s thrall, 
 
 There s a smile of joy and of peace in all ! 
 
 There s a smile on the brow of the waken d day, 
 
 When he gilds the east with his glowing ray, 
 
 And a smile on his brow when he sinks to rest, 
 
 Like the saint who expires on his Maker s breast. 
 
 There are pensive smiles on the evening sky, 
 
 Which raise the thoughts to the pure and high, 
 
 Which speak to the soul of its glad release, 
 
 And tune its quivering chords to peace. 
 
 The flow rets ope with the rising sun, 
 
 And wither and die ere his race is run ; 
 
 Yet a smile is shed o er their transient bloom, 
 
 Adorning the path to their early tomb. 
 
 There s a smile on the brow of the gorgeous spring, 
 
 When she spreads o er the valley her radiant wing ; 
 
 As she calms the wild winds with her fragrant breath, 
 
 And decks the glad earth in her beautiful wreath. 
 
 There s a smile on the rose, though twill cease to bloom ; 
 
 There s a smile on the stream, though the storm may come ; 
 
 There s a smile in the sky, though the clouds may roll, 
 
 Like sin o er the depths of the human soul ! 
 
 Thus, all that is lovely .is form d for decay, 
 
 But the pure beams of heaven are shed o er the way. 
 
 There are varied smiles on a mortal s brow, 
 
 Which speak of the soul from its depths below ; 
 
262 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But they too vanish, when brightest they beam, 
 
 And bury their light in the world s dark stream. 
 
 For the heart of man is the throne of guile, 
 
 And sin can shadow each mortal smile ; 
 
 And the blossoms of light which are planted there, 
 
 Are weaken d by passion, or wither d by care. 
 
 There s a haughty smile on the conqueror s brow, 
 
 As the nations of earth at his footstool bow ; 
 
 But that smile is chill as the frozen stream 
 
 Which glitters pale in the moon s cold beam ; 
 
 It speaks of ambition, of pride, and of sin, 
 
 Which rankle and swell the dark bosom within. 
 
 There s a smile on the brow of aspiring man, 
 
 As he pauses the works of his hand to scan, 
 
 And gazes far up to that gorgeous height 
 
 Which is guarded by danger, and terror, and night ; 
 
 But tis cold as the bosom from whence it came, 
 
 And is lost in the splendours of grandeur and fame. 
 
 There s a beaming smile upon beauty s brow, 
 
 As the young and the gay at her altar bow ; 
 
 Tis brilliant, tis dazzling, tis passing fair, 
 
 But the heart in its freshness is wanting there. 
 
 There s a sunny smile on the infant s lip, 
 
 As he pauses the cup of enjoyment to sip ; 
 
 But a moment more shall have hurried by, 
 
 And that smile will fade from his clouded eye ; 
 
 Some childish sorrow, or childish sin, 
 
 Shall cast its shade o er the depths within. 
 
 Then where shall we seek for a perfect smile, 
 
 If beauty hath sorrow, and youth hath guile 1 
 
 If the clouds of pride and ambition roll 
 
 O er the inmost depths of the deathless soul 1 
 
 Oh Nature ! the soul is a spark divine, 
 
 But I turn from its light for a smile of thine ; 
 
 The soul in its greatness must ever endure, 
 
 But thou, in thy freshness, art holy and pure ! 
 
 Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
 
 Which gladden the bosom and rapture the eye ; 
 
 Though transient the radiance, though fleeting the smile, 
 
 They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 263 
 
 But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 
 
 Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control : 
 
 For the soft smiles of nature around us are cast, 
 
 To light, with their Brilliance, the world s dreary waste. 
 
 To call the lone heart from its sadness away, 
 
 And shed o er its darkness a magical ray ! 
 
 When oppress d with the cares and the sorrows of life, 
 
 The spirit turns back from its turmoil and strife, 
 
 When it longs to be happy, and sighs to be free, 
 
 Oh Nature, tis cheer d by communion with thee. 
 
 Though the waters may rise, and the sky be o ercast ; 
 
 Though rages the tempest, and whistles the blast ; 
 
 Though thy brow may be shaded in darkness and fear, 
 
 He can read there a lesson to solace and cheer. 
 
 As the soft rays of sunshine succeed to thy frown ; 
 
 As the rainbow encircles thy brows like a crown ; 
 
 As the tempest rolls off which had reign d there awhile, 
 
 And bursts forth in radiance the light of thy smile, 
 
 So gently the shadows of sorrow depart, 
 
 And hope dawns again on the desolate heart, 
 
 And points from thy glories to glories more pure, 
 
 From thy fast-fading beauties to charms which endure, 
 
 And leads the rapt soul from its sinful abode, 
 
 To commune for awhile with its Maker and God. 
 
 Oh Nature ! what art thou 1 a mighty lyre, 
 
 Whose strings are swept by an angel choir ; 
 
 Whose music, attuned by a hand divine, 
 
 Thrills a chord in each bosom responsive to thine, 
 
 And whose gentler strain, as it softly swells, 
 
 Soothes many a bosom where sadness dwells ; 
 
 While the joyous and happy, the youthful and gay, 
 
 Pluck the flowers from thy garland and speed on their way. 
 
 Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 
 
 Which gladden the bosom, and rapture the eye ; 
 
 Though fleeting the radiance, though transient the smile, 
 
 They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile, 
 
 But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 
 
 Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control. 
 
 1836. 
 
264 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 ON A ROSE, 
 
 RECEIVED FROM M18S SEDGWICK. 
 
 AND thou art fading too, my rose, 
 Thy healthful bloom is fled, 
 
 From thy pale flower the leaves unclose, 
 And bows thy pallid head. 
 
 I knew how quickly fades away 
 Each brighter, lovelier thing, 
 
 And did not deem that thou couldst stay, 
 Thou fairest rose of spring. 
 
 But I have watch d thy varying hue, 
 
 As fading hour by hour, 
 And mourn d that thou must perish too, 
 
 My lovely, cherish d flower. 
 
 Oh, tis a mournful thing to see 
 How all that s fair must die ; 
 
 How death will pluck the sweetest bud, 
 On his cold breast to lie. 
 
 Tis sad to mark his icy hand 
 
 Destroy our all that s dear, 
 In silent, shivering awe to stand, 
 
 And know his footstep near. 
 
 Yet twere unmeet that thou shouldst live, 
 When man himself must die ; 
 
 That death should cull each human form, 
 And pass the flow ret by. 
 
 Why do I mourn for thee, my rose, 
 
 When graven in my heart, 
 I read a deeper sorrow there 
 
 Than thou couldst e er hi rt. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 265 
 
 For one who came from heaven awhile, 
 
 To bless the mourners here; 
 Their joys to hallow with her smile, 
 
 Their sorrow with her tear ; 
 
 Who joined to all the charms of earth 
 
 The noblest gifts of heaven ; 
 To whom the Muses, at her birth, 
 
 Their sweetest smiles had given ; 
 
 Whose eye beam d forth with fancy s ray, 
 
 And genius pure and high ; 
 Whose very soul had seem d to bathe 
 
 In streams of melody, 
 
 Was all too like to thee, my rose, 
 
 As fragile and as fair ; 
 For, while her eye most brightly beam d, 
 
 The mark of death was there. 
 
 The cheek which once so sweetly bloom d, 
 
 Grew pallid with decay ; 
 The burning fire within consumed 
 
 Its tenement of clay. 
 
 Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
 
 Paused o er her couch awhile ; 
 She gave a tear for those she loved, 
 
 Then met him with a smile. 
 
 Oh, who may tell what angel bands 
 
 Convey d that soul away ; 
 And who may tell what tears were shed 
 
 Above that lifeless clay. 
 
 They laid her in the silent grave, 
 
 The moist earth for her bed ! 
 And placed the rose and violet 
 
 To blossom o er her head ! 
 18 
 
266 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But though unseen by mortal eye, 
 
 She seem d not to depart, 
 Her memory linger d still below 
 
 In every kindred heart ; 
 
 As if her pure, unfetter d soul 
 
 Return d to earthly things, 
 And spread o er all her cherish d scenes 
 
 The shadow of her wings. 
 
 Still thou art like to her, my rose, 
 
 Though bending in decay ; 
 The tyrant death can never take 
 
 Thy fragrant breath away. 
 
 Like thee, my rose, she bloom d and died, 
 Like thee, her life was brief, 
 
 And to her name remembrance clung, 
 Like perfume to thy leaf 
 
 But when the torch of memory burn d 
 With fainter, feebler flame, 
 
 The pen of Sedgwick spread anew 
 A lustre round her name. 
 
 For this our daily gratitude 
 
 In raptures shall ascend ; 
 For this a sister s blessings 
 
 And a mother s prayer shall blend. 
 
 And if the Lord of heaven permits 
 
 His sainted ones to know 
 The varied scenes of joy and grief 
 
 Which mark the world below ; 
 
 Then she will bend her angel form, 
 With heavenly raptures fired, 
 
 And bless the hand which penn d the tale, 
 The genius which inspired. 
 
 1837. 
 
POETICAL REMAIN S. 267 
 
 THE CHURCH-GOING BELL. 
 
 How sweet is the^sound of the church-going bell 
 
 When it bursts on the ear with its full rich swell, 
 
 So slow and so solemn it peals through the air, 
 
 It seems as if calling the soul to prepare 
 
 To meet in his temple, so holy and pure, 
 
 The Saviour whose presence shall ever endure ; 
 
 To unburthen the conscience devoutly to kneel 
 
 To pray for the pardon of sins which we feel ; 
 
 Before our almighty Preserver to bow, 
 
 With a purified soul, and a heart humbled low. 
 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 OH, for a something more than this, 
 
 To fill the void within my breast, 
 A sweet reality of bliss, 
 
 A something bright but unexpress d. 
 
 My spirit longs for something higher 
 Than life s dull stream can e er supply, 
 
 Something to feed this inward fire, 
 This spark, which never more can die. 
 
 I d dwell with all that nature forms 
 
 Of wild or beautiful or gay, 
 Bow, when she clothes the heaven with storms, 
 
 And join her in her frolic play. 
 
 I d hold companionship with all 
 
 Of pure, or noble, or divine, 
 With glowing heart adoring fall, 
 
 And kneel at nature s sylvan shrine. 
 
268 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 My soul is like a broken lyre, 
 
 Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone, 
 
 A note half trembling on the wire, 
 A heart that wants an echoing tone. 
 
 Where shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
 This shapeless phantom of my mind, 
 
 This something words can ne er express, 
 So vague, so faint, so undefined ] 
 
 Language ! thou never canst portray 
 The fancies floating o er my soul, 
 
 Thon ne er canst chase the clouds away, 
 Which o er my changing visions roll. 
 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 OH, I have gazed on forms of light, 
 Till life seem d ebbing in a tear, 
 
 Till in that fleeting space of sight, 
 Were merged the feelings of a year. 
 
 And I have heard the voice of song, 
 Till my full heart gush d wild and free, 
 
 And my rapt soul would float along 
 As if on waves of melody. 
 
 But while I glow d at beauty s glance, 
 I long d to feel a deeper thrill, 
 
 And while I heard that dying strain, 
 I sigh d for something sweeter still. 
 
 I have been happy, and my soul 
 
 Free from each sorrow, care, regret, 
 
 Yet ever in those hours of bliss, 
 I long d to find them happier yet. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 269 
 
 Oft o er the darkness of my mind, 
 
 Some meteor thought has glanced at will, 
 
 Twas bright but ever have I sigh d 
 To find a fency brighter still. 
 
 Why are these restless, vain desires, 
 Which always grasp at something more 
 
 To feed the spirit s hidden fires, 
 
 Which burn unseen, unnoticed soar 1 
 
 Well might the heathen sage have known 
 That earth must fail the soul to bind, 
 
 That life, and life s tame joys alone, 
 Could never chain the ethereal mind. 
 
 1837. 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN. 
 ON RETURNING TO BALLSTON, 
 
 AFTER THE DEATH OF A LITTLE BROTHER. 
 
 YES ! this is home ! the home we loved before, 
 The dear retreat we hope to leave no more ! 
 Since first we mourn d thy calm enjoyments fled, 
 Two weary years with silent steps have sped ; 
 And ah ! in that short space what scenes have past ! 
 Death has been with us since we saw thee last ! 
 Yes ! robed in gloom he came, the tyrant death, 
 To blight our fairest with his chilling breath. 
 He stole along beneath the smiles of spring, 
 When youthful hearts to life most fondly cling ; 
 The loveliest flowers were blushing neath his tread ; 
 He stole the sweetest of them all, and fled ! 
 In vain, my brother, now we look for thee, 
 Thy form elastic, and thy step of glee ; 
 
270 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 In vain we strive our thoughts from thee to win, 
 
 Our hearts recoiling 1 feel the void within. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! thou dear and cherish d one, 
 
 How soon on earth thy tranquil course was run ! 
 
 Like some bright stream that pours its waves to-day, 
 
 Glides gently on, and vanishes away ! 
 
 A brief, brief time has pass d with giant stride, 
 
 And thou hast lived, hast suffer d, and hast died ! 
 
 Memory, unmindful of the lapse between, 
 
 Paints forth in vivid hues that closing scene ; 
 
 The more we gaze, we feel its truth the more, 
 
 And live in thought those painful moments o er. 
 
 We see his form upon its couch of pain, 
 
 We hear his soft and trembling voice again ; 
 
 Grief forcing from our lips the shuddering groan, 
 
 And sweet composure breathing from his own. 
 
 The earth was clothed in spring s enlivening hue, 
 
 The faded buds were bursting forth anew, 
 
 The birds were heard in sweet, melodious strain, 
 
 And Nature woke to radiant life again, 
 
 While he, too fragile for this world of strife, 
 
 Prepared to blossom in a holier life. 
 
 The glowing spring of heaven s eternal year 
 
 Was usher d in by all that s loveliest here ; 
 
 Earth, robed in Nature s fairest, best array, 
 
 Led on his fluttering soul to purer day. 
 
 The soft winds fann d him where his couch was laid, 
 
 On his hot brow the cooling breezes play d, 
 
 And in his hand (fit type of early death,) 
 
 Was claspM a faded flower, a wither d wreath. 
 
 Hush d was each bursting groan, each tumult wild, 
 
 Around the deathbed of that darling child ; 
 
 O er each sad heart an awful trembling crept ; 
 
 E en grief, o erpower d, a solemn stillness kept. 
 
 His soul, beyond the grasp of care and strife, 
 
 Stood on the confines of a deathless life ; 
 
 His gaze was fix d upon * 
 
 The lapse between eternity and time; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 271 
 
 His eye was beaming with intenser light, 
 
 As broke new glories on his fading sight. 
 
 Oh, who may tell that hour of thrilling dread, 
 
 That midnight vigil b^ his dying bed ! . 
 
 When his young spirit left its shrine of clay, 
 
 And sped through worlds unknown its pathless way ; 
 
 Methinks, e en now, I see his speaking face, 
 
 Death on his brow, and in his bosom peace, 
 
 When soft he whisper d, while the accents fell 
 
 Like the soft murmurings of the passing gale, 
 
 While his cheek glow d with death s intensest bloom, 
 
 " Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come !" 
 
 Yes ! thy last hour of pain, thou darling boy, 
 
 The opening scene to endless years of joy ! 
 
 Oh, never more, till memory s sun shall set, 
 
 Can I that thrilling scene of death forget ! 
 
 His earnest gaze, his bright and glowing cheek 
 
 Beaming with thoughts his tongue no more could speak ; 
 
 His soul just hastening to the realms on high, 
 
 While all earth s love was kindling in his eye. 
 
 Alas ! it fades, that deep, unearthly glow, 
 
 And the cold drops stand quivering on his brow. 
 
 Death has o ercome ! tis nature s closing strife, 
 
 The last, last struggle of departing life ! 
 
 List to that sigh ! the poison d shaft has sped, 
 
 And his young spirit to its home hath fled. 
 
 The silver cord is broke, dissolved the tie ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how all that s fair must die ! 
 
 Hark, to that heavenly strain, so loud, so clear, 
 
 Rising so sweet on fancy s listening ear ! 
 
 Hark, tis an angel s song, a voice of glee, 
 
 A welcome to the soul, unchain d and free ! 
 
 On, on it flows in ceaseless tides again, 
 
 Till the rapt spirit echoes to the strain, 
 
 Till on the wings of song it soars away, 
 
 To track its kindred soul through realms of day ! 
 
 Hark to that lyre, more sweet than all beside ; 
 
 Mother ! tis hers ! oh, weep not that she died ! 
 
272 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Hark to that voice, so melting and so clear, 
 The same, my father, thou wert wont to hear ! 
 And mark that train of infant spirits come 
 To lead their brother to his glorious home ! 
 All, all are yours ! and all shall gather there, 
 To lead your spirits from this world of care ; 
 Then weep no more ; your darling son is blest, 
 And his young soul has enter d into rest. 
 
 1837. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 TWILIGHT ! sweet hour of peace, 
 
 Now art thou stealing on ; 
 
 Cease from thy tumult, thought ! and fancy, cease ! 
 Day and its cares have gone ! 
 Mysterious hour, 
 Thy magic power 
 Steals o er my heart like music s softest tone. 
 
 The golden sunset hues 
 
 Are fading in the west ; 
 
 The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, 
 Folded on evening s breast. 
 
 So doth each wayward thought, 
 From fancy s altar caught, 
 Fade like thy tints, and muse itself to rest 
 
 Cold must that bosom be, 
 
 Which never felt thy power, 
 Which never thrill d with tender melody 
 At this bewitching hour ; 
 When nature s gentle art 
 Enchain s the pensive heart ; 
 
 When the breeze sinks to rest, and shuts the fragrant 
 flower. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 273 
 
 It is the hour for pensive thought, 
 
 For memory of the past, 
 For sadden d joy^for chasten d hope 
 Of brighter scenes at last ; 
 The soul should raise 
 Its hymn of praise, 
 That calm so sweet on life s dull stream is cast. 
 
 Wearied with care, how sweet to hail 
 
 Thy shadowy, calm repose, 
 When all is silent but the whispering gale 
 Which greets the sleeping rose; 
 When, as thy shadows blend, 
 The trembling thoughts ascend, 
 And borne aloft, the gates of heaven unclose. 
 
 Forth from the warm recess 
 
 The chain d affections flow, 
 And peace, and love, and tranquil happiness 
 Their mingled joys bestow ; 
 Charm d by thy mystic spell, 
 The purer feelings swell, 
 The nobler powers revive, expand, and glow. 
 
 1837. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF A BROTHER. 
 
 BROTHER ! I need no pencilPd form 
 
 To bring back glowing thoughts of thee ; 
 
 Love s pencil, bathed in hues of light, 
 Shall trace the page of memory. 
 
 There shall they live, each look or smile, 
 Each gentler word, or look, or tone ; 
 
 Fancy shall view love s work the while, 
 And add rich colouring of her own. 
 
274 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 How throbb d my heart with sweet delight, 
 When hope beheld thy near return ! 
 
 Nor thought that day precedes the night, 
 And hearts the happiest soonest mourn. 
 
 Why knew I not that joy like mine 
 Was never, never form d to last 1 
 
 That pleasures only live to die, 
 And, ere we feel them, ours are past 1 
 
 Oh ! turn not from my strain away, 
 Nor scorn it, simple though it be ! 
 
 It is a sister s sorrowing lay, 
 A token of her love for thee. 
 
 Oh ! that a prophet s eye were mine, 
 To read the shrouded future o er ! 
 
 Oh! that the glimmering lamp of time 
 Could cast its mystic rays before ! 
 
 Then would I trace thy devious way 
 Along the chequer d path of life ; 
 
 Discern each pure, reviving ray, 
 
 And mark each changing scene of strife. 
 
 Oh ! if a sister s partial hand 
 
 Could weave the web of fate for thee, 
 Pleasure should wave her mystic wand, 
 . And all thy life be harmony. 
 
 Peace, foolish heart ! a wiser Power 
 
 Thy hand shall guide, thy footsteps lead ; 
 
 Each bitter grief, each rapturous hour 
 By His unerring will decreed. 
 
 Farewell, my brother ! and believe 
 Through every scene of weal or wo, 
 
 A sister s heart with thine shall grieve, 
 With thine in rapturous joy shall glow. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 275 
 
 Each morn and eve a mother s prayer 
 With mine shall seek the courts above : 
 
 A mother s blessings rest on thee, 
 Embalm d urall a mother s love. 
 
 1837. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING ACCOUNTS OF THE DEATH OF 
 MARTYRS. 
 
 SPEAK not of life, I could not bear 
 A life of foul disgrace to share ! 
 Wealth, fame or honour s fleeting breath, 
 What are they to this glorious death 1 
 Think ye a kingdom back could win 
 My spirit to this world of sin! 
 Think ye a few more years of strife 
 Could draw me from eternal life 1 
 Dark is the path to Canaan s shore, 
 But Jesus trod that path before ! 
 He hath illumed the grave for me, 
 My Saviour ! I will die for thee ! 
 Yes ! lead me forth ; in faith secure, 
 The keenest anguish I ll endure ! 
 And while my body feeds the flame, 
 My soul its bright reward shall claim ! 
 Soon shall these earthly bonds decay, 
 This trembling frame return to clay, 
 And earth, enrobed in clouds of night, 
 Shall fade for ever from my sight. 
 But who would mourn a home like this, 
 W T hen gather d to that home of bliss 1 
 But there is many a tender tie 
 Would shake my firm resolve to die ; 
 
276 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Cords which entwine my longing heart, 
 
 Affection s death alone can part. 
 
 Jesus, forgive each faltering thought, 
 
 Which weaker, earthlier love hath taught ; 
 
 Forgive the tears which struggling flow 
 
 To view a mother s, sister s wo. 
 
 Forgive this grief, though weak it be, 
 
 Nor deem my spirit turn d from thee ! 
 
 Raise my unworthy soul above 
 
 The tempting wiles of earthly love ! 
 
 Soon shall each torturing pang be o er, 
 
 And tears like these shall flow no more ; 
 
 And those I love so deeply here 
 
 Shall meet me in yon heavenly sphere. 
 
 Love ! what have I compared to thine ? 
 
 Love, pure, ineffable, divine ! 
 
 Love which could bring a God below 
 
 To taste a mortal s cup of wo ; 
 
 To weep in agony, to sigh, 
 
 To bear a nation s scorn to die ! 
 
 Oh, love ! undying, godlike, free, 
 
 All else is swallow d up in thee. 
 
 Soon shall I also soar above, 
 
 To dwell with thee, for " God is love." 
 
 Yes ! pile the blazing fagots high, 
 
 Till the bright flames salute the sky ! 
 
 From each devouring pile you raise, 
 
 Shall soar a hymn of love and praise, 
 
 And the firm stake you rear for me, 
 
 The gate to endless life shall be. 
 
 But oh, ye frail, deluded train, 
 
 How will ye meet your Lord again ? 
 
 " Father ! their crimes in mercy view ! 
 
 Forgive, they know not what they do !" 
 
 1837. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 277 
 
 ON READING COWPER S POEMS. 
 
 t^f 
 
 CHARM D with thy verse, oh bard, I fain would raise 
 A feeble tribute teeming with thy praise ; 
 For thee, oh Cowper, touch the trembling" string 1 , 
 And breathe the thoughts the muse inspires to sing. 
 For thee, whose soul delighted oft to roam 
 O er the pure realms of thine eternal home ; 
 Who, scorning folly s smile or fancy s dream, 
 Made truth thy guide and piety thy theme ; 
 Who loved to soar where heaven s own glories shine, 
 And tuned the lyre to harmonies divine ! 
 Whose strains, when pour d by faith s directing voice, 
 Made doubt recede, and certainty rejoice. 
 Whose lofty verse, by sterner justice led, 
 Made unbelievers trembling, shrink with dread. 
 Oh that each bard, from earthborn passions free, 
 Might tread the path thus nobly mark d by thee, 
 And teaching song to plead in virtue s cause, 
 Might win like thee, a grateful world s applause. 
 Knowing from whence thy matchless talents came, 
 Thou fanned st to purer life the kindling flame, 
 And breathing all thy thoughts in numbers sweet, 
 Laid them adoring at thy Maker s feet. 
 Thus teaching man that all his nobler lays 
 Should rise o erflowing with that Maker s praise ; 
 That his enraptured muse should firmly own 
 The claims of truth, and faith, and love alone ! 
 That he, who feels within the fire divine, 
 Should nurse the flame to grace God s holy shrine. 
 Let those who bask in passion s burning ray, 
 Who own no rule but fancy s changeful sway, 
 Who quench their burning thirst in folly s stream, 
 And waste their genius on each grosser theme, 
 Let them turn back on life s tumultuous sea, 
 And humbly gazing, learn this truth from thee ; 
 
278 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 That virtue s hand the poet s lamp must trim, 
 And its clear light, unwavering, point to Him, 
 Or all its brilliance shall have glow d in vain, 
 And hours misspent shall win him years of pain. 
 
 1837. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 OH, who may tell the joy, the bliss, 
 Which o er the realm of fancy streams, 
 
 The varied scenes of light and life, 
 
 Which deck the poet s world of dreams 1 
 
 The ransom d soul may speed its flight, 
 To live and glow in realms above ; 
 
 May bathe in floods of endless light, 
 And live eternal years of love. 
 
 But oh, what voice hath e er reveal d 
 The glories of that blest abode, 
 
 Save the faint whisperings of the soul, 
 The mystic monitors of God ! 
 
 Thus may the poet s spirit dance 
 
 And revel in his world of joy, 
 May form creations at a glance, 
 
 And myriads at a word destroy. 
 
 But mortal ear can never hear 
 The music of that seraph band ; 
 
 Nought save the faint, unearthly tones 
 Just wafted from that spirit-land. 
 
 None but the poet s soul can know 
 The wild and wondrous beauty there ; 
 
 The streams of light, which ever flow, 
 The ever music-breathing air. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 279 
 
 His spirit seeks this heaven awhile, 
 Entranced in glowing dreams of bliss ; 
 
 Lives in the muses hallow d smile, 
 And bathes in founts of happiness. 
 
 Then, when he sinks to earth again, 
 
 His hand awakes the trembling lyre, 
 He strives to breathe a burning strain, 
 
 Kindled at fancy s altar-fire. 
 
 But oh, how frail the trembling notes, 
 Compared * * 
 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 TWAS the song of the evening spirit ! it stole, 
 
 Like a stream of delight o er the listening soul, 
 
 And the passions of earth joy, or sorrow, or pain 
 
 Were absorb d in the notes of that heavenly strain. 
 
 My heart seem d to pause as the spirit came nigh, 
 
 And, array d in its garment of music, pass d by ! 
 
 " I am coming, oh earth ! I am hasting away, 
 
 With my star-spangled crown and my mantle of gray ; 
 
 I have come from my bower in the regions of light, 
 
 To recline on the breast of my parent, night ! 
 
 To soften the gloom in her mournful eye, 
 
 And guide her steps through the darken d sky ! 
 
 I come to the earth in my mystic array ; 
 
 Rest, rest from the toils and the cares of the day ! 
 
 I will lull each discordant emotion to sleep, 
 
 As I hush the wild waves of the turbulent deep, 
 
 And my watch o er the couch of their slumbers I keep. 
 
 The streams murmur peace, as I steal through the sky, 
 
 And hush d are the winds, which swept fitfully by ; 
 
280 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The bee nestles down on the breast of the rose, 
 And the wild birds of summer are seeking repose. 
 All nature salutes me, so solemn, so fair, 
 And a glad shout of welcome is borne on the air. 
 Now, now is the moment, and here is the way 
 For the spirit to mount from its temple of clay, 
 And soar on my pinions to regions sublime, 
 Beyond the broad flight of the giant-wing d Time." 
 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD. 
 
 SWEETS of the glowing spring 
 
 Float on the air ; 
 Gaily the birdies sing, 
 
 Banish in care. 
 Softly the burnies flow, 
 Gently the breezes blow, 
 I to my Jeanie, oh, 
 
 Gaily repair. 
 
 Fair as the simmer flower 
 
 Sipp d by the bee ; 
 Blithe as the weenie birds 
 
 Singin their glee ; 
 Fresh as the drappin dew, 
 Pure as the gowan s hue, 
 Ever gay an ever true, 
 
 Is Jeanie to me. 
 
 Bright as the gowden beam 
 
 Gilding the morn ; 
 Sweet as the simmer s wind 
 
 Wavin the corn ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 281 
 
 Sic is my Jeanie, oh, 
 Stainless as winter snow, 
 Given to the warld below 
 Life to adorn. 
 
 Joy to thee, bonnie lass, 
 
 Gently an braw, 
 Thou, mang the fairest, 
 
 Art fairer than a ; 
 Still mayst thou gladsome be, 
 Ever from sorrow free, 
 Blessings upon thine e e 
 
 Numberless fa . 
 
 Grief may bedim the while 
 
 Joy s glowing flame ; 
 Sorrow may steal the smile 
 
 From its sweet hame ; 
 But the sweet flow ret, love, 
 Native of heaven above, 
 In the dark storm shall prove 
 
 Ever the same. 
 
 ERE THOU DIDST FORM. 
 
 ERE thou didst form this teeming earth, 
 Or gave these mighty mountains birth ; 
 Ere mortal press d this yielding sod ; 
 From everlasting thou art God ! 
 
 Thousands of years, when past away, 
 Seem, in thy sight, one fleeting day ; 
 Ages, where man may live and die, 
 An hour to thy eternity ! 
 19 
 
282 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Years roll on with a rolling stream, 
 They fade like shadows in a dream ! 
 Like grass, which springs at morning light, 
 And withers ere the close of night ! 
 
 For thou art mighty in thine ire 
 Thy wrath consumes like flaming fire ; 
 And, spread before thy searching eye, 
 Our sins in dreadful order lie. 
 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 I SEE her seraph form, her flowing hair, 
 
 Her brow and cheek so exquisitely fair ; 
 
 Her smiling lips, her dark eyes radiant beam 
 
 A dream 1 this is not, cannot be a dream ! 
 
 They tell me tis some wild and phrensied thought, 
 
 Some glowing spark from fancy s altar caught ; 
 
 Some glowing spirit, fancied and unknown, 
 
 Which reign s supreme in reason s vanquish d throne. 
 
 1837. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 THUS thought I, while in pensive mood, 
 Beneath a frowning cliff I stood, 
 And mark d the autumn sun decline 
 Above the broad and heaving Rhine ! 
 Oh, twas a rich and gorgeous sight, 
 But all too solemn to bs bright. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 A saddening hue was o er it cast, 
 Which seem d to tell of glories past, 
 Of summer ripen d to decay, 
 Of ancient splendours past away ; 
 The parting monarch s dying glow 
 Fell on the restless waves below, 
 As if an angel s hand had dyed 
 With hues from heaven the sparkling tide. 
 The fleeting ray an instant beam d, 
 O er hill, and dale, and rock it stream d, 
 Till the dark, time-destroying cliff 
 Seem d glowing, melting into life, 
 And the broad scene, so sad and wild, 
 Beneath its gentle influence smiled, 
 As care lifts up its sorrowing eye, 
 When hope has cast a sunbeam by ; 
 Then swiftly fading, glided o er, 
 And left it lonely as before. 
 The distant hills of sombre blue, 
 Tinged with that rich and varying hue, 
 Now darker and more mingled grew, 
 While nearer rose so wild and bold 
 The rugged cliffs of Odenwald ; 
 The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 
 
 Roll d on its giant path, 
 Lashing the rocks which barr d its way, 
 Now curling graceful, as in play, 
 
 Now roaring, as in wrath. 
 The forests murmur d, bow d, and slept, 
 But on the mighty river swept. 
 As in impatient haste to gain 
 The gentler waters of the Maine, 
 Which flow d along in stately pride, 
 To mingle with its parent tide ; 
 But where the kindred waters meet, 
 
 A rugged cliff there stood ; 
 It rose above the eddying waves, 
 With hanging rocks and yawning caves, 
 
 The guardian of the flood ; 
 
284 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Fit haunt it seem d for giant forms 
 
 Of wild, unearthly mould, 
 The spirits of the winds and storms, 
 
 Their mystic rites to hold. 
 And o er its rugged brow was spread 
 
 The forest moss and flower, 
 And, mid a grove of solemn firs, 
 
 Arose a ruin d tower. 
 The ivied walls and turrets gray 
 Seem d vainly struggling with decay, 
 Still frowning o er the restless tide, 
 An emblem of unyielding pride ! 
 All, all was desolate and lone ; 
 Beside its walls of crumbling stone, 
 A giant beech its arms had thrown, 
 
 And ivy on its threshold grew ; 
 The shouts of mirth, the cries of strife, 
 The varied sounds of bustling life, 
 
 Its walls no longer knew ; 
 The moaning winds rush d fitful by, 
 Blent with the owlet s dismal cry, 
 And every sad and mournful blast 
 Seem d sadly wailing for the past ! 
 Scarce could the wandering eye discern 
 In that rude pile, so dark and stern, 
 The remnants of its lofty wall, 
 The area of its spacious hall, 
 Or trace in masses rude and steep, 
 What once was barbacan and keep. 
 
 " Roll back thou tide of time ! * and bring 
 
 The faded visions of the past, 
 And o er the bard s enchanted string 
 
 Thy veil of shadowy softness cast 1 
 Fancy, unfold thy swiftest wing ! 
 
 Thou dreary present, be no more ! 
 And I will tune my heart to sing 
 
 In simple strains the days of yore ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 285 
 
 These ruin d walls again shall rise 
 
 In all their ancient pride and power, 
 Again the gorgeous banner float 
 
 In triumphjrom the stately tower ! 
 The moss, the thorn, the poisonous weed 
 
 Shall vanish from the cheerful hearth, 
 And the rude hall again resound 
 
 With shouts of revelry and mirth ! 
 Again beside that ruin d gate 
 
 The guard shall pace his weary round, 
 Again the warder s midnight cry 
 
 Within its massive turrets sound ; 
 Again the bright convivial band 
 
 Shall close around its joyous hearth, 
 Again the vaulted halls return 
 
 The shouts of revelry and mirth. 
 Oh, I could tell of thrilling scenes 
 
 Enacted in that lone retreat ; 
 How its paved courts have echoed back 
 
 The clanking tread of armed feet ; 
 How savage chiefs and knights of old, 
 With forms and souls of iron mould, 
 Have gather d round this mountain hold, 
 
 And form d their councils here, 
 Then rush d upon the field below, 
 
 With clashing sword and spear. 
 And I could tell of princely dames, 
 
 Of powerful lords and highborn peers, 
 Who dream d not that their honour d names 
 
 Could perish in the lapse of years, 
 Or only live at times to aid 
 
 The wandering minstrel s random song ; 
 An old traditionary tale 
 
 To float on memory s tide along. 
 And I could sing full many a strain 
 
 Would call the lifeblood from the cheek, 
 What fancy s eye would shrink to see, 
 
 And boldest tongue would fear to speak. 
 
286 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But I will leave to nobler hands 
 
 The framing of those mystic lays, 
 And only weave a simple tale 
 
 Of later and of gentler days, 
 When daring souls of daring deeds 
 
 Gave place to peaceful knights and squires, 
 And warlike gatherings on the field 
 
 To feastings round their evening fires; 
 When nought remain d of olden times, 
 
 Of strife and rivalry and blood, 
 Save where some sterner barons held 
 
 The remnants of an ancient feud. 
 
 T Twas morning, and the shades of night 
 Roll d backward from her brow of light. 
 As with majestic step she came, 
 With dewy locks and eyes of flame, 
 Her wreath of dancing light to twine 
 On the broad bosom of the Rhine. 
 The scene beneath her spread was rife 
 With sights and sounds of bustling life, 
 Of joyful shouts, and glad halloo, 
 And quick steps running to and fro. 
 The castle walls, so dark and gray, 
 Tinged with the morning s cheerful ray, 
 Seem d revelling their gloorn away, 
 While from the court came, long and loud, 
 The shouts of an assembled crowd, 
 And on the mountain echoes borne, 
 Peal d out the huntsman s mellow horn. 
 The clanking drawbridge fell across 
 The sparkling waters of the fosse, 
 And servants hurried here and there, 
 W 7 ith bustling and important air ; 
 Oft from the forest would appear 
 A group that bore the slaughtered deer, 
 And distant shouts would faintly tell, 
 As some new victim bleeding felL 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 287 
 
 Light skiffs were floating down the Rhine, 
 Laden with casks of choicest wine, 
 And oarsmen bore the precious freight 
 For entrance fc> the postern gate. 
 Oft on the noisy tide along 
 The minstrel pour d his careless song, 
 And all without was bustling glee. 
 ***** 
 Within, the castle hall was graced 
 With oaken tables, closely placed, 
 In preparation for a feast. 
 The ancient armour on the wall 
 Was cleansed, and gilt, and burnish d all ; 
 And helm, and casque, and corslet shone 
 Like mirrors in the morning sun ; 
 Oh, could the warlike forms which wore 
 Those garments grim in days of yore, 
 Come to their mountain home once more, 
 How would they frown on scene so gay, 
 And sigh for spirits past away ! 
 
 Beside the hearthstone of his hall, 
 The lord and master of them all, 
 The owner of this proud domain 
 Stood, gazing on his menial train. 
 His ample robes were rich and gay, 
 His locks were slightly tinged with gray, 
 His eye, beneath its darker shroud, 
 Glanced, like a sunbeam from a cloud. 
 Hope realized and love s warm glow 
 Seem d mingling o er his furrow d brow, 
 And smiles of pleasure told in part 
 The inward gladness of his heart. 
 But ever and anon there stole 
 Some softer feeling o er his soul, 
 And something like a tear would roll 
 Unnoticed down his furrow d cheek, 
 The child of thoughts he could not speak. 
 
288 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Why rings the old castle with gladness this morn ? 
 
 Why echoes the wood with the blithe hunter s horn ? 
 
 Why standeth their lord with his train at his side, 
 
 And his eye beaming lightly with gratified pride 1 
 
 This day it shall close o er his doubts and his fears, 
 
 It shall witness the realized wishes of years, 
 
 And his name shall be join d, by the dearest of ties, 
 
 To the only one worthy so brilliant a prize, 
 
 Whose fathers of old were his father s allies. 
 
 Why stealeth the tear-drop so sad to his eye ? 
 
 Why bursts from his bosom the half-smother d sigh 1 
 
 Alas, for that father ! this day he must part 
 
 From the pride of his household, the joy of his heart ; 
 
 No more may he gaze on his beautiful child, 
 
 Whose step ever bounded, whose lip ever smiled ; 
 
 Who cast such a charm o er his wild mountain life 
 
 As the sunbeam may throw o er the dark-frowning cliff. 
 
 Now read ye the cause of the joyful array ? 
 
 Tis to welcome the lord of this festival day ; 
 
 For he comes, with his glittering train by his side, 
 
 To claim of her father his beautiful bride. 
 
 1837. 
 
 ELEGY UPON LEO, AN OLD HOUSE-DOG. 
 
 THOU poor old dog ! too long affection s tongue 
 Hath left thy merits and thy death unsung ; 
 Too long the muse hath sought for themes of fame, 
 And left untold thy well-remember d name; 
 And though that name hath lived on memory s leaf, 
 Has touch d for thee no thrilling chords of grief. 
 Thou dear old dog ! thou joy of childish years ! 
 Here let me shed for thee my heartfelt tears ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 289 
 
 let me turn from life s cold cares aside, 
 And weep that thou, my faithful friend, hast died. 
 Oh that no tears less pure might e er be shed, 
 Than these which mourn a loved companion dead ! 
 This is a world where faithful hearts are few, 
 Where love too oft is vain, too oft untrue ; 
 And when some cherish d form to earth is borne, 
 O er fond affection s sever d chain we mourn ; 
 Thus I for thee, that one more friend hath gone, 
 Who, though a dog, could love for love alone. 
 Thou dear old friend ! on memory s starlit tide, 
 Link d with a sister s name, thy name shall glide ; 
 And when for her our tears flow fast and free, 
 Our hearts shall breathe a ling ring sigh for thee ; 
 For thee, that sister s dearest, earliest pet, 
 Whom, even when dying, she remember d yet. 
 Thou wast her playmate in each childish hour, 
 When her light footsteps sprang from flower to flower ; 
 When not a cloud on life s fair surface lay, 
 And joys alternate chased the hours away ; 
 When her young heart beat high with infant glee, 
 And fondly sought to share those joys with thee. 
 And when youth s star arose on childhood s morn, 
 And loftier thoughts on time s dark wing were borne ; 
 When hope look d forward with exulting eye, 
 And fear, the coward, still crouch d trembling nigh ; 
 When long had pass d those hours of infant glee, 
 Still, still she loved, and still would sport with thee, 
 
 1837. [Unfinished.] 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 How calm, how beautiful a scene is this ! 
 When nature, waking from her silent sleep, 
 Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy I 
 
290 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 When earth, and sky, and air are glowing all 
 
 With gaiety and life, and pensive shades 
 
 Of morning loveliness are cast around ! 
 
 The purple clouds, so streak d with crimson light, 
 
 Bespeak the coming of majestic day ; 
 
 Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still, 
 
 While ever and anon a golden beam 
 
 Seems darting out its radiance ! 
 
 Herald of day ! where is that mighty form 
 
 Which clothes you all in splendour, and around 
 
 Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 
 
 Of heaven? He cometh from his gorgeous couch, 
 
 And gilds the bosom of the glowing east. 
 
 1837. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SHE HERSELF BEGAN TO FEAR THAT HER 
 DISEASE WAS PAST REMEDY. 
 
 I ONCE thought life was beautiful, 
 
 I once thought life was fair, 
 Nor deem d that all its light could fade 
 
 And leave but darkness there. 
 
 But now I know it could not last 
 
 The fairy dream has fled ! 
 Though thirteen summers scarce have past 
 
 Above this youthful head. 
 
 Yes, life twas all a dream but now 
 
 I see thee as thou art ; 
 I see how slight a thing can shade 
 
 The sunshine of the heart. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 291 
 
 I see that all thy brightest hours, 
 
 Unmark d, have pass d away; 
 And now I feel how sweet they were, 
 
 I cannot bj4 them stay. 
 
 In childish love or childish play 
 
 My happiest hours were spent, 
 While scarce my infant tongue could say 
 
 What joy or pleasure meant. 
 
 And now, when my young heart looks up, 
 
 Life s gayest smiles to meet; 
 Now, when in youth her brightest charms 
 
 Would seem so doubly sweet ; 
 
 Now fade the dreams which, bound my soul 
 
 As with the chains of truth ! 
 Oh that those dreams had stay d awhile, 
 
 To vanish with my youth ! 
 
 Oh ! once did hope look sweetly down, 
 
 To check each rising sigh ; 
 But disappointment s iron frown 
 
 Has dimm d her sparkling eye. 
 
 And once I loved a brother too, 
 
 Our youngest and our best, 
 But death s unerring arrow sped, 
 
 And laid him down to rest. 
 
 But now I know those hours of peace 
 Were never form d to last ; 
 
 That those fair days of guileless joy 
 Are past for ever past ! 
 
 January, 1837. 
 
292 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 TO MY OLD HOME AT PLATTSBURGH. 
 
 THAT dear old home, where pass d my childhood s years, 
 
 Where fond affection wiped my infant tears; 
 
 Where first I learn d from whence my blessing s came, 
 
 And lisp d, in faltering tones, a mother s name. 
 
 That cherish d home, where memory fondly clings, 
 
 Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
 
 Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 
 
 And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away, 
 
 Oh ! shall I ne er behold thy waves again, 
 
 My native lake, my beautiful Champlain 1 
 
 Shall I no more above thy ripples bend, 
 
 In sweet communion with my childhood s friend 1 
 
 Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 
 
 The patriot s cradle and the warrior s grave 1 
 
 Thy banks illumined by the sun s last glow, 
 
 Thine islet s mirror d in the waves below 1 
 
 Back, back, thou present robsd in shadows lie ! 
 
 And rise the past before my raptured eye ! 
 
 Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 
 
 And memory s hand shall paint the glowing scene : 
 
 And I shall view my much-loved home again, 
 
 My native village and my sweet Champlain, 
 
 With former friends retrace my footsteps o er, 
 
 And muse delighted on thy verdant shore. 
 
 Alas ! the vision fades, the dream is past ; 
 
 Dissolved the spell by sportive fancy cast ! 
 
 Why, why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 
 
 And scenes illusive cheat the sorrowing heart ] 
 
 Where er through future life my footsteps roam, 
 
 I ne er shall find a spot like thee, my home ! 
 
 With all my joys the thoughts of thee shall blend, 
 
 And join d with thee shall rise my childhood s friend ! 
 
 1837. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 293 
 
 FAME. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 4> 
 
 OH Fame ! thou trumpeter of dead men s deeds ! 
 Thou idol of the heart, thou empty flatterer, 
 That, like the heathen of the Nile, embalmest 
 Those that thou deign st to love, and ever hiding 
 Their vices and their foibles with a veil 
 Of soft concealment, doth exalt them high 
 Above the common crowd, crown d with thy might, 
 That future years may copy and admire. 
 Thou bright, alluring dream ! thou dazzling star ! 
 Where shall we find thee 1 Thou art call d 
 Fickle and vain, and worthless of pursuit, 
 Yet ***** 
 
 1838. 
 
 ON MY MOTHER S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 YES, mother, fifty years have fled, 
 With rapid footsteps o er thy head ; 
 Have past with all their motley train, 
 And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
 How many smiles, and sighs, and tears, 
 How many hopes, and doubts, and fears, 
 Have vanish d with that lapse of years ! 
 Though past, those hours of pain and grief 
 Have left their trace on memory s leaf; 
 Have stamp d their footprints on the heart, 
 In lines which never can depart ; 
 Their influence on the mind must be 
 As endless as eternity. 
 Years, ages, to oblivion roll, 
 Their memory forms the deathless soul ; 
 They leave their impress as they go, 
 And shape the mind for joy or wo ! 
 
294 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Yes, mother, fifty years have past, 
 And brought thee to their close at last. 
 Oh that we all could gaze, like thee, 
 Back on that dark and tideless ^ea, 
 And mid its varied records find 
 A heart at ease with all mankind, 
 A firm and self-approving mind ! 
 Grief, that had broken hearts less fine, 
 Hath only served to strengthen thine ; 
 Time, that doth chill the fancy s play, 
 Hath kindled thine with purer ray; 
 And stern disease, whose icy dart 
 Hath power to chill the shrinking heart, 
 Has left thine warm with love and truth, 
 As in the halcyon days of youth. 
 Oh turn not from the meed of praise 
 A daughter s willing justice pays; 
 But greet with smiles of love again 
 This tribute of a daughter s pen. 
 
 1838. 
 
 THE STORM HATH PASSED BY. 
 
 THE storm hath pass d by, like an angry cloud 
 Which sweeps o er the brow of the azure heaven ; 
 
 The sun and the earth to its sway hath bow d, 
 And each radiant beam from the scene been driven. 
 
 All hail to the smile of the cloudless sky ! 
 
 All hail to the sun as he rides on high ! 
 
 All hail to the heavens ethereal blue, 
 
 And to nature, when deck d in her own lovely hue ! 
 
 It hath pass d ! the storm, like a giant form, 
 
 Which summons the winds from their tempest cave ; 
 Which opens a grave in each ocean wave, 
 
 And wraps the world in its shroud of gloom. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 295 
 
 Oh! welcome the smile of the gladden d earth ! 
 And welcome the voice of the wood-bird s mirth ! 
 And welcome these varying hues which delight, 
 Like dawn at the ctose of a wearisome night. 
 
 The clouds have pass d, with the shadows they cast, 
 And hush d is the sound of the wind-god s power, 
 
 And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass d, 
 Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour. 
 
 Oh ! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring ! 
 And welcome the perfumes they silently bring ! 
 And the rosy-tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide 
 O er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride ! 
 
 It hath fled in its might, the dark spirit of night, 
 Which cast such a shade o er the light of the soul ; 
 
 It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam 
 
 From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll. 
 
 Oh ! welcome the smiles of a gladden d heart ! 
 And welcome the joy which those smiles impart ! 
 And welcome the light of that sparkling eye 
 Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass d by ! 
 
 Ballston, 1838. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A YOUNG ROBIN. 
 
 DESPITE the curling lip, the smile of scorn, 
 Thine early fate, oh ! hapless bird, we mourn ; 
 Too soon withdrawn thy scanty store of breath, 
 Too soon thy sprightly carols hush d in death ! 
 Here let us lay thee on thy mother s breast, 
 Where no rude step shall come, no cares molest, 
 No cruel puss disturb thy silent rest. 
 
 Saratoga, 1838. 
 
29t5 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 TO A MOONBEAM. 
 
 AH, whither art straying, thou spirit of light, 
 From thy home in the boundless sky 1 
 
 Why lookest thou down from the empire of night, 
 With that silent and sorrowful eye ] 
 
 Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, 
 Where it fell from its throne of pride ; 
 
 But oh, what pictures of joy or grief, 
 What scenes thou art viewing beside ! 
 
 Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves, 
 
 As they proudly heave and swell ; 
 Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves, 
 
 Where the green-hair d sea-nymphs dwell ! 
 
 Thou art pouring thy beams on Italia s shore, 
 As though it were sweet to be there ; 
 
 Thou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, 
 And the monk to his midnight prayer. 
 
 Thou art casting a fretwork of silver rays 
 
 Over ruin, and palace, and tower ; 
 Thou art gilding the temples of former days, 
 
 In this holy and beautiful hour. 
 
 Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, 
 
 Where mortal foot never hath trod ; 
 Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, 
 
 While the spirit hath gone to its God ! 
 
 Thou art looking on those I love ! oh, wake 
 In their hearts some remembrance of me, 
 
 And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake 
 Of the love I am breathing to thee. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 297 
 
 And perchance thou art casting this mystic spell 
 
 On the beautiful land of the blest, 
 Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, 
 
 Where the weariphave fled to their rest. 
 
 Oh yes ! with that soft and ethereal beam, 
 
 Thou hast look d on the mansions of bliss, 
 And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world 
 
 Hath breathed thee a message to this. 
 
 
 
 Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade 
 
 Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues, 
 And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, 
 
 And while raising it, melts and subdues. 
 
 And it whispers compassion ; for lo, on thy brow 
 
 Is the sadness of angels enshrined, 
 And a misty veil, as of purified tears, 
 
 Round thy beautiful form is entwined. 
 
 Hail, beam of the blessed ! my heart 
 
 Has drunk deep of thy magical power, 
 And each thought and each feeling seems bathed 
 
 In the light of this exquisite hour ! 
 
 Sweet ray, I have proved thee so fair 
 
 In this dark world of mourning and sin, 
 May I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where 
 
 Nor sorrow nor death enter in. 
 
 1838. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 O ER the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, 
 Twilight has gently drawn her veil of gray, 
 And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, 
 Fast fading into nothing : o er the expanse 
 20 
 
298 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Are swiftly stealing hues, which mildly blend 
 
 And shadow o er the pure transparence 
 
 Of the azure heaven. Now is night array d 
 
 In all her solemn livery, and one by one 
 
 Appear the sparkling gems which deck her robe. 
 
 Each glittering star shines brighter than its wont, 
 
 As though some brilliant festival were held, 
 
 Some joyful meeting in the courts above. 
 
 Now mark yon grouo of amber-tinted clouds, 
 
 Shrouding the silvery form of Luna ; 
 
 Their melting tints vanish away, and then 
 
 The pale, cold moon springs up unshackled 
 
 In her vast domain. Fair empress of the sky ! 
 
 Chaste queen ! thy hallow d beauty can impart 
 
 A soflen d radiance to each sombre cloud 
 
 Of melancholy night, and, like a noble mind, 
 
 Immersed in seas of darkness, thou canst cast 
 
 A portion of thy brilliant, mellow d softness, 
 
 Around the deepening gloom. While viewing thee 
 
 A sweet and pensive calm o erspreads my soul, 
 
 And, conjured by thy gentle melting rays, 
 
 Unerring memory hastens to my aid ; 
 
 With her, I view again my own dear home, 
 
 My native village, neath thy cloudless sky 
 
 Serenely sleeping : tis as fair a picture 
 
 Of unsullied peace as ever nature drew. 
 
 Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river, 
 
 In one unbroken stream of molten silver, 
 
 And marking in the glassy Saranac 
 
 Thy graceful outline, while the fairy isles 
 
 Which on its bosom rest, are slumbering 
 
 In thy light, while the fair branches bending 
 
 O er thy wave, turn their green leaves above, 
 
 And bathe in one celestial flood of glory. 
 
 There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, 
 
 That ever loved and blooming theatre, 
 
 Where those I most revere have borne their parts, 
 
 Amid its changing scenes. Before the threshold 
 
 Tower the lofty trees, and each high branch 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 299 
 
 Is gently rocking in the summer breeze, 
 And sending forth a low, sweet murmur, 
 Like the soft breathings of a seraph s harp. 
 Around its hum!51e porch entwine the vine, 
 While the sweetbriar and the blushing rose 
 Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass 
 And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. 
 Oh, my loved home, how gladly would I rove 
 Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay % 
 
 Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers, 
 Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude 
 Listless remain, unknowing and unknown 
 Oh no, not quite alone, for memory, 
 And hope, and fond delight shall mingle there. 
 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A POETICAL LETTER TO HENRIETTA. 
 
 ONCE more, Henrietta, I open your sheet 
 
 To glance at its contents so playful and sweet, 
 
 To admire the flow of its easy strain, 
 
 And pen you an answer in nonsense again. 
 
 Perchance you may turn from my page away, 
 
 And with scornful lip and expression say, 
 
 " I think she might better have spent her time, 
 
 Than in stringing such masses of jingling rhyme;" 
 
 And perhaps I might, I admit the blame, 
 
 But like others, continue my fault the same. 
 
 However, I think such a deacon as you, 
 
 May need the refreshment of nonsense too ; 
 
 Thaf a creature so sober as you are, my friend, 
 
 Her ear to the whisperings of folly may lend. 
 
300 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Never mind tis a fancy has cross d my brain, 
 
 Right or wrong, good or evil, I ll finish my strain. 
 
 I wish you, my dear Henrietta, could know 
 
 How much I am grieved that I now cannot go, 
 
 That our dreams of enjoyment have vanish d in smoke, 
 
 And the castles we builded on vapour are broke ; 
 
 But such are the chances of life, it is fit 
 
 That with stoical fortitude we should submit 
 
 Am I not philosophic ] A fortnight passed by 
 
 With its fretting and grieving, its tear and its sigh ; 
 
 Then a month, peopled well with regrettings by me, 
 
 And behold me submissive as mortal can be I 
 
 But jesting aside tis a very sad thing 
 
 To be torn from hope s anchor, where fondly we cling. 
 
 I too had been cherishing feelings as vain, 
 
 Nursing hopes as delusive, as sweet, in my brain ; 
 
 I had waited in fancy your loved form to see, 
 
 With a heart just as happy as happy could be ; 
 
 Had met you, embraced you, and welcomed you here, 
 
 When lo ! the bright dream dissolved in a tear ! 
 
 Like the gay, gorgeous bubble which floats for awhile, 
 
 But departs ere you welcome its hues with a smile. 
 
 You were wishing for wings, I enclose you a pair, 
 
 Which I hope you will use with all possible care, 
 
 For they were not prepared in a mortal mould, 
 
 But were form d by a fairy in purple and gold ! 
 
 While riding one day by the green-wood side, 
 
 This fairy in beautiful garments I spied ; 
 
 Her mantle with dew-drops was spangled o er 
 
 She had fairies behind her and fairies before, 
 
 And many and gay were the jewels she wore; 
 
 But the wings which she raised to her delicate brow 
 
 Were the purest of azure arid white as the snow 1 
 
 I bow d at the foot of the fairy throne, 
 
 And begg d of her beautiful wings like her own. 
 
 I sued for the favour in friendship s name ; 
 
 She assented, and smiling, admitted the claim. 
 
 All sparkling and pure as the evening star, 
 
 I gather d the wings from the fairy s bower, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 301 
 
 And came home exulting 1 , impatient to send 
 
 The gift in its freshness and glow to my friend. 
 
 Elated with pride, I exposed them to view, 
 
 But the touch of a mortal had clouded their hue ! 
 
 So marvel no more at their dimness believe 
 
 That the very same wings are the wings you receive. 
 
 Should my story too wild and too fanciful seem, 
 
 Oh ! call it not fiction, but name it a dream. 
 
 I am reading " Josephus," a famous old Jew, 
 
 Whose name is, I doubt not, familiar to you. 
 
 He begins with the world, and proceeds to relate 
 
 How the Jews from a nothing grew prosperous and great ; 
 
 How Jerusalem reigned as the Queen of the East, 
 
 Till her sacred religion was scorn d and oppress d ; 
 
 Then murder, and rapine, and famine ensued, 
 
 Till the fields of Judea were streaming with blood. 
 
 How I wish you were reading it with me, my friend ; 
 
 Your presence a charm to each sentence would lend. 
 
 Your father s return, you remark, is the time 
 
 To send you a budget of love and of rhyme ; 
 
 The love be assured you will always possess, 
 
 And you ll have rhyme enough when you once have read this. 
 
 So you see what that love has induced me to do, 
 
 With it maybe a. fear of your scolding too ! 
 
 It is evening the close of a beautiful day, 
 
 And the last rays of sunset are fading away ; 
 
 Till nothing remains but a faint rosy hue, 
 
 Just mingling in with a fainter blue. 
 
 The shadows of twilight are closing around, 
 
 Not a murmur is heard but the cricket s sound, 
 
 And pensive thoughts o er my heart-strings creep 
 
 As the " unvoiced" breezes around me sweep. 
 
 Tis a tranquil hour, and I lazily lie, 
 
 Gazing up at my ease in the delicate sky, 
 
 With the sombre light on my dim page playing, 
 
 And my pen through its numberless labyrinths straying. 
 
 How gentle the spell of this exquisite hour ! 
 
 How soothing, how sweet its mysterious power ! 
 
302 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 It steals o er my heart, like a breeze o er the lake, 
 
 Each half-buried accent of music to wake. 
 
 The kitten beside me hath fled from its play, 
 
 And close in my bosom is nestling away ; 
 
 And the trembling- leaf, and the bending flower, 
 
 And the insect millions acknowledge its power. 
 
 How the fancy will fly from the present, and roam 
 
 O er each corner of earth neath heaven s high dome ! 
 
 Perchance, like myself, you may cloud-gazing be ; 
 
 Perchance, my sweet friend, you are thinking of me, 
 
 And this scene, like a beautiful image of rest, 
 
 Has awaked the same delicate chords in your breast ; 
 
 And perchance how provoking ! that twinkling lamp-light 
 
 Hath dissolved with its brilliance my dreams of delight, 
 
 Hath deepen d to blackness the mantle of gray, 
 
 And chased all my beautiful visions away. 
 
 So it is they have fled and again I descend 
 
 To converse upon every-day themes with my friend ; 
 
 But the end of my paper convinces me still 
 
 That I soon must release tliee, my trusty goosequill ; 
 
 Though my breast and my head are yet aching to write, 
 
 I must bid you, dear Hetty, a loving good night. 
 
 If your ears are not tired of the jingling of rhyme, 
 
 I will finish my musical letter next time ; 
 
 In the meanwhile, believe me sincerely to be 
 
 Your affectionate scribbler, 
 
 MARGARET M. D. 
 Ballston, 1838. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON SEEING SOME FRAGMENTS FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 
 
 HAVE these gray relics, crumbling into dust, 
 Once rested neath Italia s burning sky 1 
 
 Has this cold remnant of what once was stone, 
 Reflected back her warm cerulean dye 1 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 303 
 
 Have these white fragments rested o er the sod 
 
 Hallow d by Virgil s ever-sacred clay 1 
 And have they mingled with the grass-grown mound 
 
 Which o er the classic hero s bosom lay 1 
 
 Perhaps the crumbling stones beside me now 
 Fell from the mouldering marble at his head 
 
 The icy tomb which hides his noble brow, 
 For ever hallow d by the mighty dead. 
 
 In fancy o er Italians fields I roam, 
 
 In fancy view the poet s lowly grave, 
 Round which, as I in silent sorrow bend, 
 
 The flowering myrtle and the cypress wave. 
 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
 A SHORT SKETCH 
 
 OF THE MOST IMPORTANT IDEAS CONTAINED IN COUSIN S 
 " INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY." 
 
 ACCORDING to Cousin, there are three elements of con 
 sciousness, three first ideas of the infinite, the finite and 
 their relations succeeding each other in the above order. 
 He believes, that as the history of an individual such is 
 the history of mankind in general ; that as there are 
 three fundamental ideas there must be three epochs of 
 the world to develope those ideas. As the first idea is 
 that of the infinite, the first age of the world will express 
 this idea in its laws, its arts, its religion, and its phi 
 losophy: this will predominate. When fully developed, 
 the idea of the finite will succeed ; action, variety, and 
 
304 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 liberty will take the place of slavery and immobility; 
 man will begin to find himself. All the elements of his 
 nature will be brought into action, although still subjected 
 to the predominating principle. When this is exhausted, 
 in its turn the idea of the relations between the finite and 
 infinite will come ; man will join these two great princi 
 ples ; every element will assume its proper station with 
 out asserting undue authority over the others; man will 
 at once generalize and particularize ; and as this is the 
 highest developcment of the ideas of humanity, this epoch 
 will be the last. After giving this expansive view of man 
 and his destination, he proceeds to show, that different 
 climates and countries are destined for the developement 
 of different ideas ; that the idea of the infinite must neces 
 sarily prevail in a large continent surrounded by vast 
 seas, traversed by inaccessible mountains, and divided by 
 immense deserts, with a burning and enervating climate, 
 where every thing leads to and expresses the idea of the 
 vast, the absolute, the infinite : such a country is Asia. 
 On the contrary, the idea of the finite will occupy a 
 smaller country, intersected by rivers affording every 
 facility of inland communication and commerce, sur 
 rounded by small seas, inviting the inhabitants to inter 
 course with neighbouring nations, and filled with beau 
 tiful and diversified scenery, all bearing the impress of 
 the finite, urging to action and enterprise, and devoid of 
 that solemn and sombre unity of expression which pre 
 vailed in its parent epoch : such a country is Greece. 
 That position of the world destined for the developement 
 of the last and most perfect epoch, must unite the two 
 great external features of the former countries, as it is to 
 assist in expressing the two great ideas in perfect unison 
 with each other. It must combine the sublime with the 
 beautiful, every advantage of internal commerce and 
 high civilization with a manifest appearance of magni- 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 305 
 
 tude and duration ; it must possess a perfect and minute 
 individuality with a great and striking general character; 
 a vast continent surrounded. with vast oceans, containing 
 mighty rivers and inland seas, broad prairies, and long 
 ranges of mountains, together with fertile valleys and 
 streams, and all the minor qualities of a rich and mag 
 nificent country, containing facilities for the minutest 
 internal improvements, guided and governed by a lofty 
 and abstract spirit of generalization thus uniting the 
 relative and the absolute, the finite and the infinite: such 
 a country is America. He then proceeds to speak of 
 war, its causes, and its effects. He considers it not 
 only beneficial but necessary. War is a combat of ideas. 
 Underneath the great and predominant idea of an epoch 
 there exist minor elements in a nation, as in an indivi 
 dual : one people expresses one element, one idea; another 
 seizes upon and developes a second : these truths elevate 
 themselves against each other and combat hence war. 
 When one of these ideas is exhausted it is opposed and 
 superseded by a newer and better one hence conquest. 
 One idea and one nation make room for another idea 
 and another nation ; one epoch is destroyed and another 
 arises. Mark the benefits of war : had it never existed 
 there had been but one era of the world, and humanity 
 could never have progressed. He then proceeds to justify 
 conquests. He considers that the event proves the right ; 
 that when a newer and nobler spirit arises against an 
 exhausted one, that spirit must conquer, and ought to 
 conquer. He does not believe in absolute error ; he be 
 lieves every error is a part of truth, and only becomes 
 error when considered alone and exclusive of all other 
 truth, and raised to an undeserved superiority among the 
 elements of humanity. 
 
 1838. [Unfinished.] 
 
306 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 BRIEF NOTES FROM COUSIN S PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 MADE DURING THE WINTER OF 1838. 
 
 His first position is this : as soon as man receives 
 consciousness he is surrounded by objects in a world 
 hostile to himself, but by exertion and developement of 
 his power, he has conquered and modified matter, and 
 has, as it were, impressed with his image and rendered 
 it subservient to his will. The first man who overcame 
 any obstacles in the way of his desires created industry, 
 and the first who measured the slightest space around 
 him or united the objects before him, introduced the sci 
 ence of mathematics. All these, mathematics, physics, 
 and political economy, have one object, utility or the 
 useful ; but there are other relations in which men stand 
 to each other, besides those of hurtful or useful, the just 
 and the unjust. Upon the idea of the useful, man 
 altered the external appearance of nature ; upon the 
 idea of justice, he created a new society, maintaining 
 their own rights, and respecting the rights of others. But 
 man goes further: besides the hurtful or the useful, the 
 just or the unjust, he has inherent in his nature the idea 
 of the beautiful and its opposite. Impressed with this 
 idea, man seizes, developes, and purifies it in his thought, 
 until he finds that thought superior to the objects which 
 presented it. Every thing that is beautiful in nature is 
 also imperfect, and fades when compared with the idea 
 it awakens. Thus, man not only reforms nature and 
 society by industry and the laws of justice, but also 
 remodels those objects which present to him the idea of 
 beauty, and renders them more beautiful than ever. But 
 man is not yet satisfied he looks beyond the world of 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 307 
 
 industry and arts, and conceives God. The idea of 
 God as separate from the world, but scarcely himself in 
 it, is natural religion; but he does not rest there; he 
 creates another world, in which he perceives nothing but 
 its relation to God, the world of * * he expands 
 and elevates the sentiment of religion. Philosophy suc 
 ceeds. Philosophy is the developement of thought ; it 
 may be good or bad, but in itself it is demanded by the 
 mind as much as religion, the sciences, &c. Cousin 
 proves this position by a rapid examination of the wants 
 of man. ***** 
 
308 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHY should I sing 1 The scenes which roused 
 The bards of old, arouse no more ; 
 
 The reign of poesy hath pass d, 
 
 And all her glowing dreams are o er ! 
 
 Why should I sing ? A thousand harps 
 Have touch d the self-same chords before, 
 
 Of love, and hate, and lofty pride, 
 And fields of battle bathed in gore ! 
 
 Why should I seek the burning fount 
 
 From whence their glowing fancies sprung 1 
 
 My feeble muse can only sing 
 What other, nobler bards have sung ! 
 
 Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, 
 
 As, bending o er my silent lyre, 
 I sigh d for some romantic theme 
 
 Its slumbering music to inspire. 
 
 Scarce had I spoke, when o er my soul 
 
 A low, reproving whisper came ; 
 My heart instinctive shrank with awe, 
 
 And conscience tinged my cheek with shame. 
 
 "Down with thy vain, repining thoughts, 
 
 Nor dare to breathe those thoughts again, 
 Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre, 
 And scorn repel thy bursting strain ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 309 
 
 "What though a thousand bards have sung 
 
 The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 
 A thousand minstrels, old and young, 
 Pour d fortlf their varied melody ! 
 
 " What though, inspired, they stoop d to drink 
 
 At Fancy s fountain o er and o er ! 
 Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think 
 The glowing streamlet flows no more 1 
 
 " Because a nobler hand hath cull d 
 
 The loveliest of our earthly flowers, 
 Dost thou believe that all of bloom 
 Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers 1 
 
 " Know then, that long as earth shall roll, 
 
 Revolving neath yon azure sky, 
 Music shall charm each purer soul, 
 And Fancy s fount shall never dry ! 
 
 " Long as the rolling seasons change, 
 
 And nature holds her empire here ; 
 Long as the human eye can range 
 O er yon pure heaven s expanded sphere ; 
 
 " Long as the ocean s broad expanse 
 
 Lies spread beneath yon broader sky ; 
 Long as the playful moonbeams dance, 
 Like fairy forms, on billows high ; 
 
 " So long, unbound by mortal chain, 
 
 Shall genius spread her soaring wing ; 
 So long the pure poetic fount, 
 
 Uncheck d, unfetter d, on shall spring. 
 
 " Thou say st the days of song have past, 
 
 The glowing days of wild romance, 
 When war pour d out his clarion blast, 
 And valour bow d at beauty s glance ! 
 
310 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " When every hour that onward sped, 
 
 Was fraught with some bewildering tale ; 
 When superstition s shadowy hand 
 O er trembling nations cast her veil ! 
 
 " Thou say st that life s unvaried stream 
 
 In peaceful ripples wears away ; 
 And years produce no fitting theme 
 To rouse the poet s slumbering lay. 
 
 " Not so, while yet the hand of God 
 
 Each year adorns his teeming earth ; 
 While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, 
 And birds, and bees, and flowers have birth ; 
 
 " While every day unfolds anew 
 
 Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
 While buds of every varying hue 
 Are bursting neath a summer sky. 
 
 " Tis true that war s unsparing hand 
 
 Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore ; 
 That hate hath quench d his burning brand, 
 And tyrant princes reign no more. 
 
 " But dost thou think that scenes like these 
 
 Form all the poetry of life 1 
 Would thy untutor d muse delight 
 In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife ? 
 
 " No there are boundless fields of thought, 
 
 Where roving spirit never soar d ; 
 Which wildest fancy never sought, 
 Or boldest intellect explored ! 
 
 " Then bow not silent o er thy lyre, 
 
 But tune its chords to nature s praise ; 
 At every turn thine eye shall meet 
 Fit themes to form a poet s lays. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 311 
 
 Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles] 
 
 In all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
 
 Nor deem, though others there have knelt, 
 Thou may s* not weave thy garland too !" 
 
 It paused I felt how true the words, 
 How sweet the comfort they convey d ; 
 
 I chased my mourning thoughts away 
 I heard I trusted I obey d. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 
 
 OH thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 
 
 Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
 And while I touch this hallow d harp of thine, 
 
 Bend, from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear ! 
 
 For thee I pour this unaffected lay, 
 To thee these simple numbers all belong; 
 
 For though thine earthly form hath pass d away, 
 Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 
 
 Then take this feeble tribute ! tis thine own 
 Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o er, 
 
 Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 
 
 And bid its waken d music sleep no more ! 
 
 Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
 Hung o er thy grave in death s unbroken rest ; 
 
 But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
 One answering echo linger d in my breast. 
 
 Oh thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near, 
 Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 
 
 Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 
 By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee ! 
 
312 MISS MARGARET DAVJDSOX. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 TWAS nightfall on the Rhine ! the day 
 In pensive glory stole away, 
 Flinging his last and brightest glow. 
 Full on the restless waves below, 
 As if an angel s hand had dyed 
 With hues from heaven the sparkling tide ! 
 The fleeting ray an instant beam d, 
 O er hill and vale and rock it stream d, 
 Till the dark, time-defying cliff 
 Seem d glowing, melting into life 
 Then swiftly fading, glided o er, 
 And left it lonelier than before. 
 
 The distant hills of sombre blue, 
 Tinged with that rich and varying hue, 
 Now darker and more mingled grew ; 
 The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 
 
 Roll d on its giant path, 
 Lashing the rocks which barr d its way, 
 Now curling graceful, as in play, 
 
 Now roaring as in wrath ! 
 While trembling in the tinted west, 
 The fair moon rear d her silver crest, 
 And fleecy clouds, as snow-wreaths pale, 
 Twined on her brow their graceful veil ; 
 And one by one, with tiny flame, 
 Night s heavenly tapers softly came, 
 And toward their mistress trembling stole, 
 Like pleasing memories o er the soul. 
 
 And shade by shade her brilliance grew, 
 As past away that sunset hue, 
 Till o er the heaving Rhine she stood, 
 Bathing in light its sleeping flood ; 
 Pouring her full and melting ray 
 Where rock and hill and forest lay, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 313 
 
 And where, in clust ring trees embower d, 
 
 An ancient castle proudly tower d : 
 
 O er the gray walls her glances play d, 
 
 O er drawbridge, moat, and tower they stray d, 
 
 As striving with that holy light 
 
 To pierce the works of earthly might, 
 
 And cast one heavenly beam within 
 
 The abode of human toil and sin. 
 
 Can sin and sorrow and despair 
 Be frowning neath a sky so fair 1 
 Can nature sleep while tempests roll 
 Impetuous o er the tortured soul ] 
 
 Mark yonder taper, dimly beaming, 
 From the lone turret faintly streaming, 
 Casting athwart the brow of night 
 Its wavering and uncertain light ! 
 Beside that torch sit guilt and care, 
 And dark remorse, and coward fear ; 
 And fever d thought is borrowing there 
 The haggard visage of despair ! 
 There, with his aged fingers prest 
 In clasp convulsive to his breast, 
 Bows, as with secret guilt and pain, 
 The master of this broad domain. 
 
 His ample robes around him stray, 
 His locks are deeply tinged with gray, 
 And his dark, low ring brow is fraught 
 With marks of avarice and thought. 
 At every sound which meets his ear, 
 He starts instinctive as with fear, 
 And his keen eye roams here and there, 
 With anxious and expectant air. 
 
 His seem d a mind of timid mould, 
 Sway d by some spirit, fierce and bold, 
 21 
 
314 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Which lean d to virtue, but could yield 
 
 When vice to avarice appeal d 
 
 Which gazed on crime with shrinking" eye, 
 
 But was too cowardly to fly. 
 
 He started heard, with troubled air, 
 
 A tread upon the turret stair ; 
 
 Wiped from his brow the gathering dew, 
 
 And closer still his mantle drew, 
 
 When wide the massive portal flew ! 
 
 As wondering at this entrance rude, 
 The aged host in silence stood ; 
 While with a stern, unchanging look, 
 The stranger dofFd his ample cloak, 
 Unloosed his bonnet s clasping band, 
 And tow rd the baron stretch d his hand. 
 His host the friendly gesture saw, 
 But shrank in hatred or in awe 
 Then starting, as with eager haste, 
 The proffer d hand he warmly prest, 
 And smiled a welcome to his guest. 
 The latter mark d, with flashing glance, 
 That shrinking fear, this mean pretence, 
 And then resumed the smile of scorn 
 His curling lip had lately worn. 
 
 Uninjured by the frosts of time, 
 He seem d advanced in manhood s prime ; 
 His form was tall, his mien erect, 
 His locks, though matted by neglect, 
 Curl d closely round his swarthy brow, 
 While his dark orbits flash d below. 
 Nature, with fingers firm and bold, 
 Had made a form of finest mould, 
 And painted on his childish face 
 The outline of each manly grace ; 
 But pride and art, those imps of sin, 
 Had crept the empty shrine within ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 315 
 
 Had taught his heart each serpent wile, 
 And lent his lip its fiendish smile. 
 
 His brow was knit with thought and care, 
 And dark design was scowling there ; 
 His glance inspired both hate and fear 
 Now withering with its biting sneer, 
 Now flashing like the mid-day sun, 
 Which scorches all it looks upon. 
 
 Boldness and artifice combined 
 To form the dark, perverted mind, 
 Within that goodly frame enshrined; 
 And he, whose steps in early youth 
 Some kindly hand had led to truth, 
 With active brain, and heart that burn d, 
 From that unpointed pathway turn d, 
 Unwarn d, unguided, plunged within 
 The blackening gulf of shame and sin. 
 
 On his dark face the baron s eye 
 Gazed anxious and inquiringly, 
 And when he mark d his silent guest 
 Draw forth a casket from the vest 
 Which folded loosely on his breast, 
 With half-conceal d, convulsive gasp, 
 He stretch d his eager hand to clasp 
 The sparkling treasure in his grasp. 
 
 But with a smile more full than speech, 
 The stranger drew it from his reach ; 
 On the rude bench the casket laid, 
 Beside his dagger s glittering blade ; 
 Drew near his host, who quaked with dread, 
 And thus, in low, stern accents said : 
 
 " Thou deemest right that gem doth hold 
 A something dearer far than gold ; 
 
316 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 To thee, more precious than thy life, 
 To me, the cause of toil and strife ! 
 Tis that, which in another s hands, 
 Would tear thee from these goodly lands, 
 Send thee and thy fair daughter forth, 
 From all thou thinkest life is worth, 
 From titles, honours, lands, and hall, 
 And to young Erstein yield them all, 
 Which in thine own will banish fear, 
 And make thee lord and master here, 
 Unchallenged by the rightful heir : 
 (Then in a low, impressive tone,) 
 But hold, that prize is still mine own /" 
 
 " Villain !" " Nay, curb that wrath of thine ! 
 
 Hast thou forgot one word of mine 
 
 Could hurl thee from thy high estate, 
 
 To beggar d infamy and hate ] 
 
 Could I not rend the shrouding veil, 
 
 And tell the wondering world the tale ; 
 
 How when thy kinsman died in Spain, 
 
 Thou seized upon his fair domain, 
 
 His titles, and his wealth ; despite 
 
 His heir, the youthful Erstein s right 1 
 
 Could I not tell, how many a year, 
 
 With artful wile and coward fear, 
 
 Thou sought st with vain and mean pretence 
 
 These proofs of his inheritance, 
 
 That thou might st thus for aye destroy 
 
 The claims of this romantic boy 1 
 
 Think st thou I will this power forego, 
 
 Another s lands on thee bestow, 
 
 The rightful heir for thee despoil, 
 
 And gain but hatred, fear and toil 1 
 
 " Speak not, old man ! By heaven ! I swear, 
 Yon casket and its contents there 
 Were not more safe from grasp of thine, 
 Though buried in the heaving Rhine, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 317 
 
 If thou grant not, unquestion d, free, 
 The guerdon I shall claim of thee !" 
 " Ask aught," the baron faltering cried ; 
 " Leave me my gold ! take aught beside !" 
 The stranger knit his swarthy brow, 
 " Old dotard ! yes, thy gold and thou ! 
 Swear by the God whom thou dost fear, 
 Swear by that gold thou dost revere, 
 My suit is granted !" and his eye 
 Flash d on the baron fearfully. 
 
 " Herman, I swear !" he mutter d low, 
 And the blood left his cheek and brow ; 
 Scarce said he, ere his fearful guest 
 The casket s jewell d lock had press d, 
 And from its case of richest mould, 
 Drawn forth a written parchment fold. 
 With eager hands, and sparkling eyes, 
 The aged baron seized the prize, 
 Tore it in haste, and opening wide 
 The vine-wreath d lattice at his side, 
 With fix d, exulting gaze, consign d 
 Its fragments to the midnight wind. 
 
 That scene and act, that form and face, 
 A painter s hand had loved to trace : 
 The moon, as if the scene to shroud, 
 Had sought the bosom of a cloud ; 
 The murmuring waves, the rustling trees, 
 The fitful sighing of the breeze, 
 And the hoarse owlet s distant tone, 
 Blent in one soft and wailing moan, 
 Disturb d that midnight calm alone. 
 
 His brow with burning drops bedew d, 
 The old man at his lattice stood, 
 And scann d with sparkling, lingering eye, 
 Each fragment as it floated by ; 
 
318 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And Herman mark d his host the while 
 With sneering and contemptuous smile : 
 At length, with mien of joyous pride, 
 The baron hastened to his side, 
 And thus hi tones of triumph cried : 
 
 " Now have they perish d ! all that might 
 
 Prove to the world young Erstein s right ! 
 
 His claim is as it ne er had been, 
 
 And these broad lands are mine again ! 
 
 When first by youthful pride impell d, 
 
 This princely barony I held, 
 
 I knew my kinsman lived, and knew 
 
 These fatal proofs existed too ; 
 
 But all my cunning found not where. 
 
 Thus lived I years, in doubt and care, 
 
 In trembling terror lest my name 
 
 Some evil chance should brand with shame; 
 
 Or more, lest all my hoarded gold 
 
 Should vanish from my loosening hold. 
 
 " Blest be the day, good Herman, when 
 Thou earnest from thy mountain den, 
 And said that thou thyself had known 
 The secret which I deem d mine own ; 
 Despair and anguish made me dumb ; 
 I thought the fatal hour had come. 
 O erwhelm d in grief I little knew 
 Thy heart, so noble and so true, 
 Nor thought the object of my fears, 
 Could crown the fruitless search of years ! 
 But knows young Erstein of his claim 
 To Arnheim s barony and name 1 
 Will he behold his goodly lands 
 Seized by a stranger s trembling hands T 
 
 " He knows it not ; romantic, gay, 
 To distant lands he roam d away, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 319 
 
 And sought adventure and renown 
 In nobler countries than his own. 
 One month return d from foreign war, 
 He lives within his lonely tower ; 
 Scouring the forest far and near, 
 And hunting down the antler d deer ; 
 But should he search the written past, 
 And learn this fatal truth at last, 
 His heart and arm are strong to fight 
 In brave defending of his right." 
 
 " Ay, should he so, good Herman !" Now 
 A livid paleness robed his brow ; 
 But quick returning crimson spread, 
 While thus his dark accomplice said : 
 " And canst thou not the path descry 1 
 Why then, good baron, he must die ; 
 This barrier in thy way 1 hate, 
 And dark and wild shall be his fate. 
 He scorn d me, and I vow d to seal 
 My vengeance on this faithful steel, 
 And happy shall that moment be 
 Which bows his lofty crest to me. 
 But night wears on I must away 
 Thou hast that casket s price to pay." 
 
 The old man raised his troubled eye, 
 
 As longing, fearing to reply, 
 
 Then slowly gasp d, with effort bold, 
 
 " Ay, ay, what wouldst thou, land or gold )" 
 
 " Thou hast a beauteous daughter she 
 
 The guerdon of my toil must be ! 
 
 Her hand must be unite with mine 
 
 Before another sun decline 
 
 On the broad bosom of the Rhine !" 
 
 With smother d shriek and heaving breast 
 The father knelt before his guest. 
 
320 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " My child ! my own Lenore ! thy bride ! 
 Ask aught, ask every thing beside. 
 The dews which w r et the summer flower 
 Are not more sinless than Lenore ! 
 Through years of guilt and care, my child 
 Cheer d my soul s darkness till it smiled ! 
 Now that my locks are turn d to gray 
 Thou canst not tear that child away 1 
 Her gentle purity hath been 
 A star on life s beclouded scene, 
 Music her voice, and heaven her eye, 
 Oh leave her, leave her, or I die I" 
 
 With kindling glances Herman heard 
 Each smother d groan, each anguish d word, 
 And then replied, in tones of scorn, 
 " Up from thy knees ! hast thou not sworn 
 To grant my suit ? dost thou forget 
 Thine all is in my clutches yet 1 
 I swear that she, and only she 
 Shall buy my bond of secrecy I" 
 
 " Forget J why can I not forget ? 
 Would we had never, never met ! 
 Leave me, for God s sake, leave me now ! 
 Oh my torn heart, my burning brow !" 
 " Say thou wilt make thy daughter mine, 
 Before another sun decline, 
 And I depart, to come no more, 
 Until that joyous bridal hour I 1 
 
 " Wretch ! fiend ! I will !" the accents hung 
 As loth to leave his faltering tongue ; 
 But ere had ceased that lingering tone, 
 He turn d and found himself alone. 
 The taper s waving glimmer fell 
 On the rude pavement of the cell, 
 Where with his trembling fingers prest 
 Upon his heaving, labouring breast s 
 
POETICAL REMAINS 321 
 
 With air distracted, yet subdued, 
 That wretched erring parent stood. 
 
 His eye wts fix d, and bent his ear, 
 His guest s retiring steps to hear, 
 Though like a quick and piercing dart, 
 Each sent a quivering through his heart ; 
 When first that wild vibration ceased, 
 The floor with rapid steps he paced ; 
 And thoughts of agonizing pain 
 Flitted like wild-fire through his brain. 
 
 How should he give his child, his pride, 
 
 To be a branded outlaw s bride 1 
 
 How could her purity have part 
 
 In Herman s cold, perverted heart ? 
 
 Then rush d back memories of youth, 
 
 When earth was heaven, and man was truth, 
 
 And her he loved, too pure for life, 
 
 Too gentle for its toil and strife, 
 
 She, who, unheeding slander s tongue, 
 
 Still to her lord had fondly clung 
 
 Her, he had dared to scorn, deride, 
 
 Her who had suffer d, wept, and died ! 
 
 While o er his mind these memories stole, 
 He groan d in agony of soul, 
 " My child ! no never shalt thou be 
 Heir to thy mother s misery ! 
 These aged eyes had rather weep 
 O er thy dark bed of endless sleep." 
 Then o er these better feelings came 
 The ghosts of penury and shame : 
 He saw his gold another s prey, 
 His lands, his titles torn away, 
 Himself the theme of public scorn, 
 His daughter friendless and forlorn, 
 And then he whisper d, "I have sworn I" 
 
322 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But why this picture longer view 1 
 Or why this painful theme pursue T 
 Oh ! rather let us weep that he 
 Who might allied to angels be 
 Will sully thus the spark divine, 
 Imprison d in its earthly shrine, 
 And in compassion drop the veil 
 O er this sad portion of our tale. - 
 
 Now let us seek the lonely bower 
 
 Where, at this silent midnight hour, 
 
 So sweetly sleeps the fair Lenore. 
 
 A silver lamp, with flickering beam, 
 
 Now dies, now starts with sudden gleam, 
 
 Diffusing o er the vaulted room 
 
 Or wavering light, or partial gloom. 
 
 Near, on the oaken table lie 
 
 Her crucifix and rosary, 
 
 And the small lute, whose golden string 
 
 Hath echoed to her evening hymn. 
 
 Her head is resting on her hand, 
 Her hair, escaping from its band, 
 Falls in rich masses on her neck, 
 Her fair white brow and flushing cheek, 
 The long, dark lashes of her eye 
 On their fair pillow trembling lie, 
 Her lips half part, and you can trace 
 A smile of pleasure on her face. 
 
 She dreams her soul hath pass d away 
 Far from its lovely shrine of clay, 
 Scenes of enjoyment to explore, 
 Where waking fancies dare not soar. 
 She dreams what soft, subduing thought 
 Hath her unfetter d spirit caught ] 
 She whispers " Erstein" ah ! sweet one, 
 Thou know st not what this hour hath done ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 
 
 What cloud hath dimm d thy fortune s star, 
 And his thou lovest dearer far ! 
 
 Dream on f for thou wilt wake to weep, 
 
 When morn dispels that balmy sleep, 
 
 And in thy pilgrimage of pain, 
 
 Thou ne er may st dream so sweet again. 
 
 Hark ! tis the night-breeze as it twines 
 
 Round the tall lattice, wreath d with vines. 
 
 Again ! arouse thee, sweet Lenore, 
 
 A step is in the corridor. 
 
 It pass d along the echoing floor, 
 
 And paused beside the maiden s door, 
 
 And from beneath, a brilliant stream 
 
 Of wavering light was seen to gleam. 
 
 The door unclosed the torch s fire 
 
 Reveal d its bearer twas her sire ! 
 
 With trembling hand he strove to shade 
 
 The beams which through the apartment stray d, 
 
 And o er the placid sleeper play d ; 
 
 Then to her side he softly came, 
 
 And moved the shadow from its flame. 
 
 She woke her night-robe closer drew, 
 A hurried glance around her threw ; 
 Then, with a troubled, anxious gaze, 
 She scann d each feature of his face. 
 " Why come at midnight to thy child, 
 With cheek so pale, and eye so wild T 
 " My daughter, rise thou need st not fear, 
 But 1 must speak, and thou must hear." 
 
 Then gave he to her listening ears 
 A tale of doubts and cares and fears ; 
 Of future wretchedness and pain, 
 Of threaten d penury and disdain, 
 And exile from their native hearth, 
 And how a generous friend stepp d forth, 
 
32 i MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Turn d from their heads this direful fate, 
 And freely ransom d his estate. 
 
 And how, in an unguarded hour, 
 When gratitude alone had power, 
 He swore by every sacred name 
 To grant whatever he might claim ; 
 How, while he listen d in despair, 
 Did Herman claim his daughter fair ; 
 And he was bound by all that s dear, 
 That solemn promise to revere ; 
 And then, with tears and sighs he said, 
 " If thou dost love this aged head, 
 Preserve my wealth, my peace, my life, 
 And be my kind preserver s wife 1" 
 
 With cheeks and brow as snow-wreath pale, 
 
 His daughter heard this fearful tale. 
 
 So suddenly that dread blow came, 
 
 It struck like palsy on her frame. 
 
 Through her veins crept an icy chill, 
 
 As if her very heart stood still, 
 
 And nought was heard the calm to break, 
 
 When her old sire had ceased to speak ; 
 
 But though her fix d and glaring eye 
 
 No outward object could descry, 
 
 Before her spirit s glance, a throng 
 
 Of vivid pictures swept along. 
 
 She saw the shaded bower, the grove, 
 Where first young Erstein " whisper d love." 
 She saw his dark, reproachful eye, 
 . Upraised to hers in agony, 
 And then, a sterner vision came 
 Of him, her fancy dared not name. 
 She saw his tall and muffled form, 
 She saw his withering smile of scorn, 
 She saw " Lenore" her father spoke 
 The spell which bound her tongue was broke. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 325 
 
 She knelt his bending form beside, 
 And thus in faltering accents cried : 
 
 " My fathej ! canst thou doom so sore 
 
 A trial to thine own Lenore 1 
 
 Is there no spot of refuge still 1 
 
 Is poverty so great an ill 7 
 
 To pomp and wealth thy heart is cold 
 
 Yield up to him thy hoarded gold ! 
 
 What carest thou for state or pride, 
 
 If / am ever by thy side 1 
 
 Give him thine all, and let us go 
 
 Far from this darkest, deadliest foe ! 
 
 Thou shalt have peace, and I will be 
 
 A more than comforter to thee !" 
 
 " My child, I cannot change thy lot 
 Thou speakest of thou know st not what. 
 How would st thou hear thy father s name, 
 Branded with infamy and shame 7" 
 
 To his dark mantle she had clung, 
 Now to her feet she swiftly sprung ! 
 A tear had trembled in her eye, 
 But now she dash d it firmly by; 
 Her cheek had blanch d with fear before, 
 But now that paleness was no more ! 
 With form erect, and glance of fire, 
 She gazed upon her cowering sire, 
 As though her piercing eye could see 
 His heart s remotest secrecy. 
 
 A dark and dread suspicion stole 
 Like burning lava o er her soul. 
 " Why is that fear upon his face 7 
 Why should my father dread disgrace 7 
 He, I had thought, no shame could dim, 
 Why, why should shame descend on him 7 
 
326 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 What is this mystery, and how 
 Can I avert this dreaded blow? 
 I know not, and because mine eye 
 May not the source of ill descry, 
 Shall I the power of good forego, 
 And plunge him into deeper wo 1" 
 Her pure affection answer d "No!" 
 
 If he were noble, as she deem d, 
 The path of right most open seem d, 
 To chase each shadow from his eyes, 
 E en at this fearful sacrifice ; 
 If he deserved the meed of shame, 
 Was not that pathway still the same ? 
 A moment s calm was in her brain, 
 She dared not pause for thought again, 
 But springing to her father s side, 
 She whisper d, " I will be his bride 1" 
 
 She heeded not his fond caressing, 
 She heeded not his parting blessing 
 The die was cast ! and there she bent, 
 Fix d as a marble monument : 
 Nought but her quick and gasping breath 
 Revealing there was life beneath. 
 
 Her father left that fatal spot- 
 She was alone, yet knew it not, 
 Till his quick footstep as it past, 
 Dissolved the fearful charm at last, 
 And sent a wild and burning glow 
 Through the full arteries of her brow ; 
 Then came affliction s sweet relief, 
 Weeping, soft child of stern-eyed grief, 
 That lulls the passions into rest, 
 And soothes the mourner s tortured breast. 
 
 When the first agony was past, 
 
 Her gushing tears flow d long and fast, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 327 
 
 And with thanksgiving fervent, deep, 
 She own d the privilege to weep. 
 
 Alas! frail,, flower! her life had been 
 One bright, unchanging, tranquil scene ; 
 Loving and loved, as wild bird gay, 
 Her frolic childhood pass d away ; 
 And when her stronger mind could feel 
 More deep emotions o er it steal, 
 When her pure heart look d forth for one 
 To rest her pure affections on, 
 Then did her trusting spirit find 
 An answering chord in Erstein s mind ; 
 And childhood s laughing glance and tone 
 Gave place to deeper joys alone ! 
 
 And only would her cheek grow pale 
 To hear some wild, romantic tale ; 
 And only for imagined wo 
 Her sympathetic tear would flow 
 Her youthful heart had never known 
 To sigh for sorrows of its own. 
 
 The past was all one vision bright, 
 
 A storehouse of untold delight, 
 
 To which her mind at will might stray, 
 
 And bear unnumber d gems away ; 
 
 With trusting hope and buoyant glee 
 
 She gazed into futurity, 
 
 Nor thought that time s advancing wing 
 
 A darker moment e er could bring. 
 
 The dream now faded from her eyes, 
 
 She woke to life s realities ! 
 
 And feelings pure, and strong, and deep, 
 
 Rose from their long, inactive sleep, 
 
 And proudly did the maiden own 
 
 A strength within, till then unknown, 
 
 That, which secure in virtue, rose 
 
 To combat with assailing foes. 
 
328 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oft would her fearful fancy shrink 
 Back from the gulf s tremendous brink, 
 And oft to reason s glance would rise 
 The madness of the sacrifice. 
 But o er her father s aged form 
 There hung some dark, portentous storm ! 
 A daughter s choice, a daughter s will 
 Could ward from him that nameless ill ! 
 And thus the hapless maiden sought 
 To quell each wild, rebellious thought. 
 
 And morning came, and soft and still 
 She dawn d above the distant hill, 
 Her wreaths of trembling light to twine 
 On the blue waters of the Rhine. 
 The mists which on his bosom lay, 
 Pass d like an infant s dream away, 
 And left the sun s awakening beam 
 To frolic with his mighty stream. 
 
 As though to greet the dawning day, 
 The rolling billows curl d in play; 
 And wild and murmuring tones were borne 
 Forth on the balmy breeze of morn. 
 The towering cliffs, so dark and wild, 
 On its rude shores in masses piled, 
 Touch d by her gentle influence, smiled ; 
 And the young flowers the rocks beneath 
 Woke at the dawn s reviving breath, 
 And on their leaves, so soft and bright, 
 Hung tears of worship and delight. 
 
 When all is gay with nature s smile, 
 Forgive me if I pause awhile, 
 And turn from passion, grief, unrest, 
 To muse upon her tranquil breast. 
 
 Nature ! thou ever rollest on, 
 
 With winter s blast and summer s sun, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 329 
 
 Untouch d by passion s raging- storm, 
 Rearing on high thy mystic form, 
 Springing anew to brighter life 
 Amid the world s enduring strife ! 
 Man lives, and breathes his fleeting day, 
 Now sinks neath sorrow s chilling sway, 
 Now basks in pleasure s golden ray, 
 Then, like a snow-curl, melts away. 
 The piles he rear d in swelling pride, 
 To strive with time s o erwhelming tide, 
 Proving the weakness of his trust, 
 Sink, like their builders, in the dust. 
 
 But while the fabrics, rear d so high, 
 
 In ruins on thy bosom lie, 
 
 Thou, like some great and mystic page, 
 
 Unfoldest still from age to age, 
 
 Bearing in every line conceal d 
 
 The wisdom ages could not yield ; 
 
 Thy flowers shall bloom, thy mountains soar, 
 
 Till rolling earth shall be no more; 
 
 Thine ocean waves shall sink and rise 
 
 Till Time himself exhausted dies ; 
 
 While on thy mighty bosom spread 
 
 The crumbling relics of the dead ! 
 
 How doth this sweet and solemn hour 
 
 Hold o er the heart its mystic power ! 
 
 Bidding each wilder tumult cease, 
 
 To passion s whirlwind whispering " Peace !" 
 
 Calming the frantic flights of joy, 
 
 And bright ning sorrow s downcast eye ! 
 
 Oh ! may it shed its influence o er 
 The tortured heart of poor Lenore ! 
 She who was wont at earliest dawn 
 To chase the wild bird o er the lawn, 
 While the young flowers their fragrance cast 
 As on her fairy footstep past! 
 22 
 
330 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Who now, unheeding bird or flower, 
 Steals forth to seek her favourite bower, 
 To bid each cherish d scene farewell, 
 And calm her heart s convulsive swell. 
 
 There, in her childhood s buoyant days, 
 Oft had she sung her artless lays ; 
 And still, as time roll d onward, there 
 At morn and evening would repair, 
 To rear, in fancy, forms most fair, 
 Nor dream that she could find them air ! 
 
 Once more, within her loved retreat, 
 
 She lean d upon its flowery seat, 
 
 And mark d the clustering vines, which sent 
 
 A grateful perfume as they bent ; 
 
 Above the eastern hills of blue 
 
 The sun s broad orb more brilliant grew, 
 
 And many a rich and gorgeous ray 
 
 Full on the glistening forests lay ; 
 
 But, buried in her lonely bower, 
 
 She heeded not the passing hour ! 
 
 The vines beside her loudly stirr d, 
 
 But not a sound her ear had heard ; 
 
 A step seem d hast ning to the spot, 
 
 But still the maiden mark d it not 
 
 And yet more near the intruder came ; 
 
 A well-known voice pronounced her name : 
 
 She started lightly from her seat, 
 
 And blush d twas Erstein at her feet ! 
 
 As the bright sun-hues of the west 
 Fade from the snow-wreath s pallid crest, 
 Flitted that blush her pale cheek o er, 
 And left it paler than before ! 
 Oh, had you seen his youthful form, 
 Adorn d with every manly charm, 
 And known his heart, so bold and warm, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 331 
 
 And, like Lenore, that heart had proved, 
 You would not marvel that she loved. 
 
 Bred to a fierce and martial life, 
 Nurtured for years on fields of strife, 
 A spirit fiery, bold, and high, 
 Was pictured in his flashing eye, 
 And you might think its glance implied 
 A soul of haughtiness and pride ; 
 But when some gentler feelings stole 
 O er the deep waters of that soul, 
 Then pass d that quick and burning ray, 
 Melted in tenderness away, 
 And lovelier seem d its gentle beam, 
 Contrasted with that brilliant gleam. 
 
 When first a brave young soldier, come 
 From clashing sword and pealing drum, 
 O er his own land once more to rove, 
 Then first his soul awaked to love ! 
 And oh, what floods of pure delight 
 Burst in upon his spirit s sight ! 
 What depths of joy, unknown before, 
 Oped in the presence of Lenore ! 
 
 Her gentle influence suppress d 
 Each sterner passion in his breast, 
 And while controlling, quell d, subdued 
 Each feeling haughty, wild, or rude. 
 From her, unwitting, he could learn 
 Her father s temper, dark and stern ; 
 And while had glided day by day, 
 In tranquil happiness away, 
 He dared not break the magic spell, 
 His ardent feelings loved too well, 
 By laying thoughts and hopes so bold 
 Before a sire so stern and cold, 
 Who would have deem d it daring pride 
 To claim his daughter as a bride ; 
 
332 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 He who had nought to aid that claim 
 But love, his honour, and his name. 
 
 Thus he was wont, when morning gray 
 Cast o er the hills its earliest ray, 
 Clad in the huntsman s sylvan gear, 
 To chase ( twas said) the wild-wood deer ; 
 But ever, when his searching eye 
 The towers of Arnheim could descry, 
 He left his faithful steed to wait 
 Within a thicket s dark retreat, 
 And bounded lawn and streamlet o er 
 To snatch one moment with Lenore. 
 
 This morn, with bosom bounding high, 
 With springing step and sparkling eye, 
 He came to seek her, but in vain ; 
 He pass d her favourite haunts again, 
 Till winding down a shaded way, 
 Which o er the cliff s dark bosom lay, 
 He turn d the castle s rearmost tower, 
 And found this lone, sequester d bower. 
 
 I may not tune my youthful string 
 That scene of hapless love to sing ; 
 Song cannot well those thoughts reveal 
 The heart ne er felt, and cannot feel ; 
 Let fancy then her garland weave, 
 And fill the trifling void I leave. 
 
 Suffice it that with bearing high, 
 And sad composure in her eye, 
 And throbbing nerves and bursting heart, 
 Well did that maiden act her part, 
 And gave her tale of grief and fear 
 To Erstein s wondering, listening ear. 
 Not so the youth, a burning glow 
 Was mounting fiercely to his brow, 
 And grief and anger in his eye, 
 Were struggling for the mastery. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 333 
 
 When Herman s name escaped her tongue, 
 Quick to his feet he wildly sprung. 
 " In foreign lands that wretch I met ; 
 Fiend ! sordid villain ! lives he yet f 
 Oh ! were the scoffer here to meet 
 From this strong hand his well-earn d fate, 
 How few would be the moments given 
 To make his spirit s peace with heaven ! 
 
 " But ihou, Lenore ! my steed is nigh, 
 And I vrill save thee ! dearest, fly !" 
 " No ! Erstein, no ! I d rather die ! 
 My fate is fix d, my lot is cast, 
 Its keenest bitterness is past ; 
 Though her heart break, the poor Lenore 
 Must think of thee and love no more ! 
 
 " Oh, leave me ! tis my prayer, my will ; 
 Make not my task more dreadful still : 
 Thou knowest more than I would tell, 
 Erstein, away ! farewell, farewell 1" 
 With trembling hand, the cavalier 
 Dash d from his eye the starting tear, 
 Bow d on her hand his burning head, 
 And ere her heart could throb, had fled. 
 
 END OF CANTO FIRST. 
 
 The notes have paused the song hath died away,. 
 
 And wouldst thou wake the trembling tones again 
 And while the minstrel pours his wandering lay 
 
 Bid thy warm heart re-echo to the strain 1 
 
 Wouldst hear the sequel of this simple tale, 
 And list attentive to the voice of wo 1 
 
 Weep with affection, or with fear turn pale, 
 And smile when riseth joy s triumphant glow 1 
 
334 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Then, will I touch the quivering harp once more, 
 While fancy spreads her rainbow-tinted wing, 
 
 O er the dark vale of buried years to soar 
 And back to life their faded shadows bring ! 
 
 And thou must gently glance its errors o er, 
 Should the untutor d bard uncouthly sing. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 OH, darkly the shadows of evening fell 
 
 On forest and mountain, on streamlet and dell, 
 
 And the clouds, in masses of sombre hue, 
 
 O er the couch of the morning their draperies threw ; 
 
 And their shade fell dark on the Rhine below, 
 
 Whose billows heaved proudly and slowly, as though 
 
 The giant heart of the tempest-god 
 
 Was beating strong neath its swelling flood. 
 
 Its voice came up with a sullen roar 
 
 As the waves dash d fierce on the rock-bound shore, 
 
 And the wild-bird scream d as he skimm d them o er, 
 
 While the vessel which flew o er its surface that day, 
 
 With her white wings furl d, on its dark bosom lay, 
 
 Just kissing the foam with her bending side, 
 
 As if owning the power of the lordly tide. 
 
 The morning rose meekly, and softly, and fair, 
 
 But at evening the frown of the storm-god was there, 
 
 And gladness and beauty fled back from his eye 
 
 Like the smile from the spirit when sorrow draws nigh. 
 
 Where the sunbeams had wreathed round the mountain s tall 
 
 crest 
 
 Now floated a mantle of darkness and mist, 
 And the wing of the tempest did fearfully fall 
 O er the arches and towers of that time-honour d hall. 
 
 The portal was shut, and the drawbridge was raised, 
 And no gleam of a torch from the banquet-hall blazed ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 335 
 
 But with faces of gloom, and steps measured and slow, 
 The warders were pacing the gateway below, 
 Now silently marking the clouds overhead, 
 Now whispering in accents of sorrow and dread. 
 
 The hall was deserted ; the court-yard alone 
 
 Heard an echoing tread on its pavement of stone, 
 
 And parties of menials were gathering there 
 
 With faces of mystery, faces of care. 
 
 Not a voice was heard but in murmurings low, 
 
 Not a torch was seen with its cheerful glow, 
 
 Save where a ray was streaming o er 
 
 The ancient chapel s massive door, 
 
 And wandering with its glimmer faint 
 
 O er sculptured cherubim and saint. 
 
 Twas an ancient pile, and the creeping vine 
 Had begun o er its mouldering arches to twine, 
 And the long bright grass unmark d had grown 
 On the broken pavements of crumbling stone ; 
 And the rude remains of a ruder day, 
 Shatter d and torn neath its vaulted roof lay. 
 
 Twas a solemn scene, when the ancient pile 
 Was glittering bright in the morning smile. 
 
 And bold in nerve and in heart was he, 
 Who w r ould dare to walk in its haunted aisle ! 
 
 For oh, it was fearful there to be, 
 
 When the night was falling gloomily ; 
 When the tempest shriek d round its massive wall, 
 And darkness enrobed it like a pall. 
 
 Why then doth light unwonted shine 
 From the gilded lamps on the ruin d shrine ? 
 And why o er the rest of the baron s hall 
 Is it darkness and silence and dreariness all ] 
 And why with that anxious and sorrowful mien, 
 Do the menials gaze on the desolate scene 1 
 
336 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Alas ! those chapel walls this night 
 
 Must witness a dark, unholy rite, 
 
 And the gale, which shrieks in its fitful start, 
 
 Must sing the wail of a broken heart ! 
 
 And on that sacred altar, where 
 
 So oft the suppliant breathed his prayer, 
 
 A young and ardent soul must lay 
 
 A deeper sacrifice to-day 
 
 Upon its marble bosom fling 
 
 The blushing flowers of life s warm spring, 
 
 And all the radiant garlands wove 
 
 By buoyant hope and guileless love. 
 
 Alas, that man s unhallow d hand 
 The spirit s sacred veil should rend, 
 And for his own dark purpose tear 
 The warm and glowing treasures there ; 
 Then as in mockery dare to twine, 
 Upon his Maker s holy shrine, 
 Those pure and fond affections, given 
 To make this weary earth a heaven. 
 
 When last those crumbling walls had heard 
 
 Or muffled tread or whisper d word, 
 
 A funeral wail had fill d the pile, 
 
 A train of mourners fill d the aisle, 
 
 And there in solemn pomp interr d 
 
 A distant kinsman of their lord. 
 
 Thus still upon the shrouded wall 
 Hung the black draperies like a pall, 
 In long, unmoving masses, save 
 When the chill wind its folds would wave, 
 And swelling slow the dismal screen, 
 Betray the shatter d stones between. 
 
 Tall torches burn d the shrine before, 
 Casting their rays the chapel o er, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 337 
 
 And shedding pale and sickly light 
 Upon the scowling brow of night ! 
 While from each lofty arch, the eye 
 Could mark the thick clouds passing by, 
 In blackening masses wildly driven 
 Athwart the frowning face of heaven. 
 
 The vaulted ceiling echoed round 
 
 Each clanking tread, or mutter d sound, 
 
 And the blast which crept o er the pavements bare, 
 
 And waved the torches flickering glare, 
 
 WaiFd in a sad and thrilling tone, 
 
 Like a departed spirit s moan. 
 
 Beside the altar stood its priest, 
 His wan hands folded on his breast, 
 The quivering torchlight o er him playing, 
 His gray locks round his forehead straying, 
 And his eye wandering here and there, 
 With anxious and unsettled air ; 
 And ever, as its glance would fall 
 On Herman s form, so grim and tall, 
 He mutter d, turn d in shuddering haste, 
 And sign d the cross upon his breast. 
 
 Well might the priest instinctive turn, 
 From gazing on a face so stern ; 
 For oh, it told of storms within, 
 The strife of passion, pride, and sin ; 
 More fearful, more appalling far, 
 Than the fierce tempest s raging war. 
 
 With hurried steps he paced awhile 
 The grass-grown pavements of the aisle, 
 And on the open portal nigh, 
 His keen glance fell impatiently, 
 Till his dark brow yet darker lower d, 
 And his hand fiercely grasp d his sword. 
 
338 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 " If he should dare deceive me ! then 
 He ll find the lion in his den !" 
 Scarce were the startling accents o er, 
 When darkening shadows fill d the door ; 
 It was the baron and Lenore. 
 
 A large dark mantle, closely drawn, 
 Conceal d the maiden s fragile form ; 
 But her measured step was firmer far 
 Than the trembling tread of her aged sire, 
 And she came with a calm and unfaltering air % 
 To offer up all that was dear to her there. 
 
 And when she stood the shrine beside, 
 A sad and self-devoted bride, 
 She clasp d her hands, and raised on high 
 The thrilling glance of her tearless eye, 
 And the stern bridegroom shrunk below 
 That look of fix d and speechless wo. 
 
 But the keen pang past quickly o er, 
 And left her tranquil as before : 
 Her pallid fingers gently press d 
 The clasping jewel on her breast, 
 And the dark mantle falling back, 
 Reveal d her bridal robe of black ! 
 The massive folds hung drooping there 
 Around her form, so slight and fair, 
 As the sad cypress in its gloom 
 O er the white marble of the tomb. 
 
 In unconfined and native grace 
 Her long, dark tresses veil d her face, 
 Contrasting with the cheek and brow 
 So pallid and so deathlike now, 
 And casting round her, as they stray d, 
 A waving and a dreamlike shade. 
 Thus stood she, motionless and still, 
 Like some pale form of Grecian skill, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 339 
 
 Placed by the matchless sculptor there, 
 A breathing image of despair. 
 
 One torturing, agonizing day 
 Had quell d the heart so light and gay, 
 And given her mien a bearing high 
 Of calm and thoughtful dignity. 
 
 The baron started as his eye 
 Fell on her sombre drapery : 
 " Lenore," he whispered, " why to-day 
 Assume such ominous array 1 
 Couldst thou not find a bridal dress, 
 More fitting such a scene as this 1" 
 She bent her dark and earnest gaze 
 A moment on her father s face, 
 As if her senses could not hear 
 The words which fell upon her ear, 
 Then said, with quick, convulsive start, 
 " And wouldst thou gild a bleeding heart) 
 A broken spirit wouldst thou fold 
 In sparkling robes of tinsell d gold 1 
 Twere mockery ! this is fittest guise 
 To deck a living sacrifice." 
 
 The baron turn d, in sudden thought, 
 
 To Herman s towering form, and sought 
 
 To melt that heart, more hard than steel, 
 
 By one long look of mute appeal, 
 
 As half expecting to receive 
 
 Some blessed signal of reprieve ; 
 
 But his knit brow and flashing eye 
 
 Reveal d his dark and stern reply, 
 
 And the priest oped the sacred book 
 
 With pale and hesitating look. 
 
 The thunder s deep and muttering tone 
 
 Broke on the listening ear alone ; 
 
 He paused, bent low his moisten d brow, 
 
 And read with quivering voice and slow. 
 
340 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 While yet the feeble accents hung 
 Unfinished on his faltering tongue; 
 Through the tall arches flashing came 
 A broad and livid sheet of flame, 
 Playing with fearful radiance o er 
 The upraised features of Lenore, 
 The shrinking form of her trembling sire, 
 The bridegroom s face of scowling ire, 
 And the folded hands, and heaving breast, 
 And prophet-like mien of the aged priest ! 
 
 Twas a breathless pause, but a moment more, 
 
 And that fierce, unnatural beam was o er, 
 
 And a stunning crash, as if earth were driven 
 
 On thundering wheels to the gates of heaven, 
 
 Burst, peal d, and mutter d, long and deep, 
 
 Then sinking, growl d itself to sleep, 
 
 And all was still ; the priest first broke 
 
 Th oppressive silence as he spoke : 
 
 " Both heaven and earth their powers unite 
 
 Against this dark, unhallow d rite ! 
 
 A voice without, a voice within, 
 
 I la tli told me that the deed were sin ! 
 
 Though death and danger bar my way, 
 
 I will not dare not disobey 1" 
 
 A cloud more dark than the tempest now 
 Was gathering sternly on Herman s brow : 
 " Priest ! madman ! hypocrite ! proceed ! 
 Or blows shall mend thy coward creed !" 
 " For God s sake, peace !" the baron cried, 
 And closer drew to Herman s side. 
 " One moment, peace ! for hark ! I hear 
 Loud cries come nearer and more near !" 
 
 " Fool ! tis the wailing of the blast, 
 Which sweeps these echoing ruins past ! 
 I brook no dallying ! Deal thou fair, 
 Or by yon heaven, old man, I swear, 
 Thou shalt have reason to beware !" 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 341 
 
 Still did the cowering baron stand, 
 With fixed eye and upraised hand, 
 As one who bends an earnest ear 
 Some faint and distant sound to hear. 
 
 And while he listen d, by degrees 
 
 That sound came swelling on the breeze, 
 
 Now low and hoarse, now shrill and loud, 
 
 Like mingled voices of a crowd ; 
 
 And as more near the tones were heard, 
 
 Did Herman fiercely grasp his sword, 
 
 As if preparing to chastise 
 
 Whatever should bar his destined prize ! 
 
 And louder still the clamour rose, 
 
 Like mingled sounds of shouts and blows, 
 
 And on that tide of tumult came 
 
 The baron s and the bridegroom s name. 
 
 One moment struck with mute surprise, 
 Each raised to each his wondering eyes ; 
 But Herman, roused to action first, 
 Forth from the group infuriate burst ; 
 When, ere the baron reach d his side, 
 The low-brow d portal open d wide, 
 And a menial, pale with breathless haste, 
 Wounded and bleeding, forward prest: 
 " Fly to the rescue, baron, fly ! 
 Ere all thy faithful followers die ! 
 For armed men the moat have past, 
 Have gain d the inner court at last, 
 And fight and clamour for thy guest !" 
 
 A wild and bitter laughter rung 
 From Herman s lips ere forth he sprung. 
 " And so my comrades come to trace 
 Their worthy leader s lurking-place 7 
 Tis well ! not yet my race is run, 
 And dearly shall my life be won !" 
 
342 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The baron and his guest have gone ; 
 The bride and priest are here alone ! 
 How doth that fragile plant sustain 
 Its courage in this hour of pain 1 
 Perplex d, bewilder d, and amazed, 
 Upon the shifting scene she gazed, 
 And only felt, with quick delight, 
 That he whose presence seem d a blight 
 To chill each heart with shuddering fear, 
 That he no more was lingering near. 
 
 She breathed one deep and thrilling groan, 
 And sank upon the shatter d stone ! 
 She had nor power nor will to rise, 
 But with clasp d hands, and straining eyes 
 Fix d on the portal, did she wait 
 The coming crisis of her fate. 
 
 The wind rush d in from the open d door, 
 And the red torchlight was no more, 
 And the rude pile was dark, save where 
 The lightning spread its ghastly glare, 
 Or from the crowded courtyard came 
 Some broad and glancing stream of flame. 
 
 The wounded man s expiring groan 
 Seem d echoed from the roof of stone ; 
 And louder yet the piercing din 
 Burst on the listening pair within. 
 The stone-paved court alternate rang 
 With clashing steel, and shout, and clang ; 
 And waving wildly to and fro, 
 The torches spread their fiery glow, 
 Casting o er every point of sight 
 A glaring and unearthly light ; 
 While, as the fearful shouts did rise 
 In blended tumult to the skies, 
 The spirit of the midnight storm 
 Rear d on the clouds his black ning form, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 343 
 
 And with each cry which swell d the gale 
 Mingled his wild and shrieking wail. 
 
 Now closer drew the assailing band, 
 With sword to sword, and hand to hand, 
 And fiercely toward the chapel prest, 
 Where stood the baron and his guest. 
 Herman, with fix d and cautious eye, 
 Beheld his furious foes draw nigh, 
 And vow d in this unequal strife 
 Not he alone should part with life. 
 
 Nearer they came, with shout and cry, 
 " Down with the traitor ! caitiff , die !" 
 And if a moment more had sped, 
 The wretch had number d with the dead ; 
 When, with a voice deep-toned and loud, 
 A tall form issued from the crowd, 
 Press d firmly through the rushing tide, 
 And springing close to Herman s side, 
 In calm, commanding accents cried : 
 
 " And are ye men 1 Bear back, I say ! 
 Ye throng like tigers on their prey ! 
 Bear back a space, and he or I 
 In fair and equal fight shall die !" 
 
 As waves retire, with sullen roar, 
 From meeting with the rock-bound shore, 
 The crowd bore back with mutterings low, 
 In waving columns long and slow, 
 And stood, with eager gaze, to wait 
 The youthful champion s coming fate. 
 
 The stranger raised his sword, when nigh 
 There burst a low and thrilling cry ; 
 He turn d a wretch, unseen before, 
 Still linger d by the chapel-door, 
 
344 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 And raised in air his gleaming blade 
 
 Above the baron s aged head. 
 
 One spring one stroke with piercing yell, 
 
 And long, deep groan, the miscreant fell ; 
 
 And the young warrior stood before 
 
 His dark-brow d combatant once more ! 
 
 Herman, with eager look, intent 
 Upon his foe his keen eye bent ; 
 And while he thus his form survey d, 
 His quivering lip his rage betray d; 
 Then forth in furious haste he sprang, 
 Till the young stranger s armour rang 
 With his quick strokes incessant clang. 
 
 Regardless to preserve his own, 
 He sought the stranger s life alone, 
 With panting breast and flashing eye, 
 And all a madman s energy ! 
 While calm and firm his foe repaid 
 Each stroke with true, unerring blade. 
 
 A few, but fearful moments pass d, 
 Till blind with headlong rage at last, 
 Herman, with desperate fierceness prest, 
 And aimed a quick blow at his breast ; 
 The youth beheld sprung lightly round, 
 Dash d the raised weapon to the ground, 
 And while the fragments scatter d wide, 
 He sheathed his sword in Herman s side ; 
 Then bending o er his fallen foe, 
 Whisper d in accents stern and low, 
 " Herman ! thy miscreant life I spare ! 
 But should we meet again beware !" 
 Then gliding through the low-arch d door 
 His manly form was seen no more ! 
 
 With straining eye and changeless mien 
 Lenore had mark d this fearful scene, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 345 
 
 Till her chill d heart seem d palsied there, 
 
 With terror bordering 1 on despair. 
 
 But when the gallant stranger came, 
 
 A something whisper d Erstein s name, 
 
 And when beneath the dubious light 
 
 She saw him conqueror in the fight, 
 
 Her heart seem d bursting with delight. 
 
 Hope, with its trembling radiance, stole 
 
 O er the dark desert of her soul 
 
 Her head droop d lightly on her breast, 
 
 As when an infant sinks to rest. 
 
 Her heart gave one convulsive thrill, 
 
 Leap d flutter d wildly and was still ! 
 
 The courage grief could not destroy 
 
 Bow d to intensity of joy. 
 
 The priest, unheeding all beside 
 
 Bent sadly o er the fainting bride, 
 
 With mystic sign and mutter d prayer, 
 
 And all an anxious father s care ; 
 
 But as he knelt, absorb d the while, 
 
 A quick step echoed through the aisle 
 
 A burst of joy assail d his ear ; 
 
 He turn d the stranger youth was near ! 
 
 A moment more his stalwart arm 
 Had raised the maiden s drooping form, 
 And turning swift his eagle eye 
 Roam d o er the walls inquiringly. 
 The priest observed his doubtful air, 
 And clearly read his meaning there : 
 Trembling he raised the massive pall, 
 Which hung beside the crumbling wall, 
 And oped a secret door that led 
 Within a thicket s tangled shade. 
 
 The youth bow d low his plumed head, 
 And neath the ruin d portal fled ! 
 The priest conceal d it as before, 
 And turning, past the draperies o er, 
 23 
 
346 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 But breathed a low and smother d cry, 
 As, fix d upon that secret door, 
 His own met Herman s baleful eye. 
 
 It burn d with hatred s living flame, 
 
 And rage convulsed his giant frame, 
 
 A curse hung quivering on his tongue ; 
 
 Each nerve to dark revenge was strung; 
 
 And the full arteries of his brow, 
 
 Were swelled like livid serpents now. 
 
 The boiling blood with sudden start 
 
 Had gather d fiercely at his heart, 
 
 And left his cheeks and lips a hue 
 
 Of ghastly and unearthly blue. 
 
 But quick the coward tide return d, 
 
 And through his veins like wildfire burn d ; 
 
 And o er his features crept the while, 
 
 Their sneering and revengeful smile 
 
 When in that crowded court he fell 
 
 Beneath that foe he knew too well. 
 
 He sought to find a safe retreat 
 
 From clashing swords and trampling feet 
 
 And while he lean d, with whirling brain, 
 
 The portal s sculptured arch beside, 
 Saw with a rage surmounting pain, 
 
 The flight of Erstein and his bride. 
 
 And where hath he fled with his lovely one, say 1 
 And where are they wending their perilous way 1 
 The lover hath mounted his faithful steed, 
 He is bounding away with the lightning speed ! 
 One arm is supporting the rescued bride, 
 One hand is at freedom his bridle to guide, 
 And his spurs are dash d in the charger s side. 
 
 Beneath them the turf, and above them the sky, 
 Away and away on their pathway they fly ! 
 The sound of the tumult grew fainter and low, 
 And faded in distance the torches red glow,. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 347 
 
 And in silence unbroken the fugitives sped, 
 Save when the low thunder was growling o erhead, 
 Or the tempest was wailing, now shrill and now deep, 
 As it crept in the arms of the morning to sleep. 
 
 While the black clouds were rolling in masses away, 
 
 O er the hills of the east rose a faint streak of gray ; 
 
 And as onward they flew, on the dim air was borne 
 
 The soft cooling breath of a bright summer s morn ! 
 
 Their speed as they bounded the forest path o er 
 
 RecalFd the faint throb to the heart of Lenore, 
 
 But her senses bewilder d long laboured in vain 
 
 To dispel the wild fancies which throng d on her brain ; 
 
 And when she awoke to the real at last, 
 
 Oh what mingled emotions were stirr d in her breast, 
 
 Till her heart o erflowing found soothing relief 
 
 In tears of united thanksgiving and grief! 
 
 She remember d the scene in the old ruin d aisle, 
 
 And silently pray d for the victor the while, 
 
 Then she thought of her sire, and she shrank from his side, 
 
 And " My father ! my father !" she bitterly cried. 
 
 " Fear not for thy father ! yon furious band 
 
 Sought nothing but haply his gold at his hand ! 
 
 It was Herman they sought, and they long d for the blood 
 
 Of that traitor alike to the vile and the good !" 
 
 " And whither art bearing me, Erstein, and why 1 
 And where shall Lenore for a resting-place fly ?" 
 " We are hasting away to my rude mountain tower ! 
 Tis a rugged retreat for so fragile a flower ; 
 But my sister shall cherish the blossom with care, 
 Till it blooms again, brighter and sweeter than e er." 
 " And how didst thou come in that moment of gloom, 
 To snatch me away from my terrible doom 1" 
 
 " Lenore, my beloved ! thou rememberest the hour 
 When I parted from thee in thy myrtle- wreath d bower ; 
 
348 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 That hour, which was fated awhile to destroy 
 Each hope of the future, each vision of joy ; 
 I mounted my charger, I knew not how, 
 
 And I rode like a madman, I knew not where ; 
 For my brain was hot with a fiery glow, 
 
 And my heart was chill d with a cold despair ; 
 I abandon d the reins to my faithful steed, 
 And we bounded away with a maniac speed, 
 Till exhausted, and worn with exertion we stood 
 On the barren skirts of a lonely wood ; 
 Twas deep immersed in a mountain dell, 
 
 On the rocky banks of a brawling stream, 
 Which o er a dark precipice rapidly fell 
 
 With dashing and foaming, and murmur and gleam. 
 I threw myself down by a rock-cover d cave, 
 And silently bent o er the breast of the wave, 
 And more calm in my veins did the life current flow, 
 While the spray dash d cool on my feverish brow. 
 Of Herman I thought, and my pulses beat higher, 
 And my bosom throbb d wild with a tempest of ire ! 
 But then o er my fancy thy loved image crept, 
 And forgive me, Lenore, if in anguish I wept ! 
 While musing thus sadly, I started to hear 
 The sound of rude voices assailing my ear. 
 I turn d, from the cavern beside me they came, 
 And the speaker named Herman s detestable name ! 
 I listen d, but dearest, so stainless thou art 
 In each word of thy lips, and each thought of thy heart, 
 That could I repeat, I should tell thee in vain 
 Of a language so loose, so impure, and profane ! 
 Then listen, Lenore, as I briefly shall tell 
 The meaning I gain d from their words as they fell. 
 They were robbers a fearful and ruffian band, 
 Most sordid of heart, and most bloody of hand, 
 And Herman hath been for full many a year, 
 Their chief in each deed of rebellion and fear ! 
 Yes ! he whose presumption hath claim d thee as bride 
 To that lawless and desperate band was allied ; 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 349 
 
 Meet comrades for one whose degenerate mind 
 
 Is stain d with each crime which can blacken mankind. 
 
 Thus a stranger to mercy, a stranger to fear, 
 
 He had rush d oft, uncheck d, in his reckless career, 
 
 Till, unheeding the pledge which at entrance he gave, 
 
 In secret he fled from the robbers wild cave, 
 
 Bearing with him away their iniquitous spoil, 
 
 The fruits they had reap d from unhallowed toil ! 
 
 Oh long did they labour, but labour d in vain, 
 
 Some trace of their villanous chieftain to gain, 
 
 Till a comrade return d with the tidings at last, 
 
 That the Baron of Arnheim received him as guest, 
 
 And this eve was to join his perfidious hand 
 
 To the fairest flower of his native land. 
 
 Then they vow d revenge, and they fearfully swore 
 
 That long ere the shadows of midnight were o er, 
 
 They would give to their leader, false Herman, the meed 
 
 He had won by the coward and traitorous deed ! 
 
 They resolved to assemble at eventide there, 
 
 And in arms to the Castle of Arnheim repair, 
 
 To recover the gold they had lost, and assuage, 
 
 In the blood of their chieftain, their hatred and rage. 
 
 Thus said they, Lenore, and now eager I heard 
 
 Each ruffian voice, and each half-suppress d word ; 
 
 For while o er my senses their dark import stole, 
 
 A light broke in on my desperate soul, 
 
 And methought I discover d a path to guide 
 
 My steps once more to my dear one s side. 
 
 I could join their band at the castle gate ; 
 
 I could rescue thee from thy dreadful fate, 
 
 And while they were in fury revenging their wrong, 
 
 And searching for gold neath each time-worn wall, 
 I could plunge unseen mid the motley throng, 
 
 And bear away that which was dearer than all ! 
 Oh, blest be our Lady ! who guided me well, 
 
 And supported thy soul on this terrible night ! 
 But, Lenore ! my beloved ! thy cheek is too pale, 
 
 And the tear steals adown it oh say, was I right ?" 
 
350 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 She spoke no word, but he read her reply 
 
 In the timid glance of her downcast eye, 
 
 And the blush which sprung to her varying cheek, 
 
 In token of thoughts which she dared not speak ! 
 
 He saw the glance, and he felt its charm, 
 
 And he folded the mantle more close round her form, 
 
 And silently spurring his charger again, 
 
 They bounded away over forest and plain. 
 
 And softly and meekly the morning light 
 
 Stole up from the arms of that storm-toss d night, 
 
 And faintly trembled its dawning beam 
 
 On each sparkling valley and purling stream, 
 
 And danced on the leaves of the forest trees, 
 
 As they slowly waved in the sighing breeze, 
 
 And with dripping branches bended low, 
 
 As if weeping the fate of each fallen bough. 
 
 " Lenore !" said Erstein, " Lenore, behold 
 
 How each cloud from the glance of the morning hath roll d ; 
 
 How the storm of the midnight has glided away, 
 
 And no traces are left of its passage to-day, 
 
 Save a pensive hue, which is stealing o er, 
 
 And making all nature more fair than before. 
 
 " The whispering gale that is floating past, 
 
 Is all that remains of the howling blast, 
 
 And the sparkling waves of yon tiny river 
 
 Rush onward more swiftly and gaily than ever ; 
 
 While the emerald turf on the graceful hill 
 
 Outrivals in splendour the dew-dripping* rill, 
 
 And the trees round its base with their broad arms cling, 
 
 Like the diamond crown of a giant king. 
 
 Tis a beautiful type of our fate, Lenore, 
 
 For our storm of misfortune has glided o er, 
 
 And the joyous morning of hope and love 
 
 Is dawning our radiant pathway above ; 
 
 And life shall flow on with its dancing stream, 
 
 With murmur and sparkle, with music and glearn, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 351 
 
 And the glittering dew-drops alone shall last, 
 To remind our souls of the storms that have past." 
 
 A sunbeam of gladness, a smile from the soul, 
 
 O er the face of Lenore insensibly stole ; 
 
 They were slowly ascending a verdant hill, 
 
 At whose base there rippled a murmuring rill, 
 
 And she gazed on the vale they had left, till her sight 
 
 Seem d melting in tears of exquisite delight. 
 
 But she suddenly utter d a smother d cry, 
 
 As a figure advancing arrested her eye ; 
 
 Twas a horseman, who spurr d on his foaming steed 
 
 With a desperate madman s fiery speed, 
 
 While far beyond, on the level green, 
 
 A waving line was distinctly seen. 
 
 Scarce had the shriek escaped her tongue, 
 Ere to his feet young Erstein sprung, 
 And led the wearied steed which bore 
 The fragile form of poor Lenore, 
 Where a dark thicket rose in pride, 
 The leaping, brawling stream beside. 
 
 " Tis Herman ! and the hour is come 
 To seal or his or Erstein s doom ! 
 If victor, well ! but if I die, 
 Thine only resource is to fly." 
 
 He said, and press d her hand the while, 
 With fervent grasp and cheering smile ; 
 Then e er had fled that earnest tone, 
 The trembling maiden was alone. 
 
 Meanwhile, with fierce and maniac haste, 
 The furious Herman forward press d, 
 Clear d the small stream with sudden bound, 
 And leap d impetuous to the ground. 
 
352 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Oh, twas a dark and fearful sight ! 
 His writhing face was ghastly white ; 
 His horseman s cloak was deeply dyed 
 With the red life-blood from his side ; 
 His step was hurried and untrue ; 
 His scowling brow was bathed in dew, 
 And when he past his fingers o er, 
 They left its surface stain d with gore. 
 
 Still did his rigid features wear 
 Their darkly biting, withering sneer, 
 And in his eye a fiendish glare, 
 Revenge and hate had kindled there. 
 He waved his glancing sword on high, 
 And cried, " Defend thy life, or die !" 
 " I fight not," Erstein answer d slow, 
 " A frantic or a bleeding foe !" 
 
 A demon s rage fill d Herman s eye, 
 Which flash d around him fearfully. 
 " Then in thy coward folly die !" 
 Thus did he yell, and with the word 
 Plunged at his breast his ponderous sword. 
 The youth, who mark d each look with care, 
 Turn d and the weapon smote the air ; 
 Then, ere a second stroke was made, 
 Swift as the wind unsheath d his blade : 
 And springing forth, with gesture light, 
 Closed firmly in the desperate fight. 
 
 How did those sounds of doubt and fear 
 Ring on the maiden s listening ear ! 
 How did her veins convulsive swell, 
 As, fast and wild, the stern blows fell ! 
 But passion s rage must yield at length 
 To calmer reason s vigorous strength, 
 And Erstein s steel again was dew d 
 With the fierce Herman s gushing blood. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 353 
 
 Breathing one quick and startling yell, 
 Upon the trampled sward he fell, 
 And the dark life-stream gurgling fast, 
 Blent with the dew-drops on its breast, 
 And, as the current swifter sped, 
 Tinged the light sparkling stream with red ! 
 His clench d hands held, with rigid clasp, 
 The turf and flowers within their grasp, 
 And the cold, clammy, deathlike dew 
 In large drops gather d on his brow. 
 
 Then a dark shade of fell despair 
 
 Chased from its glance its frenzied glare, 
 
 And yielded to his upraised eye 
 
 A look of helpless agony ; 
 
 It roll d around from place to place, 
 
 And rested last on Erstein s face ; 
 
 Then shrunk from the moment s encounter again 
 
 With a mingled thrill of remorse and pain ; 
 
 Then he strove to speak, but the accents hung 
 
 Unform d on his quivering, palsied tongue. 
 
 Erstein the wounded sufferer gave 
 A cooling draught from the crystal wave, 
 And raising his form on the rivulet s brink, 
 Oh long and deeply did he drink, 
 Then, as o ercome with torturing pain, 
 Sank on the crimson d turf again. 
 
 Convulsions o er his features past, 
 
 And, with a fearful strength, at last 
 
 He started clench d his blood-stain d vest, 
 
 And groan d, " This mountain on my breast !" 
 
 Erstein bent o er him " Herman ! now 
 
 We stand no longer foe to foe ; 
 
 Tell me, if to one earthly thing 
 
 Thy parting spirit still doth cling ; 
 
 One deed, which, ere thy race was run, 
 
 Thou wouldst have purposed to have done ; 
 
351 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 One word of penitence to send 
 An injured or deluded friend; 
 And here I pledge my promise free, 
 That act shall be perform d for thee ! 
 Aught that may cast a softening ray 
 Around thy spirit s fearful way, 
 Or soothe that dark and drear abode 
 Unbrighten d by the smiles of God !" 
 
 " Of God ! Who spoke of God ? I own 
 
 No God but reckless chance alone ; 
 No hell more rife with pain and fear 
 Than that which burns and tortures here; 
 Though I could sink to black despair, 
 If I met not his spirit there ! 
 
 " Away, away ! each look, each word 
 Pierces my bosom like a sword ! 
 Tis thou whom I have injured, thou 
 Whose arm, in justice, laid me low ! 
 
 " Nay, leave me not, but come more near, 
 For my breath fails me bend thine ear ! 
 And ere from life for ever freed, 
 My soul shall boast one blameless deed ! 
 Child of a rich and ancient line, 
 Arnheim, its titles, lands, are thine !" 
 
 " Thou ravest !" " List ! if there be time, 
 Thine ears shall drink my tale of crime ! 
 I seem d thy father s friend, and he 
 Believed me all fidelity ; 
 He perish d in a foreign land, 
 And, Erstein, by this blood-stain d hand ! 
 Ay, shudder ! mark me well, and trace 
 The murderer s impress on my face ! 
 Yes ! neath a friend s disguise, there stole 
 A venom d serpent to his soul ! 
 In youth he dared to taunt me I 
 Vow d for the insult he should die ! 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 355 
 
 " It s very memory pass d from him ; 
 And when in after years I came, 
 Conceal d by friendship s mask and name, 
 He took me to his bosom, while 
 Revenge was lurking neath my smile. 
 He died ! start not, but bend thine ear, 
 For I must speak, and thou shall hear ! 
 Ay, though it rends my blacken d heart, 
 And tears each gaping wound apart ! 
 
 " He died ! I sought, with keenest hate, 
 
 The proofs of this, thy fair estate ; 
 
 I kept the parchments, that I still 
 
 Might guide thy fortunes at my will. 
 
 I hated for thy features bore 
 
 The smile, the glance thy father s wore. 
 
 " Avert that look ! the memory brings 
 A thousand, thousand scorpion stings ! 
 Ay, ay ! tis right, tis meet thy steel 
 This last and deadliest blow should deal ! 
 Tis right thy grateful hand should send 
 The death-blow to thy father s friend! 
 
 " But I must on ! I left that shore 
 
 I sought my native land once more : 
 
 I join d the robber s desperate band ; 
 
 I found the baron on thy land ; 
 
 Twas then I saw, I loved Lenore ! 
 
 Oh heavens ! and must I tell thee more ] 
 
 I play d the baron false, and he, 
 
 The fool ! the idiot ! trusted me ! 
 
 " Here, on my cold and labouring breast 
 
 Raise me here, here the parchments rest! 
 
 But my chill d limbs grow stiff the sand 
 
 Of life is running fast the hand 
 
 Of death is plunging deep his icy dart 
 
 His grasp is cold cold cold upon my heart !" 
 
356 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 The youth, with fix d and wondering eyes, 
 Bent o er his form in mute surprise ; 
 When loud, derisive laughter near, 
 Burst in discordance on his ear. 
 He rose, and saw before him stand 
 The dying Herman s ruffian band. 
 
 Returning from their midnight broil, 
 And laden with its varied spoil, 
 To their wild cave they led in haste 
 The aged baron and the priest. 
 But when in distance they beheld 
 Their leader s flight, so fierce and wild, 
 They turn d, pursued, and came to see 
 His last, expiring agony ; 
 And now, with laugh of scornful hate, 
 Like fiends they triumph d in his fate. 
 
 Those tones with direst vengeance rife, 
 
 Recall d their comrade s flickering life ! 
 
 With them unnumber d memories came 
 
 Again he raised his bleeding frame, 
 
 Gazed wildly on the furious band, 
 
 And shook his clench d and stiffening hand. 
 
 His cheek burn d with a livid glow, 
 
 A black scowl gather d on his brow, 
 
 A fierce revenge his visage fired 
 
 He groan d, fell backward, and expired. 
 
 Silence her breathless mantle threw 
 A moment o er that lawless crew, 
 And awe one instant gain d the place 
 Of triumph on each swarthy face, 
 But as the sun-ray glances past 
 The rugged cliff s unbending crest, 
 So did that faint beam disappear, 
 Lost in a dark, demoniac sneer. 
 The baron and the priest alone, 
 With trembling heard that dying groan, 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 357 
 
 And mark d with awe-struck pitying gaze, 
 His stiften d form and ghastly face. 
 
 Erstein first broke the silence dread, 
 And to the outlaw d chieftain said : 
 " Thou seekest spoil ! dost thou behold 
 This jewell d cross, this purse of gold! 
 These will I gladly give to gain 
 Two aged captives of thy train. 
 High ransom take, and yield to me 
 The priest s and baron s liberty." 
 
 " Yori priest I had design d to save 
 
 The contrite sinners in our cave. 
 
 Yon miser lord, to gather in 
 
 The gold our midnight frays shall win ! 
 
 This had I purposed, but in truth 
 
 Thy sword hath served us well, brave youth ! 
 
 By sending to the fiend who gave, 
 
 The spirit of that scowling knave. 
 
 Bestow on us that glittering store, 
 
 And swear to seek our spoil no more, 
 
 Then we will freely yield to thee 
 
 The aged captives liberty." 
 
 The pledge was given the band released 
 The aged baron and the priest, 
 And sweeping round a thicket nigh 
 Their dark forms vanish d to the eye. 
 With heaving breast and clouded brow 
 The baron wander d to and fro, 
 And wrung his hands with gestures wild, 
 And wept and cried, " My child ! my child !" 
 
 Swiftly the youthful Erstein fled 
 To the dark wood s embowering shade, 
 And soon as swift return d to lead 
 The fair Lenora s wearied steed. 
 
358 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 With joyful cry and agile bound, 
 The maiden sprang upon the ground, 
 And clasp d her father s neck around. 
 
 And o er and o er again he prest 
 
 The rescued maiden to his breast, 
 
 And gazed upon her features bright 
 
 With frantic transports of delight. 
 
 " My child ! my love ! my own Lenore ! 
 
 Come to thy father s heart once more, 
 
 Nor fear that thou again shalt be 
 
 A living sacrifice for me ! 
 
 But who preserved thee 1 where didst thou 
 
 Find refuge on that night, and how 7" 
 
 Her cheek with crimson blushes warm, 
 She turn d her eye on Erstein s form. 
 " And by what title shall I bless 1 
 " Erstein !" he groan d, " alas ! alas ! 
 It is the very name, tis he 
 Whom I have heap d with injury ! 
 A voice, too long a slighted guest, 
 Once more is whispering in my breast ! 
 And I will listen will obey ; 
 How shall I all these wrongs repay 1" 
 
 The youth s dark eye beamed purest fire, 
 
 And his quick pulses bounded higher. 
 
 " Oh let me, let me call thee sire !" 
 
 The baron bent his wondering gaze, 
 
 Upon the speaker s beaming face ; 
 
 The youth was at his feet his brow 
 
 Was burning with a crimson glow, 
 
 His lips were parted, and his cheek 
 
 Flush d with the thoughts he could not speak, 
 
 And his dark eye was raised above, 
 
 With mingled glance of hope and love. 
 
POETICAL REMAINS. 359 
 
 He turn d to Lenore, and her downcast eye, 
 Her trembling frame, her heaving sigh, 
 Her cheek, now flush d, now deadly pale, 
 In silence told the maiden s tale ! 
 
 " My children, be happy ! henceforth to your sire 
 Shall your peace be his highest, his noblest desire ; 
 He shall see you enjoy, with a rapture tenfold, 
 Those affections he well nigh had barter d for gold ! 
 And sorrow s dark pinion shall shadow no more 
 The loves of brave Erstein and fair Leonore." 
 
 1838. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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