On a great coxcomb

(recovering from an Indisposition)

Narcissus (as Ovid informs us) expir'd,
Consum'd by the flames his own beauty had fir'd;
But N---o (who like him is charm'd with his face,
And sighs for his other fair-self in the glass)
Loves to greater excess than Narcissus---for why?
He loves himself too much to let himself die.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Thaumantia and Fame

Go Thaumantia,' said Jove, 'and descend from the sky,
'For Fame's golden clarion I hear;
'Go learn what great mortal's desert is so high
'As to ask notes so loud, sweet, and clear.
The goddess in haste met the starry wing'd dame,
And demands why her notes she does raise?
'For the greatest of patriots and heroes,' said Fame,
'Tell Jove it is Washington's praise!'

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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A prospect of death

Death! thou real friend of innocence,
Tho' dreadful unto shivering sense,
I feel my nature tottering o'er
Thy gloomy waves, which loudly roar:
Immense the scene, yet dark the view,
Nor Reason darts her vision thro'.
Virtue! supreme of earthly good,
Oh let thy rays illume the road;
And when dash'd from the precipice,
Keep me from sinking in the seas:
Thy radient wings, then wide expand,
And bear me to celestial land.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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On seeing Miss S. T. E. crossing the Hudson

Tis she, upon the sapphire flood,
Whose charms the world surprise,
Whose praises, chanted in the wood,
Are wafted to the skies,

To view the heaven of her eyes,
Where'er the light barque moves,
The green hair'd sisters, smiling, rise
From out their sea-girt groves.

E'en Neptune quits his glassy caves,
And calls out from afar,
'So Venus look'd, when o'er the waves
'She drove her pearly car.'

He bids the winds to caves retreat,
And there confin'd to roar:
'But here,' said he, 'forbear to breathe,
'Till Susan comes on shore.'

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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A complaint

Tell me thou all pervading mind,
When I this life forsake,
Must ev'ry tender tie unbind,
Each sweet connection break?

How shall I leave thee, oh! my love,
And blooming progeny?
If I without thee mount above,
'Twill be no heav'n to me.

Ah! when beneath the arching vault
My lifeless form's remov'd,
Let not oblivion sink the thought,
How much, how long I lov'd.

Come oft my grassy tomb to see,
And drop thy sorrows there;
No balmy dews of heav'n shall be
Refreshing as thy tear.

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Julia Amanda

Fair Julia Amanda, now since it is peace,
Methinks your hostilities also should cease;
The shafts from your eyes, and the snares of your smile,
Should cease---or at least be suspended awhile:
'Tis cruel to point your artillery of charms
Against the poor lads who have laid down their arms.

The sons of Bellona who Britain defies,
Altho' bulletproof, must they fall by your eyes?
In vain have they bled, they have conquer'd in vain,
If returning in triumph, they yield to your chain.
For shame! in the olive's salubrious shade
Your murders restrain, and let peace be obey'd;
Since Europe negociates, alter your carriage,
While they treat of peace, make a treaty of marriage.

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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A short pastoral dialogue

(Designed for the use of her daughter and niece when very young)

LUCIA.
Come, my Delia, by this spring
Nature's bounties let us sing,
While the popler's silver shade
O'er our lambkins is display'd.

DELIA.
See how she has deck'd the ground
Op'ning flow'rets blush around;
Crystals glitter on each hill,
Polish'd by the falling rill.

LUCIA.
Here the berries bend the vine,
Lucid grapes at distance shine;
Here the velvet peach, and there
Apples, and the pendant pear.

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Another

Still apprehending death and pain,
To whom great God shall I complain?
To whom pour out my tears
But to the pow'r that gave me breath,
The arbiter of life and death,
The ruler of the spheres?

Soon to the grave's Cimmerian shade
I must descend without thine aid,
To stop my spirit's flight;
Leave my dear partner here behind,
And blooming babe, whose op'ning mind
Just lets in Reason's light.

When she, solicitous to know
Why I indulge my silent woe,
Clings fondly round my neck,
My passions then know no commands,
My heart with swelling grief expands,
Its tender fibres break.

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Recollection

Soon as the gilded clouds of evening fly,
And Luna lights her taper in the sky,
The silent thought inspiring solemn scene
Awakes my soul to all that it has been.
I was the parent of the softest fair
Who ere respir'd in wide Columbia's air;
A transient glance of her love beaming eyes
Convey'd into the soul a paradise.
How has my cheek with rapture been suffus'd,
When sunk upon my bosom she repos'd?
I envied not the ermin'd prince of earth,
Nor the gay spirit of æriel birth;
Nor the bright angel circumfus'd with light,
While the sweet charmer liv'd to bless my sight.

What art thou now, my love!---a few dry bones,
Unconscious of my unavailing moans:
Oh! my Abella! oh! my bursting heart
Shall never from thy dear idea part!
Thro' Death's cold gates thine image will I bear,

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Lines To Grief

COME Grief, and sing a solemn dirge
Beneath this midnight shade;
From central darkness now emerge,
And tread the lonely glade.
This is the cheerless hour of night,
For sorrow only made;
When no intrusive rays of light,
The silent gloom pervade.
Though such the darkness of my soul,
Not such the calmness there;
But waves of guilt tumultuous roll
'Midst billows of despair.
Fallacious Pleasure's tinsel train
My soul rejects with scorn;
If higher joys she can't attain,
She'd rather choose to mourn.
For bliss superior she was made;
Or for extreme despair;
If pain awaits her past the dead,
Why should she triumph here?

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker
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