To Mrs. D---
Dear Betsey now Pleasure the woodland has left,
Nor more in the water she laves,
Since winter the trees of their bloom has bereft,
And stiffen'd to crystal the waves.
Now clad all in fur our guest she appears,
By the fire-side a merry young grig;
She pours out the wine, our pensiveness cheers,
And at night leads us out to a jig.
Then venture among the tall pines if you dare,
Encounter the keen arctic wind;
Dare this for to meet with affection sincere,
And Pleasure untainted you'll find.
I know you have Pleasure, my sister, by whiles,
But then she appears in great state;
She is hard of access, and lofty her smiles,
While Envy and Pride on her wait.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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On the immensity of creation
Oh! could I borrow some celestial plume,
This narrow globe should not confine me long
In its contracted sphere---the vast expanse,
Beyond where thought can reach, or eye can glance,
My curious spirit, charm'd should traverse o'er,
New worlds to find, new systems to explore:
When these appear'd, again I'd urge my flight
Till all creation open'd to my sight.
Ah! unavailing wish, absurd and vain,
Fancy return and drop thy wing again;
Could'st thou more swift than light move steady on,
Thy sight as broad, and piercing as the sun,
And Gabriel's years too added to thy own;
Nor Gabriel's sight, nor thought, nor rapid wing,
Can pass the immense domains of th' eternal King;
The greatest seraph in his bright abode
Can't comprehend the labours of a God.
Proud reason fails, and is confounded here;
---Man how contemptible thou dost appear!
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Mr. L-----
The sun that gilds the western sky
And makes the orient red,
Whose gladsome rays delight the eye
And cheer the lonely shade,
Withdraws his vegetative heat,
To southern climes retires;
While absent, we supply his seat
With gross, material fires.
'Tis new-year's morn; each rustic swain
Ambrosial cordials take;
And round the fire the festive train
A semi-circle make:
While clouds ascend, of sable smoke,
From pipes of ebon hue,
With inharmonick song and joke
They pass the morning through.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Despondency
Come Grief, and sing a solemn dirge
Beneath this midnight shade;
From central darkness now emerge,
And tread the lonely glade.
Attend each mourning pow'r around,
While tears incessant flow;
Strike all your strings with doleful sound,
Till Grief melodious grow.
This is the cheerless hour of night,
For sorrow only made,
When no intrusive ray of light
The silent glooms pervade.
Tho' such the darkness of my soul,
Not such the calmness there,
But waves of guilt tumultuous roll
'Midst billows of despair.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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On reading Dryden's Virgil
Now cease these tears, lay gentle Vigil by,
Let recent sorrows dim the pausing eye:
Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn,
And tears be wanting on Abella's urn?
Like him I lost my fair one in my flight
From cruel foes---and in the dead of night.
Shall he lament the fall of Illion's tow'rs,
And we not mourn the sudden ruin of our's?
See York on fire---while borne by winds each flame
Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main:
Th' affrighted savage, yelling with amaze,
From Allegany sees the rolling blaze.
Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade
I saw my aged parent safe convey'd;
Then sadly follow'd to the friendly land,
With my surviving infant by the hand.
No cumb'rous houshold gods had I indeed
To load my shoulders, and my flight impede;
The hero's idols sav'd by him remain;
My gods took care of me---not I of them!
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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On Mrs. Johanna Lupton
Her soul, unsetter'd from the bands of clay,
With swift-wing'd haste to heaven takes its way;
She tow'rs the æriel space on wings divine,
While weeping friends surround the bloodless shrine:
The soften'd heart there breathes a tender sigh,
And grief sits pensive in each moisten'd eye:
Suppress the rising tear, and with her sing,
'Death, where's thy vict'ry? Grave, where is thy sting?'
Sing how with God she rests in endless day,
All tears of sorrow ever wip'd away;
'Sing how by tortures heav'n her faith has try'd;
'The saint endur'd it, tho' the woman dy'd!'
Ah, nature will prevail! 'tis all in vain:
Say, sacred muse, what loss do we sustain?
She wip'd the eye of grief---it ceas'd to flow;
Her pitying heart still felt another's woe;
Indigent virtue shar'd her earthly store;
She call'd herself God's steward for the poor:
A duteous child; a faithful, loving wife;
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Miss Catharine Ten Eyck
Come and see our habitation,
condescend to be our guest;
Tho' the veins of warring nations
Bleed, yet here secure we rest.
By the light of Cynthia's crescent,
Playing thro' the waving trees;
When we walk, we wish you present
To participate our bliss.
Late indeed, the cruel savage
Here with looks ferocious stood;
Here the rustic's cot did ravage,
Stain'd the grass with human blood.
Late their hands sent conflagration
Rolling thro' the blooming wild,
Siez'd with death, the brute creation
Mourn'd, while desolation smil'd.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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A hymn
Omnicient and eternal God,
Who hear'st the faintest pray'r
Distinct as Hallelujahs loud,
Which round thee hymned are.
Here, far from all the world retir'd,
I humbly bow the knee,
And wish, (as I have long desir'd,)
An interest in thee.
But my revolting heart recedes
And rushes to the croud;
My passions stop their ears and lead,
Tho' conscience warns aloud.
How deeply sinful is my mind?
To every ill how prone?
How stubborn my dead heart I find
Insensible as stone?
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To the same (Mr. L-----) III
Dear brother, to these happy shades repair,
And leave, Oh leave the city's noxious air:
I'll try description, friend---methinks I see
'Twill influence your curiosity.
Before our door a meadow flies the eye,
Circled by hills, whose summits croud the sky;
The silver lily there exalts her head,
And op'ning roses balmy odours spread,
While golden tulips flame beneath the shade.
In short, not Iris with her painted bow,
Nor varied tints an evening fun can show,
Can the gay colours of the flow'rs exceed,
Whose glowing leaves diversify this mead:
And when the blooms of Flora disappear,
The weighty fruits adorn the satiate year:
Here vivid cherries bloom in scarlet pride,
And purple plums blush by the cherries side;
The sable berries bend the pliant vines,
And smiling apples glow in crimson rinds;
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Miss Ten Eyck II
Dear Kitty, while you rove thro' sylvan bow'rs,
Inhaling fragrance from salubrious flow'rs,
Or view your blushes mant'ling in the stream,
When Luna gilds it with her amber beam;
The brazen voice of war awakes our fears,
Impearling every damask cheek with tears.
The savage, rushing down the echoing vales,
Frights the poor hind with ill portending yells;
A livid white his consort's cheeks invest;
She drops her blooming infant from her breast;
She tries to fly, but quick recoiling fees
The painted Indian issuing from the trees;
Then life suspensive sinks her on the plain,
Till dire explosions wake her up again.
Oh horrid sight! her partner is no more;
Pale is his corse, or only ting'd with gore;
Her playful babe is dash'd against the stones,
Its scalp torn off, and fractur'd all its bones.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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