To Miss M. V. W
Peggy, amidst domestic cares to rhyme
I find no pleasure, and I find no time;
But then, a Poetess, you may suppose,
Can better tell her mind in verse than prose:
True---when serenely all our moments roll,
Then numbers flow spontaneous from the soul:
Not when the mind is harrassed by cares,
Or stunn'd with thunders of intestine wars,
Or circled by a noisy, vulgar throng,
(Noise ever was an enemy to song.)
What tho' the spiral pines around us rise,
And airy mountains intercept the skies,
Faction has chac'd away the warbling Muse,
And Echo only learns to tattle news,
Each clown commences politician here,
And calculates th' expences of the year;
He quits his plow, and throws aside his spade,
To talk with squire about decrease of trade:
His tedious spouse detains me in her turn,
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Return to Tomhanick
Hail, happy shades! tho' clad with heavy snows,
At sight of you with joy my bosom glows;
Ye arching pines, that bow with every breeze,
Ye poplars, elms, all hail my well-known trees!
And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye,
And now the tinkling rivulet I spy;
My little garden Flora hast thou kept,
And watch'd my pinks and lilies while I wept?
Or has the grubbing swine, by furies led,
Th' inclosure broke, and on my flowrets fed?
Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately grac'd,
With storms and driving snows is now defac'd;
Sharp icicles from ev'ry bush depend,
And frosts all dazzling o'er the beds extend:
Yet soon fair Spring shall give another scene,
And yellow cowslips gild the level green;
My little orchard sprouting at each bough,
Fragrant with clust'ring blossoms deep shall glow:
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Mr. Bleecker
Yes, I invok'd the Muses' aid
To help me write, for 'tis their trade;
But only think, ungrateful Muses,
They sent dame Iris with excuses,
They'd other business for to follow,
Beg'd I'd apply to God Apollo.
The God said, as heav'n's charioteer,
He had no time to mind us here;
Said if we rac'd round earth like Phoebus
One day, it sadly would fatigue us;
Yet we expect, when tir'd at night,
He'd stay from bed to help us write:
Nor need we ask his sister Phoebe,
For turning round had made her giddy;
Her inspiration would confuse us,
So counsell'd us to coax the Muses.
Quite disappointed at this lecture
I left his worship sipping nectar;
But, pettishly as I left his dome,
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Written in the retreat from Burgoyne
Was it for this, with thee a pleasing load,
I sadly wander'd thro' the hostile wood;
When I thought fortune's spite could do no more,
To see thee perish on a foreign shore?
Oh my lov'd babe! my treasure's left behind,
Ne'er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind;
Rich in my children---on my arms I bore
My living treasures from the scalper's pow'r:
When I sat down to rest beneath some shade,
On the soft grass how innocent she play'd,
While her sweet sister, from the fragrant wild,
Collects the flow'rs to please my precious child;
Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves,
Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves.
Soon as the spires of Albany appear'd,
With fallacies my rising grief I cheer'd;
'Resign'd I bear,' said I, 'heaven's just reproof,
'Content to dwell beneath a stranger's roof;
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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To Mr. Bleecker, on his passage to New York
Shall Fancy still pursue th' expanding sails,
Calm Neptune's brow, or raise impelling gales?
Or with her Bleecker, ply the lab'ring oar,
When pleasing scenes invite him to the shore,
There with him thro' the fading vallies rove,
Blest in idea with the man I love?
Methinks I see the broad majestic sheet
Swell to the wind; the flying shores retreat:
I see the banks, with varied foliage gay,
Inhale the misty sun's reluctant ray;
The lofty groves, stript of their verdure, rise
To the inclemence of autumnal skies.
Rough mountains now appear, while pendant woods
Hang o'er the gloomy steep and shade the floods;
Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound
The cavern'd echoes doubly loud rebound:
A placid stream meanders on the steep,
'Till tumbling from the cliff, divides the frowning deep.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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A pastoral dialogue
SCENE---TOMHANICK.
1780.
SUSANNA.
Eliza, rise, the orient glows with day,
Already Phosphor darts his amber ray;
The fainting planets vanish from the skies,
Distinct already all the prospects rise;
Begin our walk, but cheer the lonely way
With music, previous to the swallow's lay.
ELIZA.
My sister, cease, these hostile shades refuse
Admission to the lute or peaceful Muse;
Lo! the broad standard shades the flow'ry plain,
Nor crooks (but musquets) arm the awkward swain;
Death's heavy engines thunder thro' the vale,
And Echo but retorts the savage yell;
From undissembled grief my numbers flow,
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Joseph
With many children was the Patriarch blest,
Yet Joseph he preferr'd before the rest:
To tend his flock was all the youth's employ
To serve his God and Sire his only joy:
Jacob of his lov'd consort now depriv'd,
Beheld her graces in the son reviv'd;
And all the love he had to Rachel gone,
Was by degrees transferr'd unto her son.
A silken vest, that cast a various shade,
He fondly to the boy a present made:
Here vivid scarlet strove with lively green,
The purple, blended with the white, was seen,
And azure spots were interspers'd between.
This gaudy robe (the basis of his woe,
The source from which his future sorrows flow)
Kindled his elder brethren's wakeful pride:
(When envy mounts, affection will subside)
Their dawning hate in vain to hide they strove,
Each look too plain confess'd expiring love.
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poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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