The Forest Vine
It grew in the old wilderness—The vine
Is linked with thoughts of sunny Italy,
Or the fair hills of France, or the sweet vales
Where flows the Guadalquivir. But this grew
Where, as the sunlight look'd through lacing boughs,
The shadows of the stern, tall, primal wood
Fell round us, and across the silent flood,
That wash'd the deep ravine. The pauseless lapse
Of ages had beheld no change in all
The aspect of that scene; or but such change,
As Time himself had made; the slow decay
Of the old patriarch oaks, and as they fell
And moulder'd on the earth, the silent growth
Of the young sturdy stem, that rear'd itself
To stretch its branches in their former place.
The wild flower stretch'd its tender petals out,
Lending strange brightness to the forest gloom;
The fleet deer toss'd his antlers to the breeze,
Graceful and shy; and when the sun went down,
The tangled thicket rustled to the tread
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Anointing
The moon had risen.—Light was o'er the world
With all the freshness of the early day.
The feathery clouds that floated in the east,
Wore a faint tinge of crimson, and the voice
Of forest music; and a scented breath,
Of dewy flowers, came onward through the air.
The men of Bethlehem were gather'd round
The altar of their God; and the deep tones
Of Samuel's voice arose in solemn prayer;
The smoke curl'd upwards from the sacrifice,
In cloudy volumes first, then thin and slow,
Until the last faint wreath had disappear'd.
The prophet rose, and standing in the midst,
Stretch'd out his hands and bless'd them—and then spake—
“Thou, Jesse, son of Obed, of the tribe
Of lion Judah—hearken to my voice:
“Thus saith the Lord: ‘From Saul's anointed brow,
And from his hand, and those of all his sons,
The kingly sceptre and the crown shall pass,
As though he was not chosen of the Lord.'
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Soliloquy of a Duellist
They all at length have left me—long I wish'd
While round me with officious care they stood,
To dress this paltry wound, to be alone;
And now I find that solitude is dreadful—
Dreadful to one, upon whose burning soul,
The weight of murder rests! Oh, would to heaven
This day were blotted from the scroll of time:
Or, as indeed it seems, that some wild dream
Had wrapp'd me in its horrid tangled maze.
It is a dream,—it must be,—o'er my brain
Such strange bewildering seenes in memory crowd,
As are not, cannot be reality;
And yet this agony is too intense,
'T would rive the chains of sleep. This stiffen'd arm,
These bandages, and the sharp pain which shoots
Across my burning temples—these are real—
Oh, no—'t is not the phantasy of sleep—
He does lie bleeding, yonder, pale and dead;
I, too, am slightly wounded.—Would to heaven
The erring ball, that pierced this guilty arm,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Woman
There are who lightly speak with scornful smiles,
Of woman's faith, of woman's artful wiles;
Who call her false in heart, and weak in mind,
The slave of fashion, and to reason blind.
She may be such among the gilded bowers,
Where changing follies serve to waste the hours—
But bear her from the giddy world afar,
And place her lonely, like the evening star,
And with as bright, as pure, as calm a beam,
Her milder virtues will serenely gleam:
Go, place her by the couch of pale disease,
And bid her give the feverish pulses ease—
Say, will she not the task unmurmuring bear,
To soothe the anguish'd brow with tender care—
To trim the midnight lamp, and from her eye,
Though dim with watching, bid soft slumber fly—
With lightly whisper'd voice, and noiseless tread,
Glide, like an angel, round the sick man's bed—
With tireless patience watch the speaking eye,
And all unask'd his slightest wants supply?
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Confessions of The Year
The gray old year—the dying year,
His sands were well nigh run;
When there came by one in priestly weed,
To ask of the deeds he'd done.
“Now tell me, ere thou treadst the path
Thy brethren all have trode,
The scenes that life has shown to thee
Upon thine onward road.”
“I've seen the sunbeam rise and set,
As it rose and set before
And the hearts of men bent earthwardly,
As they have been evermore;
The Christian raised his hallow'd fanes,
And bent the knee to God;
But his hand was strong, and guilt and wrong
Defaced the earth he trod.
“The Indian, by his forest streams,
Still chased the good red deer,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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Washington City Prison
Thou dark and drear and melancholy pile!
Who seemest, like a guilty penitent,
To brood o'er horrors in thy bosom pent,
Until the sunbeams that around thee smile,
And the glad breath of heaven, have become
A hatred and a mockery to thy gloom—
Stern fabric! I'll commune with thee awhile!
And from thy hollow echoes, and the gale
That moans round thy dark cells, win back the tale
Of thy past history;—give thy stones a tongue,
And bid them answer me, and let the sighs
That round thy walls so heavily arise,
Be vocal, and declare from whence they sprung;
And by what passion of intense despair—
What aching throb of life consuming care,
From the torn heart of anguish they were wrung.
Receptacle of guilt! hath guilt, alone,
Stain'd with its falling tears thy foot-worn floor,
When the harsh echo of the closing door
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Lines On the Death of Two Children
WRITTEN WHEN BUT FIFTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
They sleep! but not theirs is the slumber that breaketh,
When night with its gloom and its darkness hath flown;
The morn in the light of its beauty awaketh,
But in silence and darkness they still slumber on:
They sleep, but no visions of sleep are around them,
That silence, that darkness, can never confound them;
For death, icy death, in his fetters hath bound them,
And round the young spirit his cold spell hath thrown.
Together in youth's brightest bloom they have wither'd,
Ere grief their young spirits had clouded with gloom,
And like flowers, in the light of their loveliness gather'd,
Whose fragrance is sweetest when faded their bloom;
So still shall their memory fondly be nourish'd,
In the hearts of their friends shall their virtues be cherish'd,
And though in the prime of their life they have perish'd,
Their remembrance shall be as a grateful perfume.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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A Sketch
Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,
And clustering locks of raven dye—
That o'er his lofty forehead hung,
In thick neglected masses flung,—
Contrasted strangely with the cheek
So wan, so sunken, and so pale,—
Save when the hectic's transient streak
Pass'd over it—and told a tale
Of silent suffering and decay,
That wore the springs of life away.
“Scarce five and twenty years,” he said,
“The light of heaven has round me shed;
But these few years of woe and crime,
Have done the lingering work of time.
I was a spoil'd and wayward boy,
In infancy my father's toy;
Each wild caprice, each childish whim,
Was humour'd and indulged by him;
Until my passions, unrestrain'd,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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New Year's Eve
Night! with its thousand stars, and the deep hush
That makes its darkness solemn! The winds rush
In troubled music, o'er the wooded hill,
And the wide plain where creeps the fetter'd rill,
In wintry silence; but a softer sound
Of melody from man's lit halls swells round
No slumber yet to-night! the hours fleet on,
With converse, song, and laughter's joyous tone;
The young and gay are met in social mirth,
Or the home circle gathers round the hearth,
Or swelling upwards from the house of prayer,
The voice of praise concludes the passing year.
'T is almost midnight now;—hark! hush!—the bell
At once a note of triumph and a knell!
A sudden silence—the quick breath quell'd,
The speaker's voice in mute suspension held;
What thousand thoughts are in that moment press'd—
Past, present, future, crowding on the breast,
As stroke by stroke tolls on!—and then a start—
A sudden lightning of the eye and heart,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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A Vision
Night o'er the earth her dusky robe had spread,
With gloom unwonted, moon and stars conceal'd
By dense and murky clouds, denied their light.
I musing lay reclined, involved in thought,
And pondering o'er the various changing scenes
This land had witness'd, until slumbers soft
Succeeded to my reverie, yet stole
So lightly over me, that I was still
Unconscious that I slept; and still my thoughts
Pursued the path, and wander'd o'er the scenes
Where they had waking roved. What! I exclaim'd,
Would be the feelings, or the words of Penn,
Did he now view the fair wide commonwealth,
Whose infancy was foster'd by his care?
I scarce had spoken, when an airy form
Before me stood. Her dark and piercing eye
Was lighted by a smile, that o'er her face,
In female beauty rich, benignant play'd.
Her tresses unadorn'd, save with a wreath
Of dewy wild-flowers, o'er her shoulders flung,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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