The Bereaved Father
Ye have gone from me, gentle ones!
With all your shouts of mirth;
A silence is within my walls,
A darkness round my hearth.
The brightness from my life has gone,
The gladness from my heart!
Alas! alas! that such as you
From home and love should part!
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved,
The mother's anguish'd shriek!
And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears
That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence,
My innocent and good!
Not e'en the tigress of the wild,
Thus tears her fellow's brood.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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To a Particular Friend
“We took sweet counsel together, we went to the
house of the Lord in company.”——Psalms.
We've sat beside the forest stream,
And watch'd the bright wave rippling by,
Now flashing back the summer beam,
Then dark'ning like a half-shut eye,
As whispering to the joyous breeze,
Down closer bent the shadowing trees.
Thy hand was clasp'd in mine, my friend,
And heart to heart was answering then;
Although, perchance, our tones might send
No echo down the rocky glen—
Or if we spoke, 't was language fraught
With all the others’ voiceless thought.
Oh! it was sweet to linger there,
Beneath a sky so purely blue,
And breathe the gather'd sweets, the air
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Reminiscence
Away and away to memory's land!
To seize the past with a daring hand,
And bear it back from oblivion's bowers,
To brighten again this dull world of ours.
There's many a walk beneath summer skies,
Starry and blue as some earthly eyes;
There's many an eve by the winter's hearth,
Sparkling all over with friendship and mirth.
There's many a ramble through wood and glen,
Away from the sight and the haunts of men;
There's climbing of rocks, and gathering flowers,
And watching the stream through summer showers.
There's many an hour that quickly went,
In the boughs of the old hill grape-vine spent;
There's many a ride, and many a walk,
And many a theme of friendly talk.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Oh Tell Me Not, I Shall Forget
Oh! tell me not I shall forget,
Amid the scenes of nature's reign,
The cheeks with bitter tear-drops wet,
The hearts whose every throb is pain.
The wood-bird's merry notes may ring,
Exulting ‘neath the clear blue sky:
But louder still the breezes bring
The echo of a sister's cry.
The forest brook may sparkle fair,
And win my heart to love its sheen;
But still it shows me, mirror'd there,
The image of a distant scene.
The verdant sod around my feet,
The treasure of its flowers may spread,
And close embowering branches meet,
In fresh'ning coolness, o'er my head.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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The Indian Camp
I stood amidst its solitude! where erst
The mighty of the desert dwelt, ere yet
The thunder-cloud of desolation burst
In darkness o'er them; ere their sun had set,
And pale-faced strangers from the ocean's strand,
Had look'd with evil eye across their fathers’ land.
When, like the wild-deer of their own dark woods,
They trod with bounding steps its gloomy maze
Fearless and free; or stemm'd the rushing flood
In light canoe; and pausing but to raise
Their whoop of terror, rush'd to distant war,
With breast and brow still mark'd with many a former scar.
Methinks I see them now, as evening came,
Returning homeward from the lengthen'd chase,
The haughty fierceness of their brows grown tame,
And round their necks fond childhood's soft embrace;
While lips of age their simple welcome spoke,
And silent smiles of love in gentle eyes awoke.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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To A Stranger
I know thee not, young maiden, yet I know that there must be
Around that heart of thine, sweet ties of clinging sympathy;
Dwell'st thou not ‘midst thy childhood's hours, a loved and loving one,
Around whose path affection's light hath ever sunshine thrown?
A sister's arm is round thee twined, perchance, oh deeply blest!
A parent's fond and holy kiss upon thy brow is prest;
A brother's love—is that, too, thine?—a gem of priceless worth,
To guard thee, like a talisman, amid the storms of earth.
Then blame me not, that I should seek, although I know not thee,
To waken in thy heart its chords of holiest sympathy;
It is for woman's bleeding heart, for woman's humbled form,
O'er which the reeking lash is swung, with life's red current warm.
It is for those who wildly mourn o'er many a broken tie,
As sweet as those which swell thy heart with happiness so high;
For those whose hearts are rent and crush'd by foul oppression's hand,
The wrong'd, the wretched, the enslaved, in freedom's chosen land.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Christmas
Mother, when christmas comes once more,
I do not wish that you
Should buy sweet things for me again,
As you were used to do:
The taste of cakes and sugar-plums
Is pleasant to me yet,
And temptingly the gay shops look,
With their fresh stores outset.
But I have learn'd, dear mother,
That the poor and wretched slave
Must toil to win their sweetness,
From the cradle to the grave.
And when he faints with weariness
Beneath the torrid sun,
The keen lash urges on his toil,
Until the day is done.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Slave-Ship
The Slave-ship was winding her course o'er the ocean,
The winds and the waters had sunk into rest;
All hush'd was the whirl of the tempest's commotion,
That late had awaken'd the sailor's devotion,
When terror had kindled remorse in his breast.
And onward she rode, though by curses attended,
Though heavy with guilt was the freight that she bore,
Though with shrieks of despair was the midnight air rended,
And ceaseless the groans of the wretches ascended,
That from friends and from country forever she tore.
On the deck, with his head on his fetter'd hand rested,
He who once was a chief and a warrior stood;
One moment he gain'd, by his foes unmolested,
To think o'er his woes, and the fate he detested,
Till madness was firing his brain and his blood.
“Oh, never!” he murmur'd in anguish, “no, never!
These limbs shall be bent to the menial's toil!
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1825)
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The Slave
It was a glorious sunset hour:—a scent
Of rich perfume, from many a twisted wreath
Of summer blossoms, clustering in their wild
And free profusion, ‘neath a southern sky,
Came on the evening breeze, and streams went by
With a glad tone, and the hush'd birds came forth
From the thick woods, and lifted up the voice
Of their hearts’ mirthful music. Painted wings
Were fluttering on the breeze, and the bees’ hum
Made a glad melody.—
At a hill's foot,
Beside a gushing stream, and ‘neath a clump
Of close embowering trees, there stood a cot,
At whose low door a mother sung to rest,
With a sad lullaby, her infant boy.
I.
These southern climes are bright, are bright,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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John Woolman
Meek, humble, sinless as a very child,
Such wert thou,—and, though unbeheld, I seem
Oft-times to gaze upon thy features mild,
Thy grave, yet gentle lip, and the soft beam
Of that kind eye, that knew not how to shed
A glance of aught save love, on any human head.
Servant of Jesus! Christian! not alone
In name and creed, with practice differing wide,
Thou didst not in thy conduct fear to own
His self-denying precepts for thy guide.
Stern only to thyself, all others felt
Thy strong rebuke was love, not meant to crush, but melt.
Thou, who didst pour o'er all the human kind
The gushing fervour of thy sympathy!
E'en the unreasoning brute, fail'd not to find
A pleader for his happiness in thee.
Thy heart was moved for every breathing thing,
By careless man exposed to needless suffering.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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