SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)

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Saturday Evening Post A Statute by Miss H. Hearth and Home Daily Easter Argus Harper's New Monthly Magazine Rose Elizabeth Cleveland, from "The Dilemma of the nineteenth century". Bustill , Good Night; Sarah C. Journal of American Folk-Lore Harriet Maxwell Converse, trans. Lippmann, Sweet Peas; Katherine T. Prescott, A November Prairie. Mary Kent Davey, trans. Nineteenth Century American Women Poets: Added to Your Shopping Cart.

Description Paula Bernat's anthology, based on seven years of pioneering archival research, establishes nineteenth-century American women's poetry as a major field in American literature and American women's history. Lydia Huntley Sigourney Flora's Party, Indian Names. Zinzendorff, and Other Poems The Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers. Christian Parlor Magazine A Scene at Sea.

Mother's Assistant and Young Lady's Friend Maria Gowen Brooks ? Elizabeth Oakes Smith Southern Literary Messenger A Poem in Seven Parts: Frances Anne Butler Kemble Sarah Margaret Fuller Manuscript Poem ; Steele, Double Triangle, Serpent and Rays. Frances Sargent Locke Osgood North America Daily Fanny Fay's Baby Jumper. My Country, An Appeal to Women. Julia Ward Howe Battle-Hymn of the Republic MS The Hunter and the Doe.

A Rhyme of the Bay State. Black Mountain in Bearcamp Lake. Wild Roses of Cape Ann Frances Ellen Watkins Harper Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects Bible Defence of Slavery. To the Cleveland Union Savers. Rose Terry Cooke Rosa Vertner Johnson Jeffery Women of the South Helen Hunt Jackson Her Eyes, My Bees: A Dream MS Adah Isaacs Menken Judith, Working and Waiting, Answer Me. In Kittery Churchyard, Wherefore. At the Breakers' Edge. The Cruise of the Mystery and Other Poems Harriet Prescott Spofford Louise Chandler Moulton Where the Night's Pale Roses Blow.

At the Wind's Will Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt Giving Back the Flower, Shapes of a Soul. A Hundred Years Ago. There was a Rose. A Ghost at the Opera. Her Blindness in Grief. An Enchanted Castle In the Round Tower at Cloyne. Child's World Ballards A Mistake in the Bird-Market. Heart's-Ease over Henry Heine. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Songs of the Silent World and Other Poems The Stone Woman of Eastern Point. The Twain of Her. Songs of a Semite Love Song of a Alcharisi.

Little Poems in Prose," IV. The Poems of Emma Lazarus The New Colossus , Venus of the Louvre. Manuscript Poem date unknown; Vogel, Henrietta Cordelia Ray Fair Shadow Land The Torches of the Dawn, Losers. The Dancers and Other Legends and Lyrics The Guest at the Gate Lizette Woodworth Reese A Branch of May A Quiet Road Telling the Bees, In Time of Grief. A War Memory , Drought. A Flower of Mullein. White April and Other Poems Crows, White April, Nina. Pastures and Other Poems The Widower, To a Young Poet. Charlotte Perkins Gilman Louise Imogen Guiney A Book of Verses We will not trust ourselves to speak the fervent praises its heartmelting simplicity awakes; but to us it is far more useful than the most learned and eloquent sermon could be, upon the fourth commandment.

Two hundred years ago kindles enthusiasm as one reads it, for it is full of holy fire, and has moreover a sound like a far-reaching trumpet, full of exultation and triumph. Morn was published, without the writer's knowledge, in England, where it was so highly appreciated as to be translated into other languages. James Montgomery, of Sheffield, says, in a letter to Dr. Gray, "The critics who have mistaken the beautiful stanzas,' Morn,' for mine, have done me honour; but I willingly forego the claim, and am happy to recognise a sister-poet in the writer.

Gray is, in our estimation, almost unrivalled. She was married in September, , to Professor Charles Follen, who perished in the conflagration of the steamer Lexington, in the winter of Her chief work is the Memoir of her husband, published in five volumes; but several other interesting books in prose have appeared from her pen: In poetry, she has written Hymns, Songs, and Fables for children; and another little book called Nursery Songs. A volume of Poems was published in Boston in ; from which we select the following pieces, as a fair specimen of her sweet and serious style.

John Park, was a physician; but at that time he had given up the practice of his profession, and was editing the Repertory, a well-known federal paper. In , he opened a school for young ladies in Boston, to which city he had removed several years before, with a view of giving his daughter a more liberal education than was common at that period, and keeping her at the same time under his own immediate care.

She improved her advantages to the utmost; the chaste and correct style of her writings shows that the study and discipline of her early years must have been thorough and unwavering. None of her poems appeared in print until after she was twenty; they were then published anonymously in the Literary Gazette, and other periodicals. Park removed to Worcester, Mass. Hall, of Providence, R.

Miriam, a Dramatic Sketch , the admirable production on which Mrs. Hall's fame as a poet chiefly rests, was begun in the summer of , and finished the following summer. Not believing that it possessed sufficient merit to claim attention from the literary world, she allowed ten years to pass before publishing it; then the commendations it received, which were neither faint nor few, surprised no one so much as its modest author.

The story is simple and interesting; the characters are drawn with much spirit and skill; and some passages display no ordinary amount of power and pathos. Her other principal work is in prose, Joanna of Naples, an Historical Tale ; published in Ill health, failure of eyesight, and great distrust of her own powers, have prevented her from being a very prolific writer; but her essays and reviews which have occasionally appeared, and her successful efforts in poetry, prove that the deficiency lies, not in the talent, but the will to use it.

Is a Philadelphian by birth; the daughter of Mr. John Lorrain, a merchant of that city. She now resides in Easton, Pennsylvania, where, for many years past, she has been confined to one house, almost to one room, by the illness of her husband. Her poems frequently appear in Neal's Saturday Gazette; but they are written less for the public than for a circle of warmly-attached friends. A vein of tenderness runs through them all. KINNEY, whose maiden name was Dodge, was born and educated in the city of New York, where her father was for many years engaged in mercantile pursuits.

The love of nature was always one of her strongest characteristics, and on removing to her father's country home near Plainfield, N. Her first productions appeared in the Knickerbocker, under the name of Stedman, but for a number of years she has been an occasional contributor to Graham's Magazine, and other periodicals. In , she was married to Mr. Kinney, the talented editor of the Newark Daily Advertiser, and has resided at Newark ever since.

There is much genuine feeling, a delicate perception of the beautiful, and an honest love for the simple and true, in her effusions, which cannot fail to please. LOUD, formerly Miss Barstow, was born in Bradford County, Pennsylvania; and passed the early part of her life in the beautiful retirement of her native home, enjoying unrestrained intercourse with the wildest scenes of wood and valley that are to be found among the windings of the Susquehannah.

Although when a child she committed whole volumes of poetry to memory, and studied with fond devotion the best poets, as well as nature, one of the best teachers a poet can have, it was not until the time of her marriage in , that her own talent began to develope itself. She is now quite an accomplished writer, and contributes to various magazines and daily journals; her poems often possess much melody of language, graceful thought, and tender feeling. THE writings of this lady, both in prose and verse, have chiefly appeared in The Rose of Sharon, a religious annual, and The Flower Vase, a small volume of selected poetry; — both of which were edited by her friend, the late Mrs.

The extracts we give, show an easy and earnest mode of expression, and a cheerful heart,. She is a daughter of the late Hon. Levi Bartlett, of Kingston, N. Since her marriage she has lived at Portland, Maine, and Cincinnati, Ohio; she now resides at the former place. Her father, the Rev. Bogart, was a graduate of Columbia College, where he took the first honours in his class, and a clergyman highly esteemed among his contemporaries, as a fine classical scholar, and an eloquent and effective preacher.

To his constant instructions, Miss Bogart was indebted for her education, and under his encouraging care, her love for literary pursuits was cherished and indulged. Her poems have never been collected into a volume; nor has she being a lady of independent fortune, ever been compelled to write by any other motive than her own pleasure, or better still, to soothe sorrows not her own.

Very often, we doubt not, the tribute of grateful love and praise dearer than fame to a pious heart has been gladly rendered to her, for the gentle sympathy of her friendly verses. One of her poems has been so frequently re-published, and so much admired, that Miss Bogart might be specified as the author of He came too late ; there is so much nature and simple dignity about this general favourite, that it shall be the first we select. Sigourney, in her Biography of Pious Women, to set forth the brightest examples of religious excellence.

They lived at Stockbridge, Massachusetts; and the subject of this brief notice, who was born in Penobscot County, Me. Afterwards she contributed to the New York Mirror, and wrote many tales and poems for the annuals, which were then in their palmiest days.

In May , she became a teacher in the Albany Female Academy; and in ten years from that time, removed to a similar institution newly established in Brooklyn, where she still pursues with mingled gentleness and energy, her useful and honourable, though often wearisome, vocation. There is much simplicity and religious hopefulness about her effusions, which are mostly inspired by the feelings of friendship and sympathy.

Her father was a respectable farmer, who had been educated liberally, and had studied medicine; but while he resided in the country devoted himself principally to agriculture. Her mother whose maiden name was Margaret Evans died when she was an infant; and soon after this event, the family removed to Philadelphia, where Elizabeth was placed under the care of her grandmother, attended a school established by the society of Friends, and quickly evinced her fondness for literary pursuits, and her genius for poetry. Before she was sixteen, she had contributed many excellent articles in prose and verse, to some of the most popular magazines of the day; but her retiring habits, and determined resolution to keep back her name from the public, prevented her talents from obtaining the notice they deserved.

She became a member of an Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia, and laboured with her pen very industriously in its behalf. In the summer of , she removed with an aunt and brother to Michigan. The spot they chose for a dwelling was on the banks of the river Raisin, near the village of Tecumseh. Elizabeth gave it the name of Hazlebank, and enjoyed herself much amidst its wild forest scenes, searching after Indian traditions, and gathering food for poetry and romance from their legendary lore.

Here she lived four years, loving and beloved; and here she died, most deeply regretted, and was buried under "her own transplanted forest-vine," in November, Her productions show much poetic fervour, and, at the same time, are by no means wanting in correctness, and elegance of expression. Manly, has been practising as a physician many years.

She was married when quite young to Mr. Embury, a gentleman of wealth and education, who himself possesses no small claim to distinction, for his superior talents, and high intellectual attainments. He is considered one of the first mathematicians in the country. Embury wrote for the various periodicals at an early age, under the name of Ianthe ; and in the year , these contributions, with many other pieces, were collected into a volume, called Guido and other Poems. Her juvenile productions, however, although in their versification remarkably flowing and sweet, are not to be compared with her after works, which are written with great freshness and vigour, and display as much sound sense as tender sentiment.

In the course of a few years Mrs. Embury became very popular as a prose-writer; published a work on Female Education ; after that, Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl ; and several tales of much beauty, and moral excellence. Erabury has recently written a prose work called Glimpses of Home Life , which well sustains the reputation which has so long been hers, as one of the most useful and attractive of American authoresses.

Embury resides at Brooklyn, where she has lived ever since her marriage. Her many home-bred virtues and capabilities, her well-ordered household, and the happiness, harmony, and content which reign there, prove a delightful contradiction to the vulgar idea, that women of genius cannot be women of domestic worth. But it is certainly true, as a noble writer of great penetration Hannah More affirms, that "those women who are so puffed up with the conceit of talents, as to neglect the plain duties of life, will not often be found to be women of the best abilities.

On la mari a l'age de vingt deux ans avec Louis XII. Her father, a merchant of that city, was descended from Nicholas Power, who, with a few other bold spirits, consorted with Roger Williams after his exile from Salem, "to establish in the wilderness, a community maintaining the entire emancipation of the individual mind from all spiritual jurisdiction and thraldom. Kilborn Whitman, of Pembroke, Mass.

Whitman passed his childhood at the residence of his grandfather, Careswell farm, Marshfield. We mention this, because it was a spot that possessed many charms for the poetical mind of his gifted wife, who has published an interesting account of a visit made to the old mansion; when it was still graced with many of the antique oaken chairs and massive tables brought to this country in the May-Flower, its walls still decorated with the curious old family pictures, which have since been deposited in the Antiquarian and Historical Societies of Massachusetts.

Whitman commenced the practice of law in Boston, and was distinguished for his learning and wit; but, while all things promised him a brilliant and successful career, he was cut off in the midst of his days. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Whitman returned to her native city, and has resided there with her mother ever since.

She has, for some years past, contributed to the best of our magazines and reviews; and her skilful pen has won —not a wide popularity, but —an honourable reputation among the most able judges in matters of literary taste. Her prose writings exhibit much clearness of perception, and vigour of thought. Her translations from the German poets have been highly praised for the ability with which the spirit of the original is retained; none of the freshness or bloom being lost in passing through her delicate hands.

Her love for nature has made her a keen observer, and many of her descriptions are most exquisitely painted landscapes. Her ear is fine for the melody of language, and her taste correct in the use of it. THE history of this sorely afflicted and deeply interesting person, excites in us the most solemn sympathy, admiration and wonder.

It has been narrated with touching and beautiful simplicity by the Rev. Richmond, in a little book called "The Rhode-Island Cottage, or A Gift for the Children of Sorrow;" and from this, and a short autobiography prefixed to Miss Taggart's poems, we have obtained all our information concerning her. She is a native of Rhode-Island. Her father, William Taggart, was a revolutionary soldier, and took a very active part in the defence of his country. The property of his family was entirely destroyed while the British troops were on the Island, but after the war he purchased a farm about six miles from Newport, built a cottage on the side of a hill near the sea-shore, and there lived in quiet seclusion until his death.

He was an intelligent and pious man, and cheerfully bore the heavy domestic afflictions which were allotted him. In the autobiography alluded to, she says: My employments were chiefly of a domestic kind, and my inclinations and habits those of activity and industry. I had never the most remote and vague apprehension that my mental capacities, even if cultivated, were competent for productive efforts; with few exceptions, it was not till several years after the commencement of excruciating illness, that my thoughts and feelings were committed to paper in the form of poetry.

Her case has baffled all medical skill; sleep has been withheld to an almost unparalleled degree, never appearing, unless forced by the most powerful anodynes. But although in such a hopeless state, although she never loses the sense of pain, she yet sometimes forgets her misery, and finds relief and even consolation in the gift of God within her soul, —the power of expressing thought, feeling, and imagination, in words that glow with true poetic fire.

During the restless hours of midnight nearly all her fervent and pathetic strains have been composed, and were written down afterwards, by her father or her friends, at their leisure. She has, however, a more refreshing source of relief than genius. Religion is her comforter and never-failing support, strengthening her to be calm and patient, and clearing her vision to see by faith the land that is afar off —" where the inhabitant shall no more say, I am sick.

Her father and mother are dead; but she still lives in The Rhode Island Cottage, nursed by a widowed sister, and companioned by another sister, who, a kindred sufferer in resignation and intelligent piety, has been many years a helpless invalid. Her poems, which were first edited in , are about to be re-published in New York. The editor of the Providence Literary Journal says, "They are the emanations of a mind rich in endowment, embodied in a style of language, the correctness and purity of which, under all these adverse circumstances, is scarcely less remarkable than the thoughts which it contains.

Earnes, and removed to New Hartford, where she now resides. She was a regular contributor to the New-Yorker for some years before her marriage under the signature of Stella ; and since that period her writings have frequently appeared in Graham's Magazine, The Southern Literary Messenger, and more recently still in The Columbian. Eames is a student, and has suffered much from ill-health.

Her mind is of a serious, generally of a pensive mood; yet not desponding or downcast —" gazing upon the ground with thoughts that dare not glow. A volume of her poetry, which has never yet been collected, will shortly appear, and meet, we doubt not, the kind welcome it deserves. Her family name was Prince. Precocity indeed is not always a sign of genius,— for sometimes those minds which are ripe the soonest, the soonest decay, — yet the little Elizabeth like many of her sister-poetesses was a most precocious child.

She used to improvise as soon as she could talk, but finding that people stared at her, and that some checked her, she grew nervous at three or four, and repeated her rhymes only in secret. She began to write from the time she could imitate printed letters, and continued for a long time to write in this way. Possessing acute sensibilities, a quiet thoughtfulness, a loving disposition, and a marked dislike of pretension, the attributes of a true poet might have been discerned in her at a very early age; and perhaps were, by that father and grandfather at whose feet she loved to sit, hearing and asking them questions, when other children were out at play.

As she grew up she devoted herself to study; choosing philosophy both natural and moral, and abstruse subjects which required much close and steady thought, on which to feed her love for knowledge. But liberal nature gave her a very strong mind, capable of bearing intense application, and as capacious as it was strong, fit apartment for the wealthy stores that native thought and foreign learning brought in.

She was married at sixteen to Seba Smith, Esq. Since her marriage Mrs. Smith has been a constant contributor to the magazines of the day. When she first wrote, she did so merely from the impulse within; afterwards, necessity lorded it over her genius; and often, when her social and womanly nature would have been content with the pleasures of friendly intercourse, this stern master, she dared not disobey, has driven her to her pen, to coin her thoughts of purest gold, for gold "of a baser sort.

The Acorn , one of her most imaginative and faultless productions, is contained in this book. We give the whole of it: Within a short time, she has completed a tragedy, called The Roman Tribute , which is to be acted in the coming autumn; and a prose romance, now in the press. Many of her smaller poems indicate genius of a high order; they vary in their style of thought and expression, however, very considerably.

Sometimes, as in The April Rain , there is a fresh simplicity in them, as if a little child were singing out her pure and happy feelings in musical rhyme; and then again, as in the two sonnets we have quoted, there is a sublimity, a deep, solemn calmness of thought, as if breathed from the heart of one made patient by experience, and wise by inward suffering.

Smith's best poems and essays have been published under the name of Ernest Helfenstein. We have often wondered who this quaint, but deep-souled, mellow-voiced writer was; our delight and surprise were equal, on finding, not long ago, that the original and instructive articles we had read from the pen of the poet-philosopher, Ernest Helfenstein , sprang from the fertile mind of the philosophical poetess, Elizabeth Oakes Smith. When quite young, she wrote for the New York periodicals, under the signature of Norna. In , her longest poem — The Rivals of D'Este —was published, with several others, in a volume containing the poetical effusions of her husband, the late James G.

She possesses many elegant accomplishments, and a thorough acquaintance with the modern languages. Her poetical talent is seldom called into exercise now; but the verses she has written display a lively fancy and refined taste. The "Hebrew melodies" in the volume above named, are sweet and expressive, and gracefully executed.

IT would be wrong, merely for the sake of chronological order, to separate these sweet sisters, who, though not twins by birth, were twins in thought, feeling, loveliness, and purity. We will sketch them together, therefore, while their devoted mother and excellent father shall stand at their head. Davidson was a daughter of Dr. Burnet Miller, a respectable physician in the city of New York, where she was born on the 27th of June, Her mother was early left a widow, and removed to Dutchess County, where, at the age of sixteen, this daughter was married to Dr.

The greater part of her married life was spent at Plattsburg, on Lake Champlain, where all her children were born, ten in number — eight of whom passed before her into heaven. She resided in Plattsburg at the time of the battle, August, The fearful events of that season, and her own escapes and adventures, have been narrated by both Mrs. Davidson and Margaret, in a fictitious garb. She never could speak of them without great excitement; and invariably wept at the sound of martial music.

Davidson's appearance and manner when talking enthusiastically, as she always did on a favourite subject, could never be forgotten. The traces of early beauty were still evident in her large dark eyes and her exquisite complexion; but the great charm of her countenance was in its mingled expression of intelligence and sensibility, varying not unfrequently from deep sadness to a playful vivacity of which you would not at first suppose her capable. During the last few years of her life, she resided alternately at New York, Ballston, and Saratoga Springs. At the latter place she died, on the 27th of June, She had long been thought a victim to consumption, but the fearful and agonizing disease which terminated her life was a cancer in the face.

A year before her death, a volume, entitled Selections from the Writings of Mrs. Davidson , was published, with a short preface from her distinguished friend, Miss Sedgwick. Her poems, however, although they display that tenderness of feeling and romantic disposition which characterized her so strongly, are too inferior to her daughter's to be quoted with any advantage.

Davidson was a man of extensive reading, and possessed a taste for natural science. His moral character, however, more than his intellectual, renders him worthy of notice. His piety was simple, confiding, and unobtrusive; and his conduct in every situation unreproachable. Lucretia Maria was born on the 27th of September, , and was distinguished almost from her birth by an extraordinary development of the imaginative and sensitive faculties. When she was four years old she went to the Plattsburg Academy, and was taught to read, and form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method.

She began to turn her infant thoughts into measured strains before she had learned to write; and devoting herself with tireless attention to her studies both at home and at school, she soon attained a wonderful amount of knowledge. Her conscientiousness and dutifulness were remarkably prominent; as they were also with Margaret. Her health, always very feeble, began to decline in , when she was taken from school, and accompanied her mother on a visit to some relatives in Canada.

While there she finished Amir Khan , her longest poem, and began a prose tale, called The Recluse of the Saranac. It was about this time that the Hon. Moss Kent, an early friend of her mother, became acquainted with Lucretia, and so deeply interested in her genius, that he resolved, if he could persuade her parents to resign her to his care, to afford her every advantage for improvement that the country could afford. At his suggestion, in November, , she was placed under the care of Mrs. Willard; in whose seminary at Troy she remained during the winter. The following spring, she was transferred to a boarding school at Albany; but while there her health gave way, and she was obliged to return home to Plattsburg.

The strength of affection, and the skill of physicians, failed, however, to restore her. The hand of Death alone gave her ease; and she gently fell asleep one morning in August ; exactly one month before her seventeenth birthday. President Morse, of the American Society of Arts, first published her biography; and soon after, a delightful memoir from the able pen of Miss Sedgwick spread the name of Lucretia Davidson far and wide. Margaret Miller was born on the 26th of March, She was therefore but two years and a half old when Lucretia died; an event which made a deep impression on her.

Although so young, she seemed not only to feel her loss, but to understand and appreciate her sister's character and talents; and from the first dawning of intellect gave evidence that she possessed the same. Devotional feelings seemed interwoven with her very existence. A longing after heaven, that her spirit might be free from the thraldom of earth, was as natural to her, as a longing for a holiday to be let loose from school is to other children.

Yet she enjoyed most fully the quiet pleasures that surrounded her, and her heart was always swelling with love and gratitude. Like all true poets, she had a keen relish for the beauties of nature, and fed upon them from her infancy. Her earliest home was upon the banks of the Saranac, commanding a fine view of Lake Champlain, and surrounded by the most romantic and picturesque scenery; but wherever she resided, she found something to admire and love, upon the earth or in the sky.

Margaret was always instructed by her mother, whose poetical tastes and affectionate disposition made her capable of appreciating and sympathizing with the warm impulses and aspiring thoughts of her sweet pupil. The love between this mother and daughter is a poem of itself.

No one can read the memoir of Margaret, by Washington Irving, without feeling the heart, if not the eyes, overflow. But the links that bound them to each other on earth were soon severed; —for when she was but fifteen years and eight months old, this gentle girl died at Ballston, Saratoga County, in November, We could not wish that she should have staid longer on earth, an exile from her native heaven; yet, as we listen to the soaring strains of her young genius, and are borne upward by their energy, we cannot help wondering what would have been its thrilling tones and lofty flights, had life unfolded its mysteries year after year to her poet's eye.

American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

But we thank God she was spared the sight of them; for though we have lost the songs, she has missed the sorrow! Robert Southey, interested in Lucretia's story, wrote eloquently upon it in the London Quarterly Review. His high estimate of her genius may with equal truth be applied to both sisters. THIS lovely and amiable lady, whose life was of such short duration, calls forth as much tenderness and admiration as those bright children of genius we have just been contemplating. She was born at Detroit in June, , and died before she had attained her twenty-first year, in February, Her family name was Hickman.

She began to compose when a very little child; and by the time she was fifteen, her uncommon talents had made her an object of attention to a large circle. At sixteen she was married to Mr. Smith, of Providence, R. There is a delicacy and purity of thought, a cheerful buoyancy of feeling about her productions, which make them both pleasing and useful; and as Mrs.

Smith was remarkably sensible of her own deficiencies, and earnest in self-discipline, there is every reason to suppose that she would have attained great excellence, had she not been so early called away. The genius of this young poetess, however, was not her greatest charm. The qualities of her heart were superior to those of her head; and bright as the shining intellect was, the lustre of her love and truth and purity far outshone it.

It has been said by one who knew her well, "Any literary distinction she might have gained could never have been thought of in her presence; it was the confiding sincerity of her manners, the playfulness of her conversation, her enthusiastic and devoted assiduity to those she loved, which made her presence a perpetual delight. Her parents, whose surname was Wheeler, were both persons of great intelligence and piety, and afforded their daughter every facility for obtaining a good education. Her poetical tastes were quickly developed, and fondly encouraged by her father, who was himself a passionate lover of poetry, flowers, music, and of whatever makes life beautiful.

Some of her earliest recollections are of singing her own rhymes to little wild airs of her own composition, as she sat at twilight among the flowers her father had planted, and taught her to cultivate. In her happy childhood's home she remained until her sixteenth year, when her father removed to Canandaigua, N.

Here, at the age of seventeen, she married, and two years after, went with her husband and his family to Liberty, Tioga County, where she breasted the hardships of pioneer life in one of the wildest northern counties of Pennsylvania. For a long while her dwelling-place was a log-cabin in the woods, five miles from any house, and twenty from any village where there was a store, or a house for public worship. Her privations and inconveniences were many, and her sorrows too; but she poured out her soul in song, and found —to use her own words —that her "converse with poetry, wild-flowers, and singing birds, was nearly all that made life endurable.

Not long ago we received from the Hon. Ellis Lewis, of Lancaster, a short account of the way in which this pleasant change was brought about; and have since seen the interesting story in print, from which we feel no hesitancy in transcribing. Judge Ellis Lewis, who is also distinguished for his learning and ability as a jurist, was at the time President of several literary institutions, and zealously engaged in promoting the cause of education by delivering literary and scientific lectures.

About this time, a powerful production in poetry, in favour of education, made its appearance, and gave a new impetus to the cause. Judge Lewis made immediate inquiry concerning the writer of it; and ascertained that, owing to a long and sad train of misfortunes, the fair authoress, with a large family, was without a home, and in a state of great pecuniary embarrassment. Stevens, then a rich bachelor, in the Chamber of the House of Representatives, and suggested the propriety of raising something for the relief of so much talent and worth. With that true benevolence for which Mr. Stevens is distinguished, he authorized the Judge to purchase a suitable farm, such as the lady herself might select, and without any limit with respect to the price, to draw upon him for the amount.

The lady was overwhelmed with astonishment when she received a letter from Judge Lewis, who was only known to her by reputation, apprising her of his commission. She, however, made the selection, and the Judge made the purchase, and forwarded to Mrs. Peirson the deed drawn to Thaddeus Stevens, in trust for the separate use of Lydia Jane Peirson, and her heirs and assigns for ever.

It is but justice to add, that Mrs. Peirson was an entire stranger to Judge Lewis and Mr. Neither had ever seen her. In , a volume of Mrs. Peirson's poetry was published in Philadelphia, called Forest Leaves , and in the following year, another called The Forest Minstrel. Her poems have appeared also in Graham's Magazine, and other periodicals, to which she still contributes.

She writes from the heart, with an intensity of feeling, and a strength of expression, that show she has thought and suffered much. Her muse has, indeed, been disciplined in the school of sorrow; she has had little leisure for study, and her poems have been generally "written by the flickering lamp of midnight, with a weary hand, and yet more weary heart. THIS lady, whose maiden name was Kinney, resided in Towanda, Bradford County, Pennsylvania, a place whose wild romantic beauty has been celebrated by many of her sister-poets.

She died in , and, soon after this event, A Volume of Poems was collected from her writings, and published in Boston. Her style was simple and melodious; the following exquisite lines to My Child are full of natural imagery, poetic thought, and unaffected feeling. Stephens belong particularly to the prose-writers of America, yet so beautiful in their simplicity and earnestness are some of her poetical strains, that we cannot refrain from giving them a welcome to our pages, while we express our admiration of their unpretending merit.

David Humphreys, in the woollen manufactory at Humphrey's Ville, Conn. In , she was married to Edward Stephens, Esq. In , she undertook the editorship of The Portland Magazine , which Mr. Stephens had established, and conducted it with much success for two years, when ill-health compelled her to give it up. She also edited The Portland Sketch Book , composed of contributions from the various authors of that city. Stephens came to New York in , in which city she has resided ever since. For four years she conducted The Ladies' Companion ; in , she became editorially connected with Graham's Magazine ; in the following year she established The Ladies' World ; and has been constant and energetic in her literary labours until the present time.

She is now the editor of The Ladies' National Magazine. Her own contributions, numerous and skilful as they are, to the various periodicals of the day, prove her to be as industrious a composer as she is a laborious editor. Her stories always contain many excellent moral lessons, and much original thought; whatever she writes is written with a bold pen, and with that unmixed sincerity of purpose, that never fails to attract attention and secure respect. Her husband was settled as a pastor over a Presbyterian church in the city of New York for a number of years, but is now the president of a literary institution in Clinton, N.

Sawyer is a lady of refined taste and cultivated mind, familiar with many of the modern languages, and accustomed to write translations from the German. She takes a warm interest in the education of the young; and has published a number of useful little books, both in prose and verse, for children. Her poems are scattered through various magazines; the following are among her best. Waterman, has long been an able contributor to the periodical literature of the country. A selection from her writings, entitled "The Broken Bracelet and other Poems," has recently been published in Philadelphia.

Here poems are smoothly and gracefully written; always pleasing, from the deep and pure affection they display. Tender and heart-stirring, indeed, is the pathos of that exquisite strain — Brother, come home! Miss Waterman was born in Philadelphia, in , married there, in , to Captain Esling, and has remained there all her life; never having left her home for a greater distance than forty miles, or for a longer period than forty-eight hours. Well may such a nestling bird sing sweetly of home's quiet joys! Hawley, was born at Norfolk, Connecticut, in December, She was educated at the Hartford Female Seminary, and after leaving it was engaged for some years as a teacher in various places, until, through the recommendation of Mr.

Brace, principal of the Hartford Seminary, she was invited to take charge of a school at New-Albany, Indiana. In September, , she became the wife of Franklin Thurston, a merchant of that place, where she resided until her death, in July, Her poems appeared from time to time in the periodicals under the signature of Viola , and she sang forth her feelings with a melodious voice, which never failed to find an echo in the hearts of those who heard it. Her father, Jeremiah Day, D. He placed her first under the care of the Rev.

Claudius Herrick, who kept a school for young ladies in New Haven; then at a boarding-school in Greenfield, Massachusetts, as an assistant-teacher as well as pupil, under the charge of the Rev. Henry Jones; and afterwards for one year at the Young Ladies' Institute, in her native town.

After leaving school, she diligently continued her studies; became a proficient in Mathematics and Mental Philosophy, understood the Latin, Greek, French, and German languages, and was well-grounded in solid English literature. Her high attainments and rich native talents gave promise of her being a useful member of society, and a bright ornament to her sex; but in , at the early age of twenty, she was suddenly snatched away by that strong hand whose power none can resist.

A small volume of her Literary Remains was published in New Haven, the year after her death. It contained, besides other writings, all her poems which had been preserved; but she wrote hastily, and was never satisfied with her poetical efforts, consequently not careful to keep them. The following beautiful and eloquent hymn displays a sublimity of thought and strength of expression most remarkable in so young a person.

No one can read it without feeling a sincere respect for the author, and a deep regret at the early removal of talent so worthily directed. American Female Poets [an electronic edition] Caroline May. Then on a stately oak I cast mine eye,. Then higher on the glistering sun I gazed,. Thou as a bridegroom from thy chamber rushest,. Art thou so full of glory, that no eye.

Who thinks not oft upon the fathers' ages,. Our life compare we with their length of dayes,. When I behold the heavens as in their prime,. By birth more noble than those creatures all,. Under the cooling shadow of a stately elm,. While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,. Nor is 't enough that thou alone mayst slide,.


Ye Fish which in this liquid region 'bide,. Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air,. While musing thus with contemplation fed,. O merry Bird said I that fears no snares,. The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,. Man's at the best a creature frail and vain,. And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,. The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide,. So he that saileth in this world of pleasure,. As on the margin of Euphrates' flood.

And dash the tender babes against the stones. FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets. Now while the earth's with beauteous verdure dyed,. Though my small income never can afford,. But though rich dainties never spread my board,. These I can give, and if you'll here repair,. No stately beds my humble roofs adorn,. But now advancing to the opening sea,. But on the other side the cliffs arise,. I hear the melting flute's melodious sound,. There is no land where heaven her blessings pours. COME, my Susan, quit your chamber,. See the sun is now descending,. Mark the lizard just before us,.

From yon grove the woodcock rises,. Now the whip-poor-will beginning,. Pensive Echo from the mountain. There the honey-suckle blooming,. Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,. Here a trickling rill depending,. While I speak, the sun is vanish'd,. Rural toil is now suspended,. Queen of rest and meditation! He now fills thy urn with glory,. COME Grief, and sing a solemn dirge. This is the cheerless hour of night,.

Though such the darkness of my soul,. Fallacious Pleasure's tinsel train. For bliss superior she was made;. Tho' Reason points at good supreme,. Surely I wish the blackest night. Now thy clemency discover,. By thy passion I conjure thee,. NILE's beauteous waves, and Tiber's swelling tide. Where rough Ontario's restless waters roar,. Through many a "blooming wild" and woodland green,. Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,. As sighs the labourer for the cooling shade,. I love not life, it is a burden grown;.

I'm forlorn, in bitterness of soul. Phillis Wheatley MAY be regarded as a literary curiosity.

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Doubtless she has proved long ago the truth of her own spirited couplet, Remember Christians, negroes, black as Cain,. WHO taught thee conflict with the powers of night,. LET Grecian bards, and Roman poets tell,. Not Caesar's name, nor Philip's bolder son,. I look with rapture at the distant dawn,. Then bless'd Religion in her purest forms,. LET deep dejection hide her pallid face,. The generous purpose of his zealous heart,. Complain no more of Death's extensive power,. Happy, thrice happy, that exalted mind,.

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Then weep no more, my friend, but all resigned,. Accursed for ever be the hated day,. See how the black ship cleaves the main,. Did all the gods of Afric sleep. A chief of Gambia's golden shore,. Does not the voice of reason cry,. Has not his suffering offspring clung,. His wife by nameless wrongs subdued,. Strong in despair, he sought the plain,.

First of his race, he led the band,. When erst Messenia's sons oppress'd,. Did not the soul to heaven allied,. Do later deeds quick rapture raise,. If these exalt thy sacred zeal,. While the hard race of pallid hue,. Let sorrow bathe each blushing cheek,. Little Was a native of Rhode Island, and a daughter of the Hon.

IT is thanksgiving morn —'t is cold and clear;. Of the deep learning in the schools of yore. The anthem swells; the heart's high thanks are given:. Much more he spake, with growing ardour fired;. Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn,. The hospitable doors are open thrown;. And there the grandam sits, in placid ease,. And there the manly farmers scan the news;.

Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast,. Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust. Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train,. But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known. Yet now the sibyl wears her mildest mood;. Thy doting faith, fond maid, might envied be,. New England's daughters need not envy those. He thinks not so, that young enamour'd boy,. Gay bands, move on, your draught of pleasure quaff;.

While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years,. On the white wings of peace their days have flown,. But now, farewell to thee, thanksgiving day! BLEST were those days! Can these dull ages boast. And loveliest of her line. The tear of joy,. A child of passion: Yet, not perverted, would my words imply.

But the collective attributes that fill,. Yet anger or revenge, envy or hate,. Or if, perchance, though form'd most just and pure. If, haply such the fair Judean finds,. And such, even now, in earliest youth are seen;. And yet, despite of all, the starting tear,. Required it at their need, she could have stood,. And this at intervals in language bright. Then, as young christian bard had sung, they seem'd. While o'er her graceful shoulder's milky swell,.

Enwoven with their boughs, a fragrant bower. And, though the sun had gained his utmost height,. Sweet flower, thou'rt lovelier even than the rose:. Art like those brilliant things we never taste. Here, too, the lily raised its snow-white head;. Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,. WOE to thee, wild ambition! Through the celestial domes thy clarion peal'd;. Darting through all her veins the subtle fire,.

The thousand wild desires, that still torment. As spirits feel —yet not for man we mourn,. Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept;. Yet what the price? With stings that never cease. WHAT bliss for her who lives her little day,. To every blast she bends in beauty meek;—.

Who only sorrows when she sees him pain'd,. What bliss for her, ev'n in this world of woe,. This I had hoped; but hope too dear, too great,. THEN, lowly bending, with seraphic grace,. While he, "Nay, let me o'er thy white arms bind. Its fitful song the mingling murmur meeting. While gemmy diadem thrown down beside,. One careless arm around the boy was flung,.

Quick to perceive, in him no freedom rude. AND thus, at length his plaintive lip express'd. The heavenly angel watched his subject's star. The nether earth looks beauteous as a gem;. The nightingale among his roses sleeps;. Proud prickly cerea, now thy blossom 'scapes. A silent stream winds darkly through the shade,. Of marble fairly carved; and by its side. Is there a heart that ever loved in vain,.

Still the fair Gnome's light hand the chime prolongs;. How my least word lent colour to thy cheek! We parted; years are past, and thou art dead;.

African American Poets Night

Torn from thy sight, to save a life of gloom,. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun! The infant strains his little arms, to catch. Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit;. Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee;. How many lips have sung thy praise, how long! Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth. Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night,. SWEET is the evening twilight; but, alas!

And look like heaven dissolved. The bard has sung, God never form'd a soul. But thousand evil things there are that hate. And, as the dove to far Palmyra flying.

LIPPINCOTT, Sara Jane (Clark)

So —many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,. DAY, in melting purple dying,. Thou to whom I love to hearken,. Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;. Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,. He said; all o'er to radiant beauty warming,. Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath,. The Indian, leaning on his bow,. The native dove of that warm isle. Than I, a stranger, first beheld. Soft be thy sleep, as mists that rest. And yet, for thee, why breathe a prayer? And treasured shall thine image be. To meet a friendship such as mine,. Looks are its food, its nectar sighs,. Though Friendship be its earthly name,.

Him let it view not, or it dies. A charm o'er every object plays —. That, wrung by grief to see it part,. I love thy bowers,. They praised my forehead's stainless white;. Well pleased, the kind return I gave,. Why will my heart so wildly beat? I fear my native snows; —.

The orange-tree has fruit and flowers;. When the white coffee-blossoms swell,. Drive gently on, dark muleteer,. Escapes for those I love so well,. On, on, my bark! OH, moon of flowers! Oh, moon of flowers! I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot. Thee light, and man salvation. How beautiful it stands,. For there, as many a year. Or where the o'er-arching grove. Yon old forsaken nests. And where alternate springs. Fain would I know what forms. Heaven bless you, too, my plants,.

Thou, too, of changeful mood,. To each perennial flower,.

Praise to our Father-God,. FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe. Earth fears to lift. HAS it come, the time to fade? Hydrangia, on her telegraph. The vine that o'er my casement climb'd. Put on thy mourning, said my soul,. The lily, as a timid bride,. The ripen'd rose, where are they now? WHERE art thou, bird of song? Lamb, where dost thou rest? Seek thy Saviour's flock,. RISE from the dells where ye first were born,. There was a dell. Yet I strangely thought. SAW ye the farmer at his plough,.

Come, see him at his harvest-home,. The dog partakes his master's joy,. The Harvest-Giver is their friend,. IT stood among the chestnuts, its white spire. Heaven bless thee, Lonely Church,. Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed,. Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought,.

WHO asks if I remember thee?

SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)
SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets) SARA J. CLARKE - Early 19th Century American Female Poet. (American Female Poets)

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