HOME OF AN EARLY FRIEND.
WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER BIRTH.
Yes, there thou art beneath the hill,
By waving poplars circled still,
Old House! that time hath deigned to spare,
Mid sunny slopes, and gardens fair.
Well might I every chart and line,
Of parlor, hall, and nook define,
For childhood's eye is keen to trace
Each favorite and familiar place;
The woodbine through the casement peeping,
The pampered cat on cushion sleeping,
The pleasant haunt with books overspread,
The antique chairs, the curtained bed,
By housewife's patient needle wrought
With many an ample flower,
And shepherd lost in lover's thought,
And purling brook with willows fraught,
And maid in greenwood bower.
Here too, was many a place of cheer,
And pastime with my playmate dear,
And lo! this vernal sun serene
Erst brought her day of birth I ween.
When she was crowned our fairy queen,
And featly led the charmed ring
With childhood's joyous banqueting.
Once, on this morn so sweetly fair,
Yon ancient dome was sad with care,
While hurrying step, and stifled word,
From darkened room were faintly heard,
And missed the household many a day,
Their Lady from her place away.
But when again, she cheered the scene
At hearth and board, with brow serene,
And paler cheek, and saintlier air,
Wrapped in her arms, a babe she bare,
Gentle and pure, as snow-drop frail,
That shrinks to meet the chilling gale,
While often o'er its cradle bowed
The stately father, fond and proud.
Swift fled a happy year, and lo!—
Ere the young spring-flowers 'gan to blow,
That bud of being, opening fair,
Inhaled affection's balmy air,
And wondrous change, like fairy-tale,
Passed o'er that form, so slight and pale.
First, peeping pearls through lips of rose,
Their latent ministry disclose,
Then little feet on nursery floor,
Went tireless patting o'er and o'er,
And dulcet tones, like chirping bird,
The mother's raptured pulses stirred,
And busy fingers clasped the toy,
Or held the doll in durance coy,
Or roused the house-dog, strong and old,
On ample rug supinely rolled,
With brawny back, and curly hair,
Well pleased his master's pet to bear,
While merry laugh and baby wile,
Woke on each brow an answering smile.
More birth-days came, and sweetly mild,
Turned from her sports a thoughtful child,
Intent o'er ancient page to pore,
Or catch the breath of hallowed lore.
Then first at school-desk quaintly set,
The sister of my soul I met,
And budding friendship, fed with dew
Of knowledge, firm and healthful grew.
O'er classic tomes, mid tasks severe,
Mind quickened mind, unspent and clear,
And heart to heart new vigor lent,
As up the arduous steep we bent,
Or with unenvying gladness shared
Laborious study's rich reward,
Some hard-earned prize for toil-spent days
Or dearer still, our teacher's praise.
With riper years, and school-days spent,
Still were our plans and pleasures blent,
The needle's art and pencil's power
Wrought the same landscape, form, or flower,
O'er the same book our raptures rose,
The same secluded haunt we chose,
By rugged rock, or sounding stream,
We woke the same enthusiast dream,
Through solemn grove, at noon of day,
To secret bower we stole away,
And summer eve, so sadly fair,
Looked through the shades and found us there.
Time told not true his muffled hour
To tuneful brook, or listening flower,
And we, entranced, were heedless quite
To count his sands, or mark his flight.
Yet not alone, o'er cloudless skies
Did Friendship throw her golden dies,
Nor knew I with what full control
Thou hadst dominion o'er my soul,
Companion meek, until thy tear
Fell trickling o'er affection's bier;
For holy Friendship soars more high
'Neath sorrow's chastening ministry,
And sweetest breathes, when tempests lower
To try the root, or bruise the flower.
I left thee, for a little space,
With tender word, and long embrace,
Thy brow of beauty tinted bright
With health and joy's returning light;
I came, thy step with gladness fleet,
Sprang not, as erst, mine own to meet,
Thy kiss, thy greeting smile, no more
Received me at the open door,
But where, at twilight's pensive shade,
Mid humid turf we sometimes strayed,
And lingering scanned with reverent tread
The lettered tablets of the dead,
The broken earth, the crumbling mould,
Tales of a recent tenant told,
And in my heart the curdling tide,
The speechless pang, her name supplied,
Who thus with cheek so young and fair,
In silence found a pillow there.
Since then, though many a year hath fled,
And many a wreathed hope is dead,
And other friends my heart hath found,
And strongest ties my bosom bound,
Yet when this opening morn of spring,
Again thy time of birth doth bring,
Remembered joys renew their tide,
And thou art seated by my side,
Again thy polished brow to raise,
Through clustering curls, with tender gaze,
Again reveal like sparkling dew,
Thine inmost spirit's stainless hue;
Nor can I feel, that hadst thou still
My partner been through earthly ill,
Time could have dimmed thy joyous air,
Or flecked with grey thy flowing hair,
Or scattered from his raven wing,
Such change as he to us doth bring.
Thou art not changed, though with the blest,
Save that thou wearest an angel's vest,
Save that thou breathest a glorious strain,
Which hath nor dissonance, nor pain;
Save that thou dwellest where winter hoar,
And day and night revolve no more
Thou art not changed, thy head is bowed,
To cheer me from yon fleecy cloud.
Wait! Wait! for if I truly tread
The path thy sainted footsteps led,
I ne'er will think a love like ours
Can fade like earth's forgotten flowers;
It had a root in faith sublime,
Its perfect fruit shall mock at time.
The subject of the foregoing lines, Ann Maria Hyde, was a native of Norwich, Conn., and born on the first spring-morning of 1792. She was reared with the most ardent parental solicitude, which was repaid with warm affection, and the early development of uncommon powers of mind.
She derived instruction from books, at an age when many children are employed with the simplest modifications of the alphabet. Sport and pastime with her playmates she enjoyed, but for her highest pleasures stole quietly away to her little library. The historical parts of Scripture she read with great delight, and when her tiny hands were unable to sustain the weight of a large Bible, and her infantine form rendered it unsafe for her to sit by it at a table without the care of others, she would spend hours and even days, stretched on the carpet studying its pages, sometimes suddenly raising her little bright face, to read aloud such passages as peculiarly arrested her attention, or affected her heart.
When old enough to attend, school, her eager desire for knowledge, and scrupulous regard to all the wishes of her instructors, distinguished her among her companions, as well as the accuracy of her recitations, and the classic beauty of her written thoughts. So close was her application, and so precocious her intellect, that at twelve, she was pronounced well grounded in the solid branches of a good education. Her taste led her to philosophical and historical studies, which she continued to pursue, as opportunity was granted her, throughout the remainder of life.
At the age of fourteen, she left school, and became the companion of her parents. Her time was happily divided between a cheerful participation with her mother, in those cares which promote domestic comfort, an earnest interest in such books as pleased her father, and that enjoyment of those beauties of nature, for which the romantic scenery of her native place furnished continual aliment. The virtues of a friend, as well as a daughter, were even at this early period of life strongly developed, and beautiful.
The poetic temperament was discerned almost in infancy, by her shrinking delicacy of feeling, and favorite themes of contemplation. This, like her other departments of intellect, was marked by precocity. An effusion of hers, written at the age of nine years, on a beautiful infant, was placed by a relative, without her knowledge, in the pages of a periodical. When she saw it there, she burst into tears, and was long deeply distressed. Her poems were not numerous, and frequently unfinished, but harmonious in their numbers, and in their subjects such as the affections dictated.
Her early youth passed without a cloud. Its first shadow was deep sympathy in the sorrows of an only sister, many years older than herself, the sudden death of whose husband, caused an entire reverse of fortune. From this participation in affliction, sprang forth a noble principle, a desire to assist by her own personal exertions, in the education of the two fatherless children. She obtained the consent of her parents to engage in the work of instruction, and with an energy that astonished the friends who knew the shrinking diffidence of her nature, and the indulgences of affluence in which she had been fostered, decided to become the member of a school, in a distant city, in order to acquire some accomplishments which were at that time deemed essential for a teacher of young ladies.
She, whose love of her own pleasant sheltering home was almost a morbid sentiment, braved privation and inconvenience, for several months, among strangers, without a murmur. There she might be seen, in the coldest mornings of winter, taking her long walk to school, attending throughout the day, with a perseverance that allowed no moment to be lost, to those pursuits which were to qualify her for a sphere of future labor. In the evening, by the parlor fire of her boarding-house, or in her own little chamber, she wrought with her drawing-pencil, or her embroidery-needle, or completed long letters to the beloved parents and mourning relatives over whom her heart yearned.
On her return to her native place, she faithfully and successfully engaged in the education of young ladies, in company with an associate, whom from her own school-days she had loved. For whatever was irksome in this employment, she strengthened with an invincible patience, and was surprised at the degree of happiness that it imparted; while the consciousness of being useful to others, gave at times an almost celestial expression to her lovely countenance.
At this period of her life she evinced how eminently her nature was formed for friendship. The troubles of her friends she made her own; their praises seemed more than her own, for she took them into heart with warm gratulation, while those addressed to herself she scrutinized with a severe humility, which half rejected them as unjust. Constitutional diffidence protected her from forming promiscuous intimicies, while her exquisite sensibility, high integrity, and disinterested spirit, gave to the attachments she eventually formed an inviolable constancy.
It was during this happy season of her life, that she wrote the following, probably her most finished poem.
EPITAPH ON MYSELF.
Stranger! beneath this stone, in silence sleeps
What once had animation, reason, life;
And while in vain the eye of friendship weeps,
The bosom rests, unvexed by mortal strife.
No more the smiles of joy illume the face,
Nor health's fair roses on the cheek shall bloom,
Forever fled the gaiety and grace
Of uprightly youth; they gleam not o'er the tomb.
Oh stranger, pause! So shall thy graces die,
Thy talents, birth, and fortune all decay;
Thus, low in dust, thy lifeless form shall lie,
And power, and wealth, and honor pass away.
Love not too well the empty breath of fame,
Nor wrap thy heart in hoards of glittering store;
Death spares not for the tinkling of a name,
He points his shaft, and greatness is no more.
No arms escutcheoned on the lowly stone
Reveal the titled greatness of the dead,
To proud ambition, and to fame unknown,
Was she who slumbers in this mouldering bed.
No weeping Muses consecrate the ground,
No pensive bards, in tuneful requiem sigh,
Nor genius here, breathed inspiration round,
The hallowed spot where these cold relics lie.
Heaven has to few the envied gift assigned
Of Wit's enchanting, but deceptive light,
Nor gleamed its magic o'er her humble mind,
Who slumbers here in deep oblivion's night.
What though no gathering crowds assembled round
Her final home, or graced the funeral bier,
Believe not, that this undistinguished ground
Was never moistened by affection's tear.
For who so vile, so unbeloved can live,
So unlamented to the grave descend,
That sympathy no tribute has to give,
Nor sad remembrance moves one mournful friend.
Reader! if firm resolve inspired thy soul,
No more from Virtue's sacred bound to stray,
Yet fierce temptation, with its strong control,
Again impelled to error's devious way;
If thou didst mourn in vain, for follies past,
Then weakly yield to vanity again,
Find every boasted motive fail at last,
And imperfections all thine actions stain;
Oh! pause, and contemplate a kindred mind,
And then implore of Heaven, assisting might,
That thou may'st Wisdom's narrow boundary find.
And sovereign mercy guide thy steps aright.
Mourn not for her, whose unreluctant heart
'Neath this green turf hath found a refuge lone,
Nor at th' truthful admonition start.
That tells such bed shall shortly be thine own.
Farewell! To Wisdom consecrate thy days,—
But ye, who strive with eager hands to gain
Earth's glittering store and mortal's fitful praise,
Approach, and on my tombstone read, they're vain.
Though her attachment to her parents, relatives, and chosen friends, was so great, that she emphatically lived for them, more than for herself, it had been evident from infancy, that the love of her father was peculiar and predominant. In their intellectual tastes there existed a strong congeniality; be had made himself from childhood the partaker of her pleasures, and the companion of her studies. She had been to him almost an object of idolatry, and when the weight of advancing years called on her to minister to his daily comfort, her affection became inexpressibly tender and pervading. It was a touching mixture of deep respect, and fond devotedness, a delight in being near him; a desire to protect him from all anxiety, an indwelling of his image in her perpetual thought. To the friend who shared her entire confidence, she sometimes expressed the feeling that she should never be able to survive him.
But sudden and alarming sickness made him its victim. Night and day she watched him, without consciousness of fatigue; she was unwilling that any hand save her own should prepare or administer either medicine, or nourishment. When the work of the Destroyer, was complete, she wished to be constantly near the beloved clay, but it was observed that she shed no tear. "How beautiful are those features," she often murmured, but no drop from her straining eyes fell upon them. The knell at which she was wont to weep, when it tolled even for strangers, the great concourse mournfully assembling to do honor to the deceased, the pathetic prayers from lips that she revered, the sullen grave closing upon the cherished form, drew no tear. Friends watched her with intense anxiety, strangers were astonished at her composure.
She returned from the funeral solemnities, and sat down silently by the deserted hearth-stone, in the very chair of the departed father. But still she wept not. The whole night and the following day passed in the same unmitigated anguish; nor was it until induced to pour out her whole soul into the bosom of an early friend, that she shared the blessed relief of tears.
Still the shadow of grief was slow in lifting itself from her spirit. Indeed, it is doubtful whether its effects ever wholly passed away. For though she returned to life's duties, there was about her that utter chastisement of earthly hope, that sublimation of the soul, whether in sorrow, or in joy, which ever looks upward for its perfect rest. With the most earnest assiduity she strove to console her widowed mother, and for her sake preserved cheerfulness of deportment, and again took the smile upon those beautiful lips, but it was not like her smile. It was that of a pensive spirit, ripened for a purer clime, having its treasures already garnered up there.
She still labored for the improvement of the pupils, whose education she continued to conduct, veiled her sorrows lest they should darken the pathway of her remaining parent, strove to be a comforter to her widowed sister, and to advance the welfare of her fatherless children. The perusal of sacred poetry formed the principal solace of the few intervals of leisure in which she allowed herself, but its composition was laid aside after the departure of the beloved one who had been the prompting spirit.
Somewhat more than two years after his death, she was taken ill of a fever. Its first attack seemed slight, but her discriminating mind apprehended the result, and arranged even the minutest circumstance as one who returns no more. "I have no longer any wish for life," she said, "but for my dear mother's sake."
As the disease developed its fatal features, she faintly whispered, "Lay me by the side of my father." Apprehending that the delirium so generally incidental to that disease might overpower her, she drew her sister down to her pillow, and slowly articulated, "I have many things to say to you. Let me say some of them now, or perhaps I may not be able. You know how much I have loved you. Seek an interest in our Saviour. Promise me that you will prepare to follow me. For Oh! I never before felt so happy. Soon shall I be in that world
"Where rising floods of knowledge roll,
And pour, and pour upon the soul."
And so with many other kind and sweet words, and messages to the absent and beloved, and communings with the Hearer of Prayer, passed away at the age of twenty-four, as lovely a spirit as ever wore the vestments of mortality; so lovely, that the friend who from life's opening pilgrimage had walked with her in the intimacy of a twin-being, is able to remember no intentional fault, no wayward deviation from duty, and no shadow of blemish, save what must ever appertain to dimmed and fallen humanity.