Textarchiv - Lucretia Maria Davidson

An address to my muse

mrbot — Sun, 03 Feb 2019 21:10:09 +0000

Why, gentle Muse, wilt thou disdain
To lend thy strains to me?
Why do I supplicate in vain
And bow my heart to thee?

Oh! teach me how to touch the lyre,
To tune the trembling chord;
Teach me to fill each heart with fire,
And melting strains afford.

Sweep but thy hand across the string,
The woodlands echo round,
And mortals wond'ring, as you sing,
Delighted catch each sound.

Enchanted when thy voice I hear,
I drop each earthly care;
I feel as wafted from the world
To Fancy's realms of air.

Then as I wander, plaintive sing,
And teach me every strain;
Teach me to touch the trembling string
Which now I strike in vain.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

Modesty.

mrbot — Sun, 03 Feb 2019 21:10:02 +0000

There is a sweet, tho' humble flower,
Which grows in nature's wildest bed;
It blossoms in the lonely bower,
But withers 'neath the gazer's tread.

'T is rear'd alone, far, far away
From the wild noxious weeds of death,
Around its brow the sunbeams play,
The evening dew-drop is its wreath.

'T is Modesty; 't is nature's child;
The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower
That ever blossom'd in the wild,
Or trembled'neath the evening shower.

'T is Modesty; so pure, so fair,
That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow,
When that sweet flower is blooming there,
The brightest beauty of her brow.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

An Acrostic

mrbot — Sat, 02 Feb 2019 21:10:08 +0000

The Moon

Lo! yonder rides the empress of the night!
Unveil'd she casts around her silver light;
Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march,
Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch.
E'en now, as weary of the tedious way,
Thy head on ocean's bosom thou dost lay;
In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face,
And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place.

The Sun
[In continuation]

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides,
And from his path fell darkness quick divides;
Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach,
It dares not on his blazing path encroach;
Down droops the flow'ret, — and his burning ray
Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay.
Oh! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course,
Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

Alonzo and Imanel

mrbot — Thu, 31 Jan 2019 21:10:10 +0000

As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand
A form,'twas so airy, so light,
He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land
That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and thro' sand,
'Neath the moon-beam so fitfully bright.

He paus'd, as the bittern scream'd loud o'er his head,
One moment he paus'd on the shore,
To mark the wild wave as it dash'd from its bed,
Tossing high the white spray from its foam-spangled head,
With a fitful and deafening roar.

He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind,
Ere the tempest-god bore them away,
And they told of a tortured and desperate mind,
To despair's dark shadows for ever resign'd,
Of a heart, once hope-lighted and gay.

The bright moon was hid in the breast of the storm,
And darkness and terror drew round,
Yet still he could mark her light fanciful form,
As she roam'd round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm,
Tho' the fiend of the whirlwind frown'd.

Oh tell me, he cried, what spirit so light,
So beautiful e'en in despair,
Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night,
When to guide her no star in the heaven is bright,
No gleam save the lightning's red glare!

'T is young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh,
The rich, the belov'd and the gay,
Who is doom'd from her friends and her country to fly,
For she lov'd, and she wedded Alonzo the spy,
Who has left her and fled far away.

Alonzo the spy! — and he darted away
With the speed of a shooting star,
Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay,
But toward the poor lone one he bounded away,
She had fled to the sea-beach afar.

One glance of the forked lightning's
Play'd bright round the fair one's face,
And it beam'd on Alonzo, for he was there,
And it beam'd on his bride, on his Imanel dear,
Clasp'd at length in his joyful embrace.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

Song of Victory

mrbot — Fri, 05 Jan 2018 21:10:03 +0000

Strike with joy the wild harp's string,
God, O Israel, is your King!
We have slain our deadliest foe,
David's arm hath laid him low.

Saul hath oft his thousands slain,
His trophies have bedecked the plain;
But David's tens of thousands lie
In slaughtered millions, mounted high.

Sound the trumpet — strike the string,
Loud let the song of victory ring;
Wreathe with glory David's brow,
He hath laid Goliath low.

Mark him on yon crimson plain,
He is conquered — he is slain;
He who lately rose so high,
Scoffed at man, and braved the sky.

Strike with joy the wild harp's string,
God, O Israel, is your king!
We have slain our deadliest foe,
David's arm hath laid him low.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

On the Death of an Infant

mrbot — Sun, 31 Dec 2017 21:10:07 +0000

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled!
Low lies thy body in its grassy bed;
But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air,
Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share.

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white,
Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright. —
Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below,
And mark their trickling tears of silent woe.

Look down with pity in thy infant eye,
And view the friends thou left, for friends on high:
Methinks I see thee leaning from above,
To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love.

"Weep not for me, for I am happy still,
And murmur not at our great Father's will;
Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake,.
Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take.

"Once you looked forward to life's opening day,
The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way;
Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near,
Coloured it bright —'t is blotted with a tear.

"Then let that tear be Resignation's child;
Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild;
Weep for your child no more, she's happy still,
And murmur not at your great Father's will."

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

The Sick-bed

mrbot — Sun, 17 Dec 2017 21:10:01 +0000

O have you watched beside the bed,
Where rests the weary, aching head?
And have you heard the long, deep groan,
The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone?

O have you seen the fevered sleep,
Which speaks of agony within?
The eye which would, but cannot weep,
And wipe away the stains of sin?

O have you marked the struggling breath,
Which would but cannot leave its clay?.
And have you marked the hand of death
Unbind, and bid it haste away?

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel;
Then thou hast read thy future doom;
O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal,
There's no repentance in the tomb.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

The Coquette

mrbot — Sat, 16 Dec 2017 21:10:02 +0000

I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,
My Ellen's lost for aye,
My heart is sair and much distressed,
I surely soon must die.

I canna think o' wark at a',
My eyes still wander far,
I see her neck like driven snow,
I see her flaxen hair.

Sair, sair, I begged she would na' hear,
She proudly turned awa',
Unmoved she saw the trickling tear,
Which, spite o' me, would fa'.

She acted weel a conqueror's part,
She triumphed in my woe,
She gracefu' waved me to depart,
I tried, but could na' go.

"Ah why," (distractedly I cried,)
"Why yield me to despair?
Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway,
To ease my heart sae sair."

She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go!
This roused my dormant pride;
I craved nae boon — I took nae luke,
"Adieu!" I proudly cried.

I fled! nor Ellen hae I seen,
Sin' that too fatal day:
My "bosom's laird" sits heavy here,
And Hope's fled far away.

Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm,
I'm Sorrow's child indeed;
She stamps her image on my form,
I wear the mourning weed!

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

Death

mrbot — Fri, 15 Dec 2017 21:10:02 +0000

The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light,
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death!
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843

To My Sister

mrbot — Thu, 14 Dec 2017 21:10:01 +0000

When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give;
Oh, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And hovering, trembles, half afraid;
O sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'T were almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Should'st thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?.

Lucretia Maria Davidson

1843