Textarchiv - Mary Weston Fordham

By the Rivers of Babylon

mrbot — Sun, 11 Nov 2018 21:10:02 +0000

By the Rivers of Babylon we mournfully bent,
With "harps on the willows" and vesture all rent,
For burdened by sorrow and saddened by pain,
We felt that we no more could strike them again.

This, this is a strange land, we will not then sing
One song of our Zion, the home of our King,
No rather let right hand its cunning forget,
Than we to our loved home as recreants act.

O! City of God, though as captives we go
Jerusalem's weal we'll never forego,
O! soon may the exiles of Israel return,
To sing Zion's songs in their own holy land.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

To the Eagle

mrbot — Thu, 26 Oct 2017 21:10:03 +0000

Fain would I rival thee
Monarch of birds
Soaring so loftily
Up to the clouds!
Spreading thy pinions
And mounting on air,
Ethereally floating
Divinely and fair.

Where is thy resting place?
Where dost thou dwell?
Is the mountain thy home
Or the stern rock thy cell?
Dost thou live in the desert?
Is the forest thy lair?
O, where is thy resting place?
Eagle, say where?

Always tending upward
May this be my aim;
Ne'er swerving from duty
Or shrinking from pain.
'Tis thus would I rival thee
Monarch of birds,
When soaring loftily
Up to the clouds.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Uranne

mrbot — Thu, 28 Sep 2017 21:10:02 +0000

In a far off hamlet near the sea
Where billows oft, in days of storm, and
Nights of darkness rush reckless to the shore;
Where tall, white cliffs like watchmen keep
A life-long vigil; Oft when the morning
Sunbeams gild their lofty peaks they seem
Like massive crystal vases adorned with
Rays of gold.

Hard-by those snowy cliffs,
Shielded safe from cutting winds and icy
Blasts, stood an humble, unpretending cot,
Its low, thatched roof of matted moss
Glimmered, when the morning sun brightened
Up the valley, and east its rays aslant through
The tiny windows ignorant of glass. Its well-
Scrubbed floor shone like polished wood;
And all around an air of quiet, peace and
Love, prevailed.

Within that cosy nest, there
Dwelt three loving hearts, Nay, four, for on the
Very morn when Christmas bells were
Ringing o'er the land, When children of the rich
And children of the poor alike, were talking
Of the Christ-child, and his day, Unto them a
Child was given, And this lovely babe, blest Christmas
Gift,—was richly prized. E'en now she knew her
Father's voice, and leaped with joy at his return.

But ah! the cry of war, broke o'er the land. Cruel
War, that rends the households and the hearts;
That makes fond bosoms bleed; and waters all
The sod with tears, Salty, agonizing tears, which,
When they dry, leave furrows never healing. —
Sorrows, never ceasing.

The mandate came.—
Marco must go. What! leave the dear ones all
Alone. The gray-halted sire sunning himself
Without the cottage door? The little wife in
Blooming womanhood? The cherub who in
Human form had come to bless his home?
Must he leave his treasures and away to
Distant shores, perchance, lay down to die?
O! the thought was death itself. Yet go he
Must. Each day he'd wander through the glade,
Where every blade and tuft of grass was dear,
So dear. All his life from babe to manhood,
Here was spent. Here he grew, and loved,
And wedded. Here the precious Mother in her
Green old age had yielded to the sharp scythe
Of the Reaper Death. Could he leave her?

The day of
Parting came. The sun was high when Marco
Rose. The cheery little table decked with snowy
Cloth was laid. Out from their frugal hoard
Came every dainty Uranne could find.
Naught was too good for him. The dear, the
Faithful! He who had done all in human power
To make her life joyous. Truly, she said, as tears
Lingered in her eyes, "My lines in pleasant places
Have been cast."

Well long they tarried o'er that
Meal. It seemed as though 'twould never end,
And yet they were not eating. At last the babe
Stretched forth its chubby hands and with
Infantile speech, broke up the silent meal.

Marco arose,—
Father, adieu. Take care of these as best thou
Can'st. I know the load is much too great for
Thee. Whose silvery hairs are whitening o'er with age.
Do all thou can'st and leave the rest to "Him
Who notes when e'en the sparrows fall."

And now, Uranne! truest and best, I can
Not give thee any more my heart, for thou had'st
It all long ago. Thy love to me has been like
Silver lining 'mid the clouds of life.
Has opened up my heart to kindlier feelings
For all who on this earth have naught to cheer,
To solace them in hours like these.

But time doth
Fly. Whether the moments teem with joy or
Flit in sorrow. So Marco said, e're yet I go,
Take this bunch of half-blown buds and place
Upon your breast, near your heart, and wear
Them till I come. Let naught divide 'twixt
Thee and them. 'Mid summer's glow or winter's
Cold, loved one, wear them next thy heart.
Their very name, Forget-Me-Not, will 'mind
Thee of thy lover-husband.

Days, weeks,
Months passed by. No tidings yet had
Come to them, in that lone village by the sea,
Ofttimes the sire would hand-in-hand take
Baby for a walk "by the sad, sea waves"—
Then would the little one pick up shells
And moss, and lisp so sweetly with
Infantile grace, that the aged form would
Straighten up, as if once more the fires of youth
Burned brightly in his veins; and his old
Bereaved heart wound leap for joy.

Alas! when early
Spring had come and the little snowdrops
Gleamed in the valley, little Bright-eyes
Faded and was laid beneath them.
O! then the sun went down in blackness grim,
And the whole world seemed devoid of life;
Not worth living, the old man cried. And
Then he, too, alas! was laid beside the babe.

All through the long,
Long summer lonely Uranne dwelt. Her heart
Low down beneath the Daisies. Uranne, the
Pride of him who now, alas! was no more. Perchance
He too was sleeping in that far-off land,
Without a kindly hand to smooth his aching
Brow, or wipe from his cheeks the damp
Death dews.

One morning when the dew
Had not yet left the sodden grass,
She left the cot to look for her beloved.
She sat her down 'mid the dingy rocks, which
Girt the shore. The little ripples kissed her feet
Caressingly. Long she looked for a white sail,
To greet her tired eyes.

Marco, dost hear Uranne's
Call? Wilt thou no more return? My heart is
Breaking with its load. No longer can I wait, —
But list! I'll whisper in thine ear, —
The blue "Forget-Me Nots,
The sweet Forget Me Nots" which thou
Did'st place upon my breast. Thou wilt see them
When thou com'st. None shall them remove.
Sweetheart, I keep them till you come.

There they found her cold
And stark. With hand pressed close to heart
Where lay her flowers. The sounding sea seemed
To forget to hurl its billows 'gainst the beach
Now white and shining. E'en the little ripples
Seemed to say, Uranne! And the great
Mountain rocks would echo back, Uranne!

Years went by. The war, the
Cruel war was at an end. And Peace with
Flowing mantle had overspread the land; —
With anxious heart, but willing feet, the
Soldier started for his dear old cabin nestled
So snugly in the valley. Would he find them all?

The dear old sire with his silvered hair—Perchance
He had lain him down to sleep, beside the wife
Who had left him in his prime.

But she, the dear
Uranne, she was there, no doubt of that. A stronger,
Healthier lass ne'er spun the dance.
Then the baby, our baby. How she must have
Grown. Wonder if she remembers me, her own dear
Sire? Who oft would soothe and rock to sleep.
O yes; Uranne has taught her to love and lisp
My name.

When the proud vessel dropped her
Anchor in the Bay, no prouder man, nor
Hopeful, than was Marco. Lightly he sprang
Ashore. He looked to right, to left, no sign of
His loved ones cheered his gaze.
Uranne, he cried, What! no welcome for Marco?
No outstretched arms to fold me in love's embrace?
He tottered to the cot all overgrown with
Weeds and trailing vines. O! stars above write
On hardest stone, Desolate, forlorn—alone.

Unconsciously he moved along the lane
That led to the old church-yard. The little
Tuneful bell that had pealed so joyously
On his marriage eve, was silent now.
He saw no one, nor questions asked. But
Slowly crept to where three mounds were
Raised all side by side. He closely scanned
Them all, when lo! upon the longest grave,
A beauteous tuft of blue Forget-Me-Nots—
Aha! he cried, my bright, my blue Forget-Me-Nots!

My flowers which I placed upon her breast,
And bid her wear till we should meet again,
My faithful one. The seeds matured on thy
Dear bosom, nourished by thine own mortality,
Pushed their way to the sunlight of earth, To
Cheer and to 'mind of faithful love,
Love which lasts even after the gates of
Death are passed. Then tie wailed the whole
Day long: Come, O! come! Uranne, come!
Like my flowers, leave your bed, too dark too
Drear for thee. Uranne, come to me!
Or I will come to thee!

There they found him, there they laid him,
With his flowers and Uranne.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Ode to Peace

mrbot — Tue, 19 Sep 2017 21:10:05 +0000

Come Peace, on snowy pinions,
Come, nestle like a dove;
Encircle earth's dominions
With harmony and love.
Let anger, pride and malice,
And strife forgotten lie;
Nor from their venomed chalice,
Quaff more bitter draughts and die.

Come Peace, with arms extended,
Come, brood o'er this fair land;
Let battle scenes be ended,
And heart be joined with hand.
Let fields now crimsoned over,
With the life-blood of the brave,
Loom as monuments of warning,
Shine, as beacon lights to save.

Come Peace, a welcome waits thee,
From many a stricken life;
And many a heart-crushed mourner,
Now weary of the strife;
Methinks e'en now a footfall
Breaks like music on my ear,
As the distant sound of gladness,
When 'tis borne on summer's air.

May the echoes prove prophetic;
May thy murmurs from afar
Shed a radiance as refulgent,
Beam as bright as Bethlehem's Star.
And the hearts that have been riven,
And the bosoms that have bled,
Soon will change their griefs to gladness,
Yield to God and earth their dead.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Song to Erin

mrbot — Fri, 08 Sep 2017 21:10:02 +0000

Oh! Erin my country, my ancestor's home!
Impelled by my wants, I, from thee, had to roam;
And now my heart yearneth, sore longeth for thee
My dear native Ireland, my "gem of the sea."

Oh! Erin my country, thou land of the brave!
Who'll rescue from tyr'ny, who'll ransom and save?
Thy despots so strong, are still wielding their power,
To bind thee in slavery both now and forever.

Speak! speak! who will rescue our Emerald Isle?
Now bowed by the oppressor in servitude vile!
Her sons are all scattered, her daughters are gone,
And she is left desolate, forlorn and alone.

I'll sigh for thee Erin, when spring winds doth fan,
With musical breathings, this far distant land;
'Twill remind me of youth's happy days on thy shore—
Of days, mournful thought, I shall never see more.

I'll weep for thee Erin, as the blue waters surge,
Shall re-echo my wailing, shall chant the sad dirge;
Of Ireland in slavery, once land of the free;
Of Ireland, my country, my "gem of the sea."

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Shipwreck

mrbot — Mon, 21 Aug 2017 21:10:03 +0000

Night and a starless sky,
Ship on wild billows tost,
With tattered sails and opening seams,
And deck bestrewn with falling beams,
Swift plunging to her doom.

Red lightnings round her flash,
Loud thunders crash and roar,
And the noble vessel mounts the crest
Of the reeking waves, then sinks to rest
Mid carnival of woe.

The Petrel soars aloft,
Wailing her hymn of death,
And the dirge like sounds pierce the blackened sky,
While the crew send forth one anguished cry,
Sinking to lowest depth.

Some ships go out to sea
That never more return,
Souls that from heaven in infancy come,
Tarnished and ruined by sin may become,
Like the Dove to the Ark they never return,
But sink as ship to doom.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Alaska

mrbot — Thu, 03 Aug 2017 09:09:52 +0000

With thy rugged, ice-girt shore,
Draped in everlasting snow,
Thou'rt enthroned a queen.
Crown of moss and lichen grey,
Frosted o'er with ocean spray.
All thy long, long wintry day,
Dark and stern thy mien.

From the cloudland fresh and fair,
Falls the snow through crispy air,
Mantling vale and hill.
Then old "Borealis" glows,
With his fiery light that shows,
Frozen nature in repose,
River, stream and rill.

Oh thy north the Polar Sea
Thunders forth in wild meleè,
'Mid gorges dark and steep
Full many a ship with noble crew,
Lies low beneath thy waters blue,
Nor left behind a single clew,
But sleep a dreamless sleep.

Beside the far famed Yukon stands
Hundreds of men from distant lands,
All with the same desire.
Gold, gold's the watchword, yellow ore,
That tempts him from his homestead door,
And Oh! alas he nevermore
May sit by household fire.

Ah! if men would only toil,
Dig and delve their own rich soil,
With vigor and with vim;
Forth would spring the golden corn,
Loud would ring the harvest song,
Life and health they would prolong,
All through nature's prime.

Under his own, his fruitful vine,
Beneath his laden fig tree green,
He, like a king, would reign.
Bending low with purple yield,
Rivalling fair Eschkol's fields,
He'd a potent influence wield,
With his corn and wine.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Twilight Musings

mrbot — Wed, 28 Jun 2017 23:06:02 +0000

I'm sitting by the hearthstone now,
And my heart is lone and drear;
It seems as though the autumn blast
Had left its impress there.
As memory, backward, wends its way,
Unfolding to my gaze
Those joyful hours of "Auld Lang Syne,"
Those lights of by-gone days.

I'm musing on the past, when I
In childhood's thoughtless play,
Reveled in gladness, joy and mirth,
Nor deemed one saddening ray
Should ever cloud my gladsome heart,
Or cause deep sorrow's moan—
Ne'er dreaming of the time, alas!
When I'd be quite alone.

I've listened to the morning's song
Of nature's feathered gems,
Long ere Aurora's roseate hue
Illumined Orient's realms,
And as their carols wafted high
On balmy zephyrs borne,
'Tis then I muse, and sadly feel,
That I am quite alone.

I've never heard the ocean's roar,
Or felt its quivering thrill;
Nor, on stern Neptune's bosom been,
When all was calm and still—
But o'er my heart, at times, there are
Such stormy billows borne,
That then I sadly, truly feel,
That I am quite alone.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

The Washerwoman

mrbot — Thu, 25 May 2017 22:13:34 +0000

With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders low bent,
She stands all day, and part of the night
Till her strength is well-nigh spent.
With her rub—rub—rub,
And her wash, rinse, shake,
Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks,
And the bones begin to ache.

At morn when the sunbeams scatter
In rays so golden and bright,
She yearns for the hour of even,
She longs for the restful night.
Still she rubs—rubs—rubs,
With the energy born of want,
For the larder's empty and must be filled,—
The fuel's growing scant.

As long as the heart is blithesome,
Will her spirit bear her up,
And kindness and love imparteth a zest
To sweeten hard life's bitter cup.
But to toil—toil—toil,
From the grey of the morn till eve,
Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear,
Which the rich can hardly conceive.

What part in the world of pleasure?
What holidays are her own?
For the rich reck not of privations and tears,
Saying, "she is to the manor born."
So dry those scalding tears
That furrow so deeply thy cheek,
For rest—rest—rest
Will come at the end of the week.

Yes, even on earth there's a day
When labor and toil must cease,
The world at its birth received the mandate
Of the seventh day of rest.
When the sweet-toned Sabbath bells
Break o'er the balmy air,
Then sing—sing—sing
That the morning stars may hear.

For the frugal table spread,
For the crust and the humble bed,
When He to whom all earth belongs
Had not where to lay His head,
Then toil for thy daily bread,
Let thy heart like thy hands be clean,
And rub—rub—rub
Till thy bones all ache, I ween.

With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders bent low,
Thou hast for thy comfort that rest, sweet rest,
Will be found on the other shore.
Then they who've washed their souls
Will dip in the crystal tide
Of the fountain clear that was oped to man
From the Saviour's wounded side.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897

Creation

mrbot — Fri, 07 Apr 2017 20:00:01 +0000

O Earth, adore creative power,
That made and gave to man as dower,
This world of beauty rare,
With hills and vales of verdant green,
With rills and brooks of crystal sheen,
Lovely beyond compare.

O Sun, bright ruler of the day,
When first thy power thou did'st display,
Earth must have shrunk in fear,
When like a meteor burst thy light,
Turning to day the long, long night,
With radiance wondrous fair.

Thou Moon, pale sister of the Sun,
When he his daily work has done,
Thou comest forth a queen;
A queen in silvery robe adorned,
With tiara of jewels formed,
Of starry orbs unseen.

Ye twinkling stars of milder light,
Though now ye gleam like sapphires bright,
Across yon azure dome,
The day will dawn, that last dread day,
When from yon heaven you'll fall away,
And man to Judgment come.

Thunder and Lightnings burst and gleam,
Frightful and fierce to us they seem
Rending the darkened sky.
Like giants tread the thunder's peal,
The vivid lightnings swiftly steal,
And men in terror fly.

O filmy clouds, of purest white,
With robes of gossamer cased in white,
Ye floating waters pure,
Sometimes to burst in cooling showers,
Sometimes to deluge wintry hours
With your relentless pour.

Thou beauteous Rainbow bursting forth,
With varied hues encircling earth;
The sign to Noah made.
"I place amid the Clouds my Bow"
To show that I will nevermore
Deluge with angry flood.

Mountains and Hills whose snow capped tops
The vast horizon overlooks,
Pyramids strong and sure;
Nor lightnings fierce nor earthquake shock
Can ever sway, for firm as rock
Ye ever will endure.

Thou Ocean vast, oftimes thy breast,
Is calm and still as if at rest,
Like one in quiet sleep;
But soon in anger thou may'st roar,
And madly toss from shore to shore,
And human harvest reap.

Fountains and Rivulets so clear,
That gush amid the valleys fair,
With soft and mellow ring;
As coming forth from glade and wood
Your babblings whisper "God is good,''
Ye make the vales to sing.

Now when all nature swells the song,
When beast and birds the strain prolong,
Shall man from praise refrain?
Then would the rocks and hills proclaim,
All nature crying out for shame,
They who their Maker's image wear,
Should shout and sing till rent the air
With rhapsodies sublime.

Mary Weston Fordham

1897