Textarchiv - Sara Jane Lippincott

An Offering to Anna

mrbot — Tue, 14 Aug 2018 21:10:02 +0000

I send this ring of braided hair,
A simple gift, to thee,
One more fond pledge of perfect trust,
And perfect peace, from me.

Thou 'lt wear it for our dear love's sake,
So fresh and pure and strong,
Far sweeter than the dreams of fame,
Of romance, or of song.

And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave,
My cold, still breast ahoy,
Dear, faithful heart, thou 'lt wear it then
In memory of our love.

Bird of my bosom! blessed shape
Of joy and song thou art;
Sweet soul of tenderness and truth,
Soft nestled in my heart.

Thou say'st that heart is Poesy's harp,
A lute which Pleasure plays,
And Love's own dimpled fingers wake
To gay or mournful lays.

Then grieve not, should strains sad or harsh
Rise sometimes from its strings,
When thou dost jar the silver chords
With the fluttering of thy wings.

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Llumination for Victories 1n Mexico

mrbot — Sat, 11 Aug 2018 21:10:07 +0000

Light Up thy homes, Columbia,
For those chivalric men
Who bear to scenes of warlike strife
Thy conquering arms again,
Where glorious victories, flash on flash,
Reveal their stormy way, —
Resaca's, Pale Alto's fields,
The heights of Monterey!

They pile with thousands of thy foes
Buena Vista's plain;
With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,
Swell high the list of slain!
They paint upon the Southern skies
The blaze of burning domes, —
Their laurels dew with blood of babes!
Light up, light up thy homes!

Light up your homes, O fathers!
For those young hero bands,
Whose march is still through vanquished towns,
And over conquered lands!
Whose valor, wild, impetuous,
In all its fiery glow,
Pours onward like a lava-tide,
And sweeps away the foe!

For those whose dead brows glory crowns,
On crimson couches sleeping,
And for home faces wan with grief,
And fond eyes dim with weeping,
And for the soldier, poor, unknown,
Who battled, madly brave,
Beneath a stranger soil to share
A shallow, crowded grave.

Light up thy home, young mother!
Then gaze in pride and joy
Upon those fair and gentle girls,
That eagle-eyed young boy;
And clasp thy darling little one
Yet closer to thy breast,
And be thy kisses on its lips
In yearning love impressed.

In yon beleaguered city
Were homes as sweet as thine;
There trembling mothers felt loved arms
In fear around them twine,—
The lad with brow of olive hue,
The babe like lily fair,
The maiden with her midnight eyes,
And wealth of raven hair.

The booming shot, the murderous shell,
Crashed through the crumbling walls,
And filled with agony and death
Those sacred household halls!
Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay
The sister by the brother,
And the torn infant gasped and writhed
On the bosom of the mother!

0 sisters, if ye have no tears
For fearful tales like these,
If the banners of the victors veil
The victim's agonies,
If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry
In the noisy roll of drums,
If your hearts with martial pride throb high,
Light up, light up your homes!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Arnold de Winkelried

mrbot — Sat, 11 Aug 2018 21:10:07 +0000

Day immortal in Helvetia, — day to every Switzer dear, —
Day that saw Duke Leopold down before Sempach appear,
Just as morning fresh and stilly dawned above the ancient town,
And the mountain mists uprolling let the waiting sunlight down.

Full four thousand knights and barons marched with Leopold that day,
With their vassals, squires, and burghers, following in grand array;
'T was the Duke himself came foremost, slowly came, in state and pride,
With the knight of Eros, brave Eyloff, gravely riding at his side.
Fiery-eyed with ancient hatred rode proud Gessler, as became
One of the abhorrèd lineage, and the old accursèd name.

It was while their serfs and hirelings cut the Switzer's tall grain down,
That the Austrian knights paraded on their steeds before the town.
"Ho! our reapers would have breakfast!" thus the Sire de Reinach calls.
"The Confederates make it ready!" cried the Avoyer from the walls.

Now, upon a hill to northward, in among the sheltering wood,
The Confederates' little army still and firm and fearless stood;
They from Getsan, Zug, and Glaris, the Waldstetten, and Lucerne,
But not a burgher or a knight from false and recreant Berne.

There with looks of old defiance glared they down upon the foe,
And their hearts were hot for vengeance when they thought of long-ago;
For full many a pike now gleaming in the pleasant summer light.
Had their fathers dipped in Austrian blood at Morgarten's mountain fight!

Up amid the winds and sunshine Austria's blazoned banners danced, —
With a mighty clash of armour Austria's haughty hosts advanced;
Calling on the God of freedom, with a shout for Switzerland,
Down against the mailèd thousands rushed the little patriot band!
With their short swords, and their halberds, and their simple shields of wood, —
With their archers, and their slingers, and their pikemen stern and rude.

But as thick as stands at harvest golden grain along the Rhine,
Stood the spears of the invaders, gleaming down the threatening line;
And as pressed the hardy Switzers close upon their leader's track,
Everywhere that wall of lances met their way, and hurled them back;
Till the blood of brave Confederates stained the hill-side and the plain,
Drenching all the trampled greensward like a storm of mountain rain;
Till the boldest brow was darkened, and the firmest lip was paled;
Till the peasant's heart grew fearful, and the shepherd's stout arm failed.
Then from out the Swiss ranks stepping, high above the tumult called,
He, the Knight de Winkelried, Arnold, pride of Underwald:
"Yield not, dear and faithful allies! — stay, for I your way will make!
Care you for the wife and children, for your old companion's sake;
Follow now, and strike for freedom, God, and Switzerland!" he cried;
Full against the close ranks rushing, with his arms extended wide,
Caught, and to his bosom gathered, the sharp lances of the foe!
Then, as roll the avalanches down from wilds of Alpine snow,
Through the breach, on rolled the Switzers, overthrew the mail-clad ranks,
Smote, as smote their shepherd fathers, on Algeri's marshy banks!
Everywhere the Austrian nobles, serfs, and hirelings turned in flight, —
Soon was seen the royal standard wavering, falling in the fight;
'T was the Duke himself upraised it, and its bloody folds outspread,
Waved it, till his guard of barons all went down among the dead;
Then, amid the battle plunging, bravely bore the warrior's part,
Till the long pike of a Switzer cleft in twain his tyrant heart!

With their souls athirst for vengeance, through dark gorge and rocky glen,
On the footsteps of the flying, hot pursued the mountain men, —
Smiting down the hold invaders, till the ground for many a rood,
Round about that town beleaguered, was afloat with Austrian blood.
Then arose their shouts of triumph up amid the shadowy even, —
Loud rejoicings, fierce exultings, storming at the gates of heaven, —
Till a thousand mountain echoes rendered back the mighty cries,
With the sound of earth's contention making tumult in the skies.

But amid the rush of battle, or the victor's proud array,
Came the saviour of Helvetia? came the hero of the day?
Prone along the wet turf lay he, with the lances he had grasped,
All his valor's deadly trophies still against his brave heart clasped!
Feeling not the tempest-surging, hearing not the roar of strife, —
With the red rents in his bosom, and his young eye closed on life.
And when thus his comrades found him, there was triumph in their tears, —
He had gathered glory's harvest in that bloody sheaf of spears.

Lo, it is an ancient story, and, as through the shades of night,
We are gazing through dim ages, on that fierce, unequal fight; —
But the darkness is illumined by one grand, heroic deed,
And we hear the shout of Arnold, and we see his great heart bleed!

Yet to-day, O hero-martyr, does the Switzer guard thy name,
And to-day thy glorious legend touches all his heart with flame;
And with reverence meek and careful still he hands thy memory down,
By the chapel in the mountains, and the statue in the town.

Take thou courage, struggling spirit! Thus, upon life's battle-plain,
God for all his heroes careth, and they cannot fall in vain!
And of heaven for ever blessèd shall the soul heroic be
Who, oppression's close ranks breaking, makes a pathway for the free;
Though his faithful breast receiveth the sharp lances of the foe,
God, the God of freedom, counteth all the life-drops as they flow!
He shall have the tears of millions, and the homage of the brave, —
He shall have immortal crownings, and the world shall keep his grave.

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Emilie Plater

mrbot — Fri, 10 Aug 2018 21:10:02 +0000

Rainbow of the battle-storm!
Methinks thou 'rt gleaming on my sight;
I see thy fair and fragile form
Amid the thick cloud of the fight!

I mark thy glowing lips compressed,
Thy brows in haughty sternness knit,
The eager panting of thy breast,
The strange fire in thy blue eyes lit.

On, on, in maddest bravery dashing,
Thou lead'st thy band against their foes!
Now Russian blades are round thee clashing,
Now Russian ranks about thee close!

Before thy slender arm I see
The bearded Cossack reel and fall!
I hear thy voice, bold, clear, and free,
In charging cry and rallying call!

The young Pole hears it, — through his heart
There leaps a stronger, wilder life!
Again his eyes fierce lightnings dart,
Again he plunges in the strife!

The veteran, whose life is poured
Through countless wounds upon the plain,
Hears it, and grasps his dripping sword,
To strike for Poland once again!

O Heaven, and this was all in vain!
And, matchless maiden, it was thine
To carnage, pillage, and the chain
Thy dear, lost country to resign!

Was it for this from girlish days
Thy gentle frame thou hadst inured
To midnight chill, and noontide blaze,
And all a soldier's toils endured?

For this had dreams of high endeavour,
Of triumph in the stormy strife,
Drowned with their trumpet-notes for ever
The music of a woman's life?

Thy country, glorious, brave, and fair,
Thine all of life, thine only love, —
For her alone thy constant prayer
Rose burning to the throne above!

Her name alone thy heart's depths stirred,
And filled thy soul with warlike pride,
Which gave the maiden strength to gird
The falchion on her tender side.

Yet in thy last hours, dark and lonely,
Thou, so devoted, faithful, brave,
Didst ask, in sorrowing meekness, only
Of thy adoring land — a grave.

How was thy woman's soul betrayed,
When death's seat on thy brow was set!
Then thou didst weep above the blade,
So oft with life-blood vainly wet!

When Hope sighed out her glimmering light,
When thou didst see Sarmatia lie
Bleeding and bound in slavery's night,
Then was thy fitting time to die.

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

I never will grow old

mrbot — Thu, 09 Aug 2018 21:10:06 +0000

O, no, I never will grow old;
Though years on years roll by,
And silver o'er my dark brown hair,
And dim my laughing eye,

They shall not shrivel up my soul,
Nor dim the glance of love
My heart casts on this world of ours,
And lifts to that above!

Now, with a passion for those haunts
Where wild, free nature reigns,
With life's tide leaping through my heart,
And revelling through my veins, —

'T is hard to think the time must come
When I can seek no more,
With step hold as a mountain child's,
Deep dell and rocky shore; —

No longer on my swift young steed,
Bound o'er the hills as now,
And meet half way the winds that toss
The loose locks from my brow!

Yet still my spirit may go forth
Where fearless fancy leads,
May take at will as glorious rides,
On wild, invisible steeds!

Ye tell me as a morning dream
Shall pass away, ere long,
My humble, yet most passionate,
Adoring love of song.

No, no! life's ills may throng my way,
And pride may bend the knee,
And Hope's bright banner kiss the dust; —
But lofty Poesy

Shall fling their slavish chains aside,
And spurn their dark control;
They never, never shall lay waste
That Italy of the soul!

My father, — pleasant years may pass,
Ere his last sun shall set;
And — blessed be the God of life! —
My mother liveth yet.

My sisters blend their souls with mine,
A laughing, loving band;
A heaven-set guard along our paths,
Our six brave brothers stand.

While God thus pours the light of joy
As sunshine round my home,
O, I'll lay up such a store of loves
For the stormy days to come!

In the joy and grief of every one
I'll seek to share a part,
Till grateful thoughts and wishes fond
Come thronging to my heart.

The earnest praises of the young,
The blessings of the old,—
I'll gather them in, I'll hoard them up,
As a miser hoards his gold!
Those loves may die, yet hopeful trust
Shall leave me, fail me, never;
I will plant roses on their graves, —
Vive la jeunesse for ever!

Smile on, doubt on, say life is sad,
The world is false and cold, —
I'll keep my heart glad, true, and warm, —
I never will grow old!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

A Fragment

mrbot — Wed, 08 Aug 2018 21:10:07 +0000

Thou darest not love me! — thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love,
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice
Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart, —
And wouldst not sooner peril life to win
That royal flower, that thou mightst proudly wear
The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear,
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word!
Why wilt not rest, O weary wanderer,
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,
On banks of sunshine? Voices silver-toned
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, —
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song;
Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams;
Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking,
Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air.

Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate,
Why turn thee from the paradise of youth,
Where love's immortal summer blooms and glows,
And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud?
Perchance 't is well for thee, — yet does the flame
That glows with heat intense, and mounts toward heaven,
As fitly emblem holiest purity,
As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow.

Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou lovest,
And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down,
That in thy spirit shall upspring for ever!
Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts, —
It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years,
And colored with its deep, empurpled hue
The passionate aspirations of thy youth.
Go, take from June her roses, — from her streams
The bubbling fountain-springs, — from life take love, —
Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom, and strength.

There is a grandeur in the soul that dares
To live out all the life God lit within, —
That battles with the passions hand to hand,
And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield, —
That plucks its joy in the shadow of death's wing, —
That drains with one deep draught the wine of life,
And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye
May stand upon a dizzy precipice,
High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not fall!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Invocation to Mother Earth

mrbot — Wed, 08 Aug 2018 21:10:02 +0000

0 Earth! thy face hath not the grace
That smiling Heaven did bless,
When thou wert "good," and blushing stood
In thy young loveliness;
And mother dear, the smile and tear
In thee are strangely met;
Thy joy and woe together flow, —
But, ah, we love thee yet!

Thou still art fair, when morn's fresh air
Thrills with the lark's sweet song;
When Nature seems to wake from dreams,
And laugh and dance along;
Thou 'rt fair at day, when clouds all gray
Fade into glorious blue;
When sunny hours fly o'er the flowers,
And kiss away the dew.

Thou 'rt fair at eve, when skies receive
The last smiles of the sun;
When through the shades that twilight spreads
The stars peep, one by one;
Thou 'rt fair at night, when full starlight
Streams down upon the sod;
When moonlight pale, on hill and dale,
Rests like the smile of God.

And thou art grand where lakes expand,
And mighty rivers roll;
Where ocean proud, with threatenings loud,
Mocketh at man's control;
And grand thou art when lightnings dart,
And gleam athwart thy sky;
When thunders peal, and forests reel,
And storms go sweeping by.

We bless thee now, for gifts which thou
Hast freely on us shed;
For dew and showers, and beauteous flowers,
And blue skies overhead;
For morn's perfume, and mid-day's bloom,
And evening's hour of mirth;
For glorious night, for all things bright,
We bless thee, Mother Earth!

But when long years of care and tears
Have come and passed away,
The time may be when sadly we
Shall turn to thee, and say, —
"We are worn with life, its toils and strife,
We long, we pine, for rest;
We come, we come, all wearied, home, —
Room, Mother, in thy breast!"

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Fanny Forester

mrbot — Sun, 05 Aug 2018 21:10:06 +0000

A thousand sweet ties bind her here, —
O friend! thy fears are vain!
The blessed angels will not break
So soon this golden chain;
And God, our God, who loveth her,
Shall breathe on her again!

The languor of her step shall yet
With winter snows depart;
Her feet shall spring o'er carpets wrought
By Flora's loving art,
And keep time to the joyous beat
Of her exulting heart!

Spring flowers, — they must, to one like her,
Bring life in their perfume;
Though lilies mind us of the young,
Pale bending to the tomb,
She shall tread among the violets
Before the lilies bloom!

Yes, when the summer roses blush,
Her cheek shall catch their glow;
And when the summer birds return,
Her tones, no longer low,
Shall, like their strains, on raptured ears
In waves of music flow.

Our souls' arms are around her thrown!
She must not pass away
Now, when, too humble for the proud,
Too lonely for the gay,
The altar of sweet Poesy
Is falling to decay!

O, there may we behold her yet
In her young beauty bow!
There may we hear her glad lip breathe
Her consecration vow,
Earth's warm life lighting up her eye, —
Its glory on her brow!

There long a priestess may she serve,
With vestments pure and fair,
There offer up her wingèd dreams,
Young doves from heaven's own air,
And pour the rich wine of her soul
As a libation there!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

Love's Emblems

mrbot — Sun, 05 Aug 2018 21:10:02 +0000

There was a rose, that blushing grew
Within my life's young bower;
The angels sprinkled holy dew
Upon the blessed flower.
I glory to resign it, love,
Though it was dear to me;
Amid thy laurels twine it, love,
It only blooms for thee.

There was a rich and radiant gem
I long kept hid from sight;
Lost from some seraph's diadem,
It shone with heaven's own light!
The world could never tear it, love,
That gem of gems, from me;
Yet on thy fond breast wear it, love,
It only shines for thee.

There was a bird came to my breast,
When I was very young;
I only knew that sweet bird's nest,
To me she only sung.
But, ah! one summer day, love,
I saw that bird depart!
The truant flew thy way, love,
And nestled in thy heart!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851

A Lay

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

The glorious queen of heaven, who flings
Her royal radiance round me now,
As with clasped hands and upturned brow
I watch her pathway fair and free,
Is not so silvery with the light
She pours o'er darkened earth to-night
As in the gentle thoughts she brings
Of thee, dear love, of thee!

The night-wind trembling round the rose,
The starlight floating on the river,
The fearful aspen's silvery shiver,
The dew-drop glistening on the lea,
Night's pure baptism to the flowers, —
All, all bring back our dear, lost hours,
Till every heart-string thrills and glows
For thee, dear love, for thee!

And when dawn wakes the Earth with song,
And Nature's heart, so hushed to-night,
Goes leaping in the morning light, —
While waves flash onward to the sea, —
While perfumed dews to heaven arise, —
While glory flushes o'er the skies, —
Still through my soul shall sweet thoughts throng
Of thee, dear love, of thee!

Ah, thou beloved, whose heart hath thrilled
To blessed dreams and joys with mine,
What power shall change thy love divine,
Or shut its presence out from me, —
Since all bright things, from flower to star,
Its types and sweet reminders are
To this fond heart, this soul so filled
With thee, dear love, with thee!

We part not, though we said adieu.
Since first thy thoughts chimed in with mine,
And from those wondrous eyes of thine
A heaven of love looked down on me,
My very life round thine is poured, —
Thy words within my soul I hoard, —
Still true, in every heart-throb true,
To thee, dear love, to thee!

Sara Jane Lippincott

1851