The Coral Insect

Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;

Toil on,--for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave;

Ye're a puny race, this to boldly rear

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,

The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone;

Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,

Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;

The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;

O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;

The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,

And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do you plant 'neath the billows dark

The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?

There are snares enough on the tented field,

'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;

There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;

There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup,

There are foes that watch for his cradle breath,

And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,

From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;--

The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold

With the mewsh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,

And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see

The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;--

Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread

The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build,--ye build,--but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin;

From the land of promise ye fade and die,

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;--

As athe kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid,

Their noteless bonds in oblivion hid;

Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,

While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

Lydia H. Sigourney

Death of an Infant

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow,

And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip;--he touch'd the veins with ice,

And the rose faded.--Forth from those blue eyes

There spoke a wishful tenderness,--a doubt

Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence

Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound

The silken fringes of the curtaining lids

For ever. There had been a murmuring sound

With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,

Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set

His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile

So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,--

Death gazed and left it there;--he dared not steal

The signet-ring of Heaven.

Lydia H. Sigourney

With Wild Flowers To a Sick Friend

Rise from the dells where ye first were born,

From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn,

Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,

And haste away with your brows of light.--

--Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,

On your plebian vestures look haughtily down,

Shrink not,--for His finger your heads hath bow'd,

Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.--

--The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,

Have meted your robes with a miser's eye,

And check'd the blush of your blossoms free,--

With a gentler friend your home shall be;

To a kinder ear you may tell your tale

Of the zephyr's kiss and the scented vale;--

Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh

Is health to the bosom on which ye die.

Lydia H. Sigourney

Flora's Party

LADY Flora gave cards for a party at tea,

To flowers, buds, and blossoms of every degree;

So from town and from country they throng'd at the call,

And strove by their charms to embellish the hall.

First came the exotics, with ornaments rare,

The tall Miss Corcoris, and Cyclamen fair,

Auricula splendid, with jewels new-set,

And gay Polyanthus, the pretty coquette.

The Tulips came flaunting in gaudy array,

With the Hyacinths, bright as the eye of the day;

Dandy Coxcombs and Daffodils, rich and polite,

With their dazzling new vests, and their corsets laced light;

While the Soldiers in Green, cavalierly attired,

Were all by the ladies extremely admired.

But the prudish Miss Lily, with bosom of snow,

Declared that "those gentlemen stared at her so,

It was horribly rude,"--so retired in a fright,

And scarce stay'd to bid Lady Flora good night.

There were Myrtles and Roses from garden and plain,

And Venus's Fly-Trap they brought in their train,

So the beaux throng'd around them, they scarcely knew why,

At the smile of the lip, or the glance of the eye.

Madam Damask complain'd of her household and care,

That she seldom went out save to breathe the fresh air,

There were so many young ones and servants to stray,

And the thorns grew so fast, if her eye was away.

"Neighbor Moss-Rose," said she, "you who live like a queen,

And ne'er wet your fingers, don't know what I mean."

So the notable lady went on with her lay,

Till her auditors yawn'd, or stole softly away.

The sweet Misses Woodbine from country and town,

With their brother-in-law, the wild Trumpet, came down,

And Lupine, whose azure eye sparkled with dew,

On Amaranth lean'd, the unchanging and true;

While modest Clematis appear'd as a bride,

And her husband, the Lilac, ne'er moved from her side,

Though the belles giggled loudly, and said, "'Twas a shame

For a young married chit such attention to claim;

They never attended a route in their life,

Where a city-bred man ever spoke to his wife."

Miss Peony came in quite late, in a heat,

With the Ice-Plant, new spangled from forehead to feet;

Lobelia, attired like a queen in her pride,

And the Dalias, with trimmings new furnish'd and dyed,

And the Blue-bells and Hare-bells, in simple array,

With all their Scotch cousins from highland and brae.

Ragged Ladies and Marigolds cluster'd together,

And gossip'd of scandal, the news and the weather;

What dresses were worn at the wedding so fine

Of sharp Mr Thistle, and sweet Columbine;

Of the loves of Sweet-William and Lily the prude,

Till the clamors of Babel again seem'd renew'd.

In a snug little nook sate the Jessamine pale,

And that pure, fragrant Lily, the gem of the vale;

The meek Mountain-Daisy, with delicate crest,

And the Violet, whose eye told the heaven in her breast;

And allured to their group were the wise ones, who bow'd

To that virtue which seeks not the praise of the crowd.

But the proud Crown Imperial, who wept in her heart,

That their modesty gain'd of such homage a part,

Look'd haughtily down on their innocent mien,

And spread out her gown that they might not be seen.

The bright Lady-Slippers and Sweet-Briars agreed

With their slim cousin Aspens a measure to lead;

And sweet 'twas to see their bright footsteps advance,

Like the wing of the breeze through the maze of the dance.

But the Monk's-Hood scowl'd dark, and, in utterance low,

Declared "'twas high time for good Christians to go;

He'd heard from his parson a sermon sublime,

Where he proved from the Vulgate, to dance was a crime."

So, folding the cowl round his cynical head,

He took from the sideboard a bumper, and fled.

A song was desired, but each musical flower

Had "taken a cold, and 'twas out of her power";

Till sufficently urged, they broke forth in a strain

Of quavers and trills that astonish'd the train.

Mimosa sat trembling, and said, with a sigh,

"'Twas so fine, she was ready with rapture to die."

And Cactus, the grammar-school tutor, declared

"It might be with the gamut of Orpheus compared";

Then moved himself round in a comical way,

To show how the trees had once frisk'd at the lay.

Yet Night-Shade, the metaphysician, complain'd,

That the nerves of his ears were excessively pain'd;

"'Twas but seldom he crept from the college," he said,

"And he wish'd himself safe in his study or bed."

There were pictures, whose splendor illumined the place

Which Flora had finish'd with exquisite grace;

She had dipp'd her free pencil in Nature's pure dyes,

And Aurora retouch'd with fresh purple the skies.

So the grave connoisseurs hasted near them to draw,

Their knowledge to show, by detecting a flaw.

The Carnation took her eye-glass from her waist,

And pronounced they were "not in good keeping or taste";

While prim Fleur de Lis, in her robe of French silk,

And magnificent Calla, with mantle like milk,

Of the Louvre recited a wonderful tale,

And said, "Guido's rich tints made dame Nature turn pale."

The Snow-Ball assented, and ventured to add

His opinion, that "all Nature's coloring was bad;

He had thought so, e'er since a few days he had spent

To study the paintings of Rome, as he went

To visit his uncle Gentiana, who chose

His abode on the Alps, 'mid a palace of snows.

But he took on Mont Blanc such a terrible chill,

That ever since that he'd been pallid and ill."

Half wither'd Miss Hackmatack bought a new glass,

And thought with her nieces, the Spruces, to pass;

But bachelor Holly, who spy'd her out late,

Destroy'd all her plans by a hint at her date.

So she pursed up her mouth, and said tartly, with scorn,

"She could not remember before she was born."

Old Jonquil, the crooked-back'd beau, had been told

That a tax would be laid upon bachelor's gold;

So he bought a new coat, and determined to try

The long disused armor of Cupid so sly;

Sought for half-open'd buds in their infantine years,

And ogled them all, till they blush'd to their ears.

Philosopher Sage on a sofa was prosing,

With dull Dr Chamomile quietly dozing;

Though the Laurel descanted, with eloquent breath,

Of heroes and battles, of victory and death,

Of the conquests of Greece, and Bozzaris the brave,

"He had trod in his steps, and had sigh'd o'er his grave."

Farmer Sun-Flower was near, and decidedly spake

Of "the poultry he fed, and the oil he might make";

For the true hearted soul deem'd a weather-stain'd face,

And a toil-hardened hand were no marks of disgrace.

Then he beckon'd his nieces to rise from their seat,

The plump Dandelion, and Cowslip so neat,

And bade them to "pack up their duds and away,

For the cocks crow'd so loud 'twas the break o' the day."

--'Twas indeed very late, and the coaches were brought,

For the grave matron flowers of their nurseries thought;

The lustre was dimm'd of each drapery rare,

And the lucid young brows look'd beclouded with care;

All save the bright Cereus, that belle so divine,

Who joy'd through the curtains of midnight to shine.

Now they curtsey'd and bow'd as they moved to the door,

But the Poppy snored loud ere the parting was o'er,

For Night her last candle was snuffing away,

And Flora grew tired though she begg'd them to stay;

Exclaim'd, "all the watches and clocks were too fast,

And old Time ran in spite, lest her pleasures should last."

But when the last guest went, with daughter and wife,

She vow'd she "was never so glad in her life";

Call'd out to her maids, who with weariness wept,

To "wash all the glasses and cups ere they slept";

For "Aurora," she said, "with her broad staring eye,

Would be pleased, in the house, some disorder to spy";

Then sipp'd some pure honey-dew, fresh from the lawn,

And with Zephyrus hasted to sleep until dawn.

Lydia H. Sigourney

The Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers

"On Friday, March 16th, 1622, while the colonists were busied in their usual labors, they were much surprised to see a savage walk boldly towards them, and salute them with, 'much welcome, English, much welcome, Englishmen.'"

ABOVE them spread a stranger sky

  Around, the sterile plain,

The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh,

  Beyond,--the wrathful main:

Chill remnants of the wintry snow

  Still chok'd the encumber'd soil,

Yet forth these Pilgrim Fathers go,

  To mark their future toil.

'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise

  In Summer's ripening pride,

And there the church-spire woo the skies

  Its sister-school beside.

Perchance 'mid England's velvet green

  Some tender thought repos'd,--

Though nought upon their stoic mien

  Such soft regret disclos'd.

When sudden from the forest wide

  A red-brow'd chieftain came,

With towering form, and haughty stride,

  And eye like kindling flame:

No wrath he breath'd, no conflict sought,

  To no dark ambush drew,

But simply to the Old World brought,

  The welcome of the New.

That welcome was a blast and ban

  Upon thy race unborn.

Was there no seer, thou fated Man!

  Thy lavish zeal to warn?

Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail

  A weak, invading band,

But who shall heed thy children's wail,

  Swept from their native land?

Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams,

  The lordship o'er thy waves,

The region of thine infant dreams,

  And of thy fathers' graves,

But who to yon proud mansions pil'd

  With wealth of earth and sea,

Poor outcast from thy forest wild,

  Say, who shall welcome thee?

Lydia H. Sigourney

The Needle, Pen, and Sword

WHAT hast thou seen, with thy shining eye,

  Thou Needle, so subtle and keen?--

"I have been in Paradise, stainless and fair.

And fitted the apron of fig-leaves there,

  To the form of its fallen queen.

"The mantles and wimples, the hoods and veils,

  That the belles of Judah wore,

When their haughty mien and their glance of fire

Enkindled the eloquent prophet's ire,

  I help'd to fashion of yore.

"The beaded belt of the Indian maid

  I have deck'd with as true a zeal

As the gorgeous ruff of the knight of old,

Or the monarch's mantle of purple and gold,

  Or the satrap's broider'd heel.

"I have lent to Beauty new power to reign,

  At bridal and courtly hall,

Or wedded to Fashion, have help'd to bind

Those gossamer links, that the strongest mind

  Have sometimes held in thrall.

"I have drawn a blood-drop, round and red,

  From the finger small and white

Of the startled child, as she strove with care

Her doll to deck with some gewgaw rare,

  But wept at my puncture bright.

"I have gazed on the mother's patient brow,

  As my utmost speed she plied,

To shield from winter her children dear,

And the knell of midnight smote her ear,

  While they slumber'd at her side.

"I have heard in the hut of the pining poor

  The shivering inmate's sigh,

When faded the warmth of her last, faint brand,

As slow from her cold and clammy hand

  She let me drop,--to die!"

              *   *   *

What hast thou known, thou gray goose-quill?--

  And methought, with a spasm of pride,

It sprang from the inkstand, and flutter'd in vain,

Its nib to free from the ebon stain,

  As it fervently replied:

"What do I know!--Let the lover tell

  When into his secret scroll

He poureth the breath of a magic lyre,

And traceth those mystical lines of fire

  That move the maiden's soul.

"What do I know!--The wife can say,

  As the leaden seasons move,

And over the ocean's wildest sway,

A blessed missive doth wend its way,

  Inspired by a husband's love.

"Do ye doubt my power? Of the statesman ask,

  Who buffets ambition's blast,--

Of the convict, who shrinks in his cell of care,

A flourish of mine hath sent him there,

  And lock'd his fetters fast;

"And a flourish of mine can his prison ope,

  From the gallows its victim save,

Break off the treaty that kings have bound,

Make the oath of a nation an empty sound,

  And to liberty lead the slave.

"Say, what were History, so wise and old,

  And Science that reads the sky?

Or how could Music its sweetness store,

Or Fancy and Fiction their treasures pour,

Or what were Poesy's heaven-taught lore,

  Should the pen its aid deny?

"Oh, doubt if ye will, that the rose is fair,

  That the planets pursue their way,

Go, question the fires of the noontide sun,

Or the countless streams that to ocean run,

But ask no more what the Pen hath done."

  And it scornfully turn'd away.

              *   *   *

What are thy deeds, thou fearful thing

  By the lordly warrior's side?

And the Sword answer'd, stern and slow,

"The hearth-stone lone and the orphan know,

  And the pale and widow'd bride.

"The shriek and the shroud of the battle-cloud,

  And the field that doth reek below;

The wolf that laps where the gash is red,

And the vulture that tears ere life has fled,

And the prowling robber that strips the dead,

  And the foul hyena know.

"The rusted plough, and the seed unsown,

  And the grass that doth rankly grow

O'er the rotting limb, and the blood-pool dark,

Gaunt Famine that quenches life's lingering spark,

  And the black-wing'd Pestilence know.

"Death with the rush of his harpy-brood,

  Sad Earth in her pang and throe,

Demons that riot in slaughter and crime,

And the throng of the souls sent, before their time,

  To the bar of the judgment--know."

Then the terrible Sword to its sheath return'd,

  While the Needle sped on in peace,

But the Pen traced out from a Book sublime

The promise and pledge of that better time

  When the warfare of earth shall cease.

Lydia H. Sigourney

Niagara

  FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe

Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on

Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set

His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud

Mantled around thy feet. And He doth give

Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him

Eternally--bidding the lip of man

Keep silence--and upon thine altar pour

Incense of awe-struck praise.

                            Earth fears to lift

The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys

Of fleeting triumphs, mid the peal sublime

Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks

Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves

Retire abash'd. For he hath need to sleep,

Sometimes, like a spent laborer, calling home

His boisterous billows, from their vexing play,

To a long dreary calm: but thy strong tide

Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart forgets

Its everlasting lesson, night or day.

The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth,

Heard thy hoarse anthem mixing with their song

Jehovah's name; and the dissolving fires,

That wait the mandate of the day of doom

To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscribed

Upon thy rocky scroll.

                    The lofty trees

That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore

Of the too fitful winds; while their young leaves

Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray,

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds,

How bold they venture near, dipping their wing

In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 'tis meet

For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir

Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud

Unblamed, or warble at the gate of heaven

Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems

Scarce lawful with our erring lips to talk

Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace

Thine awful features with our pencil's point

Were but to press on Sinai.

                        Thou dost speak

Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop

From His right-hand,--bidding the soul that looks

Upon thy fearful majesty be still,

Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness,

And lose itself in Him.

Lydia H. Sigourney

Indian Summer

WHEN was the redman's summer?

                                 When the rose

Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock,

Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed?

Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks

Started to see the proud lobelia glow

Like living flame? When through the forest gleamed

The rhododendron? Or the fragrant breath

Of the magnolia swept deliciously

Over the half-laden nerve?

                              No. When the groves

In fleeting colours wrote their own decay,

And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast

That sang their dirge; when o'er their rustling bed

The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail,

Heavy of wing and fearful; when, with heart

Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd

The signs of coming winter: then began

The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze,

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream,

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold.

The quiet rivers, that were wont to hide

'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd

By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept,

While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky

Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged

In the same element. Slowly the sun,

And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved,

And then it took upon its parting wing

A rainbow glory.

                              Gorgeous was the time

Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee,

Our brother hunter, but to us replete

With musing thoughts in melancholy train.

Our joys, alas! too oft were woe to thee.

Yet ah! poor Indian! whom we fain would drive

Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands,

The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown,

And when we would forget, repeat thy name.

Lydia Sigourney

Indian Names

YE shall say they all have passed away,

That noble race and brave,

That their light canoes have vanish'd

From off the crested wave.

That 'mid the forests where they roam'd

There rings no hunter's shout;

But their name is on your waters,

Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow

Like Ocean's surge is curled;

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake

The echo of the world;

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tributes from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say, their cone-like cabins,

That cluster'd o'er the vale,

Have fled away like wither'd leaves

Before the autumn gale:

But their memory liveth on your hills,

Their baptism on your shore;

Your everlasting rivers speak

Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it

Within her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it

'mid all her young renown;

Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,

And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse

Through all her ancient caves.

Wachuset hides its lingering voice

Within its rocky heart,

And Alleghany graves its tone

Throughout his lofty chart:

Monadnock on his forehead hoar

Doth seal the sacred trust;

Your mountains build their monument,

Though ye destroy their dust.

Lydia Sigourney