Lives of Celebrated Women. Goodrich Samuel Griswold

of, she wrote the following verses while sitting at my bed: —

      ‘I’ll to thy arms in rapture fly,

      And wipe the tear that dims thine eye;

      Thy pleasure will be my delight,

      Till thy pure spirit takes its flight.

      When left alone, when thou art gone,

      Yet still I will not feel alone;

      Thy spirit still will hover near,

      And guard thy orphan daughter here.’”

      Margaret continued to increase in strength until January, 1833, when she was attacked by scarlet fever, under which she lingered many weeks. In the month of May, she had, however, so far recovered as to accompany her mother, now convalescent, on a visit to New York. Here she was the delight of the relatives with whom she resided, and the suggester of many new sources of amusement to her youthful companions. One of her projects was to get up a dramatic entertainment, for which she was to write the play. Indeed, she directed the whole arrangements, although she had never but once been to a theatre, and that on her former visit to New York. The preparations occupied several days, and, being nearly completed, Margaret was called upon to produce the play. “O,” she replied, “I have not written it yet.” “How is this? Do you make the dresses first, and then write the play to suit them?” “O,” replied she, “the writing of the play is the easiest part of the preparation; it will be ready before the dresses.” In two days she produced her drama; “which,” says Mr. Irving, “is a curious specimen of the prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no means more incongruous in its incidents than many current dramas by veteran and experienced playwrights.”

      Though it was the study of her relatives to make her residence in New York as agreeable to her as possible, the heart of Margaret yearned for her home: her feelings are expressed in the following lines: —

      “I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,

      To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair;

      To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,

      Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.

      Again would I view the old mansion so dear,

      Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;

      I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,

      For a peep at my home on this fine summer day.

      I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,

      But the love of my home, O, ’tis tenderer yet!

      There a sister reposes unconscious in death;

      ’Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath:

      A father I love is away from me now —

      O, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,

      Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear,

      How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!

      Attentive I listen to pleasure’s gay call,

      But my own darling home, it is dearer than all.”

      In the autumn the travellers turned their faces homewards, but it was not to the home of Margaret’s tender longings. The wintry winds of Lake Champlain were deemed too severe for the invalids, and the family took up its residence at Ballston. Margaret’s feelings upon this disappointment are thus recorded: —

“MY NATIVE LAKE

      “Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,

      Lit by the sun’s resplendent beam,

      Reflect each bending tree so light

      Upon thy bounding bosom bright!

      Could I but see thee once again,

      My own, my beautiful Champlain!

      The little isles that deck thy breast,

      And calmly on thy bottom rest,

      How often, in my childish glee,

      I’ve sported round them, bright and free!

      Could I but see thee once again,

      My own, my beautiful Champlain!

      How oft I’ve watched the freshening shower

      Bending the summer tree and flower,

      And felt my little heart beat high

      As the bright rainbow graced the sky!

      Could I but see thee once again,

      My own, my beautiful Champlain!

      And shall I never see thee more,

      My native lake, my much-loved shore?

      And must I bid a long adieu,

      My dear, my infant home, to you?

      Shall I not see thee once again,

      My own, my beautiful Champlain?”

      But Margaret was happy; the family were reunited, and she had health sufficient to allow her to pursue her studies, still under her mother’s direction. She was fond, too, of devising little plans for intellectual improvement and amusement: among others, a weekly newspaper was issued in manuscript, called the “Juvenile Aspirant.” But this happiness was soon clouded. Her own severe illness excited alarming fears; and hardly was she convalescent, when, in the spring of 1834, intelligence was received from Canada of the death of her eldest sister. This was a severe shock, for she had always looked up to this only surviving sister as to one who would supply the place of her seemingly dying mother. But she forgot her own grief in trying to solace that of her mother. Her feelings, as usual, were expressed in verses, which are as remarkable for their strain of sober piety as for poetical merit. The following are portions of an address —

“TO MY MOTHER, OPPRESSED WITH SORROW

      “Weep, O my mother! I will bid thee weep,

      For grief like thine requires the aid of tears;

      But O, I would not see thy bosom thus

      Bowed down to earth, with anguish so severe;

      I would not see thine ardent feelings crushed,

      Deadened to all save sorrow’s thrilling tone,

      Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head

      Beneath the chilling blasts of Eolus!

…

      When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief,

      And fondly pleads one cheering look to view,

      A sad, a faint, sad smile one instant gleams

      Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined,

      Brooding o’er ruins of what once was fair;

      But like departing sunset, as it throws

      One farewell shadow o’er the sleeping earth,

      Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow more profound

      Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold,

      It scarcely might be called the mockery

      Of cheerful peace, but just before had been.

…

      But, O my mother, weep not thus for her,

      The rose, just blown, transported to its home;

      Nor weep that her angelic soul has found

      A resting-place with God.

      O, let the eye of heaven-born Faith disperse

      The darkening mists of earthly grief, and pierce

      The clouds which shadow dull mortality!

      Gaze on the heaven of glory crowned with light,

      Where rests thine own sweet