Shed o'er my soul religion's power, Oh, bid thy angels o'er me keep Their watch to shield me while I sleep, Yet think, my soul, another day How soon death's sleep my eyes must close, This very night, Lord, should it be, LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 1808-1825. LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, second daughter of Dr. Oliver Davidson, was born September 27, 1808, at Plattsburg, on Lake Champlain. Her parents were in straitened circumstances, and her mother in feeble health, and from these causes it became necessary that she should devote most of her time to domestic duties. But for these she had no inclination; and, therefore, when her work was done, she retired to enjoy those intellectual and imaginative pursuits in which her whole heart was engaged. This predilection for studious retirement she is said to have manifested at the early age of four years. The earliest poem that she wrote, and which has been preserved, was written when she was nine years old-an "Elegy on a Robin, killed in an attempt to rear it." Her thirst for knowledge was wonderful. Before she was twelve years old, she had read Shakspeare, and many of the standard English poets, though she had no advantages of school education, and no one to direct her reading. Still she continued to read and to write poetry so beautiful as to excite the astonishment and admiration of her parents, and all other good people. When about twelve years old, a gentleman who had heard much of her verses was so much gratified on reading them, that he sent her Her a complimentary note, inclosing a bank note of twenty dollars. first joyful thought was that she had now the means she had so long desired of increasing her little stock of books; but, looking towards the sick bed of her mother, who had now been confined by illness for many months, tears came into her eyes, and she instantly put the note into her father's hand, saying: "Take it, father; it will buy many comforts for mother; I can do without the books." Such an exhibition of character endears her more to us than all her poetry. Her ardor for knowledge grew with her growth, so that she one day exclaimed to her mother: "O that I possessed only half the means of improvement which I see others slighting! I should be the happiest of the happy." At length, the longings of her soul were about to be gratified, but at a fatal expense. In October, 1824, when she had just passed sixteen, a gentleman on a visit at Plattsburg saw some of her verses, was made acquainted with her history, genius, and limited means, and resolved to afford her every educational advantage. Accordingly, she was placed at the " Troy Female Seminary," where she had all the advantages for which she had hungered and thirsted; and, like one who had long hungered and thirsted, she devoured them with fatal eagerness. Her application was incessant, and its effects on her constitution-already somewhat debilitated by previous disease-became apparent. On her return home in vacation, she had a serious illness, which left her more feeble than ever. her recovery, she was placed at the school of Miss Gilbert, in Albany, but there, in a short time, a more alarming illness brought her to the very borders of the grave. She partially recovered, and was removed to her home, where she gradually declined, till death released her pure and exalted mind from its prison-house of clay, on the 27th of August, 1825, before she had completed her seventeenth year. "In our own language," says the poet Southey, "we can call to mind no instance, except in the cases of Chatterton and Kirke White, of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement." On In person, Miss Davidson was singularly beautiful; she had a high, "Let no parent wish for a child of precocious genius, nor rejoice over such a one, without fear and trembling! Great endowments, whether of nature or of fortune, bring with them their full proportion of temptations and dangers; and, perhaps, in the endowments of nature the danger is greatest, because there is most at stake. It seems, in most cases, as if the seeds of moral and intellectual excellence were not designed to bring forth fruits on earth, but that they are brought into existence, and developed here, only for transportation to a world where there shall be nothing to corrupt or hurt them, nothing to impede their growth in goodness, and their progress towards perfection." Read article in "London Quarterly," vol. xli., 289 (Nov. 1829), by the poet Southey. open forehead, a soft black eye, perfect symmetry of features, a fair complexion, and luxuriant, dark hair. The prevailing expression of her face was melancholy. That she should have written so voluminously as has been ascertained, is almost incredible. Her poetical writings, which have been collected, amount in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of various length; and when it is considered that among these are five regular poems, of several cantos each, some estimate may be formed of her poetical labors. Besides these, there were twenty-four school exercises, three unfinished romances, a complete tragedy written at thirteen years of age, and about forty letters, written in a few months, to her mother alone. To this statement should also be appended the fact that a great portion of her writings she destroyed. Her mother says: "I think I am justified in saying that she destroyed one-third, at least, of all she wrote." What poet ever accomplished more at so early an age! what one ever gave brighter promise of future distinction!" "In her poems," says Southey again, "there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends, and the parents of the deceased, could have formed; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes. But those hopes are not vain which look beyond this world for their fulfilment." SONG AT TWILIGHT. When evening spreads her shades around, To Fancy's sportive ear is given; When the broad orb of heaven is bright, Then, when our thoughts are raised above O, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive! Read "Remains, by S. F. B. Morse." Addressed to her sister, requesting her to sing Moore's Farewell to his Harp." The song which thrills my bosom's core, Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, TO A STAR.1 Thou brightly glittering star of even, How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee! How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine, Sure the fair world which thou mayst boast There, beings pure as heaven's own air, There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Thou little sparkling star of even, THE PROPHECY. Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow, Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 1 may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. Written in her fifteenth year. That brow may beam in glory awhile; That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile; In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream; I know by that spirit so haughty and high, That, maiden, there's that within thy breast Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse; The voice of the troubled tide I hear; And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. When I am cold, and the hand of Death Hath crown'd my brow with an icy wreath; When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep, Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, And think on my last, sad prophecy. TO MY MOTHER.1 Oh thou whose care sustained my infant years, To thee my lay is due, the simplest song Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; Oh say, amid this wilderness of life, What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive?-who in grief Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee? This was written but a few months before her death. |