An Acrostic.

Cannot happiness perfect be found on this earth?
How absurd to expect it - sin comes with our birth.
As soon from spring bitter, sweet water procure,
Rich clusters of grapes from the thorn;
Look for figs upon thistles, when seeking for food,
Or bread from the cold flinty stone.
The wealth of the Indies, true peace can't bestow,
The Crown Royal oft presses an aching brow,
E'en in laughter there's madness - mirth coupled with woe.

As true peace in this world, then, can never be found,
Until deep in the heart Christian graces abound,
Give diligent heed to the keeping thy heart;
Unwearied in effort, repel every dart
So dextrously pointed by Satan's black art.
True peace is from Heaven - a child of the skies,
And feeble exertions secure not the prize.

Never falter in duty, but trust in that power
Engaged to support you in each trying hour;
When sinking like Peter amidst the dark wave,
Ever look unto Jesus, almighty to save.
Look to him, live like him, be strong in his might,
Lay thy burden on him, and thy cross he'll make light.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow was an American poet whose works often reflected themes of nature and personal sentiment. Though not widely known today, she contributed to the literary scene of her time with a delicate touch and a keen observation of the world around her. Her poetry, characterized by its emotive language and thoughtful composition, provides a window into the sensibilities of her era. While specific details about her life remain sparse, her literary legacy continues through her published works and the resonance they hold for readers.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

An Acrostic.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

She Slumbers Still.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

To Mr. C.R.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

For My Grand-Daughters, M. And L. - An Acrostic.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Acrostic.

For thee, my son, a mother's earnest prayer
Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere,
Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most;
Not merely earthly good for thee she prays,
Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days,
What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.

In this life we find alternate day and night,
Not always darkness, sure not always light;
'Tis well it should be so, we're travellers here,
Home, that "sweet home," the Christian's place of rest,
Rises by faith to view when most distressed:
Oh! this life past - mayst thou find entrance there.

Perplexed, distressed, sick, or by friends betrayed,
Beset with snares, deprived of human aid,
In all thy sorrows whatsoe'er they be,
Go to the Saviour, tell him all thy need,
En...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

An Acrostic.

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by.
Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each,
How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.
E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;
Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue,
By the pale lamp of midnight we're seeking it too;
At all times and seasons, this same fancied good
Repels our advances, yet still is pursued,
Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food.
But there's a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold,
It can never he purchased...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Acrostic.

Even now I seem to see thee,
Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile,
Bright and beautiful as when
Reading that holy book, the while
I listened to thee, little dreaming,
Docile, gentle, pleasant child,
God who gave, so soon would take thee,
Even thee, so sweet, so mild.
But how merciful in chastening
Our father is - oh! bless his name -
Your little face was decked with smiles,
Dear child, just when the summons came.
Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst
Nought to mar thy little frame.
While ye mourn the dear departed,
Each bitter feeling disallow;
Look to heaven, ye broken hearted,
Look, and with submission bow.
In thy hour of deepest sorrow,
Never murmur, dare not blame;
God, who wounds, alone can heal thee;
Trust ...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

An Acrostic.

Merry, merry little child,
Active, playful, sometimes wild;
Rosy cheeks, and ringlets rare,
Glossy black, with eyes compare.
All, all these belong to thee,
Right pleasant little Margerie.
Every good, dear child, be given
Thee on earth, and rest in heaven.
But who thy future lot can see?
All, every page is hid from me;
Xtended through eternity,
Thy life so late begun will be.
Earnest seek to know the truth,
Remember God in early youth;
When in his sacred courts thou art,
Engage in worship thy whole heart;
Listen to what the preacher says,
Listen to prayers, and list to praise,
In nothing see thou dost offend,
Nor fail the Sabbath well to spend.
Give to thy parents honor due,
Thy sisters love, and brothers too...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

The Clouds Return After The Rain.

Dark and yet darker my day's clouded o'er;
Are its bright joys all fled, and its sunshine no more?
I look to the skies for the bright bow in vain,
For constantly "clouds return after the rain."

Must it always be thus, peace banished forever,
And joy to this sad heart returned again never?
I long for the rest that I cannot obtain,
For the clouds, so much dreaded, return after rain.

Is there not in this wide world one spot that is blessed
With exemption from suffering, where one may find rest;
Where sickness and sorrow no entranpe can gain,
And the clouds do not return after the rain?

Ah! deceive not thyself by a vain hope like this,
Nor expect in this world to enjoy lasting peace:
But bow with submission to God's holy will,
For the hand that afflic...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Winter.

His thundering car
Is heard from afar,
And his trumpet notes sound
All the country around;
Stop your ears as you will,
That loud blast and shrill
Is heard by you still.
Borne along by the gale,
In his frost coat of mail,
Midst snow, sleet, and hail,
He comes without fail,
And drives all before him,
Though men beg and implore him
Just to let them take breath,
Or he'll drive them to death.
But he comes in great state,
And for none will he wait,
Though he sees their distress
Yet he spares them no less,
For the cold stiff limb
Is nothing to him;
And o'er countless blue noses,
His hard heart he closes.
His own children fear him
And dare not come near him;
E'en his favorite child[4]
Has been known to run wild
At...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow