Margaret's Remembrance Of Lightfoot.

My beautiful steed,
'Tis painful indeed
To think we are parted forever;
That on no sunny day,
With light spirits and gay,
Over hills far away,
We shall joyously travel together.

Thy soft glossy mane
I shall ne'er see again,
Nor thy proudly arched neck 'gain behold;
Nor admire that in thee,
Which so seldom we see,
A kind, gentle spirit, yet bold.
Thou wert pleasant indeed
My darling grey steed,
"In my mind's eye" thou'rt beautiful still;
For when thou wert old
Thy heart grew not cold,
Its warm current time never could chill.

Not a stone marks the spot
Where they laid thee, Lightfoot,
And no fence to enclose thee around;
But what if there's not,
Deep engraved on my heart
Thy loved image may ever be found.

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

Life's Changes.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

Lines

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

A Pastoral.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

Reply To A Toast

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

English

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Reminiscences Of The Departed.

His mission soon accomplished,
His race on earth soon run,
He passed to realms of glory,
Above the rising sun.

So beautiful that infant,
When in death's arms he lay;
It seemed like peaceful slumber,
That morn might chase away.

But morning light was powerless,
Those eyelids to unclose;
And sunshine saw and left him,
In undisturbed repose.

The light of those blue orbs
That drank the sunbeams in,
Now yields to night, and darkness
Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful,
The light brown chestnut hair;
Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
His life, when called to yield it
By Him that life who gave.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Mary.

One balmy summer night, Mary,
    Just as the risen moon
Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,
    We left the gay saloon;
And in a green, sequestered spot,
    Beneath a drooping tree,
Fond words were breathed, by you forgot,
    That still are dear to me, Mary,
        That still are dear to me.

Oh, we were happy, then, Mary--
    Time lingered on his way,
To crowd a lifetime in a night,
    Whole ages in a day!
If star and sun would set and rise
    Thus in our after years,
The world would be a paradise,
    And not a vale of tears, Mary,
        And not a vale of tears.

I live but in the past, Mary--
    The glorious day of old!
When love was hoarded in the heart,
    As misers hoard their gold:
And often like a bridal...

George Pope Morris

Mary Rivers

Path beside the silver waters, flashing in Octobers sun
Walk, by green and golden margins where the sister streamlets run
Twenty shining springs have vanished, full of flower, and leaf, and bird,
Since the step of Mary Rivers in your lawny dell was heard!
Twenty white-haired Junes have left us grey with frost and bleak with gale
Since the hand of her we loved so plucked the blossoms in your dale.
Twenty summers, twenty autumns, from the grand old hills have passed,
With their robes of royal colour, since we saw the darling last.

Morning comes the blessed morning! and the slow song of the sea,
Like a psalm from radiant altars, floats across a rose-red lea;
Then the fair, strong noonday blossoms, and the reaper seeks the cool
Valley of the moss and myrtle, and the glimmering wate...

Henry Kendall

Lucy Hooper

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead,
That all of thee we loved and cherished
Has with thy summer roses perished;
And left, as its young beauty fled,
An ashen memory in its stead,
The twilight of a parted day
Whose fading light is cold and vain,
The heart's faint echo of a strain
Of low, sweet music passed away.
That true and loving heart, that gift
Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound,
Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,
Its sunny light on all around,
Affinities which only could
Cleave to the pure, the true, and good;
And sympathies which found no rest,
Save with the loveliest and best.
Of them, of thee, remains there naught
But sorrow in the mourner's breast?
A shadow in the land of thought?
No! Even my weak and trembling faith
Can lift for...

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The Hunter And His Dying Steed.

    "Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
    That cost thy life, my gallant grey!" - Scott


The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed
    With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
    Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
    And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
    Were strange to such a guest.

Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one,
    Alas! 'tis easy known -
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
    Thou'dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
    Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze -
    I cannot help thee now.

No more we'll bound o'er dew gemmed sward
    At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, t...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

To Mary In Heaven.

Tune - "Death of Captain Cook."


I.

    Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
        That lov'st to greet the early morn,
    Again thou usherest in the day
        My Mary from my soul was torn.
    O Mary! dear departed shade!
        Where is thy place of blissful rest?
    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
        Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

II.

    That sacred hour can I forget,
        Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
    Where by the winding Ayr we met,
        To live one day of parting love!
    Eternity cannot efface
        Those records dear of transports past;
    Thy image at our last embrace;
        Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

III.

    Ayr, gurgli...

Robert Burns