She Slumbers Still.

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,
Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;
How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,
'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved
In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;
The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,
But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.

Day followed day until summer was gone,
And autumn still found her alone and asleep;
Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill,
Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.

Again spring returns, and all nature revives,
And birds fill the groves with their music again;
But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed,
And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.

Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,
Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain;
Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,
But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.

There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,
'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"
At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,
And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.

Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,
Her mortal put on immortality then;
And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet
In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Weston, May 29, 1852.

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

The Kings And Queens Of England

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

To Mr. C.R.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

For The S.S. Concert, In The Wayland Orthodox Church.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

To My Missionary Friends, Mr. And Mrs. I.G. Bliss.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

English

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At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
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His mission soon accomplished,
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That morn might chase away.

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The light of those blue orbs
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Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful,
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Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
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By Him that life who gave.

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Mary.

The drowsy summer in the flowering limes
Had laid her down at ease,
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Summoned the wandering bees
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She stood, my Mary, on the wall below,
Poised on light, arching feet,
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Where hung, mid odors sweet,--
A tiny miracle to touch and view,--
The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.

Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled,
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Gentle and proud and shy;
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O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
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No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still,
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Mary

            Thus early with the dead -
    Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
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            Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
    Of thee as of the dead - the pale, still dead! -
            'Tis hard to think the b'eak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!

            *            *            *            *            *

            Thus early with thy God!
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