Written Upon Receiving A New Year's Gift.

I have a little Grandchild dear,
Who sends to me on each new year
    A valuable present:
Not costly gift from store-house bought,
But one that her own hands have wrought,
    Therefore to me more pleasant.

Accept, dear child, the wish sincere,
For you much happiness this year,
    And length of days be given;
Here may you act well your part,
Serving the Lord with all your heart,
    And find your rest in heaven.

Jan. 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

For My Niece Angeline.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

The Great Physician.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

Take No Thought For The Morrow.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

My S.S. Class.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

English

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Unto Us A Son Is Given

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E ach wish, my fairest child, I pen,
F or thee I write with earnest heart;
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H ere are my wishes, then, sweet child,
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Unto Us A Son Is Given

    Given, not lent,
    And not withdrawn - once sent -
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.

    New every year,
    New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long.

    Even as the cold
    Keen winter grows not old;
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
And spring in the familiar green;

    Sudden as sweet
    Come the expected feet.
All joy is young, and new all art,
And He, too, Whom we have by heart.

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To A Young Mother On The Birth Of Her First-Born Child.

Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,
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What store of deep and holy joy is opened to thy thought -
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New Year, 1868.

Cradled in ice, and swathed in snows,
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And lingering on the wing, had heard,
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