Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, born on August 19, 1793, and passing away on May 9, 1860, was an American author notable for his numerous children's books. Writing under the pseudonym 'Peter Parley,' he was a significant literary figure in the 19th century. Goodrich’s works were known for their educational content, aiming to teach young readers about history, geography, and other subjects in an engaging manner. His publications had a lasting impact on American children's literature.

August 19, 1793

May 9, 1860

English

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A Burial At Sea.

The shore hath blent with the distant skies,
O'er the bend of the crested seas,
And the leaning ship in her pathway flies,
On the sweep of the freshened breeze.

Swift be its flight! for a dying guest
It bears across the billow,
And she fondly sighs in her native West
To find a peaceful pillow.

There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep,
And she would sleep beside them
It may not be! for the sea is deep,
And the waves the waves divide them!

It may not be! for the flush is flown,
That lighted her lily cheek
'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.
Life's last and loveliest streak.

'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now
The dew of the mornless eve
No morrow will shine on that pallid brow,
For the spirit hath ta'en its leave...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

A Dream Of Life.

When I was young long, long ago
I dreamed myself among the flowers;
And fancy drew the picture so,
They seemed like Fairies in their bowers.

The rose was still a rose, you know
But yet a maid. What could I do?
You surely would not have me go,
When rosy maidens seem to woo?

My heart was gay, and 'mid the throng
I sported for an hour or two;
We danced the flowery paths along,
And did as youthful lovers do.

But sports must cease, and so I dreamed
To part with these, my fairy flowers
But oh, how very hard it seemed
To say good-by 'mid such sweet bowers!

And one fair Maid of modest air
Gazed on me with her eye of blue;
I saw the tear-drop gathering there
How could I say to her, Adieu!

I fondly gave my hand and heart...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Birth-Night Of The Humming Birds.

I.

    I'll tell you a Fairy Tale that's new:
How the merry Elves o'er the ocean flew
From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore,
As they were wont in the days of yore;
And played their pranks one moonlit night,
Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight.


II.

    Ere the Old world yet had found the New,
The fairies oft in their frolics flew
To the fragrant isles of the Caribbee--
Bright bosom-gems of a golden sea.
Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye,
These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,--
So they danced 'mid the spicy groves unseen,
And mad were their merry pranks, I ween;
For the fairies, like other discreet little elves,
Are freest and fondest when all by themselves.
No thought had they that in after time,
...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Frontispiece

And 'mid the awful stillness
    Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished
    And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
    Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
    On the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance
    Hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note
    Of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind's
    Crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest
    With its furrows strong.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Good And Evil.

When man from Paradise was driven,
And thorns around his pathway sprung,
Sweet Mercy wandering there from heaven
Upon those thorns bright roses flung.

Aye, and as Justice cursed the ground,
She stole behind, unheard, unseen
And while the curses fell around,
She scattered seeds of joy between.

And thus, as evils sprung to light,
And spread, like weeds, their poisons wide,
Fresh healing plants came blooming bright,
And stood, to check them, side by side.

And now, though Eden blooms afar,
And man is exiled from its bowers,
Still mercy steals through bolt and bar,
And brings away its choicest flowers.

The very toil, the thorns of care,
That Heaven in wrath for sin imposes,
By mercy changed, no curses are
One brings us rest, t...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Good Night.

The sun has sunk behind the hills,
The shadows o'er the landscape creep;
A drowsy sound the woodland fills,
And nature folds her arms to sleep:
Good night good night.

The chattering jay has ceased his din
The noisy robin sings no more
The crow, his mountain haunt within,
Dreams 'mid the forest's surly roar:
Good night good night.

The sunlit cloud floats dim and pale;
The dew is falling soft and still;
The mist hangs trembling o'er the vale,
And silence broods o'er yonder mill:
Goodnight good night.

The rose, so ruddy in the light,
Bends on its stem all rayless now,
And by its side the lily white
A sister shadow, seems to bow:
Good night good night.

The bat may wheel on silent wing
The fox his guilty vigils keep<...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Illusions.

I.

As down life's morning stream we glide,
Full oft some Flower stoops o'er its side,
And beckons to the smiling shore,
Where roses strew the landscape o'er:
Yet as we reach that Flower to clasp,
It seems to mock the cheated grasp,
And whisper soft, with siren glee,
"My bloom is not oh not for thee!"


II.

Within Youth's flowery vale I tread,
By some entrancing shadow led
And Echo to my call replies
Yet, as she answers, lo, she flies!
And, as I seem to reach her cell
The grotto, where she weaves her spell
The Nymph's sweet voice afar I hear
So Love departs, as we draw near!


III.

Upon a mountain's dizzy height,
Ambition's temple gleams with light:
Proud forms are moving fair within,
And bid u...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Inscription For A Rural Cemetery.

Peace to the dead! The forest weaves,
Around your couch, its shroud of leaves;
While shadows dim and silence deep,
Bespeak the quiet of your sleep.

Rest, pilgrim, here! Your journey o'er,
Life's weary cares ye heed no more;
Time's sun has set, in yonder west
Your work is done rest, Pilgrim, rest!

Rest till the morning hour; wait
Here, at Eternity's dread gate,
Safe in the keeping of the sod,
And the sure promises of God.

Dark is your home yet round the tomb,
Tokens of hope sweet flowerets bloom;
And cherished memories, soft and dear,
Blest as their fragrance, linger here!

We speak, yet ye are dumb! How dread
This deep, stern silence of the Dead!
The whispers of the Grave, severe,
The listening Soul alone can hear!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Lake Superior.

Father of Lakes! thy waters bend,
    Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
    Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep the forests weave
    Their twilight shade thy borders o'er,
And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave
    Their rugged forms along thy shore.

Nor can the light canoes, that glide
    Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide,
    The spell of stillness deepening there.

Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
    Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
    To all, a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings
    Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image bring...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Perennials.

Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers
Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet;
Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers,
And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet.

These way-side blossoms amulets are of price;
They lead to pleasure, yet from dangers warn;
Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise,
And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn.

A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume,
A day of self-forgetfulness, all given
To holy charity, hath perennial bloom
That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven.

Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies
Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit;
And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies,
'Tis that no tears are there to wet its root.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Remembrance.[A]

You bid the minstrel strike the lute,
And wake once more a soothing tone
Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute,
Or only echo moan for moan.

The flowers around it twined are dead,
And those who wreathed them there, are flown;
The spring that gave them bloom is fled,
And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.

Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care,
I fain would try thy strings once more,
Perchance some lingering tone is there
Some cherished melody of yore.

If flowers that bloom no more are here,
Their odors still around us cling
And though the loved are lost-still dear,
Their memories may wake the string.

I strike but lo, the wonted thrill,
Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies:
Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill,
And the sad lute, ...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Song: The Robin.

At misty dawn,
At rosy morn,
The Redbreast sings alone:
At twilight dim,
Still, still, his hymn
Hath a sad, and sorrowing tone.

Another day, his song is gay,
For a listening bird is near
O ye who sorrow, come borrow, borrow,
A lesson of robin here!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Broken Heart.

Oh think not with love's soft token,
Or music my heart to thrill
For its strings its strings are broken,
And the chords would fain be still!

Oh think not to waken the measure
Of joy on a ruined lute
Think not to waken pleasure,
Where grief sits mourning and mute.

The pearls that gleam in the billow,
But darken the gloom of the deep
And laughter plants the pillow
With thorns, where sorrow would sleep.

The gems that gleam on the finger
Of her who is sleeping and cold,
But wring the hearts that linger.
And dream of the love they told.

My bosom is but a grave,
My breast a voiceless choir
Speak not to the echoless cave,
Touch not the broken lyre!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Bubble Chase.

Twas morn, and, wending on its way,
Beside my path a stream was playing;
And down its banks, in humor gay,
A thoughtless boy was idly straying.

Light as the breeze they onward flew
That joyous youth and laughing tide,
And seemed each other's course to woo,
For long they bounded side by side.

And now the dimpling water staid,
And glassed its ripples in a nook;
And on its breast a bubble played,
Which won the boy's admiring look.

He bent him o'er the river's brim,
And on the radiant vision gazed;
For lovelier still it seemed to him,
That in its breast his imaged blazed.

With beating heart and trembling finger,
He stooped the wondrous gem to clasp,
But, spellbound, seemed a while to linger,
Ere yet he made th' adventurous gr...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Dream Of Youth.

In days of yore, while yet the world was new,
And all around was beautiful to view
When spring or summer ruled the happy hours,
And golden fruit hung down mid opening flowers;
When, if you chanced among the woods to stray,
The rosy-footed dryad led the way,
Or if, beside a mountain brook, your path,
You ever caught some naïad at her bath:
'Twas in that golden day, that Damon strayed.
Musing, alone, along a Grecian glade.
Retired the scene, yet in the morning light,
Athens in view, shone glimmering to the sight.
'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies,
It seemed a marble cloud of glorious dyes,
Where yet the rosy morn, with lingering ray,
Loved on the sapphire pediments to play.
But why did Damon heed the _distant_ scene?
For he was young, and all around ...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The First Frost Of Autumn.

At evening it rose in the hollow glade,
Where wild-flowers blushed 'mid silence and shade;
Where, hid from the gaze of the garish noon,
They were slily wooed by the trembling moon.
It rose for the guardian zephyrs had flown,
And left the valley that night alone.
No sigh was borne from the leafy hill,
No murmur came from the lapsing rill;
The boughs of the willow in silence wept,
And the aspen leaves in that sabbath slept.
The valley dreamed, and the fairy lute
Of the whispering reed by the brook was mute.
The slender rush o'er the glassy rill,
As a marble shaft, was erect and still,
And no airy sylph on the mirror wave,
A dimpling trace of its footstep gave.
The moon shone down, but the shadows deep
Of the pensile flowers, were hushed in sleep.
The p...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Gipsy's Prayer.

Our altar is the dewy sod
Our temple yon blue throne of God:
No priestly rite our souls to bind
We bow before the Almighty Mind.

Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air
Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer:
Though banned and barred by all beside,
Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.

Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked
Its story whelmed in Time's neglect
We drift unheeded on the wave,
If God refuse the lost to save.

Yet though we name no Fatherland
And though we clasp no kindred hand
Though houseless, homeless wanderers we
Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Golden Dream.

In midnight dreams the Wizard came,
And beckoned me away
With tempting hopes of wealth and fame,
He cheered my lonely way.
He led me o'er a dusky heath,
And there a river swept,
Whose gay and glassy tide beneath,
Uncounted treasure, slept.
The wooing ripples lightly dashed
Around the cherished store,
And circling eddies brightly flashed
Above the yellow ore.
I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream,
And plunged the gold to get,
But oh! it vanished with my dream
And I got dripping wet!
O'er lonely heath and darksome hill,
As shivering home I went,
The mocking Wizard whispered shrill,
'Thou'dst better been content!'

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

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