Poems (Davidson)/Introductory

by Lucretia Maria Davidson

INTRODUCTORY.

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever:Its loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness."

In bringing out at this time a new edition of the poems of one of the sweetest and most intellectual spirits that this country ever knew; in introducing to an entirely new generation of readers the writings of one who for forty-five years has lain beneath the lilies and the violets in a quiet country church-yard on the borders of Lake Champlain, we feel that we are performing a worthy act which cannot but be fully appreciated and acknowledged.

The simple fact that a young girl of less than seventeen summers, should have written the poems contained in this volume, was, and would be even at this time, something remarkable, especially when we remember that in those days there were but few female poets in the land, and none who could have laid claim, at so early an age, to such tender and thoughtful effusions. It is sad to think that this young girl, so talented and so filled with inspiration; who seemed to be imbued with the very spirit and essence of poesy, and who gave such excellent promise and token of a glorious career, should have so early passed away. Had she lived until womanhood, who can tell what she might have accomplished! Without being a great poet, she yet possessed all the attributes of one, and many of her earliest productions contained evidences of poetic power, which needed only culture and proper guidance—which, had her health and years permitted, she would have received—to have made her the peeress of the fairest poets of the land. As it is, we can only speak of her as a child—a wondrous child, though; sensitive to excess, and thoughtful beyond her years. Precocious, too, though not through study, but by nature; she seemed intuitively to know things which puzzle ofttimes the learned; though where or how she gained her knowledge, was a mystery even to those by whom she was daily surrounded,—her parents, her teachers, and her friends.

Her productions were not, as one might think, the result entirely of laborious work; many of them were born on the inspiration of the moment, when the divine afflatus was full upon her; and yet others were the result of careful thought and study; but however this was, their composition was always to her a heartfelt pleasure. Other children of her years would find their chief enjoyment in play; but she was never happier than when engaged in composing a poem which was as much a recreation to her as it would have been a task to most others.

As a poet, Lucretia Davidson possessed a depth of thought, a delicacy of expression, a tenderness of sentiment, and an appreciation of melody rarely to be met. She had a fine fancy, a quick imagination, a quiet and unobtrusive humor, and underlying all a foundation of thorough and unwavering thoughtfulness. Her writings are marked by grace, ease, and refinement, and evince not only a catholic but a classical taste. Her heart as well as her mind, is apparent in her compositions; and soul, as well as intellect, permeates and gives character to her productions.

But the genius of Lucretia Davidson has been acknowledged by writers greatly distinguished in literature, not only in this country but in England. Robert Southey, one of the most brilliant critics and accomplished poets, wrote in praise of her productions years ago, in the "London Quarterly Review." With a fullness of expression, creditable to his heart as well as to his understanding, he said: "In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the friends and parents of the deceased could have formed."

It is not our intention to write a biography of Lucretia Davidson. This has, as will be seen by referring to the appendix at the close of this volume, already been done. so fully and successfully, by a distinguished pen,—that of Miss Sedgwick,—as to leave little for any one else to do. We purpose, therefore, to add only a few simple facts, obtained from her only surviving brother, M. 0. Davidson, Esq., of Westchester County, in relation to other members of the Davidson family—her mother and a brother, both now deceased—who possessed in no small degree the divine art of clothing their thoughts in the garb of poesy.

Of Mrs. Davidson we need only say that she was a woman of elegant culture and refinement, gifted with a superior mind, and possessing great beauty of face and figure. For many years previous to her death, which occurred in 1844, she had been in delicate health, and was at times a confirmed invalid. Between the mother and her two gifted daughters the most perfect sympathy of tastes, feelings, and pursuits existed. Their hearts and minds were indissolubly twined together, and a more beautiful relationship of both a maternal and filial character never existed.

It was to Mrs. Davidson that Mrs. Caroline Southey, the wife of the laureate, addressed the following touching lines, written at Greta Hall, Keswick, Cumberland, England, and bearing date April 10th, 1842:—

TO THE MOTHER OF LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON.

O lady, greatly favored, greatly tried! Was ever glory, ever grief like thine, Since hers, the mother of the Man divine,The perfect One—the Crowned—the Crucified?Wonder and joy, high hopes and chastened pride  Thrilled thee; intently watching, hour by hour, The fast unfolding of each human flower,In hues of more than earthly brilliance dyed.And then—the blight, the fading, the first fear, The sickening hope, the doom, the end of all:Heart withering, if indeed all ended here. But from the dust, the coffin, and the pall,Mother bereaved, thy tearful eyes upraise,Mother of angels, join their songs of praise!

As we have before said, a son of this gifted and accomplished woman was also a poet and one of no slight ability. For several years previous to his death, he contributed to the pages of the "Southern Literary Messenger' and other periodicals of the day. To him we are indebted for the completion of a poem, "The Parting of Decourcy and Wilhelmine," left unfinished by Lucretia at the time of her death, and found by her mother among her manuscripts. That portion of it—from the seventeenth to the last stanza inclusive—1nentioned in the original edition of the poems as being furnished by another hand, is from the pen of Lieutenant Davidson. It is marked by greater vigor, and displays a fuller acquaintance with the subject—carrying out, however, the same idea initiated by Lucretia—than she, with all her innate knowledge and appreciation of the same, could have hoped to have given to it. Indeed, it breathes in every line a soldierly spirit.

A brief sketch of this brother of Lucretia, with a selection from his writings, will not, we trust, be uninteresting to the readers of this volume.

Lieut. L. P. Davidson, U. S. A., was born in 1816, at Plattsburg, N. Y. He was educated for Middlebury College under the care of the Rev. Canon Townsend, Rector of the parish of St. George and St. Thomas, a scholar of rare abilities, who is still living at Clarenceville, Canada East. Young Davidson, at an early age, became partial to classical lore. He translated and versified several of the books of Virgil, and filled a number of manuscript volumes with original poems and translations from both Latin and Greek poets.

In the year 1831 he entered Middlebury College, where he remained two years, until 1833, when he was transferred to the United States Military Academy at West Point, appointed at large by General Jackson, through the representations of the late General Macomb, to whom his talents had greatly recommended him. He graduated in 1837, in the same class with Sedgwick, Hooker, Vogdes, Benham, and other officers subsequently greatly distinguished in the Mexican war and the war of the great Rebellion. On the formation of the 1st regiment of dragoons, at his own request, he was assigned to this branch of the service, and immediately entered upon active duty on the western frontier.

While in the service he did much to elevate the moral as well as the military standing of the soldier, and, among other good works, advocated the establishment of "post libraries," and wrote several songs of a stirring character, in praise of a soldier's life, especially such a life as could only be found in the excitement and dangers incident to the far West. These songs were, and some of them doubtless still are, sung about the camp-fires of the cavalry; while others were for the recruiting service, and ofttimes effectively served the intended purpose, inducing many a brave fellow to enlist under the flag of his country. A favorite one was called "The Light Dragoon." It was dedicated to Lieut. A. R. Johnston, and published, if we mistake not, by the old firm of Firth and Hall, of New York, in 1841. Although the dragoon branch of the service has been abolished and the cavalry substituted in its stead, this song, with its dashing chorus, has not been allowed to pass away. It read as follows:—

THE LIGHT DRAGOON.

I.

  Good cheer, my steed,  Let thy headlong speed,Dash the dew from the prairie grass,  Shrink not, my horse,  Let the hills fall back,As the ranks of our squadrons pass.  Then up, gallant steed, the wild wind's speed   Is but slow to thy headlong flight,  And we'll rein up soon, and the light dragoon,   With his charger will sleep to-night.

II.

  At the fall of night,  In the gray twilight,When I've combed thy tangled mane,   'Neath the smile of the moon,  Then the light dragoonWill lie down by his steed again.   Then up, gallant steed, etc.

III.

  When sleep is done,  And the rising sunShall have burnished thy glossy hair,  To horse again,  And we'll scour the plain,And we'll beat up the red man's lair.   Then up, gallant steed, etc.

It is to be regretted that Lieut. Davidson should have. destroyed, shortly before his death, nearly his entire collection of manuscript poems; for, if we may trust the judgment of those of his friends who had read them, many possessed more than a common degree of merit. From a few which escaped the flames, we select one, not so much for the poetic skill displayed in its composition, as for the interest of the story connected with it, and which serves to introduce an incident in the life of its writer.

Lieut. Davidson possessed a favorite charger named "Chicago," which had carried him on many a weary march, and through many a dangerous defile in the Indian country. For its docility and almost human intelligence, it was fondly loved by the soldier, who regarded it with a like affection that the Arab of the desert is said to have for his steed.

In one of the wild skirmishes with the Indians, "Chicago" was killed by an arrow, and in falling confined his rider to the ground. The savages swept down to secure the tempting scalp, but were arrested by the fall of their leader, shot by a sergeant, also dismounted, who ran to the assistance of his officer, and delivered his fire over the dead body of the horse.

The Lieutenant, mourning the loss of his valued steed and companion, after the fight, to prevent him from becoming food for the wild animals of the prairie, buried him where he fell. These lines, written in pencil on the back of a blank requisition for holsters, bridle-bits, etc., were found, after Lieut. Davidson's death, in a pocket of his waistcoat:—

EPITAPH ON MY HORSE.

And thou art dead, my noble steed! The duties of a friend are done:Thou wert the soldier's friend, indeed, And nobly has thy course been run.That flashing eye, that lofty head,Are dim, and spiritless, and dead, And stiffened are thy limbs of speed.

O! if the bugle's stirring blast, With war's enlivening influence rife,Could usher back the moments past, And raise the slumbering dead to life:How quickly would'st thou prance again,And limbs, and nerves, and sinews strain, To taste the raptures of the strife.

But round thy grave the western storm, With music harsh, and sad, and drear,Will whistle o'er thy mouldering form, And howl its anthem o'er thy bier.The panther's fangs shall harm thee not—The prairie wolf shall pass the spot; Too noble game for them lies here!

Quite different in its character, and evidently more carefully written, are the lines entitled "Longings for the West," composed a few months before his death; but not published in the "Southern Literary Messenger" (from the pages of which we take them) until after his decease, namely, in the number for February, 1843, where they are prefaced by complimentary remarks from the editor.

LONGINGS FOR THE WEST.

O! that the poet's mystic power were mine,Harmonious words in thrilling verse to join;What sweeter music than to strike the chords,To paint the beauties of the West in words,And sing in praise that sweetest spot of earth,Home of the wild and free,—dear Leavenworth.Be still, my heart! let mem'ry's touch divine,Bring back past joys to glad this soul of mine,And spread the kindly veil o'er doubt and pain.I would not call back grief's but pleasure's form again.How oft I've sat in melancholy mood,Where mad Missouri rolls his reckless flood,To watch the mighty stream with wond'ring eye, Born of a mountain spring to swell the sea,And to man's life compare the aspiring wave,—"Is born, is great," then thunders to the grave.I turn my eyes, the sun's departing beamGilds yonder hill with more than earthly gleam;It glows like Sinai's mount, then fades to gloom.Ambitious, soaring child, it typifies thy doom.Oft when the morn smiled bright o'er frosty ground,And startling horn had waked the slumbering hound,I've sprung to horse, and with the shouting train,Chased fox and wolf o'er hill and dale and plain,Till tired with sport I've checked my headlong steed,Where some bright stream winds through the flow'ry mead,And thrown me down, where sunbeams never come,To rest, to sleep, perchance to dream of home,Or watch my horse with eager ear and eye,Start at the hounds' deep bay, and hunters' distant cry:Days, weeks and months, I've coursed the prairie's plain,Garden of God! the red man's rich domain—Oft chilled by cold, or scorched by summer's sun,From morn till night, till many a march was done,Then laid me down in some wild Indian's camp,The earth my resting-place, cold, drear, and damp,To watch the stars—to mark the sullen owl,To catch the cadence of the wolf's sad howl,Or list the tales of scout and foray far,Of skulking Pawnee band, or murderous Delaware,—O! could I catch that martial strain again,The band's wild music thrilling through each vein,While deep-mouthed trumpets rich alarums pour;'Twere worth a life to hear those sounds once more. O could I see one moment, scan againThe bright parade, the soldiers' glittering train,Watch every movement, mark with rapture's eye,Each marshalled squadron as its ranks pass by,And if at speed the mimic field they scour,To join the rushing ranks, and shout the charge once more!

Spirit of memory, gentler pictures bring,And teach my Muse of social joys to sing:Of winter evenings, long from close of day,With comrades passed in converse grave and gay,While tales of daring, wear the lengthened night,Of border warfare, or of Indian fight:Teach me to sing the glad and social dance,Where waltzers whirl and bright eyes witching glance,While friends in cities mourn our hapless lot,As banished exiles here, sad, desolate, forgot.

After five years' active service on the plains, during which time he was exposed to many dangers and hard ships, his health began to fail him, and he was oblige« to ask a furlough. His native air, however, and the quietude of home-life failed to restore to him his fading health; and hoping to find abroad what he could not in this country, he visited Europe, explored Greece, where were laid the scenes of his favorite poets, and also travelled in Malta and Syria, returning through Italy and France But all to no purpose; and, with feebler steps and a more wasted frame than when he bade farewell to home and friends, he came back only to die. His death took place in June, 1842, and his remains were interred in the burial-ground at Saratoga.

The following lines, slightly varied from a stanza of the original poem—"The Mother's Lament"—written by Lucretia, are inscribed on his tombstone:—

"Calmly he rests on a bosom far colder Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing cheek;Calmly he rests there, to silently moulder, No tear to disturb him, no sigh to awake."

Lieutenant Davidson was possessed of a high, chivalric nature. He was brave, magnanimous, and full of charity. He was of that type and mould of character of which soldiers are made, and General Scott never spoke more truthfully than when, on .hearing of his death, he said: "The army has lost one of its brightest ornaments." Had he lived, he would doubtless have attained high rank in the army, and been honored as a patriot, a soldier, and a man.

His portrait, engraved on steel, graces this volume.

In addition to what we have already said in relation to Lucretia Davidson, we desire to quote a few remarks written by Mrs. Davidson, in her dedication to Washington Irving of a former edition of these poems, published in 1841, detailing the circumstances under which several of the poems were written.

"I have felt," Mrs. Davidson wrote, "much diffidence in presenting these manuscripts to the public, in their present imperfect and unfinished state; but the circumstances under which many of them were written, condemned, and partly destroyed by herself, as if unworthy to hold a place among her papers, her extreme youth and loveliness, and the melancholy fact of her dying before she had time to complete others, will, I trust, make them not less interesting to the reader of taste and feeling.

"The allegory of 'Alphonso in search of Learning,' was written at the age of eleven. It was suggested to her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected upon the Plattsburg Academy, upon which was painted the Temple of Science.

"The poem of 'Chicomico' was written after a severe illness which confined me many months to my bed, during which time Lucretia made a resolution that if I ever should recover, she would give up her 'scribbling,' as she called it, and devote herself to me; at my earnest entreaty, however, she resumed her pen, and the first thing she produced was 'Chicomico,' prefaced by the following lines:—

"'I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, forever;To have touched thy dear strings again—never—O, never.To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee,To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee;But the voice of affection hath called forth one strain,Which, when sung, I will leave thee to silence again.'

"This beautiful tribute of affection has ever been one of the most cherished relics of my child, and I deeply regret that the irregular and unconnected state of the manuscript obliges me to withhold the whole of the first part.

"The ballad of 'Decourcy and Wilhelmine' was written for a weekly paper, which she issued for the amusement of the family. It was dated from 'The Little Corner of the World,' edited by the Story-Teller, and dedicated to Mamma. After a time it was discontinued, and to my extreme regret destroyed. The fragment inserted in the collection, is one of the very few remnants found among her manuscripts; the first sixteen verses are purely original; the sequel was supplied by a friend, it being deemed too fine to be rejected for want of mere filling out. Lucretia's diffidence, and the apprehension that the circumstances might transpire or the papers be read by some friend out of the family, was, I believe, the sole reason why she discontinued and destroyed them. This mutilated paper, and a part of 'Rodin Hall," are all that remain of the 'Story-Teller.'

"Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly manifested in her 'Petition of the Old Comb.' She had retired to her room with her books and pen, where she had spent several days. Feeling a desire to see how she was getting on, I went to her room. As I passed through the hall, I saw a sealed letter directed to me, lying at the foot of the stairs; I opened it, and found it contained the

"PETITION OF A POOR OLD COMB."

"'Dear mistress, I am old and poor, My teeth decayed and gone;O, give me but one moment's rest, For, mark, I'm tott'ring down.

"'Thy raven locks, for many a day, I've bound around thy brow;And now that I am old and lame, I prithee let me go.

"'"Have I not, many a weary hour, Peep'd o'er thy book or pen,And seen what this poor mangled form Will ne'er behold again?

"'"A faithful servant I have been, But ah! my day is past;And all my hope, and all my wish, Is liberty at last.

"'"Mark but the glittering, well-filled shelf Where my companions lie;Are they not fairer than myself, And younger far than I?

"'O! then in pity hie thee there, Where thousands wait thy call,And twine one in thy raven hair, To shroud my shameful fall.

"'My days are hast'ning to their close, Crack! crack! goes every tooth;A thousand pains, a thousand woes, Remind me of my youth.

"'Adieu then—in distress I die— My last hold fails me now; Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly Forever 'round thy brow.

"On reading it, I went up-stairs, and found her enveloped in books and manuscripts. Several large folios lay open on the table, to which she seemed to have been referring; while books, papers, and scraps of poetry were strewn in confusion over the carpet. Her luxuriant hair had escaped from its confinement, and hung in rich glossy curls upon her neck and shoulders, while the superannuated comb lay at her feet. As I hastily entered the room, she manifested some mortification, that I should have 'surprised her in the midst of so much confusion, and, throwing her handkerchief over her papers, laughingly asked what I thought of the Petition? I advised her to send directly to the 'well-filled glittering shelf,' as I had no desire to see the curse denounced verified, or her

     "EIf locks flyForever round her brow."

"'Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico," was written in Albany, during her stay at the Institution of Miss Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the brief space of three weeks, while getting daily lessons like any other school-girl. During that period, she also produced several fugitive pieces. She had been absent from home but six weeks when I was summoned to attend her: she had then been confined to her bed three weeks. On the morning after my arrival, she desired me to collect the scattered sheets of 'Maritorne,' and expressed much sorrow when she found that some were missing. She told me, with tears, that she feared she could never supply the loss, and said, Do, mamma, take care of what remains: it is thus far the best thing I ever wrote.'

"After her death, in her portfolio, which her nurse told me she used every day, sitting in bed, supported by pillows, I found the 'Last Farewell to my Harp', and the 'Fear of Madness,' both written in a feeble, irregular hand, and evidently under a state of strong mental excitement. By their side lay the unfinished head of a Madonna, copied from a painting executed several centuries ago, and with the drawing lay also the unfinished poem suggested by the painting:—

'Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell.'

"In the 'Last Farewell to my Harp,' the presentiment of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly portrayed, mingled with the feeling of presumption which she often manifested in having 'dared to gaze

'Upon the lamp which never can expire,The undying, wild, poetic fire."

"There is something extremely touching in the last stanzas:—

'And here, my harp, we part forever;Tl waken thee again—O! never;Silence shall chain thee cold and drear,And thou shalt calmly slumber here!'

"'The Fear of Madness.'—The reader will find his sympathies all awakened upon perusing this unfinished fragment from the pen of the lovely sufferer. It leaves too painful a sensation upon the mind to admit a comment."

It only remains for us to add to this slight sketch, that the author of this volume of poems died in 1825, just a month before her seventeenth birthday. The following inscription appears on a modest marble monument erected over her remains in the family burial-ground at Plattsburg:—

LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON

WAS BORN SEPT. 27, 1808,

AND

DIED AUGUST 27, 1823,

AGED 16 YEARS AND 11 MONTHS

"Here innocence and beauty lies, whose breathWas snatched by early, not untimely death."—Pope.

On another side of the stone appear these beautiful lines from the pen of Mr. Bryant:—

"In the cold, moist earth we laid her, When the forests cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely Should have a life so brief;

"Yet not unmeet it was that one,Like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful,Should perish with the flowers."

The opposite side of the marble bears these words:—
"This monument was raised as a testimony of affection by her mourning father."

This volume, so handsomely gotten up, and in the illustration of which the pencil of a distinguished artist has been employed, is a tribute of affection from an only surviving brother to the memory of a beloved sister.

In arranging this book for publication, we have brought together, as far as practicable, the miscellaneous poems in the order of the years in which they were written; the first one being dated in 1819, when the author was in her eleventh year. It should be understood that the date of each year is prefixed to only one of the poems; and all those that follow it, until the next date appears, were written during the said named year.

In the biographical sketch by Miss Sedgwick, we have omitted a few paragraphs, not deemed relevant, at this time, to the complete understanding of Lucretia's life. . We have also incorporated into the body of the work several poems which have heretofore appeared only in the pages of the biography.

It is proper here to state that a new edition of the poems of Margaret Davidson, the younger sister, uniform with this volume, is in preparation. The works of both of these sisters have long been out of print, and we have little doubt that these editions will be welcomed by many readers: the old, who knew and prized the poets long ago, and the new, to whom their poems will be a fresh and beautiful revelation. To them, therefore, we joyfully submit this volume.Barry Gray.

Fordham, N. Y., July 25, 1870.