The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/Written in the Retreat from Burgoyne

Was it for this, with thee a pleasing load, I sadly wander'd thro' the hostile wood; When I thought fortune's spite could do no more, To see thee perish on a foreign shore?

Oh my lov'd babe! my treasure's left behind, Ne'er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind; Rich in my children---on my arms I bore My living treasures from the scalper's pow'r: When I sat down to rest beneath some shade, On the soft grass how innocent she play'd, While her sweet sister, from the fragrant wild, Collects the flow'rs to please my precious child; Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves, Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves.

Soon as the spires of Albany appear'd, With fallacies my rising grief I cheer'd; 'Resign'd I bear,' said I, 'heaven's just reproof, 'Content to dwell beneath a stranger's roof; 'Content my babes should eat dependent bread, 'Or by the labour of my hands be fed: 'What tho' my houses, lands, and goods are gone, 'My babes remain---these I can call my own.' But soon my lov'd Abella hung her head, From her soft cheek the bright carnation fled; Her smooth transparent skin too plainly shew'd How fierce thro' every vein the fever glow'd. ---In bitter anguish o'er her limbs I hung, I wept and sigh'd, but sorrow chain'd my tongue; At length her languid eyes clos'd from the day, The idol of my soul was torn away; Her spirit fled and left me ghastly clay!

Then---then my soul rejected all relief, Comfort I wish'd not for, I lov'd my grief: 'Hear, my Abella!' cried I, 'hear me mourn, 'For one short moment, oh! my child return; 'Let my complaint detain thee from the skies, 'Though troops of angels urge thee on to rise.'

All night I mourn'd---and when the rising day Gilt her sad chest with his benignest ray, My friends press round me with officious care, Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear; Of resignation talk'd---passions subdu'd, Of souls serene and christian fortitude; Bade me be calm, nor murmur at my loss, But unrepining bear each heavy cross.

'Go!' cried I raging, 'stoick bosoms go! 'Whose hearts vibrate not to the sound of woe; 'Go from the sweet society of men, 'Seek some unfeeling tyger's savage den, 'There calm---alone---of resignation preach, 'My Christ's examples better precepts teach.' Where the cold limbs of gentle Laz'rus lay I find him weeping o'er the humid clay; His spirit groan'd, while the beholders said (With gushing eyes) 'see how he lov'd the dead!' And when his thoughts on great Jerus'lem turn'd, Oh! how pathetic o'er her fall he mourn'd! And sad Gethsemene's nocturnal shade The anguish of my weeping Lord survey'd: Yes, 'tis my boast to harbour in my breast The sensibilities by God exprest; Nor shall the mollifying hand of time, Which wipes off common sorrows, cancel mine.