at Mount Auburn
Friends of
Mount Auburn
_____________________________
April 14, 2013
Early in the eighteenth century books and newspapers were less universally available. In the first third of the nineteenth-century, our country used the accessibility to cheap wood pulp paper, advancements in the printing industry, increased building of roads, introduction of railroads, enhanced mail distribution, and the telegraph to increase to distribution of general information. Parallel to these technological and economic advancements, populations were moving to urban centers, and market economies increased a middle class, which helped decline rates of illiteracy, expanding the reading audience. While married women were still expected to restrict their ambitions, and contact with other men, younger women did have more opportunities for advanced education, including the abundance of popular lyceum lectures, and numerous periodicals. In the first half of the nineteenth-century, women authored poetry was primarily found in women’s magazines such as Godey’s Lady Book, Graham’s Magazine and the Lady’s Wreath. In time, more prestigious periodicals such as the Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, North American Review, and Century Magazine would provide a wider audience for nineteenthcentury popular women poets. Although long neglected, we will visit the sites of several of these women poets who were buried here at Mount Auburn. While many have written about domesticity, liberal Christianity, romanticism, familial grief, and nationalism, we will see that not all of these one-time popular women poets were alike.
Women Poets of the 19th & 20th Centuries interred at Mount Auburn
Maria White Lowell
Louise C. Moulton
Amy Lowell
Caroline F. Orne
Fanny Parnell
Frances S. Osgood
Annie Fields
Julia Ward Howe
Women Poets
1
2 3 4 5 7 8
6
1. Maria White Lowell
5. Fanny Parnell
2. Louise Chandler Moulton
6. Caroline Frances Orne
3. Annie Adams Fields
7. Amy Lowell
4. Frances Sargent Osgood
8. Julia Ward Howe
Maria White Lowell (1821-1853) Lot #323 Fountain Avenue Maria White Lowell was born into a large, middleclass, well educated family in Watertown. She was beautiful, charming and rigorously educated, but always fragile in constitution. She met the fledgling poet, James Russell Lowell, through her brother who was a classmate of his at Harvard College. The Lowells had 4 children; only Mabel survived to adulthood. Maria encouraged Lowell in his work and in the abolition movement. A few of her poems were published in magazines, but a slim volume was published posthumously and given to friends and family. Much later, Amy Lowell, a distant cousin of James, had a volume of Maria’s poems, together with a biography and some of her letters, published in 1936. THE MORNING GLORY
We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, 'She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they.' So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem,-For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day. We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead! The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round,-We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
Suggested Reading: The Poems of Maria White Lowell by Hope Jillson Vernon, Providence, Brown University, 1936 (also on-line)
Louise Chandler Moulton (1835-1908) Lot # 5319 Vesper Avenue Born in Pomfret, Connecticut, Louise Chandler Moulton began writing while a young girl, keeping notebooks from age eight to eighteen, including her poetry. Her first published verse was in a newspaper when she was fourteen. She published her first book of short stories, essays and poems called This, That, and the Other when she was eighteen. She continued to be a contributor to numerous periodicals. She married William Moulton, a Boston journalist and publisher, in 1855. Thereafter, while residing in Boston, Louise held Friday salons featuring writers, artists, and musicians. She also published her second book in 1855, a novel, Juno Clifford. She continued to contribute to some of the most highly regarded journals, Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Galaxy, and Scribner’s. She also served as a literary correspondent for the New York Tribune from 1870 to 1876. Her book of poetry, Swallow Flights, was released in 1877. From 1886 to 1892, she wrote a weekly letter on books for the Boston Sunday Herald. She also published several books of bedtime stories for children, and some travel reminiscences, including Lazy Tours in Spain and Elsewhere, in 1896.
ROSES
IF
Harold, on a summer day, Gave me roses for my hair,Roses red, and roses white, As if pale with Love‘s despair.
What had I been, lost Love, if you had loved me? A woman, smiling as the smiling May,As gay of heart as birds that carol gaily Their sweet songs to usher in the day-
White ones for my brow, he said, Red to blush beside my cheek, And a bud to whisper me Something that he dared not speak.
As ardent as the skies that brood and brighten O‘er the warm fields in summer‘s happy prime,As tender as the veiling grace that softens The harshest shapes in twilight‘s tender time.
Ah, that summer day is over, And its brightness comes not back: Harold‘s roses something held Other roses seem to lack.
Like the soft dusk I would have veiled your harshness With tendernesses that were not your due,Your very faults had blossomed into virtues Had you known how to love me and be true.
Blossoms bloom along my path Red and white as those were then,But the words that Harold spoke I can never hear again.
It had been well for you, - for me how blessed ! But shall we ask the wind to blow for aye From the same quarter, - keep a s full as ever The white moon smiling in a changeless sky? Change is the law of wind and moon and lover,And yet, I think, lost Love, had you been true, Some golden fruits had ripened for your plucking You will not find in gardens that are new.
Annie Adams Fields (1834-1915) Lot # 2700 Elder Path Born in Boston, to parents who each were descendants of early Massachusetts settlers, she was educated primarily at home. At age twenty, she married Bostonian, James Thomas Fields, 17 years her senior, partner in the famous Ticknor and Fields publishing company. This welcomed her into the friendship of such eminent writers as Emerson, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Dickens, Holmes, Whittier, Harriet Beecher Stow, Julia Ward Howe, and scores of others. She established a famous salon at their 148 Charles Street, Boston home, where she also hosted innumerable visitors, and dinners. A published poet, essayist, and novelist, she also wrote dozens of biographies of famous writers she had known. She founded innovative charities for Boston’s poor, and campaigned for women’s issues, including the right to vote, and to be admitted to medical schools. Additionally she helped nurture other women writers of her day.
THE RIVER CHARLES Beside thee, O my river, where I wait Through vista long of years and drink my fill Of beauty and of light, a steady rill Of never-failing good, whate‘er my state.How speechless seem these lips, my soul how dull, Never to say, nor half to say, how dear The washing of thy ripples, nor the full And silent flow which speaks not to the ear! Thou hast been unto me a gracious nurse, Telling me many a tale in listening hours Of those who praised thee with their ripening powers, Our elder poets, nourished at thy source.
O river! Ever drifting toward the sea, How common is thy fate! Thus purposeless To drift away, nor think what it is to be, And sink in the vast wave of nothingness. But ever to love‘s life a second life Is given, and his narrow river of days Shall flow through other lives, and sleep in bays Of quiet thought and calm the heart in strife. Fortunate river! That through the poet‘s thought Hast run and washed life‘s burden from his sight; O happy river! Thou song hast brought, And thou shalt live in poetry and light. A FALLING STAR
O happy Cambridge meadows! Where now rest Forever the proud memories of their lives; O Happy Cambridge air! Forever blest With deathless song and bee of time still hives;-
Behold, she said, a falling star! I followed where her vision led, And saw no meteor near or far, So swiftly sank the luster dead.
And further on, where many a wildflower blooms Through a fair Sunday up and down thy banks, Beautiful with thy blossoms, rank on ranks, What vanished eyes have sought thy dewy rooms!
In silvery moonlight stood she there, Whiter than silver gleamed her hand, And gleaming shone her yellow hair, While dusky shadows filled the land.
I, too, have known thee, rushing, bright with foam, Or sleeping idly, even as thou dost now, Reflecting every wall and tower and dome, And every vessel, clear from stern to prow.
She seemed a slender flickering shape, Framed in the blackness as the porch: How should a child of night escape, A foolish moth that loves the torch!
Or in the moonlight, when the night is pale, And the great city is still, and only thou Givest me sign of life, and on thy brow A beauty evanescent, fitting, frail!
Out of my dusk I came to her; Voices were stilled anear, afar; I stood there lost, her worshiper; She only saw the falling star
Frances Sargent Osgood (1811-1850) Lot # 280 Orange Path Born in Boston, with a childhood in Hingham, Massachusetts, her parents encouraged her to write. As early as 1825 she contributed to Lydia Maria Child’s Juvenile Miscellany. In 1835, she married painter, Samuel Stillman Osgood, and they went to live for five years in England. While there, she published A Wealth of Wild Flowers from New England, which established her reputation as a poet. Returning to the United States, with two daughters, they settled in New York. Her marriage faltered, with Samuel leaving to find gold in the West, but there was a later reconciliation, shortly before her death. From 1841-1846, she published several volumes of verse. During her life in New York, she attended many literary salons, and also became involved with Edgar Allen Poe, and they wrote verses for each other. Her poetry and prose explores the topics of love, domesticity, the home, children, gardens, woods, and friendships between women.
I WANDERED IN THE WOODLAND
But they shake not my faith in the few.
I wandered in the woodland; My heart beat cold and slow, And not a tear of sorrow, To ease its weight, would flow.
I waste not the pure dew of Feeling, I waste not the warm light of Love On worthless intruders, upstealing To poison the beauty above.
But soft a brook sang to me, ―Ah! Give thy grief to me, And I will bear it lightly, Far, far away from thee!‖
Too pure is the place, and too holy, For Falsehood and Sin to profane; And I heed not how few or how lowly The blooms that unsullied remain.
So sweet that lulling murmur, In music thrill‘e my heart, And o‘er the glad wave weeping, I felt my grief depart.
Though lone and apart in their sweetness, Those heart-cherished blossoms may be, While they smile in the sunlight of Truth, They suffice to affection and me. And you, in your delicate bloom, love, Pure, tender, and graceful and true, Shall be the queen-rose of my garden, And live on Love‘s sunshine and dew.
I wandered in the woodland, My heart beat light and gay; For, wheresoe‘er I wandered, I heard the brooklet‘s lay.
THE GARDEN OF FRIENDSHIP They say I am robbing myself, But they know not how sweet is my gain, For I‘m weeding my garden of Friendship, Till only its flowers remain. They say if I weed from it all That are worldly, ignoble, untrue, I shall save not a leaf for my heart;
No parasite plant shall be nourished, My bower‘s sunny beauty to stain, For I‘ll weed the fair garden of Friendship Till only its flowers remain. A LOVER’S SIMILE Mine eye is but a burning glass, Wherein your smile‘s too fatal rays Brought to a focus, set – alas! My poor heart in a blaze!
Fanny Parnell (1848-1882) Lot # 167 Violet Path Frances Isabelle Parnell was born in 1848 in the County of Wichlow, Ireland to a family of wealthy landowners. Fanny had a privileged childhood; she was well educated. Her American grandfather was Charles Stewart, an admiral who commanded the USS Constitution in the war of 1812. Fanny, her brother Charles Stewart Parnell, and her sister, Anna Parnell were all involved in the Irish Land Reform Question. Charles led the Land League, primarily a men’s organization; Fanny and her sister, the Ladies Land League. Fanny’s only book was one of poems for the League called, Land League Songs. She also wrote and published widely in magazines on the question of Irish relief and reform. Her unique stone was dedicated in 2001 and brought here from the Parnell estate. HOLD THE HARVEST Now are you men or cattle then, you tillers of the soil? Would you be free, or evermore in rich men's service toil?
AFTER DEATH Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, oh, my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them ere the sun-blaze Break at last upon thy story?
The shadow of the dial hangs dark that points the fatal hour Now hold your own! Or, branded slaves, forever cringe and cower! The serpent's curse upon you lies - you writhe within the dust You fill your mouths with beggars' swill, you grovel for a crust Your masters set their blood-stained heels upon your shameful heads Yet they are kind - they leave you still their ditches for your beds! Oh by the God who made us all, the master and the serf Rise up and swear to hold this day your own green Irish turf! Rise up! And plant your feet as men where now you crawl as slaves And make your harvest fields your camps, or make of them your graves! But God is on the peasant's side, the God that loves the poor, His angels stand with flaming swords on every mount and moor,
When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, As sweet new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, That have known but to bewail thee? Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, When all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, When all poets‘ mouths shall sing thee? Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings Of thy exiled sons returning, I should hear, tho‘ dead and mouldered, and the gravedamps Should not chill my bosom‘s burning. Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ‘Mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver As a captive dreamer tosses. I should turn and rend the cere-cloths round me— Giant sinews I should borrow— Crying, ―Oh, my brothers, I have also loved her In her loneliness and sorrow! ―Let me join with you the jubilant procession, Let me chant with you her story; Then, contented, I shall go back to the shamrocks, Now mine eyes have seen her glory!‖
They guard the poor man's flocks and herds, they guard his ripening grain, The robber sinks beneath their curse beside his ill-got gain. Suggested Reading:
Fanny and Anna Parnell: Ireland’s Patriot Sisters, by Jane Mc L. Cote, 1991
Caroline Frances Orne (1818-1905) Lot # 2422 Mountain Avenue Caroline Frances Orne was born in 1818 and died in 1905. She was a childhood friend of James Russell Lowell and a respected poet in her own right. She wrote mostly for magazine publication and published but two volumes of poetry: Sweet Auburn, Mount Auburn and other poems in 1844 and Morning Songs of American Freedom in 1876. Sweet Auburn describes the landscape before it became Mount Auburn Cemetery, Mount Auburn after. Orne was a Stone related through her mother to that family from whom Mount Auburn Cemetery land was purchased. SWEET AUBURN (excerpt)
THE LETTER OF MARQUE (excerpt)
Far-famed Mount Auburn ! in the days of old, As nature bade thy varied charms unfold, Ere yet the hand of art had changed thy mien, And in thy pristine beauty thou wert seen, A lovelier object wert thou to my view, Thy name was dearer that my childhood knew. Sweet Auburn ! send the spirit of thy shades To light my song when memory's radiance fades. A stranger's * hand hath struck the lyre for thee, And I, thy child, how can I silent be 1 I, who have wandered o'er thy sun-lit glades, Have idly mused beneath thy twilight shades, Through the long summer day have passed the hours. Gathering from thy green sod fresh-springing flowers ; Or, at the time of noontide's sultry heat, Have sought some breezy, calm, and cool retreat, Where the sweet pine-scent filled the odorous air, And all around was bright, and free, and fair : Child of the soil, — how can I choose but write Of all these varied scenes of fresh delight ? My childhood's feet have pressed thy verdant sod, O'er all thy woodland paths how oft I 've trod ! Or where thy trees, with giant arms outspread, A cool, green canopy above my head, Gazed through their branches, where the soft blue sky Looked mildly down, as with a human eye ; Or, lingering by the side of thy small brooks, Have fixed upon their lilies eager looks ; As one, a vestal pure, her incense gave. While, calmly floating on the idle wave, The other would her petals all unfold, And o'er the waters gleam a cup of gold ; Oft with unsteady step and trembling hand, I 've won the prize and brought it safe to land.
WE had sailed out a Letter of Marque, Fourteen guns and forty men; And a costly freight our gallant barque Was bearing home again. We had ranged the seas the whole summer-tide, Crossed the main, and returned once more; Our sails were spread, and from the mast-head The lookout saw the distant shore.
Suggested Reading: Sweet Auburn and Mount Auburn with other Poems, by Caroline Orne, Cambridge, 1844 (also online)
" A sail ! a sail on the weather bow ! Hand over hand, ten knots an hour ! " "Now God defend it ever should end That we should fall in the foeman's power ! " 'T was an English frigate came bearing down, Bearing down before the gale, Riding the waves that sent their spray Dashing madly o'er mast and sail. Every stitch of our canvas set, Like a frightened bird our good barque flew; The wild waves lashed and the foam crests dashed, As we threaded the billows through. The night came down on the waters wide, " By Heaven's help we '11 see home once more," Our captain cried, "for nor-nor-west Lies Cape Cod Light, and the good old shore." A sudden flash, and a sullen roar Booming over the stormy sea, Showed the frigate close on our track, How could we hope her grasp to flee ? Our angry gunner the stern-chaser fired; I hardly think they heard the sound, The billows so wildly roared and raged, As we forward plunged with furious bound. "All our prizes safely in, Shall we fall a prize to-night? The Shoal of George's lies sou-south-east, Bearing away from Cape Cod Light." Our captain's face grew dark and stern, Deadly white his closed lips were. The men looked in each other's eyes, Not a look that spoke of fear.
Amy Lowell (1874-1925) Lot #3401 Bellwort Path Born in Brookline, Massachusetts, to parents who each were wealthy descendants of early Massachusetts settlers, Amy received a fine formal education, she also spent long hours reading in the family library, and the Boston Athenaeum. Her first published poem appeared in the Atlantic Monthly in August 1910. Her first book, A Dome of Many Coloured Glass appeared in 1912. While in England in 1913, she met Ezra Pound, and became associated with the Imagists, who in her description, “rebelled against the morbid romantic attitude and outworn false generalities in favor of the hard, definite word and the clear, uncluttered image.” In her far-too-short life, she wrote over 650 poems, in eleven volumes. Her posthumously published What’s O’Clock won the Pulitzer Prize in 1926. An obituary in the New York World stated, “She was upon the surface of things a Lowell, a New Englander… But inside everything was molten like the core of the earth … given one more gram of emotion, Amy Lowell would have burst into flame and been consumed to cinders.” Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
And I are here alone, and that the night
See where it casts the shadow of that tree
Is full of hours, and all the world asleep,
Far out upon the grass. And every gust
And none can call to you to come away;
Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
For you have given all yourself to me
Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
Making me gentle by your willingness.
Night-scented stocks, and four o‘clocks, and that
Has your life too been waiting for this time,
Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?
The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.
Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though
It seems as though the garden which you love
I were a priest before the holy shrine.
Were like a swinging censer, its incense
I‘m glad that you are beautiful, although
Floating before us as a reverent act
Were you not lovely still I needs must love;
To sanctify and bless our night of love.
But you are all things, it must have been so
Tell me once more you love me, that ‗tis you
For otherwise it were not you. Come, close;
Yes, really you, I touch so, with my hand;
When you are in the circle of my arm
And tell me it is by your own free will
Faith grows like a mountain and I take my stand
That you are here, and that you like to be
Upon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once more
Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.
Kiss me, and let me feel you very near
I need to hear it often for my heart
Wanting me wholly, even as I want you.
Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.
Have years behind been dark? Will those to come
Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,
Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?
And yet I would not have it goodness, rather
What does it matter, we have had to-night!
Excess of selfishness in you to need
To-night will make us strong, for we believe
Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.
Each in the other, this is a sacrament.
I wonder can it really be that you
Beloved, is it true?
Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910) Lot # 4987 Spruce Avenue Julia Ward Howe was born into a family of privilege in New York City in 1819. In 1841 she married the dashing hero and well traveled Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe. They had 6 children, 5 of whom survived to adulthood. The Howes lived in and among Boston’s intellectual society with friends like Longfellow and Sumner. The marriage was one of angst. Out of that angst Howe created several volumes of poetry exploring the challenging marriage and motherhood. Passion Flowers was one volume and was written well before her better known peace poems. This walk will explore Passion Flowers, published anonymously in 1854 amid much praise. THE HEART’S ASTRONOMY
THE PRESENT IS DEAD
This evening, as the twilight fell, My younger children watched for me; Like cherubs in the window frame, I saw the smiling group of three.
Fancies and frenzies all have passed away, A wide but level space comes to my mind; Methinks the soul is ebbing from the clay, So little of itself remains behind.
While round and round the house I trudged, Intent to walk a weary mile, Oft as I passed within their range, The little things would beck and smile.
I feel my varied powers all depart With scarce a hope they may be born anew, And nought is left, save one poor, loving heart, Of what I was--and that may perish too.
They watched me, as Astronomers, Whose business lies in heaven afar, Await, beside the slanting glass, The re-appearance of a star.
God! spirit! come to me, in any form; Afflict, arouse, alarm, awake my soul! I will not dread the lightning or the storm, Becalmed at sea, the bark nears not its goal.
Not so, not so, my pretty ones, Seek stars in yonder cloudless sky; But mark no steadfast path for me, A comet dire and strange am I.
And thou, my husband, in whose gentle breast, I seek the godlike power, to keep and save; Thou to whom I unkind, or fate unblest These fragments of a scattered being gave
Now to the inmost spheres of light Lifted, my wondering soul dilates, Now dropped in endless depth of night, My hope God‘s slow recall awaits.
Come nearer to me, let our spirits meet, Let us be of one light, one truth possessed; Tis time, our blended life on earth is sweet, But can our souls within one heaven rest?
Among the shining I have shone, Among the blessing have been blest; Then wearying years have held me bound Where darkness deadness gives, not rest.
I am content to live, content to die, For life and death to me are little worth; I cannot know, through all eternity A grief more deep than those I know on earth
Between extremes distraught and rent, I question not the way to go, Who made me, gave it me, I deem, Thus to aspire, to languish so. But Comets, too have holy laws, Their fiery sinews to restrain, And from their outmost wanderings Are drawn to heaven‘s dear heart again. And ye, beloved ones, when ye know What wild, erratic natures are, Pray that the laws of heavenly force Would hold and guide the Mother star.
Suggested Reading: Hungry Heart: the Literary Emergence of Julia Ward Howe by Gary Williams, University of Massachusetts press, 1999 Passion Flowers, by Julia Ward Howe, Ticknor, Read and Fields, 1854 (also on-line)
Friends of M oun t A ubu rn ___________________________________________________ 580 Mount Auburn Street | Cambridge, MA 02138 We invite you to participate in the programs of the Friends of Mount Auburn Cemetery. Membership information is available at the Gatehouse information rack, the Visitors Center, and the Office. Since its founding in 1831, Mount Auburn Cemetery has retained its original purpose of being a natural setting for the commemoration of the dead and for the comfort and inspiration of the bereaved and the general public. Its grounds offer a place for reflection and for observation of nature—trees, shrubs, flowering plants, ponds, gentle hills, and birds both resident and migrant. Visitors come to study our national heritage by visiting the graves of noted Americans and enjoying the great variety of monuments and memorials. Mount Auburn Cemetery began the “rural” cemetery movement out of which grew America’s public parks. Its beauty and historic associations make it an internationally renowned landscape. Designated a National Historic Landmark, Mount Auburn remains an active, non-sectarian cemetery offering a wide variety of interment and memorialization options. t: 617-547-7105 | f: 617-876-4405 www.mountauburn.org Funding provided in part by: The Friends of Mount Auburn Cemetery is a nonprofit charitable trust promoting the appreciation and preservation of the cultural, historic and natural resources of America’s first landscaped cemetery, founded in 1831. © Friends of Mount Auburn Cemetery, 2013
Walk prepared by Jim Gorman & Rosemarie Smurzynski