Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

Writing Composition.

Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct, the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.

Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty, till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature, to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.

Lines, Written in Answer to the Question "Where Is Our Poet?"

Ask you for the poet lyre?
What can touch his soul with fire,
When from ev'ry passing cloud
The storm-king whistles shrill and loud,
And nature shrieks her requiem wild,
O'er summer, her departed child.
When through the shortened winter day
The languid sun sheds sickly ray,
And struggling moonbeams seem at most,
Dim meteor forms of Ossian's ghost.
Then shall not I, a feeble maid,
Of the Muses be afraid?
When poets sleep with talents fine,
Shall I approach the "sacred Nine?"
But when I heard the vesper bell
Mournful peal its sad farewell;
And murmuring through the evening air,
Echo only answered, "where?"
I thought I'd chase my fears away,
And conjure up a simple lay.
Ye poets who have talents ten,
Excuse the errors of my pen;
The best I could do I have done,
For reader I have scarcely one.

My Husband's Grave.

In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been my wanderings in the shady paths of life. The aged friends of my childhood have been buried over again. The last sad parting from many dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth forever.

O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.

But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon earth, than we have yet visited. It is the recently made grave of my husband--the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his support.