Overcast, and threatening rain.
I arose at seven, but cannot get my “better half” in good habits, he will take an extra nap, after I leave him. Bought a box of seidbts, to begin the week with, took the money from G.’s because he would not get up. He laughs at my revenge, and says my remedies are a great tax
I mended up all the broken garments, the morning was dull, and raining.
Bridget boiled over my grapes, and Simon, washed the windows.
Julie, said her lessons to me, very well indeed.
Garret, did not go out after dinner, but com.
plained of a cold in his head. Damp weath.
er always affects him in a peculiar way.
Julie, and I sang in the evening our old…
songs, she will not practice enough to improve.
Singing is so beneficial to the lungs, I wish to urge Julie to exert hers as much as possible, as I am fearfull she will be a “tender plant.” Her form is so slight, that her chest has not sufficient development to indicate strength.
Mr H. received a letter from Cornelius, telling him he had purchased a farm. It was a kind affectionate epistle.
G. read a criticism on Mr Adam’s letters, the
first president of that name. His style of com
position was not admired by the English
Critics,” of course.
Margaret M. Davidson was a younger child of the notoriously frail Davidson clan, a family in which seven of the nine children died before their mother (also named Margaret Davidson), who herself experienced recurring periods of invalidism. for more on the life of Margaret Davidson, see the blog, “Portraits of American Writers”
You can find more on Margret and her sister Lucrecia at American Verse Project.
A poem by Margaret
TO DIE, AND BE FORGOTTEN.
A FEW short years will roll along,
With mingled joy and pain,
Then shall I pass —a broken tone!
An echo of a strain!
Then shall I fade away from life,
Like cloud-tints from the sky,
When the breeze sweeps their surface o’er,
And they are lost for aye.
The soul may look with fervent hope
To worlds of future bliss;
But oh! how saddening to the heart
To be forgot in this!
Who would not brave a life of tears
To win an honour’d name?
One sweet and heart-awakening tone
From the silver trump of fame?
To be, when countless years have pass’d,
The good man’s glowing theme?
To be —but I —what right have I
To this bewildering dream?
Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain,
To dwell on thoughts like these;
I, a frail child, whose feeble frame
Already knows disease!
Who, ere another spring may dawn,
Another summer bloom,
May, like the flowers of autumn, lie
A tenant of the tomb.
Away, away, presumptuous thought,
I will not dwell on thee!
For what, alas! am I to fame,
And what is fame to me?
Let all these wild and longing thoughts
With the dying year expire,
And I will nurse within my breast
A purer, holier fire!
Yes, I will seek my mind to win
From all these dreams of strife,
And toil to write my name within
The glorious book of life.
Then shall old Time, who, rolling on,
Impels me towards the tomb,
Prepare for me a glorious crown,
Through endless years to bloom.