Poetry by Maria Smith Abdy

Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!

Yes, bright the velvet lawn appears,
And fair the blooming bowers;
Yet blame me not—I view with tears,
This scene of light and flowers;
Strangers possess my native halls,
And tread my wonted ways;
Alas! no look, no voice recalls,
The Home of Happier Days.
The gay guitar is still in tune;
The greenhouse plants are rare;
Glad faces throng the wide saloon,
But none I love are there:
Oh ! give me friendship's cherished tone,
Give me affection's gaze;
Else my sad heart can never own
The Home of Happier Days.

The Broken Ties of happier days,
    How often do they seem
To come before our mental gaze.
    Like a remembered dream;
Around us each dissevered chain,
I    n sparkling ruin lies.
And earthly hand can ne'er again
    Unite those Broken Ties.

The parents of our infant home,
    The kindred that we loved,
Far from our arms perchance may roam.
    To distant scenes removed,
Or we have watched their parting breath,
    And closed their weary eyes,
And sighed to think how sadly death
    Can sever human ties.

The friends, the loved ones of our youth,
    They too are gone or changed,
Or worse than all, their love and truth
    Are darkened and estranged;
They meet us in the glittering throng
    With cold averted eyes,
And wonder that we weep our wrong,
    And mourn our Broken Ties.

Oh !  who in such a world as this,
    Could bear their lot of pain,
Did not one radiant hope bliss
    Unclouded yet remain?
That hope the Sovereign Lord has given,
    Who reigns beyond the skies;
That hope unites our souls to Heaven,
    By Faith's enduring ties.

Each care, each ill of mortal birth,
    Is sent in pitying love,
To lift the lingering heart from earth,
    And speed its flight above;
And every pang that rends the breast,
    And every joy that dies,
Tell us to seek a safer rest,
    And trust to holier ties.

— The End —