by Lydia Sigourney
“How can the Red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by the names of their giving?”
YE say they all have pass’d away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanish’d
From off the crested wave
That mid the forests where they roam’d
There rings no hunter’s shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out. Continue reading Indian Names
by Lydia Sigourney
DEATH found strange beauty on that polish’d brow,
And dash’d it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Continue reading Death of an Infant
by Ann Plato
Deep in this grave her bones remain,
She’s sleeping on, bereft of pain,
Her tongue in silence now does sleep,
And she no more time’s call can greet. Continue reading Reflections, Written on Visiting the Grave of a Venerated Friend
by Ann Plato
Britannia’s isles proclaim,
That freedom is their theme;
And we do view those honor’d lands,
With soul-delighting mien. Continue reading To the First of August.
by Ann Plato
When in the morning’s misty hour,
When the sun beems gently o’er each flower;
When thou dost cease to smile benign,
And think each heart responds with thine,
When seeking rest among divine,
Forget me not. Continue reading Forget Me Not.
by Ann Plato
Teach me, O! Lord, the secret errors of my way,
Teach me the paths wherein I go astray,
Learn me the way to teach the word of love,
For that’s the pure intelligence above.
As well as learning, give me that truth forever–
Which a mere worldly tie can never sever,
For though our bodies die, our souls will live forever. Continue reading Lines, Written Upon Being Examined In School Studies for the Preparation of a Teacher.
by Ann Plato
Day after day I sit and write,
And thus the moments spend–
The thought that occupies my mind,–
Compose to please my friend. Continue reading Advice to Young Ladies
by Ann Plato
Tell me a story, father please,
And then I sat upon his knees.
Then answer’d he,—“what speech make known,
Or tell the words of native tone,
Of how my Indian fathers dwelt,
And, of sore oppression felt;
And how they mourned a land serene,
It was an ever mournful theme.” Continue reading The Natives of America
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife?
Are you content and satisfied to live
On what your loving husband loves to give,
And give to him your life? Continue reading To The Young Wife
Sigourney wrote several poems in homage to the famous Connecticut tree known as the Charter Oak. This poem was written in the period of state-wide grief when the tree was struck by lightening and fell on August 21, 1856. Hartford even organized a funeral procession for the tree that drew crowds of mourners. The wood from the tree was harvested and turned into keepsakes that can still be viewed at places like the CT Museum of Culture and History and the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art. Charles De Wolf Brownell’s painting of 1857 is often on view at the Wadsworth, a spectacular homage to the tree whose frame is made from the Charter Oak’s wood. Read what Mark Twain had to say about the Charter Oak on his first visit to Hartford and to the Wadsworth in this anthology (see “Glimpse of Hartford” under Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain.) To learn what made this such an iconic tree and to see an image of Brownell’s painting, go to The Legend of the Charter Oak on Connecticuthistory.org. Continue reading Fall of the Charter Oak