I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
God help thee, Traveler, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen, —the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow-ways,
And darkness will involve thee.—No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveler, —and the war
Of winds and elements, on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek,
Of spirits howling on their stormy car,
Will often ring appalling—I portend
A dismal night—and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveler, of thee, will fill my head,
And him, who rides where winds and waves contend,
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.
Finch's 126-page book, Sonnets, and Other Poems:To Which are Added Tales in
Prose, was published in London in 1805 by Blacks and Parry. Its contents
suggest that she was born in the country, wrote from a place called “Duncroft
Cottage, ” was the mother of at least one son, and was interested in botany.
However, her first name, along with other biographical details, is now ob-
See, o'er its withering leaves, the musk-rose bend,
And scarce a purple aster paints the glade;
Yet, cease awhile, ye ruffling winds! to rend
This variegated canopy of shade.
Here, autumn's touch the rich dark brown bestows,
There, mixed with paler leaves of yellow hue,
The shining holly's scarlet fruitage glows,
And crimson berries stud the deep-green yew.
Thou radiant orb! whose mild declining ray
Now gilds with gayer tinge this loved retreat,
Yet, lingering, still prolong the golden day.—
How vain the wish! no more thy glories meet