Poems (Griffin)/Preface

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T the request of friends, the author of this little book has collected together quite a number of her poems, which now form a very neat volume. Although it was mainly to please her immediate acquaintances that she consented to its publication, it is hoped that it will please the public, as the poems have pleased the numerous personal friends of the author. Should these poems, however, fall into the hands of some snarling critic, let him spare awhile his criticism, until he has had time to read them carefully; then, perhaps, he will be made aware of the modest and unpretending spirit of the writer,—unless, indeed, he belongs to that class of persons who can see ​nothing even in that to admire. Some, too, may sneer at this little work, who never wrote an original line or expressed an original thought in their lives. Then there are others who will be displeased, because they do not approve of book-writing by women,—believing that a woman's sphere is the home-circle, and that there her thoughts should be confined, or else within the limits of her own imagination; and that a transmission of her ideas or fancies to the public, is not only disagreeable, but an absolute infringement on the "rights of men." For the benefit of this class of thinkers I will simply say, that the world has already derived too much pleasure and instruction from their perusal to be influenced now by any such theories.

Many of these poems are familiar to the general reader, as they have appeared, from time to time, in the columns of literary papers, periodicals, magazines, etc., over the signatures of "Muni Tell," and "Addie Glenmore,"—nearly all of them receiving complimentary notices from the publishers.

There is something so beautiful in poetry of this kind, and its influence on the hearts of the good ​is so great, that, if spoken of by them, they must needs speak in terms of praise. If the reader will pause a moment and contemplate the pure intentions and lofty aspirations of the poet, he will find much to admire, even in the humblest. As a gift, poetry is infinitely superior to either art or science; yet, in a certain sense, poetry is an art. It may be defined as the art of expressing the loveliest ideas in the most terse and eloquent language,—bearing, all the while, a striking resemblance to painting and sculpture. It would not be difficult to point out the differences, and to show wherein consists the superiority of poetry. For instance, it is the province of the painter's art to transfer his thoughts to canvas, and often he is so successful in his representations, that even the connoisseur fancies that he has given to his flowers not alone their proper tints, but fragrance; his birds, a voice; his trees, the power of being moved by the gentle winds. Though we may stand before the lovely picture spell-bound, yet when we are reminded of the greater beauty and magnificence of Nature, if we do not think less of the painter's art, his picture, at least, does not impress us with the perma​nent beauty of poetry. The impressions which we receive from the beautiful word-paintings of the poet are much more lasting. It would be difficult indeed to find a representation of the Alps on canvas, which would equal in beauty the desecription of the same in Byron's "Childe Harold." List you:—

No, not all the colors of the glorious rainbow, blended together by the magic genius of a Claude, could form a picture of half the magnificent grandeur that is contained within these few lines. Even the sculptor, when he places before us the marble form, just lifted out of chaos, with nothing lacking save the breath of life to make it seem God's own handiwork, fails to fill the soul with such hallowed beauty as that which we receive from the inspiration of poetry. Look at "The Dying Gladiator," ​that sublime work of the Greek chisel; see the warm blood oozing from the gaping wounds; see that saddened face, that sunken frame: how eloquently they all speak. But how much more touching, how much more complete, the picture drawn by the poet:—

Here are all the glowing graces of the sculptor's art enshrouded in words worthy of the treasure; but the poet reaches a nook in the heart beyond the sculptor's utmost art. His representation calls before us the Dacian wife and the young barbarian children of the dying gladiator:—

​Science, too, must bow her head in meek submission to the sway of poetry. For instance, the astronomer, while gazing upon the starry heavens in all their loveliness, and trying to penetrate the planetary spheres, acknowledges that light and heat are all he can discern, trusting future discoveries to the imagination of the poet, while he is content to lie down upon the quiet earth, and, like the Chaldean shepherd, gaze upward in childish simplicity. The writings of Job, the royal Hebrew bard,—of Isaiah and Ezekiel, bring them before us, in the sublimest of poetry, in all their glory, grandeur, majesty and life.

I do not purpose to dwell at length on the beauties of poetry, or to offer an apology for the publication of this little work. My design is merely to call attention to, and point out, some of the beauties of the poems herein contained. This purpose is not one of difficulty, for they are filled with the purest gems gathered from the deep recesses of a heart of innocence and love. They contain nothing of the grotesque or the horrible, but are replete with the sunbeams of gladness, or the more tender ​and refined rays of sympathy and affection,—the warm outgushings of a truly poetic soul.

Who will not feel happier after listening to the merry little poem, "Live and Laugh"; or who can read the plaintive sighings of "The Tear-Drop on the Heart," without some awakening love for the poet. We envy not the person who can read, unmoved, the beautiful lines entitled "The Voice of the Streamlet." They partake of the beauties of the scene, and seem to be an integral part of it.

There are few who, after following it along through wood and forest, where tall trees and graceful undergrowth bend to do it homage, as it murmurs along on its joyous course to its home in its native deep, without regretting that the poet did not carry them along to that magnificent home.

Finally, in presenting to you, patient reader, this tiny casket of delicate gems, I would merely add, that should you discover anything in your transit through this volume which may appear to you too ​youthful, bear in mind that the entire book was written when the author was between fourteen and twenty years of age. I mention this as an evidence of the genius of the writer. The poems need no apology; they speak their own praise. The book itself constitutes an honest claim to the love and admiration of the pure in heart. With the earnest hope that it may meet with the approbation it deserves, I herewith consign it to the public.