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MARY ANN. H. DODD

WAS born at Hartford, in March, 1813, and educated alternately at Wethersfield, and in her native town. Her productions first appeared in 1834, in the Hermethenean, a magazine conducted by the students of Washington College, Hartford. Since that time she has been a frequent contributor to the Ladies' Repository, a Boston periodical, and to the Rose of Sharon, an annual edited by the late Mrs. Mayo, whose poems are quoted in another part of this volume. She possesses a poetical sensibility, and the power of deducing moral lessons from the changes of life.

THE DREAMER.

"A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm, or brighten; like that Syrian lake,
Upon whose surface Morn and Summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead."

HEART of mine, why art thou dreaming!
Dreaming through the weary day,
While life's precious hours are wasting,
Fast, and unimproved, away?

With a world of beauty round me,
Lone and sad I dwell apart;
Changing scenes can bring no pleasure
To this wrecked and worn-out heart.

Now I tempt the quiet Ocean
While the sky is bright above,
And the sunlight rests around me,
Like the beaming smile of Love.

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MARY ANN. H. DODD.      339

Or by streamlet softly flowing
Through the vale I wander now;
And the balmy breath of Summer
Fans my cheek and cools my brow.

But as well, to me, might darken
Over all the gloom of night;
For no quick and sweet sensations
Fill my soul with new delight.

In the grass-grown silent church-yard,
With a listless step, I rove;
And I shed no tear of sorrow
By the graves of those I love.

Could I weep the spell might vanish,
Tears would bring my heart relief;
Heart so sealed to all emotion,
Dead alike to joy and grief.

When the storm that shook my spirit
Left its mission finish'd there,
Then a calm more fearful follow'd
Than the wildness of despair.

Whence the spell that chills my being,
Bidding every passion cease;
Closing every fount of feeling?
Say, my spirit, is it peace?

Wake, oh spell-bound soul, awaken,
Bid this sad delusion flee,
Such a lengthen'd dream is fearful;
Such a peace is not for thee.

Life is thine, and "life is earnest,"
Toil and grief thou canst not shun,
But be hopeful and believing,
Till the price of faith is won.

Transcription Notes:
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