Susanna Wright

The poetry OF A PLACE is not merely bound by those who are alive and writing today.  The poetry of a place includes the words that have been crafted in that locale through time.  

For those of us living in the Columbia, PA area - along the Susquehanna River - we have the good pleasure of knowing that one of the early settlers to this area - John Wright and his family - produced one such poet.  Susanna Wright (1697 - 1784) lived in this community and left her mark, not only in words, but in influencing future town development, as well as establishing silk textiles farming in the area.  

The list of her interests and activities is long, but here we want to share some of her poetry.  For that, we are deeply indebted to Milcah Martha Moore who kept a commonplace book.  

In Moore's book, not released in print until 1997, Milcah managed to copy twenty-four of Susanna's poems.  She valued them and added them into her own commonplace book.  Prior to 1997 - while Susanna was called the Susquehanna Muse - we only had four extant poems of Susanna Wright.  What a boon we were given; one Quaker found such worth in the words of another Quaker she saved them for all time.  

Enjoy these poems, revealed to time, in the journal of a Friend.  Poems of Susanna Wright:

On the Death of a Little Girl

The little Bird at break of Day,
That charm'd us with its Song,
And fondly hopp'd from Spray to Spray,
The Musick to prolong,
As Ev'ning came, ill fated fell,
Struck by a Hand unseen,
Resign'd that Breath which pleas'd so well
And flutter'd on the Green.
The Lambs that wont to bleat & play,
And bask in Sunshine Air,
That danc'd the fleeting Hours away,
And knew not Want or Care,
When Night her sable Curtain spread,
Fell to the Wolf a Prey,
And here & there dispers'd & dead,
The scatter'd Fragments lay.
The Blossoms which to vernal Air,
Their fragrant Leaves unfold,
And deck the spreading Branches fair
With Purple, White & Gold.
Diffuse their Sweets & Charm the Eye,
And promise future Store,
Nipp'd by a Frost untimely dye,
And shed Perfumes no more.—
'Twas thus the Poppet ceas'd to breathe,
The small Machine stood still,
The little Lungs no longer heave
Or Motion follows Will.
No more that flattering Voice we hear,
Soft as the Linets Song,
Each idle Hour to sooth & chear,
Which slowly rolls along.
That sprightly Action's past & gone,
With all its tempting Play,
Sprightly as Lambs that tread the Lawn
Along a Summers Day.
The Dawn of Reason we admir'd,
As op'ning Blossoms fair,
Now to the silent Grave retir'd,
Its Organs moulder there.
Flowers on thy Breast & round thy Head,
With thee their Sweets resign,
Nipp'd from their tender Stalks & dead,
Their Fate resembles thine.
Just as their Charms allure the Eye,
And fragrant Leaves unfold,
Clos'd in eternal Night they lie,
To mix with common Mould.
Thy harmless Soul releas'd from Earth,
A Cherub sings above,
Immortal in a second Birth,
By thy Redeemer's Love.

On the Benefit of Labour

Adam from Paradise expell'd,
Was drove into a Locust Field,
Whose rich luxuriant Soils produce,
Nor Fruit, nor Plant, for human Use,
'Till clear'd by Toil, & till'd by Art
With Plenty chear'd his drooping Heart. —
— 'Twas thus Relief our Father found
When sent to cultivate the Ground.
For God who knew what Man could bear,
Form'd not his Sentence too severe,
A Life of indolent Repose
Had been the Plan of greater Woes;
While tir'd with Ease too dearly bought,
He past the tedious Hours in Thought,
For Labour only causes Rest,
And calms the Tumults in the Breast. —
More Leisure to revolve his Fate
Had added Sorrow to the Weight,
Of his unhappy fall'n State. —
While Memory drest the gaudy Scenes
Of Edens never fading Greens,
Of Trees that bloom without Decay,
Where Storms were silent — Zephyrs play,
And Flowers their rifling sweets bestow,
On all the gentle Winds that blow,
With ev'ry Charm that crown'd the Place
Design'd for Adam & his Race:
Our Sire too weak for such a Stroke,
Had sunk beneath the heavy Yoke,
Had on his Breast the Sentence try'd,
Let out his tortur'd Soul & dy'd. —
But kindly to suspend his Doom
For sake of Ages yet to come,
A Life of Action was decreed,
And Labour must produce him Bread;
His Hands the artful Web prepare
To screen him from inclement Air,
And equal Pains a Tent provide
To turn the beating Storm aside. —
— These necessary Toils & Cares
For present Wants & future Tears,
Joyn'd to the Curse, a Blessing grow,
And lessen or divert our Woe.

Anna Boylens Letter to King Henry the 8th

From anxious Thoughts of every future Ill
From these lone Walls which Death & Terror fill,
To you great Sir! a loyal Wife from hence,
Writes to assert her injur'd Innocence.
To you, who on a Throne supremely great
Look down & guide the partial Hand of Fate,
Who rais'd your Subject to a royal Bride,
To the imperial Purples gaudy Pride
And glowing Gems around these Temples ty'd,
You glowing Gems your dazling Rays rebate
And fade thou purple, at thy wearers Fate,
To grandeur rais'd, to Misery cast down
And mourn my sad acquaintance with a Crown,
My Life & Fame must join the Sacrifice
The last alone all peaceful Thought denies,
Renews My Anguish & oe'rflows my Eyes.
For Life & Crown with Patience I forego,
There's no such Charm in filling Thrones below
My Name alone, 'tis Anna Boylens Name
With whose low Station & unspotted Fame
All innocent & happy Days I'd seen,
This harmless Name exalted to a Queen
Is handed infamous to future Times
Loaded with Falshoods, blacken'd o'er with Crimes
Your infant Daughter her sad Part must bear,
And with her Mother's Heart her Suff'ring share,
Poor lovely Offspring of a wretched Bed
What are thy hapless Mother's Crimes that shed
This baleful Influence on thy harmless Head?
Thy Father sternly casts thee from his knee,
Whilst each licentious Tongue that rails at me
Points o'er thy opening Years with Infamy,
All Hopes on Earth with Patience I forego
But thee—poor Child left in a World of Woe
May thy dear Life in smoother Channels run
Secure from Ills thy Mother could not shun
All this is Pain, but nothing of Surprise
This Fall I look'd for from my fatal Rise,
From that unhappy Day, my Person pleas'd your Eyes.
Such slight Foundations never lasting prove
Where Fancy only lights the Torch of Love,
I see another Fair assume My Place
Who's in your Eyes what Anna Boylen was,
Beware triumphant Beauty how you shine
Those Charms, those Vows & ardours all were mine.
Look on me & beware for as you see,
What I am now, that you shall surely be,
But since my Death & nothing less will do
To bring you to the Bliss you have in View,
May bounteous Heaven the mighty Sin forgive
And not repay, the Injuries I receive,
Yet think, o! think what Crimes will wound your Soul,
When your dim Eyes in search of Slumber rowl,
When Lamps burn blue & guilty Tapers fade,
As by your bridal Bed I glide a ghastly Shade,
While sanguine Streams from purple Fountains drain
And all around the gay Apartment stain,
From conscious Guilt will these Illusions rise,
And haunt your Steps & fill your watching Eyes,
For ever raising Tumults in your Breast,
But fear me not for I shall be at Rest.
But at that Day when the last Trumpets Sound,
Shall reach the dead, & break their Sleep profound,
Bones long sepulchred burst their narrow Rooms
And hostile Kings rise trembling from their Tombs,
When nor your Heart, nor mine can lie conceal'd
But ev'ry secret Sin shall stand reveal'd,
Stand full reveal'd that God & Man may see,
How Fate has err'd, & you have injur'd me,
When, but alas all Arguments are vain
To bring your royal wand'ring Heart again
What Innocence unaided & oppress'd
Could do, I've done but who can Pow'r resist.
I've but one Wish but one Request to make
Let not my Friends be Sufferers for my sake,
All Innocent, humane, & kindly good
May their dear Lives be ransom'd by my Blood,
For ev'ry one the Price I'd freely pay
So many Times could Life be drain'd away,
By what I once have been by what you are,
Happy & great,—by all your Joy & Care;
By all things sacred, all your Love forgive,
My Friends their harmless Crimes & let them live,
Lo! on her bended Knees thus asks your Wife,
On terms, you see, she would not ask her Life,
With this I cease, to trouble your Repose,
A few short anxious Hours the stormy Scene will close.