Editing The Prisoner, Mary Scrimzeour Whitaker

''The Prisoner'' by Mary Scrimzeour Whitaker is a frequently-cited source of the use of the phrase "sweet summer's child". It is from the collection of poems ''The Creole''<ref>Mary Scrimzeour Furman Whitaker, ''Poems'', J.B. Nixon, printer, 1850, 296 pages, digitized December 5, 2007, from Harvard University. [https://www.google.com/books/edition/Poems/mGQSAAAAYAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=0 Google Books]</ref>

<blockquote>
Within a prison, pent, he stood, <br/>
Dread Gulio,—that man of blood! <br/>
As heavy clank'd his iron chain, <br/>
He knew all hope of freedom vain,- <br/>
Nor seem'd he to desire the boon,- <br/>
But rather death, which waited soon <br/>
To close his guilty, wild, career. <br/>
Yet, who can look on death, nor fear <br/>
The spirit's strange, mysterious flight,- <br/>
The body left consign'd to night,- <br/>
Cold, stark, and friendless, in damp earth,- <br/>
Sever'd from beauty, light and mirth, <br/>
<br/>
Companionless, decaying, dead,<br/>
Soul, feeling, thought, existence fled:<br/>
Scarce can the Christian view such doom,<br/>
Though stay'd by hope, without deep gloom;<br/>
Then how, oh how, shall such as he <br/>
Launch into vast eternity! <br/>
He lean'd his brow upon his hand, <br/>
And gaz'd out on the wave-wash'd sand, <br/>
Thinking how soon his form would lie <br/>
Hid in earth's cold obscurity. <br/>
His head swam round,–a hue of blood <br/>
Seem'd purpling land and ocean's flood, <br/>
The fiery heav'n, all red on high, <br/>
Like lightning, smote his quailing eye;- <br/>
He fancied loud shrieks in the wood, <br/>
Like Meta's, on that murd'rous night:- <br/>
Another sound,–another sight, <br/>
And real this,–appals with fright;<br/>
He hears the gallows' hammer tell<br/>
He has not long on earth to dwell: <br/>
That deep revenge was dearly bought,– <br/>
Such is his bosom's secret thought! <br/>
A fatal bride young Stanley chose, <br/>
Who brought him death and many woes, <br/>
Whose smile led on to gloony fate,–<br/>
Whose love was but a gilded bait, <br/>
<br/>
That lured him from his country's shore, <br/>
A wand'rer,–to return no more, <br/>
But she will weep for him, while I <br/>
Must, all unmourned, nay, hated, die <br/>
A loathed death!–What startling stare <br/>
Shall each, big, straining, eye-ball bear! <br/>
No fun'ral rite my bier will grace,—<br/>
My grave, unmark'd by sorrow's trace, <br/>
Shall oft be pointed out to show, <br/>
What crimes from tyrant passion flow. <br/>
Detested thus, this mortal frame <br/>
Laid low, while murder with my name <br/>
Is ever blent, and,–dreadful doom! <br/>
My soul must live in hopeless gloom, <br/>
Where gnaws the worm that never dies, <br/>
And demons mingle dreary cries! <br/>
Remorseful pangs his spirit shook,–<br/>
With firm-clench'd hand the wall he struck,—<br/>
Then walk'd with heavy step and slow,<br/>
And feelings blood-stain'd culprits know,- <br/>
Beyond the power of words to paint, <br/>
When man's strong heart grows chill and faint.<br/>
Nature, at last, claimed brief repose,<br/>
Sleep brought a shadowy train of woes;- <br/>
He saw his rival crown'd with flow'rs, <br/>
Straying, in peace, 'mid blooming bow'rs; <br/>
<br/>
Blue was the summer air, and mild<br/>
The fragrant breeze,–sweet Summer's child. <br/>
All rob'd in white, dead Stanley seem'd, <br/>
And radiance, from his features, beam'd;–<br/>
Meta, companion of his way,–<br/>
Yet pale as when, on earth, he lay.<br/>
Soft harpings swell'd where walk'd the pair, <br/>
And she was, than herself, more fair. <br/>
But he! the dreamer, garments wore, <br/>
With dust defil'd and stiff with gore. <br/>
They vanish'd, and he swung in air,—<br/>
Upward he look'd,–a cord was there,–<br/>
With sounding crash the gallows broke,–<br/>
He panted, started, groan'd, awoke! <br/>
<br/>
Hush'd is her harp, her wail is o'er, <br/>
The Creole maiden weeps no more; <br/>
She slumbers on the sea-girt shore, <br/>
By him she lov'd so well. <br/>
<br/>
Yet oft, at eve, in fancy's ear, <br/>
Mysterious music wanders there; <br/>
Soft floating on the azure air, <br/>
Entrancing with its spell, <br/>
<br/>
And there the golden fruited tree,<br/>
Whose snow-flow'rs feed the forest bee, <br/>
Spreads its umbrageous canopy <br/>
Beneath a blazing sky. <br/>
<br/>
And there the deep-hued tropic rose,<br/>
In wild luxuriant beauty grows,<br/>
As if to hallow the repose<br/>
Of those who lowly lie.<br/>
<br/>
There oft the Indian moon doth shed<br/>
Rays of mild splendor o'er the dead, <br/>
And pale stars glimmer over head, <br/>
In heaven of deepest blue.<br/>
<br/>
But heedless all of Nature's pride, <br/>
They rest whom death could not divide, <br/>
Young Stanley and his Creole bride, <br/>
The fond, the fair, the true!<br/>
</blockquote>

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