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

Within a prison, pent, he stood,
Dread Gulio,—that man of blood!
As heavy clank'd his iron chain,
He knew all hope of freedom vain,-
Nor seem'd he to desire the boon,-
But rather death, which waited soon
To close his guilty, wild, career.
Yet, who can look on death, nor fear
The spirit's strange, mysterious flight,-
The body left consign'd to night,-
Cold, stark, and friendless, in damp earth,-
Sever'd from beauty, light and mirth,

Companionless, decaying, dead,
Soul, feeling, thought, existence fled:
Scarce can the Christian view such doom,
Though stay'd by hope, without deep gloom;
Then how, oh how, shall such as he
Launch into vast eternity!
He lean'd his brow upon his hand,
And gaz'd out on the wave-wash'd sand,
Thinking how soon his form would lie
Hid in earth's cold obscurity.
His head swam round,–a hue of blood
Seem'd purpling land and ocean's flood,
The fiery heav'n, all red on high,
Like lightning, smote his quailing eye;-
He fancied loud shrieks in the wood,
Like Meta's, on that murd'rous night:-
Another sound,–another sight,
And real this,–appals with fright;
He hears the gallows' hammer tell
He has not long on earth to dwell:
That deep revenge was dearly bought,–
Such is his bosom's secret thought!
A fatal bride young Stanley chose,
Who brought him death and many woes,
Whose smile led on to gloony fate,–
Whose love was but a gilded bait,

That lured him from his country's shore,
A wand'rer,–to return no more,
But she will weep for him, while I
Must, all unmourned, nay, hated, die
A loathed death!–What startling stare
Shall each, big, straining, eye-ball bear!
No fun'ral rite my bier will grace,—
My grave, unmark'd by sorrow's trace,
Shall oft be pointed out to show,
What crimes from tyrant passion flow.
Detested thus, this mortal frame
Laid low, while murder with my name
Is ever blent, and,–dreadful doom!
My soul must live in hopeless gloom,
Where gnaws the worm that never dies,
And demons mingle dreary cries!
Remorseful pangs his spirit shook,–
With firm-clench'd hand the wall he struck,—
Then walk'd with heavy step and slow,
And feelings blood-stain'd culprits know,-
Beyond the power of words to paint,
When man's strong heart grows chill and faint.
Nature, at last, claimed brief repose,
Sleep brought a shadowy train of woes;-
He saw his rival crown'd with flow'rs,
Straying, in peace, 'mid blooming bow'rs;

Blue was the summer air, and mild
The fragrant breeze,–sweet Summer's child.
All rob'd in white, dead Stanley seem'd,
And radiance, from his features, beam'd;–
Meta, companion of his way,–
Yet pale as when, on earth, he lay.
Soft harpings swell'd where walk'd the pair,
And she was, than herself, more fair.
But he! the dreamer, garments wore,
With dust defil'd and stiff with gore.
They vanish'd, and he swung in air,—
Upward he look'd,–a cord was there,–
With sounding crash the gallows broke,–
He panted, started, groan'd, awoke!

Hush'd is her harp, her wail is o'er,
The Creole maiden weeps no more;
She slumbers on the sea-girt shore,
By him she lov'd so well.

Yet oft, at eve, in fancy's ear,
Mysterious music wanders there;
Soft floating on the azure air,
Entrancing with its spell,

And there the golden fruited tree,
Whose snow-flow'rs feed the forest bee,
Spreads its umbrageous canopy
Beneath a blazing sky.

And there the deep-hued tropic rose,
In wild luxuriant beauty grows,
As if to hallow the repose
Of those who lowly lie.

There oft the Indian moon doth shed
Rays of mild splendor o'er the dead,
And pale stars glimmer over head,
In heaven of deepest blue.

But heedless all of Nature's pride,
They rest whom death could not divide,
Young Stanley and his Creole bride,
The fond, the fair, the true!