  A fault doth never with remorse Our minds so deeply move, As when another's guiltless life Our error doth reprove. Brandon. Sarah Childress Polk is the daughter of an enterprising and wealthy merchant of Rutherford county, Tennessee. She was married on the first of January, 1824. Fitted to dignify and adorn any station appropriate for woman, while presiding at the White house she was universally esteemed, and retired as honorably as any woman since the days of Washington. She is intelligent, refined, unaffected, affable, courteous, hospitable, and, above all, pious, and exemplary as a Christian. She has been for years in communion with the Presbyterians; and while at the Capital, and the eyes of the whole nation were upon her, she forbade, in the President's mansion, any amusement not in keeping with the Christian profession. In this respect, it may be said of her, in the language of Shakspeare, Thou art not for the fashion of these times. Lady! had I the wealth of earth To offer freely at thy shrine, Bright gold, and buds of dewy birth, Or gems from out the teeming mine, A thousand things most beautiful, All sparkling, precious, rich, and rare, These hands would render up to thee— Thou noble lady, good and fair! For, as I write, sweet thoughts arise Of times when all thy kindness lent A thousand hues of Paradise To the fleet moments as they went; Then all thy thoughts were winged with light, And every smile was calm and sweet, And thy low tones and gentle words Made the warm heart's blood thrill and beat. There, standing in our nation's home, My memory ever pictures thee As some bright dame of ancient Rome, Modest, yet all a queen should be. I love to keep thee in my mind, Thus mated with the pure of old, When love with lofty deeds combined, Made women great and warriors bold. When first I saw thee standing there, And felt the pressure of thy hand, I scarcely thought if thou wert fair, Or of the highest in the land; I knew thee gentle, pure as great; All that was lovely, meek and good; And so I half forgot thy state In love of thy bright womanhood. And many a sweet sensation came That lingers in my bosom yet, Like that celestial, holy flame That vestals tremble to forget There's not a thought more true and free Than that which beats within my heart, In pleasant memory of thee. Lady, I gladly would have brought Some gem that on thy heart may live; But this poor wreath of woven thought Is all the wealth I have to give. All wet with heart-dew, fresh with love, I lay the garland at thy feet, Praying the angel forms above To weave thee one more pure and sweet. |
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