From John Cary, The Plymouth Pilgrim
My Most Notable Women Ancestors
Born April 26, 1820, near Cincinnati, Ohio
Died February 12, 1871,
in New York City, New York
Alice started writing at the age of 18. Many editions of her poems have been issued. During the 1800's, as a ballad writer she was not equaled by any American man or women. In the ballad, hers was the very luxury of song. Alice loved nature and her poetry reflected this. It was said her death was lamented by multitudes.
Born September 14, 1824, near Cincinnati, Ohio
Died July 31, 1871, in Newport, RI
Phoebe wrote about one-third of the poems in Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary and many other works, including a well-known hymn of the time which began "one sweetly solemn thought". That the line was enough to enrich any literature. Phoebe was especially proud of her descent and the Cary coat-of-arms.
A Mother's Picture
By Alice Cary
A lady the loveliest ever the sun looked down upon,
You must paint for me.
O, if I could only make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The women's soul, and the angel's face,
That are beaming on me all the while,
But I need not speak these foolish words;
One word tells you all I would say,
She is my mother; and you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
From Alice Cary's Works, Houghton Mifflin Co.
Burning the Letters
By Phoebe Cary
I said that they were valueless,
Once was full of pleasant flattery;
One was just exactly like him,
I had told him when we parted
I'd rather have them not,
All that since made them precious
Was, or should have been, forgot;
I would do it very willingly,
And not because I ought,
But I did not, somehow, find it
Quite so easy as I thought.
I do not think I'm vain,
And yet I paused a moment
To read it once again.
Once repeated dear, old phrases
I had heard a thousand times;
I had read him once some verses,
And another praised my rhymes.
Such a pretty little note!
One was interspersed with poetry
That lovers always quote.
I don't know why I read them
Unless 'twas just to know,
Since they once had been so precious,
What had ever made them so.
To think no more of me;
And I'm sure he's nothing to me,
Indeed, why should he be?
Yet the flame sunk down to ashes,
And I sat and held them still;
But I said that I would burn them,
And, some other time I will!
From The Poems of Phoebe Cary, Hurst & Co.
A Dictionary of Unitarian & Universalist Biography
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