ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
AUTHOR OF “THE SINLESS CHILD.”
T was in the year 1841 that a poetic Romance of several episodes, written in ballad style and entitled “The Sinless Child,” was published in the Southern Literary Messenger and brought its author, a woman of thirty-five years, into general prominence, and gained for her an enviable position which she ever after maintained and fortified with a series of the finest sonnets which the literature of our country affords. “Her productions,” says Reade, “are characterized rather by a passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and a subtle vein of philosophy more than sentiment, though in the latter she is by no means deficient.”
The maiden name of this lady was Prince. She is descended from old Puritan stock on both sides, and was born in Cumberland, near Portland, Maine, on the twelfth day of August, 1806. At an early age Miss Prince was married to Mr. Seba Smith, a newspaper editor whom she assisted in his editorial work. Mr. Smith, himself, was a man of considerable literary attainment, who, under the nom de plume of “Jack Downing,” obtained a national reputation. He is also the author of “Powhattan; a metrical romance,” and several shorter poems which appeared in the periodicals of the day. His magazine tales and essays were collected in 1850 and published under the title of “Down East.”
Like most young women writers of that day, Mrs. Smith contributed her early productions to various periodicals, anonymously. It was not until her husband suffered business disaster that she commenced the open profession of authorship as a means of support for her family. Her first published work “Riches Without Wings” appeared in 1838; “The Sinless Child and other poems” was collected and issued in book form in New York, in 1841. In 1842, Mrs. Smith and her husband removed to New York where they have afterwards resided and the same year she published a novel entitled “The Western Captive” and also a fanciful prose tale “The Salamander; a Legend for Christmas.”
Mrs. Smith is also the author of “The Roman Tribute, a tragedy in five acts,” founded on the exemption of Constantinople from destruction by a tribute paid by Theodosius to the conquering general, Attila. She is also the author of a tragedy entitled “Jacob Leisler,” which is founded upon a well known dramatic incident of the colonial history of New York. Both of these plays enjoyed in their day popular favor upon the stage. In 1847, she published “Woman and her needs,” and in 1852, “Hints on Dress and Beauty.” Subsequent to these came “The Bald Eagle; or the last of the Ramapaughs;” “The News Boy;” “Sagamor of Saco;” “The Two Wives;” “Kitty Howard’s Journal,” and “Destiny, a Tragedy.”
Besides the above volumes, Mrs. Smith was the author of much fugitive verse and was also a liberal contributor of the current magazines of her day. The varied and peculiar merits of this author will appear to the reader of her writings, who must be impressed that in the drama, in the sonnet and in miscellaneous poems of imagination and fancy, she has vindicated her right to a place among the first poets of her sex, while her prose writings, though not largely read at this time, are characterized by the same subtle insight, analysis and delicacy of treatment which mark her poetry.
EXTRACTS FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”
It is difficult to select from a poem of which the parts make one harmonious whole; but the history of “The Sinless Child” is illustrated all through with panel pictures which are scarcely less effective when separated from their series than when combined, and the reader will be gratified with a few of those which serve to exhibit the author’s graceful play of fancy, and the pure vein of poetic sentiment as well as her manner and style in treating this masterpiece of its author.
THE STEP-MOTHER.
(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)
OU speak of Hobert’s second wife,
A lofty dame and bold:
I like not her forbidding air,
And forehead high and cold.
The orphans have no cause for grief,
She dare not give it now,
Though nothing but a ghostly fear
Her heart of pride could bow.
One night the boy his mother called:
They heard him weeping say—
“Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy’s cheek,
And wipe his tears away!”
Red grew the lady’s brow with rage,
And yet she feels a strife
Of anger and of terror too,
At thought of that dead wife.
Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue,
The watch-dog howls with fear;
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall:
What [♦]form is gliding near?
No latch is raised, no step is heard,
But a phantom fills the space—
A sheeted spectre from the dead,
With cold and leaden face!
What boots it that no other eye
Beheld the shade appear?
The guilty lady’s guilty soul
Beheld it plain and clear!
It slowly glides within the room,
And sadly looks around—
And stooping, kissed her daughter’s cheek
With lips that gave no sound!
Then softly on the stepdame’s arm
She laid a death-cold hand,
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh
Like to a burning brand;
And gliding on with noiseless foot,
O’er winding stair and hall,
She nears the chamber where is heard
Her infant’s trembling call.
She smoothed the pillow where he lay,
She warmly tucked the bed,
She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls
That clustered round his head.
The child, caressed, unknowing fear,
Hath nestled him to rest;
The mother folds her wings beside—
The mother from the blest!
[♦] ‘from’ replaced with ‘form’
GUARDIAN ANGELS.
(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)
ITH downy pinion they enfold
The heart surcharged with wo,
And fan with balmy wing the eye
Whence floods of sorrow flow;
They bear, in golden censers up,
That sacred gift a tear—
By which is registered the griefs
Hearts may have suffered here.
No inward pang, no yearning love
Is lost to human hearts—
No anguish that the spirit feels,
When bright-winged Hope departs.
Though in the mystery of life
Discordant powers prevail;
That life itself be weariness,
And sympathy may fail:
Yet all becomes a discipline,
To lure us to the sky;
And angels bear the good it brings
With fostering care on high.
Though human hearts may weary grow,
And sink to toil-spent sleep,
And we are left in solitude
And agony to weep:
Yet they with ministering zeal
The cup of healing bring,
And bear our love and gratitude
Away, on heavenward wing;
And thus the inner life is wrought,
The blending earth and heaven—
The love more earnest in its glow
Where much has been forgiven!
THE BROOK.
HITHER away, thou merry Brook,
Whither away so fast,
With dainty feet through the meadow green,
And a smile as you hurry past?”
The Brook leaped on in idle mirth,
And dimpled with saucy glee;
The daisy kissed in lovingness,
And made with the willow free.
I heard its laugh adown the glen,
And over the rocky steep,
Away where the old tree’s roots were bare
In the waters dark and deep;
The sunshine flashed upon its face,
And played with flickering leaf—
Well pleased to dally in its path,
Though the tarrying were brief.
“Now stay thy feet, oh restless one,
Where droops the spreading tree,
And let thy liquid voice reveal
Thy story unto me.”
The flashing pebbles lightly rung,
As the gushing music fell,
The chiming music of the brook,
From out the woody dell.
“My mountain home was bleak and high,
A rugged spot and drear,
With searching wind and raging storm,
And moonlight cold and clear.
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine,
For a fond and answering look
But none were in that solitude
To bless the little brook.
“The blended hum of pleasant sounds
Came up from the vale below,
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To lapse, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,
Along my path should glide,
And blossoms in their loveliness
Come nestling to my side.
“I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
Hung shivering to the sight,
And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossoms start
With joy at sight of me.
“The swallow comes with its bit of clay,
When the busy Spring is here.
And twittering bears the moistened gift
A nest on the eaves to rear;
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,
And the fox and the squirrel come to drink
In the shade of the alder-tree.
“The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot,
Comes hither with me to play,
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round,
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.
“The old man bathes his scattered locks,
And drops me a silent tear—
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his ear the very song
He heard in years gone by;
The old man’s heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye.”
Enough, enough, thou homily brook!
I’ll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
Will bear like thee a kindly love
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit’s birth.
THE APRIL RAIN.
HE April rain—the April rain—
I hear the pleasant sound;
Now soft and still, like little dew,
Now drenching all the ground.
Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see
Than falling drops of other rain?
I’m sure it is to me.
I wonder if ’tis really so—
Or only hope the while,
That tells of swelling buds and flowers,
And Summer’s coming smile.
Whate’er it is, the April shower
Makes me a child again;
I feel a rush of youthful blood
Come with the April rain.
And sure, were I a little bulb
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So gently falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By Nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup!
The small brown seed, that rattled down
On the cold autumnal earth,
Is bursting from its cerements forth,
Rejoicing in its birth.
The slender spears of pale green grass
Are smiling in the light,
The clover opes its folded leaves
As if it felt delight.
The robin sings on the leafless tree,
And upward turns his eye,
As loving much to see the drops
Come filtering from the sky;
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves
About his home to see,
And feel the swaying summer winds
Play in the full-robed tree.
The cottage door is open wide,
And cheerful sounds are heard,
The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wilding bird;
The creeping child by the old, worn sill
Peers out with winking eye,
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand,
As the drops come pattering by.
With bounding heart beneath the sky,
The truant boy is out,
And hoop and ball are darting by
With many a merry shout.
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng—
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance
In your pure and healthful play.
FLOWERS.
(FROM “THE SINLESS CHILD.”)
ACH tiny leaf became a scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left—
How were the earth of glory shorn,
Were it of flowers bereft!
They tremble on the Alpine height;
The fissured rock they press;
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares, too, their blessedness:
And wheresoe’er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer.
EROS AND ANTEROS.
IS said sweet Psyche gazed one night
On Cupid’s sleeping face—
Gazed in her fondness on the wight
In his unstudied grace:
But he, bewildered by the glare
Of light at such a time,
Fled from the side of Psyche there
As from a thing of crime.
Ay, weak the fable—false the ground—
Sweet Psyche veiled her face—
Well knowing Love, if ever found,
Will never leave his place.
Unfound as yet, and weary grown,
She had mistook another:
’Twas but Love’s semblance she had found—
Not Eros, but his brother!
