American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

Biographical Sketch.

THE rural and beautiful village of Cumberland, about twelve miles from Portland, Maine, is the birthplace of Elizabeth Smith. Her family name was Prince. Precocity indeed is not always a sign of genius,— for sometimes those minds which are ripe the soonest, the soonest decay, — yet the little Elizabeth (like many of her sister-poetesses) was a most precocious child. She used to improvise as soon as she could talk, but finding that people stared at her, and that some checked her, she grew nervous at three or four, and repeated her rhymes only in secret.

She began to write from the time she could imitate printed letters, and continued for a long time to write in this way. Possessing acute sensibilities, a quiet thoughtfulness, a loving disposition, and a marked dislike of pretension, the attributes of a true poet might have been discerned in her at a very early age; and perhaps were, by that father and grandfather at whose feet she loved to sit, hearing and asking them questions, when other children were out at play. As she grew up she devoted herself to study; choosing philosophy both natural and moral, and abstruse subjects which required much close and steady thought, on which to feed her love for knowledge. But liberal nature gave her a very strong mind, capable of bearing intense application, and as capacious as it was strong, fit apartment for the wealthy stores that native thought and foreign learning brought in. She was married at sixteen to Seba Smith, Esq., of Portland, well-known as the author of the humorous Jack Downing Letters. Since her marriage Mrs. Smith has been a constant contributor to the magazines of the day. When she first wrote, she did so merely from the impulse within; afterwards, necessity lorded it over her genius; and often, when her social and womanly nature would have been content with the pleasures of friendly intercourse, this stern master, she dared not disobey, has driven her to her pen, to coin her thoughts of purest gold, for gold "of a baser sort." About eight years ago she left Portland to reside in New York; lately she has removed to Brooklyn.

In 1842, Mrs. Smith published "The Sinless Child, and other Poems,"

a little volume which has been much praised by able critics, and widely circulated. The Acorn, one of her most imaginative and faultless productions, is contained in this book. We give the whole of it: for though the growing oak spreads out far and wide, we could not find it in our hearts to cut off a single bough. Within a short time, she has completed a tragedy, called The Roman Tribute, which is to be acted in the coming autumn; and a prose romance, now in the press. Many of her smaller poems indicate genius of a high order; they vary in their style of thought and expression, however, very considerably. Sometimes, as in The April Rain, there is a fresh simplicity in them, as if a little child were singing out her pure and happy feelings in musical rhyme; and then again, as in the two sonnets we have quoted, there is a sublimity, a deep, solemn calmness of thought, as if breathed from the heart of one made patient by experience, and wise by inward suffering. Some of Mrs. Smith's best poems and essays have been published under the name of Ernest Helfenstein. We have often wondered who this quaint, but deep-souled, mellow-voiced writer was; our delight and surprise were equal, on finding, not long ago, that the original and instructive articles we had read from the pen of the poet-philosopher, Ernest Helfenstein, sprang from the fertile mind of the philosophical poetess, Elizabeth Oakes Smith.

THE ACORN.

AN acorn fell from an old oak tree, And lay on the frosty ground — "O, what shall the fate of the acorn be!" Was whispered all around, By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, Like a floweret's bell when swung — And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, And the beetle's hoofs up-rung —

For the woodland Fays came sweeping past In the pale autumnal ray, Where the forest leaves were falling fast, And the acorn quivering lay;

They came to tell what its fate should be, Though life was unreveal'd; For life is holy mystery, Where'er it is conceal'd.

They came with gifts that should life bestow; The dew and the living air — The bane that should work its deadly wo — Was found with the Fairies there. In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, And the worm in the rose-leaf roll'd, And many things with destruction fraught, That its fate were quickly told.

But it heeded not; for a blessed fate Was the acorn's doom'd to be — The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait, And watch o'er its destiny. To a little sprite was the task assigned To bury the acorn deep, Away from the frost and searching wind, When they through the forest sweep.

I laughed outright at the small thing's toil, As he bow'd beneath the spade, And he balanced his gossamer wings the while To look in the pit he made. A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, When the spade aside he threw, And roll'd the acorn away to sleep In the hush of dropping dew.

The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, And its gush of woodland song; The dew came down, and the rain was there, And the sunshine rested long;

Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, The old leaf arching o'er, And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, Came the acorn-shell once more.

With coil'd stem, and a pale green hue It look'd but a feeble thing; Then deeply its roots abroad it threw, Its strength from the earth to bring. The woodland sprites are gathering round, Rejoiced that the task is done — That another life from the noisome ground Is up to the pleasant sun.

The young child pass'd with a careless tread, And the germ had well nigh crush'd, But a spider, launch'd on her airy thread, The cheek of the stripling brush'd. He little knew, as he started back, How the acorn's fate was hung On the very point in the spider's track Where the web on his cheek was flung.

The autumn came, and it stood alone, And bow'd as the wind pass'd by — The wind that utter'd its dirge-like moan In the old oak sere and dry; And the hollow branches creak'd and sway'd But they bent not to the blast, For the stout oak tree, where centuries played Was sturdy to the last.

A schoolboy beheld the lithe young shoot, And his knife was instant out, To sever the stalk from the spreading root, And scatter the buds about;

To peel the bark in curious rings, And many a notch and ray, To beat the air till it whizzing sings, Then idly cast away.

His hand was stay'd; he knew not why: 'Twas a presence breathed around —A pleading from the deep-blue sky, And up from the teeming ground. It told of the care that had lavish'd been In sunshine and in dew — Of the many things that had wrought a screen When peril around it grew.

It told of the oak that once had bow'd, As feeble a thing to see; But now, when the storm was raging loud, It wrestled mightily. There's a deeper thought on the schoolboy's brow, A new love at his heart, And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow He turns him to depart.

Up grew the twig, with a vigour bold, In the shade of the parent tree, And the old oak knew that his doom was told, When the sapling sprang so free. Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore The hollow limbs away; And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor Round the trunk, time-worn and gray.

The young oak grew, and proudly grew, For its roots were deep and strong; And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, And the sunlight linger'd long

On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light Was flung to the evening sky; And the wild bird came to its airy height, And taught her young to fly.

In acorn-time came the truant boy, With a wild and eager look, And he mark'd the tree with a wondering joy, As the wind the great limbs shook. He look'd where the moss on the north side grew, The gnarled arms outspread, The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, As it tower'd above his head:

And vague-like fears the boy surround, In the shadow of that tree; So growing up from the darksome ground, Like a giant mystery. His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread On the withered leaf and dry, And he lifts not up his awe-struck head As the eddying wind sweeps by.

And regally the stout oak stood, In its vigour and its pride; A monarch own'd in the solemn wood, With a sceptre spreading wide — No more in the wintry blast to bow, Or rock in the summer breeze; But draped in green, or star-like snow, Reign king of the forest trees.

And a thousand years it firmly grew, And a thousand blasts defied; And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw A shadow dense and wide.

It grew where the rocks were bursting out From the thin and heaving soil — Where the ocean's roar, and the sailor's shout, Were mingled in wild turmoil.

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep Came up with a booming swell; And the white foam dashed to the rocky steep, But it loved the tumult well. Then its huge limbs creak'd in the midnight air, And joined in the rude uproar: For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare, And the sound of the breaker's roar.

The bleaching bones of the sea-bird's prey Were heap'd on the rocks below; And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, Look'd off from its topmost bough. Where its shadow lay on the quiet wave The light boat often swung, And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave, Her cable round it flung.

Change came to the mighty things of earth — Old empires pass'd away; Of the generations that had birth, O Death! where, where were they?Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, Nor dreamed it of decay, Though a thousand times in the autumn wood Its leaves on the pale earth lay.

A sound comes down in the forest trees, An echoing from the hill; It floats far off on the summer breeze, And the shore resounds it shrill.

Lo! the monarch tree no more shall stand Like a watch-tower of the main — The strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand, And its falling shakes the plain.

The stout old oak! —'Twas a worthy tree, And the builder marked it out; And he smiled its angled limbs to see, As he measured the trunk about. Already to him was a gallant bark Careering the rolling deep, And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, Her way she will proudly keep.

The chisel clinks, and the hammer rings, And the merry jest goes round; While he who longest and loudest sings Is the stoutest workman found. With jointed rib, and trunnel'd plank The work goes gaily on, And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank, Are heard till the task is done.

She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, With her oaken ribs all bare, And the child looks up with parted lip, As it gathers fuel there — With brimless hat, the bare-foot boy Looks round with strange amaze, And dreams of a sailor's life of joy Are mingling in that gaze.

With graceful waist and carvings brave The trim hull waits the sea — And she proudly stoops to the crested wave, While round go the cheerings three.

Her prow swells up from the yeasty deep, Where it plunged in foam and spray; And the glad waves gathering round her sweep And buoy her in their play.

Thou wert nobly rear'd, O heart of oak!In the sound of the ocean roar, Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke And bellow'd along the shore — And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, With the wind through spar and shroud, To hear a sound like the forest voice, When the blast was raging loud!

With snow-white sail, and streamer gay, She sits like an ocean-sprite, Careering on in her trackless way, In sunshine or dark midnight: Her course is laid with fearless skill, For brave hearts man the helm; And the joyous winds her canvass fill — Shall the wave the stout ship whelm?

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll, Like floating cities by; Where meteors flash by the northern pole, And the merry dancers fly; Where the glittering light is backward flung From icy tower and dome, And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung With gems from the ocean foam.

On the Indian sea was her shadow cast, As it lay like molten gold, And her pendant shroud and towering mast Seem'd twice on the waters told.

The idle canvass slowly swung As the spicy breeze went by, And strange, rare music around her rung From the palm-tree growing nigh.

O, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee The gay and the breaking heart, And weeping eyes look'd out to see Thy white-spread sails depart. And when the rattling casement told Of many a perill'd ship, The anxious wife her babes would fold, And pray with trembling lip.

The petrel wheel'd in her stormy flight; The wind piped shrill and high; On the topmast sat a pale blue light, That flicker'd not to the eye: The black cloud came like a banner down, And down came the shrieking blast; The quivering ship on her beams is thrown, And gone are helm and mast.

Helmless, but on before the gale, She ploughs the deep-trough'd wave: A gurgling sound —a phrenzied wail —And the ship hath found a grave. And thus is the fate of the acorn told, That fell from the old oak tree, And the woodland Fays in the frosty mould Preserved for its destiny.

CHARITY, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE.

OUT-WEARIED with the littleness and spite, The falsehood and the treachery of men, I cried, give me but justice, thinking then I meekly craved a common boon which might

Most easily be granted; soon the lightOf deeper truth grew on my wondering ken, (Escaped baneful damps of stagnant fen,) And then I saw, that in my pride bedight I claim'd from erring man the gift of Heaven — God's own great vested right; and I grew calm, With folded hands like stone to patience given, And pityings of pure love-distilling balm;—And now I wait in quiet trust to be All known to God, —and ask of men, sweet Charity.

THE GREAT AIM.

EARTH beareth many pangs of guilt and wrong; Hunger, and chains, and nakedness, all cry From out the ground to Him, whose searching eye Sees blood like slinking serpents steal along The dusty way, rank grass, and flowers among. His the dread voice —" Where is thy brother?" Why Sit we here weaving our common griefs to song, While that eternal call, forth bids us fly From self, and wake to human good? The near, The humble, it may be, yet —God-appointed! If greatly girded, cast aside thy fear In solemn trust, thou mission'd and anointed! Oh! glorious task! made free from petty strife, Thy Truth becomes an Act, — thy Aspiration —Life.!

ANGELS.

WITH downy pinion they enfold The heart surcharged with woe, 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 register'd the griefs Hearts may have suffer'd here.

No inward pang, no yearning love Is lost to human hearts; No anguish that the spirit feels When bright-wing'd 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 others, weary at the watch, May 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 heavenly 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.

UNPROFITABLE SERVANTS.

VAIN we number every duty, Number all our prayers and tears, Still the spirit lacketh beauty, Still it droops with many fears.

Soul of Love, O boundless Giver, Who didst all thyself impart, And thy blood, a flowing river, Told how large the loving heart;

Now we see how poor the offering We have on thine altar cast, And we bless thee for the suffering Which hath taught us love at last.

We may feel an inward gladness For the truth and goodness won, But far deeper is the sadness For the good we leave undone.

STANZAS.

O GOD! that we should live, the dull pulse beat,When all that should be life is cold and sere! When thought, which angel-like is high and fleet, Is crush'd to earth, what doth the spirit here! And yet, and yet I would not feebly shrink From this dread cup of suffering, —let me drink.

For in this darkest hour there cometh yet A soothing ministry, unseen but felt; An inward prompting — Thou wilt not forget! And tears gush forth, —the eyes that would not melt, Train'd in the school of grief, at thought of Thee Pour forth their pent-up fountains, fast and free.

Life-Giver! who hast planted in the soul This seed-time dread of hopes too high for earth, Emotions, yearnings, time may not control, In heaven alone, Oh! hath the harvest birth? Oh wherefore doth the heart, deluded still, Its broken urn from earth's dark fountains fill?

Not at the gory wheel, the fiery stake; Not where the rack gives forth the lingering breath — Not there alone do martyr'd spirits break, Not there alone dost thou find such, O Death! Another test; crush'd by a hidden weight, There are who martyrs live to their dark fate.

STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS.

COME up unto the hills! Thy strength is there; Oh! thou hast tarried long, Too long amid the bowers and blossoms fair, With notes of summer song! Why dost thou tarry here? What though the bird Pipes matin in the vale — The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd As the red daylights fail?

Yet come unto the hills —the old strong hills, And leave the stagnant plain; Come to the gushing of the new-born rills, As sing they to the main. And thou shalt dwell with denizens of light; —The eagle shall be there, With tireless wing aslant the cloud of night, Amid the lightning's glare.

Come up unto the hills! The shatter'd oak There clings unto the rock, With arms outstretch'd as 't would the storm invoke, And dare again the shock. Come where no fear is known, the sea-bird's nest On the old hemlock swings, There thou shalt feel the gladness of unrest, And mount upon thy wings.

Come up unto the hills! The men of old, They of undaunted will, Grew jubilant of heart, and strong and bold, On the enduring hill, — Where come the soundings of the sea afar Borne inward to the ear; And nearer grow the moon, and midnight star, And God himself more near!

NIGHT.

"Some who had early mandates to depart,Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart."

—Wordsworth.

THRICE welcome, solemn, thoughtful Night, With the cool and shadowy wing; For visions, beautiful and bright, Thou dost to fancy bring — And then the mental eye I turn, Thy kingdom, soul, to view, For higher progress eager burn, And onward strength renew.

I love thy dim, majestic car, With no moon lighting by, When still and hush'd is each pale star, And the heavens look deep and high — And o'er me seem thy wings to brood With a protecting love, And I nestle in thy solitude, Like a stricken, wearied dove.

I bless thee for each hallow'd thought, Which thou, oh! Night, dost bring — Thy quiet, with high teachings fraught, While round me seems to ring

The music of the better land, And gentle watch to keep, The presence of a guardian band Is round me while I sleep.

And soothingly, oh! Night, dost thou Departed ones restore—I see each fair and peaceful brow With their loving looks once more, Alas, the loved and gentle ones, They pass from earth away, And pleasantly we hear their tones, When the midnight shadows play.

We feel their holy presence near, Their gentle pressure feel, Their words of whisper'd comfort hear, And angel-like appeal; And every struggle for the right They smilingly approve, And arm us doubly for the fight, With spirit-faith and love.

Oh! holy Night, thou bring'st to me Bright visions of the past, And pleasant dreams are born of thee, And from thy pinions cast. No fancies dark, no terrors wild Come hovering round my bed. But peaceful as a wearied child I rest my aching head.

THE RECALL, OR SOUL MELODY.

NOR dulcimer nor harp shall breathe Their melody for me; Within my secret soul be wrought A holier minstrelsy! Descend into thy depths, oh soul And every sense in me control.

Thou hast no voice for outward mirth, Whose purer strains arise From those that steal from crystal gates, The hymnings of the skies; And well may earth's cold jarrings cease, When such have soothed thee unto peace.

Within thy secret chamber rest, And back each sense recall, That seeketh 'mid the tranquil stars Where melody shall fall; Call home the wanderer from the vale, From mountain and the moonlight pale.

Within the leafy wood, the sound Of dropping rain may ring, Which, rolling from the trembling leaf, Falls on the sparrow's wing; And music round the waking flower May breathe in every star-lit bower:

Yet, come away! nor stay to hear The breathings of a voice Whose subtle tones awake a thrill To make thee to rejoice, And vibrate on the listening ear, Too deep, too earnest, ah, too dear.

Yes, come away, and inward turn Each thought and every sense, For sorrow lingers from without, Thou canst not charm it thence; But all attuned the soul may be, Unto a deathless melody.

THE APRIL RAIN.

THE April rain! the April rain! I hear the pleasant sound, Now soft and still, like gentle 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 't is 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, As falls the April rain.

And sure, were I a little bulb, Within the darksome ground, I should love to hear the April rain So softly 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 though it felt delight.

The robin sings on the leafless tree, And upward turns his eye, As if he loved to see the drops Come filtering down 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 wildwood bird; The creeping child by the old worn sill Peers out with winking eye, And his ringlets parts with his chubby hands As the drops come spattering 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, shout away, ye joyous throng! For yours is the April day; I love to see your spirits dance, In your pure and healthful play.

LOVE DEAD.

The lady sent him an image of Cupid, one wing veiling his face. He was pleased thereat, thinking it to be Love sleeping, and betokened the tenderness of the sentiment. He looked again and saw it was Love dead and laid upon his bier.

THIS morn with trembling I awoke, Just as the dawn my slumber broke: Flapping came a heavy wing, sounding pinions o'er my head, Beating down the blessed air with a weight of chilling dread — Felt I then the presence of a doom That an Evil occupied the room —And I dared not round the bower, Chilly in the grayish morning, Dared not face the evil power, With its voice of inward warning.

Vain with weakness we may palter — Vainly may the fond heart falter, Came there upon my soul, dropping down like leaden weight, Burning pang or freezing pang, which I know not 't was so great; Life hath its moments black unnumbered, I knew not if mine eyes had slumbered, Yet I little thought such pain Ever to have known again — Love dies, too, when Faith is dead, Yesternight Faith perished.

I knew that Love could never change, That Love should die seems yet more strange — Lifting up the downy veil, screening Love within my heart, Beating there as beat my pulse, moving like myself a part — I had kept him cherished there so deep, Heart-rocked kept him in his balmy sleep,

That till now I never knew How his fibres round me grew — Could not know how deep the sorrow Where Hope bringeth no to-morrow.

I struggled, knowing we must part, I grieved to lift him from my heart, Grieving much and struggling much, forth I brought him sorrowing— Drooping hung his fainting head —all adown his dainty wing, Shrieked I with a wild and dark surprise — For I saw the marble in Love's eyes —Yet I hoped his soul would wait As he oft had waited there — Hovering though at Heaven's gate — Could he leave me to despair!

Unfolded they the crystal door, Where Love shall languish never more — Weeping Love thy days are o'er. Lo! I lay thee on thy bier, Wiping thus from thy dead cheek every vestige of a tear! Love has perished —hist, hist how they tell, Beating pulse of mine, his funeral knell! Love is dead, ay dead and gone, Why should I be living on;—Why be in this chamber sitting, With but phantoms round me flitting!