American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ELIZA L. SPROAT.

Biographical Sketch.

AMONG the younger of our poetesses, we introduce with much pleasure the name of Eliza L. Sproat. * 1.1Miss Sproat has been but three years before the public, and in that time has not published much. But the few pieces which she has put forth are full of promise, and have given her already a distinct and enviable position. Her earliest productions indicated great delicacy both of thought and diction, and a very lively fancy. But they did not prepare even her friends for the sudden developement of intellectual power which has marked her poems of a recent date. These show her to be unquestionably a woman of high and original genius. The pieces which warrant this strong language are too long for quotation here, and are of a character to suffer by partial extracts. This, however, is the less necessary, as

they will doubtless soon be given to the public in a collected form. Those that have already appeared may be found in the Christian Keepsake for 1847-8-9; the Snow Flake for 1849-50; the Leaflets of Memory for 1849; and Sartain's Union Magazine for the same year. Miss Sproat is a native and resident of Philadelphia.

SUNSET AFTER RAIN.

OH, cheerless, sunless day! The maudlin clouds Have wept and wept; the wind, with ceaseless whine, Has wandered through the rain; now stooping low To plague the sullen stream; now whirling high, And diving down some chimney, where the dame Strove vainly for a cheerful evening fire, Fighting the smoke into her patient face; Now skimming earth so swift, that the long grass Grew shrill with pain, now blustering past the flowers, And through the angry corn; now to the stream, Making the willows sulk, and flounce, and trail Their wet arms on the ground; now, scorning earth, He's up to fight the clouds. Good wind, sweet wind, Battle them sore, —scatter the enemy, That we may bid good-even to the sun, And bless his journey. Joy! The weary foes Have raised the siege, and now, dispersing slow, They melt before the sun. The mighty trees Doff their dark haughtiness, and stand ablaze Thrilled by the rich free light, that suddenly Enclasping, sets each separate soft green leaf Quivering with life; till, with majestic joy, They fling on high their bold ambitious arms, In hope to touch the skies that seem so near. The loving clouds bend downward from the blue, And form, and melt, and break like hills of foam, Paling to silver; blushing back to rose; Gathering in mountains of rich purple glooms;

Deepening to awful caverns and strange chasms; Then breaking, softening, melting, till the sky Grows dark, and deep, and clear, and a keen eye Can almost reach to heaven, whence stepping forth With their fresh glory on them, one by one The great stars take their places; and poor Earth Stands in the presence of the Universe.

THE PRISONER'S CHILD.

THE dull, chill prison building, Oh, what a gloomy sight! It wears in boldest morning The coward scowl of night. The warm, fresh light approaches And shuddering turns away; Within its shadow, looming foul, No joysome thing will stay. Yet there's a light within my cell, A lovely light its walls enclose; My happy child —my daughter pure — My wild, wild rose.

The prison sounds are dreary To one who hears them long; The murderer talking to himself, The drunkard's crazy song. My prison-door grates harshly, It bodes the jailer's scowl; The jailer's dog sleeps all the day, To wake at night and howl. Yet there is music in my cell, And Joy's own voice its walls enclose; My heaven-bird —my gladsome girl — My wild, wild rose.

Her mellow, golden accents O'erflow the air around, As if the joyous sunshine Resolved itself to sound. She carols clear at morning, And prattles sweet at noon; She sings to rest the weary sun, And ringeth up the moon; And when in sleep she visits home, (My daughter knows the angels well,) She'll fearless rouse the awful night, Her happy dreams to tell.

Oh, some have many treasures, But other I have none; The dear Creator gave me My blessings all in one. The wealth of many jewels Is garner'd in her eyes; The worth of many loving hearts Within her bosom lies; She's more to me than daily bread, And more to me than night's repose; My staff, my flower, my praise, my prayer — My wild, wild rose.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

A MOTHER pray'd with her heart alone, For her lips made ne'er a sound; The angels came in her darken'd room, And waved their wings around. "Oh, Lord," she prayed —" Thou Lord of might, Oh, grant my darling Fame, Among the nobles of the world, To wear the noblest name.

"A name whose glory waxeth bright, With still increasing fire; A name to stand while ages pass, And make a world admire: Oh, may there be some spirit near, My soul's high wish to bear:" But the angels stood with drooping wings, Nor moved to waft her prayer.

"Oh, God," she pray'd, "thou infinite, Oh, grant my darling power; The might of soul that sways a host As the fierce wind sways a shower: And may there be some spirit near My fervent wish to bear" — But the steadfast angels sadly stood, Nor moved to waft her prayer.

"Oh God, who art all Beautiful, Oh, make my darling fair; That he may still from life draw love, Life's essence sweet and rare. So every heart shall be a harp, Beneath his touch to sound." But the shuddering angels sadly stood, And droop'd their wings around.

"But if,"' she pray'd, "thou God of love, He may not grasp at fame, Oh, grant him strength to face serene A cold world's cruel blame. And if he shrink from earthly power, Nor aim to sway the time, Gird thou his soul to cope with sin — A conqueror sublime.

And should he sometime fail to strike Each heart to love's great tone, Oh, may he tune to seraph height The music of his own. Now may there be some spirit near My humble wish to bear." The angels rose on rushing wings, And bore to God her prayer.

Notes

• * 1.1

  We are indebted to the kindness of Professor Hart, the accomplished editor of Sartain's Union Magazine, for this notice of Miss Sproat.