The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Eva hath fulfilled her destiny. Material things can no farther minister to the growth of her spirit. That waking of the soul to its own deep mysteries— its oneness with another—has been accomplished. A human soul is perfected. She had moved amid the beings around her one, but unlike them—in the world, but not of it. Those who had felt the wisdom of her sweet teachings, yet felt repelled, as by a sacred influence. They dared not crave companionship with a spirit so lofty, and yet so meek. And thus, though the crowd, as it were, might press upon her, she was yet alone in her true spiritual atmosphere. To them she became a light, a guide, but to Albert Linne alone, was her mission of Womanhood. In her he learned that no one seeketh in vain, the good and the true—that as our faith is, it is given unto us. He confidently sought for the Divine, and it was given unto him. He but touched her garment and she perceived the soul test.

Sorrow and pain—hope, with its kin-spirit, fear, are not for the sinless. She hath walked in an atmosphere of light, and her faith looked within the veil. The true woman, with woman's love and gentleness, and trust and childlike simplicity, yet with all her noble aspirations and spiritual discernments, she hath known them all without sin, and

sorrow may not visit such. She ceased to be present —she passed away like the petal that hath dropped from the rose—like the last sweet note of the singing-bird, or the dying close of the wind harp. Eva is the lost pleiad in the sky of womanhood. Has her spirit ceased to be upon the earth? Does it not still brood over our woman hearts?— and doth not her voice blend ever with the sweet utterance of Nature! Eva, mine own, my beautiful, I may not say—farewell.

'Twas night—bright beamed the silver moon,
And all the stars were dim;
The widow heard within the dell
Sweet voices of a hymn,
As loitering winds were made to sound
Her sinless daughter's name;
While to the roof a rare toned-bird
With wondrous music came.

And long it sat upon the cot
And poured its mellow song,
That rose upon the stilly air,
And swelled the vales along.
It was no earthly thing she deemed,
That, in the clear moonlight,
Sat on the lowly cottage roof,
And charmed the ear of night.

The sun is up, the flowerets raise
Their folded leaves from rest;
The bird is singing in the branch
Hard by its dewy nest.

The spider's thread, from twig to twig,
Is glittering in the light,
With dew-drops has the web been hung
Through all the starry night.

Why tarries Eva long in bed,
For she is wont to be
The first to greet the early bird,
The waking bud to see?
Fresh as the dew of rose lipped morn
Her sweet young face was seen,
Early amid the clustering blooms,
And woodbine's tendrilled screen.

Why tarries she in secret bower,
Where lightly to and fro,
The curtain rustles in the air,
And shadows come and go?
Why stoops her mother o'er the couch
With half-suppresséd breath,
And lifts the deep-fringed eyelid up?—
That frozen orb is death!

Why raises she the small pale hand,
And holds it to the light?
There is no clear transparent hue
To meet her dizzy sight.
She holds the mirror to her lips
To catch the moistened air:
The widowed mother stands alone
With her dead daughter there!

And yet so placid is the face,
So sweet its lingering smile,
That one might deem the sleep to be
The maiden's playful wile.
No pain the quiet limbs had racked,
No sorrow dimmed the brow,
So tranquil had the life gone forth,
She seemed but slumbering now.

They laid her down beside the brook
Upon the sloping hill,
And that strange bird with its rare note,
Is singing o'er her still.
The sunbeam warmer loves to rest
Upon the heaving mound,
And those unearthly blossoms spring,
Uncultured from the ground.

There Albert Linne, an altered man,
Oft bowed in lowly prayer,
And pondered o'er the mystic words
Which Eva uttered there.
That pure compassion, angel-like,
Which touched her soul when he,
A guilty and heart-stricken man,
Would from her presence flee;

Her sinless lips from earthly love,
So tranquil and so free;
And the low, fervent prayer for him,
She breathed on bended knee.

As Eva's words and spirit sank
More deeply in his heart,
Young Albert Linne went forth to act
The better human part.

Oft in the stillness of the night
Sweet Eva's dove-like eyes,
Beamed through the darkness of his room,
Like stars in dusky skies.
Oft came a tranquil light diffused
The darkness to beguile,
And Albert felt within his heart,
It was but Eva's smile.

Not lost, his Eva, though her form
The elements concealed,
Within the chambers of the soul,
Her meek form stood revealed;
And there he felt her heavenly eye,
Her downy arms caressed,
And like a living presence there,
She stole into his breast.

Oh not alone did Albert strive;
For, blending with his own,
In every voice of prayer or praise.
Was heard young Eva's tone.
He felt her lips upon his brow,
Her angel form beside;
And nestling nearest to his heart,
Was she—THE SPIRIT BRIDE.

The sinless Child, with mission high,
Awhile to Earth was given,
To show us that our world should be
The vestibule of Heaven.
Did we but in the holy light
Of truth and goodness rise,
We might communion hold with God
And spirits from the skies.