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

With no fond, sickly thirst for fame, I kneel,
Oh, goddess of the high-born art to thee;
Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal
I come, oh, pure and heaven-eyed Poesy!
Thou art to me a spirit and a love,
Felt ever from the time, when first the earth,
In its green beauty, and the sky above
Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth.
I was a child of thine before my tongue
Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee;
And now, albeit from my harp are flung
Discordant numbers, and the song may be
That which I would not, yet I know that thou
The offering wilt not spurn, while thus to thee I bow.

II.
THE BARD.

It can not be, the baffled heart, in vain,
May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide;
Ten thousand others kindred pangs may bide,
Yet not the less will our own griefs complain.
Chained to our rock, the vulture's gory stain,
And tearing beak is every moment rife,
Renewing pangs that end but with our life.
Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song,
The soul's deep anguish thence an utterance finds,
Appealing to all hearts: and human minds
Bow down in awe: thence doth the Bard belong,
Unto all times: the laurel steeped in wrong
Unsought is his: his soul demanded bread,
And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone instead.

III.
THE UNATTAINED.

And is this life? and are we born for this?
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp,
Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp
To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss
Were doomed death's shuddering touch alone to meet.
O Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss?
Must still THE UNATTAINED beguile our feet?
The UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast,
That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest?
Yes, this is Life; and everywhere we meet,
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat;
Yet faint thou not, thou dost apply a test,
That shall incite thee onward, upward still,
The present can not sate, nor e'er thy spirit fill.

IV.
RELIGION.

Alone, yet not alone, the heart doth brood
With a sad fondness o'er its hidden grief;
Broods with a miser joy, wherein relief
Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood.
How many hearts this point of life have passed!
And some a train of light behind have cast,
To show us what hath been, and what may be;
That thus have suffered all the wise and good,
Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free.
So doth the pilot, trackless though the deep,
Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep,
He moves a highway not untried before,
And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap,
Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind the shore.

V.
A DREAM.

I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay
Within the grave, and after stood and wept,
My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept!
'T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may
Prefigure that which is akin to truth.
How sorrow we o'er perished dreams of youth,
High hopes and aspirations doomed to be
Crushed and o'ermastered by earth's destiny!
Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth;—
And that deluding faith so loath to part,
That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart!
Oh, 't is the ashes of such things that wring
Tears from the eyes—hopes like to these depart,
And we bow down in dread o'ershadowed by death's-wing!

100

VI.
AN INCIDENT.

A simple thing, yet chancing as it did,
When life was bright with its illusive dreams,
A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid;
The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams,
That lingering draped the west; a wavering stir,
And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill;
An eagle, high above the darkling fir,
With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill
Of that pure ether breathed by him alone.
O! noble bird! why didst thou loose for me
Thy eagle plume? still unessayed, unknown
Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee;
I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine,
I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine!

101

VII.
ERROR.

A child of thine, a wildered boy once lived
In cottage rude beside the restless sea.
A slip of land where scarcely even thrived
The wildest plants. samphire and rosemary:
Little was there to lure the steps aside,
There the hoarse breaker and the heaving sand;
And yet I marked when inward swelled the tide,
And the loud tempest surged upon the strand,
Urging the shelterless to shelter nigh,
The sea-bird beat his wing upon the cot
And sank exhausted for the storm was high.
Allured by that strange light he sought the spot
With drenchéd wing, and found it but to die,
And wildly through the night arose his lonely cry.

102

VIII.
MENTAL SOLITUDE.

There is a solitude the mind creates,
A solitude, of holy thought, profound—
Alone, save there the “Soul's Ideal” waits,
It maketh to itself a hallowed ground.
Lo! the proud eagle when he highest soars,
Leaves the dim earth and shadows far behind—
Alone, the thunder cloud around him roars,
And the reft pinion flutters in the wind—
Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,
And the calm ether owns nor storm nor cloud—
And thus the soul its upward way must keep,
And leave behind the tempest ringing loud—
Alone, to God bear up its heavy weight
Of human hope and fear, nor feel “all desolate.”

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IX.
DISTRUST.

A reverent worshipper, oh, Truth! of thee,
I bow, with foot unsandalled, wheresoe'er
Thy voice may whisper “holy ground is here.”
Amid uncertain paths, thy light may be
Dim to my wavering feet; yet unto me,
Intently waiting, once again, more clear,
More tranquil, doth thy holy light appear,
As minding me how dreary earth were left,
A dark, bewildering waste of thee bereft.
Should not thy temple be transparent, Truth?
Should not thy undimmed altar-fires arise
Brightest in human hearts? In our first youth
Unchecked we worship there, with fearless eyes!
Thou art not exiled thence, oh, spirit of the skies!

104

X.
ILLUSTRATION OF A CAMEO:

The device a female figure writing, while an Angel feeds the Lamp.

Steal softly in, for she, who sitteth there,
Pale in her watching, mindless of the night,
Alone with that faint taper's gleaming light,
Thus findeth refuge from a world of care.
Oh! twine no chaplet for her brow; no voice
That tells of fame can make her heart rejoice!
She giveth form to visions of delight,
That throng the simple hearth-stone, and the soul
Alive to genial promptings, and would ask
Requitance of the same for her sweet task.
And should a cadence born of sorrow roll
Along a voice she may not all control,
Yet not the less an angel lurketh nigh,
To feed life's flickering lamp, and heavenward lift the eye.

The Cameo was an anonymous gift from one who professed a warm approval of the Sinless Child, “who believed that this proof of womanly recognition would not be displeasing to the Author.”

105

XI.
THE RUSTIC.

IN TWO SONNETS.

Of tattered robe all recklessly the while
She climbed the rugged hill with eager feet,
Caught the first waking of the morning smile,
And felt her heart with joyous wonder beat,
As slowly past the mountain vapor swept,
Lifting itself in fleecy folds away
From lake, and stream, and grove, and vale, that slept
Within its down, like weary child from play.
A lisping girl she was, yet fair withal,
Who with the buttercup and wild brook played,
Till labor claimed her for his daily thrall;
And she, in kirtle short and gown arrayed,
Left far behind her home in that sweet dell,
Blest with the hum of bees and song of whippoorwill.

106

XII.
THE RUSTIC.

2.

Poor was the girl, yet still to grief unknown,
Save when a jagged stone she careless pressed,
Or trod on humble-bee, withouten shoon,
Or thorn projecting pierced her sun burnt breast
Or tore the ringlets from her brow away.
Which after lined the active robin's nest,
Who sang for her a more melodious lay.
What though those tangled locks might half disguise
The speaking lustre of her soul-full eyes!
What though were darkly stained her childish brow;
No inward pang its form of grace had riven;
And though its hue be fairer, softer, now,
Oh, doth it turn as innocent to Heaven!
Doth it now bend in prayer as sure to be forgiven!

107

XIII.
WAYFARERS.

“My Kingdom is not of this world.”

Earth careth for her own—the fox lies down
In her warm bosom, and it asks no more.
The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest,
Or its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown,
Circles in airy rounds to heaven's own door,
And folds again its plume upon her breast.
Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise,
Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred ground,
Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dies,
She, kindly Mother, liveth in your eyes,
And no strange anguish may your lives astound.
But ye, oh pale lone watchers for the true,
She knoweth not. In Her ye have not found
Place for your stricken heads, wet with the midnight dew.

108

XIV.
TWILIGHT

The rude and garish light, that all day long
With half-oppressive gladness walked the earth,
The bud to beauty forcing till it droops
Athirst, o'er-fraught with life; the bird of song,
Made weary with its own exulting mirth:
Now, softly o'er the vale and hill-side stoops
To gather back its beams; well-pleased to spread
A downy mantle o'er the exhausted land.
Sweet dew-distilling hour! though joy be fled
We mourn it not, thy balmings are so bland.
Thus fadeth life to her by whom I kneel,
Watching the pulse aweary of their play.
Thus twilight fancies o'er her senses steal
And life's unquiet visions fade away.

109

XV.
TO THE OPAL.

“The Opal is liable to spontaneous decomposition, becoming, dull, opaque, and adherent to the tongue.”—

Cleaveland.

Oh, gem of beauty! borrowing from the day
All hues to crown thee in thy fleeting grace,
Why should a trace of sadness find a place,
Where all is brilliant, beautiful, and gay?
Thy sister gems endure, but thou dost feel
The touch of dissolution on thee steal,
Wasting thy brightness in a slow decay.
Thou art befitting type of human souls,
That in the cold, the glittering, fleeting dwell;
Whose hopes the present fill, whom sense controls,
And earth binds down with strong delusive spell.
Things that in use decay. Oh, dying gem!
Passing though fair, burning thyself away,
While we bewildered gaze, thy likeness is to them.

110

XVI.
DUTY.

It was the custom of the ancients, to deck their portals with garlands when they gave a feast.

Guest after guest departs! the heart that erst
Seemed a bright portal all in garlands dressed,
To which the rosy-crowned and joyous pressed,
Findeth ere long that each a thorn had nursed
With which to pierce the too unwary breast.
Vainly we fold a mantle o'er each guest
Willing to bide the thorn, if through it may
A nobler gladness in the soul arise.
Vainly we hope their footsteps to delay,
They leave the pang and one by one depart,
Till cold and desolate the portal lies.
Yet not all desolate—a calm pale face
Looks in, then enters the despoiled heart,
And all is hushed and still, for Duty fills the place.

111

XVII.
THE PILGRIM.

“Some fell by the wayside.”

Not yet, not yet, oh, pilgrim! cast aside
The dusty sandal, and the well-worn staff;
Athirst and fainting, yet must thou abide
One peril more, and strength in thy behalf
Shall once again be born—it is the last!
Thou sinkest by the lonely way-side down,
And life o'er-spent, and weary, ebbeth fast—
The lengthening shadows on thy path are thrown,
And thou wouldst rest, forgetful of life's dream,
Deluding, vain, and empty, and here die.
Not yet, not yet, there still is left one gleam
To onward lure thy too despairing eye:
Gird on thy staff, the shrine is yet unwon,
Oh, lose not then the prize, by this last work undone.

112

XVIII.
SYMPATHY.

1.

Oh, leave me not alone! the monarch bird,
Comes from his cloud-encompassed height again
To listen where affection's voice is heard,
“And stirreth up his nest!” nor yet in vain!
The wing, that steadied upward in the noonday sun,
And spurned the tempest with a cold disdain,
From Love alone that high empyrean won:
Home-luring love, when that proud flight is done.
Gently as dove he foldeth up the wing,
And tames the fierceness of the burning eye,
Where the loved one hath heard the breezes ring
Around the swaying pine, and deemed him nigh.
Warm from the nest he take his heavenward flight,
For Love hath lent him wings to soar where all is bright.

113

XIX.
SYMPATHY.

2.

Oh, leave me not alone! dost thou but find
A dying echo to thine own dear voice,
Like that the zephyr-wing may leave behind,
When music bids the desert rocks rejoice,
Waking a sad low cadence, that when passed
Makes but the solitude more heavy weigh?
Yet stay! be thou responsive to the last,
To all, that this poor heart may rightly sway.
What though each day a newborn grief disclose.
And clouds return, although the rain be o'er;
The cloud its fold of “silver lining” shows,
Which hope reveals more brightly evermore.
Oh, hush not thou this last impulsive thrill,
Oh, leave me not alone, to silence, deathful, still.

114

XX.
SELF RENUNCIATION.

Shake thou thy spirit free; first learn to feel
That love doth bring its own exceeding good.
Cry not the “give,” this selfishness of mood,
Will bind thee down with bands of tempered steel.
Renounce thyself; from every loop-hole spurn
The dustiness of care; fresh as thy youth,
Child-like as in thy primal years, oh, learn
The meekness and the majesty of truth!
Thus unto thee shall light arise; thy trust,
Thy reverent lodgement of a holy guest,
Shall bring a blessing to thee; and the dust
Of earthly care no more shall on thee rest.
Thy love pure and eternal thus shall be
Perchance to bloom on earth—most sure in heaven for thee.

115

XXI.
TO THE HUDSON.

[_]

[The writer's first passage up the Hudson was on a tranquil night at the close of summer, a clear moonshine making the stars pale in the deep sky. Nothing could exceed the loveliness of the scene, as doubling point after point, the river at each turn revealed a new aspect of beauty. It was no longer the majestic Hudson, sweeping its proud waters to the ocean, bearing a fleet upon its bosom, and making a grand highway for wealth and luxury; but a graceful, sentient creature, with an onward purpose, gliding amid the hills and smiling as it overcame the obstacles in its path.]

Oh! river, gently as a wayward child,
I saw thee 'mid the moonlight hills at rest;
Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild,
How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast!
Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round
As if amid the hills to hold thy stay;
But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound,
Inviting thee from hill and vale away,
To mingle thy deep waters with its own;
And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide,
Onward from echoing hill and valley lone.
Like thine, oh, be my course—nor turned aside,
While listing to the soundings of a land,
That like the ocean call invites me to its strand.

116

LIFE.

SUGGESTED BY COLE'S FOUR PAINTINGS REPRESENTING THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

XXII.
CHILDHOOD.

Thou poet-painter, preacher of great truth,
Far more suggestive thine than written tome—
Lo, we return with thee to that vast dome,
Dim cavern of the past. Visions uncouth,
Vague, rayless, all impalpable in sooth,
Send back the startled soul. The waters come
All tranquilly from that dim cavern forth,
The mystic tide of human life. A child,
Borne on its bosom, sports with blossoms wild.
A Presence, felt, but still unseen, the boat
With gentle hand guides onward, and beguiled
With music lost in other years, they float
Upon the stream. The hours unfelt, for life
Is joy in its first voyage, with light and blossoms rife.

117

XXIII.
YOUTH.

Alas, the Spirit lingers, but its hand
No more the barque sustains. The daring youth
Has seized the helm, and deeper launches forth,
His eye amid illusions of ideal land—
Bright castles built in air, that seem to stand,
Though still receding—while from rosy bowers
Each laurel-crowned appears, Fame, Glory, Worth.
He sports no more mid blossoms of green earth;
He hears no more the music of his birth;
The future lures him, pinnacles and towers,
And half he chides the lagging of the hours,
Unheeds their sunshine, blessedness, and mirth;
For onward is his course, he asks not where,
Since fancy paints the prospect passing fair.

118

XXIV.
MANHOOD.

Still onward goes the barque—the tide
Bears it along where breakers foam and roar,
And oaks unbending, riven, line the shore;
Dense vapors rising, all the future hide;
And how shall be that fearful peril bide?
The guiding helm he eager grasps no more;
Time weighs the prow, the wave is deep beside;
Swift flows the current, fierce the gathering strife,
The struggle and the buffetings of life.
Half he recoils, yet calmly bides the test,
With hands clasped firmly on the unconquered breast;
Nor meets alone that hour with peril rife;
Forth from on high the guardian Spirit bends
With ministry of love, and holy valor sends.

119

XXV.
OLD AGE.

Thy mission is accomplished—painter—sage,
Look to thy crown of glory—for thy brow
Is circled with its radiant halo now.
No more earth's turmoil will thy soul engage,
Its hopes unquiet, littleness, or rage.
With thine own voyager thou hast heard the sound
Of that vast ocean, waveless, rayless, dread,
Where time's perpetual tribute, circling round,
Drops silent in, all passionless and dead.
When thine own voyage is o'er, and thou shalt near
The eternal wave, thus, thus above thy head
May opening glories shield thy heart from fear;
A child again, but strong in faith and prayer,
Thou shalt look meekly up—behold thy God is there!

120

XXVI.
LIFE-LONG MARTYRDOM.

“Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?”—

Job.

God shield us in our weakness! I had said
To meet the fagot or the blade—to die
For that accounted holy, for the truth,
Were but a festal doom—a tribute paid
By the poor outward form, that it may lie
A slave, and not a master of the soul.
But, harder far to bear a life-long test;
To feel the weight of wrong in spring-time youth,
Crushed heavier down as lagging winters roll;
Benumbing thought and feeling in the breast,
While selfishness and callous discontent
Blight all the aspect of God's blessed earth,
And tear from out our soul, that which He lent,
Its freshness, homage, freedomness of birth.

121

XXVII.
CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.

“Where is thy brother?”

Think better of thy fellows—ye who dare
Stop the warm current of a brother's heart;
'T is not to mark the death-damp of his fear
And mortal agony, when ye shall part
The soul from its strong tenement—not this—
Not this doth call them from their secret ways,
From haunts of crime, and nature's seats of bliss,
Toil-worn and travel-stained for many days:
No! even we, in chambers pent, like them,
Feel the wild anguish of a fellow's pang—
The pleading of a pulse, which ye condemn,
That calls us forth as if a bugle rang.
The wronger is the wronged, such impulse lies
In every human heart when thus a brother dies.

122

ATHEISM,

IN THREE SONNETS.

XXVIII.
FAITH.

“They which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world, and the resurrection of the dead.”—

Jesus.

Beware of doubt—faith is the subtle chain,
Which binds us to the Infinite: the voice
Of a deep life within, that will remain
Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice

123

With an exceeding joy, and make our life,
Ay, this external life, become a part
Of that which is within, o'erwrought and rife
With faith, that child-like blessedness of heart.
The order and the harmony inborn
With a perpetual hymning crown our way,
Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn,
Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightnings play.
Cling to thy faith, 'tis higher than the thought
That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt.

124

XXIX.
REASON.

“For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”—

Jesus.

The Infinite speaks in our silent hearts
And draws our being to Himself, as deep
Calleth unto deep. He, who all thought imparts.
Demands the pledge, the bond of soul to keep:
But reason, wandering from its fount afar,
And stooping downward, breaks the subtle chain
That binds it to itself, like star to star,
And sun to sun, upward to God again:
Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit's knell,
And man is but a clod of earth, to die
Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell—
More miserable doom, than that to lie
In trembling torture, like believing ghosts
Who, though divorced from good, bow to the Lord of Hosts.

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XXX.
ANNIHILATION

“What is a man profited, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”—

Jesus.

Doubt, Cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch
Amid the shapely temple overthrown,
Exultant, stays at length her onward march.
Her victim, all with earthliness o'ergrown,
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there;
His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight,
Dying, deluding are his hopes though fair—
And death, the spirit's everlasting night.
Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain steep,
Hear far above the avalanche boom down,
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep,
And lost in glens to human foot unknown—
The death-plunge of the lost come to their ear,
And silence claims again her region cold and drear.

I have not found it possible to convey the idea as clearly as I could wish, in these Sonnets. I have sometimes thought that the very construction of the soul, so to speak, rendered it impossible for a man to be an Atheist. Farther thought leads to a belief that a state of Atheism may exist; but that in proportion as the doubt of a Deity is suffered to make its way into the soul, it destroys it, not morally, but in fact; and when a man announces his disbelief in a God, he announces his own annihilation of soul. He has lost the last link that binds him to the spiritual world; he is as a beast, which can think, but not adore.