MRS. SEBA SMITH. [Born about 1806.] THE subject of this notice was born in a rural village near the city of Portland. From her early years she has delighted in the study of philosophy, in abstruse speculations, and curious science, and she is probably more familiar with the best English literature than any American poet of her sex, except the author of "Zophiel." When but sixteen years old-a child in heart and in age-she was married to Mr. SEBA SMITH, a counsellor at law, then of Portland, and now of New York. She began to write for the literary periodicals at an early age; and all her compositions, in prose and verse, have been carefully finished. Her style is simple and elegant, her illustrations felicitously chosen, and her verses have meaning as well as melody. Her longest poem is "The Sinless Child," published in the "Southern Literary Messenger" for March, 1842. Her heroine is a widow's fair-haired girl, of dove-like gentleness: .. Every insect dwelt secure And piped for her its blithest song When she in greenwood stray'd. And it would seem its quietude The winding vine its tendrils wove And, by the flickering light, the leaves Here the daughter, as She turn'd the wheel, With buoyant heart was all abroad, And sang all day from joy of heart, For joy that in her dwelt, That unconfined the soul went forth Such blessedness she felt." As the widow and her child walk in the twilight, the first sees in the jagged limbs spreading above her Spectres and distorted shapes, That frown upon her path, And mock her with their hideous eyes: For when the soul is blind To freedom, truth, and inward light, Vague fears debase the mind. But EVA, like a dreamer waked, Look'd off upon the hill, And mutter'd words of strange, sweet sound, Ethereal forms with whom she talk'd, Unseen by all beside; And she, with earnest looks, besought She says to her mother E'en now I mark'd a radiant throng, To cheer with hope the trembling heart, In every face were blent. The meek-eyed violets smiling bowed- To scent the evening sky. A shower of pearly dust they brought, A host flew o'er the mowing field, Like diamonds o'er it thrown. And bathed the stately forest-tree, I saw a meek-eyed angel curve And bless with one soft kiss the urn, Another rock'd the young bird's nest, Each and all, as its task is done, Bearing aloft some treasured gift An offering to GoD on high. They bear the breath of the odorous flower, The sound of the pearly shell; And thus they add to the holy joys Of the home where spirits dwell." At length the child fulfils her destiny. The widow, alarmed by her long absence one morning, seeks her, and finds her dead. Why raises she the small, pale hand, And holds it to the light? To meet her dizzy sight. She holds the mirror to her lips That one might deem the sleep to be The sinless child, with mission high, A while 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. The poem is in seven short cantos, and the verses I have quoted convey an idea of its style and character. 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 whisper'd all around, By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, Like a floweret's bell when swungAnd grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, And the beetle's hoofs up-rung For the woodland Fays came sweeping past For life is holy mystery, Where'er it is conceal'd. They came with gifts that should life bestow: The bane that should work its deadly wo- In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, But it needed not; for a blessed fate Was the acorn's doom'd to be The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait, To a little sprite was the task assign'd Away from the frost and searching wind, When they through the forest sweep. I laugh'd outright at the small thing's toil, And he balanced his gossamer wings the while A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, In the hush of dropping dew. The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, With coiled stem, and a pale green hue, Then deeply its roots abroad it threw, Its strength from the earth to bring. The young child pass'd with a careless tread, He little knew, as he started back, How the acorn's fate was hung The autumn came, and it stood alone, And bow'd as the wind pass'd by- A schoolboy beheld the lithe young shoot, To peel the bark in curious rings, His hand was stay'd; he knew not why: A pleading from the deep-blue sky, And up from the teeming ground. It told of the care that lavish'd had been Of the many things that had wrought a screen It told of the oak that once had bow'd, But now, when the storm was raging loud, There's a deeper thought on the schoolboy's brow, 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 The young oak grew, and proudly grew, And the wild bird came to its airy height, In acorn-time came the truant boy, With a wild and eager look, And he mark'd the tree with a wondering joy, The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, The bleaching bones of the sea-bird's prey And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave, Change came to the mighty things of earth- Of the generations that had birth, O Death! where, where were they? Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, Nor dream'd 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, It floats far off on the summer breeze, Lo! the monarch tree no more shall stand Like a watch-tower of the main The strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand, The stout live oak!-'T was a worthy tree, And he smiled its angled limbs to see, As he measured the trunk about. She sits on the rocks, the skeleton ship, Looks round with strange amaze, Are mingling in that gaze. With graceful waist and carvings brave Where it plunged in foam and spray: Thou wert nobly rear'd, O heart of oak! 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, In sunshine or dark midnight: Where meteors flash by the northern pole, Where the glittering light is backward flung And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung With gems from the ocean foam. On the Indian sea was her shadow cast, And her pendant shroud and towering mast The idle canvass slowly swung As the spicy breeze went by, And strange, rare music around her rung |