ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. AGE, 47 YEARS. Miss ELIZABETH OAKES PRINCE, now Mrs. SMITH, if we can rely upon the most definite information obtained, (g) was born in the city of Portland, in the year 1807. Her first poem of any length, was published in 1842, under the title of 'The Sinless Child,' and contains some of the most beautiful passages in the English language. When about sixteen years of age, she became engaged to, and soon after married Seba Smith, Esq., a lawyer, now in practice in the city of New-York, but who was then residing in Portland. She has published several volumes of prose and poetry, some of which are upon the Duties of Woman, and now has a volume in press, that is said to be a journal of her own thoughts and feelings, rather than a work of fiction, although issued as such. Mrs. Smith is an able advocate, and lectures upon the progressive side of Woman's Rights. She has talent of the highest order, and will yet attain a more extended popularity by her essays and lectures, which abound with deep thought and strong and sound arguments. She has been a pioneer in a new field for female talent, and one that bids fair to be filled with able and eloquent laborers. Mrs. Smith possesses a highly cultivated and enlarged mind, and is as well versed in the English language as any female writer of our country. As a poetess she occupies a position in the front rank among the most gifted male and female poets of America. In her poetry, 'She desires to teach a philosophy of the whole nature of man, in which the imagination and the affections should predominate, and by which the relation of man and the external universe to each other and to God might be displayed In words that move in metrical array.' She hopes to soothe and harmonize the soul, by opening to it unexplored regions of loveliness and delight; by accustoming it to the contemplation of the majesty of the universe." E. P. Whipple, one of the ablest reviewers in this country, pays the following merited compliment to the poetical genius of Mrs. Smith, in an article upon the 'Poets and Poetry of America,' which appeared in the North American Review,' in 1844. 'Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, of New-York, has written a number of short poems of much beauty, purity, and spirituality. The Sinless Child,' and 'The Acorn,' manifest qualities of the mind and heart, which are worthy of a more thorough development. They display much depth of feeling and affluence of fancy, and are singularly pure and sweet in their tone. The Sinless Child,' though deficient in artistical finish, contains many passages of a high order of poetry, and is stainless as its subject. It gives evidence, also, of a capacity for a more extended sweep over the domain of thought and emotion. Mrs. Smith is not merely a smooth and skilful versifier, indulging occasionally in a flirtation with poetry, to while away the time, but one whose productions are true exponents of her inward life, and display the freshness and fervor which come from individuality of character and feeling. She speaks of what she knows and of what she has felt. Her theory of morals does not seem to have come into her soul through the inlet of her ear. Her truthfulness is a prominent characteristic of her genius.' THE ACORN. AN acorn fell from an old oak tree, By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, For the woodland Fays came sweeping past Where the forest leaves were falling fast, 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 The bane that should work its deadly woe Was found with the Fairies there. In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, And many things with destruction fraught, 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, 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, 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, The dew came down, and the rain was there, Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, The old leaf arching o'er, 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 woodland spirits are gathering round, That another life from the noisome ground 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, The wind that utter'd its dirge-like moan And the hollow branches creak'd and sway'd, But they bent not to the blast, For the stout oak tree where centuries play'd, Was sturdy to the last. A school boy 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 rings, Then idly cast away. |