The Coquette | Page 6

to be erected
in the old burying ground in Danvers, on the spot where she was
interred, two "gray stones," after the manner of Ossian, with the
touching inscription which this volume records; and the feet of
strangers, moved by pity and humanity, have worn a path to her grave
which he who covets most in the world's memory might even envy.
The tombstones (which the fathers of that ancient town should shame
to have recorded) have been battered and broken for relics, till much of
the inscription is gone already, and the footstone entirely removed.
But I have noted that Elizabeth Whitman was of superior merit, and
had been recognized as a child of genius in its most earnest sense. From
her earliest childhood she had been remarkable for a deeply poetic
temperament, and it appears she was recognized as a poet of no
common order by the most distinguished writers of the day--Barlow,
Trumbull, and others. Why her name and writings have not been
handed down to us by those who have essayed to make careful
compilations of the literature of the past century, I am unable to divine.
She was a relative as well of the last-named poet, Trumbull, on the side
of his mother, who was Sarah Whitman, a sister of Rev. Elnathan
Whitman, the father of Elizabeth.
I find in the journals of that time the following poem, which, though
not the best of her productions, certainly gives evidence of much poetic
power:--
TO MR. BARLOW.
By his Friend ELIZABETH WHITMAN, _on New Year's Day_, 1783.
Should every wish the heart of friendship knows Be to your ear

conveyed in rustic prose, Lost in the wonders of your Eastern clime, Or
rapt in vision to some unborn time, Th' unartful tale might no attention
gain; For Friendship knows not, like the Muse, to feign. Forgive her,
then, if in this weak essay She tries to emulate thy daring lay, And give
to truth and warm affection's glow The charms that from the tuneful
sisters flow.
On this blest morning's most auspicious rise, Which finds thee circled
with domestic joys, May thy glad heart its grateful tribute pay To Him
who shaped thy course and smoothed thy way-- That guardian Power,
who, to thy merit kind, Bestowed the bliss most suited to thy mind--
Retirement, friendship, leisure, learned ease, All that the philosophic
mind can please; All that the Muses love, th' harmonious nine, Inspire
thy lays, and aid the great design. But more than all the world could
else bestow, All pleasures that from fame or fortune flow, To fix secure
in bliss thy future life, Heaven crowned thy blessings with a lovely
wife-- Wise, gentle, good, with every grace combined That charms the
sense or captivates the mind; Skilled every soft emotion to improve,
The joy of friendship, and the wish of love; To soothe the heart which
pale Misfortune's train Invades with grief or agonizing pain; To point
through devious paths the narrow road That leads the soul to virtue or
to God.
O friend! O sister! to my bosom dear By every tie that binds the soul
sincere; O, while I fondly dwell upon thy name, Why sinks my soul,
unequal to the theme? But though unskilled thy various worth to praise,
Accept my wishes, and excuse my lays. May all thy future days, like
this, be gay, And love and fortune blend their kindest ray; Long in their
various gifts mayst thou be blessed, And late ascend the realms of
endless rest.
Among her papers, also, after her decease, was found a pastoral on
"Disappointment," which here follows, evidently written during her
seclusion in Danvers, with this brief and pathetic letter in stenographic
characters:--
"Must I die alone? Shall I never see you more? I know that you will
come; but you will come too late. This is, I fear, my last ability. Tears

fall so fast I know not how to write. Why did you leave me in such
distress? But I will not reproach you. All that was dear I forsook for
you, but do not regret it. May God forgive in both what was amiss.
When I go from here, I will leave you some way to find me. If I die,
will you come and drop a tear over my grave?"
The poem, which continues in the same moving strain, is touching and
tender, and betrays a heart full of refinement and sensibility.
DISAPPOINTMENT.
With fond impatience, all the tedious day I sighed, and wished the
lingering hours away; For when bright Hesper led the starry train, My
shepherd swore to meet me on the plain. With eager haste to that dear
spot I flew, And lingered long, and then in tears withdrew. Alone,
abandoned to love's tenderest woes,