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542

ELIZA L. SPROAT.

It was his idle vanity that changed
The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,
Whose faithful love not even in thought had ranged,
But worshipp'd him, from all the world apart;
Now, cold and alter'd is her beaming eye,
And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers,
That she will shed one tear, or breathe one sigh,
For him she loved so well in early years.

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn;
He questions not the justice of his fate,
For long had she his selfish caprice borne,
And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.
Oh! ye who cast away a heart's deep love,
Remember, ere affection disappears,
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move,
Like his who lives to mourn life's early years.


ELIZA L. SPROAT.

AMONG the younger of our poetesses, we introduce with much pleasure the name of Eliza L. Sproat.* Miss Sproat has been but three years before the public, and in that time has not published much. But the few pieces which she has put forth are full of promise, and have given her already a distinct and enviable position. Her earliest productions indicated great delicacy both of thought and diction, and a very lively fancy. But they did not prepare even her friends for the sudden developement of intellectual power which has marked her poems of a recent date. These show her to be unquestionably a woman of high and original genius. The pieces which warrant this strong language are too long for quotation here, and are of a character to suffer by partial extracts. This, however, is the less necessary, as 

*We are indebted to the kindness of Professor Hart, the accomplished editor of Sartain's Union Magazine, for this notice of Miss Sproat.


ELIZA L. SPROAT. 543

they will doubtless soon be given to the public in a collected form. Those that have already appeared may be found in the Christian Keepsake for 1847-8-9; the Snow Flake for 1849-50; the Leaflets of Memory for 1849; and Sartain's Union Magazine for the same year Miss Sproat is a native and resident of Philadelphia.


SUNSET AFTER RAIN.

OH, cheerless, sunless day! The maudlin clouds
Have wept and wept; the wind, with ceaseless whine,
Has wandered through the rain; now stooping low
To plague the sullen stream; now whirling high,
And diving down some chimney, where the dame
Strove vainly for a cheerful evening fire,
Fighting the smoke into her patient face;
Now skimming earth so swift, that the long grass
Grew shrill with pain, now blustering past the flowers,
And through the angry corn; now to the stream,
Making the willows sulk, and flounce, and trail
Their wet arms on the ground; now, scorning earth,
He's up to fight the clouds. Good wind, sweet wind,
Battle them sore, - scatter the enemy,
That we may bid good-even to the sun,
And bless his journey. Joy! The weary foes
Have raised the siege, and now, dispersing slow,
They melt before the sun. The mighty trees 
Doff their dark haughtiness, and stand ablaze
Thrilled by the rich free light, that suddenly 
Enclasping, sets each separate soft green leaf
Quivering with life; till, with majestic joy,
They fling on high their bold ambitious arms,
In hope to touch the skies that seem so near.
The loving clouds bend downward from the blue,
And form, and melt, and break like hills of foam,
Paling to silver; blushing back to rose;
Gathering in mountains of rich purple glooms;

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