Originally published in the volume entitled
Hazel Blossoms, and accompanied by the following prefatory note:—
I have ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved sister,
Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few poetical pieces which she left behind her. As she was very distrustful of her own powers, and altogether without ambition for literary distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends than in the cultivation of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me, that had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme self-distrust permitted, she might have taken a high place among lyrical singers.
These poems, with perhaps two or three exceptions, afford but slight indications of the inward life of the writer, who had an almost morbid dread of spiritual and intellectual egotism, or of her tenderness of sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and fancy, when her shy, beautiful soul opened like a flower in the warmth of social communion.
In the lines on
Dr. Kane her friends will see something of her fine individuality,— the rare mingling of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them.
This little poem reached
Cuba while the great explorer lay on his death-bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while it was read to him by his mother.
I am tempted to say more, but I write as under the eye of her who, while with us, shrank with painful deprecation from the praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her ideal of excellence.
To those who best knew her, the beloved circle of her intimate friends, I dedicate this slight memorial.
