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THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 83
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Written for the Courant.
"LIZZIE CLARENDON."
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BY MRS. MARTIN.
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A genius is emphatically a rara avis, a scarce plant--
such as the aloe, blooming once in a century. Few have
been accorded to the world. Many may have wished to
see a genius, one of God's peculiarly and greatly gifted
ones, one on whose brow is Heaven's signet-seal of men-
tal immortality. One such, we had once, in our midst.
One, good as she was gifted, yet such an one, unobtru-
sive, sensitive, modest, is like the tufted primrose, dis-
covered only by the aroma of it fragrance, and (such is
the world) it is suffered too often to "waste its sweetness
on the desert air."
Our genius soon, as is generally the case, "sparkled,
was exhaled, and went to Heaven." Her span of life,
though brief, was not indefinite, but remains a line of
light, a radiant track for us to follow on to "brighter
worlds."
"You may break you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."
And so, thus endures the vitality of our genius, our gifted
and good "LIZZIE CLARENDON," whose fragile body,
though like the rose-vase, is shivered into dust, yet,
whose thoughts, and these remain to us, are immortal.
Would that more of this spirit of the flower, that can-
not die, were left for us, for earth is made better and
more beautiful by such influence.
One as young so greatly gifted few have ever person-
ally known, or ever heard or read of, as ELIZABETH
SPAIN CHAMBERS, more generally known by her nom
de plume, "Lizzie Clarendon." Had she been born in
another latitude, with an Irving for her biographer, as
far as the Davidsons, and that is world-wide, would her
name and her fame have been transmitted, her genius
as far excelling, theirs as their fame has outtravelled hers.
Our own "Lizzie Clarendon," born and reared beneath
our own sunny skies, nurtured in the lap of piety, the
daughter of one of our most self-sacrificing ministers,
child of genius, true woman, humble christian, cause in-
deed have we to mourn the early, unlooked-for demise
of one so fitted by nature and grace to beautify and
bless the world. This genius-gifted one, as is usually
the case, had early to struggle with that adversity which
seems almost the necessary discipline for the highest
spiritual and mental achievements; but more than con-
queror she rose superior to that which had prostrated a
less dominant will, or less persistent spirit. And yet with
that intellectual and moral energy and vigor which
nothing might altogether depress or enervate, still must
we deplore the want of that unbroken time, that unin
terupted retirement, so indispensable to continuous lit-
erary effort, for to this cause, mainly, must we attribute
the brevity and scarcity of the productions of her pen,
of the angel-like visits of her muse, so few and far be-
tween. O! for some large-hearted modern Mecænas,
to hold out a fostering hand to the dependant child of
genius, so that his mind be free, at least from carping
"care for the morrow," and that he know, not by faith
only, his bread and water sure.
In our day, why is so little aid afforded the struggling
aspirant for literary prëeminence, that which is of at-
tainment so difficult and of rank so superior? To the
painter and sculptor there springs up simultaneously
the patron, from our own State even, a Deveaux had his
Hampton and Gibbes, a Powers his Preston. Alas! there
was none for the superior genius, "Lizzie Clarendon."
In an earlier age it was not so. The poet basked in the
sunshine of his patron's munificence, affording him
means for books, travel, leisure, in short, for development.
Though the true poet may not flatter "Neptune for his
trident, nor Jove for his power to thunder," still should
he, for the perfection of his art, succumb to it, that the
feverish, excited, trembling hand, that wields "the pen
inspired," needs as much as ever to be calmed, soothed,
and steadied, while encouraged, prompted, energised by
the abundant loves-charity of some liberal hand and
generous heart. Too often does
"Cold Penury repress the noble rage,
And freeze the genial current of the soul."
That Lizzie Clarendon's magnificent genius did suffer
premature eclipse from this adverse influence, they who
knew her history, too well know, that under more benign
auspices (and these in the power of many to have cre-
ated for her) she might now be wielding her chaste and
elegant pen for the benefit and honor of her country,
her sunny South, who can doubt?
Her brother-in-law, Rev. J. T. W., in a brief but
beautifully appreciative obituary notice of her, in The
Home Circle, says:
"Her literary career began at sixteen, when a brother-
in-law sent, against her remonstrances, her first produc-
tion to the American Courier, published in Philadel-
phia. To this paper she became a regular, and admired
contributor, and soon enlarged the circle of her pen by
writing for the Sunday School VIsitor, Columbia Times,
Home Circle, and other periodicals in which her soubri-
quet, "Lizzie Clarendon," sparkled as a gem. Her
poems are of a high erder. She studied the structure
of verse, and the musical flow of its measure seems the
breathing out of her own soul. She was a true woman,
fragile, highly intellectual, acutely sensitive, her collo-
quial power, remarkable, it won but never wounded, her
deep azure eyes gathered fresh light in animated con-
versation that sweetly drew and chained in silence the
whole family circle."
Previously to her literary career, at the Columbia
Female High School of Mrs. Martin, her correct and el-
egant compositions as her distinguished standing in a
large and talented class of girls, mostly over her own age,
gave bright promise of her brilliant future. But, she
was born the poet; her eye, her ear, her heart, her sen-
sibility, sensitiveness, excitability, all constituted her
the child of Song, for though her prose writings were
popular, and superior, yet, poetry was her soul's utter-
ance, her inspiration, her excellence, her surpassing elo-
quence. Take, as specimens, "The Minister's Dream,"
"Lines to a former Teacher," "Lament for the Loved,"
and this last as quoted in the little book, "Day-Spring,"
we must be allowed to insert here, and, if it does not
abide the test of closest criticism, in its claims to highest
excellence, we take back all we have said respecting the
transcendent genius of Lizzie Clarendon:
LAMENT FOR THE LOVED.
ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.
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BY LIZZIE CLARENDON.
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"Whom the Gods love, die young!"

GONE like a pleasant dream,
Which erst had cheered the dark and silent night
With its loved presence, and its gilding light;
Gone like a passing gleam,
Shed by some wanderer from a brighter land,
Some wanderer from the pure and angel-band--
Our boy hath passed away!

We had not kept him long!
Seven short summers, with their leaves and flowers,
Their sunny glances and their sparkling showers--
Linked in a brilliant throng--
Went by us, with their light and dancing feet,
Beating the measure to some music sweet,
Heard from the spirit-land!

We watched them as they flew,
Trembling with dread, lest each should be the last;
'Till, one by one, the brilliant throng had passed--
And then too well we knew--
Like the fair sisters whom the ancients gave,
To starry brightness, o'er the Egean wave--
They had passed on--to heaven!

His bright looks haunt us now!
His wavy locks with silken softness fell,
Shading the snowy home where, like a spell,
Thought sat upon his brow;
His radiant eye, with its clear upward glance,
Seemed to behold, as in a spirit-trance,
The "hidden things" beyond!

He was not made for earth!
Like the frail harp through which the zephyr floats,
Waking to melody the slumbering notes,
His nature, from its birth,
Attuned to harmony, gave back alone
To breath or touch of love, its music-tone,
Tender, and sadly sweet!

That harp, so fine and frail,
When strong wings o'er it rude and roughly break,
Unstrung and shattered, its faint chords will wake
In no wild, witching wail--
So, thoughts or words unholy or impure,
No answering echo from his soul could lure--
It kept itself unstained!

He was not made for earth!
Sent here to light our pilgrimage awhile,
With his dear presence and his angel-smile,
That, by his priceless worth,
We might be weaned from all the fading toys
That make the sum of sublunary joys--
He was at length reclaimed.

The jewel was not given
To deck the tents where dwell our mortal parts,
But that, its contact with our yearning hearts,
When it should rise to heaven,
Should draw us with a strong, resistless force,
Like the star-pointing ore, to the pure source
Of light, of life, of love!

Another of her disabilities for frequent or continuous
composition, was her early becoming a wife and mother.
Her mother's heart then ceased to remember its young
ambitious dreamings, centering all its hopes, joys and
aspirations in "the innermost," (as the Sweedes have it,)
of her home, the daily duties of which the muse is no
kind fairy to perform for her fondest votary. But soon
upon that home burst the cloud of bereavement, and her
mother's wail for her lost darling, is as follows:

I AM THINKING OF THEE BABY!
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I am thinking of thee, Baby!
And my tears are falling fast--
Of the time I first beheld thee;
Of the time I saw thee last;
Of the many, many hours,
When thy little nestling head
Lay upon my loving bosom,
'Till they took thee from it--dead.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
Once I lay so weak and pale,
That the very life-blood's gushings,
In my heart had seemed to fail,
When they brought my new-born treasure,
And I looked on thee and smiled--
Thinking life most sweet and precious,
For thy sake, my darling child.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
When thy life had numbered days,
And each coming day had added
To thy beauty and thy grace.
Waking, sleeping, I can see thee--
Restless, eager in thy play;
Birdlike moving and untiring,
Through the blessed livelong day.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
How when eve was drawing near,
And the day's last rosy lingerings
In the West would disappear,
How thy bright eyes would grow misty,
As in sympathy with earth,
Till the snowy lids would cover
All their radiance, all their mirth.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
Spring is comign to the earth;
In the forest, by the fountains,
Bursting buds and flowers have birth;
Birds are singing in the woodland,
Singing gladly, as of yore;
But I miss thee--oh, my Baby!
Spring can glad me now no more.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
Oh, my bursting heart will break,
As it all comes up before me;
All its grieving for thy sake!
When those eyes would pleading seek me,
Asking for relief from pain;
Pleading--asking of thy mother--
Pleading--asking--all in vain.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
They had robed thee all in white;
They had laid thee down most gently,
Covered o'er with flowers bright;
Coldly, coldly were thy fingers
Folded on thy little breast;
No more lifted to thy mother,
From that peaceful, painless rest.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
As my Bible says thou art
Clasped in tender love and kindness
To thy precious Saviour's heart!
Oh! I could not bear it, darling,
Were it not taught to me there,
Such as thou, the gentle Shepherd
Makes his own, his choicest care.

I am thinking of thee, Baby!
Life to me is not so dear;
All my hope and all my object
Is to meet thee ever there!
Pitying Saviour! when the hour
For my death at last shall come,
Send my blessed, angel Baby
To escort me to my Home!

Too finely strung that harp of hers for the rough
winds of earth; too delicate the strings of her lute for
the careless or rude touch of the thoughtless or unrefined;
too exquisite all the harmony of her nature for the jar-
rings of a world not attuned to the key-note of a spirit
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