HARRIET PRESCOTT'S EARLY WORK.

A Reader Who Agrees With Us That Mrs Spofford Should Republish.

To the Editor of the Republican: -

I am extremely glad to see in your
weekly issue, just read, an article of warm
admiration and suggestion regarding the
literary work of Harriet Prescott of the
early Atlantic days, as well as the well-
known writer of to-day. For several years
I have wondered why everything of hers
was not gathered up and re-presented to the
public, and have many times thought of
write her and urge the matter upon her at-
tention.

As usual, your paper is alert upon the
trail of genius. That she has genius I am
sure no one can deny who has known her
work. Her vivid imagination is a refresh-
ing protest to those who still revolt from
a literature of materialism. She was the
very tropics of those old high-flavored At-
lantic monthlies: the Atlantics of Holmes
and Longfellow, of Thoreau, and Emer-
son, of Whittier, Lowell and Higgin-
son, and I well remember with what distinct
disappointment I used to put down the
current number, if there was no kindling
touch of hers found in them. The late
Mr. Bowles keenly felt her originality
and power and frequently sent me brief
extracts from her manuscripts given him
by his friends in the editor's sanctum.

Among these are none more beautiful
than a few stanzas from a long poem en-
titled "Pomegranate Flowers." To begin
with the picture of the old seaport:--

The street was narrow, close and dark,
     And flanked with antique masonry,
The shelving eaves left for an ark
     But one long strip of summer sky,
     But one long line to bless the eye,--

     The thin white cloud lay not so high
     Only some brown bird, skimming nigh,
     From wings whence all the dew was dry
Shook down a stream of forest scents,
Of odorous blooms and sweet contents
     Upon the weary passers-by.

Ah, few but haggard brows had part
     Below that street's uneven crown,
And there the murmurs of the mart
     Swarmed faint as hums of drowsy noon.
     With voices chiming in quant tune
     From sun-soaked hulls long wharves adown
     The singing sailors rough and brown
     Won far melodious renown.
Here listening children, ceasing play,
And mothers sad their well-a-way,
     In this breezy seaboard town.

 

Then all at once the personality of the
woman of the pomegranate flowers, in the
high old building, flashes upon us in the
lines:--

Ablaze on distant banks she knew
     Spreading their bowls to catch the sun,
Magnificent Dutch tulips grew
     With pompous color overrun,
     By light and snow from heaven won
     Their misty web azaleas spun:
     Low lilies pale as any nun,
     Their pensile bells rang one by one:
And spicing all the summer air
Gold honeysuckles everywhere
     Their trumpets blew in unison.

 

And then, further on, her portrait:--

Of all fair women she was queen,
     And all her beauty, late and soon,
O'ercame you like the mellow sheen
     Of some serene autumnal noon.
     Her presence like a sweetest tune
     Accorded all your thoughts in one.
     Than last year's elder-tufts in June
     Browner, yet lustrous as a moon.

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