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.
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