Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers.  Elizabeth was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of Rising Sun.  While in this family she was seized with a violent illness, which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a cripple and a sufferer for life.

Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace and recreation by composing her “Songs in Affliction,” which about thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she published in a small volume bearing that name.  The first edition consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the publication of another one of five hundred copies.  In 1872 she published another small volume, entitled “The Little Streamlet,” which contained some poems written since the publication of the first volume.  Miss Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore.

“JUDGE NOT!”

How, poor frail and erring mortal,
  Darest thou judge thy fellow-man
And with bitter words and feelings,
  All his faults and frailties scan?

Why rake out from time’s dull ashes,
  And before the world display
Deeds, it may be, long repented
  And forgiven, ere this day?

Canst thou search his secret feelings? 
  Canst thou read his inmost soul? 
Canst thou tell the hidden motives
  Which his actions here control?

Is he erring? seek in kindness,
  Then, to win him back to peace;
Is he weak? oh try to strengthen;
  Sad? then bid his sorrows cease!

Lay thou not a heavier burden
  By an unkind look or word,
On a heart which may by anguish
  To its inmost depths be stirred.

O! forbear thy hasty judging! 
  Should thy righteous God demand
Half the justice which thy brother
  Is receiving from thy hand,

What, oh what would be thy portion,
  Though more righteous thou than he,
Would not the glad gates of mercy
  Soon their portals close on thee?

THE WISH.

I do not wish thee worldly wealth—­
  For it may flee away;
I do not wish thee beauty’s charms—­
  For they will soon decay.

I do not wish for thee the joys
  Which from earth’s pleasures spring;
These give at best a fleeting bliss,
  And leave a lasting sting.

I do not wish thee mortal fame—­
  This, like a meteor bright,
Gleams but a moment on the sky,
  And leaves behind no light.

I wish for thee that richer wealth,
  No earthly mines reveal,
“Which moth and rust cannot corrupt,
  And thief can never steal.”