 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
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“ASHES OF ROSES.”
I pray'd that God would take my child—I could not bear to see
The look of suffering, strange and wild, with which she gazed on me:
I pray'd that God would take her back; but ah! I did not know
What agony at last 'twould be to let my darling go.
The look of suffering, strange and wild, with which she gazed on me:
I pray'd that God would take her back; but ah! I did not know
What agony at last 'twould be to let my darling go.
She faded—faded in my arms, and with a faint, slow sigh,
Her fair, young spirit went away. Ah, God! I felt her die!
But oh! so lightly to her form Death's kindly angel came,
It only seem'd a zephyr pass'd, and quench'd a taper's flame,—
A little flower might so have died!—so tranquilly she closed
Her lovely mouth, and on my breast her helpless head reposed.
Her fair, young spirit went away. Ah, God! I felt her die!
But oh! so lightly to her form Death's kindly angel came,
It only seem'd a zephyr pass'd, and quench'd a taper's flame,—
A little flower might so have died!—so tranquilly she closed
Her lovely mouth, and on my breast her helpless head reposed.
Where'er I go, I hear her low and plaintive murmuring;
I feel her little fairy clasp around my finger cling,
For oh! it seem'd the darling dream'd that while she clung to me,
Safe from all harm of death or pain she could not help but be;
That I, who watch'd in helpless grief my flower fade away,
That I—ah, heaven! had life and strength to keep her from decay!
I feel her little fairy clasp around my finger cling,
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Safe from all harm of death or pain she could not help but be;
That I, who watch'd in helpless grief my flower fade away,
That I—ah, heaven! had life and strength to keep her from decay!
She clung there to the very last—I knew that all was o'er
Only because that dear, dear hand could press mine own no more.
Oh God! give back, give back my child! but one, one hour, that I
May tell her all my passionate love before I let her die!
Call not the prayer an impious one, for Thou didst fill my soul
With this fond, yearning tenderness, that nothing can control!
But say, instead, “Beside thy bed thy child's sweet spirit glides,
For pitying love has heard the prayer which heavenly wisdom chides!”
Only because that dear, dear hand could press mine own no more.
Oh God! give back, give back my child! but one, one hour, that I
May tell her all my passionate love before I let her die!
Call not the prayer an impious one, for Thou didst fill my soul
With this fond, yearning tenderness, that nothing can control!
But say, instead, “Beside thy bed thy child's sweet spirit glides,
For pitying love has heard the prayer which heavenly wisdom chides!”
I know—I know that she is blest: but oh! I pine to see
Once more the pretty, pleading smile she used to give to me;
I pine to hear that low, sweet trill, with which, whene'er I came,
Her little, soft voice called to me, half welcome and half blame!
Once more the pretty, pleading smile she used to give to me;
I pine to hear that low, sweet trill, with which, whene'er I came,
Her little, soft voice called to me, half welcome and half blame!
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I know her little heart is glad; some gentle angel guides
My loved one on her joyous way, where'er in heaven she glides;
Some angel far more wisely kind than ever I could be,
With all my blind, wild, mother-love,—my Fanny, tends on thee!
And every sweet want of thy heart her care benign fulfils,
And every whisper'd wish for me, with lulling love she stills.
My loved one on her joyous way, where'er in heaven she glides;
Some angel far more wisely kind than ever I could be,
With all my blind, wild, mother-love,—my Fanny, tends on thee!
And every sweet want of thy heart her care benign fulfils,
And every whisper'd wish for me, with lulling love she stills.
Upborne by its own purity, thy light form floats away,
And heaven's fair children round it throng, and woo thee to their play,
Where flowers of wondrous beauty rise, and birds of splendour rare,
And balm and bloom and melody divinely fill the air.
And heaven's fair children round it throng, and woo thee to their play,
Where flowers of wondrous beauty rise, and birds of splendour rare,
And balm and bloom and melody divinely fill the air.
I hush my heart, I hide my tears, lest he my grief should guess,
Who watch'd thee, darling, day and night, with patient tenderness;
'Twould grieve his generous soul to see this anguish, wild and vain,
And he would deem it sin in me to wish thee back again:
But oh! when I am all alone, I cannot calm my grief;
I think of all thy touching ways, and find a sweet relief:
Thy dark, blue, wishful eyes look up once more into my own;
Thy faint, soft smile one moment plays—one moment thrills thy tone.
The next—the vision vanishes, and all is still and cold;
I see thy little, tender form—oh misery!—in the mould!
I shut my eyes, and pitying Heaven a happier vision gives,
Thy spirit dawns upon my dream—I know my treasure lives.
Who watch'd thee, darling, day and night, with patient tenderness;
'Twould grieve his generous soul to see this anguish, wild and vain,
And he would deem it sin in me to wish thee back again:
But oh! when I am all alone, I cannot calm my grief;
I think of all thy touching ways, and find a sweet relief:
Thy dark, blue, wishful eyes look up once more into my own;
Thy faint, soft smile one moment plays—one moment thrills thy tone.
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I see thy little, tender form—oh misery!—in the mould!
I shut my eyes, and pitying Heaven a happier vision gives,
Thy spirit dawns upon my dream—I know my treasure lives.
No, no—I must not wish thee back, but might I go to thee!
Were there no other loved ones here, who need my love and me;
I am so weary of the world—its falsehood and its strife—
So weary of the wrong and ruth that mar our human life!
Where thou art, Fanny, all is love and peace and pure delight;
The soul that here must hide its face—there lives serene in right;
And ever, in its lovely path, some new, great truth divine,
Like a clear star, that dawns in heaven, undyingly doth shine.
My child, while joy and wisdom go through that calm sphere with thee—
Oh, wilt thou not sometimes look back my pining heart to see?
For now a strange fear chills my soul—a feeling like despair—
Lest thou forget me mid those scenes—thou dost not need me there;
Ah no: the spirit-love that look'd from those dear eyes of thine
Was not of earth—it could not die! It still responds to mine!
And it may be—(how thrills the hope through all my soul again!)
That I may tend my child in heaven, since here my watch was vain!
Were there no other loved ones here, who need my love and me;
I am so weary of the world—its falsehood and its strife—
So weary of the wrong and ruth that mar our human life!
Where thou art, Fanny, all is love and peace and pure delight;
The soul that here must hide its face—there lives serene in right;
And ever, in its lovely path, some new, great truth divine,
Like a clear star, that dawns in heaven, undyingly doth shine.
My child, while joy and wisdom go through that calm sphere with thee—
Oh, wilt thou not sometimes look back my pining heart to see?
For now a strange fear chills my soul—a feeling like despair—
Lest thou forget me mid those scenes—thou dost not need me there;
Ah no: the spirit-love that look'd from those dear eyes of thine
Was not of earth—it could not die! It still responds to mine!
And it may be—(how thrills the hope through all my soul again!)
That I may tend my child in heaven, since here my watch was vain!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |