Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood

Blushing and smiling! do ye so,
Delicious flowers, because you know
To whose dear heart you soon shall go?
Ah, give my message well and true,
And such a smile shall guerdon you!
His smile, within whose luminous glow,
As in the sun, you ought to grow!

Rose! tell him—what I dared not tell,
When last we met—how wildly well
I love him—how my glad heart glows,
Recalling every word he spake,
(Remember that, thou radiant Rose!)
In that sweet bower beside the lake.

Be sure you blush and speak full low,
Else you'll seem over bold, I trow;

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Then hide you thus, with winsome grace,
Behind those leaves—your glowing face;
But through them send a perfumed sigh,
That to his very heart shall fly.

And thou, my fragrant Lotos-flower,
With balmy whisper seek his bower,
And say, “Zuleika sends in me
A spirit kiss—a seal—to bind
Thy favour'd lips to secrecy;
Oh, hide the heart she has resign'd,
Nor let the world, with gibe or scorn,
Cloud her young Love's effulgent morn.”

Then, Lily, shrink in silence meek,
And let my glorious Tulip speak!
And speak thou, bright one, brave and bold,
Lest my Rose show me over weak;
With stately grace around thee fold
Thy royal robe of gleaming gold,
And tell him I, the Emir's child—
With frame so slight, and heart so wild,
Still treasure, 'neath this gemm'd cymar,
Proud honour's gem—a stainless star;
And pure as Heaven his soul must be,
And true as Truth, who'd mate with me.

And if he answer—as he will—
My faith on that—“I seek her still,”

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Then do thou ring, my blue-bell flower,
Thy joyous peal, and softly say,
“Oh, wreathe with bridal bloom the bower!
For by to-morrow's earliest ray,
From tyrant's cage—a bird set free,
Zuleika flies—and flies to thee!”

But if you mark, in those proud eyes,
A shade—the least—of scorn arise,
Or even doubt, the faintest hue—
Ah, heaven! you will not!—if you do,
Shrink, wither, perish, in his sight,
And murmur, ere you perish quite,
“'Tis we—the flower-sylphs—here we dwell,
Each in her own light-painted cell—
'Tis we who made this idle tale!
At us—at us—oh, false one, rail!
The Emir's child would rather die,
Than breathe for thee one burning sigh;
She scorns thy suit and bids us say,
The eaglet holds, alone, her way”—
Then wither, perish in his sight,
And leave me to my starless night!

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MAY-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.

Can this be May? Can this be May?
We have not found a flower to-day!
We roam'd the wood—we climb'd the hill—
We rested by the rushing rill—
And, lest they had forgot the day,
We told them it was May, dear May!
We call'd the sweet wild blooms by name—
We shouted, and no answer came.
From smiling field, or solemn hill—
From rugged rock, or rushing rill—
We only bade the pretty pets
Just breathe from out their hiding-places;
We told the little, light coquettes
They needn't show their bashful faces;
“One sigh,” we said, “one fragrant sigh,
We'll soon discover where you lie!”
The roguish things were still as death—
They wouldn't even breathe a breath.

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Alas! there's none so deaf, I fear,
As those who do not choose to hear.

We wander'd to an open place,
And sought the sunny buttercup,—
That, so delighted, in your face
Just like a pleasant smile looks up.
We peep'd into a shady spot
To find the blue “Forget-me-not!”
At last a far-off voice we heard,
A voice as of a fountain-fall,
That, softer than a singing-bird,
Did answer to our merry call.
So wildly sweet the breezes brought
That tone in every pause of ours,
That we, delighted, fondly thought
It must be talking of the flowers!
We knew the violets loved to hide
The cool and lulling wave beside:—
With song, and laugh, and bounding feet,
And wild hair floating on the wind,
We swift pursued the murmurs sweet;
But not a blossom could we find.
The cowslip, crocus, columbine,
The violet, and the snow-drop fine,

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The orchis 'neath the hawthorn-tree,
The blue-bell, and anemone,
The wild-rose, eglantine, and daisy,
Where are they all?—they must be lazy!
Perhaps they're playing “Hide and seek”—
Oh, naughty flowers! why don't you speak?
We have not found a flower to-day,—
They surely cannot know 'tis May!

You have not found a flower to-day!—
What's that upon your cheek, I pray?
A blossom pure, and sweet, and wild,
And worth all Nature's blooming wealth!
Not all in vain your search, my child!—
You've found at least the rose of health!
The golden buttercup, you say,
That like a smile illumes the way,
Is nowhere to be seen to-day.
Fair child! upon that beaming face
A softer, lovelier smile I trace;
A treasure, as the sunshine bright,—
A glow of love and wild delight!
Then pine no more for Nature's toy—
You've found at least the flower of joy.
Yes! in a heart so young and gay
And kind as yours, 'tis always May!

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For gentle feelings, love, are flowers
That bloom through life's most clouded hours.
Ah! cherish them, my happy child,
And check the weeds that wander wild;
And while their stainless wealth is given,
In incense sweet, to earth and heaven,
No longer will you need to say—
“Can this be May? Can this be May?”

THE PRISM, THE FLOWER, AND THE SUNBEAM.

Round a lattice low, to twine,
Rose a graceful eglantine;
And within the window near
Hung a prism cold and clear,
Where a spirit dwelt apart,
With a proud but pining heart,
Like a weary,
Languid Peri,
Captive in a diamond palace,
Catching sunbeams in a chalice.

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Came from heaven a rover-ray,
Half for love and half for play;
Then, in cadence calm and high,
Sang the spirit, “Hither fly!
I thy blooming love will be,
Radiant angel! shine on me!”

To her bosom, white and cold,
Stole the ray his wings to fold,
And the prism glow'd a while
With the glory of his smile;
While the sprite, where'er she turn'd,
With triumphant beauty burn'd.

On her heart so still and cold
Waves the ray his locks of gold,
Pining for the warmer sky;
But he knows not how to fly.
For the viewless diamond door,
Where he enter'd, opes no more;
And within that crystal cage,
With a fine and dainty rage,
He goes storming here and there,
While his wings of splendour rare
Beat the bars, and brighter glow
As he flutters to and fro,
Till each kindling, waving plume
Fills the cage with rainbow-bloom.

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Paler in her peerless pride
Grew the spirit, as she sigh'd,
“Go! thou glorious bird of heaven!
Go! the transient spell is riven.
Life and light wert thou to me;
I may perish—thou art free!”
Then the sunbeam found the door,
And the prism shone no more!
But, ah me, that rover-ray,
Once again he lost his way;
For a bud of eglantine
Saw his passing pinions shine,
And she murmur'd, low and sweet,
“Now, at last, this heart may beat!
Darling! I have dream'd of thee—
Well I know thou com'st to me;
I have waited for thy light,
So that I may bloom aright.”

So the sunbeam loved the flower
One whole, glorious summer hour!
And the wild-rose all the while
Drank the beauty of his smile,
Giving back, in loveliest hues,
While their beings interfuse,
All the joy and light he brought
When her virgin heart he sought.

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And she made of love's dear charm,
Her sweet hours all bloom and balm,
Showing by a lovely life,
Unprofaned by fear or strife,
That her radiant angel stole
Glowing to her soul of soul.

When his wings were plumed to fly,
On them, in one perfumed sigh,
Pour'd the flower her passionate sorrow,
Withering, dying ere the morrow;
But, unlike the prism, kept
His bright memory where he slept,
Blushing purely to the last,
In remembrance of the past.

Which the sunbeam worshipp'd best
She upon whose haughty breast,
Uncaress'd and chill'd he play'd,
While his wings her glory made?
Or the little fragile flower,
Dreaming in her dewy bower,
Till her angel-lover came,
With his holy heart of flame,
Warming hers to life and beauty,
Making love her dearest duty,
While her sweet hours, with its charm,
Had become all bloom and balm?

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THE VIOLET AND THE STAR.

Shall I tell what the Violet said to the Star,
While she gazed through her tears on his beauty afar?
She sang, but her singing was only a sigh,
And nobody heard it, but Heaven, Love, and I!—
A sigh full of fragrance and feeling, it stole
Through the stillness, up, up, to the star's beaming soul.

She sang—“Thou art glowing with glory and might,
And I'm but a flower, frail, lowly, and light;
I ask not thy pity, I seek not thy smile;
I ask but to worship thy beauty a while;—
To sigh to thee—sing to thee—bloom for thine eye,
And when thou art weary to bless thee and die!”

Shall I tell what the Star to the Violet said,
While ashamed 'neath his love-look, she hung her young head?
He sang—but his singing was only a ray,
And none but the flower and I heard the dear lay;
How it thrill'd, as it fell, in its melody clear,
Through the little heart, heaving with rapture and fear!

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Ah! no, love! I dare not! too tender, too pure,
For me to betray were the words he said to her;
But as she lay listening that low lullaby,
A smile lit the tear in the timid flower's eye;
And when death had stolen her beauty and bloom,
The ray came again to illumine her tomb!

GARDEN GOSSIP,

ACCOUNTING FOR THE COOLNESS BETWEEN THE LILY AND VIOLET.

“I will tell you a secret!” the honey-bee said,
To a violet drooping her dew-laden head;
“The lily's in love! for she listen'd last night,
While her sisters all slept in the holy moonlight,
To a zephyr that just had been rocking the rose,
Where, hidden, I hearken'd in seeming repose.

“I would not betray her to any but you;
But the secret is safe with a spirit so true,
It will rest in your bosom in silence profound.”
The violet bent her blue eye to the ground;
A tear and a smile in her loving look lay,
While the light-wingéd gossip went whirring away.

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“I will tell you a secret!” the honey-bee said,
And the young lily lifted her beautiful head;
“The violet thinks, with her timid blue eye,
To pass for a blossom enchantingly shy,
But for all her sweet manners, so modest and pure,
She gossips with every gay bird that sings to her.

“Now let me advise you, sweet flower! as a friend,
Oh! ne'er to such beings your confidence lend;
It grieves me to see one, all guileless like you,
Thus wronging a spirit so trustful and true;
But not for the world, love, my secret betray!”
And the little light gossip went buzzing away.

A blush in the lily's cheek trembled and fled;
“I'm sorry he told me,” she tenderly said;
“—If I mayn't trust the violet, pure as she seems,
I must fold in my own heart my beautiful dreams!”
Was the mischief well managed? Fair lady, is't true?
Did the light garden gossip take lessons of you?

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THE DAISY'S MISTAKE.

A sunbeam and zephyr were playing about,
One spring, ere a blossom had peep'd from the stem,
When they heard, underground, a faint, fairy-like shout;
'Twas the voice of a field-daisy calling to them.

“Oh! tell me, my friend, has the winter gone by?
Is it time to come up? Is the Crocus there yet?
I know you are sporting above, and I sigh
To be with you and kiss you;—'tis long since we met!

“I've been ready this great while,—all dress'd for the show;
I've a gem on my bosom that's pure as a star;
And the frill of my robe is as white as the snow;
And I mean to be brighter than Crocuses are.”

Now the zephyr and sunbeam were wild with delight!
It seem'd a whole age since they'd play'd with a flower;
So they told a great fib to the poor little sprite,
That was languishing down in her underground bower.

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“Come out! little darling! as quick as you can!
The Crocus, the Cowslip, and Buttercup too,
Have been up here this fortnight, we're having grand times,
And all of them hourly asking for you!

“The Cowslip is crown'd with a topaz tiara!
The Crocus is flaunting in golden attire;
But you, little pet! are a thousand times fairer;
To see you but once, is to love and admire!

“The skies smile benignantly all the day long;
The bee drinks your health in the purest of dew,
The lark has been waiting to sing you a song,
Which he practised in Cloudland on purpose for you!

“Come, come! you are either too bashful or lazy!
Lady Spring made this season an early entrée;
And she wonder'd what could have become of her Daisy;
We'll call you coquettish, if still you delay!”

Then a still, small voice, in the heart of the flower,
It was Instinct, whisper'd her, “Do not go!
You had better be quiet, and wait your hour;
It isn't too late even yet for snow!”

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But the little field-blossom was foolish and vain,
And she said to herself, “What a belle I shall be!”
So she sprang to the light, as she broke from her chain,
And gayly she cried, “I am free! I am free!”

A shy little thing is the Daisy, you know;
And she was half frighten'd to death, when she found
Not a blossom had even begun to blow:
How she wish'd herself back again under the ground!

The tear in her timid and sorrowful eye
Might well put the zephyr and beam to the blush;
But the saucy light laugh'd, and said, “Pray don't cry!”
And the gay zephyr sang to her, “Hush, sweet, hush!”

They kiss'd her and petted her fondly at first;
But a storm arose, and the false light fled;
And the zephyr changed into angry breeze,
That scolded her till she was almost dead!

The gem on her bosom was stain'd and dark,
The snow of her robe had lost its light,
And tears of sorrow had dimm'd the spark
Of beauty and youth, that made her bright!

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And so she lay with her fair head low,
And mournfully sigh'd in her dying hour,
“Ah! had I courageously answer'd ‘No!’
I had now been safe in my native bower!”

THE STAR AND THE FLOWER.

Ah! yours, with her light-waving hair,
That droops to her shoulders of snow,
And her cheek, where the palest and purest of roses
Most faintly and tenderly glow!

There is something celestial about her;
I never behold the fair child,
Without thinking she's pluming invisible wings
For a region more holy and mild.

There is so much of pure seraph-fire
Within the dark depths of her eye,
That I feel a resistless and earnest desire
To hold her for fear she should fly.

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Her smile is as soft as a spirit's,—
As sweet as a bird's is her tone;
She is fair as the silvery star of the morn,
When it gleams through the gray mist alone.

But mine is a simple wild-flower,
A balmy and beautiful thing,
That glows with new love and delight every hour,
Through the tears and the smiles of sweet spring!

Her eyes have the dark brilliant azure
Of heaven in a clear summer night,
And each impulse of frolicsome, infantine joy
Brings a shy little dimple to light.

Her young soul looks bright from a brow
Too fair for earth's sorrow and shame;
Her graceful and glowing lip curls, even now,
With a spirit no tyrant can tame.

Then let us no longer compare
These tiny, pet-treasures of ours;
For yours shall be loveliest still of the stars.
And mine shall be fairest of flowers.

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THE POET TO ONE WHO LOVES HIM.

Since far apart our paths must be
When thou to thine returnest,
What token shall I bring to thee
Of love divine and earnest?

I hush within my heart of heart
All wish for word-expression;
Be mine, be thine a nobler part—
Our life be our confession.

Nor word nor look of mine betray
The love which is my glory;
And thou—serenely go thy way,
And hide thy dear heart's story.

Nay, sweet, believe not life will be
Too dark, too stern a trial;
The love with which I circle thee
Shall need no cold denial.

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And thou, each hour of thy young life,
In every graceful duty,
Shall feel it round thee, warmly rife
With fondness, truth, and beauty.

I know thy child-like tenderness,
That pleads and needs protection;
I know thy guileless wish to bless
My cold life with affection.

And all the more do I adore
The sweet reserve of virtue,
The graceful pride that o'er and o'er
I've pray'd may ne'er desert you.

For thou art that ethereal flower—
No more a fabled wonder—
That builds in air its azure bower,
And floats the star-light under.

Too pure to touch our sinful earth,
Too human yet for heaven,
Halfway it has its glorious birth,
With no root to be riven.

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A fairy winged, aerial rose,
The playmate of the air,
The Peri of the flowers it glows,
And floats in beauty there.

And far from me the wild wish be
To woo to earth the treasure;
I ask not even a sigh from thee
To cloud thy Peri pleasure.

But let a life of noble aim,
Of high and calm devotion,
Be all the token thou wouldst claim—
Or I—of Love's emotion.

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THE SOUL FLOWER.

Fair grew the lily, the vestal of flowers,
Nursed by the sunshine, kiss'd by the showers;
Lightly the honey-bee sang of his love;
Softly the summer air murmur'd above;

And the wild butterfly, beaming and blest,
Folded his frolic wings on her white breast.
So lent the lily her leaves to the air,
Woven of snow and light, holy and fair.

All that came to her went happy away,
For she was pure, and loving, and gay;
Balm, light and melody flew to the flower,
Making an Eden of bliss in her bower.

Meekly she bent when the storm darken'd by,
Brightly she smiled again to the blue sky,
And she thank'd God for his kindness and care
With her heart's incense that rose like a prayer.

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So grew the lily, the vestal of flowers,
Kiss'd by the sunshine, nursed by the showers;
And when Death came to her, in her last sigh
Up stole the lily's soul into the sky.

THE “FAIRER FLOWER.”

“Oh! are they not most bright and fair?”
The youthful lady cried;
And pointed to her blossoms rare
With playful love and pride.

The soft moss-rose, with veiléd bloom,
Droops o'er the hands that tie it;
The lily lends its light perfume,
The woodbine clusters by it.

But on the lady's lovely face,
A blush outblooms the rose;
And 'neath the hand that clasps the vase,
Less fair the lily shows.

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A soldier true and brave was he,
And crown'd with loftiest honour;
He bent his dark and dauntless eyes
With soften'd gaze upon her:

“Dear lady, yes! 'tis well the bower
Its loveliest lends to thee,
But I can show a fairer flower
If thou'lt but come with me!”

She gave her hand with artless grace,
She cross'd the room half dreaming;
And there he show'd her own sweet face
Within the mirror beaming!

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THE HALF-BLOWN ROSE.

'Tis just the flower she ought to wear,—
The simple flower the painter chose;
And are they not a charming pair—
The modest girl—the half-blown rose?

The glowing bud has stolen up
With tender smile and blushing grace,
And o'er its mossy clasping cup
In bashful pride reveals its face.

The maiden too, with timid feet,
Has sprung from childhood's verdant bower,
And lightly left its limit sweet,
For woman's lot of shine and shower.

See! from its veil of silken hair,
That bathes her cheek in clusters bright,
Her sweet face, like a blossom fair,
Reveals its wealth of bloom and light.

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How softly blends with childhood's smile
That maiden-mien of pure repose!
Oh! seems she not herself the while
A breathing flower—a half-blown rose?

THE FLOWER AND THE BROOK.

The brook tripp'd by, with smile and sigh,
And soft in music-murmurs sung,
While all the flowers that blossom'd nigh
Were hush'd to hear that silver tongue.

“Ah, virgin violet!” breathed the brook,
“Whose blue eye shuns the light, the air,
I love you!—in this true heart look,
And see—your own sweet image there!”

The bashful violet bent her brow,
But as she gazed, she sigh'd in sorrow,
“Oh! faithless heart—oh, idle vow!
Beloved to-day—betray'd to-morrow!

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“What see I, in that heart of thine?
There's not a flower that blooms above thee,
But there its image glows like mine,
Yet, false and light! you say you love me!

“Go, changeful rover!—wander free,
With sunny glance, and voice beguiling,
And take my fondest sigh with thee,
To boast where other flowers are smiling!

“Go! tell the lily and the rose
Of all the incense lavish'd o'er thee!
Go! wake them from their pure repose,
And bid them waste their blushes for thee!

“Go! breathe to them the music low
Which all too oft beguiles the blossom!
But oh! remember, where you go,
My latest breath was on your bosom!”

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THE FLOWER AND THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Wild and light as a fawn in flight,
With the glee and the grace of a playful child,
She tripp'd to the hill's unclouded height,
And the dying day around her smiled.

Sunbeam and breeze were at play with her hair,
(Where a few wild blossoms were braided low,)
Wooing it back from her shoulders fair.
Lighting it up with a golden glow.

And lo! as we gazed on the beautiful girl
With the joy that we ever from grace derive,
We saw something quiver through one soft curl,
And struggle and gleam like a jewel alive!

What can it be? For a moment or two
It burn'd with a brilliant ruby-ray;
The next, it shone with the sapphire's blue;
And now with the amethyst's purple play!

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What can it be? It is changing still
To an emerald tint—to the sunshine's glow;
Can the maiden alter her gems at will?
And gift with wings each luminous show?

With wings—they are fluttering, tiny, and light,
Like those which we fancy the fairies wear—
Ah! look! the treasure has taken flight,
'Twas a humming-bird caught in that golden snare!

Silly rover! you fly from those silken rings,
Where Love—a light prisoner—hugs his chain!
Oh, you never will shut your shining wings
On a flower so rare and sweet again!

IMPROMPTU TO ---.

You would speak your farewell by some beautiful flower,
But Autumn has rifled the rich garden-bower;
Yet while such dear love in your summer-heart glows,
Ah! do not regret it! the wish was a Rose!

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THE SUNBEAM'S LOVE.

A little wild flower, lone and sad,
Was shaded so by leaves above,
The light that made her sisters glad
Denied to her its smile of love.

But once the warmest, sunniest ray
That ever thrill'd a blossom's heart,
Through the dark foliage found its way,
With Love's own soft, beguiling art.

The wild flower blush'd, and smiled, and wept,
But trembling let the rover in;
Till in her breast it softly slept,
Too pure, too blest, for shame or sin.

Bloom, beauty, balm, undream'd of yore,
Enrich the blossom's beating heart
And leaves it had not known before
Thrill to that warm, sweet smile—and part.

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In soft surprise, it murmur'd low,
“The rose is far more fair than I—
Why do you, darling, love me so?”
And the ray said, “I know not why.”

“Nor care I, dear. I only feel
That thou art all I ask to me;
With heaven's light on my wings, I steal
To find my dearer heaven in thee.”

And the glad flower, unquestioning more,
With fond embrace enfolds the ray,
Till, ah! the noon has fled, and o'er
The wildwood fades that Eden day.

Recall'd to heaven, the sunbeam flies;
The sorrowing blossom folds its leaves,
And shuts, to hide the tears, its eyes,
And still and lonely dreams and grieves.

The stars float calmly through the night,
And smile on nature's frailest child;
She does not heed their holy light—
She loves too well her grief so wild!

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The night-breeze coming hears her weep,
And whispers low, “Why mourns my flower?”
Ah! then the blossom feigns to sleep,
And shrinks within her leafy bower.

And to herself she sings all night,
“My glorious love, come back to me;
I have no joy, no bloom, no light,
Oh, I am nothing without thee!”

THE WREATH OF GRASSES.

The royal rose—the tulip's glow—
The jasmine's gold are fair to see;
But while the graceful grasses grow,
Oh! gather them for me!

The pansy's gold and purple wing,
The snow-drop's smile may light the lea;
But while the fragrant grasses spring,
My wreath of them shall be!

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THE DYING ROSE-BUD'S LAMENT.

Ah me! ah, wo is me!
That I should perish now,
With the dear sunlight just let in
Upon my balmy brow!

My leaves, instinct with glowing life,
Were quivering to unclose;
My happy heart with love was rife;
I was almost a Rose!

Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense,
Already I had risen
Above my cage's curving fence,
My green and graceful prison.

My pouting lips, by Zephyr press'd,
Were just prepared to part,
And whisper to the wooing wind
The rapture of my heart.

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In new-born fancies revelling,
My mossy cell half riven,
Each thrilling leaflet seem'd a wing
To bear me into heaven.

How oft, while yet an infant flower,
My crimson cheek I've laid
Against the green bars of my bower,
Impatient of the shade!

And pressing up, and peeping through
Its small but precious vistas,
Sigh'd for the lovely light and dew
That bless'd my elder sisters.

I saw the sweet breeze rippling o'er
Their leaves that loved the play,
Though the light thief stole all their store
Of dew-drop gems away.

I thought how happy I should be
Such diamond wreaths to wear,
And frolic, with a rose's glee,
With sunbeam, bird, and air!

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Ah me! ah, wo is me! that I,
Ere yet my leaves unclose,
With all my wealth of sweets, must die
Before I am a Rose!

THE LOST LILY.

Ah! mourn her as you would a flower!
The rose will rise again,
The glory of the garden-bower,
The gem of Flora's train.

The harebell, softly, as of old,
Its tiny tune shall play,
The crocus hold her cup of gold
To catch the sun's first ray.

The wild heath-flower her purple gems
And bells of pearl shall swing;
And on the woodbine's waving stems
The hum-bird plume his wing:

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The jasmine-tree once more shall be
With starry garlands gay;
And dewy blooms shall blushing wreathe
The rose-acacia's spray:

Where Spring bestows her first sweet kiss
Upon our happy earth,
Memorial of that moment's bliss,
The snow-drop shall have birth:

The violet—childhood's earliest love—
Shall hide by waters bright;
The lithe laburnum twine, above,
Her coronals of light:

The daisy—Spring's sweet babe—reborn,
Shall peep the grass between;
And cowslips—darlings of the morn—
Shall star with gold the green:

The little lily too shall rise,
The fairy of the field,
While her small, lucid chalices
Their soft, pure perfume yield:

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And in her boat of emerald green
The “flower of light” shall lie,
And float, a radiant river-queen,
In peerless beauty by:

Such were the sweetness, grace, and bloom
That in her spirit met!
These gifts ye laid not in the tomb—
They live to bless you yet.

Ah! nothing that is lovely dies!
When cold decay is near,
The radiant soul of beauty flies
To seek a holier sphere.

“She went the way of other flowers;”
She droop'd her fair, young head,
While o'er her form, in lingering love,
Her soul a halo shed.

You saw her like the lily fade,
Ah! not in endless night;
Above, in some sweet Eden-glade,
You'll find your “flower of light!”

352

HOPE.

Sweet Hope! dear Hope! dear beautiful Hope!”
I heard a lovely lady say,
“I have not seen your winsome face,
This many, many a day!

“You sing to others, all day long,
With childlike, tireless, lightsome glee,
Some sweet romance, or joyant song,—
You never sing to me!

“You bring to others flowers of spring,
The fair, the fresh, the richly free,—
To me no blooming gift you bring—
Have you no flower for me?

“Have you no simplest wild-flower sweet?
Not one—no violet pure and dear?
To bless with balm the cypress wreath
On Love's untimely bier?”

353

Far up, as if at heaven's own gate,
I heard Hope's silver voice reply,
“Love is not dead—within my arms,
I've borne him to the sky!”

And on the lady's breast there fell,
By Hope's invisible hand dropp'd down,
A flower of light—an asphodel,
From Love's immortal crown.

THE GARDEN OF FRIENDSHIP.

They say I am robbing myself,
But they know not how sweet is my gain,
For I'm weeding my garden of Friendship,
Till only its flowers remain.

They say if I weed from it all
That are worldly, ignoble, untrue,
I shall save not a leaf for my heart;
But they shake not my faith in the few.

354

I waste not the pure dew of Feeling,
I waste not the warm light of Love
On worthless intruders, upstealing
To poison the beauty above.

Too pure is the place, and too holy,
For Falsehood and Sin to profane;
And I heed not how few or how lowly
The blooms that unsullied remain.

Though lone and apart in their sweetness,
Those heart-cherish'd blossoms may be,
While they smile in the sunlight of Truth,
They suffice to affection and me.

And you, in your delicate bloom, love,
Pure, tender, and graceful and true,
Shall be the queen-rose of my garden,
And live on Love's sunshine and dew.

No parasite plant shall be nourish'd,
My bower's sunny beauty to stain,
For I'll weed the fair garden of Friendship
Till only its flowers remain.

355

WHY WILL A ROSE-BUD BLOW?

I wish the bud would never blow,
'Tis prettier and purer so;
It blushes through its bower of green,
And peeps above the mossy screen
So timidly, I cannot bear
To have it open to the air.
I kiss'd it o'er and o'er again,
As if my kisses were a chain
To close the quivering leaflets fast,
And make for once a rose-bud last!
But kisses are but feeble links
For changeful things, like flowers, methinks;
The wayward rose leaves, one by one,
Uncurl'd and look'd up to the sun,
With their sweet flushes fainter growing:
I could not keep my bud from blowing!
Ah! there upon my hand it lay,
And faded, faded fast away;

356

You might have thought you heard it sighing,
It look'd so mournfully in dying.
I wish it were a rose-bud now,
I wish 'twere only hiding yet,
With timid grace, its blushing brow,
Behind the green that shelter'd it.
I had not written were it so;
Why would the silly rose-bud blow?

THE LILY'S REPLY.

The Rose Queen to a Lily said,—
“You bashful thing! hold up your head!
Since Heaven has lavish'd beauty, grace,
And fragrance, on your form and face,
Why waste it on the coarse dull earth?
Look up to Him who gave you birth.
See me! I lift my glowing cheek,
The holiest airs of heaven to seek.

357

“Free from my ‘heart of heart’ I give,
(The Rose with Shakspeare held commune,)
Up to yon skies that bade me live,
My incense, like a low-breathed tune.
Lily! look up! 'tis pleasant weather!
Let's brave this changing world together!”

The Lily to the Rose replied,—
“I dare not hold so lofty pride;
Befits in fair, as stormy weather,
That I and Meekness bend together;
For they who lift too high their heads
When heaven her sunshine o'er them sheds,
Too low beneath the tempest lie,
Forgetful of Love's sleepless eye.
And He who gave me sweetness—grace,
Bestow'd as well my fitting place;
And most I show my grateful care,
By yielding earth what I may spare;
And best to Him his gifts return,
By shedding round me, here below,
The wealth that fills my fragile urn;
He knows how true I thank Him so!”

358

THE PHANTOM-FLOWER.

The alchemist of old, with wizard power,
From the pure ashes of Love's darling flower,
Could recreate it in ethereal guise,
And bid a shadowy spirit-rose arise.

So from the priceless ashes of your notes,
The flower-like soul, that fill'd them, upward floats,
And while the words impassion'd slow consume,
I watch my rose, my airy angel, bloom!

University of Virginia Library

FLORAL FANCIES.

THE FLOWER LOVE-LETTER.