 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
THE FLOWER LOVE-LETTER.
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!
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.
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;
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.
Else you'll seem over bold, I trow;
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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.”
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 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,”
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!”
My faith on that—“I seek her still,”
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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!
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!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |