 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
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.
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.
322
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!”
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.
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.
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.
323
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.”
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.
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.
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.
324
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.
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?
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?
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |