Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood :: :: University of Virginia Library

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!”