 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
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.
“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!”
“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
(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!”
“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!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |