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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
Since I must love thee—since a weird wild Fate
Impels me to thy heart against my will—
Do thou this justice to the soul I yield:
Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.
Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings
Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes
And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp
Calm Honour's throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;
Love Honour more than Love, and more than me;
Be all thou wert ere the world came between
Thee and thy God.
Impels me to thy heart against my will—
Do thou this justice to the soul I yield:
Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.
Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings
Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes
And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp
Calm Honour's throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;
Love Honour more than Love, and more than me;
Be all thou wert ere the world came between
Thee and thy God.
Hear'st thou my spirit pleading
With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?
Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul
Soar with her to the seraph's realm of light.
She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.
She shuts her wings in utter weariness,
For she has wander'd all night long astray,
And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,
Save such as mock'd her with a maddening thirst.
She asks of thine, repose, protection, peace,
Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers
To give her shelter through the night of Time,
And lead her home at morn; for long ago,
She lost her way.
With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?
Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul
Soar with her to the seraph's realm of light.
She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.
She shuts her wings in utter weariness,
For she has wander'd all night long astray,
And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,
Save such as mock'd her with a maddening thirst.
She asks of thine, repose, protection, peace,
Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers
50
And lead her home at morn; for long ago,
She lost her way.
Ah! thou mayst give, instead
Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,
Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!
But thou wilt not!—thine eyes—thy glorious eyes
Are eloquent with generous love and faith,
And through thy voice a mighty heart intones
Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low
All lovely promises, and precious dreams
For the sweet Future! So, I trust thee, love,
And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.
Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,
Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!
But thou wilt not!—thine eyes—thy glorious eyes
Are eloquent with generous love and faith,
And through thy voice a mighty heart intones
Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low
All lovely promises, and precious dreams
For the sweet Future! So, I trust thee, love,
And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |