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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavish'd on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness—
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain:
But win them—they unwitting of the spell—
By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.
And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,
Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in't,
Than e'er she dream'd of or could understand;
And she must blush before them, with a heart
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!
They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!
They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter;
Faint, chill'd, and worn, her soul implored a pittance,
Her soul ask'd alms of theirs, and was denied!
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavish'd on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness—
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain:
60
By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.
And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,
Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in't,
Than e'er she dream'd of or could understand;
And she must blush before them, with a heart
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!
They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!
They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter;
Faint, chill'd, and worn, her soul implored a pittance,
Her soul ask'd alms of theirs, and was denied!
It was not much it came a-begging for—
A simple boon, only a gentle thought,
A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers
As pass'd their understanding, but to her
Seem'd natural as the blooming of a flower:
For God taught her—but they had learn'd of men
The meagre doling of their measured love,
A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.
God taught the tendril where to cling, and she
Learn'd the same lovely lesson, with the same
Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.
A simple boon, only a gentle thought,
A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers
As pass'd their understanding, but to her
Seem'd natural as the blooming of a flower:
For God taught her—but they had learn'd of men
The meagre doling of their measured love,
A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.
God taught the tendril where to cling, and she
Learn'd the same lovely lesson, with the same
Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.
And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven
Be play'd on by such hands, with touch so rude,
Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,
Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.
Be play'd on by such hands, with touch so rude,
Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,
Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |