Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood

Again they come! Enchanted Fancy hears
Their airy steps, with mingled smiles and tears—
The immortal pair, that grace the Drama's page—
The sister-muses of the classic stage!

Hark to the rustling sweep of silk attire—
'Tis stern Melpomene!—With eyes of fire,
A jewell'd dagger in her haughty hand,
Brow on whose lightest bend is throned command,
And dark, dishevell'd locks, that float adown
Beneath the splendour of a queenly crown—
There with imperial mien she walks alone,
Proud, as each step were on a trampled throne!
Yet ah! what majesty of grief appears
In those dark eyes, too wildly sad for tears!
And ah! what words, of subtlest power, can speak
The soul of sorrow on her hueless cheek!

But list that laugh of girlish glee and grace!
With frolic footstep, frank and cordial face,

And a soft “golden-tinted” cloud of curls
That careless 'scape the clasp of wreathing pearls;
In tunic gay, that lightly veils her form,
Lo! like a sunbeam—lovelier for the storm—
The glad Thalia, buoyant as a child,
Trips o'er the stage, in bloom and beauty wild!

All hail! all hail! ye peerless pair, once more!
Ye loved and lost—that bless'd these scenes of yore!

And now, around yon gorgeous throne of gold
Where rests our tragic queen in state, behold—
And round the couch too where demure doth sit
The sportive daughter of Delight and Wit—
A shadowy train with soundless footsteps glide,
The Drama's glory in her hour of pride!

There, mad with love and doubt, the goaded Moor
Rends the young heart, so flower-like, soft, and pure,
Whose tender truth, amazed at such strange blame,
Half wild with sorrow, sighs, “Am I that name?”

There weak Macbeth beholds the dagger's hilt
That gleams in air and tempts to maddening guilt;
And she—his more than queen—looks grandly down
From her mind's throne, and waves him to the crown.

Light from the “cowslip's bell,” on filmy wings,
Where prison'd sunbeams play, our Ariel springs,
Makes of a purple cloud his fairy boat,
Unfurls its silvery sail in air to float,

While round him music melts in heavenly tides,
And to the slow, sweet tune, the aerial shallop glides.

Next young Miranda!—Nature's darling child—
Frank, fearless, fond, and innocently wild—
To whose fair frame the air, the earth, the wave,
Proud of their guest, their grace and glory gave!
Morn to her pure cheek lent its rose-mist rare,—
Sunset its gold to glisten in her hair,—
The sea, its undulating play,—the breeze,
Those low lute-tones it teaches to the trees,—
And earth, her dearest rose's balm and glow,
To breathe upon her lip, and warm her bosom's snow!

Ah see! forlorn Ophelia falters by!
And near her, heedless of her song and sigh,
Lo! princely Hamlet to the night complains!

There Egypt's queen, a glorious marvel, reigns!
Quaffs the rare pearl, while Rome's heroic son,
A costlier gem, her melting heart has won;
And turns forgetful from the state's control,
To sway, with regnant smile, the empire of his soul.

There bright Titania chides her truant-king,
And weaves with steps of light the “fairy ring;”
There brave Prince Hal his gallant foe defies,
And peerless Percy, “child of honour,” dies!

There Beatrice, in graceful, gay disdain,
Mocks with arch'd lip at Love's enchanted chain,

Unconscious that, despite her saucy smile,
Round her warm heart 'tis twining all the while.
There loveliest Hero, too, in truth serene,
Shames with her modest grace the bridal scene,
And wondering questions, in her maiden-pride,
“Is my lord mad, that he doth speak so wide?”

There the boy Arthur pours on Hubert's ear
His sweet child-eloquence, half faith, half fear;
And Constance cries, “Here I and Sorrow sit,
This is my throne—let kings come bow to it!”

There subtle Richard, snake-like, winds his way
To Anne's frail heart, with soft persuasion's sway;
And Lear, blind, poor, yet kingly to the last,
With regal wrath all grandly mocks the blast,
Till true Cordelia comes, and on her breast
Love's magic music lulls his great heart's grief to rest.

Behold! with loosen'd locks and flashing eyes,
And scornful gibe, where haughty Katharine flies!
Stay, courteous damsel! meekly meet your fate!
“Kate of Katehall—my super-dainty Kate!”

There, brave and beauteous with the might of mind,
Enchanting Portia, Shylock's bond doth bind;
And dark-eyed Jessica, the truant fay,
Through bars and bolts, with Love has run away!

Look! from yon lattice, bathed in starlight clear,
What radiant being leans with rapturous fear?

Oh, loved Italia's lost, impassion'd child,
Dear Juliet! whispering words so sweetly wild,
She seems a stray young angel pleading there,
While heaven has hush'd its harps to hear her “music-prayer!”

But who comes here, with timid, tearful grace,
And faltering step and half-averted face?
That shy, sweet glance, that wavy, silken tress,
That tell-tale blush, belie the page's dress.
Sweet Viola! not even thy man's array
Can hide or hush the maiden-spirit's play;
For Purity is such a gem, I ween,
As no disguise can veil its glorious sheen;
Like the clear diamond of Golconda's mines,
Placed in the dark, it more divinely shines.

Yet see! another metamorphosis!
What airy elf, what archer-boy is this!
Ha! that droop'd eye betrays no manly mind;
By Dian's silver bow—'tis Rosalind!
You “golden creature!” with your pranks and wiles,
Your arch, wild wit, quick frowns and dazzling smiles,
Give to Ardennes your shafts from tongue and bow;
'Twere hard to tell which sharpest be, I trow,—
Trip by, nor aim your spicy wit at me!
For one behind you flits, I fain would see;
Wreath'd with wild blooms, herself the “flower of flowers,”
A wood-nymph from Bohemia's sylvan bowers!

The chasten'd glory of a royal line
Gleams like a halo round her form divine,
Ennobles still her soft, unconscious mien,
And lends to every step a pride serene.
Turn, Perdita! for there, in tranquil grace,
“Queen of herself,” the wrong'd Hermionè doth pace.

But my scene-painter, Fancy, drops her brush,
The pageant's hues of beauty fainter flush;
And now—queen, sylph, and hero all are fled,
But not for ever! oft this stage they'll tread:
Left to implore, for all that fleeting train
Whose mimic forms you yet shall see again,
Assumed by some, the pride of our own days,
Favour, forbearance, patronage, and praise.

Nor these alone. Creations rich and rare
Of modern genius here your smiles shall share.
Here the lithe spirit of the dance shall spring,
Like an embodied zephyr on the wing;
Or like a choral chant, caught as it came,
And fetter'd for an hour with mortal frame,
To soar and fall, and still for freedom yearn,
All grace and harmony, where'er it turn!
Here too the soul of song shall float in air,
And on its wings your hearts enchanted bear.

Ah! yield to them—to us—the meed we claim,
Your smiles to light the path that leads to Fame.

So shall this life of mockery seem more sweet,
And flowers shall rise to rest our pilgrim-feet,
While from our lips, inspired by Hope divine,
Like fire shall flow the bard's melodious line.

No more—the Drama's scenes my exit wait;
The prompter whispers, “Come, 'tis getting late!”
I'd much to say, and to the purpose, too,
But Mr. Wyman vows 'twill never do!
So, as I make my courtsey, with all speed,
Up with the drop-scene! Let the play proceed!

University of Virginia Library

ADDRESS,

FOR THE REOPENING OF THE FEDERAL STREET THEATRE.