[Poems by Osgood in] The ladies' wreath a selection from the female poetic writers of England and America |
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THE BLIND GIRL. |
 | [Poems by Osgood in] The ladies' wreath |  |
327
THE BLIND GIRL.
“I thought it slept.”
My brow was burning for holier air,
The blessed mountain breeze;
My heart was away, in the valleys fair,
With the woodland streams and trees;
And I longed to be in a tranquil spot,
Shaded and pleasant and still,
Where, alone with the flowers, and noticed not,
I could follow my wayward will:
And so, in sadness, I went away,
From the city's peopled street,
And I found the sunlight and stream, at play,
Where the breathing blossoms meet
The blessed mountain breeze;
My heart was away, in the valleys fair,
With the woodland streams and trees;
And I longed to be in a tranquil spot,
Shaded and pleasant and still,
Where, alone with the flowers, and noticed not,
I could follow my wayward will:
And so, in sadness, I went away,
From the city's peopled street,
And I found the sunlight and stream, at play,
Where the breathing blossoms meet
Soft as the spirit's parting smile,
Lighting some young, blue eye to death;
Bright as that spirit's pinions while
They rise upon the expiring breath,
And leave their radiance trembling there,
On lip and cheek and forehead fair,
Our sungod sends his farewell ray,
Sweet Wilda! where thy waters play!
And, while his glittering wings unclose,
In glory o'er thy calm repose,
One pitying moment rests above,
To light thee with his glance of love;
Then, soft receding, floats in light,
Away, beyond the mountain height.
Lighting some young, blue eye to death;
Bright as that spirit's pinions while
They rise upon the expiring breath,
And leave their radiance trembling there,
On lip and cheek and forehead fair,
Our sungod sends his farewell ray,
Sweet Wilda! where thy waters play!
328
In glory o'er thy calm repose,
One pitying moment rests above,
To light thee with his glance of love;
Then, soft receding, floats in light,
Away, beyond the mountain height.
I found the stream—the woodland stream—
I lingered by its golden gleam,
While softly, in the luminous air,
The dream-like clouds were floating fair,
And all serene as seraph's eye,
The waters went in beauty by.
I laid me on the pleasant green,—
The graceful slope that bends between,
In one sweet sunny nook of love,
The fir-trees of the darkling grove.
I lingered by its golden gleam,
While softly, in the luminous air,
The dream-like clouds were floating fair,
And all serene as seraph's eye,
The waters went in beauty by.
I laid me on the pleasant green,—
The graceful slope that bends between,
In one sweet sunny nook of love,
The fir-trees of the darkling grove.
Oh! 'tis a gem, that lone retreat!
A fairy gift, by nature wrought,
To lay at laughing summer's feet,—
An emerald with her bright smile fraught,—
An emerald, set in sapphire light,
And hidden in the woods from sight!
Fair summer hung her prize, above,
And lent it light, from looks of love,
And press'd it with her fondling hand,
And bless'd it with her breezes bland,
Till, smiling back that radiant gaze,
The wave its fairy music plays,
And gaily, from the grove, are heard
The warblings of the woodland bird.
At times she weeps her softest tears,
When dim decay is near her treasure;
And then, again, in joy appears,
Her fond and sunlight smile of pleasure:
While born in beauty 'neath her eyes,
And wreathed around, on shrub and tree,
She sees her forest-blossoms rise,
And lists her forest-melody.
A fairy gift, by nature wrought,
To lay at laughing summer's feet,—
An emerald with her bright smile fraught,—
An emerald, set in sapphire light,
And hidden in the woods from sight!
Fair summer hung her prize, above,
And lent it light, from looks of love,
And press'd it with her fondling hand,
And bless'd it with her breezes bland,
Till, smiling back that radiant gaze,
The wave its fairy music plays,
And gaily, from the grove, are heard
The warblings of the woodland bird.
At times she weeps her softest tears,
When dim decay is near her treasure;
And then, again, in joy appears,
Her fond and sunlight smile of pleasure:
329
And wreathed around, on shrub and tree,
She sees her forest-blossoms rise,
And lists her forest-melody.
A lonely cottage rises there,
Against the trees in fair relief;
Its smoke is blending with the air,
As melts in joy, the cloud of grief:
Behind, the shadowy elms wave o'er it,
And all sweet flowers are bright before it.
I wander'd to the garden's gate,
And thought at first 'twas desolate;
But there half hid, with eyelids closed,
A sweet unconscious child reposed,—
A fairy girl,—her soft brown hair
Lay floating from her forehead fair,
Among the flowers, that in her play,
She'd careless thrown around her there;
Some on her white dress blooming lay;
Some in her tresses, and a few
Crush'd buds of blushing, rosy hue,
Within her little hand were press'd.
I thought the fair thing was at rest,
And almost feared her sleep to break,
I thought to see her start and wake,
And lift to me, in wild surprise,
The sweet blue light of laughing eyes:—
Ah no! tho' close I went to her,
Those soft-veined eyelids did not stir!
But offering,—with a motion glad,
And smile of gay dreams telling,
As in deep sleep,—her rosebuds bright,—
In accents,—Oh! so sweetly sad,
They mock'd her smile's unclouded light—
—She said,—“What are they, Ellen?”
I knelt beside the gentle child,
And wondered at that slumber mild.
“It is not Ellen,”—whisper'd I,
She did not start,—she did not cry;
She put her soft hand on my face,
With all a child's unconscious grace,
And slowly moved it, as if thought,
Deeply, within her dreaming wrought.
I spoke,—I thought to win the while
Her eyes to see my soothing smile;
Ah! still those lashes met the cheek!
Still closed her lids in slumber meek.
“Have you ne'er seen a rose before?”—
—A shadow fell her forehead o'er,—
She lifted her soft face to me,
While tears from those shut eyelids came,
And half in sweetness, half in blame,
She said—“I cannot see!”
Against the trees in fair relief;
Its smoke is blending with the air,
As melts in joy, the cloud of grief:
Behind, the shadowy elms wave o'er it,
And all sweet flowers are bright before it.
I wander'd to the garden's gate,
And thought at first 'twas desolate;
But there half hid, with eyelids closed,
A sweet unconscious child reposed,—
A fairy girl,—her soft brown hair
Lay floating from her forehead fair,
Among the flowers, that in her play,
She'd careless thrown around her there;
Some on her white dress blooming lay;
Some in her tresses, and a few
Crush'd buds of blushing, rosy hue,
Within her little hand were press'd.
I thought the fair thing was at rest,
And almost feared her sleep to break,
I thought to see her start and wake,
And lift to me, in wild surprise,
The sweet blue light of laughing eyes:—
Ah no! tho' close I went to her,
Those soft-veined eyelids did not stir!
But offering,—with a motion glad,
And smile of gay dreams telling,
As in deep sleep,—her rosebuds bright,—
In accents,—Oh! so sweetly sad,
They mock'd her smile's unclouded light—
—She said,—“What are they, Ellen?”
330
And wondered at that slumber mild.
“It is not Ellen,”—whisper'd I,
She did not start,—she did not cry;
She put her soft hand on my face,
With all a child's unconscious grace,
And slowly moved it, as if thought,
Deeply, within her dreaming wrought.
I spoke,—I thought to win the while
Her eyes to see my soothing smile;
Ah! still those lashes met the cheek!
Still closed her lids in slumber meek.
“Have you ne'er seen a rose before?”—
—A shadow fell her forehead o'er,—
She lifted her soft face to me,
While tears from those shut eyelids came,
And half in sweetness, half in blame,
She said—“I cannot see!”
| [Poems by Osgood in] The ladies' wreath | |