Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood

It was an altar worthy of a god!
All of pure gold, in furnace fire refined;
And never foot profane had near it trod,
And never image had been there enshrined;
But now a radiant idol claim'd the place,
And took it with a rare and royal grace.

And the proud woman thrill'd to its false glory,
And when the murmur of her own true soul
Told in low, lute-tones Love's impassion'd story,
She dream'd the music from that statue stole,
And knelt adoring at the silent shrine
Her own divinity had made divine.

And with a halo from her heart she crown'd it,
That shed a spirit-light upon its face,
And garlands hung of soul-flowers fondly round it,
Wreathing its beauty with immortal grace,

And so she felt not, as she gazed, how cold
And calm that Eidolon of marble mould.

Like Egypt's queen in her imperial play,
She, in abandonment more wildly sweet,
Melted the pearl of her pure Life away,
And pour'd the rich libation at its feet,
And in exulting rapture dream'd the smile
That should have answer'd in its eyes the while.

And all rare gifts she lavish'd on that altar,
Treasures the mines of India could not buy,
Nor did her foot-fall for a moment falter,
Though the world watch'd her with an evil eye,
And sad friends whisper'd, “Soon she'll wake to weep,
For lo! she walks in an enchanted sleep.”

Oh! glorious dreamer! with dark eyes upturn'd
In wondering worship to that godlike brow,
How the rare beauty of thy spirit burn'd
In the rapt gaze and in the glowing vow;
How didst thou waste on one thy soul should scorn
The glory of a blush that mock'd the morn!

She turn'd from all—from friendship and the world—
Only Love knew the way to that dim glade,

And calm her sweet yet queenly lip had curl'd
Had the world's whisper reach'd her in that shade;
But she was deaf and dumb and blind to all,
Save to the charm that held her heart in thrall.

And Love, who loved her, flew at her sweet will,
Bringing all gems that hoard the rainbow's splendour,
And singing-birds with magic in their trill,
And what wild-flowers fairy-land could lend her,
And flower and bird and jewel all were laid
To grace that golden altar in the shade.

Fair was that sylvan solitude, I ween—
The lady's charm'd and trancéd spirit lent
The starlight of its beauty to the scene,
And joy and music with the fountain went,
While in a still enchantment on its throne
The lucid statue cold and stately shone.

Love lent her, too, th' enchanted lute he play'd,
And she would let her light hand float at will
Across its chords of silver, half afraid,
Like a white lily on a murmuring rill,
Till Music's soul, waked by that touch, took wing,
And mingling with it hers would soar and sing:—

“Dost thou see—dost thou feel—oh, mine idol divine,
How I've yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine?
Dost thou thrill to the tones of my melody sweet?
Does it glide to thy heart on its musical feet?
Dost thou love the light touch of my hand as I twine
My passion-flower wreath for thy beauty benign?

“Dost thou know how I've gather'd all gifts that I own
To bless and to brighten the place of thy throne;
How my thoughts like young singing-birds flutter and fly
With a song for thine ear and a gleam for thine eye;
How Truth's precious gems, that drink sunbeams for wine,
Are wreathed into chaplets of light for thy shrine?

“How Fancy has woven her fairy-land flowers
To garland with odour and beauty thine hours;
While Feeling's pure fountains play softly and free,
And chant in their falling, ‘For thee! for thee!’
Dost thou feel—dost thou see—oh! mine idol divine,
How I've yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine.”

Thus sang the lady, but her waking hour
Drew near; for when her passionate song was mute,
And no fond answer thrill'd through that hush'd bower
Into her listening heart, she laid the lute

Within her loved one's clasp, and pray'd him play
Some idyl sweet to while the hours away.

From his cold hand the lute dropp'd idly down
And broke in music at the false god's feet;
Love's lute! ah heaven! how paled the peerless crown
Above that brow when, with a quick wild beat
Of fear and shame and sorrow at her heart,
The lady from her dazzling dream did start.

And the dream fell beside the broken lute,
And the flowers faded in their fairy grace,
And the fount stopp'd its glorious play, and mute
The birds their light wings shut in that sweet place,
While the deep night that veil'd the woman's soul
O'er shrine and idol cold and starless stole.

And in her desolate agony she cast
Her form beside Love's shiver'd treasure there,
And cried, “Oh, God! my life of life is past!
And I am left alone with my despair.”
Hark! from the lute one low, melodious sigh
Thrill'd to her heart a sad yet sweet reply.

Then through the darkness rose a voice in prayer,
“My Father! I have sinn'd 'gainst Thine and Thee.”

The idol, whom I deem'd so grandly fair
That its proud presence hid thy heaven from me,
Shorn of his glory, shrunk to common clay,
Behold, for him and for my heart I pray.

Take Thou the lute—the shatter'd lute of love—
And teach my faltering hand to tune it right
To some dear, holy hymn—which, like a dove,
From silver fetters freed, may cleave the night,
And, fluttering upward to thy starlit throne,
Die at Thy heart with blissful music moan.

University of Virginia Library

ERMENGARDE'S AWAKENING.