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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
179
WHAT CAN BE THE MATTER?
What can be the matter with Lizzie to-night?
Her eyes, that in tears were so touchingly tender,
For twenty-four hours have been filling with light,
Till I scarcely dare meet their bewildering splendour.
Her eyes, that in tears were so touchingly tender,
For twenty-four hours have been filling with light,
Till I scarcely dare meet their bewildering splendour.
You'd almost imagine a star had been lighted
Within her—a new-born and beautiful flame,
To bless with its pure ray her spirit benighted,
And smile through those eyes to which sorrow's cloud came.
Within her—a new-born and beautiful flame,
To bless with its pure ray her spirit benighted,
And smile through those eyes to which sorrow's cloud came.
What can be the matter with Lizzie!—her cheek,
That of late has been dimpleless, colourless, cold,
Has gather'd a glow and a glory, that speak
Like an eloquent voice of a rapture untold.
That of late has been dimpleless, colourless, cold,
Has gather'd a glow and a glory, that speak
Like an eloquent voice of a rapture untold.
What can be the matter with Lizzie!—her tone,
That was doubting and faint in its low melody
As the morning ray rising through mist-tears alone,
Or the sound of a bell ringing soft in the sea,—
That was doubting and faint in its low melody
As the morning ray rising through mist-tears alone,
Or the sound of a bell ringing soft in the sea,—
180
Has suddenly thrill'd to a richness and fervour,
A passionate sweetness, untroubled and deep—
You would think in her heart had arisen to nerve her,
An angel,—awaken'd from sorrow and sleep.
A passionate sweetness, untroubled and deep—
You would think in her heart had arisen to nerve her,
An angel,—awaken'd from sorrow and sleep.
It is Love! it is Love! by the joy that is stealing
Like light o'er her forehead, I know it is Love!—
He has touch'd with his wand the wild fountain of feeling,
He floats like a spirit that fountain above.
Like light o'er her forehead, I know it is Love!—
He has touch'd with his wand the wild fountain of feeling,
He floats like a spirit that fountain above.
He has kindled his star-lamp—the deathless—the pure—
Within—and her heart's hidden riches are shown;
His own seraph voice has breathed melody to her—
And hers has caught all its deep magic of tone.
Within—and her heart's hidden riches are shown;
His own seraph voice has breathed melody to her—
And hers has caught all its deep magic of tone.
Oh! still may that voice keep its sweetness and joy,
And still may that cheek wear its glow of delight,
And those dear eyes, unshadow'd by sorrow's alloy,
Still beam with the fondness that fills them to-night.
And still may that cheek wear its glow of delight,
And those dear eyes, unshadow'd by sorrow's alloy,
Still beam with the fondness that fills them to-night.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |