 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
181
VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.
Young Beauty look'd over her gems one night,
And stole to her glass with a petulant air:
She braided her hair with their burning light,
Till they play'd like the gleam of a glow-worm there.
And stole to her glass with a petulant air:
She braided her hair with their burning light,
Till they play'd like the gleam of a glow-worm there.
Then she folded, over her form of grace,
A costly robe from an Indian loom,—
But a cloud overshadow'd her exquisite face,
And Love's sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.
A costly robe from an Indian loom,—
But a cloud overshadow'd her exquisite face,
And Love's sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.
“It is useless!” she murmur'd,—“my jewels have lost
All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”
And she snatch'd off the treasures, and haughtily toss'd,
Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies, and pearls.
All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”
And she snatch'd off the treasures, and haughtily toss'd,
Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies, and pearls.
Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;
“And what?” she exclaim'd, “shall the star of the ball
Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion!”—
Away went the robe,—ribands, laces, and all!
“And what?” she exclaim'd, “shall the star of the ball
Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion!”—
Away went the robe,—ribands, laces, and all!
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“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sigh'd in despair,
“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,
Which Juno of old condescended to wear,
And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—
“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,
Which Juno of old condescended to wear,
And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—
She said, and she started; for lo! in the glass,
Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!
She turn'd,—it was Venus herself! and the lass
Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.
Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!
She turn'd,—it was Venus herself! and the lass
Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.
“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek
Is one you can summon at once, if you will;
It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,
And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes fill.
Is one you can summon at once, if you will;
It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,
And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes fill.
“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,
No silk wrought in silver such beauty bestow;
With that talisman, heed not, though simply, my friend,
Your robe and your ringlets unjewell'd may flow!”
No silk wrought in silver such beauty bestow;
With that talisman, heed not, though simply, my friend,
Your robe and your ringlets unjewell'd may flow!”
“Oh, tell it me! give it me!” Beauty exclaim'd,
As Hope's happy smile to her rosy mouth stole:
“Nay! you wear it e'en now, since your temper is tamed,—
'Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul!”
As Hope's happy smile to her rosy mouth stole:
“Nay! you wear it e'en now, since your temper is tamed,—
'Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |