 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
201
MARION'S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.
Away with you, ye musty tomes!
I'll read no more this morning!
The wildwood rose unlesson'd grows—
I'm off—your sermons scorning!
I'll read no more this morning!
The wildwood rose unlesson'd grows—
I'm off—your sermons scorning!
I found a problem, yester eve,
In wondering where the brook led,
More pleasant far for me to solve
Than any one in Euclid.
In wondering where the brook led,
More pleasant far for me to solve
Than any one in Euclid.
I heard a bird sing, sweet and low,
A truer lay than Tasso—
A lay of love—ah! let me go,
And fly from Learning's lasso!
A truer lay than Tasso—
A lay of love—ah! let me go,
And fly from Learning's lasso!
I saw a golden missal, too,
'Twas writ in ancient ages,
And stars—immortal words of light—
Illumined all its pages!
'Twas writ in ancient ages,
And stars—immortal words of light—
Illumined all its pages!
202
The hand of God unclasp'd the book,
And oped its leaves of glory;
I read, with awed and reverent look,
Creation's wondrous story.
And oped its leaves of glory;
I read, with awed and reverent look,
Creation's wondrous story.
I will not waste these summer hours,
The gift that He has given;
I'll find philosophy in flowers,
Astronomy in heaven!
The gift that He has given;
I'll find philosophy in flowers,
Astronomy in heaven!
Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves,
A worm creeps out from under;
Ye volumes, take the hint she gives,
And let the book-worm wander!
A worm creeps out from under;
Ye volumes, take the hint she gives,
And let the book-worm wander!
I'll scan no more old Virgil's verse,
I'd rather scan the heavens;
I'll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three
At sixes and at sevens;
I'd rather scan the heavens;
I'll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three
At sixes and at sevens;
The only sum I'll cipher out
Shall be the “summum bonum;”
My only lines shall fish for trout,
Till Virgil wouldn't own 'em!
Shall be the “summum bonum;”
My only lines shall fish for trout,
Till Virgil wouldn't own 'em!
203
A costly cover has my book,
Rich blue, where light is winding;
How poor, beside its beauty, look
Your calf and cotton binding.
Rich blue, where light is winding;
How poor, beside its beauty, look
Your calf and cotton binding.
Away! the balmy air—the birds—
Can teach me music better
Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.
Can teach me music better
Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.
The waves will tell me how to play
That waltz of Weber's rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance with grace, and lightly.
That waltz of Weber's rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance with grace, and lightly.
Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird,
I'll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I'm off—your sermons scorning!
I'll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I'm off—your sermons scorning!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |