Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood :: :: University of Virginia Library

208

'Tis well—the blow is felt—forgiven!
I stoop'd a starry wing,
That might have proudly soar'd to heaven,
On thy poor heart to cling.

For thee, frail flutterer of the earth,
I deign'd my flight to stay;
On thee, who dream'd not half its worth,
I pour'd my spirit's ray.

The proudest, truest, loftiest love,
That ever burn'd the shrine
Whereon its costly incense rose,
My heart vouchsafed to thine.

And thus the penalty I pay,
As few have paid before;
When God-lit spirit bends to clay,
What should it look for more?

209

Ay! ever thus 'twill be for those
Who, graced with starry wing,
Forego a golden dawn in heaven,
To round a taper sing.

And whose the loss?—or mine or thine?
I offer'd to thy lip
A chalice brimm'd with glorious wine,
Whence thou didst lightly sip.

Thou didst not dream that life was there,—
Soul-life, for such as thou!
Thy hand dash'd down the beaker rare,
Thy lip belied the vow.

And I?—oh, God! 'twas I who lost
The immortal draught divine;
For thou, who couldst not feel its cost,—
What was that heart to thine?

Yet, even now, to ruin lured—
Betray'd, condemn'd, forgot—
My wounded pinions still I wave
Beyond thy soulless lot!

210

Yet guerdon just this fate to me,
Who stoop'd a starry wing,
That might have bathed in Eden airs,
Around a rose to sing.