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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
156
TO MARY.
I've watch'd you well, my sweet, new friend,
(They wrong true Love who say he's blind,)
And there's one fault I fain would mend—
A fault of taste, I grieve to find.
(They wrong true Love who say he's blind,)
And there's one fault I fain would mend—
A fault of taste, I grieve to find.
'Tis this: that you perversely choose
Such gay attire to robe your graces,
That, dazzled by its glaring hues,
We scarce see where your daintier face is.
Such gay attire to robe your graces,
That, dazzled by its glaring hues,
We scarce see where your daintier face is.
When Nature painted you, my pet,
Her softest tints she fondly chose;
Ah, take her hint, and never let
A rainbow glitter round a rose.
Her softest tints she fondly chose;
Ah, take her hint, and never let
A rainbow glitter round a rose.
In Quaker gray or simple white,
Your modest loveliness array;
And sometimes, with an azure light,
Let a soft riband o'er it play.
Your modest loveliness array;
And sometimes, with an azure light,
Let a soft riband o'er it play.
157
Too oft you braid amid your hair
The brilliant flowers of art profane;
Your cheek a lovelier flower doth wear,
That pales beneath their gaudier stain;
The brilliant flowers of art profane;
Your cheek a lovelier flower doth wear,
That pales beneath their gaudier stain;
And following fashion's wanton beck,
A thought too low your robe is folded;
Ah, hide, for your heart's sake, your neck,
Like Juno's own, to beauty moulded.
A thought too low your robe is folded;
Ah, hide, for your heart's sake, your neck,
Like Juno's own, to beauty moulded.
Remember, sweet, the dearest rose
Blooms through the moss-veil clinging o'er it,
All chary of its charms its glows,
And all the more our hearts adore it!
Blooms through the moss-veil clinging o'er it,
All chary of its charms its glows,
And all the more our hearts adore it!
I were less frank were you less fair;
Pure gems the lightest flaw betray;
The mote we miss in clouded air,
Shows darkly in the sunbeam's way.
Pure gems the lightest flaw betray;
The mote we miss in clouded air,
Shows darkly in the sunbeam's way.
See Nature! from her palette rare,
With violet, azure, rose, or gold,
How soft she tints the sky and air!
And so forgive my counsel bold.
With violet, azure, rose, or gold,
How soft she tints the sky and air!
And so forgive my counsel bold.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |