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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
208
TO A TRIFLER.
'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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
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!
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.
Who stoop'd a starry wing,
That might have bathed in Eden airs,
Around a rose to sing.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |