[Poems by Osgood in] The ladies' wreath a selection from the female poetic writers of England and America |
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 | [Poems by Osgood in] The ladies' wreath |  |
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THE BLIND GIRL.
“I thought it slept.”
My brow was burning for holier air,
The blessed mountain breeze;
My heart was away, in the valleys fair,
With the woodland streams and trees;
And I longed to be in a tranquil spot,
Shaded and pleasant and still,
Where, alone with the flowers, and noticed not,
I could follow my wayward will:
And so, in sadness, I went away,
From the city's peopled street,
And I found the sunlight and stream, at play,
Where the breathing blossoms meet
The blessed mountain breeze;
My heart was away, in the valleys fair,
With the woodland streams and trees;
And I longed to be in a tranquil spot,
Shaded and pleasant and still,
Where, alone with the flowers, and noticed not,
I could follow my wayward will:
And so, in sadness, I went away,
From the city's peopled street,
And I found the sunlight and stream, at play,
Where the breathing blossoms meet
Soft as the spirit's parting smile,
Lighting some young, blue eye to death;
Bright as that spirit's pinions while
They rise upon the expiring breath,
And leave their radiance trembling there,
On lip and cheek and forehead fair,
Our sungod sends his farewell ray,
Sweet Wilda! where thy waters play!
And, while his glittering wings unclose,
In glory o'er thy calm repose,
One pitying moment rests above,
To light thee with his glance of love;
Then, soft receding, floats in light,
Away, beyond the mountain height.
Lighting some young, blue eye to death;
Bright as that spirit's pinions while
They rise upon the expiring breath,
And leave their radiance trembling there,
On lip and cheek and forehead fair,
Our sungod sends his farewell ray,
Sweet Wilda! where thy waters play!
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In glory o'er thy calm repose,
One pitying moment rests above,
To light thee with his glance of love;
Then, soft receding, floats in light,
Away, beyond the mountain height.
I found the stream—the woodland stream—
I lingered by its golden gleam,
While softly, in the luminous air,
The dream-like clouds were floating fair,
And all serene as seraph's eye,
The waters went in beauty by.
I laid me on the pleasant green,—
The graceful slope that bends between,
In one sweet sunny nook of love,
The fir-trees of the darkling grove.
I lingered by its golden gleam,
While softly, in the luminous air,
The dream-like clouds were floating fair,
And all serene as seraph's eye,
The waters went in beauty by.
I laid me on the pleasant green,—
The graceful slope that bends between,
In one sweet sunny nook of love,
The fir-trees of the darkling grove.
Oh! 'tis a gem, that lone retreat!
A fairy gift, by nature wrought,
To lay at laughing summer's feet,—
An emerald with her bright smile fraught,—
An emerald, set in sapphire light,
And hidden in the woods from sight!
Fair summer hung her prize, above,
And lent it light, from looks of love,
And press'd it with her fondling hand,
And bless'd it with her breezes bland,
Till, smiling back that radiant gaze,
The wave its fairy music plays,
And gaily, from the grove, are heard
The warblings of the woodland bird.
At times she weeps her softest tears,
When dim decay is near her treasure;
And then, again, in joy appears,
Her fond and sunlight smile of pleasure:
While born in beauty 'neath her eyes,
And wreathed around, on shrub and tree,
She sees her forest-blossoms rise,
And lists her forest-melody.
A fairy gift, by nature wrought,
To lay at laughing summer's feet,—
An emerald with her bright smile fraught,—
An emerald, set in sapphire light,
And hidden in the woods from sight!
Fair summer hung her prize, above,
And lent it light, from looks of love,
And press'd it with her fondling hand,
And bless'd it with her breezes bland,
Till, smiling back that radiant gaze,
The wave its fairy music plays,
And gaily, from the grove, are heard
The warblings of the woodland bird.
At times she weeps her softest tears,
When dim decay is near her treasure;
And then, again, in joy appears,
Her fond and sunlight smile of pleasure:
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And wreathed around, on shrub and tree,
She sees her forest-blossoms rise,
And lists her forest-melody.
A lonely cottage rises there,
Against the trees in fair relief;
Its smoke is blending with the air,
As melts in joy, the cloud of grief:
Behind, the shadowy elms wave o'er it,
And all sweet flowers are bright before it.
I wander'd to the garden's gate,
And thought at first 'twas desolate;
But there half hid, with eyelids closed,
A sweet unconscious child reposed,—
A fairy girl,—her soft brown hair
Lay floating from her forehead fair,
Among the flowers, that in her play,
She'd careless thrown around her there;
Some on her white dress blooming lay;
Some in her tresses, and a few
Crush'd buds of blushing, rosy hue,
Within her little hand were press'd.
I thought the fair thing was at rest,
And almost feared her sleep to break,
I thought to see her start and wake,
And lift to me, in wild surprise,
The sweet blue light of laughing eyes:—
Ah no! tho' close I went to her,
Those soft-veined eyelids did not stir!
But offering,—with a motion glad,
And smile of gay dreams telling,
As in deep sleep,—her rosebuds bright,—
In accents,—Oh! so sweetly sad,
They mock'd her smile's unclouded light—
—She said,—“What are they, Ellen?”
I knelt beside the gentle child,
And wondered at that slumber mild.
“It is not Ellen,”—whisper'd I,
She did not start,—she did not cry;
She put her soft hand on my face,
With all a child's unconscious grace,
And slowly moved it, as if thought,
Deeply, within her dreaming wrought.
I spoke,—I thought to win the while
Her eyes to see my soothing smile;
Ah! still those lashes met the cheek!
Still closed her lids in slumber meek.
“Have you ne'er seen a rose before?”—
—A shadow fell her forehead o'er,—
She lifted her soft face to me,
While tears from those shut eyelids came,
And half in sweetness, half in blame,
She said—“I cannot see!”
Against the trees in fair relief;
Its smoke is blending with the air,
As melts in joy, the cloud of grief:
Behind, the shadowy elms wave o'er it,
And all sweet flowers are bright before it.
I wander'd to the garden's gate,
And thought at first 'twas desolate;
But there half hid, with eyelids closed,
A sweet unconscious child reposed,—
A fairy girl,—her soft brown hair
Lay floating from her forehead fair,
Among the flowers, that in her play,
She'd careless thrown around her there;
Some on her white dress blooming lay;
Some in her tresses, and a few
Crush'd buds of blushing, rosy hue,
Within her little hand were press'd.
I thought the fair thing was at rest,
And almost feared her sleep to break,
I thought to see her start and wake,
And lift to me, in wild surprise,
The sweet blue light of laughing eyes:—
Ah no! tho' close I went to her,
Those soft-veined eyelids did not stir!
But offering,—with a motion glad,
And smile of gay dreams telling,
As in deep sleep,—her rosebuds bright,—
In accents,—Oh! so sweetly sad,
They mock'd her smile's unclouded light—
—She said,—“What are they, Ellen?”
330
And wondered at that slumber mild.
“It is not Ellen,”—whisper'd I,
She did not start,—she did not cry;
She put her soft hand on my face,
With all a child's unconscious grace,
And slowly moved it, as if thought,
Deeply, within her dreaming wrought.
I spoke,—I thought to win the while
Her eyes to see my soothing smile;
Ah! still those lashes met the cheek!
Still closed her lids in slumber meek.
“Have you ne'er seen a rose before?”—
—A shadow fell her forehead o'er,—
She lifted her soft face to me,
While tears from those shut eyelids came,
And half in sweetness, half in blame,
She said—“I cannot see!”
MY MOTHER'S SIGH.
I've felt it oft in childhood's hour—
The magic of a mother's sigh:
I've yielded to its gentle power,
With heart subdued, and drooping eye.
The magic of a mother's sigh:
I've yielded to its gentle power,
With heart subdued, and drooping eye.
When full of glee, a wayward child,
I've stolen from my task away,
That sound amid the frolic wild
Would rouse and check my careless play.
I've stolen from my task away,
That sound amid the frolic wild
Would rouse and check my careless play.
I've read, with rapt and earnest look,
O'er pages filled with wild romance,—
My mother sighed!—I closed the book,
And broke at once the idle trance.
O'er pages filled with wild romance,—
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And broke at once the idle trance.
If passion flushed my youthful cheek,
And pride and gloom were on my brow,
When others' frowns were vain and weak,
Her sigh could bid my spirit bow.
And pride and gloom were on my brow,
When others' frowns were vain and weak,
Her sigh could bid my spirit bow.
If, checked in Folly's wayward whim,
I've turned away with laughing eyes,—
My mother's sigh that smile could dim,
And tears, repentant tears, would rise.—
I've turned away with laughing eyes,—
My mother's sigh that smile could dim,
And tears, repentant tears, would rise.—
My dream has fled—and wearying care
Has silenced Folly's childish strain;
The thoughtless mirth that revelled there
May never, never come again!
Has silenced Folly's childish strain;
The thoughtless mirth that revelled there
May never, never come again!
But still I feel that holy power,
It thrills my heart and fills my eye
With tears, as when, in “childhood's hour,”
I yielded to my mother's sigh.
It thrills my heart and fills my eye
With tears, as when, in “childhood's hour,”
I yielded to my mother's sigh.
STANZAS.
When the warm blessed spirit that lightens the sky,
Hath darkened his glory, and furled up his wing,
And nature forgets the sweet smile, that her eye
Was wont on that radiant spirit to fling,—
Hath darkened his glory, and furled up his wing,
And nature forgets the sweet smile, that her eye
Was wont on that radiant spirit to fling,—
I turn from the world without, calm and content,
And find in my own heart a day-dream as bright;
And dearer, far dearer than that which is lent
To illumine creation with glory and light.
And find in my own heart a day-dream as bright;
And dearer, far dearer than that which is lent
To illumine creation with glory and light.
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There's a thought in that heart it can never forget—
There's a ray in that heart that will lighten my doom;
Through many a sorrow they linger there yet,
And, holy and beautiful, smile through the gloom.
There's a ray in that heart that will lighten my doom;
Through many a sorrow they linger there yet,
And, holy and beautiful, smile through the gloom.
But they say that the garland Affection is wreathing,
Will fade ere the morrow has wakened its bloom—
They say the wild blossoms where young Hope is breathing,
Their beauty, their fragrance are all for the tomb.
Will fade ere the morrow has wakened its bloom—
They say the wild blossoms where young Hope is breathing,
Their beauty, their fragrance are all for the tomb.
They tell me the vision of Bliss that is “glinting,”
My heart's star of promise in gloom will decline;
And the far scene that Fancy, the fairy, is tinting,
Will lose all its sunny glow ere it is mine.
My heart's star of promise in gloom will decline;
And the far scene that Fancy, the fairy, is tinting,
Will lose all its sunny glow ere it is mine.
Oh! if Love and Life be but a fairy illusion,
And the cold future bright but in Fancy's young eye,
Still, still let me live in the dreamy illusion,
And, true and unchanging, hope on till I die!
And the cold future bright but in Fancy's young eye,
Still, still let me live in the dreamy illusion,
And, true and unchanging, hope on till I die!
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A FRAGMENT.
Oh, do believe me, Julian! woman's heart,—A true, proud, loving, woman's, ne'er was won,
By that must worthless bubble, Flattery.
Your thoughtless words betray their own light falsehood,
For we are very sure, when lips o'er praise,
The mind must undervalue our true worth,
And wrong our intellect,—deeming we try,
With child-like eagerness and love, to catch
Your bribe for hearts,—your rainbow-lit illusion.
Why, 't is a heartless insult! that doth call
For all a woman's spirit to resist!—
Now—in our injured cause,—I dare ye all!—
And fling our gauntlet proudly at your feet;—
But once o'erstep Truth's pure and holy limit,
And from that hour, your eloquence is lost—
Your worship scorned—your sweetest whispers vain,
As the fair eastern fruit that looks so rich,
And tempts the lip, with its bright nothingness.
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