Frances S. Osgood

"Ah me ! — ah, woe is me ! That I should perish now, With the dear sunlight just let in Upon my balmy brow !

"My leaves, instinct with glowing life, Were quivering to unclose ; My happy heart with love was rife — I was almost a rose.

"Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense, Already I had risen Above my cage's curving fence — My green and graceful prison.

"My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, Were just prepared to part And whisper to the wooing wind The rapture of my heart.

"In new-born fancies reveling, My mossy cell half riven, Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing To bear me into Heaven.

"How oft, while yet an infant flower, My crimson cheek I've laid Against the green bars of my bower, Impatient of the shade!

"And pressing up and peeping through Its small but precious vistas, Sighed for the lovely light and dew That blessed my elder sisters.

"I saw the sweet breeze rippling o'er Their leaves that loved the play, Though the light thief stole all their store Of dew-drop gems away.

"I thought how happy I should be Such diamond wreaths to wear, And frolic with a rose's glee With sunbeam, bird and air.

"Ah me ! — ah, woe is me, that I, Ere yet my leaves unclose, With all my wealth of sweets, must die Before I am a rose ! "

"She comes — the spirit of the dance ! And but for those large, eloquent eyes, Where passion speaks in every glance, She'd seem a wanderer from the skies.

"So light that, gazing breathless there, Lest the celestial dream should go, You'd think the music in the air Waved the fair vision to and fro !

"Or that the melody's sweet flow Within the radiant creature played, And those soft wreathing arms of snow And white sylph feet the music made.

"Now gliding slow with dreamy grace, Her eyes beneath their lashes lost, Now motionless, with lifted face, And small hands on her bosom crossed.

"And now with flashing eyes she springs — Her whole bright figure raised in air, As if her soul had spread its wings And poised her one will instant there!

"She spoke not — but, so richly fraught With language are her glance and smile, That when the curtain fell, I thought She had been talking all the while."

"LENORE. "Oh, fragile and fair as the delicate chalices Wrought with so rare and so subtle a skill, Bright relics that tell of the pomp of those palaces Venice, the sea-goddess, glories in still !

"Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes, Yet, ah, if some false hand, profaning its splendor, Dares but to taint it with poison, it breaks.

"So when Love poured through thy pure heart his lightning, On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke — So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening, Poisoned the treasure, it trembled and broke ! "

——

"TO SARAH.

"Oh, they never can know that heart of thine, Who dare accuse thee of flirtation; They might as well say that the stars, which shine In the light of their joy o'er creation, Are flirting with every wild wave in which lies One beam of the glory that kindles the skies.

"Smile on, then, undimmed in your beauty and grace ! Too well e'er to doubt, love, we know you; And shed from your heaven the light of your face, Where the waves chase each other below you — For none can e'er deem it your shame or your sin That each wave holds your star-image smiling within."

"So when Love | poured through thy | pure heart his | lightning, On thy pale | cheek the soft | rose-hues a | woke."

"A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.

"Yes, take them first, my Father; let my doves Fold their white wings in Heaven, safe on Thy breast, Ere I am called away ! I dare not leave Their young hearts here — their innocent, thoughtless hearts ! Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze ! My May, my careless, ardent-tempered May, My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise; Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes; Whose little loving heart a word, a glance, Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play, And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks With her clear, flute-like voice, ' Do you love me ?' Ah, let me stay — ah, let me still be by, To answer her and meet her warm caress ! For, I away, how oft in this rough world That earnest question will be asked in vain ! How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart, Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length The hateful withering lesson of distrust ! Ah, let her nestle still upon this breast, In which each shade that dims her darling face Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven. And thou, My modest Ellen — tender, thoughtful, true, Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies — My pure, proud, noble Ellen, with thy gifts Of genius, grace and loveliness, half hidden 'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart To startle and appal ! Thy generous scorn Of all things base and mean; thy quick, keen taste, Dainty and delicate; thy instinctive fear Of those unworthy of a soul so pure; Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien — All, they will all bring pain to thee, my child. And, oh ! if even their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all The latent evil yet undisciplined In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find — Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings, Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give ? Ah, let me stay — albeit my heart is weary, Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat That finds no echo in this busy world Which cannot pause to answer — tired alike Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night. Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me ! And for their sakes — for their sweet sakes, my Father, Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet !"