FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY.

———

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

———

“A friend!” Are you a friend? No, by my soul!

Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt

That I am true as Truth: since you give not

Unto my briefest look—my gayest word⁠—

My faintest change of cheek—my softest touch⁠—

Most sportive, careless smile, or low-breathed sigh⁠—

Nay, to my voice’s lightest modulation,

Though imperceptible to all but you,⁠—

If you give not to these, unquestioning,

A limitless faith—the faith you give to Heaven⁠—

I will not call you “friend.” I would disdain

A seraph’s heart, as yours I now renounce,

If such the terms on which ’twere proffered me.

Deny me Faith—that poor, yet priceless boon⁠—

And you deny the very soul of love.

As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals

The sculptured beauty latent in its urn,

As proffer Friendship’s diamond in the dark.

What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?

If my calm image smile not clear through all,

Serene, and without shadow on your heart⁠—

Nay, if the very vapors that would veil it,

Part not, illumined by its presence pure,

As round Night’s tranquil queen the clouds divide,

Then rend it from that heart! I ask no place,

Though ’twere a throne, without the state becomes me⁠—

Without the homage due to royal Truth.

And should a world betide pronounce me false,

You are to choose between the world and me.

If I be not more than all worlds to you,

I will not stoop to less! I will have all⁠—

Your proudest, purest, noblest, loftiest love⁠—

Your perfect trust—your soul of soul—or nothing!

Shall I not have them? Speak! on poorer spirits⁠—

Who are content with less, because, forsooth,

The whole would blind or blight them, or because

They have but less to give—will you divide

The glory of your own? or concentrate

On mine its radiant life?—on mine! that holds

As yet, in calm reserve, the boundless wealth

Of tenderness its Maker taught to it.

Speak! shall we part, and go our separate ways,

Each with a half life in a burning soul,

Like two wild clouds, whose meeting would evoke

The electric flame pent up within their bosoms,

That, parted, weep their fiery hearts away,

Or waste afar—and darken into death?

Speak! do we part? or are we one forever?

——

Since I must love thee—since a weird wild fate

Impels me to thy heart against my will⁠—

Do thou this justice to the heart I yield:

Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.

Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings

Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes

And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp

Calm Honor’s throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;

Love Honor more than Love, and more than me;

Be all thou wert ere the world came between

Thee and thy God.

Hear’st thou my spirit pleading

With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?

Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul

Soar with her to the seraph’s realm of light.

She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.

She shuts her wings in utter weariness,

For she has wandered all night long astray,

And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,

Save such as mocked her with a maddening thirst.

She asks of thine repose, protection, peace;

Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers

To give her shelter through the night of Time,

And lead her home at morn; for long ago

She lost her way.

Ah! thou may’st give, instead

Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,

Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!

But thou wilt not! thine eyes—thy glorious eyes⁠—

Are eloquent with generous love and faith,

And through thy voice a mighty heart intones

Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low

All lovely promises, and precious dreams

For the sweet Future. So, I trust thee, love,

And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.

——

Do not my soul that wrong! translate not thus

The spirit-words my eyes are saying to thee:

I would not fetter that rich heart of thine,

Save by the perfect liberty I give it,

For all God’s worlds of glory. Go thou forth⁠—

Be free as air! Love all the good and pure;

Cherish all love that can ennoble thee;

Unfold thy soul to all sweet ministries,

That it may grow toward heaven, as a flower

Drinks dew and light, and pays them back in beauty.

And if—ah heaven! these tears are love’s, not grief’s⁠—

And if some higher ministry than mine,

Or some more genial nature, bless thee more,

Wrong not thyself, or me, or love, or truth,

By shrinking weakly from thy destiny.

I would not owe to pitying tenderness

The joy with which thy presence lights my life.

Thou shalt still love all that is thine, dear friend,

In my true soul—all that is right and great;

And that I still love thee, so proudly, purely⁠—

That shall be joy enough! Go calmly forth.

——

Would I were any thing that thou dost love⁠—

A flower, a shell, a wavelet, or a cloud⁠—

Aught that might win a moment’s soul-look from thee.

To be “a joy forever” in thy heart,

That were in truth divinest joy to mine:

A low, sweet, haunting Tune, that will not let

Thy memory go, but fondly twines around it,

Pleading and beautiful—for unto thee

Music is life—such life as I would be;

A Statue, wrought in marble, without stain,

Where one immortal truth embodied lives

Instinct with grace and loveliness; a Fane,

A fair Ionic temple, growing up,

Light as a lily into the blue air,

To the glad melody of a tuneful thought

In its creator’s spirit, where thy gaze

Might never weary—dedicate to thee,

Thy image shrined within it, lone and loved;

Make me the Flower thou lovest; let me drink

Thy rays, and give them back in bloom and beauty;

Mould me to grace, to glory, like the Statue;

Wake for my mind the Music of thine own,

And it shall grow, to that majestic tune,

A temple meet to shrine mine idol in;

Hold the frail shell, tinted by love’s pure blush,

Unto thy soul, and thou shalt hear within

Tones from its spirit-home; smile on the wave,

And it shall flow, free, limpid, glad, forever;

Shed on the cloud the splendor of thy being,

And it shall float—a radiant wonder—by thee!

To love—thy love—so docile I would be,

So pliant, yet inspired, that it should make

A marvel of me, for thy sake, and show

Its proud chef d’œuvre in my harmonious life.

——

I would be judged by that great heart of thine,

Wherein a voice more genuine, more divine

Than world-taught Reason, fondly speaks for me,

And bids thee love and trust, through cloud and shine,

The frail and fragile creature who would be

Naught here—hereafter—if not all to thee!

Thou call’st me changeful as the summer cloud,

And wayward as a wave, and light as air.

And I am all thou sayest—all, and worse;

But the wild cloud can weep, as well as lighten,

And the wave mirrors heaven, as my soul thee;

And the light air, that frolicks without thought

O’er yonder harp, makes music as it goes.

Let me play on the soul-harp I love best,

And teach it all its dreaming melody;

That is my mission; I have nothing else,

In all the world, to do. And I shall go

Musicless, aimless, idle, through all life,

Unless I play my part there—only there.

In the full anthem which the universe

Intones to heaven, my heart will have no share,

Unless I have that soul-harp to myself,

And wake it to what melody I please.

——

So wrote the Lady Imogen—the child

Of Poetry and Passion—all her frame

So lightly, exquisitely shaped, we dreamed

’Twas fashioned to the echo of some song⁠—

The fairest, airiest creature ever made⁠—

Flower-like in her fragility and grace,

Childlike in sweet impetuous tenderness,

Yet with a nature proud, profound, and pure,

As a rapt sybil’s. O’er her soul had passed

The wild simoom of wo, but to awake

From that Eolian lyre the loveliest tones

Of mournful music, passionately sad.

Not thus her love the haughty Ida breathed:

In her ideal beauty calm and high,

O’er the patrician paleness of her cheek,

Came, seldom, and how softly! the faint blush

Of irrepressible tenderness.

——

Your course has been a conqueror’s through life;

You have been followed, flattered and caressed;

Soul after soul has laid upon your shrine

Its first, fresh, dewy bloom of love for incense:

The minstrel-girl has tuned for you her lute,

And set her life to music for your sake;

The opera-belle, with blush unwonted, starts

At your name’s casual mention, and forgets,

For one strange moment, fashion’s cold repose;

The village maiden’s conscious heart beats time

To your entrancing melody of verse,

And, from that hour, of your belovéd image

Makes a life-idol. And you know it all,

And smile, half-pleased, and half in scorn, to know.

But you have never known, nor shall you now,

Who, ’mid the throng you sometimes meet, receives

Your careless recognition with a thrill,

At her adoring heart, worth all that homage!

You see not, ’neath her half-disdainful smile,

The passionate tears it is put on to hide;

You dream not what a wild sigh dies away

In her laugh’s joyous trill; you cannot guess⁠—

You, who see only with your outer sense,⁠—

A warped, chilled sense, that wrongs you every hour⁠—

You cannot guess, when her cold hand you take,

That a soul trembles in that light, calm clasp!

You speak to her, with your world tone; ah, not

With the home cadence of confiding love!

And she replies: a few, low, formal words

Are all she dares, nay deigns, return; and so

You part, for months, again. Yet in that brief,

Oasis hour of her desert life,

She has quaffed eagerly the enchanted spring,

The sun-lit wave of thought in your rich mind;

And passes on her weary pilgrimage

Refreshed, and with a renovated strength.

And this has been for years. She was a child⁠—

A school-girl—when the echo of your lyre

First came to her, with music on its wings,

And her soul drank from it the life of life.

Then, in a festive scene, you claimed her hand

For the gay dance, and, in its intervals,

Spoke soothingly and gently, for you saw

Her timid blush, but did not dream its cause.

Even then her young heart worshiped you, and shrunk,

With a vague sense of fear and shame, away.

She who, with others, was, and is, even now,

Light, fearless, joyous, buoyant as a bird,

That lets the air-swung spray beneath it bend,

Nor cares, so it may carol, what shall chance,

With you, forgets her song, foregoes her mirth,

And hushes all her music in her heart.

It is because your soul, that should know hers

With an intuitive tenderness, is blind!

But once again you met; then, years went by,

And in a thronged, luxurious saloon,

You drew her fluttering hand within your arm;

A few blest moments next your heart it lay;

And still the lady mutely veiled, from yours,

Eyes where her glorious secret wildly shone;

And you, a-weary of her seeming dullness,

Grew colder day by day. But once you paused

Beside her seat, and murmured words of praise.

Praise from your lips! My God! the ecstasy

Of that dear moment! Each bright word, embalmed

In Memory’s tears of amber, gleams there yet⁠—

The costliest beads in her rich rosary.

But you were blind! And after that a cloud,

Colder and darker, hung between her heart

And yours. There were malicious, lovely lips,

That knew too well the poison of a hint,

And it worked deep and sure. And years, again,

Stole by, and now once more we meet. We meet? ah, no;

We ne’er have met! Hand may touch hand, perchance,

And eye glance back to eye its idle smile;

But our souls meet not: for, from boyhood, you

Have been a mad idolater of beauty.

And I! ah, Heaven! had you returned my love,

I had been beautiful in your dear eyes;

For love and joy and hope within the spirit

Make luminous the face. But let that pass:

I murmur not. In my soul Pride is crowned

And throned—a queen; and at her feet lies Love,

Her slave—in chains—that you shall ne’er unclasp.

Yet, oh! if aspirations, ever rising,

With an intense idolatry of love,

Toward all of grace and parity and truth

That we may dream, can shape the soul to beauty,

(As I believe,) then, in that better world,

You will not ask if I were fair on earth.

You have loved often—passionately, perchance⁠—

Never with that wild, rapturous, poet-love

Which I might win—and will. Not here on earth:

I would not have the ignoble, trivial cares

Of common life come o’er our glorious union,

To mar its spirit-beauty. In His home

We shall meet calmly, gracefully, without

Alloy of petty ills. . . . . .

Meantime, I read you, as no other reads;

I read your soul—its burning, baffled hopes;

Its proud, pure aims, whose wings are melted off

In the warm sunshine of the world’s applause;

Its yearning for an angel’s tenderness:

I read it all, and grieve, and sometimes blush,

That you can desecrate so grand a shrine

By the false gods you place there! you, who know

The lore of love so perfectly, who trace

The delicate labyrinth of a woman’s heart,

With a sure clew, so true, so fine, so rare,

Some angel Ariadne gave it you!

If I knew how to stoop, I’d tell you more:

I’d win your love, even now, by a slight word;

But that I’ll say in heaven. Till we meet there,

Unto God’s love I leave you. . . . .

You will glance round among the crowd hereafter,

And dream my woman’s heart must sure betray me.

Not so: I have not schooled, for weary years,

Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now

By your bold gaze. Ah! were I not secure

In my pride’s sanctuary, this revelation

Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon;

And still less I. Nor would I now forego,

Even for your love, the deep, divine delight

Of this most pure and unsuspected passion,

That none have guessed, or will, while I have life.

You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame you,

If with suspicion’s plummet you dare sound

The unfathomed deeps of feeling in this heart.

It shall bring up, ’stead of that love it seeks,

A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die

A martyr’s death, sir, rather than betray

To you by faintest flatter of a pulse⁠—

By lightest change of cheek or eyelid’s fall⁠—

That I am she who loves, adores, and flies you!

. . . . . . . . .

Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush

Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats

From yonder lily like an angel’s breath,

Is lavished on such men! God gives them all

For some high end; and thus, the seeming waste

Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,

Its every feeling delicate as a flower,

Its tender trust, its generous confidence,

Its wondering disdain of littleness⁠—

These, by the coarser sense of those around her

Uncomprehended, may not all be vain,

But win them—they unwitting of the spell⁠—

By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.

And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,

Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in ’t,

Than e’er she dreamed of, or could understand!

And she must blush before them, with a heart

Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!⁠—

They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!

They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter!

Faint, chilled and worn, her soul implored a pittance⁠—

Her soul asked alms of theirs—and was denied!

It was not much it came a-begging for:

A simple boon, only a gentle thought,

A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers

As passed their understanding, but to her

Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower:

For God taught her—but they had learned of men

The meagre doling of their measured love,

A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.

God taught the tendril where to cling, and she

Learned the same lovely lesson, with the same

Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.

And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven

Be played on by such hands, with touch so rude,

Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,

Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.