Volume 2 — CHAPTER VI. (continued 2)
Reading edition
"And how are the critical Cæsars, one after another, 'giving in' to the graces, and fascinations, and soft enchantments of this Cleopatra of song. She charms lions to sleep, with her silver lute, and then throws around them the delicate net-work of her exquisite fancy, and lo! when they wake, they are well content in their silken prison.
'From the tips of her pen a melody flows, Sweet as the nightingale sings to the rose.'
"With her beautiful Italian soul—with her impulse, and wild energy, and exuberant fancy, and glowing passionateness—and with the wonderful facility with which, like an almond-tree casting off its blossoms, she flings abroad her heart-tinted and love-perfumed lays, she has, I must believe, more of the improvisatrice than has yet been revealed by any of our gifted countrywomen now before the people. Heaven bless her, and grant her ever, as now, to have laurels on her brows, and to browse on her laurels! Were I the President of these United States, I would immortalize my brief term of office by the crowning of our Corinna, at the Capitol."
And about the same period, having been introduced to her, she referred to the event:
"It seems like a 'pleasant vision of the night' that I have indeed seen 'the idol of my early dreams,' that I have been within the charmed circle of her real presence, sat by her very side, and lovingly watched the shadow of each feeling that moved her soul, glance o'er that radiant face!'"
And writing to her:
"Dear Mrs. Osgood, let me lay this sweet weight off my heart—look down into my eyes—believe me—long, long before we met, I loved you, with a strange, almost passionate love. You were my literary idol: I repeated some of your poems so often, that their echo never had time to die away; your earlier, bird-like warblings so chimed in with the joyous beatings of my heart, that it seemed it could not throb without them; and when you raised 'your lightning glance to heaven,' and sang your loftiest song, the liquid notes fell upon my soul like baptismal waters. With an 'intense and burning,' almost unwomanly ambition, I have still joyed in your success, and gloried in your glory; and all because Love laid its reproving finger on the lip of Envy. I cannot tell you how much this romantic interest has deepened,
Now I have looked upon thy face, Have felt thy twining arms' embrace, Thy very bosom's swell;— One moment leaned this brow of mine On song's sweet source, and love's pure shrine, And music's 'magic cell!"
Another friend of hers, Miss Hunter, whose pleasing contributions to our literature are well known, probably on account of some misapprehension, had not visited her for several months, but hearing of her illness she wrote:
"Learning this, by chance, I have summoned courage once more to address you—overcoming my fear of being intrusive, and offering as my apology the simple assertion that it is my heart prompts me. Till to-day pride has checked me: but you are 'very ill,' and I can no longer resist the impulse. With the assurance that I will never again trouble you, that now I neither ask nor expect the slightest response, suffer me thus to steal to your presence, to sit beside your bed, and for the last time to speak of a love that has followed you through months of separation, rejoicing when you have rejoiced, and mourning when you have mourned. You know how, from childhood, I have worshipped you, that since our first meeting you have been my idol, the realization of my dreams; and do not suppose that because I have failed to inspire you with a lasting interest, I shall ever feel for you a less deep or less fervent devotion. The blame or misfortune of our estrangement I have always regarded as only mine. I know I have seemed indifferent when I panted for expression. You have thought me unsympathizing when my every nerve thrilled to your words. I have lived in comparative seclusion; I have an unconquerable reserve, induced by such an experience; and when I have been with you my soul has had no voice.
"The time has been when I could not bear the thought of never regaining your friendship in this world—when I would say 'The years! oh, the years of this earth-life, that must pass so slowly!' And when I saw any new poem of yours, I experienced the most sad emotions,—every word I read was so like you, it seemed as if you had passed through the room, speaking to others near me kindly, but regarding me coldly, or not seeing me. But one day I read in a book by Miss Bremer, 'It is a sad experience, who can describe its bitterness! when we see the friend, on whom we have built for eternity, grow cold, and become lost to us. But believe it not, thou loving, sorrowing soul—believe it not! continue thyself only, and the moment will come when thy friend will return to thee. Yes, there, where all delusions cease, thy friend will find thee gain, in a higher light,—will acknowledge thee and unite herself to thee forever.' And I took this assurance to my heart.... We may meet in heaven, if not here. I shall not go see you, though my heart is wrung by this intelligence of your illness. So good-bye, darling! May good angels who have power to bless you, linger around your pillow with as much love as I shall feel for you forever.
"March 6, 1850."
I have been permitted to transcribe this letter, and among Mrs. Osgood's papers that have been confided to me are very many such, evincing a devotion from women that could have been won only by the most angelic qualities of intellect and feeling.
It was the custom in the last century, when there was among authors more of the esprit du corps than now, for poets to greet each other's appearance in print with complimental verses, celebrating the qualities for which the seeker after bays was most distinguished. Thus in 1729, we find the Omnium Opera of John Duke of Buckingham prefaced by "testimonials of authors concerning His Grace and his writings;" and the names of Garth, Roscommon, Dryden, and Prior, are among his endorsers. There have been a few instances of the kind in this country, of which the most noticeable is that of Cotton Mather, in whose Magnalia there is a curious display of erudition and poetical ingenuity, in gratulatory odes. The literary journals of the last few years furnish many such tributes to Mrs. Osgood, which are interesting to her friends for their illustration of the personal regard in which she was held. I cannot quote them here; they alone would fill a volume, as others might be filled with the copies of verses privately addressed to her, all through her life, from the period when, like a lovely vision, she first beamed upon society, till that last season, in which the salutations in assemblies she had frequented were followed by saddest inquiries for the absent and dying poetess. They but repeat, with more or less felicity, the graceful praise of Mrs. Hewitt, in a poem upon her portrait:
She dwells amid the world's dark ways Pure as in childhood's hours; And all her thoughts are poetry, And all her words are flowers.
Or that of another, addressed to her:
Thou wouldst be loved? then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything, which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love—a simple duty.
Among men, generally, such gentleness and sweetness of temper, joined to such grace and wit, could not fail of making her equally beloved and admired. She was the keeper of secrets, the counsellor in difficulties, the ever wise missionary and industrious toiler, for all her friends. She would brave any privation to alleviate another's sufferings; she never spoke ill of any one; and when others assailed, she was the most prompt of all in generous argument. An eminent statesman having casually met her in Philadelphia, afterward described her to a niece of his who was visiting that city:
"If you have opportunity do not fail to become acquainted with Mrs. Osgood. I have never known such a woman. She continually surprised me by the strength and subtlety of her understanding, in which I looked for only sportiveness and delicacy. She is entirely a child of nature and Mrs. ——, who introduced me to her, and who has known her many years I believe, very intimately, declares that she is an angel. Persuade her to Washington, and promise her everything you and all of us can do for her pleasure here."
For her natural gaiety, her want of a certain worldly tact, and other reasons, the determinations she sometimes formed that she would be a housekeeper, were regarded as fit occasions of jesting, and among the letters sent to her when once she ventured upon the ambitious office, is one by her early and always devoted friend, Governor ——, in which we have glimpses of her domestic qualities:
"It is not often that I waste fine paper in writing to people who do not think me worth answering. I generally reserve my 'ornamental hand' for those who return two letters for my one. But you are an exception to all rules,—and when I heard that you were about to commence housekeeping, I could not forbear sending a word of congratulation and encouragement. I have long thought that your eminently practical turn of mind, my dear friend, would find congenial employment in superintending an 'establishment.' What a house you will keep! nothing out of place, from garret to cellar—dinner always on the table at the regular hour—everything like clock-work—and wo to the servant who attempts to steal anything from your store-room! wo to the butcher who attempts to impose upon you a bad joint, or the grocer who attempts to cheat you in the weight of sugar! Such things never will do with you! When I first heard of your project, I thought it must be Ellen or May going to play housekeeping with their baby-things, but on a moment's reflection I was convinced that you knew more about managing for a family than either of them—certainly more than May, and I think, upon the whole, more than even Ellen! Let Mr. Osgood paint you with a bunch of keys in your belt, and do send me a daguerreotype of yourself the day after you are installed."
She was not indeed fitted for such cares, or for any routine, and ill health and the desire of freedom prevented her again making such an attempt until she finally entered "her own home" to die.
There was a very intimate relation between Mrs. Osgood's personal and her literary characteristics. She has frequently failed of justice, from critics but superficially acquainted with her works, because they have not been able to understand how a mind capable of the sparkling and graceful trifles, illustrating an exhaustless fancy and a natural melody of language, with which she amused society in moments of half capricious gaiety or tenderness, could produce a class of compositions which demand imagination and passion. In considering this subject, it should not be forgotten that these attributes are here to be regarded as in their feminine development.
Mrs. Osgood was, perhaps, as deserving as any one of whom we read in literary history, of the title of improvisatrice. Her beautiful songs, displaying so truly the most delicate lights and shadows of woman's heart, and surprising by their unity, completeness, and rhythmical perfection, were written with almost the fluency of conversation. The secret of this was in the wonderful sympathy between her emotions and faculties, both of exquisite sensibility, and subject to the influences of whatever has power upon the subtler and diviner qualities of human nature. Her facility in invention, in the use of poetical language, and in giving form to every airy dream or breath of passion, was astonishing. It is most true of men, that no one has ever attained to the highest reach of his capacities in any art—and least of all in poetry—without labor—without the application of the "second thought," after the frenzy of the divine afflatus is passed—in giving polish and shapely grace. The imagination is the servant of the reason; the creative faculties present their triumphs to the constructive—and the seal to the attainable is set, by every one, in repose and meditation. But this is scarcely a law of the feminine intelligence, which, when really endowed with genius, is apt to move spontaneously, and at once, with its greatest perfection. Certainly, Mrs. Osgood disclaimed the wrestling of thought with expression. For the most part her poems cost her as little effort or reflection, as the epigram or touching sentiment that summoned laughter or tears to the group about her in the drawing-room.
She was indifferent to fame; she sung simply in conformity to a law of her existence; and perhaps this want of interest was the cause not only of the most striking faults in her compositions, but likewise of the common ignorance of their variety and extent. Accustomed from childhood to the use of the pen—resorting to it through a life continually exposed to the excitements of gaiety and change, or the depressions of affliction and care, she strewed along her way with a prodigality almost unexampled the choicest flowers of feeling: left them unconsidered and unclaimed in the repositories of friendship, or under fanciful names, which she herself had forgotten, in newspapers and magazines,—in which they were sure to be recognised by some one, and so the purpose of their creation fulfilled. It was therefore very difficult to make any such collection of her works as justly to display her powers and their activity; and the more so, that those effusions of hers which were likely to be most characteristic, and of the rarest excellence, were least liable to exposure in printed forms, by the friends, widely scattered in Europe and America, for whom they were written. But notwithstanding these disadvantages, the works of Mrs. Osgood with which we are acquainted, are more voluminous than those of Mrs. Hemans or Mrs. Norton.[8] Besides the "Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England," which appeared during her residence in London, a collection of her poems in one volume was published in New York in 1846; and in 1849, Mr. Hart, of Philadelphia, gave to the public, in a large octavo illustrated by our best artists and equalling or surpassing in its tasteful and costly style any work before issued from the press of this country, the most complete and judiciously edited collection of them that has appeared. This edition, however, contains less than half of her printed pieces which she acknowledged; and among those which are omitted are a tragedy, a comedy, a great number of piquant and ingenious vers de societe, and several sacred pieces, which strike us as among the best writings of their kind in our literature, which in this department, we may admit, is more distinguishable for the profusion than for the quality of its fruits.
Mrs. Osgood's definition of poetry, that it is the rhythmical creation of beauty, is as old as Sydney; and though on some grounds objectionable, it is, perhaps, on the whole, as just as any that the critics have given us. An intelligent examination, in the light of this principle, of what she accomplished, will, it is believed, show that she was, in the general, of the first rank of female poets; while in her special domain, of the Poetry of the Affections, she had scarcely a rival among women or men. As Pinckney said,
Affections were as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours— Her feelings had the fragrancy and freshness of young flowers.
Of love, she sung with tenderness and delicacy, a wonderful richness of fancy, and rhythms that echo all the cadences of feeling. From the arch mockery of the triumphant and careless conqueror, to the most passionate prayer of the despairing, every variety and height and depth of hope and fear and bliss and pain is sounded, in words that move us to a solitary lute or a full orchestra of a thousand voices; and with an abandon, as suggestive of genuineness as that which sometimes made the elder Kean seem "every inch a king." It is not to be supposed that all these caprices are illustrations of the experiences of the artist, in the case of the poet any more than in that of the actor: by an effort of the will, they pass with the liberties of genius into their selected realms, assume their guises, and discourse their language. If ever there were
—Depths of tenderness which showed when woke, That woman there as well as angel spoke,
they are not to be looked for in the printed specimens of woman's genius. Mrs. Osgood guarded herself against such criticism, by a statement in her preface, that many of her songs and other verses were written to appear in prose sketches and stories, and were expressions of feeling suitable to the persons and incidents with which they were at first connected.
In this last edition, to which only reference will be made in these paragraphs, her works are arranged under the divisions of Miscellaneous Poems—embracing, with such as do not readily admit another classification, her most ambitious and sustained compositions; Sacred Poems—among which, "The Daughter of Herodias," the longest, is remarkable for melodious versification and distinct painting: Tales and Ballads—all distinguished for a happy play of fancy, and two or three for the fruits of such creative energy as belongs to the first order of poetical intelligences; Floral Fancies—which display a gaiety and grace, an ingenuity of allegory, and elegant refinement of language, that illustrate her fairy-like delicacy of mind and purity of feeling; and Songs—of which we shall offer some particular observations in their appropriate order. Scattered through the book we have a few poems for children, so perfect in their way as to induce regret that she gave so little attention to a kind of writing in which few are really successful, and in which she is scarcely equalled.
The volume opens with a brief voluntary, which is followed by a beautiful and touching address to The Spirit of Poetry, displaying the perfection of her powers, and her consciousness that they had been too much neglected while ministering more than all things else to her happiness. If ever from her heart she poured a passionate song, it was this, and these concluding lines of it admit us to the sacredest experiences of her life:
Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely, Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path! Leave not the life that borrows from thee only All of delight and beauty that it hath! Thou that, when others knew not how to love me, Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul, Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me, To woo and win me from my grief's control: By all my dreams, the passionate and holy, When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me, By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly, Which I have lavish'd upon thine and thee: By all the lays my simple lute was learning To echo from thy voice, stay with me still! Once flown—alas! for thee there's no returning! The charm will die o'er valley, wood and hill. Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, Has wither'd Spring's sweet bloom within my heart; Ah, no! the rose of love is yet unfaded, Though hope and joy, its sister flowers, depart. Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar, With the light offerings of an idler's mind, And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter, Leave me not, spirit! deaf, and dumb, and blind! Deaf to the mystic harmony of nature, Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers; Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher, Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours; Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty Still to beguile me on my dreary way, To lighten to my soul the cares of duty, And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day; To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel, Lest I, too, join the aimless, false and vain. Let me not lower to the soulless level Of those whom now I pity and disdain! Leave me not yet!—Leave me not cold and pining, Thou bird of Paradise, whose plumes of light, Where'er they rested, left a glory shining— Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight!
After this comes one of her most poetical compositions, "Ermengarde's Awakening," in which, with even more than her usual felicity of diction, she has invested with mortal passion a group from the Pantheon. It is too long to be quoted here, but as an example of her manner upon a similar subject, and in the same rhythm, we copy the poem of "Eurydice:"
With heart that thrill'd to every earnest line, I had been reading o'er that antique story, Wherein the youth, half human, half divine, Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory, Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell, In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell! And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced, My own heart's history unfolded seem'd; Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced With homage pure as ever woman dreamed, Too fondly worshipp'd, since such fate befell, Was it not sweet to die—because beloved too well! The scene is round me! Throned amid the gloom, As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast, Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom; And near—of Orpheus' soul, oh, idol blest!— While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light, I see thy meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night! I see the glorious boy—his dark locks wreathing Wildly the wan and spiritual brow; His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing; His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow; I see him bend on thee that eloquent glance, The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance. I see his face with more than mortal beauty Kindling, as, armed with that sweet lyre alone, Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, He stands serene before the awful throne, And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eye, Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh. Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, As if a prison'd angel—pleading there For life and love—were fetter'd 'neath the strings, And poured his passionate soul upon the air! Anon it clangs with wild, exulting swell, Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell. And thou, thy pale hands meekly lock'd before thee, Thy sad eyes drinking life from his dear gaze, Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er thee Trailing around thy throat its golden maze; Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying, Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying: "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing, Charm'd into statues by the god-taught strain, I, I alone—to thy dear face upraising My tearful glance—the life of life regain! For every tone that steals into my heart Doth to its worn weak pulse a mighty power impart. "Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace, See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes Has fetter'd every spirit in its place! Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies, And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes. "Still, my own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre! Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine, With clasped hands and eyes whose azure fire Gleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast, Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest! "Play, my proud minstrel! strike the chords again! Lo, Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill! For Pluto turns relenting to the strain— He waves his hand—he speaks his awful will! My glorious Greek, lead on! but ah, still lend Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend! "Think not of me! Think rather of the time, When, moved by thy resistless melody To the strange magic of a song sublime, Thy argo grandly glided to the sea; And in the majesty Minerva gave, The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave. "Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees, Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound, Sway'd by a tuneful and enchanted breeze, March to slow music o'er the astonished ground; Grove after grove descending from the hills, While round thee weave their dance, the glad harmonious rills. "Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire, My lord, my king, recall the dread behest! Turn not, ah! turn not back those eyes of fire! Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest! I faint, I die!—the serpent's fang once more Is here!—nay, grieve not thus! Life, but not Love, is o'er!"
This is a noble poem, with too many interjections, and occasional redundancies of imagery and epithet, betraying the author's customary haste: but with unquestionable signs of that genuineness which is the best attraction of the literature of sentiment. The longest and more sustained of Mrs. Osgood's compositions is one entitled "Fragments of an Unfinished Story" in which she has exhibited such a skill in blank verse—frequently regarded as the easiest, but really the most difficult of any—as induces regret that she so seldom made use of it. We have here a masterly contrast of character in the equally natural expressions of feeling by the two principal persons, both of whom are women: the haughty Ida, and the impulsive child of passion, Imogen. It displays in eminent perfection, that dramatic faculty which Sheridan Knowles and the late William Cooke Taylor recognised as the most striking in the composition of her genius. She had long meditated, and in her mind had perfectly arranged, a more extended poem than she has left to us, upon Music. It was to be in this measure, except some lyrical interludes, and she was so confident of succeeding in it, that she deemed all she had written of comparatively little worth. "These," she said to me one day, pointing to the proof-leaves of the new edition of her poems, "these are my 'Miscellaneous Verses:' let us get them out of the way, and never think of them again, as the public never will when they have my poem!" And her friends who heard the splendid scheme of her imagination, did not doubt that when it should be clothed with the rich tissues of her fancy, it would be all she dreamed of, and vindicate all that they themselves were fond of saying of her powers. It was while her life was fading; and no one else can grasp the shining threads, or weave them into song, such as she heard lips, touched with divinest fire, far along in the ages, repeating with her name. This was not vanity, or a low ambition. She lingered, with subdued and tearful joy, when all the living and the present seemed to fail her, upon the pages of the elect of genius, and was happiest when she thought some words of hers might lift a sad soul from a sea of sorrow.
It was perhaps the key-note of that unwritten poem, which she sounded in these verses upon its subject, composed while the design most occupied her attention:
The Father spake! In grand reverberations Through space roll'd on the mighty music-tide, While to its low, majestic modulations, The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. The Father spake: a dream that had been lying Hush'd, from eternity, in silence there, Heard the pure melody, and low replying, Grew to that music in the wondering air— Grew to that music—slowly, grandly waking— Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world! Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking, While glorious clouds their wings around it furl'd. Nor yet has ceased that sound, his love revealing, Though, in response, a universe moves by; Throughout eternity its echo pealing, World after world awakes in glad reply. And wheresoever, in his grand creation, Sweet music breathes—in wave, or bird, or soul— 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation Of that great tune to which the planets roll.
Mrs. Osgood produced something in almost every form of poetical composition, but the necessary limits of this article permit but few illustrations of the variety or perfectness of her capacities. The examples given here, even if familiar, will possess a new interest now; and no one will read them without a feeling of sadness that she who wrote them died so young, just as the fairest flowers of her genius were unfolding. One of the most exquisite pieces she had written in the last few years, is entitled "Calumny," and we know not where to turn for anything more delicately beautiful than the manner in which the subject is treated.
A whisper woke the air, A soft, light tone, and low, Yet barbed with shame and wo. Ah! might it only perish there, Nor farther go! But no! a quick and eager ear Caught up the little, meaning sound; Another voice has breathed it clear; And so it wandered round From ear to lip, and lip to ear, Until it reached a gentle heart That throbbed from all the world apart, And that—it broke! It was the only heart it found, The only heart 't was meant to find, When first its accents woke. It reached that gentle heart at last, And that—it broke! Low as it seemed to other ears, It came a thunder-crash to hers— That fragile girl, so fair and gay. 'Tis said a lovely humming bird, That dreaming in a lily lay, Was killed but by the gun's report Some idle boy had fired in sport— So exquisitely frail its frame, The very sound a death-blow came— And thus her heart, unused to shame, Shrined in its lily too, (For who the maid that knew, But owned the delicate, flower-like grace Of her young form and face!)— Her light and happy heart, that beat With love and hope so fast and sweet, When first that cruel word it heard, It fluttered like a frightened bird— Then shut its wings and sighed, And, with a silent shudder, died!
In some countries this would, perhaps, be the most frequently quoted of the author's effusions; but here, the terse and forcible piece under the title of "Laborare est Orare," will be admitted to all collections of poetical specimens; and it deserves such popularity, for a combination as rare as it is successful of common sense with the form and spirit of poetry:
Pause not to dream of the future before us; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!"—the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!"—the wild bee is ringing; Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune! Labor is rest—from the sorrows that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life current leaping! How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee; Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee; Rest not content in they darkness—a clod! Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor!—all labor is noble and holy; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
In fine contrast with this is the description of a "Dancing Girl," written in a longer poem, addressed to her sister soon after her arrival in London, in the autumn of 1834. It is as graceful as the vision it brings so magically before us:
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 play'd 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 cross'd. 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 wild 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.
In illustration of what we have said of Mrs. Osgood's delineations of refined sentiment, we refer to the poems from pages one hundred and eleven to one hundred and thirty-one, willing to rest upon them our praises of her genius. It may be accidental, but they seem to have an epic relation, and to constitute one continuous history, finished with uncommon elegance and glowing with a beauty which has its inspiration in a deeper profound than was ever penetrated by messengers of the brain. The third of these glimpses of heart-life—all having the same air of sad reality—exhibits, with a fidelity and a peculiar power which is never attained in such descriptions by men, the struggle of a pure and passionate nature with a hopeless affection:
Had we but met in life's delicious spring, When young romance made Eden of the world; When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing, (In thy dear breast how soon had it been furled!) Had we but met when both our hearts were beating With the wild joy, the guileless love of youth— Thou a proud boy, with frank and ardent greeting, And I a timid girl, all trust and truth!— Ere yet my pulse's light, elastic play Had learn'd the weary weight of grief to know, Ere from these eyes had passed the morning ray, And from my cheek the early rose's glow;— Had we but met in life's delicious spring, Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear, Ere Hope came back with worn and wounded wing, To die upon the heart it could not cheer; Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd, Pledging an idol deaf to my despair; Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'd From life's rich garland by the clasp of Care. Ah! had we then but met!—I dare not listen To the wild whispers of my fancy now! My full heart beats—my sad, droop'd lashes glisten— I hear the music of thy boyhood's vow! I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning, I feel thy dear hand softly clasp mine own— Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning— It is too much—but ah! the dream has flown. How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotion In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast! How had I hush'd each sorrowful emotion, Lull'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest. How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee, When from thy lips the rare scholastic lore Fell on the soul that all but deified thee, While at each pause I, childlike, pray'd for more. How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling, That mov'd thy soul-glance o'er that radiant face, "Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing, And glorifying in thy genius and thy grace! Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding, And I had now been less unworthy thee, For I was generous, guileless, and confiding, A frank enthusiast, buoyant, fresh, and free! But now—my loftiest aspirations perish'd, My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane, The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd, A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain: Check'd by these ties that make my lightest sigh, My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime— How must I still my heart, and school my eye, And count in vain the slow dull steps of Time! Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask thee Since honor, faith, forbid thee to return! Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee, Lest thou too soon that easy lesson learn! Ah! come not back, love! even through Memory's ear Thy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart— Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear; While yet we may, let us for ever part!
The passages commencing, "Thank God, I glory in thy love;" "Ah, let our love be still a folded flower;" "Believe me, 'tis no pang of jealous pride;" "We part forever: silent be our parting;" are in the same measure, and in perfect keeping, but evince a still deeper emotion and greater pathos and power. We copy the closing cantatas, "To Sleep," and "A Weed"—a prayer and a prophecy—in which the profoundest sorrow is displayed with touching simplicity and unaffected earnestness. First, to Death's gentle sister:
Come to me, angel of the weary hearted; Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, Unto thy realms unreal have departed, I, too, may rest—even I; ah! haste to me. I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother With his more welcome offering, appear, For these sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, "Mother," And who shall soothe them if I be not near? Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows; I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing, Save that most true, most beautiful—repose. I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery— To follow Fancy at her elfin call; I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary; Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. Paint not the future to my fainting spirit, Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies; There is no gift that mortals may inherit That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes. And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never Be Memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee; Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
And more mournful still, the dream of the after days:
When from our northern woods pale summer flying, Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell— While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying, Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell. A heart that loved too tenderly and truly, Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade, They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly, And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd. Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her, Assured that deep repose is welcomed well; The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her; The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell. They'll hide her where no false one's footsteps, stealing, Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep; Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing, And they will hush their chiding then—to weep! And some, (for though too oft she err'd, too blindly, She was beloved—how fondly and how well!)— Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly, And plant dear flowers within that silent dell. I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom Best loved by both—the violet's—to that bower; And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom; And one, perchance, will plant the passion flower; Then do thou come, when all the rest have parted— Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom! And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted, Some idle weed, that knew not how to bloom.
We pass from these painful but exquisitely beautiful displays of sensitive feeling and romantic fancy, to pieces exhibiting Mrs. Osgood's more habitual spirit of arch playfulness and graceful invention, scattered through the volume, and constituting a class of compositions in which she is scarcely approachable. The "Lover's List," is one of her shorter ballads:
"Come sit on this bank so shady, Sweet Evelyn, sit with me! And count me your loves, fair lady— How many may they be?" The maiden smiled on her lover, And traced with her dimpled hand, Of names a dozen and over Down in the shining sand. "And now," said Evelyn, rising, "Sir Knight! your own, if you please; And if there be no disguising, The list will outnumber these; "Then count me them truly, rover!" And the noble knight obeyed; And of names a dozen and over He traced within the shade. Fair Evelyn pouted proudly; She sighed "Will he never have done?" And at last she murmur'd loudly, "I thought he would write but one!" "Now read," said the gay youth, rising; "The scroll—it is fair and free; In truth, there is no disguising That list is the world to me!" She read it with joy and wonder, For the first was her own sweet name; And again and again written under, It was still—it was still the same! It began with—"My Evelyn fairest!" It ended with—"Evelyn best!" And epithets fondest and dearest Were lavished between on the rest. There were tears in the eyes of the lady As she swept with her delicate hand, On the river-bank cool and shady, The list she had traced in the sand. There were smiles on the lip of the maiden As she turned to her knight once more, And the heart was with joy o'erladen That was heavy with doubt before!
And for its lively movement and buoyant feeling—equally characteristic of her genius—the following song, upon "Lady Jane," a favorite horse:
Oh! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine, As this dainty, aerial darling of mine! With a toss of her mane, that is glossy as jet, With a dance and a prance, and a frolic curvet, She is off! she is stepping superbly away! Her dark, speaking eye full of pride and of play. Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain, My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane! Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh, How kindles the night in her resolute eye! Now stately she paces, as if to the sound Of a proud, martial melody playing around, Now pauses at once, 'mid a light caracole, To turn her mild glance on me beaming with soul; Now fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain, My darling, my treasure, my own Lady Jane! Give her rein! let her go! Like a shaft from a bow, Like a bird on the wing, she is speeding, I trow— Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire, Yet sway'd and subdued by my idlest desire— Though daring, yet docile, and sportive but true, Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew. How she flings back her head, in her dainty disdain! My beauty, my graceful, my gay Lady Jane!
It is among the one hundred and thirteen songs, of which this is one, and which form the last division of her poems, that we have the greatest varieties of rhythm, cadence, and expression; and it is here too that we have, perhaps, the most clear and natural exhibitions of that class of emotions which she conceives with such wonderful truth. The prevailing characteristic of these pieces is a native and delicate raillery, piquant by wit, and poetical by the freshest and gracefullest fancies; but they are frequently marked by much tenderness of sentiment, and by boldness and beauty of imagination. They are in some instances without that singleness of purpose, that unity and completeness, which ought invariably to distinguish this sort of compositions, but upon the whole it must be considered that Mrs. Osgood was remarkably successful in the song. The fulness of our extracts from other parts of the volume will prevent that liberal illustration of her excellence in this which would be as gratifying to the reader as to us; and we shall transcribe but a few specimens, which, by various felicities of language, and a pleasing delicacy of sentiment, will detain the admiration:
Oh! would I were only a spirit of song, I'd float forever around, above you: If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong, It couldn't be wrong, to love you! I'd hide in the light of a moonbeam bright, I'd sing Love's lullaby softly o'er you, I'd bring rare visions of pure delight From the land of dreams before you. Oh! if I were only a spirit of song, I'd float forever around, above you, For a musical spirit could never do wrong, And it wouldn't be wrong to love you!
The next, an exquisitely beautiful song, suggests its own music:
She loves him yet! I know by the blush that rises Beneath the curls That shadow her soul-lit cheek; She loves him yet! Through all Love's sweet disguises In timid girls, A blush will be sure to speak. But deeper signs Than the radiant blush of beauty, The maiden finds, Whenever his name is heard; Her young heart thrills, Forgetting herself—her duty— Her dark eye fills, And her pulse with hope is stirr'd. She loves him yet!— The flower the false one gave her, When last he came, Is still with her wild tears wet. She'll ne'er forget, Howe'er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it—she loves him yet. His favorite songs She will sing—she heeds no other; With all her wrongs Her life on his love is set. Oh! doubt no more! She never can wed another; Till life be o'er, She loves—she will love him yet!
And this is not less remarkable for a happy adaptation of sentiment to the sound:
Low, my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!— Eulalie! While his watch her lover keeps, Soft and dewy slumber steeps Golden tress and fringed lid With the blue heaven 'neath it hid— Eulalie! Low my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!— Eulalie! Let thy music, light and low, Through her pure dream come and go. Lute on Love! with silver flow, All my passion, all my wo, Speak for me! Ask her in her balmy rest Whom her holy heart loves best! Ask her if she thinks of me!— Eulalie! Low, my lute!—breathe low!—She sleeps!— Eulalie! Slumber while thy lover keeps Fondest watch and ward for thee, Eulalie!
The following evinces a deeper feeling, and has a corresponding force and dignity in its elegance:—
Yes, "lower to the level" Of those who laud thee now! Go, join the joyous revel, And pledge the heartless vow! Go, dim the soul-born beauty That lights that lofty brow! Fill, fill the bowl! let burning wine Drown in thy soul Love's dream divine! Yet when the laugh is lightest, When wildest goes the jest, When gleams the goblet brightest, And proudest heaves thy breast, And thou art madly pledging Each gay and jovial guest— A ghost shall glide amid the flowers— The shade of Love's departed hours! And thou shalt shrink in sadness From all the splendor there, And curse the revel's gladness, And hate the banquet's glare; And pine, 'mid Passion's madness For true love's purer air, And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee For one unsullied sigh from me! Yet deem not this my prayer, love, Ah! no, if I could keep Thy alter'd heart from care, love, And charm its griefs to sleep, Mine only should despair, love, I—I alone would weep! I—I alone would mourn the flowers That fade in Love's deserted bowers!
Among her poems are many which admit us to the sacredest recesses of the mother's heart: "To a Child Playing with a Watch," "To Little May Vincent," "To Ellen, Learning to Walk," and many others, show the almost wild tenderness with which she loved her two surviving daughters—one thirteen, and the other eleven years of age now;—and a "Prayer in Illness," in which she besought God to "take them first," and suffer her to lie at their feet in death, lest, deprived of her love, they should be subjected to all the sorrow she herself had known in the world, is exquisitely beautiful and touching. Her parents, her brothers, her sisters, her husband, her children, were the deities of her tranquil and spiritual worship, and she turned to them in every vicissitude of feeling, for hope and strength and repose. "Lilly" and "May," were objects of a devotion too sacred for any idols beyond the threshold, and we witness it not as something obtruded upon the outer world, but as a display of beautified and dignified humanity which is among the ministries appointed to be received for the elevation of our natures. With these holy and beautiful songs is intertwined one, which under the title of "Ashes of Roses," breathes the solemnest requiem that ever was sung for a child, and in reading it we feel that in the subject was removed into the Unknown a portion of the mother's heart and life. The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing of thoughts, fancies and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. It is a pervading excellence of her works, whether in prose or verse, that they are graceful beyond those of any other author who has written in this country; and the delicacy of her taste was such that it would probably be impossible to find in all of them a fancy, a thought, or a word offensive to that fine instinct in its highest cultivation or subtlest sensibility. It is one of her great merits that she attempted nothing foreign to her own affluent but not various genius.
There is a stilted ambition, common lately to literary women, which is among the fatalest diseases to reputation. She was never betrayed into it; she was always simple and natural, singing in no falsetto key, even when she entered the temples of old mythologies. With an extraordinary susceptibility of impressions, she had not only the finest and quickest discernment of those peculiarities of character which give variety to the surface of society, but of certain kinds and conditions of life she perceived the slightest undulations and the deepest movements. She had no need to travel beyond the legitimate sphere of woman's observation, to seize upon the upturnings and overthrows which serve best for rounding periods in the senate or in courts of criminal justice—trying everything to see if poetry could be made of it. Nor did she ever demand audience for rude or ignoble passion, or admit the moral shade beyond the degree in which it must appear in all pictures of life. She lingered with her keen insight and quick sensibilities among the associations, influences, the fine sense, brave perseverance, earnest affectionateness, and unfailing truth, which, when seen from the romantic point of view, are suggestive of all the poetry which it is within the province of woman to write.
I have not chosen to dwell upon the faults in her works; such labor is more fit for other hands, and other days; and so many who attempt criticism seem to think the whole art lies in the detection of blemishes, that one may sometimes be pardoned for lingering as fondly as I have done, upon an author's finer qualities. It must be confessed, that in her poems there is evinced a too unrestrained partiality for particular forms of expression, and that—it could scarcely be otherwise in a collection so composed—thoughts and fancies are occasionally repeated. In some instances too, her verse is diffuse, but generally, where this objection is made, it will be found that what seems most careless and redundant is only delicate shading: she but turns her diamonds to the various rays; she rings no changes till they are not music; she addresses an eye more sensitive to beauty and a finer ear than belong to her critics. The collection of her works is one of the most charming volumes that woman has contributed to literature; of all that we are acquainted with the most womanly; and destined, for that it addresses with truest sympathy and most natural eloquence the commonest and noblest affections, to be always among the most fondly cherished Books of the Heart.
Reluctantly I bring to a close these paragraphs—a hasty and imperfect tribute, from my feelings and my judgment, to one whom many will remember long as an impersonation of the rarest intellectual and moral endowments, as one of the loveliest characters in literary or social history. Hereafter, unless the office fall to some one worthier, I may attempt from the records of our friendship, and my own and others' recollections, to do such justice to her life and nature, that a larger audience and other times shall feel how much of beauty with her spirit left us.
This requiem she wrote for another, little thinking that her friends would so soon sing it with hearts saddened for her own departure.
The hand that swept the sounding lyre With more than mortal skill, The lightning eye, the heart of fire, The fervent lip are still: No more in rapture or in wo, With melody to thrill, Ah! nevermore! Oh! bring the flowers she cherish'd so, With eager child-like care: For o'er her grave they'll love to grow, And sigh their sorrow there; Ah me! no more their balmy glow May soothe her heart's despair, No! nevermore! But angel hands shall bring her balm For every grief she knew, And Heaven's soft harps her soul shall calm With music sweet and true; And teach to her the holy charm Of Israfel anew. For evermore! Love's silver lyre she played so well, Lies shattered on her tomb; But still in air its music-spell Floats on through light and gloom, And in the hearts where soft they fell, Her words of beauty bloom For evermore!