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FRANCES SARGENT
OSGOOD.
MRS.
OSGOOD,
for the last three or four years, has been rapidly attaining
distinction;
and this, evidently, with no effort at attaining it. She seems,
in
fact, to have no object in view beyond that of giving voice to the
fancies
or to the feelings of the moment. "Necessity," says the proverb,
"is the mother of Invention;" and the invention of Mrs. O., at least,
springs
plainly from necessity — from the necessity of invention. Not
to write poetry — not to act it, think it, dream it, and be it, is
entirely
out of her power.
It may be
questioned whether
with more industry, more method, more definite purpose, more ambition,
Mrs. Osgood would have made a more decided impression on the public
mind.
She might, upon the whole, have written better poems; but the chances
are
that she would have failed in conveying so vivid and so just an idea of
her powers as poet. The warm abandonnement of her style-that
charm
which now so captivates-is but a portion and a consequence of her
unworldly
nature-of her disregard of mere fame; but it affords us glimpses, which
we could not otherwise have obtained, of a capacity for accomplishing
what
she has not accomplished, and in all probability never will. In the
world
of poetry, however, there is already more than enough of uncongenial
ambition
and pretence.
Mrs. Osgood has
taken no care
whatever of her literary fame. A great number of her finest
compositions,
both in verse and prose, have been written anonymously, and are now
lying
perdus about the country, in out-of-the way nooks and corners. Many a
goodly
reputation has been reared upon a far more unstable basis than her
unclaimed
and uncollected "fugitive pieces."
Her first
volume, I believe,
was published, seven or eight years ago, by Edward Churton, of London,
during the residence of the poetess in that city. I have now lying
before
me a second edition of it, dated 1842 — a beautifully printed book,
dedicated
to the Reverend Hobart Caunter. It contains a number of what the
Bostonians
call "juvenile"' poems, written when Mrs. O., (then Miss Locke,) could
not have been more than thirteen, and evincing unusual precocity. The
leading
piece is "Elfrida, a Dramatic Poem," but in many respects well entitled
to the appellation, "drama." I allude chiefly to the passionate
expression
of particular portions, to delineation of character, and to occasional
scenic effect: — in construction, or plot — in [back
of
page:] — general conduct and
plausibility,
the play fails; comparatively, of course — for the hand of genius is
evinced
throughout.
The story is
the well known
one of Edgar, Elfrida, and Earl Athelwood. The king, hearing of
Elfrida's
extraordinary beauty, commissions his favorite, Athelwood, to visit her
and ascertain if report speaks truly of her charms. The earl, becoming
himself enamored, represents the lady as anything but beautiful or
agreeable.
The king is satisfied. Athelwood soon afterward woos and weds Elfrida —
giving Edgarto understand that the heiress' wealth is the object. The
true
state of the case, however, is betrayed by an enemy; and the monarch
resolves
to visit the earl at his castle and to judge for himself. Hearing of
this
resolve, Athelwood, in despair, confesses to his wife his duplicity,
and
entreats her to render null as far as possible the effect of her charms
by dressing with unusual plainness. This the wife promises to do; but,
fired with ambition and resentment at the wrong done her, arrays
herself
in her most magnificent and becoming costume. The king is charmed, and
the result is the destruction of Athelwood and the elevation of Elfrida
to the throne.
These incidents
are well adapted
to dramatic purposes, and with more of that art which Mrs. Osgood does
not possess, she might have woven them into a tragedy which the world
would
not willingly let die. As it is, she has merely succeeded in showing
what
she might, should and could have done, and yet, unhappily, did not.
The character
of Elfrida is
the bright point of the play. Her beauty and consciousness of it her
indignation
and uncompromising ambition are depicted with power. There is a fine
blending
of the poetry of passion and the passion of poetry, in the lines which
follow:
— — Why even now he bends
In courtly
reverence to some mincing
dame,
Haply the star of
Edgar's festival,
While I, with this
high heart and
queenly form,
Pine in neglect and
solitude. Shall
it be?
Shall I not rend my
fetters and
be free?
Ay!-be the cooing
turtle-dove content,
Safe in her own
loved nest!-the
eagle soars
On restless plumes
to meet the
imperial sun.
And Edgar is my
day-star in whose
light [end of fragment]
[[This heart's
proud wings shall
yet be furled to rest.
Why wedded I with
Athelwood? For
this?
No — ; even at the
altar when I
stood —
My hand in his, his
gaze upon my
cheek —
I did forget his
presence and the
scene;
A gorgeous vision
rose before mine
eyes
Of power and pomp
and regal pageantry;
A king was at my
feet and, as he
knelt,
I smiled and,
turning, met — a
husband's kiss.
But still I smiled
— for in my
guilty soul
I blessed him as
the being by whose
means
I should be brought
within my idol's
sphere —
My haughty,
glorious, brave,
impassioned Edgar!
Well I remember
when these wondering
eyes
Beheld him
first. I was a maiden
then —
A dreaming child
— but from
that thrilling hour
I've been a
queen in visions!
Very similar, but
even more glowing,
is the love-inspired eloquence of Edgar.
Earth
hath no
language, love, befitting thee.
For its own
children it hath
pliant speech;
And mortals know
to call a blossom
fair,
A wavelet
graceful, and a jewel
rich;
But thou! — oh,
teach me, sweet,
the angel tongue
They talked in
Heaven ere thou
didst leave its bowers
To bloom below!
To this Elfrida
replies:
If Athelwood should hear thee!
And to this, Edgar:
Name not
the felon knave
to me, Elfrida!
My soul is flame
whene'er I think
of him.
Thou lovest him
not? — oh, say
thou dost not love him!
The answer of Elfrida at this point
is profoundly
true to nature, and would alone suffice to assure any critic of Mrs.
Osgood's
dramatic talent:
When
but a child I saw thee in my dreams!
The woman's soul
here shrinks
from the direct avowal of want of love for her husband, and flies to
poetry
and appeals to fate, by way of excusing that infidelity which is at
once
her glory and her shame.
In general, the
"situations"
of "Elfrida" are improbable or ultra-romantic, and its incidents
unconsequential,
seldom furthering the business of the play. The denouement is feeble,
and
its moral of very equivocal tendency indeed — but I have already shown
that it is the especial office neither of poetry nor of the drama, to
inculcate
truth, unless incidentally. Mrs. Osgood, however, although she has
unquestionably
failed in writing a good play, has, even in failing, given indication
of
dramatic power. The great tragic element, passion, breathes in every
line
of her composition, and had she but the art, or the patience, to model
or control it, she might be eminently successful as a playwright. I am
justified in these opinions not only by "Elfrida," but by "Woman's
Trust,
a Dramatic Sketch," included, also, in the English edition.
A Masked Ball. Madelon
and a Stranger
in a Recess.
Mad — Why hast thou led me
here?
My friends may deem it strange —
unmaidenly,
This lonely converse with an unknown
mask.
Yet in thy voice there is a thrilling
power
That makes me love to linger. It is
like
The tone of one far distant-only his
Was gayer and more soft.
Strang.
Sweet Madelon!
Say thou wilt smile upon the
passionate love
That thou alone canst waken! Let me
hope!
Mad. — Hush! hush! I may
not hear thee.
Know'st thou not I am betrothed?
Strang. — Alas! too well I
know;
But I could tell thee such a tale of
him —
Thine early love — 'twould fire those
timid eyes
With lightning pride and anger — curl
that lip
— ]]
[[Here begins MS fragment
1:]]
That gentle lip to passionate contempt
For man's light falsehood. Even now he bends —
Thy Rupert bends o'er one as fair as thou,
In fond affection. Even now his heart —
Mad. — Doth my eye flash? — doth my lip curl with
scorn ?
'Tis scorn of thee, thou perjured stranger, not —
Oh, not of him, the generous and the true!
Hast thou e'er seen my Rupert? — hast thou met
Those proud and fearless eyes that never quailed,
As Falsehood quails, before another's glance —
As thine even now are shrinking from mine own —
The spirit beauty of that open brow —
The noble head — the free and gallant step —
The lofty mien whose majesty is won
From inborn honor — hast thou seen all this?
And darest thou speak of faithlessness and him
In the same idle breath? Thou little know'st
The strong confiding of a woman's heart,
When woman loves as — I do. Speak no more!
Strang. — Deluded girl! I tell thee he is false —
False as yon fleeting cloud!
Mad.
True as the sun!
Strang. — The very wind less wayward than his
heart!
Mad. — The forest oak less firm! He loved me not
For the frail rose-hues and the fleeting light
Of youthful loveliness — ah, many a cheek
Of softer bloom, and many a dazzling eye
More rich than mine may win my wanderer's gaze.
He loved me for my love, the deep, the fond —
For my unfaltering truth; he cannot find —
Rove where he will — a heart that beats for him [back
of page:]
With such intense, absorbing tenderness —
Such idolizing constancy as mine.
Why should he change, then? — I am still the same.
Strang. — Sweet infidel! wilt thou have ruder
proof?
Rememberest thou a little golden case
Thy Rupert wore, in which a gem was shrined?
A gem I would not barter for a world —
An angel face: — its sunny wealth of hair
In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat
And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy curve
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed
Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world
Of eloquent meaning, passionate yet pure —
Dreamy — subdued — but oh, how beautiful!
A look of timid, pleading tenderness
That should have been a talisman to charm
His restless heart for aye. Rememberest thou?
Mad. — (impatiently) I do — I do remember
— 'twas my own.
He prized it as his life-I gave it himWhat of it!-speak!
Strang. — (showing a miniature) Lady, behold that
gift!
Mad — (clasping her hands) Merciful Heaven! is my
Rupert dead?
(After a pause, during which she seems overwhelmed
with agony)
How died he? — when? — oh, thou wast by his side
In that last hour and I was far away!
My blessed love!-give me that token! — speak!
What message sent he to his Madelon?
Strang. — ( Supporting her and strongly
agitated,)
He is not dead, dear lady!-grieve not thus!
[[Here ends MS fragment 1.]]
Mad. — He is not false, sir
stranger!
Stran[[g]].
For thy sake,
Would he were worthier! One other
proof
I'll give thee, loveliest! if thou
lov'st him
still,
I'll not believe thee woman. Listen,
then!
A faithful lover breathes not of his
bliss
To other ears. Wilt hear a fable,
lady?
Here the
stranger details some
incidents of the first wooing of Madelon by Rupert, and concludes with,
Lady, my task is o'er-dost doubt me still?
Mad. Doubt
thee, my Rupert!
ah, I know thee now.
Fling by that hateful mask! — let me unclasp it!
No! thou wouldst not betray thy Madelon.
The "Miscellaneous Poems" of the
volume — many of
them written in childhood — are, of course, various in character and
merit.
"The Dying Rosebud's Lament," although by no means one of the best,
will
very well serve to show the earlier and most characteristic manner of
the
poetess:
Ah, me! — ah wo 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 revelling,
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
the 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, wo is me, that I,
Ere yet my
leaves unclose,
With all my wealth of sweets must
die
Before I am a
rose!
The poetical
reader will agree
with me that few things have ever been written (by any poet, at any
age,)
more delicately fanciful than the passages italicised — and yet they
are
the work of a girl not more than fourteen years of age. The clearness
and
force of expression, and the nice appositeness of the overt and
insinuated
meaning, are, when we consider the youth of the writer, even more
remarkable
than the fancy.
I cannot speak
of Mrs. Osgood's
poems without a strong propensity to ring the changes upon the
indefinite
word "grace" and its derivatives. About every thing she writes we
perceive
this indescribable charm-of which, perhaps, the elements are a vivid
fancy
and a quick sense of the proportionate. Grace, however, may be most
satisfactorily
defined as " a term applied, in despair, to that class of the
impressions
of Beauty which admit of no analysis." It is in this irresoluble effect
that Mrs. Osgood excels any poetess of her country — and it is to this
easily appreciable effect that her popularity is owing. Nor is she more
graceful herself than a lover of the graceful, under whatever guise it
is presented to her consideration. The sentiment renders itself
manifest,
in innumerable instances, as well throughout her prose as her poetry.
Whatever
be her theme, she at once extorts from it its whole essentiality of
grace.
Fanny Ellsler has been often lauded; true poets have sung her praises;
but we look in vain for anything written about her, which so distinctly
and vividly paints her to the eye as the half dozen quatrains which
follow.
They are to be found in the English volume:
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 think 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 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.
This is, indeed,
poetry — and
of the most unquestionable kind-poetry truthful in the proper
sense-that
is to say, breathing of Nature. There is here nothing forced or
artificial-no
hardly sustained enthusiasm. The poetess speaks be cause she feels, and
what she feels; but then what she feels is felt only by the truly
poetical.
The thought in the last line of the quatrain will not be so fully
appreciated
by the reader as it should be; for latterly it has been imitated,
plagiarized,
repeated ad infinitum: — but the other passages italicized have still
left
them all their original effect. The idea in the two last lines is
exquisitely
naive and natural; that in the two last lines of the second quatrain,
beautiful
beyond measure; that of the whole fifth quatrain, magnificent —
unsurpassed
in the entire compass of American poetry. It is instinct with the
noblest
poetical requisite — imagination. Of the same trait I find, to my
surprise,
one of the best exemplifications among the "Juvenile Rhymes."
For Fancy
is a fairy that
can hear,
Ever, the melody of
Nature's voice
And see all lovely
visions that
she will.
She drew a
picture of a beauteous
bird
With plumes of
radiant green
and gold inwoven,
Banished from
its beloved resting
place,
And fluttering
in vain hope
from tree to tree,
And bade us
think how, like
it, the sweet season
From one bright
shelter to another
fled —
First from the
maple waved her
emerald pinions,
But lingered
still upon the
oak and elm,
Till, frightened
by rude breezes
even from them,
With mournful
sigh she moaned
her sad farewell.
[[Here begins MS fragment 2:]]
The little poem called "The Music
Box" has been as
widely circulated as any of Mrs. Osgood's compositions — but I will be
pardoned for quoting it in farther exemplification of her ruling
feature
— grace:
Your heart is a music-box, dearest,
With exquisite tunes at command
Of melody sweetest and clearest
If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,
At a single rude touch it would break;
Then oh, be the magic key mine
Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
And there's one little tune it can play
That I fancy all others above —
You learned it of Cupid one day —
It begins with and ends with "I love — " I love"
It begins with and ends with "I love."
The melody and harmony of this jeu d'esprit are
perfect,
and there is in it a rich tint of that epigrammatism for which the
poetess
is noted. Some of the intentional epigrams interspersed through
her
works are peculiarly happy. Here is one which, while replete with the
rarest
"spirit of point," is yet something more than pointed.
TO AN ATHEIST POET.
Lovest thou the music of the sea?
Callest thou the sunshine bright?
HIS voice is more than melody
HIS smile is more than light.
Here, again, is something very similar:
Fanny shuts her smiling eyes, [back
of page:]
Then, because she cannot see,
Thoughtless simpleton! she cries
"Ah! you can't see me."
Fanny's like the sinner vain
Who, with spirit shut and dim,
Thinks, because he sees not Heaven,
Heaven beholds not him.
Is it not a little surprising, however, that a
writer
capable of so much precision and finish as the author of these epigrams
must be, should have failed to see how much of force is lost in the
inversion
of "the sinner vain?" Why not have written "Fanny's like the silly
sinner?"or,
if "silly" be thought too jocose, "the blinded sinner?" The rhythm, at
the same time, would thus be much improved by bringing the lines,
Fanny's like the silly
sinner,
Thinks because he sees not Heaven,
into exact equality.
In mingled epigram and espieglerie
Mrs. Osgood is
even more especially at home. I have seldom seen anything in this way
more
happily done than the song entitled "If He Can."
Let me see him once more
For a moment or two;
Let him tell me himself
Of his purpose, dear, do!
Let him gaze in these eyes
While he lays out his plan
To escape me an then
He may go — if he can.
Let me see him once more!
Let me give him one smile!
Let me breathe but one word
Of endearment the while!
I ask but that moment-
My life on the man!
Does he think to forget me?
He may — if he can.
"The Unexpected Declaration" is, perhaps, even a
finer
specimen of the same manner. It is one of that class of compositions
which
Mrs [Here ends MS fragment 2, next page:] Osgood
has made almost exclusively her own. Had I seen it without her name, I
should have had no hesitation in ascribing it to her; for there is no
other
person — in America certainly — who does anything of a similar kind
with
anything like a similar piquancy:
"Azure-eyed Eloise!
beauty is thine;
Passion kneels to thee and calls
thee divine;
Minstrels awaken the lute with thy
name;
Poets have gladdened the world with
thy fame;
Painters half holy thy loved image
keep; Beautiful
Eloise, why do you weep?"
Still bows the lady her light
tresses low,
Fast the warm tears from her veiled
eyes flow.
"Sunny-haired Eloise, wealth is
thine own;
Rich is thy silken robe; bright is
thy zone;
Proudly the jewel illumines thy way;
Clear rubies rival thy ruddy lips'
play;
Diamonds like star-drops thy silken
l)raids deck
Pearls waste their snow or, thy
lovelier neck;
Luxury softens thy pillow for sleep;
Angels watch over it;-why do you
weep?"
Still bows the lady her light
tresses low;
Faster the tears from her veiled
eyes flow.
"Gifted and worshipped one!
genius and grace
Play in each motion and beam in thy
face.
When from thy rosy lip rises the
song
Hearts that adore thee the echo
prolong.
Ne'er in the festival shone an eye
brighter —
Ne'er in the mazy dance fell a foot
lighter —
One only spirit thou'st failed to
bring down
—
Exquisite Eloise! why do you frown?"
Swift o'er her forehead a dark
shadow stole,
Sent from the tempest of pride in
her soul.
"Touched by thy sweetness, in
love with thy grace,
Charmed with the magic of mind in
thy fae,
Bewitched by thy beauty, e'en his
haughty strength
—
The strength of the stoic is
conquered at length,
Lo! at thy feet see him kneeling
the while —
Eloise! Eloise! why do you smile?
The hand was withdrawn from her
happy blue eyes;
She gazed on her lover in laughing
surprise,
While the dimple and blush,
stealing soft to
her cheek,
Told the tale that her tongue was
too timid to
speak.
The point of all
this, however,
might have been sharpened, and the polish increased in lustre, by the
application
of the emory of brevity. From what the lover says much might well have
been omitted; and I should have preferred leaving out altogether the
autorial
comments; for the story is fully told without them. The "'Why do you
weep?"
"Why do you frown?" and "Why do you smile?" supply all the imagination
requires; to supply more than it requires, oppresses and offends it.
Nothing
more deeply grieves it or more vexes the true taste in general, than
hyperism
of any kind. In Germany, Wohlgeborn is a loftier title than Edelgeborn;
and in Greece, the thrice-victorious at the Olympic games could claim a
statue of the size of life, while he who had conquered but once was
entitled
only to a colossal one.
The English
collection of which
I speak was entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." It
met
with a really cordial reception in Great Britain-was favorably noticed
by the "Literary Gazette," " Times," " Atlas," "Monthly Chronicle;" and
especially by the Court Journal," " The Court and Ladies' Magazine,"
"La
Belle Assemblee," and other similar works. "We have long been
familiar,"
says the high authority of the "Literary Gazette," "with the name of
our
fair author.... Our expectations have been fulfilled, and we have here
a delightful gathering of the sweetest of wild flowers, all looking as
fresh and beautiful as if they had grown in the richest of English
pasture
in place of having been 'nursed by the cataract.' True the wreath might
have been improved with a little more care — a trifling attention or
two
paid to the formation of it. A stalk here and there that obtrudes
itself
between the bells of the flowers, might have become so interwoven as to
have been concealed, and the whole have looked as if it had grown in
that
perfect and beautiful form. Though, after all, we are perhaps too
chary;
for in Nature every leaf is not ironed out to a form, nor propped up
with
a wiry precision, but blown and ruffled by the refreshing breezes, and
looking as careless and easy and unaffected as a child that bounds
along
with its silken locks tossed to and fro just as the wind uplifts them.
Page after page of this volume have we perused with a feeling of
pleasure
and admiration." The "Court Journal" more emphatically says: — " Her
wreath
is one of violets, sweet-scented, pure and modest; so lovely that the
hand
that wove it should not neglect additionally to enrich it by turning
her
love and kindness to things of larger beauty. Some of the smaller
lyrics
in the volume are perfectly beautiful — beautiful in their
chaste
and exquisite simplicity and the perfect elegance of their
composition."
In fact, there was that about "The Wreaths of Wild Flowers" — that
inexpressible
grace of thought and manner — which never fails to find ready echo in
the
hearts of the aristocracy and refinement of Great Britain; — and it was
here especially that Mrs. Osgood found welcome. Her husband's merits as
an artist had already introduced her into distinguished society, (she
was
petted, in especial, by Mrs. Norton and Rogers,) but the publication of
her poems had at once an evidently favorable effect upon his fortunes.
His pictures were placed in a most advantageous light by her poetical
and
conversational ability.
Messrs. Clarke
and Austin,
of New York, have lately issued another, but still a very incomplete
collection
of "Poems by Frances S. Osgood." In general, it includes by no means
the
best of her works. "The Daughter of Herodias" — one of her longest
compositions,
and a very noble poem, putting me in mind of the best efforts of Mrs.
Hemans
— is omitted: — it is included, however, in the last edition of Doctor
Griswold's " Poets and Poetry of America." In Messrs. C. and A.'s
collection
there occur, too, very many of those half sentimental, half allegorical
compositions of which, at one period, the authoress seemed to be
particularly
fond — for the reason, perhaps, that they afforded her good opportunity
for the exercise of her ingenuity and epigrammatic talent: — no poet,
however,
can admit them to be poetry at all. Still, the volume contains some
pieces
which enable us to take a new view of the powers of the writer. A few
additional
years, with their inevitable sorrow, appear to have stirred the depths
of her heart. We see less of frivolity-less of vivacity — more of
tenderness
— earnestness — even passion — and far more of the true imagination as
distinguished from its subordinate, fancy. The one prevalent trait,
grace,
alone distinctly remains. "The Spirit of Poetry," "To Sybil," "The
Birth
of the Callitriche," and " The Child and its Angel-Playmate" would do
honor
to any of our poets. "She Loves Him Yet," nevertheless, will serve,
better
than either of these poems, to show the alteration of manner referred
to:]
[[Here
begins MS
fragment 3:]]
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 stirred.
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
However 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.
Ah, doubt no more!
She never can wed another.
Till life be o'er
She loves — she will love him yet!
The following stanzas are in a somewhat similar tone, but are more
noticeable
for their terse energy of expression:
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-horn 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 flies the jest —
When gleams the goblet brightest,
And proudest heaves thy breast,
And thou art madly pledging [back of page:]
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 altered heart from care, love,
And charm its grief to sleep,
Mine only should despair, love,
I — I alone would weep —
I — I alone would mourn the flowers
That bloom in Love's deserted bowers.
In not presenting to the public at one view all that
she has written in verse, Mrs. Osgood has incurred the risk of losing
that
credit to which she is entitled on the score of versatility-of variety
in invention and expression. There is scarcely a form of poetical
composition
in which she has not made experiment; and there is none in which she
has
not very respectably succeeded. Her defects are chiefly negative and by
no means numerous. Her versification is sometimes exceedingly good, but
more frequently feeble through the use of harsh consonants, and such
words
as "thou'dst" for "thou wouldst," with other unnecessary
contractions, inversions, and obsolete expressions. Her imagery is
often
mixed; — indeed it is rarely otherwise. The epigrammatism of her
conclusions
gives to her poems, as wholes, the air of being more skilfully
constructed
than they really are. [next page, and the MS
fragment 4:] On the other hand, we look in vain throughout her
works for an offence against the finer taste, or against decorum — for
a low thought or a platitude. A happy refinement — an instinct of the
pure
and delicate — is one of her most noticeable excellences. She may be
properly
commended, too, for originality of poetic invention, whether in the
conception
of a theme or in the manner of treating it. Consequences of this trait,
are her point and piquancy. Fancy and naivete appear in all she writes.
Regarding the loftier merits, I am forced to speak of her in more
measured
terms. She has occasional passages of true imagination-but scarcely the
glowing, vigorous, and sustained ideality of Mrs. Maria Brooks-or even,
in general, the less ethereal elevation of Mrs. Welby. In that
indescribable
something, however, which, for want of a more definite term, we are
accustomed
to call "grace" that charm so magical, because at once so shadowy and
so
potent-that Will o' the Wisp which, in its supreme development. may be
said to involve nearly all that is valuable in poetry — she has,
unquestionably,
no rival among her countrywomen.
[[Here ends MS fragment 4 and
begins MS fragment
5:]]
Of pure prose —
of prose proper
— she has, perhaps, never written a line in her life. Her usual
Magazine
papers are a class by themselves. She begins with a resolute effort at
being sedate — that is to say, sufficiently prosaic and matter-of-fact
for the purpose of a legend or an essay; but, after a few sentences, we
behold uprising the leaven of the Muse; then, with a flourish and some
vain attempts at repression, a scrap of verse renders itself manifest;
then comes a little poem outright; then another and another and
another,
with impertinent patches of prose in between — until at length the mask
is thrown fairly off and far away, and the whole article — sings.
[[The remaining setences are missing from the
manuscript]]
Upon the whole,
I have spoken
of Mrs. Osgood so much in detail, less on account of what she has
actually
done than on account of what I perceive in her the ability to do.
In character,
she is ardent
and sensitive, impulsive — the very soul of truth and honor; a
worshipper
of the beautiful, with a heart so radically artless as to seem abundant
in art; universally admired, respected, and beloved. In person, she is
about the medium height, slender even to fragility, graceful whether in
action or repose; complexion usually pale; hair black and glossy; eyes
a clear, luminous grey, large, and with singular capacity for
expression.]]
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