[From Dr. Marcy's Homeopathic Theory and Practice of Medicine.]WEARING THE BEARD.
ONE great cause of the frequent occurrence of chronic bronchitis may be found in the reprehensible fashion of shaving the beard. That this ornament was given by the Creator for some useful purpose, there can be no doubt, for in fashioning the human body, he gave nothing unbecoming a perfect man, nothing useless, nothing superfluous. Hair being an imperfect conductor of caloric, is admirably calculated to retain the animal warmth of that part of the body which is so constantly and necessarily exposed to the weather, and thus to protect this important portion of the respiratory passage from the injurious effects of sudden checks of perspiration.
When one exercises for hours his vocal organs, with the unremitted activity of a public declamation, the pores of the skin in the vicinity of the throat and chest become relaxed, so that when he enters the open air, the whole force of the atmosphere bears upon these parts, and he sooner or later contracts a bronchitis; while, had he the flowing beard with which his Maker has endowed him, uncut, to protect these important parts, he would escape any degree of exposure unharmed.
The fact that Jews and other people who wear the beard long, are but rarely afflicted with bronchitis and analogous disorders, suggests a powerful argument in support of these views.
[From "Ada Greville," by Peter Leicester.]A VIEW OF BOMBAY.
THEY had soon reached the Apollo Bunder, where they were to land, and where Ada's attention was promptly engaged by the bustle awaiting her there; and where, from among numbers of carriages, and palanquins, and carts in waiting—many of them of such extraordinary shapes—some moved by horses, some by bullocks, and some by men, and all looking strange; from their odd commixture, Mr. McGregor's phaeton promptly drew up, and he placed the ladies in it, himself driving, and the two maids following in a palanquin carriage. This latter amused Ada exceedingly; avis-à-vis, in fact, very long, and very low, drawn by bullocks, whose ungainly and uneven paces were very unlike any other motion to which, so far, her experience had been subjected; but they went well enough, and quickly too, and Ada soon forgot their eccentricities in her surprise at the many strange things she saw by the way. The airy appearance of the houses, full of windows and doors, and all cased round by verandahs; the native mud bazaars, so rude and uncouth in their shapes, and daubed over with all kinds of glaring colours; with the women sitting in the open verandahs, their broad brooms in hand, whisking off from their food-wares the flies, myriads of which seem to contend with them for ownership; the native women in the streets carrying water, in their graceful dress, their scanty little jackets and short garments exhibiting to advantage their beautiful limbs and elegant motion, the very poorest of them covered with jewels—the wonted mode, indeed, in which they keep what little property they have—the women, too, working with the men, and undertaking all kinds of labor; the black, naked coolies running here and there to snatch at any little employment that would bring them but ananna. Contrasting with these, and mixed up pell mell with them, the smart young officers cantering about, the carriages of every shape and grade, from the pompous hackery, with its gaudy, umbrella-like top, and no less pompous occupant, in his turban and jewels, his bullocks covered with bells making more noise than the jumbling vehicle itself, down to the meager bullock cart, at hire, for the merest trifle. Here and there, too, some other great native, on his sumptuously caparisoned horse, with arched neck and long flowing tail sweeping the ground, and feeling as important as his rider; and the popish priests, in their long, black gowns, and long beards; and the civilians, of almost every rank, in their light, white jackets; and the umbrellas; and the universal tomtoms, incessantly going; and above all, the numbers of palanquins, each with its eight bearers, running here, there, and everywhere; everything, indeed, so unlike dear old England; everything, even did not the burning sun of itself tell the fact, too sensibly to be mistaken, reminding the stranger that she was in the Indian land.
From "The Memorial:"
[The most brilliant and altogether attractive gift-book of the season, edited by Mrs. Hewitt, and published by Putnam.]
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.
BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD.
FROM the beginning of our intellectual history women have done far more than their share in both creation and construction. The worshipful Mrs. Bradstreet, who two hundred years ago held her court of wit among the classic groves of Harvard, was in her day—the day in which Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton sung—the finest poet of her sex whose verse was in the English language; and there was little extravagance in the title bestowed by her London admirers, when they printed her works as those "of the Tenth Muse, recently sprung up in America." In the beginning of the present century we had no bard to dispute the crown with Elizabeth Townsend, whose "Ode to Liberty" commanded the applause of Southey and Wordsworth in their best days; whose "Omnipresence of the Deity" is declared by Dr. Cheever to be worthy of those great poets or of Coleridge; and who still lives, beloved and reverenced, in venerable years, the last of one of the most distinguished families of New England.
More recently, Maria Brooks, called in "The Doctor"Maria del Occidente, burst upon the world with "Zophiel," that splendid piece of imagination and passion which stands, the vindication of the subtlety, power and comprehension of the genius of woman, justifying by comparison, the skepticism of Lamb when he suggested, to the author of "The Excursion," whether the sex had "ever produced any thing so great." Of our living and more strictly contemporary female poets, we mention with unhesitating pride Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs. Oakes Smith, Mrs. Hewett, Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Welby, Alice Carey, "Edith May," Miss Lynch, and Miss Clarke, as poets of a genuine inspiration, displaying native powers and capacities in art such as in all periods have been held sufficient to insure to their possessors lasting fame, and to the nations which they adorned, the most desirable glory.
It is Longfellow who says,
——"What we admire in a woman,Is her affection, not her intellect."
——"What we admire in a woman,Is her affection, not her intellect."
The sentiment is unworthy a poet, the mind as well as the heart claims sympathy, and there is no sympathy but in equality; we need in woman the completion of our own natures; that her finer, clearer, and purer vision should pierce for us the mysteries that are hidden from our own senses, strengthened, but dulled, in the rude shocks of the out-door world, from which she is screened, by her pursuits, to be the minister of God to us: to win us by the beautiful to whatever in the present life or the immortal is deserving a great ambition. We care little for any of the mathematicians, metaphysicians, or politicians, who, as shamelessly as Helen, quit their sphere. Intellect in woman, so directed, we do not admire, and of affection such women are incapable. There is something divine in woman, and she whose true vocation it is to write, has some sort of inspiration, which relieves her from the processes and accidents of knowledge, to display only wisdom in all the range of gentleness, and all the forms of grace. The equality of the sexes is one of the absurd questions which have arisen from a denial of thedistinctionsof their faculties and duties—of the masculine energy from the feminine refinement. The ruder sort of women cannot comprehend that there is a distinction, not of dignity, but of kind; and so, casting aside their own eminence, for which they are too base, and seeking after ours, for which they are too weak, they are hermaphroditish disturbers of the peace of both. In the main our American women are free from this reproach; they have known their mission, and have carried on the threads of civility through the years, so strained that they have been melodiously vocal with every breath of passion from the common heart. We turn from the jar of senates, from politics, theologies, philosophies, and all forms of intellectual trial and conflict, to that portion of our literature which they have given us, coming like dews and flowers after glaciers and rocks, the hush of music after the tragedy, silence and rest after turmoil of action. The home where love is refined and elevated by intellect, and woman, by her separate and never-superfluous or clashing mental activity, sustains her part in the life-harmony, is the vestibule of heaven to us; and there we hear the poetesses repeat the songs to which they have listened, when wandering nearer than we may go to the world in which humanity shall be perfect again, by the union in all of all power and goodness and beauty.
The finest intelligence that woman has in our time brought to the ministry of the beautiful, is no longer with us.Frances Sargent Osgooddied in New-York, at fifteen minutes before three o'clock, in the afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth of May, 1850. These words swept like a surge of sadness wherever there was grace and gentleness, and sweet affections. All that was in her life was womanly, "pure womanly," and so is all in the undying words she left us. This is her distinction.
Mrs. Osgood was of a family of poets. Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, whose abilities are illustrated in a volume of "Poems and Juvenile Sketches" published in 1830, is a daughter of her mother; Mrs. E.D. Harrington, the author of various graceful compositions in verse and prose, is her youngest sister; and Mr. A.A. Locke, a brilliant and elegant writer, for many years connected with the public journals, was her brother. She was a native of Boston, where her father, Mr. Joseph Locke, was a highly accomplished merchant. Her earlier life, however, was passed principally in Hingham, a village of peculiar beauty, well calculated to arouse the dormant poetry of the soul; and here, even in childhood, she became noted for her poetical powers. In their exercise she was rather aided than discouraged by her parents, who were proud of her genius and sympathized with all her aspirations. The unusual merit of some of her first productions attracted the notice of Mrs. Child, who was then editing a Juvenile Miscellany, and who foresaw the reputation which her young contributor afterwards acquired. Employing thenomme de plumeof "Florence," she made it widely familiar by her numerous contributions in the Miscellany, as well as, subsequently, for other periodicals.
In 1834, she became acquainted with Mr. S.S. Osgood, the painter—a man of genius in his profession—whose life of various adventure is full of romantic interest; and while, soon after, she was sitting for a portrait, the artist told her his strange vicissitudes by sea and land; how as a sailor-boy he had climbed the dizzy maintop in the storm; how, in Europe he followed with his palette in the track of the flute-playing Goldsmith: and among the
Antres vast and deserts idle,Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
of South America, had found in pictures of the crucifixion, and of the Liberator Bolivar—the rude productions of his untaught pencil—passports to the hearts of the peasant, the partizan, and the robber. She listened, like the fair Venetian; they were married, and soon after went to London, where Mr. Osgood had sometime before been a pupil of the Royal Academy.
During this residence in the Great Metropolis, which lasted four years, Mr. Osgood was successful in his art—painting portraits of Lord Lyndhurst, Thomas Campbell, Mrs. Norton, and many other distinguished characters, which secured for him an enviable reputation—and Mrs. Osgood made herself known by her contributions to the magazines, by a miniature volume, entitled "The Casket of Fate," and by the collection of her poems published by Edward Churton, in 1839, under the title of "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." She was now about twenty-seven years of age, and this volume contained all her early compositions which then met the approval of her judgment. Among them are many pieces of grace and beauty, such as belong to joyous and hopeful girlhood, and one, of a more ambitious character, under the name of "Elfrida"—a dramatic poem, founded upon incidents in early English history—in which there are signs of more strength and tenderness, and promise of greater achievement, though it is without the unity and proportion necessary to eminent success in this kind of writing.
Among her attached friends here—a circle that included the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Hofland, the Rev. Hobart Caunter, Archdeacon Wrangham, the late W. Cooke Taylor, LL.D., and many others known in the various departments of literature—was the most successful dramatist of the age, James Sheridan Knowles, who was so much pleased with "Elfrida," and so confident that her abilities in this line, if duly cultivated, would enable her to win distinction, that he urged upon her the composition of a comedy, promising himself to superintend its production on the stage. She accordingly wrote "The Happy Release, or The Triumphs of Love," a play in three acts, which was accepted, and was to have been brought out as soon as she could change slightly one of the scenes, to suit the views of the manager as to effect, when intelligence of the death of her father suddenly recalled her to the United States, and thoughts of writing for the stage were abandoned for new interests and new pursuits.
Mr. and Mrs. Osgood arrived in Boston early in 1840, and they soon after came to New-York, where they afterward resided; though occasionally absent, as the pursuit of his profession, or ill health, called Mr. Osgood to other parts of the country. Mrs. Osgood was engaged in various literary occupations. She edited, among other books, "The Poetry of Flowers, and Flowers of Poetry," (New-York, 1841,) and "The Floral Offering," (Philadelphia, 1847,) two richly embellished souvenirs; and she was an industrious and very popular writer for the literary magazines and other miscellanies.
She was always of a fragile constitution, easily acted upon by whatever affects health, and in her latter years, except in the more genial seasons of the spring and autumn, was frequently an invalid. In the winter of 1847-8, she suffered more than ever previously, but the next winter she was better, and her husband, who was advised by his physicians to discontinue, for a while, the practice of his profession, availed himself of the opportunity to go in pursuit of health and riches to the mines of the Pacific. He left New-York on the fifth of February, 1849, and was absent one year. Mrs. Osgood's health was variable during the summer, which she passed chiefly at Saratoga Springs, in the company of a family of intimate friends; and as the colder months came on, her strength decayed, so that before the close of November, she was confined to her apartments. She bore her sufferings with resignation, and her natural hopefulness cheered her all the while, with remembrances that she had before come out with the flowers and the embracing airs, and dreams that she would again be in the world with nature. Two or three weeks before her death, her husband carried her in his arms, like a child, to a new home, and she was happier than she had been for months, in the excitement of selecting its furniture, brought in specimens or patterns to her bedside. "We shall be so happy!" was her salutation to the few friends who were admitted to see her; but they saw, and her physicians saw, that her life was ebbing fast, and that she would never never again see the brooks and greens fields for which she pined, nor even any of the apartments but the one she occupied of her own house. I wrote the terrible truth to her, in studiously gentle words, reminding her that in heaven there is richer and more delicious beauty, that there is no discord in the sweet sounds there, no poison in the perfume of the flowers there, and that they know not any sorrow who are with Our Father. She read the brief note almost to the end silently, and then turned upon her pillow like a child, and wept the last tears that were in a fountain which had flowed for every grief but hers she ever knew. "I cannot leave my beautiful home," she said, looking about upon the souvenirs of many an affectionate recollection; "and my noble husband, and Lily and May!" These last are her children. But the sentence was confirmed by other friends, and she resigned herself to the will of God. The next evening but one, a young girl went to amuse her, by making paper flowers for her, and teaching her to make them: and she wrote to her these verses—her dying song:
You've woven roses round my way,And gladdened all my being;How much I thank you none can saySave only the All-seeing....I'm going through the Eternal gatesEre June's sweet roses blow;Death's lovely angel leads me there—And it is sweet to go.
You've woven roses round my way,And gladdened all my being;How much I thank you none can saySave only the All-seeing....
I'm going through the Eternal gatesEre June's sweet roses blow;Death's lovely angel leads me there—And it is sweet to go.
May 7th, 1850.
At the end of five days, in the afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth of May, as gently as one goes to sleep, she withdrew into a better world.
On Tuesday, her remains were removed to Boston, to be interred in the cemetery of Mount Auburn. It was a beautiful day, in the fulness of the spring, mild and calm, and clouded to a solemn shadow. In the morning, as the company of the dead and living started, the birds were singing what seemed to her friends a sadder song than they were wont to sing; and, as the cars flew fast on the long way, the trees bowed their luxuriant foliage, and the flowers in the verdant fields were swung slowly on their stems, filling the air with the gentlest fragrance; and the streams, it was fancied, checked their turbulent speed to move in sympathy, as from the heart of Nature tears might flow for a dead worshipper. God was thanked that all the elements were ordered so, that sweetest incense, and such natural music, and reverent aspect of the silent world, should wait upon her, as so many hearts did, in this last journey. She slept all the while, nor waked when, in the evening, in her native city, a few familiar faces bent above her, with difficult looks through tears, and scarcely audible words, to bid farewell to her. On Wednesday she was buried, with some dear ones who had gone before her—beside her mother and her daughter—in that City of Rest, more sacred now than all before had made it, to those whose spirits are attuned to Beauty or to Sorrow—those twin sisters, so rarely parted, until the last has led the first to Heaven.
The character of Mrs. Osgood, to those who were admitted to its more minute observance, illustrated the finest and highest qualities of intelligence and virtue. In her manners, there was an almost infantile gaiety and vivacity, with the utmost simplicity and gentleness, and an unfailing and indefectable grace, that seemed an especial gift of nature, unattainable, and possessed only by her and the creatures of our imaginations whom we call the angels. The delicacy of her organization was such that she had always the quick sensibility of childhood. The magnetism of life was round about her, and her astonishingly impressible faculties were vital in every part, with a polarity toward beauty, all the various and changing rays of which entered into her consciousness, and were refracted in her conversation and action. Though, from the generosity of her nature, exquisitely sensible to applause, she had none of those immoralities of the intellect, which impair the nobleness of impulse—no unworthy pride, or vanity, or selfishness—nor was her will ever swayed from the line of truth, except as the action of the judgment may sometimes have been irregular from the feverish play of feeling. Her friendships were quickly formed, but limited by the number of genial hearts brought within the sphere of her knowledge and sympathy. Probably there was never a woman of whom it might be said more truly that to her own sex she was an object almost of worship. She was looked upon for her simplicity, purity, and childlike want of worldly tact or feeling, with involuntary affection; listened to, for her freshness, grace, and brilliancy, with admiration; and remembered, for her unselfishness, quick sympathy, devotedness, capacity of suffering, and high aspirations, with a sentiment approaching reverence. This regard which she inspired in women was not only shown by the most constant and delicate attentions in society, where she was always the most loved and honored guest, but it is recorded in the letters and other writings of many of her most eminent contemporaries, who saw in her an angel, haply in exile, the sweetness and natural wisdom of whose life elevated her far above all jealousies, and made her the pride and boast and glory of womanhood. Many pages might be filled with their tributes, which seem surely the most heartfelt that mortal ever gave to mortal, but the limits of this sketch of her will suffer only a few and very brief quotations from her correspondence. Unquestionably one of the most brilliant literary women of our time is Miss Clarke, so well known as "Grace Greenwood." She wrote of Mrs. Osgood with no more earnestness than others wrote of her, yet in a letter to the "Home Journal," in 1846, she says:
"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 charmslionsto 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 how are the critical Cæsars, one after another, 'giving in' to the graces, and fascinations, and soft enchantments of this Cleopatra of song. She charmslionsto 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.'
'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!'"
"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 inyoursuccess, 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,
"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 inyoursuccess, 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 mineOn song's sweet source, and love's pure shrine,And music's 'magic cell!"
Now I have looked upon thy face,Have felt thy twining arms' embrace,Thy very bosom's swell;—One moment leaned this brow of mineOn 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 myheartprompts 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."
"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 myheartprompts 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 theesprit du corpsthan 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 theOmnium Operaof 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 whoseMagnaliathere 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 waysPure as in childhood's hours;And all her thoughts are poetry,And all her words are flowers.
She dwells amid the world's dark waysPure 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 heartFrom 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.
Thou wouldst be loved? then let thy heartFrom 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."
"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 commencehousekeeping, I could not forbear sending a word of congratulation and encouragement. I have long thought that your eminentlypracticalturn 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."
"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 commencehousekeeping, I could not forbear sending a word of congratulation and encouragement. I have long thought that your eminentlypracticalturn 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 ingeniousvers 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.
[8]Besides the books by her which have been referred to, she publishedThe Language of Gems, (London);The Snow Drop, (Providence);Puss in Boots, (New York);Cries of New York, (New York);The Flower Alphabet, (Boston);The Rose: Sketches in Verse, (Providence);A Letter About the Lions, addressed to Mabel in the Country, (New York). The following list of her prose tales, sketches, and essays, is probably very incomplete: A Day in New England; A Crumpled Rose Leaf; Florence Howard; Ida Gray; Florence Errington; A Match for the Matchmaker; Mary Evelyn; Once More; Athenais; The Wife; The Little Lost Shoe; The Magic Lute; Feelingvs.Beauty; The Doom; The Flower and Gem; The Coquette; The Soul Awakened; Glimpses of a Soul, (in three parts); Lizzie Lincoln; Dora's Reward; Waste Paper; Newport Tableaux; Daguerreotype Pictures; Carry Carlisle; Valentine's Day; The Lady's Shadow; Truth; Virginia; The Waltz and the Wager; The Poet's Metamorphosis; Pride and Penitence; Mabel; Pictures from a Painter's Life; Georgiana Hazleton; A Sketch; Kate Melbourne; Life in New York; Leonora L'Estrange; The Magic Mirror; The Blue Belle; and Letters of Kate Carol, (a series of sketches of men, women and books;) contributed for the most part to Mr. Labree'sIllustrated Magazine.
[8]Besides the books by her which have been referred to, she publishedThe Language of Gems, (London);The Snow Drop, (Providence);Puss in Boots, (New York);Cries of New York, (New York);The Flower Alphabet, (Boston);The Rose: Sketches in Verse, (Providence);A Letter About the Lions, addressed to Mabel in the Country, (New York). The following list of her prose tales, sketches, and essays, is probably very incomplete: A Day in New England; A Crumpled Rose Leaf; Florence Howard; Ida Gray; Florence Errington; A Match for the Matchmaker; Mary Evelyn; Once More; Athenais; The Wife; The Little Lost Shoe; The Magic Lute; Feelingvs.Beauty; The Doom; The Flower and Gem; The Coquette; The Soul Awakened; Glimpses of a Soul, (in three parts); Lizzie Lincoln; Dora's Reward; Waste Paper; Newport Tableaux; Daguerreotype Pictures; Carry Carlisle; Valentine's Day; The Lady's Shadow; Truth; Virginia; The Waltz and the Wager; The Poet's Metamorphosis; Pride and Penitence; Mabel; Pictures from a Painter's Life; Georgiana Hazleton; A Sketch; Kate Melbourne; Life in New York; Leonora L'Estrange; The Magic Mirror; The Blue Belle; and Letters of Kate Carol, (a series of sketches of men, women and books;) contributed for the most part to Mr. Labree'sIllustrated Magazine.
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 anabandon, 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,Thatwomanthere as well as angel spoke,
—Depths of tenderness which showed when woke,Thatwomanthere 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 ofMiscellaneous 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; andSongs—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 onlyAll 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 learningTo 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 beautyStill 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 levelOf 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!
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 onlyAll 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 learningTo 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 beautyStill 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 levelOf 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 gracedWith 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 seethymeek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!I see the glorious boy—his dark locks wreathingWildly 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 ontheethat eloquent glance,The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance.I see his face with more than mortal beautyKindling, 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 thereFor 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 drinkinglifefromhisdear gaze,Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er theeTrailing around thy throat its golden maze;Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying,Within thysoulI 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 upraisingMy tearful glance—the life of life regain!For every tone that steals into my heartDoth to its worn weak pulse a mighty power impart."Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floatsThrough the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,See, dear one! how the chain of linked notesHas 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 fireGleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth leanHer 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,stilllendThy 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 melodyTo 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 moreIs here!—nay, grieve not thus! Life, butnot Love, is o'er!"
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 gracedWith 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 seethymeek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!
I see the glorious boy—his dark locks wreathingWildly 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 ontheethat eloquent glance,The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance.
I see his face with more than mortal beautyKindling, 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 thereFor 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 drinkinglifefromhisdear gaze,Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er theeTrailing around thy throat its golden maze;Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying,Within thysoulI 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 upraisingMy tearful glance—the life of life regain!For every tone that steals into my heartDoth to its worn weak pulse a mighty power impart.
"Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floatsThrough the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,See, dear one! how the chain of linked notesHas 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 fireGleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth leanHer 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,stilllendThy 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 melodyTo 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 moreIs here!—nay, grieve not thus! Life, butnot 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 havemy 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: