The Literati of New York City — 1902 historical reading — reading text

ah, woe is me! That I should perish now, With the dear sunlight just let in Upon my balmy brow! “My leaves, instinct with glowing life, Were quivering to unclose; My happy heart with love was rife — I was almost a rose. “Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense, Already I had risen Above my cage's curving fence — My green and graceful prison. “My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, Were just prepared to part And whisper to the wooing wind The rapture of my heart. “In new-born fancies reveling, My mossy cell half riven, Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing To bear me into Heaven. “How oft, while yet an infant flower, My crimson cheek I've laid Against the green bars of my bower, Impatient of the shade! “And pressing up and peeping through Its small but precious vistas, Sighed for the lovely light and dew That blessed my elder sisters. “I saw the sweet breeze rippling o’er Their leaves that loved the play, Though the light thief stole all their store Of dew-drop gems away. “I thought how happy I should be Such diamond wreaths to wear, And frolic with a rose's glee With sunbeam, bird and air. “Ah me! — ah, woe is me, that I, Ere yet my leaves unclose, With all my wealth of sweets, must die Before I am a rose!” Every true poet must here appreciate the exceeding delicacy of expression, the richness of fancy, the nice appositeness of the overt and insinuated meaning. The passages I have italicized have seldom, in their peculiar and very graceful way, been equaled — never surpassed. I cannot speak of the poems of Mrs. Osgood without a strong propensity to ring the changes upon the indefinite word “grace” and its derivatives. It seems, indeed, the one key-phrase unlocking the cryptograph of her power — of the effect she produces. And yet the effect is scarcely more a secret than the key. Grace, perhaps, may be most satisfactorily defined as a term applied, in despair, to that class of the impressions of beauty which admit neither of analysis nor of comprehension. It is this irresoluble charm — in grace — that Mrs. Osgood excels any poetess of her country — or, indeed, of any country under the sun. Nor is she more graceful herself than appreciative of the graceful, under whatever guise it is presented to her consideration. The sentiment, the perception, and the keenest enjoyment of grace, render themselves manifest in innumerable instances, as well throughout her prose as her poetry. A fine example is to be found in “A Letter to an Absent Friend, on seeing Celeste for the first time in the Wept-of-Wishton-Wish,” included in the “Wild Flowers from New England.” Celeste has been often described — the effect of her dancing, I mean — but assuredly never has she been brought so fully to the eye of the mind as in the verses which follow — “She comes — the spirit of the dance! And but for those large, eloquent eyes, Where passion speaks in every glance, She'd seem a wanderer from the skies. “So light that, gazing breathless there, Lest the celestial dream should go, You'd think the music in the air Waved the fair vision to and fro! “Or that the melody's sweet flow Within the radiant creature played, And those soft wreathing arms of snow And white sylph feet the music made. “Now gliding slow with dreamy grace, Her eyes beneath their lashes lost, Now motionless, with lifted face, And small hands on her bosom crossed. “And now with flashing eyes she springs — Her whole bright figure raised in air, As if her soul had spread its wings And poised her one 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.” Messrs. Clark & Austin, of New York, have lately issued another, but still a very imperfect, collection of “Poems, by Frances S. Osgood.” In general, it embraces by no means the best of her works, although some of her best (“The Spirit of Poetry,” for example), are included. “The Daughter of Herodias,” one of her longest compositions, a very noble poem — quite as good as anything written by Mrs. Hemans — is omitted. The volume contains a number of the least meritorious pieces in the “Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England,” and also more than enough of a class of allegorical or emblematical verses — a kind of writing which, through an odd perversity, the fair authoress at one time much affected, but which no poet can admit to be poetry at all. These jeux d’esprit (for what else shall we call them?) afforded her, however, a fine opportunity for the display of ingenuity, and an epigrammatism in which she especially excels. Of this latter quality, in its better phase, that is to say, existing apart from the allegory, I must be permitted to give two exquisite specimens: — “LENORE. “Oh, fragile and fair as the delicate chalices Wrought with so rare and so subtle a skill, Bright relics that tell of the pomp of those palaces Venice, the sea-goddess, glories in still! “Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes, Yet, ah, if some false hand, profaning its splendor, Dares but to taint it with poison, it breaks. “So when Love poured through thy pure heart his lightning, On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke — So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening, Poisoned the treasure, it trembled and broke!” “TO SARAH. “Oh, they never can know that heart of thine, Who dare accuse thee of flirtation; They might as well say that the stars, which shine In the light of their joy o’er creation, Are flirting with every wild wave in which lies One beam of the glory that kindles the skies. “Smile on, then, undimmed in your beauty and grace! Too well e’er to doubt, love, we know you; And shed from your heaven the light of your face, Where the waves chase each other below you — For none can e’er deem it your shame or your sin That each wave holds your star-image smiling within.” “Lenore,” independently of its mere epigrammatism, well exemplifies the poet's usual turn of thought, her exactitude and facility at illustration. The versification (except in the first quatrain, which puts me in mind of Moore), is defective. The first two lines of the third are even rough. The rhythm is dactylic, but the dactyls are all false, e. g.: “So when Love | poured through thy | pure heart his | lightning, On thy pale | cheek the soft | rose-hues a | woke.” Here the necessarily long syllables, love, through, heart, pale, soft, and hues should be short, and the rhythm halts because they are not so. “To Sarah” is the better poem in every respect; — the compliment in the two last lines is exquisitely pointed. Both these pieces appeared originally in “The Broadway Journal” (which has been honored by many of Mrs. Osgood's very finest compositions), the last, “To Sarah,” is not included in the volume lately published by Messrs. Clark & Austin. What is really new in this volume shows a marked change in the themes, in the manner, in the whole character of the poetess. We see less of vivacity, less of fancy; more of tenderness, earnestness, even passion, and of the true imagination as distinguished from its subordinate fancy: the one prevalent and predominating trait, grace, alone distinctly remains. In illustration of these points I feel tempted to copy some seven or eight of the later poems, but the deep interest of my subject has already led me too far, and I am by no means writing a review. I must refer, however, to two brief songs as best exemplifying what I have said. They were quoted, about five months ago, in a notice of the works of the poetess — a notice by myself — published in this magazine, — the one commences, “She loves him yet,” the other, “Yes, lower to the level.” These pieces serve also to show the marked improvement of the writer in versification. The first-named is not only rhythmically perfect, but evinces much originality in its structure; the last, although in rhythm not so novel, is more forcible, better balanced, and more thoroughly sustained — in these respects I have seldom seen anything so good. In terse energy of expression this poem is unsurpassed. My extracts are already extended to a greater length than I had designed or than comports with the plan of these papers, yet I cannot forbear making another. Its music, simplicity and genuine earnestness, will find their way to the hearts of all who read it. “A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. “Yes, take them first, my Father; let my doves Fold their white wings in Heaven, safe on Thy breast, Ere I am called away! I dare not leave Their young hearts here — their innocent, thoughtless hearts! Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze! My May, my careless, ardent-tempered May, My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise; Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes; Whose little loving heart a word, a glance, Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play, And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks. With her clear, flute-like voice, ‘Do you love me?’ Ah, let me stay — ah, let me still be by, To answer her and meet her warm caress! For, I away, how oft in this rough world That earnest question will be asked in vain! How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart, Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length The hateful withering lesson of distrust! Ah, let her nestle still upon this breast, In which each shade that dims her darling face Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven. And thou, My modest Ellen — tender, thoughtful, true, Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies — My pure, proud, noble Ellen, with thy gifts Of genius, grace and loveliness, half hidden ’Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart To startle and appal? Thy generous scorn Of all things base and mean; thy quick keen taste, Dainty and delicate; thy instinctive fear Of those unworthy of a soul so pure; Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien — All, they will all bring pain to thee, my child. And, oh! if even their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all The latent evil yet undisciplined In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find — Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings, Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give? Ah, let me stay — albeit my heart is weary, Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat That finds no echo in this busy world Which cannot pause to answer — tired alike Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night. Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me! And for their sakes — for their sweet sakes, my Father, Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet!” Mrs. Osgood has done far more in prose than in poetry, but then her prose is merely poetry in disguise. Of pure prose, of prose proper, she has, perhaps, never written a line in her life. Her usual magazine articles are a class by themselves. She begins with a desperate effort at being sedate — that is to say, sufficiently prosaic and matter-of-fact for the purpose of a legend or an essay; but in a few sentences we behold uprising the leaven of the unrighteousness of the muse; then, after some flourishes and futile attempts at repression, a scrap of verse renders itself manifest; then another and another; then comes a poem outright, and then another and another and another, with little odd batches of prose in between, until at length the mask is thrown fairly off and far away, and the whole article — sings. I shall say nothing farther, then, of Mrs. Osgood's prose. Her character is daguerreotyped in her works — reading the one we know the other. She is ardent, sensitive, impulsive; the very soul of truth and honor; a worshipper of the beautiful, with a heart so