,.^^ ,' % <^ 'U. V ,H -Ta V .0'' -o, . ■^- .<^^ s'^ .^• .* .^^' ^^ -r-' ^^^ V . 'f. ■"^o- A^' ^^ V 1 * ^0 -^H % ^0O. ^*. •*^ % * ') s ^ ^^ \^ ,A^^' '^r %/' i}''^''-'^-^''^ .^^'^ ■"' ■?,,"' -.,^, 1^ V .^0 "^A v-^ '^^.-^^' -.s^ % ,.^^' ■% •^c. "^A V^' il^ * « 1 \\s ^>^^.^..^ '^ ^^" -^^ xOO -^0 ^^. .-V ^ * .V. •-•V: ^:> ^ , ,K ■* ^ 0, .^^f^/. %/ I 1 A V^ x^^^. >-_ A ^ *i di A -',. .-^^ ^/*,t:'- .p" ex *'-..'^' '0 ^^ ,^0- ^ 'i^t- &aanU ^(^^^'^ J^^M.^^ yfrs^^ LAUEEL LEAYES: A ®ia^3?aiEs Ma\sn bs t\t Iritirts at i\t hit Pes. ©ipolr, EDITED ED BY^rin^ MARY E. HEWITT. ^- '"■■J ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK: LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW; No. 8 Park Place. 1854. L. EXCHANGE MAY 24 1944 j Serial Record Divisi ThsLitiiu, 'jtloi'! T5 ^2>^ PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. This volume, now presented to the public under the title of Laurel Leaves, was originally published as " The Memorial ;" with the hope of creating a fund, from the proceeds of the sale, for the purpose of erecting a monument to the memory of the late lamented Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood ; but having failed in its object, in consequence of the retarded period at which it was issued from the press, the stereotype plates of the work were subsequently proposed for sale, and purchased by the present publishers, who now offer it as a suitable Gift Book for the Holiday season, and an appropriate monu- ment to her whom it was intended to commemorate. L, B. & h. lister; ffiE king tn i^n jTruitngB unit hlnniH; %^ik tljB hixh sitig tn tjitJ (Ddb: tljtf tmnt (gmblBms nrB tljM nf tliq fonxn nf tljB upprr skit, (0 lnrt| nni ilntnM, 3ii t|iB still mntEB Ijm; SmngA mt mt^ W)fm tliBtt nrj toigljt nnJr rlnr, ^ittnrBS nf i^m 3nliii JIbuL 3?ortlatiti, il^e., ^us., 1850. CONTENTS. PAGE. Inscription : By Jolin Neal. , 3 Proem: By the Editor 11 Fragment of an Unfinished Poem : By K P. Willis 12 Prances Sargent Osgood : By Rufus AV. Griswold 13 Letter from the Hon. R. H. Walworth, LL. D 31 The Fhght of the Falcon : By Mary E. Hewitt 35 " Heaven lies about us in our Infancy :" By R. H. Stoddard 36 The Angel of Death : By George Aubrey, Bishop of Jamaica 3*7 Remembrance : By S. G. G-oodrich 39 The Snow Image — A Childish JMiracle :' By Nathaniel Hawthorne 41, The Blessed Rain : By Lydia Huntley Sigourney 59 My Friends : By Alfred B. Street 61 The Resurrection : By George Lunt 64 Admiration : By the Rev. E. L. Magoon 65 A Mountain Castle : By John R. Thompson 73 Rehcs : By James T. Fields 14 The Pm-e Spot in the Heart : By G. P. R. James 75 A Plea for Dreams and Apparitions : By Ernest Helfenstein. 77 Love and Death : By Augustine Duganne 98 A Lament : By Mrs. Harrington 99 Our Pearl : By Mary L. Seward ; 101 Thoughts and Suggestions : By the Author of " Acton," 103 The Prisoner of Perote : By Estelle Anna Lewis. , 108 Cattle in Summer: By Mary E. Hewitt Ill To a Picture : By R. S. Chilton 112 " The Beautiful is Yanished :" By C. D. Stuart 113 The Rose-Tree : From the German of Starke 115 Leonora Thinking of Tasso 122 Stanzas : By Mary E. Brooks 123 Incidents of Life : By the Hon. J. Leander Starr 125 " Our Friendship is a Vanished Dream :" By Elizabeth Bogart 148 In Memory of Mrs. Osgood : By Emily Waters 151 PAGE. The Passage of the Jordan : By Alice B. Neal 153 A Story of the Cape de Verdes : By the Author of '• Kaloolah," « The Berber," &c 155 Fernside : By George "W. Dewey 161 To Him " whose Heart-strings were a Lute :" By Sarah Helen Whitman. .163 A Story of Calais : By Richard B. Kimball 165 My Garden : By Emma C. Embury 188 Song : By George H. Boker 191 Eleanor Wilmot, or the Ideal : By Louise Olivia Hunter 193 The Pilot : By Mary E. Hewitt 211 The Waves : By Bayard Taylor 213 Obhvion: By J. H. Hewitt 215 The Phoebe Bird : By Carohne Cheesebro' 217 A Requiem : By Mrs. Richard B. Kimball 240 A Reverie : By Rev. Ralph Hoyt 241 Gifts for the Grave : By Elizabeth G..Barber 243 Reminiscences of Venice : By Miner K Kellogg 245 A Memory of Frances Sargent Osgood : By William C. Richards 250 Absence : By the Rt. Rev. George W. Doane, D. D., LL. D 251 The Blind Fidler : By Herman S. Saroni 253 Song : By George P. Morris 274 Tlie Lost Bird : By WiUiam Gihnore Simms, LL. D 275 Tlie South of France : By Charles G. Leland .277 Prometheus : By Anne C. Lynch 283 Child and Blossoms : By Charles G. Eastman 284 Sonnet— From the City : By Mary E. Hewitt 285 Sonnet : By R. S. Chilton 286 Three Midsummer Evenings : By E. Fanny Haworth 287 Pygmalion : By Professor Gillespie 325 Rambles in Greenwood : By Frederic Saunders 329 Life — Its Seasons : By Catherine Mathews Rhodes 332 Moina : By Mary E. Hewitt 335 PROEM. lY MART K. HEWITT. She sleeps in peace till Christ at last shall raise her, The beautiful, whom countless hearts held dear — Speak low— ^we come to bury, not to praise her Who was so cherished while she lingered here. The flowers around are of her sweetness telling. The soft wind whispers of her childlike ways — Heart ! have thy will, and let thy memories swellin Pour forth in loving words her right of praise s» A fount of beauty all her hfe was filling, And ever the sweet thoughts her lips betrayed Fell on the soul like Persia's dew, distilling So pure, it leaves no rust upon the blade. And evermore her song exultant ringing, Eose on strong pinions from her heart of care ; Still upward, upward, like a skylark singing. Till her voice joined with seraphs in the air. Her sister angels missed her long from heaven. They missed her harp harmonious from the sky; And thus, upon a holy Sabbath even, They bore her to their glorious home on high. And now, tearful sisters of the lyre, bard, and sage, raise we " the stone of fame" To her who wrought the lay with minstrel fire, And left to earth her song and blameless name. 12 FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. BY N. P. -WILLIS. • That she we love is witli us here no more, We tearfully and mournfully may say — But, for ourselves we weep, and not for her ! Like one uplifted in a march by night. And borne on to the morning, 't is to her But an unwearied minute to the dawn, While we, with torn feet, on the darkling way, Follow to that same home where she 's at rest. Waiting to give us welcome. Mourning mother ! ' The voice, within the soft lips where your love Look'd for its music, is all hush'd — we know ! The roses that it parted have grown pale ! But still, perhaps, with its accustom'd tones, It lends her sweet thoughts utterance, where she is ; And oh, while in the softer air of Heaven, It unlearns only its complaining, say. Is 't well to wish, that, even to the ears That cannot sleep with aching for its music, 'T were audible again ? # FRANCESL SARGENT OSGOOD. 13 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. Brad- street, -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 jVIilton sung — the finest poet of her sex -whose verse "was in the English language ; and there -was little extravagance in the title besto-wed by her Lon- don 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 cro-wn with Elizabeth To-wnsend, 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 fami- lies of New England. More recently, Maria Brooks, called in " Tlie Doctor" Jfaria del Occidente, bm'st upon the world with " Zophiel," that splendid piece of imagination and passion which stands, the vindication of the subtlety, power and comprehen- sion 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 contem- porary female poets, we mention with unhesitating pride IVIi-s. Sigom-ney, Mrs. Oakes Smith, Mrs. Hewett, Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Welby, Alice Carey, " Edith May," Miss Lynch, and Miss Clarke, as poets of a genuine inspiration, display- ing native powers and capacities in art such as in all periods have been held sufficient to insm'e to their possessors lasting fame, and to the nations which they adorned the most desu-able glory. It is Longfellow who says, " What we admire in woman, Is her affection, not her intellect." The sentiment is unworthy a poet, the mind as well as the heart claims sym- pathy, and there is no sympathy but in equality ; we need in woman the com- 2 14 FRANCES SARGENf OSGOOD. pletion of our own natures; that her finer, clearer, and purer vision should pierce for us the mysteries that are hidden from our o^vii senses, strengthened, but dulled, in the rude shocks of the out-door world, from which she is screen- ed, by her pursuits, to be the minister of God to us ; to win us by the beauti- ful to whatever in the present life or the immortal is .deserving a great ambition. We care little for any of the mathematicians, metaphysicians, or pohticians, who, as shamelessly as Helen, quit their sphere. Intellect in wo- man so directed we do not admire, and of affection such women are incapa- ble. Tliere 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 absurb questions which have arisen from a denial of the distinctions of their faculties and duties — of the masculine energy from the feminine refinement. The ruder sort of women cannot apprehend 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 seekuig 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 tliis reproach ; they have known their mission, and have carried on the threads of civility through the j^ears, so strained that they have been melodi- ously vocal with every breath of passion from the common heart. We turn from the jar of senates, from politics, theologies, philosophies, and aU 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 ind 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 tpion in all of aU power and goodness and beauty. The finest intelUgence that woman has in our time brought to the ministry of tlie beautiful, is no longer with us. Frances Sargent Osgood died 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 wher- ever there was grace and gentleness and sweet affections. AU 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 abili- ties 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 va- rious graceful compositions in verse and prose, is her youngest sister ; and Mr. A. A. Locke, a brilhant and elegant writer, for many years connected with the pubhc journals, w^as her brother. She was a native of Boston, where her father, Mr. Joseph Locke, was a highly accomplished merchant Her earher fife, FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 15 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 child- hood, 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 sympatliized 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 contri- butor afterwards acquired. Employing ihe nomme de plume of " 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 liis palette in the track of the flute-playing Goldsmith ; and among the Antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hiUs whose heads touch heaven, of South America, had found in pictures of the Crucifixion, and of the Libera- tor Bolivar — the rude productions of his untaught pencil — passports to the hearts of the peasant, the partizan, and the robber. She listened, hke the fair Venetian ; they were married, and soon afrer went to London, where Mr. Os- good had sometime before been a pupil of the Royal Academy. During this residence in the Great Metropolis, which lastled fouryears, Mr. Osgood was successful in his art — painting porti-aits of Lord Lyndhurst, Thomas Campbell, Mrs. Norton, and many other distinguislied 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 grrace and beauty, such as belong to joyous and hope- ful girfHood, and one, of a more ambitious character, under the name of " Elfri- da" — 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 emi- nent success in this kind of writing. Among her attached friends here — a circle that included the Hon. Mrs. Nor- ton, the Rev. Hobart Gaunter, Archdeacon Spenser, the late W. Cooke Tay- lor, 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 abOities in this hne, if duly cultivated, would enable her to win distinction, that he lu-ged upon her the composition of a comedy, promising himself to superintend its produc- tion on the stage. She accordingly wrote " The Happy Release, or The Tri- nmphs of Love," a play in three acts, which was accepted, and waa 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 ridily embellished souvenirs; and she was an industrious and very popular writer for, the literary magazines and otlier 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 mvalid. In the winter of 1 847-8 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 com- pany 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 salu- tation 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 again see the brooks and green fields for which she pined, nor even any of ti^ apart- ments 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 sor- row 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 even- ing but one, a young girl went to amuse her, by making paper flowers for her, FRAN-CES SARGENT OSGOOD. 1*? and teaching her to make them ; and she wrote to her these verses — her dying song : You've woven roses round my way, Pm going through the Eternal gatei And gladdened all my beiiig ; M-e June's sweet roses blow ; How much I thank you none can say 'Death's lovely angel leads me there — S ave only the All-seeing. 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 ceme- tery 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 com- pany of the dead and hving 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, tlie trees bowed their luxuriant foliage, and the flowers in the verdant fields were swung slowly on their stems, filling the an* with the gentlest fragrance ; and the streams, it was fancied, checked their turbulent speed to move in sympathy, as from the heart of natm-e 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 liearts did, in this last journey. She slept all the wliile, nor waked when, in the evening, in her native city, a few famihar 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 daugh- ter — in that' City of Rest, more sacred now than all before had made it, to those whose spii-its are attuned to Beauty or to Sorrow — those twin sisters, so rarely parted, imtil the last has led the first to Heaven. The character of Mrs. Osgood, to those who were admitted to its more mi- nute observance, illustrated the finest and highest qualities of intelligence and virtue. In her ruanners, there was an almost infantile gaiety and vivacity, with the utmost simphcity 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 astonish- ingly impressible faculties were vital in every part with a polarity toward beauty, all the various and changing rays of which entered into her conscious- ness, 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 iiTegular from the feverish play of feeling. Her friendships were quickly formed, but Hmited 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 al- most of worship. She was looked upon for her simplicity, purity, and childlike 18 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. want of worldly tact or feeling, with involuntary affection ; listened to, for her freshness, grace, and brilliancy, with admiration ; and remembered, for her un- selfishness, quick sympathy, devotedness, capacity of suffering, and high aspi- rations, with a sentiment approaching reverence. This regard which she inspired in women was not only shown by the most constant and dehcate at- tentions in society, where she was always die most loved and honored gudst, but it is recorded in the letters and other writings of many of her most emi- nent 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 suiely 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 hterary 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 Caesars, one after another, 'giving in' to the graces, and fas- cinations, and soft enchantments of this Cleopatra of song. She charms lions to sleep, with her silver lute, and then throws around them the delicate net-work of her exquisite fancy, and lo ! when they wake, they are well content in their silken prison. • From the tips of her pen a melody flows, Sweet as the nightingale sings to the rose.' " With her beautiful Italian soul — with her impulse, and wild energy, and exuberant fancy, and glowing passionateness — and with the wonderful facility with which, like an almond- tree casting off its blossoms, she flings abroad her heart-tinted and love-perfumed lays, she has, I must believe, more of the improvisatrice than has yet been revealed by any of our gifted countrywomen, now before the people. Heaven bless her, and grant her ever, as now, to have laurels on her brows, and to browse on her laurels ! Were I the President of these United States, I would immortalize my brief term of office by the crowning of our Corinna, at the Capitol." And about the same period, having been introduced to her, she referred to the event : " It seems like a ' pleasant vision of the night ' that I have indeed seen 'the idol of my early dreams,' that I have been within the charmed circle of her real presence, sat by her very side, and lovingly ' watched the shadow of each feeling that moved her soul, glance o'er that radiant face !' " And writing to her : 'Dear Mrs. Osgood, let me lay this sweet weight oflT 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 joy- ous beatings of my heart, that it seemed it could not throb without them ; and when you raised 'your lightning glance to heaven,' and sang your loftiest song, the liquid notes fell upon my soul like baptismal waters. With an 'intense and burning,' almost unwomanly ambition, I have still joyed in 7jour success, and gloried in your glory ; and all because Love laid its reproving finger on the lip of Envy. I cannot tell you how much this romantic in- terest has deejiened. " Now I have looked upon thy face, Have felt thy twininsr arms' embrace, Thy very bosom's swell ; — One moment leaned this brow of mine On song's sweet source, and love's pure shrine, And music's * magic cell V *' FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 19 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 — over- coming my fear of being intrusive, and ottering as my apology the simple assertion that it is my heart prompts me. Till to-day pride has checked me : but you are ' very ill,' and I can no longer resist the impulse. With the assurance that I will never again trouble you, that now I neither ask nor expect the slightest response, suffer me thus to steal to your pre- sence, to sit beside your bed, and for the last time to speak of a love that has followed yoa 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 realizatii^n of my dreams ; and do not suppose that be- cause 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 re- garded as only mine. I know I have seemed indifierent 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 ex- perience ; and when \ 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 friend- ship in this world — when I would say ' The years ! oh, the years of this earth-life, that nmst 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 bit- terness ! when we see the friend, on whom we have built for eternity, grow cold, and be- come 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 again, in a higher light, — will acknow- ledge thee and unite herself to thee ibrevcr.' And 1 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 conJ&ded 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 feehng. It was the custom in the last century, when there was among authors more of the esprit du corps than now, for poets to greet each other's appearance in print with complimental verses, celebrating the quahties for which the seeker after bays was most distinguished. Thus in 1729 we find the Omnium Opera of John Duke of Buckingham prefaced by " testimonials of authors concerning His Grace and liis writings ;" and tlie names of Garth, Roscommon, Dryden, and Prior, are among his endorsers. There have been a few instances of the kind in this country, of which the most noticeable is that of Cotton Mather, in whose Magnalia there is a curious display of erudition and poetical ingenuity, in gra- tulatory odes. The literary journals of the last few years furnish many such tributes to Mrs. Osgood, which are interesting to her friends for their illustra- tion 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 hfe, from the period when, 20 FRANCES SiTRGENT OSGOOD. 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 in- quiries for the absent and dying poetess. They but repeat, with more or less felicity, the graceful praise of Mrs. Hewitt, in a poem upon her portrait : She dwells amid the world's dark ways Pure as in childhood's hours ; And all her thoughts are poetrj'. And all her words are tlowers. Or that of another, addi-essed to her : Then wouldst he loved ? then let thy heart From its present pathway part not ! Being everjthing, 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 mis- sionary and industrious toiler, for all her friends. She would brave any priva- tion 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 w'oman. 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 wliich we have ghmpses of her domestic quahties — " It is not often that I waste fine paper in writing to people who do not think me worth answering. I generally reserve my ' ornamental hand' for those who return two letters for my one. But you are an exception to all rules, — and when I heard that you were about to commence housekeepivff, I could not forbear sending a word of congratulation and encour- agement. I have long thought that your eminently ^racizca^ turn of mind, my dear friend, would find congenial employment in superintending an ' establishment.' What a house you will keep ! nothing out of place, from garret to cellar— dinner always on the table at the regular hour— everything like clock-work— and wo to the servant who attempts to steal anything from your store-room ! wo to the butcher who attempts to impose upon you a bad joint, or the grocer who attempts to cheat you in the weight of sugar! Such things never will do with you ! When I first heard of your project, I thought it must be Ellen or May going to pkiy housekeeping with their baby-things, but on a moment's reflection I was con- vinced 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 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 21 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 lias 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, illustra- ting an exhaustless fancy and a natural melody of language, with which she amused society in moments of half capricious gaiety or tenderness, could pro- duce a class of compositions which demand imagination and passion. In con- sidering 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 al- most the fluency of conversation. The secret of tliis 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 as- tonisliing. 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 poUsh and shapely grace. The imagination is the servant of the reason ; the creative faculties present their triumphs to the con- structive — 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 re- flection, as the epigram or toucliing 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 Ukewise of the common ignorance of their variety and extent. Accustomed from childliood to the use of the pen — resorting to it through a hfe 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 col- lection of her works as justly to display her powers and their activity ; and the more so, that those eff"usions of hers which were likely to be most charao- FRANCES SxVRGENT OSGOOD. teristic, 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 Avith which we are acquainted, are more voluminous than those of Mrs. Hemans or Mrs. Norton.* 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 ju- diciously edited collection of them that has appeared. This edition, however, con- tains less than half of her printed pieces wliich she acknowledged ; and among those wliich are omitted are a tragedy, a comedy, a great number of piquant and ingenious vers de societe, and several sacred pieces, which strike us as among the best writings of their kind in our literature, which in this department, we may admit, is more distinguishable for the profusion than the quality of its fruits. Mrs. Osgood's definition of poetry that it is the rhythmical creation of beauty, is as old as Sydney ; and tliough on some grounds objectionable, it is, per- haps, on the whole, as just as any that the critics have given us. An intelli- gent 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 thoiigrhts 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 mockeiy 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 orches- tra of a thousand voices ; and with an abandon, as suggestive of genuinefaess as that which sometimes made the elder Kean seem " every inch a king." It is not to be supposed that all these caprices are illustrations of the experiences of the artist, in the case of the poet any more than in that of the actor : by an effort of the will, they pass with the liberties of genius into their selected realms, assume their guises, and discourse their language. If ever there were — Depths of tenderness which showed when woke, That woman there as well as angel spoke, they are not to be looked for in the printed specimens of woman's genius. Mrs. Osgood guarded herself against such criticism, by a statement in her pre- * Besides the books by her which have been referred to, she published The Lanffuaot of Cems, (London) ; The Snwoi^ro./), (Providence); Push in ifoo^s, (New York) : Crie« of Keie York, (New YoVkJ; The F/ineer Alphabet, (Boston); The Hose: Sketches in Verse, (Piovidence) ; A Letter About the Lions, addressed to Mabel in tie Countrj/, (New York). The following list of her prose tales, sketches, and essays, is probably very incomplete : A Day in New England; A Cnimpled Rose Leaf; Florence Howard; Ida Gray; Florence Erringtcn; A Match for the Matchmaker ; Mary Evehii ; Once More ; Athenals ; The Wife ; The Little Lost Shoe ; The Magic Lute ; Feeling vs. Beauty ; The Doom ; 1'he Flower and Gem ; The Coquette ; The Soul Awakened ; Glimpses of a Soul, (in three parts) ; Lizzie Lincoln ; Dora's Reward ; Waste Paper ; Newport Tableux ; Daguerreotj-pe 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'Kslrange ; 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's UlustrateJ Magazine, FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 23 face, that many of her songs, and other verses, were written to appear in prose sketches and stories, and were expressions of feeling suitable to the persons and incidents with which they were at first connected. In this last edition, to which only reference will be made in these paragraphs, her works are arranged under the divisions of Miscellaneous Poems — embracing, with such as do not readily admit another classification, her most ambitious and sustained compositions ; Sacred Poems — among which, " The Daughter of He- rodias," the longest, is remarkable for melodious versification and distinct paint- ing : 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-hke delicacy of mind and purity of feeling ; and Songs — of which we shall offer some particular observations in their appropriate order. Scattered through the book we have a few poems for children, so perfect in their way as to induce regret that she gave so little attention to a kind of writing in which few are really successful, and in which she is scarcely equalled. The volume opens with a brief voluntary, which is followed by a beautiful and touching address to The Spirit of Poetry, displaying the perfection of her powers, and her consciousness that they had been too much neglected while ministering more than all things else to her happiness. If ever from her heart she poured a passionate song, it was this, and these concluding lines of it admit us to the sacredest experiences of her life : Leave me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely, Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar, Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path ! With the light offerings of an idler's mind, Leave not the life that borrows from thee only And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter, All of delight and beauty that it hath ! " Leave me not, spirit ! deaf, and dumb, and blind ! Thou that, when others knew not how to love me, Deaf to the mystic hannoiiy of nature. Nor cared to fathom half my j-eaming soul, Blind to the'beauty of her stars and flowers ; Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me, Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher, To woo and win me from my grief's control : Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours ; By all my dreams, the passionate and holy, Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty When 'thou hast sung love's lullaby to ine, Still to beguile me on my drearv- way, By all the childlike worehip, fond and lowly, To lighten to my soul the cares of duty, 'Wliich I have la\-ish'd upon thine and thee : And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day; By all the lays my simple lute was learning To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel, To echo from thy voice, stay with me still ! Lest I, too, join the aimless, false and vain. Once flown — alas ! for thee there's no returning! Let me not lower to the soulless level The charm will die o'er valley, wood and hill. Of those whom now I pity and disdain ! Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, Leave me not yet ! — Leave me not cold and pining, Has wither'd Spring's sweet bloom within my heart; Thou bird of Paradise, whose plumes of light. Ah, no ! the ro5e of love is yet unfaded, Where'er they rested, left a glory shining — Though hope and joy, its' sister flowers, depart. 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, The scene is round me ! Throned amid the gloom, I had been reading o'er that antique story, As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast, Wherein the youth, half hnman, half divin'e, Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom ; Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory, And near — of Orpheus' soul, oh, idol blest',— Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell, While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light. In Pluto's palace swept, for love, nis golden shell ! I see thij meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night ! And m the wUd, sweet legend, dimly traced, I see the glorious boy — his dark locks WTeathing My own heart's history unfolded seem'd; Wildly the wan and spiritual brow; Ah '.'lost one ! by thy lover-minstrel graced His sweet, eurs-ed lip the soul of music breathing; With homagepure .is ever woman dreamed. His blue Greek eves, that speak Love's loyal vow; Too fondly worshipp'd, since such fate befell, I see him bend on t)iee that eloquent glance. Was it not sweet to die — because beloved too well ? The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance. 24 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. I see his face with more than mortal bemity "Still, my own Orpheus, sweep the golden l>Te! Kindling, ns, armed with that sweet lyre alone, Ah ! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine, Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, With clasped hands and eyes whose azuro fire He stands serene before the awful throne, Gleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean And looks on Hades' hoiTors witii clear eye. Her giaceful head upon her stem lord's brejist, Since thou, his own adored Eurjdice, art nigh. Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest? Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, " Play,, my proud minstrel ! strike the chords again 1 As if a prison 'd angel— pleading there Lo, Victory crowns at lust thy heavenly skill! For life and love— were fetter'd 'neath the strings, For Pluto turns relenting to the strain — And poured his passionate soul upon the air! He waves hiahand— he speaks his awful will! Anon it clangs with wild, exulting swell. My glorious Greek, lead on ! but ah, still lend Till the full paen peals triumphantly through Hell. Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend ! And thou, thy pale hands meekly lock'd before thee, " Tliink not of me ! Think rather of the time, Thy sad eyes drinking life from /lis dear gaze, When, moved by thy resistless melody Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er thee To the strange magic of a song sublime. Trailing around thy throat its golden maze ; Thy argo grandly glided to the sea ; Tliiis, with all words in p.tssionate silence dying, And m the majesty Minerva gave. Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying : The graceful gallSy swept, with joy, the sounding wave. "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these- are gazing, "Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees. Charm 'd into st^itues by the god-taught stram, Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound, I, I alone — to thy dear face upraising Sway'