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382  FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

As a poetess, Mrs. Osgood is irresistibly fascinating.  "There is nothing mechanical about her;" but (as the Rev. Dr. Davidson* [[footnote 1]] very truly observes) "all is buoyant, overflowing, irrepressible vivacity, like the bubbling up of a natural fountain.  In her almost childish playfulness, she reminds us of that exquisite creation of Fonqué, Undine, who knew no law but that of her own waywardness.  The great charm of her poetry is its unaffected simplicity.  It is the transparent simplicity of truth, reflecting the feeling of the moment like a mirror."  But this is not her only, or her most marked characteristic: grace, wit, fancy, feeling, and a delicious adaptation of sound to sense, are equally observable.  As we read her poems, her fairy songs, so sprightly, loving, and musical, and her fervent strains of tender thought, it is hard to say which of these predominate.  But Mrs. Osgood possesses, also, loftier qualities than those which merely fascinate.  There is a fine moral awakening power, in her noble and spirited lines on Labour, which evidently proves that she can be—more than fanciful, witty, and tender,—an eloquent teacher of wisdom and truth. 

LABOUR.

"Laborare est orare."

PAUSE not to dream of the future before us,
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up unto Heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing,
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

Labour is worship! the robin is singing;
Labour is worship! the wild bee is ringing:
Listen,-—that eloquent whisper upspringing
Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower,
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower,

[[footnote 1]] * Of New Brunswick, New Jersey. [[/footnote 1]]

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.  383

From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
Only man in the plan shrinks from his part.

Labour is life!—'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens;
Only the roving wind changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only, the dark future frightens;
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune

Labour is rest—from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Wo's weeping willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;
Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee!
Rest not content in thy darkness–a clod!
Work—for some good—be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower—be it ever so lowly;
Labour!  All labour is noble and holy:—
Let thy good deeds be thy prayer to thy God!

SLANDER.

A WHISPER woke the air—
A soft light tone and low,
Yet barb'd with shame and woe;
Now, might it only perish there!
Nor farther go.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 20:07:23