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394  FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Alas! I am but woman, fond and weak,
Without even power my proud, pure love to speak,
But oh! by all I fail in, love not me
For what I am—but what I wish to be!

THE BOY PAINTER.

"My mother's kiss made me a painter."
Life of Benjamin West.

A LITTLE heart where slept the germ, as yet in night concealed,
Of power and glory since to be (how radiantly) reveal'd,
Alone beside a cradle bed, was beating fast and warm,
Where, beautiful in slumber, lay a baby's dimpled form.

The infant smiled in sleep, and lo! a little ardent hand,
Ere fled the smile, had snatch'd a pen and paper from the stand,
And traced the cradle and the babe, as if by magic spell;
How soft, beneath that tiny touch, the fairy features fell.

How fondly o'er the playful sketch he bends—the enraptured boy—
Unmindful of his precious charge, so deep his dream of joy,
'Tis broken by a stealing step—his mother caught the prize,
And kiss'd away the cloud of doubt that fill'd his timid eyes.

Oh! blessed love! how mighty thou to sway the human heart!
A subtle yet a holy thing, and conqueror thou art!
His sister's smile awoke the germ, his mother's kiss the flower,
And a world's tears the fruit embalm in many a classic bower.

THE TALISMAN.

My darling child! beside my knee
She lingers, pleading low
For "just one more sweet fairy tale,
And then I'll let you go!"

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.   395

"So listen, dear, and I will tell
How once to man was given
An instrument so heavenly sweet
'Twas thought it came from Heaven.

"So daintily its strings were wrought,
So exquisitely fine,
A breath from Him who made, could break
The talisman divine.

"So prompt, too, with its eloquent tones,
This rare device they say,
That, without touch of human hands, 
A wish could bid it play!

"In radiant Eden first 'twas heard,
Harmonious, mild, and clear;
And at the sound, each singing-bird
Its warble hush'd, to hear.

"From thence, with varying melody,
But never with a tone
So pure, so free, as then it had,
It pass'd from sire to son.

"And now, in murmurs soft and low
As rippling rills, it sang,
And now with wild, impassion'd flow,
Its clarion-music rang!

"If Love or Pity tuned the string,
Or Memory ask'd its aid,
Sweet, pleading notes, the charmèd thing
In tender cadence play'd.

"If Anger touch'd the quivering chords
With trembling hand of fire,
What demon-tones—what burning words
Resounded from the lyre!

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 20:15:30