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398 FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
And modulated all those earnest tones,
And danced in those light foot-falls to a tune
Heart-heard by them, inaudible to us.
Folds closer its pure wings, whereon the hues
They caught in heaven already pale and pine,
And shrinks amazed and scared back from our gaze.
And so the evil grows. The graceful flower
May have its own sweet way in bud and bloom;
May drink, and dare with upturn'd gaze, the light,
Or nestle 'neath the guardian leaf, or wave
Its fragrant bells to ever-roving breeze,
Or wreathe with bushing grace the fragile spray
May plume at will his wings, and soar or sing.
The mountain brook may wind where'er it would,
Dash in wild music down the deep ravine,
Or, rippling drowsily in forest haunts,
Dream of the floating cloud, the waving flower,
And murmur to itself sweet lulling words
In broken tones so like the faltering speech
Of early childhood; but out human flowers,
Our soul-birds, caged and pining, they must sing
And grow not a their own but our caprice
Suggests, and so the blossom and the lay
Are but half bloom and music at the best.
And if by chance some brave and buoyant soul,
More bold or less forgetful of the lessons
God taught them first, disdain the rule - the bar-
And, wildly beautiful, rebellious rise, -
How the hard world, half startled from itself,
Frown the bright wanderer down, or turns away,
Or leave her lonely in her upward path.
Thank God! to such His smile is not denied.


FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 399

TO A DEAR LITTLE TRUANT,

WHO WOULDN'T SOME HOME.

WHEN are you coming? the flowers have come!
Bees in the balmy air happily hum;
In the dim woods where the cool mosses are,
Gleams the Anemone's little, light star;
Tenderly, timidly down in the dell,
Sighs the sweet violet, droops the harebell:-
Soft in the wavy grass lightens the dew;
Spring keeps her promises,-why do not you?

Up in the blue air, the clouds are at play,-
You are more graceful and lovely than they;
Birds in the branches sing all the day long,-
When are you coming to join in their song?
Fairer than flowers, an fresher than dew!
Other sweet things are here,-why are not you?

Why don't you come? we've welcomed the Rose!
Every light zephyr, as gaily it goes,
Whispers of other flowers, met on its way,
Why has it nothing of you, love, to say?
Why does it tell us of music and dew?
Rose of the South! we are waiting for you!

Do not delay, darling, 'mid the dark trees,
"Like a lute" murmurs the musical breeze;
Sometimes the brook, as it trips by the flowers,
Hushes its warble to listen for yours.
Pure as the rivulet,-lovely and true!
Spring should have waited till she could bring you.