Mad.-Hush! hush! I may not hear thee. Know'st thou not | He is not dead, dear lady !-grieve not thus!
I am be rothed?

Mad.-Doth my eye flash?-doth my lip curl with scorn? first wooing of Madelon by Rupert, and concludes

Ah, me!-ah, wo is me, that I,

Ere yet my leaves unclose,

With all my wealth of sweets must die
Before I am a rose !

The poetical reader will agree with me that few things have ever been written (by any poet, at any age,) more delicately fanciful than the passages italicised—and yet they are the work of a girl not more than fourteen years of age. The clearness and force of expression, and the nice appositeness of the overt and insinuated meaning, are, when we consider the youth of the writer, even more remarkable than the fancy.

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.

This is, indeed, poetry-and of the most unquestionable kind--poetry truthful in the proper sense-that is to say, breathing of Nature. There is here nothing forced or artificial-no hardly sustained enthusiasm. The poetess speaks because she feels, and what she feels; but then what she feels is felt only by the truly poetical. The thought in the last line of the quatrain will not be so fully appreciated by the reader as it I cannot speak of Mrs. Osgood's poems with- should be; for latterly it has been imitated, plaout a strong propensity to ring the changes upon giarized, repeated ad infinitum :—but the other the indefinite word "grace" and its derivatives. passages italicized have still left them all their About every thing she writes we perceive this original effect. The idea in the two last lines is indescribable charm-of which, perhaps, the ele- exquisitely näive and natural; that in the two last ments are a vivid fancy and a quick sense of the lines of the second quatrain, beautiful beyond proportionate. Grace, however, may be most measure; that of the whole fifth quatrain, magsatisfactorily defined as "a term applied, in de- nificent-unsurpassed in the entire compass of spair, to that class of the impressions of Beauty American poetry. It is instinct with the noblest which admit of no analysis." It is in this irreso- poetical requisite-imagination. luble effect that Mrs. Osgood excels any poetess of her country-and it is to this easily appreciable effect that her popularity is owing. Nor is she more graceful herself than a lover of the graceful, under whatever guise it is presented to her consideration. The sentiment renders itself manifest, in innumerable instances, as well throughout her prose as her poetry. Whatever be her theme, she at once extorts from it its whole essentiality of grace. Fanny Ellsler has been often lauded; true poets have sung her praises; but we look in vain for anything written about her, which so distinctly and vividly paints her to the eye as the half dozen quatrains which follow. They are to be found in the English vol

ume:

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 think 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!

Of the same trait I find, to my surprise, one of the best exemplifications among the "Juvenile Rhymes."

For Fancy is a fairy that can hear,
Ever, the melody of Nature's voice
And see all lovely visions that she will.
She drew a picture of a beauteous bird
With plumes of radiant green and gold inwoven,
Banished from its beloved resting place,

And fluttering in vain hope from tree to tree,
And bade us think how, like it, the sweet season
From one bright shelter to another fled-
First from the maple waved her emerald pinions,
But lingered still upon the oak and elm,
Till, frightened by rude breezes even from them,
With mournful sigh she moaned her sad farewell.

The little poem called "The Music Box" has been as widely circulated as any of Mrs. Osgood's compositions-but I will be pardoned for quoting it in farther exemplification of her ruling featuregrace:

Your heart is a music-box, dearest,
With exquisite tunes at command
Of melody sweetest and clearest
If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,
At a single rude touch it would break;
Then oh, be the magic key mine

Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
And there's one little tune it can play
That I fancy all others above-
You learned it of Cupid one day-

It begins with and ends with "I love-"I love"

It begins with and ends with "I love."

The melody and harmony of this jeu d'esprit are perfect, and there is in it a rich tiut of that epigrammatism for which the poetess is noted.

Some of the intentional epigrams interspersed | Had I seen it without her name, I should have through the works are peculiarly happy. Here had no hesitation in ascribing it to her; for there is one which, while replete with the rarest "spi- is no other person-in America certainly-who rit of point," is yet something more than pointed. does anything of a similar kind with anything like a similar piquancy:

TO AN ATHEIST POET.

Lovest thou the music of the sea?
Callest thou the sunshine bright?
His voice is more than melody-

His smile is more than light.

Here, again, is something very similar:

Fanny shuts her smiling eyes,

Then, because she cannot see, Thoughtless simpleton ! she cries "Ah! you can't see me."

Fanny's like the sinner vain

Who, with spirit shut and dim,
Thinks, because he sees not Heaven,
Heaven beholds not him.

Is it not a little surprising, however, that a writer capable of so much precision and finish as the author of these epigrams must be, should have failed to see how much of force is lost in the inversion of "the sinner vain?" Why not have written "Fanny's like the silly sinner?"or, if "silly" be thought too jocose," the blinded sinner?" The rhythm, at the same time, would thus be much improved by bringing the lines,

Fanny's like the silly sinner,
Thinks because he sees not Heaven,

into exact equality.

In mingled epigram and espièglerie Mrs. Osgood is even more especially at home. I have seldom seen anything in this way more happily done than the song entitled "If He Can."

Let me see him once more

For a moment or two;
Let him tell me himself

Of his purpose, dear, do!
Let him gaze in these eyes
While he lays out his plan
To escape me and then

He may go-if he can.

Let me see him once more!
Let me give him one smile!
Let me breathe but one word
Of endearment the while!

I ask but that moment-
My life on the man!
Does he think to forget me?

"Azure-eyed Eloise! beauty is thine;

Passion kneels to thee and calls thee divine;
Minstrels awaken the lute with thy name;
Poets have gladdened the world with thy fame ;
Painters half holy thy loved image keep ;-
Beautiful Eloise, why do you weep?"

Still bows the lady her light tresses low,
Fast the warm tears from her veiled eyes flow.

"Sunny-haired Eloise, wealth is thine own;
Rich is thy silken robe; bright is thy zone;
Proudly the jewel illumines thy way;
Clear rubies rival thy ruddy lips' play;
Diamonds like star-drops thy silken braids deck;
Pearls waste their snow on thy lovelier neck;
Luxury softens thy pillow for sleep;
Angels watch over it;-why do you weep?"

Still bows the lady her light tresses low;
Faster the tears from her veiled eyes flow.

"Gifted and worshipped one! genius and grace
Play in each motion and beam in thy face.
When from thy rosy lip rises the song
Hearts that adore thee the echo prolong.
Ne'er in the festival shone an eye brighter-
Ne'er in the mazy dance fell a foot lighter-
One only spirit thou'st failed to bring down-
Exquisite Eloise! why do you frown?"

Swift o'er her forehead a dark shadow stole,
Sent from the tempest of pride in her soul.

"Touched by thy sweetness, in love with thy grace,
Charmed with the magic of mind in thy face,
Bewitched by thy beauty, e'en his haughty strength-
The strength of the stoic is conquered at length,
Lo! at thy feet see him kneeling the while-
Eloise! Eloise! why do you smile?

The hand was withdrawn from her happy blue eyes;
She gazed on her lover in laughing surprise,
While the dimple and blush, stealing soft to her cheek,
Told the tale that her tongue was too timid to speak.

The point of all this, however, might have been sharpened, and the polish increased in lustre, by the application of the emory of brevity. From what the lover says much might well have been omitted; and I should have preferred leaving out altogether the autorial comments; for the story is fully told without them. The "Why do you weep?" "Why do you frown?" and "Why do you smile?" supply all the imagination requires; to supply more than it requires, oppresses "The Unexpected Declaration" is, perhaps, and offends it. Nothing more deeply grieves it— even a finer specimen of the same manner. It or more vexes the true taste in general, than hyis one of that class of compositions which Mrs. perism of any kind. In Germany, Wohlgeborn is Osgood has made almost exclusively her own. a loftier title than Edelgeborn; and in Greece,

He may-if he can.

VOL. XV-65

the thrice-victorious at the Olympic games could have lately issued another, but still a very inclaim a statue of the size of life, while he who complete collection of "Poems by Frances S. had conquered but once was entitled only to a Osgood." In general, it includes by no means colossal one.

66

the best of her works. "The Daughter of HeThe English collection of which I speak was rodias"—one of her longest compositions, and a entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New very noble poem, putting me in mind of the best England." It met with a really cordial recep- efforts of Mrs. Hemans-is omitted:-it is inclution in Great Britain-was favorably noticed by ded, however, in the last edition of Doctor Gristhe " Literary Gazette," Times," Atlas," wold's "Poets and Poetry of America." In "Monthly Chronicle;" and especially by the Messrs. C. and A.'s collection there occur, too, "Court Journal," "The Court and Ladies' Ma- very many of those half sentimental, half allegazine," "La Belle Assemblée," and other simi- gorical compositions of which, at one period, the lar works. "We have long been familiar," says authoress seemed to be particularly fond-for the the high authority of the "Literary Gazette," reason, perhaps, that they afforded her good op"with the name of our fair author. . . . Our portunity for the exercise of her ingenuity and expectations have been fulfilled, and we have epigrammatic talent:-no poet, however, can here a delightful gathering of the sweetest of admit them to be poetry at all. Still, the volume wild flowers, all looking as fresh and beautiful as contains some pieces which enable us to take a if they had grown in the richest of English pas- new view of the powers of the writer. A few ture in place of having been 'nursed by the cata- additional years, with their inevitable sorrow, ract.' True the wreath might have been im- appear to have stirred the depths of her heart. proved with a little more care-a trifling attention We see less of frivolity-less of vivacity—more or two paid to the formation of it. A stalk here of tenderness-earnestness-even passion-and and there that obtrudes itself between the bells far more of the true imagination as distinguished of the flowers, might have become so interwoven from its subordinate, fancy. The one prevalent as to have been concealed, and the whole have trait, grace, alone distinctly remains. "The Spilooked as if it had grown in that perfect and rit of Poetry," "To Sybil," "The Birth of the beautiful form. Though, after all, we are per- Callitriche," and "The Child and its Angelhaps too chary; for in Nature every leaf is not Playmate" would do honor to any of our poets. ironed out to a form, nor propped up with a wiry "She Loves Him Yet," nevertheless, will serve, precision, but blown and ruffled by the refreshing better than either of these poems, to show the breezes, and looking as careless and easy and alteration of manner referred to: unaffected as a child that bounds along with its silken locks tossed to and fro just as the wind uplifts them. Page after page of this volume have we perused with a feeling of pleasure and admiration." The "Court Journal" more emphatically says:-"Her wreath is one of violets, sweet-scented, pure and modest; so lovely that the hand that wove it should not neglect additionally to enrich it by turning her love and kindness to things of larger beauty. Some of the smaller lyrics in the volume are perfectly beautiful-beautiful in their chaste and exquisite simplicity and the perfect elegance of their composition." In fact, there was that about "The Wreaths of Wild Flowers"-that inexpressible grace of thought and manner-which never fails to find ready echo in the hearts of the aristocracy and refinement of Great Britain;-and it was here especially that Mrs. Osgood found welcome. Her husband's merits as an artist had already introduced her into distinguished society, (she was petted, in especial, by Mrs. Norton and Rogers,) but the publication of her poems had at once an evidently favorable effect upon his fortunes. His pictures were placed in a most advantageous light by her poetical and conversational ability.

Messrs. Clarke and Austin, of New York,

She loves him yet!

I know by the blush that rises
Beneath the curls

That shadow her soul-lit cheek.

She loves him yet!

Through all Love's sweet disguises,

In timid girls,

A blush will be sure to speak.

But deeper signs

Than the radiant blush of beauty,
The maiden finds.
Whenever his name is heard
Her young heart thrills,
Forgetting herself-her duty-
Her dark eye fills,

And her pulse with hope is stirred.

She loves him yet!

The flower the false one gave her
When last he came

Is still with her wild tears wet.
She'll ne'er forget
However his faith may waver.

Through grief and shame,
Believe it, she loves him yet!

His favorite songs

She will sing;-she heeds no other.

With all her wrongs

Her life on his love is set.

Ah, doubt no more!

She never can wed another.

Till life be o'er

She loves-she will love him yet!

The following stanzas are in a somewhat similar tone, but are more noticeable for their terse energy of expression :

Yes! lower to the level

Of those who laud thee now!

Go, join the joyous revel

And pledge the heartless vow!
Go, dim the soul-born beauty

That lights that lofty brow!
Fill, fill the howl!-let burning wine
Drown in thy soul Love's dream divine!

Yet, when the laugh is lightest

When wildest flies the jest-
When gleams the goblet brightest,
And proudest heaves thy breast,
And thou art madly pledging

Each gay and jovial guest

A ghost shall glide amid the flowers-
The shade of Love's departed hours.

And thou shalt shrink in sadness
From all the splendor there,
And curse the revel's gladness,

And hate the banquet's glare,
And pine 'mid passion's madness,

For true love's purer air,

And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee
For one unsullied sigh from me.

Yet deem not this my prayer, love!
Ah, no! if I could keep
Thy altered heart from care, love,
And charm its grief to sleep,
Mine only should despair, love,
I-I alone would weep-

I-I alone would mourn the flowers

That bloom in Love's deserted bowers.

the air of being more skilfully constructed than they really are. On the other hand, we look in vain throughout her works for an offence against the finer taste, or against decorum-for a low thought or a platitude. A happy refinement-an instinct of the pure and delicate-is one of her most noticeable excellences. She may be properly commended, too, for originality of poetic invention, whether in the conception of a theme or in the manner of treating it. Consequences of this trait, are her point and piquancy. Fancy and näiveté appear in all she writes. Regarding the loftier merits, I am forced to speak of her in more measured terms. She has occasional passages of true imagination-but scarcely the glowing, vigorous, and sustained ideality of Mrs. Maria Brooks-or even, in general, the less ethereal elevation of Mrs. Welby. In that indescribable something, however, which, for want of a more definite term, we are accustomed to call "grace"that charm so magical, because at once so shadowy and so potent-that Will o' the Wisp which, in its supreme development, may be said to involve nearly all that is valuable in poetry-she has, unquestionably, no rival among her country

women.

Of pure prose-of prose proper-she has, perhaps, never written a line in her life. Her usual Magazine papers are a class by themselves. She begins with a resolute effort at being sedatethat is to say, sufficiently prosaic and matter-offact for the purpose of a legend or an essay; but, after a few sentences, we behold uprising the leaven of the Muse; then, with a flourish and some vain attempts at repression, a scrap of verse renders itself manifest; then comes a little poem outright; then another and another and another, with impertinent patches of prose in between-until at length the mask is thrown fairly off and far away, and the whole articlesings.

Upon the whole, I have spoken of Mrs. Osgood so much in detail, less on account of what she has actually done than on account of what I perceive in her the ability to do.

In not presenting to the public at one view all that she has written in verse, Mrs. Osgood has incurred the risk of losing that credit to which she is entitled on the score of versatility-of vaIn character, she is ardent and sensitive; a riety in invention and expression. There is worshipper of beauty; universally admired, rescarcely a form of poetical composition in which spected, and beloved. In person, she is about she has not made experiment; and there is none the medium height and slender; complexion in which she has not very happily succeeded. usually pale; hair black and glossy; eyes a clear, Her defects are chiefly negative and by no means luminous grey, large, and with great capacity for numerous. Her versification is sometimes exceed- expression. In no respect can she be called ingly good, but more frequently feeble through "beautiful;" but the question "is it possible she the use of harsh consonants, and such words as is not so?" is very frequently asked, and by none "thou'dst" for "thou wouldst," with other unne- more frequently than by those who most inticessary contractions, inversions, and obsolete mately know her. expressions. Her imagery is often mixed;-in

deed it is rarely otherwise. The epigrammatism

Note.-Some passages of the above article have appear

of her conclusions gives to her poems, as wholes, ed in some of our Magazines—in “Marginalia,” &c.