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FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.
It is very seldom that a woman of any real genius has so great a facility of throwing her fancies into shape as Mrs. Osgood. Had her utterance been more difficult she would have written better. Mrs. Hemans was an example of how much fine poetry is weakened by that elegant clothing of satin which she could so easily throw over her children. The very opening poem of the American poetess is a striking instance. It reminds us of a weak translation of some of Anacreon's odes by Thomas Moore.
"Love, no more with that soul of fire
The idea is here positively so weakened by amplification that we can hardly be said to recognise one in the whole eight lines. What can be done in that number of verses every reader of Goldsmith can tell—
"When lovely woman stoops to folly."
The lady whom we thus criticise tells us what she can perform in a small compass, when she pleases—
"Lyre! amid whose chords my soul,
This species of verse is very captivating. It seems as though it were the same that Pope said—" Lord, Fanny spins a thousand such a day." To be closely written it is perhaps more difficult than any in the language. Lord Byron was one of the few that could wield the Anacreontic rhythm with much effect.
In her " Spirit of Poetry" there is a great tenderness and a deep yearning after the undefined.
"Leave me not yet! leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou dear ideal of my pining heart!
Whom I would keep, though all the world depart!
Spirit of light, and loveliness, and truth,
Thou that didst tell me a sweet fairy story,
Of the dim future, in my wistful youth."
There are, however, far too many lines in this poem; nevertheless there is a tine vein of impassioned feeling throughout.
In "Ermengardes Awakening" there are many stanzas of great beauty.
"And the proud woman thrilled to its false glory,
She dreamed that music from the statue stole,
* * * * * *
"Like Egypt's queen in her imperial play,
She in abandonment more wildly sweet t
Melted the pearl of her pure life away,
And poured the rich libation at its feet;
This stanza is full of woman's best thought:
"And in her desolate agony she cast
Her form beside love's shivered treasure there,
And I am left alone with my despair!'
In her "Eurydice" there are lines so full of passionate feeling that we seem to be sharing the thought of something between man and woman:
"Now soft and low a prelude sweet springs,
For life and love, were fettered 'neath the strings,
And poured his passionate soul upon the air.
In the verses to Queen Victoria on her way to Guildhall, we noticed that yearning after the glitter of the old despotism which is so marked a feature in the upper classes of American society. Turkey carpets, brilliant furniture, and crowded balls, insensibly undermine that republican independence so indispensable to the welfare of the American people.
Sometimes she endeavors to mix up instruction with song, as in "Laborare est Orare," but she is not successful in these attempts.
"' Labor is worship,'—the robin is singing:
The greatest attempt Mrs. Osgood has made is in her "Fragments of an Unfinished Story." Here we have a poem of nearly four hundred lines in blank verse, which we have been told by the authoresses themselves is the most difficult of all for a lady to write. One can easily comprehend this; the delicate feminine nature is carried along by her musical sympathies, and there is something too independent in a verse which leans not on rhyme for support.
The commencement contains a very startling creed, which we suppose few are ready to give faith to.
"A friend! are you a friend? No, by my soul,
It is a pity the fair writer had not put this idea into half the space. She has wiredrawn the sentiment till we lose its form altogether. Every line obliterates a part of the image instead of completing it.
"Deny me faith—that poor yet priceless boon,
Here we have the whole summed up in a concise manner, which we wish she would more frequently employ. She well
"What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?
We recognise in every page that tendency to sacrifice sense to sound—the thought to the melody. This, we are aware, is a