To Mrs. Rosanna Osterman/Dedicated to Col. A. M. Hobby
Dedicated to Col. A. M. Hobby.
Thy rich harp, with its thrilling tone,
Like the morning stars when they sang alone,
Ere the voice of man, or woman’s song,
Had aroused the echoes’ musical throng;
When the blush of the dawn first spread o’er the earth,
Giving to Beauty a glorious birth;
As their psalms of praise rising up to the throne
Of the Almighty Jehovah, who reigneth alone,
Would have thrilled and bewildered my heart and my soul,
Bending both in their sweet, irresisted control,
So thy harp of the West, with its quivering strings,
Has come to my home with the song that it sings,
While my spirit enchanted has listened its strain,
And fain would have given an echo again.
But alas! at my touch the music is hushed,
The chords that so lately with melody gushed
Lie scattered and broke ’neath my tremulous hand,
That fails to unite the harmonious band.
Oh! teach me thine art, the noble, divine,
If thou canst impart the gift that is thine,
Tell me the charm thou has learned so well,
The power that dwelt in Namouna’s soft spell,
Inspiring the tones of the fair Nourmahal,
And binding young Selim in love’s mystic thrall,
Oh! if the waves of sweet music that roll,
Filling with brightness and glory my soul,
Could be coined into words by my faltering tongue
Its richest of strains for thee would be sung.
It would not be of love that my spirits would tell,
For nothing I know of its mystical spell.
Love a passion for beauty in its varied form,
From the blush of a rose to the pomp of a storm,
Of Posey’s voice that fair angels inspire
When they touch mortal lips with hallowing fire,
As I’d sing to the stars in their fair azure home,
Or talk to the waves with their mounting of foam,
Or commune with the Alps in their garments of blue,
So my spirit would gladly hold converse with you;
At the feet of the Muse I bow lowly the knee,
And bending to her I would bend unto thee—
While my trembling heart would pant with delight,
As stars that throb on the bosom of night.
But not mine is thy power, not mine is thy gift,
From my lyre the shadows, ah! never will lift,
And when I am gone no mortal will weep
For the tones that are silenced forever in sleep,
But I with the “voiceless” will rest in a grave
Where no flowers will bloom, only willows will wave.
And alas! I will live unloved and unsung,
With fire on my heart, but not on my tongue,
Whose cold faltering tones have no power to give
Life to the thought’s that unceasingly strive
To mount up to the throne of the God they adore,
In the halls of His beauty their melody pour—
Not on earth, not on earth will this joy be mine,
But when in the halls of the City divine,
Where myrtle and roses immortal entwine,
My glorified spirit in beauty will shine.
My tongue will be loosed, my hand will be free
And then will I waft my tribute to thee,
But stranger my thanks, for the kindness you gave
Will live in my heart till it ceases to heave.
If a single wild note of my tutorless lyre
Has gone to thy heart with poetical fire,
It is joy exquisite, to know that the bard
Admired by thousands, its music has heard.
May the laurel for you with its emerald sheen
Twine its most beautiful garlands of green,
May the angelic guard of the noble and brave
Be with you in peril, to shield and to save,
And soon in your beautiful home of the West,
May you greet the beloved your affection has blest;
When the olive of peace to your home shall be borne,
When the warrior’s gear shall no longer be worn—
May your genius, so rich and so rare in its song,
The lives of our heroes forever prolong,
And your garlands of verse bloom bright o’er their grave,
Their honor to keep, and their memory to save.
Marshall, Texas, Oct. 4th, 1864.Maggie.
