Poems (Osgood)/The Fan

by Frances Sargent Osgood

THE FAN.

a lover's fantasy.

Dainty spirit, that dost lie
Couch'd within the zephyr's sigh,
Murmur in mine earnest ear
Music of the starry sphere!
Softest melody divine
Lend unto each lyric line,
Till the lay of love shall seem
Light and airy as its theme.

Ah! not unto mortal wight
Wilt thou whisper, frolic sprite!
Fancy! wave thy fairy wing,
While the magic Fan I sing!

Airy minister of Fate,
On whose meaning motions wait
Half an hundred butterflies,
Idle beaux—more fond than wise—
Basking in the fatal smile
That but wins them to beguile!
Blest be they who fashion'd thee,
Beauty's graceful toy to be!
Virgin gold from Orient cave—
Veined pearl from ocean's wave—
Showing like her temples fair
Through her curls of lustrous hair—
Tints of richest glow and light
From a master's palette bright,
On the parchment rarely wrought,
Till the painting life has caught,—

All have made thee plaything fit,
For a maiden's grace and wit.
She can teach thee witchery's spell,
Make thy lightest motion tell,
Bid thee speak, though mute thou art,
All the language of the heart.

When her eyes say softly "yes,"
Thou canst hide and yet express
All the enchanting blush would speak
While it warms her modest cheek,
And thy motion well can show,
With one flutter to or fro,
Her disdain's indignant "no."

Queen of fans! the downy pressure
Of her snow-white, dimpled hand,
As it clasps the costly treasure,
Wrought in India's glowing land,
Has it not a soul impress'd
On the toy by her caress?

Ah! what ministry divine,
Frail, yet love-taught fan, is thine!
Thou shouldst be a beauteous bird,
Flying at her lightest word,
Nestling near her silken zone,
Like a gem on Beauty's throne,
Or a young aerial sprite
Watching every smile of light:
Art thou not? Methinks I trace,
Bow and then, an angel face
Gleaming, as thy painted wing
Flies before her—happy thing!
Sometimes I could almost swear
Love himself had hidden there,
Aiming thence his shafts of fire,
Now in sport and now in ire.
Hearts obey each proud behest
By thy lightest touch express'd,
As thou glancest to and fro,
Fluttering in her hand of snow.
So, fair spirit, fold thy wing
While thy ministry I sing!
Softly wave each careless curl
O'er her brow—the radiant girl;
Fan each pure and precious tint
Feeling on her cheek doth print;

Wake it from its pure repose,
Till the dear blush comes and goes;
Shade the dimple's frolic grace
Sporting o'er her sunny face;
Hide the smile of playful scorn
From her spirit's buoyance born;
Veil the timid sigh that parts,
Trembling, from her "heart of hearts;"
Aid the glances—words of light—
Flashing from her eye's blue night,
And her dearest bidding do,
Like an Ariel fond and true!

All sweet airs and incense wait
On thy wave, fair wand of Fate!
Soft and balmy, as her sigh,
 Be each zephyr thou dost wake,
Round her graceful head to fly,
 Blest be thou for Beauty's sake!

Yet, oh spirit! fold thy wing,
While thy ministry I sing!
Show her how some touch, too bold,
Marr'd thy robe of pearl and gold;

Whisper as thou wavest by,
Beauty's light like thine will die
If she waste its bloom divine
On the idlers round her shrine;
Warn her that her spirit's wing
Be not ever fluttering;
For if that should break, or show
Lightest shade upon its snow,
Lives no mortal artisan
That can make it bright again!
Tears may bathe the broken plume,
Sighs may mourn its early doom—
Only may it hope for rest
Folded on the Father's breast.

So, fair spirit, wave thy wing,
And my message softly sing!
"Do thy spiriting gently" there,
Lest thou wound a soul so rare,
And be this the warning dear
Murmur'd in her ivory ear—

Lovely lady, have a care!
Words are more than idle air,
Smiles can surer wound or heal
Than the stars, whose light they steal.
She whose power is undenied
Should have pity with her pride,
Should remember, while her frown
Clouds the hope she may not crown,
Rarest skill and subtlest art
Cannot mend the broken heart!"
So, fair spirit, wave thy wing,
And thy warning softly sing!