Poems (Osgood)/The Talisman

by Frances Sargent Osgood

THE TALISMAN.

My darling child! beside my knee
 She lingers, pleading low
For "just one more sweet fairy tale,
 And then I'll let you go!"

"So listen, dear, and I will tell
 How once to man was given,
An instrument so heavenly sweet
 'Twas thought it came from Heaven.

"So daintily its strings were wrought,
 So exquisitely fine,
A. breath from Him who made, could break
 The talisman divine.

"So prompt, too, with its eloquent tones,
 This rare device they say,
That, without touch of human hands,
 A wish could bid it play!

"In radiant Eden first 'twas heard,
 Harmonious, mild, and clear;
And at the sound, each singing-bird
 Its warble hush'd, to hear.

"From thence, with varying melody,
 But never with a tone
So pure, so free, as then it had,
 It pass'd from sire to son.

"And-now, in murmurs soft and low
 As rippling rills, it sang,
And now with wild, impassion'd flow,
 Its clarion-music rang!

"If Love or Pity tuned the string,
 Or Memory ask'd its aid,
Sweet, pleading notes, the charmèd thing
 In tender cadence play'd.

"If Anger touch'd the quivering chords
 With trembling hand of fire,
What demon-tones—what burning words
 Resounded from the lyre!

"But oh! when soft Forgiveness came,
 And o'er the discord sigh'd,—
How like an angel's lute of love
 That fairy lyre replied!

"A fearful power the gift possess'd,
 A power for good or ill;—
Each passion of the human breast
 Could sweep the strings at will.

"And it could melt to softest tears,
 Or madden into crime,
The hearts that heard its thrilling strains,
 Wild, plaintive, or sublime.

"The oath within the murderer's heart,
 Fair childhood's sinless prayer,
Hope's eager sigh, Affection's vow,
 All found an echo there!

"What pity, that a gift so rich,
 Attuned by love divine,
Was thus profaned by impious man,
 At Guilt's unhallow'd shrine!"

Her eyes in innocent wonder raised,
 As gravely still I spoke;
The child into my face had gazed,
 But now the pause she broke:—

"Oh! were it mine, that wondrous toy,
 That but a wish could wake!
Mamma, 'twould be my pride, my joy,
 Soft melody to make!

The evil spirits, tempting youth,
 Should ne'er approach my treasure,
I'd keep it pure for Love, for Truth,
 For Pity, Hope, and Pleasure!

"And they should play so blest a strain
 Upon th' enchanted lyre,
That Heaven would claim it back again,
 To join its own sweet choir."

Keep, keep, my child, that promise still,
 'The wondrous toy' is thine!
E'en now thy spirit tuned it
 "The human voice divine!

"Oh! ask of Heaven to teach thy tongue
 A true, a reverent tone,—
Full oft attuned to praise and prayer,
 And still to vice unknown!

"And rather be it mute for aye,
 Than yield its music sweet
To Malice, Scorn, Impurity,
 To Slander, or Deceit!

"Degrade not thou the instrument
 That God has given to thee,
But, till its latest breath be spent,
 Let Conscience keep the key!"