Poems (Osgood)/The Language of Gems

by Frances Sargent Osgood

THE LANGUAGE OF GEMS

Fair Flora of late has become such a blue,
 She has sent all her pretty dumb children to school;
And though strange it may seem, what I tell you is true,
 Already they've learn'd French and English by rule.

Bud, blossom, and leaf, have been gifted with speech,
 And eloquent lips breathing love in each tone,
Delighting such beautiful pupils to teach,
 Have lent them a language as sweet as their own.

No more is the nightingale's serenade heard;
 For Flora exclaims, as she flies through her bowers,
"It is softer than warble of fairy or bird !
 'Tis the music of soul—the sweet language of flowers!"

No longer the lover impassion'd bestows
 The pearl or the ruby;—in Hope's sunny hours
lie twines for his maiden a myrtle and rose—
 'Tis the echo of Love, the pure language of flowers.

But the pearl and the ruby are sadly dismay'd;
 I saw a fair girl lay them lightly aside,
And blushingly wreathe, in her hair's simple braid,
 The white orange flower that betray'd her a bride;

And I fancied I heard the poor jewels bewail,
 At least they changed countenance strangely, I'm sure;
For the pearl blush'd with shame, and the ruby turn'd pale:—
 Indeed 'twas too much for a stone to endure.

And I, who had ever a passion for gems,
 From the diamond's star-smile to the ruby's deep flame;
And who envy kings only their bright diadems,
 Resolved to defend them from undeserved shame.

What are jewels but flowers that never decay,
 With a glow and a glory unfading as fair?
And why should not they speak their minds if they may?
 There are "sermons in stones," as all sages declare.

And a wild "tongue of flame" wags in some of them too,
 That would talk if you'd let it--so listen awhile;
They've a world of rich meaning in every bright hue—
 A ray of pure knowledge in each sunny smile.

Then turn to the blossoms that never decay:—
 Let the learned flowers talk to themselves on their stems,
Or prattle away with each other to-day;—
 And listen with me to the Language of Gems.

The Diamond emblem of Genius would seem,
 In its glance, like the lightning, wild, fitful, divine—
Its point that can pierces with a meteor-gleam,
 Its myriad colors—its shadow and shine.

And more in that magic, so dazzling and strange;
 Let it steal from Apollo but one sunny ray,
It will beam back a thousand that deepen and change,
 Till you'd fancy a rainbow within it at play.

Fair Truth's azure eyes, that were lighted in heaven,
 Have brought to the Sapphire their smile from above,
And the rich glowing ray of the Ruby is given,
 To tell as it blushes of passionate Love.

The Chrysolite, clouded, and gloomy, and cold,
 Its dye from the dark brow of Jealousy steals,
But bright in the Crystal's fair face we behold
 The image of Candor that nothing conceals.

Young Hope, like the spring, in her mantle of green,
 Comes robed in that color, soft, pleasant, and tender,
And lends to the Emerald light so serene,
 That the eye never wearies of watching its splendor.

The rosy Cornelian resembles the flush
 That faintly illumines a beautiful face,
And well in its lovely and tremulous blush
 May Fancy the emblem of Modesty trace.

While Joy's golden smile in the Topaz is glowing,
 And Purity dwells in the delicate Pearl,
The Opal, each moment new semblances showing,
 May shine on the breast of some changeable girl.

Serene as the Turquoise, Content ever calm,
 In her pure heart reflects heaven's fairest hue bright,
While Beauty, exulting in youth's sunny charm,
 Beholds in the Beryl her image of light.

To the beaming Carbuncle, whose ray never dies,
 The rare gift of shining in darkness is given;
So Faith, with her fervent and shadowless eyes,
 Looks up, through Earth's night-time of trouble, to heaven.

There's a stone—the Asbestos—that, flung in the flame,
 Unsullied comes forth with a color more pure,—
Thus shall Virtue, the victim of sorrow and shame,
 Refined by the trial, forever endure.

Resplendent in purple, the Amethyst sparkling,
 On Pride's flowing garments may haughtily glow,
While Jet, the lone mourning-gem, shadow'd and darkling,
 And full of sad eloquence, whispers of Wo.

But thousands are burning beneath the dark wave,
 As stars through the tempest-cloud tremblingly
Or wasting their wealth in some desolate cave,
 And talking, perchance, like the rest all the while.

Then wreathe of the blossoms that never decay,
 A chaplet, dear maiden, that fair brow above,
But within, wear their prototypes, purer than they,
 Faith—Hope—Truth and Innocence—Modesty—Love.

And while in each jewel a lesson you see,
 While one smiles approval—another condemns,
I'm sure you will listen, delighted with me,
 To a language so true as the language of Gems!