THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 
 »i 
 
 
 
 
 THE BOOK 
 
 
 
 
 OF 
 
 
 
 T 
 
 HE SONNET 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 LEIGH HUNT and S. ADAMS LEE 
 VOL. II. 
 
 
 
 
 'hkV ^'hH 
 
 
 
 
 
 WSm' 
 
 
 
 
 ^ipp^ 
 
 
 
 
 LONDON 
 
 
 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON, & MARSTON 
 
 
 
 
 1867 
 
 
 
 *■ 1 
 
 _^^ , -J-. 1—- i—j ,_• : :_3_^ — 2 i-io — ' .   

 
 -- 1." "'I 
 
 )'J80 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II 
 
 ENGLI SH SONNETS. — ( Continued. ) 
 
 Henry Ellison . 3 
 
 Egerton Webbe 9 
 
 Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton . . lo 
 
 Thomas Wade 14 
 
 Thomas James Judkin 18 
 
 George Powell Thomas 22 
 
 George James De Wilde 27 
 
 John Watson Dalby 31 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 38 
 
 Charles Tennyson 41 
 
 Frederick Tennyson 47 
 
 Aubrey Thomas De Vere 53 
 
 Edmund Ollier 62 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Norton 67 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning .... 69 
 
 David Gray 84 
 
 Alexander Smith 91 
 
 William Allingham 94 
 
 James Dodds . . . . 97
 
 IV contents- 
 John Hunter 98 
 
 John Stuart Blackie 102 
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 Colonel David Humphreys 113 
 
 Richard Bingham Davis 115 
 
 Robert Treat Paine 118 
 
 Washington Allston 123 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 128 
 
 Henry Wadsw^orth Longfellov^^ 132 
 
 James Gates Percival 136 
 
 Jones Very 140 
 
 George Hill 144 
 
 Park Benjamin 146 
 
 Henry Theodore Tuckerman 156 
 
 William Gilmore Simms 165 
 
 William Henry Burleigh 169 
 
 James Dixon 171 
 
 Rev. Norman Pinney 176 
 
 Hugh Peters 178 
 
 George Henry Boker 180 
 
 James Russell Lowell 192 
 
 Richard Henry Wilde 196 
 
 John Howard Bryant 198 
 
 George Henry Calvert 200 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis 202
 
 CONTENTS. y 
 
 William Henry Cuyerl Hosmer . . . 204 
 
 Epes Sargent 206 
 
 James Bayard Taylor 209 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard 214 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 220 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 224 
 
 Paul H. Hayne 228 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read 238 
 
 Sonnets to Winter. 
 
 John R. Thompson 242 
 
 John Esten Cooke 243 
 
 Henry Timrod 246 
 
 William H. Timrod 252 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe 254 
 
 John R. Tait 256 
 
 John James Piatt 261 
 
 C. E. Da Ponte 262 
 
 H 263 
 
 Jedidiah Vincent Huntington 267 
 
 George Lunt 268 
 
 Henry Lynden Flash 270 
 
 Albert Laighton 271 
 
 Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber 272 
 
 Charles Fenno Hoffman 278 
 
 Anonymous 279
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 FEMALE SONNETEERS. 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith 287 
 
 Frances Anne Kemble 296 
 
 Anne Charlotte Lynch 304 
 
 Mrs. Sarah Josepha Hale 309 
 
 Mrs. Mary Noel McDonald 315 
 
 Mrs. E. C. Kinney . . 321 
 
 Mrs. Anna Maria Lowell 326 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Jesup Fames 327 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth F. Swift 331 
 
 Mrs. Emma Catharine Embury 333 
 
 Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman 335 
 
 Mrs. Anna Maria Wells 336 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet . . . . . . 337 
 
 Mrs. Alice Bradley Neal 339 
 
 Tranquilla 341 
 
 Sarah Gould 343
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS 
 
 HENRY ELLISON. 
 
 ON THE ARRIVAL OF THE VESSEL ANNOUNCING THE SET- 
 TLEMENT OF DIFFERENCES WITH AMERICA.* 
 
 HERE comes a gallant vessel, in full trim, 
 Into the haven, high, majestical, 
 With music in her motion, as if all 
 The waves, o'er which she doth so lightly skim, 
 Rose up and sunk in cadence to each whim 
 And playful fancy of her rise and fall ! 
 The sun is sinking, gilding yon dark pall 
 Of clouds, whose edges even now grow dim, 
 Ready to close around the grave of day ! 
 
 But whence comes she, with sails the sun makes gold. 
 To fit them golden missions to convey ? 
 Brings she Hesperian fruitage, long foretold, 
 From the far West ? O yes, she comes to say. 
 She brings its best fruit, Peace, typed in that fable old ! 
 
 * The Poetry of Real Life. By Henry Ellison. 1844.
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 POETRY A DAILY BREAD. 
 
 O Muse, thy nourishment, which unto some 
 Is but as manna in the wilderness, 
 Found but in seasons of their strange distress 
 And sorrows, which unseal lips elsewhile dumb, 
 
 And make the waters in dry places come, — 
 The heart's Castalian springs ! — to me is less 
 Than this, yet more ; — the daily bread I bless. 
 And live on ; household bread, and made at home 
 
 And if, with no profane comparison. 
 Reader, I break and offer it to thee, 
 'T is as a sacrament, a sublime one. 
 
 The sacrament of Man's Humanity ! 
 
 Of which partaking, I would have thee none 
 But as thy Brethren view, whate'er they be.
 
 HENRY ELLISON. 
 
 III. 
 
 BY THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 Here sit I, like some god of the old prime, 
 Just wakened into divine consciousness ; 
 Like Neptune, when his great hand did caress 
 The Ocean's mane first, at the dawn of Time, 
 
 Ere his dread name had passed into a rhyme ! 
 Here sit I, while the sea Avith wavy stress 
 And emphasis, and utterance nothing less 
 Than epic, lends a voice to thoughts sublime ! 
 
 Here sit I, musing upon things to come 
 Beyond all reach of mortal eloquence ; 
 Till, unto that which had but struck me dumb. 
 
 The great Sea, giving articulate sound and sense. 
 Sublimes the mighty but confuse'd hum 
 Into a voice as of Omnipotence !
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AGAINST PRIDE OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Proud Poet, think'st thou that the mass of men, 
 Low as they seem beneath thy fancied height, 
 Have yet no other sources of clehght, 
 No poesy, save that of thy poor pen ? 
 
 Little as distance makes them to thy ken, 
 Haply that self-same distance, to their sight, 
 Makes thee as little seem, and with more right. 
 Who deem'st thyself not of them, and art then, 
 
 And just for this, beneath them. — Is yon Sun, 
 Rising in glory, not far better, pray. 
 Than thy description of it ? the lark's lay 
 
 Itself, than all thy verses on it ? one 
 
 Sweet flower more than all that thou canst say. 
 And far beyond thy best comparison ?
 
 HENRY ELLISON. 
 
 A PRIVILEGE WORTH A HARD EARNING. 
 
 It is the hardest task, the highest end, 
 Of all true wisdom, rightly understood. 
 To see the 111, yet not o'erlook the Good, 
 Nor let the 111 beyond itself extend, 
 
 Nor o'er the sunny side its shadows send 
 Beyond its own intrinsic magnitude. 
 As mountains cast their shadows far, and brood 
 At distance, and their own real bulk transcend. 
 
 'T is hard to school the heart to be, in spite 
 Of injury and envy, generous still ; 
 In seeing Good alone to take delight, 
 
 And to forget, or to forgive, the 111 : 
 
 And he who can do this, has still a right 
 To think godlike of man, and must, and will.
 
 8 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A MUSIC YET UNKNOWN, REMAINING TO BE HEARD ON 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 The music of the days which are to come 
 Doth haunt me ever, and my footsteps move 
 In time unto it, — paces of deep love 
 And faith unchangeable ! I hear the hum 
 
 Of mighty workings, and cannot be dumb. 
 To the grand concert of the spheres above. 
 Mankind moves on, vain omens to disprove, 
 While overhead, and in the vanward, some 
 
 Prophetic soul, lark-like, doth soar and sing. 
 A few poor snatches of that music here, 
 My fellow-men, I, as a pledge, would bring, — 
 
 The music at my heart still answering clear. 
 
 Which tells me that there must be yet some string 
 Untouched, which God intended Man to hear.
 
 EGERTON WEBBE. 
 
 EGERTON WEBBE. 
 
 TO A FOG.* 
 
 Hail to thee, Fog ! most reverend, worthy Fog ! 
 
 Come in thy fuU-wigged gravity : I much 
 
 Admire thee : — thy old dulness hath a touch 
 Of true respectabiUty. The rogue 
 That calls thee names (a fellow I could flog) 
 
 Would beard his grandfather, and trip his crutch ; 
 
 But I am dutiful, and hold with such 
 As deem thy solemn company no clog. 
 Not that I love to travel best incog., 
 
 To pounce on latent lamp-posts, or to clutch 
 The butcher in my arms, or in a bog 
 Pass afternoons ; but while through thee I jog, 
 
 I feel I am true English, and no Dutch, 
 Nor French, nor any other foreign dog 
 
 That never mixed his grog 
 Over a sea-coal fire a day like this, 
 And bid thee scowl thy worst, and found it bliss. 
 
 And to himself said, " Yes, 
 Italia's skies are fair, her fields are sunny, 
 But, *****! Old England for my money." 
 
 * This is the sonnet with the coda (or tail) alluded to in the 
 Introductory Essay, page 60. The gap in the last line is left to be
 
 lO ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 A SPLENDOR amid glooms, a sunny thread 
 Woven into a tapestry of cloud, 
 A merry child a-playing with the shroud 
 That lies upon a breathless mother's bed, 
 
 A garland on the front of one new-wed, 
 
 Trembling and weeping while her troth is vowed, 
 A school-boy's laugh that rises light and loud 
 In hcensed freedom from ungentle dread ; — 
 
 These are ensamples of the Happiness 
 
 For which our nature fits us. More and less 
 Are parts of all things to the mortal given. 
 
 Of Love, Joy, Truth, and Beauty. Perfect light 
 Would dazzle, not illuminate, our sight ; 
 From Earth it is enough to glimpse at Heaven. 
 
 filled up by the readers, according to their respective notions of 
 what is fittest for the nonce, or properest to be read aloud. The 
 word " Yes," though an allowable rhyme to dh'ss and (/its, especially 
 on a comic occasion, may also, if the reader pleases, be emphatically 
 pronounced "yis." It is a license often taken by conversers in Eng- 
 land ; and I remember saying so to my friend, when I first read the 
 verses. I think he said that he intended to imply the license in the 
 rhyme ; but at all events I am sure he agreed with me, and laughed 
 heartily ; and we read it so accordingly on the spot.
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. II 
 
 II. 
 
 AFTER REVISITING CAMBRIDGE AFTER A LONG ABSENCE. 
 
 I HAVE a debt of my heart's own to thee, 
 
 School of my soul, old lime and cloister shade, 
 Which I, strange creditor, should grieve to see 
 Fully acquitted and exactly paid. 
 
 The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights, 
 Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree, 
 In sweet belated talk on winter nights. 
 With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me, — 
 
 Such things I owe thee, and not only these : 
 I owe thee the far beaconing memories 
 Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide 
 
 Of life where it was narrow, deep, and clear, 
 Now cast their brightness from the further side 
 On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear.
 
 12 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 Thee I would think one of the many wise, 
 Who in Eliza's time sat eminent, 
 To our now world, his Purgatory, sent 
 To teach us what true English poets prize. 
 
 Pasquilant froth and foreign galliardize 
 
 Are none of thine ; but, when of gay intent, 
 Thou usest staid old English merriment, 
 Mannerly mirth, which no one dare despise. 
 
 The scoffs and girds of our poor critic rout 
 Must move thy pity, as amidst their mime, 
 Monk of Truth's Order, from thy memories 
 
 Thou dost updraw sublime simplicities, 
 
 Grand thoughts that never can be wearied out, 
 Showing the unreality of Time.
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. I3 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FOREST. 
 
 I LOVE the forest ; I could dwell among o~ 
 That silent people, till my thoughts upgrew 
 In nobly ordered form, as to my view 
 Rose the succession of that lofty throng. ■^ 
 
 The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves 
 
 Formed by the slow decay of numerous years, <" 
 The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears 
 Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves. 
 
 The chirp and flutter of some single bird. 
 
 The rustle in the brake, — what precious store 
 Of joys have these on poets' hearts conferred ? 
 
 And then at times to send one's own voice out. 
 In the full frolic of one startling shout. 
 Only to feel the after-stillness more.
 
 14 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 THOMAS WADE. 
 
 SHELLEY AND KEATS, AND THEIR "REVIEWER."* 
 
 Two heavenly doves I saw, which were indeed 
 
 Sweet birds and gentle, — like the immortal pair 
 
 That waft the Cyprian chariot through the air, — 
 
 And with their songs made music, to exceed 
 
 All thought of what rich poesy might be ; 
 
 At which a crow, perched on a sullen tree. 
 
 Dingy and hoarse, made baser by their brightness, 
 
 Would fain be judge of melody and whiteness, 
 
 And cawed dire sentence on those sweet-throat turtles j 
 
 To which his fellow-flock of carrion things 
 
 Croaked clamorous assent ; but still the wings 
 
 Of those pure birds are white amid the myrtles 
 
 Of every grove, where cull they nectar's seed. 
 
 Whilst still on cold, dead flesh, those carrion creatures feed. 
 
 * From the " Tatler " of 1831. We should have given more son- 
 nets of this poet, but have unfortunately lost the volume in which 
 they appeared.
 
 THOMAS WADE. 1 5 
 
 II. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 Holy and mighty Poet of the spirit 
 
 That broods and breathes along the universe ! 
 
 In the least portion of whose starry verse 
 
 Is the great breath the sphered heavens inherit — 
 
 No human song is eloquent as thine ; 
 
 For, by a reasoning instinct all divine, 
 
 Thou feel'st it the soul of things ; and thereof singing, 
 
 With all the madness of a skylark, springing 
 
 From earth to heaven, the intenseness of thy strain, 
 
 Like the lark's music, all around is ringing, 
 
 Laps us in God's own heart, and we regain 
 
 Our primal life ethereal ! Men profane 
 
 Blaspheme thee ; I have heard thee dreamer styled — 
 
 I 've mused upon this wakefulness — and smiled.
 
 X6 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 A PROPHECY. 
 
 There is a mighty dawning on the earth 
 
 Of human glory ; dreams unknown before 
 
 Fill the mind's boundless world, and wondrous birth 
 
 Is given to great thought ; and deep-drawn lore, 
 
 But late a hidden fount, at which a few 
 
 Quaffed and were glad, is now a flowing river. 
 
 Which the parched nations may approach and view, 
 
 Kneel down and drink, or float on it forever ; 
 
 The bonds of spirit are asunder broken, 
 
 And matter makes a very sport of distance ; 
 
 On every side appears a silent token 
 
 Of what will be hereafter, when existence 
 
 Shall even become a pure and equal thing. 
 
 And earth sweep high as heaven, on solemn wing.
 
 THOMAS WADE. 1 7 
 
 IV. 
 
 CALVUS. 
 
 Bold mortal ! thou dost ape the skeleton 
 
 That satirizes man and all his doings 
 
 From every opened grave ; and shouldst seem one, 
 
 But for the glow-worm which is in thine eyes, 
 
 And certain airs that from thy lips arise : 
 
 Why, now to see thee at thine amorous cooings, 
 
 Or gravely preaching immortality, 
 
 To which thy living death's-head gives the lie. 
 
 Would make the shadow that all life receiveth 
 
 Shake his dim sides with horrible derision. 
 
 Tell us, old Calvus ! what about thee cleaveth, 
 
 To make distinction still between the vision 
 
 Of a death's-head and thine ? Get thee false hair, 
 
 For thy sole privilege to upper air. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 l8 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 THOMAS JAMES JUDKIN. 
 I. 
 
 SPECIAL PLEADING.* 
 
 (Craving the Critic's Notice.) 
 
 Gentle, it is my wont, when newly writ 
 A sonnet, madrigal, or ode, to show 
 The same to Emily, that I may know 
 
 By her sweet face (taste's dial) if in it 
 
 Be aught unworthy of a poet's fit ; 
 
 And with the knittings of her altered brow, 
 Or with the playful smiles that come and go, 
 
 I hold no parle, but instantly commit. 
 
 Or not, such brain-work to the flames. Thus, Sir, 
 I now beseech, in Courtesy's good name. 
 Where there is need thou wilt but gently blame, 
 
 Seeing that half the fault belongs to her ; 
 
 Yet speak thy best praise freely when 't is due, 
 Since one kind word for her, to me is two. 
 
 * " By-Gone Moods ; or, Hues of Fancy and Feeling, from the 
 Spring to thie Autumn of Life. By the Rev. T. J. Judkin, M. A., for- 
 merly of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge. London, 1S56."
 
 THOMAS JAMES JUDKIN. 19 
 
 II. 
 
 "eureka!"* 
 
 " Eureka ! " still " Eureka ! " was my cry ; 
 
 While Echo shouts of answering joyance sent, 
 
 As through the garden door, on mischief bent, 
 I flung myself upon the sward close by 
 The startled Kate, who sat with musing -eye. 
 
 On some old poet's charmful verse intent ; 
 
 " Eureka ? — what by such strange word is meant ? " 
 " ' I 've found it,' — yes ; e'en that which thousands try, 
 And try in vain, to find within the pages 
 
 Aforetime written by the white-haired sages. 
 
 Or by long communings with present men. 
 Native or foreign, through life's varied stages, — 
 
 Truth ! " — "Where ?" — " In woman's lips." — And 
 kissing then 
 
 Kate's lips, I laughing spake the word again. 
 
 * '^ I have found it ! " — the famous exclamation of Archimedes 
 when he discovered the means of finding the quantum of alloy in 
 the crown of Hiero, King of Sicily.
 
 20 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 A CHARACTER, DRAWN FROM THE LIFE.* 
 
 An old man with a fiddle in his hand, 
 
 Which oft on village green, at wake, or fair, 
 Gave motion to the feet of rnany a pair 
 
 Of hand-linked swains ; the roamer of a band, 
 
 Who, holding neither right in house or land, 
 Live by the hedges in the open air ; 
 He, with a stooping body ghostly spare, 
 
 A guileful eye, and rutted cheek long tanned 
 
 By sun, dew, wind, and rain, to sallow brown. 
 
 Besought our passing dole. " 'T is hard," he said, 
 
 " At fourscore years to struggle up and down 
 This awesome country for one's daily bread." 
 
 Then, scraping from his crazy instrument 
 
 A sprightly air, in sadness on he went. 
 
 * Entitled by the author, "A Travelling Incident, — Cumber- 
 land." The only doubt perhaps of the truth of this excellent picture 
 is suggested by the word " sadness " in the concluding line. It is 
 not improbable that the man of the " guileful eye " had his pocket 
 full of money at the time, and that the look of sadness in his face 
 was a trick of trade.
 
 THOMAS JAMES JUDKIN. 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 PICKING AND STEALING. 
 
 Now Jane was under that old mulberry-tree, 
 
 So watched and guarded near the summer-house ; 
 I caught her pilfering from the lower boughs, — 
 
 " Dear Heaven ! what purple lips ! they '11 surely be 
 
 To in-door folk no doubtful history." 
 
 Now this to 'scape she stood with knitted brows 
 In pretty strife betwixt the ifs and hows^ — 
 
 No spring was near, — and turning full on me, 
 
 She said, " Sweet cousin, thy advice I pray." 
 " It is," quoth I (one arm her waist enfolding. 
 And with the other hand her small wrists holding), 
 
 " It is, to kiss those tell-tale stains away." 
 But ah ! as kisses oft will do, this made 
 The matter worse, and both of us betrayed.
 
 22 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 GEORGE POWELL THOMAS. 
 
 TO CONSTANCE, IN ABSENCE.* 
 
 Thou art not here ! And ere we meet again, 
 Long years may pass away, and even thou, 
 My fair young bride, — some shadows on thy brow, 
 The tokens some of time and some of pain, 
 
 May, ere that hour, have stolen in, to stain 
 The fairest face that e'er won lover's vow. — • 
 What matter ? Be thy heart as it is now ; 
 Let that its freshness, beauty, truth retain, 
 
 And something of its own sweet power to adorn 
 Whate'er it loves, with such divinest light 
 As hovers o'er the mountain-top at morn, 
 
 Yet makes the poorest blossom heavenly bright : 
 Blest in those arms from which I now am torn, 
 I shall note nothing, then, of time or blight. 
 
 * " Poems by George Powell Thomas, Captain Bengal Army, 
 Author of ' Views of Simla.' "
 
 GEORGE POWELL THOMAS. 23 
 
 II. 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 But ah ! the Future ! That lies far away, 
 Hidden in mists above whose murky shade 
 Ev'n Hope, the flatterer, into air doth fade. 
 Till, of her radiant presence, scarce one ray 
 
 Lingers to light my solitary way. 
 
 Dread Future ! Ever, as my heart had strayed 
 'Mid thy dim wastes, it hurries back, afraid, 
 And by the wayside sits alone, to pray, — 
 
 A timid traveller who has lost his track, 
 And cowers in solitude, of home to muse. 
 Of home, to which he fain would wander back, 
 
 Following his heart there, but the Fates refuse ; 
 And there he sits in dark cold misery, 
 With Memor\' alone ! — 't is so with me.
 
 24 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO FAME. 
 
 O Fame ! what art thou ? — Who can know, alas ! 
 
 His claim to any share in thee or thine, 
 
 Till he has passed that dim and awful line, 
 
 Which no man ever passed or e'er shall pass. 
 Prizing thy gifts ! Rare beings still amass 
 
 Treasures that after-ages count divine ; 
 
 Yet ere they pass from earth, thou giv'st no sign 
 
 That they in memory shall outlive the mass. 
 How oft, in life, they pine for very bread. 
 
 While wordy critics smirch their lays with blots ; 
 
 How oft above each unremembered head. 
 Year after year, the dock or hemlock rots ; 
 
 And then thou nam'st their love, or woe, or mirth ; 
 
 And towns that let them die boast that they gave 
 them birth.
 
 GEORGE POWELL THOMAS. 25 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FIRST RAILWAY TRAIN IN INDIA. 
 
 A HOWL, as of a demon, startles night, 
 A rushing horror hurtles through the air, 
 And thrust from home by terrible affright. 
 As at an earthquake, forth the people fare, 
 
 Staring and trembling ! — What unwonted sight 
 Astounds them, where they shudder unaware ? 
 Is it some new avdtar of his might 
 To whom they offer their barbaric prayer ? 
 
 An incarnation new of Mahadeo, 
 
 Whose coming so delighted earth of yore ? 
 Or is it tigers ? wolves ? in pity say, oh ! — 
 " Hands off! — don't bother ; — don't be such a bore ! 
 There 's naught to shout and tremble at, I tell 'ee ! 
 'T is only our first railway train to Delhi."
 
 26 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 JUMNOTREE.* 
 
 Sharp, clear, and crystalline, cleaving the sky- 
 In twain, it towers forever and alone, 
 Save that about its feet the tall hills lie, 
 Like slaves around some mighty despot's throne ; 
 
 While evermore, beneath its cold stern eye, 
 
 The short-lived centuries have come and flown, 
 And stars that round its head untiring fly. 
 Confess its glories ancient as their own. 
 
 The eagles shun it in their highest flight ; 
 The clouds lie basking 'neath its eminence ; 
 Naught nears it but thin air and heaven's sweet light, 
 
 Nor not a sound forever cometh thence. 
 
 Save of some avalanche from its summit riven. 
 Or thunder-tempest on its breakers driven. 
 
 * From yumna, — the river, — and aotar, — a descent ; a peak in 
 the Himalayas, twenty-five thousand feet above the level of the sea.
 
 GEORGE JAMES DE WILDE. 27 
 
 GEORGE JAMES DE WILDE. 
 I. 
 
 THE WATER-MILL. 
 
 There ; — it may serve perhaps some future day, 
 Dull though the pencil be, and duller he 
 Who guides it, to recall to memory 
 The exquisite beauties of this rural way, 
 
 Tempting the hurried traveller to delay : — 
 
 The mill down in the dell ; the huge beech-tree 
 Flinging its great black arms protectingly 
 Over the useful stream, with one hot ray 
 
 From Autumn's cloudless sky touched, like a star ; 
 The feathery greenery sheltering everywhere ; 
 The one bright strip of greensward seen afar 
 
 Between the mossy trunks. — May never care 
 Come to the Mill, its clattering glee to mar, 
 Making all foul within, while all around is fair.
 
 28 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 WHEATHAMSTEAD. 
 
 To thy fresh slopes and hazel-shadowed lanes, 
 And sedgy river with its deep green nooks, 
 Where sits the watching hen, and skyward looks 
 The water-lily ; — to thy breezy plains 
 
 And village homes, long years gone by I came. 
 Lured by the magic of a mighty name, 
 A glad enthusiast. I come once more, — 
 Not with the exulting heart which then I bore, 
 
 But with a heavy memory that never 
 
 Shall fail to shadow what bright hour soever, — 
 To find thee still as lovely as of yore. 
 
 And feel the poet's truth is written here, — 
 " A thing of beauty is a joy forever" ; 
 Hearty and homely, loving Hertfordshire.* 
 
 * See Charles Lamb's exquisite paper in the "Essays of Elia," 
 entitled " Mackcry End, in Hertfordshire."
 
 GEORGE JAMES DE WILDE. 29 
 
 III. 
 
 EYDON HALL. 
 (The Seat of the Rev. C. F. Annesley.) 
 
 "Era il detto Kiogo sopra una piccola montagnetta, da ogni parte lontano 
 alquanto alle nostre strade, di varj albuscelli e piante tutte di verde fronde ripieno, 
 piacevoh a riguardare : in sul colrao della quale era un palagio .... con pra- 
 telli dattorno, e con giardini maravighosi." — Boccaccio. 
 
 Vert alleys with trim trees arching o'erhead, 
 And ending in a vista of blue hills, 
 Statue, or vase, or nook where grottoed rills, 
 Trickling from stone to stone, clear coolness shed ; 
 
 Elsewhere a pleasaunce, with quaint patterns spread 
 Of rarest flowers ; an orangery that fills 
 The air with that sweet odor which distils 
 From Lisbon or the Azores, seaward led. 
 
 There needs but laughter from the shrubberies coming, 
 Ladies, and rustling silks, a gorgeous show. 
 And mantled cavaliers chitarras strumming 
 
 Or whispering love in willing ears ; — and lo ! 
 A picture by Lancret or by Watteau, 
 Or tale recorded by Boccaccio.
 
 30 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV, 
 
 ON THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING, 
 
 Now is the young Spring with us : her blue eyes 
 And sunny smile come jfiushing through the tears 
 Rude March hath startled from her ; for she hears 
 The gentle footfall and the wooing sighs 
 
 Of coming April, nor to him denies 
 
 (Sweet task !) the soothing of her virgin fears. 
 
 More balmy and more balmy, as he nears, 
 
 Her breath becomes ; more sunny bright her eyes. 
 
 And now to live I — now to arouse and shake 
 The wintry torpor from the spirit, — now 
 To see the early Sun from slumber wake. 
 
 And bathe in moonshine the uplifted brow ; 
 
 To shame dull Winter, — time for work, — yet take 
 Much holiday for art's and friendship's sake.
 
 JOHN WATSON DALBY. 3 1 
 
 JOHN WATSON DALBY. 
 I. 
 
 AT BERKHAMSTEAD. 
 
 Waters I all calm and bright as heaven above, 
 
 In peace and beauty still your course pursuing ; 
 Ruins ! and ye wild springs ! that fondly love 
 
 To throw a deathless sweetness over ruin ; 
 Hills ! o'er whose brows in other days we bounded 
 
 When fresh delight was in our hearts and eyes, 
 And all that lay before us or surrounded. 
 
 Shone with a beauty heightened by surprise : 
 Had earth a stray bliss, then the quick sense found it, 
 
 From morn's first blush to ray of evening star ; 
 And then the natural revel well we rounded, 
 
 Lifting full cups to loving hearts afar. 
 Well may our own faint, staggered and astounded. 
 
 At thought of what and where those loved ones are.
 
 32 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 The mirror of my life, ye lie before me ! 
 
 Reflecting all its gladness and its gloom ; — 
 There the wild joy ye never may restore me, 
 That, when I saw ye first, came flushing o'er me ; 
 
 And there the eternal barrier of the tomb. 
 
 Crowding upon me here what memories come, 
 Glad meeting, pleasant lingering, and gay strolling 
 Alas, how briefly shines the vision for me ! 
 
 Away the glory and the joy are rolling, — 
 Away the glowing Future which it bore me ! 
 And through the mind, confusing sense and sight, 
 
 Comes to my startled ear the death-bell tolling ; 
 And a shroud covers Beauty and Delight, 
 Mantling the gauds of morn in glooms of night.
 
 JOHN WATSON DALBY. ^^ 
 
 III. 
 
 A WAYSIDE ADVENTURE. 
 
 He was a native of the North countrie, 
 But left it early, — an adventurous lad ; 
 His look I know not if severe or sad, 
 Shrewd surely and with even a latent glee ; 
 
 And a broad deeply-furrowed brow had he. 
 Albeit no Scot, the accent made me glad, 
 Awaking love and kindly memory. 
 " Wii^ song and friendship we are wisely mad" 
 
 Methought ; " and this shall be a merry hour. 
 Of this man's soul I hold the secret key : 
 Grave, silent, strong, yet shall he feel my power, 
 
 And that of the heart-linker, Sympathy. 
 
 One word shall bring the land for which he yearns, 
 One magic word." — I spoke it, — // was Burns. 
 
 VOU II.
 
 34 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 Then Scotia came to him, and Auld Lang Syne, 
 And he poured out the story of his Hfe, 
 Loves, struggles, studies, hope, despair, and strife ; 
 Much thanks, some murmurs, but no childish whine ; 
 
 And ever and anon the well-loved line 
 That fixed a principle or stamped a truth, 
 And crowned in manhood the best dreams of youth, — 
 Ne'er seemed the Bard of Ayr so all divine. 
 
 That wayside Inn shall be remembered yet, 
 And all our gossip o'er that humble glass. 
 
 By chance and in a chimney nook we met, 
 And Burns and Nature glorified the place.
 
 JOHN WATSON DALBY. 35 
 
 A SLEEPLESS NIGHT. 
 
 Twelve — but Macaulay had but now been closed ; 
 
 Sleep could not quickly follow page so fine ; 
 
 One — and strange figures filled my wakefial eye ; 
 
 Two — and the lightning finds those eyes unclosed ; 
 
 Three — and for no brief instant had I dozed ; 
 
 Four — and slow morn did on the casement shine, 
 
 But where my strength for challenge so divine ? 
 
 Five — still for slumber wholly indisposed 
 
 I on my restless pillow turn and twist, 
 
 Reaching a hopeful weariness by six; 
 
 And then all sense of outer objects missed, 
 
 I with the Cavaliers and Roundheads mix 
 Awhile, to rise an irate rogue, perplexed. 
 Vexing the house because myself am vexed.
 
 36 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 AT THE AUST FERRY HOTEL. 
 
 O DAINTY diamond-ornamented fingers, 
 
 Puzzling plain folks, and leading some astray 
 Who pore o'er panes where the inscription lingers 
 
 Recording jovial rest, or anxious stay, 
 
 I rather wish your Latin were away, 
 Although the epigrams are obvious stingers ; 
 
 And the fine Roman hand — it makes one say. 
 Was 't Coleridge, Southey, Lamb — was 't one of Earth's 
 fine singers ? 
 
 " One touch," ei ccstera ; — banter as they may. 
 We see ourselves in him who could not pass 
 
 Nor leave remembrance of himself some way. 
 Though 't were but on the fragile face of glass. 
 
 And who this mild ambition would gainsay 
 In my opinion writes himself an ass !
 
 JOHN WATSON DALBY. 37 
 
 Vlt. 
 
 A RENCONTRE AT TYTHERINGTON. 
 (Merci, Monsieur, mercil) 
 
 Forth from the farmer's hospitable nook, 
 Among the trees and where the waters gushed, — 
 A holy calmness all the welkin hushed. 
 And lo ! before me stood, or rather shook, 
 
 A tall gaunt figure iron want had crushed 
 Into a thing scarce humanlike. He spoke, 
 Help in his native accents did invoke. 
 While through his frame a tide of diverse feelings 
 rushed. 
 
 " Poor, wretched, and firom Paris ! " all he said ; 
 Yet, plainly written in his visage pale. 
 Fancy could still piece out the mournful tale ; 
 
 And, right or wrong, the history fully read 
 Of the wan outcast in a Gloucester vale. 
 In that sad, low, strange tongue, imploring bread. 
 
 298846
 
 38 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 I. 
 
 THE POLISH INSURRECTION. 
 
 Blow ye the trumpet ; gather from afar 
 
 The hosts to battle ; be not bought and sold. 
 
 Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold ; 
 
 Break through your iron shackles, — fling them far. 
 O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar 
 
 Grew to this strength among his deserts cold ; 
 
 When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
 
 The growing murmurs of the Polish war ! 
 Now must your noble anger blaze out more 
 
 Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan. 
 
 The Moslem myriads fell and fled before ; 
 Than when Zamoyski smote the Tartar Khan ; 
 
 Than, earlier, when on the Baltic shore 
 
 Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 39 
 
 II. 
 
 A SOLDIER-PRIEST. 
 To J. M. K. 
 
 My hope and heart is with thee, — thou wilt be 
 
 A latter Luther and a soldier-priest 
 
 To scare church-harpies from the Master's feast ; 
 
 Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : 
 Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws 
 
 Distilled from some worm-cankered homily ; 
 
 But spurred at heart with fieriest energy 
 
 To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
 With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
 
 The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
 
 Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 
 Browbeats his desk below. Thou, from a throne 
 
 Mounted in heaven, wilt shoot into the dark 
 
 Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.
 
 4° ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O, WERE I loved as I desire to be ! 
 
 What is there in the great sphere of the earth, 
 Or range of evil between death and birth, 
 That I should fear, — if I were loved by thee ? 
 
 All the inner, all the outer world of pain, 
 
 Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert rhine ; 
 As I have heard that somewhere in the main 
 Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. 
 
 'T were joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee, 
 To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills, 
 Apart upon a mountain, though the surge 
 
 Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
 Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 
 Below us, as far on as eye could see.
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON. 4I 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON. 
 I. 
 
 THE DELIGHTS OF INTELLECT UNPERTURBING. 
 
 Vexation waits on passion's changeful glow, 
 But th' intellect may rove a thousand ways, 
 And yet be calm while fluctuating so : 
 The dew-drop shakes not to its shifting rays 
 
 And transits of soft light. Be bold to choose 
 This never satiate freedom of delight, 
 Before the fiery bowl and red carouse. 
 And task for joy thy soul's majestic might ; 
 
 So for the sensual will be rarer need ; 
 So will thy mind a giant force assume. 
 Strong as the centre of the deep Maelstroom, 
 
 When flung into the calm of sightless speed ; 
 So wilt thou scorn on lowlier aims to feed. 
 And go in glory to a sage's tomb.
 
 42 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 ON SEEING A CHILD BLUSH ON HIS FIRST VIEW OF A 
 
 CORPSE. 
 
 'T IS good our earliest sympathies to trace, 
 And I would muse upon a little thing, — 
 What brought the blush into that infant's face. 
 When first confronted with the rueful King ? 
 
 He boldly came : what made his courage less ? 
 A signal for the heart to beat less free 
 Are all imperial presences ; and he 
 Was awed by Death's consummate kingliness, 
 
 And by the high and peerless front he bore. 
 No thought of dying armies crossed the lad ; 
 He feared the stranger, though he knew no more ; 
 
 Surmising and surprised, but most, afraid ; 
 As Crusoe, wandering on the desert shore. 
 Saw but an alien footmark, and was sad !
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON. 43 
 
 III. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Hung on the shower that fronts the golden west, 
 The rainbow bursts Hke magic on mine eyes, 
 In hues of elden promise there imprest, 
 Frail in its date, eternal in its guise. 
 
 The vision is so lovely that I feel 
 
 My heart endued with beauty like its own. 
 
 And taking an indissoluble seal 
 
 From what is here a moment, and is gone. 
 
 It lies so soft on the full-breasted storm. 
 
 New born o' the middle air, and dewy-pure. 
 And tricked in nature's choicest garniture ; 
 
 What can be seen of lovelier dye or form ? 
 While all the groves assume a ghastly stain. 
 Caught from the leaden rack and shining rain.
 
 44 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE RINGLET. 
 (To .) 
 
 I HAVE a circlet of thy sunny hair, 
 
 And 't is, I wot, a blessing to mine eyes ; 
 For gentle, happy thoughts are sworn to rise, 
 Whene'er I view it, softly folded there. 
 
 Lifeless and listless, like a treasure's key. 
 Unwitting of the dreams it doth compel 
 Of gems and gold piled high in secret cell. 
 Too royal for a vulgar gaze to see ! 
 
 If they were stolen, the key might never tell ; 
 If thou wert dead, what should the ringlet say ? 
 It shows the same, betide thee ill or well. 
 
 Smiling on earth, or shrouded in decay ! 
 And were cold winter with thee, Isabel, 
 I might be smiling here on blossoms of thy May.
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON. 45 
 
 ON STARTLING SOME PIGEONS. 
 
 A HUNDRED wings are dropped as soft as one, 
 Now ye are lighted ; lovely to my sight 
 The fearful circle of your gentle flight, 
 Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon ; 
 
 And then, the sober chiding of your tone 
 
 (As there ye sit, from your own roofs arraigning 
 My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done) 
 Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining ! 
 
 O happy, happy race ! for though there clings 
 A feeble fear about your timid clan. 
 Yet are ye blest ! with not a thought that brings 
 
 Disquietude ; while proud and sorrowing man. 
 An eagle, weary of his mighty wings, 
 Witli anxious inquest fills his little span.
 
 46 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 SILKWORMS AND SPIDERS. 
 
 The worm long fosters his transforming sleep, 
 But claims th' inalienable life again, 
 Which, though it be but one, yet seemeth twain, 
 The trance between is all so deadly deep : 
 
 The careffll spider spreads before his lair 
 The web, ygathered near his filmy heart 
 Withouten throes or any vital smart, 
 And of his entrails makes his foes a snare. 
 
 In both a mighty mystery resides, 
 
 A truth, on whose development they thrive ; 
 One for the cravings of his life provides, 
 
 One weaves himself another way to live. 
 To reach the secret is beyond our lore. 
 And man must rest, till God doth furnish more.
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 47 
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON* 
 I. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 Dear Village Maid, who from thy little store, 
 
 Of knowledge, and of riches, canst supply 
 
 The flower and fruitage of humanity, 
 Balm for thyself, and comfort for the poor ; 
 I never pass the woodbines round thy door 
 
 But in my heart there swells a wistful sigh , — 
 
 O, could I change all gauds of vanity 
 For peace like thine, increasing evermore ! 
 By day thy sweet face, passing through the gate, 
 
 Is welcome as the bounty-bearing light. 
 Thy frugal lamp is to the desolate 
 
 A star of promise, dawning through the night ; 
 O, if all hearts were only like to thine. 
 Night would not be, though stars should cease to shine ! 
 
 * "Days and Hours," by Frederick Tennyson, 1854. We have 
 taken a liberty with the author, and with the reader, in calling these 
 stanzas sonnets, and setting them forth in the present manner ; for 
 though sonnets they are in point of construction, after a favorite 
 illegitimate fashion, yet the author does not so call them, nor in his 
 pages are they thus distinguished by headings. They form portions,
 
 48 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 HER VISITS TO HER MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 Ofttimes I mark thee, while the village tower 
 Takes the first glow of the new-risen morn, 
 Bending among the tombs like one forlorn ; 
 
 There is thy mother's grave ; there, sun or shower. 
 
 Art thou, and there is cherished every flower 
 She loved the best ; and 't is thy secret trust 
 That in the blossoms springing from her dust 
 
 Lives something of her to this very hour. 
 
 There, on the Sabbath days, mayst thou be seen 
 The first of all, the last to linger there ; 
 
 Sweet memories of her virtues come between 
 
 Thy whispered words, and mingle with thy prayer ; 
 
 And aged women, doomed to endless toil, 
 
 Stay by the porch, and weep with thee, or smile. 
 
 and not even consecutive portions, of a poem consisting of twelve 
 of them, entitled Martha ; so that perhaps we have wronged them 
 in that respect also. But they so worthily record a beautiful char- 
 acter, and it is so pleasant to see the names of this family of poets 
 in conjunction, — for Frederick Tennyson is a brother of the Lau- 
 reate's, — that, as he does not appear to have written any sonnets 
 professed, we were tempted to bring him and his heroine into our 
 volume in this manner.
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 49 
 
 III. 
 
 HER SECRET GRIEF. 
 
 " O, SURE," some said, " to her kind Heaven hath dealt 
 Freedom from earthly penance, that can share 
 The common ills of others, and their care 
 
 Surely so free a heart hath never felt 
 
 The fetters of great sorrows, that can melt 
 
 With simple tears, and laugh with simple joys." 
 Alas ! they had not heard the hidden sighs 
 
 Folded within thy conscience, pure of guilt : 
 
 There was another's heart that answered thee ; 
 He grew beside thee, till your hopes were one ; 
 
 Far off he sleeps, afar beyond the sea ; 
 
 And thou hast vowed through Death's great gates alone 
 
 To pass into thy bridal, and to lay 
 
 His image near thee on thy dying day. 
 
 VOL. ir.
 
 50 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 HER SICKNESS AND RECOVERY. 
 
 When thou wert laid in sickness and in pain 
 Through one sad autumn, O the falUng leaf 
 Fell gentlier by thy casement in its grief, 
 
 And still as holy tears, the evening rain ; 
 
 Methought the hamlet ne'er would wake again, 
 So mighty was the sorrow and the calm ; 
 And children wailed, and many a withered palm 
 
 Was raised to heaven for thee, and not in vain. 
 
 The meek, the rugged, wept beside thy door ; 
 The evil-minded took another way ; 
 
 And fewer were the murmurs of the poor 
 For their own troubles than thine evil day ; 
 
 And when another May-day brought thee forth, 
 
 Something from heaven had fallen on the earth.
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 5I 
 
 V. 
 
 HER EXEMPTION FROM THE COMMON ASPECTS OF DECAY. 
 
 O HEART of grace, that, like the lowly flowers, 
 Bendest beneath the storms, but dost not break, 
 Whom in thy tears kind thoughts do not forsake, 
 
 As blessed odors live in thunder-showers ; 
 
 Whether the sun shines forth, or tempest lowers, 
 Thou art unshaken. In thine utmost need, 
 While iron pride is shattered like a reed, 
 
 Thy winged hopes fly onward with the hours. 
 
 Therefore thine eye through mist of many days 
 Shines bright ; and beauty, like a lingering rose, 
 
 Sits on thy cheek, and in thy laughter plays, 
 While wintry frosts have fallen on thy foes ; 
 
 And like a vale that breathes the western sky. 
 
 Thy heajt is green, though summer is gone by.
 
 52 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A WISH FOR HER DURING THE REMAINDER OF HER LIFE. 
 
 Whatever be my lot, I pray that thou 
 Mayst see a cloudless autumn of thy years, 
 Whose summer-tide hath been o'ercast with tears j 
 
 Though like the clouds, that vainly overflow 
 
 The deep clear sky, they have not dimmed thy brow, 
 Or darkened the quick flame of liberty 
 Lit in that eye, which fashioned it and thee. 
 
 Be thine a vale where western breezes blow 
 
 The livelong year, where thou mayst walk at even 
 'Mid cherished flowers along a garden slope. 
 
 And breathe in peace the purity of heaven, 
 And turn unto the sun with eyes of hope, 
 
 With sweet birds every morn to make thee cheer, 
 
 And sound of living waters in thine ear.
 
 AUBREY DE VERE, THE YOUNGER. 53 
 
 AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. 
 
 REASONS FOR BEING BELOVED. 
 
 The reason why we love thee, dost thou ask ? 
 We love for many reasons joined in one : — 
 Because thy face is fair to look upon ; 
 Because, when pains or toils our hearts o'ertask, 
 In sunny smiles of thine they love to bask ; 
 Because thou honorest all, and harmest none ; 
 Because thy froward moods so soon are gone ; 
 Thy many faults and foibles wear no mask ; 
 Because thou art a woman. Unto me 
 A gracious woman is a child mature ; 
 Docile, and gentle, though with many a lure 
 Enriched, and, in a soft subjection, free ; 
 A sanguine creature, full of winning ways ; 
 Athirst for love, and shyly pleased with praise.
 
 54 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 REQUESTING TO BE JUDGED BY THE DESIRE, AND NOT BY 
 
 THE DESERT. 
 
 (Headed by the Author, " A Poet to a Painter." ) 
 
 That which my fault has made me, O paint not : 
 
 Paint me as that which I desire to be. 
 
 The unaccompHshed good that died in thought, 
 
 Deep buried in my heart, seek out, set free ; 
 
 And all I might have been concede to me : 
 
 The veil my error and the world have wrought, 
 
 Remove : the cloud disperse : erase the blot : 
 
 Bid from my brow the temporal darkness flee. 
 
 In that celestial and pure fount, whereof 
 
 Some drops afFused my childhood, bathe me wholly ; 
 
 And shield me from my own deserts : lest they 
 
 Who now but see me by the light of love, 
 
 A sterner insight learn from thee one day ; 
 
 And love pass from them, like some outworn folly.
 
 AUBREY DE VERE, THE YOUNGER. 55 
 
 III. 
 
 LOVE SELF-SACRIFICED. 
 
 (Entitled by the Author, " Incompatibility.") 
 
 Forgive me that I love you as I do, 
 
 Friend patient long ; too patient to reprove 
 
 The inconvenience of superfluous love. 
 
 You feel that it molests you, and 't is true. 
 
 In a light bark you sit, with a full crew ; — 
 
 Your life, full-orbed, compelled strange love to meet, 
 
 Becomes, by such addition, incomplete. 
 
 Because I love, I leave you. O, adieu ! 
 
 Perhaps when I am gone the thought of me 
 
 May sometimes be your Acceptable guest. 
 
 Indeed you love me : but my company 
 
 Old time makes tedious ; and to part is best. 
 
 Not without Nature's will are natures wed : — 
 
 O gentle Death, how dear thou mak'st the dead !
 
 56 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 LOVE VINDICATING ITS REJECTER. 
 (Entitled by the Author, " Troilus and Cressida,") 
 
 Had I been worthy of the love you gave, 
 
 That love withdrawn had left me sad, but strong : 
 
 My heart had been as silent as my tongue ; 
 
 My bed had been unfevered as my grave : 
 
 I had not striven for what I could not save : 
 
 Back, back to heaven my great hopes I had flung : 
 
 To have much suffered, having done no wrong, 
 
 Had seemed to me that noble part the brave 
 
 Account it ever. What this hour I am 
 
 Affirms the unworthiness that in me lurked : 
 
 Some sapping poison through my substance worked, 
 
 Some sin not trivial, though it lacked a name, 
 
 Which ratifies the deed that you have done 
 
 With plain approval. Other plea seek none.
 
 AUBREY DE VERE, THE YOUNGER. 57 
 
 V. 
 
 VENICE BY DAY. 
 
 The splendor of the Orient, here of old 
 Throned with the West, upon a waveless sea, 
 Her various-vested, resonant jubilee 
 Maintains, though Venice hath been bought and sold. 
 In their high stalls of azure and of gold 
 Yet stand, above the servile concourse free, 
 Those brazen steeds, — the Car of Victory- 
 Hither from far Byzantium's porch that rolled. 
 The winged Lions, Time's dejected thralls. 
 Glare with furled plumes. The pictured shapes that 
 
 glow 
 Like sunset clouds condensed upon the walls 
 Still boast old wars, or feasts of long ago ; 
 And still the Sun his amplest glory pours 
 On all those swelling domes and watery floors.
 
 58 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VENICE IN THE EVENING. 
 
 Alas ! 'mid all this pomp of the ancient time, 
 And flush of modern pleasure, dull Decay 
 O'er the bright pageant breathes her shadowy gray. 
 As on from bridge to bridge I roam and climb. 
 It seems as though some wonder-working chime 
 (Whose spell the Vision raised and still can sway) 
 To some far source were ebbing fast away ; 
 As though, by man unheard, with voice sublime 
 It bade the sea-born Queen of Cities follow 
 Her Sire into his watery realm far down : 
 Beneath my feet the courts sound vast and hollow ; 
 And more than Evening's darkness seems to frown 
 On sable barks that, swift yet trackless, fleet 
 Like dreams o'er dim lagoon and watery street.
 
 AUBREY DE VERE, THE YOUNGER. 59 
 
 VII. 
 
 independence- 
 
 Free born, it is my purpose to die free. 
 
 Away, degrading cares ; and ye not less, 
 
 Delights of sense and gauds of worldliness ; — 
 
 I have no part in you, nor you in me. 
 
 They that walk brave wear the world's livery ; 
 
 Their badge of service is their sumptuous dress. 
 
 Seek then your prey in gilded palaces ; 
 
 Revere my hovel's humble liberty. 
 
 Are there no flowers on earth, in heaven no stars, 
 
 That we must place in such low things our trust ? 
 
 Let me have noble toils, if toil I must, — 
 
 The patriot's task or friendship's sacred cares. 
 
 Beside my board that man shall break no crust 
 
 Who sells his birthright for a feast of dust.
 
 6o ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CORREGGIO'S CUPOLAS AT PARMA. 
 
 Creatures all eyes and brows, and tresses streaming 
 
 By speed divine blown back ; within, all fire 
 
 Of wondering zeal, and storm of bright desire ; — 
 
 Round the broad dome the immortal throngs are beaming ; 
 
 With elemental powers the vault is teeming. 
 
 We gaze, and, gazing, join the fervid choir, 
 
 In spirit launched on wings that ne'er can tire, 
 
 Like those that buoy the breasts of children dreaming. 
 
 The exquisitest hand that e'er in light 
 
 Revealed the subtlest smile of new-born pleasure 
 
 The depth here fathoms, and attains the height ; 
 
 Is strong the strength of heavenly hosts to measure ; 
 
 Draws back the azure curtain of the skies, 
 
 And antedates our promised Paradise.
 
 AUBREY DE VERE, THE YOUNGER. 6 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING ON THE GULF OF LEPANTO. 
 
 All round they lie, deep breath to breath replying,   
 
 Those outworn seamen in their well-earned sleep : 
 
 From the blue concave to the dim blue deep 
 
 No sound beside. Fluttering all night, or sighing. 
 
 Since mom the breeze delicious hath been dying, 
 
 And now is dead. On yonder snowy steep 
 
 The majesty of Day diffused is lying ; 
 
 Whilst Evening's Powers in silence seaward creep, 
 
 From glens that violet-shade the lilac vest 
 
 Of Delphi's hills. Ye mariners, sleep well ! 
 
 Run slowly, golden sands, and noiselessly. 
 
 There stands the great Corinthian citadel ; 
 
 Parnassus there. Rest, wearied pinnace, rest ! 
 
 Sleep, sacred air ! sleep on, marmorean sea !
 
 62 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 EDMUND OLLIER. 
 
 ON Wilson's picture of solitude.* 
 
 A fitting nook for meditative men ! — 
 
 A region of neglect and glimmering gloom, 
 Yet secretly unfolding many a bloom 
 Worthy of gardens, — to be denizen. 
 
 A pillared grotto once was in this glen. 
 
 And sculptured shapes ; but see how hungry doom 
 Has gnawn them half away, while o'er them loom 
 Black branches, arching like a dusky den ; 
 
 Between whose trunks you see, quite overbrowed 
 With intertwisted foliage, dark and drear. 
 White convent walls gleam like a parting ray 
 
 Under the forehead of a thunder-cloud ; 
 And silently and sad, from year to year, 
 The cowled monk stagnates, withering away. 
 
 * From Ainsworth's Magazine. 
 
 I
 
 EDMUND OLLIER. 63 
 
 11. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 A MAN Stood on a barren mountain-peak 
 
 In the night, and cried, " O world of heavy gloom ! 
 
 O sunless world ! O universal tomb ! 
 
 Blind, cold, mechanic sphere, wherein I seek 
 In vain for Life and Love, till Hope grows weak. 
 
 And falters towards Chaos ! Vast, blank doom ! 
 
 Huge darkness in a narrow prison-room ! 
 
 Thou art dead, — dead ! " Yet, ere he ceased to speak. 
 Across the level ocean, in the East, 
 
 The moon-dawn grew ; and all that mountain's side 
 
 Rose, newly-born from empty dusk. Fields, trees. 
 And deep glen-hollows, as the light increased. 
 
 Seemed vital ; and from heaven, bare and wide, 
 
 The moon's white soul looked over lands and seas.
 
 64 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 A VISION OF OLD BABYLON. 
 
 OuTLEAPiNG from the Present's narrow cage, 
 I floated on the backward waves of Time, 
 Until I landed in that antique age 
 When the now hoary world was in its prime. 
 How young, and fresh, and green, all things did look 1 
 I stood upon a broad and grassy plain, 
 Shrouded with leaves, between which, like a brook 
 Dashed on the turf in showers of golden rain, 
 The broken sunlight mottled all the land ; 
 And soon, between the trees, I was aware 
 Of a vast city, girt with stony band, 
 That hung upon the burning blue-bright air, 
 Like snowy clouds which that strange architect. 
 The Wind, has with his wayward fancies decked.
 
 EDMUND OLLIER. 65 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE SUBJECT OF BABYLON CONTINUED, 
 
 A WILDERNESS of bcauty ! a domain 
 Of visions and stupendous thoughts in stone, — 
 The sculptured dream of some enchanter's brain, — 
 There did I see, all sunning in their own 
 Splendor and warmth ; a thousand palaces, 
 Where tower looked out on tower ; all overgrown 
 With pictured deeds, and coiling traceries, 
 And monstrous shapes in strange conjunction met. 
 The idol phantoms of an age long past, 
 In midst of which the winge'd Bull was set ; 
 And I saw temples of enormous size. 
 Silent yet thronged ; and pyramids that cast 
 Shadows upon each golden-peaked pavilion. 
 And on the column flushed with azure and vermilion. 
 
 VOL. IL
 
 66 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 ThE SUBJECT OF BABYLON CONTINUED. 
 
 And on the top of all the wind-blown towers, 
 The thronging terraces, and ramparts fair. 
 And the flat house-roof scorching in the air, 
 Elysian gardens bloomed with breadths of flowers, 
 And clouds of moist green leaves, that tenderly 
 Cooled the fierce radiance sight could scarcely bear ; 
 Or over grassy lawns hung fluttering high. 
 Like birds upon the wing, half pausing there ; 
 Shadows, where winds drooped lingering with a sigh. 
 And there were fountains all of beaten gold, 
 That seemed alive with staring imagery. 
 Fantastical as death ; from which forth rolled, 
 Like spirits out of Sleep's enchanted ground, 
 Far-flashing streams, that flung a light all round.
 
 HON. MRS. NORTON. 67 
 
 HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Like an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs, 
 
 With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye, 
 
 And a strong effort in his quivering wings, 
 
 Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — 
 
 So my enamored heart, so long thine own. 
 
 At length from Love's imprisonment set free, 
 
 Goes forth into the open world alone. 
 
 Glad and exulting in its liberty : 
 
 But like that helpless bird (confined so long. 
 
 His weary wings have lost all power to soar) 
 
 Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, 
 
 And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more, — 
 
 So from its former bonds released in vain, 
 
 My heart still feels the weight of that remembered chain.
 
 68 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 Silent companions of the lonely hour, — 
 Friends who can never alter or forsake, 
 Who for inconstant roving have no power, 
 And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
 Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending 
 Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought. 
 And, o'er your old familiar pages bending. 
 Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, 
 Till haply meeting there, from time to time, 
 Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
 'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime 
 My native language spoke in friendly tone. 
 And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
 On these, my unripe musings, told so well.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 69 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 I. 
 
 EXPRESSIONLESS. 
 
 With stammering lips and insufl&cient sound, 
 
 I strive and struggle to deliver right 
 
 That music of my nature, day and night. 
 
 With dream and thought and feeling, interwound. 
 And inly answering all the senses round 
 
 With octaves of a mystic depth and height, 
 
 Which step out grandly to the infinite 
 
 From the dark edges of the sensual ground 1 
 This song of soul I struggle to outbear 
 
 Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole. 
 
 And utter all myself into the air ; 
 But if I did it, — as the thunder-roll 
 
 Breaks its own cloud, — my flesh would perish there. 
 
 Before that dread apocalypse of soul !
 
 70 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
 
 More grief than ye can weep for. That is well, — 
 
 That is light grieving ! lighter, none befell, 
 
 Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 
 
 Tears ! what are tears ? The babe weeps in its cot, 
 
 The mother singing ; at her marriage-bell, 
 
 The bride weeps ; and before the oracle 
 
 Of high-faned hills, the poet hath forgot 
 
 That moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, 
 
 Whoever weep ; albeit, as some have done, 
 
 Ye grope tear-blinded, in a desert place, 
 
 And touch but tombs, — look up ! Those tears will run 
 
 Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face, 
 
 And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 7 1 
 
 III. 
 
 PERPLEXED MUSIC. 
 (Affectionately inscribed to Elizabeth Jago. ) 
 
 Experience, like a pale musician, holds 
 
 A dulcimer of patience in his hand ; 
 
 Whence harmonies we cannot understand 
 
 Of God's will in his worlds, the strain unfolds 
 
 In sad, perplexed minors. Deathly colds 
 
 Fall on us while we hear, and countermand 
 
 Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land, 
 
 With nightingales in visionary wolds. 
 
 We murmur, " Where is any certain tune. 
 
 Or measured music, in such notes as these ? " 
 
 But angels, leaning from the golden seat. 
 
 Are not so minded ! Their fine ear hath won 
 
 The issue of completed cadences ; 
 
 And smiling down the stars, they whisper, " Sweet."
 
 7 2 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FUTURITY WITH THE DEPARTED. 
 
 And, O beloved voices, upon which 
 
 Ours passionately call, because erelong 
 
 Ye brake off in the middle of that song 
 
 We sang together softly, to enrich 
 
 The poor world with the sense of love, and witch 
 
 The heart out of things evil, — I am strong, 
 
 Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 
 
 The hills with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche 
 
 In Heaven to hold our idols ; and albeit 
 
 He brake them to our faces, and denied 
 
 That our close kisses should impair their white, 
 
 I know we shall behold them raised, complete, 
 
 The dust shook off their beauty, glorified. 
 
 New Memnons singing in the great God-light
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 73 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poet hath the child's sight in his breast 
 And sees all new. What oftenest he has viewed, 
 He views with the first glory. Fair and good 
 Pall never on him, at the fairest, best, 
 But stand before him, holy and undressed 
 In week-day false conventions, such as would 
 Drag other men down from the altitude 
 Of primal types, too early dispossessed. 
 Why, God would tire of all his heavens as soon 
 As thou, O godlike, childlike poet, didst, 
 Of daily and nightly sights of sun and moon ! 
 And therefore hath He set thee in the midst, 
 Where men may hear thy wonder's ceaseless tune, 
 And praise His world forever, as thou bid'st
 
 74 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 HUGH STUART BOYD. 
 (His Blindness.) 
 
 God would not let the spheric lights accost 
 
 This God-loved man, and bade the earth stand oflf 
 
 With all her beckoning hills, whose golden stuff 
 
 Under the feet of the royal sun is crossed. 
 
 Yet such things were, to him, not wholly lost, — 
 
 Permitted, with his wandering eyes, light-proof, 
 
 To have fair visions rendered Full enough 
 
 By many a ministrant accomplished ghost ; 
 
 And seeing, to sounds of softly-turned book-leaves, 
 
 Sappho's crown-rose, and Meleager's spring, 
 
 And Gregory's starlight, on Greek-burnished eves : 
 
 Till Sensual and Unsensual seemed one thing 
 
 Viewed from one level, — earth's reapers at the sheaves, 
 
 Not plainer than Heaven's angels marshalling !
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 75 
 
 VII. 
 
 HUGH STUART BOVD. 
 (Legacies.) 
 
 Three gifts the dying left me : ^schylus, 
 
 And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock 
 
 Chiming the gradual hours out like a flock 
 
 Of stars, whose motion is melodious. 
 
 The books were those I used to read from, thus 
 
 Assisting my dear teacher's soul to unlock 
 
 The darkness of his eyes ; now, mine they mock, 
 
 Blinded in turn, by tears : now, murmurous 
 
 Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone. 
 
 Intoning, from these leaves, the Grecian phrase. 
 
 Return and choke my utterance. Books, lie down 
 
 In silence on the shelf within my gaze ! 
 
 And thou, clock, striking the hour's pulses on, 
 
 Chime in the day which ends these parting days !
 
 76 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 FLUSH OR FAUNUS. 
 
 You see this dog. It was but yesterday 
 
 I mused, forgetful of his presence here, 
 
 Till thoughts on thoughts drew downward tear on tear j 
 
 When from the pillow, where wet-cheeked I lay, 
 
 A head, as hairy as Faunus, thrust his way 
 
 Right sudden against my face ; two golden-clear 
 
 Large c} es astonished mine ; a drooping ear 
 
 Did flap me on either cheek, to dry the spray I 
 
 I started first, as some Arcadian, 
 
 Amazed by goatly god in twilight grove. 
 
 But as iny bearded vision closelier ran 
 
 My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose above 
 
 Surprise and sadness ; thanking the true Pan, 
 
 Who, by low creatures, leads to heights of love.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. ']^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.* 
 
 The face of all the world is changed, I think, 
 Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul 
 Move still, oh, still, beside me ; as they stole 
 Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
 Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, 
 Was caught up into love and taught the whole 
 Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole 
 God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, 
 And praise its sweetness, sweet, with thee anear ; 
 The names of country, heaven, are changed away, 
 For where thou art or shalt be, there or here ; 
 And this — this lute and song — loved yesterday 
 (The singing angels know) are only dear 
 Because thy name moves right in what they say. 
 
 * This title is to be understood of all the sonnets that follow.
 
 78 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 X. 
 
 What can I give thee back, O liberal 
 
 And princely giver, who hast brought the gold 
 
 And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, 
 
 And laid them on the outside of the wall, 
 
 For such as I to take, or leave withal. 
 
 In unexpected largesse ? Am I cold, 
 
 Ungrateful, that for these most manifold 
 
 High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 
 
 Not so. Not cold ! but very poor instead ! 
 
 Ask God who knows ! for frequent tears have run 
 
 The colors from my life, and left so dead 
 
 And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 
 
 To give the same as pillow to thy head. 
 
 Go farther ! — let it serve to trample on.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 79 
 
 XI. 
 
 Can it be right to give what I can give ? 
 
 To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
 
 As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years 
 
 Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
 
 Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live 
 
 For all thy a;djurations ? O my fears 
 
 That this can scarce be right ! We are not peers, 
 
 So to be lovers ; and I own and grieve 
 
 That givers of such gifts as mine are must 
 
 Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas ! 
 
 I will not soil thy purple with my dust, 
 
 Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass, 
 
 Nor give thee any love, — which were unjust. 
 
 Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass.
 
 8o ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed, 
 
 And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, 
 
 Let temple burn or flax ! An equal light 
 
 Leaps in the flame from cedar-plant or weed. 
 
 And love is fire : and when I say at need, 
 
 / love thee — Mark ! — / love thee ! — in thy sight 
 
 I stand transfigured, glorified aright, 
 
 With conscience of the new rays that proceed 
 
 Out of my face toward thine. There 's nothing low 
 
 In love, when love the lowest. Meanest creatures 
 
 Who love God, God accepts while loving so. 
 
 And what \feel, across the inferior features 
 
 Of what I am^ doth flash itself, and show 
 
 How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 8 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And therefore, if to love can be desert, 
 
 I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
 
 As these you see, and trembling knees that fail 
 
 To bear the burden of a heavy heart. 
 
 This weary minstrel-life that once was girt 
 
 To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
 
 To pipe now 'gainst the woodland nightingale 
 
 A melancholy music ? — why advert 
 
 To these things ? O beloved, it is plain 
 
 I am not of thy worth nor for thy place ; 
 
 And yet because I love thee, I obtain 
 
 From that same love this vindicating grace, 
 
 To live on still in love and yet in vain ; 
 
 To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. 
 
 VOL. ir.
 
 82 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Indeed this very love which is my boast, 
 
 And which, when rising up from breast to brow, 
 
 Doth crown me with a ruby large enow 
 
 To draw men's eyes, and prove the inner cost, — 
 
 This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, 
 
 I should not love withal, unless that thou 
 
 Hadst set me an example, shown me how, 
 
 When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed. 
 
 And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak 
 
 Of love even, as a good thing of my own. 
 
 Thy soul hath snatched up mine, all faint and weak, 
 
 And placed it by thee on a golden throne ; 
 
 And that I love (O soul, I must be meek !), 
 
 Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
 
 MRS, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 83 
 
 XV. 
 
 And wilt thou have me fashion into speech 
 
 The love I bear thee, finding words enough, 
 
 And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough 
 
 Between our faces, to cast light on each ? 
 
 I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
 
 My hand to hold thy spirit so far off 
 
 From myself— me — that I should bring thee proof, 
 
 In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
 
 Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
 
 Commend my woman-love to thy belief, — 
 
 Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed, 
 
 And rend the garment of my life, in brief. 
 
 By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude. 
 
 Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
 
 84 DAVID GRAY. 
 
 DAVID GRAY. 
 I. 
 
 TO THE MAVIS. 
 
 Sweet Mavis ! at this cool delicious hour 
 
 Of gloaming, when a pensive quietness 
 Hushes the odorous air, — with what a power 
 
 Of impulse unsubdued, thou dost express 
 Thyself a spirit ! While the silver dew 
 
 Holy as manna on the meadow falls. 
 Thy song's impassioned clarity, trembling through 
 
 This omnipresent stillness, disenthralls 
 The soul to adoration. First I heard 
 
 A low, thick, lubric gurgle, soft as love. 
 Yet sad as memory, through the silence poured 
 Like starlight. But the mood intenser grows, 
 
 Precipitate rapture quickens, move on move 
 Lucidly linked together, till the close.
 
 DAVID GRAY. 85 
 
 11. 
 
 TO A BROOKLET. 
 
 O DEEP unlovely brooklet, moaning slow 
 
 Through moorish fen in utter loneliness ! 
 The partridge cowers beside thy loamy flow 
 
 In pulseful tremor, when with sudden press 
 The huntsman fluskers through the rustled heather. 
 
 In March thy sallow buds from vermeil shells 
 Break satin-tinted, downy as the feather 
 
 Of moss-chat that among the purplish bells 
 Breasts into fresh new life her three unborn. 
 
 The plover hovers o'er thee, uttering clear 
 And mournful-strange his human cry forlorn. 
 
 WTiile wearily, alone, and void of cheer 
 Thou guid'st thy nameless waters from the fen. 
 To sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen.
 
 86 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 With what a calm serenity she smooths 
 
 Her way through cloudless jasper sown with stars ! 
 Chaster than virtue, sweeter than the truths 
 
 Of maidenhood, in Spenser's knightly wars. 
 For what is all BelphcEbe's golden hair, 
 
 The chastity of Britomart, the love 
 Of Florimel so faithful and so fair. 
 
 To thee, thou Wonder ! And yet far above 
 Thy inoffensive beauty must I hold 
 
 Dear Una, sighing for the Red Cross Knight 
 Through all her losses, crosses manifold. 
 
 And when the lordly Lion fell in fight, 
 Who, who can paragon her fearful woe ? 
 Not thou, not thou, O Moon ! didst ever passion so.
 
 DAVID GRAY. 87 
 
 IV. 
 
 MORPHIA. 
 
 O PRECIOUS morphia ! I sanctify 
 
 The soothing power that in a painless swoon 
 Laps my weak limbs, giving me strength to lie, 
 
 Till sacred dawn increases until noon : 
 Then when, from his meridional height, 
 
 The sun devolves, and cooling breezes wake. 
 It is a comfort and divine delight 
 
 The weary bed exhausted to forsake, 
 And bathe my temples in the blessed air. 
 
 But when day wanes and the wind-moaning night 
 Deepens to darkness, then thy virtue rare, 
 
 O dream-creative liquid ! brings delight. 
 Thy silver drops diffusive kindly steep 
 The senses in the golden juice of sleep.
 
 88 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 Come, light-foot Lady ! from thy vaporous hall, 
 
 And, with a silver-swim into the air. 
 Shine down the starry cressets one and all 
 
 From Pleiades to golden Jupiter ! 
 I see a growing tip of silver peep 
 
 Above the full-fed cloud, and lo ! with motion 
 Of queenly stateliness, and smooth as sleep. 
 
 She glides into the blue for my devotion. 
 
 sovran Beauty ! standing here alone 
 Under the insufferable infinite, 
 
 1 worship with dazed eyes and feeble moan 
 
 Thy lucid persecution of delight. 
 Come, cloudy dimness ! Dip, fair dream, again ! 
 O God ! I cannot gaze, for utter pain.
 
 DAVID GRAY. 89 
 
 VI. 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 A SACRED land, to common men unknown, 
 
 A land of bowery glades and greenwoods hoary, 
 Still waters where white stars reflected shone, 
 
 And ancient castles in their ivied glory. 
 Fair knights caparisoned in golden mail. 
 
 And maidens whose enchantment was their beauty, 
 Met but to whisper each the passion-tale, 
 
 For love was all their pleasure and their duty. 
 Here cedar bark, as with a moving will. 
 
 Floated through liquid silver all untended ; 
 Here wrong and baseness ever came to ill, 
 
 And virtue with delight was sweetly blended. 
 This land, dear Spenser ! was thy fair creation. 
 Made through fine glamour of imagination.
 
 90 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE LUGGIE. 
 
 O FOR the days of sweet Mythology, 
 
 When dripping Naiads taught their streams to glide ! 
 When, 'mid the greenery, one would ofttimes spy 
 
 An Oread tripping with her face aside. 
 The dismal realms of Dis by Virgil sung, 
 
 Whose shade led Dante, in his virtue bold. 
 All the sad grief and agony among, 
 
 O'er Acheron, that mournful river old, 
 Ev'n to the Stygian tide of purple gloom ! 
 
 Pan in the forest making melody ! 
 And far away where hoariest billows boom, 
 
 Old Neptune's steeds with snorting nostrils high ! 
 These were the ancient days of sunny song ; 
 Their memory yet how dear to the poetic throng ! * 
 
 * Speaking of the poems of David Gray (" Poems by David 
 Gray, witii Memoirs of his Life, Boston, 1864 "), the Rev. W. R. 
 Alger says : " The poems of this ill-fated and winsome young 
 Scotchman, heart-brother of Robert Burns, are marked by rare 
 tenderness and sincerity, and by that fascinating facility of verbal 
 touch which is one of the choicest characteristics of true genius. 
 Such a pure and pathetic story, such lucid and breathing poetry, 
 as we have here, are charged with a blessed ministry for a coarse
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 9 1 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 SOLITARY AT CHRISTMAS, BUT NOT SAD. 
 
 Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas streets, 
 
 But I am sitting in my silent room, 
 
 Sitting all silent in congenial gloom ; — 
 
 To-night, while half the world the other greets 
 
 With smiles and grasping hands, and drinks and meats, 
 
 I sit, and muse on my poetic doom. 
 
 Like the dim scent within a budded rose, 
 
 A joy is folded in my heart ; and when 
 
 I think on Poets nurtured 'mong the throes, 
 
 And by the lowly hearths of common men, — 
 
 Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode 
 
 With gorgeous music growing to a close, 
 
 Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god, — 
 
 My heart is burning to be one of those. 
 
 and bustling age, for a reckless utilitarian people. The feelings of 
 love, pity, and grief this little book is calculated to awaken will 
 exert a salutary influence, softening the heart, and nourishing hu- 
 man sympathy and poetic sentiment."
 
 92 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SOLITUDE VARIED WITH THE CHRISTMAS 
 
 STREETS. 
 
 Sheathed is the river as it glideth by, 
 Frost-pearled are all the boughs in forest old, 
 The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, 
 And over them the stars tremble on high. 
 Pure joys these winter-nights around me lie ; 
 'T is fine to loiter through the lighted streets 
 At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace 
 The doom and history of each one we meet, 
 What kind of heart beats in each dusky case ; 
 Whiles startled by the beauty of a face 
 In a shop-light a moment. Or, instead, 
 To dream of silent fields, where calm and deep 
 The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep, — 
 Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 93 
 
 III. 
 
 PROPHETICAL SELF-REFLECTED WORDS. 
 
 I WROTE a name upon the river sands 
 
 With her who bore it standing by ray side, 
 
 Her large dark eyes lit up with gentle pride, 
 
 And leaning on my arm with clasped hands ; 
 
 To burning words of mine she thus replied, 
 
 " Nay, write not on thy heart. This tablet frail 
 
 Fitteth as frail a vow. Fantastic bands 
 
 Will scarce confine these Hmbs." I turned love-pale, 
 
 I gazed upon the rivered landscape wide, 
 
 And thought how little it would all avail 
 
 Without her love. 'T was on a morn of May, 
 
 Within a month I stood upon the sand ; 
 
 Gone was the name I traced with trembling hand, — 
 
 And from my heart 't was also gone away.
 
 94 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM* 
 
 I. 
 
 one's own mood reflected in a day-dream. 
 
 (" On the Sunny Shore.") 
 
 Checkered with woven shadows as I lay 
 Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam, 
 I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay 
 Most idly floating in the noontide beam. 
 
 Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway 
 Of ocean's giant pulsing ; and the Dream, 
 Buoyed like the young moon on a level stream 
 Of greenish vapor at decline of day. 
 
 Swam airily, watching the distant flocks 
 
 Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot, in careless sweep, 
 Touched the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks 
 
 Faint-circling ; till at last he dropped asleep, 
 Lulled by the hush-song of the glittering deep, 
 Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks. 
 
 * " The Music-Master, a Love Story ; and Two Series of Day 
 and Night Songs. 1855."
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 95 
 
 II. 
 AUTUMNAL TWILIGHT, WITH FRIENDS. 
 
 Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 
 And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 
 And night by night the monitory blast 
 Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed 
 
 O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes. 
 
 Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
 Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 
 Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. 
 
 Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve. 
 Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize 
 The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes. 
 
 It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 
 To walk with memory, when distant lies 
 Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.
 
 96 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 one's own tombstone. 
 
 In dream of thought to be among the years 
 That are not born, like years of long ago, 
 Who bows not, trembling? Dusk, with steps as slow 
 As mine, crept through the churchyard, dropping tears 
 
 Like one that mourned. I mused and mused ; — methought 
 Some months, some years were gone, and in that spot 
 Of graves is lingering a thoughtful boy. 
 Amid the twilight stillness, deep and lone, 
 
 He stoops, to read an old half-buried stone, 
 And weeds the mosses that almost destroy 
 The letters of the name, which is — my own. 
 
 The wind about the old gray tower makes moan. 
 He rises from the grave with saddened brow. 
 And leaves it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.
 
 JAMES DODDS. 97 
 
 JAMES DODDS. 
 
 CRAIGCROOK. 
 (To John Hunter.) 
 
 I HAVE not found so true a Harmony 
 
 As crowns this life of thine, my much-loved friend ! 
 
 See ! the bright roses o'er the violets bend ; 
 
 The oaks with hazels sing in windy glee ; 
 
 The lawn looks coy up to yon gazing hill ; 
 
 On the same bough are dove and blackbird seen ; 
 
 And, as we talk under this alley green, 
 
 The robin makes a third, with answering trill. 
 
 Within, thy home is meet for such a spot : 
 
 Thy youthful dreams — how rare ! — have grown to truth ; 
 
 Still rarer, life keeps fine as dream of youth ; 
 
 Rarest and best, i/iis harmony is given, — 
 
 Thy Real drinks music from Ideal Thought, 
 
 And Earth but avenues the gate to Heaven ! 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 98 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN HUNTER. 
 I. 
 
 A REPLICATION OF RHYMES.* 
 (To James Dodds.) 
 
 Thine own life too hath reached a Harmony 
 
 Of rounder, nobler swell than mine, my friend ! 
 
 He is the Hero, whose strong soul can bend 
 
 A turbulent nature, panting in the glee 
 
 Of young ambition to ascend the hill 
 
 Where Worldly Greatness, crowned with power, is seen ; 
 
 And, conqueror of himself, can seek the green 
 
 Low vale where true Peace dwells, and list the trill 
 
 Of home-bred joys that sanctify the spot. 
 
 Earth's dazzling meteors for the Torch of Truth 
 
 Thou hast exchanged ; and for wild dreams of youth 
 
 More glorious aims and nobler gifts are given, — 
 
 A Soul of power, a well of lofty Thought, 
 
 A chastened Hope that ever points to Heaven. 
 
 * This is one of the very few English sonnets written on the 
 Italian principle mentioned at page 53 of the Introductory Essay.
 
 JOHN HUNTER. 99 
 
 II. 
 
 ELIA. 
 
 # 
 
 A GENTLE spirit, sweet and pure and kind, 
 
 Though strangely witted, — " high fantastical," — 
 
 Who mantles his deep feelings in a pall 
 
 Of motley hues, by contrast more combined, 
 
 That seems to hide, yet heightens what 's enshrined 
 
 Beneath ; — who, by a power unknown to all, 
 
 Save him alone, can summon at a call 
 
 A host of jarring elements, entwined 
 
 In wondrous brotherhood, — humor, wild wit, 
 
 Quips, cranks, puns, sneers,— with clear sweet thought 
 
 profound ; — 
 And stinging jests, with honey for the wound ; — 
 The subtlest lines of all fine powers, split 
 To their last films, then marvellously spun 
 In magic web, whose million hues are one !
 
 lOO ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 AUTUMN TWILIGHT. 
 (To .) 
 
 Blest Twilight, — season of my soul's best hopes ! 
 How dear to gaze upon thy deepening skies, 
 Breathing their balm o'er Autumn's mellow dyes ! 
 To list the voice of streamlets down the slopes 
 Of these sweet uplands, and from out yon copse 
 To catch the thrush's note, low breathed, like sighs 
 From Love's too happy heart, when meeting eyes 
 Transfuse the mutual soul ; and, oft as drops 
 The pale sear leaf, to muse on change and chance, 
 Yet feel no fears ! How should I,, loveliest one ! 
 While thou art with me, and in thy deep glance 
 I read my future fate, undimmed by woes. 
 Whose course shall, like this day's, move gently on, 
 In varying beauty, to its last calm close ?
 
 JOHN HUNTER. lOI 
 
 IV. 
 
 DAY-DAWN. 
 
 The first low fluttering breath of wakening Day- 
 Stirs the wide air. Thin clouds of pearly haze 
 Float slowly o'er the sky, to meet the rays 
 Of the unrisen sun, — whose faint beams play 
 Among the drooping stars, kissing away 
 Their waning eyes to slumber. From the gaze. 
 Like snow-wreath at approach of vernal days, 
 The moon's pale circlet melts into the gray. 
 Glad Ocean quivers to the gentle gleams 
 Of rosy light that touch his glorious brow. 
 And murmurs joy with all his thousand streams ; 
 And Earth's fair face is mantling with a glow, 
 Like youthful Beauty's, in its changeful hue. 
 When slumbers, rich with dreams, are bidding her adieu.
 
 I02 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 
 I. 
 
 TO JAMES DODDS AND JOHN HUNTER. 
 (Arcades Ambo.) 
 
 Sweet pair of doves ! The mystic notes that stirred 
 
 Dodona's groves with oracles from Jove 
 
 Gave not a sweeter voice. Were I a bird, 
 
 I 'd sing with you of joy and peace and love, 
 
 And nests on earth more blest than halls in heaven ; 
 
 But me a sterner power inspires : like car 
 
 With fiery breath and brazen snortings driven 
 
 O'er groaning rails and white smoke wreathing far, 
 
 My joy is action, and my music blasts 
 
 Of high-spurred energy that scorns delay : 
 
 Rock in your pleasure-boats ! 'T is well. With masts 
 
 Sore-straining 'neath the gale I dash the spray : 
 
 Your souls in Craigcrook's warbling heaven shall 
 
 dwell ; 
 Mine drives from earth the harnessed Devil to hell !
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 1 03 
 
 11. 
 
 HIGHLAND SOLITUDE. 
 
 In the lone glen the silver lake doth sleep ; 
 Sleeps the white cloud upon the sheer black hill : 
 All moorland sounds a solemn silence keep ; 
 I only hear the tiny trickling rill 
 'Neath the red moss. Athwart the dim gray pall 
 That veils the day a dusky fowl may fly ; 
 But, on this bleak brown moor, if thou shalt call 
 For men, a spirit will sooner make reply. 
 Come hither, thou whose agile mind doth flit 
 From talk to talk, and tempt the pensive mood. 
 Converse with men makes sharp the glittering wit, 
 But God to man doth speak in solitude. 
 Come, sit thee down upon this old gray stone ; 
 Men learn to think, and feel, and pray, alone.
 
 I04 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 AT LOCH ERICHT. 
 
 No railways ! — thank Heaven at length I 'm free 
 From travelling cockneys, wondering at a hill, 
 From lisping ladies, who from huge towns flee, 
 To nurse feigned raptures at a tumbling rill ! 
 From large hotels and finely-furnished inns, 
 With all things but pure kindness in their plan, 
 And from sleek waiters, whose obsequious grins 
 Do make me loathe the very face of man ! 
 Smooth modern age, which no rough line doth mar, 
 All men must praise thy very decent law ! 
 But in this bothie I am happier far, 
 Where I must feed on oats, and sleep on straw. 
 For why ? Here men look forth from honest faces. 
 And are what thing they seem, without grimaces.
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. I05 
 
 IV. 
 BEN MUICHDHUI. 
 
 O'er broad Muichdhui sweeps the keen cold blast ; 
 Far whirrs the snow-bred, white-winged ptarmigan ; 
 Sheer sink the cliffs to dark Loch Etagan, 
 And all the hill with shattered rock lies waste. 
 Here brew ship-foundering storms their force divine ; 
 Here gush the fountains of wild-flooding rivers ; 
 Here the strong thunder frames the bolt that shivers 
 The giant strength of the old twisted pine. 
 Yet, even here, on the bare waterless brow 
 Of granite ruin, I found a purple flower, 
 A delicate flower, as fair as aught, I trow, 
 That toys with zephyrs in my lady's bower. 
 So Nature blends her powers ; and he is wise 
 Who to his strength no gentlest grace denies.
 
 Io6 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE STATUE OF ALBERT DURER AT NURNBERG 
 
 Solid and square doth master Albert stand, 
 
 An air of hardy well-proved thought he wears, 
 
 As one that never flinched ; and in his hand 
 
 The cunning tools of his high art he bears. 
 
 From thy grave face severe instructions come ; 
 
 The peace that 's born of well-fought fights is thine 
 
 Before thy look frivolity is dumb, 
 
 And each true workman feels his craft divine. 
 
 First-born of Jove, immortal Toil ! by thee 
 
 This city rose, by thee, so quaintly fair, 
 
 It stands, with well-hewn stone in each degree, 
 
 Turret, and spire, and carved gable rare. 
 
 Toil shaped the worlds ; and on Earth's fruitful sod 
 
 Man works, a fellow-laborer with God.
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. I07 
 
 VI. 
 
 WEIMAR. 
 
 Thou little Weimar, in the Saxon land, 
 All hail ! With little Palestine and Greece 
 Well sistered, thou dost use a wide command. 
 And pile thy thoughtful trophies where fair Peace 
 Her bloodless victories tells. A common place 
 And common streets I see ; but where we stand 
 The gods once walked ; and now an humble race 
 Lives on the memory of that Titan band. 
 Such the high function of God's elect men, — 
 To fill time with their presence, and inspire 
 The many with strong will, and loftier ken, 
 And elevate our lives with a faith higher 
 Than our poor selves. O Heavenly Father, give 
 This faith to me ! By this the righteous live.
 
 Io8 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 VI I. 
 
 BERLIN. 
 
 Statues on statues piled, and in the hand 
 Of each memorial man a soldier's sword ! 
 Fit emblem of a tame and subject land, 
 Mustered and marked by a drill-sergeant-lord. 
 And these long lines of formal streets, that go 
 In rank and file, by a great captain's skill 
 Were marched into this cold and stately show, 
 Where public order palsies private will. 
 Order is strong ; strong law the stars commands ; 
 But birds by wings, and thought by freedom lives ; . 
 The crystalled stone compact and foursquare stands, 
 But man by surging self-born impulse strives. 
 Much have ye done, lords of exact Berlin, 
 But one thing fails, — the soul to your machine !
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE. I09 
 
 VIII. 
 
 LOCH ERICHT. 
 
 The lake is smooth ; the air is soft and still ; 
 
 The water shines with a broad lambent gleam ; 
 
 And the white cloud sleeps on the hoary hill, 
 
 With the mild glory of a sainted dream. 
 
 From the steep crag the distant bleatings come 
 
 Of sheep far-straggling o'er the turfy way ; 
 
 And the harsh torrent, softened to a hum, 
 
 Gives murmurous music from the stony brae. 
 
 If here on earth a heaven may be, thou hast 
 
 Heaven here to-day ; now give thy soul repose. 
 
 To-morrow, down this glen the ruffian blast 
 
 May sweep, while high the enchafed billow throws 
 
 Its surly might, and smites the sounding shore. 
 
 And the swollen rills rush down with thunderous roar !
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 COLONEL DAVID HUMPHREYS.* 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Y heaven-born soul ! by body unconfined, 
 Leave that low tenement and roam abroad ; 
 Forestall the time, when, left each clog behind, 
 Thy flight sha^l mount where never mortal trod. 
 Even now, methinks, upborne in tranced dreams, 
 
 The disencumbered essence tries its wings. 
 Sees better planets, basks in brighter beams. 
 To purer sight mysterious symbols brings, 
 Of unconceived, unutterable things. 
 Though dust returned to dust the worms devour, 
 
 Thee can dread Death annihilate or bind ? 
 There, King of Terrors ! stops thy dreaded power ; 
 
 The bright assurgent, from all dross refined, 
 High o'er the immense of space regains the world of mind. 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 * Born 1753 '> died i8i8. 
 8
 
 114 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE OF 
 BRAZIL, ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT OF LISBON, 
 JULY, 1797. 
 
 Farewell, ye flowery fields ! where Nature's hand 
 
 Profusely sheds her vegetable store, 
 Nurtured by genial suns and zephyrs bland ! 
 
 Farewell, thou Tagus ! and thy friendly shore : 
 
 Long shall my soul thy lost retreats deplore. 
 Thy haunts where shades of heroes met my eyes. 
 
 As oft I mused where Camoens trod before, 
 I saw the god-like form of Gama rise. 
 With chiefs renowned beneath your eastern skies. 
 
 O, long may peace and glory crown thy scene ! 
 Farewell, just Prince ! no sycophantic lay 
 
 Insults thy ear. Be what thy sires have been, 
 Thy great progenitors ! who oped the way 
 Through seas unsailed before to climes of orient day.
 
 RICHARD BINGHAM DAVIS. II5 
 
 RICHARD BINGHAM DAVIS* 
 
 TO MUSIC. 
 
 Yes, I must bid thy ecstasies farewell, 
 
 Sweet soother of my soul ! no more thy power. 
 That oft has beamed upon the gloomy hour, 
 
 Shall fold my spirit in ethereal spell. 
 
 No more I '11 watch thee, wafted on the wing 
 Of fragrant eve, from the lone warbler's throat ; 
 
 No more I 'II hear thee touch the expressive string, 
 Or swell with softening grace the airy note. 
 
 Past is thy charm that could my bosom thrill, 
 That name, on thy soft undulations borne, 
 
 Which fancy heard in each delightful thrill — 
 Eliza's name is from my bosom torn, 
 
 And when Eliza dwells not in the strain. 
 
 Thy sweetest notes are harsh, my energies in vain. 
 
 * Born 1771 ; died 1799.
 
 Il6 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE SETTING MOON. 
 
 Musing in meditation's charmed dream, 
 Joyless I see thy placid radiance fade, 
 Hid by the dusky hills, whose humid shade 
 
 Quenches thy lustre floating in the stream. 
 
 How great the contrast from thy cheerful light ! 
 
 How deep, how silent is the sudden gloom ! 
 Still, as the sullen vapors of the night, 
 
 Dark, as the shade that wraps the haunted tomb ! 
 
 'T is thus thy phantoms, Hope, delusive sweep 
 Along the shades of life, while fancy dwells 
 Fond on the prospect, — sudden burst the spells, 
 
 And leave the disappointed wretch to weep ; 
 
 While the fond memory of past delight 
 
 Deepens the gloom of desperation's night !
 
 RICHARD BINGHAM DAVIS. II7 
 
 III. 
 
 TO FELICIA, ON HER RETURN TO NEW YORK. 
 
 Whkn, through the dark damp mists of tedious night> 
 Sweet lucid tints announce the cheerful day, 
 Gay beats the enthusiast heart that hails the ray 
 
 Illuminating scenes of new delight. 
 
 When, the long dreary reign of Winter past, 
 
 The landscape brightens, and the wild-flowers bloom j 
 Wlien every gale wafts music and perfume, 
 
 Rich is the fancy's treasure, sweet the soul's repast 
 
 Such, in the circle where Felicia shines, 
 
 Are Friendship's feelings on her blest return ; 
 
 Friendship — who for her loss no more repines. 
 But bids each anxious bosom cease to mourn. 
 
 To hail Felicia is our sweet employ, 
 
 And every sense and. every heart is joy.
 
 Il8 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 
 
 TO BELINDA. 
 
 Pathetic chantress ! Nature's feeling child ! 
 
 Thou, like thy parent, rul'st a varied sphere, 
 Where judgment ripens, fancy blossoms wild ; 
 
 Thy page the landscape, and thy mind the year. 
 
 Oft in the rainbow's heaven-enchasing beams, 
 Thy hand, sweet limner, many a pencil dips ; 
 
 And oft receive Piera's sacred streams 
 New inspiration from Behnda's lips. 
 
 Pure, as the bosom of the virgin rose, 
 
 Blooms the rich verdure of a heart sincere ; 
 
 And e'en Belinda's smile more radiant glows, 
 Through the clear mirror of a pearly tear. 
 
 But ah ! her lyre in hushed oblivion sleeps, 
 While Edwin mourns, and all Parnassus weeps !
 
 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. II9 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE COUNTRY GIRL. 
 
 Haste, Zephyr, fly, and waft to Anna's ear 
 This bosom echo, — 't is my heart's reply ; 
 
 Say, to her notes I listened with a tear. 
 
 And caught the sweet contagion of a " sigh." 
 
 But ah ! that " last adieu ! " oh ! stern request ! 
 
 Cold, as those tides of vital ice that roll 
 Through the chilled channels of her maiden breast, 
 
 When prudish sanctity congeals the soul. 
 
 O'er Fancy's fairy lawn no more we rove ; 
 
 No more, in Rhyme's imperious hood arrayed, 
 Hold airy converse in the Muse's grove, 
 
 While you a shadow seemed, and I a shade. 
 
 For know, Menander can thy features trace. 
 Nor more thy verse admire than idolize thy face.
 
 I20 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO ANNA LOUISA, ON HER ODE TO FANCY. 
 
 Say, child of Phoebus and the eldest Grace, 
 Whose lyre melodious, and enchanting face, 
 
 The blended title of thy birth proclaim ; 
 Say, lovely Naiad of Castalia's streams, 
 Why thus thy Muse on Fiction's pillow dreams, 
 
 And fondly wooes the rainbow-mantled Dame ? 
 When stern Misfortune, with her Gorgon frown. 
 Congeals the fairy face of Bliss to stone, 
 
 Hope to the horns of Fancy's altar flies ; 
 But what gay nun would seek asylum there. 
 When Beauty, Love, and Fortune crown the fair. 
 
 And Hymen's temple greets her raptured eyes ? 
 Then haste, sweet Nymph, to bless the ardent youth ; 
 Then, Fancy, " blush to be excelled by Truth."
 
 ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 121 
 
 IV. 
 
 ELEGIAC SONNET, 
 Inscribed to the Memory of M. M. Hays, Esq. 
 
 Here sleep'st thou, Man of Soul ! Thy spirit flown, 
 How dark and tenantless its desert clay ! 
 
 Cold is that heart, which throbbed at sorrow's moan, 
 Untuned that tongue that charmed the social day. 
 
 Where now the Wit, by generous roughness graced ? 
 
 Or Friendship's accent, kindling as it fell ? 
 Or Bounty's stealing foot, whose step untraced 
 
 Had watched pale Want, and stored her famished cell ? 
 
 Alas ! 't is all thou art ! whose vigorous mind 
 Inspiring force to Truth and Feeling gave, 
 
 Whose rich resources equal power combined. 
 The gay to brighten, and instruct the grave ! 
 
 Farewell ! Adieu ! Sweet peace thy vigils keep ; 
 For Pilgrim Virtue sojourns here to weep !
 
 122 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 TO PHILENIA, ON A STANZA IN HER ADDRESS TO MYRA.* 
 
 Thy " bosom bankrupt," fair Peru divine, 
 Of every mental gem, that e'er has shone, 
 
 In dazzled Fancy's intellectual mine, 
 Or ever spangled Virtue's radiant zone ! 
 
 Thy " bosom bankrupt " ! — Nature, sooner far, 
 Shall roll, exhausted, flowerless springs away, 
 
 Leave the broad eye of noon without a ray, 
 And strip the path to heaven of every star. 
 
 Thy " bosom bankrupt " ! — Ah ! those sorrows cease 
 Which taught us how to weep, and how admire ; 
 
 The tear that falls to soothe thy wounded peace, 
 With rapture glistens o'er thy matchless lyre. 
 
 Ind and Golconda, in onejirm combined, 
 
 Shall sooner bankrupt than Philenia's mind. 
 
 * The stanza which suggested this sonnet is highly encomiastic 
 on Mr. Paine. It is here given from the " Massachusetts Maga- 
 zine " of February, 1 793 : — 
 
 " Since first Affliction's dreary fi-own 
 
 Gloomed the bright summer of my days, 
 Ne'er has my bankrupt bosom known 
 A solace like his peerless praise."
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, 1 23 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 I. 
 
 ON A FALLING GROUP, IN THE LAST JUDGMENT OF 
 MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 How vast, how dread, o'erwhelming is the thought 
 
 Of space interminable ! to the soul 
 
 A circling weight that crushes into naught 
 
 Her mighty faculties ! a wondrous whole. 
 
 Without or parts, beginning, or an end ! 
 
 How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send 
 
 The fancy e'en amid the waste profound 1 
 
 Yet, born as if all daring to astound. 
 
 Thy giant hand, O Angelo, hath hurled 
 
 E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight, 
 
 Down the dread void, — fall endless as their fate ! 
 
 Already now they seem from world to world 
 
 For ages thrown ; yet doomed, another past, 
 
 Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last !
 
 124 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 ON REMBRANDT, OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE OF JACOB'S 
 
 DREAM. 
 
 As in that twilight, superstitious age, 
 
 When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind 
 
 Seemed fraught with meanings of supernal kind, 
 
 When e'en the learned philosophic sage, 
 
 Wont with the stars through boundless space to range, 
 
 Listened with reverence to the changeling's tale ; 
 
 E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange ! 
 
 E'en FO thy visionary scenes I hail ; 
 
 That, like the rambling of an idiot's speech, 
 
 No image giving of a thing on earth, 
 
 Nor thought significant in reason's reach, 
 
 Yet in their random shado wings give birth 
 
 To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, 
 
 And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb.
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 1 25 
 
 III. 
 
 ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF /EOLUS, BY PELLEGRINO 
 
 TIBALDI. 
 
 Full well, Tibaldi, did thy kindred mind 
 
 The mighty spell of Buonarroti own. 
 
 Like one who, reading magic words, receives 
 
 The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown, 
 
 'T was thine, deciph'ring Nature's mystic leaves, 
 
 To hold strange converse with the viewless wind ; 
 
 To see the spirits, in embodied forms 
 
 Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. 
 
 For, lo ! obedient to thy bidding, teems 
 
 Fierce into shape their stern, relentless lord ; 
 
 His form of motion ever-restless seems ; 
 
 Or, if to rest inclined his turbid soul, 
 
 On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word 
 
 To subject winds that sweep the desert pole.
 
 126 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 ON THE DEATH OF COLERmCE. 
 
 And thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend ! 
 
 No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend 
 
 With air of earth its pure ideal tones, 
 
 Binding in one, as with harmonious zones, 
 
 The heart and intellect. And I no more 
 
 Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep. 
 
 The human soul ; as when, pushed off the shore, 
 
 Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep, 
 
 Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seemed 
 
 As on some starless sea, — all dark above. 
 
 All dark below, — yet, onward as we drove, 
 
 To plough up light that ever round us streamed. 
 
 But he who mourns is not as one bereft 
 
 Of all he loved : — thy living truths are left.
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 1 27 
 
 V. 
 
 ON A STATUE OF AN ANGEL, BY BENAIM^, OF ROME, IN 
 THE POSSESSION OF J. S. COPLEY GREEN, ESQ. 
 
 O, WHO can look on that celestial face, 
 
 And kindred for it claim with aught on earth ? 
 
 If ever here more lovely form had birth — 
 No, never that supernal purity, — that grace 
 
 So eloquent of unimpassioned love ! 
 That, by a simple movement, thus imparts 
 Its own harmonious peace, the while our hearts 
 
 Rise, as by instinct, to the world above. 
 And yet we look on cold, unconscious stone. 
 But what is that which thus our spirits own 
 
 As Truth and Life ? 'T is not material Art, 
 But e'en the sculptor's soul to sense unsealed. 
 O, never may he doubt — its witness so revealed — 
 
 There lives within him an immortal part !
 
 128 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 I. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, 
 When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
 And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief. 
 
 And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
 
 Wind of the sunny South ! O, still delay 
 In the gay woods and in the golden air. 
 Like to a good old age released from care, 
 
 Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
 
 In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
 
 Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, 
 And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks. 
 
 And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 
 
 And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 
 Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1 29 
 
 II. 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 A POWER is on the earth and in the air, 
 From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 
 And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade. 
 
 From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 
 
 Look forth upon the earth, — her thousand plants 
 Are smitten ; even the dark sun-loving maize 
 Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze ; 
 
 The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; 
 
 For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; 
 The bird hath sought nis tree, the snake his den, 
 The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men 
 
 Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town : 
 As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent 
 Its deadly breath into the firmament. 
 
 VOL. XL
 
 13° AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Yet one smile more, departing, distant Sun I 
 
 One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 
 Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run. 
 
 Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare, 
 One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 
 
 And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, 
 And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, 
 
 Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
 Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 
 
 Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
 The cricket chirp upon the russet lea. 
 
 And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
 Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
 The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 131 
 
 rv. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 
 
 Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 
 Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine — 
 
 Sealed in a sleep that knows no wakening. 
 The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 
 
 And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; 
 And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
 
 Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
 Glide softly to thy rest, then. Death should come 
 
 Gently to one of gentle mould like thee, 
 As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 
 
 Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
 Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; 
 And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
 
 132 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 I.   
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
 With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
 Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
 And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
 Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
 Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
 Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
 Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. 
 Thy shield is the red harvest-moon, suspended 
 So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves ; 
 Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended ; 
 Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
 And, following thee, in thy ovation splendia, 
 Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves !
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 133 
 
 11. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 
 
 With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 
 
 Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 
 
 Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
 
 Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 
 
 Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
 
 What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
 
 The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 
 
 Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks. 
 
 By Fra Hilario in his diocese. 
 
 As up the convent- walls, in golden streaks. 
 
 The ascending sunbeams mark the da/s decrease ; 
 
 And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
 
 Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace ! "
 
 134 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 
 
 From the Spanish of Lope de Vega. 
 
 Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 
 
 Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, — 
 
 That mad'st thy crook from the accurse'd tree, 
 
 On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 
 
 Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 
 
 For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 
 
 I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
 
 Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
 
 Hear, Shepherd ! — thou who for thy flock art dying, 
 
 O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
 
 Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
 
 O, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
 
 Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see. 
 
 With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me !
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1 35 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 From the Spanish. 
 
 Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 
 
 Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
 
 The soul of April, unto whom are born 
 
 The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 
 
 Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
 
 The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
 
 To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
 
 Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 
 
 How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
 
 As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
 
 Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count ! 
 
 How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current ! 
 
 O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
 
 Thou shunn'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount.
 
 136 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river, 
 Its wave in liquid lapses glided by, 
 Nor watched, in crystal depth, his vacant eye 
 
 The willow's high o'erarching foliage quiver. 
 
 From dream to shadowy dream returning ever, 
 He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge ; 
 His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge 
 
 Streamed visionary onward, pausing never. 
 
 As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving 
 Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, 
 O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower 
 
 With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving ; 
 So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove 
 A wreath of flowers 3 the golden thread was love.
 
 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. I37 
 
 II. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Am I not all alone ? — The world is still 
 
 In passionless slumber, — not a tree but feels 
 The far-pervading hush, and softer steals 
 
 The misty river by. Yon broad bare hill 
 Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars 
 
 Seem eyes deep fixed in silence, as if bound 
 
 By some unearthly spell, — no other sound 
 
 But the owl's unfrequent moan. — Their airy cars 
 
 The winds have stationed on the mountain peaks. 
 
 Am I not all alone ? — A spirit speaks 
 From the abyss of night, " Not all alone : 
 
 Nature is round thee with her banded powers, 
 
 And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours ; 
 Mind and its kingdom now are all thine own."
 
 138 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Winter is now around me, and the snow 
 Has thrown its mantle over herb, tree, flower ; 
 The icicle has tapestried the bower, 
 And in a crystal sheet the rivers flow ; 
 And mustering from the north, at evening blow 
 The hollow winds, and through the star-lit hour 
 Shake from the icy wood a rattling shower, 
 That tinkles on the glassy crust below ; 
 And Morning rises in a saffron glow, 
 Pouring her splendor through the fretted grove, 
 In tints that round the heart enchantment throw. 
 Like what the Graces in their girdle wove ; 
 And shining on the mountain's frosted brow. 
 That o'er the gilded landscape looks afar. 
 Her kindling beams the virgin mantle strow 
 With drops of gold that twinkle like a star !
 
 JAMES GATES PEJICIVAL. 1 39 
 
 IV. 
 
 The blue heaven spreads before me with its keen 
 
 And countless eyes of brightness, — worlds are there, 
 
 The boldest spirit cannot spring, and dare 
 
 The peopled universe that burns between 
 
 This earth and nothing. Thought can wing its way 
 
 Swifter than lightning-flashes or the beam 
 
 That hastens on the pinions of the morn ; 
 
 But quicker than the glowing dart of day 
 
 It tires, and faints along the starry stream, — 
 
 A wave of suns through countless ether borne, 
 
 Though infinite, eternal ! yet one power 
 
 Sits on the Almighty Centre, whither tend 
 
 All worlds, and beings from time's natal hour, 
 
 Till suns and all their satellites shall end.
 
 I40 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 JONES VERY. 
 I. 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 Thou need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, 
 Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, 
 Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, 
 Or he thy young unfinished cottage spy ; 
 All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, 
 Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, 
 Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now. 
 For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves ; 
 All will not hear thy sweet outpouring joy, 
 That wi h morn's stillness blends the voice of song ; 
 For over-anxious cares their souls employ. 
 That else upon thy music borne along, 
 And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer. 
 Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to 
 share.
 
 JONES VERY. 141 
 
 II. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The light will never open sightless eyes, 
 
 It comes to those who willingly would see ; 
 
 And every object, hill, and stream, and skies, 
 
 Rejoice within the encircling line to be ; 
 
 'T is day : the field is fiilled with busy hands. 
 
 The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din. 
 
 The traveller with his staff all ready stands 
 
 His yet unmeasured journey to begin ; 
 
 The light breaks gently too within the breast, - 
 
 Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn. 
 
 The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, 
 
 Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, 
 
 Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, — it is no day 
 
 To those who find on earth their place to stay.
 
 142 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 THY BEAUTY FADES. 
 
 Thy beauty fades, and with it too my love, 
 For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower ; 
 Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above 
 The sun looked out upon our nuptial hour ; 
 And I had thought forever by thy side 
 With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell ; 
 But one by one Time strewed thy petals wide, 
 And every hope's wan look a grief can tell : 
 For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, 
 Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all. 
 Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay. 
 With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall. 
 And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes 
 From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death 
 defies.
 
 JONES VERV. 143 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE SPIRIT-LAND. 
 
 Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand, 
 
 Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed ; 
 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 
 
 In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed ; 
 
 In finding thee are all things round us found ; 
 
 In losing thee are all things lost beside : 
 
 Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, 
 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied ; 
 
 We wander in the country far remote, 
 
 'Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ; 
 
 Or on the records of past greatness dote. 
 
 And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
 
 While on our path bewildered falls the night ; 
 
 That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.
 
 144 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 GEORGE HILL. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 There is a spirit working in the world, 
 
 Like to a silent subterranean fire ; 
 Yet, ever and anon, some monarch, hurled 
 
 Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire. 
 
 The dungeoned nations now once more respire 
 The keen and stirring air of Liberty. 
 The struggling giant wakes, and feels he's free. 
 
 By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir 
 Resume their song ; the Greek astonished hears, 
 And the old altar of his worship rears. 
 
 Sound on, fair sisters ! sound your boldest lyre, — 
 Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres ! 
 
 Unto strange gods too long we've bent the knee. 
 
 The trembling mind, too long and patiently.
 
 GEORGE HILL. 145 
 
 II. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Now Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye ; 
 
 And Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside, 
 
 And with a blush awakes as does a bride ; 
 And Nature speaks, like thee, in melody. 
 The forest, sunward, glistens, green and high ; 
 
 The ground each moment, as some blossom springs, 
 Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye ; 
 
 And each new morning some new songster brings. 
 And, hark ! the brooks their rocky prisons break. 
 And echo calls on echo to awake, 
 
 Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings, 
 Rustling through wood or dripping over lake. 
 
 Herb, bud, and bird return, — but not to me 
 
 With song or beauty, since they bring not thee. 
 
 VOL. n. 10
 
 146 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 
 I. 
 
 FLOWERS LOVE'S TRUEST LANGUAGE. 
 
 Flowers are Love's truest language ; they betray, 
 Like the divining-rods of Magi old, 
 Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold, 
 
 But love, — strong love, that never can decay ! 
 
 I send thee flowers, O dearest ! and I deem 
 
 That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, 
 "WTiose music, clearer than the voice of birds, 
 
 When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem 
 All eloquent of feelings unexpressed. 
 
 O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair ! 
 
 Let them repose upon thy forehead fair, 
 
 And on thy bosom's yielding snow be pressed ! 
 
 Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal 
 
 The love that maiden coyness would conceal !
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. I47 
 
 11. 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 What marvel is it, that, in other lands 
 
 And ancient days, men worshipped the divine 
 And brilliant majesty of stars that shine 
 
 Pure in their lofty spheres, like angel-bands ? 
 
 With a deep reverence, when evening came, 
 With her high train of shadows, have I bowed 
 
 Beneath the heaven, as each new-lighted flame 
 Glowed in the sapphire free from mist or cloud 
 
 A holy, presence seemed to fill the air. 
 Invisible spirits, such as live in dreams, 
 Came floating down on their celestial beams, 
 
 And from my heart there rose a silent prayer. 
 What marvel, then, that men of yore could see 
 In each bright star a glorious deity ?
 
 148 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 SPRING. 
 
 The birds sing cheerily, the streamlets shout 
 
 As if in echo ; tones are all around : 
 
 The air is filled with one pervading sound 
 Of merriment. Bright creatures flit about ; 
 
 Slight spears of emerald glitter from the ground, 
 
 And frequent flowers, like helms of bloom, are found ; 
 And, from the invisible army of fair things, 
 
 Floats a low murmur like a distant sea ! 
 I hear the clarions of the insect-kings 
 
 Marshal their busy cohorts on the lea. 
 Life, life in action, — 't is all music, all, 
 
 From the enlivening cry of children free 
 To the swift dash of waters as they fall. 
 
 Released by thee, O Spring, to glad, wild liberty I
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 1 49 
 
 IV. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Calm twilight ! in thy mild and silent time, 
 
 When summer flowers their perfume shed around, 
 And naught, save the deep, solitary sound 
 
 Of some far bell, is heard, with solemn chime 
 Tolling for vespers, or ihe evening bird 
 
 Pouring sweet music o'er the woodland glade. 
 
 As if to viewless sprites and fairies played, 
 Who join in dances when the strain is heard : 
 
 Then thoughts of those beloved and dearest come 
 Like sweetest hues upon the shadowed wave ; 
 
 And joys, that blossomed in the bowers of home. 
 The dews of memory with freshness lave. 
 
 O, that my last daybeam of life would shine. 
 
 Serenely beautiful, calm hour, as thine !
 
 150 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 (Written in view of the harbor of New York from the banks of the North River, 
 on the loveliest and calmest of the last days of autumn.) 
 
 Is this a painting ? Are those pictured clouds 
 Which on the sky so movelessly repose ? 
 
 Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds 
 Of yonder vessel ? Are these imaged shows 
 
 Of outline, figure, form, or is there life — 
 Life with a thousand pulses — in the scene 
 We gaze upon ? Those towering banks between, 
 
 E'er tossed these billows in tumultuous strife? 
 Billows ! there 's not a wave ! the waters spread 
 
 One broad, unbroken mirror ! all around 
 
 Is hushed to silence — silence so profound 
 That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped 
 
 Into the distance, would, like larum bell. 
 
 Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell !
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. Ig; 
 
 VI. 
 
 A STORM IN AUTUMN. 
 
 Off in the West there is a sea of blue : — 
 While gloomiest vapors, clustering on high, 
 Tell that the hour of storm is drawing nigh ; 
 
 For dark they rise, and darker to the view. 
 O, coldly from the East careers the gale, — 
 
 Sharp as adyersit}^, or the pang of grief 
 
 Which sears the heart like Autumn's withered leaf 
 
 AVhen those we love in their affection fail. 
 
 Now from the scattering mists, relentless Rain 
 Falls in chill drops, precursors of the shower 
 That soon will prostrate the unsheltered flower, 
 
 Blooming of late securely on the plain. 
 
 It comes ! in sudden gusts it rushes down ; 
 
 And angry clouds o'er all the landscape frown ! 
 
 o.
 
 152 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 DOMESTIC LOVE. 
 
 When those we love are present to the sight, 
 When those we love hear fond affection's words, 
 
 The heart is cheerful, as in morning light 
 The merry song of early-wakened birds : 
 
 And, oh ! the atmosphere of home — how bright 
 It floats around us, when we sit together 
 Under a bower of vine in summer weather. 
 
 Or round the hearthstone on a winter's night ! 
 This is a picture not by Fancy drawn : — 
 The eve of life contrasted with its dawn ; 
 A gray-haired man, — a girl with sunny eyes ; 
 He seems to speak, and, laughing, she replies : 
 While father, mother, brothers smile to see 
 How fair their rosebud blooms beneath the parent tree !
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 153 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 When those we love are absent — far away, 
 
 When those we love have met some hapless fate, 
 
 How pours the heart its lone and plaintive lay, 
 As the wood-songster mourns her stolen mate ! 
 
 Alas ! the summer bower — how desolate ! 
 
 The winter hearth — how dim its fire appears ! 
 While the pale memories of by-gone years 
 
 Around our thoughts like spectral shadows wait. 
 How changed the picture ! here, they all are parted 
 To meet no more, — the true, the gentle-hearted I 
 The old have journeyed to their bourne ; the young 
 Wander, if living, distant lands among ; 
 And now we rest our dearest hopes above ; 
 For heavenly joy alone can match domestic love !
 
 154 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 SNOW. 
 
 From their innumerable breasts and wings — 
 All undiscerned by these our mortal eyes, 
 Hid in the folds of yonder misty skies, 
 More like imagined sprites than real things — 
 Celestial doves are shedding their white plumes, 
 And the whole land is covered with a shower 
 Of motes as fair as is an unsunned flower 
 Which, when it opens, yields its short-lived blooms 
 Vestured all over like a bride in white, 
 
 But colder than a corpse within its shroud ; 
 The earth sleeps sparkling in the silver light 
 
 Of the soft snow, which, like a feathery cloud, 
 Still falls, as gently as Hope's dreams, or Love's, 
 From the pure forms of those celestial doves. 
 
 *f
 
 PARK BENJAMIN. 1 55 
 
 X. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 'T IS winter now, — but spring will blossom soon, 
 And flowers will lean to the embracing air, 
 And the young buds will vie with them to share 
 
 Each zephyr's soft caress ; and when the Moon 
 Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling 
 Her arrowy lustre through some vapor's wing, 
 
 The streamlets will return the glance of night 
 From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by spring 
 
 Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, 
 
 Instead of winter's crumbled sparks of white. 
 So, dearest ! shall our loves, though frozen now. 
 
 By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, 
 Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow 
 
 Tells of a spring whose sweets shall all be ours !
 
 156 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 
 I. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 Freedom ! beneath thy banner I was born. 
 
 O, let me share thy full and perfect life I 
 Teach me opinion's slavery to scorn, 
 
 And to be free from passion's bitter strife ; 
 Free of the world, a self-dependent soul, 
 
 Nourished by lofty aims and genial truth, 
 And made more free by love's serene control, 
 
 The spell of beauty and the hopes of youth : 
 The liberty of Nature let me know, 
 
 Caught from her mountains, groves, and crystal 
 streams ; 
 Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow. 
 
 That woo the spirit with celestial dreams. 
 On fanc} 's wing exultingly to soar, 
 Till life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more !
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 157 
 
 II. 
 
 ON A LANDSCAPE, BY BACKHUYSEN. 
 
 Not for the eye alone are here outspread 
 
 Skies, fields, and herds in such divine repose ; 
 The soul of beauty that to these is wed 
 
 Through the fair landscape tremulously glows ! 
 We seem to feel the meadow's grateful air, 
 
 Hear the low breathing of the dreamy kine. 
 And the pure fragrance of the harvest share. 
 
 Until our hearts all cold distrust resign. 
 Feeling once more to truth and love allied ; 
 
 And, while the fresh tranquillity we view, 
 Each good they have foretold and life denied, 
 
 Hope's sweetest promises again renew ; 
 As if the twilight angel hovered there, 
 To waft from nature's rest a balm for human care.
 
 158 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO JENNY LIND. 
 
 A MELODY with Southern passion fraught 
 
 I hear thee warble : 't is as if a bird 
 By intuition human strains had caught, 
 
 But whose pure breast no kindred feeling stirred ; 
 Thy native song the hushed arena fills, 
 
 So wildly plaintive that I seem to stand 
 Alone, and see, from off the circling hills, 
 
 The bright horizon of the North expand ! 
 High art is thus intact ; and matchless skill 
 
 Born of intelligence and self-control, — 
 The graduated tone and perfect trill 
 
 Prove a restrained, but not a frigid soul ; 
 Thine finds expression in such generous deeds. 
 That music from thy lips for human sorrow pleads !
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. I 59 
 
 IV. 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 Think ye the desolate must live apart, 
 
 By solemn vows to convent-walls confined ? 
 Ah ! no ; with men may dwell the cloistered heart, 
 
 And in a crowd the isolated mind : 
 Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate, 
 
 The world sees not how desolate they stand, 
 Gazing so fondly through the iron grate 
 
 Upon the promised yet forbidden land ; 
 Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet 
 
 Day after day in voiceless penance turn ; 
 Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat. 
 
 In which unseen their meek devotions burn : 
 Life is to them a vigil, which none share. 
 Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.
 
 l6o AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 TO ONE DECEIVED. 
 
 All hearts are not disloyal ; let thy trust 
 
 Be deep and clear and all-confiding still ; 
 For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dust, 
 
 She ne'er betrays her child to lasting ill : 
 Through leagues of desert must the pilgrim go 
 
 Ere on his gaze the holy turrets rise ; 
 Through the long sultry day the stream must flow 
 
 Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies. 
 Fall back unscathed from contact with the vain, 
 
 Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free, 
 And calmly launch affection's bark again, / 
 
 Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee. 
 Though lone the way as that already trod, 
 Cling to thine own integrity and God ! ^
 
 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 163 
 
 viir. 
 
 LOVE SONNETS. 
 
 The buds have opened, and in leafy pride 
 
 Woo the soft winds of this capricious May ; 
 With a refreshing green the fields are dyed, 
 
 And clearer sparkles on the waters play. 
 All Nature speaks of boundless promise now, 
 
 In tones as sweet as thine, — her hand is laid 
 With a maternal greeting on my brow. 
 
 Until its fevered throbbings all are stayed ; 
 And I am fain to lie upon her breast, 
 
 Unconscious of the world, divorced from pain, 
 Drink from her rosy lips the balm of rest. 
 
 And be her glad and trustful child again : 
 But such fond dalliance claims a spirit free. 
 And all her spells are broken — without thee !
 
 164 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 LOVE SONNETS. 
 4- 
 
 What though our dream is broken ? Yet again 
 
 Like a familiar angel it shall bear 
 Consoling treasures for these days of pain, 
 
 Such as they only who have grieved can share : 
 As unhived nectar for the bee to sip, 
 
 Lurks in each flower-cell which the spring-time brings, 
 As music rests upon the quiet lip, 
 
 And power to soar yet lives in folded wings; 
 So let the love on which our spirits glide 
 
 Flow deep and strong beneath its bridge of sighs, 
 No shadow resting on the latent tide 
 
 Whose heavenward current baffles human eyes, 
 Until we stand upon the holy shore. 
 And realms it prophesied at length explore.
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 1 65 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 OBJECTS WHICH INFLUENCE THE AMBITIOUS NATURE. 
 
 TROPHIES. — HOW PLANTED. 
 
 The trophies which shine out for eager eyes, 
 In youth's first hour of progress, and dekide 
 With promise dearest to ambitious mood, 
 Lie not within life's limits, but arise 
 Beyond the realm of sunset ; — phantoms bright 
 Glowing above the tomb, having their roots 
 Even in the worshipper's heart ; — from whence their fruits, 
 And all that thence grows precious to man's sight ! 
 Thence, too, their power to lure from beaten ways 
 That Love hath set with flowers, and thence the spell, 
 'Gainst which the blood denied may ne'er rebel, 
 That leads to sleepless nights, and toilsome days, 
 And sacrifice of all those human joys 
 That to the ambitious nature seem but toys.
 
 1 66 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 WHERE PLANTED. 
 
 It is the error of the impatient heart 
 
 To hope undying gifts, even while the strife 
 
 Is worst ; and struggling 'gainst its mortal part, 
 
 The glorious Genius laboring still for life, 
 
 Springs even from death to birth ! 'T is from his tomb 
 
 The amaranth rises which must wreathe his brow. 
 
 And crown his memory with unfading bloom ; 
 
 Rooted in best affections, it will grow. 
 
 Though watered by sad tears, and watched by pride 
 
 Made humble in rejection ! Love denied, 
 
 Shall tend it through all seasons, and shall give 
 
 Her never-failing tenderness, — though still 
 
 Be the proud spirit, and the unyielding will, 
 
 That through the mortal made the immortal live !
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 1 67 
 
 III. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH. 
 
 The grave but ends the struggle ! — Follows then 
 The triumph, which, superior to the doom. 
 Grows loveliest, and looks best to mortal men. 
 Purple in beauty, towering o'er the tomb ! 
 O, with the stoppage of the impulsive tide . 
 That vexed the impatient heart with needful strife. 
 The soul that is Hope's living leaps to life. 
 And shakes her fragrant plumage far and wide ! 
 Eyes follow then in worship which but late 
 Frowned in defiance ; — and the timorous herd 
 That sleekly waited for another's word 
 Grow bold at last to bring — obeying Fate — 
 The tribute of their praise but late denied, — 
 Tribute of homage which is sometimes — hate !
 
 l68 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 GLORY AND ENDURING FAME. 
 
 Thus Glory hath her being ! thus she stands 
 
 Star-crowned, — a high divinity of woe ; 
 
 Her temples fill, her columns crown all lands 
 
 Where lofty attribute is known below. 
 
 For her the smokes ascend, the waters flow, 
 
 The grave foregoes his prey, the soul goes free ; 
 
 The gray rock gives out music ; hearthstones grow 
 
 To temples at her word ; her footprints see 
 
 On ruins, that are thus made holiest shrines. 
 
 Where Love may win devotion, and the heart 
 
 That with the fire of genius inly pines 
 
 May find the guidance of a kindred art, 
 
 And from the branch of that eternal tree 
 
 Pluck fruits at once of death and immortality !
 
 WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. 1 69 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. 
 I. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 " Like thee, O stream ! to glide in solitude 
 Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star, 
 Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar 
 
 Kept evermore aloof ; methinks 't were good 
 
 To live thus lonely through the silent lapse 
 Of my appointed time." Not wisely said, 
 Unthinking Quietest ! The brook hath sped 
 
 Its course for ages through the narrow gaps 
 Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain, 
 Or 'mid the eternal forests, not in vain ; 
 
 The grass more greenly groweth on its brink. 
 And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there, 
 
 And of its crystal waters myriads drink 
 
 That else would faint beneath the torrid air.
 
 lyo AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane, 
 And making mournful music for the mind, 
 While plays his interlude the wizard Wind, 
 
 I hear the ringing of the frequent rain : 
 How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull. 
 
 Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain, 
 
 While busy thought calls up the past again. 
 And lingers 'mid the pure and beautiful 
 
 Visions of early childhood ! Sunny faces 
 Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans 
 Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones. 
 
 And tread again in old familiar places ! 
 
 Such is thy power, O Rain ! the heart to bless. 
 Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness !
 
 JAMES DIXON. 171 
 
 JAMES DIXON* 
 I. 
 
 TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Sweet Bird ! that, hidden by the dark green leaves, 
 Didst pour thy pleasant song at break of day, 
 Making glad music round my flower-wreathed eaves, 
 Why has thy gentle warbling died away ? 
 Come not the zephyrs from the sweet southwest 
 As freshly to thy leaf-embosomed nest ? 
 Less fragrant are the flowers of summer's prime ? 
 Or pin'st thou for thy far-off southern clime ? 
 Or is it that thy noisy young have flown, 
 Leaving their green home in the o'ershadowing tree, 
 That thus thou mournest desolate and lone, 
 Where once thy song burst forth so loud and free ? 
 Alas ! that summer's perfumed airs should bring 
 Sorrow to one like thee, so light of heart and wing ! 
 
 * Born 1814.
 
 172 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 Wandering 'mid flowery banks, or loud and hoarse 
 Foaming o'er rock and crag, all wild and free, 
 From the deep woods that hide thy shaded source, 
 To where thy waters mingle with the sea, 
 Beautiful River ! like a dream of love 
 Thy deep waves glide — blue as the sky above. 
 Bright are the happy homes along thy shores, 
 Shaded by drooping elms that kiss thy wave ; 
 And grassy banks, that bloom with gay wild-flowers, 
 Thy calm and murmuring waters gently lave ; 
 And warbling birds, with music sweet as thine. 
 Sing in the branches of the o'erhanging vine 
 A song whose notes are with us evermore, 
 Stealing our hearts away to wander by thy shore.
 
 JAMES DIXON. 173 
 
 III. 
 
 SUNSET AFTER A STORM. 
 
 Lo ! where the mountains mingle with the sky 
 A breaking light in all the glowing west ! 
 And slowly now its lustre spreads on high, 
 As the veiled sun sinks calmly to his rest : 
 The broken clouds are bathed in golden light, 
 That mingle sweetly with the sky's deep blue, 
 And, as the twilight fades, from heaven's far height 
 The first bright star of eve is shining through : 
 The low wind's voice falls gently on the ear. 
 And with it, to the lone and weary heart, 
 Comes a deep joy, that, could it ne'er depart, 
 Might make us sigh to dwell forever here : 
 
 It may not be ! E'en from such glorious skies, 
 O, who can tell how sad a morn may rise !
 
 174 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MOONLIGHT IN JUNE. 
 
 Thou hast a gentle ministry, O Moon ! 
 Riding in solemn silence through the sky, 
 And gazing from thy trackless path on high 
 Upon the beauty of the leafy June : 
 On such a lovely night, I ween, as this, 
 Endymion felt thy pale lip's dewy kiss ; 
 For far around on every plain and hill. 
 In the soft gleaming of thy gleaming ray. 
 Flower, tree, and forest, breathless now and still, 
 Rest from the burning brightness of the day ; 
 Silence is over all. Yon murmuring rill 
 Alone leaps gladly on its tireless way : 
 
 In thy soft rays how beautiful is Night ! 
 
 Like man's cloud-covered path, by woman's love made 
 bright !
 
 JAMES DIXON. 175 
 
 V. 
 
 TO MRS. SIGOURNEY, 
 
 With a " Forget-me-not" from the grave of Keats, on whose tombstone are in- 
 scribed these words : — 
 
 "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." 
 
 Wandering in Rome, for thee a gift I sought : 
 
 Around me were the wonders of the past ; 
 
 And modern Art, on every side, had cast 
 
 Her gems of richest beauty. Yet methought 
 
 These were scarce worthy thee. At length I stood, 
 
 One Sabbath eve, beside the grave of Keats ; 
 
 The turf was bright with flowers that gave their sweets 
 
 To the soft night-air, as in mournful mood : 
 
 Sad thoughts came o'er me, and I could have wept 
 
 That all the hopes that in the Poet's heart. 
 
 As in a sanctuary, had been kept, 
 
 Could fade so soon, and perish, and depart ; 
 
 I plucked this flower for thee, the Muses' happiest 
 daughter, 
 
 And joyed to think t/ij name should ne'er be " writ in 
 water."
 
 176 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 REV. NORMAN PINNEY.* 
 
 Calm Twilight ! in thy wild and stilly time, 
 
 When summer flowers their perfumes shed around, 
 And naught, save the deep, solitary sound 
 Of some far bell is heard, with solemn chime 
 Tolling for vespers, or the evening bird, 
 Carolling music in the shady grove. 
 Sweet as the pure outpourings of first' love. 
 While not a leaf by Zephyr's breath is stirred, — 
 Bright thoughts of those beloved and dearest come, 
 
 Like sunset rays upon the azure wave ; 
 And joys which blossomed in the bower of home 
 
 The dews of memory with freshness lave. 
 O, that my last day-beams of life would shine. 
 As mildly beautiful, calm hour, as thine ! 
 
 * Born at Simsbury in 1804.
 
 REV. NORMAN PINNEY. 177 
 
 II. 
 
 Still unto thee, my brightest, fairest, best, 
 The wandering heart returns as the pure dove 
 Seeking in vain the olive-branch of love, 
 
 Nor finding peace save in its ark of rest. 
 
 My flight has been wide, o'er the tossing wave : 
 
 Nor bower, nor tree, nor mantling vine were there ; 
 
 And like rich pearls deep in their ocean cave, 
 Were hidden all things beautiful and fair. 
 
 Send me not forth again, though the fair sky 
 Smile o'er the green enamelling of earth ; 
 Bright joys again be clustered round the hearth, 
 
 And the air rife with breathing melody ; 
 
 Still to its resting-place the dove would flee ; — 
 
 Angel of beauty ! shall it dwell with thee ? 
 
 VOL. II. 12
 
 178 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 HUGH PETERS.* 
 I. 
 
 AD POETAS. 
 
 Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseres, 
 Sublirai feriam sidera vertice. 
 
 Ye are a wise and goodly company ; 
 
 A very worthy noble brotherhood ; 
 
 Nectar your drink, ambrosia your food ; 
 Ye cannot fail of immortality ! 
 When ye would sleep, sweet will your slumbering be ; 
 
 For Musa 'neath you spreads a couch of down, 
 
 Or airy gossamer with rose-leaves strewn, 
 Fit hovering place for dreams of phantasy ; 
 And when ye wake, if ye would music have, 
 
 For you Apollo wakes his echoing strings ; 
 
 Or would ye ride, Pegasus spreads his wings, 
 And off ye fly through air, o'er earth and wave ! 
 O happy band ! I '11 " give you honor due," 
 If ye will deign admit me of your crew ! 
 
 » Bom 1807; died 1831.
 
 HUGH PETERS. 179 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Hail, "great Diana," "virgin Queen of night ! " 
 " Pale, silent orb," " mild Luna," new or full, 
 Crescent or gibbous ! if thought not too dull, 
 
 List to the prayer of a poor rhyming wight ! 
 
 Behold thy servant in a piteous plight ! 
 My soul is sad, my coat is growing old ; 
 My heart is heavy, and my heels are cold ; 
 
 Both in and out I am a sorry sight ; 
 
 Ideas and ink are gone, — I cannot write, — 
 And when I could, they said I was a loon 
 For offering incense at thy shrine, O Moon ! 
 
 They call me mad, and that unmans me quite : 
 Regina, hear me ! if I 'm not a dunce, 
 Moonstrike rhy brain, and make me so at once !
 
 l8o AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER* 
 I. 
 
 I DO assure thee, love, each kiss of thine 
 Adds to my stature, makes me more a man, 
 Lightens my care, and draws the bitter wine 
 That I was drugged with, while my nature ran 
 
 Its slavish course. For didst not thou untwine 
 My cunning fetters ? break the odious ban, 
 That quite debased me ? free this heart of mine, 
 And deck my chains with roses ? While I can 
 
 I '11 chant thy praises, till the world shall ring 
 With thy great glory ; and the heaping store 
 Of future honors, for the songs I sing. 
 
 Shall miss thy poet, at thy feet to pour 
 A juster tribute, as the gracious spring 
 Of my abundance. — Kiss me, then, once more. 
 
 * " Plays and Poems, by George H. Boker. Boston : Ticknor 
 and Fields. 1856." 
 
 The sonnets by Mr. Boker are replete with the beauty and har- 
 mony of poetic diction, and his love sonnets are almost Shakespearian 
 in their delicacy and plaintiveness. See the Essay on American 
 Sonnets, I. 107- 115, where five of his sonnets are already given.
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. l8l 
 
 11. 
 
 I SHALL be faithful, though the weary years 
 Spread out before me like a mountain chain 
 Rugged and steep, ascending from the plain. 
 Without a path ; though where the cliff uprears 
 
 Its sternest front, and echoes in my ears 
 My own deep sobs of solitary pain, 
 It is my fate to scale ; though all in vain 
 I spend my labor, and my idle tears 
 
 Torture but me : I know, despite my ill. 
 That with each step a little wastes away, — 
 A little of this life wastes day by day ; 
 
 And far beyond the desert which I fill 
 With my vast sorrow, I have faith to say 
 That we shall meet ; so I press onward still.
 
 1 82 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE AWAKING OF THE POETIC FACULTY. 
 
 All day I heard a humming in my ears, 
 A buzz of many voices, and a throng 
 Of swarming numbers, passing with a song 
 Measured and stately as the roUing spheres'. 
 
 I saw the sudden hght of hfted spears. 
 
 Slanted at once against some monster wrong ; 
 And then a fluttering scarf which might belong 
 To some sweet maiden in her morn of years. 
 
 I felt the chilling damp of sunless glades,   
 Horrid with gloom ; anon, the breath of May 
 Was blown around me, and the lulling play 
 
 Of dripping fountains. Yet the lights and shades, 
 The waving scarfs, the battle's grand parades 
 Seemed but vague shadows of that wondrous lay.
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 1 83 
 
 IV. 
 
 Love is that orbit of the restless soul 
 
 Whose circle grazes the confines of space, 
 
 Bounding within the limits of its race 
 
 Utmost extremes ; whose high and topmost pole 
 
 Within the very blaze of heaven doth roll ; 
 
 Whose nether course is through the darkest place 
 Eclipsed by hell. What daring hand shall trace 
 The blended joys and sorrows that control 
 
 A heart whose journeys the fixed hand of Fate 
 
 Points through this pathway? Who may soar so high, 
 Behold such glories with unwinking eye ? 
 
 Who drop so low beneath his mortal state, 
 
 And thence return with careful chart and date, 
 To mark which way another's course must lie ?
 
 184 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 Where lags my mistress while the drowsy year 
 Wakes into spring ? Lo ! Winter sweeps away 
 His snowy skirts, and leaves the landscape gay 
 With early verdure ; and there 's merry cheer 
 
 Among the violets, where the sun Ues clear 
 On the south hillsides ; and at break of day 
 I heard the bluebird busy at my ear ; 
 And swallows shape their nests of matted clay 
 
 Along the eaves, or dip their narrow wings 
 Into the mists of evening. All the earth 
 Stirs with the wonder of a coming birth. 
 
 And all the air with feathery music rings. 
 
 Spring, it would crown thee with transcendent worth, 
 To bring my love among thy beauteous things.
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 185 
 
 VI. 
 
 No gentle touches of your timid hand, — 
 No shuddering kisses pressed upon my lip, 
 'Twixt fear and passion, — no bold words that strip 
 The feigning garb off in which we two stand, 
 
 Acting our parts, at the harsh world's command, — 
 No deed that offers to our dust a sip 
 Of heavenly nectar, — no incautious slip. 
 To wring a tear, yet calmly bear the brand. 
 
 For the great love through which we were betrayed ! 
 Love flies with us on sorely crippled wings : 
 Prudence, and interest, and the bitter stings 
 
 Of shrewd distrust, are doled me. I am made 
 A beggar on your bounty. Lend me aid : 
 My heart starves, lady, on these wretched things.
 
 X86 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VIL 
 
 I HAVE been mounted on life's topmost wave, 
 Until my forehead kissed the dazzling cloud ; 
 I have been dashed beneath the murky shroud 
 That yawns between the watery crests. I rave, 
 
 Sometimes, like cursed Orestes ; sometimes lave 
 My limbs in dews of asphodel ; or, bowed 
 With torrid heat, I moan to Heaven aloud, 
 Or shrink with Winter in his icy cave. 
 
 Now peace broods over me ; now savage rage 
 Spurns me across the world. Nor am I free 
 From nightly visions, when the pictured page 
 
 Of sleep unfolds its varied leaves to me, 
 Changing as often as the mimic stage ; — 
 And all this, lady, through my love for thee !
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 187 
 
 VIII. 
 TO THE MEMORY OF M. A. R. 
 
 With the mild lisht some unambitious star 
 
 Illumes her pathway through the heavenly blue, — 
 
 So unobtrusive that the careless view 
 
 Scarce notes her where her haughtier sisters are, — 
 
 So ran thy life. Perhaps, from those afar, 
 Thy gentle radiance little wonder drew. 
 And all their praise was for the brighter few. 
 Yet mortal vision is a grievous bar 
 
 To perfect judgment. Were the distance riven. 
 Our eyes might find that star so faintly shone 
 Because it journeyed through a higher zone, 
 
 Had more majestic sway and duties given. 
 Far loftier station on the heights of Heaven, 
 Was next to God, and circled round his throne.
 
 l88 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO J. M. B. 
 
 I WONDER, darling, if there does not wear 
 Something from love, with love's so daily use, 
 If in the sweetness of his vigorous juice 
 Time's bitter finger dips not here and there ? 
 
 What thing of earthly growth itself can bear 
 Above its nature, overrule abuse. 
 And, like the marvel of the widow's cruse, 
 Freshen its taint, and all its loss repair ? 
 
 I can but wonder at the faithful heart 
 
 That makes thy face so joyous in my sight. 
 And fills each moment with a new delight. 
 
 I can but wonder at the shades that start 
 Across thy features as we stand to-night. 
 With lips thus clinging, in the act to part
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 1 89 
 
 X. 
 
 No hope is mine, no comfort mine ; for I 
 Am as an exile, and no pilgrim's grace 
 Nerves my despair ; I never can retrace 
 The paths I trod, though myriads pass me by, 
 
 Journeying, light-hearted, to the happy place 
 
 Whence I am driven. Thou, Nature, on whose face 
 I look for aid, dost close thy weary eye 
 Against my grief The moon wanes in the sky. 
 
 The flowers dry up and perish, the great sea 
 
 Through all its land-locked arteries ebbs ; the dew 
 Lies sickening on the blighted branch ; no new 
 
 Creation opens with the spring : to me 
 
 There is no crescent moon, no bud, no view 
 Of refluent tides, no fruit, — nor will there be.
 
 igo AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Absence from thee is something worse than death ; 
 For to the heart that slumbers in the shroud, 
 What are the mourners' tears and clamors loud, 
 The open grave, the dismal cypress wreath ? 
 
 The quiet body misses not its breath ; 
 
 The pain that shivers through the weeping crowd 
 Is idle homage to the visage proud 
 That changeth not for all Affliction saith. 
 
 But to be thus, from thee so far away, 
 
 Is as though I, in seeming death, might be 
 Conscious of all that passed about my clay ; 
 
 As though I saw my doleful obsequy. 
 
 Mourned my own loss, rebelled against decay, 
 And felt thy tear-drops trickling over me.
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. I9T 
 
 XII. 
 
 TO ENGLAND. 
 
 Lear and Cordelia ! 't was an ancient tale 
 
 Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame : 
 The times have changed, the moral is the same. 
 So, like an outcast, dowerless and pale. 
 
 Thy daughter went, and in a foreign gale 
 
 Spread her young banner, till its sway became 
 A wonder to the nations. Days of shame 
 Are close upon thee : prophets raise their wail. 
 
 When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand 
 Points his long spear across the narrow sea, — 
 " Lo ! there is England ! " — when thy destiny 
 
 Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand 
 Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land, — 
 God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be !
 
 192 AMERICAN SONNETS, 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 I. 
 
 I ASK not for those thoughts, that sudden leap 
 
 From being's sea, like the isle-seeming kraken, 
 
 With whose great rise the ocean all is shaken. 
 
 And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep ; 
 
 Give me that growth, which some perchance deem sleep. 
 
 Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, 
 
 Which, by the toil of gathering energies. 
 
 Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, 
 
 Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences. 
 
 Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green 
 
 Into a pleasant island in the seas. 
 
 Where, 'mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, 
 
 And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour. 
 
 Hearing the leaves, and loving God's dear power.
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 193 
 
 11. 
 
 TO M. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Maiden ! when such a soul as thine is born, 
 The morning stars their ancient music make, 
 And, joyful, once again their song awake, 
 Long silent now with melancholy scorn ; 
 And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, 
 By no least deed its harmony shalt break, 
 But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take. 
 Through life's most darksome passes unforlorn : 
 Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall. 
 Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free. 
 And in thine every motion musical 
 As summer-air, majestic as the sea, 
 A mystery to those who creep and crawl 
 Through Time, and part it from Eternity ! 
 
 VOL. ir. 13
 
 194 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Beloved ! in the noisy city here 
 
 The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease ; 
 
 Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear 
 
 Its still, soft arms, and circles it with peace : 
 
 There is no room for any doubt or fear 
 
 In souls so overfilled with love's increase ; 
 
 There is no memory of the by-gone year, 
 
 But growth in heart's and spirit's perfect ease. 
 
 How hath our love — half nebulous at first — 
 
 Rounded itself into a full-orbed sun ! 
 
 How have our lives and wills (as haply erst 
 
 They were, ere this forgetfulness begun) 
 
 Through all their earthly distantness outburst, 
 
 And melted, like two rays of light, in one !
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 1 95 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO A. C. L. 
 
 Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed 
 
 To show us what a woman true may be : 
 
 They have not taken sympathy from thee, 
 
 Nor made thee any other than thou wast, 
 
 Save as some tree, which in a sudden blast 
 
 Sheddeth those blossoms that are weakly grown 
 
 Upon the air, but keepeth every one 
 
 Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last : 
 
 So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety. 
 
 But never one of steadfast cheerfulness ; 
 
 Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity 
 
 Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, 
 
 But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see 
 
 How many simple ways there are to bless !
 
 196 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 I. 
 
 TO LORD BYRON. 
 
 Byron ! 't is thine alone, on eagles' pinions, 
 
 In solitary strength and grandeur soaring, 
 
 To dazzle and delight all eyes ; outpouring 
 The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions ; 
 Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions, 
 
 Nature, man, time, the universe exploring; 
 And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions, 
 
 Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing : 
 O, how I love and envy thee thy glory, 
 
 To every age and clime alike belonging ; 
 Linked by all tongues with every nation's glory. 
 
 Thou Tacitus of song ! whose echoes, thronging 
 O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary 
 
 And forests with the name my verse is wronging.
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 197 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! 
 
 Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
 Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
 
 Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe : 
 
 Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
 Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
 
 To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
 Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
 
 For such thou art by day, — but all night long 
 Thou pour' St a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, 
 
 As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
 Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, 
 
 Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. 
 And sighing for thy motley coat again.
 
 198 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. 
 I. 
 
 There is a magic in the moon's mild ray, — 
 What time she softly climbs the evening sky, 
 And sitteth with the silent stars on high, — 
 
 That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. 
 
 I raise my eye to the blue depths above. 
 
 And worship Him whose power, pervading space, 
 Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace, 
 
 Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. 
 
 Oft, when the silent moon was sailing high, 
 I 've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, 
 When time with graver lines has marked my brow. 
 
 Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye. 
 
 O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide. 
 
 Shine on my eve of life, — shine soft, and long abide.
 
 JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. 1 99 
 
 II. 
 
 'T IS j^utumn, and my steps have led me far 
 
 To a wild hill, that overlooks a land 
 Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star 
 
 Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand 
 The streamlet slides with mellow tones away. 
 The west is crimson with retiring day ; 
 And the north gleams with its own native light. 
 
 Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie, 
 
 And through green banks the river wanders by, 
 And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright, — 
 Bright, but of fading brightness ! — soon is past 
 
 That dreamlike glory of the painted wood : 
 And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast, 
 
 The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.
 
 200 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 GEORGE HENRY CALVERT. 
 I. 
 
 ON THE FIFTY-FIFTH SONNET OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 The soul leaps up to hear this mighty sound, 
 
 Of Shakespeare triumphing. With glistening eye, 
 
 Forward he sent his spirit, to espy 
 
 Time's gratitude, and catch the far rebound 
 
 Of fame from worlds unpeopled yet ; and, crowned 
 
 With brightening light through all futurity, 
 
 His image to behold up-reaching high, 
 
 'Mongst the world's benefactors most renowned. 
 
 Like to the ecstasy, by man unnamed, 
 
 The spheral music doth to gods impart. 
 
 Was the deep joy that thou hast here proclaimed 
 
 Thy song's eternal echo gave thy heart. 
 
 O, the world thanks thee that thou 'st let us see. 
 
 Thou knew'st how great thou wast, how prized to be !
 
 GEORGE HENRY CALVERT. 201 
 
 11. 
 
 TO THE STATUE OF EVE, BY POWERS. 
 
 'J 
 
 Who that has had of beauteous womanhood 
 Translucent visions, in his holiest dreams, 
 Or when the abstracted, waking mind so teems 
 With images of beauty that 't will brood, 
 In happiest silence, on the fertile mood 
 So deeply, till each outward thing but seems 
 Fantastic, while the flashing, inward gleams 
 Compound a loveliness that would be wooed 
 As a reality, — were such to come 
 Before thee, with a virgin joy, his soul, 
 Like a new spirit in Elysium, 
 Would gush with ecstasy, while from it roll 
 All memories of dreams or inward sight, 
 Paled by the fulgence of thy wondrous light.
 
 202 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 Storm had been on the hills : the day had worn 
 
 As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ; 
 And the dark clouds that gathered at the morn 
 
 In dull, impenetrable masses slept, 
 And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all 
 Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. 
 
 Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue 
 And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay. 
 
 And, as it wider and intenser grew. 
 The darkness removed silently away ; 
 
 And, with the splendor of a god, broke through 
 The perfect glory of departing day : 
 
 So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er. 
 
 Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, 203 
 
 11. 
 
 ACROSTIC SONNET. 
 
 Elegance floats about thee like a dress, 
 
 Melting the airy motion of thy form 
 Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness, 
 
 Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm. 
 Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress, 
 
 Enriching it, as moonlight after storm 
 Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. 
 
 A beauty that bewilders like a spell 
 Reigns in thy eye's clear hazel, and thy brow, 
 
 So pure in veined transparency, doth tell 
 How spiritually beautiful art thou, — 
 
 A temple where angelic love might dwell. 
 Life in thy presence were a thing to keep. 
 Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.
 
 204 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY CUYERL HOSMER. 
 
 I. 
 
 ON A CASCADE NEAR WYOMING. 
 
 A BROOK, the woody mountain's bounding child, 
 With a deep murmur in its silvery flow, 
 Falls, in its journey over rocks up-piled, 
 On the green carpet of the glen below. 
 Above the cascade aged hemlocks throw 
 Their mossy branches, flecked with drops of spray, 
 Like warders old, that watch around bestow. 
 Stationed on rocky battlements of gray. 
 In haunts like these, when baffled in the fight 
 That drenched a groaning land with crimson showers, 
 The sturdy champions of the true and right 
 Have gathered to repair their wasted powers. 
 And rousing hymns of God and freedom heard, 
 Sung by the tumbling wave and tameless bird !
 
 WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. 205 
 
 11. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 O Night ! I love thee as a weary child 
 
 Loves the maternal breast on which it leans ! 
 
 Day hath its golden pomp, its bustling scenes ; 
 But richer gifts are thine : the turmoil wild 
 Of a proud heart thy low, sad voice hath stilled, 
 
 Until its throb is gentler than the swell 
 Of a light billow, and its chamber filled 
 
 With cloudless light, with calm unspeakable : 
 Thy hand a curtain lifteth, and I see 
 
 One who first taught my heart with love to thrill. 
 
 Though long ago her lip of song grew still : 
 A strange mysterious power belongs to thee. 
 
 To morning, noon, and twilight-time unknown ; 
 
 For the dead gather round thy starry throne !
 
 2o6 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 EPES SARGENT* 
 I. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Again thy winds are pealing in mine ear ! 
 Again thy waves are flashing in my sight ! 
 Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, 
 As through the waves our vessel wings her flight ! 
 On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, 
 Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast ! 
 Six years, with gathering speed, have glided by, 
 Since, an adventurous boy, I hailed thee last ; 
 The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet 
 An old companion ; on my naked brow 
 The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat ; 
 Flows through my hair the freshening breeze ; and now 
 The horizon's ring enclasps me ; and I stand 
 Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father- 
 land ! 
 
 * From " Shells and Sea- Weeds, or, Records of a Summer 
 Voyage to Cuba," in his " Songs of the Sea, 1847."
 
 EPES SARGENT. 207 
 
 11. 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 
 How changed the scene ! our parting gaze, last night, 
 
 Was on the three-hilled city's swelling dome, — 
 
 The dome, o'erlooking from its stately height 
 
 Full many a sacred spire and happy home. 
 
 Rose over all, clouding the azure air, 
 
 A canopy of smoke, swart Labor's sign ; 
 
 While, like a forest Winter has stripped bare. 
 
 Bristled the masts along the water's line. 
 
 But now, the unbroken ocean and the sky 
 
 Seem to enclose us in a crystal sphere ; 
 
 A new creation fills the straining eye ; 
 
 No bark save ours, — no human trace is here ! 
 
 But in the brightening east, a crimson haze 
 
 Floats up before the sun, his incense fresh of praise !
 
 2o8 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TROPICAL WEATHER. 
 
 Now we 're afloat upon the tropic sea ! 
 
 Here Summer holdeth a perpetual reign : 
 
 How flash the waters in their bounding glee ! 
 
 The sky's soft purple is without a stain ! 
 
 Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds, blowing, 
 
 To their unvarying goal still faithful run ! 
 
 And as we steer, with sails before them flowing. 
 
 Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun. 
 
 The startled flying-fish around us skim, 
 
 Glossed, like the humming-bird, with rainbow dyes ; 
 
 And, as they dip into the water's brim, 
 
 Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies. 
 
 All, all is fair ; and, gazing round, we feel 
 
 Over the yielding sense the torrid languor steal.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 2 09 
 
 JAMES BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 I. 
 
 FROM THE NORTH. 
 
 Once more without you ! — sighing, dear, once more, 
 
 For all the sweet, accustomed ministries 
 
 Of wife and mother : not as when the seas 
 
 That parted us my tender message bore 
 
 From the gray olives of the Cretan shore 
 
 To those that hid the broken Phidian frieze 
 
 Of our Athenian home, — but far degrees, 
 
 Wide plains, great forests, part us now : my door 
 
 Looks on the rushing Neva, cold and clear : 
 
 The swelling domes in hovering splendor lie, 
 
 Like golden bubbles, eager to be gone. 
 
 But the chill crystal of the atmosphere 
 
 Withholds them ; and along the northern sky 
 
 The amber midnight smiles in dreams of dawn ! 
 
 VOL. iL 14
 
 210 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 TO G. H. B. 
 
 If that my hand, like yours, dear George, were skilled 
 
 To win from Wordsworth's scanty plot of ground 
 
 A shining harvest, such as you have found. 
 
 Where strength and grace, fraternally fulfilled. 
 
 As in those sheaves whose rustling glories gild 
 
 The hills of August, folded are and bound : 
 
 So would I draw my loving tillage round 
 
 Its borders, let the gentlest rains be spilled. 
 
 The goldenest suns its happy growth compel. 
 
 And bind for you the ripe, redundant grain : 
 
 But ah ! you stand amid your songful sheaves 
 
 So rich, this weed-born flower you might disdain, 
 
 Save that of me its growth and color tell, 
 
 And of my love some perfume haunt its leaves.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 211 
 
 III. 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 
 
 2. 
 
 TO E. C. S. 
 
 When days were long, and o'er that farm of mine, 
 
 Green Cedarcroft, the summer breezes blew, 
 
 And from the walnut-shadows I and you. 
 
 Dear Edmund, saw the red lawn-roses shine, 
 
 Or, following our idyllic Brandy wine 
 
 Through meadows flecked with many a flowery hue, 
 
 To where with wild Arcadian pomp I drew 
 
 Your Bacchic march among the startled kine, — 
 
 You gave me, linked with old Mseonides, 
 
 Your loving sonnet, — record dear and true 
 
 Of days as dear ; and now, when suns are brief 
 
 And Christmas snows are on the naked trees, 
 
 I give you this, — a withered winter leaf, 
 
 Yet with your blossom from one root it grew !
 
 212 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 
 
 3- 
 TO R. H. S. 
 
 The years go by, old friend ! Each, as it fleets, 
 
 Moves to a farther, fairer realm the time 
 
 When first we twain the pleasant land of rhyme 
 
 Discovered, choosing side by side our seats 
 
 Below our separate gods : in midnight streets 
 
 And haunted attics flattered by the chime 
 
 Of silver words, and fed by faith sublime, 
 
 I Shelley's mantle wore, you that of Keats, — 
 
 Dear dreams, that marked the Muse's childhood then, 
 
 Nor now to be disowned ! The years go by : 
 
 The clear-eyed goddess flatters us no more, 
 
 And yet, I think, in soberer aims of men 
 
 And servitude of Song, that you and I 
 
 Are nearer, dearer, faithfuller than before.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 213 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONNETS. 
 
 4- 
 TO J. L. G. 
 
 If I could touch with Petrarch's pen this strain 
 Of graver song, and shape to Hquid flow 
 Of soft Italian syllables the glow 
 That warms my heart, my tribute were not vain ; 
 But how shall I such measured sweetness gain 
 As may your golden nature fitly show, 
 And with the heart-light shine, that fills you so, 
 It pales the graces of the cultured brain ? 
 Long have I known, Love better is than Fame, 
 And Love hath crowned you ; yet if any bay 
 Cling to my chaplet when the years have fled 
 And I am dust, may this which bears your name 
 Cling latest, that my love's result shall stay, 
 When that which mine ambition wrought is dead !
 
 214 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 I. 
 
 TO BAYARD TAYLOR, 
 
 ON HIS FORTIETH BIRTHDAY.* 
 
 " Whom the gods love die young," we have been told, 
 
 And wise of some the saying seems to be ; 
 
 Of others foolish ; as it is of thee, 
 Who proven hast, " Whom the gods love live old." 
 For have not forty seasons o'er thee rolled, 
 
 The worst propitious, — setting like the sea 
 
 Towards the haven of prosperity. 
 Now full in sight, so fair the wind doth hold ? 
 Hast thou not fame, the poet's chief desire ; 
 
 A wife, whom thou dost love, who loves thee well ; 
 A child, in whom your differing natures blend ; 
 And friends, troops of them, who respect, — admire ? 
 
 (How deeply one, it suits not now to tell ; ) 
 Such lives are long, and have a perfect end. 
 
 * New York, January ii, 1865.
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 21$ 
 
 11. 
 
 TO EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 (With a volume of Shakespeare's Sonnets.) 
 
 Had we been living in the antique days, 
 
 With him whose young but cunning fingers penned 
 These sugared sonnets to his strange-sweet friend, 
 
 I dare be sworn we would have won the bays. 
 
 Why not ? We could have twined in amorous phrase 
 Sonnets like these, where love and friendship blend, 
 (Or were they writ for some more private end ?) 
 
 And this, we see, remembered is with praise. 
 
 Yes, there 's a luck in most things, and in none 
 More than in being born at the right time. 
 
 It boots not what the labor to be done. 
 
 Or feats of arms, or arts, or building rhyme. 
 
 Not that the heavens the little can make great. 
 
 But many a man has lived an age too late !
 
 2l6 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO JAMES LORIMER GRAHAM, JR. 
 (With a volume of Shakespeare's Sonnets.) 
 
 What can I give him, who so much hath given, — 
 That princely heart, so over kind to me. 
 Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven, 
 Holds for his friends his heritage in fee ? 
 No costly trinket of the golden ore, 
 Nor precious jewel of the distant Ind : 
 Ay me ! these are not hoarded in my store, 
 Who have no coffers but my grateful mind. 
 What gift then, — nothing ? Stay, this book of song 
 May show my poverty and thy desert, 
 Steeped as it is in love, and love's sweet wrong, 
 Red with the blood that ran through Shakespeare's heart. 
 Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free. 
 Think, if thou canst, that I am singing thee !
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 217 
 
 IV. 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 England, if Time from out the Book of Fame 
 Should blot the desperate valor of thy men, 
 
 In the Crimea, an Englishwoman's name, 
 As sweet as ever came from poet's pen, 
 
 Would still defy him, — Florence Nightingale ! 
 Honor to that fair girl, whose pitying heart 
 Led her across the sea, to ease the smart 
 
 Of soldier-wounds, and soothe the soldier's wail. 
 
 Men can be great when great occasions call : " 
 In little duties women find their spheres, a— 
 
 The narrow cares that cluster round the hearth ;';^ 
 But this dear woman wipes a nation's tears, \ 
 
 And wears the crown of womanhood for all :' 
 
 Happy the land that gave such goodness birth !
 
 2l8 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 COLONEL FREDERICK TAYLOR. 
 (Gettysburg, July 3, 1863.) 
 
 Many the ways that lead to death, but few 
 Grandly, and one alone is glory's gate, — 
 Standing wherever free men dare their fate. 
 
 Determined, as thou wert, to die — or do ! 
 
 This thou hast passed, young soldier, storming through 
 The fiery darkness round it, — not too late 
 To know the invaders beaten from thy State, — 
 
 Ah, why too soon to rout them, and pursue ? 
 
 But some must fall as thou hast fallen ; some 
 Remain to fight, and fall another day ; 
 
 And some go down in peace to their long rest. 
 
 If 't were not now, it would be still to come ; 
 And whether now, or when thy hairs were gray. 
 Were fittest for thee — God alone knows best.
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 219 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO JERVIS MOENTEE, ARTIST. 
 
 Jervis, my friend, I envy you the art 
 
 Which you profess, and which possesses you, 
 
 To mimic Nature ; unto her so true, 
 Your pictures are what she is to the heart, 
 The mystery of which it is a part. 
 
 That gladdens when we crush the vernal dew, 
 
 And saddens when leaves fall, and flowers are few ; 
 Nor quite forsakes us in the noisy mart 
 Whence she is banished, save in slips of sky 
 
 That swim in mist, or drip in dreary rain. 
 No glimpse of peaks far off, nor forests nigh, 
 
 Only dark streets, strange forms, a barren pain ; 
 Till to my wall I turn a longing eye, 
 
 When you restore me mountains, woods again !
 
 2 20 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.* 
 
 A mother's picture. 
 
 She seemed an angel to our infant eyes ! 
 Once, when the glorifying moon revealed 
 Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled — 
 Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies 
 Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise — 
 We looked to see the pinions half concealed. 
 The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield 
 Her back to me, who loved her in this wise, 
 And since have little known her, but have grown 
 To see another mother tenderly 
 Watch over sleeping darlings of my own : 
 Perchance the years have changed her ; yet alone 
 This picture lingers : still she seems to me 
 The fair, young angel of my infancy. 
 
 * Since the preliminary essay on American Sonnets and Sonnet- 
 eers was written, my attention lias been directed to a set of sonnets, 
 few in number, but of exquisite beauty, by Edmund C. Stedman 
 of New Yorlc. They are to be found in his two volumes of poetry, 
 " Poems Lyrical and Idyllic," published by Mr. Charles Scribner 
 of New York, and " Alice of Monmouth, with Other Poems," 
 published by Mr. Carleton of the same city. There are but four
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 221 
 
 II. 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED. 
 
 Bring no more flowers and books and precious things ! 
 
 O, speak no more of our beloved Art, 
 
 Of summer haunts, — melodious wanderings 
 
 In leafy refuge from this weary mart : 
 
 Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart ; 
 
 Now every word a newer sadness brings ! 
 
 Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart 
 
 From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings. 
 
 Nor craves for more than food from day to day ; 
 
 So long bereft of wildwood joy and song. 
 
 Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, — 
 
 The music born within him dies away : 
 
 Even the song he loved becomes a pain. 
 
 Full-freighted with a longing all in vain. 
 
 of these sonnets in all. Two of them are constructed according 
 to the true Italian model. The other two end with rhyming 
 couplets, and therefore have that epigrammatic termination which 
 the Italian masters considered fatal to the beauty of the sonnet. 
 Mr. Stcdman is nevertheless a genuine sonneteer in spirit, if not 
 always in form ; and a little further study of the peculiar struc- 
 ture of this species of poem will place him in the front rank of 
 sonnet-writers. Indeed, I shall not attempt to decide whether the 
 sonnets hereafter quoted have not already won him that position-
 
 22 2 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Had I, my love declared, the tireless wing 
 That wafts the swallow to her northern skies, 
 I would not, sheer within the rich surprise 
 Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling 
 My coyer being ; but would follow Spring, 
 Melodious consort, as she daily flies. 
 Apace with suns that o'er new woodlands rise 
 Each morn — with rains her gentler stages bring. 
 My pinions should beat music with her own ; 
 Her smiles and odors should delight me ever. 
 Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone 
 Where golden seas receive the mighty river. 
 Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges sever 
 Our Norseland from the Arctic surge's moan.
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 2 2-^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO B. T. 
 
 (With a copy of the Iliad.) 
 
 Bayard, awaken not this music strong, 
 Wliile round thy home the indolent sweet breeze 
 Floats lightly as the summer breath of seas 
 O'er which Ulysses heard the Sirens' song ! 
 Dreams of low-lying isles to June belong, 
 And Circe holds us in her haunts of ease ; 
 But later, when these high ancestral trees 
 Are sear, and such Odyssean languors wrong 
 The reddening strength of the autumnal year, 
 Yield to heroic words thine ear and eye : 
 Intent on these broad pages thou shalt hear 
 The trumpet's blare, the Argive battle-cry, 
 And see Achilles hurl his hurtling spear. 
 And mark the Trojan arrows make reply.
 
 2 24 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 I. 
 
 EUTERPE. 
 
 Now if Euterpe held me not in scorn, 
 I 'd shape a lyric, perfect, fair, and round 
 As that thin band of gold wherewith I bound 
 
 Your slender finger our betrothal morn. 
 
 Not of Desire alone is music born, 
 
 Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned : 
 Unsought she comes, if sought but seldom found. 
 
 Hence is it poets often are forlorn, 
 
 Taciturn, shy, self-immolated, pale. 
 
 Taking no healthy pleasure in their kind, 
 
 Wrapt in their dream as in a coat of mail. 
 Hence is it I, the least, a very hind, 
 
 Have stolen away into this leafy vale. 
 
 Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 225 
 
 II. 
 
 PURSUIT AND POSSESSION. 
 
 When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit, 
 
 What life, what glorious eagerness it is ; 
 
 Then mark how full Possession falls from this, 
 How fairer seems the blossom than the fruit, — 
 I am perplext, and often stricken mute, 
 
 Wondering which attained the higher bliss. 
 
 The winged insect, or the chrysalis 
 It thrust aside with unreluctant foot. 
 Spirit of verse which still eludes my art. 
 
 You shapes of loveliness that still do haunt me, 
 O never, never rest upon my heart, 
 
 If when I have thee I shall little want thee ! 
 Still flit away in moonlight, rain, and dew, 
 Wills o' the wisp, that I may still pursue ! 
 
 VOL. II. 15
 
 226 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 ACCOMPLICES. 
 (Virginia, 1865.) 
 
 The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves 
 By the Potomac ; and the crisp ground-flower 
 Lifts its blue cup to catch the passing shower ; 
 
 The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves 
 
 Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. 
 
 Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower ! — 
 The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour, 
 
 In its melodious summer madness raves. 
 
 Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, 
 With what sweet voices. Nature seeks to screen 
 
 The awful Crime of this distracted land, — 
 
 Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green 
 
 Mantle of velvet where the Murdered lie. 
 
 As if to hide the horror from God's eye.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 227 
 
 IV. 
 
 EGYPT. 
 
 Fantastic Sleep is busy with my eyes : 
 I seem in some waste solitude to stand 
 Once ruled of Cheops : upon either hand 
 
 A dark, illimitable desert lies, 
 
 Sultry and still, — a realm of mysteries ; 
 
 A wide-browed Sphinx, half buried in the sand, 
 With orbless sockets stares across the land. 
 
 The wofulest thing beneath these brooding skies 
 
 Where all is woful, weird-lit vacancy. 
 
 'T is neither midnight, twilight, nor moonrise. 
 
 Lo ! while I gaze, beyond the vast sand-sea 
 
 The nebulous clouds are downward slowly drawn, 
 
 And one bleared star, faint-glimmering like a bee, 
 Is shut i' the rosy outstretched hand of Dawn.
 
 228 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 I. 
 
 ANCIENT FABLES. 
 
 Ye pleasant myths of eld, why have ye fled ? 
 The earth has fallen from her blissful prime 
 Of summer years ; the dews of that sweet time 
 Are withered on its garlands sear and dead. 
 
 No longer in the blue fields overhead 
 We list the rustling of immortal wings, 
 Or hail at eve the kindly visitings 
 Of gentle Genii to fair fortunes wed : 
 
 The seas have lost their Nereids, the sad streams 
 Their gold-haired habitants, the mountains lone 
 Those happy Oreads ; and the blithesome tone 
 
 Of Pan's soft pipe melts only in our dreams : 
 Fitfully fall the old Faith's broken gleams 
 On our dull hearts cold as sepulchral stone.
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 
 229 
 
 II. 
 
 Pent in this common sphere of sensual shows, 
 I pine for beauty, — beauty of fresh mien, 
 And gentle utterance, and the charm serene, 
 Wherewith the hue of mystic dreamland glows ; 
 
 I pine for lulling music, the repose 
 
 Of low-voiced waters, in some realm between 
 
 The perfect Aidenn, and this clouded scene 
 
 Of love's sad loss, and passion's mournful throes ; 
 
 A pleasant country, girt with twilight calm. 
 
 In whose fair heaven a moon of shadowy round 
 Wades through a fading fall of sunset rain ; 
 
 Where drooping lotos flowers, distilling balm. 
 
 Dream by the drowsy streamlets Sleep hath crowned, 
 And Care forgets to sigh, and Patience conquers Pain.
 
 230 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year, 
 Rugged December, on the season's verge, 
 Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge 
 Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear. 
 
 Good friend ! turn with me to our in-door cheer ; 
 Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth, 
 And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth. 
 And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear ; 
 
 Mark how the sweet rogue wooes us ! Sit thee down, 
 And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill, 
 Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown, 
 
 Till the funereal blast shall wail no more. 
 But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill. 
 And shouts of triumph peal along the shore.
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 23! 
 
 IV. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 The passionate summer 's dead ! — the sky 's aglow 
 With roseate flushes of matured desire, 
 The winds at eve are musical, and low 
 As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre. 
 
 Far up among the pillared clouds of fire. 
 
 Whose pomp of strange procession upwards rolls 
 With gorgeous blazonry of pictured scrolls. 
 To celebrate the summer's past renown ; 
 
 Ah me ! How regally the heavens look down 
 O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods, 
 And harvest-fields with hoarded increase brown, 
 
 And deep-toned majesty of golden floods, 
 That lift their solemn dirges to the sky, 
 To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.
 
 232 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 POETS OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 The brave old poets sing of nobler themes 
 
 Than the weak griefs that haunt our coward souls ; 
 
 The torrent of their lusty music rolls, 
 
 Not through dark valleys of distempered dreams, 
 
 But murmurous pastures, lit by sunny streams ; 
 
 Or, rushing from some mountain-height of thought, 
 Swells to strange meaning that our minds have sought 
 Vainly to gather from the doubtful gleams 
 
 Of our more gross perceptions. O, their strains 
 Nerve and ennoble manhood ! — no shrill cry, 
 Set to a treble, tells of querulous woe ; — 
 
 Yet numbers deep-voiced as the mighty main's 
 Merge in the ring-dove's plaining, or the sigh 
 Of lovers whispering where sweet streamlets flow !
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 233 
 
 VI. 
 
 O God ! what glorious seasons bless thy world ! 
 See ! the tranced Winds are nestling on the deep ; 
 The guardian Heavens unclouded vigil keep 
 O'er the mute Earth ; the beach-birds' wings are furled 
 
 Ghost-like and gray, where the dim billows, curled 
 Lazily up the sea-strand, sink in sleep. 
 Save when the random fish with lightning-leap 
 Flashes above them ; the far sky 's impearled, 
 
 Inland, with lines of silvery smoke that gleam 
 Upward from quiet homesteads, thin, and slow : 
 The sunset girds me like a gorgeous dream. 
 
 Pregnant with splendors, by whose marvellous spell 
 Senses and soul are flushed to one deep glow; 
 A purple- vestured Mood more grand than words may tell.
 
 2 34 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O FAITHFUL heart ! on balmy nights like this, 
 I long to tell thee all the love I bear, — 
 My sacred love ! that knows not doubt, or fear, 
 Fixed in golden round of married bliss ; 
 
 The rapture of our first betrothal kiss 
 
 Thrills through me now, as warmly fond and dear 
 
 As when with eager soul I bent to hear 
 
 Thou didst not deem my tremulous vows amiss. 
 
 Time cannot chill a love so true as ours. 
 But rather, like a spiritual Sun, matures 
 Affection's bloom, and brightens all its flowers ; 
 
 Thus, that which charmed in youth our manhood lures, 
 For passion wins from age its noblest powers, 
 And love 's evolved from love, whilst love endures.
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 235 
 
 VIII. 
 
 An hour agone ! — and prostrate Nature lay 
 Like some sore-smitten creature nigh to death, 
 With feverish, parched Ups, with laboring breath, 
 And languid eyeballs, darkening to the day ; 
 
 A burning Noontide ruled with merciless sway 
 Earth, wave, and air ; the ghastly-stretching heath. 
 The sullen trees, the fainting flowers beneath. 
 Drooped hopeless, shrivelling in the torrid ray ; — 
 
 When, like a sudden, cheerful trumpet, blown 
 Far off by rescuing spirits, rose the wind 
 Urging great hosts of clouds ; the thunder's tone 
 
 Breaks into wrath ; the rainy cataracts fall ; 
 But, pausing soon, behold Creation shrined 
 In a new birth, — God's Covenant clasping all 1
 
 236 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Between the sunken sun, and the new moon, 
 I stood in fields through which a clear brook ran 
 With scarce perceptible motion, not a span 
 Of its smooth surface trembling to the tune 
 
 Of sunset breezes ! " O delicious boon," 
 I cried, " of quiet ! — wise is Nature's plan, 
 Who, in her realm as in the soul of man, 
 Alternates storm with calm, and the loud noon 
 
 With dewy evening's soft and sacred lull : — 
 Happy the heart that keeps its twilight hour. 
 And, in the depths of heavenly peace reclined, 
 
 Loves to commune with thoughts of tender power, - 
 Thoughts that ascend, like angels beautiful, 
 A shining Jacob's-ladder of the mind ! "
 
 PAUL H. HAVNE. 237 
 
 X. 
 
 Spirits there are inwrought with vilest clay, 
 Which bear no God-like stamp of heavenly art, 
 Whose envious instincts writhe with bitter smart 
 Whene'er they feel some worthier nature's sway. 
 
 Ah ! who so basely-born, so curst as they ! — - 
 Poor reptiles ! — whose envenomed passions dart 
 Back to transfix their own corrupted heart, 
 And speed the progress of the soul's decay. 
 
 We pity such, yet loathe them. Who can keep 
 His honest scorn unspoken, should he see 
 These human vipers strive their fangs to steep 
 
 In the soul-blood of fame's Nobility ? 
 
 Who but is glad when the swift lightnings leap 
 Of withering wrath, to blast them utterly .''
 
 238 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 I. 
 
 THE MASTER BARDS. 
 
 Ye mighty masters of the song sublime, 
 
 Who, phantom-like, with large unwavering eyes, 
 
 Stalk down the solemn wilderness of Time, 
 
 Reading the mystery of the future skies ; 
 
 O, scorn not earth because it is not heaven ; 
 
 Nor shake the dust against us of your feet. 
 
 Because we have rejected what was given ! 
 
 Still let your tongues the wondrous theme repeat ! 
 
 Though ye be friendless in this solitude, 
 
 Quick-winged thoughts from many an unborn year, 
 
 God-sent, shall feed ye with prolific food, 
 
 Like those blest birds which fed the ancient seer ; 
 
 And Inspiration, like a wheeled flame, 
 
 Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame !
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 239 
 
 IT. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thy rise was as the morning, glorious, bright ! 
 And Error vanished like the affrighted dark ; 
 While many a soul, as the aspiring lark, 
 Waked by thy dawn soared singing to the light, 
 Drowning in gladdest song the earth's despite ! 
 And Beauty blossomed in all lowly nooks : 
 Love, like a river made of nameless brooks. 
 Grew and exulted in thy wakening sight : 
 All nature hailed thee as a risen sun ; 
 Nor will thy setting blur her thankful eyes ! 
 While earth remains thy day shall not be done, 
 Nor cloud dispread to blot thy matchless skies ; — 
 When Death's command, like Joshua's, shall arise, 
 Thou 'It stand as stood the Sun of Gibeon.
 
 240 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 It is the season when the light of dreams 
 
 Around the year in golden glory lies ; — 
 
 The heavens are full of floating mysteries, 
 
 And down the lake the veile'd splendor beams. 
 
 Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams, 
 
 Mantled with mysteries of their own romance, 
 
 While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance. 
 
 The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams, 
 
 Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake. 
 
 Here the frail maples and the faithful firs 
 
 By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake 
 
 Skirts the low pool ; and starred with open burrs 
 
 The chestnut stands. But when the north-wind stirs, 
 
 How like an arme'd host the summoned scene shall wake !
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 241 
 
 IV. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Though others know thee by a fonder name, 
 I, in my heart, have christened thee anew ; 
 And though thy beauty in its native hue, 
 Shedding the radiance of whence it came, 
 May not bequeath to language its high claim. 
 Thy smiling presence, like an angel's wing, 
 Fans all my soul of poesy to flame, 
 Till even in remembering I must sing. 
 Such led the grand old Tuscan's longing eyes 
 Through all the crystal rounds of Paradise ; 
 And, in my spirit's farthest journeying. 
 Thy smile of courage leads me up the skies, 
 Through realms of song, of beauty, and of bliss ; 
 And therefore have I named thee Beatrice ! 
 
 VOL. II. 16
 
 242 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 SONNETS TO WINTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON. 
 
 OLD WINE TO DRINK.* 
 
 Yes ! fill the goblet high with generous wine, 
 As sparkling as the draughts of ancient Massic 
 Or old Falernian made by Horace classic, 
 Brought from the sunny valleys of the Rhine, 
 And throwing off their daughter's brilliant glances, — 
 Just as the diamond, long obscured from sight. 
 With all the rays it last absorbed is bright. 
 This wine, as o'er the festal board it dances, 
 Gives back the flashes from the beaming eye 
 Of the brown vineyard beauty, on our meeting : 
 Fill up ! to friends a kind, a cordial greeting. 
 And though December's winds may rustle by. 
 And lead the bowlings of the furious storm. 
 Our faces kindle and our hearts are warm. 
 
 * It was a remark of one of the Spanish kings, that the four great- 
 est blessings in life were, Old Wine to drink, Old Wood to bum, 
 Old Books to read, and Old Friends to love.
 
 SONNETS TO WINTER. 243 
 
 II. 
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 OLD WOOD TO BURN. 
 
 Old wood to burn ! — hew down the highest trunk 
 On Alleghanian ridges, seen afar — 
 A monarch crowned with his imperial star — 
 
 Against the crimson where the sun has sunk. 
 
 The sharp axe glittering in his kingly heart 
 
 Sends echo ringing through the golden woods, — 
 And then a crashing fall ! —   like bursting floods 
 
 When roar the surges, and great mountains part ! 
 
 The dim year wanes ; I see an in-door sight, — 
 Bright faces gathered round a blazing fire 
 At Yule or Pentecost when, rising higher, 
 
 The frolic-mirth draws gladness from the light 
 Of that old oak that towering once so vast 
 Laughed at the storm, and whistled at the blast !
 
 244 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON. 
 
 OLD BOOKS TO READ. 
 
 Reach from their dusty places of repose 
 A Virgil's lay or " Livy's pictured page," 
 The varied lore of an Augustan age, — 
 
 What visions panoramic they disclose ! 
 
 With o'er-attentive faculties we hear 
 
 The wandering minstrelsy of Scio's bard, — 
 Poor houseless tenant of a life ill-starred, — 
 
 Or catch the minster-music of the seer 
 
 Chanting of Paradise " and all our woe." 
 
 Then, with the Christian pilgrim for our guide. 
 We safely pass the dark and bridgeless tide 
 
 To Beulah's land, where flowerets ever blow. 
 Of Shakespeare's heroes trace the storied line, 
 Or weigh the mercies of the Book divine !
 
 SONNETS TO WINTER. 245 
 
 IV. 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS TO LOVE. 
 
 Old friends to love ! — true soul bound to true soul 
 With olden memories, and traces dear 
 Of the dead past, claiming the happy tear 
 
 That still at sight of each will fondly roll ! 
 
 Old friends ! No sycophants of yesterday, 
 With smiles and protestations never done, 
 Bright summer-flies, true " lovers of the sun " 
 
 And all who bask beneath the golden ray. 
 
 Old friends ! who on the battle-field of life. 
 When closed the serried hosts in stormy fight, 
 Have raised the buckler Friendship strong and bright, 
 
 And borne us bleeding from the mortal strife. 
 
 Who heart-whole, pure in faith, once -^xiXXoxv friend^ 
 In life and death are true, unto the end !
 
 246 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 At last, beloved Nature, I have met 
 Thee face to face upon thy breezy hills, 
 And boldly, where thy inmost bowers were set. 
 Gazed on thee naked in thy mountain rills : 
 When first I felt thy breath upon my brow. 
 Tears of strange ecstasy gushed out like rain, 
 And with a longing passionate as vain 
 I strove to clasp thee. But I know not how, 
 Always before me didst thou seem to glide. 
 And often from one sunny mountain-side 
 Upon the next bright peak I saw thee kneel, 
 And heard thy voice upon the billowy blast, — 
 But climbing, only reached that shrine to feel 
 The shadow of a Presence which had passed.
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 247 
 
 II. 
 
 Fate ! seek me out some lake far off and lone, 
 Shut in by wooded hills that steeply rise, 
 And beautiful with blue, inverted skies, 
 Where not a breeze but comes with softened tone. 
 And if the waves awake, they only moan 
 With a low, sullen music like the rills 
 That have their home among those happy hills ; 
 And let me find — there left by hands unknown — 
 
 A bark with rifted sides, and threadbare sail, 
 Just strong enough to bear me from the shore, 
 But not to reach its tree-girt harbor more ! 
 O happy, happy rest ! O world of wail ! 
 How calmly I would tempt the peaceful deep, 
 And sink with smiling brow into the dreamless sleep !
 
 248 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Are these wild thoughts thus fettered in my rhymes 
 
 Indeed the product of my heart and brain? 
 
 How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain 
 
 Falls like faint memories of far-off times ! 
 
 When did I feel the sorrow, act the part 
 
 Which I have striven to shadow forth in song ? 
 
 In what dead century swept that mingled throng 
 
 Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart ? 
 
 Not in the yesterdays of that still life 
 
 Which I have passed so free and far from strife, 
 
 But somewhere in this weary world I know, 
 
 In some strange land, beneath some Orient clime, 
 
 I saw, or shared a martyrdom sublime. 
 
 And felt a deeper grief than any later woe.
 
 ' HENRY TIMROD. 249 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mary ! I dare not call thy charms divine, 
 But all the sweetest qualities of earth, 
 Which constitute an humbler, holier worth, 
 Grace, gayety, and gentleness are thine. 
 A grace more glorious than the grace of form. 
 And moulding less thy motions than thy mind ; 
 A gayety not thoughtless or unkind, — 
 Wild, and yet winning, womanly and warm ; 
 A gentleness of heart that is not weakness, 
 Persuasive, potent, beautiful in meekness : 
 Only at times, in some excited hour, 
 A flash that lights the darkness of thine eyes, 
 Reveals a secret and a deeper power, — 
 A spirit he has hardiness who tries.
 
 250 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Which are the clouds, and which the mountains ? See, 
 
 They mix and melt together ! Yon blue hill 
 
 Looks fleeting as the vapors which distil 
 
 Their dews upon its summit, while the free 
 
 And far-off clouds, now solid, dark, and still, 
 
 An aspect wear of calm eternity. 
 
 Each seems the other, as our fancies will, 
 
 The cloud a mount, the mount a cloud, and we 
 
 Gaze doubtfully. So everywhere on earth — 
 
 This foothold, where we stand, with slipping feet — 
 
 The unsubstantial and substantial meet ; 
 
 And we are fooled until made wise by Time. 
 
 Is not the obvious lesson something worth, 
 
 Lady ? or have I woven an idle rhyme ?
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 25 I 
 
 VI. 
 
 (Written on a small sheet of note-paper upon which a lady had requested the 
 author to indite some verses.) 
 
 Were I the Poet Laureate of the Fairies, 
 Who in a rose-leaf finds too broad a page, 
 Or could I, like your beautiful canaries. 
 Sing with free heart and happy, in a cage. 
 Perhaps I might within this little space 
 (As in some Eastern tale by magic power 
 A giant is imprisoned in a flower) 
 Have told you something with a poet's grace ; 
 But I need wider limits, ampler scope, 
 A world of freedom for a world of passion, 
 And even then the glory of my hope 
 Would not be uttered in its stateliest fashion ; 
 Yet, lady ! when fit language shall have told it. 
 You '11 find one little heart enough to hold it.
 
 252 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 WILLIAM H. TIMROD. 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL DAY IN CAROLINA. 
 
 Sleeps the soft South, nursing its deUcate breath 
 
 To fan the first buds of the early spring ; 
 
 And Summer, sighing, mourns his faded wreath, 
 
 Its many-colored glories withering 
 
 Beneath the kisses of the new-waked North, — 
 
 Who yet in storms approaches not, but smiles 
 
 On the departing season, and breathes forth 
 
 A fragrance as of summer, — till at whiles 
 
 All that is sweetest in the varying year 
 
 Seems softly blent in one delicious hour ; 
 
 Waking dim visions of some former sphere 
 
 Where sorrows, such as earth owns, had no power 
 
 To veil the changeless lustre of the skies. 
 
 And mind and matter formed one Paradise.
 
 WILLIAM H. TIMROD. 253 
 
 11. 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Sarah ! throbbed not thy young heart on that day 
 
 With innocent triumph, when the youthful throng, 
 
 With rites of ancient usage, and sweet song, 
 
 Had crowned thee Queen of verdant-mantled May ? 
 
 And not unmeet thy triumph, — for the voice 
 
 Of thy young peers, which singled thee from all, 
 
 To circle with the rural coronal. 
 
 Spoke merit in the Queen of their free choice ! 
 
 But still remember, Sarah, thou canst find 
 
 No lasting joy in earthly diadems. 
 
 Whether of flowers composed, or costly gems : 
 
 Those fade, and these oft dazzle but to blind ; 
 
 And we must look to other worlds than this 
 
 For crowns of real and abiding bliss.
 
 254 
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 I. 
 
 TO A CLAM. 
 Dum tacent clatnznt. 
 
 Inglorious friend I most confident I am 
 
 Thy life is one of very little ease ; 
 
 Albeit men mock thee with their similes, 
 And prate of being " happy as a clam " ! 
 What though thy shell protects thy fragile head 
 
 From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea ? 
 
 Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, 
 While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, 
 And bear thee off, — as foemen take their spoil, - 
 
 Far from thy friends and family to roam ; 
 
 Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home. 
 To meet destruction in a foreign broil ! 
 
 Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard 
 
 Declares, O clam ! thy case is shocking hard !
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 255 
 
 II. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 Nay, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead ; 
 
 He hves again in heaven's unclouded life. 
 With other angels that have early fled 
 
 From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife ; 
 Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love 
 
 Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers, 
 And e'en deny to brighter realms above 
 
 The few that deck this dreary world of ours : 
 Though much it seems a wonder and a woe 
 
 That one so loved should be so early lost, 
 And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow 
 
 To mourn the blossom that we cherished most, — 
 Yet all is well : God's good design I see. 
 That where our treasure is, our hearts may be !
 
 256 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN R. TAIT. 
 
 I. 
 
 TO A POET, WITH A COPY OF VERSES. 
 
 Do you remember how that once from Rome 
 I sent you a poor wild-flower ? tribute small 
 To your great kindness ! yet upon the wall 
 
 It grew, where bends the blue aerial dome 
 
 Above the Colosseum ; and the loam 
 
 That gave it life was sacred ; and o'er all 
 Reigned present the grand Past imperial ! 
 
 And you disdained not the poor scentless bloom. 
 
 Thus may it be with these poor songs of mine, — 
 Less mine than Italy's, born of her skies, 
 
 Rocked to the rhythm of the swaying vine, 
 And nurtured where all night the rose replies 
 
 In perfumed whisperings, while all the vale 
 
 Rings with the joy of the enamored nightingale !
 
 JOHN R. TAIT. 257 
 
 II. 
 
 WRITTEN AT VALLOMBROSA. 
 
 The piny perfume of the mountain air ; 
 
 The brook's abandon on the rocky steep ; 
 
 The rusthng leaves ; the tangled vines, where peep 
 (Like black eyes gleaming through an Oread's hair) 
 Large, luscious more 'mid the wild-flowers rare ; 
 
 The solemn forest aisles, where winds asleep 
 
 Whisper their dreamy aves, or in deep 
 Cathedral tones awake to choral prayer, 
 While like an echo sounds the pious choir 
 
 In the near cloisters ; — this — so grand, so lone. 
 So sad ! — is Vallombrosa. Gazing higher, 
 
 The purple peaks glow in the dying sun — 
 So beautiful ! my daring thoughts aspire, 
 
 And dwell with Milton on his cloudy throne ! 
 
 VOL. II. 17
 
 258 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO 
 
 Have you forgotten the blest eve we sate, 
 Awed by the tremulous murmur of the leaves, 
 Rustling above us from low beechen eaves ? — 
 
 You twining violets, with calm eyes, as Fate 
 
 Serenely weaves our woof predestinate. 
 
 Dear flowers, the symbols of my future years ! 
 All my heart's impulses, its hopes and fears, 
 
 Heaved through my broken utterance. As the weight 
 
 Of fresh-fallen rain-drops bends some gentle flower, 
 Thus drooped your fair cheek towards me with its 
 
 tears, 
 When (like a dream the memory appears) 
 
 I dared to kiss you. In a purple shower 
 Neglected fell the violets. How bright 
 Seemed the red sunset, and the moon that night !
 
 JOHN R. TAIT. 259 
 
 IV. 
 
 The years, swift waves upon the sea of Time, 
 Melt into foam behind me ; a lone bark, 
 My soul leaps fearless in the future dark, 
 
 Love the sweet impulse, Fame the goal sublime. 
 
 The summer seas of Youth are passed, and now 
 The future of uncertain joy or wreck 
 Can fright not Hope, the emperor of the deck, 
 
 Who holds the helm, with Prudence at the prow. 
 
 And yet to-night with Memory I stand. 
 Like an unwilling passenger, and gaze 
 
 With heart-sick longings at my native land, 
 
   And count the billows of long-vanished days. 
 The fading path with spectral fires ablaze, — 
 
 The Past's dread history traced in God's own hand.
 
 26o AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 POETS. 
 
 O, THERE are gentle souls on earth imbued 
 With love of man and nature's loveliness, 
 
 Who, like fair trees uprising 'mid a wood, 
 
 Grow toward heaven, the while they ever bless 
 With pleasing shade and liberal fruitfulness 
 
 The seeker at their feet. Warm gratitude 
 Be theirs, and theirs the soft caress 
 
 Of gentlest zephyrs ; be their solitude 
 
 Made populous with angels, all sublime 
 
 Their history, and when the woodmen come. 
 
 Transplanting them to that far sunnier clime 
 Where Eden's bays will rustle welcomes home, 
 Then may their lives, as some grand epic tome, 
 
 Close with a lofty hope, like an immortal rhyme.
 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT. 26 1 
 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT. 
 
 LEARNING PRAYERS. 
 
 The sweet pure mother, wearing through the dust 
 
 Her heaven-white garment of fresh Christian love 
 Silent about her, while her patient trust 
 
 O'er cloudland sings — one sunlit bird above — 
 Through twilight's hushing gold bends sweet and lowly 
 
 Down on her little children, making prayers 
 Grow in their hearts, while their low voices slowly 
 
 Send little angels heavenward unawares : 
 So Nature, a sweet mother, o'er us bends, 
 
 Through this dim eve of an eternal day ; 
 Whispers love-words, till gushing light ascends, — 
 
 Prayer's hidden fountain in the heart that lay ; 
 And heaven's mild dew into our dream descends. 
 
 While, flame-like, close tired eyes, waiting morn's 
 golden ray.
 
 262 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 C. E. DA PONTE. 
 A lover's sonnet. 
 
 Hasten, soft wind, and when amid the gay 
 She moves with eyes of caln \nd tender light, 
 And forehead pale as foam-lit waves at night, 
 
 And voice harmonious as the warbling lay 
 
 Of birds that usher in the fragrant May, 
 
 Whisper, soft wind, that she remains the bright 
 Pure empress of this heart, whose sole delight 
 
 Is thus to muse on moments past away ; 
 O, whisper this and tell how little I 
 
 Have known of joy since last I saw her face, 
 
 How the bright stars, lamps of yon changing sky, 
 
 Woods, streams, and every secret place, 
 
 Bear witness to my truth ; yes, murmur this, then die 
 
 On those fair lips, bright opening buds of grace.
 
 263 
 
 H. 
 
 TO k 
 
 I. 
 
 Now tripping forth, the fairy-footed Spnng 
 Awakens bud and bloom, and, liberal, fills 
 The air with balm, mantling the sunny hills 
 
 With living green. The purple martins wing 
 
 Their wheeling course, and, twittering sharply, sing 
 In treble notes a strange and keen delight ; 
 And as they upward soar in airy flight, 
 
 Shrill through the sapphire arch their pseans ring. 
 
 O sweetheart mine ! shall I unfold the theme 
 
 Bird, bud, and blossom teach our swelling hearts ? 
 
 Thy tell-tale blush replies ! Nor idle deem 
 Nor slight the lesson Nature thus imparts, 
 
 While even Zephyr from his flight above. 
 
 Stooping to kiss thy cheek, sighs tenderly of Love !
 
 264 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 TO 
 
 2. 
 
 Nay, chide me not that I am jealous, love ; 
 
 For in my doting fondness I am grown 
 
 A very miser of the beauties thrown 
 Profusely round thee from the gods above : 
 I 'm even jealous of the pliant glove 
 
 Embracing oft thy slight and fairy hand. 
 
 And of sly Zephyr, with his whisper bland, 
 Who steals a-wooing from the budding grove, 
 And dallies o'er thy cheek with soft caress, 
 
 And of the ray that trembles as it glows 
 Upon thy fresh lips' loveliness ; — 
 
 For that dear hand I would with mine enclose, 
 And lip and cheek I would were mine alone. 
 And mine the only heart that thou wouldst wish to own.
 
 H. 265 
 
 TO . 
 
 3- 
 
 Come, dear one, smile consent ! Thy fair young brow 
 Was never arched for stern Denial's frown. 
 Could angels glance like April sunbeams down 
 
 From their high thrones, where burning splendors glow, 
 
 To this cold sphere, cloud-mantled, far below, 
 As April suns awake the budding flower. 
 And from its sweet cup quaff the dropping shower, 
 
 Warmed by their breath would young Love's roses glow, 
 
 From Feeling's flushing cheek they 'd kiss the tear, 
 And words of comfort to the worn heart tell ; 
 
 And art not thou, my life, their sister dear ? 
 Then in thy soul let kindred kindness dwell, — 
 
 Unfold the wings stretched o'er thy bosom fair 
 
 And let my wearied spirit nestle there !
 
 266 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 TO 
 
 Come, dearest, to my heart. My soul and thine 
 
 A strange, ethereal, soft attraction feel : 
 Where'er I rove, my thoughts to thee incline ; 
 
 Whate'er my purpose, still to thee I steal ; 
 
 If in the temple to my God I kneel. 
 My prayers for pardon blend with prayers for thee ; 
 
 If on my senses slumber sets her seal, 
 My dreaming spirit seeks thee, wild and free ; 
 If in each other's presence blessed we stand. 
 
 Nearer and nearer still with smiles we move, 
 Soul melts with soul, as hand is joined in hand. 
 
 And throb and thrill attest the loadstar, love, — 
 Bright, burning mystery ! unknown to art, 
 But ever gently thus attracting heart to heart.
 
 JEDIDIAH VINCENT HUNTINGTON. 267 
 
 JEDIDIAH VINCENT HUNTINGTON. 
 
 ON READING BRYANT'S POEM OF "THE WINDS." 
 
 Ye -wdnds ! whose various voices in his lay 
 That bard interpreted, — your utterance mild, 
 Nor less your ministration, fierce and wild. 
 Of those resistless laws which ye obey 
 In your apparent lawlessness, — O, say, 
 Is not your will-less agency reviled 
 "When it is likened unto what is styled 
 By such unwise, The Spirit of the Day ? 
 Not all the islands by tornadoes swept, 
 E'er knew such ruin as befalls a state. 
 When not the winds of God, but mortal breath, 
 With threatening sweetness of melodious hate, 
 Assaults the fabrics reverent ages kept 
 To shelter ancient loyalty and faith.
 
 268 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 I. 
 
 O FRIEND ! whose genial spirit, by the gift 
 
 Of a most bounteous nature, flings a shower 
 
 Of magic light along life's shadowed hour ; 
 
 As when day's sovereign lord, behind the rift 
 
 Of summer's brooding cloud, but looks, to lift 
 
 Incumbent heaviness from earth and sky, 
 
 With the bright beam of his exulting eye ; 
 
 Think not the spirit's course, whose silent drift 
 
 Flows on more calmly than the sparkling stream, 
 
 Is sad though thoughtful, or must therefore seem 
 
 From secret care, to need some healing shrift ; 
 
 Thine be, forever fresh and never coy, 
 
 The soul's bright mood ; — yet not less cheerful deem 
 
 The steadfast lustre of a sober joy !
 
 GEORGE LUNT. 269 
 
 II. 
 
 A STATESMAN. 
 
 Stanch at thy post, to meet life's common doom, 
 It scarce seems death, to die as thou hast died ; 
 Thy duty done, thy truth, strength, courage, tried, 
 And all things ripe for the fulfilling tomb ! 
 A crown would mock thy hearse's sable gloom. 
 Whose virtues raised thee higher than a throne, 
 Whose faults were erring nature's, not his own, — 
 Such be thy sentence, writ with fame's bright plume, 
 Amongst the good and great ; for thou wast great. 
 In thought, word, deed, —. like mightiest ones of old, — 
 Full of the honest truth which makes men bold, 
 Wise, pure, firm, just ; — the noblest Roman's state 
 Became not more a ruler of the free, 
 Than thy plain life, high thoughts, and matchless con- 
 stancy !
 
 270 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 HENRY LYNDEN FLASH. 
 
 ADELE. 
 
 'T WOULD seem the Fairies, to excite surprise 
 Among us mortals, had endowed Adele 
 With baby-sprites that frolicked in her eyes, 
 As erst they did upon some lily-bell : 
 So gay and arch the lovely maiden seems, 
 My heart recalls the creature of its dreams 
 In days that now are past, — the long-ago, 
 When in my sleep I saw her, graceful, play 
 Among the violets and roses gay, 
 In flowery vales where now the thistles grow. 
 The beauty of my dreams has come again. 
 And Joy is ringing out pale Sorrow's knell, — 
 The chimes are echoed in this simple strain ; 
 Wilt thou accept it, beautiful Adele ?
 
 ALBERT LAIGHTON. 27 1 
 
 ALBERT LAIGHTON. 
 
 Night and its dews come silently to earth, 
 
 Like kindred mourners to the grave of Day ; 
 
 The stars look on with pale and throbbing ray, 
 
 As if through tears to watch them on their way : 
 
 O holy Night ! what thoughts awake to birth, 
 
 That slumber in the day, amid its din 
 
 And restless strife for gain, — its glare and sin ! 
 
 But Night ! care-soothing Night ! — O, I would win 
 
 Thy crown of peace, and wear it on my brow ; 
 
 Here, at thy starry throne I bend my knee. 
 
 All weak and humbled. I look up to thee, 
 
 And bless thee for the joy thou giv'st me now, — 
 
 A joy so hushed and deep, I tremble, lest 
 
 Dream-like, it fade away within my breast !
 
 272 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHILLABER. 
 
 I. 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF LILLIE. < 
 
 A TRUTHFUL page is childhood's lovely face, 
 
 Whereon sweet Innocence has record made, — 
 An outward semblance of the young heart's grace, 
 
 Where truth, and love, and trust are all portrayed. 
 O blessed childhood ! Like the wakening day, 
 
 The auroral flash bespeaks thy rising sun, 
 And spreads a roseate tint about thy way. 
 
 And Hope's gay blossoms open one by one. 
 Sweet Lillie ! As I gaze upon thy brow, 
 
 I feel my heart expanding into prayer. 
 That happiness may e'er maintain as now 
 
 The truthful seeming it exhibits there ; 
 May after life no bitterness impart, 
 But lie, as now, like sunshine round thy heart !
 
 BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHILLABER. 273 
 
 II. 
 
 DOMESTIC. 
 
 It smiles ! Around its dimpling mouth see play 
 
 The first glad token of a dawning love, 
 Like the bright glow of newly-wakening day, 
 
 Or some new glory breaking from above. 
 It smiles ! O rapture ! and the mother's heart 
 
 Beats with quick pleasure its bright gleam to see. 
 Springing from dawning consciousness, whose part 
 
 In after years her crowning joy may be. 
 There 's not a bright creation under heaven, 
 
 There 's not a pure in heaven or in earth, 
 There 's not an ecstasy to mortals given. 
 
 There 's not a thing of most exalted worth. 
 Can, in a mother's plenitude of joy. 
 Excel that first smile of her darling boy ! 
 
 VOU II. 18
 
 2 74 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 CHURCH MUSIC. 
 
 O, DEARLY do I love the organ's pealing, 
 With psalm-tune holy or with anthem grand, 
 The while I drum the measure with my hand. 
 
 And gaze devoutly at the frescoed ceiling 
 
 Where modern Angelos have spent their skill. 
 And mimic niche and pillar make display, 
 And shadows fling themselves in every way. 
 
 In independence of the sun's high will. 
 
 I love to hear the voice and organ blending, 
 And pouring on the air a cloud of sound, 
 Until, as with a spell, my soul is bound, 
 
 And every faculty is heavenward tending. 
 
 Bang goes a cricket ! Squalls a child, sonorous ; 
 And earth's harsh discord drowns the heavenly chorus !
 
 BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHILLABER. 275 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 Now white and beautiful creation lies, 
 
 Nursing its struggling germs beneath the veil ; 
 On rushing wings the fairy snow-flake flies, 
 
 Urged by the breath of the on-hurrying gale. 
 Now jingling bells thrill wildly on the ear, 
 
 As vying coursers dart along the way, 
 Now rise in chorus tones of blithest cheer, 
 
 As beams the moon with calm, untroubled ray. 
 I bless the snow ! How fair its glittering sheen, 
 
 How pure and holy is its pearly light ! 
 Clad in its robe, the earth looks like a queen 
 
 In the chaste vesture of her bridal night. 
 T is passing fair, — yet hardly fair is that, — 
 An avalanche, confound it, crushes in ray hat !
 
 276 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 MOONSHINE. 
 
 Roll on, bright Moon ! And if we bid or not, 
 It would, undoubtedly, as ever shine. 
 How sweetly on yon bank its beams recline, 
 
 A radiant glory hallowing the spot. 
 
 Revealing rock and shrub in mystic show. 
 The tall trees rising steeple-like and high, 
 Their forms disclosed against the western sky, 
 
 And flowers, moon-tinted there amid the glow ; 
 
 Revealing lovers, vowing by that moon 
 Eternal fealty, everlasting truth, 
 And hosts of pretty oaths impelled by youth, 
 
 Rapidly made, and broken full as soon ! 
 Revealing, too, 'mid country autumn airs, 
 Young men and roguish maidens " hooking " pears.
 
 BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHIJ-LABER. 277 
 
 VL 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 'Neath the mild beauty of a summer night, 
 I leave my chamber to enjoy the air, — 
 To feel its eddies circling in my hair, 
 
 And feel it kiss my brow in wild delight. 
 The starry gems bestud the concave high ; 
 
 blessed Stars ! on you I fix my eye, 
 
 And long for your bright spheres to take my flight. 
 Beneath o'erlacing elms, shut out from sight, 
 
 1 stray, my head reclined upon my breast, — 
 My thoughts away, away amid the blest, — 
 
 The world forgot, in my abstractions, quite. 
 
 Hark ! there 's a sound of earth, a note of bliss, — 
 
 A most ecstatic smack, I wis, — 
 
 Borne to my ear from darkness, comes a lover's kiss !
 
 278 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 TO AN AUTUMN ROSE. 
 
 Tell her I love her, — love her for those eyes, 
 
 Now soft with feehng, radi;ip.t now with mirth, 
 Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies. 
 
 Reveal two heavens here to us on earth, — • 
 The one in which their soulful beauty lies, 
 
 And that wherein such soulfulness has birth. 
 Go to my lady, ere the season flies, 
 And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast, — 
 Go ! and with all of eloquence thou hast, 
 
 The burning story of my love discover ; 
 
 And if the theme should fail, alas ! to move her, 
 Tell her when youth's gay budding time is past, 
 
 And summer's gaudy flowering is over. 
 Like thee, my love will blossom to the last !
 
 ANONYMOUS. 2 79 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 I. 
 
 O'er the far waters floats the boatman's song, 
 
 Timed by the faint fall of the distant oar • 
 The fitful surges roll their waves along, 
 
 With hoarse and wrathful murmurings to the shore ; 
 Through the rent woof of fleecy clouds afar 
 
 Steals on my soul like evening's holy close, 
 The lovely lustrous light of a lone star. 
 
 Heralding the Night-Queen to her sweet repose : 
 Yet all this fairy scene hath left no power. 
 
 No balm to bring my burdened heart relief. 
 Sitting alone in midnight's witching hour. 
 
 Bowed by the spell of an o'ermastering grief. 
 While half the world lies wrapped in slumber deep, 
 Calm as the moon's pale beams that on these waters sleep.
 
 28o AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO POESY. 
 
 Wonderful Spirit ! — whose eternal shrine 
 Is in great poets' souls, whose voice doth send 
 High truths and dreams prophetic without end 
 Into the blind world from those founts divine, — 
 Deep adoration from such souls is thine ; 
 But I have loved thee, spirit, as a friend, 
 Wooed thee, in pensive leisure, but to lend 
 Thy sweetness to this wayward heart of mine. 
 And charm my lone thoughts into joyousness. 
 And I have found that thou canst lay aside 
 Thy terrors and thy glory and thy pride ; 
 Quit thy proud temples for a calm recess 
 
 In lowly hearts, and dream sweet hours away, 
 Winning from sterner thoughts a frequent holiday.
 
 ANONYMOUS. 28 1 
 
 III. 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 As some lone wanderer, in a darksome vale 
 
 Where towering mountains all in gloom enclose, 
 
 Stands through the night, and sees the chill stars pale, 
 
 In outer darkness, all their mellow glows ; 
 
 At once beholds a flood of light that flows 
 
 Through some high portal in the mountain's side, 
 
 Bathing in brightness all the valley wide, 
 
 And through that gate celestial, far unfold 
 
 The vista, radiant in molten gold, 
 
 The trees and flowers, gay-decked in pearly dews, 
 
 And crystal streams through grassy meadows rolled. 
 
 And Nature, glorious in her myriad hues : 
 
 So, in life's vale, I lift mine eyes to thee, 
 
 Whose love brought light when all was gloom to me !
 
 282 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 Hark, from afar, the sound of Sabbath bells ! 
 In solemn music pealing through the air ! 
 Again the day of rest these notes declare ; 
 And as their harmony uprising swells, 
 A voice from universal Nature tells 
 How sweetly in the anthem she doth share. 
 Soft breezes whisper to the heavens fair ; 
 A peaceful murmur by the seaside dwells. 
 The melody of birds, the hum of bees, 
 The dew-drop falling from the buds of spring, 
 Each rustling leaf upon the forest trees. 
 Join in the strain. Now myriad angels sing : 
 " Prepare, ye mortals, all your jubilees. 
 And swell hosannahs to the Eternal King." 
 
 V,
 
 ANONYMOUS. 28^ 
 
 TO A CLOUD. 
 
 Thou gorgeous cloud, in gold and purple furled, 
 In thy career I read a mystery ; 
 For, like the gilded hopes of this strange world, 
 Thou art delusion ; yet I gaze on thee. 
 As if thou wert what thou dost seem to be, 
 Rolling along the heavens, — a golden car. 
 'T were fine, amid the stars a wanderer free, 
 To lie within thy folds, and look afar 
 Over the teeming land and sparkling sea ! 
 How pleasant from thy bosom to descry 
 You monarch mountain that doth tower so high, 
 A speck, — diminished to the distant eye, — 
 And cataracts, that pall the ear and sight, 
 Twinkling like tiny dew-drops in the light !
 
 FEMALE SONNETEERS 
 
 OF AMERICA.
 
 FEMALE SONNETEERS. 
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 
 I. 
 
 EXPRESSIONLESS. 
 
 HE thoughts which in this aching bosom dwell, 
 And weigh it with a sad, desponding weight, — 
 Like ship unbuoyant with her heavy freight, 
 Whose ploughing hull retards the pressing swell 
 Of homeward-urging sail, — within their cell, 
 Nameless and wordless, struggle with their fate 
 And yield but one deep plain, — too late ! too late ! 
 Then falter into silence. It is well ! 
 Ah, could our lips embody all the grace 
 
 And garnered beauty of the inmost soul, 
 Earth were no more a blank, impeding place. 
 
 But, loosed from bonds perpetual, hymns would roll. 
 Thou God ! most good, in each our lips to bind ; — 
 For what were earth, did all our woe expression find !
 
 288 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 Meseemed as I did walk a crystal wall 
 Translucent in the hue of rosy morn, 
 And saw Eurydice, from Orpheus torn, 
 
 Lift her white brow from out its heavy pall, 
 
 With sweet lips echoing his melodious call, 
 
 And following him, love-led and music-borne, — 
 A sharp and broken cry, and she was gone ! 
 
 Thou fairest grief, thou saddest type of all 
 Our sorrowing kind ! O lost Eurydice ! 
 
 Thy deathful cry thrilled in mine every vein, 
 
 When Orpheus turned him back, thus losing thee. 
 
 His broken lute and melancholy plain 
 
 All time prolongs, — the still unceasing flow 
 Of unavailing grief, and a regretful woe.
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 289 
 
 III. 
 
 POiESY. 
 
 With no fond, sickly thirst for fame I kneel, 
 
 goddess of the high-born art, to thee ; 
 Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal 
 
 1 come, O pure and heaven-eyed Poesy ! 
 Thou art to me a spirit and a love. 
 
 Felt ever from the time when first the earth 
 
 In its green beauty, and the sky above. 
 
 Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
 
 I was a child of thine before my tongue 
 
 Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee ; 
 
 And now, albeit from my harp are flung 
 
 Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
 That which I would not, yet I know that thou 
 The offering wilt not spurn, while thus to thee I bow. 
 
 VOL. II. 19
 
 290 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AN INCIDENT. 
 
 A SIMPLE thing, yet chancing as it did, 
 When life was bright with its illusive dreams, 
 A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid. 
 The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams 
 That lingering draped the west, a wavering stir ; 
 And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill : 
 An eagle, high above the darkling fir, 
 With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill 
 Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. 
 O noble bird ! why didst thou loose for me 
 Thy eagle plume ? still unessayed, unknown. 
 Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee : 
 
 I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine ; 
 
 I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine !
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 29 1 
 
 V. 
 
 THE UNATTAINED. 
 
 And is this life ? and are we born for this ? — 
 
 To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, 
 
 Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp 
 To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss 
 
 Were doomed death's shuddering touch alone to meet. 
 O Life ! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss ? 
 
 Must still The Unattained beguile our feet ? 
 The Unattained with yearnings fill the breast, 
 
 That rob for aye the spirit of its rest ? 
 Yes, this is Life ; and everywhere we meet, 
 Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat ; 
 
 Yet faint thou not : thou dost apply a test, 
 That shall incite thee onward, upward still : 
 The present cannot sate, nor e'er thy spirit fill.
 
 292 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 
 
 In its small cage, she moveth to and fro ; 
 
 And ever and anon will upward spring 
 
 To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
 
 The murmured melody of pleasant thought, 
 
 Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low. 
 
 Light household duties, evermore inwrought 
 
 With placid fancies of one trusting heart 
 
 That lives but in her smile, and turns 
 
 From life's cold seeming and the busy mart, 
 
 With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns 
 
 To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. 
 
 Shut out from hence, the mockery of life, 
 
 Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 293 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I DREAMED last night, that I myself did lay 
 
 Within the grave, and after stood and wept. 
 
 My spirit son-owed where its aslies slept ! 
 'T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may 
 
 Prefigure that which is akin to truth. 
 
 How sorrow we o'er perished dreams of youth, 
 High hopes and aspirations doomed to be 
 Crushed and o'ermastered by earth's destiny ! 
 
 Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth, — 
 And that deluding faith, so loath to part, 
 That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart ! 
 
 O, 't is the ashes of such things that wring 
 Tears from the eyes ; hopes like to these depart, 
 
 And we bow down in dread, o'ershadowed by Death's 
 wing.
 
 294 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WAYFARERS. 
 
 Earth careth for her own : the fox lies down 
 In her warm bosom, and it asks no more. 
 The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest, 
 Or, its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown, 
 Circles in airy rounds to heaven's own door, 
 And folds again its plmne upon her breast. 
 Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise. 
 Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred ground. 
 Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dyes. 
 She, kindly mother, liveth in your eyes, 
 And no strange anguish may your lives astound. 
 But ye, O pale, lone watchers for the true, 
 She knoweth not. In her ye have not found 
 Place for your stricken head, wet with the midnight 
 dew.
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 295 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO THE HUDSON. 
 
 O RIVER ! gently as a wayward child 
 
 I saw thee 'mid the moonlight hills at rest, — 
 Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild. 
 
 How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast ! 
 Rude headlands were about thee stooping round, 
 
 As if amid the hills to hold thy stay ; 
 But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, 
 
 Inviting thee from hill and vale away, 
 To mingle thy deep waters with its own ; 
 
 And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide. 
 Onward from echoing hill and valley lone. 
 
 Like thine, O, be my course, — nor turned aside, 
 While listing to the soundings of a land. 
 That, like the ocean-call, invites me to its strand.
 
 296 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 
 I. 
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse 
 
 Thy wondrous spells of wisdom, and of power, 
 And that my voice, and thy immortal verse. 
 
 On listening ears and hearts, I mingled pour, 
 I shrink dismayed, and awful doth appear 
 
 The vain presumption of my own weak deed ; 
 Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near, 
 
 That suddenly I tremble as I read. 
 Thee an invisible auditor I fear. 
 O, if it might be so, my master dear ! 
 
 With what beseeching would I pray to thee. 
 To make me equal to my noble task ! 
 Succor from thee how humbly would I ask. 
 
 Thy worthiest works to utter worthily !
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 297 
 
 II. 
 
 What is my lady like ? thou fain woxildst know. 
 
 A rosy chaplet of fresh apple-bloom, 
 Bound with blue ribbon, lying on the snow. 
 
 What is my lady like ? The violet gloom 
 Of evening, with deep orange light below. 
 
 She 's like the noonday smell of a pine wood ; 
 
 She 's like the sounding of a stormy flood ; 
 She 's like a mountain-top high in the skies, 
 
 To which the day its earliest light doth lend ; 
 
 She 's like a pleasant path without an end ; 
 Like a strange secret, and a sweet surprise ; 
 
 Like a sharp axe of doom, wreathed with blush-roses. 
 
 A casket full of gems whose key one loses ; 
 Like a hard saying, wonderful and wise.
 
 298 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 How passing sad ! Listen, it sings again ! 
 
 Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs 
 The livelong night dost chant that wondrous strain. 
 
 Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows 
 Out of the clouds to hear thee ? Who shall say, 
 Thou lone one, that thy melody is gay ? 
 Let him come hsten now to that one note 
 
 That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again 
 Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, 
 
 With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. 
 I prithee cease thy song ! for from my heart 
 Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start. 
 
 And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain.
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 299 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 If from the height of that celestial sphere 
 Where now thou dwell'st, spirit powerful and sweet ! 
 Thou yet canst love the race that sojourn here, 
 How must thou joy, with pleasure not unmeet 
 For thy exalted state, to know how dear 
 Thy memory is held throughout the earth, 
 Beyond the favored land that gave thee birth. 
 E'en in thy seat in heaven, thou mayst receive 
 Thanks, praise, and love, and wonder ever new. 
 From human hearts, who in thy verse perceive 
 All that humanity calls good and true ; 
 Nor dost thou for each mortal blemish grieve. 
 They from thy glorious works have fallen away, 
 As from thy soul its outward form of clay.
 
 30D AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 By jasper founts, whose falling waters make 
 
 Eternal music to the silent hours ; 
 
 Or 'nea'.h the gloom of solemn cypress bowers, 
 
 Throug'.i whose dark screen no prying sunbeams break 
 
 How oft I dream I see thee wandering, 
 
 With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes, 
 
 And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies. 
 
 And s/:ining tresses of soft rippling gold. 
 
 Like tD some shape, beheld in days of old 
 
 By seer or prophet, when, as poets sing. 
 
 The gods had not forsaken yet the earth. 
 
 But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove ; 
 
 When every breeze was the soft breath of love ; 
 
 When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth. 
 
 And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth.
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. . 30 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 Spirit of all sweet sounds ! who in mid-air 
 
 Sittest enthroned, vouchsafe to hear my prayer ! 
 
 Let all those instruments of music sweet 
 
 That in great Nature's hymn bear burden meet 
 
 Sing round this mossy pillow, where my head 
 
 From the bright noontide sky is sheltered. 
 
 Thou southern wind ! wave, wave thy od'rous wings ; 
 
 O'er your smooth channels gush, ye crystal springs ! 
 
 Ye laughing elves ! that through the rustling corn 
 
 Run chattering ; thou tawny-coated bee, 
 
 Who at thy honey- work sing'st drowsily ; 
 
 And ye, O ye ! who greet the dewy morn, 
 
 And fragrant eventide, with melody. 
 
 Ye wild wood-minstrels, sing my lullaby !
 
 302 . AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Whene'er I recollect the happy time 
 When you and I held converse dear together, 
 There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather. 
 Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime ; 
 Your memory lives forever in my mind 
 With all the fragrant beauties of the spring, 
 With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined, 
 And many a noonday woodland wandering. 
 There 's not a thought of you, but brings along 
 Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky ; 
 'T is wafted on the blackbird's sunset song, 
 Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. 
 And, as I date it still, our love arose 
 'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 303 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Like one who walketh in a plenteous land, 
 
 By flowing waters, under shady trees. 
 
 Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees 
 
 Feed in the thyme and clover ; on each hand 
 
 Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower 
 
 The bounteous season hath poured out its dower ; 
 
 Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light, 
 
 And birds sing thankfully towards heaven, while he 
 
 With a sad heart walks through this jubilee. 
 
 Beholding how, beyond this happy land. 
 
 Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand, 
 
 Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight, 
 
 Where all things dwarf and dwindle, — so walk I, 
 
 Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.
 
 304 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH. 
 
 ON SEEING THE IVORY STATUE OF CHRIST. 
 
 The enthusiast brooding in his cell apart 
 
 O'er the sad image of the Crucified, 
 
 The drooping head, closed lips, and pierced side, 
 A holy vision fills his raptured heart ; 
 
 With heavenly power inspired, his unskilled arm 
 
 Shapes the rude block to this transcendent form. 
 O Son of God ! thus, ever thus, would I 
 
 Dwell on the loveliness enshrined in thee, — 
 
 The lofty faith, the sweet humility. 
 The boundless love, the love that could not die. 
 
 And as the sculptor, with thy glory warm. 
 
 Gives to this chiselled ivory thy fair form. 
 So would my spirit in thy thought divine 
 Grow to a semblance, fair as this, of thine.
 
 ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH. 305 
 
 11. 
 
 The honey-bee, that wanders all day long 
 The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, 
 To gather in his fragrant winter store, 
 Humming in calm content his quiet song, 
 Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast. 
 The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, 
 But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
 The single drop of sweetness closely prest 
 Within the poison chalice. Thus if we 
 Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
 In all the varied human flowers we meet 
 In the wide garden of humanity, 
 
 And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear. 
 Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there. 
 
 VOL. II. 20
 
 3o6 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Night closes round me, and wild threatening forms 
 Clasp me with icy arms and chain me down, 
 And bind upon my brow a cypress crown, 
 
 Dewy with tears; and heaven frowns dark with storms. 
 
 But the one glorious memory of thee 
 
 Rises upon my path to guide and bless, — 
 The bright Shekinah of the wilderness, 
 
 The polar star upon a trackless sea. 
 
 The beaming Pharos of the unreached shore ; 
 It spans the clouds that gather o'er my way, — 
 The rainbow of my life's tempestuous day. 
 
 O blessed thought ! stay with me evermore, 
 
 And shed thy lustrous beams where midnight glooms. 
 As fragrant lamps burned in the ancient tombs.
 
 ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH. 307 
 
 IV. 
 
 As some dark stream within a cavern's breast 
 Flows murmuring, moaning for the distant sun, — 
 
 So, ere I met thee, murmuring its unrest. 
 Did my life's current coldly, darkly run. 
 
 And as that stream beneath the sun's full gaze 
 Its separate course and life no more maintains, 
 But now absorbed, transfused, far o'er the plains 
 
 It floats, etherealized in those warm rays, — 
 
 So, in the sunlight of thy fervid love, 
 
 My heart, so long to earth's dark channels given, 
 
 Now soars, all doubt, all pain, all ill above, 
 And breathes the ether of the upper heaven ; 
 
 So thy high spirit holds and governs mine. 
 
 So is my life, my being, lost in thine.
 
 3o8 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills, 
 May still gaze heavenward on the evening star, 
 
 Whose distant light its dark recesses fills, 
 
 Though boundless distance must divide them far. 
 
 Still may the lake the star's bright image wear ; 
 Still may the star, from its blue ether dome. 
 Shower down its silver beams across the gloom. 
 
 And light the wave that wanders darkly there. 
 
 O my life's star ! thus do I turn to thee. 
 Amid the shadows that above me roll. 
 
 Thus from thy distant sphere thou shin'st on me. 
 Thus does thine image float upon my soul. 
 
 Through the wide space that must our lives dissever 
 
 Far as the lake and star, ah me ! forever !
 
 MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 309 
 
 MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 
 
 THE EMPIRE OF WOMAN. — A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 woman's empire DEFINED. 
 
 The outward world, for rugged toil designed, 
 
 Where Evil from true Good the crown hath riven, 
 
 Hath been to men's dominion ever given ; 
 But woman's empire, holier, more refined, 
 Moulds, moves, and sways the fallen yet God-breathed 
 mind, 
 
 Lifting the earth-crushed heart to hope and heaven. 
 As plants put forth to summer's gentle wind. 
 
 And 'neath the sweet, soft light of starry even. 
 Those treasures which the tyrant winter's sway 
 
 Could never wrest from nature, — so the soul 
 Will woman's sweet and tender power obey ; 
 
 Thus doth her summer smile its strength control ; 
 Her love sow flowers along life's thorny way ; 
 
 Her star-bright faith lead up towards heaven's goal.
 
 3IO AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 The iron cares that press strong manhood down 
 A father can, like school-boy tasks, throw by, 
 When gazing in his daughter's loving eye, 
 
 Her soft arms, like a spell, around him thrown : 
 
 And passions that, like Upas-leaves, have grown 
 Most deadly in dark places, which defy 
 
 Earth, Heaven, and human will, even these were shown 
 All powerless to resist the pleading cry 
 
 Which pierced a savage but a father's ear, 
 And shook a soul where pity's pulse seemed dead, 
 
 When Pocahontas, heeding not the fear 
 That daunted boldest warriors, laid her head 
 
 Beside the doomed ! Now with our country's fame. 
 
 Sweet forest daughter ! we have blent thy name.
 
 MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 3II 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SISTER. 
 
 Wild as a colt, o'er prairies bounding free, 
 The wakening spirit of the boy doth spring. 
 Spurning the rein Authority would fling, 
 
 And striving with his peers for mastery : 
 
 But in the household gathering let him see 
 His sister's gentle smile, and it will bring 
 
 A change o'er all his nature ; patiently, 
 As caged bird that never used its wing, 
 
 He turns him to the tasks that she doth share ; 
 His better passions kindle by her side ; 
 
 Visions of angel beauty haunt the air : 
 May she not summon such to be his guide ? 
 
 Our Saviour listened to a sister's prayer, 
 When " Lazarus, from the tomb come forth ! " he cried.
 
 312 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 The daughter from her father's bosom goes ; 
 The sister drops her brother's clasping hand ; 
 For God himself ordained a holier band 
 
 Than kindred blood on human minds bestows. 
 
 That stronger, deeper, dearer tie she knows, 
 The heart-wed wife ; as heaven by rainbow spanned. 
 
 Thus bright with hope life's path before her glows ; - 
 Proves it like mirage on the desert's sand ? 
 
 Still in her soul the light divine remains ; 
 And if her husband's strength be overborne 
 
 By sorrow, sickness, or the felon's chains, 
 Such as by England's noblest son were worn, 
 Unheeding how her own poor heart is torn, 
 
 She, angel-like, his sinking soul sustains.
 
 MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 313 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Earth held no symbol, had no living sign 
 To image forth the mother's deathless love ; 
 And so the tender care the righteous prove 
 
 Beneath the ever-watching Eye Divine 
 
 Was given as t^'pe to show how pure a shrine 
 The mother's heart was hallowed from above ; 
 
 And how her mortal hopes must intertwine 
 With hopes immortal ; — and she may not move 
 
 From this high station which our Saviour sealed 
 
 When in maternal arms he lay revealed. 
 O, wondrous power and little understood, 
 
 Intrusted to the mother's mind alone, 
 To fashion genius, form the soul for good. 
 
 Inspire a Wirt, or train a Washington !
 
 314 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 MRS. MARY NOEL McDONALD. 
 SUCCESSION OF SONNETS.* 
 
 I. 
 
 JUNE. 
 1. 
 
 Come with thy rose-wreaths, fair and laughing June ! 
 
 FHng thy rich odors upon every gale ; 
 Bid the blue waters wake their blithest tune, 
 
 And joy and light and melody prevail. 
 Thou hast a store of treasures, and with thee 
 
 We look for all things lovely : butterflies 
 
 Flit like winged jewels 'neath thy sunny skies ; 
 And roam, with tones of music, bird, and bee. 
 Thou art the loveliest of the sisters three, — 
 
 Summer's most beauteous child ! O, still delay. 
 
 Fairest of months ! thy parting ; fondly stay. 
 And pour thy radiant smiles on lake and lea ; 
 
 Bear not from earth thy blessed gifts so soon ; 
 
 Stay, stay thy flight, O fair and laughing June ! 
 
 * Published in 1844, at New York. Mrs. McDonald has since 
 married Mr. Henry Meigs. 
 
 i
 
 MRS. MARY NOEL MCDONALD, 315 
 
 11. 
 
 JUNE. 
 2. 
 
 I WOULD be with thee on the sunny hills, 
 
 And by the streams would linger, as they flow 
 With their perpetual music sweet and low ; 
 And where, in light, leap out the shining rills, 
 Like chains of liquid diamonds, I would be : 
 Methinks 't were sweet to wander far and free. 
 Tempting each craggy height or sylvan shade, — 
 A loiterer where the mossy banks, inlaid 
 With nature's flowery gems, invite repose ; 
 
 And, stealing o'er my brow, thy breath of balm 
 Might lull each care my beating bosom knows. 
 
 And bid the tossing waves of thought be calm ; 
 And I might half forget life's boding ills, 
 Roaming with thee out on the sunny hills.
 
 3l6 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 3- 
 
 Alas ! it may not be ; I am forbid 
 
 By a stern duty, and my feet must press, 
 
 Day after day, in toil and weariness, 
 The: city's streets ; wliile in my heart is hid 
 
 Strange, passionate yearnings for a brighter spot. 
 My childhood's home is stealing on my sight ; 
 
 la native loveliness all unforgot, 
 Far cy reveals it. Well I know the blight 
 
 Of time has dimmed its beauty ; yet to me 
 It ever rises with the summer day, 
 Decked by thy hand in fair and fresh array ; 
 
 And on its verdant slopes I long to be 
 A happy child, as careless and as gay, 
 As erst in thy bright reign I laughed the hours away.
 
 MRS. MARY NOEL MCDONALD. 317 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW. 
 
 Thy mantle white is on the senseless earth, 
 
 Spirit of Winter ; old ^olus rude 
 
 Pipes from his northern home in fiercest mood ; 
 And o'er the crisped wreaths with shouts of mirth, 
 And chiming bells, and laughter ringing free, 
 
 Glides the swift sleigh ; while merry urchins play, 
 Tossing the frozen balls in heart-felt glee, 
 
 Or forming uncouth shapes of monsters grim, 
 To melt like youthful hopes, when next the ray 
 
 Of noontide streams on each misshapen limb. 
 The naked branches wear a spotless vest ; 
 
 While through the window infant faces peep, 
 
 Lured from their downy beds and early sleep. 
 Wondering to mark the earth in wintry garments drest.
 
 3l8 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE FROZEN STREAM. 
 
 Chained with strong fetters, fair and restless stream, 
 Thine onward course, thou rover, harshly stayed, 
 No more by mossy bank or sylvan glade 
 
 Goest thou rejoicing ; and the solar beam 
 
 That erst threw glittering gems upon thy breast, 
 No longer owns a power to set thee free. 
 
 Fain would the golden rays disturb thy rest. 
 But, faint and trembling, fail to succor thee. 
 
 A mighty arm forbids thy further flow. 
 
 And seals with icy band each sparkling wave. 
 Lays bare the verdant bank thou lov'st to lave 
 
 And stills thy babbling tongue ; nor shalt thou know, 
 Sweet captive, aught of liberty again. 
 Till Spring with gentle hand unbinds the chilling chain.
 
 MRS. MARY NOEL MCDONALD. 319 
 
 VI. 
 
 WINTER TWILIGHT. 
 
 Brief hour for thought ! the dark and wintry day 
 Is deepening into night, though no pale star 
 
 To guide the traveller with its timorous ray 
 Yet glimmers in the purple depths afar. 
 
 Darkness comes stealing on ; — from labor free, 
 The weary woodman seeks his cottage door. 
 Where mirthful children on the sanded floor 
 
 Leap at his coming, and press round his knee. 
 
 From distant casements lights are twinkling now, 
 Where busy matrons still the needle ply, 
 Or some pale student strains the anxious eye. 
 
 And bends o'er classic page with thoughtful brow. 
 Stir we the fire, seek fancy's wild domain. 
 And rear some airy fabric's dizzy height again.
 
 320 
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Draw down thy misty curtains, " solemn Night " ; 
 
 Dim the fierce fires which still illume the west ; 
 While stars look down with sweet though distant light, 
 
 Bring to each weary thing its hour of rest : 
 
 Sleep to the litde song-bird in its nest, 
 Dew to young blossoms, bending on the tree ; 
 Call home, on busy wing, the housewife bee, 
 
 And seal up infant eyes, in fond arms pressed. 
 Be thine, to soothe earth's worn and weary child, 
 
 With hours of sweet and undisturbed repose ; 
 
 Still human hearts, that beat with wants and woes ; 
 And lull a thousand griefs, — physician mild ! 
 
 The couch of pain with healthful visions bless, 
 
 And cure all ills in deep forgetfulness.
 
 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 32 1 
 
 MRS. E, C. KINNEY. 
 I. 
 
 FADING AUTUMN. 
 
 Th' autumnal glories all have passed away ; 
 
 The forest-leaves no more in hectic red 
 Give glowing tokens of their brief decay, 
 
 But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread, 
 
 Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead ; 
 The naked trees stretch out their arms all day. 
 
 And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend head 
 As if for some new covering to pray. 
 
 Come, Winter, then, and spread thy robe of white 
 Above the desolation of this scene ; 
 
 And when the sun with gems shall make it bright, 
 Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen 
 
 Are silvered o'er with a serener light, 
 We '11 cease to sigh for summer's living green,^ 
 
 VOL. n. 21
 
 322 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene ! 
 The moon in full-orbed glory sails above, 
 And stars in myriads around her move. 
 
 Each looking down with watchful eye serene 
 On earth, which, in a snowy shroud arrayed, 
 And still, as if in death's embrace 't were laid. 
 
 Saddens the spirit with its corpse-like mien ; 
 Yet doth it charm the eye, — its gaze still hold ; 
 Just as the face of one we loved, when cold 
 
 And pale and lovely e'en in death 't is seen. 
 
 Will fix the mourner's eye, though trembling fears 
 Fill all his heart, and thickly fall his tears. 
 
 O, I could watch, till morn should change the sight, 
 
 This cold, this beautiful, this mournful winter night !
 
 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 323 
 
 III. 
 
 CULTIVATION. 
 
 Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers 
 Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air, 
 And bloom on hills, in vales, and everywhere, 
 
 As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers, 
 But wither while our lips pronounce them fair ! 
 Flowers of more worth repay alone the care. 
 
 The nurture, and the hopes of watchful hours. 
 
 While plants most cultured have most lasting powers. 
 So, flowers of Genius that will longest live 
 
 Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil, 
 
 But are the birth of time, and mental toil. 
 
 And all the culture Learning's hand can give : 
 
 Fancies, like wild-flowers, in a night may grow ; 
 
 But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.
 
 324 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT. 
 
 When first peeps out from earth the modest vine, 
 
 Asking but little space to live and grow, 
 How easily some step, without design, 
 
 May crush the being from a thing so low ! 
 
 But let the hand that doth delight to show 
 Support to feebleness the tendril twine 
 
 Around some lattice-work, and 't will bestow 
 Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine. 
 
 And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot, 
 So timid that it scarce dare ask to live, — 
 
 The tender germ, if trodden under foot. 
 
 Shrinks back again to its undying root ; 
 While kindly training bids it upward strive, 
 And to the future flowers immortal give.
 
 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 325 
 
 TO A VIOLET FOUND IN DECEMBER. 
 
 Ill-fated Violet ! opening thy blue eye 
 
 In Winter's face, who treacherous smiles, to see 
 So fair a child, of parent such as he ! 
 
 And didst thou think in his chill lap to lie. 
 Wrapt in the fallen mantle of the tree. 
 Secure as if Spring's bosom cherished thee ? 
 
 Ah, little flower ! thy doom must be to die 
 
 By thine own sire, like Saturn's progeny. 
 In vain do human gentleness and love 
 
 And breathing beauty hope to meet the soul 
 
 Through which a holy influence never stole. 
 
 Though softening love the lion's heart may move, 
 
 It cannot make cold Self itself forget ; 
 
 Nor canst thou Winter change, sweet Violet.
 
 326 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 ANNA MARIA LOWELL. 
 
 IN ABSENCE. 
 
 These rugged wintry days I scarce could bear, 
 
 Did I not know, that, in the early spring, 
 
 When wild March-winds upon their errands sing, 
 
 Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air, 
 
 Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, 
 
 They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks 
 
 From icy cares, even as thy clear looks 
 
 Bid my heart bloom and sing and break all care : 
 
 When drops with welcome rain the April day. 
 
 My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes. 
 
 Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay, 
 
 As loath to fall out of those happy skies ; 
 
 Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May, 
 
 That comes with steady sun when April dies.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES, 327 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES. 
 
 NIGHT-SCENES. 
 I. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The holiest hour of earth, methinks, is thine, 
 O Twilight, meekly fair ! Welcome to all 
 
 When, soft and sweet, thy vestal light divine 
 Over life's toil-worn travellers doth fall. 
 
 Then the world pauses from its busy cares ; 
 
 Then play-tired children say their evening prayers ; 
 Then the low cradle-hymn the mother weaves ; 
 The bird folds up its wing, the flower its leaves. 
 
 Yea ! hallowed of all hours since the time 
 God's presence blest it in the cedar shade, 
 When the leaves thrilled with joy, though man, afraid. 
 
 Shrank from his voice, and fled the Guest divine ! 
 That peerless Paradise is lost, but still, 
 O Father ! let this hour be free from touch of ill.
 
 328 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 In her serene and solemn loveliness 
 
 She looketh down, and meets a human gaze : 
 Her fair familiar face, through the thin haze 
 
 Of dewy night, revealeth not the less 
 
 Her pure and perfect beauty. Fairy Moon, 
 Thy pearly finger silvereth the paper 
 Whereon I write : small need of lamp, or taper. 
 
 In this starred midnight's haunted hour of noon. 
 
 And O, the heaven-touched radiance of thy brow 
 Is like a dream of poetry, enchanting 
 All the dark depths of my lone heart, beating 
 
 With one bright vision of the past, that now 
 Shines seraph-like, all sanctified and sainted. 
 But for that spiritual presence, O how oft my heart had 
 fainted !
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES, 329 
 
 III. 
 
 THE STAR. 
 
 There is a star — Eve's fairest and her first — 
 
 That with unaltered beauty ever shineth : 
 What visions of the heart its light once nursed ! 
 
 Ah ! Hope's fair hand no more her rose-wreath twineth ! 
 
 Beneath thy silvery rays, O peerless Star, 
 
 The beautiful floats dimly and afar. 
 The fair ideal wrought of the poet's dreaming 
 
 Hath left me with an ever-pining heart : 
 No more my fancy, with bright visions teeming, 
 
 Brings to these idle lines the inspired art, 
 O Angel of my youth ! return once more. 
 
 And 'neath this star, which is to me a shrine, 
 The enchanted lamp of poesy restore. 
 
 And fill my lone heart with its light divine !
 
 330 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A CLOUD. 
 
 Yon delicate cloud of faintest violet, 
 
 Floating in peerless beauty 'long the sky, 
 Heeds not the eternal stars around it set, 
 
 But silent as a dream goes gliding by. 
 O wand'ring cloud ! fair child of dream and vision ! 
 
 Radiant illusion, shining vapor ! thou 
 Art like our ideal pictures of Elysium, — 
 
 Too bright and brief, as from thy beauteous brow 
 The changeful glories pass ! As thou to heaven, 
 Was Hope, the angel, to my future given. 
 Her wing is folded now ! not long she wore 
 The dew of morning on her pearly plume, 
 Cloud-like she passed away ; — O, nevermore 
 Will Hope return to gild life's grief and gloom !
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH F. SWIFT. 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH F. SWIFT.* 
 I. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 Come out upon the dewy hills, sweet friend, 
 
 And let us study Nature's changeful face. 
 Look how the sun's last rays harmonious blend, 
 
 Folding the woodlands in a warm embrace ; 
 Each glowing leaf, stirred by the evening breeze, 
 
 Gleams with prismatic hues ; crimson and gold, 
 Purple and azure seem the waving trees ; 
 
 The mists their silvery vapors have unrolled. 
 And hover o'er the river's troubled breast, — 
 
 River, that 'midst such deep and calm repose 
 Forever murmurs with a sad unrest. 
 
 Like human hearts o'erburdened with life's woes. 
 But see — bright messenger of Heaven, queen of the 
 
 summer skies. 
 Filling the earth with loveliness — the Harvest-Moon arise. 
 
 * Mrs. Swift, formerly Miss Lorrain, is a Philadelphian by birth, 
 and first-cousin of Leigh Hunt, the poet. She is the wife of Dr. 
 Joseph T. Swift of Easton, Pa.
 
 332 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 Moonlight upon the hills ! there is a spell 
 
 Like witchery o'er us : as we gaze around, 
 A tender light illumines hill and dell, 
 
 Falling in golden checkers on the ground. 
 Now perfume steals from out the forest shades ; 
 
 All fragrant things and fair their incense bring ; 
 And hark ! amid the dim wood's tangled glades, 
 
 I hear the gushing waters laugh and sing. 
 Amon ; the clustering leaves of yonder oak 
 
 A ring-dove's nest is hid, — list her soft moan : 
 Love never to Night's ear in language spoke, 
 
 Calling with deeper fondness on its own. 
 World ! if to thee, sin-stained, such lavish charms are given, 
 How can a human thought conceive the spirit joys of 
 heaven !
 
 MRS. EMMA CATHARINE EMBURY. 333 
 
 MRS. EMMA CATHARINE EMBURY. 
 
 I. 
 
 CONFIDENCE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 It is in vain the weary spirit strives 
 
 With that whicli doth consume it ; — there is born 
 
 A strength from suffering which can laugh to scorn 
 The stroke of sorrow, even though it rives 
 Our very heart-strings ; but the grief that Hves 
 
 Forever in the heart, and, day by day, 
 
 Wastes the soul's high-wrought energies away, 
 And wears the lofty spirit down, and gives 
 
 Its own dark hue to life, O who can bear ? 
 
 Yet, as the black and threatening tempests bring 
 New fragrance to earth's flowers, and tints more fair. 
 
 So beneath sorrow's nurture virtues spring. 
 Youth, health, and hope may fade, but there is left 
 A soul that trusts in Heaven, though thus of all bereft.
 
 334 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 He who has travelled through some weary day, 
 
 And reached at summer eve a green hillside, 
 Whence he can see, now veiled in twilight gray. 
 
 The dreary path through which he lately hied. 
 While o'er his onward road the setting sun 
 
 Sheds its sweet beam on every wayside flower. 
 Forgets his labors ere the goal be won, 
 
 And in his heart enjoys the quiet hour. 
 Father and mother, be it so with you ! 
 
 While memory's pleasant twilight shades the past. 
 May hope illume the way ye still pursue. 
 
 And each new scene seem brighter than the last ; 
 Thus, wending on toward sunset, may ye find 
 Life's lengthening shadows ever cast behind.
 
 MRS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 335 
 
 MRS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 FADED FLOWERS. 
 
 Remeaibrancers of happiness ! to me 
 
 Ye bring sweet thoughts of the year's purple prime, — 
 Wild, mingling melodies of bird and bee, 
 
 That pour on summer winds their silvery chime, — 
 And of rich incense, burdening all the air, 
 
 From flowers that by the sunny garden wall 
 Bloomed at your side, nursed into beauty there 
 
 By dews and silent showers ; but these to all 
 Ye bring. O, sweeter far than these the spell 
 
 Shrined in those fairy urns for me alone ! 
 For me a charm sleeps in each honeyed cell, 
 
 Whose power can call back hours of rapture flown ; 
 To the sad heart sweet memories restore, — 
 
 Tones, looks, and words of love that may return no more.
 
 336 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 MRS. ANNA MARIA WELLS. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 Belinda ! the young blossom that doth lie 
 So lightly on thy bosom, — clasp it there ; 
 For on her brow an empress doth not wear, 
 Nor in her jewelled zone, a gem more fair. 
 Or that doth deck her more becomingly. 
 Forget not, then, that deep within thy flower 
 The germs lie hid of lovelier, holier things : — 
 Filial affection, that spontaneous springs ; 
 High truth and maiden /?/!r//>',- iho. power 
 That comes oi gentleness ; ay, and more, — 
 Piety, nourished in the bosom's core. 
 These, if so cherished, shall thy blossom bear, 
 And, with the dews of heavenly love impearled, 
 It shall adorn thee in another world.
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH FRIES ELLET. 337 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH FRIES ELLET. 
 
 Shepherd, with meek brow wreathed with blossoms sweet, 
 Who guard'st thy timid flock with tenderest care ; 
 
 Who guid'st in sunny paths their wandering feet, 
 And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear ; 
 
 Who lead'st thy happy flock to pastures fair. 
 And by still waters at the noon of day, 
 
 Charming with lute divine the silent air. 
 What time they linger on the verdant way ; — 
 
 Good Shepherd ! might one gentle distant strain 
 Of that immortal melody sink deep 
 Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep. 
 
 And melt by powerful love its sevenfold chain, —   
 
 O, then my soul thy voice should know, and flee 
 
 To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow thee. 
 
 VOL. II. 22
 
 338 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 O WEARY heart, there is a rest for thee ! 
 
 O truant heart, there is a blessed home, 
 An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea. 
 
 Where storms that vex the waters never come. 
 There trees perennial yield their balmy shade ; 
 
 There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep ; 
 There meek streams murmur through the verdant glade ; 
 
 There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. 
 Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle ; 
 
 Vocal its air with music from above ; 
 There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile ; 
 
 There ever speaks a summoning voice of love 
 Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, — 
 " Come unto me, and I will give you rest."
 
 MRS. ALICE BRADLEY NEAL. 339 
 
 MRS. ALICE BRADLEY NEAL. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 I HAD been tossing through the restless night, — 
 Sleep banished from my pillow, and my brain 
 Weary with sense of dull and stifling pain, — 
 
 Yearning and praying for the blessed light. 
 
 My lips moaned thy dear name, beloved one ; 
 Yet I had seen thee lying still and cold, 
 Thy form bound only by the shroud's pure fold. 
 
 For life with all its suffering was done. 
 
 Then agony of loneliness o'ercame 
 
 My widowed heart. Night would fit emblem seem 
 For the evanishing of that bright dream. 
 
 The heavens were dark : my life henceforth the same. 
 No hope : its pulse within my breast was dead. 
 No light : the clouds hung heavily o'erhead.
 
 34° AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 11. 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 
 Once more I sought the casement. Lo ! a ray, 
 Faint and uncertain, struggled through the gloom, 
 And shed a misty twilight on the room, — 
 
 Long-watched-for herald of the coming day ! 
 
 It brought a thrill of gladness to my breast. 
 
 With claspdd hands, and streaming eyes, I prayed. 
 Thanking my God for light, though long delayed ; 
 
 And gentle calm stole o'er my wild unrest. 
 
 " O soul ! " said I, " thy boding murmurs cease. 
 Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall. 
 Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all ; 
 
 His love will bring a true and perfect peace. 
 
 Look upward once again, though drear the night : 
 Earth may be darkness ; Heaven will give thee light."
 
 TRANQUILLA. 34 1 
 
 TRANQUILLA. 
 
 If all the world had told me thou wert false, 
 
 I had defied the world and ta'en thy part ; 
 But when from thee the confirmation comes, 
 
 The arrow sinks, deep, deep, within my heart. 
 It bleeds to think, that, henceforth and forever, 
 
 A ghastly doubt must follow at thy side, 
 That confidence and holy trust can never 
 
 Beneath the shadow of our roof abide ; 
 For unto thee a deep trust I had given, 
 
 That, in our darkest moments, cheered me on. 
 No gifts, no fortune, nothing under heaven 
 
 Can e'er replace that faith, it being gone ! 
 Naught but distressing doubts, suspicious fears. 
 Can fill the measure of our coming years.
 
 342 AMERICAN SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 I LOVE thee yet ! for nature's ties are stronger 
 
 Than I had dreamed ! I strove to break the chain, 
 Feeling I had no right to love thee longer ; 
 
 But, in its greatest agony and pain, 
 My heart turned to thee, though I scorned and hated 
 
 Thy weakness and thy sin. Although, to me, 
 Thou wert the very thing I most abhorred, 
 
 In spite of all my wrath, my agony, 
 My heart turned to thee, and I could have wept 
 
 Hot tears upon thy bosom for my wrongs. 
 Within thy circling arms I could have slept ; 
 
 For slumber had been banished from me long. 
 I do forgive thee, — yet the world I 'd give 
 Could I forget, even as I forgive.
 
 SARAH GOULD. 343 
 
 SARAH GOULD. 
 
 PAULINE. 
 
 White-browed anemones, daughters of the Sun, 
 And blue-eyed violets, with the mignonette. 
 And pale pink roses, with the valley's pet. 
 The myrtle, iris, lily, — every one 
 Becomes a sweet interpreter of thee ; 
 And as I list the voices of thy soul, 
 So soft and gentle, yet in their control 
 Strong and subduing, clearly do I see 
 The latent strength that slumbers in thy spirit, 
 Where lofty faith, and aspirations high, 
 And holy loves keep closest company. 
 Building the heaven predestined souls inherit. 
 O, the sweet influence of thy soul on mine 
 Is as an effluence of the most Divine ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
 
 ERRATUM. 
 Vol. I. page 128, line \%Jor whetted read wreathed.
 
 1
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 J^^Su 
 
 
 
 wf^y ?■ "^ 
 
 
 
 S rais;^/;^ 
 
 
 
 REC'D ID-URp 
 
 
 
 ffi5 I97n 
 
 MRY 61985 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 
 1 N,01^ '''' 
 
 !C 
 
 
 •m L9-10m-3,'48(A7920)444 
 
 6*lVls.tt^5 
 
 .li'<Miik^
 
 uc 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY [W 
 
 AA 000 305 468 i 
 
 ^. 
 
 i 
 
 PLEA-^ DO NOT REMOVE 
 ,THIS BOOK CARD j 
 
 
 %0Jl]V3J0->^ 
 
 Uni 
 
 versify Research Lib 
 
 -J 
 
 rary