University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.

[There came a beauteous image to my mind]

There came a beauteous image to my mind,
That absent never since that hour has been;
Nor have I from that blessed moment seen
Aught else, to nature's works of glory blind.
Mild was the look to me it wore, and kind
The thoughts that from those eyes of lustre fell;
Here then, as in a temple, it shall dwell
In sanctity, and far from human kind.
All other thoughts I now have put away,
All that my years of youth were wont to cheer;
The labour that I loved; the mind's free play;
And toil that seemed half sportive, half severe;
These shall farewell for ever, so I may
Hold that within my heart so loved and dear.

II.

[She came in shadowy vestment clad again]

She came in shadowy vestment clad again,
A golden fillet bound her braided hair,
And like a Grecian lady she did wear
Her vest's resplendent cincture; of the train
She seemed of those who tread the Delphian fane
With song and virgin symphony; or where
Cephisus leads through grot and fountain fair
His silver-footed Naiad to the main.
And still when bound in slumber deep alone,
Ever do I that beauteous form behold,
Ever the visionary semblance own
Of her, whose image in my heart I hold;
The maid with golden diadem, and zone
Resplendent, and the vest of floating fold.

III.

[That form has fled.—Before me shone what seemed]

That form has fled.—Before me shone what seemed
An old barbaric city, in its pride
Of towers and palaces, such as allied
To loftiest tradition: so have gleamed
Bactra, or Phrygian Pergamus, or, deemed
Of highest fame, Selucia, where his tide
Swift Tigris rolls; or by the Syrian side,
Where Balbec, empress of the desart, beam'd.
And on a throne of massive gold was seen
One who her sceptre waved in regal might,
And she who seemed that ancient city's queen,
Was clothed in the majesty of light.
I gazed, and it was she in form and mien,
The maid I loved, so beautiful and bright.

IV.

[Come, lady, let us roam the beechen bowers]

Come, lady, let us roam the beechen bowers,
And though their locks be shatter'd now and sere,
Yet the last smile of the departing year
We'll share, ere winter bring his lonely hours.
And now when eve shuts up the drooping flowers,
With curious hand the pencil thou wilt seize;
Or if the lute's soft warbling more may please,
So best to wing away the autumnal hours.
But how shall I those pleasant times recal,
When far from thee my wandering feet shall stray,
Can I forget that thou to me art all,
All that I love; my hope, my joy, my stay?
Oh! heavily the hand of grief will fall
On me, when dwelling lone and far away.

V.

[Oh! no.—I would not dwell near thee again]

Oh! no.—I would not dwell near thee again,
Loved as thou wert, and honour'd once of old;
Far other thoughts my heart from thee withhold,
And I would build upon another plain
My household roof and shelter: grief and pain
Are inmates with the restless and the bold;
And wisest he, who so his thoughts would hold
Calm, as the sunshine on the summer-main.
Woods that arrayed in leafy glory, bring
To their wild glades the heifer's wand'ring hoof,
And torrents down the mountain glens that ring
Me better please; and near the household woof,
And midst the vales, and rural hearths to sing
The songs that “must be sung high and aloof

VII.

[Oh! beauteous Angel! who, if poet's song]

Oh! beauteous Angel! who, if poet's song
Rightly report, didst make mankind thy care,
And wont in Adam's friendly bower to share
Mild converse with him; Angel! be not long,
If yet thou lovest us (though misrule, and wrong
Of heavenly good, well nigh have left us bare),
Down to these earthly mansions to repair,
With stern rebuke, and admonition strong.
Yet wherefore should'st thou come? have we not had
Voices of deeper tone, and mightier power?
Yea, God himself hath spoken. Oh! bold and bad,
Who from that sound have turned, nor knew each shower,
Earthquake, and storm, and pestilence were made
God's voice of old, to slay, destroy, devour.

VIII.

[Oh! best, oh! earliest friend! and is it so]

Oh! best, oh! earliest friend! and is it so,
That thou art lying in thy grave-clothes cold,
Ere half youth's pleasant summers yet be told?
And did disease with stealthy foot, and slow,
Come o'er thee, offering now, and now his blow
Withholding, till with joy thine earthly mold
Thou gav'st to him who gave it; nor to hold
Wished longer, nor delay the ravenous foe?
Yet much thou hast escaped of grief and pain,
Of sights the human mind with sorrow bears;
Of avarice brooding o'er his unjust gain,
And cruelty bemocking human fears.
Where could'st thou in these days of ill have lain
Thy peaceful head, nor wept at misery's tears?

IX.

[I said, that happiest he, who in his grave]

I said, that happiest he, who in his grave
From this bad world in early youth has fled;
For there is peace and quiet with the dead.
Nor tempest reaches them, nor wind, nor wave,
Nor storms that ever round the living rave
Without, and worse the heart within has bred.
Sin now has dyed earth's beauteous bosom red,
And walks abroad with fearless front, and brave.
Then, God be thanked, our noblest men are gone,
And joy to think they ne'er can rise again;
Our fathers cannot know what we have done,
Their name, their worth, their glory all to stain.
Thrice happy! who their mighty course have run,
Ere shame for us had filled their hearts with pain.

X.

[So have I sung those mighty Grecian peers]

So have I sung those mighty Grecian peers,
With whose great fame the world from side to side
Has thundered; glad with labour to have plyed
And argument of song my earliest years.
What time, that half the globe with doubts and fears,
Rock'd as an earthquake: and in wars long tried
Was wanting found that Austriack prince, whose pride
Bowed by the Danaw.—Many a widow's tears
Darken'd its blood-red billows, for the sight
Was ghastly; earth beneath its load of dead
Groaned, and in even scales the dubious fight
Hung poised, while thrice the western sun his head
Dropt in the ocean; then that fatal night
Descended, and the bold Hungarian fled.