University of Virginia Library

SONNET I. 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;
Woo'd 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 thought a frequent holiday.

SONNET II. TO ------, ON HER VOYAGE TO INDIA.

Now, like a shooting star, thy bark doth flee
Over the azure waters, which convey
Thee and thy soldier-husband far away
From England's shores. Soon, soon on the wide sea,
When the hoarse waves are moaning sullenly,
And absent far is Friendship's cheering ray,
Shall ye two know how mighty is the sway
Of wedded love;—how dear those fetters be
Which the free heart doth wear. Oh! we who doze
In tranquil homes, and with domestic mirth
Season the warmth of the calm evening hearth,
Can know but little of the love of those
Who, in the lonely waste of sea and skies,
Find home and comfort in each others' eyes.

SONNET III.

The gorgeous ranks of flaming cherubim,—
The light, the rushing of unnumber'd wings,—
The choral voices of the host that sings
Unceasing anthems at the Throne of Him,
Th' Eternal, the Unknown,—to me are dim
And unattractive dreams;—my weak soul clings
To joys and hopes that flow from earthly things,
E'en when the inward eye of faith doth swim
In dreams that wander through eternity.
I cannot long for unimagined joys;
My trust is that hereafter I shall see
Forms dear to me on Earth—that many a voice
Well known in Paradise shall speak to me,
And earthly love be free from Earth's alloys.

SONNET IV. TO A LADY, WITH A POEM BY A FRIEND.

Lady! there's scarce a holier thing on earth
Than the first dream of a young poet's brain;
Therefore with reverence view this wayward strain,
And should it, haply, seem of doubtful worth,
Yet, as the premature but wondrous birth
Of a great mind, respect it, and refrain
From captious censure or cold scorn, nor stain
Thy Spirit's brightness with unseemly mirth.
Thou hast the vision and the soul divine,
Exquisite thoughts, and fancies high and proud;
And never, never, hath my spirit bow'd
In woman's presence as it bows in thine;
Nor have I found on earth a heart more fit
Than thine to feel this lay and cherish it.

SONNET V.

So, froward maiden, thou wilt quit for ever
Thy country and her many-weather'd skies;
All old home-thoughts and early sympathies
Abjuring, and wilt strive, with vain endeavour,
To quench thine English spirit:—never, never,
Though herding with our natural enemies,
May'st thou do this; for thou art bound by ties
Which neither thou, nor time, nor fate can sever.
Therefore, although thy children must not claim
Freedom, the Briton's birth-right,—though the song
Of Milton be to them an idle name,
And Shakspere's wisdom vain, thou wilt not wrong
Thy country with cold scorn, nor think it shame
To weep when thoughts of home into thy bosom throng.

SONNET VI. TO ADINE.

Lady! I know three poets who know thee;
And all write sonnets, in the which they sware
That thou art most superlatively fair,
Meek, silver-voiced—and so forth. As for me,
Not having seen thee, I am fancy-free;
And, pretty lady, little do I care
Whether thou art indeed beyond compare,
A being to whom Bards must bow the knee,
Or a mere woman, with good face and shape;—
I only know that I'm so tired of hearing
The list of thy perfections, that I gape
Sometimes instead of duly sonnetteering;
And therefore am I called brute, bear, and ape,
And other names ‘past mentioning or bearing.’

SONNET VII. ON SEEING THE SAME LADY.

I look'd on the pale face which poets love,
And scann'd its sweetness with a stedfast eye;
I listen'd to the eloquent witchery
Of her low, plaintive song:—awhile she wove
Her fairy meshes round me, and did move
My soul to a wild worship. Then did I,
By the strong aid of wakeful Memory,
Whose sprites for ever at Love's bidding rove,
Summon Ione from her silent cell.
Sudden, in all the glory and the pride
Of intellectual beauty, at my side
She stood, and on my soul her bright eyes fell,
Beaming with earnest thought.—I heard one tone
Of her far voice—and straight that phantom pale was flown.

SONNET VIII. TO THE SAME.

Oh! not for worlds, thou simple-soul'd Adine,
Would I be loved by thee.—Yet I confess
That thou dost wear a deeper loveliness
Than the most lovely whom these eyes have seen,
Save One—and she is of a different mien;
Wild-eyed and how wildhearted!—yet no less
Fit than thyself a poet's love to bless—
My Gloriana bright, my Faery Queen!
Thou, Lady, in thy meek, affectionate eyes,
Bearest such magic as, I well believe,
Few can resist; to me the charms they weave
Spring from thy gentle wedded sympathies:
And couldst thou less adore thy wayward mate,
Oh! I should hate thee with a poet's hate!

SONNET IX.

In heaven “are many mansions”—what if thou,
Hereafter cleansed from taint of mortal sin,
By paths untrod by me, shouldst chance to win
Some separate Paradise?—The hope which now
Soothes my bruised heart, and calms my sleepless brow,
Oh! must it perish?—when the stormy din
Of life is o'er, shall we not meet within
The halls of heaven, as once my soul did vow?
Oh! not for centuries of happy years,
Would I endure that thought!—'twere hell to know,
Beloved Friend, that all our hopes and fears,
Yearnings, and dreams of future joy and woe,
Hung upon different creeds!—With fervent tears,
I'll kneel, and pray that it may not be so!

SONNET X.

Now, lady, that our parting is so nigh,
Fain would I think that thou, in future hours,
Amidst thine own Dunedin's queenly towers,
Or, haply, Scotland's mountain scenery,
Wilt tow'rd the South turn no unkindly eye,
No scorn to think of these poor woods of ours,
And friends who dwelt in Windsor's sylvan bowers,
And him who frames this sorry minstrelsy.
Believe me, in no false or hollow guise
Sing I to thee my parting madrigal;
For I have found thee gentle, good, and wise,
High-minded, simple-hearted—and withal
Beloved of Her whose deep, soul-beaming eyes
Hold my rapt spirit in such pleasant thrall.

SONNET XI. SCOTCH QUADRILLES.

Perish the coxcomb who united first
To these vain whimsies, hatch'd beyond the seas,
Old Caledonia's touching melodies;
Wedding the follies of that land accurst,
To strains whose high and soothing music nursed
Heroic hearts, or gave crush'd spirits ease,
Awakening the bright Past's remembrances
While grief's fierce tempest o'er the Present burst.
Oh! ye sweet notes, ye were not meant to lead
The measured steps of fashion: ye should tell
Of Highland glen, wild rock, and pastoral dell,
And scenes like those of which the world doth read
In that bright page, which many a wondrous deed
Of Scottish story hath embalm'd so well.

SONNET XII.

Maiden, there's many a fairer face than thine
Flitting to-night around me, many an eye
As lustrous, locks as glossy in their dye,
And haply some few shapes scarce less divine:
Yet for no other brow must I entwine
This coronal of rhymes; the time's gone by,
When, like a lover, I could sit and sigh,
And breathe despairing vows at beauty's shrine
My gaze hath now grown passionless; yet long
Have I, (poor foolish dreamer,) through the dance
Track'd thee to-night amidst this glittering throng,
Watching thy gay and artless countenance,
And form that floats so lightsomely along
With grace by nature fashion'd—not by France.

SONNET XIII.

Why dost thou haunt me with thy bright wild eyes
Through the long sleepless night? when I should be
Plodding through tomes of old divinity,
And learning to be holy, pure, and wise,
And worthy to obtain that twofold prize
I pant for—Immortality and thee.
Oh! my sweet friend, I fear my phantasy
Clings to thee over fondly; in the skies
I have no hope, no purpose, no desire
With which thou minglest not; and if I lose
Thy love on earth, I fear lest I should tire
Of life's dull race too soon, and, in the dearth
Of my twice crush'd affections, cease to aspire
To the lone bliss of an immortal birth.

SONNET XIV.

Are there no marriages in heaven?—then why
Is earthly love so quenchless and so strong?
Why doth the lover wish and yearn and long
For bliss that dies not in eternity?
No! no! the grave doth only purify
Love's ore from its alloy—the sordid throng
Of earth's defilements, change, and chance, and wrong
And jealous fears, and chill adversity.
My Margaret, when I think on what thou art,
How spirit-like a being, how refined
From all that chains to earth our human heart,
From all that now pollutes our human mind,
I cannot think that death will tear apart
The links thy magic round my soul hath twined.