Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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SONNETS.
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 | Juvenilia |  |
49
SONNETS.
51
SONNET. TO SENSIBILITY.
Sister of Love, thro' yon deserted grove
That warblest sweet thy lorn, romantic tale,
Or by the mould'ring abbey lov'st to rove,
And ask the pity of the sighing gale:
That warblest sweet thy lorn, romantic tale,
Or by the mould'ring abbey lov'st to rove,
And ask the pity of the sighing gale:
To thee, soft pow'r, the gently-throbbing breast,
And am'rous glance, and love-lorn lay belong;
To thee, the vow to Love and her confest,
Whose name so oft has grac'd her Henry's song!
And am'rous glance, and love-lorn lay belong;
To thee, the vow to Love and her confest,
Whose name so oft has grac'd her Henry's song!
And O, let ev'ry fonder thought she knows,
With gayest hope on this blest bosom dwell,
Where still with vestal fire affection glows,
Still boasts her truest, tenderest tale to tell!
O let her bid the rapt'rous hour awake,
When Time shall envy bonds he cannot break!
With gayest hope on this blest bosom dwell,
Where still with vestal fire affection glows,
Still boasts her truest, tenderest tale to tell!
O let her bid the rapt'rous hour awake,
When Time shall envy bonds he cannot break!
52
SONNET. ON THE SICKNESS OF ELIZA.
Low on the bed of sickness, pale, and weak,
Ah, Pity! see the soft Eliza lie,
While still Consumption, o'er her mournful cheek,
Trails his lank form, and saddens in her eye.
Ah, Pity! see the soft Eliza lie,
While still Consumption, o'er her mournful cheek,
Trails his lank form, and saddens in her eye.
So twining hideous thro' the rose-bed fair,
The long, lean lizard, drags his slimy way;
While on the bosom of the pitying air,
It breathes the dying fragrance of decay.
The long, lean lizard, drags his slimy way;
While on the bosom of the pitying air,
It breathes the dying fragrance of decay.
Those beauteous lips, where health impurpled bright,
Those lips, where melody in nectar hung,
Those lips, how fade they from the ravish'd sight,
Pale the warm glow, and hush'd the warbling tongue;
Ah, when again shall wake their gentle song,
That charm'd this ear, and thrill'd this heart so long!
Those lips, where melody in nectar hung,
Those lips, how fade they from the ravish'd sight,
Pale the warm glow, and hush'd the warbling tongue;
Ah, when again shall wake their gentle song,
That charm'd this ear, and thrill'd this heart so long!
53
THE NEGRO BOY. A BALLAD.
Paupertas onus visa est grave.
Cold blows the wind, and while the tear
Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes,
The rain's big drop, quick meets it there,
And on my naked bosom flies!
O pity, all ye sons of Joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes,
The rain's big drop, quick meets it there,
And on my naked bosom flies!
O pity, all ye sons of Joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
These tatter'd clothes, this ice-cold breast,
By Winter harden'd into steel,
These eyes, that know not soothing rest,
But speak the half of what I feel!
Long, long, I never new one joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
By Winter harden'd into steel,
These eyes, that know not soothing rest,
But speak the half of what I feel!
Long, long, I never new one joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
Cannot the sigh of early grief
Move but one charitable mind?
Cannot one hand afford relief?
One Christian pity, and be kind?
Weep, weep, for thine was never joy,
O little wand'ring Negro-boy!
Move but one charitable mind?
Cannot one hand afford relief?
One Christian pity, and be kind?
Weep, weep, for thine was never joy,
O little wand'ring Negro-boy!
54
Is there a good which men call Pleasure?
O Ozmyn, would that it were thine!
Give me this only precious treasure;
How it would soften grief like mine!
Then Ozmyn might be call'd, with joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
O Ozmyn, would that it were thine!
Give me this only precious treasure;
How it would soften grief like mine!
Then Ozmyn might be call'd, with joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
My limbs these twelve long years have borne
The rage of ev'ry angry wind:
Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn,
Yet still no ease, no rest can find!
Then Death, alas, must soon destroy
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
The rage of ev'ry angry wind:
Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn,
Yet still no ease, no rest can find!
Then Death, alas, must soon destroy
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
No sorrow e'er disturbs the rest,
That dwells within the lonely grave;
Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast,
E'er ask'd of Heav'n, or Heav'n e'er gave!
Ah then, farewel, vain world, with joy
I die the happy Negro-boy!
That dwells within the lonely grave;
Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast,
E'er ask'd of Heav'n, or Heav'n e'er gave!
Ah then, farewel, vain world, with joy
I die the happy Negro-boy!
55
SONG.—TO ELIZA.
If to mine eye, like thy fair cheek,
The rose soft pleasure could impart;
Its flow'r with eagerness I'd seek,
And always wear it on my heart.
The rose soft pleasure could impart;
Its flow'r with eagerness I'd seek,
And always wear it on my heart.
For where thy image loves to rest,
'Twould bloom with still redoubled glow;
The panting soil that warms my breast,
No kinder gentler, Sun can know.
'Twould bloom with still redoubled glow;
The panting soil that warms my breast,
No kinder gentler, Sun can know.
SONNET.
[Say, soft Eliza, good as thou art fair]
September 3, 1800.
Say, soft Eliza, good as thou art fair,
Lives one fond hope in Love's distracted breast?
Must still the thrilling horrors of Despair
Fade my wan cheek, and canker all my rest?
Lives one fond hope in Love's distracted breast?
Must still the thrilling horrors of Despair
Fade my wan cheek, and canker all my rest?
Alas! thy tongue, that faulters to conceal,
Thy face averted, and thy tearful eye,
Too soon the rending answer will reveal,
That bids the fond and faithful Henry die!
Thy face averted, and thy tearful eye,
Too soon the rending answer will reveal,
That bids the fond and faithful Henry die!
56
To leave a world, where disappointment, sighs,
And tears, and anguish, all were left for me,
Is not the sentence that my bosom flies;
No, fair Eliza, 'tis a worse decree:
From that sweet form to tear these streaming eyes,
And live no more to love and live for thee!
And tears, and anguish, all were left for me,
Is not the sentence that my bosom flies;
No, fair Eliza, 'tis a worse decree:
From that sweet form to tear these streaming eyes,
And live no more to love and live for thee!
SONNET.—TO EVE.
September 10, 1800.
Queen of the balmy Peace, that soothes my breast,
As oft I linger in thy dewy reign;
Whose gentle sighs lull Nature into rest,
Whose sober shadows mellow o'er the plain.
As oft I linger in thy dewy reign;
Whose gentle sighs lull Nature into rest,
Whose sober shadows mellow o'er the plain.
How sweet to wander thro' the dusky vale,
When Philomela weeps her bleeding woes;
When plaintive murmurings thro' the grove prevail,
And purling runnels bubble to repose!
When Philomela weeps her bleeding woes;
When plaintive murmurings thro' the grove prevail,
And purling runnels bubble to repose!
Tis then the influence of thy placid wand
Steals into solemn thought my pensive mind;
I bow enraptur'd to thy soft'ning hand;
And oft on yon old moss-grown bank reclin'd,
List to the breeze that whispers thy command,
While Fancy sighs each echo from behind!
Steals into solemn thought my pensive mind;
I bow enraptur'd to thy soft'ning hand;
And oft on yon old moss-grown bank reclin'd,
List to the breeze that whispers thy command,
While Fancy sighs each echo from behind!
57
SONNET.
[Sweet are the breezes that the lovely morn]
September 10, 1800.
Sweet are the breezes that the lovely morn
Scatters around the glories of her way;
Sweet are the sober tints that eve adorn,
And sweet the radiance of the noon-tide day.
Scatters around the glories of her way;
Sweet are the sober tints that eve adorn,
And sweet the radiance of the noon-tide day.
But ah! how sweet is Love's enraptur'd sigh!
How sweet the modest blush that dyes his cheek!
How sweet the glancing splendor of his eye,
Splendors that warm, and splendors that can speak!
How sweet the modest blush that dyes his cheek!
How sweet the glancing splendor of his eye,
Splendors that warm, and splendors that can speak!
Mild as the air that breathes the vernal show'r,
Is the soft whisper of the vow of Love;
Soft as the shadows of the floating hour,
Soft as the pearly dew that decks the grove;
And, fair Eliza, if that Love has pow'r,
These heav'nly pleasures shall our bosoms prove.
Is the soft whisper of the vow of Love;
Soft as the shadows of the floating hour,
Soft as the pearly dew that decks the grove;
And, fair Eliza, if that Love has pow'r,
These heav'nly pleasures shall our bosoms prove.
THE MAD GIRL'S SONG.
September 11, 1800.
The lily enamels the vale,
And roses they purple above;
But how can their glories prevail
With a smile from the lips of my Love?
But my Love, he was false and unkind,
When he bade me depart from the grove:
And I'll go: for I have not a mind,
That will laugh at the frowns of my Love.
And roses they purple above;
But how can their glories prevail
With a smile from the lips of my Love?
58
When he bade me depart from the grove:
And I'll go: for I have not a mind,
That will laugh at the frowns of my Love.
I'll pick up the flow'rs that are dead,
And deck all my bosom so gay,
That Love shall come patting my head,
And steal all their blossoms away.
But, no; he sha'nt rob me of these,
Refusal his wishes shall prove;
For he would not, my passions to please,
Inspire the cold breast of my Love.
And deck all my bosom so gay,
That Love shall come patting my head,
And steal all their blossoms away.
But, no; he sha'nt rob me of these,
Refusal his wishes shall prove;
For he would not, my passions to please,
Inspire the cold breast of my Love.
I will visit the Cypress so sad,
That hangs o'er the dark shadow'd grave;
And I know, tho' they tell me I'm mad,
That I'll tear off its branches to wave.
O, and then a sweet garland I'll twine,
And shew all my friends how I wove;
And all, but the leaves shall be mine,
For I'll give all the green to my Love.
That hangs o'er the dark shadow'd grave;
And I know, tho' they tell me I'm mad,
That I'll tear off its branches to wave.
O, and then a sweet garland I'll twine,
And shew all my friends how I wove;
And all, but the leaves shall be mine,
For I'll give all the green to my Love.
But my Love, I'm afraid, wont be press'd
To take the poor gift, tho' so smart:
For he scorn'd this fond fluttering breast,
And all the warm wealth of my heart.
Then I'll keep it and twine in my hair
The green, and the boughs that I wove;
And when it shall fade away there,
Sing dirges to it and my Love.
To take the poor gift, tho' so smart:
For he scorn'd this fond fluttering breast,
And all the warm wealth of my heart.
59
The green, and the boughs that I wove;
And when it shall fade away there,
Sing dirges to it and my Love.
SONNET.
[Well, if I must, I think I might begin]
Well, if I must, I think I might begin,
But your long Sonnets are so horrid hard;
Yet soft, I've got in a poetic pin;
Wond'rous! one stave's dropp'd out this head of lard!
But your long Sonnets are so horrid hard;
Yet soft, I've got in a poetic pin;
Wond'rous! one stave's dropp'd out this head of lard!
Well, I'll be hang'd if I know what to say:
Why how! I've tumbled on another line;
O admirandum! Phœbus smiles to day;
Another! Well, now, don't ye think, I shine?
Why how! I've tumbled on another line;
O admirandum! Phœbus smiles to day;
Another! Well, now, don't ye think, I shine?
Ah! I shall faint! Poor Pegasus wont drive!
What! At the Tenth! Heav'ns, how the Muses fag!
An't I the comicallest dog alive?
How now! Twelve bits to this poetic rag!
Fire and amazement! keep it up! You'll beat 'em;
Add up, my lads! There's Fourteen, or I'll eat 'em.
What! At the Tenth! Heav'ns, how the Muses fag!
An't I the comicallest dog alive?
How now! Twelve bits to this poetic rag!
Fire and amazement! keep it up! You'll beat 'em;
Add up, my lads! There's Fourteen, or I'll eat 'em.
60
TO ZEPHYR.
November 17, 1800.
Mild Zephyr, o'er the verdant grove,
That sport'st in April's dewy ray,
O hear the tender sighs of love,
And wave thy wings and come away!
That sport'st in April's dewy ray,
O hear the tender sighs of love,
And wave thy wings and come away!
If e'er his plaints have reach'd thine ear,
If e'er his tears have met thine eye,
Go, tell Eliza, gentle Air,
I weep, I languish, and I die!
If e'er his tears have met thine eye,
Go, tell Eliza, gentle Air,
I weep, I languish, and I die!
Eliza once my fondness knew,
Eliza once that fondness blest;
Eliza frowns; I fear to woo,
And hide the pang that rends my breast.
Eliza once that fondness blest;
Eliza frowns; I fear to woo,
And hide the pang that rends my breast.
O go; and yon refulgent ball,
And bounteous Heav'n thy care shall pay,
And melt the snow-drops as they fall,
Where'er thou tak'st thy evening play.
And bounteous Heav'n thy care shall pay,
And melt the snow-drops as they fall,
Where'er thou tak'st thy evening play.
61
And where thou wav'st thy airy wing,
No chilling rains shall patter there;
No driving hail deform thy Spring;
Go, sigh my sorrows, gentle Air.
No chilling rains shall patter there;
No driving hail deform thy Spring;
Go, sigh my sorrows, gentle Air.
| Juvenilia | |