University of Virginia Library

SONNET.—AIMS.

There have been earnest fancies in my soul,
A wilder summons,—deeper cares than these,
That now possess my spirit and control,
Subduing me to forests and green trees.
Thoughts have assail'd me in my solitude,
Of human struggle!—and within mine ear,
Still and anon, a whispering voice I hear,
That mocks me with my feebleness of mood;
The puny toil of song—the idle dance
Of metaphor, and shadows of romance!
Points to superior struggle—paints the cares
Of Empire,—the great nation in the toils
Of impotence, that still in blindness dares,
And what it cannot elevate, despoils.