 | Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell |  |
1
SONNET. I.
In days of old, ere charm'd at length to rest
Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,
Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel's music rung;
In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,
Mix'd with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour'd guest;
Cheer'd with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,
War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,
And fir'd with rapture each impassion'd breast:
Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime
Bright Fancy pour'd; but ah! they're heard no more!
Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime
Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;
But Want, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,
And damps the Poet's wing outstretch'd to soar.
Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,
Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel's music rung;
In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,
Mix'd with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour'd guest;
Cheer'd with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,
War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,
And fir'd with rapture each impassion'd breast:
Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime
Bright Fancy pour'd; but ah! they're heard no more!
Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime
Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;
But Want, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,
And damps the Poet's wing outstretch'd to soar.
2
SONNET II.
Ah! what avails it with adventurous pace
To scale, fair Poesy, thy heights sublime?
Tho' many a flower adorn the fragrant clime,
Oft chilling storms with envious blast deface
Each opening bloom: meanwhile with lifted mace
High on the mountain's brow, in garb obscene,
Sits Want, a Spectre pale, whose threatening mien
Oft drives the Bard to quit th' unfinish'd race:
Yet nobler Some, undaunted at his frown,
Up the steep hill have trod the rugged way;
Such sung the Redcross Knight, the Trojan Town,
Brave Gama's toils, and Salem's bloody fray;
Such too, with harder fate, tho' like renown,
Great Ælla's Minstrel pour'd his deathless lay.
To scale, fair Poesy, thy heights sublime?
Tho' many a flower adorn the fragrant clime,
Oft chilling storms with envious blast deface
Each opening bloom: meanwhile with lifted mace
High on the mountain's brow, in garb obscene,
Sits Want, a Spectre pale, whose threatening mien
Oft drives the Bard to quit th' unfinish'd race:
Yet nobler Some, undaunted at his frown,
Up the steep hill have trod the rugged way;
Such sung the Redcross Knight, the Trojan Town,
Brave Gama's toils, and Salem's bloody fray;
Such too, with harder fate, tho' like renown,
Great Ælla's Minstrel pour'd his deathless lay.
Spenser, Homer, Camoens, Tasso, and Chatterton are the poets alluded to in the four concluding lines.
3
SONNET III.
Oxford, since late I left thy peaceful shore,
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy Gothic fanes, dim isles, and cloysters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;
Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow Curfeu's solemn roar;
Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,
And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;
But most those Friends, whose much-lov'd converse gave
Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy Gothic fanes, dim isles, and cloysters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;
Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow Curfeu's solemn roar;
Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,
And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;
But most those Friends, whose much-lov'd converse gave
Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.
4
SONNET. IV.
Yes, lov'd retreat, those wonted gales I know,
That shed soft fragrance o'er my drooping frame,
Sweet, as of old, when first the youthful flame
Was kindled in my veins; and now below
I see thy varlous length of landscape glow
With all it's custom'd blooms, it's groves the same,
It's verdant lawns, and towers of antique same,
And streams that gently murmur as they flow:
Now too the sounds, that us'd my soul to cheer,
Thy mingled melodies of hill and plain,
Melt in faint murmurs on my ravish'd ear:
But say, will They too bless my eyes again,
My Friends of yore? if They no more appear,
Fair as thou art, thy other charms are vain.
That shed soft fragrance o'er my drooping frame,
Sweet, as of old, when first the youthful flame
Was kindled in my veins; and now below
I see thy varlous length of landscape glow
With all it's custom'd blooms, it's groves the same,
It's verdant lawns, and towers of antique same,
And streams that gently murmur as they flow:
Now too the sounds, that us'd my soul to cheer,
Thy mingled melodies of hill and plain,
Melt in faint murmurs on my ravish'd ear:
But say, will They too bless my eyes again,
My Friends of yore? if They no more appear,
Fair as thou art, thy other charms are vain.
5
SONNET. V.
To the Author of the Arabian Nights Entertainments.
Η θαυματα πολλα,
Και που τι και βροτων φρενας
Υπερ τον αληθη λογον
Δεδαιδαλμενοι ψευδετι πεικιλοις
Εξαπατωντι μυθοι.
Και που τι και βροτων φρενας
Υπερ τον αληθη λογον
Δεδαιδαλμενοι ψευδετι πεικιλοις
Εξαπατωντι μυθοι.
Pindar. Olymp. I.
Blest Child of Genius, whose fantastic Sprite
Rides on the vollied lightning's flash, or roves
Thro' flowery valleys, and Elysian groves,
Or, borne on venturous pinions, takes it's flight
To those dread realms, where hid from mortal sight
Fierce Genii roam, or where in bright alcoves
Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves;
Whate'er thy theme, whether the magic might
Of the stern Kings, that dwell mid Ocean's roar,
Or Sindbad's perils, or the cruel wiles
Of Afric's curst Enchanter charm us more,
Or ought more wondrous still our ear beguiles,
Well-pleas'd we listen to thy fabling lore,
And Truth itself with less attraction smiles.
Rides on the vollied lightning's flash, or roves
Thro' flowery valleys, and Elysian groves,
Or, borne on venturous pinions, takes it's flight
To those dread realms, where hid from mortal sight
Fierce Genii roam, or where in bright alcoves
Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves;
Whate'er thy theme, whether the magic might
Of the stern Kings, that dwell mid Ocean's roar,
Or Sindbad's perils, or the cruel wiles
Of Afric's curst Enchanter charm us more,
Or ought more wondrous still our ear beguiles,
Well-pleas'd we listen to thy fabling lore,
And Truth itself with less attraction smiles.
6
SONNET VI. TO BOCCACCIO.
Not for thy Gothic Trumpet's martial rage,
Not for thy Latian Bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy Age,
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's Victims smooth the brow, and smile;
For nought of worth like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;
But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears
At his dread Vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda, sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom,
The Bard sublime of Terrour, and of Tears.
Not for thy Latian Bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,
Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy Age,
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,
Pale Sorrow's Victims smooth the brow, and smile;
For nought of worth like this, immortal Sage,
Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;
But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears
At his dread Vision, oft have wept the doom
Of fair Ghismonda, sunk in early years,
I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom,
The Bard sublime of Terrour, and of Tears.
Boccaccio wrote the Theseida an Epic poem in Ottava Rima, and several Latin works; but owes his reputation chiefly to the Decamerone, the style of which is still considered as the standard of perfection in the Italian language. Among the many humorous and licentious tales, which form this work, are some of a more serious character. Such are the two here mention'd, which Dryden has imitated under the names of Theodore and Honoria, Sigismonda and Guiscardo.
7
SONNET VII.
Sick with the pangs, that prompt the Lover's moan,
Long tender Tasso pin'd, but pin'd in vain:
Despair at length and Frenzy fir'd his brain;
In silence oft he sat, and wept alone,
Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan;
Oft too in songs, if songs might ease his pain,
He pour'd his soul, changing the Trumpet's strain
For rural Reeds, and the Lute's amorous tone:
I, who like him whole years with tortur'd heart
Have woo'd, and vainly woo'd, as fair a Dame,
Feel thro' my boiling veins like madness dart;
So could I learn, like him, the lay to frame,
If She, if haply She, who caus'd my smart,
Might deign to listen, and relieve my pain!
Long tender Tasso pin'd, but pin'd in vain:
Despair at length and Frenzy fir'd his brain;
In silence oft he sat, and wept alone,
Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan;
Oft too in songs, if songs might ease his pain,
He pour'd his soul, changing the Trumpet's strain
For rural Reeds, and the Lute's amorous tone:
I, who like him whole years with tortur'd heart
Have woo'd, and vainly woo'd, as fair a Dame,
Feel thro' my boiling veins like madness dart;
So could I learn, like him, the lay to frame,
If She, if haply She, who caus'd my smart,
Might deign to listen, and relieve my pain!
8
SONNET. VIII. TO VALCLUSA.
What tho', Valclusa, the fond Bard be fled,
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to Love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song!
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft Music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.
That woo'd his Fair in thy sequester'd bowers,
Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What tho' no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to Love belong,
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn
He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song!
Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft Music breathes in every gale,
Still undecay'd the Fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.
9
SONNET IX.
No more, fond Father of a much-lov'd Child,
Let thy sad heart, big with paternal fears,
Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years;
A Friend, who knows him generous, brave, and mild,
By Pride unspoil'd, by Flattery unbeguil'd,
True to his promise, faithful to his trust,
Blind to his own, to others merit just,
Nor stain'd with Folly, nor with Vice defil'd,
And zealous still in Honour's arduous way
To emulate the race his Sire has run,
Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day
To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is done,
Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay,
And all thy virtues flourish in thy Son.
Let thy sad heart, big with paternal fears,
Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years;
A Friend, who knows him generous, brave, and mild,
By Pride unspoil'd, by Flattery unbeguil'd,
True to his promise, faithful to his trust,
Blind to his own, to others merit just,
Nor stain'd with Folly, nor with Vice defil'd,
And zealous still in Honour's arduous way
To emulate the race his Sire has run,
Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day
To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is done,
Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay,
And all thy virtues flourish in thy Son.
10
SONNET X.
Could then the Babes from yon unshelter'd cot
Implore thy passing charity in vain?
Too thoughtless Youth! what tho' thy happier lot
Insult their life of poverty and pain!
What tho' their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath th' Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,
Their evening chearful, tho' their day distrest,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossest,
A Faith more fix'd, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.
Implore thy passing charity in vain?
Too thoughtless Youth! what tho' thy happier lot
Insult their life of poverty and pain!
What tho' their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath th' Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,
Their evening chearful, tho' their day distrest,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossest,
A Faith more fix'd, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.
11
SONNET XI.
Too long, alas! thro' Life's tempestuous tide
Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd,
Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd
Great Naturb's God: such erring dreams belied
My Fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride:
While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd,
Ten thousand Phantoms to my sight appear'd,
And drew me darkling far from truth aside.
But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,
To the mild bosom of it's saving Lord,
Elate with ardent Hope, my Soul ascends,
While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplor'd,
Religion's golden Sun it's evening-beam extends.
Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd,
Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd
Great Naturb's God: such erring dreams belied
My Fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride:
While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd,
Ten thousand Phantoms to my sight appear'd,
And drew me darkling far from truth aside.
But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,
To the mild bosom of it's saving Lord,
Elate with ardent Hope, my Soul ascends,
While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplor'd,
Religion's golden Sun it's evening-beam extends.
12
SONNET XII.
Dear Babe, whose meaning by fond looks exprest,
Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,
While thus, nor taught by Age to fawn, nor drest
In Treachery's mask, nor Falsehood's glistering vest,
Thou sweetly smilest, at the pleasing sight,
Wretch as I am, unwonted to Delight,
A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast:
Yet soon again bursts forth th' unbidden tear,
And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine
What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year,
What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;
What for myself I feel, for Thee I fear:
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!
Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,
While thus, nor taught by Age to fawn, nor drest
In Treachery's mask, nor Falsehood's glistering vest,
Thou sweetly smilest, at the pleasing sight,
Wretch as I am, unwonted to Delight,
A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast:
Yet soon again bursts forth th' unbidden tear,
And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine
What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year,
What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;
What for myself I feel, for Thee I fear:
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!
13
SONNET XIII. Suppos'd to be written at Lemnos.
On this lone Isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæan's Son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd, and blam'd it's lingering flight,
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chas'd his dreams by night.
Hope still was his: in each low breeze, that sigh'd
Thro' his rude grot, he heard a coming oar,
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied rear
Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore.
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Pæan's Son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watch'd, and blam'd it's lingering flight,
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave,
And savage howlings chas'd his dreams by night.
Hope still was his: in each low breeze, that sigh'd
Thro' his rude grot, he heard a coming oar,
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listen'd to the fancied rear
Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide
That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore.
14
SONNET XIV. To the Spider.
Ingenious Insect, but of ruthless mould,
Whose savage craft, as Nature taught, designs
A mazy web of death, the filmy lines,
That form thy circling labytinth, enfold
Each thoughtless Fly, that wanders near thy hold,
Sad victim of thy guile; nor ought avail
His silken wings, nor coat of glossy mail,
Nor varying hues of azure, jet, or gold:
Yet, tho' thus ill the fluttering captive fares,
Whom heedless of the fraud thy toils trepan,
Thy tyrant-fang, that slays the stranger, spares
The bloody brothers of thy cruel clan;
While Man against his fellows spreads his snares,
Then most delighted, when his prey is Man.
Whose savage craft, as Nature taught, designs
A mazy web of death, the filmy lines,
That form thy circling labytinth, enfold
Each thoughtless Fly, that wanders near thy hold,
Sad victim of thy guile; nor ought avail
His silken wings, nor coat of glossy mail,
Nor varying hues of azure, jet, or gold:
Yet, tho' thus ill the fluttering captive fares,
Whom heedless of the fraud thy toils trepan,
Thy tyrant-fang, that slays the stranger, spares
The bloody brothers of thy cruel clan;
While Man against his fellows spreads his snares,
Then most delighted, when his prey is Man.
15
SONNET XV. To the Owl.
Grave Bird, that shelter'd in thy lonely bower,
On some tall oak with ivy overspread,
Or in some silent barn's deserted shed,
Or mid the fragments of some ruin'd tower,
Still, as of old, at this sad solemn hour,
When now the toiling Sons of Care are fled,
And the freed Ghost slips from his wormy bed,
Complainest loud of Man's ungentle power,
That drives thee from the chearful face of day
To tell thy sorrows to the pale-eyed Night,
Like thee, escaping from the sunny ray,
I woo this gloom, to hide me from the sight
Of that fell Tribe, whose persecuting sway
On Me and Thee alike is bent to light.
On some tall oak with ivy overspread,
Or in some silent barn's deserted shed,
Or mid the fragments of some ruin'd tower,
Still, as of old, at this sad solemn hour,
When now the toiling Sons of Care are fled,
And the freed Ghost slips from his wormy bed,
Complainest loud of Man's ungentle power,
That drives thee from the chearful face of day
To tell thy sorrows to the pale-eyed Night,
Like thee, escaping from the sunny ray,
I woo this gloom, to hide me from the sight
Of that fell Tribe, whose persecuting sway
On Me and Thee alike is bent to light.
16
SONNET XVI.
Once more return'd to curl the dimpling lake
Auspicious Zephyr waves his downy wing,
Rouz'd at his touch the slumbering flowers awake
With all the smiling Family of Spring:
Again is heard the turtle's amorous tale,
Again the swallow twitters o'er her nest,
Again wild music melts in every vale,
And love rekindling glows in every breast:
Thus they return: but ah! to me no more
Return the pleasures of the vernal plain,
In vain for me resounds the vocal shore,
And woods renew their verdant robes in vain;
Nor counsel sweet of Friends can ease my care,
Nor even the sweeter converse of the Fair.
Auspicious Zephyr waves his downy wing,
Rouz'd at his touch the slumbering flowers awake
With all the smiling Family of Spring:
Again is heard the turtle's amorous tale,
Again the swallow twitters o'er her nest,
Again wild music melts in every vale,
And love rekindling glows in every breast:
Thus they return: but ah! to me no more
Return the pleasures of the vernal plain,
In vain for me resounds the vocal shore,
And woods renew their verdant robes in vain;
Nor counsel sweet of Friends can ease my care,
Nor even the sweeter converse of the Fair.
The Italian reader will perceive a resemblance between this and the 269th Sonnet of Petrarch:
Zefiro torna; e'l bel tempo rimena &c:17
SONNET XVII.
Oh Thou, whose poison taints life's richest feast,
Thou Fiend, whom Fear on Love begot of yore,
Whom dark Suspicion foster'd at her breast,
And Vengeance tutor'd in his deadliest lore,
Oh Jealousy, whose inly-rankling dart
Racks the fond bosom with unnumber'd throes,
That now, even now, art busy at my heart,
Far hence avaunt, and leave me to repose!
Go in some Stygian cave unheard to moan,
There night and day thy restless eye-balls roll—
Ah! spare me, spare me, since thy power I own!
Nor thus, so soon returning from controul,
In size more huge, in shape more hideous grown,
With tenfold horrours rush upon my soul.
Thou Fiend, whom Fear on Love begot of yore,
Whom dark Suspicion foster'd at her breast,
And Vengeance tutor'd in his deadliest lore,
Oh Jealousy, whose inly-rankling dart
Racks the fond bosom with unnumber'd throes,
That now, even now, art busy at my heart,
Far hence avaunt, and leave me to repose!
Go in some Stygian cave unheard to moan,
There night and day thy restless eye-balls roll—
Ah! spare me, spare me, since thy power I own!
Nor thus, so soon returning from controul,
In size more huge, in shape more hideous grown,
With tenfold horrours rush upon my soul.
18
SONNET XVIII. From Petrarch.
If, here reclining while I weep my woes,
The Turtle near me tells her plaintive tale,
Or headlong brook with warbling murmur flows,
Or green leaves rustle to the sighing gale,
In each low sound, that makes these rocks reply,
I seem my Laura's long-lost voice to hear,
And oft, bright beaming on my raptur'd eye,
Her charms more lovely than in life appear;
A Naiad oft, emerging from the flood,
Graceful she seems to tread the dimpling wave,
Oft glides along, a Goddess of the wood,
Oft sits, the Nymph of this sequester'd cave,
Oft mounting beckons from a cloud of light,
Till Heaven at length receives her from my sight.
The Turtle near me tells her plaintive tale,
Or headlong brook with warbling murmur flows,
Or green leaves rustle to the sighing gale,
In each low sound, that makes these rocks reply,
I seem my Laura's long-lost voice to hear,
And oft, bright beaming on my raptur'd eye,
Her charms more lovely than in life appear;
A Naiad oft, emerging from the flood,
Graceful she seems to tread the dimpling wave,
Oft glides along, a Goddess of the wood,
Oft sits, the Nymph of this sequester'd cave,
Oft mounting beckons from a cloud of light,
Till Heaven at length receives her from my sight.
19
SONNET XIX. From Petrarch.
Full twice ten years, pining with fond desire,
Love's Slave I liv'd, nor broke the galling chain,
Nor banish'd hope, tho' hope was always vain;
Ten more, these eyes, when Death's avenging ire
Snatch'd the dear Maid, to whom they dar'd aspire,
Wept o'er her grave, while still my plaintive strain
Told each sad Echo of these groves my pain:
But now, since Time has quench'd th' unwilling fire,
This remnant of my days, with clouds o'ercast,
To thee, great God, whose mercies never cease,
I meekly vow, to expiate the past;
Praying, if prayer may sins like mine release,
By storms long tost to find a port at last,
Long bruis'd in war at length to sleep in peace.
Love's Slave I liv'd, nor broke the galling chain,
Nor banish'd hope, tho' hope was always vain;
Ten more, these eyes, when Death's avenging ire
Snatch'd the dear Maid, to whom they dar'd aspire,
Wept o'er her grave, while still my plaintive strain
Told each sad Echo of these groves my pain:
But now, since Time has quench'd th' unwilling fire,
This remnant of my days, with clouds o'ercast,
To thee, great God, whose mercies never cease,
I meekly vow, to expiate the past;
Praying, if prayer may sins like mine release,
By storms long tost to find a port at last,
Long bruis'd in war at length to sleep in peace.
21
SONNET XX. Imitated from SONETTO DI FAUSTINA MARATTI.
Too beauteous Rival, whose enticing charms
Once to my heart's sole Darling seem'd so fair,
That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,
Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair;
Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain,
Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied,
Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain
From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?
Once, once, too well I know, he held thee dear,
And then, when captive to thy sovereign will—
But why that look abash'd, that statting tear,
Those conscious blushes which my fears fulfil?
Speak, answer, speak; nay answer not, forbear,
If thou must answer, that he loves thee still.
Once to my heart's sole Darling seem'd so fair,
That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,
Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair;
Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain,
Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied,
Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain
From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?
Once, once, too well I know, he held thee dear,
And then, when captive to thy sovereign will—
But why that look abash'd, that statting tear,
Those conscious blushes which my fears fulfil?
Speak, answer, speak; nay answer not, forbear,
If thou must answer, that he loves thee still.
23
SONNET XXI. Imitated from BELINDE. EIN SONNET VON HERR GLEIM.
From her fair limbs the last thin veil she drew,
And naked stood in all her charms confest,
The wanton gales her ringlets backward blew,
To sport themselves more freely on her breast:
From each warm beauty of th' uncover'd Maid,
Before scarce guess'd at, or but seen in part,
From all, for all was to my eyes display'd,
Delicious poison trickled to my heart:
Since thus I gaz'd (was mine to gaze the blame?)
Nor bliss my soul has tasted, nor repose;
The subtle venom glides thro' all my frame,
And in my brain a fiery deluge glows:
Thou, who my pangs wouldst shun, with wiser care
The spot, where Cynthia bathes at noon, beware.
And naked stood in all her charms confest,
The wanton gales her ringlets backward blew,
To sport themselves more freely on her breast:
From each warm beauty of th' uncover'd Maid,
Before scarce guess'd at, or but seen in part,
From all, for all was to my eyes display'd,
Delicious poison trickled to my heart:
Since thus I gaz'd (was mine to gaze the blame?)
Nor bliss my soul has tasted, nor repose;
The subtle venom glides thro' all my frame,
And in my brain a fiery deluge glows:
Thou, who my pangs wouldst shun, with wiser care
The spot, where Cynthia bathes at noon, beware.
25
SONNET XXII. Imitated from SONETO DE LUIZ DE CAMOENS.
These hills that lift their verdant heads so high,
These towering palms that form a cooling shade,
These moss-grown banks for peaceful slumbers made,
This lingering stream that flows in silence by,
The distant-murmuring main, the Zephyr's sigh,
The Sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,
The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade,
Those glittering clouds that fringe the western sky;
Each various beauty, which the vernal year
Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain,
Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near,
Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain;
Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear,
And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.
These towering palms that form a cooling shade,
These moss-grown banks for peaceful slumbers made,
This lingering stream that flows in silence by,
The distant-murmuring main, the Zephyr's sigh,
The Sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,
The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade,
Those glittering clouds that fringe the western sky;
Each various beauty, which the vernal year
Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain,
Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near,
Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain;
Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear,
And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.
27
SONNET XXIII. Imitated from SONETO DE LUIZ DE CAMOENS.
Weep, Nymphs of Tagus, weep the hapless doom
Ordain'd by Fate, and Death's severe decree,
Severe to all, but most, alas! to me,
In Youth's gay pride, in Beauty's early bloom
To sink the lov'd Ophelia to the tomb.
Heavens! that such eyes, whose orbs so sweetly roll'd,
Such lips of rubies, and such locks of gold
So soon should moulder in eternal gloom!
Tremble ye lesser Stars! if nought could save
Charms, such as her's, from the foul shades of night,
How soon shall fade your glories in the grave!
Yet cease my Soul to grieve; her Heaven-born Sprite,
Too pure to linger in it's earthly cave,
Wing'd its free passage to the realms of light.
Ordain'd by Fate, and Death's severe decree,
Severe to all, but most, alas! to me,
In Youth's gay pride, in Beauty's early bloom
To sink the lov'd Ophelia to the tomb.
Heavens! that such eyes, whose orbs so sweetly roll'd,
Such lips of rubies, and such locks of gold
So soon should moulder in eternal gloom!
Tremble ye lesser Stars! if nought could save
Charms, such as her's, from the foul shades of night,
How soon shall fade your glories in the grave!
Yet cease my Soul to grieve; her Heaven-born Sprite,
Too pure to linger in it's earthly cave,
Wing'd its free passage to the realms of light.
| Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems by the late Thomas Russell | |