University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

[Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought]

Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought,
Ye that are of the mountains, and do tend
Upon the morning, when with clouds o'erwrought,
Her brow doth blacken in the storms, that blend,
With her strong pinions—lifting her along,
From her serener beauties, into gloom.
Descend, ye dark indwellers with the strong,
Ye of the magic mystery and song,
Whose voice is on the ice-crags of the Swiss,
Where Freedom built her ærie, and the bloom
Of her untrammell'd freshness, sent abroad
Life on the nations, till they own'd the God!
There is a spirit that belongs to this—
Him of the lyre and spell, that worships ye unaw'd!
Oh! sable-vested Night! how dost thou bring
Strange fancies to my soul—peopling the hour
Of vacancy and midnight, with a pow'r
Of mystery and thought, to which I cling,
With an enthusiast's worship, and my heart
Drinks in the enchantment of thy solemn spells,
Till I become, of thy own world, a part—
And all my thought, at reason's rule rebels,
Each sound that only jars the Zephyr's pinion,
To me, has something, in that strange, sweet time,
Wrought by some minstrel-god, in his dominion
Of spell and song, and fresh, and morning clime—
And when I wake, my cheek and eye's dim light,
Proclaim, I have been wandering all the night!

[Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?]

Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?—
Oh! there is peace within the quiet grave!
No hopes to cheat, no aspirations high,
No heart to throb, no anguish'd brain to rave—
I shall not shudder at the approaching ill,
As the young leaf, which doth anticipate,
The coming of the cold, which is its fate,
And shrinks, without a murmur, to its will.
Dreams shall not win me unto happiness,
To crush me, when I waken up, the more;—
Nor shall the visions, that once came, to bless,
Wear different features, then from what they wore:
The breeze may whistle o'er my grave, in vain,
I must feel pleasure, when removed from pain.

[Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead]

Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead—
Let not fools scoff above me, and proclaim,
That I had, vainly, struggled after fame,
'Till the good oil of my young life was shed;
And I became a mockery, and fell
Into the yellow leaf, before my time;—
A sacrifice, even in my earliest prime,
To that, which thinn'd the heav'ns, and peopled hell!
I feel my spirit fed upon my form,
As a disease within me, that still grows,
As I incline unto my last repose,
A vulturous, and all undying worm—
Let fools not mock me, when I am no more—
And yet—I ask no friendship, to deplore!

[Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine]

Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine—
I have not much to win thee, yet if song,
However humble, may a name prolong,
My lay shall seek to give a life to thine!
Let this reward thee for thy kindly thought—
'Tis all I ask of thee—thus, when my years
Are ripen'd to their full, or early wrought,
To a short term of being, and my tears,
Haply for me, are staid—and I, at rest,
Think of me kindly—when men utter things,
Which wrong my name and to it darkly clings,
Shadowing its purity—do thou attest,
Mine eye was on the sun—I could not bend
To the dull clouds, when I might still ascend!

[To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life]

[The barque is ready, for your carriage hence]

The barque is ready, for your carriage hence,
My friend—and you are now about to tread
The English shore again. Alas! I sigh,
When aught diverts my thought to my own land;
For in my heart a labor lies conceal'd,
That is not the less irksome. I've had dreams,
Eustace—and, tho' I would not be a boy,
They've had much weight upon me, and I feel
A strong forecast, that I shall never more,
Be, on the English shore, a visitor.
I have a sister Eustace, you will find
At Sheffield—bid her be of cheer, I pray,
For I am well. Be sure and send her this—
'Tis a small token, but to her enough—
Since, 'tis the giver's thought, and not his gift,
The token carries with it. Be her friend,
As you have been her brother's—he, I feel,
Will need nor hate, nor friendship from you more.

[Ay, I have heard enough]

[Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams]

[It was a picture of much loveliness]

It was a picture of much loveliness—
A picture, men would love to look upon,
Tho' seldom so permitted. A sweet child,
That laugh'd in the possession of his prize,
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its milk,
And nutriment, and life, from a half hid,
And half reveal'd, and delicate, white round,
That seem'd an orb of purity and peace!
Its little lip, and full and glowing cheek
Were of one colour—rich and young and fresh—
And only such, are beautiful! Its eye
Glanced archly on its property—the Imp,
As if it knew such things were not for all!
And then it playfully upturned the dress,
And peep'd beneath, and with its little hands,
Possess'd itself of all, and placed its head
Upon its natural pillow, and look'd up
In that sweet mother's face, and smiled with joy,
And knew not, happy Ignorant! the tears
Upon that mother's cheek, for it, were shed!

[My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone]

My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone,
Strangers and time, will have untaught thee all,
Thy father's love; ere thou wilt well have known
Thou had'st a father, tho' his name thou'lt call—
And I shall leave behind me, nought, that may
Teach thee thy loss, unless it be my song—
And that, perchance, will scarcely linger long,
To keep my memory coupled with my lay!
Sad lay! invoked in sorrow, tuned by wrong,
Harsh and unmusical, yet sadly deep—
Such notes as tempests waken, when they sweep
O'er wind-harps, with a pinion swift and strong!
Breaking perchance, each string, yet lifting high,
A dying shriek of mournful melody.

[I saw it in my dream. O! could I task]

I saw it in my dream. O! could I task
My sense again to slumber, nor awake
So long as the fair vision were in sight.—
I will not do it so much wrong, to make
My rude words, show the picture thou dost ask;
But I should feel it poorly, if delight
Be only in my feature—for I feel,
From the devoted counsels of my heart,
That I should look enjoyment, nor appeal
To low discourse of language, to bepaint
My morning vision of calm happiness:—
That dream, which it would madden, to reveal,
And which even song would render spiritless—
It was such deep, such fine, heart-touching tenderness.

[Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes]

Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes,
Good shepherd, for thou tell'st them with an air
That might have won a wilder thought to hear,
Than his, who sits beside thee, while he gleans
Thy secret from thee, of sweet happiness—
Inborn content, and quiet humbleness—
That cannot be o'erthrown by rising high,
And so attracteth not the gaze of envious eye.
Thy blessings are of that serener kind,
Which, as they call no passions forth, must be
Only the lighter curl that breaks the sea
Into a pleasant murmur—no rough wind
Is there, to rouse the sleeping ocean's form,
And call the whirlwind forth, and usher in the storm.

[Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion]

Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion,
Upon a gentle hill-slope, flow'r-o'erstrewn,
I could be laid, to wait the coming moon,
And her sweet smile, as a rich garment, don.
Let the winds be around me—and the dell,
That breaks into the valley, catch the sound,
And with its many voices, send around
Aerial music, till the wizard spell
Awake the night-nymphs to attend my sleep—
And she, my mistress, from her ocean cell,
Arise on the blue mountains, with a swell
Of those sweet noises from the caverns deep,
Wherein the mermaiden and mermen dwell—
Then, from my bruised couch of hill-flow'rs, let me leap.

[Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills]

Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills,
And looking on the waters—let me go—
I would not seek my couch, while such a show
Of beauty, all the free empyreal, fills—
The city is behind me—it is bright,
So liberal and and so lavish is the night,
As conscious of her riches, she bestows
Her wealth in wide profusion, where she goes—
Downwards, the shadows of the houses, cast,
Are sick, with the gay loveliness of night,
And as her living beams are rushing past,
How do they shrink before her fairy light.
Let me go forth—for this must be the hour,
When gentle spirits walk, and fairy forms have pow'r.

[Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround]

Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround
Thy rest, young pilgrim!—pleasant breezes come,
And bear the odors of the blossoming ground,
And flap their wings above thy cheek's rich bloom!
And, O! that life may glide away with thee,
In infantile enjoyments!—while I pray,
Above thy baby-couch, that thou may'st be
Guarded by angels, innocent as they,
I would deny thee all the hopes that crowd
O'er childhood's pranking hours. Thou should'st not dream
Of aught in store, where childhood could be proud—
Nor, should deceitful fancy lend one beam,
To dazzle thee in the far coming years,
When life may be all bitterness and tears.

[Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest]

Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest,
Upon this bed of sedge—the rivulet near,
Meanwhile, will send up to the watchful ear,
Some gentle murmurs, like a song, represt,
By tears of the sad heart that pours it out!—
I do remember, it is now about
A score of summers, since I laid me down,
Beside this little streamiet, as I left
The noise and the confusion of yon town,
To which I now return—of wealth, bereft,
But visions, full and flowing, yet to come;—
My heart was glowing then in primal bloom—
This rivulet, glided on, as it doth now—
Yet—mark the life of changes on my brow!

[The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew]

The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew,
And trip it, 'neath the moon, upon the green,
Have been with me, and I have heard and seen
Their gossamer forms—among them, some I knew.
Theirs, were most pleasant duties, for they crept
Beside me, as upon my couch, I slept,
And built fair images to glad my sight—
Then, with sweet songs, they hush'd me to repose;
For I had partly waken'd, 'neath the light
Of a rich vision—which, I could not close
My eyes, for looking on; until they won
The slumber, I had frighted, back upon
My heavy lids, and so I past the night—
Ah! me, I would that this long day were done.

[I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this]

I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this—
Our fancies are most frolicsome, and oft
They bear our weakened images aloft,
Where they do lose themselves in very bliss.
Beshrew me, but it is a pleasant spot,
For fairies to make merry on, untill
The steeple's clock, from yonder grey brow'd hill,
Doth dissipate their airy sports, I wot:—
Yet, 'till the dawning, they may brush the dew,
And it may be, perchance, in day-light too,
Albeit we see them not—the light of day,
Perchance, may take their lesser light away,
As the stars fade, when the young moon is fair,
And yet, we know, they still are shining there!