Sonnets and Other Small Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

From plains o'erspread with bell-cups blue,
And golden nobs of yellow hue;
From fens where pithy rushes grow,
And turbid streams in pomp creep slow,
(Mistaken pride!—with foolish state
So little folks affect the great)
To Catherina, young and fair,
Whom mystic vows have made my care,
Oh, wing thy way my gentle dove,
To friendship sacred and to love.
Around thy neck of burnish'd hue,
This magic knot of lover true,
This burden, brac'd with string of gold,
Wherein my tender passion's told,
Bear—on fleetest pinion bear—
Measuring swift th' expanse of air.
For thee my softest vows I pour,
For Cath'rine every gift implore!

Gentle sleep thine eye-lids closing,
On thy mother's breast reposing,
A scene more fond, more rare I view,
Than poets feign or Guido drew.
While musing on thy face divine,
And scanning each prophetic line,
Joys, thrilling joys play round my soul,
And in tumultuous rapture roll:
For rising virtues, future charms,
With all the blaze of beauty's arms,
In magic talisman appear.
Still rising with the rising year,
Thy father's sageness on thy brow,
By the star-mark'd pow'rs I know;
And thy mother's many graces
Stealing on with gentle paces.
Oh! in thy riper years may'st be
As wise, as chaste, as good as she!
And would'st thou know as happy days,
As well deserve the Poet's lays;

Follow the model now before thee,
Strictly copy her who bore thee;
Or heav'n, averting friendship's pray'r,
Instead of peace will send despair.
Ancient bards, and tales of old,
In song this moral oft have told;
And well I know the precept true,
For late I learn'd this moral too.

One misty morn when dew-drops shone
By the faintly-glimmering moon,
I to the hazel-coppice hied,
With trusty Sancho by my side;
Lur'd by the eager hope of game,
With fatal Paragon I came:
(To Paragon a verse is due,
Ah, Paragon, for ever true!)
'Twas now the sun with tepid ray
Chas'd the thick mist and dew away,

The whirring covey leave the wood,
And gain the fields in quest of food,
Spread their bright plumes, and gladsome play,
Beneath the strength'ning beams of day.
One little wanton, pert and vain,
Contemns her mother's sober reign,
Rejects advice with haughty air,
And wanders o'er the stubble far;
Till keen-nos'd Sancho ranging by,
Stands,—and foretells a Partridge nigh.
Now, by the treacherous gale betray'd,
Wishing, in vain, maternal aid,
She ponders o'er her follies past,
And, sinner-like, repents at last.
With fated flash the thunder flies,
The bird, without a chirrup, dies!

Taught by the hapless sequel, say,
Cath'rine respects a mother's sway.

And then, angelic maiden, hear
Thy poet and thy lover swear,
By the many, many blisses
Of the many, many kisses
Which on thy cheek he longs to pour,
Than all the world he'll love thee more,
More than riches, more than pleasure,
More than wit, the poet's treasure.