University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

ON THE OCCURRENCE OF A SPELL OF ARCTIC WEATHER IN MAY, 1858.

We thought that Winter with his hungry pack
Of hounding Winds had closed his dreary chase,—
For virgin Spring, with arch, triumphant face,
Lightly descending, had strewed o'er his track
Gay flowers that hid the stormy season's wrack.
Vain thought! for, wheeling on his northward path,
And girt by all his hungry Blasts, in wrath
The shrill-voiced Huntsman hurries swiftly back,—
The frightened vernal Zephyrs shrink and die
Through the chilled forest,—the rare blooms expire,—
And Spring herself, too terror-struck to fly,
Seized by the ravening Winds with fury dire,
Dies 'mid the scarlet flowers that round her lie,
Like waning flames of some rich funeral fire!

[I. An idle Poet dreaming in the sun]

An idle Poet dreaming in the sun,—
One given to much unhallowed vagrancy
Of thought and step; who, when he comes to die,
In the broad world can point to nothing done;
No chartered corporations, no streets paved
With very princely stone-work, no vast file
Of warehouses, no slowly-hoarded pile
Of priceless treasure, no proud sceptre waved
O'er potent realms of stock, no magic art
Lavished on curious gins, or works of steam;
Only—a few wild songs that melt the heart;
Only—the glow of some unearthly dream,
Embodied and immortal! What are these,
Sneers the sage world,—chaff! smoke! vain phantasies!

[II. Yet Stock depreciates, even Banks decay]

Yet Stock depreciates, even Banks decay,
Merchant and architect are lowly laid
In purple palls, and the shrewd lords of trade
Lament, for they were wiser in their day
Than the clear sons of light;—but prithee, how
Doth stand the matter, when the years have fled;
What means you concourse thronging where the dead
Old Singer sleeps;—say! do they seek him now?
Now that his dust is scattered on the breath
Of every wind that blows;—what meaneth this?
It means, thou sapient citizen, that death
Heralds the Bard's true life, as with a kiss,
Wakens two immortalities; then bow
To the world's scorn, O Poet, with calm brow.

[Are these the mountains, this the forest gay]

Are these the mountains, this the forest gay,
Through whose grand gorges, and empurpled aisles
I walked when Nature wore the light of smiles,
And tuneful Fancies charmed the genial way?
O'er the broad landscape shines as fair a day,
Still sport the breezes, and the wild brooks weave
The same low, drowsy, music; wherefore grieve,
I ask my heart, and whence this sad decay
Of answering gratulation? Oh! my soul,
In thee, in thee, the mournful darkness lies,
Which clogs the buoyant pulse, and dims the eyes
That feasted once upon the humblest flowers;
And so, in vain the kingly mountain towers,
The joyous forest waves, the sparkling waters roll.