Sixty-Five Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sixty-Five Sonnets

With Prefatory Remarks on the Accordance of the Sonnet with the Powers of the English Language: Also, A Few Miscellaneous Poems [by Thomas Doubleday]

Doubleday, Thomas (1790-1870)

POEMS.

[A smile will often join and stray]

[I know thee well; at once the zest]

[I'll pledge thee, Mary, long and deep]

[When I shall sink in my latest sleep]

STANZAS.

[The bloody wreath that warriors wear]

TO---.

STANZAS.

LINES WRITTEN IN A BURIAL GROUND PARTLY DESTROYED BY THE SEA.

THE LILIES OF LOWDORE.

EPISTLE TO---.

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POEMS.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Fill high our bowls with potent wine,
And prate no more of love to me;
This goblet shall my mistress be,
A brighter, sweeter far than thine!
More lively white and pink combine,
And this has charms will never flee;
Then kiss your cups, with lips as free
And ardent as I dwell on mine.
Our gallant hearts, the wines that glow
In frequent cups, shall ne'er appal;
There is a land that takes, we know,
A river, at a draught not small!
And should the stream for ever flow,
The thirsty sand would drink it all.

SONG.

Thou canst not chide my love away,
So never task thy lip to frown;
Whate'er that cruel tongue can say
By those bright eyes is still undone:
Ah! no; not e'en thy power can set
This heart from its enthralment free;
Nor think to teach me to forget,
For I shall never learn of thee!

If outcast I am doom'd to be,
A wanderer this drear confine o'er,
Oh! let my latest look of thee
Be sweet as those that went before;
I'll drink thy smile; I drank it when
'Twas poison! yes, 'twas rash and blind!
But oh! to me, though fatal then,
Past hope and help, it now were kind!

ANACREONTIQUE.

I'll taste thy wine if bright and strong;
Trust me, wherever it may roll,
Trace up the stream of joyous song,
Thou'lt find its fountain-head the bowl;
This is true juice!—now, by my soul,
Which scorns the water-drinking throng,
Castalia's waves may glide along
Untouch'd; this cup is worth the whole:
And wouldst thou have a strain of fire,
I pray thee fill it up again;
Nectar will make a bard divine,
And, though by many a graver strain,
Slack'd are the high chords of my lyre,
They'll tighten soon when wet with wine!

[A smile will often join and stray]

A smile will often join and stray
With tear-drops o'er the saddest cheek;
A tear espouse at times the ray
That from the sunniest eye may break.

Though showers be soft, and beams be bright,
Still more the plants enjoy the weather,
When, in a coy and milky light,
The beams and showers are mix'd together.

From maiden's lids as they descend
To nurse love's bud each gives its power;
But when allied they fondly blend,
They nourish best the blissful flower.

Such moments I the dearest prize;
And rapture seems to swim more near,
When I behold, in trembling eyes,
The marriage of the smile and tear.

100

[I know thee well; at once the zest]

I know thee well; at once the zest
Of added wealth and soft desires
Thou wouldst enjoy, nor thinkst the fires
Of love alone can make us blest;
While dowry, jewels, and the rest,
May feast the eye when beauty tires;
So, with the rose, thy wreath requires
The marygold's refulgent crest.
Gold pippins tempt thee still aside,
From chace of her thou lik'st to rove;
Choose prudent wisdom then for guide,
But call not at his bower on Love:
Men yet to pair have vainly tried
Minerva's owl with Venus' dove.

101

[I'll pledge thee, Mary, long and deep]

“Jam bibe; formosa es: nil tibi vina nocent.
“Cum tua præpendent demissæ in pocula sertæ,
“Et mea deductâ carmina voce legis,
“Largius effuso madeat tibi mensa Falerno;
“Spumet et aurato mollius in calice.”

I'll pledge thee, Mary, long and deep,
And drink at once of love and wine,
Aye, and the sacred cup I'll keep
Unsullied by a breath but mine:

And tenfold shall it fire my soul
With inspiration sweet, to sip
The noble liquor from that bowl
Which once hath met thy dewy lip!

Like wine our love may't be, the more
We've drain'd the more we'll wish to drain;
And may misfortune's heavy hour
Ne'er spill the bliss betwixt us twain.

102

While, true to thine, my lip I wet,
A draught of Lethe may it be,
Joys, sorrows, hopes, may I forget,
And centre all my soul in thee;—

And when thou'rt false to plighted love
And feelst no more the mutual glow,
A bowl of poison may it prove,
That I thy scorn may never know!

103

[When I shall sink in my latest sleep]

“Sepulchri
“Mitte supervacuos honores.”

When I shall sink in my latest sleep,
Let not my poor remains be laid
Where yon cypresses funereal weep,
Or the yew affords unwholsome shade;
But let me rest in the well-known bowers
Where life its choicest blessings gave,
Where the scented shrubs and springing flowers
May lend a grace to my humble grave.

Place not a stone for him beneath,
Be no memorial taken nigh,
But let the gales of the spring-time breathe
And the summer sun smile where I lie;

104

And let o'er the spot my mistress dear
Bend for awhile with dishevell'd hair,
And give to the conscious earth a tear,
'Twill serve me better than pomp and prayer;

For there nor baleful blight shall rest,
Nor wicked dews be nightly shed,
To fade the turf on my mould'ring breast,
And mark the grave of the unbless'd dead!
There shall nor brooding sprite be roused,
Nor sullen ghost, untimely, roam,
But I, to a hallow'd couch unused,
Shall sleep the sounder laid at home!

105

STANZAS.

Yes, I have loved, like thee, what though
I live in such wild waste of soul,
And still at eve thou seest me go
To join the dance or drain the bowl.
These are to sorrow but relief,
Nor show a mind without annoy;
Wretches can revel; for the grief
That poisons peace but maddens joy.

This heart hath known the pain that wrings
The hopeless. Though the name of her
Now cannot make me shrink, nor brings
My visage in one line to stir,

106

Ere this, though now the time's gone by,
That form, whatever joys might call,
Though wine was free and beauty nigh,
Still stood between and darken'd all.

'Tis past. Yet never thence infer,
Albeit, in sooth I do not know
If aught could draw a tear for her
From eyes that once adored her so.
That feeling hath expired, because
In ready drops it will not start,
For oh! 'tis keen as e'er it was,
But sunk more deeply in the heart.

E'en so. The grief that never dies
Will, when the first wild gust is past,
Retiring first from other's eyes,
E'en hide it from itself at last;

107

Close coil'd within the breast a snake,
In growing torpor slumbering,
Which he who bears learns not to wake,
And which, unwaken'd, will not sting.

108

[The bloody wreath that warriors wear]

“Qualem si cuncti vellent decurrere vitam,
“Et pressi multo membra jacere mero;
“Non ferrum crudele, neque esset bellica navis.”

The bloody wreath that warriors wear
To us shall no ambition bring,
But scented nard shall gloss our hair,
And roses round our temples cling;

The ringing goblet's call shall more
Inspire us than the trumpet's sound;
And for discolour'd fields of gore
This juice shall flow our table round;

Our flutes shall speak but airs divine
That breathe of love; and, better far
Than heroes, we'll devote to wine
The pomp so misbestow'd on war.

109

TO---.

I may not kiss the drops away
Which from thine orbs of softness fall,
But ah! in vain my lips delay,
For my sad spirit drinks them all.

And dreary as a chill morn's showers
On meads deep-drench'd with heavy dew,
To me the flood of sorrow pours
Forth from those clouded heav'ns of blue.

Let a brief anger rather cast
Its glance along my startled soul,
There it some flower of hope may blast,
But could not sadden thus the whole.

110

They say, and I have deem'd it so,
That women oft'ner weep than grieve,
Yet, soften'd by the bitter flow,
My heart still feels, nor will believe.

111

STANZAS.

Hid in the deep recesses of my soul
Rests my fix'd scorn of faithless womankind,
Increasing with the years which onward roll,
The secret, o'ergrown passion of my mind.

But ah! Elmira, of this breast forlorn
'Twas thou alone the glittering hope couldst be:
Free from the least approach the jealous scorn
Preserves secure my treasured love for thee.

So the huge snake, which, dimly-volumed, lies
In mystic watch, where Indian treasures sleep
Deep in some dusky vault, from prying eyes
And daring hands, the precious trust will keep.

112

LINES WRITTEN IN A BURIAL GROUND PARTLY DESTROYED BY THE SEA.

“But thou, thy very dust is gone.”
Lord Byron.

When thou to nature paidst the debt
I saw that thou must die,
And, if e'er my fever'd cheek was wet,
I knew not till 'twas dry;
But when I saw where the wave had swept,
And heard the sea-mew shrill,
My bosom choked and my eyes they wept,
Though my heart felt lonelier still.

I had often thought, nay, loved to think,
Although the thought was vain,
That when I of the cup of death should drink
We here should meet again;

113

On that alone my thoughts would rest,
From the pangs of thinking free;
Now all is drear within my breast
As the deep that covers thee.

I trusted that some time I should lie
Beneath where now I stand;
Where twice a-day now the wave leaves dry
The still encroaching sand:
And till I saw the Neptune steal
Upon this changing shore,
I knew not it was possible
That I could lose thee more.

Yet, though true is the grief that clouds my brow,
And my eyes drop faithful brine,
I had not lived to mourn thee now
Had my love been worthy thine.

114

The grief that lives, lives but to wane;
And mine e'en yet may fade,
As this sand shall lose my steps, which fain
Would trace where thou wert laid.

It would have seem'd a baser part
Had the storms allow'd thee room,
And the sorrow had left my fickle heart
While fresh upon thy tomb;
And I yet may join a heartless laugh,
And thank th' officious tide,
That hath blotted out thine epitaph,
E're it told me how much I lied!

Still, though pleasure ere long may expand her wing,
And smiles relight my brow,
Of this I am sure, the world can bring
Nought so worthy love as thou.

115

Though thy form may fade from my mem'ry quite,
Or my tears refuse to fall,
Thou art but like the heav'nliest dream of night,
Forgotten first of all.

116

THE LILIES OF LOWDORE.

On Derwent I have spread my sail
And view'd the jaws of Borrowdale,
And, when becalm'd beneath Lowdore,
Have turn'd me to the western shore,

Where mighty Skiddaw, rudely bare,
Rais'd high his ridgy back in air,
Above his fellows, as when braves
Leviathan the mountain waves.

Yet nothing could the scene delight
As did those lilies, lovely white,
That, with their cups reclining, slept
Where Granges' glassy current crept.

117

Recumbent on the deep, clear waters,
They look'd like Innocence' own daughters,
Too pure and heav'nly-sprung for storms
To agitate their tender forms.

Amid surrounding mountains wild,
In meek retiredness they smiled,
Soft as the loves which poets prize
Amid life's rude realities.

Yes.—For that I have dream'd and sigh'd,
I love ye, lilies, on your tide,
Ye types of that same passion vain,
At once our excellence and bane.

Like ye, it only bloometh where
The heart's pure tide runs calm and clear,
And where the stainless flowers abound
They still are on the surface found.

118

There they adorn, however deep,
The stream beneath, yet seem to weep,
Howe'er the upward heav'ns may smile,
Still pensive and reclined the while;

And, 'mid their leaves, you still may spy
Some tiny seeds of yellow dye,
As Love, though ev'ry star may bless,
Is jealous in its gentleness.

But though it seemeth that of them
A breath would break the fragile stem,
When angry storms have swept the air
They still are found unalter'd there,

As though some watching sylphs were given
To guard them by indulgent Heav'n,
To shield them till the blast had blown,
And save them from the thunder-stone.

119

—Yet what the waters and the air
Are bid, or else have learn'd, to spare,
Can scarcely for a breath withstand
The hostile touch of human hand.

The leaves will fall, as when we shiver
The infant ice upon the river,
As little fitted to endure,
As bright, as brittle, and as pure.

And then the drooping bells that bear
Enshrined in ev'ry leaf a tear,
Though gemm'd with heav'n's own dew before,
When violated, weep no more:

But earthy ravage shrivels up,
And feeds upon each snowy cup,
And, as the shrunk leaves drop away,
They wither with a dry decay.

120

EPISTLE TO---.

Though the deep snows are lying unthaw'd,
And the chill blasts forbid us to roam,
The season allures me abroad,
Since it tells me my friend is at home.

Then my limbs I will warmly enfold,
And come forth, be the skies e'er so fell;
Applauding the climate, though cold,
Where friendship can flourish so well!

Let thy hearth show a genial flame,
Let thy wine sparkle bright as thy glee,
And my comrade, in all but the name,
Thy cottage a palace shall be!

121

Nay, when Fancy is high in her fit,
We'll scorn e'en a king on his throne,
Like gods on Olympus we'll sit,
And reign in a heav'n of our own!

For what in this life shall compare
(And surely this life hath its flow'rs),
When Bacchus, the curer of care,
Looks down upon friendship like ours?

The worldly man's wine may be rare,
But what's wine if th' enlivening part,
If the relish, my friend, be not there,
The relish that springs from the heart;

For the joys of the palate and eye,
Proud luxury trebly refined,
All that power, all that riches can buy,
Must yield to the feast of the mind;

122

And heav'n, if my prayer thou wilt bless,
May I never be destined to stay,
Where to hollow and cold politesse
True friendship is frittered away;

Where Freedom his forehead must shade
In the hood of Hypocrisy drest;
Where aught by the tongue may be said,
But the truth that's approved by the breast.

Yes! my days may with anguish be fill'd,
Yet may thrice treble vengeance be hurl'd,
If I envy the soul that is chill'd
By that numbing torpedo, the world.

But poesy, best gift of all!
That human enlink'st with divine!
I would give this terrestrial ball
That one spark of thy spirit were mine!

123

Then, my friend, let us call up each scene
Ennobled by poesy's strain,
Where the sports of our childhood have been,
Where the sports of our manhood remain.

The hours when delight was in bloom,
The moments when ecstasy shone,
And picture the days still to come
By the brightest of those that are gone!

We'll toast the warm hearts that are here
In friendship's invincible corps,
We'll memorize but with a tear
The long lost companions of yore.

We'll drink to our damsels of old,
We'll drink to our girls in their prime,
To the fires of the past that are cold,
To the loves yet unsullied by time.

124

Nor need we, my friend, be dismay'd,
Though Plutus his smile should refuse,
While still we can call to our aid
And Friendship, and Love, and the Muse;

But, with juice of enspiritment rare,
And with these our repast to control,
We'll drown the foul harpies of care,
And wash off their stains from the soul.