University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I. TO AN EARLY FRIEND.

They called us brother bards: The same blue streams
Witnessed our youthful sports: our tears have sprung
Together, when those ancient tales were sung
That tinged our fancy's first and sweetest dreams—
Two simple boys bewitched with magic themes!
And still as riper years and judgment came,
On mutual couch we planned our mutual schemes,
Our tastes, our friendships, and our joys the same.
But not the same our task: Thy venturous lyre,
Which with the tide of genius swells or falls,
Shall charm tumultuous camps and courtly halls,
And rouse the warrior's arm and patriot's ire—
While I shall chant my simple madrigals
To smiling circles round the cottage fire.

II. TO THE RIVER EARN.

Thou mountain Stream, whose early torrent course
Hath many a drear and distant region seen,
Windest thy downward way with slackened force,
As with the journey thou hadst wearied been;
And, all enamoured of these margins green,
Delight'st to wander with a sportive tide;
Seeming with refluent current still to glide
Around the hazel banks that o'er thee lean.
Like thee, wild Stream! my wearied soul would roam
(Forgetful of life's dark and troublous hour)
Through scenes where Fancy frames her fairy bower,
And Love, enchanted, builds his cottage-home:
But time and tide wait not—and I, like thee,
Must go where tempests rage, and wrecks bestrew the sea!

III. OF LOVE AND LOVE'S DELIGHT.

Of love and love's delight no more I sing;
Nor praise Eliza's soft bewitching eye,
And sunny locks descending gracefully
O'er that fair bosom, like an angel's wing
Floating in light. Alas! the joyous string,
That breathed responsive to love's blissful sigh,
Ill suits the heart where hope and fancy die,
Like flowers untimely blighted in their spring.
Yet doth the memory of those gentle days
In its fixed sadness soothe my darkened mind,
And tempt oft-times to meditate the lays
In hours of happiness for her designed,
Whose lovely image, neither fates unkind,
Nor time, nor absence, from my breast can raze.

IV. LONG YEARS OF SORROW.

Long years of sorrow and slow-wasting care
Have stol'n from thy soft cheek its vermeil hue;
And somewhat changed the glossy locks that threw
Their shadowy beauty round thy temples fair;
And lent to those sweet eyes a sadder air,
That, from their long dark fringes laughing, blue,
Once looked like violets fresh-bathed in dew,
And seemed as they might even enchant despair!
Sickness and grief have touched thee; yet so mildly,
That though some graces of thy youth are gone,
The loveliness that witched my heart so wildly
In life's romantic spring—is still thine own:
And those meek pensive eyes, in their revealings,
Speak now of higher thoughts and deeper feelings.

V. THE EMBLEM.

Seest thou, belovèd! yonder cheerless Oak
Above the river's torrent-course reclined,
Where the fair ivy tenderly hath twined
Its arms around each bough the storm had broke,—
Hiding the ravage of the thunder stroke,
And shielding its young blossoms from the wind?
Vain care!—for, by the current undermined,
Beneath already nods th' unstable rock.
Alas! it is the emblem of our fate;
For oh! I feel thee twined around my soul,
Like yon green ivy o'er the wounded tree:
And thou must leave me, ere it be too late—
While I, in evil fortune's harsh controul,
Drift down the stream of dark adversity.

VI. TO LORD LYNEDOCH, On his return to Spain, March 1813.

Warrior—thou seek'st again the battle-field
Where freedom hails afar thy soul of flame;
And fall'n Iberia kindles at thy name,
As 'neath the shade of England's guardian shield,
She girds her armour on, and strives to wield
Her long-forgotten lance. Yes, there thy fame
Shall in the hymn of kindred hosts be sung
Round Spain's romantic shores, when she hath thrust
The Spoiler from her homes, and proudly hung
Her falchion on the wall—no more to rust!
Bright gleams that vengeful blade, as when of yore
It smote the Crescent on the Moslem's brow:
Warrior! she hails in thee her Cid once more,
To conquer in a fiercer conflict now!

VII. TO A FEMALE RELATIVE.

Lady, when I behold thy thoughtful eye
Dwelling benignantly upon thy Child,
Or hear thee, in maternal accents mild,
Speak of Departed Friends so tenderly—
It seems to me as years now long gone by
Were come again, with early visions fraught,
And hopes sublime, and heavenly musings, caught
From those kind eyes that watch'd my infancy!
Friend of my Mother! often in my heart
Thy kindred image shall with hers arise,
The throb of holier feeling to impart!
And aye that gentle Maid, whom sweetest ties
Of human care around thy soul entwine,
Shall with a brother's love be bound to mine.

VIII. TO AFFLICTION.

(Written during a dangerous Illness.)

O thou! with wakening step and withering eye,
And chalice drugg'd with wormwood to the brim,
Who com'st to probe the nerve and rack the limb,
And wring from bruised hearts the bursting sigh,—
From thee in vain affrighted mortals fly!
Thou breath'st upon them, and their senses swim
In giddy horror—while thy comrades grim,
Anguish and Dread, their snaky scourges ply.
Affliction! though I fear and hate thy hand,
And fain would shun the bitter cup thou bear'st,
Physician harsh! thy merits too I own;
For thou dispell'st illusions that withstand
Milder coercion,—and the roots uptear'st
Of cancerous ills that have the heart o'ergrown.

IX. ON PARTING WITH A FRIEND GOING ABROAD.

O, I could wish, in that light bark with thee,
Now while the stormy night-wind rages loud,
And the dim moon gleams through the dusky cloud,
To travel o'er the wild and trackless sea!
What joy, before the strong gale drifting free,
To feel the soul (long cumber'd 'mid the crowd
Of earthward-pressing cares) emerging proud,
To picture bliss and glory yet to be!
—And yet, with lingering gaze upon that shore,
To weep for all the friendly hearts we leave—
And leave even those we love not with a sigh—
As parting spirits look to earth once more
With human love—exulting while they grieve—
From the dim Ocean of Eternity!

X. TO THE POET CAMPBELL.

Campbell! I much have loved thy fervid strain,
Fraught with high thought, and generous feeling pure;
Rousing young hearts to dare, and to endure
All things for Truth and Freedom; to disdain
Ambition's vulgar trophies—the vile train
Of sordid baits that servile souls allure;
Intent a nobler guerdon to secure,
And live like those who have not lived in vain.
Ah! wherefore silent that inspiring shell,
Round which our souls with young entrancement hung?
The thrilling chords thy touch can wake so well
To patriot strains—why slumber they unstrung?
What, though thou hast achieved a deathless name?
God and mankind have yet a holier claim!

XI. POETS ARE NATURE'S PRIESTS.

Poets are Nature's Priests: their hallow'd eyes
Behold her Mercy-Seat within the Veil;
From their melodious lips the nations hail
Her oracles, and learn her mysteries.
With pure and pious hearts, then let them prize
Their consecration: Shall they hold for sale
The gift of Heaven? and tempt mankind to rail
At glorious powers—profaned for lusts or lies!
Thus Phineas and Hophni dared profane
God's altar—till their father's house was cursed,
And they destroy'd; and even the Ark was ta'en
From the lewd nation that such vileness nursed.
Men highly privileged are prone to ill:
Yet Israel then had Samuel—we have Wordsworth still.