SONNETS.
[I. If on the clustering curls of thy dark hair]
If on the clustering curls of thy dark hair,
And the pure arching of thy polished brow,
We only gaze, we fondly dream that thou
Art one of those bright ministers who bear,
Along the cloudless bosom of the air,
Sweet, solemn words, to which our spirits bow,
With such a holy smile thou lookest now,
And art so soft and delicately fair.
A veil of tender light is mantling o'er thee;
Around thy opening lips young loves are playing;
And crowds of youths, in passionate thought delaying,
Pause, as thou movest by them, to adore thee;
By many a sudden blush and tear betraying
How the heart trembles, when it bends before thee.
[II. Oh! I could wish I sat upon yon cloud]
Oh! I could wish I sat upon yon cloud,
Moving with such a silent flight away,
And pure, as if it were an angel's shroud,
And bright, as if it were the veil of day.
Silently on the wind it passes by,
And o'er the mountain glides, and comes no more;
So, when a few short days are gone, shall I
Glide to a dim and undiscovered shore.
O, thou art pure and beautiful, sweet form!
Who softly movest by me in the light
Of thy young beauty, as upon the storm
Falls, with a fainter tint, the bow of night:
Thy way is to a better world, and there
Thou lookest as a cloud that smiles at even.
O, be to me that cloud, and kindly bear
My spirit with thee to thy own pure heaven.
[III. Thy form may fade, but thou wilt not all die]
Thy form may fade, but thou wilt not all die,
For love with thee is deathless. Thou wilt be
Dear, as thou ever hast been, unto me,
For thou wilt ever have the speaking eye;
And that alone is beauty, and it tells
How many fond affections burn within;
And it too hath a magic power to win,
By the enchantment of its living spells.
Only with that fond heart, and that dark eye,
Thy love will ever guide me, and control
My spirit to thy gentle sympathy;
And as the needle trembles to the pole,
So shall my heart for ever to thee fly,
The centre and attraction of my soul.
[IV. If, when I look on thee, and hear thy voice]
If, when I look on thee, and hear thy voice
In a low-whispered melody alone,
When it is breathing in its softest tone,
All the deep feelings of my heart rejoice,—
O, what were it to sit beside thee long,
And gaze on thy bright looks and thy dark eyes,
And hear thy tender words and thy sweet song,
As sweet as if it floated from the skies!
O, what were it to know that thou art mine,
Indissolubly mine!—that thou wilt be
For ever as an angel unto me,
Whether the day be dark, or fortune shine,
Giving me, in the bliss of loving thee,
A portion of the bliss they call divine.
[V. Calm look of gentleness!—I see thee now]
Calm look of gentleness!—I see thee now,
Even in the dead of night I see thee. Fair
Thou movest like a spirit through the air,
And there is light unearthly on thy brow,—
Yes, by that smile, it can be only thou;
For as the fresh dew trembling on the rose,
When first the silken leaves their red unclose,
Or as the jewel on the frosted bough,
So bright and pure thy tender look of love;
And as thou hoverest over me, my heart
Beats gentler, and I feel my spirit play
Light as a linnet on his airy way;
And as thy blue eyes look on me, they dart
The soft and winning glances of the dove.
[VI. Green herbs and flowers new opening, ye have known]
Green herbs and flowers new opening, ye have known
The soft hand that once gathered you, and made
Of your bright leaves and tender stalks a braid,
To crown those angel looks, which long have flown.
Ere the warm wind from off the sea had blown,
And waked the sleeping buds among the bowers,
She loved to pluck the pale and soft-eyed flowers
Of tint so purely fading, like her own.
These were her chosen woodlands, where she paid
The tribute of her spirit to the Power
Whose voice is heard in every wind that blows,
Whose tears descend in every vernal shower,
And as they trickle through the mantling shade,
A stream of life and love and beauty flows.
[VII. O Love! thou art a pure and holy thing]
O Love! thou art a pure and holy thing,
And none should ever dare to breathe thy name
Whose hearts are lit not with as bright a flame
As sunward burns around the eagle's wing:
O, let me not unworthy offerings bring
To one, whose all-commanding power can tame
Each vagrant wish, and stamp the brand of shame,
Where the least stains of earthly passion cling:
Then let me gather from my inmost heart
Pure feelings, that from infancy have slept,
Silent as waters in a hidden well;
And to the gentle offering then impart
The fire and tears that Sappho breathed and wept,
When her faint cithern gave its dying swell.
