SONNETS.
[I. O, there are moments, when the dreaming soul]
O, there are moments, when the dreaming soul
Forgets this earth, and wanders far away
Into some region of eternal day,
Where the bright waves in calm and sunshine roll.
Thither it wanders, and has reached its goal;—
The good, the great, the beautiful are there,
And wreaths of victory crown their flowing hair,
And as they move, such music fills the air,
As ne'er from fabled bower or cavern stole.
Soft to the heart it winds, and hushes deep
Its cares and sorrows. Thought then, fancy-free,
Flies on from bliss to bliss, till finding thee
It pauses, as the musk-rose charms the bee,
Tranced, as in happy dream of magic sleep.
[II. O Evening! I have loved thee with a joy]
O Evening! I have loved thee with a joy
Tender and pure, and thou hast ever been
A soother of my sorrows. When a boy,
I wandered often to a lonely glen,
And, far from all the stir and noise of men,
Held fond communion with unearthly things,
Such as come gathering brightly round us, when
Imagination soars and shakes her wings.
Yes, in that secret valley, doubly dear
For all its natural beauty, and the hush
That ever brooded o'er it, I would lay
My thoughts in deepest calm, and if a bush
Rustled, or small bird shook the beechen spray,
There seemed a ministering angel whispering near.
[III. O, there are tears of joy, and they are fed]
O, there are tears of joy, and they are fed
From the heart's secret fountain, where they well
Like springs in some mysterious cavern's bed,
Made holy by the sibyl's murmuring spell.
Forth from the darkling cave they calmly flow,
Crystalline pure, to heaven's rejoicing light,
And over sifted sands and pebbles bright,
Down through the sacred grove of laurels go.
So when my thoughts, long wearied by the rush
Of life's too busy cares, would pause and keep
Awhile a sabbath's stillness, and would lay
Each passionate longing, then I can but weep
Tears, happy tears, in many a sudden gush,
And with them all my sorrows melt away.
[IV. O would that dreams were not the things they are]
O would that dreams were not the things they are,
Mere unsubstantial pageants, born and dying
With the light sleep that makes them, coming, flying,
Like evening clouds, how beautiful and fair.
O, they are thinner than the empty air,
And yet how blessed, when they bend and smile
How the heart flows away in rapture, while,
Dear fond illusions, they are lingering there!
They have a touch and voice. That bosom, swelling
With a young world of joys, how softly heaves:
It lifts its gauzy veil, like feathery leaves
Waved lightly over Yemen's palmy dwelling,
A higher bliss than even hope believes,
To the fixed eye of slumbering fondness telling.
[V. Shadows of hoary forests, solemn haunts]
Shadows of hoary forests, solemn haunts
Of wild, unearthly glooms! O, I would be
A dweller in your darkness, and to me
There I would find all that the spirit pants
To reach of boundless thoughts. Ye are the fane
To mightiest musings sacred,—to the sweep
Of visions dim but high, emotions deep,
Such as in breathless rest till then had lain.
Then go they forth, and, from the flowery vale
Of life's too joyous spring, among the storms
Launch their unfettered wings, till giant forms,
Born of the tempest, round them fold a veil
Of awe and lifting wonder. Such the flight
Of the waked spirit, when the world is night.
[VI. My soul goes often wandering to your glooms]
My soul goes often wandering to your glooms,
And rests beneath your shadow,—often dwells
My spirit in your silence, often tells
Over your opening glades their mingled blooms.
How, like a vein of silver, steals along
The mountain brook 'mid ferns and brakes and flowers;
And how, when all is still in calmer hours,
Comes floating o'er the hills some artless song!
Low lies yon narrow vale, and there it strays,
The truant stream, to either wooded steep,
As if to kiss its mossy foot, and plays
Now over pebbly shallows, and now deep
Rests in a sheeted pool, while opening through
The wide plain melts in soft and shadowy blue.
[VII. Am I not all alone? The world is still]
Am I not all alone? The world is still
In passionless slumber;—not a tree but feels
The far pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by. Yon broad, bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars
Seem eyes deep fixed in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell;—no other sound
But the owl's unfrequent moan. Their airy cars
The winds have stationed on the mountain peaks.
Am I not all alone?—A spirit speaks
From the abyss of night, “Not all alone,—
Nature is round thee with her banded powers,
And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours;—
Mind and its kingdom now are all thine own.”
[VIII. Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river]
Deep sunk in thought, he sat beside the river,—
Its wave in liquid lapses glided by,
Nor watched, in crystal depth, his vacant eye
The willow's high o'er-arching foliage quiver.
From dream to shadowy dream returning ever,
He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge;
His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge
Streamed visionary onward, pausing never.
As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving
Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower,
O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower,
With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceiving,—
So, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove
A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.
[IX. Whence? Whither? Where?—A taper point of light]
Whence? Whither? Where?—A taper point of light,
My life and world,—the infinite around;
A sea, not even highest thought can sound;
A formless void; unchanging, endless night.
In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight
To the empyrean, seen as is a star,
Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar,—
In vain it beats its wings with daring might.
What yonder gleams? What heavenly shapes arise
From out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,
Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,
Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes:
Sun-clear the world around, and far away
A boundless future sweeps in golden day.
