University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.
THE ROSE-BUSH.

I would not rob that rose-bush of a flower,—
No! not for all the charms of Mary's smile,
Although she begged the blooming gift the while
With all a lovely woman's softening power:
No! for that glowing shrub at morning's hour,
While bending o'er the bank of yonder isle,
Can with its spangled gems my soul beguile,
Such soothing influence hath a dewy flower.
And, Mary, when I see thee gently bending
O'er yonder monument, where Laura lies,
Where marble-snow and crimson blooms are blending,
Methinks I see an angel in thine eyes,
While heavenly tears, in crystal drops descending,
Tell of our anguish when a sister dies.

II.
THE BOWER.

Retreat of Innocence! receive my form,—
The form of one who wishes for repose,
And asks a pillow, where his eyes may close,—
Where he may slumber safe from earthly harm:
And oh! within thy shade, where every charm
Of Nature wantons on the dewy rose,
Where sweetest music on the zephyr flows,
E'en now I feel my chilly heart grow warm:
Sure angels might repose in such a bower,
No stain of earth might dim their purity;
Here slumbering at the even's quiet hour,
The dew of innocence might o'er them lie,
While heavenly harps a seraph strain might pour,
And raise the listener's soul to ecstasy.

III.
THE EYELID.

Soft, velvet lid, that shades the living spring
Whence flows the stream of sensibility,—
Where meek-eyed loves in gentle ambush lie,
And graces flutter round on glittering wing!
Why o'er that sparkling fount thy curtain fling?
Why hide the lustre of that ebon eye,
Where Sylphs, on filmy pinions, hover nigh,
And Fairies trip around in frolic ring?
Like morning dew-drops on a bed of roses,
Serenely shines my loved Maria's tear,
When on that orb of light the drop reposes,
Or slowly steals along the sable bier,
And as her strain of sorrow sweetly closes,
There seems an angel breathing in my ear.

[IV. Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency]

Soft heaving wave, whose pure translucency
Swells on the bosom of the placid lake,
And as it slowly swells, the watery flake
Plays on the snowy pebble gracefully,
While breathes around fair Nature's minstrelsy,
And morning zephyrs in the willows wake,
And from the boughs the showery moisture shake,
And winding riv'lets murmur tunefully:
How sweet upon the mossy bank to lie,
And view the shining trout that darts below,
While drowsy slumber hovers o'er my eye,
And all its poppy dews around me flow,
While through the quivering leaves the breezes sigh,
And round my pillow whisper mournfully!

V.
SPRING.

Winter has gone, and Spring returns again:
The lonely thrush is singing by the rill,
The lively robin warbles on the hill,
And blue-birds flutter o'er the flowery plain,
And, as they flutter, breathe a cheerful strain;
While homelier sounds the budding scenery fill,—
The tinkling shepherd-bell, the rattling mill,
And the faint rolling of the distant wain;
And lovely is the lay the milkmaid sings,
As 'neath the elm she fills her snowy pail,
And sweet the tolling bell, that slowly rings,
The softly breathing flute within the vale,
While zephyrs hover round on downy wings,
And the rapt Poet strikes his quivering strings.

VI.
TO SLEEP.

Hail, universal friend! whose gentle hand
Showers o'er our heavy eyes thy cooling dew,
And closes for a time the anxious view
Of past existence. Thou, with mighty wand,
Above the tortured couch art seen to stand,
And lay the brain's delirious rage at rest,
And ease the heart by sorrow's weight opprest.
All-conquering power! to whose supreme command
All living nature bows,—whose deep control
O'ermasters mightiest monarchs,—calm and still
Thou stealest on the sage's unfleshed soul,
And bendest pride and glory to thy will:
Thy whispered voices harmonize the whole,
And all beneath thy sway in peaceful current roll.

VII.
TO THE GRAVE.

There is a couch, whereon we all must lie;
There is a pillow, where the burning thought
Will find the oblivious ease it long has sought,
And memory will close her wakeful eye,
And conscience spread her vulture wings, and fly
To find on Caucasus another prey,
Where she may pounce and pounce, from day to day,
The heart that longs for death, but will not die;
And there forgetfulness has drawn around
Her raven curtain, and her hand has sealed
The inflamed eye of sorrow, and has bound
The venomed gash of early wrong, and healed
The spirit's every malady; for deep
We fall in dreamless, unawakening sleep.

[VIII. 'T is not the future dread that makes me shun]

'T is not the future dread that makes me shun
The end of all the living,—not the fear
Of that which thunders in the coward's ear,
And drives him to his fancied hell,—not one
Of those the hypocrite can work upon,
Who plays with childish, female weakness:—No,
There is no darker world where I can go,
And all that justice can inflict is done:
But life will linger even when hope has flown,
And we will cling to all that once had power
To charm us, soothe us, bless us, and the hour
Of early, unstained passion—that alone
Comes like a flash of light across the heart,
From whose imagined heaven we cannot, will not part.

[IX. We think of what we might have been: the stream]

[X. I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood]

I too have seen thy ever-pouring flood,
Mightiest of cataracts, Niagara!
Have seen thy restless waters rush away,
And on thy beetling rock alone have stood,
And seen the morning sunbeams paint thy spray,
And countless rainbows on thy light mist play;
And I have walked along thy field of blood,
Whereon the free invaders stood at bay,
And, mantled in the shadow of the night,
Infuriate warriors wrestled in the fight,
The pale moon weeping o'er the mortal fray;
And I have gazed, from Queenston's hallowed height,
On river, lake, and plain, in sunset bright,
Gilt streams, dark woods, blue waves in sweet array:
And hither, as the years shall roll away,
The pilgrim of our land shall fondly hie,
And here the tribute of his heart shall pay,
And kneel before the shrine of God and liberty.

[XI. My hand is clasped upon my burning brow]

Myhand is clasped upon my burning brow,
And pressed to ease the tortures of my brain;
I seek to cool my parched thirst, but in vain,
The unpitying fiend no respite will allow,—
My life consumes within me with a slow,
Delirious fever,—in a heavy chain
Depression fetters all my hopes,—again
No days in love and innocence shall flow.
We might have been,—that is the maddening thought
Which gnaws my heart untiring,—I have thrown
The jewel of my life away:—I sought
Bliss high and perfect; but the prize has flown,
And I must grope in darkness, till I fall,
And slumber in the grave that shrouds my being's all.

XII.
TO THE PIANO.

Sweet instrument, whose mellow voice is flowing,
From yonder silken canopy, in waves
Canorous, like the hidden stream that laves
Its grassy banks, where eglantines are blowing,
And, arching o'er the waters, deeply glowing;
And as the music murmurs in my ear,
The days of long-lost happiness appear,
When, early life its dearest gifts bestowing,
I glided smoothly down the sunny stream,
And dreaming eyed the oft-reflected beam,
That o'er the crisping waters gayly sparkled,
And breathed the scent of blossoms from the bank,
Where bloomy shrubs the flowing crystal drank;
And where beneath the plane its bosom darkled,
I rested on my oar, and heard a sound,
Tender and sweetly modulate, that filled
The thicket with its echoes, far around
Unnumbered voices whispered from the wild,
The zephyr drooped his wings, the clear wave smiled,
And nature seemed as by enchantment thrilled.
There was a form, who breathed that melting tone;
She sat beneath the branches, and she threw
Her fairy fingers o'er her keys, and drew
The essence of their melody;—alone
She sat, and seemed enamored of her strain,
And now she eyed her notes, and then again
Lifted her brow to heaven;—and O what pure,
Exalted harmony breathed from that face,
The living seat of symmetry and grace!
I gazed, and from that kindling fountain bore
A draught of love admiring, which no more
Can fail, but in perennial flow endure.
I hear thy voice, sweet instrument! and then
This fairy vision comes, and o'er me throws
The mantle of its magic, and again
I hear the mellow tone, that from her sweet lip flows.