University of Virginia Library

SONNET. [I pray the Angel in whose hands the sum]

I pray the Angel in whose hands the sum
Of mortal fates in mystic darkness lies,
That to the soul which fills these deepening eyes,
Sun-crowned and clear, the Spirit of Song may come;
That strong-winged Fancies, with melodious hum
Of plumèd vans, may touch to sweet surprise
His poet nature, born to glow and rise,
And thrill to worship though the world be dumb;
That Love, and Will, and Genius, all may blend
To make His soul a guiding star of Time,
True to the purest thought, the noblest end,
Full of all richness, gentle, wise, complete,
In whose still heights, and most ethereal clime,
Beauty, and Faith, and plastic Passion meet.

SONNET.

[SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF MORNING.]

The darkness pales in Heaven; the eyes of Morn
Unclose from out the Orient; violet bars
Of tender sunlight dim the o'erwearied stars,
And the wan moon withdraws her watery horn,
Lost in the Dayspring's rising; Life is born
From the glad heart of Nature, roused anew
To pulse in freedom through the deepening blue
Of tranquil skies, to bend the golden corn
In broad savannahs, and to stir the sea
With odorous breezes rippling into calm,
Where by the still lagoons, the pensive palm
Doth take the winds' faint kisses languidly;
While the earth's various voices blend in one
Harmonious Jubilate to the Sun.

ELEGIAC.

I.

“Whom the Gods love, die early”—it may be—
But standing noble Friend beside thy grave,
Whereon already the lush grasses wave,
Nursed by the pitying Skies' serenity,
[While the pent grief expands, the tears gush free,]
I do arraign the fiery Fate whose blow
In thy bright morn of years hath laid thee low,
Whose noon had held all gifts of fame in fee;
Thou wert a Prince in manhood, every grace
Of generous nurture, and of genial blood
Beamed in thy presence, and thy lordly face,
The dial of a clear and lofty mood;
Yet now thou art a Phantom—all is fled,
The grace, the glory—God! canst thou be dead?

SONNET.

[ON THE BUST OF A BACCHANTS, BY ALEXANDER GALT, OF VIRGINIA.]

Thou Image of sweet passion crowned with hope,
Thou glorious Personation of flushed youth,
Lost in the fresh dawn of a mystic truth,
Whose hidden motion did exceed the scope
Of maiden wisdom—thy bewildering face
Thrilling beyond the marble—thy glad port
Of eager exaltation, where the sport
Of childish nature, chastened by the grace
Of thy maturer spirit's subtlest sense,
Breaks into starry sparkles of still bliss—
These hold me spelled, and breathless, and dispense
Faint languors round me, and a radiant air
Like some serenest morning's, touched to rare
Voluptuous beauty, by Apollo's kiss.

SONNET.

[SUGGESTED BY THE DESCRIPTION OF FAIRFAX ROCHESTER, IN CHAP. XXXVII. OF “JANE EYRE.”]

He stands beneath the bleak, bare Heavens alone,
The baffled passions smouldering in his face,
Hopeless of mercy and apart from grace,
And rigid as some monument of stone;
All but his innate manhood overthrown,
That iron Hardihood which turns on Fate,
Uplifts the Despot's gauntlet—fronts his hate,
With fiery eyes unquailing as his own;
Within, the maddening sorrows chafe and swell,
The pent volcano stirs its depths of fire,
But the firm lips are voiceless, and the knell
Of love, and hope, and the consuming ire
Of thwarted longing, find nor word nor groan,
O! Man, that stand'st beneath the Heavens alone!

[III. Aye! deaf, blind! lulled with opiates of self-praise]

Aye! deaf, blind! lulled with opiates of self-praise,
And sluggish in the calm of base content;
Our Wisdom clogged, our Will in banishment,
Idly we pass the weak, voluptuous days;
Or, if a moment starting from the maze
Of pleasant dreamings, we have feebly bent
To mark the insurgent Madness which hath rent
The altars of our safety, brief the gaze!
Straight the lethargic Ease resumes its power,
And with a listless, and all-vacant air,
We mutter foolish fancies, and—are still;
Meantime, the Foe is up, the trumpets blare,
The mailed Oppression works his iron will,
Whilst dark Destruction bides the final Hour.

SONNET.

[Addressed to certain philanthropic Peoples, to whom the injunction, “first cast the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye”—is the deadest of dead letters.]

Ye righteous Nations, whose thank-worthy aim
Doth comprehend all Evil, Error, Sin,
Save only that which festers foul within
Your own corrupted bosoms; who would claim
The loftiest seat, the most unspotted fame,
In that Ye weep and groan for other's crime,
Doling dull lamentations out of time
With truth and reason, have Ye done with SHAME!
Shame for the ruthless lust which builds its power
High on the ruin of brave human hearts,
Deputing Famine for the People's dower,
The Hulks for those who do not own its sweets;
Sleek merchant-Monarchs, bartering in your marts,
Gaunt Madness muttering Treason in your streets!

SONNET. [When, moved by reverent memories, men shall rear]

When, moved by reverent memories, men shall rear
Memorial marble where His ashes rest,
Let the proud record by that stone expressed,
Grasp the World's homage, graven deep and clear,
“He who hath found his last, sad mansion here,
Died to defend the unshackled right of Thought,
And that bold speech our Saxon Fathers taught,
And held, through darkest days of doubt and fear;”
A noble Cause, by noblest blood upborne,
Rising on that red current to men's eyes,
And flaming 'twixt our heavy breathèd sighs,
Dazzling awhile the humbler hearts that mourn,
Brought home to our dull spirits crushed and torn,
Most radiant in the light of sacrifice.

HERE, WHEN I HAVE LAID ASIDE.

Here, when I have laid aside
The cumbrous load of life,
By this rivulet's gentle tide,
Far from human strife,
Let them make my quiet grave,
Where the green-sward doth not crave
Sunlight-warmth in vain,
And the birds, as Evening dies,
Pour their genial harmonies,
Like falls of silver rain.