University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.
FREEDOM.

Freedom! beneath thy banner I was born,
Oh let me share thy full and perfect life!
Teach me opinion's slavery to scorn,
And to be free from passion's bitter strife;
Free of the world, a self-dependent soul,
Nourished by lofty aims and genial truth,
And made more free by love's serene control,
The spell of beauty and the hopes of youth.
The liberty of nature let me know,
Caught from the mountains, groves and crystal streams;
Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow,
That woo the spirit with celestial dreams,
On fancy's wing exultingly to soar,
Till life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more.!

II.
VANDERLYN'S ARIADNE.

How like a vision of pure love she seems!
Her cheek just flushed with innocent repose,
That folds her thoughts up in delicious dreams,
Like dewdrops in the chalice of a rose;
Pillowed upon her arm and raven hair,
How archly rests that bright and peaceful brow!
Its rounded pearl defiance bids to care,
While kisses on the lips seem melting now;
Prone in unconscious loveliness she lies,
And leaves around her delicately sway;
Veiled is the splendor of her beaming eyes,
But o'er the limbs bewitching graces play:
Ere into Eden's groves the serpent crept,
Thus Eve within her leafy arbor slept.

III.
TO ONE DECEIVED.

All hearts are not disloyal; let thy trust
Be deep and clear and all-confiding still,
For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dust,
She ne'er betrays her child to lasting ill:
Through leagues of desert must the pilgrim go
Ere on his gaze the holy turrets rise;
Through the long sultry day the stream must flow
Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies.
Fall back unscathed from contact with the vain,
Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free,
And calmly launch affection's barque again,
Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee;
Though lone the way as that already trod,
Cling to thine own integrity and God!

IV.
SLEEP.

Sweetest of mysteries!—thy dews revive
Hearts that seemed blighted by toil's wasting rime;
They start from thy embrace again to strive,
And with new ardor breast the surge of time.
Blest interlude! whose music conquers care,
Maternal sleep, how soon away from thee
Does life her young enchantments vainly wear,
And all our sense of pleasure cease to be!
Thou art the angel that doth come at night
To set us free, as was the saint of yore;
The blessing that doth crown us for the fight,
The fount perennial on a barren shore:
Thine is the gift of dreams, the trance of love,
And in thy breast peace nestles like a dove.

V.
THE WILLOW.

As o'er thy pendent leaves the zephyr flies,
Lifting their silver lining to the light,
Their mournful shiver, like a thousand sighs,
Wakes in the heart a tremulous delight.
Thy weeping vigil consecrates the grave,
When through each trailing bough the moonshine gleams,
And, like hopes cast upon oblivion's wave,
Thy withered verdure flecks the autumn streams.
What graceful meekness sways thy drooping form,
Thou sylvan effigy of love and wo!
In gentle patience yielding to the storm,
The wisdom of a lowly trust to show:
Of thee divinely sung Othello's bride,
And in thy shade the fair Ophelia died.

VI.
THE BALCONY.

Rare was the pastime o'er thy rail to lean,
And gaze upon the motley crowd below,
Or trace the distant valleys broad and green,
Girded by hills whose tops were bright with snow:
It was a spot to muse:—life's waters beat
Like a swift river in tumultuous flow,
Winding capriciously beneath my feet,
While flushed its wave with nature's purest glow.
But when around night's balmy silence fell,
Thou wert a paradise, for by my side
Stood one, whose presence, like a grateful spell,
That scene of tranquil beauty glorified:
And now thy name wakes thoughts of love that seem
Like the remembered music of a dream!

VII.
ON A LANDSCAPE BY BACKHUYSEN.

Not for the eye alone are here outspread
Skies, fields, and herds in such divine repose;
The soul of beauty that to these is wed,
Through the fair landscape tremulously glows!
We seem to feel the meadow's grateful air,
Hear the low breathing of the dreamy kine,
And the pure fragrance of the harvest share,
Until our hearts all cold distrust resign,
Feeling once more to truth and love allied;
And, while the rich tranquillity we view,
Each good they have foretold and life denied,
Hope's sweetest promises again renew,
As if the twilight angel hovered there,
To waft from nature's rest a balm for human care.

VIII.
THE INDIAN SUMMER.

The few sere leaves that to the branches cling,
Fall not to-day, so light the zephyr's breath;
O'er Autumn's sleep now plays the breeze of Spring,
Like love's warm kiss upon the brow of death:
Serene the firmament, save where a haze
Of dreamy softness floats upon the air,
Or a bright cloud of amber seems to gaze
In mild surprise upon the meadows bare:
Summer revives, and, like a tender strain
Borne on the night-breeze to the wondering ear,
With tender sighs melts Winter's frosty chain,
And smiles once more upon the dying year:
Thus when we deem Time's frost has chilled the heart,
At Love's sweet call its languid pulses start.

IX.
ON A PORTRAIT OF MRS. NORTON.

Oh, who can meet those dark and liquid eyes,
And see that form so queenlike in its grace,
Nor feel a thrill of passionate surprise
That men could mingle shame with such a face?
Did they behold thee who the slander nursed?
Communed they ever with thy tender lays?
And felt they not their very manhood cursed
Beneath thine earnest and bewildering gaze?
Sweetness and pride that unto truth belong,
Through every lineament divinely steal,
And like the cadence of thy gentle song,
Pure and devoted sympathies reveal:
O radiant minstrel! Let it solace thee
That thou art warmly loved beyond the sea!

X.
ON A BUST OF WEBSTER.

There is a Roman grandeur in that brow,
And lofty thoughts within it seem enshrined,
As calmly it expands before me now,
Nature's assurance of a noble mind;
A stern serenity broods o'er the face,
Most eloquent of a determined soul,
Will softened by the lines of mental grace,
Yet firm of purpose, strong in self-control:
How glorious the art that can subdue
The senseless marble to such forms of truth,
And mould the semblance of Earth's chosen few
To an enduring shape and second youth;
Bequeath his features, whose emphatic page
Will nerve the spirits of a future age!

XI.
SPRING

Why fall the bonds of custom from us now,
And wonted scenes with virgin glory teem?
While tender memories o'ershade the brow,
And life grows sweet and solemn as a dream?
Spring to the earth has come; her fountains leap,
In fields of azure pearly clouds repose,
Meek flowers seem along the turf to creep,
And long the lingering twilight softly glows;
The unfettered streams to ocean's bosom rush,
Warm are the sands the radiant billows lave,
The foam-crests glisten with a brighter flush,
And childhood's sportive mood sways wind and wave;
Music and balm upon the air float free,
As if with youth renewed came immortality!

XII.
TO PIUS IX.

IN 1848.

Benign Reformer! thy sublime career
Has taught the rulers a forgotten art,—
That Truth may palsy Valor's arm with fear,
And nerve a priest to act a hero's part;
Achieve thy purpose, give a nation birth,
Vain is the Jesuit wile, the Austrian steel;
That sceptre which so long betrayed the earth,
In thy pure hands is swayed for human weal;
The world with benedictions breathes thy name,
And hails the Vatican as Freedom's home,
With bloodless triumphs thou hast won a fame
More wide and stainless than the sky of Rome,
Thy effigies a glorious challenge fling
From Beauty's robe and Wisdom's signet ring.

XIII.
TO THE SAME.

IN 1849.

O, had it been thy lot that hour to die,
The Pantheon would boast a dearer name
Than all who there oblivion defy!
Now thou hast won the cruel bigot's fame;
Apostate, crouching in a tyrant's lair
From the just hate of those thou hast betrayed,
The craven fears of regal allies share,
And shun the hecatomb thy baseness made!
Thou art the skeleton at Freedom's feast,
To which thy voice so blandly called the world.
How soon the man was vanquished by the priest,
And in the dust the faith of nations hurled!
God speeds the new crusade for human rights,
While patient scorn thy cowardice requites.

XIV.
ON THE DEATH OF ALLSTON.

The element of beauty which in thee
Was a prevailing spirit, pure and high,
And from all guile had made thy being free,
Now seems to whisper thou canst never die!
For Nature's priests we shed no idle tear,
Their mantles on a noble lineage fall;
Though thy white locks at length have pressed the bier,
Death could not fold thee in Oblivion's pall:
Majestic forms thy hand in grace arrayed,
Eternal watch shall keep beside thy tomb,
And hues aerial that thy pencil stayed,
Its shades with Heaven's radiance illume;
Art's meek apostle, holy is thy sway,
From the heart's records ne'er to pass away!

XV.
FROM THE ITALIAN.

In a fair garden grew a purple rose,
Shedding abroad an odor fresh and rare;
A nymph beholding, with sweet transport glows,
And at the winsome sight exclaims “How fair!”
Her gentle hand to pluck it she extends,
But envious thorns are hid beneath its leaves:
As o'er it with a trustful joy she bends,
A sudden wound her ardent grasp deceives.
“Alas!” she murmurs, “now the truth I feel,
That beauty ever is allied to pain,
Life's richest music discords will reveal,
And every blessing hath its kindred bane.”
“Yes,” I replied, “thyself doth prove it true;
For thou art lovely and yet cruel too.”

XVI.
THE BASSO-RELIEVO OF JUPITER AND HEBE.

Poised on his mighty wings, Jove's kingly bird
Stoops to the cup luxurious Hebe fills;
All day those wings the empyrean have stirred,
But now each plume a soft enchantment thrills:
The lone and weary monarch of the skies
Lapt in content, imbibes the draught of Love,
By gentle hands, and tender, watchful eyes,
Nurtured to soar Ambition's flight above.
Fondly majestic bending o'er the urn
Exhaustless as her sympathetic breast,
With calm delight see the fair goddess turn,
Dispensing feel the rapture of her guest,
To show how poor unshared is Nature's wealth
While Love to noble souls alone is health.

XVII.
TO JENNY LIND.

A melody with Southern passion fraught
I hear thee warble: 'tis as if a bird
By intuition human strains had caught,
But whose pure breast no kindred feeling stirred.
Thy native song the hushed arena fills,
So wildly plaintive, that I seem to stand
Alone, and see, from off the circling hills,
The bright horizon of the North expand!
High art is thus intact; and matchless skill
Born of intelligence and self-control,—
The graduated tone and perfect trill
Prove a restrained, but not a frigid soul;
Thine finds expression in such generous deeds,
That music from thy lips for human sorrow pleads!

XVIII.
DESOLATION.

Think ye the desolate must live apart,
By solemn vows to convent-walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloister'd heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind;
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate,
The world sees not how desolate they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised yet forbidden land;
Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet
Day after day in voiceless penance turn;
Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat,
In which unseen their meek devotions burn;
Life is to them a vigil which none share,
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.

XIX.
STEINHAUSEN'S HERO AND LEANDER.

Faint from the wave, each nerve by toil unstrung,
Behold life mantle in his glowing face
With the delight that cannot find a tongue,
How vain are words to yield expression place,
When the instinctive grasp, the yielding form,
The lips that seem to quiver with content,
So well proclaim the haven in life's storm—
The heart's goal reached—the kindred spirits blent!
Let the cold spray lave their unconscious feet,
And time bring round the parting hour again,
Now Love's pure triumph is once more complete,
And present joy oblivious of pain;
As in enraptured silence, heart meets heart,
Genius the moment seized to consecrate for Art!

XX.
DELAROCHE'S PICTURE OF NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS.

Unconscious of the dreary wastes around,
Of sleet that pierces with each fitful blast,
The icy peaks, the rough and treacherous ground,
Huge snow-drifts by the whirlwind's breath amassed,
Through which the jaded mule with noiseless tread,
Patient and slow, a certain foothold seeks,
By the old peasant-guide so meekly led;
Moves the wan conqueror, with sunken cheeks,
O'er heights as cold and lonely as his soul,—
The chill lips blandly set, and the dark eyes
Intent with fierce ambition's vast control,
Sad, keen, and thoughtful of the distant prize;
With the imperial robes and warlike steed,
That face ne'er wore such blended might and need!

XXI.
ALLEGHANIA.

Worthy the patriot's thought and poet's lyre,
This second baptism of our native earth,
To consecrate anew her manhood's fire,
By a true watchword all of mountain-birth;
For to the hills has Freedom ever clung,
And their proud name should designate the free;
That when its echoes through the land are rung,
Her children's breasts may warm to liberty!
My country! in the van of nations thou
Art called to raise Truth's lonely banner high;
'Tis fit a noble title grace thy brow,
Born of thy race, beneath thy matchless sky
And Alps and Appenines resign their fame,
When thrills the world's deep heart with Alleghania's name!

[XXII.
O for a castle on a woodland height]

O for a castle on a woodland height!
High mountains round, and a pure stream below,
Within all charms that tasteful hours invite,
Wise books of poesy and music's flow;—
A grassy lawn through which to course our steeds,
A gothic chapel in seclusion reared,
Where we could solace find for holiest needs,
And grow by mutual rites the more endeared:
How such captivity alone with thee
Would lift to Paradise each passing day!
Then all revealed my patient love would be,
And thou couldst not a full response delay:
For Truth makes holy Love's illusive dreams,
And their best promise constantly redeems.

[XXIII.
The rain-drops patter on the casement still]

The rain-drops patter on the casement still,
So hushed the room each faint watch-tick I hear,
The crackling of the embers seems to fill
This brooding quiet with an accent clear:
I've looked awhile upon the gifted page,
Glanced at the dingy roofs and leaden sky,
Or paced the floor my mind to disengage,
Chiding the languid hours as they fly;
In vain! the thought of thee o'ermasters all,
Now waking joy, and now a dark surmise,
As memory spreads her banquet or her pall,
And bids me hopeless sink or gladsome rise:
On what bright wings these lonely hours would flee,
Dared I but feel that thou hast thought of me!

[XXIV.
What though our dream is broken? Yet again]

What though our dream is broken? Yet again
Like a familiar angel it shall bear
Consoling treasures for these days of pain,
Such as they only who have grieved can share;
As unhived nectar for the bee to sip,
Lurks in each flower-cell which the spring-time brings,
As music rests upon the quiet lip,
And power to soar yet lives in folded wings,
So let the love on which our spirits glide,
Flow deep and strong beneath its bridge of sighs,
No shadow resting on the latent tide
Whose heaven-ward current baffles human eyes,
Until we stand upon the holy shore,
And realms it prophesied, at length explore.

[XXV.
In my first youth, the feverish thirst for gain]

In my first youth, the feverish thirst for gain
That in this noble land makes life so chill,
Was tempered to a wiser trust by pain,
Hope's early blight,—a chastening sense of ill;
And I was exiled to a sunny clime,
Where cloud and flower a softer meaning caught
From graceful forms and holy wrecks of time,
Appealing all to fond and pensive thought;
Enamored of the Beautiful I grew,
And at her altar pledged my virgin soul,—
O let me here those treasured vows renew,
And thou the service shalt henceforth control;
For in thy graces and thy love sincere
Lives the blest spirit that I yet revere.

[XXVI.
Courage and patience! elements whereby]

Courage and patience! elements whereby
My soul shall yet her citadel maintain,
Baffled, perplexed, and struggling oft to fly
Far, far above this realm of wasting pain,—
Come with your still and banded vigor now,
Fill my sad breast with energy divine,
Stamp a firm thought upon my aching brow,
Make my impulsive visions wholly thine,
Freeze my pent tears, chill all my tender dreams,
Brace my weak heart in panoply sublime;
Till dwelling only on my martyr themes,
And, turning from the richest lures of time,
Love, like an iceberg of the polar deep,
In adamantine rest is laid asleep.

[XXVII.
Like the fair sea that laves Italia's strand]

Like the fair sea that laves Italia's strand,
Affection's flood is tideless in my breast;
No ebb withdraws it from the chosen land,
Havened too richly for enamored quest:
Thus am I faithful to the vanished grace
Embodied once in thy sweet form and name,
And though love's charm no more illumes thy face,
In memory's realm her olden pledge I claim.
It is not constancy to haunt a shrine
From which devotion's lingering spark has fled;
Insensate homage only wreaths can twine
Around the pulseless temples of the dead:
Thou from thy better self hast madly flown,
While to that self allegiance still I own.

[XXVIII.
The buds have opened, and in leafy pride]

The buds have opened, and in leafy pride
Woo the soft winds of this capricious May;
With a refreshing green the fields are dyed,
And clearer sparkles on the waters play.
All Nature speaks of boundless promise now,
In tones as sweet as thine,—her hand is laid
With a maternal greeting on my brow,
Until its fevered throbbings all are stayed;
And I am fain to lie upon her breast,
Unconscious of the world, divorced from pain,
Drink from her rosy lips the balm of rest,
And be her glad and trustful child again:
But such fond dalliance claims a spirit free,
And all her spells are broken—without thee!

XXIX.
SEMPRE LO STESSO.

Ever the same!—let this our watchword be
Upon the dreary battlements of time,
With a clear soul I breathe it unto thee
In tones whose fervor mocks this idle rhyme;
Ever the same;—how sweet to earn with pain
The tested love that casteth out all fear,
And amid all we suffer, doubt and feign,
To own one true and self-absorbing sphere!
Ever the same;—as moons the waters draw,
A simple presence calms all inward strife,
And, by the sway of some benignant law,
With high completeness fills the sense of life:
The Holy One this sacred thought confest
When leaning on his fond disciple's breast.