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Poems

Tuckerman, Henry T. (1813-1871)

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POEMS.
  
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
  
THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
  
MARY.
  
NORTHAMPTON.
  
LOVE AND FAME.
  
NEWPORT BEACH.
  
THE VESTAL.
  
WASHINGTON'S STATUE.
  
TO AN ELM.
  
TASSO TO LEONORA.
  
THE MODERN HERO.
  
HELOISE.
  
THE GREEK SLAVE.
  
ROME.
  
TRI-MOUNTAIN.
  
THE RINGLET.
  
WINTER.
  
VICTORINE.
  
IL PENSEROSO.
  
SLEEPY HOLLOW.
  
LORD BYRON AT VENICE.
  
LUNA.—AN ODE.
  
EVA.
  
TO LADY BLANCHE:
  
SURREY TO GERALDINE.
  
WEST POINT.
  
THE DIRGE OF THE MARINER.
  
THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS.
  
THE HOLY LAND.
  
LOVE AND TIME.
  
THE TWO PALMS.
  
THE UNKNOWN PORTRAIT.
  
TO THE CYPRESS.
  
LAKE CANEPO.
  
FAITH'S WARNING.
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SONNETS.
 1. 
I. FREEDOM.
 2. 
II. VANDERLYN'S ARIADNE.
 3. 
III. TO ONE DECEIVED.
 4. 
IV. SLEEP.
 5. 
V. THE WILLOW.
 6. 
VI. THE BALCONY.
 7. 
VII. ON A LANDSCAPE BY BACKHUYSEN.
 8. 
VIII. THE INDIAN SUMMER.
 9. 
IX. ON A PORTRAIT OF MRS. NORTON.
 10. 
X. ON A BUST OF WEBSTER.
 11. 
XI. SPRING
 12. 
XII. TO PIUS IX.
 13. 
XIII. TO THE SAME.
 14. 
XIV. ON THE DEATH OF ALLSTON.
 15. 
XV. FROM THE ITALIAN.
 16. 
XVI. THE BASSO-RELIEVO OF JUPITER AND HEBE.
 17. 
XVII. TO JENNY LIND.
 18. 
XVIII. DESOLATION.
 19. 
XIX. STEINHAUSEN'S HERO AND LEANDER.
 20. 
XX. DELAROCHE'S PICTURE OF NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS.
 21. 
XXI. ALLEGHANIA.
 22. 
[XXII. O for a castle on a woodland height]
 23. 
[XXIII. The rain-drops patter on the casement still]
 24. 
[XXIV. What though our dream is broken? Yet again]
 25. 
[XXV. In my first youth, the feverish thirst for gain]
 26. 
[XXVI. Courage and patience! elements whereby]
 27. 
[XXVII. Like the fair sea that laves Italia's strand]
 28. 
[XXVIII. The buds have opened, and in leafy pride]
 29. 
XXIX. SEMPRE LO STESSO.

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164

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.
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