University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

ON THE FIFTY-FIFTH SONNET OF SHAKSPEARE.

The soul leaps up to hear this mighty sound
Of Shakspeare triumphing. With glistening eye,
Forward he sent his spirit, to espy
Time's gratitude, and catch the far rebound
Of fame from worlds unpeopled yet; and, crowned
With brightening light through all futurity,
His image to behold up-reaching high,
'Mongst the world's benefactors most renowned.
Like to the ecstasy, by man unnamed,
The spheral music doth to Gods impart,
Was the deep joy that thou hast here proclaimed
Thy song's eternal echo gave thy heart.
O, the world thanks thee that thou 'st let us see,
Thou knew'st how great thou wast, how prized to be!

TO THE STATUE OF EVE, BY POWERS.

Who that has had of beauteous womanhood
Translucent visions, in his holiest dreams,
Or when the abstracted, waking mind so teems
With images of beauty, that 't will brood,
In happiest silence, on the fertile mood
So deeply, till each outward thing but seems
Fantastic, while the flashing, inward gleams
Compound a loveliness that would be wooed
As a reality,—were such to come
Before thee, with a virgin joy, his soul,
Like a new spirit in Elysium,
Would gush with ecstasy, while from it roll
All memories of dreams or inward sight,
Paled by the fulgence of thy wondrous light.

TO THE SAME.

The Greeks—whose fresh imaginations blent
Spirit with form so richly in their youth
That Beauty wore the radiant crown of Truth,
And ever bodied forth some wise intent
Direct from Jove Minerva drew, and rent
His mighty brain, to give becoming birth
To Wisdom's Goddess, that her peerless worth
Might not be marred by dallying passion's vent.
Powers is a new Jove; and on his brain
What has begot this perfect woman (who
Like Pallas shall breed thoughts of purest strain)
Is the young life his giant country drew
From heaven and her own soul, where no old art
Nor chains the soaring mind, nor chills the heart.

TO THE LEGISLATURE OF MARYLAND,

DISCUSSING THE RESUMPTION OF PAYMENT.

Look in the face of God, who looks at you;
And, like a cur before the lion's lair,
You'll quake to speechlessness, or you will swear,
With soul-drawn valor, that you will be true.
But set your thought on high, you'll feel what 's due
Unto yourselves and sons. But if you wear
An earthward look, you 're lost; and we must bear
A load of shame not ages will subdue.
Freemen, it is the cause of liberty:
The able debtor is the basest slave.
O, ward us from a blighting infamy!
If the State WILLS, she CAN. He is a knave,
Who says she should not, whom we must despise,
And scorn, and loathe: who says she cannot, lies.