The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
 |
|
|
|
 |
Sonnets.
|
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
232
Sonnets.
QUIET EVENINGS.
TO THOMAS BARNES, ESQ.
WRITTEN FROM HAMPSTEAD.
Dear Barnes, whose native taste, solid and clear,
The throng of life has strengthen'd without harm,
You know the rural feeling, and the charm
That stillness has for a world-fretted ear:
'Tis now deep whispering all about me here
With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm
Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm,
Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.
The throng of life has strengthen'd without harm,
You know the rural feeling, and the charm
That stillness has for a world-fretted ear:
'Tis now deep whispering all about me here
With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm
Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm,
Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.
This charm our evening hours duly restore,—
Nought heard through all our little, lull'd abode,
Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turn'd o'er,
Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road.
Wants there no other sound, then?—yes, one more,—
The voice of friendly visiting, long owed.
Nought heard through all our little, lull'd abode,
Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turn'd o'er,
Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road.
Wants there no other sound, then?—yes, one more,—
The voice of friendly visiting, long owed.
TO HAMPSTEAD.
WRITTEN DURING THE AUTHOR'S IMPRISONMENT, August, 1813.
Sweet upland, to whose walks, with fond repair,
Out of thy western slope I took my rise
Day after day, and on these feverish eyes
Met the moist fingers of the bathing air;—
If health, unearn'd of thee, I may not share,
Keep it, I pray thee, where my memory lies,
In thy green lanes, brown dells, and breezy skies,
Till I return, and find thee doubly fair.
Out of thy western slope I took my rise
Day after day, and on these feverish eyes
Met the moist fingers of the bathing air;—
If health, unearn'd of thee, I may not share,
233
In thy green lanes, brown dells, and breezy skies,
Till I return, and find thee doubly fair.
Wait then my coming, on that lightsome land,
Health, and the joy that out of nature springs,
And Freedom's air-blown locks;—but stay with me,
Friendship, frank entering with the cordial hand,
And Honour, and the Muse with growing wings,
And Love Domestic, smiling equably.
Health, and the joy that out of nature springs,
And Freedom's air-blown locks;—but stay with me,
Friendship, frank entering with the cordial hand,
And Honour, and the Muse with growing wings,
And Love Domestic, smiling equably.
TO THE SAME.
AT THE SAME PERIOD, NOVEMBER, 1814.
[Winter has reach'd thee once again at last]
Winter has reach'd thee once again at last,
And now the rambler, whom thy groves yet please,
Feels on his house-warm lips the thin air freeze,
While in his shrugging neck the resolute blast
Comes edging; and the leaves, in heaps down cast,
He shuffles with his hastening foot, and sees
The cold sky whitening through the wiry trees,
And sighs to think his loitering noons have pass'd.
And now the rambler, whom thy groves yet please,
Feels on his house-warm lips the thin air freeze,
While in his shrugging neck the resolute blast
Comes edging; and the leaves, in heaps down cast,
He shuffles with his hastening foot, and sees
The cold sky whitening through the wiry trees,
And sighs to think his loitering noons have pass'd.
And do I love thee less, to paint thee so?
No. This the season is of beauty still,
Doubled at heart; of smoke, with whirling glee
Uptumbling ever from the blaze below,
And home remember'd most,—and oh, lov'd hill,
The second, and the last, away from thee.
No. This the season is of beauty still,
Doubled at heart; of smoke, with whirling glee
Uptumbling ever from the blaze below,
And home remember'd most,—and oh, lov'd hill,
The second, and the last, away from thee.
TO THE SAME.
DURING THE SAME PERIOD, AUGUST, 1814.
[They tell me, when my tongue grows warm on thee]
They tell me, when my tongue grows warm on thee,
Dear gentle hill, with tresses green and bright,
That thou art wanting in the finishing sight
Freshest of all for summer eyes to see;—
That whatsoe'er thy charm of tower and tree,
Of dell wrapp'd in, or airy-viewing height,
No water looks from out thy face with light,
Or waits upon thy walks refreshfully.
Dear gentle hill, with tresses green and bright,
That thou art wanting in the finishing sight
234
That whatsoe'er thy charm of tower and tree,
Of dell wrapp'd in, or airy-viewing height,
No water looks from out thy face with light,
Or waits upon thy walks refreshfully.
It may be so, despite of pond or brook:—
Yet not to me so full of all that's fair.
Though frail-embower'd, with fingering sun between,
Were the divinest fount in Fancy's nook,
In which the nymphs sit tying up their hair,
Their white backs glistening through the myrtles green.
Yet not to me so full of all that's fair.
Though frail-embower'd, with fingering sun between,
Were the divinest fount in Fancy's nook,
In which the nymphs sit tying up their hair,
Their white backs glistening through the myrtles green.
TO THE SAME.
IN THE SPRING THAT SUCCEEDED IMPRISONMENT, MAY, 1815.
[The baffled spell that bound me is undone]
The baffled spell that bound me is undone,
And I have breathed once more beneath thy sky,
Lovely-brow'd Hampstead; and my looks have run,
O'er and about thee: and had scarce drawn nigh,
When I beheld, in momentary sun,
One of thy hills gleam bright and bosomy,
Just like that orb of orbs, a human one,
Let forth by chance upon a lover's eye.
And I have breathed once more beneath thy sky,
Lovely-brow'd Hampstead; and my looks have run,
O'er and about thee: and had scarce drawn nigh,
When I beheld, in momentary sun,
One of thy hills gleam bright and bosomy,
Just like that orb of orbs, a human one,
Let forth by chance upon a lover's eye.
Forgive me then, that not till now I spoke;
For all the comforts, miss'd in close distress,
With airy nod came up from every part,
O'er-smiling speech: and so I gazed, and took
A long, deep draught of silent freshfulness,
Ample, and gushing round my feeble heart.
For all the comforts, miss'd in close distress,
With airy nod came up from every part,
O'er-smiling speech: and so I gazed, and took
A long, deep draught of silent freshfulness,
Ample, and gushing round my feeble heart.
TO THE SAME.
IN THE SAME MONTH—SAME YEAR.
[As one who after long and far-spent years]
As one who after long and far-spent years
Comes on his mistress in an hour of sleep,
And wond'ring half that he can silence keep,
Stands smiling o'er her through a flash of tears,
To see how sweet and self-same she appears;
Till at his touch, with little moving creep
Of joy, she wakes from out her calmness deep,
And then his heart finds voice, and dances round her ears:—
Comes on his mistress in an hour of sleep,
And wond'ring half that he can silence keep,
235
To see how sweet and self-same she appears;
Till at his touch, with little moving creep
Of joy, she wakes from out her calmness deep,
And then his heart finds voice, and dances round her ears:—
So I, first coming on my haunts again,
In pause and stillness of the early prime,
Stood thinking of the past and present time
With earnest eyesight, scarcely cross'd with pain;
Till the fresh-moving leaves, and startling birds,
Loosen'd my long-suspended breath in words.
In pause and stillness of the early prime,
Stood thinking of the past and present time
With earnest eyesight, scarcely cross'd with pain;
Till the fresh-moving leaves, and startling birds,
Loosen'd my long-suspended breath in words.
THE NILE.
It flows through old hush'd Ægypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,—
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,—
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
236
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
December 30th, 1816.
TO HENRY ROBERTSON, JOHN GATTIE, AND VINCENT NOVELLO,
NOT KEEPING THEIR APPOINTED HOUR.
Harry, my friend, who full of tasteful glee,
Have music all about you, heart and lips;
And, John, whose voice is like a rill that slips
Over the sunny pebbles breathingly;
And, Vincent, you, who with like mastery
Can chase the notes with fluttering finger-tips,
Like fairies down a hill hurrying their trips,
Or sway the organ with firm royalty;
Have music all about you, heart and lips;
And, John, whose voice is like a rill that slips
Over the sunny pebbles breathingly;
And, Vincent, you, who with like mastery
Can chase the notes with fluttering finger-tips,
Like fairies down a hill hurrying their trips,
Or sway the organ with firm royalty;
Why stop ye on the road? The day, 'tis true,
Shows us as in a diamond all things clear,
And makes the hill-surmounting eye rejoice,
Doubling the earthly green, the heavenly blue;
But come, complete the charm of such a sphere,
And give the beauty of the day a voice.
Shows us as in a diamond all things clear,
And makes the hill-surmounting eye rejoice,
Doubling the earthly green, the heavenly blue;
But come, complete the charm of such a sphere,
And give the beauty of the day a voice.
TO THOMAS STOTHARD, R.A.
Thy fancy lives in a delightful sphere,
Stothard,—fit haunt for spirit so benign;
For never since those southern masters fine,
Whose pictured shapes like their own souls appear
Reflected many a way in waters clear,
Has the true woman's gentle mien divine
Looked so, as in those breathing heads of thine,
With parted locks, and simple cheek sincere.
Stothard,—fit haunt for spirit so benign;
For never since those southern masters fine,
Whose pictured shapes like their own souls appear
237
Has the true woman's gentle mien divine
Looked so, as in those breathing heads of thine,
With parted locks, and simple cheek sincere.
Therefore, against our climate's chilly hold,
Thou hast a nest in sunny glades and bowers;
And there, about thee, never growing old,
Are these fair things, clear as the lily flowers,
Such as great Petrarch loved,—only less cold,
More truly virtuous, and of gladdening powers.
Thou hast a nest in sunny glades and bowers;
And there, about thee, never growing old,
Are these fair things, clear as the lily flowers,
Such as great Petrarch loved,—only less cold,
More truly virtuous, and of gladdening powers.
TO MY WIFE.
ON MODELLING MY BUST.
Ah, Marian mine, the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding-day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth its temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,
And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,
Or make me worthier than Apollo's bough.
Is not exactly like my wedding-day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth its temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,
And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,
Or make me worthier than Apollo's bough.
Loss, after all,—such loss especially,—
Is transfer, change, but not extinction,—no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.
Is transfer, change, but not extinction,—no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.
TO KOSCIUSKO,
WHO NEVER FOUGHT EITHER FOR BONAPARTE OR THE ALLIES.
'Tis like thy patient valour thus to keep,
Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade,
While Freedom's ill-found amulet still is made
Pretence for old aggression, and a heap
Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep
Of stormier fields, thou earnest with thy blade,
Transform'd, not inly alter'd, to the spade,
Thy never yielding right to a calm sleep.
Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade,
While Freedom's ill-found amulet still is made
Pretence for old aggression, and a heap
Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep
238
Transform'd, not inly alter'd, to the spade,
Thy never yielding right to a calm sleep.
There came a wanderer, borne from land to land
Upon a couch, pale, many-wounded, mild,
His brow with patient pain dulcetly sour.
Men stoop'd with awful sweetness on his hand,
And kiss'd it; and collected Virtue smiled,
To think how sovereign her enduring hour.
Upon a couch, pale, many-wounded, mild,
His brow with patient pain dulcetly sour.
Men stoop'd with awful sweetness on his hand,
And kiss'd it; and collected Virtue smiled,
To think how sovereign her enduring hour.
ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR.
It lies before me there, and my own breath
Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside
The living head I stood in honour'd pride,
Talking of lovely things that conquer death.
Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath
Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-eyed,
And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride
With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath.
Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside
The living head I stood in honour'd pride,
Talking of lovely things that conquer death.
Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath
Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-eyed,
And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride
With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath.
There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.
It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread
Of our frail plant,—a blossom from the tree
Surviving the proud trunk;—as though it said
Patience and Gentleness is Power. In me
Behold affectionate eternity.
It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread
Of our frail plant,—a blossom from the tree
Surviving the proud trunk;—as though it said
Patience and Gentleness is Power. In me
Behold affectionate eternity.
TO PERCY SHELLEY,
ON THE DEGRADING NOTIONS OF DEITY.
What wonder, Percy, that with jealous rage
Men should defame the kindly and the wise,
When in the midst of the all-beauteous skies,
And all this lovely world, that should engage
Their mutual search for the old golden age,
They seat a phantom, swelled into grim size
Out of their own passions and bigotries,
And then, for fear, proclaim it meek and sage!
Men should defame the kindly and the wise,
When in the midst of the all-beauteous skies,
And all this lovely world, that should engage
Their mutual search for the old golden age,
239
Out of their own passions and bigotries,
And then, for fear, proclaim it meek and sage!
And this they call a light and a revealing!
Wise as the clown, who plodding home at night
In autumn, turns at call of fancied elf,
And sees upon the fog, with ghastly feeling,
A giant shadow in its imminent might,
Which his own lanthorn throws up from himself.
Wise as the clown, who plodding home at night
In autumn, turns at call of fancied elf,
And sees upon the fog, with ghastly feeling,
A giant shadow in its imminent might,
Which his own lanthorn throws up from himself.
TO MISS K.
WRITTEN ON A PIECE OF PAPER WHICH HAPPENED TO BE HEADED WITH A LONG LIST OF TREES.
There, Bess, your namesake held not sceptred hand
Under a canopy, so full and bright,
Not even that which Spenser hung with light,
And little shouldering angels made expand,
When she sat arbitress of fairy-land.
Fancy a sun o'er head, to make the sight
Warm outwards, and a bank with daisies white,
And you're a rural queen, finished and fanned.
Under a canopy, so full and bright,
Not even that which Spenser hung with light,
And little shouldering angels made expand,
When she sat arbitress of fairy-land.
Fancy a sun o'er head, to make the sight
Warm outwards, and a bank with daisies white,
And you're a rural queen, finished and fanned.
And now what sylvan homage would it please
Your Leafyship to have? bracelets of berries,
Feathers of jays, or tassels made of cherries,
Strawberries and milk, or pippins crisp to squeeze?
No, says your smile,—but two things richer far,
A verse, and a staunch friend;—and here they are.
Your Leafyship to have? bracelets of berries,
Feathers of jays, or tassels made of cherries,
Strawberries and milk, or pippins crisp to squeeze?
No, says your smile,—but two things richer far,
A verse, and a staunch friend;—and here they are.
TO THE AUTHOR OF “ION.”
I.
I could not come to shed a man's rare tears
With those who honour'd, and who lov'd, thy play;
My heart said “yes,” but the sick room said “nay,”
And the good doctor with his earnest fears.
Yet I was with thee,—saw thine high compeers,
Wordsworth and Landor,—saw the piled array,
The many-visag'd heart, looking one way,
Come to drink beauteous truth at eyes and ears.
With those who honour'd, and who lov'd, thy play;
My heart said “yes,” but the sick room said “nay,”
And the good doctor with his earnest fears.
Yet I was with thee,—saw thine high compeers,
240
The many-visag'd heart, looking one way,
Come to drink beauteous truth at eyes and ears.
Now said I to myself,—The scenes arise;
Now comes the sweet of name, whom great Love sunders
From love itself; now, now he gives the skies
The heart they gave (sweet thought 'gainst bitter wonders!)
And ever and aye, hands, stung with tear-thrilled eyes,
Snapping the silence, burst in crashing thunders.
Now comes the sweet of name, whom great Love sunders
From love itself; now, now he gives the skies
The heart they gave (sweet thought 'gainst bitter wonders!)
And ever and aye, hands, stung with tear-thrilled eyes,
Snapping the silence, burst in crashing thunders.
II.
Yes, I beheld the old accustom'd sight,
Pit, boxes, galleries; I was at “the play;”
I saw uprise the stage's strange floor-day,
And music tuning as in tune's despite;
Childhood I saw, glad-faced, that squeezeth tight
One's hand, while the rapt curtain soars away,—
And beauty and age, and all that piled array—
Thousands of souls drawn to one wise delight.
Pit, boxes, galleries; I was at “the play;”
I saw uprise the stage's strange floor-day,
And music tuning as in tune's despite;
Childhood I saw, glad-faced, that squeezeth tight
One's hand, while the rapt curtain soars away,—
And beauty and age, and all that piled array—
Thousands of souls drawn to one wise delight.
A noble spectacle!—Noble in mirth—
Nobler in sacred fellowship of tears!
I've often asked myself what sight on earth
Is worth the fancying of our fellow spheres;
And this is one—whole hosts in love with worth,
Judging the shapes of their own hopes and fears.
Nobler in sacred fellowship of tears!
I've often asked myself what sight on earth
Is worth the fancying of our fellow spheres;
And this is one—whole hosts in love with worth,
Judging the shapes of their own hopes and fears.
III.
Fine age is ours, and marvellous—setting free
Hopes that were bending into gray despairs,
Winnowing iron like chaff, outspeeding the airs,
Conquering with smoky flag the winds at sea,
Flinging from thund'rous wheels, immeasurably,
Knowledge like daily light: so that man stares,
Planet-struck with his work-day world, nor dares
Repeat the old babble of what “shall never be.”
Hopes that were bending into gray despairs,
Winnowing iron like chaff, outspeeding the airs,
Conquering with smoky flag the winds at sea,
Flinging from thund'rous wheels, immeasurably,
Knowledge like daily light: so that man stares,
Planet-struck with his work-day world, nor dares
Repeat the old babble of what “shall never be.”
A great good age!—Greatest and best in this,—
That it strikes dumb the old anti-creeds, which parted
Man from the child—prosperity from the bliss
Of faith in good—and toil of wealth unthwarted
From leisure crown'd with bay, such as thine is,
Talfourd! a lawyer prosperous and young-hearted.
That it strikes dumb the old anti-creeds, which parted
241
Of faith in good—and toil of wealth unthwarted
From leisure crown'd with bay, such as thine is,
Talfourd! a lawyer prosperous and young-hearted.
TO CHARLES DICKENS.
As when a friend (himself in music's list)Stands by some rare, full-handed organist,
And glorying as he sees the master roll
The surging sweets through all their depths of soul,
Cannot, encouraged by his smile, forbear
With his own hand to join them here and there;
And so, if little, yet add something more
To the sound's volume and the golden roar;
So I, dear friend, Charles Dickens, though thy hand
Needs but itself, to charm from land to land,
Make bold to join in summoning men's ears
To this thy new-found music of our spheres,
In hopes that by thy Household Words and thee
The world may haste to days of harmony.
TO POERIO AND HIS FELLOW-PATRIOTS.
O noble souls, freed from the foulest spite
That ever tyrannous and heartless fool
Wreak'd on the worth that shamed his worthless rule,
Linking your very bodies, day and night,
With lower souls, in hopes your patient might
Would droop despairing, as by Stygian pool;
(But you, oh you, masters in sorrow's school,
Lifted the heart-touch'd lowness to your height);—
That ever tyrannous and heartless fool
Wreak'd on the worth that shamed his worthless rule,
Linking your very bodies, day and night,
With lower souls, in hopes your patient might
Would droop despairing, as by Stygian pool;
(But you, oh you, masters in sorrow's school,
Lifted the heart-touch'd lowness to your height);—
Oh resting now, where men can trust a throne,
And served with such deep honour as endures
Beyond all gauds (for in comparison
With years of conquest over woes like yours,
Glory, the Frenchman's feather, may be spurn'd)
Live long the new-found life your great good hearts have earn'd.
And served with such deep honour as endures
Beyond all gauds (for in comparison
With years of conquest over woes like yours,
242
Live long the new-found life your great good hearts have earn'd.
THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT.
TO FISH.
You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,—
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste:—
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,—
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste:—
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?
What is't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?
A FISH ANSWERS.
Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
Forever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
Forever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!
O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth. What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair
Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth. What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair
Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.
243
The Fish turns into a Man, and then into a Spirit, and again speaks.
Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,
O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love:
For difference must its use by difference prove,
And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at his will
Live in whate'er has life—fish, eagle, dove—
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visitor of the rounds of God's sweet skill.
O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love:
For difference must its use by difference prove,
And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at his will
Live in whate'er has life—fish, eagle, dove—
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visitor of the rounds of God's sweet skill.
Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,
Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear.
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,
Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear.
THE DEFORMED CHILD.
BY VINCENT LEIGH HUNT.
[_]
[Vincent Leigh Hunt was the youngest son of Leigh Hunt, and died when quite young. In a letter to the editor of an American edition of his Poetical Works, Mr. Hunt thus spoke of him: “His whole life was full of sympathy. A sonnet like this will allow his father to indulge a hope, that wherever any Sonnets of his own may be thought worth collecting, they and it may never be parted.” —Editor.]
An Angel prisoned in an infant frame
Of mortal sickness and deformity,
Looks patiently from out that languid eye
Matured, and seeming large with pain. The name
Of “happy childhood” mocks his movements tame,
So propp'd with piteous crutch, or forced to lie
Rather than sit, in his frail chair, and try
To taste the pleasure of the unshared game.
Of mortal sickness and deformity,
Looks patiently from out that languid eye
Matured, and seeming large with pain. The name
Of “happy childhood” mocks his movements tame,
So propp'd with piteous crutch, or forced to lie
Rather than sit, in his frail chair, and try
To taste the pleasure of the unshared game.
He does; and faintly claps his withered hands
To see how brother Willie caught the ball;
Kind brother Willie, strong, yet gentle all:
'Twas he that placed him where his chair now stands
In that warm corner 'gainst the sunny wall—
God, in that brother, gave him more than lands.
To see how brother Willie caught the ball;
Kind brother Willie, strong, yet gentle all:
'Twas he that placed him where his chair now stands
In that warm corner 'gainst the sunny wall—
God, in that brother, gave him more than lands.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |