University of Virginia Library

SONNET.

ON HAWKING.

'Twas on a plain of Austria—broad and fair—
High flew the hawks, from hood and chain releas'd:
Higher and higher, still with speed increas'd.
The falconer's plumes danced dark upon the air,
And bounded their brave steeds, as vaulting there!
A little while—and that fair flight hath ceased:—
Who would their eyes upon the sequel feast,
And view the prey's destruction and despair?—
'Tis still so here!—beginnings void of stain
Lead but to dark conclusions—too much still
We mix our pleasures with another's pain,
And good too closely neighbours upon ill.
Can the least creature's loss become our gain?
Ah, no!—Heaven vindicates its outraged will!

SONNET.

THE SUBURBS OF VIENNA.

Fair are the city's suburbs—many a row
Of snow-white dwellings wins the admiring gaze,
And calls forth the exclamation of pleased praise.
The setting sun rose-tints their whiteness now,
Far fairer than the crowded streets they show,—
Within the gates!—that throng'd and busy maze;
And peace and calm content in these fair ways
Have surely set up their abode below—
And here reside, untroubled and serene.
Ah! those who are contented to remain
Even at the gates of life's proud restless scene
Partaking charily its stir—much pain
May spare themselves—'tis they perhaps may glean
The happiness—good—wealth, that others sow, in vain!

SONNET.

THE GREENWOOD.

In the deep wood ten thousand shadows played,
The trees with their own beauty rich and deep
Stood full arrayed;—the mighty, massy heap
Of their thick foliage clothed the day in shade,
And on its passage fair each beam delayed,
That sought to pierce those depths—which still did keep
Their pomp of verdurous gloom; one mighty sweep
Of many shadows there, soft midnight made!
Transparent still glanced each veined leaf and clear!
But yet 'twas not the light that thro' them gleamed,
But myriad other leaves, which did appear
As beauteous, while their fairy banners streamed,
Quivering and thrill'd with countless others near!—
So emerald there, transpierced, with lovelier emerald beamed!

SONNET.

THE RIVER RHINE.

Ah! loveliest scene!—the river wreathing winds
In mazy lines, with all the hues of Heaven
To its clear face of gleaming crystal given;
And all around in Beauty's charm it binds;
And where a spot less brightly fair it finds,
It wins the eye unto itself, and even
Shows more of loveliness as it had striven
To fill that void up with unnumbered kinds
Of various varying beauty:—glorious stream!
Thou makest glad the land thou passest through,
And like a flow of lightnings, with soft gleam
Still flashest on with brightness ever new;
Molten and liquid seems each sun-launch'd beam,
And earth reflects thro' thee, oh Stream! Heaven's ev'ry hue!

SONNET.

THE TOWER OF ROLAND.

Dark Rock of Rolandseck!—now hail I thee,
Old mouldering tower!—I greet thee well—right well!
Pondering on all that the antique legends tell
In dreamy sort, until methinks I see
The love-lorn nun, in her pale purity,
In Nonnenwerdein's cloistering, grave-like cell,
Where, like the dead, did she scarce conscious dwell—
Seeming a statue of chill grief to be,
And he with plume and faulchion, that young knight,
Whose fiery spirit own'd love's bright controul;
Stricken, and sorely too—though not in fight—
But wounded to the heart and to the soul,
A mortal blow—and a most fatal blight,
While that dark word, “lost—lost!” pealed out his heavy knoll!

SONNET.

THE RHINE AT SUNSET.

The Sunset now hath turned this river fair
Into one blood-red blaze;—its waters show
As though ensanguined in their peaceful flow
By Battle-slaughters—fierce and deadly there.
Ha!—far away from this commanding lair
Of Titan war—I catch the crimsoned glow
Of that proud river where it bendeth so,
'Tis like some golden snake of beauty rare,
It windeth and 'tis lost!—but then again
It gleameth forth, because the Setting Sun
Hath smitten it,—and turned it brightly then
Into one Splendour!—where its deep waves run
Exposed unto the beams—the eyes of men
Can scarcely gaze a lovelier scene upon!

SONNET.

ON EHRENBREITSTEIN.

Evening's soft mantle o'er these Scenes is flung;
Proud Ehrenbreitstein sleeps in golden light!—
The bristling fortress seems unto the sight
A fairy Palace now, while round is hung
So sweet a charm, and her bold towers among
Soft influences brood:—how strangely bright
Now gleams the black rock-wall, whose haughty might
Was shaken, but to start up yet more strong—
Fair Ehrenbreitstein!—such thou now dost seem,
Crowning the mighty river full and deep,
The bold, and broad, and ever-beauteous stream,
That heaveth, as 'twere troubled in its sleep;
For sleep appeareth softly now, I deem,
O'er each faint ripple stealingly to creep!

SONNET.

ON THE VIEW FROM THE FORTRESS OF EHRENBREITSTEIN.

Proud View! that doth a stamp most glorious bear,
All that is beautiful seems here to glow—
And make a Heavenly Scene of Earth below.
The River—oh! the River!—bright and fair,
It charms down Ehrenbreitstein's rugged air,
Besieging it with Beauty—it doth flow
Fearless and stately on! and the armed heights know
Its power and loveliness, and yield them there;
And so it wears their colours bright and clear
On its broad breast, as wrested from their might!—
And yet they fairer on its face appear
Traced out in glitterings of its watery light,
And scarcely frown those heights with hints of fear,
When mirrored thus by this they chain our sight.

SONNET.

THE RHINE.

The bristling fortresses, by Time's dread shocks
Dismantled, frowning soar on every side,
With something of a stern and awful pride,
And seem a part of these eternal rocks;
While, streaming, flow around the lichen's locks,
In full luxuriance, floating far and wide,
With every shade of tenderest emerald dyed.
'Tis here the crowd of eager Pilgrims flocks!
The Pilgrims of the beauty of the place!
A beauty which is holiness—for here
Nature unveils her wild and glorious face,
And doth in proud o'erpow'ring state appear—
Her wildness—pomp!—her negligence—all grace!
And the soul grows Religion!—void of fear!

SONNET.

THE BANKS OF THE RHINE.

It is a wonderous and impressive scene,
Rocks heaved o'er rocks, in wild confusion here,
At once sublime and horrid—proud and drear,
Make stern what else would be indeed serene.
'Tis here that War in fiercest sway hath been,
'Tis here that Peace, most perfect and most dear,
With Plenty leans o'er terraced slopes, where tier
O'er tier shows vinyarded, and leafing green;
Nature puts on her loveliness once more,
And all is as her shadow in the land—
Yet, as of old, upon each swelling shore
Mark many an impress of man's mighty hand!—
But now of gentlest culture 'tis;—fair store
Springs thence—not savage spoils—fair store and bland!

SONNET.

TO THE RHINE.

SONNET.

THE BEAUTIES OF THE RHINE.

Fair is the hour!—Soul! breathe thee for a space;
The hills seem soaring, eagle-like, on high,—
(There leading too the rapt adoring eye,)
As tho' with life-like power!—Side, crest, and base,
Suffused with sunshine!—from its own proud place
The river tempts the blue and lustrous sky,
To flash it back with added brilliancy—
And both grow precious in that bright embrace!—
All that is fair above is seen beneath—
Still fairer in this time so soft—so dear!—
All the sky-flowers are twined in this proud wreath,
This sparkling wreath of waters, fresh and clear!—
Uncrisped, untroubled, by the tenderest breath,—
Wherein like treasured gems they shrined appear.

SONNET.

A RICH LANDSCAPE.

The land seems full of wealth, and running o'er;
Man's labours are well paid—well answered here;
Rich harvests crown the bright and glowing year;
His hands may reap a full abundant store;
Sun after sun smiles cloudless, more and more,
To ripen fruit and grain—make all appear
As all is, rich and plenteous!—bright and clear;
Laugh the glad skies, and ceaseless sunshine pour!
Are they not blest who this fine generous soil
May call their own—this fruitful land and fair,
That meets half-way and more their prosperous toil,
Most blest to tread this earth—to breathe this air?
Ah! still black Evil's fountains overboil—
They were not happy!—Eden's favoured pair!

SONNET.

A RECOLLECTION OF VESUVIUS.

All elements seem one!—one dazzling fire
Floods Earth and Heaven, the Waters and the Air,
How the fierce mountain doth terrific glare,
Ev'n like a sun in hell!—dost Thou aspire
To be such, with thy flamy-scorching tire
Ofblood-red splendours?—Night doth startled wear
Thy fearful beauty—and in terror there
Beholds herself revealed:—wouldst thou one pyre
Of ruin make the whole wide world to spread?—
Thyself indeed shown an infernal sun?
Thou hast thine hour!—but such shall not exceed
Its measured limits, all thy flames shall run
Their race appointed!—then shall they refeed
Thy gloomy Heart again—and day's new brightness shun.

SONNET.

THE CONVENT AT WURZBURG.

Fair Convent!—crowning yon Heaven-kissing Hill
With beauty and with sanctity serene,
And throwing tenderer charms o'er all the scene;
All round thee seems so tranquil—oh! so still,
Methinks thou'rt lifted far above Earth's ill
And pain and sorrow!—as such ne'er had been:
But no!—even cloistered bosoms yet must lean
To earth and all earth's feelings, these must fill
The soul with care for ever:—mortals must
Carry their world still, still about them thus!
Nor wholly 'scape from earth while tomb'd in dust;
Sorrow still reacheth these as it doth us,
Fair Convent! crowning with a gloom august
Wurzburg's old Town—thou knows't Man's nature treacherous!

SONNET.

A SCENE AT WURZBURG.

A crown imperial on the imperial Throne
Laid in proud state, were not more glorious seen
Than these fair towers, with stately walls between,
On this fair Hill's bright summits, still and lone;
How rich the scenes, too, round it thickly strown!
No lovelier spot can charm the eye, I ween:—
The heights are beautiful with Summer's green;
The old town of Wurzburg far beneath is shown,
With all its crowded church-towers, darkly stained
With bronze-like tints, as though the rolling sun
Had burnt his farewell-hues full deep engrained
Into their substance, shining these upon.—
By scenes like these the enraptured eye is chained,
And even the restless thoughts to Peace are won.

SONNET.

THE OLD SCHLOSS AT NUREMBURG.

The Old Palace Castle crowns the o'erlooking height,
That darkles o'er aged Nuremburg's fine town:
A monument of centuries past 'tis shown.
Within its walls is much to chain the sight,
That speaks of human change and Time's swift flight.
There stands Charlemagne, with sceptre and with crown,
In gilded painting—wearing the awful frown;—
And there mild Luther and Melancthon bright,
Dear Saints!—are seen—and Helena the fair,
And her famed Lord—the Imperial Constantine,
Appear in view—look on yon ceiling, there
Broods the White Eagle, e'en of the earliest line
Of Kaisars the emblem, ere from their proud share
Part of their realm was reft in swift decline.

SONNET.

SONNET ON AN OLD LIME-TREE, SAID TO BE EIGHT HUNDRED YEARS OLD, IN THE CASTLE-YARD, AT NUREMBURG.

Couldst thou unfold—oh! venerable Tree!
All that hath passed around thee in the time
Of thy Eight Centuries,—fearful or sublime,
'Twould prove a strange and startling history.
Didst thou Gustavus' hosts and banners see
That flourished like to thee—thou fluttering Lime!—
But to be vailed in shame?—while War's proud crime
Brought fruits of ruin forth, all fearfully,
When starving citizens and starving hosts
Grew pale with hunger, and thou flourished still,
Fed by Heaven's dews, the same!—and those lean ghosts
Reeled, staggered, fell, and did the town's streets fill
With corses—skeletons in life!—vain boasts!—
Vile vaunts of man!—blown thro' the brattling war trump shrill!

SONNET.

ON THE HILL WHERE WALLENSTEIN WAS ENCAMPED.

On yon low-wooded hill, in the olden day,
Entrenched was Wallenstein's long-waiting host,
Waiting a day that was nor won nor lost!—
Both armies of dull Death the helpless prey!—
Who mowed them down by Famine's dire decay,
That wounded—slaughtered—desolated most:—
There Wallenstein maintained his bulwarked post,
And there the royal Swede play'd desperate play,
And sought to chase him thence, in vain; then fell
Hundreds and thousands, and their bones were left
To whiten and to crumble there;—the yell
Of fight was hushed; with brow or bosom cleft—
Well slumbered these; but War's whole truth to tell,
For some few rash ones' will sank thousands thus bereft!

SONNET.

ON THE FIELD OF BLENHEIM.

Soldiers of England!—here ye conquering trod;
Here, here ye fought and fell, victorious fell;
Your battle-trumpets, with their pealing swell,
Pierced this strange air, and shook this foreign sod.
Here did War's Giant Genius, with stern nod,
Command the slaughter, while the thunderous yell
Murdered the stillness: do the echoes tell
How the loud cry, “St. George for England,” rode
On them in triumph cheery, and loud-poured!
As with full certainty of high success?—
Rose visions here of England, She, the adored,
And all the home-twined island-happiness,
Clear to the eyes of dying men, and gored
Far deeper than the blade that did Life's streams outpress!

SONNET.

ON THE DANUBE.

Near us gleam golden cornfields; then, afar,
Danube's blue hills rise, on whose sunny side
Fresh cornfields smile, by sunbeams struck, descried!
Lo! fields of cloth of gold these truly are,
Where Kings might meet in triumph! naught shall mar
Their splendour:—and beneath doth Danube glide,
With ribs of gold, too, belting his fair tide;
There every sunbeam grows a rosy star,
Sparkling and shivering,—beautiful and bright;
The sun seems flashing stars and lightnings down,
At play with the over-wealth of his own light!—
And all around a heavenly glow is thrown.
Sweet hours!—I pray ye take not rapid flight:
When may again such glad ones be mine own?

SONNET.

THE BANKS OF THE DANUBE.

Pondering, we journeyed by Old Danube's side;
(Where all is peace and summer-gladness now;)
The sky shone, flecked with some few clouds of snow;
The boughs were bent with their luxuriant pride,
By some sweet airs, that now awoke, now died,
Now cheerly seemed to rush, now faintly blow.
Oh! where could lovelier landscape spread below?
Flowed the blue river deep and swift and wide;
There was a smile on all great Nature's face;
As Paradise was at her heart, at least!—
Deep hidden in her bosom's sacred place!—
And now in ours all troublous stirs had ceased;
And Fears took flight before fresh Hopes apace.
Oh! Nature how thy love was in my Heart increased!

SONNET.

FEUDAL REMAINS.

High Hills, close in the Danube's waves of pride,
Feathering with firs down low unto the shore,
And shadowing o'er the River's chrystal floor,
Sweeping in gloom unto the water's side,
Old tottering Castles still aloft descried,
Hint of dark feudal ages—when they wore
A look of armed defiance, and stern store
Of War's fierce weapons held—full well supplied.
But ruins these!—Fair Danube!—like the sea,
Thou hast thy Wrecks!—but not in thy bright deep
Are these concealed in gloomy mystery;
But lo! they crown and crest thy fir-clad steep:
Were they not built to o'erlook and keep o'er thee
Proud watch!—Man! Man! thy works soon grow a mouldering heap.

SONNET.

SCENES ON THE DANUBE.

We tracked the Danube's waters, deep and clear,
There many a wonderous sight enchained the eye;
The shores wore now of savage mystery,
The frowning look—and now of mighty cheer!—
For deep dark forests fringed and feathered here
The lofty banks—and there all smilingly
The Harvest's golden fields made Earth and Sky
One Sunshine rosy, and divine appear;
As on some changeful morn now shadows come,
Now brightness lingers for awhile, ev'n so,
Now o'er the spirit spread a deepening gloom,
Now did a gleam of sunny triumph glow!—
Reflection of the barrenness or bloom
That the changed scene did swiftly varying show!

SONNET.

THE MORNING'S JOURNEY.

Upon a Summer's morn, at day-break's hour,
We journeyed, pleased to mark upon our way
The gracious morning opening ray by ray
Into her perfect beauty and full power,
Like some bright, bright enchantress in her bower,
Working ten thousand marvels with proud sway:
What triumphs does she not around display!
What scenes call forth, and what a dazzling shower
Of rosy glories scattereth she around,
Till all is rainbow and bright sunshine glow!
Scarce steadily could the eye rest on the ground;
In lightning-waters did the River flow,
The corn-stalks each were with clear sun-beams bound:
The whole earth seemed to rear a gold-crowned brow!

SONNET.

THE EVENING'S JOURNEY.

A placid evening Scene! One glass of Peace
Shines the down-rolling Danube, wide and far,
Retracing the first beauty of Eve's Star.
'Tis well, when day's long hours of turmoil cease,
To watch the dreamy wave—the floating fleece
Of Night's soft clouds, that Darkness' heralds are,
And for the quiet of the night prepare!
Marking the Shadows gently-slow increase!
It soothes the troubled fancy—to the thought
Brings solemn truths, and things that we should learn
To seek for—they are worthy to be sought!—
And scarcely oft enough to these we turn;
For we would not their serious lore be taught,
And with vain folly still too boldly spurn!

SONNET.

DANUBE.

Roll on! far-rolling River!—till your tide
In watery wild embrace with the Euxine blend
Roll to your Eastern term—your sunny end.
With thousand sun-beams on your glittering pride
Of flowing waters deep, and strong, and wide.
Oh! mightiest River!—taught your aid to lend
Now to man's many wants, and bade to bend
Before his power, and to espouse his side,—
And forward his high purposes, since now
The conquering—the resistless power of steam
Its march of might through your deep waves doth plough!—
Shoot o'er thee, like strange Pageants of a Dream,
The smoke-wreathed barks, which scarce free course allow
Sure to the o'ermastered tide, which but their slave doth seem!

SONNET.

DANUBE.

Fair as the fairest scenes enchanted lore
Hath e'er described—this broke upon our sight,
Full of proud Beauty and transcendent might!
It touched me to the heart's own living core:—
The Hills, like Golden Mounts, all mantled o'er
With rosy sunshine, and on its fair flight
The River, one broad glory of deep light—
Bearing vast treasures to its teeming shore!—
Not gold, nor gems, but more, far more than these,
Pure gifts of Plenty and Fertility;
(This surely best with man's vain state agrees!)
What wealth, what produce doth it not supply!
Thankful should Man the gifts abundant seize,
And own and feel, all good comes still from yon sweet Skies!

SONNET.

SHORES OF THE DANUBE.

By these proud Danube shores, of yore was heard
The bray of trumpet and the beat of drum;
For here did marshalled hostile armies come!
Here the fierce war-horse had his mettle stirred,
And pawing, ploughed the ground; here loud the word
Was given to charge—to strike; but now no hum
Of multitudes is heard—the air is dumb;
By the road-side a few tired serfs ungird
Themselves for rest—with their hot morning's work
Weary, though still 'tis morning!—for their day
Soon openeth!—Morn to their sealed eyes grows murk:
Near stands an ancient cross that seems to say,
“My might did tame the crescents of the Turk;
In me trust alway!—till the Earth melt away!”

SONNET.

ON THE FIRST SIGHT OF VIENNA.

Vienna's clustered spires, and walls, and towers,
Broke on our sight, at the eighth hour of even!
Strong shades tumultuous, hurryingly were driven
O'er that august Assemblage—for the hours
Of twilight came, like angry, shadowy powers,
To chase Day's glories, and they now had striven
With high success—and the blue, boundless Heaven
Was veiled and darkened, and the Earth's fanes and bowers—
Wrappedin new-gathering gloom.—A sight sublime
Is the first sight of some proud capital,
That hath beheld, in its allotted time,
Changes and wonders acted round its wall:—
Thou saw'st the spoilers pour from the Eastern clime,
And saw'st the Earth's Conqueror camped in the old Imperial Hall!

SONNET.

TO VIENNA.

Wien!—could thy thousand walls have thousand tongues,
What histories strange should melt into the mind,
Leaving romantic legends far behind!
Hast heard the drums of sieging hosts, when wrongs
Terrific, threatened thee; what time thy songs,
Thy mirth, thy dances, all were hushed, and lined
Thy streets with anxious multitudes, not blind
To their oncoming fate—distracted throngs!
Hast seen the hostile crescents flout thy sky—
Th' Eagles 'gainst thine Imperial Eagles brought,
Dance on thy breeze, with plumes of Victory?
Great City! thou hast more than once been taught
That strength and safety are but from on high,
That help alone should be from Heaven's dread armoury sought!

SONNET.

DANUBE.

Flow! thou proud River! centuries have not tamed
Thy free bright waves, that mock at time and change;
Flow through the lands, and take thy bold broad range;
Or by pale moons empearled,—deep suns enflamed—
By young Aurora in gold splendours framed—
Or purple Midnight, wrapp'd in Shadows strange,
Broidered with Stars:—th' orchard, the field the grange
Now line thy banks—and now, all unreclaimed
From the action of thy Waves, large tracts of land
Spread in morasses on the Servian shore,
Pine for the cultivation of man's hand,
And boast no treasures of bright Plenty's store.
Flow! Danube! flow! proclaim Zeal's high command,
“Henceforth, ye shores! be spread with wealth—one teeming floor!”

SONNET.

WRITTEN UPON THE LICHTENSTEIN PICTURE GALLERY.

Another world springs from the Painter's art—
A race of beings separate and unknown;—
Yes! Painting hath a bright world of its own,—
A bright and beauteous living world apart,—
And with a new emotion and a start
We grow acquainted there with much alone
In Fancy's realms existing;—yet thus shown
That sinks as deeply into Mind and Heart
As that we meet in life—ev'n living round!
Painter! inspired creator of bright things!
Wrestler with wondering Nature!—thou hast bound
Her fairest triumphs to thy car, and springs
Around a scene enchanted!—if not found
In Nature's worlds, at least, from proud Dreams born she brings!

SONNET.

[Child of my heart!—would I could now behold]

Child of my heart!—would I could now behold
Thy face of infant purity and grace;
That opening, wakening, brightening, flowering face!
And in a mother's fond embrace enfold!
Though sweetly, smilingly, the hours have rolled
Since I have seen thee—yet the time—the space
Have oft been lengthened—widened on the race
Of hours, by fond regrets—all uncontrolled.
My child!—my children!—oh! to see again
Those infant features, stamped upon my mind,
Whose dear and blessed memory is a pain!—
Then were I happy—happiest!—but entwined
With grief must recollection still remain,
Till I once more, in joy, my living treasures find.

SONNET.

ON THE HELENENTHAL.

The gurgling brook sang near its pleasant song,
With voice of clearest chrystal singing sweet,
And rolled its wave of sunshine at our feet,
And birds, hard by, trilled loud,—a merry throng,
The sheltering, shadowing, sweeping woods, among,
As they would sing before the noon-day's heat;
And many an echo did the strain repeat.
No cloud was dark—no swelling breeze was strong—
But gentlest airs just moved the leaf and blade;
And tenderest fleeces softly flecked the sky,
And beautiful as sunshine seemed the shade!—
Ten thousand nameless beauties charmed the eye,
Born of the moment—suddenly displayed,
And then as suddenly snatched back—past by!

SONNET.

[The Old Castle frowns on high, in proud decay]

The Old Castle frowns on high, in proud decay;
In architectural beauty stands below
The Archducal Palace, white as sunlit snow;
And both look lovely—both look fair to-day!
Another ruin by young Morning's ray
Is brightened, near—of ages long ago
The lone compeer, but mouldering still and slow,
Of Time and Change not the unresisting prey!
Where are the lords and leaders that of yore
Made these their more than lion-lairs of pride?
The Worm hath wasted them, alas! far more
Than War and Weather, and each chance beside,
Their towers of strength!—yet gallantly they bore
Themselves of old—and Time and Death defied!

SONNET.

THE HILLS OF STYRIA.

O'er Styria's Hills a thousand lights now dance;
It is as though a thousand Suns shone fair,
Brightening in more than mid-noon splendour there!—
Ev'n shivered into endless Stars—that glance
With dazzling-keen unmarred predominance;—
'Tis that full many a cloud on the azure air
Doth a faint guise of shadowy softening wear,
And o'er that single sun doth float, perchance,
Only to make him lovelier still!—to make
Him seem ten thousand suns of glory bright,
Until the eye doth with its splendours ache!—
Troubled, perplexed with changefulness of light;
Each cloud is fair and soft as snowy flake,
Though partly shrouding him whose absence is—the Night!

SONNET.

THE SAVE.

Thou'rt a fair River, boundary-stream! between
The Christian and the Osmanlie—who long
Waged war unchecked, fired still with hatred strong
Against each other, darkening thy fair scene
With slaughters!—Oh! that such stern things have been!
'Tis well to other ages, their dark wrong
Should rest confined: let such not frown among
Our fair homes now!—Lo! quiet and serene
Let Peace and Tolerance spread their gentle wings,
To cover o'er the nations: let no more
Sharp Discord gall us with her thousand stings,
To devastate our earth from shore to shore.
Let our pure Faith teach us far holier things,
And we the example give full loftier than before!

SONNET.

TRIESTE.

A scene of wonderous beauty they descry,
Who scale the heights that frown o'er fair Trieste,
Fairest when sinks on the Adrian Ocean's breast,
Italia's glorious sun, and leaves the sky
To moon and stars of tenderer brilliancy.
'Twas thus we saw it, and it half oppressed
The sense with loveliness—the rich unrest
Of admiration troubling it!—heaved high
Each pulse with an exulting thrill of joy.
Such scenes awaken loftiest strains of thought,
Which keenly, kindlingly the mind employ,
Into the fine web of the existence wrought,
Which most they beautify—they never cloy,
Those noble pleasures Nature's hand hath brought!

SONNET.

THE ADRIATIC AT SUNSET.

Softly on the Adrian Sea we glided slow,
The sun his web of western splendours wove;
The Sea his throne beneath—the Sky above!—
The orange and purple of the sunset's glow
Slow faded round us on the water's flow:—
Each wave seemed softly murmuring, like the dove,
Music of tenderness and tones of love;
'Twas beautiful around, above, below,
Died in the heart each thought of strife and gloom;
The mind felt quickened with a deeper life;
The world, that erst seemed darker than the tomb,
Appeared at once with all enchantments rife;
A paradise within, without, did bloom,
And Peace shut in the Soul the gates of Strife!

SONNET.

[We see much Beauty and we dream of more!—]

We see much Beauty and we dream of more!—
We are creating while we contemplate!—
The mind upsoaring, on proud wings elate,
Appears with its rich treasures running o'er,
And adds the wealth of its etherial store
Of phantasies and dreams to the awful state
Of Nature, then not crushed beneath the weight
Of admiration—but thus made to soar!—
Quickened—inspired in its strong ecstasy;—
Surely in heaven then, when the Immortal Mind
Puts on her power, and soars sublimely free,
One of the mightiest pleasures she shall find
For her prepared most gloriously, shall be
To Cause and to Create what here she well designed!

SONNET.

[Wherefore dost howl? thou boisterous, furious Wind?]

Wherefore dost howl? thou boisterous, furious Wind?
Thus tempesting the dark-blue Adrian Sea,
Where smiling waves before rolled glad and free
And revelling in repose—why dost unbind
Thy haughty powers?—and lash, as thou wouldst grind
Those waves to mist,—the waters?—these may be
The graves of many, thus, who may not flee
Thy fury in their barks, to wreck resigned.
Why dost thou howl and rage, fierce Storm-wind here?
Can loveliness disarm thee not?—reply!—
Wert thou not happier—Tempest-terror drear!—
To be a gentle breeze 'twixt sea and sky,
Balancing softly, as it would appear,
Unable to make choice, where thou wouldst live and die?

SONNET.

[A weight of death-like darkness seemed to lie]

A weight of death-like darkness seemed to lie
Upon the silent mountains and the Sea;
His waves seemed chained—nor ev'n the air seemed free!—
The powers of storm were marshalled in the sky,
Their dread array of shadows darkled by,
Instinct with terror;—Fear appeared to be
The Ruler of the Elements!—while he
And his stern train swept shapeless, shadowy nigh;
Anon the air was One wild Voice—the wind
Rose suddenly, as on ten thousand wings,
As tho' 'twould leave ten thousand wrecks behind,
And nothing but the memory of past things!—
Yet the fierce, furious tempest is not blind,
But knoweth where to strike, and where to sheathe his stings!

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON FIRST ARRIVING AT VENICE.

The sun rose glorious soon o'er the Adrian Sea,
To light us on our way to Venice, fair!—
And all that beauteous is, and mournful there.
He rose! and blazed the sea beneath him free,
Whose waves seemed rolling waves of fires to be!—
Full proud his image-impress thus to bear!
What splendours did each sparkling foam-wreath wear!
Night's shadows then in truth did swiftly flee!
Ere while a death-black mass of glooms remained,
As though they would frown back the rising sun—
With all the funeral hues of midnight stained—
They staid!—till fringed with fire they seem'd all spun
Of Light and Darkness both—He rose!—He reigned!
And they retreated—fled!—crushed, vanquished, and undone!

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Venice!—the sea that flows thro' thy fair streets
Should surely be a weeping sea of tears,
Mourning thy funeral Beauty's faded years,
And all that sadly there the grieved eye meets!
My Heart, thy charms full sorrowfully greets,
Too sad thy splendour to my Soul appears!—
And yet thy melancholy more endears—
More wins to thee!—whose tale loud fame repeats!
Where are thy monarch-nobles of the old days?
Where thy Sea-Cæsars?—Doges of proud name!—
Where thy vast victories, past all count or praise?
Played for between Oblivion pale and Fame!
In thee a Queen-like Phantom meets our gaze;
Thine is the Ruin!—be all Earth's—the Shame!

SONNET.

VENICE.

Thy place is on the sea!—the glorious sea!—
Fairer than earth thro' all its varying hours!—
Most sunlike in the sunny, when all powers
Of beauty seem to walk in majesty
'Twixt Heaven and Earth, and when the storm raves free,
Most mighty and most wonderous!—while, like towers,
The uproused waves soar,—each scattering foamy showers—
As they would scale the sky and lifted be
Above the clouds and tempests, dark and drear,
That trouble them and toss!—thy place is there,
Oh! City, beautiful without a peer!—
In ruin noble—in decay how fair!—
Would we could steer thee as a ship we steer
To our own shores, that thus, thy Beauty's pomp should wear!

SONNET.

[To thee I drink this parting cup, full brimmed—]

To thee I drink this parting cup, full brimmed—
This cup of an unfathomable woe!—
And drain each drop of fire!—yet must I go!
My heart is wounded and my sight is dimmed;
That cup with every poison-dew seems rimmed:
Fear, Self-reproach, Suspense together flow,
And all their torments I too keenly know.
No matter!—for Love's lamp is fed and trimmed;
And this shall light my sepulchre on earth.
Life! thou long torture!—let thy rack but be
With buds of Hope's young roses flowering forth,
Adorned and brightened, and 'tis well with me!
Farewell! farewell!—I murmur not; 'tis worth
Our while to weep, if through our tears Heaven's smiles we see!

SONNET.

THE GONDOLA RACE.

A thousand smiling faces on the Sea,
Smoothing the Waves with Beauty!—look around!
What hundreds seem as walking on the ground,
Plying their arrowy oars full dexterously,
With foot advanced, and outstretched arms they flee;
They pass!—they part!—and they return!—no bound
Seems set to their fleet movements, while all crown'd
With Sunset gleam those waves—the fair barks be
Like butterflies on beds of roses gay,
Fluttering and winged with very joy and hope,
The dancing boats! how take they their light way,
Strong with this mightiest element to cope,
With which they verily appear at play;
While Night, another Day, her gates of light doth ope.

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Bear me, proud Billows! to your isle-throned Queen!—
Lady of Cities fair, and Sunniest Seas,
Seated on waves—a Queen of cloud and breeze!—
Bear me to that enchanted, glorious scene!
When was that marble vessel launched serene?
She stems ten thousand waves with conscious ease!—
What bulwarks brave, what gorgeous masts are these?
Walls—Towers—of precious marbles piled, I ween!—
Thou brave Bark!—Venice City!—thou so fair,
Hast yet been shipwrecked, and a wreck thou art!
For all thy bravery, and thy pomps that wear
A look of lasting triumph,—at the Heart
Thou'rt cankered, mouldering, and the Wreck is there,
Even in the highest, holiest, noblest part!

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Hail to thy sculptured domes and frosted piles,
Venice, adored! the sun now sets on fire
Thy palaces, which clothed in gold, swell higher!—
With all their different shapes and various styles!
Even in decline how beautiful thy smiles!
Neptune thy subject—Phœbus seems thy Sire!—
Thou like some Heaven-loved martyr dost expire,
Oh! thou sweet Lady of the Waves and Isles!
Thou tread'st the branching coral under foot!—
As fresh—as fair as in thy youngest years
Doth that put forth its every hardened shoot,
But withered, although watered by thy tears,
Are those proud laurels that so well did suit
Thy brow of yore, bright Queen, of all thy past compeers!

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Venice! thou Queen of Sea! in ruin Queen!—
As none may doubt who look in love on thee,
The great Sun seems thine Element!—for he
Is so incorporate still with thy fair scene—
So mirrored deep in thy lagoons serene:
That he seems round thee spread like thine own Sea!—
He builds a throne of glorious majesty,
Of beaten gold and burnished silver sheen,
In thy refulgent streets!—triumphal road!—
That seems but made for Victory, Pomp, and Joy!
Of Star-wreathed spirits thou mightst be the abode,
Like those bright spheres which Time dares not de stroy,
Swung in the ethereal element—but trod
By Angel shapes!—yet Time works thee annoy!

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Oh! Venice! Venice! Vision of my soul!—
Thou Marble Eden of adoring hearts!—
Ark of my new affections!—never parts
From thee my memory, but doth round thee roll
As stars round suns!—on thy broad stony scroll
Is “Ruin” written, Queen of Arms and Arts!—
Yet Ruin smiles so fair thus, that there darts
A lovelier ray from Heaven's height to controul
Thy doom so dark—methinks!—Each Palace-Hall
Shows fair, as shine the coral-rocks beneath,
So bright—so delicate-fantastical!—
With sculptured scroll, and fruit, and clustered wreath!—
These might enchanted realms supreme recall;—
Oh, Venice! thy sweet praise shall cease but with my breath!

SONNET.

A FÊTE DAY AT VENICE.

On Venice' Waters blue her children held
Fair Festival—made merry on the Sea!
And laughed, till laughing waves flung back their glee:
Sporting, they thus rejoiced on the open field
Of the azure Ocean; but dark thoughts of eld
Rushed o'er my soul; much it misliketh me
To see this heartless joy and gladness free!
Thy Melancholy, Venice! thus is quelled,
But not thy cause for mourning!—never more,
Alas! shall Triumph with fair Freedom move,
I fear, o'er thy blue seas, or palaced shore;
But ne'er dost thou so much command our love
Or feeling, as when restless day is o'er,
And thou art left alone to Seas and Skies above!

SONNET.

ON VENICE.

Venice! thou Empire of the hundred Isles,
Thou Armament of Palaces sublime!
Dark falls o'er thee the shadow of old Time;
But scarcely this can shroud thy sweet proud smiles,
Gone are thy gorgeous pomps—the enchanting wiles
Of thy gay triumphs—but thy Sky—thy clime,
Still, still are lovely as in thy young prime;
Though little less than slavery now defiles!
Venice! be thou a home to this crushed heart;
A sanctuary of sympathies be thou!
Another world from this cold world apart,
This dead cold world, that all my soul loathes now!
Thou, like my being, fallen and foundered art,
O'er this hath gone Despair's—o'er that Destruction's plough!

SONNET.

A NIGHT STORM AT VENICE.

The Lightnings flash upon St. Mark's great dome,
Which starts to proud pale Beauty suddenly!—
And seems itself a Lightning to the eye;
White, clear, and dazzling-bright—while the after gloom
Closes upon it, like a swallowing tomb!—
Or is't received and rapt into the Sky,
Snatched by the powers of the awful storm on high?
No, yet once more from darkness startling come—
Its proud proportions forth in radiant sheen,
And for one moment 'tis as bright again!—
Can pen or pencil e'er bepaint such scene?
Nay! it is stamped and written on the brain:
It flashes through the soul, with triumph keen,
And there must long, unlocked by words remain!

SONNET.

A STORM AT SEA ON THE MEDITERRANEAN.

The vessel goes upon her gallant way,
The billows chafe around her stormily,
With all the noble beauty of the Sea!—
Bright gleam the sheeted lightnings of their play—
She finds not, but she makes with glorious sway
Her road of royal triumph, for there be
Long lines of foam behind her, glittering free
As burnished silver—on the victory's day
So shines the Conqueror's path!—the sea around
Seems as expecting her, and welcoming,
And her fair march with majesty is crowned.
What though she spreadeth not the sail's white wing,
But capped with bannered smoke, the blue profound
Thus skimmeth, she is still, a glorious mighty Thing!

SONNET.

HOME REMEMBRANCES.

Friends! Home! what more than magic words of might!—
The Winds—the Sea—Space—Time—can these controul,
And bring far scenes and seasons to my soul!—
The Distant smiles, lit up with Hope's own light—
Love's sweet skill paints it to my thought aright—
And Oh! how brightly! I shall gain the goal,
Shall once more triumph where no billows roll;—
No oceans spread to part, with chilling blight,
Those who love dearly well!—Friends—Friends and Home,
Blessings fall round ye, warm, and deep, and true!—
May ye know nought of sorrow nor of gloom;
May all your days wear Joy's own rosy hue;
Yet pause awhile—soft-murmuring, “Come, oh! Come!”
When Memory's Moonlight-smile gleams Hope's rich sunshine through!

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE STEAMER, BARON EICHOFF.

Loud, loud roars the adverse wind, the thunder rolls,
The shivering lightnings blaze with splendours white,
And make the tossing sea one flood of light;
An awe of admiration wraps our souls,
And every thought and every sense controuls:
Sea, storm, and thunders! ye have holy might,
Ye turn our thoughts on their unpausing flight
From things of earth and ashes!—their true goals,
Ye teach them to remember tremblingly!—
For ye are strong, and we and they are weak.
And ye have missions high, Night, Clouds, and Sea!—
Your vengeance yet on us ye dare not wreak—
(Save to remind us of the Eternity,)
Armed, strengthened, still by Him who bade ye shine and speak!

SONNET.

VIEW OF THE ACROCERAUNIAN MOUNTAINS.

The Acroceraunian heights on us gaze down,
Borne in our bark full near their barren steeps;
The blue Sea at their base in beauty sleeps—
Regardless of their arid angry frown.
It will be Beautiful!—and thus 'tis shown
The fairer for its rugged neighbours! weeps
The wave its chrystal-sparkling tears, where keeps
That rocky barrier—watch austere; dark crown
For the bright Kingly Sea!—so proud—so fair—
On this still morning golden and serene,
When all that Sea is Sun, and all the Air!
And all the Soul is love, and all the Scene!
Chimæra's Mountain-crests soar towering there,
Like Messengers of Power, our Earth and Heaven between!

SONNET.

ATHENS DESCRIED AT DAYBREAK FROM THE SEA.

The rising sun, behind the Acropolis,
Blazed like its olden glory yet once more
Descending on it, radiant as before—
The rosy lights those mighty ruins kiss;
They seem all bathed in beauty and in bliss:—
Anon the sun rides high—we touch the shore;
The glad and glowing colours that they wore,
Leave them to their proud gloom!—more fair in this—
More holy and more kingly:—all around
Springs a new city from the hallowed dust
Of the old and lost one, as this honoured ground
Gave back to resurrection its dread trust
Of Might,—Strength,—Power—yet where shall they be found,
The Brave,—the Wise,—the Eloquent,—the Just?

SONNET OF SORROW.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

I loved thee and I fled; already seemed
Thy coming smile to dawn along the air,
And thy approaching presence soothed all care.
The earth with thy sweet shadow glowed and beamed;
The sun shone with that shadow!—till heaven streamed
With added glory—showed it loveliest there?
Oh, no!—that smile blazed in my heart more fair,
That shadow sunned my Soul! already dreamed
My mind of gladness infinite; but, lo!
I fled!—I fled!—was then that heart grown cold?
Could that forget its deep impassioned glow?
Was safety found in flight? Alas!—behold!
I left the spot; but leaving—loved thee so,
Thine Image in my Soul was stamped ten thousand fold.

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

The air I lately breathed thou breathest now;
The ground I lately trod now knows thy tread,
Cold as they carry from their homes the dead,
My soulless frame (but hearken to me thou)
Was borne from my Soul's home, which I avow
Is but where thou art!—round me midnight spread,
And days and nights of tears, too vainly shed,
Succeeded!—I must bend me now, and bow
To my sad fate—Time doth like Fire refine,
And he shall make my grief,—so bitter-wild—
A tender Melancholy—I shall pine,
And mourn, and moan, but with a grief more mild,
And tearful stars, that on my tears shall shine,
Shall soothe my woe, and Grief shall clasp me as her child!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

How could I leave that spot, so soon to be
Bless'd with thy radiant presence? 'twas a pang
Unutterable; for I would fondly hang
For years upon thy foot-print lovingly—
Thy foot-print in the dust; and I could flee
With hateful courage (while my armed Soul sang
Its proud, bold pæan!)—from my bliss! I rang
Mine own knell sternly, and did bend my knee
At the Altar of dark Sacrifice, which none
But I had built!—Oh, courage harsh and vain!—
O'er whose cold triumph I must make my moan;
A triumph but of bitterness and pain—
Ah! that it had been less! that it had flown—
And left me like a slave that links, loves, clasps his chain!

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE MAHMOUD STEAMER.

Two green, glad Valleys at each other smile!
For the European and the Asiatic Shores
Are fair and fertile here—the blue wave pours
His tribute rich to each—unchecked the while,
Without a show of preference still!—Defile
Of sunny waters! how my Heart adores
Thy graceful beauty; here no torrent roars;
No angry rocks rear high a bristling pile!
Still all is fair and happy!—Here it was
The Persian Ruler bade the sea be still,
That he and his dread legioned hosts might pass;
And here 'twas the Element but mock'd his will,
And broke the Boat-bridge as a bridge of glass,
And laughed at his foiled power, and taunted his vain skill!

SONNET.

THE BOSPHORUS.

Blue Bosphorus!—Oh! how cloudless and how clear
Thy waves of beauty glitter fair and free;
Thy gilded gay caiques pass merrily
Over thy sunshine path, and do appear
Like faëry coracles or far or near!—
Darting (like lightnings swift, 'twixt sky and sea)
As darts midst beds of flowers the winged bee,
Along those many-coloured waters dear,
Jewelled and rainbowed with all hues of heaven!
Flash!—Beautiful!—from the Euxine's dark embrace
To the Archipelago's fair tides soft driven,
Round Isles of Paradise—each Love's sweet place!
Thou Bosphorus!—Oh! thou Beautiful!—'tis given—
To sunny streams to yield great Nature's crowning grace!

SONNET.

JEWISH CEMETERY SEEN FROM THE BOSPHORUS.

A heap of stones up yon steep mountain's side,
And cresting its rough brow, thus thickly crowned,
Marks out the ancient Hebrew burying-ground.
Death surely there hath chosen, with deep pride,
His seat of strength,—reared o'er this purple tide—
A royal robe flung at his feet!—fair bound
With sunshine's burning gold, resplendent round!—
So brightly doth the sparkling river glide!
Ye banished of your brethren!—Life and Death
Find ye an exiled separated race!
In banishment ye draw your living breath!
Go down in exile to man's resting-place!—
Your presence, Earth's pollution!—ev'n beneath
Your dust with other dust, dares mix not in embrace.

SONNET.

MARCIAN'S COLUMN IN CONSTANTINOPLE.

'Tis a fair column, reared in pride on high,
But ruined now, and pointing up in vain,
Even like Ambition's finger from the plain,
Unto the sunny and triumphal sky.
Man is a dreamer, only born to die:
He would in something live, though he must wane;
Therefore the Pillar rises and the Fane;
The Arch—Temple—Tower—the Gate of Victory!—
Man, thou believ'st, that like the eagle thus
Thou mountest to the sun, and all the while
'Tis like the moth, (far better type of us,)
Thou hoverest round the earth-born taper's smile,
To worship its weak splendours tremulous.
Oh! wretched worms are we!—and base and vile!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

A parting, and a bitter parting too,
Without a meeting!—Funeral days and nights,
Of many tears, must mine be now—Grief's rights
Are close exacted, and her claims borne through;
She will not be defrauded of her due!—
Worst parting without meeting!—Absence' blights
Fall heavier now, since darkly disunites
This wider separation—sharp thorns strew
The paths of such a parting, which my tears
Seem but to water into wilder growth.
Now 'tis that shadowy moments yawn to years,
And years in prospect, whence my soul shrinks loath,
To long eternities of pangs and fears,
The grief that martyreth one seems doubled, shared by both!

SONNET.

THE BAZAARS AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

We took our way through Stamboul's thronged bazaars,
Glittering and dazzling bright on every side,
Though shaded from the sun that then did ride
High in the East's sultry skies, those costly wares—
That sumptuous merchandize,—which glows and glares
In bravery, seemed with rainbow-splendours dyed;
The Armenian and the Jew and Turk there tried
To tempt with their piled treasures: flower-wreathed jars,
Broad stuffs of gold and silver, scarfs and shawls
Of broidered beauty, essenced vials sweet,
And gorgeous robes, rich as imperial palls,—
Bright-patterned pearl-bepowdered slippers, meet,
To charm and tempt, in those long, dazzling halls,
Where gravely rest, cross-legged, the merchants on their seat.

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Hast thou not heard my Heart? Oh! can it be
That all the love, so mighty and so true,
That throbs and thrills this soul of passion thro',
Is yet unknown, undreamed, unguessed by thee?—
Hast thou not seen that soul? but answer me;
Hast thou not heard that heart? why, every hue
Upon my cheeks, in letters ever new,
Letters of fire pronounced their feelings free!—
Knew'st thou, thou wert beloved, thou wert adored,
As thou must ever be—as now thou art?—
Have I unpitied, languished and deplored—
Unfelt for, borne my hard and heavy part?—
Oh! needed there the weakness of a word
To make thee sound that Soul, and hear that Heart?

SONNET.

THE WORST SORROW.

To think 'twas our own fault, alas! our own,
That we do suffer,—this is worst despair!
And makes all other agony a care
Slight and endurable—then, then alone
We taste true wormwood! What the will hath done
'Twould vainly struggle to undo, and there
Is helplessness and failure!—Groan nor prayer,
The inexorable Destiny—unwon
By these—can move; these thoughts fast crowding come,
And rank, rash schemes, crude phantasies, that all
Must strive full hopelessly 'gainst the actual doom!
Dreams—Hopes—high-passionate-fantastical—
Stir up the Soul, yet shed but darker gloom
When they depart; for, ah! such do but flower to fall!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Ah! agony! to wish the heart away,
Without one dream of hope, one thought of power.
Oh! agony! to learn still, hour by hour,
New mysteries of the old grief!—not that her sway
Is varied, but that day still after day
Our eyes more open, as we crouch and cower
To our own heavy state, while darkly lower
Her stern clouds round us! we, their helpless prey!—
Such is my doom! no moment but doth show
Some yet undreamt-of depth of my despair.
I am a Student in the School of woe—
Pupil in the Philosophy of care!—
My tears for ever fall in bitterer flow,
While to my fresh distress, my past seems light as air!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

May skies unclouded canopy thy head!—
Bright be thy places of abiding still!—
Fair be the paths of thy far travel, till
Once more thou mayst on shores familiar tread!—
Be blessings everywhere about thee shed,—
O'er sea and land, o'er plain and sky-kissed hill,
And good thy portion be, uncrossed by ill!
Ne'er may thy web be mixed with one dark thread!
More inarticulate blessings, from Thought's hoards,
Swell on my Soul; but my reluctant tongue
Must speak, that word which swallows up all words,
Farewell!—the music of all tears!—'tis wrung
Now from my heavy Heart, whose trembling chords
Thrill keenly, all o'erstricken—as o'erstrung!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Talk to me of thyself for evermore!—
Tell me but of my boundless love for thee!—
Instruct me much in that sweet mystery;
For I am dazzled-blind, to my heart's core,
With Passion's fervour; so that burning store
Of my deep feelings surely seems to be
Veiled by their own intensity from me!
Do thou then lesson me in that rich lore!—
Talk to me only of thyself and love!
Tell me but of mine adoration deep
For thee—thee only—theme all themes above!
Oh! let me listen to thee still, and weep—
With joy and love—Ah! oft I vainly strove
To speak to thee of thoughts, that my full spirit steep!

SONNET.

THE VIEW FROM THE SERASKIER'S TOWER.

How fair the scene! Constantinople's Towers,
Her mosques—her minarets, and her bright wreathed walls,
Her thronged bazaars and pacha's palaced halls,
Her fields of death and thousand-trellised bowers,
Shine out upon this fairest of fair hours;
The scene some tale of faëry so recalls;
The sun gleams down on gilded spires and balls—
O'er all his fiery hand seems scattering flowers!—
Thronged masts and minarets as in rivalry,
Together with the cypresses, appear
To soar in glory and in grace on high!—
While flash the waves, full shining bright and clear,—
These point like pyramids, unto the sky.—
Oh! Happy Scene! so proud—so dazzling—yet so dear!

SONNET.

[Sweet Heaven is far—and so art thou—mine own!]

Sweet Heaven is far—and so art thou—mine own!
And Earth and Sorrow are too near me still!—
Wherefore my days are dedicate to ill,
And I am ever mournful and alone!
Ah! Heaven and thou are far!—No hope hath shone
Of late for me!—this silent heart to thrill
And lorn I droop, whom chilling terrors fill
For ever!—So I make my ceaseless moan!
Wearily—wearily I bend and bow,
With many a sigh suppressed and hidden tear,
To Sorrow's power—my ruthless tyrant now.
Still day by day my sufferings more appear:
Ah! Heaven—sweet Heaven—'tis coldly far;—and thou!—
And Earth, and Grief, and Death, are all too near!

SONNET.

[How many changes gather round me now!—]

How many changes gather round me now!—
Since thou art changed—all, all is changed for me.
Since thou art altered—altered all like thee!—
I ask not wherefore—and I know not how!
Too much they dare who love!—for they must bow
To their new Master, who thenceforth shall be
Their tyrant—nor beneath his Mastery,
Shall they one independent thought avow!
But none know what they dare when first they love!
Sunny the surface of his Sea doth beam,
As though but for the halcyon spread!—and dove!
But there the Storm-birds, swift as lightning's gleam,
Shall dart and darken—those false tides above,
And the black clouds part of that Ocean seem!

SONNET.

[My Thoughts go forth, through all the realms of day]

My Thoughts go forth, through all the realms of day,
Wreathing 'mid burning stars, like flames of fire!—
So haughtily and bravely they aspire!—
Proud is their march, and powerful their array,
Strange are their secret works, and steep their way,—
Ever they scale new heights to find yet higher—
And in my conscious Soul, when these retire,
Most wondrous-mystic is their sov'ran sway!
Most mystical of mystics!—they shall reign
O'er the unknown Empires, curtained and concealed,
And weave their Operations like a chain
Round all things that are opened and revealed;
Since to be idle is their heaviest pain,
And they are but at rest when mightiest powers they wield.

SONNET.

[I draw one deep thought nearer to my heart]

I draw one deep thought nearer to my heart;
Nearer—for ever!—as it dearer grows!—
Through doubts and fears, and sufferings—wrongs and woes—
From that to sever were from life to part!—
Thought! that my treasure and my transport art,
Leave me not!—till life's dreary day-time's close;
Thou that ev'n like the Sun upon me rose
Through all my being, Hope's best lights to dart.
Dear Dream!—that crown'st me as some flowery wreath!
I faulter—shrink, and with strange terror start,
When thinking I must lose thee, ev'n in death!—
No!—thou'rt my Soul?—Vile doubt! how vain thy smart—
That Fear may well be spared me here beneath!
Still shall that thought grow nearer to my Heart.

SONNET.

[I know not if thou'rt Beautiful, mine own]

I know not if thou'rt Beautiful, mine own,
But thou mak'st all things beautiful to me!—
All that I meet, or dream, or hear, or see,
And these thy Presence beautifies alone!—
A glory round thee seems for ever thrown,
Ev'n from thy very shadow!—Canst thou be
Of mortal mould, thou radiant mystery?—
One moment to the Sun in brightness shown!—
Look not upon me! lest I could not bear
To live, when, haply, thou should'st look away!—
Lest dark should grow the light and dead the air!
Look not away from me,—should'st thou, I pray,
Deign to glance on me!—Vision bright and rare!—
Then may I live on those looks day by day!

SONNET.

[I cannot rule my thoughts that round one theme]

I cannot rule my thoughts that round one theme
Hang, like to swarming bees, till All grow One!—
And yet that theme I fain would learn to shun.
It is my Life's too fair, but fatal dream—
Too dangerous do its deep enchantments seem,
But dearer than my Soul!—undone!—undone!—
I cannot rule my thoughts; each rising sun
Sees me still drifting farther down the stream!
Oh! fearful stream of Passion!—wave by wave
Dost thou engulph my Being!—must it be?—
Is there no power to strengthen or to save?
No tokens of a change these eyes can see:
Days past and days to come one likeness have.
I know my Future so, it seems a Memory!

SONNET.

[There is a voice too sweet, among the trees]

There is a voice too sweet, among the trees;
A voice like harp of angel sounding low,
And ever-deepening as the breezes go,
Eager that honey of sweet sounds to seize!
Are these, indeed, not like the industrious bees,
Gathering that precious store, which doth o'erflow,
Upon their wandering way, as they did know
How richly this should all partakers please?—
Soft winds of Summer!—ye too stir my Heart;
But thence no music-honey can ye draw;
It is a hollow, hopeless thing apart—
Its leaves are written o'er with its life's law—
Black, bleak, and bitter suffering!—Scourge and smart
Pursue it still,—still back it shrinks in awe!

SONNET.

[Come to my Soul, long-banished thoughts again]

Come to my Soul, long-banished thoughts again;
Come thoughts, that breathe of hope and joy, once more!
And all the freshness of my Soul restore.
I cut, at length, Grief's cold and cankering chain;
Too long my spirit under Sorrow's reign
Hath borne to bow; now all I most abhor
Will I defy and scorn!—'tis done—'tis o'er!—
Long on a couch of iron I have lain!—
Now will I call back my sweet dreams of old;
Win them and wear them—and forget, at last,
That life is changeful, and that love is cold.
I will pluck roses that shall, covering, cast
Their roseate shadows o'er the gloomy mould
Heaped o'er mine earlier hopes, that faded fast!

SONNET.

[The Morning of my Joys is darkened o'er]

The Morning of my Joys is darkened o'er,
And Sorrow sits, like to a gloomy cloud,
On every Height of Hope, which once raised proud
Its head of brightness o'er Life's rugged shore!
Shall these, her clouds, be cleared away no more?—
Must all my Soul beneath their weight be bowed?—
Vainly I grieve and mourn and cry aloud,
“Alas! could Life smile as it smiled before!”—
All, all seems different, since too changed art thou,
My Being's Being—and my Life of Life!—
Earth is a sunless desert for me now!—
I am unarmed to battle with its strife,
Death in my heart—and faintness on my brow—
Yet once my Soul was with Hope's Visions rife!

SONNET.

[Soft winds are rustling through the voiceful trees]

Soft winds are rustling through the voiceful trees;
The leaves seem living in their sweet unrest!—
While evermore there cometh a new guest
To these, in shape of some fresh-wakening breeze!—
My soul is fluttering restlessly with these—
No more with its own mournful life oppressed,
It lives in every leaf!—and all possessed
With verdant fancies doth keen raptures seize!
Thou lovely Summer! where is thy sweet throne?
Most on those leaves, or on these thoughts that glow
With all thy splendours?—there most proudly shown!—
Summer! thy birds—thy flowers—all they that blow
In beauty now, that sense and soul must own,
Live their far fairest life in that Soul's depths below!

SONNET.

THE NIGHTINGALES.

The Nightingales are pouring into song!
The night is shuddering round them with her joy—
Delight that surely cannot ebb nor cloy—
And still the mighty songsters grow more strong;
The luscious music made by that sweet throng
Shall leave a memory nothing can destroy—
Without a dream of change—the least alloy
In my deep heart, that now hath found a tongue!—
It speaketh in their music feelingly!—
And telleth to itself its dreamings all,
In eloquence that passeth even a sigh!—
So blandly—beautifully musical!
Thus melting into song 'twould live—and die!
While on itself the deep clear echoes fall!

SONNET.

[There is a moment with enchantments fraught]

There is a moment with enchantments fraught,
When sudden Hope upspringeth in the Soul,
Born in a blaze of Sunshine, and the whole
Of deep existence in her toils is caught!
Vainly may she be prayed for, vainly sought—
She cometh when she listeth, and doth roll
The clouds away, with a serene controul,
From our Life's troubled Sky—by her made nought.
She cometh when she listeth!—and must part
When so she mindeth!—for the Soul in vain
Would clasp her ever, and the clinging heart!—
She leaves them oft with pitiless disdain!—
Indifference! better far than Hope thou wert—
Could we know nought, but thy dull, torpid reign!

SONNET.

[A thousand murmurs in the moving trees—]

A thousand murmurs in the moving trees—
Each murmur some sweet melody!—I hear!
And hang upon those soothing sounds so dear;
And drink the music, as I breathe the breeze;
Murmurs of living ecstacy are these,
Which the soul drinks yet deeper than the ear;
Each thought seems trembling as a trembling tear,
O'ertroubled with these sounds that conquering please!
Murmurs of sweetness!—live within my heart;
Sing down the tempest-tone, the troublous din,
That echoing thence doth make me shrink and start;
There is a clamour and a coil within—
Within the Heart's core oft, that where thou art—
Oh! love-born Peace! no more shall mastery win!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Forget me, then!—or if thou think'st of me,
Think of me as the Dead!—I could not bear
That thou shouldst deem of me—but grant this prayer—
As living—yet unloved—unloved of thee!—
Deem of me as the Dead!—or never be
One thought of me within thy mind, for there
I fain would find my Heaven on Earth!—not share
The mortal coldness of inconstancy!—
If there I am in chillier atmosphere
To dwell—let, let it be but as the Dead!—
Mine ever loved and my once loving!—Hear!—
A pall around my heavy memory spread,
Or let no memory there reign strong and clear.
Alas! my Life in truth with Love hath fled!

SONNET.

[There is a Music in my mind to-night—]

There is a Music in my mind to-night—
A visitation of sweet thoughts—and rare!—
I know not whence, but feel them springing there,
Aëry and delicate, as Wind or Light—
That music in my mind of magic might—
This light cast down, on every thought, so fair—
This stirring sweetness, like to moving air.—
Can this be love?—the immortal and the bright!—
'Tis surely love! for nought beside can be
So strange and yet so sweet, so soft yet strong.
'Tis love, the crown of all, crowned mystery!—
My thoughts are gathering to a starry throng,
And scattering forth their brightness far and free—
Yet Love that Sun, shines, dazzling, these among!

SONNET.

[A Morn of April!—lovely in all things]

A Morn of April!—lovely in all things,
As in the Sun that o'er the horizon gleams!—
A sweet morn, made for visions and for dreams;
Day, like a Bird of Paradise, his wings
Outstretches, and o'er all his Beauty flings
A changeful beauty, crowning woods and streams.
Lo! showers and sunshine, rainbows, clouds, and beams!—
While from each change a world of witchery springs.
Our hearts, thy restless destiny fulfil!—
Dear Month! thou'rt like to our own Human Heart—
And all that there awakeneth—altering still!—
Yet, oh!—not half so variable thou art!
It hath the keener sense,—the livelier skill,
And through thy changes in One Hour can dart!

SONNET.

[Yes! Morning comes, in roseate splendour seen]

Yes! Morning comes, in roseate splendour seen,
The flowers like many-jewelled trophies show!
And into lovelier Beauty blush and blow,
Of diamond-emerald seems this dewed turf green;
Music is heard through all the air serene!—
Like one continuing stream, how doth it flow—
Emparadising sense and spirit so!—
On Nature's heart now let her children lean,
Glad Morning!—gracious Nature!—'tis in vain
My soul is held and fettered!—'tis not free,
For I am Victim of Love's costly pain!
Still through his light alone mine eyes can see
Another Sun must rise, or this must wane:—
Rise on the Sun, then, Love!—and rise for me!

SONNET.

[The Conqueror's haughty march is one of might]

The Conqueror's haughty march is one of might,
Yet the quick heart of Human Nature bleeds
To think of all that followeth his high deeds!—
The desolation and the desperate blight
He brings o'er Human Happiness, whose light
Fades, all extinguished where he threat'ning leads
The embattailled Hosts to gain great Glory's meeds!
And all of peaceful soon is put to flight.
The Sage's march is quiet—but sublime—
Nature unveils her Wonders to his eyes,
And still for him unlocks the hand of Time
His many treasures, and from yonder skies
The stars seem shooting through the ethereal clime,
To rise upon his soul's Eternities!

SONNET.

[Where is my Soul's own happiness?—ah! where]

Where is my Soul's own happiness?—ah! where
The breath of my existence and its light?
Heavy and cold the dull oppressive blight
That weighs, sad absence!—on thy poisoned air,
And chills me with the terror of its care;
Let me but know once more the dear delight
Of thy glad presence, full of gracious might;
Let me but hear thy voice, for my Despair
Must vanish at thine aspect's blessed view,
And turn to Triumph at thy dazzling smile!
Let me then look on thee, for ever true
My heart and soul are vowed to thine, e'en while
My changing aspect takes Death's pallid hue,
Since no dear hopes delight,—nor dreams beguile!

SONNET.

[The thunder-shower hath past, and left behind]

The thunder-shower hath past, and left behind
A Sea of Lustre on the leaves and boughs;
The summer morning shakes from her young brows
Its trembling crown; round these, bright wreaths to wind,
All Earth and Air are murmuring to the mind
Confessions of their joy, which seems to rouse
Their deepest energies—each breath avows
Some glad emotion of mysterious kind!
Say! yields that mind no answer? cold and dead,
Doth that remain upclosed in barren gloom?—
A Sea of Lustre o'er its thoughts is shed,
Which, when it flingeth off, it shall assume
A lovelier beauty—o'er its stillness spread,
And sweetly triumph—in a livelier bloom!

SONNET.

[Sweet Birds! sing joyously on every spray]

Sweet Birds! sing joyously on every spray;
Teach, teach me your light spirits and clea dreams;
For all my Life flows on in troubled streams—
Darkened—disheartened—ever, day by day!
Sweet Birds! take charge of each dull thought, I pray;
Lend them your voice and wings!—so hints and gleams
Of joy, like sudden-bursting lightning's beams,
May break upon their black and blank array!
Sing to my Soul! tune all my thoughts, that long
Have jarred most inharmoniously within;
Teach me pure wisdom, in your punctual song
Heard flowing still, thro' all Earth's strife and din;
Teach me your Souls of Music! joyous throng!—
And from these worldly ways of trouble win.

SONNET.

THE NIGHTINGALES AT HET LOO.

Night-blowing flowers of music fill the air
With throbbing ecstacy of tenderness!—
The nightingales their passionate souls address
To some deep unknown Power, with homage rare.
When morning comes, and smiling seems to bear
The golden Urn of Light, our Earth to bless,
Shall not her steps awake with soft caress
Those heavenly sounds again, uptreasured there?
The nightingales all the air do surely sow
With spirits of all music and all love!
And breathe a Soul of Harmony below!—
So do they wed this world to worlds above!—
The very ground instinct doth seem to grow
With melody—with such the glad spheres move!

SONNET.

[The Morn doth build all the air into one throne]

The Morn doth build all the air into one throne,
Ruddy and golden—glorious and divine!—
A throne of triumph and a splendid shrine,
As though of diamond and of fire it shone!
The Morn now comes with all her charms full-blown,
Her pomps and powers that proudly matchless shine,
A Dream of Roses!—Vision pure and fine,
And all her bright enchantments are our own!—
Morning!—the Vestal Mother of the Sun
Seem'st thou to be, since from thy bosom born,
(Thou that first glimpsest—like a white-stoled nun!—)
He springeth forth—Oh! thou triumphal Morn!—
His race of glory and of joy to run;
Thus seems thy Sire—thy Child—of strength unshorn!

SONNET.

[Deliver me from mine own Dreams!—but save]

Deliver me from mine own Dreams!—but save
From mine own Thoughts; for these, too busy still,
Fill up the mightiest measure of mine ill,
And form the darkest doom that I must brave!
Deliverance, then, from these I deeply crave;
But patience this must need, and power and skill;
For the Great Heart is cunning, and its will
Right tyrannous!—say! who stoops not as its slave?
The Heart is as a Giant in its might,
And doth in mastery of its greatness tower,
And riseth in its strength, to blast and blight!
Heart! thou'rt a host of Giants in thine hour!—
The Passions are thy Warriors!—and these fight
As though their arms were storms—the Thunder's conquering dower!

SONNET.

[This Evening air is bland, melodious, sweet]

This Evening air is bland, melodious, sweet,
A breath of nightingales and roses all!—
Mingling in music and in odour!—fall
Day's kingly draperies faded at our feet!
Yet Day hath died in glory, as 'tis meet—
His obsequies are ecstacies!—and thrall
The Soul in raptures—amorous-musical!—
Glorious his reign, and royal his retreat!—
Sweet hour! so tranquil in thy calm serene,
Make it all Evening in my Soul!—where flows
The tide of torrent-thought—to jar the scene!
There bring thy Clouds, thy Shadows, thy Repose,
Thy heavenly Harmonies—from whence we glean
Music's true Soul,—the Love that soothes all woes!

SONNET.

[Away! away!—thou one distracting thought]

Away! away!—thou one distracting thought
Must I be mastered by thee?—must it be
That all my Soul shall stoop and yield to thee?
I spurn thee back!—thy lore shall be untaught!
With many tyrannies thou still seemest fraught,
And I must bend to each and all!—yet free
From this despotic, dangerous phantasy,
Will I be made!—no more thus sold and bought!
I find no rock of rest—no tower of trust!—
I faulter, fainting, dubious and afraid.
My Soul is ashes, and my Heart is—dust!—
Such fools may we by treacherous thoughts be made,
Whose specious flatteries will betray and must—
Up!—for the sun shines through them!—let them fade!

SONNET.

[A few last notes of birds!—a few last rays!—]

A few last notes of birds!—a few last rays!—
A few last tints along Heaven's fading blue,
And silence and deep shadow shall ensue!
So finish still our busy, mortal days!
A few last looks on Life's bewildering ways,
A few last sighs and groans,—'tis all past through
This trial-time of clay—then Nature's dew—
A few last tears falls o'er us! dust decays;
And 'tis for this we brave unspoken woe,
And chew the cud of murderous agony!—
For this is all that we can hope below;
All that hath ever been or e'er shall be:—
Cold tide of Life! haste, haste along, and flow
Unto thy colder term, the Grave's engulphing Sea!

SONNET.

[Nightingales!—Spirits of the dreamy Air]

Nightingales!—Spirits of the dreamy Air,
My Soul is lost in your delicious maze,
(Wherein it raptured and astonished strays,)
That Maze of music, deep and rich and rare!—
A labyrinth of Luxuriancies winds there!—
For ever there a changeful mystery plays,
Leading the uncertain thoughts ten thousand ways,
Entangled in those meshes fine and fair!—
Meshes of Melody!—so strong, yet still
So exquisite!—so fairy-like that seem!
And we are bound in Soul and Sense and Will!
Life grows a Vision, and the World a Dream,
And thought all love!—Sweet Choristers! your skill
Doth pass all science far—doth with all triumphs teem!

SONNET.

[The Night! the mighty mourner!—how she comes]

The Night! the mighty mourner!—how she comes
Veiled in a World of Shadows gloomily!
Bowing her head of sorrows from the Sky,
And planting her dim footsteps on the tombs!—
The Mourner—the awful Mourner!—the cold Homes
Of Generations, where these slumbering lie,
Thrill to her presence, and the pale Dead die
Once more beneath her frown that blights and dooms!
The Dead once more die in Night's Funeral hours;
For Day to them a dubious Life doth lend!
They seem to breathe again with leaves and flowers:
Death's Sister—Night!—comes on! once more must end
Their semblance of existence!—She o'erpowers
Both Life and Death, and doth in darkness blend.

SONNET.

[My soul, when its sweet thought of thee doth wane]

My soul, when its sweet thought of thee doth wane,
Grows all one Midnight, heavy and o'ercast!
When its bright Dream of thee is changed—is past,
Gloom, boundless gloom, doth o'er it frowning reign!—
Sets as a Sun that thought;—that Dream!—I fain
Would set with it!—my Soul doth fade at last,
Like to a cloud i' the West, when—Day!—thou hast
Lost thy great Lord, and ta'en the Shadowy Stain!
That Thought of thee—that Thought of thee!—alone
Can Sun my Soul, then, radiant as the Sky,
When noon hath made it all one burning Throne!
But when that fadeth all its glories fly!
No more it shineth forth as then it shone,
Fleets fast each fervid gleam, fails each fair dye!

SONNET.

[Upon the mountain's peakéd crests on high]

Upon the mountain's peakéd crests on high,
Fair shine the Snow-wreaths, and the Stars of Night,
All pure and all imperishably bright—
Worthy to dwell so near the unspotted sky!—
And Earth with all her gloom's dark mystery
Hath one thing stainless, as those Heavens of Light—
Whose Worlds of Splendour thus enchant our sight,
And draw above the Earth-o'er-wearied eye!—
The Snow upon the Mountains!—far away
From all she hath of evil and of low;
So must our souls into the realms of day
Soar proudly, where Heaven's breath doth sweetly blow,
Would they exult in bright and clear array,
As stainless as the Stars—and as the Snow!

SONNET.

[Fair smiles the morning, and my thoughts awake]

Fair smiles the morning, and my thoughts awake
To all her light and loveliness awhile,
As they too learnt from her like her to smile;
But soon once more their own dull yoke they take—
Her smiles of promise melt like snowy flake;
But for a moment can their light beguile,
Remembrance must their specious charms despoil;
And this New Day is loathed for the Old Days's ake!—
How many tortures darkened those old Days—
What conflicts!—what afflictions!—what despairs!—
And dare I trust these bright reviving rays?—
Do these not herald fresh and endless cares?—
In all things save in Hope,—which slow decays—
The Days are still their Predecessors' Heirs!

SONNET.

[Nature is now my Soul!—no more, no more]

Nature is now my Soul!—no more, no more,
Is't me or mine!—but her alone and hers!—
With her majestic life it moves and stirs,
With her great pulses thrills my heart's deep core;
My soul swells in her Mountains from the Earth's floor,
Sweeps in her waves!—Each prayer that it prefers
Soars on her sounding winds—nor wandering errs
Nature to love,—her King is to adore!
And Thee to worship still is to become,
In all thy World of Worlds a Life and Soul—
Where burn thy stars our high thoughts have a home—
Where burn thy Stars—thy suns of glory roll!—
Our Spirits spurn this dust of mortal Doom,
When Thine they trace, through Nature's wondrous whole!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

What shall I say?—not that I love thee! no!
For that were vainest of all sayings now!—
In that cold glassiness of eye and brow
I trace the cruel truth, that works my woe!—
It cuts into my soul, sharp, sharp and slow!—
To Destiny the haughtiest Soul must bow:
'Tis mine to love thee—and I deign avow
To bear thy bitter scorn—nor love forego!
Still, still I love thee!—making all my Soul
A temple, consecrated utterly
To one most tyrannous thought that fills the whole!—
My madness and my martyrdom shall be
Its fruits and followings,—till my lone days roll
Down to the Darkness,—Sun by Sun—and flee!

SONNET.

[Waves! that like Alps uprear your crests of pride]

Waves! that like Alps uprear your crests of pride,
Ye watery mountains in the stormy hour!—
With snow of feathery foam, a dazzling dower
On your brave heads, and glistening down your side!
Ye peal forth your own thunders, deep and wide!
Their booming crash swells on in deafening power!—
A glorious sound, whose echoes soar and tower
To Thunder's own Sky-realm!—there long abide!
Waves! heave your haught-curled, daring crests on high,
Catch all the light and cleave the troubled air;
Proud as the Hills that prop the leaning sky!—
The War-Horse of the Waters paweth there,
And from his mane shakes full-plumed Victory—
The Thunder-Bark that glorieth proud and fair!

SONNET.

[She sleeps!—o'er her late bright and beaming face]

She sleeps!—o'er her late bright and beaming face,
So lovely with glad Youth's enchanted bloom,
Slow spreads the pallid Twilight of the Tomb!
Whose midnight soon shall mantle every grace!
Pale lilies blow in the orient roses' place,
And Autumn's chilling and o'erwhelming gloom,
Deposes Spring's young pride, and doth assume
Her beauty's tender empire now apace!
She sleeps, and dreams not; sleeps—and shall not wake,
Though Love's voice call her, with its tenderest tone;
And though Love's voice her slumber's spell could break,
'Twere better far, beneath the funeral stone
She so should sleep—for hearts that beat must ache,
And rest can come but when the race is done!

SONNET.

[The Vessel bounds along the tossing Sea!]

The Vessel bounds along the tossing Sea!
Hail! bannered bulwarks of my country! Hail!—
O'er your own kingly field of ocean sail,
The proud Palladiums of her triumph be!
Be Blessings on our England's Barks—the free,
The dread—the mighty—Victory's thunderous tale
Hath each to tell, while listeneth Wave and Gale
To their glad story, all unwearyingly!—
Be Blessings on the Barks!—for still they bear
Blessings with them where'er in might they go:
Knowledge and Truth and Freedom bright and fair!—
Yes! Man shall hail and bless them here below
And Heaven shall hallow and protect and spare,
If like winged Angels they, its wafted treasures show.

SONNET.

THE BARKS OF ENGLAND.

Proud Barks of England!—Glories of the Sea!—
Ye that in your magnificence of might
The Thunder-chargers with broad manes of white—
And Battle-chariots of the old Ocean be!—
Barks—Barks of England!—walk the waters free;
March on—march on—ye warrior things, aright,
Forward ye march unknowing all of flight,—
While the great Ocean shakes with your brave glee!
The billows are your trumpets, and they peal
Your praise with booming tones, and loud, and strong!—
Shining like mirror-shields of burnished steel!—
These guard your glorious sides from envious wrong!—
These steep them still in strength!—so ye reveal
To all your power and pride—free sped along!

SONNET.

THE TREMBLING STAR.

Come from the skies, thou Star! that tremblest so;—
And I will wear thy beauty on my heart!
For so thou seem'st to throb through every part
Even as that throbbeth!—thus too thou dost glow!—
Change, change thy light, into deep love, and know
What keener tremblings through the frame can dart!—
Would that my heart could change with mystic art
Its deep love into light!—and calmer grow!—
Yet who shall tell me that thou dost not melt
With fervid sympathies,—emotions deep?—
All tribulations through all nature felt,
May from one source arise—and clouds may weep
And worlds may thrill, because to each is dealt
The boundless power to love!—that ne'er may sleep!

SONNET.

[The Stars come forth innumerably bright]

The Stars come forth innumerably bright,
As though the glory of all Heaven o'erflowed
And streamed down, through the Firmaments and glowed
With ecstacy of all o'erpowering light!
A thousand Heavens seem opening on the sight!—
The Skies lie crushed beneath their splendent load,
These dazzling Mysteries, in their own abode
Of power and pride, scarce there seem placed aright;
They burn as though the glory deep and high
Of the Everlasting Throne o'erflowed, and poured
From its own height of heights o'erwhelmingly!
As scattered was the great Regalia-hoard
Of Him—the King of kings!—that flaming sky
So lit—so blazed, gleams like the Eternal's unsheathed sword!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

I love thee, and such love as mine is, makes
A new creation wheresoe'er it moves!—
I love!—and the high Sun, the starred Vault loves!
And the green Earth, that Hope's sweet aspect takes,
I love!—and if my heart with passion aches,
Each element a sad emotion proves;
A world of sighs goes lengthening thro' the groves—
A grief-born murmur in the chilled air wakes;
All Nature loves with my love!—and loves thee!
All love thee, as I love thee!—Such the power,
The magic, mystic power of passion; see!
Whate'er I meet, or find, thro' life's long hour,
Responds my feeling with strange sympathy,
For love hath verily a glorious dower!

SONNET.

[Yes! there is beauty wheresoe'er we look,—]

Yes! there is beauty wheresoe'er we look,—
Music, where'er we listen evermore!—
But oft walled round, the heart's unconscious core,
Findeth great Nature but a close-sealed book;
Beauty still knocketh at our sense, each nook
Teems with her triumphs!—all Earth's varied floor
Is paven with her pomps—and Sea and Shore
With music thrill, as though with joy they shook!—
Look! and let loveliness delight and charm!
Listen—let linkéd harmony subdue!
Around us pleasures throng, and raptures swarm,
But we deny ourselves, and still pursue
All paths but that with Nature's sunshine warm,
To the bright goal of good sublimely true!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Come to me once again—but one last look
To live upon for long and lingering years,
For I am heavy with the grief of fears!—
Which ill my heart can bear—but ill can brook,
Since Love all, all, my strength of spirit shook,
When first he conquered me, and gave me tears
For smiles, and pangs for hopes, he ever rears
A fearful sceptre; and his presence took
All firmness and all freedom from my soul;
But one last look—then every hope is lost!—
And the cold quiet of despair shall roll
Like clouds o'er all my thoughts, a troubled host,
Now pendulums 'twixt Love and Death!—controul
Is hopeless here, and vain, disdain's fond boast!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

I scarcely know if I be sad or gay;
There rests in dubious gloom upon my brain
A something like the shadow of old pain!—
Pain past, but unforgotten night or day—
Ever its presence haunts me in some way!—
And yet 'tis surely Hope, and her glad train
That smileth at my soul,—and not in vain!
If I be gay or sad I scarce can say!—
Of this I doubt—but one thing is most clear,
Most sure am I of one thing evermore!—
Love is my bosom's lord—in hope or fear,
In joy or grief,—day,—night,—on sea or shore,
And still his mighty influence grows more dear,
As new emotions start, to serve him as before!

SONNET.

ON LEAVING ENGLAND.

Bright Sun of morning! shine on earth and sea!—
In all the glowing mystery of thy might,
'Tis England waning in thy world of light!—
Let Her go down in Thy great rising free!—
Let Her thus fade away triumphantly—
From her adoring children's aching sight!—
In splendours of new promise ever bright,
My Country!—still a glorious object be!—
Still be a glorious object to the last,
Long as thou'rt seen—in triumph be beheld!—
Our eyes on thee unwearyingly we cast!
Shine on!—shine on!—in majesty unquelled,
Shine in the Present, Future, and the Past,—
Smile—shine!—these parting tears by proud thoughts be dispelled!

SONNET.

[Tremble, dear Pulses of another's Heart]

Tremble, dear Pulses of another's Heart
To every word I write!—for every word
Is meant to play on some beloved chord,
And wake a Music, hallowed and apart!
Thy Heart is as the Harp, on which with art
And tenderest skill I fain would play, adored!—
And thence wake echoes—a long-buried hoard
Of harmonies—to heal each bosom-smart!—
Then what a Music will I make of Thee!—
A thousand Musics!—rich, and deep, and rare!—
All thy bright thoughts shall turn to melody!—
Beneath the touches of my tuneful care!
Thou shalt a strain of perfect sweetness be—
And teach that sweetness to all Earth and Air!

SONNET.

[An hundred winds seem with these leaves to play]

An hundred winds seem with these leaves to play,
Like ever-fluttering Angels of the air,
Invisible but felt—soft hovering there,
In gentle siege, and sportive dalliance gay—
Then hurrying seem to pass upon their way,
Followed by others ever;—Thought and Care
These blow away—or on their light wings bear,
Yet Care and Thought enough behind them stay!—
Ah! these—these too spring up incessantly!—
This flies, but that awakes—one fades and fleets,
Another still ariseth—many a sigh
The dark new-comer then full sadly greets!
Ah!—Life still as it fleeteth, flowing by—
One self-same story, evermore repeats!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

There is a Peace of heart that cannot be
Companioned by deep Love's impassioned zeal;
Then farewell Peace, it cannot dwell, I feel
With aught of thine, dark dangerous power! or thee!
And well I know my life's whole history,
However stern Fate with me hereafter deal,
Is written in one word!—sealed with one seal,
Linked with one link, and locked by one bright key!—
And that is Love!—then farewell Peace, farewell—
Henceforth Suspense and Sorrow shall be made
My bosom inmates—Care and Fear must dwell
Where once that sway is owned and is obeyed;
Fatal that sway, that mortal influence fell—
Yet who but loves such yoke upon him laid?

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

There is a Joy in all Love's sorrow still—
In its devotedness and fine distress—
In all its agony a happiness!—
One chord at least must with deep rapture thrill!
One thought must every thought with transport fill—
“I love—and live to ask sweet Heaven to bless
The one beloved!”—No selfish dream can press
Between those bright emotions, nought of ill!—
Come dubious Joy!—come saddened Sweetness!—now
Come cloudy Brightness!—wavering Comfort!—come,
For I beneath Love's heaviest sorrows bow—
And bear the sufferings of his bitterest doom:—
Too faintly gleams along my shadowed brow
That hope which still should light, his footsteps to the tomb!

SONNET.

[Why! what is Music to my soul?—thy name!—]

Why! what is Music to my soul?—thy name!—
And what is Beauty?—every thought of thee!—
And what is Joy?—thy radiant memory!—
And what is Light?—thy pure and spotless fame!—
Yet Light to this is dull, and drear, and tame,—
And Joy, to dreams so bless'd must lifeless be!—
And Beauty near those thoughts' rich sovereignty—
A shaméd thing—and Music's self the same!—
Ah! Music's sweetest voice were harsh and rude
Near that dear name, a melody supreme!—
By my o'er-raptured sense full keenly wooed!—
Thou art to me an Everlasting Dream—
Too perfect to be real—in mystic mood—
Thy visioned form to hail and bless I seem.

SONNET.

ON SEEING AN ENGLISH VESSEL.

My England's Barks like kingly chariots go,
The Sea,—her Sea!—their own triumphal road!—
Scattering a thousand marvels far abroad,
Her thunders and her glorious counsels, lo!
My England's Barks, that best her greatness show,
Bearing her terrors as a lightsome load!—
Are as her thousand winged thrones!—Oft flowed
Beneath them seas of blood, like the Ocean's flow!
Oft round them Victory's dazzling glory shone,—
While strong they stood, like Pyramids of power!
Like Monuments upreared for Battles won!—
None nobler could adorn glad Triumph's hour!—
My England's Barks, the rising, setting Sun,
Hails still in every clime,—where'er Tides roll, they tower!

SONNET.

THOUGHTS AT SEA.

Farewell, my England! but not yet farewell,
While still I roam upon the dark blue Sea!—
For that shall still be Thine, and still seem Thee!—
Near thy great heart still there we seem to dwell!—
The tossing Waves of England's greatness tell,
And trumpet forth her blue-throned Sovereignty!—
The Winds and Waves!—enrolled,—yet nobly free
In her high Service,—with their sweep and swell!
England! fair England!—glorious land, unbowed!—
By Sea—by Land thou ever glorious art:
Thou warrior-Lady of the Lion proud!
Doth the Sea chime thy praise through every part,
With all his booming, billowy thunders loud?—
Thine own Great Voice seems from the depths to start!

SONNET.

[Listen awhile!—but lend me thy loved ear]

Listen awhile!—but lend me thy loved ear,
And I will teach my soul of souls to thine!
The coils of thought will curiously untwine,
And strive to show how deeply thou art dear!—
But first must I full many a mist of Fear
And cloud of grief, that dull this doom of mine,
Essay to chase away, ere yet can shine
The Star of perfect Love, full, strong, and clear!
Then, then behold it all one blaze of Light—
Itself a glowing Firmament of Fire,
All unextinguishably clear and bright—
Though oft thus girt by clouds—deep, dark, and dire,
That do disturb its splendour!—check its might!—
Listen!—and smile—and bid, these heavy glooms retire!

SONNET.

[The fires of Soul burn languid now and low]

The fires of Soul burn languid now and low,
Though once they glowed so proudly strong and clear—
No more of heavenly brightness they appear,
But faintly fluttering, waver to and fro!
My Heart is won and tutored to its woe—
As though afflictions could at last grow dear!
It hath been tamed by long suspense and fear,
To court the burthen, and to meet the blow!
The Imperial-thoughted Spirit so can stoop
Down from the Stars—and couch her in the dust—
Comply with sorrow, and consent to droop!—
Forget, forsake her destiny august,
And call Despair the blight of Earth-born Hope!—
She that should plant above—her deathless trust!

SONNET.

[Awake, my winged and fervent Thoughts awake!]

Awake, my winged and fervent Thoughts awake!
Be launched upon the wide sky-spreading plain!
I tremble lest ye take an earthly stain,—
Lest Earth should weave a chain ye might not break!
Awake, and rise, for your high freedom's sake!
For many are the Slaves that wear her chain!
Which falls, like snowy flake by flake amain,
Link after link around them—a coiled Snake!
But ye!—my Thoughts!—ye still shall soar on high
In exercise of brave unfettered mood—
From Earth's embrace escaping to the Sky,
'Tis thus alone the foe may be withstood,
Thoughts!—Make each burning Heaven-world your ally!—
Bright Havens!—blessed Homes! once sought and wooed!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

I think of thee!—and all my Soul is made
The subject of that one most Sovereign Thought:
That Thought is me!—thus thou art me!—sole sought
And only chosen one!—the adored!—the obeyed!—
That Thought, methinks, when Life must flower-like fade,
Shall first rise up to heaven!—sublimely fraught
With Immortality, not then first taught,—
Even here its own!—unchanging—undecayed!—
That Thought shall soar up as my Soul!—and shine
A Star, my Being's boundless worlds to light
Up to the Heights o' the Highest!—the Divine
Thought!—my chief Thought!—thou'rt now an Angel bright,
And shalt be ever! Canst thou then be mine?—
Proud—proud am I of thee, and of thy mystic might!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Why have I breathed of Love?—because to breathe
And love with me, are now but one same thing;
And at thy feet must I the avowal fling,
That with his chains my boundless Thoughts I wreathe!
These all are Captives, one great sway beneath;
Wherefore to light and life then seek to bring?—
Swords that must smite myself—pierce, wound, and wring
Ah!—why should I thus recklessly unsheathe?—
Love! answer—for I answer not!—thy might
Doth make us what we may not dream, nor know—
Strangers do we become in our own sight—
And mysteries to ourselves obscurely grow;
Thy cloud lowers dark as subterraneous Night,
O'er all our Being then!—Love!—answer!—is't not so?

SONNET.

MANUEL TO INEZ.

Love dawns along thy cloudless forehead fair!
And while he doth in shroudless splendour rise,
Lights a whole Heaven of Suns in thy sweet eyes!—
That gleam beneath gold shadowings of thy hair—
As though the fountains of all Light were there!
Never such radiance streamed from yonder skies
When morning in her loveliest—fairest guise—
Turned to one ambered flood the enchanted air—
Thy presence is the Paradise of Thought!—
My dreams grow beautiful when thou art nigh—
As though thy blessed beauty these were taught,
And all my consciousness made ecstacy—
What treasures powerful Love to both hath brought!
What rich endowments that no wealth could buy!

SONNET.

[Morning, thou comest to free the world from chains!]

Morning, thou comest to free the world from chains!
This shalt thou do!—full brightly, gladly do!—
Old Midnight's reign is sweetly broken through,
And start to life and light the Hills and Plains!—
No memory of Night's shadowy sway remains—
This lovely change thou may'st effect, 'tis true,
But not the Spirit free from trammels too,
A chain too firm—too fatal—that restrains!—
Oh! Morning, couldst thou smile thy sunny way
Into the Soul—through all its glooms and clouds,
'Twere well with us!—but Midnight's murkiest sway
There dwelleth oft, when the opening Day unshrouds
The brow of Earth and Heaven with piercing ray—
While our palled Thoughts fleet by in dim-veiled crowds!

SONNET.

THE BRIDGE OF CARAVANS AT SMYRNA.

At Smyrna, by the Bridge of Caravans,
We for awhile right willingly delayed—
There loitering long—beneath the pleasant shade.—
Gladly the eye the verdurous landscape scans,
After long course by sea—that fair Bridge spans
The murmuring waters, brightly there displayed,
In azure light beneath; these rippling strayed,
Ruffled full gently by the air's breezy fans!
Camels were grazing near—and turbanned men
Sate in the shade—all minded us of scenes
Where many a City proud to wild beasts' den
Sinks, changed, and many a Ruin earthwards leans,
While Deserts frown where smiled bright land-scapes, when
Empires were great, which now seem widowed, dowerless Queens!

SONNET.

[Thoughts!—Thoughts!—I charge ye, mount the empyreal height—]

Thoughts!—Thoughts!—I charge ye, mount the empyreal height—
Mount heavenwards!—should your journeyings, proud, be chained?
Should your dread flights be checked—your powers constrained?—
Heavenwards!—Mount heavenwards!—launched in streams of light—
Scorn labyrinthine lengthenings through the Earth's night—
Be lingering languishments by ye disdained!—
Enough hath this world wronged ye—charmed yet pained!—
Now spurn such thraldom with victorious might—
Thoughts—pierce the orbed suns of splendour, through and through;
Bring proud mysterious strengthenings—strange and dread,
From the unveiled source of all the great and true.
Thoughts!—thoughts,—spring, shoot on high, where fresh worlds spread;—
Where light of light, o'erpowering, blinds the view—
Hence!—haste!—mount—mount—bring strength, speed!—Heaven's crown'd realms to tread!

SONNET.

TO THE QUEEN.

How shall we speak enough in thy fair praise,
Lady of all our Love!—most matchless Queen!
Now our Land's pride, that long its Hope hath been?—
Who shall enough laud yon bright sun's glad rays,
Or vaunt sufficiently that charm which plays
Around the sweet spring-heaven's broad arch serene,
When all there is divine?—Eye ne'er hath seen
A lovelier Vision—startling with amaze!—
Such seem'st thou—Queen! clad brightly, that thou art
In Beauty, Majesty, and Sovereign Grace,
That make of thee a glorious thing, apart
From all Earth hath of common!—there we trace
Fine loftiness of Soul—rare warmth of Heart—
All that is good and great, worthiest the highest place!

SONNET.

TO THE QUEEN.

Banners of victory canopy thy head!—
Trophies of thousand conquests line thy way!—
Won upon many an ancient battle-day!—
On laurels of great triumphs dost thou tread;
A light of glory round thy paths is shed,
Young, fair Commandress!—girt with this great sway!
To whom glad millions zealous homage pay,
Ruled by thy smile—and by thy bright Star led!
Young, fair Commandress!—pass on prospering.
Thine be unclouded Fortune!—full Success!—
Unto the winds all troubling Fears we fling—
And forward in the march of Hope we press!—
For surely thou—our Guardian Saint! shalt bring
Unto our happy Land redoubled Happiness!

SONNET.

TO THE QUEEN.

Young Sovereign Excellence!—all eyes to thee
Are turned, with deepest homage in their gaze,
While every glance beams full of love and praise,
As they would learn to look, unshrinkingly,
On all that men with awe most breathless see,
And unto bright Perfection fearless raise
Their glances gladly, and adore that blaze
Of majesty and grace and triumph free!
Virtue looks lovelier than Herself, even there—
In thy sweet form, where all her graces smile,
Yea!—lovelier than her lovely self, and fair!—
There—there she casts off her severer style;
She doth thy charms, the young, the witching wear,
And thou art clad with all, her mightiest arms the while!

SONNET.

TO THE QUEEN.

Lightly as chaplets virginal of flowers—
The Summer's wreath of roses!—may the Crown
Sit on that brow, so pure, so cloudless shown;—
And cloudless be it through all coming hours!—
Girt with August Authorities and Powers,
Yet—princely Maid!—what mildness seems thine own,
What gentleness is round thy grandeur thrown—
Softening, yet strengthening thy most sovereign dowers,—
The Earth's thunder-bearing Conquerors scatt'ring fate,
And shadowing all with their dread presence round—
The Giant Kings of Mind, sublimely great—
Whose names yet smite us with a thrill profound,
Might ne'er, with all their sway of strength and state,
Bind us in breathless awe, as thy young smile hath bound!

SONNET.

TO THE QUEEN.

Be all bright blessings heaped, and richly stored
For thee!—fair Maiden-Majesty!—who now,
With every grace endowed that wins Love's vow,
Rul'st our Imperial England!—our adored!—
(On which with thee be endless blessings poured!)
Lo!—that most Queenly—yet Seraphic brow!—
The youthful and the beautiful art thou!
The Destinies, that o'er all empires lord,
Were surely melted by thy smile serene,
Melted and softened into tenderness;
Mild Ministers and dear Allies they lean,
And do thy gentle bidding—we address
Such prayers to Heaven for thee—beloved Queen!—
As for our Souls we breathe—when urging Heaven to bless!

SONNET.

ON THE VIEW FROM SCUTARI, THE ASIATIC SUBURB OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

The Islands seem soft-floating in the blue
Clouds of the Earth and of the slumbering Sea!—
The Olympus—snowy in sublimity!—
Wins with a thousand charms the longing view,
And the up-piled hills which clouds of amber strew—
His noble comrades—with his state agree!
Sunset hath lent the scene strange radiancy;
'Tis bathed in floating light of every hue!
Gaze round!—for ever gaze!—since evermore
And everywhere some fresh enchantment, true,
Breathes from the Sea—the City—or the Shore!—
And thrills the o'erraptured spirit through and through—
Here, all things glorious join in matchless store—
Art—Nature,—meet, to make Creation new!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN THE STEAMER, ON LEAVING CONSTANTINOPLE.

Borne on the billows of the Euxine's foam
We share the gladness of the bark's career,
And bless these bounding billows far and near,
Because they bear us towards our sea-girt Home!
There is a rapture known to those who roam,
A gentle joy, a priceless and a dear—
Haste! thou sweet hour when we shall see appear
The cliffs of Fatherland—no dream of gloom
Must dare to mar that Prospect of Delight!—
On which the Soul expatiates, and is still!—
Already dawns upon Her subtler sight
Each scene that can her depths of feeling fill—
Brighter the picture grows, and yet more bright
Through Love's deep power and Hope's and Memory's skill!

SONNET.

SCENERY NEAR RASGRAD.

The hills cast shadows round for evening came,—
Not dark—not sober suited—but how fair!
Floating 'mid golden clouds, on that pure air,
While deep in purple and in regal flame
Set the great Sun as silent as a dream;
There was a beauty in the shadows there!
Oft near the cool, clear fountains, flowing where
Our road past on, checked we our steeds, grown tame
By heavy toil, and watered them, and stood
To drink the freshness of the lovely breeze—
Beneath some scattered children of the wood,
That graced those gentle fountains' sides, green trees
Of beauty smiling—so, o'er many a rood
We sped, intent the charms, of that fair scene to seize!

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON DESCENDING THE HILL TO RUTSHUK.

The river in the evening's silvery hour
Gleamed chrystal's fairest, and the illumined Town
With its bright minarets all!—a tapering crown
Looked like a place of pleasure as of power!
The stars around. their fairy rays did shower,
And Night between their spaces seemed to frown
Into her deeper fulness!—Riding down
The steepy hill, we watched her loom and lower,
Like a great Storm in Space!—each wearied steed,
Paced heavily along—across the plain:
How had they proudly spurned, with foaming speed,
The hour and distance, but now 'gan to wane
Their strength—their courage, and they moved indeed
With labouring steps, beneath the slackened rein.

SONNET.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A BULGARIAN VALLEY.

It was the place of many wild flowers fair,
Star-like and rainbow-like, that tinged the ground,
Making a magic sunshine all around,
Delicious scents the wild thyme shed out there,
Crushed by our horses' hoofs, until the air
Was redolent of their breath, with fragrance crowned;
Fair butterflies flew past, all sheathed and bound
As 'twere in jewelled mail, for they did wear
Rich hues, deep orange, or clear azure dye,
And white and golden; and they passed along
Each like a Star of Air, and Earth, and Sky!—
To all belonging!—revelling among
Their flowery treasures bright, while, pleased, the eye
Followed their flight, nor did their various beauty wrong.

SONNET.

BANKS OF THE DANUBE.

Here did the Cross and Crescent wars of old
Convulse the unhappy land!—this river fair,
—(Now smiling to this smiling sky and air)—
Comrade of battling armies, seemed to hold
Its way in mood of harsh defiance bold,
Picturing no scenes of fertile promise there,
But all that did the look of terror wear:—
Nor seldom mixed with gore his blue streams rolled!—
Now 'tis all changed! Civilization here,
Plants with mild Peace her footsteps on the land,
And lends the scene a pure and holy cheer;
Faith o'er the prospect doth her wings expand!
Hope down the stream doth with the bold bark steer,
And all good Powers might seem to lend a helping hand.

SONNET.

BANKS OF THE DANUBE.

What noble Scenery! how the River seems
Worthy of these proud Banks that soar on high—
How worthy in themselves of yon blue sky!—
The Heavens—the Heights—green-crowned—the Stream of streams—
All make one perfect harmony that teems,—
With mighty influences—such harmony
As mind with mind, in dearest union, nigh
To singleness of being, makes!—bright beams
Of a rich Servian noon the great scene gild,
And all is beauteous—all is glorious round.
Look on those rocks!—thus did the Egyptians build,
The old Mountain-Makers!—who oppressed the ground
Beneath their structures!—common mortals skilled
To work like all the Titans—toil profound!

SONNET.

BANKS OF THE DANUBE.

The fisher's hut, behold, where Danube flows,
Built of light bark, and bending to the breeze,
O'ershadowed and hemmed in by clustering trees,
Clasped round, too, with the wild vine and wild rose,
A bower well worthy of the sweet repose
Of some gay Fairy of the waters; these
The blue and sunny waters, though like seas,
And stormy seas, hard by they do disclose
A scene of terror and tremendous might,
Lashed as by some unsleeping though unseen
Leviathan of Storm!—here blazed with light,
There darkening into eddies, that have been
Boiling and vexed for ages, day and night
Conflicting,—different far, from this their course serene.

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

I parted from the place which soon I knew
Would glory in thy presence: Oh! the pain!—
The mighty torture-pangs for heart and brain!
The breath of my despair I sickening drew,
And o'er my thoughts with studious care I threw
The mantle of Forgetfulness—whose reign
I courted to escape a deadlier chain!
Oh! I forgot the old pains to find worse, new!
And leaving that dear spot which seemed to await
Thy presence to grow Paradise! to be
To me seemed but to suffer!—and my fate
Blackened to ruins round me; no more free
To flow, my tears froze up my brain!—dark state!
Sure 'twas my very Soul, I left behind—not thee!

SONNET.

TO VENICE, ON HEARING OF THE EMPEROR'S VISIT, 1838.

Venice!—Oh! Venice! how wilt thou receive
Thy Lord Imperial?—will those waves once more
Which bore thy far-famed Bucentaur, of yore,
Greet a crowned Bridegroom, and forbear to grieve—
As with salt tears, for all that they must leave—
That they have left, like sea-weeds on their shore?—
The palms of power—the bays, thy proud sons wore
Of Victory!—who would such a tale believe?
No! let them press and crowd and multiply
Triumph on Triumph, Pomp on Pomp, and Show
On Show, to dazzle-charm the astonished eye!—
These can but gild and but array thy Woe!
And crown the front of thy great Misery,
A Funeral-festival!—as thy deep heart shall know!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Oh! I am weary of these thoughts!—that be
One servitude and slavery of the Soul!—
Dull,—dull and dismal as Death's hollow knoll!—
Others have life and feeling—but for me
No breath—no bliss—no being—save in thee!—
I scarcely feel in mine own feelings—dole
And sufferance wound my gloomy spirit's whole;
Yet these, my thoughts, for joy—joy full and free,
Mistake how madly!—all my thoughts are made
Mine own armed enemies; for still they wear
Mine arch-foe's stamp and image, clear-displayed!
And press me sorely to my worst despair!—
Weary—oh!—weary!—in Oblivion's shade
Let me lie down and die, as flowers that fall—fade—there!

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

Dearer and dearer thou for ever art!
Surely my Soul grows with this growth of love!
More capable of feeling still 'twill prove,
While fresh emotions burn within my heart,
And ever act a brighter, deeper part.
Mine adoration still doth live and move!—
Oh! 'tis no stagnant well; the skies above
Behold it ever spreading, quickening, start
To mightier being; not an hour but brings
Some blest accession to its strength and truth,
My Thoughts—a Pyramid of precious things!—
Bloom like the flowers, though like the Stars in youth,
Immortal fixed—my Soul its whole wealth flings,
Beloved, at thy feet, a gift of price, in sooth.

SONNET.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

My Thoughts, like venomed snakes, lie curled and coiled
About my brain, and act the hideous parts
Of scorpion-suicides!—(while fiercely smarts
That brain pierced through, of each dear dream despoiled)—
With fire and flames encircled and entoiled—
Alas! in their own burning heads each darts
A death-sting, and in mine own Heart of hearts!
Nor may their power be checked—their aim be foiled—
My Soul thus grows the Hades, dark and deep,
Of those stern fiends, that martyr it so much—
That torture too themselves, nor pause, nor sleep!
Oh! there is more than torture in their touch!—
Madness and Death!—and neither strong to keep
Their hold upon that mind, which sigheth even for such!

SONNET.

A SUNSET HOUR AT THERAPIA.

By sweet Therapia waited for awhile
Our fleet, fair caïque,—'twas the evening's hour—
The red Sun sought his splendid western bower,
Which no dark, angry clouds might dare defile,
And gave the world one gorgeous, parting smile
To live on—till once more he comes in power!—
The mountains to the sky, that soaring tower,
Each gradually became a sable pile;
There spread a softness on the dreamy air,
A stillness on the waters—such imparts,
Even to the heart, o'erworn with heavy care,
Dear peace; aye, even to Grief's crushed Heart of hearts,
Who, who would not a smile of gladness wear
On such sweet eve, whence Love's own Soul-light darts?

I HAVE A THOUGHT FOR THEE.

SONG.

[Oh! come back to me, dear One! that word, which was spoken]

DREAMS OF MY SOUL.

SONNET.

TO MY LITTLE VICTORIA.

My child—my little bird!—mine own sweet child!—
Oh! thee, a happy, happy thing I style!—
Thy life is half a sleep and half a smile,
A dream and a delight, and yet how wild,
How rugged-rude, the world's rocks darkly piled—
The desolate wilderness of life, the while—
Around thee spread! yet may these ne'er despoil
Thy heart of Peace,—the mighty, though the mild!
Oh! baseless wish! Oh! hopeless—hopeless prayer!—
The rather let me ask, in worthier way,
That thou may'st aided be to cope with care—
To face the front of darkness and dismay,—
Not left alone to battle with Despair—
This let me humbly ask, and meekly deeply pray!

THE BOUNDING BILLOWS.

THE ETERNAL QUESTION.

THE STORMY SEA.

THE HEART'S TEARS.

FAREWELL!—FORGIVE ME!

STANZAS.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

A FAREWELL TO MY COUNTRY.

June, 1838.

A SMILE.

A THOUSAND BARKS!

SONNET.

[To thee my Soul—my deathless Soul, I give]

To thee my Soul—my deathless Soul, I give,
Which takes the Eternity in giving—so
For ever I must yield its wealth below—
For ever I must give—and thou receive!—
Its hoards shall still be lavished while I live;
Its flowing currents must for ever flow—
And unto thee alone shall gathering go.
Take then that Soul—which failed 'gainst Fate to strive!
The Eternity's too short to give it all;
Yet all is given at once!—a mystery still!—
Still—still must I bestow without recall,
Though all at once was given!—Thought, Power, and Will—
Sense, Feeling own the rapture of this thrall—
While the Soul's drainless depths the outpourings shall but fill!

THY NAME.

AND MUST WE BE STRANGERS?

SONG OF THE TROUBADOUR.

SONNET.

[Would, from the o'erflowings of Youth's honeyed Urn]

Would, from the o'erflowings of Youth's honeyed Urn,
That we might hoard one precious drop and pure,
The gnawing anguish of vain thirst to cure—
Or, at the least, to make less fierce—when burn
All the after-fevers in our Hearts—that mourn
For things that ne'er again shall charm—allure;
For earthly good is made not to endure;
And earthly hopes, once lost, shall scarce return!
Ah! from that Urn one sweet drop could we hoard,
To soothe the fiery pangs of our distress,
When all we lose is bitterly deplored!
But for one pure and precious drop to bless,
To soothe, to charm us—(in our deep hearts stored)—
With something like our own lost happiness!

SONG.

[My Life and Soul are thine! mine own]

TO THE QUEEN.

THE BRAVE OF ENGLAND.

THE BIRDS!

THE BOWL OF LIFE.

WHEN THOU ART FAR!

GRIEF IS PITILESS.

A WORLD OF WOE.

LOVELY IS THE HOUR OF DAWN.

THE SHADOW OF THE SAILS.

The Barque with white Sails softly moves,
'Tis like piled snow on wind-waved groves!
The shadow f those sheeted Sails
Falls, in no dull and darkening veils,
Upon the bosom of the waves,
Which with a silvery sheen it paves!—
No darkening veils—but dazzling streams
Of splendour,—while the surface gleams!—
Dart o'er those waves of dancing light—
Mysteriously and wildly bright!—
Since, oh! those spotless Sails have caught
The richest Sunshine—that seems wrought
Into their floating, unfurled pride,
While gallantly that Barque doth ride,
Hurrying on her triumphal path,
Now troubled by no signs of wrath!
The Shadows of those sheeted Sails,
White as the foam—when wake the gales,
Upon the quivering waters rest,
Kindling with sheen their sparkling breast—
And, oh! behold!—at once they seem,
While thus they glistening glow and gleam,
Sunning the waves—yet—shadowing too!—
Like Angel's wings, outspread to view!
At once they seem ev'n thus aright,
Shadowing—yet sunning them with light!—
So Heaven's reflections, pure and deep,
Soft as the light that shines in sleep,
Fair as the ray, far planets spread,
Over the soul are richly shed—
Those Shadows even are Sunshine all—
And make like glory where they fall!—
Unmatched by aught beside—they throw
Around, their full immortal glow;
Those Shadows like deep Sunshine spread,
Loveliest for those who lowliest tread!
And like yon snow-white wings of pride,
Make dazzling all the Soul's deep tide!
Still may such shadows wrap my Soul,
Till Heaven's full blaze shall o'er it roll!

THE DEAD.

A CLOUD.

SONNET.

[The Sun is in my Soul!—I scarce can brook]

The Sun is in my Soul!—I scarce can brook
The impassioned radiance, and the o'erpowering blaze,
There seem to mingle thrice ten thousand days!—
On mine own dazzling Dreams I dare not look!
The burning brilliance lights up each far nook!
I scarce can bear to bless, or pause to praise
My Lightning Happiness!—but in one maze
Of splendours lost, would close Life's o'erblazed book!
The Sun is in my Soul!—I shrink—I start—
I shudder with the exhaustless Joy's great might!
And strive to bind a mantle round my heart!—
While every Thought streams, flashing with strong light!—
'Tis breathless rapture poured through every part—
A blinding Blessedness—all over-bright!

THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS.

INEZ TO MANUEL.

THE FIRST VIEW OF ENGLAND.

COMPOSED IN THE STEAMER COMING FROM ROTTERDAM.

TO ENGLAND.

SONNET.

THE APPROACH TO VARNA.

Fair looked the guarded town from the Euxine Sea,
With crowded Minarets crowned—that sought the Sky,
Lifting their gilded summits far on high,
The oak-wooded shores had led on smilingly
To this proud city—which might seem to be
The abode of Peace, and not of War;—the sigh
Of dreamy waters, that seemed slow and shy
To approach the Strand, did with mild winds agree!
Yet, Varna!—what fierce strifes hast thou not known!
Whatscenes of death and dread, what works of doom!
Echoed thy streets the yell—the shriek—the groan,
Till blackened o'er with the ashes of the tomb!—
Thy Seas were smoothed, while roared the thunderous tone
Of stern Artillery's shocks,—which long-resounding boom!

SONNET.

THE BLUE PROPONTIS.

The Purple of Propontis makes the Sky
As 'twere some sweet strain, taken up on Earth,
And still divine even there, as in its birth!
A visible and vivid harmony!—
A music to the thought and to the eye!—
So do its clear waves in their sparkling mirth
Beam back that blue in all its brightest worth;
Still gleam for gleam, and glorious dye for dye!—
The Purple of Propontis!—'tis a hue
That makes us dream of Heaven, the fair and far;
—For Beatific is its precious Blue!—
Where are its Stars?—each sparkle is a Star!
Which even the very Sun seems shining through,
Propontis' waves like Skies unclouded are!

SONNET.

ON A BANQUET ON THE BOSPHORUS, GIVEN BY THE SERASKIER PACHA, NOW GRAND VIZIER.

The chamber opened on the Eastern side,
On the broad Bosphorus-stream—the brightly blue!—
And on the other, numerous casements through,
You marked the wooded hills in verdant pride,
Beneath which, with a myriad colours dyed,
The gay-bowered gardens, where the bright spray flew
From singing Fountains, charmed the gladdened view:
All Beauty there seemed beaming far and wide!—
Within the pillared room, in dazzling store,
Blazed Oriental treasures, piled in sight;
Flowered cloths of Gold and Silver kissed the floor—
Sweeping from rich Divans—gemmed Vessels bright—
Marble and Mirrors gleamed the eyes before—
While a right Royal Feast did there the guests invite!

STANZAS.

[Yes! I see, I see thee with my Soul!—]

BLUE OCEAN.

SONNET.

THE TARTAR RIDE.

The mountains rose in beauty on each side,
What time the Tartar led us on our way,
Throughout the livelong, bright and sunny day!—
And wore their verdant Ornaments with pride;
The skies with tenderest tints of blue were dyed:
Our paths through scenes of varied interest lay,
And glorious August—merry as the May,
Smiled round us—as we rode that cheering ride!—
The Morning fairly on our journey rose—
Fairly the Evening set—clear, soft, and warm—
That Day was like a Life which calmly flows—
From Beauty on to Beauty—Charm to Charm!—
And Brightness still to Brightness,—till its close!—
While happy sounds and sights did on the Senses swarm!

STANZAS.

[I have wished—I have hoped—I have feared and despaired]

SONNET.

[Forget me!—but remember all my love!—]

Forget me!—but remember all my love!—
Ev'n as a high and holy thing apart;
Treasure it ever in thy conscious Heart,
All other Memories—as all Hopes above!—
Thy faithlessness I will not then reprove;
That tribute from thee shall allay the smart
Of wounded Love, whose trebly-poisoned dart
Smote me and smites!—bound in those fetters move!—
Be chained to that deep Recollection still!—
Cherish that keen remembrance, and be sure
No Heart can with a like devotion thrill!
Forget me!—but that love which must endure,
That feeling which doth all my being fill—
Forget thou not!—it is too high—too pure!

SONNET.

THE CHALICE OF LIFE.

Alas! whatever nectars may be poured
In Life's clay-chalice, every drop will still
Taste of its earthy vessel!—dull and chill,
All vainly with sweet draughts divinely stored!—
Yes! there is still that ashy taste, abhorred,
Which, with such sweetness can accord but ill—
And though blind Fate, perchance, may fill—and fill
With wine of joy—these things but ill accord!
Till that clay chalice shall be broken all,
Scattered in fragments, in its native dust—
So shall it still for evermore befall!—
So shall it be for ever, and it must!—
Alas! the taste of wormwood and of gall
Clings to that chalice oft!—yet in its clay we trust!

SONNET.

[Love me—but love me!—life is waste, indeed]

Love me—but love me!—life is waste, indeed,
Without the flowers of feeling to adorn
Its soil, though they, perchance, may bear the thorn—
Without these all is but one poisonous weed.
Our human nature hath one noble need,
And that is to be loved!—we pine and mourn,
Reft of that blessing, and all others scorn,
If others can be without that decreed!—
To thee I speak—with many a broken sigh,
And wilt thou mingle not thy thoughts with mine?—
I claim no vain response—impatiently!—
I ask no token—and I seek no sign,
But render Love for Love in rich reply!—
Answer my Soul with that!—my Heart with—thine!

TO ------

SONNET.

[There seems a tone of tenderness in all]

There seems a tone of tenderness in all
The various musics of this Summer's morn;
A smile of Love doth every charm adorn,
That round us now is spread to touch and thrall.
Richly yon woodbine's clustering tresses fall,
A Cradle of Caresses!—Day's new-born,
Clear air is rocked there till oppressed—o'er worn
With sweetness scarce can it its strength recall,
Each breath fails like a dreamy, faultering sigh,
A passion and a feeling doth it seem—
Surely encradled there, 'twould ever lie,
And drink these odours, poured in richest stream;
And I with this would sink and faint and die,
Breathless and bodiless, as some sweet Dream!

SEVERED—YET UNITED.