University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SONNET I. TO CRAIG-MILLAR CASTLE.

This hoary labyrinth, the wreck of time,
Solicitous, with timid step I tread;
Scale the stern battlement, or vent'rous climb,
Where the rent watch-tower bows its grassy head:
These dark, damp caverns breathe mysterious dread,
Haply still foul with tinct of ancient crime;
Methinks some spirit of the ennobled dead
High-bosom'd maid, or warrior chief sublime
Haunts them: the flappings of the heavy bird
Imagined warnings fearfully impart;
And the dull breeze below, that feebly stirred,
Seemed the deep breathing of an o'er-charged heart.
Proud Tower, thy halls now stable the lean herd,
And musing Mercy smiles that such thou art!

SONNET II. TO SCOTLAND.

Scotland! when thinking on each heathy hill,
O'er whose bleak breast the billowy vapours sweep,
While sullen winds imprisoned murmur deep
'Mid their dim caves, such thoughts my bosom fill,
I cannot chuse but sigh! Oft wandering wild
I've traced thy torrents to their haunted source,
Whence down some huge rock with fantastic course,
Their sheeted whiteness pouring, they beguiled
The meek disheartened One, in solitude
Who sought relief. Beneath some aged tree
Thy white cots dimly seen yielded to me
Solace most sweet: nor seldom have I viewed
Their low thatch wishfully, and paused to bless
The uncultur'd children of lone quietness.

SONNET III. TO NOVEMBER.

Dismal November! me it sooths to view,
At parting day, the scanty foliage fall
From the wet fruit tree; or the grey stone wall,
Whose cold films glisten with unwholesome dew.
To watch the yellow mists from the dank earth
Enfold the neighbouring copse; while, as they pass,
The silent rain-drops bend the long rank grass,
Which wraps some blossom's unmatured birth.
And through my cot's lone lattice glimmering grey
Thy damp, chill evenings have a charm for me,
Dismal November! for strange vacancy
Summoneth then my very heart away!
'Till from mist-hidden spire comes the slow knell,
And says, that in the still air Death doth dwell!

SONNET IV.

[I had been sad, and drooped like one forlorn]

I had been sad, and drooped like one forlorn,
When, as it might befall, I threw mine eye
Athwart the sunny plain; a breeze past by
Pure and inspiriting, as newly born,
The viewless messenger of some far glen!
It breathed, methought, faint tones of distant peace!
Sighing, I turned me from the haunts of men,
And bodied forth some dell, where care might cease.
I gazed, (a lone tear stealing down my cheek),
And wished that I knew one whom I might throw
Mine arms around, and snatching her from woe,
Yield her my heart; and in some simple cell
Where I might win the solace of the meek,
Pray for the hard world, where I once did dwell!

SONNET V.

[When witching evening wore her shadows dim]

When witching evening wore her shadows dim,
Those big-swoln broodings oft I sought to wake,
Which made my lone heart fancifully ache;
And wayward tears unnoticed still would swim,
Filling each “idle orb!” And I have loved
This mystic transport; me the wildering hour
Soothed; and dim vested Silence seemed to pour
Balm, such as might befit a wretch that roved,
Sicklied with thought. Nor was not this my lot!
Now was I mazed with strange perplexities,
And now to my tranced sprite such dreams would rise,
That when I waked, I wept “to find them not!”
Wept that stern reason chased with blasting eye
The feverish mind's fantastic imagery.

SONNET VI.

['Twere well, methinks, in an indignant mood]

'Twere well, methinks, in an indignant mood,
When the heart droops unfriended, when man-kind,
With their cold smiles, have duped thy honest mind,
On the wet heath to stray, while dimly brood
The gathered grey-mists on the distant hill:
Drear should the prospect be, dreary and wide,
No second living one be there espied,
None save thyself; then would thy soul be still,
Curbing its sorrows with a proud despair!
Then wouldst thou tread thy path with firmer pace,
Nor let one scowl on thy resolved face
Blab to the elements thy puny care;
But, soothed to think that solitude can bless,
Muse on the world with lofty quietness.

SONNET VII.

[Ye overflowings of a restless heart]

Ye overflowings of a restless heart,
Why thus torment me? wishes undefin'd,
Why through my breast so vehemently dart,
Waking convulsed commotions of the mind?
Oh! stubborn feelings, why do ye refuse
The high-wrought intercourse of souls to bless?
Why pampering lonesome anguish idly muse,
Or mutter workings of obscure distress?
Almighty Parent! what a thing am I!
Shuddering with ecstacy, yet dumb the while!
Thou, only Thou, with chaos-piercing eye,
Canst see me as I am! My Father, rise
Sublime in love, and with thy calming smile
Hush Thou my spirit's stormy phantasies!

SONNET VIII.

[If the low breathings of the poor in heart]

If the low breathings of the poor in heart,
If the still gratitude of wretchedness
Relieved when least expecting, have access
To Thee, the Almighty Parent, Thou wilt dart
Thy loving kindness on the offering meek
My spirit brings, oppressed with thankfulness,
At this lone hour: for Thou dost ever bless
The stricken soul, that sighs and cannot speak.
Omniscient Father! I have been perplexed,
With scoffers linked! yea, called them my friends,
Who snare the soul! But now, by doubt unvexed,
My heart uplifts itself; its aim extends
To Heaven, where Thou thy brighter dwelling hast,
Oh Omnipresent Thou, first, midst, and last!

SONNET IX. On seeing the Moon rise, among Clouds swiftly driven by the Wind, from behind a Hill across Ulswater.

Black is the lake, and blacker still the sky,
And lake and sky with hollow murmur moan;
Scarce shakes a little star its locks on high;
And Fear's fantastic images alone
Crowd on the expectant spirit! O'er the hill,
That lifts above the waves its shaggy brow,
Rises a solemn radiance: lovelier still,
And lovelier, varying like enchantment, now
It stands with burning glory, bright and deep,
Like that which compasseth the eternal throne
'Mid black pavillion'd clouds. So to the sleep
Of Patriarch old; when, pillowed on a stone,
Was seen in vision, 'mid thick darkness given,
God's fiery-winged troop, and God in Heaven!

SONNET X. TO A SISTER.

Oh! shall we visit those high scenes again?
Say, shall our spirits mount as we descry
Those wavy mountains o'er the western main,
'Mid the deep colours of the evening sky?
Say, shall we turn to them a grateful eye,
And think of all our toil and ruth and pain,
Since we with petulant inconstancy,
Have sought for peace, where peace is sought in vain?
How could we quit thee, Nature? quit thy forms
Sublime and simple, pure and holy ever?
How cease to wonder at thy solemn storms,
How from thy softer charms our spirit sever
And hope (thee once enjoyed), where art deforms,
To find some solace for the base endeavor?

SONNET XI. TO THE SAME.

Say, dearest Sister, shall we once more hail
The exalted thoughts, the emotions pure and high,
That wake the soul to living ecstacy,
While wandering Nature down thy wizard vale,
Where comes no threat of pride, nor sorrow's tale,
Where reels not pamper'd wealth obscenely by,
That mar the bosom's deep serenity,
And bid the springs of simple joyaunce fail?
Yes, Nature from her chosen dwelling place,
Shall still with holiest privilege endow;
And, struck with love, to her benignant grace
Thy soul shall dedicate each future vow!
While many a wilder breeze than thought can trace,
Shedding new life, shall wanton round thy brow.

SONNET XII. TO THE SAME.

Ah, go my Sister!—do not vainly try
To reconcile thy bosom's fervent beat
To sordid Art's unnatural pageantry!
In spotless youth, thy fancy-guided feet,
Have trod the plains, and search'd the mossy dells,
The foaming mountain-torrent's mighty fall;
Have traced the haunts where Inspiration dwells;
And vainly, Maiden, would thy soul recall
Feelings which Nature banished when she view'd
Thy youth so vowed to mystic solitude,
And o'er thy form her sacred mantle threw:
“Henceforth,” she cried, “Oh Maid of noble heart,
“Should thou my hallow'd turf-built shrine desert,
“Nought can thy vanished happiness renew.”

SONNET XIII. TO THE SAME.

Heed not the tongue, nor heed the brutal look;
Pure Maiden heed them not, though they assail
Thy simple ear with many a baneful tale;
Thine eye with insult thou disdainst to brook!
Keep that indignant soul! and Folly, strook
With shame, (if shame o'er Folly e'er prevail,)
Shall hie him back with disappointment pale,
And mutter fresh spells o'er his cursed book.
Mutter'd in vain!—For, disenchanted thou,
No spell can wither thee, no charm can bind;
Nature hath heard thy youth's religious vow,
And 'till thou art in her sanctuary shrin'd,
She, watchful for her Child, shall chase away
“Terrors by night, and enemies by day.”

SONNET XIV. TO THE SAME.

Wilt thou with me the rifted mountain seek?
Say, shall I feel thine arm entwin'd in mine,
See nature's healthful blush adorn thy cheek,
And catch the gleams of sympathy divine
Intelligibly traced in looks like thine?
Oh, Maiden, shall our full hearts inly speak
Thanks to the God of nature? Near some pine,
Which sobs, and waves, to gales from mountains bleak,
Whose knotted roots transparent fountains lave,
Say, shall we lift our eyes, and as we see
Nature's unutterable majesty,
The rock, the hill, the lake, the woods that wave,
For all the wonders which his bounty gave,
Praise Him who “habiteth eternity.”

SONNET XV. TO THE SAME.

Now fade the obtrusive colours of the day,
Like liquid gold the smooth clear lake lies still,
One streak of purple clouds above the hill
Rests in the silence of the parting ray:
O'er woods, streams, heights, heaven's magic glories play;
And, save the bleatings of the distant flocks,
That murmur faintly from yon wood-fringed rocks,
The linnets, or the throstle's evening lay.
The soothing dash of oars that linger near
Yon headland summit (where the sun-tipt sail
Peeps 'mid the woodland's shadow) to the ear
No sound is brought!—Dear maid, can aught prevail
To shake thy soul when scenes like these appear,
Or bid the tides of genial nature fail?

SONNET XVI. TO THE SAME.

On the calm eve of summer's fervid day
Say, shall we sail along the lake's clear tide?
And, bounding in the little skiff, survey
The countless forms that grace its gorgeous side;
The faint decline of landscape scarce espied,
That to the horizon southward dies away,
The mass of ancient rock like castle gray,
The solemn wood, or mountain bleak and wide;
The little promontory's joyous green,
The intersecting underwood, the cot,
Or pastoral farm, whose herds at evening seen,
Wind with slow varying course the sloping vale,—
Maiden, does Fancy, whispering, cheat or not?
“Yes, on that glassy tide your bark shall sail.”

SONNET XVII. TO THE SAME.

And further tell me, when the garish light
Fades from the crystal canopy of heaven,
Maiden, shall we religiously delight
To linger through the slowly fading even;
Shall Hope and Fancy, long by Sorrow driven,
To seek some solace by a timely flight,
Own that meek patience hath not vainly striven
To leave that busier world, where lawless might,
And venom'd malice, fix the inward wound?
Oh God, shall peace and thankfulness abound
The more for sorrows past, and ills sustain'd?
And as our souls drink in harmoniously
Sounds felt like silence, all resentments die
In grateful love, for joys and friends retain'd.

SONNET XVIII. Inserted in a Novel written by the Author, printed, but not published; called “Isabel”.

Fain would I say, withdraw, thou glorious beam,
And shroud thyself in darkness! fain desire
Those rocks, those meads, that wood, yon laughing stream,
All nature's glowing graces to retire;
For more than earthly to my heart they seem;—
So that my struggling sentiments aspire,
To frame the witchery of the lover's dream;
And mental bliss in unison require.
Yes, when I see that pomp of Nature, wrought
To such excess of loveliness, I seek,
Though sought in vain, a soul whose mutual thought
May catch the gush of love which cannot speak;
Rescuing the sigh that may not be subdued
From agonies that dwell with Solitude.

SONNET XIX.

[Thou cottage gleaming near the tuft of trees]

Thou cottage gleaming near the tuft of trees,
Thou tell'st of joy more than I dare believe
Falls to the lot of man; where Fancy sees,
(For credulous Fancy still her dreams will weave)
Him whose low fate no restless cares deceive,
Blest by your smiles, pure as the mountain breeze;
Love, Peace, Humility, whose ministries
Give all that happiest mortals can receive.
Yon sun-tipt grove's embosom'd harmony,
As fades the splendour of departing day,
Swells on my ear most like the minstrelsy
Which from thy inmate's pipe shall bear away
The soul of him who listens, till he hear
Sounds that awaken love's forgotten tear.

SONNET XX.

[Is not all nature smiling? Why should I]

Is not all nature smiling? Why should I
Pine with the agonies of wretchedness,
This active life excites, that vanity,
And him the fervours of affection bless:
Ambition beckoning waves her banners high,
Streaming with rays of glory and success,
And on the wing of Folly thousands fly
To grasp the toy of hourly happiness.
Dejection presses me with power-like fate
In fellowship with woe, and inward care;
The beauteous forms of nature wrought so fair,
Sink on my spirits with a weary weight;
Nor active life less threatens with despair,
There flourish insincerity and hate.

SONNET XXI.

[Ye buds obedient to the breath of spring]

Ye buds obedient to the breath of spring,
Why with no wonted smile are ye caress'd?
Thou soul of Love that, borne on zephyr's wing,
Dost steal unseen within the soften'd breast,
Who, blessing and tormenting, know'st to bring
Soft sighs, inquietudes, and many a guest
That hint of dangerous joy, why dost thou wring,
Not sooth my spirit to delicious rest?
'Tis that I seek what human heart ne'er found,
A world where Love, Truth, Peace, their laws maintain;
'Tis that I ask on this polluted ground,
For wells of living water! Spring-tide train,
Urging a hopeless wish, 'tis thus ye wound,
To seek the more for what I seek in vain.

SONNET XXII. Written early in the Morning, soon after the Birth of my third Child; and inscribed to my Mother, who was present on the occasion.

At this still hour, when, scarce by whistling swain,
Bearing his pail, the meadow path is trod;
And thick mists hovering silently retain
On ivied scar, and on the hill's dark sod,
Their nightly station; when throughout the plain
No wreathed smoke betrays the unseen abode
Of early shepherd; how can I restrain
The hymn that mounts in gratitude to God?
The name of Father, now, with threefold force,
Lives in my heart; and she to whom I trace
The gift of life, excites another source
Of natural transport; her belov'd embrace
Strengthening our dear, domestic intercourse,
Protects this blossom of her grateful race.

SONNET XXIII.

[There is I know not what within my breast]

There is I know not what within my breast,
Which, when these days of vernal beauty come,
Excites my ardent sentiments to roam
For happiness by mortals not possess'd:
The song of birds, the lawn whose soft green vest
Is prank'd with spring-flowers; the translucent foam
Of yon clear stream that winds around my home,
Whose mossy banks my tottering babes have press'd
With daily joy: the hills aërial height
Piled in the summer skies of cloudless blue,
And faintly bathed with like cerulean hue,
So raise my soul, that, when she shares the sight,
Who doubles every charm she loves to view,
My o'ercharg'd heart is troubled with delight.

SONNET XXIV.

[And when the bleat of lambs from yonder bank]

And when the bleat of lambs from yonder bank
Stole with the murmur of the summer breeze,
That creeps among those ancient holly trees,
And ivied rocks; when all my senses drank
This river's charm, whose course pale violets prank,
Primrose, and daisy; while upon my knees
My babes would mimic nature's harmonies,
How in my heart the sense of pleasure sank!
'Twas pure affection's simple ecstacy!
Let not the spotless sense be e'er defiled,
Which, at that willing hour, so sweetly smiled;
In years of manhood may the father see
The pure enjoyments of the little child,
The pledge of innocent maturity!

SONNET XXV. TO MY MOTHER.

And art thou come and gone, childhood's first friend?
Oh, sad condition of life's treacherous way,
That thus our best delights must quickly end,
And, save pale memory's treasures, all decay.
And art thou gone? Who knows how time may rend
Existence' feeble thread ere thou canst pay
Another cordial visit, or descend
Oblivious, on the feelings of to-day?
We never more shall meet with thoughts like those
Which now inspire our hearts;—the hour so dear,
The certain hour is gone; nor mortal knows,
When, where, or how, such hour may reappear.
Fain would my heart avert the change; it owes
To change such bitter pangs, all change brings—fear!

SONNET XXVI. Storm at Night, in a mountainous Country, contrasted with Domestic and Fire-side comforts.

Now howls the storm pent up amid the hills,
At distance heard; with still increasing roar
It sweeps along the flooded vale: no more
The mountain stream, fed from a thousand rills,
The poet's ear with soothing murmur thrills;
But swol'n, impetuous, rushing fiercely o'er,
With vexed surge, the bounds it knew before,
The tempest's solemn diapason fills.
Now stir the fire; while the drench'd windows shake,
And, borne on blasts of night, thick sheets of rain,
With shrill, swift crash burst on each rattling pane:
At eve's due hour where home-bred comforts wake,
Where music, books, and social converse reign,
The scene is dearer for the tempest's sake.

SONNET XXVII. Sketch of a Mountain Cottage.

Yon cottage sheltered by those aged pines,
Whispering with winds that 'mid their branches sweep,
Like the low murmurs of the distant deep;
Yon whiten'd cottage, mantled o'er with vines,
Above whose roof the wooded hill inclines,
With garden where the earliest snow-drops peep,
Crocus, and violet; where Liburnams weep,
And either Lilac, with Syringa, shines.
Yon cot, the heart-struck mourner well might seek,
One whom dejection, or misfortunes, chase
From cheerful haunts of man; its rustic grace
The dignity of better days doth speak,
Nor should the worldling force, in such a place,
The blush of decent pride on grief's pale cheek.

SONNET XXVIII.

[When first among these mighty hills I came]

When first among these mighty hills I came,
A wild delirium wakened every sense;
Rocks, hills, woods, waters, lent their influence,
And shapes, and sounds, of more than earthly frame,
Haunted my dreams; the thought of fear or blame
Did never then a deadly chill dispense;
I swiftly caught, unmindful where or whence
It sprung, at rapture's vivifying flame.
But all is chang'd,—I then pursued the sprite
Of airy transport; now I seek the shrine
Of hermit peace; the future then was mine
In gaudy colours drest, now reigns thick night
On the next hour:—oh, could it only shine,
Dreams of past joy, with your reflected light!

SONNET XXIX. Description of a Spring Hail-storm in a mountainous Country.

Amid those hills, while yet, in clefts, the snow
Chills the first breath of spring's salubrious gale,
Clouds thick, and lowering more and more prevail,
And moans the pent up tempest dull and low.
The clouds advance; the swift blasts, as they go,
Mountain and scar, and rocking wood assail;
Confused murmurs rush athwart the vale,
And winter's eddying leaves whirl to and fro.
Through slanting hail which scuds along the sky
Pale nature gleams in unsubstantial hue,
Th' eternal mountains vanish from the view,—
Now they burst sudden opening from on high,
The fleet-wing'd tempest gather'd and with-drew:
As swift gay sun-beams o'er the landscape fly!—

SONNET XXX. TO SOPHIA. Written previous to a Journey to a place very distant from that of our residence.

Shall we again the sacred stilness hail
Of this belov'd abode? Shall we again,
Withdrawn from all the hum and stir of men,
Read in each other's looks the cordial tale
Of days of mild esteem?—the interchange
Of kindly offices?—the sacrifice,
Silent and free, of wayward phantasies,
That fain would mar a love they could not change?
Had it not been for thee, thou generous soul,
Whom wrongs of mine could never turn aside,
Nor petulance, nor wretchedness, divide;
Who, when the black cloud heaviest seem'd to roll,
Dist spread thy faithful arms thy friend to save—
His happiest fate had been the silent grave!

SONNET XXXI. TO SOPHIA.

May'st thou be happy, my beloved friend!
And you, sweet innocents, may ye be blest!
May peace and love from yonder skies descend
And find a home in each unruffled breast!
Oh, could I shroud you in some quiet nest,
Where never sounds of grief or fear offend;
Though still some weight my aching heart oppress'd,
A glow of triumph with its pangs should blend.
But ye, poor babes, must struggle, perhaps must fall,
And thou, best friend, with me mayst bid farewell
To many a flattering hope! but this is all
In darkness hid; and 'tis not fit to dwell
In such a world, on griefs fantastical,
Fitliest unknown!—God grant that all end well!

SONNET XXXII. TO MISS W---.

Did Fortune smile propitious on our lot,
Or in our home refinement's magic spell
Detain those graces you have woo'd so well,
Glad should we be to hail you at our cot!
But honest Pride and Truth, that scorn the blot
Of false pretension, urge, tho' loath, to tell
Of thoughts and cares inelegant, that dwell
In mediocrity's most favoured spot.
Then why should we with selfish aim invite
A friend we love, where anxious cares alarm?
Rather tell her with fascination's charm,
To thrid the mazy labyrinth of delight;
Circled by Fancy's rainbow-winged swarm
That live but in the sunbeam of her sight.

SONNET XXXIII. FROM PETRARCH.

Say, what officious angel bore my grief,
By pity mov'd, to the abodes on high;
That now my Laura hastens from the sky,
With mildest courtesy, to my relief?
She comes to calm my sad and troubled breast,
So full of sweetness, so devoid of pride,
That life, before detested, seems supplied
With consolation, and with thoughts of rest.
Oh, blessed thou, who thus hast power to impress
With sweet intelligencing looks and speech;
Looks, words, more dear from secret consciousness,
That we alone their mystic sense can reach.
For, pitying, thou dost condescend to teach
That thou refusedst, but the more to bless.

SONNET XXXIV.

[When friendship turns her long averted face]

When friendship turns her long averted face,
And sweetly smiles on me again; 'tis hard
To wear the look of coldness, nor embrace
The dear and proffer'd blessing of regard.
Oh Thou, at whose behest man runs the race
Of life, howe'er severe; who bidst him guard
His eyes, his senses, and his heart, nor chase
In this bleak clime a premature reward;
Forgive me, if my thoughts, at times, rebel;
If feeling strongly, I should sometimes pine
To make the flattering dreams of pleasure mine—
And grasp those joys my fancy feigns too well.
The ascendant will bends to thy great design
Tho' trait'rous wishes throb, and tears of nature swell.

SONNET XXXV. FROM PETRARCH.

Oh chamber, which, till late, retreat supplied,
From heavy storms that pelted through the day,
Thou seest me now to pining care a prey,
Which from the curious world I fain would hide.
Oh couch, where common griefs are laid aside,
How oft thy shelter did my pangs allay?
Now bath'd with tears, my sighs to thee betray
A cureless passion to despair allied.
Of solitude I am not weary grown:
Myself I fear and my consuming woe,
My tortur'd soul, my insuppressive foe!
And vulgar souls, from whom I long have flown,
(Oh, humbling change!) a refuge now bestow,
So much I dread to find myself alone.

SONNET XXXVI. FROM PETRARCH.

Love, I transgress, and consciously transgress,
But, like the wretch, whom inward flames consume,
My pangs increase, and reason's aid suppress,
Till cureless agony complete my doom.
Some little check to importunate distress
The fear inspired, that I might bring a gloom
On her sweet hours of peace; but now no less
Than fell despair goads boldly to presume.
Of reckless ravings, petulant and wild,
'Tis thou, not I, oh Love, the guilt must bear,
Who thus dost every power of thought perplex,
So that to airy nothings, like a child,
And worse than airy nothings, I repair—
Oh, pardon thou who thus my heart dost vex.

SONNET XXXVII. TO SOLITUDE.

Oh Solitude, let him thy aid implore,
Whose o'erwrought soul the busy world hath tired;
And oft thou'rt wisely wooed by him inspired
With taste, and learning's independent lore.
But, Solitude, thou art a friend no more,
To him, who, with a hopeless passion fired,
To brood unmarked, incautious, hath retired
On joys whose stings remain, whose sweets are o'er.
Then, Solitude, thou soft but dangerous power,
Who charm'st the enthusiast with insidious rest,
Thy silent days unnerve, relax;—and drest
In dire illusion, comes thy loneliest hour!
The cheerful Spirit would not be thy guest!
And Frenzy clasps the wretched in thy bower.

SONNET XXXVIII. TO SOLITUDE.

Better the boisterous tide of life to stem,
Than dwell on Love's enervating delight;
Better to fret thy spirits in the game
Of interest or ambition, than to blight
Thy youth's first vigorous promise; bid the night
Of disappointment shroud thy noteless name;
Than to a cankering foe yield up the right
Of all those thoughts that pledged thy course to fame.
Since happiness evades our mortal eye,
Bear we the station firmly heaven assigned!
Ye melting visions that relax the mind
Begone! ye promise peace—but we must buy
Our peace on earth with arduous victory
O'er all that Passion to her heart would bind.

SONNET XXXIX. TO SOLITUDE.

Oh, Solitude, thou hast no moderate pain!
Thy griefs are cureless; it were far more wise
To chase of busy life the vanities
And fretting incidents, than court thy reign
Of deep, profoundest gloom. Alas, in váin
Ye seek for peace whose least sensations rise
Above the cold heart's loftiest ecstacies,
By stern proscription of amusement's train.
Better to toil in bleak life's thorny field;
Be galled by interruptions that estrange
Thy thoughts from what thou art; than when the range
Of outward forms withdraw, till then concealed,
To find an inward chaos that will yield
To nought save fortune, time, and place, and change.

SONNET XL. Inserted in a Novel, written by the author, printed, but not published, called “Isabel.”

No ear shall ever hear my source of woe;
No heart shall e'er conceive the pang I feel;
None but the Almighty power the wound can heal,
Which prompts my bosom's agonizing throe!
O ye, so eloquent in sorrow, know
Grief is not grief when language may reveal;
He is the man of grief who must conceal
Thoughts that, like spectres, trackless come and go.
Senses of ear, and eye, and touch, ye raise
An insurrection through my inmost soul;
Yet o'er that soul the law of duty sways
With absolute, invincible control.
Oh Virtue, let me cease to love thy ways!
Or bid these tides of passion cease to roll!

SONNET XLI.

[Let those to whom Love ne'er his raptures dealt]

Let those to whom Love ne'er his raptures dealt
Despise his power;—dead to the thrilling sense,
The dear infatuating influence,
With which the stricken breast is doomed to melt.
Let those not talk of love, who have not knelt
In supplicating anguish so intense
That Grief could not conceive a recompense
In all the stores of life for what it felt.
If thou hast suffer'd thus, thy God implore
To teach thy thought devotion's ardent aim;
For all thy days of happiness are o'er
If thou confidest in an earthly flame.
Heaven grant the infinite of thought may find
Him who alone can fill the heights and depths of mind.

SONNET XLII.

[Thou speakest well! Imagination owes]

Thou speakest well! Imagination owes
All to herself. To trifles light and vain
She gives amazing stress of joy and pain;
And sometimes, mighty in her own repose,
Removeth mountains, that impending rose
To check her onward path! Creation's reign,
Touched by her magic wand, brings forth a train
Of playful sprites, or ghosts foreboding woes;
A world to all, save him that sees, unknown!
In summer's blissful noon strange voices swell;
In night's deep silence, whence that bursting groan?
These, and a thousand shapes, and sounds that dwell
With Fancy, are exclusively their own,
Loved by the Priestess of the Magic Cell.

SONNET XLIII. Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, printed, but not published, called “Isabel.”

If, as the mystics say, grace from above
More frequent dawns while tears of anguish roll,
Wrestling with passions of the fallen soul,
There might be consolation thus to prove
An inward torment; thus, like Noah's dove,
To know no resting-place from grief's control;
No sheltered spot where memory doth not toll
The knell of sorrow for some severed love.
But if an idle anguish desecrate
From every pure and intellectual aim,
The abode of thought, the temple of the mind,
What but despair and blasphemy await?—
Religion, come, in Patience' holy name,
The self-abandon'd heart thou'rt pledged to bind.

SONNET XLIV. Two Sketches attempted, which will only be understood well by him who acknowledges their likeness to himself.

Hard is his lot, who wheresoe'er he turns,
No fellow-feeling finds! whom social glee
Never exhilarates; whose heart ne'er burns
With infant loves;—nor tears of sympathy,
Nor playful smiles,—to other men as free
As air or light of heaven—are his; who yearns
With impotent, and pining jealousy,
As other men appear to seem and be,
While mockery's withering grin the novice spurns;
And sleek prosperity's unthinking sneer
Dashes the trembling effort ere matur'd:—
Shrinks the chill'd baffled heart, as if the fear
Of unforgiven guilt, and unabjur'd
Pursued;—for self-applause, with healthful cheer,
Ne'er comes where mental misery is endured.

SONNET XLV.

[See this worn wretch amid the giddy throng]

See this worn wretch amid the giddy throng,
Feeble and timid: watch his anxious look:
That mystery of care the world mistook
For senselessness!—Now bursts the festive song!
Pressed in his memory by a cruel wrong,
And blasting misery of mind which shook
The powers of life, so that he cannot brook
The trophies that to social mirth belong.
If thou hast never breath'd, though blest with ease
And intellect, the unavailing prayer,
The idle longing, to surrender these,
And other rare pretensions,—so thy share
In nature's common stores, and powers to please,
Were once allowed,—thou knowest not despair.

SONNET XLVI.

[“Why should'st thou ever strike the mournful string?”]

“Why should'st thou ever strike the mournful string?”
The world will say. Because that string repeats
A tale responsive to my soul, that cheats
My inward grief, by outward sounds that bring
Brief alienation. Thus for those I sing
Whose kindred thoughts on kindred themes may range;
Whom no extreme transition could estrange
From secret disappointment's festering sting.
Better t' associate powers of thought with woe,
To dress her in the scanty remnants left
Of fancy, grace, and beauty, than bereft
Of all alleviation, bid her go,—
As inadmissible to claim a share
In sympathy,—to madness and despair.

SONNET XLVII.

['Twere like a dear lov'd long lost friend regain'd]

'Twere like a dear lov'd long lost friend regain'd
When least expected, in thy solitude
To hear a voice which fits thy pensive mood:
Men of the world, who joy's full cup have drain'd,
Repress the sneer; nor selfishly arraigned,
Miscall each sentiment not understood:
There are, like me, who life's gay scenes have viewed,
In sorrow's discipline too early trained.
How oft have arid thought, and black despair,
Which, numb'd by sorrow's iron guardian pride,
Would never yield to grief personified,—
Seduced to tears—that long congealed had dwelt
In cold repression, thus been mollified,
When plaintive numbers breathed emotions felt.

SONNET XLVIII.

[Come, Poesy, celestial power, and bring]

Come, Poesy, celestial power, and bring
Thy genial train of visionary joys!
Raise my sad heart from sorrow that destroys;
And gnawing cares that check the salient spring
Of genius:—come, and teach me how to sing:
The world by me unenvied with its toys,
The world amused by vanity and noise,
And, pledged to interest, universal king.
Recall the time when Fancy yet was young,
And fresh affection shed the generous tear;
When falsehood was a stranger to my tongue,
And vice, yet undetected, to mine ear,
The dirge of murdered hope had not yet sung:
Oh come, and rescue me from anxious fear!

SONNET XLIX. IN THE CHARACTER OF ST. PREUX.

Sailing at ease along that placid lake,
It seemed as all the world were left behind;
The universe was centred in my mind;
And what an universe was there to make
Strange stir and tumult: fancy was awake,
And thoughts of love and joy throbb'd quick: the wind
Soothingly breathed; and mellowing beams assigned
To autumn, raised such notes from bush and brake,
That every object made the sense to ache,
In Nature's most voluptuous mood combin'd.
For sailing thus along that placid tide,
Dead to the world, the world unheeding me,
While hopeless love in bleeding misery
Throbbed in my heart, fain would despair have tried
'Mid whelming waves, the wretches latest cure—
But conscience whisper'd, “Thou must yet endure.”

SONNET L.

[Whether thou smile or frown, thou beauteous face]

Whether thou smile or frown, thou beauteous face,
Thy charms alike possess my throbbing heart,
Nor canst thou gesture, look, or word impart
Fraught not with magic of enchanting grace:
Oh, could I once thy lovely form embrace!
Die on thy lips, and, as fierce raptures dart,
Breathe sighs that bid the mutual soul depart!
And with keen glances, keener glances chase!
It may not be, Oh Love!—Thou gavest to me
A heart too prone thy raptures to adore!
The touch, the look, the sigh, are mine no more!
Love is departed, and in agony
The infatuated spirit must deplore
That after love no other joy can be.

SONNET LI. TO MISS------

Oh sentiment, in thy immortal glow,
Our daily life with aspect new is seen,
Thine is the touch discriminating, keen!
In persons, things, thou various shades dost know
Which to mere intellect could not bestow
A self-amusing topic: blank, I ween,
Save to the initiate mind, thy busiest scene,
Filled with affections, fears, and joy, and woe.
But, ah! how seldom must the trembling sense,
By thee inspir'd, a heart responsive find!
How many to thy favours make pretence!
But rarely art thou, bashful instinct, kind,
Where Modesty with virgin influence
Hides not, with jealous care, her stores of mind!

SONNET LII. TO MISS------.

Once more, oh sentiment, I strike my lyre,
Thy powers to sing.—To all the stores of art
Thou dost entrancing dignity impart!
To painting, music, poesy, thy fire
Doth give a fascinating influence:
Forms, sounds, and words, subordinate to thee,
Rise to a more imperious agency,
Ineffable in grace and eloquence.
Come not with death, oh sentiment! nor come
With disappointment, sorrow, and disease!
Then dim the impassioned eye, the tongue is dumb
Where fascination played her witcheries.
Then heaviest ills the loftiest bosom numb,
Since streams most copious on that bosom freeze.

SONNET LIII. To her who will understand this, and the two preceding ones.

To her I bring these trophies of thy reign,
Oh sentiment! thy most beloved child!
Soft is her look, as if an angel smiled;
And musical her voice, as when the strain
Of shepherd's flute along the twilight plain
Is heard from far; her step is calm and mild:
Pride, and persuasive grace, seem reconciled
In her, to consummate what poets feign.
To thee I bring these trophies, beauteous form!
Round whom taste, elegance, and fancy breathe,
To fashion's courtly ease you add the charm,
To deem no thing that hath a heart beneath
Solicitous benignity!—Hence, warm
With partial thoughts, I twine the unworthy wreathe.

SONNET LIV. Written after a Walk by Rydal Water, Westmore-land, in time of War.

In such a day how calm and mild this scene,
Made for poetic thought. The woods display'd
Of brown and yellow every varying shade:
And here and there the fresh and lingering green
Told yet of summer and her days serene,
Too soon departed! Fading fern array'd
The russet hills; and, as faint sun-gleams stray'd,
In warmer hues th' upland slopes were seen.
Oh, beauteous aspect of a beauteous world!
Mournful to think how little understood!
In man's distemper'd heart hath frenzy hurl'd
Envenom'd shafts! The sword, defil'd with blood,
Lays waste the earth: and o'er the ocean flood
The crimson flag of discord is unfurl'd.

SONNET LV. Written after seeing Rydal Lake.

Wild is the lake, dark in autumnal gloom!
And white its surf rolls in the silvery gleam;
Swift lights that flit like phantoms in a dream,
Or white robed spirits hovering o'er a tomb
The shades of autumn fitfully illume.
The plaintive winds now swelling in a stream
Of deep-toned music, now subsiding, seem
To frame a dirge for Nature's faded bloom.
The yellow leaf whirls frequent in the air;
From the full floating clouds propitious showers,
As with an infant's playfulness repair
To variegate the visionary hours:
The elements at work exhaust their powers,
From the bard's heart, to dissipate all care.

SONNET LVI.

[Whence dost thou spring, thou visionary sound]

Whence dost thou spring, thou visionary sound,
Heard by my hearth, what time the curtain hides
The external world, where sable night abides?
Thy source unseen, though Fancy in her round,
Scorning the illumin'd parlour's scanty bound
Springs to the waste o'er which thy murmur glides,
Pictures the mountain, or the roaring tides
Whose haunts thou visitest with voice profound.
Cease not thy music, when, at hour of sleep,
The forms of day no longer cheat my woes;
When slumber's stealing powers mine eye-lids close,
Still let thy melodies, so soft and deep,
A soothing presage bring, that peace shall keep
My bosom, rocked by Nature to repose.

SONNET LVII. Inserted in a Novel, written by the Author, called “Isabel.”

My God! I lift my sorrowing voice to thee!
I ask not health, prosperity, or fame,
Joy, life, whate'er of good the thought can frame:
I ask the gift of faith, when misery
Must be my lot, that I may bend the knee,
And feel, great God, that whence my misery came,
From the same source alone my heart can claim
That which from mental pangs can set me free!
Yes, Father! let me see thy hand in grief,
And grief to me shall be as comfort dear!
But if, in wisdom, thou refuse to hear,
If of my trials darkened faith be chief,
Let resignation, with a holy fear,
Refuse presumptuous, premature relief.

SONNET LVIII. Descriptive as well as commemorative of a place belonging to the eldest Brother of the Author's Father; a place in which were spent many of the happiest Hours of his Youth.

Beloved spot, ere sleep mine eyes did close
On last night's pillow, thy remembered scene,
Thy shrubbery, avenue, and daisied green,
Thy teeming garden, farm, and orchard rose
With many a thought of what I once had been!
What beauty, and what joy didst thou disclose!
What hopes, what loves, what friendships, and what woes!
What tide of life thy busy range has seen!
Now silent all, deserted! Memory's thought
Can never from that moment be estrang'd,
When the lov'd progeny, in order rang'd,
The parent's glance of heartfelt triumph caught!
Six graceful forms the hand of death hath chang'd,
And to thy once gay bowers are fear and sorrow brought.

SONNET LIX.

[Where is that crowd of friends that could dispense]

Where is that crowd of friends that could dispense
Refreshing rapture to life's sunny morn?
Where are those loves, affections, that are born
Of freedom, sentiment, and confidence?
'Tis silent all! a blank to every sense!
The energy of life, that used to scorn
The rule of pale experience, is withdrawn!
That power ere while so buoyant and intense!
Yet there is One who faithful still remains,
Who loves my solitude, as once she lov'd
My cheer in social life: who loves my joy,
Nor flies my couch when gnawing sickness reigns:
She, like the minister of heaven, hath prov'd
That “time and chance” can true love ne'er destroy.

SONNET LX.

[Let him who runs of active life the race]

Let him who runs of active life the race
Despise the Muses: let him, with strong mind,
Appropriate objects for each passion find:
Yet are there some, who, doomed to quit the chase
Of Interest, or Ambition, whose slow pace
Of languid being to despair resigned,
Could not support the interdict assign'd
To sequestration, with averted face
Did the loved Muses frown on their bleak lot:
For They can give to solitude a power,
Can whisper soothings in the midnight hour;
And raise gay fictions where true joy is not!
The copious dews of sentiment can shower
On Nature's bleakest, most deserted spot!

SONNET LXI.

[Say, what is friendship but true sympathy]

Say, what is friendship but true sympathy
Of kindred minds, where mutual feeling burns;
Where cordial warmth the cordial warmth returns,
And lightens up the heart-conveying eye?
And how do Interest, and Vanity,
Folly, and fear of solitude, by turns,
Hypocrisy that speedily discerns
The worth of borrowed reputation, try
To emulate thy pure consoling flame!
Oh Friendship, with this war of fiends oppress'd,
Where dost thou keep thy soul's serenity?
I know thy power will zealously disclaim
Divided incense.—Let my heart be blest!—
For I would sacrifice my all to Thee!

SONNET LXII. On the Death of Mr. Robert Lloyd, who, together with a Brother married, both of them leaving a Widow, the former with four, and the latter with three Children, and a Sister unmarried, died each of them of Fevers, in the short space of three weeks.

My friend, my brother, no more shall I see
That face affectionate, that face benign,
Those eyes where tenderness did always shine,
Whene'er they turned their gentle beams on me.
If ever Faith, and Generosity,
Love, and Benevolence almost divine,
Forgetfulness of Self, Humility,
Blessed human nature;—Robert, they were thine!
Thy smile,—I see it now,—was kind and sweet
As the first dawnings of an April morn:
Thy warm solicitude each wish to meet,
And catch the struggling meaning ere 'twas born,
No words can emulate! Who o'er thy urn,
Lost friend, like him who lov'd thee most, should mourn?

SONNET LXIII. The same Subject continued; addressed to Mrs. Robert Lloyd.

Thou mourner desolate, what can I say
To dry those tears which fall for him that's gone?
I cannot bid thee hope that on life's way
A human counterpart will e'er be known.
No, never will a pure angelic ray
Like that, which with a sweetness all his own,
His dear face lighted,—never will a tone
Of such solicitude,—thy love repay!—
Yet still thy soul communion sweet may hold,
Still may his tenderness engross thy thought!
And though those eyes are dim, those lips are cold,
With Love's warm eloquence divinely fraught,
Still 'tis a holier privilege to grieve
For Him, than with a less pure friend to live!

SONNET LXIV. The same subject continued.

This morn as dismal as the dismal theme,
Which weighs my bosom when I think on thee:
This morning shrouded in obscurity
Of winds, and blustering rain, and vapours dim;
This morn, with weary eye, and languid limb,
The task is done of mimic poesy.
To whom, dear friend, to whose kind sympathy,
When in my breast first stirred the wayward whim,
Can I ascribe assistance?—Thou art gone!—
Thou first whene'er my frail and suffering mind
Some effort made, with sweetness all thy own,
And flattering promptitude most bland and kind,
To gratulate my toils of little worth!—
Thou last to blame!—Thou first to hail their birth!

SONNET LXV. The same Subject continued.

No, thou wert never known, wert never loved,
As heart like thine should have been lov'd and known,
Save by some life-long friends who now must groan
That they, when thou didst live, so useless proved
The cup of life to sweeten! Friend removed
From many a pang which hearts like thine alone
Can feel; which, with acuteness all thy own,
Alas! thou feltest! Brother, Friend approved,
Farewell! I do not seek with hand profane,
The veil that o'er thy heart was drawn to rend:
Thou wert a hidden treasure which the vain,
The proud, the worldly could not comprehend.
I mourn for thee, thou ne'er to be forgot!
Yet more for those who loved, and see thee not!

SONNET LXVI. On the Death of Mr. Thomas Lloyd, who died within three weeks of the time when the subject of the last four Sonnets breathed his last.

If manly honour, and a soul sincere,
Fidelity with delicacy joined,
Immaculate transparency of mind,
And worth too sensitive for this low sphere;
If Thomas, all the virtues that are dear
In scenes domestic, fortitude resigned,
Manners by native elegance refined,
May claim, when lost, the Muse's tuneful tear;
Say, who may more imperiously pretend,
As husband, brother, father, son, and friend,
Than thee, to such recording eulogy?
Yet those thy silent, suffering worth, who knew,
Must think this eulogy, though too, too true,
Less emblematic than dumb Grief of thee.