L.
And to the Father of Eternal days,
And fairest things, that fairer yet will be,
Shall I no song of adoration raise,
While Passion's world, and Life's great agony,
Are one dread hymn, dread Progresser! to Thee?
Thou, Love, art Progress! And be thine the praise
If I have ever loved thy voice divine,
And o'er the sadness of my slander'd lays
Flings its redeeming charm a note of thine.
Oh, Gentlest Might Almighty! if of mine
One strain shall live, let it thy impress bear;
And please wherever humble virtues twine
The rose and woodbine with the thorns of care,
Thriving because they love! Thy temple, Lord, is there!
[_]
After much theory, and some practice, I venture to propose the
measure of this sonnet as a pattern to English sonnetteers; for
while, to me, the Petrarchan, in our language, is at once, immelodious
and inharmonious, the music of this, in its linked unity, is
both sweet and various, and when closed by an alexandrine, majestic.
