University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

WRITTEN UNDER THE ENGRAVING OF A PORTRAIT OF RAFAEL, PAINTED BY HIMSELF WHEN HE WAS YOUNG.

Rafael! It must be he; we only miss
Something which manhood gave him, and the fair;
A look still sweeter and more thoughtful air;
But for the rest, 'tis every feature his,
The oval cheek, clear eye, mouth made to kiss,
Terse lightsome chin, and flush of gentle hair
Clipped ere it loitered into ringlets there,—
The beauty, the benignity, the bliss.
How sweetly sure he looks! how unforlorn!
There is but one such visage at a time;
'Tis like the budding of an age new born,
Remembered youth, the cuckoo in the prime,
The maid's first kiss, or any other thing
Most lovely, and alone, and promising.

[TO PERCY SHELLEY.]

Yet, Percy, not for this, should he whose eye
Sees loveliness, and the unselfish joy
Of justice, turn him, like a peevish boy,
At hindrances and thwartings; and deny
Wisdom's divinest privilege, constancy;
That which most proves him free from the alloy
Of useless earth,—least prone to the decoy
That clamours down weak pinions from the sky.
The Spirit of Beauty, though by solemn quires
Hourly blasphemed, stoops not from it's calm end,
And forward breathing love, but ever on
Rolls the round day, and calls the starry fires
To their glad watch. Therefore, high-hearted friend,
Be still with thine own task in unison.

TO JOHN KEATS.

'Tis well you think me truly one of those,
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings,
Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose.
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charles's, wise and warm,—
As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now,
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.

ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM THE SAME.

A crown of ivy! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it,—young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness,—Fancy's rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,—
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus,—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

ON THE SAME.

It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,
Thus to be topped with leaves;—to have a sense
Of honour-shaded thought,—an influence
As from great Nature's fingers, and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
'Tis what's within us crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,—
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state
Of natural good befiittng such desires,
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.

TO HORATIO SMITH.

With what a fine unyielding wish to bless,
Does Nature, Horace, manage to oppose
The town's encroachments! Vulgar he, who goes
By suburb gardens which she deigns to dress,
And does not recognize her green caress
Reaching back to us in those genial shows
Of box-encircled flowers and poplar rows,
Or other nests for evening weariness.
Then come the squares, with noon-day nymphs about;
Then vines, and ivy; tree tops that look out
Over back walls; green in the windows too;—
And even where gain huddles it's noisiest rout,
The smile of her sweet wisdom will break through,
For there, dear Horace, has she planted you.

TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.

Haydon, whom now the conquered toil confesses
Painter indeed, gifted, laborious, true,
Fit to be numbered in succession due
With Michael, whose idea austerely presses,
And sweet-soul'd Raphael with his amorous tresses;
Well hast thou urged thy radiant passage through
A host of clouds; and he who with thee grew,
The bard and friend, congratulates and blesses.
'Tis glorious thus to have one's own proud will,
And see the crown acknowledged that we earn;
But nobler yet, and nearer to the skies,
To feel one's-self, in hours serene and still,
One of the spirits chosen by heaven to turn
The sunny side of things to human eyes.

TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS,

ON HIS LINES UPON THE STORY OF RIMINI.

Reynolds, whose Muse, from out thy gentle embraces,
Holding a little crisp and dewy flower,
Came to me in my close-entwined bower,
Where many fine-eyed Friendships and glad Graces,
Parting the boughs, have looked in with like faces,
And thanked the song which had sufficient power
With Phœbus to bring back a warmer hour,
And turn his southern eye to our green places:
Not for this only, but that thou dost long
For all men's welfare, may there be a throng
Of kind regards, wherever thou appearest;
And in thy home, firm-handed Health, a song
Girt with rich-hearted friends, and she the nearest
To whom the warble of thy lip is dearest.

TO THE SAME,

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

A liberal taste, and a wise gentleness
Have ever been the true physician's dower,
As still is visible in the placid power
Of those old Grecian busts; and helps to bless
The balmy name of Haller, and the address
Of cordial Garth; and him in Cowley's bower,
Harvey; and Milton's own exotic flower,
Young Deodati, plucked from his caress.
To add to these an ear for the sweet hold
Of music, and an eye, ay and a hand
For forms which the smooth Graces tend and follow,
Shews thee indeed true offspring of the bland
And vital god, whom she of happy mould,
The Larissæan beauty, bore Apollo.