SONNET.
TO THE SAME.
Although the sweet, still watches of the night
Find me all lonely now, yet the delight
Hath not quite gone, which from thy presence flows.
The love, the joy that in thy bosom glows,
Lingers to cheer thy friend. From thy fresh dawn
Some golden exhalations have I drawn
To make less dim my dusty noon. Thy tones
Are with me still; some plaintive as the moans
Of Dryads, when their native groves must fall,
Some wildly wailing, like the clarion-call
On battle-field, strewn with the noble dead.
Some in soft romance, like the echoes bred
In the most secret groves of Arcady;
Yet all, wild, sad, or soft, how steeped in poesy!
Providence, April, 1838.