[1]: This Sonnet was written when the Balloon enthusiasm was at its height.
SONNET XLVI.
Dark as the silent stream beneath the night,
Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home,
Child of its narrow house!—how late the bloom,
The facile smile, the soft eye's crystal light,
Each grace of Youth's gay morn, that charms our sight,
Play'd o'er that Form!—now sunk in Death's cold gloom,
Insensate! ghastly!—for the yawning tomb,
Alas! fit Inmate.—Thus we mourn the blight
Of Virgin-Beauty, and endowments rare
In their glad hours of promise.—O! when Age
Drops, like the o'er-blown, faded rose, tho' dear
Its long known worth, no stormy sorrows rage;
But swell when we behold, unsoil'd by time,
Youth's broken Lily perished in its prime.
SONNET XLVII.
ON MR. SARGENT's DRAMATIC POEM,
THE MINE[1].
With lyre Orphean, see a Bard explore
The central caverns of the mornless Night,
Where never Muse perform'd harmonious rite
Till now!—and lo! upon the sparry floor,
Advance, to welcome him, each Sister Power,
Petra, stern Queen, Fossilia, cold and bright,
And call their Gnomes, to marshal in his sight
The gelid incrust, and the veined ore,
And flashing gem.—Then, while his songs pourtray
The mystic virtues gold and gems acquire,
With every charm that mineral scenes display,
Th' imperial Sisters praise the daring Lyre,
And grateful hail its new and powerful lay,
That seats them high amid the Muses' Choir.
[1]: Petra, and Fossilia, are Personifications of the first and last division of the Fossil Kingdom. The Author of this beautiful Poem supposes the Gnomes to be Spirits of the Mine, performing the behests of Petra and Fossilia, as the Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, &c. appear as Handmaids of the Nymph of Botany in that exquisite sport of Imagination, the Botanic Garden.
SONNET XLVIII.
Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne,
'Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers,
Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her flowers,
Pouring their soft luxuriance on the morn.
O! how unlike the wither'd, wan, forlorn,
And limping Winter, that o'er russet moors,
Grey ridgy fields, and ice-incrusted shores,
Strays!—and commands his rising Winds to mourn.
Protracted Life, thou art ordain'd to wear
A form like his; and, shou'd thy gifts be mine,
I tremble lest a kindred influence drear
Steal on my mind;—but pious Hope benign,
The Soul's bright day-spring, shall avert the fear,
And gild Existence in her dim decline.