Sorrento! Love's Star! Land
Of myrtle and vine,
I come from a far land
To kneel at thy shrine;
Thy brows wear a garland,
Oh, weave one for mine!
Thine image, fair city,
Smiles fair in the sea,—
A youth sings a pretty
Song, tempered with glee,—
The mirth and the ditty
Are mournful to me.
Ah, sea boy, how strange is
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The gardens of Spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.
March, 1862.
JANET.
I see her portrait hanging there,
Her face, but only half as fair,
And while I scan it,
Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met—
She smiles. I never can forget
The smile of Janet.
A matchless grace of head and hand,
Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot—can it?
And then the brow, the lips, the eyes—
You look as if you could despise
Devotion, Janet.
I knew her as a child, and said
She ought to have inhabited
A brighter planet:
Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,—
And so did Janet.
She grew in beauty, and in pride,
Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it,
At Church, with only this result,
They threatened with quicunque vult
Both me and Janet.