1.
I have been wont to bear my head right high,
My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;
Even before a monarch’s cold rebuff
I would not timidly avert mine eye.
Yet, mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:
Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,
I feel submissive and subdued enough,
When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh.
Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,
Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken,
And soaring to the light of heaven again?
By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d
That I have done so much that grieved thy breast,
Which loved me, more than all things else, the best.
2.
With foolish fancy I deserted thee;
I fain would search the whole world through, to learn
If in it I perchance could love discern,
That I might love embrace right-lovingly.
I sought for love as far as eye could see,
My hands extending at each door in turn,
Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—
Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.
And ever search’d I after love; yes, ever
Search’d after love, but love discover’d never,
And so I homeward went, with troubled thought;
But thou wert there to welcome me again,
And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then
That was the sweet love I so long had sought.
TO H. S.
When I thy book, friend, open hastily,
Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,
And many a golden image that I knew
In boyish dreams and days of infancy.
Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see
The pious dome, rotted by religion true,
I bear the sound of bell and organ too,
Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.
Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,
The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy
The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.
But though the oak of foliage we may strip,
And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,
When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.
FRESCO-SONNETS TO CHRISTIAN S—.
1.
I take no notice of the blockheads tame
Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand;
I never offer to that rogue my hand
Who secretly would injure my good name;
I bow not to the harlots who proclaim
Boldly their infamy throughout the land;
And when in victor-cars the rabble band
Draw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came.
Well know I that the oak must fall indeed,
Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reed
Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not;
But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot?
What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy,
Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.