SONNET.[93]
Though king-bred rage with lawless Tumult rude
Have driv’n our Priestley o’er the ocean swell;
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Disdainful rouses from the Papal spell,
And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid th’ oppression wail,
That ground th’ ensnared soul of patient Folly;
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil,
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
SONNET.
O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured!
Great Kosciusko ’neath an hireling’s sword
The warriors view’d! Hark! through the list’ning air
(When pauses the tir’d Cossack’s barbarous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The “Dirge of Murder’d Hope!” while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o’er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear
That ever furrowed a sad Patriot’s cheek,
And she had drench’d the sorrows of the bowl
Ev’n till she reel’d, intoxicate of soul!
Tell me which you like the best of the above two. I have written one to Godwin, but the mediocrity of the eight first lines is most miserably magazinish! I have plucked, therefore, these scentless road-flowers from the chaplet, and entreat thee, thou river god of Pieria, to weave into it the gorgeous water-lily from thy stream, or the far-smelling violets on thy bank. The last six lines are these:—
Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless
And hymn thee, Godwin! with an ardent lay;
For that thy voice, in Passion’s stormy day,
When wild I roam’d the bleak Heath of Distress,
Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way,—
And told me that her name was Happiness.
Give me your minutest opinion concerning the following sonnet, whether or no I shall admit it into the number. The move of bepraising a man by enumerating the beauties of his polygraph is at least an original one; so much so that I fear it will be somewhat unintelligible to those whose brains are not του ἀμείνονος πηλοῦ. (You have read S.’s poetry and know that the fancy displayed in it is sweet and delicate to the highest degree.)
TO R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.
Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath’d
His various influence on thy natal hour:
My fancy bodies forth the Guardian Power,
His temples with Hymettian flowerets wreath’d;
And sweet his voice, as when o’er Laura’s bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa’s glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade
That bears soft dreams to Slumber’s listening ear!
Now patriot Zeal and Indignation high
Swell the full tones! and now his eye-beams dance
Meanings of Scorn and Wit’s quaint revelry!
Th’ Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance,
As erst that nobler Fiend beneath great Michael’s sword!