ARS LONGA.
Give me from out the midnight of thy hair
One tress to braid in this my votive song;
For time though fleeting, art is nathless long;
And I, though skill of workmanship not rare
Be mine, in song would make for thee, most fair!
A work of such device as shall prolong
Thy name, exalted o'er Earth's meaner throng,
And lovelier than they all in my compare.
No silversmith of Ephesus am I,
By such device to bring my craftsmen gain:
Nor make I thee the idol of my heart;
Though thou, like great 'Diana,' whom they cry,
Dost hold within my breast as chaste a reign,
Nor ever shall thy gentle sway depart.
SONNET III.
A mingled sea of color here is rolled
Across the billowy upland filmed with smoke,
Whose groves of yellow beech and crimson oak
Stand forth, a goodly prospect to behold;
Nor with less glory do the mountains fold
Their giant forms in Autumn's hazy cloak,
While up their sides the distant wood has broke
In long receding waves of ruddy gold.
Could'st thou whose beauty doth my heart ensnare,
Give to this lovely scene an added grace,
I should not here perforce enjoy alone
These blended hues, which Autumn, in despair
At not out-vieing thy enchanting face,
From his broad pallet o'er the woods has thrown.
SONNET IV.
Oh! in these colored shades it were too blest
To roam with thee the hill-side and the plain,
When in each passing moment we retain
The moral of the great truth here impressed.
See! how the woods in green and gold are dressed,
As if apparelled for a conqueror's reign;
Nor less yon maple groves, whose blood-red stain
Trickles far down the distant mountain's crest.
Gorgeous October! in thy golden gleam
I see the tender light of loving eyes,
Which to thy sweet days give an added beam;
Nor would it be to me a vain surprise,
If sometimes thy low-whispering winds should seem
To be the music of her tender sighs.
SONNET V.
The less of life, the less account is seen:
The less account, the less of ill is known:
And Beauty, ere its flower be quite full-blown,
Is ofttimes nipped by sudden frosts and keen;
And thus the course of life with me hath been,
For, living among men, I dwell alone:
Till now, life's goodly tree well-nigh overthrown,
Doth wear the yellow leaf, and not the green.
Yet even as Autumn is the proper rest,
The sweet and gentlest season of the year;
So in the mellow Autumn of thy breast,
May my name last, to life and memory dear;
Nor less upon my thought be thine impressed,
For thou hast ever proved a friend sincere.
SONNET VI.
Like Summer-birds, when Summer-hours are fled:
Like Summer-skies when Autumn-clouds are nigh:
So from my heart did Hope, the watcher, fly,
When in thy arms my darling girl lay dead.
O fatal bolt! and all too surely sped:
Yet sadder far when in her love-lit eye
I saw the smile of recognition die,
And felt the death-damp on her fair young head.
If Love renewed have ever safe return
To its far bourne, what matters it which way
Our scarce-fledged hopes and blighted joys have fled?
Or why is it that we cannot discern
This last great truth, that our best treasures lie
Beyond the silent barriers of the dead?