Sonnet.
The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece
Fabled young Love an everlasting boy,
That through the blithe air, like a pulse of joy,
Wing’d his bright way—a life that could not cease,
Nor suffer diminution or increase;
Whose quiver, fraught with quaint delicious woes,
And wounds that hurt not—thorns plucked from the rose
Making the fond heart hate its stagnant fence—
Was ever full. Oh musical conceit
Of old Idolatry, and youthful time,
Fit emanation of a happy clime,
Where but to live, to move, to breathe, was sweet;
And love indeed came floating on the air,
A winged God, for ever fresh and fair!
Sonnet.
It must be so—my infant love must find
In my own breast a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,
Or rebel spirit bound within the rind
Of some old [wither’d] oak—or fast enshrin’d
In the cold durance of an echoing cave——
Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind
That decks its temple with unearthly grace,
Together must we dwell my dream and I—
Unknown then live, and unlamented die
Rather than dim the lustre of that face,
Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,
Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.
Sonnet.
Few lov’d the youthful bard, for he was one
Whose face, tho’ with intelligence it beam’d,
Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam’d
It was but momentary, like the sun
Darting one bright ray thro’ the thunder cloud—
He lov’d the secret vale, and not the crowd
And hum of populous cities—some would say
There was a secret labouring in his breast,
That made him cheerless and disturb’d his rest;
Whose influence sad he could not drive away.
What caused the young bard’s woe was never known,
Yet, once, a wanderer deem’d an hapless flame
Consum’d his life away, for one, whose name
He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone!
Song.
She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew,
Until she smil’d on me.
O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne’er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye—
Her very frowns are fairer far,
Than smiles of other maidens are.
Song.