All are gone away and past! She would weep, and he would craze : SONNETS. TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. MANY the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of Morn ; -the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;— The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? ΤΟ HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. www O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. How many bards gild the lapses of time! Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude: Do they occasion; 't is a pleasing chime. Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew A fresh-blown musk-rose; 't was the first that threw I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd; My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd. TO G. A. W. NYMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance! Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray And so remain, because thou listenest: I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON. WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate, Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew? |