SONNET XXXVI. FROM PETRARCH. 1st February, 1807. LOVE, I transgress, and consciously transgress, But, like the wretch, whom inward flames con sume, My pangs increase, and reason's aid suppress, Till cureless agony complete my doom. Some little check to importunate distress The fear inspired, that I might bring a gloom On her sweet hours of peace; but now no less Than fell despair goads boldly to presume. Of reckless ravings, petulant and wild, 'Tis thou, not I, oh Love, the guilt must bear, Who thus dost every power of thought perplex, So that to airy nothings, like a child, And worse than airy nothings, I repair- vex. SONNET XXXVII. TO SOLITUDE. In solitude What happiness?-Who can enjoy alone? 3d February, 1807. OH Solitude, let him thy aid implore, Whose o'erwrought soul the busy world hath tired; And oft thou'rt wisely wooed by him inspired With taste, and learning's independent lore. But, Solitude, thou art a friend no more, To him, who, with a hopeless passion fired, To brood unmarked, incautious, hath retired On joys whose stings remain, whose sweets are o'er. Then, Solitude, thou soft but dangerous power, Who charm'st the enthusiast with insidious rest, Thy silent days unnerve, relax ;-and drest In dire illusion, comes thy loneliest hour! The cheerful Spirit would not be thy guest! And Frenzy clasps the wretched in thy bower. SONNET XXXVIII. TO SOLITUDE. 3d February, 1807. BETTER the boisterous tide of life to stem, Of interest or ambition, than to blight Of disappointment shroud thy noteless name; Since happiness evades our mortal eye, Begone! ye promise peace-but we must buy Our peace on earth with arduous victory O'er all that Passion to her heart would bind. SONNET XXXIX. TO SOLITUDE. 4th February, 1807. Он, Solitude, thou hast no moderate pain! Better to toil in bleak life's thorny field; the range Of outward forms withdraw, till then concealed, To find an inward chaos that will yield To nought save fortune, time, and place, and change. SONNET XL. Inserted in a Novel, written by the author, printed, but not published, called " Isabel." 27th July, 1807. No heal, Which prompts my bosom's agonizing throe! Grief is not grief when language may reveal; He is the man of grief who must conceal Thoughts that, like spectres, trackless come and go. Senses of ear, and eye, and touch, ye raise An insurrection through my inmost soul; Yet o'er that soul the law of duty sways With absolute, invincible control. Oh Virtue, let me cease to love thy ways! Or bid these tides of passion cease to roll! |