SONNETS.

SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, From the close sick-room newly set at large, Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale. O! to his ear how musical the tale Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float! It was on this that many a sleepless night, As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.

SONNET.

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where far from cities I may spend my days; And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SONNET.1

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY.

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once—a brother too— (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) I had a lover once, and kind and true, But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady—not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom— My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

SONNET.

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds Successive fly, and the loud piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.

SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o'erlays The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness will involve thee. No kind star To-night will guide thee, Traveller,—and the war Of winds and elements on thy head will break, And in thy agonizing ear the shriek Of spirits howling on their stormy car Will often ring appalling—I portend A dismal night—and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.

SONNET.

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, "Severest of those orders which belong, Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys Of its full harmony:—they fear to wrong The sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Of that so varied and peculiar frame. O think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways.

SONNET.

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION.

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade With wildest song;—me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.

SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ÆOLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the infuriate gust, it did career, It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, Melting in melody;—and I descried, Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?

SONNET.

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon, Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

Lofft, unto thee one tributary song The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child: Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And show thy labours for the public weal, Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.

SONNET TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, With double joy my homage do I pay. When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd The maid of musings by yon moaning wave; And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd, Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! The busy world pursues its boisterous way, The noise of revelry still echoes round, Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.

SONNET TO MISFORTUNE.

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, And I have wonder'd much when men have told. How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!—Shrivel'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; I am not either, beldame, over strong; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, —Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

SONNET.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as, amid the leaves, the evening air Whispers still melody,—I think ere long, When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder, with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

SONNET TO APRIL.

Emblem of life! see changeful April sail In varying vest along the shadowy skies, Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, Anon recalling winter's stormy gale, And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail; Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale, The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, While still the fates the web of misery weave. So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail, And from the present gloom the soul conveys To distant summers and far happier days.

SONNET.

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies; When he, who now invokes you, low is laid, His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed; Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! For he was wont to love your madrigals; And often by the haunted stream, that laves The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy.

SONNET TO A TAPER.

'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits, And all is silence—in the hour of sleep; Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. I wake alone to listen and to weep, To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn; And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, My eye surveys the solitary gloom; And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane;—like thine my life's last ray Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought!—where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

SONNET.

Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; And death my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before, Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, While I am mouldering in the silent grave. God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head.

Consumption, lay thine hand!—let me decay

Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,

And softly go to slumber with the dead.

And if 'tis true what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day

Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,

O let the aërial music round my bed,

Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by

Ere I depart upon my journey drear:

And, smiling faintly on the painful past,

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

SONNET.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear The face of pity and of love divine; But mine is guilt—thou must not, canst not spare, While heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God!—such crimes as mine, so dread, Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite—it is time—though endless death ensue, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?

SONNET.

When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart.

SONNET.

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring; But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string— Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, While in my ears the howls of furies ring, And melancholy waste the vital fire? Away with thoughts like these—To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.

SONNET.

Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts— Bleak blows the blast—now howls—then faintly dies— And oft upon its awful wings it wafts The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, Insensible to every outward ill; Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more.