Poems 1817 Part 4

SONNETS

I. 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?

II. TO * * * * * *

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory sh.e.l.l, Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would pa.s.sion arm me for the enterprize: But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuira.s.s glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes; Yet must I dote upon thee,--call thee sweet.

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

III. _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.

Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?

Think you he nought but prison walls did see, Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?

Ah, no! far happier, n.o.bler was his fate!

In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air: To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

IV.

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy,--I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude: But no confusion, no disturbance rude Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store; The songs of birds--the whisp'ring of the leaves-- The voice of waters--the great bell that heaves With solemn sound,--and thousand others more, That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

V. _To a Friend who sent me some Roses._

As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert;--when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields: I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew As is the wand that queen t.i.tania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd: But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me 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.

VI. To G. A. W.

Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance, In what diviner moments of the day Art thou most lovely? When gone far astray Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?

Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance Of sober thought? Or when starting away, With careless robe, to meet the morning ray, Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance?

Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best.

I shall as soon p.r.o.nounce which grace more neatly Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

VII.

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove 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 refin'd, 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.

VIII. TO MY BROTHERS.

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household G.o.ds that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.

And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, Upon the lore so voluble and deep, That aye at fall of night our care condoles.

This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice That thus it pa.s.ses smoothly, quietly.

Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise May we together pa.s.s, and calmly try What are this world's true joys,--ere the great voice, From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

_November 18, 1816._

IX.

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair: For I am brimfull of the friendliness That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress, And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.