SONNET

TO AN ENTHUSIAST

YOUNG ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth,
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
And still a large late love of all thy kind,

Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,-
For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth,
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind
Thine eyes with tears,-that thou hast not resign'd
The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth:
For as the current of thy life shall flow,
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd,
Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen,
Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe
Thrice cursed of thy race,-thou art ordain'd
To share beyond the lot of common men.

When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And that virgin flow'r, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in Love's peculiar throne:
Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone,
And that which hangs upon the spray,
It is no snow, but flow'r of May !

SONNET

DEATH

Ir is not death, that sometime in a sigh

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;

It is not death to know this,--but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go

So duly and so oft,-and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.

SERENADE

Ан, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. "Tis sweet enough to make me weep,

That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hush'd so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd, That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.

VERSES IN AN ALBUM

FAR above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,-
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,

On his joyous throne.

So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth
To that blessed height.

THE FORSAKEN

THE dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,

And the living weep and sigh,
Over dust that once was love.

Once I only wept the dead,

But now the living cause my pain:
How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again?

My Mother rests beneath the sod,-
Her rest is calm and very deep:

I wish'd that she could see our loves,-
But now I gladden in her sleep.

Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turn'd to grey,
Once they were black and well beloved,
But thou art changed,—and so are they!

The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,

Was ta'en with smiles,-but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee!

SONG

THE stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail ;

But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea,
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;

The moon will veil her in the shade ;
The sun will set at night.

The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away;

So that dull night is never night,

And day is brighter day.