Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ? As blow-ball from the mead? I know it and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes flutt'ring for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, his pains severe and many: Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not may my eyes close, Love! on their lost repose. SONNETS. I. H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, west, And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. II. TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL FRE CROWN. RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. down Who dares call My will from its high purpose? "Stand," Who say, Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frown A III. FTER dark vapors have oppress'd our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle south, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us fruit ripening in stillness, Budding, suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, as, of leaves autumn Sweet Sappho's cheek, a sleeping infant's breath, The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs, A woodland rivulet, a Poet's death. Jan. 1817. IV. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF "THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE. TH HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honeyed lines so freshly interlace, To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops Come cool and suddenly against his face, And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power has white simplicity! What mighty power has this gentle story! I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. Feb. 1817 |