IN dream of thought to be among the years That are not born, like years of long ago, Who bows not, trembling? Dusk, with steps as slow As mine, crept through the churchyard, dropping tears Like one that mourned. Imused and mused;-methought Some months, some years were gone, and in that spot Of graves is lingering a thoughtful boy. Amid the twilight stillness, deep and lone, He stoops, to read an old half-buried stone, And weeds the mosses that almost destroy The letters of the name, which is my own. The wind about the old gray tower makes moan. He rises from the grave with saddened brow, And leaves it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.
I HAVE not found so true a Harmony
As crowns this life of thine, my much-loved friend! See! the bright roses o'er the violets bend; The oaks with hazels sing in windy glee ;
The lawn looks coy up to yon gazing hill;
On the same bough are dove and blackbird seen; And, as we talk under this alley green,
The robin makes a third, with answering trill.
Within, thy home is meet for such a spot :
Thy youthful dreams - how rare! have grown to truth;
Still rarer, life keeps fine as dream of youth;
Rarest and best, this harmony is given,
Thy Real drinks music from Ideal Thought, And Earth but avenues the gate to Heaven!
THINE Own life too hath reached a Harmony Of rounder, nobler swell than mine, my friend! He is the Hero, whose strong soul can bend A turbulent nature, panting in the glee
Of young ambition to ascend the hill
Where Worldly Greatness, crowned with power, is seen; And, conqueror of himself, can seek the green
Low vale where true Peace dwells, and list the trill Of home-bred joys that sanctify the spot. Earth's dazzling meteors for the Torch of Truth Thou hast exchanged; and for wild dreams of youth More glorious aims and nobler gifts are given, A Soul of power, a well of lofty Thought,
A chastened Hope that ever points to Heaven.
This is one of the very few English sonnets written on the Italian principle mentioned at page 53 of the Introductory Essay.
A GENTLE spirit, sweet and pure and kind, Though strangely witted, "high fantastical," Who mantles his deep feelings in a pall
Of motley hues, by contrast more combined, That seems to hide, yet heightens what 's enshrined who, by a power unknown to all,
Save him alone, can summon at a call
A host of jarring elements, entwined
Quips, cranks, puns, sneers,—with clear sweet thought
And stinging jests, with honey for the wound ;- The subtlest lines of all fine powers, split To their last films, then marvellously spun In magic web, whose million hues are one!
season of my soul's best hopes !
How dear to gaze upon thy deepening skies, Breathing their balm o'er Autumn's mellow dyes! To list the voice of streamlets down the slopes Of these sweet uplands, and from out yon copse To catch the thrush's note, low breathed, like sighs From Love's too happy heart, when meeting eyes Transfuse the mutual soul; and, oft as drops The pale sear leaf, to muse on change and chance, Yet feel no fears! How should I, loveliest one! While thou art with me, and in thy deep glance I read my future fate, undimmed by woes, Whose course shall, like this day's, move gently on, In varying beauty, to its last calm close?
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