For it is not the rushing flight Of seasons soaring to the sun; It is the sand that hourly keeps The winds in destined courses fly, Though secret be their course, and dark: The sunbeam ceases not on high, Although no shade the dial mark. How long soe'er the measure given These shatter'd boughs, though rent and riven, Thou, blending in thy compass small, Ere many seasons pass, must fall, And mingle with thy parent earth. Yet, though the feeble frame that moulds Thy substance, all decaying be, That frame of fragile dust enfolds The germ of immortality. Spirit of origin sublime, Age is maturing strength to thee; Death thy best heritage, and Time The portal of eternity." Voice of the Oak! whate'er thou be, Of wild and visionary race, That call'st such things to memory, Within my heart, nor pass away, Till latest time's faint shadow trace The dawning of celestial day! 1810. H SONNET I. "Two voices are there." From the inmost breast, Its seat oracular, the one proceeds, Prompting the high-born soul to worthy deeds, And rousing Fancy from inglorious rest. The other from above, Heaven's high behest In still small accents speaks; which he who heeds, Is wise, for sure the path where Duty leads, Though dark, is safe; though rugged, yet the best. Nor would I at the call of Pleasure dare Resist that voice, but rather wait resign'd, Perform my daily task with duteous care, And quench the proud aspirings of my mind; Till happier days arrive, when, blithe and free, My soul shall spread her wings in joyful liberty. 1811. SONNET II. IT is a false theology that says, There is no bliss on earth, although the name May seem to mock the worldling's baffled aim, Who for his scanty mess of pottage pays His all, his birthright. There are pleasant ways Of love and peace to him whose end is right,Pastures aye green, and streams of calm delight, On which the heav'ns pour down their living rays. Some happy ones there are, blest far above Fortune's spoil'd heirs, who, in the quiet round Of duty, in the energies of love, And hope, and prayer, and in the eternal course Of Nature, healthful joy's perennial source, A sober certainty of bliss have found. 1813. SONNET III. A RICH and flowery slope! its woodland bound Is beauty, while the everlasting sound Far stretching on our right, its waves appear Like fields of grosser ether, where abound White-winged barks that catch their breast upon Th' alternate sun and shadow. O, e'en now, For shade of passing cloud, while here we rest, Groupe fit for poet, on this sultry brow, For the slow-trickling coolness of her waters, Courting the tiniest of the Naiad's daughters. Hastings, 1819. |