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SONNET IV.

THERE's beauty, motion, music in the stream,
And these are sweet; but sweeter are the flowers
That bathe therein: they live, and in the beam

Of morn unfold, closing when evening lowers,

And seem to feel the sunshine and the showers :Yet only seem; and therefore sweeter still, The insect joying in his conscious powers

Of flight or sport, taking his little fill

Of happiness, ephemeral type of ours.
Yet mind's ethereal spark is wanting there,
And therefore sweeter are those chubby faces

Peeping through yonder gate, in which one traces The dawn of soul,-speaking of mother's care,

And hope, and love-in which the heart can share.

SONNET V.

IN REPLY TO SOME LINES FROM A LADY.

66

UNKNOWN, yet well remember'd!" Such the fame

The Poet sighs for in his loftiest mood;—

To be by strangers loved, to have a name,
When he is not, among the fair and good.
Me other hopes possess: Lady, I would

Know and be known by all within the sphere
Of happy being,-held by millions dear,

Nor find one stranger 'mid the multitude;

Meeting them all with love intense and pure

As here but One may claim, while still the heart Shall with that One, my being's better part,

Be closest knit. If this, my friend, be sure, Though here we never meet, it matters not.

And yet, though still unknown, I would not be

1823.

forgot.

SONNET VI.

TO A FRIEND SUFFERING UNDER CALUMNY.

""Tis from the Lord," the humbled monarch cried, "E'en let him curse." And so he kiss'd the rod,

O'erlook'd the injurer, and bow'd to God.

O majesty of meekness, which defied

The impotence of tongues, and calm relied

On Him who judgeth righteously!

"From men

Who are thy sword,"-so pray'd the sufferer then"From evil tongues, thy scourge, and men of pride, O Lord, deliver me!" Yet, who can tell,

But those who have endured, how keen the pain That Slander's fangs, tongues set on fire of hell, And venom'd whispers that inflict a stain, Can cause the innocent man? But oh, 'tis great, Meekly to suffer wrong, and feel it causeless hate.

TO AN EOLIAN HARP,

HEARD AT NIGHT.

IT was a chorus of the winds that stole

Its silence from the night, and seem'd to play A momentary dirge-as if the soul

Of Harmony had died and pass'd away. Now to the air it gave a solemn peal,

And on the hearing in sad concord hung: Anon in trembling distance did it steal, Till not one tone of faint vibration rung. Again! it breathes in fitful murmuring,

Now querulous and low, now full and clear; Borne on the midnight gale's mysterious wing, Like angel echoes from a distant sphere.

O wizard Harp! strange power is thine,
And more than music thou canst give,
Stirring those chords of magic twine,
So sweet, so fugitive.

Thy tones, not on the ear they dwell,
They sink not on the mournful air;

But inly to the heart they swell,

And wake an echo there.

Of friends away they seem to sing,
And make the hours of absence dear;

The shades of forms beloved they bring,
And draw the distant near.

O wizard Harp! such power enthralling,
No art melodious could inspire;

No wing of winds in murmurs falling,

So sweetly tune thy wire.

It is the spell that Fancy weaves,
Which gives thy charm to thee:

It is the sigh that Memory heaves,
Makes all thy melody.

1811.

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