sonnet

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,

AH! LUST'ROUS GEM, bright emblem of the Heart,
That nobly scorns a borrow'd ray to share,
Whose gentle pow'r can break the spells of care,
And sooth, with lenient balm, the keenest smart.

Whether from holy FRIENDSHIP'S vow profan'd,
Or the dire frenzy of unpitied LOVE;
Whether from cherish'd passion unrestrain'd,
Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove.

Yet, if sad mem'ry ling'ring o'er past woe,
Calls THEE, soft trembler, from thy crystal throne,
And sternly bids thy pearly incence flow,

THOU meekest emblem of the infant year,
Why droops so cold and wan thy fragrant head ?
Ah ! why retiring to thy frozen bed,
Steals from thy silky leaves the trembling tear ?

Day's op'ning eye shall warm thy gentle breast,
Revive thy timid charms and sickly hue;
Thy drooping buds shall drink the morning dew,
And bloom again by glowing PHOEBUS drest;

Or should the midnight damp, with icy breath,
Nip thy pale check, and bow thee to the ground,
Or the bleak winds thy blossoms scatter round,

WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,
Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath
Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath,
Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.

The hardy PEASANT in his little cot,
Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares;
No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares
Invade the comforts of his humble lot.

Born to endure, he labours thro' the day,
And when the midnight storm o'er spreads the skies,
On a clean pallet peacefully he lies,

THE SEA-BEAT MARINER, whose watchful eye
Full many a boist'rous night hath wak'd to weep;
When the keen blast descending from the sky,
Snatch'd his warm tear-drop from the rav'nous deep.

Drench'd by the chilling rain, his dreary hour
Creeps slowly onward to the dawn of day;
Till burning PHOEBUS darting thro' the show'r,
Warms with his golden beam the frothy spray:

With lightning's swiftness he ascends the mast,
And cries, "another tedious night is o'er;"
He spreads the swelling sail, he sees at last

Oh, for some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
'Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crowned
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise
And have our loves enjoyed.

What posture can we think him in

I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
I’m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.

It seems to me – and this is no fraud –
A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters,
That fierce Hun. And the infection’s fetters
Through length of ages, are my steady bond.

I’m mute. I pine… They vanish – walls of home:
There is a sea in spots of silver foam,
The sun of evening – on the stones’ lead,

Since you would claim the sources of my thought
Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed,
The reedy traps which other hands have times
To close upon it. Conjure up the hot
Blaze that it cleared so cleanly, or the snow
Devised to strike it down. It will be free.
Whatever nets draw in to prison me
At length your eyes must turn to watch it go.

My mouth, perhaps, may learn one thing too well,
My body hear no echo save its own,
Yet will the desperate mind, maddened and proud,

In early youth, blithe Spring's exulting day,
Each hour put forth new raptures to my view;
Each sunny morn on downy pinions flew,
And swift the jocund minutes danc'd away!

Ere Summer's breath matur'd my ripening mind,
I found the blissful scene begin to fade;
Cold sorrow hover'd round with wings unkind,
And o'er my bosom spread a dreary shade;

An early Winter chills my glowing breast,
Frost-nipp'd too soon my fondest hopes decay;
My cheek no more with rosy graces bless'd,