LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO (VIII)

A diferencia del siglo precedente, el XIX se caracterizó desde sus comienzos por una mayor cantidad de poetas dedicados al soneto y por el fecundo experimentalismo que mostraban las fórmulas utilizadas para dicha composición.

Entre los nombres que surgieron en este siglo se hallan los poetas más laureados de Inglaterra, nombres que opacaron a los de otros que solo mucho tiempo después fueron justamente rescatados gracias a la revisión y revalorización de sus obras.

Teniendo en cuenta la profusión experimental aludida, he dividido la presentación del Siglo XIX en dos partes. 

PRIMERA PARTE: 

EL SONETO INGLÉS ENTRE 1800 Y 1850

ANNE BANNERMAN  

(1765—1829)

Poems_1800

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AT THE SUPULCHRE OF PETRARCH

What lingering years have fled, since first I hung

With youthful rapture o'er thy hallow'd urn!

Yet still I wander where that lyre was strung,

Yet still in hoary age to thee I turn.

Even in this time-chill'd heart where no return

Of new-born life shall rouse the expiring flame;

Warm in its pristine youth, nor faint, nor worn

Glows the first transport which awak'd thy name,

That soul sublime, whose ever-living fires

Shed on my early days their fairy bloom;

Now, on my tottering age, when Hope retires,

Lend its sweet luster to beguile the gloom:

O that my spirit, which to thine aspires,

Like thine could live, and triumph o'er the tomb.

SONNET

Is there a spot, in Nature's wide domain,

Where Peace delights her fair abode to rear?

Where the sad heart shall never sigh again,

Nor the dimm'd eye be sullied with a tear?

Yes! To the sick'ning soul, by woes oppress'd,

And doom'd the pride of ignorance to bear,

Ev'n in this world there is one place of rest,

One sure asylum from corroding care.

Keen blows the wint'ry wind, and beats the rain,

And o'er its grassy roof the thunders rave;—

But warring elements essay in vain,

To wake the slumb'ring tenant of the grave;

And tempests keener than the troubled air

Alike are powerless and unheeded there!

TO THE OCEAN

Hush'd are thy stormy waves, tempestuous main!

Light o'er thy surface sports the genial air!

Ah! Who would think, that danger lurks within,

That ev'n thy murmurings seem to say—beware.

To my corroded mind, destructive deep!

Thy smiling aspect only brings despair,

Reminds me, when the angry whirlwinds sweep

Along thy bosom, now so calm, so fair;

Reminds me, when, unpitying and untrue,

On the sunk rock thou driv'st the fated bark,

Whelm'st in thy wat'ry breast the luckless crew,

And smil'st delighted in a scene so dark.

Such are thy dreadful trophies, ruthless main!

What are thy triumphs—but another's pain!

WILLIAM FISHER PEACH DIMOND

(1781—1837)

Petrarchal Sonnets, and Miscellaneous Poems_1800

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WRITTEN IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER

(De la serie "Irregular Sonnets")

With hollow sweep the break gust moaneth by,

Vents its deep wail along the stubble sere;

And flits the fallen leaves, that yellowing lie

In emblem circlets of the dying year!

Nor hedge-row warbl'd song, nor woodland sound

Of Nature's minstrelsy, now swell the breeze,

That, mournful sighing, sways the shiv'ring trees;

But all is drear and comfortless around!

And hark! The water-fowl, loud clamouring,

Screams on the lake, then spreads her dusky wing;

With slow flap hovers o'er the reedy flood,

Dips her grey bill, and gripes her scaly food.

Heart-sick'ning glooms! What ghastly thoughts ye bring

To that lorn wretch, who dares not hope return of spring!

ON A WANDERING BEGGAR-BOY

(De la serie "Irregular Sonnets")

Poor vagrant wretch! What ills must thou endure!

All the cold hours of this chill, bitter day,

Half-frozen hast thou pac'd thy shiv'ring way,

While the keen sleet-fall arrow'd o'er the moor.

Thy scanty rags, all-tatter'd, leave thy form

A fenceless victim to the drenching storm;

And thy bare feet with crimson tears yet own

The flint's sharp-edge, or roughly-pointed stone!

Where houseless, hopeless, wilt thou lay thy head,

To 'scape the rude research of "winter's flaw?"

Blest, if thoy gain'st, in place of earth's damp bed,

A pent-house shelter, and a truss of straw!

Yet cheer thee, wretch! For this world's mis'ries o'er,

Another, and a better one, remains in store.

ALEXANDER THOMSON 

(1763—1803)

Sonnets, Odes and Elegies_1801

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SONNET CXXIX

How frail, alas, the state of all below!

How wide extends Corruption's baneful sway!

Of mortal excellence the growth how flow!

And yet how sure, how rapid its decay!

Does not a Tree in God's own garden grow,

Whose charms these eyes unwearied could survey;

And from whose leaves the fragrant gales that blow,

Alone can healing to my soul convey?

Yet in this Tree, so fresh in outward show,

Corruption dwells beyond what Nature gives;

The vital sap within has ceas'd to flow,

And the fair Cedar but by suff'rance lives:

Ev'n now perhaps impends the fatal blow,

That strikes th' unhealthy root, and lays its honours low.

SONNET XXXVII

No, no, my Friend, this splendid scheme of thine,

Thought kindly meant, will never suit with me;

For well thou know'st, this haughty heart of mine

Could with Subordination ne'er agree.

I smile to hear my mother's fond desire,

Engag'd in active life her son to see,

As if a soul like mine, a soul of fire,

One single moment could inactive be.

For wealth, or fame, or trifles such as these,

Perhaps to toil, a duty seems to thee;

But he that vainly thus foregoes his ease,

Unless his own desires his prompters be,

And strives, at such a price, the world to please,

Of mortal Fools the greatest seems to me.

CAPEL LOFFT 

(1751—1824)

Laura: Or, An Anthology of Sonnets_1814

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TO EDWARD LORD THURLOW

(1812)

Nephew of him whose benefits consol'd

The setting Sun of Johnson's mighty Day,

And who to future Times shall stand enroll'd

With Romney's Pencil and with Cowper's Lay,

Not more ennobled that he knew to hold

The Seals of Britain with discerning Sway

And aweful Power, and in the Senate bold

His Thunders pour'd, than that his Friends were they:

His Learning and his Taste thus to pursue,

His Sense of Merit and of generous Fame,

Well it befits thy Lineage and thy Name;

And Sydney's high Arcadian Star to view,

To Poesy, Virtue and Glory true,

And beam on us his renovated Flame.

ON SEEING A WILD ROSE

(1801)

Sweet flowret!—Fresh and unimpaired thy bloom!

Thou erst by Youth and Beauty oft carest,

Who to these Towers, amid their Pomp and Gloom,

Didst whisper,—"Rural Innocence how blest!"

These mouldering ivy walls, that time-struck Tomb,

Speak faintly now of all once held so Great!

To thy mild Loveliness indulgent Fate

Gives still renewing Youth, and pure Perfume.

Thus Art and Pride and Luxury and Hate,

War's mountain cuirass, and his castled crest,

Sink into Dust!... While that heaven-tinctured Vest,

Radiant from purest Beauty increate

Which nought but Peace and Goodness can assume

Beams of serenest Light unchang'd illume.

ON SEEING A POPPY WITH ALL ITS FLOWERS

(1801)

Here dwells Oblivion!—Is Oblivion here?                           

Those pure, exalted energies of Mind,                               

Those blest Affections, tender, warm, refin'd,                 

That sentiment that swell in Transport's tear,                  

Sink these within the Grave?—These, so consign'd,       

Does drear Repose of Non-existence bind?                     

And Thou, the Object of my highest thought;                       

Thou wisest, dearest, loveliest, tenderest, best;…               

Is there a Law relentlessly severe                                            

To sink e'en Thee, with all Perfections fraught,                     

In the void darkness of unconscious Rest;                              

Or springs the Spirit to it's hallowd Sphere                             

At once, when Death hath smote the throbbing Breast?—     

Be it whate'er, Thou reignst while this rapt Mind is aught.     

SARA WATSON FINCH 

(1780—1855)

Laura: Or, An Anthology of Sonnets_1814

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AT NIGHT, IN A VILLAGE

(1801)

What calm this tranquillizing scene pervades!

While Night's fair Regent, from her utmost height,

Pours forth libations of the tenderest light

Beneath whose beam cach grosser shadow fades.

No longer now the Village Peal I hear:

Which through the branches of yon spreading trees

Borne on the light wing of the evening breeze

With melody most pleasing struck the ear.

Silence hath lulld the darken'd Hemisphere!

Nor sound perceptible the ear can seize:

Save that the lonely Owl, whom these shades please,

Now pours his plaint, now wheels his low career;

And by his drear and solitary flight

Adds import to the pathos of the Night.

THOMAS DERMODY

(1775—1802)

Poems on Various Subjects_1802

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TO A BLACKBIRD

Hard was the heart that, from thy native spray,

Bore thee, sweet bird! That cruel cage to fill;

How languid, now, thy once melodious lay!

Tho' rich thy prison, 'tis a prison still:

The glossy radiance of thy golden bill

Is pale; and ruffled all thy sloe-black breast;

Lost like thy mellow note's ecstatic trill;

Wont, by its wild extravagance, t'attest

Thou wert beyond thy plumy brethren blest;

Once more, thou sigh'st, amid the woodlands free,

Thy glib eye brighten'd, and thy garb new-drest,

Thy old compeers, and little loves to see,

Ah! Never may the wretch, who wrong'd thy nest,

Know the rich bliss of careless liberty!

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA

How many with'rign Years of dull despair,

Have o'er my fated front, relentless, roll'd,

Since first, beneath a Moira's partial care,

My happier moments wav'd their wings of gold!

Ah me! And must I never more behold

The glorious orb of day in gladness rise?

No more salute, with rapture-beaming eyes,

The glimm'ring Star that shuts the Shepherd's fold?

No more! If led not, by Thy lenient hand,

To the lone hermitage of learned Ease;

Where pensive Joy, may, tenderly, expand

His blooms, sore-shatter'd by the blighting breeze;

And a New, Mental Eden, by degress,

But forth, best Patron! At thy soft command!

GEORGE HAY DRUMMOND

(¿—?)

Verses, Social and Domestic_1802

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WRITTEN AT HOOLY, APRIL 1785

How sweet the scene of this sequester’d Wood!

What time the vernal Sun, at early dawn,

Peeps o’er the summit of yon daisied lawn,

Or when he sinks beneath the western flood.

Pleasant the Vale where Care can ne’er intrude;

Which, crown’d with pine-clad hill and bowery grove,

Veils the pure transports of connubial Love,

Free from the town and fashion’s tumult rude.

But sweeter far when such endearments kind,

Dear to the bosom of the wise and good,

Within a breast their due reception find,

Warm’d with the sacred flame of Gratitude.

With such this Heart shall never cease to glow,

While Memory paints the joys Palemon’s shades bestow.

AMELIA ALDERSON OPIE

(1769—1853)

The Collected Poems_2009

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TO WINTER

(1802)

Power of the awful wind, whose hollow blast

Hurls desolation wide! Thy sway I hail.

It o'er the scene around can beauties cast

Superior far to aught that Summer's gale

Bids in the ripening year to bloom awake.

To view thy majesty, the cheerful tale,

The dance, the festive song, I pleased forsake,

And through thy sparkling scenes I stray alone,

Now the pale regent of thy splendid night

Decks with her yellow rays thy snowy throne.

Richly her beams on Summer's mantle light;

Richly they gild chill Autumn's tawny vest:

But to mine eyes they shine more chastely bright

Spangling the icy robe that wraps thy breast.

SONNET

(1825)

The world invites thee—go, Lorenzo, go;

Be thine the statesman's toil, or poet's song;

Charm with thy eloquence the listening throng;

Or bear thy country's lightnings on the foe!

Go; thou wert formed to shine such scenes among,

And gain the garlands that to wit belong:

Away; nor turn to heed my parting woe!

I shall remain in lonely shades apart—

Not blest, but patient; and my pleasure be

To catch the distant echoes of thy fame,

And pray thy proud preeminence to see!

Nor thou forget, the while there is a heart

That beats with pride and rapture at thy name,

And swells to bursting at one thought of thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

(1770—1850)

The Complete Poetical Works_1851

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SONNET  XIV 

(Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order)

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken

Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies;

And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den,

Whether conducted to the spot by sighs

And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren

Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes

In silence and the awful modesties

Of sorrow; feel for all, as brother Men!

Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw

By casual boons and formal charities;

Learn to be just, just through impartial law;

Far as ye may, erect and equalise;

And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw

Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice!

WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES 

(Ecclesiastical Sonnets)

There are no colours in the fairest sky

So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen

Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men,

Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye

We read of faith and purest charity

In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen:

O could we copy their mild virtues, then

What joy to live, what blessedness to die!

Methinks their very names shine still and bright;

Apart—like glow-worms on a summer night;

Or lonely tapers when from far they fling

A guiding ray; or seen—like stars on high,

Satellites burning in a lucid ring

Around meek Walton's heavenly memory.

SONNET V

COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM 

(Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1831)

The wind is now thy organist;—a clank

(We know not whence) ministers for a bell

To mark some change of service. As the swell

Of music reached its height, and even when sank

The notes, in prelude, Roslin! To a blank

Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,

Pillars, and arches,—not in vain time-proof,

Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank

Came those live herbs? By what hand were they sown

Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?

Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche

Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,

Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,

Though mute, of all things blending into one.

PERCY CLINTON SYDNEY SMYTHE, LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD 

(1780—1855)

Poems, from the Portuguese of Luís de Camoens_1803

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SONNET VIII

Mondego! Thou, whose waters cold and clear

Gird those green banks, where Fancy fain would stay,

Fondly to muse on that departed day

When Hope was kind, and Friendship seem'd sincere;

—Ere I had purchas'd knowledge with a tear.

—Mondego! Though I bend my pilgrim way

To other shores, where other fountains stray,

And other rivers roll their proud career,

Still—nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe,

Nor widening distance e'er prevail in aught

To make thee less to this sad bosom dear;

And Memory oft, by old Affection taught,

Shall lightly speed upon the plumes of thought,

To bathe amongst thy waters cold and clear!

SONNET XVII

From sorrow free, and tears, and dull despair,

I liv'd contented in a sweet repose;

I heeded not the happier star of those

Whose amorous wiles achiev'd each conquer'd fair;

(Such bliss I deem'd full dearly bought with care)

Mine was meek Love, that ne'er to frenzy rose,

And for its partners in my soul I chose

Benevolence, that never dreamt a snare,

And Independence, proudly cherish'd there!

—Dead now is Happiness—'Tis past, 'tis o'er—

And in its place, the thousand thoughts of yore,

Which haunt my melancholy bosom, seem

Like the faint memory of a pleasing dream—

They charm a moment—and they are no more!

ROBERT SOUTHEY

(1774—1843)

The Annual Review, and History of Literature; for 1803

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SONNET, FROM LUÍS DE CAMÕES

Meek spirit, who so early didst depart,

Thou art at rest in Heaven! I linger here,

And feed the lonely anguish of my heart;

Thinking of all that made existence dear.

All lost! If in this happy world above

Remembrance of this mortal life endure,

Thou wilt not then forget the perfect love

Which still thou see'st in me.—O spirit pure!

And if the irremediable grief,

The woe, which never hopes on earth relief,

May merit aught of thee; prefer thy prayer

To God, who took thee early to his rest,

That it may please him soon amid the blest

To summon me, dear maid! to meet thee there.

ANÓNIMO

The Annual Review, and History of Literature; for 1803

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Delightful Fields, and Thickets gay and green,

Ye Woods that shadow o’er the Mountain’s scene,

Ye Rocks grotesque, ye Fountain cold and clear,

Who as ye murmur down the sparkling Steep

Your Concord with the waving Woodlands keep

And send sweet Music to the Traveller’s ear;—

O lovely Scenes! —Unsatisfied my sight

Dwells on your Beauties now: —Your antient Shade,

Clear Fountains, streaming through the opening glade,

Rocks, Thickets, Fields, and all your green Deligth!

Me other than I was ye now behold:

I gaze around, and tears suffuse my eyes;

Ye tell me, lovely Scenes, of Days of old;

And thoughts of former happiness arise.

THOMAS 'CLIO' RICKMAN

(1760-1834)

Poetical Scraps (Two Volumes)_1803 

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SONNET

[Written near a Country Church-Yard]

But, hark! The slow dull knell from yonder dome

Warns the rude rustic of his clay cold home.

Some peasant’s gone, perhaps, whose daily toil

Was trudging on the mountains dreary side;

Or with the plough-share to correct the soil,

To tend the grazing flock, his care and pride.

With toils like these, through life he held his way,

And night repair’d the labours of the day.

Now night in longer sleep has clos’d his eyes,

A tenant of the church-yard’s scant domain;

Ank known no more, with kindred earth he lies,

Where death extends his sad and gloomy reign.

Mindless of scenes like these, too oft’ we roam,

Forget the use of life!.. And that we are travelling home!

SONNET TO MY LITTLE GIRL

[Written at Calais, 1792]

Farewell, sweet girl, and mayst thou never know

Like me, the pressure of exceeding Woe.

Some Griegs (for they are human Nature’s Right)

On Life’s eventful stage will be thy lot;

Some generous cares, to clear thy mental sight;

Some pains, in happiest hour perhaps begot.

But mayst thou ne’er be like thy Father driven

From a lov’d Partner, Family, and Home;

Snatcht from each heart-felt Bliss, —domestic Heaven—

From native Shores and all that’s valued roam

Thy Soul by cruel Separation riven.

O may bad Governments, the Source of Woe,

Ere thou becomst mature receive their final blow:

Then Mankind’s greatest curse thou ne’er wilt know.

JOHN EDWARDS 

(1772—1845)

The Tour of the Dove_1821

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TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

(1804)

Coleridge, when in a distant purer age

Posterity shall yield thee all thy fame,

What character or title on the page

Of genius will recal to mind thy name?

Shall thy own Sara, from the realms above,

Sweetly descend in beatific dream,

And lead the espoused virgins where the stream

Of poesy flows breathing hallow'd love?

Yes, she will come! Yet ev'n the bright award,

That hails thee Nuptial Love's chaste peerless Bard,

Oh higher tones is but the interlude:—

Poet of Freedom! In the walks of light,

This greeting shall a deeper joy excite,

Given by the suffrage of the Wise and Good!

MRS. B. FINCH

(¿—?)

Sonnets and Other Poems_1805

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SONNET XXVI

Let not proud man ungratefully repine,

If doom'd the path of life obscure to tread;

Whilst others in superior station shine,

And wealth and pow'r their splendid boons combine,

To grace a more distinguish'd fav'rite's head:

The lofty cedar, on the mountain's brow,

The tempest rends, and ruffling winds deform;

While humble violets, in the vale below,

Diffuse their odours, and uninjur'd blow,

Protected from the ravage of the storm:

Nor useless in their sphere: the hand that reard’d

The cedar, strew'd these blossoms o'er the plain;

For diff'rent virtues, diff'rent states prepar'd,

Nor made the great Creator ought in vain!

SONNET XIX

Written in a Winter's Morning

Tho' storms and tempests mark thy gloomy reign,

Stern winter! Still be poet's eye shall find

Full many a charm to linger in thy train—

Spread round thy frozen panoply of snow;

In icy chains, each brook and streamlet bind;

Still unappal'd the Christmas rose shall blow,

And beauteous crocuses their golden bloom

Disclose, ere yet thy ruthless reign be past;

And bright mezereon breathe its faint perfume,

Amid the rigours of thy northern blast:

Whilst on the leafless lyme pale miseltoe

Its wax-like berries hangs, and green of sickly cast,

And the sweet redbreast, from his laurel bower,

Warbles his vespers clear, at twilight's sober hour.

WILLIAM ROSCOE 

(1753—1831)  

The Life and Pontificate of Leo the Tenth (Four Volumes)_1805

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SONNET

Italia! Thou to whom in evil hour,

The fatal boon of beauty nature gave,

Yet on thy front the sentence did engrave,

That ceaseless woe should be thy only dower!

Ah were that beauty less, or more thy power!

That he who now compels thee to his arms,

Might gaze with cold indifference on thy charms,

Or tremble at thine eye’s indignant lower!

Then shouldst thou not observe, in glittering line,

From the high Alps embattled throngs descend,

And Gallic herds pollute thy Po’s clear wave;

Nor, whilst encompass’d close by spears not thine,

Shouldst thou by foreign hands thy rights defend,

Conquering or conquer’d, evermore a slave.

HARRIET ELIZABETH LEATHES 

(1784—1852)

The Monthly Repertory of English Literature_1807

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ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH

Charlotte, thy gloomy Scene of Life is o’er: 

At length thy care-worn Frame has found repose,

And thy meek Spirit, freed from all its woes,

No longer by Life’s boisterous Tempests driven,

Seeks brighter Scenes: and here confin’d no more,

Borne on the Wings of Faith, ascends to Heaven!

And can we mourn the stroke that snatch thee hence?

And can we grieve that thou no more art here?

No: —Pious Hope shall check Affliction’s tear:

And upward pointing to the Realms of Light

Shall bid us praise that glorious Providence

Whose Mercy, ever during, ever bright,

Clos’d all thy sorrows, bade thy sufferings cease,

And call’d thy Soul to Realms of Harmony and Peace.

JOHN TALWYN SHEWELL

(1782—1866)

A Tribute to the Memory of William Cowper_1808

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TO THE ORWELL

Orwell, delightful stream, whose waters flow

Fring'd with luxuriant beauty to the main!

Amid thy woodlands taught, the Muse could fain,

On thee, her grateful eulogy bestow.

Smooth and majestic though thy current glide,

And bustling Commerce plough thy liquid plain;

Tho' grac'd with loveliness thy verdant side,

While all around enchantment seems to reign:

These glories still, with filial love, I taste,

And feel their praise;—yet thou hast one beside

To me more sweet; for on thy banks reside,

Friendship and Truth comin'd; whose union chaste

Has sooth'd my soul;—and these shall bloom sublime,

When fade fleeting charms of Nature and of Time.

MARTHA HANSON

(¿—?)

Sonnets And Other Poems: (Two Volumes)_1809

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Hail sportive Insec! Borne on quiv'ring wing, 

I see thee wanton through the yielding air;

Enjoy while yet thou canst, thy little spring;

Like Man's, 'tis Short;—but not like Man's, 'tis Fair.

The Skies, propitious to thy fleeting day,

Kindly on thee, their gentlest influence show'r;

Ah! Bask thee, in the soft reviving ray,

And sip the fragrance of each op'ning flow'r.

Alas! Thy pow'rs will quickly feel decay;

Thy aerial form to Death must shortly yield;

Nor will thy beauty, for a single day,

Against the ruthless tyrant form a shield.

Emblem of Man's, is thy uncertain day,

Like thee he falls, Death's unresisting prey.

Hail Day's bright Orb! Whose brilliant dazzling flame 

Illumes each passing cloud, though dark its hue;

My breast transported, with delight, I view

Thy radiance, gleaming o'er the restless main,

(Which dess'd in sable, by Night's ling’ring veil,

With gentle murmurs, bathes my native shore)

Where the lone Fisher, his returning sail

Spreads, to the breeze, and plies his dashing oar.

How fair that sail appears, how its pure white

Relieves the sombre colour of the main,

Thus, when Religion, on Life's dreary plain,

Sheds, on some wand'rer of the world, her light,

Her dawning ray, has pow'r to cheer the gloom,

And promises, like Thine, a Brilliant Noon.

THOMAS BECK

(C. 1755—1821)

Poetic Amusement: Consisting of a Sample of Sonnets, Epistolary Poems, Moral Tales, and Miscellaneous Pieces_1809

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TO THE THREE SISTERS

Hail! Sisters three, by sacred art design'd

To sooth, to cheer, and benefit mankind.

Sweet Music, waking harmony around,

Pours in the ear the magic art of sound:

Then Painting, Nature's fairest scenes supplies,

To feast, with fix'd delight, the ravish'd eyes:

Then Poetry, combining both, affords

Harmonic numbers, with creative words.

Thus Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Milton sung,

Embodying living scenes of light and shade;

And Time's dark mantle shall o'er man be flung

Ere their notes die, or glowing pictures fade.

Hail, Poesy! Thine art contains the whole

That charm at once the eye—the ear—the soul.

ON AN EMPTY CASK

Ah! Thou art empty! Now I find thee fail;

Poor cask! Thy sound of vacancy complains;

Yet thou wast foaming once with sparkling ale,

And freely didst impart the brisk regale,

Though nothing now but vapid filth remains,

The very dregs of Quassia, hops, and grains.

Yet, though thou canst no more the tankard fill,

I'll try to draw some good out of thee still.

Sad emblem thou of all that earth can brew!

Man taps his cask, and finds the liquor strong,

Drinks deep, and dreams of pleasures ever new,

But draw, alas! Too quick to keep it long:

Then raps the head, and stands amaz'd to find

But empty sound, and dregs, remain behind.

JANE WEST 

(1758-1852)

The Mother: A Poem, in Five Books_1809

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INTRODUCTORY SONNET

Go, child of feeling, to the world explain

That thou wast born in care’s dejected year,

Cherish’d with sighs, bedew’d with many a tear,

And nurtur’d far from pleasure’s laughing train;

Nor would that flattering wizard friendship deign

Th’unwelcome birth with omens bright to cheer.

Go, and to mothers pour thy descant clear;

Mothers will surely love a mother’s strain.

But , should they scorn thee, shew them thou canst bear

Neglect with conscious dignity serene;

And silent to oblivion’s cave repair,

Where sit thy sisters of poetic sheen,

Waiting till fashion lead them forth to day.

Green from the poet’s ashes springs the bay.

WILLIAM HERSEE

(1786—1854) 

 

Poems, Rural and Domestic_1810

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TO MRS. ……….

If tenderness, depicted in the eye,

The soul to warm benevolence inclin'd,

The voice whose soothing accents can supply

The healing balsam to the wounded mind;

The heart that pity's throb will ne'er deny;

If these, by ev'ry gentle grace refin'd

May claim O lady! The approving lay,

Accept this humble tribute,—nor disdain

To read thy youthful poet's artless strain,

Howe'er unfit thy virtues to display!

O may the pow'r who shapes the breathing form,

Can fill the human mind with sacred fire,

Till life itself shall cease thy breast to warm

With pure felicity thy soul inspire!

HENRY KIRKE WHITE

(1785—1806)

The Works of Henry Kirke White_1810

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TO MISFORTUNE

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare,

And I have wondered much when men have told

How youth was free from sorrow and from care,

That thou shouldst dwell with me and leave the old.

Sure dost not like me! —Shrivelled hag of hate,

My phiz-and thanks to thee-is sadly long;

I am not either, beldame, over strong;

Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,

For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate.

Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate

I am yet young, and do not like thy face;

And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase

I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage

Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

TO THE MOON

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge

Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,

As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale

Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.

Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,

And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way,

Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,

With double joy my homage do I pay.

When clouds disguise the glories of the day,

And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,

How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,

And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring

The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

RICHARD POLWHELE

(1760—1838)

Poems; Chiefly, The Local Attachment and Others_1810

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TO PROFESSOR DAVY

The jealous muse, who bade thine early youth

Traverse the dark Bolerium, o'er its clifts

With fancy ranging pale where Auster lifts

The surge, was check'd, as philosophic truth

Prun'd thy wild wing; yet scarce suspecting ruth

Pursued thy flights at distance. Quick as shifts

The vernal sun and shade, she mark'd thy glance;

And rank'd thy rapid visions in her train

Illusive, and still hail'd the faery dance,

But, when she saw thy chemic powers advance

Where mineral nature holds her mystic reign,

Embodying forms which poets dar'd not feign;

Starting at thy discoveries from her trance,

She own'd, with many a sigh, invention vain.

MARY FITCHETT JOHNSON

(¿? —1863)

Original Sonnets and Other Poems_1810

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DEATH 

Thou Death! Eternal sleep! The great man's grief! 

The low one's hope! Th'inevitable end!

The close of light and life! Th'unsated thief,

In whom all things in dissolution blend!

From thee I shrink not, world-subduing chief!

Nor from thy certain shafts this breast defend!

Here take thy aim! And be thy threat'ning brief.

Thou canst not hurt, but while thy strokes impend.

Thy black parade—thy heart-depressing knell—

The deep, cold silence of thy narrow cell—

Its arching sward, compos'd of kindred mould,

The brown, loose joints which shrinking tendons hold—

Shock not the dead! Yet these thy horrors swell,

Appal the timid, and arrest the bold!

SONNET 

That voice, so broken, tremulous, and low; 

That dim, sunk eye; that flush'd, yet sallow, cheek;

That short, quick step, so stagg'ring and so weak;

That silenc'd wail of pain, e'en while its throe

Augments to torture, in the smother'd shriek;

While, on the throbbling temples, start and flow

The chilly drops; I must observe and know

The language such expressive symptoms speak.

And, in th'impending, see the certain blow

No human art can soften or avert;

But when it falls, and soon, thou, Jane, must go

Where Happiness awaits to crown Desert.

But that high worth that fits thee for those realms,

The heart of Friendship with regret o'erwhelms.

ANNA MARIA PORTER 

(1780—1832)

Ballad Romances and Other Poems_1811

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ON JANE

O turn my soul! Cast thy world-wearied eye

On the "soft green" of one still gracious heart!

There gaze with love, with confidence, with joy,

And consolation let the view impart.

Tho' some have failed thee; some have made thee start,

To see what erst appeared of deathless dye,

All dark and changing; thou may'st not depart

From gazing here, but with full rapture's sigh:

For here all verdant, lovely, pure, and bright,

Each grace and virtue grows in native soil,

While Thought and Piety together toil,

To shield their Eden from terrestrial blight:

Be these its guardians still, and thou may'st smile,

Enjoy its endless spring and cloudless light!

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE

When hurrying by, the Genius of the blast

Snatcheth the wood-tops in his giant hand,

Then rushing o'er the low and shadowy sand,

Sweeps with his whirring wing, the ocean's waste;

O then, what gloomy luxury to stand

Watching the with'ring stars! To see them fling

Their dark red fire thro' black'ning clouds, which bring

Horror and tempest to the sleeping land!

What luxury to watch the dim-seen waves,

And hear their flashing billows lash the shore;

Thinking how many find in them their graves,

Who dream "of war and sorrow now no more;"

How many there, find toil and torture o'er,

Who groaned on earth, some fellow-mortal's slaves!

JOHN WILSON OF ELLERAY

(1785—1854)

The Isle of Palms and Other Poems_1812

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WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH 

OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP

A golden cloud came floating o'er my head,                    

With kindred glories round the sun to blend!                   

Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead;       

—Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.                  

I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end:                           

A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed,                    

The beauty of the crimson west subdued,                              

And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend,                           

The silent happiness of eve renew'd.                                     

Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood                      

Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise;                       

But, oh! What tranquil holiness ensued,                          

When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice,           

—God sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!   

WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST          

It was a dreadful day, when late I pass'd

O'er thy dim vastness, Skiddaw!—Mist and cloud

Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast

To thee made darling music, wild and loud,

Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd,

As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven,

A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd

Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.

I could have thought that every living form

Had fled, or perished in that savage storm,

So desolate the day. To me were given

Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said,

Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul

Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?

LORD EDWARD HOVELL-THURLOW

(1781-1829)

Poems on several occasions_1813

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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE EARL SPENCER

[1810]

Not all, that sit beneath a golden roof,

In rooms of cedar, O renowned Lord,

Wise though they be, and put to highest proof,

To the sweet Muses do their grace afford;

Which if they did, the libke would them accord

The mighty poets to eternity,

And their wise acts in living verse record,

And build them up, great heirs of memory,

Which else shall in oblivion fall and die:

But thou, that like the Sun, with heavenly beams

Shining on all, dost cheer abundantly

The learned heads, that drink Castalian streams;

Transcendant Lord, accept this verse from me,

Made for all time, but yet unfit for thee.

RALPH CUDWORTH &  CAPEL LOFFT

(1617—1688)

Laura: Or, An Anthology of Sonnets_1814

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ON THE PREEXISTENT AND POSTEXISTENT SYSTEM.

LYRIC.

That Good and ill did first us here attend

And not from Time before, the Soul descend;

That here alone we live, and when

Hence we depart we forthwith then

Turn to our old Non-entities again,

Certes ought not to be believ’d by Wise and learned Men.

Souls are not trivial Themes of atheist Mirth;  [1]

Flashes of vivid transitory Fire;

Wonders which dazzle and expire;—

Nor Origin nor Date owe they to Earth;

Higher their Source, and more divine their Worth.

Souls to Eternity aspire,

As Emanations of the’ Eternal Sire:

To Heaven they reascend, from Heaven derive their Birth.

[1] “The 2d Stanza of this Sonnet in revers’d order I have ventur’d to add.”_ C.L.

HENRY NEELE 

(1798—1828)

Odes and Other Poems_1816

Poems, Dramatic and Miscellaneous_1823

The Literary Remains of the Late Henry Neele_1829

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FRAILTY OF MAN

(1815)

Traveller, as roaming over vales and steeps,

Thou hast, perchance, beheld in foliage fair,

A willow bending o'er a brook—it weeps

Leaf after leaf into the stream, till bare

Are the best boughs, the loveliest and the highest;

Oh sigh, for well thou mayest, yet as thou sighest

Think not 'tis o'er imaginary woe;

I tell thee, traveler, such is mortal man,

And so he hangs o'er fancied bliss, and so,

While life is verging to its shortest span,

Drop one by his dearest joys away,

Till hope is but the ghost of something fair,

Till joy is mockery, till life is care,

Till he himself is unreflecting clay.

MONT BLANC

Written in an Album on Mont Anvert

(1823)

High in the shining heavens he builds his throne,

The deep blue heavens, so bright and beautiful,

That the unsated eye must gaze upon

Their glory, till the aching sense grows dull

And dizzy in their ray. Like him of old,

Who communed with the Deity, until

The divine brightness on his visage told

With whom he conversed, so, majestic hill,

Thy glittering crests, dazzling the sight and soul

With their unutterable splendours, tell

Of him whose eye irradiates thee. Well

wear'st thou thy shining honours: to thee given,

because, resembling him from whom they roll,

earth is thy footstool, and thy mansion, Heaven!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

(1792—1822)

The Complete Poetical Works_1914

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SONNET 

(1820)

Ye hasten to the grave! What seek ye there,

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?

O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess

All that pale Expectation feigneth fair! 

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess

Whence thou didst come, and whither thou must go,

And all that never yet was known would know

Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press,

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, 

Seeking, alike from happiness and woe,

A refuge in the cavern of gray death?

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do you

Hope to inherit in the grave below?

OZYMANDIAS 

(1817)

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert…Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

MARIANN DARK

(1793—1864)

Sonnets and Other Poems_1818

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WRITTEN IN BREMHILL CHURCH-YARD

Here, when the throb that animates my heart,

When the quick pulse of life shall haply cease,

When I from all I love on earth shall part,

Here may I calmly rest—repose in peace!

For this my wish; no other place so dear;

And here on hopes of heav'n I've learn't to dwell,

Here Bowles's voice hath taught my soul to fear

No more the narrow, dark, and loathsome cell.

Here too, the sweet retirement I adore,

And all the relatives I love are near;

A requiem o'er my grave some bard may pour,

And thou, best friend! Bedew it with a tear.

Oh! Grant me, heav'n, this short but fervent pray'r,

Guide me to thee! And peaceful lay me here.

COMPOSED ON THE DAY OF MY FINAL DEPARTURE FROM WHITLEY

Here first, my father, did my infant breath

Lisp, as thou kindly taught'st, the pious pray'r;

And oft my hands would smooth thy silvery hair,

Or clasp thy knees; I little dreamt stern death

Would stop us, in our peaceful, glad career.

Oh! I could weep—weep bitterly—and bend

Ev'n to the earth with anguish, as I hear

Hills, woods, and vales, to heav'n one carol send!

Fain would I join them; but my aching heart

Turns, fondly turns, to thee, sweet home! Again;

Thy shadows, twilight! Deeper gloom impart

To my sad bosom, writh'd, alas with pain.

The fragrant violet, and the woodbine's bloom,

Seem but to mock me with their sweet perfume.

CHARLES LLOYD

(1775—1839)

Nugae Canorae_1819

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SONNET VIII

(Nugae Canorae)

My Bible, scarcely dare I open thee!

Remembering how each eve I wont to give

Thy due texts holily, while She did live,

The pious Woman!—What tho' for the meek

Thou treasurest glad tidings, still to me

Of her I lov'd thou dost so plainly speak,

And kindling virtue dost so amply tell

Of her most virtuous, that 'twere hard to quell

The pang which thou wilt wake! Yet, hallow’d book,

Tho'  for a time my bosom thou wilt wring,

Thy great and precious promises will bring

Best consolation! Come then, I will look

In thy long-clasped volume, there to find

Haply, tho' lost her form, ny best friend's mind!

SONNET VIII

("Miscellaneous Sonnets", dentro del mismo libro)

If the low breathings of the poor in heart,

If the still gratitude of wretchedness

Relieved when least expecting, have access

To Thee, the Almighty Parent, Thou wilt dart

Thy loving kindness on the offering meek

My spirit brings, oppressed with thankfulness,

At this lone hour: for Thou dost ever bless

The stricken soul, that sighs and cannot speak.

Omniscient Father! I have been perplexed,

With scoffers linked! Yea, called them my friends,

Who snare the soul! But now, by doubt unvexed,

My heart uplifts itself; its aim extends

To Heaven, where Thou thy brighter dwelling hast,

Oh Omnipresent Thou, first, midst, and last!

JOHN KEATS 

(1795—1821)

The Poetical Works_1884

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SONNET 

(1819)

How fever'd is the man, who cannot look

Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,

Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,

And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;

It is as if the rose should pluck herself,         

On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,

As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:

But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,

For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,         

And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,

The undisturbed lake has crystal space;

Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

THOMAS NOBLE

(1772—1837)

Poems_1821

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SONNET

And is this Freedom! This the glorious boon,

That Reason asks, and Heav'n assigns, to man!

Or hath some vapour from the fitful moon

Burst o'er the nation?—Mighty was the plan,

When Councils representative began:

'Twas Liberty's fair dawn—whose brilliant noon

Shed glories round the land! Alas! How soon

Hath Night, with all its specters foul and wan,

Closed our clear Day! Hark amid the noisome shades,

Blind Tumult and base Ignorance contend:

And while the shrieks of Want and Torture blend,

Delighted in the darkness, Slavery wades

In blood and tears!—Oh! For some silent glades,

Whence I might watch the Morning re-accend!

SONNET

With Misery's slow-returning feet to tread

Paths long deserted; and where Joy was known,

To swell his shrill reed with the rapturous tone

Of Happines;—Alas! E'en there to shed

The tear of wretched Age,—e'en there to moan,

Where Memory sees ten thousand Pleasures spread

Their spectre forms,—sees Friendship, long since dead,

A pale mute ghost, retire; and feels herself alone;—

O, there to want and weep is dreadful! Hast thou power,

Celestial Hope, to soothe such anguished pain?

Can balms, that breathe around thy vernal bower,

Heal wounds like these?—Or, in the fainting hour,

When dumb Despair frowns on thee with disdain,

Dares thy soft voice speak peace, and bid us life sustain?

SAMUEL GOWER 

(1798—1876) 

The Imperial Magazine_1822

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Leaning on Darkness—Night, with noiseless foot,

Glides onward, like a Vampyre from his tomb,

Through the damp cloisters of the East; her plume

The raven-winged clouds;—her rustling suit

Of dewy drapery, the winds that hoot

And flap all blackening round the formless gloom

Of her approach; —while, quickening in her womb,

Lurk Treason’s and Adultery's guilty fruit;

Ev’n yon blue Argus, with his thousand eyes—

Yon huge unslumbering creature of the gods,

Yon sky,—upon his weary watch-tower nods,

Starless and blind to his neglected prize:

Like Beauty ravish'd in a sepulchre—

While shrieks the chilly world a prey to Lucifer.

HENRY RICHARD VASSAL FOX 

(1773—1840)

 The New Monthly Magazine_1823

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THE GENIUS OF SPAIN

On that steep ridge beyond Bayonna's bold,

Methought a giant figure did appear,

Sunburnt and rought!—He on his limbs did wear

Bright steel and raiment fairer than of old,

But yet uncouth in speech—"I nothing fear

Yon braggart threats," quoth he in accents bold,

"Let recreant France her fine-spun plots unfold,

And come with train barbarian in her rear,

Croat or Muscovite!—My native pride

Withered such hosts, when mightier captains led:

Caesar, Napoleon, ill with me have sped!

And shall I crouch now Freedom is my bride!

No!—The young offspring of that heavenly bed,—

Stand England firm,—shall' gainst the World make head."

CHARLES JOHNSTON

(1790—1823)

Sonnets, Original and Translated_1823

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SONNET XLIII 

(Part II)

That nightingale, which ceaseless doth complain,

Mourning its mate, or young ones snatch'd away,

With sweetness fills the air, and the wide plain,

So piteous and so musical its lay;

Seems with my own to mingle that sad strain,

And bids me to my griefs afresh give way,

Griefs all my own, who deem'd alas! In vain,

That o'er a goddess Death could not have sway.

How soon the happy fall deception's prey!

Who could have thought that those two eyes so bright,

Would e'er be turn'd to dark and lifeless clay?

But now I learn that cruel Fortune's spite

Dooms me to live, and prove from day to day,

How nought endures—endures to give delight.

SONNET XV

Lov'd, prais'd and sought, yet modest, and retir'd,

Adorn'd, yet artless, beautiful, yet good,

Sincere, tho' flatter'd, virtuous, tho' woo'd,

Nor proud, nor vain, nor envious, tho' admir'd;

How shall I speak to thee, or how inspir'd

Shall dare to praise, where every charm is fix'd

To merit praise, and not a weakness mix'd,

To which the proudest praise can come desir'd.

Yet, Lady, may I breathe my gratitude

That thou sometimes hast deign'd to smile on me,

And shed a light upon my solitude,

Which sweetly shines like moon-beams on the sea,

When sleep sits brooding on the noiseless flood,

And like to Heav'n's in Earth's tranquility.

JOHN BOWRING

(1792—1872)

Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain_1824

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SONNET

("Duro es este peñasco levantado"

Fernando de Herrera)

Hard is yon rock, around whose head,

Unfelt, the rudest tempests blow;

And chilling cold the silver snow

On nature's ample bosom spread.

But harder is that heart of thine,

And colder all its frozen streams,

Where passion ne'er inscribed a line,

And love's warm sunshine never gleams.

Deaf are the surges of the sea

To the loud plaint of misery,

Though less than thou unkind and rude:

Dark is the evening's dying fall,—

But what are these,—or aught, or all,

To a tired spirit's solitude? 

JAMES MONTGOMERY

(1771—1854)

The Poetical Works (Collected by Himself)_1841

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A SEA-PIECE (In Three Sonnets)

Sonnet I

(1824)

At nightfall, walking on the cliff-crown'd shore,

Where sea and sky were in each other lost;

Dark ships were scudding through the wild uproar,

Whose wrecks ere morn must strew the dreary coast;

I mark'd one well-moor'd vessel tempest-tost,

Sails reef'd, helm lash'd, a dreadful siege she bore,

Her deck by billow after billow cross'd,

While every moment she might be no more:

Yet firmly anchor'd on the nether sand,

Like a chain'd Lion ramping at his foes,

Forward and rearward still she plunged and rose,

Till broke her cable;—then she fled to land,

With all the waves in chase; throes following throes;

She 'scaped,—she struck,—she stood upon the strand.

AGNES STRICKLAND 

(1796—1874)

Seven Ages of Woman and Other Poems_1827

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TRANSLATION OF CARDINAL BEMBO'S SONNET

("Se gia ne' l'eta piu verde e calda")

If in the summer season of my days

My ardent passions, scorning all control,

Forsook a thousand times thy holy ways;

And e'en thy own fair gifts the rebel soul

Against thee dared presumptuously to raise!

Now that hoar winter with unsparing might

Turns my thinned locks to snow, and chills my frame,

Father! 'Tis given me, through faith's pure light,

To hear thy precepts and adore thy name.

Remember not the errors of my youth,

Since the past time no sorrow can regain.

Preserve the future from each earthly stain,

And fill my bosom with thy sacred truth,

Nor let the trembling sinner hope in vain.

JOHN HANNAH OF CREETOWN 

(1802—1854)

Posthumous Rhymes_1854

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ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD

(1827)

Thou wert a lovely and patient child;

Thy mild blue eyes were never dimmed with tears

Of sullen discontent, but softly smiled

With an expressiveness beyond thy years:

How didst thou differ from thy young compeers!

Calm in thy sorrow, gentle in thy mirth,

The neighbours marked thee, and expressed their fears,

And sighed, and sadly smiled to think a thing

So beautiful must soon return to earth.

Doth not the flower that soonest greets the spring,

—The purest, fairest,—swiftest pass away,

Nor stay to wither in the summer ray?

And heaven, in mercy, made a thing of light

Of thee, ere sin could mar or folly's glare could blight.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF "AUTOGRAPHICAL MEMORIALS".

(1829)

Men are the sport of circumstances; they

Can form no lasting friendships here below:

Death, sickness, change of fortune, or of place,

Time, envy, jealousy,—these can decay

Impressions the most strong; yet we forego

Unwillingly such joys; and they disgrace

Our human nature who can turn away

From those they love without a pang of woe,

Or cast them careless from the mind's embrace.

I would not thus forget, nor be forgot.

Since of the past and absent we retrace

In simple things the memory, let this book,

When through its pages you excursive look,

Thus speak for me—"My friend, forget me not."

ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM

(1811—1833)

Remains in Verse and Prose_1863

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WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH

Even thus, methinks, a city reared should be,

Yea, an imperial city, that might hold

Five times a hundred noble towns in fee,

And either with their might of Babel old,

Or the rich Roman pomp of empery

Might stand compare, highest in arts enroll'd,

Highest in arms; brave tenement for the free,

Who never crouch to thrones, or sin for gold.

Thus should her towers be raised-with vicinage

Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets,

As if to vindicate,'mid choicest seats

Of art, abiding Nature's majesty,

And the broad sea beyond, in calm or rage

Chainless alike, and teaching Liberty.

SONNET

Still here —thou hast not faded from my sight,

Nor all the music round thee from mine ear:

Still grace flows from thee to the brightening year,

And all the birds laugh out in wealthier light.

Still am I free to close my happy eyes,

And paint upon the gloom thy mimic form,

That soft white neck, that cheek in beauty warm,

And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies;

With, Oh! The blissful knowledge all the while

That I can lift at will each curved lid,

And my fair dream most highly realize.

The time will come,'tis ushered by my sighs,

When I may shape the dark, but vainly bid

True light restore that form, those looks, that smile.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (a) BARRY CORNWALL

(1787—1874)

The Poetical Works of Milman, Bowles, Wilson and Barry Cornwall_Edición de 1829

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IMAGINATION

Oh, for that winged steed, Bellerophon!

That Pallas gave thee in her infinite grace

And love for innocence, when thou didst face

The treble-shaped Chimaera. But he is gone

That struck the sparkling stream from Helicon;

And never hath one risen in his place,

Stamped with the features of that mighty race.

Yet wherefore grieve I—seeing how easily

The plumed spirit may its journey take

Through yon blue regions of the middle air;

And note all things below that own a grace,

Mountain, and cataract, and silent lake,

And wander in the fields of poesy,

Where avarice never comes, and seldom care.

SONNET

Perhaps the lady of my love is now

Looking upon the skies. A single star

Is rising in the East, and from afar

Sheds a most tremulous luster: Silent Night

Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:

But see! It motions, with its lovely light,

Onwards and onwards, thro’ those depths of blue,

To its appointed course stedfast and true.

So dearest, would I fain be unto thee,

Stedfast for ever,—like yon planet fair;

And yet more like art thou a jewel rare.

Oh! Brighter than the brightest star, to me,

Come hither, my young love; and I will wear

Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.

ALEXANDER BALFOUR 

(1767—1829)

Weeds and Wildflowers_1830

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TWILIGHT

The sun has set; but glories manifold,

In ever changing hues, delight the eye;

For purple clouds, with fringe of burnished gold,

Like glowing curtains, veil the western sky:

The splendid robes, in rainbow colours rolled,

On light celestial azure seem to lie;

Nought breaks the silence but the landrail's cry

That clamours in the clover field, unseen;

Amidst the odours of the blossomed bean

The fainting zephyrs  have forgot to sigh;

They sink asleep the wild-rose leaves between,

Or on the lily's spotless bosom die:

Nature is hushed; the woodland songsters sleep;

And flowers, in pearly dew, the day's departure weep.

DEATH

When sorrowing friends surround my deathful bed,

While floating shadows to my eyes appear,

And dimly seen those long and fondly dear;

When I, though darkness o'er my sight is spread,

From her whose arm supports my sinking head,

Warm on my cheek, feel soft the tender tear—

The parting drop by fond affection shed;

When stagnant pulse, cold limbs, and panting breath,

As harbingers, announce approaching death;—

In that dread moment, Lord, in mercy, send

The hope that plucks from Death the dreadful sting;

The faith that says, "Tho' dust with dust must blend,

The spirit shall ascend on viewless wing,

Where sorrow has no place, and life shall never end!"

ON SEEING A SNOW-WREATH ON MAY-DAY, 1827

May-day, all hail! To poets ever dear!

When Fancy lulls them in some pastoral dream,

Thou art a pleasant, fair, and fruitful theme;

The rich and fairy robes they make thee wear,

Glow in the graces of the blooming year;

With flowing locks of hyacinthine hue,

Lips breathing odours, wet with pearly dew,

And flowery wreaths of summer's loveliest prime:

Not such as thou art oft in Scotia seen,

Though, haply, these thy charms in softer clime;

Yet I rejoice to see thy mantle green,

Where winter's livery had so lately been:

Then shake that snow-wreath from thy lap, and rise,

The harbinger of flowery fields and sunbright skies!

ALFRED TENNYSON

(1809—1892)

Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, by Alfred Tennyson_1830

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LOVE

Sonnet I

Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love,

Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,

Before the face of God didst breath and move,

Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here.

Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere,

The very throne of the eternal God:

Passing through thee the edicts of his fear

Are mellowed into music, borne abroad

By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea,

Even from his central deeps: thine empery

Is over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse;

Thou goest and returnest to His Lips

Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above

The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love.

SONNET

Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon,

And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl,

All night through archways of the bridged pearl

And portals of pure silver walks the moon.

Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony,

Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy,

And dross to gold with glorious alchemy,

Basing thy throne above the world's annoy.

Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth

That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee:

So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth;

So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee;

So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth,

An honourable old shall come upon thee.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER 

(1808—1879)

Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces_1830

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I trust thee from my soul, O Mary dear!

But, ofttimes when delight has fullest power,

Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear,

And Doubt is ever by until the hour:

I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine

Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair,

O let me still misgive thee and repine,

Uncommon doubts spring up with blessings rare!

Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign,

Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell

A flitting tale of steadiest truth and zeal;

Yet I will doubt - to make success divine!

A tide of summer dreams with gentlest swell

Will bear upon me then, and I shall love most well!

How can the sweetness of a gentle mind

Pall on thy spirit? Say, it is not so;

Her eyes are mournful and her sorrows flow,

For that she fears her hands have fail'd to bind

The tie of mutual wishes round thy heart;

Thy faith was given, thy promise made a part

Of the pure office which confirm'd her thine;

Oh, do not thou annul that rite divine,

Nor bid such promise swell the tinsel-mart

Of empty shows, unmeaning types and vain—

But teach thy wife to nurse her hopes again

In love returning, never to depart;

For nothing festers like a broken vow,

Which wrecks another's peace and blights another's brow.

CHARLES CROCKER

(1797—1861) 

The Vale of Obscurity, the Levant and Other Poems_1830

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TO FAME

Away! Delusive sorceress, away!

Nor break the stillness of obscurity!

Thy warmest smile but poorly can repay

The pains thy votaries feel in seeking thee.

For when acquir'd what art thou? Fair to-day

Vain man beholds thy glories round him cast;

Before to-morrow dawns, the visions gay

Are swept by disappointment's bitter blast.

Haste, then, and, ere they fade, thy wreaths bestow

On those who pant such favours to receive;

Be mine the calm delights of Peace to know—

The stingless joys that with Religion live:—

From these, in sweet succession, ever flow

A thousand pleasures which thou canst not give.

SACRED MUSIC

If there be aught on earth that can unsphere

The raptur'd spirit from its clayey cell,

Raise it from pain and sorrow, doubt and fear,

Above mortality awhile to dwell,

And taste angelic joys,—that powerful spell

In sacred music breathes. How grand, e'en now,

Along these aisles the Anthem's full tones swell,

Loud as the tempest's voice—now sinking low,

Like summer evening breezes, soft and faint;

Such strains as solace the expiring saint,

Or lull the storm in reckless Passion's breast.

How oft within these hallow'd walls my mind

Hath Truth's high power, and Music's charms confest,

And 'mid life's cares rejoic'd such bliss to find.

EDWARD MOXON

(1801—1858)

Sonnets_1830

Sonnets: Second Part_1835

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SONNET IX

Solace Derived from Books

(1830)

Hence care, and let me steep my drooping spirit

In streams of Poesy, or let me steer

Imagination’s bark 'mong bright scenes, where

Mortals immortal fairy-land inherit.

Ah me! That there should be so few to merit

The realized hope of him, who deems

In his Youth's spring that life is what it seems,

Till sorrows pierce his soul, and storms deter it

From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair

Of genius born, to you I turn, and flee

Far from this world's impervious apathy;

Too blest, if but awhile I captive share

The presence of such Beings as engage

The heart, and burn thro' Shakspeare's matchless page.

SONNET XXVII

(1835)

I cannot look in thy sweet face, dear maid,

And give assent unto the sceptic's creed,

Annihilating hope, leaving a reed

To lean on, unsubstantial as the shade

Of passing clouds. No, in the hour of need

High Heaven its own will claim: the form may fade;

But the ethereal mind, the soul sublimed,

And purified with sorrow and with love,

Shall rise as virtuous metals rise above

The dross of earth.  As upwards thou hast climbed

From infancy, so shalt thou shining soar

Triumphant over Death, and Fate, and Chance,

And every mortal strife: Life is the trance

From which thou shalt awake to sleep no more.

SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES

(1762—1837)

Lex Terrae_1831

Contributions to Periodicals_1833/37

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SONNET XVIII

(Lex Terrae)

See me the wreck of what I was!—The snow 

Of age upon my wither'd temples spread; 

The cheek with wrinkles furrow'd; trembling tread 

Of feeble footsteps, mournful, palsied, slow; 

In the dim eye the clouds of care and woe; 

Within the mental shrine no radiance shed 

There—whence the visions of delight are sled; 

But the thought haunted by some coming woe! 

O sad condition of humanity; 

The languid day; the sleepless night; the sigh 

For the vain chase of pleasures that are naught; 

The bubble fame, by toils and perils sought; 

The worthless prize, by long, long sufferings hought;

The weariness of life,—the fear to die!

SONNET I

(The Athenaeum_1834)

It is a weary course we have to tread,

Ere to the public ear our name will grow

Familiar: many a cross and many a spite

Will interpose, ere it its wings can spread:

And when half mounted, many a waken'd foe

The stone of unprovoked assault will throw

Back to the dust to bring the rising flight;

But 'tis a lofty and compos'd delight, 

When we have won our way above the reach

Of vulgar malice, to look down with scorn

Upon the impotent fry that would impeach

Our course resistless! Then we deem us born

To higher realms, and by our higher state

To rise victorious over time and fate.

SONNET 

(The Keespsake_1834)

Years pass away; the worthy die, and leave

No successors their virtues to replace:

We win our way by trouble and by care;

Yet when 'tis past, it seems an arrow's flight.

For friends departed we are left to grieve,

And would again the course they ran, retrace;

For much that once was rugged, now seems fair

When memory clothes it with a soften'd light.

We cannot hope again; whence chilling age

Runs cold and feeble in our palsied veins;

No new affections will our hearts engage;

No sound of joyance in the distance reigns;

And when the cloud of darkness is before,

The rays behind us but afflict the more!

FRANCIS SKURRAY

(1774—1848)

The Shepherd's Garland_1832

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SONNET XXVIII

(Occasioned by a Visit to Corfe Castle During a Hurricane)

The gusts of wind, that bluster from the North,

Shake the high battlements, and fractur'd towers;

Not without peril, have I ventur'd forth,

Whilst in the Heavens the howling tempest lowers.

O'er Ocean borne, the eddying whirlwind roars,

Darts thro' the windows, rushes thro' the doors,

As when in olden time (as hist'ries tell)

Infuriate hordes beset the Citadel.

The storm shall cease. The daw again shall dwell

In batter'd angle, or in ivied cell,

And the scar'd passenger again resort

Thro' fenceless gateway to the inner Court,

And guess the spot where the rein'd Courser stood,

When Edward fell, and welter'd in his blood.

SONNET X

(On Happiness)

What various paths adventurous men pursue,

Searching, both here, and there, for happiness!

Each airy project seems to mock their view,

With hopes fallacious, wanting power to bless.

Amid' the battle's din, the Soldier tries

For Happiness, and in the contest dies.

The sordid Miser, rich enough before,

Contracts his heart, when God augments his store.

Anxiety, not bliss, is their reward,

Who spurn the poor, and midst their plenty, starve.

Thrice happy they, who in some lonely glen,

Contented live, in a retir'd abode;

There at a distance, from the ways of men,

They commune with their hearts, and muse on God.

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN

(1803—1849)

James Clarence Mangan Works_2002

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LIFE

[1835]

O, human Destiny! Thou art a mystery,

Which tasks the o'erwearied intellect in vain;

O, World! Thou art a cabalistic history,

Whose lessons madden and destroy the brain.

O, Life! Whose page, a necromantic scroll,

Is charactered with sentences of terror,

Which, like the shapes on a magician's mirror,

At once bewilder and appal the soul,

We blindly roam thy Labyrinth of Error,

And clasp a phantom when we gain thy goal.

Yet roll, thou troubled Flood of Time! Still bear

Thy base wrecks to the whirlgulf of the Past,

But Man and Heaven will bless thee if thou hast

Spared for their final sphere the Noble and the Fair.

SONETTO   

[1832]    

                             

Thus with a still but stern solemnity

Time bids us seize the hours that glide away,

And every speaking season seems to say,

Be wise in time—man only lives to die.

The pomp of woods—the gloom of hills on high,

The shooting trees—the Sun, that far away

Bears, or from distant realms brings back the day—

The flow'rs, expanding to the morning sky,

Expiring with the noon—all sadly show,

Too sadly show, alas! How all below

Yields in its turn to Time's devouring sway.

Why then pursue with vain and groveling care

Vain hopes, and empty names, and shapes of air,

FROM THE GERMAN OF THE COUNT VON PLATEN

[1835]

Lost Venice lives in Memory's dreams alone;

The shadow of her olden glory falls

On wastes; the lion underneath her walls

Lies slain; her prisons only breathe, and groan;

And yon proud steeds on holy heights of stone,

Whose venerable aspect best recalls

What Venice was ere classed with Europe's thralls,

The Corsican Usurper's bridle own.

Where is that king-sprung people, the beholder

May ask, who reared those palaces and rooms

Of marble which to-day, forgotten, moulder?

New generations rise as Time grows older,

But, Venice! All thy better, all thy bolder

Are ashes in the mighty Doges' tombs!

HARTLEY COLERIDGE

(1796—1849)

Poems_1833

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'Tis strange to nie, who long have seen no face 

That was not like a book, whose every page 

I knew by heart, a kindly common-place— 

And faithful record of progressive age— 

To wander forth, and view an unknown race; 

Of all that I have been, to find no trace, 

No footstep of my by-gone pilgrimage. 

Thousands I pass, and no one stays his pace 

To tell me that the day is fair, or rainy— 

Each one his object seeks with anxious chase. 

And I have not a common hope with any— 

Thus like one drop of oil upon a flood, 

In uncommunicating solitude— 

Single am I amid the countless many.

The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece, 

Fabled young Love an everlasting boy. 

That held of nature an eternal lease, 

Of childhood, beauty, innocence, and joy; 

A bow he had, a pretty childish toy. 

That M'ould not terrify his mother's sparrows, 

And 'twas his favourite play to sport his arrows. 

Light as the glances of a wood-nymph coy, 

O happy error! Musical conceit. 

Of old idolatry, and youthful time! 

Fit emanation of a happy clime. 

Where but to live, to breathe, to be, was sweet. 

And Love, tho' even then a little cheat, 

Dream'd not his craft would e'er be call'd a crime.

JOHN CLARE

(1793—1864)

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery_1820

The Village Minstrell, and Other Poems_1821

The Rural Muse_1835

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A WINTER SCENE

(1820)

Hail scenes of Desolation and despair

Keen Winters over bearing sport and scorn

Torn by his Rage in ruins as you are

To me more pleasing then a summers morn

Your shattr'd scenes appear—despoild and bare

Stript of your clothing naked and forlorn

—Yes Winters havoc wretched as you shine

Dismal to others as your fate may seem

Your fate is pleasing to this heart of mine

Your wildest horrors I the most esteem.—

The ice-bound floods that still with rigour freeze

The snow clothd valley and the naked tree

These sympathising scenes my heart can please

Distress is theirs—and they resemble me.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER

(1821)

Autumn, I love thy parting look to view

In cold November's day, so bleak and bare,

When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro',

With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare,

Thou, like an old man, bidd'st the world adieu.

I love thee well: and often, when a child,

Have roam'd the bare brown heath a flower to find;

And in the moss-clad vale, and wood-bank wild

Have cropt the little bell-flowers, pearly blue,

That trembling peep the shelt'ring bush behind.

When winnowing north-winds cold and bleaky blew,

How have I joy'd, with dithering hands, to find,

Each fading flower; and still how sweet the blast,

Would bleak November's hour restore the joy that's past.

THE SYCAMORE

(1835)

In massy foliage of a sunny green

I The splendid sycamore adorns the spring, 

Adding rich beauties to the varied scene, 

That Nature's breathing arts alone can bring. 

Hark ! how the insects hum around, and sing, 

Like happy Ariels, hid from heedless view 

And merry bees, that feed, with eager wing, 

On the broad leaves, glazed o'er with honey dew. 

The fairy Sunshine gently flickers through

Upon the grass, and buttercups below; 

And in the foliage Winds their sports renew, 

Waving a shade romantic to and fro, 

That o'er the mind in sweet disorder flings 

A flitting dream of Beauty's fading things.

THOMAS ALBIN

(¿—?)

Sonnets: Meditative and Devotional_1835

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SONNET THE EIGHTY-SECOND

The man who loves his maker, ne'er foregoes

The temporary blessings he bestows;

Possess'd they're welcome—unpossess'd not miss'd;

Into his house he takes them—not his soul:

While o'er their power his virtue hath controul,

He in their moderate use may well persist:

Temptation comes with riches; when withstood,

What proves it? Their possessor is more good:

Wealth is to him as a fair wind at sea—

As on a frosty morn the sun would be—

Desir'd and pleasant for his body's health:

Lost to the good it carries nought away,

The bad live but for it—and thus I say

Wealth rules the vicious man—the virtuous man rules wealth.

SONNET THE FOURTH

Of worldly Pleasure whosoever drinks

Will thirst again—until within his soul

He feels the fatal poison of despair:

Sinful indulgence generally sinks

The heart more deeply in its fierce controul,

Till any vice 'twill desperately dare:

From wealth increas'd desire for gold ne'er shrinks;

When mad-ambition once attains its goal,

A greater love of power it will declare:

'Tis easier far to shun th' inviting brinks

Of bitter waters, in deceit which roll,

Than stem the stream if once embarked there.

Let us abjure the fascinating draught,

Lest, yielding to the world, we find 'tis Death we've quaff'd.

HENRY ALFORD 

(1810—1871)

The School of the Heart and Other Poems_1835

The Abbot of Muchelnaye_1841

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SONNET XXXIV

(1835)

Colonos! Can it be that thou hast still

Thy laurel and thine olives and thy vine?

Do thy close-feather'd nightingales yet trill

Their warbles of thick-sobbing song divine?

Does the gold sheen of the crocus o'er thee shine         

And dew-fed clusters of the daffodil,

And round thy flowery knots Cephisus twine,

Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill?

Oh, might I stand beside thy leafy knoll,

In sight of the far-off city-towers, and see        

The faithful-hearted pure Antigone

Toward the dread precinct, leading sad and slow

That awful temple of a kingly soul,

Lifted to heaven by unexampled woe!

SONNET I

(1841)

When I behold thee, only living one

In whom God's image pure and clear I see,

Far beyond all in humble sanctity,

Close at my side, attending me alone;

Strange questioning it raises, wherefore thine

Should be the subject life, and not the free;

Heavenly, but bound in earthly chains to me;

Superior, yet dependent: God's, yet mine.

I therefore have been taught to feel at length

That not most precious in the Eternal's sight

Self-guiding freedom is, knowledge, or strength,

Or power of song, or wit's deceiving light;

But yielding meekness, careless to be free,

And the clear flame of Love in Chastity.

THOMAS BURBIDGE

(1816—1892) 

Poems, Longer and Shorter_1838

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SONNET XXX

("Sonnets Personal and Occasional")

Brave Boy, when thy young heart is fully grown,

And courage, firmness, love, are budded out

Into their summer richness, thou wilt own

An heirdom such as few of us have known;

In our unsteady selves so tossed about,

That we may hardly chide the stormy world

For its unkindly harbourage; but thou

Wilt not be thus, when that which in thee now

Lies hid, like beauty in the unquickened rose,

Into its later glory is unfurled:

Its opening I may see; but ere its close

Leave my old age delightless unto me,

May some sharp wind uproot the tottering tree,

And let me sleep where none his sorrow knows.

THOMAS TOD STODDART 

(1810—1880)

Songs and Poems_1839

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SONNET

"Anglers! Ye are a heartless bloody race,"

'Tis thus, the half-soul'd sentimentalist

Presumes to apostrophize us to the face;

Weak, paltry, miserable antagonist!

To deem by this compassionate grimace

He doth sweet service to humanity,

And yet when of his fellows' misery,—

Of wars, of pestilence, and the woes that chase

Mankind to the interminable shore

He hears, to treat them with a hasty sneer,

Nor let their shrill appeal disturb a tear

Or one emotion waken in his core!

It is too much! Anglers, your cruelty

Is tend'rer than this man's philanthropy.

SONNET

The Nine that whilom haunted Castaly,

No longer like Immortals feast the ear

In concert with aerial melody,

Attendant on Apollo's tuneful sphere.

Alas! The Muse by me devoutly woo'd

From early youth is now an outcast lorn,

Whom all men, save her wooers hold in scorn,

And these, by whose lament she is pursued

More beggar than befriend her. Deep conceal'd

Amid their discord are her happier strains;

Ah! Could she throw them off and stand reveal'd,

'Twere honourable then to seek her chains;

No gaud-bedizzen'd wanton would she be,

But re-anointed Queen of Castaly!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 

(1814—1863)

The Cherwell Water-Lily, and Other Poems_1840

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THE ELDER RIVER

(The Brathay)

No follow me to yonder gloomy hills

That to the westward rise: a thousand rills

Gush wildly from their rifted sides to form

That dark, romantic river's early course.

It is the nursling of the cloudy storm,

And carries somewhat of its mother's force

Along with it: leaping with one mad bound

Over a rocky fall. Yet are there found

Pools of most silent beauty, calm and deep;

Though there, too, glittering foam-bells tell a tale

Of things before it reached that placid vale,

Where the new church o'erhangs its woodland sweep.

Oh! How these brooks with hidden meanings teem,

Which no one in the world but you and I would dream!

THE MEETING

Tell me, ye Winds and Waves! What power compels

Souls far apart to be together brought,

That they may love each other,—spirits taught

To stoop and listen by Truth's ancient wells;

Guiding their lives with the calm motion caught

From their pure earthborn murmurings—the swells

Of whose soft falling streams go chiming on,

Heard best by hearts that travel there alone!

One have I met—so meek a soul—that dwells

In his own lowly spirit's cloistered cells:

Him by that ancient mountain-rill I found,

Touched mid the heedless throng with holiest spells,

Striving to catch the stream's low thrilling sound,

Where in a savage place it runneth underground.

AUBREY DE VERE 

(1788—1846)

A Song of Faith, Devout Exercises, and other Poems_1842

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THE FAMILY PICTURE

With work in hand, perchance some fairy cap

To deck the little stranger yet to come;

One rosy boy struggling to mount her lap—

The eldest studious, with a book or map—

Her timid girl beside, with a faint bloom,

Conning some tale—while, with no gentle tap,

Yon chubby urchin beats his mimic drum,

Nor heeds the doubtful frown her eyes assume.

So sits the mother! With her fondest smile

Regarding her sweet little-ones the while;

And he, the happy man! to whom belong

These treasures, feels their living charm beguile

All mortal cares, and eyes the prattling throng

With rapture-rising heart, and a thanksgiving tongue.

THE EPISCOPAL CHARACTER

Whoe'er, through God's permission, and endowed

With providential graces, and impelled

By the heart's inward voice, clear though not loud,

Holds in his grasp that staff the Apostles held,

Upon his brow the sacred snows of eld

Should manifest experience; yet no cloud

Obscure those eyes, where Passion, long since quelled,

Hath left his throne to Wisdom. Firm, not proud,

His mien should be; and firm his voice, though mild;

His language, as his heart, frank like a child;

His judgment subtle, not perplexed; his spirit

Such as becomes an angel-warrior;

The zeal of ancient days he should inherit;

And Faith dwell with him, an abiding Power!

JOHN ADAMSON 

(1787—1855)

Lusitania Illustrata _1842

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To thy clear streams, Mondego! I return

With renovated life, and eyes now clear;

How fruitless in thy waters fell the tear—

When Love's delirium did with me sojourn!

When I, with face betraying aunguish deep,

And hollow voice, and unsuspecting ear,

Knew not the danger of the mountain steep

Whereon I stood—of which my soul with fear

The mem'ry chills. Seducing wiles of love!

'Neath what vain shadows did you hide my fate—

Shadows that swiftly past the happier state,

Which now this breast enjoys—Now peace I prove;

For smiling day succeeds the clouds of night,

And sweet repose, and joys, and prospects bright.

O Spirit pure, purer in realms above,

Than whilst thou tarried in this vale of pain;

Why hast thou treated me with cold disdain,

Nor, as thou ought, return'd my faithful love?

Was it for this, that thou so oft profess'd—

And Thee believing was my heart secure—

That the same moment of death's night obscure

Should lead us both to days of happy rest?

Ah why then leave me thus imprison'd here?

And how did'st thou alone thy course pursue,

My body lingering in existence drear

Without its soul? —Too clear the reason true!—

Thy virtues rare the glorious palm obtain,

While I, unworthy, sorrowful remain.

AUBRAY THOMAS DE VERE 

(1814—1902)

The Search After Proserpine_1843

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SONNET

She whom this heart must ever hold most dear

(This heart in happy bondage held so long)

Began to sing. At first a gentle fear

Rosied her countenance, for she is young,

And he who loves her most of all was near:

But when at last her voice grew full and strong

O! From their ambush sweet, how rich and clear,

Bubbled the notes abroad—A rapturous throng!

Her little hands were sometimes flung apart,

And sometimes palm to palm together prest;

While wave-like blushes rising from her breast

Kept time with that aerial melody;

A music to the sight!—I standing nigh

Received the falling fountain in my heart.

HUMILITY

Those hills, so graceful, though to us not grand,

Are grand to children: shade-swept hill and dale

The same in beauty, on an ampler scale

With broader trees and shades, for them expand.

To them, the pebbles on the shining sand

Are gems: to them each river brim and vale

Sends forth a thousand odours sweet and bland,

Too low for us to catch, too faint, too frail.

They see as far as we do: but their eye

Comparing all things with an humbler measure,

Exalts not less than multiplies their pleasure—

Ah that the moral world thus constantly

Might yield her gifts to our humility!—

The smallest key unlocks the largest treasure.

WILLIAM COX BENNETT 

(1820—1895)

My Sonnets_1843

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DEMOSTHENES

Thy winged words were rushing winds that tore

And lashed to stormy fury the hushed sea

Of breathing life beneath thee. Fitfully,

Rending the silence, the tempestuous roar

Of voices, bursting forth, rose wildly o'er

The mighty multitude,—"O still be free,

Ye men of Athens! In Thermopylae,

Died the three hundred; on the ocean shore

Of Marathon, did your forefathers pour

Their blood, like water, that their sons might be

Chainless; that Greece—that Athens—never more

Might know the foot of the enslaver.  See,

Is not yon Salamis?  Will ye before

The tyrant crouch?"—Loud bursts the cry, "To war!"

WASHINGTON'S SALE OF HIS NURSE

Like night, across the sunlight of his fame,

Comes that one deed. Who does not grieve, that he,

Who struck the fetters from futurity,

And else, unblasted by the touch of shame,

By godlike deeds, had glorified the name

Of man—who fronted death for liberty,

And, foremost, battled his own race to free,

Stamping his glory wheresoe'er he came,—

That Washington could sell her, in whose breast

He nestled in his careless infancy?

Blush!—He, who made the forests of the West

The home of homeless freedom, her, whose knee

Rocked his young eyes to slumber, calmly sold,

Bartering earth's greatest name for worthless gold.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE 

(1809—1893)

Poems_1844

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What is my lady like? Thou fain would'st know—

A rosy chaplet of fresh apple bloom,

Bound with blue ribbon, lying on the snow:

What is my lady like? The violet gloom

Of evening, with deep orange light below.

She's like the noonday smell of a pine wood,

She's like the sounding of a stormy flood,

She's like a mountain-top high in the skies,

To which the day its earliest light doth lend;

She's like a pleasant path without an end;

Like a strange secret, and a sweet surprise;

Like a sharp axe of doom, wreathed with blush roses,

A casket full of gems whose key one loses;

Like a hard saying, wonderful and wise.

If in thy heart the spring of joy remains,

All beauteous things, being reflected there,

Most beautiful and joyful do appear;

But if that treasure hath been from thee ta'en,

If emptiness, and darkness, in thy heart

Sit silent—from all nature doth depart

Its joy and glory, and all beauty seems

Hollow and strange.—The poet's noble dreams,

The voice of music and of song, the sight

Of evening shadows, and of morning light,

Flowers, and bright faces—youth, and hope, and love,

Who hand in hand over life's threshold move

Like conquerors to a triumph—all things fair,

Shining upon thee darken thy despair.

EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE KENEALY 

(1819—1880)

Brallaghan: Or the Deipnosophists_1845

Goethe: A New Pantomime_1850

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TO MRS. W. F.

My summer task is ended—the sweet labour

Thou oft hast heard me speak of, is complete:—

Songs rudely cast for rustic pipe and tabor,

Wild quips, and sportive thoughts, and fancies, meet

Here in this little book, that at thy feet

Like some meek suppliant lies. O Lady fair!

If there be aught within this varied tome

Worthy to win one passing thought of thine,

Thou art the cause—thy songs of beauty rare,

The pleasant days passed in our happy home

Of roses, myrtle, and green eglantine,

Thy smiles—thy sweet fond talk, and angel heart,

And loveliness, and goodness all divine:—

These have inspired thy Poet's gentle art.

DANIEL MACLISE, R. A.

Heir to the glories of the glorious past:

Raphael, Guido, Titian, live and shine,

Methinks, once more on earth—the starry brine

In whose bright moulds thy poet-soul was cast.

See fire-eyed Fancy guide thy glowing hand,

And Beauty soften, and young Grace refine,

While near thee, Truth and Skill and Genius stand.

Bright be thy path, Maclise, to rank and fame,

Bright be the garlands that shall wreathe thy name.

And, oh! Be thine, in breathing hues to tell

The scenes our mighty Shakspere drew so well.

Hamlet—Macbeth—in magic lines portrayed,

Make us but long for more—Oh! Why delayed

Hath been the spirit of love—Verona's gentle maid?

THOMAS NOON TALFOURD 

(1795—1854)

Tragedies: To which are Added a Few Sonnets and Verses_1846

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TO MR. MACREADY

There is no father, who, with swimming eyes,

Has seen thee present life and passion lend

To scenes by simple-hearted Poet penn'd,

Depicting household love in Roman guise,

Which, breathed through ancient forms, in freshness vies

With love of yesterday, who does not send

A greeting to thee as a cherish'd friend.

Now thy own heart acknowledges the ties

Which skill, forestalling Nature, made thee guess

With finest apprehension, and commend

To tearful crowds;—yet while the sweet excess

Of joy that thou hast passion'd forth, shall fill

Thy soul with all it dream'd of happiness,

May Fear and Grief remain Art's Fictions still!

FAME—THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY

The names that slow Oblivion have defied,

And passionate Ambition's wildest shocks

Stand in lone grandeur, like eternal rocks,

To cast broad shadows o'er the silent tide

Of time's unebbing flood, whose waters glide,

To ponderous darkness from their secret spring,

And, bearing on each transitory thing,

Leave those old monuments in loneliest pride.

There stand they—fortresses uprear'd by man,

Whose earthly frame is mortal; symbols high

Of power unchanging,—thought that cannot die;

Proofs that our nature is not of a span,

But of immortal essence, and allied

To life and joy and love unperishing.

WILLIAM BARNES 

(1801—1886)

 Poems, Partly of Rural Life_1846

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TO A GARDEN—ON LEAVING IT

Sweet garden! Peaceful spot! No more in thee

Shall I e'er while away the sunny hour.

Farewell each blooming shrub, and lofty tree;

Farewell the mossy path and nodding flow'r:

I shall not hear again from yonder bow'r

The song of birds, or humming of the bee,

Nor listen to the waterfall, nor see

The clouds float on behind the lofty tow'r.

No more, at breezy eve, or dewy morn,

My gliding scythe shall shear thy mossy green:

My busy hands shall never more adorn.

My eyes no more may see, this peaceful scene.

But still, sweet spot, wherever I may be,

My love-led soul will wander back to thee.

THE DESERTED MANSION

The elms are waving in the nightly squall,

And fallen leaves below them overspread

The mossy pathway, in a rustling bed,

As winds blow hoarsely through the empty hall,

Where once the glitt'ring knight and lady led

The happy train of dancers at the ball.

The weeds are growing o'er the mould’ring wall,

The long-forsaken pride of owners dead;

Whose hounds no more are heard upon the blast,

All answering the horn's exciting call;

And crackling chariot wheels have ceas'd to roll

Through these forsaken portals, still and fast.

When thus I look on some deserted hall

How soft a sadness steals upon my soul.

DAVID HOLT 

(1828—1880)

Poems, Rural and Miscellaneous_1846

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ON AN ENGRAVING OF DODEVALE, 

SENT TO ME BY MY MOTHER FROM BUXTON

Blest be the art which can bring home to me,

Even unto the crowded city street,

Bright glances of that mountain scenery

So lately left—that drew my vagrant feet

To moss and moorland, where I lov'd to meet

The misty mountain breezes, blowing free.

I never saw thee, valley, but my mind

Gazing on this thy portraiture, can find

Fit food for fancy, and can leave behind

The smoky city and its busy crowd,

And soar away, upon the wings of wind,

To mountains, 'circled by the misty cloud,

And muse till duty's call the vision breaks,

And from its revery the truant thought awakes.

CHATSWORTH

Fair palace of the peak! That smiling stands,

In lonely sovereignty and peerless pride,

By old romantic Derwent's flow'ry side,

Looking upon thy broad and sunny lands!

wand'rer! This is the work of human hands,—

No fairy dome and no ideal shrine,

But brightly real doth the picture shine:

This is the shrine of science and of art,—

Painting and poetry have here their home;

And the cold marble seems in life to start

'Neath the rich shelter of the classic dome:

Wealth, from each clime and every distant sphere,

From Turkey's domes and Russia's deserts drear,

Is with a liberal hand pil'd up in splendour here.

JAMES EDMESTON

(1791—1867)

Sacred Poetry_1848

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SONNET XIV

When on some lofty prospect hill I stand,

And faith's strong vision gazes o'er the scene,

How short the vale appears which lies between

That pleasant summit and the promised land!

The stream of death, which rolls its gloomy waves

Across the last rough portion of the way,

Seems but a rippling brook, which gently laves

The hither border of the land of day.

Oh, to be ever in a frame like this,

It makes the heavenly future, even now,

And sheds a gleam of glory o'er the brow,

Reflected from the radiancy of bliss!

And immortality itself appears

Already sprung from out the term of years.

SONNET XIX

Singing from the Hymn-Book of a Deceased Sister

While from this relic of departed love,

Midst all my earthly languor, I would praise,

I think of her, a seraph now above,

Who hymns of far diviner thought can raise,

But once with me trod earth's perplexing maze.

When shall I rise and be spirit too?

For this I sometimes wish my days were few,

That no long road of years before me lay,

With lone bereaved spirit to pursue

The weary tenour of my pilgrim way;

And Hope, with glass prophetic, lifts her view

To the bright fields of never-clouded day.

Yet, while appointed work for me remains,

I would not quit earth's bleak and desert plains.

ALEXANDER PLATT 

(1819—1883) 

The Poems of Ludwig Uhland (Translated from the German)_1848

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SPIRIT-LIFE

From thee disserver'd, lone as in the tomb,

I cannot prize the gentle sigh of spring;

To me the sky-lark's song, the flowers' sweet bloom

The brightening morning sun no solace bring.

When slumber falls on every living thing,

And when the dead from earth's dark caverns come,

I wander dreaming over hill and dome,

That keep me far from thee, unpitying.

Along the interdicted walks I go

And, 'spite the massive door and portal bar,

Attain thy beauty's peaceful sanctuary.

Sweet flower, can spirit-breathings frighten thee?

'Tis love's own wings that o'er thee waving are.

Farewell, I seek the grave, the cock doth crow.

THE BEQUEST

A bard of yore, in knightbood's pious age,

A valiant warrior in the Holy Land,

Transfix'd with arrows lay upon the sand,

With strength to say just thus much to his page.

"Enclose my heart, when it hath ceas'd to quiver,

In yonder urn, which from my native strand

I hither brought with pledges from love's hand,

And bear it to my mistress, faithful ever."

So lov'd one, I, thy charms alone extolling,

Am bleeding far from thee in love's distress,

My cheek already hath pale death upon it.

While round me, then, the grave's dark clouds are rolling,

Receive the heart that could not love thee less,

Within the golden casket of a sonnet.

WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER 

(C. 1814—1848)

Sermons, Doctrinal and Practical_1849

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THE RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD ARE FELT WITH A PAINFUL PLEASURE

SONNET II

Groves of my childhood! Sunny fields that gleam

With pensive lustre round me even now!

Rivers, whose unforgotten waters stream

Bright, pure as ever from the rifted brow

Oh hills whose fadeless beauty, like a dream,

Bursts back upon my weeping memory,—how

Hath time increased your loveliness, and given

To earth and earth's a radiance caught from heaven!

My soul is glad in floating up the tide

Of years; in counting o'er the withered leaves

That Time  hath strewed upon the path of Pride:

Yes glad, most glad;—and yet the feeling grieves,

With peace and pain mysteriously allied,

That sway and swell my breast like ocean's stilly heaves.

RETURN FROM LAKELAND TO THE WORLD

Hill behind hill retreating on each hand,

Rock behind rock, and island island hiding,

The cruel helm my bark still southward guiding,

I trod at last my last lake's border-sand.

Fled all! Yet no, processions dimly grand,

Move slowly now through Memory's chambers gliding,

Shades of a beautiful elsewhere abiding,

Sad twilight ghosts of that evanished land.

Ceased too the glamour of Her magic wand,

The spectral splendour, perishably fair,

Dissolved away, dies into common air,

And in the stark, stern world once more I stand!

The heart, unclothed of dreams, shivering, and bare,

Feels the keen morning blast, and loathes the light's dull glare.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

(1822—1888) 

The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems_ 1849

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WRITTEN IN BUTLER'S SERMONS

Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers,

Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control—

So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole,

Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours.

Vain labour! Deep and broad, where none may see,

Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne

Where man's one nature, queen-like, sits alone,

Centred in a majestic unity;

And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen

Linking their coral arms under the sea,

Or cluster'd peaks with plunging gulfs between

Spann'd by aërial arches all of gold,

Whereo'er the chariot wheels of life are roll'd

In cloudy circles to eternity.

WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS

"O monstrous, dead, unprofitable world,

That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way!

A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day,

To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd;

Hast thou no lip for welcome?"—So I said.

Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by;

A smile of wistful incredulity

As though one spake of life unto the dead—

Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full

Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free;

Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful;

The seeds of godlike power are in us still;

Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!—

Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery?

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE

(1808—1866)

The Poetic Rosary_1850

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JUNE

Hail! Fervid, flowery, leafy, lusty June!

First-born of Summer! Heir of lavish light!

Month of the genial Morn,—the glowing Noon,—

The dreamy Evening,—the delicious Night!

Season of sunny Harvest, when the hand

Of jocund Toil, ‘mid busy-winged bees,

Rifles the riches of the grassy leas,

And scatters rural fragrance o’er the land!

Fain would I hail thee, wheresoe’er and when

My feelings prompted, or my fancy led;—

In slumberous forests—on the mountain’s head—

By lonely streams, on moorlands high and dun,

In ferny dingles shaded from the sun—

Apart, but not exiled, from cities and from men.

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RECORDATORIOS Y ACLARACIONES:

Se recuerda que las entradas hasta aquí publicadas no constituyen una selección o antología de sonetos; por el contrario, estas entregas únicamente exponen algunas de las múltiples fórmulas que los poetas a través de los tiempos emplearon para componer sonetos.

También se recuerda que en modo alguno es un trabajo exhaustivo, sino antes bien representa el botón de la muestra. Cabe aclarar que muchas obras necesarias son de difícil acceso e incluso no han tenido una reedición; ejemplo de ello son los diez volúmenes de sonetos de Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges o el libro de Poemas de Samuel Gower, libro que acaso contenga su soneto aquí presentado. 

De algunos autores no es posible hallar fechas de nacimiento y muerte, aunque de su obra sobren escritos. 

Independientemente de ello, y a medida que descubra nuevas fórmulas, las iré colocando donde vayan y editando los anteriores posteos.

Muchas gracias y saludos a todos.