LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO (VIII): ADDENDA

El Siglo XIX, como hemos visto, fue harto próspero para el soneto inglés, no solo por la cantidad de autores que lo ensayaron o las múltiples fórmulas que emplearon para ello, sino también por la cantidad de poetas cuyos sonetos aparecieron en distintas publicaciones sin firma alguna o bien utilizando iniciales o seudónimos que no revelaban en absoluto la verdadera identidad de su autor.

He aquí algunos ejemplos:

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The London Magazine _Diciembre 1820

Firmado  M. M.  

Oh! Let me die on a November day!

Methinks that then I could resign my breath

With less regret,—and almost smile at Death!—

The beauties of the Summer now decay,

An universal gloom appears, and fog and cloud

Obscure from view the lovely sun and sky—

And all around me seems to droop and die:—

The insect dies—is wrapped in Nature’s shroud,

And lies till warmth restore to it new birth:—

The flowers that gave a perfume to the gale,

Now drop their heads and sink into the earth:—

The hill is bleak—unfruitful is the vale.

Then, let me die when all these charms decay,

Oh! Let me die on a November day!

ABBACACADEDEFF

The Imperial Magazine_Volume III [1821]

Firmado  E.  W—G

Augusta! Pleasantly the days have worn

Their sober hours, yet not unblest with song,

Tho' seldom mirthful, since our shades among

Thy friendly steps have tarried—we have borne

Burden of sympathy to many a strain,

That told of darker days—seasons forlorn,

When ev'ry voice of comfort spoke in vain—

And the world frown'd, and we could fancy scorn

In ev'ry glance the prosp'rous voyager

Cast on our drifting barks. We too have told

Of faith restoring mercies, sent to stir

Our hearts to praise:—and now we can behold

A God in all! —Augusta, it is thus

Friendship's firm zone is clasp'd—and it encircles us.

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SONNET,  ON THE DEATH OF THE POET J. KEATS

The London Magazine_Mayo 1821

[Compuesto en Abril]

Firmado M. M.

And art thou dead? Thou very sweetest bird

That ever made a moonlight forest ring,

Its wild unearthly music mellowing:

Shall thy rich notes no more, no more be heard?

Never! Thy beautiful romantic themes,

That made it mental Heav'n to hear thee sing,

Lapping th' enchanted soul in golden dreams,

Are mute! Ah vainly did Italia fling

Her healing ray around thee—blossoming

With flushing flow'rs long wedded to thy verse:

Those flow'rs, those sunbeams, but adorn thy hearse;

And the warm gales that faintly rise and fall

In music's clime—themselves so musical—

Shall chaunt the Minstrel's dirge far from his father's hall.

ABBACDCDEECCFF

The Imperial Magazine_Agosto  1821

Firmado M. M.

Oh! I could wander on till dawn of day,

And keep my eyes on thee, bright orb of night,

Now, whilst thou shedd'st thy pale and silvery light

O'er the lone path in which my footsteps stray.

And where is she, O moon! That once with me

In silent admiration gaz'd upon thy face,

And were by no one seen—except by thee.

Oh, tell me, does she occupy a place

Above thy glorious height? —Does she behold

Thy light on earth's wide surface uncontroll'd,

Still shed its gentle beams, and does she see

My eyes, as her's were, firmly fix'd on thee?

Oh! If she does—then thoughts no more will rise

Of melancholy—as I see thee gild the skies.

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The Imperial Magazine_Volume III [1821]

[Compuesto en Stepney, 1819]

Firmado W. V.

Whilst on a verdant bank, I sad reclin'd,

The sun shone bright adown the western sky,

And musing zephyrs, as they passed by,

Deep sigh'd, responsive to my troubled mind.

The fair enamell'd flow'rs seem'd laughing gay,

Whilst from them sprung a fragrance doubly sweet,

That with a pleasing scent perfum'd my seal,

And contemplation stole the hour away,

'Tis thus, though I, that virtue scents the song

Of Poets, to a thoughtful reader's mind,

When they infuse the lovely theme among

Their rising numbers, glowing and refin'd.

Ev'n thus it doth their troubled cares allay,

And, for a while, chase sorrow far away.

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The Imperial Magazine_Volume IV [1822]

Firmado H. D.

How sweet the thoughts of days gone by!

How sweet to cast a retrospective glance,

And,—back to the varied hours of infancy,

With contemplation's eye, revert for once.

'Tis sweet to view what never can return,

The thought itself is pleasing in the extreme;

To mark of life the first approaching morn,

When the gay world appear'd a gayer dream;

For them I know tis useless e'er to mourn;

I likewise know, to wish them back, 'tis vain,

Yet in the bare idea, there's a thought

With such delicious sweetness fraught,

That ere I'm hurried to that unknown bourn,

In mind I'd even be a child again.

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The Imperial Magazine_Volume IV [1822]

Firmado M. M.

I saw him on a rock that shades the sea

From the pale moon-beam's light,—and wild despair

Sat on each feature,—and he tore his hair,

And wrung his hands, and beat his breast, for he

Had seen misfortune in her direst forms:

He left his home,—had brav'd the ocean's storms,

And glory won in conquering England's foes;

But in his absence death had thrown his dart,

Father and mother fell, and numerous woes

(No home had he) o'erpower'd his feeling heart,—

Nor comforter on earth, nor friend he found.

Hark! What is that? The dashing waters sound:

He falls,—the waves rush back,—again return:—

Dead silence reigns, and then the night-winds for him mourn.

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SONNET TO THE BAT

The London Magazine_Junio 1822

Sin firma alguna

Twilight's dull herald, who dost flitting come

From some lone cloister'd nook, by foul imp driven,

Where thou long time with Famine's pinch hast striven!

Flitting along through the deep darkening gloom,

Pleased with unsightly shapes and shadows dim;

Pleased with lone churchyard scenes, and paths forbidden;

Unsocial Bird! Thou comest forth like him

Who seeks where Avarice' hoarded pelf is hidden.

The Moon is up; but oh! Shines not for thee:

Say for thy thanks are those harsh shrieking given?

Behold yon scene of rare felicity,

Lovers enjoying Courtship’s earliest Heaven!

'Tis for their sake fair Luna breaks the gloom,

For thee she conjures up the shadows of the tomb.

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The Morning Post_1 de Mayo 1826

[Compuesto en Abril]

Sin firma alguna 

Ill fated Bard, thus early doom'd to die!

Could'st thou have heard the touching melody

With which thy plaintive and heart-thrilling song

Was given by him, blest with high minstrelsy—

It might have soothed thy spirit, and the wrong

Done to thy muse and thy poor injured name!

Oh! what deep feeling given to every line—

The Poet's soul so mingled with thy strain,

It were indeed no less than song divine!

Yes, hapless Bard! 'twas beautiful to hear—

To feel thy sorrowing tale—so exquisite,

So tenderly rehearsed! Thro' the long night

I could have listened—still, upon mine ear

Dwells the loved voice—still, still it lingers here!

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ON AN OLD ENGRAVING OF A NUN

The Literary Magnet_Mayo 1826

Firmado B.

'Tis a most wondrous mockery of life!

A dirty scroll, and lined with dirtier ink,

Is all I gaze upon; and yet how rife

With beauty and devotion! One might drink

From those meek, pensive lips, and drooping eyes

Love that would lift a demon to the skies,

Or plant an Eden on Destruction's brink!

Sure, on her saintly smile we need but look

To read the entrancing promise of that Book

Which in one hand she clasps; and dare we think

Of virgin youth and loveliness, and bliss

Too heavenly for a world so fallen as this,—

But no—still, still be the fair fingers prest

Upon those hallowed folds that curtain her pure breast.

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TRANSLATION (Sonnet of Dante  "Tanto Gentile")

The Dublin Literary Gazette_Junio 1830

Firmado W.E.

Whome'er my mistress may but chance salute,

So nobly sweet her courtesy, amaze

Binds every tongue in trembling worship mute,

And eyes but glancing where they dare not gaze.

Cloth'd in the majesty of pure intent

She passes on, well conscious of her praise;

And seems a thing from Heaven divinely sent,

A miracle for earth's degraded days.

Her gracious presence wins all hearts, at sight,

With more than picture-pleasure, deep delight;

As none can understand but they who prove:

Some gentle spirit, sure, must haunt her eye,

Which, born of tenderness, and winged with love,

Says to the soul of her beholders—"Sigh!"

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SONNET ON SHELLEY

The Dublin University Magazine_Agosto 1835

Firmado F.B.B.

If the invisible powers of earth and air

Ere met together in one human form,

And breathed upon the soul enshrined there

The spirit of the lightning and the storm,

Shelley! 'twas thine —yet thou on earth didst live

A shadow scarce with earth identified;

Restless as Ocean's ever-changing tide,

But loving, gentle, and contemplative:

Learned in books, without the pedant's pride,

Receiving thence far less than thou didst give —

Ah, noble spirit! Gently would I chide

Thy faithlessness, and fondly would believe,

That from thee oft unbidden thoughts would start,

Pleading for faith, which thou didst banish from thy heart.

AABBACCADADAAA

SONNET ABOUT A NOSE

The Irish Penny Journal_Noviembre 1840

Sin firma alguna

'Tis very odd that poets should suppose

There is no poetry about a nose,

When plan as is the nose upon your face,

A noseless face would lack poetic grace.

Noses have sympathy, a lover knows

Noses are always "touched," when lips are kissing;

And who would care to kiss, where nose was missing?

Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose,

And where would be our mortal means of telling

Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows

Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling?

I know a nose, a nose no other knows,

'Neath starry skies, o'er ruby lips it grows;

Beauty is in its form, and music in its blows!