III.

SONNET TO A SONNET.

RARE composition of a poet-knight,
Most chivalrous amongst chivalric men,
Distinguish'd for a polish'd lance and pen
In tuneful contest and in tourney-fight;
Lustrous in scholarship, in honour bright,
Accomplish'd in all graces current then,
Humane as any in historic ken,
Brave, handsome, noble, affable, polite;
Most courteous to that race become of late
So fiercely scornful of all kind advance,
Rude, bitter, coarse, implacable in hate
To Albion, plotting ever her mischance,-
Alas, fair verse! how false and out of date
Thy phrase "sweet enemy" applied to France!

IV.

FALSE POETS AND TRUE.

Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,

Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!

His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die

Obscur'd, and hid by death's oblivious shroud,
And Earth inherits the rich melody,

Like raining music from the morning cloud.

Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud, Their voices reach us through the lapse of space :

The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd

Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race;

But only lark and nightingale forlorn

Fill up the silences of night and morn.

ΤΟ

V.

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace

That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept forgetting his old speed:

For, as in sunshine only we can read

The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart

With aching hands and lingering of eyes."
Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight

By the same light of love that makes them bright!

VI.

FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY.

No popular respect will I omit

To do thee honour on this happy day,
When every loyal lover tasks his wit
His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay,
And to his mistress dear his hopes convey.
Rather thou knowest I would still outrun
All calendars with Love's,-whose date alway
Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun,-
For with thy favour was my life begun ;
And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles,
And not by summers, for I thrive on none
But those thy cheerful countenance compiles :
Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine,
Love, thou art every day my Valentine.

VII.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

I.

OH, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,—

A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,

Breathing as it would neither live nor die
With that unchanging countenance of sleep!
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lin❜d its slumber with a still blue sky,
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie
With no more life than roses-just to keep
The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath.
O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose,
So sweet a compromise of life and death,
'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose
For memory to stain their inward leaf,

Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.