Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die, If thro' the shudd'ring midnight I had sent From the dark Dungeon of the Tower time-rent That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry-- That in no after moment aught less vast Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout From the more with'ring scene diminished past. Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood, Wand'ring at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood, Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!
Sonnet XVI. To Earl Stanhope
Not, Stanhope! with the Patriot's doubtful name I mock thy worth -- Friend of the human race Since scorning Faction's low and partial aim, Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace, Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain, Nobility: and aye unterrified, Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train That sit complotting with rebellious pride 'Gaint her, who from the Almighty's bosom leapt With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love! Wherefore, ere Virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept, Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above: And thou from forth its clouds shall hear the voice, Champion of Freedom and her God! rejoice!
Sonnet XVII. Composed On A Journey Homeward; The Author Having Received Intelligence Of The Birth Of A Son
Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash dost last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-questioned in her sleep: and some have said We lived ere yet this fleshy robe we wore. O my sweet Baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me, thou wert dead (As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear), I think, that I should struggle to believe Thou were a Spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier.
Sonnet XVIII. To The Autumnal Moon
Mild Splendor of the various-vested Night! Mother of wildly-working visions! hail! I watch thy gliding, while with watery light Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil; And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high; And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud Thy placid lightning o'er th' awakened sky. Ah, such is Hope! As changeful and as fair! Now dimly peering on the wistful sight; Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair: But soon emerging in her radiant might She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.
Sonnet XX.
The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath For him, the fair betrothed Youth, who les Cold in the narrow dwelling, or the cries With which a Mother wails her Darling's death, These from our Nature's common impulse spring Unblamed, unpraised; but o'er the piled earth, Which hides the sheeted corse of gray-haired Worth, If droops the soaring Youth with slackened wing; If he recall in saddest minstrelsy Each tenderness bestowed, each truth impressed; Such Grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety! And from the Almighty Father shall descend Comforts on his late Evening, whose young breast Mourns with no transient love the aged friend.
Sonnet XXI.
Pensive, at eve, on the hard world I mused, And my poor heart was sad: so at the Moon I gazed--and sighed, and sighed--for, ah! how soon Eve saddens into night! Mine eyes perused, With tearful vacancy, the dampy grass, That wept and glitter'd in the paly ray, And I did pause me on my lonely way, And mused me on the wretched ones, who pass O'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas! Most of myself I thought: when it befell, That the sooth Spirit of the breezy wood Breath'd in mine ear--'All this is very well; But much of one thing is for no thing good.' Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell!
