SONNET.

ON THE SEA.

It keeps eternal whisperings around

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Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and tir'd, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;

Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody,

Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd!

SONNET.

On Leigh Hunt's Poem "The Story of Rimini."

WHO loves to peer up at the morning sun,

With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek, Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek For meadows where the little rivers run;

Who loves to linger with that brightest one

Of Heaven-Hesperus-let him lowly speak
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,

Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.

He who knows these delights, and too is prone
To moralize upon a smile or tear,

Will find at once a region of his own,

A bower for his spirit, and will steer
To alleys where the fir-tree drops its cone,
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.

FRAGMENT.

HERE'S the Poet? show him! show him,

Muses nine! that I may know him!

'Tis the man who with a man

Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,

Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell

What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell

Comes articulate and presseth On his ear like mother-tongue.

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FRAGMENT:

MODERN LOVE.

AND what is love? It is a doll dress'd up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on

Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,

And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.

Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies

Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

Fragment of "The Castle Builder."

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TO-NIGHT I'll have my friar-let me think
About my room,-I'll have it in the pink;
It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
Should look thro' four large windows and display 5
Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way,

Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor;
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
To see what else the moon alone can show;
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
My terrace is well bower'd with oranges.
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove
Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love;

A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair;
A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon
A glorious folio of Anacreon;

A skull upon a mat of roses lying,

Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
Of passion-flower ;-just in time there sails
A cloud across the moon,-the lights bring in!
And see what more my phantasy can win.
It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad;
The draperies are so, as tho' they had
Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet;
And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet
A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face,
In letters raven-sombre, you may trace
Old "Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin."
Greek busts and statuary have ever been
Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far
Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar;
Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste
That I should rather love a Gothic waste
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay,

ΤΟ

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Than on the marble fairness of old Greece.

My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece

And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought, 40 Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.

My ebon sofas should delicious be
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new, 45
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence.
My wine-O good! 'tis here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.

FRAGMENT.

"Under the flag

Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryo atoms."-MILTON.

WELCOME joy, and welcome sorrow,

Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow,

I do love you both together!

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.

Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;

Visage sage at pantomime;

Funeral, and steeple-chime;

Infant playing with a skull ;

Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;

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Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;

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Cleopatra regal-dress'd

With the aspic at her breast;