I spoke with heart, and heat, and force, We parted. Sweetly gleamed the stars, As homeward by the church I drew. So fresh they rose in shadowed swells; Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells." ALFRED TENNYSON. Sonnets. THAT thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, SONNETS. FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter: SOME say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport: Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteemed, So are those errors that in thee are seen, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers might'st thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so; I love thee in such sort As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease; Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute; Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. FROM you have I been absent in the spring, 243 When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; Drawn after you—you pattern of all those. THE forward violet thus did I chide : Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? the purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, And to this robbery had annexed thy breath; But for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet in color it had stolen from thee. WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, I see their antique pen would have expressed Of this our time, all you prefiguring: They had not skill enough your worth to sing; For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. LET me not to the marriage of true minds Or bends with the remover to remove. That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; OH! never say that I was false of heart, As easy might I from myself depart, As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie. That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again Just to the time, not with the time exchanged; So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reigned All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Sonnets. COME sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace, The indifferent judge between the high and low! And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. In martial sports I had my cunning tried, When Cupid having me, his slave, descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, "What now, Sir Fool?" said he, "I would no less; Look here, I say."- I looked, and Stella spied, Who, hard by, made a window send forth light; My heart then quaked; then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. My foe came on and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. O HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear; They did themselves, oh sweetest prison! twine; SONNETS. WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me: Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. I give Thee Eternity. How many paltry, foolish, painted things, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapped in their windingsheet, Where I to thee eternity shall give When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise; Virgins and matrons reading these, my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song. Sonnet. MICHAEL DRAYTON. I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays; With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought; That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. I know frail beauty's like the purple flower To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of mind's accords. 245 If it be true that any beauteous thing Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, For who adores the Maker needs must love His work. Translation of J. E. TAYLOR. MICHEL ANGELO. (Italian.) To Vittoria Colonna. YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; For if of our affections none find grace In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that Eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour: But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise. MICHEL ANGELO. (Italian.) Translation of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Sonnets from the Portuguese. If thou must love me, let it be for nought May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby, But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. I NEVER gave a lock of hair away To a man, dearest, except this to thee, My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange Of walls and floors-another home than this? To conquer Grief tries more, as all things prove; Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love. FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst shears Would take this first, but love is justified,Take it thou,-finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left there when she died. SAY over again, and yet once over again, I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, That thou dost love me. Though the word re- With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, Remember, never to the hill or plain, Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain The third upon my lips was folded down I have been proud, and said, "My love, my How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, For the ends of being and ideal grace. |