I. The Sonnet.
The Sonnet is the cherished rose de Meaux
Of poesy, all perfect in its kind,
Albeit small. It is a cameo,
Of size just fitted on the heart to bind.
The poet, and initiated know,
And they alone, the beauties of this gem,
The choicest in the Muse’s diadem,
Whose classic form we to Italia owe.
It is an oratory off the aisle
Of the cathedral epic, interlaced
With ornaments elaborate, yet chaste,
And not unworthy of the grander pile.
It is a dome, whose just proportion vails
Its amplitude, and seemingly curtails.
XXV. Summer Evening.
(Addressed to Richmond and Euphemia.)
There are some evenings which we ne’er forget,
Albeit than others not more beautiful,
But which some talisman with mystic tool
In Memory’s tablet silently will set;
And this is one. The flowers with dew all wet,
That late were drooping round my rustic stool;
The burning day remembered, but now cool;
And lofty Ben, like Night, one mass of jet:
Low on the hills, the skies of saffron hue,
Changing to sapphire where the stars they meet;
Trees in full foliage, lake of gleaming blue;
Birds singing, and flocks nibbling at our feet:
But more than all th’ affection of ye two,
Than skies, or dews, or songs, or flowers more sweet.
XXVIII. Twilight.
How strange is the analogy between
Man’s seeming long, yet little pilgrimage
Of feverish life on this eventful stage,
And the Sun’s circuit through the blue serene !
All have remarked it since the world hath been,
So obvious is it; yet it strikes me most,
Yea startles me, in Twilight, when at e’en
Alone I sit, in contemplation lost.
The day declines apace, but ere it fades
A short bright glimmer all the air pervades;
Before man passes from his anxious strife,
A placid smile oft o’er his features flits:
Light in the one, and in the other life,
We fondly deem, yet both but counterfeits!
XXXII. To The Linden-Tree.
In balmy May the Linden-tree puts on
Her citron vesture, delicately bright,
What time the poplar ceases to invite
All eyes to gaze on it, its fragrance gone ;
And when the branches like a mighty fan
Wave to and fro, the pendant blossoms swell
Like blobs of honey dropping from the cell ;
Look up, and count the clusters if ye can
And listen to the never-ending hum
Of honey-bees in myriads there that come !
When frost-winged tempests howl in Hallow- tide,
A skeleton thou standest, Linden-tree ;
Thy graceful foliage scattered far and wide ;
Preaching to beauty a sad homily.
LVI. Night.
Now Night attires herself in sable hood,
Through the damp pitchy air, dim-seen, to walk,
While injured ghosts (as some imagine) stalk
The earth abroad, portending nothing good,
And the horned owl hoots ominous in the wood.
The jewel sockets in her crown are blank,
Her tangled tresses hang about her lank,
And her black stole is over all bedewed.
She holds a lantern in her chilly hand,
And walks like one a precipice who nears.
Look ! look ! she stops to satisfy her fears,
And moves again, and then again does stand !
Her countenance demure she hardly shows,
And, wrapt in thought, all unattended goes.
~ Cochrane, James Inglis, Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems, Edinburgh, Johnstone and Hunter, 1853. https://archive.org/details/sonnetsmiscellan00coch/
