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SONNETS. TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

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SONNETS

I.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Many the wonders I this day have seen:

The sun, when first he kist away the tears

That fill'd the eyes of morn; —the laurel'd peers

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean: —

The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, —

Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears

Must think on what will be, and what has been.

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,

Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee,

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

II.

TO * * * * * *

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprize:

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;

Yet must I dote upon thee, —call thee sweet.

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses

When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

III.

Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison.

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?

Think you he nought but prison walls did see,

Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?

Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!

In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair,

Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew

With daring Milton through the fields of air:

To regions of his own his genius true

Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

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