Imatges de pàgina
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SONNETS.

I.

THE breast that would not feel this calm profound,
The eye that would not love this landscape fair,
Though in their mortal make beyond compare,
In spiritual life were senseless and unsound.
This glassy lake-the silent hills around-
The western clouds where rests, like woven air,
In tresses wild, the day god's golden hair-
All seem in sleep's divine enchantment bound.
Nor brute nor human form, nor cot nor cave,
Nor palace proud, nor sign nor sound of life
Is seen or heard; not lonelier is the grave;
And yet this lovely solitude is rife

With food for living thought, and few would crave

A holier refuge from the loud world's strife.

II.

But, ah! no scene of loveliness may last!
The earth is all mutation. Sunny skies-
The meadows gay-the sleeping lake that lies
A broad bright sheet of gold-are soon o'ercast.
O'er all these silent hills loud gales have past,
And erelong shall return. The gorgeous dyes
Of sun-set clouds,-the calm night's countless eyes,-
Shall vanish at the rude storm's trumpet-blast.
'Tis thus too with the soul. Eternal change

Of mood and passion seems her lot below;
Nature and man with kindred movement range
From fair to foul, from happiness to woe,
Again to light and joy-reversion strange-
And naught a long monotony may know.

III.

Yet well and wisely hath the poet said,

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That all exists by elemental strife,

And passions are the elements of life*."

This moving world were as a dreamless bed

Grave of the living-if stagnation dread

Held in its base enthralment Nature's realm,

And man's unslumbering soul. Though storms o'erwhelm Life's scene awhile, eternal stillness dead

Were heavier fate for human heart to bear.

We know not what we ask; but, blind and weak,

Madly neglect the blessings that we share,

And hidden evils ignorantly seek.

Oh! if his own fixed fate could man bespeak

How oft for change would rise the impatient prayer!

STANZAS WRITTEN AT SEA.

LIKE blossoms pale the vernal orchard strewing
The light foam sprinkles wide the billows green,
And flitting clouds, aerial sports pursuing,
Dapple and variegate the moving scene.

Through the stiff shrouds the gale is loudly singing,
The big waves revel round our oaken walls
That reel and tremble, as if hosts were flinging
The thundering cannon's rampart-shaking balls.

But here no human foes with fierce commotion
Now meet in deadly strife for mastery vain ;
The loud-voiced winds and vast uplifted ocean
Confess, with mighty mirth, their Maker's reign.

* Pope.

SONNET.

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

THIS is the holiest day of all the year

To thy fond mother's heart. Thy natal morn
Unchanged returns. Still hope's bright rays adorn
The laughing scene, and round thy path appear
The flowers of life's fresh spring. Thy ravished ear
Is filled with pleasant sounds, and feelings born.
Of sinless dreams, from dismal thoughts forlorn
Protect thy trusting spirit. All things cheer
Thine inward eye,

The guileless and the true.

Undimmed by care or crime, may drink sweet hues
From every form, e'en where life's shadows lie.-
While all seems dark to souls that ne'er diffuse

A radiance of their own, the dreariest sky
A fancy pure with kindred light imbues !

SONNET-SUN-RISE.

How gloriously yon mighty monarch rears,
His proud resplendent brow-like Fame's first light
Breaking oblivion's gloom! His tresses bright
Inwreathe the rosy clouds. All nature wears
A bliss-reviving smile.-The glittering tears,
Shed by the pensive spirits of the night
Like verdant meadows, vanish from the sight,
Like rain-drops on the sea! The warm beam cheers
The drowsy herd, and thrills the feather'd throngs

Of early minstrels, whose melodious songs
Seem like a gush of joy. Now mortals send
Their orisons above, while shrubs and flowers
On whispering winds ambrosial odours blend,
To charm and consecrate the morning hours!

OTHELLO AND IAGO.

Let Jealousy

Distill her bane to taint their growing loves!
Light up resentment! fan the dangerous fire
With dark surmises, hints, invented tales,
"Till it burst all the tender bonds asunder
That knit their souls.-Virginia.

This jealousy

Is for a precious creature; as she's rare,
Must it be great; and as his person's mighty,
Must it be violent; and as he does conceive
He is dishonored by a man which ever
Professed to him, why his revenges must

In that be made more bitter.- Winter's Tale.

COLERIDGE gave it out as a discovery, that Othello was not jealous. This is either an idle truism or an outrageous paradox. If he meant that the Moor was not naturally suspicious, he merely echoed the general judgment; but if he really thought that the cunning insinuations of Iago instilled no jealousy into Othello's mind, and that it was not Shakespeare's intention to exhibit the progress and effects of that passion, his opinion is equally new and strange*.

It is true that the jealousy of the Moor is not of that despicable character which always anticipates evil, and is ever on the watch. He is not one of those sly and greedy listeners who, according to

* Dr. Lowth observes, "that the passion of jealousy, its causes, circumstances, progress, and effects, are more accurately, more copiously, more satisfactorily described in this one drama of Shakespeare, than in all the disputations of philosophy."

the vulgar proverb, never hear any good of themselves. He is not a Paul Pry. His is the jealousy of a fiery and impassioned nature that cannot brook a taint of dishonour either in love or

war.

"A savage jealousy that sometimes savours nobly."

Twelfth-Night.

If his jealousy had been of that cast which characterizes mean and suspicious minds, instead of sympathizing with him in his afflictions, we should have regarded him with mingled hatred and contempt. His distress would have seemed a fitting punishment. Even if his jealousy had spontaneously arisen in his own heart, instead of its being forced upon him, as it was, by the circumvention of a fiend in human form, it would have greatly lessened our sympathy and respect. It is almost unnecessary to observe that it was not Shakespeare's desire to render him repulsive or contemptible, but on the contrary to compel us to love and honor him even while he is writhing with a passion which would have rendered a meaner nature intolerably hateful. Though he becomes the murderer of his spotless wife, he only deepens our pity. The more pure and precious was that angelic being, the heavier was his misfortune, We forget his guilt in his agony. Who does not sympathize with that terrible straining of the heartstrings, when the sense of his wife's death comes suddenly home to his apprehension, while Amelia is knocking at the chamberdoor?

"If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife:

My wife! my wife! what wife!—I have no wife.
O, insupportable! O, heavy hour!"

We never cease to remember, that it was the intensity of his love and the boundless confidence of his friendship that exposed him to the subtle treachery of Iago. We could not despise him for his credulity without insulting virtue. It is not the credulity of weakness like that of Roderigo, who by the dark-lantern

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