Good night! from music’s softest spell Go to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers, Fairies, with magic harp and shell, Sing o’er to thee thy own sweet numbers. Good night! from Hope’s intense desire Go to thy dreams: and may to-morrow, Love with the sun returning, fire These evening mists of doubt and sorrow. Good night! from hours of weary waking I’ll to my dreams: still in my sleep To feel the spirit’s restless aching, And ev’n with eyelids closed, to weep.

SONNET

Say thou not sadly, “never,” and “no more,” But from thy lips banish those falsest words; While life remains that which was thine before Again may be thine; in Time’s storehouse lie Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by, Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye Look thou on dear things, though they turn away, For thou and they, perchance, some future day Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return; For its departure then make thou no mourn, But with stout heart bid what thou lov’st farewell; That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

SONNET

Though thou return unto the former things, Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears As when thou lovedst them in former years, They shall not seem the same; the spirit brings Change from the inward, though the outward be E’en as it was, when thou didst weep to see It last, and spak’st that prophecy of pain, “Farewell! I shall not look on ye again!” And so thou never didst—no, though e’en now Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore, The Thou that did behold them then, no more Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

SONNET

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land, By flowing waters, under shady trees, Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower The bounteous season hath poured out its dower: Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light, And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he With a sad heart walks through this jubilee, Beholding how beyond this happy land, Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand, Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight, Where all things dwarf and dwindle,—so walk I, Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

SONNET

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O’er joys that God hath for a season lent, Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn. There lies no desert in the land of life, For e’en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. Haply no more, music, and mirth and love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast; But when these bright companions all depart, Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

SONNET

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile The panting breath and hurrying steps of life, The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife Of hourly being; the sharp biting file Of action, fretting on the tightened chain Of rough existence; all that is not pain, But utter weariness; oh! to be free But for a while from conscious entity! To shut the banging doors and windows wide, Of restless sense, and let the soul abide Darkly and stilly, for a little space, Gathering its strength up to pursue the race; Oh, Heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

SONNET

Art thou already weary of the way? Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o’er: Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, before Thy feet the road goes stretching far away. If thou already faint, who hast but come Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay, Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom And temperate airs, of early breaking day; Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom, There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring, And the angels leave thee; what wilt thou become Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering, Lonely and dark? I shall take courage, friend, For comes not every step more near the end?

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