SONNET XII.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF HELENA FORMAN, THE SECOND WIFE

OF RUBENS.

THIS was a Helen of a latter day,

And of a cloudier clime than the bright dame
Of Menelaus darkened: but that name

Was worthily bestowed, the sooth to say,
On this rare creature. Oh! there was a ray,
Within those eyes that might have lit the flame
Of love and war, as sadly known to fame

As those which brought old Ilion down, for aye! She was the other love, (ah! happy lot!)

Of him who did so mourn yon charming Kate.
Much did I marvel, famous man of art,

How thou couldst yield again thy widowed heart
To passion but, if such thy second mate,

I marvel not;-in faith I marvel not.

SONNET XIII.

SCRITTO NELL' IMITAZIONE DEL PETRARCA E PER ESPRIMERE

I SENTIMENTI SUOI.

BEN lunga servitute ho provata io,

Nelle catene del tiranno Amore;

Che 'l suo regno è un Egitto, ed egli ha il cuore,
Via più di Faraone, duro e rio.

D'anno in anno, tutto il lavoro mio

Speso ho per questo crudel' esattore,
Senza coglierne mai frutto nè fiore:

Così 'n me signoreggia il van disio.

Pur credo omai che, per poter scampare

Dell' empio impero, il cammin mi fia aperto,

Come al popol Ebreo fù già concesso :

Ma vuoto m'apparecchia a viaggare,

Anzi spogliato ad errar, nel diserto;

Ne

spero

di veder suolo promesso.

SONNET XIV.

TO LOUIS PHILIPPE.

BESOTTED traitor, art thou still untaught,

Thou that hast seen the great leviathan

Of popular power awake, when it began
First to put forth its terrible strength, and wrought,
Boundless and curbless, till it swept to nought

Such pigmies as thyself? Still dost thou plan
To goad the mighty creature? Hath the ban
Of nations still no terror to thy thought?
Now, while thou maddenest on, with daring bold,
Holy to keep oppression's festival,

Like Babel's impious king, who sate, of old,
Vaunting his gods,-within thy banquet-hall

Affright shall rack thee quickly. Turn: behold:
There is a Hand that writeth on the wall.

THE GRIEFLESS.

THOUGH falsehood be an inmate of thy heart, For once, thou hast forgot the liar's art ;

Art did I call it ?-such it well may be

To others, but 'tis natural to thee,

And only in those moments rare, when Truth
Wonders to find an echo in thy mouth,
Art aids thy labour, and with effort high,
Enables thee to curb the native lie:

The native lie, back to thy bosom's core,
Returns, and leaguing with a thousand more,
Too potent for restraint, they utterance gain,
And falsehood re-asserts her abject reign.
But veriest facts, heard from such lips as thine,
Seem but the dross of Fiction's foulest mine,

So lamely dost thou dare the unwonted task,
Such large credulity thy speeches ask!

Yes, I can well believe that thou couldst view,
With eyes unmoistened by the tender dew

Of Nature, scenes that all the tears should claim
Of those who bear a husband's-father's name.
A widower twice-the funerals of thy mates
Pained not thy gaze; nor could the ruthless Fates
Which gave thy first-born to an early tomb,
Make thee acquainted with the mourner's gloom;
And thou couldst witness, with a calm as base,
The same dark portal close o'er all thy race,
Conscious that not a moment's transient woe
Can seem to mourn when thou art couched below:
Not he, the touch of whose heaven-gifted wand
Could fountains from the desert-rock command,
Not Israel's chief owned such high potency

As to evoke unreal things to be,

And work a weeping miracle in thee!

Thus, with foul boast, it still is thine to say
Thy life hath past without one troubled day;
Thus hath thy folly, with unmeasured stride
Somewhat outgone the vileness it would hide,