XXXII. SONNET. To Genevra. THINE eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloyed and stainless thoughtI should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn— Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn. XXXIII. SONNET. To Genevra. THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, At once such majesty with sweetness blending, VOL. IV. XXXIV. Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog. WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: |