SONNET.
O Love! thou art the soul’s fixed star, whose light—A rapture felt through all the rolling years,—Absorbs with silent touch the mourner’s tears,A guide, a glory through our mortal night;—All other passions, be they dark or bright,All high desires are but thy subject spheres,And captive servitors, whose pathway veers,Obedient to thine all-pervading might;—And therefore I no hesitation makeIn choosing thee, a theme accounted old,Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite’s sakeI trust some kind remembrance to awakeThat shall in tenderest clasp her story hold,Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.
O Love! thou art the soul’s fixed star, whose light—A rapture felt through all the rolling years,—Absorbs with silent touch the mourner’s tears,A guide, a glory through our mortal night;—All other passions, be they dark or bright,All high desires are but thy subject spheres,And captive servitors, whose pathway veers,Obedient to thine all-pervading might;—And therefore I no hesitation makeIn choosing thee, a theme accounted old,Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite’s sakeI trust some kind remembrance to awakeThat shall in tenderest clasp her story hold,Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.
O Love! thou art the soul’s fixed star, whose light—A rapture felt through all the rolling years,—Absorbs with silent touch the mourner’s tears,A guide, a glory through our mortal night;—All other passions, be they dark or bright,All high desires are but thy subject spheres,And captive servitors, whose pathway veers,Obedient to thine all-pervading might;—And therefore I no hesitation makeIn choosing thee, a theme accounted old,Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite’s sakeI trust some kind remembrance to awakeThat shall in tenderest clasp her story hold,Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.
O Love! thou art the soul’s fixed star, whose light—A rapture felt through all the rolling years,—Absorbs with silent touch the mourner’s tears,A guide, a glory through our mortal night;—All other passions, be they dark or bright,All high desires are but thy subject spheres,And captive servitors, whose pathway veers,Obedient to thine all-pervading might;—And therefore I no hesitation makeIn choosing thee, a theme accounted old,Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite’s sakeI trust some kind remembrance to awakeThat shall in tenderest clasp her story hold,Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.