Tell me which you like the best of the above two. I have written one to Godwin, but the mediocrity of the eight first lines is _most miserably magazinish_! I have plucked, therefore, these scentless road-flowers from the chaplet, and entreat thee, thou river god of Pieria, to weave into it the gorgeous water-lily from thy stream, or the far-smelling violets on thy bank. The last six lines are these:--
Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless And hymn thee, Godwin! with an ardent lay; For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day, When wild I roam'd the bleak Heath of Distress, Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way,-- And told me that her name was Happiness.
Give me your minutest opinion concerning the following sonnet, whether or no I shall admit it into the number. The move of bepraising a man by enumerating the beauties of his polygraph is at least an original one; so much so that I fear it will be somewhat unintelligible to those whose brains are not [Greek: tou ameinonos pêlou]. (You have read S.'s poetry and know that the fancy displayed in it is sweet and delicate to the highest degree.)
Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath'd His various influence on thy natal hour: My fancy bodies forth the Guardian Power, His temples with Hymettian flowerets wreath'd; And sweet his voice, as when o'er Laura's bier Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade; Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade That bears soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear! Now patriot Zeal and Indignation high Swell the full tones! and now his eye-beams dance Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! Th' Apostate by the brainless rout adored, Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance, As erst that nobler Fiend beneath great Michael's sword!
I will give the second number as deeming that it possesses _mind_:--
As late I roamed through Fancy's shadowy vale, With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise: He spake:--not sadder moans th' autumnal gale-- "Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, Ere in an evil hour with altered voice Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice, Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame. Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure Of Pomp and proud _precipitance_ of soul Urged on with wild'ring fires. Ah, spirit pure! That Error's mist had left thy purged eye; So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy."