Sonnets and Canzonets. Alcott Amos Bronson

to return to the sonnet itself. Landor, to whom as to Thoreau, Milton was the greatest English poet, thought that the blind Puritan had made good his offence against the Psalms of David, by the sonnet on the slaughtered saints of Piedmont. “Milton,” he says, “was never half so wicked a regicide as when he lifted up his hand and smote King David. He has atoned for it, however, by composing a magnificent psalm of his own, in the form of a sonnet. There are others in Milton comparable to it, but none elsewhere.” And then the wilful critic goes on to say, putting his words into the mouth of Porson: “In the poems of Shakespeare, which are printed as sonnets, there is sometimes a singular strength and intensity of thought, with little of that imagination which was afterward to raise him highest in the universe of poetry. Even the interest we take in the private life of this miraculous man, cannot keep the volume in our hands long together. We acknowledge great power, but we experience great weariness. Were I a poet, I would much rather have written the ‘Allegro,’ or the ‘Penseroso’ than all those.” Monstrous as this comment seems to us, there is a certain truth in it, the sonnet in large quantities always producing weariness; for which reason, as I suppose, Dante interspersed his love sonnets in the “Vita Nuova” and the “Convito,” with canzonets and ballads. His commentaries – often of a singular eloquence – also serve as a relief to the formal verse, as his melodious Tuscan lines do to the formality of his poetical metaphysics. A person, says Landor, “lately tried to persuade me that he is never so highly poetical, as when he is deeply metaphysical. He then quoted fourteen German poets of the first order, and expressed his compassion for Æschylus and Homer.” Dante’s metaphysics were of a higher cast, and so interfused with love and fair ladies, that they only weary us with a certain perplexity as to where are the limits of courtship and of logic. Mr. Alcott also is quaintly metaphysical in Dante’s fashion; like the sad old Florentine, but with a more cheerful spirit, he addresses himself

      “To every captive soul and gentle heart,”

      (A ciascun alma presa e gentil core,)

      and would fain inquire of those who go on a pilgrimage of Love (O voi che per la via d’Amor passate) and of the fair ladies who have learned love at first hand (Donne che avete intelletto d’amore.) His doctrine is that of the wise man whom Dante quotes and approves in the “Vita Nuova,” —

      “One and the same are love and the gentle heart.”

      (Amor e’ l cor gentil sono una cosa.)

      Other Americans have written sonnets in this ancient faith, – as he, who thus (in that happy season so aptly described by Mr. Alcott, as addressed his own cor gentil: —

      “Youth’s glad morning when the rising East

      Glows golden with assurance of success,

      And life itself’s a rare continual feast,

      Enjoyed the more if meditated less,”)

      addressed his own cor gentil: —

      “My heart, forthlooking in the purple day,

      Tell me what sweetest image thou may’st see,

      Fit to be type of thy dear love and thee?

      Lo! here where sunshine keeps the wind away,

      Grow two young violets, – humble lovers they, —

      With drooping face to face, and breath to breath,

      They look and kiss and love and laugh at death: —

      Yon bluebird singing on the scarlet spray

      Of the bloomed maple in the blithe spring air,

      While his mate answers from the wood of pines,

      And all day long their music ne’er declines;

      For love their labor is, and love their care.

      ‘These pass with day and spring;’ the true heart saith, —

      ‘Forever thou wilt love, and she be fair.’”

      In the same Italian vein, another and better poet, but with less warmth, touches the same theme, —

      “Thou art like that which is most sweet and fair,

      A gentle morning in the youth of spring,

      When the few early birds begin to sing

      Within the delicate depths of the fine air.

      Yet shouldst thou these dear beauties much impair,

      Since thou art better than is everything

      Which or the woods or skies or green fields bring,

      And finer thoughts hast thou than they can wear.

      In the proud sweetness of thy grace I see

      What lies within, – a pure and steadfast mind,

      Which its own mistress is of sanctity,

      And to all gentleness hath been refined.

      So that thy least breath falleth upon me

      As the soft breathing of midsummer wind.”

      In the changes of time and the fitful mood of the poet, sadness succeeds to this assured joy, and he sings, —

      “The day has past, I never may return;

      Twelve circling years have run since first I came

      And kindled the pure truth of friendship’s flame;

      Alone remain these ashes in the urn —

      Vainly for light the taper may I turn, —

      Thy hand is closed, as for these years, the same,

      And for the substance naught is but the name.

      No more a hope, no more a ray to burn.

      But once more in the pauses of thy joy,

      Remember him who sought thee in his youth,

      And with the old reliance of the boy

      Asked for thy treasures in the guise of truth.”

      Here is another voice, chanting in another strain, —

      “Thy beauty fades, and with it, too, my love,

      For ’twas the selfsame stalk that bore the flower;

      Soft fell the rain, and, breaking from above,

      The sun looked out upon our nuptial hour;

      And I had thought forever by thy side

      With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell;

      But one by one Time strewed thy petals wide,

      And every hope’s wan look a grief can tell;

      For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway,

      Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, —

      Crowning each rose, though rooted in decay,

      With charms that shall the spirit’s love enthral,

      And, for a season, turn the soul’s pure eyes

      From virtue’s bloom that time and death defies.”

      Out of this valley of sadness the spirit rises on bolder wing, as the melancholy mood passes away, —

      “Hearts of eternity, hearts of the deep!

      Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate;

      How that for you no living comes too late,

      How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep,

      How ye great harvests from small surface reap,

      Shout, excellent band, in grand primeval strain,

      Like midnight winds that foam along the main, —

      And do all things rather than pause to weep.

      A human heart knows naught of littleness,

      Suspects no