From: The Dial, Vol. II, No. III. (Jan. 1842)
Author:
Published: E. P. Peabody 1842 Boston
SONNET.
TO IRENE ON HER BIRTHDAY.
MAIDEN, when such a soul as thine is born,
The morning stars their ancient music make
And joyful once again their song awake,
Long silent now with melancholy scorn;
And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn,
By no least deed its harmony shall break,
And shalt to that high clime thy footsteps take
Through life’s most darksome passes unforlorn;
Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall,
Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free
And in thine every motion musical
As summer air, majestic as the sea,
A mystery to those who creep and crawl
Through Time and part it from Eternity.
The morning stars their ancient music make
And joyful once again their song awake,
Long silent now with melancholy scorn;
And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn,
By no least deed its harmony shall break,
And shalt to that high clime thy footsteps take
Through life’s most darksome passes unforlorn;
Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall,
Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free
And in thine every motion musical
As summer air, majestic as the sea,
A mystery to those who creep and crawl
Through Time and part it from Eternity.
J. R. L.
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