SONNET.

Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

And the warm lustre of thy features — caught

From contemplation — where serenely wrought,

Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair —

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought —

I 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.