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 make
In choosing thee, a theme accounted old,
Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite’s sake
I trust some kind remembrance to awake
That shall in tenderest clasp her story hold,
Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.