BETA

Sonnet.

Were this a feather from an eagle’s wing,1
And thou, my tablet white! a marble tile2
Taken from ancient Jove’s majestic pile,—3
And might I dip my feather in some spring,4
Adown Mount Ida, thread-like, wander
ing :—5
And were my thoughts brought from some
starry isle6
In heaven’s blue sea,—I then might with a
smile7
Write down a hymn to Fame, and proudly
sing !8
But I am mortal ; and I cannot write9
Aught that may foil the fatal wing of Time.10
Silent I look at Fame : I cannot climb11
To where her temple is—Not mine the
might :—12
I have some glimmering of what is sub-
lime—13
But, ah! it is a most inconstant light.14
P. C.