Sonnet I
ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE YOUNG PRINCESS DE MONTFORT
(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence).
SWEET marble I didst thou merely represent,
In lieu of her on whom our glances rest,
Some common loveliness,--we were content,
As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd;
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem
So like HER bright and intellectual face,
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream;
For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace,
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow,
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south,--
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow,--
The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth:
No! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd--
Too fair to be complete while SOUL was still denied!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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I Was Not False To Thee
I WAS not false to thee, and yet
My cheek alone looked pale;
My weary eye was dim and wet,
My strength began to fail.
Thou wert the same; thy looks were gay,
Thy step was light and free;
And yet, with truth, my heart can say,
I was not false to thee!
I was not false to thee, yet now
Thou hast a cheerful eye,
With flushing cheek and drooping brow
I wander mournfully.
I hate to meet the gaze of men,
I weep where none can see;
Why do I only suffer, when
I was not false to thee?
I was not false to thee; yet oh!
How scornfully they smile,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Name
THY name was once the magic spell, by which my thoughts were bound,
And burning dreams of light and love were wakened by that sound;
My heart beat quick when stranger tongues, with idle praise or blame,
Awoke its deepest thrill of life, to tremble at that name.
Long years--long years have passed away, and altered is thy brow;
And we who met so gladly once, must meet as strangers now:
The friends of yore come round me still, but talk no more of thee;
'Tis idle ev'n to wish it now--for what art thou to me?
Yet still thy name, thy blessed name, my lonely bosom fills,
Like an echo that hath lost itself among the distant hills,
Which still, with melancholy note, keeps faintly lingering on,
When the jocund sound that woke it first is gone--for ever gone.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Love Not
LOVE not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!
Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers—
Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossom’d for a few short hours.
Love not!
Love not! the thing ye love may change:
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not!
Love not! the thing you love may die,
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam o’er its grave, as once upon its birth.
Love not!
Love not! oh warning vainly said
In present hours as in the years gone by;
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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We Have Been Friends Together
WE have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade;
Since first beneath the chestnut-trees
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together—
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together;
We have laugh’d at little jests;
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts.
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
And sullen glooms thy brow;
We have been gay together—
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been sad together,
We have wept, with bitter tears,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Crooked Sixpence
TAKE then back your foolish token,
Since it cannot change like you;
When I feel my heart is broken,
Shall it still proclaim you true?
When you gave it, you besought me
Never from that pledge to part:
If I am what then you thought me,
You have spurned an honest heart!
When, far hence, the boisterous billows
Rage upon the stormy deep;
And your landsmen press their pillows,
Careless how we sailors sleep:
Think how happy you had made him--
Think how grieved he was to part;--
Who, though harshly you upbraid him,
Loved ye, with an honest heart!
Farewell, Nancy, but if ever
Eyes you love grow gloomy, then,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Tryst
I.
I went, alone, to the old familiar place
Where we often met,--
When the twilight soften'd thy bright and radiant face
And the sun had set.
All things around seem'd whispering of the past,
With thine image blent--
Even the changeful spray which the torrent cast
As it downward went!
I stood and gazed with a sad and heavy eye
On the waterfall--
And with a shouting voice of agony
On thy name did call!
II.
With a yearning hope, from my wrung and aching heart
I call'd on thee--
And the lonely echoes from the rocks above
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Mary
YES, we were happy once, and care
My jocund heart could ne'er surprise;
My treasures were, her golden hair,
Her ruby lips, her brilliant eyes.
My treasures were--alas! depart
Ye visions of what used to be!
Cursed be the heart--the cruel heart--
That stole my Mary's love from me.
Dark are my joyless days--and thou--
Dost thou too dream, and dreaming weep?
Or, careless of thy broken vow,
Unholy revels dost thou keep?
No, Mary, no,--we loved too well,
Such deep oblivion cannot be;
Cursed be the lips, where guile could dwell,
To lure thy love away from me!
It cannot be!--ah! haply, while
With wild reproach I greet thy name,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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My Childhood's Home
I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure,
And drunk of the cup of delight;
I have danced to the gayest measure
In the halls of dazzling light.
I have dwelt in a blaze of splendour,
And stood in the courts of kings;
I have snatched at each toy that could render
More rapid the flight of Time's wings.
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace,
In that life of light and shade;
And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home-
The home where my childhood played!
When jewels are sparkling round me,
And dazzling with their rays,
I weep for the ties that bound me
In life's first early days.
I sigh for one of the sunny hours
Ere day was turned to-night;
For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!
MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.
My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit fruit, which now
Lies cold, and stiff, and sad, like me!
My heart is like a withered nut--
It once was comely to the view;
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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