Sonnet I.

Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid
    Whom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight,
How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade,
    This dreary gloom of dull monastic night.
Say that from every joy of life remote
    At evening's closing hour he quits the throng,
Listening alone the ring-dove's plaintive note
    Who pours like him her solitary song.
Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh,
    Say that of all her charms he loves to speak,
In fancy feels the magic of her eye,
    In fancy views the smile illume her cheek,
Courts the lone hour when Silence stills the grove
And heaves the sigh of Memory and of Love.

Robert Southey

Robert Southey was an English poet, biographer, essayist, and historian. Born on August 12, 1774, he was associated with the Romantic school of poetry and is well known for his works such as 'The Story of the Three Bears', which is the origin of the famous Goldilocks tale. He served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1813 until his death in 1843. His prolific output included not just poetry, but also significant biographical and historical works.

Robert Southey

March To Moscow, The

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

Ode

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

Sonnet V

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

The Complaints Of The Poor.

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet II.

    Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way
        Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,
    If heavily creep on one little day
        The medley crew of travellers among,
    Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here
        On Life's sad journey comfortless he roves,
    Remote from every scene his heart holds dear,
        From him he values, and from her he loves.
    And when disgusted with the vain and dull
        Whom chance companions of thy way may doom,
    Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full,
        Turns to itself and meditates on home,
    Ah think what Cares must ache within his breast
Who loaths the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!

Robert Southey

Sonnet IX.

Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
    The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye
    Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
    Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
    The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight
    EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
    Too swiftly then towards the silent night
Ye Hours of happiness! ye speed along,
    Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart,
    Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.

Robert Southey

Sonnet IV.

What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim
    Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear
Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name
    Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR
The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart,
    Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn
Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart,
    And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn,
And the dark spectre of departed JOY
    Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave
Love I the solitary hour to employ
Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh
    Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave
Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.

Robert Southey

Sonnet III.

    Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale
        Of days departed. Time in his career
        Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
    Has past unheeded onward. To the vale
    Of years thou journeyest. May the future road
        Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend
        Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend,
    'Till full of days he reach the calm abode
    Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
        Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold
        The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old
    That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage
    Now like the monument of strength decayed
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.

Robert Southey

Sonnet V.

Hard by the road, where on that little mound
    The high grass rustles to the passing breeze,
    The child of Misery rests her head in peace.
Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground
Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on
    Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek,
    And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak
The soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begone
Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep
    The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,
    The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn.
She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep.
I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.

Robert Southey

Sonnet. For The 14th Of February.

No popular respect will I omit
To do thee honor on this happy day,
When every loyal lover tasks his wit
His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay,
And to his mistress dear his hopes convey.
Rather thou knowest I would still outrun
All calendars with Love's, - whose date alway
Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun, -
For with thy favor was my life begun;
And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles,
And not by summers, for I thrive on none
But those thy cheerful countenance complies:
Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine,
Love, thou art every day my Valentine.

Thomas Hood