Daily Richmond Whig

The following Sonnets by Mr. Percival, we extract from the Connecticut Journal.

SONNETS

O! Evening, I have loved thee with a joy
Tender and pure, and thou hast ever been
A mother of my sorrows. When a boy
I wandered often to a lonely glen,
And far from all the stir, and noise of men,
Held fond communion with unearthly things,
Such as comes gathering brightly round us, when
Imagination soars and shakes her wings.

Yet, in that secret valley, doubly dear
For all its natural beauty, and the bay—
Whatever brooded o'er it, I would lay
My thoughts in deepest calm—and if a bay
Rustled, or small bird shook the beechen spray
There seemed a ministering angel whispering aye.

O! there are tears of joy, and they are fed
From the heart's secret fountain, where they swell
Like springs, in some mysterious cavern's dell,
Made holy by the sybil's murmuring spell.
Forth from the darkling cave they calmly flow,
Crystalline pure, to heaven's rejoicing light,
And over sifted sands and pebbles bright,
Jog on thro' the sacred grove of laurels grown.

So when my thoughts, long wearied by the push
Of Life's too busy cares, would pause and keep
Awhile a Sabbath's stillness, and would lave
Ease passionate longing, then I can weep
Tears, blissful tears, in many a sudden gush,
And wash all my sorrows well away.

I would that dreams were not the things they are,
Mere unsubstantial pageants, born and dying
With the light sleep that makes them, come,
O flying
Like evening cloud, how beautiful and fair!
If they are thinner than the empty air,
And yet how blessed, when they bend and glide
How the heart flows away in raptures, while,
Dear, fond illusions, they are lingering there.
They have a touch and voice—That bosom, yellows
With a young world of joys, how softly hovers
It lifts its gauzy veil, like feathery leaves;
Waved lightly over Tempe's palmy dwelling.
A higher bliss, than even hope believes,
To the fixed eye of slumbering boyhood tells,
Visions of youth, where are ye—In the Sky.

At evening, on the glorious sunset clouds.
Ye hover there, like shadows from the shroud
Beckoning to joys that budded but to die.
Below the leafy hills so calmly lie
There seems no living thing in all the green,
Only that lavish garniture of green,
Gold tinted where the pine tree tapers high.
Were ye so fleeting, bright and glorious dreams,
Dreams full of silent power and innocent fancy,
The charm of this sight a willing world ta'en,
We've but as the sunset over streams—
Bright dazzling splendors, ye are more than fair,
But soon ye fade and only night is there.