SONNET.

It must be so--my infant love must find

In my own breast a cradle and a grave;

Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,

Or rebel spirit bound within the rind

Of some old [wither’d] oak--or fast enshrin’d

In the cold durance of an echoing cave----

Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave;

Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind

That decks its temple with unearthly grace,

Together must we dwell my dream and I--

Unknown then live, and unlamented die

Rather than dim the lustre of that face,

Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,

Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.