IN FRENCH FIELDS.
217
Sonnet.—DEUS EX MACHINÁ.
I love the park with its perspectives long
Deluged with fragrance and sweet sound and light,
Where in serenity pass—aerial—bright,
The tripping Hours that shun the noisy throng.
I love the book of Poesy and Song,
Whence bursts heart-music with resistless might,—
What skylark ere attained the empyreal height
Nor summoned up its fellows! Love is strong,
But if beneath the boughs of emerald hue,
Or in the printed dream of matchless grace,
Like a vain peacock, sudden strut to view
Owner or author, all the charms efface:
Adieu fair prospect, and high thought adieu!
Nothing but Art remains—where was the True.
