White as those leaves just blown apart
Are the folds of thy own young heart.
and for the graceful repetition in its concluding quatrain
Throw it aside in thy weary hour,
Throw to the ground the fair white flower,
Yet as thy tender years depart
Keep that white and innocent heart.
Of the seven original sonnets in the volume before us, it is
somewhat difficult to speak. The sonnet demands, in a great degree,
point, strength, unity, compression, and a species of completeness.
Generally, Mr. Bryant has evinced more of the first and the last, than
of the three mediate qualities. William Tell is feeble. No forcible
line ever ended with liberty, and the best of the rhymes- thee, he,
free, and the like, are destitute of the necessary vigor. But for this
rhythmical defect the thought in the concluding couplet-
The bitter cup they mingled strengthened thee
For the great work to set thy country free
would have well ended the sonnet. Midsummer is objectionable for the
variety of its objects of allusion. Its final lines embrace a fine
thought-
As if the day of fire had dawned and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament-
but the vigor of the whole is impaired by the necessity of placing
an unwonted accent on the last syllable of firmament.
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