October has
little to recommend it, but the slight epigrammatism of its
conclusion-
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men- as thou dost pass.
The Sonnet To Cole, is feeble in its final lines, and is worthy of
praise only in the verses-
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air.
Mutation, a didactic sonnet, has few either of faults or beauties.
November is far better. The lines
And the blue Gentian flower that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last,
are very happy. A single thought pervades and gives unity to the
piece. We are glad, too, to see an Alexandrine in the close. In the
whole metrical construction of his sonnets, however, Mr. Bryant has
very wisely declined confining himself to the laws of the Italian
poem, or even to the dicta of Capel Lofft. The Alexandrine is beyond
comparison the most effective finale, and we are astonished that the
common Pentameter should ever be employed. The best sonnet of the
seven is, we think, that To-. With the exception of a harshness in the
last line but one it is perfect. The finale is inimitable.
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
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