from The Bijou Literary Annual, 1828
author: By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart
source date: 1828
edition published: 20170606
availability: Freely available via a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License

The Bijou;
or Annual of Literature and the Arts

compiled by William Fraser
William Pickering London
1828
pp. 11-12

Sonnets

By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart

I.
WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame,
And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise
May issue the desponding sprite to raise:
But weekly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame;
Empty we deem the echo of a name:
Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays;
Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze;
Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim!
Thus strange is fate:— we meet the hollow cheer,
When struck by age the cold insensate ear
No more with trembling extasy can hear,
But yet one thought a lasting a joy can give
That we, as not for self alone we live,
To others bore the boon, we would from them receive!

II.
TEXTURE of the mightiest splendor, force and art,
Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain,
The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain,
If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!
If those pure waves no added strength impart,
If thence the web no new attraction gain,
Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign
Her inspiration on the work to dart!
High intellect, magnific though thou be,
Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow
Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee
Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw;
Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray;
And worthless shall thy splendour die away!