Brydges, Egerton, "Sonnets." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 11-12
               
            
         
      
      
         
             11 
            
               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!
            
            
             12 
            
               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!