16 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“ THE SONNET.” 
 
I. 
 
 
HE solemn hour, and the magnetic swoon 
 Of midnight in a poet’s lonely hall ! 
 Grave spirits answer (angels if he call) 
The invocations of his lofty tune. 
Thus in his measures nature craves the boon 
 To be reflected ;  and his rhymes appal 
 Or charm mankind as tides that flow or fall, 
Waxes or wanes the tempestival moon. 
 
Her course is measured in the sonnet’s tether, 
 Waxes the eight-fold ecstasy ;  exceeds 
 The minor sestet, where some passion bleeds 
Or truth discourses :  or eclipse may end, 
Proof against thought ;  but if man comprehend 
The stars in all their stations sing together. 
 
II. 
What power or fascination can there lie 
 In this fair garden of the straight-kept rows, 
 The sonnet ?  Surely some archangel knows 
Why, having written in mere ecstasy 
  T