 | Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets |  |
SONNETS.
“IL SONNETTO.”
He who constructs a sonnet must confineThe metre strictly to its rule of rhyme;
Throughout the quatrains, in well-order'd time,
Two rhymes alone their harmony combine;
These in two ways the verse may entertwine—
(Such the fix'd rule in that Italian clime
Whence sprung the sonnet)—two alternate chime—
Or two responsive close each central line.
Where end the quatrains pause, and pause again
Between each triplet—here as pleaseth best
Two rhymes suffice—or rang'd in sequence, three.
Through the last six still let thy cautious pen
Avoid a couplet, or, these rules transgress'd
Thy fourteen lines will no true sonnet be.
I. ON VISITING PETRARCH'S HOUSE.
Mary! when we to Arqua's village came,Saw the rear'd tomb, the fountain's hallow'd rill,
And climb'd the summit of that verdant hill
Where Petrarch's dwelling bears the poet's name;
When I beheld the crowded page proclaim,
In varied tongue, unchanging homage still,
The deathless praise that shall all ages fill,
I sigh'd myself to share the poet's fame.
Yet, ah! when I remember'd how in vain
His lyre he strung to soften Laura's pride,
Doom'd to a life of unrequited pain;
Ah! Mary, then thy yielding hand I prest,
Turn'd from that book to gaze upon my Bride,
Nor car'd for Fame who was in Love so blest.
III. THE CHAPEL BELL.
Before my Hall I stood; with sated eyeAnd heavy heart, upon the pile I gaz'd,
Which care, and cost, and years of toil had rais'd,
From turrets' base to glittering vane on high.
Cold critics came, well pleased its faults to spy,
Those very faults which smooth-tongued flattery prais'd,
While country folk stood silent and amaz'd;
“All,” my heart whisper'd, “all is vanity.”
Hark! yonder bell bespeaks the hour of prayer,
Far down the vale its gentle echoes steal,
Bid youth from sport, and age from toil abstain;
Won by that sound, if but one sinner kneel
With humble heart and contrite spirit there—
Glory to God!—not all, not all is vain.
IV. ON AN OLD BARN CONVERTED INTO A Village School.
Nigh the old Barn one autumn noon I stood.Huge ribs of oak its moss-grown roof upheld,
Shap'd in rude fashion by the axe that fell'd
That giant timber from the neighbouring wood.
From waggons tost, ripe sheaves the floor bestrew'd,
Loud mirth and laughter weariness dispell'd;
“Home, harvest home!” the rustic chorus swell'd,
And mingling voices still the strain renew'd.
That barn now stands a village school, within
Christ's little ones are welcom'd, there to learn
How blest they live who to His guidance cling.
Among this wheat no tares may Satan win.
By angels gather'd to their Father's barn,
This harvest home may seraph voices sing!
V. ON CROSSING THE SIMPLON.
O'er the bleak pass huge Alps their shadows throw,With lingering steps I climb the mountain way,
While, lessening to their view, mine eyes survey
With fond regret the sunlit vale below;—
There, 'neath Italian skies ripe vineyards glow,
Here scathèd pines a leafless grove display—
There living streams through fruitful meadows stray,
On barren crags here sleeps eternal snow.
Alas! e'en thus the path of life we tread,
Where pleasure lures us to the flower-strew'd plain,
While virtue points the rough ascent we dread.
O! that my soul unto my God were given,
Cleans'd by His mercy from all earthly stain,
Pure as yon snow that cleaves the vault of Heaven!
VI. NAPLES AT SUNSET.
Naples! where Virgil found his last repose,Where first his lyre the youthful Tasso strung,
The sun's low radiance, o'er the waters flung,
A golden halo round thy city throws.
He sinks—and now each distant mountain glows
Like purple drops from its own vintage wrung;
Can the wide earth her fairest shores among
A scene more lovely to his smile disclose?
And Ocean lies submissive at thy feet,
Won by thy charms unceasing homage pours,
Loath to encroach, and powerless to retreat;
His gentle waves, which but in whispers speak,
Clinging as though enamour'd of thy shores,
Like Love's fond lips to Beauty's witching cheek.
VII. ON A DESECRATED CHAPEL NEAR Lausanne, now used as a Stable.
Hard by a brook, whose stream Lake Leman feeds,A wayside chapel stands,—such seems it still;
But strains devout no more its echoes fill,
And thence unbless'd the passing pilgrim speeds;
His toil-worn oxen, when he thither leads,
At noon descending from the sun-scorch'd hill,
Trac'd on that wall with rude but reverent skill,
The sacred cross no more the peasant heeds.
If with such joy rejoic'd the angels, when
The ox was loof'd in Bethlehem's lowly shed,
His crib the cradle of the Virgin-born;
How must they weep to see, despis'd of men,
The spot His presence blest, worn by the tread
Of saints, that floor hoof-trampled and uptorn!
VIII. ON THE CLOCK IN STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.
The works of the Clock in Strasbourg Cathedral were
reconstructed by J. B. Schwilgue, in 1842. As it strikes
twelve, the cock, which surmounts one of the turrets, crows
and extends his wings. Under a canopy in the centre are
statuettes of the twelve apostles, which revolve round a
figure of our Blessed Saviour.
Due praise be his whose skill to Strasburg gave
The works of the Clock in Strasbourg Cathedral were reconstructed by J. B. Schwilgue, in 1842. As it strikes twelve, the cock, which surmounts one of the turrets, crows and extends his wings. Under a canopy in the centre are statuettes of the twelve apostles, which revolve round a figure of our Blessed Saviour.
This master-piece of mechanism rare,
More precious wisdom theirs whose daily care
Is on their heart its homilies to grave.
Peter at cockcrow wept—like him we have
Denied our Lord, though sworn His cross to bear;
Blest they who with him weep, and with him share
The contrite spirit, which alone can save!
Work ere night cometh, nor the time prolong;
That voice which speaks in every ringing chime,
Of mercy now, warns still of vengeance due.
How many join that transept's midday throng
With curious eye to mark the step of Time,
To ponder on Eternity how few!
IX. ON A DRAWING OF THE CRUCIFIXION
STILL VISIBLE ON A DUNGEON WALL IN the Chateau de Chillon.
Where, lake reflected, Chillon's turrets shine,Where treacherous pitfall lin'd with spike and blade,
Beam, ring and pillar lurk in dreary shade,
Of faith and hope, mark one enduring sign;
Though faint, the eye may scan each lingering line,
Trac'd by some hand which galling chain o'erlaid:
The dying Saviour on the cross pourtray'd,
Converts that cell into a holy shrine.
Nor lone, nor friendless, such a captive deem,
Fill'd with His image, whose abiding love
To him was father, brethren, kindred, all!
And still, while gazing on the narrow gleam
Of azure sky, seen through the grated wall,
Hope pointed heavenward to his home above.
X. ON VISITING THE CASTLE AND CHURCH of Gruyère in Switzerland.
The author gladly acknowledges that England is now no longer liable to the reproach which suggested this Sonnet, some twelve years ago. 1847.
Its silent halls and its untrodden stair,
Looks down upon a village rude and bare,
The cheerless home of hungering penury,
Paining the heart of him who passeth by;
A costly church, enrich'd with pious care,
Amid those dwellings, echoing praise and prayer,
Tells him that faith can poverty defy.
Sadly I thought on many a lordly pile,
Whose gilded walls unbounded wealth display,
Uprear'd conspicuous in my native isle;
The village church—its altar's mean array,
Its font, its floor, which filth and damp defile,
Alone uncared for, crumbling to decay.
XI. ON THE RIVER TEPL,
WRITTEN at the Freundschaft Saal, Carlsbad.
Friendless I came, but friendless now no more;Thy voice, sweet river, greets me, and I trace
A smile of welcome in thy sparkling face,
When early morn invites me to thy shore;
Thy sunlit waters to fresh life restore
The fragrant flowers that gild the mountain's base;
Lull'd by the rippling music of thy race,
With tranquil happiness my heart runs o'er.
The hues of heaven are mirror'd in thy stream;
O! teach me so to live, that hope sublime,
From Heaven reflected, on my path may beam!
Thy ceaseless current runs to reach the sea;
Teach me in wisdom to redeem the time,
Still hastening onward to Eternity.
XII. ON THE MARIEN CAPELLE, Carlsbad.
One silver star with evening's twilight strove;Mid the dark pines, which base and summit hide,
A lone lamp glimmer'd on the mountain side,
As 'twere that star reflected from above;
The chapel of the Virgin! cold in love,
And proud of heart, forbear ye to deride;
Judge not his conscience, nor a brother chide,
Though to yourselves a stumbling-block it prove.
On this pure spot, its shrine with offerings hung,
Its rock by knees of suppliant pilgrims worn,
Intruding—dare I prayerless hence depart?
“Hail! Virgin mother, highly blest!” my tongue
Repeats the salutation, while my heart
Bows down in worship to the Virgin-born.
XIII. THE LILY.
Glory of flowers! pre-eminent o'er all,Thou white-rob'd lily, deck'd with pendant gold,
What blest remembrance, as thy leaves unfold,
To pure and humble hearts dost thou recall?
Discarded emblem! o'er degenerate Gaul
Waste we vain sighs? no longer as of old
Her regal banner to the winds unroll'd,
Weep we vain tears o'er chivalry's downfall?
No! thy unsullied leaves nor strife, nor din,
Of worldly warfare to the mind suggest;
No wreath from thee earth's haughty conquerors win;
Still seems Heaven's sainted Handmaid to invest
Thy form with beauty, free from stain of sin,
The Virgin Mother of all nations blest!
XXIV. IL GELOSO.
Name, thou who reignest mistress of my heart,Some deed to prove the fealty of thy knight,
Some foeman, worthy of my lance, to fight,
Some gift to fetch from earth's remotest mart;
Or, not unskilful in the minstrel's art,
If tuneful verse thy listening ear delight,
Say, shall my pen from morn till eve indite
Thy praise, and ceaseless song my bliss impart?
If that I do be done alone by me,
Exalted by thy love beyond all measure,
What dare I not, what can I not for thee?
But if another, tending on thy pleasure,
Presume to serve, and so far favour'd be,
Then fare thee well! my heart resigns its treasure.
XV. THE TWO ROSES.
These roses take, which rival hues invest,They tell how York and Lancaster of yore
Their chosen badge to many a conflict bore,
When England wept her bravest and her best.
That strife is past, in peace those warriors rest;
Waste not thy grief their struggles to deplore,
Thy pity keep for that which needs it more—
The strife now raging in my troubled breast.
On thy fair forehead is the white rose shown,
Thy lips the fragrance of its leaves impart,
Its purity an emblem of thine own;
When will that cheek unfold what I am seeking,
The blush that tells me of thy yielding heart,
The red-rose there love's victory bespeaking?
XVI. ADDRESSED TO A LADY
Who told me that, being ignorant of Botany, I could not enjoy my Garden.
I love my garden, though I dare confess,While wandering free its fragrant flowers among,
To me is pedantry that unknown tongue
With which vain science mocks their loveliness.
Perfume and flower I love, nor love I less
The fluttering insect, whose light wings are hung
With gold and purple, and the sweet lay sung
By thousand birds who their protector bless.
Think, thou who wrong'st me thus, how fondly I
Gaze on thy features, though unskill'd to speak,
In learnèd phrase, of their anatomy;
I love the blush that mantles o'er thy cheek,
I love the smile of welcome in thine eye,
Nor how, nor whence; they come care I to seek.
XVII. HOME.
'Twas midnight—midnight in a southern clime;The moon above the mountains—wood and stream
And vineyard shining in her silvery beam,
As in the sunlight of the morning's prime;
The shade of fragrant orange-tree and lime
Pierc'd through with twinkling stars; it seem'd a gleam
Of Heaven o'erspreading earth, or poet's dream
By fancy pictur'd in delusive rhyme.
Though mist and darkness wrap our northern grove,
No nightingale to charm the listening ear,
Nor purple vines, nor cloudless moons above,
For such I sigh not; this dark atmosphere
Home gilds and gladdens with the light of love;
There brighter skies, but fonder hearts are here.
XVIII. THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR IN THE COLISEUM.
“Christianos ad Leones.”
Christian, come forth! the hungering lions craveThy flesh; impatient waits assembled Rome,
Athirst to drink the blood of martyrdom;
Christian, come forth! and death unshrinking brave;
Whether, within the walls of that vast grave,
Torn limb from limb, or in the narrower tomb,
Thy flesh foul worms and creeping things consume,
A God thou hast omnipotent to save.
Watch we and pray, lest us like foes o'erpower,
Such, though unseen do not the less exist;
Here stand we not in jeopardy each hour?
That roaring lion, wheresoe'er he list,
He walketh, seeking whom he may devour;
Him may we, steadfast in the faith, resist!
XIX. THE PENITENT.
O god of goodness, Thou my hope and stayWhile yet I hung upon my mother's breast;
Who watch'd the slumbers of mine infant rest,
And with new strength endued me, day by day;
In youth, in manhood, thro' my onward way
In safety led, here in full measure blest,
Of every joy this world can give possest,
In mercy spar'd e'en when I went astray;
No gift withheld that could affection win!
What in return for such great love of thine,
What have I done? my God, what have I been?
I from my Father's house where all was mine,
A prodigal, still adding sin to sin,
Have wander'd far to feed on husks of swine.
XX. ON A PICTURE OF A SPANISH LADY IN THE GALLERY AT MADRID.
That witching form I see before me yet,
Unmask'd, those features none can e'er forget
Who once have gaz'd upon that Spanish face.
The dark large eye, the hair of glossy jet,
One simple rose within its tresses set;
A portrait of rare loveliness and grace!
A latent look of unobtrusive mirth,
Though scarce those lips can from a smile refrain,
Erect she stands, as from Olympian throne
Majestic Juno would have stood on earth—
That glorious Lady of the land of Spain!
XXI. ON THE LOSS OF THE “AVENGER.” 1847.
The following account of the loss of the “Avenger” is extracted from the “Morning Herald.”
“We were running at the rate of ten knots an hour,
from Lisbon to Gibraltar, bound to Malta, when, on the
night of 20th Dec., at four bells (10 o'clock), in the first
watch, the ship suddenly struck on a reef of rocks. At this
moment Capt. Napier was on the paddle-box, talking to
the master. Lieut. Rooke, one of the survivors, was in his
cabin, in the act of taking off his coat. The gunner (another
survivor) ran on deck in a state of nudity. Immediately
she struck, all hands rushed on deck; as they did so, she
heeled over on her broadside, the mainmast fell across the
paddle-box boat, and no doubt a number of those engaged
in clearing it away were killed. The crew appeared completely
paralysed; nothing was heard but now and then an
exclamation, ‘Oh God! Oh God! we are all lost.’ Heavy
seas swept over the vessel, and scarcely a man could retain
his hold. The last seen of Lieut. Marryat was his being
washed from his hold, and carried away, with some twenty
more, to leeward. At last, Lieut. Rooke, the purser, second
master, gunner, and four others, contrived to get into a
quarter-boat. Here Providence interposed to save them;
in lowering the boat the foremost fall got jammed, and the
after one going freely, the boat had her stern in water and
her bows in the air, when a jacket belonging to one of the
men fortunately got into the sheave-hole of the after-fall,
stopped it, and enabled them to cut the falls adrift. After
pushing off from the wreck, they endeavoured to regain
her, to render such assistance as was possible, and to pick up
any of the crew: to approach her they found impossible.
The wind blew a gale from the southward. The sea was
very high, and breaking completely over her. After
remaining as near as they could get for two hours, they bore
away for Galita, distant about fourteen miles; an hour after
they had done so, the wind suddenly shifted to the north,
and blew harder than it had done from the other quarter.
This compelled them to bear up again, which they did, for
the coast of Barbary. On their way they passed the wreck,
over which the sea was making awful sweeps. Soon after
day-light they made the coast of Barbary, having run all
night under a small lug-sail, and steered with an oar. In
running the boat in, she grounded on a reef, and all hands
were thrown out; the boy, however, regained the boat,
kept to her, and drifted ashore alive. Of the remainder,
only Lieut. Rooke, the gunner, and steward, were saved.
The others perished in the surf. The Arabs treated them
kindly, dried their clothes, and gave them warm milk.
After a repose they walked 36 miles, till they could procure
horses, on which they rode to Biserta. Here they received
every hospitality from the governor and the consuls. A
boat took them to Tunis, whence Sir T. Reade, the British
Consul, sent a despatch to Malta. The Hecate started
immediately for the fatal spot, whither the Bey of Tunis
had already sent vessels, but not a vestige of the wreck remained.
It is supposed that, with the shift of the wind,
she heeled over into deep water and sunk. There are from
30 to 50 fathoms all round these rocks, which are steep to
within a ship's length. The total number lost is 253.”
The fated ship can follow in her flight?
As shoots a transient star through azure night,
Such, on the ocean wave, her brief career.
That bell's last tone awoke no boding fear;
'Mid busy thoughts, 'mid visions of delight,
Wrapt in the past, or with the future bright,
No sound, no sign, to warn that death was near.
O fearful moment! stricken as she sped,
Her keel rock-pierc'd, her hull asunder riven,
The gallant ship bestrew'd the sweeping wave.
An hour shall come more fearful yet, her dead
The sea shall yield again; in mercy, Heaven,
Then let their cry come unto Thee, and save!
XXII.ON A LARK WHICH HAD ESCAPED FROM HIS CAGE.
A cherish'd captive, ere thy tender wingAs yet was fledg'd; through many a summer's day
Thy song hath charm'd me with its thrilling lay;
Still seem its echoes round thy cage to cling.
In this thy narrow realm, a tiny king!
Fierce warfare waging with thine insect prey;
Crest, beak, and spur—crown, sword, and sceptre they,
A turf thy emerald throne,—say, pamper'd thing,
Yon flood of glory can thy sight sustain?
With wing unpractis'd canst thou heavenward soar?
Unaw'd by space renew thy wonted strain?
Or, like some spirit unprepar'd to quit
Its cage, the body, dost thou earth deplore?
Thy voice, thy pinion, for the skies unfit?
| Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets | |