University of Virginia Library

SONNETS SUGGESTED BY THE SEASONS.

I. FEBRUARY 1ST, 1842.

One month is past, another is begun,
Since merry bells rung out the dying year,
And buds of rarest green began to peer,
As if impatient for a warmer sun;
And though the distant hills are bleak and dun,
The virgin snowdrop, like a lambent fire,
Pierces the cold earth with its green-streak'd spire;
And in dark woods the wandering little one
May find a primrose. Thus the better mind
Puts forth some flowers, escaped from Paradise,
Though faith be dim as faintest wintry skies,
And passion fierce as January wind.
O God, vouchsafe a sunbeam clear and kind,
To cheer the pining flow'ret ere it dies.

II. MARCH, 1846.

Now Nature in her vernal green is clad,
And windy March puts on the robe of May;
The primrose is abroad, the buds half-way
Open their lips; all things are blithe and glad:
Then wherefore should I droop in semblance sad,
And contradict the promise of the air?
Ah, me! I can but think of those that were,
And now are not—of those dear friends I had,
And have not. Alice, thou art very meek,
And hast the faith that makes affliction good.
It would be wholesome to my perilous mood
If I could see the tear upon thy cheek.
Methinks we could talk out a day—a week,
Of those we loved. Oh, Alice! would we could.

III. THE VERNAL SHOWER.

Welcome once more, my pretty Lady Spring:
So young a Spring we have not seen for years.
Even thy brief morning fit of girlish tears
Was bright and sweet as droppings from the wing
Of kindly sylph, through ether voyaging
On some good errand to the distant spheres;
And every bud and blade, to which adheres
The pure aspersion, seems a conscious thing,
Renew'd in spirit. Light the birdie leaps,
Shaking translucent gems from every spray;
And merrily down the many-shadow'd steeps
The streamlets whiten, all in new array.
Joy to the vale if Summer do but keep
The bounteous promise of this April day.

IV. 1ST OF APRIL, 1845.

Sweet month of Venus, meekly thus begun,
Too pensive for a day of antique folly,
In yellow garb of quiet melancholy
Thy patient pastures sleep beside the sun;
And if a primrose peep, there is but one
Where wont the starry crowd to look so jolly.
Alone, amid the wood, the Christmas holly
Gleams on the bank with streaming rain fordone,
And yet the snowdrop and the daffodils
Have done their duty to the almanack.
And though the garden mould is blank and black,
With bloom and scent the gay mezereon fills
The longing sense; and plants of other climes
In the warm greenhouse tell of better times.

V. MAY, 1840.

A lovely morn, so still, so very still,
It hardly seems a growing day of Spring,
Though all the odorous buds are blossoming,
And the small matin birds were glad and shrill
Some hours ago; but now the woodland rill
Murmurs along, the only vocal thing,
Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing,
And cons by fits and bits her evening trill.
Lovers might sit on such a morn as this
An hour together, looking at the sky,
Nor dare to break the silence with a kiss,
Long listening for the signal of a sigh;
And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless prayer,
Feel her own soul through all the brooding air.

VI. MAY MORNING.

In days of yore, while yet the world was young,
Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May,
And ere the East had doffed the pearly grey,
Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung
On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among;
And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen,
Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green;
And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung,
Scattering the maythorn's white. O lovely season,
Where art thou gone? Methinks the cold neglect
Of thy old rites, perchance may be the reason
Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time,
But, angry at our slothful disrespect,
Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime.

VII. MAY 25TH, 1840.

How strange the cold ungenial atmosphere,
Beneath the cover of so bright a sky!
Each way-side flower hath oped its little eye;
The very coyest birds of all the year
Have ventured forth to see if all be clear.
Full-leaved the pendant birches droop and sigh;
The oak is clothed in vernal majesty;
White-chaliced lilies float upon the mere.
The very warmth that made this world of beauty
Is summon'd to another tract of duty,
And leaves a substitute so stern and cold,
We half regret old winter's honest rule,
The roaring chimney and the log of yule:
May hath such airs as May had not of old.

VIII. TO DORA QUILLINAN.

Well, this is really like the poet's May,
The merry May of which we used to hear,
Big with the promise of the coming year!
The apple-trees their rosy bloom display,
The flowerets, many-hued, that line the way,
Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast,
Look happy now, like maidens, that at last
Are to be wedded, after long delay.
Oh! that the joy, the fragrance, and the bloom,
That bid all life and even poor man be glad,
Might waft a breath of comfort to the room
Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad,
Waiting with frame immortal to be clad,
In patient expectation of her doom!

IX.

Oh, what a joy is in the vernal air!
For Nature now is like a budding girl,
Whose merry laugh displays, more white than pearl,
Teeth that make lovers old as me despair.
And yet, though Time has written on my hair
A notice from all amorous thoughts to part,
This day persuades long slumbering hopes to start,
Like cuckoo notes, from winter's drowsy lair.
Yet, my young love, I hope not for the thing
That is the prism of my soul. Oh, no!
I scorn the wish that to my love would bring
Laborious days, and poverty, and woe.
I only wish thou mayst beloved be
By a much better man, as I love thee.

X. AUTUMN FLOWERS.

The flowers of Spring, they come in sweet succession,
Snowdrop and crocus, and mezereon, thick
Studded with blossom upon leafless stick,
And the young ivy, ceaseless in progression;
They triumph in their hour of brief possession.
Then Summer comes, with her voluptuous rose,
And sweet carnation in half-blown repose;
The plant where pious maids discern the passion,
The death by which we live. But I was born
When the good year was like a man of fifty,
When the wild crabtree show'd a naked thorn,
And tall brown fern disguised the red deer's horn;
Like meats upon a board, august and thrifty,
Large flowers blaze out at intervals forlorn.

XI. SEPTEMBER.

The dark green Summer, with its massive hues,
Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold.
A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold
The high slope of the ferny hill indues.
The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse
O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array
Of hedge-row thorns, a unity of grey.
All things appear their tangible form to lose
In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom
Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil;
And now the birds their twittering songs resume,
All Summer silent in the leafy dale.
In Spring they piped of love on every tree,
But now they sing the song of memory.

XII. NOVEMBER.

Now the last leaves are hanging on the trees,
And very few the flowers that glint along
The deep dark lanes and braes, erewhile as throng
With peeping posies as the limes with bees;
Nought in the garden but stiff sticks of peas,
And climbing weeds inextricably strong;
And scarce a fragment of autumnal song
Whistles above the surly morning breeze.
Yet still at eve we hear the merry owl,
That sings not sweetly, but he does his best;
The little brown bird with the scarlet vest
Chirrups away, though distant storms do howl.
Then let us not at dark November scowl,
But wait for Christmas with a cheerful breast.

XIII. WRITTEN IN A PERIOD OF GREAT MONETARY DISTRESS.

Though Night and Winter are two gloomy things,
Yet Night has stars, and Winter has the moss,
And the wee pearly goblets that emboss
The lumbering wall on which the redbreast sings.
Now the old year spreads wide his dusky wings,
And hovers o'er his many children dead;
Few are the blessings on his hoary head,
Bestow'd by hearts whom cruel memory wrings,
And sad forebodings, for no stars are seen
In the dull night and winter of distress.
The chaliced mosses and the velvet green,
That clothe November with a seemly dress,
As furry spoils that cheer the red-haired Russ,
Shield not the poor from blasts impiteous.

XIV. CHRISTMAS DAY.

Was it a fancy, bred of vagrant guess,
Or well-remember'd fact, that He was born
When half the world was wintry and forlorn,
In Nature's utmost season of distress?
And did the simple earth indeed confess
Its destitution and its craving need,
Wearing the white and penitential weed,
Meet symbol of judicial barrenness?
So be it; for in truth 'tis ever so,
That when the winter of the soul is bare,
The seed of heaven at first begins to grow,
Peeping abroad in desert of despair.
Full many a floweret, good, and sweet, and fair,
Is kindly wrapp'd in coverlet of snow.

XV. ON A CALM DAY TOWARDS THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

There never was an hour of purer peace!
Methinks old Time, in mere mortality,
Gives up the ghost, contented not to be,
And all the pulses of great Nature cease.
Whate'er betokens hope, life, or increase,
The gladsome expectation, or the dread
Of chance and change upon to-morrow fed,
Await the expiration of their lease
In dumb dull apathy. Not on the tree
Stirs the brown leaf; or, if detached, it drop,
So very slow it wavers to the ground
One might suppose that central gravity,
Prime law of nature, were about to stop:
Ne'er died a year with spirit so profound.

XVI. DECEMBER, 1838.

The poor old year upon its deathbed lies;
Old trees lift up their branches manifold,
Spiry and stern, inveterately old;
Their bare and patient poverty defies
The fickle humour of inconstant skies.
All chill and distant, the great monarch Sun
Beholds the last days of his minion.
What is 't to him how soon the old year dies?
Yet some things are, but lowly things and small,
That wait upon the old year to the last;
Some wee birds pipe a feeble madrigal,
Thrilling kind memories of the summer past;
Some duteous flowers put on their best array
To do meet honour to their lord's decay.

XVII. NEW YEAR'S DAY.

A new-year's day! Time was that I was glad
When the new year was usher'd into life
With midnight fiddle, morning drum and fife.
I wonder'd then how any could be sad
Because another year had gone to add
One figure to the date of human strife.
And yet I knew that sin and pain were rife,
That age would fain be cold, that youth was mad;—
All this I knew, yet, knowing, ne'er believed;
And now I know it, and believe it too:
But yet I am not of all grace bereaved;
I wish the hope that hath myself deceived
May, like the happy year, itself renew,
And be at least to one dear maiden true.