University of Virginia Library

SONNET I. NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Not with solemnities of festal mirth,—
The well-spread board, the wine-cup sparkling clear,
The laugh of neighbours o'er their Christmas cheer,
The gibe and gambol round the blazing hearth,—
Not with such rites we celebrate thy birth,
And bid thee blithe God-speed! O infant year:
Nor yet, in thoughtful mood, with brow severe,
Mourning thine elder sisters lost on earth;

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But with leave-takings, and the bustling care
Of packing and of parting:—sad employ!
Yet not unmingled with a sober joy;
For we, who part, to separate homes repair,
So greeting well thy birth; since none may share
Life's pleasures undebased by pain's alloy.
1838.

SONNET II.

Once more the tardy progress of the spring
Brings round, beloved, our betrothal day,
Rich heretofore in all the sweets which May
Did from her teeming lap, prolific, fling;
But now the lingering Zephyr's crippled wing
Thro' boughs all bare and blossomless doth stray,
And scarce have winter's hoar-frosts pass'd away,
Or vernal birds begun as yet to sing.
But let the laggard and distemper'd year
Frown as it lists;—we two have sunshine still,
Warming with love sweet wedlock's atmosphere;
And many a bubbling fount and sparkling rill
Of joy and peace makes music sweet and clear
For us, scarce yet descending life's steep hill.
1838.

SONNET III.

Cousin, the phantom voice of other years
Spake to me, as I sat by thee once more,
And saw thee what thou wast in days of yore,
Unfaded yet by life's thick-gushing tears—
While thy loved voice made music in my ears,
Such as it did ere boyhood's dream was o'er,
Or manhood yet had found its present store
Of household joys and sorrows, hopes and fears.

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Now in two worlds we dwell, by different cares
And sympathies begirt;—yet each, I trust,
Employ'd in tasks through which high Heaven prepares
For its own bliss the faithful and the just.
There may our spirits meet, as now our prayers,
When our dust, cousin, hath return'd to dust.
1837.

SONNET IV. WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Through islet-sprinkled lakes, embosom'd deep
In mountains crown'd with yet unmelted snow,
While o'er their heathery sides bright wild-flowers grow,—
Through rocky glens, in which, from steep to steep,
With rush and roar, the mountain torrents leap,—
O'er Inverara's heights,—through wild Glencroe—
(Delight and wonder kindling as we go)
From Arran's distant isle our course we keep.
But ask me not to paint what here we see,
With graphic pen, though all be passing dear
To memory;—for this outward world, to me,
Hath never been of tuneful thought the sphere;
My realm of song is human hope and fear,
Joy, grief, domestic peace and fireside glee.
1839.

SONNET V. LOCH RANZA.

From Brodick's matchless bay, along the shore
Of Arran northward, past the Sannox glen,
Her freight of sketching dames and wondering men
Our crowded steamboat to Loch Ranza bore

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Which when we enter'd—all my hopes were o'er;
Nought found I there to task poetic pen:
But one there was, who with an artist's ken
Gazed at the scene, and straight began to pour
Artistic raptures about light and shade—
And how effectively these thints would lie,
And how much of those outlines might be made;
Yet he, with slender notice, had pass'd by
Glen-Sannox gorge.—How unlike mine his trade!
How far the painter's from the poet's eye!
1839.

SONNET VI. TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER.

My daughter!—in that name appear fulfill'd
The cherish'd dreams of many wedded years;
Child of as many wishes, hopes and fears,
As e'er through poet's restless bosom thrill'd,
How doth thy rising star serenely gild,
For me, the horizon of this vale of tears!
Which, in its tender light, almost appears
A place where Hope her final home might build.
But with a deeper joy I greet thy birth,
For that hereafter, as I fondly trust,
Thou shalt make glad thy mother's home and hearth,
When she shall mourn (as soon or late she must)
Her lack-land sons dispers'd throughout the earth,—
Her husband, and his follies, in the dust.
1837.

SONNET VII. TO MY YOUNGEST CHILD.

I would not have it said that thou alone,
My latest-born, hast been unsung by me,

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Of six whom I have dandled on my knee,
Some among whom have, many a year, outgrown
Parental dandling:—therefore, for thine own,
Take now this sonnet,—though perchance to thee,
But little versed in lore of A, B, C,
'Twill seem a mystery better left unknown.
Right glad am I that thou art thus devoid
Of erudition;—that thy tender age
Hath been in healthier toil, till now, employ'd
Than poring o'er some spelling-book's dull page;—
That thou, a poet's daughter, hast enjoy'd
Life's early dawn unpent in schoolroom cage.
1843.

SONNET VIII.

With fond parental pride did I devote
This pair of sister Sonnets to the press;—
Short-sighted dreamer!—little did I guess
That, at the moment when the words I wrote,
Did Azrael's dusky wing already float
O'er both those gentle heads!—That sore distress—
Those long, long weeks of death's own bitterness
Are past—the Arm, thrice lifted, never smote.
For this deep mercy be the Chastener blest!
And ye, my children, from the grave's embrace
Deliver'd—our lost treasure repossest—
May ye, henceforth, by yet diviner grace
Made doubly His, so run your earthly race
That ye in Heaven with holiest saints may rest!
1843.

SONNET IX.

Six weeks of anxious watching and suspense,
With ceaseless ebbs and flows of hope and dread,

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A tinge of silver o'er thy locks hath shed,
Dimming, in part, their dark magnificence,
Which else perchance had, many a summer hence,
As in time past, still graced thy matron head;
Grey hast thou grown beside our children's bed,
Raised, through thy care, from stroke of pestilence:
Therefore, O best-belov'd, more deeply now
Those streaks of summer snow do I hold dear
Than the pure jet which shaded thy young brow
When, at the altar's rail, with hearts sincere
We plighted, each to each, our nuptial vow;
—Mother and wife on Earth without a peer!
1843.

SONNET X. TO THE AUTHORESS OF “I WATCH'D THE HEAVENS.”

Within two miles of glorious dale and hill,
Lady, we two from infancy were bred;
And bravely (doubt not) were our spirits fed
On forms and hues which there with beauty fill
Meadow and valley, rock, and wood, and rill;
Each, by a guidance which we knew not, led
Through discipline, which train'd both heart and head
The Bard's mysterious mission to fulfil.
Nor grudge I, but rejoice, that Heaven to thee
Allots the loftier task, the nobler powers,
Teaching thy wing to soar, thine eye to see
Beyond the bounds of this gross world of ours;
While I, confined to Earth's green banks and bowers,
Pipe my wild notes of human grief and glee.
1843.

161

STANZAS.

TO THE SAME.

I

Some five and twenty years have past—
(It may be more—it may be less—)
Since first we met—and parted last,—
A poet and a poetess.

II

That first and last and only time
Did we (whose hearts e'en then were swelling
With thoughts, ere long to bloom in rhyme)
Converse within one earthly dwelling.

III

A dark-hair'd girl—a stripling tall—
(For then no lath than I was thinner)
We sat within thy Father's Hall,
Among sedater guests, at dinner.

IV

We talk'd, as youthful poets use,
Of high imaginative matters;
Of Scott's and Moore's and Byron's Muse,—
Of Odes and Epics—Songs and Satires;—

V

Of Music and the sister arts,
Save one—alas! denied to thee,
Though mostly dear to female hearts—
The art of gay Terpsichore.

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VI

To Her, in that same festive Hall,
Had I, in strange, fantastic motion,
Obedient to the fiddle's call,
Paid, oft ere then, my young devotion.

VII

And graceful forms and eyes of light,
Before my raptured vision glancing,
Had held me through the livelong night,
In love's wild dreams my soul entrancing.

VIII

Each form—each face—each thrilling tone,
Which charm'd me then, is now forgot;
One face remains,—one voice alone
From Memory's ear departeth not.

IX

A Presence of mysterious power
(But dimly then discern'd by me)
Had through my spirit, in that hour,
Diffused itself insensibly.

X

And hence that hour of converse still,
While years have faded, seemeth near;
Like some sun-gilded, distant hill
Seen through a rain-fraught atmosphere.

XI

And if no more we meet on Earth,
'Twill be a pleasant thought to me,
That the same haunts which gave thee birth
Were mine from tenderest infancy.

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XII

The bold Clee Hill—the winding Teme—
The glorious woods of Mawley Hall—
The banks of Rea's romantic stream—
We both have known and loved them all.

XIII

Yes!—both have loved them;—thou no less
Than I (though thine no earthly strain)
Dost, from that region's loveliness,
Pure springs of inspiration drain.

XIV

Heaven speed thee, lady, in thy flight
Through worlds of song beyond my ken!
Heaven guide that wing of female might
Where few can soar of mightiest men!

XV

And though thou fall'st on evil days
For daughters, as for sons, of Song,
Doubt not the echo of thy lays
In many a heart shall linger long.

XVI

Nor now this cordial praise repel
From one who glories that, in thee,
Amidst the scenes he loves so well
Was born a nobler Bard than he.
1843.

LAMENT FOR THE DOON.

[_]

Air.—The Rhine! the Rhine!

I

The Doon!—the Doon!—our own romantic river!
We tread thy banks no more—we tread thy banks no more;

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Thy stream's bright gush is lost to us for ever,
Its home-sweet music o'er—its home-sweet music o'er.

CHORUS.

The Doon!—the Doon!—mourn, sires grown old befor us,
Your birthright lost too soon—your birthright lost too soon;
Youths, maidens, wives, take up our wailing chorus!
Weep, children, for the Doon!—weep, children, for the Doon!

II

The Doon!—the Doon!—thine own great Bard hath made thee
Of Earth's famed rivers one—of Earth's famed rivers one;
Thy banks, thy braes, each tree that droops to shade thee,
Immortal praise hath won—immortal praise hath won.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

III

But Doon, fair Doon—why doth my memory hover
O'er thee in tearful thought—o'er thee in tearful thought?
Boyhood had past, and youth's best days were over,
Ere thou to me wast aught—ere thou to me wast aught.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

IV

But Doon, bright Doon, thy waters leapt to greet me,
When wedded love was young—when wedded love was young;
And on thy banks new friends came forth to meet me,—
Warm heart and cordial tongue—warm heart and cordial tongue.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

V

The Doon!—the Doon!—remembrance yet rejoices
O'er bliss beside thee felt—o'er bliss beside thee felt;—
The old plain home—the cheerful looks and voices
Which round its hearthstone dwelt—which round its hearthstone dwelt.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

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VI

The Doon!—the Doon!—those looks no more shall cheer me
On thy deserted shore—on thy deserted shore;
Those tones which told what friendly hearts beat near me,
Shall bless mine own no more—shall bless mine own no more.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

VII

But Doon, sweet Doon! untouch'd some hearts behold thee,
For whom thy bright waves ran—for whom thy bright waves ran;
One, long thy lord, to alien hands hath sold thee—
That calm, grey-headed man—that calm, grey-headed man.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

VIII

Yet, Doon, lost Doon—the love of thy clear waters
Must still his spirit sway—must still his spirit sway;
Woe!—woe for him!—his sons!—his blooming daughters!—
Their birthright cast away?—their birthright cast away!
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

IX

But Doon, sweet Doon!—thy murmurs will not reach them,
Where Fashion rules their lot—where Fashion rules their lot;
Strange are their hearts to lore which thou wouldst teach them;—
Sweet Doon, they love thee not—sweet Doon, they love thee not.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

X

But woe for Her whose home hath been beside thee
For many an anxious year—for many an anxious year!
From whose deep love no change shall e'er divide thee,
Nor make thy banks less dear—nor make thy banks less dear.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

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XI

And woe for those, whose weary footsteps wander
Far in the burning East—far in the burning East!
Whose hearts e'en now, perchance, still vainly ponder
O'er hopes which here have ceased—o'er hopes which here have ceased.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XII

And woe for Her o'er whom, as lost, we sorrow,—
Our once loved meetings o'er—our once loved meetings o'er!
'Midst alien cares, her grief, perchance, shall borrow
A voice from mine once more—a voice from mine once more.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XIII

Yes, woe for her!—sound sleeps her virgin sister
Beneath our Southern sod—beneath our Southern sod;
Joy to her now!—long, long our homes have miss'd her;—
But hers hath been with God—but hers hath been with God.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XIV

The Doon!—the Doon!—along thy banks, sweet river,
My first-born's steps have stray'd—my first-born's steps have stray'd;
Thy voice, I trust, shall haunt his thought for ever,
Till Memory's self shall fade—till Memory's self shall fade.
The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XV

The Doon!—the Doon!—still, still to sons and daughters
Fond tales of thee we'll tell—fond tales of thee we'll tell;
Though we no more must gaze upon thy waters;—
Our own sweet Doon, farewell!—our own sweet Doon, farewell!

167

CHORUS.

The Doon!—the Doon!—mourn, sires grown old before us,
Your birthright lost too soon—your birthright lost too soon.
Youths, maidens, wives, take up our wailing chorus!
Weep, children, for the Doon!—weep, children, for the Doon!
1837.