University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SOULAC.

A lone square house, all time-stained, used to stand
Upon the French west coast, where sparse pines keep
Their footing ill, while battling sea winds sweep
The hillocks of untilled and restless sand.
A house? it was the belfry, Norman-planned
Of long-lost Soulac's minster, buried deep
In sand, which Ocean never ceased to heap
For centuries, encroaching on the land.
All else was gone. Oh is not such the fate
That overtakes the rich and stately pile
Which, arch on arch, our youthful hopes create?
The Real slowly clogs it, nave and aisle;
The arches crash; and we are glad if, late,
Some humble vestige shelters us awhile.

WAIFS OF TIME.

When some good ship has long ago been wrecked,
And the repentant waves have long since laid
Upon the beach the booty which they made,
And years have passed, and men no more expect,
The sea will sometimes suddenly eject
A solitary waif, defaced, decayed,
On which in graven letters is displayed
The old ship's name which few can recollect.
So, ever and anon, the mighty sea
Which we call Time casts up upon our strand
Some splendid waif of Greek antiquity.
A headless god or Faun with shattered hand,
From Art's great wreck is suddenly set free,
And stands before us all, serene and grand.

WINTER.

The month is come when Nature may display
Her frosty jewelry in all men's eyes;
And when the wind which through the brushwood sighs
Brings down her brilliants in a sparkling spray.
Like spots of blood upon the snowstrewn way
The crimson berries lie, the robins' prize;
While in the leafless woods the poor man tries
To find some faggots for the bitter day.
On every sleeping pool the winter fits
With unseen hand a strong and glassy lid;
The fish all quaking down below are hid,
As overhead the circling skater flits.
While hoary Christmas at his banquet sits,
Where all whom hunger pinches not are bid.

LIFE'S GAME.

Life's Evil Genius with the sunless wing
And our white Guardian Angel sit and play
Their silent game of skill from day to day,
Where thoughts are pawns, and deeds are queens and kings.
And every move on that strange chessboard brings
Some change in us—in what we do or say;
Till with our life the winner sweeps
The last few pawns to which his rival clings.
We seem permitted, ever and anon,
To catch a glimpse of that great fatal game
By which our soul shall be or lost or won.
We watch one move, then turn away in shame;
But though we lack the courage to look on,
The game goes on without us all the same.

LOST YEARS.

My boyhood went: it went as went the trace
Left by the pony's hoof upon the sand;
It fled as fled the stream sought rod in hand;
It vanished as the ice on the pond's face.
Then went my youth; it went where went the lights
Of crowded ball-rooms at the dawn's advance;
It died as died the echoes of the dance;
It went where go all sorry wasted nights.
And now my manhood goes where goes the song
Of pent-up bird, the cry of crippled things;
It goes where goes the day that unused dies.
The cage is narrow and the bars are strong
At which my restless spirit beats its wings,
While round me stretch immeasurable skies