University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

TO KEATS.

Of the heart's reasons wherefore one would know
That the departed live, and smile or sigh
When we do, with a level sympathy,
There 's one I feel an impulse to let flow
In tuneful words: it is, that I might throw
Upon thy listening ear, if so may be,
My thankfulness for what I owe to thee,
Imperial genius, who, a boy, didst sow
Fresh seeds, of quickening power to men, great Keats;
So wisely great in thy unfurnished youth,
That, what had been thy broad Shakesperian feats
If ripened, swift imaginations gasp
To guess, sure only that sublimer truth
Had more enriched thy larger rhythmic grasp.

TO SHELLEY.

Upon thy subtile nature was a bloom,
Unearthly in its tender, gleamful glow,
As thou had'st strayed from some sane star where blow
But halcyon airs, and here, blinded by gloom,
Did'st stumble, for the lack of light and room,
And strike and wound with purposed good; and so,
Through Highest pity, thou had'st leave to go
Early to where for each earth-life its doom
Awaits it, as the fruit the seed, and where
Thy multitudinous imaginings,
So truthful pure, on Heaven's fulgent stair
Fit issue find, and mid the radiant rings
Of mounting Angels thy great spirit's glare
Adds to the brightness of the brightest things.

TO COLERIDGE.

Coleridge, for many a studious year I have been
Thy thankful mate; climbing the misty heights
Of speculation, or when—the delights
Of great imagination's realm serene
Blessing me through th' impassioned visions seen
By ravished genius—thou hast shown me sights,
Revealed to mighty Poets with the lights
Struck by creative frenzy; visions clean,
That mind in purgatorial surges dip,
And we come freshened forth, so purified,
That ever anew thy rich companionship
I court, to warm me at a holy fire,
And be with deep soul-logic stoutly plied,
Or trance-ensteeped by thy melodious lyre.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Among my unabating joys are these,
That under thy calm roof I pressed the hand
Whose life had been obedience to command
Of rarest genius; that beneath thy trees
I shared with thee thy cordial mountain-breeze,
Answered thy speech, and looked into the bland
Mysterious eyes that had beshone the land,—
Those inlets to deep beauty's boundless seas,—
And there, beside thy household lakes, did hear
Thee laugh, and feel thy smile, so kindly blent
With hospitalities, that since that year
Thy face hath been a loved accompaniment
To the grand music, mounting tier on tier,
That to my thought profounder rhythm hath lent.

TO GŒTHE.

Teutonic leader,—in the foremost file
Of that pickt corps, whose rapture 't is to feel
With subtler closer sense all woe and weal,
And forge the feeling into rhythmic pile
Of words, so tuned they sing the sigh and smile
Of all humanity,—meek did'st thou kneel
At Nature's pious altars, midst the peal
Of prophet-organs, thy great self the while
All ear and eye, thou greatest of the band,
Whose voices waked their brooding Luther-land,—
At last left lone in Weimar, famed through thee,
Wearing with stately grace thy triple crown
Of science, statesmanship, and poesy,
Enrobed in age and love and rare renown.

TO MILTON.

Burned into History's high beacon-page
By deed and thought and genius,—triple fire,
Seld-seen on earth,—thy wreathèd name flares higher
Than all men's else in the sublimest age
Of England, where against Time's billowy rage
None is more fenced than thou, without thy lyre,
Whose tones shall ring till pales the last dim pyre,
And crumbles earth's triumphant equipage,—
Stirring meanwhile, with deep sonorous peals,
All whom its softer notes have quick entranced,
Dulcet and manful,—first on even keels
Smooth wafting raptured souls, then in high storms
Of giant music purging them, advanced
To where the holier spheral influence warms.

TO SHAKESPEARE.

Coruscant Presence, who dost ceaseless shine
Unbodied benefaction on the blest,—
Thy lifted myriad-millions, aye possest
Of that wide speech, in whose unwearied mine
Thou art the richest vein,—phrases of thine,
The largest, most embossed, the fiery best,
He needs who, cheered by gratitude, would crest
His love and awe with epithets so fine
They shall exhale some flavor of thy worth,
A fraction speak of what men owe to thee,
Thou lonely one, at whose still modest birth
Were born new worlds of truth and ecstasy,
Thou great emblazoner of man and earth,
Thou secret-holder of humanity.

TO DANTE.

Monarch august, thy solitary throne
Didst thou with solitary wisdom earn,
Midst want and gloom and exile, stout and stern
To master thy great self, and all alone,—
Away from Tuscan hearth and children blown
By Guelfian tempests,—with strange power to turn
Thy soul's hot tumults into flames that burn
A world-effulgency, while for thy own
Dear land thy mighty rhyme hath been a breath
Breathing from Beatrice's heaven through thee,
A breath of holier life heaving beneath
The life of universal Italy,
Where, sung thy song, thou passedst lone through death,
Ended thy long sublime soliloquy.

TO HOMER.

In realms beyond young Story's dusky day,
Where but for thee were Chaos' lightless rule,
Thy fresh strong-souled impersonings so fool
The senses, that we yield us to their sway,
And clasp unto our hearts with earnest play
Thy Doric brood, in whose primeval school
Poet or sage is glad to fill a stool,
And grow beneath thy fruitful quenchless ray,
As on thy vast horizon Gods and men
Shame history with the grandeurs of their strife,
Inbreed delight, wrath, wonder, love, and ruth,
And deepen man's outworn fast fading ken
With teachings of the dear religious truth,
That Heaven and earth live intermingled life.

TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

Not lonely did a mother's grateful gaze
Illume thy cradled brow; but from all climes
And continents of this round earth came chimes
Of love, that made a globe-enclasping blaze
Of hearty homage to thy tender days,—
A flame nor quenched nor dimmed by changeful time's
Assault; but still old loyalty sublimes
Thy manly person with its steadfast rays;
Wherewith has now been wreathed a novel fire,
Long burning in a kindred People's core,
And by thy presence kindled to desire
To burst in buoyant greeting and outpour
A great Republic's welcome from its breast
To England's future King, our honored guest.

TO ENGLAND.

England, we are proud to be thy eldest child,
Thankful to God for the rich heritage
Which thou, ere we were born, from age to age
With thoughts and deeds of mightiest men up-piled,
Too great within thy bounds to be inisled,
And thence,—wide wafted on the undying page,
Feeding the soul of hero and of sage
In every Christian land,—on us have smiled,
Through privilege of tongue, a daily cheer,
So warmly kindred to our Saxon hearts,
That we, though sundered from thee, parent dear,
Have kept our love and reverence through all smarts,
And now stride with thee in one grand career,
Sowing the Earth with freedom and with arts.

TO SCOTT.

Winfield, thy prophet-parents named thee, Scott;
And now at climax of delight they fold
Thee in celestial vision, and behold
Their warrior win his highest field; for not
Canadian laurels, 't was thy youthful lot
To reap victorious, nor thy wreaths of gold,
Inwove with Azteck palm, will e'er be rolled
With such sonorous hymn from trumpets hot
With fame's fresh breathing, as thy present deeds,
Baffling the blackest treason ever hatched
In the foul nests where brood the godless greeds,
Its crime foiled by a steadfast eye that watched
Thy perilled country, and in its dread needs
With duteous mastership from ruin snatched.

TO ANDERSON.

Glad lightning, on his myriad-footed steed,
Sped o'er the land, as happiest angels ride
On blissful errands; then through the flood tide
Of fiery syllables, thy sudden deed
Poured on the Nation's troubled heart such seed
Of power, the flagging pulse leapt in its side,
The eagle soared sunward, again strong-eyed,
Stout men looked each on each with freshened pride,
And stretched to the utmost admiration's creed
Towards mothers that could bear the like of thee,
Who mid mad shriek of treason's thwarted brag,
With soldier's grasp and true soul's loyalty,
Outflung with prayer on Sumpter's martial crag
Freedom's broad shield, terrible on land and sea,
The world's chief hope,—our war-won fulgent flag.

TO LUTHER.

Deep in the sanctuaries of the mind,
Where, mystically fed, are fiery wrought
The exulting miracles of freest thought,
Where boldened wills the subtleties unwind
That in conspirant coils resistless bind
Man to his broadest duties, where are caught
Fresh whispers from skyed voices, where are fought
Truth's foremost battles,—there art thou enshrined,
Forever incensed by new love and light
Born daily in the aspiring hearts where glows
The fire of freedom, kindled through thy might,
Thou Titan of the Conscience, whose vast blows
Clove Popedom to the core, and freed the right
From Thraldom's lurid spells and deathful throes.