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University of Virginia Library

Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations

By the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson]

Turner, Charles Tennyson (1808-1879)

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LITTLE SOPHY BY THE SEASIDE.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE ROSE.

THE DYING SCULPTOR.

THE BARMOUTH SEA-BRIDGE.

ON A CHILD'S EYES.

OUR MARY AND THE CHILD-MUMMY.

CALLED FROM BED;

A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.

THE HYDRAULIC RAM;

ON THE MONUMENT OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH STUART IN NEWPORT CHURCH, ISLE OF WIGHT.

THE SICK ORPHAN;

THE MISSING BRIDE.

ARMS OLD AND NEW.

THE BOMB AND THE ORGAN.

TO A FRENCH POET AND REFUGEE.

THE ASCENT OF SNOWDON.

THE ARTIST ON PENMAENMAWR.

CADER IDRIS AT SUNSET.

THE OLD HILLS'-MAN AND HIS TRUCK.

THE LITTLE HEIR OF SHAME.

THE HARVEST MOON.

OLD RURALITIES.

TO A RED-WHEAT FIELD.

TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN, LEFT LONG AFTER HARVEST.

THE OLD FOX-HUNTER.

TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT.

ON FINDING A SMALL FLY CRUSHED IN A BOOK.

THE EAGLE AND THE SONNET.

A COLONY OF NIGHTINGALES.

THE SPARROW AND THE DEW-DROP.

TO A CUCKOO IN A HIGHWAY HEDGE.

THE SWAN AND THE PEACOCK.

OUR NEW CHURCH.

OUR NEW CHURCH CLOCK.

TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NOON.

THE AFTERNOTE OF THE HOUR.

AFTER THE SCHOOL-FEAST.

THE MURDER OF BISHOP PATTESON.

THE PASTOR'S PRAYER.

TO THE HOLY VIRGIN.

TO MY SISTER MARY.

A PERVERSE LOVER.

A MOURNING LOVER.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

ON SOME HUMMING-BIRDS IN A GLASS CASE.

THE “CANNON FEVER.”

THE EARTHQUAKE.

TO A YOUNG KING.

GREECE: AN ASPIRATION.

DEATH AND ITS ANTIDOTE.

SCIENCE AND FAITH.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTER.

THE TRAVELLER AND HIS WIFE'S RINGLET.

THE ALTAR, AS CONNECTED WITH MARRIAGE.

A BRIDAL FAREWELL.

WRITTEN FOR THE MADINGLEY SCHOOL, ON THE ARRIVAL OF THE PRINCE OF WALES AT THE MANOR HOUSE, IN 1861.

A LEGEND FROM DE LAMARTINE'S TRAVELS IN THE EAST, VERSIFIED.

AN INCIDENT ON THE DEE.

SLEEP AND DREAMS.

A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD ASLEEP.

BY A DEATH-BED.

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37

TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN, LEFT LONG AFTER HARVEST.

Poor malkin, why hast thou been left behind?
The wains long since have carted off the sheaves,
And keen October, with his whistling wind,
Snaps all the footstalks of the crisping leaves;
Methinks thou art not wholly make-believe;
Thy posture, hat, and coat, are human still;
Could'st thou but push a hand from out thy sleeve!
Or smile on me! but ah! thy face is nil!
The stubbles darken round thee, lonely one!
And man has left thee, all this dreary term,
No mate beside thee—far from social joy;
As some poor clerk survives his ruin'd firm,
And, in a napless hat, without employ,
Stands, in the autumn of his life, alone.