University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SONNET I.

'Twas my fond wish to greet our wedding day,
My Margaret, with a strain of jocund rhyme,
Such as I used to weave, in youth's sweet prime,
From a strange store of fancies wild and gay,
And quaint conceits, which intermingled lay
With graver thoughts, and musings half sublime
In my brain's cells: all these the frosts of time
Have nipt ere yet my hair is tinged with grey.
Chide me not, Love, nor cherish vain regret
For gifts departed:—we can spare them well;
What tho' young Fancy's dreamy moon hath set,
And Passion's once wild waves no longer swell,
Love's sober daylight smiles upon us yet,
And Peace is ours, how pure no tongue can tell.

SONNET II.

If I may break my spirit's icy spell,
And free once more the frost-bound stream of song,
To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
The praise and the reward; for thou canst tell
Whose gentle efforts made my bosom swell
Once more with love of verse extinct so long;
Who first evoked me with enticement strong,
And pleasant bribes, from the deep silent cell
Of mental idlesse: the next place to thee
In this poor praise holds that dear friend by right,
Who sheds upon our path so rich a light
Of cheering love and tenderest sympathy.
High above both, my song's sole Lord, is He,
Its Origin and End—the Infinite.

SONNET III.

Dear friend, they tell me 'tis the happy day,
(To me most happy) which beheld thy birth,
And, ere my name was written in the Earth,
Smiled on a rich and bountiful array
Of blessings, then provided, to allay
My future griefs, enhance my future mirth,
And in my future home, and round my hearth,
Cause pleasant gleams of light and love to play:
Therefore, dear friend, this day henceforth shall be
The holiest in my calendar of life,
Save two alone; the two which gave to me
First a betroth'd, and then a wedded wife,
Whom only love I more than I love thee;—
My dove of peace 'midst this world's toil and strife.

SONNET IV.

If I could doubt that, in another sphere,
Brighter than this, and ne'er to pass away,
The renovated soul shall live for aye,
Methinks such doubts would quickly disappear,
Friend, in thy presence, whom we all revere;
For when thy cheerful aspect I survey,
And mark thy sweet affections' ceaseless play,
Yet feel they lack their truest object here,—
How should my heart endure the freezing thought
That all this depth of love exists in vain;
Doom'd ne'er to lavish its rich sweets again
On him long lost, and oh, how fondly sought!
But here to dwell, in widowhood's dull pain
A few brief years, then vanish into nought?

SONNET V.

No, this can never be: we needs must meet,
(If my poor faith may to the end endure)
Where love shall be more perfect and more pure,
And love's enjoyments more serenely sweet,
Than here they can be. There thine eyes shall greet
With joy, which tears shall never more obscure,
Him whom, preserved in Memory's portraiture,
Thy heart yet treasures in its still retreat;
While we, to whom thy love hath been so dear,
(My mate beloved and I) at length set free
From all the sorrows of this nether sphere,
Shall feel a scarce less rapturous ecstasy,
Contemplating the perfect bliss, which ye
Enjoy, beyond the reach of change or fear.

SONNET VI.

When, from my desk in yonder crowded fane,
Thy vacant pew my wandering eyes survey,
Seeking unconsciously the far away,
My heart shrinks back upon itself with pain
And disappointment dull; and oft in vain
I wish and wish that thou wast here to pray
Beside me, and so speed upon their way
(As oft thou hast) my flagging prayers again:
But when, our solemn act of worship o'er,
In pastoral guise the pulpit I ascend,
No longer then thy absence I deplore:
Nay, can almost rejoice, beloved friend,
That I need play the mountebank no more,
Presuming my dim light to thee to lend.

SONNET VII.

Yet didst thou tell me once that some chance word,
From these unconscious lips at random sent,
Reproof and warning to thy spirit lent,
And dormant will to new exertion stirr'd:
And doubtless of such triumphs I have heard,
Achieved by ministry most impotent,
Which God, on purpose of rich grace intent,
To this world's strength and wisdom hath preferr'd.
But oh! beloved friend, if 'tis delight
To turn some unknown sinner from his way,
What joy should mine be, that my feeble might
Hath help'd thy faltering footsteps not to stray;
So adding, haply, to the crown of light,
Reserved for thee in Heaven, another ray!

SONNET VIII.

Our minds were form'd, by nature, far apart,
And with few common sympathies endued:
Thine ardent and most active, and imbued
With thirst intense for truth, which thou, with heart
Faithful, and pure, and incorrupt by art
Sophistical, hast patiently pursued;
While I, in dreaming and fantastic mood,
Too indolent for such high goal to start,
Have wasted, in crude fancies, half my days.
Yet must we two be friends; if not for aught
Innate in both (which doubtless we shall find),
Yet for the love which thy true spirit sways
Toward two dear objects of my holiest thought,
With both our future prospects close entwined.

SONNET IX. TO THE REV. DR. ARNOLD.

Not for thy genius, though I deem it high,
Thy clear and deep and comprehensive mind,
Thy vigorous thought, with healthful sense combined,
Thy language rich in simplest dignity;
Oh not for these, much honour'd friend, do I
Such food for fervent admiration find
In all thine efforts to persuade mankind
Of truth first dawning on thy mental eye;
But for thy fearless and ingenuous heart,
Thy love intense of virtue, thy pure aim
Knowledge and faith and wisdom to impart,
No matter at what loss of wealth and fame—
These are the spells which make my warm tears start,
And my heart burn with sympathetic flame.

SONNET X. TO THE SAME.

Sound teachers are there of religion pure,
And unimpeach'd morality; grave men,
Who wield a cautious and deliberate pen,
And preach and publish doctrine safe and sure;
And many such, I ween, can ill endure
The eagle glance of thy far-piercing ken,
But almost deem thee from some Stygian den
Of monstrous error sprung,—obscene,—obscure.
Well! they may rail till they have rail'd their fill;
Only let me, by such sweet poison fed,
Drink from thy clear and ever flowing rill
Refreshment and support for heart and head;
Oft disagreeing, but extracting still
More food from stones of thine than such men's bread.

SONNET XI.

Mary, thou canst not boast thy sister's brow
Capacious, nor her proud and piercing eye,
Nor that calm look of conscious dignity,
Which makes us poets in her presence bow;
Yet scarce to me less beautiful art thou,
With thy dove's eyes, so modest, mild, and shy,
And that retiring, meek simplicity
Which wins pure hearts, they scarce know why or how;
Nor is thy voice less full of pleasant sound,
Thy words of pleasant meaning to my ear,
Albeit thy mind than hers is less profound,
Thy wit less bright. Sweet girl, for many a year,
No countenance more lovely have I found;
No gentler heart, no youthful friend more dear.

SONNET XII. TO WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

In youth and early manhood thou and I
Thro' this world's path walk'd blithely side by side,
Unlike, and yet by kindred aims allied,
Both courting one coy mistress—Poesy.
Those days are over, and our paths now lie
Apart, dissever'd by a space as wide
As the blank realms which heaven and earth divide,
And widening day by day continually,
Each hath forsaken the sweet Muses' shrine
For cares more serious; thou for wordy strife,
And senatorial toils,—how unlike mine!
Who lead the country pastor's humble life,
Sweetening its cares with joys denied to thine,
Fair children and a loved and loving wife.

SONNET XIII.

So sang I, all unwitting of the prize,
Which thou meanwhile hadst won, and wearest now,
The fairest garland that enwreathes thy brow,
Crown'd though it be for youth's rich phantasies
And manhood's virtues, by the good and wise,
With well-earn'd laurel. I have witness'd how
Thy whole heart honours the blest nuptial vow;
How well become thee this world's tenderest ties;
And gladlier now doth my mind's eye repose
On thy bright home,—thy breathing times of rest
From public turmoil,—on the love which glows
In the fond father's and the husband's breast,
Than on thy well-waged strifes with factious foes,
Or letter'd triumphs, e'en by them confest.

SONNET XIV. TO THE SAME.

In youth's impetuous days thy heart was warm,
Thy tongue uncheck'd, thy spirit bold and high,
With such blind zeal for miscall'd liberty,
That friend and foe look'd on thee with alarm.
But since maturer years dispell'd the charm,
And wean'd thee from thy first idolatry,
With what foul gibes doth faction's spiteful fry,
Venting its rage, around thee shriek and swarm!
Recreant or renegade the mildest name
With which they greet thee; but thy heart meanwhile
Is pure beyond the reach of venal blame,
Free, firm, unstain'd by selfishness or guile,
Too noble for even party to defile:
If thou art faithless, let me be the same.

SONNET XV.

Nor beautiful art thou, nor proudly graced
With fashion's vain accomplishments: thy mind
By artificial culture unrefined,
Not boasting pungent wit, or polish'd taste.
Yet seldom fondest parent hath embraced
A lovelier child; for never heart more kind,
With sweet and gentle courtesy combined,
Was so by affectation undebased:
Therefore, sweet girl, oft wearied with the blaze
Of intellectual womanhood, to thee
I turn for brief repose, and love to gaze
On thy most innocent simplicity;
With joy beholding, in thy winning ways,
How lovely goodness in itself may be.

SONNET XVI.

Said I thou wast not beautiful? in sooth,
If that I did, shame blister my false tongue
For calumny most foul upon thee flung:
For what is beauty? Eye, cheek, hair, lip, tooth,
Forehead and form, in bloom of radiant youth
And faultless symmetry? Such bards have sung,
And painters over such enamour'd hung,
And such have coxcombs praised with flatteries smooth;
But more than such doth heartfelt love demand,
And more than such, beloved girl, is thine:
Thought, sympathy, affection soft and bland,
Sense, feeling, goodness in thy sweet eyes shine:
Is not this beauty which all understand?
Which sways all hearts with power and grace divine?

SONNET XVII.

There are, whose pearl of price is richly set
In mountings choice of intellectual gold,
And polish'd high by graces manifold;
Some such have I in life's brief journey met,
Whom, once beheld, I never can forget;
But thou wast fashion'd in a coarser mould;
And nature, by religion uncontroll'd
For many a year, will needs be nature yet.
But though I deem thy soul's full beauty marr'd,
Its stature dwarf'd, by much infirmity,
I honour thy strong faith, still struggling hard
With sin and Satan for the mastery;
Nor deem I that Heaven's gates can e'er be barr'd
To one who pants and toils for it like thee.

SONNET XVIII. TO THE ANONYMOUS EDITOR OF COLERIDGE'S LETTERS AND CONVERSATIONS.

A gibbering ape that leads an elephant;
A dwarf deform'd, the presence heralding
Of potent wizard, or the Elfin King;
Caliban, deigning sage advice to grant
To mighty Prosper in some hour of want;
Sweet Bully Bottom, while the fairies sing,
Braying applause to their rich carolling,—
But feebly typify thy flippant cant,
Stupid defamer, who, for many a year,
With Earth's profoundest teacher wast at school;
And, notwithstanding, dost at last appear
A brainless, heartless, faithless, hopeless fool.
Come, take thy cap and bells and throne thee here,
Conspicuous on the Dunce's loftiest stool.

SONNET XIX.

Not anger, not contempt should be thy meed;
Not scornful indignation; but most deep
And sorrowing pity; soul that canst not sleep
For inborn turbulence, but still dost feed
Passion insane, with vengeful word and deed;
And so from strife to strife for ever leap,
While strangers marvel, foes deride, friends weep,
And good men pray for thee, and kind hearts bleed;
Meanwhile, by headstrong and impetuous will,
Thou on thy blind and desperate course art driven,
And dost the air with wrath and discord fill,
At enmity with all, though oft forgiven;
Thus growing, here on earth, more restless still,
And more unfit for future rest in Heaven.

SONNET XX.

We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought,
The dying pillow of our youngest child,
Whose spirit, yet by this world undefiled,
Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought
A letter for my hands, which in me wrought
Strange feelings; for it spake with kindness mild
Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen had taught.
And therewith came a little simple book,
Telling a gentle tale of children twain,
Whom God of late to rest eternal took
From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain;
Thankfully on those pages did we look,
And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.

SONNET XXI.

So, lady, whom we honour, though unknown,
For thy frank spirit and thy pious love
Toward him who died on earth and reigns above,
Thou hast our thanks for this thy kindness, shown
Most opportunely: nor will thanks alone
Thy recompense, I trust, hereafter prove;
Who to our troubles, like a mission'd dove,
Didst bear the bough of peace from Heaven's high throne.
More blessed 'tis to give than to receive;
And more than thou receivedst hast thou given;
For none can comfort, whose hearts ne'er were riven
With kindred anguish. Lady, I believe
Our earthly griefs will make us friends in Heaven.

SONNET XXII.

Friend most beloved, most honour'd, fare thee well;
All joy go with thee to that home of Love;
Whence thou, at Friendship's call, didst late remove,
With pain and grief, and anxious fear to dwell.
Our gratitude for this we may not tell;
Nay, never, till we meet in realms above,
Can word or act the whole affection prove
With which to thee our thankful bosoms swell.
But well I know, that in these painful hours,
The comfort and support, which thou hast brought,
Hath, in the depth of both our spirits, wrought
That which shall live when penal flame devours
Earth and its works; a chain of burning thought
Binding thy soul eternally to ours.

SONNET XXIII.

For patient ministrations, sweet and kind;
For self-denying love, on our distress
Pouring its soft and soothing tenderness;
For the calm wisdom of thy Christian mind,
With deep experience of earth's griefs combined;
For comfort which no language can express;
For this, and how much more! thy name we bless,
And keep it in our heart of hearts enshrined.
But chiefly for those glimpses, pure and bright,
Of faith intense, and piety serene,
Wherewith thou charm'st our spiritual sight,
To worlds which fleshly eye hath never seen;
For that thy love, in sorrow's murkiest night,
The pole-star of our Faith and Hope hath been.

SONNET XXIV. TO MY INFANT CHILD.

In peril and deep fear, before thy day,
My child, when hope had perish'd, thou wast born;
Yet wast thou lovely from thy natal morn,
And vigorous health in all thy limbs did play,
As if thou wouldst our every fear allay,
And laugh our fond anxieties to scorn.
Seven months roll'd by, and thou wast fiercely torn
By fell disease; but that too pass'd away,
Mocking hope's second death; and now again,
(Kind Heaven be praised) thy pulse with health beats strong,
And thou, untouch'd by any grief or pain,
Fillest our home with gladness all day long,
Singing, with all thy little might and main,
Thy inarticulate and infant song.

SONNET XXV. TO BAPTIST NOEL.

Noel, our paths, in academic days,
Lay far apart, though by one Mother bred,
And with her noblest sons together fed
On food which healthiest intellects doth raise:
But thou, even then, didst walk in Wisdom's ways
With steadfast purpose; while my heart and head,
To loftier aims and aspirations dead,
Cared but to win a worthless crown of bays,
Which then, with childish fickleness, I cast
Even to the winds; now middle age is here,
And haply all my better days are past
With small improvement; while thou, year by year,
Art hiving glory, which for aye shall last,
When He, whose cross thou bearest, shall appear.

SONNET XXVI. TO THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

Well won and glorious trophies have been thine,
Macaulay, since we two “together stray'd”
(As young bards sing) “in Granta's tranquil shade;”
Now far divided by the ocean brine;
And thou, already a bright star, doth shine
Among our statesmen; yet fame hath not made
Thy young simplicity of heart to fade,
Nor is thy sympathy less warmly mine.
Therefore I trust that, in no distant time,
(Thy Oriental toils and duties o'er,)
Thou shalt revisit this our native clime,
Strengthen'd in soul through that bereavement sore,
For which, of late, my gift of plaintive rhyme
Such welcome solace on thy grief did pour.

SONNET XXVII. TO A LADY OF RANK.

Many there be, in these our factious days,
Whose hate would unrelentingly lay low
Crown, coronet, and mitre, at a blow;
Scarce sparing even the poet's wreath of bays,
For that thereto they may not hope to raise
Their own dull brows:—with me it is not so,
Who rather would chivalric fealty owe
To rank and virtue which o'ertop my praise.
Oh, lady! 'tis a pleasant thought to me
That there exists on earth a higher sphere
Than that in which I am content to be;
Adorn'd by worth like thine, which all revere;
Whereto I yield, with lowly heart sincere,
Homage profound and reverent courtesy.

SONNET XXVIII.

Within two days, (if registers tell truth)
I and the nineteenth century were born;
Nor let me lightly such memorial scorn
Of ripen'd manhood and departed youth.
Twin wayfarers are we, although, in sooth,
My pilgrimage will soonest reach the bourn
Whence, saith the adage, travellers ne'er return;
Calm be our final rest, our passage smooth.
My path hath been the pleasanter so far,
Though haply the less busy; all his life
My fellow traveller hath been vext with war,
Fierce change, and dire convulsion, broils and strife.
Be my course govern'd by a milder star,
With Christian hopes and calm affections rife.

SONNET XXIX. TO THE REV. DR. CHALMERS.

Well hast thou reason'd, Chalmers, on the deep
And awful mystery of redeeming love;
With argument profound intent to prove
How the Omniscient Mind doth ever keep
Protective watch on Heaven's empyreal steep,
O'er suns and systems through all space that move;
While yet its sleepless eyes minutely rove
Through lowliest dwellings in which mortals sleep.
Methinks, great Teacher, of that Mind thine own
Yields a faint emblem, who hast power to soar
On wing seraphic toward the Eternal Throne,
And Heaven and Hell's mysterious depths explore;
Yet on the meanest cot where poor men groan
Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour.

SONNET XXX. TO THE SAME.

Alas! for those, whose bigot zeal would fain
Compress and crush, with Procrustean force,
All energies, all spirits, fine and coarse,
All tempers, feelings, habits, heart and brain,
Nation, race, climate, white and negro stain
Into one changeless and unbending course
Of discipline and form; without remorse
Devoting Church and sect to Satan's chain.
Chalmers, we do not worship at one shrine,
Albeit, I trust, both children of one Sire;
Nor would I wish my altar to be thine,
Delighting most thy greatness to admire,
When on our alien Church its sunbeams shine
With warm effulgence of congenial fire.

SONNET XXXI. TO THE SAME.

If aught of pastoral labour, not unblest,
Since youth's maturer prime I may have wrought;
If, from the pressure of unquiet thought,
My weary heart and brain have long had rest;
If, from my own emancipated breast,
To world-worn minds comfort hath e'er been brought;
Thanks be to thee, from whom my spirit sought
And found repose, by youthful doubts opprest.
Nor thou amidst thy triumphs, and the praise
Which well, from all the Churches, thou hast won,
Disdain the puny tribute of these lays:
For thou, they say, art Wisdom's meekest son,
And ever walkest humbly in her ways,
Giving God thanks for all that thou hast done.

SONNET XXXII. ON REVISITING LUDLOW CASTLE, JULY, 1836.

Three days had we been wedded, when we stood
Within thy well known walls (my bride and I),
Majestic Ludlow; from a cloudless sky
Fell the rich moon-beams, in a silver flood,
On tower and terrace, river, hill, and wood;
Then my heart wander'd to the years gone by,
But Hope and Love to Memory made reply
That those to come look'd doubly bright and good.
Since then the eleventh year hath well nigh past,
And, with our children, here we stand again;
Again a thankful glance doth memory cast
On years of gladness, not unmixt with pain.
Meanwhile our hearts are changed and changing fast,
But thou, fair ruin, dost unchanged remain.

SONNET XXXIII.

To patient study and unwearied thought,
And wise and watchful nurture of his powers,
Must the true poet consecrate his hours:
Thus, and thus only, may the crown be bought
Which his great brethren, all their lives, have sought;
For not to careless wreathers of chance flowers
Openeth the Muse her amaranthine bowers,
But to the Few, who worthily have fought
The toilsome fight, and won their way to fame.
With such as these I may not cast my lot,
With such as these I must not seek a name;
Content to please awhile and be forgot;
Winning from daily toil (which irks me not)
Rare and brief leisure these poor songs to frame.

SONNET XXXIV.

My sister, we have lived long years apart;
Our mutual visits short and far between,
Like those of angels; yet we have not been
Divided, as I trust, in mind or heart.
Pale now and changed, though in thy prime thou art,
And, in the chasten'd sweetness of thy mien,
I read the workings of a soul serene
And patient under pain's life-wasting smart.
May God be with thee, and thy sojourn bless
Near Cheltenham's healing springs, that they may be
E'en as Bethesda's wondrous pool to thee,
Giving thee back lost health and loveliness;
While yet He purifies thy heart no less
By blest affliction's subtlest alchymy.