University of Virginia Library

LOVE.

A SERIES OF SONNETS.

PSYCHE AND MERCURY, ONE OF RAPHAEL'S FRESCOES.

A face that, as it seems to me, combines
All beauties of expression into one!
As shines upon the sea the summer sun,
With rippling laughter it for ever shines;
Gaze only with intensity, the lines
Will shift themselves before you; I could swear
I've seen it move as I was standing there,
And look to me and speak to me by signs;
And then the wonder of the black-brown hair,
And gleaming glory of the green-grey eyes!
I never see the picture, I declare,
Without a gasp of sorrow and surprise,
Surprise that I have found a face so fair,
Sorrow that 'tis not mine in anywise.

THE SONG OF THE BLIND POET.

It sootheth me on love's delights to linger,
They're true for some one else, if not for me,
I cannot sing in any other key,
At least, I'll point them out with passionate finger,
A voice, an unseen sound, a sightless singer,
I'll teach them what to take and what to flee,
A Finger-Post, a Light-House in the sea,
Of joy to all men but myself a bringer;
There was a world of wonder and of daytime,
I found it, men that live will find it, fair,
For them will gleam the greenery of Maytime,
And laughter leave an echo in the air,
For them the hours of work and pleasant playtime,
For me the inactive deeps of dull despair.

BLOWN BUBBLES.

I may not see you, love, but I will greet you
With sweet blown bubbles, kisses of my rhymes:
Sleepless, my thoughts shall wander forth to meet you—
At odorous hours of dusk, at evening-times,
A vesper-song, a fairy peal of chimes,
Borne in upon your hearing they shall reach you,
Take form, and falling at your feet beseech you
To breathe a prayer for a lover in lonely climes;
I would, my love, that fancy's troop of kisses
Might fall upon you like a gentle dew,
A shower of shaken rose-petals, or a crew
Of elves to pelt you with bewildering blisses
And cowslip-balls, beneath sweet warm abysses
Of hay to smother you, as we used to do
In the hot hazy afternoons in hay-fields,
Hours of delight in childhood's pleasant play-fields,
Happy, amidst the green, beneath the blue.

THE ECSTACY OF THE HAIR.

I'd send a troop of kisses to entangle
And lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,
Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,
And, each a tiny fire-fly, to dangle
Amid the tresses of that forest fair;
A perfume seems to blossom into air,
The ecstacy that hangs about the tresses,
Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom,
A wind that gently lifts them, and caresses,
And wings itself, and floats about the room;
My meaning this but partially expresses,
The thoughts that in me smoulder and consume,
I want to say that to my mind the hair
So wonderfully, wildly, sweetly fair
Seems, that a fancy all my soul possesses
Its ecstacy ought to blossom into perfume.

SPRING.

IN SPITE OF ME.

O love, my love, I love you more than ever,
I prithee tell me, what am I to do?
With some faint, feeble shadow of endeavour
At times I try the bonds of love to sever,
But stronger than before they close anew,
I could not, if I would, become untrue,
I feel as if before I'd loved you never
For every day your beauty into view
Comes clearer; as the great gold sun-ship rises,
A vessel fraught with ever-fresh surprises,
So daily beams upon me some sweet vision
Entangling in its train some new condition;
In fine, I find that still as life grows longer
In spite of me my love becometh stronger!

KING LOVE.

A KISS FOR EVER.

ANNE HATHAWAY.

“Anne Hathaway, she hath a way,” I wonder
What way it was that won the singer's soul,
Could lips that pout, and part, and smile asunder,
Heart of a Shakespeare conquer and control,
Or had some traitor tress “a way of waving”
In windy jubilance across her eyes—
A way it was, I doubt not, worth the saving
In some soft sonnet proud of such a prize,
Only, unluckily, the words were broken
Short off, you see, by some such “woman's way,”
For, soon as Shakespeare's lips the above had spoken,
So sound an illustration I should say
Of what he meant was given in a kiss
That he was well content the rest to miss.

REMINISCENCE.

Standing upon the cliff where I remember
That autumn eve the maiden musing stood,
Enwrapped around with twilight of September,
Pondering soft things in some soft maiden mood,
Fanning a fresh flame out of memory's ember
Over the past and “is to be” I brood;
I joy to see that signs are all around me
Of her sweet presence who before was there,
An echo of her loveliness has found me
Breathed forth from all the crowd of flowers fair
That, smiling upwards, silently surround me,
Filling the places that before were bare;
A perfume of her presence seems to hover
In ecstasy about the holy place,
Entanglements of trefoil and of clover
In soft solicitude my feet embrace,
The special spots her feet have trodden over
By blossom-clusters special sweet I trace,
And, resting in the midst of flowers fair
Feel in some sort as if their queen was there.

A FLOWER.

A fair white flower, gathered all alone,
Before me sighs, and bends a lowly head;
Instinct with life she seems, as if she shed
Tears for the sake of soft companions flown,
As if she musically made a moan
(Just as a maiden though she smile or weep
Her soul in beauty cannot fail to steep)
After her loved ones into sorrow thrown;
'Tis wet to-night, and all the cliffs are raining,
And heavy hang the beaded blades of grass,
And I can fancy pale white faces straining,
Pale flower faces, tearful with complaining,
After my captive planted in a glass—
Herself, it seems, a sorrow far from feigning.

SACRA NOX.

O Night divine, bringer of dreams to mortals,
What should we do without thee? when the day
Like some slow snake has dragged its length away,
With gentle hand thou closest eyelid portals,
And, fact shut out, sweet fiction works within,
And many a form to Beauty's Queen akin
Sweeps through the sleeper's brain, the weary din
Of daylight all forgotten, bliss that foretells
Reality of waking bliss to be,
Casting across the forehead of the sleeper
Soft lights and shades, as over summer sea
Flit clouds of colour, ever waxing deeper
As laughs by night a soul in light a weeper
Uprising strong the moon of ecstasy.

TO A YELLOW ROSE.

O flower of flowers, fit for Beauty's breast,
To rise and fall upon a bosom fair,
Or sink in silent ecstasy and rest
Deep down amid the hollows of her hair,
Sweet places winged with odours all divine,
Soft nests wherein I long to twine my hands,
Whence beauty, queen of roses, bright as thine
Buds, blossoms, and at last in air expands;
For I have always felt the wealth of tresses,
Of certain deep dark tresses I have seen,
No wreath of rhymes, no written word expresses—
I approach the nearest to the thing I mean,
When I say that to my mind this wondrous hair
Seemeth to blossom into scent as fair.

ONCE!

DON'T.

Don't—ah, but, sweet, I will—you must not mind it,
My turn at last it is to have my will,
If I should kiss my treasure till I blind it
Closed eyes of hers I'd go on kissing still;
A poor wild singer am I, and a singer
In love is not, you know, like other men,
They kiss their mistress' hand, I kiss each finger,
Then think I've miss'd one out and count again;
Let these make odes, as is their bounden duty,
To love, and seal their songs with finger tips,
But as for me when I am praising Beauty
My signature is always with the lips
Just so, sweet—let me kiss the place again,
Believe me it will heal the sooner then.

THE BAY-LEAF CROWN.

ISOLINA.

ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

MY OWN DART.

I love Love, therefore am I far apart
From Love—because she's everything to me
The less am I allowed her face to see,
The less am able to outpour my heart,
Permitted less to ease its aching smart
And low to fall and say, “I worship thee;”
If I loved less the fates would gracious be,
But loving much transfixed by mine own dart
Of over great anxiety I die;
I cannot get to clutch the thing I would,
If it were possible—ah! if I could
Attain to it, extended in a sigh
My being, all of it, would prostrate lie,
Fainting for joy at such a gainèd good!

POETRY.

MISS THACKERAY'S “REINE.”

ABSTRACT TO CONCRETE.

LOVE'S ORDEAL.

SUGGESTED BY MR. MAC DONALD'S POEM.

He felt the darkness—and he felt them fold
Around him, arms of her who loved him so
That she was certain Youth yet lay below
The aged garment that she did behold
Encircling him grown withered, wrinkled, old—
That she was strong extremity to know,
Yea, strong to cherish with her breast of snow
His breast by this time earthy, clay-like, cold;
Another way the story may be told
For fades from arms of ours Queen Beauty's glow
As frequently, and sore excess of woe
Is over eyelids sick with longing rolled,
Heavy with fainting for a sight of her
Who has withdrawn the sunset of her face,
And left in heaven not a single trace,
No gold-tipped cloud to show that she was there,
That but a moment since the sky was fair
And crimson colour flooded every place.

BLUE WEATHER.

A beautiful blue day! I would that I
Were pure as is to-day the cloudless sky,
Transparent as the spotless autumn air,
That unto Beauty I might be more nigh,
Myself more like her, nobler and more fair
And stronger; low before her feet to lie,
Watching the downcast ripples of her hair
The endless fire of her face, I sigh,
Too happily placed to care to move or cry,
Too happy even to pray or wonder why
I am happy, only knowing that I share
The nectar of the glances of her eye!

THE WORLD.

We are moved, it seems, by never changing law
Towards the better, with the best in view
In the distance; mist-enfolded mountains new,
Strange valleys our forefathers never saw
Gleam wonderfully before us—passing o'er
Each ridge another magically blue,
Folded in mystery, cuts the horizon through,
And with discovery's passion even more
Unquenchably inspires us; so we wander
Towards the future, careless of the past,
Each age outflanking utterly the last,
Working new miracles for us to ponder,
While ever those sweet misty mountains yonder
Entice the feet of Progress forward fast.

A MEETING.

I pray you kiss me once, my queen, to show
That all the past is merged in present bliss,
And kiss me twice to make more certain this,
And once again to signify the flow
The happy future undivided glow
Of Love; make each kiss keener than the last
To indicate the pallor of the past
Compared with rosy days we two shall know;
A kiss for present, future, past, for each
Was good; the past was lit by expectation
Striving across the waves of tribulation
Unto the present arms of hope to reach,
Sweet is the present, blessed beyond speech,
Sweeter each future than the former station.

THE GOVERNESS.

Have you been lonely, darling? So have I,
And weary, oh! so sick and sad at times—
I used to hum the old familiar rhymes
That we, do you remember, used to try
Upon the pianoforte on the sly—
Delight ecstatic of those youthful crimes!
Most marvellous melody of those drawing-room chimes
Sometimes in the morning no one else being by!
So sorrowfully they came back to me
Laden with fragrance of the vanished past—
I thought at the time it was too good to last,
That such excessive happiness must flee,
And so it did, but now hath followed fast
A far more radiant reality.

GLANCES.

DELL' INFERNO.

KATE AT THE WINDOW, “GRIFFITH GAUNT.”

A most sweet picture! Kate—the fire—the moon—
The ivy-tree—with Griffith Gaunt below,
All softened by the tender light of snow,
And set by Love to a dim delicious tune
That swelled into a stronger symphony soon,
Into a fiercer more ecstatic glow—
Such painting we have not been let to know
Of late; the age is waking from the swoon
Of artificiality that since
The great wide human grand Shakespearian time
Has given us jingles for melodious rhyme
And made poor nature's delicate features wince;
Approach us, rouse us, keen-eyed Fairy Prince,
And kiss us out of centuries of crime.

WHAT THE SONNET NEEDS.

“To write a Sonnet is an easy thing,”
Says somebody, “there are but fourteen lines—
Once get the knack that word with word combines
And you will soon be qualified to sing,
And o'er your shoulders rightfully may fling
The mantle of a poet.” I say, No;
To write a Sonnet first through fire and snow
Your heart must pass due melody to bring
From out the inert mass; some lady fair
You have to love with a half hopeless pain,
(This serves to give the “yearning” of the strain),
While now and then a glimmer of her hair
Waved in the distance, serveth back to bear
The power of soaring high in song again.

A VISION.

I have a vision of a lady bending
Over a wounded warrior clad in mail,
Blood-stained, sore smitten, weak and very pale—
A vision of sweet delicate fingers tending
His feebleness, a fair physician sending
Throughout his veins a draught that doth avail:
And ever and anon I see her fail
And faint half backward, woman's courage ending
For a season; then he smileth—such a smile!
Great eyes of fire glowing back within
The head encased in panoply of tin,
A smile as of a child not knowing guile;
For she hath pitied him who mocked him while
Unwounded, which is worth a death to win.

CROWNS.

There are many crowns; the poet's wreath of bays,
The warrior's laurel and the monarch's gold,
The twisted sweet rose garlands that enfold
The brow of Beauty—they were wont to praise
In Greece the parsley and the oaken sprays
And the grey sad wild olive we are told,
But if I had my choice I'd choose to hold
As a reward for any tuneful lays
I may have had the grace to sing—a wreath—
A wreath of woven ferns and meadows-sweet—
And if you ask me why, I will not say—
But such a simple crown for me is meet,
And memories lurk therein with golden feet
Bringing back one unforgotten summer day.

THE POET'S CROWN.

Ah! they may sneer, the men who do not know
The glory of the things the poet sees,
Who feel no magic in a western breeze,
Who see no marvel in a sheet of snow,
No mystery-mountains in the sunset glow,
Who hear no lisp of voices in the trees,
Who sit and sip their port and take their ease,
Not feeling either ecstasy or woe
Of any exalted attitude—but I
Would rather wear the crown the poet wins
Than any other underneath the sky—
Save only that, the sweetest gift of all,
Which on a favoured lover letteth fall
His mistress by a sparkle of her eye.

DEATH'S LIPS AND PALMS.

There are two crowns I covet most of all—
One that the fair white brows of poets wear,
That singers only have the right to share,
The other that a woman's grace lets fall
Upon the head of him she wills to call
Her knight, and whom she singleth out to bear
Her banner; but as yet alas! my hair
Is neither shadowed by a laurel pall,
Nor have my lips been crowned with Love's long kiss;
I wait for both—I wait the most for this;
I wait—and it may be that no warm grasp
May round my living brow the former clasp,
That I may never know the latter bliss,
Till lips and brow Death's lips and rough hands rasp.

LOVES.

Loves vary; one is like a summer night
Just after rainfall, rich with fragrant dews,
Another Love is like a shy recluse
Who shuns the glaring openness of light
And folds his happiness from public sight
Wandering the woods at eventide to muse,
Love is a flower of vari-coloured hues,
Passion an eagle of uncertain might;
Some lips there are that tremble, others close
Upon their rapture, faces that grow pale
With longing, others shrouded in a veil
Of reticence, or flushing as a rose;
This seeks to hide emotion, that one shows
In every lineament Love's written tale.

THE POET.

The poet wore a wreath of many years
Of labour and of agony of thought,
And straightway he the fresh green bay leaf brought
That she might crown him whom with outpoured tears
And strong solicitude and anxious fears
His forward footsteps had unceasing sought;
He found her not, and all the fame was nought,
And as the sturdier steed the higher rears,
He bounded, vehement in passion, back
And tore the bay leaves—slowly—one by one—
Dropping the crown his worthiness had won
In crumpled pieces on the dusty track;
What is the world to him who finds it lack
The warmth and radiance of Beauty's Sun?

WREATHS.

A wreath of oak leaves for a runner's head,
Gold for the monarch, laurel for the brow
Of the successful warrior I trow,
Bay leaves upon the poet should be shed,
And o'er the tresses of a Genius dead
To place white roses his admirers bow—
Towards another coronet I vow
Allegiance, to a strange ambition wed,
A crown of woven ferns and meadow-sweet;
I cannot tell you why I choose this thing,
But go ye into summer woods and bring
The flowers of my choice with speedy feet,
And I will sweep the lyre with finger fleet,
For very love of recollection sing.

A VISION OF THE PAST.

I have a Vision, clad in green and gold,
Of the Past that seemeth very sweet at times,
And wakeneth an echo of old rhymes—
Green for the leafage and the mossy mould
And ferny foliage amid which we strolled,
Gold for the sunlight falling branches through,
Falling upon a face as bright—that's you—
And mountain-chesnut berries that we hold;
Do you remember? I shall not forget,
Though now ('tis in November that I write)
In that sweet woodland all the leaves are wet,
Symbolical of that most sorry blight
Which has thought good my withered being to smite
Leaving an antique savour of regret.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE.

They sat together in an autumn wood,
These two—they were not very old you know—
She on a mossy pinnacle, he below,
Discussing (do you think they understood
The subject, wise ones, ye who wear the hood
Of Learning?) the Philosophy of Love!
The lady lecturer from the rock above
Discoursing, he replying as best he could;
Ah well! one “learned love from a lady's eyes”
Says Shakespeare—this man's task was sweeter far,
More highly privileged are they that are
Permitted to become in love-lore wise
By teaching of the lips, albeit in sighs
The lesson endeth, having left a scar!

THE PROMISED LAND.

NORTH AND SOUTH.

They met beneath the darkening orange trees
Upon a perfect evening of the South;
Just light enough was left for mouth to mouth
To find a gentle way when one might please,
And in accordance laughed a lover's breeze
Across the ripples of the broad blue bay
That, softening into night, before them lay,
And washed toward their silent resting knees:
The one was fair with all the lusty bloom
Blown upon faces by the Northern winds,
But she showed that pale passion which the minds
Of sweet Italia's daughters doth consume,
When dark eyes serve to fill the features' room
Covering the countenance with most fervent blinds.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

FIRST VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly,” so the Lady said,
Sweet Poesy, who stood above his grave
With tears and claspèd sorrowing hands that gave
A gentle tribute to her hero dead—
“He hath sung sweetly, let the bays be shed
About the brows of one more prophet brave,
He hath sung sweetly, let a rose-wreath wave
Around the eager brain that beauty fed;
He hath sung sweetly,” and she bent, the Queen,
To press upon his lips a farewell kiss,
But started back—for—what a thing is this!
The poet's eyes to open slow are seen,
For—Beauty once attained is life I ween,
And death it is the beautiful to miss.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

SECOND VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly,” so she said, and came,
The Lady of the bays, to where he lay
Quiet beneath the evening shadows gray,
While in the west the sun was as a flame—
“He hath sung sweetly,” said the gentle dame,
And—half a tear fell sudden on the clay,
“He hath sung sweetly, Poetry must pay
This tribute to a soul of lofty aim;”
But as she said the words, behold, a form
Most strong, most beautiful, before her stood,
The Poet, risen from his coffin-wood,
Alive, heart beating, head conceiving, warm—
For—Beauty wept for him, for whom he died,
And therefore was he present at her side.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

THIRD VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly, he hath died for me,”
Said Beauty, bending o'er the poet dead,
“He hath sung sweetly, round my hero's head
A wreath of farewell bay-leaves let there be,
Lilies and roses likewise, in that he
Was white as well as unto passion wed,
And lastly, let a pearly tear be shed
In that I loved him—yea, I do love thee
Thou poor pale corpse.” No sooner said than lo!
Across his cheek there runs a rosy flush
As of the life returning, as the snow
At advent of the morning 'gins to blush,
For—where are Love and Beauty sideways rush
Death's waters in a horror-stricken flow.

A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE.

Agross the blue Atlantic to a land
Where thought is free, and men may act and speak,
And roses blossom in a woman's cheek
Without the pruning of Convention's hand,
I am going—so good-bye my native strand,
Good-bye to you for many a month and week;
Before I see you let me scale the peak
Of Chimborazo, by Niagara stand,
Across the Rocky Mountains sit astride,
Make havoc of the Himmalaya chain,
And perhaps before I turn me home again
At a canter through Australian deserts ride,
Or tame into a steed some zebra pied
Caught traversing an Oriental plain.

SWEET!

I have not written sonnets lately, sweet,
About you, have I? what am I to say,
What melody wring from out my brain to-day
Worthy your soft approving smile to meet,
What flower of novel song before your feet
Already deep in blossoms shall I lay,
A rose-bud, or a white acacia spray,
Or golden globèd lily incomplete?
Nay, sweet, on second thoughts it shall be none
Of these, cast glance of memory back my Queen,
Be quick to apprehend the thing I mean
When I recall a sprig of heath undone
By careless fingers underneath a sun
Of afternoon, and what you asked for glean.

THE SUPERNAL LOVELINESS.

THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.

FIRST VERSION.

THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.

SECOND VERSION.

DANTE AND BEATRICE.

FIRST VERSION.

ROSES FOR HER.

Roses for her! the dark green bays for him,
To adorn the furrowed brows, the weary head,
Over which leaves of sorrow had been shed
As many as on the autumn breezes swim;
Lilies for her! for Dante wreathe a dim
Grey crown as for one risen from the dead,
Through every cell of purgatory led,
For whom hell's horror mantled to the brim;
For her the flowers of spring, for him the sere
And withered branches of the later days—
O Dante, great worn Dante, whom we praise,
By all the ages counted first and dear,
Be thine the flaming offerings of the year
Being ended, hers its softer opening sprays!

PHASES.

MUSIC.

THE LEOPARD.

Sweet leopard, kill me, claw me, anything,
The more you irritate me I the more
Shall love the chiding of your velvet paw,
The more you tease me louder I shall sing,
The further cast away the closer cling,
Fiercely repelled more fervently adore;
More gracious far than any peace the war
Of feelings those green catlike glances bring;
Be merciful and slay me, let me know
The utmost sweet abandonment of being,
The extremity of a delicious woe,
Love, I am here before thee, ceased from fleeing,
Be tender if thou canst and strike me so
That I may die thy face entrancèd seeing!

“AND KEEP OUR SOULS IN ONE ETERNAL PANT.”

THE PEARL NECKLACE.

What can I give you, sweet? I am but poor
As men count riches, yet I have my pen
That flings aside a ruby now and then,
Or emerald not all unworthy your
Acceptance; seeing I will not endure
With aught save choicest jewels to bedeck
That pure unequalled choicer Parian neck
What gift of passionate sense can I procure?
Well, I will take my heart and string the same
Upon a necklace—lady, will that do?
Each pearl shall be a sonnet, and its hue
The brighter, in that tinged with blood it came,
The clearer, being cleansed in the flame
That burns incessant sacrifice to you.

THE LOVE-PHILTRE.

“But she will love you, kiss you perhaps, who knows?
Come take it, don't be foolish,” so persuaded
A simple youth a witch with features faded,
And hump-back orthodox, and rusty clothes,
Pressing upon him hard a magic dose
By which his love-suit might be swiftly aided;
But he recoiled, and, vehement, upbraided
Her foul intention, saying, “let my rose
Bloom on and let me wither if so be,
But let her pierce me with her own sweet eyes
Deluded by no draught prepared of thee
Even if heaven to me the truth denies;
Thy gift I accept not in anywise,
Avaunt enchantress, vanish quickly, flee!”

THE LAST SONNET.

Your presence is not always with me, sweet,
As a conscious summer sky to dome me round
With rapture, or a soft encircling sound,
Or tenderest embrace of arms that meet,
Or sense of cool refreshment after heat,
Or wreath of flowers about my temples wound;
I seem to lose the treasure I have found,
And in the distance fade departing feet:
But, back you come, with the old threatening hair,
And grace and melody of returning spring,
More cruelly delightful, and more fair;
As each successive season seems to bring
Grass greener, sweeter roses, birds that sing
The stronger, beauty brighter yet you wear.