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Sungleams

Rondeaux and Sonnets. By the Rev. Richard Wilton
Wilton, Richard
  
[epigraph]
  
[dedication]

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RONDEAUX.
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SONNETS.
 I. 
I. FROSTED TREES.
 III. 
III. THE SWAN.
 IV. 
IV. YEWBERRIES ON THE SNOW.
 VI. 
VI. A LADY'S CHAMBER.
 VIII. 
VIII. DUNMORE WOODS.
 IX. 
IX. HOPE IS THE WINDOW.
 X. 
X. THE SEASIDE IN WINTER.
 XI. 
XI. THE SOOTHING OF NATURE.
 XII. 
XII. A PRAYER IN TIME OF TROUBLE.
 XIII. 
XIII. “SOMETHING FOR EVERY DAY.”
 XIV. 
XIV. THE MAGNET AND THE MOON.
 XV. 
XV. GLIMPSES.
 XVI. 
XVI. PRE-INTIMATIONS.
 XVII. 
XVII. THE REFLECTION IN THE LAKE.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. A THOUGHT IN A GREENHOUSE.
 XIX. 
XIX. THE FIRSTBORN.
 XX. 
XX. “A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.”
 XXI. 
XXI. ON A DOVE WHICH FLEW AGAINST MY STUDY WINDOW.
 XXII. 
XXII. A CONFIRMATION.
 XXV. 
XXV. ON AN OLD UPRAISED SEA-BEACH IN DUNMORE PARK.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. ON VISITING ARRAN AND LOCHGOIL-HEAD.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ON THE MOUNTAINS ROUND LOCH SHIEL,
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. TO A FRIEND ABOUT TO RESIDE IN JERUSALEM.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. ON MY BLUE HARE,
 XXX. 
XXX. ON MY BLUE HARE BEGINNING TO TURN WHITE.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. A LESSON OF TRUST.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. SWEET THOUGHTS AND SAD THOUGHTS,
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. ON THE DEATH OF “BLUEY,” MY HIGHLAND HARE.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. ST. JOHN AND THE PARTRIDGE.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. THE BLACK ROCK;
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. ON A GLEN WITHOUT A NAME
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. ORANSAY;
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. A FAREWELL TO GLENCRIPISDALE.
 XL. 
XL. ULLESWATER UNDER A CLOUD.
 XLI. 
XLI. ON SEEING SOME BIRDS IN WINTER
 XLII. 
XLII. AFTER READING TENNYSON'S “IDYLLS OF THE KING.”
 XLIII. 
XLIII. ON A FERN-LEAF
 XLIV. 
XLIV. ON AN AVENUE AT GRASBY VICARAGE,
 XLV. 
XLV. IN MEMORY OF CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER,
 XLVI. 
XLVI. LAST LOOKS,
 XLVII. 
XLVII. ON THE SWORD OF A FRENCH NAVAL OFFICER,
 XLVIII. 
XLVIII. ON THE PROPOSED RESTORATION OF LONDESBOROUGH CHURCH
 XLIX. 
XLIX. THE MIRROR OF THE WORD
 L. 
L. THE CHURCH REOPENING WEEK.
  
VALEDICTORY.

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86

XIX. THE FIRSTBORN.

Last year she moved through hosts of smiling friends,
And gifts that rained upon the gracious hour,
And loving words more precious, that had power
To stir the sadness that with triumph blends.
This year above a little cot she bends,
And, happy as a bird within its bower,
Gazes upon her treasure, her May-flower,
Which for all absent loved ones makes amends.
Oh, Mother, Father, cherish Heaven's sweet gift;
Water that fresh young soul with dews of prayer;
And day by day a silent song uplift
To that kind Hand which sent the blossom fair;
And say, Our thanks we speak not, Lord, but live;
To Love who gives so much ourselves we give.
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