University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.
THE TOURISTS.

What brought them here across the briny pool,
A motley train of high and low degree,
Grave seniors, girls whose blue eyes flash with glee,
White-collar'd priests, and boys uncaged from school?
I know not—happy if themselves can tell;
No sights are here to trap the vulgar eye,
No dome whose gilded cross invades the sky,
No palace where wide-sceptred Cæsars dwell.
An old grey chapel on an old grey beach,
Grey waste of rocks unpictured by a tree,
And far as hungry vision's range can reach,
The old grey mist upon the old grey sea:
These shows for sense; but the deep truth behind
They only know who read the mind with mind.

II.
THE ROYAL SAINT.

Praise me no Cæsars, Alexanders, all
Who whet sharp swords to reap great names in story,
Napoleons, Fredericks, men who fill the hall
Of fame with echoes which the French call glory!
True glory he reap'd with his saintly band
Who fled from pomp of courts and flash of spears,
To win lost souls on this storm-batter'd strand,
With loving venture, prayers, and precious tears.
No herald shrill'd sharp fear his path before,
No wasteful fire made deserts where he came,
No trail of victories sign'd his march with gore,
No dinsome triumph peal'd his dreaded name;
But shod with peace, and wing'd with fervour, he
Unlock'd all hearts; for Love gave him the key.

III.
THE LORD'S DAY IN IONA.

Pure worshipper, who on this holy day
Would'st shake thee free from soul-encrusting cares,
And to the great Creator homage pay
In some high fane most worthy of thy prayers,
Go not where sculptured tower or pictured dome
Invites the reeking city's jaded throngs,
Some hoar old shrine of Rhine-land or of Rome,
Where the dim aisle the languid hymn prolongs;
Here rather follow me, and take thy stand
By the grey cairn that crowns the lone Dun Ee,
And let thy breezy worship be the grand
Old Bens, and old grey knolls that compass thee,
The sky-blue waters, and the snow-white sand,
And the quaint aisles far-sown upon the sea.

IV.
MOONLIGHT.

Thou mystic moon that o'er the dim grey sound
Ray'st forth a yellow stream of thin cold light,
If aught thou hast of knowledge more profound
That told might profit bring to mortal wight,
Tell me: if not, why should I rack my wit
To shape me what thou art, or whither bound,
Or what strange souls, for fleshly coil unfit
Find a meet lodgment on thy spotted round?
Dream dreams who will beneath the glimmering moons,
And commune with dim ghosts that flit about,
I have no brains to waste on hazy runes,
That being read but stir more doubtful doubt;
Shine on me, Sun! beneath thy clear strong ray
To live and work is all the bliss I pray.

V.
THE BOULDER.

Whenoe comest thou? The rest are black, but thou
Art rough and red as any Roy MacGregor,
And show'st as strangely on this spot, I vow,
As in white Washington a sooty nigger!
Say, wert thou roll'd o'er from the ruddy Ross
By Noah's flood, when God was wroth with men,
Or, when the giants played at pitch and toss
Wert thou the counter for their gambling then?
I know not: but what men who read the rocks
Propound, that Nature in her crude display
Of Titan strength with blocks high-heap'd on blocks
Made glorious sport, before Sire Adam's day,
May well be true; and, when the young sun shone,
Some travelling iceberg dropped this mighty stone.

VI.
THE DISAPPOINTED TOURIST.

And is this all? And I have seen the whole,
Cathedral, chapel, nunnery, and graves!
'Tis scantly worth the tin, upon my soul,
Or the long travel through the tumbling waves!
There's nothing now, but to sit down and smoke
A pipe on this grey channel's shelving brink.
“There you are right,” quoth I, to him who spoke,
“Not much is here to see, but much to think;
If you'll but sit and read the old monk's book,
Making the shifting shows of time your theme,
And through the haze of centuries brooding look
Till cunning Fancy shape the featured dream,
Then learn what men served God in this lone nook
Nobly, without gas, newspapers, or steam.”