University of Virginia Library

SONNETS BY THE LATE HON STEPHEN E. SPRING RICE.

I.

With slow and thoughtful step I went my way
Through new-mown meadows, crowded pastures green,
On the ‘Hawk's Cliff,’ in thickets deep, unseen,
Without a friend to pass the summer's day.
I read of murdered Strafford as I lay,
Of timid, faithless Charles, of Pym serene
Though mourning for the friend whose youth had been
Brightened, like his, with Freedom's purest ray.
Did Friendship earn from Charles no better fate?
Could not strong Friendship something then avail,
And Justice from her claims on Pym abate?
—Then rather let me listen to the gale
Ruffling the sunlit foliage, and create
A world of friends unseen than trust to those who fail.

II. THE BLACK TARN UNDER MANGERTON.

With quicker coming breath and shorter stride
We reached at length the level, purple height
Which seemed from far unto our straining sight
The crown of that calm monarch's silent pride;
But, when we paused, we heard a petty tide
Hoarse, low, monotonous; and, dark as night,
A sullen lake lay shadowed by the might
Of rugged cliffs that bound its further side.
How fit an emblem of the mind whose share
Of life is solitude and selfish thought
Gloomy, and murmuring on a barren strand!
Mine be a bay by eager breezes fanned;
And not by tempest into anger wrought
Though Ocean's pulse is ever throbbing there!

III. EARLY FRIENDSHIP.

The half-seen memories of childish days
When pains and pleasures lightly came, and went;
The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent
In fearful wanderings through forbidden ways;
The vague, but manly, wish to tread the maze
Of life to noble ends: whereon intent,
Asking to know for what man here is sent,
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze—
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end
Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature:
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend
With strength no selfish purpose can secure;—
My happy lot is this, that all attend
That friendship which first came, and which shall last endure.

IV. DRUDGERY.

Pleasant it is, at close of weary day,
When all is out of sight that vexed the mind
To dull routine or petty task confined,—
Pleasant with intermitting chat to say
‘This easy converse fully doth repay
The morning's labour.’ Search! and you shall find
That only toil upon some work assigned
Can fit foundation for such leisure lay.
My friends are gone; these things I think and feel,
As o'er the dewy grass a path I make:
Some distant waggon with its labouring wheel
Betrays the silence which it seems to break;
Slow, heavy perfumes o'er the garden steal;
The flickering branches in the moonbeam shake.

V. TITIAN'S PICTURE OF BACCHUS AND ARIADNE.

Young Ariadne, by her lover led
Through narrow mountain pass, or woodland glade
Rich with a thousand flowers, loved the shade
That o'er her modest steps a veil outspread:
Now, with slow tears she mourns that lover fled:
Her golden hair, half fallen from the braid,
Hath but a wavering protection made
For the fair brow; and from her glossy head
The sunbeams glance. Alone she walks the shore;—
When suddenly is thronged that barren place,
And youthful Bacchus, like a bursting wave
Leaps from his panther car with headlong grace.
—And will his godlike raptures please her more
Than calmer joys her mortal lover gave?

VI. MARY SAYING HER PRAYERS.

1.

Wilful and dull and sullen seems that child;
But who in that soft countenance can find
An index to the thoughts that fret her mind?
By no long-cherished hope was she beguiled?
Has no uncertain vision gleamed and smiled,
Then faded from her eyelids? Had the wind,
Circling the world, no messages consigned
To her young heart this morning sweet and mild,
When with the dawn it touched upon her brow?
By recollections flickering, undefined,
Perhaps she may be haunted even now;
By dim and shapeless aspirations vexed,
With infantile experiences entwined;
By half-seen truths surprised, alarmed, perplexed

VII.

2.

Slow serious phrases, tender words and few
The mother whispered in a voice subdued,
Gently submitting to the wayward mood
Which from her loving watchfulness she knew
Would fade away, and by observance due
Be soon succeeded; no abrupt or rude
Commandment was she forward to intrude;
The instinct of affection, ever true
To loftiest conceptions of the mind,
Prompted such patience and respect for those
Who tho' on earth and to our care consigned
Are yet angelic. Seeing them, she knows
What loveliness might shine in humankind
If still unstained by sin, unworn by woes.

VIII. OLD AND MODERN LEARNING.

The learning of old times was as a stream
Through many an untrod glen that held its way,
Smooth-flowing, clear, and silent as a dream
To the calm precincts of a cloister grey;
In which the sculptured fount would doubtless seem
A Station fit, where holy men each day
Might read the gracious Word, and muse, and pray,
‘Send us the living water, Lord Supreme!’
The learning of these days doth rush along
By humblest hut and proudest palace bowers,
Like a broad torrent, troubled, loud, and strong;
Each sloping bank, throughout the circling hours,
Is crowded by an eager, restless throng—
They crush to dust the few remaining flowers.

IX.

Love is historic; rests upon the past;
Still lingers lovingly on old detail;
Still, like the holy bells, rings out a tale
For ever new, from earliest to last:
Love is prophetic; climbing still the mast
Discerns of distant hope the signal pale,
And on the straining spar extends the sail
Withheld by colder counsels from the blast.
Mysterious delight in what is lost!
Wild half fruition of what may be won
By struggling perseverance, tempest-toss'd!
Yet love in silence wrapt and deep repose,
Whilst one short hour its hasty course can run,
May find more joy than many a lifetime knows!

X.

Think not man's fallen nature can accept,
Or, if accepting, value at their worth
Rites that lack splendour; slave of grief or mirth
By fleshly lusts he is in hondage kept.
Far less believe that splendid rites give birth
To heartfelt sorrow, such as his, who ‘wept
And smote upon his breast,’ for this man stept
With downcast eyes, not heeding aught on earth.
Man must employ in worship every power,
Will, reason, understanding, heart, and sense;
And should he on some dull or fond pretence
Neglect but one, then from devotion's flower
He cuts a leaf that drank the heavenly dew,
Or root, that purity from baseness drew.

XI.

If, task'd beyond my strength, I crave delay
And weakly wish that to another hand
Had been committed what divine command
Has sent to mine; if on th' appointed way
I pause, and, thoughtless of my purpose, stray;
If, wearied with the men, the clime, the land
Which I call mine, I seek another strand,
That on the wings of chance I lightly may
Outstrip the homely cares which day by day
Hum in my ears; if by myself I stand
Accused of all these faults, and cannot say
That I less subject am unto their sway
Now than of old—you needs must understand
How rashly upon me new duties would you lay.

XII.

Soft sighing wind that comest to dispel
The rigid bond that holds the buds so long
As almost to provoke a sense of wrong
In those who now have sadly watched them swell
Slowly, for weeks; O, would that I could tell
How deep the joy thou bringest, and how strong!
O that I too could blossom into song,
And hail thee loosen'd from thy southern cell
Whilst all surrounding Nature seems to smile
And bare her breast at thy sunbright approach!
O, wherefore hast thou tarried so long while?
Dear spirit! tenderly must I reproach
Thee, dallying upon the Italian shore
Or launching thence across the purple, smooth sea floor.

XIII.

No sweeter pleasure can this life supply
Than what my darling children daily bring
To me, well wearied of that noisy thing
We call society: without a sigh—
Nay, gladly—I would cast ambition by,
Content to hear their eager questioning
(The chirping of young birds that cannot sing),
To weigh for them the words of my reply,
And righteously instruct them—I should rest
Like the worn ship in harbour there below,
Which, safe from struggling on the Ocean's breast,
Floats in the silent water—what a glow
The setting sun casts on her tricolor crest!
She hears far off waves toss and tempests blow.

XIV. SYMPATHY DISPENSED WITH.

And if indeed I wear my soul away,
And pour my heart out upon barren stones,
And vainly try to vivify dead bones,
And through dry deserts hunt a worthless prey;
If, disappointed, thus from men I stray,
And strive to find a meaning in the tones,
The half-heard whispers and the sullen moans,
In which unfeeling Nature seems to say,
But says most falsely, that in her doth dwell
A sympathetic beating of the heart,
Should then myself against myself rebel,
And dream of a self-centred life apart,
Myself shall blame myself: all may be well:
Love, without self-love soothes the bitterest smart.

XV. THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS.

We sat together underneath a lime,
Whose netted branches wove an emerald night;
And in short sentences—in low and light
Whispers—recalled the stories of old time:
Until some word, I know not what, some rhyme
Dragged out a hidden grief, that lived—in spite
Of creeping lichen years—such years as might
Well humble all that once was thought sublime.
My grief it was, and will be: she but sees
A strangeness which she cannot understand;
A nameless tower overgrown with trees;
A heap of stones encumbering the land;
A hearth now haunted by the wintry breeze,
Long, long ago, by love and fancy fanned.

XVI.

‘The spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea,’
Lies far below, beyond the lawn and wood,
That, tender green, this, rich in purple bud;
And, hidden from the sight by bush and tree,
I hear a tinkling streamlet fall and flee
Through the deep glen to seek that distant flood;
Soft airs escape from the hill-side and scud,
With gentle touches, bird-like, wild, and free,
Across that glassy bosom. All is peace.
Would that with me such calm might ever dwell!
That I might live content, nor seek release
From cares appointed; never feel the swell
Of vague ambition; dream of no increase
In wealth or power; well loved, and loving well!

XVII. SICK DREAMS ALL.

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

The spirit worn with sickness walks thro' vales
Of shadowy meaning, elbowed by a flow
And ceaseless throng of ghastly forms, that show
Some fleeting token, which, tho' light, assails
The memory, and rends aside its veils;
Or through some ebon vault, set deep below,
With outstretched hands and stumbling step and slow,
The sick man's fancy wanders; or he sails
Upon a smooth broad sea; some unseen hand
Directs the helm and gives a steady run;
His languid eye perceives no distant land;
He knows not of his journey; if begun
But now, or ending, cannot understand;
But sails toward a drooping blood-red sun.

XVIII. THE DREAM OF A LIFE.

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

I wander in a thick-set wood alone—
Tall, naked boles of trees around me crowd,
And overhead their branches weave a shroud
For the dead earth: ever I hear the moan
Of the sharp winter wind, or else the groan
Of some old tree that in past tempests bowed
And shaken to the root betrays aloud
Its coming fall. I find no friendly stone
That measures distance in this dreary wild;
No path is obvious to my drooping eyes;
Days, weeks, and years have gone since on me smiled
Unbroken light above; I sit, and rise;
Lie down or wander aimless: hope is gone;
Escape from this dark forest there is none.

XIX. ‘HOLD UP, OLD HORSE!’

The exile pacing o'er the Russian plain
To that far East where he must waste his life,
Exhausted with the long and passionate strife
Whose failure earned this fate, can not retain
Or fix the thoughts which flit across his brain;
His memory with formless clouds is rife,
Of youth and home—of children and of wife—
Lost in a haze of dull and leaden pain:
So I, ere half my day is spent, outworn,
And stepping surely towards an early end,
But dimly see the promise of my morn,
Though far unlike that wretched one forlorn;—
Lovers and friends my failing steps attend;
And I can welcome all that God may send.

XX. SPRING.

Long wished-for, bursts in gladness the new year,
Sweetness and beauty freely sheds around,
And hides anew the sullen withered ground
With tender verdure, whilst from far and near
The song of birds crowds thick upon the ear,
Perplexing sense with multitudinous sound;
No jealous laws are felt that tie and bound
The bounteousness of Nature, no sad fear
Of late born frosts her genial step delays:
As friend to friend his hoarded thought betrays,
Long chilled and frozen by the mastering need
Of sympathy, and finds both that and praise,
So spring is welcome in each flower and weed,
Lavish in love, and fearless in her ways.

XXI. TO LINA.

The night is soft as under southern skies;
The garden is deserted, save by me;
Whilst ever and anon a gleam I see
Flash from the house, perplexing my old eyes;
For one short moment on the lawn it lies,
Then into ghostly being brings a tree
Unseen before—the murmur of the sea
Steals through the branches. But a glad surprise
Absorbs all these delights, and gives its own;
From the sweet south leaps out a gracious wind,
Fresh, strong, and soothing, stirring in the mind
Old thoughts and new, by its elastic tone;—
Such and so sudden was, on seeing you,
My joy to-day; ah! moments dear and few!

XXII. LEFT ALONE.

The sea-gulls glancing o'er the glittering wave
Are now my sole companions: and indeed,
When questioned, I replied I had no need
Of others. Vain my boast! ah! vainly brave
From past experience, when warm pulses gave
An inner strength that either took no heed
Of outward circumstance, or let it lead
By seeming chance to thoughts or gay or grave.
But now a leaden heart has lost its spring
And must renew its impulse from without.
Whenso my darling children crowd about,
And their swift thoughts wheel by upon the wing,
Strong in their strength, I follow in their flight:
One after one they pass; and then comes dreary night.

XXIII. EDIFICATION.

ON THE BAPTISM OF AN INFANT IN ST. PETER'S.

If this vast building had been reared for nought
But as a temple where this solemn rite
Might be completed, still the hands that wrought
Its stately walls, the intellectual might
Of its great architect, the wealth that brought
Art's choicest treasures had been used aright,
Clothing with fitting dignity the thought
That on man's heart God's Spirit doth alight.
Yet it may happen that this helpless child
Should far surpass the wonder here achieved,
Leading a life of virtue, pure and mild,
By this world's shallow splendour undeceived,
May build in many hearts shrines undefiled
With bright examples from his life received.

XXIV. THE BABY ON THE RUG.

The sky that was in purity divine
When the fresh dawn crept down upon the bay,
Is harried now with clouds, nor comes a ray
Of hope;—of peace and happiness no sign.
Against the silver sky, a brighter line
The sea-horizon drew, and with the day
Grew brighter still, and broader, till the sway
Of those swift clouds seemed all things to consign
To gloom and trouble. Turn, O turn and see
A purity untroubled by a cloud;
A sweeter smile than from the glittering sea:—
Though this angelic nature may be bowed
By grief and pain, I dare to prophesy
All soiling sin will from its presence fly.