The Poems of Mackenzie Bell :: :: University of Virginia Library

107

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

AN AUTUMN REMINISCENCE.

A radiant garden rises on my view
Where through the glowing hours the sunrays fall
Gently through hazel boughs; while brooklets brawl
O'er beds where gleam the pebbles brown and blue.
Here, in that calm which never once they knew
On earth, dead heroes keep the slopes in thrall—
And russet ferns thereon, and dahlias tall,
And lilies white, and flowers of mingled hue.

Small wonder that these storied warrior forms
Should now in sculptured stone have rest, when I
Find here that Life's fierce conflicts seem to cease—
Find respite here from all Life's rudest storms:—
Where still and silent 'neath a pale grey sky
Fair and contented Nature lies at peace.

108

AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

April 9th, 1883.

[_]

Rossetti died at Birchington-on-Sea, Kent, on the 9th of April, 1882.

Here of a truth the world's extremes are met:
Amid the grey—the moss-grown tombs of those
Who led long lives obscure till came the close
When, their calm days being done, their suns were set—
Here stands a grave, all monumentless yet,
Wrapt like the others in a deep repose;
But while yon wakeful ocean ebbs and flows
It is a grave the world shall not forget—

This grave on which meek violets grow and thyme,
Summer's fair heralds; and a stranger now
Pauses to see a poet's resting-place,
But one of those who will in many a clime
On each return of this sad day avow
Fond love's regret that ne'er they saw his face.

BROWNING'S FUNERAL.

I. Venice, December 15th, 1889.
[_]

“The body of Robert Browning was conveyed to a gondola which had the figure of an angel at the prow and a lion at the stern, and was covered with flowers. The relations and friends followed in gondolas across the lagoon, in the light of the setting sun, to the cemetery.”

Now “past they glide,” and bear the flower-wreathed bier
Across the soundless waters, cold and grey,

109

Ere Night falls, sable-vestured and austere,
And Day dies in one roseate flush away,
While they who follow, tearful, in the train
See wonted sights with unfamiliar eyes;—
Like dreams, amid the fevered sleep of pain,
Rich domes and frescoed palaces arise.
Yet haply, mixed with sorrow, dawns the thought
How fit such obsequies for him whose pen
Hath given a wondrous poem, passion-fraught,—
Breathing of love and Venice,—unto men:
And so hath added to her deathless glory
A shining scroll of pure and ageless story.

II. Westminster Abbey, December 31st, 1889.
[_]

The music of Croft and Purcell was used “as the body was brought into Church, and for the processional parts of the burial service. This was followed by a ‘meditation,’ composed for the service by Dr. Bridge, the words from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's ‘He giveth His belovéd Sleep.’”

Croft's solemn music swells; then comes at last
The dim procession through the panelled choir;
And in the cloistral gloom, so still and vast,
Many who loved him listen. Higher and higher
Rise Purcell's dirge-like tones, Grief's very soul,
Yet soon “He giveth His belovèd Sleep”
Brings to our anguished hearts relief, control,
Memories of stately Florence, and the deep
Love-sacrament which bound him to his spouse

110

Changeless through changeful years. And now in heaven
They meet in bliss—meet to renew their vows
Beyond the soiling touch of earthly leaven.
While England, as 'tis right, in sacred trust
Keeps through the centuries his hallowed dust.

See Browning's poem, entitled “In a Gondola.”

IN MEMORIAM, W. E. FORSTER.

Obiit., April 5th, 1886.

O stalwart man and pure, whose earnest face
Mirrored thy fair-orbed soul, whose every deed
Made answer to thy word, who gav'st no heed
To selfish babble or the lust of place,
Who—grieving at thy country's perilous case
Grown dire by lack of knowledge—in her need
Cam'st with thy succour—thou whose civic creed,
Too wide for party, dealt with all the race.

A year hath passed since thou wast laid to rest,
Yet fragrant is thy memory; thy bequest
A work whose scope and grandeur Time shall gauge.
Britain some day—her daughter-lands apart
No longer—will remember thee whose heart
Fired hers to win her world-wide heritage.

111

TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP IN HER CHAMBER.

(The Countess Rosalie Von Sauerma-Zülzendorf, niece of Spohr.)

I

Lady, whose conscious fingers sweep the strings
With all the true musician's living power,
I watch your hand, your gentle hand, which clings
To that loved harp which has your touch for dower.
How perfect is your skill, the fruit of years—
Years full of labour, years of patient thought
Such tones as yours can move the heart to tears:
With keen delight such tones as yours are fraught.
Now while the soft notes in their sweetness rise,
Now while the wave of music dies away,
I seem to see the soul which lights your eyes—
The soul which lends the magic while you play.
To Music's self how deep is your devotion!
Your strains are not mere Art—they are Emotion.

II

You told me once of that dear mother's love
Whose goodness was the sunshine of your youth,
Whose smile “made paradise” for you, who strove
To point the way to happy paths of Truth.

112

You told me how through Life's dark days of grief—
Through all Life's dreary days of changeful care—
The thought of her fond love could bring relief,
The thought of her fond love could quell despair.
And now I know that in your music's sweetness,
In its most subtle power to move the heart,
In its true grandeur, in its rare completeness,
Your mother's hallowed influence has a part—
An influence present yet and ceasing never,
An influence gathering strength and beauty ever.

OLD YEAR LEAVES.

Tossed by the storms of Autumn chill and drear,
The leaves fall auburn-tinted, and the trees
Stand reft and bare, yet on the silent leas
The leaves lie drifted still—while cold, austere,
Grim Winter waits—while early snowdrops cheer
The woodland shadows—while the happy bees
Are wakened by the balmy western breeze,
And birds and boughs proclaim that Spring is here.

So lost hopes severed by the stress of life
Lie all unburied yet before our eyes,
Though none but we regard their mute decay;
And ever amid this stir and moil and strife
Fresh aims and growing purposes arise
Above the faded hopes of yesterday.