University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

THREE LOVES.

I have known various loves of women, One
Gave all her soul (she said), but kept intact
Her marble lips, and ever seemed to shun
Love's blandishments, as if his lightest act
Were fatal to his life. Another gave
All luxury of love that woman's art
Could lend in aid of Beauty's kisses—save
What she, alas! had not—a loving heart.
Poor, dear, dead flowers! One with no root in earth;
And one no breath of Heaven's sustaining air;
No marvel briefly they survived their birth;
And then my true-love came (O wondrous fair
Beyond the twain!) whose soul and sense unite
In perfect bloom for Love's supreme delight.

MY QUEEN.

I call her Queen—the lady of my love—
Since that in all one sceptreless may claim
Of true nobility to suit the name,
She is right royal,—and doth so approve
My loving homage. All that painter's art
And poet's fantasy delight to find
In queenliness is hers; the noble mind,
The stately bearing, and the gracious heart;
The voice most musical, the brow serene,
And beaming benediction—like a queen!
And oh, such peerless beauty, that, I swear
(Recalling each fair face that loud Renown
Hath found, or feigned, beneath a jeweled crown)
I flatter queens, to call her “queenly fair!”

“WITH MY BODY I THEE WORSHIP.”

Anglican Marriage Service.

That I adore thee, my most gracious queen,
More in my spirit than my body's sense
Of thine, were such incredible pretense
As I would scorn to utter. Thou hast seen
When eyes and lips, responsive to the heart,
Were bent in worship of thy lips and eyes,
Until, oh bliss! each pleasure-pulsing part
Hath found its fellow in Love's sweet emprise;
Each answering other in such eager wise
As they would never cease to kiss and cling—
Ah! then meseemed amid the storm of sighs
I heard thy voice exclaiming, “O my King!
So may my soul be ever true to thine,
As with thy body thou dost worship mine!”

PAN IMMORTAL.

Who weeps the death of Pan? Pan is not dead,
But loves the shepherds still; still leads the fauns
In merry dances o'er the grassy lawns,
To his own pipes; as erst in Greece he led
The sylvan games, what time the god pursued
The beauteous Dryopè. The Naiads still
Haunt the green marge of every mountain rill;
The Dryads sport in every leafy wood;
Pan cannot die till Nature's self decease!
Full oft the reverent worshiper descries
His ruddy face and mischief-glancing eyes
Beneath the branches of old forest-trees
That tower remote from steps of worldly men,
Or hears his laugh far echoing down the glen!

THE BEAUTIFUL.

TO STELLA.

All things of beauty are not theirs alone
Who hold the fee; but unto him no less
Who can enjoy, than unto them who own,
Are sweetest uses given to possess.
For Heaven is bountiful; and suffers none
To make monopoly of aught that's fair;
The breath of violets is not for one,
Nor loveliness of women; all may share
Who can discern; and He who made the law,
“Thou shalt not covet,” gave the subtile power
By which, unsinning, I may freely draw
Beauty and fragrance from each perfect flower
That decks the wayside, or adorns the lea,
Or in my neighbor's garden blooms for me!

BEREAVEMENT.

Nay, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead;
He lives again in Heaven's unclouded life,
With other angels that have early fled
From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife.
Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love
Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers,
And e'en deny to brighter realms above
The few that deck this dreary world of ours:
Though much it seems a wonder and a woe
That one so loved should be so early lost,
And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow
To mourn the blossom that we cherished most,
Yet all is well; God's good design I see,
That where our treasure is, our hearts may be.

TO MY WIFE ON HER BIRTHDAY.

What!—ty years?—I never could have guessed it
By any token writ upon your brow,
Or other test of Time,—had you not now,
Just to surprise me, foolishly confessed it.
Well, on your word, of course, I must receive it;
Although (to say the truth) it is, indeed,
As proselytes sometimes accept a creed,
While in their hearts they really don't believe it!
While all around is changed, no change appears,
My darling Sophie, to these eyes of mine,
In aught of thee that I have deemed divine,
To mark the number of the vanished years,—
The kindly years that on that face of thine
Have spent their life, and, “dying, made no sign!”

TO SPRING.

“O ver purpureum!”—Violet-colored Spring
Perhaps, good poet, in your vernal days
The simple truth might justify the phrase;
But now, dear Virgil, there is no such thing!
Perhaps, indeed, in your Italian clime,
Where o'er the year, if fair report be true,
Four seasons roll, instead of barely two,
There still may be a verdant vernal time;
But here, on these our chilly northern shores,
Where April gleams with January's snows,—
Not e'en a violet buds; and nothing “blows,”
Save blustering Boreas,—dreariest of bores.
O ver purpureum! where the Spring discloses
Her brightest purple on our lips and noses!

THE VICTIM.

A Gallic bard the touching tale has told
How once—the customary dower to save—
A sordid sire his only daughter gave
To a rich suitor, ugly, base, and old.
The mother too (such mothers there have been)
With equal pleasure heard the formal vow,
“With all my worldly goods I thee endow,”
And gave the bargain an approving grin.
Then, to the girl, who stood with drooping head,
The pallid image of a wretch forlorn,
Mourning the hapless hour when she was born,
The Priest said, “Agnes, wilt thou this man wed?”
“Of this my marriage, holy man,” said she,
“Thou art the first to say a word to me!”

TO ---.

Thine is an ever-changing beauty; now
With that proud look, so lofty yet serene
In its high majesty, thou seem'st a queen,
With all her diamonds blazing on her brow!
Anon I see—as gentler thoughts arise
And mould thy features in their sweet control—
The pure, white ray that lights a maiden's soul,
And struggles outward through her drooping eyes.
Anon they flash; and now a golden light
Bursts o'er thy beauty, like the Orient's glow,
Bathing thy shoulders' and thy bosom's snow,
And all the woman beams upon my sight!
I kneel unto the queen, like knight of yore;
The maid I love; the woman I adore!

TO A CLAM.

Dum tacent clamant.

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being “happy as a clam!”
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off,—as foemen take their spoil,—
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

THE PORTRAIT.

A pretty picture hangs before my view;
The face, in little, of a Southern dame,
To me unknown (though not unknown to fame)
Save by the lines the cunning limner drew.
So grandly Grecian is the lady's head,
I took her for Minerva in disguise;
But when I marked the winning lips and eyes,
I thought of Aphrodite, in her stead;
And then I kissed her calm, unanswering mouth
(The picture 's mine) as any lover might,
In the deep fervor of a nuptial night,
And envied him who, in the “Sunny South,”
Calls her his own whose shadow can impart
Such very sunshine to a Northern heart!

SOMEWHERE.

Somewhere—somewhere a happy clime there is,
A land that knows not unavailing woes,
Where all the clashing elements of this
Discordant scene are hushed in deep repose.
Somewhere—somewhere (ah me, that land to win!)
Is some bright realm, beyond the farthest main,
Where trees of Knowledge bear no fruit of sin,
And buds of Pleasure blossom not in pain.
Somewhere—somewhere an end of mortal strife
With our immortal yearnings; nevermore
The outer warring with the inner life
Till both are wretched. Ah, that happy shore!
Where shines for aye the soul's refulgent sun,
And life is love, and love and joy are one!

CHANGE NOT LOSS.

I deem to love and lose by love's decay
In either breast, or Fate's unkindly cross,
Is not, perforce, irreparable loss
Unto the larger. There may come a day,
Changing for precious gold Affection's dross,
When the great heart that sorely sighed to say
“Farewell!” unto the late-departed guest
(The transient tenant of an idle breast)
Shall, through the open portal, welcome there
A worthier than he who barred the place
Against the loitering lord, whose regal face
And princely step proclaim the lawful heir
Arrived—ah, happy day!—to fill the throne
By royal right divine his very own!

À LA PENSÉE.

Come to me, dearest! Oh, I cannot bear
These barren words of worship that to each
The other utters. In the finer speech
Of soft caresses let our souls declare
Their opulence of love; for while instead
We linger prattling, kind Occasion slips,
Leaving to pensive sighs the pallid lips
That else for pleasure had been ruby red.
Thanks! darling, thanks! Ah, happier than a king
In all beatitude of royal bliss
Is he whose mouth (again! oh perfect kiss!)
May thus unto thine own with rapture cling;
For very joy of love content to live
Unquestioning if Love have more to give!

ABSENCE.

Absent from thee, belovéd, I am pent
In utter solitude, where'er I be;
My wonted pleasures give me small content
Wanting the highest,—to be shared by thee.
Reading,—I deem I misemploy my eyes,
Save in the sweet perusal of thine own;
Talking,—I mind me, with enamoured sighs,
What finer use my moving lips have known
When (as some kind orchestral instrument
Takes up the note the singer failed to reach)
Uncounted kisses rapturously lent
The finished meaning to my halting speech;
Remembering this, I fondly yearn for thee,
And cry, “O Time! haste! bring my love to me!”

BIENVENUE.

Thrice welcome day that ends the weary night
Of love in absence. Hush, my throbbing heart!
I hear her step,—she comes! who now can part
The happy twain whose soul and sense unite?
Oh, can it be? Is this no mocking dream?
Nay, by these clasping hands, that fervent kiss,
(Honey Hybla!) and by this, and this,
I know thee for my own. Ah! now I deem
The gods grow envious of an earthly bliss
That dims Elysian raptures, and I seem
More blest than blest Endymion; for he
Saw not his love, while I, with doting eyes,
Oh joy ineffable! do gaze on thee,
Whose circling arms enclose my Paradise!

MISERERE.

I think the pity of this earthly life
Is love: so sighs a singer of the day,
Whose pensive strain my sympathetic lay
Sadly prolongs. Alas! the endless strife
Of love's sweet law with cold convention's rules;
The loving souls unloved: the perfect mate,
After long years of yearning, found—too late!
The treason of false friends; the frown of fools;
The fear that baffles bliss in beauty's arms;
The weariness of absence; and the dread
Of lover—or of love—untimely dead!—
Musing on these, and all the direful harms
That hapless human hearts are doomed to prove,
I think the pity of this life is love!

AQUINAS AND THE BISHOP.

Increase of worldly wealth is not alway
With growth in grace in manifest accord;
So quaint Aquinas hinted to my lord
The bishop, when, upon a certain day,
Surprised while counting o'er his ample hoard
Of shining ducats in a coffer stored,
The prelate said, “The time, you see, has gone
When dear old Mother Church was forced to say,
(Acts second) ‘Gold and silver have I none!’”
“Ah!” quoth Aquinas, shrewdly, “so I find;
But that, your Grace, was in the purer age,
The very same, be pleased to bear in mind,
When with her foes brave battle she could wage,
And say to sordid Satan, ‘Get behind!’”

THE DILEMMA.

Two fashionable women, rather gay
Than wise, were bosom friends for many a year,
And called each other darling, duck, and dear,
As lovers do,—till, one unlucky day,
The younger, falling into sad disgrace
(An old suspicion blackening into proof),
Her cautious crony coldly kept aloof,
And, for a time, discreetly hid her face.
Meeting at last, the injured lady cries,
“Is this the way you cherish and defend
The wounded honor of your dearest friend?”
“Of course I knew,” the timid dame replies,
“The tale was false,—but then what could I do?—
I have n't character enough for two!”

THE PARVENUE'S OPINION.

Novus, whose silly claim to “high position”
Is genuine, if wealth can make it true;
A youth whose stock—petrolean, not patrician—
Shines none the less for being fresh and new,—
Standing before a flaming placard sees,
Announcing thus the lecture of the night,
By Everett,—“The Age of Pericles!”
Novus, half doubting if he reads aright,
Repeats the words (soliloquizing loud)
“The Age of Pericles!—I wonder now
Why such a theme should gather all this crowd
That throngs the door with such a mighty row;
There is n't one among 'em, I'll engage,
Who cares a fig about the fellow's age!”

THE GRATEFUL PREACHER.

A strolling preacher, “once upon a time,”
Addressed a congregation rather slim
In numbers,—yet his subject was sublime
('T was “Charity”); sonorous was the hymn,
Fervent the prayer; and though the house was small,
He pounded lustily the Sacred Word,
And preached an hour as loud as he could bawl,
As one who meant the Gospel should be heard.
And now, behold, the preacher's hat is sent
Among the pews for customary pence,
But soon returns as empty as it went!—
Whereat,—low bowing to the audience,—
He said, “My preaching is not all in vain;
Thank God! I 've got my beaver back again!”

THE AMBITIOUS PAINTER.

A painter once—'t was many years ago—
Gave public notice it was his intent
To change his style of art; and that he meant
“Henceforth to paint like Michael Angelo!”
The artist's scheme was sensible, no doubt,
But still his pictures, though he thought them fine,
Remained so poor in color and design,
His plan seemed rather hard to carry out.
By every common amateur surpassed,
The people laughed, as well enough they might,
To see the fellow, in ambition's spite,
Go on a wretched dauber to the last!
To rival Genius in her great inventions
Needs (that's the moral) more than good intentions!

“IF LOVE AND LIFE WERE ONE.”

Much have I mused, if love and life were one,
How blest were love! how beautiful were life!
Which now, so oft, are alien, or at strife;
Though each, in bitter wise, makes secret moan
Of lamentation—knowing well its own;
Each needing each, yet evermore apart;
Here—saddest of the twain—the yearning heart,
And there the barren life. Ah! thus alone,
Existence, empty of its chief delight,
Creeps, dull and shallow, to the weary close;
And—like some plant shut up in rayless night—
Love pales and pines, that in the summer sun
Of life had flourished like the garden rose;
Would God that ever love and life were one!

REMEMBRANCE.

To think of thee!—it was thy fond request,
When, yester-eve, we parted. Ah! how well
I heed thy bidding, only Love may tell,
Beneath his roses. As, for welcome rest,
The bird, wing-weary, seeks her downy nest;
So, oft, dear Heart! from toil and care I flee,
And, nestling in my happy thought of thee,
With sweet repose my weary soul is blest.
To think of thee—who evermore art near
My conscious spirit; like the halo spread,
In altar-pictures, round some saintly head,
As 't were of Heaven the golden atmosphere,—
What can I else, until in death I sink,
And thinking of my darling, cease to think!