University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

II. FROM CORNWALL.

Rarely, O Friend, in these “degenerate days,”
Can we discover any hamlet rude,
Where still the hush of pastoral solitude
Is undisturb'd in seldom-trodden ways.
How sweet, then, while the winter wind delays
To strip the beeches' solemn sisterhood,
In some sweet western valley, where intrude
No troubling sounds, and where no vulgar gaze
Can penetrate, to spend delicious hours
Beside the ferny becks and torrent-streams,
While fancy scales the cloud-embattled towers
Of Milton's empyrean, or sails wide
Through Spenser's faery sea, or in the bowers
Of Shakspeare's sonnets amorously doth hide!

IV. MEMORIES.

The happy dwellers in green spring-tide valleys,
The wanderers over moor and heath and down,
Ladies of hill-tops far from any town,
Where the fresh north wind o'er the grey wold sallies,
With antique garb, and old Greek songs outsinging,
They come to bless me, shadows of the South,
Sweet lily limbs, and dewy rose for mouth,
And violet eyes from depths of soul upspringing;
And some come crown'd with hyacinth and moly,
A sad wan smile faint flickering on their lips,—
Slowly they draw a veil of dim eclipse
Over their eyes so sweetly melancholy;
And some bring garlands dipp'd in mandragore,
By moonlight pluck'd on some Circæan shore.

V.

What man is there loves not the moon's white shell,
Carv'd out upon the purple sky aright,
When stars are waking in the early night,
And flowers are closing up each tender bell
For dewy sleep? Ah! dear friend, loved so well!
Thou, like the moon, didst borrow all thy light
From the sweet source of glory and delight,
The sun, my deity, my oracle!
Now for thy own sake art thou dear to me,
For I have learn'd to find in all thy ways
Peculiar beauty, where at first I saw
Only the lovely and reflected grace
Of that pure soul who all through life must be
My crown of comfort, my desire, and law.

VIII.

As if two, wandering through a garden fair,
In whose green heart a high-wall'd palace lay,
Should try this door and that to find a way,
And, finding none, should walk contented there,
Until one turn'd aside to pluck a rare
High-twining rose, and, coming back to say
How sweet the alley blossom'd where it lay,
Should find her sister vanish'd unaware;
Yet, by a murmur of doors shut within,
Should know that to the palace she was led,
And yet should wail for sorrow, and begin
To weep in passion for her unseen friend,—
Such is their woe who mourn the happy dead,
And will not wait in patience for the end.

X. WITH A BIRTHDAY GIFT OF WEBSTER'S PLAYS.

Poet and Friend! Pause while the bells of Time
Ring out this great division of your days,
And let the cadence of these sombre lays
Be the grave echo of their silver chime;
And as you slowly up to glory climb,
Nigh fainting in the lower thorny ways,
Take solace from th' eternal wreath of bays
That crowns at last this weary brow sublime;
His was a soul whose calm intensity
Glared, shadeless, at the passion-sun that blinds,
Unblinded, till the storm of song arose;—
Even as the patient and Promethean sea
Tosses in sleep, until the vulture winds
Swoop down and tear the breast of its repose.

XI. A PICTURE.

She tapp'd her scarlet slipper listlessly
Against the hollow rushes on the floor,
And twined a rose, deep crimson to the core,
Among the golden waving luxury
Of her loose hair; an orange-girdled bee
Raised with his boisterous song of honey-lore
Her languid eyes, that idly watch'd before
The sunlight creeping upward to her knee:
A step came suddenly upon the stair,
A firm foot from the silence climbing higher:—
The sound woke all her wan face to a flush;
Down slipp'd the rose-bud from her floating hair:—
A pause while every feature flash'd with fire:
Then love met love in one entrancing rush!

XV. LADIES' TRESSES.

The dear one we both love so well, and I,
Climb'd yesterday along the red hill-side,
Over the flat green tufts of moor-grass, dried
With the fierce sunlight of an August sky,
Until we gained the ledges grey that lie
Round the sheer summit; as my eye glanc'd wide
O'er the tumultuous slope of grass, I spied
A little spiral whiteness, not more high
Than a mole's shoulder. 'Twas sweet ladies' tresses;
Soon in her hand the gather'd flow'ret lay,
And in the dreamy autumn light that blesses
The distant woods with shades of grey and blue,
We spoke of one who was so far away,
And wished our flow'ret had been pluck'd by you.

XVI. THE RIVER PENPONT.

I sit so still upon the river-brink;
The trout float underneath me leisurely;
The great green dragon-flies swoop down to drink,
And plume their gauze wings on the ferns hard by;
Weird shadowy beeches towards each other bend
Across the bosom of the twinkling stream,
Whence honeysuckle-garlands faintly send
Rich perfume felt like music in a dream;
The sunlight through the canopy of leaves
In starry fretwork gilds the watery floor:
In all this summer weather nothing grieves,
Except the stream that murmurs to the moor,—
Except the stream and I, who cannot borrow,
Light from my sweet Love's eyes to banish sorrow.

XX. A MADONNA IN THE ANTWERP MUSEUM.

Through the long centuries comes faint and dim
The blast of trumpets and the brazen clang
That from the seventh Charles's bastions rang,
When France went out, armed or in merry trim;
And we forget the feats of state and war
That thrill'd the heroes of the elder age,
Taking their conquests for our heritage,
Nor grateful to the men that fought afar;
And yet our hearts are open'd when we see
(All thanks to Jehan Foucquet) through the years
Sweet Agnes Sorel of the noble heart
And the wise face, and hear all suddenly
Down the world's silence the slow-falling tears
On the grey tomb where a king mourns apart!

XXI. ANSTEY'S COVE.

Walter, when through the thirsty streets and squares
Of London, in the burning sun of June,
We wander, and the too-melodious tune
Of barrel-organs chafes us unawares,
What would we give to rise on sudden wings,
And fly where southward lay our mutual home,
Where in the rock-pools boils the smitten foam,
Or where from corn-fields soars the lark and sings!
One day shall be to us for ever dear,
When on the quarried margin of the shore
We sat with the sea-music in our ear,
Until the solitude our spirits bore
Into sweet depths of thought, where grief and fear
Sank, and were drown'd in love to rise no more!

XXIV.

Sad and alone and weary, nigh despairing,
I sat in the old church above the sea,
And heard the organ sound a peal of glee,
Like some great solemn “bird of God” declaring
Peace and good-will to all who, meek robes wearing,
Hail'd the bright dawning advent; but for me
There was no comfort till that minstrelsy
Had faded, and the silent air was bearing
One sweet clear voice, that said, “Unto Me come,
Ye heavy-laden! unto Me, and I
Will bear your burden!” Then my terror ceased,
And, gazing out, I saw, across the foam,
God's symbol smite along the wintry east,
Pale gold between the waters and the sky.