University of Virginia Library

IV.—SONNETS.

TO MENDELSSOHN.

[On hearing one of his Concertos.]

O for a spell-built palace, by the craft
Of Afreets reared, with sumptuous chambers high,
Upheld on many a quaintly-carven shaft,
And arabesqued with cunningest tracery;
Where tempered sunshine should fall dreamily,
Charming a crystal fountain to repose,
And the celestial fragrance of the rose
Should wafted come from shadowy courts hard by.
There let thy music wake with fervid flow
Of rhythmic undulations—like the sweep
Of wind through midnight tree-tops,—murmuring low,
In tenderest melancholy, or trances deep
Of utterless joy; sweet songs of long ago,
Sealing the eyes in happy-visioned sleep.

THE FIRST SPRING DAY.

But one short week ago the trees were bare,
And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost;
Winter was with us; but the larches tost
Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there
Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air
And in the blood: sweet sun-gleams come and go
Upon the hills, in lanes the wild-flowers blow,
And tender leaves are bursting everywhere.
About the hedge the small birds peer and dart,
Each bush is full of amorous flutterings
And little rapturous cries. The thrush apart
Sits throned, and loud his ripe contralto rings.
Music is on the wind, and in my heart
Infinite love for all created things.

BEETHOVEN.

Music as of the winds when they awake,
Wailing, in the mid forest; music that raves
Like moonless tides about forlorn sea-caves
On desolate shores, where swell weird songs, and break
In peals of demon laughter; chords athirst
With restless anguish of divine desires—
The voice of a vexed soul ere it aspires
With a great cry for light; anon a burst
Of passionate joy—fierce joy of conscious might,
Down-sinking in voluptuous luxury;
Rich harmonies full-pulsed with deep delight,
And melodies dying deliciously
As odorous sighs breathed through the quiet night
By violets. Thus Beethoven speaks for me.

ROSAMUND'S BOWER.

Deep in my soul there is a region sweet,
Untraversed of life's dusty carriage-wheels,
Wherein my heart hath her divinest seat
In trancéd quiet. There Time's shadow steals
No sunshine from the summer; but great trees
Bask in fair lawns and brood o'er haunted streams
With restful shade, and music of happy dreams
Is blown about the fragrant pleasaunces
Where all pure thoughts find pasture. Never blight
Falls from the azure heaven, whose dewy spell
Keeps fresh the meadow-glades. There among flowers,
Safe-nested in my inmost of delight,
Hid from the world, as queen my Love doth dwell,
Tended by blissful hands of virgin hours.

A JUNE DAY.

The very spirit of summer breathes to-day,
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood,
And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood
Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away.
The murmurous air, fragrant of new-mown hay,
Drowses; save when martins at gleeful feud,
Gleam past in undulant flight. Yon hillside wood
Is drowned in sunshine, till its green looks grey.
No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky,
Vaporous with heat, from which the fore-ground trees
Stand out, each leaf cut sharp. A whetted scythe
Makes rustic music for me as I lie,
Glad in the mirth of distant children blithe,
Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees.

AT LLANBERIS.

Sunshine and mist strive for the mastery
In yon wild gorge, this fresh delicious morn:
Bright gleams, that die as fast as they are born,
Light up the scarred grey crags, bare of a tree;
Then mists roll down, pile themselves sullenly,
Melt into air,—and all at once there breaks
Out of the gloom a vision of sunlit peaks
And mountain-glimpses wonderful to see.
Change after change! till swoop the clouds upon
This legendary tower, and quick drops warn
To shelter from the beauty-blotting rain.
Anon 'tis past: the crags shine out each one,
Sunshine, and driving mist, and mountain-chain,
Harmonized by the black sleep of the tarn.

IN THE LOUVRE.

A dingy picture: others passed it by
Without a second glance. To me it seemed
Mine somehow, yet I knew not how, nor why:
It hid some mystic thing I once had dreamed,
As I suppose. A palace-porch there stood,
With massy pillars and long front, where gleamed
Most precious sculptures; but all scarred and seamed
By ruining Time. There, in a sullen mood,
A man was pacing o'er the desolate floor
Of weedy marble; and the bitter waves
Of the encroaching sea crawled to his feet,
Gushing round tumbled blocks. I conned it o'er.
‘Age-mouldering creeds!’ said I. ‘A dread sea raves
To whelm the temples of our fond conceit.’

IN THE HASLI-THAL.

Wearied in spirit, jaded and opprest
With splendour of too huge sublimity,
By a clear streamlet I was fain to lie,
Under the shadowy spruces; lulled to rest
By the leaves' murmurous melodies, and possest
With still, reflected glimpses of grey sky.
Upon my soul there fell refreshfully
A dew of the woods, till, with a childish zest,
I filled my hands with loveliest Alpine flowers,
And flung them to the stream. Then forth I went,
And met the crownéd mountains face to face—
Strong to aspire with their exultant powers,
Able to worship in that holy place
In rapture of an infinite content.

PSYCHE PAIDOTROPHE.

The poet's soul is as a maid that pines
For a long dreamed-of God; till on a day
His kiss thrills all her frame, and she resigns
Her ravished self, meek in love's tenderest May;
And keeps her blissful secret afterward—
Knows her old life but death—panting for wings
To flee the sick jarring of untuned strings
In her lorn lute, as aye with restful sward
Some visioned Delos mocks her. Sweet to feel
The life divine astir, to feed her blood
With health, to muse upon her motherhood,
And walk in trembling, till the Gods reveal
Her bower of refuge. Then lone throes of birth,
And a new Python-slayer breathes on earth.

A DAIGNTIE-CONSEATED SONNET.

Like as an oyster, when some secret wound,
Smarting, his tender jellies doth amate,
All pretiousnesse, the close-shut grief around,
From forth the wealthful ooze will segregate:
So thou, fair casket of concealéd grace,
Strivest thy pearls, like blusht-for tears, to hide,
And dark-engulft from bright Apollo's face
Dost in thy shell too proudlie close abide.
But I, a diver in the unruffled deep,
Where thy shut shell doth covetise invite,
Ponder what glorious harvest I shall reap,
Bringing thy hidden threasures to the light.
Dost fear my hands' rude grasp, sweet oister? Well,
Give me thy pearls, Ile let thee keep thy shell.

NESSUN MAGGIOR' DOLORE!

No greater grief! Is it then always grief
Remembering happier times in times of sorrow?
Does one day of delight ne'er bring relief
To the sick soul on a despairful morrow?
Past joys are a possession. Oft we borrow
Strength for our present pain from out the brief
Bright moments garnered long in memory's sheaf—
August's rich grains make glad December's furrow.
Have once mine eyes beheld in vision blest
Beauty's dread form, or Love's death-conquering face,
My heart leaped up transfigured, as she sung,
Who raised to life my life, whose gentle breast
From the world's rush was my one resting-place,—
Blind, deaf, and old—I see, hear, still am young.

LOVE'S FLIGHT.

Not doves but eagles be our birds of love!
Shall we not, dearest, bid the world good-night,
And soar to meet the sunrise where no dove
E'er ventured pinion? In our perilous flight
The austere winds shall welcome us; the bright
Lightnings of dawn weave guardian tents above
Our nuptial solitude; and round us move
Auroral clouds, glad heralds of the light.
Then, when earth fades, and all its foolish noise
Ceases from our forgotten way, perchance
Our wings shall fold in rapturous descent
At Love's clear call. O then, to homely joys,
Stooping our sunbathed plumes, down we shall glance,
Perch in his lowliest vale, and be content!

LOVE'S LITURGY.

The little tender rites that lovers use,
Daily to calendar their love confest,
Are Love's own liturgy, which he endues
With grace to compass his eternal rest.
This rose, she gave me once, warm from her breast,
Kissing in smiling pity the sweet bruise
Of our close first embrace, with its dim hues,
Bids tender thoughts leap singing from their nest.
A touch can troth-plight for eternity;
A kiss build there a home; in pure delight
God spreads the sacramental bread and wine,
Wherein Love grows incarnate. Curst is he
Whose swinish thoughts, breeding pollution's blight,
Trample to filth those elements divine.

MERLIN IN THE TOILS.

The silver-sounding trumpets of my heart
Made glad acclaim when thou didst enter there,
Like an expected Queen. No holiest part
Of my most hidden life, but thou didst share—
Nay, it was twice thine own. Thou, as the air
Unto my blood, wast vital to my art;
Till, traitress, thou didst trade in Folly's mart
To sell me for a gaud, clipping the hair
Of my ambition's might! Thou hast thy will:
My gods abandon me, and thine idols stand
In my soul's sanctuary, defiled and cold.
Yet what is left me but to love thee still,
Though thou hast made Love wingless, and my hand
A bloodless tool, and I in bonds grow old?