Sonnets and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

III. MISCELLANEOUS.

A NATION'S WEALTH.

O England, thou hast many a precious dower;
But of all treasures it is thine to claim,
Prize most the memory of each sainted name,
That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower
Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of power—
Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame—
Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim
Holding his country's helm in perilous hour—
Poet, whose heart is with us to this day
Embalm'd in song—or Priest, who by the ark
Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark.
Call them not dead, my England! such as they
Not were, but are; within us each survives,
And lives an endless life in others' lives.

SOCIAL HEREDITY.

Man is no mushroom growth of yesterday.
His roots strike deep into the hallow'd mould
Of the dead centuries; ordinances old
Govern us, whether gladly we obey,
Or vainly struggle to resist their sway:
Our thoughts by ancient thinkers are controll'd,
And many a word in which our thoughts are told
Was coin'd long since in regions far away.
The strong-soul'd nations, destin'd to be great,
Honour their sires and reverence the Past;
They cherish and improve their heritage.
The weak, in blind self-trust or headlong rage,
The olden time's transmitted treasure cast
Behind them, and bemoan their loss too late.

SOCIAL ORIGINS.

Think sometimes when you read a lovely lay
Of Tennyson or Wordsworth—this hath sprung
From germs that lived while yet our world was young.
Give your imagination leave to play,
And you will see how on a far-off day
In a rude tent a wild-eyed audience hung
On a love-tale by primal poet sung,
And with loud plaudits own'd the singer's sway.
And when you hear the organ's thunderous groan
Roll through the vast cathedral's crowded space,
Think how the early fathers of our race,
Oppress'd with fear or overwhelm'd with care,
Turn'd to unseen creations of their own
For help and hope, and bow'd the knee in prayer.

SAINT PAUL.

True Prince of the Apostles, great Saint Paul!
Upon that day, with mighty issues rife,
Which form'd and fix'd the purpose of thy life,
Not from the blank, impassive heav'n did fall
The words that thrill'd thee; that imagin'd call
Was but the echo of the inward voice
That from thy spirit's shrine decreed the choice
Glorious for thee and fraught with good to all.
‘It must be true: I saw how Stephen died.
The Lord he serv'd was no mere child of earth.
This faith will mould the Gentile, as the Jew,
To its own image, will make all things new,
And give our worn-out world a second birth.
Henceforth I live to preach the Crucified.’

THE SOCIAL FUTURE.

As, with enforc'd yet unreluctant pace,
We downward move along life's westward slope,
Slow fades the once bright gleam of personal hope,
And larger looms the future of the race;
Our wistful eyes the goodly prospect trace,
Seen through a haze of forecast; there outspread
Lie the fair fields our children's feet shall tread
When we have pass'd to our abiding place.
Oh! sons and daughters of the coming age,
Give worthy meed of gratitude and praise
To those true souls who, in less happy days,
Have lived for others—most of all for you,—
Have stored the wealth which is your heritage,
And plann'd the work it will be yours to do.

PASTOR AB AMPHRYSO.

I

‘Thou seemest, O Lysanias, all distraught,
And turnest from us, as intent to hear
Some far-off music, or as if thine ear
The voices of aerial spirits caught.’
‘Yea, so it is. Late, hastening homeward, near
This spot, I heard such notes that, sure, methought
Apollo from Olympus must have brought
His flute divine to charm our lower sphere.
Now the ecstatic carol of a bird,
And now a long-drawn passionate wail I heard.
Sudden it ceas'd; but, ever since, the sound
With bodiless presence haunts me, and I seem
To see not, or forget, the things around,
Wrapt in the cloudy covert of a dream’

II

‘Well! hast thou seen thy magic minstrel?’ ‘Yea,
And spoken with him. Where Penéus pours
Between steep cliffs his flood to yonder shores,
I found him sitting thoughtful yesterday.
He gave me greeting kind, and bade me stay;
Then talk'd, and nobly, of Life, Love, and Art,
Of things divine and human, till the gray
Of evening fell around and made us part.
Creon, he is a god: such brow and eyes!
Music unmatch'd, and grand poetic thought!
The blessed ones, they tell us, oft descend
From their high dwelling, and in humble guise
Move amongst men. Unhappy they, my friend,
Who, meeting the Immortals, know them not.’

STREAMS.

I

Streams! ye have ever been the friends of men—
From tiny brook, the playmate of the child,
Or torrent, dashing down the rocky glen,
That fills the soul of youth with rapture wild,
To Rhine or Seine, a nation's pride, that wends
Through peopled plains, by cities great and free,
As with full sweep majestic it descends,
Bearing its tribute to the mighty sea.
Most to the sacred poets streams are dear:
Not seldom, as the singers in old time
Drew inspiration from Castalian dews,
They still by fount or river find the Muse;
And, mingled with their songs, we seem to hear
The voice of waters, soothing or sublime.

II

Yes! all the noblest of the tuneful train
Lov'd running waters and have sung their praise.
Xanthus and Simois in old Homer's lays
Still rush in whirling eddies to the main;
We catch at times through Milton's lofty strain
Warblings of Siloa and her sister fount
That bathe the feet of Sion's holy mount;
Dante remembers among souls in pain
The rills that speed down slopes of bright-green sward
To join his Arno; in Petrarca's song
Seems Sorga to console his amorous woe
With soft response; and Spenser, laureate bard
Of British rivers, marshals all their throng
To pass before us in triumphal show.

NATIONAL PRESAGE.

Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine!
Half-conquer'd by a greedy robber band;
Ill govern'd with now lax, now ruthless hand;
Misled by zealots, wresting laws divine
To sanction every dark or mad design;
Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league
Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue;
And drugg'd with selfish flattery's poison'd wine.
Yet, reading all thy mournful history,
Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,
Turn to the future, confident that Fate,
Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,
To be thy portion in the coming time,
They know not what—but surely something great.

A PROTEST.

‘Whom the gods love, dies young’—Oh, say not so!
Thou art a father—can the cruel word
Lodge in thy breast or from thy lips be heard?
Let the young live, ye awful Powers, and know,
Ere they pass hence, the savour of that best
Of fruit that grows upon the tree of life—
The happy home, the love of child and wife—
And, working with their fellows, earn their rest.
The old must go, and others fill their room;
So is the blood of the world re-vivified.
But ah! 'tis piteous when a father stands
O'er his dead son, and holds the pulseless hands,
Or mother for her daughter must provide
Not marriage robes, but garments of the tomb.

MAJUBA.

In Memoriam, G.P.C.

Gentle and brave, well skilled in that dread lore
Which mightiest nations dare not to unlearn;
Fair lot for thee had leapt from Fortune's urn,
Just guerdon of long toil; and more and more
We counted for her favourite was in store.
Nor failed prophetic fancy to descry
Wreaths of high praise and crowns of victory
Which in our thought thy brows already wore.
But He who portions out our good or ill
Willed an austerer glory should be thine,
And nearer to the Cross than to the Crown.
Then lay, ye mourners, there your burden down,
And hear calm voices from the inner shrine
Which whisper ‘Peace!’ and say, ‘Be still, be still!’

R.C.D.

ON READING THE SONNET BY R.C.D.,

Entitled ‘In Memoriam, G.P.C.’

Yes! mourn the soul, of high and pure intent,
Humane as valiant, in disastrous fight
Laid low on far Majuba's bloody height!
Yet, not his death alone must we lament,
But more such spirit on evil mission sent,
To back our broken faith with armed might,
And the unanswered plea of wounded right
Strike dumb by warfare's brute arbitrament.
And while these deeds are done in England's name,
Religion unregardful keeps her cell:
The tuneful note that wails the dead, we hear;
Where are the sacred thunders that should swell
To shame such foul oppression, and proclaim
Eternal justice in the nation's ear?

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE TRANSVAAL.

Kruger, I hail thee, late-born ironside,
Who, jeer'd at by a sceptic, scoffing age,
Yet, bold in warfare and in council sage,
With steadfast, strenuous effort hast defied
The lawless greed and overweening pride
That sought by open force or treacherous stealth
To slay or wound thy homely commonwealth—
Helvetia of the south. Whate'er betide,
Valour and constancy to guard her right
Are thine and hers; yet lacks there something more—
To spread within her bounds the sacred light
Of Science and all humanising lore,
And rear amid her brave and stalwart race
The tender flow'rs of gentleness and grace.

1898.

1899.

Farewell, old year, unhappy Ninety-nine!
No personal cause have I to hate thy name;
While thou wert here, to me no suffering came:
No bright young life, rear'd at this hearth of mine,
At call of duty join'd the battle-line.
I mourn the public loss, the public shame—
The blot thou leav'st upon our country's fame.
On history's page this record will be thine—
That a vain man, by England's evil fate
Clothed with brief power to guide and wound the State,
By mingling serpent guile and menace rude
Goaded a patient people into war,
And made our good Victoria's evening star
Look on a surging sea of brothers' blood.

A MONITION.

England, on every sea thy navies ride,
And larger breadths of earth thy Throne obey
Than own'd of old the conquering Roman's sway;
Yet, at this full swell of thy fortune's tide,
Hear thou a warning word: Beware of pride—
A Nemesis sits ever at her gates;
Shun selfish greed; respect thy sister States,
And fail not those who in thy truth confide.
Wrong not the dark-hued subjects of thy rule,
Compel them not to toil for others' gain
In blind and unaspiring servitude.
Rather, with godlike art Prométhean, school
Each laggard race by discipline humane,
And lead them gently on to all things good.

A FILIAL TRIBUTE.

I

If I have heard with wonder and delight
The verse of Homer, with triumphant chime
Breaking for ever on the shores of Time;
Have eyed, well pleased, the Theban eagle's flight;
Have watch'd the scenic vision of the blight
That vengeful track'd the Thyestéan crime;
Have dwelt, deep-rapt, on Plato's dreams sublime,
Or soberer wisdom of the Stagirite;
And listen'd, other music fallen mute,
To Thyrsis piping in the summer shade
By Arethusa's springs on oaten flute—
My mother! thy laborious widow'd days
Have won for me these boons—ah! ill repaid
By this my heartfelt, but too tardy, praise.

II

To have look'd on these Greek splendours—what a gain!
And scarcely less that I have learn'd to prize
The imperial Roman spirit, strong and wise,
Nor wanting in a pure poetic vein—
As in the sympathetic Mantuan swain,
Whose Muse ‘walks highest,’ if she seldom ‘flies’
Or him whose logic-web of closest grain
Is shot with fancy's rich embroideries—;
The pregnant phrase of Tacitus to know,
And Tully's amplitude and liberal flow;
All this I owe to thee; and, better still,
The pattern of a life for others spent.
Oh! had I earlier tamed my stubborn will,
And my proud heart to humble service bent.

SIR L. ALMA-TADEMA'S ‘WOMEN OF AMPHISSA.’

How well the picture tells its lovely tale!
About the agora in slumber deep
The stranger Maenads lie, all passion-pale,
And worn with wanderings over hill and dale,
Through the thick wood and up the toilsome steep.
O'er them the matrons of the city keep
Tender and reverent watch, which will not fail
Till morning's touch shall break the charm of sleep.
See! one by one they wake, they ope their eyes
No longer with the Bacchic frenzy wild,
And gaze upon the scene in mute surprise.
A kind voice comforts each and calls her ‘child.’
Kind hands upraise them, and the sacred band
Is shelter'd in the homesteads of the land.

NOSTALGIA.

One—where I know not, nor how long ago—
Was rapt in vision to the highest heaven,
Where John and Dante came. In vain had striven
Eyes yet death-doom'd to pierce the fiery glow
That hides the throne; but all the burning row
Of Seraphim he saw, the Spirits seven,
Martyrs, high saints, and souls of men forgiven.
Then his heart spoke—‘amid this dazzling show,
And with the songs of angels in my ears,
I think of suffering souls I left below.
I could not breathe in these too happy spheres.
Better than joy is sympathy with woe;
Here I should pine for pity's human tears,
Myself to shed them, and to see them flow.’

WINGED THOUGHTS.

Little they know us, ev'n who know us best.
Oft, when the social circle, frank and gay,
Sports with the topics of the passing day.
I seem, at friendly challenge, with keen zest
To catch and echo back the flying jest;
Yet will my inmost thought be far away—
Like bird that lights, and lights, but does not stay—
Beside my lost ones in their long low rest.
One sleeps in Erin, near the home she bless'd,
Where grateful hearts still worship her; and one,
Who pass'd, his active manhood scarce begun,
And all his poet-soul yet unexpress'd,
Lies under tamarisk boughs, where Afric's sun
Looks down on hallow'd ground at Beaufortwest.

St. Angelo, Lough Erne, 1898.

[How brief our dates! how soon Death apprehends]

How brief our dates! how soon Death apprehends
The sinner Life, and claps us in our tombs,
While Fame, if granted, but short space illumes
A name, ere, shining, its own self it spends!
But life has other measures, other ends
Than individual merely; it assumes
Ampler proportions than these narrow rooms,
And infinite in depth and breadth extends
For him who recognizes that each deed,
The slightest, has results that go to build
The future, be it for Man's good or ill.
Deeds born have issue endless, that no greed
Of Time can touch, till Time's course be fulfill'd;
And, dying, by his deeds man liveth still.

T.D.I.

[Would'st thou be economical of Time]

Would'st thou be economical of Time
That, heedless squanderer of its treasury,
Wastes its dear wealth on years that bring no prime,
And grants no law to genius lest it die?
Would'st thou have store of that thou canst not bind,
And win dominion o'er the uncontroll'd?
While having but as much as all mankind,
Would'st yet have more than others of this gold?
Then use time well, and crowd thy useful years
With action, knowing that, where idlers are,
The plea of occupation most appears,
And who use most, most hours have still to spare:
For this is true, and will be to the end,
Who wastes the least, has ever most to spend.

T.D.I.

A FRAGMENT.

[_]

From the Norse.

I

‘Noble warrior! droop not thus;
Tower of strength thou hast in us.
Yonder stand our anvils ten,
Round them, see, are stalwart men—
Bare broad shoulder, sinewy limb,
Black-brow'd feature sooty-grim;
Eye like glare of smouldering fire,
Lighted with a dull desire.
These shall sweat; their hammers swinging,
They will keep the anvils ringing,
Forging thee such trusty mail,
Nought against it will prevail.’

II

‘God-like artist, spare thy pain!
Strength and skill alike are vain.
When upon the destin'd day
Balder meets me in the fray,
Were my breast-plate triple steel,
If his shaft but once it feel,—
Such that weapon's magic power—
Like a guilty thing 'twill cower,
And, smit through with fear and wonder,
Shrink, and cleave, and fall asunder.
Well I know this weird is mine—
I am human, he divine.’

TO A.J.

A Monody.

Bright spirit! wheresoe'er thou art,
Take this sad tribute of my heart;
Or if within the realms of space
Thou ownest now no dwelling-place,
Yet let me hum my descant o'er,
Though ear of thine it reach no more.

Not often mov'd thy thoughts away
From active duties of the day,
Yet was thy faith, I doubt not, sure
That after death our lives endure,
And, safe on some far distant shore,
They dwell whom here we meet no more.

Such golden dream I do not share;
My promis'd land is here, not there;
Here, where the brethren of my race
Love, work, and weep their little space,
And, with green hillocks cover'd o'er,
Lie those who bless our homes no more.

That earlier vision fades away,
As twilight kindles into day.
Another prospect greets our view—
Of Earth array'd in vesture new.
Nor need we grieve that now no more
We shape the future as of yore.

For truth is truth, and love is love,
Though never register'd above;
And Duty looks her mute appeal,
And we its mastering force can feel,
Though it may be we live no more
When this our earthly life is o'er.

We need no verdict from the skies
To tell us thou wert good and wise.
Though angel trump ne'er break thy rest,
Thy heart was pure, thy work was blest;
Nor is thy sacred service o'er,
Though here thy face is seen no more.

Thy quickening power is with us still,
Thy memory spurs the laggard will;
Thy call to labour while we may,
And reap the harvest of the day,
Inspires our souls not less, but more,
Because thy well-wrought task is o'er.

And oft the wish will haunt my breast
To earn like thee my final rest.
Might I, at parting, leave behind
Some worthy gift to human kind,—
Perchance a not unvalued store,
When I on earth am seen no more!

O well for those who chant a song
That through the ages echoes long,
Or rear some pile of thought sublime,
Strong to withstand the shocks of time;
And so, when this first life is o'er,
Still live in others evermore.

Not such my lot—I have but power
To breathe the feeling of the hour—
Half said, half sung—in simple strain,
Like this, whose sorrowful refrain
Some kindly souls may murmur o'er,
When my poor voice is heard no more.

Yet do I fret not, nor repine,
Because no loftier gifts are mine;
Lamenting rather that my past
With stains of sin is overcast,
Which, if anew I traced it o'er,
I trust, should soil the page no more.

Be still, sad heart, nor thus complain,
Nor spend thy waning strength in vain.
Thou canst not by repentant tears
Efface the record of the years.
Be true, be loving now, the more
That love and life will soon be o'er.

[The moon was bright that Autumn night]

The moon was bright that Autumn night,
The skies around her blue;
Within this wood alone we stood,
And breathed a fond adieu.

The leaves that fell might seem to tell
How all things change and fade;
But time and tide our hearts defied—
We faced them undismay'd.

For, loving thus, oh! what to us
Was Fortune's fickle breath?
But, holding light life's utmost spite,
We never thought of death.

‘The hours,’ said I, ‘will quickly fly—
A year will soon be o'er;
Then holy bands will join our hands,
And we shall part no more.’

The moon is bright this April night,
The sky as blue as then;
The wood retrieves its fallen leaves:
We ne'er shall meet again.

‘A year,’ I said, ‘and we shall wed.’
Ere half that year is flown,
Spring flow'rets wave upon thy grave,
And I am here alone.

My hopes are cross'd, my treasure lost;
Joyless my life must be;
Yet—thus bereft—there still is left
The memory of thee.

Beneath these boughs that heard our vows—
Ah! now they hear but mine—
Again to-night my troth I plight
To be for ever thine.

[‘Vos plaudite!’ th' imperial Roman said]

‘Vos plaudite!’ th' imperial Roman said
To them that stood around his dying bed.
To those I love, who after me shall live,
This be my message—‘Pity, and forgive!’

VERSICLES.

[What is the watchword of the coming ages?]

What is the watchword of the coming ages?
What law their master spirits will control?
This—‘Serve Humanity with heart and soul,
And, having done thy duty, ask no wages.’

[Content thee to obey: thou would'st not tread]

Content thee to obey: thou would'st not tread
With step as firm in leading as when led.

[‘How to be happy?’—smiling, spoke the sage—]

‘How to be happy?’—smiling, spoke the sage—
‘Most miss the way, yet never cease the quest.
Here is the secret—still, from youth to age,
Keep one beloved image in thy breast.’

100

[When in a man the flower of courtesy]

When in a man the flower of courtesy
And reverence for the better sex you see,
‘Sweet-natured was his mother,’ boldly say,
‘Or else, ’tis certain, Love has pass'd his way.’

[Each nation master at its own fireside—]

Each nation master at its own fireside—
The claim is just, and so one day 'twill be;
But a wise race the time of fruit will bide,
Nor pluck th' unripen'd apple from the tree.

[Live for thyself, thy pleasure and thy gain]

Live for thyself, thy pleasure and thy gain,
And with thee ne'er will Happiness abide:
But serve thy fellows and relieve their pain,
And she will steal, unbidden, to thy side.

101

[The Records of the Time each morning bring]

The Records of the Time each morning bring
Some mournful tale of human suffering;
And, as I daily pace the crowded street,
How many careworn faces do I meet!
Could we of each the secret story know,
That, sure, were an Apocalypse of woe.
Oh! melt, hard heart! thy brethren's sorrows feel,
And soothe and comfort, if thou canst not heal.

[‘How sacred is this place,’ in awe I cried]

‘How sacred is this place,’ in awe I cried,
Pacing the mighty temple's glorious nave;
And then, methought, an inner voice replied—
‘Sacred indeed—and other things beside,
The household hearth, the cradle, and the grave.’

[The thoughts that wait upon the uninspired]

The thoughts that wait upon the uninspired
Are by laborious effort drawn from far;
To him who sings with inborn fervour fired
They come spontaneous and say, ‘Here we are.’

102

[As down the westward slope of life we move]

As down the westward slope of life we move,
Shapes from the past our daily steps attend.
So live, that memory in thy age may prove
No dread intruder, but a welcome friend.

[Fain would I serve my brethren. How shall I]

Fain would I serve my brethren. How shall I
Hasten the advent of the golden year?
And a voice answer'd—‘Do not strive or cry,
But whisper truths into thy neighbour's ear.’

[Be not too much exalted, if to-day]

Be not too much exalted, if to-day
Strong winds of faith bear up thy spirit's wings;
Soon the high passion will have pass'd away,
And thy soul stumble among worldly things.

103

[Despair not, if thy spirit-fire burns low]

Despair not, if thy spirit-fire burns low,
Nor think its ardour will return no more;
Soon thy heart's altar once again will glow,
And the flame tremble upward as before.

[‘These thoughts are old.’ True; but each race of men]

‘These thoughts are old.’ True; but each race of men
In its own way must think them o'er again.

104

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

I

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

II

We drink the memory of the brave.
The faithful and the few:
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too.
All, all are gone; but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
And true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

105

III

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far away
Beyond th' Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.

IV

The dust of some is Irish earth,
Among their own they rest,
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

V

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze,
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas! that might can vanquish right—
They fell and pass'd away;
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.

106

VI

Then here's their memory! may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty
And teach us to unite.
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate,
And true men be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.