University of Virginia Library

II. PART SECOND.

SONNET I.

[By classic Cam a lovely flow'ret grew]

By classic Cam a lovely flow'ret grew;
The sun scarce shone upon its tender birth
Ere it was left, the loneliest thing on earth,
An orphan bent by every wind that blew.
And yet the summer fields in all their pride
And lustiness of beauty, could compare
No gem with this. Fairest of all things fair
Was she whose sole endeavour was to hide
Her brightness from the day; nor fawn more gay
Or sportive, in its liveliest mood, could be
Than was this flower, rejoicing in the glee
Of its own nature. Thitherward one day
Walking perchance, the lovely gem I spied,
And from that moment sought it for my Bride!

SONNET II.

[My Love I can compare with nought on earth]

My Love I can compare with nought on earth,
And all my fear is only lest she be,
Like all we prize too much, remov'd from me,
'Mong amaranths to bloom of heavenly birth.
The fields of Cam bear witness of her worth;
The pleasant Lea soft murmurs in her praise;
Fair Cheshunt still rejoiceth in her mirth;
And Thamis at her feet his treasure lays!
Italia bright would claim her for its own;
But Albion, the seat of all my bliss,
Divides with it the boast, and prouder is
Of this than the chief jewel of her crown.
Happy is he who may possess this flower,
For which two nations wreathe so rare a dower!

SONNET III.

[The cygnet crested on the purple water]

The cygnet crested on the purple water;
The fawn at play beside its graceful dam;
On cowslip bank, in spring, the artless lamb;
The hawthorn robed in white, May's fragrant daughter;
The willow weeping o'er the silent stream;
The rich laburnum with its golden show;
The fairy vision of a poet's dream;
On summer eve earth's many-coloured bow;
Diana at her bath; Aurora bright;
The dove that sits and singeth o'er her woes;
The star of eve; the lily, child of light;
Fair Venus' self, as from the sea she rose!
Imagine these, and I in truth will prove
They are not half so fair as she I love.

SONNET IV.

[Com'st thou from Tuscany, my minstrel boy?]

Com'st thou from Tuscany, my minstrel boy?
Is that fair clime thy birth-place, where the sky
Is ever bright? Do strains of harmony
There round thy cottage float, thy home of joy?
Cheerful thou seem'st, as here along the strand,
From vale to vale, thou bear'st thy heavy load.
I love thee for thy music, and the land
That sent thee forth to gladden the abode
Of one that's dear to me, in whom there flows
The richest current of thy country's blood!
For this my willing hand a boon bestows
On thee and all thy tuneful brotherhood;
For this alone welcome thou art to me,
And welcome all that come from pleasant Italy!

SONNET V.

[Four days, wild Ocean, on thy troubled breast]

Four days, wild Ocean, on thy troubled breast
A wanderer I have been! Swift cloud and wave
Have occupied my thoughts, intent to save
From pain my soul so far from its own rest.
Ye gallant winds, if e'er your lusty cheeks
Blew longing lover to his mistress' side,
O puff your loudest, spread the canvass wide
Of our too tardy bark! My whole heart speaks
In thus invoking you. Sweet Maid, with thee
Seated once more within my beechen grove,
The bower of graceful Emma and of love,
Glad I shall be, as he who from the sea
New lands beheld, or he of old who sat
And his bark saw rest safe on Ararat!

SONNET VI.

[O sleep, do thou perform a holy task]

O sleep, do thou perform a holy task,
And o'er the orbs of yonder sainted maid,
With watchings worn, soft spread the tend'rest shade
That e'er the brow of virgin pure did mask.
Her to thy care, sweet Sleep, do I resign;
Her eye-lids close, so that she may repair
Her fragile form; and do thou nightly there
Shed on her, amid dreams, thy balm benign.
All excellent she is, therefore do thou
To her, mild Influence, health and strength restore,
And I will praise thee, as did Bards of yore,
And on thee choicest epithets bestow!
Descend, meek spirit, there, and like the dove
Shade with thy wings till morn the Maid I love.

SONNET VII.

[Fair art thou as the morning, my young Bride!]

Fair art thou as the morning, my young Bride!
Her freshness is about thee; like a river
To the sea gliding with sweet murmur ever
Thou sportest; and, wherever thou dost glide,
Humanity a livelier aspect wears.
Fair art thou as the morning of that land
Where Tuscan breezes in his youth have fanned
Thy grandsire oft. Thou hast not many tears,
Save such as pity from the heart will wring,
And then there is a smile in thy distress!
Meeker thou art than lily of the spring,
Yet is thy nature full of nobleness!
And gentle ways, that soothe and raise me so,
That henceforth I no worldly sorrow know!

SONNET VIII.

[O what have I to do with lakes and seas]

O what have I to do with lakes and seas,
With mountains, or with rivers winding slow?
From Andes, capt with earth's primeval snow,
To towering Alps, or where the Ægean breeze
Brings spicy odours from the Grecian Isles,
There is no landscape, bay, or promontory,
None that can match the beauty of thy smiles,
My Tuscan Flow'ret, of that clime the glory!
Hence wherefore should I roam, or gaze at even,
Or pant for summer, or the gorgeous mead?
In thee, the Intelligence of Earth and Heaven,
With adoration pure, I daily read.
In thee, the essence of all good, I see
More than in Nature's dumb sublimity!

SONNET IX.

[There is a flower that never changeth hue]

There is a flower that never changeth hue;
In vain the angry winds its leaves assail;
Triumphant over time, in ev'ry vale
It lifts its hopeful head, glistering with dew.
The Maiden rears it in her own sweet looks;
The Youth conjures it in the summer shade,
Pictures its image, as by murmuring brooks
He flies from scenes that his chaste dreams invade.
The very fields its presence own in spring;
The hills re-echo with a song of gladness;
The heavens themselves their store of tribute bring,
And in this flower all things renounce their sadness.
O Love! where is the heart that knows not thee?
Thou only bloomest everlastingly!

SONNET X.

[And what was Stella but a haughty dame?]

And what was Stella but a haughty dame?
Or Geraldine, whom noble Surrey sought?
Or Sacharissa, she who proudly taught
The courtly Waller statelier verse to frame?
Or Beatrice, whom Dante deified?
Or she of whom all Italy once rung,
Compar'd with thee, who art our age's pride,
And the sweet theme of many a Poet's tongue?
There is a nobleness that dwells within,
Fairer by far than any outward feature;
A grace, a wit to gentleness akin,
That would subdue the most unloving creature.
These beauties rare are thine, most matchless Maid,
Compar'd with which, theirs were but beauty's shade.

SONNET XI.

[Where Surrey's favourite hill o'erlooks the Thames]

Where Surrey's favourite hill o'erlooks the Thames,
And Twick'nam's flow'ry meads fair maids invite,
The patient angler sits from morn till night
Pursuing his mild sport; and who condemns
His quiet pastime in the summer air?
He is the Muses' warbling son, and they
Ne'er suffer unbeguiled to pass away
The hours of him who is their special care.
For him the shade of Thomson shall arise;
For him sad Eloisa's Bard shall sing;
The fields for him assume their gayest dyes;
Naiad or Sylph from every lily spring;
For him old Faunus' voice shall cheer the skies,
And Nymphs and Dryads dance in festive ring!

SONNET XII.

[Here sleeps beneath this bank, where daisies grow]

Here sleeps beneath this bank, where daisies grow,
The kindliest sprite earth holds within her breast;
In such a spot I would this frame should rest,
When I to join my friend far hence shall go.
His only mate is now the minstrel lark,
Who chaunts her morning music o'er his bed,
Save she who comes each evening, ere the bark
Of watch-dog gathers drowsy folds, to shed
A sister's tears. Kind Heaven, upon her head
Do thou in dove-like guise thy spirit pour,
And in her aged path some flow'rets spread
Of earthly joy, should Time for her in store
Have weary days and nights, ere she shall greet
Him whom she longs in Paradise to meet.

SONNET XIII.

[Receive him to thy arms, melodious shade!]

Receive him to thy arms, melodious shade!
Thou know'st his worth, for round one fountain ye
Together play'd, green wreaths of poesy
Twining for your young brows that shall not fade.
Few were your summers, when yon reverend pile,
Rear'd by good Edward, youthful king, whose dress
Marks still the Christ-Boy 'mong the crowds that press
Round holy Paul's, you entered with a smile!
Methinks I see you 'neath those cloisters grey
Conning apart some Bard of elder days,
Spenser perchance, or Chaucer's pilgrim lay;
Or doth La Mancha's Knight your wonder raise?
Methinks I see you as of old ye sate
Within those walls with studious brows elate!

SONNET XIV.

[I meet him still at his accustom'd hour]

I meet him still at his accustom'd hour
Duly each morn as he ascends the hill,
Where the high cross of Tottenham doth fulfil
Its purpose with admonitory power!
Or wandering by the side of pastoral Lea,
Who murmurs in his ear of happier days,
When Walton on his banks sung Marlowe's lays,
Blending with these his cheerful piety!
Long may his spirit greet me on the road,
And oft revive within my lonely breast
The sweet remembrance of his lov'd abode,
And sweeter smile that gave my worn feet rest,
And ev'n a parent's care on me bestow'd,
Light'ning each burthen that my heart opprest.

SONNET XV.

[How beautiful the scene; ten thousand stars]

How beautiful the scene; ten thousand stars
Move in the heavens at their “own sweet will;”
The moon her higher destiny to fill,
Rideth resplendent as the shield of Mars!
The sea beneath is tranquil as a child
Hush'd by caresses on its mother's breast,
There sleeping like a statue that doth rest
By dreams unmoved. By Fancy here beguiled,
Old Ocean! I am with thee when did float
Their bark who first upon thy waves did ride;
And theirs the first to tempt the nobler tide,
Which was to waft them to strange climes remote;
Lands which Columbus oft in vision viewed,
Wandering from Court to Court in solitude!

SONNET XVI.

[Wordsworth, of all men who have graced our age,—]

Wordsworth, of all men who have graced our age,—
Whether the muse they served, or in the state
Stood at the helm, or in cathedral sate,
Or judge's chair, or yet adorned the page
Heroic deem'd, surpassing those of yore
Who shone at Poictiers, Cressy, Agincour!—
None have like thee from unknown sources brought
The light of truth, the feeling, and the thought
Dwelling in humblest things; the human heart
Thou hast ennobled; and enlarged the spheres
Of our perceptions, giving them a part
In all that breathes; nor stone, nor flower appears,
Whether in fields or hills retired and holy,
For thy all-comprehensive mind too lowly.

SONNET XVII. WRITTEN IN PERE LA CHAISE, ON THE SPOT WHERE MARSHAL NEY IS BURIED.

What! neither flower nor cypress on thy grave,
While all around a hallowed garden blooms;
And Piety low bends among the tombs,
Watering with tears the earth she could not save?
But not so sleeps the “bravest of the brave;”
The Hero of a hundred battles; gory
Though be the shroud he lies in, yet nor wave,
Nor storm, nor time, can e'er efface the story
Of his high deeds. Be satisfied, great shade!
No epitaph thou need'st, or marble heap:
Thee Chivalry her gallant son hath made;
And History of thee much store will reap.
What need of monument, or tomb array'd,
When ev'n the stranger comes o'er thee to weep?

SONNET XVIII.

[Rouen! I walked among thy narrow streets]

Rouen! I walked among thy narrow streets
With adoration dumb and pious awe;
Thy palaces and holy piles I saw
Pond'ring as he who in old picture meets
With venerable faces—men whose story
Is blended with their country's. Much I mused,
And grieved that War and Rapine had abused
Humanity, and made even scenes of glory
Sicken the mind. I thought of her who here
Stood at the stake; henceforth where'er I stray'd,
(Such the heart's sympathy, though many a year
Had since elapsed) whether in field, or shade,
Or where their time-worn fronts old altars rear,
My thoughts were ever with thee, Gallant Maid!

SONNET XIX. ABELARD AND HELOISE.

Here sleep the Lovers who in life were parted,
Clasp'd in each others arms, while round their tomb
(Blest be the hands that set them!) wild flowers bloom,
And shed their perfume o'er the broken-hearted.
Hither the maids of France repair, what time
The spring revives the myrtle and the rose,
What time the lark sings blithely over those
That rest below. Long hither may they climb!
Immortal is the story of their fate
That sleep within; the angry winds may blow,
The sculptur'd tomb crumble beneath the slow
But certain tooth of Time insatiate!
Yet amid these should all around decay,
Still would they live in one undying lay!

SONNET XX.

[Bright was the moon as from thy gates I went]

Bright was the moon as from thy gates I went,
Majestic Rouen! And the silver Seine
Dimpled with joy, as murmuring to the main,
A pilgrim like myself, her course she bent.
Thou art a city beautiful to see,
Surpassing in magnificence that seat
Of kings, the capital, the gay retreat
Of which “all Europe rings!” Full oft of thee
Will be my future dreams; when far away,
I still shall mingle with thy ancient throng;
Shall pace thy marble halls, and gaze among
The Gothic splendours of thy once bright day,
When the first Francis was thy guest, and thou
Thyself didst wear a crown upon thy brow!

SONNET XXI. (WRITTEN AT SAINT CLOUD.)

How sweetly and how silently the river
Rolls at my feet, a mild majestic stream!
O'er it the woods hang fondly, a sweet dream
Of peace and summer suns is theirs; and ever
Within their arbours tenants of the spring
Sing songs of love! The vineyards up the hills
Run wildly, and the laughing maiden fills
Her basket with their clusters as they cling
Invitingly around! O gentle Nature,
Man's wisest counsellor, had He, whose sphere
Is now the tomb, but look'd upon a feature
Of thy fair face, in his too mad career,
He had not shook the world, or gone a creature
Far off to die, but still had lingered here!

SONNET XXII.

[The earth a garden is wherein do grow]

The earth a garden is wherein do grow
(With here and there a weed, they are but few,)
Flowers of rich fragrance and of every hue,
Matching in beauty Iris' splendid bow!
With these my daily life I fain would blend,
To perfect out my being; here to walk
With self-approving conscience; not to stalk
A spectre self-condemned; but to the end
Of this my pilgrimage, the good, the great,
With constant love pursue, so that whene'er
I summoned am to quit this nether sphere,
I may not dread to change my mortal state;
But keep a setting radiance, like the sun,
That shines serene till his great task be done.

SONNET XXIII.

[The Muses weep around their ancient seat]

The Muses weep around their ancient seat;
The streams of Stowey heave a piteous moan;
The Nightingales he lov'd sit mute and lone;
And the sad Lars leave not their dumb retreat.
The Dryads keep within their mossy cells;
The flowers there open not at morn nor eve;
The hills re-echo with a thousand knells,
For he is gone for whom all shepherds grieve.
He made the sweetest Music of them all,
And when he sang nor old nor young would stir;
You could not even hear the waterfall
While he rehears'd that “Ancient Mariner,”
Or told in accents, that like manna fell,
The wild and wondrous tale of Christabel!

SONNET XXIV.

[As erst, thou com'st, sweet harbinger of Spring]

As erst, thou com'st, sweet harbinger of Spring,
Singing the song that fed my boyish ears
With promised joys, and pastimes without tears!
Whence com'st thou thus so blithe? Methinks thy wing
Hither hath borne thee from fair Tempe's bowers.
Welcome thou art as are the sunny days
Thou with thee bring'st; or hymning host that raise
At thy approach their note; while nymphs with flowers
The groves and meadows paint! Welcome, sweet bird,
Whate'er the spot thou visitest, there glad
Thou mak'st the heart; age is no longer sad;
But doth forget his years when thou art heard!
When next thou leav'st us, would that I might share
Thy flight, and with thee to strange climes repair.

SONNET XXV.

[O spring, I've lov'd thee from my earliest youth]

O spring, I've lov'd thee from my earliest youth;
I've doated on thy songs and on thy flowers;
I've lain and dreamt sweet dreams within thy bowers,
And ev'n now love thee with a first love's truth.
O whence this fond endearment? Whence this thrill?
This deep emotion, which through every limb
Runs like a current of new life to him
Who has escap'd from death? Is it that hill,
Green hill, and sunny vale, and sparkling stream,
And gladsome bird—so like on wanton wing
The being that I was, in my life's spring,
When youth was love and sorrow but a dream,—
Bring to my mind assurance of the day,
When youth renewed shall burst this mortal clay?

SONNET XXVI. (OCCASIONED BY THE DEBATE ON THE MOTION FOR A REVISION OF THE PENSION LIST.)

The times are full of change; and restless men,
Who live by agitation, would devour
The widow's mite—her all, the orphan's dower,—
If upright minds do not, by speech and pen,
Their fury check. Ye guardians of the state,
Who would corruption from the earth uproot,
And every branch that bears not healthful fruit,
Abet them not! but rather emulate
A nobler course; and, as with lusty stroke
Ye fell the cumbrous trunks that widely spread
Their deadly shade, be mindful where ye tread,
And hear the prayer that would your hearts invoke;
And while ye clear the land with wrathful power,
Spare, but for courtesy, the modest flower.

SONNET XXVII.

[I cannot look in thy sweet face, dear maid]

I cannot look in thy sweet face, dear maid,
And give assent unto the sceptic's creed,
Annihilating hope, leaving a reed
To lean on, unsubstantial as the shade
Of passing clouds. No, in the hour of need
High Heaven its own will claim: the form may fade;
But the ethereal mind, the soul sublimed,
And purified with sorrow and with love,
Shall rise as virtuous metals rise above
The dross of earth. As upwards thou hast climbed
From infancy, so shalt thou shining soar
Triumphant over Death, and Fate, and Chance,
And every mortal strife: Life is the trance
From which thou shalt awake to sleep no more.

SONNET XXVIII.

[Why lookest thou, sweet moon, so wan and sad]

Why lookest thou, sweet moon, so wan and sad,
As though thou jealous wert of my true love,
Who reignest here, as thou dost reign above,
The Queen of Beauty, in her own light clad?
Thou shouldst not envious be of her who lends
To scenes thy light reveals, voice, looks, and grace,
And motion that doth charm the air and place
Thou dost so silvery paint. She who ascends
With me this flowery bank doth bless thy face;
Then smile, sweet moon, and make her straight amends.
Nightly she glides beneath thy virgin ray,
And loves to see thee with thy diadem
Others eclipsing; therefore light her way
That she escape the snares of evil men.