University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

SONNET I. To a Pine-Tree, seen in England in December, 1836.

Hail! although changed from what thou wer't before!
Stunted, curtailed of thy majestic stem,
And reft of thy umbrageous diadem—
Hail, hapless exile, to our northern shore!
Though thee no group of graceful cypress hem,
And, bent by southern breezes, bow before
Thy trunk, its sylvan grandeur to adore,
Without thy setting thou art still a gem.
And happy thoughts and recollections I
Hang on thy boughs, and see thy cloud-like shade
Propt on its airy pillar, in a sky
As pure and warm, as ever Claude pourtrayed.
But,—woe is me, my watery colors fly,
And at the withering touch of winter fade.

SONNET II. Constantinople seen at Sun-rise.

A city didst thou seem of fabled lore,
Mid cypress-groves of never fading green,
With minaret and gilded dome between,
While the sea softly kist thy grassy shore:
Shooting athwart whose sapphire pool were seen
Pinnace and gorgeous galley—many a score—
Whence noise was none save that of plashing oar:
Tumult or talk marred not the calm serene.
Unheard is bearded boatman's hail or joke;
Who mute as Sinbad's man of copper rows,
And only intermits his sturdy stroke,
When reckless gull too near his galley goes:
I marked, unmindful if I dreamed or woke,
This painted piece of motion and repose.

SONNET III. On seeing the Sultan going to the Mosque.

One Friday morn, the Moslem sabbath, I
Where Bosphorus in broader reach expands,
Stood fast, like eastern slave, with folded hands,
To mark the Sultan to his mosque sweep by.
(So he, the lawful ruler of these lands,
Once visited his church) half hid from eye
By lofty helms and lances lifted high:
Not hemmed by Bostanji or turbaned bands.
Like him, this ancient use must he maintain,
Lest, moved by moody priest or rebel peers,
The restless rabble should disturb his reign;
And much it liked me, looking on those spears,
To think how little is the tyrant's gain,
That in usurping power, partakes its fears.

SONNET IV. Occasioned by a visit to Torzelo, one of the Venetian Isles, and formerly the villeggiatura, or summer resort of the Venetina nobility.

On a December's morn, nor dim nor dark,
I, while a bright and brilliant sun outshone,
(Such as in southern climate beams alone)
From Venice to Torzelo loosed my barque:
Cottage I saw 'mid palace overthrown,
And wasted vineyard, garden close, or park;—
And viewed an older fane than thine, St. Mark,
With door and window-shutters framed of stone:
While I considered fane and fallen bower,
And standing hut, 'mid these well pleased to range,
A clock tolled twenty from a neighbouring tower:
Time, changing all, himself had known no change;
But taught, as to another age, the hour,
Warning his little world in language strange.

SONNET V. On seeing an Austrian soldier, smoking his meerschaum pipe, in the isle of Murrano.

It chances oft in melancholy mood,
When least we think the mind could entertain
Thoughts out of keeping with its present vein,
Some wilful, wayward image will intrude.
Smoking in Meerschaum bowl of motley stain,
I saw, with massy look and posture rude,
An Austrian 'mid Murrano's solitude;
And viewed in him the ruined island's bane.
That cause of mischief drew no curse from me,
Marking the scene of solitude and dearth;
I merely smiled that man and pipe should be
So meetly matched, (poor argument for mirth)—
This, as its name imports, the scum of sea,
That, as his actions show, the scum of earth.

SONNET VI. On witnessing a Sussex peasant's funeral.

I seldom drop a tear or heave a sigh,
Seeing herse freighted from ancestral hall,
At hatchment, pompous cavalcade, or pall:
But on ‘maimed rites’ have looked with other eye.
One Sunday, I stood propt against a wall,
To let a motley troop afoot go by,
In faded garments clad of different dye;
And marked in them a peasant's funeral.
No ‘inky cloak’ did the chief mourner borrow,
To make of seeming grief a short display:
His woe was not to be put off to-morrow;
His sables not the trappings of a day:
A black smock-frock, the livery of sorrow,
And labour—like his lot—was his array.

SONNET VII. To a Lady who requested verses for an Album, the title page of which contained an emblematic garland of leaves and flowers.

Lady, to you forsooth a debt I owe,
And for the wreath which many a poet weaves
To bind your brow, some lowly buds or leaves
(Such as I can) would willingly bestow.
Spring paints the flowers, and Autumn fills the sheaves:
But Spring no more shall make my blossoms blow,
Nor Summer, nor Autumnal tide; the snow
Of Winter my distempered fancy grieves.
Spring long has led away her laughing hours,
Hot Summer, treading on her heels; and seeds
Have rotted ere yet ripened by the showers
Of fruitful Autumn; Winter's waste succeeds,
And now, in place of wholesome herbs or flowers,
Choaked is my garden's growth with sickly weeds.