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University of Virginia Library

Poems

By W. C. Bennett: New ed

Bennett, W. C. (1820-1895)

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[Forms beyond my vision fleeting]

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BABY MAY AND OTHER POEMS.

TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE.

EPITAPHS FOR INFANTS.

TO OUR BABY KATE.

ON A DEAD INFANT.

THE STORY OF A MOTHER.

MOTHERS' SONGS.

THE FIRST SHOES.

MOTHERS' SONGS.

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THE WORN WEDDING-RING AND OTHER HOME POEMS.

THE WORN WEDDING-RING.

MY OWN EASY CHAIR.

BY A GRAVE IN LEE CHURCHYARD.

ON A MINIATURE OF MY WIFE.

MY NATIVE TOWN.

MY PICTURE GALLERY.

[My hair is gathering gray apace]

[And say you that my Spring has fled]

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NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS.

SKETCHES FROM A PAINTER'S STUDIO.

THE TEARFUL CORNET.

THE STAR OF THE BALLET.

A NEW GRISELDA.

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I.

II.

A VILLAGE TALE.

THE MATE'S RETURN.

THE TRIUMPH FOR SALAMIS.

THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS.

CHORUSES FROM AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY ON THE FALL OF MESSENIA.

MOTHER AND SON.

THE TREASURE-FINDER.

CASSANDRA SPEAKS!

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SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS.

A SAILOR'S SONG.

A KISS—A SMILE—A SIGH.

THE CAVALIER'S WHISPER.

O MIGHT I BE THE HAPPY GLOVE!

O BUT TO SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

A KISS FOR YOUR THOUGHT.

ELLEN, YOU'RE MY ROSE.

THIS HEART, ONCE A BEE.

O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS.

HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES.

YE ROSES, WITH HER BLUSHES, BLOW.

TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.

PRITHEE TELL ME WHERE LOVE DWELLS.

A SMILE—IT WAS BUT A SMILE.

THE WRECKED HOPE.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

I'VE WATCHED YOU FROM THE SHORE.

OPE, FOLDED ROSE!

A SUMMER INVOCATION.

THE HOMEWARD WATCH.

PRITHEE WHAT HATH SNARED THEE, HEART?

O WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL!

THE TORCH-RACE.

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

DRAW DOWN YOUR VEIL.

LISETTE IN AUSTRALIA.

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

NO—NO—MY LOVE IS NO ROSE.

GOD'S BEST GIFT.

WHY?

THE CRY OF THE LAWFUL LANTERNS.

FAREWELL! FAREWELL!

BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME.

AFTER BÉRANGER.

IN DREAMS I CLASP YOU ONCE AGAIN.

RING, HAPPY BELLS!

THE DRESSMAKER'S THRUSH.

RAVEN-BLACK ARE AMY'S TANGLING TRESSES.

A SONG OF THE SEA.

THE SOWING OF THE DRAGON'S TEETH.

NO GAS! NO GAS!

WHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED.

LOOK INTO THESE FOND EYES.

AFTER BÉRANGER.

OF GIPSY BLOOD YOU SURELY CAME.

YES, MY HEART IS LIKE TINDER.

WHERE, O POLAND, ARE THY LANCES?

THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS.

AN AUTUMN SONG.

THANK HEAVEN! I'M STILL A BOY.

GOD SPARE MY BOY AT SEA!

THE SEA-BOY'S DREAM.

THE SLAVERS' WRECK.

O THE WILD, WILD WINDS HAVE VOICES.

CHILD, PURSUE THY BUTTERFLY!

LIZ, YOU'VE A TEASING HEART.

TO THE CONGRESS OF PARIS.

NO MORE GREAT LOVE MY HEART BEGUILES.

THE SONG OF DEATH.

IMAGES! IMAGES!

HAD I A POET'S MIGHTY POWER.

WHILE THE CHAMPAGNE FOAMS.

COUNSEL TO KINGS.

“SEIZE,” I SAID, “O ART, THY PENCIL.”

TO THE COMING COMET.

MY ROSES BLOSSOM THE WHOLE YEAR ROUND.

THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG.

THE GREEN HILLS OF SURREY.

O BONNY IS MY HUSBAND'S SHIP.

A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY.

HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE.

A SOLDIER AM I.

THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT.

THE GLORIES OF OUR THAMES.

A SUMMER THOUGHT.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

WERE I A KING! WERE I A KING!

LOVE IN THE NORTH.

ALCÆUS TO SAPPHO.

LILIAN'S EPITAPH.

DEATH'S LESSON.

WHAT'S WITHIN THIS GLASS OF MINE?

HENCE, FELL WINE!

THE SICK MAN'S PRAYER.

THE RECONCILIATION.

NO WAR! NO WAR!

AN OLD MAN'S SONG.

THE VAIN DREAM.

YOU ARE A PREACHER, BEE.

TO A CHILD SWINGING.

A SUMMMER SONG.

UPON THY STREAM, SWIFT-FLOWING.

AFTER A PLEASANT EVENING.

FLOWERS IN THE CITY.

TELL ME, MY HEART.

MORNING, MORNING, GIVE TO ME.

“GOD AND THE RIGHT!”

NIGHT AND DAY ARE FROM HER NEVER.

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TO THE BESIEGERS OF SEBASTOPOL.

TAKE, FLAGS, ONE GLORY MORE.

THE FRENCH INVASION.

THE SCORE IS—FOUR.

OUR TRIUMPH FOR SINOPE.

BEWARE, O CZAR, BEWARE!

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POEMS OF THOUGHT.

ON THIS VERY BED HAS DEATH.

“ERNST IST DAS LEBEN.”

A CRY FOR NATIONAL EDUCATION.

TO THE AUTHORESS OF “ART-LIFE IN MUNICH.”

THE SHADOW-HUNTED.

THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER.

STILL GOD TALKS TO MAN.

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POEMS OF FANCY AND FEELING.

THE MISTAKE OF THE LOVES.

HOW MUCH YOUR BEAUTIES OWE.

IN A SCHOOL-ROOM.

AN AUTUMN CONCEIT IN GREENWICH PARK.

TO THE CHRYSANTHEMUM.

TO FIELD-PATHS.

THOUGHTS AND FANCIES.

LINES WRITTEN IN MISS MITFORD'S GARDEN.

THE LIME BEFORE MY WINDOW.

A MAY-DAY SONG.

A LEAF FROM MY SKETCH-BOOK.

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WRITTEN IN WINDSOR CASTLE.

[Friends, could I live a life of art alone]

[You shall be thought of with the scents of Spring]

[You cross my dusty path with dreams divine]

[Nor, Alchemists, turning to gold the lead]

[With you, too, comes the Shakespeare of all sound]

[Of poet-homes was our delightful talk]

[Nor were those, breathing not your Boston air]

[And as the glory of the still May moon]

[So you have been with Severn, and have heard]

[What pleasant talk you bear across the sea]

[And you have paced the streets that Cæsar trod]

On being told that Charles Dickens had said that “the bust of Clytie must have been modelled from a real Greek girl, or it could not have been so beautiful.”

“Should not the truest Art interpret rather than daguerreotype?”

IN THE DULWICH GALLERY—BEFORE GUIDO'S “ST. SEBASTIAN.”

IN LONDON—AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY—BEFORE MURILLO'S “HOLY FAMILY.”

ON A VIOLET-STAND.

AT ROME—FROM THE HILL OF THE CAPITOL.

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE COLISEUM.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

ROBERT BROWNING.

BEFORE WILKIE'S “COLUMBUS.”

AT SOUTH KENSINGTON—IN THE TURNER GALLERY.

IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL—BEFORE MICHAEL ANGELO'S “LAST JUDGMENT.”

AT ANTWERP—BEFORE RUBENS' “DESCENT FROM THE CROSS.”

[Venice! Dear friends, how comes she to your eyes?]

[On the Rialto, too, your steps have been]

[Ah, those Italian lakes! My town-dull'd eyes]

[When the laburnum droops its golden rain]

BEFORE THE DULWICH GALLERY.

IN THE CAPITOL—BEFORE THE FAUN OF “PRAXITELES,”

IN THE VATICAN—BEFORE THE APOLLO BELVEDERE.

AT THE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM—BEFORE “THE TURNERS.”

AT FLORENCE—BEFORE THE “VENUS DE MEDICI.”

IN THE VATICAN—BEFORE THE FRESCOES OF THE “STANZE DI RAFFAELLO.”

IN ITALY—1860.

[So this is yours, our Wordsworth's pictured face]

[What! Gad's Hill's haunted greenness you have seen.]

IN THE DULWICH GALLERY—BEFORE MURILLO'S “FLOWER-GIRL.”

AT MILAN—IN THE CONVENT OF THE MADONNA DELLE GRAZIE.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

AT ALFRED TENNYSON'S.

AT ROME—IN THE FORUM.

IN THE TOWER OF LONDON.

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WRITTEN IN NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S “TRANSFORMATION.”

I.

II.

III.

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I.

II.

III.

IN PARIS—AT THE LOUVRE—BEFORE MURILLO'S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION.”

IN LONDON—BEFORE HOLMAN HUNT'S “FINDING OF CHRIST IN THE TEMPLE.”

[And of our great ones, him you should have known]

AT ROME—BEFORE ST. PETER'S.

AT ROME—IN ST. PETER'S.

IN LONDON—BEFORE ST. PAUL'S.

IN LONDON—IN TRAFALGAR-SQUARE—BEFORE THE STATUE OF GENERAL SIR CHARLES JAMES NAPIER.

AT FLORENCE—IN FRA ANGELICO'S CELL IN THE CONVENT OF ST. MARK.

AT ROME—IN THE FORUM.

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF TASSO.

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF DANTE.

AT FLORENCE—IN SANTA CROCE—BY THE TOMB OF MACHIAVELLI.

AT PISA—IN THE CAMPO SANTO—BEFORE THE FRESCOES AND TOMB OF BENOZZO GOZZOLI.

IN LONDON—BEFORE MR. CROPSEY'S “AUTUMN ON THE HUDSON.”

TO MARY HOWITT.

TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

A RECOLLECTION OF THE PERFORMANCE OF “ION.”

WRITTEN IN MACAULAY'S “LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.”

MOTHERWELL'S GRAVE.

AT ROME—ON THE PINCIAN HILL.

[Would God had homed me near your fireside, friends]

[Yours be a life of pleasure, lapp'd in ease]

BEFORE MR. JOHN RUSKIN'S “TURNERS,” AT DENMARK HILL.

WRITTEN IN DR. HOLMES'S “ELSIE VENNER.”

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WRITTEN IN “EMERSON'S ESSAYS.”

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WHY?

We love, we know not why;
“Why?” would reason know?
What can we reply,
But “O Love, 'tis so!”
A moment—we are free;
A moment—some sweet eyes
Have fill'd our hearts with burning hopes,
Our future with sad sighs.
“Why?” would reason know?
What must each reply?
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”

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But two short years ago,
Said I, “Is there need,
“If his frowns, love, show,
“I his frowns should heed?”
I laugh'd, and lightly thought
Of all the boy could do;
A moment—I was surely caught:
My heart was gone to you.
“Why?” would reason know?
Can I but reply:
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”

And do I, in the snare,
Cry and cry in vain,
“Eros, hear my prayer!
“Free me yet again?”
Ah, no; in the sweet past,
Still mine that prayer might be;
But now, O love, so changed! at last,
I would not, love, be free.
“Why?” would reason know?
What must I reply?
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”