University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous Poems.

LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A DEAD INFANT ON ITS MOTHER'S BREAST.

It lay upon its mother's breaking heart,
Whose sobs convulsive seemed to lend it life,
For now the snow-white garments swelling rose,
Now fell, as tho' quick pulses played beneath;
But they were stilled for ever. One short month
The mother clasped her first-born to her heart,
And then came envious Death with ruthless face,
And breathing on it chilled its blood to ice,
And the pure spirit took its flight to God.
Upon its marble cheek a blush of pink,
Like that which flushes o'er the sea-shell's rim,
As if enamoured of a couch so pure,
Slept still; and thro' the parted lips you'd think
There ever stole a balmy breathing forth,
So like to sleep was death.
Its little dimpled hand a lily clasped,
Meet emblem of itself, so fair, so sweet,
And plucked withal untimely, ere the rose
Had time to deepen on its rounded cheek.
But lingered on its mouth a seraph smile,
For Death, repentant of the theft he made,
Had left it there, to soothe the mother's woe.

SONNET. NATURE.

Thus sings the poet; but does truth lie so?
Nature, indeed, in beauty rich is clad,
But yet her fairest scenes are often sad;
E'en while we gaze, the eye will overflow;
As certain troubled undertones of woe
Run thro' the very songs that make us glad.
Thus melancholy shadows all below,
We hardly hold our blessings till they go.
Do not our smiles lie very near our tears?
Our brightest joys tread closely on our pains,
Some discords linger thro' the sweetest strains,
And hope is often darkened by our fears.
And what the secret of all this? The source?
Is it not here, “The world is out of course”?

SONNET. OUR CATHEDRALS.

Ye vast Cathedrals of our native land,
Whose arches seem designed to prop the sky,
As tho' the angels had come down from high
To do a work beyond a mortal hand,
And rear a stately home for Deity;
What beauty crowns your massive towers, your spires,
Where loves the sun to rest his glittering fires!
Your buttresses and pinnacles how grand!
Relieved by deepened shade, the softened light
Lies on your stately aisles and noble nave,
Your hallowed walls and splendid architrave,
And marble pillars, forests to the sight;
While from your choir there sweep sweet symphonies,
As erst God's voice thro' Eden's twilight trees.

SONNET. THE SAME.

Thro' the laced fret-work of each storied pane
Streams the rich light, in many-coloured wave,
Upon the tracery of aisle and nave,
Dyeing the marble floors with splendid stain,
And falling on the tombs where rest the brave.
Your walls, “magnifical” with many a fold
Of carved and groinèd oak, and burnished gold,
Are worthy of a consecrated Fane;
And tho' in you there burns no mystic cloud,
No Ark with sacramental treasures proud,
Nor glory visible pervades your dome,
Yet at the call of prayer, He deigns to come
To meet His saints—that Holy One, who says,
“He doth inhabit still His people's praise.”

SONNET. STARS.

Ye Stars, that on this woeful Earth rain down
Thick sparkling showers of pure and radiant light,
Which make the purple glories of the night
Richer in lustre than a monarch's crown;
Ye Stars, that burn in heaven, so clear and bright,
Does the sad spectacle of human tears
Affect you not? The grief that blights and sears,
The seeds of ill that all around are sown?
Care ye not for the sin, the pain, the woe,
The wrong, all, which a canker at the core
Of happiness, opens a staunchless sore?
Oh, feel ye not for those who weep below!
Or look ye from your skies, in cold disdain,
On all this planet knows of stormy pain!

SONNET. THE CURSE.

The Earth is tracked by curse. On every thing,
The fairest e'en, it sadly lingereth;
We all have seen thy ravages, O Death,
We know thy fatal power, have mourned thy sting.
The very flowers die, which clustering spring
Around our feet in many a fragrant wreath;
They fade and wither, tainted with thy breath,
And pine beneath the shadows thou dost fling.
And if these radiant things which are so fair,
Woven from beams and showers, bloom but to die,
So with all valued things of bright and rare,
They pass just like the breathing of a sigh,
And this dark judgment tarries on earth's brow,
“The creature travails in its pain till now.”

SONNET. CASAUBON.

The age was superstitious, light, and vain;
The court was loose, voluptuous and base;
All men were struggling in the fight for place;
Even the priests thought “godliness was gain,”
Nor deemed it ill their hands with bribes to stain;
Their only aim to be first in the chase
For riches, and to head the eager race;
To be outstripped,—this was their greatest pain.
Casaubon only from such sin was clear,
Nor ever from the right did turn aside,
Looking to God, owning no other fear,
His own convictious caring not to hide,
No, rather would he boldly march to death,
Than, truckling for applause, betray his faith.

SONNET. PHILIPPA.

Conversions were the fashion of the day—
All ranks, from highest even unto least,
Great ladies from the court, and meanest priest,
Contended for the sheep that went astray,
And sought to place them 'neath the Popedom's sway;
Casaubon's daughter they strove hard to bring
Under the shelter of the Church's wing,
For here they said the road to heaven lay.
Her father, fearing, tried her trust in God,
Told her that “he was penniless and poor,
Her only hope a marriage to secure,
Was the king's favour; that his grace to gain,
She must abjure her faith, and wear Rome's chain;”
And, while he spake, Philippa's eyes o'erflowed.

SONNET. THE SAME.

Then spake she out right boldly in his face,
Casaubon thrilling as he stood and heard
Each lofty sentiment, each noble word.
She said, “Such abjuration were disgrace,
Nothing would tempt her do a thing so base,
Christ she would follow, and take up His cross,
No matter at what sacrifice and loss.
Her father might be poor, God would provide,
Beyond the reach of want His servant place.
Could she not work, and by her labour live?”
Would not her toil all that she needed give?
And God made good her trust. In His great love
He took her early to Himself above;
And in the bloom of youth Philippa died.

SONNET. LAKE OF GENEVA.

The mountains soar in grandeur to the skies,
Sublime, majestic, beautiful, and fair;
And steeped in lustrous bath of violet air,
They take with wonder the delighted eyes,
As near this heavenly lake they towering rise.
And as they stand all drenched in glowing light,
They look as smooth as samite to the sight,
A gloss like sheen of satin on them lies,
The magic atmosphere has lent the stone
A tender beauty that is not its own;
Thus trial that is seen thro' tender haze
Of time, and thro' the light of far past years,
Is robbed of all its sharpness as we gaze,
And sorrow's self a softer aspect wears.

SONNET. THE AZURE GROTTO, CAPRI.

Beneath the vine-clad slopes of Capri's Isle,
Which run down to the margin of that sea,
Whose waters kiss the sweet Parthenope,
There is a Grot whose rugged front the while,
Frowns only dark where all is seen to smile.
But enter, and behold! surpassing fair
The magic sight that meets your vision there—
Not heaven with all its broad expanse of blue,
Gleams coloured with a sheen so rich, so rare,
So changing in its clear translucent hue—
Glassed in the lustrous wave the walls and roof,
Shine as does silver scattered o'er the woof
Of some rich robe; or bright as stars whose light
Inlays the azure concave of the night.

SONNET. THE SAME.

You cannot find throughout this world, I ween,
Waters so fair as those within this cave,
Colour like that which flashes from the wave;
Or which is steeped in such cerulean sheen
As here gleams forth within this Grotto's screen.
And when the oar the boatman gently takes
And dips it in the flood, a fiery glow,
Ruddy as phosphor stirs in depths below;
Each ripple into burning splendour breaks,
As tho' some hidden fires beneath did lie
Waiting a touch to kindle into flame,
And shine in radiance on the dazzled eye,
As sparkling up from wells of light they came,
To make this Grot a glory far and nigh.

SONNET. THE SYBYLL'S CAVE, NAPLES.

There is a Cave deep in the olive wood,
O'ergrown with many a wild and shaggy tree,
Beneath whose thick and tangled canopy
Night, and her sister, awful solitude,
In sombre silence ever grimly brood.
The glorious sun, the moon so chastely fair,
Shun each what seems a haunt for grim despair,
A home for evil things—a fearful path,
Down leading to the world of endless wrath.
And when the torches on the blackness glare,
All loathsome things appear, from which the heart
Shudders, recoiling with a sudden start.
For deep, and dark, and noisome as the grave,
Is the dread horror of the Sybyll's cave.

THREE SONNETS. THE ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

I.

Eden all fresh, just finished by the Lord,
Glowed with rich beauty, marvellously fair;
Bright flowers like jewels gemmed the dewy sward,
And filled with fragrance all the balmy air.
God looking on His world, pronounced it good,
Perfect throughout, from greatest unto least;
Adam, Creation's crown, in glory stood
His Maker's image, Nature's King and Priest.
To him each beast of field or forest came,
All lowly crouching, fawning at his feet,
To which he gave, as fitted each, a name,
An appellation to their instincts meet;
And birds of air folded their downy wings,
And waited near him, with all living things.

II.

Then went he round the garden's radiant bowers,
That he might do the same for herb and plant,
And give to all the sweet and starry flowers
The name which now appeared their only want.
Here grew the lily white, and violet fair,
The azure gentian, oxlip, eglantine,
All buds and blooms that scent the summer air,
Some blue, some purple, some as red as wine:
Some barred with gold, or striped and pied with green,
Some drooping, slender, some erect and tall,
But lovely each, and of a glossy sheen;
And Adam named them, thought he named them all,
But as he moved away his ear was caught,—
There came a pleading voice, “Forget-me-not!”

III.

Hidden within its leaves, he had passed by
This modest little flower, so very fair,
And had not seen its gold and azure eye,
Nor knew it grew in tender beauty there,
Till there came whispering thro' its slender leaves
A voice so low, 'twas tho' a zephyr sighed,—
Regretfully as one who mourns and grieves—
“Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!” it cried.
Hence has this flower its name; and far above
All others it is dear to friendship's heart,
Is consecrated wholly now to love,
A gift till time shall end, when dear ones part,
Who to each other, weeping their sad lot,
Thro' this sweet flower shall say, “Forget-me-not.”

RECOLLECTIONS OF A PICTURE.

It is an antique chamber: midnight's pall
Has thrown its shadows o'er the pannell'd wall,
The frescoed ceiling and the oaken floor,
The inlaid cabinet, the massy door,
The time-worn tapestry which clothes the room,
And lends its share of black funereal gloom.
Darkness is broken by the pale moonbeams,
Which thro' the casement pour in fitful gleams,
And mingle with a lamp's dull, sickly glow,
That 'thwart the spacious chamber strives to throw
A ray that flickers feebly on the night,
And gives what is, and yet what is not, light.
Upon the dark and polished oaken floor
A dagger lies crimson'd with gouts of gore,
Near it a couch, where, 'neath the lamp's pale sheen,
A something lies which is but dimly seen:
Seems it a human form, but cover'd round
With drapery down flowing to the ground,
'Tis hard to say what is the thing aright,
So faintly also falls on it the light.
Full in the moonlight, lonely sits there one
Whom woe and grief seem to have made their own;
Her hands are clasped convulsively, her eye
Is wild, and fixed in some strange agony,
Out-starting from the socket, and the tear
Is dried upon the pupils, hot and sear;
The face is blanch'd and scared, but here and there
A hectic burns, the symbol of despair.
While o'er her form, like some dark torrent's flow,
In raven masses parted from her brow,
Her loosened tresses wildly streaming fall,
And sweep the floor of that dim-lighted hall;
And lend her cheek the wan and ghastly white
Of snows that shiver 'neath the moon's pale light.
Her bloodless lips press tightly; some sore pain
Shoots fiercely through her heart, and sears her brain,
And wrings her soul, and gives that frightful air
Of mingled dread, defiance, and despair.
Sorrow or grief, or care, perchance, or crime,
Has lined her marble brow; it is not time;
For few her summers seem, and she is fair,
Despite the agony that struggles there,
And wastes her with its fire. You know not why,
But when yours meet that wild and burning eye,
A nameless chill and fear upon you seize,
That curdles up the blood, and makes it freeze:
As his would do, if loathsome worms should creep
And coldly writhe about his limbs in sleep,
And then wakes horribly, with sudden start,
To find them clust'ring coldly round his heart.
What well of anguish springs in that young breast?
Is guilt, or frenzy, that fair bosom's guest?
There is not one to tell; but it must be
A dark, no doubt a guilty history.
And oft for hours I sit and muse, and frame
Me reasons why that blight upon her came,
Which wither'd up her youth, and on it fell,
To shadow all her life with its dark spell.
They say, on earth there is not one who knows,
The tale of that fair lady's bitter woes;
And that the record is immersed in gloom,
And buried with the painter in his tomb,
For ever with him perishing.

A CONCEIT.

Armida 'tis that makes the flower seem fiar,
Armida who the common earth makes bright,
Armida's voice with music fills the air—
Armida's eye that gives the sun his light!
Oh! the dark depth of that inspiring eye,
Whose every flash seems sent forth but to kill!
Yet who could storm against such enemy,
Or think, to die by such sweet death an ill?
Thus I, tho' looking, die, yet can't refrain,
But look and die—to look and die again!
Oh! hard it is, the fatal truth to prove
That we must die even by that we love.

TO A FRIEND,

WITH A BOOK.

“THE HOPE DEFERRED THAT MAKETH THE HEART SICK.”

She said,—

A PARABLE FROM NATURE.