University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

Child's Play

O fairy Volume, fresh from fairyland,
Glad welcome take, for such beseems thy birth,
And take my rhyme of praise, tho' little worth,
For grateful hearts not always song command.
Bright dreams thou bringest of a happier Earth,
Dreams of a Heaven not too good or grand,
Where daisies grow, nor is there any dearth
Of nut or berry: where old castles stand
Yearning towards the Sunset, on the strand;
And children piping to green fields go forth,
Or singing, dance with angels, hand in hand,
Or birdlike mix with birds, in careless mirth;
A heaven where trees have not too heavenly girth,
Where all can feel what none may understand.

Eleanor's Well

Sweet fields were ours touched with a mellow glow,
From gorgeous cloud at rise, at set of sun,
And shadowing trees, but no glad spring had run
Beside our homes, to bless the day and night,
But see! the water flows with gentle might,
In metal highway thro' green pastures led,
And o'er the sculptured bason see it shed
A silver stream, a fall of sparkling light!
Thus with wise heart a gentle fancy wed,
Long summer morns, hath for our solace wrought;
So noble work succeeds to noble thought,
So the hand justifies the heart and head,
So the child's play to earnest close is brought,
So piety from poetry is wed.

Summer Days

Our verses with the days of summer rhyme.
For all our summer days are not the same,
Nor comes there one that as her sister came,
But various, as a flower in its own clime,
Days are there for some simple grace sublime,
And days whose witching beauty is their fame,
Some in white clouds float lingering past, and some
Which dance along in wind and light we praise;
Some to lorn heaths with lark and cuckoo come,
Or sleep with pink-striped moths in sylvan ways.
Some with brown bees in thymy gardens hum,
Some walk in splendour, some in silvery haze;
Days are there too, when heaven and earth are dumb.
Old dim mysterious far-off-feeling days.

Children Reading

Few books our children have and need but few,
For they are pupils of the birds and bees;
They read old stories in the stars and trees,
And watch the clouds when April skies are blue;
Or sing and dance upon the daisied leas,
Or gather diamonds in the morning dew.
Few books are theirs, but lo! the playful breeze,
Still hides and flutters in the leaves of Two;
Slaves of the Lamp and Ring, more wonders please
Their fancy than the young Aladdin knew,
While far, far off, across those slumbering seas
They glide with Crusoe in his frail canoe.
Such simple lore with childhood best agrees;
Once wisest men believed the fairies true.

The Child and the Bird's Nest

He saw it falling from the broken spray
Of the tall apple-tree that overhung
The hawthorn hedge, where its blithe tenant sung.
Hid in the vestal blossoms of the May.
Wrought of green moss and lichen red and gray,
This cincturing cell! No softer circle spread
Round the meek birds whom Lady Venus fed,
For Love still dwells among the birds they say!
Yes! take thy prize, white eggs faint-tinged with blue,
Whose spots, dark-centered, into purple run.
Yes! take thy prize, but yet a moment rue
The cruel wrong the ungracious winds have done.
And with mild sorrow shadowing all the sun,
Dear Child! to humble griefs and cares be true.

My Poets

I lived with the great poets evermore,
Yet evermore I felt their sway grow less:
First Byron wrought in me a deep distress;
Then Shelley made me weep, smile, love, adore,
And, feeling as he felt, I learnt to see
What grace, what poesy, what wisdom crown'd
The mystical sweet spirit and profound
Of the melodious Seer of Galilee.
But now these poets speak not; silent now
Their old and magisterial command;
Shakspeare must soothe my age; for Spenser's brow
I have no crown, who love not Fairyland.
Two Poets are there only whom I know,
Goethe the strong, and, strong and sweet, George Sand.

The Haunted Shore

I walk'd at sunset by the lonely waves,
When Autumn stood about me, gold and brown:
I watch'd the great red Sun, in clouds, go down,
An orient King, that mid his bronzèd slaves
Dies, leaning on his sceptre, with his crown.
A hollow moaning from innumerous caves,
In green and glassy darkness sunk below,
Told of some grand and ancient deed of woe,
Of murdered kings that sleep in weltering graves.
Still thro the sunshine wavering to and fro,
With sails all set, the little vessels glide;
Mild is the Eve and mild the ebbing Tide.
And yet that hollow moaning will not go,
Nor the old Fears that with the sea abide.

The Young Crusaders

These are the children that in ancient time,
When yet the holy grave and cross were dear,
An infant Knighthood, took the shield and spear,
Thrilled with a gentle awe and hope sublime.
Nor wonder if an angel by the pier
Their leader be, or if an angel climb
Over the vessel's side their course to steer,
While bells above the stars for blessing chime.
For still in that wild error we revere
The simple grace of the world's maiden prime,
The venturous promise that makes glad the year,
The faith and deed that charm like some old rhyme.
Glide, with the angels then, through waters clear,
Children! we will not call your love a crime.

Copenhagen

Dear fellow-creature! ranked among those steeds,
That mighty Homer lifted to the Gods,
And worthier far, in their august abodes,
Of that ambrosia on which godhead feeds,
Than men with low desires or common needs.
O nobly travel Fame's eternal roads,
Still following where the laurelled conqueror leads,
And named with him in high poetic odes.
Kind fellow-creature! weep celestial tears,
For love celestial to all life is lent,
One thought, one feeling man to man endears,
And with man's lot thy lowlier lot is blent,
Touched with his grief when stricken love appears,
In battle brave and watchful near the tent.

Consecration

Across the throbbing heaven slow creeps the breeze,
The Stars look down on me with earnest eyes,
Revealers of the past eternities
And prophets of the future; the strong skies
Lean lovingly o'er earth; the lonely leas
Checquered with shadows of quick-grazing sheep,
And moving branchery of forest trees,
Trembling beneath the watchful moon in sleep,
Are gliding into this calm soul of mine,
Hanging its templed walls with pictures fair.
Open it is unto the heavens divine,
To the glad breathings of the summer air
From shores eternal, holy as the shrine
Wherein a little child first kneels in prayer.

Renunciation

Wakeful I lay all night and thought of God.
Of heaven, and of the crowns pale martyrs gain.
Of souls in high and purgatorial pain,
And the red path which murdered seers have trod:
I heard the trumpets which the angels blow,
I saw the cleaving sword, the measuring rod.
I watched the stream of sound continuous flow.
Past the gold towers where seraphs make abode.
But now I let the aching splendour go,
I dare not call the crownèd angels peers,
Henceforth! I am content to dwell below,
Mid common joys, with humble smiles and tears.
Delighted in the sun and breeze to grow,
A child of human hopes and human fears.