The Dream and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am aware that many strict critics object to the term “Sonnet” being applied to any poems but those written in the exact Italian measure; unjustly, as I think, since the rich cadences and extreme facility of rhyming which make the Petrarchian stanza so easy and so beautiful in the original, do not exist in English. Milton,—who had travelled much in Italy; who had been the idol of the Della Cruscan Academy; who counted among his personal friends and flatterers, not only “that renowned Provost of Eton” Sir Henry Wootton (previously ambassador to Venice), but all the most learned and distinguished men among the Florentine nobility; to record whose talents as a linguist, Francini borrowed from Scripture the somewhat heathenishly worded compliment—

—“Nell' altera Babelle
Per te il parlar confuse Giove in vano;”—

Milton,—whose taste was formed in the Tuscan schools, adhered closely to the Italian model. But Shakspeare—master of no melody but that of his native tongue, in which he reigned, and still reigns, without a rival—has left us upwards of one hundred and fifty “Sonnets,” in the simple measure of three alternate quatrains, closed by two heroic lines; evidently considering the title generally applicable to all poems which follow Petrarch so far as to consist of a single thought carried through fourteen lines, however their rhythm may be modified to suit the necessities of our language. I am inclined to think the Shakspearian stanza a better English model than that adopted by Milton. The latter requires the chiselled and polished elegance of Rogers, or the skill of Wordsworth (whose “Sonnet in defence of Sonnets” is perhaps the most beautiful modern specimen of the imported foreign measure), to prevent that appearance of labour and stiffness too often consequent on the difficulty of its construction; and if in the expression of this opinion I should seem to differ from those whose judgment ought to guide mine, I can only hope they will not consider me a rebellious fellow servant of the Muses, since these observations are prefixed less in the form of a defence, than as an apology for the measure I have chosen.

283

SONNET I. ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE YOUNG PRINCESS DE MONTFORT

[_]

(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence).

Sweet marble! didst thou merely represent,
In lieu of her on whom our glances rest,
Some common loveliness,—we were content,
As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd;
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem
So like her bright and intellectual face,
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream;
For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace,
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow,
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south,—
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow,—
The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth:
No! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd—
Too fair to be complete while soul was still denied!

284

SONNET II. RAPHAEL.

Bless'd wert thou, whom Death, and not Decay,
Bore from the world on swift and shadowy wings,
Ere age or weakness dimm'd one brilliant ray
Of thy rapt spirit's high imaginings!
While yet thy heart was full of fervid love,
And thou wert haunted by resistless dreams
Of all in earth beneath, or Heaven above,
On which the light of beauty richest gleams,—
Dead, but not deathlike, wert thou borne along;
Silent and cold, oh thou that didst combine
Sculpture, and painting, and the gift of song;
While on thy brow, and on that work divine
Borne with thee, glow'd from thine Italian sky
A light whose glory spoke of immortality!

The celebrated picture of the Transfiguration (at which Raphael is said to have worked the evening before his death) was borne at the bier-head in the procession of his funeral.

285

SONNET III. THE FORNARINA.

And bless'd was she thou lovedst, for whose sake
Thy wit did veil in fanciful disguise
The answer which thou wert compell'd to make
To Rome's High Priest, and call'd her then “Thine Eyes;”
Tho' of her life obscure there is no trace,
Save where its thread with thy bright history twines,—
Tho' all we know of her be that sweet face
Whose nameless beauty from thy canvass shines,—
Dependent still upon her Raphael's fame,
And but recorded by her low degree,
As one who had in life no higher claim
Than to be painted and be loved by thee;—
Yet would I be forgot, as she is now,
Once to have press'd my lips on that seraphic brow!

Leo X., visiting Raphael in his studio, and seeing there the Fornarina, asked who and what she was? the painter replied, “Sono i miei occhi.”

286

SONNET IV.

Be frank with me, and I accept my lot;
But deal not with me as a grieving child,
Who for the loss of that which he hath not
Is by a show of kindness thus beguiled.
Raise not for me, from its enshrouded tomb,
The ghostly likeness of a hope deceased;
Nor think to cheat the darkness of my doom
By wavering doubts how far thou art released:
This dressing Pity in the garb of Love,—
This effort of the heart to seem the same,—
These sighs and lingerings, (which nothing prove
But that thou leav'st me with a kind of shame,)—
Remind me more, by their most vain deceit,
Of the dear loss of all which thou dost counterfeit.

287

SONNET V.

Because I know that there is that in me
Of which thou shouldst be proud, and not ashamed,—
Because I feel once made thy choice should be
Not even by fools and slanderers rashly blamed,—
Because I fear, howe'er thy soul may strive
Against the weakness of that inward pain,
The falsehoods which my enemies contrive
Not always seek to wound thine ear in vain,—
Therefore I sometimes weep, when I should smile,
At all the vain frivolity and sin
Which those who know me not (yet me revile)—
My would-be judges—cast my actions in;
But else their malice hath nor sting nor smart—
For I appeal from them, Beloved, to thine own heart!

288

SONNET VI.

Where the red wine-cup floweth, there art thou!
Where luxury curtains out the evening sky;—
Triumphant Mirth sits flush'd upon thy brow,
And ready laughter lurks within thine eye.
Where the long day declineth, lone I sit,
In idle thought, my listless hands entwined,
And, faintly smiling at remember'd wit,
Act the scene over to my musing mind.
In my lone dreams I hear thy eloquent voice,
I see the pleased attention of the throng,
And bid my spirit in thy joy rejoice,
Lest in love's selfishness I do thee wrong.
Ah! midst that proud and mirthful company
Send'st thou no wandering thought to love and me?

289

SONNET VII.

Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs,
With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye
And a strong effort in his quivering wings,
Up to the blue vault of the happy sky,—
So my enamour'd heart, so long thine own,
At length from Love's imprisonment set free,
Goes forth into the open world alone,
Glad and exulting in its liberty:
But like that helpless bird, (confined so long,
His weary wings have lost all power to soar,)
Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song,
And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more,—
So, from its former bonds released in vain,
My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd chain.

290

SONNET VIII. O MY BOOKS.

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,—
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought:
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

291

SONNET IX. TO THE COUNTESS HELÉNE ZAVADOWSKY.

When our young Queen put on her rightful crown
In Gothic Westminster's long-hallow'd walls,
The eye upon no lovelier sight look'd down
Than thou, fair Russian! Memory still recalls
The soft light of thy sapphire-colour'd eyes,
The rich twine of thy simply-braided hair,
And the low murmur of the crowd's surprise
To see thee pass along so strangely fair.
Nor didst thou charm by looks and smiles alone,—
Thy “broken English” had its share of grace;
For something in thy accent and thy tone
So match'd the beauty of thy gentle face,
We seem'd to hear our old familiar words
Set to some foreign lute or harp's melodious chords!

292

SONNET X. TO TAGLIONI.

Spirit of Grace, whose airy footsteps fall
So lightly! sure the looker-on must be
Most dull of fancy who doth not recall
Some sweet comparison to picture thee!
The white snow, drifting in its soundless showers,—
The young bird resting on a summer-bough,—
The south-wind bending down the opening flowers,—
The clear wave lifted with a gentle flow,—
Rippling and bright, advancing and retreating,
Curling around the rock its dancing spray,
Like a fair child whose kiss of gentle greeting
Woos a companion to make holiday,—
Such are the thoughts of beauty round me shed,
While pleased my eyes pursue thy light elastic tread.

293

SONNET XI. THE MOSS-WALK AT MARKLY, SUSSEX.

(To S.D.)

Green avenue, whose shadow dim and sweet
Pleasantly shelter'd me in days of yore,
Dear lost companion, whose slow-pacing feet
Then wander'd with me on that moss-paved floor,—
Still, like a natural temple, spring those trees,
Their column'd stems high-arching over-head?
Still dost thou love, while sighs the murmuring breeze,
At Summer eve that velvet path to tread?
Then, gentle friend, in whose unworldly eyes,
And on whose calm, serene, expressive brow,
The light of many a prayer reflected lies,
As thou with Heaven didst constant commune know,—
Though, in this world, divided we must be,
Kneel in that quiet spot, and pray to God for me!

294

SONNET XII. THE DISDAINED LOVER.

I stand beside the waves,—the mournful waves,—
Where thou didst stand in silence and in fear,
For thou wert train'd by custom's haughty slaves,
And love, from such as I, disdain'd to hear;
Yet, with the murmur of the echoing sea,
And the monotonous billows, rolling on,
Were mingled sounds of weeping,—for in thee
all nature was not harden'd into stone:
And from the shore there came a distant chime
From the old village-clock;—ah! since that day,
Like a dull passing-bell each stroke of time
Falls on my heart; and in the ocean spray
A voice of lamentation seems to dwell,
As in that bitter hour of agonised farewell!

295

SONNET XIII. THE WEAVER.

Little they think, the giddy and the vain,
Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees,
While the light glossy silk or rustling train
Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze,
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom,
Crossing in silence the perplexing thread,
Pent in the confines of one narrow room,
Where droops complainingly his cheerless head:—
Little they think with what dull anxious eyes,
Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands,
The devious mingling of those various dyes
Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands:
But the day cometh when the tired shall rest,—
Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast!

296

SONNET XIV.

“Ay ojuelos verdes,
Ay los mis ojuelos,
Ay hagan los cielos
Que de mi te acuerdes!”

Oh! crystal eyes, in which my image lay
While I was near, as in a fountain's wave;
Let it not in like manner pass away
When I am gone; for I am Love's true slave,
And in my eyes thine image dwells enshrined,
Like one who dazzled hath beheld the sun, So that to other beauty I am blind,
And scarce distinguish what I gaze upon:
Let it be thus with thee! By all our vows,—
By the true token-ring upon thy hand,—
Let such remembrance as my worth allows
Between thee and each bright temptation stand,—
That I, in those clear orbs, on my return,
As in the wave's green depth, my shadow may discern.

See the notes to a beautiful volume of poems by Bryant, where this fragment of a Spanish ballad is given.

297

SONNET XV. TO MISS AUGUSTA COWELL.

[_]

[To whom I owe the popularity of some of my favourite ballads.]

When thy light fingers touch th' obedient chords,
Which, with a gentle murmur, low respond,
Waiting the measure of the coming words
From that sweet voice, so plaintive, sad, and fond,—
Say does some wingéd Ariel, hovering near,
Teach thee his island music note for note,
That thou may'st copy with an echo clear
Th' enchanted symphonies that round thee float?
Or do all Melodies, whilst thou art playing,
(Each with the offering of some chorded sound,)
On the low slanting sunbeam earthward straying,
Like meek subservient spirits wander round;
In Harmony's dim language asking thee
Which of them, for the hour, shall thy attendant be?

298

PRINCESS MARIE OF WIRTEMBURG.

SONNET XVI.

White Rose of Bourbon's branch, so early faded!
When thou wert carried to thy silent rest,
And every brow with heavy gloom was shaded,
And every heart with fond regret oppress'd,—
Sweet was the thought thy brother gave to him
Who, far away on Ocean's restless wave,
Could not behold those fair eyes closed and dim,
Nor see thee laid in thy untimely grave!
And, pitying him who yet thy loss must hear,—
Whose absent breast a later pang must feel,—
Murmur'd, with touching sadness, by thy bier,
“Adieu for me! Adieu for Joinville!”
Sweet was the thought, and tender was the heart
Which thus remember'd all who in its love had part.

The touching anecdote is told of the youthful Duc d' Aumale, that, when the members of the royal family were bidding farewell to the sacred remains of the Princess Marie (the Prince de Joinville being then absent with his ship), he turned with a gush of sorrow, and bid adieu, not only for himself, but in the name of his absent brother.

299

XVII.

Nor wert thou only by thy kindred wept,—
Young mother! gentle daughter! cherish'd wife!
Deep in her memory France hath fondly kept
The records of thy unassuming life:
Oft shall the statue heroine bring to mind,—
As pale it gleams beneath the light of day,
In all the thoughtful grace by thee design'd,—
The worth and talent which have pass'd away!
Oft shall the old, who see thy child pass by,
Smiling and glad, despite his orphan'd lot,
Look on him with a blessing and a sigh;
As one who suffers loss, yet feels it not,
But lifting up his innocent eyes in prayer,
Vaguely imagines Heaven,—foretaught that thou art there!

The statue of Joan of Arc, designed and exuted by the Princess herself.

300

ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON.

[_]

[Inscribed, with deep and earnest sympathy, to her Mother, The Countess of Carlisle.]

SONNET XVIII.

Since in the pleasant time of opening flowers
That flow'r, Her life, was doom'd to fade away,—
Since Her dear loss hath shaded lovely hours,
And turn'd to mourning all the smiles of May,—
Henceforward when the warm soft breath of Spring
Bids cowslips star the meadows, thick and sweet;
When doves are in the green wood murmuring,
And children wander with delighted feet;
When, by their own rich beauty downward bent,
Soft Guelder-roses hang their tufts of snow,
And purple lilacs yield a fragrant scent,
And bright laburnum droops its yellow bough;—
Let that Spring-time be welcomed with a sigh,
For Her lamented sake,—who was so young to die!

301

XIX.

But since, in all that brief Life's narrow scope,
No day pass'd by without some gentle deed,
Let us not “mourn like them that have no hope,”
Though sharp the stroke,—and suddenly decreed;
For still, when Spring puts out her tender leaves,
And Nature's beauty seems to bud in vain,
(Since then the yearning spirit doubly grieves
With fresh remembrance of unconquer'd pain,)
Returns the precious memory of all
The grace and goodness of that creature fair,
Whom it pleased God in early days to call
From this dim world of trouble, toil, and care,—
And seldom is such bless'd conviction given
That She we mourn on Earth is now a Saint in Heaven!