University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

A WET AUTUMN.

Behold the melancholy season's wane!
Oppressed with clouds and with the rainy days,
And the great promise of that lavish gain
All shattered, which his shining youth did raise.
In misty fields the dripping harvest-grain
Hangs its dank head; the sorrowing reaper stays
From day to day his sickling, chiding in vain
His unused sunshine and unwise delays.
Thus when I see this bright youth aged in tears,
With bitter drops I wash my wasting prime,
And sadly see mine own unharvested years
In the unprofited past their dark hours wave,
And the great visions of my early time
Wax fainter, and my face grows to the grave.

AT THE CHESHIRE POINT, LINLEY WOOD.

Not now I court thy odorous spring-tide breeze,
Or breathe thy summer air, sweet Linley Wood;
Now drear November with a misty hood
Covers the distant landscape, and doth seize
The lingering autumn honours of the trees.
The woods are still, and silent Nature's mood,
Save where some bird, with voice not harsh or rude,
Pipes melancholy from the dewy leas.
A beautiful and mournful grace endu'th
Thy dying autumn hours; but soon the strife
Of jarring winds shall tear thee without ruth.
To me thy sadness is with meaning rife,
For I am in the autumn of my youth,
And close upon the wintry storms of life.

[Like a musician that with flying finger]

Like a musician that with flying finger
Startles the voice of some new instrument,
And, though he know that in one string are blent
All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger
Among the lighter threads, fearing to start
The deep soul of that one melodious wire,
Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire,
And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart;—
Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I
Stir every lighter theme with careless voice,
Gathering sweet music and celestial joys
From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly;
Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover,
And dare not stoop, fearing to tell—I love her.

AT NIGHT.

When Peace and all the calm Divinities
Walk in the unjarred wide concave of heaven,
And by self-exile from the sweet skies driven,
The ever youngest-born of Charities
Dispensed by God, soft-breathing silent Sleep,
O'er the wide world, from tower to hamlet flies,
And lays her hand on overwearied eyes,
But most through children's curtains loves to peep,—
I wake. Then I behold the sailing moon
And solemn image of the shadowed woods,
And check my doubts, and learn I may as soon
Dream that for me this beauty ever broods,
As that the highest clad in mortal dress,
Beloved and lost, was made to make my happiness.

MY FATHER'S DEATH.

Oh, how have men, fooled by this mortal state,
Mistook the image of mysterious Death,
God's messenger, and with injurious breath
Maligned the Porter of the Eternal Gate,
Who is indeed all fair, and, early or late,
Herald of Heaven to every man whose faith
Binds him to God, careless of what man saith.
Angel his form when he on thee did wait,
Clad like thy soul in white, and, with a smile
That cast its sweet reflection on thy face,
He touched thy marble brow; loosening the while
With outstretched hand the golden door's embrace,
He ushered thee to the immortal throng,
Who tuned thy welcome home in clear harmonious song.

TO MY MOTHER.

As winter, in some mild autumnal days,
Breathes such an air as youngest spring discloses,
So age in thee renews an infant's grace,
And clothes thy cheek in soft November roses.
Time hath made friends with Beauty in thy face,
And, since the wheeling Fates must be obeyed,
White rime upon thy gracious head he lays,
But whispers gently not to be afraid;
And tenderly, like one that leads the blind,
He soothes thy lingering footsteps to the gate,
While that great Angel, who there keeps his state,
Smiles to behold with what slow feet he moves.
Move slower, gentlier yet, O Time! or find
A way to fix her here, bound by our filial loves.

GIBSON'S STATUE OF AURORA.

Fair unto all men, shining Morning, seems
Thy face serene when a new day unrolls,
And all old sights and long-endured doles
Seem fresh and bearable in thy bright beams.
But only to the dreamers of sweet dreams,
The visionary apprehensive souls
Whose finer insight no dim sense controls,
Com'st thou in this fair shape o'er Ocean's streams,—
Thy white foot hanging on an eastern wave,
And thy swept garments blown by early air;
In thy two hands rich urns, powerful to save
From darkness and the terror of the grave;
And in thy face calm victory dost thou wear
Over the night and terror and despair.

TO M. S.

When lagging Winter takes his longed-for flight,
Chilling the airs of March with frosty wing,
Mark how the child of April, fresh-browed Spring,
Proclaims his presence and his youthful might.
Not scattering full-blown flowers, and richly dight
In gorgeous Summer's proud apparelling,
Nor spreading earth with golden harvesting,
Like unshorn Autumn, king of all delight;
Only upon the hedge-row tops he hangs
A green-tipped bud, and by such slender sign
Tells of the loosening of dead Winter's fangs,
His own dear advent, and his power divine;—
So my rich love, by this poor gift presented,
Argue no less for being thus meanly painted.

M. S.

Like morning, or the early buds in spring,
Or voice of children laughing in dark streets,
Or that quick leap with which the spirit greets
The old revisited mountains—some such thing
She seemed in her bright home: Joy and Delight,
And full-eyed Innocence with folded wing,
Sat in her face, and from her happy smiling
Clear air she shook like star-lit summer night.
What needed pain to purge a spirit so pure?
Like fire it came,—what less than fire can be
The cleansing Spirit of God? Oh, happy she,
Able with holy patience to endure!
Her joy made peace, and those bright ores of nature
Subdued to purest gold of piety.

TO THE REV. JOHN HAMILTON THOM.

Nature's least worthy growths have quickest spring,
And soonest answering service readiest meed,
And undiscerning glory's shining wing
Lights earliest on an ill-deserving head.
Winter o'er autumn-scattered wheat doth fling
A white oblivion that keeps warm the seed;
And wisest thought needs deepest burying,
Before its ripe effect begins to breed.
Therefore, O spiritual seedsman, cast
With unregretful hand thy rich grain forth,
Nor think thy word's regenerating birth
Dead, that so long lies locked in human breast.
Time, slow to foster things of lesser worth,
Broods o'er thy work, and God permits no waste.

[O Muse the Comforter! that in this vale]

O Muse the Comforter! that in this vale,
Thick strewn with shadows and adversity,
Walk'st with thy followers and mak'st them free,
Teaching their mounting thoughts high heaven to scale,
And, with toiled hearts when thou perceivest them fail,
Steepest their lips in clear cold Castaly,
And washest them from stained mortality;—
How much thy fostering cares, dear Muse, avail!
Yet me, alas, a heavier grief invades
Than thou canst cure; thou hast no sovereign art
For sadder thoughts than spring from Death's dark shades.
O Holy Spirit of God, sit Thou in my heart,
And teach me, with true faith, earnest not blind,
To break these mists, and see His face behind.

TO A LADY PREFERRING CALM TO PASSIONATE POETRY.

Much, Cousin, I commend your wiser choice,
Which rather loves these evener notes to hear
Than her whose muse still weeps so bitter a tear:
For us the Poet shall not with sad voice
Match melancholy breath to the sweet noise
Of all Apollo's harpings; but his ear
Something forget our passionate earthly sphere,
And catch the finer sound, which says, rejoice.
So may we, not untouched by Grief and Care,—
The hidden angels,—keep yet a spirit serene,
Climbing from step to step Faith's golden stair,
And, upward gazing from this mortal scene,
See our beloved like beckoning angels stand,
And hear low whispers from the heavenly land.

LAUDATRIX TEMPORIS ACTI.

Why should my love in idle phantasy
Flatter the records of her childish hours,
And deem her joy gone by? Oh, read in me
Love's heart, and entertain his glorious powers;
Taste Love's high pleasures, and you'll cast in scorn
All fond regrets for former joys away:
Love's promises are like the hand of Morn,
Crimsoning the East to antedate the day;
For by so much as is his morning glance
Outrivalled by his full meridian eye,
So much are Love's joys in Love's hopes' advance;
Yet herein true Love dims the sun on high,—
When once he hath attained his highest bent,
He owns no evening and no occident.

MIDNIGHT ON NEW YEAR'S EVE.

Hark, the deep tongue of midnight tolls no more;
And now Time, like a troubled spectre, stands
On the year's edge, and with lean trembling hands
Turns his great glass. Mark how the grains do pour
In glittering showers upon the glassy floor,
So thickly clustered with the golden sands
That it might seem he bore the ocean-strands,
And poised the circle of the sea-swept shore.
These are your hours that roll, O mortal men!
Fast ripening for the sickle of fell Time,
Now the revolving year returns again,
New-gilt resolves and hopes in all their prime;
Alas, that these should, like Time's trembling hours,
Fall fast and bright at first, to end in wavering showers!

THE TWO NIGHTS.

In the gray night we three went forth together,
Waiting the dawn: what time i' th' western skies
The crowded stars yet stretched their weary eyes
Ere streaked morn began i' th' east to feather.
Confident hearts we were, regardless whether
Trivial mishap might cloud our enterprise,
And bent to see the golden sun arise,
Child of the light, and king of cloudless weather;
Companions in a cloudier night we stand,
And contemplate a more eventful morn,—
This life our night, our morn the heavenly strand.
With firm hearts let us press our eastern way,
Winning our welcome to that heavenly land
Where sunshine hath no stint, and brightness no decay.

A CHRISTMAS SONNET.

When beauty-loving Nature hath conceived,
And of a child of bliss been brought to bed,
Whose grace makes poor the baby Spring upheaved
Upon reluctant Winter's icy head;
When in delight her darling hath been bred,
And mixed in her, as time is mixed with fleetness,
Are whiteness, joy, and truthfulness, and sweetness;—
What needs she more to seek the happy dead?
Put off, unwilling mother, put away
Those radiant sweeping garments of her joys.
No; that warm-clasping comfort must not stay;
Here are sharp waters of a heavenly sorrow.
Wash, child of Nature; weep you for those joys;
Here are the robes of faithfulness,—put on, and die to-morrow!

[Sad is my lot; among the shining spheres]

Sad is my lot; among the shining spheres
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night,
And ever, in my never-ending flight,
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears.
Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless biers
Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight;
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light;
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years.
My happier children's farther-piercing eyes
Into the blessed solvent future climb,
And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning;
But I, the ancient mother, am not wise,
And, shut within the blind obscure of time,
Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.

TO A FRIEND IN GRIEF.

Full in the gate where earth and heaven meet
I saw the figure of celestial Faith,
With face devout and grave, like one that pray'th.
There, as she sat, to her immortal feet
Came that loud-weeping babe with footsteps fleet,
Mortal Affliction, born of Love and Death,
Naked, and wounded by the cold night-breath.
Then, like a mother, with endearments sweet
She laid him in her lap and dried his tears,
And made him smile with comfort soft as air.
Following his flight, as the sad earth he nears,
I saw thy woful face upturned in prayer:
Out of thy bosom came this weeping boy;
Back to thy bosom take this child of joy!

TO A FRIEND.

Sad soul, whom God, resuming what He gave,
Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb,
Cease to oppress the portals of the grave,
And strain thy aching sight across the gloom.
The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave
Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind
Than thy storm-tossed and heavy-swelling mind
Grasp the full import of His means to save.
Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful grace
Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea.
Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars,
Down to the level ocean patiently;
Till His loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,
And His full glory shine upon thy face.

IN DEJECTION.
I.

When the fine framing faculty of Nature,
Striving by Beauty to contend with Death,
Adds to proportion perfect perfect feature,
Crimson complexion, and sweet-tuned breath,—
The cold physician with accustomed eyes
Sees the swift ensign of the conqueror
In glittering vision or quick flushes rise
To tell who hides behind the painted door.
Why this is common; so I too can smile,
And hide in mockery my frightful fears,
And with light laughter easily beguile
A sinful spirit washed with wasted tears;
But in my soul I hear a sullen cry,
A devil whispering, Despair, and die!

IN DEJECTION
II.

I will not die! Ah! once again, dear God,
Stretch down from heaven thy succouring hand benign;
Ah! once again,—now, when thy merited rod
Touches me sorely, and scarcely I divine
The face of comfort, bearing the heavy load
Of a dead heart,—and Dark wherein doth shine
No lamp or hope of light hath quite o'erflowed
And whelmed in dark this fainting spirit of mine;
Once more stretch forth thy hand before I die,
O Lord, my refuge! unto Thee I cling!
Show me thy face; to my dim spiritual eye,
Upturned though dark, thy radiant daylight bring;
Once, once again, on this cold rock my heart
Strike, till to thy loved touch the living waters start.

I

[If the first meaning of imagined words]

If the first meaning of imagined words
Had not been dulled by long promiscuous use,
And their fine sympathies and nice accords
Lost by misapplication or abuse;
Or if, within the breasts of those that choose
To read these lines, hung those responsive chords
Quick to appropriate what sound affords
Of most deep meaning, and touch hidden clues,—
Then might I from our English treasury,
Rich and abounding in poetic speech,
Choose out some phrase whereby to picture thee,
Or come as near thee as my thought can reach;
For I, bright soul, can show thee in my line
No more than painter limn the Child divine.

II

[Then would I say, thou hadst a shape of beauty]

Then would I say, thou hadst a shape of beauty,
And countenance both shamefast and serene;
Thy voice was low and pleading, and thy mien
A child-like sweetness mixed with dignity;
A most rare judgment hadst thou, which was seen
To rest on prayer more than authority;
Thence sprang thy wisdom, which did ever lean
On God, and move in perfect liberty.
Thy lofty courage hid itself in gentleness;
Thy spirit, quick at love's neglect to move,
Could never reach before thy swift forgiveness;
And such a soft dependence didst thou prove
With these great gifts, thou, like a babe, didst press
To rest in cherishing arms of those whom thou didst love.

III

[Love in thy heart like living waters rose]

Love in thy heart like living waters rose,
Thine own self lost in the abounding flood;
So that with thee, joy, comfort, thy life's good,
Thy youth's delights, thy beauty's freshest rose,
Were trash thy unregretful bounty chose
Before loved feet for softness to be strewed.
Such were thy mortal temperings. Above those,
Perfect, unstained, celestial, the clear brood
Of thy divine affections rose; white congress,
With brows devout and upward-winging eyes,
At whose graced feet sacred Humility lies;
Truthfulness, Patience, Wisdom, Gentleness,
Faith, Hope, and Charity, the golden three,
And Love which casts out fear,—this was the sum of thee.

DAYBREAK IN FEBRUARY.

Over the ground white snow, and in the air
Silence. The stars, like lamps soon to expire,
Gleam tremblingly; serene and heavenly fair,
The eastern hanging crescent climbeth higher.
See, purple on the azure softly steals,
And Morning, faintly touched with quivering fire,
Leans on the frosty summits of the hills,
Like a young girl over her hoary sire.
Oh, such a dawning over me has come,—
The daybreak of thy purity and love;—
The sadness of the never-satiate tomb
Thy countenance hath power to remove;
And from the sepulchre of Hope thy palm
Can roll the stone, and raise her bright and calm.

SYMBOLS OF VICTORY.