University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I. WRITTEN IN A BLANK-PAPER BOOK GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A FRIEND.

My little book, as o'er thy page so white,
With half-closed eyes in idlest mood I lean,
Whose is the form that rises still between
Thy page and me,—a vision of delight?
Look on those eyes by the bright soul made bright;
Those curls, which who Antinous' bust hath seen
Hath loved; that shape which might beseem a queen;
That blush of purity; that smile of light.
'Tis she! my little book dost thou not own
Thy mistress? She it is, the only she!
Dost thou not listen for the one sweet tone
Of her unrivalled voice? Dost thou not see
Her look of love, for whose dear sake alone,
My little book, thou art so dear to me?

II. ON MRS HOFLAND'S PICTURE OF JERUSALEM AT THE TIME OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

Jerusalem! and at the fatal hour!
No need of dull and frivolous question here!
No need of human agents to make clear
The most tremendous act of human power!
The distant cross; the rent and falling tower;
The opening graves, from which the dead uprear
Their buried forms; the elemental fear
Where horrid light and horrid darkness lower;
All tell the holy tale: the mystery
And solace of our souls. Awe-struck we gaze
On that so mute yet eloquent history!
Awe-struck and sad at length our eyes we raise
To go;—yet oft return that scene to see
Too full of the great theme to think of praise.

III. THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

Blossom that lov'st on shadowy banks to lie,
Gemming the deep rank grass with flowers so blue,
That the pure turquoise matched with their rich hue
Pales, fades, and dims; so exquisite a dye,
That scarce the brightness of the Autumn sky,
Which sleeps upon the bosom of the stream,
On whose fringed margent thy star-flowerets gleam
In its clear azure with thy tints may vie;
Shade-loving flower, I love thee! not alone
That thou dost haunt the greenest coolest spot,
For ever, by the tufted alder thrown,
Or arching hazel, or vine mantled cot,
But that thy very name hath a sweet tone
Of parting tenderness—Forget me not!

IV. TO MR. HENRY RICHARDSON,

ON HIS PERFORMANCE OF ADMETUS IN THE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES, AS REPRESENTED IN THE ORIGINAL GREEK AT READING SCHOOL. October, 1824.

For us, on whose sealed ear the classic strain
Of Athens' tenderest bard would idly fall
As instrumental music, or the call
Of wordless nightingales, for us again
I thank thee, wondrous boy! that not in vain
The scene hath overpast which held in thrall
Milton and Wordsworth, mightiest names of all
Living or dead that haunt the Muses' fane!
Thy genius was a language; voice and look,
Gesture and stillness the deep mystery
Of a strong grief unveiled. As lightnings dart
Their quivering brightness o'er the world, each nook
Illumining and thrilling, so from thee
Burst the storm-cloud of passion on the heart.

V. WRITTEN JULY, 1824.

How oft amid the heaped and bedded hay,
Under the oak's broad shadow deep and strong,
Have we sate listening to the noonday song
(If song it were monotonously gay)
Which crept along the field, the summer lay
Of the grasshopper. Summer is come in pride
Of fruit and flower, garlanded as a bride,
And crowned with corn, and graced with length of day.
But cold is come with her. We sit not now
Listening that merry music of the earth
Like Ariel “beneath the blossomed bough;”
But all for chillness round the social hearth
We cluster.—Hark!—a note of kindred mirth
Echoes!—Oh, wintery cricket, welcome thou!

VI. TO MY MOTHER SLEEPING.

Sleep on, my mother! sweet and innocent dreams
Attend thee, best and dearest! Dreams that gild
Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure filled
And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems,—
Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams,
Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build
And calmest thoughts, like violets distilled,
Their fragrance mingle with bright wisdom's beams.
Sleep on, my mother! not the lily's bell
So sweet; not the enamoured west-wind's sighs
That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell
So gentle; not that dew-drop ere it flies
So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee to dwell
Oh model most beloved of good and wise!

VII. ON A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Look where she sits in languid loveliness,
Her feet upgathered, and her turban'd brow
Bent o'er her hand, her robe in ample flow
Disparted! Look in attitude and dress
She sits and seems an Eastern Sultaness!
And music is about her, and the glow
Of young fair faces, and sweet voices go
Forth at her call, and all about her press.
But no Sultana she! As in a book
In that fine form and lovely brow we trace
Divinest purity, and the bright look
Of genius. Much is she in mind and face
Like the fair blossom of some woodland nook
The wind-flower ,—delicate and full of grace.

VIII. TO MISS PORDEN ,

ON HER POEM OF CŒUR DE LION.

Proudly thy sex may claim thee, young and fair
And lofty poetess! proudly may tell
How thou hast sung the arms invincible
Of him the lion-hearted, in the snare
Of Austria, as amid the sultry glare
Of Palestine, triumphant; or the spell
Of poor Maimonne; or the thoughts that swell
When suddenly the old remembered air
Rings from the harp of Blondel; or the bright
And gorgeous train of England's chivalry;
Or, worthy of his kingly foe, the might
Of paynim Saladin. Oh, proud of thee
Is woman! proud of thy bold muse's flight!
Proud of thy gentle spirit's purity.

IX. TO MR. HAYDON,

ON A STUDY FROM NATURE.

“Tears in the eyes and on the lips a sigh!”
Haydon! the great, the beautiful, the bold,
Thy wisdom's king, thy mercy's God unfold,
There art and genius blend in union high.
But this is of the soul. The majesty
Of grief is here, grief cast in such a mould
As Niobe of yore. The tale is told
All at a glance—A childless mother I!
The tale is told:—but who can e'er forget
That e'er hath seen that visage of despair!
With unaccustom'd tears our cheeks are wet;
Heavy our hearts with unaccounted care;
Upon our thoughts it presses like a debt;
We close our eyes in vain—that face is there!

X. ENGLEFIELD HOUSE:

THE SEAT OF R. BENYON DE BEAUVOIR, ESQ. NEAR READING.

There is a pride, as of an elder day
About thee, Englefield! mid way thy steep
And wood-crowned eminence, where round thee sweep
Green flowery lawns, trees in the fresh array
Of summer, meadows with the close-piled hay
Studded, blue waters that do seem to creep
All listlessly for heat, and cots that sleep
I' the sunshine. How thou tower'st above the gay
And lovely landscape, in the majesty
Of thy old beauty! Even those mansions bright,
That pretty town, that gothic chapelry
With front and pinnacle so rich and light,
Seem all as toys and costly pageantry
Made but for thy proud halls and their delight.

XI. NEW YEAR'S DAY. 1819.

Banquet and song, and dance and revelry!—
Auspicious year born in so fair a light
Of gaiety and beauty! happy night
Sacred to social pleasure, and to thee
Its dear dispenser, of festivity
The festive queen, the moving spirit bright
Of music and the dance, of all delight
The gentle mistress, bountiful and free.
Oh happy night! and oh succeeding day
Far happier! when 'mid converse and repose
Handel's sweet strains came sweetened, and the lay
Divine of that old Florentine arose,
Dante, and Genius flung his torch-like ray
O'er the dark tale of Ugolino's woes.

XII. ON TWO OF MR. HOFLAND'S LANDSCAPES.

A mighty power is in that roaring main
Broken into huge and foamy waves, which knock
Against yon mass of battlemented rock
Dark with storm-laden cloud, and wind-tost rain.
A lovely power is in that sunny plain
Where in their beauty the clear waters sleep,
Fringed in by tender grass, or idly creep
Where the close tufted banks their course restrain.
Oh Painter of the elements! to thee
Alike the gentle or tempestuous hour:
The throes and heavings of the wintery sea,
Whilst earth, and sky, and storm, and darkness, lour:
Or the sweet sunshine brooding peacefully
O'er wandering rivulet and summer bower.

XIII. ON HEARING MR. TALFOURD PLEAD IN THE ASSIZEHALL AT READING, ON HIS FIRST CIRCUIT,

March 1821.

Wherefore this stir? 'Tis but a common cause
Of Cottage plunder: yet in every eye
Sits expectation;—murmuring whispers fly
Along the crowded court;—and then a pause;—
And then a clear crisp voice invokes the laws,
With such a full and rapid mastery
Of sound and sense, such nice propriety,
Such pure and perfect taste, that scarce the applause
Can be to low triumphant words chained down
Or more triumphant smiles. Yes, this is he,
The young and eloquent spirit whose renown
Makes proud his birth-place! a high destiny
Is his; to climb to honour's palmy crown
By the strait path of truth and honesty.

XIV. THE FISHING-SEAT, WHITEKNIGHTS.

There is a sweet according harmony
In this fair scene: this quaintly fluted bower,
These sloping banks with tree and shrub and flower
Bedecked, and these pure waters, where the sky
In its deep blueness shines so peacefully;
Shines all unbroken, save with sudden light
When some proud swan majestically bright
Flashes her snowy beauty on the eye;
Shines all unbroken, save with sudden shade
When from the delicate birch a dewy tear
The west-wind brushes. Even the bee's blithe trade,
The lark's clear carols, sound too loudly here;
A spot it is for far-off music made,
Stillness and rest—a smaller Windermere.

XV. TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

This is the day sacred to love and mirth
And tender wishes; this the favoured day
(Sweet superstition!) when the artless lay
Is welcomed, and the token little worth,
And the fond vows, which live and have their birth
In the affectionate heart; a holiday
It is, for good and gentle, fair and gay,
My lovely Jane, it gave thee to the earth.
And thou hast trodden life's path with a wise glee,
Maid of the laughing eye! Were I the Queen
Of that so famous land of Faëry
Where quaintest spirits weave their spells unseen,
No better benison I'd pour on thee
Than to be happy still as thou hast been.

XVI. ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PICTURE.

Young world of peace and loveliness farewell!
Farewell to the clear lake; the mountains blue;
The grove, whose tufted paths our eyes pursue
Delighted; the white cottage in the dell
By yon old church; the smoke from that small cell
Amid the hills slow rising; and the hue
Of summer air, fresh, delicate, and true,
Breathing of light and life, the master spell!
Work of the Poet's eye, the Painter's hand,
How close to nature art thou, yet how free
From earthly stain! the beautiful, the bland,
The rose, the nightingale resemble thee;—
Thou art most like the blissful Fairy-land
Of Spenser, or Mozart's fine melody.

XVII. WRITTEN IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Book of memorials fair! I cannot trace
On thy white page the quaintly pencilled bower;
I have no skill to bid the vivid flower
Bloom 'mid thy leaves; nor with the immortal grace
Of proud Apollo, or the goddess face
Of Hebe deck them. 'Las! my ruder power
Can but bear record faint of many an hour
Passed thou mute witness in thy dwelling-place.
Oh happiest hours, that ever me befall,
Rich in commingling mind, in fancy's play!
Oh happiest hours, whether in music's thrall,
Or converse sweet as music pass the day!
Oh happiest hours! and most beloved of all
The cherished friend that speeds them on their way!

XVIII. ON VISITING DONNINGTON CASTLE,

SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE LATEST RESIDENCE OF CHAUCER, AND CELEBRATED FOR ITS RESISTANCE TO THE ARMY OF THE PARLIAMENT DURING THE CIVIL WARS.

Oh, for some gentle spirit to surround
With clinging ivy thy high-seated towers,
Fair Donnington, and wipe from Chaucer's bowers
The last rude touch of war! All sight, all sound
Of the old strife boon nature from the ground
Hath banished. Here the trench no longer lours,
But, like a bosky dell, begirt with flowers
And garlanded with May, sinks dimpling round
A very spot for youthful lover's dreams
In the prime hour. Grisildis' mournful lay,
The “half-told tale ” would sound still sweeter here.
Oh for some hand to hide with ivy spray
War's ravages, and chase the jarring themes
Of King and State, Roundhead and Cavalier!

XIX. WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT FROM SOME FRIENDS.

I could have lengthened out one fleeting hour
Into an age; sitting at set of sun
Under the long, low, open shed where won
The mellow evening light through leaf and flower;
Playing the hostess in that summer bower
To such dear guests, whilst rose the antique song
By those young sister voices poured along
So wild, so pure, so clear, full of sweet power
Ringing and vibrating. It was a lay
That sent a smile into the very heart;
As when the early lark shoots up in May
With his blithe matins, rarer than all art
Save this. Oh happiest and most fleeting day,
Why art thou gone so soon! Why must we part!

XX. ON AN INTENDED REMOVAL FROM A FAVOURITE RESIDENCE.

November, 1820.

Adieu, beloved and lovely home! Adieu,
Thou pleasant mansion, and ye waters bright,
Ye lawns, ye aged elms, ye shrubberies light
(My own cotemporary trees, that grew
Even with my growth;) ye flowers of orient hue,
A long farewell to all! Ere fair to sight
In summer-shine ye bloom with beauty dight,
Your halls we leave for scenes untried and new.
Oh shades endeared by memory's magic power
With strange reluctance from your paths I roam!
But home lives not in lawn, or tree, or flower,
Nor dwells tenacious in one only dome.
Where smiling friends adorn the social hour,
Where they, the dearest are, there will be home.

XXI. ON THE DEPARTURE OF A FRIEND TO LISBON FOR THE RECOVERY OF HER HEALTH.

Nov. 1813.

Thou freshest spirit, that on Lisbon's shore
Didst shake health-breathing airs so cheerily
From thy soft wing, as oft the murmuring bee
Scatters the full-blown rose,—the cannon's roar
Scared thee, mild spirit! and the flood of gore,
Tinging the bosom of thy heaving sea,
Defiled thy snowy feet, and thou didst flee
From ills thou could'st not cure and must deplore.
War's demons are gone by. Thy lovely strand
Is purified. Oh spirit thither bend
Thine airy flight, and wave thy healing wand
O'er yon fair form where grace and virtue blend!
Then proudly waft her to her native land—
Her, loved and blest, the mother, wife and friend.

XXII. WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1825.

Within my little garden is a flower,
A tuft of flowers, most like a sheaf of corn,
The lilac blossomed daisy that is born
At Michaelmas, wrought by the gentle power
Of this sweet Autumn into one bright shower
Of bloomy beauty; Spring hath nought more fair,
Four sister butterflies inhabit there,
Gay gentle creatures! Round that odorous bower
They weave their dance of joy the livelong day,
Seeming to bless the sunshine; and at night
Fold their enamelled wings as if to pray.
Home-loving pretty ones! would that I might
For richer gifts as cheerful tribute pay,
So meet the rising dawn, so hail the parting ray!