 | Sonnets |  |
TO THOMAS EVELYN SCOTT ELLIS LORD HOWARD DE WALDEN AND
WILLIAM CHARLES DE MEURON WENTWORTH FITZWILLIAM EARL FITZWILLIAM
WHOSE PURCHASE OF THE ACADEMY HATH CONFERRED SUCH LUSTRE ON LETTERS
AND SUCH A DIGNITY UPON THE HIGH MUSES THIS BOOK
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THEIR LORDSHIPS' OBEDIENT
AND OBLIGED SERVANT THOMAS WILLIAM HODGSON CROSLAND
10
TO A. D.
You took proud words and touched their meagre blood,
You gave them wine and oil and the full grain,
The rose of love, the sacraments of Pain
And Death and Joy, and Beauty where she stood
Ineffable, like a beatitude,
And washed in silver dawns and golden rain;
You would not stoop for praises or for gain,
And you have wrought us nothing else but good.
You gave them wine and oil and the full grain,
The rose of love, the sacraments of Pain
And Death and Joy, and Beauty where she stood
Ineffable, like a beatitude,
And washed in silver dawns and golden rain;
You would not stoop for praises or for gain,
And you have wrought us nothing else but good.
They see your soul, on flaming vans of song,
Flash past the prisons, and they shake their bars
With rage and malice; where there is no light
They sit contriving mockeries and wrong;
They know you have possessions in the stars,
And they must spit at you their little spite.
Flash past the prisons, and they shake their bars
With rage and malice; where there is no light
They sit contriving mockeries and wrong;
They know you have possessions in the stars,
And they must spit at you their little spite.
14
TO A CERTAIN KNIGHT
They perk you up in scarlet and horsehair,
And let you say your usher-tickling mots,
For joy of which the unhanged prisoner glows,
And counts his life a very small affair.
Then you write verse. Out comes the West minster
(Why it comes out the Lord in Heaven knows),
And in black type on pea-green paper shows
Whose mantle it is that Milton used to wear.
And let you say your usher-tickling mots,
For joy of which the unhanged prisoner glows,
And counts his life a very small affair.
Then you write verse. Out comes the West minster
(Why it comes out the Lord in Heaven knows),
And in black type on pea-green paper shows
Whose mantle it is that Milton used to wear.
We who are Justice to a mightier than the King
Have ‘carefully perused’ your verse, Sir Charles.
And hereby we deliver judgment on it:
A more mechanic, less poetic thing
Was never penned even by Clough or Quarles—
And, Jupiter! what a mess you make of the sonnet!
Have ‘carefully perused’ your verse, Sir Charles.
And hereby we deliver judgment on it:
A more mechanic, less poetic thing
Was never penned even by Clough or Quarles—
And, Jupiter! what a mess you make of the sonnet!
24
MR. ASQUITH WEPT
Rare and refreshing fruit—Oh ruddy and rare
And odorous! Behold the Tree of Cant
And vain Imaginings which we did plant
That it might spread bright branches on the air
And drop for each poor man a rich man's share,
And yield the lords of sentiment and rant
And every charlatan and recusant
The proud rewards such arborage should bear.
And odorous! Behold the Tree of Cant
And vain Imaginings which we did plant
That it might spread bright branches on the air
And drop for each poor man a rich man's share,
And yield the lords of sentiment and rant
And every charlatan and recusant
The proud rewards such arborage should bear.
How it did prosper and blossom, our tree of trees,
Like the old green bay-tree in the old script . . .
But now by frosts of Doom it hath been nipped,
And to our frightened glances it appears
Blacker than the funereal cypresses,
And we must water it with Front Bench tears.
Like the old green bay-tree in the old script . . .
But now by frosts of Doom it hath been nipped,
And to our frightened glances it appears
Blacker than the funereal cypresses,
And we must water it with Front Bench tears.
26
FREEDOM
Upon a hill they set her; she looked down
To where the English orchards drink the light
And England's brawn flings flame into the night,
And she had joy of weald and thorp and town,
And her joy was their joy. The dullest clown
Knew he was free; and insolence and might
For all their pride were shaken before this right
Of liberty, which is the common crown.
To where the English orchards drink the light
And England's brawn flings flame into the night,
And she had joy of weald and thorp and town,
And her joy was their joy. The dullest clown
Knew he was free; and insolence and might
For all their pride were shaken before this right
Of liberty, which is the common crown.
Still are her state and glory the marvel of men,
Still for her state and glory and honour and fame
The old brave shadows greet us through the mist;
And we have strength because of them. How then
Shall we discern without a touch of shame
The Welshman's shackle at her milk-white wrist?
Still for her state and glory and honour and fame
The old brave shadows greet us through the mist;
And we have strength because of them. How then
Shall we discern without a touch of shame
The Welshman's shackle at her milk-white wrist?
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