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Sonnets 
 
" Deal gently with us, ye who read ! 
 Our largest hope is unfulfilled, — 
 The promise still outruns the deed, — 
 The tower, but not the spire, we build. 
 
 Our whitest pearl we never find ; 
 
 Our ripest fruit we never reach ; 
 The flowering moments of the mind 
 
 Drop half their petals in our speech." 
 
 —Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 BY 
 
 THE EARL OE ROSSLYN 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 MDCCCLXXXIII 
 
 Ail Rights 7e served 
 
LOAN STACK 
 

 IT HAD BEEN MY DESIRE 
 
 TO INSCRIBE THESE SONNETS 
 
 TO 
 
 LORD BEACONSFIELD, 
 
 AND 
 
 HE HAD OFTEN EXPRESSED A WISH 
 
 THAT I SHOULD DO SO. 
 
 / A^OIV DEDICATE THEM TO 
 
 HIS MEMORY. 
 
 ^ 
 
 710 
 
IN ME MORI AM. 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI, 
 
 EARL OF BEACONSFIELD. 
 Ob Hi April 19, 1881. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^ I ^HERE lies within the grasp of our great Foe, 
 ^ One of the noblest lives that England owns — 
 A Man, not all unused to Fortune's frowns. 
 Nor wasted by her smiles ; whose thoughtful brow 
 Uniting wide extremes of high and low, 
 And bravely meeting all the ups and downs 
 Of wayward Fate— just both to Crowds and Crowns- 
 Grows old with grace, as only wise men grow. 
 Pain and disease assail him, he alone 
 Is unr^pining ; grateful for the past, 
 He suffers patient in that hope of Light 
 Which leads through darkness to the Great White 
 
 Throne. 
 Oh, Statesmen ! Patriots ! he, wellnigh the last 
 And greatest left, desires your prayers to-night ! 
 
 London, Ap7'il 16, 1881. 
 
 A 
 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 
 HE needs our prayers no more, — no Day, no 
 Night 
 Where his great soul abides. From "Golden 
 
 Gate " 
 And fair " Italian Terrace," where but late 
 He walked, to Jasper Doors and Paths of Light; 
 And all the marvels of celestial might. 
 Is blessed change for one^who doubted Fate 
 That jars with Faith, content to work and wait 
 Till God shall bring His hidden things to sight. 
 Now we who loved him, sorrowing, bare the head. 
 And bend the knee before his silent grave, 
 And lay him down this day for evermore 
 To dreamless slumber in his quiet bed. 
 Where, after many a buffet from life's wave, 
 He rests at last, as on a welcome shore. 
 
 HUGHENDEN. April 26, 1881. 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 R. F. B., LiEUT.-CoL. Grenadier Guards. 
 Died of his wou7id received at Tel-el- Kebir, Oct. 23, 1882. 
 
 TO fall full-front to foe — a soldier's death — 
 For this our pride may glisten through our 
 tears ; 
 But to lie wounded, racked with hopes and fears, 
 And slowly feel the sword wear out the sheath : 
 In life's rich prime to yield the joyous breath 
 That fanned its flame so brightly ; with such years 
 Of Hope (foul flatterer as he now appears) 
 To twine fresh foliage in thy Victor's Wreath ; — 
 Ay ! this is cruel — and thus hast thou died ! 
 Alas ! how near the Glory and the Grave, 
 The shout of triumph and the tombstone phrase, 
 Cypress and Laurel ever side by side, 
 Prayer-hallowed tears, yet all in vain to save, 
 And, what thou ne'er can'st hear — thy Country's 
 praise ! 
 
 October 29, 1882. 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 MRS E. BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 STRONG- HEARTED lover of the sore- 
 oppressed ! 
 Thou sleepest now by Arno's wayward stream ; 
 And in that sleep perchance thy life's fond dream 
 Of comfort for the suffering, haunts thy rest ; 
 Still wouldst thou clasp lone children to thy breast, 
 Still wouldst thou make earth's blessings richly teem 
 For those who want, nor judge things as they seem, 
 Nor choose the path of riches, for the best. 
 Through a sad life of duty nobly done 
 Rose the rich music of thy Poet-voice 
 For struggling childhood : sleep serenely now, 
 The fight is o'er ! the victory is won ! 
 Through pain and tears, the saddest hearts rejoice 
 To weave the eternal laurel for thy brow ! 
 
Sonnets. 5 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 WEIRD thinker-out of thoughts beyond the 
 ken 
 Of common mortals, rugged though sublime ; 
 Probing the inmost depths of farthest time, 
 Audacious, — wielding thy inscrutable pen 
 Like flashing falchion, dazzling thoughtless men 
 By thy thoughts' force, compressed" iii 'strange- 
 wrought rhyme. 
 Few feet can follow where thou lov'st to climb. 
 To eagle's eyrie or to lion's den ! 
 Oh ! Master (not unaided in thy song, 
 By her who sleepeth now near Arno's wave. 
 Worthy to help thee, or with thee to write), 
 Deign to instruct us weaker ones, who long 
 To rest their wavering thoughts — not wholly brave — 
 Where through the obscure there shines more 
 perfect light. 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 PRINCESS ALICE. 
 
 jn'TERNAL life— God's gift— is Thine to-day, 
 ^-^ Death cowers defeated — victory is Thine ! 
 Is it not promised us, who now repine, 
 That the Lord God will wipe all tears away ? 
 We part with this frail tenement of clay 
 And the freed spirit soars in Heaven to shine, 
 Elate, majestic, glorious, and Divine, 
 No more to wander from the perfect way. 
 Oh, Thou pure Soul ! to whom to die is gain, 
 Whose Earthly Crown is changed for Heavenly, 
 
 send 
 From Thy blest home. Thy dwelling-place above, 
 Comfort to those who mourn, — not all in vain 
 Look down once more on us who v/ait, and blend 
 Our hopes, our faith, with Thy angelic love. 
 
 December 14, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 IMMORTAL Love ! great vanquisher of Death, 
 Hast thou too yielded to his harsh demand ? 
 Why didst thou not control the cruel hand 
 That decked the altar with a funeral wreath ? 
 How could such danger lie fair flowers beneath, 
 And spread its desolation through the land ? 
 What subtle poison must the Love command, 
 That deals destruction with its own sweet breath ? 
 Wife, daughter, sister, mother, best in each, 
 Yet calmly conscious of her Princely right ! 
 Her life to virtuous deeds was wholly given, 
 " Her voice yet speaketh," and in words that teach : 
 A light that shineth e'en in Death's dark night, 
 And guides the weary wanderer to Heaven. 
 
8 Sonnets. 
 
 E. R. Obiit 1851. 
 
 T T AVE all thy bright hopes faded ? Has the 
 
 -^ -^ night 
 
 Of death victorious darkened o'er thy brow? 
 
 Are all thy dreams of life so soon decayed ? 
 
 Are all thy thoughts of happiness laid low ? 
 
 Yes ! all are over, the too rapid flight 
 
 Of one brief year since thy fond vows were made ! 
 
 Thy plighted troth redeemed, has not yet passed, 
 
 And thou art gone, too bright, too pure to last ! 
 
 Oh, cruel doom, in giving life to die ! 
 
 Yet happier fate, to leave some trace behind, 
 
 A relic of thy fair mortality, 
 
 Than all to perish in death's stormy wind ! 
 
 Yet death's last boon is more than life can give — 
 
 For aye to rest, and yet for aye to live. 
 
 Oxford, 185 i. 
 
Sonnets. 9 
 
 TO AN INFANT, 
 
 WHOSE MOTHER DIED AT ITS BIRTH. 
 
 THOU guiltless-guilty, innocent-evil mite, 
 With Southern hair, and Mediterranean eyes 
 Gazing at this cold world in sad surprise ! 
 Hard problem thou to solve ! Can this be right, 
 And thy young morn be darkened with such blight 
 At the first dawn of life ? Some grave surmise 
 Why thou shouldst suffer must perplex the wise ! 
 No mother's arms to fold thee in the night ! 
 Ay, babble, now, and toy with yonder flower, 
 Fair as thyself, and like thy mother, born 
 To die in youth, and yet to leave behind 
 A tender seedling for some happier hour. 
 Thy God who sent thee here this sunny morn, 
 To His poor lamb will temper the harsh wind. 
 
 WoRTLEY, 1882, 
 
I o Sonnets. 
 
 IN ME MORI AM. 
 LADY F. C. 
 
 THINE! all thine! yesterday! To-day the 
 bride 
 Of Death ! — The king who dominates our life — 
 Seizes our unweaned babes, and tears the wife 
 From the new-wedded arms, where love and pride 
 Seemed strong enough his menace to deride, 
 But yet were powerless in the fatal strife. 
 Earth teems with sorrow ; every day is rife 
 With such grim terror as the Erl-king's ride. 
 Yes, she has left you, — passionless, — unstrung — 
 Like the mute viol — all your music fled, — 
 But not for long ; we follow on the track 
 That Poets through all time have sadly sung, — - 
 The track of starlit paths — of happy dead, 
 And mourn her here, but may not wish her back. 
 
 October 2, 1881. 
 
Sonnets. 1 1 
 
 ADMIRAL ROUS. 
 
 DIED JUNE 19, 1877, AGED 82. 
 
 "And though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet 
 is their strength then but labour and sorrow." 
 
 LABOUR and sorrow ! Nay, at fourscore years 
 ^ No sorrow bowed his venerable head, 
 No labour daunted or discomfited ; 
 His heart was young, his spirit knew no fears. 
 The sorrow now is ours, and ours the tears 
 By eyes unused to weep — now freely shed. 
 The merry hours, the happy days are fled, 
 Yet each some fond undying memory bears. 
 And fourscore years of faithful duty done. 
 Of high-souled honour, and of friendship, set 
 On rock foundations, are not vainly spent ; 
 These train a generation scarce begun, 
 And teach a moral none should e'er forget — • 
 "To live uprightly is to die content." 
 
1 2 Sonnets. 
 
 T 
 
 GEORGE WHYTE- MELVILLE. 
 
 KILLED HUNTING, DEC. 5, 1878. 
 
 HE engineer by his own petard slain, 
 
 The eagle pierced by shaft from his own 
 wing, 
 Are plaintive fancies, such as poets sing. 
 And touch the heart but coldly, through the brain. 
 But thou, dear George, in thine own sport thus ta'en 
 In all the prime of manhood, and the swing 
 Of gallant gallop struck stone-dead — the thing 
 Appals, and petrifies the mind with pain. 
 Bright, brave, and tender, Poesy's pet child, 
 Romance and History's lore alike were thine ; 
 Thy wit ne'er wounded, yet the contest won. 
 For at thy jest the gravest dullard smiled. 
 Last scion of an ancient Scottish line, 
 Whose " old folks " live to mourn their only Son. 
 
 December 6, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 1 3 
 
 CHISLEHURST. 
 
 DEAD ! my one Boy — my only one — and Dead. 
 SirS; do not mock me, — say it is not so. 
 He was the hope of France, — nay, let me go, 
 I am his mother ; life cannot be fled 
 From those young eyes, and that beloved head 
 That should have worn a Crown : a Crown of woe 
 Truly I wear for him — though fallen so low, 
 An Empress still, dethroned and banished. 
 I crave your pardon : now I cannot weep, 
 Henceforth I weep for ever ; gone ! all gone ! 
 Throne, Husband, Child, all snatched away from 
 
 me; 
 A childless widow prays you, Sirs, to keep 
 Some kind thoughts for her. She is all alone, 
 Her heart is broken by much misery. 
 
 June 22, 1882. 
 
14 Sonnets. 
 
 LORD RAVENSWORTH. 
 
 DIED 1878. 
 
 THOU greatly' gifted ! yet not well content 
 To idly rest on Nature's gifts alone, 
 But resolute for victory, as one 
 Who learns the art of fence, on war intent, 
 Thy sword is chosen without stain or dent 
 From learning's armoury, and its blade has shone 
 In peaceful strife ; thy deeds of fame are done 
 In classic joust and poet's tournament. 
 How gladly would I carry helm and spear, 
 A willing Squire to such a valiant Knight, 
 And couch a lance in this most glorious fray, 
 Where all who fight, each one to each, grow dear ! 
 They welcome truth and beauty as the light 
 Of triumph,- — pure as Heaven's eternal day. 
 
 September^, 1874. 
 
Sonnets. 1 5 
 
 LADY SMITH, 
 
 ON HER lOOTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I DARE not, daring much, presume to write 
 On such a day mere birthday rhymes to thee ! 
 Thou hast been chosen ! On the sheltered tree 
 The fruit hangs longest, and before the Night 
 That must come, cometh, and the fatal blight 
 Reach thy ripe fruit (so mellow, yet so free 
 From mouldy age), accept these lines from me. 
 I have no claim, no vestige of a right 
 To offer homage at thy peaceful shrine, — 
 Hallowed by time, a century of worth ! 
 But though unknown, I know where virtues live, 
 And honoured learning makes her home divine ; 
 Good angels watched at thy auspicious birth, — 
 God guard thee still, and every blessing give. 
 
1 6 Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE SAME, 
 
 QUOTING ADDISON FROM MEMORY, 
 IN HER I04TH YEAR. 
 
 nr^HOU wondrous Link of Time's immortal 
 
 ■*- chain ! 
 Thou bindest Age to Age ; I pray you take 
 The homage of a stranger : thou dost make 
 The roses of the Past to bloom again. 
 Wide-sundered founts of pleasure and of pain 
 Rise up for thee to form a crystal lake, 
 On whose strange shores Lethean waters break, 
 Yet flood thy heart's warm memory in vain ; 
 " Fountains of fire " the poet calls the Past 
 That memory steals to brighten present hours : 
 Oh ! be it fire or but some silver stream. 
 May it be thine, dear Lady, to the last, 
 To illumine all around thee with its powers, 
 Till life ebbs slowly in an endless dream. 
 
 December 1876. 
 
SoJinets. 1 7 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 DIED IN HER I04TH YEAR. 
 
 THE endless dream — the dream that has no 
 breaking ! 
 The dream of the Fair City's golden gates, 
 The white-robed throng that evermore awaits 
 Pure souls like thine — the dream that knows no 
 
 waking 
 Has come at last ; so slowly overtaking 
 Thy blessed life, it seemed no change of states — 
 No cruel severance of the fabled Fates, 
 But a sweet passage of thine own dear making. 
 Borne on the wings of wisdom year by year 
 To brightest human points, one Heavenly Home 
 Was waiting for thee long — ay, long ere this. 
 Thou hast fulfilled thy hope, no fainting fear — 
 No vain regret ! "I come, dear Lord, I come. 
 And change earth's cares for everlasting bliss." 
 
 February 2, 1877. 
 
 B 
 
! 8 Son? lets. 
 
 T 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 HE feebleness that drags the soul to earth, 
 And clogs the brain, and clips the soaring 
 wings, 
 Palsies the tongue that charms, the voice that sings, 
 Is man's sad heritage — emblem of his birth. 
 There is to some a power Divine, whose worth 
 Is strength in weakness, — whose enchantment 
 
 brings 
 A life beyond the clay — far nobler things 
 Than rest or unrest, melancholy or mirth. 
 These were Thy gifts, — excelling in them all, 
 The young grew wise beneath Thy wizard touch. 
 The old bloomed young again. Death lost his sway, 
 For Genius mocks his ineffective thrall ! 
 All praise be Thine — and yet not overmuch — 
 Thy fame — the dawning of an endless day. 
 
Sa/ijuis. 1 9 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL TALr, 
 
 ARCHBISHOP. 
 
 THE chalice of Thy holy hfe is dry ! 
 Ah-eady sounds the Angel's welcome voice 
 That bids Thee hasten home; "Rejoice, rejoice ! 
 The saints rejoice whenever good men die ! " 
 O Servant of the Lord ! Thy fearless eye 
 Now Aveeps no more ! such death had been Thy 
 
 choice — 
 No cruel pang to shake the equipoise 
 Of Thy true-balanced mind in agony ! 
 Thy thoughts, perchance, turned to the heathery 
 
 haunts 
 Of childhood, whence Thy simple Bible-lore, 
 That raised Thee to the highest throne of Priest. 
 Then smiling (for no dying terror daunts 
 Such hearts), he passed to loved ones gone before. 
 Who waited for him; — Greatest, and yet Least ! 
 
 Advent Sunday, 1882. 
 
20 Sonnets. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 THE DONA MERCEDES DE BOURBON, 
 
 QUEEN OF SPAIN, CONSORT OF ALPHONSO XII. 
 Married, January 2';^, 1878; Died, yniic 26, 1878; aged i^. 
 
 On the occasion of the marriage of King Alphonso 
 to his young cousin, Dona Mercedes, the Author 
 was appointed Special Ambassador at the Court 
 of Spain. The impression made upon him, and 
 upon those who accompanied him in his Embassy, 
 was, that the alHance was one of pure love — deep, 
 simple, and sincere. The warm, generous disposi- 
 tion of the King, and the calm, serene, confiding 
 character of his beloved bride, seemed to promise 
 a life of domestic happiness such as Spain at all 
 events had never witnessed in her rulers ; but this 
 was destined, as we all now know, to be cut short 
 by the hand of death. The incidents referred to 
 in each sonnet actually occurred ; and a letter to 
 the Author from the King, signed " votre afflige 
 Alphonse," testifies alike to the passionate depths 
 of liis love, and to the intensity of his sorrow. 
 
Sonnets. 2 1 
 
 I. 
 
 The poor King remains leaning on her bed, and calling on 
 ha- name, ^^ Mercedes ! Mercedes mia! " To the last her eyes 
 zoere turned on the King. 
 
 I have seen him tivice, — all he said zoas, " That for hiin 
 there was no consolation, but that he would do his duty.'''' — 
 Extract from a Private Letter from Madrid. 
 
 MERCEDES MIA ! turn thine eyes away, 
 I have no power to grant their longing 
 prayer, 
 Their mute appeal is more than I can bear. 
 Could I but snatch thee from Death's cruel sway 
 God knows how gladly I would give this day 
 My life for thine. Eor whom have I to care 
 When thou art gone ? The darkness of despair 
 Clouds all my heart with terror and dismay. 
 Mercedes mia ! I am brave once more ! 
 My eyes will weep no more until the end, . 
 But steadfastly, beloved, gaze in thine 
 Till Death arrest their sight. What ! is all o'er ? 
 Then farewell Hope ! and farewell truest Friend ! 
 Now Duty's rugged path be only mine ! 
 
22 Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 
 From that window of his ancestral home, this yottng 
 Monarch watched the train departing for the Esciirial. 
 Long after it had left, he continued steadily looking in the 
 direction taken by the mortal remains of his darling bride. — 
 Special Correspondence of the 'Slandard.' 
 
 THE sandy ridges of that barren plain 
 (A weird wild bleakness of infinity), 
 Melt into space before his throbbing eye, 
 And his heart aches with agonising pain, 
 As swiftly speeds the dark funereal train, 
 Bearing away his Queen — too young to die — 
 His bride — his loyal love's idolatry — 
 To the Escurial's gloomy-gorgeous fane ! 
 In the high casement of his stately home. 
 In tearless anguish, sits the Lord of all ; 
 His fixed gaze, true as the polar star, 
 Points without changing to that dreary dome, 
 Where a thin wreath of smoke, like a grey pall, 
 Still guides his faithful sorrow from afar. 
 
Sonnets. 2 x 
 
 III. 
 
 SILENCE AND TEARS. 
 
 IT may be speech can ease the troubled heart, 
 But there are thoughts no tongue can e'er 
 express, 
 Thoughts drowned in tears and steeped in bitterness. 
 That of our inmost being form a part 
 Yet are unutterable. When the strings start 
 And snap asunder, dumb and passionless 
 Fades the faint music, like a last caress. 
 And gone for ever is the master's art ! 
 When the proud vessel, ere her sails be spread, 
 Is wrecked in port ; how can I dare to say, 
 " Sire ! winds will grow more tranquil, and the wave 
 Smooth its blue back for thy Imperial tread " ? 
 How can I choose but kneel, and humbly pray 
 With thee, sad Monarch, by the silent grave ? 
 
24 Sonnets. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE silent grave ! nay, leave her not among 
 The marble tombs of thy ancestral dead 
 (Too hard a pillow for so fair a head), 
 But lay her tenderly where Poet's song 
 May consecrate thy love's undying wrong : 
 Where flowers and sunshine, Heaven's bright gifts, 
 
 may shed 
 Fresh fragrance daily o'er her lonely bed, 
 And all her people may around her throng ! 
 For life is but a day of work for all, — 
 And Death is sleep, — another name for rest — 
 Eternal rest, — for Peasant or for Queen. — 
 So here let flowers her grace and youth recall 
 (Like her, short-lived, the brightest and the best). 
 And grief find comfort in the peaceful scene ! 
 
 July 3, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 2 5 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 I. 
 
 1IGHT of my life, dear Wife, I write to thee ; 
 -^ Do not, like captious critic, judge my lines, 
 For my whole heart, like ivy, intertwines 
 The words so old, yet ever new to me ! 
 In all thy sufferings I must bear my part, 
 As in thy joys I joy to have my share ; 
 And if, to-night, God gives thee more to bear, 
 I too will bear it, with a willing heart. 
 Life is made up of suffering and delight — 
 Suffering, short-lived ; delight, thank God, how 
 
 long; 
 And ere the sunrise of to-morrow's morn 
 Thou wilt forget the anguish of to-night ; 
 And through long years thou wilt recall my song, 
 And, smiling, cry, " No rose without a thorn." 
 
26 Sonnets. 
 
 n. 
 
 TT THEN all my thoughts are turned to thee 
 
 ' ^ alone, 
 
 How can I sleep, except I dream of thee ? 
 How can I, waking, join in gaiety, 
 When half my smiles for thee are woe-begone? 
 Thou art my Sun ! and if my Sun has shone, 
 I glory like a lizard, basking free 
 In the full noon-tide of my revelry. 
 Or like a welcome courtier near the throne. 
 But darker dreams will force their dreadful way 
 Through the long watch of night, and sunny hours 
 Sometimes will yield to vapours from the East. 
 Shine then, sweet Wife, like hawthorn buds in May 
 With opening promise ! and Celestial powers 
 Send us blest fruit from love's abundant feast ! 
 
Sonnets. 27 
 
 III. 
 
 OFEAR ! O Hope ! sisters, alas ! in blood, 
 And yet of alien races ! Why does Fate 
 Blend all my life with yours ? I wait and wait 
 In Hope and Fear each night — an anxious mood ! 
 Love ! many cruel words hast thou withstood, 
 But thou must bear this blame ; I learn too late 
 Thou drivest sleep through the fair ivory gate, 
 And Fear and Hope spring from thy varied brood ; 
 Yet in my Hope, Fear holds me somewhat right, 
 Lest I grow over-fond, and in my Fear 
 Hope cheers me onward, lest I all despair ; 
 And in both Hope and Fear love clasps me tight, 
 And keeps me ever watchful o'er my Dear, 
 Whose joys and sorrows are my fondest care !. 
 
28 Sonnets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WHOM can I love but Thee? Is not my 
 heart, 
 So full of love, wholly and solely thine ? 
 And if true love — of earth the one divine, 
 Unchanging, holy thing — thou dost impart, 
 It were strange barter in an unfair mart, 
 Did I not give, — nay, — lay upon the shrine 
 I best can worship at, that poor thing — mine. 
 On life's rough ocean take it for thy chart ! 
 And now, when Nature's tribute, Love's harsh toll 
 Weighs heavily on thy spirit, learn Love's lore 
 From fondest volume, certified and sure. 
 Emblazoned on imperishable scroll, 
 Our love shall shine, Beloved, more and more. 
 And deathless through all ages shall endure ! 
 
Sonnets. 29 
 
 V. 
 
 THE Spring, long since, has shaded her blue 
 eyes 
 With the thick verdure of the Summer leaves ; 
 And now the heart o'er parting Summer grieves, 
 Loath to greet Autumn and her cloudy skies. 
 Yet, in despite of sorrow, Autumn comes 
 Rich with her golden gifts, and bounteous store 
 She brings to gladden many a cottage door, 
 And send the gleaners happy to their homes. 
 Too soon will Autumn, shivering, shrink away, 
 And leafless Winter, herald of Christ's birth, 
 Bring other hopes, and whisper holier joy. 
 Thus every season has its happy day ; 
 God gives to each its own allotted mirth : 
 Most blest to Thee the one that brings thy Boy. 
 
J 
 
 o Sojuiets. 
 
 VI. 
 
 SLEEP soundly, Sweetheart, though the winds 
 blow high 
 And snow-wreaths crown the buds of early spring ; 
 Like a true mate at resting-time I sing 
 A tender carol for thy lullaby. 
 Dread nothing, Dearest, when thy love is nigh, 
 And nestle close beneath the downy wing 
 Of slumber ] spite of tempests murmuring, 
 Thy God will guard thee with a Father's eye. 
 Blest in thy faith, thy children, and thy love. 
 Raise, ere thou sleep'st, to God thy grateful heart, 
 Whose mercy keeps thee both by night and day ; 
 Lift thy dear voice in praise and prayer above, 
 So shalt thou prosper in that better part 
 He promises to all who watch and pray. 
 
Sonnets. 3 1 
 
 VII. 
 
 I LECTURE ? Sweet ! when thou art near, 
 thy eyes 
 Discourse unanswerably to my heart ; 
 And all my reason, all my nobler part. 
 Yields to thy lecture's tender sympathies. 
 As the loud notes are hushed in symphonies, 
 And bend their music to consummate art. 
 Lulled by a skill no untrained hands impart. 
 So sinks my soul in gratified surprise. 
 Surprise ! nay, why surprise ? for Love must rule 
 In every moment of my happiest hours, 
 In every motion of my too-blest life. 
 And whip me back, a dullard, to that school 
 Where learning ever laughs ; where crowned with 
 
 flowers. 
 My sternest master is my darling Wife. 
 
32 Sonnets. 
 
 VOL 
 
 YOU bid me write a sonnet to the year, 
 Whose dying moments tremble in the grasp 
 Of Time's relentless hand, whose final gasp — 
 Feeble and faint — comes nearer, and more near. 
 Dearest, thy loving hand dries every tear; 
 And every moment, fleeting but too fast, 
 Speaking so solemnly of the changeless past, 
 But tells me truly that you grow more dear. 
 The gentle guidance of a Heavenly grace, 
 Thy guileless sympathy for other's woe. 
 Sustain thee in thy trials from above, 
 Lend a new charm to thy endearing face. 
 And if thou needest comfort from below. 
 Oh, seek it always in thy husband's love ! 
 
 December 31, 1868. 
 
Sonnets. 33 
 
 IX. 
 
 /^~A H, blame me not because my verse is rare ! 
 ^-^ Deem not my heart is idle as my song ! 
 Thou know'st to thee such melodies belonor, 
 As my poor pen can haltingly prepare ; 
 But my full heart of no such blame takes share, 
 And to blame that would do it grievous wrong, 
 For still its stream flows passionate and strong, 
 And pays no tribute but to thee, my Fair ! 
 If, then, I sing not, 'tis because too full, 
 The river of my heart o'erleaps its banks. 
 And to one ocean. Thine, pours out its tide ; 
 And mocking spirits might proclaim me dull, 
 And even thou wouldst give me meagre thanks. 
 If while I praised thee, others should deride. 
 
34 Sonnets. 
 
 X. 
 
 DOST thou regret the seeming hard decrees 
 Of Providence, sweet Wife, that keep thee 
 far 
 From thy dear children ? Yonder gHttering star 
 Is far removed from us, yet still it sees 
 With loving light each night upon thy knees 
 Thy suppliant form pray God no ill may mar 
 Thy darlings, or no cruel chance debar 
 That blissful meeting when His will shall please. 
 Regret them not : that star is like thy heart. 
 Distant, yet ever present, pure and bright ; 
 And though so very far, is ever near. 
 Soon shall all sickness pass, and then thy part 
 Of hopeful waiting for the promised light 
 Will be rewarded without stint or fear. 
 
Sonnets. 35 
 
 XL 
 
 1\ /TORN after morn I tremble at each sound, 
 1 V X That breaks my loved one's short uneasy 
 
 sleej) ; 
 Fever and pain their constant vigil keep, 
 And I, poor sentinel, pace my dreary round. 
 Ah me ! what sounds of horror do abound 
 In this great city ere the sunbeams peep 
 From out their cloudy coverlet ! Yon Steep, 
 With battlemented castle grimly crowned. 
 Is first, with bugle-blare, the day to greet ; 
 And then belated brawlers stagger home, 
 And heavy wains, high-laden with the store 
 Of country produce, grind along the street ; 
 And engines, savage whistling, slowly come, 
 And cruel hammers beat the neighbouring floor. 
 
 Edinburgh, 1876. 
 
36. Soiifiets. 
 
 H 
 
 XII. 
 
 ( 71? be read with No. XL ) 
 
 OW quakes my heart at each ! my nerves 
 strung tight, 
 
 Wresthng with all these fiends that murder sleep, 
 Sink in untuned vibration ; and I weep 
 From very weakness ; till at last the light 
 Dawns rosier, fuller on my wearied sight. 
 And once again the tram-cars jingling creep, 
 And jostling cabs run rattling up the steep. 
 And a stray sunbeam makes the world more bright. 
 Sleep on, in spite of all, for love has won 
 The victory for thee ; and soon, sweet Wife, 
 Thou shalt forget thy sorrow and thy pain, 
 And, in returning health (now scarce begun) 
 Shalt find new hopes to animate thy life. 
 And e'en from suffering make a lasting gain. 
 
 Edinburgh, October^, 1876. 
 
Sonnets. 37 
 
 XIII. 
 
 MY VALENTINE. 
 
 ONCE more I write to thee; ten changeful 
 years 
 Have brought maturer love and not less true : 
 Our mid-day sun shines proudly, though the hue 
 He sheds is deeper than the morning wears, 
 And gold and violet, not rose-tint appears. 
 Dearest ! nor time nor care can make us rue, 
 If in life's eventide our heaven of blue 
 No darker shade than God's own sunset bears ! 
 Thou hast been brave in suffering ; and in joy 
 No heart more joyous ; thou hast shared with me 
 A Decade of life's trials — not severe, 
 But still life's trials : gold without alloy 
 Serves scanty purpose : mayst thou ever be 
 Blest in that Love which casteth out all Fear. 
 
 February 14, 1876. 
 
38 Sonnets. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 OUR I2TH WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 HOW strangely swift advancing years roll by, 
 Laden with joy's and sorrow's mingled 
 
 load, 
 Down the dark path of life's uneven road, 
 
 Whose milestones' only mark is Memory ! 
 
 Twelve years have passed, Sweetheart, since thou 
 
 and I 
 Joined hand to hand and vowed our vows to God 
 And to each other, and as one abode ; 
 And thus may we abide until we die ! 
 By sickness sorely saddened and oppressed. 
 Yet urged by love that knows no dull decline. 
 Thou hast kept Tryst, — twelve touching years do 
 
 prove 
 Thou on thy husband's constant heart canst rest. 
 Thy arms with his once more canst intertwine, 
 And laugh at Time that only adds to love. 
 
 November 8, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 39 
 
 I 
 
 "TOUT ARRIVE A POINT A QUI SAIT 
 ATTENDRE." 
 
 F to good waiters all things good arrive- 
 
 As speaks the ancient proverb in my text — 
 Then may I call thee "good," and though perplext 
 As stranger Bee within an unknown hive, 
 Yet welcome as the day ; oh, mayst thou thrive 
 In virtue and in wisdom ! rarely vext 
 By the world's troubles, and the cares annext 
 By cruel Fate to everything alive ! 
 Dear "Boy" — sweet little word to mother's ears 
 Whose nursery teems with girls I — sweet sound to me 
 Whose lineage languished, last of an old race 
 Which her love lovingly renewed, whose fears 
 Are now a saucy jest between us three, 
 Though when I smile she hides her joyous face. 
 
40 Sonnets. 
 
 TO DAISY. 
 
 CHILD of my love, though yet not mine in 
 blood, 
 How farest thou now? beaming with blue-eyed 
 
 mirth 
 And rose-hued health ? What corner of the earth 
 Fills thy young head ? That carnage- stricken flood 
 Where the slow Othman with persistent mood 
 Beats back the lying Russ ? Doth pale-eyed dearth, 
 That haunts the Madrassee's penurious hearth 
 Beg for thy pity — for his daily food ? 
 Or, Darling, doth the Jasmine climb too high ? 
 Or red-roan EUie seek her wonted crust ? 
 Or loud-voiced Spangle call his faithful dame ? 
 Do these attract thee ? or, although less nigh, 
 Are thy thoughts given in unreserved trust 
 To me, thy Father in all else save name ? 
 
Sonnets. 41' 
 
 TO HARRY. 
 
 T T is no blame, my Boy, to thee nor me, 
 -■- If I should be severe or seem so now ; 
 For love exacts perfection, asks not how. 
 But sternly claims the rightful deed should be. 
 E'en so my love demands all things from thee, 
 That should beseem the seeds that in thee grow. 
 And plant completeness on thy smooth young brow; 
 The well-trained sapling makes the fairest tree. 
 Be guided then by thy fond father's word. 
 Make honest men thy friends, thy watchword Truth, 
 Be generous as thou mayest : hating strife 
 Protect the weak : and if thou draw'st the sword, 
 Ne'er sheathe it till victorious : make thy youth 
 The pure first chapter of thy Book of Life. 
 
 January 29, 1 88 1. 
 
42 Sonnets, 
 
 APRIL 30, 1881. 
 
 SMILE on us, ancient Abbey, grim and grey, 
 The gentle smile of all-forgiving age ! 
 Write one more story on your time-worn page : 
 Blow, sweet south wind, upon this happy day, 
 Break into leaf " ye darling buds of May ! " 
 Love reigns supreme — a service without wage, 
 Where all are willing. Senator and Sage 
 Bend to the flowery yoke, and own his sway : 
 Ring out, old bells, and welcome this dear pair. 
 Who join their hands this day in life-long troth ; 
 God's blessing rest upon their faithful love ! 
 Fulfil their joyous dreams, make their life fair. 
 Smooth its rough places tenderly for both, 
 And parted here, renew their bliss above ! 
 
Sonnets. 43 
 
 HOMBURG. 
 
 T KNOW a nook beneath a sheltered hill, — 
 -^ Sheltered from summer's glare, or winter's 
 
 wind, 
 Whence the far-seeing eye may hardly find 
 A boundary, its feeble span to fill, 
 So vast the billowy plain, which spreads, until 
 The purple hills, forming their ranks behind. 
 Squadron on squadron, daunt the gazer's mind 
 With their recurrent shapes, so grand and still. 
 So distant yet so visible. Could they 
 Descend in serried order, each 'gainst each, 
 And multiply by millions, the dread blast 
 Of the Archangel's trump might guide the fray 
 
 r 
 
 And stir such hosts to scale the deadly breach : 
 But while I gazed, the wondrous Vision passed ! 
 
 August 7, 1877. 
 
44 Sonnets. 
 
 MONT BLANC. 
 
 ONCE more, great Teacher, at thy feet I rest, 
 Once more I gaze upon thy storm-clad 
 brow, 
 Now lustrous in fresh covermg of snow, 
 That like a mane floats from thy thunderous crest. 
 As from some hoary sage, whose wisdom best 
 Springs from green heart, thy lessons also flow 
 From bosom where green things eternal grow, 
 And head whose whiteness Heaven itself hath 
 
 prest. 
 Thirty long years have fled since first I came 
 To worship thee, a lad whose fondest hopes 
 Have come and gone in undeserved success ; 
 Still lingers faintly the perfervid flame 
 Of youth— renewed while loitering on thy slopes, 
 Sublimest shrine of Nature's holiness ! 
 
 Chamounix, August 28, 1876. 
 
Sonnets. 45 
 
 LAUTERBRUNNEN. 
 
 OGOD ! Thy gracious works are manifest 
 In Desert and in City ; Plain and Hill 
 Alike declare Thy omnipresent skill ; 
 Yet here, if anywhere, they seem the best ; 
 These giant mountains, at their base, caressed 
 By tender turf and gently rippling rill ; 
 The rose-hued snow, sunlit, or at Thy will 
 Storm-blackened, veiling their untrodden crest ; 
 The feathery pines that point to Thee, the spray 
 That kisses the gaunt rock from yonder fall, 
 The resonant bells attuned by browsing kine. 
 The fair-haired children by the grassy way, 
 The sturdy mountaineer's re-echoing call. 
 Thou seest all are crood, and all are Thine. 
 
 &^ 
 
 August 22, 1876. 
 
46 Sonnets. 
 
 CALVARY. 
 
 THE mocking gibe ! the cruel taunt ! if heard 
 Unanswered by the lips now sealed in 
 death ; 
 The last sigh breathed in love ; the parting breath 
 A prayer for pardon for that bitter word. 
 " He save'd others ! " as the parent bird 
 Gives her own life to save the young beneath 
 Her loving wing ; He died, — the immortal wreath 
 For others wreathed, by suffering undeterred. 
 " Himself He cannot save ! " Omnipotent, 
 He would not use this power — the angel's sword — 
 That could have saved the Saviour, and have left 
 Mankind accursed, and His mission spent 
 In vain ! Thou Son of Man ! Divinest Lord ! 
 What had we sinners been — Thou saved, we left ? 
 
Sonnets. ^j 
 
 T 
 
 PATHETIC HUMOUR. 
 
 HERE is no limit fixed by God or man 
 Between our laughter and our tears : the 
 touch 
 Of nature, tinged with pathos overmuch, 
 Fills the soft heart and ready eyes that scan 
 With unresisting glance, the subtle plan 
 That melts, or moves to laughter. There be such 
 Whose truth, half-halting, borrows Fiction's crutch 
 The chasm of our credulity to span ! 
 But when enlisted in the ranks of right, 
 Of want relieved, and suffering and wrong 
 Made good by noble deeds and thoughts and 
 
 words. 
 Our simple hearts o'erfiow ; the pulse of might 
 Beats stronger, and sometimes to these belong 
 Great gifts of Humour sharper than all swords. 
 
48 Sonnets. 
 
 THE WOOD-NYMPH. 
 
 THE lime-trees shed their blossoms, and the 
 scent 
 Filled the light air that dallied round the grove ; 
 The honeysuckle tendrils deftly wove 
 A net to catch them, — sweets on sweets intent : 
 The thyme scarce crushed (for She a-tiptoe went). 
 Breathed a faint tribute of its dying love, 
 Clinging about her footsteps as they move, 
 And all the wood in smiling homage bent. 
 Fair as young buds in early spring, one hand 
 Led in rose-fetters a new-captured fawn, 
 The other held a palm-leaf, from the stream 
 That trickled through the thicket, — like the wand 
 Of some Enchantress. Gracious as the Dawn 
 She passed, this Oread of the Poet's dream. 
 
 October 13, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 49 
 
 BEDTIME. 
 
 "nr^IS bedtime; say your hymn, and bid ''Good- 
 
 -^ night, 
 ''God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all," 
 Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, 
 Another minute you will shut them quite. 
 Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, 
 And tuck you up, although you are so tall ! 
 What will you give me, Sleepy one, and call 
 My wages, if I settle you all right ? 
 I laid her golden curls upon my arm, 
 I drew her little feet within my hand. 
 Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, 
 Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm 
 She nestled to me, and, by Love's command 
 Paid me my precious wages — " Baby's Kiss." 
 
 October 30, 1882. 
 
 D 
 
50 Sonnets. 
 
 FOREBODING. 
 
 I KNOW not if the sufferings we expect, 
 Are lessened when they come, or if the pain 
 That sudden strikes us, when the heart and brain 
 No evil dream, no coming ill suspect. 
 Is worse to bear. Rather I think the first, 
 For we so oft anticipate and dread 
 Some greater woe, when small ones come instead, 
 That our Foreboding is itself the worst. 
 The same holds good with Joy : we fondly hope 
 To realise our day-dream, eagerly look 
 For some fair vision far beyond the truth ; 
 The soul o'erleaps its too contracted scope, 
 And treats its wish from some romantic book. 
 But finds, alas ! its golden fancy — Ruth. 
 
Sonnets. 51 
 
 DAYBREAK IN PARIS. 
 
 'nr^HE rosy gleam of newly kindled day 
 
 -■- Just tips yon gilded Dome, as Paris wakes. 
 Before the lingering stars depart, or breaks 
 The full-orbed morning, deboniiaire and gay : 
 The country wains, with loads of fragrant hay, 
 Creep slowly in, and Norman " Surefoot " makes 
 His bell-clad head-gear jingle, as he takes 
 A sly bite, half in earnest, half in play. 
 Thus while late sleepers dream, the busy toil 
 To feed the idle — and the blue-smocked clown 
 Is happier far than they who glove their hands. 
 His sweet-breathed hay to him is better spoil 
 Than ill-got gold, his team worth all the town. 
 And his fair France the bravest of all lands. 
 
 Paris, July 28, 1878. 
 
5 2 Sonnets. 
 
 A STORM AT SEA. 
 
 GREAT clouds, like war-ships, speed athwart 
 the sky. 
 And the white drift, a full-set mainsail, gleams : 
 The savage blast, through the taut cordage screams, 
 Or fitful moans with melancholy cry : 
 Around, the raging waters foaming lie 
 In frenzied wrath, and not a sun-ray beams. 
 The mother, in her broken slumber, dreams 
 Of her dear sailor, shuddering lest he die ! 
 Ocean runs riot ! and the bruise'd waves 
 Are blue and green with overmastering blows ; 
 The tangled weeds, disturbed, torn from their bed 
 A hundred fathoms down 'mid sailors' graves, 
 Toss here and there, as light as fresh-fallen snows, 
 And dismal caves disgorge their j^risoned dead. 
 
Sonnets. 5 3 
 
 DEAD. 
 
 I KNOW not what I write, the pen must frame 
 The words that rush in heart-leaps from my 
 soul ; 
 No rhythmic cadence in well-ordered roll^ 
 But passionate thoughts that have nor place nor 
 
 name ; 
 These are not lines aglow for future fame, 
 Rounded to please, smooth-smirking and heart-whole, 
 But wild with sorrow that defies control, 
 And anguish time can neither heal nor tame : 
 We were one age, one hope, one life, one dream, 
 She fair as Dawn's first rose-beam on the snow ; 
 We parted — but to meet at break of day ; 
 For her the day ne'er broke, the eternal stream 
 Bore her sweet soul on its resistless flow, 
 And left me on the brink in dumb dismay. 
 
 November 13, 1878. 
 
54 Sonnets. 
 
 AFTER PETRARCH. 
 
 I. 
 
 1AURA, thou fairest laurel of my crown, 
 -' Thou leaflet ever green to my fond heart, 
 Not Death himself can force us twain apart, 
 Or daunt our spirits with his withering frown ; 
 If Thou, pure Seraph, on bright wings hast flown 
 To God's own heaven, my Laura still thou art, 
 And Thou to angels canst new grace impart. 
 Not they to Thee ; and Thou art all mine own. 
 I follow swiftly, but I live in Thee, 
 And Thou in me eternally shalt live. 
 We heed not the sharp spasm miscalled Death, 
 Genius and Love make Immortality, 
 And Thou and I to each can either give, 
 And blend our names in one undying wreath. 
 
 Skeffington, February 25. 
 
Sonnets. 5 5 
 
 II. 
 
 WHEN I am wearied of the wavering light 
 Which flickers from the passions that 
 deceive — 
 The lying loves — w^hose flames are make-believe, — 
 I turn in peace to one serene and bright, 
 The fire of my own love, that through the night 
 Sheds its pure steadfast ray. How can I grieve, 
 When morn, and noon, and midnight all receive 
 From it a perfect radiance in my sight ? 
 The softest breeze that plays about my brow, 
 Breathes its sweet fragrance from my constant love, 
 And the clear Heaven from it derives its blue ; 
 'Tis some angelic Spirit whispering low 
 Dear words of hope that all my pains remove, 
 Soul of my Soul, immaculate and true ! 
 
56 Sonnets. 
 
 III. 
 
 IN the full summer of her beauteous prime, 
 When love's rich foliage all its verdure kept, 
 My Laura from my circling arms was swept, — 
 A tender blossom plucked before its time. 
 Was my wild love for her so great a crime, 
 That in the flush of life to Heaven she leapt ? 
 Can She the eternal sleep of death have slept. 
 And live no more but only in my rhyme ? 
 Why have I thus survived? Her latest day 
 Had been for both the first of love renewed ; 
 Though all unworthy, yet would I have tried 
 To quit all grosser attributes of clay; 
 And with Her dying purity imbued. 
 In death for ever have been sanctified. 
 
So7inets. 57 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 A MIND diseased? nay, rather, out of tune, 
 Like some fine instrument in cruel hands ; 
 A little tenderness the tone commands, 
 And a rough touch (like wintry winds in June) 
 Checks the true note, and turns the music soon 
 To discord : so he wandered through strange lands 
 And "all his sweet bells jangled," and he stands 
 An outcast, tainted i' th' full o' th' moon ! 
 Oh that such madness were more common ! None 
 To make it or to mar it — genius, such 
 As his, driven to revolt by meaner soul. 
 That knew not what it meddled with ! Ne'er shone 
 The sun on nobler heart, but, overmuch 
 His spirit, vexed, lost hope and self-control. 
 
5 8 Sonnets. 
 
 DROWNED. 
 
 CAN danger lurk beneath that placid wave, 
 Where the great lazy water-lilies float 
 In safe and careless beauty ? where the throat 
 Of warbling sedge-bird from his reedy cave 
 Swells with a joyous song — where still streams lave 
 The grassy banks ? Can these such ills denote, 
 Or presage peril to the little boat ? 
 Can lilied crystal be a maiden's grave? 
 Alas ! we know not what may be the fate 
 Of hapless hundreds,^ or the doom of one ! 
 Our tears alone are left us, and we shed 
 Tears from a fount that never dries ; too late, 
 Yet all too soon — our children come— are gone, 
 And we are left to mourn the darlings dead. 
 
 1 On this day occurred the disaster to the Princess Alice 
 steamer in the Thames, 
 
 September 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 59 
 
 THE THROSTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE throstle sang his loudest song to-day; 
 Though the bleak north-wind grasped his 
 joyous throat, 
 It could not check the clear courageous note, 
 That welcomed March as cheerily as May. 
 'Tis surely wise to be thus early gay, 
 Nor wait for calms before we go afloat. 
 But bravely launch from shore our little boat, 
 And sing in hope our spring-tide Roundelay ; 
 Such trust will be repaid : for they who wait 
 For summer, wait, and fearing, wait in vain : 
 They who dare nothing, and restrain their song 
 Till the hour suits them, never can be great ; 
 But will with troublous care and frequent pain 
 Make evil choice at last and take the wrong. 
 
6o Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 
 ALAS, for confident philosophy ! 
 A few short hours, and all my braggart 
 thrush 
 Can pipe to us now is but a doleful " Hush," — 
 " A white world " makes his hopes of spring to die, 
 And turns his love-songs to despondency. 
 The snow hangs grimly on the lilac bush 
 Where yestermorn the leaflets strove to push 
 Through the thin sheaths where they imprisoned 
 
 lie! 
 I would not therefore praise the overbold, 
 Who fall, as fell rash Phaeton from his car 
 By too much daring and too little art : 
 The earliest blossoms perish in the cold : 
 A skilful marksman shoots not over far : 
 Thus, midway steering, play we life's great part. 
 
Sonnets. 6i 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 GREY, cold, and haggard rose the clouds that 
 veiled 
 The morning sun : e'en so the thoughts that paced 
 The narrow prison of his angry breast. 
 That stern, proud, anxious brow, too surely paled, 
 And through each swollen vein the hot blood 
 
 raced ; 
 While dark resolve each throbbing pulse comprest. 
 To die is nothing : could he dare to kill 
 His fellow, and not pause ? Ah ! no ; a smile 
 Lights up his face, as flowers adorn a tomb, 
 In every feature gleams determined will 
 That one must die ; he reasons, " Blackest guile 
 Calls loud for vengeance ; 'tis a righteous doom : " 
 Then face to face — O God ! a moment more, 
 A flash, a cry, a fall, and all is o'er ! 
 
62 Sonnets. 
 
 "ORA E SEMPRE !" 
 
 ORA E SEMPRE ! " when the morn of Hfe 
 Bursts from rose-tinted clouds in eastern 
 skies, 
 And all the promise of their radiant dyes 
 With hope, and mirth, and revelry is rife. 
 " Ora e sempre ! " when our manhood's strife 
 Wrestles within, and sterner duty tries 
 The heart's wild passion, with grey pitiless eyes 
 And cuts it from us with relentless knife. 
 " Ora e sempre ! " every moment shows 
 The need for action or for earnest will, 
 For patient suffering or for sympathy 
 That, scorning self, with generous impulse glows; 
 And when our Sun sets, calm, and cold, and still, 
 " Ora e sempre " in Eternity ! 
 
Sonnets. 63 
 
 AN INTERIOR. 
 
 A BLUE -VEINED marble, here and there 
 besmeared 
 With faded reddish stains, like blood long shed, 
 On forty pillars bore an oaken roof. 
 Worm-pierced and blackened, frowning grim and 
 
 weird, 
 And graven with sad memories of the dead ; 
 Eastward, a Moorish window, like a hoof 
 That narrows at the heel, let in the light 
 Caparisoned in colours ; westward, shone 
 The brazen throats that swell the choir around, 
 Like spectral figures mystically bright. 
 Hark ! soft and tender melts the dying tone, 
 Now full and clear — an avalanche of sound ; 
 And now 'tis mute. Ah ! they who sleep below 
 Heed not the tide of music's ebb and flow ! 
 
64 Sonnets. 
 
 c 
 
 PHILOMEL. 
 
 OME forth, and hear the Nightingale ! the 
 
 wind 
 
 Scarce stirs a leaf; the moon has light enough 
 To guide our steps ; in yonder wood I know 
 Where Philomel by night laments her mate. 
 The sky like armour gleams, sure sign of rough 
 Wild weather ere the morn : so trust the kind 
 And gentle evening that invites you now, 
 We prize God's simplest blessings all too late ! 
 Hark ! how each mourner strains a throbbing 
 
 throat. 
 And triumphs in her ecstasy of woe ! 
 Now the air rings with long-continued note, 
 And now the trembling cadence whispers low ; 
 Faint Echo panting labours through the glade, 
 Such heavenly strains perplex the weary maid. 
 
Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD, K.G., 
 
 ON HIS RETURN FROM BERLIN. 
 
 WHEN from the battle -field some Chief 
 returning, 
 Brings back the trophies of successful war, 
 Though now no more to his triumphal car 
 Are captives chained, still hearts bereft are 
 
 mourning, 
 And hatred and revenge are fiercely burning 
 In bosoms racked with sorrow : now the Star 
 Of Peace victorious shineth from afar. 
 All angry thoughts to hope and mercy turning. 
 No mother weeps her darling boy laid low ; 
 No pale-eyed maid laments her loved one slain ; 
 But maid and matron bless the happy day. 
 And weave a crown of myrtle for thy brow ; 
 For Thou hast warred with war, turned loss to gain. 
 And passed in triumph from the bloodless fray. 
 
 Paris, July 24, 1878. 
 
 £ 
 
66 Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 A LOVING hand, ah ! would it had been mine ! 
 Has garnered, from the harvest of Thy heart 
 Words of true wisdom ; though but meagre part 
 Of Thy wise sayings, they are truly Thine : 
 The thoughts are human, but a power divine 
 Gives truth, and purity, and force : they start 
 Like natural well-springs, without visible art. 
 Yet art, unseen, controls ; how subtly fine ! 
 But beyond art, the Patriot's loving soul 
 Rich in the prescience of the Statesman's craft, 
 Baffles the braggart, and the weak defends, 
 Tempers wild dreams with unperceived control, 
 Drives falsehood forth with truth's unerring shaft, 
 And rich and poor in kindly union blends. 
 
Sonnets. Oy 
 
 THE KNIGHTHOOD OF THE CROSS. 
 
 THERE is a Knightly Order, nobler far 
 Than all the ranks of Chivalry can claim — 
 An order founded not on earthly fame, 
 Not decked with jewelled blazon or with star, 
 Not graced by trophies or triumphal car — 
 It is the Cross of Christ, whose lowly name 
 Puts pride to blush and vanity to shame — 
 The Prince of Peace who only wars with war. 
 Love is the sweet esquire of Christ's true knight, 
 And Death "Grand Master," whose austere embrace 
 Chills the warm heart and checks the joyous breath 
 But for a moment, — then the Neophyte, 
 Inspired and glorious, gives, with radiant face. 
 The kiss of Life — the Accolade of Death ! 
 
 Christmas-Day, 1878, 
 
6S Sonnets. 
 
 GOETHE'S PRAYER. 
 
 "A /TORE Light, more Light," the Poet's 
 
 -^ ' -*- plaintive prayer, 
 Ere his eyes close for ever in Death's night ! 
 The fainting supplication for " more Light," 
 No common struggle for a purer air, 
 But physical and spiritual joining there, 
 He prays for rescue from the awful night 
 Of Doubt, that daunts the soul, and blinds the 
 
 sight, 
 And makes all dark, that should be bright and fair. 
 " More Light, more Light," in life to Thee we pray. 
 Great God ! wise man to Thee ! (Creator Thou, 
 Created in His image thou,) this cry 
 Of dying Goethe ; in our earthly day 
 The light of knowledge — truth with open brow — 
 And God's own Light to guide us when we die. 
 
Sonnets. 69 
 
 OLD LETTERS. 
 
 IT seems but yesterday she died, but years 
 Have passed since then : the wondrous 
 change of time 
 Makes great things Httle — Httle things sublime, 
 And sanctifies the dew of daily tears. 
 She died, as all must die ; no trace appears 
 In History's page, nor save in my poor rhyme, 
 Of her, whose life was love, whose lovely prime 
 Passed sadly where no sorrows are, nor fears. 
 It seems but yesterday ; to-day I read 
 A few short letters in her own dear hand. 
 And doubted if 'twere true. Their tender grace 
 Seems radiant with her life ! Oh ! can the Dead 
 Thus in their letters live ? I tied the band. 
 And kissed her name as though I kissed her face. 
 
70 Sonnets. 
 
 NOT HERE. 
 
 LAST week I saw the lilac's budding leaf; 
 ^ This week I see the lilac's buds all strewn, 
 The leaflets scattered, and the bloom o'erthrown 
 By sudden icy blasts as chill as grief. 
 Such promise marred, like faith by unbelief, 
 Such hope destroyed without a warning word, 
 Like the flushed revellers by the impending sword, 
 Where may we turn in anguish for relief? 
 Not Here ; for east winds freeze the heart — not 
 
 Here ! 
 But where eternal summers blossom — there 
 Where God's unchanging seasons bring sure fruit, 
 In the pure climes of Heaven, Blessed Sphere, 
 Where radiant suns are present everywhere, 
 And Heavenly Hands protect the tender shoot. 
 
Sonnets. 7 1 
 
 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 ALONE, 'midst living works of mighty dead, 
 Poets and scholars versed in history's lore. 
 With thoughts that reached beyond them and 
 
 before, 
 I dream, and leave their glorious works unread ; 
 Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head. 
 I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still more 
 I fail when I would delve the depths of yore, 
 And learn old Truths of modern lies instead ; 
 The shelves frown on me blackly, with a life 
 That ne'er can die, and helpless to begin, 
 I can but own my weakness, and deplore 
 This waste, this barren brain, ah ! once so rife 
 With hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin, 
 Great Ghosts that wander on tlie Eternal Shore. 
 
 December 24, 1876. 
 
72 Sonnets. 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 HAST thou no loving message from thy 
 tomb, 
 Dear Father ? Sleepest thou in mute decay, 
 Silently waiting for that awful day 
 When the great Judge of all shall speak our doom? 
 Is there no light with thee ? doth cheerless gloom 
 Compass thee ever? If thou canst, oh ! say 
 Thou restest peacefully, though far away-- 
 From this fair earth— its sunlight and it-s bloom." 
 I yearned to hear some voice, but none replied 
 Save the rich note of the new-wedded thrush. 
 Who carolled over-jovous with his lot : 
 When, as I gazed on the dear grave, I spied 
 A litde blue flower softly whispering, '' Hush ! 
 My name is thy reply — Forget-me-not ! " 
 
 May 1878. 
 
Sonnets. 73 
 
 TRUE REST. 
 
 WHAT do men long for, strive for, live for 
 most ? 
 The purple mantle of ambitious dreams ? 
 The lying gold that clouds the fairest streams ? 
 The sacred fervour that adores the Host ? 
 In all pure nature's simple love is lost. 
 And truth is farthest when it nearest seems. 
 O Earth, thy bosom with corruption teems, 
 And war meets war, and none e'er count the cost. 
 Great Heaven, how just are thy decrees to all ! 
 How seeming hard to some ! For faith I pray, 
 For truth and for content ; then death is blest ; 
 Then virtue, silver-crowned, spreads out our pall. 
 And all our life is patent as the day. 
 And after labour comes Seraphic Rest. 
 
74 Sonnets. 
 
 SYMPATHY IN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 '^ I ^HE tone of a soft voice — a tender smile 
 
 ^ That in our happy moments bears its part- 
 The inexplicable yearning of the heart 
 For some dear face, a stranger to all guile, 
 (A face wrath ne'er can cloud, guilt ne'er defile, 
 Nor sorrow darken, save for others' smart ! ) 
 Such faces their own purity impart, 
 And teach true sympathy ; the cunning wile. 
 That makes pretence of feeling for the pain 
 And grief of others, like a mirror gleams. 
 Whose light reflects each dull contiguous face. 
 Thus friendship in true sympathy grows plain, 
 And sympathy in friendship fondly beams : 
 False friends, false sympathy, make one disgrace. 
 
Sonnets. 75 
 
 THE GATES OF DEATH. 
 
 T T /"E enter Life but through the gates of Death, 
 ' ^ Those dismal portals cinctured by a 
 moat — 
 A flood of human tears ; vile passions gloat 
 And glare on us like gurgoyles, with rank breath, 
 And eyes aflame, around, above, beneath. 
 But God's good angel guides our little boat, 
 That safely homewards seems unsteered to float. 
 With sword of fire uplift, full-drawn from sheath. 
 Safe, safe, at last from doubt, from storm, from 
 
 strife. 
 Moored in the depths of Christ's unfathomed grace 
 With spirits of the just, with dear ones lost 
 And found again ; this strange ineffable life 
 Is Life Eternal ! Death has here no place, 
 And they are welcomed best who suffered most. 
 
 Christmas-Day, 1878. 
 
'J 6 Sonnets. 
 
 INSIDE PARIS. 
 
 THEY banquet on dead bodies, like the ghouls, 
 Who, tasting blood, grow dainty, and refuse 
 More wholesome diet : could these maniacs choose 
 Once more, their choice would be the same ; mad 
 
 fools 
 Who manacle fair freedom ; wretched tools. 
 Mixed up with felons, scum of men, who use 
 The plots of hell, and wrong with right confuse, 
 To push their lawful rulers from their stools ; 
 These are the cowards who refuse to fight 
 A foreign foe, and soil the sacred name 
 Of country with her children's gore, who burn 
 The proudest trophies of imperial might ; 
 Who marshal harlots in the ranks of fame, 
 And honest men's undying hatred earn. 
 
 October 24, 1878. 
 
Sonnets. yy 
 
 WORK AND REST. 
 
 GIVE my brain ^York ! the enthusiast wildly 
 cries ; 
 Give my brain rest ! the weary toiler prays ; 
 Rest pains : work pains : both follow different N^ays, 
 Yet each demands relief and sympathies. 
 Give each their prayer ! the toiler, resting, dies ; 
 The enthusiast, losing strength and hope, decays ; 
 Though both, illumined by the mind's bright rays, 
 Love the dear pain, and hug their agonies. 
 Thus pain for work devised, completed not, 
 And pain for overwork, are brethren twain ; 
 Dissimilar, yet alike : poor strugglers, rest ! 
 The longing heart, though failing, makes no blot ; 
 And energetic labour should not pain ; 
 But both united must indeed be blest ! 
 
 1 860. 
 
7 8 Sonnets. 
 
 MIDDLE AGE. 
 
 THY glory is the glory of the sun, 
 Whose chastened beauty in the twilight 
 glows, 
 And tenderer yet, and yet more tender grows, 
 As nearer to the goal his course is run — 
 The farewell Glory of a day nigh done ! 
 Then all the peaks assume a tint of rose, 
 And the grey rocks a ruddy light disclose, 
 The blush of Even at her victory won. 
 How calm, how peaceful such a moment's rest ! 
 Not wooing love with passionate desire, 
 But placid — perfect in mature repose. — 
 Such, Lady, are thy charms, by all confest : 
 Past the meridian glare, the summer fire, 
 Yet, oh, how far from winter's dreary snows ! 
 
 September d, 1874. 
 
Sonnets. 79 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 THERE is a beauty Youth can never know, 
 With all the lusty radiance of his prime, 
 A beauty the sole heritage of time, 
 That gilds the fabric with a sunset glow, 
 x\nd glorifies the work it soon lays low ! 
 There is a charm in Age, wellnigh sublime, 
 That lends new lustre to the poet's rhyme. 
 As mountain-peaks are grander crowned with snow. 
 How gay the laugh of Youth ! but oh ! how brave 
 The stately weakness of a reverend Age ! 
 Be ours the task to solace and to cheer. 
 To fondly guide its footsteps to the grave, 
 To print a blessing on the "final page. 
 And cherish memories for ever dear ! 
 
8o Sonnets. 
 
 MIDNIGHT, 1872-3. 
 
 I ^LY not, old year, too swiftly; say ''Good-bye," 
 -■- Let us part friends, shake hands before you go ; 
 Time tolls out " Yes," when neither can say " No," 
 And these harsh partings dim the brightest eye. 
 It is not that we fear the end more nigh. 
 For the great end brings joy instead of woe, 
 When we may join the loved ones long laid low. 
 And change for angel-smile our earthly sigh. 
 But that, Old Friend, we know not what may come. 
 Of sorrow and regret when thy young Heir 
 Has set thy crown upon his brow. Farewell ! 
 Alas ! farewell for ever ! here at home. 
 Grateful I own thy blessings and thy care. 
 And listen sadly to thy funeral knell. 
 
Sonnets. 8 1 
 
 HEAVENLY HARVEST-HOME. 
 
 '^ I ^HERE is no constancy in things below, 
 
 -■- There must be constancy in things above — 
 Above, below, our prize is ever Love ; 
 From Heavenly plants divinest blossoms blow. 
 If earthly love melts like the spring-tide snow, 
 Pure while it lasts, it still is Treasure-trove, 
 Which the glad finder scarce knows how to prove, 
 Till time cuts short the branches ere they grow. 
 But time o'er Heavenly love has no control; 
 And after time has reaped, God's gleaner comes, 
 And, loving all, garners each downcast ear 
 From the torn stalk, divides the longing soul, 
 And gathers it to those glad Harvest-homes 
 Where hearts are purified, and eyes see clear. 
 
 i860. 
 
82 Sonnets. 
 
 THE TRIUMPHS OF LITERATURE. 
 
 " '^ " ^IS the last straw that breaks the camel's 
 
 T 
 
 back," 
 
 I've read I know not where, nor care to ask, — 
 So, trembling lest Thy strength it overtask 
 I lay this little straw upon Thy Pack 
 Laden with priceless gems through the long track 
 Of centuries, since Learning tore the mask 
 From Vice and Ignorance. Be it mine to bask 
 One moment in Thy Light, — all else how black ! 
 No people claim Thy triumphs as their own — 
 Italia, Greece, the swarthy Orient, all 
 Are but Thy slaves to-day, or yesterday. 
 Thou laugh'st at Time ; all Languages have grown 
 From Thee ; Thine Eden's grace and Eden's fall, 
 All rose from Thee, and cannot pass away. 
 
 1882. 
 
Sonnets, Z"^ 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 IF in the darkness of to-morrow's day, 
 And in the dim obscure that veils the hours, 
 I own the presence of those shadowy powers 
 That sport with reason, and with judgment play ; 
 I feel it less when some warm sunny ray 
 Dispels the menace of disheartening showers ; 
 But when thick mist or angry storm-fiend lowers, 
 My spirits in bleak regions lonely stray. 
 Then grant me beams, kind Heaven ! from above, 
 To glad a heart that ever seeks the Light ; 
 Disperse the clouds that gather round the mind; 
 Let Sunshine bring his comrades. Peace and Love, 
 And daunt the sable messengers of Night : 
 In Light I see, in Darkness grow stone-blind ! 
 
 1861. 
 
84 Sonnets. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 T T OW can I purify my soul from dross 
 
 -^ -*- That poisons hearts with its impure alloy ? 
 
 How gain eternal, craving passing joy ? 
 
 HoAv sue for heavenly, dreading earthly loss ? 
 
 Rough winds, and rougher seas may wildly toss 
 
 My little bark, that like a painted toy 
 
 Rides the dark waters, when such storms annoy, 
 
 But Death must surely some day "swim the foss." 
 
 Ah, then, how vain are all Life's troublous dreams ! 
 
 How poor our struggle and how mean our strife ! 
 
 How bleak the past ! the present, ah, how dread. 
 
 When Death's bright sunset like a glory gleams, 
 
 And for this fleeting we gain endless Life ! 
 
 Oh ! who could choose to be for ever dead ? 
 
Sonnets. 85 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 I SAW the sun obscured, the Hghtning dart 
 Its forke'd tongue from out a sable cloud ; 
 The big drops fell, the thunder boomed aloud, 
 And the dread sounds found echo in my heart. 
 My heart, that like the sun, had found rich part 
 In the full glow of summer, here was cowed 
 By the dark noisome shadow of the crowd 
 That thronged my loved one, like a thing i' tlie 
 
 mart. 
 The thunder ceased to roar — the crowd passed by, 
 The lightning faintly faded in the west. 
 The rain dried up its tears, as quickly gone 
 As shed ; the sun once more shone lustily — 
 My heart leapt out to her whom I loved best, 
 But ah ! in vain, for I was left Alone. 
 
S6 So; wets. 
 
 THE DISCONTENTED. 
 
 THERE are, who in this changing Hfe revile 
 The day-by-day occurrences they meet — 
 Turn sweet to bitter, ay, make bitter sweet. 
 Rather than be content and wear a smile. 
 To these no fair occasions offer ; for unfair 
 All circumstance appears : the sun shines wrong, 
 The rain is foolish, time itself too long. 
 The air inclement — victims everywhere ! 
 Oh ! could they see, as I have seen, the poor. 
 Racked by real anguish, worn by want and pain, 
 Contented bend, and humbly kiss the rod ; 
 Perchance they too might seek the cottage door. 
 And learn a lesson to their endless gain, — 
 And for His constant mercies thank their God. 
 
Sojinets. 87 
 
 ABANDONED. 
 
 MINSTREL of minstrelsy too false for me ; 
 Coiner of coinage never more to pass ; 
 Singer of songs, whose voice is sounding brass ; 
 Heedless no more, I heed, — but heed not thee. 
 Framer of frames where portraits ought to be \ 
 Schemer of schemes all brittle as a glass ; 
 Swearer of oaths too well believed, alas ! 
 Slavish no more, I slave, — but not for thee. 
 Liars like thee at last must lie in vain, 
 Dreamers like me must cease to dream at last. 
 Too credulous, I doubt, and doubt for ever; 
 And the vile anguish of my endless pain 
 Remembered always, though the shock be past, 
 Perforce from me all faith, all love, must sever. 
 
88 Sonnets. 
 
 PURE LOVE. 
 
 PURE Love is tender of another's pain, 
 Forgetful of her own ; Hves in the Hfe 
 Another bears ; forgiving, often weeps, 
 Yet never hopeless ; counting loss for gain, 
 If that loss be but hers ; averse to strife, 
 Though her keen watch o'er honour never sleeps. 
 Woe to pure Love whene'er her footsteps stray ! 
 Woe to fond hearts when Passion fans the flame, 
 And brains distempered hold a hurtful sway. 
 And bandage up the eyes that guard her fame ! 
 Then welcome death — sweet, tearless, sinless sleep, 
 Where slumber tempts not, and where eyes ne'er 
 
 weep. 
 Far happier thus than when. Life's spring-tide gone, 
 Affrighted Reason flies her tottering throne. 
 
Sonnets. 89 
 
 LOVE IN AGE. 
 
 ^ I ^HE boon of Age, when Love has taken flight, 
 
 -^ And left us a stray feather from his wing 
 To play with, is a tender heart, to bring 
 The memory of the truant to our sight ! 
 Not what we are, but what perchance we might. 
 With some kind help, be ; a convenient thing 
 That serves to play with, yet the bitter sting 
 Of grey-haired failure never brought to light ! 
 Ah me ! the rosy lips of careless youth 
 That vanquished, ignorant of the art of war, 
 The words that were a library — the sighs 
 That seemed a malady — and all in truth — 
 And now, the careful handshake from afar, 
 And subtle glances that are mostly lies ! 
 
90 Sonnets. 
 
 DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE. 
 
 T T TE did not fly to arms in idle boast, 
 ' * To show fine stalwart forms in fancy 
 dress, 
 To grasp a useless sabre, or to hold 
 A rifle for vain show, in emptiness. 
 We armed — still arm, to guard our sacred coast ; 
 And in Defence the gentlest hearts grow bold. 
 Thus, a free state, free soldiers sends to fight, 
 " Aye ready ! '' and in earnest, when the vaunts 
 Of jealous neighbours overstep the right. 
 And eager preparation backs their taunts. 
 Then leap the youth of Britain from their rest. 
 And swear no stranger shall their homes molest ; 
 E'en tenderest birds, provoked, grow brave in blood. 
 Beat back the invader, and defend their brood.* 
 
Sonnets. 9 1 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER REVIEWS: 
 
 WINDSOR AND EDINBURGH. 
 July and Atigiist 1881. 
 
 A HUNDRED thousand hearts were at thy 
 feet, 
 VICTORIA ! those two memorable days ! 
 Thy crown, no warrior's girt with blood-stained bays. 
 But the fair Chaplet of Devotion, meet 
 To bind Thy brow ! while echoed every street 
 With armed tramp, the city's crowded ways 
 Rang with the joyous war-note of Thy praise ; 
 A people's praise to Thee sounds doubly sweet ! 
 What if a kindly sun warmed Windsor's sward ; 
 What if in Scotland fell unceasing rain ; 
 Our Queen the storm and sunshine shared with all; 
 For Her, a people's love the great award. 
 And Her dear Country, not aroused in vain, 
 A Volunteer Herself at duty's call. 
 
92 Sonnets. 
 
 "SURTOUT SOIS JUSTE." 
 
 I WANDER in the body ; but not less 
 My wanderings take an insubstantial shape, 
 And in the hour when weary senses gape, 
 And vacant minds proclaim their emptiness, 
 My truant fancy travels far abroad ; 
 And in grey twilight, as in golden morn, 
 'Mid joyous memories, 'mid thoughts forlorn. 
 She treads life's changing and precipitous road. 
 Help me, just Heaven ! to draw conclusions right, 
 Nor rashly blame, nor vainly praise too soon ; 
 To stumble not in the dark paths of night. 
 Nor run too wildly in the full o' th' moon. 
 Thus young I prosper ; and when bent with years 
 I cease to wander, thus gain kindly tears. 
 
Sonnets. 93 
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM. 
 
 ONCE more by God's good grace I watch the 
 time 
 Draw slowly on to sound the last dread knell 
 Of the old Year ; and like the funeral bell, 
 Rmg out the dirge of death with muffled chime. 
 In every land, in every varied clime, 
 Hearts at this time have something new to tell 
 Both of the past and future, ill or well, 
 And often laughter checks the sad sublime. 
 Extremes meet in the busy club-room, — here 
 The oldest fogey and the youngest boy, 
 Jostle in word and thought, yet minutes fly, 
 And with still step creeps in the infant Year : 
 Then old and young shake hands. May months of 
 
 joy 
 Be thine, young Year. Good-bye, old Year, good- 
 bye ! 
 
 December 2,1, 1876 — 11.40. 
 
94 Sonnets. 
 
 WOMAN'S P^ATE. 
 
 AND has it come to this? the suppHant rules, 
 And all his vows are scattered on the wind ; 
 He knows his power, and once so cruel-kind. 
 Girds at me now as taught in meaner schools, 
 And with contempt scarce veiled calls women 
 
 "fools," 
 And cries, " Not I, 'twas Thou — so loving-blind. 
 How couldst thou guess the workings of my mind ?" 
 They cut their hands who play with keen -edged 
 
 tools : 
 Just Heaven ! can trifling with a woman's heart 
 
 Bring down no judgment on the trifler? Say, 
 
 When he implored, knelt, pleaded, promised all. 
 
 Was I to blame who trusted him with part, 
 
 Though 'twere the greater j^art ? Must such as they 
 
 Stand scathless, and the true ones only fall ? 
 
Sonnets. 95 
 
 TRUTH V. PASSION IN POETRY. 
 
 I WILL not own that " Passion" is the food 
 The Muse Hkes best to feed on ; 'tis the Ufe 
 Of much the wild and unrestrained desires 
 Of man find pleasure in ; the true, the good, 
 The pure fair aliment of maid and wife 
 Is withered in those hot and sensual fires. 
 The Muse I love belongs to every age ; 
 And, true herself, writes truth, and truth alone : 
 Nature and truth live pictured on her page ; 
 Without the one the other were undone. 
 Thus the grey morning, half enwrapt in night, 
 Gives a cold welcome to the rosy light ; 
 And thus the glowing sun, at evening's hour, 
 Takes half his beauty from a softened power. 
 
 i860. 
 
g6 Sonnets. 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 " I ^HE time is past ! What time ? The time for 
 
 ^ good? 
 Nay, that can ne'er be past; the stream flows on ; 
 The silver dimples of the Avave are gone, 
 But other waves succeed in endless flood. 
 The time is come ! What time ? Here's ample food 
 For meditation ; neither time alone, 
 The Past or Present, ever can atone 
 For future wrong, or heal a sickly mood. 
 The time will come, — ay, time will come indeed — 
 And for that time the bravest must prepare, — 
 When black Past, blacker — bright, still brighter 
 
 seems ; 
 Ah, then, how keenly search we for some deed, 
 To ease our dying souls of load of care, 
 And gild our Present with its golden beams ! 
 
 i860. 
 
Sonnets. 97 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 THE heart contains the passions of the mind, 
 The mind controls the passions of the 
 heart ; 
 So truth and feeUng guide the painter's art, 
 And teach the ignorant to know their kind. 
 The poet revels in a fancied power. 
 Not his, nor yet another's, Nature's all ; 
 His highest thought but answers to her call; 
 His noblest verses are her noblest dower. 
 Like poets, painters can create the life 
 That breathes upon their canvas, from a source 
 Unknown to many, yet true talent's force 
 Is Nature reproduced through patient strife ; 
 Thus human art is humbled to discern 
 The God of Nature rules o'er all we learn. 
 
 i860. 
 
98 Sonnets. 
 
 RAIN ! RAIN ! 
 
 FOR three-and- twenty days the purple head 
 Of yonder mountain through the rain has 
 frowned 
 Mist-clad, grey-glooming, weird, disheartening : 
 The swollen river overflows its bed ; 
 Its waves, once bright, are dismally embrowned, 
 And the green valley weeps like living thing. 
 The deer, with drooping antlers, leave the crest, 
 And browse on soddened herbage at the base ; 
 The grouse cower sadly, Avith bedraggled breast 
 And ruffled plumage, in some sheltered place. 
 All Nature longs for autumn's genial days 
 To shine once more beneath his ripening rays ; 
 And I, with ready rifle, rod and gun, 
 Cooped idly here, am pining for the sun. 
 
 1855. 
 
Sonnets. 99 
 
 TO A. A. 
 
 FOR twice eight days, dear Friend, from morn 
 to eve, 
 And after shades of eve have drawn to night, 
 And the full moon has silvered all the lake. 
 Lighting up glen and corrie with her light. 
 Have we, in vain, o'er Weather tried to grieve. 
 For each from other novel thoughts did take. 
 In fancy, I have trod grave Academe, 
 And thou, again, hast braved the purple tide 
 Where rolled in distant lands War's ruddy stream ; 
 Or talked we not of some ideal bride ? 
 To little purpose prayed we for the sun ! 
 For ceaseless rain spoiled sport ere well begun ; 
 Yet Friendship flourished, like a flame whose force 
 Is fed by tempests of opposing course. 
 
 1855. 
 
I oo Sonnets. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 
 A FEW short days of pleasant intercourse, 
 Of sweet communion of thought and soul, 
 Have passed away, as all things here must pass. 
 How few days pass and leave us quite heart-whole. 
 And as they found us ! sorrow and remorse 
 Form the great retrospect of life, alas ! 
 Yet these have sped, and memory survives. 
 To cast a " longing, lingering look " behind : 
 For I might live a century of lives, 
 And never meet a Friend more true, more kind. 
 Oh think on me, as I shall ever dream 
 Of these bright hours of by-gone happiness. 
 We glide in different barks adown life's stream. 
 I may not love thee more, I cannot less. 
 
 1855. 
 
Sonnets. i o i 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 RELIGION of the heart, in things divine, 
 - Means love of God, and charity to man 
 In human matters ; the Apostle's pen 
 Wrote words of fire, engraved upon the shrine 
 Within the holiest, " Faith and Hope are nought 
 If Charity be wanting ; " love to all — 
 Love, self-denying, calling nothing small. 
 Needing no learning though itself untaught — 
 From such there springs, as lesser springs from 
 
 great, 
 Soft Sympathy, blue-eyed, with gentle voice, 
 Too generous e'en for friendship ; all mankind 
 To her are friends, she owns none separate ; 
 She has a heart for all, bids all rejoice; 
 One universal love fills all her mind. 
 
 1855. 
 
102 Sonnets. 
 
 GLENOUOICH. 
 
 GLENQUOICH ! here may misanthropes recall 
 The first fond visions of their infancy, 
 Ere yet their early sweetness turned to gall, 
 And the fresh fountain of their hearts ran dry. 
 Here may the woe-worn wretch forget his grief, 
 And smile with new-found pleasure once again — 
 Here in Thy heathery wilds find sure relief, 
 And live oblivious of his former pain ; 
 For Nature here, with outstretched arms, invites 
 Each passer-by to share her glad delights, 
 Not rugged wild, to bruise with stern caress, 
 But blent with art, a cultured wilderness ! 
 Far from the abodes of man, yet all unite. 
 With one accord — the young, the fair, the bright 
 To this blest spot to pay their homage come. 
 And worship Nature in her mountain home. 
 
 1855. 
 
Sonnets. 103 
 
 ABDUL-AZIZ. 
 
 WHAT Oriental Despot now can claim 
 Ancestral privilege of ruling ill ? 
 What Western Monarch throned on popular will 
 Can boast his kingdom safe, with evil name ? 
 None ! they must rest their lives on noble fame 
 And honest deeds, lights set upon a hill, 
 That all may see a prudent ruler's skill ; 
 Clear eyes averted from all deed of shame, 
 And hearts to win love — monarchs are but men. 
 Thus may they nobly keep their high estate. 
 Nor hear the grovelling sycophants deride ! 
 Thrones totter to their base and fall, — what then ? 
 A nation's curses and a nation's hate. 
 Flight — the assassin's knife, or suicide ! 
 
1 04 Sonnets. 
 
 DISAPPOINTlMENT. 
 
 'nr^HROUGH the long vigil of a sleepless night 
 -^ To watch and listen for the chime of morn, 
 To mark the splendour of the day new-born, 
 When all the Orient flushes into light ; 
 To cry ''half-won," and, radiant with delight. 
 To laugh the heart's forebodings all to scorn — 
 To fling aside the rose, and plant the thorn. 
 Unconsciously, in confidence of might : 
 Then, lo ! grey mist obscures the glowing sun, 
 The hand unnerved, lets fall the staff it grasped. 
 The exultant voice sounds hoarse, and choked and 
 
 low, 
 And triumph fails before her course be run ; 
 And victory, ere the precious prize be clasped. 
 In Disappointment veils her downcast brow. 
 
 1856. 
 
Sonnets. 105 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 NIGHT— painted black-browed by the poet's 
 pen, 
 Gloomy, thick-veiled, at strife with honest deeds, 
 Star-studded, worshipped by a thousand creeds ! 
 I greet thee well : welcome to weary men ! 
 Not the sick souls who cavil at each day, 
 Whose languid struggles imitate true work, 
 Whose brawny shoulders honest labour shirk. 
 And turn real effort into idle play; 
 But the keen hearts who resolutely strive. 
 From rose-crowned morning to the set of sun, 
 To gain some end that knits the muscles close, 
 (It may be merely pastime keeps alive 
 The strenuous exertion once begun), 
 To these thou'rt welcome with thy glad repose. 
 
1 06 Sonnets. 
 
 HOPE ON— HOPE EVER. 
 
 ^ I ^HE sun has mounted high ; the sickly drought 
 -■- Grasps the thin throat of many a fragrant 
 flower, 
 And turns their Hngering sweetness into death. 
 Poor Ufe ! ephemeral, that sinks to nought 
 And dies, sad victim of a sunny hour, 
 Scorched in its childhood by a sultry breath ! 
 Ah me ! how false are morning dews that raise 
 The promise of a bloom ! Sap rises free, 
 And green leaves sprout, and herald strength and 
 
 life! 
 Thus have I seen the flattering dews of praise 
 Nourish the seed with hope and vigour rife, 
 And the hot glare of malice scorch the tree. 
 Yet Heaven's soft rain may quench the baleful heat ; 
 And some day Victory may atone Defeat. 
 
Sonnets. 1 07 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 THE oak once lay within the acorn-cup ; 
 The infant holds the future of the man ; 
 The minutes, fleeting, compass a life's span ; 
 The raindrop swells the foaming torrents up ; 
 Climate and soil make varied timber grow ; 
 And differing educations change the child. 
 Time is resistless ; terrible and wild. 
 In some dark seasons mountain-streamlets flow ; 
 Thus Nature owns an outer influence, 
 But childhood most of all. Be ours to guide 
 Their early days with the soft hand of love ; 
 To teach the truth, and that, with least pretence, 
 To show example none can e'er deride, 
 And point the way to happiness above ! 
 
 1852. 
 
io8 Sonnets. 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 '^ I ^HERE is a River whose deep waters flow 
 
 -^ Silent and swift to a blue inland Sea ; 
 And purple hills frown gloomily above, 
 And grassy meads smile tenderly below. 
 That River is the type of one whose plea 
 For many an erring word is Nature's love ; 
 The ever-changing stream j^ortrays his heart, 
 The purple mountains point at life's distress ; 
 The meadows at the brink are fitting part 
 Of those who cheer him through this wilderness. 
 Yet blend the mountain, meadow, and the stream. 
 Then joys and sorrows in one band appear : 
 So, to my soul, dear friends, kind voices seem ; — 
 With me they smile, with me they shed the tear. 
 
 1S55. 
 
Sonnets. 109 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 T T ?^ HO loves the Truth, and, dinging to his love, 
 ' » Lives for his love, and makes his love his life. 
 Detects in every lie the cruel strife 
 That shatters love, and casting down his glove 
 Becomes Her Champion, nothing makes him quail ! 
 He buckles her bright fixlchion to his side, 
 And grasps her lance, as some full-hearted bride 
 Grasps her new lord with love that cannot fail. 
 Oh ! onward in that pilgrimage of power ! 
 Forward ! Enthusiast of the Truth, and live 
 In the deep love such life can only give. 
 Heedless of sunshine, or if storm-clouds lower. 
 Love, Truth, and Life in triple union stand 
 On Earth — in Heaven — an Eternal Band. 
 
 1852. 
 
I lo. Sonnets. 
 
 OLD PRINTS 
 
 IN A PORTFOLIO. 
 
 THEY lie within this purgatorial book, 
 In patient waiting for the Day of Doom, 
 As lost, as labour of the Tyrian loom, 
 This courtly smile or that imperious look! 
 Here simpers Phyllis with a flowery crook, 
 And there frowns one who sought the cannon's 
 
 boom, 
 And courted peril, as a mistress, whom 
 He madly worshipped, and by yonder brook 
 A loving pair stand gazing into space, — 
 They whisper fondly of their future home 
 Though dead a hundred years ! A cruel fate 
 Is theirs indeed, each packed within this case, — 
 Unhappy prisoners in a dusty tome 
 That closes o'er them like the Inferno's Gate ! 
 
Index 
 
INDEX. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM — 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI, . 
 
 I 
 
 TO THE SAME, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 2 
 
 R. F. B., . 
 
 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 MRS E. BARRETT BROWNING, 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 S 
 
 PRINCESS ALICE, 
 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 TO THE SAME, , 
 
 
 
 
 
 7 
 
 E. R. , . . . 
 
 
 
 
 
 8 
 
 TO AN INFANT, 
 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 IN MEMORIAM — LADY F. C., 
 
 
 
 
 
 lO 
 
 ADMIRAL ROUS, 
 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 GEORGE WHYTE-MELVILLE, 
 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 CHISLEHURST, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 LORD RAVENSWORTH, 
 
 
 
 
 
 H 
 
 LADY SMITH, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 TO THE SAME, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 i6 
 
 TO THE SAME, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 17 
 
 IN MEMORIAM — LORD LYTTON, 
 
 
 
 
 i8 
 
 IN MEMORIAM — ARCHIBALD CA 
 
 MPBE 
 
 ,LL T 
 
 AIT, 
 
 
 19 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 Index. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM — QUEEN OF SPAIN — 
 
 
 I 
 
 20 
 
 II 
 
 22 
 
 Ill 
 
 23 
 
 IV 
 
 24 
 
 TO MY WIFE — 
 
 
 I 
 
 ■ 25 
 
 II 
 
 . 26 
 
 Ill 
 
 27 
 
 IV 
 
 . 28 
 
 V 
 
 . 29 
 
 VI 
 
 30 
 
 VII 
 
 . 31 
 
 VIII 
 
 • 32 
 
 IX 
 
 
 X 
 
 ■ 34 
 
 XI 
 
 . 35 
 
 XII 
 
 . 36 
 
 XIII 
 
 37 
 
 XIV 
 
 38 
 
 " TOUT ARRIVE A POINT A QUI SAIT ATTENDRE," 
 
 39 
 
 TO DAISY, 
 
 . 40 
 
 TO HARRY, 
 
 41 
 
 3OTH APRIL 18S1, 
 
 42 
 
 IIOMBURG, 
 
 43 
 
 MONT BLANC, 
 
 44 
 
 LAUTERBRUNNEN, 
 
 45 
 
 CALVARY, 
 
 46 
 
 PATHETIC HUMOUR, 
 
 . 47 
 
 THE WOOD-NYMPH, 
 
 48 
 
 BEDTIME, 
 
 49 
 
 FOREBODING, 
 
 50 
 
 DAYBREAK IN PARIS, . . . . . 
 
 51 
 
 A STORM AT SEA, 
 
 52 
 
Index. 
 
 115 
 
 DEAD, 
 
 • • • 
 
 . 
 
 • 
 
 
 • 53 
 
 AFTER PETRARCH— 
 
 HH 
 
 
 
 
 . 54 
 
 11 
 
 » 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 Ill 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 56 
 
 BYRON, 
 
 
 
 
 • 57 
 
 DROWNED, 
 
 
 
 
 5^ 
 
 THE THROSTLE— 
 
 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 59 
 
 II 
 
 
 
 
 . 60 
 
 THE DUEL, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 61 
 
 "ORA E SEMPRE ! " . 
 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 AN INTERIOR, .... 
 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 PHILOMEL, . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD, 
 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 TO THE SAME, .... 
 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 THE KNIGHTHOOD OF THE CROSS, . 
 
 
 
 
 (^1 
 
 GOETHE's PRAYER, . 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 OLD LETTERS, 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 NOT HERE, .... 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 AMONG MY BOOKS, . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 71 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT, 
 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 TRUE REST, .... 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 SYMPATHY IN FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 
 
 
 74 
 
 THE GATES OF DEATH, 
 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 INSIDE PARIS, .... 
 
 
 
 
 76 
 
 WORK AND REST, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 
 77 
 
 MIDDLE AGE, . 
 
 • • • 
 
 
 
 
 78 
 
 OLD AGE, , 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 MIDNIGHT, 1S72-3, 
 
 • • ■ 
 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 HEAVENLY HARVEST 
 
 ■HOME, 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 THE TRIUMPHS OF LITERATURE, 
 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 LIGHT, 
 
 
 
 
 S3 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH, 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 84 
 
ii6 
 
 Index. 
 
 ALONE, . . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 
 85 
 
 THE DISCONTENTED, 
 
 
 
 
 
 86 
 
 ABANDONED, 
 
 
 
 
 
 87 
 
 PURE LOVE, 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 88 
 
 LOVE IN AGE, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE, 
 
 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER REVIEWS, 
 
 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 "SURTOUT SOIS JUSTE," . 
 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM, 
 
 
 
 
 
 93 
 
 woman's fate. 
 
 
 
 
 
 94 
 
 TRUTH V. PASSION IN POETRY, 
 
 
 
 
 
 95 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT, 
 
 
 
 
 
 96 
 
 NATURE, 
 
 
 
 
 
 97 
 
 RAIN ! RAIN ! . 
 
 
 
 
 
 98 
 
 TO A. A , . 
 
 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 ADIEU, .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 SYMPATHY, . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 
 lOI 
 
 GLENQUOICH, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 102 
 
 ABDUL-AZIZ, 
 
 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT; 
 
 
 
 
 
 104 
 
 NIGHT, .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 105 
 
 HOPE ON— HOPE EVER, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 EDUCATION, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 107 
 
 THE RIVER, 
 
 
 
 
 
 108 
 
 TRUTH, .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 109 
 
 OLD PRINTS, 
 
 
 
 
 
 no 
 
 PRINTED DY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 
 

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