PR 
 5699 
 T85A17 
 1873 
 
 II 
 
 
 A 
 
 
 
 
 A 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 =^=^ :j: 
 
 
 
 ^^=^= X 
 
 3 
 
 ^^^^= ? 
 
 6 
 
 
 7 
 
 
 
 
 ^=^= ZD 
 
 4 
 
 
 8 
 
 6 
 
 ^^. 

 
 Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 '4-1 
 
 /
 
 SONNETS, LYRICS, AND 
 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 BY 
 
 The Rev. CHARLES TURNER, 
 
 VICAR OF GRASBY, LINCOLNSHIRE. 
 
 HENRY S. KING & CO., 
 65, CORNHILL. AND 12, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. 
 
 1873-
 
 [A/i Rights Reserrrd.]
 
 ^ 
 
 TsfAn 
 /H3 
 
 TO 
 
 AGNES GRACE WELD 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 ^s |nstribtJ> 
 
 BY HER AFFECTIONATE UNCLE, 
 
 CHARLES TURNER. 
 
 i3<t>7«;.0
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 LITTLE SOPHY BY THE SEASIDE I 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY AND THE ROSfi 2 
 
 NAUSICAA 3 
 
 THE DYING SCULPTOR 4 
 
 FREE GREECE, AN ASPIRATJON 5 
 
 THE SEASIDE 6 
 
 THE BARMOUTH SEA-BRIDGE 7 
 
 ON A child's eves 8 
 
 LITTLE NORA 9 
 
 OUR MARY AND THE child-mummy .... ID 
 
 called FROM BED II 
 
 EMMELINE 12 
 
 A BLUSH AT FAREWELL 1 3 
 
 THE HYDRAULIC RAM I4 
 
 ON THE MONUMENT OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH 
 
 STUART IN NEWPORT CHURCH, ISLE OF WIGHT . 15 
 
 THE SICK ORPHAN 16 
 
 THE MISSING BRIDE l^ 
 
 THE FIR-GROVE 18 
 
 Continued : 
 
 THE AXE FORBIDDEN I9 
 
 ENGLAND'S HONOUR 20 
 
 Continued : 
 
 ENFORCED WAR 21
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 Continued : Page 
 
 DISHONOURABLE PEACK ....... 22 
 
 ARMS OLD AND NEW 23 
 
 THE BOMB AND THE ORGAN 24 
 
 TO A FRENCH POET AND REFUGEE- 25 
 
 THE ASCENT OF SNOWDON 26 
 
 THE CATTLE TRAIN 27 
 
 Conti>iiied: 
 
 HUMAN SORROWS 28 
 
 THE ARTIST ON PENMAENMAWR 29 
 
 CADER IDRIS AT SUNSET 30 
 
 THE OLD HILLS'-MAN AND HIS TRUCK . . .,31 
 
 WELSH LUCY '32 
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR OF SHAME 33 
 
 THE HARVEST MOON 34 
 
 OLD RURALITIES 35 
 
 TO A RED-WHEAT FIELD ...... 36 
 
 TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN 37 
 
 THE WILLOW, OR THE ROSE-PROP .... 38 
 
 THE OLD FOX-HUNTER 39 
 
 TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT 4O 
 
 ON FINDING A SMALL FLY CRUSHED IN A BOOK . . 4I 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE SONNET 42 
 
 GOUT AND WINGS 43 
 
 Continued : 
 PODAGER BEGS PARDON OF BIRDS, BEES, AND WINGS 
 
 IN GENERAL 44 
 
 A COLONY OF NIGHTINGALES 45 
 
 THE SPARROW AND THE DEW-DROP .... 46
 
 Contents. vii 
 
 Page 
 
 TO A CUCKOO IN A HIGHWAY HEDGE . . . . 47 
 
 THE SWAN AND THE PEACOCK 48 
 
 MY TIMEPIECE 49 
 
 OUR NEW CHURCH 50 
 
 OUR NEW CHURCH CLOCK 5 1 
 
 TWELVE o'clock AT NOON 52 
 
 THE AFTERNOTE OF THE HOUR 53 
 
 AFTER THE SCHOOL-FEAST 54 
 
 ON THE MURDER OF BISHOP PATTESON . . • • 55 
 
 THE pastor's prayer . 56 
 
 TO THE HOLY VIRGIN 57 
 
 THE PALM-WILLOW, A DREAM OF PALM-SUN EVE . 58 
 
 Continued: 
 
 A RECANTATION 59 
 
 ID MY SISTER MARY 60 
 
 LOVE OF HOME : A REJOINDER 6I 
 
 SUPPOSED TO HE WRITTEN BY ONE ON WHOM THE 
 DEATH OF AN EXCELLENT WOMAN HAS FORCED 
 
 THE CONVICTION OF A FUTURE STATE . . . 62 
 
 Continued ........ 63 
 
 A PERVERSE LOVER 64 
 
 A MOURNING LOVER 6$ 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE 66 
 
 ON SOME HUMMING-BIRDS IN A GLASS CASE . . 67 
 
 THE PRISONER 68 
 
 THE "CANNON-FEVKR " 69 
 
 THE EARTHQUAKE 70 
 
 TO A YOUNG KING 7I
 
 Vlll 
 
 Contents. 
 
 GREECE : AN ASPIRATION . 
 DEATH AND ITS ANTIDOTE . 
 SCIENCE AND FAITH .... 
 TO : FAITH AND FREETHINKING 
 
 THE PORTRAIT PAINTER 
 TO .... 
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND HIS AVIFE S RINGLET . . . 
 
 THE ALTAR, AS CONNECTED WITH MARRIAGE 
 
 A BR DAL FAREWELL 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE MADINGLEY SCHOOL, ON THE 
 ARRIVAL OF THE PRINCE OF WALES AT THE 
 MANOR HOUSE, IN 1861 
 
 A LEGEND FROM DE LAMARTINE's TRAVELS IN THE 
 EAST, VERSIFIED 
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE DEE 
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS 
 
 FROM ANACREON. THE MUSES, ERjS, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 EROS AND THE BEE 
 
 THE CICALA. FROM ANACREON .... 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY VIRGIL's DESCRIPTION OF THE 
 INTERVIEW BETWEEN ^NEAS AND VENUS 
 
 FROM SIMONIDES 
 
 FROM SAPPHO 
 
 A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD, ASLEEP . 
 
 BY A DEATH-BED 
 
 Page 
 72 
 
 73 
 74 
 
 75 
 76 
 
 77 
 78 
 79 
 80 
 
 81 
 
 84 
 
 87 
 88 
 
 90 
 
 90 
 
 92 
 
 93 
 94 
 95 
 97 
 100 
 
 A few of these Poems appeared lately in magazines. Some of the latter 
 ones are republications, with more or less alteration, from a volume printed 
 in 1830. The remainder are quite new.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I-J#CH 
 
 LITTLE SOPHY BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Young Sophy leads a life without alloy 
 Of pain ; she dances in the stormy air ; 
 \\'hile her pink sash and length of golden hair 
 AVlth answering motion time her step of joy ! 
 Now turns she through that seaward gate of heaven, 
 That opens on the sward above the cliff, — 
 Glancing a moment at each barque and skiff, 
 Along the roughening waters homeward driven ; 
 Shoreward she hies, her wooden spade in hand, 
 Straight dowTi to childhood's ancient field of play, 
 To claim her right of common in the land 
 ^Vhere little edgeless tools make easy way — 
 A right no cruel Act shall e'er gainsay, 
 No greed dispute the freedom of the sand.
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 She pluck'd a wild wood-rose, and fondly strove, 
 With pausing step and ever-anxious care. 
 To carry home her dainty treasure-trove, 
 A butterfly, perch'd on those petals fair ; 
 Soon the gay creature flutter'd off again ; 
 And then her girlish fingers dropp'd the flower : 
 Ah ! little maid, when Love asserts his power. 
 This lesson, duly learnt, may save thee pain ; 
 Why from the forest-rose thine hand unclasp, 
 Because the fickle insect would not stay ? 
 Not all the tendance of thy sweet blue eye. 
 And tiptoe heed, secured the butterfly ; 
 The flower, that needed but thy gentle grasp 
 To hold it, thou hast lightly thrown away !
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 NAUSICAA. 
 
 Oft, from my classic memory's inmost shade, 
 That fair Phseacian shore to light I bring, 
 Where young Nausicaa stood, — that royal maid, 
 Whose brave-eyed pity fac'd the naked king, 
 And made a shipwreck sweet. Beside the bed 
 Of a near stream he found the robe and oil, 
 Her timely present to the man of toil ; 
 Anon she took the chariot-reins, and led 
 The way, while in among her train he pass'd : 
 Then to the sacred grove, when they had come 
 Near that unsocial city ; till, at last, 
 He hail'd his sea-star in her own bright home, — 
 The girl who cloth'd his shame, and by the clue 
 Of purple yarn, foreshow'd him where to sue. 
 
 B 2
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 THE DYING SCULPTOR. 
 
 " I HEAR my comrades' tools at busy mom," 
 
 The youthful sculptor said ; " but my poor name 
 
 Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn, 
 
 While they may follow Phidias in his fame ; 
 
 I may not lift my head above the crowd ; 
 
 My marble visions are dissolving fast ; 
 
 My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud 
 
 From weary eyes, that watch it to the last. 
 
 Before they sleep ; and thou, rfiy last design 1 
 
 Wherein I fondly hop'd would reappear 
 
 The model glories of the Belvidere, 
 
 With its proud-postufd grace in every line ; 
 
 'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here, 
 
 To study lowlier attitudes than thine."
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 FREE GREECE. 
 
 AN ASPIRATION ON THE ACCESSION OF PRINCE GEORGE OF 
 
 DENMARK. 
 
 Now are we free to range thee, hill and plain, 
 O Greece ! for thou thyself art also free ; 
 To muse at Athens, near the Maiden's fane, 
 Or land on Argos from the morning sea. 
 And spread our sails about thee lovingly :* 
 What joy thy pupils of the West shall feel 
 To dream the old war-notes, or the softer peal 
 Of pastoral sound from folds of Arcady! 
 Whence oft the gadding Faunus, tired of home. 
 In later times went off in sudden haste 
 From old Lycseus to fair Lucretil,t 
 To fend the Sabine farm from sun or blast. 
 And lent himself to that sweet lyric will, 
 Which led the Gods and Muses off to Rome. 
 
 * " Singula dum capti circumveclamur amore." 
 
 Virgil's Georgics. 
 1" " Velox amaenum sDcpe Lucretilcm, 
 Mutat Lycaeo Faunus et igneam 
 Defendit Kstatem capellis 
 Usque meis, pluviosque ventos." 
 
 Horace, OJ.
 
 6 Sonnets. 
 
 THE SEASIDE, 
 
 IN AND OUT OF THE SEASON. 
 
 In summer-time it was a paradise 
 
 Of mountain, frith, and bay, and shining sand ; 
 
 Our outward rowers sang towards the land, 
 
 Follow'd by waving hands and happy cries : 
 
 By the full flood the groups no longer roam ; 
 
 And when, at ebb, the glistening beach grows wide, 
 
 No barefoot children race into the foam, 
 
 But passive jellies wait the turn of tide. 
 
 Like some forsaken lover, lingering there, 
 
 The boatman stands ; the maidens trip no more 
 
 With loosen'd locks ; far from the billows' roar 
 
 The Mauds and Maries knot their tresses fair, 
 
 Where not a foam-flake from th' enamour'd shore 
 
 Comes down the sea-wind on the golden hair.
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 THE BARMOUTH SEA-BRIDGE. 
 
 When the train cross'd the sea, 'mid shouts of joy, 
 And the huge sea-pillars dash'd away the tide, 
 Awhile the power of song seem'd vague, beside 
 Those vast mechanics, mighty to convoy 
 A length of cars high over flood and ooze ; 
 But the brief thought was feeble and unwise : 
 No season'd oak is stronger than the Muse, 
 For all the great cross-beams, and clamps, and ties. 
 Brave songs may raise a people sore-deprest, 
 And knit its strength together for the strife 
 ^Vith foreign foes, or subtle statesman's art : 
 Sweet hymns have lifted many a dying heart 
 Above the world, and sped the passing life 
 Across the waters, to the land of rest !
 
 8 Sonnets. 
 
 ON A CHILD'S EYES. 
 
 How loveable all infant beauties are ! 
 
 How sweet, in form and colour, are thine eyes ! 
 
 Disks of two living flowers, that, rooted far 
 
 Within thy spirit, do report its joys. 
 
 And pass its half-hour's sorrows on to heaven, 
 
 To sun themselves and vanish ; but, in prayer. 
 
 Their best expression comes ; through the deep air 
 
 They see their Lord, like those of holy Stephen. 
 
 Far off, dear child ! be that unhappy time. 
 
 When aught of hard or shrewd shall settle there, 
 
 Of wanton boldness, or of blighting crime ; 
 
 So Age may haply find them, as they were. 
 
 And Death assort them with full many a one, 
 
 That shall not blench, when Jesus takes His throne !
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 LITTLE NORA; 
 
 OR, THE PORTKAIT. 
 
 I ask'd of little Nora, but he gave 
 
 A piteous sigh — his answer did not come ; 
 
 My friend stood gazing on his daughter's tomb, 
 
 Till, with a sudden shame, I saw it too ; 
 
 At last he said : " She died three moons ago :" 
 
 So long entomb'd had little Nora been, 
 
 So long I knew not of her father's woe ! 
 
 Then came her portrait forth, which I had seen, 
 
 And he had shown with pride, when last we met ; 
 
 The same bright smile — the rose-o'erladen arms, 
 
 And all her pretty sum of infant-charms ; 
 
 But lo ! a fair memorial tress was set, 
 
 Facing the porcelain picture, where his child 
 
 Still nurs'd her pile of summer-wreaths and smil'd.
 
 I o Sonnets. 
 
 OUR MARY AND THE CHILD-MUMMY. 
 
 When the four quarters of the worM shall rise, 
 
 Men, women, children, at the Judgment-time, 
 
 Perchance this Memphian girl, dead ere her prime, 
 
 Shall drop her mask, and with dark new-born eyes 
 
 Salute our English Mary, lov'd and lost ; 
 
 The Father knows her little scroll of prayer,* 
 
 And life as pure as His Egyptian air ; 
 
 For, though she knew not Jesus, nor the cost 
 
 At which He won the worlds she learn'd to pray ; 
 
 And though our own sweet babe on Christ's good name 
 
 Spent her last breath, premonish'd and advis'd 
 
 Of Him, and in His glorious Church baptiz'd, 
 
 She will not spurn this old-world child away. 
 
 Nor put her poor embalmed heart to shame. 
 
 * The extract from the " Book of the Dead," which was put into 
 the hands of the deceased.
 
 Sonnets. 1 1 
 
 CALLED FROM BED ; 
 
 OR, LIZZIE AND KATE. 
 
 With merry eyes against the golden west, 
 
 Two baby girls half-sat, and half-repos'd \ 
 
 And prattled in the sunshine, ere they clos'd 
 
 That summer's eve in childhood's balmy rest ; 
 
 But, hark ! their mother calls them from below, 
 
 She bids them rise ! Right glad we were to see 
 
 The twain, whose happy talk came down the stee,* 
 
 Lizzie and Kate, with night-gear white as snow, 
 
 And winsome looks ; And when, with nod and smile, 
 
 And kiss for each, we left the woodside cot, 
 
 Ufjon the warm bright threshold for awhile 
 
 They stood, as we look'd back upon the spot, 
 
 Where crimson hollyhocks made contrast sweet 
 
 With those white darlings, and their naked feet. 
 
 • Provincial for ladder. Here it is the ladder up to the cot- 
 tager's bedroom.
 
 12 Sonnets. 
 
 EMMELINE. 
 
 She grows apace, thy darling Emmeline ! 
 
 Her heart, erewhile but two feet from the ground, 
 
 Beats at a higher level, in the line 
 
 Of many archers, pressing daily round ; 
 
 She doffs aside the aim of Jones and Brown ; 
 
 But, though a surer arrow has been set 
 
 By a young marksman from the neighbouring town, 
 
 It lingers on the string, — he speaks not yet. 
 
 When two love well, events must onward move ; 
 
 She feels a winning hand is on the bow, 
 
 And, if he asks, she will not answer "No ;" 
 
 And Emmeline to him is life's sole mark. 
 
 He knows she loves him, and she knows his love ; 
 
 Speed, gentle shaft ! thou aim'st not in the dark !
 
 Sonnets. 1 3 
 
 A BLUSH AT FAREWELL. 
 
 Her tears are all thine owm ! how blest thou art ! 
 
 Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind ; 
 
 Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind 
 
 That floats the rose-bloom ; thou hast won her heart ; 
 
 Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast ; 
 
 She speaks not — but she gives her silent bond ; 
 
 And thou may'st trust it, asking nought beyond 
 
 The promise, which as yet no words attest ; 
 
 Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow, 
 
 And deep in thine ! and I can well foresee, 
 
 If thou shalt feel a lover's jealousy 
 
 For her brief absence, what a ruling power 
 
 A byegone blush shall prove ! until the hour 
 
 Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.
 
 1 4 Sonnets. 
 
 THE HYDRAULIC RAM; 
 
 OR, THE INFLUENCE OF SOUND ON MOOD. 
 
 In the hall grounds, by evening-glooms conceal'd, 
 
 He heard the solitary water-ram 
 
 Beat sadly in the little wood-girt field, 
 
 So dear to both ! " Ah ! wretched that I am ! " 
 
 He said, " and traitor to my love and her's ! 
 
 Why did I vent those words of wrath and spleen, 
 
 That chang'd her cheek, and flush'd her gentle mien ? 
 
 When will they yield her back, those jealous firs, 
 
 Into whose shelter two days since she fled 
 
 From my capricious anger, phantom-fed? 
 
 When will her sire his interdict unsay ? 
 
 Or must I learn a lonely lot to bear. 
 
 As this imprison'd engine, night and day, 
 
 Plies its dull pulses in the darkness there?"
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 ox THE MONUMENT OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH 
 STUART IN NEWPORT CHURCH, ISLE OF WIGHT. 
 
 Lo ! by our Queen's command, the Parian stone 
 
 Has brought to light a flower that shall not fade ; 
 
 As old-world seeds, up to the surface thrown, 
 
 Break in white blossom by the Sun's sweet aid, 
 
 And air their buried beauty ; so, at last. 
 
 This gentle, royal, persecuted, maid 
 
 Has had her blameless memory upcast. 
 
 Like the white clover, long in darkness laid ; 
 
 How touchingly she died ! her languid head 
 
 Had fallen forward on her father's book. 
 
 The Martyr's dying present, ere he bled ; 
 
 But, on the last high morning, she shall look 
 
 Heavenwards, through Him whose precious blood was 
 
 shed, 
 For this long-hidden flower of Carisbrook.
 
 1 6 Sonnets. 
 
 THE SICK ORPHAN; 
 
 OR, THE COUCH IN THE OPEN AIR. 
 
 'TwAS at the close of a warm summer's day, 
 
 We spread our orphan's couch in the sweet air ; 
 
 And she was happy as the healthiest there ; 
 
 While, with each changing posture, as she lay, 
 
 A star, that lurk'd within the whispering firs, 
 
 Look'd forth upon her, glistening tenderly ; 
 
 " How like," she said, "a mother's watchful eye, 
 
 " That wakes and brightens, when her infant stirs !" 
 
 She lov'd God's world, that maiden meek and mild ; 
 
 She challeng'd kith and kin on every hand, 
 
 Like Francis of Assisi — that dear child 
 
 Spoke sisterly of flowers and song-birds wild ; 
 
 Till every listener lost his self-command, 
 
 And o'er her dying love-notes wept and smil'd !
 
 Sonnets. \ 7 
 
 THE MISSING BRIDE. 
 
 The wedded girl exclaim'd, " I'll hide, I'll hide 1 " 
 
 And so they sought her gaily far and near, 
 
 Till, first in wonder, then in mortal fear, 
 
 Hour after hour they look'd for the lost bride. 
 
 Oh ! would she peep from out the laurel-walk, 
 
 Or from yon pleached roses nod and smile, 
 
 ^V'e would forgive her all this mournful talk 
 
 And sad surmise, nor chide her girlish guile. 
 
 Years pass'd, long years ! when in an ancient chest. 
 
 Whose heavy lid had dropp'd upon its spring, 
 
 They found the object of a bygone quest, 
 
 A skeleton, in bridal wreath and ring ; 
 
 And recogniz'd, with hearts too full to speak. 
 
 The mystery of that fatal " Hide and Seek."
 
 1 8 Sonnets. 
 
 THE FIR-GROVE, 
 
 OR, THE FATAL FLASH. 
 
 Again the ripening crops begin to shine 
 
 Near the dark firs, where Agnes dropp'd and died, 
 
 Struck in a moment fi-om her lover's side, 
 
 At that gay banquet, v/ith its songs and wine ; 
 
 Well he remembers how the thunder broke 
 
 After the flash, that pierc'd their festal bower, 
 
 Where she lay prostrate in her hood and cloak, 
 
 Drawn round her, just to fend a summer-shower ; 
 
 Well he remembers, later in the year, 
 
 How, when the pine-grove rang with questing hounds, 
 
 His soul reverted to those social sounds, 
 
 Dear Friendship's voice, and Love's, more wildly dear, 
 
 And how the Hunt seem'd like a drunken brawl 
 
 Crossing the silence of a funeral.
 
 Sonnets. 1 9 
 
 ( Contimced. ) 
 THE AXE FORBIDDEN. 
 
 That belt of pines is dearer to his heart, 
 
 Than all the busy interests of life ; 
 
 Since, on that festal morn, he saw the dart 
 
 Of heaven descending on his plighted wife. 
 
 No axe comes there ; the trees extend their sliade ; 
 
 His loving sorrow interdicts their fall, 
 
 And warns the woodman from the holy glade ; 
 
 The death of Agnes has redeem'd them all ! 
 
 Yon small white gate, deep-set in living green, 
 
 Through which she pass'd, — alas ! without return, — 
 
 Though distant, oft in sunny gleams is seen ; 
 
 Or when, before the rain, the sacred grove 
 
 Comes looming up, surcharg'd with death and love, 
 
 And bids the little gate stand forth and mourn ! 
 
 c 2
 
 20 Sonnets. 
 
 ENGLAND'S HONOUR. 
 
 How easily the breath of God o'envhelms 
 
 The nations that presume to hve for gain ! 
 
 And clogs the motion of imperial realms, 
 
 As our poor breath the fly upon the pane : 
 
 Though our deep-laden argosies rejoice 
 
 From port to port to drag the seething sea 
 
 Across the world, how helpless we may be 
 
 In one brief year, despite our trade and noise ! 
 
 Too oft, when, burthen'd with our chests and bales. 
 
 From the four winds we bring our freightage home, 
 
 We help to strike our country's honour dumb ; 
 
 Her noble voice, once heard above the gales. 
 
 Is lost among the stowage, while the prayer 
 
 Of our weak neighbours finds us slow to dare.
 
 Sonnets. 2 1 
 
 (Continued.) 
 ENFORCED WAR. 
 
 What! shall the wharf and warehouse block our view 
 Of truth and right ? Shall we no help afford, 
 When petty states in their affliction sue, 
 Because our busy merchants flinch the sword ? 
 What ! when redemption of our word is due, 
 Shall we make pretexts ? — shall no war be waged ? 
 The meekest saint would hold us disengag'd 
 From thoughts of peace, to serve a cause so true : 
 ^Vhen Nelson scour'd the ocean's vast expanse 
 In passionate haste, and, hugging every wind, 
 Rush'd to the East, his dodging foe to find, 
 And drove among the anchor'd ships of France 
 The yeast of his fierce voyage, the great strife 
 Was forced upon us, — yea, we fought for life !
 
 2 2 Sonnets. 
 
 ( Continued. ) 
 DISHONOURABLE PEACE. 
 
 Our own and Europe's safety met in one ; 
 
 And so we sent our warriors to the field, 
 
 Or launch'd them on the deep, our arms to wield ; 
 
 But ah ! when Christian honour pleads alone, 
 
 When nought is lost by abstinence from war, 
 
 And nought is urgent save a sister's prayer. 
 
 We shirk the purer mission, and prepare 
 
 To close our armouries with bolt and bar ; 
 
 "We give into the callous hands of trade 
 
 Our living hearts — all martial help forbear — 
 
 For fear the stirring gun-smoke should invade 
 
 Our marts, or smutch our commerce here and there : 
 
 We furl our flag, as shopmen in a trice 
 
 Roll up the web, that will not fetch a price.
 
 So7inets. 2 3 
 
 ARMS OLD AND NEW. 
 
 How chang'd our warfare and the arms we wield ! 
 The Phalanx, once the Macedonian's pride, 
 Has fled dishearten'd from the battle-field, 
 Since Flamininus pierced its wounded side : 
 (ione is the Roman Legion's tramp and clang : 
 The Ram assaults not now the leaguer'd wall ; 
 Our English Bowman is beyond recall — 
 The Rifle cracks where late the arrow sang ! 
 The Trumpet lingers yet beyond them all. 
 But to its voice no mail-clad warrior hies, 
 Nor lifts a shield against the cannon-ball ; 
 High up the Shrapnel holds its burning breath ; 
 Within our bays the grim Torpedo lies, — 
 We arm the depths above us and beneath !
 
 24 Sonnets. 
 
 THE BOMB AND THE ORGAN. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG. 
 
 In the great Church the holy organ stood, 
 
 And took in all its lauds a glorious part, 
 
 Affecting every listener's ear and heart 
 
 With its own plaintive or ecstatic mood. 
 
 O thunderbolt of war ! what did'st thou there ? 
 
 Methinks, it suited with thy function more, 
 
 To burst the war-drum, or explode the store, 
 
 Or spurn their eagles into drift, than bear 
 
 Down on this ark of praise with hostile force : 
 
 They knew not, when they sped thee on thy course, 
 
 That thou would'st jar with sweet Saint Cecily 
 
 And their own Handel, swooping from the sky 
 
 To storm the organ with one crashing blow, 
 
 As though it were a fortress of the foe !
 
 Sonnets. 25 
 
 TO A FRE^XH POET AND REFUGEE. 
 
 The time is past — that time of little cheer, 
 \\lien all the hedgerows ran in naked lines ; 
 And all the leafless landscape, far and near, 
 Seem'd a rough sketch, to foil the celandines ; 
 'Tis morn — 'tis May ! arouse thy drooping powers, 
 Sing of the bright June-roses ere they come. 
 Anticipate the Summer's blowing flowers, 
 Till thy sweet words seem bursting into bloom ; 
 Dear poet-exile ! greet the year's advance ! 
 Yield not to grief, but with a hymn of praise 
 Salute the season and these cloudless days ; 
 And, when the sunset shall constrain thy gaze. 
 Then, with the closing flowers and setting rays, 
 Bemoan the sorrows and defeats of France.
 
 26 Sonnets. 
 
 THE ASCENT OF SNOWDON. 
 
 How merrily they plied the Alpine staff 
 
 In climbing from the lowland farms and barns ! 
 
 Upward and onward still, intent to quaff 
 
 The topmost airs, beyond the dark-blue tarns, 
 
 And silver mists and echoes ! how the gales 
 
 Of Snowdon brac'd the heart our Willie lost 
 
 Among the wild sweet faces of the vales ! 
 
 How his cheek glow'd, and how his hair was tost ! 
 
 While one poor wight, too weak for that steep track. 
 
 Sat with the boulders, and the shining threads 
 
 Of mountain-spiders, till his friends came back ; 
 
 And watch'd their light among the breezy ferns. 
 
 Their shy escapes and beautiful returns. 
 
 And caught and kiss'd the wandering thistle-seeds.
 
 Sounds. 2 7 
 
 THE CATTLE TRAIN. 
 
 PENMAENMAWR. 
 
 All light or transient gloom — no hint of storm — 
 White wreaths of foam, born in blue waters, broke 
 Among the mountain shadows ; all bespoke 
 A summer's day on Mona and the Orme. 
 My open window overlook'd the Rails, 
 When, suddenly, a cattle-train went by, 
 Rapt, in a moment, from my pitying eye. 
 As from their lowing mates in Irish vales ; 
 Close-pack'd and mute they stood, as close as bees, 
 Bewilder'd with their fright and narrow room ; 
 'Twas sad to see that meek-eyed hecatomb, 
 So fiercely hurried past our summer seas, 
 Our happy bathers, and our fresh sea-breeze. 
 And hills of blooming heather, to their doom.
 
 28 Sonnets. 
 
 ( Continued. ) 
 HUMAN SORROWS. 
 
 Our happy bathers, — pardon my romance ! 
 
 I thought of gladness only, for the tide 
 
 Ran sparkling to the land in merry dance ; 
 
 But, oh ! what sorrows haunt our sweet seaside ! 
 
 Man, child, and woman mourn the wide world o'er; 
 
 Yon maiden's snowy foot, that meets the wave, 
 
 Has just come faltering from her lover's grave. 
 
 Just pass'd that orphan-group upon the shore ; 
 
 The yacht glides gaily on, but as it nears 
 
 The beach, I see a night-black dress on board ; 
 
 The lonely widow dreams of those three years 
 
 Of summer-voyaging with her lost lord : 
 
 Too oft, when human figures fill the scene, 
 
 We count from woe to woe, with no glad hearts between !
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 THE ARTIST ON PENMAENMAWR. 
 
 That first September day was blue and warm, 
 Flushing the shaly flanks of Penmaenmawr ; 
 While youths and maidens, in the lucid calm 
 Exulting, bath'd or bask'd from hour to hour ; 
 What colour-passion did the artist feel I 
 While evermore the jarring trains went by. 
 Now, as for evermore, in fancy's eye, 
 Smutch'd with the cruel fires of Abergele ; * 
 Then fell the dark o'er the great crags and downs. 
 And all the night-struck mountain seem'd to say, 
 " Farewell ! these happy skies, this peerless day I 
 And these fair seas — and, fairer still than they, 
 The white-arm'd girls in dark blue bathing-gowns, 
 Among the snowy gulls and summer spray." 
 
 * English pronunciation.
 
 30 Sonnets. 
 
 CADER IDRIS AT SUNSET. 
 
 Last autumn, as we sat, ere fall of night, 
 Over against old Cader's rugged face. 
 We mark'd the sunset from its secret place 
 Salute him with a fair and sudden light. 
 Flame-hued he rose, and vast, without a speck 
 Of life upon his flush'd and lonely side ; 
 A double rainbow o'er him bent, to deck 
 What was so bright before, thrice glorified ! 
 How oft, when pacing o'er these inland plains, 
 I see that rosy rock of Northern Wales 
 Come up before me ! then its lustre wanes, 
 And all the frith and intermediate vales 
 Are darken'd, while our little group remains, 
 Half-glad, half-tearful, as the vision pales !
 
 Sonnets. 3 1 
 
 THE OLD HILLS'-MAN AND HIS TRUCK. 
 
 How oft I met the old hills'-man and his truck, 
 Gleaning the refuse of that mountain-road ! 
 How oft he stopp'd to chat and bless his luck, 
 Or talk how much to Providence he owed ! 
 Fresh was his fancy, and his heart was full ; 
 His long-plied shovel had its own romance 
 For him, and every varying circumstance 
 Of earth and sky forbade him to be dull : 
 How oft he fish'd his treasure from the crest 
 Of rain-fed gullies, hurrying to the west 
 In the wild sunshine, when the storm went by," 
 Or came on earlier fortunes, in the eye 
 Of rosy morn, the roadster's first supply ; 
 Gay at all hours, and ever on the quest !
 
 32 Sonnets. 
 
 WELSH LUCY, 
 
 OR, THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S MOTHER. 
 
 Poor Lucy Walters ! who remembers thee ? 
 
 Thy name is lost, though on thy native hill 
 
 Perchance they know it, yea, and see thee still ; 
 
 But, in the outer world, how few there be 
 
 To speak of Monmouth's mother ! To thy door 
 
 The tempter came, and thy young heart beguil'd ; 
 
 Then came the birth of that half-royal child, 
 
 Who, when his feeble battle-shout was o'er, 
 
 Crept into lone Shag's Heath from lost Sedgemoor; 
 
 Then fell his kinsman's axe, whose triple blow 
 
 Thy spirit still hears ! sore penance for that tryst 
 
 Of shame, which brought thy motherhood of woe — 
 
 Or sighs, at breaking of the mountain-mist, 
 
 To view, each morn, the headsman's world below.
 
 Sonnets. 3 
 
 '> 
 
 THE LITTLE HEIR OF SHAME. 
 
 He was a little heir of shame — his birth 
 Announc'd by peevish voices, and his death 
 Welcom'd by all ; he staid not long on earth, 
 Nor vex'd them long with his fast-fleeting breath ; 
 He felt their blows, too young to feel their scorn ; 
 How that poor babe was beaten and revil'd, 
 Because, albeit so mischievously born, 
 He wail'd as loudly as a lawful child ! 
 They hurried to the goal his faltering pace ; 
 Full soon they bore him to his mother's grave ; 
 No more for others' sin accounted base, 
 In Paradise he shows his harmless face ; 
 The Saviour flinches not from his embrace. 
 But gives him all his infant-heart can crave.
 
 34 
 
 Somiets, 
 
 THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 How peacefully the broad and golden moon 
 Comes up to gaze upon the reaper's toil ! 
 That they who own the land for many a mile, 
 May bless her beams, and they who take the boon 
 Of scattefd ears ; Oh ! beautiful ! how soon 
 The dusk is tum'd to silver without soil, 
 Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at noon, 
 And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil ; 
 So, to our souls, the Lord of love and might 
 Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears ; 
 When age and sorrow, like a coming night, 
 Darken our field of work with doubts and fears, 
 He times the presence of His heavenly light 
 To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs.
 
 Soimets. 
 
 JD 
 
 OLD RURALITIES. 
 
 A REGRET. 
 
 With joy all relics of the past I hail ; 
 The heath-bell, lingering in our cultur'd moor, 
 Or the dull sound of the slip-shoulder'd flail. 
 Still busy on the poor man's threshing-floor : 
 I love this unshorn hedgerow, which survives 
 Its stunted neighbours, in this farming age : 
 The thatch and house-leek, where old Alice lives 
 With her old herbal, trusting every page ; 
 I love the spinning-wheel, which hums far down 
 In yon lone valley, though, from day to day, 
 The boom of Science shakes it from the towr. 
 Ah ! sweet old world ! thou speedest fast away 
 My boyhood's world ! but all last looks are dear ; 
 More touching is the death-bed than the bier ! 
 
 D 2
 
 3 6 Sonnets. 
 
 TO A RED-WHEAT FIELD. 
 
 O RICH red wheat ! thou wilt not long defer 
 Thy beauty, though thou art not wholly grown ; 
 The fair blue distance and the moorland fir 
 Long for thy golden laughter ! Four years gone, 
 How oft ! with eager foot, I scal'd the top 
 Of this long rise, to give mine eye full range ; 
 And, now again, rotation brings the change 
 From seeds and clover, to my favourite crop ; 
 How oft I've watch'd thee from my garden, charm'd 
 With thy noon-stillness, or thy morning tears ! 
 Or, when the wind clove and the sunset warm'd 
 Thine amber-shafted depths and russet ears ; 
 O ! all ye cool green stems ! improve the time, 
 Fulfil your beauty ! justify my rhyme !
 
 Sonnets. 3 7 
 
 TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN, LEFT LONG 
 AFTER HARVEST. 
 
 Poor malkin, why hast thou been left behind ? 
 The wains long since have carted off the sheaves, 
 And keen October, with his whistUng wind, 
 Snaps all the footstalks of the crisping leaves ; 
 Methinks thou art not wholly make-believe ; 
 Thy posture, hat, and coat, are human still ; 
 Could'st thou but push a hand from out thy sleeve ! 
 Or smile on me ! but ah ! thy face is nil ! 
 The stubbles darken round thee, lonely one ! 
 And man has left thee, all this dreary term, 
 No mate beside thee — far from social joy ; 
 As some poor clerk survives his ruin'd firm, 
 And, in a napless hat, without employ, 
 Stands, in the autumn of his life, alone.
 
 38 Sonnets. 
 
 THE WILLOW; 
 
 OR, THE ROSE-PROP. 
 
 How shall I hew thee down, thou mighty bower ? 
 
 My summer-tent, my waving canopy ? 
 
 I love too well thy lithe submissive power, 
 
 Thy silver beauty is too dear to me ; 
 
 At first, thou wert a little rose's prop, 
 
 A new-cut willow wand, that did'st o'erbear 
 
 Thy tiny nursling-plant ; we took no care 
 
 To check thee, nor thy lavish growth to lop, 
 
 For thou art fair as any flower that blows ; 
 
 But though thou art so pleasant to mine eye, 
 
 Methinks, each child of earth some sorrow knows, 
 
 Akin to ours ; long since that infant rose 
 
 Droop'd ere its time, and bow'd its head to die, 
 
 While thou hast soar'd aloft, to toss and sigh !
 
 Sonnets. 39 
 
 THE OLD FOX-HUNTER, 
 
 To some this rich and multifarious world 
 
 Is void without the chase : poor Reynard's scent 
 
 Is the prime smell beneath the firmament, 
 
 And all besides is into Limbo hurl'd ; 
 
 To-day will be the first meet of the hounds ; 
 
 The wind blows south, and, in the early dark, 
 
 The squire sits gazing o'er his dusky park. 
 
 While, in his ears, the horn already sounds ; 
 
 Yon furzy levels harbour all his hopes, 
 
 No other field of glory ranks with them ; 
 
 Fair Athens and divine Jerusalem 
 
 Are moving to the Dawn with Hunter's Copse, 
 
 And the Home-cover; but the squire ignores 
 
 All fame, that mounts not at his kennel-doors.
 
 40 Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT. 
 
 Quick gleam ! that ridest on the gossamers ! 
 How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance, 
 Tilt at the midges in their evening dance, 
 A gentle joust set on by summer airs ! 
 How oft I watch thee from my garden-chair ! 
 And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers, 
 To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers. 
 And doing thy sweet work in silence there : 
 Thou art the poet's darling, ever sought 
 In the fair garden or the breezy mead ; 
 The wind dismounts thee not ; thy buoyant thread 
 Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought, 
 That moves but does not vanish ! borne along 
 Like light, — a golden drift through all the song !
 
 Sonnets. 4 1 
 
 ON FINDING A SMALL FLY CRUSHED IN A BOOK. 
 
 Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt, 
 Has crush'd thee here between these pages pent ; 
 But thou has left thine own fair monument, 
 Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert : 
 Oh ! that the memories, which survive us here, 
 Were half as lovely as these wings of thine ! 
 Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine 
 Now thou art gone : Our doom is ever near : 
 The peril is beside us day by day; 
 The book will close upon us, it may be, 
 Just as we lift ourselves to soar away 
 Upon the summer-airs. But, unlike thee, 
 The closing book may stop our vital breath. 
 Yet leave no lustre on our page of death.
 
 42 Sonnets. 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE SONNET. 
 
 As on the sceptre of th' Olympian King 
 
 The Royal eagle sat, bedrows'd and still, 
 
 The Theban* sketch'd him, while the savage will 
 
 And strength of the great bird were slumbering ; 
 
 If Pindar drew him best with drooping wings, 
 
 And on a quiet perch his likeness took, 
 
 How shall the sonnet, least of rhythmic things, 
 
 Presume to take him flying ? Will he brook 
 
 To wheel and hover, while I hunt for rhymes ? 
 
 Returning at the Muse's fitful times, 
 
 For yet another study ? And, if so, 
 
 Will he not yearn at last to strike one blow 
 
 At his own miniature, and swoop from high 
 
 To clutch my climax with an angry cry ? 
 
 * " eV ffKawTW Aihs — 
 
 — 'Typhv vSnov aiwpei." 
 
 Pindar.
 
 Sonnets. 43 
 
 GOUT AND WINGS. 
 
 The pigeons flutter'd fieldward, one and all, 
 I saw the swallows wheel, and soar, and dive ; 
 The little bees hung poised before the hive, 
 Even Partlet hois'd herself across the wall : 
 I felt my earth-bound lot in every limb. 
 And, in my envious mood, I half-rebell'd ; 
 When lo ! an insect cross'd the page I held, 
 A little helpless minim, slight and slim ; 
 Ah ! sure, there was no room for envy there, 
 But gracious aid and condescending care ; 
 Alas ! my pride and pity were mispent. 
 The atom knew his strength, and rose in air ! 
 My gout came tingling back, as off he went, 
 A wing was open'd at me everywhere !
 
 44 Sonnets. 
 
 ^Continued.) 
 
 PODAGER BEGS PARDON OF BIRDS, BEES, AND 
 WINGS IN GENERAL. 
 
 Pardon me, all ye birds that float at ease, 
 That I begrudg'd your fleet aerial joys ; 
 And thou, poor Partlet ! and ye Httle bees, 
 That hum and hover with a pleasant noise 
 About your homes of honey ! 'twas a spirt 
 Of spleen — a peevish murmur of disease, 
 And not a measur'd curse to do you hurt : 
 And thou ! who for a moment did'st displease, 
 Commission'd to rebuke my pride, and spring 
 Thy tiny pennons on me unaware ; 
 Thy smart and sudden lesson was the thing 
 I needed. — Thou art gone I know not where ! 
 But I have seen, beside my gouty chair, 
 A chiding angel, of the smallest wing.
 
 Sonnets. 45 
 
 A COLONY OF NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 I plac'd the mute eggs of the Nightingale 
 
 In the warm nest, beneath a brooding thrush ; 
 
 And waited long, to catch the earliest gush 
 
 Of the new wood-notes, in our northern vale ; 
 
 And, as with eye and ear I push'd my search, 
 
 Their sudden music came as sweet to me. 
 
 As the first organ-tone to Holy Church, 
 
 Fresh from the Angel and St. Cecily ; 
 
 And, year by year, the warblers still return 
 
 From the far south, and bring us back their song, 
 
 Chanting their joy our summer groves among, 
 
 A tune the merle and goldfinch cannot learn ; 
 
 While the poor thrush, that hatch'd them, listens near, 
 
 Nor knows the rival choir she settled here !
 
 46 Sonnets. 
 
 THE SPARROW AND THE DEW-DROP. 
 
 When to the birds their morning meal I threw, 
 Beside one perky candidate for bread 
 There flash'd and wink'd a tiny drop of dew, 
 But while I gaz'd, I lost them, both had fled ; 
 His careless tread had struck the blade-hung tear, 
 And all its silent beauty fell away ; 
 And left, sole relic of the twinkUng sphere, 
 A sparrow's dabbled foot upon a spray ; 
 Bold bird ! that did'st efface a lovely thing 
 Before a poet's eyes ! I've half a mind, 
 Could I but single thee from out thy kind, 
 To mulct thee in a crumb ; a crumb to thee 
 Is not more sweet than that fair drop to me ; 
 Fie on thy little foot and thrumming wing !
 
 Sonnets. 4 7 
 
 TO A CUCKOO IN A HIGHWAY HEDGE. 
 
 O CUCKOO ! am I of my wits bereft ? 
 
 Or do I hear thee in the hedgerow there ? 
 
 The doves of old Dodona never left 
 
 Their oak, to babble near a thoroughfare ; 
 
 How shall thy mythic character outlive 
 
 Thy presence, by thy voice identified ? 
 
 How shall the fells and copses e'er forgive 
 
 Thy gadding visit to the highway-side ? 
 
 How art thou disenchanted ! self-betray'd ! 
 
 Back, foolish bird ! return whence thou hast stray'd ; 
 
 A woody distance is thy vantage-ground ; 
 
 Thy song comes sweetest up from Moreham wood ; 
 
 Why notify thy claim to flesh and blood ? 
 
 The Muses know thee as a mystic sound.
 
 48 Sonnets. 
 
 THE SWAN AND THE PEACOCK. 
 
 Proud of his hundred eyes of glossy grain, 
 That watch'd in Argus once, but now are set 
 Firm in the streamers of his ample train, 
 The Peacock walks beside his lowlier mate ; 
 Or stands apart, unfolding all his state ! 
 While, on the surface of yon glassy lake, 
 A snow-white swan, with sinuous neck elate. 
 Ruffles his shifting plumes for beauty's sake ; 
 One seems like some fair barge, the choice design 
 Of spotless fancies, for a maiden's joy. 
 To fare on summer-waters, when they shine ; 
 While the other, swimming in his majesty, 
 Though on firm ground, that eastern bark might be, 
 On Cydnus rigg'd to meet Mark Antony.
 
 Sonnets. 49 
 
 MV TIMEPIECE. 
 
 The hour has struck its advent and farewell, 
 
 And hark ! another hour begins to beat ! 
 
 As when a crier stops, and rings his bell 
 
 To tell a loss, then on with busy feet 
 
 To raise the cry elsewhere j our flying hours 
 
 We waste, and baulk them of their noblest use ; 
 
 And so disable our best gifts and powers, 
 
 Or leave them open to the fiend's abuse ; 
 
 Or should I — the same moral to convey — 
 
 A more derisive apologue subjoin. 
 
 My clock's a mocking thief, who steals my coin, 
 
 Then, counting up the sum, as if to say, 
 
 " How many precious pieces I purloin, 
 
 One, two, three, four," — trips daintily away.
 
 ;o Sonnets. 
 
 OUR NEW CHURCH. 
 
 As yet no organ rolls — no prayer-bell rings — 
 
 But in and out the darting swallows pass ; 
 
 While distant hands prepare the pictur'd glass, 
 
 Through vacant quatrefoils the hodman sings ; 
 
 But, when the House is built, the Table spread, 
 
 Enter, O ! broken heart ! and tell thy sin ! 
 
 Prime guest of Jesus, enter ! and begin 
 
 The Church's mystic life — one Cup, one Bread; 
 
 As to these stone-heap'd graves the spring shall give. 
 
 Once more, their common bond of daisies sweet, 
 
 So may all crush'd and barren souls revive. 
 
 In one white field of common graces meet, 
 
 And bells, and organ, and glad hymns, combine 
 
 To draw them lovingly to rites divine !
 
 Sonnets. 5 1 
 
 OUR NEW CHURCH CLOCK. 
 
 Henceforward shall our Time be plainly read — 
 Down in the nave I catch the twofold beat 
 Of those full-weighted moments overhead ; 
 And hark ! the hour goes clanging down the street 
 To the open plain ! How sweet at eventide 
 Will that clear music be to toil-worn men ! 
 Calling them home, each to his own fire -side ; 
 How sweet the toll of all the hours till then ! 
 The cattle, too, the self-same sound shall hear, 
 But they can never know the power it wields 
 O'er human hearts, that labour, hope, and fear ; 
 Our village-clock means nought to steed or steer ; 
 The call of Time will share each twinkling ear 
 With summer flies and voices from the fields ! 
 
 E 2
 
 52 Sonnets. 
 
 TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NOON. 
 
 The sound of noon floats o'er the village-pool, 
 
 Round the babe's cradle and the blind man's chair, 
 
 And far afield ; each buffet on the air 
 
 Is whisper'd back by wandering hearts at school, 
 
 The sweetest sum they do ! Our Time has got 
 
 A presence and a motion, and looks forth 
 
 On all, and speaks to all — mispriz'd or not ; 
 
 What earthly language has a holier worth ? 
 
 And though my little watch reports to me 
 
 The measure of my life more tenderly 
 
 Than these great seconds, with their iron gear, 
 
 That serve the booming hours — I love to hear 
 
 That fair and open reckoning, night and day, 
 
 Which tells us boldly how we pass away !
 
 Sonnets. 53 
 
 THE AFTERNOTE OF THE HOUR. 
 
 The hour had struck, but still the air was fill'd 
 
 With the long sequence of that mighty tone ; 
 
 A wild ^olian afternote, that thrill'd 
 
 My spirit, as I kiss'd that dear headstone ; 
 
 A voice that seem'd through all the Past to go — 
 
 From the bell's mouth the lonely cadence swept, 
 
 Like the faint cry of unassisted woe, 
 
 Till, in my profitless despair, I wept ; 
 
 My hope seem'd wreck'd ! but soon I ceas'd to mourn ; 
 
 A nobler meaning in that voice I found, 
 
 Whose scope lay far beyond that burial-ground ; 
 
 'Twas grief, but grief to distant glory bound ! 
 
 Faith took the helm of that sweet wandering sound, 
 
 And turn'd it heavenwards, to its proper bourne.
 
 54 Sonnets. 
 
 AFTER THE SCHOOL-FEAST. 
 
 The Feast is o'er — the music and the stir — ■ 
 
 The sound of bat and ball, the mimic gun ; 
 
 The lawn grows darker, and the setting sun 
 
 Has stolen the flash from off the gossamer, 
 
 And drawn the midges westward ; youth's glad cry — 
 
 The smaller children's fun-exacting claims, 
 
 Their merry raids across the graver games, 
 
 Their ever-crossing paths of restless joy, 
 
 Have ceas'd — And, ere a new Feast day shall shine, 
 
 Perchance my soul to other worlds may pass \ 
 
 Another head in childhood's cause may plot, 
 
 Another Pastor muse in this same spot. 
 
 And the fresh dews, that gather on the grass 
 
 Next morn, may gleam in every track but mine !
 
 Sonnets. 55 
 
 THE MURDER OF BISHOP PATTESON. 
 
 When far from home some noble martyr dies, 
 
 We read his sacred story o'er and o'er ; 
 
 Like incense, drifting from a sacrifice, 
 
 His name blows sweet from that disastrous shore, 
 
 O'er the broad waters, to his native land ; 
 
 But, though our martyr'd saint has fallen asleep, 
 
 And clos'd his ardent eyes, we need not weep ; 
 
 Unfoil'd the purpose of the Lord shall stand ! 
 
 His world-wide Church out-grows the powers of Hell, 
 
 His holy Ark expands ! O'er lands and seas 
 
 The golden wings of Cherubim shall meet, 
 
 Till all the tribes shall own one Mercy-seat : 
 
 The school of faithful prophets shall not cease 
 
 With him, who loved his hundred isles so well !
 
 56 Sonnets. 
 
 THE PASTOR'S PRAYER. 
 
 At dawn, he marks the smoke among the trees, 
 From hearths, to which his daily footsteps go ; 
 And hopes and fears and ponders on his knees, 
 If his poor sheep will heed his voice or no ; 
 What wholesome turn will Ailsie's sorrow take ? 
 Her latest sin will careless Annie rue ? 
 Will Robin now, at last, his wiles forsake ? 
 Meet his old dupes, yet hold his balance true ? 
 He prays at noon, with all the warmth of heaven 
 About his heart, that each may be forgiven ; 
 He prays at eve : and through the midnight air 
 Sends holy ventures to the throne above ; 
 His very dreams are faithful to his prayer, 
 And follow, with clos'd eyes, the path of love.
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 57 
 
 TO THE HOLY VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother of Him who made us ! first of mothers! 
 WTio heard'st the. glorious angel bid thee " Hail ! " 
 Mother of Him who call'd mankind His brothers, 
 Although His dying rent the Temple's veil, 
 And utter darkness told He was divine ; 
 A few brief scriptures show us more of thee, 
 Than all these after-times of pageantry, 
 The marble statue, and the jewell'd shrine ; 
 The passionate acclaim of many lands 
 Has drown'd thine own sweet voice, that ever spake 
 Of the Lord's handmaid ; now they bid thee take 
 His place, and wrong thee with adoring hands ; 
 But oh ! we know thee best, when seen alone, 
 Far in the Past, with Jesus and with John !
 
 5 8 Sonnets. 
 
 THE PALM-WILLOW. 
 
 I READ the GosiDcl-record of those cries 
 
 Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm ; 
 
 Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I clos'd mine eyes, 
 
 Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm ; 
 
 I dream'd — a fond presumptuous pity took 
 
 My soul ; I seem'd to line the coming crown 
 
 Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down 
 
 From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook ; 
 
 But, on the act, quick came the reprimand, 
 
 " What mean'st thou, sinner ! with pretentious hand 
 
 To staunch the life-blood of th' Incarnate Son ? 
 
 Without My wounds, the world remains undone ; 
 
 Why dost thou, thqn, forbid thy Lord to bleed ? 
 
 Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed ? "
 
 Sonnets. 59 
 
 {Continued.^ 
 A RECANTATION. 
 
 'TwAS Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass 
 
 Beneath the brows of Olivet, He gaz'd 
 
 Upon the rebel city, which, alas ! 
 
 Was, in His weeping eyes, already raz'd : 
 
 Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide 
 
 Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief 
 
 Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief. 
 
 But "Oh ! forgive my folly, Lord," I cried,— 
 
 Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore, 
 
 To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore \ 
 
 " Or I would rather be this litde foal 
 
 That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and 
 
 weep, 
 Than the light thinker, who would fain control 
 Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep."
 
 6o Sonnets. 
 
 TO MY SISTER MARY. 
 
 A DEDICATION WRITTEN EARLY IN LIFE. 
 
 Sister, accept these lays ; as yet I ween 
 No lay but mine has open'd with thy name, 
 I would I were a bard of mightier fame. 
 Then would this tribute of more price have been, 
 And thou had'st worn a costlier pledge, in sign 
 Of my deep love ! My name is all unknown, 
 And, daring not to venture forth alone, 
 It fondly seeks companionship of thine ; 
 And thou dost love me more than to believe 
 Thy brother's song can furnish shame to thee ; 
 Critics ! be your dispraise from harshness free. 
 And scornful gibe, nor give her cause to grieve, 
 For, if ye sternly say I cannot sing. 
 My sister's name is on a shamed thing !
 
 Sonnets. 6 1 
 
 LOVE OF HOME. 
 
 A REJOINDER. 
 
 Hence ! with your jeerings petulant and low ; 
 My love of Home no ridicule can shake ; 
 Too ductile for the change of place to break, 
 And far too passionate for thee to know ; 
 I and yon sycamore have grown together, 
 How on yon slope the shifting sunsets lie, 
 None know like me and mine ; and, tending hither, 
 Flows the strong current of my memory \ 
 From that same flower-bed, ever dear to me, 
 I leam'd how all fair things do bloom and fade ; 
 And from the grove, which skirts this garden-glade, 
 I had my earUest thoughts of Love and Spring ; 
 Thou wott'st not how the heart of man is made ; 
 I learn from thee what change the world can bring.
 
 62 Sonnets. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ONE ON WHOM THE DEATH OF 
 AN EXCELLENT WOMAN HAS FORCED THE CONVICTION OF A 
 FUTURE STATE. 
 
 O'erladen witli sad musings, till the tear 
 
 Sprang to the pressure, I survey'd thy tomb, 
 
 All drest in flowers, as though above thy bier, 
 
 Thy breath, yet hovering, fed the gentle bloom ; 
 
 I said, " Maria, though I deeni'd too long 
 
 That souls would fade like music on the air, 
 
 Hast thou not brought me confirmation strong 
 
 That they shall yet be beautiful elsewhere ? 
 
 For thine was so immaculate and rare. 
 
 That but the thought of thy deep purity, 
 
 Link'd with that other thought, I could not bear ; 
 
 Mourit then ! bright soul ! and take thy place on high; 
 
 I do confess thou wert so good and fair 
 
 That such as thou were never born to die !
 
 Sonnets. 6 
 
 o 
 
 ( Contimced. ) 
 
 The bliss of Heaven, Maria, shall be thine ! 
 
 Joy link'd to joy by amaranthine bond ! 
 
 And a fair harp of many strings divine 
 
 Shall meet thy touch with unimagin'd sound ! 
 
 Meek angel-hood shall dwell within thine eye, 
 
 Fed by the action of thy purer soul ; 
 
 Thy brow shall beam with fairer dignity — 
 
 No more thy cheek shall blench with Care's control, 
 
 Nor yield its hues to changes of the heart, 
 
 That beats with plenitude of life and woe — 
 
 Taking all dyes that sorrow can impart, 
 
 Or ever-shifting circumstance bestow : 
 
 The prey of present pangs or after-smart, 
 
 For ever feeling pain or missing bliss below.
 
 64 Sonnets. 
 
 A PERVERSE LOVER. 
 {IPSE LOQUITUR.) 
 
 I TRUST thee from my soul, O Mary dear ! 
 But oft, when Rapture hath its fullest power, 
 Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear ; 
 And Doubt is ever by until the hour. 
 I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine 
 Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair, 
 Oh ! let me still misgive thee and repine, 
 Uncommon fears spring up with blessings rare ! 
 Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign, 
 Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell 
 A flitting tale of steadiest truth and zeal ; 
 Yet I will doubt, to make success divine ! 
 And when at length, I've realiz'd my prize, 
 Thy husband's heart shall trust thee till it dies !
 
 Sonnets. 65 
 
 A MOURNING LOVER. 
 
 ■ ilPSE LOQUITUR.) 
 
 Thou sittest at thy lyre, O lady sweet ! 
 
 Teaching it all thine own delicious soul ; 
 
 Thy voice, the while, swells richly o'er the whole, 
 
 And greets mine ear, for Angel-ears more meet ; 
 
 Unhappy me ! not for another's bliss, 
 
 But that thou art the blessing ! soon to me 
 
 Though now thy song doth sound so dear and free, 
 
 Its spell shall vanish in another's kiss ; 
 
 Unhappy me ! my wounds must ever smart ; 
 
 Alas ! for fruitless love ! Alas ! for them, 
 
 Who pluck the flowers and press them to their heart, 
 
 Though other hands must claim the vital stem. 
 
 And all its future bloom ; I know thou art 
 
 Powerless to save, though hating to condemn.
 
 66 Sonnets. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O HONEY-THROATED warblcr of the grove ! 
 
 That in the glooming woodland art so proud 
 
 Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud, 
 
 Thou dost not own a note we do not love ; 
 
 The moon is o'er thee, laying out the lawn 
 
 In mighty shadows— but the western skies 
 
 Are kept awake, to see the sun arise, 
 
 Though earth and heaven would fain put back the 
 
 dawn ! 
 While, wandering for the dreams such seasons give, 
 With lonely steps, and many a pause between, 
 The lover listens to thy songs unseen ; 
 And if, at times, the pure notes seem to grieve. 
 Why lo ! he weeps himself, and must believe 
 That sorrow is a part of what they mean !
 
 Sonnets. 6 7 
 
 ON SOME HUMMING-BIRDS IN A GLASS CASE. 
 
 For vacant song behold a shining theme ! 
 These dumb-struck flutterers from Indian land, 
 The colour on whose crests, sweet Nature's hand, 
 Fulfils our richest thought of crimson gleam ; 
 Whose wings, thus spread and balanc'd forth, might 
 
 seem 
 Slender as serpent's tongue or fairy's wand — 
 And, as with vantage of the sun we stand, 
 Each glossy bosom kindles in his beam ; 
 Ah me ! how soon does human death impair 
 The tender beauty of the fairest face. 
 Whatever balms and unguents we prepare ! 
 While these resplendent creatures bear no trace, 
 Bright-bosom'd and bright-crested as they are, 
 No soil, nor token of the tomb's disgrace ! 
 
 F 2
 
 68 Sonnets. 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 His was a chamber in the topmost tower — 
 
 A small unsightly cell with grated bars ; 
 
 And wearily went on each irksome hour 
 
 Of dim captivity and moody cares ; 
 
 Against such visitants he was not strong, 
 
 But sat with laden heart and brow of woe ; 
 
 And every morn he heard the stir and song 
 
 Of birds in royal gardens far below, 
 
 Telling of bowers and dewy lawns unseen, 
 
 Drench'd with the silver steam that night had shed ; 
 
 Part blossom-white, part exquisitely green, 
 
 By little warblers roam'd and tenanted, 
 
 Blending their glad wild notes to greet the sheen 
 
 Of the May Dawn, that gleam'd upon his bed.
 
 Sonnets. 69 
 
 THE "CANNON FEVER." 
 
 The tide of things should flow less troubled, sure ; 
 
 To dear its current sages do impart 
 
 Their wisdom, and the poet's pitying heart 
 
 Pours in its crystal tribute, bright and pure ; 
 
 But still doth War present a mighty lure 
 
 To many minds ; a charm which lulls to rest 
 
 Compunctious thought, and mails the obdurate breast 
 
 With triple-plated iron, to endure 
 
 The shock of children's cries and woman's tears, 
 
 Untouch'd, unsoften'd, and without a sigh ; 
 
 O Glory without Honour ! Helms and spears 
 
 School to a ruthless calm the warrior's eye ; 
 
 " Carnage" he means, when he cries "Victory,"* 
 
 And barren battle hath his hopes and fears ! 
 
 * " Licence they mean when they cry Liberty." 
 
 Milton.
 
 70 Sonnets. 
 
 THE EARTHQUAKE. 
 
 On from the spot, that felt the first dismay, 
 His mighty path the running Earthquake clove ; 
 While Ruin, aye attendant on his way, 
 Sped swiftly o'er the quaking realms above ; 
 Slowly the seasons do transform the grove, 
 Most other change is wrought with soft delay, 
 Save this, which turns the course of streams astray, 
 Once and for evermore ! when to remove 
 The landmarks of this earth our Maker wills, 
 The work is done with noises harsh and loud, 
 And lightning speed ; such ministry fulfils 
 The 'hest of Him by whom the heavens are bow'd 
 Whose throne is compass'd with a mystic cloud, 
 Who touches into smoke th' eternal hills.
 
 Sonnets. 7 1 
 
 TO A YOUNG KING. 
 
 O ! BE thou keen to guess when Flattery's near ! 
 
 His face is not the shadow of his heart ; 
 
 The court is shrewd and selfish, like the mart, 
 
 And fraught with perils that a king should fear ; 
 
 Trust not his voice of hollow sympathy, 
 
 For, should'st thou fathom that dishonest sound, 
 
 The line would rise, with noisome clays hung round, 
 
 And not the fruitful loam of love for thee ; 
 
 Such are thy dangers ! but thy loves and joys 
 
 Are not more sweet than any shepherd-boy's ; 
 
 The access to all pure delights and ties 
 
 Is free to peasant stock, or kingly line ; 
 
 Beyond the common bliss thou canst not rise, 
 
 And royal troubles and restraints are thine.
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 GREECE: AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF PRINCE LEOPOLD'S* PROPOSED 
 ELECTION FOR THE TPIRONE OF GREECE. 
 
 Now we may roam along thy flowery dales, 
 
 Fair Greece ! and where each ancient fountain flows ; 
 
 Now may we pluck at will the lily and rose, 
 
 That bloom so sweetly down thy noble vales. 
 
 How strange to hear that Attic nightingale 
 
 Of old KoLONOS, dear to thee and us ! 
 
 Or haply catch — if listening may avail 
 
 To catch — the lonely voice of OEdipus, 
 
 Or wail of choral sorrow from the Past 
 
 For wild Medea's wrath. On plain and wold. 
 
 Thy fanes are free to crumble undefac'd, 
 
 For Britain's future poets to behold, 
 
 That they may keep that sum of memories fast 
 
 Which haunts thy ruins from the days of old ! 
 
 * The late King of the Belgians.
 
 Sonnets. 7- 
 
 DEATH AND ITS ANTIDOTE. 
 
 The strongest hearts grow fearful at the name 
 Of him who gathers up the coil of things ; 
 Surceasing breath and life that flies, yet clings, 
 May be a terror, without touch of shame ; 
 That worms shall revel in the heart of Pride, 
 And death-damps chill the brows of happy men, 
 Is truth avowed and awful ! "When, oh ! when. 
 Shall I, and those I love, our turn abide ? 
 But stay, my soul ! with fond assurance call 
 Those hopes into thy landscape, fain to rise, 
 Even then, when earth was powerless in the thrall 
 Of hateful rites, and mythologic ties, 
 But priceless now, beyond the count of gold ; 
 Not vague, but true, not fearful, but most bold !
 
 74 Sonnets. 
 
 SCIENCE AND FAITH. 
 
 Vexation waits on Passion's changeful glow, 
 But the Intellect may shed its wholesome rays 
 O'er many a theme, yet never work thee woe ! 
 The sun is calm, while with his genial blaze 
 He makes all nature bright ; be bold to choose 
 This still, concenter'd, permanent, delight, 
 Before the fiery bowl and red carouse, 
 Nor dull with wanton acts thine inner sight ; 
 So for the sensual shall be rarer need, 
 So shall a mighty onward work be done ; 
 But oh ! let Faith and Reverence take the lead, 
 Test all half-knowledge with a jealous heed, 
 Nor set thy Science jarring with thy Creed ; 
 Each has its orbit round Truth's central Sun !
 
 Sonnets. 75 
 
 TO 
 
 FAITH AND FREE-THINKING. 
 
 No trace is left upon that callous mind 
 
 By truths, that form on thy susceptive thought 
 
 In instant symmetry; thy mate is blind, 
 
 A smart, free-thinking sophist, pledg'd to nought ; 
 
 Is he not blind, the man who rashly dares 
 
 To strut about a realm of mystery ? 
 
 Who carries up his small philosophy 
 
 Into the heights of Zion, and prepares 
 
 A lecture on his trespass ? To a heart 
 
 So braz'd with wisdom, canst thou hope to prove 
 
 That old-world story of a Saviour's love ? 
 
 In thy glad loyalties he bears no part ; 
 
 He wonders at the rapture in thine eye ; 
 
 Negation has no bond with ecstasy !
 
 76 Sonnets. 
 
 TrtE PORTRAIT PAINTER. 
 
 No feeble glow of intellectual flame, . 
 Inform'd that Painter's heart ; to none more due 
 Than him, the honours of domestic fame ; 
 What hand, but his, so excellently knew 
 The shadow of our lineaments ? In vain 
 The glance of Beauty dar'd his subtle skill, 
 Touch'd into all its sympathies again, 
 Kindled anew with all its power to kill ; 
 Age smiled, portray'd in all its sober calm, 
 Unvext, of grandsire aspect, pale and meek ; 
 And babyhood, with hands too small for harm ; 
 And youth, with full and health-ensanguin'd cheek, 
 Show'd life-like on his chart, and boyhood sleek 
 Still wore his dimpled chin, and merry charm.
 
 Sonnets. 7 7 
 
 TO 
 
 How can the sweetness of a gentle mind 
 Pall on thy spirit ? say, it is not so ; 
 Her eyes are mournful and her sorrows flow, 
 For that she fears her hands have fail'd to bind 
 The tie of mutual wishes round thy heart ; 
 Thy faith was given, thy promise made a part 
 Of the pure ofiice which confirm'd her thine ; 
 Oh, do not thou annul that rite divine, 
 Nor bid such promise swell the tinsel-mart 
 Of empty shows, unmeaning types and vain — 
 But teach thy wife to nurse her hopes again 
 In love returning, never to depart ; 
 For nothing festers like a broken vow, 
 Which wrecks another's peace and blights another's 
 brow.
 
 78 Sonnets. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND HIS WIFE'S RINGLET. 
 
 I HAVE a circlet of thy sunny hair, 
 
 A light from home, a blessing to mine eyes ; 
 
 Though grave and mournful thoughts will often rise, 
 
 As I behold it mutely glistening there, 
 
 So still, so passive ! like a treasure's key. 
 
 Unconscious of the dreams it doth compel, 
 
 Of gems and gold, high-pil'd in secret cell, 
 
 Too royal for a vulgar gaze to see ! 
 
 If they were stolen, the key could never tell ; 
 
 If thou wert dead, what should thy ringlet say ? 
 
 It shows the same, betide thee ill or well, 
 
 Smiling in love, or shrouded in decay ; 
 
 It cannot darken for dead Isabel, 
 
 Nor blanch, if thy young head grew white to-day !
 
 The Altar. 79 
 
 THE ALTAR, AS CONNECTED WITH MARRIAGE. 
 
 How fondly look'd I on the place, 
 Assigned to rites of spousal love ! 
 
 How holy seem'd that Board of Grace, 
 With Jesus blessing bread above ! 
 
 'Twas bosom'd in a kindlier air, 
 
 Than th' outer realms of care and dole ; 
 
 A sense of Godhead brooded there, 
 A charm of reverence held the soul. 
 
 And, though full oft the accents dear 
 Here utter'd, had been falsely fond ; 
 
 Still they were breath'd and plighted here. 
 And broken in a place beyond !
 
 So A B7ndal Farezvdl. 
 
 A BRIDAL FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell ! it is my parting hour ; 
 Thy sister wends her way with me, 
 To spend far-off by land and sea, 
 That first fair Moon of bhss and glee, 
 That gleams upon our orange-flower. 
 
 Fair Moon ! that guard'st those petals fair ! 
 Full sweetly may'st thou downward shine ! 
 Oh ! light us o'er the ocean-brine. 
 And wane not on the winding Rhine, 
 Nor where the Switzer's mountains are !
 
 The Prince of Wales at Madhigley. 8i 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE MADINGLEY SCHOOL, ON THE ARRIVAL OF 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT THE MANOR HOUSE, IN 1861. 
 
 God save our gallant Prince ! 
 Hail to our noble Prince ! 
 
 Happy and blest ! 
 Fresh from the welcomings, 
 Whereof the echo rings, 
 Whereof the echo rings, 
 
 Still in the West, 
 
 Heaven, through all jeopardy, 
 Over the misty sea, 
 
 Watch'd thy return ! 
 Welcome home, welcome here ! 
 Now more than ever dear, 
 Britain's true Prince and heir. 
 
 Come to sojourn
 
 82 The Prince of Wales 
 
 Hard by the ancient seat, 
 Where all the Muses met 
 
 Long ages since ; 
 Science and lore be thine, 
 Wisdom and Truth divine. 
 Through all thy learning shine ! 
 
 God teach our Prince ! 
 
 So shalt thou love to do 
 All that is brave and true. 
 
 Like our own Queen ! 
 (God who reigns over us 
 Keep her victorious, 
 Happy and glorious, 
 
 As she hath been !) 
 
 So shall thy father's heart 
 Beat to thy high desert, 
 
 With love intense. 
 So shall thy country's eye 
 Rest on thee loyally, 
 While every voice shall cry, 
 
 God bless our Prince 1 
 
 And when the parting day 
 Sends thee far hence away, 
 

 
 at Madingley. %x 
 
 Far away hence ! 
 Still in our memory, 
 Fresh shall thine image be, 
 As when we sang to thee, 
 
 God bless our Prince ! 
 
 C 2
 
 84 A Legend. 
 
 A LEGEND FROM DE LAMARTINE'S TRAVELS IN 
 THE EAST, VERSIFIED. 
 
 It was upon a Lammas night 
 Two brothers woke and said, 
 As each upon the other's weal 
 Bethought him on his bed ; 
 
 The elder spake unto his wife, 
 Our brother dwells alone; 
 No little babes to cheer his life, 
 And helpmate hath he none. 
 
 Up will I get and of my heap 
 A sheaf bestow or twain, 
 The while our Ahmed lies asleep. 
 And wots not of the gain.
 
 A Legend. 85 
 
 So up he got and did address 
 Himself with loving heed, 
 Before the dawning of the day, 
 To do that gracious deed. 
 
 Now to the younger, all unsought, 
 The same kind fancy came ! 
 Nor wist they of each other's thought, 
 Though moved to the same. 
 
 Abdallah, he hath wife, quoth he, 
 And little babes also ; 
 What would be slender boot to me, 
 Will make his heart o'ertlow. 
 
 » 
 
 Up will I get, and of my heap 
 A sheaf bestow or twain, 
 The while he sweetly lies asleep, 
 And wots not of the gain. 
 
 So up he got and did address 
 Himself with loving heed. 
 Before the dawning of the day, 
 To mate his brother's deed !
 
 86 A Legend. 
 
 Thus play'd they oft their gracious parts, 
 And marvell'd oft to view 
 Their sheaves still equal, for their hearts 
 In love were equal too. 
 
 One morn they met, and wondering stood. 
 To see by clear daylight, 
 How each upon the other's good 
 Bethought him in the night. 
 
 So when this tale to him was brought. 
 
 The Caliph did decree, 
 
 Where twain had thought the same good thought 
 
 There Allah's House should be.
 
 An Incident on the Dee. Sj 
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE DEE. 
 
 A MOURNFUL tale was told to me : 
 
 Poor Jehu, new to sail and oar, 
 
 Upon the rapid river's tide 
 
 Embark'd his little children four ; 
 
 But swamp'd the skiff he could not guide, 
 
 And drown'd them all in Dee. 
 
 And often, when with calm command 
 He reins his master's steeds so free. 
 While four sweet children sit behind. 
 To his long-trusted care consign'd, 
 He feels, " It is the self-same hand 
 That drown'd mine own in Dee."
 
 88 Sleep and Dreams. 
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when hours of toil are o'er, 
 To feel the slackening of repose, 
 When the faint Hds can watch no more 
 And o'er the eyes of labour close, 
 Gently as falls, late pois'd above, 
 The pinion of th' alighting dove. 
 
 'Tis being's buoyant tone unstrung, 
 A life of softer pulse and breath, 
 A trance o'er all the senses flung. 
 And link'd in seeming bonds with death ; 
 Yet — for that flush'd and rosy glow, 
 Forbidding us to deem it so. 
 
 At times an autocratic dream, 
 The lord of midnight's eye and ear, 
 Tricks out and floats some hollow scheme. 
 That bursts with sunrise ! or brings near
 
 Sleep ajid Dreams. 89 
 
 Our joys and sorrows long gone by, 
 With more or less of glamoury. 
 
 Perchance recalls the happy Past, 
 The tale of boyhood tells again ; 
 Perchance in memory's furnace cast, 
 It tracks the smarting steps of Pain ; 
 Yet 'tis an airy outline still 
 The morrow's reason cannot fill. 
 
 Of every form and every hue, 
 
 Where will the mazy visions end? 
 
 For ever making links anew. 
 
 Like water drops, they catch and blend ; 
 
 And when grave Judgment takes his place, 
 
 We stare and cannot state the case ! 
 
 But he of dreamers dream'd the best, 
 
 Who felt delicious music thrill 
 
 His spirit, in his hour of rest, 
 
 And, waking, found it music still ! 
 
 I would philosophy could tell 
 
 What made the sleeper dream so well !
 
 90 From Anacreo7i. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 THE MUSES, EROS, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Eros, bound in flowery bands, 
 
 The Muses placed in Beauty's hands ; 
 
 In vain does Cytherea sue 
 
 To win him back by ransom due ; 
 
 Little recks he of such demands, 
 
 Nor whence they come ; but stays with Beauty ; 
 
 He hath learn'd a bondman's duty. 
 
 EBOS AND THE BEE. 
 
 A BEE, within a rosebud lying, 
 'Scap'd the infant Love's espying ; 
 With finger stung and sobbing cry, 
 To his fond mother did he fly. 
 " Mother," he said, " I faint, I die, 
 This wound a little winged snake, 
 Which rustics call a bee, did make."
 
 From Anacreon. 91 
 
 But she answer'd, " If the sting 
 Of bees be such a painful thing, 
 What think'st thou of their bitter smart, 
 The hapless victims of thy dart ? "
 
 92 The Cicala. 
 
 THE CICALA. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 MaKapl^ojxiy ere, t6tt(|, k. r. \. 
 
 Cicala, we pronounce thee blest, 
 For that, on topmost shrubs at rest. 
 When thou hast quaff 'd a Httle dew. 
 Thou singest as a king may do ; 
 For thine is each and everything 
 Thou viewest in the meads of spring, 
 Or what the other seasons bring ; 
 Thou art the friend of those that till, 
 For working none the least of ill ; 
 We men revere thee, far and wide. 
 Sweet prophet of the summer-tide ! 
 The Muses love thee — Phoebus loves- 
 As his own gift, thy song, approves. 
 Thou art not worn away by age. 
 Earth-born, a songster and a sage ; 
 A pangless and a bloodless frame : 
 Thou art a god, or much the same.
 
 Ifiterviau of yE?ieas and Venus. 9; 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY VIRGIL'S DESCRIPTION OF 
 THE INTERVIEW OF yENEAS AND VENUS. 
 
 *^ Dixit et avertens," i^c. — ^neid, Book I., line 402. 
 
 When Venus, late like wood-nymph drest, 
 
 Departing breath'd diviner soul ; 
 When downward flow'd her gather'd vest, 
 
 And godhead o'er the huntress stole, 
 How lovely must the change have been ! 
 How beautiful the shifting mien ! 
 
 I would I had been there to see 
 
 That burst of nobler charms and higher, 
 
 Losing in prouder symmetry 
 The simple lineaments of Tyre ; 
 
 Though but a moment she delay'd, 
 
 In glory of great beauty clad !
 
 94 From Simo7iides. 
 
 FROM SIMONIDES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A FRAGMENT. 
 
 When on the fair Ark blew the breeze, 
 And scar'd her with the Hfting seas ; 
 And dash'd her cheek with briny dew, 
 About her babe her hands she threw, 
 And said " My child ! what grief have I ! 
 While thou art slumbering peacefully, 
 The slumber of a suckling's heart ! 
 Though in a joyless house thou art ! 
 Compact with many a brazen clamp, 
 With nought but darkness for a lamp ; 
 'Neath thy rich hair, from moisture free, 
 Thou heedest not the passing sea, 
 Nor the voices of the wind ; 
 Sweet face ! in purple cloak reclin'd !
 
 From Sappho. 95 
 
 FROM SAPPHO. 
 TloiKi\6Qpoi^ dQavar' A(ppoSiTa. 
 
 Aphrodite ! thron'd above ! 
 Immortal schemer ! child of Jove ! 
 Condemn me not to pangs of love, 
 Adorable ! I pray. 
 
 Come hither ! if thou e'er did'st lend 
 Thine ear, or to my voice attend, 
 Or from thy Father's mansion wend, 
 On golden car, thy way, 
 
 And thee that swift and beauteous pair 
 Of birds, on fluttering wings did bear 
 From Heaven to Earth through middle air, 
 Without a stop or stay ! 
 
 Then, blest one ! came thy word of grace ; 
 
 Smiling with immortal face. 
 
 Thou bad'st me tell thee all my case, 
 
 All thy poor supi)liant's will,
 
 96 From Sappho. 
 
 And what my wild heart fain would do, 
 And of my cunning drag-net, too, 
 With love in every mesh, and " Who, 
 O Sappho, does thee ill ? 
 
 " He'll follow whom he now forsakes ; 
 And give, though now no gift he takes ; 
 And love, though now no love he makes— 
 Whether thou wilt or no." 
 
 Come once again ! and ease my care, 
 My bitter pains — and, whatsoe'er 
 My soul desires, fulfil the prayer. 
 
 And with me fight the foe !
 
 A Father to his Sick Child asleep. 97 
 
 A FATHER TO HIS SICK CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 How many bitter drops I've shed ! 
 
 How many more there still may be 
 
 Due to thy little aching head 
 
 And fierce consuming malady ! 
 
 Oh ! might this tear — this pleading sigh 
 
 Reprieve thee, on thy way to die ! 
 
 Thy feeble frame can ne'er withstand 
 This fever-heat from day to day ; 
 Poor snow-flake ! in a glowing hand 
 That steals thy slight-knit life away ; 
 Though Hope disclaims thy fragile mould ; 
 I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd. 
 
 I love thy glossy curls that close 
 About thy forehead, golden-bright ; 
 Or rest upon the fatal rose 
 
 H
 
 98 A Father to his Sick Child asleep. 
 
 Of thy young cheek, in clusters light ; 
 And those blue orbs, that wake so fair, 
 They almost bid me not despair. 
 
 Thy lips, my child, recall the smile 
 Of those I would not show thee now. 
 And she, who bless'd us both awhile, 
 Has left her spirit on thy brow ; 
 
 doubly dear ! now her's is cold, 
 
 1 would not hear thy death-bell toll'd ! 
 
 Her voice was musical — but low 
 And weak, before she fell asleep ; 
 'Twas like the footfall in the snow, 
 Heard faintly, though it sank so deep ; 
 Like thine, her dying accents came, 
 Thou hast her voice, her look, her name ; 
 
 My life will wear a sunny guise, 
 
 If thou wilt dwell below with me, 
 
 And every morrow's sun shall rise 
 
 To greet my sight delightfully. 
 
 With thee, throughout the livelong hours, 
 
 To strew thy father's path with flowers ;
 
 A FathcT- to his Sick Child asleep. 99 
 
 But if thou must from earth depart, 
 
 Long, long, my wounded heart must bleed ; 
 
 Though God can make that mourning heart 
 
 As lowly as the bending reed, 
 
 Yet to the last, till sense be cold, 
 
 I needs must hear thy death-bell toU'd !
 
 lOO By a Death- Bed: 
 
 BY A DEATH-BED. 
 
 I CANNOT go ; I needs must linger, 
 While yet thou art outside the tomb ; 
 
 To close thy lids with trembling finger, 
 And kiss the cheek that cannot bloom. 
 
 For, as by mercy's kind concession, 
 To soothe the mourner who remains, 
 
 Full many a trace of Life's expression, 
 The earliest hour of Death retains. 
 
 Affection's dictates still obeying, 
 
 I will not leave thee, while a trace — 
 
 The faintest trace, and that decaying, 
 Yet beams upon thy lifeless face. 
 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
 fL
 
 ■^A 
 
 y
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 ^i 
 
 1H7D IOUHI 
 
 I 
 
 30m-7,'70(N8475s8) — C-120
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 367 048 6