f THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES J (7 C<. c^^ty2^ /\Jc Ci^-- l.!*!^-^ ^ "^^'^^^vis?; W^'^^>J>3f GEORGE MORINE. POEMS BY GEORGE MORINE LONDON GEORGE BELL & SONS YORK STREET COVENT GARDEN 1888 'nil THIS VOLUME OF GEORGE MORINE's POEMS IS DEDICATED TO RICHARD MORRIS, ESQ., OF BEECHFIELD, DONCASTER ; WHOSE FRIENDSHIP GAVE HAPPINESS TO THE POET's LIFE, AND WHOSE LIBERALITY GAVE TO THE WORLD THE POET's WORKS. 861847 PREFACE. In that truly delightful volume, English Sonnets by Poets of the Past, edited by Mr. Waddington, and published by Messrs. George Bell and Sons, in 1882, there was one Sonnet, the last in the book, by George Morine. It was entitled "Sunset," and it at once attracted the attention of leading critics. A desire was expressed at the time, and subsequently, that more of the same poet's work should be given to the world. It is to meet this desire that the present volume is published. The Editor was encouraged in his design by the opinion of an impartial critic to whom all the Sonnets were submitted, and who said of them, "The rhythm and cadences are often truly admirable — full, swelling, and tender — grave and yet entirely musical. The colouring too and the feeling vi PREFACE. for landscape are both of them genuine." And this opinion has been confirmed by many excellent judges who have seen a portion of the Sonnets. A few particulars respecting the Author will interest the readers of his poetry. George Morine was born at York January 31st, 1809. He was of French descent on his father's side, but his mother was a York lady. Her maiden name was Lois Harland, and she was sole daughter of George Harland Esq., of that city, who owned estates in the neighbouring villages of Fulford and Dunnington. From his mother he inherited a small income, which perhaps was a doubtful benefit, as it took away one motive for exertion. He was warmly attached to his mother's memory, and appears to have been her favourite child. Of his early years little is known. He came to Doncaster when he was about twenty- five years old, and there continued to reside, in a very retired manner, until his death. He was never married. During the greater part of his residence in Doncaster, Mr. Morine occupied solitary lodgings. But he had chosen haunts where he could enjoy congenial society: and his rooms, hung round with favourite pictures, were not unvisited by attached and admiring friends, who will cherish a lifelong recol- lection of his genial and affectionate nature, his PREFACE. vii upright character, his sound judgment, and his charming powers of conversation. The writer of this Preface recals with gratitude the many happy youthful hours enjoyed in Mr. Morine's rooms, when the conversation always turned to subjects of art and literature : and he well remembers how, from time to time, his Cambridge days were brightened with a letter and a Sonnet from his friend, suggesting trains of thought and feeling in full accord with those classic walks and avenues. Of incident Mr. Morine's life was singularly devoid. As he himself said of it, in one of his letters, "The sunny side of the street in winter, and the shaded side in summer, gave the sum of its variety." The following sympathetic paragraph appeared in the Doncaster Gazette (where many of his poems had been printed) for December 20th, 1872. "Death of Mr. George Morine. Amid the gloom of winter, Doncaster has lost one of its worthies; and though little known beyond his own circle of friends and acquaintances, his memory will long be cherished by those who could appreciate at their worth a highly cultivated mind, and an unobtrusiveness rarely met with. Nearly forty years ago, Mr. Morine came to reside in this town. Public duties gave him no anxiety. His was a life of quietude, devoted only to viii PREFACE. Study and thought, and allied with no common intel- lectual power. He had, as was once observed, many of the faculties, all the virtues, and scarcely one of the faults, generally supposed to be connected with the character, mind, and temperament of a poet. "Mr. Morine's illness was of short duration — an ordinary cold, terminating in congestion of the lungs, which was never overcome; and on Monday afternoon last he peacefully passed away from this to a brighter world, leaving a name unsullied and irreproachable." • Mr. Morine died on Monday, December i6, 1872, and was interred in Christ Church burial ground, close to the resting-place of his valued and accomplished friend, Dr. Scholfield, to whose connections several of the poems in this volume are dedicated. (See pages 71, 79, 104.) The modest view Mr. Morine took of his own poems is expressed in a letter to an unknown friend (1843) a copy of which was found among his manu- scripts. — ''Truth is, I grow daily more fastidious on the subject of poetry — more diffident of my own capabilities in this way. When I lived with you, I thought the attainment of fame a probable circumstance: — six years later it came under the chance possible: now I study Poetry simply as a fine art, by which I may sometimes PREFACE. ix exercise my intellect, and purify and elevate my taste." Mr. Morine did not collect his poems for publication, or leave them even fairly copied out beyond Sonnet xxxvii. That pleasant task remained to the present writer, to whom were bequeathed, (together with a fine portrait of the poet in oil by Mr. W. Beetham, which appeared in the Royal Academy Exhibition about 1838,) all his manuscripts, including not only poems, but a journal full of interesting personal details and literary criticism. There was also a pencil sketch by the same Artist, dated 1838, a facsimile of which is given as the frontispiece of this volume. The likeness is strikingly good. Mr. Morine was among the earliest of Lord Ten- nyson's admirers and possessed a copy of the "Poems" of 1833, which now lies before me, inscribed "George Morine, from the Author." The last Sonnet which Mr. Morine wrote, "Wadworth Churchyard," bears the date 1855. "Sunset" was composed in 1835. The Editor had already seen all the poems here published excepting the two last, which were found in Mr. Morine's desk after his death. It may here ■ be mentioned that his father was a Roman Catholic, but his mother was a member of the Church of England, to which communion Mr. Morine himself inclined during the latter half of his life. X PREFACE. The present writer cannot close this short prefatory notice without expressing his own great obligations to this good and gifted man, as one of the most valued friends of his youth and middle age. He hopes that some measure of the commendation which was so spontaneously given to "Sunset," will be accorded to these fresh specimens of the work of a true and most unassuming poet. With regard to the poems generally, and more especially to the Sonnets, so perfect in their structure, so musical in their rhythm, so tender in their tone, it may be said (as he himself has written of another) "And though— as music warbled in the street— Thy strains may never take the general ear, For rude and sordid thoroughfares too sweet- Yet some there are will catch the cadence clear, Amid the pauses heard, of busy feet, And keep it in their hearts for many a year." Richard Wilton. Londeshorough Rectory, East Yorkshire, February, 1888. CONTENTS. SONNETS. PAGE Introductory . . . . .1 The Poet's Solitude ... 2 The Painter . . . . .3 Written in my Journal, 1839 . . 4 Inscribed to my Friend, Sincler Porter, On the Prospect of his Italian Tour . . 5 Autumn ..... 6 The Child of Genius . ... 7 Picture of a Lady Reading . . 8 Inscribed to Fanny Boulton, On Hearing of Her Approaching Marriage . . 9 Sunset-Prospect . . . .10 Devotional Pictures . . . 11 God's Omnipotence . . .12 On Seeing Gott's Statue of the Young Apollo 13 Inscribed to My Friend, R. G. Boulton . .14 Genius ..... 15 Storm at Midnight . . . .16 "Man Leaves a Monument for Earth to Hide" 17 Xll CONTENTS. To Fanchon Painting On an Italian Composition, by Wilson Fanchon in Solitnde Winter Memorial to Fanchon . Addressed to my dear Friend, William Beetham The Poets York The Invalid . Love and Spring . The Dreamer . Sunset Flowers for the Invalid "In Every Age, Lord" . Milton The Sculptor .... "Oh that I had the Wings of a Dove" . The Vine .... Inscribed to my Friend, Eobert Story George Herbert's Temple After Reading "George Selwyn and His Contem- poraries" .... Inscribed to the Memory of Sophia WoodwroofTe The World is Growing Old . On an Infant's Cap, Worn by a Poet and Statesman of the Last Century On seeing again after many years an Italian Landscape by Wilson .... Inscribed to my Friend, Frederick Tatham, Esq. PAGE 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 CONTENTS. Xlll "Once more the Leaves are falling' The Skylark The Cathedrals of England Sabbath-Evening Bells Wadworth Churchyard "Some Cherished Thought" PAGE 45 46 47 48 49 50 LYEICS. Flowers The Wild Bee . . Song— "Ah! Lady Mine" The Fading Flower Stanzas — "As Down Life's Stream" Little Alice The One who is not there "Death's Arrows are at random flung" Dirge Lines. Suggested by a Portrait of Mrs. Charles Faber The Snowdrop and the Holly . Song — "By those delicious hours" Song — "My Lady walked by the garden wall" The Christmas Queen Ballad ..... Song — My Dearest Wife Phoebe's Letter . . . • 53 56 60 61 65 67 71 74 77 79 81 82 84 86 88 90 92 xiv CONTENTS. PAGE "Hope on, hope ever" ... 95 The Autumn-Leaf . . . .97 Song — "Once in my fvolic youth" . . 99 Stanzas— " Nay, tell mo, Sweet" . . 100 Stanzas — "The Kiver flows gently away" . 102 Dirge ..... 104 Stanzas— " Well— very well" . . 106 The Day Star . . . .107 Another Week .... 109 SONNETS. SONNETS. I. INTRODUCTORY. With hand all trembling, but with heart on fire, I tune the Southern harp of many lays; The same that answered long to Laura's praise- First borrowed from Italia's Poet-Sire: It was no sordid hope that could inspire To tread with joy the Tuscan's artful maze, And wed to harsher tones in modern days The dulcet breath of that melodious lyre: — Enough, if in Love's gentle heart perchance, Woke by the music's labyrinthine flow, The fading dreams revive of old romance: — If on these pages a reflective glow (Albeit faint) of that rich light should glance, Which plays round Nature's universal brow. B SONNETS. II. THE POET^S SOLITUDE. Nay, pity not his solitary doom; He does not ask the world to sympathize: His realm and intellectual kingdom lies Within the limit of that narrow room. The walls are bare; but never earthly loom Such lustre flashed upon corporeal eyes As Fancy to that student pale supplies, Of phantoms glimmering in the twilight gloom. All forms of beauty by poetic spell Revealed unto the world, are with him there; — All dulcet echoes of Apollo's shell Since time had birth, float in the charm<^d air; And with his soul in daily converse dwell Spirits divinely wise or beautifully fair. SONNETS. III. THE PAINTER. The Painter sits alone: through the long day Plying his pleasant toil; and little care Hath he what worldly pageants pass that way, Or how the pampered sons of Fortune fare. Beneath his hand, the canvas bald and bare Suffuses with the gorgeous sunset-ray — Rich landscapes float in the transparent air And shapes of love his magic touch obey, O happy life to lead! — as one in dreams. He wanders in Arcadia's fabled bowers, In pleased perplexity 'mong woods and streams: For him the Graces twine perennial flowers — Each sweet illusion is the thing it seems, And Time entranced forgets his mortal hours. SONNETS. IV. WEITTEN IN MY JOURNAL, 1839. Why should I count the days? since, one by one, They steal and leave no profitable trace; I'm like a child whose hours are spent in chase Of insects fluttering in the summer-sun. A dreamer still, I leave the work undone Which Fancy pileth in her airy place: — I gird my loins but to forsake the race, And see the prize by meaner spirits won. Why should I, then, record the hours, or keep Memorials of my unproductive days? If Sloth rocks all my high resolves to sleep, And with an idle dream my hope repays — 'Twere better far to close the book, and steep' My heart in Lethe — lost to blame or praise. SONNETS. V. INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND SINCLER PORTER, ON THE PROSPECT OF HIS ITALIAN TOUR. When thou art wandering in delightful quest Of Beauty — her enthusiast-student ever — Whether in Art's refining raiment dressed, Or Nature's truant, haunting wood and river: Or if a lingering and contented guest In cities old, rife with romantic story; Or, of the topmost Alpine peak possessed, Thou view'st rich sunsets bathe the world in glory: Let this recall that friend whose willing feet The sterner Fates forbid to follow thine; — Whose heart had thrilled in every Muse's seat, Or paused entranced on Raphael's magic line — Whose life had drunk fresh being from the sweet And wooing breezes of the South divine. SONNETS. VI. AUTUMN. The Summer-birds with rapid wing are flying The warmer regions of the South to cheer; And through the vistas of the forest drear With hollow voice the Autumn-winds are sighing: About my path the withered leaves are lying, By Nature strewn upon the season's bier; And dressed in pallid weeds, the pleasant year — Alas! the fair and pleasant year is dying. O mother Nature! when I walk and muse Among thy changing scenes — pathetic teachers! — When the rude wind thy fading foliage strews, And life's last beauty leaves thy tender features — How can thy offspring love thee, yet refuse The sympathy that's due from all thy creatures! SONNETS. VII. THE CHILD OF GENIUS. I saw him musing on the mountain side In life's fresh spring, a solitary child; By dreams of waking reverie beguiled, While yellow broom his dainty couch supplied : The steepy path of Fame was all untried. But Fancy, like the fabled giants, piled Her airy forms fantastical and wild, Across those fields that heaven and earth divide. O youth! ecstatic youth! of "Truth that seems" What thoughts of rapture and of joy are born ! Can sober manhood analyse the dreams That take the colour of the orient morn — Its purple, azure, and its golden streams — But leave the after day all desolate and forlorn! SONNETS. Vlll. PICTUEE OF A LADY READING. Lady, thou 'mindst me of that youthful sage* Who studied Plato in her hours of leisure, And found in him a fuller, richer treasure Than joy inherits on this masked stage: Art thou indeed like her? — Or does that page Record Love's triumphs, led by painted Pleasure, Where knights and ladies move in stately measure To trumpet-music of the heroic age? Forgive me, Lady: Such a question rude Even thy gentleness may scarcely brook: I'll fain believe it is no common book That chains young beauty to the thoughtful mood : Enough for me on that fair face to look And find sweet solace in my solitude. * Lady Jane Grey. SONNETS. IX. INSCRIBED TO FANNY BOULTON, ON HEARING OF HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE. Once only have I seen thee, Lady fair, And thou wert then a child, blushing and shy; Yet lived there somewhat in that downward eye Bade men who loved their freedom well — beware! And now mature in beauty's form and air, Thou givest the pleasures of the girl, good-bye — Ordained the deeper bliss, and duties high, Of holy love in wedded life to share. Be happy. Lady! — and (as hope is fain To dream of what it loves) in future days If peradventure we should meet again — May all thy earlier beauty greet my gaze — Thy brow unruffled by a touch of pain — Thy step unbroken by our worldly ways. 10 SONNETS. X. SUNSET-PROSPECT. Still let my chamber open to his rays When the round sun declines, and the red West, (As blushing to receive her bridegroom guest) Flings all her crimson glories on my gaze: For I would turn from musing on the lays Where elder bards of gorgeous fancy dressed Their thoughts in sunset-hues, which still invest Their glorious fables after many days — Turn to the burning pageant of the sun, And at his fountain-streams sublimely bright, Drink inspiration, as the bards have done Who left their genius for the world's delight: Like him they rose, and shone; but having won The brow of heaven, they keep its topmost height! SONNETS. 1 1 XI. DEVOTIONAL PICTUEES. The master-works of high refining art Hang in their glorious excellence, alone; Enrich'd by streams of Southern sunlight, thrown On old cathedral aisles — hang them apart: Faith working in the Painter's heart of heart, Produced the miracles his hand hath shewn; And thus Religion claims them for her own, To grace her inner shrines — hang them apart. And while Devotion owns an earthly home, Or beauty calls on man to sympathize, In spite of weary Alps and trackless foam. Upheld by love that time and toil defies. Here shall the pilgrims of the nations come Their waking dreams of heaven to realize.* * "The possession of art had made Italy to all a land of promise — had continued her empire — and had brought them, Protestants as they were, across the Alps, in pilgrimage, to pay their devotions at the shrine of the Vatican." — David Wilkie, in a speech at a public dinner given at Home in honour of' his genius. 12 SONNETS. XII. GOD'S OMNIPOTENCE. It does not need to stand 'mid Alpine snows A guest among the clouds; — it does not need To contemplate the cataract's foaming speed Wearing the stubborn granite as it flows; — Nor yet beneath the creaking forest-boughs To stand, and by the lightning's glare to read His power and might Omnipotent, who freed The tempest, yet directs it when it blows: — Is He not seen in every leaf and flower, That spread their beauty to the morning sheen? — Heard in each singing breeze and whispering shower That kiss the brow of Summer, all serene? And felt when silence with an eloquent power Fills the lone vigil of the midnight hour! SOA^NETS. 13 XIII. ON SEEING GOTT^S STATUE OF THE YOUNG APOLLO. Apart, with youth's immortal beauty crowned, Sits the melodious god: the vocal reed His drooping hand scarce holds — but it hath freed The soul of music, floating all around: Entranced he listens to the sharp rebound Of echoes answering from a thousand caves — Anon receding, slow as breeze-borne waves — An ocean of interminable sound! The marble murmurs !— and my wandering thought Goes back to Memnon, singing at the dawn; Ah! well methinks the graceful fable taught Its veiled meaning with a truthful tone: — Harmonious Art, with radiant genius fraught, Lends life and music to the senseless stone! 1+ SONNETS. XIV. INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND R. G. BOULTON. If from the circle of domestic joy — That magic ring, within whose narrow bound Alone those perfect blessings can be found, On genuine English hearts, that never cloy — If from thy smiling girl, and laughing boy. And her the guardian of the charmed ground Whose voice like music with a holy sound Subdues to sleep the rugged world's annoy — If from a home like this, a moment's space, [claim Thy thought should rove to one who scarce can The title of "an old familiar face": Remember that with friends and wine the same, The generous growths gain mellowness apace, Those wanting native warmth must still be tame. SONNETS. 15 XV. GENIUS. The earth is hallowed in the light of song, Resting on hill and valley: deathless dreams Are wedded to its everlasting streams, And rhymed spells to all its founts belong. What power is thine, O Genius! — what a throng Of radiant shapes and fantasies sublime Illume thy progress through "the waste of time,' And still redeem thee from oblivion's wrong. Thou hast ehgraven on enduring trees Thy name increasing with the forest hoar. And blent it with the thunder and the breeze That shake the branched giants evermore, And babbling rivers tell it to the seas That hem thy temple in on every shore. i6 SONNETS. XVI. STORM AT MIDNIGHT. Amid the howling tempest's gusty swell, The rain quick-beating and the voice profound Of muttering thunder bursting all around The cow'ring city — toll'd the midnight bell: With utterance deep and undisturb'd it fell On the rous'd ear, as doth the clarion's sound Above the horrors of contested ground — The clash of conflict and the carnage-yell. So Time, superior to the storms of life — The war of passions and the earthquake-shock Of tottering empires in their last commotion- From his calm vantage contemplates the strife, Like some primeval giant on a rock. Gazing abroad upon the chafed ocean. SOAW£TS. 17 XVII. ^'MAN LEAVES A MONUMENT FOR EARTH TO HIDE." Man leaves a monument for earth to hide; His generation and his name decays; His footsteps vanish from the busy ways Where life and death sit mocking side by side. The warrior-kings who conquered far and wide, Steeping in blood their perishable bays, Now slumber with the dead of other days. Their mighty bones to meanest dust allied! "Peace! — babbling moralist! Thy words are cast Unnoticed on the world's tumultuous tide; Man heeds no voice save passion's trumpet-blast — No ensign, save the banner of his pride: Lord of to-day, he holds the present fast, He dares the future and derides the past!" 1 8 SONNETS. XVI If. TO FANCHON. Within that room which I had long'd to share With thee, but long'd in vain for many a day, I stood at last, but thou hadst fled awav And left no spirit like thy presence there: 'Twas in the wintry time — the trees were bare, And folded snow upon the meadows lay. And all was mute save on a frosted spray A querulous bird plained to the bitter air. I turn'd me from the lattice, but the chill My heart oppressing with a sense forlorn. Was not of Winter's uncongenial gloom: — I thought of eyes which would have lighted still That landscape with the lustre of the morn, And filled with beauty that deserted room. SOiVXFTS. .9 XIX. PAINTING. All art is twofold: Painting should combine The truth of form with that more subtile grace Existing in the mind, and through the face Revealed, as light in a transparent shrine: 'Twas this which rendered Raphael "the divine"- The master-spirit of a glorious race, More than the cunning, exquisite to trace The beauty of the undulating line. This be your task, unwearied to pursue, Votaries of art! on her high meed intent; Let beauty be your model, but imbue With nobler sense her softer blandishment; So shall the "fading bays" be trimmed anew Of elder Fame, to living temples lent. 29 SONNETS. XX. ON AN ITALIAN COMPOSITION BY WILSON. It was a landscape borrow'd from that fair And most delicious land of sunny skies, In whose deep groves the long-lived summer lies Like a luxurious Queen, whose bosom bare Swells to the wooing of the wanton air; And well the painter with a poet's eyes Hath seen and steep'd its beauty in the dyes Of rich and graceful fancy everywhere. O Painter! born in a less favour'd land, Cloudy and cold, to thee the praise we owe That Southern beauty graces our abode: — The sweet illusions of thy master-hand Have lent our wintry home the Summer's glow, And to our annals given another Claude. soawi:ts. 2 1 XXI. FANOHON IN SOLITUDE. As those who live apart in cloistered cell, Nor mingle with the world nor heed it aught, She schooled herself in solitude, and taught Her heart contentedly to love it well: Yet was her breast like that responsive shell Which answers every breeze its strings have caught- Alive to all the influences of thought, Or touch of sympathy's mysterious spell. Hence many a sight had beauty in her eyes, And many a sound had music in her ears — Now waking Fancy with a quick surprise. Or melting Memory's brooding heart to tears; — A world of joy which grosser sense denies, Lost like the trembling music of the spheres. 22 SONNETS. XXII. WINTER. Now hoary Winter, like a sexton old Plying his task at midnight silently, Doth bury all the fragile things that die. Nipped by the bitter wind's unpitying cold: And well he wraps them up in many a fold Of shrouding snow, fast falling from the sky, Till those who loved them can no more descry What Nature's calendar had once enroll'd. But Winter and the sexton toil in vain: The Spring shall warm her children everywhere. And all her buds most delicate or fair Shall drink fresh vigour with the early rain: Nor may the earth imprisoned dust retain; Its atoms all shall rise, God's second life to share. SONA^FTS. 23 XXIII. MEMORIAL TO FANCHON. As those by peril of the tempest cast On some lone shore, unknowing where they be, Trust frail memorials to the oblivious sea. Some friendly hand perchance to meet at last: So I, by Fortune, — fickle as the blast Which wrecks the mariner, — being lost to thee. Give to the world, as to the waters free. These tokens to remind thee of the past: — But thou art dwelling in a distant home. Delighting other hearts, and lending wings To many a lagging hour of weary time — And these may share such fate as on the foam Attends the record that the seaman flings — With weeds to perish — a neglected rhyme. 24 SONN/CrS. XXIV. ADDRESSED TO MY DEAR FRIEND WILLIAM BEETHAM, DECEMBER, 1 836. Friend of my bosom, I could learn to chide. And vex with murmurs harsh, the gentle Power That guards the Painter's room — Art's hallowed bower — For that she keeps thee tarrying from my side: But thou art winning honour, and my pride In thy success, makes light the lagging hour, Though dark December weeps in sleet and shower. And thou, though promised long, art still denied. Yet prithee come ere winter pass away! — Come while the tapers gleam — while on the wall The firelight dances, and the shadows fall From many a glimmering bust in quaint array: Come let us sit till midnight and recall The fading dreams of many a lapsed day! SONNETS. 25 XXV. THE PO'ETS. The Poets — are they dead? — Earth thou hast ta'en Their perishable dust — 'twas thine to claim; But lasting as thy fabric is the fame Which scarce thy stretched limits can contain: Ungracious Mother! — they were heirs of pain And chilling poverty and causeless shame, ' The dungeon's gloom without the prisoner's blame, And madness grappling with the Fates in vain. — Dead, but undying — from their tombs are flung Reflected beams that like the lightnings quiver. And still where'er the wizard shell was strung — By twilight forest or by murmuring river — The vocal spirit wakes her breezy song, And haunts the classic solitude for ever. 2 6 SONNETS. XXVI. YORK. City of many centuries — old and grey! With grief I leave thee and complaining eyes, For in thy keeping all my treasure lies — All that could win thy wayward son to stay. Maintain the prowess of thine earlier day, And guard my Lady well— she is a prize Might tempt thy sleeping chivalry to rise, Should peril's front her gentle heart affray. So for thy crumbling towers, my breast will own More grateful worship than did ever wait On the dim pageants of thy old renown. In Roman grandeur or in Norman state; — And I will twine for thee a laureate-crown To grace thy sculptur'd wall and barbed gate. SONNETS. 27 XXVII. THE INVALID. She lay, that gentle Lady, by the side Of th' open lattice, gazing on the sky And fields far stretching: — weeks and months pass'd by Yet did she thus contentedly abide. She breathed no murmur, for she had no pride In what the world calls pleasure; but her eye Drank in the beauty and the harmony Which Nature's never failing springs supplied. And hence her placid features took the tone That clothes the living earth — its fields and flowers; And in her glancing smile the sunlight shone Of purple Morn or Evening's golden hours — A saint-like glory o'er her visage thrown, From Nature's face reflected to her own. 2 8 SONNETS. XXVIII. LOVE AND SPRING. Long had I look'd the dawning Spring to see, And in her favourite paths had search'd in vain; No violet-odour met me in the lane; No gladness of the daisy on the lea: Then did I muse, my Lady sweet, on thee And on thy promise — never made in vain — [again To come when Spring should wake her flowers And hang her blossoms out on every tree: — Much did I muse on thee, and much on Spring, And deem'd ye tarried till ye might together About my heart your twin'd embraces fling, — A flood of welcome love, and lustrous weather — And lo! i'the May, like truants loitering, [feather. Spring dons her flowers, and thou the cap and SO.YJVETS. 29 XXIX. THE DEEAMEE. Be ever mine the Dreamer's life to choose, Far from the busy mart and crowded street: My daily haunt some forest's calm retreat, Fit home for contemplation and the Muse: Nor there perchance will sylvan Pan refuse Some fainter echo of that music sweet [fleet, Which rous'd the sleeping Faun and Wood-nymph What time Dan Phoebus drank the cooling dews. But if no longer blessing human ken, The sounds and sights of ancient fable rise, I'll look for wisdom in the lonely glen, Reading along the earth with lowly eyes — And peradventure teach to prouder men What moral e'en a wither'd leaf supplies. 30 SONNETS. XXX. SUNSET. Day — like a Conqueror marching to his rest, The warfare finished and the victory won, And all the pageant of his triumph done — Seeks his resplendent chamber in the West. Yon clouds, like Pursuivants and Heralds dress'd In gorgeous blazonry, troop slowly on. Bearing abroad the banners of the Sun, That proudly stream o'er many a warrior's crest. In the azure field a solitary star Lifts its pale signal, and the glorious train Of errant sunbeams, straggling from afar. Re-form their glittering ranks, and join again Their father Phoebus in his golden car, [main. Whose panting steeds have snuffed the Western SONNETS. 31 XXXI. FLOWERS FOR THE INVALID. Bound to a weary couch, she could not stray With dewy latchet in the sweet Spring-tide; Yet were her thoughts most feelingly allied To Nature's worship — helpless though she lay: For in her lonely room from day to day [supplied, Fresh flowers were placed — whate'er the months In odour fragrant, or in richness dyed, To cheer her gentle heart as best she may, They brought her flowers: — born of the vernal time. Narcissus and the violet sweet and wild. With roses in their circling beauty piled, The glowing children of the Summer's prime; — Nature's memorials to her lonely child; They link'd her to the universe sublime! 32 SONNETS. XXXII. "IN EVERY AGE, LORD!'' In every age, O Lord! and every clime, Saints have appeared on earth to vindicate The honour of Thy name, and lift elate The glorious standard of Thy truth sublime: The Prophets' lips were purged in former time To preach Thy promise, and to celebrate Thy mercy, and Thy justice, and the fate Of stubborn guilt rejoicing in its crime. And still in latter days, a few withstand The vices of their time, as some firm rock Flings back the storming billows of the sea; And though Thy sheep are strewn through many a land, There fail not shepherds for the scattered flock, To call the wanderers home to heaven and Thee. SONNETS. 33 XXXIII. MILTON. Hail! greatest of the modern scribes, whose pen Was dropped with everlasting dew — whose tongue By prayer was purified what time it sung The noblest vision lent to human ken ! Small was thy guerdon 'mongst thy fellow-men; But on thine ear the far-off poean rung Which heaven-ward from an after age unsprung, And in that knowledge thou wert happy then. Divine old man! though worn with mortal care — To corporal darkness doom'd and the cold scorn Of adverse times, what was it all to thee? ' T was thine a better heritage to share — The veneration of a race unborn — Children of freedom, thou didst help to free!* *"0f all God's gifts of intellect, he esteemed poetic genius the most transcendent. He esteemed it in himself as a kind of inspir- ation, and wrote his great works with something of the conscious dignity of a prophet. * * * * His own mind was a revelation to him of a higher condition of humanity, and to promote this he thirsted and toiled for freedom as the element for the growth and improve- ment of his nature." — Essay on Milton, by Dr. Channing, D 34 SONNETS. XXXIV. THE SCULPTOR. "It breathes! — 'Twill speak!" — The enthusiast Sculptor cried: — Genius had spent a life upon the stone, Which cold and pale in peerless beauty shone, But Art all furthur miracle denied. The Sculptor in the course of nature died. Leaving his work to time; men gazed thereon And vowed it did not breathe and speak alone — High fantasy its maker deified. And thus Fame deals. She hath a sealed mouth To those her children whom she means her heirs, Acting the crabbed Step-dame to their youth; But from the grave their living worth declares In trumpet-accents louder than the truth, And loads with eulogy the listening airs. ^6'A^i\^^^7:S'. 35 XXXV. ''OH! THAT I HAD THE WINGS OF A DOVE, FOR THEN WOULD I FLEE AWAY AND BE AT REST." Turn from the world, my Soul 1 — what canst thou find To love, in all its vain and hollow round? What are the Idols that its slaves have crowned? Oh! worse than Pagan stocks, deaf, dumb, and blind! Flee like a bird whose course is with the wind; Nor let thy place for evermore be found: Fling off the bonds that hitherwhile have bound Thy weary wings — leave, leave them far behind! Henceforth, my Soul, thy home shall be aloof: We'll give the stormy world a long farewell: Seeking in wilderness remote, some roof Of leafy arbour, or sequestered cell, Where even conscience fails her still reproof, And sin and sorrow are forbid to dwell. 36 SONNETS. XXXVI. THE VINE. Then said the trees ixnto the vine, Come thou and reign over us. — Judges ix. 12. We bless Thee, Lord, for every verdant leaf, For every plant and shrub on earth we see; And for the shelter of each pleasant tree, That flings in Summer-tide its broad relief: And for each painted flower, however brief The glad meridian of its beauty be; And for the wealth of Autumn's yellow sheaf, That stays the fainting heart and feeble knee: For these and all that on the rich earth grows But most, O Lord, we bless Thee for the vine, And the full clusters of its wandering boughs: And when our hearts are gladdened with the wine, We'll not forget the fountain whence it flows, But own the bounty and the blessing Thine. SONNETS. 37 XXXVII. INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND ROBERT STORY Thy harp was fashioned of the hawthorn-tree, That cast its blossoms on Northumbria's fell; And thou didst love its music passing well, And it imparted all its soul to thee: The proud may scorn its native minstrelsie, And peradventure doubt its master's spell; But nature in the peasant's heart shall tell What passionate throbs have owned its melody. Peace be about thee, and the light of Song! — This be thy charm whatever else betide; And though the visions that were wont to throng Thy lonely hours, erewhile on Beaumont-side, Have fled and left no trace — to thee belong The thoughts of conscious worth — their glory and their pride! 38 SONNETS. XXXVIII. GEORGE HERBERT^S "TEMPLE." Herbert, thy brief and busy life was spent In heavenly service, every day inditing Some holy canticle, and most delighting To offer God the talent which He lent: Thou mad'st His House thy home and monument, Wreathing its roof with flowers — with warm love lighting Its dimmer aisles, and on its grey walls writing Some pious record, or some good intent. Two centuries have vanished since thy day. And yet that venerable Temple stands Untouched by time, impervious to decay: But thou, blest builder, livest in other lands — In other mansions, fashioned not of clay. Or man's device — thy "house not made with hands." SOJ^JVETS. 39 XXXIX. AFTER READING "GEORGE SELWYN AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES." "Men like butterflies," — Troilus and Cressida. Of all the busy crowd, does none remain On pleasure, fame, and life to moralize.'^ Does this poor book of moths and butterflies, The only record of their race contain,? Ye slaves of Fashion and her silken chain — The fair, the gay, the witty, and the wise. This only thought your chronicle supplies, The vain in heart and mind, have lived in vain! Your aim was pleasure, and to grace her shrine. Life's fairest flowers were pluckt, and greenest bays; To her ye bent the knee, and poured the wine — The midnight vigil gave — the noonday praise; And hence with their's your names will never shine "Who scorned delights and lived laborious days." 40 SONNETS. XL. INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SOPHIA WOODWROOFFE (tHE POETESs). Maiden of many gifts, too good to dwell On earth its mortal term, thou didst but turn Thy glance upon its opening scene, and learn Its tones of welcome, ere thou saidst — "Farewell." But Genius dies not with the passing-bell That calls her children to the silent bourn; Her voice still rises from the wreathed urn, Like murmuring echoes from the ocean-shell. And though — as music warbled in the street — Thy strains may never take the general ear. For rude and sordid thoroughfares too sweet — Yet some there are, will catch the cadence clear. Amid the pauses heard of busy feet, And keep it in their hearts for many a year. SONNETS. 41 XLI. THE WORLD IS GROWING OLD. "The world is growing old," and all its ways Exemplify the aspect of decay: Cold, dull, unapprehensive, wrinkled, grey, — Greedy of gain, and niggardly of praise. Then what avail, though sweet as thine, the lays. To charm a world that turns its ear away! Though Orpheus piped along the public way. No miracle would mark these latter days. But, Lady, though the sordid multitude Have closed their senses to such influence bland As Art impresses on the natural mood; — Thy brother-bards will hail thee, heart and hand, In precincts where no common feet intrude, A crowned sister of their glorious band. 42 SONNETS. XLII. ON AN INFANT'S CAP, WORN HY A POET AND STATESMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY. Within the circle of this little hood The germs of intellect were once confined; Taste, feeling, fancy — all the mighty mind — A glorious flower enfolded in the bud: The Poet's visions of the pure and good Were here condensed — ethereal drop refined; The Statesman's lofty hopes of human kind; And every pain or passion of the blood. Now vacant as this miniature concave The many mansions of that hoary head, Which pressed the cradle then, and now the grave; But the bright spirits that inhabited Those temples once, no accident can enslave, Of Death or Time — "Thought dies not with the dead." SOWI^ETS. 43 XLIII. ON SEEING AGAIN AFTER MANY YEARS, AN ITALIAN LANDSCAPE, BY WILSON. This gleaming water — these o'erhanging boughs — Those vine-clasp'd columns on the ruined strand — Yon hills that seem to fade in fairyland, (Such charm his Art's peculiar magic throws On every scene our Wilson's genius shows) Bring back their old delight. Again I stand With those rude idlers on the yellow sand. And may have stood for years — fond Fancy knows ! Alas! not so. "My way of life" hath been Not all in sunshine and enchanted air; Some passing storms have marked the years between Since last I look'd upon this landscape fair — Leaving on verdant tracts a sadder green, Some flowers uprooted, and some branches bare. 44 SONNETS. XLIV. INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND FREDERICK TATHAM, ESQ. "A man of hope, and forward-looking-mind, Even to the hist." Wordsworth. Tatham, in forty years (I score no less) I've found, than thee, no friendlier man, nor one Whose moral aspect wore a healthier tone, Unsallowed by misfortune's bitterness. Well didst thou rally from life's first distress, Though bruised and overborne, yet not undone; And Nature smiled to see her genial son Return hard buffets with such bold address. And now, with native spirit unsubdued. Thou stand'st in middle age: not looking back Resentful on the trouble of past years, But forward, in that energetic mood, Which, cheerly straining at the upward track, Denies it half so steep as it appears. sonj^i:ts. 45 XLV. "ONCE MORE THE LEAVES ARE FALLING.^' Once more the leaves are falling, and once more This rustling lane I tread, languid and slow; Perchance to gather from the shedding bough Some pensive moral unperceived before: For then young Fancy fed on lighter lore; And Hope's rich music kept an equal flow — Since lost, or lapsing into murmurs low As evening-waves fretting a far-off shore. Our graver lessons only then commence When life slopes Westward, and its natural year Looks wan with age, and sad intelligence: Then lesser voices thrill the trembling ear, And lesser warnings strike the wakeful sense, Deep as a knell, and as a trumpet clear. 46 SOJVJVETS. XLIV. THE SKYLARK. Upward, still upward, on unwearied wings The low-born warbler mounts, and still mounts higher; As if to mingle with the seraph-choir Th' ecstatic Jubilate that he sings: Thy home is in the clods, but not thence springs That passionate impulse and that strong desire — Those gifts from Heaven derived, to Heaven aspire, In grateful poeans to the King of kings. Blest chaunter of the skies! from thee I'll learn To render God such tribute as I may; Though born of earth, and earthy, I will spurn, Like thee, the contact of defiling clay; And rapt, like thee, above this mortal bourn, I'll burst its bonds, and fling its cords away. SONNETS. 47 XLYII THE CATHEDRALS OF ENGLAND. On many a verdant mound the ruins stand Of keep or castle — relics of dark time, Of iron conquest, or baronial crime — Days of the ruthless heart, and bloody hand: So let them perish: If Time's stern command — The muffling ivy — the corroding clime. Forbear our Minsters, monuments sublime, The landmarks, and the glory of the Land. And centuries that have spared so long, will spare Those sacred towers, which, higher as they rise, Refine their beauty in celestial air: Yes, latest ages shall behold them there, Appealing to the everlasting skies — Eternal as the sentiment of prayer. 48 SONNETS. XLVIII. SABBATH-EVENING BELLS. Than organ, lute, or harp, or blended strain Of warbling voices, sweeter far the chime Of Sabbath-bells, that in calm evening-time Thrill every link of Memory's golden chain: Ah, happy thoughts! of days when free from stain, The soul seemed fresh from that celestial clime In which, when tears have purged corporeal crime, It still aspires to find its home again. O let me listen to this breezy swell, And gradual, faint relapse, till all my soul Is softened with the sense of sin forgiven: And like ecstatic penitent in his cell, I fling from off my brow Time's shadowy cowl, And lose an hour of earth, in dreams of Heaven. SONJ^FTS. 49 XLIX. WADWORTH CHURCHYARD. I loiter'd on a sultry Summer day Beside the village church: in clusters round, By grassy tuft, or mould'ring headstone crowned, The humble generations past away Were sleeping: just without these precincts lay Deep gardens close embower'd, and thence the sound Of footsteps muffled on the velvet ground, And laughter came, of children at their play. Strange contrast! — yet these crumbling stones declare Our life is but a span — a fleeting wave — The shadow of a cloud across the green: Then let young voices stir the brooding air With music, though the garden and the grave Have but a wall of Summer-leaves between. E so SONIiFTS. "SOME CHERISHED THOUGHT, )j Some cherished thought, each lonely bosom knows, Helping life's rugged journey to beguile ; Some dream of fame, or some soul-haunting smile Of love, that never to fruition grows; What matter, if from day-break to its close, The way-worn traveller is upheld the while — If Hope, o'er many a waste and weary mile. The rainbow's colour, and its radiance throws. And precious to my heart, as oil and wine To him the good Samaritan befriended, Those smiles which charmed me (dearest, they were thine) In youth, and all life's after-path attended: So will they lighten o'er its last decline, Then only ending when my life is ended. LYRICS. LYRICS. .53 FLOWERS. "Queen-lilies, and the painted populace That dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives." Young. Of all the grace that Nature flings So lavish on this world of ours, Her fairest and her favourite things, What can compare with flowers! The glorious colours brightly born Of blended sun, and cloud, and air, — The scattered hues of eve and morn, All meet and mingle there. 54 LYRICS. And lo! wherever streamlet flows, Wherever breeze and sunlight meet, They spring in every path that knows The sound of wandering feet. And through each change of time and tide, While queenly cities fall away, — While rivers from their courses glide — Arts flourish and decay, Those frailer things, to Nature true, Will decorate this earthly frame. Of every form and every hue. Unchangingly the same. They come all-honoured and all-blest — They come with looks of pleasant cheer, LYRICS. 55 Waking sweet chords in every breast Kind Nature loves to hear. The child who marks their glad return, Thence measures life's delightful prime, And grieves in later years to learn A sadder rule of time: Woman, the genius and the queen Of all that's gracious, good, and fair, Feels as she walks that world serene, Her dearest empire there. And while one thought of love remains To soothe and charm man's ruder powers, He'll welcome all their varied trains. And bless the time of Flowers. 56 LYRICS. THE WILD BEE. "To the gay gardens his unstaid desire Him wholly carried, to refresh his sprights ; There lavish Nature, in her best attire, Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights." Spensee. The vagrant Bee is a merry wight, A reckless rover from morn to night; When the days are long and the beams are bright, O! then is the vagrant Bee's delight. He leaves his castle at early morn. And like a blithe hunter he winds his horn : Away! — away! on the glad wind borne O'er the purple heath and the yellow corn. LYRICS. S7 He rests not his wing in the gay green wood — He stoops not to drink of the silver flood — He tastes not the juice of the hawthorn bud, For the forager-bee loves daintier food. He knows by the breath of the scented air Where the feast is spread that he longs to share- The honied rose and the lily fair, That the delicate beds of the garden bear. He lifts no latch, he makes no call. He cares not for wicket or ivied wall; He stays not to reckon what fate may fall, But like a bold lover hath scaled 'em all. He drinks the dew-drop clear and cold In its vault of the rose-leaf's inmost fold; 58 LYRICS. And now his luxurious limbs are rolled In the gorgeous sunflower's dusty gold. He loves to fathom the blossomy mine, Where faintly the star-like petals shine; And quaffs like a bacchanal the balmy wine That was kept for the butterfly's lip divine. And still as he pilfers the secret cells Where the innermost spirit of sweetness dwells, On his drowsy sense faint music swells From the peals of the manifold garden-bells. His banquet is full and his board is free — The brightest things on the earth that be — Or sweet to the palate, or fair to see, He toucheth and "tasteth tenderly." LYRICS. 59 Rove on — rove on, thou gladsome thing! I check not, I chide not thy wandering; Give me thy freedom of life and wing, And I'd change not estate with a crowned king. 6o LYRICS. SONG. Ah, Lady mine, those locks of thine, Are chains that bind thy slaves for ever; No gossamer line was e'er so fine, And yet those threads of golden twine No mortal might avails to sever. Ah, Lady mine, thy slaves repine, And struggle with a vain endeavour; Those locks of thine, with golden shine. All spells of art and love combine — Thy slaves remain thy slaves for ever. LYRICS. 6 1 THE FADING FLOWER. "The world is empty, the heart will die, There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky; Thou Holy One, call Thy child away." Schiller. The mother turns to her daughter fair, And smooths with her fingers the flaxen hair Of the gentle maiden standing there. She looks in her daughter's pensive eyes, She marks how their lustre dims and dies: — "What ails thee — what ails thee, my daughter.?" she cries. 62 LFRICS. "Tell me, I prithee, and tell me true, "What is it that quenches the beautiful blue, "Thy spirit once lightened so gaily through?" "Ah, mother," she said, "if the mortal eye "Reflected nought but yon azure sky, "Its lustre would neither dim nor die: "But earthward it turns, and there, alas, "Sees sorrow and sin, alternate pass, — " These leave their shadows upon the grass. "Where are the mates of my early years? "Their laughing voices are in my ears, "But I cannot see them through my tears: "Some are altered, and some are dead, "In the dreary chancel their narrow bed, . "And the white garland hanging overhead. LYRICS. 65 "I've seen, — ah me! — the trellised bowers, "Where young Love had twined the brightest flowers "That are born of the Spring-time's sunniest hours, "Wither and fall like the prophet's gourd, "When never a breeze the green leaf stirred, "And nought but the noontide hum was heard. "The bee may murmur, the bird may sing, "And the crocus and primrose their beauty bring "To welcome the glad immortal Spring: "But young Love sleeps on the silent shore, "Drooping and dead is the torch he bore, "And his wings are folded for evermore. "Mother, beyond yon hillocks green, "Beyond yon cypress' dusky screen, "Where the grey Church-tower is dimly seen. 64 LYRICS. "A holier home is waiting me, "Than this, with all thy love, can be: "O Mother, set the spirit free, "That clings and cleaves alone to thee!" LYRICS. 65 STANZAS. As down Life's stream we glide, our sis-ht Turns backward with a sad delight; And wanders o'er Each feature of the pleasant shore We love, and leave for evermore. That shore is in the distance now; Faint and more faint its outlines grow: And one by one, Love's lamps that once so steadfast shone, A moment glimmier — and are gone! 66 LYRICS. Hark! — 'twas the voice of home — ah no! Perished that music long ago: No sound is heard Of voices that could once have stirred Life's fountains with a whispered word. I'he shore we leave grows dim and dark, But onward drifts our wandering bark; And Faith's glad eyes, Turned from the land where daylight dies, Beholds a brighter region rise. LYRICS. 67 LITTLE ALICE. Little Alice full of prattle, Little Alice full of play; Her laugh — a silver rattle — Was resounding all the day: But her mirth, it bred no malice, For the neighbours o'er the way Said, "Tis only little Alice — Little Alice at her play." Her skin was bright and pearly, With carnations blushing through; Her flaxen locks were curly, And her eyes the deepest blue; 68 LYRICS. Her steps were all so airy, That the neighbours well might say, "She is graceful as a fairy, Little Alice at her play." In the sunny days of Summer, When the shops were freshly drest, And the eyes of each new-comer Thought the town was at its best. Those eyes would still be wandering From the windows all so gay, To follow the meandering Little Alice at her play. In the turmoil, never ending. Of the crowd-encumbered street, Where the getting and the spending Cankers everything we meet, LYRICS. 69 Even Traffic grew less sordid On the busy market-day, And a sidelong glance aftbrded Little Alice at her play. Where now is all that prattle, Where the gaiety and grace? Silent now that silver rattle — Turn'd away that smiling face! For the Fates their ancient malice Re-asserting, well-a-day! Our first and fairest Alice, They have summoned from her play. Lost, lost, but not for ever! — Death may snap the mortal hours, But the love he cannot sever Which entwines that child of ours; 70 LFRICS. We may mourn tlic wintry anguish, But we wait those promised showers, When the buried buds that languish Shall awake immortal flowers! LYRICS. 71 THE ONE WHO IS NOT THERE. (In memory of Charles Scholffeld, who died Nov. 12th., 1851, aged 8 years.) "Heaven's will be done!" she murmurs. But the tears are flowing free; "Heaven's will be done!" he answers, But a stricken man is he; The children, partly conscious. Clinging round them, hear the prayer. And they look at one another, And for one who is not there. The silver cord is loosened — It will never meet again; The golden bowl is broken, With a pang of mortal pain; /2 LYRICS. E'en the love-cemented circle Death has not deigned to spare, And Memory broods at hearth and home, Over one who is not there. But the Mother's tears will cease to flow — Her troubled soul grow calm, When holy Patience works with Time, Like Gilead's blessed balm; The Father too, as manhood may, Will learn his cross to bear, And stifle every yearning For the one who is not there. And soon from Childhood's sunny brow, And from its careless heart, The shadow of this transient cloud Will silently depart; LYRICS. Along the level tracts of youth, Their lives will blossom fair, And flowers soon hide the little grave Of the one who is not there. So Nature and Religion blend Mysterious powers to heal Each pang that this poor human heart From first to last may feel; Veiling the Past in russet wreaths Of sad Autumnal air, Or flashing Heaven on faithful eyes That seek the lost one there! 73 74 LVRICS. "DEATH'S ARROWS ARE AT RANDOM FLUNG/' (In memory of Catherine Ann Coltart. who died October 5th., 1856.) Death's arrows are at random flung, Or she had never died — so young; Death cannot choose, or he would spare, And she had never died — so fair. Ah! she was but a twelvemonth's bride! Not half her love and sweetness tried; A mother, who had scarcely smiled Ecstatic welcome to her child. LYRICS. 75 A wife — a mother — with the grace Of girlhood still upon her face; Herself scarce past those doubtful years That feed a mother's hopes and fears. But yesterday we saw her stand The centre of a family band ; Thence called by Love to walk apart, And fill another home and heart. How well she filled that home with gladness, He knows, who mourns its present sadness: And how she filled that heart, the token Is that same heart bereaved and broken. It seemed as if a rose had died In all the bloom of Summer pride; And when they whispered, "She is dead," I muttered to myself, and said — 76 LYRICS. Death's arrows are at random flung: But Faith replied, "The good die young; "Earth's fairest flowers are not too fair "To blossom in celestial air. "The stroke that leaves us desolate "Is not the work of Chance or Fate; "'Tis Love that calls its children home "From wrath and evil days to come." LYRICS. 77 DIRGE. With a sullen sound and slow, The bell swung to and fro, And a heavy sense of woe Was in the air; As they came with muffled tread To the precincts of the dead And sought the narrow bed Scooped ready there. And solemn words were read, And holy prayers were said, While "dust to dust" bespread The coffin bare; And flowers but newly sprung, Upon that grave were flung. For she it held was young, And sweet and fair. 78 LYRICS. Alas! that love and truth, And all the grace of youth, Should only end in ruth, And wan despair: — That blanch'd and disarray'd, Those passion-flowers which made The bridal-wreath should fade —•'In Memory"— there! LYRICS. 79 LINES. Suggested by a Portrait of Mrs. Charles Faber. In vain the baffled Painter tries To fix that look of thine: — He reads each glance with curious eyes, And dwells on every line. But not from graceful curves alone, Nor from carnation dyes, Nor from the pearl's contrasting tone, Does that fair vision rise: Or else his cunning hand would seize Life's blossom ere it dies; Expressed, admiring crowds to please — Caught with a glad surprise. 8o L YRICS. But deeper far thy beauty lies, In sweetness heaven-bestow'd — The candour of Italian skies, Unconscious of a cloud. And this the Painter's skill defies To stamp its likeness there: Impalpable as light, it flies, And leaves him to despair. L YRICS. THE SNOWDROP AND THE HOLLY. Spring-flowers and Winter-leaves — The dark and fair together: Such, dearest, is the web Fate weaves, And working still, she glads or grieves, With every tint that web receives From sad or sunny weather. Thought, moralising thus, combined The Snowdrop and the Holly: But happier should I be to find For Thee Fate's sterner rule resigned, Thy life all white, no thread entwined Of darker melancholy. 82 L YRICS. SONG. By those delicious hours so fondly cherished — Those dreamy hours we never more shall see; And by the joys that with those hours have perished- Dear Girl, remember me! By every tender word so truly spoken, By every smile that lit those hours with thee — By every look and every nameless token, Dear Girl, remember me! But if the joys I bid thee thus remember Have flown, like leaves by Autumn-winds set free- Then, by the sorrows of our heart's November, Dear Girl, remember me! L YRICS. 83 And thus, as roses pluckt in sunny weather, In after years — all withered though they be — Recall the days when lovers walked together, By these remember me ! 84 L YRICS. SONG. My Lady walked by the garden-wall; — The birds were singing their even-song — She listened to catch her Lover's call, She listened and loitered long. My Lady walked by the garden-wall; — The birds were roosting the boughs among- She listened to catch his first foot-fall, She listened and loitered long. My Lady walked by the garden-wall; — The birds were singing their matin-song — "He'll come," she said, "never more at all, "Though I've wept and waited long." L YRICS. 8s My Lady walked by the garden-wall ; — The birds were singing a mocking song — "No thrall," she said, "is like love's sweet thrall, "And my plighted faith I will never recall, "Though I wait for him all life long!" 86 L TRIGS. THE CHRISTMAS QUEEN. My Love she wore a wreath last night; 'Twas not of roses red or white, Nor orange-flower, the bride's delight, Nor gleaming pearl, nor diamond bright. That wreath, the fairest ever seen, Was twisted of the holly green; The clustered berries burned between Its leaves, and crowned the Christmas Queen. A moment paused the measured tread; And — "Who comes here?" — the dancers said; "On whom the Wintry time hath shed "The holly green, and berries red?" — L YRICS. 87 She comes to grace your festal scene, All quaintly crowned with garland green; Divide, and as she glides between, Drop curtsies to the Christmas Queen! 88 LYJUCS. BALLAD. A lady in the eventide Was sitting at her lattice high, And o'er the landscape far and wide She cast a bright but anxious eye; And ever as the breeze swept by, Her bosom answered with a sigh In the pensive eventide. She flung the raven locks aside Thick clustering o'er her forehead fair. And with a fitful voice she tried The burden of a mournful air — 'Twas of the worldly blight and care The gentle heart of love must bear. She sang i' the eventide. LYRICS. 89 "My brothers drain the red grapes' tide, And mirth is rife in hall and tower; — They reck not that I come to hide My sorrow in the twilight hour; Their pride hath marr'd love's blessed power, And doomed me to a desolate bower, In the happy eventide! "They scorned that he should call me bride — A landless page of low degree" — A whisper from the brake replied, "A belted knight comes back to thee! Oh! haste, my lady sweet, and flee. While none our secret course may see, In the dusky eventide." 90 Z YRICS. SONG. MY DEAREST WIFE. Always cheerful, always charming, Who can match my dearest wife? Life of every ill disarming — Lending all that's good to life — Who can match my dearest wife? If, as seasons change, o'ershading Clouds should for awhile be rife, She, her face with sunshine braiding. Makes the summer of my life — Who can match my dearest wife? LYRICS. 91 »g Every kind affection warming That fond heart that knows no strife, Always cheerful, always charming — Angel of my house and life — None can match my dearest wife! qz LFRICS. PHCEBE'S LETTER. Little Phoebe and her brother — (He was younger than the other) Were sent to breathe the freshness of the sea; And Phoebe's cheek grew fuller, And it caught a richer colour, And the voice of both rang louder in their glee. Little Phoebe and her brother — (Alas they had no mother!) Took a nurse who all their infant wants supplied ; And another task was set her, 'Twas to write a daily letter, Ere a lonely heart at home was satisfied. LYRICS. 95 That heart at home was lonely, For it loved those children only, Since their mother in the churchyard lay at rest; And its single joy was learning By the letter still returning Of their welfare by the nurse's hand addrest. And Phoebe oft would ponder, With a silent look of wonder, On the paper, and the pens, and the ink; Till as she watch'd them, often Would her pensive eyelids soften. And the tender tear would tremble on the brink. Then love-born instinct lighting Seemed to recognise the writing, As a message carried home by fairy-spell; And no coaxing could control her, Nor kind caress console her, But a letter she must write papa as well. 9+ LYRICS. And so she wrote her letter, Not of words but something better, Affection's yearning instinct thus exprest; And she scribbled it all over, Till it overflowed the cover, Like the love that overflowed her gentle breast. But the joy that Phoebe's token Carried home is left unspoken — 'Tis beyond these feeble numbers to impart; And that relic will be cherish'd Where so many hopes have perish'd For the casket that enshrines it is the heart. LYRICS. 95 "HOPE ON, HOPE EVER/^ (Stanzas addressed to a child in return for a Book-mark so inscribed.) When leaves are on the greenwood tree, And bloom on the orchard bough; When the birds are keeping high jubilee, And the south wind murmurs low: When flying shadows skim the corn, And sunbeams fleck the river, We hear, like angel-whispers borne, — "Hope on, and hope for ever!" But when rude Autumn-winds have blown. And the days are dark with showers; When the woods are bare, and the birds have flown To happier homes than ours: q6 LYRICS. Wlicn torrents rush with sullen roar — A flood where once a river, We listen, but we hear no more — "Hope on, and hope for ever!" Me, Time guides down the western slope, Where the deep, dark valley lies; But thou, dear child, art led by Hope, In front of Orient skies: And, though these words are not for me,- Along Life's shining river May all good angels whisper thee, "Hope on, and hope for ever!" L YRICS. 97 THE AUTUMN-LEAF. Red Autumn-leaf — red Autumn-leaf, I scarcely deemed thy life so brief, When seated last beneath the shade Thy Summer-spread of verdure made, I heard the murmur, not of grief, Which shook thee then, red Autumn-leaf! I thought me of the shining boughs That bound of old the minstrel's brows, And almost stretched my hand to twine Thy beauty in a wreath for mine: So fresh and fair, it seemed to me True type of immortality. H g8 LVRICS. Red Autumn-leaf, the breeze that sway'd, The beam that kiss'd thee in the glade, Have pass'd away, and left thee here A withered thing all soiled and sere, Scarce worthy in its last decay. To point the moral of my lay. Let manhood in his pride and prime, Let beauty in her blooming time, Reflect, while Summer lends her power To deck with smiles the present hour, The reign of such is scarce less brief Than thine hath been, red Autumn-leaf. LYRICS. SONG. Once in my frolic youth, I bade Love go; But did he heed that idle word? — ah no! He knew I meant not so: Yet when, in after time, I bade Love stay; He laught with mocking mouth, and fled away, Alas! for ever and aye. 99 loo LYRICS. STANZAS. Nay, tell me, Sweet, what trouble lies In that averted brow? — As Faith finds heaven in yonder skies, I've found or fancied in thine eyes Love's paradise below: But what hath changed it now? Ah, let those pensive fringes rise; Let grief dissolve in dew: Like shine and shade in April-skies, Let smiles and tears within thine eyes Their ancient strife renew: But tears, let smiles subdue. LYRICS. 1 01 And as those changeful April-skies Have charms June never knew, Inconstant men will recognise A fascination in thine eyes, More tender and more true, Than Summer's cloudless blue. 102 LYRICS. STANZAS. The river flows gently away With a whispering song of glee; And the thorn is as white as it looked on the day, When my life and my love were alike in their May, And as bright as the bloom on the tree. But years have been rolling away, As the river flows on to the sea; And my love and its promise have worn to decay, And the hopes of my boyhood — they died with the day. As the blossom was shed from the tree. LYRICS. 103 The river still flows on its way, With its ancient song of glee; But the heart that hath once known the weeds of decay Will never more hang out the bloom of the May, As the blossom returns to the tree. 104 LYRTCS. DIRGE. (Charles David Faber, Esquire, Died June 20th., 1857, aged 80 years.) "Earth to earth, and dust to dust; Let them mingle, for they must." Raise the pillow, smooth the bed; Gently turn that reverend head ; Shade the lamp, nor let its glimmer Vex those eyes that still grow dimmer- Dim, and dark, and dead. Softly speak, and lightly tread, Move like shadows round the bed; Let stillness fill the chambers wholly, Brooding like a Spirit holy — Waiting for the dead. LYRICS. 105 Under breath let prayer be said; Children kneeling round the bed; Stifle tears, and stifle sorrow, They will find their place to-morrow- Weeping for the dead. Life is fleeting: — Life has fled! Drop the curtain round the bed: Through its clay-encumbered portal Wanders forth a Soul immortal — Dust retains the dead. Bend the knee, and bow the head; Let the last farewell be said: So leave the chamber of the dead. io6 LYRICS. STANZAS. "Well! — very well!" — How often heard, And yet how often falsely spoken: There's not a more familiar word, Nor yet a more deceitful token: — Breathed by the sick of hope deferred, And whispered when the heart is broken. The dead are well — the quiet dead. Who sleep beyond the silent river: The dead whose souls have gladly fled Home to their good and gracious Giver: No feverish thoughts shall vex their bed, Nor dreams disturb its rest for ever. LYRICS. 107 THE DAY STAR. As seen by an abstracted eye, A floating atom, or a fly, Looks like an eagle in the sky. And thus the cloud that sails between The mind's eye, and the blue serene. Leaves Heaven at last no longer seen. A doubt that infant Faith could kill, Larger and larger looms, until The soul's horizon it doth fill. And thus we wander wide astray, In glimmering dawn, or twilight grey. Illusions mocking all the way; io8 LYRICS. Till by the rising "Day-Star" taught, The newborn man, in heart and thought, To light of perfect truth is brought. LYRICS. 1 09 ANOTHER WEEK. Another week! — so must I count, each day, The creeping hours of all the weary seven; ]\Iust reconcile impatience to delay, And teach my breaking heart to wait for heaven. Another week! — and so of all the past — The vow so often broken yet forgiven: O Love, redeem Thy faithfulness at last, And bind the breaking heart that waits for heaven! DRIFFIELD: B. FAWCBTT, PRINTER. Foolscap Octavo, price 3s. 6d., Clotli. LYEICS; SYLVAN AND SACRED. BY THE REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A., Rector of Londesborough, East Torksliii-e. Author of " Wood-Notes and Church- Bells." ''These charming poems will, we feel sure, attain to the same height of popularity as the author's former volume, "Wood-Notes and Church-Bells," has already reached. The readers of "Lyrics, Sylvan and Sacred," will be much struck by Mr. Wilton's mastery over that difficult form of verse, the Sonnet, which he writes with much power and sweetness. Other of his compeers may have a wider compass of expression, deeper pathos^ or more force and passion in their verse; but we know no writer of the present day who shows a more remarkable power of revealing the underlying siguLficance of the ordinary incidents and familiar surroundings of human life. We may in.stance "The Lifting of the Mist," "Revol- ving Years," "The Hawthorn and the Wild Rose," and many others. We must commend very highly also the author's felicitous adaptation of the old French rondeau. We quote a few lines almost at random from a poem entitled "Sweet, Soft, and Low" as an example of his skill in the use of this elegant metre The latter part of the volume is occupied by some pretty and well rendered translations from the Latin poetry of George Herbert and Richard Crashaw We are quite sure that no one can read the greater number of the high-toned and musical verses here given without real enjoyment, and even something better than enjoyment." — Literary Churchman. LONDO.N: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. By the same Author. WOOD-NOTES AND CHURCH-BELLS. Foolscap Octavo, price 3s. 6d., Cloth. " We have in our hands, however, one of the sweetest books of Verse to which we have ever given a repeated and dehghted perusal in "Wood-Notes and Church-Bells," by the Rev. Richard Wilton. To many, many of these poenas will be familiar, as one or two have been printed in the "Times," and others have also had an extensive circulation. Mr. Wilton's mastery of the Sonnet— the true Italian Sonnet; — one central thought set in flowing harmonious numbers — is especially observable. His special merits are purity and elevation of tone, perfect polish in the mechanism of his verse, a Words- ■worthian gift in deciphering the spiritual meanings of Nature, great subtleness and intense tenderness in the analogies and religious suggestiveness of his writings." — London Society. LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. By the same Author. SUNGLEAMS: RONDEAUX AND SONNETS. Clotli Gilt, with Frontispiece, price 2s. 6d. "Mr. Wilton's command of language is at once devout and scholarly, fervent and graceful." — Academij. "Mr. Wilton has the poet's eye and the poet's heart. 'Sungleams' fully justifies its title" — Church Bells, LONDON: "HAND AND HEART" OFFICE. -w* date stamped below. 10M-1 1-50(2355)470 remington rand inc. za THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES PR Morine - 5059 M38A17 Poems 1888 000 380 652