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A COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 By R. F. HOUSMAN. 
 
 Not hars)i and crabbed, as dall fools suppose, 
 Bnt mnsical as is Apollo's Inte. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 WHITTAKER AND CO., AVE-MARIA LANE. 
 
 Manchester: bancks and co. 
 
 1835. 
 

 LANCASTER : 
 PRINTEB BY A. MILNER, CHURCH STREET, 
 
 #•5 
 
 
TO THE 
 
 REV. WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH, M. A. 
 
 HEAD MASTER OF KENSINGTON PROPRIETARY SCHOOL, 
 
 FELLOW AND TUTOR OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, OXFORD, 
 
 THIS COLLECTION OF 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS VERY SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 ROBERT FLETCHER HOUSMAN. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following pages contain a collection of original 
 English Sonnets, from the time of Henry Howard 
 Earl of Surrey to the present day inclusive, com- 
 prising an interval of above three centuries, and ex- 
 hibiting a history of the state and progress of the 
 English language, at least as regards one of the 
 most interesting departments of literature, during 
 that period. 
 
 Although the writings of a distinguished living poet 
 have done much towards diminishing the inveterate 
 prejudice that once existed in this country against 
 the Sonnet, I am afraid that the stern and haughty 
 dictum of Dr. Samuel Johnson, who pronounced it 
 to be incompatible with the genius of the English 
 language, still continues to influence no inconsider- 
 able portion of what is termed 'the reading public' 
 ''A man may stand upon Westminster Bridge," says 
 a writer in a recent number of Blackwood's Magazine, 
 "from morning to night, with a box fuU of real golden 
 sovereigns exposed for sale, at a penny a-piece, and 
 not sell ten the whole day ; and these few will be 
 bought as counters. The experiment has been tried 
 for a wager, and such was the result. Suspicion is 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 ever ready to mar good fortune, and whispers in the 
 ear of every passer by, * all is not gold that glitters/ 
 The disparaging proverb has thrown discredit on the 
 precious metals themselves ; — a golden sovereign is 
 taken for a Birmingham button. Happy is the pur- 
 chaser, however, who discovers the prize. There has 
 been a time, and not very long since, that we should 
 have looked upon an author venturous enough to pub- 
 lish a volume of sonnets, in the same light as the 
 experimentalist on the sovereigns ; and we are not 
 quite sure that, however good the commodity, the 
 sale would yet be large. * * * The fashion at 
 one time set in strongly against them. Poetry shares 
 the fate of Painting; school supersedes school, and 
 master master in public estimation. It is now the 
 Flemish — now the Italian. Admiration and dislike 
 are outrageous, and come by fits, while the objects of 
 them remain the same for ever." Of the injustice of 
 Dr. Johnson's decision something will be said by and 
 by. In the meantime it may be remarked, that the 
 admirable productions contained in this volume, and 
 the larger body of Sonnets from which they are merely 
 a selection, triumphantly refute his unconditional cen- 
 sure. Were any further testimony needed, the numer- 
 ous English translations of Italian and Spanish Son- 
 nets might be confidently appealed to. 
 
 They who require in poetry a succession of brilliant 
 incidents, and award praise in proportion to the 
 amount and intensity of excitement produced, will 
 very probably cast upon the diminutive Sonnet a cold 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 and contemptuous eye. Precluded, by its restricted 
 limits, from exhibiting the details of romantic narra- 
 tive — and equally precluded, by its complicated and 
 rigid texture, from expressing the sudden and rapid 
 changes of passion, it cannot be supposed to possess 
 any of the attractions uniformly demanded by the 
 lovers of 'moving accidents' and 'tales that freeze the 
 blood.' To an entirely different order of intellects the 
 Sonnet appeals. It is with poetiy as with external na- 
 ture, of which the most delightful portions are invari- 
 ably those that lie out of the beaten pathway, and re- 
 quire to be sought. It is there that the affections 
 concentrate themselves — that the heart, undisturbed 
 by the impulses of a vague and wandering curiosity, 
 is kept awake to love and beauty. 
 
 The nature and character of the species of com- 
 position which I have presumed to recommend to an 
 additional degree of pubhc favour, are thus defined by 
 an able writer: — 
 
 " The legitimate Sonnet is a poem of fourteen equal 
 lines of a certain length, divided by the sense, as well 
 as the rhyme, into two quatrains and two tercets. 
 Some of our old Sonnetteers introduced, from the 
 worst Italian writers, a spurious form, in which a de- 
 tached quatrain, followed by a couplet, was substituted 
 for the tercets. Encouraged by this example, some of 
 our later writers have presented the pubhc (under the 
 name of a Sonnet) with three elegiac stanzas, con- 
 eluded by a solitary couplet. The structure and ex- 
 cellence of this difficult species of composition are not 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 sufficiently understood and valued in this country, to 
 reward a writer for the labour he must bestow on it. 
 Men are naturally inclined to depreciate and ridicule 
 what they have never studied, unless it be of known 
 utility ; and many (who ignorantly imagine that all 
 Italian and Spanish Sonnets are a monotonous repe- 
 tition of amatory trifles, because some are certainly 
 so) sneer at the very name of a Sonnet, as if it were 
 the most insignificant of compositions. Menzini, how- 
 ever, in his Art of Poetry, observes, that ' the Sonnet 
 is the touchstone of great geniuses ; a test which 
 many a poet of considerable eminence must decline, 
 or the base alloy of his verse will be detected. The 
 inaccuracies and faults of a longer work may escape 
 the reader ; but, in a Sonnet, the smallest flaw casts 
 disgrace upon the whole ; the ear is ofl'ended, if one 
 rhyme be awkwardly introduced ; if the whole do not 
 flow with equal connexion and with harmony ; or if 
 the close do not depend neatly upon the subject pro- 
 posed.' This species of composition, which an excel- 
 lent writer hath called 'the most exquisite jewel of 
 the Muses,' whether originally invented by the Sici- 
 lians or Provenceaux, was brought to perfection by the 
 Italians ; and from them we unquestionably received 
 it. With us, however, it has never been completely 
 naturalized. Milton and Gray, who have cultivated it 
 with most success,* both drank from the sweet streams 
 of Italy, where a single Sonnet can give immortality 
 
 * Gray is here praised beyond his merits, I think ; he wrote only one 
 Sonnet (p. 93), and it scarcely rises above mediocrity, 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 to its author, while the longer poems of his contem- 
 poraries are huried in oblivion. But many English 
 poets of later date seem to have wholly lost sight of 
 its peculiar structure ; and the spurious and paltry 
 compositions, which, under that title, have been la- 
 vished on the pubhc, have tended greatly to debase 
 the character of that branch of poetry. Its rigid 
 laws cannot be better explained than by the words 
 of Boileau. 
 
 . . ' Un jour ce Dieu bisarre, 
 
 Voulant pousser a bout tous les rimeurs Franfois, 
 Inventa du sonnet les rigoureuses lois ; 
 Voulut, qu en deux quatrains de mesure pareille 
 La rime avec deux sons frappdt huitfois Voreille ; 
 Et qu ensuite six vers artistement ranges 
 Fussent en deux tercets par le sens portages. 
 Surtout de ce poeme il bannit la license, 
 Liu-meme en mesura le nombre et la cadence, 
 Defendit qu' un vers foible y put jamais entrer, 
 Ni qu un mot deja mis osdt s' y remontrer. 
 Du reste il 1' enrichit d' une beaute supreme; 
 Un sonnet sans defaut vaut seul un long poeme.' 
 
 ''The subject should, according to the strictest divi- 
 sion, be set forth in the first, and illustrated in the 
 second quatrain; confirmed by the first tercet, and 
 concluded in the last ; and much of the excellence of 
 a Sonnet will depend upon the beauty of its close, 
 which, without being epigrammatical, should artfully 
 wind up the subject with some striking thought or 
 expression. Such are the laws from which the most 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 esteemed writers have never entirely departed; nor 
 can a Sonnet be deemed faultless, which does not 
 in a great degree adhere to them. Gray has observ- 
 ed them scrupulously. Petrarca, Casa, Bembo, and 
 other distinguished poets, often bestowed the labour 
 of months upon one Sonnet; and, in later years, Laz- 
 zarini and Ghedino were not less industrious. It is 
 said of Bembo that he had a desk with forty divisions, 
 through which his sonnets passed in succession before 
 they were published ; and at each transition they re- 
 ceived some correction. Our modern i?inovators should 
 iveigh accurately the grounds of their alterations, before 
 they discard the regulations established by those who 
 most deeply considered their object. The Italians in 
 general possess, perhaps, a nicer ear for poetiy, as 
 well as for music, than we do. We have seen it 
 somewhere asserted, that in English Sonnets, the esta- 
 blished form should not be preserved, because the 
 poverty of our language in rhymes rendered it too 
 difficult, and that it had no peculiar beauty to over- 
 rule this objection. To us it appears, that whoever 
 does not perceive the beauty of that structure and 
 division which has been invariably preserved by the 
 ItaHan, Spanish, Portuguese, and French writers, 
 must have a very defective ear for poetical harmony. 
 
 ' Non val quella si magra scusa 
 Di dir, che troppo rigida e la legge, 
 Che in quattordici versi sta rinchiusa; 
 
 E che mal si sostiene e mal si regge 
 Per scarcezza di rime.' 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 But we deny that the Enghsh language is poorer 
 in rhymes than that of Spain or of Italy. The num- 
 ber of our monosyllables, our final consonants, and 
 the position of our accents, naturally lead us to single 
 rhymes, whilst the Spaniards and Italians almost 
 necessaiily use the double : but the correspondence 
 of terminations in English is by no means less suitable 
 to poetical pm-poses." (Edinburgh Review, No. xii. 
 vol. vi.) 
 
 The affinity of the word sonnet to the French sonner 
 to sound, or ring, in which language the words sonnette, 
 a little bell, and sonnettier, a maker of little bells, are 
 first met with, has corroborated the conjecture that 
 the Sonnet originated among the Provencals.* By 
 some, the invention has been ascribed to an Italian, 
 Guittone d'Arezzo, who flourished about the year 
 1250. Certain it is that Guittone first established 
 the Sonnet in the language of Italy ; and that to 
 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, who was bom about 
 the year 1518, we are indebted for its introduction 
 into the literature of this country. 
 
 That the Sonnet, in addition to being unpopular, is 
 also grievously misunderstood even by those who pro- 
 fess to admire it, may be inferred from the fact of an 
 influential critic having asserted that it should invari- 
 ably terminate, contrary to the just definition con- 
 tained in the foregoing extract, and to the example of 
 the best Sonnets, with a point ; thus strangely con- 
 
 * See a paper on this subject among the prose writings of Henry Kirke 
 White. See also Lays of the Minnesingers, Preliminary Dissertation, p. 41. 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 founding it with the modem epigram, from which 
 it is as widely different as any one species of writing 
 can possibly be from another.* Between the ancient 
 Epigram and the Sonnet there exists a strong resem- 
 blance. Alike designed to express and illustrate one 
 prevailing thought, sentiment, or circumstance, both 
 are remarkable for conciseness and compression of 
 language, and for the exact adaptation of the diction 
 to the subject-matter recorded. True, the Epigram 
 was distinguished by a more decided simplicity — which 
 is not a prominent characteristic of the Sonnet. The 
 one may be compared to the Ionic column — a speci- 
 men of pure and graceful beauty ; the other to the 
 Corinthian — a creation of more elaborate but still of 
 equally pure and graceful genius. In the Appendix 
 to the four admirable articles on the Greek Anthology, 
 published in Blackwood's Magazine in 1833, are two 
 translations — Meleager's Epitaph on Hehodora, and 
 Ariphron's Hymn to Health — rendered according to 
 the strictest model of the Italian Sonnet, which ex- 
 ceeds the limits of the first by four hnes, and of the 
 second by one line only. In subject and development 
 these two ancient poems are essentially sonnets. 
 
 With respect to the number of lines to which the 
 Sonnet is confined, it has been said that as some par- 
 ticular number is necessary, and as that particular 
 number must be a small one, it may as well be four- 
 teen as any other number. Mr. Capel Lofit, however, 
 
 * See Bland's Preface to Lis Collections from the Greek Anthology. 
 
PREFACE. Xm 
 
 affirms the structure of the Sonnet to be, not an arbi- 
 trary and casual, but a refined and harmonious system 
 of composition ; alleges, that upon the principles on 
 which its rests, it could be neither longer nor shorter; 
 and observes an analogy between the ancient Lyre, 
 when augmented to fourteen strings, and the lines 
 which compose the Sonnet. For an explication of 
 this curious and ingenious theory, the reader is re- 
 ferred to the comprehensive but incommodiously ar- 
 ranged preface to Mr. Lofil's Anthology of Sonnets. 
 
 The subjoined extracts from a small work to which 
 more particular reference is made in the Notes, sup- 
 ply, in connexion with the poems contained in the 
 following pages, a conclusive answer to Dr. Johnson's 
 hostile declaration against the adaptation of the Sonnet 
 to the genius and structure of the English tongue. It 
 may here be noticed, by the way, as a singular coinci- 
 dence, that when Boscan, at the suggestion of his 
 friend Navagero, introduced this elaborate little poem 
 to his countr5n[nen in the Italian form and measure, 
 an equally hostile decision proceeded from the critics 
 of Spain. But Boscan succeeded in naturalizing the 
 obnoxious innovation; and, notwithstanding Dr. John- 
 son's veto, it is already naturalized with us. 
 
 ''The author's most extended idea of a sonnet in- 
 cludes no powers of expression which the English 
 tongue does not eminently possess. In endeavouring 
 to ascertain its requisites he ventures to assert that 
 simphcity is not the characteristic quality of this spe- 
 cies of composition, still less that which is commonly 
 
 a 2 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 termed smoothness. The sonnet, in fact, appears to 
 be a measured and somewhat pompous, but a musical 
 and imposing formula for the expression of a single 
 or a prominent thought. There seems to be no rule 
 in nature to limit the species of thought required. 
 It is, indeed, observable that the tender and contem- 
 plative have been most frequently embodied in the 
 sonnet form ; but that the satirical, sublime, ludicrous, 
 &c. are equally applicable, the body of Italian and 
 Spanish sonnets, as weU as of our own, will, it is pre- 
 sumed, afford sufficient proofs. Milton, who made 
 the Italian sonnet his model, has written in aU these 
 moods. 
 
 " If it be allowed that a sonnet may with equal pro- 
 priety be grave or gay, tender or severe, it will be 
 readily conceded that no peculiar subtle turn, in short, 
 that no ' idiosyncracy' of language (if such an ex- 
 pression is allowable) can be requisite. The idiom of 
 humour must be the reverse of that of melancholy, and 
 from the tenderness of passion the causticity of satire 
 is equally distinct. If, then, the English tongue is 
 competent to the expression of the humourous, the 
 contemplative, the pathetic, and the satirical, that 
 reason should be both ingenious and forcible which is 
 brought to prove that sonnets possessing aU those 
 qualities cannot be written successfully in the English 
 tongue. 
 
 "The author has not proceeded thus far unaware 
 that the strongest, and certainly the most tangible 
 part of the objection, is made to the complicated ver- 
 
PREFACE, XV 
 
 sification of the Sonnet. It is triumphantly observed 
 that the repeated rhymes, which, from the redundancy 
 of similar sounds in his language, are convenient to 
 the Italian, are, from the converse of the proposition, 
 as distressing to the English poet. He is painted as, 
 distracted with the din of importunate chimes, awk- 
 wardly and vainly imitating the masterly chords of the 
 Italian; and, like him who, in emulation of the supple 
 Hindoo, endeavours to keep half a dozen balls at once 
 in the air, now letting sense go to catch sound, and 
 now dropping sound in the laudable tenacity of mean- 
 ing." 
 
 The same excellent writer thus briefly disposes of 
 the objection founded upon the comparative paucity of 
 English rhymes. 
 
 " The aspirant to Sonnet- writing must tax his inge- 
 nuity to the finding of four words rhyming to each 
 other. A little reflection will serve to show that this 
 is by no means difficult. The framers of the objec- 
 tion appear to have forgotten that such poems as the 
 ' Faery Queen,' the * Castle of Indolence,' the ' Minstrel,' 
 &c. are wTitten in a stanza requiring a quadruplica- 
 tion of rhyme; to construct two of which must, of 
 course, be very nearly as great a rhyming difficulty 
 as to arrange one sonnet.* It may not perhaps be 
 
 * In this may be included, as having a considerable analogy to both, 
 the measure called by the Italians ' Ottava Rima,' which has in this 
 country been lately used with singular success on subjects of very oppo- 
 site complexions. The works alluded to are Mr. Merivale's ' Orlando at 
 Roncesvalles' and the poem of ' Anster Fair,' but even the old translation 
 of Ariosto's ' Orlando Furioso,' by Harrington, will show with what felicity 
 this stanza adapts itself to the varied flights of that delightful poem. 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 improper here to observe, that there exists a remark- 
 able identity of character in the Spenserian stanza 
 and the Sonnet: the same measured, and rather os- 
 tentatious preparation, the same strength and singular 
 suitability to every direction of thought, from the 
 sublime to the ludicrous."* 
 
 To the above poems may be added 'Lycidas.' It 
 abounds in quadruplications of rhyme, and contains 
 many quatrains constructed exactly on the principle of 
 the Petrarcan Sonnet. Perhaps it was this peculiarity 
 that induced Johnson to denounce the diction as 
 harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers un- 
 pleasing. How was it possible that he who could 
 not feel the melody of Lycidas, should appreciate the 
 lofty and solemn- sounding music, the 'long drawn 
 out' and 'linked sweetness' of the Sonnet? 
 
 Mr. Capel Lofft divides the Sonnet into three kinds 
 — two proper, and one improper. The Guidonian, 
 Petrarcan, or Musico-systematic — the Spenserian, or 
 Dyasynartete — and the Asynartete. Declining to fol- 
 low this somewhat whimsical and embarassing dis- 
 tinction, I have chosen to classify the Sonnet under 
 two general and comprehensive heads — the Legiti- 
 mate and the Irregular ; and propose to oiFer a 
 few remarks on the characteristic peculiarities of each 
 department. 
 
 The Legitimate Sonnet is divided, both as to 
 sense and rhyme, into two systems — the Major and 
 
 * Sixty-five Sonnets, with prefatory remarks. Baldwin. 1818. 
 
PREFACE. XVU 
 
 the Minor ; the former consisting of eight, the latter 
 of six verses. 
 
 The arrangement, as to sense, will be best explained 
 by repeating a portion of the foregoing extract from 
 the Edinburgh Review. ** The subject should, accord- 
 ing to the strictest division, be set forth in the first, 
 and illustrated in the second quatrain ; confirmed by 
 the first tercet, and concluded in the last." This rule 
 prescribes an absolute division, by a colon or full stop, 
 at the end of the eighth line ; and a no less absolute 
 subdivision, by a semicolon or a colon, at the end of 
 the fourth and eleventh verse : but the frequent ex- 
 ample of the best writers has sanctioned an exception 
 to this rule, whereby the separation of the two systems 
 may occur (as in Milton's grand sonnet on the Pied- 
 montese Massacre) in the middle of the eighth line, 
 or (as in that addressed to Cromwell) in the middle 
 of the ninth ; and the subdivision of the Minor system 
 in the middle of the eleventh or of the twelfth. On 
 the same principle the first section of the quatrains 
 may terminate within either the fourth or fifth verse. 
 Nor does it appear that the purposes of harmony are 
 defeated, or the proportions of the Sonnet injuriously 
 afifected, by this latitude of arrangement. When, 
 however, the sense of the Major System is extended 
 so far as the close of the ninth line, or concluded before 
 the eighth, the symmetry of the poem is destroyed ; 
 an undue preponderance either of the quatrains or the 
 tercets being necessarily occasioned. It is worthy of 
 remark that of the three hundred Sonnets contained 
 
XVIU PREFACE. 
 
 in Mathias's admirable selections from the Lyric Poets 
 of Italy,* there are only sixty- one which do not ter- 
 minate the Major System absolutely at the end of the 
 eighth line. 
 
 It cannot be denied, even by the most inveterate 
 contender for poetry in the abstract, that harmony 
 of rhyme and numbers, in a composition requiring 
 both, is an important object of consideration.! The 
 admirers of the Sonnet claim for it the merit of pos- 
 sessing greater capacities for the accomplishment of 
 this excellence than any other department of verse ; 
 and even they to whom its brevity and its systematic 
 division into four distinct but dependant parts supply 
 real or imaginary grounds of objection, bear cheerful 
 testimony to the faciUties it affords for musical expres- 
 sion. Indeed, the most competent authorities concur 
 in admitting that between the construction of the 
 Petrarcan Sonnet and the musical system estabhshed 
 by Guido Bonatti, who flourished at the beginning of 
 the eleventh century, a close and obviously designed 
 analogy exists. "The Sonnet," says Sismondi, who 
 may be ranked among its opponents, "the Sonnet is 
 essentially musical, and essentially founded on the har- 
 mony of sound. The richness and fulness of the rhymes 
 constitute a portion of its grace;" — and an eloquent 
 writer in the Retrospective Review has characterized this 
 small but celebrated species of Lyric poetry as "the 
 
 * Componimenti Lirici de' Piil Illustri Poeti D" Italia, scelti da T. J 
 Mathias. 1802. 
 
 t See Sir Philip Sidney's Defence of Poesy for some excellent remarks 
 on " rhyming and versing." 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 entire, the unique, the harmonious, the dignified Son- 
 net. That Uttle poem, big with one fine sentiment, 
 richly adorned and dehcately wrought; never tiring, 
 never flagging ; which bursts forth with an organ-hke 
 peal, and proceeds in a sustained and majestic march, 
 until the soft and melodious close sweetly and gently 
 winds up the whole." "When a silver voice," adds 
 the same authority, "takes its course through a fine 
 Sonnet, we listen to it as to an oracle; when the 
 sound ceases, we feel as if a revelation had been made, 
 and the very silence becomes musical. No poem 
 leaves the mind in a finer mood than the grand and 
 solemn Sonnet."* No apology, therefore, need be 
 offered for a few explanatory observations as to its 
 texture with reference to rhyme. 
 
 The Octave, or Major System, is composed of a double 
 quadernario or quatrain, of tsvo rhymes twice repeated; 
 the first and the last line, and the two intermediate 
 verses in each stanza, rhyming together, thus ; — 
 
 Such is the Petrarcan model — the original and most 
 frequent form of the first or major system of the Sonnet, 
 To this pecuhar structure, however, Petrarch does not 
 constantly adhere ; the variety of forms adopted by 
 him are very numerous, and of unequal merit. The 
 
 * No, xviii. p. 359. 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 following are some of the most usual and becoming 
 arrangements ; — 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 __ 
 
 _ 
 
 —— 
 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 Another variation, though but rarely used, is perfectly 
 legitimate. Menzoni's celebrated Sonnet ' Quando 
 Gesu,' a translation of which accompanies the original 
 in the Appendix, affords a favourable example of this 
 arrangement. 
 
 A 
 B 
 A 
 B 
 
 B 
 A 
 
 A sixth variety, occasioned by the introduction of a 
 new rhyme into the second quatrain, making the eight 
 lines to consist accordingly of three rhymes, is sus- 
 ceptible of very beautiful effect. It probably origi- 
 nated with the Castilians, by whom it was used, in 
 their octave stanzas, as early as the thirteenth cen- 
 tury. Lihro del Tesoro (the Book of Treasure) a re- 
 markable poem by Alfonso X, King of Castile, is con- 
 structed on this model. Some writers, I am aware, 
 prefer it to the strict Petrarcan. 
 
PREFACE. XXi 
 
 The form of Gray's sole Sonnet (an uninterrupted al- 
 ternation of rhyme) is comparatively of frequent use 
 among the inferior order of Italian writers. It was 
 employed in the octave stanzas of the earher poetry 
 of the Sicilians. 
 
 Many other variations might be adduced, but for the 
 most part they are corrupt and slovenly inventions. 
 The first of the above eight models, according to which 
 all\he sonnets in Matthias's collections, except twenty- 
 eight, are constructed, is the purest as well as the most 
 difficult ; the last, the easiest and the least beautiful. 
 Sir Egerton Brydges has adopted in a great number 
 of his Sonnets a mode of arrangement which has been 
 used by no other English writer of distinction, and 
 which I do not suppose even his genius, considerable 
 as it undoubtedly is, will be sufficiently influential to 
 recommend. It is a system of four consecutive ter- 
 minations, having their corresponding rhymes in the 
 second quatrain. 
 
 In the construction of the Sextant, or Minor System, 
 which consists either of two or of three rhymes, con- 
 siderable latitude is permitted. The forms of distri- 
 bution most generally adopted by the best writers, or, 
 in other words, the best forms of distribution, are the 
 Alternate and the Consecutive ; — 
 
 A A 
 
 B B 
 
 A C 
 
 B A 
 
 A B 
 
 B C 
 
 Of the Sonnets contained in Mathias's collections 
 
XXll PREFACE. 
 
 above alluded to, one hundred and forty- two ob- 
 serve the alternate, and ninety the consecutive order 
 of construction. In justice, however, to the consecu- 
 tive form it ought to be remarked, that among those 
 who adopt it in preference to the alternate arrange- 
 ment, are some of the most eminent and influential 
 writers. 
 
 From among the almost infinite diversity of combi- 
 nations exhibited in the construction of the tercets, 
 the five following are selected as best adapted to the 
 purposes of harmony ; — 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 C 
 
 B 
 
 — 
 
 — 
 
 — 
 
 — 
 
 — 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 C 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 B 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 A 
 
 C 
 
 C 
 
 B 
 
 The generality of such of Petrarch's Sonnets as are 
 not constructed upon either the consecutive or the 
 alternate model, observe the fourth of the preceding 
 forms of structure. The fifth or last mode possesses 
 the advantage of comprising a double quatrain; — the 
 first four lines forming one, the last four another. 
 This species of construction, as well as the first of 
 those which accompany it, is much used by Mr. 
 Wordsworth. I am surprised that the beauty of the 
 third form (see p. 258 for a graceful specimen) has not 
 recommended it to more general adoption. 
 
 To the above examples may be added another, which 
 Dante and Ariosto have frequently used. 
 
PREFACE. XXm 
 
 Except when employed on grave and austere sub- 
 jects, this arrangement is objectionable on account of 
 the proti'acted interval that separates the first and the 
 last rhyme. 
 
 The form of arrangement which closes the Minor 
 System with a rhymed couplet has been much used in 
 English Sonnets, especially in the earlier ones, and can 
 plead the authority of several Italian writers of cele- 
 brity, who have occasionally adopted it. It does not, 
 however, seem to be in accordance with the system of 
 harmony on which the Sonnet is constructed — a sys- 
 tem so skilfully framed as to combine the characteristic 
 excellencies of rhyme and blank verse ; avoiding, by 
 an ingenious disposition of the cadences, the perpetual 
 jingle and fatiguing monotony almost inseparable from 
 the one — and controlling, by the use of corresponding 
 terminations, the rapid and somewhat careless move- 
 ment of the other. A couplet at the end of a Sonnet 
 looks Hke an intrusion, and disturbs the idea of uni- 
 formity. It is the introduction of a new style of verse, 
 without any preparation for the change. This state- 
 ment, I am aware, may with some show of plausibility 
 be disputed, on the ground that the principle of the 
 couplet has been previously recognized in the quat- 
 rains ; — but the difference between the two cases is 
 considerable. The quatrain couplet, necessarily asso- 
 ciated as it is with the first and fourth line, the lines 
 which immediately precede and follow it, loses the 
 individuality and distinctive properties of a whole, 
 and becomes, instead, a dependant part ; — the couplet 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 which concludes a Sonnet, by the very nature of its 
 position is liable to be separated from all connexion 
 and sympathy with the rest of the composition. 
 
 Many more variations from the regular Petrarcan 
 model, some of them sanctioned by at least respect- 
 able authority, might be given. Antonio a Tempo, a 
 civilian at Padua, in his Treatise on Poetry, 1332, 
 distinguishes sixteen different kinds of Sonnet*; Mr. 
 Loift goes still further, and enumerates no fewer than 
 fifty-two species of the Legitimate, and fifty-four of 
 the Irregular Sonnet. 
 
 If properly managed, the alternate construction is 
 unquestionably the most melodious; but the consecu- 
 tive, or even the irregular, seems better adapted to sub- 
 jects of a grave and elevated order. Three rhymes, 
 however, in the tercets may be hable to objection on 
 this ground ; that if the quatrains have contained only 
 two rhymes, they produce an irregularity and uneven- 
 ness which are oiFensive to a fastidious ear; and that 
 if the quatrains have consisted of three rhymes, too 
 many different terminations are admitted: for it may 
 be laid down as a rule not to be departed from with 
 propriety, that no Sonnet professing to adhere strictly 
 to the legitimate construction should contain more 
 than five different rhymes at most. 
 
 The cadences in a perfect Sonnet ought to fall, we 
 have seen, in the middle of each system ; in the first, 
 at the close of the fourth line — and at the close of the 
 
 * Barney's Hist. Music, vol. ii. p. 324. 
 
PREFACE. XXV 
 
 third line in the second system.* No form of con- 
 struction is so well adapted to this rule as the first of the 
 foregoing models (p. xix) . The objection to the second 
 is, that beginning as an Elegy, the cadence, instead 
 of falling where it ought to fall, occurs at the close of 
 the second line, and subdivides the Major System too 
 much. The same objection, which also bears upon 
 the second quatrain of the third and fourth example, 
 applies with greater force to the sixth, because the 
 elegiac form is continued throughout the system, and 
 the subdivisions are accordingly multiplied. With 
 regard to the Minor System, the consecutive order 
 seems to be preferable to the alternate inasmuch as it 
 almost compels the cadence to fall at the right place, 
 namely, between the third and fourth line — a circum- 
 stance that goes far to counterbalance any supposed 
 disadvantages arising from three rhymes in so short a 
 space as the tercets. The alternate construction, from 
 its elegiac character, exposes the simplicity of the ter- 
 cets to considerable risk. Bad composers generally 
 contrive to convert them into a series of couplets, 
 which is sadly at variance with the practice of the 
 best Sonnet-writers; and yet it is an error to which 
 the nature of this model has a very direct tendency. 
 The Portuguese aphorism, '* a sonnet ought to be 
 shut with a golden key," implies, no less certainly 
 
 * Petrarch adjusted the cadences in his Canzoni on a similar principle. 
 "His camo7ii,^' says Foscolo, "contain stanzas sometimes of twenty 
 lines He has placed the cadences, however, in such a manner as to 
 allow the voice to rest at the end of every three or four verses." 
 
XXVI PREFACE. 
 
 than Petrarch's positive declaration on the subject, 
 the necessity of a musical and dignified conclusion. 
 
 Such as I have described it, is the construction of 
 the Sonnet, as written by the best poets of Italy, 
 Spain, Portugal, and Great Britain; such, amid the 
 ever-varying fluctuations of taste and fashion, it has 
 continued to be since the thirteenth century — a period 
 sufliciently protracted to justify the conclusion, that 
 the character and arrangement of this very beautiful 
 and certainly difficult species of composition may be 
 said to be determined by unalterable laws. When Mr. 
 Coleridge in an early work asserted that writers of 
 Sonnets were at liberty to consult their own conve- 
 nience both in the choice of metre and in the dispo- 
 sition of the rhymes, and that if they pleased they 
 might abandon the use of rh}Tne altogether, he not 
 only manifested an unseemly disregard for some of 
 the noblest hterary achievements of past ages, but ex- 
 hibited an entire misconception of the nature of the 
 poem about which he wrote. Though often per- 
 verted to the worst uses, the Sonnet was never de- 
 signed to be what Mr. Coleridge pronounced it, a 
 medium for the expression of a mere momentary burst 
 of passion — and hence, the inference (founded upon 
 this position), that the complicated structure of the 
 Italian model is incompatible with the purpose of 
 the Sonnet, must share the fate of all conclusions 
 deduced from erroneous premises.* The fact is, as 
 
 * Mr. Lyell, in his translations of the Sonnets of Dante (T/ie Lyrical 
 Poe7ns of Dante, tra.n!i\cited by Charles Lyell, Esq.) has altogether dispensed 
 
PREFACE. XXVii 
 
 before stated — the Sonnet is a deliberate and formal 
 composition; and the immemorial arrangement pre- 
 scribed by the Italian model most fitly corresponds 
 with its nature and design. The difficulty imposed 
 by the complex and restricted frame of this species of 
 writing is doubtless one of the causes that have con- 
 curred to render so small a poem so extensively cele- 
 brated. So far from hghtly regarding it as an easy 
 and mipremeditated effusion, the poets who have most 
 successfully cultivated the Sonnet have unequivocally 
 testified their sense of its importance by bestowing 
 upon it a degree of studious elaboration which their 
 longer performances failed to obtain. It was thus 
 with Bembo, Casa, Lazzarini, Ghedino, and Ariosto. 
 It was thus also with the father of the Sonnet, Pe- 
 trarch. Ugo Foscolo gives some curious instances of 
 the fastidious minuteness of the poet's corrections; 
 and his manuscripts are said to bear ample testimony 
 to the unwearied labour he bestowed upon the revision 
 of his poems — whole Sonnets being frequently re- 
 written, and every word of every verse undergoing 
 the most patient and particular reconsideration. Of 
 such consequence to the completeness of a composi- 
 tion did Petrarch esteem even a single word.* Indeed, 
 
 with rhyme ; but as the literal sense of the originals was all he aspired 
 to convey, his versions are neither entitled to authority as examples of 
 unrhymed Sonnets, nor obnoxious to censure for being destitute of a re- 
 quisite accompaniment. 
 
 * " The secret of almost all good writing, especially in verse", says 
 Cowper in one of his delightful letters, "is to touch and retouch ; though 
 some writers boast of negligence, and others woidd be ashamed to show 
 their foul copies." And again — " A lapidaiy, I suppose, accounts it a la- 
 borious part of his business to rub away the roughness of the stone ; but 
 
XXVm PREFACE. 
 
 more than any otlier department of poetry, the Son- 
 net will be found to require the nicest precision of 
 language, as well as the exactest propriety of thought. 
 In a long poem, the subservience of the connecting 
 passages to the principal portions of the work, not 
 unfrequently encourages the writer in a careless and 
 slovenly discharge of his allotted duty; — the contracted 
 limits, however, within which the Sonnet is confined, 
 and the remarkable unity of its design, not only con- 
 fer an equal importance upon its several parts, but 
 demand a uniform equality of execution. ''The work 
 when finished," says a writer in a late number of 
 the AthencEum, ''must be complete and sufficient in 
 itself; we must not feel that the fifteenth line is want- 
 ing, or that the fourteenth is superfluous." In addi- 
 tion to this judicious remark, Mr. Coleridge's admi- 
 rable test of poetry in general may be cited as espe- 
 cially applicable to the particular branch of literature 
 which furnishes the subject of these introductory ob- 
 servations. "Whatever lines can be translated into 
 other words of the same language, without diminution 
 of their significance, either in sense, or association, or 
 in any worthy feehng, are so far vicious in their dic- 
 tion." 
 
 The opinion expressed by Sir Egerton Brydges in 
 his recent Z/z/e of Milton^ that "compositions so short 
 can only have weight when they come from esta- 
 
 it is my amusement; and if, after all the polishing I can give it, it dis- 
 covers some little lustre, I think myself vi'ell rewarded for my pains." 
 (Southey's Life.) See the exquisite Sonnet at p. 139. 
 
PREFACE. Xxix 
 
 blished names," is plainly equivalent to an edict from 
 Geneva for the suppression of all Sonnets, however 
 excellent, which do not, and for the exaltation of 
 all Sonnets, however bad, which do emanate from 
 writers already favourably known to fame. In Sir 
 Egerton Brydges* remark there is a spirit of un- 
 due veneration for things that have been, and an 
 ungracious contempt for things that may be, which 
 but indifferently become the Republic of Letters. Sir 
 Egerton Brydges' reverence for the sublime genius of 
 Milton should not have closed his eyes to the very 
 apparent truth, that fame does not make merit, but 
 merit fame; nor should it have led him to deny, even 
 by implication, the self-evident position, that beauty, 
 however humble its pretensions, is beauty still. Finely 
 has Wordsworth said, on a different occasion — 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts ; 
 
 Of friends, hovs^ever humble, scorn not one ; 
 The Daisy, by the shadov^r that it casts, 
 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. 
 
 The appropriate simile used by Dr. Symmons with 
 reference to the particular Sonnets of Milton, is equally 
 applicable to Sonnets in general. ''Like the small 
 statue by the chisel of Lysippus," says he, ''they de- 
 monstrate that the idea of greatness may be excited 
 independently of the magnitude of size." Even among 
 the miscellaneous species of poetry, says Schlegel, 
 there are to be found productions which bear as deci- 
 dedly the stamp of genius as the first works of the 
 
 Epic Poet or the Tragedian. The beauty, however, 
 
 b 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 is seldom so universal; it depends very often entirely 
 upon expression and its delicacies — things whicli can 
 be more easily felt than explained. It is the property 
 of the human mind to be fascinated with minute 
 graces in a degree exactly proportioned to the deli- 
 cacy of its temperament; whether that delicacy be a 
 natural idiosyncrasy, or the result of long and rigor- 
 ous discipline — of that painful and protracted process 
 of Mwlearning, which is often the best part of learning. 
 Little intellects rely upon great things; great intel- 
 lects can draw aliment from small things. 
 
 After what has been said, it is scarcely necessary 
 to notice the fallacious opinion of Sismondi, that so 
 short a poem requires to be set off with brilhant orna- 
 ments. The Sonnet neither disdains nor requires the 
 aid of adventitious embellishments, as the productions 
 of Dante, Petrarch, Sidney, Drummond, Milton, and 
 Wordsworth, sufficiently prove. Pure and appropriate 
 diction, which it does require, is not necessarily bril- 
 liant ornament ; nor is brilliant ornament incompatible 
 with purity of diction. With the latter the Sonnet 
 cannot dispense ; with the former it may. 
 
 Under the head of the Irregular Sonnet may be 
 comprised aU such compositions of fourteen rhymed 
 lines as realize the idea and embody the essential 
 principle of the Legitimate Sonnet, notwithstanding 
 their non-compliance, either wholly or in part, with 
 the rigid rules by which that elaborate system of 
 verse is governed. Undeviating obedience to such 
 rules, though a very important requisite, is not the 
 
PREFACE. XXXI 
 
 only test and criterion of a Sonnet. If it were, the 
 productions of Shakespeare, and Bowles, and Cole- 
 ridge, would be supplanted by the polished triflings 
 of Hayley, the laborious common-places of Capel 
 Lofft, and the mawkish effiisions of Mrs. Mary Robin- 
 son and Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 
 
 Should this httle volume prove the means of in- 
 creasing the general taste for a neglected but most 
 beautiful species of composition, the sole object pro- 
 posed in its publication will be accomplished. 
 
 Luke Bank, Lancaster, 
 Nov. 24th, 1835. 
 
 ERRATA 
 
 Page 82, line 13, for < as' read 'us.' 
 
 Page 163, line 12, for 'you' read ' yon.' 
 
 Page 305, line 6, for ' translations' read * translation ' 
 
 Page 322, line 21, for ' mirpnr' read ' mira pur ' 
 
 Page 32J, line 11, for ' on black' read ' in black ' 
 
 Page 347, line 2, for ' sant' read ' sent ;' line 20, for ' cat' read ' car.' 
 
 Page ^55, line 9, for ' d'esserve' read ' cl'essere.' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey 1 2 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 3 q 
 
 Edmund Spenser jq jy 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh Ig 
 
 Samuel Daniel 29 
 
 Michael Drayton 20 
 
 William Shakespeare 21 46 
 
 Richard Barnfield 47 
 
 Barnaby Barnes 4g 
 
 King James 1 49 
 
 Henry Constable 50 
 
 Anonymous 51 
 
 John Donne 52 53 
 
 George Herbert 54 
 
 William Drummond 55 72 
 
 John Milton 73 89 
 
 Benjamin Stillingfleet 90 
 
 Thomas Edwards 91 — 92 
 
 Thomas Gray 93 
 
 Thomas Warton 94 100 
 
 William Mason 101 102 
 
 William Cowper 103 — 105 
 
 John Bampfylde 106 
 
 Thomas Russell 107 
 
 Anna Seward 108 
 
 William Roscoe 109 
 
 Sir Egerton Brydges 110 
 
 William Lisle Bowles 111—117 
 
 William Crowe 118 
 
 .William Wordsworth 119—175 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 176 
 
 Charles Lamb 177—179 
 
XXXlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
 Felicia Hemans 
 
 John Wilson 
 
 Francis Wrangham 
 
 Leigh Hunt 
 
 John Keats 
 
 Thomas Pringle 
 
 John Fairbairn 
 
 Barry Cornwall 
 
 Anonymous (Monthly Magazine). 
 
 Jeremiah Holmes Wiifen 
 
 Israael Fitzadam 
 
 Thomas Doubleday 
 
 William Green 
 
 J. Moultrie 
 
 Arthur Brooke 
 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere , 
 
 Hartley Coleridge , 
 
 Anonymous (Forget Me Not). 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 
 
 William Henry Whitworth 
 
 S. Laman Blanchard 
 
 Richard Howitt 
 
 Lady Dacre 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford 
 
 S. Simpson 
 
 Anonymous (Tait's Magazine)... 
 
 Charles Strong 
 
 John Hamilton Reynolds 
 
 Edward, Lord Thurlow 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench 
 
 R. A. Thorpe , 
 
 Edmund Peel 
 
 Notes 
 
 Appendix 
 
 . 180—182 
 . ... 183 
 . ... 184 
 . ... 185 
 . 186—187 
 . 188—190 
 . ... 191 
 . ... 192 
 . 193—197 
 . 198—199 
 , ... 200 
 201—206 
 206—214 
 215—217 
 ... 218 
 ... 219 
 ... 220 
 221—227 
 ... 228 
 ... 229 
 230 — 254 
 255—256 
 ... 257 
 ... 258 
 259—260 
 ... 261 
 262—263 
 264 — 281 
 282 — 283 
 ... 284 
 285—296 
 ... 297 
 298 — 300 
 
 301 — 352 
 
 353—358 
 
SONNETS. 
 
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings. 
 
 With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; 
 
 The nightingale, with feathers new she sings ; 
 
 The turtle to her make hath told her tale. 
 Summer is come, for every spray now springs. 
 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 
 
 The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; 
 The adder all her slough away she flings ; 
 
 The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 
 
 The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 
 Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale. 
 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things 
 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 
 
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OP SURRET, 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Alas ! — so all things now do hold their peace ! 
 Heaven and earth disturhed in no thing : 
 The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease. 
 The nightes chair the stars about doth bring. 
 
 Calm is the sea ; the waves work less and less ; 
 So am not I, whom Love, alas, doth wring. 
 Bringing before my face the great increase 
 Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing. 
 
 In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease ; 
 
 For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring; 
 But, by and by, the cause of my disease 
 
 Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting. 
 When that I think what grief it is again. 
 To live and lack the thing should rid my pain. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 ABSTRACTION. 
 
 Because I oft, in dark abstracted guise, 
 Seem most alone in greatest company, 
 With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, 
 To them that would make speech of speech arise ; 
 
 They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies. 
 That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie 
 So in my swelling breast, that only I 
 Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 
 
 Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess. 
 Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ; 
 But one worse fault, ambition, I confess. 
 
 That makes me oft my best friends overpass. 
 
 Unseen, unheard, while Thought to highest place 
 Bends all his power — ev'n unto Stella's grace. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou chmb'st the skies ! 
 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 
 What ! — may it be, that ev'n in heavenly place 
 
 That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
 
 I read it in thy looks ; thy languish' d grace. 
 
 To me, that feel the Hke, thy state descries. 
 Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me. 
 
 Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ? 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
 Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
 
 Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? 
 
 Do they call virtue there — ungratefulness ? 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come, Sleep ! O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace. 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 Th' indiiFerent judge between the high and low ; 
 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease* 
 Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw ; 
 O, make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
 I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed ; 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and bhnd to light ; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
 
 And if these things, as being thine by right. 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
 * Press, 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love, still a boy, and oft a wanton, is. 
 School' d only by his mother's tender eye ; 
 What wonder then if he his lesson miss. 
 When for so soft a rod dear play he try ? 
 
 And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss 
 In sport I suck'd, while she asleep did lie, 
 Doth lour, nay chide, nay threat, for only this ; 
 Sweet I it was saucy Love, not humble I. 
 
 But no 'scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear 
 In beauty's throne. See now, who dares come near 
 Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain ? 
 
 O heavenly fool ! — thy most kiss-worthy face 
 Anger invests with such a lovely grace. 
 That Anger's self I needs must kiss again. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 EDWARD IVi 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
 
 Edward, named fourth, as first in praise I name. 
 Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain — 
 Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame. 
 
 Nor that he could, young-wise, wise- valiant, frame 
 His sire's revenge, joined with a kingdom's gain ; 
 And, gained by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, 
 That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain. 
 
 Nor that he made the flower-de-luce so 'fraid 
 Though strongly hedged of bloody lions' paws. 
 That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. 
 
 Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — 
 But only for this worthy knight durst prove 
 To lose his crown, rather than fail his love. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 TO THE THAMES. 
 
 O HAPPY Thames, that did'st my Stella bear, 
 I saw thyself, with many a smiling line 
 Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, 
 While those fair planets on thy streams did shine ; 
 
 The boat for joy could not to dance forbear. 
 While wanton winds, with beauty so divine 
 Ravish'd, stayed not, 'till in her golden hair 
 They did themselves (O sweetest prison !) twine. 
 
 And fain those ^ol's youth there would their stay 
 Have made ; but, forc'd by nature still to fly. 
 First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
 
 She, so dishevell'd, blushed ; from window I 
 With sight thereof cried out, O fair disgrace. 
 Let honour's self to thee grant highest place ! 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye. 
 To whom nor art nor nature granteth light. 
 To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight. 
 Closed with their quivers, in sleep's armoury ; 
 
 With windows ope, then most my mind doth lie 
 Viewing the shape of darkness and delight ; 
 Takes in that sad hue, which, with th' inward night 
 Of his maz'd powers, keeps perfect harmony. 
 
 But when birds charm, and that sweet air which is 
 Mom's messenger, with rose-enamelled skies. 
 Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss ; 
 
 In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes, 
 Forc'd by their lord, who is ashamed to find 
 Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind. 
 
 B 2 
 
10 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 THE WORLD'S VANITY. 
 
 Looking far forth into the ocean wide, 
 
 A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight. 
 
 And flag in her top-gallant, I espied. 
 
 Through the main sea making her merry flight ; 
 
 Fair blew the wind into her bosom right. 
 And th' heavens looked lovely all the while. 
 That she did seem to dance, as in delight. 
 And at her own felicity did smile. 
 
 All suddenly there clove unto her keel 
 A little fish, that men call Remora, 
 Which stopped her course, and held her by the heel. 
 
 That wind nor tide could move her thence away. 
 Strange thing, me seemeth, that so small a thing 
 Should able be so great an one to wring. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. ] 1 
 
 THE LAUREL. 
 
 The laurel-leaf which you this day do wear 
 Gives me great hope of your relenting mind, 
 For since it is the badge which I do bear. 
 You, bearing it, do seem to me incHn'd. 
 
 The power thereof, which oft in me I find. 
 Let it likewise your gentle breast inspire 
 With sweet infusion, and put you in mind 
 Of that proud maid whom now those leaves attire. 
 
 Proud Daphne, scorning Phoebus' lovely fire. 
 On the Thessahan shore from him did flee ; 
 For which the Gods, in theii* revengeful ire. 
 
 Did her transform into a laurel-tree. 
 
 Then fly no more, fair Love, from Phoebus' chase. 
 But in your breast his leaf and love embrace. 
 
12 EDMUND SPENSER- 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 The weary year his race now having run. 
 The new begins his compass'd course anew ; 
 With shew of morning mild he hath begun, 
 Betokening peace and plenty to ensue. 
 
 So let us, which this change of weather view. 
 Change eke our minds, and former hves amend ; 
 The old year's sins forepast let us eschew. 
 And fly the faults with which we did offend. 
 
 Then shall the new year's joy forth freshly send. 
 Into the glooming world, his gladsome ray ; 
 And all these storms which now his beauty blend. 
 
 Shall turn to calms, and timely clear away. 
 
 So, likewise. Love, cheer you your heavy sprite. 
 And change old year's annoy to new delight. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 13 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 After long storms and tempests' sad assay. 
 
 Which hardly I endured heretofore, 
 
 In dread of death and dangerous dismay, 
 
 With which my silly bark was tossed sore ; 
 I do at length descry the happy shore 
 
 In which I hope 'ere long for to arrive ; 
 
 Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught with store 
 
 Of aU that dear and dainty is alive. 
 Most happy he that can at last achieve 
 
 The joyous safety of so sweet a rest ; 
 
 Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive 
 Remembrance of all pains which him oppressed. 
 
 All pains are nothing in respect of this ; 
 
 All sorrows short, that gain eternal bUss. 
 
14 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The doubt which ye misdeem, fair Love, is vain, 
 
 That fondly fear to lose your liberty ; 
 
 When, losing one, two liberties ye gain. 
 
 And make him bond that bondage erst did fly. 
 Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tie 
 
 Without constraint or dread of any iU ; 
 
 The gentle bird feels no captivity 
 
 Within her cage, but sings, and feeds her fill. 
 There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
 
 The league 'twixt them that loyal love hath bound ; 
 
 But simple Truth, and mutual Good- Will, 
 Seeks, with sweet Peace, to salve each others' wound ; 
 
 There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower. 
 
 And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 15 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king. 
 In whose coat-armour richly are displayed 
 All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring. 
 In goodly colours gloriously arrayed ; 
 
 Go to my Love, where she is careless laid. 
 Yet in her winter's bower not well awake ; 
 Tell her the joyous Time will not be stayed. 
 Unless she do him by the forelock take. 
 
 Bid her therefore herself soon ready make, 
 To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew. 
 Where every one that misseth then her make. 
 
 Shall be by him amearst with penance due. 
 
 Make haste therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime. 
 For none can call again the passed time. 
 
16 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 TRUE BEAUTY. 
 
 Men call you fair, and you do credit it. 
 
 For that yourself you daily such do see ; 
 
 But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 
 
 And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me. 
 For all the rest, however fair it be. 
 
 Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue ; 
 
 But only that is permanent and free 
 
 From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. 
 That is true beauty, that doth argue you 
 
 To be divine, and bom of heavenly seed ; 
 
 Deriv'd from that fair spirit from whom aU true 
 And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 
 
 He only fair, and what he fair hath made ; 
 
 All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 17 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 Like as the Culver, on the bared bough 
 Sits mourning for the absence of her mate, 
 And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 
 For his return that seems to Hnger late ; 
 
 So I alone, now left disconsolate. 
 
 Mourn to myself the absence of my Love ; 
 
 And, wandering here and there all desolate. 
 
 Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove. 
 
 Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove. 
 Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight. 
 Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move. 
 
 In her unspotted pleasaunce to delight. 
 
 Dark is my day whilst her fair light I miss. 
 And dead my life that wants such lively bliss. 
 
18 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 ON SPENSER'S FAIRY QUEEN. 
 
 Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay. 
 Within that temple where the vestal flame 
 Was wont to bum ; and, passing by that way. 
 To see that buried dust of living fame, 
 
 Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept. 
 All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen ; 
 At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, 
 And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen 
 
 For they this Queen attended — in whose stead 
 Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse ; 
 Hereat, the hardest stones were seen to bleed. 
 
 And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce. 
 When Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, 
 And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief. 
 
SAMUEL DANIEL. 19 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I ONCE may see when years shall wreak my wrong, 
 When golden hairs shall change to silver wire ; 
 And those bright rays that kindle all this fire 
 Shall fail in force, their working not so strong. 
 
 Then Beauty, now the burthen of my song. 
 
 Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire. 
 
 Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire ; 
 
 Then fade those flowers that deck'd her pride so long. 
 
 When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass. 
 Which then presents her winter- wither' d hue, 
 Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was. 
 
 For, what she was she best shall find in you ; 
 Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass. 
 But, Phoenix-like, shall make her live anew. 
 
20 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part ; 
 
 Nay, I have done — you get no more of me : 
 
 And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. 
 
 That thus so clearly I myself can free ; 
 Shake hands for ever — cancel all our vows — 
 
 And when we meet at any time again. 
 
 Be it not seen in either of our brows 
 
 That we one jot of former love retain. 
 Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 
 
 When, his pulse faihng. Passion speechless lies. 
 
 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 
 And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 
 
 Now, if thou would' St, when all have given him over. 
 
 From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 21 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 When I consider everything that grows 
 Holds in perfection but a httle moment ; 
 That this huge state presenteth naught but shows 
 Whereon the stars in secret influence comment ; 
 
 When I perceive that men as plants increase. 
 Cheer' d and check' d even by the self- same sky ; 
 Vaunt in their youthful sap — at height decrease — 
 And wear their brave state out of memory ; 
 
 Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 
 
 Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 
 Where wasteful Time debateth with decay. 
 
 To change your day of youth to sullied night ; 
 And, all in war with Time, for love of you. 
 As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 
 
22 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN GLORV. 
 
 Let those who are in favour with their stars. 
 Of puhhc honour and proud titles boast, 
 Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 
 Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. 
 
 Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread 
 But as the marigold at the sun's eye : 
 And in themselves their pride hes buried. 
 For at a frown they in their glory die. 
 
 The painful warrior famous ed for fight. 
 After a thousand victories once foiled. 
 Is from the book of honour razed quite, 
 
 And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 
 Then happy I, that love and am beloved. 
 Where I may not remove, nor be removed. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 23 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed. 
 The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; 
 But then begins a journey in my head. 
 To work my mind, when body's work's expired ; 
 
 For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) 
 Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee. 
 And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide. 
 Looking on darkness which the blind do see. 
 
 Save that my soul's imaginary sight 
 
 Presents thy shadow to my sightless view. 
 Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night. 
 
 Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new, 
 Lo ! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind. 
 For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. 
 
24 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 PERSONAL REGRETS. 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
 
 Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd. 
 Desiring this man's heart, and that man's scope. 
 With that I most enjoy contented least : 
 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
 Haply I think on thee — and then my state 
 (Like to the Lark at break of day arising 
 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate : 
 For thy sweet love remember' d, such wealth brings. 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 25 
 
 SONNET- 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 
 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
 
 For precious friends hid in Death's dateless night, 
 And weep afresh Love's long- since- cancelled woe, 
 And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. 
 
 Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
 And heavily from woe to woe teU o*er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
 
 Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
 
26 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 O ! HOW much more doth Beauty beauteous seem. 
 By that sweet ornament which Truth doth give ! 
 The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 
 
 The cankerblooms have full as deep a dye 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses. 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly. 
 When Summer's breath their masked buds discloses. 
 
 But, (for their virtue only is their show) 
 They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ; 
 Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so : 
 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made ; 
 And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
 When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 27 
 
 IMPERISHABLE SONG. 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall outhve this powerful rhyme ; 
 But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
 Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 
 
 When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
 And broils root out the work of masonry, 
 Nor Mars' s sword, nor War's quick fire shall bum 
 The living record of your memory. 
 
 'Grainst Death and aU- oblivious Enmity 
 
 Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room. 
 E'en in the eyes of all posterity. 
 
 That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
 So till the Judgment, that yourself arise. 
 You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 
 
28 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
 The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 
 When sometime lofty towers I see down raz'd, 
 And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 
 
 When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
 Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
 And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
 Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ; 
 
 When I have seen such interchange of state, 
 Or state itself confounded to decay. 
 Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — 
 
 That Time will come, and take my Love away. 
 This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
 But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 29 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 
 Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
 Give warning to the world that I am fled 
 From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ; 
 
 Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
 The hand that writ it ; for I love you so. 
 That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot. 
 If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
 
 O if , I say, you look upon this verse 
 
 When I perhaps compounded am with clay. 
 Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. 
 
 But let your love e'en with my life decay ; 
 
 Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
 And mock you with me after I am gone. 
 
30 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 That time of year thou may'st in me behold. 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold 
 Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang. 
 
 In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
 As after sunset fadeth in the west. 
 Which by and by black night doth take away. 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
 
 In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. 
 As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
 
 Consum'd with that which it was nourished by. 
 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 31 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, 
 And I will comment upon that offence ; 
 Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt ; 
 Against thy reasons making no defence. 
 
 Thou can'st not, love, disgrace me half so ill, 
 To set a form upon desired change. 
 As rU myself disgrace ; knowing thy will, 
 I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ; 
 
 Be absent from thy walks ; and in my tongue 
 Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell ; 
 Lest T (too much profane) should do it wrong. 
 
 And haply of our old acquaintance tell. 
 For thee, against myself I'U vow debate. 
 For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. 
 
32 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now ; 
 
 Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross. 
 
 Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow. 
 
 And do not drop in for an after loss : 
 Ah ! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow. 
 
 Come in the rearward of a conquered woe ; 
 
 Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, 
 
 To linger out a purpos'd overthrow. 
 If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last. 
 
 When other petty griefs have done their spite — 
 
 But in the onset come ; so shall I taste 
 At first the very worst of Fortune's might : 
 
 And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 
 
 Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 33 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill. 
 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ; 
 Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill. 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; 
 
 And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, 
 Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; 
 But these particulars are not my measure — 
 All these I better in one general best. 
 
 Thy love is better than high birth to me. 
 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost. 
 Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; 
 
 And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast. 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 
 All this away, and me most wretched make. 
 
 c2 
 
34 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame 
 Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose. 
 Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name I 
 O ! in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose ! 
 
 That tongue that tells the story of thy days. 
 Making lascivious comments on thy sport. 
 Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ; 
 Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 
 
 O ! what a mansion have those vices got. 
 Which for their habitation chose out thee ! 
 Where Beauty's veil doth cover every blot, 
 
 And all things turn to fair that eyes can see ! 
 Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ; 
 The hardest knife, ill-used, doth lose its edge. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 35 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How like a winter hath my absence been 
 From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! 
 MHiat freezings have I felt, what dark days seen ! 
 What old December's bareness everywhere ! 
 
 And yet this time removed was Summer's time ! 
 The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase. 
 Bearing the wanton burden of the Prime, 
 Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease ; 
 
 Yet this abundant issue seemed to me 
 
 But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ; 
 For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee. 
 
 And thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
 Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, 
 That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter's near. 
 
36 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 From you have I been absent in the Spring, 
 When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim. 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing — 
 That heavy Saturn laughed and leap'd with him. 
 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of different flowers in odour and in hue. 
 Could make me any summer's story tell. 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. 
 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 They were but sweet, but figures of dehght. 
 
 Drawn after you — you, pattern of all those. 
 Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away — 
 As with your shadow I with these did play. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 37 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 My love is strengthen* d, though more weak in seeming; 
 I love not less, though less the show appear ; 
 That love is merchandis'd, whose rich esteeming 
 The owner's tongue doth puhUsh everywhere. 
 
 Our love was new, and then hut in the spring, 
 When I was wont to greet it with my lays ; 
 As Philomel in Summer's front doth sing. 
 And stops her pipe in growth of riper days. 
 
 Not that the Summer is less pleasant now 
 
 Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night. 
 But that wild music hurdens every bough, 
 
 And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. 
 Therefore like her I sometimes hold my tongue. 
 Because I would not dull you with my song. 
 
38 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 To me, fair friend, you never can be old. 
 For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 
 Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold 
 Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride ; 
 
 Three beauteous Springs to yellow Autumn tum'd ; 
 In process of the seasons have I seen 
 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd. 
 Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. 
 
 Ah ! yet doth Beauty, Hke a dial hand. 
 
 Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; 
 
 So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,, 
 
 Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. 
 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; 
 Ere you were bom, was Beauty's summer dead. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 39 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Let not my love be called idolatry. 
 Nor my beloved as an idle show. 
 Since all alike my songs and praises be, 
 To one, of one, still such, and ever so. 
 
 Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind. 
 Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; 
 Therefore my verse, to constancy confined. 
 One thing expressing, leaves out difference. 
 
 Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument — 
 Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ; 
 And in this change is my invention spent. 
 
 Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. 
 Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. 
 Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. 
 
40 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 
 I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
 And beauty making beautiful old rhyme. 
 In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 
 
 Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best. 
 Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
 I see their antique pen would have expressed 
 Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 
 
 So all their praises are but prophecies 
 Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
 And, for they look'd but with divining eyes. 
 
 They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; 
 For we which now behold these present days. 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 41 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. 
 Can yet the lease of my tiTie love controul, 
 Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. 
 
 The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd. 
 And the sad augm*s mock their own presage ; 
 Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd. 
 And Peace proclaims ohves of endless age. 
 
 Now, with the drops of this most halmy time 
 My love looks fresh, and death to me snhscribes, 
 Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, 
 
 While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes. 
 And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
 ^\^ien tyi-ants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 
 
42 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 What's in the brain that ink may character, 
 Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit } 
 What's new to speak, what new to register, 
 That may express my love, or thy dear merit } 
 
 Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, Hke prayers divine, 
 I must each day say o'er the very same ; 
 Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, 
 Ev'n as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. 
 
 So that eternal love in love's fresh case 
 Weighs not the dust and injury of age. 
 Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place. 
 
 But makes Antiquity for aye his page ; 
 
 Finding the first conceit of love there bred. 
 Where time and outward form would show it dead. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 43 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O NEVER say that I was false of heart, 
 
 Though absence seemed my flame to quahfy ! 
 
 As easy might I from myself depart. 
 
 As from my soul in which thy breath doth lie ! 
 
 That is my home of love ; if I have ranged. 
 Like him that travels, I return again ; 
 Just to the time, not with the time exchanged — 
 So that myself bring water for my stain. 
 
 Never believe, though in my nature reigned 
 All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood. 
 That it could so preposterously be stained, 
 
 To leave for nothing all thy siun of good : 
 For nothing this wide universe I call. 
 Save thou, my Rose ; in it thou art my all. 
 
44 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O FOR my sake do thou with fortune chide, 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
 That did not better for my Ufe provide 
 Than pubhc means, which public manners breeds. 
 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's hand ; 
 Pity me then, and wish I were renewed ; 
 
 Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
 
 Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection ; 
 No bitterness that I will bitter think, 
 
 Nor double penance to correct correction. 
 Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye. 
 E'en that your pity is enough to cure me. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 45 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of time minds 
 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 
 Or bends with the remover to remove ; 
 O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
 
 That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark. 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 
 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 
 Within the bending sickle's compass come ; 
 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 
 But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. 
 
 If this be error, and upon me proved, 
 
 I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 
 
46 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 
 Is lust in action ; and till action, lust 
 Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 
 Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 
 
 Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight ; 
 Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had, 
 Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait. 
 On purpose laid to make the taker mad ; 
 
 Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 
 
 Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; 
 A bliss in proof — and, prov'd, a very woe ; 
 
 Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream ; 
 
 All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well 
 To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 
 
RICHARD BARNFIELD. 47 
 
 MUSIC AND POETRY. 
 
 If Music and sweet Poetry agree. 
 
 As they must needs, the sister and the brother. 
 
 Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me. 
 
 Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other. 
 Downland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch 
 
 Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ; 
 
 Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such. 
 
 As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. 
 Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound. 
 
 That Phoebus' lute, (the Queen of Music) makes ; 
 
 And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd. 
 When as himself to singing he betakes. 
 
 One god is god of both, as poets feign ; 
 
 One kniffht loves both, and both in thee remain. 
 
48 BARNABY BARNES. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Unto my spirit lend an angel's wing, 
 
 By which it might mount to that place of rest 
 Where Paradise may me relieve, opprest ! 
 Lend to my tongue an angel's voice to sing 
 
 Thy praise, my comfort ; and for ever bring 
 My notes thereof from the bright east to west ! 
 Thy mercy lend unto my soul distrest ! 
 Thy grace unto my wits ! — then shall the sling 
 
 Of righteousness that monster Satan kill. 
 Who with despair my dear salvation dared. 
 And, like the Philistine, stood breathing still 
 
 Proud threats against my soul, for heav'n prepared ; 
 At length, I like an angel shall appear. 
 In spotless white, an angel's crown to wear. 
 
KING JAMES I. 49 
 
 TO HIS SON, PRINCE HENRY. 
 
 God gives not kings the style of Gods in vain ; 
 For on his throne his sceptre do they sway ; 
 And as their subjects ought them to obey. 
 So kings should fear and serve their God again. 
 
 If, then, ye v^ould enjoy a happy reign, 
 
 Observe the statutes of your heavenly king. 
 And from his law make all your laws to spring, 
 Since his heutenant here ye should remain. 
 
 Reward the just ; be steadfast, true, and plain ; 
 Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right ; 
 Walk always so as ever in His sight. 
 
 Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane ; 
 And so ye shall in princely virtues shine. 
 Resembling right your mighty king divine. 
 
50 HENRY CONSTABLE 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Wonder it is, and pity is't, that she 
 
 In whom all Beauty's treasure we may find. 
 That may enrich the body and the mind. 
 Towards the poor should use no charity. 
 
 My love is gone a begging unto thee ; 
 
 And if that Beauty had not been more kind 
 Than Pity, long 'ere this he had been pined — 
 But Beauty is content his food to be. 
 
 O, pity have, when such poor orphans beg ! 
 Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back ; 
 And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg, 
 
 Yet maim'd he is, sith he his sight doth lack. 
 And yet, though blind, he Beauty can behold, 
 And yet, though nak'd, he feels more heat than cold. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 51 
 
 TO HENRY CONSTABLE, 
 
 I'PON OCCASIOX OF LEAVING HIS COUNTRY. 
 
 England's sweet nightingale ! — what frights thee so, 
 As over sea to make thee take thy flight, 
 And there to live with native country's foe 
 And there him with thy heavenly songs delight ? 
 
 What ! — did thy sister Swallow thee excite. 
 With her, for winter's dread, to fly away ? 
 Who is it then hath wrought this other spite. 
 That when as she retumeth thou should*st stay ? 
 
 As soon as Spring begins, she cometh aye ; 
 Return with her, and thou like tidings bring ; 
 When once men see thee come, what will they say ? 
 
 Lo ! now of EngHsh poesy comes the Spring ! 
 Come, fear thou not the cage, but loyal be, 
 And ten to one thy sovereign pardons thee. 
 
52 JOHN DONNE. 
 
 SUSTAINING GRACE. 
 
 Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay ? 
 Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste ; 
 I run to Death, and Death meets me as fast, 
 And all my pleasures are like yesterday. 
 
 I dare not move my dim eyes any way ; 
 
 Despair behind, and Death before, doth cast 
 Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste 
 By sin in it, which it t' wards hell doth weig-h. 
 
 Only Thou art above, and when towards thee 
 By thy leave I can look, I rise again ; 
 But our old subtle foe so tempteth me. 
 
 That not one hour myself I can sustain ; 
 Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art. 
 And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. 
 
JOHN DONNE. 53 
 
 TO DEATH. 
 
 Death ! be not proud, though some have called thee 
 Mighty and dreadful — for thou art not so ; 
 For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. 
 Die not, poor Death ; nor yet can'st thou kill me. 
 
 From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be. 
 
 Much pleasure — then from thee much more must flow; 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go. 
 Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 
 Thou'rt slave to Fate, Chance, Kings, and desperate men, 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well. 
 
 Or better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then f 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally. 
 And Death shall be no more : — Death ! thou shalt die ! 
 
54 GEORGE HERBERT- 
 
 THE BOSOM-SIN. 
 
 Lord ! with what care hast thou begirt us round ! 
 
 Parents first season us ; then schoohnasters 
 
 Dehver us to laws ; they send us bound 
 
 To rules of reason ; holy messengers : 
 Pulpits and Sundays ; sorrow, dogging sin ; 
 
 Afflictions sorted ; anguish of all sizes ; 
 
 Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in ; 
 
 Bibles laid open ; millions of surprises ; 
 Blessings beforehand ; ties of gratefulness ; 
 
 The sound of glory ringing in our ears ; 
 
 Without, our shame ; within, our consciences ; 
 Angels and Grace ; eternal hopes and fears ! 
 
 Yet all these fences and their whole array. 
 
 One cunning bosom- sin blows quite away. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 55 
 
 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 
 A beauty, fading like the April flowers, 
 A sweet, with floods of gall that runs combined, 
 A pleasure, passing 'ere in thought made ours ; 
 
 A honour that more fickle is than wind, 
 A glory, at opinion's frown that lowers, 
 A treasury, which bankrupt Time devours, 
 A knowledge, than grave ignorance more blind ; 
 
 A vain dehght our equals to command, 
 A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 
 A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 
 
 A servile lot, decked with a pompous name ; 
 Are the strange ends we toil for here below, 
 Till wisest Death make us our errors know. 
 
56 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 NO TRUST IN TIME. 
 
 Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade. 
 The morning's darUng late, the summer's queen, 
 Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green. 
 As high as it did raise, bows low the head ; 
 
 Just so, the pleasures of my life being dead. 
 Or in their contraries but only seen, 
 With swifter speed declines than erst it spread. 
 And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. 
 
 Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night 
 Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 
 Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day ; 
 Thy sun posts westward — ^passed is thy mom — 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 57 
 
 WORLD'S JOYS ARE TOYS. 
 
 The weary mariner so fast not flies 
 
 An howling tempest, harbour to attain ; 
 
 Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise. 
 
 So fast to fold, to save his bleating train ; 
 As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain. 
 
 Now fly the world and what it most doth prize. 
 
 And sanctuary seek, free to remain 
 
 From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. 
 To me this world did once seem sweet and fair. 
 
 While sense's hght mind's perspective kept blind ; 
 
 Now like imagin'd landscapes in the air. 
 And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find ; 
 
 Or if aught here is had that praise should have. 
 
 It is an obscure hfe and silent grave. 
 
 d2 
 
58 WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Op this fair volume which we " world" do name. 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care> 
 Of him who it corrects and did it frame, 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
 
 Find out his power, which wildest powers doth tame, 
 His providence extending everywhere. 
 His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare. 
 In every page — no period of the same. 
 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 
 Well pleas' d with colour' d vellum, leaves of gold. 
 Fair dangling ribbands — leaving what is best ; 
 
 On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,. 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 59 
 
 THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE. 
 
 Thrice happy he who by some shady grove. 
 
 Far from the clamorous world doth live his own. 
 
 Though sohtary, who is not alone, 
 
 But doth converse with The Eternal Love. 
 
 O, how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan. 
 Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 
 Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne. 
 Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 
 
 O, how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath. 
 And sighs embalm' d, which new-born flowers unfold. 
 Than that applause vain Honour doth bequeath ! 
 
 How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold ! 
 The world is full of horrors, troubles, sUghts, 
 Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. 
 
60 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours 
 Of winters past or coming, void of care, 
 Well pleased with delights which present are. 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet- smeUing flowers ! 
 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
 And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare ; 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 
 What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, 
 Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget Earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs. 
 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
 Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
"WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 61 
 
 SONNKT. 
 
 I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays. 
 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought 
 In Time's great periods shall return to naught ; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights and days ; 
 
 I know that aU the Muses' heavenly lays. 
 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
 As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 
 That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 
 
 I know frail Beauty's hke the purple flower 
 
 To which one mom oft birth and death affords, 
 That Love a jarring is of minds' accords, 
 
 Where sense and will bring under reason's power ; 
 Know what I hst, this aU can not me move, 
 But that, alas, I both must write and love. 
 
62 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest. 
 
 Prince, whose approach peace to aU mortals brings, 
 Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
 Sole comforter of minds which are oppressed ; 
 
 Lo ! by thy charming rod, aU breathing things 
 Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possessed. 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spar'st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
 
 Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
 To inward light which thou art wont to show — 
 With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
 
 Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace. 
 
 Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath ; 
 I long to kiss the image of my death. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 63 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold 
 With gentle tides that on your temples flow. 
 Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow. 
 Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolled. 
 
 Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe. 
 When first I did their azure rays behold, 
 Nor voice, whose sounds more strange efl^ects do show 
 Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 
 
 Look to this dying lily, fading rose. 
 
 Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
 Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice — 
 
 And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes ; 
 The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers. 
 Shall once, ah me ! not spare that spring of yours. 
 
64 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, 
 Ere that the blushing mom dare show her hght, 
 Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, 
 Become all ear — stars stay to hear thy plight ! 
 
 If one, whose grief ev'n reach of thought transcends. 
 Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, 
 May thee importune who like case pretends. 
 And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite ; 
 
 Tell me — so may thou fortune milder try. 
 
 And long, long sing ! for what thou thus complains, 
 Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky 
 
 Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains ? 
 The bird, as if my questions did her move. 
 With trembUng wings, sighed forth * I love — 1 love !' 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. Qb 
 
 TO A FAVOURITE RETREAT. 
 
 Dear wood ! — and you, sweet solitary place ! 
 Where I estranged from the vulgar live. 
 Contented more with what your shades me give 
 Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace ; 
 
 What snaky eye, grown jealous of my peace. 
 Now from your silent horrors would me drive, 
 When Sun, advancing in his glorious race 
 Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive ? 
 
 What sweet delight a quiet life affords. 
 And what it is to be from bondage free. 
 Far from the madding worldhng's hoarse discords. 
 
 Sweet flowery place, I first did learn of thee ! 
 Ah ! if I were mine own, your dear resorts 
 I would not change with princes' stateliest courts. 
 
66 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 TO ALEXIS. 
 
 Alexis, here she stayed ; among these pines, 
 
 Sweet hermitess, she did alone repair ; 
 
 Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, 
 
 More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. 
 Here sat she by these musked eglantines ! 
 
 The happy flowers seem yet the print to bear ! 
 
 Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines. 
 
 To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear. 
 She here me first perceived — and here a morn 
 
 Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face ; 
 
 Here did she sigh — here first my hopes were born — 
 Here first I got a pledge of promised grace ; 
 
 But ah ! what serves't t' have been made happy so, 
 
 Sith passed pleasures double but new woe ? 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 67 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st, with all thy goodly train ! 
 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers ; 
 
 The zephyrs cm"l the green locks of the plain. 
 
 The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers ! 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st! — hut ah! my pleasant hours 
 
 And happy days, with thee come not again ; 
 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 
 Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 
 
 Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
 
 But she, whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air, 
 Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore. 
 
 Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come. 
 
 When thine, forgot, he closed in a tomb. 
 
68 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 What doth it serve to see the sun's bright face, 
 
 And skies enamelled with the Indian gold ? 
 
 Or moon at night in jetty chariot rolled, 
 
 And all the glory of that starry place ? 
 What doth it serve, earth's beauty to behold, 
 
 The mountains' pride, the meadows' flowery grace, 
 
 The stately comeliness of forests old. 
 
 The sport of floods which would themselves embrace. 
 What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs. 
 
 The cheerful thrush, the nightingale's sad strains. 
 
 Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs ? 
 For what doth serve all that this world contains. 
 
 Since she, for whom those once to me were dear. 
 
 Can have no part of them now with me here ? 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 69 
 
 TO HIS LUTE. 
 
 My Lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
 With thy green mother in some shady grove. 
 When immelodious winds but made thee move. 
 And birds their ramage* did on thee bestow. 
 
 Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, 
 Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow. 
 Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above. 
 What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 
 
 Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
 But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear. 
 Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear. 
 
 For which be silent as in woods before ; 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign. 
 Like widowed turtle still her loss complain, 
 
 * Chirping, singing, or warbling. 
 
70 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 What hapless hap had I for to be bom 
 In these unhappy times, and dymg days 
 Of this now doting world, when good decays, 
 Love's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn ? 
 
 When such are only prized by wretched ways 
 Who with a golden fleece them can adorn ; 
 When avarice and lust are counted praise. 
 And bravest minds Hve, orphan-like, forlorn ! 
 
 Why was not I bom in that golden age 
 
 When gold was not yet known ? — and those black arts 
 By which base worldlings vilely play their parts. 
 
 With horrid acts staining earth's stately stage ? 
 
 To have been then, O heaven ! t' had been my bliss. 
 But bless me now, and take me soon from this. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 71 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Care-charming Sleep, son of the sable night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness bom. 
 Destroy my languish ere the day be light. 
 With dark forgetting of my care's return ; 
 
 And let the day be long enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth ; 
 Let watery eyes suffice to wail their scorn. 
 Without the ti'oubles of the night's untruth. 
 
 Cease, dreams, fond image of my fond desires. 
 To model forth the passions of to-morrow ! 
 Let never rising sun approve your tears. 
 
 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow ; 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain. 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
72 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 BEFORE A POEM OF IRENE. 
 
 Mourn not, fair Greece, the ruin of thy Kings, 
 Thy temples razM, thy forts with flames devoured. 
 Thy champions slain, thy virgins pure deflowered. 
 Nor all those griefs which stem Bellona brings ! 
 
 But mourn, fair Greece, mourn that that sacred band 
 Which made thee once so famous by their songs, 
 Forc'd by outrageous fate, have left thy land. 
 And left thee scarce a voice to plain thy wrongs. 
 
 Mourn, that those cUmates which to thee appear 
 Beyond both Phoebus and his sisters ways. 
 To save thy deeds from death must lend thee lays. 
 
 And such as from Musseus thou didst hear ; 
 For now Irene hath attain' d such fame. 
 That Hero's ghost doth weep to hear her name. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 73 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still. 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill. 
 While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
 
 Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill. 
 Portend success in love ; O, if Jove's will 
 Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay. 
 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 
 Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 
 For my rehef, yet hadst no reason why : 
 
 Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate. 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
74 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE. 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 Stol'ii on his wing my three and twentieth year ! 
 My hasting" days fly on with full career, 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 
 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 
 That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear. 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 
 
 Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 
 To that same lot, however mean or high. 
 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the Will of Heaven ; 
 All is, if I have grace to use it so 
 As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 75 
 
 WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. 
 
 Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms. 
 
 Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize. 
 
 If deed of honour did thee ever please. 
 
 Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
 
 He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
 That call fame on such gentle acts as these ; 
 And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas. 
 Whatever clime the smi's bright circle warms. 
 
 Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower ! 
 The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
 The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
 
 Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 
 
76 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Ladv, that in the prime of eariiest youth 
 
 Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the ^een. 
 And with those few art eminently seen, 
 That labour up the hill of heavenly truth ; 
 
 The better part with Mary and with Ruth 
 Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween, 
 And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen. 
 No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 
 
 Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends 
 
 To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
 
 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure 
 
 Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends 
 Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night. 
 Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 77 
 
 TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 
 
 Daughter to that good Earl, once President 
 Of England's Council and her Treasury, 
 Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, 
 And left them both, more in himself content. 
 
 Till sad the breaking of that Parliament 
 Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
 At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, 
 Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. 
 
 Though later bom than to have known the days 
 Wherein your father flourish' d, yet by you. 
 Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; 
 
 So well your words his noble virtues praise, 
 That all both judge you to relate them true, 
 And to possess them, honour'd Margaret. 
 
78 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON THE DETRACTION 
 
 WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES. 
 
 I DID but prompt tlie age to quit their clogs 
 By the known rules of ancient liberty, 
 When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
 Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; 
 
 As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs 
 Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny. 
 Which after held the sun and moon in fee. 
 But this is got by casting pearl to hogs. 
 
 That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood. 
 And still revolt when Truth would set them free. 
 License they mean when they cry Liberty — 
 
 For who loves that, must first be wise and good ; 
 But from that mark how far they rove we see, 
 For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 79 
 
 TO MR. H. LAWES, 
 
 ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS. 
 
 Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song 
 First taught our English music how to span 
 Words with just note and accent, not to scan 
 With Midas' ears, committing short and long ; 
 
 Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng. 
 With praise enough for Envy to look wan ; 
 To after age thou shalt be writ the man 
 That with smooth air could' st humour best our tongue. 
 
 Thou honour' st verse, and verse must lend her wing 
 To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire, 
 That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story. 
 
 Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher 
 Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing. 
 Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. 
 
80 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, 
 
 MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED 16rH DECEMBER, 1646. 
 
 When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never. 
 Had ripen' d thy just soul to dwell with God, 
 Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
 Of death, call'd life, which us from life doth sever. 
 
 Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, 
 Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod ; 
 But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod. 
 Follow' d thee up to joy and bliss for ever. 
 
 Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best 
 Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
 And azure wings, that up they flew so drest. 
 
 And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
 Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee rest. 
 And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 81 
 
 ' TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. 
 
 Fairfax, whose name .in arms througli Europe rings. 
 Filling each.. mouth with envy or with praise. 
 And all her jealous monarchs with amaze 
 And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings ; 
 
 Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 
 
 Victory home, .though new rebellions raise 
 Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays 
 Her broken league to ini^ their serpent-wings. 
 
 O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, 
 
 (For what can war but endless war still breed ?) 
 Till Truth and Right from violence be freed. 
 
 And public faith clear' d from the shameful brand 
 Of pubhc fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed. 
 While Avarice and Rapine share the land. 
 
 E 2 
 
82 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
 Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
 To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 
 
 And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 
 
 Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued. 
 While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, 
 And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud. 
 
 And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains 
 To conquer still. Peace hath her "victories 
 No less renown' d than War ; new foes arise. 
 
 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : 
 Help as to save free conscience from the paw 
 Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 
 
JOHN MILTON. ^3 
 
 TO SIR HENRY VANE, THE YOUNGER. 
 
 Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old. 
 Than whom a better senator ne'er held 
 The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled 
 The fierce Epirot and the African bold ; 
 
 Whether to settle peace, or to unfold 
 
 The drift of hollow States hard to be spell' d ; 
 Then to advise how War may, best upheld. 
 Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold. 
 
 In aU her equipage : besides to know 
 
 Both spiritual power and civil, what each means. 
 What severs each, thou hast learn' d, which few have 
 
 The bounds of either sword to thee we owe : [done : 
 
 Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans 
 In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son. 
 
84 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON THE LATR MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
 Lie scatter' d on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old. 
 When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones. 
 
 Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 
 To Heaven. Their martyr' d blood and ashes sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 
 The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 A hundred fold, who, having learn' d thy way. 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 85 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide, 
 Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he, returning, chide ; 
 Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 
 I fondly ask — but Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies — God doth not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. 
 
86 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO MR. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son. 
 
 Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, 
 Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
 Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
 
 From the hard season gaining ? Time will run 
 On smoother, till Favonius re- inspire 
 The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
 The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 
 
 What neat repast shall feast us, hght and choice. 
 Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
 To hear the lute well touch' d, or artful voice 
 
 Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 
 
 He who of those delights can judge, and spare 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 87 
 
 TO CYRIACK SKINNER. 
 
 Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 
 Of British Themis, with no mean applause 
 PronouncM, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
 Which others at their bar so often wrench ; 
 
 To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
 In mirth, that, after, no repenting draws ; 
 Let Euchd rest, and Archimedes pause. 
 And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 
 
 To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
 Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
 For other things mild Heaven a time ordains. 
 
 And disapproves that care, though wise in show. 
 That with superfluous burden loads the day. 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 
 
88 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Cyriack, this three years day these eyes, though clear, 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
 Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 
 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year. 
 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 
 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
 The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 
 In Liberty's defence, my noble task. 
 
 Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
 
 This thought might lead me through the world's vain 
 Content though blind, had I no better guide. [mask. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 89 
 
 ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
 Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, 
 Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave. 
 Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. 
 
 Mine, as w^hom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint 
 Purification in the old Law did save. 
 And such, as yet once more I trust to have 
 Fidl sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 
 
 Came vested all in white, pure as her mind : 
 Her face was veil'd ; yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 
 So clear, as in no face with more delight. 
 But O, as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I wak'd — she fled; — and day brought back my night. 
 
90 BENJAMIN STILLINGPLEET. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When I behold thee, blameless Williamson, 
 Wreck' d like an infant on a savage shore, 
 While others round on borrow'd pinions soar, 
 My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun ; 
 
 Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun. 
 
 While thus she speaks ; — " Those wings that from the 
 Of virtue were not lent, howe'er they bore [store 
 
 In this gross air, will melt when near the sun. 
 
 The truly ambitious wait for Nature's time. 
 Content by certain though by slow degrees 
 To mount above the reach of vulgar flight ; 
 
 Nor is that man confin'd to this low cUme, 
 Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees. 
 And hears celestial echoes with delight." 
 
THOMAS EDWARDS. 91 
 
 TO R. O. CAMBRIDGE, ESQ. 
 
 Cambridge, with whom, my pilot and my guide, 
 Pleas'd I have travers'd thy Sabrina's flood. 
 Both where she foams impetuous, soil'd with mud. 
 And where she peaceful roUs her golden tide ; 
 
 Never, O never let ambition's pride 
 
 (Too oft pretexed with our country's good) 
 And tinseh'd pomp, despised when understood. 
 Or thirst of wealth, thee from her banks divide. 
 
 Reflect how calmly, hke her infant wave, 
 Flows the clear current of a private life ; 
 See the wide pubhc stream, by tempests tost. 
 
 Of every changing wind the sport, or slave, 
 Soil'd with corruption, vex'd with party strife. 
 Cover' d with wrecks of peace and honour lost. 
 
92 THOMAS EDWARDS, 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 CONVERSION AND APOSTLESHIP OF ST. PAUL. 
 
 O Lyttlbton ! great meed shalt thou receive, 
 
 Great meed of fame, thou and thy leam'd compeer, 
 Who, 'gainst the sceptic's doubt and scorner's sneer. 
 Assert those heaven-bom truths which you beheve ! 
 
 In elder time thus heroes wont t' achieve 
 Renown ; they held the faith of Jesus dear, 
 And round their ivy crown or laurell'd spear 
 Blush' d not Religion's ohve branch to weave. 
 
 Thus Raleigh, thus immortal Sidney shone, 
 (Illustrious names !) in great Eliza's days. 
 Nor doubt his promise firm, that such who own 
 
 In evil times, undaunted though alone. 
 
 His glorious truth, such He will crown with praise. 
 And glad agnize before his Father's throne. 
 
THOMAS GRAY. 93 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST, 
 
 In vain to me the smiling mornings shine. 
 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire ; 
 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join ; 
 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. 
 These ears, alas, for other notes repine, 
 
 A different object do these eyes require ; 
 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 Yet morning smiles, the busy race to cheer. 
 
 And new-bom pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain : 
 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear. 
 
 And weep the more, because I weep in vain. 
 
94 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 WINSLADE, IN HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 WiNSLADE ! thy beech- capt hills, with waving grain 
 Mantled — thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn — 
 Whilom could charm ; or when the gradual dawn 
 'Gan the grey mist with orient purple stain. 
 
 Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train ; 
 
 Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, 
 Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, 
 Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain. 
 
 Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn, 
 Nor views invite, since he far distant strays. 
 With whom I traced their sweets at eve and morn, 
 
 From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays ; 
 In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn, 
 That still they can recal those happier days. 
 
THOMAS WARTON. 95 
 
 ON BATHING. 
 
 When late the trees were strip t by winter pale. 
 Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green^ 
 Or Hke the forest's silver- quiver' d queen, 
 On airy uplands met the piercing gale ; 
 
 And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale. 
 
 Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen. 
 But since, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot sheen, 
 Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale. 
 
 She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath 
 The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim ; 
 And now, all glad the temperate air to breathe. 
 
 While cooling drops distil from arches dim. 
 Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath. 
 She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim. 
 
96 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 DFGDALES MONASTTCON' 
 
 Deem not devoid of elegance, the sage. 
 Bv Fancy's srenuine feelinsrs unbesruil'd. 
 Of painful pedantn- the poring child. 
 Who turns, of these proud domes, th" historic page. 
 
 Now sunk by Time and Henrv's "fiercer rage. 
 Think'st thou the warbling Pluses never smiled 
 On his lone hours .^ Ingenuous views engage 
 His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely str\-led, 
 
 Intent. \Miile cloister'd Piety displays 
 
 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 
 Xew manners, and the pomp of elder days, 
 
 ^^llence culls the pensive bai'd his pictur'd stores. 
 Nor rough, nor barren, ai^e the winding ways 
 Of hoar Antiquit}". but strown with flowers. 
 
THOMAS WARTON. 97 
 
 STONEHENGE. 
 
 Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle ! 
 
 Whether, by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's shore 
 To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore. 
 Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, 
 
 T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile ; 
 Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, 
 Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore ; 
 Or Danish chiefs, enrich' d with savage spoil. 
 
 To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, 
 
 Rear'd the rude heap ; or, in thy hallow'd round, 
 Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine Hne ; 
 
 Or here those kings in solemn state were crown' d ; 
 Studious to trace thy wondrous origin. 
 We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. 
 
98 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 WILTON-HOUSE, 
 
 From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Art 
 Decks with a magic hand the dazzHng bowers. 
 Its hving hues where the warm pencil pours. 
 And breathing forms from the rude marble start — 
 
 How to life's humbler scene can I depart ? 
 
 My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers. 
 In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ? 
 Vain the complaint ; for Fancy can impart 
 
 (To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom) 
 Whate'er adorns the stately- storied hall ; 
 She, mid the dungeon's solitary gloom. 
 
 Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall ; 
 
 Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom, 
 And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. 
 
THOMAS WARTON. 99 
 
 KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE, AT WINCHESTER. 
 
 Where Venta's Norman castle still uprears 
 Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss 
 And scatter'd flinty fragments clad in moss, 
 On yonder steep in naked state appears ; 
 
 High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years. 
 Old Arthm-'s Board ; — on the capacious round 
 Some British pen has sketch' d the names renown' d, 
 In marks obscure, of his immortal peers. 
 
 Though joined by magic skill, with many a rhyme. 
 The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey 
 To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time, 
 
 And fade the British characters away ; 
 
 Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime 
 Those Chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay. 
 
100 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 TO THE RIVER LODON. 
 
 Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run, 
 
 Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd. 
 And thought my way was aU through fairy ground. 
 Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun ; 
 
 Where first my Muse to hsp her notes begun 1 
 While pensive Memory traces back the round 
 Which fills the varied interval between. 
 Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene ! 
 
 Sweet native Stream ! those skies and suns so pure 
 No more return, to cheer my evening road ! 
 Yet stiU one joy remains — that not obscure, 
 
 Nor useless, aU my vacant days have flowed. 
 
 From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; 
 Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd. 
 
WILLIAM MASON. 101 
 
 FEBRUARY 23Td, 1795- ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Al plaintive sonnet flowed from Milton's pen. 
 
 When Time had stol'n his three and twentieth year ; 
 Say, shall not I then shed one tuneful tear, 
 Robb'd by the thief of threescore years and ten ? 
 
 No ! — for the foes of aU life -lengthen' d men. 
 Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near ; 
 Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear. 
 Hold unimpair'd their weak yet wonted reign. 
 
 Still round my shelter'd lawn I pleas'd can stray ; 
 Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring ; 
 Being of Beings ! — yes, that silent lay 
 
 Which musing Gratitude dehghts to sing. 
 
 Still to thy sapphu-e throne shall Faith convey, 
 And Hope, the cherub of unwearied wing. 
 
102 WILLIAM MASON. 
 
 FEBRUARY 23rd, 1796.— ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 In the long course of seventy years and one. 
 Oft have I known on this my natal day. 
 Hoar frost and sweeping snow prolong their sway. 
 The wild winds whistle, and the forests groan ; 
 
 But now. Spring's smile has veil'd stem Winter's frown. 
 And now the birds on every budding spray 
 Chant orisons, as to the mom of May ; 
 With them all fear of seasons' change is flown. 
 
 Like them I sing ; but not Hke them beguiled. 
 Expect the vernal bloom of youth to know ; 
 But, though such hope be from my breast exiled, 
 
 I feel warm piety's superior glow ; 
 
 And, as my winter, like the year's, is mild. 
 Give praise to Him from whom all mercies flow. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER. 103 
 
 TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 ON HIS EMPHATICAL AND INTERESTING DELIVERY OF THE DEFENCE OF 
 WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 
 
 CowPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard. 
 Legends prolix deUvers in the ears. 
 Attentive when thou read'st, of England's peers. 
 Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 
 
 Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard. 
 Expending late on all that length of plea 
 Thy generous powers — ^but silence honour' d thee, 
 Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. 
 
 Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside 
 
 Both heart and head ; and could' st with music sweet 
 Of attic phrase and senatorial tone. 
 
 Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide 
 
 Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet 
 Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. 
 
104 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, 
 
 0^f HIS PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER. 
 
 Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me ! 
 When I behold this fruit of thy regard. 
 The sculp tur'd form of my old favourite bard, 
 I reverence feel for him, and love for thee ; 
 
 Joy, too, and grief. Much joy that there should be 
 Wise men and learn' d, who grudge not to reward 
 With some applause my bold attempt and hard,* 
 Which others scorn — critics by courtesy. 
 
 The grief is this ; that sunk in Homer's mine, 
 I lose my precious years now soon to fail. 
 Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine. 
 
 Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale. 
 Be wiser thoa — like our forefather Donne, 
 Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. 
 
 * His translation of Homer. 
 
WILLIAM COWPER. 105 
 
 TO MRS. UNWIN. 
 
 Mary ! — I want a lyre with other strings ; 
 
 Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew ; 
 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things ; 
 That 'ere, through age or woe, I shed my wings, 
 
 I may record thy worth with honour due. 
 
 In verse as musical as thou art true. 
 
 And that immortaHzes whom it sings. 
 But thou hast little need. There is a book 
 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly Hght, 
 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look ; 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright. 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine — 
 
 And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. 
 
 f2 
 
106 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 TO THE REDBREAST. 
 
 When that the fields put on their gay attire, 
 Thou silent sit'st near brake or river's brim. 
 Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim ; 
 But when pale Winter lights the social fire. 
 
 And meads with slime are sprent, and ways with mire. 
 Thou charm' st us with thy soft and solemn hymn 
 From battlement, or bam, or hay- stack trim ; 
 And now not seldom tun'st, as if for hire. 
 
 Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch 
 The pittance due to thy well- warbled song ; 
 Sweet bird, sing on ! — for oft, near lonely hatch. 
 
 Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng. 
 And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch. 
 Full many a tale have told, and ditty long. 
 
THOMAS RUSSELL. 107 
 
 LEMNOS. 
 
 On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright 
 The cautious pilot, ten revolving years 
 Great Psean's son, unwonted erst to tears, 
 Wept o'er his wound. Alike each rolling Ught 
 
 Of heaven he watched, and blamed its lingering flight ; 
 By day, the sea-mew, screaming round his cave. 
 Drove slumber from his eyes ; — the chiding wave. 
 And savage bowlings, chased his dreams by night. 
 
 Hope still was his. In each low breeze that sighed 
 Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar — 
 In each white cloud a coming sail he spied ; 
 
 Nor seldom hstened to the fancied roar 
 Of CEta's torrents, or the hoarser tide 
 That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore. 
 
108 ANNA SEWARD, 
 
 DECEMBfiR MORNING. 
 
 I LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 
 
 Winter's pale dawn ; and as warm fires illume. 
 And cheerful tapers shine around the room, 
 Through misty windows bend my musing sight. 
 
 Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white. 
 With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom. 
 That slow recedes ; while yon grey spires assume. 
 Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
 
 By indistinctness given. Then to decree 
 
 The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
 To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee 
 
 Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold. 
 By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free 
 From drear decays of age, outlive the old. 
 
WILLIAM ROSCOE. 109 
 
 ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS. 
 
 As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again, erewhile. 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 
 And tempers, as he may. Affliction's dart ; 
 
 Thus, lov'd associates ! chiefs of elder Art ! 
 Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 I now resign you — nor with fainting heart. 
 
 For, pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 
 
110 SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 
 
 ECHO AND SILENCE. 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly. 
 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew. 
 As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo. 
 Through glens untrod, and woods that frown' d on high. 
 
 Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! 
 And lo, she's gone ! In robe of dark-green hue, 
 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew; 
 For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! 
 
 In shade afirighted Silence melts away ; 
 Not so her sister : — hark ! for onward stiU 
 With far-heard step she takes her listening way. 
 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill ! 
 Ah, mark the merry maid in mockftd play 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 
 
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 11 
 
 BAMBOROUGH CASTLE. 
 
 Ye holy towers that shade the wave -worn steep, 
 Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime. 
 Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time 
 Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep ! 
 
 For far from blazing Grandeur's crowded halls, 
 Here Charity hath fixed her chosen seat, 
 Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat 
 With hollow bodings round your ancient walls ; 
 
 And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high. 
 Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower. 
 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry ; 
 
 Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save. 
 And snatch him, cold and speechless, from the wave. 
 
112 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 TO THE RIVER ITCHIN. 
 
 Itch IN, when I behold thy banks again, 
 
 Thy cnimbhng margin, and thy silver breast. 
 On which the self- same tints still seem to rest. 
 Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? 
 
 Is it — that many a smnmer's day has pass'd 
 Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side ? 
 Is it — that oft, since then, my heart has sighed. 
 As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast ? 
 
 Is it — that those who circled on thy shore. 
 
 Companions of my youth, now meet no more ? 
 Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend. 
 
 Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart. 
 As at the meeting of some long-lost friend. 
 From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. 
 
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 113 
 
 THE RHINE. 
 
 'TwAS morn; and beauteous on the mountain's brow, 
 Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine, 
 Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine 
 We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
 
 In murmurs parted. Varying as we go, 
 Lo ! the woods open, and the rocks retire, 
 Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 
 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
 
 Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like Despair, 
 
 Frowns the bleak cliff — there, on the woodland's side. 
 The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
 
 Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair. 
 Would wish to linger many a summer's day. 
 Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 
 
114 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, 
 Lulling to sad repose the weary sense. 
 The faint pang stealest unperceived away ; 
 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last. 
 
 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 
 I may look back on every sorrow past. 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile ; 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour. 
 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while ; 
 Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure. 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. 
 
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 115 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 There is strange music in the stirring wind. 
 When lowers th' autumnal eve, and all alone 
 To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone. 
 Whose ancient trees, on the rough slope reclined. 
 
 Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere. 
 If, in such shades, beneath their murmuring, 
 Thou late hast past the happier hours of Spring, 
 With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year ; 
 
 Chiefly, if one, with whom such sweets at morn 
 Or eve thou'st shar'd, to distant scenes shall stray. 
 O, Spring, return ! — return, auspicious May ! 
 
 But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, 
 If she return not with thy cheering ray. 
 Who from these shades is gone, gone far away. 
 
116 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How shaU I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill 
 My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide 
 First came, and on each coomh's romantic side 
 Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill ? 
 
 Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream. 
 As with the songs of joyance and of hope 
 The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope 
 The poplars sparkle in the transient beam ; 
 
 The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend. 
 
 Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight. 
 With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend. 
 
 Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight ; 
 But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes. 
 And weep for her who in the cold grave lies. 
 
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 117 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When last we parted, thou wert young and fair — 
 How beautiful, let fond remembrance say ! 
 Alas ! since then old Time has stol'n away 
 Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare. 
 
 So hath it perish'd hke a thing of air. 
 
 That dream of love and youth. My locks are grey; 
 Yet still, remembering Hope*s enchanting lay. 
 Though Time has chang'd my look and blanch' d my 
 
 Though I remember one dark hour with pain, [hair; 
 And never thought, as long as I might live, 
 Parted for years, to hear that voice again ; 
 
 I can a sad but cordial greeting give. 
 
 And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer. 
 Lady ! as when I loved thee, young and fair. 
 
118 WILLIAM CROWE. 
 
 TO PETRARCH. 
 
 O FOR that shell, whose melancholy sound, 
 Heard in Valclusa, by the lucid stream 
 Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme, 
 Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around 
 
 High-built Avignon on the rocky mound 
 
 That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam 
 From some rich incense rising, to the extreme 
 Of desolate Hesperia bid reboimd. 
 
 And gently waked the Muses ; — so might I, 
 Studious of song like thee, and ah ! too like 
 In sad complaint of ill-requited love. 
 
 So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike 
 Such notes as lovers' tears should sanctify. 
 And cold Fidele's melting sighs approve. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 119 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 
 And students with their pensive citadels ; 
 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom. 
 
 High as the highest peak of Fumess Fells, 
 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove beUs ; 
 
 In truth, the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is ; and hence to me. 
 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 Pleas'd if some souls — for such there needs must be- 
 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
120 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 r 
 
 MOUNT SKIDDAW. 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourisli side by side, 
 
 Together in immortal books enrolled ; 
 
 His ancient dower Olympus hatb not sold ; 
 
 And that inspiring hill, which ' did divide 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide,' 
 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
 
 While not an English mountain we behold 
 
 By the celestial Muses glorified. 
 Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds ; 
 
 What was the great Parnassus' self to thee. 
 
 Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sovereignty 
 Our British hill is fairer far ; he shrouds 
 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds, 
 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 121 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 
 Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
 That ever among men or Naiads sought 
 Notice or name ! It quivers down the hill. 
 
 Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ; 
 Yet to my mind this scanty stream is brought 
 Oftener than Ganges or the Nile — a thought 
 Of private recollection, sweet and still ! 
 
 Months perish with their moons ; year treads on year 
 But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear. 
 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they. 
 The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
 Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 
 
 G 
 
122 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 UPON A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, 
 
 PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE U. BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay 
 Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; 
 Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape. 
 Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; 
 
 Which stopped that band of travellers on their way. 
 Ere they were lost within the shady wood ; 
 And showed the bark upon the glassy flood. 
 For ever anchor'd in her sheltering bay. 
 
 Soul- soothing Art ! which Morning, Noontide, Even, 
 Do serve with aU their changeful pageantry ; 
 Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime. 
 
 Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given 
 To one brief moment caught from fleeting time 
 The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 123 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 
 
 By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 
 Ev'n thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
 And could not win thee. Sleep, by any stealth — 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day. 
 Dear mother of fi"esh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
124 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind 
 
 I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
 But thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 
 
 Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind — 
 
 But how could I forget thee ? Through what power, 
 Ev'n for the least division of an hour. 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be bHnd 
 
 To my most grievous loss ? That thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore. 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 125 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ; 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea ; 
 Listen ! — ^the mighty Being is awake. 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound Hke thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here. 
 If thou appear' st untouch'd by solemn thought. 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine ; 
 
 Thou Hest in Abraham's bosom aU the year — 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
126 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Where lies the land to which yon ship must go ? 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array. 
 As vigorous as a lark at break of day ; 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
 
 What boots th' inquiry ? Neither friend nor foe 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may. 
 She finds famiUar names, a beaten way 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 
 Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 (From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there 
 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark. 
 Of the old sea some reverential fear. 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 127 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon. 
 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 
 The Winds that will be howling at all hours. 
 
 And are up -gathered now like sleeping flowers j 
 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 Have ghmpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
128 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 A VOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found. 
 
 Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play. 
 On ' coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay ; 
 How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
 
 Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
 
 Of nature trusts the mind that builds for aye ; 
 Convinc'd that there, there only, she can lay 
 Secure foundations. As the year runs round. 
 
 Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; 
 
 While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
 Is gently closing with the flowers of Spring ; 
 
 Where ev'n the motion of an Angel's wing 
 Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
 Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 129 
 
 PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 I AM not one who much or oft dehght 
 
 To season my fireside with personal talk — 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
 Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight ; 
 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright. 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk ; 
 These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-night. 
 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long. 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. 
 
 In the lov'd presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And hsten to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
 g2 
 
130 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 *' Yet Life," you say, '* is life ; we have seen and see. 
 And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
 And fits of sprightly maUce do but bribe 
 The languid mind into activity : 
 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee 
 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 
 Ev'n be it so ; yet still among your tribe. 
 Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me. 
 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 
 More justly balanced ; partly at their feet. 
 And part far from them : — sweetest melodies 
 
 Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; 
 Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, - 
 He is a slave — the meanest we can meet ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 131 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Wings have we, and as far as we can go 
 
 We may find pleasure ; wilderness and wood. 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know. 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good ; 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store ; 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am ; 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear — • 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb. 
 
132 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby- 
 Great gams are mine ; for thus I hve remote 
 From evil- speaking ; rancour, never sought, 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
 
 Hence have I genial seasons — hence have I 
 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought; 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 
 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !* 
 
 Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs. 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 133 
 
 TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ. 
 
 High is our calling, friend ! Creative Art, 
 Whether the instrument of words she use. 
 Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues. 
 Demands the service of a mind and heart, 
 
 Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part. 
 Heroically fashioned — to infuse 
 Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
 While the whole world seems adverse to desert. 
 
 And oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may. 
 Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress. 
 Still to be strenuous for the bright reward. 
 
 And in the soul admit of no decay. 
 
 Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard. 
 
134 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 
 Save only far as thought and feehng blend 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot friend ! 
 From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
 
 But, to promote and fortify the weal 
 
 Of our own Being, is her paramount end ; 
 A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
 Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. 
 
 Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss ; 
 
 Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake. 
 And startled only by the rustling brake. 
 
 Cool air I breathe ; while th' unincumbered mind. 
 By some weak aims at services assigned 
 To gentle natures, thanks not heaven amiss. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 135 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; critic, you have frowned. 
 Mindless of its just honours. With this Key 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 
 A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief; 
 The Sonnet ghttered a gay m3rrtle Leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 
 His visionary brow ; a glow-worai Lamp, 
 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 
 The thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew 
 Soul- animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
136 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
 Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange. 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell. 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range. 
 Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange 
 Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. 
 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour. 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
 She loves to gaze upon a crystal river. 
 
 Diaphanous, because it travels slowly ; 
 
 Soft is the music that would charm for ever ; 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 137 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand ; 
 The sun is peopled ; and with spirits blest. 
 Say, can the gentle moon be unpossest ? 
 Huge ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
 
 A habitation marvellously planned. 
 For life to occupy in love and rest ; 
 All that we see is dome, or vault, or nest. 
 Or fort, erected at her sage command. 
 
 Is this a vernal thought ? Ev'n so, the Spring 
 Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart. 
 Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring ; 
 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art, 
 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower, was fashioning 
 Abodes where self- disturbance hath no part. 
 
138 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 Lady ! — the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
 While I was planting green unfading bowers, 
 And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove. 
 
 And sheltering waU ; and still, as fancy wove 
 
 The dream, to Time and Nature's blended powers 
 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, 
 
 A labyrinth, Lady ! which your feet shall rove. 
 
 Yes ! — when the sun of life more feebly shines> 
 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring ; 
 
 And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of Spring. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 139 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ' There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only poets know :' — 'twas rightly said ; 
 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains ? 
 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains. 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 Pursues the enthusiast to the social board. 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear 
 At last of hindrance and obscurity. 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of mom ; 
 
 Bright, speckless as a softly-moulded tear 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye ; 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 
 
140 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! 
 Not dull art thou as undiscerning Night ; 
 But studious only to remove from sight 
 Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power ! 
 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower. 
 To the nide Briton, when, in wolf- skin vest 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 
 Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 
 The self-same Vision which we now behold, 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! brought forth ; 
 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf between — 
 The floods — the stars — a spectacle as old 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 141 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Ev'n as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
 So burns yon taper mid a black recess 
 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless ; 
 The Lake below reflects it not ; the sky. 
 Muffled in clouds, afl?brds no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
 
 Yet round the body of that joyless thing, 
 Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
 Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
 
 A gay society with faces bright. 
 
 Conversing, reading, laughing ; — or they sing. 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
142 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 MALHAM COVE. 
 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 
 
 When giants scooped from out the rocky ground. 
 Tier under tier, this semicirque profound ? 
 (Giants — the same who built in Erin's isle 
 
 That Causeway with incomparable toil !) 
 O, had this vast theatric structure wound 
 With finished sweep into a perfect round. 
 No mightier work had gained the plausive smile 
 
 Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas, 
 
 Vain earth ! — false world ! Foundations must be laid 
 In heaven ; for, mid the wreck of is and was. 
 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 
 Make sadder transits o'er Truth's mystic glass 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 143 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 1803. 
 
 Earth has not any thing to show more fair ! 
 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 
 A sight so touching in its majesty ! 
 
 This City now doth hke a garment wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 
 Open unto the fields and to the sky — 
 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river ghdeth at his own sweet wiU ; 
 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
144 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III. 
 
 Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a King ! 
 Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room ; 
 Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom. 
 Darkness as thick as Life o'er Life could fling, 
 
 Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
 
 Of Faith and Hope ; if thou, by nature's doom. 
 
 Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, 
 
 Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling. 
 
 When thankfulness were best ? Fresh-flowing tears. 
 Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh. 
 Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
 
 Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears 
 In this deep knell — silent for threescore years — 
 An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 145 
 
 NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 Fame tells of groves, from England far away. 
 Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill 
 And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
 Elsewhere unmatch'd, her ever- varying lay ; 
 
 Such bold report I venture to gainsay ; 
 
 For I have heard the choir of Richmond- Hill 
 
 Chanting, with indefatigable bill. 
 
 Strains that recalled to mind a distant day ; 
 
 When, haply under shade of that same wood. 
 And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
 Phed steadily between those willowy shores. 
 
 The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood — 
 Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, 
 Ye heavenly birds ! to yom* progenitors. 
 
 H 
 
146 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 A PARSONAGE, IN OXFORDSHIRE. 
 
 Where holy ground begins, unhaUowed ends. 
 
 Is marked by no distinguishable hne ; 
 
 The turf unites, the pathways intei*twine ; 
 
 And wheresoe'er the steaUng footstep tends. 
 Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends. 
 
 And neighbours rest together, here confound 
 
 Their several features, mingled hke the sound 
 
 Of many waters, or as evening blends 
 With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower. 
 
 Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave ; 
 
 And while those lofty poplars gently wave 
 Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky 
 
 Bright as the ghmpses of Eternity, 
 
 To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 147 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard 
 
 When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill 
 Like the first summons, Cuckoo ! of thy bill. 
 With its twin notes inseparably paired. 
 
 The captive, 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired. 
 Measuring the periods of his lonely doom. 
 That cry can reach ; and to the sick man's room 
 Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. 
 
 The lordly eagle-race through hostile search 
 May perish ; time may come when never more 
 The wilderness shall hear the lion roar ; 
 
 But, long as cock shall crow from household perch 
 To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing. 
 And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring ! 
 
148 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 Slowly surmounting some invidious hiU, 
 Rose out of darkness : the bright Work stood still, 
 And might of its own beauty have been proud. 
 
 But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
 By virtues that diffused, in every part. 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art ; 
 Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blow loud, 
 
 Into the consciousness of safety thrilled ; 
 
 And Love her towers of dread foundation laid 
 Under the grave of things ; Hope had her spire 
 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something higher ; 
 Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said, 
 Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 149 
 
 1801. 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 
 And an unthinking grief — for, who aspires 
 To genuine greatness but from just desires. 
 And knowledge such as he could never gain ? 
 
 *Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
 The Governor who must be wise and good. 
 And temper with the sternness of the brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
 
 Wisdom doth live with children round her knees ; 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 Man holds with week-day man in th' hourly walk 
 
 Of the mind's business — these are the degrees 
 
 By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stalk 
 True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 
 
150 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
 
 Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, 
 And was the safeguard of the West ; the worth 
 Of Venice did not fall helow her birth, 
 Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 
 
 She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 And when she took unto herself a mate. 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 
 When her long life hath reached its final day : 
 
 Men are we, and must grieve when ev'n the Shade 
 Of that which once was great, is passed away. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 151 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 
 
 ToussAiNT ! the most unhappy man of men ! 
 Whether the whistling nistic tend his plough 
 "Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den. 
 
 O miserable chieftain ! where and when 
 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerftd brow ; 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
 There's not a breathing of the common wind 
 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 
 
152 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood. 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. 
 The coast of France, the coast of France how near ! 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbom'hood. 
 
 I shrunk — for verily the barrier flood 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 A span of waters — yet what power was there ! 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Ev'n so doth God protect us if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 
 Sti'ength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, 
 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul 
 Only the Nations should be great and free. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 153 
 
 ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, 
 
 One of the Mountains — each a mighty voice ; 
 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
 
 They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
 There came a tyrant, and mth holy glee 
 
 Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven ; 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven. 
 
 Where not a torrent muraiurs heard by thee. 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft, 
 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 
 
 For, high-souled Maid ! what sorrow would it be 
 That mountain floods should thunder as before. 
 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 
 And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 
 
 H 2 
 
154 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LONDON, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour ; 
 
 England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
 
 Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 
 Of iuAvard happiness. We are selfish men : 
 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was Hke a star, and dwelt apart ; 
 
 Thou had'st a voice whose sound was hke the sea ; 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way 
 
 In cheerful godhness ; and yet thy heart 
 
 The lowhest duties on herself did lay. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 155 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
 
 But when I think of thee, and what thou art. 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 But dearly must we prize thee, we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled. 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind. 
 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a chUd ? 
 
156 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT, OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
 Ye childi-en of a soil that doth advance 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 
 They from their fields can see the countenance 
 Of your fierce war, may ken the ghttering lance. 
 And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
 
 Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 
 
 Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; 
 Confirm'd the charters that were yours before ; — 
 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 We all ate with you now from shore to shore ; 
 Ye men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 157 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
 
 Through the grey west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled 
 By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
 
 Jove — Venus — and the ruddy crest of Mars, 
 Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
 At haply distance from earth's groaning field. 
 Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 
 
 Is it a mirror ? — or the nether sphere 
 
 . Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds 
 Its own calm fires ? But hst ! — a voice is near ; 
 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for if unholy deeds 
 Ravage the world, tranquilhty is here." 
 
158 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 HOFFER. 
 
 Of mortal parents is the hero bom 
 
 By whom the midaunted Tyrolese are led ? 
 Or is it Tell's great spirit, from the dead 
 Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 
 
 He comes Uke Phoebus through the gates of mom 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited ; 
 Yet mark his modest state ! — upon his head. 
 That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
 
 O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock ; 
 
 The murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee. 
 And half their host is buried. Rock on rock 
 
 Descends : — beneath this godhke warrior, see ! 
 Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 
 The tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 159 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground. 
 Dear Liberty ! stem nymph of sonl untamed. 
 Sweet nymph, O rightly of the mountains named ! 
 Through the long chain of Alps, from mound to mound. 
 
 And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound ; 
 Like Echo, when the hunter-train at dawn 
 Have roused her from her sleep ; and forest-lawn 
 Chffs, woods, and caves, her viewless steps resound. 
 
 And babble of her pastime ! On, dread Power, 
 With such invisible motion speed thy flight. 
 Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height. 
 
 Through the green vales, and through the herdsman's 
 That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, [bower. 
 Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 
 
160 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 BRUGES. 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous Buildings, vocal in sweet Song, 
 In Picture speaking with heroic tongue. 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 
 Strikes to the seat of grace within the mind ; 
 
 Hence forms that glide with swan-like ease along. 
 Hence motions, ev'n amid the vulgar throng. 
 To an harmonious decency confined ; 
 
 As if the streets were consecrated ground. 
 The city one vast temple, dedicate 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions freed ; 
 A nobler peace than that in deserts found 1 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 161 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 A WINGED goddess, clothed in vesture wrought 
 Of rainbow colours — one whose port was bold. 
 Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold 
 The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought. 
 
 Hovered in air above the far-famed spot. 
 
 She vanished — leaving prospect blank and cold 
 Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled 
 In dreary billows — wood, and meagre cot, 
 
 And monuments that soon must disappear. 
 Yet a dread local recompense we found ; 
 While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal 
 
 Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel 
 With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near. 
 And hon-or breathing from the silent ground. 
 
162 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 
 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose ? 
 Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, 
 War's favomite play-ground, are with crimson stains 
 Familiar, as the mom with pearly dews ? 
 
 The mora, that now, along the silver Meuse 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing wains. 
 Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews - 
 
 The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes 
 Turn from the fortified and threatening hill. 
 How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade. 
 
 With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade, 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
 From the smooth meadow- ground, serene and still ! 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 163 
 
 THE FALL OF THE AAR— HANDEC. 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this river throwing 
 His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink. 
 Back in astonishment and fear we shrink ; 
 But, gi'adually a calmer look bestowing. 
 
 Flowers we espy beside the torrent gi'owing ; 
 
 Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink. 
 And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink 
 Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing. 
 
 They suck, from breath that, threatening to destroy. 
 Is more benignant than the dewy eve. 
 Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy ; 
 
 Nor doubt but He to whom you pine-trees nod 
 Their heads in sign of worship. Nature's God. 
 These humbler adorations wiU receive. 
 
164 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES.* 
 
 The lovely Nun — submissive but more meek 
 Thi-ough saintly habit, than from effort due 
 To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
 With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak — 
 
 Goes forth, unveihng timidly her cheek 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, 
 While through the convent gate to open view 
 Softly she ghdes, another home to seek. 
 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine. 
 An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
 
 Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
 
 Poured forth, while summer suns at distance shine, 
 And the green vales lie hushed in sober light. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 165 
 
 THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
 Woman ! above all women glorified. 
 Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; 
 
 Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; 
 
 Brighter than eastern skies at day-break strewn 
 With fancied roses; than the unblemished moon 
 Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ; 
 
 Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween. 
 Not imforgiven the supphant knee might bend. 
 As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 
 All that was mixed and reconciled in thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity. 
 Of high with low, celestial with terrene. 
 
^66 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil. 
 Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, 
 Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar st}de 
 
 The gift exalting, and with playful smile ; 
 For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? 
 
 More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet. 
 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet. 
 In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein 
 they rest. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 167 
 
 WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. 
 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky- 
 So fair as these. The feather whence the pen 
 Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 
 Dropped from an angel's wing. With moistened eye 
 
 We read of Faith and purest Charity 
 
 In statesman, priest, and humble citizen. 
 O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
 
 Methinks their very names shine still and bright ; 
 Apart, like glow-worms on a summer night ; 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 
 A guiding ray ; or seen, like stars on high. 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
|gg -WILLIAM WOUDSWOUTH. 
 
 CHURCH TO EE EHECTED. 
 
 Be this tlie chosen site. The virgin sod, 
 Moistened from age to age hy dewy eve, 
 Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive 
 The corner-stone from hands that build to God. 
 Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod 
 Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully ; 
 Those forest oaks of Di-uid memory, 
 Shall long survive, to shelter the abode 
 Of g-enuine Faith. A\^ere, haply, 'mid this band 
 Of daisies, shepherds sat of yore and wove 
 May-garlands, let the holy altar stand 
 For kneeling adoration ; while, above, 
 Broods, visibly pourtrayed, the mystic Dove, 
 That shall protect from blasphemy the land. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 169 
 
 INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 What awful perspective ! — while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
 Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
 In the soft chequerings of a sleepy hght. 
 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 
 Whoe'er ye he, that thus — yourselves unseen — 
 Imbue vour prison-bars with solemn sheen. 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming night. 
 
 But, from the arms of silence — list ! O Ust ! 
 The music bursteth into second hfe ! 
 The notes luxuriate — every stone is kissed 
 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart-thriUing strains, that cast before the eye 
 Of the devout a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
170 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 What aspect bore the man who roved or fled. 
 First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first 
 In this pellucid current slaked his thirst ? 
 What hopes came with him ? What designs were spread 
 
 Along his path ? His unprotected bed 
 
 What dreams encompassed ? Was the intruder nursed 
 
 In hideous usages, and rights accursed, 
 
 That thinned the living and disturbed the dead ? 
 
 No voice replies : the earth, the air is mute ; 
 
 And thou, blue streamlet, murmuring yield' st no more 
 Than a soft record that whatever fruit 
 
 Of ignorance thou might' st witness heretofore. 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore. 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 171 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play 
 Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
 A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold ; 
 A concave, free from shrubs and mosses grey ; 
 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire aifray. 
 Some statue, placed amid these regions old 
 For tutelary service, thence had roUed, 
 Startling the flight of timid Yesterday. 
 
 Was it by mortals sculptured — weary slaves 
 Of slow endeavour ? — or abruptly cast 
 Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
 
 Tempestuously let loose from central caves ? 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
 Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge passed ? 
 
172 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Whence that low voice ? A whisper from the heart, 
 That told of days long past, when here I roved 
 With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; 
 Some who had early mandates to depart, 
 
 Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 
 By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite. 
 Once more beneath the kind earth's tranquil Ught ; 
 And smothered joys into new being start. 
 
 From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
 Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory ; 
 Her gUstening tresses bound, yet hght and free 
 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recal 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 173 
 
 ULPHA KTRK. 
 
 The Kirk of Ulplia to tlie pilgrim's eye 
 Is welcome as a star, that doth present 
 Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent 
 Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky ; 
 
 Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high 
 
 O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's tent ; 
 
 Or th' Indian tree whose branches, downward bent. 
 
 Take root again, a boundless canopy. 
 
 How sweet were leisure, could it yield no more 
 
 Than 'mid that wave-washed churchyard to recline. 
 From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ; 
 
 Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar 
 Of distant moon-ht mountains faintly shine. 
 Soothed by the unseen river's gentle roar. 
 
174 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 
 But were an apt confessional for one 
 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
 
 That life is but a tale of morning grass. 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art that chase 
 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest. 
 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 
 (October's workmanship to rival May) 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 
 This moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay. 
 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 175 
 
 HIGHLAND HUT. 
 
 See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built cot. 
 Whose smoke, forth issuing whence and how it may. 
 Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
 Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. 
 
 The hmpid mountain rill avoids it not. 
 
 And why should' st thou ? If rightly trained and bred. 
 
 Humanity is humble ; finds no spot 
 
 Which her heaven- guided feet refuse to tread. 
 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof. 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ! 
 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof. 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer. 
 Belike less happy. Stand no more aloof ! 
 
176 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 
 
 O IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 
 Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
 To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 
 Or let the easily-persuaded eyes 
 
 Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 
 Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bent low. 
 And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold, 
 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then a traveller go 
 
 From mount to mount, through Cloudland — gorgeous land! 
 Or, listening to the tide, with closed sight. 
 Be that bhnd Bard, who on the Chian strand. 
 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward light. 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 Rise to the swelUng of the voiceful sea. 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 177 
 
 TO MISS KELLY. 
 
 You are not, Kelly, of the common strain. 
 
 That stoop their pride and female honour down 
 To please that many-headed beast The Town, 
 And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain ; 
 
 By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, 
 You keep your native dignity of thought ; 
 The plaudits that attend you come unsought. 
 As tributes due unto your natural vein. 
 
 Your tears have passion in them, and a grace 
 Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow ; 
 Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace, 
 
 That vanish and return we know not how. 
 And please the better from a pensive face, 
 A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow. 
 
 I 2 
 
178 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 I WAS not trained in Academic bowers. 
 
 And to those learned streams I nothing owe 
 Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow ; 
 Mine have been any thing but studious hours. 
 
 Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, 
 Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap ; 
 My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap. 
 And I walk gowned — feel unusual powers ! 
 
 Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech. 
 Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain, 
 And my skull teems with notions infinite : 
 
 Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach 
 
 Truths which transcend the searching schoolmen's vein. 
 And half had stagger' d that stout Stagirite. 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 179 
 
 LEISURE. 
 
 They talk of Time, and of Time's galling yoke, 
 That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, 
 Which only works and business can redress ; 
 Of divine Leisure such foul hes are spoke, 
 
 Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. 
 But might I, fed with silent meditation, 
 Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation, 
 Improhus Labor, which my spirits hath broke — 
 
 I'd drink of Time's rich cup, and never surfeit ; 
 Fling in more days than went to make the gem 
 That crowned the white top of Methusalem ; 
 
 Yea, on my weak neck take, and never forfeit. 
 Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky. 
 The heaven-sweet burthen of Eternity. 
 
180 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 DEDICATION TO ' THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.' 
 
 Lady !— if for the cold and cloudy clime 
 
 Where I was born, but where I would not die, 
 
 Of the great Poet Sire of Italy 
 
 I dare to build the imitative rhyme. 
 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime. 
 Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
 Fall short of his immortal harmony. 
 Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
 
 Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, 
 Spak'st ; and for thee to speak and be obeyed 
 Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
 
 Such sounds are uttered, and such charms displayed ; 
 So sweet a language from so fair a mouth. 
 Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade } 
 
LORD BYRON. 181 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, hut not from woe ; 
 And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush. 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow. 
 
 And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes — but oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 
 For through thy long dark lashes low depending. 
 The soul of melancholy gentleness 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
 
 At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
182 LORD BYRON. 
 
 CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art ; 
 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 
 The heart, which love of thee alone can bind. 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consigned. 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their coimtry conquers with their martyrdom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 ChiUon ! — thy prison is a holy place. 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
 Until his very steps have left a trace, 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 
 By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface — 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
FELICIA HEMANS. 183 
 
 THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 
 
 Flowers ! — when the Saviour's cahn, benignant eye 
 Fell on your gentle beauty ; when from you 
 That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew. 
 Eternal, universal, as the sky ; 
 
 Then, in the bosom of your purity 
 A voice he set, as in a temple- shrine, 
 That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by. 
 Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine. 
 
 And though too oft its low, celestial sound 
 
 By the harsh notes of work- day care is drowned. 
 And the loud steps of vain, unlistening haste ; 
 
 Yet the great Ocean hath no tone of power 
 
 Mightier to reach the soul in Thought's hush'd hour. 
 Than yours, meek Lilies ! — chosen thus and graced. 
 
184 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 THE EVENING CLOUD. 
 
 A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun ; 
 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; 
 
 Long had I watched the glory moving on. 
 
 O'er the stiU radiance of the lake below ; 
 Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ; 
 
 Ev'n in its very motion there was rest ; 
 
 While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, 
 
 Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. 
 Emblem, methought, of the departed Soul ! 
 
 To whose white robe the gleam of bhss is given ; 
 
 And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
 Right onward to the golden gates of heaven ; 
 
 Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies. 
 
 And tells to man his glorious destinies. 
 
FRANCIS WRANGHAM. 185 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Soiled, but with no ing-lorious dust, by tomes 
 Beseeming well the churchman to explore, 
 Of venerable Fathers, 'mid whose lore 
 From proof to proof the eye enraptured roams ; 
 
 Or crimsoned with the blood that spouts its foams 
 Where the frock' d gladiators rave and roar — 
 How shall I my unworthy hand fling o'er 
 The gentle lyre, or crop the Muse's blooms ? 
 
 lU may the fingers, by polemic thorn 
 
 Festered, essay the magic shell to sweep, 
 Or, all unused, the glittering wreath entwine ; 
 
 Yet wiU I, at thy bidding, brave the scorn 
 
 Of mightier bards, and climb proud Delphi's steep. 
 And lay my chaplet in loved Phoebus' shrine. 
 
186 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 TO THOMAS BARNES, ESQ. 
 
 Dear Barnes, whose native taste, solid and clear. 
 The throng of life has strengthened without harm, 
 You know the rural feeling, and the chami 
 That stillness has for a world-fretted ear ; 
 
 *Tis now deep whispering all about me here 
 With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm 
 Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm. 
 Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere. 
 
 This charm our evening hom's duly restore ; 
 
 Naught heard through all our little, lull'd abode, 
 Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turned o'er. 
 
 Or watch- dog, or the ring of frosty road. 
 
 Wants there no other sound then } Yes, one more- 
 The voice of friendly visiting, long owed. 
 
LEIGH HUNT. 187 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET. 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
 Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
 When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 
 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
 
 With those who think the candles come too soon^ 
 Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; 
 
 Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 
 Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, are strong- 
 
 At your clear hearts ; and both seem giv'n to earth 
 To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 
 In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth ! 
 
188 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
 
 Romid many western islands have I been 
 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne ; 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies. 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 
 Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 
 Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 
 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 189 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thk Poetry of Earth is never dead ! 
 
 When all the birds are faint with the hot sun. 
 
 And hide in coohng trees, a voice will run 
 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 
 
 That is the Grasshopper's ! He takes the lead 
 In summer luxury ; he has never done 
 With his delights ; for when tired out with fun, 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
 
 The Poetry of Earth is ceasing never ! 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the Frost 
 
 Has wrought a silence — from the stove there shrills 
 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
 And seems to one in drowsiness half lost 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 
 
190 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 UPON READING ' THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF.' 
 
 This pleasant tale is like a little copse ; 
 
 The honied lines so freshly interlace 
 
 To keep the reader in so sweet a place ; 
 
 So that he here and there full-hearted stops. 
 And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops 
 
 Come cool and suddenly against his face ; 
 
 And by the wandering melody may trace 
 
 Which way the tender-legged Unnet hops. 
 Oh, what a charm hath white Simplicity ! 
 
 What mighty power hath this gentle story ! 
 
 I, that for ever feel athirst for glory. 
 Could at this moment he content to lie 
 
 Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings 
 
 Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. 
 
THOMAS PRINGLE. 191 
 
 ON VISITING A MISSIONARY SETTLEMENT. 
 
 By heaven directed, by the world reviled. 
 Amidst the wilderness they sought a home. 
 Where beasts of prey and men of murder roam, 
 And untamed Nature holds her revels wild. 
 
 There, on their pious toils their Master smiled. 
 
 And prospered them, beyond the thoughts of men. 
 
 Till in the satyr's haunt and dragon's den 
 
 A garden bloomed, and savage hordes grew mild. 
 
 So, in the guilty heart when heavenly grace 
 Enters, it ceaseth not till it uproot 
 All evil passions from each hidden cell ; 
 
 Planting again an Eden in their place. 
 
 Which yields to men and angels pleasant fruit — 
 And God himself dehghteth there to dwell. 
 
192 
 
 JOHN FAIRBAIRN. 
 
 A STILL STREAM. 
 
 I FOUND a stream among the hills by night ; 
 Its source was hidden, and its end unknown ; 
 But heaven was in its bosom, and the throne 
 Which there the Sun fiUs beautifully bright 
 
 Here held the lesser and the lovelier light ; 
 Nor seem'd the excelhng beauty less alone. 
 Because the Stars, her handmaids, round her shone, 
 And homelier Earth did with the throng unite. 
 
 I thought not of its source nor of its ending ; 
 'Twas but the mirror of enchanting things. 
 Where Heaven and Earth, their softest graces blending. 
 
 Owned the new world which from their union springs. 
 Thus be my soul Truth's purified abode ; 
 Whence, or for what I am, is thine, O God ! 
 
BARRY CORNWALL. 193 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone 
 Start up, Hke spirits that have lain asleep 
 In their great mother's iced bosom deep. 
 For months ; or that the birds, more joyous grown, 
 
 Catch once again their silver summer-tone. 
 
 And they who late from bough to bough did creep, 
 Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep. 
 And seem to sing of winter overthrown. 
 
 No ; — with an equal march, the immortal mind. 
 As though it never could be left behind. 
 Keeps pace with every movement of the year ; 
 
 And (for high truths are bom in happiness) 
 
 As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear, 
 And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess. 
 
 K 
 
194 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Now have green April and the blue-eyed May 
 Vanished awhile ; and lo ! the glorious June, 
 While Nature ripens in his burning noon. 
 Comes like a young inheritor, and gay, 
 
 Although his parent months have passed away. 
 But his green crown shall wither, and the tune 
 That ushered in his birth be silent soon, 
 And in the strength of youth shall he decay. 
 
 What matters this, so long as in the Past 
 And in the days to come we live, and feel 
 The Present nothing worth, until it steal 
 
 Away, and like a disappointment, die ? 
 For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory, 
 Flies ever on before, or follows fast. 
 
BARRY CORNWALL. 195 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 This is the eldest of the Seasons ; he 
 
 Moves not, hke Spring, with gradual step, nor grows 
 From bud to beauty ; but with all his snows 
 Comes down at once in hoar antiquity. 
 
 No rains, nor loud-proclaiming tempests flee 
 Before him ; nor unto his time belong 
 The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song, 
 That with May's gentle smiles so well agree. 
 
 But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud, 
 Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound. 
 And with a gentle footstep prints the ground, 
 
 As though to cheat man's ear ; yet while he stays. 
 He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days. 
 And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. 
 
196 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 A STILL PLACE. 
 
 Under what beechen shade or silent oak 
 Lies the mute sylvan now, mysterious Pan ? 
 Once (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran 
 Clear from their fountains) as the morning broke, 
 
 Tis said the Satyr with Apollo spoke. 
 
 And to harmonious strife with his wild reed 
 Challenged the God, whose music was indeed 
 Divine, and fit for heaven. Each played, and woke 
 
 Beautiful sounds to life — deep melodies ; 
 
 One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care. 
 That flocks and birds all answered him ; and one 
 
 Shook his immortal showers upon the air. 
 That music hath ascended to the sun ; 
 But where the other } Speak, ye dells and trees. 
 
BARRY CORNWALL. 197 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 O EARLIEST singer ! O care -charming bird ! 
 Married to Morning by a sweeter hymn 
 Than priest e'er chanted from his cloister dim 
 At midnight ; or veil'd virgin's hoher word. 
 
 At sunrise, or the paler evening, heard ; 
 
 To which of all Heaven's young and lovely Hours, 
 Who wreathe soft light in hyacinthine bowers. 
 Beautiful spirit, is thy suit preferred ? 
 
 Unlike the creatures of this dull low earth. 
 Still dost thou woo, although thy suit be won. 
 And thus thy mistress bright is pleased ever : 
 
 O, lose not thou this mark of finer birth ; 
 So may'st thou yet live on from sun to sun. 
 Thy joy imcheck'd, thy sweet song silent never ! 
 
198 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ON A SLEEPING CHILD, 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a touching thing to make one weep ; 
 A tender infant with its curtained eye, 
 Breathing as it would neither live nor die. 
 With that unmoving countenance of sleep. 
 
 As if its silent dream, serene and deep. 
 
 Had lined its slumbers with a still blue sky, 
 So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie. 
 With no more life than roses, just to keep 
 
 The blushes warm, and the mild odorous breath. 
 O blossom-boy ! — so calm is thy repose. 
 So sweet a compromise of life and death, 
 
 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose. 
 For memory to stain their inward leaf. 
 Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 199 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deemed 
 No eyes could wake more beautiful than they ; 
 Thy glossy cheeks so unimpassioned lay, 
 I loved their peacefulness, and never dreamed 
 
 Of dimples ; for thy parted lips so seemed, 
 I did not think a smile could sweetlier play. 
 Nor that so graceful life could charm away 
 Thy graceful death — till those blue eyes upbeamed. 
 
 Now slumber Ues in dimpled eddies drowned. 
 And roses bloom more rosily for joy. 
 And odorous silence ripens into sound. 
 
 And fingers move to mirth. AU-beauteous boy ! 
 How dost thou waken into smiles, and prove 
 If not more lovely, thou art more like Love ! 
 
200 JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WITH A LEAF GATHERED FROM THE JirLBERRY TREE PLANTED BY MILTON IN THE 
 GARDEN OF CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 This from the tree whicli Milton's gracious hand 
 Planted in morning of his years, receive ; 
 The holiest relic Granta has to give. 
 No British Queen, no Princess of the land, 
 
 Could for her temples wish a crown more grand 
 
 Than these green leaves might shape. They have a look 
 As though they had o'erhung Castalia's brook. 
 And by the airs of Thessaly been fanned. 
 
 We might expect, were antique fables true. 
 To see Apollo from the sky descend, 
 Tearing his laurel fi'om his brow divine. 
 
 For this terrestrial plant. Ah then adieu 
 
 To songs Pierian. He must lose, sweet friend, 
 Memory of Daphne's eyes, in chanting thine. 
 
ISMAEL FITZADAM. 201 
 
 LOVE.— I. 
 
 There is an hour, when all our past pursuits, 
 The dreams and passions of our early day. 
 The unripe hlessedness that dropped away 
 From our young tree of life, like blasted fruits. 
 
 All rush upon the soul ; some beauteous form 
 Of one we loved and lost ; or dying tone 
 Haunting the heart with music that is flown ; 
 Still lingers near us with an awful charm. 
 
 I love that hour, for it is deeply fraught 
 With images of things no more to be ; 
 Visions of hope, and pleasures madly sought. 
 
 And sweeter dreams of love and purity ; 
 The poesy of heart that smiled in pain. 
 And all my boyhood worshipped — but in vain. 
 
 K 2 
 
202 ISMAEL FITZADAM. 
 
 LOVE.— JI. 
 
 We met in secret, in the depth of night, 
 
 When there was none to watch us ; not an eye. 
 Save the lone dweller of the lonely sky, 
 To gaze upon our love and pure delight. 
 
 And in that hour's unbroken sohtude. 
 
 When the white moon had robed her in its beam, 
 I've thought some vision of a blessed dream. 
 Or spirit of the air, before me stood. 
 
 And held communion with me. In mine ear 
 
 Her voice's sweet notes breath'd not of the earth ; 
 Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth ; 
 
 And in my heart there was an awful fear ; 
 A thrill, like some deep warning from above. 
 That sooth' d its passion to a Spirit's love. 
 
ISMAEL FITZADAM. 203 
 
 LOVE.— III. 
 
 She stood before me ; the pure lamps of heaven 
 
 Lighted her charms, and those soft eyes which turned 
 On me with dying fondness. My heart burned. 
 As, trembhngly with hers, my vows were given ; 
 
 Then softly 'gainst my bosom beat her heart. 
 
 These loving arms around her form were thrown. 
 Binding her heavenly beauty, like a zone ; 
 While, from her ruby warm lips, just apart 
 
 Like bursting roses, sighs of fragrance stole. 
 And words of music, whispering in mine ear 
 Things pure and holy none but mine should hear. 
 
 For they were accents uttered from her soul. 
 For which no tongue her innocence reproved. 
 And breathed for one who loved her, and was loved. 
 
204 ISMAEL FITZADAM. 
 
 LOVE.— TV. 
 
 She hung upon my bosom ; and her sighs. 
 Fragrant and fast, were warm upon my cheek. 
 And they were all her suffering heart could speak,. 
 Save the soft language of her eloquent eyes. 
 
 Which the night hid not, for her soul was there 
 In starry brightness, tempered by distress. 
 All soften'd down with love's own tenderness ; 
 And some wild tokens of her heart's despair 
 
 Were trembling o'er her beauty. There was one 
 Who would not have exchang'd that sorrowing hour 
 For all that he had dream' d in rapture's bower ; 
 
 In the wide world there was one heart alone 
 
 That blessed him with its love, and truth, and charms. 
 And it was beating now within his amis. 
 
ISMAEL FITZADAM. 205 
 
 LOVE— V. 
 
 They loved for years with growing tenderness ; 
 They had but one pure prayer to waft above. 
 One heart, one hope, one dream, and that was Love ! 
 They loved for years through danger and distress, 
 
 TiU they were parted, and his spotless fame 
 Became the mark of hate and obloquy ; 
 Till the remembering tear that dimm'd her eye 
 Was dried on blushes of repentant shame. 
 
 While he — O God ! — in raptured vision sweet. 
 Would walk alone beneath the evening-star. 
 Watching the Ught she loved, and dream of her. 
 
 And of the hour when they again should meet. 
 They met at last ; but love's sweet vision fled 
 For ever from his heart — for she was wed ! 
 
206 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 THE POETS SOLITUDE. 
 
 Think not the Poet's life — although his cell 
 Be seldom printed by the stranger's feet — 
 Hath not its silent plenitude of sweet : 
 Look at yon lone and sohtary dell ; 
 
 The stream that loiters 'mid its stones can tell 
 What flow'rets its unnoted waters meet ; 
 What odours o'er its narrow margin fleet ; 
 Aye, and the Poet can repeat as well. 
 
 The foxglove, closing inly, like a shell ; 
 The hyacinth ; the rose, of buds the chief ; 
 The thorn, bediamonded with dewy showers ; 
 
 The thyme's wild fragrance, and the heather-bell ; 
 All, all are there. So vain is the belief 
 That the sequestered path has fewest flowers. 
 
THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 1207 
 
 THE SEA-CAVE. 
 
 Hardly we breathe, although the air be free : 
 How massively doth awful Nature pile 
 The living rock, like some cathedral aisle. 
 Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea. 
 
 How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly. 
 And under its glass'd waters seems to smile. 
 With many hues, a mimic grove the while 
 Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree. 
 
 Beautiful scene ! and fitted to allure 
 
 The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid. 
 Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed, 
 
 'Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure, 
 
 May sport at noontide in the cavemed shade — 
 Cold as the shadow — as the waters pure. 
 
208 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Come, track with me this little vagrant rill. 
 Wandering its wild course from the mountain's breast; 
 Now with a brink fantastic, heather- drest. 
 And pla5dng with the stooping flowers at will ; 
 
 Now moving scarce, with noiseless step and stiU : 
 Anon, it seems to weary of its rest. 
 And hurries on, leaping with sparkhng zest 
 Adown the ledges of the broken hill. 
 
 So let us live. Is not the life well spent 
 
 Which loves the lot that kindly Nature weaves 
 For all, inheriting or adorning Earth ? 
 
 Which throws light pleasure over true content, 
 Blossoms with fruitage, flowers as well as leaves. 
 And sweetens wisdom with a taste of mirth ? 
 
THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 209 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Wonderful passion ! clasping all, yet single ! 
 When in warm youth th' impetuous pulses beat. 
 How all is chang'd in that emotion sweet ! 
 How with the beautiful we seem to mingle ! 
 
 A brook, a flower, can make the senses tingle ; 
 We thread the conscious paths with burning feet. 
 And our hearts throb to see each loved retreat. 
 By lonely stream, or grove, or dell, or dingle. 
 
 And there through many a day will passion hve. 
 When that hath died from which its life it drew ; 
 Yea, there are scenes which ever can revive 
 
 Feelings long past, breathing our youth anew ; 
 And to disused eyelids strangely give 
 Hot tears — else cold as is the marble dew. 
 
210 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Go, take thine angle, and with practised line. 
 
 Light as the gossamer, the current sweep ; 
 
 And if thou failest in the calm stiU deep. 
 
 In the rough eddy may a prize be thine. 
 Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine ; 
 
 Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep. 
 
 Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap — 
 
 For fate is ever better than design. 
 Still persevere ; the giddiest breeze that blows. 
 
 For thee may blow, with fame and fortune rife ; 
 
 Be prosperous — and what reck if it arose 
 Out of some pebble with the stream at strife. 
 
 Or that the light wind daUied with the boughs ? 
 
 Thou art successful ; — such is human life. 
 
THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 211 
 
 THE HOROLOGE. 
 
 Once, by the dask light of an ancient hall, 
 I saw a Horologe. Its minutes fell 
 Upon the rous'd ear with a drowsy kneU, 
 That he who passed attended to the call. 
 
 I looked — and lo ! five antics over all. 
 
 One moved, and four were motionless. The one 
 Was scyth'd and bald-head Time ; and he moved on. 
 Sweep after sweep, and each a minute's fall. 
 
 The four were Kings. Sceptres they bore, and globes. 
 And ermined crowns. Before that old man dim 
 They stood, but not in joy. At sight of Time, 
 
 They had stiffened into statues in their robes. 
 Fear-petrified. Let no man envy him 
 Who smiles at that grave homily sublime. 
 
212 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Brinkburn ! — if Time shall spare me — as the weed 
 Cowering to earth, doth cheat the mower's blade — 
 Shall I not smile, once more to thread this glade. 
 And seek thy waters, murmuring in their speed ? 
 
 Here have I drunk of happiness indeed ; 
 And, straying here, as heretofore I strayed. 
 Sure I shall meet with Pleasure, or her shade, 
 Haunting, like me, the long-loved spot. 'Twill breed, 
 
 Perchance, remembrances that bear a sting ; 
 A pensive joy that hath some kin to woe : 
 Yet if the unexpected drops that spring 
 
 At sight of thee, be sweeter in their flow 
 
 Than aught of bliss that other scenes can bring. 
 Why should I pause, or wish this were not so ? 
 
THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 213 
 
 THE WALL-FLOWER. 
 
 I WILL not praise the often-flattered rose. 
 
 Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, 
 Or when, in dazzhng splendour, like a queen. 
 All her magnificence of state she shows ; 
 
 No, nor that nun-like Hly which but blows 
 Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen ; 
 Nor yet the sun-flower, that, with warrior mien. 
 Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows ; 
 
 But thou, neglected Wall-flower ! to my breast 
 And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower ! 
 To whom alone the privilege is given 
 
 Proudly to root thyself above the rest. 
 
 As Genius does, and, from thy rocky tower. 
 Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven. 
 
214 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Where yonder lilacs wanton with the air, 
 And no autumnal blasts have blown to fade, 
 If flowers thou seek'st, a festive wreath to braid. 
 Bend thy search thither — thou wilt find them there ; 
 
 Not in the arches of the forest, where 
 
 The branching oaks extend unmoving shade ; 
 
 Of spring's minuter verdure disarrayed, 
 
 The earth beyond their twisted roots is bare ; 
 
 Save where perchance the hop, with tendril curl'd. 
 Or ivy; string' d, may seek and twine around 
 Some stems, amidst the forest chiefs that tower ; 
 
 So, in the mightier landscape of the w^orld, 
 The flowers of joy and love are seldom found 
 At the stern feet of knowledge or of power. 
 
WILLIAM GREEN. 215 
 
 A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 
 
 Far off the rook, tired by the mid- day beam, 
 
 Caws lazily this summer afternoon ; 
 
 The butterflies, with wandering up and down 
 
 O'er flow'r-bright marsh and meadow, wearied seem ; 
 With vacant gaze, lost in a waking dream. 
 
 We, listless, on the busy insects pore, 
 
 In rapid dance uncertain, darting o'er 
 
 The smooth-spread surface of the tepid stream. 
 The air is slothful, and will scarce convey 
 
 Soft sounds of idle waters to the ear ; 
 
 In brightly-dim obscurity appear 
 The distant hiUs which skirt the landscape gay ; 
 
 While restless fancy owns th' unnerving sway 
 
 In visions often changed, but nothing clear. 
 
216 WILLIAM GREEN. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Music, higli maid, at first, essaying, drew 
 
 Rude sketches for the ear, till, with skill' d hand. 
 She traced the flowing outline, simply grand. 
 In varied groups to grace and nature true ; 
 
 And this was Melody. Her knowledge grew. 
 And, more to finish, as her powers expand, 
 Those beauteous draughts, a noble scheme she plann'd. 
 And o'er the whole a glow of colouring threw ; 
 
 Evening's rich painting on a pencil' d sky. 
 
 Tints that with sweet accord bewitch the sense ; 
 'Twas Harmony. The common crowd, that press 
 
 Around, prefer the charms these hues dispense. 
 As they, chance-mingled, on the palette lie, 
 To her white forms of undeck'd loveliness. 
 
WILLIAM GREEN. 217 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 From the unbarring to the shut of day, 
 
 Aye, ofttimes restless in the midnight bhnd. 
 His loss I mourn ; it lies upon my mind 
 Like a thick mist that will not clear away. 
 
 But bodes and brings grief's showers. His was a sway 
 Of soul so gentle, we alone might find, 
 Not see its strength ; a wit that, ever kind. 
 Would spare the humbled in its freest play. 
 
 A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep ; 
 His mighty powers attired themselves so plain 
 They drew no worship though they won the heart : 
 
 Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep, 
 But, as of visiting Gods the poets feign. 
 We knew him not till turning to depart. 
 
218 
 
 J. MOULTRIE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Now, lady, that our parting is so nigh, 
 
 Fain would I think that thou, in future hours, 
 Amidst thine own Dunedin's queenly towers. 
 Or, haply, Scotland's mountain scenery, 
 
 Wilt toward the south turn no unkindly eye, 
 Nor scorn to think of these poor woods of ours. 
 And friends who dwelt in Windsor's sylvan bowers. 
 And him who frames this sorry minstrelsy. 
 
 Believe me, in no false or hollow guise 
 Sing I to thee my parting madrigal ; 
 For I have found thee gentle, good, and wise. 
 
 High-minded, simple-hearted — and, withal, 
 Belov'd of her whose deep, soul-beaming eyes 
 Hold my rapt spirit in such pleasant thrall. 
 
ARTHUR BROOKE. 219 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 If, from the chaos of my youthful fate 
 
 Have been shaped out some elements of rest ; 
 If, beyond hope, the madness of my breast 
 Hath felt at least its paroxysms abate. 
 
 Leaving my heart not wholly desolate ; 
 
 If in my brain, where, like a spirit unblest. 
 Thought long was rack'd, now peace can claim a nest. 
 In halcyon hours, to musing consecrate ; 
 
 Thron'd on composure if the soul thus reigns, 
 Suffering no hopes to allure, no dreams to abuse. 
 But o'er the wreck of perish' d joys and pains. 
 
 Calmly contemplative its course pursues. 
 
 Strong, self-possess'd — 'tis not from what it gains, 
 But what it can resign, such power accrues. 
 
220 SIR AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE. 
 
 Amid the torch-lit gloom of Auchen's aisle 
 Stood Otho, Germany's imperial lord. 
 Regarding, with a melancholy smile, 
 A simple stone, where, fitly to record 
 
 A world of action by a single word. 
 
 Was graven *Carlo-Magno'. Regal style 
 
 Was needed none ; that name such thoughts restored 
 
 As sadden, yet make nobler, men the while. 
 
 They roll'd the marble back. With sudden gasp, 
 A moment o'er the vault the Kaiser bent. 
 Where still a mortal monarch seemed to reign : 
 
 Crowned on his throne, a sceptre in his grasp, 
 Perfect in each gigantic lineament, 
 Otho looked face to face on Charlemagne. 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 221 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When we were idlers with the loitering rills. 
 The need of human love we little noted ; 
 Our love was Nature ; and the peace that floated 
 On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, 
 
 To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills. 
 
 One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted. 
 That, wisely doting, asked not why it doted ; 
 And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. 
 
 But now I find how dear thou wert to me ; 
 
 That man is more than half of Nature's treasure. 
 Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see, 
 
 Of that sweet Music which no ear can measure : 
 And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure. 
 The hills sleep on in their eternity. 
 
222 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 In the great city we are met again. 
 
 Where many souls there are, that breathe and die. 
 Scarce knowing more of Nature's potency. 
 Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or rain. 
 
 The sad vicissitude of weary pain ; 
 For busy man is lord of ear and eye. 
 And what hath Nature but the vast, void sky. 
 And the throng' d river toihng to the main ? 
 
 Oh ! say not so ; for she shall have her part 
 In every smile, in every tear that faUs, 
 And she shall hide her in the secret heart. 
 
 Where love persuades, and sterner duty caUs ; 
 But worse it were than death, or sorrow's smart. 
 To live without a friend within these waUs. 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 223 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 What was't awaken' d first the untried ear 
 Of that sole man who was all human kind ? 
 Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind. 
 Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ? 
 
 The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near. 
 Their luUing murmurs all in one combin'd ? 
 The note of bird unnamed ? The startled hind 
 Bursting the brake — in wonder, not in fear 
 
 Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground 
 Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
 The gracious pressure of immaculate feet ? 
 
 Did viewless seraphs rustle all around. 
 Making sweet music out of air as sweet ? 
 Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 
 
224 HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 Long time a child, and still a child when years 
 Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I ; 
 For yet I lived like one not born to die ; 
 A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears. 
 
 No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. 
 
 But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep ; and, waking, 
 I waked to sleep no more — at once o'ertaking 
 The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 
 
 Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man. 
 Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey. 
 For I have lost the race I never ran ; 
 
 A rathe December blights my lagging May ; 
 And still I am a child, though I be old. 
 Time is my debtor for my years untold. 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 225 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 There have been poets that in verse display 
 The elemental forms of human passions ; 
 Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions 
 And all the wilful humours of the day. 
 
 Have furnished matter for a poUshed lay ; 
 And many are the smooth elaborate tribe 
 Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe. 
 And fain would every shifting hue pourtray. 
 
 Of restless Nature. But, thou mighty Seer, 
 'Tis thine to celebrate the thoughts that make 
 The life of souls ; the truths for whose sweet sake 
 
 We to ourselves and to our God are dear. 
 Of Nature's inner shrine thou art the priest. 
 Where most she works when we perceive her least. 
 
 L 2 
 
226 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 TO LOVE. 
 
 Sweet Love, the shadow of thy parting wings 
 Hangs on my soul, Hke the soft shade of Even ; 
 Farewell to thee, for thou art going to heaven, 
 And I must stay behind, with aU the things 
 
 Which thou and thy benign administerings 
 
 Once made most sweet, of sweetness now bereaven ; 
 Whose memory, as a sour fermenting leaven, 
 Perverts all nature with an ill that springs 
 
 From good corrupted. Oh, for mercy, Love, 
 Stay with me yet, although thy comrade fair. 
 The smiler Hope, be gone to realms above ; 
 
 Stay with thy youngest sister, meek Despair ; 
 For meek she is in truth, as brooding dove. 
 If thou with her the lowly bosom share. 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 227 
 
 YOUNG LOVE. 
 
 The nimble fancy of all-beauteous Greece, 
 Fabled young Love an everlasting boy, 
 That held of Nature an eternal lease 
 Of childhood, beauty, innocence, and joy ; 
 
 A bow he had, a pretty childish toy. 
 
 That would not teiTify his mother's sparrows. 
 And 'twas his favourite play to sport his arrows. 
 Light as the glances of a wood-nymph coy. 
 
 O happy error ! — musical conceit 
 Of old idolatry and youthful time ! 
 Fit emanation of a happy clime. 
 
 Where but to live, to breathe, to be, was sweet ; 
 And Love, though even then a little cheat. 
 Dream' d not his craft would e'er be call'd a crime. 
 
228 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE SONNETTEER. 
 
 He loves to lean against some aged tree 
 In forest green, and gaze upon the deer. 
 Which gaze in turn on him ; by fountain clear. 
 Trickling from moss-grown rock, oft sitteth he ; 
 
 Or on some crag o'erlooking the wide sea. 
 
 He lays him down, the splashing waves to hear ; 
 Or walks the woodlands when the leaves are sere, 
 Listening the stripping blast moan mournfully. 
 
 The yellow moon, the floating clouds, the sky. 
 The twinkling stars, a fair girl's face, eye, lip. 
 The fresh flower whence the bee doth honey sip — 
 
 These loves the Sonnetteer ; these charm his eye ; 
 And these, in tiny lay and language quaint. 
 With moral saws inwrought, he loves to paint. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 229 
 
 THE POLISH INSURRECTION, 
 
 Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar 
 
 The hosts to battle ; be not bought and sold. 
 
 Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold ; 
 
 Break through your iron shacldes — fling them far. 
 O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar 
 
 Grew to this strength among his deserts cold ; 
 
 When ev'n to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
 
 The growing murmurs of the Polish war ! 
 Now must your noble anger blaze out more 
 
 Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan. 
 
 The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before — 
 Than when Zamoysky smote the Tatar Khan ; 
 
 Than, earlier, when on the Baltic shore 
 
 Boleslas drove the Pomeranian, 
 
230 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 TIME AND DEATH. 
 
 I SAW old Time, destroyer of mankind ; 
 
 Calm, stem, and cold he sate, and often shook 
 And turned his glass, nor ever cared to look 
 How many of life's sands were still behind. 
 
 And there was Death, his page, aghast to find 
 How, tremblingly, like aspen o'er a brook. 
 His blunted dart fell harmless ; so he took 
 His master's scythe, and idly smote the wind. 
 
 Smite on, thou gloomy one, with powerless aim ! 
 For Sin, thy mother, at her dying breath 
 Withered that arm, and left thee but a name. 
 
 Hope closed the grave, when He of Nazareth, 
 Who led captivity his captive, came 
 And vanquished the great conquerors. Time and Death. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 231 
 
 THE VIOLET BANK. 
 
 Come here, and rest thee, gentle stranger ; come 
 Listen the waters mm*mur lullingly 
 By banks of velvet green, where oft the bee. 
 That pilgrim, memory- guided, loves to roam ; 
 
 For here are violets, the twin-bora ; some 
 With flowers like foam upon a summer sea ; 
 And azure some, that teU of constancy, 
 And happy hours of sweet and smihng home. 
 
 Oh ! hope that such may be their lot who made 
 This bower for thee ; but if — for all things fair 
 Bloom, mournful in their beauty, soon to fade — 
 
 Then, pious stranger, breathe a silent prayer 
 That sorrow's hand may still be softly laid 
 On those young wanderers in this world of care. 
 
232 
 
 "WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 An aged man with locks of silver-grey ! 
 
 Not such art thou, dread Winter, who so fast 
 Dost ride, and like the gladiator cast 
 That icy net on impious kings, thy prey. 
 
 Like him, ' the nations' conqueror.' His array 
 Was swift, but swifter far thy winged blast.* 
 Thus Nature often wakes to avenge the Past 
 For heaven. The desert, in Cambyses' day. 
 
 Taught Persia's haughty lord to vail his pride ; 
 And when dark Pharaoh in his might swept by, 
 O Sea, thy crystal walls on either side 
 
 Fell ; — ^but amid that silence rose the cry. 
 Wafted from Israel o'er those waters wide, 
 " Shout, for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously !" 
 
 * Napoleon retreating from Moscow. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 233 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 O Venus, whom Idalia's purple sea 
 
 Wrapt in its foamy mantle, on the shore 
 Of roses,* while the waves forgot to roar. 
 All lulled to rest in. bright tranquillity ; 
 
 How gaily Love and I, to visit thee 
 Glided with silken sail and gilded oar. 
 In youth's glad sunny morning — ah ! before 
 Hope left us with her siren melody. 
 
 Smooth went om* bark among the Cyclades ; 
 But soon the storm arose, and winds and rain' 
 O'ertook us darkhng, where the sailor sees 
 
 Afar (oh there a thousand wrecks remain. 
 
 Yet still we careless trust the flattering breeze) 
 Stem Wisdom's temple on Colonna's plain. 
 
 * The island of Rhodes. 
 
234 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How often, not perchance without a tear. 
 The fond reverted eye of fancy sees 
 That time, when pleas' d, because untaught to please. 
 We sang our childhood's carols bhthe and clear. 
 
 Ah ! then we met the merry- closing year 
 
 With smiles, and loved to mark, from aged trees, 
 As wearied of soft converse with the breeze, 
 The leaves fall idly down, so wan and sere. 
 
 Nor can we not, although the dark winds moan 
 At eve, still meditate without a sigh. 
 How like are these sad changes to our own ; 
 
 For, thanks to Him, the Mighty One on high. 
 By whom the powers of Death were overthrown. 
 Our hope is full of immortality. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 235 
 
 THE NAUTILUS. 
 
 Not till the waves are calm, and softly blow 
 The gales, I bid thee, Nautilus, explore 
 The wintry seas ; — how rude and wild they roar ! 
 Stay yet awhile, bold mariner, nor go. 
 
 But if thou wilt — I pray thee, gently row 
 Thy pearly bark with many-twinkling oar ; 
 Nor hoist that tiny sail, but keep ashore 
 Where brightly red the flowers of coral grow. 
 
 Then launch thy pretty boat of lucid shell, 
 And I'll vow gifts, if so Halcyone 
 May bid her mildest genii guard thee well ; 
 
 So shalt thou, earhest pilgrim of the sea, 
 
 Soon, with new wonders laden, come and tell 
 Thy little tale of wanderings to me. 
 
236 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Oxford ! thy bells have toll'd full many an hour 
 Since last I left thee ; yet methinks I seem, 
 Musing with silent memory, to dream 
 Where Magdalen's green-arching trees embower 
 
 Her sage's walk from sultry noonday's power ; 
 Or watch the yellow rays of evening beam 
 Where Isis rolls her silver winding stream 
 By many a cloistered shrine and sacred tower. 
 
 But soon the charm is broken ! Where are they. 
 The friends with whom I parted in the pride 
 Of youth, when every month of Ufe was May ? 
 
 Do they still wander at calm eventide. 
 As when we there together used to stray 
 On Isis bank, or Cherwell's willowy side ? 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 237 
 
 THE PYRAMIDS. 
 
 Whence and what are ye, or what have ye been ? 
 So the dwarf' d pilgrim of the desert sand 
 Cries, wondering. On Eternity's lone strand, 
 Unswept by Time's dark waters, they are seen. 
 
 Each Uke that giant old of hoar Cyllene, 
 
 Who propped the starry axle with his hand ; 
 The Caryatides of Heaven to stand 
 In calm and noiseless majesty serene. 
 
 Ah ! not the minions of an idol fane. 
 
 But monuments of Hope, ye tower sublime. 
 To show despairing man his soul shall reign 
 
 Immortal, in some bright and glorious clime. 
 If thus the labours of his hand remain 
 Triumphant over Death, and Fate, and Time. 
 
238 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 THE POET'S COTTAGE. 
 
 Alas ! all human hopes are like the foam 
 
 On the stern flattering sea. How often there 
 
 They used to sit and talk, a gentle pair, 
 
 Of bright days gone, and brighter days to come ; 
 
 Or, Ustening to the nightingale — as some 
 Old fables say she sings the birth, and fair 
 But short-Hved beauty of the rose, her care — 
 They thought how happy was that cottage home ; 
 
 For such a flower had they. Oh ! far more sweet 
 Than mingling hght of morning and moonshine. 
 In her they watched the child and woman meet. 
 
 But she is gone ; and Peace and Love now join. 
 Like those twin-angels on the mercy- seat, 
 Their spreading wings o'er Anastasia's shrine. 
 
 Sloperton, 1833. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 239 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 How sweetly falls tlie evening ; far away 
 
 The soft wliite clouds are wandering ; the breeze 
 
 Has hushed its lullaby among the trees. 
 
 All rocked to rest like childi-en tired with play. 
 
 And yonder, joyful at the close of day. 
 
 The ploughman, late returning homeward, sees 
 Tlie creeping shadows lengthen o'er the leas. 
 As twihght veils the scene with mantle grey. 
 
 But lo ! the sun is setting, and the night 
 Now gathers rapidly. I'll look behind 
 Once more into the west, where all is bright ; 
 
 Then turn me cheerless to the dark cold wind. 
 Musing, how soon, like that last ray of light, 
 Vanished the joys it vainly brings to mind. 
 
240 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 'Tis sweet yet sad, upon an autumn morn 
 To wander in the quiet fields, and see, 
 Like Ruth, the village-maidens in their glee, 
 Among the reapers and the bending corn. 
 
 Or can we mark, from yonder hoary thorn 
 
 The leaves that Spring hung there, drop silently, 
 And sink to rest beneath their parent tree, 
 Without a thought that we must die forlorn ? 
 
 But now bleak winter comes ; and overhead. 
 The loud and hollow winds, careering by. 
 Sing a wild requiem for the 3^ear that's dead. 
 
 Yet look not round with that despairing eye, 
 O man ! — remember how thy Saviour said, 
 " He that believeth Me shall never die." 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 241 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How art thou fall'n, O Rome ! — alas, no more 
 The proud ' Eternal City.' Where are they, 
 The heroes of thy famous ancient day, 
 Whose valiant deeds were sung by bards of yore ? 
 
 They are gone by ; yet while rude Time flings o'er 
 Their tombs a veil of moss and lichens grey. 
 Sad Echo, sighing lone and far away. 
 Loves their departed glories to deplore. 
 
 And oft, where yellow Tiber rolls his slow 
 Deep- sounding waves around the silent home 
 Of those old wairior-kings who sleep below. 
 
 Their dark and mighty shades are seen to come. 
 And mourn, in calm stern majesty of woe. 
 How thou art fall'n, O proud Imperial Rome. 
 
 M 
 
242 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 And said I that my days of joy were past. 
 
 While thou, my Constance, like the faithful flower 
 That fondly clings around the hoary tower, 
 Veiling its ruins from the keen rude blast — 
 
 Yes, thou art mine ; where'er our lot be cast. 
 Thy love, thy lovehness, with gentle power 
 Shall soothe me, though dark storms of fortune lower; 
 And Hope here anchors her frail bark at last. 
 
 So when Alcyone, with azm*e breast. 
 
 Sings to the seas her sweetly-mournful strain. 
 And charms the troubled waters into rest. 
 
 How soon, beneath her calm and silent reign. 
 Brightly the waves, in countless dimples drest. 
 Glide with soft murmurs o'er the glassy main. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 243 
 
 TO WINTER. 
 
 Lord of the roaring tempest and the storm, 
 Come from thy bleak Norwegian hills afar, 
 Whispering thine antlered ti-ain, on deer-borne car. 
 And scare away the seasons soft and warm ; 
 
 I love them not ; — but on thy giant form 
 Gaze with a savage joy, and mark the war 
 Of elements in wild discordant jar. 
 From Penmaenmawr, or thy dark heights, Tregorme. 
 
 Then come, O king, in gloomy grandeur proud. 
 Come from thy native Hyperborean sea, 
 And bring thy winged messengers, the Cloud, 
 
 And the strong Winds, and arrowy Hail, with thee. 
 Like armies on their march, all ratthng loud 
 With heaven's tumultuous artillery. 
 
244 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Still, early Star, as in old days gone by. 
 From thy pure vestal fire, I'd fain believe, 
 Love lights his bridal lamp at close of eve, 
 And steals abroad with arch and curious eye ; 
 
 And still, O fairest flower, that deck'st the sky 
 With silver foliage, thou dost never grieve. 
 Like these of earth, to see thy sisters leave 
 Their place among those azure fields, and die. 
 
 But we must mourn the lost and parted ; — now. 
 Untroubled wanderer, shed one gentle ray 
 Of hope, to soothe her pale and aching brow, 
 
 While I thus sadly look on thee, and say, 
 Florence, as bright and beautiful as thou. 
 Is, like thee too, alas ! far far away. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 245 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 O BEAUTEOUS DoTG, that gHdcst silently 
 
 Among the deep blue clouds, on wings of snow, 
 Pale-ghttering as the wreaths of foam below 
 Dark waves that dance upon a moonlight sea ; 
 
 Go, for the tempest's gathering rapidly, 
 
 And the night cometh ; gentle stranger, go. 
 
 And bid farewell to this cold world of woe 
 
 And weeping — 'tis no place, sweet bird, for thee. 
 
 But when the winter with its storms is gone, 
 
 (Like her for whom they watch' d, but still in vain, 
 O'er the vast desert waters, faithless one !*) 
 
 Wilt thou too leave us lonely, nor again 
 
 Come with soft silvery plume and tender tone ; 
 A ray of sunshine steahng through the rain ? 
 
 * Genesis, c. viii. v. 12. 
 
246 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I CAN remember shaking down in play 
 
 The careless blossoms from the orchard trees. 
 And thinking, as I strewed them on the breeze. 
 New buds would bloom as fair another day : 
 
 But never since have leaves looked half so gay 
 As then ; — alas ! such idle toys as these 
 Teach me, by losing all their power to please, 
 The little trifler's changed as much as they. 
 
 So the fruit only tells the flower is past 
 For ever ; yet methinks 'tis kindly spoken 
 In fancy's ear, to warn us how we waste. 
 
 Regardless of sad Nature's kindest token. 
 
 Love's loveliest hours, its first, and oh ! its last. 
 As childi'en make their playthings to be broken. 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 247 
 
 GUERCINO'S ' ECCE HOMO.' 
 
 Behold, 'tis He ! — the man of many woes. 
 
 Martyr of this fall'n world ! That purple gown. 
 Doth it not tell, the conqueror hath cast down 
 Sin, and her offspring Death, last vanquished foes ? 
 
 Then hell's dark king, gloomy as night, arose 
 Slow from his sable throne ; but vain thy frown, 
 O Satan ! vain thy sceptre and thy crown. 
 For now thy bitter cup of bale o'erflows. 
 
 Then let the white-robed angel-choirs on high, 
 Rejoicing, sweep their golden harps, and pour 
 Hosannas echoing everlastingly; 
 
 Hark ! — hke unbounded ocean's billowy roar, 
 " Victory and triumph to the Lord," they cry, 
 '* Lo ! He was dead, but Uveth evermore." 
 
248 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How calm and quiet shows the scene ; yet here 
 Methinks some lonely-wandering spirit grieves 
 For those whom Death, the ruthless one, bereaves 
 Of friends ; while o'er those storied orphans' bier 
 
 The pious robin, winter's harbinger. 
 
 Trills its oft pausing note ; and Autumn weaves 
 
 A coronal of yellow forest leaves 
 
 To hide thy ruins pale, O waning year. 
 
 But now the hollow blast begins to rave 
 
 Among the pines. Thou dark and changeless tree, 
 Thy branches seem to whisper as they wave, 
 
 " Think not of time ; 'twill soon be past with thee 
 This side the tomb — but look beyond the grave. 
 And think, O mortal, of eternity." 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 249 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I GAZED with awe and wonder mixed with pain. 
 To see how close the Heathens' zeal pursued 
 The Christians. In wild grandeur, vast and rude. 
 Between the mountains and the sounding main, 
 
 Paestum, three mighty temples on thy plain 
 
 Stand frowning, huge and stern, as they had stood 
 Since man first wrestled there with soHtude, 
 And she fled startled from her ancient reign. 
 
 And then I said — Oh shall not we confess 
 How great their faith, how little is our own. 
 When those old Pagans of the wilderness 
 
 Have raised such altars to a God unknown, 
 And taught the pilgrims of the Cross to bless 
 Their God, whose temple is in heaven alone ? 
 
 M 2 
 
250 , WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Come tell me, little rover, didst thou chase 
 The fading glories of that western sky. 
 And wander from thine home, the storm so nigh. 
 Ah, careless of the night that falls apace ? 
 
 And long, I ween (for that sweet cherub face 
 
 Betrays thee), hast thou watched with sparkhng eye 
 The bright and sunny waves dance trippingly 
 Along those yellow sands in endless race. 
 
 O dost thou, fancy-blest, my lovely boy. 
 
 Dost thou believe these golden dreams will stay. 
 And trust to faithless Hope, that flatterer coy ? 
 
 But may old Time still count to thee each day 
 Of blissful ignorance and sinless joy, 
 Joys that from me were reft, how soon, away ! 
 
"WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 251 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O LONELY bird, why dost thou plaintively 
 Sing to the moon, as, listening thy sad vow, 
 She looks through leafy lattice in the bough 
 Of green o'erarching trees that cloister me ? 
 
 Thus Echo, lost Narcissus, mourns for thee 
 In some lorn cave, whose glassy waters now, 
 As when they bathed the boy's pale pensive brow, 
 Murmur a dim and dreamy melody. 
 
 And, like that unseen mountain maid of yore. 
 Art thou an airy voice, sad Philomel, 
 Warbling thy tale of woes, untold before ? 
 
 Or art thou some kind spirit sent to teU 
 Of those (alas that they are now no more !) 
 We loved in hopelessness, yet loved how weU ? 
 
252 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Who wishes the wild wind to blow, nor grieves 
 To see spring buds of promise falling down 
 As brief as they are fair, before the brown 
 And faded wreaths the last year's tempest leaves ? 
 
 There had the small birds on long summer eves 
 Sung, careless how sere Autumn with his crown 
 
 .' Of amber beads and safiron- coloured gown. 
 The widowed woods of all their bloom bereaves. 
 
 Yet are the happiest of the happy they 
 
 (Did they but know their happiness) who go 
 Before our hopes, those flowers of life, decay — 
 
 They rest as soft and silent as the snow 
 
 By the sea-shore on some calm winter's day ; 
 Alas ! who would not wish the wind to blow ? 
 
WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 253 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Rememberest thou that walk along the strand. 
 
 When last I watched the changing clouds with thee, 
 Nor thought, how soon like them our hopes would he, 
 When Time and Truth, the twins, came hand in hand ? 
 
 And then I said, and gathered on the sand 
 A shell — " How many a wave of yonder sea 
 The winds will roll between this shore and me 
 To-morrow, when I leave my native land." 
 
 That sad to-morrow has fled long since by ; 
 Yet often, as I look upon the v/ide 
 And wandering waters minghng with the sky, 
 
 I think how different was my first spring-tide 
 Of youth, and hpw the days went pleasantly, 
 I knew not why, when thou wert by my side. 
 
254 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 LA PEYROUSE. 
 
 How many a day of sunshine and of rain 
 
 Has fled, Peyrouse, since Hope on untired wing 
 
 Sought thee afar in bright lands wandering 
 
 (Bright must they be, or thou woulds't come again) ; 
 
 Say dost thou hnger by that unknown main 
 In famed Atlantis' isle of changeless Spring, 
 And Hsten to those dark-eyed maids that sing 
 To charm thee with their soft bewitching strain ? 
 
 So that fair boy, as ancient fables teU, 
 
 Lured by some beauteous wood-nymph, went astray 
 To gather wild-flowers by th' enchanted well ; 
 
 Hylas, fond dreamer, cease thy careless play ! 
 But soon the maiden with her envious speU 
 Wafted the little loiterer away. 
 
S. LAMAN BLANCHARD, 2.55 
 
 WISHES OF YOUTH. 
 
 Gaily and greenly let my seasons run : 
 
 And should the war- winds of the world uproot 
 The sanctities of life, and its sweet fruit 
 Cast forth as fuel for the fiery sun ; 
 
 The dews be turn'd to ice ; fair days begun 
 
 In peace wear out in pain ; and sounds that suit 
 Despair and discord keep Hope's harpstring mute 
 Still let me live as Love and Life were one. 
 
 Still let me turn on earth a childlike gaze. 
 And trust the whispered charities that bring 
 Tidings of human truth ; with inward praise 
 
 Watch the weak motion of each common thing, 
 And find it glorious ; — still let me raise 
 On wintry wrecks an altar to the Spring, 
 
256 S. LAMAN BLANCHARD. 
 
 HIDDEN JOYS. 
 
 Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem : 
 There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground 
 But holds some joy, of silence or of sound ; 
 Some sprite begotten of a summer dream. 
 
 The very meanest things are made supreme 
 With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand 
 But moves a bright and million-peopled land, 
 And hath its Eden and its Eves, I deem. 
 
 For Love, though blind himself, a curious eye 
 Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of things. 
 And touched mine ear with power. Thus, far or nigh, 
 
 Minute or mighty, fix'd or free with wings. 
 Delight from many a nameless covert sly 
 Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings. 
 
RICHARD HOWITT. 257 
 
 DEATH AND TIME. 
 
 Time, taunting, said to man, with austere brow, 
 "Thou fool, to pile up monuments of fame ; 
 Thy lesser works are durable as thou — 
 The Pyramids bear not the builder's name." 
 
 Death, Time's dark page, to man in triumph said, 
 "Thy mighty schemes of httle power resign ; 
 Millions, whence thou art sprung, are with the dead — 
 Canst thou escape ? Ev'n Time himself is mine." 
 
 Then man look'd round with a despairing eye. 
 And asked his heart and heaven if this were so ; 
 Straight from the blooming earth and beaming sky. 
 
 And from the soul, came the full answer, * No' : 
 Then hope immortal raised man's brow sublime. 
 And from him shrunk the conquerors. Death and Time. 
 
258 
 
 LADY DACRE. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 WITH TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 
 
 The brook, soft rippling on its pebbled way. 
 With many a winding fondly lingers long 
 In valleys low, stealing wild weeds among, 
 And pendent boughs that o'er its surface play ; 
 
 Its humble pride, stiU to reflect the gay 
 
 And varied flowers that round its mirror throng 
 So I, erewhile, low-warbled my rude song. 
 Echoing Valclusa's sad, melodious lay. 
 
 And as, lured forth along th' unsheltered plain. 
 The little stream at length, with bolder course, 
 Bears tributary waters to the main ; 
 
 I, too, though late, to thee my ofi'ering bear. 
 Adventurous, won by friendship's gentle force 
 From covert shades, the broader light to dare. 
 
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 259 
 
 THE FISHING-SEAT, WHITEKNIGHTS. 
 
 There is a sweet according harmony 
 
 In this fair scene ; — this quaintly-fluted bower ; 
 Those sloping banks, with tree and shrub and flower 
 Bedeck' d ; and those pure waters, where the sky 
 
 In its deep blueness shines so peacefully ; 
 Shines aU unbroken, save with sudden light 
 When some proud swan, majestically bright. 
 Flashes her snowy beauty on the eye : 
 
 Shines all unbroken, save with sudden shade 
 When from the dehcate birch a dewy tear 
 The west-wind brushes. Ev'n the bee's blithe trade. 
 
 The lark's clear carols, sound too loudly here ; 
 A spot it is for far-ofi^ music made. 
 Stillness, and rest — a smaller Windermere. 
 
260 
 
 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PICTURE. 
 
 Young world of peace and loveliness, farewell ! 
 Farewell to the clear lake ; the mountains blue ; 
 The grove, whose tufted paths our eyes pursue 
 Delighted ; the white cottage in the dell 
 
 By yon old church ; the smoke from that small cell 
 Amid the hills slow-rising ; and the hue 
 Of summer air, fresh, delicate, and true. 
 Breathing of light and life, the master-spell. 
 
 Work of the Poet's eye, the Painter's hand. 
 How close to nature art thou, yet how free 
 From earthly stain ! The beautiful, the bland. 
 
 The rose, the nightingale, resemble thee ; 
 Thou art most like the blissful Fairy-land 
 Of Spenser, or Mozart's fine melody. 
 
S. SIMPSON. 261 
 
 THE ANCIENT BRITONS. 
 
 Our fathers worship' d in the mighty woods. 
 The old and mighty, where faint gleams of day 
 Peered through the quivering vault of leaf and spray. 
 Their only shelter in those solitudes. 
 
 Their hymns were chanted to the solemn floods. 
 Or the small brooklet, singing on its way 
 An ancient strain, more ancient than their lay. 
 Or than the stately forest brotherhoods. 
 
 Each grove became a consecrated place ; 
 So very holy, that the timid deer 
 Fled not man's coming, but stood still, and gazed : 
 
 Where is the purity of that old race ? 
 
 Pass'd with their covering of leaves, I fear ; 
 All but its memory from the heart erased. 
 
262 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 TO lONE— I. 
 
 I CANNOT WOO thee, dearest, in such wise 
 As daily suitors borrow ; 'twould offend 
 The sense of my deep passion, so to bend 
 And smile, and play with velvet words and sighs ; 
 
 And art thou angered by this bolder guise ? 
 'Tis but a feint, sweet chider, to extend 
 Thy sway still further o'er the wayward friend 
 Who dotes too dearly on those sovereign eyes. 
 
 Thou know'st thyself — for all that pretty scorn. 
 And peremptory state of thy sweet kind — 
 Lov'd to thy worth and wish, and close entwined 
 
 By his most clasped heart-strings ; whether borne. 
 In absence, on the tablet of the mind. 
 Or present, bringing joy, as sunbeams bring the morn. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 263 
 
 TO lONE.— II. 
 
 O CHIDE me not for silence ; let me lie 
 
 Still at thy feet, up gazing, love ! Do thou 
 But lay those silken fingers on my brow. 
 And fill my vision with thine answering eye ; 
 
 Then bid me sing — and lip and lute shall vie. 
 Though wont of late such biddings to refuse. 
 In minghng strains for thee, mine own fair Muse : 
 So is my being raised, when thou art nigh. 
 
 Alone, I struggle with dark thoughts — my tongue 
 Hath learn'd harsh syllables from Time : and yet. 
 When folded in thy shadow, I forget 
 
 All sense of hate, and weariness, and wrong ; 
 While thoughts, like thee, all beautiful, beset 
 The prison of my heart, and loose its captive. Song. 
 
264 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 MONT BLANC. 
 
 Chief of the giant mountains ! awful form ! 
 
 Alp ! on whose brow, wreathed with eternal snows. 
 Suns smite in vain, when radiant summer glows. 
 And harvests ripen through thy valleys wann ; 
 
 Oft I behold thee girdled with the storm ; 
 
 Oft, when the moon her quiet splendour throws 
 O'er thy vast solitudes, and darkly shows 
 The scars and ruins which thy sides deform. 
 
 Thy summit pure, so free from earthly stain. 
 Seems meet approach to that immortal state, 
 Where Peace unclouded holds her starry reign : 
 
 The few who climb thee, with strange joy elate. 
 Thus mingling with the skies, forget their pain. 
 Like pilgrims fresh-arrived at heaven's ovm gate. 
 
CHARLES STRO>iG. 
 
 200 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 They picture Death a t}Tant, gaunt and grim, 
 And, for his random aim, temper a dart 
 Of bite so mortal, that the fierv smart 
 Consumes, and turns to dust the stoutest hmb. 
 
 Thus dire to meet, yet shrink not they from him, 
 ^^^lO walk, by faith, in singleness of heart ; 
 The simply wise, who choose the watchful part, 
 Nor let their eyelids close, or lamps grow dim. 
 
 Nor always dark and teiTible his mien ; 
 
 As those, who by the couch the night-watch keep, 
 Have known, spectators of the blessed scene. 
 
 When friends, who stand around, joy more than weep, 
 As, with hush'd step, and smile of love serene. 
 In the soft guise he comes of gentle Sleep. 
 
 N 
 
266 
 
 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Constance ! — though on the couch of sickness laid, 
 Thy present ill with pictures of the Past 
 Is oft beguiled ; so fresh the colours last 
 In thy mind's mirror pure, at will displayed ; 
 For thou hast Alp and Apennine surveyed ; 
 Rome on her ruined throne of empire vast ; 
 Art's wonders, forms in mould of beauty cast ; 
 And Nature, lovelier than herself, pourtrayed. 
 Visions of Italy still charm thine eyes ; 
 Often, amid the gloom of sleepless hours. 
 Thy chamber brightens with her happy skies : 
 Her fruits hang golden, fragrant breathe her flowers ; 
 And tuneful, as the day in glory dies. 
 The knell of Evening chimes from convent towers. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 267 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Would I to healthful sounds reclaim my Lyre, 
 I pierce the green wood to some flowery nook — 
 There on sweet Spenser cast regardful look ; 
 He chastens old, and kindles new desire. 
 
 Not more were wont the Muses to inspire 
 
 Dreamers of old with draught from sacred brook 
 Of Castaly, when strange emotions shook 
 Their tunefid souls, as winds the trembling wire. 
 
 From vain dehghts, and lap of slothful down, 
 Bewildered thoughts, and soft infectious speech. 
 Who would escape, must quit the impure town ; 
 
 Returning, where, beneath the white-arm'd beech. 
 By valley's stream, or hillock's verdant crown, 
 Her simple lesson Nature waits to teach. 
 
268 
 
 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS. 
 
 I NEVER with such horror stood aghast. 
 As when, in lone Pompeii's silent street, 
 I felt thy mighty pulse, Vesuvius, heat. 
 And from thy jaws saw hurst the fiery hlast : 
 
 Thunders were loud ; and smoke, in columns vast. 
 Mantled the air with darkness ; and strange heat 
 Warned the sad peasant from his vine- clad seat. 
 As down the fruitful slope the red stream passed. 
 
 I feared lest might return that dreadful horn*. 
 When to their Gods for help the people ran. 
 And there was none, in temple nor in tower : 
 
 And to my vision came the enthusiast man. 
 
 Who perish'd in the breath of that foul shower, 
 Nature's dread secrets obstinate to scan. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 269 
 
 BABBICOMBE. 
 
 Oft Winter, Babbicombe, thy lonely shore 
 
 Hath lashed, since, freighted with a laughing crew, 
 Our bark along the marge of Ocean flew. 
 And stirred with gentle keel thy pebbly floor. 
 
 We recked not what the Future had in store ; 
 Bright as thy embay' d waters, to our view 
 The Present smiled, for Hfe and hope were new. 
 And look of peace the far horizon wore. 
 
 Landed, in happy groups we wandered free : 
 
 Some ranged the woods ; some 'thwart the deep blue air 
 Walked the high chff, and traced a wider sea. 
 
 The rock our table formed, the turf our chair ; 
 Nor sad the guests beneath the whispering tree. 
 For Youth, and Innocence, and Love, were there. 
 
270 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Past the grey tombs what space an arrow flies. 
 The darkening road winds down a hollow glade ; 
 Romantic spot ! and sweetly solemn made 
 By overarching trees of giant size : 
 
 Above, Aricia's battlements arise. 
 
 As on the branches of the lofty shade 
 
 The town were based, with all its long parade 
 
 Of domes and turrets basking in the skies. 
 
 More shadowy depths and varied tints of green 
 Not Vallombrosa clothe. Here, stranger, stay. 
 And on thy tablet spread the sylvan scene. 
 
 Nor charmed alone the prospect's fair array ; 
 Old memories my raptures flashed between. 
 And peopled thick the silent Appian way. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 271 
 
 THE WOODEN WALLS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ye sacred Arks of Liberty, that float 
 
 Where Tamar's waters spread their bosom wide, 
 That seem, with towering stem and rampart side. 
 Like antique castles girt with shining moat ; 
 
 Should War the signal give with brazen throat, 
 No more recumbent here in idle pride, 
 Your rapid prows would cleave the foaming tide. 
 And to the nations speak with thundering note. 
 
 Thus, in the firmament serene and deep, 
 
 When summer clouds the earth are hanging o'er, 
 And aU their mighty masses seem asleep, 
 
 To execute heaven's wrath and judgments sore. 
 
 From their dark wombs the sudden lightnings leap, 
 And vengeful thunders peal from shore to shore. 
 
272 
 
 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 PERUGIA. 
 
 Is this the spot where Rome's eternal foe 
 Into his snares the mighty legions drew, 
 Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few, 
 A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe ? 
 
 Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow. 
 
 That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew 
 So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue 
 Rushed on the bosom of the lake below ? 
 
 The mountains that gave back the battle-cry. 
 Are silent now ; — perchance yon hillocks green 
 Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie ! 
 
 Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene ; 
 Never left softer breeze a fairer sky 
 To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene ! 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 273 
 
 THE LANDSCAPE. 
 
 I STOOD at gaze where the free hills arise. 
 
 Whence rocks 'mid deepest sohtudes are seen, 
 
 And ghmmering through dark fohage, the blue sheen 
 
 Of Ocean stained with heaven's own sapphire dyes : 
 
 Then into the deep air I raised my eyes ; 
 
 The steadfast dome was cloudless and serene. 
 
 Fit roof to overarch so fair a scene. 
 
 For earth in lovehness vied with the skies. 
 
 Enroll' d, methought, among a happier race,. 
 I felt immortal moments as I said 
 " Death finds no entrance here, and Sin no place": 
 
 Then quick to mark where recent footsteps led, 
 I saw One bending o'er the furrow's trace, 
 And on his brow the primal sentence read. 
 
 N 2 
 
274 
 
 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 My window's open to the evening sky ; 
 
 The solemn trees are fringed with golden light ; 
 
 The lawn here shadow' d lies, there kindles bright ; 
 
 And cherished roses lift their incense high. 
 The punctual thrush, on plane-tree warbling nigh. 
 
 With loud and luscious voice calls down the night ; 
 
 Dim waters, flowing on with gentle might. 
 
 Between each pause are heard to murmur by. 
 The book that told of wars in holy-land, 
 
 (Nor less than Tasso sounded in mine ears) 
 
 Escapes unheeded from my listless hand. 
 Poets, whom Nature for her service rears. 
 
 Like Priests in her great temple ministering stand. 
 
 But in her glory fade when she appears, 
 
 Bolham, 1824. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 275 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Lived there beneath the earth in depths profound 
 A race, hke us, with reason's light endued. 
 Yet who, less privileged, had never viewed 
 The sky, the ocean, and the emerald ground ; 
 
 Then were they sudden from these shades unbound. 
 And led into this world, with wonders strewed — 
 As they the spacious theatre reviewed. 
 How would the spectacle delight, confound ! 
 
 The sun, the azure sky, the floating cloud. 
 The sea, woods, rivers, and the flowery sod. 
 And each fair scene the beams of day unshroud : 
 
 The star-paved heaven, by shining planets trod — 
 With eves in wonder raised, and rapture loud. 
 Ah ! would they not exclaim, ' a God ! a God I* 
 
2^6 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 ST. PETER'S, ROME. 
 
 Columns, all statue-crowned, their deep files spread 
 On either hand, whilst from twin fountains spring 
 Waters that beat the air with dewy wing. 
 Then radiant fall upon their marble bed : 
 
 To the majestic front thus proudly led. 
 
 What pencil's force, what strong imagining 
 Shall paint, as back the lofty gates they fling. 
 The firmament of glory overhead ? 
 
 Fit emblem of the great Creator's deed. 
 
 When heaven's blue concave crowned the mighty plan. 
 And the first mortal Earth's young verdure trod. 
 
 The Nations here, forgetful of their creed. 
 Exclaim — O noblest monument of man ! 
 O Temple worthy of the living God ! 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 277 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 I MAY not taste the fragrant breath of Spring, 
 And gaze upon her beauty, and caress 
 The flowers embosom' d with such tenderness. 
 And her sweet advent not be heard to sing ; 
 
 When insects are abroad on gentle wing. 
 
 And birds, melodious, throng the green recess. 
 
 When rising joys all living creatures bless. 
 
 And sounds of gladness through the valleys ring. 
 
 Now Earth's redeemed from winter's icy chain, 
 And buds and blossoms drink the sun-lit shower. 
 And verdant fallows teem with infant grain, 
 
 I too would feel heaven's renovating power. 
 And on the true vine grafted, there remain 
 A living branch, until the vintage hour. 
 
278 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The tidings came — my Brother was no more ! 
 
 Heart- stricken, to the Palatine I went ; 
 
 There on a sculptured stone Time's hand had rent, 
 
 I sat me down my spirit to restore. 
 Friends there were none — they wept on Albion's shore ; 
 
 Yet each grey fane, each aged monument. 
 
 Seemed on my sorrow feelingly intent : 
 
 Such look of S5rmpathy the ruins wore. 
 And men, with whose high deeds the world yet rings. 
 
 Appeared, as evening gloomed; and Conquerors passed, 
 
 With Nations in their train, and captive Kings ; 
 And Voices, from that shadowy concourse vast. 
 
 Whispering the vanity of earthly things. 
 
 Were heard, as flitted by the midnight blast, 
 
 Rome, 1832. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 279 
 
 ROME. 
 
 'TwAS near the walls that gird th' imperial town, 
 Where from a lonely convent's still retreat, 
 I saw, whilst Tiber glowed beneath my feet. 
 From heaven's illumined vault the sun go down. 
 
 The lofty Capitol, hke burnished crown. 
 
 Blazed on the city's brow ; — each hallowed seat. 
 Each mournful rehc of the perished Great, 
 Seemed once more brightening into old renown. 
 
 The Plain in purple haze lay slumbering deep ; 
 The giant arches, that bestrode it, shone 
 A bridge of gold to blue Albano's steep. 
 
 Man, here alas ! for ages overthrown. 
 
 With no gleam kindles, sunk in deathlike sleep : 
 His ruin, Rome, is darker than thine own. 
 
280 CHARLES STRONG. 
 
 THE BACKWARD SPRING. 
 
 Season of bursting leaves ! — for many a day 
 
 I've watched tliy coming-, and strict search have made 
 Beside the tangled copse and open glade. 
 For the fresh charm of new-invested spray. 
 
 Blest dropping clouds ! mild warmth of brighter ray ! 
 At length the chesnut from the brown wood's shade 
 Flings emerald gleams ; along the lane's arcade 
 Elms with green light illuminate my way. 
 
 Yon oak, where build the social birds and pair. 
 Into rich fohage is swarming out. 
 And sunward shineth with a golden glare. 
 
 Ye tardy trees, that hnger still and doubt. 
 Unbind your leafy locks ; the southern air 
 Invites, and stranger cuckoo's meUow shout. 
 
CHARLES STRONG. 281 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 Time, I rejoice, amid the ruin wide 
 
 That peoples thy dark empire, to behold 
 
 Shores against which thy waves in vain have rolled. 
 
 Where man's proud works still frown above thy tide. 
 
 The deep -based Pyramids still turn aside 
 Thy wasteful current ; vigorously old, 
 Lucania's temples their array unfold. 
 Pillar and portico, in simple pride. 
 
 Nor less my joy, when, sheltered from thy storms 
 In earth's fond breast, hid treasure bursts the sod — 
 Elaborate stone in sculpture's matchless forms. 
 
 Oft did I mock thee, spoiler, as I trod 
 
 The glowing courts where still the Goddess warms. 
 And stern in beauty stands the quivered God. 
 
282 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 
 SHERWOOD FOREST.— I. 
 
 The trees in Sherwood Forest are old and good ; 
 The grass beneath them now is dimly seen ; 
 Are they deserted all ? Is no young mien, 
 With loose- strung bugle, met within the wood ? 
 
 No arrow found, foil'd of its antlered food. 
 
 Struck in the oak's rude side ? Is there naught seen 
 To mark the revelries which there have been. 
 In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood ? 
 
 Go there with summer, and with evening — go 
 In the soft shadows like some wandering man, 
 And thou shalt far amid the forest know 
 
 The archer men in green, with belt and bow. 
 Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl, and swan, 
 With Robin at their head, and Marian. 
 
JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 283 
 
 SHERWOOD FOREST.— II. 
 
 With coat of Lincoln -gi-een, and mantle too. 
 And horn of ivory mouth, and buckle bright. 
 And arrows wing'd with peacock feathers light. 
 And trusty bow well- gathered of the yew, 
 
 Stands Robin Hood ; — and near, with eyes of blue 
 Shining through dusk hair, like the stars of night, 
 And habited in pretty forest plight, 
 His greenwood beauty sits, young as the dew. 
 
 O gentle- tressed girl. Maid Marian, 
 
 Are thine eyes bent upon the gallant game 
 
 That stray in merry Sherwood } Thy sweet fame 
 
 Can never, never die. And thou, high man. 
 
 Would we might pledge thee with thy silver can 
 Of Rhenish, in the words of Nottingham ! 
 
284 EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 
 
 TO A BIRD 
 
 THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN IN THE WINTER. 
 
 O MELANCHOLY bird ! — a winter's day 
 Thou standest by the margin of the pool, 
 And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 
 To patience, which all evil can allay : 
 
 God has appointed thee the fish thy prey ; 
 And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 
 
 There need not schools, nor the professor's chair. 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart ; 
 He, who has not enough for these to spare 
 
 Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
 And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair : 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 285 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 What good soever in thy heart or mind 
 
 Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own 
 Than thine own self, nor how to other throne. 
 Suspect and fear ; although therein thou find 
 
 High pui-pose to go forth and bless thy kind. 
 Or in the awful temple of thy soul 
 To worship what is loveHest, and controul 
 The ill within, and by strong laws to bind. 
 
 Good is of God, and none is therefore sure 
 That has dared wander from its source away : 
 Laws without sanction will not long endure ; 
 
 Love will grow faint and fainter day by day ; 
 And Beauty from the straight path will allure. 
 And, weakening first, will afterwards betray. 
 
286 RICHARD CHENBVIX TRENCH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 We live not in our moments or our years ; 
 
 The Present we fling from us like the rind 
 
 Of some sweet Future, which we after find 
 
 Bitter to taste ; or bind that in with fears, 
 And water it beforehand with our tears, 
 
 Vain tears for that which never may arrive : 
 
 Meanwhile, the joy whereby we ought to live, 
 
 Neglected or unheeded disappears. 
 Wiser it were to welcome and make ours 
 
 Whatever of good, though small, the Present brings ; 
 
 Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds, and flowers, 
 With a child's pure dehght in little things ; 
 
 And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, 
 
 Knowing that Mercy ever will endure. 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 287 
 
 TO NICHOLAS, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA, 
 
 ON HIS REPORTED CONDUCT TOWARDS THE POLES. 
 
 What would it help to call thee what thou art ? 
 When all is spoken, thou remainest still 
 With the same pow'r, and the same evil will 
 To ciiish a nation's life out ; to dispart 
 
 All holiest ties ; to turn awry and thwart 
 All courses that kind Nature keeps ; to spill 
 The blood of noblest veins ; to maim, or kill 
 With torture of slow pain, the aching heart. 
 
 When our weak hands hang useless, and we feel 
 Deeds cannot be, who then would ease his breast 
 With th' impotence of words .'' But our appeal 
 
 Is unto Him who counts a nation's tears. 
 With whom are the oppressor and opprest. 
 And vengeance, and the recompensing years. 
 
288 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 How long shall weary nations toil in blood, 
 How often roll the still-returning stone 
 Up the sharp painful height, ere they will own 
 That on the base of individual good. 
 
 Of virtue, manners, and pure homes endued 
 With household graces — that on this alone 
 Shall social freedom stand — where these are gone, 
 There is a nation doomed to servitude ? 
 
 O suiFering, toihng France, thy toil is vain ! 
 The irreversible decree stands sure, 
 Wliere men are selfish, covetous of gain. 
 
 Heady and fierce, unholy and impure. 
 
 Their toil is lost, and fruitless all their pain ; 
 Thev cannot build a work which shall endure. 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, 289 
 
 TO SILVIO PELLICO, 
 
 ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS IMPRISONMENT. 
 
 Ah ! who may guess, who yet was never tried. 
 How fearful the temptation to reply 
 With wrong for wrong ; yea, fiercely to defy 
 In spirit, ev'n when action is denied ? 
 
 Therefore praise waits on thee, not drawn aside 
 By this strong lm*e of heU ; on thee, whose eye. 
 Being form'd by love, could every where descry 
 Love, or some workings unto love allied ; 
 
 And benediction on the grace that dealt 
 
 So with thy soul ; and prayer, more earnest prayer, 
 Intenser longing than before we felt. 
 
 For all that in dark places lying are ; 
 
 For captives in strange lands ; for them who pine 
 In depth of dungeon, or in sunless mine. 
 
 o 
 
290 RICHARD CHENBVIX TRENCH. 
 
 A STREAMLET 
 
 IN THE ISLE OF MULL. 
 
 The clouds are gathering in their western dome. 
 Deep- drench' d with sunhght as a fleece with dew. 
 While I with baffled effort still pursue 
 And track these waters toward their mountain home ; 
 
 In vain — though cataract, and mimic foam, 
 
 And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw 
 Its sister arms, which joy'd to meet anew. 
 Have lured me on, and won me stiU to roam : 
 
 Till now, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass. 
 Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass ; 
 And I, thy founts unvisited, return. 
 
 Is it that thou art revelling with thy peers ? 
 Or dost thou feed a solitary urn. 
 Else unreplenish'd, with thine own sad tears ? 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 291 
 
 VESUVIUS, AS SEEN FROM CAPRI. 
 
 A WREATH of light blue vapour, pure and rare, 
 Mounts, scarcely seen against the bkier sky. 
 In quiet adoration, silently. 
 Till the faint currents of the upper air 
 
 Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there. 
 The dome, as of a palace, hung on high 
 Over the mountain : — underneath it lie 
 Vineyards, and bays, and cities white and fair. 
 
 Might we not hope this beauty would engage 
 AU living things unto one pure dehght ? 
 A vain belief; — for here, our records tell, 
 
 Rome's understanding tyrant, from men's sight 
 Hid, as within a guilty citadel. 
 The shame of his dishonourable age. 
 
292 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 VESUVIUS.— I. 
 
 As when unto a mother, having chid 
 
 Her child in anger, there have straight ensued 
 Repentings for her quick and angry mood, 
 That she would fain see all its traces hid 
 
 Quite out of sight — ev'n so has Nature bid 
 
 Fair flowers, that on the scarr'd earth she has strewed, 
 To blossom ; and call'd up the taller wood 
 To cover what she ruined and undid. 
 
 Oh ! and her mood of anger did not last 
 
 More than an instant ; but her work of peace. 
 Restoring and repairing, comforting 
 
 The earth, her stricken child, will never cease : 
 For that was her strange work, and quickly past ; 
 To this, her genial toil, no end the years shall bring. 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 293 
 
 VESUVIUS.—II. 
 
 That, her destroying fury, was with noise 
 And sudden uproar ; but far otherwise. 
 With silent and with secret ministries. 
 Her skill of renovation she employs ; 
 
 For Nature, only loud when she destroys. 
 Is silent when she fashions. She will crowd 
 The work of her destruction, transient, loud. 
 Into an hour — and then long peace enjoys. 
 
 Yea, every power that fashions and upholds. 
 Works silently. All things whose Hfe is sure, 
 Their life is calm ; silent the light that moulds 
 
 And colours all things ; and, without debate. 
 The stars, which are for ever to endure. 
 Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state. 
 
 o 2 
 
294 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 THE TRUE POET. 
 
 A COUNSELLOR Well fitted to advise 
 
 In daily life ; and at whose lips no less 
 Men may inquire, or nations, when distress 
 Of sudden doubtful danger may arise ; 
 
 Who, though his head be hidden in the skies. 
 Plants his firm foot upon our common earth, 
 Dealing with thoughts which everywhere have birth — 
 This is the Poet, true of heart, and wise. 
 
 No dweller in a baseless world of dream. 
 
 Which is not earth nor heaven ; his words have passed 
 Into man*s common thought and week-day phrase : 
 
 This is the Poet, and his verse will last. 
 
 Such was our Shakespeare once, and such doth seem 
 One who redeems our later gloomier days. 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 295 
 
 SAIS. 
 
 An awful statue, by a veil half-hid. 
 
 At Sais stands. One came, to whom was known 
 All lore committed to Etruscan stone. 
 And all sweet voices that dull time has chid 
 
 To silence now, by antique Pyramid, 
 
 Skirting the desert, heard ; and what the Deep 
 May in its dimly-lighted chambers keep. 
 Where Genii groan beneath the seal-bound lid. 
 
 He dared to raise that yet unlifted veil 
 
 With hands not pure ; but never might unfold 
 What there he saw. Madness, the shadow, fell 
 
 On his few days, ere yet he went to dwell 
 With night's eternal people ; and his tale 
 Has thus remained, and will remain, untold. 
 
296 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 TO THE CONSTITUTIONAL EXILES OF 1823. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1829. 
 
 Wise are ye in a wisdom vainly sought 
 
 Through all the records of th' historic page ; 
 It is not to be leam'd by lengthened age, 
 Scarce by deep musings of unaided thought : 
 
 By suffering and endurance ye have bought 
 A knowledge of the thousand links that bind 
 The highest with the lowest of our kind, 
 And how the indissoluble chain is wrought. 
 
 Ye fell by your own mercy once ; — beware. 
 When your lots leap again from fortune's urn, 
 A heavier error, to be pardoned less : 
 
 Yours be it, to the nations to declare 
 
 That years of pain and disappointment turn 
 Weak hearts to gall, but wise to gentleness. 
 
R. A. THORPE. 297 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I ASK one boon of heaven ; I have indeed. 
 And I will tell it thankfuUy, filled high. 
 Nor ruffled, as I drank it, with a sigh, 
 The cup of joy ; to love has been my meed. 
 
 And to be loved — and ofttimes could I read 
 In others* hearts with mine a sympathy : 
 But Joy and Love beam on us but to die 
 And foster memory, most bitter weed. 
 
 And this has been my bane — to fling behind 
 One look into the west, where day dwells yet. 
 Then turn me shivering to the cold night wind 
 
 And dream of joys and loves that long have set : 
 'Tis for this sleepless viper of the mind 
 I ask one boon of heaven — to forgets 
 
298 
 
 EDMUND PEEL. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Hail, harbinger of summer ! Sweet to me. 
 In April, soundeth thy peculiar song. 
 Heard echoing the woods and vales among. 
 Whence art thou. Cuckoo ? — from beyond that sea 
 
 Which kisses Spain- confronting Barbary ? 
 Or dost thou sweep th' Atlantic waves along, 
 From Tropic regions, round whose blossoms throng 
 Beautiful birds no bigger than a bee ? 
 
 Or dost thou rather, through the leafless time, 
 Lie dormant, buried in a living tomb 
 Of oak or ash, until the genial prime 
 
 Impregnate Nature's all-prolific womb ? 
 However that may be, to every clime 
 Herald art thou of beautv and of bloom. 
 
EDMUND PEEL. 299 
 
 TO AUTUMN. 
 
 Season of changes ! now, with plenty crowned, 
 With golden com and ruddy fruitage gay. 
 And reapers feasting in meridian day ; 
 Now, as if weary of repletion, found 
 
 Strewing with fruits and foHage the ground, 
 Welcoming desolation and decay ; 
 Him, peradventure, eager to obey 
 Who maketh ev'n the barren to abound ; 
 
 Inspire me. Autumn, gratefully to bless 
 
 Who yields the purple grape and yellow grain. 
 Toward all his creatures touch'd with tenderness : 
 
 And when the Walnut its dark leaves doth rain. 
 Startling the soul with Nature's nothingness. 
 Let not the warning voice be heard in vain. 
 
300 
 
 EDMUND PEEL. 
 
 TO WINTER. 
 
 Thou of the snowy vest and hoary hair, 
 
 With icicles down-hanging. Winter, hail ! 
 
 Not mine at thy authority to rail ; 
 
 To call thee stem, bleak, comfortless, and bare, 
 As though thou wert twin-brother of Despair : 
 
 Rather shall praises in my song prevail ; 
 
 Praises of Him who gives us to inhale 
 
 The freshness of the uninfected air. 
 So long as I behold the clear blue sky. 
 
 The carol of the robin-redbreast hear. 
 
 Along the frozen waters seem to fly; 
 Or, softly cushion'd while the fire bums clear, 
 
 Bask in the light of a beloved eye ; 
 
 So long shall Winter to my soul be dear. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES, &c. 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 Page 1 2. 
 
 From Dr. Nott's quarto edition of his works. The first of 
 these two Sonnets, of which Warton says that " only a writer 
 who viewed the beauties of Nature with poetic eyes, could have 
 selected the vernal objects of which this exquisite ode (as he 
 calls it) is composed," was impudently adopted by a poet of the 
 name of Petowe, in a portion of his work entitled Philochasander 
 and Elanira. 
 
 The time when this sweet fair her progress took 
 
 Was when fresh Spring, that bud and bloom forth bring, 
 
 With green had clad the hills, and every brook 
 With crystal gliding streams did sweetly spring; 
 
 The nightingale with feathers new did sing, 
 
 Summer was come, for every spray did spring. 
 
 The buck in brake his winter coat did cast, 
 The turtle to her mate hath told her tale, 
 The adder all her slough away did waste, 
 
 The hart had hung his old head on the pale. 
 And thus I saw among these pleasant things 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 
 
 The resemblance is rather too obvious to have been accidental. 
 Of the word 'smale' in line 10, Dr. Nott observes — "smaZe for 
 small is not a poetic license to accommodate the rhyme to vale, 
 tale, &c., but the old mode both of spelling, and I doubt not of 
 pronouncing the word; for it occurs so spelt in passages which 
 are not connected with rhyme. Many instances to show the 
 word was generally pronounced as written, might be adduced 
 from Chaucer. 
 
304 NOTES. 
 
 The Sonnet at page 2 is an imitation of the following by 
 Petrarch ; — 
 
 Or, che'l ciel' e la terra', e'l vento tace, 
 
 E le fere e gli augelli il sonno affrena, 
 
 Notte'l carro stellato in giro mena, 
 
 E nel suo letto il mar senz' onda giace; 
 Vegghio, penso, ardo, piango ; e chi mi sface, 
 
 Sempre m'e innanzi, per mia dolce pena: 
 
 Guerra e'l mio stato, d'ira, e di duol plena; 
 
 E sol di lei pensando ho qualche pace. 
 Cosi sol d' una chiara fonte viva 
 
 Move'l dolce e I'amaro, ond'io mi pasco: 
 
 Una man sola mi risana, e punge. 
 E perche '1 mio niartir non giunga a riva, 
 
 Mille volte il di moro, e mille nasco; 
 
 Tanto dalla salute mia son lunge. 
 
 " The opening of this Sonnet" says Dr. Nott of the second, "is 
 imitated by Sackville in the following highly wrought stanza, 
 from his Complaint of the Duke of Buckingham;-^ 
 
 Midnight was come, when every vital thing 
 
 "With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest. 
 
 The beasts were still ; the little birds that sing 
 Now sweetly slept beside their mothers' breast; 
 The old, and all were shrouded in their nest. 
 
 The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease ; 
 
 The woods, the fields, and all things held their peace. 
 
 Mirror for Mag. fol. 221. Ed. 1587. 
 
 ' ' In translating the description of Night in the Fourth Book of 
 the iEneid, Surrey seems to have had his own Sonnet in view. 
 The whole passage is V^ery beautiful; — 
 
 It was then night : the sound and quiet sleep 
 
 Had through the earth the wearied bodies caught; 
 
 The woods, the raging seas, were fall'n to rest, 
 
 When that the stars had half their course declined. ' 
 
 The fields whist ; beasts, and fowls of divers hue, 
 
NOTES. 305 
 
 And what so that in the broad lakes remained, 
 Or yet among the bushy thicks of briar, 
 Laid down to sleep by silence of the night 
 'Gan 'suage their cares, mindless of travails past." 
 
 To Surrey we are indebted not only for the Sonnet but for 
 Blank Heroic Verse — all writers agreeing that his translations of 
 the Second and Fourth Book of the ^neid (from the latter of 
 which the foregoing lines are an extract) is the earliest specimen 
 of that species of verse in our language.* Dr. Nott inclines to 
 the opinion that Surrey's adoption of blank verse originated 
 wholly with himself; though Warton and others have maintained 
 that he borrowed the invention from Trissino's Italia Liherata. 
 The question is discussed at page 200 of Dr. Nott's Dissertation 
 on the state of English Poetry before the sixteenth century. 
 
 This note may be appropriately concluded in the words of 
 Mr. Southey, prefixed to his selections from Surrey's poems, 
 
 " Few poets who have written so little have produced so great 
 an effect upon the literature of their country. In this he 
 resembles his contemporary Garcilaso, with whom he has other 
 points of resemblance : but Garcilaso wrote in a language which 
 was more formed; and though he affected the fashion of his 
 country's poetry as much, was far from improving it in an equal 
 degree. Surrey was the first English poet who wrote metrically ; 
 and the first who used blank verse — that verse which, for its 
 peculiar and excellent adaptation to the English language, ought 
 to be called the English measure. He wrote also the first 
 English Sonnets; and he used the ternal rhyme of Dante — a 
 metre, by its solemn continuity, so suited to grave subjects, that 
 some poet will surely one day make for himself a lasting reputa- 
 tion by worthily employing it." 
 
 Surrey was born about the year 1318, (the exact date of his 
 birth is uncertain), and died in 1347. See Dr. Nott's Me- 
 moirs of the Earl of Surrey, and The Loves of the Poets (vol i. 
 p. 183) for an account of The Fair Geraldine, the subject of most 
 of Surrey's poems. 
 
 * " The earliest blank verse extant was written by Saint Francis,"— 
 Mrs. Jameson. 
 
306 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 Page 3 — 9. 
 
 Passing over the two hundred authors, said by Oldys, in his 
 manuscript additions to Winstanleys Lives of the Poets, to have 
 written in praise of Sir Philip Sidney, I shall content myself 
 with transcribing a few passages from the second series of The 
 Essays of Elia. 
 
 *' Sidney's Sonnets — I speak of the best of them — are among 
 the very best of their sort. They fall below the plain moral 
 dignity, and sanctity, and high yet modest spirit of self-approval, 
 of Milton, in his compositions of a similar structure. They are 
 in truth what Milton, censuring the Arcadia, says of that work 
 (to which they are a sort of after-tune or application), 'vain 
 and amatorious' enough, yet the things in their kind (as he 
 confesses to be true of the romance) may be ' full of worth and 
 wit.' * * * * rp^g general beauty of them is, that they 
 are so perfectly characteristical. The spirit of ' learning and of 
 chivalry' — of which union, Spenser has entitled Sidney to have 
 been the ' president' — shines through them. I confess I can see 
 nothing of the 'jejune' or 'frigid' in them; much less of the 
 'stiff' and 'cumbrous' — which I have sometimes heard objected 
 to the Arcadia. The verse runs off swiftly and gallantly. * * 
 They abound in felicitous phrases — 
 
 O heavenly fool ! thy most kiss-worthy face — 
 
 , sweet pillows, sweetest bed, 
 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
 
 But they are not rich in words only — in vague and unlocalised 
 feelings — the failing too much of some poetry of the present 
 day — they are full, material, and circumstantiated. Time and 
 place appropriate every one of them. It is not a fever of 
 passion wasting itself upon a thin diet of dainty words, but a 
 transcendent passion, pervading and illuminating action, pursuits, 
 studies, feats of arms, the opinions of contemporaries, and his 
 judgment of them. An historical thread runs through them, 
 which almost affixes a date to them; marks the when and where 
 they were written." 
 
NOTES. 307 
 
 Sidney, of whom it has been said that his life was poetry 
 put into action, perished at the battle of Zutphen, 1386, in the 
 thirty-third year of his age. " He had trod," says an eloquent 
 writer, "from his cradle to his grave, amid incense and flowers — 
 and died in a dream of glory."* See a brief but eloquent tribute 
 to the genius of this chivalrous poet, in Mr. S. C. Hall's Book of 
 Gems, a delightful and instructive volume. 
 
 The Stella of Sidney's poetry, and the Philoclea of his Ar- 
 cadia, was the Lady Penelope Devereux, the elder sister of the 
 favourite Essex. She is described as a woman of exquisite 
 beauty, dark sparkling eyes, pale brown hair, a rich vivid com- 
 plexion, a regal brow and a noble figure. The projected union 
 betVeen Sidney and Lady Penelope — she had been his destined 
 bride i'rom childhood — was broken off by their respective fami- 
 lies, for reasons which do not appear. She was afterwards 
 married to Lord Rich, but was legally divorced from him in 
 1605, and became the wife of Charles Blount, Lord Mount- 
 joy, then Earl of Devonshire, who in early life had disputed 
 with Sidney the first place in her heart. The Earl died about 
 a year after his marriage ; his Countess survived him but a short 
 time, and died in miserable obscurity. For a more particular 
 history of this celebrated but unfortunate woman, see the first 
 volume of The Loves of the Poets, p. 249, from which the 
 above abridgement is taken. 
 
 Mr. Southey, in a letter to Sir Egerton Brydges (Brydges' 
 Autobiography), says — "Sidney's ' Stella' cannot have been Lady 
 Rich, because his poems plainly relate to a successful passion, 
 and because the name was applied to his widow." 
 
 In Coleridge's Table Talk there is a witty remark on the word 
 Stella, which may not be altogether out of place here ; — " I think 
 Swift adopted the name of Stella, which is a man's name with 
 a feminine termination, to denote the mysterious epicene rela- 
 tion in which poor Miss Johnston stood to him." 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 Page 10—17. 
 The first of these Sonnets is from Visions of the WorlcVs 
 Vanity — the rest are from Amoretti. 
 
 * Effigies Poeticee. — p. 14. 
 
308 NOTES. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 Page 18. 
 Prefixed to the three first books of The Faery Queen, and signed 
 W. R. This Sonnet is essentially a conceit. 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Page 19. 
 
 From Delia. Daniel's Sonnets are unworthy of his genius, 
 which was undoubtedly of a high order. Mr. Southey has thus 
 briefly characterized the poet and his writings ; — 
 
 " Daniel frequently writes below his subject and his strength; 
 but always in a strain of tender feeling, and in language as easy 
 and natural as it is pure. For his diction alone he would deserve 
 to be studied by all students or lovers of poetry, even if his 
 works did not abound with passages of singular beauty. Thought- 
 ful, grateful, right-minded, and gentle-hearted, there is no poet, 
 in any language, of whom it may be inferred with more certainty, 
 from his writings, that he was an amiable, and wise, and good 
 man." And Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, (vol. ii. p. 82) 
 says of him; — " This poet's well-merited epithet is that of the 
 "• ivell-languaged Daniel'; but, likewise, and by the consent of his 
 contemporaries, no less than of all succeeding critics, the 'prosaic 
 Daniel'. Yet those who thus designate this wise and amiable 
 writer, from the frequent incorrespondency of his diction with 
 his metre, in the majority of his compositions, not only deem 
 them valuable and interesting on other accounts, but willingly 
 admit that there are to be found throughout his poems, and 
 especially in his Epistles and in his Hymen s Triumph, many and 
 exquisite specimens of that style, which, as the neutral ground 
 of prose and verse, is common to both." 
 
 Daniel's literary labours were not restricted to poetry. In 
 1613 and 1616 he published a History of England from the 
 Norman conquest to the death of Edward III. His style is 
 remarkably elegant and pure. 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Page 20. 
 Drayton's Polyolbion and Nymphidia have secured for their 
 author a celebrity which his Sonnets never could have obtained. 
 
NOTES. 309 
 
 Some noble passages of genuine poetry enrich the dry topo- 
 graphical details of the former; and the latter is throughout 
 a graceful record of Fairy enchantments. Mrs. Jameson, in her 
 Loves of the Poets, has said, "He loved a lady of Coventry, 
 to whom he promises an immortality he has not been able 
 to confer." Ben Jonson estimated the abilities of the poet more 
 highly when he composed the following inscription for his 
 monument; — 
 
 Do, pious marble, let thy readers know 
 
 What they and what their children owe 
 
 To Drayton's name, whose sacred dust 
 
 We recommend unto thy trust. 
 
 Protect his memory, and preserve his story; 
 
 Remain a lasting monument of his glory. 
 
 And when thy ruins shall disclaim 
 
 To be the treasurer of his name, 
 
 His name, that cannot fade, shall be 
 
 An everlasting monument to thee. 
 
 In an excellent paper on the Greek Pastoral Poets, in a recent 
 number oi Frasers Magazine, Drayton is spoken of as "one of 
 the manliest and most sincere of our elder poets"; and that most 
 extraordinary and clever book. The Doctor, (P. I.) does justice 
 to him in the following words; — " He was a poet by nature, and 
 carefully improved his talent; one who sedulously laboured to 
 deserve the approbation of such as were capable of appreciating 
 and cared nothing for the censures which others might pass 
 upon him. ' Like me that list', he says 
 
 . ' my honest rhymes 
 
 Nor care for critics, nor regard the times; ' 
 And though he is not a poet virum volitare per ora, nor one of 
 those whose better fortune it is to live in the hearts of their 
 devoted admirers, yet what he deemed his greatest work will be 
 preserved by its subject; some of his minor poems have merit 
 enough in their execution to ensure their preservation, and no 
 one who studies poetry as an art will think his time misspent in 
 perusing the whole, if he have any real love for the art he is 
 pursuing." Drayton died in 1631. 
 
 p2 
 
310 NOTES. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Page 21.— 46. 
 
 The history of Shakespeare's Sonnets has been a fertile source 
 of perplexity to his biographers and critics. The subject of them 
 has been supposed to be the Earl of Pembroke, who died in 
 1630, aged 50 years. Coleridge's Table Talk, (vol. ii. p. 178) 
 contains a curious passage connected with this topic: — 
 
 " I believe it possible that a man may, under certain states of 
 the moral feeling, entertain something deserving the name of 
 love towards a male object — an affection beyond friendship, and 
 wholly aloof from appetite. In Elizabeth's and James's time it 
 seems to have been almost fashionable to cherish such a feeling; 
 and perhaps we may account in some measure for it by consider- 
 ing how very inferior the women of that age, taken generally, 
 were in education and accomplishment of mind to the men. Of 
 course there were brilliant exceptions enough; but the plays of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher — the most popular dramatists that ever 
 wrote for the English stage — will show us what sort of women 
 it was generally pleasing to represent. Certainly the language 
 of the two friends, Musidorus and Pyrocles, in the Arcadia, is 
 such as we could not now use except to women ; and in Cervantes 
 the same tone is sometimes adopted, as in the novel of the Curious 
 Impertinent. And I think there is a passage in the New 
 Atlantis of Lord Bacon, in which he speaks of the possibility of 
 such a feeling, but hints the extreme danger of entertaining it, 
 or allowing it any place in a moral theory. I mention this with 
 reference to Shakespeare's Sonnets, which have been supposed, 
 by some, to be addressed to William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, 
 whom Clarendon calls the most beloved man of his age, though 
 his licentiousness was equal to his virtues. I doubt this. I do 
 not think that Shakespeare, merely because he was an actor, 
 would have thought it necessary to veil his emotions towards 
 Pembroke under a disguise, though he might probably have 
 done so if the real object had perchance been a Laura or a 
 Leonora. It seems to me that the Sonnets could only have come 
 from a man deeply in love, and in love with a woman ; and there 
 is one sonnet which, from its incongruity, I take to be a purposed 
 blind. These extraordinary Sonnets form, in fact, a poem of so 
 many stanzas of fourteen lines each; and, like the passion which 
 
NOTES. 311 
 
 inspired them, the Sonnets are always the same, with a variety 
 of expression — continuous, if you regard the lover's soul — distinct, 
 if you listen to him, as he heaves them sigh after sigh. 
 
 "These Sonnets, like the Venus and Adonis, and the Rape 
 of Lucrece, are characterized by boundless fertility and laboured 
 condensation of thought, with perfection of sweetness in rhythm 
 and metre." 
 
 To this passage the editor of Table Talk annexes the fol- 
 lowing note; — "The dedication by T. T. (Thomas Thorpe) 
 is to 'the only begetter of these ensuing sonnets, Mr. W. H.' 
 and Malone is inclined to think that William Hughes is meant. 
 As to Mr. W, H. being the ojily begetter of these Sonnets, it 
 must be observed, that at least the last twenty-eight are beyond 
 dispute addressed to a woman. I suppose the 20th Sonnet * 
 was the particular one conceived by Mr. C. to be a blind; but it 
 seems to me that many others may be so construed, if we set out 
 with a conviction that the real object of the poet was a woman." 
 This interesting subject is discussed at some length, with the 
 characteristic eloquence and enthusiasm of the writer, in Mrs. 
 Jameson's Loves of the Poets, a work to which I take the pre- 
 sent opportunity of declaring myself indebted for much infor- 
 mation and delight. Mrs. Jameson is of opinion that some of 
 the Sonnets are addressed to the poet's amiable friend, Lord 
 Southampton ; and others, in Southampton's name, to that 
 beautiful Elizabeth Vernon, to whom the Earl was so long and 
 ardently attached. That Southampton is the subject of the 
 first fifty-five Sonnets she thinks is sufficiently clear, and that 
 others are scattered through the rest of the volume, on the 
 same subject. Many, however, are evidently inspired by the 
 real object of a real passion, of whom nothing is known but 
 that she was dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she excelled in 
 music, and "was one of a class of females who do not always, 
 in losing all right to our respect, lose also their claim to the 
 admiration of the sex who wronged them, or the compassion of 
 the gentler part of their own, who have rejected them." For 
 additional particulars respecting the subject of Shakespeare's 
 Sonnets (a beautiful edition of which constitutes the twentieth 
 volume of Pickering's Aldine British Poets), see Donee's Illustra- 
 tions of Shakespeare. 
 
 * Not in this Collection. 
 
312 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 To Shakespeare's Sonnets Mr. Wordsworth pays the following 
 tribute in the Supplement to his Preface. 
 
 "There is extant a small volume of miscellaneous poems, in 
 which Shakespeare expresses his own feelings in his own person. 
 It is not difficult to conceive that the editor, George Steevens, 
 should have been insensible to the beauties of one portion of 
 that volume, the Sonnets; though there is not a part of the 
 writings of this poet, where is found, in an equal compass, a 
 greater number of exquisite feelings felicitously expressed." 
 
 Numerous testimonies to the worth of Shakespeare's Sonnets 
 might be added ; the above, coming as it does from one of the 
 highest living authorities, will suffice. 
 
 Many of the Sonnets, unfortunately, are degraded by allusions 
 and expressions which, however unexceptionable they were 
 considered in the sixteenth century, could scarcely fail to 
 encounter censure by the more fastidious taste of the nineteenth. 
 In deference, therefore, to modern scruples, I have excluded all 
 such as were in the least likely to offend, although by so doing 
 I am aware that much beauty has been sacrificed. There are 
 other Sonnets, abounding in exquisite thoughts and lines, but of 
 unequal merit; — these are also omitted in this selection. The 
 lover of genuine poetry may be referred to the Sonnets of 
 Shakesi^eare as to an inexhaustible mine of the most precious ore. 
 The extreme beauty of the following extract from a letter 
 addressed by the Earl of Leicester to his daughter Dorothy, 
 Countess of Sunderland, (Waller's Sacharissa), on the melan- 
 choly occasion of her husband's death at the battle of Newbury, 
 might sufficiently vindicate its appearance here, even if it did 
 not bear a striking resemblance, in purity and tenderness of 
 sentiment, to the exquisite Sonnet at page 29. 
 
 " Your reason will assure you, that besides the vanity of 
 bemoaning that which hath no remedy, you offend him whom 
 you loved, if you hurt that person whom he loved. Remember 
 how apprehensive he was of your dangers, and how sorry for 
 any thing that troubled you. Imagine how he sees that you 
 afflict and hurt yourself. You will then believe, that though he 
 lookuponit without any perturbation, for that cannot be admitted 
 by that blessed condition wherein he is, yet he may censure 
 you, and think you forgetful of the friendship that was between 
 you, if you pursue not his desires in being careful of yourself, 
 
NOTES. 313 
 
 who was so dear unto him. But he sees you not. He knows not 
 what you do. "Well, what then? Would you do anything that 
 would displease him if he knew it, because he is where he doth 
 not know it? I am sure that was never in your thoughts; for 
 the rules of your actions were, and must be, virtue, and affection 
 to your husband; not the consideration of his ignorance or 
 knowledge of what you do; that is but an accident; neither do 
 I think that his presence was at any time more than a circum- 
 stance not at all necessary to your abstaining from those things 
 that might displease him." 
 
 In the Sonnet at page 37, I have taken the liberty of substituting 
 ' her pipe' for ' his pipe' in 1. 8., though the latter reading, which 
 is inconsistent with the sense of the 11th and 13th verses, is 
 adopted in all editions. 
 
 RICHARD BARNFIELD. 
 
 Page 47. 
 
 This Sonnet has been (improperly, I think,) ascribed to 
 Shakespeare; the following notice of it occurs in the Life of 
 Spenser prefixed to Mr. Pickering's handsome edition of that 
 poet's works, 1825; — 
 
 " Shakespeare has testified his admiration of Spenser in the 
 Sonnet in praise of Music and Poetry, printed in The Passionate 
 Pilgrim, if that sonnet be properly ascribed to him. The 
 Passionate Pilgrim was published in 1599; but in the preceding 
 year appeared a collection of poems by Richard Barnfield, 
 amongst which this sonnet is found; and, as the publisher of the 
 former has not been very scrupulous, in other instances, in ap- 
 propriating to Shakespeare property which did not belong to 
 him, there is some reason, from this circumstance, to doubt the 
 propriety of ascribing it to him. It is, however, a pretty Sonnet, 
 and would not discredit even Shakespeare." 
 
 BARNABY BARNES. 
 Page 48. 
 
 From A Divine Centurie ofSpirituall Sonnets, 1595, 4to. Barnes 
 was also the author of Four Books of Offices, 1606, foL; and 
 The Devil's Charter, a tragedy, 1607, 8vo. The Divine Centurie 
 is very rare. 
 
314 NOTES. 
 
 KING JAMES I. 
 Page 49. 
 
 This Sonnet and another, the latter a specimen of James's 
 worst style, appear in Percy's Reliques; vol. ii. p. 306 — third 
 edition. Of this sonnet Dr. Percy says that "it would not dis- 
 honour any writer of James's time." Another Sonnet by James 
 may be met with in Ellis's Specimens of the Early English 
 Poets — and a fourth is published in the Life of Sir Philip 
 Sidney, by William Gray, Esq., of Magdalen College, and the 
 Inner Temple, Oxford, 1829. Several Sonnets by the royal 
 poet are contained in The Essayes of a Prentiss in the Divine 
 Art of Poesie, reprinted by Ballantyne in 1814, with a prefatory 
 memoir by R. P. Gillies, Esq. F. S. A. E. See also His Ma- 
 jesties Poeticall Exercises at vacant hours. 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 Page 50. 
 
 From Diana. — At the close of the above mentioned Life 
 of Sidney by Mr. Gray, four Sonnets addressed to the soul of 
 the chivalric poet, and prefixed to the first edition of his 
 Defence of Poesy, but omitted in every subsequent publication 
 of that treatise, will be found. They are greatly below mediocrity. 
 Constable, though abundantly flattered in his day, has left little 
 behind him that justifies the exalted opinion formed of his 
 poetical abilities by his contemporaries ; I have accordingly given 
 only one specimen of his writing. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Page 51. 
 
 From Todd's Introductory Remarks to the Sonnets of Milton ; 
 see his valuable edition of the great poet's works, vol. vi. p. 
 440. This Sonnet, Mr. Todd informs us, is taken from a very 
 curious little volume in manuscript, of several Sonnets, Satires, 
 Epigrams, &c., written by different poets in the reign of 
 Elizabeth; the volume was presented to him by Mr. Alderman 
 Bristow, bookseller in Canterbury. To the end of the Sonnet 
 Mr. Todd affixes the following observation. "This Sonnet 
 confirms Dr. Birch's conjecture that Henry Constable was the 
 
NOTES. 315 
 
 same person who fled from his country on account of his attach- 
 ment to the Popish religion." In the same page with the 
 
 above Sonnet is another, by Constable himself, addressed to 
 the King of the Scots in a style of the most inflated eulogy. 
 A second addressed to James I. will be found among the Notes 
 to the Thirty-fourth Book of Harrington's Orlando Furioso. It 
 was prefixed to His Majesties Poeticall Exei-clses. 
 
 JOHN DONNE. 
 
 Page 52—53. 
 
 Donne's poetry is remarkable for the union of vigour and 
 quaintness; many of his single lines, and some whole passages, 
 are beyond all praise; but the uncommon inaccuracy of his 
 prosody in the majority of his works, will for ever preclude them 
 from enjoying the extensive favour to which their intrinsic 
 merits entitle them. The fourth line in the first of the Sonnets 
 printed in this work is eminently beautiful, and may probably 
 have suggested the leading thought in the annexed passages ; — 
 
 I look upon the wide and silent sea 
 That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps : — how still, 
 Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies ; 
 Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam. 
 The eve of pleasant Yesterdays. 
 
 Bowles. 
 
 A concave, free from shrubs and mosses grey; 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray. 
 Some statue, placed amid these regions old. 
 For tutelary service, thence had rolled. 
 Startling the flight of timid Yesterday. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The well known and beautiful lines 
 
 " the pure and eloquent blood 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
 Ye might have almost said her body thought;" 
 are by Donne, and were written on Elizabeth Drury, the only 
 daughter of his patron and friend, Sir Robert Drury. 
 
316 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Dr. Donne's character was not less eccentric than his verses. 
 On recovering from a dangerous illness, he caused himself to be 
 wrapped up in a winding-sheet, like a dead body; and standing 
 with his eyes shut, and with so much of the sheet put aside as 
 might discover his thin and deathlike face, he had his portrait 
 painted, and placed by his bed-side, where it continued to hang 
 as his constant remembrancer, until the day of his death. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 Page 54. 
 
 From The Teynple; or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations. 
 Many of Herbert's poems are exquisite — such, for example, as 
 his ' Virtue' — ' Death' — ' Life' — ' Employment' — ' Jordan' — 
 ' Sunday' — ' The World,' a truly magnificent specimen of sacred 
 poetry — 'The Flower' — and 'Peace.' Of the Sonnet printed 
 in this collection, ]\Ir. Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, 
 observes that it is "equally admirable for the weight, number, 
 and expression of the thoughts, and for the simple dignity of the 
 language — unless indeed a fastidious taste should object to the 
 latter half of the sixth line." In a note to Aids to Reflection by 
 the same author it is also praised for " the purity of the language, 
 and the fulness of the sense," Notwithstanding the repulsive 
 quaintness and flagrant violations of taste by which the generality 
 of Herbert's compositions are more or less distinguished, the 
 lover of poetry can open few books better calculated than The 
 Temple to instruct and delight. 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Page 55—72. 
 
 There is a striking similarity between the Sonnet at page 65 
 and the following by Pietro Bembo : — 
 
 Lieta e chiusa contrada! ov' io m' involo 
 Al vulgo, e meco vivo, e meco albergo, 
 Chi mi t' invidia or che, i Gemelli a tergo 
 * Lasciando, scalda Febo il nostro polo? 
 
NOTES. 317 
 
 Rade volte in te sento ira, ne duolo, 
 
 Ne gli occhi al ciel si spesso e le voglie ergo, 
 Ne tante carte altrove aduno e vergo, 
 Per levarmi talor, s' io posso, a volo. 
 
 Quanto sia dolce un solitario state, 
 
 Tu m' insegnasti, e quanto aver la mente 
 Di cure scarca e di sospetti sgombra. 
 
 O cara selva, o fiumicello amato ! 
 
 Cangiar potess' io '1 mare, e il lito ardente, 
 Con le vostre fredd' acque e la verd' ombra ! 
 
 The following variety of the Sonnet at page 71 has been 
 ascribed to Daniel. Drummond and he must share the honour 
 between them. 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
 Relieve my languish, and restore the light. 
 With dark forgetting of my care's return ; 
 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth; 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
 Without the torment of the night's untruth. 
 
 Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
 To model forth the passions of the morrow : 
 Never let rising sun approve you liars. 
 
 To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 To Mr. Peter Cunningham's edition of Drummond's poems 
 (the text of which I have, with very few exceptions, followed) 
 are added a few compositions, taken from the Archczologia 
 Scotica, and printed by permission of the Antiquarian Society 
 of Edinburgh, From these I have selected the irregular Sonnet 
 at page 72, appended to which is the following note by Mr. 
 David Laing; — 
 
 "It would have been very gratifying to have been able to 
 ascertain on what poem this very beautiful Sonnet was written. 
 
318 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 For solemn grandeur it may be compared with the best of Milton's 
 Sonnets; and the mention of the 'sacred band' may suggest to 
 the reader his fine words, 
 
 . And the repeated air 
 
 Of sad Electra's Poet had the power ' 
 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare." 
 
 It is generally admitted that Milton read and deeply admired 
 Drummond. Edward Philips, Mlton's nephew, in his Preface to 
 a second edition of Drummond's Poems (1656) says — " Here are 
 all those graces met together that conduce any thing toward the 
 making up of a complete and perfect poet; a decent and becom- 
 ing majesty; a brave and admirable height; and a wit so flowing, 
 that Jove himself never drank nectar that sparkled with more 
 sprightly lustre." 
 
 "If any poems," says Mr. Pinkerton, "possess a very high 
 degree of that exquisite Doric delicacy which we so much ad- 
 mire in Comus, &c. those of Drummond do. Milton may often 
 be traced in him ; and he had certainly read and admired him. 
 Drummond was the first who introduced into English that fine 
 Italian vein; a,nd if we had had no Drummond, perhaps we 
 should never have seen the delicacies of ' Comus,' ' Lycidas,' 
 'II Penseroso,' 'L' Allegro." 
 
 Such of Drummond's Sonnets as are most remarkable for 
 what Mr. Pinkerton calls ' that fine Italian vein' are remarkable 
 also for an unusual degree of false ornament and bad taste. 
 The frigid concetti, as well as the melody of Italian poetry, 
 found in the melancholy recluse of Hawthornden a willing and 
 a skilful imitator. For an example of exaggerated metaphor, 
 see his very melodious Sonnet beginning ' O sacred blush,' in 
 which the ' words' of his mistress are said to be ' golden chains* 
 enslaving the ears of the unhappy lover — much after the fashion 
 of one of the deities of the Druids, Ogmius, the god of elo- 
 quence, who was painted as an aged man surrounded by a 
 great multitude of people, with slender chains reaching from 
 his tongue to their ears. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 Page 73—89. 
 Sir Egerton Brydges, Milton's last biographer, and in some 
 respects his best, has spoken of the Sonnets thus : — 
 
NOTES. 319 
 
 "Many are very grand in their nakedness: they have little of 
 picturesque imagery. Their sublimity is argumentative ; it is 
 intellectual and spiritual. There is something at times of rug- 
 gedness and involution in the words; they rarely flow. They 
 are spoken as by one, who, conscious of the force of the thought, 
 scorns ornament; they have something of the brevity and the 
 dictatorial tone of the oracle, and seem to come from one who 
 feels conscious that he is entitled to authority. * * If it can 
 be shown that in any one there is not much sterling ore, I will 
 give it up. In all, there is some important thought, or opinion, 
 or sentiment developed. * * * -^^^^ q^^q jg g^ mere effusion 
 of idle words or insipid common-place ; not one has the appear- 
 ance of being written for the sake of writing. * * * jf ^^y 
 one can read them without both pleasurable excitation and im- 
 provement, he has a sort of mind which it would be vain to 
 attempt to cultivate ; a barren soil, or one overgrown with 
 weeds and prejudices." 
 
 But perhaps the justest criticism of Milton's Sonnets is the 
 following emphatic fragment from one of Mr. "Wordsworth's : — 
 
 Soul-animating strains — alas! too few. 
 
 Mr. T. Warton has the following note on the conclusion of 
 the Sonnet at p. 75 : — ■ 
 
 " Plutarch relates that when the Lacedemonian General, 
 Lysander, took Athens, it was proposed in a council of war 
 entirely to raze the city, and convert its site into a desert. But 
 during the debate, at a banquet of the chief officers, a certain 
 Phocion sung some fine anastrophicks from a chorus of the 
 Electra of Euripides; which so aff'ected the hearers, that they 
 declared it an unworthy act to reduce a place so celebrated for 
 the production of illustrious men, to total ruin and desolation." 
 ^'Repeated signifies recited.'' 
 
 Sonnet, p. 76, 1. 8. " Here Ruth and ruth are made to rhyme 
 to each other; and it may perhaps off"end the niceness of modern 
 ears, that the same word should rhyme to itself, though in dif- 
 ferent senses; but our old poets were not so very delicate, and 
 the reader may see parallel instances in Spenser's Faery Queen. 
 i. vi, 39, vii. vi. 38." — Newton. 
 
320 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 *' The same instances may be found in Tasso, Gier. Lib. 
 Canto i. st. xviii. Canto xv. st. xvi. &c," — Tobd. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 77, 1. 8, Isocrates, the orator. The victory was 
 gained by Philip of Macedon over the Athenians T. Warton. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 78. " There is a portrait of the celebrated Spanish 
 poet. Lope de Vega, painted when he was young; surrounded 
 by dogs, monkeys, and other monsters, and writing in the midst 
 of them without attending to their noise. See Hayley's JEssay 
 on Epic Poetry; Notes, p. 205. It is not improbable that Milton 
 might have seen or heard of this curious picture of his contem- 
 porary; and be led, in consequence, to describe so minutely in 
 this Sonnet the barbarous noise that environed him." Todd. 
 
 The allusion in the fifth verse of this Sonnet is to the fable of 
 the Lycian clowns changed into frogs, as related by Ovid, Met, 
 vi. Fah. iv. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 82. 1. 7. " The Darwen, or Derwen, is a small river 
 near Preston in Lancashire; and there Cromwell routed the 
 Scotch army under Duke Hamilton, in August, 1648. The 
 battles of Dunbar and Worcester are too well known to be 
 particularized; both fought on the memorable 3rd of September, 
 the one in 1650, and the other in 1651." — Newton. 
 
 " It has been justly remarked by Bishop Hurd," says Dr. 
 Symmons, "that the beautiful hemistich in the 9th line is vi- 
 tiated by an impropriety of metaphor. 
 
 And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 
 And Worcester's laureate wreath;" 
 on which Mr. Capel Lofft, with characteristic ingenuity, ob- 
 serves, "that as the trumpet which resounded the victory, accom- 
 panied the wreath of the Grecian games and of the Roman con- 
 querors, this implied sense may save the metaphor by immediate 
 association." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 84. The subject of this magnificent Sonnet, the 
 massacre of the Vaudois, is differently represented by different 
 historians. All, however, agree in recording it as one of hor- 
 rible cruelty. Dr. Lingard, in a note on the subject, says — 
 
 "It would be a difficult task to determine by whom, after the 
 reduction of La Torre, the first blood was wantonly drawn, or 
 to which party the blame of superior cruelty really belongs. 
 The authorities on each side are interested, and therefore sus- 
 picious; the provocations alleged by the one are as warmly 
 
NOTES. 321 
 
 denied by the other; and to the ravages of the military in An- 
 grogna and Lucerna, are opposed the massacres of the Catholics 
 in Perousa and San Martino. In favour of the Vaudois may be 
 consulted Leger, Histoire Generale des EgJises Evangeliqties &c. 
 (He was a principal instigator of these troubles.) Stouppe, Col- 
 lection of the several papers sent to his highness, ^c. London^ 1665. 
 Suhaudiensis in Reformatam Religionem Perseciitionis Brevis Nar- 
 ratio, Londini, 1665. Morland, 326 — 384, and the papers in 
 Thurloe, iii. 361, 84, 412, 16, 30, 44, 59, 538. Against them — 
 A short and Faithful Account of the late Commotions, ^c. with 
 some reflections on Mr. Stouppe's Collected Papers, 1655. Mor- 
 land, 387 — 404. Siri, xv. 827—843, and Thurloe, iii. 413, 64, 
 75, 90, 502, 35, 36, 617, 26, 56." 
 
 The incident recorded in the seventh and eighth line of 
 this Sonnet is taken from the work of Sir William Morland, 
 previously referred to. "A mother," says he, "was hurled 
 down a mighty rock, with a little infant in her arms ; and three 
 days after was found dead with the little child alive, but fast 
 clasped between the arms of the dead mother which were cold 
 and stiff, insomuch that those that found them had much ado to 
 get the young child out." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 88, line 10. " When he was employed to answer 
 Salmasius, one of his eyes was almost gone ; and the physicians 
 predicted the loss of both if he proceeded. But he says, in 
 answer to Du Moulin, ' I did not long balance whether my duty 
 should be preferred to my eyes.' " — T. Warton. 
 
 His blindness having been imputed by his enemies to the 
 judgment of Providence upon him for his republican principles, 
 Milton repelled the charge, at the commencement of his Second 
 Defence for the People of England, in a passage of unequalled 
 nobleness and splendour. "It is not so wretched to be blind," 
 says he, "as it is, not to be capable of enduring blindness ;" — and 
 shortly afterwards he proceeds in the following magnificent 
 strain: — "Let me be the most feeble creature alive, as long as 
 that feebleness serves to invigorate the energies of my rational 
 and immortal spirit; as long as in that obscurity in which I am 
 enveloped, the light of the Divine presence more clearly shines. 
 And indeed, in my blindness I enjoy in no inconsiderable degree 
 the favour of the Deity; who regards me with more tenderness 
 and compassion in proportion as I am able to behold nothing but 
 
322 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 himself. Alas! for him who insults me, who maligns and merits 
 public execration! For the Divine Law not only shields me 
 from injury, but almost renders me too sacred to attack; not 
 indeed so much from the privation of my sight, as from the over- 
 shadowing of those heavenly wings , which seem to have occasioned 
 this obscurity." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 89. Petrarch and Cam'oens have each left a 
 sonnet on a similar idea to that which pervades Milton's. " That 
 the curious reader," says Todd, "may compare the pathetic 
 strains of the three poets, I will subjoin the Italian and Portu- 
 guese Sonnets." 
 
 L'aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo 
 Spira si spesso, ce' i' prendo ardimento 
 Di dirle il mal ch' i' ho sentito e sento ; 
 Che vivend' ella, non sarei stato oso. 
 
 lo 'ncomincio da quel guardo amoroso 
 Che fu principio a si lungo tormento ; 
 Poi seguo come misero e contento 
 Di di in di, d' ora in ora Amor m'ha roso. 
 
 Ella si tace, e di pieta dipinta 
 Fiso mir pnr me, parte sospira, 
 E di lagrime oneste il viso adorna ; 
 
 Onde r anima mia dal dolor vinta, 
 Mentre piangendo allor seco s'adira, 
 Sciolta dal sonno a se stessa ritorna. — Petrarca. 
 
 Quando de minhas magoas a comprida 
 
 MaginafaS os olhos me adormece, 
 
 Em sonhos aquella alma me aparece 
 
 Que para mi foy sonho nesta vida. 
 La numa soidade, onde estendida 
 
 A vista por o campo desfallece, 
 
 Corro apos ella; & ella entao parece 
 
 Que maes de mi se alonga, compelida, 
 Brado : Nao me fujays, sombra benina. 
 
 Ella (os olhos em mi c'hum brado pejo, 
 
 Como quem diz, que ja nao pode ser) 
 Torna a fugirme : torno a bradar ; dina : 
 
 E antes q' acabe em mene, acordo, & vego 
 
 Que num hum breve engano posso ter. — Camoens. 
 
NOTES. 323 
 
 BENJAMIN STILLINGFLEET, 
 
 Page 90. 
 
 This fine Sonnet is printed from the Preliminary Observa- 
 tions on the Sonnets in Todd's 2nd Edition of Milton, 1809. It 
 appears also in Capel LofFt's Laitra, but the name of the 
 author is there given as Edward Stillingfleet. Mr. Todd intro- 
 duces the Sonnet with the subjoined remark, " The following 
 unpublished Sonnet, addressed to a friend by the late Benjamin 
 Stillingfleet, Esq., and for which I am obliged to the present 
 Bishop of Rochester, will prove how attentively and how success- 
 fully IVIilton was studied and imitated in this species of com- 
 position more than half a century since. It is dated in 1746." 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 Page 91—92. 
 
 From Forty-Five Sonnets printed at the end of The Canons 
 of Criticism, sixth edition, 1758. At the commencement of the 
 work is a bitter Sonnet addressed to Warburton, but its merits 
 have been exaggerated. Its severity is furious and vulgar. 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 Page 93. 
 
 This is Gray's only Sonnet — yet he is often mentioned as one 
 of the most successful of sonnet-writers. 
 
 " Mi pare che il Sonetto il piu perfetto che sia mai stato 
 composto in Inglese, nello stile Petrarchesco, e quello del nostro 
 Pindaro Brittano per le morte del suo amicissimo Ricardo West, 
 o-iovine d' un alto e pellegrino ingegno, e nella poesia allora 
 i' altra speme della nostra Roma. Quel Sonetto e si pieno 
 d' affetto, e d' una certa tenerezza e melodia cori ricercata, che 
 puo sembrare dignissimo di Falchiusa." — Mathias. 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 Page 94 — 100. 
 
 From the fourth edition of his Poetical Works by Bishop 
 Mant. Warton's Sonnets are exceedingly beautiful. Hazlitt 
 has said of them — " His Sonnets I cannot help preferring to 
 
324 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 any in the language" ; and Mr. Coleridge characterizes them as 
 severe and masterly likenesses of the style of the Greek Epi- 
 grams. " I must be allowed to think," says INIr. Dyce, "that they 
 want the great charm of the ancient epigrams — simplicity." 
 
 In a note to the last Sonnet, Dr. Mant introduces the fol- 
 lowing absurd composition, originally published in The London 
 Chronicle for 1777, reprinted in The Gentleman's Magazine that 
 year, and ascribed to Warton, "but, I imagine, " adds the editor, 
 " without any reason." 
 
 Methought I saw the grave where tuneful Gray, 
 Mantled on black oblivion, calmly slept ; 
 O'er the damp turf in deepest sorrow lay 
 The Muse, and her immortal minion wept. 
 
 In vain from *Harewood's tangled alleys wild 
 Devonia's virgins breathed the choral song ; 
 In vain from *Mona's precipices wild 
 Hoar Mador's harp its thrilling echo rung. 
 
 When, sudden stealing o'er the welkin wide, 
 New magic strains were heard from Isis' verge ; 
 The mourning maid forgot her funeral dirge. 
 
 And, smiling sweet, as erst with conscious pride, 
 Pressed from her auburn hair the nightly dew, 
 And trimm'd her wreath of hyacinth anew. 
 
 Warton could never have written this. His diction is selected 
 with the most scrupulous fastidiousness, and arranged with elabo- 
 rate care and precision. He would not have used the ambiguous 
 word 'minion.' 
 
 WILLIAM MASON. 
 Page 101—102. 
 From his Poems, 1797. 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 Page 103—105. 
 These three Sonnets are eminently beautiful ; there are four 
 others by Cowper, of which the best is that addressed to Romney 
 
 * The scenes of Mason's Elfrida and Caractacus. 
 
NOTES. 325 
 
 the painter. But for the epigrammatic cast of the concluding 
 couplet, it might be cited as an excellent example of The Familiar 
 Sonnet. 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 Page 106. 
 
 A long account of the author will be found in Sir Egerton 
 Brydges' Autohiography , 1834. Bampfylde's melancholy his- 
 tory has invested his poems with an interest, which, under 
 less peculiar circumstances, it is probable they would not have 
 been found to possess. The above Sonnet is from Sixteen 
 Sonnets, 1778. 
 
 THOiVIAS RUSSELL. 
 Page 107. 
 
 From Sonnets and Miscellaneous Poems, 1789. Mr. Words- 
 worth has done this author the honour of adopting four lines 
 from one of his poems, in a Sonnet contained in his last work, 
 Yarrow Revisited, &c. 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 Page 108. 
 
 From Original Sonnets, &c. 1799. Miss Seward's day is gone 
 by. Her Beauties, published in 1813, by Chappie, comprise 
 nearly all that is of any value in her voluminous writings. Her 
 critical opinions were learnt in the school of Hayley; it is not 
 surprising therefore that she should speak of Mr. Wordsworth as 
 "undoubtedly possessing genius, but not, on the whole, first 
 rate." 
 
 SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 
 Page 110. 
 
 From his Poems — the fourth edition. 
 
 This very beautiful Sonnet was written by Sir Egerton Brydges 
 in his 20th year. The following notice of it occurs in Leigh 
 Hunt's London Journal, No. 17, under the head of Passages 
 
 from the Autobiography of Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart *'If 
 
 Q 
 
326 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 nothing else survived him but this Sonnet entitled * Echo and 
 Silence', it would fully bear out, we think, the high opinion we 
 have expressed of his natural powers. The use of the word 
 'she', instead of 'one of them', in the sixth line, is highly vivid 
 and full of impulse, and all the remainder downwards is in the 
 very best taste of fanciful imagery." 
 
 The following passage is extracted from a letter addressed by 
 Mr. Southey to Sir Egerton Brydges, and published, along with 
 several others from the pen of the same distinguished author, 
 in Sir Egerton's Autobiography, vol. ii. p. 262. — " That you 
 might have taken a high place among English poets, had you 
 received the early encouragement which ought to have been 
 given, and had you submitted to that patient labour without 
 which no great work can be accomplished, I do not doubt; for 
 I know not any poem in any language more beautifully imagi- 
 native than your Sonnet upon Echo and Silence." — In a foot- 
 note to this complimentary notice. Sir Egerton Brydges favours 
 the public with a translation of his Sonnet into Latin iambics by 
 his very learned and accomplished friend, Archdeacon Wrangham, 
 
 ECHO ET TACITURNITAS. 
 
 Hac arborum atque iliac ferebantur comae, 
 Autumnus et fruges sinu collegerat ; 
 Sylvestribus Musam in locis, per devios 
 Calles vagus nemorumque noctem, dum sequor, 
 Somno graves Nymphas stupens video duas : 
 Enque evolavit ! Viridi amicta tegmine 
 Echo soror Taciturnitatem deserit, 
 Venantium namque ivit ad coelum fragor, 
 Umbrisque territa liquefit Taciturnitas ; 
 Secus ac soror, properantibus quae saltibus 
 Rupesque per collesque pernix emicat, 
 Audita longe, celere prsecipitans iter. 
 Jocosa jamque Virgo voces millies 
 Imitata leetum replicat, audin? per nemus, 
 Cestrice, Januar. 1831. 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 Page 111—117. 
 The first six from his Sonnets and other Poems — ninth edition, 
 1805; the last from one of the Annuals. 
 
NOTES. 327 
 
 In the early part of his Biographia Literaria Mr. Coleridge 
 has ingenuously acknowledged his obligations to the writings of 
 Mr. Bowles in the following passage ; — ■ 
 
 " I had just entered on my seventeenth year, when the Sonnets 
 of Mr. Bowles, twenty in number, and just then published in a 
 quarto pamphlet, were first made known and presented to me 
 * * * * My earliest acquaintances will not have forgotten 
 the undisciplined eagerness and impetuous zeal with which I 
 laboured to make proselytes, not only of my companions, but of 
 all with whom I conversed, of whatever rank and in whatever 
 place. As my school finances did not permit me to purchase 
 copies, I made, within less than a year and a half, more than 
 forty transcriptions, as the best presents I could offer to those 
 who had in any way won my regard. And with almost equal 
 delight did I receive the three or four following publications 
 of the same author. * * * j\iy obligations to Mr. Bowles 
 were indeed important, and for radical good." — Elsewhere he 
 states that he was withdrawn from a too exclusive attention 
 to metaphysics and theological controversy, "partly indeed by 
 an accidental introduction to an amiable family ; chiefly, how- 
 ever, by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and 
 yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and har- 
 monious, as the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles." 
 
 With Coleridge on his side, Mr. Bowles may defy the power 
 of Byron's vulgar tirade in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 
 WILLIAM CROWE. 
 
 Page 118. 
 
 From Leivesdon Hill, with other poems, by the Rev. William 
 
 Crowe, public orator of the University of Oxford, a new and 
 
 enlarged edition, 1827. Lewesdon Hill has been spoken of 
 
 with commendation both by Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 Page 119—175. 
 
 From his Poetical Works in 5 vols., published by Longman 
 
 and Co. in 1827, and Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems, 1835. 
 
 The Quarterhj Review (No. cii. vol. liv.) has an able paper 
 
328 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 on Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, from which the subjoined passage, 
 having particular reference to his Sonnets, is taken : — 
 
 " In the last edition of Mr. Wordsworth's works, there are 
 contained no less than between three and four hundred Sonnets.* 
 These productions differ from those which we have hitherto 
 dwelt upon, in exhibiting less, or perhaps nothing, of the pecu- 
 liarities of homeliness in subject and style by which the latter 
 are characterized. This form of poetry, not admitting of the 
 breadth and magnitude which are requisite to give effect to his 
 more characteristic style, has led Mr. Wordsworth to lay aside 
 the implements of the architect, and assume those of the 
 sculptor. Few are the works of art in this kind which are so 
 pure in their material, so graceful in their execution, so deli- 
 cately wrought, so exquisitely chiselled. Yet bright and ornate 
 as many of these productions are, there is in them, no less than 
 in his other poems, a constant abstinence from antitheses and 
 false effects. The words are always felt to be used, first and 
 mainly, because they are those which best express the meaning ; 
 secondly and subordinately, because they convey to the ear the 
 sounds which best harmonize with the meaning and with each 
 other. There is hardly one of these three or four hundred 
 Sonnets which ends in a point. Pointed lines will sometimes 
 occur in the course of them, as thought will sometimes natu- 
 rally take a pointed shape in the mind ; but whether it takes 
 that shape or another is obviously treated as a matter of indif- 
 ference ; nothing is sacrificed to it; and at the close of the 
 Sonnet, where the adventitious effect of the point might be apt to 
 outshine the intrinsic value of the subject, it seems to have been 
 studiously avoided. Mr. Wordsworth's Sonnet never goes off, 
 as it were, with a clap or repercussion at the close ; but is 
 thrown up like a rocket, breaks into light, and falls in a soft 
 shower of brightness. To none indeed of the minor forms of 
 poetry are Mr. Wordsworth's powers better adapted ; there is 
 none to which discrimination in thought, and aptitude in lan- 
 guage, are more essential; and there never was a poet who 
 reached so near to perfection in these particulars as Mr. 
 Wordsworth." 
 
 * Mr Wordsworth's Sonnets now amount to above 400. A sixth volume 
 has been published since the above waswritten. 
 
NOTES. 329 
 
 The following passage is extracted from a review of Farrow 
 Revisited, in Blackwood's Magazine for May ; 
 
 " It is allowed on all hands now, that there are no Sonnets 
 in any language comparable with Wordsworth's. Even Milton 
 must yield the palm. He has written but about a dozen or so ; 
 Wordsworth some hundreds — and though nothing can surpass 
 ' the inspired grandeur of that on the Piedmontese Massacre, the 
 tenderness of those on his blindness and on his Deceased Wife, 
 the grave dignity of that to a Young Lady, or the cheerful and 
 attic grace of those to Lawrence and Cyriac Skinner', as is finely 
 said by the writer of an article in the Edinburgh Review on 
 Glassford's Lyrical Translations, yet many of Wordsworth's 
 equal even these : — and the long and splendid array of his Son- 
 nets — deploying before us in series after series — astonishes us by 
 the proof it affords of the inexhaustible riches of his imaginative 
 
 genius and his moral wisdom. One series on the river Duddon 
 
 two series dedicated to Liberty — three series on our Ecclesi- 
 astical History — miscellaneous Sonnets in multitudes — and these 
 last poured forth as clear, and bright, and strong, as the first 
 that issued from the sacred spring," 
 
 To this may be added a short but valuable criticism by Mr„ 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 *' With the exception of Shakespeare (who included every- 
 body) Wordsworth has proved himself the greatest contemplative 
 poet this country has produced. His facility is wonderful. He 
 never wants the fittest words for the finest thoughts. He can 
 express at will those innumerable shades of feeling which most 
 other writers, not unworthy too, in their degree, of the name of 
 poets, either dismiss at once as inexpressible, or find so difficult 
 of embodiment, as to be content with shaping them forth but 
 seldom, and reposing from their labours. And rhyme, instead 
 of a hindrance, appears to be a positive help. It serves to con- 
 centrate his thoughts, and make them closer and more precious. 
 * * * Milton did not pour forth sonnets in this manner — 
 poems in hundreds of little channels — all solid and fluent gold." 
 
 Sonnet p. 147. 1. 4. The two notes of the cuckoo have 
 been observed to be always F and D in the key of D. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 151. This noble Sonnet is worthy of the subject 
 
330 NOTES. 
 
 it celebrates. The history of Toussaint L'Ouverture is thus 
 briefly sketched by Mr. Crowe in his History of France:* — 
 
 " The only military enterprise set on foot during the year's 
 peace, if we except the occupation of Switzerland, was the 
 expedition to St. Domingo. The principles of the revolution, 
 passed into decrees by the national assemblies, had been pro- 
 ductive of the most fearful mischief in St. Domingo, where 
 Robespierre's energetic wish of ' Let the colonies perish rather 
 than one principle be disturbed,' received ample fulfilment. 
 Whites and mulattoes had commenced a civil war, and the 
 negroes had also asserted their rights. The latter being most 
 numerous, gained the ascendency, headed by a chief of in- 
 flexible character, and of such high talents, both for warring 
 and ruling, as to merit the name of 'the black Buonaparte.' 
 Toussaint L'Ouverture, such was his name, had established his 
 rule in St. Domingo. It was as beneficent and vigorous as that 
 of the first Consul in Europe ; but the latter was determined to 
 recover the island ; and a fine army, composed of the conquerors 
 of Hohenlinden, were sent out to subdue it, under General 
 Leclerc, who had married Pauline, Buonaparte's sister. The 
 expedition reached its destiny. The blacks, after burning their 
 capital, and making a stubborn resistance, were subdued, and 
 the chiefs compelled to submit. Most of them accepted com- 
 mand under the French, except Toussaint, who scorned the off'er, 
 and merely demanded to return to his farm. Here, however, 
 he was closely watched ; and in the effervescence of a popula- 
 tion ill subdued, suspicions, true or false, could not fail to attach 
 to the old leader. Toussaint L' Ouverture was seized, sent on 
 board a ship, and conveyed to France, where he lingered many 
 years at the chateau of Joux, in the Jura." 
 
 Toussaint was a native of St. Domingo, and was born in 1743. 
 The earlier years of his life were spent in slavery on the estate of 
 Count Noe. About the period and manner of his death con- 
 siderable uncertainty seems to hang. The above account, as we 
 have seen, states that he lingered many years a prisoner ; some 
 assert that he died in the April of 1803, the year after his 
 capture ; whilst others insinuate, that never being heard of since 
 his arrival in France, he was privately put to death by order of the 
 
 * Dr. Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia. 
 
NOTES. 331 
 
 first consul. It is, however, recorded, that when this suspicion 
 was mentioned to Buonaparte at St. Helena, he indignantly 
 asked ' what possible interest could I have in putting a negro 
 to death, after he had arrived in France ? Had he died in St. 
 Domingo, then indeed something might have been suspected ; 
 but after he had safely arrived in France, what object could 
 have been in view V On the same authority Buonaparte is 
 reported to have deeply regretted the expedition to Domingo, 
 ranking it among the greatest follies of his life. 
 
 Sonnet p. 158. To the progress of the French and Bavarian 
 army through the mountains of the Tyrol, every possible resis- 
 tance was made by the fearless patriots of that region. Under 
 the directions of Hoffer, a man of extraordinary energy of cha- 
 racter, they piled upon the edge of the precipices in the Valley 
 of the Inn and other passes, huge masses of stone and rock, 
 which, at the command of their intrepid leader, were suddenly 
 rolled down, to the utter destruction of the invading troops. By 
 continued reinforcements, however, Buonaparte at length suc- 
 ceeded in effecting the conquest of this brave people. Hoffer 
 was captured and put to death. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 164. Of the suppression of the smaller monas- 
 teries, Dr. Lingard says — "With respect to the suppressed 
 houses, the superior received a pension for life ; of the monks, 
 those who had not reached the age of twenty-four were absolved 
 from their vows, and sent adrift into the world without any pro- 
 vision; the others were divided into two classes. Such as 
 wished to continue in the profession, were divided among the 
 larger monasteries: those who did not, were told to apply to 
 Cranmer or Cromwell, who would find them employments suited 
 to their capacities. The lot of the nuns was more distressing. 
 Each received a single gown from the king, and was left to 
 support herself by her own industry, or to seek relief from the 
 charity and commiseration of others." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 166. "On foot they went, and took Salisbury in 
 their way, purposely to see the good Bishop, who made Mr. 
 Hooker sit at his own table; which Mr. Hooker boasted of 
 with much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and friends ; 
 and at the Bishop's parting with him, the Bishop gave him good 
 counsel, and his benediction, but forgot to give him money; 
 which when the Bishop had considered, he sent a servant in all 
 
332 NOTES. 
 
 haste to call Richard back to him; and at Richard's return, the 
 Bishop said to him, ' Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a 
 horse which hath carried me many a mile, and, I thank God, 
 with much ease,' and presently delivered into his hand a walk- 
 ing-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through 
 many parts of Germany; and he said, 'Richard, I do not give, 
 but lend you my horse; be sure you be honest, and bring my 
 horse back to me at your return this way to Oxford. And I do 
 now give you ten groats to bear your charges to Exeter; and 
 here is ten groats more, which I charge you to deliver to your 
 mother, and tell her, I send her a Bishop's benediction with it, 
 and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And if you 
 bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to 
 carry you on foot to the college; and so God bless you, good 
 Richard.'" See Walton's Life of Richard Hooker ; as quoted by 
 Mr. Wordsworth in his Notes to Ecclesiastical Sketches. 
 
 No apology will be needed, I presume, for introducing here 
 the greater part of a very interesting letter from Mrs. Hemans 
 to Miss Jewsbury (with a copy of which I was favoured by the 
 latter lady) on the subject of INIr. Wordsworth's miscellaneous 
 poems — among the rest, his Sonnets. 
 
 " The inclosed lines,* an effusion of deep and sincere admi- 
 ration, will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and, I hope I 
 may say, advantage, which you have been the means of impart- 
 ing, by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of 
 Wordsworth's miscellaneous poems. It has opened to me such 
 a treasure of thought and feeling, that I shall always associate 
 your name with some of my pleasantest recollections, as having 
 introduced me to the knowledge of what I can only regret 
 should have been so long a ' Yarrow Unvisited.' I would not 
 write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I had 
 really studied these poems ; and they have been the daily food 
 of ray mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any 
 scene of a happy though serious domestic life, or any mood of a 
 reflective mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of 
 them does not beautifully harmonize. This author is the true 
 Poet of Home, and of all the lofty feelings which have their 
 root in the soil of home-affections. His fine Sonnets to Liberty, 
 
 * To Wordsworth. 
 
NOTES. 333 
 
 and indeed all his pieces which have any reference to political 
 interest, remind me of the spirit in which Schiller has conceived 
 the character of William Tell— a calm and single-hearted herds- 
 man of the hills, breaking forth into fiery and indignant elo- 
 quence when the sanctity of his hearth is invaded. Then, what 
 power Wordsworth condenses into single lines — like Lord Byron's 
 'curdling a long life into one hour.' 
 
 The still sad music of humanity — 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will — 
 
 Over his own sweet voice the stockdove broods — 
 
 and a thousand others which we must some time (and I hope 
 not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines 
 quite haunt me, and I have a strange feeling as if I must have 
 known them in my childhood, they come over me so like old 
 melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites amongst so many 
 things that delight me, but I think ' The Narrow Glen' — the 
 lines on ' Cora Linn' — the ' Song for the feast of Brougham Cas- 
 tle' — ' Yarrow Visited' — and ' The Cuckoo' — are amongst those 
 which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur the most 
 frequently to memory. * * j ^.^ow not how I can have so 
 long omitted to mention the 'Ecclesiastical Sketches,' which I 
 have read, and do constantly read, with deep interest. Their 
 beauty grows upon you, and develops as you study it, like that 
 of the old sacred pictures by the Italian masters. My sister, 
 who shares the feelings with which I write, desires I will not 
 fail to ask if you can throw any light for us on the piece of 
 * The Danish Boy.' Its poetry is beautiful, but the subject re- 
 quires explanation. Does it refer to any wild mountain legend 
 of the ' Land of Lakes'?" 
 
 There is not one of Mr. Wordsworth's Sonnets which is not 
 valuable in some respect or other. " In all," to use Sir Egerton 
 Brydges' words with reference to the Sonnets of Milton, "in all, 
 there is some important thought, or opinion, or sentiment de- 
 veloped." As, however, I could not take all, I have selected 
 such as are most particularly constructed in compliance with the 
 established idea of the Sonnet. 
 
 q2 
 
^^'* NOTES. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Page 176. 
 
 From his Poetical Works in 3 vols., published by Pickering 
 in 1829. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Page 177—179. 
 
 The first from his Works in 2 vols., 1818; the others from 
 Album Verses, ^c. 1830, beautifully printed by Moxon. 
 
 As a poet, the admirers of Charles Lamb do not claim for 
 him an ambitious place. His metrical compositions, though 
 full of thought and feeling, are for the most part deficient in 
 the distinguishing features of genuine poetry. He is most at 
 home when he writes on homely subjects; he soars very little 
 into ' the high region of fancies' ; very rarely, if ever, does he 
 wear 'his garland and singing-robes about him.' The familiar 
 matter of to-day is the matter of his verses ; 
 
 The common growth of mother earth 
 
 Suffices him', her tears, her mirth. 
 
 Her humblest mirth and tears. 
 It is to his prose writings that we must turn for the truest 
 specimens of Charles Lamb's fine genius. These consist of two 
 classes, each admirable in its way — original essays, and literary 
 criticisms. The short tale of Rosamund Gray, one of the most 
 affecting stories in the language, is distinct from both, and is 
 the only one of the kind he has written. In this pathetic little 
 composition he has shown how much genius can do for an un- 
 graceful subject, and with how marvellous a power it can educe 
 hope and gladness from circumstances enveloped in the darkest 
 gloom of vice and despair. Indeed, this is one of the most 
 charming characteristics of his serious writings — that the final 
 predominance of rational cheerfulness over unhealthy sadness 
 is uniformly maintained as a fundamental doctrine of his philo- 
 sophy. Though, like Jacques, he can ' suck melancholy out of 
 a song, as a weasel sucks eggs,' he can also extract the 'precious 
 jewel' from the head of the 'toad,' without drawing any of the 
 ' ugly venom' along with it.* Sorrow, in his pages, is invariably 
 
 * See his review of Wither's poems. 
 
NOTES. 335 
 
 a sacred thing, imposed for sacred purposes — ^joy, a sober glad- 
 ness, wrapping the heart in sunshine, not disturbing its serenity. 
 His works have a healthy tendency, and are admirable antidotes 
 to the maudlin sensibility and visionary wretchedness of the 
 young and romantic. 
 
 Charles Lamb was the subtilest critic of the day — but he fol- 
 lowed criticism as a pleasure, not a trade, and considered it a 
 humane and liberal art. He took delight in wandering alone 
 through the winding solitudes of our ancient literature, gather- 
 ing the dainty flowers that met him in his way, examining their 
 beauties, writing about them, and pressing them, as it were, in 
 the leaves of books. He was a very botanist among authors. 
 Most men fling a flower away when it is old ; — Charles Lamb 
 took a different view of things that gave him pleasure, and loved 
 them on with the freshness and the novel tenderness of a first 
 love. For the dramatic writers of the Elizabethan age, and the 
 more quaint authors of the period of the Restoration, he had a 
 sincere relish, for he could appreciate their riches and extract 
 precious essences from their hardest eccentricities. What Fuller 
 says of Mr. Perkins, the divine, may be applied, with the alter- 
 ation of a single word, to Charles Lamb — ' he had a capacious 
 head, with angles winding and roomy enough to lodge all criti- 
 cal intricacies' — and what he himself says of Fuller may with 
 equal fidelity be said of some of his own intellectual peculia- 
 rities — 'his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human 
 feeling and passion.' His wit, unlike the boisterous humour 
 of our popular book-makers, is quiet, chaste, and unobtrusive, 
 and lies, not on the surface, but in the heart of what he says. 
 It is seldom unmixed with a touch of pathos — and his pathos 
 usually weds itself to a gleam of wit. No man has the power 
 like Charles Lamb of reconciling contradictions, and uniting 
 opposites — of blending the highest light and the darkest shadow 
 at the very line of junction — of running drollery and good- 
 humoured satire into the depths of a sympathy whose benevo- 
 lent aspirations are universal. With him, tears and smiles 
 sprang from the same source ; it was the golden key of Truth that 
 opened a way for both. Wit, which with most men is nothing 
 more than a sparkling icicle of the brain, with Charles Lamb 
 was a flower of the heart. He warmed the coldest fancies into 
 life- the rudest materials became gentle and pliant beneath 
 
336 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 his touch; — the commonest clay assumed shapes of beauty in 
 his hands. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 Page 180—182. 
 
 Sonnet p. 182, 1. 13. Fran9ois de Bonnivard, the subject of 
 one of the most beautiful of Lord Byron's poems, was the son of 
 Louis de Bonnivard, lord of Lunes, and was born in 1496. 
 He was educated at Turin for the Church; and in 1510, his 
 uncle Jean Aime de Bonnivard, surrendered to him the priory 
 of St Victor near Geneva. In 1519 having opposed himself to 
 the Duke of Savoy, he was sent by that prince to Grolee, and 
 detained there two years; he was subsequently immured in the 
 castle of Chillon, situated between Clarens and Villeneuve. 
 Here he remained seventeen years, being at last liberated by 
 the Bernois, who had invaded the Pays de Vaud. "In the 
 Castle of Chillon" says a writer in Hone's Year Book, "is a 
 range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subse- 
 quently prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of these 
 vaults is a beam, black with age, on which the condemned are 
 said to have been formerly executed. In the cells are seven pil- 
 lars, or rather eight, one being half merged in the wall ; in some 
 of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered ; in the pave- 
 ment the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces." 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 Page 183. 
 
 From Blackwood's Magazine. Mrs Hemans's genius was better 
 adapted to the unrestricted ode than to the compact and fasti- 
 dious Sonnet. The above, however, is a beautiful composition. 
 
 A series of papers on Mrs. Hemans will be found in some re- 
 cent numbers of the Athenceum. They are understood to be 
 from the pen of Mr. H. F. Chorley, author of Sketches of a 
 Sea-port town, and Conti, the Discarded, and are well worthy of 
 an attentive perusal. 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 Page 184. 
 From Professor Wilsons Poems, 2 vols. 1825. I had the 
 
NOTEsT 337 
 
 pleasure of hearing the late Mr. Coleridge speak of this very 
 beautiful Sonnet in terms of high praise. It is unquestionably 
 one of the most exquisite specimens of the irregular Sonnet in 
 the language. 
 
 FRANCIS WRANGHAM. 
 
 Page 185. 
 
 This Sonnet first appeared, I believe, in an early number 
 
 of The Literary Souvenir. The following graceful translation 
 
 from the Italian of Mathias, is also by Archdeacon Wrangham, 
 
 and is taken from the Notes to Wiffen's Tasso. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST OF TASSO. 
 
 Here in these groves, of every Muse the haunt, 
 By Life's rough tempests shattered and oppressed, 
 Torquato from his toils aspired to rest, 
 x\nd in their sheltering bowers, lone habitant. 
 
 Has found safe refuge. Here their magic quire 
 Still the sweet Sirens hold, and by the side 
 Of echoing streams the swan in stately pride 
 Nests mid the strings of the melodious lyre. 
 
 Then, Stranger, whether from the icy Pole, 
 Buoyant of heart, or where the blazing noon 
 Scorches swart Afric's race thou sojourn'st here, 
 
 To this bright marble bow thy reverend soul, 
 And o'er the bust of sweet Sorrento's son 
 Strew pious flowers and shed the holy tear. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Page 186—187. 
 From his Poetical Works in a handsome demy-octavo volume 
 printed by Moxon. The book is enriched with a long and 
 admirable Preface. 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 Page 188—190. 
 Of the fine Sonnet ' On first looking into Chapman's Homer,' 
 Mr. Leigh Hunt says, in his memoir of Keats — <«Mr. Keats's 
 
338 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 epithets of ' loud and bold' showed that he understood Chapman 
 thoroughly. The men of Cortez staring at each other, and the 
 eagle eyes of their leader looking out upon the Pacific, have 
 been thought too violent a picture for the dignity of the occa- 
 sion, but it is a case that requires the exception. Cortez's 
 ' eagle eyes' are a piece of historical painting, as the reader may 
 see by Titian's portrait of him. The last line, 
 
 ' Silent — upon a peak in Darien.' 
 makes the mountain a part of the spectacle, and supports the 
 emotion of the rest of the Sonnet upon a basis of gigantic tran- 
 quility." 
 
 The third Sonnet, at page 190, is from the Life of Chaucer 
 by Mr. Clarke, prefixed to his Riches of the poet. The Sonnet 
 is introduced in the following manner j — 
 
 *' The poem of ' The Flower and the Leaf was especially 
 favoured by the young poet, John Keats. The author may 
 perhaps be pardoned for making a short digression upon the 
 present occasion, to record an anecdote in corroboration of the 
 pleasure testified by that vivid intellect upon his first perusal 
 of the composition. It happened at the period when Keats was 
 about publishing his first little volume of poems (in the year 
 1817) ; he was then living in the second floor of a house in the 
 Poultry, at the corner of the court leading to the Queen's Arms 
 tavern — that corner nearest to Bow Church. The author had 
 called upon him here, and finding his young friend engaged, 
 took possession of a sofa, and commenced reading from his 
 then pocket companion, Chaucer's ' Flower and the Leaf.' 
 The fatigue of a long walk, however, prevailed over the fascina- 
 tion of the verses, and he fell asleep. Upon awaking, the book 
 was still at his side ; but the reader may conceive the author's 
 delight, upon finding the following elegant Sonnet written in 
 his book at the close of the poem. During my sleep, Keats 
 had read it for the first time ; and knowing that it would gratify 
 me, had subjoined a testimony to its merit, that might have 
 delighted Chaucer himself." 
 
 The Sonnet has certainly great beauties ; ' the tender-legged 
 linnet,' however, though good per se, and admirably appro- 
 priate, injures the last line of the second quatrain. The rest of 
 the verses are exceedingly graceful. 
 
 The reader will find a just and eloquent article on the genius 
 
NOTES. 339 
 
 and writings of Keats in the 1st vol. of Cross's Selections from 
 the Edinburgh Review, p. 247. Lord Byron made some amends 
 for his repeated abuse of Keats, when he said of the fragment 
 'Hyperion' that "it seems actually inspired by the Titans, and 
 is as sublime as ^schylus." See Moore's Life of Byron, vol. v. 
 p. 22. 
 
 THOMAS PRINGLE. 
 Page 191. 
 
 From Ephemerides, by my excellent friend the late Thomas 
 Pringle. The volume contains much sweet poetry. Mr. Cole- 
 ridge, in a letter to Mr. Pringle, and in my hearing subse- 
 quently, stated that he considered < Afar in the desert' (a South 
 African poem) one of the most beautiful odes in the language. 
 This, along with several other charming poems, is comprised in 
 the First Part of African Sketches published only a few months 
 before Mr, Pringle's death. The prose narrative which consti- 
 tutes the'second part, and fills the greatest portion of the volume, 
 abounds in anecdote, interest, and instruction. 
 
 An agreeable biographical sketch of Mr. Pringle, from the 
 pen of Mr. Josiah Conder, will be found in the 129th number 
 of the Congregational Magazine. 
 
 JOHN FAIRBAIRN. 
 Page 192. 
 Originally published in Friendship's Offering, and addressed 
 to Mr. Pringle in reply to a somewhat desponding Sonnet of 
 his own. In a note to African Sketches, where it is repub- 
 lished, Mr. Pringle regrets that one who can write so well has 
 written so little. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Page 198—199. 
 Published in The London Magazine some years ago. 
 
 JEREMIAH HOLMES WIFFEN. 
 Page 200. 
 The translator of Jerusalem Delivered; of Garcilasso's Works 
 &c. &c., and the author of three or four volumes of original 
 
340 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 poetry. The above Sonnet is taken from The Literary Souvenir 
 for 1825. Mr. Wiffen's translations of the Sonnets of Garci- 
 lasso are exceedingly beautiful. 
 
 ISMAEL FITZADAM. 
 
 Page 201—205. 
 
 For an interesting biographical account of the author of these 
 
 beautiful Sonnets, or, more properly, quatuorzains, the reader 
 
 may refer to the notes to the second series of Mr. Alaric Watts's 
 
 Poetical Album, a delightful collection of modern fugitive verse. 
 
 THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 
 Page 206—214. 
 
 The first six of these Sonnets are from different volumes of 
 The Literary Souvenir ; the seventh from Blackwood's Magazine, 
 vol 15; and the remaining two from a small work published by 
 Baldwin in 1818, entitled Sixty-five Sonnets and other Poems. 
 The authors of this valuable publication (which was published 
 anonymously) are Mr. Thomas Doubleday and Mr. William 
 Green. Mr. Doubleday is the author oi Bahington, a Tragedy — 
 The Italian Wife — and numerous minor poems which have ap- 
 peared in various periodical works. Bahington is a composition 
 of great power and beauty ; The Italian Wife a drama of exquisite 
 pathos and romantic interest. 
 
 WILLIAM GREEN. 
 Page 215—217. 
 See the preceding note. 
 
 JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 Page 218. 
 This is unfortunately the only Sonnet I have met with by 
 the Rev. John Moultrie, whose poetical abilities are of a high 
 order. I have pleasure in transcribing from the Notes to the 
 second series of the Poetical Album (above alluded to) a deserv- 
 edly complimentary allusion to Mr. Moultrie's writings — " This 
 admirable poem (Godiva) is attributed to the Rev. J. Moultrie, 
 and is extracted from The Etonian. It was an especial favourite 
 with the late Mr. Gifford, who was wont to express the highest 
 
NOTES. 341 
 
 admiration of the talents of its author. Certain it is that Mr> 
 Moultrie has written some of the most delightful poems in the 
 whole range of modern literature. It is to be lamented that he 
 does not give us the many fugitive poems of which he is the 
 author, in a collected form. They could not but be popular, 
 for most of them are of transcendent beauty." 
 
 ARTHUR BROOKE. 
 Page 219. 
 From The Literary Souvenir. 
 
 SIR AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 Page 220. 
 Published in one of the Annuals, I forget which. It is a 
 fine Sonnet. 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 Page 221—227. 
 Mr. H. Coleridge's Sonnets are for the most part admirable. 
 Wordsworth has been his model, and he has studied the excel- 
 lences of that great master with eminent success. In the Pre- 
 face to the volume from which the above are transcribed (Poems 
 by Hartley Coleridge, 1833), the author states that should it be 
 favourably received "it will shortly be followed by another, in 
 which, if no more be accomplished, a higher strain is certainly 
 attempted." The universal approbation of the accredited organs 
 of public criticism, justifies the lovers of true poetry in antici- 
 pating a speedy publication of the promised treasure. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 Page 228. 
 This excellent Sonnet was published in The Forget Me Not 
 for 1829, under the signature of R. J. The couplet at the end 
 has a good effect, from the nature of the subject — being a sum- 
 ming up, as it were, of the catalogue. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 Page 229. 
 From the second series of his Poems, published in 1833. 
 
342 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 For an elaborate and very able analysis of the genius of this 
 powerful and extraordinary writer, the reader is referred to the 
 27th number of the Westminster Review. 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY WHITWORTH. 
 
 Page 230—254. 
 The real lover of the Sonnet will know how to appreciate 
 these exquisite compositions. Though now printed for the 
 first time, they have been read and admired by many whose 
 approval is a sort of limited fame. 
 
 Sonnet p. 231. line 4. *' The bee, from the extreme con- 
 vexity of her eye, cannot see many inches before her." Notes 
 to Pleasures of Memory : Part I. 
 
 Sonnet p. 232, 1. 4. The gladiators fought with various 
 weapons, and it was customary to oppose those to each other 
 whose arms and manner of engaging were most dissimilar. Some 
 appeared in complete armour, and others were only provided with 
 a trident, and a net in which they endeavoured to entangle their 
 adversary, whom they then instantly slew ; if foiled in the attempt, 
 their only resource was in flight, and if overtaken by their op- 
 ponent before they had adjusted the net for a second cast, their 
 own fate was promptly decided. (See Sketches of the Institutions 
 and domestic manners of the Romans.) 
 
 Dr. Johnson would have objected to the isolated position of 
 the word 'fell,' in the 12th line of this Sonnet. The following 
 passage is taken from Sir Egerton Brydges' essay on Milton's 
 versification, prefixed ^to the 5th vol. of his works. 
 
 " ' When a single syllable is cut off from the rest,' says Johnson, 
 * it must either be united to the line with which the sense con- 
 nects it, or sounded alone ; if it be united to the other line, it 
 corrupts its harmony; if disjoined, it must stand alone, and 
 with regard to music, be superfluous ; for there is no harmony in 
 a single sound, because it has no proportion to another '; — 
 
 Hypocrites austerely talk, 
 Defaming as impure what God declares 
 Pure; and commands to some, leaves free to all. 
 Here the emphatic word ' pure' derives double force from its 
 position." 
 
NOTES. 343 
 
 Sonnet, p. 235. For particulars concerning this singular 
 animal, see Mag. of Nat. Hist. vol. i. p. 28, and vol. iii. p. 253 
 — 528 ; Roget's Bridgeivater Treatise, vol. i. p. 242 — 266 ; and 
 a Memoir of Nautilus Pompilius, the Pearly Nautilus, by Richard 
 Owen, Esq. F. R. S. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 237. "The most probable opinion respecting 
 the object of the Pyramids," says Dr. Russell, *'is that which 
 combines the double use of the sepulchre and the temple — 
 nothing being more common in all nations than to bury dis- 
 tinguished men in places consecrated by the rites of divine 
 worship." See A View of Ancient and Modern Egypt (Edin- 
 burgh Cabinet Library), which contains a compendious account 
 of all that is known and conjectured of the Pyramids. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 242. line 5. In this Sonnet, and in thatat p. 231, 
 JN'Ir. "Whitworth has adopted a figure not often successfully used 
 in poetical composition, the Aposiopesis or pause of construction. 
 In these two instances the effect, I think, will be admitted to 
 be fine. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 252, 1. 9. "Albeit the glass of my years," says 
 Sir George Mackenzie (as quoted in Southey's Colloquies), 
 "hath not yet turned five-and-twenty, yet the curiosity I have 
 to know the different limbos of departed souls, and to view the 
 card of the region of Death, would give me abundance of courage 
 to encounter this King of Terrors, though I were a pagan. But 
 when I consider what joys are prepared for them who fear the 
 Almighty, and what craziness attends such as sleep in Methu- 
 salem's cradle, I pity them who make long life one of the oftest 
 repeated petitions of their Pater Noster." — The Virtuoso, or 
 Stoic. Moral Essays, p. 81. 
 
 S. LAMAN BLANCHARD. 
 Page 255—256. 
 
 From Lyric Offerings, a volume of charming poetry. 
 
 "There are two gates," says Jeremy Bentham, "the gate of 
 Pleasure and the gate of Pain — keep the gate of Pain shut, and 
 the gate of Pleasure open, as much as you can" ; — and a writer, 
 in whose works the benevolent doctrines of Bentham are not 
 less beautifully than earnestly and uniformly illustrated, tells us 
 that "it is the privilege of the imaginative that they include 
 every thing which is good, besides seeing a germ of it at the 
 
344 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 core of the thorniest evil." They keep, in fact, the gate of 
 Pleasure constantly open. To this class Mr. Blanchard belongs. 
 Would that the moral of his delightful poems were universally 
 appreciated and applied. Melancholy is an evil state of mind— . 
 a silent murmur against the goodness of God. 
 
 For a splendid development of the philosophy (for it is some- 
 thing more than mere fiction) contained in the second of the 
 above Sonnets, I would refer the reader to Aids to Reflection, 
 p. 105; "that wonderful passage," says the editor of Coleridge's 
 Table Talk, " transcendant alike in eloquence and philosophic 
 depth." The highly beautiful and well-known lines in Par, 
 Lost. B. V. 1. 469 (pronounced by Bishop Newton to be neither 
 orthodox nor philosophical), may be also referred to. 
 
 LADY DACRE. 
 Page 258. 
 
 The concluding appendix to Ugo Foscolo's Essays on Petrarch 
 contains several excellent translations from the illustrious Italian, 
 by Barbarina, Lady Dacre. They are prefaced by the above 
 beautiful composition. 
 
 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 Page 259—260. 
 
 From Dramatic Scenes, Sonnets, and other poems, 1827. 
 The analogy that exists between exquisite sounds, beautiful 
 forms and colours, and delicious perfumes, has never been more 
 gracefully noticed than in the concluding lines of the second of 
 these two Sonnets. They remind one of that precious frag- 
 ment of an ode by Keats on an antique sculptured vase, 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter — 
 of Dunbar's description of birds 
 
 Among the tender odours red and white — 
 and of that portion of one of Lord Bacon's Essays in which he 
 says of the breath of flowers that "it comes and goes, like the 
 warbling of music." There is an eloquent passage in Sir Thos. 
 Browne's Religio Medici which supplies an appropriate comment 
 on Miss Mitford's beautiful Sonnet. "I can look a whole day 
 with delight upon a handsome picture, though it be but of an 
 
NOTES. 345 
 
 horse. It is my temper, and I like it the better, to affect all 
 harmony; and sure there is music even in the beauty and the 
 silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an 
 instrument; for there is music wherever there is harmony, order, 
 or proportion ; and thus far we may maintain the music of the 
 spheres; for those well ordered motions, and regular paces, 
 though they give no sound unto the ear, yet to the understand- 
 ing they strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is 
 harmonically composed, delights in harmony; which makes me 
 much distrust the symmetry of those heads which declaim 
 against all church-music. For myself, not only from my obe- 
 dience, but my particular genius, I do embrace it; for even 
 that vulgar and tavern music, which makes one man merry, and 
 another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a pro- 
 found contemplation of the first composer. There is something 
 in it of divinity more than the ear discovers. It is an hierogly- 
 phical and shadowed lesson of the whole world and creatures of 
 God; such a melody to the ear, as the whole world, well under- 
 stood, would afford the understanding. In brief, it is a sensible 
 fit of that harmony which intellectually sounds in the ears of 
 God. I will not say with Plato, the soul is an harmony, but 
 harmonical, and hath its nearest sympathy unto music." The 
 reader will have remembered the beautiful description of the 
 mystical dance of the Angelic Host, in Par. Lost. B. v. 1. 618; — 
 
 That day, as other solemn days, they spent 
 
 In song and dance about the sacred hill; 
 
 Mystical dance, which yonder starry sphere 
 
 Of planets, and of fixed, in all her wheels 
 
 Resembles nearest — mazes intricate, 
 
 Eccentric, intervolved, yet regular 
 
 Then most, when most irregular they seem ; 
 
 And in their motions harmony divine 
 
 So smoothes her charming tones, that God's own ear 
 
 Listens delighted. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Page 262—263. 
 
 These two Sonnets first appeared in the 9th number of Tait's 
 Magazine, under the signature of V. 
 
346 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 CHARLES STRONG. 
 Page 264—281. 
 The Rev. Mr. Strong is one of our best Sonnet-writers. 
 His compositions belong to the most elaborate class of Sonnets, 
 and are therefore less likely than many others to attract the 
 admiration of the uninitiated ; they will, however, bear, what 
 some Sonnets of more pretension will not bear, the test of time 
 and frequent study. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 265, 1. 14. Sir Thomas Browne has a few striking 
 words on ' Sleep' in his Religio Medici. "It is," says he, "that 
 death by which we may be literally said to die daily; a death 
 which Adam died before his mortality; a death whereby we live 
 a middle and moderating point between life and death ; in fine, 
 so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers, and an 
 half adieu unto the world, and take my farewell in a colloquy 
 with God. This is the dormative I take to bedward; I need no 
 other laudanum than this to make me sleep ; after which I close 
 mine eyes in security, content to take my leave of the sun, and 
 sleep unto the resurrection." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 268, 1. 12. For an account of the eruption of 
 Vesuvius, A. D. 79, and the death of Pliny, the Naturalist, see 
 the interesting letters of Pliny the Consul to Tacitus — Book vi. 
 Letters xvi — xx. 
 
 Sonnet, p. 274. See a review of Mr. Strong's Sonnets in 
 Blackwood's Magazine for November. Of this sonnet it is said — 
 "How tranquil is the flow of the verse! Every epithet has a 
 Virgilian nicety." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 276. This very beautiful Sonnet will bear to be 
 placed in juxtaposition with Madame de Stael's description of 
 the fountains and obelisk of St. Peter's ; — 
 
 "Un obelisque de quatre-vingts pieds de haut, qui parait a 
 peine eleve en presence de coupole de Saint Pierre, est au 
 milieu de la place. La forme des obelisques elle seule a quelque 
 chose qui plait a I'imagination : leur sommet se perd dans les airs, 
 et semble porter jusqu'au ciel une grande pensee de I'homme. 
 Ce monument, qui vint d'Egypte pour orner les bains de Cali- 
 gula, et qui Sixte Quint a fait transporter ensuite au pied du 
 temple de Saint Pierre, ce contemporain de tant des siecles. 
 
NOTES. 347 
 
 qui n'ont pu rien centre lui, inspire un sentiment de respect. 
 L'homme se sant si passager, qu'il a toujours de I'emotion en 
 presence de ce qui est immuable. A quelque distance des deux 
 cotes de I'obelisque, s'elevent deux fontaines dont I'eau jaillet 
 perpetuellement, et retombe avec abondance en cascade dans 
 les airs. Ce murmure des ondes qu'on a coutume d'entendre 
 au milieu de la campagne produit dans cette enceinte une sen- 
 sation toute nouvelle ; mais cette sensation est en harmonie avec 
 celle que fait naitre I'aspect d'un temple majestueux. 
 
 "La peinture, la sculpture, imitant le plus souvent la figure 
 humaine, ou quelque objet existant dans la nature, reveillent 
 dans notre ame des idees parfaitement claires et positives; mais 
 un beau monument d'architecture n'a point, pour ainsi dire, de 
 sens determine; et Ton est saisi, en le contemplant, par cette 
 reverie, sans calcul et sans but, qui mene si loin la pensee. Le 
 bruit des eaux convient a toutes ces impressions vagues et pro- 
 fondes : il est uniforme comme I'edifice est regulier. 
 
 " L'eternel mouvement et I'eternel repos sont ainsi rapproches 
 I'un de I'autre. C'est dans ce lieu surtout que le temps est sans 
 pouvoir; cat il ne tarit pas plus ces sources jaillissantes, qu'il 
 n'ebranle ces immobiles pierres. Les eaux qui s'elancent en 
 gerbes de ces fontaines sont si legeres et si nuageuses que, dans 
 un beau jour, les rayons du soleil y produisent de petits arcs-en- 
 ciel formes des plus belles couleurs." 
 
 Sonnet, p. 279, 1. 14. A more agreeable impression is con- 
 veyed by the folio vising extract from MSS. Notes during a journey 
 in Italy in 1819, appended to a pamphlet entitled Remarks on 
 Catholic Emancipation, by Benjamin Dockray ; 1829. 
 
 "Rome The writings of Young and Paley, and other works, 
 
 in which religious sentiments are inculcated by means of an in- 
 dependent and logical exercise of the understanding, are very 
 much read. There are no fewer than six different translations 
 of the Night Thoughts in Italian. At the University of the 
 Sapienza at Rome, I was present at a Lecture, part of a course, 
 on the Evidences of the Christian Religion, precisely following 
 such a train of inquiry as distinguishes the writings of Butler, 
 Paley, and Clarke. It is a chair recently established by the 
 Pope, and the Professor is a most liberal and intelligent man. 
 Such institutions and such writings must rapidly produce an 
 extensive effect ; or, which is a still more gratifying reflection, 
 
348 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 they are indicative of extensive effects already produced, already 
 progressive — of a powerful tendency, already in action." — p. 46. 
 
 In addition to the elegant volume from which these Sonnets 
 are extracted, Mr. Strong is the author of Specimens of Sonnets 
 from the most celebrated Italian Poets, with translations. This 
 work, which appeared anonymously in 1827, is dedicated to T. J. 
 Mathias, F.R.S. F.A.S. in the following Sonnet. 
 
 Whilst thou, a cherished guest on distant shore, 
 Breathest the healthful balm of those pure skies 
 'Neath which in laureate tomb the Mantuan lies^ 
 His slumber sweetened by thy kindred lore ; 
 
 The pilgrim, who with thee did late explore 
 Each spot where visions of the past arise, 
 Still to the siren land in spirit flies, 
 Asking of memory oft her treasured store. 
 
 To soothe regret he gazes on the page* 
 
 Where thou, ' from Poesy's immortal serine,' 
 Unroll'st the golden verse of happier age : 
 
 Lo ! to his country's lyre the graceful line 
 
 He dares attune ; task, that might well engage 
 Hands dearer to the Muse — Mathias, thine. 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 Page 282—283. 
 From The Garden of Florence, and other poems ; a volume of 
 genuine poetry, containing, among other beautiful things, the 
 well-known song — 'Go where the river glideth gently ever.' 
 
 EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 
 
 Page 284. 
 From his Poems, 1822. 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 Page 285—296. 
 From The Story of Justin Martyr, and other poems, lately pub- 
 lished by Moxon. 
 
 * Componimenti Lirici de' pift illustri Poeti d' Italia scelti da T. J. 
 Mathias.— Napoli. 1S19. 
 
NOTES. 349 
 
 Mr. Trench's volume is full of fine things; — to a successful 
 cultivation of the Sonnet his powders seem to be peculiarly well 
 adapted. His compositions belonging to this department of 
 verse are distinguished for a masterly exposition of the great 
 principles of Christian morality, and for a beautiful manifesta- 
 tion of its infallible consequence and proof, a catholic spirit of 
 sympathy and love. 
 
 Sonnet p. 286. 1. 12. In defining the quality and effect of 
 genius, Coleridge has left on record the following exquisite pas- 
 sage, which may be read as a comment on the close of this very 
 beautiful Sonnet. 
 
 " To find no contradiction in the union of old and new; to 
 contemplate the Ancient of Days and all his works with feelings 
 as fresh as if all had then sprung forth at the first creative fiat ; 
 this characterizes the mind that feels the riddle of the world, 
 and may help to unravel it. To carry on the feelings of child- 
 hood into the powers of manhood; to combine the child's sense 
 of wonder and novelty with the appearances which every day 
 for perhaps forty years had rendered familiar. 
 
 With sun, and moon, and stars, throughout the year, 
 And man and woman ; — 
 this is the character and privilege of genius, and one of the 
 marks which distinguish genius from talent. And therefore is 
 it the prime merit of genius, and its most unequivocal mode of 
 manifestation, so to represent familiar objects as to awaken in 
 the minds of others a kindred feeling concerning them, and that 
 freshness of sensation which is the constant accompaniment of 
 mental, no less than of bodily convalescence. Who has not a 
 thousand times seen snow fall on water ? Who has not watched 
 it with a new feeling, from the time that he has read Burns's 
 comparison of sensual pleasure 
 
 To snow that falls upon a river, 
 
 A moment white — then gone for ever." 
 
 In Sharp's Essays, a volume full of wisdom and kind-heart- 
 edness, there is a passage which bears so directly on the sub- 
 ject of this fine Sonnet, that I must needs extract it. 
 
 "An anxious, restless temper," says he, "that runs to meet 
 
 R 
 
350 NOTES. 
 
 care on its way, that regrets lost opportunities too much, and 
 that is over-pains-taking in contrivances for happiness, is foolish 
 and should not be indulged. 
 
 ' On doit etre heureux sans trop penser a 1' etre' 
 " If you cannot be happy in one way, be happy in another; and 
 this facility of disposition wants but little aid from philosophy, 
 for health and good-humour are almost the whole affair. Many 
 run about after felicity, like an absent man hunting for his hat, 
 while it is on his head, or in his hand. Though sometimes small 
 evils, like invisible insects, inflict great pain, and a single hair 
 may stop a vast machine, yet the chief secret of comfort lies in 
 not suffering trifles to vex one, a7id in prudently cidtivating an 
 under-growth of small pleasures, since very few great ones, alas, 
 are let on long leases." 
 
 I shall be forgiven for transcribing, as an appropriate illustration 
 of the concluding couplet of this beautiful Sonnet, a portion 
 of a letter from a very dear departed friend — one, of whom 
 Mr. Wordsworth has made just and honourable mention in his 
 last volume. The letter was written from Rydal Mount. 
 
 "Melancholy fancies spoil poetry; and they do what is infi- 
 nitely worse, they spoil the character. Moreover, and added to 
 this, we must not even dwell too much on mournful truths ; they 
 are only part, and the elementary part, of what we are called 
 upon to believe and feel. We must not be like Herbert's ' Flowers 
 in Frost,' and say we will go and visit our mother-root in earth. 
 After looking abroad upon the varied scenes of glory and of beauty 
 bestowed upon us in nature by the royal hand of God, we must 
 not too often and too obstinately bring back our eye to gaze on 
 our own evil and therefore sad hearts, or on the evil and therefore 
 sad course of the world at large. We must look through these 
 things, and cherish an unfaltering remembrance and an undying 
 trust that God is everywhere and at all times occupied in educing 
 good from evil — the very evil we deplore. The habit of suffer- 
 ing our minds to connect, as necessarily inseparable, beauty and 
 sorrow, love and death, mirth and melancholy, may give a mo- 
 mentary and superficial grace to our style of thought ; but, inde- 
 pendent of its moral ill effects, it tends to enervate the mind in 
 its higher faculties — to prevent expansion of idea and vigour of 
 imagination. No — the best poet will ever give us a holy and a 
 cheerful note ; he will admit all that we see, ' man's disobedience 
 
NOTES. 351 
 
 and the fall,' and then he will remind us of what we do not see — 
 that if the ore of human nature is ever being cast into some 
 furnace, the Great Refiner is sitting by, intent to purify and 
 prepare for glorious uses, the very treasure that sometimes we 
 think destroyed." 
 
 The following note refers to the conclusion of the Sonnet 
 addressed to Silvio Pellico, whose instructive and most interest- 
 ing narrative has been presented in an English dress by my friend 
 Mr. Thomas Roscoe ; — 
 
 "Some of the old Litanies specially included these last: — 
 ' Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis, 
 in metallis, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te.'" 
 
 Sonnet, p. 295. " There was at Sais a temple dedicated to 
 Minerva, who is supposed to be the same as Isis, with the fol- 
 lowing inscription : ' I am whatever hath been, and is, and shall 
 be; and no mortal hath drawn aside my veil.' " — Rollin. See 
 Strabo, xvii, and Herodotus, ii. clxix. 
 
 R. A. THORPE. 
 
 Page 297. 
 
 For this very beautiful Sonnet by the Rev. R. A. Thorpe, 
 a former tutor of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, I am indebted 
 to the kindness of my friend Mr. Whitworth. 
 
 EDMUND PEEL. 
 
 PAGE 298 — 300. 
 
 From a volume entitled Judge Not, and other Poems, 1835. 
 A favourable notice of the work appeared in Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine for April. Of the Sonnets it is said — " We turn to a style 
 of composition, in which we boldly state that we consider him 
 to have few masters — we allude to the Sonnet." 
 
 [additional note on Milton's sonnets.] 
 
 In the sixth volume of his edition of Milton's Poetical Works, 
 
 Sir Egerton Brydges, probably under the influence, as he himself 
 
 admits, of " a transient state of gloom and spleen," has spoken of 
 
 the Sonnets in a manner entirely inconsistent with the opinions 
 
352 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 recorded in the first volume. Apparently forgetting his former 
 declaration that "if any one can read them without both plea- 
 surable excitation and improvement, he has a sort of mind which 
 it would be vain to attempt to cultivate," the worthy baronet 
 pronounces the major part of them to have been written when 
 the poet was not in a poetical mood, and actually speaks of some 
 in a still more disparaging tone of criticism. In answer to his 
 brief but severe judgment of the first, that "the nightingale is 
 a common theme of poets, and has been often better sung," an 
 acute writer in the Athenseum (No. 423) asks — "by whom?" — 
 and then adds, " We own that to our ear the language of this 
 whole Sonnet is almost Italian, for its liquid and perfect sweet- 
 ness." The same writer makes the following observation on the 
 Sonnet to Mr. Lawrence, " We have known classic and intelli- 
 gent readers mistake, in our opinion, the sense of — 
 
 He who of these delights can judge, and spare 
 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 
 This does not mean, as often thought, he who can spare time to 
 interpose delights often, but — he who can he sparing to interpose 
 them, who interposes them not often, is wise." 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 K 2 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 [Preface, p. xi. 1. 16.] 
 
 Guittone d' Arezzo is twice mentioned by Dante ; Purg. xxiv. 
 56; xxvi. 118. From a note by Mr. Gary on the former of 
 these passages the following is extracted. 
 
 " The eighth book in the collection of the old poets publish- 
 ed by the Giunti in 1527, consists of sonnets and canzoni by 
 Guittone. They are marked by a peculiar solemnity of manner, 
 of which the ensuing sonnet will afford a proof and an example. 
 
 Gran piacer Signor mio, e gran desire 
 
 Harei d'esserve avanti al divin trono, 
 
 Dove si prendera pace e perdono 
 
 Di suo ben fatto e d' ogni suo fallire; 
 E gran piacer harei hor di sentire 
 
 Quella sonante tromba e quel gran suono, 
 
 E d'udir dire : hora venuti sono, 
 
 A chi dar pace, a chi crudel martire. 
 Questo tutto vorrei caro signore ; 
 
 Perche fia scritto a ciaschedun nel volto 
 
 Quel che gia tenne ascoso dentro al core : 
 Allhor vedrete a la mia fronte av\olto 
 
 Un brieve, che dira; che'l crudo amore 
 
 Per voi mi prese, e mai non m'ha disciolto. 
 
 Great joy to me it were to join the throng, 
 That thy celestial throne, O Lord, surround. 
 Where perfect peace and pardon shall be found, 
 Peace for good doings, pardon for the wrong: 
 
 Great joy to hear the vault of heaven prolong 
 That everlasting trumpet's mighty sound, 
 That shall to each award their final bound. 
 Wailing to these, to those the blissful song. 
 
356 APPENDIX. 
 
 All this, dear Lord, were welcome to my soul — 
 For on his brow then every one shall bear 
 Inscrib'd, what late was hidden in the heart: 
 
 And round my forehead wreath'd, a letter'd scroll 
 Shall in this tenor my sad fate declare — 
 ' Love's bondman, I from him might never part.'" 
 
 Guittone belonged to the order of the 'Frati Godenti.' In 
 1293 he founded a monastery of the order of Camaldoli, in 
 Florence, and died in the following year. Italian antiquaries, 
 it should be observed, are far from being unanimous as to the 
 authenticity of the sonnets ascribed to this writer. He has, how- 
 ever, the undisputed merit of being the author of forty Letters, 
 which afford the earliest specimen of that kind of writing in 
 Italian literature. 
 
 [Preface, p. xiii. 1. 19.] 
 
 Although the endecasyllabic verse of the Italians, and the 
 peculiar form of the Sonnet, may be said to have been intro- 
 duced by Boscan (for it was he who first recommended them 
 to general notice) both were known to Spanish literature long 
 before the period of his birth in 1494. It appears that the one 
 had been used in the Conde Lucanor of Juan Manuel as early as 
 1362, and that the Marquis of Santillana had published speci- 
 mens of the other prior to the year 1458. In his letter to the 
 Constable Don Pedro, he mentions that the eleven-syllable mea- 
 sure of the Italians was commonly used for centuries before by 
 the Valentians and Catalans. See two masterly articles in the 
 Edinburgh Review (vols, xxxix, xl.) on the Lyric Poetry of 
 Spain, antecedent to and during the age of Charles V : — and 
 Mr. Wiffen's excellent Essay on Spanish Poetry prefixed to 
 his translation of The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega. In the 
 Life of Garcilasso, also prefixed to that delightful work, is an 
 account by Boscan himself of the circumstance that led to his 
 substitution of the more comprehensive metres of the Italians 
 for the usual redondilla measure of his own country. Mr. Wif- 
 fen gives several specimens of the writings of Navagero, the 
 adviser of this beneficial change, in an Appendix. 
 
 The English language contains no specimens of Sonnets in 
 which the endecasyllabic metre is employed throughout, nor many 
 
APPENDIX. 357 
 
 in which it is partially adopted. A few, so beautiful as to justify 
 regret that it has not been more frequently used, will be found in 
 this volume. For some judicious remarks on double-rhymes, the 
 reader may refer to Mr. Leigh Hunt's Preface to his Poetical 
 Works. 1832. . 
 
 [Preface, p. xx. 1. 5.] 
 
 Quando Gesu con 1' ultimo laraento 
 
 Schiusse le tombe, e le montagne scosse, 
 
 Adamo rabuffato e sonnolento 
 
 Levo la testa, e sovra i pie rizzose. 
 Le torbide pupille intorno mosse 
 
 Piene di maraviglia e di spavento, 
 
 E palpitando addimando chi fosse 
 
 Lui che pendeva insanguinato e spento. 
 Come lo seppe, alia rugosa fronte, 
 
 Al crin canuto, ed alle guance smorte, 
 
 CoUa pentita man fe danni ed onte. 
 Si volse lagrimando alia consorte, 
 
 E grido si, che rimbombonne il monte : 
 
 lo per te diedi al mio signor la morte. 
 
 The following version of the above is taken from Mr. T, 
 Roscoe's translation of Sismondi's Historical View of the Liter- 
 ature of the South of Europe, vol. iii. p. 86. 
 
 When Jesus, uttering his last mortal sigh, 
 
 Opened the graves, while shook the earth's wide bound, 
 
 Adam, his head, in terror at the cry, 
 
 Uprais'd, and started from the rending ground, 
 Erect. He casts his troubled eyes around, 
 
 Filled with deep fear and dim perplexity. 
 
 And asks, while doubt and dread his heart astound. 
 
 Whose is the bloody form and pallid eye. 
 But when he knew him — on his furrowed brow, 
 
 And on his withered cheek and hoary head, 
 
 In deep remorse he dealt the furious blow : 
 And turning, weeping, to his consort, said, 
 
 While all the mountain echoed with his woe, 
 
 ' Through thee I sold our Saviour to the dead. 
 
358 APPENDIX. 
 
 The following Sonnet by the late T. J. Mathias (of whom an 
 interesting account is given in the. Athenmim, August 22), is 
 taken from Mr. N. P. Willis's Pencillings hy the Way. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF GRAY. 
 
 Lord of the various lyre ! — devout we turn 
 
 Our pilgrim steps to thy supreme abode, 
 
 And tread with awe the solitary road 
 
 To grace with votive wreaths thy hallowed urn. 
 Yet, as we wander through this dark sojourn. 
 
 No more the strains we hear, that all abroad 
 
 Thy fancy wafted, as the inspiring God 
 
 Prompted 'the thoughts that breathe, the words that burn.' 
 But hark! — a voice, in solemn accents clear, 
 
 Bursts from heaven's vault that glows with temperate fire ; 
 
 ' Cease, mortal, cease to drop the fruitless tear, 
 Mute though the raptures of his full-strung lyre, 
 
 Ev'n his own warblings, lessen'd on his ear. 
 
 Lost in seraphic harmony expire.' 
 
 LANCASTER : 
 PRINTED BY A. IMILNER. CHURCH STREET.