LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO (VIII) -CONTINUACIÓN-

Con esta entrega se concluye con las fórmulas del soneto inglés en el siglo XIX.

SEGUNDA PARTE:

EL SONETO INGLÉS ENTRE 1851 Y 1900

CHAUNCY HARE TOWNSHEND 

(1798—1868)

Sermons in Sonnets_1851

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WRITTEN AFTER SEEING FANNY KEMBLE'S BELVIDERA

I saw thine eye grow dim with agony,

I heard thy voice, so musically deep,

Wake thought and passion from their tranced sleep,

And breathe a soul of living poesy!

I felt the pulses of my heart reply

To thy command, nor could I choose but weep

When thou hadst touch'd the silent spring of tears.

Thou art no actress, but a human soul,

That by its own emotion can controul

All others. Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,

Are both thy power and element. Thou art

A very poet with a woman's heart,

And this strong truth from weakness thou canst borrow,

That loftiest happiness is born of sorrow.

AUGUST

The waterfalls are low! With leaf or bough

The winds converse but seldom; thy true voice,

O August, is the thunder! So rejoice

Rich powerful spirits, and of these art thou!

With passion deep thou dost the earth endow,

Bringing to temperate climes an India near,

Making the meadows pale—golden the ear

Of rustling corn; and capable to bow

The inmost spirit with an awful fear,

When, lightning-charged, thy lofty turret-clouds

Stand out with edges white against the blue

And breathless heaven! Oh, far from towns and crowds

I would thy bounty and thy anger view,

Temper'd by mountain breezes, cool and clear!

THOMAS NOON TALFOURD 

(1795—1854)

The Dramatic Works_1852

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RECOLLECTION OF THE LATE SIR M. A. SHEE

If in the fluttering music of that tongue

Some trace of years, through which its accents grew

Sweet amidst forms of beauty, should renew

And old regret that spirits ever young

Must, as they verge on regions whence they sprung,

Pay in expression's weaken'd force the due

To frail mortality by which alone

They speak to earth, our hearts attend its tone

With eagerness more rapt than when it flung

Abroad the vigorous truth by fancy's hue

imbued—for, as the seed from o'erblown flowers,

by autumn's gentle breath for spring are sown,

these trembling words, embraced by kindred powers,

shall glow in pictures distant times shall own.

TO A LADY

May Nature's stateliest palace to your gaze

Expand in happiest lustre! May the sun

Light into radiant joy the streams that run

Aslant the herbage of the rock-bound ways

Down which the strong Arve thunders; may his rays

Spread myriad colours o'er the fount that springs

Aloft in watery dust, and leaping flings

A shadow scarce less earthly! May no cloud

At eve on Europe's stainless summit rest

When roseate beauty lingering should attest

Its lone supremacy, which noon will fail

To vindicate,—or hint of cares to shroud

In after time that mirror in the breast

Which shall reflect the Mountain and the Vale!

CHARLES MACKAY 

(1814—1889)

Voices from the Mountains and from the Crowd_1853

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Oft have I wander'd when the first faint light

Of morning shone upon the steeple-vanes

Of sleeping London, throught the silent night,

Musing on memories of joys and pains;—

And looking down long vistas of dim lanes

And shadowy streets, one after other spread

In endless coil, have thought what hopes now dead

Once bloom'd in every house, what tearful rains

Women have wept, for husband, sire, or son;

What love and sorrow ran their course in each,

And what great silent tragedies were done;—

And wish'd the dumb and secret walls had speech,

That they might whisper to me, one by one,

The sad true lessons that their walls might teach.

DAVID HOLT 

(1828—1880)

Janus, Lake Sonnets, etc., and Other Poems_1853

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AT THE GRAVE OF WORDSWORTH, IN GRASMERE CHURCHYARD

(De la serie "Lake Sonnets")

I

Oh better far than richly sculptured tomb,

Of fitter far than monumental pile

Of storied marble in cathedral aisle,

Is this low grassy grave bright with the bloom

Of nature, and laid open to the smile

Of the blue heaven—this stone that tells to whom

The spot is dedicate, who rests beneath

In this God's acre, this fair field of death;

Oh meet it is, great Bard, that in the breast

Of this sweet vale, and 'neath the guardian hills

By thee so loved, thy venerated dust

Should lie in peace, and it is meet and just,

That evermore around thy place of rest

Should rise the murmur of the mountain rills.

II

To this calm spot the pilgrim in far years,

Led by the reverence in his soul, shall come,

And as he gazes on this grassy tomb,

His thoughtful eyes shall be suffused with tears,

But not with tears of sorrow: there is nought,

In this fair scene, that speaks of grief or gloom,

Not one incentive to despondent thought.

Pensive, not sad, shall be the pilgrim's heart,

Subdued, not sorrowful, his soul shall be,

As standing by this Grave he thinks of Thee,

And how that thy long life's great work was wrought

Full out, and how its immortality

Is fix'd as firmly and as sure as aught

That men deem lasting—mountain, star, or sea.

MEADOW-PATHS

(De la serie "Miscellaneous Sonnets")

The Meadow-Paths of England, sweet are they—

Wending in devious course'neath hedge-rows green,

And leading into many a woodland scene,

And o'er broad uplands with bright field-flowers gay,

Or richly laden with the harvest fair,

Or storing all the amorous evening-air

With luscious odours of the new-mown hay.—

The Meadow-paths of England—blest are we,

Whose native feet have vagrant liberty

In their sweet labyrinths at will to stray,

Through all the seasons of the summer day,

Eve, morn, and noon, and golden after-noon;

Returning homeward 'neath a crescent moon,

What time the shrouded lands grow dim and gray.

JAMES INGLIS COCHRANE

(¿—?)

Sonnets, and Miscellaneous Poems_1853

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THE CUCKOO

(De la serie "Sonnets Illustrative of the Seasons and Nature")

Hark! The Cuckoo! And hark again! Cuckoo!

Though but two notes its diapason reach,

A thousand chords it strikes and vibrates through,

Within my heart, in unison with each:

Yea, to my soul it is a summer dew,

Reviving sympathies and feelings which

I thought were stranded on the world's rough beach;

And Memory in her cells reviving too.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! What magic's in the sound!

Until I hear it, Summer is not crowned.

How through the very inmost soul it thrills!

What pleasing, soothing, softening thoughts instills!

Sunshine through shadow, youth through manhood gleams,

And health, faint flickering long, a moment beams.

TO THE RIVER NECKAR

(De la serie "Sonnets Suggested by Recollections of a Tour")

How oft thy margent green do I recall,

Sweet stream! Where we at eve were wont to stray,

gath'ring the wild pinks at our feet that lay

on knoll and meadow, oversprinkling all;

oft sitting down to listen to the fall

of thy pure waters as they gurgling leapt

from pool to pool, or 'mong the sedges tall,

with whispers soft as woman's, slowly crept.

There is a quiet beauty in thy banks

That never tires the mind: pleasing the more

To us, late wandering 'mid the Alpine ranks,

Rearing to Heaven their rugged summits hoar;

Burdening the soul: a beauty, calm, not gay,

As Friendship is to Love, as eve to day.

FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE CORN-LAWS

(De la serie "Miscellaneous Sonnets")

Maintain, O Lord, the cause of the oppressed!

Whose doom the livelong days is toil, toil, toil,

Who oft at midnight trim their lamp with oil,

Nor intermit their labour scarce for rest.

O! Soften thou their rulers' obdurate breast,

And make them yield to pity or to shame,

What they deny to Justice' sacred name;

Even those whom Thou with corn and wine hast blest

Thus shall the threatened famine herald peace,

And those heartburnings shall for ever cease,

Which in the social fabric caused a breach;

So shall the wrongs of millions be redressed,

And none will dare Thy wisdom to impeach,

Nor with the impious deem Thou slumberest.

FREDERICK TENNYSON 

(1807—1898)

Days and Hours_1854

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SONNET X

(De la serie "Martha")

I saw thy garden gate stand open wide;

There was the untrimm'd box, the latter flowers

Leaning thro' the dusk day of stilly hours,

As tho' to hear thy voice so long denied;

Drooping, as tho' thy welcome hand supplied

No more the life they only loved for thee;

Pining, for thy remember'd charity,

stay'd with faint hope that keeps by Sorrow's side.

Fair was the Winter of that woful year

And sunny calm—and swiftly came the May;

The throstles piped as fondly to thine ear

As tho' they loved to bid thee back to day,

And the first nightingale from over sea

Sang by thy bower, and brought new life to thee.

AUBRAY THOMAS DE VERE 

(1814—1902)

Poems_1855

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LAW AND ANARCHY

One mighty Thought, the sure though secret germ

Of all the unbidden thoughts which throng the brain;

One deep Emotion, centre, soul, and term

Of all the heart's desires that wax and wane;

One living Law to quicken and constrain;

To keep our acts and days in unison—

These we must have; these three must have in one;

Or we have thought and felt and lived in vain.

O'er the great deep within us Darkness broods:

And though, beneath the Spirit that moves thereon,

Some waves, aspiring in their solitudes,

Swell up with gleams from loftier regions won,

The Soul is still a chaos 'till God's Word

Rolls through it, and in Light her answer back is poured.

ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (a) OWEN MEREDITH

(1831—1891)

The Wanderer_1859

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TRANSLATIONS FROM PETER RONSARD

("Voici le bois que ma saincte Angelette")

Here is the wood that freshened to her song;

See here, the flowers that keep her footprints yet;

Where, all alone, my saintly Angelette

Went wandering, with her maiden thoughts, along.

Here is the little rivulet where she stopped;

And here the greenness of the grass shows where

She lingered through it, searching here and there

Those daisies dear, which in her breast she dropped.

Herd did she sing, and here she wept, and here

Her smile came back; and here I seem to hear

Those faint half-words with which my thoughts are rife;

Here did she sit; here, childlike, did she dance,

To some vague impulse of her own romance—

Ah, Love, on all these thoughts, winds out my life!

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

(1828—1882)

The Early Italian Poets_1861

Poems (Incluye The House of Life)_1870

Ballads and Sonnets, 1881

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FIAMMETTA

(1881)

Behold Fiammetta, shown in Vision here.

Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth she stands;

And as she sways the branches with her hands,

Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer,

In separate petals shed, each like a tear;

While from the quivering bough the bird expands

His wings. And lo! Thy spirit understands

Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near.

All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air:

The angel circling round her aureole

Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole:

While she, with reassuring eyes most fair,

A presage and a promise stands; as 'twere

On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul.

AT THE SUN-RISE IN 1848 

(1870)

God said, Let there be light; and there was light.

Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing

And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing:

We saw priests fall together and turn white:

And covered in the dust from the sun's sight,

A king was spied, and yet another king.

We said: "The round world keeps its balancing;

On this globe, they and we are opposite,—

If it is day with us, with them 'tis night."

Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember this:—

Thou hadst not made that thy sons' sons shall ask

What the word king may mean in their day's task,

But for the light that led: and if light is,

It is because God said, Let there be light.

CINO DA PISTOIA TO DANTE ALIGHIERI 

(1861)

Dante, since I from my own native place

In heavy exile have turned wanderer,

Far distant from the purest joy which e'er

Had issued from the Fount of joy and grace,

I have gone weeping through the world's dull space,

And me proud Death, as one too mean, doth spare;

Yet meeting Love, Death's neighbour, I declare

That still his arrows hold my heart in chase.

Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free,

Nor from the hope which comforts my weak will,

Though no true aid exists which I could share.

One pleasure ever binds and looses me;

That so, by one same Beauty lured, I still

Delight in many women here and there.

JOHN ASKHAM 

(1825—1894)

Sonnets on the Months and Other Poems_1863

Descriptive Poems_1866

Poems and Sonnets_1875

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OUR WIDOWED QUEEN

(1863)

On England's royal house a shadow fell,

That grew and deepened to Death's solemn night;

And through the land it sped, with lightning flight,

That death was in the royal citadel.

Then wept a nation for its widowed queen,

Bowed to the dust with grief too great to tell;

Then mourned a people that was quenched a light

That ever glowed calm, steady, and serene.

Oh! Sovereign lady of our empire's weal,

For thee thy lowliest subjects' tears are shed,

And morn and night their orisons are said;

With thee they share the grief they cannot heal.

Oh! Comfort her, eternal King of kings,

Take her beneath the shadow of Thy wings.

SCATTER THE SEED

(1866)

Scatter the seed, heedless of clouds and wind!

Spare not thy hand, though sterile be the ground,

Though rankling thorns and noxious weeds abound,

Throw broadcast the good seed, and thou shalt find

A goodly harvest after many days.

Seek not thy fellows' but thy Master's praise,

Toiling in faith and humbleness of mind,

So shall thy labour be with blessings crowned.

Haply the crop may never glad thy gaze;

Yet generations that come after thee

May laud thy name, and bless thy memory,

And o'er thy buried bones due trophies raise.

Nor storm nor tempest can truth's seed destroy,

And they that sow in tears shall reap in joy.

THE YEAR OF BLOOD, 1870

(1875)

The year of blood has passed unto its bourne,

Amid the clash of arms and War's rude din.

Peace smiling brought the tender infant in,

Nursed his young days, and tended to its prime

His lusty manhood; then there came a time,

And a black thund'rous cloud darkened his path,

And heard were muttered menaces of wrath.

Men grasped their swords, and women wept forlorn.

Then brake the storm of war; and far and wide

Raged its terrific fires; a rain of blood

That swelled and grew into a mighty flood,

Deluged the earth with its ensanguined tide.

Oh! Year of blood! In agony and tears,

We lay thee in the sepulcher of years.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER

(1808—1879)

Sonnets_1864

Small Tableaux_1868

Sonnets, Lyrics, and Translations_1873

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SONNET LXXXV

(1864)

I dreamed—methought I stood upon a strand

Unblest with day for ages; and despair

Had seized me, but for cooling airs that fann'd

My forehead, and a voice that said "Prepare!"

Anon I felt a dawning was at hand;

A plante rose, whose light no cloud could mar,

And made thro' all the landscape near and far,

A wild half-morning for that dreary land;

I saw her seas come washing to the shore

In sheets of gleaming ripples, wide and fair;

I saw her goodly rivers brimming o'er,

And from their fruitful shallows looked the star;

And all seem'd kiss'd with star-light! Till the beam

Of sunrise broke and yet fulfill'd my dream.

SONNET CCXVIII

A Look-Out for Thirty Years

(1868)

Oh! Deaf to Science and her faitful words!

I counted on those fires of prophecy

No more than on some flight of midnight birds,

That pass, unheralded, with sudden cry,—

That never travelled under Humboldt's eye,

Nor owed themselves at Greenwich. Thirty years

Must pass ere such bright vision reappears,

And then I shall be dead or near to die;

Or, should my life bridge over that great gap,

I cannot vouch for my decrepit self,

With feeble knees, weak eyes, and velvet cap,

And all my forethought laid upon the shelf;

But some good youth, or maid, or rosy elf,

Shall set my thin face heavenward, it may hap.

SONNET CCLXIII

The Old Hills'-Man and his Truck

How oft I met the old hills'-man and his truck,

Gleaning the refuse of that mountain-road!

How of the stopp'd to chat and bless his luck,

Or talk how much to Providence he owed!

Fresh was his fancy, and his heart was full;

His long-plied shovel had its own romance

For him, and every varying circumstance

Of earth and sky forbad him to be dull:

How of the fish'd his treasure from the crest

Of rain-fed gullies, hurrying to the west

In the wild sunshine, when the storm went by,

Or came on earlier fortunes, in the eye

Of rosy morn, the roadster's first supply;

Gay at all hours, and ever on the quest!

EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE KENEALY 

(1819—1880)

Poems and Translations_1864

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A LOVE-THOUGHT

There is a snowy vase of many flowers

Beside me in my windows as I write;

The purple pride of choice and blooming bowers—

Rose-red, and yellow, damask, pink, and white,

And violet blue like heaven's cerulean light;

And through the green leaves and the petals fine

The setting sunbeams softly pierce and shine.

Beloved! This reminds me still of thee,

Who art a living Garden fair to see,

With every beauteous flow'ret intertwined;

And this fair sun is a thy lucid mind,

Which shines so brightly through thy form and face,

Lending to every movement perfect grace,

As if by heaven itself in choicest form designed.

ON SWIFT'S PORTRAIT

See the bright earnest look—the eye of fire

Fixed with imperial gaze; the dome-like brow,

Shrine of that spirit lulled for ever now;

The full firm mouth and chin. A sacred choir

Of memories hangs around this image old

Of him, who first his country's sorrows told,

In words that yet their own fierce strength inspire

Even in the coldest hearts. I gaze, and gaze,

Nor can I willingly my view withdraw

From this most speaking likeness of the dead,

That bears me back in phantsie to past days,

When England, proud indeed, delighted saw

The greenest laurels twined around her head

By Churchill, Somers, Swift, and shone in Glory's blaze.

THEODORE MARTIN 

(1816—1909)

The Vita Nuova of Dante_1864

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SONNET

With other ladies thou dost flout at me,

Nor thinkest, lady, whence doth come the change,

That fills mine aspect with a trouble strange,

When I the wonder of thy beauty see.

If thou didst know, thou must for charity

Forswear the wonted rigour of thine eye;

For when Love finds me near thee, he so high

Dominion takes and scornful mastery,

That on my trembling spirits straight he flies,

And some he slays, and some he drives away,

Till he alone remains to gaze on thee.

Thence am I changed into another'r guise;

Yet not so changed, but that the pangs with me,

Which tortured so those exiled spirits, stay.

TO MY WIFE

(1861)

Beloved, whose life is with mine own entwined,

In whom, while yet thou wert my dream, I viewed,

Warm with the life of breathing womanhood,

What Shakespeare's visionary eye divined;

Pure Imogen, high-hearted Rosalind,

Kindling with sunshine all the dusk greenwood;

Or, changing with the poet's changing mood,

Juliet, and Constance of the queenly mind;

I give this book to thee, whose daily life

With that full pulse of noblest feeling glows,

Which lent its spell to thy so potent art;

To thee, whose every act, my own true wife,

The grace serene and heavenward spirit shows,

That rooted Beatrice in Dante's heart.

JOHN CHARLES EARLE 

(1849—1903)

A Hundred Sonnets_1870

A Second Hundred Sonnets_1871

Master's Field: A Series of Sonnets_1878

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THE VULGAR GREAT

(1878)

Why is it that so many born for fame

So little in their lifetime earned of praise,

Ate the hard crusts of poverty and shame,

To die on straw, instead of crowned with bays,

Or missed the guerdon in some other ways,

Encountering everywhere neglect and shame,—

For 'tis the vulgar great the vulgar raise,

And leave the really great without a name?

Ah, why was this? Had justice left the sky?

Or was it only twofold grace supplied

To those whom the good Spirit set on high

Above their fellows? Did they pine and sigh

Because He loved to keep them at His side,

Nor let them fall through vanity and pride?

WED BETIMES

(1870)

Awake, dear child, to Love's delicious morn,

Nor sleep into the mid and garish day,

Nor tarry till thy locks are tinged with grey

To clasp the good whereunto thou wast born.

As yet the blossom is without a thorn,

And reasons numberless forbid delay:

As yet the dew is fresh, the heart is gay,

Nor sliding treacherous into the forlorn.

But if thou lingerest on thy native spray

Until the gloss upon thy wings is worn,

And thou art like a lamb whose fleece is shorn,

And bleak winds bite thy tender fell in scorn,

Thy silly scruples thou wilt rue and say,

"Would I had listened to his stirring horn!"

SEBASTIAN CABOT (Continued)

(1871)

So spake the Pilot Major, and anon

Steered for a north-west passage to Cathay,

And found not what he sought, but land that lay

In arctic regions of perpetual day

Icebound and barren. Then, that tract foregone,

South, to the Silver River, making way

He neared the hills where argent quarries shone,

And urged his pinnace up the Paraguay.

Brave, gentle, good, he studied, toiled, and prayed

Through chances of the jungle, frith, and den;

Founded our commerce, navy, and free trade,

And brought Newfundland into Britain's pen.

Yet none can tell where Cabot's dust is laid:

And this is man's reward of mighty men!

GEORGE BARLOW 

(1847—1914?)

Poems and Sonnets (Two Volumes)_1871

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CONFESSION OF MY FAITH (III)

Because I love Love I am forced to sing,

Because Love careth not for me I cry,

Because she, cruel, heedeth not I sigh,

Because she spurneth me my hands I wring

And this confession of my faith I bring

To lay before the laughter of her eye;

In vain to other goddesses I try

To turn, I cannot rid me of the sting

Of rosy lips that kissed me long ago,

I have not power now behind to fling

Love's influence, and Love no more to know—

Her arrows have a certainty to cling,

And to the heart itself their way they wing

Once she hath put a finger to her bow.

WELL? (I)

Well? Have I stirred ancient chord at all,

Brought any flower of dreamland back to view,

Moved any depth of feeling strange and new,

My lady, by my long-sustained call?

When, like a withered autumn leaf let fall,

My books is thrown upon your lap, can I

Discern a deeper colour in your eye,

Have I made memory's waning height more tall?

I have done my work if I have made you weep

In any place, in any made you sigh;

I meant at least one pearly tear to reap,

For very love I meant to make you cry,

You can be cruel, sweetheart, so can I,

Come, hands away from face, and let me peep.

JAMES HOWELL

(¿—?)

A Tale of the Sea and Other Poems_1873

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HASTINGS (I)

Thou old sea-town, crouching beneath the rocks

Like a strong lion waiting for his prey!

Where are thy river, harbor, and the docks

In which the navy of Old England lay?

Why didst thou slumber, when in Pevensey Bay

The Normans' mighty host profaned our soil,

When thou, the Cinque-Port Queen, didst hold the key

Which locked the sea-gates of this freedom-isle?

Why wert thou chartered, honoured, and made free

When all the land was manacled a slave?

Right loyal wert thou and thy seamen brave,

And Normen loved thee, as thou lov'dst the sea!

While all their foes, envying thy warlike fame,

Did fear thee, as, of old, they feared thy Viking-name!

THE DAY'S DEATH AND BIRTH

How still she lies! Another day is dying;

An icy shudder creeps through everything:

Nor bat nor muffled owl is on the wing,

And not a sound is heard, except the sighing

Of the old day, in his keen death-throes lying.

Oh, close his eyes, for he is dead! The spring

Of the new day has dawned. Hills, valleys ring

As he on golden plume is westward flying,

Bidding the breeze and choristers to sing

His glorious birth, and hail him as their king!

Day springs from night, and life's the fruit of death,

Ages to ages tell the same old story:

Flesh dies, and gives to flesh its vital breath,

But mind for ever lives in all its glory.

A LIFE-PHASE (III)

From the soul-sphere a lovely spirit's fleeing,

Arrayed in garments like the new-fallen snow,

Bringing sweet mercy's sunshine-streams, that flow

Into my heart, and rill through all my being!

She lays her hand upon me, whispering low,

"Arise, afflicted spirit, from the dust,

For mercy rids thee of the hellish brood

That dog the footsteps of ingratitude.

Hope be thy life-star—angels love the just!

The seven-fold heated furnace has been passed;

Sweet sorrow purifies, when the keen blast

Of grief is gone. Trust in thy God: arise!"

Almena spake, then gently on me cast

A radiant smile, and vanished in the skies!

TRANSLATIONS AND POEMS (For Private Circulation)_1875

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MR. FAWCETT

Where may I, Liberty, thy features see?

In journals writ, and read by gabbling fools,

The slaves of Fashion, Faction's lying tools,

In votes conceded by mad theory,

(The basest governing,) I see not thee.

But Truth in all, entire, and accurate,

And which no priestly guides emasculate,

Which laws enforce, that, that is liberty.

No true religion can true science fear,

Both come direct from God, and both cohere;

He, who pretends infallible to be,

Must needs dread History; whom, when, of late,

Our Chieftain, erring, would conciliate,

Fawcett, thou nobly brok'st from party free.

DURDLEDOOR

Twin bays this ridge divides,—be this my seat:

Alike, and yet how varying are they,

The cliffs' pure white, fantastic shadows grey

Relieve, and green in patches. See where beat

The waves, long fringe of foam; as they retreat,

Hear roll of pebbles! And I face the Door,

Portal of Minster fallen it seems, and o'er

The sea beyond, my eyes no boundary meet;

Yet opposite quaint Norman peasants walk,

Imagination hears their kindly talk:

Thus too, my life has reached an Ocean's shore

Unbounded,—yet beyond, loved forms I see,

"He tarries long our friend, but soon shall he

Come o'er" (they say) "to join us evermore."

ALEXANDER ANDERSON 

(1845—1909)

The Two Angels, and Other Poems_1875

Ballads and Sonnets_1879

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SONNET XXXV

(De la serie "In Rome")

The rapt diviner poets struggle still,

Like angels with one wing, to reach their heaven,

Though it may be with dust-soil'd pinion, till

Death pities, and the other wings is given.

This earth is not for them, and when they come

They stand as strangers, till, at last, they speak

Their mission in keen melody, through which

Floats the deep yearning to 'regain their home,

Which, though they stand on earth, is in their reach,

Till the light fades upon their brow and cheek;

Then heaven takes back its own that was so sweet.

In this thought I can lie in Italy,

And roll aside part of the sky, and see

Beatrice with Dante at her feet.

SONNETS TO A PICTURE

(Sonnet II)

Above him, yet he sees him not, there bends

Compassion and Divinity in one,

The Christ of time, earth, heaven and the sun,

Of the soul's soul, and all that upward tends.

In His right hand he holds a crown of thorns,

Sorrow's own symbol, and the other lies

Almost upon him, while behind him mourns

His better angel with entreating eyes.

Thou toiler after things that will not live!

Look but once upward, that thy soul may see

The sadden'd splendour of that glorious face,

Then lift thyself against that hand, and give

Thy better angel one sweet tear to place

Within the very sight of God from thee.

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 

(1830—1894)

Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress and Other Poems_1875

A Pageant and Other Poems_1881

Verses_1893

New Poems_1896

Poems of Christina Rossetti_1904

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DARKNESS AND LIGHT ARE BOTH ALIKE TO THEE

(1893)

Darkness and light are both alike to Thee:

Therefore to Thee I lift my darkened face;

Upward I look with eyes that fail to see,

Athirst for future light and present grace.

I trust the Hand of Love I scarcely trace.

With breath that fails I cry, Remember me:

Add breath to breath, so I may run my race

That where Thou art there may Thy servant be.

For Thou art gulf and fountain of my love,

I unreturning torrent to Thy sea,

Yea, Thou the measureless ocean for my rill:

Seeking I find, and finding seek Thee still:

And oh! That I had wings as hath a dove,

Then would I flee away to rest with Thee.

LIFE HIDDEN

(1896)

Roses and lilies grow above the place

Where she sleeps the long sleep that doth not dream.

If we could look upon her hidden face,

Nor shadow would be there, nor garish gleam

Of light; her life is lapsing like a stream         

That makes no noise but floweth on apace

Seawards, while many a shade and shady beam

Vary the ripples in their gliding chase.

She doth not see, but knows; she doth not feel,

And yet is sensible; she hears no sound,         

Yet counts the flight of time and doth not err.

Peace far and near, peace to ourselves and her:

Her body is at peace in holy ground,

Her spirit is at peace where Angels kneel.

A TRIAD

(1875)

Three sang of love together: one with lips

Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,

Flushed to the yellow hair and finger tips;

And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow

Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;

And one was blue with famine after love,

Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low

The burden of what those were singing of.

One shamed herself in love; one temperately

Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;

One famished died for love. Thus two of three

Took death for love and won him after strife;

One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:

All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

AFTER COMMUNION

(1904)

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?

Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?

Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?

Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod?

Lo now Thy banner over me is love,         

All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod:

For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod,

Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove.

What wilt Thou call me in our home above,

Who now hast called me friend? How will it be        

When Thou for good wine settest forth the best?

Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee,

Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast:

How will it be with me in time of love?

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 

(1840—1893)

The Sonnest of Michael Angelo Buonarroti and Tommaso Campanella_1878

Many Moods: A Volume of Verse_1878

Anima Figura_1882

Vagabunduli Libellus_1884

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STELLA MARIS

XLIII

Ah might it be that thou, who like the Dawn,

Or Nereid rising from thine own blue sea,

In supple strength and fearless ndity,

With calm wide eyes of azure unwithdrawn,

Bared thy White limbs, and let thy beauty dawn

In moonbeams whiter than the moon for me;

Thou wild as Adria´s waves that cradled thee;

Swift as a sleuth-hound, slender as a fawn;

Ah might it be that thou, even thou, couldst give

What the soul yearns for; not this passionate feast

Which makes the satiate man go forth a beast!

I crave no life-gift; let the guerdon be

Than thought more frail, than time more fugitive,

So but we blend one moment, thou with me!

THE HUMAN COMEDY

Nature, by God directed, formed in space

The universal comedy we see;

Wherein each star, each man, each entity,

Each living creature, hath its part and place:

And when the play is over, it shall be

That God will judge with justice and with grace.—

Aping this art divine, the human race

Plans for itself on earth a comedy:

It makes kings, priests, slaves, heroes for the eyes

Of vulgar folk; and gives them masks to play

Their several parts—not wisely, as we see;

For impious men too oft we canonise,

And kill the saints; while spurious lords array

Their hosts against the real nobility.

SONNET XVI

(De la serie "Sonnets on the Thought of Death")

[Many Moods: A Volume of Verse]

If God exist, justice demands that He

Should compensate the pains of earth, redress

The balance of unequal happiness,

And mould aright mis-shaped monstrosity.

The time hath long gone by since man could bless

A monarch throned above a sapphire sea,

With seraphim for songsters, smilingly

Surveying earth and all earth's helplessness.

But when we prate of God, what do we mean?

Our age that hath so many faiths outworn,

Outlived so many longings on the scene

Of human hopes and human agony,

Waits a new reading of that Name, forlorn

And wrapped in dreaming of the things to be.

TO THE POETS

Valour to pride hath turned; grave holiness

To vile hypocrisy; all gentle ways

To empty forms; sound sense to idle lays;

Pure love to heat; beauty to paint and dress:—

Thanks to you, Poets! You who sing the praise

Of fabled knights, foul fires, lies, nullities;

Not virtue, nor the wrapped sublimities

Of God, as bards were wont in those old days.

How far more wondrous than your phantasies

Are Nature's works, how far more sweet to sing!

Thus taught, the soul falsehood and truth descries.

That tale alone is worth the pondering,

Which hath not smothered history in lies,

And arms the soul against each sinful thing.

L'AMOUR DE L'IMPOSSIBLE

IV_The Pursuit of Beauty

Man's soul is drawn by beauty, even as the moth

By flame, the cloud by mountains, or as the sea,

Roaming around earth's shore incessantly,

Ebbs with the moon and surges with her growth;

And as the moth singes her wings in fire,

As clouds upon the hillsides melt in rain,

As tides with change unceasing wax and wane,

Nor in the moon's White kisses quell desire;

So the soul, drawn by beauty, nothing loth,

Burns her bright wings with rapture that is pain,

Faints and dissolves or e'er her goal she gain,

Flies and pursues that unclasped deity,

Fretful, forestalled, blown into foam and froth,

Following and foiled, even as I follow Thee!

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 

(1840—1922)

The Love Sonnets of Proteus_1880

In Vinculis: Sonnets written in a Irish Prison_1888

A New Pilgrimage_1889

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SONNET II

(1889)

How shall I ransom me? The world without,

Where once I lived in vain expense and noise,

Say, shall it welcome me in this last rout,

Back to its bosom of forgotten joys?

Sometimes I hear it whispering with strange voice,

Asking, "Are we forever then cast out,

The things that helped thee once in thy annoys,

That thou despairest? Nay, away with doubt!

Take courage to thy heart to heal its woes.

It still shall beat as wildly as a boy's."

This tempts me in the night—time, and I loose

My soul to dalliance with youth's broken toys.

Ay, wherefore suffer? In this question lies

More than my soul can answer, and be wise.

GIBRALTAR

(1880)

Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm

Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more

We ride into still water and the calm

Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore

Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er,

Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again

We look on Europe, mistress as of yore

Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.

Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules

And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door

England stands sentry. God! To hear the shrill

Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,

And at the summons of the rock gun's roar

To see her red coats marching from the hill!

THE TWO VOICES

(1888)

There are two voices with me in the night,

Easing my grief. The God of Israel saith,

"I am the Lord thy God which vanquisheth.

See that thou walk unswerving in my sight,

So shall thy enemies thy footstool be.

I will avenge." Then wake I suddenly,

And, as a man new armoured for the fight,

I shout aloud against my enemy.

Anon, another speaks, a voice of care

With sorrow laden and akin to grief,

"My son,"  it saith, "What is my will with thee?

The burden of my sorrows thou shalt share.

With thieves thou too shalt be accounted thief,

And in my kingdom thou shalt sup with me." 

FRANCIS BENNOCH 

(1812—1890)

Poems, Lyrics, Songs and Sonnets_1881

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GIPSIES

How sweet the stillness of the autumn wood,

How soft the cushion of the velvet moss,

On which recline the vagrant brother-hood

Of wandering gipsies—knowing not the loss

Of house or home, whilst curtained by the fern,

Roofed by the spreading branches of the trees,

Through whose quaint interlacing they discern

The broken radiance of the sun—or learn

The movements of the starry host by night,

And slumber softly sheltered from the breeze,

Hushed by the murmurs of the far off seas,

But promptly waking with the dawning light,

Begin the aimless loiter of their lives,

Untaxed they pilfer, feed, and swarm as bees in hives.

TO GARIBALDI

There! On that height, I played when yet a child,

And gazed with rapture on the wide-spread sea,

My young heart throbbing—planning things to be.

My country was a byword, and reviled:

The hydra tyrant crushed it. To be free

Men bravely strove, but dreamily and wild!

Now, now 'tis done—Italia reconciled!

One glorious people, one most loyal king!

Yet here in tears I linger—there the place

Where first I saw the light, heartsore I trace

In hateful hues, a strange flag fluttering!

What some call policy—I call disgrace,

And plunge my hands in the inviolate sea!

For thus I wash my soul, detested France, of thee!

JOHN JAMES AUBERTIN

(1818—1900)

Seventy Sonnets of Camoens, with Original Poems_1881

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"Este libro contiene algunas traducciones variadas y poemas originales, los mejores de los cuales son los sonetos. El que aquí sigue presenta una idea noble en líneas de admirable fuerza y simetría" (The Scotsman)

FOLLOW THE LIGHT

(De la serie "Original Sonnets")

Follow the Light—it cannot lead astray;

Thy danger lies in doubting—tread thy way;

Follow the Light—its path is dark to find,

But it were death to pause, outrun, delay;

If thou dost hope again to hail the day,

Follow—nor trust the darkness of thy mind.

'Tis a hard thing, and passing hard, to do!

Sometimes it stands, or flickers; seems untrue;

It cannot be—'tis probing thy mistrust.

It drags o'er bruising rocks; in the dank dew

Of chill Despond it chains thee; but anew

It will move onward, shine and guide—it must.

It will not slay nor quit thee: hold thou fast:

Invoking, or upbraiding, cleave to the last!

Follow the Light!

THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN 

(1823—1892)

Sonnets on the Poetry and Problems of Life_1881

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SONNET 

 

The finite spirit can but recognize

The finite all where in yon endless skies;

And hence their Power remains unknown; a fear,

Saving unto the heart and to the eyes

Of love—which only can make Being dear

To the Absolute, as smallest creature here:

God is not matter, else what wandering wave

Would drown the infant divine as He, nor save:

But as light, warmth from solar centres move,

Mind-power motive by eternal love.

Who then that truly knows the nature of,

Christ-life, and Christ as purest deity,

Can ever other than a Christian be—

Through all the systems of infinity!

SONNET 

In spaces where light's last vibration dies,

The ether's cold primeval substance rare—

As water, cold-contracted, icifies—

Condenses into simplest gas; thus where

Extrinsic motion ceases in the skies,

Intrinsic turns to visible matter there,

The invisible, whose molecules thus assume

From primitive conditions fixed form

Sequential;  centrify, and circling storm,

Thinning the medium motion renders warm,

Whither the extern denser tends; whereby

Originates the power of gravity

God's automatic will, and basis of doom:

The root is temperature, and life the bloom.

SONNET 

When any creature dies whom we have loved,

And who has loved us, for a while our love

For others lessens: to one object moved

Our loss-excited sympathies above

All others place affection for the dead,

And lives our spirit with the one that fled,

Recalling its past life, its looks and ways

In a dear anguish. Then the poor heart pays

Millions for some slight error of the head,

And the eyes fill while looking on its bed—

Each spot it knew, but knows no more. Oh, then,

No longer seems it difficult to die;

While all the outer world of things and men

Turns to our sorrow, one wide mockery.

SONNET 

From the gas-lighted streets I pace into

The cool, calm country, this late eve of spring;

Scarce move the twilight clouds on sleeping wing

Under the sky, where faint lights, steely blue,

Or pale as moon rays on dead waters gleam;

The air is silent in a humid dream,

And the last lifeless streak of sunset grey

Level in shadowing solitude far away,

Sinks, like the forecast sad of what will seem

To the last few upon the earth's last day:—

Then fronting the dead sunset's cloudy bars

Comes the calm moon where eastern vapour looms,

And vaster life expands as heaven domes

Above me, pierced with sparkling points of stars.

ROBERT FRANCIS ST CLAIR-ERSKINE, 4° EARL OF ROSSLYN

(1833—1890)

Sonnets_1883

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MIDDLE AGE

Thy glory is the glory of the sun,

Whose chastened beauty in the twilight glows,

And tenderer yet, and yet more tender grows,

As nearer to the goal his course is run—

The farewell Glory of a day nigh done!

Then all the peaks assume a tint of rose,

And the grey rocks a ruddy light disclose,

The blush of Even at her victory won.

How calm, how peaceful such a moment' rest!

Not wooing love with passionate desire,

But placid—perfect in mature repose.—

Such, Lady, are thy charms, by all confest:

Past the meridian glare, the summer fire,

Yet, oh, how far from winter's dreary snows!

THE RIVER

There is a River whose deep waters flow

Silent and swift to a blue inland Sea;

And purple hills frown gloomily above,

And grassy meads smile tenderly below.

That River is the type of one whose plea

For many an erring word is Nature's love;

The ever-changing stream portrays his heart,

The purple mountains point a life's distress;

The meadows at the brink are fitting part

Of those who cheer him through this wilderness.

Yet blend the mountain, meadow, and the stream,

Then joys and sorrows in one band appear:

So, to my soul, dear friends, kind voices seem;—

With me they smile, with me they shed the tear.

ADIEU

A few short days of pleasant intercourse,

Of sweet communion of thought and soul,

Have passed away, as all things here must pass.

How few days pass and leave us quite heart-whole,

And as they found us! Sorrow and remorse

Form the great retrospect of life, alas!

Yet these have sped, and memory survives,

To cast a "longing, lingering look" behind:

For I might live a century of lives,

And never meet a Friend more true, more kind.

Oh think on me, as I shall ever dream

Of these bright hours of by-gone happiness.

We glide in different barks adown life's stream.

I may not love thee more, I cannot less.

EDGAR PRESTAGE GOSE 

(1869—1951)

Anthero de Quental: Sixty-four Sonnets Englished_1894

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DAS UNNENBARE

Chimera, thou that passest cradled right

Amid the wavelet of my dreams of woe, 

And brushest with thy vapoury vesture's flow 

My forehead pale and weary of the light! 

Thou'rt carried by the air of peaceful night: 

In vain, with anxious mien, I seek to know 

What name on thee the venturesome bestow 

In thine own country, mystic fairy wight! 

But what a fate is mine! What a dim glow 

This dawn brings, like that at the sun's last pace, 

When only livid clouds float to and fro! 

For night grants no illusion, and I seem 

To view thee far off only when I dream, 

And even then I cannot see thy face!

MORS—AMOR

That coal-black steed, whose tramp of fearful might

I hear in dreams, when darkness cloaks the sky, 

Whom at full gallop I have seen pass by 

On the fantastic causeways of the night,— 

Whence comes he? Or what regions out of sight 

And full of terrors has he crossed, or why 

Seems he so dark and wondrous to the eye, 

Why tosses he his mane as though affright? 

A cavalier of dread and mighty gest. 

Whose port is calm yet terrible to view, 

From head to foot in shining armour dressed, 

Bestrides that mystic beast all fearlessly, 

And the black courser neighs, "I'm Death!" And you? 

"Tis I am Love!" his rider makes reply!

HILAIRE BELLOC 

(1870—1953)

Verses and Sonnets_1896

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ABABBCACDDEEFF

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ABACDDCBEFEFGG

ABBACAACDEFFED    

JUNE

Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;

The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.

The last of sunset grows into the morning,

The morning calls you from the dark away.

The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,

Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.

My way was waiting for your own adorning,

That should complete the broad adorned day.

Rise up, and do begin the day's adorning;

The little eastern clouds are dapple-gray,

There will be wind among the leaves to-day;

It is the very promise of the morning.

Lux tua via mea. Your light's my way:

Oh, do rise up and make it perfect day.

JANUARY

It freezes. All across a soundless sky

The birds go home. The horrible dark's begun:

The frozen dark that hopes not for a sun;

The ultimate dark wherein our race shall die.

Death, with his evil finger to his lip,

Leers in at human windows, turning spy

To learn the country where his rule shall lie

When he achieves perpetual generalship.

The undefeated enemy—the chill—

Which shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,

Is master of our moment, and has bound

The viewless wind itself. There is no sound.

It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.

It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.

THOMAS HARDY 

(1840—1928)

Wessex Poems and Other Verses_1898

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IN VISION I ROAMED

To —

In vision I roamed the flashing Firmament,

So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan,

As though with an awed sense of such ostent;

And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on

In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky,

To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome,

Where stars the brightest here to darkness die:

Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home!

And the sick grief that you were far away

Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near?

Who might have been, set on some outstep sphere,

Less than a Want to me, as day by day

I lived unware, uncaring all that lay

Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear.