SONNETS IN MEMORY OF THE LATE SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
I.
To-night upon thy roof the snows are lying;
The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees;
A dying dirge that soothes the year in dying
Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze.
Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing
This hour a late one, or by slow degrees
Heals some old wound, to God’s high grace replying—
A time there was when thou wert like to these!
Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere
Liv’st thou, sojourner, or a transient guest?
By whom companioned? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o’er thy place of rest?
II.
“Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer!”[173]
The answer man can yield not ye bestow:
Your answer is a little Infant, bare,
Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low.
Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow!
There doth the Mother-Maid his couch prepare:
His harbor is her bosom: drop him there
Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow.
Sole Hope of man! Sole Hope for us—for thee!
“To us a Prince is given; a Child is born!”—
Thou sang’st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid immaculate, and the twisted thorn
Where’er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!