UN SOLITAIRE
A Drawing by E.I. [Emma Isola]
[To Sarah Lachlan]
Solitary man, around thee
Are the mountains: Peace hath found thee
Resting by that rippling tide;
All vain toys of life expelling,
Hermit-like, thou find'st a dwelling,
Lost 'mid foliage stretching wide.
Angels here alone may find thee,
Contemplation fast may bind thee.
Holier spot, or more fantastic,
Livelier scene of deep seclusion,
Armed by Nature 'gainst intrusion,
Never graced a seat Monastic.
TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]
An Acrostic
Sarah, blest wife of "Terah's faithful Son,"
After a race of years with goodness run,
Regardless heard the promised miracle,
And mocked the blessing as impossible.
How weak is Faith!—even He, the most sincere,
Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear,
Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent
Of full belief, until he could content
Mere human senses. In your piety,
As you are one in name, industriously
So copy them: but shun their weak part—Incredulity.
TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON
Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on
And greet the honor'd name of Robinson.
Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets,
And palaces, where pilgrim pilgrim meets,
Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can
Revered make the name of Englishman,
Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me
By many a friendly act. His heart I see
In thee with answering courtesy renew'd.
Nor shall to thee my debt of gratitude
Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand
One that was come a stranger to thy land—
Now call thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.