SONNET.
I could not love thee more, if life depended
On one more link being fixed to Affection's chain;
Nor cease to love thee—save my passion ended
With life; for love and life were blanks if twain!
I could not love thee less; the flame, full-statured
Leaps from the soul, and knows no infancy;
But like the sun—majestic, golden-featured,
Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea.
I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses,
Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light.
No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses—
Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night.
But simple words fall short of what I'll prove:
Accept them but as lispings of my love.
SEBASTOPOL IS WON.
1855.
SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.
Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shout
In spirit-gladdening notes,
Whilst mimic thunders bellow out
From cannons' brazen throats:
"Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly;
The advent has begun:
Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry—
"Sebastopol is won!"
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!
No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas,
Nor selfish hope of gain,
That sent the blood mad-rushing through
And through each Briton's vein;
No! such was not the spell that nerved
Old England for the fight,
Her war cry with her brother braves'
Was "Freedom, God, and Right!"
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!
Shame! shame! upon the craven souls
Of those who trembling stood,
And would not—dare not—lend a hand
To stay this feast of blood!
Whose cringing spirits lowly bowed
Before the despot-glance
Of him whose star now pales before
Brave England! Mighty France!
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky;
Sebastopol is won!
Tho' hoary grows the mother-land
Her enemies may learn
That 'neath her smile so queenly-grand
There lives a purpose stern!
Then Britons chant exulting paeans,
Long pent-up joy release;
From yonder flaming pile upsoars
The Morning Sun of Peace! (a)
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!
(a) I am sorry to find that the aspiration here embodied has been falsified. War is now raging (1877), and from precisely the same causes as those which led to the Crimean war, nearly a quarter of a century ago.