BOCONNOC
Who so distraught could ramble here,
From gentle beech to simple gorse,
From glen to moor, nor cease to fear
The world's impetuous bigot force,
Which drives the young before they will,
And when they will not drives them still.
Come hither, thou that would'st forget
The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt,
The statesman actor's face hard set,
The kennel cry that cheers his taunt,
Come where pure winds and rills combine
To murmur peace round virtue's shrine.
Virtue—men thrust her back, when these
Rode down for Charles and right divine,
And those with dogma Genevese
Restored in faith their wavering line.
No virtue in religious camps,
No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps.
And now, when forcing seasons bud
With prophet, hero, saint, and quack,
When creeds and fashions heat the blood,
And transcendental tonguelets clack,
Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know,
And think her odes quite rococo.
Well, be it Roman, be it worse,
When Pelhams reigned in George's name
Poets were safe from sneer or curse
Who gave a patriot classic fame,
And goodness, void of passion, knit
The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt.
That age was as a neutral vale
'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife,
And turning from the sects to hail
Composure and a graceful life,
Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows,
Boconnoc's guests ensured repose.
That charm remains; and he who knows
The root and stock of freedom's laws,
Unscared by frenzied nations' throes,
And hugging yet the good old cause,
Finds in the shade these beeches cast
The wit, the fragrance of the past.
Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.
A SKETCH AFTER BRANTÔME
The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
The last absolving Latin duly said,
And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;
The bed of one who yester even took
From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
One look, which left the teardrops on her face;
A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
soul,
And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.
Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
The lily voice we thought for ever mute.
The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
That they may serve his lady's last desires.
"Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
Play La défaite des Suisses," Then pearly notes
Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
Down on the breath of morning music floats.
He played as far as tout est perdu and wept.
"Tout est perdu again, once more," she sighed;
And on, still softer on, the music crept,
And softly, at the pause, the listener died.
1862.
ON LIVERMEAD SANDS
For waste of scheme and toil we grieve,
For snowflakes on the wave we sigh,
For writings on the sand that leave
Naught for to-morrow's passer-by.
Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth,
And would be something ere he sink
To silence, ere he mix with earth,
And part with love, and cease to think.
Shall I then comfort thee and me,
My neighbour, preaching thus of waste?
Count yonder planet fragments; see,
The meteors into darkness haste.
Lo! myriad germs at random float,
Fall on no fostering home, and die
Back to mere elements; every mote
Was framed for life as thou, as I.
For ages over soulless eyes,
Ere man was born, the heavens in vain
Dipt clouds in dawn and sunset dyes
Unheeded, and shall we complain?
Aye, Nature plays that wanton game
And Nature's hierophants may smile,
Contented with their lore; no blame
To rhymers if they groan meanwhile.
Since that which yearns towards minds of men,
Which flashes down from brain to lip,
Finds but cold truth in mammoth den,
With spores, with stars, no fellowship.
Say we that our ungamered thought
Drifts on the stream of all men's fate,
Our travail is a thing of naught,
Only because mankind is great.
Born to be wasted, even so,
And doomed to feel, and lift no voice;
Yet not unblessed, because I know
So many other souls rejoice.
1863.