Sonnets and Canzonets

Sit in Pantheon throned the Sacred Seven.

“The princely mind, that can
Teach man to keep a God in man,—
And when wise poets would search out to see
Good men, behold them all in thee!”

VIII

Pleased, I recall those hours, so fair and free,
When all the long forenoons we two did toss
From lip to lip, in lively colloquy,
Plato, Plotinus, or famed schoolman’s gloss,
Disporting in rapt thought and ecstasy.
Then by the tilting rail Millbrook we cross,
And sally through the fields to Walden wave,
Plunging within the cove, or swimming o’er;
Through woodpaths wending, he with gesture quick
Rhymes deftly in mid-air with circling stick,
Skims the smooth pebbles from the leafy shore,
Or deeper ripples raises as we lave;
Nor slumb’rous pillow touches at late night,
Till converse with the stars his eyes invite.

“Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep;
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

“Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever,
Thou who mak’st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.”

    Ben Jonson.

IX

Dear Lady! oft I meditate on thee,
Noblest companion and fit peer of him
Whom envious years, in high prosperity,
Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim
Of that fair-fashioned native piety
Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate,
And held by him and thee inviolate, —
Fountain of youth, still sparkling o’er the brim.
Then I recall thy salient quick wit,
Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow, —
Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit,
Though from the wound thou see’st the red drops flow:
I much admire that dexterous archery,
And pray that sinners may thy target be.

“Upon the nineteenth day of the first month, they keep a solemn festival to Hermes, wherein they eat honey and figs, and withal, say these words, ‘Truth is a sweet thing;’ and that amulet or charm which they fable to hang about her is, when interpreted in our language,

‘A true voice.’”

    Plutarch.

X

Thou, Sibyl rapt! whose sympathetic soul
Infused the myst’ries thy tongue failed to tell;
Though from thy lips the marvellous accents fell,
And weird wise meanings o’er the senses stole,
Through those rare cadences, with winsome spell;
Yet, even in such refrainings of thy voice,
There struggled up a wailing undertone,
That spoke thee victim of the Sisters’ choice, —
Charming all others, dwelling still alone.
They left thee thus disconsolate to roam,
And scorned thy dear, devoted life to spare.
Around the storm-tost vessel sinking there
The wild waves chant thy dirge and welcome home;
Survives alone thy sex’s valiant plea,
And the great heart that loved the brave and free.

“One knocked at the Beloved’s door, and a Voice asked from within, Who is there? And he answered, It is I. Then the Voice said, This house will not hold me and thee, and the door was not opened. Then went the Lover into the desert, and fasted and prayed in solitude. And after a year he returned, and knocked again at the door. And again the Voice asked, Who is there? and he said, It is Thyself. And the door was opened to him.”

    Persian Poet.

XI

Priest of the gladsome tidings, old and new,
To whom by nature fell, as the most fit,
The saintly Channing’s mantle; brave and true,
Thou heedst thy calling, and dost well acquit
Thyself of the high mission. Thy sage wit
(O brother in the Lord, and well approved
To lead men heavenward to the Father’s throne,
And Son’s that sits at His right hand beloved!)
Hath ministered to every clime and zone
Washed by Pacific or Atlantic sea,
With chainless flow ’neath Heaven’s unbounded cope.
Son of the Church, saint of thy century!
Undoubting faith is thine, and fadeless hope,