Sonnets and Canzonets

Perchance some stroke of magic thee befell,
Ere thy baronial keep the Muse did vex,
Nor grant deliverance from enchanted spell,
But tease thee all the while and sore perplex,
Till thou that wizard tale shouldst fairly tell,
Better than poets in thy own clear prose.
Painter of sin in its deep scarlet dyes,
Thy doomsday pencil Justice doth expose,
Hearing and judging at the dread assize;
New England’s guilt blazoning before all eyes,
No other chronicler than thee she chose.
Magician deathless! dost thou vigil keep,
Whilst ’neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep?

“There is a Roman splendor in her smile,
A tenderness that owes its depth to toil;
Well may she leave the soft voluptuous wile,
That forms the woman of a softer soil;
She does pour forth herself a fragrant oil,
Upon the dark asperities of Fate,
And make a garden else all desolate.”

    Ellery Channing.

XX

Still held in sweet remembrance thou, my friend,
As when I knew thee in thy maiden prime;
Though later years to ripening graces lend
The graver traits, whilst we together climb
The pathway upward to those loftier heights,
’Bove clouded prospects and familiar sights.
Thy gracious worth shines brightly in mine eyes,
Thy warm heart’s labors, thy large liberal brain,
Ennobling studies, and broad charities,
Thou woman worthy of the coming age!
Whilst household duties thou dost well sustain,
Yet ampler service for thy sex presage;
Can aught from Memory’s record e’er erase
Thy cordial manners, and resplendent face?

“So have I seen in fair Castile,
The youth in glittering squadrons start,
Sudden the flying jennet wheel,
And hurl the unexpected dart.”

    Scott.

XXI

Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre
Startles the churches from their slumbers late,
Discoursing music, mixed with lofty ire,
At wrangling factions in the restless state,
Till tingles with thy note each listening ear, —
Then household charities by the friendly fire
Of home, soothe all to fellowship and good cheer.
No sin escapes thy fervent eloquence,
Yet, touching with compassion the true word,
Thou leavest the trembling culprit’s dark offence
To the mediation of his gracious Lord.
To noble thought and deep dost thou dispense
Due meed of praise, strict in thy just award.
Can other pulpits with this preacher cope?
I glory in thy genius, and take hope!

“Many are the friends of the golden tongue.”

    Welsh Triad.

XXII

People’s Attorney, servant of the Right!
Pleader for all shades of the solar ray,
Complexions dusky, yellow, red, or white;
Who, in thy country’s and thy time’s despite,
Hast only questioned, What will Duty say?
And followed swiftly in her narrow way:
Tipped is thy tongue with golden eloquence,
All honeyed accents fall from off thy lips, —
Each eager listener his full measure sips,
Yet runs to waste the sparkling opulence, —
The scorn of bigots, and the worldling’s flout.
If Time long held thy merit in suspense,
Hastening repentant now, with pen devout,
Impartial History dare not leave thee out.

“Who faithful in insane sedition keeps,
With silver and with ruddy gold may vie.”

    Tyrtæus.

XXIII

’Twas when the land was struggling to break free
From Slavery’s fetter and provincial ban,
Whilst a great people dreaded liberty, —
That the dire conflict of thine age began.
Thy voice rang clear o’er selfish sect and clan;
Nor politician’s, priest’s, nor tradesman’s plea