SONNETS:

Even as Beatrice appeared to him Who passed through scenes of unimagined woe, Nor feared hell's gloomy sentry, nor the flow Of dismal Acheron; so I, through dim Uncertain paths like his—albeit my fame Pales 'neath his own, a taper to the sun— Have here been led, and this my work begun, If ended, must be ended in thy name. No idle faith is this, by whose clear light, And the strong effort of Love's conquering will, From out life's mingling mass of good and ill I have ascended to the Infinite: Beholding thee whose beauty, cold and pale, Beams like the Cherubim within the veil.

O thou! who dwell'st in memory ever blest, (By whatsoever name in heaven thou'rt known, Thyself on earth, the last and loveliest one, An angel in my bosom art confessed:) If thou inspire my song as thou know'st best, And aid my fond endeavor now begun, No fabled muse need I for guidance own The fair inhabitant of my cold breast. Yet whether this my song may stand the test, Or challenge the full sure advance of time, I little know; but if the hidden force Of Love, and its strong faith, in which I rest, Assist my heart to build the tuneful rhyme, Thou only canst be named the primal source.

Give me from out the midnight of thy hair One tress to braid in this my votive song; For time though fleeting, art is nathless long; And I, though skill of workmanship not rare Be mine, in song would make for thee, most fair! A work of such device as shall prolong Thy name, exalted o'er Earth's meaner throng, And lovelier than they all in my compare. No silversmith of Ephesus am I, By such device to bring my craftsmen gain: Nor make I thee the idol of my heart; Though thou, like great 'Diana,' whom they cry, Dost hold within my breast as chaste a reign, Nor ever shall thy gentle sway depart.

A mingled sea of color here is rolled Across the billowy upland filmed with smoke, Whose groves of yellow beech and crimson oak Stand forth, a goodly prospect to behold; Nor with less glory do the mountains fold Their giant forms in Autumn's hazy cloak, While up their sides the distant wood has broke In long receding waves of ruddy gold. Could'st thou whose beauty doth my heart ensnare, Give to this lovely scene an added grace, I should not here perforce enjoy alone These blended hues, which Autumn, in despair At not out-vieing thy enchanting face, From his broad pallet o'er the woods has thrown.

Oh! in these colored shades it were too blest To roam with thee the hill-side and the plain, When in each passing moment we retain The moral of the great truth here impressed. See! how the woods in green and gold are dressed, As if apparelled for a conqueror's reign; Nor less yon maple groves, whose blood-red stain Trickles far down the distant mountain's crest. Gorgeous October! in thy golden gleam I see the tender light of loving eyes, Which to thy sweet days give an added beam; Nor would it be to me a vain surprise, If sometimes thy low-whispering winds should seem To be the music of her tender sighs.

The less of life, the less account is seen: The less account, the less of ill is known: And Beauty, ere its flower be quite full-blown, Is ofttimes nipped by sudden frosts and keen; And thus the course of life with me hath been, For, living among men, I dwell alone: Till now, life's goodly tree well-nigh overthrown, Doth wear the yellow leaf, and not the green. Yet even as Autumn is the proper rest, The sweet and gentlest season of the year; So in the mellow Autumn of thy breast, May my name last, to life and memory dear; Nor less upon my thought be thine impressed, For thou hast ever proved a friend sincere.

Like Summer-birds, when Summer-hours are fled: Like Summer-skies when Autumn-clouds are nigh: So from my heart did Hope, the watcher, fly, When in thy arms my darling girl lay dead. O fatal bolt! and all too surely sped: Yet sadder far when in her love-lit eye I saw the smile of recognition die, And felt the death-damp on her fair young head. If Love renewed have ever safe return To its far bourne, what matters it which way Our scarce-fledged hopes and blighted joys have fled? Or why is it that we cannot discern This last great truth, that our best treasures lie Beyond the silent barriers of the dead?

Creak, ye black forests! and ye mournful forms That flit like hooded monks across the bare And desolate wilderness, urge through the air Your cloudy legions, O ye gloomy storms! Dark ministers of Night! I hear the roll Of rising winds, and in the lonely vale The melancholy Autumn breathes her wail, Yet pleasant is her sadness to my soul. See! where the Old Year bears her in his arms: The pale Cordelia and the trembling Lear: Will he not strew with heather her sad bier, And keep her safe from Winter's rude alarms? 'Vex not his ghost!' his life will soon be o'er, The 'sweet, low voice' he loved he hears no more.

Oh! when shall love to Thee be my best guide, Redeemer, Saviour! ever blessed Lord! By all the powers in earth and heaven adored? When flowed the dear blood from Thy wounded side— By heaven forsaken and by man denied— Why were its crimson streams so freely poured, If man by love was not to be restored? O mighty theme! that doth debase my pride, And pour contempt on all the things of earth: If angels are not faultless in Thy sight, How much less we who travail from our birth, Walking apart from Love and its clear light? Yet not for them, but us, was He once slain, That we, redeemed from sin, might live again.

Mourn, mourn, voice of the wilderness! For Him who shed His precious blood for me: Jesu Redemptor! Lamb of Calvary! The heir of glory, anguish and distress; Oh! how shall mortal tongue the love express With which Thou didst so love us, as to be Our sacrifice upon the accursed tree, Bearing the burden of our wickedness. O ye wild winds! and wilder blasts that wail Amid the ebon darkness, have ye known Man's dark iniquity that thus ye moan In hollow accents through the lonely vale? Alas! my soul, thy sins slew God's dear Son: Kyrie eleeson! Christe eleeson!

'Therefore with angels and arch-angels, laud And magnify His great and glorious Name, Who, to redeem the world from ruin, came, Saying: Holy, holy, holy Lord God! Heaven and earth made clean by Thy dear blood, Are ever full of Thy great majesty: All glory be to Thee, O Lord, Most High!' So sang the angelic choir, the while I stood Listening the far response: 'Not unto us, Not unto us, O Lord! but unto Thee Be all the glory, Lamb of Calvary! Quoniam tu solus Dominius!' So Love doth rule—the high behest of heaven: And Love is ten-fold Love that waits on sins forgiven.