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It is a truth for the initiated that love begins with worship, and favors piety in its first approaches; and we need not wonder if the devout poet in due time paid his amorous addresses to this bride of the Spirit, whose lamp must have been dim, indeed, if it did not reveal to her the lover in disguise of the brother in Israel. A poet of our day, in a sonnet somewhat faulty in form, but true to the faith of your pilgrim-vow, ye happy palmers of Love,—
“O voi che per la via d’Amor passate!”
has written as follows:—
“‘As calmest waters mirror Heaven the best, So best befit remembrances of thee Calm holy hours from earthly passion free, Sweet twilight musing,—Sabbaths in the breast. No stooping thought, nor any grovelling care, The sacred whiteness of that place shall stain, Where, far from heartless joys and rites profane, Memory has reared to thee an altar fair. Yet frequent visitors shall kiss the shrine, And ever keep its vestal lamp alight; All noble thoughts, all dreams divinely bright, That waken or delight this soul of mine.’ So Love, meek pilgrim! his young vows did pay, With glowing eyes that must his lips gainsay.”
A higher gospel is preached in the sonnet of another American poet, who has written too few verses,—or rather has published too few of the many he has composed.
“As unto blooming roses, summer dews, Or morning’s amber to the tree-top choirs, So to my bosom are the beams that use To rain on me from eyes that Love inspires; Your love,—vouchsafe it, royal-hearted Few,— And I will set no common price thereon; O, I will keep, as Heaven his holy blue, Or Night her diamonds, that dear treasure won. But aught of inward faith must I forego, Or miss one drop from Truth’s baptismal hand, Think poorer thoughts, pray cheaper prayers, and grow Less worthy trust, to meet your hearts’ demand: Farewell! your wish I for your sake deny; Rebel to love in truth to love am I.”
A poet who has been more than once quoted in this essay, saw no sharp hostility between Love and Death,—those reputed foes,—but thus addressed the last earthly benefactor of mankind:—
“O Death! thou art the palace of our hopes, The storehouse of our joys,—great labor’s end.”
His friend, confronting the same inevitable guest, questioned the dark angel, in these lines, that conform to the rule of the sonnet in spirit, if not in rhyme:—
“What strange deep secret dost thou hold, O Death! To hallow those thou claimest for thine own? That which the open book could never teach, The closed one whispers, as we stand alone By one, how more alone than we!—and strive To comprehend the passion of that peace. In vain our thoughts would wind within the heart, The heart of this great mystery of release!— Baptism of Death—which steepest infant eyes In grace of calm that saints might hope to wear, Whose cold touch purifies the guilty brow, And sets again the seal of childhood there— Our line of life in vain would sound thy sea, That which we seek to know,—we soon shall be.”
Let me now close this garland of sonnets with two choice flowers from that garden of Elizabeth which no modern botanist and no anthologist of ancient fame can equal in fragrance and amaranthine beauty. Both breathe the sweetness of Love,—the first, from the “Parthenophe and Parthenophil” of Barnaby Barnes, with some flavor of discontent,—but the second, taken from the warm hand of Shakespeare, is full of that noble confidence, which he, of all poets, most naturally inspires.
“Ah, sweet Content! where is thy mild abode? Is it with shepherds and light-hearted swains, Which sing upon the downs and pipe abroad, Tending their flocks and cattle on the plains? Ah, sweet Content! where dost thou safely rest? In heaven? with angels which the praises sing Of Him that made and rules at his behest The minds and hearts of every living thing? Ah, sweet Content! where does thy harbor hold? Is it in churches with religious men, Which please the gods with prayers manifold, And in their studies meditate it then? Whether thou dost on heaven or earth appear, Be where thou wilt, thou wilt not harbor here.”
And now upon this delicious disconsolate strophe, hear the brave turn and reply of Shakespeare’s antistrophe,—and take it for your consolation, lovers and poets!—
“Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a cónfined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.”
F. B. S.
February 6, 1882.
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SONNETS AND CANZONETS.
“These quiet and green places, these mountains and valleys, were created by Nature on purpose for loving hearts.”
Meli’s Canzonets.
“Be it that my unseasonable song Come out of time, that fault is in
