Hesperus Part 20

SONNETS,

WRITTEN IN THE ORILLIA WOODS.

August, 1859.

DEDICATED

TO

My friends

AT

"ROCKRIDGE," ORILLIA, C. W.

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SONNETS.

PROEM.

Alice, I need not tell you that the Art That copies Nature, even at its best, Is but the echo of a splendid tone, Or like the answer of a little child To the deep question of some frosted sage.

For Nature in her grand magnificence, Compared to Art, must ever raise her head Beyond the cognizance of human minds: This is the spirit merely; that, the soul.

We watch her pa.s.sing, like some gentle dream, And catch sweet glimpses of her perfect face; We see the flas.h.i.+ng of her gorgeous robes, And, if her mantle ever falls at all, How few Elishas wear it sacredly, As if it were a valued gift from heaven.

G.o.d has created; we but re-create, According to the temper of our minds; According to the grace He has bequeathed; According to the uses we have made Of His good-pleasure given unto us.

And so I love my art; chiefly, because Through it I rev'rence Nature, and improve The tone and tenor of the mind He gave.

G.o.d sends a Gift; we crown it with high Art,

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And make it worthy the bestower, when The talent is not hidden in the dust Of pampered negligence and venial sin, But put to studious use, that it may work The end and aim for which it was bestowed.

All Good is G.o.d's; all Love and Truth are His; We are His workers; and we dare not plead But that He gave us largely of all these, Demanding a discreet return, that when The page of life is written to its close It may receive the seal and autograph Of His good pleasure--the right royal sign And signet of approval, to the end That we were worthy of the gift divine, And through it praised the Great Artificer.

In my long rambles through Orillian woods; Out on the ever-changing Couchiching; By the rough margin of the Lake St. John; Down the steep Severn, where the artist sun, In dainty dalliance with the blus.h.i.+ng stream, Transcribes each tree, branch, leaf, and rock and flower, Perfect in shape and colour, clear, distinct, With all the panoramic change of sky-- Even as Youth's bright river, toying with The fairy craft where Inexperience dreams, And subtle Fancy builds its airy halls, In blest imagination pictures most Of bright or lovely that adorn life's banks, With the blue vault of heaven over all; On that serene and wizard afternoon, As hunters chase the wild and timid deer

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We chased the quiet of Medonte's shades Through the green windings of the forest road, Past Nature's venerable rank and file Of primal woods--her Old Guard, sylvan-plumed-- The far-off Huron, like a silver thread, The clue to some enchanted labyrinth, Dimly perceived beyond the stretch of woods, Th' approaches tinted by a purple haze, And softened into beauty like the dream Of some rapt seer's Apocalyptic mood; And when at Rockridge we sat looking out Upon the softened shadows of the night, And the wild glory of the throbbing stars; Where'er we bent our Eden-tinted way: My brain was a weird wilderness of Thought: My heart, love's sea of pa.s.sion tossed and torn, Calmed by the presence of the loving souls By whom I was surrounded. All the while They deemed me pa.s.sing tame, and wondered when My dreamy castle would come toppling down.

I was but driving back the aching past, And mirroring the future. And these leaves Of meditation are but perfumes from The censer of my feelings; honied drops Wrung from the busy hives of heart and brain; Mere etchings of the artist; grains of sand From the calm sh.o.r.es of that unsounded deep Of speculation, where all thought is lost Amid the realms of Nature and of G.o.d.

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I.

My soul goes out to meet her, and my heart Flings wide the portals of its love, and yearns To have her enter its serene retreat.

A poor stray lamb, not wand'ring from the fold, But all unstudied in the worldling's art, Turning life's mintage into seeming gold, Wherewith to purchase love and love's returns; Unknowing that love's waters, though so sweet, Lead to some bitter Marah. So my soul Goes out to meet her, and it clasps her home, And seeks to bear her upward to the goal At which the righteous enter. From the dome Of starriest Night two blest Immortals come, To bear us spheral-ward to G.o.d's own mercy-seat.

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II.

'Tis summer still, yet now and then a leaf Falls from some stately tree. True type of life!

How emblamatic of the pangs that grief Wrings from our blighted hopes, that one by one Drop from us in our wrestle with the strife And natural pa.s.sions of our stately youth.

And thus we fall beneath life's summer sun.

Each step conducts us through an opening door Into new halls of being, hand in hand With grave Experience, until we command The open, wide-spread autumn fields, and store The full ripe grain of Wisdom and of Truth.

As on life's tott'ring precipice we stand, Our sins like withered leaves are blown about the land.

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III.

Oh, holy sabbath morn! thrice blessed day Of solemn rest, true peace, and earnest prayer.

How many hearts that never knelt to pray Are glad to breathe thy soul-sustaining air.

I sit within the quiet woods, and hear The village church-bell's soft inviting sound, And to the confines of the loftiest sphere Imagination wings its airy round; A myriad spirits have a.s.sembled there, Whose prayers on earth a sweet acceptance found.

I go to wors.h.i.+p in Thy House, O G.o.d!

With her, thy young creation bright and fair; Help us to do Thy will, and not despair, Though both our hearts should bend beneath Thy chastening rod.

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IV.

The birds are singing merrily, and here A squirrel claims the lords.h.i.+p of the woods, And scolds me for intruding. At my feet The tireless ants all silently proclaim The dignity of labour. In my ear The bee hums drowsily; from sweet to sweet Careering, like a lover weak in aim.

I hear faint music in the solitudes; A dreamlike melody that whispers peace Imbues the calmy forest, and sweet rills Of pensive feeling murmur through my brain, Like ripplings of pure water down the hills That slumber in the moonlight. Cease, oh, cease!

Some day my weary heart will coin these into pain.

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