GOLDEN

SPENSER, EDMUND, 1552-1599

Most glorious Lord of life! that on this day
I joy to see how, in your drawen work,
One day I wrote her name upon the strand ;
Like as the culver on the bared bough

SURREY, EARL OF, 1516-1547

The soote season, that bud and bloom furth brings,
SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES, 1837-1909

Spring speaks again, and all our woods are stirred,
The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leaves
But half a man's days-and his days were nights.
So many a dream and hope that went and came,
Beyond the north wind lay the land of old

A graceless doom it seems that bids us grieve :

SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, 1563-1618

They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,

SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON, 1840-1893

Away, away! The ruffling breezes call;
Rebuke me not! I have nor wish nor skill
Musing on Venice and the thought of thee,
Never, oh never more shall I behold

Oh Mother, holiest Mother, Mother Night!
At Mürren let the morning lead thee out

TENNYSON-TURNER, CHARLES, 1808-1879

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
On to the beach the quiet waters crept :

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THOMPSON, FRANCIS, 1859-1907

Dear Dove, that bear'st to my sole-labouring ark
When from the blossoms of the noiseful day
O gain that lurk'st ungainèd in all gain!

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THOMSON, JAMES, 1834-1882

The Church stands there beyond the orchard-blooms: 138

THURLOW, LORD, 1781-1829

The crimson Moon, uprising from the sea,

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xix

GOLDEN

TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX, 1807-1886

A wretched thing it were, to have our heart

WADDINGTON, SAMUEL, 1844-1923

Lone wanderer 'mid the loftiest heights of Thought,
Where still Varenna wears her cypress-crown
Across the trackless skies thou may'st not wander ;
From night to night, through circling darkness whirled,
Where wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born
The darkness deepens on the dim-lit shore;

WARREN, SIR THOMAS HERBERT, b. 1853
Morn of the year, of day and May the prime !

WATSON, ROSAMUND MARRIOTT, 1863-1911
From the broad summit of the furrowed wold
They say our best illusions soonest fly-
Clasp close my hand; this little space is ours,
Alas! my heart shrinks chill before To-night;
Shall we not weary in the windless days

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WATSON, SIR WILLIAM, b. 1858

At the hushed brink of twilight,-when, as though
Dismiss not so, with light hard phrase and cold,
Old Chaucer, the unconquerably young,
In a false dream I saw the Foe prevail.

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I see thee pine like her in golden story
We talked of Children of the Open Air,'
Beneath the loveliest dream there coils a fear:
The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold

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What power is this? what witchery wins my feet
The wild things loved me, but a wood-sprite said:

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WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO, 1775-1841

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew

WILSON, JOHN, 1785-1854

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;

WOODS, MARGARET L.

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Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?

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XX

GOLDEN

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM, 1770-1850

Scorn not the Sonnet! Critic, you have frowned,
Earth has not anything to show more fair :
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee;
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king

'With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!

WYATT, SIR THOMAS, 1503-1542

My galley, charged with forgetfulness,

A Sonnet is a moment's monument,—
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
To one dead deathless hour.
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,

Look that it be,

Of its own arduous fulness reverent :
Carve it in ivory or in ebony,

As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see
Its flowering crest impearled and orient.

A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals

The soul,-its converse, to what Power 'tis due :— Whether for tribute to the august appeals

Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue,

It serve; or,'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath, In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death.

D. G. ROSSETTI

OF ENGLISH SONNETS

SIR THOMAS WYATT

THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS STATE TO
A SHIP IN PERILOUS STORM TOSSED

ON THE SEA

My galley, charged with forgetfulness,

Through sharpë seas in winter nights doth pass "Tween rock and rock; and eke my foe, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness:

And every hour, a thought in readiness,

As though that death were light in such a case.
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.

A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,

Have done the wearied cords great hinderance;
Wreathed with error and with ignorance,

The stars be hid that lead me to this pain;

Drowned is reason that should be my comfort,
And I remain, despairing of the port.