William Johnson Cory

“ Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range Close to a sister's engarlanded brows, Over the diamonds a mother will wear, In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.— Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change, Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs! Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet, Walk through some passionless years by my side, Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk, Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk. When the sap stays, and the blossom is set, Others will take the fruit, I shall have died. ”

“ So might the thought grow stronger That flows from touch of thee. Oh little slumbering maid, If thou wert five years older, Thine head would not be laid So simply on my shoulder! Oh, would that I were younger, Oh, were I more like thee, I should not faintly hunger For love that cannot be. A girl might be caressed, Beside me freely sitting; A child on me might rest, And not like thee, unwitting. Such honour is thy mother's Who smileth on thy sleep, Or for the nurse who smothers Thy cheek in kisses deep. ”

“ Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake, Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes. Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden, Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song: Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden, Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong. Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave? Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends Lies to the pious, furies to the brave. ”

“ Is not Apollo's call enough, The god of every Greek? Then take our gold, and household stuff; Claim what thou wilt, but speak." He falters; for the waves he fears, The roads he cannot measure; But rates full high the gleam of spears And dreams of yellow treasure. He listens; he is yielding now; Outspoke the fearless child: "Oh, father, come away, lest thou Be by this man beguiled." Her lowly judgement barred the plea, So low, it could not reach her. The man knows more of land and sea, But she's the truer teacher. ”

“ A lady, who hath loved the world, the court, Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet soul, And meekly stoops to learn that life is short, Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole. Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains. Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute; Bid him attune to descant of sad strains The lily voice we thought for ever mute. The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands And bends before the sun that gilds his wires, And prays a blessing on his faltering hands, That they may serve his lady's last desires. ”

“ But the poems are deeply original, because they, combine a peculiar classical quality, with a frank delight in the spirit of generous boyhood. For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they never lose sight of the fuller life of the world that waits beyond the threshold of youth, the wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes of the patriot, the generous visions of manhood. They are full of the romance of boyish friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket field, the ingenuous ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and health, the brilliant charm of the opening world. ”

“ Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade; Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid, Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed. Bear with old age, blithe child of memory! Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh To Sophocles and Plato, till they die. Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales, Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails. ”

“ Where the tranquil swan is borne, Imaged in a watery glass, Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn Stoop to catch the boats that pass, Where the earliest orchis grows, Bury thou fair Anterôs. Glide we by, with prow and oar: Ripple shadows off the wave, And reflected on the shore, Haply play about the grave. Folds of summer-light enclose All that once was Anterôs. On a flickering wave we gaze, Not upon his answering eyes: Flower and bird we scarce can praise, Having lost his sweet replies: Cold and mute the river flows With our tears for Anterôs. ”

“ Draw from godlike eyes Some grace to last when love discards thee. Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee; Fate will have him be Great and fancy-free, When some noble maid her hand in his hath laid, Give him up, poor heart, and break.
THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET Her captains for the Baltic bound In silent homage stood around; Silent, whilst holy dew Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears, For she had felt a mother's fears, And wifely cares she knew. She wept; she could not bear to say, "Sail forth, my mariners, and slay The liegemen of my foe." ”

“ And even on me, thy friend, shall flow Some streamlet from thy river of fame. Thou to the gilded youth be kind; Shed all thy genius-rays on them; An ancient comrade stands behind To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem. A stranger to thy peers am I, And slighted, like that poor old crone, And yet some clinging memories try To rate thy conquests as mine own. Nay, when at random drops thy praise From lips of happy lookers-on, My tearful eyes I proudly raise, And bid my conscious self be gone. ”

“ In deeper dream, with wider range, Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine: Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change, The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.
A STUDY OF BOYHOOD So young, and yet so worn with pain! No sign of youth upon that stooping head, Save weak half-curls, like beechen boughs that spread With up-turned edge to catch the hurrying rain; Such little lint-white locks, as wound About a mother's finger long ago, When he was blither, not more dear, for woe Was then far off, and other sons stood round. ”

“ A HOUSE AND A GIRL The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn, And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine, And honey of bountiful jessamine, Are gone from the homestead where I was born. I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall, And then I bethink me how once I stept Through rooms where my Mother had blest me, and wept To yield them to strangers, and part with them all. My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased Full early from hoarding with stainless mind, To Torrington only and home inclined, Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast. ”

“ What lies below No god will show, And we to whom the truth's denied Drift upon idle fables to and fro.
BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK The aspen grows on the maiden's bank, Down swoops the breeze on the bough, Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank, Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow. The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought, Sheltered and safe below; The bank is high, and the wind runs by, Giving us leave to row. The bank was dipping low and lower, Showing the glowing west, The oar went slower, for either rower The river was heaving her breast. ”

“ They share, they soothe my fond regret, Since neither they nor I forget. His sweet strong heart so nobly beat With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal, That vibrant hearts of ours repeat What they with him were wont to feel; Still quiring in that higher key, Till he take up the melody. If there be any music here, I trust it will not fail, like notes Of May-birds, when the warning year Abates their summer-wearied throats. Shame on us, if we drudge once more As dull and tuneless as before. ”

“ NUBENTI Though the lark that upward flies Recks not of the opening skies, Nor discerneth grey from blue, Nor the rain-drop from the dew: Yet the tune which no man taught So can quicken human thought, That the startled fancies spring Faster far than voice or wing. And the songstress as she floats Rising on her buoyant notes, Though she may the while refuse Homage to the nobler Muse, Though she cannot truly tell How her voice hath wrought the spell, Fills the listener's eyes with tears, Lifts him to the inner spheres. ”

“ In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt, For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane Arose, and girt herself to rout The foes that troubled her Lorraine. So here we feast in faith to-night, To-morrow we'll rejoin the host Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright, And Jane our maiden is the toast. But I, that faced the window, caught A passing cloud, a foreign plume, A Prussian helmet; and the thought Of peril chilled the tavern room. We rose, we glared through twilight panes, We muttered curses bosom-deep; A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes, We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep. ”

“ Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving, Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom. Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter; Toil at the loom. Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady; Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion Held the bow slack. Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered, "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat, When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving, Low at your feet. Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting, Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare. ”

“ Thus he was for many boys a deeply inspiring teacher; he had the art of awakening enthusiasm, of investing all he touched with a mysterious charm, the charm of wide and accurate knowledge illuminated by feeling and emotion. He rebuked ignorance in a way which communicated the desire to know. There are many men alive who trace the fruit and flower of their intellectual life to his generous and free-handed sowing. ”

“ Forsooth the beech's knotless stem, If early felled, were dear to them. But the fair tree lives on, and spreads Its scatheless boughs above their heads, And they are pollarded by cares, And give themselves religious airs, And grow not, whilst the forest-king Strikes high and deep from spring to spring. So they would have his branches rise In theoretic symmetries; They see a twist in yonder limb, The foliage not precisely trim; Some gnarled roughness they lament, Take credit for their discontent, And count his flaws, serenely wise With motes of pity in their eyes ”

“ William Cory had always a deep love of his old home, a strong sense of local sanctities and tender associations. "I hope you will always feel," his mother used to say, "wherever you live, that Torrington belongs to you." He said himself, in later years, "I want to be a Devon man and a Torrington man." His memory lingered over the vine-shaded verandah, the jessamine that grew by the balustrade of the steps, the broad-leaved myrtle that covered the wall of the little yard.
The boy was elected on the foundation at Eton in 1832, little guessing that it was to be his home for forty years. ”

“ The wonder flushing in the cheek, The questions many a score, When I grow eloquent, and speak Of England, and of war— Oh, better than the world of dress And pompous dining, out, Better than simpering and finesse Is all this stir and rout. I'll borrow life, and not grow old; And nightingales and trees Shall keep me, though the veins be cold, As young as Sophocles. ”

“ Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife; Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths: Tears such as thine might bring them back to life. Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded, Slander and fable fairly rent in twain, Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded, Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again. The lord, who leads the Spartan host, Stands with a little maid, To greet a stranger from the coast Who comes to seek his aid. ”

“ And on, still softer on, the music crept, And softly, at the pause, the listener died. 1862.
ON LIVERMEAD SANDS For waste of scheme and toil we grieve, For snowflakes on the wave we sigh, For writings on the sand that leave Naught for to-morrow's passer-by. Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth, And would be something ere he sink To silence, ere he mix with earth, And part with love, and cease to think. Shall I then comfort thee and me, My neighbour, preaching thus of waste? Count yonder planet fragments; see, The meteors into darkness haste. ”

“ But when a vow Slips from off your faithless brow, Forth you flash with purer lustre, And a fonder troop you muster. You with vantage mock the shade Of a mother lowly laid, Silent stars and depths of sky, And high saints that cannot die. Laughs the Queen of love, I say, Laughs at this each silly fay, Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting Darts of fire on flint of fretting. Ay, the crop of youth is yours, Fresh enlistments throng your doors, Veterans swear you serve them ill, Threaten flight, and linger still. Dames and thrifty greybeards dread Lest you turn a stripling's head ”

“ You heed not winter rime or summer dew, You feel no difference 'twixt old and new; You kindly take the lettuce or the cress Without the cognizance of more and less, Content with light and movement in a cage. Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age, You bear no penance, you resent no wrong, Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song. ”

“ Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile Amongst the bright and brave; My summers lapse away beneath Their cool Athenian shade: And I a string for myrtle-wreath, A whetstone unto blade; I cheer the games I cannot play; As stands a crippled squire To watch his master through the fray, Uplifted by desire. I roam, where little pleasures fall, As morn to morn succeeds, To melt, or ere the sweetness pall, Like glittering manna-beads. The wishes dawning in the eyes, The softly murmured thanks; The zeal of those that miss the prize On clamorous river-banks ”

“ But time will not obey the will, And onward thou must climb: 'Twere sweet to pause on this descent, To wait for thee and pitch my tent, But march I must with shoulders bent, Yet farther from my prime. I shall not tread thy battle-field, Nor see the blazon on thy shield; Take thou the sword I could not wield, And leave me, and forget Be fairer, braver, more admired; So win what feeble hearts desired; Then leave thine arms, when thou art tired, To some one nobler yet. ”

“ Some one that hides her sweetness From neighbours whom she slights, Nor can attain completeness, Nor give her heart its rights; Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort, Though waving fancy's banner; A lady, not so queenly As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely Like those that rule the land; Noble, but not too proud; With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded ”

“ What life but that is life, what other flight Escapes the plaguing doubts of wrong and right! Oh music! once I felt the touch of thee, Once when this soul was as the chainless sea. Oh, could'st thou bid me even now be free! April, 1865.
AN EPOCH IN A SWEET LIFE This sun, whose javelins strike and gild the wheat, Who gives the nectarine half an orb of bloom, Burns on my life no less, and beat by beat Shapes that grave hour when boyhood hears her doom. ”

“ The pitiless mountain stands so sure, The human breast so weakly heaves; That brains decay, while rocks endure, At this the insatiate spirit grieves. But hither, oh ideal bride! For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes ”