1876-1880
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
TENNYSON.
The winds to music strange were set;
The sunsets glowed with sudden flame.--L.C.M.
Mrs. Moulton made her first visit to Europe in January, 1876. She
remained abroad for nearly two years. From that date until the summer
of 1907, inclusive, she passed every summer but two on the other side
of the Atlantic. London became her second home. Her circle of friends,
not only in England but on the Continent, became very wide. Her poems
were published in England, and she was accorded in London society a
place of distinction such as had not before been given to any American
woman of letters. She enjoyed her social opportunities; but she prized
most the number of sincere and interesting friendships which resulted
from them. It is not difficult to understand how her charm and
kindliness won those she met, or how her friendliness and sympathy
endeared her to all who came to know her well.
Mrs. Moulton's first glimpse of London was simply what could be had in
a brief pause on her way to Paris. She was, however, present in the
House of Lords when the Queen opened Parliament in person for the
first time after the death of the Prince Consort. She stayed but a few
days in Paris, and then hastened on to Rome. Mrs. Harriet Prescott
Spofford thus describes this first visit to the Immortal City:
"Paris over, came Rome, and twelve weeks of raptures and
ruins, of churches and galleries, old palaces and
almond-trees in flower, the light upon the Alban Hills, the
kindly, gracious Roman society, all like a dream from which
might come awaking. Certainly no one was ever made to feel
the ancient spell, or to enjoy its beauty more than this
sensitive, sympathetic, and impressible spirit. Stiff
Protestant as she is, she was touched to tears by the
benignant old pope's blessing; and she abandoned herself to
the carnival, as much a child as 'the noblest Roman of them
all.'"
Mrs. Moulton entered into the artistic life of Rome with
characteristic ardor. She knew many artists, and became an especial
friend of Story's, a visitor at his studio, and an admirer of his
sculpture.
"I had greatly liked many of his poems," she said later,
"and I was curious to see if his poems in marble equalled
them. I was more than charmed with his work; and I suppose I
said something which revealed my enthusiasm, for I remember
the smile--half of pleasure, half of amusement--with which
he looked at me. He said: 'You don't seem to feel quite as
an old friend of mine from Boston felt, when he went through
my studio, and, at least, I showed him the best I had. We
are all vain, you know; and I suppose I expected a little
praise, but my legal friend shook his head. "Ah, William,"
he said, "you might have been a great lawyer like your
father; you had it in you; but you chose to stay on here and
pinch mud!"' Another American sculptor whom Rome delighted
to honor is Mr. Richard S. Greenough, whose 'Circe' has more
fascination for me than almost anything else in modern art;
but my acquaintance with him came later. I had a letter of
introduction to William and Mary Howitt from Whittier; they
made me feel myself a welcome guest."
She was interested also in the work of a young sculptor who had then
lately arrived in Rome, Franklin Simmons; and of him she told this
incident:
"Mr. Simmons had almost completed a statue, for which he had
received an order from one of the States, had spent a great
deal of time and money, when a conception came to him higher
than his original idea. Without hesitation he sacrificed his
time, his labor, and his marble--no small loss this--and
began again. It was an act of simple heroism, of which not
every one would have been capable; and there is little doubt
that a man who unites to his talent a criticism so
unsparing, and a spirit so conscientious, will do work well
worthy the attention of the world."
Mrs. Moulton's real introduction to London did not come this year, but
in the summer of 1877, when a breakfast was given in her honor by Lord
Houghton (Richard Monckton Milnes), at which the guests included
Browning, Swinburne, George Eliot, Jean Ingelow, Gustave Doré, and
others of only less distinction. The breakfast was followed by a
reception at which, in the society phrase, the guest of honor met
everybody.
Of this breakfast an amusing reminiscence has been given by Mrs.
Moulton herself:
"Shortly after I came into the room, Lord Houghton, whose
voice was very low, brought a gentleman up to me whose name
I failed to hear. My fellow-guest had a pleasant face, and
was dressed in gray; he sat down beside me, and talked in a
lively way on everyday topics until Lord Houghton came to
take me in to table. Opposite to us sat Miss Milnes, now
Lady Fitzgerald, between two gentlemen, one of whom was the
man in gray. Presently Lord Houghton asked me if I thought
Browning looked like his pictures. 'Browning?' I asked.
'Where is he?' 'Why, there, sitting beside my daughter,' he
replied. But, as there were two gentlemen sitting beside
Miss Milnes, I sat during the remainder of the breakfast
with a divided mind, wondering which of these two men was
Browning. After going back to the drawing-room my friend in
gray again came and sat beside me, so I plucked up courage
and said, 'I understand Mr. Browning is here; will you
kindly tell me which he is?' He looked half puzzled, half
amused, for a moment; then he called out to some one
standing near, 'Look here, Mrs. Moulton wants to know which
one of us is Browning. _C'est moi!_' he added with a gay
gesture; and this is how my friendship with the author of
'Pippa Passes' began."
This introduction may be said to have "placed" Mrs. Moulton in English
literary society, and there was hardly a person of intellectual
distinction in London whom she did not meet. She came to know the
Rossettis, William Sharp, Theodore Watts (later known as
Watts-Dunton), Herbert E. Clarke, Mrs. W.K. Clifford, A. Mary F.
Robinson (afterward Mme. Darmesteter), Olive Schreiner, Lewis Morris,
William Bell Scott, the Hon. Roden Noel, Iza Duffus Hardy, Aubrey de
Vere, the Marstons, father and son, and in short almost every writer
worth knowing. She came, indeed, to belong almost as completely to the
London literary world as to that of America.
Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet, whose friend and biographer she
in time became, she first met on the first day of July of this year.
She has recorded the meeting:
"It was just six weeks before his twenty-sixth birthday. He
was tall, slight, and, in spite of his blindness, graceful.
He seemed to me young-looking even for his twenty-six years.
He had a noble and beautiful forehead. His brown eyes were
perfect in shape, and even in color, save for a dimness like
a white mist that obscured the pupil, but which you
perceived only when you were quite near to him. His hair and
beard were dark brown, with warm glints of chestnut; and the
color came and went in his cheeks as in those of a sensitive
girl. His face was singularly refined, but his lips were
full and pleasure-loving, and suggested dumbly how cruel
must be the limitations of blindness to a nature hungry for
love and for beauty. I had been greatly interested, before
seeing him, in his poems, and to meet him was a memorable
delight.
"He and the sister, who was his inseparable companion, soon
became my close friends, and with them both this friendship
lasted till the end."
The poetry of Swinburne had for her a fascination from the first, and
she was attracted also by the personality of the poet. Writing an
article upon a new volume of his, she submitted the copy to him before
publishing it in the _Athenæum_. His acknowledgment was as follows:
_Mr. Swinburne to Mrs. Moulton_
DECEMBER 19, 1877.
DEAR MADAME: I am sincerely obliged for the kindness and
courtesy to which I am indebted for the sight of the MS.
herewith returned. Of course my only feeling of hesitation
as to the terms in which I ought to acknowledge and answer
the application which accompanied it arises merely from a
sense of delicacy in seeming to accept, if not thereby to
endorse, an estimate altogether too flattering to the
self-esteem of its object.
But even at the risk of vanity or self-complacency, I will
simply express my gratitude for your too favourable opinion,
and my grateful sense of the delicacy and thoughtfulness
which has permitted me a sight of the yet unprinted pages
which convey it.
Yours sincerely,
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
Leaving London in August, 1876, Mrs. Moulton went with Kate Field to
visit Lawrence Hutton and his mother, who had a house for the summer
in Scotland. In September, in company with Dr. Westland Marston, his
son and daughter, and Miss Hardy, she made a visit to Étretat. The
place and the company made a combination altogether delightful. An
entry in her diary for this time, of which the date is merely
"Midnight of September 1," records her enthusiasm.
"I want to remember this evening which has been so
beautiful. I had worked all day to six o'clock dinner, after
which I sat and talked awhile with Cecily and Iza, and then
took a long moonlight walk with them and Dr. Marston. I
think I never saw such a wonderful sky. The blue of it was
so intensely blue and great masses of white clouds, hurried
and driven on by the wind, met each other and retreated and
put on all sorts of fantastic shapes, while among them the
moon walked, visible sometimes, and at others hiding her
pale face behind some veiled prophet of a cloud, who was
mocking the fair night with the gloom of his presence. I
never saw such grand effects.
"We climbed a long hill, and from thence we looked down on
little Étretat lying below us, with the lights in its many
windows, and the sea tossing beyond it white with spray and
with moonlight. The trees were quivering at the whispers of
a low wind, and still above all the clouds held strange
conclave, keeping up their swift march and counter-march.
All this time Dr. Marston talked as we sauntered on, and
talked superbly. I think the electricity in the air inspired
him. He talked of the soul's destiny, of immortality, and
expressed, with matchless eloquence, that strong-winged
faith which bears him on toward that end that will be, he
feels sure, the new life's beginning. From time to time he
interrupted himself to point out something that we might not
else have seen,--some wonderful phantom of moonlight, some
cottage-lamp shining at the end of a long lane, some
Rembrandt contrast of light and shade.
"We walked far, but I knew no weariness. I could have walked
on forever watching that strange and fitful sky, and
listening to such talk as I have seldom heard. Here is an
affluent poet, who affords to scatter his riches broadcast,
and does not save them all for his printed pages. We went
home at last and sat for a while in Dr. Marston's house, and
then Philip and Cecily and I went down to the long terrace
overlooking the sea, and sat for an hour or more to watch
the moonlight on the breaking waves. How happy we were, that
little while! We talked of the fitful clouds, the wild,
hurrying sea, the white, sweet moon. Then something brought
back to me visions of the white statues at Rome, and I
tried to show them how fair these old gods stood in my
memory. Ah! shall I ever forget this so lovely night? The
strange, changeful, wind-swept sky, the waves swollen with
the passion of yesterday's storm, marching in like a strong
army upon the shore and overwhelming it. Behind us the
casino, with its many lights, and down there between the
moonlight and the sea, we three who did not know each other
three months ago but hold each other so closely now.
"Nothing can ever take from me the fitful splendor, the wild
rhythm, the divine mystery of this happy night. I can always
close my eyes and see again sea and sky and dear faces; hear
again the waves break on this wild coast of Normandy, with
the passion of their immortal pain and longing."
This stay in Étretat was further commemorated in her poem of that
title. Dr. Marston, too, felt the spell of the place and company, and
addressed to her this sonnet:
THE EMBALMING OF A DAY.
TUESDAY: SEPTEMBER 11: 1877. TO LOUISE.
A Day hath Lived! So let him fall asleep.
A Day is Dead--Days are not born again.
Only his Spirit shall for Us remain
Who found Him dear: His Hours in Balm to steep
Of all sweet Thoughts that may in Freshness keep
The beauty of a Day forever slain--
Of Wishes, for the bitter Herbs of Pain:
Of Looks that meet and smile, though Hearts may weep.
So shall our Night to come not wholly prove
An Egypt's Feast, where bids the Silent Guest
"In Joy remember Death."--"Remember Love
In Death," thy dead Day breathes from Breast to Breast.
Embalm Him thus, Heart's Love, that he may lie
Untombed and unforgotten, though he die.
The succeeding winter Mrs. Moulton passed in Paris. Here as in London
she met many of the most interesting people of the day. With Stéphane
Mallarmé especially she formed a close friendship, and through him she
came to know the chief men of the group called at that time the
"_Décadents_" of which he was the leader. Mallarmé was at this time
professor of English in a French college, and his use of that language
afforded Mrs. Moulton some amusement. "He always addressed me in the
third person," she related, "and he made three syllables of
'themselves.' He spoke of useless things as 'unuseful.' He was,
however, a great comfort and pleasure to me, and I saw a great deal of
him and of his wife that winter. I used to dine with them at their
famous Tuesdays, and meet the adoring throng that came in after
dinner. Often he and Madame Mallarmé would saunter with me about the
streets of Paris. It was then that I first made acquaintance with the
French dolls,--those wonderful creations which can bow and courtesy
and speak, and are so much better than humans that they always do the
thing they should. Whenever we came to a window where one of these
lovely creatures awaited us, I used to insist upon stopping to make
her dollship's acquaintance, until I fear the Mallarmés really
believed that these dolls were the most alluring things in life to me.
But the winter,--crowded for me with the deepest interests and
delights in meeting the noted men of letters and many of the greatest
artists, and of studying that new movement in art, Impressionism,
which was destined to be so revolutionary in its influence,--at last
this wonderful winter came to an end, and I was about to cross the
Channel once more. Full of kindly regrets came Monsieur and Madame
Mallarmé to pay me a parting call. 'We have wishéd,' began the poet,
mustering his best English in compliment to the occasion, 'Madame and
I have wishéd to make to Madame Moulton a souvenir for the good-bye,
and we have thought much, we have consideréd the preference beautiful
of Madame, so refinéd; and we do reflect that as Madame is pleaséd to
so graciously the dolls of Paris like, we have wishéd to a doll
present her. Will Madame do us the pleasure great to come out and
choose with us a doll, _très jolie_, that may have the pleasure to
please her?'"
It would be a pleasure to record that Mrs. Moulton accepted the gift.
The doll presented by the leader of the Symbolists would have been not
only historic, but it might have been regarded as signifying in the
language of symbolism things unutterable; but she could only say: "Oh,
no; please. I should be laughed at. Please let it be something else."
And the guests retired pensive, to return next day with a handsome
Japanese cabinet as their offering. "And I have pined ever since,"
Mrs. Moulton added smilingly, when she told the story, "for the
Mallarmé doll that might have been mine."
In 1877 the Macmillans brought out Mrs. Moulton's first volume of
poems under the title "Swallow Flights," the name being taken from
Tennyson's well known lines:
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip
Their wings in tears, and skim away.
The American edition, which followed soon after from the house of
Roberts Brothers, was entitled simply "Poems." The success of the
book was a surprise to the author. Professor William Minto wrote in
the _Examiner_:
"We do not, indeed, know where to find, among the works of
English poetesses, the same self-controlled fulness of
expression with the same depth and tenderness of simple
feeling.... 'One Dread' might have been penned by Sir Philip
Sidney."
The _Athenæum_, always chary of overpraise, declared:
"It is not too much to say of these poems that they exhibit
delicate and rare beauty, marked originality, and perfection
of style. What is still better, they impress us with a sense
of subtle and vivid imagination, and that spontaneous
feeling which is the essence of lyrical poetry.... A poem
called 'The House of Death' is a fine example of the
writer's best style. It paints briefly, but with ghostly
fidelity, the doomed house, which stands blind and voiceless
amid the light and laughter of summer. The lines which we
print in italics show a depth of suggestion and a power of
epithet which it would be difficult to surpass.
"THE HOUSE OF DEATH
"Not a hand has lifted the latchet,
Since she went out of the door,--
No footsteps shall cross the threshold,
Since she can come in no more.
"There is rust upon locks and hinges,
And mould and blight on the walls,
_And silence faints in the chambers_,
_And darkness waits in the halls_,--
"Waits, as all things have waited,
Since she went, that day of spring,
Borne in her pallid splendour,
To dwell in the Court of the King;
"With lilies on brow and bosom,
With robes of silken sheen,
_And her wonderful frozen beauty_
_The lilies and silk between_....
"_The birds make insolent music_
_Where the sunshine riots outside_;
And the winds are merry and wanton,
With the summer's pomp and pride.
"But into this desolate mansion,
Where Love has closed the door,
Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,
Since she can come in no more."
Philip Bourke Marston wrote a long review of the volume in _The
Academy_, London, in the course of which he admirably summarized the
merits of the work when he said:
"The distinguishing qualities of these poems are extreme
directness and concentration of utterance, unvarying harmony
between thought and expression, and a happy freedom from
that costly elaboration of style so much in vogue.... Yet,
while thus free from elaboration, Mrs. Moulton's style
displays rare felicity of epithet.... The poetical faculty
of the writer is in no way more strongly evinced than by the
subtlety and suggestiveness of her ideas."
The reviewers of note on both sides of the Atlantic were unanimous in
their praise. In a time of æsthetic imitation she came as an
absolutely natural singer. She gave the effect of the sudden note of a
thrush heard through a chorus of mocking-birds and piping bullfinches.
She was able to put herself into her work and yet to keep her poetry
free from self-consciousness; and to be at once spontaneous and
impassioned is given to few writers of verse. When such a power
belongs to an author the verse becomes poetry.
Mrs. Moulton had already come to regard Robert Browning as, in her own
phrase, "king of contemporary poets." She sent to him a copy of
"Swallow Flights," with a timid, graceful note asking for his
generosity. In his acknowledgment he said:
_Mr. Browning to Mrs. Moulton_
19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
February 24, '78.
MY DEAR MRS. MOULTON: Thank you for the copy of the poems.
They need no generosity.... I close it only when needs I
must at page the last, with music in my ears and flowers
before my eyes, and not without thoughts across the brain.
Pray continue your "flights," and be assured of the
sympathetic observation of
Yours truly,
ROBERT BROWNING.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A LETTER FROM ROBERT BROWNING]
In acknowledgment of a copy of "In the Garden of Dreams" William
Winter wrote:
_Mr. Winter to Mrs. Moulton_
"It is a beautiful book, Louise, and the spirit of it is
tender, dreamlike and sorrowful.... The pathos of it affects
me strongly. Life appeals more strongly to you than the
pageantry. There is more fancy in your poems and more
alacrity and variety of thought, but the quality that
impresses me is feeling. I am not a critic, but somehow I
must feel that I know a good thing when I see it, and I am
sure that no one but a true artist in poetry could have
written those stanzas called 'Now and Then.' The music has
been running in my mind for days and days,
"And had you loved me then, my dear.
I think you are very kind to remember me and to send such a
lovely offering to me at Christmas. God bless you! and may
this new year be happy for you, and the harbinger of many
happier years to follow."
Some years later the Scotch critic, Professor Meiklejohn, sent to Mrs.
Moulton a series of comments which he had made while reading "Swallow
Flights," "in the intervals of that fearful kind of business called
Examination;" and some of these may be quoted before the book is
passed for other matters.
"The word 'waiting' in the line
'White moons made beautiful the waiting night,'
is full of emotional and imaginative memory.
"In 'A Painted Fan' the line
'The soft, south wind of memory blows,'
is another instance of a perfect poetical thought, perfectly
expressed.
"Two lines of an unforgettable beauty are
'The flowers and love stole sweetness from the sun;
The short, sweet lives of summer things are done.'
"And a line Shelley himself might have been proud to own is
'No bird-note quivers on the frosty air.'
"The lines
'He must, who would give life,
Be lord of death:'
and
'Shall a life which found no sun
In death find God?'
express musically a mystic thought.
"The sonnet 'In Time to Come' is one of astonishing
crescendo. The lines
'And you sit silent in the silent place, ...
You will be weary then for the dead days,
And mindful of their sweet and bitter ways,
Though passion into memory shall have grown.'
"This is very poetry of very poetry. You must look for your
poetic brethren among the noble lyrists of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. Your insight, your subtlety, your
delicacy, your music, are hardly matched, and certainly not
surpassed, by Herrick or Campion or Carew or Herbert or
Vaughan."
The success of this first volume of poems naturally contributed not a
little toward establishing Mrs. Moulton firmly in the place she had
won already in the literary society of London. Among other celebrities
she met at this time Lady Wilde, who, as the poet "Speranza" in the
_Dublin Nation_ in 1848 had been a figure really heroic, and who was
by no means disinclined to magnify her own virtues. Taking Mrs.
Moulton to task as a poet of mere emotion, Lady Wilde said to her
reprovingly: "You're full of your own feelin's, me dear; but when I
was young and your age, too, only the Woes of Nations got utterance in
me pomes."
Mrs. Moulton heard Cardinal Newman and Mr. Spurgeon. Of them she
wrote:
"You see straight into his [Newman's] mind and heart. You
feel the glow of his thought, the action of his conscience;
you feel the inherent excellence of the man you are dealing
with.
"Mr. Spurgeon's style is admirable--strong, vigorous Saxon,
short sentences, simple in structure, and full of
earnestness. His first prayer was brief and earnest, and
extremely simple in phraseology. It gave one a sense of
intimacy with God, in which was no irreverence. The sermon
commenced at 12 M., and lasted three-quarters of an hour. I
thought John Bunyan might have preached just such a
discourse."
To her great regret she missed meeting Tennyson. Long afterward she
wrote:
"I never met Tennyson, but I just lost him by an accident. I
shall never get over the regret of it. I had been invited to
various places where he was expected as a guest; but you
know how elusive he was, even his best friends could get at
him but rarely. One day I had gone out for some idiotic
shopping--shopping is always idiotic to me--and when I came
back at late dinner time Lord Houghton met me with the
question, 'Where have you been? I've been sending messengers
all over the city for you. I got hold of Tennyson, and he
waited for half an hour to see you.' The fates were never
kind enough to bring me within the poet's range again."
On the death of Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman in 1878, Mrs. Moulton wrote
of her in the London _Athenæum_. The admiration of Poe which exists in
England, the romance of his relations with the "Helen" of his most
beautiful poem, made the article especially timely; and from her
acquaintance and her warm friendship for Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Moulton
was able to speak with authority. Her description of the personality
of Mrs. Whitman is noteworthy:
"There was a singular attraction in the personal presence of
this woman. The rooms where she lived habitually were full
of her. They were dim, shadowy rooms, rich in tone, crowded
with objects of interest, packed with the memorials of a
lifetime of friendships; but she herself was always more
interesting than her surroundings. When she died, her soft
brown hair was scarcely touched with gray. Her voice
retained to the last its music, vibrating at seventy-five
with the sympathetic cadences of her youth. She was
singularly shy. I remember that when I persuaded her to
repeat to me one of her poems, she always insisted on going
behind me. She could not bring herself to confront eye and
ear at the same time."
The letters of Mrs. Whitman to Mrs. Moulton have been published in the
biography of the former, but the following is so unusual--"the lady's
gentle vexation at having been made out younger than she was,"
commented the recipient of the letter; "is so exceptional among women
as to be amusing"--that it may be quoted.
_Mrs. Whitman to Mrs. Moulton_
"I will speak of one or two points suggested by the
expression, 'true to her early love for Edgar Poe.' Now I
was first _seen_ by Edgar Poe in the summer of 1845, when I
was forty-two years old, and my earliest introduction to him
was in 1848, when I was forty-five. You will see, therefore,
that it was rather a _late_ than an _early_ love. I was born
on the 19th of January, 1803--Edgar Poe was born on the 19th
of January, 1809, being six years, to a day, my junior. Soon
after the last edition of Griswold's 'Female Poets' was
issued, I happened to be turning over some of the new
Christmas books at a bookseller's, when I unwittingly opened
a copy of that work, at the very page where an alert,
enterprising woman sits perched on a marble pedestal.
Glancing at the foot of the page, I read, in blank
amazement, my own name. Turning to the preceding page, I
found that the lady in question was born in 1813! I began
seriously to doubt my own identity. I had never, to the best
of my recollection, been modelled in plaster; I had never
been 'interviewed' on the delicate point of age. Everybody
knows that a lady's age after forty is proverbially
uncertain; still it is as well to draw a line somewhere, and
so, dear, if you should be called upon to write my obituary,
and should consent to do so, here is a faithful transcript
from the family Bible:--
"'Sarah Helen Power, born Jan. 19--10 o'clock P.M., 1803.'
"That was the same year that gave birth to Emerson."
Mr. Longfellow wrote to thank Mrs. Moulton for her paper on Mrs.
Whitman, and at no great interval he wrote again in acknowledgment of
an article upon his own poetry also in the _Athenæum_.
_Mr. Longfellow to Mrs. Moulton_
CAMBRIDGE, May 17, 1879.
DEAR MRS. MOULTON: For your kind words in the _Athenæum_,
how shall I thank you? Much, certainly, and often,--but more
and more for your kind remembrance, and the pleasant hours
we passed together before your departure.
... A charming country place in England is the
thatched-roofed Inn at Rowsley in Derbyshire, one mile from
Haddon Hall. Go there. And do not forget to write to me.
Truly yours,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
In October, 1879, Mr. Chandler died, and Mrs. Moulton's grief was
sincere and deep. It was the beginning of the breaking of the
relations which had been closest in her life. Her love for her father
had been always tender and fine, and both her journal and her letters
show how much she felt the loss.
[Illustration: LUCIUS LEMUEL CHANDLER, MRS. MOULTON'S FATHER
_Page 104_]
She was in America at the time of her father's death, and in
correspondence with many of the friends she had made abroad. Among her
Christmas gifts this year came a sonnet from Dr. Westland Marston.
_To L.C.M._
Take thou, as symbol of thyself, this rose
Which blooms in our world's winter.
Dank and prone
Lie rose-stems now, by sleety gales o'erthrown,
But still thy flower in hall and chamber glows,
Fed, like thee, not by airs the garden knows,
But by a subtler climate. Thus the zone
Of Summer binds the seasons, one to one,
And links the beam which dawns with that which goes.
Hail, Human Rose!--With heavenly fires enshrined,
Still cheat worn hearts anew in fond surprise
To faith in Youth's dear, dissipated skies;
Soul-flower, still shed thine influence!
Sun nor wind
Control not thee; thy life thy charm supplies
And makes the beauty which it does not find.
W.M.
_Christmas Eve._