LOUIS BLANC.

THREE SONNETS TO HIS MEMORY.

I.

The stainless soul that smiled through glorious eyes;
  The bright grave brow whereon dark fortune’s blast
  Might blow, but might not bend it, nor o’ercast,
Save for one fierce fleet hour of shame, the skies
Thrilled with warm dreams of worthier days to rise
  And end the whole world’s winter; here at last,
  If death be death, have passed into the past;
If death be life, live, though their semblance dies. 
Hope and high faith inviolate of distrust
  Shone strong as life inviolate of the grave
    Through each bright word and lineament serene. 
Most loving righteousness and love most just
  Crowned, as day crowns the dawn-enkindled wave,
    With visible aureole thine unfaltering mien.

II.

Strong time and fire-swift change, with lightnings clad
  And shod with thunders of reverberate years,
  Have filled with light and sound of hopes and fears
The space of many a season, since I had
Grace of good hap to make my spirit glad,
  Once communing with thine:  and memory hears
  The bright voice yet that then rejoiced mine ears,
Sees yet the light of eyes that spake, and bade
Fear not, but hope, though then time’s heart were weak
  And heaven by hell shade-stricken, and the range
  Of high-born hope made questionable and strange
As twilight trembling till the sunlight speak. 
  Thou sawest the sunrise and the storm in one
  Break:  seest thou now the storm-compelling sun?

III.

Surely thou seest, O spirit of light and fire,
  Surely thou canst not choose, O soul, but see
  The days whose dayspring was beheld of thee
Ere eyes less pure might have their hope’s desire,
Beholding life in heaven again respire
  Where men saw nought that was or was to be,
  Save only death imperial.  Thou and he
Who has the heart of all men’s hearts for lyre,
Ye twain, being great of spirit as time is great,
  And sure of sight as truth’s own heavenward eye,
  Beheld the forms of forces passing by
And certitude of equal-balanced fate,
Whose breath forefelt makes darkness palpitate,
  And knew that light should live and darkness die.

VOS DEOS LAUDAMUS:

THE CONSERVATIVE JOURNALIST’S ANTHEM.

’As a matter of fact, no man living, or who ever lived—­not CAESAR or PERICLES, not SHAKESPEARE or MICHAEL ANGELO—­could confer honour more than he took on entering the House of Lords.’—­Saturday Review, December 15, 1883.

’Clumsy and shallow snobbery—­can do no hurt.’—­Ibid.

I.