A Sonnet on St. Lawrence's Church, Mereworth.

This masterpiece, this painted house of God,

A grand and pillared temple of splendour,

Aristocratic tastes, sceptre and rod

Guiding, as ever, artistic fervour.

The amber light of the higher windows

Glows through the vestibule's upper spaces,

Where a dark old stairway's oakwood shadows

Lead to a balcony's prepared places,

Which overlook the palladian room,

The regular windows, the ceiling's paint,

Glorious, an open aisle, holy tomb,

Befitting its well dedicated saint;

   A yellow loveliness, finery's heart,

   Vestige of an age of manners and art.

 

Of Bourne Park House.

 

What sparkling lights of lineage

Scattered about this noble place,

In quiet splendour's foliage,

The heirs of the Rockingham race;

By the gentle river's roaming,

By the grazing sheep and horses,

It is pleasant in the gloaming,

And perambulating courses.

Here a little dam trills in rills,

Before the house's good prospect,

In fine set windows, in white sills,

And grandest brick in pink protect--

Its occupant's noble person,

In excellence's symmetry,

While high nearby the village shone

In preservation perfectly.

Here where immortal Mozart stayed,

And wondered at the house's form,

Which all in splendour is arrayed,

And beneath its chimney tops would warm;

The finest windows glowed amber,

With celebrating joy at him,

To walk to a stool and clamber,

And play his music on a whim.

It was a serene circumstance,

Amid the pastures of the grounds,

In winter winds to play and dance

As the trees its border surrounds.

Never may these grand environs

Fall a prey to modern distaste,

To the worthless workman's irons,

And render its parklands a waste

 

I sometimes wonder when I see
Such visions of the country's past
Why now this nation cannot be
What once it was, now all aghast;

When Rockingham in primest place,
Governed the nation in wisdom,
When the shudder of a disgrace
Rallied the cries of the kingdom;

When honour passed around its cup,
And every man drank up its health,
Chivalrous and golden stirrup,
A long-betiding general wealth.

 

Tip up again the cup, this land,
Drink once again the tonic's good,
Let every man and knight up stand,
And do the righteous things they should.

 

Why, only regard the fallen,
Who fought to the last for its sake,
Which scattered abroad like pollen,
And left their loves grieving in wake.

Only think of the peoples freed
By the might of their sacrifice,
Who gave their lives for others' need,
Were they tributed for our vice?

This excellent manor was built
To the glory of artisans,
It was not built for men of silt,
For ignorance's partisans.

 

It shines like a bastioned fire,
To an oncoming armada,
Let not it fade in ill and ire,
Let not it dim with our ardour.

 

This house built after good Queen Anne--
Fashion of stately rooms and sweeps,
Recalls to mind that sovereign's span,
Beyond the battlements and keeps;

Then was England's safety assured,
By Marlborough's dominating hand,
When on the fields of Blenheim lured,
Our enemies, to touch to sand.

When Queen Anne reigned our land was true
To all the beautifying airs,
Which made a pleasantry a new
And freshly-scented list of prayers.
 

O see the pictured form of it,
And recall the handsome old ways
That deported this life with wit,
Better by far those times and days!

I see the arched roof's stucco slopes,
I see the circled windows light,
I see the mounting on the copes,
Enrapt of the beauteous sight.

 

And where within with papered hues,
The walls supply an ornament,
And grand old clocks tell out the news,
And furnitures well complement.

The dignity encompasses
A very excellent design,
As when a pair of compasses,
Draws out a circle of a line.

 

What wonder to behold a mound
Of heaped up soul and artistry,
Refined into a perfect ground;
Taste described intelligently;

No more should example be left,
But let this village and manor,
Drive onward, forward, English zest,
To befit St. George's banner!

 

Eastward. - Westward.

 

Eastward; where the desert sands

In dunes and plains so sullen,

Pass into the lotus lands

Where drooping roofs are fallen;

Where cherry blossoms sighing

In passing breezes gather,

From crooked trees all flying,

And land on crowds together.

Where Oriental customs

Are everywhere in number,

Where talk is many fustians,

And common peasants slumber.

Where cats in monsoon shelter,

When the hangdog workers drink

The liquid of a maltster,

And quick'ning blood is pink

In sallow faces' gladness;

Where hats triangle covers'

Shield from the summer's heating,

Where shyness of the lovers,

Is beauty, lovely, fleeting;

Near on Arabian cusps,

Where life is hard and passioned,

Where infuses spice in wisps

Into the food they fashioned;

And towered domes on alleys

Project their thicker shadows,

And roused up soldier ralleys,

Stain scarlet fields and hollows;

There are the pleasant rivers,

In boldened sunset redness,

And silhouetted figures,

Where marries now a princess,

And gladdens chosen singers.

 

 

Westward; ever changing Cross,

Where faithful men are flagging,

Where too much tongues tell of loss,

And hopes are lately sagging.

Fail not, O stately spires, soar

Still up toward the Heavens,

And having faith, have the more,

In holy bands of Sevens.

See now the churches unite,

Accordant with the Saviour,

And heal the internal plight

With countless holy favour.

Civilisations! Athens,

Rome, Paris, London, Berlin,

Tear off bonds and cuffs in tens

These so many drops, this sin!

You have led unto these times

With unremitting ardour,

Now forget your former crimes,

Regain your holy fervour!

The Mediterranean

Brings life into your cultures,

I see the paintings' meaning!

I see the marble sculptures!

I see the arcades' beauties!

I see the fountains flourish!

Now take again thy duties,

And blush with purpose, nourish,

Your never failing meaning.

Not failing, neither ailing,

And dauntless to the mission

Never checked, never paling,

The Westlands holy vision!