A Brilliant Day

O keen pellucid air! nothing can lurk

Or disavow itself on this bright day;

The small rain-plashes shine from far away,

The tiny emmet glitters at his work;

The bee looks blithe and gay, and as she plies

Her task, and moves and sidles round the cup

Of this spring flower, to drink its honey up,

Her glassy wings, like oars that dip and rise,

Gleam momently. Pure-bosom'd, clear of fog,

The long lake glistens, while the glorious beam

Bespangles the wet joints and floating leaves

Of water-plants, whose every point receives

His light; and jellies of the spawning frog,

Unmark'd before, like piles of jewels seem!

Charles Turner

On a Vase of Gold Fish

The tortured mullet served the Roman's pride

By darting round the crystal vase, whose heat

Ensured his woe and beauty till he died:

These unharm'd gold-fish yield as rich a treat;

Seen thus, in parlour-twilight, they appear

As though the hand of Midas, hovering o'er,

Wrought on the waters, as his touch drew near,

And set them glancing with his golden power,

The flash of transmutation! In their glass

They float and glitter, by no anguish rackt;

And, though we see them swelling as they pass,

'Tis but a painless and phantasmal act,

The trick of their own bellying walls, which charms

All eyes--themselves it vexes not, nor harms.

Charles Turner

From Harvest to January

The hay has long been built into the stack

And now the grain; anon the hunter's moon

Shall wax and wane in cooler skies, and soon

Again re-orb'd, speed on her wonted track,

To spend her snowy light upon the rack

Of dark November, while her brother Sun

Shall get up later for his eight-hours' run

In that cold section of the Zodiac:

Far from the Lion, from the Virgin far!

Then onward through the last dim month shall go

The two great lights, to where the kalendar

Splits the mid-winter; and the feathery snow

Ushering another spring, with falling flakes

Shall nurse the soil for next year's scythes and rakes.

Charles Turner

The Steam Threshing-Machine With the Straw Carrier

Flush with the pond the lurid furnace burned

At eve, while smoke and vapour filled the yard;

The gloomy winter sky was dimly starred,

The fly-wheel with a mellow murmur turned;

While, ever rising on its mystic stair

In the dim light, from secret chambers borne,

The straw of harvest, severed from the corn,

Climbed, and fell over, in the murky air.

I thought of mind and matter, will and law,

And then of him*, who set his stately seal           [*Virgil in his Georgics]

Of Roman words on all the forms he saw

Of old-world hubandry: I could but feel

With what a rich precision he would draw

The endless ladder, and the booming wheel!

Charles Turner

On the Eclipse of the Moon of October 1865

One little noise of life remained--I heard

The train pause in the distance, then rush by,

Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly

That murmurs and then settles; nothing stirred

Beside. The shadow of our traveling earth

Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went

Through that grand process, without token sent,

Or any sign to call a gazer forth,

Had I not chanced to see; dumb was the vault

Of heaven, and dumb the fields--no zephyr swept

The forest walks, or through the coppice crept;

Nor other sound the stillness did assault,

Save that faint-brawling railway's move and halt;

So perfect was the silence Nature kept.

Charles Turner

Letty's Globe

When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,

And her young, artless words began to flow,

One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,

By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old empires peep'd

Between her baby fingers; her soft hand

Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd,

And laugh'd, and prattled in her world-wide bliss;

But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye

On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry,

"Oh! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!"

And, while she hid all England with a kiss,

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Charles Turner

Calvus to a Fly

Ah! little fly, alighting fitfully

In the dim dawn on this bare head of mine,

Which spreads a white and gleaming track for thee,

When chairs and dusky wardrobes cease to shine.

Though thou are irksome, let me not complain;

Thy foolish passion for my hairless head

Will spend itself, when these dark hours are sped,

And thou shalt seek the sunlight on the pane.

But still beware! thou art on dangerous ground:

An angry sonnet, or a hasty hand,

May slander thee, or crush thee: thy shrill sound

And constant touch may shake my self-command:

And thou mayst perish in that moment's spite,

And die a martyr to thy love of light.

Charles Turner

The Sonneteer to the Sea-Shell

Fair ocean shell, the poet's art is weak

To utter all thy rich variety!

How thou dost shame him when he tries to speak,

And tell his ear the rapture of his eye!

I cannot paint as very truth requires

The gold-green gleam that o'er thee breaks and roves,

Nor follow up with words thy flying fires,

Where'er the startled rose-light wakes and moves.

Ah! why perplex with all thy countless hues

The single-hearted sonnet? Fare thee well!

I give thee up to some gay lyric muse,

As fitful as thyself, thy tale to tell:

The quick-spent sonnet cannot do thee right

Nor in one flash deliver all thy light.

Charles Turner

We Cannot Keep Delight

We cannot keep delight--we cannot tell

One tale of steady bliss, unwarped, uncrost,

The timid guest anticipates his farewell,

And will not stay to hear it from his host!

I saw a child upon a summer's day,

A child upon the margin of a pond,

Catch at the boughs that came within his way,

>From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond;

The gale that swayed them from him aye arose,

And seldom sank into such kindly calm

As gave his hand upon the bunch to close;

Which then but left its fragrance on his palm;

For the wind woke anew from its repose,

And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm.

Charles Turner

Prefatory

I dreamed I wrote an ode, and was not slack

To bring it where two mighty umpires dealt

The prize; but deep-mouthed Pindar bade me back,

And laughing Horace--like a boy I felt,

Who, idly thrumming on a single hair,

Stretched from his forehead, with his simple head

And child's ear close upon it, fancy-fed,

Conceits himself a harpist then and there;

I woke, and murmured o'er a humbler strain,

A sonnet--smiling at my classic dream--

But still I may misuse some honest theme,

Tinkling this idle outgrowth of my brain;

A hair amid the harpstrings! my weak words

May pass unheard among the rolling chords.

Charles Turner

Loss and Restoration of Smell

Dull to the year's first odours, I rebelled

Against the law which doomed the violets

Ere I had smelt them; but, ere long, I held

A quickened nostril over all the sweets

Of the full summer--for I had besuoght

The All-Giver to restore my blunted sense;

Humbly I prayed, and breath of roses brought

The answer. O! it was a joy intense,

After that dreary interval of loss.

I laughed, I ran about as one possessed;

And now that winter seems my hopes to cross

I snuff the very frost with happy zest,

Proud of recovered power, and fain to win

Fresh triumphs for it, when the Spring comes in.

Charles Turner

The South-Foreland Electric Light

>From Calais pier I saw a brilliant sight,

And from the sailor at my side besought

The meaning of that fire, which pierced the night

With lustre, by the foaming billows caught.

"'Tis the South Foreland!" I resumed my gaze

With quicker pulse, thus, on the verge of France,

To come on England's brightness in advance!

There! on the waters! In those far-seen rays

I hailed the symbol of her fame in fight:

But, by a change akin to that which brought

The lightning under rule, the martial thought

Flashed itself out, transformed to quiet light;

I turned to all the good she did and taught,

Her shining honour and her moral might.

Charles Turner

The Planet and the Tree

The evening breeze is blowing from the lea

Upon the fluttering elm; thou hast a mind,

O star! methinks, to settle in the tree--

But, ever baffled by the pettish wind,

Thou movest back and forward, and I find

A pastime for my thoughts in watching thee;

In thy vast orbit thou art rolling now,

And wottest not how to my human eye

Thou seemest flouted by a waving bough,

Serving my fancy's needs right pleasantly;

Thou wottest not--but He who made thee knows

Of all thy fair results both far and near,

Of all thine earthly, all thine heavenly shows--

The expression of thy beauty there and here.

Charles Turner

The Process of Composition: An Illustration

Oft in our fancy an uncertain thought

Hangs colourless, like dew on bents of grass,

Before the morning o'er the field doth pass;

But soon it glows and brightens; all unsought

A sudden glory flashes through the dream,

Our purpose deepens and our wit grows brave,

The thronging hints a richer utterance crave,

And tongues of fire approach the new-won theme;

A subtler process now begins--a claim

Is urged for order, a well-balanced scheme

Of words and numbers, a consistent aim;

The dew dissolves before the warming beam;

But that fair thought consolidates its flame,

And keeps its colours, hardening to a flame.

Charles Turner

Missing the Meteors

A hint of rain--a touch of lazy doubt--

Sent me to bedward on that prime of nights,

When the air met and burst the aerolites,

Making the men stare and the children shout:

Why did no beam from all that rout and rush

Of darting meteors, pierce my drowsed head?

Strike on the portals of my sleep? and flush

My spirit through mine eyelids, in the stead

Of that poor vapid dream? My soul was pained,

My very soul, to have slept while others woke,

While little children their delight outspoke,

And in their eyes' small chambers entertained

Far motions of the Kosmos! I mistook

The purpose of that night--it had not rained.

Charles Turner

A Forest Sunset

Once on a glorious and resplendent eve,

Through copse and underwood my path I broke;

The shining sun was on the point to leave,

And flashed through thickets of the pine and oak;

'Twas sweet to see those vari-coloured rays

Come pouring through the coverts silently;

Through little fluttering loop-holes, set ablaze,

Or blinkt, at will, by shifting of an eye;

That evening's charms were rich and manifold,

Beyond the reach of my best utterance;

'Twas some kind Providence, no common chance,

Which made mine eyes wink at those wells of gold

Sprung in the glooming leafage, while the dance

Of wilding-boughs was pleasant to behold.

Charles Turner

The Hydraulic Ram, or The Influence of Sound on Mood

In the hall grounds, by evening-gloom concealed,

He heard the solitary water-ram

Beat sadly in the little wood-girt field,

So dear to both! "Ah! wretched that I am!"

He said, "And traitor to my love and hers!

Why did I vent those words of wrath and spleen,

That changed her cheek, and flushed her gentle mien?

When will they yield her back, those jealous firs,

Into whose shelter two days since she fled

From my capricious anger, phantom-fed?

When will her sire his interdict unsay?

Or must I learn a lonely lot to bear,

As this imprisoned engine, night and day,

Plies its dull pulses in the darkness there?"

Charles Turner

Arms Old and New

How changed our warfare and the arms we wield!

The Phalanx, once the Macedonian's pride,

Has fled disheartened from the battle-field,

Since Flamininus pierced its wounded side:

Gone is the Roman Legion's tramp and clang:

The Ram assaults not now the leaguered wall;

Our English Bowman is beyond recall--

The Rifle cracks where late the arrow sang!

The Trumpet lingers yet beyond them all,

But to its voice no mail-clad warrior hies,

Not lifts a shield against the cannon-ball;

High up the Shrapnel holds its burning breath;

Within our bays the grim Torpedo lies,--

We arm the depths above us and beneath!

Charles Turner

To the Gossamer-Light

Quick gleam! that ridest on the gossamer!

How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance,

Tilt at the midges in their evening dance,

A gentle joust set on by summer air!

How oft I watch thee from my garden-chair!

And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers,

To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers,

And doing thy sweet work in silence there:

Thou art the poet's darling, ever sought

In the fair garden or the breezy mead;

The wind dismounts thee not; thy bouyant thread

Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought,

That moves but does not vanish! borne along

Like light,--a golden drift through all the song!

Charles Turner

East or West?

I sat within a window, looking west,

On a fair autumn eve; the forest leaves

Moved o'er a fiery sunset, vision blest

After that day of storm and rainy eaves.

While thus I gazed, I heard a sweet voice cry:--

"Come to the east, and see the rainbow die.

On the last shower anon the moon will rise,

And light the village when the rainbow dies."

Betwixt the two I cold not well decide;

For each was fair, and both would vanish soon.

But that sweet voice cried eastward still: I knew

No light would pierce the wood when day withdrew;

So I went east and to the rising moon

The village brightened when the rainbow died.

Charles Turner

Token Lights. A Contrast

Of old, when Greek and Trojan took the field,

Before a lance was thrown or goat-horn bended,

The god, who on some favourite chief attended

Lit up a sudden flame from helm and shield;

We need no palpable approach of fire,

No visual intimation to be made,

Nor do we with our natural eyes require

To test our Guardian-God's protecting aid;

>From holier heavens our token-lights descend

Upon our Christian weapons, zeal and love,

To embolden and support us to the end

Of that great war through which we daily move,

To raise our drooping hearts and give us sight

Of our great Master's presence in the fight.

Charles Turner

Morning Sorrows

Sad memory wakes anew at morning's touch

And, as some muscles move without our will,

She seizes, with involuntary clutch,

The sorrow that we hate, our bosom ill;

But we are formed with such fine wisdom, such

A Providence our moral need supplies,

That we can seldom overrate our sighs

Nor prize our organs of regret too much;

Then welcome still these ever-new returns

Of anguish! Who escapes or can escape

The burthen, while the great world sins and mourns?

Grief comes to all, whatever be her shape

To each, but we are framed with pain to cope;

And, when we bow, we help our climbing hope.

Charles Turner

The Half-Rainbow

The groups of Autumn flowers were all ablaze;

The hollyhock and scarlet crane's-bill burned

Like merry household fires; but when he turned

To search the distance, all was blocked with haze;

Then came a brightness over rick and roof;

He gladdened, as the running sunshine laughed

Its way from sheaf to sheaf, while, high aloof,

The rainbow lingered in one glorious shaft;

Then, in that light of promise, he appealed,

To her who was his heart's best hope; she heard

The tender suit his trembling lips preferred,

And in imperfect words her love revealed;

Her faltering accents gave a pledge divine,

Like Heaven's half-bow, a true though broken sign.

Charles Turner

The Sea-Side Truants

Wildly she passed along that crowded shore,

With earnest eye fixed on the ocean rim:

On came the tide, and all would soon wax dim,

And she might never see her darlings more.

But lo! what means that sail-like line of light,

Advancing from the border of the sea

Into that stream of glory, golden-bright?

The mother's eye divines its mystery:

Ah! yes, it is her little white-robed band

Of children wading in the sunny brine,

That winds about the hollows in the sand:

And now, too near for doubt, they glance and shine.

Her sight was true: that far-off snowy line

Was Maud and Mary, Kate and Caroline.

Charles Turner