The Athenaeum, 1874, Part I John Francis (publisher) 1 In this electronic edition, we have omitted the pages of all issues that do not contain material by or related to DGR. Unpaginated front and back matter from these issues has also been omitted. The structure of this electronic document allows for the future addition of the omitted material. The Athenaeum John Francis Edward J. Francis London 1874 January - 1874 June 2378 1874, Part I ap4.a85 3 Commentary
Introduction

DGR's work, the “Thames Valley Sonnets” , appeared in issue number 2378 in this volume (30 May, page 730).

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

All pages containing "Thames Valley Sonnets" are formatted in three columns. <hi rend="c">THAMES VALLEY SONNETS.</hi> <hi rend="c">I.—WINTER.</hi> How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn-tree! A swarm of such, three little months ago, Had hidden in the leaves and let none know Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy. A white flake here and there—a snow-lily Of last night's frost—our naked flower-beds hold; And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee. The current shudders to its ice-bound sedge: Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun: 'Neath winds which for this Winter's sovereign pledge Shall curb great king-masts to the ocean's edge And leave memorial forest-kings o'erthrown. <hi rend="c">II.—SPRING.</hi> Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing-fold, And in the hollowed haystack at its side The shepherd lies o' nights now, wakeful-eyed At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold. The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the old: And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground, By her spring-cry the moorhen's nest is found, Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold. Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower, And chill the current where the young reeds stand As green and close as the young wheat on land: Yet here the cuckoo and the cuckoo flower Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one's hand. Dante G. Rossetti. --------- --------- All pages containing “Two Lyrics from Niccolo Tommaseo” are formatted in three columns. <hi rend="c">TOMMASEO'S LYRICS.</hi>

In your late obituary notice ( <xref doc="a.ap4.a85.raw"> <hi rend="i">Athenæum</hi> </xref> , May 16) of Niccolò Tommaseo, a passing allusion is made to his earlier lyrical poetry. Any countryman of his, looking, years ago when it appeared, into the slender collection of these verses, must have been struck by their not being chiefly concerned with public events and interests; inevitably a rare ex-ception in those dark yearning-days of the Italian Muse. Perhaps the two translated specimens which I offer of their delicate and romantic tone may not be unacceptable to some of your readers.

D. G. Rossetti.

<hi rend="sc">I.—THE YOUNG GIRL.</hi> Even as a child that weeps, Lulled by the love it keeps, My grief lies back and sleeps. Yes, it is Love bears up My soul on his spread wings, Which the days would else chafe out With their infinite harassings. To quicken it, he brings The inward look and mild That thy face wears, my child. As in a gilded room Shines 'mid the braveries Some wild-flower, by the bloom Of its delicate quietness Recalling the forest-trees In whose shadow it was, And the water and the green grass:— Even so, 'mid the stale loves The city prisoneth, Thou touchest me gratefully, Like nature's wholesome breath: Thy heart nor hardeneth In pride, nor putteth on Obeisance not its own. Not thine the skill to shut The love up in thine heart, Neither to seem more tender, Less tender than thou art. Thou dost not hold apart In silence when thy joys Most long to find a voice. Let the proud river-course, That shakes its mane and champs, Run between marble shores By the light of many lamps, While all the ooze and the damps Of the city's choked-up ways Make it their draining-place. Rather the little stream For me; which, hardly heard, Unto the flower, its friend, Whispers as with a word. The timid journeying bird Of the pure drink that flows Takes but one drop, and goes. <hi rend="sc">II.—A FAREWELL.</hi> I soothed and pitied thee: and for thy lips,— A smile, a word (sure guide To love that's ill to hide!) Was all I had thereof. Even as an orphan boy, whom, sore distress'd, A gentle woman meets beside the road And takes him home with her,—so to thy breast Thou did'st take home my image: pure abode! 'Twas but a virgin's dream. This heart bestow'd Respect and piety And friendliness on thee: But it is poor in love. No, I am not for thee. Thou art too new, I am too old, to the old beaten way. The griefs are not the same which grieve us two: Thy thought and mine lie far apart to-day. Less than I wish, more than I hope, alway Are heart and soul in thee. Thou art too much for me, Sister, and not enough. A better and a fresher heart than mine Perchance may meet thee ere thy youth be told; Or, cheated by the longing that is thine, Waiting for life perchance thou shalt wax old. Perchance the time may come when I may hold It had been best for me To have had thy ministry On the steep path and rough. --------- ---------