Posts tagged ‘1798’

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

Could the Sad Trembling Tenant of This Breast by Mary Blackford/Blanchford Tighe

Could the sad trembling tenant of this breast
Declare to what delicious scenes it flies,
When night, and silence seal these weary eyes,
Yielding awhile my anxious sorrows rest;
If, as I think, it then with freedom blest,
May seek the friend for whom it hourly sighs
Thro’ tedious days, that joy might well suffice,
To cheer the following morn, and when opprest
By present cares, the hopes of coming night
And sleep to free it from earth’s heavy chain,
Should sooth my soul with promise of delight;
The soft reflection might relieve the pain
Of absence, mock the transitory reign
Of fate, and scorn the bounds of space in rapid flight.

From: https://www.rc.umd.edu/editions/tighe_verses/editions.tighe_verses.2015.XXIVsonnet.html

Date: 1798

By: Mary Blackford/Blanchford Tighe (1772-1810)

Advertisements
Saturday, 21 January 2017

A Truism by Edmund John Eyre

With purse well stor’d, and front of brass,
Tho’ of but little sense possess’d;
You for an oracle may pass,
By ev’ry brother fool caress’d.

From: Eyre, E., Miscellaneous Poems, 1798, Downes: Yarmouth p. 1.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW113546153&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1798

By: Edmund John Eyre (1767-1816)

Friday, 6 January 2017

Sonnet II by Joseph Fawcett

When raging Summer, from his blazing throne,
Darts his fierce rays o’er all the breezless skies,
How soft a night, the grove, to which he flies,
Flings o’er the languid fugitive from noon!
There, screen’d from Heaven’s oppressive fervour, soon
His sense revives, as stretch’d at ease he lies:
Reliev’d from glare, to his recovering eyes
The sylvan scene, by graver light, is shown:
Such, pleasing Melancholy, thy bland power!
Shade of the heart! the panting soul’s retreat
From scorching joys! blest is thy sombrous hour,
To Rapture’s burning mood succeeding sweet!
Oh! oft may life’s umbrageous scenes embower,
And shut my pensive breast from transports furious heat.

From: Fawcett, Joseph, Poems, by Joseph Fawcett. To which are added Civilised war, before published under the title of The art of war, with considerable alterations; and The art of poetry, according to the latest improvements, with additions, 1798, J. Johnson: London, p. 60.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW3311698440&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1798

By: Joseph Fawcett (c1758-1804)

Tuesday, 5 January 2016

Sonnet by Margaret Wrench Holford

O ye! who spread aloft your silken sails,
While down bright Pleasure’s glassy stream ye glide,
Wafted by Fortune’s ever-varying gales
Beneath Hope’s flatt’ring sky, steer’d by your pilot Pride–
The siren song of gay Security
Thrills in soft measures through the charmed air;
She bids ye listen to the tale of Joy,
Nor fear the storms of Grief nor rugged rocks of Care.
But see with Fate’s dark clouds the sky o’ercast;
Now through the shrouds the whistling tempest raves,
Cold Disappointment comes with chilling blast,
And whelms your painted bark deep in Destruction’s waves,
Untaught to stem Misfortune’s torrents rude,
Or shun the hidden rocks of sad Viccissitude.

From: Holford, M, Gresford Vale, and Other Poems, 1798, Hookham and Carpenter: London, p. 37.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW117026681&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1798

By: Margaret Wrench Holford (1757-1834)

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

Sonnet by Eliza Daye

Now dark December’s gloom is gone,
Then go with it corroding care;
With festive mirth and jocund song,
To hail the rising year prepare.

Let beauty wear its gayest robe,
While wit exerts its brightest powers,
Let all within your breast be May,
And peace and joy shall lead your hours.

Tho’ wint’ry storms may still descend,
And snow may whiten o’er the ground,
Yet hope presents yon smiling spring,
And rising beauty blooms around.

See from the zephyr’s balmy wing,
Propitious health her roses shed,
To meet here in the morning breeze,
Shall tempt you from your drowsy bed.

Now dark December’s gloom is gone,
And go with it corroding care;
With festive mirth and jocund song,
To hail the rising year prepare.

From: Daye, Eliza, Poems, on Various Subjects, 1798, J. M’creery: Liverpool, pp. 86-87.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW114194439&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1798

By: Eliza Daye (c1734-1814)

Monday, 16 July 2012

The Old Familiar Faces by Charles Lamb

Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?
I had a mother, but she died, and left me,
Died prematurely in a day of horrors —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her —
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
Earth seemed a desart I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces —

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

From: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem1173.html

Date: 1798

By: Charles Lamb (1775-1834)

Monday, 2 April 2012

O Thou Sweet Lark, That in the Heaven So High by Robert Southey

O thou sweet Lark, that in the heaven so high
Twinkling thy winds dost sing so joyfully,
   I watch thee soaring with no mean delight;
And when at last I turn mine aching eye
   That lags, how far below that lofty flight,
Still silently receive thy melody.
O thou sweet Lark, that I had wings like thee!
   Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
   Upward to plunge, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below,
   But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that keep her here.

From: Southey, Robert, The Poetical Works of Robert Southey: complete in one volume, 1829, A & W Galignani: Paris, p. 615. (http://books.google.com.au/books?id=3JAiAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA702&lpg=PA702&dq=to+a+college+cat+robert+southey&source=bl&ots=4nY5b_RV9j&sig=DN_u5ncfBc8x_9nDI1RC4jgEDzI&hl=en&sa=X&ei=SX1lT4-CMMjsmAXKr7mjCA&ved=0CEcQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false)

Date: 1798

By: Robert Southey (1774-1843)