Posts tagged ‘1807’

Thursday, 17 March 2022

The Irishman by James Orr

The savage loves his native shore,
Though rude the soil and chill the air;
Well then may Erin’s sons adore
Their isle, which Nature formed so fair!
What flood reflects a shore so sweet,
As Shannon great, or past’ral Bann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet,
So gen’rous as an Irishman?

His hand is rash, his hart is warm
But principle is still his guide –
None more regrets a deed of harm,
And none forgives with nobler pride.
He may be duped, but won’t be dared;
Fitter to practice than to plan,
He dearly earns his poor reward,
And spends it like an Irishman.

If strange or poor, for you he’ll pay,
And guide to where you safe may be;
If you’re his guest, while e’er you stay,
His cottage holds a jubilee.
His inmost soul he will unlock,
And if he should your secrets scan,
Your confidence he scorns to mock,
For faithful is an Irishman.

By honour bound in woe or weal,
Whate’er she bids he dares to do;
Tempt him with bribes – he will not fail,
Try him in fire, you’ll find him true.
He seeks not safety: let his post
Be where it ought, in danger’s van:
And if the field of fame be lost,
‘Twill not be by an Irishman.

Erin, loved land! From age to age,
Be thou more great, more fam’d and free!
May peace by thine, or, should’st thou wage
Defensive war, cheap victory!
May plenty bloom in every field;
Which gentle breezes softly fan,
And cheerful smiles serenely gild,
The home of every Irishman!

From: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/2lyTQv4cxkScLCmXnknCZ8B/the-irishman-tune-vive-la

Date: 1807

By: James Orr (1770-1816)

Sunday, 21 July 2019

The Newsmonger by Royall Tyler

Of mazy faction, politics, and love
Of union blest, of youthful married pair,
Or bitter rue of age, with sweetest buds
Of rosy youth, by frolick Hymen tied
In grotesque bundle, of weeping widow
And orphan babes by mournfull accident
Bereaved, of monstrous births, and monsters brought
From distant climes to feast the curious eye
And lurch the treasured cent from gaping youth,
Of patent points and pills, and trader sly
Threatening with lawyer, ruthless writ and jail
His trembling debtor; of tardy hectic
Or pestilence swift-winged; vindictive storm,
Appalling earthquake and tornado fell,
Or war, far more destructive in its rage;
The Newsmonger* shall tell. Oh as you read,
Let deep reflection mark the varied tale.

*The Newsmonger was an imaginary newspaper.

From: Tyler, Royall and Péladeau, Marius B. (ed.), The Verse of Royall Tyler, 1968, The University Press of Virginia, Charlottesville, p. 165.
(https://archive.org/details/verseofroyalltyl0000tyle/)

Date: 1807

By: Royall Tyler (1757-1826)

Friday, 31 May 2019

Old Age by Anaxandrides

Ye gods! how easily the good man bears
His cumbrous honours of increasing years.
Age, Oh my father, is not, as they say,
A load of evils heap’d on mortal clay,
Unless impatient folly aids the curse
And weak lamenting makes our sorrows worse.
He whose soft soul, whose temper ever even,
Whose habits placid as a cloudless heaven,
Approve the partial blessings of the sky,
Smooths the rough road and walks untroubled by;
Untimely wrinkles furrow not his brow,
And graceful wave his locks of reverend snow.

From: Peter, William (ed.), Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome, by Various Translators, 1847, Carey and Hart: Philadelphia, p. 197.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=vqdDAAAAIAAJ)

Date: 4th century BCE (original in Greece); 1807 (translation in English)

By: Anaxandrides (4th century BCE)

Translated by: John Herman Merivale (1779-1844)

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

To-Morrow (Fragment XX) by Sydney Owenson Morgan

Nessun maggior dolore,
Che recordarsi del tempo felice, nella miseria.” 
  Dante.

Visions of fleeting pleasure! spare, oh! spare me!
Hence! shades of many a bliss, and many a sorrow;
In vain from this cool medium* would ye tear me,
With joys indeed to-day — but, what to-morrow?

For every blessing your possession brought me
Left in its absence still a kindred sorrow,
And tho’ to-day with many a joy you sought me,
You’d leave me, lost to every joy, to-morrow.

Like this rich flow’r, which now in sweet decay
Droops on my breast its head in seeming sorrow;
For though its beauties charm each sense to-day,
My breast will only wear its thorns to-morrow.

* “A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain.”    Pope.

From: Owenson, Miss, The Lay of an Irish Harp; or Metrical Fragments, 1807, Richard Phillips: London, pp. 85-86.
(https://archive.org/stream/layofirishharpor00morg#page/84/mode/2up)

Date: 1807

By: Sydney Owenson Morgan (?1781-1859)