Posts tagged ‘1821’

Thursday, 24 December 2020

Old Santeclaus with Much Delight by Anonymous

Old SANTECLAUS with much delight
His reindeer drives this frosty night,
O’r chimney tops, and tracts of snow,
To bring his yearly gifts to you.

The steady friend of virtuous youth,
The friend of duty, and of truth,
Each Christmas eve he joys to come
Where peace and love have made their home.

Through many houses he has been,
And various beds and stockings seen;
Some, white as snow, and neatly mended,
Others, that seemed for pigs intended.

To some I gave a pretty doll,
To some a peg-top, or a ball;
No crackers, cannons, squibs, or rockets,
To blow their eyes up, or their pockets.

Where e’re I found good girls or boys,
That hated quarrels, strife and noise,
I left an apple, or a tart,
Or wooden gun, or painted cart;

No drums to stun their Mother’s ear,
Nor swords to make their sisters fear;
But pretty books to store their mind
With knowledge of each various kind.

But where I found the children naughty,
In manners crude, in temper haughty,
Thankless to parents, liars, swearers,
Boxers, or cheats, or base tale-bearers,

I left a long, black, birchen rod,
Such as the dread command of GOD
Directs a Parent’s hand to use
When virtue’s path his sons refuse.


Date: 1821

By: Anonymous

Tuesday, 3 September 2019

Elegiac Stanzas by Robert Story

There is a state to hardened vice unknown,
A mournful joy, a sadly pleasing mood,
Which he who feels it loves to nurse alone,
And tell his sorrows to the midnight wood;
There, in the deepest shades of solitude,
While not a star beams o’er the clouded sky,
The echoing blast, and roaring of the flood,
And, heard at intervals, the owl’s dread cry,
Mixed awful, aid the soul in hopeless sympathy!

Oh, if, as saints have deemed and poets wrote,
Departed spirits still may hover near;
With powers enlarged may see each secret thought,
Who heedless mind not, and who hold them dear,
Thou, TH—MS—N! knowst my sorrow is sincere,
That not for fame I wake the plaintive strain;
Thou seest my tortured heart — the falling tear—
The wish, half selfish, that still asks in vain
Thy soul from happiness, thy company again!

Not keener pangs can rend the striplings breast,
Whose love relentless death has torn away,
When laid beneath the thorn, with blossoms dressed,
Where oft in sweet discourse they saw the day
Departing westward shed its latest ray,
And heard the birds enchant the vernal scene;—
Than torture mine, when I each haunt survey
Which we have trod at summer eve serene,
Fair Heddin — Calder fields — and Roddam’s forest green!

Ah! lost, for ever lost to all below,
Thy mild, endearing, harmless gaiety.
Thy bosom pure with love no more shall glow,
Nor dance at thoughts of rapture yet to be!
My Ellen weeps! — and let her tears flow free;
I blame her not; who would not join the moan?
Ah, cease for ever now our rivalry!
And ceased those pangs her partial glance alone
Could make our bosoms feel, where purest friendship shone!

If high exalted thou in clime of bliss
Of earthly comrades mindest, carest no more;
Yet while we walk our destined round in this
My friend — her lover still we must deplore.
The scenes that thy young steps have wandered o’er,
Green Heddin’s side, and Cheviot’s lofty brow,
Shall bring to mind the youth who now sleeps low,
Till in eternal joy shall terminate our woe!


Date: 1821

By: Robert Story (1795-1860)

Saturday, 11 April 2015

Sonnet to ——————— by John Hamilton Reynolds

The trees in Sherwood forest are old and good, —
The grass beneath them now is dimly green;
Are they deserted all? Is no young mien
With loose-slung bugle met within the wood:
No arrow found, — foil’d of its antler’d food ,–
Struck in the oak’s rude side? Is there nought seen,
To mark the revelries which there have been, —
In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood?

Go there, with Summer, and with evening, — go
In the soft shadows like some wandering man, —
And thou shalt far amid the forest know
The archer men in green, with belt and bow,
Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl, and swan,
With Robin at their head, and Marian.

From: Hamilton, John, The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems, John Warren: London,1821, pp. 124-125.

Date: 1821

By: John Hamilton Reynolds (1794-1852)

Saturday, 29 November 2014

The Lover’s Song by William Sidney Walker

Softly sinks the rosy sun,
And the toils of day are past and done;
And now is the time to think of thee,
My lost remember’d Emily!

Come dear Image, come for a while.
Come with thy own, thy evening smile;
— Not shaped and fashioned in fancy’s mould,
But such as thou wert in the days of old.

Come from that unvisited cell.
Where all day long thou lovest to dwell,
Hous’d amid Memory’s richest fraught,
Deep in the sunless caves of thought.

Come, with all thy company
Of mystic fancies, and musings high,
And griefs, that lay in the heart like treasures,
‘Till Time had tum’d them to solemn pleasures;

And thoughts of early virtues gone, —
For my best of days with thee were flown,
And their sad and soothing memory
Is mingled now with my dreams of thee.

Too solemn for day, too sweet for night,
Come not in darkness, come not in light;
But come in some twilight interim,
When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim:

And in the white and silent dawn,
When the curtains of night are half undrawn,
Or at evening time, when my task is done,
I will think of the lost remember’d one!

From: Walker, William Sidney and Moultrie, J. (ed.), The Poetical Remains of William Sidney Walker, Formerly Fellow of Trinity College Cambridge, Edited, with a Memoir of the Author by The Rev. J. Moultrie, M.A. Rector of Rugby, 1852, John W. Parker and Son: Rugby, pp. 32-33.

Date: 1821

By: William Sidney Walker (1795-1846)