Posts tagged ‘1823’

Monday, 24 February 2020

9 March 1823 by Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky

You stood before me
So still and quiet,
Your gaze was languid
And full of feeling.
It summoned memories
Of days so lovely…
It was the final
One you gave me.

Now you have vanished,
A quite angel;
Your grave is peaceful,
As calm as Eden!
There rest all earthly
There rest all holy
Thoughts of heaven.

Heavenly stars,
Quiet night!

From: Dralyuk, Boris, “Three Poems from the Golden Age” in Pushkin Review, 2015-16, 18-19, p. 139.

Date: 1823 (original in Russian); 2015 (translation in English)

By: Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky (1783-1852)

Translated by: Boris Dralyuk (19??- )

Friday, 24 May 2019

Ode to the Moon Under Total Eclipse by William Rowan Hamilton

(July, 1823)

[The Moon under total eclipse is not invisible, but appears of a dark red colour.]

O queen of yon ethereal plain,
With slow majestic step advancing,
‘Mid thy attendant starry train,
Thy subject waves beneath thee dancing;
As Dian moves through Delian shades
Above her circling Oread maids:
Why hath that crimson red
Thy lovely brow o’erspread —
Oh! wherefore that portentous gloom,
Eclipse, and shadow of the tomb?

II.— 1.
Say, is it but a passing cloud,
Far in some higher sphere,
Which thus around thee winds its shroud,
While all the heavens are clear;
While not a vapour nigh
Sullies the midnight sky;
While all the stars are brightly burning,
Each in his wonted orbit turning?

II.— 2.
Or wizard from his murky cell
Who bows thee to his power,
By magic word and mutter’d spell
In this, night’s witching hour?

II.— 3.
Or is it, as the sages say,
Versed in celestial lore,
Our earth, athwart light’s pathless way,
Which bars it from thy shore:
Whose shadowy cone, with noiseless pace
Through the infinity of space,
Hath darkly crossed thine orb on high,
And dimmed it to our wondering eye?

Ill.— 1.
On thee the nations gaze
With looks of wild amaze,
And anxious ask, what means the sign?
What dread disaster nigh,
Is boded by thine eye,
Low’ring with aspect thus malign?

Ill.— 2.
For ancient tales of terror say,
That still before some fatal day
Thou veilest thus thy blushing face;
Earthquake or famine, sword or fire,
Is menaced by that look of ire;
Ruin prepares to run his race:
Lo! in his widely whelming car,
He comes, the demon from afar,
Rushing with a whirlwind’s noise,
Trampling o’er prostrate hopes and joys
While, at his side, the ministers of fate
In silence seem his signal to await.

III.— 3.
‘Twas thus, O Moon! thy failing light,
When Athens’ army thought of flight
From that dark Sicilian shore,
To their distant country bore
The omen of her slaughter’d host,
Of coming woe and glory lost.

Such augury is in thy looks to-night:
And with awe mingled with a stern delight,
The warrior or the poet now
May gaze on thine ensanguined brow; —
But not the lover! all too rude,
It suits not with his milder mood;
Better he loves to look on thee
When shining in thy purity;
Clad in thy robe of virgin snow,
As thou wert an hour ago,
Or hid by fleecy clouds alone
That canopy yon azure throne.
And yet, to him all nature seems
Tinged with soft hues by fancy’s beams,
As distant rainbows beauty shed
On the rugged mountain head:
Then, though thy right be like the torch of war,
Still will I hail thee as the lover’s star!

From: The National Magazine and Dublin Literary Gazette, July to December, 1830, Volume 1, 1830, William Frederick Wakeman: Dublin, pp. 387-388.

Date: 1823

By: William Rowan Hamilton (1805-1865)

Tuesday, 8 January 2019

The Bat—A Simile by Elizabeth Knipe Cobbold (Carolina Petty Pasty)

Frail child of earth! to whom is given
To soar with habitants of heaven,
And court, in air, the still serene
Of twilight’s deep and soften’d scene;
When purple pomps the clouds invest,
From rays that linger in the west,
And massy shadows, dark and vast,
Their veil sublime, o’er nature cast;
What time, from pale and timid flow’rs,
Sabæan ordors scent the bow’rs,
O then ’tis thine, with rapid flight,
To mock the quick and anxious sight,
Whose speculation seeks to trace
Thy arrowy path, thy flitting grace,
That, like the meteor of the sky,
Scarce paints a form upon the eye;
Now seen, now lost, with magic pow’r,
The spirit of the mystic hour!
But placed with those of equal birth,
To walk the common track of earth,
Poor feeble thing of cumbrous form,
Thou crawlst more helpless than the worm,
The blisses thy congeners try,
Scarce given to taste, much less enjoy!
How oft has fancy smil’d to see,
Some son of genius shewn in thee!
His flight, unsearchable as thine,
Eludes the glance of vulgar eyne,
As rais’d from earth, on pinion sure
He cleaves the palpable obscure;
Or flitting through the dusky glade
Enjoys sublimity in shade;
Breathes odors richer far than those
That day elicits from the rose,
And peoples all the shadowy space
With visions of immortal grace.
But check his stretch’d and soaring wing;
His pow’rs to common habits bring;
Place him on earth, and bid him then
Associate with his fellow men;
You’ll find him, spite of all his boast,
So awkward, helpless, poor and lost,
That, if possest of mere good nature,
In pity to the dubious creature,
With flattery’s aid you’ll kindly try
To help him, once again, to fly.
Here let no scornful eagle cry,
“Avaunt! Intruder on the sky;”
Nor fellow quadruped, with spite,
Deride the short, and hasty flight;
Lest, driv’n from earth, expell’d from air,
Of mousing owl, with critic stare,
That shrinks from candor’s steady ray,
The BAT become the midnight prey.

From: Cobbold, Elizabeth, Poems: With a Memoir of the Author, 1825, J. Raw: Ipswich, UK, pp. 163-165.

Date: 1823

By: Elizabeth Knipe Cobbold (Carolina Petty Pasty) (1765-1824)

Monday, 8 May 2017

Written on the Last Leaf of Shakespeare by Henry Nelson Coleridge

So now the charmed book is ended, Mary!
The wand is broken, and the spell is o’er;
And thou hast mused or smiled o’er witch and faery,
Till Fancy’s imps familiar semblance wore.
What though thy tongue’s sweet song be distant far?
By that soft bosom, and that gentle eye,
I knew thee genuine child of poesy,
When erst thou told’st me of that twin-born star,
Divinest SPENSER! When did either seem
(As they to thee) two boats upon one stream,
Wafting the rapt soul to some region fair,
If meek-eyed Genius were not hov’ring there?
Never! therefore, thrice happy Maiden, wander on,
Again the wand is whole, the spell is not yet gone!


Date: 1823

By: Henry Nelson Coleridge (1798-1843)

Friday, 29 August 2014

Home, Sweet Home from “Clari, or The Maid of Milan” by John Howard Payne

‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call —
Give me them — and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro’ the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

How sweet ’tis to sit ‘neath a fond father’s smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!

To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;
The heart’s dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There’s no place like home, oh, there’s no place like home!


Date: 1823

By: John Howard Payne (1791-1852)

Thursday, 6 February 2014

Ode XXI. Observe When Mother Earth is Dry by Anacreon

Observe when Mother Earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To ev’ry thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours, which at evening weep,
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean’s misty tears.
The moon too quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre, from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking!
Since Nature’s holy law is drinking;
I’ll make the laws of nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine!


Date: 1823 (translated)

By: Anacreon (582BC-485BC)

Translated by: Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Saturday, 2 March 2013

The Coral Grove by James Gates Percival

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift;
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean.
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

From: Percival, James G, Poems, 1823, Charles Wiley: New York, pp. 318-319.

Date: 1823

By: James Gates Percival (1795-1856)

Saturday, 22 December 2012

To Mrs. K___, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris by Helen Maria Williams

What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!


Date: 1823

By: Helen Maria Williams (1761-1827)