Posts tagged ‘1824’

Monday, 22 August 2022

I Envy Thee, Thou Careless Wind by Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton

I envy thee, thou careless wind,
So light, so wild, thy wandering,
Thou hast no earthly chain to bind
One fetter on thy airy wing;—
I envy thee, thou careless wind!

The flower’s first sign of blossoming,
The harp’s soft note, the woodlark’s song,
All unto thee their treasures bring,
All to thy fairy reign belong;—
I envy thee, thou careless wind!

Thy jocund wing o’er ocean roves,
An echo to the sea-maid’s lay;
Then, over rose and orange groves,
Thy fragrant breath exhales away;—
I envy thee, thou careless wind!

From: Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, “Narenor: A Tale” in The Port Folio, Vol. XVIII, July-December 1824, pp. 475-476.

Date: 1824

By: Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873)

Thursday, 19 March 2020

Cupid Lost and Cried by Jacob Cats

The Child of Venus, wanton, wild,
The slyest rogue that ever smiled,
Had lately strayed—where? who shall guess?
His mother pines in sad distress;—

She calls the boy, she sighs, complains,
But still no news of Cupid gains:
For though her sorrow grows apace,
None knows the urchin’s resting-place.
She therefore vows the boy shall be
Cried o’er the country speedily:

“If there be any who can tell
Where little Cupid’s wont to dwell,
A fit reward he shall enjoy
If he track out the truant boy;
His recompense a fragrant kiss
From Venus’ ruby mouth of bliss;
But he who firmly holds the knave
Shall yet a sweeter guerdon have.
And lest ye should mistake the wight,
List to his form described aright:—
He is a little wayward thing
That’s panoplied on fiery wing;
Two pinions, like a swan, he carries,
And never for an instant tarries,
But now is here and now is there,
And couples many a curious pair.
His eyes like two bright stars are glowing,
And ever sidelong glances throwing:
He bears about a crafty bow,
And wounds before the wounded know:
His dart, though gilt to please the view,
Is dipp’d in bitter venom too:
His body, though ’tis bare to sight,
Has overthrown full many a knight:
His living torch, though mean and small,
Oft makes the hardiest warrior fall;
The highest dames with care invades,
And spares not e’en the tenderest maids;—
Nay, what is worse than all the rest,
He sometimes wounds his mother’s breast.

If such an urchin should be found,
Proclaim the joyous news around;
And should the boy attempt to fly,
O seize him, seize him daringly.
But if you have the child at last,
Be careful that you hold him fast,
Or else the roving bird he’ll play,
And vanish in thin air away;
And if he seem to pine and grieve,
You must not heed him— nor believe—
Nor trust his tears and feign’d distress,
His winning glance and bland caress;
But watch his cheek when dimples wreathe it,
And think that evil lurks beneath it;
For under his pretended smile
Are veil’d the deepest craft and guile.
If he a kiss should offer, shun
The proffer’d gift, or be undone;
His ruby lips thy heart would sentence
To brief delight, but long repentance:
But if the cunning boy will give
His dart to you—Oh! ne’er receive,
If you would hope for blissful years,
The present that so fair appears:
It is no pledge of love— but shame,
And danger and destroying flame.
Then, friends—to speak with brevity—
This wholesome warning take from me:
Let those who seize the wily ranger
Be on their guard ’gainst many a danger;
For, if they venture too securely,
Misfortunes will assail them surely;
And if they trust the boy in aught,
The catchers will themselves be caught.”

From: Bowring, John and van Dyk, Harry S., Batavian Anthology; or, Specimens of the Dutch Poets; with remarks on the poetical literature and language of the Netherlands, to the end of the Seventeenth century, 1824, Taylor and Hessey: London, pp. 74-77.

Date: 1625 (original in Dutch); 1824 (translation in English)

By: Jacob Cats (1577-1660)

Translated by: John Bowring (1792-1872) and Harry Stoe van Dyk (1798-1828)

Wednesday, 21 February 2018

John Peel by John Woodcock Graves

D’ye ken John Peel, with his coat so gay?
D’ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?
D’ye ken John Peel, when he’s far far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning.

For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed.
And the cry of the hounds which he oft times led,
Peel’s view hol-loo would awaken the dead,
Or his fox from his lair in the morning.

Yes, I ken John Peel, and Ruby too,
Ranter and Ringwood, Bell-man and True,
From a find to a check, from a check to a view.
From a view to a death in the morning.


Then here’s to John Peel, from my heart and soul.
Let’s drink to his health let’s finish the bowl,
We’ll follow John Peel thro’ fair thro’ foul.
If we want a good hunt in the morning.


D’ye ken John Peel, with his coat so gay,
He lived at Trout-beck once on a day,
Now he has gone far far away,
We shall ne’er hear his voice in the morning.



Date: 1824

By: John Woodcock Graves (1795-1886)

Thursday, 23 November 2017

Twilight Time by Samuel Palmer

And now the trembling light
Glimmers behind the little lulls, and corn,
Ling’ring as loth to part: yet part thou must
And though than open day far pleasing more
(Ere yet the fields and pearled cups of flowers
twinkle in the parting light),
Thee night shall hide, sweet visionary gleam
That softly lookest through the rising dew;
Till all like silver bright,
The faithful Witness, pure and white
Shall look o’er yonder grassy hill,
At this village, safe and still,
All is safe and all is still,
Save what noise the watch-dog makes
Or the shrill cock the silence breaks
Now and then —
And now and then —
Hark! — once again,
The wether’s bell
To us doth tell
Some little stirring in the fold.
Methinks the ling’ring, dying ray
Of twilight time, doth seem more fair,
And lights the soul up more than day,
When wide-spread, sultry sunshines are.
Yet all is right, and all most fair
For thou, dear God, hast formèd all;
Thou deckest ev’ry little flower,
Thou girdest every planet ball —
And markest when sparrows fall

From: Grigson, Geoffrey, Samuel Palmer: The Visionary Years, 1947, Kegan Paul: London, pp. 26-27.

Date: 1824

By: Samuel Palmer (1805-1881)

Thursday, 5 January 2017

Death of an Infant by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Death found strange beauty on that polish’d brow,
And dash’d it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.

Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
For ever.

There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
The seal of silence.

But there beam’d a smile,
So fix’d, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed, and left it there. He dar’d not steal
The signet-ring of heaven.


Date: 1824

By: Lydia Huntley Sigourney (1791-1865)

Wednesday, 28 August 2013

Sonnet IV by Josiah Conder

There’s beauty, motion, music in the stream,
And these are sweet; but sweeter are the flowers
That bathe therein: they live, and in the beam
Of morn unfold, closing when evening lowers,
And seem to feel the sunshine and the showers:—
Yet only seem; and therefore sweeter still,
The insect joying in his conscious powers
Of flight or sport, taking his little fill
Of happiness, ephemeral type of ours
Yet mind’s ethereal spark is wanting there,
And therefore sweeter are those chubby faces
Peeping through yonder gate, in which one traces
The dawn of soul, — speaking of mother’s care,
And hope; and love— in which the heart can share.

From: Conder, Josiah, The Star in the East; with Other Poems, 1824, Taylor and Hessey: London, p. 149.

Date: 1824

By: Josiah Conder (1789-1855)

Sunday, 30 June 2013

Sonnet 11. Scotch Quadrilles by John Moultrie

Perish the coxcomb who united first
To these vain whimsies, hatch’d beyond the seas,
Old Caledonia’s touching melodies;
Wedding the follies of that land accurst,
To strains whose high and soothing music nursed
Heroic hearts, or gave crush’d spirits ease,
Awakening the bright Past’s remembrances
While grief’s fierce tempest o’er the Present burst.
Oh! ye sweet notes, ye were not meant to lead
The measured steps of fashion: ye should tell
Of Highland glen, wild rock, and pastoral dell,
And scenes like those of which the world doth read
In that bright page, which many a wondrous deed
Of Scottish story hath embalm’d so well.


Date: 1824

By: John Moultrie (1799-1874)