Posts tagged ‘1825’

Friday, 9 April 2021

To a Butterfly by Emily Howson Taylor

Go, go in thy beauty,
Bright child of a day!
Go, catch the Sun’s splendour —
His beans oass away,
I sigh as I watch thee;
For never again
My eye shall behold thee
Thus skim o’er the plain.

And where lives the heartless,
Who gazing his last
On the bright light of beauty,
Can smile at the sadness
That springs to the eye,
As the fairest of creatures
Thus breathes but to die?

Go, go, thou gay being!
The pride and the joy
Of thy transient existence
No reasonings destroy.
To see thee, and ponder
The brief written line
Of thy. life and extinction—-
That sorrow is mine.

From: Taylor, Emily, The Vision of Las Casas, and Other Poems, 1825, Taylor and Hessey: London, pp. 85-86.
(https://archive.org/details/visionlascasasa00taylgoog/page/n100/mode/2up)

Date: 1825

By: Emily Howson Taylor (1795-1872)

Tuesday, 9 April 2019

Parting by Jean Froissart

The body goes, the spirit stays;
Dear lady, till we meet, farewell!
Too far from thee my home must be;
The body goes, the soul delays; —
Dearest of ladies, fare thee well!

But sweeter thoughts that in me dwell
The anguish of my grief outweigh; —
Dearest of ladies, fare thee well!
The body goes, the soul may stay.

From: Taylor, Edgar, The Minnesingers or German Troubadours of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries: Illustrated by Specimens of the Contemporary Lyric Poetry of Provence and Other Parts of Europe, 1825, Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green: London, p. 294.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=XNkGAAAAQAAJ)

Date: 14th century (original in Old French); 1825 (translation in English)

By: Jean Froissart (c1337-c1405)

Translated by: Edgar Taylor (1793-1839)

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Spring by John Gardiner Calkins Brainard

TO MISS — —.

Other poets may muse on thy beauties, and sing
Of thy birds, and thy flowers, and thy perfumes, sweet Spring!
They may wander enraptured by hills and by mountains,
Or pensively pore by thy fresh gushing fountains;
Or sleep in the moonlight by favorite streams,
Inspired by the whispering sylphs in their dreams,
And awake from their slumbers to hail the bright sun,
When shining in dew the fresh morning comes on.

But I’ve wet shoes and stockings, a cold in my throat,
The head-ache, and tooth-ache, and quinsy to boot;
No dew from the cups of the flow’rets I sip, —
‘T is nothing but boneset that moistens my lip;
Not a cress from the spring or the brook can be had:
At morn, noon, and night, I get nothing but shad;
My whispering sylph is a broad-shouldered lass,
And my bright sun — a warming-pan made out o brass!

Then be thou my genius; for what can I do,
When I cannot see nature, but copy from you?
If Spring be the season of beauty and youth,
Of hope and of loveliness, kindness, and truth;
Of all that’s inspiring, and all that is bright,
And all that is what we call just about right—
Why need I expose my sick muse to the weather,
When by going to you she would find all together?

From: Brainard, John, Poems of John Brainard, 1996, University of Michigan Humanities Text Initiative: Ann Arbor, Michigan, pp. 26-27.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/BAD1889.0001.001)

Date: 1825

By: John Gardiner Calkins Brainard (1796-1828)

Thursday, 20 October 2016

Lines by Louisa Stuart Costello

If we should ever meet again
When many tedious years are past;
When time shall have unbound the chain,
And this sad heart is free at last;—
Then shall we meet and look unmov’d,
As though we ne’er had met—had lov’d!

And I shall mark without a tear
How cold and calm thy alter’d brow;
I shall forget thou once wert dear,
Rememb’ring but thy broken vow!
Rememb’ring that in trusting youth
I lov’d thee with the purest truth;
That now the fleeting dream is o’er,
And thou canst raise the spell no more!

From: Costello, Louisa Stuart, Songs of A Stranger, 1825, Taylor and Hessey: London, p. 7.
(http://english.unl.edu/corvey/html/Etexts/CostelloLouisa/CostelloPoems.htm)

Date: 1825

By: Louisa Stuart Costello (1799-1870)

Friday, 26 August 2016

To My Dear Grandmother, On Her 80th Birth Day by Grizelda Elizabeth Cottnam Tonge

How oft from honor’d Certia’s* hallow’d lyre
In tones harmonious this lov’d theme has flowed —
Each strain, while breathing all the poet’s fire,
The feeling heart and fertile fancy showed;
Oft times, in childhood, my young mind has glowed
While dwelling on her sweet descriptive lay —
Oh, that the power had been on me bestowed!
A tribute fitting for the theme to pay! —
With joy I’d touch each string to welcome in this day.

But thou wilt not despise the humbler song
Though genius decks it not; — though rude and wild
Its numbers are: — ah! surely no, for long
Thy kindness I have proved: while yet a child,
Pleased I have sought the Muse, and oft beguiled
With her low plaintive tones the passing hour;
On the young effort thou has sweetly smiled,
And reared my mind, even as an opening flower,
Watching with anxious love each new expanding power.

Oh! more than parent! friend unequalled! how
Can I my love for thee express! or say
With what a fervent, what a hallowed glow,
I hail thy mental beauty through decay!
While I thy venerable form survey,
Though eighty lengthened years have scatter’d snow
Upon thy honored head; though sorrow’s seal
Is stamped with heavy pressure on thy brow,
Thine is an angel’s mind, and oh! I feel
It gives an angel’s look, which age can never steal!

Thy soul has long been ripening for its God,
And when he calls it I should not repine;
But nature still must mourn, and o’er thy sod
I know no tears will faster fall than mine:
I know the bitter anguish that will twine
Around my heart strings: — but the thought is pain;
I will not think that I must soon resign
What I can never find on earth again —
Oh, that blessed prize has not been lent in vain!

For I do hope thy firm but mild controul,
Thy precepts and example may have shone
With rays of brightness o’er my youthful soul,
Which will my pathway light when thou art gone;
And when before thy Father’s mercy throne
Thou join’st with myriads in the holy song,
If it may be, wilt thou on me look down,
And watch my faultering footsteps while along,
This busy maze I pass, and warn me still from wrong?

*The poet is addressing her great grandmother, Deborah How Cottnam, who is said to have published her poetry under the name Portia. However, Certia is what was printed in this publication.

From: “The Fount” in Acadian Reporter, 5 March 1825 Vol. 13 No. 10, p. 4.
(http://novascotia.ca/archives/Newspapers/archives.asp?ID=1392&Page=201115550&Language)

Date: 1825

By: Grizelda Elizabeth Cottnam Tonge (1803-1825)

Saturday, 14 February 2015

A Health by Edward Coote Pinkney

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, ‘t is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music’s own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—the idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life’s but hers.

I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

From: http://www.bartleby.com/102/34.html

Date: 1825

By: Edward Coote Pinkney (1802-1828)

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Hadad’s Description of the City of David (from “Hadad”) by James Abraham Hillhouse

‘Tis so; the hoary harper sings aright;
How beautiful is Zion! Like a queen,
Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness,
Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass,
She sits aloft, begirt with battlements,
And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard
The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,
Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods,
Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Wave their dark beauty ’round the tower of David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrazures of alabaster shine;
Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah’s mart with Orient merchandise.
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law
Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch,
And where the Glory hovers, here I war.

From: Cheever, George B. (ed.), The American Common-Place Book of Poetry, with Occasional Notes, 1831, Carter and Hendee: Boston, p. 25.
(https://archive.org/stream/americancommonpl00cheeuoft#page/24/mode/2up)

Date: 1825

By: James Abraham Hillhouse (1789-1841)

Thursday, 23 May 2013

The Dream by David MacBeth Moir

Methought I died, and to the silent grave
My friends did bear me. Still and motionless
I lay, yet not without the power to have
Full knowledge of my utter helplessness,
In that my dreadful grim hour of distress;
My thought remain’d, and feeling, actively
As they were wont,º nor was sensation less
Active; but my pulse was not, and mine eye
Seem’d death-like fix’d, and glaz’d, to those standing by.

They wrapt me in my white funereal shroud,
And clos’d my useless eyes, then gently drew
The death-robes o’er them, like a fleecy cloud;
My mother kiss’d me, and my sisters too,
Then my thoughts like the wind-swept ocean grew,
And horror was my own: a fire flash’d red,
And gleam’d, as through my scorched brain it flew,
And wildly o’er mine eyes its lightening sped,
When my dream changed, and darkness came instead.

I heard them talk, and heard my mother’s wail,
I heard the sobbings of my father’s breast,
And struggled — but in vain; and nail by nail
Was driven; then my tortur’d head was prest,
As with a crushing weight, which straightway pass’d,
And then I felt them carry me away
From all my kindred, weeping and distrest.
Oh how I inward shudder’d at decay,
And pray’d in anguish for the blessed light of day!

I heard the measured march, and sullen tread,
And, now and then, a murmur pass along,
Hollow and deep, as best befits the dead
To be spoke of, although men say no wrong:
They went the graves and sepulchres among,
And all, in still and solemn silence, stood
To let the coffin down; and earth they flung
Upon me, and I heard them beat the sod—
I rav’d, and in my madness did blaspheme my God!

But that too pass’d away, and I could think,
And feel, and know my dismal, helpless state;
My body knew corruption; I did shrink
To feel the icy worm — my only mate,
For thousands crawl’d upon me, all elate
At their new prey, and o’er my rotting face
They blindly crept and revell’d, after that
They did their noisome, vile, dark passage trace,
To make my burning brain their loathsome resting-place.

Then, eager to renew their feast, would press
My skull and eyeless sockets, passing through,
And intertwining, till they grew a mass
Within my mouth, when my soul froze anew,
And shudder’d, — ’twas in vain: alas! I knew
I was a victim to corruption’s power.
My horrid dream was o’er — but the cold dew
Was on my forehead, like the glistering show’r
That falls from church-yard cypress at the midnight hour.

From: http://www.litgothic.com/Texts/moir_dream.pdf

Date: 1825

By: David MacBeth Moir (1798-1851)

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

The Death of the Flowers by William Cullen Bryant

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day,

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain,
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

From: http://quod.lib.umich.edu/a/amverse/BAD0508.0001.001/1:107?rgn=div1;view=fulltext

Date: 1825

By: William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

Saturday, 9 February 2013

Warren’s Address to the Soldiers at Bunker Hill by John Pierpont

(June 16-17, 1775)

Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What’s the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,—ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you!—they’re afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it!  From the vale
On they come—and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot’s bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

From: http://www.knology.net/~byrdland/poems2.html

Date: 1825

By: John Pierpont (1785-1866)