Posts tagged ‘1826’

Saturday, 22 August 2020

The Leaf by Antoine-Vincent Arnault

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail,
Sport of every wanton gale,
Whence, and whither, dost thou fly
Through this bleak autumnal sky!’
‘On a noble oak I grew,
Green, and broad, and fair to view;
But the Monarch of the shade
By the tempest low was laid.
From that time, I wander o’er
Wood, and valley, hill, and moor;
Wheresoe’er the wind is blowing,
Nothing caring, nothing knowing.
Thither go I, whither goes
Glory’s laurel, Beauty’s rose.


Date: 1812 (original in French); 1826 (translation in English)

By: Antoine-Vincent Arnault (1766-1834)

Translated by: Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859)

Thursday, 29 June 2017

The Song of the Syren Parthenope by Anna Brownell Murphy Jameson

A Rhapsody, written at Naples.

Mine are these waves, and mine the twilight depths
O’er which they roll, and all these tufted isles
That lift their backs like dolphins from the deep,
And all these sunny shores that gird us round!

Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid’s shell!
Ye who have wander‘d hither from far climes,
(Where the coy summer yields but half her sweets,)
To breathe my bland luxurious airs, and drink
My sunbeams! and to revel in a land
Where Nature—deck’d out like a bride to meet
Her lover—lays forth all her charms, and smiles
Languidly bright, voluptuously gay,
Sweet to the sense, and tender to the heart.

Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid’s shell;
Ye who have fled your natal shores in hate
Or anger, urged by pale disease, or want,
Or grief, that clinging like the spectre bat,
Sucks drop by drop the life-blood from the heart,
And hither come to learn forgetfulness,
Or to prolong existence! ye shall find
Both—though the spring Lethean flow no more,
There is a power in these entrancing skies
And murmuring waters and delicious airs,
Felt in the dancing spirits and the blood,
And falling on the lacerated heart
Like balm, until that life becomes a boon,
Which elsewhere is a burthen and a curse.

Hear then—O hear the Sea-maid’s airy shell,
Listen, O listen! ’tis the Syren sings,
The spirit of the deep—Parthenope—
She who did once i’ the dreamy days of old
Sport on these golden sands beneath the moon,
Or pour’d the ravishing music of her song
Over the silent waters; and bequeath’d
To all these sunny capes and dazzling shores
Her own immortal beauty, and her name.

From: Jameson, Mrs., The Diary of an Ennuyée: A new edition, 1836, Baudry’s European Library: Paris, p. 98.

Date: 1826

By: Anna Brownell Murphy Jameson (1794-1860)

Saturday, 19 March 2016

The Fishwife and Mustaches; or Sandhill Oratory by Robert Emery

Tune: “Drawing a Long Bow; or, How To Tell a Story”

The brave Scotch Greys’ Colonel, as fine as ye’d wish,
Swagger’d down to Sandhill to purchase some fish;
His Mustaches so large did attract Heuphy Scott,
Who had soals on her stall, so he priced a lot.

Eight shillins a pair, Sur, ye cannot weel grudge—
They’re the best in the market, if aw’s ony judge:
But the Colonel replied with a kind of a frown,
I do think you’re well paid if you get half a crown.

Then Heuphy enrag’d, thought the Hero to stagger, —
Just leuk at his arse there, the lobster back’d bugger!
Half a croon!!!—wey, aw sure! —di’ ye think that aw rob?
Wi’ yor clarty black whiskers that grows round yor gob!

A mistake, my good woman, you’ve made in your rage—
They are called Mustaches—the best, I’ll engage: —
Mouse-catchers!!awd c—t fyece! noo just say nee mair,
For aw piss ev’ry day through a far better pair!!!

The Colonel, with laughing, was near overcome,
At last says to Heuphy—pray, send the fish home;
And instead of eight shillings, I’ll pay you with nine.
For I’ll laugh at this joke when I’m far from the Tyne.


Date: 1826

By: Robert Emery (1794-1871)

Saturday, 27 December 2014

Oh! I Am Weary of a World, Where Vice by Eliza Acton

Oh! I am weary of a world, where vice,
Like the destroying canker-worm, doth wind
Into the bosom’s core of those who bear,
The subtle, but false semblance, of a truth,
And virtue, which they know not:–smiles, warm smiles,
And kindest courtesies; and words, which wear
The mockery of tenderness;–all these,
Are but the maskings of most hollow hearts,
Where selfishness, and treachery, do league
To make, and keep their home. The things we love
Are garb’d, by Fancy, with such brilliant hues,
As the clouds borrow from the farewell beams
Of the departing sun;–but let them stand
Forth in their own reality–disrob’d
Of the warm colouring which our minds have flung
Round them, in rich adornment, and the soul
Will shrink to find its idols cold and dim,
As are the vapours gather’d in the West,
When the Day-God is gone!

From: Acton, Eliza, Poems, 1826, R. Deck: Ipswich, pp. 64-65.

Date: 1826

By: Eliza Acton (1799-1859)

Sunday, 2 November 2014

To Time by Charles Strong

Time, I rejoice, amid the ruin wide
That peoples thy dark empire, to behold
Shores against which thy waves in vain have rolled,
Where man’s proud works still frown above thy tide.

The deep-based pyramids still turn aside
Thy wasteful currents, vigorously old
Lucania’s temples their array unfold,
Pillar and portico, in simple pride.

Nor less my joy, when, sheltered from thy storms
In earth’s fond breast, hid treasure bursts the sod,
Elaborate stone in sculpture’s matchless forms.

Oft did I mock thee, spoiler, as I trod
The glowing courts where still the goddess warms,
And stern in beauty stands the quivered god.

From: Strong, The Rev. Charles, “To Time” in The Asiatic Journal and Monthly Register for British and Foreign India, China and Australia, Volume 24, 1827, p. 568.

Date: 1826

By: Charles Strong (1785-1864)

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

Love and Jealousy by Samuel Woodworth

When infant Cupid ventured first
To spread his purple wing,
It chanced he stopp’d, to slake his thirst,
At the pierian spring;
When, rising from the crystal stream,
A monster caught his eye,
Poor Cupid started with a scream,
But strove in vain to fly.

To slay the little winged boy
The dæmon vainly strove,
His fangs could wound, but not destroy,
The son of peerless Jove.
He follows still— (they never part)
But vainly vents his ire;
Tho’ jealous tortures wring the heart,
Yet ne’er can love expire.

From: Woodworth, Samuel, Melodies: Duets, Trios, Songs, and Ballads, Pastoral, Amatory, Sentimental, Patriotic, Religious, and Miscellaneous. Together with Metrical Epistles, Tales and Recitations, 1831, Elliot and Palmer: New York, p. 41.

Date: 1826

By: Samuel Woodworth (1784-1842)

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Ode V. To Sylvia by Charles Tompson

Hast thou not seen some captive bird
Impatient flit within the wire,
And seek the bliss of liberty,
With anxious fond desire?

Or hast thou not beheld, in chains,
Some poor unhappy pris’ner pine?
E’en such a wretched slave am I,
E’en such hard fetters mine.

But yet from these I differ too,
For they would cast their chains away,
While I exult to wear the badge
Of thy unpitying sway.

Then deign, fair nymph, one smile of love,
One ray of ruddy hope impart!
O, give this life the pow’r to live,
And heal the wounded heart!

From: Tompson, Charles, Wild Notes: From the Lyre of A Native Minstrel, 2002, University of Sydney Library: Sydney, p. 22.

Date: 1826

By: Charles Tompson (1807-1883)

Monday, 6 February 2012

The Albatross, Or The Rock of Ages by John Dunmore Lang

The Albatross, with ceaseless flight,
May cruize for many a day,
And many a long and stormy night,
While land lies far away.
But still there is some rocky isle,
Amid the Southern seas,
Where the tall albatross awhile
Forgets to mount the breeze.
For thither he will speed at length
(Howe’er he loves to roam)
To build his nest and gather strength —
The sea-bird has a home!
How like the sea-bird’s airy flight,
Deluded man, is thine,
Pursuing pleasure day and night
Amid the ocean brine!
For sure the world is but a sea,
And pleasure is not there,
But bootless toil and vanity,
And sorrow and despair.
But, ah! unlike the albatross,
Still dost thou vainly fly
The waves of that wild sea across
Although thy Rock is nigh!
For know, there is a Rock for thee,
And firmly does it stand;
Blest is its shadow far at sea,
Or in the weary land.
There rich refreshments thou shalt find,
There living water flows,
And sweetest fruit of every kind
In every season grows.
Then thither speed thy drooping wing,
Nor longer idly roam,
Christ is thy Rock, and he will bring
Thee to a heavenly home!


Date: 1826

By: John Dunmore Lang (1799-1878)

Friday, 18 November 2011

Casabianca by Felicia Hemans

The boy stood on the burning deck
  Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
  Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
  As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
  A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on–he would not go
  Without his Father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
  His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud–’say, Father, say
  If yet my task is done?’
He knew not that the chieftain lay
  Unconscious of his son.

‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,
  ‘If I may yet be gone!’
And but the booming shots replied,
  And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
  And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
  In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
  ‘My father! must I stay?’
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
  The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
  They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
  Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound–
   The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
  With fragments strewed the sea!–

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
  That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
  Was that young faithful heart.


Date: 1826

By: Felicia Hemans (1793-1835)