The Drought! by Thomas William Parmeter

From The Australiad, a Poem

By Science told—a burning dryness came
Throughout the land; grass and stalky maize
Universal felt the parch’d up, arid soil;
Then pin’d the quenchless kind, the rambling sheep,
And ev’ry lapping beast that roved the woods.
All were seen grazing o’er the winding creeks,
And mountain gulleys, and the springs in vain.
In the hot, blazing air, now drooped the birds,
And there were seem the doleful dying quails,
And roselles golden, with glittering hue,
And wailing emu, and proud jetty swans,
And ev’ry domestic bird to house-wife dear,
And lastly man felt the wrath of Heaven
And pray’d—but not in vain.

From: T.P., ‘The Drought!’ in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, Tuesday 21 July 1829, p. 4.
(https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/2192928)

Date: 1829

By: Thomas William Parmeter (1786-1836)

Sonnet IV: To Poverty by Amos Simon Cottle

Low in a barren vale I see thee sit
Cowering, while Winter blows his shivering blast,
Over thy reedy fire—pale, comfortless!
Blest independence, with elastic foot,
Spurns thy low dwelling, whilst the sons of joy
Turn from thy clouded brow, or, with a scowl,
Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand
Famine and wan disease! two meagre forms,
Thy only visitants, who, though repelled,
Officious tend thee—wretched eremite!
Around thy cell, ah! wherefore see I graved
The sacred names of genius? Spenser here
Found his last refuge! Otway! Butler, too!
And Scotia’s last, not least, heroic bard!

From: Cottle, Joseph, Malvern Hills, with Minor Poems, and Essays, Fourth Edition, Volume the Second, 1829, T. Cadell: London, p. 266.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?q=sonnet+iv&id=9ZgXAAAAYAAJ)

Date: 1829 (published)

By: Amos Simon Cottle (1766-1800)

The Merry Heart by Henry Hart Milman

I would not from the wise require
The lumber of their learned lore ;
Nor would I from the rich desire
A single counter of their store.
For I have ease, and I have health.
And I have spirits, light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth,—
A merry heart, that laughs at care.

At once, ’tis true, two ‘witching eyes
Surprised me in a luckless season,
Turn’d all my mirth to lonely sighs,
And quite subdued my better reason.
Yet ‘t was but love could make me grieve,
And love you know ‘s a reason fair,
And much improved, as I believe,
The merry heart, that laugh’d at care.

So now from idle wishes clear
I make the good I may not find;
Adown the stream I gently steer.
And shift my sail with every wind.
And half by nature, half by reason,
Can still with pliant heart prepare,
The mind, attuned to every season,
The merry heart, that laughs at care.

Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream,
Ye social feelings of the mind,
Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam,
And let the rest good-humour find.
Yes, let me hail and welcome give
To every joy my lot may share,
And pleased and pleasing let me live
With merry heart, that laughs at care.

From: Howitt, Mary Botham; Keats, John; and Milman, Henry Hart, The Poetical Works of Howitt, Milman, and Keats, Complete in One Volume, 1840, Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co: Philaderlphia, pp. 450-451.
(https://archive.org/details/poeticalworksofh00milm)

Date: 1829

By: Henry Hart Milman (1791-1868)

Sonnet [I Love the First Shiver of Winter] by Alfred Louis Charles de Musset-Pathay

I love the first shiver of winter! That day
When the stubble resists the hunter’s foot,
When magpies settle on fields fragrant with hay,
And deep in the old chateau, the hearth is lit.

That’s the city time. I remember last year,
I came back and saw the good Louvre and its dome,
Paris and its smoke—that whole realm so dear.
(I can still hear the postilions shouting, “We’re home!”)

I loved the gray weather, the strollers, the Seine
Under a thousand lanterns, sovereign!
I’d see winter, and you, my love, you!

Madame, I’d steep my soul in your glances,
But did I even realize the chances
That soon your heart would change for me too?

From: Rogow, Zack, “Three Poems by Alfred de Musset” in Transference, Volume 6, Issue 1, Article 15, 2008, p. 66.
(https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/transference/vol6/iss1/15)

Date: 1829 (original in French), 2008 (translation in English)

By: Alfred Louis Charles de Musset-Pathay (1810-1857)

Translated by: Zack Rogow (1952- )

To My Cigar by Charles Sprague

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors’ spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

By thee, they cry, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner passed;
Well, take my answer, right or wrong,
They’re sweeter while they last.

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;
Thou speak’st a lesson to my heart
Beyond the preacher’s skill.

Thou ‘rt like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
The odor of whose virtue lives
When he has passed away.

When, in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O’er history’s varied page I pore,
Man’s fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose.
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee the hero burns,
And smokes and fumes around,
And then, like thee, to ashes turns,
And mingles with the ground.

Life’s but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And time’s the wasting breath.
That late or early, we behold.
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar’s frieze to monarch’s robe,
One common doom is passed;
Sweet Nature’s works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now? —
A little moving heap,
That soon like thee to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

From: http://www.celebrateboston.com/charles-sprague/to-my-cigar.htm

Date: 1829

By: Charles Sprague (1791-1875)

To Science by Lucretia Maria Davidson

Let others in false Pleasure’s court be found,
But may I ne’er be whirled the giddy round;
Let me ascend with Genius’ rapid flight,
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight.

Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide,
Direct my way, whene’er I step aside;
May one bright ray of Science on me shine,
And be the gift of learning ever mine.

From: Davidson, Lucretia Maria and Davidson, M. Oliver (ed.), Poems, 1871, Hurd and Houghton: New York, p. 48.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=hA4TAAAAIAAJ)

Date: 1829 (published)

By: Lucretia Maria Davidson (1808-1825)

Why Shrink From Death? by Agathias

Why shrink from death, the parent of repose,
The cure of sickness and all human woes?
As through the tribes of men he speeds his way,
Once, and but once, his visit he will pay;
Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pain,
Close on each other crowd — an endless train.

From: http://www.blackcatpoems.com/a/why_shrink_from_death.html

Date: 1829 (translation)

By: Agathias (c530-582)

Translated by: William Shepherd (1768-1847)

Childhood’s Criticism by Winthrop MackWorth Praed

TO MISS E—– S—– , ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES

You’ve only got to curtsey, whisper, hold your head up, laugh and lisp,
And then you’re sure to take.
                                       Rejected Addresses.

A poet o’er his tea and toast
Composed a page of verse last winter,
Transcribed it on the best Bath post,
And sent the treasure to a printer.
He thought it an enchanting thing;
And, fancying no one else could doubt it,
Went out, as happy as a king,
To hear what people said about it.

Queen Fame was driving out that day;
And, though she scarcely seemed to know him,
He bustled up, and tried to say
Something about his little poem;
But ere from his unhappy lip
Three timid trembling words could falter,
The goddess cracked her noisy whip,
And went to call upon Sir Walter!

Old Criticism, whose glance observed
The minstrel’s blushes and confusion,
Came up and told him he deserved
The rack at least for his intrusion:
The poor youth stared and strove to speak;
His tyrant laughed to see him wincing,
And grumbled out a line of Greek,
Which Dullness said was quite convincing.

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch,
Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel;
And “Rhyme,” quoth she, “won’t make you rich;
Go home, good youth, and write a novel!
Cut up the follies of the age;
Sauce them with puns and disquisitions;
Let Colburn cook your title-page,
And I’ll ensure you six editions.”

Ambition met him next; –he sighed
To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel,
And crept into a bower to hide,
For he and she had had a quarrel.
The goddess of the cumbrous crown
Called after him, in tones of pity,
“My son, you’ve dropped your wig and gown!
And, bless me, how you’ve torn your Chitty!”

‘Twas all unheeded or unheard,
For now he knocked at Beauty’s portal;
One word from her, one golden word,
He knew, would make his lays immortal.
Alas! he elbowed through a throng
Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers,
And found her twisting up his song
Into the sweetest candlepapers.

He turned away with sullen looks
From Beauty, and from Beauty’s scorning.
“To-night,” he said, “I’ll burn my books;
I’ll break my harpstrings in the morning.”–
When lo, a laughing Fay drew near;
And with soft voice, more soft than Circe’s,
She whispered in the poet’s ear
The sounds the poet loved –his verses!

He looked, and listened; and it seemed
In Childhood’s lips the lines grew sweeter:
Good lack! till now he had not dreamed
How bright the thought, how smooth the metre.
Ere the last stanza was begun,
He managed all his wrath to smother;
And when the little Nymph had done,
Said “Thank you, Love; –I’ll write another!”

(October 1, 1829.)

From: Praed, Winthrop Mackworth & Godley, A D (ed), Select Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed, 1909, Henry Frownde: London, pp. 60-62.
(http://archive.org/stream/selectpoemsofwin00praeuoft#page/60/mode/2up)

Date: 1829

By: Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802-1839)

The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly, 
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; 
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, 
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.” 
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, 
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.” 

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; 
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. 
“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, 
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!” 
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, 
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!” 

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, ” Dear friend what can I do, 
To prove the warm affection I ‘ve always felt for you? 
I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice; 
I’m sure you’re very welcome — will you please to take a slice?” 
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind Sir, that cannot be, 
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!” 

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise, 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! 
I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, 
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.” 
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you ‘re pleased to say, 
And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.” 

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, 
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again: 
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, 
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly. 
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, 
“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; 
Your robes are green and purple — there’s a crest upon your head; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!” 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, 
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; 
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, 
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue — 
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last, 
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. 
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, 
Within his little parlour — but she ne’er came out again! 

And now dear little children, who may this story read, 
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed: 
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

From: http://www.poetry-online.org/howitt_the_spider_and_the_fly_funny.htm

Date: 1829

By: Mary Howitt (1799-1888)