Posts tagged ‘1830’

Thursday, 23 May 2019

Sonnet by Arthur Henry Hallam

A melancholy thought had laid me low;
A thought of self-desertion, and the death
Of feelings wont with my heart’s blood to flow,
And feed the inner soul with purest breath.
The idle busy star of daily life,
Base passions, haughty doubts, and selfish fears,
Have withered up my being in a strife
Unkind, and dried the source of human tears.
One evening I went forth, and stood alone
With Nature: moon there was not, nor the light
Of any star in heaven: yet from the sight
Of that dim nightfall better hope hath grown
Upon my spirit, and from those cedars high
Solemnly changeless, as the very sky.

Sept, 1830.

From: Hallam, Arthur Henry, The Poems of Arthur Henry Hallam, Together with his Essay on the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson, 1893, Elkin Mathews & John Lane: London, p. 69.

Date: 1830

By: Arthur Henry Hallam (1811-1833)

Thursday, 15 March 2018

Mary’s Lamb by Sarah Josepha Buell Hale

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And every where that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go;
He followed her to school one day–
That was against the rule,
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear;
And then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said—’I’m not afraid–
You’ll keep me from all harm.’

‘What makes the lamb love Mary so?’
The eager children cry–
‘O, Mary loves the lamb, you know,’
The Teacher did reply;–
‘And you each gentle animal
In confidence may bind,
And make them follow at your call,
If you are always kind.’

From:  Hale, Sarah J., Poems for Our Children: including “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” designed for families, Sabbath schools, and infant schools: written to inculcate moral truths and virtuous sentiments, 1916, pp. 6-7.

Date: 1830

By: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale (1788-1879)

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Exhortation to Battle by Callinus

How long will ye slumber? when will ye take heart
And fear the reproach of your neighbors at hand?
Fie! comrades, to think ye have peace for your part,
Whilst the sword and the arrow are wasting our land!
Shame! grasp the shield close! cover well the bold breast!
Aloft raise the spear as ye march on your foe!
With no thought of retreat, with no terror confessed,
Hurl your last dart in dying, or strike your last blow.
Oh, ‘t is noble and glorious to fight for our all,-
For our country, our children, the wife of our love!
Death comes not the sooner; no soldier shall fall,
Ere his thread is spun out by the sisters above.
Once to die is man’s doom; rush, rush to the fight!
He cannot escape, though his blood were Jove’s own.
For a while let him cheat the shrill arrow by flight;
Fate will catch him at last in his chamber alone.
Unlamented he dies; – unregretted. Not so,
When, the tower of his country, in death falls the brave;
Thrice hallowed his name amongst all, high or low,
As with blessings alive, so with tears in the grave.


Date: 7th century BCE (original in Greek); 1830 (translation in English)

By: Callinus (7th century BCE)

Translated by: Henry Nelson Coleridge (1798-1843)

Sunday, 20 September 2015

The Mother’s Lament by Helen Selina Sheridan Blackwood Hay


It is now nearly forty years, I guess,
Since I was a girl coming out,
And Spriggins proposed — and I said, yes.
At old Lady Mumble’s rout
My match was reckon’d by no means bad.
Take the marrying world as it goes —
But then I must own — Mr. Spriggins had
A remarkably ugly nose!

Now the length or shape of your husband’s nose
Is a thing that don’t signify —
As long as your mother and aunts suppose
There’s enough to lead him by!
But I own it often has made me sigh,
At the time of our honeymoon’s close —
To hear the folks who were passing by
Remark on my Spriggins’s nose

It wasn’t round — nor was it square —
Nor three-corner’d as some noses be!
But upon my conscience I do declare
‘Twas a mixture of all the three!
And oh! how painful it was to hear,
When our son was in swaddling clothes,
The nurses exclaim — ” Oh, sweet little dear,
He has got his papa’s own nose!”

Five daughters besides were born to me
To add to my woe and care —
Bell, Susan, Jemima, and Dorothee,
And Kate — who has sandy hair;
But it isn’t the number that makes me grieve,
Tho’ they cost me a mint in clothes,
— Five gawky girls ! — but you’d hardly believe —
They have all got their father’s nose!

They’ve been to Brighton for many years past.
And a season in London too.
And Bell nearly got a proposal at last —
But we found that it wouldn’t do!
And oh! ’tis a grievous thing, I declare.
To be told, wherever one goes,
“I should know the Miss Sprigginses — anywhere —
They’ve all got the family nose!”

No beau will be seen in our company.
Do all that we possibly can.
Except Mr. Green — who is fifty-three —
And Gubbins — the Doctor’s young man!
There’s Captain Hodson and Admiral Bluff,
I wonder they don’t propose —
For really the girls are well enough —
If they hadn’t their father’s nose!

From: Helen, Lady Dufferin and the Marquess of Dufferin and Ava (ed.), Songs, Poems, & Verses. Edited with a Memoir and some Account of the Sheridan Family, by her Son, 1895, John Murray: London, pp. 130-133.

Date: c1830

By: Helen Selina Sheridan Blackwood Hay (1807-1867)

Wednesday, 26 August 2015

The Winter Shore by Thomas Wade

January, 1830.

A mighty change it is, and ominous
Of mightier, sleeping in Eternity.
The bare cliffs seem half-sinking in the sand,
Heaved high by winter seas; and their white crowns,
Struck by the whirlwinds, shed their hair-like snow
Upon the desolate air. Sullen and black,
Their huge backs rearing far along the waves,
The rocks lie barrenly, which there have lain,
Reveal’d, or hidden, from immemorial time;
And o’er them hangs a sea-weed drapery,
Like some old Triton’s hair, beneath which lurk
Myriads of crowned shell-fish, things whose life,
Like a cell’d hermit’s, seemeth profitless.
Vast slimy masses harden’d into stone
Rise smoothly from the surface of the Deep,
Each with a hundred thousand fairy cells
Perforate, like a honeycomb, and, cup-like,
Fill’d with the sea’s salt crystal—the soft beds
Once of so many pebbles, thence divorced
By the continual waters, as they grew
Slowly to rock. The bleak shore is o’erspread
With sea-weeds green and sere, curl’d and dishevell’d,
As they were mermaids’ tresses, wildly torn
For some sea-sorrow. The small mountain-stream,
Swoln to a river, laves the quivering beach,
And flows in many channels to the sea
Between high shingly banks, that shake for ever.
The solitary sea-bird, like a spirit,
Balanced in air upon his crescent wings,
Hangs floating in the winds, as he were lord
Of the drear vastness round him, and alone
Natured for such dominion. Spring and Summer
And stored Autumn, of their liveries
Here is no vestige; Winter, tempest-robed,
In gloomy grandeur o’er the hills and seas
Reigneth omnipotent.

From: Wade, Thomas, Mundi et Cordis: de rebus, sempiternis et temporalis: carmina. Poems and Sonnets, 1835, John Miller: London, pp. 23-24.

Date: 1830

By: Thomas Wade (1805-1875)

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

And Must We Part by Jeremiah Joseph Callanan

And must we part? then fare thee well;
But he that wails it, — he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art
And ever must be to this heart;
But now ’tis vain, — it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.

Oh yes, — this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake;
I’d sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirits beauteous ray;
Go free as air,— as Angel free,
And lady think no more on me.

O did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel’s heart and harp were thine;
But now ’tis past, — it cannot be;
Farewell and think no more on me.

Or do! — but let it be the hour,
When Mercy’s all atoning power,
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears,
Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee;
Then, then O Lady think on me.

From: Callanan, J.J. and McCarthy, M.F. (ed.), The Poems of J.J. Callanan. A New Edition, with a Biographical Introduction and Notes, 1847, Messrs. Bolster: Cork, p. 73.

Date: 1830

By: Jeremiah Joseph Callanan (1795-1829)

Sunday, 27 January 2013

Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes

September 16, 1830

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;–
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquered knee;–
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered bulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!


Date: 1830

By: Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)