Posts tagged ‘1832’

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

Saul, the Persecutor, Journeying to Damascus by Thomas Roscoe

Whose is that sword—that voice and eye of flame—
That heart of inextinguishable ire?
Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds, and fire?
Along his dark and withering path he came—
Death in his looks, and terror in his name,
Tempting the might of heaven’s eternal Sire.
Lo! The Light shone!—the sun’s veiled beams expire—
A Saviour’s self a Saviour’s lips proclaim!
Whose is yon form, stretched on the earth’s cold bed,
With smitten soul and tears of agony
Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty head—
Rayless the orbs that flashed with victory.
Over the raging waves of human will
The Saviour’s spirit walked–and all was still.

From: Stebbing, Rev. H., Sacred Poetry: Consisting of Selections from the Works of the Most Admired Writers, 1832, J. F. Dove: London, p. 392.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=ISvi_q6yhw0C)

Date: 1832

By: Thomas Roscoe (1791-1871)

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Beauty by Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall)

Painters—Poets—who can tell
What Beauty is—bright miracle?
Sometimes brown and sometimes white,
She shifts from darkness into light,
Swimming on with such fine ease,
That we miss her small degrees,
Knowing not that she hath ranged,
Till we find her sweetly changed.

They are poets false who say
That Beauty must be fair as day,
And that the rich red rose,
On her cheek for ever glows,
Or that the cold white lily lieth
On her breast, and never flieth.
Beauty is not so unkind,
Not so niggard, not so blind,
As yield her favour but to one,
When she may walk unconfined,
Associate with the unfettered Wind,
And wander with the Sun.
No; she spreads her gifts, her grace,
O’er every colour, every face.
She can laugh, and she can breathe
Freely where she will,—beneath
Polar darkness, tropic star,
Impoverish’d Delhi, dark Bahar,
And all the regions bright and far,
Where India’s sweet-voiced women are!

From: Cornwall, Barry, English Songs and Other Small Poems, 1832, Edward Moxon: London, p. 154.

(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=JDSMznlUq0AC)

Date: 1832

By: Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall) (1787-1874)

Wednesday, 11 July 2012

Loving and Liking: Irregular Verses Addressed to a Child by Dorothy Wordsworth

There’s more in words than I can teach:
Yet listen, Child! — I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted fowl
But you may love a screaming owl,
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall,
Oh! mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!
And when, upon some showery day,
Into a path or public way
A frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,
Do you observe him, and endeavour
To take the intruder into favour:
Learning from him to find a reason
For a light heart in a dull season.
And you may love him in the pool,
That is for him a happy school,
In which he swims as taught by nature,
Fit pattern for a human creature,
Glancing amid the water bright,
And sending upward sparkling light.

   Nor blush if o’er your heart be stealing
A love for things that have no feeling:
The spring’s first rose by you espied,
May fill your breast with joyful pride;
And you may love the strawberry-flower,
And love the strawberry in its bower;
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat,
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.

   Long may you love your pensioner mouse,
Though one of a tribe that torment the house:
Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat
Deadly foe both of mouse and rat;
Remember she follows the law of her kind,
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind.
Then think of her beautiful gliding form,
Her tread that would scarcely crush a worm,
And her soothing song by the winter fire,
Soft as the dying throb of the lyre.

   I would not circumscribe your love:
It may soar with the Eagle and brood with the dove,
May pierce the earth with the patient mole,
Or track the hedgehog to his hole.
Loving and liking are the solace of life,
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed of strife.
You love your father and your mother,
Your grown-up and your baby brother;
You love your sister and your friends,
And countless blessings which God sends;
And while these right affections play,
You live each moment of your day;
They lead you on to full content,
And likings fresh and innocent,
That store the mind, the memory feed,
And prompt to many a gentle deed:
But likings come, and pass away;
’Tis love that remains till our latest day:
Our heavenward guide is holy love,
And will be our bliss with saints above.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182547

Date: 1832

By: Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855)