Posts tagged ‘1837’

Sunday, 18 June 2017

He Came Too Late by Elizabeth Bogart

He came too late!–Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!–At once he felt
That all his power was o’er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late!–the subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late!–Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,
Nor in his whispered tone.
And when, with word and smile, he tried
Affection still to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman’s pride,
And spurned his fickle love.


Date: 1837

By: Elizabeth Bogart (1806-18??)

Tuesday, 5 July 2016

Dialogue Between the Devil and the Southern Minister by Oringe Smith Crary

At night while millions were asleep,
Near Hell I took my station;
And from that dungeon dark and deep
O’er heard this conversation.

Ghost —
Hail Prince of darkness, ever hail;
Adored by each infernal,
I’ve come among your gang to wail,
And taste of death eternal;
To weep and wail in endless pain,
Among your frightful legions,
To gnaw my tongue and clank my chains,
In these infernal regions.

Demon —
Where are you from;
What makes you look so frantic;
Are you from Carolina’s strand,
Just west of the Atlantic?
Are you that man of blood and birth,
Devoid of human feeling,
The man I saw when last on earth,
In human cattle dealing,
Who tore the infant from the breast;
That you might sell its mother
Whose craving mind could never rest,
‘Till you had sold a brother;
Who gave the sacrament to those
Whose chains and handcuffs rattl’d,
Whose backs soon after felt thy blows
More heavy, than thy cattle?

Ghost —
I’m from the South,
And I was there a teacher;
Saw men in chains; with laughing eyes,
I was the slaveman’s preacher.
In tassl’d pulpits gay and fine,
I strove to please the tyrants —
To prove that slavery was divine,
And what the Scriptures warrant.
And when I saw the horrid sight
Of slaves by torture dying,
And told their masters all was right,
I knew that I was lying.
I knew the time would soon roll ’round
When hell would be their portion —
When they in turn in fetters bound
Would plow the fiery ocean.
I knew all this, and who can doubt,
I felt a sad misgiving;
But still you know if I spoke out
That I should lose my living.
They made me fat; they paid me well,
To cry down abolition;
I slept, I died, I woke in Hell —
How alter’d my condition.
I now am in a sea of fire,
Where fury ever rages.
I am a slave and can’t get free,
And must be so for ages.
Yes when the sun and moon shall fade,
And fire the rocks dissever,
I must sink down beneath the shade
And feel God’s wrath for ever

The fiend heard this, and with a yell,
That made his chains to rattle,
Resounding through the vaults of Hell
Like to the raging battle
“Rejoice my friends in chains,” he cries,
“A moment leave your wailing,
And toss vour fettered arms on high,
Our Kingdom is prevailing.”
Peal joined to peal and yell to yell,
Throughout those frightful regions,
In notes that none can raise or swell,
But the infernal legions.
Wave broke on wave with horrid glare
Along the fiery ocean,
And ghosts and demons mingled there,
In tumult and commotion.
”How long,” they cry, “how long shall we
From hope of pardon serv’d.
Sink down and plow the fiery sea?”
The answer was ”forever”.

The Ghost stood trembling all the while,
He saw the scene transpiring,
With soul aghast and visage wild,
All hope was now retiring.
The demon cries on vengeances bent,
“I say in haste retire
And you shall have a nigger sent
To tend and punch the fire.”

From: Crary, Oringe Smith and Crary, George Lucian, Poetical Works of Oringe Smith Crary and George Lucian Crary, 1914, Self Published: New York, pp. 10-12.

Date: 1837

By: Oringe Smith Crary (1803-1889)

Monday, 31 August 2015

To Julia Grisi by Nathaniel Parker Willis

After hearing her in “Anna Bolena”

When the rose is brightest,
Its bloom will soonest die;
When burns the meteor brightest,
‘Twill vanish from the sky.
If Death but wait until delight
O’errun the heart, like wine,
And break the cup when brimming quite,
I die — for thou hast pour’d to-night
The last drop into mine.

From: Willis, Nathaniel Parker, The Poems, Sacred, Passionate, and Humorous of Nathaniel Parker Willlis, 1860, Clark, Austin & Smith: New York, p. 278.

Date: 1837

By: Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806-1867)

Friday, 23 January 2015

Lines by Margaret Miller Davidson

Written after she herself began to fear that her disease was past remedy.

I once thought life was beautiful,
I once thought life was fair,
Nor deem’d that all its light could fade
And leave but darkness there.

But now I know it could not last —
The fairy dream has fled!
Though thirteen summers scarce have past
Above this youthful head.

Yes, life — ’twas all a dream — but now
I see thee as thou art;
I see how slight a thing can shade
The sunshine of the heart.

I see that all thy brightest hours,
Unmark’d, have pass’d away;
And now I feel how sweet they were,
I cannot bid them stay.

In childish love or childish play
My happiest hours were spent,
While scarce my infant tongue could say
What joy or pleasure meant.

And now, when my young heart looks up,
Life’s gayest smiles to meet;
Now, when in youth her brightest charms
Would seem so doubly sweet;

Now fade the dreams which bound my soul
As with the chains of truth!
Oh that those dreams had stay’d awhile,
To vanish with my youth!

Oh! once did hope look sweetly down,
To check each rising sigh;
But disappointment’s iron frown
Has dimm’d her sparkling eye.

And once I loved a brother too,
Our youngest and our best,
But death’s unerring arrow sped,
And laid him down to rest.

But now I know those hours of peace
Were never form’d to last;
That those fair days of guileless joy
Are past — for ever past!

January, 1837.

From: Irving, Washington and Davidson, Margaret Miller, Poetical Remains and Biography of the Late Margaret Miller Davidson, 1850, Clark, Austin & Co.: New York, pp. 203-204.

Date: 1837

By: Margaret Miller Davidson (1823-1838)

Sunday, 23 November 2014

The Piper’s Progress by Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout)

When I was a boy
In my father’s mud edifice,
Tender and bare
As a pig in a sty:
Out of the door as I
Look’d with a steady phiz,
Who but Thade Murphy
The piper went by.
Says Thady, “But few play
This music – can you play?”
Says I, “I can’t tell,
For I never did try.”
So he told me that he had a charm
To make the pipes purtily speak;
Then squeezed a bag under his arm,
When sweetly they set up a squeak!
Och hone!
How he handled the drone!
And then the sweet music he blew
Would have melted the heart of a stone!

“Your pipe,” says I, “Thady,
So neatly comes o’er me,
Naked I’ll wander
Wherever it blows:
And if my poor parents
Should try to recover me,
Sure, it won’t be
By describing my clothes.
The music I hear now
Takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over
The world by the nose.”
So I follow’d his bagpipe so sweet,
And I sung as I leap’d like a frog,
“Adieu to my family seat,
So pleasantly placed in a bog.”
Och hone!
How we handled the drone!
And then the sweet music we blew
Would have melted the heart of a stone!

Full five years I follow’d him,
Nothing could sunder us;
Till he one morning
Had taken a sup,
And slipt from a bridge
In a river just under us
Souse to the bottom
Just like a blind pup.
He roar’d and he bawl’d out;
And I also call’d out,
“Now Thady, my friend,
Don’t you mean to come up?”
He was dead as a nail in a door –
Poor Thady was laid on the shelf.
So I took up his pipes on the shore,
And now I’ve set up for myself.
Och hone!
Don’t I handle the drone!
And play such sweet music? I, too,
Can’t I soften the heart of a stone!

From: Mahony, Francis and Kent, Charles (ed.), The Works of Father Prout (The Rev. Francis Mahony). Edited with Biographical Introduction and Notes by Charles Kent, 1881, George Routledge and Sons: London, pp. 487-488.

Date: 1837

By: Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout) (1804-1866)

Thursday, 23 October 2014

Woodman, Spare That Tree! by George Pope Morris

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
‘Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea—
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forebear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
thy axe shall harm it not.


Date: 1837

By: George Pope Morris (1802-1864)

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

A Christmas Carol by Charles John Huffam Dickens

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He’ll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever’s train;
And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,
As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We’ll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we’ll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing ’till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall—
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!

From: Dickens, Charles, The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens. Collected and edited, with biographical notes by F G Kitton, 1903, Chapman and Hall Ltd: London, pp. 42-44.

Date: 1837

By: Charles John Huffam Dickens (1812-1870)

Friday, 11 October 2013

On Liberty and Slavery by George Moses Horton

Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain!

How long have I in bondage lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain–
Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave–
To soothe the pain–to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave?

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.

Say unto foul oppression, Cease:
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.

Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric’s grove,
The sound of Liberty.

Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood–
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature’s God!

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.

Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I’d to thy smiles retire.

Oh, blest asylum–heavenly balm!
Unto thy boughs I flee–
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,
With songs of Liberty!

From:Horton, George Moses, Poems by a Slave, 2006, University of North Carolina Library: Chapel Hill, pp. 7-8.

Date: 1837

By: George Moses Horton (?1798-c1880)

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Champagne Rosé by John Kenyon

Lily on liquid roses floating—
So floats yon foam o’er pink champagne:
Fain would I join such pleasant boating,
And prove that ruby main,
And float away on wine!

Those seas are dangerous (greybeards swear)
Whose sea-beach is the goblet’s brim;
And true it is they drown Old Care—
But what care we for him,
So we but float on wine?

And true it is they cross in pain
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry:
But only make our Styx champagne,
And we shall cross right merry,
Floating away on wine!

Old Charon’s self shall make him mellow,
Then gaily row his boat from shore;
While we and every jovial fellow,
Hear unconcern’d the oar
That dips itself in wine!

From: Kenyon, John, Poems: for the Most Part Occasional, 1838, Edward Moxon: London, p. 88-89

Date: 1837

By: John Kenyon (1784-1856)

Thursday, 27 December 2012

To the Canary Bird by Jones Very

I cannot hear thy voice with other’s ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! That with thy music’s gentle swell
Past days of joy should through thy memory throng,
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell
While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on thy past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.


Date: 1837

By: Jones Very (1813-1880)