Posts tagged ‘1840’

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

Recollections by Fidelia Savage Thornton Munkhouse Hill

Yes, South Australia! three years have elapsed
Of dreary banishment, since I became
In thee a sojourner; nor can I choose
But sometimes think on thee; and tho’ thou art
A fertile source of unavailing woe,
Thou dost awaken deepest interest still. —
Our voyage past, we anchor’d in that port
Of our New Colony, styled Holdfast Bay:
In part surrounded by the range sublime
Of mountains, with Mount Lofty in their centre: —
Beautiful mountains, which at even-tide
I oft have gazed upon with raptur’d sense,
Watching their rose-light hues, as fleeting fast
Like fairy shadows o’er their verdant sides
They mock’d the painter’s art, and to pourtray
Defied the utmost reach of poet’s skill! —
The new year open’d on a novel scene, —
New cares, new expectations, a new land! —

Then toil was cheer’d, and labour render’d light,
Privations welcom’d, every hardship brav’d,
In the blest anticipation of reward: —
(Which some indeed deserv’d, but ne’er obtain’d)
Some who unceasingly, had lent their aid,
And time, and information, to promote
The interests of the rising Colony —
Still flattering hope on the dark future smil’d,
Gilding each object with fallacious dyes,
And picturing pleasure, that was not to be!
They bore me to the future Capitol,
Ere yet ’twas more than desart — a few tents,
Scatter’d at intervals, ‘mid forest trees,
Marked the abode of men. ‘Twas a wide waste,
But beauteous in its wildness. — Park-like scenery
Burst on the astonish’d sight; for it did seem
As tho’ the hand of art, had nature aided,
Where the broad level walks — and verdant lawns,
And vistas grae’d that splendid wilderness!
‘Twas then they hail’d me as the first white lady
That ever yet had enter’d Adelaide. —
Cap time e’er teach me to forget the sound,
Or gratulations that assail’d me then,
And cheer’d me at the moment, or efface
The welcome bland of the distinguish’d one —
Who fix’d the site, and form’d the extensive plan
Of that young City? — He hath pass’d away
To the dark cheerless chambers of the tomb!
But Adelaide if crown’d with fortune, shall
To after age perpetuate his name! —

* * * * *

One tent was pitch’d upon the sloping bank
Of the stream Torrens, in whose lucid wave
Dipp’d flow’ring shrubs — the sweet mimosa there
Wav’d its rich blossoms to the perfum’d breeze,
High o’er our heads — amid the stately boughs.
Of the tall gum tree — birds of brightest hues
Or built their nests, or tun’d ‘their wood-notes wild,
Reposing on the rushes, fresh and cool,
Which a lov’d hand had for my comfort strew’d: —
This, this methought shall be my happy home!
Here may I dwell, and by experience prove,
That tents with love, yield more substantial bliss
Than Palaces without it, can bestow.

From: Hill, Fidelia S.T., Poems and Recollections of the Past, 2003, University of Sydney Library: Sydney, pp. 53-54.
(http://setis.library.usyd.edu.au/ozlit/pdf/hilpoem.pdf)

Date: 1840

By: Fidelia Savage Thornton Munkhouse Hill (1794-1854)

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Monday, 22 May 2017

Sonnet by Elise Justine Bayard Cutting

Sprung from the arid rock devoid of soil,
In vig’rous life I saw one blade of wheat,
Bearing its precious grain, full-lobed and sweet,
Remote from eye of him whose lusty toil
In other harvest recompense hath found;
And it seemed good to me that labour should
Beyond its aim or asking thus abound,
While reaping to itself its purchased food:
So, too, from him, who the prolific thought
Sows in the cultured field of intellect,
A wandering breath its course may intersect,
And bear an embryo with rich promise fraught
Within some barren soul to germinate,
And fill with fruitful life what else were desolate.

From: http://www.lehigh.edu/~dek7/SSAWW/writ19CenBayar.htm

Date: c1840

By: Elise Justine Bayard Cutting (1823-1853)

Saturday, 25 July 2015

The Wheels by Frederick William Faber

There are strange solemn times when serious men
Sink out of depth in their own spirit, caught
All unawares, and held by some strong thought
That comes to them, they know not how or when,
And bears them down through many a winding cell.
Where the soul’s busy agents darkly dwell;
Each watching by his wheel that, bright and bare,
Revolveth day and night to do its part
In building up for Heaven one single heart.
And moulds of curious form are scattered there,
As yet unused, — the shapes of after deeds;
And veiled growths and thickly sprouting seeds
Are strewn, in which our future life doth lie
Sketched out in dim and wondrous prophecy.

From: Faber, Frederick William, The Cherwell Water-Lily, and Other Poems, 1840, J. G. F. & J. Rivington: London, p. 76.
(https://archive.org/stream/cherwellwaterli00fabegoog#page/n95/mode/2up)

Date: 1840

By: Frederick William Faber (1814-1863)

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

On the Grave of a Child in Morwenstow Churchyard by Robert Stephen Hawker

Those whom God loves die young;
They see no evil days;
No falsehood taints their tongue,
No wickedness their ways.

Baptized — and so made sure
To win their safe abode;
What could we pray for more?
They die, and are with God.

From: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem2584.html

Date: 1840

By: Robert Stephen Hawker (1803-1875)

Monday, 5 August 2013

Poverty Parts Good Company by Joanna Baillie

(For an old Scotch air.)

When my o’erlay was white as the foam o’ the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow an brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright,
And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holy-day gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i’ the sunshine, we met i’ the mirk;
And the sound o’her voice, and the blinks o’her een,
The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Mertimass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infare, I braced me wi’ pride,
The bruise I hae won, and a kiss o’ the bride;
And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
As I uttered my banter or chorused my song;
Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.

Wherever I gaed kindly lasses looked sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and beeker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word!
Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi’ poverty keep nae company.

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart,
For, wi’ my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.

From: Baillie, Joanna, Fugitive Verses, 1840, Edward Moxon: London, pp. 321-323.
(http://digital.lib.ucdavis.edu/projects/bwrp/Works/BailJFugit.htm#p135)

Date: 1840

By: Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Stanzas by Christopher Pearse Cranch

Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought:
Souls to souls never can teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company
But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the Sun of Love
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed
By the Fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall all be absorbed again,
Melting, flowing, into one.

From: Cranch, Christoper Pearse, Stanzas, The Dial, July 1840, I (I), 98.
(http://books.google.com.au/books/reader?id=-ukAAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&source=gbs_atb_hover&pg=GBS.PA98)

Date: 1840

By: Christopher Pearse Cranch (1813-1892)

Saturday, 23 June 2012

To My Books by Caroline Norton

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,–
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o’er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought:
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
‘Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

From: http://www.sonnets.org/norton.htm

Date: 1840

By: Caroline Norton (1808-1877)

Thursday, 1 March 2012

I Slept, and Dreamed that Life was Beauty by Ellen Sturgis Hooper

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.

From: http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/transcendentalism/authors/hooperpoems.html

Date: 1840

By: Ellen Sturgis Hooper (1812-1848)

Alternative Title: Duty