Posts tagged ‘1841’

Friday, 31 July 2020

Nearer, My God, to Thee by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams

Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!
E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I’d be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

There let the way appear
Steps unto Heaven,
All that Thou send’st me
In mercy given;
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!

Than, with my waking thoughts
Bright with Thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs,
Bethel I’ll raise;
So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!


Date: 1841

By: Sarah Fuller Flower Adams (1805-1848)

Sunday, 4 August 2019

A Death-Bed by James Aldrich

Her suff’ring ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,
Illum’d the eastern skies,
She passed through Glory’s Morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise!


Date: 1841

By: James Aldrich (1810-1856)

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

Give Me the Night by Charles Swain

Give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!
When the stars in the heavens are glittering bright;
When the flowers are asleep on their pillow of leaves,
And no murmur is near, save the sigh the heart heaves;
When the spirit of tenderness hallows each scene,
And Memory turns fondly to days that have been;
When the valley’s sweet waters reflect the moonlight —
Oh! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!

Give me the Night, be it starless and long,
When the gay hall is sounding with music and song, —
When the genius of poetry breathes her deep power,
And, oh! Love itself is more lovely that hour;
When the dark curls of beauty more gracefully shine,
And the eyes, bright by day, are at evening divine!
When all is enchantment that blesses the sight —
Oh! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!

From: Swain, Charles, The Mind and Other Poems, 1841, Tilt and Bogue: London, p. 302.

Date: 1841

By: Charles Swain (1801-1874)

Thursday, 9 January 2014

The Pauper’s Drive by Thomas Noel

There’s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : —
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!”

Oh, where are the mourners? alas! there are none ; —
He has left not a gap in the world now he’s gone;
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; —
To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can;
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!”

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o’er the hedges is hurl’d!
The Pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!”

Poor Pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he’s stretch’d in a coach;
He’s taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast!
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!”

You bumpkin! who stare at your brother convey’d,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid,
And be joyful to think, when by death you’re laid low,
You’ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.
“Rattle his bones over the stones;
He’s only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!”

But a truce to this strain, — for my soul, it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad,
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Bear softly his bones over the stones;
Though a Pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns!

From: Noel, T, Rymes and Roundelayes, 1841, William Smith: London, pp. 200-201.

Date: 1841

By: Thomas Noel (1799-1861)

Monday, 2 December 2013

Sonnet to Christmas, 1841 by Henry Parkes

Hail, Christmas, with thy harvest of gold sheaves!
Yet do I miss the winter icicle,
With crystal spears bristling the cottage eaves:
The snow’s appearances innumerable,
With strange and radiant beauty clothing each
Familiar object out of doors; the sound
Of carol-singers, nightly coming round;
The stock of Christmas comforts within reach
Of th’ English peasant. These and more I miss;
But not ungrateful, whate’er fortune prove,
For the old English Christmas, with its kiss
Beneath the mistletoe, its toast and ale,
And heart-reviving warmth of social love,
With joy I this Australian Christmas hail!


Date: 1841

By: Henry Parkes (1815-1896)

Tuesday, 30 April 2013

Listen to the Wind by Caroline Sturgis Tappan

Oft do I pause amid this various life,
And ask me whence and to what end I be,
And how this world is, with its busy strife,
Till all seems new and marvellous to me.
The faces and the forms, which long had grown
Tedious and common to my wearied sense,
Seem in a moment changed to things unknown,
And I gaze at them with an awe intense;
But none do stop to wonder with me too,
So I pass on and mingle with the rest,
And quite forget the far and wondrous view
In glimpses shown, when mystery was my guest.
Yet, when I sit and prate of idle things
With idle men, the night wind’s howl I hear,
And straight come back those dim, wild questionings,
Like ghosts who wander through a sense-bound sphere.

From: Tappan, Caroline Sturgis, Listen to the Wind, The Dial, April 1841, I (IV), 461

Date: 1841

By: Caroline Sturgis Tappan (1818-1888)

Sunday, 28 April 2013

Questionings by Frederic Henry Hedge

Hath this world, without me wrought,
Other substance than my thought?
Lives it by my sense alone,
Or by essence of its own?
Will its life, with mine begun,
Cease to be when that is done,
Or another consciousness
With the self-same forms impress?

Doth yon fireball, poised in air,
Hang by my permission there?
Are the clouds that wander by,
But the offspring of mine eye,
Born with every glance I cast,
Perishing when that is past?
And those thousand, thousand eyes,
Scattered through the twinkling skies,
Do they draw their life from mine,
Or, of their own beauty shine?

Now I close my eyes, my ears,
And creation disappears;
Yet if I but speak the word,
All creation is restored.
Or–more wonderful–within,
New creations do begin;
Hues more bright and forms more rare,
Thank reality doth wear,
Flash across my inward sense,
Born of the mind’s omnipotence.

Soul! that all informest, say!
Shall those glories pass away?
Will those planets cease to blaze,
When these eyes no longer gaze?
And the life of things be o’er,
When these pulses beat no more?

Thought! that in me works and lives,–
Life to all things living gives,–
Art thou not thyself, perchance,
But the universe in trance?
A reflection inly flung
By that world thou fanciedst sprung
From thyself;–thyself a dream;–
Of the world’s thinking thou the theme.

Be it thus, or be thy birth
From a source above the earth.
Be thou matter, be thou mind,
In thee alone myself I find,
And through thee alone, for me,
Hath this world reality.
Therefore, in thee will I live,
To thee all myself will give,
Losing still, that I may find,
This bounded self in boundless Mind.


Date: 1841

By: Frederic Henry Hedge (1805-1890)