Posts tagged ‘1843’

Friday, 4 March 2022

Courage by Charles Rann Kennedy

“The Guard will die, but not surrender!” Who
Hath read of Frenchmen and of Waterloo,
And doth not sigh to think, how many brave
Should madly rush to combat and the grave,
For one proud man, who little cared for them,
Save as the tools to fix a diadem
On his own head ? Dog-valiant! Happier those
Who make no war but with their country’s foes,
Ne’er draw the sword but in a rightful cause,
For their own hearth and home, their faith, their laws.
Yet happier far is he, who ne’er put on
The soldier’s garb, no laurel ever won;
But bears a heart of purpose firm and high,
To fight the great life-battle manfully,
Himself, his pride and passions to subdue,
The path of right unswerving to pursue,
Despising pleasure, wealth, and world-renown,
Earning his heavenly meed, a bright immortal crown.

From: Kennedy, Charles Rann, Poems, Original and Translated, 1843, Edward Moxon: London, p. 66.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=TBxkAAAAcAAJ)

Date: 1843

By: Charles Rann Kennedy (1808-1867)

Tuesday, 16 March 2021

The Memory of the Dead by John Kells Ingram

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight*?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He ’s all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone—but still lives on
The fame of those who died:
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger’s heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit’s still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land:
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas, that Might can vanquish Right!
They fell, and pass’d away;
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.

Then here ’s their memory—may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite!
Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,
Though sad as theirs your fate;
And true men be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.

*Ninety-Eight refers to The Irish Rebellion of 1798 which was a major uprising against British Rule in Ireland. It was rapidly suppressed. (https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Irish_Rebellion_of_1798)

From: https://www.bartleby.com/246/214.html

Date: 1843

By: John Kells Ingram (1823-1907)

Alternative Titles: Who Fears to Speak of ’98; Ninety-Eight

Monday, 21 January 2019

The Unattained by Elizabeth Oakes Smith

And is this life? and are we born for this?
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp,
Or whatso’er’s secured, within our clasp,
To withering lie, as if each mortal kiss
Were doomed death’s shuddering touch alone to meet.
O Life! has thou reserved no cup of bliss?
Must still THE UNATTAINED beguile our feet?
The UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast,
That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest?
Yes, this is Life; and everywhere we meet,
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat;
Yet faint thou not, thou dost apply a test,
That shall incite thee onward, upward still,
The present cannot sate, nor e’er thy spirit fill.

From: Smith, Elizabeth Oakes, The Poetical Writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 2nd Edition, 1846, J.S. Redfield, Clinton Hall: New York, p. 97.
(https://archive.org/details/poeticalwritings00smit/)

Date: 1843

By: Elizabeth Oakes Smith (1806-1893)

Friday, 23 December 2016

The Second Advent by Thomas Hill

Not in a humble manger now,
Not of a lowly virgin born,
Announced to simple shepherd swains,
That watch their flocks in the early morn;

Not in the pomp of glory, come,
While throngs of angels hover round,
Arrayed in glittering robes of light,
And moving to the trumpet’s sound;

But in the heart of every man,
O, Jesus, come, and reign therein,
And banish from the human breast
The darkening clouds of guilt and sin.

Come, spread thy glory over earth,
Fill every heart with truth and love,
Till thy whole kingdom here below
Be filled with peace like that above.

For such a glory, when on earth,
Thou prayedst to thy Father, God;
He heareth thee, and soon will spread
Thy glory and thy truth abroad.

Then shall no more by brothers’ hands
The blood of brother men be spilled,
Nor earth’s fair scenes with captives’ tears
And groans of dying slaves be filled.

But every where shall songs of joy
And hymns of praise to God arise:
The true millennial glory then
Shall bless thy waiting followers’ eyes.

From: Hill, Thomas, Christmas, and Poems on Slavery, 1843, 1843, Metcalf, Keith and Nichols: Cambridge, Massachusetts, pp. 14-16.
(http://antislavery.eserver.org/poetry/hillchristmaspoems/hillchristmaspoems.html)

Date: 1843

By: Thomas Hill (1818-1891)

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

The Crown of Darkness by Thomas Westwood

Lo, Darkness, digging in the mine o’ the night,
Doth bring forth star by star, which, having shapen
Into the semblance of a mighty crown,
He circles, with its glory, the veiled brow
Of the universal space.

From: Westwood, Beads From a Rosary, 1843, Samuel Clarke: London, p. 77.
(http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.hwhjl5;view=1up;seq=95)

Date: 1843

By: Thomas Westwood (1814-1888)

Friday, 23 May 2014

La Mort d’Arthur, Not by Alfred Tennyson by William Edmonstoune Aytoun (Bon Gaultier)

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt,
Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,
Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.
A roughening wind was bringing in the waves
With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,
And a great bank of clouds came sailing up
Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,
Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,
With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound;
But long enough it was to let the rust
Lick half the surface of his polished shield;
For it was made by far inferior hands,
Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,
Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore
The magic stamp of MECHI’S SILVER STEEL.

From: Bon Gaultier (ed), The Book of Ballads with and Introduction and Notes, 1904, William Blackwood and Sons: Edinburgh, p. 228.
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/20477/20477-h/20477-h.htm)

Date: 1843

By: William Edmonstoune Aytoun (1813-1865)

Wednesday, 30 April 2014

Excerpt from “Orion: Book III, Canto the First” by Richard Henry Horne

The wisdom of mankind creeps slowly on,
Subject to every doubt that can retard,
Or fling it back upon an earlier time;
So timid are man’s footsteps in the dark.
But blindest those who have no inward light.
One mind, perchance, in every age contains
The sum of all before, and much to come;
Much that ‘s far distant still; but that full mind,
Companioned oft by others of like scope,
Belief, and tendency, and anxious will,
A circle small transpierces and illumes;
Expanding, soon its subtle radiance
Falls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone.
The man who for his race might supersede
The work of ages, dies worn out—not used,
And in his; track disciples onward strive,
Some hairs’-breadths only from his starting point:
Yet lives he not in vain; for if his soul
Hath entered others, though imperfectly
The circle widens as the world spins round,—
His soul works on while he sleeps ‘neath the grass.
So, let the firm Philosopher renew
His wasted lamp—the lamp wastes not in vain,
Though he no mirrors for its rays may see,
Nor trace them through the darkness;— let the Hand
Which feels primeval impulses, direct
A forthright plough, and make his furrow broad,
With heart untiring while one field remains;
So, let the herald Poet shed his thoughts,
Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind.
Work in the night, thou sage, while Mammon’s brain,
Teems with low visions on his couch of down;—
Break, thou, the clods while high-throned Vanity,
Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its courts;—
Sing, thou, thy song amidst the stoning crowd,
Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God.
The poet of the future knows his place,
Though in the present shady be his seat,
And all his laurels deepening but the shade.

From: Horne, R.H., Orion: An Epic Poem in Three Books, 1843, J. Miller: London, pp. 90-91.
(https://archive.org/stream/orionanepicpoem01horngoog#page/n96/mode/2up)

Date: 1843

By: Richard Henry Horne (1802-1884)

Saturday, 19 April 2014

O Life, O Death, O World, O Time by Richard Chenevix Trench

O life, o death, o world, o time,
O grave, where all things flow,
‘Tis yours to make our lot sublime,
With your great weight of woe.

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing—
Without it what were we?

From: Trench, Richard Chenevix, Elegiac Poems, 1843, Edward Moxon: London, p. 19.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=9m4-AQAAIAAJ)

Date: 1843

By: Richard Chenevix Trench (1807-1886)

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

I Dreamt That I Dwelt In Marble Halls by Alfred Bunn

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls,
That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count, could boast
Of a high ancestral name;
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you lov’d me still the same…

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand;
That knights upon bended knee,
And with vows no maiden heart could withstand,
They pledg’d their faith to me;

And I dreamt that one of that noble host
Came forth my hand to claim.
But I also dreamt, which charmed me most,
That you lov’d me still the same…

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,
That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.

From: http://www.james-joyce-music.com/song03_lyrics.html

Date: 1843

By: Alfred Bunn (1796-1860)

Alternative Title: The Gipsy Girl’s Dream, Marble Halls