Posts tagged ‘1859’

Friday, 2 April 2021

Thought by Elizabeth Mary Parsons

Thought! busy, restless, anxious thought,
When will thy ceaseless wave be stayed?
Oh! foolish question, yet how like mankind
To call thee ceaseless, and then ask of thee
How many weary hours must pass
Ere thou art still? Yet one thing more
I ask of thee, What art thou? and why dost come
Uncalled for, uninvited? Coming alike to all:
No courtly guest art thou, the weary think;
Thou art no stranger to the wretched;
And the guilty curse thee for thy hateful company.
Vast and illimitable, beyond compare,
A god with power omnipotent to raise
Or crush the drooping heart. And wilt thou,
Proud as thou must be of thy dominion—
Wilt deal more gently than it is thy wont
With one whose heart is early dimmed by care?
Give me sweet images, and rest my weary soul.
My only hope is rest: oh! give it me, and let
My thankful blessing rest on thy hydra form.

From: Parsons, Elizabeth Mary, The End of the Pilgrimage, and Other Poems, 1859: Charles Westerton: London, pp. 31-31.

Date: 1859

By: Elizabeth Mary Parsons (fl. 1859-1861)

Friday, 5 July 2019

Why Silent? by Henry Timrod

Why am I silent from year to year?
Needs must I sing on these blue March days?
What will you say, when I tell you here,
That already, I think, for a little praise,
I have paid too dear?

For, I know not why, when I tell my thought,
It seems as though I fling it away;
And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught,
When secret, dies with the fleeting lay
Into which it is wrought.

So my butterfly-dreams their golden wings
But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis;
And thus I retain my loveliest things,
While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss
What a poet sings.

From: Timrod, Henry and Hayne, Paul H. (ed.), The Poems of Henry Timrod. Edited, with a Sketch of the Poet’s Life, New Revised Edition, 1872, E. J. Hale & Son: New York, p. 86.

Date: 1859

By: Henry Timrod (1829-1867)

Sunday, 12 February 2017

The Philosopher’s Stone by William Drennan

The stone of the Philosopher in vain
I sought through many lands, with toil and pain;
Return’d, and found it—ah! why did I roam?
It was the hearthstone of my humble home!

From: Drennan, William and Drennan, John Swanwick, Glendalloch, and Other Poems, by the Late Dr. Drennan, Second Edition, with Additional Verses by his Sons, 1859, William Robertson: Dublin, p. 137.

Date: 1859

By: William Drennan (1802-1873)

Saturday, 11 February 2017

Medical Recipe by John Swanwick Drennan

By a patient too fair sate a doctor too young,
With eyes more intent on her lips, than her tongue;
He tested her heart, as its pulse’s recorder,
But, alas! in his own was the latent disorder;
And soon from the region in which it was bred,
That sad “tremor cordis” so muddled his head,
That instead of some physic to mend her condition,
He urg’d as a recipe, take your Physician!

From: Drennan, William and Drennan, John Swanwick, Glendalloch, and Other Poems, by the Late Dr. Drennan, Second Edition, with Additional Verses by his Sons, 1859, William Robertson: Dublin, p. 113.

Date: 1859

By: John Swanwick Drennan (1809-1893)

Monday, 18 May 2015

Rock Me to Sleep by Elizabeth Chase Akers Allen (Florence Percy)

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

From: Akers, Elizabeth (Florence Percy), Poems, 1866, Ticknor and Fields: Boston, pp. 190-192.

Date: 1859

By: Elizabeth Chase Akers Allen (Florence Percy) (1832-1911)

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

Where Corals Lie by Richard Garnett

The deeps have music soft and low
When winds awake the airy spry,
It lures me, lures me on to go
And see the land where corals lie.

By mount and mead, by lawn and rill,
When night is deep, and moon is high,
That music seeks and finds me still,
And tells me where the corals lie.

Yes, press my eyelids close, ’tis well,
But far the rapid fancies fly
To rolling worlds of wave and shell,
And all the land where corals lie.

Thy lips are like a sunset glow,
Thy smile is like a morning sky,
Yet leave me, leave me, let me go
And see the land where corals lie.

From: Garnett, Richard, Io in Egypt, and Other Poems, 1859, Bell and Daldy: London, p. 98.

Date: 1859

By: Richard Garnett (1835-1906)

Saturday, 26 January 2013

The Song of Australia by Caroline J Carleton

There is a land where summer skies
Are gleaming with a thousand dyes,
Blending in witching harmonies, in harmonies;
And grassy knoll, and forest height,
Are flushing in the rosy light,
And all above in azure bright –

There is a land where honey flows,
Where laughing corn luxuriant grows,
Land of the myrtle and the rose,
On hill and plain the clust’ring vine,
Is gushing out with purple wine,
And cups are quaffed to thee and thine –

There is a land where treasures shine
Deep in the dark unfathomed mine,
For worshippers at Mammon’s shrine,
Where gold lies hid, and rubies gleam,
And fabled wealth no more doth seem
The idle fancy of a dream –

There is a land where homesteads peep
From sunny plain and woodland steep,
And love and joy bright vigils keep,
Where the glad voice of childish glee
Is mingling with the melody
For nature’s hidden minstrelsy –

There is a land where, floating free,
From mountain top to girdling sea,
A proud flag waves exultingly,
And freedom’s sons the banner bear,
No shackled slave can breathe the air,
Fairest of Britain’s daughters fair –


Date: 1859

By: Caroline J Carleton (1820-1874)

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

The Moving Finger Writes; And, Having Writ by Omar Khayyám

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
  Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
  Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

But helpless pieces in the game He plays,
  Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days,
He hither and thither moves, and checks … and slays,
  Then one by one, back in the Closet lays.

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
  The Tavern shouted – “Open then the Door!
You know how little time we have to stay,
  And once departed, may return no more.”

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
  A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou,
Beside me singing in the Wilderness,
  And oh, Wilderness is Paradise enow.

If chance supplied a loaf of white bread,
  Two casks of wine and a leg of mutton,
In the corner of a garden with a tulip-cheeked girl,
  There’d be enjoyment no Sultan could outdo.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
  Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
  Came out of the same Door as in I went.

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
  And with my own hand labour’d it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d –
  “I came like Water, and like Wind I go.”

Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
  Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
  I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
  Whereunder crawling coop’t we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help – for It
  Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.


Date: ? {translation 1859)

By: Omar Khayyám (1048-1131) (full name: Ghiyath al-Din Abu’l-Fath ‘Umar ibn Ibrahim Al-Nishapuri al-Khayyami)

Translated by: Edward FitzGerald (1809-1883)

Alternative Title: Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám