Posts tagged ‘1860’

Friday, 30 November 2018

An Upper Chamber in a Darkened House by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman

An upper chamber in a darkened house,
Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood’s brink,
Terror and anguish were his cup to drink;
I cannot rid the thought, nor hold it close
But dimly dream upon that man alone:
Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass,
The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone,
And greener than the season grows the grass.
Nor can I drop my lids, nor shade my brows,
But there he stands beside the lifted sash;
And with a swooning of the heart, I think
Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs,
And, shattered on the roof like smallest snows,
The tiny petals of the mountain-ash.

From: http://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/an-upper-chamber-in-a-darkened-house/

Date: 1860

By: Frederick Goddard Tuckerman (1821-1873)

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Monday, 24 September 2018

In Immemoriam by Edward Bradley (Cuthbert Bede)

We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great Intense
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore
And look to earth and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know;
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this world would presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I, unchanged where all is changed;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean’s surging tide,
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call besides.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden sickle ‘s gone;
O Voices all! like ye I die!

From: Wells, Carolyn (ed.), A Parody Anthology, 1922, Charles Scribner’s Sons: New York, pp. 174-175.
(https://archive.org/details/aparodyantholog01wellgoog)

Date: c1860

By: Edward Bradley (Cuthbert Bede) (1827-1889)

Sunday, 14 January 2018

Ode to the Comet by Iolo Goch

Which appeared in the Month of March, A.D. 1402*.

’Bout the stars’ nature and their hue
Much has been said, both false and true;
They’re wondrous through their countenance—
Signs to us in the blue expanse.
The first that came, to merit praise,
Was that great star of splendid rays,
From a fair country seen of old
High in the East, a mark of gold;
Conveying to the sons of Earth
News of the King of glory’s birth.
In the advantage I had share,
Though some to doubt the event will dare,
That Christ was born from Mary maid,
A merciful and timely aid,
With his veins’ blood to save on high
The righteous from the enemy.
The second, a right glorious lamp,
Of yore went over Uther’s camp.
There as it flam’d distinct in view
Merddin amongst the warrior crew
Standing, with tears of anguish, thought
Of the dire act on Emrys wrought,
And he caus’d Uther back to turn,
The victory o’er the foe to earn;
From anger to revenge to spring
Is with the frank a common thing.
Arthur the generous, bold and good,
Was by that comet understood.
Man to be cherish’d well and long,
Foretold through ancient Bardic song:
With ashen shafted lance’s thrust
He shed his foe’s blood on the dust.
The third to Gwynedd’s hills was born
By time and tempest-fury worn,
Similar to the rest it came,
In origin and look the same,
Powerfully lustrous, yellow, red
Both, both as to its beam and head.
The wicked far about and near
Enquire of me, who feel no fear,
For where it comes there luck shall fall,
What means the hot and starry ball?
I know and can expound aright
The meaning of the thing of light:
To the son of the prophecy
Its ray doth steel or fire imply;
There has not been for long, long time
A fitting star to Gwynedd’s clime,
Except the star this year appearing,
Intelligence unto us bearing;
Gem to denote we’re reconcil’d
At length with God the undefil’d.
How beauteous is that present sheen,
Of the excessive heat the queen;
A fire upmounting ’fore our face,
Shining on us God’s bounteous grace;
For where they sank shall rise once more
The diadem and laws of yore.
’Tis high ’bove Mona in the skies,
In the angelic squadron’s eyes;
A golden pillar hangs it there,
A waxen column of the air.
We a fair gift shall gain ere long,
Either a pope or Sovereign strong;
A King, who wine and mead will give,
From Gwynedd’s land we shall receive;
The Lord shall cease incens’d to be,
And happy times cause Gwynedd see,
Fame to obtain by dint of sword,
Till be fulfill’d the olden word.

*Translator’s Note: This piece appears to have been written at the period when Glendower had nearly attained the summit of his greatness; the insurrection which he commenced in September, 1400, by sacking and burning the town of Ruthin, having hitherto sustained no check whatever. In the present poem his bard hails the appearance of the Comet as a divine prognostic of the eventual success of the Welsh Hero, and of his elevation to the throne of Britain.

From: Borrow, George, Welsh Poems and Ballads, 1915, Jarrold & Sons: London, pp. 34-36.
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/54851/54851-h/54851-h.htm)

Date: c1402 (original in Welsh); c1860 (translation in English)

By: Iolo Goch (c1320-c1402)

Translated by: George Henry Borrow (1803-1881)

Friday, 21 August 2015

To Gold Worshippers by James R. Howell

Labour’s a blessing, idleness a curse.
In this scheme-loving, good-bad world of ours;
Then let our aim be high, though Fortune showers
Her favours on the bad; and what is worse,
Oft, like a highway robber, steals the purse
Of the good man, and, blind as Cupid, dowers
The base and sordid. Must good men mingle
With those whose brains within their pockets jingle,
Whose creed is “money makes the man”? — the swine
That trample on rich pearls, with souls of ink.
Who grope in darkness in the Devil’s mine,
Haunted by ghosts of truth, yet from them shrink?
Go, plunge in streams of love and mercy pure,
Which, like Bethesda’s Pool, will work your cure!

From: Howell, James, A Tale of the Sea, Sonnets, and Other Poems, 1873, Henry S. King & Co.: London, pp. 138-139.
(https://archive.org/stream/ataleseasonnets00howegoog#page/n152/mode/2up)

Date: 1860

By: James R. Howell (?1817-????)

Sunday, 25 January 2015

Between Two Worlds: Parting for Australia by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

Here sitting by the fire
I aspire, love, I aspire—
Not to that “other world” of your fond dreams,
But one as nigh and nigher,
Compared to which your real, unreal seems.

Together as to‐night
In our light, love, in our light
Of reunited joy appears no shade:
From this our hope’s reached height
All things are possible and level made.

Therefore we sit and view—
I and you, love, I and you—
That wondrous valley o’er southern seas,
Where in a country new
You will make for me a sweet nest of ease;

Where I, your poor tired bird,
(Nothing stirred? Love, nothing stirred?)
May fold her wings and be no more distrest:
Where troubles may be heard
Like outside winds at night which deepen rest.

Where in green pastures wide
We’ll abide, love, we’ll abide,
And keep content our patriarchal flocks,
Till at our aged side
Leap our young brown‐faced shepherds of the rocks.

Ah, tale that’s easy told!
(Hold my hand, love, tighter hold.)
What if this face of mine, which you think fair—
If it should ne’er grow old,
Nor matron cap cover this maiden hair?

What if this silver ring
(Loose it clings, love, yet does cling:)
Should ne’er be changed for any other? nay,
This very hand I fling.

About your neck should—Hush! to‐day’s to‐day:
To‐morrow is—ah, whose?
You’ll not lose, love, you’ll not lose
This hand I pledged, if never a wife’s hand
For tender household use
Led by your fearless into a far, far land.

Kiss me and do not grieve;
I believe, love, I believe
That He who holds the measure of our days,
And did thus strangely weave
Our opposite lives together, to His praise—

He never will divide
Us so wide, love, us so wide:
But will, whate’er befalls us, clearly show
That those in Him allied
In life or death are nearer than they know.

From: Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock, Poems, 1866, Ticknor and Fields: Boston, pp. 69-71.
(http://webapp1.dlib.indiana.edu/vwwp/view?docId=VAB7043)

Date: 1860

By: Dinah Maria Mulock Craik (1826-1887)

Saturday, 26 October 2013

Misgivings by Herman Melville

When ocean-clouds over inland hills
Sweep storming in late autumn brown,
And horror the sodden valley fills,
And the spire falls crashing in the town,
I muse upon my country’s ills —
The tempest bursting from the waste of Time
On the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.

Nature’s dark side is heeded now —
(Ah! Optimist-cheer disheartened flown) —
A child may read the moody brow
Of yon black mountain lone.
With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,
And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:
The hemlock shakes in the rafter; the oak in the driving keel.

From: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/12/06/misgivings/?_r=0

Date: 1860

By: Herman Melville (1819-1891)

Tuesday, 9 July 2013

Another Day of Rest, and I Sit Here by Charles Sangster

Another day of rest, and I sit here
Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere
As my own blasted hopes. There was a time
When Love and perfect Happiness did chime
Like two sweet sounds upon this blessed day;
But one has flown forever, far away
From this poor Earth’s unsatisfied desires
To love eternal, and the sacred fires
With which the other lighted up my mind
Have faded out and left no trace behind,
But dust and bitter ashes. Like a bark
Becalmed, I anchor through the midnight dark,
Still hoping for another dawn of Love.
Bring back my olive branch of Happiness, O dove!

From: http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/44887/

Date: 1860

By: Charles Sangster (1822-1893)

Thursday, 14 March 2013

The Eye of the Beholder by James Lionel Michael

If, as they tell in stories old,
The waters of Pactolus roll’d
Over a sand of shifting gold;

If ever there were fairies, such
As those that charm the child so much,
With jewels growing ’neath their touch;

If, in the wine-cup’s sweet deceit,
There lies a secret pleasant cheat,
That turns to beauty all we meet;

The stream, the fairy, and the wine,
In the first love of youth combine
To make its object seem divine.

No golden sand of fabl’d river,
No jewel glittering for ever,
No wine-born vision’s melting quiver,

In vivid glory can compare
With that which we ourselves prepare
To throw round that we fancy fair.

Never such beauty glittered yet,
In golden beams of suns that set
On cupola and minaret.

Never such beauty met men’s eyes
In silver light of moons that rise
O’er lonely lakes ’neath tropic skies.

The world holds nothing of such worth,
There ’s nothing half so fair on earth,
As that to which the heart gives birth:

External beauties pall and fade;
But that which my own soul hath made,
To my conception, knows no shade.

To every ark there comes a dove,
To every heart from heaven above
Is sent a beauty born of love.

The moonlit lake, the waving trees,
It is the eye which looks on these
That makes the loveliness it sees.

Out of myself the beauty grows,
Out of myself the beauty flows
That decks the petals of the rose.

So, when at Ada’s feet I lay,
And saw her glorious as the day,
’Twas my own heart that lent the ray.

From: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-eye-of-the-beholder/

Date: 1860

By: James Lionel Michael (1824-1868)

Sunday, 10 March 2013

The Signal by Walter Mitchell

White clouds on the dim horizon!
Blue mists on the shoreward side!
Close reefed the pilot schooner
Rocks on the billows wide.

One is the fog of ocean
That is wandering free and far;
One is the homestead headland,
Fixed as the compass star.

His deck the pilot paces,
And his glass from time to time
Sweeps o’er the flashing white-caps,
As he mutters an ancient rhyme.

He waits for a well-known signal,
“White wings on a ground of blue;”
‘Tis the flag of the good ship “Seabird,”
And his first-born heads her crew.

He looks to the fading headland,
And he thinks of the bonny bride,
Who weeps for her sailor husband—
Weeps by his own fire side.

A spar from the ocean drifting
Catches the pilot’s view,
Twined with a tattered signal,
“White wings on a ground of blue.”

From: Mitchell, Walter, Poems, Stamford Advocate Printing: Stamford, Connecticut, 1860, pp. 28-29.
(http://anglicanhistory.org/poetry/mitchell1860.html)

Date: 1860

By: Walter Mitchell (1826-1908)

Saturday, 22 September 2012

The Master-Chord by William Caldwell Roscoe

Like a musician that with flying finger
Startles the voice of some new instrument,
And, though he know that in one string are blent
All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger
Among the lighter threads, fearing to start
The deep soul of that one melodious wire,
Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire,
And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart; —
Thus with my mistress oft conversing, I
Stir every lighter theme with careless voice,
Gathering sweet music and celestial joys
From the harmonious soul o’er which I fly;
Yet o’er the one deep master-chord I hover.
And dare not stoop, fearing to tell — I love her.

From: http://www.ebooksread.com/authors-eng/alfred-h-alfred-henry-miles/the-poets-and-the-poetry-of-the-century–volume-5-eli/page-10-the-poets-and-the-poetry-of-the-century–volume-5-eli.shtml

Date: 1860 (published)

By: William Caldwell Roscoe (1823-1859)

Alternative Title: Like A Musician