Posts tagged ‘1869’

Wednesday, 17 March 2021

Home Sonnets—Address to Ireland: IV by Thomas D’Arcy Etienne Grace Hughes McGee

Mother of exiles! from your soil to-day
New myriads are destroy’d or swept away;
The crowded graveyards grow no longer green,
The daily dead have scanty space, I ween;
The groaning ships, freighted with want and grief,
Entomb in every wave a fugitive;
The sword no more an Irish weapon is–
The spirit of the land no longer lives;
Mother! ’twas kill’d before the famine came–
The stubble was prepared to meet the flame;
All manly souls were from their bodies torn,
And what avails it if the bodies burn?
Mother of soldiers! may we hope to be
Yet fit to strike for vengeance and for thee!


Date: 1869 (published)

By: Thomas D’Arcy Etienne Grace Hughes McGee (1825-1868)

Friday, 29 May 2020

To My Beloved Vesta by Charles William Shirley Brooks

Miss, I’m a Pensive Protoplasm,
Born in some pre-historic chasm.
I, and my humble fellow-men
Are hydrogen, and oxygen,
And nitrogen, and carbon too,
And so is Jane, and so are you.
In stagnant water swarm our brothers
And sisters, but we’ve many others,
Among them animalculae,
And lizard’s eggs — and so, you see,
My darking Vesta, show no pride,
Nor turn coquettish head aside,
Our pedigrees, as thus made out,
Are no great things to boast about.
The only comfort seems to be
In this — philosophers agree
That how a Protoplasm’s made
Is mystery outside their trade.
And we are parts, so say the sages,
Of life come down from Long Past Ages.
So let us haste in Hymen’s bands
To join our protoplastic hands,
And spend our gay organic life
As happy man and happy wife.


Date: 1869

By: Charles William Shirley Brooks (29 May 2020)

Friday, 8 March 2019

Plain Living and High Thinking by Lucian of Samosata

Stern Cynicus doth war austerely wage
With endive, lentils, chicory, and sage;
Which shouldst thou thoughtless proffer, “Wretch,” saith he,
“Wouldst thou corrupt my life’s simplicity?”
Yet is not his simplicity so great
But that he can digest a pomegranate;
And peaches, he esteems, right well agree
With Spartan fare and sound philosophy.

From: Garnett, Richard, Vallée, Leon and Brandl, Alois (eds.), The Universal Anthology: A Collection of the Best Literature, Ancient, Mediaeval and Modern, with Biographical and Explanatory Notes, Volume 5, 1899, The Clarke Company Ltd: London, p. 97.

Date: 2nd century (original in Greek); 1869 (translation in English)

By: Lucian of Samosata (c125-c180)

Translated by: Richard Garnett (1835-1906)

Sunday, 22 February 2015

Music and Death by René François Armand (Sully) Prudhomme

Kindly watcher by my bed, lift no voice in prayer,
Waste not any words on me when the hour is nigh,
Let a stream of melody but flow from some sweet player,
And meekly will I lay my head and fold my hands to die.

Sick am I of idle words, past all reconciling,
Words that weary and perplex and pander and conceal,
Wake the sounds that cannot lie, for all their sweet beguiling;
The language one need fathom not, but only hear and feel.

Let them roll once more to me, and ripple in my hearing,
Like waves upon a lonely beach where no craft anchoreth:
That I may steep my soul therein, and craving naught, nor fearing,
Drift on through slumber to a dream, and through a dream to death.


Date: 1869 (original in French); 1896 (translation in English)

By: René François Armand (Sully) Prudhomme (1839-1907)

Translated by: George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier (1834-1896)

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

She Passed Me By by Henry Abbey

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by,
She passed me by!
O love, O lava breath that burns,
‘Tis hard indeed to think she spurns
Such worshippers as you and I.
She smiled, and bowed, with stately pride;
The bow the frosty smile belied.
She passed me by.

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by,
She passed me by.
What more could any maiden do?
It did not prove she was untrue.
My heart is tired, I know not why.
I only know I weep and pray.
Love has its night as well as day.
She passed me by.

From: Abbey, Henry, Stories in Verse, 1869, A D F Randolph & Co, Publishers: New York , pp. 15-16.

Date: 1869

By: Henry Abbey (1842-1911)

Tuesday, 17 September 2013

To A Sea-Bird by Francis Bret Harte

(Santa Cruz, 1869)

Sauntering hither on listless wings,
Careless vagabond of the sea,
Little thou heedest the surf that sings,
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,–
Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that ‘s new;
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;
Sick am I of these changes, too;
Little to care for, little to rue,–
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,
Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here:
This our tether must be our cheer,–
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean’s breast,
Something in common, old friend, have we:
Thou on the shingle seek’st thy nest,
I to the waters look for rest,–
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

From: A Sea Bird

Date: 1869

By: Francis Bret Harte (1836-1902)

Saturday, 29 September 2012

September in Australia by Thomas Henry Kendall

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,
And, behold, for repayment,
September comes in with the wind of the West
And the Spring in her raiment!
The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers,
While the forest discovers
Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours,
And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift, silver feet!
She glides, and she graces
The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat,
With her blossomy traces;
Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose,
She lightens and lingers
In spots where the harp of the evening glows,
Attuned by her fingers.

The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips
In a darling old fashion;
And the day goeth down with a song on its lips,
Whose key-note is passion.
Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea
I stand, and remember
Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee,
Resplendent September!

The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon
And beats on the beaches,
Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune
That touches and teaches;
The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time,
And the death of Devotion,
Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme
In the waves of the ocean.

We, having a secret to others unknown,
In the cool mountain-mosses,
May whisper together, September, alone
Of our loves and our losses!
One word for her beauty, and one for the grace
She gave to the hours;
And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face
To sleep with the flowers.

High places that knew of the gold and the white
On the forehead of Morning
Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night
Are heavy with warning.
Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud
Through the echoing gorges;
She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud,
And her feet in the surges.

On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones —
Chief temples of thunder —
The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans,
Gliding over and under.
The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain,
Leapeth wild at the forelands;
And the plover, whose cry is like passion with pain,
Complains in the moorlands.

Oh, season of changes — of shadow and shine —
September the splendid!
My song hath no music to mingle with thine,
And its burden is ended;
But thou, being born of the winds and the sun,
By mountain, by river,
Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run,
With thy voices for ever!


Date: 1869

By: Thomas Henry Kendall (1839-1882)