Posts tagged ‘1877’

Tuesday, 18 January 2022

The Two Beaches – Manly by Elizabeth Matilda Manning


Thundering rolls the storming ocean, foaming on the golden sand,
Rising high in purple anger, frowning on the silent land;
Ridge on ridge of heaving billows, buoy’d upon a giant breast
Palpitating with a passion of eternal fierce unrest.
Manlike in its daring fervour, grand in savageness of force,
That must break or self be broken by whate’er shall mar its course:
Now its utmost force it gathers, deep a mighty sob resounds,
In one surging arc of waters, res’lute to o’erburst its bounds.
Vain! The war-plumed heads must lower, Nature’s law shall be obey’d:
“Thus far, never farther!” conquers; prone the haughty waves are laid,
Humbled, frothing with the struggle, sweeping in, then backward drawn,
Leaving but the tiny furrow that their utmost throes have worn.

See, the western sun is sinking, grim the stolid headlands gloom,
Rising dark above the spray-smoke and the loud attacking boom
Of the cannonade of waters, lit with fire of sunset gold,
While the glory-mists of evening bays and hillsides sweet enfold.
Glare the rocks their salt-tear’d parting, earth in quiet slumber rests,
Yet th’ impatient waves are fretting, still they lift their wrathful crests,
Moving black with ghostly aureoles, like a mighty spirit doom’d
Ne’er to cease its warring struggle while the endless ages loom’d,
So it lasheth; seething, panting, with one deep despairing roar,
Image of the world’s unquiet, knowing peace for nevermore.


Calmly, gently, rock the waters, smiling in a maze of blue,
Womanlike, in love reflecting every changing light and hue;
Sometimes creeping into shadow, near a strong protective head,
Then in glistening joy of ripples into wooing sunshine led.
Or like a child at sport with lions, casting silvery shower of spray,
On hard-featured rocks that, moveless, stem resist their graceful play.

Pass the wavelets careless sweetly o’er the lake’s still-breathing breast,
Troubled whiles at Ocean’s portals by the billow’s threatening crest,
Then once more their smile regaining, dancing on with gladsome speech,
Till they lay their emerald crescents fondly on the haven’d beach.
Storming not, nor scarcely whispering, but with kiss and lapping feet,
Rise the waters to their tide-height, with unnoted swiftness meet,
Rarely leaving mark or token where the crystal steps have been,
Yet fulfilling all their portion with a noiseless strength unseen;
Ebbing, flowing, as the Ocean in its due appointed hour,
But like force of love contrasted with the rage of restless power.

Sunlight’s tints have paled to neutral, toned to hues of soothing grey,
And in hallow’d trance of stillness Nature ends her chequer’d day;
Black th’ embracing lands are profiled clear against the evening sky,
Throwing up by darksome setting lucent deeps which quivering lie
Like a liquid sea of opal, hoarding every dying beam,
And with answering light reflecting early stars that faintly gleam,
Till the goodnight darkness falleth, and with breath of rippling sound,
Dreaming wavelets, slumb’rous murmuring, ‘neath the spell of sleep are bound.

From: “Australie”, The Balance of Pain and Other Poems, 2000, University of Sydney Library: Sydney, pp. 87-88.

Date: 1877

By: Elizabeth Matilda Manning (1845-1890)

Tuesday, 23 November 2021

Souvenir by Frances Auretta Fuller Victor

You ask me, “Do you think of me?”
⁠Dear, thoughts of thee are like this river,
Which pours itself into the sea,
⁠Yet empties its own channel never.

All other thoughts are like these sail
⁠Drifting the river’s surface over;
They veer about with every gale—
⁠The river keeps its course forever.

So deep and still, so strong and true,
⁠The current of my soul sets thee-ward,
Thy river I, my ocean you,
⁠And all myself am running seaward.

From: Victor, Frances Fuller, Poems, 1900, Authors Edition, p. 10.

Date: 1877

By: Frances Auretta Fuller Victor (1826-1902)

Wednesday, 27 November 2019

Near the End of the Weft by Henry Bellyse Baildon

A patient toiler, Time’s mild veteran,
He sits, beset with frame and beam and shaft,
Caged in the gear of his monotonous craft,
Imprisoned there like some injurious man,
While mellow-dusted radiance has began
To thrust broad level spoke athwart the room —
Weft of bland light across an umber gloom —
That casts on wall and floor a slanted plan
Of that erect machine’s square scaffolding;
And, as in reverent pity, does illume
The worker’s pausing hand and pallid brow.
Noble with Thought’s and Sorrow’s chiselling.
To face intent, unmoved, it seems to cling.
And whispers, “Final peace approacheth now.”

A wasted hand with veiny rivulet;
A brow pathetic, as some mountain’s head, —
Whereon the violent tempests struggling tread,
Whose patient front the restless torrents fret,
Where many thunders have for combat met,
Nor roused it from majestic dumb restraint,
Whereon the snow’s chill mitre oft is set. —
Meekly he works, dull Labour’s patient saint,
Unsorrowful, unfearfril, unelate;
In modest hope of peace, in faith resigned,
Devoid of gratulation or complaint;
Experience’ scholar. Life’s sad graduate,
A captive, being bound to humble fate, —
A victor, keeping an unconquered mind.

From: Baildon, Henry Bellyse, Morning Clouds, Being Divers Poems, 1877, David Douglas: Edinburgh, pp. 16-17.

Date: 1877

By: Henry Bellyse Baildon (1849-1907)

Saturday, 18 May 2019

On an Apple by Baha’ al-din Zuhair

Many thanks to my love for the apple she sent;
I can see that a gift so ingenious was meant
To ensure my not keeping whole-hearted ;
For its colour resembles the hue of her cheeks,
And the sip of her lip its fine flavour bespeaks,
While its perfume her touch has imparted.

From: Zuhair, Baha’ al-din and Palmer, E. H. (ed. and transl.), The Poetical Works of Behā-ed-Dīn Zoheir, of Egypt. With a Metrical English Translation, Notes, and Introduction, Volume II, 1877, University Press: Cambridge, p. 40.

Date: 13th century (original in Arabic); 1877 (translation in English)

By: Baha’ al-din Zuhair (1186-1258)

Translated by: Edward Henry Palmer (1840-1882)

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Uffia by Harriet R. White

When sporgles spanned the floreate mead
And cogwogs gleet upon the lea,
Uffia gopped to meet her love
Who smeeged upon the equat sea.

Dately she walked aglost the sand;
The boreal wind seet in her face;
The moggling waves yalped at her feet;
Pangwangling was her pace.


Date: ?1877

By: Harriet R. White (?-?)

Saturday, 3 December 2016

Matter by Amos Bronson Alcott

Out of the chaos dawns in sight
The globe’s full form in orbèd light;
Beam kindles beam, kind mirrors kind,
Nature’s the eyeball of the Mind;
The fleeting pageant tells for nought
Till shaped in Mind’s creative thought.

From: Cooke, George Willis (ed.), The Poets of Transcendentalism. An Anthology, 1903, Houghton, Mifflin and Company: Boston and New York, pp. 53-54.

Date: 1877

By: Amos Bronson Alcott (1799-1888)

Sunday, 2 October 2016

Sleep After Death by Mary Ainge de Vere (Madeline Bridges)

If I were dead, and if the dead might crave
Some little grace to cheer their outcast state,
This I would ask: deep slumber long and late
And sure possession of my lonely grave!
Not to be haunted by the things that were,
And once were dear, nor even by a dream
To be disturbed, however glad and fair—
For perfect rest is dreamless. Lying there,
Deep hidden, safe from Life’s wild rush and stir,
Not knowing that I slept—this bliss would seem
More dear to me than Heaven’s own paradise!
So dear I would not care again to rise;
For eyes that wake must still have tears to weep:
And so “God giveth His beloved sleep!”


Date: 1877

By: Mary Ainge de Vere (Madeline Bridges) (1844-1920)

Monday, 23 May 2016

The Tramp’s Soliloquy by Albery Allson Whitman

Had I an envied name and purse of gold,
My friends were more than all my wants twice told;
Reduced to rags and born of title small,
Vast tho’ my wants I have no friends at all.
Anxiety consumes away my years
And failure melts my manhood down in tears.
My down-cast eyes some guilt seem to disclose
And I’m shut in a lazar house of woes.
I am not what I was, my drooping form
Partakes of what is loathsome in the worm.
Pittied but not respected I may be,
I shun myself, and e’en the dogs shun me.
The rich to chide the poor may adulate
The few torn pleasures of a scanty state;
But cold experience tells her story plain,
Want breeds with bitterness and brings forth pain.

From: Whitman, Albery Allson, Not A Man, and Yet A Man, 1999, University of Michigan Humanities Text Initiative: Ann Arbor, Michigan, p. 254.

Date: 1877

By: Albery Allson Whitman (1851-1901)

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

A Glee for Winter by Alfred Domett

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow,
Never merry, never mellow!
Well-a-day! in rain and snow
What will keep one’s heart aglow?
Groups of kinsmen, old and young,
Oldest they old friends among;
Groups of friends, so old and true
That they seem our kinsmen too;
These all merry all together
Charm away chill Winter weather.

What will kill this dull old fellow?
Ale that ’s bright, and wine that ’s mellow!
Dear old songs for ever new;
Some true love, and laughter too;
Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,
And a dance when day is done.
Music, friends so true and tried,
Whisper’d love by warm fireside,
Mirth at all times all together,
Make sweet May of Winter weather.


Date: 1877

By: Alfred Domett (1811-1887)