Posts tagged ‘1882’

Saturday, 20 July 2019

Sonnet: Baugmaree by Toru Dutt

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red-red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.


Date: 1882 (published)

By: Toru Dutt (1856-1877)

Sunday, 14 April 2019

Storm-Drift by Herbert Edwin Clarke

Day and the storm, their long fight over, die
On the red field together, shattered and spent;
The thunder’s roar sinks to a low lament
The wind’s shout to the shadow of a sigh,
And over heaven the mingled armies fly
Headlong, with trailing blood-stained banners rent,
In one wild whirl of rout and ruin sent
To nights abysm beneath the western sky.

Rags of encrimsoned cloud by tempest torn,
Dyed with day’s blood, fierce shapes that change and shift,
Passions and sorrows and sins in mingled flight;
But sometimes some faint ray of a moon unborn,
Or thro’ the horror of the hurrying drift
A star of Hope on the steadfast brows of night.

From: Clarke, H. E., Storm-Drift: Poems and Sonnets, 1882, David Bogue: London, p. [unnumbered].

Date: 1882

By: Herbert Edwin Clarke (1852-1912)

Saturday, 24 March 2018

Waiting for the Dentist by Henry Thomas Mackenzie Bell

Though many dismal years I’ve been
To dull old Care apprenticed,
The worst of the small woes I’ve seen
Is — waiting for the dentist!

How dreary is the cheerless room
In which you bide his pleasure,
The very chairs seemed steeped in gloom,
And sorrow without measure.

As if so wild mute-molar grief,
So uncontrolled its swelling, —
That its fierce tide had sought relief
By deluging the dwelling.

What though of literature a store
Is lying on the table,
You only think the books a bore;
To read you are unable.

What from the window, though, perchance,
You see forms full of graces.
They merely make you look askance,
And think how sore your face is.

On many chairs and sofas, too,
More martyrs round you languish.
You glance at them, they glance at you,
And give a groan of anguish.

You deem it hard, their turn arrives
Before you in rotation.
Or they wax wroth that your’s deprives
Their case of consolation.

You muse upon the ruthless wrench
Which buys a tooth’s departing —
Or how the stopping-pangs to quench,
In which you may be starting;

Or haply on these ivory chips
Harsh Nature may deny you, —
But which the ‘golden key’ equips
Man’s genius to supply you.

No words your mood of mind express,
‘Tis a state devoid of quiet, —
In which pain, pleasure, and distress
Mingle in hopeless riot.

Yes, though much sorrow one must know.
While to old Care apprenticed,
The greatest unheroic woe
Is — waiting for the dentist.

From: Bell, H. T. Mackenzie, Verses of Varied Life, 1882, Elliot Stock: London, pp. 19-21.

Date: 1882

By: Henry Thomas Mackenzie Bell (1856-1930)

Monday, 28 November 2016

Fight with the Pen! by Isaac Williams Wauchope

Your cattle are gone, my countrymen!
Go rescue them! Go rescue them!
Leave the breechloader alone
And turn to the pen.
Take paper and ink,
For that is your shield.
Your rights are going!
So pick up your pen.
Load it, load it with ink.
Sit on a chair.
Repair not your Hoho
But fire with pen.


Date: 1882

By: Isaac Williams Wauchope (1852-1917)

Tuesday, 22 December 2015

Dream-Love by Louisa Sarah Bevington

I always seem to love you in my dreams
Of force, and right, and nature, full and free;
Sleep after sleep, the very self of me
Lost in the nearest of your spirit seems.
Yet, as the grey of real daylight streams
Across the bright deep of my passion’s sea,
There crawls a chill, a cloud up lingeringly
To sap the glow from night’s divinest gleams.

Which take for truth? Why are you ever twain?
Awake, my intellect’s serenest friend;
Asleep, my being’s sovereign, meaning, end,—
My heart’s desire, delight, possession, pain?
Ah! might I, dreaming, drive my love away;
Or better, wake to find I love by day.

From: Bevington, L. S., Poems, Lyrics, and Sonnets, 1882, Eliot Stock: London, p. 151.

Date: 1882

By: Louisa Sarah Bevington (1845-1895)

Sunday, 18 January 2015

The Tide by William Bell Scott

Obliviously we long sat there
Weaving lines to praise the sea,
Objecting still, we still compare,
And try to make the rhythm agree
Between the verses and the sea.
When we thus began, the wave
Drove the pebbles up the beach,
Then resilient to the main
Drew them with it back again:
Nor dreamt we where the tide might reach,
Till it was round us everywhere,
Deep enough to be our grave!
For this is still the destined way,
We are the masters, yet the prey.

From: Scott, William Bell, A Poet’s Harvest Home: Being One Hundred Short Poems with an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems, 1893, Elkin Mathews and John Lane: London, p. 29.

Date: 1882

By: William Bell Scott (1811-1890)

Saturday, 6 December 2014

O Earth! Art Thou Not Weary of Thy Graves? by Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr

O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves?
Dear patient mother Earth, upon thy breast
How are they heaped from farthest east to west!
From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind raves
O’er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves,
To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed,
Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest,
How thick they lie—like flocks upon the waves!
There is no mountain-top so far and high,
No desert so remote, no vale so deep,
No spot by man so long untenanted,
But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky,
Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep!
O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead?

From: Dorr, Julia C.R., Poems, 1892, Charles Scribner’s Sons: New York, p. 270.

Date: 1882

By: Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr (1825-1913)

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

To England by Alfred Austin

(Written in Mid-Channel.)

Now upon English soil I soon shall stand,
Homeward from climes that fancy deems more fair;
And well I know that there will greet me there
No soft foam fawning upon smiling strand,
No scent of orange-groves, no zephyrs bland;
But Amazonian March, with breast half bare
And sleety arrows whistling through the air,
Will be my welcome from that burly land.
Yet he who boasts his birth-place yonder lies
Owns in his heart a mood akin to scorn
For sensuous slopes that bask ‘neath Southern skies,
Teeming with wine and prodigal of corn,
And, gazing through the mist with misty eyes,
Blesses the brave bleak land where he was born.


Date: 1882

By: Alfred Austin (1835-1913)

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

The Alphabet of Drought by Emily Mary Barton

All these months of heat and drought,
Baked within, and burnt without;
Cattle dying in our regions,
Drifts of dust and insect legions;
Every pool a mass of mire.
Fogs that mock each morn’s desire;
Groups of clouds, suggesting rain,
Heaven-attracted, off again;
I, one cheerful plant have seen,
Just as ever bright and green;
Keeping still its steady bloom,
Lightsome leaf and keen perfume—
My morning shower, treasured well,
Never upon its leaflets fell;
On fern and fuchsia all was shed,
Perchance to save them; they are dead.
Quiescent Nature lies asleep.
Refusing o’er their dust to weep;
So that my heart was faint with grief,
Till, musing o’er that shining leaf,
Untiring, ever-spreading root,
Virtue-laden flow’r and fruit;
With types of love and trust combined.
Xylographed my anxious mind—
Yes, like thee I would endure,
Zygophillum, the brave and pure.


Date: 1882

By: Emily Mary Barton (1817-1909)

Sunday, 20 October 2013

Molecular Evolution by James Clerk Maxwell

At quite uncertain times and places,
The atoms left their heavenly path,
And by fortuitous embraces,
Engendered all that being hath.
And though they seem to cling together,
And form “associations” here,
Yet, soon or late, they burst their tether,
And through the depths of space career.

So we who sat, oppressed with science,
As British asses, wise and grave,
Are now transformed to wild Red Lions,
As round our prey we ramp and rave.
Thus, by a swift metamorphosis,
Wisdom turns wit, and science joke,
Nonsense is incense to our noses,
For when Red Lions speak, they smoke.

Hail, Nonsense! dry nurse of Red Lions,
From thee the wise their wisdom learn,
From thee they cull those truths of science,
Which into thee again they turn.
What combinations of ideas,
Nonsense alone can wisely form!
What sage has half the power that she has,
To take the towers of Truth by storm?

Yield, then, ye rules of rigid reason!
Dissolve, thou too, too solid sense!
Melt into nonsense for a season,
Then in some nobler form condense.
Soon, all too soon, the chilly morning,
This flow of soul will crystallize,
Then those who Nonsense now are scorning,
May learn, too late, where wisdom lies.


Date: 1882

By: James Clerk Maxwell (1831-1879)