Posts tagged ‘1884’

Thursday, 4 February 2021

Mystery by Atherton Bernard Furlong

I’m looking down where an arm of the sea
Is encircling the land,
And I hear its sweet monotony
As it moves o’er the sand,
And its deep mournful voice comes up to me,
Even up where I stand.
I can see it pour its waves on the shore
And hear its sad moan, its deep monotone,
Saying Mystery, mystery, mystery,
Lives in the sea, dwells here with me,
Comes and goes, ebbs and flows,
Mystery, mystery, mystery.

I’m looking up where a rift in the clouds
Is revealing the sky, Where the mad wind is unfolding the shrouds
That under it lie, And see them drift back like frightened crowds,
With a mutter and cry.
Then the lightnings flash and the thunders crash,
And the storm comes down upon sea and town.
All is mystery, mystery, mystery;
In sea and air and everywhere,
Mystery, mystery, mystery.

From: Furlong, Atherton, Echoes of Memory, Field & Tuer, The Leadenhall Press: London and Simpkin, Marshall & Co; Hamilton, Adams & Co: New York, p. 51.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=l88IAAAAQAAJ)

Date: 1884

By: Atherton Bernard Furlong (1849-1919)

Thursday, 5 July 2018

A Nautical Ballad by Charles Edward Carryl

A capital ship for an ocean trip
Was “The Walloping Window-blind;”
No gale that blew dismayed her crew
Or troubled the captain’s mind.
The man at the wheel was taught to feel
Contempt for the wildest blow,
And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,
That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate,
Yet fond of amusement, too;
And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch
While the captain tickled the crew.
And the gunner we had was apparently mad,
For he sat on the after-rail,
And fired salutes with the captain’s boots,
In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat,
And dined, in a royal way,
On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
And gummery bread, each day.
But the cook was Dutch, and behaved as such;
For the food that he gave the crew
Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns,
Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,
On a diet that’s cheap and rude;
And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook
In a tub of his gluesome food.
Then nautical pride we laid aside,
And we cast the vessel ashore
On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,
And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,
And trimmed with cinnamon straws;
And pink and blue was the pleasing hue
Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws.
And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge
And shot at the whistling bee;
And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats
As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,
We fed, till we all had grown
Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk
Came by from the torriby zone.
She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care,
And we cheerily put to sea;
And we left the crew of the junk to chew
The bark of the rubagub tree.

From: Carryl, Charles E., Davy and the Goblin; or, What Followed Reading “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, 2008, Project Gutenberg: Chicago, pp. 89-90.
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/25031/25031-h/25031-h.htm)

Date: 1884

By: Charles Edward Carryl (1841-1920)

Alternative Titles: The Walloping Window Blind, A Capital Ship

Wednesday, 28 January 2015

Lepage’s Joan of Arc by Helen Gray Cone

Once, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear,
The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below,
The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree;
Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year,
Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow,
In whose brown glass a girl her face might see.

Such days are gone, and strange things come instead;
For she has looked on other faces white,
Pale bloom of fear, before war’s whirlwind blown;
Has stooped, ah Heaven! in some low sheltering shed
To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow’s bite,
While the cold death that hovered seemed her own.

And in her hurt heart, o’er some grizzled head,
The mother that shall never be has yearned;
And love’s fine voice, she else shall never hear,
Came to her as the call of saints long dead;
And straightway all the passion in her burned,
One altar-flame that hourly waxes clear.

Hence goes she ever in a glimmering dream,
And very oft will sudden stand at gaze,
With blue, dim eyes that still not seem to see:
For now the well-known ways with visions teem;
Unfelt is toil, and summer one green daze,
Till that the king be crowned, and France be free!

(Image of Lepage’s painting can be found here: http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/89.21.1)

From: http://www.unz.org/Pub/AtlanticMonthly-1884jan-00055

Date: 1884

By: Helen Gray Cone (1859-1934)

Wednesday, 20 November 2013

Perdita by Thomas Alexander Browne (Rolf Boldrewood)

She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair
And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,
The delicate hues of brow and cheek
Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;
That matchless frame yet holds at bay
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.

There is no fear in her great dark eyes —
No hope, no love, no care,
Stately and proud she looks around
With a fierce, defiant stare;
Wild words deform her reckless speech,
Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.

Whom should she fear on earth? Can fate
One direr torment lend
To her few little years of glitter and gloom
With the sad old story to end,
When the spectres of Loneliness, Want, and Pain
Shall arise one night with Death in their train?

. . . . .

I see in a vision a woman like her
Trip down an orchard slope,
With rosy prattlers that shout a name
In tones of rapture and hope;
While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife,
Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.

. . . . .

Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt?
Who pays at the final day
For a wasted body, a murdered soul,
And how shall he answer, I say,
For her outlawed years, her early doom,
And despair—despair—beyond the tomb?

From: Boldrewood, Rolf, Old Melbourne Memories, 1896, McMillan and Co: London, pp.255-256.
(http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Old_Melbourne_Memories/Perdita)

Date: 1884

By: Thomas Alexander Browne (Rolf Boldrewood) (1826-1915)

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Epitaph (On a Commonplace Person Who Died in Bed) by Amy Levy

This is the end of him, here he lies:
The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,
The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;
This is the end of him, this is best.
He will never lie on his couch awake,
Wide‐eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.
Never again will he smile and smile
When his heart is breaking all the while.
He will never stretch out his hands in vain
Groping and groping—never again.
Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,
Never pretend that the stone is bread.
Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true,
Weighing and noting the long hours through.
Never ache and ache with the chok’d‐up sighs;
This is the end of him, here he lies.

From: Levy, Amy, A Minor Poet and Other Verses, 1891, T Fisher Unwin: London, p. 88.
(http://webapp1.dlib.indiana.edu/vwwp/view?docId=VAB7106&chunk.id=d1e6241&toc.id=&brand=vwwp;query=#docView)

Date: 1884

By: Amy Levy (1861-1889)

Tuesday, 20 November 2012

The Love in Her Eyes Lay Sleeping by William Forster

The love in her eyes lay sleeping,
As stars that unconscious shine,
Till, under the pink lids peeping,
I wakened it up with mine;
And we pledged our troth to a brimming oath
In a bumper of blood-red wine.
Alas! too well I know
That it happened long ago;
Those memories yet remain,
And sting, like throbs of pain,
And I’m alone below,
But still the red wine warms, and the rosy goblets glow;
If love be the heart’s enslaver,
‘Tis wine that subdues the head.
But which has the fairest flavour,
And whose is the soonest shed?
Wine waxes in power in that desolate hour
When the glory of love is dead.
Love lives on beauty’s ray,
But night comes after day,
And when the exhausted sun
His high career has run,
The stars behind him stay,
And then the light that lasts consoles our darkening way.
When beauty and love are over,
And passion has spent its rage,
And the spectres of memory hover,
And glare on life’s lonely stage,
‘Tis wine that remains to kindle the veins
And strengthen the steps of age.
Love takes the taint of years,
And beauty disappears,
But wine in worth matures
The longer it endures,
And more divinely cheers,
And ripens with the suns and mellows with the spheres.

From: Stevens, Bertram (ed), An Anthology of Australian Verse, 1906, Angus & Robertson: Sydney, p. 6.
(http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks/e00075.txt)

Date: 1884 (published)

By: William Forster (1818-1882)

Saturday, 27 October 2012

Apprehension by Agnes Mary Frances (Robinson) (Darmesteter) Duclaux

I
The hills come down on every side,
The marsh lies green below,
The green, green valley is long and wide.
Where the grass grows thick with the rush beside.
And the white sheep come and go.

Down in the marsh it is green and still ;
You may linger all the day.
Till a shadow slants from the western hill,
And the color goes out of the flowers in the rill.
And the sheep look ghostly gray.

And never a change in the great green flat
Till the change of night, my friend.
Oh wide green valley where we two sat,
How I longed that our lives were as peaceful as that,
And seen from end to end!

II
O foolish dream, to hope that such as I
Who only answer to thine easiest moods,
Should fill thy heart, as o’er my heart there broods
The perfect fulness of thy memory!
I flit across thy soul as white birds fly
Across the untrodden desert solitudes:
A moment’s flash of wings; fair interludes
That leave unchanged the eternal sand and sky.

Even such to thee am I; but thou to me
As the embracing shore to the sobbing sea.
Even as the sea itself to the stone-tossed rill.
But who, but who shall give such rest to thee?
The deep mid-ocean waters perpetually
Call to the land, and call unanswered still.

III
As dreams the fasting nun of Paradise,
And finds her gnawing hunger pass away
In thinking of the happy bridal day
That soon shall dawn upon her watching eyes.
So, dreaming of your love, do I despise
Harshness or death of friends, doubt, slow decay,
Madness, — all dreads that fill me with dismay,
And creep about me oft with fell surmise.
For you are true ; and all I hoped you are;
O perfect answer to my calling heart!
And very sweet my life is, having thee.
Yet must I dread the dim end shrouded far;
Yet must I dream : should once the good planks start,
How bottomless yawns beneath the boiling sea!

From: Robinson, A Mary F, The New Arcadia and Other Poems, 1884, Roberts Brothers: Boston, pp. 167-169.
(http://archive.org/stream/newarcadiaandot02robigoog#page/n171/mode/2up)

Date: 1884

By: Agnes Mary Frances (Robinson) (Darmesteter) Duclaux (1857-1944)

Sunday, 5 August 2012

A Picture by Ernest Radford

(At Dresden. Cabinet, 19 c.)

True, true, very true; but you see
It’s no use to argue with me.
Ascetical scruples! Fiddle-dee-dee!
She’s there―in the Dresden gallery,
’A girl with a candle,’―19 c.
And any one, worthy to loosen her sandal,
Would give, though a belted earl,
His total possessions to blow out her candle,
I tell you, and kiss that girl!

From: Radford, Ernest, Measured Steps, 1884, T Fisher Unwin: London, p. 55.
(http://archive.org/stream/measuredstepspo00radfgoog#page/n66/mode/2up)

Date: 1884

By: Ernest Radford (1857-1919)