Posts tagged ‘1895’

Friday, 9 June 2017

Mocking-Bird by Julia Zitella Cocke

Full-throated, trim,
Dapper of limb,
Agile, alert,
Nimbly expert,
Hanging somehow
On topmost bough,
A-top of trees, —
Saying with ease
What other birds
Strive to attain, —
Weaving their words
Over again
In his refrain! —

Deep in the wood
Tormenting owls
Changing his mood,
Home to farm-brood
Teasing the fowls:
Out on the grass
Quick to surpass
Fleetest insect,
Running erect,
Darts at his prize,
Then swiftly flies
To myrtle bower,
There in full power
The world to capture
With his wild rapture, —

Calling and cooing,
Wailing and wooing:
An ode to his love,
A lyric to Dove,
A challenge to Wren,
To Blue-bird and Hen,
To Bob-white and Kildee,
To Catbird and Pewee,
To Robin and Thrush:
Until the whole tree-full
Of sweet singers gleeful
Lose heart and hush:
Outsung and confounded,
Enchanted, astounded,
And flying afar, seek a covert to light on,
Away from this wonderful, maddening Chrichton!

From: Cocke, Zitella, A Doric Reed, 1895, Copeland and Day: Boston, pp. 25-26.
(https://archive.org/details/doricreed00cockrich)

Date: 1895

By: Julia Zitella Cocke (1840-1929)

Monday, 27 March 2017

Song of the Otherworld Woman from “The Voyage of Bran” by Unknown

A branch of the apple-tree from Emain
I bring, like those one knows;
Twigs of white silver are on it,
Crystal brows with blossoms.

There is a distant isle,
Around which sea-horses glisten:
A fair course against the white-swelling surge,
Four feet uphold it.

A delight of the eyes, a glorious range,
Is the plain on which the hosts hold games:
Coracle contends against chariot
In southern Mag Findargat.

Feet of white bronze under it
Glittering through beautiful ages.
Lovely land throughout the world’s age,
On which the many blossoms drop.

An ancient tree there is with blossoms,
On which birds call to the Hours.
‘Tis in harmony it is their wont
To call together every Hour.

Splendours of every colour glisten
Throughout the gentle-voiced plains.
Joy is known, ranked around music,
In southern Mag Argatnél.

Unknown is wailing or treachery
In the familiar cultivated land,
There is nothing rough or harsh,
But sweet music striking on the ear.

Without grief, without sorrow, without death,
Without any sickness, without debility,
That is the sign of Emain –
Uncommon is an equal marvel.

A beauty of a wondrous land,
Whose aspects are lovely,
Whose view is a fair country,
Incomparable is its haze.

Then if Aircthech is seen,
On which dragonstones and crystals drop
The sea washes the wave against the land,
Hair of crystal drops from its mane.

Wealth, treasures of every hue,
Are in Ciuin, a beauty of freshness,
Listening to sweet music,
Drinking the best of wine.

Golden chariots in Mag Réin,
Rising with the tide to the sun,
Chariots of silver in Mag Mon,
And of bronze without blemish.

Yellow golden steeds are on the sward there,
Other steeds with crimson hue,
Others with wool upon their backs
Of the hue of heaven all-blue.

At sunrise there will come
A fair man illumining level lands;
He rides upon the fair sea-washed plain,
He stirs the ocean till it is blood.

A host will come across the clear sea,
To the land they show their rowing;
Then they row to the conspicuous stone,
From which arise a hundred strains.

It sings a strain unto the host
Through long ages, it is not sad,
lts music swells with choruses of hundreds–
They look for neither decay nor death.

Many-shaped Emne by the sea,
Whether it be near, whether it be far,
In which are many thousands of motley women,
Which the clear sea encircles.

If he has heard the voice of the music,
The chorus of the little birds from Imchiuin,
A small band of women will come from a height
To the plain of sport in which he is.

There will come happiness with health
To the land against which laughter peals,
Into Imchiuin at every season
Will come everlasting joy.

It is a day of lasting weather
That showers silver on the lands,
A pure-white cliff on the range of the sea,
Which from the sun receives its heat.

The host race along Mag Mon,
A beautiful game, not feeble,
In the variegated land over a mass of beauty
They look for neither decay nor death.

Listening to music at night,
And going into Ildathach,
A variegated land, splendour on a diadem of beauty,
Whence the white cloud glistens.

There are thrice fifty distant isles
In the ocean to the west of us;
Larger than Erin twice
Is each of them, or thrice.

A great birth will come after ages,
That will not be in a lofty place,
The son of a woman whose mate will not be known,
He will seize the rule of the many thousands.

A rule without beginning, without end,
He has created the world so that it is perfect,
Whose are earth and sea,
Woe to him that shall be under His unwill!

‘Tis He that made the heavens,
Happy he that has a white heart,
He will purify hosts under pure water,
‘Tis He that will heal your sicknesses

Not to all of you is my speech,
Though its great marvel has been made known:
Let Bran hear from the crowd of the world
What of wisdom has been told to him.

Do not fall on a bed of sloth,
Let not thy intoxication overcome thee,
Begin a voyage across the clear sea,
If perchance thou mayst reach the land of women.

From: Meyer, Kuno (ed. and transl.), The Voyage of Bran, son of Febal, to the Land of the Living; an old Irish saga now first edited, with translation, notes and glossary, 1895, David Nutt: London, pp. 4-14.
(https://archive.org/details/voyageofbransono01meye)

Date: 8th century (original in Irish); 1895 (translation in English)

By: Unknown

Translated by: Kuno Meyer (1858-1919)

Sunday, 22 January 2017

A Woman’s Mood by Grace Elizabeth Jennings Carmichael

I think to-night I could bear it all,
Even the arrow that cleft the core,—
Could I wait again for your swift footfall,
And your sunny face coming in at the door.
With the old frank look and the gay young smile,
And the ring of the words you used to say;
I could almost deem the pain worth while,
To greet you again in the olden way!

But you stand without in the dark and cold,
And I may not open the long closed door,
Nor call thro’ the night, with the love of old,—
“Come into the warmth, as in nights of yore!”
I kneel alone in the red fire-glow,
And hear the wings of the wind sweep by;
You are out afar in the night, I know,
And the sough of the wind is like a cry.

You are out afar—and I wait within,
A grave-eyed woman whose pulse is slow;
The flames round the red coals softly spin,
And the lonely room’s in a rosy glow.
The firelight falls on your vacant chair,
And the soft brown rug where you used to stand;
Dear, never again shall I see you there,
Nor lift my head for your seeking hand.

Yet sometimes still, and in spite of all,
I wistful look at the fastened door,
And wait again for the swift footfall,
And the gay young voice as in hours of yore.
It still seems strange to be here alone,
With the rising sob of the wind without;
The sound takes a deep, insisting tone,
Where the trees are swinging their arms about.

Its moaning reaches the sheltered room,
And thrills my heart with a sense of pain;
I walk to the window, and pierce the gloom,
With a yearning look that is all in vain.
You are out in a night of depths that hold
No promise of dawning for you and me,
And only a ghost from the life of old
Has come from the world of memory!

You are out evermore! God wills it so!
But ah! my spirit is yearning yet!
As I kneel alone by the red fire-glow,
My eyes grow dim with the old regret.
O when shall the aching throb grow still,
The warm love-life turn cold at the core!
Must I be watching, against my will,
For your banished face in the opening door?

It may be, dear, when the sequel’s told
Of the story, read to its bitter close;
When the inner meanings of life unfold,
And the under-side of our being shows—
It may be then, in that truer light,
When all our knowledge has larger grown,
I may understand why you stray to-night,
And I am left, with the past, alone.

From: http://www.telelib.com/authors/C/CarmichaelJennings/verse/poems/womansmood.html

Date: 1895

By: Grace Elizabeth Jennings Carmichael (1868-1904)

Sunday, 15 May 2016

A Double Standard by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Do you blame me that I loved him?
If when standing all alone
I cried for bread a careless world
Pressed to my lips a stone.

Do you blame me that I loved him,
That my heart beat glad and free,
When he told me in the sweetest tones
He loved but only me?

Can you blame me that I did not see
Beneath his burning kiss
The serpent’s wiles, nor even hear
The deadly adder hiss?

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold
That the tempted, tempter turned;
When he was feted and caressed
And I was coldly spurned?

Would you blame him, when you draw from me
Your dainty robes aside,
If he with gilded baits should claim
Your fairest as his bride?

Would you blame the world if it should press
On him a civic crown;
And see me struggling in the depth
Then harshly press me down?

Crime has no sex and yet to-day
I wear the brand of shame;
Whilst he amid the gay and proud
Still bears an honored name.

Can you blame me if I’ve learned to think
Your hate of vice a sham,
When you so coldly crushed me down
And then excused the man?

Would you blame me if to-morrow
The coroner should say,
A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,
Has thrown her life away?

Yes, blame me for my downward course,
But oh! remember well,
Within your homes you press the hand
That led me down to hell.

I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways,
He does not see as man;
Within His love I know there’s room
For those whom others ban.

I think before His great white throne,
His throne of spotless light,
That whited sepulchres shall wear
The hue-of endless night.

That I who fell, and he who sinned,
Shall reap as we have sown;
That each the burden of his loss
Must bear and bear alone.

No golden weights can turn the scale
Of justice in His sight;
And what is wrong in woman’s life
In man’s cannot be right.

From: Harper, Frances E. W., Atlanta Offering: Poems, 1995, University of Michigan Humanities Text Initiative: Ann Arbor, Michigan, pp. 12-14.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/BAC5663.0001.001)

Date: 1895

By: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (1824-1911)

Saturday, 30 April 2016

Overlooked by Emily Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)

Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind,
Has passed me by;
Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined,
Float silently;
O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?

Peace, with the blessings that I longed for so,
Has passed me by;
Where ’ere she folds her holy wings I know
All tempests die;
O! Peace, my tired soul had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss denied alone to me?

Love, with her heated touches; passion-stirred,
Has passed me by.
I called, “O stay thy flight,” but all unheard
My lonely cry:
O! Love, my tired heart had need of thee!
Is thy sweet kiss withheld alone from me?

Sleep, sister-twin of Peace, my waking eyes
So weary grow!
O! Love, thou wanderer from Paradise,
Dost thou not know
How oft my lonely heart has cried to thee?
But Thou, and Sleep, and Peace, come not to me.

From: Johnson, Emily Pauline, The White Wampum, 1895, The Copp Clark Co: Toronto, pp. 57-58.
(http://www.canadianpoetry.ca/confederation/johnson/white_wampum/overlooked.htm)

Date: 1895

By: Emily Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) (1861-1913)

Tuesday, 13 October 2015

Songs of a Fool: II. Wassail by Geraldine Meyrick

Come, drink a health to Folly,
And all her merry train;
Farewell to Melancholy,
And wit-benumbing Pain;
A Fool’s life should be jolly,
Or else he lives in vain.

Let laughter follow laughter,
No sign of sorrow fall;
Shake every beam and rafter,
Make tremble every wall;
For who knows what comes after?
Who knows when Death may call?

We all are Fools together
Not one of us is wise;
We prophecy the weather,
We lecture on the skies;
To-night we know not whether
The morrow’s sun shall rise.

So drink a health to Folly,
And all her merry train;
Farewell to Melancholv,
And wit-benumbing Pain;
A Fool’s life should be jolly,
Or else he lives in vain.

From: Meyrick, Geraldine, Songs of a Fool and Other Verses, 1895, Semi-Monthly Letter: San Jose, California, p. 9.
(https://archive.org/stream/songsfool00meyrrich#page/n9/mode/2up)

Date: 1895

By: Geraldine Meyrick (1872-1946)

Sunday, 29 March 2015

Love, Morn, and Music by Launcelot Cranmer-Byng

Oh! give me love, with the trees above,
In the dells where dewdrops cluster,
Heaven’s heart of blue, and a trellised view
Of morn’s magnificent lustre,

And joy’s bright bird in the clouds half heard,
Or the cuckoo faintly calling,
Hushed happiness in the close caress
Of passion that’s never palling.

From: Cranmer-Byng, L. (Paganus), Poems of Paganism; or, Songs of Life and Love, 1895, The Roxburghe Press: London, p. 58.
(https://archive.org/stream/poemsofpaganismo00cranuoft#page/58/mode/2up)

Date: 1895

By: Launcelot Cranmer-Byng (1872-1945)

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Consolation by John Arthur Blaikie

What shall I grow,
When unto earth returned,
In peace I shall be laid
There, where so oft we walked in sun and shade?
Flame-flowers burning as my soul hath burned,
Whitening in passion just as flowers may
Under the fiery sun’s consuming ray?
No, no! ah, no!
But so my garden-plot shall be
Sweet set with wilding bloom and grass,
Pale starry flowers there shall arise,
White for my spirit’s thought, pale for mine eyes,
That wheresoe’er you thither come or pass,
Then surely shall you know, and feel, and see,
At last, though late, at last all’s well with me;
In all my bitter life so sweet a thought,
So dear as this, I have not known—
To rest where singing winds, far-blown
From sea and moor, with singing birds are caught
Amid the fostering grey of apple-trees,
Where spires immortal the green cypresses
Uprear, and praise the eternal blue,
And you shall join me in that quiet land,
And one day wake, and find your dreaming true,
And know me as I am, and understand.

From: The Yellow Book: An Illustrated Quarterly, Volume VI, July 1895, 1895, John Lane The Bodley Head: London, pp. 295-296.
(http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Yellow_Book/Volume_6/Consolation)

Date: 1895

By: John Arthur Blaikie (1849-????)

Monday, 3 March 2014

Sonnet XI. Love’s Mourner by Julia Augusta Davies Webster

’Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
The woman’s love, wife’s, mother’s, still will hold,
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold
For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.
So in a thousand voices has the strain
Of this dear patient madness been retold,
That men call woman’s love. Ah! they are bold,
Naming for love that grief which does remain.
Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:
Love pardons all; but by the pardonings dies,
With a fresh wound of each pierced through the breast.
And there stand pityingly in Love’s void place
Kindness of household wont familiar‐wise,
And faith to Love—faith to our dead at rest.

From: Webster, Augusta, Mother & Daughter. An Uncompleted Sonnet Sequence, 1895, MacMillan and Co: London, p. 26.
(http://webapp1.dlib.indiana.edu/vwwp/view?docId=VAB7113&doc.view=print)

Date: 1895

By: Julia Augusta Davies Webster (1837-1894)

Tuesday, 26 November 2013

Going Down Hill on a Bicycle by Henry Charles Beeching

A Boy’s Song

With lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart with a mighty lift
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—
“O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

“Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy,
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!”

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
‘Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,
Shall find wings waiting there.

From: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20296

Date: 1895

By: Henry Charles Beeching (1859-1919)