Posts tagged ‘1895’

Saturday, 13 August 2022

A Fragment by Théophile-Jules-Henri “Theo” Marzials

And then it seem’d I was a bird
That dipt along the silent street.
In that strange midnight nothing stir’d,
And all was moonlight, still and sweet.

By lofty vane and roof and loft,
Aloof, aloft, where shadows hung
Down ghostly ways that waftedsoft,
Warm echoes where I sank and sung;

And lower yet by flower-set sill,
And close against her window-bars,
And still the moonlight flowed, and still,
The still dew lit the jessamine stars;

And oh! I beat against the pane,
And oh! I sang so sweet, so clear,—
And oh! I sang so sweet, so clear,—
Then nearer, nearer—killing near;

And back she flung the window-rod,
The moonlight swept in, like a stream;
She drew me to her neck—Oh! God,
’Twas then I knew it was a dream!


Date: 1895

By: Théophile-Jules-Henri “Theo” Marzials (1850-1920)

Friday, 12 March 2021

The Idler by Alice Ruth Moore Dunbar Nelson

An idle lingerer on the wayside’s road,
He gathers up his work and yawns away;
A little longer, ere the tiresome load
Shall be reduced to ashes or to clay.

No matter if the world has marched along,
And scorned his slowness as it quickly passed;
No matter, if amid the busy throng,
He greets some face, infantile at the last.

His mission? Well, there is but one,
And if it is a mission he knows it, nay,
To be a happy idler, to lounge and sun,
And dreaming, pass his long-drawn days away.

So dreams he on, his happy life to pass
Content, without ambitions painful sighs,
Until the sands run down into the glass;
He smiles-content-unmoved and dies

And yet, with all the pity that you feel
For this poor mothling of that flame, the world;
Are you the better for your desperate deal,
When you, like him, into infinitude are hurled?


Date: 1895

By: Alice Ruth Moore Dunbar Nelson (1875-1935)

Friday, 25 December 2020

Christmas Comes Again by Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Let me be merry now, ’t is time;
The season is at hand
For Christmas rhyme and Christmas chime,
Close up, and form the band.

The winter fires still burn as bright,
The lamp-light is as clear,
And since the dead are out of sight,
What hinders Christmas cheer?

Why think or speak of that abyss
In which lies all my Past?
High festival I need not miss,
While song and jest shall last.

We’ll clink and drink on Christmas Eve,
Our ghosts can feel no wrong;
They revelled ere they took their leave—
Hearken, my Soldier’s Song:

“The morning air doth coldly pass,
Comrades, to the saddle spring;
The night more bitter cold will bring
Ere dying—ere dying.
Sweetheart, come, the parting glass;
Glass and sabre, clash, clash, clash,
Ere dying—ere dying.
Stirrup-cup and stirrup-kiss—
Do you hope the foe we’ll miss,
Sweetheart, for this loving kiss,
Ere dying—ere dying?”

The feasts and revels of the year
Do ghosts remember long?
Even in memory come they here?
Listen, my Sailor’s song:

“O my hearties. yo heave ho!
Anchor’s up in Jolly Bay—
Pipes and swipes, hob and nob—
Mermaid Bess and Dolphin Meg,
Paddle over Jolly Bay—
Tars, haul in for Christmas Day,
For round the ’varsal deep we go;
Never church, never bell,
For to tell
Of Christmas Day.
Yo heave ho, my hearties O!
Haul in, mates, here we lay—

His sword is rusting in its sheath,
His flag furled on the wall;
We’ll twine them with a holly-wreath,
With green leaves cover all.

So clink and drink when falls the eve;
But, comrades, hide from me
Their graves—I would not see them heave
Beside me, like the sea.

Let not my brothers come again,
As men dead in their prime;
Then hold my hands, forget my pain,
And strike the Christmas chime.


Date: 1895

By: Elizabeth Drew Stoddard (1823-1902)

Sunday, 14 July 2019

The Marseillaise by Paul Déroulède

Have pity on yourselves and cease that song;
In silence, when the hour comes, march along
Like vanquished heroes whose undaunted breath
Whispers one word: ‘Revenge!’ — or haply ‘Death!’

Yet hear the accursëd story and be stirred:
Or if your ears in bygone days have heard
On many a trembling tongue the twice-told tale
‘Tis well; no need drive home the hammered nail!

You love, no doubt you love, our people’s hymn?
You love its sacred rage, its transports grim:
And, like proud sons, you feel in its song-fires
The quenchless spirit of your puissant sires.
Its rousing voice recalls our flag unfurled,
Floating to the four corners of the world,
Nations struck dumb and kings that looked askance;
You think of that? Our great and glorious France!
Think of this too, the day of our defeat,
Sedan — a name that with bowed heads you greet —
Frenchmen, remember in that surge of woes,
When conquered France surrendered to her foes,
When in crushed souls our soldiers bore unmanned
The mangled ghost of the poor fatherland,
When all was lost and leaving the fought field
Our troops, disarmed, were forced at last to yield —
O unforgotten blow! O worst of evil days!
Loud from the Prussian trumpets shrilled the Marseillaise!

From: Robertson, William John (ed. and transl.), A Century of French Verse: Brief biographical and critical notices of thirty-three French poets of the nineteenth century with experimental translations from their poems, 1895, A. D. Innes & Co.: London, p. 299.

Date: 1872 (original in French); 1895 (translation in English)

By: Paul Déroulède (1846-1914)

Translated by: William John Robertson (1846-1894)

Sunday, 16 September 2018

Lament Not, Wayfarer by Carphyllidas

Lament not, wayfarer, that passest by my tomb;
not even in death have I any cause for tears.
Children’s children do I leave:
with one wife was I blessed, whose years were as my own.
Three sons I gave in marriage,
and oft have I rocked their children on my breast.
Nor death nor sickness of one of them all have I bewailed,
but they have given me due rites of funeral, and sent me
to sleep the sleep delectable, in the land of the leal.

From: Tomson, Graham R. (ed.), Selections from the Greek Anthology, 1895, Walter Scott: London, p. 95.

Date: 1st century BCE (original in Greek); 1895 (translation in English)

By: Carphyllidas (1st century BCE)

Translated by: Andrew Lang (1844-1912)

Saturday, 9 September 2017

Catharine of Arragon by Eloise Albert Veronica Bibb Thompson

So tired! so weary—
The race—has been long,
And the paths have been rugged,
The winds have been strong,—
And the heart it has weakened,
In tempests so strong.

Soul, thou art sick
With the fever of strife,
Of delusions of hope
That will poison a life,
Of a world that is foul
With the passions of life;

Of a world that is false,
Souls that are vain,
Of men with a conscience
Who live to give pain,
Of words from the fair that hide
Vials of pain.

Of minds that are blackened
With crime and with sinning,
That seek to ensnare.
I am tired of the spinning
Of these;—yes, so terribly
Tired of their spinning.

So tired! so weary—
Of men and of things,
Of the woes of a life-time,
That time ever brings;
Of the cares and the sorrows
That life ever brings!

From: Bibb, Eloise A., Poems, 1996, University of Michigan Humanities Text Initiative: Ann Arbor, Michigan pp. 96-97.

Date: 1895

By: Eloise Albert Veronica Bibb Thompson (1878-1928)

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Derelict by Elisabeth Jones Cavazza Pullen

She wanders up and down the main
Without a master, nowhere bound;
The currents turn her round and round,
Her track is like a tangled skein;
And never helmsman by his chart
So strange a way as hers may steer
To enter port or to depart
For any harbor far or near.

The waters clamor at her sides,
The winds cry through her cordage torn,
The last sail hangs, to tatters worn;
Upon the waves the vessel rides
This way or that, as winds may shift,
In ghastly dance when airs blow balm,
Or held in a lethargic calm,
Or fury-hunted, wild, adrift.

When south winds blow, does she recall
Spices and golden fruits in store?
Or north winds—nets off Labrador
And icebergs’ iridescent wall?
Or east—the isles of Indian seas?
Or west—new ports and sails unfurled?
Her voyages all around the world
To mock her with old memories?

For her no light-house sheds a ray
Of crimson warning from its tower;
No watchers wait in hope the hour
To greet her coming up the bay;
No trumpet speaks her, hearty, hoarse—
Or if a captain hail at first,
He sees her for a thing accursed,
And turns his own ship from her course.

Alone, in desperate liberty
She forges on; and how she fares
No man alive inquires, or cares
Though she were sunk beneath the sea.
Her helm obeys no firm control,
She drifts—a prey for storms to take,
For sands to clutch, for rocks to break—
A ship condemned, like a lost soul.


Date: c1895

By: Elisabeth Jones Cavazza Pullen (1849-1926)

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.

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.

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.


Date: 1895

By: Grace Elizabeth Jennings Carmichael (1868-1904)