Happiness
by James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)

Wing-Footed! thou abid’st with him
That asks it not: but he who hath
Watched o’er the waves thy fading path
Will never more on ocean’s rim,
At morn or eve, behold returning
Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning:
Thou only teachest us the core
And inmost meaning of No More,
Thou, who first showest us thy face
Turned o’er the shoulder’s parting grace,
And whose sad footprints we can trace
Away from every mortal door!

Views: 29

Stanzas on the Ocean
from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV
by Lord Byron (1788-1824)

                        CLXXIX.
      Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!
⁠      Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
⁠      Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
⁠      Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
⁠      The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
⁠      A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
⁠      When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
⁠      He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan—
Without a grave—unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

                        CLXXX

      His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
⁠      Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise
⁠      And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
⁠      For Earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
⁠      Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies—
⁠      And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
⁠      And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies
⁠      His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to Earth:—there let him lay.

                        CLXXXI

      The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
⁠      Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
⁠      And Monarchs tremble in their Capitals,
⁠      The oak Leviathans, whose huge ribs make
⁠      Their clay creator the vain title take
⁠      Of Lord of thee, and Arbiter of War—
⁠      These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
⁠      They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

                        CLXXXII

      Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
⁠      Assyria—Greece—Rome—Carthage—what are they?
⁠      Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
⁠      And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
⁠      The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
⁠      Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou,
⁠      Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play,
⁠      Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—
Such as Creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

                        CLXXXIII

      Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
⁠      Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
⁠      Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm—
⁠      Icing the Pole, or in the torrid clime
⁠      Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime—
⁠      The image of Eternity—the throne
⁠      Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
⁠      The monsters of the deep are made—each Zone
Obeys thee—thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

                        CLXXXIV

      And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
⁠      Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
⁠      Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
⁠      I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
⁠      Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
⁠      Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,
⁠      For I was as it were a Child of thee,
⁠      And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

Views: 43

“When smoke stood up from Ludlow”
by Alfred Edward Houseman (1859-1936)

When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
      And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
      Against the morning beam
      I strode beside my team,

The blackbird in the coppice
      Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
      The trampling team beside,
      And fluted and replied:

“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
      What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
      Yet down at last he lies,
      And then the man is wise.”

I heard the tune he sang me,
      And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
      And threw it with a will:
      Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me
      Took up the blackbird’s strain,
And still beside the horses
      Along the dewy lane
      It sang the song again:

“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
      The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labour
      Will lead one home to rest,
      And that will be the best.”

Views: 22

The Prospectus to The Excursion
by William Wordsworth (1780-1850)

“On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life
Musing in Solitude, I oft perceive
Fair trains of imagery before me rise,
Accompanied by feelings of delight
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed;
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh
The good and evil of our mortal state.
—To these emotions, whencesoe’er they come,
Whether from breath of outward circumstance,
Or from the Soul—an impulse to herself,
I would give utterance in numerous Verse.
—Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope—
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;
Of blessed consolations in distress;
Of moral strength, and intellectual power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject there
To Conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all;
I sing:—“fit audience let me find though few!”

Continue reading …

Views: 36

Heimweh
by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Anders wird die Welt mit jedem Schritt,
Den ich weiter von der Liebsten mache;
Mein Herz, das will nicht weiter mit.
Hier scheint die Sonne kalt ins Land,
Hier deucht mir alles unbekannt,
Sogar die Blumen am Bache!
Hat jede Sache
So fremd eine Miene, so falsch ein Gesicht.
Das Bächlein murmelt wohl und spricht:
Armer Knabe, komm bei mir vorüber,
Siehst auch hier Vergißmeinnicht!
– Ja, die sind schön an jedem Ort,
Aber nicht wie dort.
Fort, nur fort!
Die Augen gehn mir über!

Views: 31

The Man From Snowy River
by Andrew Barton “Banjo” Patterson (1864-1941)

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
         That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
         So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
         Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
         And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
         The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
         He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
         No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
         He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
         He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
         And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
         There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
         And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
         And the old man said, ‛That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you’d better stop away,
         Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
         ‛I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;
‛I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
         For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

‛He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
         Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
         The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
         Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
         But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
         They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‛Boys, go at them from the jump,
         No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
         Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
         If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
         Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
         With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
         But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
         And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
         Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
         From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
         Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, ‛We may bid the mob good day,
         No man can hold them down the other side.’

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
         It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
         Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
         And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
         While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
         He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
         It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
         Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
         At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
         And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
         As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
         In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
         With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
         He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
         And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
         He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
         For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
         Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
         At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
         To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
         And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Views: 59

Not Understood
by Thomas Bracken (1843-1898)

Not understood, we move along asunder;
   Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep
Along the years; we marvel and we wonder
   Why life is life, and then we fall asleep
      Not understood.

Not understood, we gather false impressions
   And hug them closer as the years go by;
Till virtues often seem to us transgressions;
   And thus men rise and fall, and live and die
      Not understood.

Not understood! Poor souls with stunted vision
   Oft measure giants with their narrow gauge;
The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision
   Are oft impelled ’gainst those who mould the age,
      Not understood.

Not understood! The secret springs of action
   Which lie beneath the surface and the show,
Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction
   We judge our neighbours, and they often go
      Not understood.

Not understood! How trifles often change us!
   The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slight
Destroy long years of friendship, and estrange us,
   And on our souls there falls a freezing blight;
      Not understood.

Not understood! How many breasts are aching
   For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day
How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking!
   How many noble spirits pass away,
      Not understood.

O God! that men would see a little clearer,
   Or judge less harshly where they cannot see!
O God! that men would draw a little nearer
   To one another, – they’d be nearer Thee,
      And understood.

Views: 30

Time and Grief
by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850)

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile:
As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:—
      Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure,
      Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Views: 31

Be Near Me
(Section L of In Memoriam A.H.H.)
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Be near me when my light is low,
      When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
      And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame
      Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust;
      And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,
      And men the flies of latter spring,
      That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,
      To point the term of human strife,
      And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.

Views: 33