Cradle Song
by Florence Earle Coates (1850-1927)
Thy heart and mine are one, my dear,
At dawn and set of sun;
When skies are bright, when days are drear,
Thy heart and mine are one!
About us move the hapless folk
Whom paltry things estrange;
The friends that feel their bond a yoke,
The loves that lightly change;
But thou and I, my bonny child,
Their dangers blithely shun,
Nor can by folly be beguiled,—
For thou and I are one!
Views: 30
Song (from “Acis and Galatea”)
by John Gay (1685-1732)
O ruddier than the cherry,
O sweeter than the berry,
O Nymph more bright
Than moonshine night,
Like kidlings blithe and merry.
Ripe as the melting cluster,
No lily has such lustre,
Yet hard to tame,
As raging flame,
And fierce as storms that bluster.
Views: 59
The Soul’s Defiance
by Lavinia Stoddard (1787-1820)
I said to Sorrow’s awful storm,
That beat against my breast,
Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form,
And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit that now brooks
Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks
With steadfast eye.
I said to Penury’s meagre train,
Come on—your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.
I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on—I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit, which you see
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
Its high-born smiles.
I said to Friendship’s menaced blow,
Strike deep—my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe
To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains
This last severe distress
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.
I said to Death’s uplifted dart,
Aim sure—oh, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall pass away.
Views: 49
The Cry of the Dreamer
by John Boyle O’Reilly (1844-1890)
I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives for ever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
I am sick of the showy seeming
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts endeavour
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever
And a thinker dies in a day.
I can feel no pride but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skilful
And the child-mind chocked with weeds!
The daughter’s heart grown wilful,
And the father’s heart that bleeds!
No, no! from the streat’s rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods’ low rustle
And the meadows’ kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved by the dream away;
For the dreamer lives for ever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
Views: 53
Love’s Phases
by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly—
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling—
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
Views: 51
Thorp Green
by Branwell Brontë (1817-1848)
I sit, this evening, far away,
From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
Of happy long ago.
Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
But clouds o’ercast my skies.
Yes—Memory, wherefore does thy voice
Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
In thoughts and prospects new?
I’ll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
When troubled thoughts are mine—
For thou, like suns in April’s shower,
On shadowy scenes wilt shine.
I’ll thank thee when approaching death
Would quench life’s feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
With thy sweet word ‛Remember’!
Views: 43
In Answer to a Lady Who Advised Retirement
by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762)
You little know the heart that you advise:
I view this various scene with equal eyes;
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I know;
Pitied the folly, and despis’d the show;
Well as I can, my tedious part I bear,
And wait dismissal without pain or fear.
Seldom I mark mankind’s detested ways,
Not hearing censure or affecting praise;
And unconcern’d my future fate I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just!
Views: 53
Beer
by George Arnold (1834-1865)
Here,
With my beer
I sit,
While golden moments flit:
Alas!
They pass
Unheeded by:
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
Sit, idly sipping here
My beer.
O, finer far
Than fame, or riches, are
The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar!
Why
Should I
Weep, wail, or sigh?
What if luck has passed me by?
What if my hopes are dead,—
My pleasures fled?
Have I not still
My fill
Of right good cheer,—
Cigars and beer?
Go, whining youth,
Forsooth!
Go, weep and wail,
Sigh and grow pale,
Weave melancholy rhymes
On the old times,
Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,—
But leave me to my beer!
Gold is dross,—
Love is loss,—
So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
Or see them drown
In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
Then do I wear the crown,
Without the cross!
Views: 36
Ode to the Evening Star
by Mark Akenside (1721-1770)
To-night retir’d, the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays:
And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
O Hesper! while the starry throng
With awe thy path surrounds,
Oh, listen to my suppliant song,
If haply now the vocal sphere
Can suffer thy delighted ear
To stoop to mortal sounds.
So may the bridegroom’s genial strain
Thee still invoke to shine;
So may the bride’s unmarried train
To Hymen chant their flattering vow,
Still that his lucky torch may glow
With lustre pure as thine.
Far other vows must I prefer
To thy indulgent power.
Alas! but now I paid my tear
On fair Olympia’s virgin tomb:
And lo, from thence, in quest I roam
Of Philomela’s bower.
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm:
But lead where music’s healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow’d,
These lawns, Olympia’s haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk’d,
Or fix’d, while Philomela talk’d,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compell’d,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark: I hear her liquid tone.
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o’ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Enlarg’d it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o’er half the level mead,
Inclos’d in woods profound.
Hark, how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends:
The stars shine out: the forest bends:
The wakeful heifers gaze.
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequester’d spot,
If then the plaintive Syren sing,
Oh, softly tread beneath her bower,
And think of Heaven’s disposing power,
Of man’s uncertain lot.
Oh, think, o’er all this mortal stage,
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage:
How often virtue dwells with woe:
How many griefs from knowledge flow;
How swiftly pleasure flies.
O sacred bird, let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature’s common cares,
Till I forget my own.
Views: 37
Abou Ben Adhem
by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)
because today is World Humanist Day
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold;
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed;
And, lo! Ben Adhem ‘s name led all the rest.
Views: 41