Dear Harp of My Country
by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
      The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
      And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
      Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
      That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
      This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
      Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
      Have throbbed at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
      And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

Views: 2

Le Vase brisée
by René Armand François “Sully” Prudhome (1839-1907)

Le vase où meurt cette verveine
D’un coup d’éventail fut fêlé;
Le coup dut effleurer à peine:
Aucun bruit ne l’a révélé.

Mais la légère meurtrissure,
Mordant le cristal chaque jour,
D’une marche invisible et sûre
En a fait lentement le tour.

Son eau fraîche a fui goutte à goutte,
Le suc des fleurs s’est épuisé;
Personne encore ne s’en doute;
N’y touchez pas, il est brisé.

Souvent aussi la main qu’on aime,
Effleurant le cœur, le meurtrit;
Puis le cœur se fend de lui-même,
La fleur de son amour périt;

Toujours intact aux yeux du monde,
Il sent croître et pleurer tout bas
Sa blessure fine et profonde;
Il est brisé, n’y touchez pas.

Views: 2

At the Polo-Ground
by Samuel Ferguson (1810-1886)

Not yet in sight.’Twere well to step aside,
Beyond the common eye-shot, till he comes.
He—I’ve no quarrel under heaven with him:
I’d rather it were Forster; rather still
One higher up than either; but since Fate
Or Chance has so determined, be it he.
How cool I feel; and all my wits about
And vigilant; and such a work in hand!
Yes: loitering here, unoccupied, may draw
Remark and question. How came such a one there?
Oh; I’ve strolled out to see the polo-players:
I’ll step across to them; but keep an eye
On who comes up the highway.
                                    Here I am
Beside the hurdles fencing off the ground
They’ve taken from us who have the right to it,
For these select young gentry and their sport.
Curse them! I would they all might break their necks!
Young fops and lordlings of the garrison
Kept up by England here to keep us down:
All rich young fellows not content to own
Their chargers, hacks, and hunters for the field,
But also special ponies for their game;
And doubtless, as they dash along, regard
Us who stand outside as a beggarly crew.—
’Tis half-past six. Not yet. No, that’s not he.—
Well, but ’tis pretty, sure, to see them stoop
And take the ball, full gallop; and when I
In gown and cocked hat once drove up Cork Hill,
Perhaps myself have eyed the common crowd,
Lining the footway, with a similar sense
Of higher station, just as these do me,
And as the man next door no doubt does them.
      ’Tis very sure that grades and differences
Of rich and poor and small men and grandees
Have all along existed, and still will,—
Though many a man has risen and thriven well
By promising the Poor to make them rich
By taking from the Rich their overplus,
And putting all on a level: beggars all.
Yet still the old seize-ace comes round again;
And though my friends upon the pathway there—
No. Not he neither. That’s a taller man—
Look for a general scramble and divide,
Such a partition, were it possible,
Would not by any means suit me. My share
Already earned and saved would equal ten
Such millionth quotients and sub-multiples.
No: they may follow Davitt. ’Tis Parnell
And property—in proper hands—will win.
But, say the Mob’s the Master; and who knows
But some o’ these days the ruffians may have votes
As good as mine or his, and pass their Act
For every man his share, and equal all?
No doubt they’d have a slice from me. What then?
I’m not afraid. I’ll float. Allow the scums
Rise to the surface, something rises too
Not scum, but Carey; and will yet rise higher.
No place too high but he may look for it.
Member for Dublin, Speaker, President,
Lord Mayor for life—why not? One gentleman,
Who when he comes to deal with this day’s work—
No: not in sight. That man is not so tall—
Will find, to his surprise, a stronger hand
Than his controls the rudder, sat three years
And hangs his medal on the sheriff’s chain.
Yes; say Lord Mayor: my liveries green and gold,
My secretary with me in my coach,
And chaplain duly seated by my side.
My boy shall have his hack, and pony too,
And play at polo with the best of them;
Such as will then be best. He need not blush
To think his father was a bricklayer;
For laying bricks is work as reputable
As filling noggins or appraising pawns,
Or other offices of those designed
For fathers of our Dublin swells to be.
      ’Tis twenty minutes now to seven o’clock.
What if he should not come at all? ’Twere then
Another—oh—fiasco as they call it,
Not pleasant to repeat to Number One,
But, for myself, perhaps not wholly bad.
For, if he comes, there will be consequences
Will make a stir; and in that stir my name
May come in play—well, one must run some risk
Who takes a lead and keeps and thrives by it
As I have done. But sure the risk is small.
I know those cut-throats on the pathway there
May be relied on. Theirs is work that shuts
The door against approval of both sorts.
But he who drives them, I’ve remarked in him
A flighty indecision in the eye,
Such as, indeed, had I a looking-glass,
I might perhaps discover in my own
When thoughts have crossed me how I should behave
In this or that conjuncture of the affair.
Him I distrust. But not from him or them
Or any present have I aught to fear.
For never have I talked to more than one
Of these executive agents at a time,
Nor let a scrap of writing leave my hand
Could compromise myself with anyone.
And should I—though I don’t expect I shall—
Be brought, at any time, to book for this,
’Twill not be—or I much mistake—because
Of any indiscretion hitherto.
But, somehow, these reflections make me pause
And set me inly questioning myself,
Is it worth while—the crime itself apart—
To pull this settled civil state of life
To pieces, for another just the same,
Only with rawer actors for the posts
Of Judges, Landlords, Masters, Capitalists?
And then, the innocent blood. I’ve half a mind
To trip across the elm-root at my foot,
And turn my ankle.
                           Oh, he comes at last!
No time for thinking now. My own life pays
Unless I play my part. I see he brings
Another with him, and, I think, the same
I heard them call Lord—something—Cavendish.
If one; two, likely. That can’t now be helped.
Up. Drive on straight,—if I blow my nose
And show my handkerchief in front of them,
And then turn back, what’s that to anyone?
No further, driver. Back to Island Bridge.
No haste. If some acquaintance chanced top pass,
He must not think that we are running away.
I don’t like, but I can’t help looking back.
They meet: my villains pass them. Gracious Powers,
Another failure! No, they turn again
And overtake; and Brady lifts his arm—
I’ll see no more. On—by the Monument.
On—brisker, brisker—but yet leisurely.
By this time all is over with them both.
Ten minutes more, the Castle has the news,
And haughty Downing Street in half an hour
Is struck with palsy. For a moment there,
Among the trees, I wavered. Brady’s knife
Has cut the knot of my perplexities;
Despite myself, my fortune mounts again.
The English rule will soon be overthrown,
And ours established in the place of it.
I’m free again to look, as long as I please,
In Fortune’s show-box. Yes; I see the chain,
I see the gilded coach. God send the boy
May take the polish! There’s but one thing now
That troubles me. These cursed knives at home
That woman brought me, what had best be done
To put them out o’ the way? I have it. Yes,
That old Fitzsimon’s roof’s in need of repairs.
I’ll leave them in his cock-loft. Still in time
To catch the tram, I’ll take a seat a-top—
For no one must suppose I’ve anything
To hide—and show myself in Grafton Street.

Views: 3

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
      Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
      Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
      The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
      That live in this beautiful sea;
      Nets of silver and gold have we!”
            Said Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
      As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
      Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
      That lived in that beautiful sea—
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
      Never afeard are we!”
      So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
      To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
      Bringing the fishermen home;
’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
      As if it could not be,
And some folks thought ‘t was a dream they’d dreamed
      Of sailing that beautiful sea—
      But I shall name you the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
      And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
      Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
      Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
      As you rock in the misty sea,
      Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

Views: 3

“Of Paul and Silas it is said” (No. 1166)
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Of Paul and Silas it is said
There were in Prison laid
But when they went to take them out
They were not there instead.

Security the same insures
To our assaulted Minds —
The staple must be optional
That an Immortal binds.

Views: 3

Ichabod
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
   Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
   Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath
   A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
   Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion’s stormy rage,
   When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
   Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
   A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
   From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him
   Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
   Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,
   From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
   In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught
   Save power remains;
A fallen angel’s pride of thought,
   Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
   The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
   The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
   To his dead fame;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
   And hide the shame!

Views: 2

I Hear It was Charged against Me
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions;
But really I am neither for nor against institutions;
(What indeed have I in common with them?—Or what with the destruction of them?)
Only I will establish in the Mannahatta, and in every city of These States, inland and seaboard,
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that dents the water,
Without edifices, or rules, or trustees, or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.

Views: 1

The Lark Ascending
by George Meredith (1828-1909)

He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolved and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changeingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music’s mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardour, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discerned
An ecstasy to music turned,
Impelled by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renewed in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow,
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight,
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flushed to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit’s chime
On mountain heights in morning’s prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him raised,
Puts on the light of children praised,
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promised from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment.

For singing till his heaven fills,
’Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labour in the town;
He sings the sap, the quickened veins,
The wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.

Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink:
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of truthful in a tuneful throat,
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.

Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve and pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain’s reflex of yon bird:
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.

Views: 4

Woods in Winter
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

When winter winds are piercing chill,
      And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
      That overbrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away
      Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
      And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
      The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
      The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
      Pour out the river’s gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater’s iron rings,
      And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
      When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
      And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
      Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
      Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
      Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
      I listen, and it cheers me long.

Views: 9

Noche de luna llena
by Miguel de Unamuna (1864-1936)

Noche blanca en que el agua cristalina
duerme queda en su lecho de laguna
sobre la cual redonda llena luna
que ejército de estrellas encamina

vela, y se espeja una redonda encina
en el espejo sin rizada alguna;
noche blanca en que el agua hace de cuna
de la más alta y más honda doctrina.

Es un rasgón del cielo que abrazado
tiene en sus brazos la Naturaleza;
es un rasgón del cielo que ha posado

y en el silencio de la noche reza
la oración del amante resignado
sólo al amor, que es su única riqueza.

Views: 11