The Slave-Ship
The Slave-ship was winding her course o'er the ocean,
The winds and the waters had sunk into rest;
All hush'd was the whirl of the tempest's commotion,
That late had awaken'd the sailor's devotion,
When terror had kindled remorse in his breast.
And onward she rode, though by curses attended,
Though heavy with guilt was the freight that she bore,
Though with shrieks of despair was the midnight air rended,
And ceaseless the groans of the wretches ascended,
That from friends and from country forever she tore.
On the deck, with his head on his fetter'd hand rested,
He who once was a chief and a warrior stood;
One moment he gain'd, by his foes unmolested,
To think o'er his woes, and the fate he detested,
Till madness was firing his brain and his blood.
“Oh, never!” he murmur'd in anguish, “no, never!
These limbs shall be bent to the menial's toil!
They have reft us, my bride—but they shall not forever
Your chief from his home and his country dissever—
No! never will I be the conqueror's spoil
“Say! long didst thou wait for my coming, my mother?
Did ye bend o'er the desert, my sister, your eye?
And weep at the lengthen'd delay of your brother,
As each slow passing moment was chased by another,
And still he appear'd not a tear-drop to dry.
“But ye shall—yes, again ye shall fondly embrace me!
We will meet my young bride in the land of the blest:
Death, death once again in my country shall place me,
One bound shall forever from fetters release me!”
He burst them, and sunk in the ocean's dark breast.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1825)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
The Soldier's Grave
Breathe not a whisper here;
The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground;
In silence gather near this upheaved mound -
Around the soldier's bier.
Here Liberty may weep,
And Freedom pause in her unchecked career,
To pay the sacred tribute of a tear
O'er the pale warrior's sleep.
That arm now cold in death,
But late on glory's field triumphant bore
Our country's flag; that marble brow once bore
The victor's fadeless wreath.
Rest soldier, sweetly rest;
Affection's gentle hand shall deck thy tomb
With flowers and chaplets of unfading bloom
Be laid upon thy breast.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Kindness
Just one moment is all it took for me
to fall in love forever,
forever and a day.
And what is a moment
in the minutes that you love?
It's as big as an ocean
and the skies up above.
It can be elongated into an eternity
which has no end.
It can consume every breath you take
and can always mend
every separation that eventually
comes along.
Just that one moment is filled with song.
It sings in the heart of me
and fills me with delight.
There's always that one moment
I remember day and night.
A moment of recognition,
a moment of joy
a moment of acceptance
for me to employ
all of my wiles to keep you content,
All of my attempts to keep you spent
as you lay your head upon my breast
and know that we have been so blessed
by just one moment.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Whose Country Is This?
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of snakes;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of many waters;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of thieves! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of oil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of earthquakes!
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of lovers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of volcanoes!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful flowers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hansome men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of roses;
Whose country is this?
it is a land ruled only by men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land without rainfall;
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by a woman;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of corruption!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pirates! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by law;
Whose country is this?
It is a land controlled by rebels!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ice;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of singers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of troubles;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of war! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land with the biggest cemetery in the wolrd!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of desert;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of trees;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant teenagers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of timber;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hatred;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of love;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of care;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of peace;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of smokers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of businesses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of harlots;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of wise people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of idiots!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of gold;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of cocoa;
Whose country is this?
It is a alnd full of crabs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of evil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of rainfalls;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ants;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of horses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pigs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of statues;
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of birds;
And so on, and so forth!
Because nature had made them so as we see them around us,
But the wise and fool live together on this earth.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Looking At The Soldiers
“Mother, the trumpets are sounding to-day,
And the soldiers go by in their gallant array!
Their horses prance gaily, their banners float free,
Come, come to the window, dear mother, with me.
“Do you see how their bayonets gleam in the sun,
And their soldier-plumes nod, as they slowly march on?
And look to the regular tread of their feet!
Keeping time to the sound of the kettle-drum's beat.
“This, mother, you know, is a glorious day,
And Americans all should be joyous and gay;
For the Fourth of July saw our country set free;
But you look not delighted, dear mother, like me!”
“No, love; for that shining and brilliant display,
To me only tells of war's fearful array;
And I know that those bayonets, flashing so bright,
Were made in man's blood to be spoil'd of their light.
“And the music that swells up so sweet to the ear,
In a long gush of melody, joyous and clear,
Just as freely would pour out its wild thrilling flood,
To stir up men's hearts to the shedding of blood!
“Our country, my boy, as you tell me, is free,
But even that thought brings a sadness to me;
For less guilt would be hers, were her own fetter'd hand
Unable to loosen her slaves from their band.
“We joy that our country's light bonds have been broke,
But her sons wear, by thousands, a life-crushing yoke;
And yon bayonets, dear, would be sheathed in their breast,
Should they fling off the shackles that round them are prest.
“Even ‘midst these triumphant rejoicings, to-day,
The slave-mother weeps for her babes, torn away,
'Midst the echoing burst of these shouts, to be sold,
Human forms as they are, for a pittance of gold!
“Can you wonder then, love, that your mother is sad,
Though yon show is so gay, and the crowd is so glad?
Or will not my boy turn with me from the sight,
To think of those slaves sunk in sorrow and night?”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The African Chief
Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name--
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground:--
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.
Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
He was a captive now,
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow.
The scars his dark broad bosom wore,
Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.
Then to his conqueror he spake--
'My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck,
And take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns,
And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,
And gold-dust from the sands.'
'Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
The battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave
Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,
In lands beyond the sea.'
Then wept the warrior chief, and bade
To shred his locks away;
And one by one, each heavy braid
Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,
And closely hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among
The dark and crisped hair.
'Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold
Long kept for sorest need:
Take it--thou askest sums untold,
And say that I am freed.
Take it--my wife, the long, long day,
Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,
And ask in vain for me.'
'I take thy gold--but I have made
Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade
Thy wife will wait thee long.'
Strong was the agony that shook
The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.
His heart was broken--crazed his brain:
At once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain,
Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyena's prey.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!
Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,
For still my heart with agony will swell,
To think, that never more upon my brow,
Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,
As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.
Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more
Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,
As it full oft has done, when tyrant power
Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest
The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart
Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.
Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,
With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,
While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,
Of what must be thy future destiny,
Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,
And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.
But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate
To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—
To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,
To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.
Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,
Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Coeur De Lion At The Bier Of His Father
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier,
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Through dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply-furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show,-
-Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely clos'd in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;
And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile,
As by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear,
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it rais'd;-
For his father lay before him low,
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast,
-But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress'd!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain-
-Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.
He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd-and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.
'Oh, father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again,
I weep-behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!
Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
'Speak to me! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me!-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
-Hush'd, hush'd-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?-woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
'Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive;-
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say-'forgive!'
'Thou wert the noblest king,
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are prov'd
In war, the bravest heart-
-Oh! ever the renown'd and lov'd
Thou wert-and there thou art!
'Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!-
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climb'd thy parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,-
-How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Faithless Boy
THERE was a wooer blithe and gay,
A son of France was he,-
Who in his arms for many a day,
As though his bride were she,
A poor young maiden had caress'd,
And fondly kiss'd, and fondly press'd,
And then at length deserted.
When this was told the nut-brown maid,
Her senses straightway fled;
She laugh'd and wept, and vow'd and pray'd,
And presently was dead.
The hour her soul its farewell took,
The boy was sad, with terror shook,
Then sprang upon his charger.
He drove his spurs into his side,
And scour'd the country round;
But wheresoever he might ride,
No rest for him was found.
For seven long days and nights he rode,
It storm'd, the waters overflow'd,
It bluster'd, lighten'd, thunder'd.
On rode he through the tempest's din,
Till he a building spied;
In search of shelter crept he in,
When he his steed had tied.
And as he groped his doubtful way,
The ground began to rock and sway,-
He fell a hundred fathoms.
When he recover'd from the blow,
He saw three lights pass by;
He sought in their pursuit to go,
The lights appear'd to fly.
They led his footsteps all astray,
Up, down, through many a narrow way
Through ruin'd desert cellars.
When lo! he stood within a hall,
With hollow eyes. and grinning all;
They bade him taste the fare.
A hundred guests sat there.
He saw his sweetheart 'midst the throng,
Wrapp'd up in grave-clothes white and long;
She turn'd, and--
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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New Year's Eve
Night! with its thousand stars, and the deep hush
That makes its darkness solemn! The winds rush
In troubled music, o'er the wooded hill,
And the wide plain where creeps the fetter'd rill,
In wintry silence; but a softer sound
Of melody from man's lit halls swells round
No slumber yet to-night! the hours fleet on,
With converse, song, and laughter's joyous tone;
The young and gay are met in social mirth,
Or the home circle gathers round the hearth,
Or swelling upwards from the house of prayer,
The voice of praise concludes the passing year.
'T is almost midnight now;—hark! hush!—the bell
At once a note of triumph and a knell!
A sudden silence—the quick breath quell'd,
The speaker's voice in mute suspension held;
What thousand thoughts are in that moment press'd—
Past, present, future, crowding on the breast,
As stroke by stroke tolls on!—and then a start—
A sudden lightning of the eye and heart,
A burst of joyous greeting—such as here
We wish you, friends beloved—a happy year!
So speeds time on! scarce seems a moment sped,
Since first we hail'd the year that now has fled.
So speeds time on—but hath it left no trace,
That future hours shall never more efface?
Go, turn to Poland! may her sons forget
Their desolated fields with carnage wet?
Their bright brief hopes,—their struggle, fierce and proud,
With the stern despot ‘neath whose yoke they bow'd,
The lightning thrill that flash'd through every breast,
When wakening freedom waved her eagle crest,
Their hopes upspringing almost from despair,
And burning with a short illusive glare,
Soon to be quench'd in blood? Oh, God of Peace!
Must such wild scenes of carnage never cease?
Is blood “pour'd out like water,” still to be
The price of man's high yearning to be free?
Woe for the tyrant's selfishness and pride,
That hath to man his holiest rights denied!
Is life too poor in ills?—hath death so scant
His fearful quiver stored, that man should pant
To give the earth red graves? Ah! when shall right
Her nobler triumphs seek by moral light,
And learn that e'en the sweets of liberty
Are bought, with slaughter, at a price too high?
And when shall our own banner cease to wave
Its starry folds in mockery o'er the slave?
Oh! blot upon our land, and heavy shame
That e'er Columbia should bear such name!—.
That men, like beasts, should be enslaved and sold
For a base pittance of mere sordid gold;
That women's limbs beneath the scourge should bleed,
The swollen pomp of luxury to feed;
And in the freest nation known on earth,
The licensed thief invade the household hearth;
The purest, best affections of the heart,
And the strong ties of kindred rend apart,
And seizing, fiend-like, on his helpless prey,
Tear them forever from their homes away.
Oh, when shall tyrants learn that human veins
Bear pulses that were never made for chains:
And loose their links before the oppress'd one's band
Becomes a deadly weapon in his hand!
Our brethren found it such;—in southern halls,
The cold damp foot of desolation falls;
Young gladsome eyes that late were sparkling bright,
With the free spirit's joyous gush of light,
Mothers made happy by the bursts of glee
From the gay creatures grouped about their knee,
The brow of hoary eld—all, all are there,
With the pale look of anguish and despair:
Or, smitten rudely to the reeking earth,
Have deluged with their blood their own loved hearth.
Alas, alas, for them! alas, for those
Who still in white-lipp'd terror wait their foes!
And woe for all the oppressors’ haughty guilt,
And the fresh blood his vengeful hand hath spilt!
Oh, Heaven! in mercy yield them yet a space
To speak with tears of penitence thy grace!
Touch their steel'd hearts with thy dissolving love,
And their vile stains of prejudice remove,
That they may learn, upon the negro's face,
A brother's lineaments at last to trace;
And strike away the soul-degrading chains
Which long have hung upon his swollen veins;
That mad relentless hatred may no more
Flood the red earth with streams of mingled gore,
And other new years o'er our country rise,
With brighter aspect and more cloudless skies.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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The Trifler
Death's the lover that I'd be taking;
Wild and fickle and fierce is he.
Small's his care if my heart be breaking-
Gay young Death would have none of me.
Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!
No one other my mouth had kissed.
I had dressed me in silk to meet him-
False young Death would not hold the tryst.
Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,
Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;
I must wait till he whistles for me-
Proud young Death would not turn his head.
I must wait till my breast is wilted.
I must wait till my back is bowed,
I must rock in the corner, jilted-
Death went galloping down the road.
Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.
Fine he was in the game he played-
Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,
And rode away with a prettier maid.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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The Exile Of Erin
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sign'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle fo the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion.
He sang the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh!
'Sad is my fate!'- said the heart-broken stranger -
'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me!
Never again, in my green, sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin Go Bragh!
'Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas! in a far - foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!-
They died to defend me!- or live to deplore!
'Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
'Yet - all its fond recollections suppressing -
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin!- an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!- Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sind aloud with devotion,-
ERIN MAVOURNEEN! ERIN GO BRAGH!'
poem by Thomas Campbell
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We did not own this country (in answer to Mathews Phosa)
We did not own this country
the Lord gave it to our ancestors
and when they stepped ashore here,
hordes came from eMbo out of the north
and the country also did not belong to them.
Let you see us as intruders,
you yourself are intruders,
a multitude of people out of the tribes
of Zulu, Xhosa, Swazi en Pondo
came from the big lakes under leadership
of chief Dklamini and later chief Nguni.
Our ancestors made a sacred covenant with God
to be able to survive
and still this relationship is held high
as forever God remains the same
and the people that now governs
do not represent me, are proclaiming laws
that are oppressing my Afrikaner people and me,
making me a third rate citizen
and I did not surrender this country
even less have left it
or have neglected any civil duties
and I am waiting on the salvation
coming out of the hand
of the almighty God.
[References: “Bulala Bathakathi” and “ons het ons land verlaat” (we left the country / land) by Mathews Phosa. (The poet Mathews Phosa is the premier of the Orange Free State province) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Aletheia To Phraortes
AFTER THE SACKAGE OF MILETOS
Phraortes! where art thou?
The flames were panting after us, their darts Had pierced to many hearts
Before the Gods, who heard nor prayer nor vow;
Temples had sunk to earth, and other smoke
O'er riven altars broke
Than curled from myrrh and nard,
When like a God among
Arm'd hosts and unarm'd throng
Thee I discern'd, implored, and caught one brief regard.
Thou passest: from thy side
Sudden two bowmen ride
And hurry me away.
Thou and. all hope were gone
They loost me . . and alone
In a closed tent 'mid gory arms I lay.
How did my tears then burn
When, dreading thy return,
Behold thee reappear!
Nor helm nor sword nor spear .
In violet gold-hemm'd vest
Thou camest forth; too soon!
Fallen at thy feet, claspt to thy breast,
I struggle, sob, and swoon.
'O send me to my mother! bid her come,
And take my last farewell!
One blow!. . enough for both. . one tomb. .
'Tis there our happy dwell.'
Thou orderest: call'd and gone
At once they are who breathe for thy command.
Thou stoodest nigh me, soothing every moan,
And pressing in both thine my hand,
Then, and then only, when it tore
My hair to hide my face;
And gently did thy own bend o'er
The abject head war-doomed to dire disgrace.
Ionian was thy tongue,
And when thou badest me to raise
That head, nor fear in aught thy gaze,
I dared look up . . but dared not long.
'Wait, maiden, wait! if none are here
Bearing a charm to charm a tear,
There may (who knows?) be found at last
Some solace for the sorrow past.'
My mother, ere the sounds had ceast,
Burst in, and drew me down:
Her joy o'erpowered us both, her breast
Covered lost friends and ruin'd town.
Sweet thought! but yielding now
To many harsher! By what blow
Art thou dissevered from me? War,
That hath career'd too far,
Closeth his pinions. 'Come, Phraortes, come
To thy fond friends at home!'
Thus beckons Love. Away then, wishes wild!
O may thy mother be as blest
As one whose eyes will sink to rest
Blessing thee for her rescued child!
Ungenerous stil my heart must be:
Throughout the young and festive train
Which thou revisitest again
May none be happier (this I fear) than she!
poem by Walter Savage Landor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Euphelia
As roam'd a pilgrim o'er the mountain drear,
On whose lone verge the foaming billows roar,
The wail of hopeless sorrow pierc'd his ear,
And swell'd at distance on the sounding shore.
The mourner breath'd her deep complaint to night,
Her moan she mingled with the rapid blast,
That bar'd her bosom in its wasting flight,
And o'er the earth her scatter'd tresses cast,
"Ye winds," she cried, "still heave the lab'ring deep,
The mountain shake, the howling forest rend;
Still dash the shiv'ring fragments from the steep,
Nor for a wretch like me the storm suspend.
"Ah, wherefore wish the rising storm to spare?
Ah, why implore the raging winds to save?
What refuge can the breast, where lives despair,
Desire but death?--what shelter but the grave?
"To me congenial is the gloom of night,
The savage howlings that infest the air;
I unappall'd can view the fatal light
That issues from the pointed lightning's glare.
"And yet erewhile, if night her shadows threw
O'er the known woodlands of my native vale,
Fancy in visions wild the landscape drew,
And swell'd with boding sounds the whisp'ring gale.
"But deep despair has arm'd my timid soul,
And agony has numb'd the throb of fear;
Taught a weak heart its terrors to controul,
And more to court than shun the danger near.
"Yet could I welcome the return of light,
Its glimm'ring beam might guide my searching eye;
The sacred spot might then emerge from night
On which a lover's bleeding relics lie.
"For sure 'twas here, as late a shepherd stray'd,
Bewilder'd, o'er the mountain's dreary bound,
Close to the pointed cliff he saw him laid,
Where heav'd the waters of the deep around.
"Alas, no longer could his heart endure
The woes that heart was doom'd for me to prove;
He sought for death--for death the only cure
That fate has not refus'd to hopeless love!
"My sire, unjust while passion swell'd his breast,
From the lov'd ALFRED his EUPHELIA tore;
Mock'd the keen sorrows that my soul opprest,
And bade me--vainly bade me, love no more.
"He told me love was like yon troubled deep,
Whose restless billows never know repose,
Are wildly dash'd upon the rocky steep,
And tremble to the slightest breeze that blows!
"From those rude scenes remote her gentle balm,
Dear to the suff'ring spirit, peace applies;
Peace! 'tis th' oblivious lake's detested calm,
Whose dull, slow waters never fall or rise.
"Ah, what avails a parent's stern command,
The force of conqu'ring passion to subdue?
Ah, wherefore seek to rend with cruel hand
The ties enchanted love so fondly drew?
"Yet I could see my ALFRED'S fix'd despair,
And, aw'd by filial fear, conceal my woes!
My coward heart could separation bear,
And check the struggling anguish as it rose!
"'Twas guilt the barb'rous mandate to obey,
Which bade no parting sigh my bosom move!
Victim of duty's unrelenting sway,
I seem'd a traitor, while a slave to love!
"Let her who seal'd a lover's fate, endure
The sharpest pressure of deserv'd distress;
'Twere added perfidy to seek a cure,
And, stain'd with falsehood, wish to suffer less.
"For wretches doom'd in other griefs to pine,
Oft will benignant hope her ray impart;
And pity oft from her celestial shrine
Drop a warm tear upon the fainting heart:
"But o'er the lasting gloom of love's despair,
Can hope's bright ray its cheering visions shed?
Can pity sooth the woes that breast must bear
Which vainly loves, and vainly mourns the dead?
"No! ling'ring still, and still prolong'd, the moan
Shall never pause 'till heaves my latest breath;
Till memory's distracting pang is flown,
And all my sorrows shall be hush'd in death.
And death is pitying come, whose hand shall tear
From this afflicted heart the sense of pain;
My fainting limbs refuse their load to bear,
And life no longer will my form sustain.
"Yet once did health's enliv'ning glow adorn,
And pleasure shed for me her loveliest ray,
Pure as the gentle star that gilds the morn,
And constant as the equal light of day.
"Now, those lost pleasures trac'd by mem'ry, seem
Like yon illusive meteor's glancing light,
That o'er the darkness threw its instant gleam,
Then sunk, and vanish'd in the depth of night.
"My native vale, and thou, delightful bower!
Scenes to my hopeless love for ever dear!
Sweet vale, for whom the morning wak'd her flower,
Fresh bower, for whom the evening pour'd her tear:
"I ask no more to see your beauties rise;
Ye rocks and mountains, on whose rugged breast
My ALFRED , murder'd by EUPHELIA , lies,
In your deep solitudes, I come to rest!
"And sure the dawning ray that lights the steep,
And slowly wanders o'er the purple wave,
Will shew me where his sacred relics sleep,
Will lead his mourner to her destin'd grave!"--
O'er the high precipice unmov'd she bent,
A fearful path the beams of morning shew;
The pilgrim reach'd with toil the rude ascent,
And saw her brooding o'er the deep below.
"EUPHELIA , stay!" he cried, "thy ALFRED calls--
O, stay--in desperation yet more dear!--
I come!"--in vain the tender accent falls,
Alas, it reach'd not her distracted ear.
"Ah what avails," she said, "that morning rose,
With fruitless pain I seek his mould'ring clay;
Vain search! to fill the measure of my woes,
The foaming surge has wash'd his corse away.
"This cruel agony why longer bear?
Death, death alone, can all my pangs remove--
Kind death will banish from my heart despair,
And when I live again--I live to love."
She said, and plung'd into the awful deep!
He saw her meet the fury of the wave,
He frantic saw! and, darting to the steep,
With desp'rate anguish, sought her wat'ry grave.
He clasp'd her dying form, he shar'd her sighs,
He check'd the billow rushing on her breast;
She felt his dear embrace!--her closing eyes
Were fix'd on ALFRED, and her death was blest!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Elegy
'DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening skies,
The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom,
Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise;
They come--the Spirits of the Tempest come!
'Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night
As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore!
Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light,
And with conflicting winds ye waters roar!
'Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst!
Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave!
Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst
'Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!' '
Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,
While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,
A wretched maid--the victim of despair,
Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beech.
Then to the tomb where now the father slept
Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow,
Frantic she turn'd--and beat her breast and wept,
Invoking vengeance on the dust below.
'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,
Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate,
Who gave his son--remorseless--to the deep,
While I, his living victim, curse my fate.
'Oh, my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee,
That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart;
Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea,
And no memorial but this breaking heart.
'Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven,
I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear,
Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven,
And fruitless call on him--'who cannot hear.'
'Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again,
While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour,
Forget in death this agonizing pain,
And feel his father's cruelty no more!
'Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath,
In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form;
Now, while the demons of despair and death
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm:
'Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,
I see him rise the whitening waves above,
No longer such as when in happier days
He gave the enchanted hours--to me and love.
'Such, as when daring the enchafed sea,
And courting dangerous toil, he often said
That every peril, one soft smile from me,
One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid.
'But dead, disfigured, while between the roar
Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear,
And seem to say--Ah, wretch! delay no more,
But come, unhappy mourner--meet me here.
'Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom stay,
Still let me hear him!--'Tis already past;
Along the waves his shadow glides away,
I lose his voice amid the deafening blast.
'Ah, wild delusion, born of frantic pain!
He hears not, comes not from his watery bed;
My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,
The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead.
' 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll;
Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail;
Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul,
Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!'
The Ocean hears--The embodied waters come--
Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep
Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,
And bear the injured to eternal sleep.
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunburned Country (feat. Keith Urban)
I carry her with me (Ah)
I carry her pride (Yeah yeah)
Whenever I speak her name
My soul it comes alive
She taught me to be strong (oh)
She taught me to fight
And I am who I am today
Because she raised me right
Yes it is
Chorus:
In a sunburned country
Her magic and her mystery (oh)
In a sunburned country
Forever will be home to me
Yeah that's where my heart is truely free
Yes it is
Yeah....Yey,Yey,Yey...
Ooh
The creaks and the rivers
The dust and the mud (ooh dust and the mud)
All of us understand
This land gets in your blood
Yes it does
The sight of the blue gums
And black cockatoos
White snow Kosciusko
Red rock Uluru
Sing it one more time
In a sunburned country
Her magic and her mystery
In a sunburned country
Forever will be home to me
Yeah that's where my heart is truely free
Yes it is
Yeah....Yey,Yey,Yey...
Oh yeah...
We've always been humble (Oh yeah)
Too scared to be proud (Yes we have)
I think it's time that
We all stand and say that
We love our home out loud
Sunburned country
I'm proud to say that's sweet our home
In a sunburned country
That's always gonna be my home
Yeah
In a sunburned country
Her magic and her mystery
In a sunburned country
Forever will be home to me
Yeah that's where my heart is truely free
Yes it is
I love all the people
I love all the sounds
Sleeping under a tin roof
With a hard rain coming down
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eutaw Springs
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er;
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
If in this wreck of ruin, they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite thy gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!
Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest!
Stranger, their humble groves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear:
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.
They saw their injured country's woe,
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear--but left the shield.
Led by thy conquering standards, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly:
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved in such a cause to die--
But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.
Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A bright Phoebus of their own.
poem by Philip Freneau
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White Rose
I beheld your face and saw my white rose embrace her last breath in death. The betrayal I'd shown, the deceit of it cried and the plight of my innocent bride now in her coffin lies. I pierced the heart of her love when I tried another for a sex ride and lied and now I can't hide. In her note it said with another I'll not share my bed I'd rather be dead. Her funeral today the white rose petal tips did settle a pillow for her head. The tears I weep will forever seep for the bride I was to wed. I justified, cheated, rationalized and minimized the depth of her love, chided and betrayed a love that had much better roots than I. Forever from this selfish sickness die inside where pride and lust lie. By the grace of God release the guilt inside in faith I hope to say to my white rose again someday forgiveness is the way and White rose of purity I pray in your hands she does lay.
poem by Vanita Allgood
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Korner And His Sister
Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest,
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar keepest;
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!
Rest, bard! rest, soldier! by the father's hand
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand,
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.
The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial-rite,
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee.
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token,
That Lyre and Sword were broken.
Thou hast a hero's tomb: a lowlier bed
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair, young head
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave
She pined to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others; but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She loved thee! lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:–What hath she?
Her own blest place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky.
Ye were but two and when that spirit pass'd,
Wo to the one, the last!
Wo, yet not long! She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,
It answer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perish'd: be the Flower deplor'd
Here with the Lyre and Sword!
Have ye not met ere now? so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Sir Raymond of the Castle
[The following little Poems are written after the Model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of versification.]
NEAR GLARIS, on a mountain's side,
Beneath a shad'wy wood,
With walls of ivy compass'd round,
An ancient Castle stood.
By all rever'd, by all ador'd,
There dwelt a wealthy dame;
One peerless daughter bless'd her age,
A maid of spotless fame !
While one fair son, a gallant boy,
Whose VIRTUE was his shield,
Led on the dauntless sons of war,
Amidst the crimson'd field:
For o'er the land dissension reign'd
Full many a direful year,
And many a heart's best blood had stain'd
The proud oppressor's spear.
Young ELLA'S charms had spread her fame
O'er all the country wide;
And youths of high descent and brave,
Had sought her for their bride !
Amongst the rest SIR RAYMOND came,
Sprung from a princely race;
Right valiant in each warlike art,
And blest with ev'ry grace !
In tournaments renown'd afar,
For manly feats admir'd;
His brilliant fame, his bold exploits,
The damsel's bosom fir'd.
Her blushing cheek, her down-cast eye
Her secret flame confess'd;
The gallant RAYMOND'S circling arm,
The beauteous ELLA press'd.
From her fond mother's doating eyes
The radiant gem he bore;
The weeping maids and village swains
Beheld her charms no more.
Where the swift billows of the RHINE
Their shining curls disclose;
With many a gilded turret crown'd
His splendid Palace rose.
The festive scene had scarce began,
When near the Castle wall,
A messenger of warlike mein,
On RAYMOND'S name did call;
"Come forth thou valiant Knight," he said,
"Thy prowess quickly show,
With speed prepare thy lance and shield
To meet the dauntless foe:
"The blood of many a noble Swiss
Doth stain the country round,
And many a brave aspiring youth
Lies vanquish'd on the ground.
"The daring Chief, whose shining spear
With purple gore is dy'd;
Oh ! direful news, prepare to meet
THE BROTHER OF THY BRIDE."
Enrag'd, the haughty RAYMOND cried,
"Base wretch receive thy doom,
For thy bold errand thou shalt die
Within a dungeon's gloom."
Speechless the mournful ELLA stood,
Despair her heart did wound;
When from the echoing tow'r she heard,
Th' larum-bell's dreadful sound!
Her cold wan cheek, her quiv'ring lip,
Bespoke her soul's deep woe,
From her blue eye the crystal drop
In silent grief did flow,
"For shame, shake off those woman's tears,"
The frowning bridegroom cried,
"And know, SIR RAYMOND'S warlike breast
Disdains a timid bride.
"In vain you weep, ignoble dame,
Behold yon neighing steed;
My soldiers wait, my bosom burns
TO CONQUER or to BLEED."
Forth went the Knight;the frantic bride
To the high rampart flew;
With trembling knee she climb'd the wall,
Th' embattled plain to view.
On either side, by turns she thought
Proud vict'ry grac'd the field;
'Till vanquish'd by her BROTHER'S sword,
She saw her HUSBAND yield.
For refuge to his Castle gate,
The bleeding warrior flew;
And from the battlements on high,
His daring gauntlet threw !
Three days from dawn to setting sun,
The hardy soldiers stood,
'Till faint with toil, by famine press'd,
They saw their chief subdu'd.
"Oh! haste my page," SIR RAYMOND said,
"The captive youth set free,
And bid him to the conqu'rer's feet
This message bear from me.
"Treasures immense of massy gold,
Rich gems, and jewels rare,
As ransom will I freely give,
If he our lives will spare;
"If he consents, let garlands green
His peaceful brows adorn;
If hostile yet, beneath our walls,
Thrice sound his bugle horn."
Gaily he pass'd the outward gate;
But sadly he return'd;
His bugle horn he sounded thrice,
—No wreath his brows adorn'd.
"Thy gold" he cried " the conqu'ror scorns,
He claims thy forfeit LIFE,
Thy precious gems, and jewels rare,
He gives thy beauteous wife."
"Your lands are free, your soldiers too,
And for young ELLA'S sake
To prove his truth, the gen'rous chief
This solemn vow did make:"
"That whatsoe'er she holds most dear,
At morrow's dawn of day:
Her pages, to some distant place,
May safely bear away;"
At dawn of light fair ELLA came,
Fresh as the rose of May;
SIR RAYMOND in a chest of gold,
Her pages bore away !
She pass'd the gate with throbbing heart,
She pass'd the ranks among;
The praises of her peerless charms,
Fell fast from ev'ry tongue !
"Halt, halt," they cried, "right noble dame,
'Tis fit we should behold
Whether thy coffer ought contains
But gems and messy gold;"
"O stay me not ye gallant youths,
For soon it shall appear;
This burnish'd coffer doth contain
ALL THAT I HOLD MOST DEAR !"
"Take heed, my Brother, ah, take heed,
Nor break thy sacred word;
Nor let thy kinsman's blood degrade
The glories of thy sword !"
The Hero smil'dfair ELLA'S cheek
Glow'd with vermilion dye;
Fear chill'd her heart, the starting tear
Stood trembling in her eye.
Subdu'd, abash'd, her brother flew
And clasp'd her to his breast,
Then with an angel's pitying voice,
The vanquish'd chief address'd:
"Come forth SIR RAYMOND, valiant knight,
Behold thy peerless wife;
Receive thy sword, and from HER hand
Accept thy forfeit life.
"Here shall the bloody contest end,
Let peace o'erspread the land;
More homage than the conqueror's sword
CAN BEAUTY'S TEARS COMMAND!"
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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