Lines Addressed To Lieut. R.W.H. Hardy, R.N.
ON THE PERUSAL OF HIS VOLUME OF TRAVELS IN THE INTERIOR OF MEXICO.
'Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbow-chair,
Secure at home, to read descriptions rare
Of venturous traveller in savage climes;
His hair-breadth 'scapes, toil, hunger-and sometimes
The merrier passages that, like a foil
To set off perils past, sweetened that toil,
And took the edge from danger; and I look
With such fear-mingled pleasure through thy book,
Adventurous Hardy! Thou a diver art,
But of no common form; and, for thy part
Of the adventure, hast brought home to the nation
Pearls of discovery-jewels of observation.
Enfield, January, 1830.
poem by Charles Lamb
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A mime in an abandon playhouse
I am home again Mom!
Your poor little vagabond,
After a strenuous adventure.
I bought you some rare black pearls.
A gypsy woman sold in the port of Casablanca.
She read the mind too and forced me to go back home soon.
And to whom I show this loose-leaf travelogue?
Because Mom you are already departed leaving me in a solitary inn.
I replace the black pearls into your missing necklace
Which I found in the back graveyard while searching your tomb.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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For Deliverance From A Fever
When sorrows had begirt me round,
And pains within and out,
When in my flesh no part was found,
Then didst Thou rid me out.
My burning flesh in sweat did boil,
My aching head did break,
From side to side for ease I toil,
So faint I could not speak.
Beclouded was my soul with fear
Of Thy displeasure sore,
Nor could I read my evidence
Which oft I read before.
"Hide not Thy face from me!" I cried,
"From burnings keep my soul.
Thou know'st my heart, and hast me tried;
I on Thy mercies roll."
"O heal my soul," Thou know'st I said,
"Though flesh consume to nought,
What though in dust it shall be laid,
To glory t' shall be brought."
Thou heard'st, Thy rod Thou didst remove
And spared my body frail
Thou show'st to me Thy tender love,
My heart no more might quail.
O, praises to my mighty God,
Praise to my Lord, I say,
Who hath redeemed my soul from pit,
Praises to Him for aye.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Poor Wayfaring Stranger
(traditional)
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
Wandering oer this world of woe
And theres no sickness, toil or danger
In that bright land to which I go
Im going home to see my father
Im going home, no more to roam
Im only going over jordan
Im only going over home
I know dark clouds will gather round me
I know my way is rough and steep
But beautious fields lie just before me
Where men redeemed their vigils keep
Im going home to see my mother
Im going there, no more to roam
Im only going over jordan
Im only going over home
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Mexico Welcome
New
to this Land of Enchantment state of mind?
Well, welcome home,
weary traveler, welcome home!
Here’s to feeling strange and wonderful –
Welcome home!
Here’s to feeling bewildered and happy –
Welcome home!
Here’s to feeling unlike you’ve ever felt before
Welcome home, welcome home, welcome home!
& here’s to nothing but beauty
Welcome home, I say, welcome home!
& here’s to surrounded by nature
Welcome home, yes, again, welcome home!
For New Mexico is my most
welcome home,
the one I have sought all my life
And now that YOU’RE here,
you’ll understand in a heartbeat -
Welcome home,
Welcome home,
Dear traveler
welcome home!
(2006, Taos Valley, New Mexico)
poem by Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson
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The Now Jerusalem, Song of Mary the Mother of Christ (London: E. Allde)
HIERUSALEM, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbour of the Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.
Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green;
There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.
Our Lady sings Magnificat
With tones surpassing sweet;
And all the virgins bear their part,
Sitting about her feet.
Hierusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
To......
(WITH A VOLUME OF EPIGRAMS)
Unto the Lady of The Nook
Fly, tiny book.
There thou hast lovers--even thou!
Fly thither now.
Seven years hast thou for honour yearned,
And scant praise earned;
But ah! to win, at last, _such_ friends,
Is full amends.
poem by William Watson
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Fear Thou, Oh Nation
The warning, the alarms
Imminent danger looms the streets, the farms
Crying out loud for everyone to hear
Those things that should make the nation fear.
Fear not that the nation is diverse
It is an issue we cannot reverse
Fear not for varying ethnicity
The tower of Babel bears responsibility
Fear not the dissimilar languages you speak
Lingua franca will edge the prick
Fear not thou exogamy
True love might not be found in endogamy
But fear thou oh nation, the emotion
Of leaders who represent your notion
For they are in corruption engulfed
Money, not your interest loved
Fear thou oh nation, the war
Of people who protect your law
For justice is blinded with the scarf of bribery
Case closed, with the culprit they merry
Fear thou o nation, the office
Where you are regarded a novice
Because you cannot paint the ground for a permit
To see the Managers who unfaithfully remit
The warning lingers
Pointing accusing fingers
What do we for the coming generations hold?
This legacy perpetrated in double-fold?
poem by Anthony Seyi Abiodun
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Teira
Who is weak?
Come and let me comfort you and make strong!
Oil, toil, soil, boil, foil, coil, moil;
In weariness and toil i will put you right,
And like Teira in the river of love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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On The Edge Of The Edge Of The Edge
ON THE EDGE OF THE EDGE OF THE EDGE
On the edge of the edge of the edge
There is nowhere to go-
Home is lost,
And all the distances have broken down-
One cannot move
One can only fear-
On the edge of the edge of the edge
Falling is fear-
And holding one’s ground
One step at a time
Is a small miracle
One is not sure
One can make alone.
On the edge of the edge of the edge-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Wayfaring Stranger
(trace adkins/scott hendricks)
I am a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world of woe
Yet theres no sickness, no toil or danger
In that bright world to which I go
Im going there to see my father
Im going there no more to roam
Im only going over to jordan
Im only going over home
Yes, lord
I know dark clouds will gather around me
I know my way is rough and steep
Yet beauteous fields lie just before me
Where gods redeemed their vigils keep
Im going there to see my mother
She said shed meet me when I come
Im only going over to jordan
Im only going over to home
Goin home now
Oh, somebody show me the way home
song performed by by Trace Adkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wayfaring Stranger
(trace adkins/scott hendricks)
I am a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world of woe
Yet theres no sickness, no toil or danger
In that bright world to which I go
Im going there to see my father
Im going there no more to roam
Im only going over to jordan
Im only going over home
Yes, lord
I know dark clouds will gather around me
I know my way is rough and steep
Yet beauteous fields lie just before me
Where gods redeemed their vigils keep
Im going there to see my mother
She said shed meet me when I come
Im only going over to jordan
Im only going over to home
Goin home now
Oh, somebody show me the way home
song performed by by Trace Adkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sweet Stay-at-Home
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent;
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
For miles, as far as eyes can go:
Thou hast not seen a summer's night
When maids could sew by a worm's light;
Nor the North Sea in spring send out
Bright hues that like birds flit about
In solid cages of white ice --
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place,
Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
White cotton when the bloom is thick,
Nor heard black throats in harmony;
Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
Flat on the earth, that once did rise
To hide proud kings from common eyes.
Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom
Where green things had such little room
They pleased the eye like fairer flowers --
Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.
Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,
Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;
For thou hast made more homely stuff
Nurture thy gentle self enough;
I love thee for a heart that's kind --
Not for the knowledge in thy mind.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Tower Of A Nation
A tower seizes the thoughts of a traveller,
Once again, tragedy strikes those below;
The traveller invites repeatedly the men on top
To a duel, and this meant war for them.
The tower embarked on a mission
To view the travels of a nation;
The nation has the tours of a whole nation,
Feeling the duels of travellers
But the travel is over now that you request
A seizure.
poem by Naveed Akram
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To The Spade Of A Friend (An Agriculturist)
COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND
SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.
Rare master has it been thy lot to know;
Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The labouring many and the resting few;
Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As nature is; too pure to be refined.
Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his river murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
That man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.
If he be one that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day--
Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate!
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.
His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An 'heir-loom' in his cottage wilt thou be:--
High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Hymn to God the Father
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When though hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
Wilt thou forgive that sin by which I have won
Others to sin? and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
Swear by thy self, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done,
I fear no more.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wayfaring Stranger
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
Travelin' through a world of woe
Ain't no sickness, toil, nor danger
In that bright land to which i go
I'm goin' there to see my father
Said he'd meet me when i come
I'm only goin' over jordan
I'm only goin' over home
I know dark clouds gonna gather 'round me
I know my way it'll be rough and steep
Yet beautiful fields lie just before me
Where god's redeemed did vigils keep
I'm goin' there to see my loved ones
Gone before me one by one
I'm only goin' over jordan
I'm only goin' over home
I'll soon be free from earthly trials
This body rests in the orchard's yard
I'll drop this cross of self-denial
And go singing home to god
I'm goin' there to see my savior
To dwell with him no more to roam
I'm only goin' over jordan
I'm only goin' over home
I'm only goin' over home
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Space-Shuttle Discovery
(The July 2005 Mission to the
International Space Station)
Should there be another flight,
Or would scrapping it be best?
What of the man shuttle—
Would it past the test?
And if Discovery launches,
Would she return to land?
These unsettling questions
Plagued every man.
With the Columbia disaster
Freshly in mind,
We wondered of the risk:
Would the nation pine?
But safely, she made it
Into outer-space.
And it appears that, for now,
We're still in the race.
We watched her fiery lift-off
After spoiled attempts;
Her brave astronauts
Never seemed to flinch.
A daring show of strength
In death-defying fear—
‘Twas pleasing to the nation
To explore the last frontier.
But what about the gap fillers
That needed repair?
There in outer space,
Steve did the job we'd dare.
On her mission home again,
We reserved our mirth.
And things went rather smoothly,
Until approaching the earth.
Discovery was so near,
And yet so far away;
The weather was quite nasty—
Keeping her at bay.
We were waiting to exhale,
With hope in every chest.
But, until touchdown,
The nation held its breath.
Upon orbiting the globe
To compensate delay,
She landed at Edwards;
The mission went okay.
To greet Eileen and the crew,
Were the waiting crowds—
Praising the accomplishment
That did our nation proud.
Discovery made it home again—
The crew, and the chief.
And at last, we all can breathe
A sigh of relief.
poem by Walterrean Salley
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The Traveller
Reply to Rudyard Kipling’s ‘He travels the fastest who travels alone.’
Who travels alone with his eye on the heights,
Though he laughs in the day time oft weeps on the nights;
For courage goes down at the set of the sun,
When the toil of the journey is all borne by one.
He speeds but to grief though full gaily he ride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
Who travels alone without lover of friend
But hurries from nothing, to naught at the end.
Though great be his winnings and high be his goal,
He is bankrupt in wisdom and beggared in soul.
Life’s one gift of value to him is denied
Who travels alone without love at his side.
It is easy enough in this world to make haste
If one live for that purpose – but think of the waste;
For life is a poem to leisurely read,
And the joy of the journey lies not in its speed.
Oh! vain his achievement and petty his pride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Oh, It Is Good
Oh, it is good to drink and sup,
And then beside the kindly fire
To smoke and heap the faggots up,
And rest and dream to heart's desire.
Oh, it is good to ride and run,
To roam the greenwood wild and free;
To hunt, to idle in the sun,
To leap into the laughing sea.
Oh, it is good with hand and brain
To gladly till the chosen soil,
And after honest sweat and strain
To see the harvest of one's toil.
Oh, it is good afar to roam,
And seek adventure in strange lands;
Yet oh, so good the coming home,
The velvet love of little hands.
So much is good. . . . We thank Thee, God,
For all the tokens Thou hast given,
That here on earth our feet have trod
Thy little shining trails of Heaven.
poem by Robert William Service
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Sow in the Morn Thy Seed
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thy hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broadcast it o’er the land.
Thou know’st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
God keeps His precious seed alive,
When and wherever thrown.
Thou canst not toil in vain;
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
The angels reapers shall descend,
And heav’n cry, “Harvest Home.”
poem by James Montgomery
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