Inscription 03 - For A Cavern That Overlooks The River Avon
Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat
O'ercanopied by this arch'd rock that strikes
A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms
Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs
Its dark green branches down, and the wild Bees,
O'er its grey blossoms murmuring ceaseless, make
Most pleasant melody. No common spot
Receives thee, for the Power who prompts the song,
Loves this secluded haunt. The tide below
Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear;
And this high-hanging forest to the wind
Varies its many hues. Gaze Stranger here!
And let thy soften'd heart intensely feel
How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence
Departing to the City's crouded streets,
Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect
That Man creates the evil he endures.
poem by Robert Southey
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To a child
I love to look on that eye of blue,
For tears have not yet worn a channel through;
And the few bright summers since thy birth,
Have left thee a stranger still on earth.
A stranger -- and all, to thine untaught eyes,
Is bright with the hues of paradise.
The rapture of being thrills thy frame,
And sorrow thou know'st not even by name.
Thy innocent thoughts, unswayed by art,
Gush from the depths of thy guileless heart;
Like a harp when the wandering breezes sigh,
Answering each touch with melody.
I would, sweet one, I might wish for thee,
That a stranger thus thou shouldst ever be;
That time might not lift the enchanted veil,
Nor breathe in thine ear his mournful tale.
But those who are bid to this feast of life,
Must drink the cup, -- must abide the strife: --
Then it were better to wish for thee,
Strength for the conflict, and victory.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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The Stranger In Louisiana
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance,
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd-he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still-he will yet return!
-His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough,
We rous'd him-we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step-but the step was thine.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song,
Mournful, though sweet-she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him-she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!
-Where are they?-thou 'rt seeking some distant coast-
Oh, ask of them, stranger!-send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step-but the step was thine!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Inscription 07 - For A Tablet On The Banks Of A Stream
Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank
Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear
It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold
Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed
Yon glossy insect, on the sand below
How the swift shadow flies. The stream is pure
In solitude, and many a healthful herb
Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:
But passing on amid the haunts of man,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?
Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.
poem by Robert Southey
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Ode Written On The First Of December
Tho' now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the green wood shade,
I love thee Winter! well.
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the summer's evening gale,
Pleasant the autumnal winds that shake
The many-colour'd grove.
And pleasant to the sober'd soul
The silence of the wintry scene,
When Nature shrouds her in her trance
Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace
The forest's ample rounds;
And see the spangled branches shine,
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey stone spreads.
The cluster'd berries claim the eye
O'er the bright hollies gay green leaves,
The ivy round the leafless oak
Clasps its full foliage close.
So VIRTUE diffident of strength
Clings to RELIGION'S firmer aid,
And by RELIGION'S aid upheld
Endures calamity.
Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters hid from summer sun
Have sooth'd the thirsty pilgrim's ear
With more than melody.
The green moss shines with icey glare,
The long grass bends its spear-like form,
And lovely is the silvery scene
When faint the sunbeams smile.
Reflection too may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud
Or bids the flowret bloom.
For Nature soon in Spring's best charms
Shall rise reviv'd from Winter's grave.
Again expand the bursting bud,
And bid the flowret bloom.
poem by Robert Southey
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A Melodious song
Thy melody and my lyrics
will make a song
a melodious song
the song of enthusiasm
the song of peace
the song of fraternity
If my lyrics is a flower
thy melody is thee fragrance
If my lyrics is a ray
thy melody is thee light
If my lyrics is cloud
thy melody is thee lightning
my lyrics is a cascade
thy melody is thee sound
my lyrics and thee melody
is the consistency of profound nature
having multi seasons
to nourish all creature
to embellish the earth
whispering the gale
to blow like spring
my lyrics is nectar
thee melody is sweetness
my lyrics and thee melody
will make a song of heaven.
poem by Ramesh Rai
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The Beautiful Stranger
I cannot know what country owns thee now,
With France's forest lilies on thy brow.
When England knew thee thou wert passing fair;
I never knew a foreign face so rare.
The world of waters rolls and rushes bye,
Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie.
But surely France must be a pleasant place
That greets the stranger with so fair a face;
The English maiden blushes down the dance,
But few can equal the fair maid of France.
I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine,
And the last song I ever wrote is thine.
Thy country's honour on thy face attends;
Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.
poem by John Clare
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To An Oak At Newstead
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark‑waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride;
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.
I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.
Oh! hardy thou went--even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:
But thou went not fated affection to share--
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel!
Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
When Infancy's years of probation are done.
Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.
Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day‑beam of ages may shine,
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the Gorse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.
And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them is whispers more softly to tread.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot;
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, Misery. Hence these shades
Are still the abode of gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam.
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wildflower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude,
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their roots upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquility. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Inscription 01 - For A Tablet At Godstow Nunnery
Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark
Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here
Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:
Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs
Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye
Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit
Is worthless, all is hollowness within,
For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!
Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,
And here retir'd to wear her wretched age
In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,
Despis'd and self-despising: think of her
Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!
poem by Robert Southey
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Song Of The American Indian
Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb
The heights of yonder hills sublime;
For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,
That oft the murmuring thunders swell,
Of power from the impending steep
To hurl thee headlong to the deep;
But secure with us abide,
By the winding river's side;
Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,
And think not of a world of care.
The lonely cayman, where he feeds
Among the green high-bending reeds,
Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart
Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
Home returning from our toils,
Thou shalt bear the tiger's spoils;
And we will sing our loudest strain
O'er the forest-tyrant slain!
Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear
The beauteous cardinal sing clear;
Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,
Nod in the deep wood's pathless glade;
And the sun, with bursting ray,
Quivers on the branches gray.
By the river's craggy banks,
O'erhung with stately cypress-ranks,
Where the bush-bee hums his song,
Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
To-night at least, in this retreat,
Stranger! rest thy wandering feet;
To-morrow, with unerring bow,
To the deep thickets fearless we will go.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The Sultana's Remonstrance
IT suits thee well to weep,
As thou lookest on the fair land,
Whose sceptre thou hast held
With less than woman's hand.
On yon bright city gaze,
With its white and marble halls,
The glory of its lofty towers,
The strength of its proud walls.
And look to yonder palace,
With its garden of the rose,
With its groves and silver fountains,
Fit for a king's repose.
There is weeping in that city,
And a cry of woe and shame,
There's a whisper of dishonour,
And that whisper is thy name.
And the stranger's feast is spread,
But it is no feast of thine;
In thine own halls accursed lips
Drain the forbidden wine.
And aged men are in the streets,
Who mourn their length of days,
And young knights stand with folded arms,
And eyes they dare not raise.
There is not one whose blood was not
As the waves of ocean free,--
Their fathers died for thy fathers,
They would have died for thee.
Weep not, 'tis mine to weep,
That ever thou wert born,
Alas, that all a mother's love
Is lost in a queen's scorn!
Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep,
Those tears become thine eye,--
It suits thee well to weep the land
For which thou daredst not die.*
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Evening Wind
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go--but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Evil Man
Evil Man
Thou break the young heart
She tender and so small
Her eyes blind to evil men
Why must thou be the first one?
Thou buy sweet and chewing gum
Introduce and transform the lass
Thine child growing up
Fall she may in the trap
And thou mayest hate that the most
The world is so small
And that evil may haunt thee
poem by Mahamma Adrianne
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Thee, Thee, Only Thee
The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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To J. D. H.
(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)
. . . . .
Dear friend, forgive a wild lament
Insanely following thy flight.
I would not cumber thine ascent
Nor drag thee back into the night;
But the great sea-winds sigh with me,
The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old,
And I would that I might lie with thee
There in the grave so cold, so cold!
Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee,
And the round skies are far and steep;
A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe,
Pain is proud and scorns to weep.
My heart breaks if it cling about thee,
And still breaks, if far from thine.
O drear, drear death, to live without thee,
O sad life -- to keep thee mine.
. . . . .
poem by Sidney Lanier
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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)
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Book Of Hafis - The Unlimited
THAT thou can't never end, doth make thee great,
And that thou ne'er beginnest, is thy fate.
Thy song is changeful as yon starry frame,
End and beginning evermore the same;
And what the middle bringeth, but contains
What was at first, and what at last remains.
Thou art of joy the true and minstrel-source,
From thee pours wave on wave with ceaseless force.
A mouth that's aye prepared to kiss,
A breast whence flows a loving song,
A throat that finds no draught amiss,
An open heart that knows no wrong.
And what though all the world should sink!
Hafis, with thee, alone with thee
Will I contend! joy, misery,
The portion of us twain shall be;
Like thee to love, like thee to drink,--
This be my pride,--this, life to me!
Now, Song, with thine own fire be sung,--
For thou art older, thou more young!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Introductory Verses
OH! blest art thou, whose steps may rove
Through the green paths of vale and grove,
Or, leaving all their charms below,
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow;
And gaze afar o'er cultured plains,
And cities with their stately fanes,
And forests, that beneath thee lie,
And ocean mingling with the sky.
For man can show thee nought so fair,
As Nature's varied marvels there;
And if thy pure and artless breast
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!
For thee the stream in beauty flows,
For thee the gale of summer blows,
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,
Voices of joy still breathe for thee.
But happier far, if then thy soul
Can soar to Him who made the whole,
If to thine eye the simplest flower
Portray His bounty and His power.
If, in whate'er is bright or grand,
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand,
If Nature's music bid thee raise
Thy song of gratitude and praise;
If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught,
Lead to His throne thy raptured thought,
If there thou lov'st His love to read,
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Stranger In The Wind...
Stranger in the wind...
Beckons at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Wanting even more.
Stranger in the wind...
Hard to really ignore.
Stranger in the wind..
Making my heart ache, as sore.
Stranger in the wind...
Rapping at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Who knows i am so poor.
Stranger in the wind...
My time here-has me bore...
Many aches and pains of a thirsting heart...
Can only be quenched by ye, your remembered part.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart, you'll win.
Stranger in the wind...
Yon soul so deep.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart you'll keep.
Stranger in the wind...
my soul you'll reap.
Stranger in the wind...
You make me weep.
poem by Michael Gale
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Schuylkill
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM
Sun-lit and shadow'd waters, leaping by
'Midst flowers and greenness, singing as they pass,
Or sleeping in some deep and shaded pool,
Lake-like, and dimpled by the playful touch
Of stooping branches, rocks vine-garlanded,
And the green pleasant woods, and over all
The wide blue glorious sky—oh it is sweet
To breathe amid such scenes!
Look on the page
Of Schuylkill's pictured beauty! that is such—
And thou may'st gaze, till it shall waken thoughts
Treasured in memory—for thou hast watch'd
The flashing of its waters, and hast stood,
Perchance, beside them, when the moonlight made
The scene a paradise, and friends were nigh,
Smiling with their glad eyes upon thy joy;
And music floated off upon the air,
As if the zephyrs breathed in melody.
Now other scenes are round thee—it is fair—
This wide extended landscape—but unlike
To that the Schuylkill mirrors. The old trees
That lift their tall green heads against the sky,
Are relies of past ages, and there seems,
Beneath their dim gray shade, to linger yet
A faint and mournful echo of the tones
Of the old forest tribes.
But when the hush,
And the dim beauty of the twilight steals
O'er the calm earth, and on thy spirit lies
A shadow and a pensiveness as sweet,
Then memory will lift the mystic screen
That veils departed years, and give them back
The consecrated past; and thou shalt stand
'Midst scenes where thou hast stood in other days;
And the gay laugh, and the remember'd tone,
Will seem, with startling vividness, to thrill
Across thy ear—but mine will not be there;
Thy memory hath no garner'd thought of me—
Yet think of me, for there may gleam a light
Amidst thy twilight dreams, from scenes to which
I turn for my most sweet remembrances;
Oh, how one charmed word will start to life
A thousand breathing memories of the past!
Schuylkill! sweet Schuylkill! and still dearer loved,
And hallow'd with yet deeper, sweeter thoughts,
My own dear native vale, and the bright flood*
That makes it beautiful! name them again,
For thou hast trodden there, and let me dwell
With thee upon the past! Yet they will come
To thee, with but a stranger's parting glance
Of brief and pleasant memory—to me—
With tales of childhood's years, of hours of glee,
Friendships, and tears, and rainbow-pinion'd hopes,
And all the sacred thoughts that halo home!
(*The Brandywine)
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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