by Homer
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever’s train;
And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,
As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We’ll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we’ll part.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing ‘till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall —
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Fine Old English Gentleman
(To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners)
Charles Dickens (1812–1870)
I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,
Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;
When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate
On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains,
With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,
With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins;
For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains
Of the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,
And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies,
To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,
Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need,
The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers’ creed,
The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,
Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed....
Oh the fine old English Tory times;
When will they come again!
In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,
But sweetly sang of men in pow’r, like any tuneful lark;
Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;
And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.
Oh the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din;
For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win;
For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,
Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin,
In the fine old English Tory times;
Soon may they come again!
But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the main;
That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain;
The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;
A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,
With the fine old English Tory days,
All of the olden time.
The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land,
In England there shall be dear bread — in Ireland, sword and brand;
And poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,
So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,
Of the fine old English Tory days;
Hail to the coming time!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Thomas Edward Brown
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
My Garden
Thomas Edward Brown (1830–1897)
A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Fern’d grot —
The veriest school 5
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not —
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
’Tis very sure God walks in mine. 10
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
James Thomson (B V)
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Gifts
James Thomson (B. V.) (1834–1882)
GIVE a man a horse he can ride,
Give a man a boat he can sail;
And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.
Give a man a pipe he can smoke, 5
Give a man a book he can read:
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.
Give a man a girl he can love,
As I, O my love, love thee; 10
And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,
At home, on land, on sea.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Blessèd Damozel
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)
THE BLESSÈD Damozel lean’d out
From the gold bar of Heaven:
Her blue grave eyes were deeper much
Than a deep water, even.
She had three lilies in her hand, 5
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift
On the neck meetly worn; 10
And her hair, lying down her back,
Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseem’d she scarce had been a day
One of God’s choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone 15
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one it is ten years of years:
… Yet now, here in this place, 20
Surely she lean’d o’er me, — her hair
Fell all about my face…
Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)
It was the terrace of God’s house 25
That she was standing on, —
By God built over the sheer depth
In which Space is begun;
So high, that looking downw
ard thence,
She scarce could see the sun. 30
It lies from Heaven across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth 35
Spins like a fretful midge.
But in those tracts, with her, it was
The peace of utter light
And silence. For no breeze may stir
Along the steady flight 40
Of seraphim; no echo there,
Beyond all depth or height.
Heard hardly, some of her new friends,
Playing at holy games,
Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves, 45
Their virginal chaste names;
And the souls, mounting up to God,
Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’d
Into the vast waste calm; 50
Till her bosom’s pressure must have made
The bar she lean’d on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
Along her bended arm.
From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw 55
Time, like a pulse, shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,
In that steep gulf, to pierce
The swarm; and then she spoke, as when
The stars sang in their spheres. 60
‘I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come,’ she said.
‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven?
On earth, has he not pray’d?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength? 65
And shall I feel afraid?
‘When round his head the aureole clings,
And he is clothed in white,
I’ll take his hand, and go with him
To the deep wells of light, 70
And we will step down as to a stream
And bathe there in God’s sight.
‘We two will stand beside that shrine,
Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps tremble continually 75
With prayer sent up to God;
And where each need, reveal’d, expects
Its patient period.
‘We two will lie i’ the shadow of
That living mystic tree 80
Within whose secret growth the Dove
Sometimes is felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His name audibly.
‘And I myself will teach to him, — 85
I myself, lying so, —
The songs I sing here; which his mouth
Shall pause in, hush’d and slow,
Finding some knowledge at each pause,
And some new thing to know.’ 90
(Alas! to her wise simple mind
These things were all but known
Before: they trembled on her sense, —
Her voice had caught their tone.
Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas 95
For life wrung out alone!
Alas, and though the end were reach’d?…
Was thy part understood
Or borne in trust? And for her sake
Shall this too be found good? — 100
May the close lips that knew not prayer
Praise ever, though they would?)
‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves
Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names 105
Are five sweet symphonies: —
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.
‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks
And bosoms coverèd; 110
Into the fine cloth, white like flame,
Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.
‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. 115
Then I will lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abash’d or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak. 120
‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel — the unnumber’d solemn heads
Bow’d with their aureoles:
And Angels, meeting us, shall sing 125
To their citherns and citoles.
‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me: —
To have more blessing than on earth
In nowise; but to be 130
As then we were, — being as then
At peace. Yea, verily.
‘Yea, verily; when he is come
We will do thus and thus:
Till this my vigil seem quite strange 135
And almost fabulous;
We two will live at once, one life;
And peace shall be with us.’
She gazed, and listen’d, and then said,
Less sad of speech than mild, — 140
‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased:
The light thrill’d past her, fill’d
With Angels, in strong level lapse.
Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight 145
Was vague ‘mid the poised spheres.
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 150
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The King’s Tragedy
James I of Scots. — 20th February, 1437
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)
I CATHERINE am a Douglas born,
A name to all Scots dear;
And Kate Barlass they’ve called me now
Through many a waning year.
This old arm’s withered now. ’Twas once 5
Most deft ‘mong maidens all
To rein the steed, to wing the shaft,
To smite the palm-play ball.
In hall adown the close-linked dance
It has shone most white and fair; 10
It has been the rest for a true lord’s head,
And many a sweet babe’s nursing-bed,
And the bar to a King’s chambère.
Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,
And hark with bated breath 15
How good King James, King Robert’s son,
Was foully done to death.
Through all the days of his gallant youth
The princely James was pent,
By his friends at first and then by his foes, 20
In long imprisonment.
For the elder Prince, the kingdom’s heir,
By treason’s murderous brood
Was slain; and the father quaked for the child
With the royal mortal blood. 25
I’ the Bass Rock fort, by his father’s care,
Was his childhood’s life assured;
And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,
Proud England’s King, ‘neath the southron yoke
His youth for long years immured. 30
Yet in all things meet for a kingly man
Himself did he approve;
And the nightingale through his prison-wall
Taught him both lore and love.
For once, when the bird’s song drew him close 35
To the opened window-pane,
In her bowers beneath a lady stood,
A light of life to his sorrowful mood,
Like a lily amid the rain.
And for her sake, to the sweet bird’s note, 40
He framed a sweeter Song,
More sweet than ever a poet’s heart
&n
bsp; Gave yet to the English tongue.
She was a lady of royal blood;
And when, past sorrow and teen, 45
He stood where still through his crownless years
His Scottish realm had been,
At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,
A heart-wed King and Queen.
But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, 50
And song be turned to moan,
And Love’s storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate,
When the tempest-waves of a troubled State
Are beating against a throne.
Yet well they loved; and the god of Love, 55
Whom well the King had sung,
Might find on the earth no truer hearts
His lowliest swains among.
From the days when first she rode abroad
With Scottish maids in her train, 60
I Catherine Douglas won the trust
Of my mistress, sweet Queen Jane.
And oft she sighed, “To be born a King!”
And oft along the way
When she saw the homely lovers pass 65
She has said, “Alack the day!”
Years waned, — the loving and toiling years:
Till England’s wrong renewed
Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown,
To the open field of feud. 70
’Twas when the King and his host were met
At the leaguer of Roxbro’ hold,
The Queen o’ the sudden sought his camp
With a tale of dread to be told.
And she showed him a secret letter writ 75