Death poems
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Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte 5. Lex Talionis
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
And if there's blood upon his hand,'Tis but the blood of deer. -- W. Scott.
The Deserted Village, A Poem
© Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
The Rising Village
© Oliver Goldsmith
Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the
I Would Fain Die a Dry Death
© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins
The American public is patient, The American public is slow,The American public will stand as much As any public I know
A Female I by Name
© Gifford Humphrey
A female I by name Am sister to a brother:In all the world may not be found Our like, nor one nor other
To a Dead Crow
© Ghose Kasiprasad
Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!How oft at morning's rosy primeWhen thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,And to avoid that hateful sound,That plagues a head howe'er profound,Have walked out in my garden, whereBeside the tank, in many a square,Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,Far from those trees within whose gloomOf foliage thick, thou hadst thy nestFrom daily toil at night to rest
To a Nurse
© William Gay
As dropping moisture on December flowers, As sunlight breaking o'er the August plain,As shines the Virgin on the midnight hours, So is thy presence at the bed of pain;And as the flowers revive to bloom more fair, And o'er the plain the wattles burst in fire,And midnight hours to morn at last repair, So hope and life thy minist'rings inspire;And though for me there's but the life and hope That lie abundant past the gates of Death,Yet thither as with feeble steps I grope Thy friendly arm assists my failing breath;Nor will I deem of Providence the worseWho sent me pain to send me thee for nurse
Storm
© William Gay
I love not when the oily seas Heave huge and slow beneath the sun,When decks are hot, and dead the breeze, And wits are dropping one by one.
The Sorrowful Fate of Bartholomew Jones
© William Gay
Bartholemew Jones made his money in mines,And although he has left us his fame still shinesAs a man who was knowing in various lines.
The Singer
© William Gay
Nay! sing no more thy wild delusive strain(I heard them say, while I my song pursued),'Tis but the rage of thy delirious brain(I heard them say, yet still my song renewed);Nay! sing no more with reckless, idle breathOf man immortal and of life to come,For one brief moment scan the face of death,Then be thy foolish song for ever dumb;Behold the dusty ash that once was fire,And mark the summer leaf in autumn fall,Watch thou the wavering breath of man expire,And know that Death hath lordship over all(I heard them say with many a scornful word,Yet still sang on as one who nothing heard)
Resurge
© William Gay
Come forth, O Man, from darkness into light,Renounce the dust, break through thy sordid bars,For ever leave the crawling shapes of Night,And move erect among thy native stars:No longer grovel in a foetid cellWhen all the spaces of the sky are thine,With Sloth and Want no more a beggar dwellWhen thou canst claim a heritage divine;Awake and live! nor dream the dreams of deathThat brood, fantastic, fearful, o'er thy grave,Thou art not of the stuff that perisheth,Nor unto Fate and Time art thou a slave;Thy power extends beyond the starry Pole,And worlds and suns revolve within thy soul
Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London
© John Gay
Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful laysThe proper implements for wintry ways;Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,To read the various warnings of the skies
Even-Star
© Garnett Richard
First-born and final relic of the night,I dwell aloof in dim immensity;The grey sky sparkles with my fairy light;I mix among the dancers of the sea;Yet stoop not from the throne I must retainHigh o'er the silver sources of the rain
The Widow's Croone
© Galt John
And maun I lanely spin the tow, And ca' the weary wheel,For cauld they lie,--where do they lie, The winsome and the leil?
The Selfish
© Galt John
There is a death, an apathy profoundAs that of those who in the churchyard lie,Although the sepulchres be above ground,Where rot these moral morts unconsciously
To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut
© Philip Morin Freneau
Nil Mortalibus ard unum lestCoelum ipsum petimus stuttistra. HORACE.
Christ's Triumph after Death
© Giles Fletcher The Younger
IBegan to glister in her beams, and nowThe roses of the day began to flow'rIn th' eastern garden; for Heav'ns smiling browHalf insolent for joy begun to show: The early Sun came lively dancing out, And the brag lambs ran wantoning about,That heav'n, and earth might seem in triumph both to shout
