Faith poems
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Saint Oluf (From The Old Danish)
© George Borrow
St. Oluf was a mighty king,
Who ruld the Northern land;
The holy Christian faith he preachd,
And taught it, sword in hand.
Sancho Sanchez
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Sancho Sanchez lay a--dying in the house of Mariquita,
For his life ebbed with the ebbing of the red wound in his side.
And he lay there as they left him when he came from the Corrida
In his gold embroidered jacket and his red cloak and his pride.
The Faithful Few: An Ode
© William Hamilton
While Pow'r triumphant bears unrival'd Sway,
Propt by the Aid of all-prevailing Gold;
While bold Corruption blasts the Face of Day,
And Men, in Herds, are offer'd to be sold;
Select, Urania, from the venal Throng,
The Faithful Few, to grace the deathless Song!
What The Traveller Said At Sunset
© John Greenleaf Whittier
The shadows grow and deepen round me,
I feel the deffall in the air;
The muezzin of the darkening thicket,
I hear the night-thrush call to prayer.
Song Of The Many
© Edgar Albert Guest
This is the song of the many
Who seldom are mentioned in praise,
Bourke
© Henry Lawson
Save grit and generosity of hearts that broke and healed again
The hottest drought that ever blazed could never parch the hearts of men;
And they were men in spite of all, and they were straight, and they were true,
The hat went round at troubles call, in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
A Fable For Critics
© James Russell Lowell
'Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack
On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack,
Who thinks every national author a poor one,
That isn't a copy of something that's foreign,
And assaults the American Dick--'
Merlin
© John Le Gay Brereton
O Merlin, how the magic from your eyes
Bids the world flame about your idle feet,
Grey
© Ada Cambridge
Is the morning dim and cloudy? Does the wind drift up the leaves?
Is there mist upon the mountains, where the sun shone yesterday?
Are the little song-birds silent? Is the sky all blurred and grey?
Does the rain fall, patter, patter, from the eaves?
The Bell-Founder Part II - Triumph And Reward
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with
gold,
As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould;
Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape,
Speech Of Honourable Preserved Doe In Secret Caucus
© James Russell Lowell
But I've talked longer now 'n I hed any idee,
An' ther's others you want to hear more 'n you du me;
So I'll set down an' give thet 'ere bottle a skrimmage,
For I've spoke till I'm dry ez a real graven image.
The Land Of The Living
© Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig
I know of a land
Where hair does not grey, and where times rule is banned,
Where sun does not burn, and where wave does not ring,
Where autumn embraces the blossoming spring,
Where morning and evening unceasingly dance
In noons brightest glance.
Oglethorpe
© Madison Julius Cawein
An Ode to be read on the laying of the foundation
stone of the new Oglethorpe University,
Sonnet Cycle For Lady Magdalen
© John Donne
Her of your name, whose fair inheritance
Bethina was, and jointure Magdalo:
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 131
© Alfred Tennyson
O true and tried, so well and long,
Demand not thou a marriage lay;
In that it is thy marriage day
Is music more than any song.
Sonnet 66: "Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry..."
© William Shakespeare
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
The Sweetest Soul I Ever Knew
© Edgar Albert Guest
The sweetest soul I ever knew
I Had suffered untold sorrow,
Sonnet XIV
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
Rise from your gory ashes stern and pale,
Ye martyred thousands! and with dreadful ire,
Tasso Dying
© Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov
But it's too late! I stand before the fatal borne.
To wild applause I won't step on Capitoline,
And glory's laurels on my feeble head
Won't sweeten the bard's frightful lot.
Tale XX
© George Crabbe
flown:
All swept away, to be perceived no more,
Like idle structures on the sandy shore,
The chance amusement of the playful boy,
That the rude billows in their rage destroy.
Poor George confess'd, though loth the truth to
