Future poems
/ page 84 of 121 /
Kossuth
© James Russell Lowell
A race of nobles may die out,
A royal line may leave no heir;
Wise Nature sets no guards about
Her pewter plate and wooden ware.
The King Of The Plow
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE sword is re-sheathed in its scabbard,
The rifle hangs safe on the wall;
No longer we quail at the hungry
Hot rush of the ravenous ball,
Song Of The Broad-Axe
© Walt Whitman
Strong shapes, and attributes of strong shapes-masculine trades,
sights and sounds;
Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music;
Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great
organ.
To George, Earl Delwarr
© George Gordon Byron
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
Beauty. Part III.
© Henry James Pye
'Tis in the mind that Beauty stands confess'd,
In all the noblest pride of glory dress'd,
Where virtue's rules the conscious bosom arm,
There to our eyes she spreads her brightest charm:
There all her rays, with force collected, shine,
Proclaim her worth, and speak her race divine.
A Poem For The Meeting Of The American Medical Association At New York, May 5, 1853
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
I HOLD a letter in my hand,-
A flattering letter, more's the pity,-
Aurora Leigh: Book Eighth
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
In my ears
The sound of waters. There he stood, my king!
Ambition And Content: A Fable
© Mark Akenside
Thus spoke the fair; and straight she bent her way
To the tall mountain, where the cottage lay:
Arriv'd she makes her chang'd condition known;
Tells how the rebels drove her from the throne;
What painful, dreary wilds she'd wander'd o'er;
And shelter from the tyrant doth implore.
The Messiah : A Sacred Eclogue
© Alexander Pope
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song,
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian maids,
Delight no more - O thou, my voice inspire,
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire!
The Present Crisis
© James Russell Lowell
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.
One Life
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
OH, I am hurt to death, my Love;
The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart,
The Lady of the Lake: Canto I. - The Chase
© Sir Walter Scott
Introduction.
Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
Enoch Arden
© Alfred Tennyson
At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.'
Princeton, May, 1917
© Alfred Noyes
Here Freedom stood by slaughtered friend and foe,
And, ere the wrath paled or that sunset died,
Looked through the ages; then, with eyes aglow,
Laid them to wait that future, side by side.
Encouragement
© Emily Jane Brontë
I do not weep; I would not weep;
Our mother needs no tears:
Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to keep
This causeless grief for years.
The Old Manor House
© Ada Cambridge
An old house, crumbling half away, all barnacled and lichen-grown,
Of saddest, mellowest, softest grey,-with a grand history of its own-
Grand with the work and strife and tears of more than half a thousand years.
A Character
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
YES, madame, I know you better, far better than those can know
Whose plummet of judgment never is dropped to the depths below;
Whose test is a surface-seeming, the glitter of lights that gleam
With a moment's rainbow lustre on the shifting face of the stream.
The Columbiad: Book V
© Joel Barlow
Sage Franklin next arose with cheerful mien,
And smiled unruffled o'er the solemn scene;
His locks of age a various wreath embraced,
Palm of all arts that e'er a mortal graced;
Beneath him lay the sceptre kings had borne,
And the tame thunder from the tempest torn.
Nemesis
© Henry Lawson
It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.
